Volume 105 Number 2 by Gargoyle Humor Magazine

Table of Contents 1. No Turning Back 2. This Page 3. That Page 4. It Begins Volume CV, Number 2 Spring 2014

S TA F F

5. Breaking Really Bad Ripoff 6. Transitions Galore

Ross Warman . . . . . . . Wonderwall Guy at Party Nico Pigg . . . Mustache Consultant to Joaquin Phoenix Neal Jackson . . . . . MBA Rick Ross School of Business Meredith Lancaster . . . . . . . . Llewyn Davis’ Insides Phil Wachowiak . . . . . . . . . . . . PerfectSpouse69 Andrew Keating . . . . . .Stock Boy at Bone Depot

7. Pitchfork

Mariah Ariana . . . . Martha Stewart’s Parole Officer

11. Regarding Winter Break

Alex Boscolo . . . . . . . . . . . Mambos No. 1-4 Courtney Carroll . . . . . . . . . . Commander in Beef Luke Collard . . . . . . . . . . Rama the Gypsy Cat Meredith Gilbert . . . . . . . . . . . . . And Sullivan

8. Commuter Sutra 9. More Commuter Sutra 10. Romance 12. Trapped, or are You? 13. Think about the Children! 14. Mountain Air

Gillian Golden . . . . . . . . Waitlisted at Hogwarts

15. More Transitions

Francisco Guzman . . . . . . . . Spaceduck in Space

16. Skywalker-tastic!

Jacob Hendricks . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Ringer Nikki Horowitz . . . . . . . . . . . . Mrs. Carter Jeremy Kruman . . . . . . . . . . . . Kru Chainzzzz James Mackin . . . . . . . Hemorrhagic Disco Fever

17. BINGO 18. The Queen Wants You! 19. Exploration

Michael McCrindle . . . . . . . . Tale as Old as Time

20. Even More Transitions

Steve Nagle . . . . . . . . Undercover D.A.R.E Officer

21. Hokey Pokey

Caleb Nusbaum . . Representative, Parliament Funkadelic Zoe Schwartz . . . Cute Emergency First Responder Chris Seeman . . . . . . . . . . Committed to the Bit Daphine Zhao . . . . . . . . . The Great Fratsby Direct all complaints, comments, submissions, and proclamations to

The Gargoyle 420 Maynard Ann Arbor, MI 48104

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

22. The Human Condition 23. Hellrific! 24. That was Interesting

PLAYER 1 CHARACTER SELECTION SEX

HEADWEAR DOUCHEY SOCK HAT

JACKET THE SAME CANADIAN GOOSE JACKET EVERYONE ELSE HAS

SHIRT MARIO IS MY SECOND BEST CHARACTER IN BRAWL

SHOES EVERYONE ELSE IS WEARING LL BEAN, WHY NOT?

DRUGS WHATEVER THAT SUPER FRIENDLY FRIEND OF A FRIEND HAS

Spring 2014

AND SO IT BEGINS... BY ROSS WARMAN

EEP. BEEP. You reach over and clumsily grasp for your alarm. BEEP. BEEP. BEFinally. You slowly open your eyes. The grey ceiling spreads out before you. You sigh and pull the grey sheets and covers around you and try to fall back to sleep. That snooze button only bought you ten minutes. Rolling back and forth, you manage to get vaguely comfortable staring at the wall. You look at your posters: landscapes. A Van Gogh. You wish you could have put up those pictures of your family, but the RA vetoed it. Evidently having a mom and dad wasn’t “genderneutral” enough. This isn’t what you thought housing would be like. When you got assigned to gender-neutral housing, you were a little confused at first. But after doing the research, it seemed alright. So what if your roommate might be transgender? That doesn’t affect you. You’re not a bigot. Gender neutral housing would be fine. At least, that’s what you thought. You first realized something was wrong during check-in. The over chipper RA greeted you with a smile. “Hi there! Welcome to East Quad. What hall are you in?” “3rd Strauss”. A hush fell over the community center. The

other RAs looked at you, with expressions of concern and pity. “Oh.” managed the RA. “Then you should talk to-“ “Me.” You feel a hand on your shoulder. You turn to see a man behind you. Or was it a woman? It wasn’t clear. They were wearing loose-fitting grey clothing, topped by an ambiguous mess of hair. “My name is One. I’ll be your RA” Strange. You shrugged it off. “Hi, I’m- “ “Seven.” “Excuse me?” “You are now Seven. Your old name had a gender. That is not allowed in gender-neutral housing” “Jesus Christ” “Please select a non-gendered expression to express your concerns” This went on for a while before you gave in. You let One escort you to your new home. The bright carpeting and colorful walls gave way to an oppressive grey. You learned quickly how to survive in gender neutral housing. The biggest adjustment was the bathroom. There was none. They couldn’t figure out a system unconnected to any gender, so they just left it out. You’ve gotten used to timing your bathroom schedule to coincide with classes

or your showers. This gender-neutral hell is where you’ve called home for the past six months. BEEP BEEP The alarm stirs you from your reminiscing. Time for class. Or is it? You’re not feeling super excited about the prospect of going to lecture right now. Maybe you’ll just stay in bed and take care of some of your other needs.

To go to class, Turn to the top of page 6 To rub one out in a gender neutral fashion, turn to page 22

BREAKING CHAD by andrew keating

ou awaken. Opening your eyes, you see a blurry image of a disheveled room. Several motionless figures occupy the peripheries of your vision. Empty handles of Crystal Palace litter the floor. You force yourself up, pulling you head from a shallow pool of some sticky substance, most likely a mix of blood, ejaculate, and alcohol As you lift your head, a ray of light shines through a broken window. You look out at a snowy lawn, the occasional red solo cup breaking a blanket of pure white. As your vision clears, you look around the room. You see a stairwell, leading up to a door. Why would I be in a cellar full of blood, ejaculate and alcohol, you ponder to yourself as you limp toward the stairs. Who are all these people? Where am I? As if to answer you question, the door opens. A slightly overweight man with a vineyard vines hat and a pair of bright red chubbies emerges. A can of Natty Light in hand, he looks around the room until he sees you. “Hey, we got a live one!” he shouts into an adjacent room. He turns his attention to you. “Hey, we’ve been expecting you, bro. Welcome to BAT Frat!” Being educated in the ways of gender-neutral housing, your first instinct is to correct him on his usage of the gender-normative term “bro” to refer to you. Then you remember you're not an asshole, and decide to walk up to him and shake his hand.

“NO! I’m not going to help you make date rape drugs!” “Where am I?” you ask, bewildered. “Last thing I remember, I was crawling through a steam tunnel to North Campus.” “Yeah. You ended up in our rockin party, bro. DJ Fuckhaus was doing a killer trap remix of ‘Wagon Wheel’ and you just fell out of a vent onto his MacBook Pro. He wanted to fight you, bro. But one of the brothers here recognized you. You’re really lucky, bro.” “Who recognized me?” you ask. “Oh, Chad Diehl. Yeah he says you were in his Chem 130 class last semester.” Ugh, not Chad. Chad was an asshole frat pledge that always copied off your Chemistry midterms. When he wasn’t leaving gross comments on TotalFratMove, he spent most classes hitting on the least interested girl in a twenty-foot radius. You were not a fan of Chad. “Chad’s got an investment opportunity, if you’re interested. He’s over in the room, pregaming for the women’s basketball game tonight." Glancing at your cellphone, you realize it's 10 am. “Why would Chad want me to help with this ‘investment?’,” you ask the frat boy. “He hasn’t said. He’s applying to Ross though, so he’s a pretty legit businessman,” says the frat boy, both sentences punctuated by a light burp.

“I’m not saying she doesn’t deserve child support, I’m just saying I don’t feel like paying for it,” says Chad in a thick Long Island accent. He looks up and sees you. “Oh, s’up bra. I got a way we can make hella cash.” “And how’s that?” you ask. “Well, you’re pretty good at chemistry, and I’m good at business since I’m applying to Ross and all. I think we could partner up. Think five thousand a week, minimum.” “Okay, so what would I do?” you say reluctantly. “Oh, I just need you to make roofies,” he responds. The sentence repeats in your head for several second as you realize the weight of what he has just said. “NO! I’m not going to help you make date rape drugs!” you shout.. “I was afraid you’d say that,” responds Chad. “Bros, bring in Quentin!” The front door opens, and a drugged out Quentin Tarantino enters the room. The prolific film director foams and the mouth, restrained by two brass chains held by BAT Frat bros. “This is Quentin,” says Chad. “We found him a few weeks ago. Apparently the screen arts department was doing tests on him to see how he creates award-winning films. But the testing went wrong. He’s barely human anymore. He needs sustenance or he gets… mad…” “What… what kind of sustenance?” you ask nervously. “Well, Quentin Tarantino over here has a little foot fetish. And you just happen to have a nice set of feet.” “QUENTIN LIKE FEET. QUENTIN WANT LICK PRETTY FEET,” shouts Tarantino in agreement. “So,” says Chad. “You have two options. You can either help us make roofies, or we put you and Quentin in a room together for some alone time. What do you say?”

To make roofies for Chad, turn to ending A on page 10 To become Quentin Tarantino’s sex slave, turn to ending B on page 10 To run away, turn to ending C on page 10

You enter the living room. You see Chad, deep in argument with one of his fellow brothers.

Spring 2014

COLD IN THE D(IAG) A blast of cold, bitter wind slaps you in the face when you open the door. Only now do you fully appreciate those fuzzy green socks you purchased while you were drunk shopping at CVS last weekend. If it wasn’t for gender-neutral housing, you would be tempted to ignore the siren call of i-Clicker questions and skip classes altogether. Instead you join the long line of bundled students treading carefully on the icy sidewalk. A student rolls past you on a bike. You glance wistfully at your own frost-covered bike shackled to one of the loops in front of East Quad. Gone are the days when you could roll out of bed five minutes before class starts and still make it on time. Up ahead is a battalion of girls clad in North Face jackets and Uggs. Each of them holds a Starbucks cup in one hand and an iPhone in the other. Like The Wall separating the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros from the northern wilderness, this line of girls spans from snowbank to snowbank, threatening to make you late to

class. To give up and go back home to study, turn to pg. 11 Act like a damn Stark and find your way around them (continue reading) The corner is your only chance—you break left as they continue across the street, oblivious of the car that has been waiting at the crosswalk for the last three minutes. Normally you would take South University to State and then to Angell, but to save time it looks like you’ll have to cut through THE DIAG. You spot them ahead. Despite the wasteland that is a Michigan winter, an army of diligent do-gooders stand waiting, stacks of flyers tucked in their hands like canisters of Agent Orange, waiting to be released upon the masses. Like others before you, and their parents, and their parents’ parents, you avert your gaze and power forward as you’ve learned to do so many times. “Hi can I interest you in the society for the humane treatment of farm-grown salmon?”

You rush by without a glance. “Did you know that every time you wipe your ass you destroy three squares miles of adobe snakeroot habitat?” “No,” you mumble. “Check out the discontinued trading card games club!” You almost stop to inquire further, but you force yourself to soldier on into the warmth of Mason Hall. “Do you want to join my intramural inner tube water polo team?” Promotional brochures fly in your face like gnats, forcing you to swim blindly past. And then you’ve made it. Against all odds, you’ve broken past. Youre already a minute late for class, but a strange dissonant melody floats into your ears. It sounds like a mechanical goose singing the gospel of Krishna. Hurry up to class! Turn to pg. 10 Listen to the musical stylings of The Krishna’s. Turn to pg. 7. Ditch class and catch up on campus events. Check the posting wall on pg. 11

ADDICTION

You step outside and stop suddenly. A chilling sensation begins to overtake your body. It’s a familiar feeling. The craving. The itch inside your veins. Shit. Not Again. You swore that things would be better this time...You’ve made promises to people. Your parents... your loved ones...you’re still trying to pick up the peices of your life from last time. But the rush is incredible. It’s been a long day. You need this. You’ve earned this. You can get back on the wagon another night. You reach into your pocket and check your phone.

WE HAVE BEER! we also sell

ORGANIC STUFF, TOO. 216 N. FOURTH AVENUE ANN ARBOR, MICHIGAN PHONE (734) 994-9174 PEOPLESFOOD.COOP

The Krishnas Lil Krishna, Hare Krishna III

By Andrew Keating; February 24, 2014

ARTISTS: The Krishnas FIND IT AT: Mason Hall | State & North U | South U & East U

It’s no secret that the Krishnas aren’t the exactly darlings of the modern indie scene. While the group has carved out a hardcore niche following among the homeless population, their decidedly bedraggled aesthetic and unrepentant religious overtones removed the group from the good graces of Ann Arbor’s Hip Elite. Their sophomore LP, entitled “Lil Krishna, Hare Krishna III,” is unapologetically brilliant, constantly challenging listeners’ preconceptions of “good music.” The Krishnas are, first and foremost, stylistic classicists. Following in the footsteps of the 15th century Mantracore scene, the group is undeniably indebted to its roots. While the group’s songs may seem initially derivative, or even uncreative, the Krishnas embrace these qualities. In that vein, the title track, “Hare Krishna” directly addresses their critics, with caustic lyrics such as “Hare Krishna,” and “Krishna Krishna Hare Hare.” The themes are repeated in track six, “Hare Krishna.” Here, The Krishnas cement their populist identity, spitting in the face of the modern pseudo-intellectual critical aristocracy. Following their debut album, “Krishna Krishna,” The Krishnas have conquered new artistic ground, showing an immense maturation from their neo-scatological origins in the Ann Arbor waste gutters. While The Krishna’s debut was a satisfactory artstic amus- bouche (served slightly underdone ), their most recent album is a feast of clanging and chanting. This extraordinary evolution shines though in experimental tracks “Hare Hare Hare Krishna,” and, in perhaps the most daring cut of the album, “Hare Krishna.” While the album is excellent, it is by no means perfect. Later tracks such as “Hare Krishna” and “Hare Krishna” lack the pure erotic energy of earlier tracks, such as “Hare Krishna.” Additionally, the album can seem to dawdle by the end. At an ambitious 4-hour run time, the album’s sixteen words can feel repetitive or stale at certain points, especially since each track is repeated upwards of 10 times. Overall, however, the Krishna’s sophomore effort is one of the best albums in recent memory. Longtime fans and new listeners will be draw to the group’s catchy hooks and pure sex appeal. “Hare Krishna” is a bold, challenging new take on classic themes that reminded this reviewer what it is to feel love again. You will be hard pressed to find an album this year that so frequently stokes the universal sublime.

Spring 2014

To follow the Krishnas on their 2014 street-corner tour, turn to the top of page 12

The precise historical origin of the text we now know as

“The Commuter Sutra” has since been lost

to time. The earliest versions of the text were found crudely scratched into a second floor bathroom in Pierpont commons. Designed by the mystics of North Campus, the Commuter Sutra was invented as a way to teach engineers about sex, as well as to improve the already fantastic sex lives of the art and theater kids. The Bag Lady

No one is quite sure what the Bag Lady uses her bags for, or why she needs so many. But it’s probably a sex thing.

Hitching A Ride

Just because you didn’t get on the bus, doesn’t mean you can’t get off on the bus. Look out for windburn!

The Rosa Parks

She wouldn’t give up her seat and neither should you. Just climb on top and enjoy the ride.

The Bumpy Ride

The potholes don’t provide the only bumps on this bus. Don’t let the social stigma of VD prevent you taking a ride.

Pit Job

If you’re going to be shoved into someone’s armpits, you might as well make the most of it. Try tracing the alphabet with your tongue!

The Spiderman

Hang from the hand holds or the straps. It’s just like in the movies, only you kiss a little lower.

The Diag to Diag Express

Why cut through campus when you could scissor?

Continue your Bus Ride on pg. 16 Spring 2014

A MODERN-DAY ROMANCE Your professor hands you a copy of his most recent novel. You start to read . . . by steve nagle

he moonbeam cut through the room like a hot finger through a bowl of mayonnaise. Victoria’s breasts were illuminated in the moonlight like the skin of a scrotum stretched thin over the lens of a powerful flashlight. “Come closer,” she whispers breathlessly into my ear, as she tightly grips my hips like a small child grips onto her mother’s arm as she is being ripped away ruthlessly by white water rapids. I gaze into her eyes and get lost. Deep and blue like the pool at the La Quinta Inn where my nephew drowned.

Victoria strokes my hair back as I look down to her lips, pink and soft like a cat anus. She presses her lips into mine. Our tongues timidly meet like when you saw your ex-girlfriend at Aldi three years after breaking up with her for making racist comments in front of your half Latino grandmother. Victoria pulls back and smiles “I’ve wanted to do this since I saw you from across that party.” She sensually runs her hands up my stomach resting them on my chest for a second before pushing me down on to the bed like the white man

BREAKING CHAD:

THE SAGA CONTINUES ENDING A It’s been two months. You’re wealthier than you wildest dreams, but your money is dirty, unclean. You keep trying to get out, but Chad keeps pulling you back in, threatening to harm your friends or family if you defy him. There is no future for you, just roofies. So, you concoct a bold plan. Tonight’s the night. Women’s Basketball March Madness has arrived, and the BAT bro’s are pregaming hard. You cook up a special batch of roofies laced with cyanide. You slip one or two into each open can of Natural Light and wait. By halftime, the BAT bros look sleepy. By the end, there are no survivors. You feel a sense of victory, albeit a hollow one. You’ve destroyed your former captors, but at what cost? Sure, they were objectively horrible human beings, but you’re not a killer. You never were. So you retire to your room. You open the closet. You fashion your belt into a noose. As you slip the noose around your neck, you simultaneously drop your pants. As you fade from this world into sweet oblivion, your life’s breath diminishing, you furiously masturbate. Your last thought is that of a strangely erotic Sears underwear catalogue as you disappear from the realm of the living.

ENDING B Quentin garbs you, and carries you back into the cellar. A single tear drips from your eye as he tears of your shoes. You close your eyes and think of England as Quentin Tarantino ravishes you.

ENDING C You dash out of the BAT Frat, slipping between two hungover brothers guarding door. Bullets whiz by your ears as you dash back to East Quad to fulfill your true destiny.

Turn to page 22

pushed down the hopes and dreams of so many hard working African Americans for hundreds of years. I immediately ejaculate into my pants.

To distract yourself from this crap, turn to page 17

TRAPPED AS A KRISHNA BY CALEB NUSBAUM

he winter Ann Arbor air feels crisp on your shaven head. Passerbies regard you with a mix of curiosity and annoyance. “Hey buddy, the homeless shelter’s down the road!,” a stranger calls. You have lived among the Hare Krishnas for what must have been months, but in your enlightened state you can no longer perceive the flow of time. The grace and serenity of Krishna’s wisdom fills your every thought. Or maybe it’s just religious accordion music.. Either way your life has become a never ending haze of finger cymbals, ginger tea, and chanting. God, the damned chanting. It worms into your very subconscious, gradually driving you mad. After what could have been a minute or a year, a fresh-faced young couple approaches you. You strain with all your might to form the words “please help me,” but all that you manage is “H-Hare… K-krish-n-n-naaa.”

“Oh, look Matt, how multicultural!” the woman says. Your beatific smile belies the soulrending mental torture you are undergoing. -I think it’s too late for me- “Would you like to learn more about our lord and savior Krishna?” ”Sure, I love learning about other cultures,” the man says enthusiastically. -Run. Run while you still can.- “The books are free, but we do ask for a 20 dollar donation.” ”20 dollars? How about 5 and we just take the pamphlet,” says the woman. -Kill me. End my suffering.- “Of course. Hare Krishna.”

”You too!,” they both exclaim, ignorant of the agony roiling behind your smiling facade. -What did I ever do to deserve this fate...“Take my business card.” The couple fades away into the fog. You envy their freedom, and contemplate drowning yourself in the nearest puddle, if only to end the pain. Many more will pass by, and you will remain a thorn in their side, chanting for all eternity. “Brother, the light of Krishna consciousness must be spread further,” the head monk calls. “Perhaps to the heathen lands of Angell Hall.” You silently nod and follow. There is work to be done. Krishna is waiting.

END

, turn to head tooampoarf ty page 6 to the bott

BY c

Most often seen off the coasts of Jamaica and California, these fish use their prodigious inflating ability to inhale much more smoke than they otherwise could. This causes them to be perpetually friendly towards divers, and they will readily accept munchies offered to them. Due to their lack of independence most passerfish do not migrate far from their parents.

snoop doggfish

puffpuffpasserfish

roach clip reef shark Despite its fierce appearance, the Roach clip Shark is actually a scavenger that lives on the spent tips from other animals. They can follow even minute traces of skunk smell through miles of sea.

Spring 2014

aum usb

n leb

This majestic fish is believed to be the chillest species to have ever evolved, remaining virtually unchanged since 1971. It drifts in a mellow fashion over the ocean floor and can consume up to 81 smaller Bluntfish in a single day. Unfortunately, its population has recently dwindled due to competition from a related species, the Snoop Lionfish.

seaweed (heh)

Yeeeeeeeee.

giant spliff

Rarely seen in the wild, this enormous cephaloPotâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s body is comprised of super-sticky icky contained in a rolling paper skin. Though skittish, they sometimes offer their lit tentacles to adventurous divers seeking a buzz. Their only natural predator is the Spark Whale, whose mouth and lungs are large enough to tolerate the extremely high concentrations of THC in the Giant Spliff â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s body.

THIS PLACE IS DIFFERENT . . . BY ROSS WARMAN

s you stroll down Washtenaw, you pass generic building after generic building. That is, until a majestic log cabin comes into view. Atop the third story sit three massive Greek letters. Lamda. Lamda. Beta. Rather than the cheap plywood and paint that adorned the other fraternities, these letters were different. You can tell these letters are hand crafted, with a finely polished mahogany. It gives the building a sophisticated rural, yet overall unpretentious feel. As you make your way up the imported cobblestone walkway, you come face to face with a massive door, carved from the same mahogany. A charming braided doormat sits before you. You open the massive door and step over a stack of a catalogues to enter. You’re greeted by a sea of rustic charm and family values. A golden retriever immediately runs up to you and hands you a craft beer. You take it, confused, and wade forward. In the sea of party goers, you begin to notice the brothers. Tall handsome gentlemen, with the frat’s letters embroidered on various mock turtle necks, down vests, and cable knit sweaters. Their teeth are shining white and they all smell vaguely of a pine forest. Not Pine-Sol. Like an actual forest, full of giant Douglas Firs. Strange. As you navigate the party, you make note of the various taxidermied animals. Several elk and deer, a moose, a couple of ducks, a large bear. Each room seemed to contain a new woodland creature. “Each animal you see was shot by a brother.” A friendly voice booms from behind you. You turn to see the voice’s owner. A tall man stands before you. He looks as if he was lifted directly from one of those weird Winter

Olympic events that the Scandinavian teams dominate in and no one really watches or understand. Basically, he’s super white. He extends a hand to you. “My name is Erik. I’m the president of LLB. Welcome.” He extends a hand. You go to shake it. It’s a firm handshake, commanding respect and honor. An image of a clear mountain stream briefly flashes before your eyes. You take a step back. Erik smiles. “Sorry about that. It can be a bit intense your first time. I should have warned you.” “What...what was that?” “The vision? It’s different for each person. Describe it.” You explain to Erik what you saw. He nods knowingly. “And what were you wearing?” You don’t remember. Erik extends his hand again. “Let’s find out.” Hesitantly, you reach out your hand again and grasp Erik’s. A rush of cool air crosses your face. The smell of Douglas Fir’s is stronger than ever. You’re at the mountain stream. Standing in it, to be precise.You look down to see your feet. They’re enveloped by a classic, yet modern boot. Dark brown with hand stitching, a Gore-Tex membrane keeps your feet completely dry. As your gaze travels up, you see your shorts, a lightweight canvas material that translate easily from the mountain trail to the city street. You feel a warm polar fleece half-zip around your body. On your back sits a lightweight bag with a surprising amount of storage capability. In your hands rest carbor-fiber hiking poles with rubber grips. You blink and it’s gone. You’re standing in the LLB house, still holding Erik’s hand. “What were you wearing?” You describe your outfit in vivid detail. Erik nods knowingly. As you finish, he starts to walk off, indicating you should follow. He pulls the antler on one of the deer heads. The wall slides away, revealing a large room. On the walls are stacks and stacks of afforadable, yet

stylish outdoor clothing. Large display table and mannequins fill the center of the room. As you step into the room, you immediately recognize the half-zip polar fleece from your vision. You reach out and touch it. It feels right. “What size are you?” Erik’s voice brings you out from your revelry. You tell him your sizes and he flies to work, pulling out articles of clothing from the walls, the tables, even from thin air. You quickly pull the clothing on. It feels right. Righter than anything ever has before. Erik smiles approvingly. “Are you ready?” “For what?” you ask? “To find it. The place from your vision.” “I don’t know where to start looking.” “You do. Deep down, you do. And besides, you won’t be alone.” “You’re coming with me?” “Afraid not. As much as I’d love to, my place is here. But I think you’ll like your companion even better.” A bark rings out. You turn to the room’s entrance. The golden retriever from earlier is standing there, wagging his tail. He runs over and drops a piece of paper at your feet. You pick it up. It’s a map of Oregon. “I guess you know where to start”. He tosses you a pair of keys. “Take my Grand Cherokee. It’ll do the job.” As you and the dog climb into the car, you turn back to Erik. “How can I ever thank you?” “You don’t need to thank me. Thank LLB. Your destination for all outdoor needs.” You start the engine and drive off towards the wilderness of Oregon. You don’t know where you’re going. But you know you’re going to look good once you get there.

END.

FUN GUYS & FUNGI CALEB NUSBAUM

ou emerge from the tunnel, the harsh light of glow sticks stinging your retinas. Shrouded in clouds of steam and bellowing incoherently, your form is menacing. A dazed voice asks, “Hey, is that you Dave? Great idea trying the new sauna exfoliating treatment!” The steam clears and a short, flannel-clad man clutching a handful of what appear to be mushrooms shambles towards you. “Dave…?” he says in a nasal, raspy voice. His eyes widen and his handful of mushrooms drops to the ground. “Kah’Zuel! Kah’Zuel is upon us!” He bends down on his knees and lays prostrate at your feet. He extends a small offering of jungle juice, places it in front of you, and runs away excitedly, shouting. “Brothers! Sisters! This is truly a glorious day, for Kah’Zuel the Steam God has blessed us with his presence!” You decide to go along with it. A woman wearing a sari approaches you and pleads with you to join her in her utopian society. “We shall show you the ways of our people and partake of the most holy shroom,” she says in a saccharine tone. Sounds like a plan, you think. You sternly nod in agreement and follow her to the co-op. Inside the co-op it seems as though you have stepped into another world. An endless, all-inclusive haze of smoke, smiling coed faces, and unidentifiable smells surrounds you, and somehow you feel a little happier. The man who first greeted you proclaims “Greetings o divine one! Welcome to our humble commune. I am Moon Twig, please join us in the circle.” You amble over to a loose oval of gently swaying students who are passing around a doobie of considerable size. Moon Twig clears a spot for you, and a trio of women dress you in their traditional garb. The blunt arrives at your position. You take a long, satisfying puff, and all is mellow. You are a god among weak, puny, mortals. You could crush them so easily. ALL SHALL FALL BENEATH THE MIGHT OF KAH’ZUEL, LORD OF STEA “Yo” A long haired, goatee-sporting man leans uncomfortably close and whispers softly in your ear. “Hey brah… wanna see my fishtank?”

To honor the man’s wishes and see his fishtank, turn to page 13

RECRUITMENT CHRIS SEEMAN

As you walk along the posting wall of Haven Hall, you notice some religious groups set up there to draw more members. They seem nice, but you really don’t have time for any of that. You should probably just get to class. “Hey there, wanderer!” You turn around and see an apparently average boy and girl, no different from your typical frat boy or sorority girl. In fact, they would look like they stepped out of a photo for a university application brochure if it weren’t for the fact that they wore fully black t-shirts with pentagrams on them and had what were clearly bloodstains on their collars. That, and the fact that German death metal was playing in the background. Possibly against your better judgment, you decide to visit the booth. “Hello….what club is this?” you ask nervously. “We’re the Michigan Society of Satanists! We believe that the world is full of disarray and darkness, and that society’s conception of the Judeo-Christian god is an absolute falsification. The only way to salvation and the Ultimate Understanding of life is through the heart of Satan.” they reply cheerfully. Now you really want to leave, and you’re already running late. You begin to slowly back away, but the girl grabs your arm and pricks your finger. “OW! What the hell are you-“ the girl interrupts you and places her pale finger on your lips. “Thank you for donating to our cause!” She takes your blood and drops it onto a scrap of paper. The blood begins to form a strange shape, simple yet somehow impossible to describe. The girl and boy look at it with some concern, almost showing disdain and disappointment in. your blood shape. “This blood has not been cleansed! It’s not forming the mark of the great ruler of evil…you should come to our mass meeting tonight and have it cleansed! In darkness, you will find freedom in ways you cannot yet fully imagine. 10pm in 3461 Mason Hall! We’ll have pizza, too!” The boy and the girl begin to stare at you, still smiling, but making painfully direct eye contact. They begin to chant. “JOIN US, JOIN US, JOIN US.” The Satanists are strange, no doubt about it…but at least they weren’t the sickos at the Squirrel Watching Club. You quickly walk away to your class, but a morbid curiosity lingers. You take out your phone to look up University-registered student organizations; there you find “Michigan Society of Satanists” listed in the Maize Pages, right next to “Michigan Society of Satirists”. You decide that you probably won’t bother to go a step further and go to the mass meeting.. Still, there’s a small part of you concerned for your well-being. Was your blood really uncleansed? You could really use some extra curricular leadership experience, and the Satanist’s brochures were printed on some pretty glossy paper…

To ignore your better judgement and attend the mass meeting, Turn To Page 23 To move on with your life and get to class, Turn to Page 10

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SOME TIME LATER . . . BY MEREDITH GILBERT

CLASSROOM

•B•I•N•G•O• ACTING THE GHOST MAJOR HYPEROF MAKING INTELLIGENT CHRISTMAS IT ABOUT JANITOR PAST THEMSELVES OBVIOUSLY WOKE UP 5 MINUTES AGO

PERSON CUBA GOODING JR. EYEING GSI LUSTFULLY

FEDORA GUY

BANGABLE GSI

FRAT GUY WITH 20 ICLICKERS

COUPLE TAKING THE CLASS TOGETHER

FREE SPACE TCF SWEATSHIRT

STILL HUNGOVER DISGUSTINGLY FROM ENTHUSIASTIC THIRSTY THURSDAY

PROFESSOR CHRISTIAN BALE STRUGGLING DISAGREEABLE PREPARING WITH ROTC KID FOR NEW ICLICKER ROLE TECHNOLOGY

THAT LOUDLY JACKET DROPPING WILL ALUMINUM NEVER BE WATER FASHIONABLE BOTTLE

WANNABE ATHLETE WEARING FULL WARMUPS

ASSHOLE TAKING NOTES ON AN IPAD

CLEARLY DRINKING RUM FROM WATTER BOTTLE

STUDENT FROM CALIFORNIA WHO REFUSES TO ADMIT THAT THEY’VE MADE A HUGE MISTAKE

ASLEEP IN THE FRONT ROW

KID DRUMMING WITH PENCILS

PORN

once you finish your game, turn to the top of page 20 Spring 2014

THE QUEEN WANTS YOU! A

re you tired, and you just want a break from campus life at U of M, but you still need to finish your degree? Do you want to study abroad, but you can’t decide where to go? Are you sexually active? Do you enjoy places with histories deeply rooted in colonialism? Do you speak English? Do you use the word “pejorative” too much? Are you one of those pesky white people who boasts about being a “9th generation British colonist”? Are you up to date on your shots? Do you really give a shit?

If you answered yes to any of these questions, then you should apply to CGIS’ new global studies program… “A Semester in a Former British Colony” This program has established locations in all of the former British Colonies such as: Canada, West Africa, the North Eastern region of the United States, India, Australia, Bermuda, Somalia, and MANY MORE!

While abroad in your former British Colony, you’ll have a plethora of classes* to choose from like…

“When Kings Take Over”

“Red Coats: Highly Organized Homosexuals, or Avid Tea Drinkers?”

“Pirates, Pirates, Pirates!” (alternately titled, “Where’s Me Rum?” and “I Am the Captain Now”)

…and so many more!

What are you waiting for? Hop on the colonialism train and relish in your privilege! Apply by May 1st through the MCompass website if you are interested. *Credits may not be transferrable.

to keep going, turn to page 6 Spring 2014

CLASS FINALLY ENDS. By andrew keating

hen you get out of class, the Krishnas are still singing. You get a text from your friend Elliot. “Yo, let’s meet up on North Campus. We can throw rocks at the theater kids for a few hours then check out some parties I heard about!”

Choose one of the following: A) Ignore the text and go home for some shut-eye- turn to page 22 B) Take the bus to North campus and throw rocks at theater kidsstay on this page You walk up to C.C. Little to take the Commuter North. The main advantage of gender-neutral housing is it’s location on central campus, so you’ve never had to take the bus (the other advantage is the sexually ambiguous hall orgies, but you were never really into those). Due to your inexperience, you’re unsure how to choose which bus to take. The bus map indicates that the #2 is going to Bursley/Baits, but Bus #2 is nowhere to be found. In fact, none of these buses have any visible numbering. They are completely

plastered with signs that read “Party at the Rock Tonight! Accept Christ With No Exceptions!” “Excuse me,” you say to an elderly bearded man next to you, “how do I know which bus is #2?”

“However: be warned that strange things happen down in them tunnels. People go down there, and disappear for days, weeks even. Sure, most of ‘em come back, but they show up in strange places, with no memory of what’s happened to ‘em.”

“You don’t, really,” says the exasperated man. “The new life church is advertising this ‘party’ pretty hard. I’m trying to decide whether I should just walk all the way to North! I just got kicked out of the UGLi for watching porn on the public computers, but those suckers at the Duderstadt won’t be on the lookout for me quite yet.”

“So… it’s like the Bermuda triangle,” you murmur.

“Wait, what!?” “Do you want help getting up to north or not?” asks the old man, sternly. You sigh. “Okay fine, how to I get to North campus by foot?” “Well, there’s two ways. You can cut through the Arb, or you could take… the steam tunnels…” “The steam tunnels?” “Yeah. Supposedly, there are steam tunnels that go under the entire campus. That’s your most direct route,” said the wise pervert.

“Uh, yeah. Basically,” responds the bedraggled man. “Hey, can I borrow you phone and uh…check my email over there behind those bushes for a second? You can take a bus, but you can’t be sure where it’s going, due to the New Life posters. In any case, the sage pervert is breathing heavily now, so you should probably get a move on.

You can either: A) Take your chances and hop on a random bus, hoping for the bestturn to page 16 B) Cut through the Arb- turn to page 19 C) Take the steam tunnels- turn to the top of page 15

WELCOME TO NEW LIFE BY steve nagle

“

I’m so happy you decided to come along,” says Dante as you approach the porch. “You’re gonna love this.” You shuffle up the steps behind him. Sure, you’re nervous, but you needed to get out of the house, and besides, it’s a party for a church group, what’s the worst that could happen? “Welcome…” Dante says twisting the knob on the door. “To your new life!!” The first thing you notice is the stench. Definitely biological in origin; it smells like sex, or death, maybe both. A loud pulsing tribal drumbeat echoes through the dark hallways increasing with intensityalong with your heartbeat. To your right you see a circle of shirtless men surrounding a blond spikey haired man pounding one of the men’s face into the ground. Dante grabs you by the hand and leads you down a hallway, each doorway revealing something more terrifying than the last.

You see a man snorting cocaine out of a deer carcass.

You pass a closed door, lights flickering under the frame. “ASS TO ASS!!” you hear a voice on the other side call out over the cacophony. The final room contains a group of people excitedly watching Two and a Half Men, and not the early seasons. This is late season 2013 Ashton Kutcher Two and a Half Men.

“W….w…where are we headed?” you ask, suddenly aware that you are shaking. “To the initiation chamber. Come,” says Dante. You notice something darker, more aggressive in his voice as he grips your wrist and leads you down to the basement. You step out on to a dirt floor and look up at a banner. “Face Death. Look Into The Eyes of God” is written in what you hope is red ink. Below the banner is a table with two chairs surrounded by a circle of onlookers. You are led to one of the chairs and sat down, In front of you on the table lies a revolver and a red bandana. Across from you sits a scared and dejected man, blood dripping from a gash on his head. You are shaking violently now, realizing that this may be your last minute on earth-CRASH “KRISHNAS!!” someone yells over the sound of breaking glass. The crowd scatters. “This is my chance,” you think, as you dart from the table and through the first door you can see. The room contains a large dresser and a small window that you just might be able to squeeze through.

To attempt to escape, turn to page 5

DEEP WITHIN THE BIG HOUSE. . . BY NICO PIGG

eart pounding, you burst through the doors of the Athletic offices. The floor crunches beneath your feet as your eyes adjust to the light, revealing hundreds of crushed boxes of Fruity Pebbles strewn across the room, the floor covered in cereal. The smell of acrid metallic smoke and fruit cereal mingles with the stench of male locker room. There is a man huddled in the corner, clutching a tinfoil pipe and muttering to himself. A one gallon plastic bag sits in front of him labeled “PCP”, half empty. “I know that it was you Mr. Hoke. I know that you that killed Al Borges. Why did you do it Mr. Hoke? Why would you do this?” Brady Hoke looks up at you, his face sweaty and terrified. “I didn’t want to!” he sobs “The little man made me! I didin’t want to do it!” “Who made you do it Mr. Hoke? What little man?” “The little green man! He-oh god! Oh god, he’s back! AAAGH!” Brady Hoke’s eyes widen in terror as he swats the air in front of him. “Leave me alone Gazoo! I did what you told me to! I killed him! What more do you want from me? Why won’t you LEAVE ME ALONE?” “Mr. Hoke, who are you talking to? There’s nobody there-” And then it clicks. The Fruity Pebbles. The flattened corpse of Al Borges covered in caveman footprints. The big bag labeled PCP. “What…what year is it Brady?” He throws back a handful of children’s vitamins. “Circa three thousand B.C, whats it to ya?” “It’s 2014. How long have you been smoking drugs Hoke?” “I have no idea what you’re talking about!” he replies nervously, exhaling a large cloud of drug smoke. He loosens the blue tie around his neck, swatting around his shoulders again. His spotted orange animal skin dress is now soaked in sweat.

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“Listen to me Hoke. Your head’s all full of angel dust. You ran over Al Borges when you were high. Ran him over in your Foot-Car. The little green man isn’t real. His name is the Great Gazoo. He’s from a 1960’s cartoon show called The Flintstones. You see, every man has two natures Mr. Hoke; one moral and one base. One Hayes-Schembechler Coach of the Year, the other an anachronistic stone-age family man. When I saw Al Borges’ body I knew that there was only one man that could have done this. There is a very fine line between yourself and Fred Flintstone Mr. Hoke, very fine indeed. Practically non-existent. When you started smoking that illy KJ you have in the ziplock bag Brady, the line ceased to exist. Yourself and Fred Flinstone fused. We all have demons Brady, yours happens to be a tiny green alien that haunts your cartoon character alter ego.” “Gazoo said that you would try to poison me with your words! So what I like to unwind with a little dank sherm at the end of a long day? I run one of the biggest football programs in the country! I have a mortgage! A wife, a daughter, a tiny purple dinosaur! Who are you to judge how much PCP I smoke?” Sirens wail outside the Athletics building. A squadron of Housing Security patrol cars screeches to a halt in front of the doors as the unmistakable whir of a Bell 412 Housing Security helicopter grows louder. A lone officer knocks loudly on the door, as eighty three others crouch beneath their car doors, weapons drawn. “Housing Security! Open the door! We can smell what you’re doing in there sir! You can come out here and talk to us or we can call the police and do this the hard way.” “I’m not goin’ out like this!” Hoke bellows. “Only way you’re putting me in cuffs is if I’m already dead!” He inhales deeply from the tinfoil pipe and removes a .38 snub concealed in his orange smock. You watch as he kicks open the door. The elite team of Housing Security Officers opens fire and Brady Hoke’s body is riddled with bullets. In all the commotion, you manage to slip through an open window in the buildings rear, and run until you can no longer hear the sirens and shouting. You stop and watch as the winter sun rises over Ann Arbor, shining brilliantly off of the icy streets. It is a new beginning, a new day. A Yabba Dabba Dooh-Day.

END. 21

MASTURBATION IS ALWAYS

A GOOD CHOICE!

THE ALUMNI INFERNO BY LUKE COLLARD

pon arriving fashionably late at the Mason Hall mass meeting, you are greeted warmly by the students, all wearing blue shirts that read “Michigan Satanists.” You are called upon by the leaders for a blood cleansing, but you look down and see a pentagram. They approach you with needles. You try to run but trip on a candle. You jostle right into the leaders, who stick the needles into you. You faint and hit your head on the pentagrammed floor, where your unkempt hair catches fire on a candle. Congratulations! You

“Hell looks a lot like Atlantic City but with fewer flying snakes.”

have inadvertently become the club’s first ever human sacrifice. You find yourself in complete nothingness until you awake on a stained shag carpet, in an open cell with slimy bars. You head to the restroom, the door reads: “Abandon all soap ye who enter here.” You find a pamphlet and a letter stuffed in your mouth. You learn that they cut out 8 of the 9 circles of hell, due to budget problems. The letter informs you that as a (now former) student at the University of Michigan, you have been invited to join the Alumni Association of Hell. You go for a stroll. Hell looks a lot like Atlantic City but with fewer flying snakes. You walk around, sidestepping the used diapers that are everywhere. You look to your left and see a door labeled “Ironic Punishment Room.” You look inside and see Kwame Kilpatrick opening a piece of mail eagerly, as if it were full of cash. He opens it and looks inside, only to have it explode in his face. There is a man standing next to you, looking inside and laughing. “Did…did you do that?” you ask “Yes, the U of M alumni run this punishment room. I’m Ted Kaczynski” the man replies. He sees your letter. “Oh, you’re an alumnus, come with me.” He takes you three doors down, periodically making threats to mail bomb you if you don’t follow him. Ted hands you a welcome goodie bag, a brown paper bag with some black licorice, wax lips, and a razorblade. You both sit down in the

Spring 2014

meeting room with the others. They go around the room and introduce themselves. The man on your left starts: “Hello, I’m Dr. H.H. Holmes.” “Hi, I’m Ed Martin.” “Hi, Richard Loeb.” “Hey, I’m Madonna.” “And you’ve met me of course, I’m Ted ‘the Unabomber.’ Kaczynski” “Anybody up for some hot yoga and swimming?” asks Holmes. The hot yoga commences outside, and Ed Martin puts on a John Denver cassette. This of course arouses Loeb, who begins to feel up Dr. Holmes. Holmes shoves Loeb off, more than a little moodily. “Sorry man, I’m just a little…frustrated” Loeb says. “We all are!” Holmes replies. “let’s go swim.” You all go to the swimming pool, which is filled with lukewarm vomit. Another man is in the

pool, Holmes informs you that this is Pope Stephen VI who is always in there. Holmes starts a game of Marco Polo, Steve is “it.” Pope Steve wanders around, almost getting to Holmes, who has stayed at the same spot the whole time, peeing in the pool. “Marco…Marco…” Steve is very close to Holmes now.

“Whoever is responsible for the explosion of Madonna must go to Satan’s office at once.”

“Polo!” Holmes shouts, and then stabs Pope Steve. In a fit of stabbing induced mania he tries to seduce Madonna, but Martin intervenes. Holmes pulls out yet another blade and jams it into Martin’s skull, and resumes trying to lick Madonna. Martin wobbles around, throwing his basketball into the air and sinking into the vomit. You hear a “swoosh” and turn to see the basketball has gone through the hoop over at the end of the pool. He really was getting good at hoops. Holmes is rejected by Madonna, who leaves the pool. Loeb starts groping Holmes again and they wrestle in the water until they end up choking on the vomit and drown. You and Ted leave the pool. “Madonna looks a little bummed out… why don’t you give her this little gift to cheer her up?” Ted says, walking away happily. You look down at the “gift”: a small necklace. Madonna cheerfully accepts the necklace. As she latches it around her neck, it suddenly explodes, blowing up most of her. You hear Ted laughing manically behind you. A voice over the loud speaker starts saying that whoever is responsible for the explosion of Madonna must go to Satan’s office at once. Ted laughs at you as you are escorted away by a small hobgoblin. You are tortured briefly, then go to the Woods of Suicide and slit your throat. You wake up in your cell. There is no escape. You turn on the TV and watch re-runs of Home Improvement.

END. 23

Spring 2014