Volume 110 Number 1 by Gargoyle Humor Magazine

Exposure Edition

Volume CX No.1

Table of Contents 1.

Blood Eagle

This Page

That Page

Bargain Kidneys

Opus Mopus

Rotating Fan

Baby Man

Natalie Kesson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Green Fluorescent Penis

Stained Rug

Margaret Trudeau . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 bed, 2 Bath Home

Warm Corpses

Shannon Zheng. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Radithor Addict

10. I Love You

Noah Luntzlara . .. . . . . . . . . . . Could You Repeat That

11. Say It Back!

Volume CX, Number 1 Fall 2018

S TA F F

Jenny Ghose . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Benny Goose Molly Miller . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Cocktober Fiona Tien . . . . . . . . . Flavortown but with Fava Beans Colleen Hillard . . . . . . . . . . . . Car Top Michael Rosenberg . . . . . . Send Me Your Startup Ideas Brianna Kucharski . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . New Kid Isabel A. Hedin-Urrutia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Daddy Issues

Madylin Eberstein . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Just So Malnourished

Sabrina Corsetti . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Parent-Disappointer Nathan Slaven . . . . . . . . . . . . . I Love Sarah Orne Jewett

Connor C. Davis .. . . But the C. stands for Connor C. Davis

Apryl Fox . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I Can’t Believe it’s not Burned Ron Brady . . MD Dept of Psychiatry, Columbia University

Aakash Khanna . . . . . . . . High-Functioning Depression

Al Shumyatcher ...Wait,I have toThink of Something NOW?? Natasha Pietruschka . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jesus

Jessica Tinor . . . . . . . . . . . Coconut Shell Stripper Hannah Groenke . . . . . . . . . . Pumpkin Fucker Duncan Reitz . . . . . Cheez Whiz, Flavored by Your Whiz Max Lee . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Missing Jamie Jamie McClellan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .DNQ Direct all complaints, comments, submissions, and proclamations to

The Gargoyle 420 Maynard Ann Arbor, MI 48104

gargoyle@umich.edu Visit us at: www.gargmag.com

12. $40 in Debt 13. Frozen Bodies 14. Mail 15. Better Days 16. Mild Sauce

Illustration by Isabel A. Hedin-Urrutia

Fall 2018

4 Tips to Drive Your Cuttlefish Lover Wild 4. Cross Dress for Success Unlike most animals competing for sex, bigger isn’t always better for cuttlefish. In fact, smaller males are usually succesexful by pretending to be female in order to sneak past the bigger males busy fighting for the right to party.

2. When in Utah… Cuttlefish are polygamous, so don’t be surprised if a fish you were sure was The One ends up with another fella’s hectocotylus in her mouth the next day. (The cuttlefish mating season is three months long so they have to get around.)

By Nathan Slaven & Brianna Kucharski

3. Mouth off Cuttlefish actually only have oral sex. The male injects sperm from his mouth into the female’s mouth, where they’re fertilized in her beak or mouth lining, then spat under a rock or something. Classy.

1. Don’t get attached. Female cuttlefish die immediately after the mating season, so I hope you weren’t looking for anything long-term. (Though technically they do mate for life.)

STUDIO APARTMENT FOR RENT Thirtieth-floor walk up. Overlooks Tinderbox National Park, views of the San Andreas Fault. Eat out kitchen (cold water only). No doorman, but guard dog until 6 pm. No bathroom but apartment comes with a deluxe shovel. Areas of flooring have been ripped out to expose the magnificent ceiling of the apartment below. Apartment above occupied by The Certifiables Rock Band. Two (2) by four (4) foot, pet-tested throw rugs included, Wi-Fi in every room, piping in acid rock 24 hours/day. Exercise club with empty pool and over 100 1lb weights. Complimentary membership in the Neptune Society. Scorpion farm and Lox pool in the lobby. Damien Hurst, Sculpture: rotting rhino, encased in, rare, transparent, Bologna Stone. Enjoy the non sequitur library on the cantilevered mezzanine. Meet for cocktails at Muggers Niche. Workout on Terre Bateau, unlined, unenclosed tennis court, free high strung rackets. Bungee jump, or paraglide to your car from the 500th-floor roof deck, enjoy a view of the ocean with plastic detritus flushing ashore. Roof gardens with restless, undulating, Venus Flytraps (2 months supply of flies). Mini-mall includes: ISIS recruiting office, Two Left-Feet School of Ballet, The young airline passengers school for reeling and writhing, The Malpractice, walkin clinic, Mill’s House of Puppies, The Second Coming fertility clinic, Very rare disease legal services. Putin, lie detector corporation, Volcanic ash beauty treatment. Little league toxicology lab, Beautox divorce consultants, Face Drop cosmetic surgery, “Inglish” Language School, Kiddy pistol Range. “Lands End,” luxury building is set in a gated community, among the sequestered estates of the rich and famous.

*Actual* Biography of Author: Ron Brady, MD is an Assistant Professor of Psychiatry, Columbia University. He is the author of “College Review of Zoology” 1973, Monarch Press. Editor in Chief of “The Spectrum,” literary magazine Queens College. N.Y. 1973, Author, Co-author, 15 scientific papers. Inventor: AMS Automated Dispensing System used in nearly 500 substance abuse programs throughout the U.S. and Europe. His interests are tennis, jazz, clarinet, animal welfare and a love of literature. Perhaps, his greatest accomplishment, two children: Atticus, an award-winning television editor, CBS, 48 hours, and a daughter Courtney, a physician. Dr. Brady has studied Tennis for thirty years with Butch Seewagen, a worldclass player and former Columbia University tennis Coach. He says, “I suffer from macular degeneration but Butch asserts that if I go blind it should not affect my game as I don’t watch the ball anyway.”

$6000/month. One minute rent rebate. Perfect for the family in evolutionary transition. Act before you finish reading this, and ten minutes will be added to the end of your life. Call yesterday and receive a gift copy of the Adolph Eichmann, Restaurant Guide: “I was only guilty of taking Hors d’oeuvres.” Don’t call at all and receive a free (2-digit) IQ vanity license plate, and a life sentence of maximum insecurity. Won’t last—RENTED ! Ron Brady MD *Neptune Society: postmortem cremation.

This is not Dr. Brady, but Dr. Brady certainly wishes he could write like the man in this picture.

Fall 2018

Interview with Provost Philbert Martin By Connor Davis

April 17, 2017: former UM Provost Martha Pollack leaves her position to assume the role of President at Cornell University. September 5, 2018: by the order of new Provost Philbert Martin, Michigan Time officially ends. September 19, 2018: the Gargoyle office reaches out for contact. September 24, 2018: the Provost office declines any opportunity for an interview.

hat these seemingly innocuous dates have is common is a sticky entanglement in a sinister web of deceit spun thick, a decades-old conspiracy begging to be solved. To some, a declined interview is just that—the mark of a busy man who couldn’t entertain the shenanigans of one intrepid journalist. But to that intrepid, wildly successful journalist who incidentally has great hair, it was the final piece of a puzzle screaming “pull the thread.” This conspiracy demanded the investigation by a publication with inscrutable integrity and a financial backing firm enough to withstand the inevitable pressures of The Man. However, the Daily was unwilling to bite the hand that feeds. This left us, The Gargoyle, to light the way in an otherwise dimly lit sex dungeon. So, once again, I rented a smoky duplex in the financial district of Motown and hired a buxom blonde to bring me a dossier of facts which just didn’t add up. I’m back on the case. This is the second installation of a five-part series doing the hard, investigative journalism looking into who our administrative leaders at the University of Michigan truly are. In the last edition, we uncovered the scandalous ties from Big Abortion to our President Mark Schlissel. If Schlissel is The Emperor, here, we investigate his Darth Vader: Provost Philbert Martin. His dastardly second-in-command has already made waves across Michigan’s campus and tradition. Upperclassmen might know him as the reason you were late to class during the first week of school. That’s right, this Provost is now responsible for us starting classes at the same time as (the) Ohio State students[citation needed]. But the treachery goes deeper. It’s a story about corruption within the deepest rungs of this administration. Provosts Pollack and Martin, the closure of the Union, Cornell University, Reggie the Campus Corgi, Israel, reverse secret janitors, all culminating in the surprising link between Provost Martin and the Suicide Industrial Complex. The story begins when I began a research program at Cornell University this summer.

Little would I know that by accepting the position, I would end up discovering a stench from our university fouler than any other since that one professor refused to write a rec letter for that Jew. I was tasked to study numbers, functions, shapes. Anything to keep me distracted from the truth I was already so close to. You see, I was the only Michigan student in my program, so I was the only person who could have known that Cornell’s current President, Martha Pollack, was so recently our ex-Provost. And what had changed in her very short time there? My Ithacan housemates were quick to tell me about two recent changes: first, the addition of anti-suicide nets under all of the bridges overlooking the gorges; second, the closure of Ezra’s Tunnel, leading to the most popular swimming hole on campus which just so happened to be where more than a few students drowned in past years. Clearly Martha Pollack is out to get students who were going to kill themselves. But why? At what cost? Specifically, at the cost of the dam’s closure and at least several tens of thousands of dollars per net. This is serious cheddar being spent for a reason we can’t yet account for. Rewind to the end of the Winter 2018 semester during finals. Student stress levels were at an all-time high. However, there is a natural defense mechanism which resists the intake of student stress by making you quit what you’re doing and going off to live in the forest. During finals, student stress levels reach that peak. Unfortunately for the establishment, the university’s customer base moving into the forest isn’t good for their bottom line, so the Provost hired therapy dogs to wag their cute butts in the diag so that the students temporarily forget how much stress they’re taking on. Some mathematical psychiatrists have called this effect “local stress dampening,” a paradoxical effect in which students’ stress levels can actually reach new peaks due to a destressor being applied precisely during the window where the body would otherwise shut down all stress by moving into the forest. What this means is that student stress can actually

hit critical levels unmanageably high where the physio-illogical response is shut down, leading occasionally to suicide. Could it be that Reggie wants more than just Palestinians dead? Coincidentally, over the last few years, I have been ingratiating myself into the greater ruffian social circle. Do you know anybody who is in a lesser socioeconomic bracket? No? Well, I do. My network of street dwellers and blue-collar workers extends past mere panhandlers and pansexuals kicked out by their parents for daring to steal $50 bucks to keep their heroin fix going. In particular, it includes a handful of janitors. These eyes and ears of Academia know more than you would expect. Since I admit that I am still a young journalist, when I tell you I was naïve enough to discuss my growing case with a friend, do not judge me for not realizing a janitor would be listening. However, something I said must have touched a part of my janitor friend, as later that night he let me in on something. Secretly, many of the janitors were in charge. They were the real bosses in the university, dressing down to remain invisible. He told me that these “reverse-secret-bosses” weren’t afraid to kill and make it look like a suicide in order to line their bank pockets. I asked him why, but my friend got spooked by a drafty vent, left me a dossier, and casually went back to mopping the floors. I was perplexed: the file contained only a picture of Provost Martin cuddling with Reggie the Campus Corgi. What would this have to do with anything? After a night putting together links, a horrible pattern emerged, one which shocked me, yet one I could not deny. A little search on the web will reveal that ex-Provost Pollack initiated the therapy dog program. Pollack was clearly under massive pressures from the Suicide Industrial Complex to increase the number of suicides, thereby increasing profit. Of course, she couldn’t refuse, lest a janitor take care of her. She thought the pressure would ease up by leaving for Cornell, but the Suicide Lobby only followed her further, understanding that she wielded

even more power as the new President. When Provost Martin inherited her former position, he experienced the same pressures, explaining both the ties to Reggie the Conniving Corgi and the ending of Michigan Time: making students wake up 10 minutes earlier each morning can only be explained as a ploy to increase student stress levels. The only missing piece of the puzzle is WHO IS BIG SUICIDE? Whoever they are, their plan is clear: they’re playing both sides. Jump from a Bell Tower once with a net, you’re good, had a blast. Jump twice without a net, they get you

to die, and they get to sell your university a new net. At $10,000+ a pop, that’s no chump change. Maybe even enough to kill for. Look, I thought this was all a convenient coincidence, too. That there would be a devoted hand of the “free” market encouraging for students to kill themselves for a quick buck sounds preposterous. But to be thorough, I owed it to the people to write up the facts the establishment wouldn’t want you to know, so that you, the beautiful, untainted public, could decide what was what. But then one night all

my suspicions were confirmed when I didn’t get this voicemail by Provost Martin himself. To be clear, Provost Martin, I am following the instructions you never gave me, in that I am acknowledging and being upfront that this voicemail never happened. It was made up in an attempt to get attention without doing the real work that is necessary to climb the rungs of the Ivory Tower. And as long as this voicemail is fiction, and we all acknowledge it as so, it should harm nobody for me to publish a fake transcript of the conversation between me and the Provost which never happened:

[3:19 am] Unknown Who the fuck told you about the SIC [Suicide Industrial Complex]? Connor Who is this? What do you mean? Does that mean the SIC is real? Unknown You know damn well who it is. You better not be recording this. Connor Of course not. I— Unknown Your little story has been ruffling a lot of feathers in my office. I suggest you stop if you know what’s good for you. Connor Philbert! The people deserve to know! How many students were you planning on killing? To what end? What’s really going on in the Union? Philbert There is a time and place for all this, but it is not now. You will find out one day, but until then, unless you want to find some janitors at the end of a hallway, giving me more reason to justify building another $10,000 net, you will cease your publication and tell nobody about this! Connor You monster, you won’t get away with this! Philbert Oh, but I already have! *maniacal laughter* *phone clicks* Trusty readers of the Garg, though it is my duty-bound honor to not give up, I can let you draw your own conclusions. I am still working on discovering the identity of Big Suicide, though I must be careful. I encourage you to do your own legwork, but take care—do not

trust the janitors around you. Whatever you do, please don’t end up as a pawn in the Provost’s sinister plan. If you have any harmful thoughts, please call the National Suicide hotline at 1-800-273-8255. I don’t know if I’d trust CAPS, given their proximity to the Provost.

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If you have any tips, email gargreaders@ umich.edu. I would love to proceed in the investigation by myself, but once again, this journalist has been stifled.

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Fall 2018

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Hard Lem-ANUS!-ade T

he views expressed in this work are not indicative of my own, however as this medium is geared towards the preservation of works of great art, I felt the obligation to publish this. What you are about to read may disturb, upset, or perhaps titillate you. This is not for the weak of mind or stomach; however, because of the work’s innate importance, it is indicative for all scholars of art to parse through it. After Owen Griswold released this piece he garnered many loyal aficionados, but he was not without opposition. Some called it crass, some called it obscene, some called it solely repulsive with no other redeeming quality. But perhaps that is the point Dr. Griswold was trying to make. Perhaps he wrote this piece to prove that the artistry behind the English language is simply ordering words. If you look over the document you will notice that there are no curse words, rather normal words placed in a striking manner. Take all of these words and place them in different order and see what you get. A story of two farmers? A train robbery? A love poem? These are the fundamental truths Griswold may be trying to exposit, disguised in what may seem like filth. Dr. Griswold, like many other great artists before him, takes something that may appear ugly at first glance and gives you a glimpse at the ray of beauty behind it. Some have theorized that the aforementioned ray is the truest form of art. Though few artists have come close to the portrayal of pure beauty, what many great artistic scholars agree on is that, funnily enough, the best way to portray true beauty is not to expressively showcase it, but to shroud it in dirt. For Griswold, it seems he has joined the podium of artists able to show their audience this prepossessing nirvana only found through, well, wading your feet through shit.

Written by Lucille Marie, Billy Nichols, and Tyler Dankest-Peen

Griswold’s use of sexual tension to portray the deeply rooted power exchange inherent in late-stage capitalism cannot go unnoticed. Never before has such a graphic portrayal of our competition-fraught society been shown in print before. Considered by some as the Romeo and Juliet of the 21st century, the plight of Steve and Adam sheds light on our desire to find meaning in our commodified world, to aspire to something more than material. In a time where we are increasingly encouraged to fight for ourselves, in the generation of “me first,” in a world where we are forced to

look our peers in the eyes and see them not as brothers and sisters but as competitors, Steve and Adam offer a poignant depiction of what it would be like to indulge in our humanistic side.

ithout further ado, Jersey Mike’s Hard Lem-ANUS!-ade by Owen Griswold.

The door swung open. From where Steve was standing, wrapping up leftover cappacuolo from a long hard day of work, he couldn’t see who came in. One whiff of bean sprouts and he knew. “You know you can’t be here,” Steve said playfully. Adam took his hat off and ran his fingers through his hair as he walked up to the register. “I know. But I couldn’t stop

thinking about you.” Steve smoothed the plastic over some turkey gingerly; his palms leaving wet streaks behind. “Neither could I.” He was nervous. It wasn’t the first time Adam and Steve had met. Happenstance brought them together a mere month ago, a prank call to deliver a #9 Big Italian to the Jersey Mike’s across town. A graze of fingers as Adam handed the sub to Steve, a nervous laugh, a comment about “those dumb kids” were all that were exchanged between the two men. It had been weeks since that fateful afternoon, and they hadn’t spoken since. Steve certainly didn’t expect them to meet again. “Orders up,” Adam said, as his throbbing member thwopped on the table. “What are you going to do with that?” Steve said in an innocent and sheepish voice. “Turn around, son. I’m about to show you the time of your life.” After Steve turned around, Adam pulled Steve’s khakis down, exposing his fresh and delicate gap betwixt his two cheeks. Each cheek sported a prickly, peach-like fuzz as if to show anticipation for what was to come. Adam exposed the sacred tunnel and sensually shimmied his JJ Gargantuan inside. Steve’s roast beef interior soon became filled with Adam’s tangy, jumbo kosher dill. With time came faster and faster thrusts. Every scream was one step further to the bottom of the

metronome. And before long, he was chugging along like a freight train in terms of both speed and impact, so fast that he began to freak. In quick succession, Adam was driving it in like a stake into the hard ground. Steve was struggling to keep his breath from leaking out his mouth. His body was trembling through the sheer pleasure of a new experience. Something he had never before imagined happening to him. Out of Steve’s lips came a symphony of jubilee and agony. Adam exited the depth of Steve’s void. “I have something else in mind,” Steve muttered with a smirk. He turned around and began to salivate at the thought of having a cookie before the sandwich. “I’ll give it to you Mike’s way.” Steve began to slobber on Adam’s protruding

pole of pleasure. The spit dripping down the sides as Steve worked on Adam’s cucumber. It was as if he had an insatiable thirst that only Adam could quench. Like he was trying to drink from a water bottle after being dehydrated in the desert for many years, suckling like a hamster on a bell bottle after a long day of running in circles on a wheel. “I’m going to finish my order!” “Put the receipt on my chest.” Adam removed his Jimmy John from Steve’s Jersey mouth. Adam squirted two lines of hot chipotle mayo onto Steve’s chest, one over each rock hard nipple. And with that Steve fell into Adam strong arms, a perfect fit like a submarine sandwich in its bag. “So that’s what it’s like,” Steve said. Adam replied, “Yeah. Magical, isn’t it?”

Gillette Adopts Startup Daughter Day

Written by Jessy Tinor

illette Co. is buying a 10% stake in the app startup DaughterDay, fast becoming the darling of the tech world with camera giant Canon Inc. and home appliances company LG closely eyeing the deal in hopes of making their own acquisition. LG and Canon have declined to provide any further details. DaughterDay is an app that allows parents to remotely turn their daughters into tools on the go. Parents simply need to scan their fingertips on their phones to automatically turn off what’s known in the industry as “attitude” from as far as 10 miles away. The revolutionary technology behind the app, BloodMagic™, will start being sold to businesses as soon as February of 2021, once the patent expires. DaughterDay creator Gordon Yu was inspired to create the app when on vacation to Japan with his family in 2014. “I forgot my tripod back home and I was trying to take a photo of this wonderful bridge in the dark. My camera had night vision but the pictures always ended

Fall 2018

up being blurry because I could never hold it still. Then I realized I had a daughter. I rested my camera on her shoulder and took the picture. That year I won Best Photo of the Year in my office.” The journey to stardom wasn’t without struggle. “Whenever I asked her to get me a glass of water, cook, clean, or give me a massage she wouldn’t budge. Called it slavery. The problem I realized I had to debug was her attitude. So I did.” DaughterDay’s software repurposes the fingerprint scanner on any device as a remote to control the “humanisms” of any child that’s related by blood. The company markets it as “One Touch, Infinite Possibilities” technology. DaughterDay now programs daughters not only to stand as tripods but also to massage parents (in multiple disciplines), wash clothes, clean houses, and pluck “dad stubble.” That’s the term for the little hairs that can’t be picked up by a regular Gillette razor and need to be plucked manually by hand. Supporters say it

feels incredibly satisfying. Best of all, they’re low maintenance.“All you need to do is feed them three times a day, for a maximum of 20 minutes. That sounds pricey but remember, the Dyson Fluffy has a 3 hour recharge time for only 30 minutes of use. Your daughters not only go all day, they’re also selfcleaning,” says user Chuck Zingerman. Appliance companies are moving fast to adopt the all-in-one functionality DaughterDay remote apps promote. Some, like Gillette and Canon, have laid their claim on the startup to learn the technology and implement it in their own operations. A spokeswoman for Gillette has announced in a press conference that Gillette plans not only to market DaughterDay as a Gillette premium shaving experience, but also to cut costs by replacing workers with skilled DaughterDay users and their children. And DaughterDay’s future? “The son is the limit.” Mr. Yu said in an interview. “Pun intended.”

LOOK AT US BEING SO CURRENT & POLITICAL WE THINK WE ARE SOO SMART 10

Michael Rosenberg <rosenbmi@umich.edu>

How your website can grow?gargmag.com 2 messages

Kevin Bacon <kevinbacon585@gmail.com> To: gargoyle@umich.edu

Fri, Aug 17, 2018 at 8:34 AM

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Mon, Aug 20, 2018 at 8:56 PM

Hi Kevin, Super great to hear from you. You couldn’t have emailed at a better time. We’ve actually reached out to a few other SEO groups in the past, such as Charles Klinfliter (at hotmail.com). Unfortunately, Mr Klinfilter’s company took issue with the content we were producing, and really jewed us by filing a takedown request with Yahoo. Go ahead and try to find us on Yahoo! You can’t! We are currently tied up seeking remedies in Superior court. Given our admittedly controversial takes on diversity and the proliferation of “Native” culture in North America, we will need your assurance that you will NOT attempt to interfere in our publishing of what Rev. Al Sharpton has called “hate speech” on three separate occasions. We hope you understand the concern: one lesson we’ve learned from a role model of ours is that you can’t win a war waged on two fronts. To help you better find our demographic, here are some key details you should know about the Gargoyle: We are a non-profit student organization at the University of Michigan (Ann Arbor, NOT Dearborn!!!). We consist of anywhere from 10 to 20 student writers, artists, and local independent thinkers capable of seeing the BIG picture. The Gargoyle is a modern secularist white nationalist group with origins in Caucasio-Gregorian mysticism and near-Hindi blood occultism. If you’ve never heard of us, imagine a mix of equal parts conservative Sha-deMan, Rasta, and the Hitler Youth. We are located at 420 Maynard St, and are usually in the office Wednesday–Friday, 4–7pm. We put out 2 issues of our free newsletter every semester. We don’t have female content creators. If you have any women working for you, we kindly ask that you remove them from our project work. For payment, we may have to work out something other than cash for the time being. Due to externalities that we could not have foreseen, most of our funding sources have chosen to distance themselves from The Gargoyle and its subsidiaries in media, political activism, and youth outreach. Although we are cash-poor at the time of writing, we are furniture-rich and willing to place several (very valuable!) antique pieces in escrow if you choose to take the job. Alternatively, we could advertise your services in our publication as payment. Given the massive number of long-time readers we have, you may find that this method of advertising is preferable to cold-emailing random email addresses you find on the internet. Lastly, it happens that our Editor-in-Chief has just sold a new series of post-ironic pre-feminist novellas and has hit the Penguin Random House jackpot, if you know what we mean. We will be able to pay handsomely for your services once we are solvent, which will hopefully happen once Mr. Klinfilter comes to JUSTICE in SUPERIOR COURT!!!!! We’d like to proceed by a demonstration of the skills professed in your initial email. We ask that you get the contents of this email onto the 1st page of Google results for the search term “Charles Klinfilter”. We imagine that for a man of your talent, this will be no problem at all. Once this is done, please email us back with a screenshot of the page and we’ll get started immediately. Please let us know if you have any questions. We are very excited to work with you. Sincerely, Michael Klinfilter

Connor Klinfilter

CFO and Strategy Manager

Former Former Director of Youth Outreach

Fall 2018

To You Over There...

By Den Braniels

ey, you. Yeah, you. You know who I’m talking about. The guy sitting a couple tables away from me, wearing your Beats and your salmon shorts. Sitting there, all smug. Looking at your MacBook and laughing to yourself. Every now and then looking up, making awkward eye contact, and then looking back down. I bet you think you’re so great. You’re pretending to write an essay titled “The Complex Socio-Political Implications of Modern Basketball”, or reading about how “Stanley Milgram was a bad dude”, or doing whatever the fuck kinesiology students do. All the while, you’re actually talking with your bros about that sick party you’re going to, or scrolling through your exes’ Instagram accounts and writing mean comments, or thinking about your new big idea for a startup. You know what, I’m not going to put up with this anymore. I’m going to stand up and show you what’s what. People like you think they can just sit in the Ugli, minding their own business, pissing me off while I’m trying to mind my own business. Well, today’s your lucky fucking day. I’m about to teach you a lesson. A real good lesson. A college-worthy, liberal arts-educated, $50,000+ of debt lesson. That’s right, you son of a bitch. I’m gonna show you once and for all that you can’t fucking laugh at your computer screen like you own the place. By the time I’m done with you, you won’t know the difference between a Canada Goose and a North Face. I hope you’re fucking prepared. I hope you told your mother you love her when she called you yesterday. I hope you crooned soft, sweet nothings into her ears. I hope she told you what a great son you are, because you’re gonna need all the love and support you can get when I’m done with you. Your feeble mind couldn’t even begin to fathom the machinations running through my mind over the lesson that I’m about to teach you. Hell, I bet all you could do is laugh. You’re probably reading this and laughing right now. You think I’m funny, do you? You think this is all a fucking joke? I’ll show you a funny joke. The kind of joke that makes you laugh so hard your face hurts, that makes you laugh so hard you get side cramps and chest cramps and back cramps. The kind of joke that would’ve made you pee yourself in the 4th grade. But you swear you don’t do that anymore. You swear that you wouldn’t even think of bolting your door, opening Youtube, typing in “funniest vines of 2016”, and laughing until piss runs down both your legs. But your roommate knows. Your roommate smelled the piss, and one day, he checked. Of course, he immediately regretted it. He would never admit to intentionally smelling another guy’s piss pants. But he knows. And I know. I fucking know. I’m gonna tell the whole world about your collection of piss pants, and then we’ll see who laughs until his trousers can sustain no more abuse. I bet you’re quaking in your Converses right now. You’re fucking terrified that the whole world will find out about your piss pants. Your mom would be heartbroken. You told her that you had stopped that—that that was just a phase. But you knew it wasn’t. You knew that deep down, as soon as you got to college, you would start your collection of piss pants all over again. And now the cat is out of the bag. The beans have been spilled. The shit has hit the fan, you son of a bitch. Now we’ll see who can silently stare at their computer screen, smiling at dumb inside jokes and Facebook posts from people he never talks to. We’ll see who can occasionally look up at strangers, make awkward eye contact, and look back down. From now on, you will tremble in fear in my presence. The mere sight of me will cause Parkinsonian tremors to ravage your body. Hell, maybe you’ll even add to your collection of piss pants. And when you do, I hope it reminds you of me. Bon voyage, motherfucker.

Nude 50+ Male Beauty Pageant to be Held in CCRB Shower Written by Al Shumyachter

beauty pageant for males older than 50 will be held in the main CCRB shower on the weekend of October 27-28th, according to flyers distributed in the area over the last several days. Claiming the event will be sponsored by the CCRB itself and organized by its director Mike Widen, the flyers also confirm that all pageant participants will perform in the nude, reluctant as they are to disturb their long-standing habits of doing just that every day after grueling sessions of racquetball and yoga. Widen, though denying his involvement, hopes that the event will, ahem, widen the horizons of any student attendees. “I like the

timing too,” he adds. “Just a few days before Halloween, this can be our own little horror show. This could prove to be the PR boost we need to attract even more patrons.” Indeed, it seems that Widen’s thoughts are not too far off from those of the pageant organizers. The flyers announce several competition categories, including “Worst Posture”, “Longest Hair”, “Coolest Liver Spot Pattern”, “Sweatiest in the Sauna”, and “Holy Shit, that One Actually Looks Kind of Decent”. Despite rumors of a “Hottest Professor” category, it appears to have been cancelled due to a lack of viable contestants.

Exploring further, we saw a middle-aged man wearing a black ski mask and a T-shirt with the cryptic inscription “NOT Mike Widen”. He was putting up the last few fliers and answered some of our questions regarding the structure of the event. In a novel approach to pageantry, contestants may arrive whenever they please: “All throughout the day you’ll see a constant trickle of these beautiful specimens, and we’ll just judge them one by one.” Addressing privacy concerns, the man assured us the judging would be done remotely, through the cameras installed behind the oneway mirrors in the locker room.

Illustrated by Natalie Kesson

Fall 2018

Mail

Please direct all hate mail to the Gargoyle Gargoyle Magazine, 420 Maynard - Ann Arbor, MI 48104

Dear Gargoyle, I just wanted to thank you for the amazing content you put out. It’s actually been the only thing keeping me sane. I locked myself in a bunker during that scare when a guy on LSD ate another guy’s face in Miami and we all thought it was the zombie apocalypse. Remember that? No? Anyways I stayed in here so long that I can’t even imagine going back outside even though I know it’s safe. The lack of any human contact gets a little tough, but what can you do? I am running out of supplies though, so if you’ve got any spare carbon scrubbers lying around that’d be a real lifesaver. -Stocked-Home Syndrome ____________________ Dear Gargoyle, I’m sending you this from the year 2055. One of your staff members is in grave danger. It’s of the utmost importance that page 5 of your next issue contains the phrase “rap guys” at least twice, but not in the same paragraph. I know it’ll be hard, but lives are at stake. -Baby got Back to the Future ____________________ Dear Gargoyle, This is also a message from the year 2055. I’m writing to ask you to please disregard any other messages you may have received from the future. It’s not like we’re sending someone back in time to kill one of you before you give birth to the woman who will single-handedly destroy the Klarpedian race like some cheap CGI-heavy Terminator rip-off. You have nothing to worry about. We would know; we’re from the future. -No Fate But What Remake ____________________ Dear Gargoyle, There were six typos in your last issue. This is two more typos than your previous record of four, in 2003. Not here to judge, I actually have a bit of a fetish for typos in obscure humor magazines. I’ve got a scrapbook just for Gargoyle typos, in fact. If it’s not too much of a bother, I still haven’t got a “you’re” vs. “your” typo from you guys yet. If you could slip one into the next issue, that’d really make my day. Thanks! -Autocorrected Asphyxiation Dear Autocorrected, Your welcome. Now fuck off, perv.

Dear Gargoyle_Magazine, I’m a Nigerian prince in need of your assistance. Someone recently sent me an advance-free scam email, and I gave them my credit card number because I’m an idiot. Now I’m 30 million Nairas in debt. I know you shouldn’t care about my problems, it’s just that I embezzled that money, which was intended for famine relief. Think of all the starving African children you’d be saving. Wouldn’t the conscience-boost alone be worth it? Also, if you don’t send me money, I’ll have my Russian hacker friend forward this email to all of your contacts so they think you’re racist. -The Prince and the Pawpaw Dear Prince, We’d love to help. We really would. Unfortunately, we’re also deeply in the red (though for slightly less idiotic reasons). Some of us are actually guilty of reverseembezzlement, where we’ve given money to the organization for nothing in return, and we’ve been eating the same stale box of pretzels for 18 months. By the way, I’m not sure if you’ve heard of Herbalife, but the stuff really works. I’m guessing the demand for weight-loss products isn’t too high where you’re from, but let us know if you’re interested. (If you couldn’t tell, your temptations and threats won’t work. Our consciences are beyond salvation, and people already think we’re racist.)

Dear Gargoyle, I work for The Every Three Weekly, writing rejection letters and maintaining the shrine to Baphomet. Lately, I’ve been getting too many good submissions. I know it’s a literary first world problem, but it feels just as hard as whatever the editors in Somalia must go through, you know? Anyways, just felt like sending an update. I’d make this funnier but I’ve got a quota to fulfill and we’re running low on lamb blood. Keep in touch. -Onion Cutter’s Tears Dear Onion, First off, I’m glad you reached out. It really is a misconception that our two publications are rivals. In fact, we’re like twins, towering over all of the other humor publications. Twin towers, you could say. The only difference is that our standards are low enough to publish that joke, while you get to cherry pick from the cream of the crop. It’s easy as pie for you. Creampie, so to speak. My only suggestion would be to make the rejection letters incredibly harsh, so you get a reputation that would make self-conscious writers avoid you. And maybe stick our ad at the bottom or something.

Submissions from Our Friends from Around the World! How I Became an Atheist By Aakash Khanna, India

“Now I know how Prof. Einstein could say that the 4th dimension is relative. - said my head, He had clearly been in this kind of a situation.” “Every thy tick of thy clock is our thy journey towards thy mighty end.”imparted my heart. “So Mr. Romantic is being Mr. Philosopher today huh?”taunted my head. “Well, I have decided not to let myself fall for another woman now.” “You do realize that you are saying this for the 3rd time in the last 1 hour, right?” There I was sitting in the waiting room of a dental clinic waiting for my turn. The population there was so overwhelming that I started to list all the environmental issues that these extra unrequired humans were causing. Inefficient working of the Air-conditioner topped the chart with an unconquerable lead. And as a writer, the first thing I wanted to write was the eulogy for Planet Earth. “Why is it that I think something is missing in this situation?”- said my head. A little baby, whose existence had somehow remained tolerable while he slept for the last 1 hour, started crying. “Perfect.”- said my head sarcastically. He cried like a dog who had been stepped over by a vehicle. Apparently, shaking keys at his face by his mother and making impressions like a hungry monkey by his father could not stop his ill- mannered public behavior. And I liked to assume that me punching in his face would not have stopped it as well. Time had passed and finally my turn came. I looked around only to find myself alone. I liked to postulate that a divine power had heard me and in the interest of saving our planet took all the unrequired humans on Earth to hell. I did worry about some of my teachers but maybe it was for the best. A guy opened the door and I stepped inside the dental arena. The white walls and the ceiling reflecting the lights had lit up the entire place, and everything from the floor to the new dental chair shined like stars. I sat down on the dental chair and started to look at the dental instruments when the most beautiful dentist ever came walking towards me. “Just when I thought I had lost faith in love.”- said my heart emotionally. She was the epitome of beauty. Be it her deep eyes, adorable cheeks, perfectly aligned nose, heavenly smile or the volume hair, she was beautiful in every way. She could have run for Ms. World but then what would have been the odds of her meeting me. “All the wait was worth it.”- said my head, satisfied. I liked to suppose that this was my gift for what all I had endured for the last 2 hours. She was inspecting my mouth and every tooth of mine felt the deepest gratitude towards me for not brushing it twice a day. She was not like any other dentist I had had. She was calm and beautiful.And when she talked about the three cavities I had, she used the only dental terminologies that I did not know about, i.e. all of them. “Mandarin. Is it?”- said my head, confused. “Maybe in her language, it means she wants to go on a date.”- said my heart, hopeful. I was ready. I was ready to have my cavities done by the most beautiful dentist I had ever met. It was decided that I would get only one of my

Fall 2018

cavities done and would be given another appointment for the others since she had had a long day and was tired. “Great. Another two super-productive hours.”- said my head. “That means we get to see her, again.”- said my heart, super-excited. And just when my beautiful dentist was about to begin her dental thing, one of her colleagues, whom the divine power must have forgotten to take to hell, advised her to let the intern do my cavity since she was tired. The world could not have been crueler to me. The beautiful dentist considered the advice and looked at the intern. “Yeah, absolutely.”- a heavy, and by heavy I mean saturated fat heavy, voice came from behind me. The intern came around the dental machine and stood in front of me. My whole world came crashing down. I do want to sound rude here; it looked like that the last time this guy took a shower was in the 20th century. In no time were his hands, thanks to the department of hygiene, with gloves on, were in my mouth trying to place cotton balls beneath my lips. “So, you got 3 cavities huh.”- he said, trying to sound cool. “Yeah, mathematician.”- said my head sarcastically. “Where did my beautiful dentist go?”- cried my heart. “Don’t worry. We’ll get another shot at her in the next appointment hearty boy.”- told my head. And just when my heart was about to become optimistic, “So now, said the intern, “We are going to do all the cavities today.” “And then maybe we can drop a nuclear bomb on me!”said my head aggressively. I was lying on the dental chair with cotton balls, a water sprinkler and a suction pump in my mouth. The rest of the space was just enough to own a set of teeth and one tongue. “Shall we start?”- he asked. “Yeah.”- I replied, with a touch of sarcasm, but not too much to sound disrespectful. I did not want him to feel disrespected with that little drilling machine in his hand. He started to do my cavities. My mouth was open wide; my eyes even wider. After the pleasant part of the drilling machine was over, the suction pump continued to do its work. “There might be a possibility that it is taking more water than we have in here.”- said my head. “Take all the water. Take all the blood. The beautiful one is gone, there ain’t thy reason to thee live now... Thy.”- cried my heart. “Stop it, Shakespeare.”- my head replied. I had my cavities done. After 2 hours in the waiting room, I was finally at peace for 2 minutes, when God took her away from me and replaced the very beautiful angel with a not at all angel. I do not know why would the divine power do this to me. I did not punch the crying baby nor did I punch the old lady who stepped on my foot twice. Out of my five fingers, I just showed one to her. Yes, I had been a magnanimous person. Yet somehow God did not help me when I needed him the most. I had completely lost my faith in his existence.

oly shit just let me die. I used to have a shit life. Now it’s even shittier. My owners haven’t really been taking me out much, and ever since the kids went off the college, nobody gives me any attention. But I’ll be damned if they don’t take great care of me. I eat only the most vetrecommended pet food, and boy has it kept my fur’s shine. I have a recurring bout of Valley fever (since maybe dogs WEREN’T made to live in the Arizonan suburbs), and occasionally, my left eye will catch an infection. But my owners will lickety-split take me to Dr. Rai, our family friend who loved animals so much she decided to become a vet. Now she gets to watch me and my fellow domesticated brothers and sisters meet our deaths. Sometimes she’ll save one of us for six hundred bucks, and prolong our death for a bit longer (maybe I’ll make it to 14!), but I gotta hand it to her: she always makes me feel wanted. She’ll speak to me sweetly in whatever that human tongue of her is and always scratch me in just the right way. After I come home from the vet’s, my owners will begrudgingly and almost angrily force feed me pills. Then it’s back to pacing around the house. Always pacing. Not much to do, yeah? Can’t go out, can’t do nothing. So I’ll pace. At least I used to have carpeting so I could walk. Yeah, then I could even go up the stairs! But then they redid the floors. Hard wood. I shudder. Even if it weren’t impossible to get solid fucking footing on that imported from Southeast Fuckistan bullshit, my owner constantly yells me for clanging my nails while I walk. I’m a dog, you cunt. You don’t like it? Cut my nails. Fuck you. Yeah, I used to shit on the floor and piss on their rugs since I had nothing to do. Also since I can’t go outside to shit anyway. They want me to just hold it in until it’s convenient for them? But I think that one backfired, I don’t know. Now they make me sleep in the kennel overnight and wait in there throughout the day so I won’t exact my revenge of a corn based diet. But whatever, it’s not like I had anything else to do or hang out anyway. I did have one couch by the window where I could watch cars go and dream of smelling that bush with the gray flowers and keep an eye on that neighbor mutt, but then they remodeled the downstairs (again, more hardwood!) and I officially only have my kennel and a decade-old doggy bed. At least I’m not some mangy mutt. You know recently, I’ve been wondering if that might be better. I don’t know. I don’t care. And so I repeat, holy shit just let me die. But a few weeks ago something, dare I say, exciting happened. One of the kids came home recently! Normally I wouldn’t care, but he was so nice to me! We went on so long walks and I met all these other dogs and one of them even attacked me that bastard, but my kid totally fucking saved me! And then he pet me and we went into the woods and I thought I saw a lizard—and I swear there was a goddamn lizard—but when I went for it, some cactus had gotten there, and I had it in my paw. Now, I’m not proud or anything, and I don’t like asking this fucking family for help, but he wouldn’t just let me limp on there or anything, so he took me and scolded me when I squirmed and took the thorns out and then rubbed my ears and I felt loved. I swear I got so bouncy. I think I might have actually been hopping around the house the other day. And when he saw me bounce or pace around the house he actually walked me! And not just til I’d shit! He’d let me sniff the grey flowers until I wanted to sniff the gray leaves, and I could smell all the sidewalk dookie I wanted to. Man, I actually started to like that son of a bitch, I think. He pulled out a comfy chair by the window and I could see again, and I didn’t have to sleep in my cage. I thought we were tight. We spent time at the park, and he left me off my leash (is nothing sacred?) But then he left. And I figured he’d come back, since he’d left before. But everything went back to normal. Same shitty crate, same shitty boring-ass days, same shitty shit. Except now I can’t even piss on the new rug, since it looks like it has piss stains on it already! Everything has gone back to the shit it was before. Well not everything. Now I have hope. Now I remember what it’s like to not live this fucking life. Now even though I can’t see out the window to check if he’ll come home, I have nothing better to do than wait on this fuck who’s not returning any time soon. He couldn’t have just let my spirit die before my fleshy prison? He had to make me conscious of all the shit I’d normalized for the rest of my shit days. Fuck, I bet I’d convinced myself this ratty old “dog bed” (What? Dog bed? Why not just a motherfucking bed bed?) was pretty comfortable too. But now I wait. Wait until I can die.