Larry VS The Machine # by The Harvard Lampoon

Subscribers, Many of you have decided, for whatever idiotic reason, to send in fan-mail and questions to the Lampoon offices. On my way up to the trampoline room from a nice soak and sauna in the Lampoon baths, I just so happened to come across one of these bags of mail. I suspect someone meant to throw these letters out along with the stack of bills from the trampoline cleaning service and the dead freshman they were next to. Nonetheless, after an invigorating bounce, I’ve decided to take this bag into the Deep Writing Bunker. With me is the trusty Lampoon servant and funnyman Jingles the Monkey, to whom I am dictating your awnsers. Q: This is the thirteenth letter I have sent you know, I demand that you cancel my subscription. I never even subscribed in the first place there is no way you can legally charge my credit card. A: Dear Sir. Thank you for your subscription. I ask you to give us one more chance: I think this issue will make up for the last 20 years or so of real horseshit writing. We thank you for supporting us here at the Lampoon, it’s subscribers like you that pay for Jingles’ extremely expensive video game habit.

April 2020

Vol. CXXXXIV No. 2 BOARD OF EDITORS Maxwell A. Gay ’21, President Gavin. P. Lifrieri ’21, Ibis Lia R. Kiam ’21, Narthex Marie A. Konopacki ’21, Narthex Nicholas G. Jaeger ’21, Treasurer

S. W. Roberts ’19-’20 T. Ninh ’19-’20 B. W. Mott ’19-’20 S. Wu ’20-’21 J. T. Ball ’20-’21 M. R. Perusse ’20 A. Chen ’20 I. M. Gibney ’20 Y. Ji ’21 L. G. Fadiman ’21 C. de Losada ’21

LITERATURE EDITOR Brian W. Mott

ART EDITOR Benjamin Cohen

O. Jain ’20 F. S. Shanel ’21 A. M. Peikin ’20 E. H. Sevilla ’20 J. L. Gilbert ’21 P. K. Stoller ’21 E. N. Orr ’21 Y. M. Chamieh ’21 V. I. Nutting ’21 E. B. Chenevey ‘22 J. S. Roberts ‘22 S. K. Lam ‘23 N. A. Araya ’20-’21, Blot K. N. Rachesky ’22, Sanctum J. P. Wolfe ’22, Sanctum Mike M. Miller ’20, Hautbois Grace. Y. Shi ’22, Hautbois Juan F. Arenas R. ’19-’20, Sackbut John L. Nugent ’21, Sackbut Zachary D. Goddard ’20, Goddard David J. Lynch’20, Nave Nicholas S. Grundlingh ’20, Vanitas Jack G. Stovitz ’20, Vanitas BUSINESS BOARD

Dash P. D. Wasserstein ’22, Business Manager Adam S. Levin ’22, Advertising Manager Adiya A. Abdilkhay ‘22, Circulation Manager T. Donovan Keene ’18-’20 B. J. Falk ’20 S. H. Henson ’20 J. D. Wasserstein ’21 L. E. Graciano ’21 M. Eczacıbaşı ’20 P. T. Magahis ’21 B. L. Weber ’21 A. E. Harper ’20 Elmer W. Green, 1897-1977, Grand Curator

Q: First time writer, long time fan of your work BWM. My friends and I are thinking about getting into comedy, what is your writing process like? A: First of all, don’t get into comedy writing unless you love fast cars, money, and all the sex you can wish for. It takes a certain kind of person to live the college comedy writer lifestyle, to live la vida loca. To your second question: my writing partners and I, we rise at 5 with the sun. We wish for good weather and good luck. Q: This last year, for the first time ever, the average American spent less on comedy magazines than they did on clothing and healthcare. As the comedy magazine market shows signs of shrinkage, do you envision a new direction for the Lampoon? A: I see us moving into cheap plastic gags: things like a calculator that squirts water whenever you try to divide or Legos that catch on fire. Q: You’re a famously relaxed guy, but there must be some things that get you extremely on edge. What are you most worried about? A: The new members of the Lampoon, their number is growing faster than resources can provide. Save a real revolution in farming technology—these rubber rakes I purchased from the gypsy who calls himself Wile, well... they are next to useless—I’m sure that years of famine lie ahead. Q: What’s it like being a Lampoon Comp Director? A: An excellent question. With little to no mind of their own, the Comp Director depends on the colony for purpose; through special glands, Comp Directors can release an irresistible pheromone cocktail; as if all that wasn’t enough, a Lampoon Comp Director can lift up to three times their body weight. I might be thinking of a bug. Q: When you came to college did you know that you wanted to leave college a virgin? A: Excellent question! I am not leaving college a virgin so much as graduating college with a 2.8 GPA. Q: I’m a freshman thinking about entering my ‘bid’ for a position on the Lampoon staff. When you were a freshman did you know you wanted to write for a comedy magazine? A: Call me crazy, but it was actually Martian communications beamed through the Ibis on the top of the Castle that convinced me to comp the Lampoon. Q: Favorite class taken at Harvard? A: It was a Government class, my Sophomore year, “Gov 301: Henry Kissinger Rides Again,” or something like that. Q: Favorite college memory? A: Acid, nitrous, TV. Acid Nitrous and TV at the same time… and, uh, meeting my classmates. Oh! and that time the Lampoon was invited to guest star on Sesame Street and I stabbed the number 7 in the heart. Q: Worst day of your life? A: November 8th 2016: the day they banned shiny black tophats in Loker reading room. Q: Hello guvnors’, writing to you from across the pond. Names Johnny Lennon, and I was wondering if you had any advice on getting the birds to go to the big dance with you? A: Jesus, stupid fucking Brits. Jingles, get a load of this Limey: ‘The birds go to the dance’ ... ‘Ay me teef are cattywompus an’ all that,’ ‘Queen’s knickers! The colonies are revolting!’ Miserable island people they are Jingles. Q: As a member of the last bastion of truly creative and innovative humor, does the impending Lampoon-Disney merger worry you? A: Jingles, help me will you, I’ve gotten my writer’s sash stuck in the porg slurpee machine. Q: If you could give one piece of advice to your readers, what would it be? A: If you roll this magazine up you can use it to view the eclipse. Q: How vas eest in ein lampoon. Heard vu zrow zee best parties. Me ant Klaus, ve vere vondering if ze list for Back to School ees still open? A: Dear sir, thank you for writing to the Lampoon. Unfortunately neither Jingles nor I speak Spanish. Q: Can you speak on the controversial Supreme Court case in which the Lampoon is currently embroiled. A: It’s staff policy to not speak of current cases, but I have can say with assurance that we will win The Harvard Lampoon vs. All Animals. Q: As a writer for the Lampoon, how does it feel to be the stupidest person alive? A: The second stupidest, I remind you that we have subscribers.

Larry vs. the Infernal Machine #

April 2020

Vol. CXXXXIV No. 2 BOARD OF EDITORS Maxwell A. Gay ’21, President Gavin. P. Lifrieri ’21, Ibis Lia R. Kiam ’21, Narthex Marie A. Konopacki ’21, Narthex Nicholas G. Jaeger ’21, Treasurer

LITERATURE EDITOR Brian W. Mott

ART EDITOR Benjamin Cohen

Larry vs. the Infernal Machine #

Larry: Hey, can I get some rubbers. Clerk: Yeah, sure, what kind of johnny you looking for, smooth or ribbed?

Larry: I’m alright Clerk: Fluorided condoms, for your partner’s teeth and brain.

Larry: Give me the ribbed

Larry: Sure, I don’t really see-

Clerk: Ribbed for her pleasure or his pleasure?

Clerk: Do you want the ones that dye your penis blue?

Larry: His pleasure

Larry: Are they cheaper?

Clerk: What color, Purple or Gold?

Clerk: Well, they’re not more expensive.

Larry: Purple Clerk: Apple or Spearmint or Peppermint or Tomato or Blue-Bombastic-Berry or Yellow Mustard or Dried Plum or Puckered Ass or Vomit Vichyssoise or Pus Partridge or Armpit Arugula? Larry: Spearmint... Clerk: Lubricated or bone dry? Larry: Lubricated Clerk: You want this one I just stretched over my head?

Larry: Give me those then. Clerk: Alright… let me just ring you up here, and *turns on PA system*. “ATTENTION LARDOBURGER GROCERY SHOPPERS, THIS MAN HAS JUST PURCHASED RIBBED FOR HIS PLEASURE, PURPLE, SPEARMINT, LUBRICATED, FLUORIDE-INFUSED, CLAMPON CONDOMS.” Sorry about that buddy, it’s store policy... that’ll be 400 dollars. Larry: Clampon condoms?

he day is hot, and full of flies. The flies, these are no normal flies, they are retaining spectacular amounts of water weight— swelling to enormous volumes, so fat their wings are unable to lift them off the ground. We are ten weeks into the rain-forest and with each day the surroundings wear heavier on me. It is only Larry and I now. We have been separated from our tour group for close to ten weeks. When we came into this place Larry told me that we must wear matching explorer’s zoot-suits and always stand in direct sunlight. Larry told me deep inside the jungle there are great Paleolithic birds with the wingspan of Lear Jets that lay eggs in your brain. Larry said that far into the canopy there are gods who leave no footprints, and natives who record videos of you trying to build shelter and fire on their iPhones. They upload the videos to the jungle internet. Larry said if you try making sense of the jungle it will turn you out. I believe him. He had warned our guide that maps were more often than not dead wrong, and we haven’t seen him for about ten weeks now. We are eleven weeks into the rainforest, and with each day the surroundings wear heavier... I find myself in a state of weightlessness, floating above the deep canopy. Larry will point to things in the jungle, and I will take notes on these curiosities. This play between us goes a little something like this: Larry: hey look at that. (He is pointing at a tree) ‘Larry, there are millions of trees in the rain-forest.’ Larry: ‘This tree, its roots hum in stillness and others’ roots scream in a pandemonium, this tree, this one with our eyes we see and our breath we touch *sniff* this is the only tree in the world.’ Unfortunately this was an extremely poisonous oozing tree. Larry’s hands and feet are swelling to the size of big fat hands and feet. He pulls me close,

THE HARVARD LAMPOON

and in a quiet murmur, mumbling almost to himself: ‘being out here in the jungle for as long as we have, the one thing I miss? It’s pussy.’

There is a sickening crunch as Handsy’s forehead caves in and his cranial crest collapses. Handsy is spun slowly, upside down, like a spent yo-yo.

This morning, Larry wakes me with his poking stick. His horizontal pupils inches from mine, his fingers pressed to his lips, *shushhhh*. Straining my ears, I hear only the jungle transmuted in the blood pumping through my veins. But behind Larry I see an intruder in our camp, picking his way through our gear. The intruder hears me wake, and he turns slowly: ‘Oh hiya, Handsy F. Jahnson here, saw you folks make your way into my territory! Not a smart move! Ol’ Handry has killed for less.”

The porno still hangs cold-clutched in Handsy’s hand. Larry is tugging, pulling on the cover, ‘gimme, my, wankrag!’’ The young sapling to which the opposite end of the snare is attached bends, as if in prayer, towards the ground. Handsy’s eyes snap open,

This Handsy is smiling psychotically from ear to ear. Larry turns his pointing stick towards Handsy, “did you learn what you came here to find?” Handsy/Handry’s smile stretches beyond his face, “December, 1975, one of you is a man of taste.” He fingers delicately a Playboy out of Larry’s rucksack. “Alright, stranger, you can unhand my personal effect,” turning the pointing stick back to my throat, ‘we’re looking for the City of Gold, and you know the path.’ ‘Aw geez, the city of gold, heck yes I know where it is! Why didn’t you say so! Follow ol’ Handsy, ol’ Hornery’ll be glad to show ya the way to the city of gold!’ Hornery/Handsy/ Handry takes off into the jungle on all fours. About strides in, his ankle snaps up into the air, ensnared on a hair-thin tripwire. Handsy goes swinging up like a totally out of control trapeze artist and is slammed into several trees in quick succession: whack whack whack.

‘oh wow geez what the fuck is going on here?’ ‘You attempted to kill us and then tied yourself upside down to this tree, now tell us where the city of gold is or else…’ Handsy seems delighted to help, but his head is fully caved in, so his speech returns a little disjointed: “Oh, well sure garsh darn thingeroo, the duolingo de los meuretos, the Aztec City of Gold…. it’s juuuuust beyond those trees right there!” “Those trees, right there?” “The very ones! Just about fifteen feet! Now if you could unhand this December 1975…” Larry lets go of the playboy and Handsy is airborne, whipped into the air in a beautiful parabola. But his suspension is beyond brenschlauss, in a state of pure weightlessness, Handsy/Handry/ Hornery glides over the forest like a migratory bird giddily pawing through smut. Then he is a speck above the canopy of the deep jungle. ‘I doubt he’ll be back,’ Larry is looking somewhere over my shoulder, ’they’ll know not to send him again.’ I nod, in silence. We pack up our belongings. Larry takes the lead, and after several steps, we see a three-quarter replica of the Eiffel Tower peeking out of the rolling mists. We are delivered. The Super Bowl would get twice the views if there weren’t so many male cheerleaders.

Larry vs. the Infernal Machine #

Larry: Hey, can I get some rubbers. Clerk: Yeah, sure, what kind of johnny you looking for, smooth or ribbed?

Larry: I’m alright Clerk: Fluorided condoms, for your partner’s teeth and brain.

Larry: Give me the ribbed

Larry: Sure, I don’t really see-

Clerk: Ribbed for her pleasure or his pleasure?

Clerk: Do you want the ones that dye your penis blue?

Larry: His pleasure

Larry: Are they cheaper?

Clerk: What color, Purple or Gold?

Clerk: Well, they’re not more expensive.

THE HARVARD LAMPOON

and in a quiet murmur, mumbling almost to himself: ‘being out here in the jungle for as long as we have, the one thing I miss? It’s pussy.’

There is a sickening crunch as Handsy’s forehead caves in and his cranial crest collapses. Handsy is spun slowly, upside down, like a spent yo-yo.

Larry vs. the Infernal Machine #

ost Hello and welcome back to Queer on the Frontier: the show that examines cultural representations of the ost: gay cowboy. [theme music]

For many, the Cowboy is a figure of raw, unbridled masculinity. A rugged hero and a self-made man, the cowboy sits at the center of a mythical frontier that enchants the imagination of Hollywood and society. Yet, in recent years, this idea has come more and more under scrutiny as new interpretations of the Cowboy have come to light, along with new understandings of those classic heroes of the Wild West we all know and treasure. We set out to understand: how queer was the nineteenth-century frontier? [Title Card, Intro Music plays] Host I’m here in Wyoming’s Big Horn Mountain range, a little over a hundred years ago this remote plain was home Host: to all manner of cowboys and outlaws. These passes behind me were the hideout of history’s most infamous western gang: the Hole in the Wall Gang. Now, it’s a tourist destination where travelers from all over can stay in traditional rustic cabins, ‘take ther boots off,’ ‘help themselves to the beans in the pot,’ and learn what it meant to be a cowboy of old. I’m joined here by a Larry Laffer, proprietor of the Hole in the Wall Lodge & Adventures, how are you doing today Larry, or should I say ‘how was the trails, partner?’ Larry: Aw well any day above ground is a good day I always say. Larry Host (chuckles) Fantastic, that’s great Larry. Now tell me, what led you to take up this rugged life out here on the Host: range. Was it the thrill of adventure, the intoxicating allure of the striking cowboy figure, or were you running away from something, somebody, or perhaps even yourself ? Larry Well, (spits) no in fact I wasn’t always a cowboy, used to be just like any other feller I suspect, grinding my Larry: axe down to a little nub. Thens, I saw a little picture at the movies about the old desperados and whatnot and, I guess I just decided I’d had my fill of all the hullabaloo. So, I came out here and it was the best thing that ever happened to me. I guess you could say I took to the life of a cowboy like a horse takes to oats. Host That’s fascinating Larry. Now you’re kind of famous around here for your, well how do I say it, for a certain Host: ‘flair’ you bring to the cowboy life, would you mind talking about that? Larry: Ma whut now? Larry Host: Your purple suit for one, it’s not quite traditional cowboy attire is it? Host Larry Ma suit? Well, I guess yeah it is a little different from the usual digs. But it protects my back when the sun is Larry: beating down on me and keeps me warm at night all the same, and that’s all you can ask for. Host: And your bedazzled boots, (camera pans down to boots) those are spectacular where did you get those? Host Larry Well these, one of my pals up here made me these seein as my others were gettin a little tattered, in fact these Larry: just one of a matchin pair, the other bein on his little dogs. Host: Speak more on these chaps you’re wearing Larry, they certainly are something. Host Larry Yea-ah, well they wasn’t always like that. In fact, when I first purchased them they wasn’t havin the holes in Larry: the back and they was just normal chaps. I done worn em down with riding and such and scritchin my behind on the rocks when I git a little itchy. Host Incredible. (turns to camera) And so we see that even out here in the remote hills of the west, even that archeHost: typal image of manhood can be recast in a manner that jeopardizes the cowboy’s standing in a testosterone-driven, heterosexual culture. Larry: ... Larry Host: ... Host Larry: Whut kinda program you say this was? Larry Host Larry, I and the viewers at home, we thank you for your time, your courage, and we wish you happy trails Host: ahead. Larry: “Ay wayment, I ain’t noLarry [cuts back to studio] Host “Such a brave, brave man. Leading the way for a new generation of rangers and cattle rustlers, Larry is just one Host: example of a new western man. This has been Queer on the Frontier, signing off now...

THE HARVARD LAMPOON

Larry vs. the Infernal Machine #

ost Hello and welcome back to Queer on the Frontier: the show that examines cultural representations of the ost: gay cowboy. [theme music]

THE HARVARD LAMPOON

Larry vs. the Infernal Machine #

Date in the Park Her: Thanks for asking me out. I usually don’t go out with guys I meet at bars. Larry: Thanks for coming. I usually don’t ask girls out at ba---oh, hey. Your shoes untied. Her: Oh, sorry. That’s embarrassing. Larry: Here. Lemme get it. (bends down to tie shoe) Her: That’s so sweet. Larry: And they say chivalry is dead! Her: (laughs) Larry: Um, oh. (mumbles) Horse ears… through the loop... rabbit rabbit.. Um.. Her: (chuckles) Everything okay down there? Larry: Yeah, um. I actually don’t know how to tie shoes. Her: I’m sorry what? Larry: Sorry! (runs away into the night)

MAG 9

Beeep. Damnit, seems I missed you again, somehow. You know for someone lonely and desperate enough to order a prototype sex robot from the yellowpages, you sure are out of the house a lot. And I know we advertise being 100% discrete in our deliveries and such, but if you’re not gonna take the time to be there to sign for the package, then we’re not gonna keep our side of the deal neither. These things are way too dangerous to just leave on the doorstep. Give us a call back. Let us know a good time for you that we can deliver your robot. Hope you haven’t ditched town for good or killed yourself or anything, cause there was actually a problem with your Diners’ Card over the phone. We’re gonna need a check upon delivery. Anyway, give us a call back. Hope you had a good Christmas Larry.

Maintaining The Infernal Machine -Sir, I am starting to wonder whether these societies are a good idea. -Whatever. How fares the Laffer tribe? -The machine isolates them from all of humanity. -Very good.

-Hey, who is that? -That guy, over there? I don’t know. -He must be pretty important -What makes you say that? -Well not just anybody could get into a restaurant like this with their shirt totally unbuttoned and their big fat belly resting on the table.

-It can’t be! What you’re saying is-Yes. If we don’t stop the nuclear proliferation, Larry Laffer will get laid.

Larry: Power on Masturbation Bot 3000: (turns on, starts fingering self) Larry: Jesus… This is perfect. Masturbation Bot 3000: (masturbating) Larry: Oh yeah, baby, I can’t wait until I’m inside of you. Masturbation Bot 3000: (masturbating) Larry: Would you like that? Talk to me, beautiful. Masturbation Bot 3000: (masturbating) Larry: Can I fuck you? Masturbation Bot 3000: (masturbating) Larry: Oh my god. You don’t have a pussy hole. It’s basically a MIDI keyboard down here. Masturbation Bot 3000: (masturbating) Larry: … Hello? … Are you there? Masturbation Bot 3000: (climaxes and powers off) Larry: (cums in pants, begrudgingly)

JLN

MAK

-Now the machine encourages conflict between ethnographic groups. -Bah! I suppose the Laffers have been conquered. -Actually, they show impressive physical prowess and quickly gain allies. -War is bad. We must stop this. -A Laffer enslaved? That is a problem. -Sir, people in general are being enslaved. -What you’re telling me is that people like the Laffers enough to use them as labor? -The Laffers are chattel. -People like the Laffers. This is terrible news.

MMM

Som e a GM times I It’s a O soyb worry t h l e too l fucked an out at there man t o ge is up it w ants y beans and has t me. f killi t l ng i o die ex or its po ike way t time s cre cept d. A ? shit I’m dr ator. Th not bef nd or u e in th e lab nk, mak rest of t e h ing . up n e ew

LAMPOON TO GO TO THE MOON, SAYS LAMPOON, PROMISING TO “FINALLY BLOT OUT THE STARS.”

Oh don’t worry baby, that’s not an STD, that’s my ankle monitor.

-The machine has created a black plague, capable of decimating the world! -Nice. -Uh… and the only ones immune to it are the Laffers. -Fix that machine right now.

Larry vs. the Infernal Machine #

-It can’t be! What you’re saying is-Yes. If we don’t stop the nuclear proliferation, Larry Laffer will get laid.

JLN

MAK

MMM

LAMPOON TO GO TO THE MOON, SAYS LAMPOON, PROMISING TO “FINALLY BLOT OUT THE STARS.”

Oh don’t worry baby, that’s not an STD, that’s my ankle monitor.

-The machine has created a black plague, capable of decimating the world! -Nice. -Uh… and the only ones immune to it are the Laffers. -Fix that machine right now.

Larry vs. the Infernal Machine #

Larry Larry Laffer, After Months And Months Of Lonely TV Lounge Lizard #1: So you’ve been Dinner Evenings Followed By Haunting working here a while…. What kind Sleepless Nights, of clearance do you get? After A Lifetime Of Getting Beat Down Lounge Lizard #2: Level Black. By The Infernal Machine, Chopped Up (shovels coal) By The Blades Of Lounge Lizard #1: Wow, that must Polite Society, And Swept Under The change everything. (shovels coal) Rug Like All Too Many Of The Dreamers Say, do you mind if I ask you something? In This World; Lounge Lizard #2: Me minding hasn’t stopped Larry Laffer, The Man Who Despite A you before. Burning Desire Hot As The Sun To Lounge Lizard #1: So… um… do you know what this Fornicate, Has Never furnace powers? Once Known Lounge Lizard #2: What furnace? Lounge Lizard #1: The one we’re The Real Touch Of A Woman shoveling all this coal into. , The Man Who Has Never Even Lounge Lizard #2: Hmm. That’s what this is? Truly Known The Consoling Never thought about it. Hand Of A Friend, Walks Lounge Lizard #1: Didn’t you say you’ve been Into A Bar: here for fifteen years? Lounge Lizard #2: Just about. “Ouch.” Lounge Lizard #1: It seems like it’s hooked up to some sort of machine? Lounge Lizard #2: Yeah, man. I’m really just here for the clearance. Lounge Lizard #1: What does the clearance get you? Lounge Lizard #2: Listen, new guy, I’m nowhere near high enough to know that. Lounge Lizard #1: What clearance is higher than black? Lounge Lizard #2: (shovels coal) Six. Lounge Lizard #1: It looks like we’re just powering a big neon sign…. it says... large, discounted LardoBurgers™. Lounge Lizard #2: Is that a question? Lounge Lizard #1: Yes. Lounge Lizard #2: (shovels coal, coughs) ….yes.

MMM

Larry inhaled for a second, let the shivers pass, and proceeded to wipe the spunk off the glossy mag with his shirt. It didn’t not not work, and would have, under circumstances slightly altered, perhaps even been deemed a success, but in this actual world (ours), Larry’s low-PH ejaculate had cleft ink from paper, unsticking chemical bonds not meant unstuck, and Larry had succeeded in little more than screen-printing a pair of gorgeous Kalahari saggers from his dentist’s waiting room’s copy of last years’ National Geographic onto his very best polyester button-down. The receptionist cleared her throat. “Are you done, sir?” “Oh yeah, absolutely, thanks, miss.” Soon as Larry walked out of the office, he realized he’d left his visor in there, but Larry was willing to bet that that receptionist wasn’t going to let him back in before she was done scraping trace ejaculate + CMYK ink residue from a now blank, denuded page of Nat Geo (to make Cyan, Magenta, Yellow, and blacK little in-vitro Larries, no doubt), so really he might as well just get the visor back whenever the tooth falls out again and he has to get it re-grafted. Larry checked his voicemail. Oof. Headache. Another hour-long missive from the dame in charge of setting up his new fanpage, a former friend of his, who was up to her ears in work (low bar, her ears, since she weighed them lobes down with lead clamps because something about elephants being a symbol of longevity in certain cultures, apparently). A hundred thousand Uyghurs, all houseguests of hers, making an absolute mess of her living room. “… anyway, I’m trying to keep them happy by just playing this new song I wrote called Loops on a loop in my living room, full blast, but honestly, I don’t think it’s working, and they’re just all very very unhappy…” This friend, of course, neglected to mention that they were being kept there under circumstances deemed “murky at best” by the International Court of Justice and “pretty much standard” by the head of the Chinese Communist Party, acclaimed wuxia star Jackie Chan. Larry sighed. There was a traffic jam along the conveyor belt sidewalk, and it would take him at least an hour to get to his pad uptown. It was really late in China, and he’d promised Jackie that he’d log into Chunky Trollcraft, an MMORPG they both played, before Chan’s bedtime, but it didn’t look like he was going to make it.

MAX-GAY

“Sorry to let the guild down, Jackie,” Larry texted his friend. “My dentist stole my visor, and I don’t think I can make it. I’ll make it up to you, promise.” “okay” came Jackie’s reply, soon afterward.

NISH

LAS VEGAS STRIP BOSS COCO ‘BUGSY’ CAIFANO DEAD IN HORRIFIC PILE-UP. POLICE SAY COCO TESTED POSITIVE FOR METH, BANAN

Larry vs. the Infernal Machine #

MMM

MAX-GAY

NISH

LAS VEGAS STRIP BOSS COCO ‘BUGSY’ CAIFANO DEAD IN HORRIFIC PILE-UP. POLICE SAY COCO TESTED POSITIVE FOR METH, BANAN

Larry vs. the Infernal Machine #

“So, how much for the windbreaker?” The yuppie turned around. Country club dropout late-30s readmit type, fell from grace when Enron went under type, rehabilitated in the court of public and legal opinion when B.S.. Bernanke invited him to his daughter’s birthday luau type. Master of the Universe and knows it type. The type that’ll do six holes of golf before going home to his wife and her kids but do six rounds of Ritalin before the six holes of golf, but the Ritalin’s the kind that’s expired and doesn’t really do anything for you buzz-wise, except whatever buzz you get from the painful erection by means of which it (the Ritalin) shaves two, maybe, on a good day, three, swings off your game. Today was not a good day. Playing golf reminded the yuppie of how much he disliked the handicapped. “It’s not for sale. Now hand me the 5-iron.” Larry sighed and passed him the driver, which is what the yuppie would have asked for if he knew what he wanted. “You know, I’m only a caddy because I meet interesting people, right? This is part time. I have ideas.” Larry hated golf. That was one of the main ideas of his. “Uh-huh,” the yuppie nodded. “It came with the car.” “The 5-iron?” “The windbreaker.” Ah. Of course it did. Ever since the minarets went up across the Western seaboard and the now-zealots who manned the Tesla Gigafactory unionized and struck, demanding kneepads to ease their daily quintet of prayers in the direction of the Caesar’s Palace (within which sat, rendered in faux-marmoreal plaster, a Kaaba indistinguishable from its Meccan counterpart save for the door—to the falafel restaurant housed within—that blemished its south face), the quality of Tesla’s Model Z had taken a precipitous nosedive. The godless scabs who’d taken over production had notoriously frail hands, God having deemed it fit to punish nonbelievers with manual afflictions of every sort, to—what’s the opposite of facilitate?—masturbation. Elton (né Elon) Musk, board all down-neck-breathing and the like, decided to make up for the shaky quality of the car with a commemorative windbreaker, three pockets, satin, white, to be stuffed within the glove compartment next to the complimentary gun, one mint-condition exemplar of which windbreaker now attracted the admiration of

THE HARVARD LAMPOON

gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gö gkkk k k k k... gø gø gøgøgø gøgøgø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gø gaerdget!

one Vegas lecher and caddy-on-weekends by the name of Larry. “I need to get me one of those. Model Zeds.” This purchase, Larry realized now, carrying the two, was decidedly within his reach, made felicitously possible by the generous tips through which our beloved lecher made enough money each weekend to buy 67% of a Tesla Model Z. Depending on how he chose to slice the car, that 67% could very well include the glove compartment and its contents, viz. the windbreaker and gun. Of course, the yuppie would never have suspected that Larry’s pockets were this greenly wallpapered. But it was not the yuppie’s tips that furnished Larry’s wallet so. It was, rather, the yuppie’s wife’s; she tipped Larry this kindly so he could stall her husband at golf, while she holofucked the very same pious Gigafactory unionite rabble-rouser whose unionite rabble-rousing had brought into being the windbreaker in question and whose electrocum had sown in the yuppie’s wife’s uterus the beautiful blonde babies the yuppie thought his. “Careful now,” warned Larry. “Veer left or she’s going to catch it.” “She will not catch it, caddy. Anyway, want to see a picture of me and Shalom?” Shalom is the S. in B.S. The yuppie handed Larry the phone while he swung one-handed. The liquid crystals assembled slowly, cascading like a Sierpiński gasket in motion, until resolving into a vivid true-color replica of our yuppie sucking a Jell-O shot off of Bernanke’s daughter’s bellybutton, in B.S.’s office at the Federal Reserve. Larry retched a little—the daughter looked somehow old, somehow older than B.S. himself, somehow very very like one Janet Yellen, whose non-contemporaneity with B.S. in the ranks of the Reserve cast some doubt on the yuppie’s claim of being “tight with ‘Nanke.” The ball slurred through the boozy parabola the yuppie’s swing had fated, before landing squarely in the gaping mouth of the woman. L: “She caught it.” Y: “God damn it.” L: “Get in the cart. We’ll get it back.” Larry stepped on it hard, pursuing hotly that lady who now tried improbably to outrun the cart. The cart’s motor was manufactured at the Ford Ultrafactory, under the auspices of the union-and-prayerfriendly technocaliph of Walla Walla, Washington.

Twas an amply-horse-powered, petrol-guzzling, lean, mean, driving machine, she. Ball-in-mouthlady, feral-wolf-girl-lady, anti-depressant-wanting-golf-course-roaming-game-sabotaging-fucking-asshole-lady didn’t stand a chance. Larry mowed her down pretty quick, and the yuppie jumped out of the cart, brandished the driver, which he still thought the 5-iron, and waved it around poker-like at the woman. “Spit it out, wench,” bellowed the yuppie. The woman shook her head. L: “Just plug her nostrils, man.” Y: “Good idea.” The yuppie pinched her nose to force the woman to gasp for breath, in hopes of so producing a solid window for the yuppie—or Larry if he felt inclined to incline, i.e. bend over supine in-want-of-tip—to reach in and pluck out the Titleist. Fat fucking chance Larry was bending over. The woman gasped; the yuppie reached into her mouth; she bit down hard. That’s gotta hurt, the yuppie thought to himself, in lieu of pain. The yuppie looked up at Larry, who had reached into the golf cart, produced his gravity-bong from the glove compartment (which glove compartment came empty, because the technocaliph wasn’t pathetic), and was now mid-fat-rip. The yuppie to the woman: “You have a bigass mouth, you know that?” The yuppie to Larry: “I don’t think it’s going to work.” “Well, you know what she wants.” “I don’t carry any with me. Pebbles.” “Goes golfing sans pebbles?” Larry scoffed a bit at the yuppie’s embarrassing (I mean schoolyard bully-bait-tier ridiculous) admission. “I might have some. But you’ll have to pay.” “Yeah, I have money.” “No. Not money.” “I’m not gonna suck you off.” “The windbreaker.” The yuppie hesitated. Compared the price of a relatively-new Titleist, which he’d really only hit once, and with a 5-iron of all things, with the cost of buying the smallest fraction of a Tesla Model Z that was still a big enough fraction of same to grant access to the entirety of same’s

vaunted glove compartment. Around 67% of the Tesla, he reckoned. Satisfied by his calculus. “Alright, sold. Now hand the SSRIs.” “First the windbreaker.” The yuppie looked furious. He took off the windbreaker and handed it to Larry, who reached into his fanny pack, took out five 30 mg pebbles of Alaproclate, and handed them to the yuppie. The yuppie passed them to the feral woman, who pocketed them and spat out the Titleist into the yuppie’s hand. She skittered away quickly, having apparently forgotten her recent running-over. stay aware youngblood all around you are those who bring the sun The yuppie didn’t talk much for the rest of their allotted time. He tipped Larry generously, so as not to appear sour, but the weather had turned, and Larry could tell that the man was cold without his windbreaker. Later that evening, Larry smoked a long one in the club parking lot. He took a drag, whipped out the old phone, and sent a big “thumbs-up” emoji to a woman of his acquaintance. This woman was rumored to have fallen in with a bad crowd that haunts the golf courses of Vegas holding white orbs oral hostage in exchange for pharmaceutical picks-me-up, but she was, in fact, merely pretending, playing a part as a favor for an old friend, an old friend who carried Alaproclate-shaped Altoids in his fanny pack, an old friend who had been assured by a client’s wife that the client would be wearing again today the same windbreaker the old friend had first set eyes on five weeks ago on the client’s back when the old friend first met that client, an old friend, now clad in refulgent white satin, who took one last drag of his long one and took off into the neon.

Larry and the Infernal Machine #

NISH

THE HARVARD LAMPOON

Larry and the Infernal Machine #

NISH

-Thank you all for coming on such short notice, I think you’ll find that what I have to say today… it will change the course of humanity, possibly irrevocably. -Dr. Larry, IFM news here, is it true that last night’s test was a success? -I cannot comment at this time whether the machine performed what it was designed to do. Our understanding of the forces here at play is extremely limited. At about 18 hundred, my team and I arrived at the testing grounds, a riverbed just past the property line of Caesar’s Palace. A low moon rose over the desert, -Dr. Larry, Paul Bert, LLN news. Is it true that you and your team have been working on a ‘brown note,’ a frequency which would hypothetically--Yes, my team and I have successfully assembled a device which causes people to shit themselves. -Dr. Larry, this weapon, is it really man’s place to decide when the shit comes? Are we not playing God? Who are you to wield such power, the power to make the shit come?

BWM SWR

-All we can do is pray that this weapon never fall into the wrong hands. For if Russia, or China, was able to develop such a weapon, there is a chance that an all out shitfest could occur, a poopocalypse, if you will. Those of us unlucky enough to survive the great excretion event, the scatastrophe, if I may be so bold, they will be forced underground, for the surface would become so stinky as to render all life extinct. Then maybe, generations later, our children will return to the surface and we can only hope they will build a world of peace and sanitation. Or, quite possibly, the surface will be populated by giant poop-eating salamanders and mutant super-intelligent waste treatment infrastructure, my god, what have I done...

THE HARVARD LAMPOON

Larry was there. Larry saw the flashes as the troposphere lit on fire, the sounds the bombs made as they eradicated life on earth: a sucking, an obscene sound This sound reminded Larry of breathing, or fucking, or breathing pretty hard while fucking, or an old horse trying to drink through a straw. Larry made little noises for each prick of light, for each 50-megaton ignition— pew, pwang, pew pew pew, pshhhheeeeeeeaaaaawwza. Larry was there, on the faux sand of the hottest new party spot on the strip, droopy Panama hat on his head and cocktail parosal in his drink. A single thought bounced around in his skull: “could really go for another one of these lemonade coolers.” He felt the sand under his feet warm and he watched the annihilation of the world and thought about what he would do to-mo-rr-ow as the sky began to hum.

Larry vs. the Infernal Machine #

BWM SWR

THE HARVARD LAMPOON

Larry vs. the Infernal Machine #

Well if it isn’t miss ‘never wants to see me again.’

(we find Larry squeezing under a fence which, unbeknownst to Larry, has just been painted white. After successfully crawling to the other side, Larry stands and continues walking, two white paint stripes are left on his back) Pepe Le Pew: Pew Ah, could eet be!? ‘A female lady skunk of ze fair sex!”

Larry: Happy Valentine’s Day! Girlfriend: (deflates) Larry: Oh, so hot. Girlfriend: (deflates more) Larry: (inflates) talk to me, baby. Girlfriend: I wish I were dead.

AMP

Welcome to the Leisure Suit’s Larry’s Leisure Corner. Sit down. Relax. Take a break from laughing at all these funny pieces. Want a drink? It’s on me… Huh? What’s that? Why yes, I am indeed getting domed up under this table.

GPL Larry vs. the Infernal Machine #

Well if it isn’t miss ‘never wants to see me again.’

Larry: Happy Valentine’s Day! Girlfriend: (deflates) Larry: Oh, so hot. Girlfriend: (deflates more) Larry: (inflates) talk to me, baby. Girlfriend: I wish I were dead.

AMP

GPL Larry vs. the Infernal Machine #

THE HARVARD LAMPOON

Larry vs. the Infernal Machine #

THE HARVARD LAMPOON

Larry vs. the Infernal Machine #

ounds good. Yep, okay toots whatever you need. By the by, maybe after this you’re trying to head back to my— oh I need to say it back to you? Can you repeat it then? ‘I, Larry Laffer, solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help me god.’ Put my hand on the Bible? Lady, I’m not gonna lie while touching the good book. Do you have Penthouse? I’m more than comfortable lying while clutching a Penthouse.

Then I swear to god I sees the most peculiar thing. A man standing on the sidewalk near me is shouting at some fella who’s running across the road. I mean just cutting across traffic. Like a... like some kind of... no, come on, something will come to me. Uh buh buh don’t try to put words in my mouth. He was darting across the road like some sort of... guy... and all of a sudden I see the angry man on my sidewalk whip out a gun.

Suddenly he’s waving this pistol and continuing to scream at the guy who’s running away. So I start screaming, ‘What the hell are you doing? Get out of the street stop running through traffic don’t you know how dangerous that is?!’ And that really catches the guy off guard so he stops running for a second and just gets clotheslined by this taxi. I mean just lifted 15 feet into the air and he ‘The fridges have lands hard. And locks too?’ I rethen the anmember I said it gry man on the just like that I sidewalk fires said, ‘The fridges some shots into have locks too?!’ his limp, prone, When Someone Calls to Tell Me Not to Enter the Laundromat So I settled for a body and I’m Because Not Only Are There No Girls Inside, But The Satanic Apparati Within nice warm glass of still yelling at whiskey. And that him like, ‘Get the Will Forever Sequester My Virginal Soul JFAR must’ve doubled hell up! Quit laymaybe tripled the ing in the midamount of sweat comin out of me. I flipped a dle of the road, it’s people like you that quarter on the bar, you know, nothin in this world bring the police around.‘ And I can’t get is free and all that, but then it hits me: if the barcaught by no police or brought in as no witkeep comes back and sees my quarter, he’ll know ness because technically I’m an accessory to I broke into his bar. But I’m not a man to stiff anwhat some people would consider a crime. other man for a drink. Then I sees the tip jar. I go to toss my quarter in there, thinking everything What’s that? No, I have frankly no idea what will be square, but I put a bit too much hutzpah the gunman looked like. The sweat was just behind it and I shatter the tip jar with my hamabsolutely covering my eyes, and it was pretmer. So I scrape up all the quarters and bag ‘em ty dark cause of that street light people union so that he won’t notice anything. Put the bag in strike, and I had my eyes closed because I didn’t my pocket. And now I’m just thirsty and sweaty want to see no one get got. Now your honas all get out so I fix myself another whiskey. or, I would like to call to the stand a witness of my own. Oh, is that so, I cannot? Well what Right, sorry. So then later that night, the makes this guy more of a lawyer than me?! bars about to open. I decide to step out for a smoke and so that, ya know, nobody can pin Say, could one of you bailiffs help me out my name to the three empty bottles of whishere. I slipped my shoes off at the beginkey shattered and scattered around the floor. ning of this testimony to get comfortable and I go outside, bum a cigarette from someone’s they’ve rolled deep under the judge’s podipocket, and lean up against a lamppost— all um. It’s time for me to lace ‘em back on. I’ve these quarters spilling out of my pockets. gotta be in courtroom 2 in 5 minutes as the plaintiff in some medical malpractice case. Sure, I remember that day, it was a hot, bright Monday morning if I’m not mistaken. I was just off the strip, trying to finagle the lock on the back door to the bar, since I know it don’t open til about dinner time, but I, ya know, I wanted a little something to cool me down. I was just sweating buckets. I mean a horrendous amount of sweat.

MMMM ‘MMM’ MMMMMM 26

If it’s “love” you’re looking for baby, try the bars. This here’s a wedding and I didn’t come crashing not to get a smashing.

A Lampoon Guide to Animals

Bird

Doctor Dolmansky: So, Larry, what is troubling you? Let’s start at the beginning. Larry: Well, it probably all started when my parents abandoned me at a Video Hut where I was raised by 400 copies of The Godfather and Milk Duds. Want to see my Marlon Brando? Doctor Dolmansky: Very Interesting Larry… (from his wallet the ‘doctor’ unfolds a clipped classified ads section. A sharpied heart encircles the ad for, ‘BOAT, ‘CODZILLA.’ USED, FOR SALE TO GOOD OWNER, $$$$$$.’ Palansky smiles and carefully slips the ad back into his wallet, returning to Larry’s blank stare. The doctor remembers something, pulling another note out that says “you need money for the divorce, she’s taking everything.” The doctor smiles, returning the note to his wallet.)

Horse

Larry, I imagine we should probably meet-- at a minimum-- three times a week for the next several years.

Party Adam Levin 2/12/2000 - 2/12/2020 They said my life would change when I got an inflatable pool, but no-one told me that the second pool would be just as sweet.

MMMM ‘MMM’ MMMMMM 26

If it’s “love” you’re looking for baby, try the bars. This here’s a wedding and I didn’t come crashing not to get a smashing.

A Lampoon Guide to Animals

Bird

Horse

Larry, I imagine we should probably meet-- at a minimum-- three times a week for the next several years.

Party Adam Levin 2/12/2000 - 2/12/2020 They said my life would change when I got an inflatable pool, but no-one told me that the second pool would be just as sweet.

c:\users\subscriber\Desktop>childpron2 Loading... Larry’s Blog...

Kid: Hey mister, you named Larry? Larry: Oh Jesus, fuck! Oh shit! Listen, I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you kid but, I was never meant to be a father and also your mom gave me the clap so I got out of dodge and... wow, you got the same good looks as your pops... well, you understand, right? Kid: Some mail for you sir. Larry: Oh... thanks. Hey forget that stuff I just said. (Larry tears the envelope in half, shakes out the letter, then pushes the two torn pieces together) We, Humans of the underground, invite you, the one called Larry, to an evening in the sewers, at which there will be nourishing mozzarella sticks and the secret video games. End Communication. (Larry wipes the grease off a LardoBurgers napkin) Dear underground humans, Thank you for the invitation sounds like an awesome night. I am hesitant to attend because I was in the sewers under the Bellagio and rat-doctors shrink my penis. Secondly: how do I find you and what video games exactly? Dropping the napkin on the pavement, Larry continues down the strip, whistling as he goes. The moment he turns the corner, a black limousine speeds to the curb, the rear door opens and a tiny white-gloved hand darts out, snatching up Larry’s response.

Mrs. Slader: Today, we are learning about Ancient Greece… Greece… Greece… (harp arpeggio, fade in) Larry: Woah, what the heck is this? Zeus: Why you’re in Ancient Greece, Larry! It’s a wonderful place full of history and culture. Why there’s Athena, goddess of wisdom! Larry: Dayum! Who’s the lucky fella doing her! Zeus: That’s my daughter you’re talking about! Larry: Oh sorr-Zeus: Obviously me. Larry: Schwing! Hold on, what? Zeus: Well you’re a man of the world, you get it. Larry: And everyone is just fine with this? Zeus: It’s just sex, Larry. You see, you and I are the same, really, just across history… history… history... Larry: Wait no I learned nothing- (harp arpeggio, fade out) Classmate: Larry! Wake up! Larry: Oh no. Classmate: So you had a dream about Ancient Greece? Larry: Nope. Classmate: Topical! Stand up and show us what you learned! Larry: Classmate: Larry: Classmate: Why are you holding your book like that?

GYS

02/21.1999. Life was cool and all in the burbs until mom brought Rick in her carpool back from the gun range. Rick was alright, at first, but once he started hanging up his dentist degrees in the garage I knew my third and fifth train sets weren’t long for this world. Rick is cool. He knows all about teeth, he shows me his all the time. In one attempt to kill me he put that tube that sucks the water out of your mouth in my ear, trying to dry me out. Now I’m pumping fluids like crazy and the garage (where I live) is always rocking on account of Rick having sex with my girlfriends. I have no idea what to get Rick for Father’s Day, he has everything money can’t buy, (happiness, wisdom, a doormat step-son) pays for my tuition at three private boarding schools, and uses like four different email signatures. Maybe the new ever-grease razor from LardoBurger corp. Yeah, I think I’ll get him a new razor.

MAG Do you want to quit? (Y/N) //Load Larry Airplane Memory//

Brainbot in the code...

Patricia: Hello everyone and welcome to Delta Airlines Flight 460 to Las Vegas. My name is Patricia and I’ll be your head stewardess toda— Josh: Hey everyone! The name’s Josh. Undercover US Air Marshal. Patricia: Sir, you don’t need to introduce yourself. Josh: Just wanted everyone to know you’re all safe. Undercover US Air Marshal Josh here is on the case. Patricia: Doesn’t announcing that you’re undercover kind of defeat the point? Josh: Well we at the Undercover US Marshal Josh headquarters believe in transparency. Patricia: Okay, sir, you need to sit down. And again, no one needs to introduce themselves. As I was saying, I’m Patricia— Josh: Hey everyone! Undercover US Air Marsh—ooooo fuck I did it again. Karen: Hi! I’m Karen. All passengers: (in unison) Hi, Karen. Josh: Hello, Karen. Thank you for sharing. Karen: Wow, I feel so much better. Larry: Larry! All passengers: (in unison) Hi, Larry. Patricia: STOP INTRODUCING YOURSELVES! Josh: Everyone has their own journey, Patricia. We at the Undercover US Marshal Josh headquarters know that. Patricia: You can’t all be named Josh. Josh: Haha, of course not. It’s our Undercover US Marshal name. Protects our identity. Patricia: Okay that makes a bit more sen— Josh: The real name’s Kevin! I’m half-man,

FSS c:>\

half-animal, fully convicted of public indecency, and all sex-appeal.

c:\users\subscriber\Desktop>childpron2 Loading... Larry’s Blog...

GYS

MAG Do you want to quit? (Y/N) //Load Larry Airplane Memory//

Brainbot in the code...

FSS c:>\

half-animal, fully convicted of public indecency, and all sex-appeal.

Larry: sleeps fitfully Guard: [nudges Larry] Hey, vagrant, you can’t sleep here. Larry: wuh-uh… wuh... gah… say, mind shining that light somewhere else? Guard: Listen derelict, you can’t be sleeping on private property. You have been dozing, specifically, somewhere on the 135,000 square foot property that composes the Mandalay Bay resort and casino, of which Frank (tapping nametag that reads Frank) is a guard. Though sleep is not unauthorized on this property, as guests of the hotel do here sleep, slumber, and siesta, legally, you are, or were, sleeping illegally on this property, and therefore I must ask you to take your sleep elsewhere. Larry: The Mandalay Bay you say. I remember when this was the Hacienda resort and casino, they used to let me sleep for free when I didn’t have the credits. Well, they didn’t exactly let me, the petting zoo housed what they thought was a sheep, but which was actually a man, that man being me, pretending to be a sheep. Because all the other sheep were rather ragged, ragged in precisely the sense that all the other sheep were bums pretending to be sheep, that is, because we sheep were all bums, the manager had never laid eyes on a sheep who was not a sham sheep, the manager of the petting zoo this is, he thought that all sheep were perverts and so didn’t mind if the sheep sometimes got a little handsy with the other sheep, and sometimes the tourists. Guard: I say… aren’t many left who remember those halcyon days in the Hacienda Zoo, it’s always a pleasure meeting another [dipping his baton in respect, the guard named Frank continues his rounds, leaving Larry to sleep, illegally, in peace]. …. But Larry was not able to sleep peacefully, he had made up the story about the Hacienda petting zoo. This just goes to show somestimes fact is more confusing and like a story than fiction.

Leisure Suit Larry

Harvard

-Founded in 1987, Leisure Suit Larry is the oldest video game.

-Founded in 1636, students of the world’s oldest university had to wait 351 years to play Leisure Suit Larry.

-The game follows Larry, a lovable and horny man in a suit.

-The main character of Harvard is David Mankiw.

-Is a video game, video games rock.

-Is not a video game, yet has some video game aspects: 1. nearly impossible to complete in 4 years 2. the game creator has hard coded himself into the game and is waiting in Holden Chapel for the chosen player.

-You can play video games with your friends.

-Harvard ‘friends’ spend most of their time getting in staring matches with Vogel, the Delphic moose.

-There are blurred titties throughout the game.

-Titties are for the most part attached to Connecticut ice- queens.

-Elegant soundtrack.

-No “soundtrack” per se. Lots of ambient noise from this week’s strike or that week’s protest. Only one day of the year does music play in the yard. Last year that day featured Bazzi and Kiiara.

-You die when you make any small error and you are constrained to about 20 actions that cannot deviate from the game’s narrative structure.

-They get you in trouble just for misbehaving and harming others and there’s only like 3 concentrations: Economics, Finance, and kid who is really into House Life. Our findings: findings Harvard sucks bad. About the authors:

.: on T. V o p m a L a n sur l i a our les h p c o t r s p e e t l Hon Hon or n p o s H e n l o H i pourquo Hon Hon e L ? s le pédophi Hon...

Mike Miller and Brian Mott live in Dunster House. Close shot of a clock, the time is 5:59 a.m. The tab flips to 6:00, Sonny and Cher’s “I got you babe” begins to play. The camera pans slowly to the bed, revealing Bill Murray, fingering the groundhog.

I call it like I see it… and that? That’s a $15 boob job.

Larry vs. the Infernal Machine #

Leisure Suit Larry

Harvard

-Founded in 1987, Leisure Suit Larry is the oldest video game.

-Founded in 1636, students of the world’s oldest university had to wait 351 years to play Leisure Suit Larry.

-The game follows Larry, a lovable and horny man in a suit.

-The main character of Harvard is David Mankiw.

-Is a video game, video games rock.

-You can play video games with your friends.

-Harvard ‘friends’ spend most of their time getting in staring matches with Vogel, the Delphic moose.

-There are blurred titties throughout the game.

-Titties are for the most part attached to Connecticut ice- queens.

-Elegant soundtrack.

-You die when you make any small error and you are constrained to about 20 actions that cannot deviate from the game’s narrative structure.

.: on T. V o p m a L a n sur l i a our les h p c o t r s p e e t l Hon Hon or n p o s H e n l o H i pourquo Hon Hon e L ? s le pédophi Hon...

I call it like I see it… and that? That’s a $15 boob job.

Larry vs. the Infernal Machine #

Larry’s Apartment Troubles (Waving a broom) “get out of here you dirty pest, you filthy, diseased vermin, oh hey Carl how are the kids.” Carl the mouse squeaks sadly and holds up three fingers then makes a throat slitting motion. Carl enters his home through the tiny door in the wall. “Get… gone!” The landlady grunts, thwacking a cowering cheese curd covered Larry over the head with a broom.

Larry vs. Muhammed Ali Larry and Muhammed Ali (a bindled bum with no relation to the greatest boxer of all time), struggle over an alley-rat they both want to eat.

Let’s Play: Leisure Suit Larry 3 [You push open the door to Sleazy Lefty’s. In front of you, a dead body sits a fresh pool of blood. At the bar, a few greasy men sip whiskeys, while to the right, a tall blonde hooker smokes a cigarette. Her eyes watch you as you walk in.] > Initiate hunch: did the hooker kill him [The hooker’s eyes flutter. “No, it wasn’t me, sir - I’m just a poor Vegas hooker! Though I wouldn’t mind, well, y’know…” She points to the back room of the bar suggestively. Accept?] > Cancel hunch. New action: search for clues [You step behind the bar. You notice fingerprints on the counter, but before you can investigate, the hooker slides over the bar and blocks your way. She bats her eyelashes, hard. “Hey, hot stuff, who even needs the back room - buy me a drink and we can do it right here.” Accept?] > Cancel action. Use item: magnifying glass [In a flash, the hooker grabs the magnifying glass out of your hand. She marvels at it. “A gift, for little old me? You shouldn’t have!”] > New action: grab magnifying glass [You grab the magnifying glass. The hooker is still holding on to the other end.] > New action: kick the hooker [Now, that’s no way to treat a lady!] > New action: ask the hooker to let go [Her hands tense as her face contorts into a snarl. “Over my dead body!” You look poignantly at the dead body in the center of the room. She growls. “I’m never letting go!”]

]

> New action: pull the magnifying glass out of her hands [She’s got a strong grip.] > New action: yank the magnifying glass out of her hands [It’s a really strong grip.] > New action: let go of the magnifying glass and leave Sleazy Lefty’s [As you open the door of Sleazy Lefty’s, you feel something warm on your back. You turn around to find the hooker throwing herself on you, forcibly jamming her pelvis at your hip bone in an attempt to solicit your interest. She seductively mocks you: “Couldn’t solve the case, huh? Running away? Guess I’ll just have to keep following you until you give me some business…”] > New action: ask the hooker for sex [Giddily, the hooker takes off her top. As she does, a large, bloodied knife falls out. It clatters on the floor before coming to a rest - you smile. Got her.]

JEC

Larry takes a trip on the Titanic (ship starts to sink) Larry: We’re all thinking it... I say we eat the poor first. (Putting on a bib with a picture of a person) Here, take some leg, it’s delicious.

Larry Rides the Teacups at Disneyland -Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to remove the sign on your back. -Which sign is that? -The one that reads ‘No Funeral,’ it’s freaking out the children. -Oh right, that one.

Larry On Safari

Fat Penis and Balls Cloud

“Such gentle giants.” (eaten by a pack of starving elephants)

Dear Historians, At the time of writing, the COVID-19 pandemic has brought the world to a standstill. Though the Lampoon rarely comments on current events, it feels wrong to continue making our silly jokes while the apocalypse is ongoing. So here’s what happened to Larry while he was hospitalized: Doctor: (rushing in) Buddy, there’s a cure but you’re not gonna like it. Larry: (wheezing) You mean I might live? Doctor: It involves grafting your body to that of a person with immunity. Larry: Huh doc, I don’t know, I find the idea of grafting myself to another human being a little concerning. Doctor: If it helps at all Larry I can explain the operation with these props. This small model of yourself would be you, now watch as I amputate it at the waist and attach the upper part of your body to... Old Chinese Woman: 你好美丽的天使你好美丽的天使. Doctor: This would be your donor. Larry: I don’t know doc, you’re sure this is the only way I can beat this disease? This seems more like something a mad doctor would come up with rather than the official W.H.O. guidelines. Doctor: We have to operate now. Larry: Hold on! Wait just a goddam second! For once! Let me think about if this counts as sex. Old Chinese Woman: 我是哮喘的处女我是哮喘的处女. Larry: What’d she say? Doctor: 您之前没有提及此信息您之前没有提及此信息. Old Chinese Woman: 没关系，因为我对冠状病毒免疫并且从未发生过性行为没关系，因为我对冠状病毒免疫并且从未发生过性行为. Doctor: 但是，即使患有哮喘，您如何免疫但是，即使患有哮喘，您如何免疫!! Larry: (coughs blood) Come on, did she say it counts or no? Sincerely, BWM & SWR

Larry vs. the Infernal Machine #

Larry vs. Muhammed Ali Larry and Muhammed Ali (a bindled bum with no relation to the greatest boxer of all time), struggle over an alley-rat they both want to eat.

]

JEC

Larry On Safari

Fat Penis and Balls Cloud

“Such gentle giants.” (eaten by a pack of starving elephants)

Larry vs. the Infernal Machine #

Larry didn’t know exactly what sex would feel like, but he knew that once he finally had it he would start believing in God again. For now, his virginity was just further proof that decent, honest people must spend their lives getting wrecked by the indifferent forces of nature that determine which hot ladies have sex with which decent, honest guys. Gravity, momentum, and wind. Those were the main enemies that ruled Larry’s life. With no God to prescribe any morals, Larry believed all behavior was permissible. Except abortion, obviously. “Here lies 7,000,000,000,000 dead kids,” read the post-it note plaque he had erected above his bed, whose sheets he had ejaculated into perhaps dozens of thousands of millions of times. Each time he indulged himself in the thrill of spermicide he would force himself to stare at the plaque commemorating his fallen children—a solemn reminder of the body count that increased every day he failed to get laid. Larry’s heart rate slowly returned to normal (just below average) as he buckled his belt and lowered himself out of bed. As much as he wanted to stay in his apartment and lose his mind playing online blackjack the rest of the day, he had a job to do. His box of condoms would expire tomorrow. He urgently slipped it into the pocket of his slacks and stumbled down the stairwell. The stink of Las Vegas at dawn reminded Larry how grimy the place was when you removed all the hookers. When he first moved here, he used to think the high roller’s life of smushing your face up against the tinted windows of strip clubs would never get old, get old, but nowadays he found himself craving the quaint little victories of bucolic 36

THE HARVARD LAMPOON

but nowadays he found himself craving the quaint little victories of bucolic life. Once he had saved up enough cash, he would first buy health insurance, then he’d buy the materials to build a little cabin in the mountains. He would hire a little Polynesian boy to assist with the construction, and the two would live together as mentor and mentee. Larry would teach him the ways of the world, and the boy would eventually storm out in an inconsolable rage once he learned that life wasn’t nothing but a great big wheel of fortune. With a cabin all to himself and no one to share it with, everything would be perfectly in place for Larry to write the Great American Memoir and kill himself upon completion. “Salaam, Bijan,” Larry said to the clerk working the Quikimart. The guy didn’t speak any English, but over the years Larry had come to think of him as a brother. Like he did every April 17th on years that ended with a 0 or 5, Larry made a beeline for the condom section and grabbed the cheapest box they had:

This product expires APRIL 2025. That shouldn’t be a problem, thought Larry. Some 15-year-old pipsqueak was EL PRESIDENTE also browsing the selection, but left when his two girlfriends pointed out the XXL sized condoms were on the other side of the aisle. behind him. This was the only English phrase Larry peered around to make sure no one Bijan knew. Larry grumbled outside and caught the else was looking, then pulled the old box first bus he saw. He knew of a convenience store from his pocket and put it on the shelf. on the other side of the Strip that would be more “Sir, you can’t swap your expired sympathetic to his cause, and Bijan had claimed box of condoms for a new one just because the police were already on their way. you never got laid at all during the past five “Hmmmm six cents, let’s see… six years.” Larry turned to see Bijan standing cents… do you have change for a $100?” Larry

asked the driver as a line formed behind him. “Just go,” she said. The bill was paying for itself beautifully. He found a seat in the very back of the bus next to one of those crazy guys who yell at invisible people. “Blabbab. Boo bah bloo! Ack baraba beem bablamab. Rinny rinny rinny rinny RACKA BLOAHHH! BREE! Agaga goola blah. Blaaah!!” Yes, he could easily have a wife by Valentine’s Day, Larry mused. That was not out of the question at all. This city was full of singles, and he knew at the end of the day that they all want the same thing: sex tonight. He briefly entertained the idea of walking up to the bus driver and asking if she would like to have sex with him. He could tell her that he had 12 condoms in his pocket and he needed to use them all tonight before they expired. It probably didn’t matter that they expired yesterday; maybe she’d be impressed that he could still have sex with an expired condom. Yes, he’d have no problem outsmarting these expired condoms once and for all. Finally, with the logistics all settled, Larry’s mind began to wander through his favorite fantasies. By the time he woke up, it was dark, he was alone, he was in Arizona, and his neck had been irreparably damaged by the weight of his head hanging over his lap while he slept. “This is the last stop,” said the crazy man, tapping Larry’s shoulder. The bus driver motioned for both of them to get off. There had to be a silver lining here somewhere. “Baby, I got something I’ve been meaning to ask you this whole damn ride.” Larry made his voice real low and smooth as he approached the driver. “Can you take me back to my place? I can make it worth your while...” The driver kindly pointed him to a bus going the other way, and even took a photo of him to post by her bus’s door, to make sure he never accidentally got on her bus ever again. By the time he got back to Vegas, it was midnight and the streets were empty. He had one thing on his mind. He speed-walked toward his apartment, bracing himself against the wind, as the flash of a gold minidress came into focus. “Are you going to sleep?” the woman asked him. She was leaning against the concrete wall and had lipstick all over her face. “Yep.” “...Alone?” “Yes,” he said. “And why’s that?” She tugged at her minidress and took a step closer to him. She smiled. She coughed a seductive smoker’s cough. Larry was getting impatient. Even if he knew the answer to that question, there was no way in Hell he’d tell this nosy little twerp. “Because I’m mean and ugly!” he shouted, locking the door behind him. Now that he was finally alone, Larry unbuckled his belt and got down to business. Even as he flipped through his nudie mags, he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was spying on him. He wouldn’t learn this until many centuries later, but in fact, at that moment the spirit of his greatgreat-great grandfather Lorenzo Lafuccio decided to peer down from above to check on the family line. “Mamma María!” he wept. That night at 3am Larry awoke to the sound of a single dog barking outside his window. He looked wistfully at the night sky, feeling sorry that the poor thing just would not shut its goddam yap. He twisted himself under the bed sheet, idly imagining various Leisure Suit Lorettas whom he wished could accompany him while he drifted back to sleep. They would grip each other tightly, and they would be the only two people in the entire world. Their faces would meet in the faded blue light of the room. Her warm breath grazing softly past his cheek, rippling out as a gentle shudder. “I love you,” she would say. “Umf yeah slut, take that,” he would tell her. And when the morning came he would explain that he had a lovely night but he had to jet off to work now, and he would put on his Business Suit while she curled up to lounge a little longer under the covers, snuggling his pillows, and after he kissed her on the forehead goodbye she would call up all her friends and together they would rob his apartment. 37 Larry vs. the Infernal Machine #

SWR

THE HARVARD LAMPOON

SWR

Gorilla Larry - Woo wooo eeh ahhh wooo *feeds on stems*. - There he is, what a specimen. *Larry becomes enraged*

GAME OVER...

CREDITS

I’m not so worried about getting a girlfriend, I’ve got bigger things to worry about… like King Kong.

ART Cover, misc. - Ben Cohen ‘19 Given Biden the Finger, Lounge LizardMAG Larry and Woman, Nightcocks, King KongNISH Harlequin, Shipwreck Princess- NAA

- WOOO EEEH AHH AHH AHH WOOO O *thunk* Zoo, four years later. - Larry, Larry, look at me Larry, you sad little ape. It’s not so bad here. We got your plush animals right here, you love them don’t you? You get nine hours of sleep every night, all the food you could ever ask for. We stopped pumping gorilla-in-distress noises into your cell. But we’re very clever here, we know what an ape like you needs. Look Larry we’ve brought a girl ape for you

Uncredited pieces, misc -BWM Layout Blind Willie

Intern in an ape suit enters the cage. *Grinning* - ooh oooh ooh

THE HARVARD LAMPOON

YOUR SCORE: 0000500

BWM WOULD LIKE TO THANK IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER HIS FAMILY,HIS FRIENDS, THE ANIMALS WHO HAVEN”T TRIED TO KILL HIM, IGGY POP & THE STOOGES FOR THE SONG “SEARCH AND DESTROY”, AND MOTHER EARTH.

Gorilla Larry - Woo wooo eeh ahhh wooo *feeds on stems*. - There he is, what a specimen. *Larry becomes enraged*

GAME OVER...

CREDITS

I’m not so worried about getting a girlfriend, I’ve got bigger things to worry about… like King Kong.

ART Cover, misc. - Ben Cohen ‘19 Given Biden the Finger, Lounge LizardMAG Larry and Woman, Nightcocks, King KongNISH Harlequin, Shipwreck Princess- NAA

Uncredited pieces, misc -BWM Layout Blind Willie

Intern in an ape suit enters the cage. *Grinning* - ooh oooh ooh

THE HARVARD LAMPOON

YOUR SCORE: 0000500

BWM WOULD LIKE TO THANK IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER HIS FAMILY,HIS FRIENDS, THE ANIMALS WHO HAVEN”T TRIED TO KILL HIM, IGGY POP & THE STOOGES FOR THE SONG “SEARCH AND DESTROY”, AND MOTHER EARTH.

Jester looked up and saw the lattices that crossed the sky. Impossible iron girders creaking under the weight of the firmament—a thin sheet of pale blue tappa cloth draped over the iron supports. A twilight moon pressed into the fabric, buoyed and hung like a luminescent slip of cloud. Great Maple and Basswood groaned so softly in the warm on the periphery of Jester’s eyes. Under this sheltering sky, Jester sat back on steppes with Ibis and Blot and they watched as the sun took its path to the night-home, somewhere below the Phoenix Club. ……… ‘We should get a hotel room and drink the entire minibar.’ ‘Why?’ asked Ibis, picking at a piece of the CB he had stuck in his teeth. ‘Because that’ll totally freak out this freshman I have here.’ Jester grabbed a freshman from the trinkets at the top of the library shelf. ‘Alright,’ said Ibis, “I was going to go kick dirt on the train tracks and blow the creeps that hang out behind the movie theater anyways, so I guess this sounds better.’”

arry walked through the streets, the alleys, they sparkled gold and silver. It was three days before Larrymass and the town had hung their decorations and Larry, peeking in the windows, felt very, very scared at the many images of him splayed on the cross. And then, in predictable fashion, night turned to day on Golgotha. ……. ‘I’m actually more machine than man,’ Jester said, tapping with his finger the lump at the base of his spine where a chip had been inserted into his brainstem. The chip played cartoon soundtracks 24/7. ‘Does it hurt?’ asked Blot. ‘Robin Hood and Little John running through the forest, laughing back and forth at what the other has to say’ Jester mouthed, tapping the lump. ……. “Computer, engage thrusters, see you later nerds!” With a sickening crunch TurboChrist flew directly into the ceiling. And so the modded Son of God died for our sins. ……. “If you do all those whipits you’ll have nightmares,” Blot whined in a petulant and stupid voice. “Oh yeah, I’d like to see that,” Jester shook the box at Blot. Jester took a doublewhip and then in a very high and tiny voice he said to Blot, “my life is a nightmare.” Later that night Jester went home, hung his Jester cap up, tucked himself into bed and drifted slowly to sleep. Jester dreamed a porcelain fish with scales of turquoise sat delicately on his head. If Jester was not careful, and if the fish broke on the ground, then an even bigger porcelain fish would be placed on his head. Jester woke screaming. He continued screaming while brushing his teeth, while combing his hair, while eating his enormous breakfast spread, Jester screamed and screamed and screamed. ……. Blot and Ibis were tossing a monkey paw between themselves. “Where’d we get that?” Jester asked the two. “On trade, some guy in the Boston Morocco district bought out four back covers for this thing.” “Let me see it,” Blot tossed the Monkey’s Paw to Jester. “Hey wait a minute, there’s only one wish left on this thing, somebody’s already used two wishes...” “The guy said it was used,” Blot and Ibis said in unison, speeding off in their matching go-carts. “Okay Monkey’s Paw, I want to meet the two fat twins that ride those motorcycles.” Nothing happened. “I said, I want to meet the McGuire twins.” Jester shook the monkey’s paw. “Lousy biz-board, can’t get a single thing right.” Jester dropped the hand into the sewer grate. Then the tinny sound of labored two-strokes could be heard as two fat brothers came down Mt. Auburn. Jester busied himself preparing a feast for his genetically identical heros. …….

THE HARVARD LAMPOON

‘Are… are.... you freaked?’ Jester was struggling to stay upright, bracing himself on the nightstand. The Freshman was extremely nervous to talk to Jester. “Deadass not freaked... but I think if you finish that wine cooler, those three nips, the canned Bloody Mary, the mini Disarono, the porter stout, the strawberry schnapps, the two forty ounces duck taped to your hands, this case of cucumber liqs, the Xingu and homemade New Hampshire raspberry liqueur, the ABK you have in your guzzler helmet, the espresso martinis and seafood tower, the Canty Koolaid, and finally the four bottles of champagne behind all that, then I’d probably be freaked.” “You… you know wha I’ma doo, I… I … gonna” Jester lurched forward with a violence, hitting his face on the headboard. Jester raised a sign that said Ouch! as a lump pushed up through his cap and tweeting birds circled his head. Jester collapsed to the floor next to Ibis. ……. Jester had this dynamite joke. It was a sure thing, the best joke ever written and the only joke Jester knew. The first time he brought it into the Lampoon offices for a table read it got one or two laughs. ‘Better luck next week,’ Jester thought to himself. He brought the joke back in the next week and it did even worse. “Hey Jester, why don’t you bring this back again, I’ve got a good feeling about next week.” Jester smiled one of his classic smiles that everyone remembers as ‘crying really hard.’ Jester brought the joke in the next week, and the week after that, and the week after that. After three years of this he cashed in his vacation days and took two miserable weeks off, two weeks in which he spent every waking second thinking about this joke. Back from his vacation hiding on the castle’s fire-escape, Jester walked into the table read ready to finally kill. But something was different: there were people missing, new sneering faces where the old faces had sneered at him. The cigarette burns had been buffed off the table and the room smelled even more like farts. Everyone was laughing at some dumb shit Ibis had said, going around the table and calling it ‘the perfect joke,’ and ‘hilarious, yet enlightening.’ This didn’t sit well with Jester. He banged his fist on the table, “I can do one better than that,” the entire room stiffened in anticipation of Jester’s incredible joke. “I tell ya I’m all right now but last week I was in real rough shape you know. I was walking on the street, I tell ya, and this guy came up to me, he said I have a face for TV, told me to come in for this show he was directing. So he gave me his card and I show up the next week for the shoot, turns out its a commercial for a new brand of discount dog-food, and I’m playing the dog!” The joke bombed and Jester tried to hang himself from the flagpole. ……. “This bird’s gonna fly.” Ibis dove from the ladder into the Lampool and did irreparable damage to her spine. …….. “Alright Jester, this is the biggest prank we’ve ever done, no one will ever expect us to have enough Jello mix to turn the Charles into a gelatinous water-way! And then the illegal fireworks show! Now, you know the plan: we’ll go pull the prank of a lifetime, you’ll hang back and make snacks for us

Larry vs. the Infernal Machine #

THE HARVARD LAMPOON

Larry vs. the Infernal Machine #

Jester came before the clown council. “Fool, come here.” Jester jingled miserably across the floor. “The council will now read its decision.” Jester looked to his clown advocate, the man appointed to guide him through the defrocking process—he was dead in his chair, having at some point gagged on a string of multi-colored handkerchiefs. “For your heinous and seditious crimes, the list of which being a veritable abecedarium of naughtiness, we find you, Jester, guilty on all counts. You will return to your circus tent for the duration of two semesters.” The magistrate’s voice reverberated in Jester’s very soul. “But my circus tent is sad and full of the hay that the acrobats piss in,” the bells on his cap tinkled with his sobs “I have found so many friends here, having found my breath after all... please, your graces, I beg of you, show some understanding for this lonely fool.” The council conferred in hushed tones. “Jester, like so many fools you have been given this world and taken it in tears. One more on this stage is all the more. Your words have moved the council, you may return to the circus.” “Wipppeeee!” shouted Jester, “you have made me the happiest Jester in the whole world, could I offer you a cigar?” “Oh well thank you Jester, that’s very kind of you.” Jester plugged his ears, the magistrate lit up and took a long drag and died of lung cancer. Within bounding echoes of a Jester’s laughs, the magistrates howled curses. Jester’s advocate sat up like a marionette would in the hands of a skilled conducter and turning his lifeless eyes to Jester he gargled between the rags: “three semesters.” ……. Ibis sat musing. “As it is, the quickest of us walk around well waddled in stupidity.” Blot sighed from the corner, ‘that’s Middlemarch Ibis, don’t you have a single thought of your own?’ Jester had gotten his hand stuck in a book. “Let go Gaddis!” He shook his hand-book violently, “I’ll teach you to try and teach me!” Jester hit the book with his other hand several times then ran straight into the Shelling of Ostend, which split neatly in half. …….. Jesus turned to his right, and on the cross next to him the good thief Larry was kicking his little feet and humming a gay tune. They had driven a nail through his forehead. He smiled stupidly, staring directly into the sun. ……. This was to be Jester’s final show. Launched aloft, Jester would soar through the Greater Hall, far above the monkeys and donkeys and pigs, kangaroos and goats and horses, sheep and lions, all seated below, all braying and bleating for his death. Jester was loaded into the cannon by his midget sidekick Blot.

…… Sunkissed boys and girls Cheerful and drunk with song Were gathering the orchard’s fruits in jingling caps While on a tricked out synth a boy among them Played a tune of longing, singing low With steady voice a song of the man come to town. The boys and girls, breaking out in song for the joy of it, Kept time together as they skipped along, Kissing and touching penises and generally rubbing upon each other. …… Jester Ibis and Blot all got fired from the Lampoon. It was an unfortunate situation where their boss was a real asshole and hated them for no reason. There had also been a totally understandable mix-up with a magazine that was supposed to be sent to print and a joke death threat Ibis had written meant for Buzz Aldrin. But their boss had told them that wasn’t the reason they were fired, he said it straight up, “no, I’m not firing you because you sent the only printer that still deals with your shit a death threat meant for Buzz Aldrin, effectively ending the publication of the world’s oldest magazine, of course not!” This was a huge relief to the gang, though just like a prostitute with no hands, mouth, vagina, feet, tiddys, or anus, the three were still out of work. With the magazine business in a lull ever since the discovery of TV, sleeping, and picking at your navel, jobs writing jokes for the old and the seizure-prone were few and far between. So the friends decided to try their hand at business with WoofDash, a food-delivery startup with dog couriers. But the dogs always got hungry on the way to the customer and ate the food, so that business folded and along with it went the severance pay they had used to seed the company. So Jester, Ibis, and Blot were forced to get jobs at the only place that was hiring: Klaus’ BurgerHaus, the burger chain loved by people who had never had a normal burger and the Cambridge German-Homeless population. “Don’t worry Ibis, working at Klaus’ BurgerHaus, it’ll be just like we’re back at the Lampoon, except we won’t get paid to drink and do nothing anymore, and we’ll be making burgers!” Ibis broke down crying. “Aw, there there Ibis, it’s not that bad… hey, just think, the BurgerHaus trustees probably won’t make us massage their crusty feet and rub lotion on their wrinkly old backsides, no, I don’t think they’ll be allowed to do that here.” Jester and Ibis looked with concern at Blot.

Inside the cannon now, Jester remembered the sub sandwich he had in his front left pocket. Tuna, cheese, onions, pickles, extra mayo, extra mustard, extra Dijon mustard, special fry sauce, extra butter extract, and light on the garlic and black pepper aoli, just like Jester liked it. He ate and he ate until he was completely stuffed, and then he took a couple more bites. Hearing the fuse burn to to its nub, he snapped his goggles over his eyes and scrunched his face. The cannon swelled and contracted with a great *thump* and black smoke came out of the barrel’s end. Jester had grown too fat for the barrel and exploded inside. …….

Just then Klaus of Klaus’ BurgerHaus entered the room. “Hello und nice to meet you Chesder, Ipis, and Plot. Arh ! I am Klaus, of Klaus’ PurgerHaus, here are your name tags, und here your sbadulas, und here zee PurgerHaus armpand. Vear it vith pride, ven you vear zis armpand you are ein rebrezentadiffe of zee Klaus’ PurgerHaus franchize!”

There was once a big fat man who was known as the best friend of the castle. On weekends this enormous man would come and hang around the castle. This man was so fat that when Ibis hung his portrait it snapped the hook and fell right off the wall, so fat that when he got on a scale it read ‘to be continued,’ so fat was this man that he had to go to sea-world to get baptized. One weekend Jester got into an argument with this fat man. In witty response to Jester’s mean jokes the fat man sat on Jester’s chest. When the fat man stood up Jester was stuck between his butt cheeks, which were so big that when he hauled ass he had to take two trips. At the end of his time hanging out with Jester the man asked Jester for a check. Jester would ask if he wanted it made out to him or right to Cinnabon.

The sea-birds, the guillemots, razorbill penguins, the auks and grebes, defiled by the oil thrown from the Castle’s kitchen window, liquified and rotting, were cleaned and sent back to play on the beach, to play with the junk scattered on the sand. ‘As you can see,’ said Blot, ‘it’s somewhat worse than paradise.’ Jester couldn’t help but agree. Craning his neck up to the sky, Jester saw a pantheon of Circus Gods in the clouds.

The man would later die from complications related to an ill-advised procedure to remove a knife from his skull. The last time he’d seen the man Jester had asked him what it’s like to live in a house shaped like a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup—something Jester always regretted, he was a great man.

The armband was red with a white circle. It looked kind of like the Dead Kennedy’s logo but more like something else. Blot made a face like “I need to fart?” and they slipped the armbands on and got to cooking. ……

‘Ah what the fuck is that!?’ A rail-thin aender bird, totally delerious, with each tortured breath threatening to kill itself, was crawling among the other birds as they died on the sand. Jester turned to Ibis, “hey, let’s poke that thing with a stick.” Ibis was in a heated argument with an old man wearing a turtle for a hat. The three walked into a beachfront restaurant called ‘Ain’t Got Long Kong,’ a bizarro version of the Hong Kong restaurant run and patroned entirely by senior citizens.

[At the Flagship printing offices] “I float in the sky, in the dark, waiting for my chance to squish you. Sincerely, The Moon.” The printer lowered the letter to his desk with a trembling hand. Tiptoeing to the door, he locks the thirty locks, in order from smallest to most comical, peering through the blinds in fear. …….

‘Get thee back into the tempest, for when you come you come in darkness; within you there is no hearth in which a crackling blaze may burn, in which no sole ember may glow.’ “Jesus,”Ibis said, eying the convulsing Blot, “should we take him to a hospital or something?” “What?” Jester was rifling through the jackets of their party guests. “He’s started speaking in metaphors, he wasn’t doing that a minute ago... Jester, I think whatever he put in his own drink made him retarded.” Jester had found a loose candy in one of the jackets, which he popped, lint and all, into his mouth. “Jester, we really should do something.” Jester turned to Blot, eyeing the foam pouring from his nose, “yeah, I guess we gotta get on his level.’” ……. After another delicious dinner of giblets and Maker’s Mark in Hearst Hall, Jester retired to the TV room, cranked his hog, and fell into a deep and blissful slumber. ……. “Being the funniest person on the Lampoon is actually how I won this ‘Quietest Member’ trophy.” Jester showed off his Quietest Member trophy. “But I’m not one to dwell on the past.” Jester thought about the crimes of Adolf Hitler for a moment and made a disgusted face. ……. Jester, Ibis, and Blot were trying to save the magazine. “Would it interest you if I told you that we had designed the world’s first zero-emissions magazine?” The CEO of paper-based comedy looked perplexed. “Do most magazines emit particulants?” “Well, you can be sure that ours doesn’t anymore... has never.” ……. Jester was not feeling too good. His stomach was in knots and his brain had this problem sometimes where it might as well have never existed. Jester had heard stories from the older Jesters about… about how when you are stressed it’s best to ‘pull trig,’ which does not mean shooting yourself or those who have wronged you but instead sticking a finger down your throat to make yourself vomit. Jester tried this. Out came a black slime that had been living inside him for years, sucking his life force and interfering with the work of the other healthy pink slime. Jester felt a lot better. Later that night, some tattler yelled “there’s a brain floating in the upstairs toilet.” “Oh shit, though Jester… play it cool… play it cool, everyone is looking at you, say something normal.” “I wonder whose brain that is?” “Heh heh heh, they’ll never suspect.” What came out of Jester’s mouth sounded nothing like English, much more like a lawn mower... and for the rest of his life everyone made merciless fun of the poor brainless Jester. …….

sive paint ingestion. Jester wiped the tears from his eyes and took a step back, looking at the floor. “Jester, look at me.” Jester met Jester Sr.’s gaze, his eyes were warm, the eyes of a man who has forgiven the world for driving him to eat paint. “I want you to have something Jester,” Jester’s father pressed a folded note into his little hand. Jester unfolded it carefully, recognizing his father’s neat and girlish script: “What is it, Jester, ugly green sweater day?” Jester looked up, but his father had already passed. ……. Jester was known for being incredibly smart and for eating anything he could get his hands on. And so he was ecstatic when his friends gave him the nickname ‘Einstein,’ along with a commemerative ‘inedible’ plaque. ……. “1... 2... 3... Ta Da!!!!” With that the sheet fell to the floor and the new mural covering the oven-scorched brick on the left side of the castle was revealed. “OH God, Jesus Christ fucking piss-my pants what the FUCK!” Jester is staring at a two-story depiction of himself and he is not happy with the way penis is poking out from his waistband, how his eyes are cross-eyed and bulging like a bug’s, how he seems to be a mole-person, and Jester is certainly not pleased with the way his right arm seemed to be connecting, hard, with a beautiful cleft-lipped baby’s face. “ damn you Blot... damn you Art Board!” Blot looked over to his friend. “Oh-I-say Jester, we wanted to make something that captured the real Jester. Now the baby thing, that was a mistake on our part, the perspective got a little mixed up, you’re actually supposed to be shaking her hand.” ……. ‘Computer, initiate seal in sequence, validation code, MARQUAND44.’ ‘Sequence initiated.’ With a pneumatic hiss the enormous five foot-thick metal-nanotube coated Sam’s Club brand blast door closed on Jester for what would be the last time. “They all made fun of me, oh they all said the end would never come like this. They said that Jester didn’t need a bunker, that just because Cardullo’s got rid of his favorite sandwich that didn’t mean he should move underground, but there’s nothing left for Jester on the surface. ” ……. No one had seen Jester since he sealed himself underground. The world kept moving without him, the gang still solved mysteries out of their BizVan, though they did miss their friend. And sometimes at cocktail parties a brief hush would fall over the revelers, as if everyone was waiting for Jester to crack open one of his classic riffs. But then three new members would all go for the same floor-meatball, and with the hollow sound of their skulls knocking together, the moment would pass. And, in predictable fashion, night would turn to day on Golgotha.

BWM

“What are you doing Jester?” “It’s a Taoist walking meditation called Baguazhang, which is based on the I Ching and essentially involves walking in circles, sometimes known as ‘Turning the Circle.’ The technique is four thousand years old and is based on the Taoist principle of seeking stillness in motion.” “We know what Baguazhang is, but why are you doing it in front of a soldier’s funeral, with that sign that says ‘Troops Die, God Laughs, Gay Marijuana…’” This was a good question: just what did Jester stand for? ……. Hunched over his dying father, Jester Sr., Jester was racked with sobs. It had been a long battle, but Jester Sr. had finally succumbed to the effects of mas-

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BWM

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