University of Chicago Humor Magazine: Issue 2 by The University of Chicago Humor Magazine

The University of Chicago

Humor Magazine Issue #2 Winter 2013

“Shit”

–Anonymous

This magazine is dedicated to

Andrew Cunningham McLaughlin 1861-1947

Front and back cover art by

Louis Wain

“Brilliant! Gun-slinging.”

–Malynne Sternstein, Ph.D., 1996, The University of Chicago, Associate Professor of Slavic Studies, on the Fall Issue of The University of Chicago Humor Magazine

The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Winter 2013

Table of Contents

Wild Animals Gone Domestic Yes, I Would Like Fries with That II: The Clot Thickens How to Improve Your Love Life Using Only a Jar of Peanut Butter and this Magazine Fear and Loathing in the Hundred Acre Wood …In Which Amelia Plays for Her Life What Goes Through My Mind During Class A Slightly Drunken Discussion of Visual Language The Buzz about Scissors! I’m So Alone: A Serious, No-Fooling Look at My Love Life …In Which Spilled Milk Ends the World Ode to Career Advancement (formerly known as CAPS) Marcel in the Springtime About Your Cookies…. …In Which Teletubbies Kill Career Day Investigative Reports: Was Shakespeare Really a LizardLike Alien? (YES) …In Which Stones Destroy a Relationship “Breaking the Ice”: An evening with Paul Pobedy, uncontested Caucasian authority on falling through frozen lakes. An Exclusive Sneak Peak at the Sega Dreamcast’s 2013 Lineup A Candid Look at the Grain Industry’s Seedy Underbelly

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The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Winter 2013

Fear and Loathing in the Hundred Acre Wood Chelsea Leu

o, Chris,” Winnie the Pooh sauntered in to the hollowed-out tree he called his crib and gestured carelessly at Christopher Robin. “Pass me some of that sweet stuff.” Christopher Robin put down the tax forms he had been scrutinizing. “Real talk, Pooh,” he said. “This honey is wrecking your life. You’re stuck here in a tree in middle-of-nowhere Hundred Acre Wood. You’re tripping all the time. Face it, you’re a mess—when was the last time you even put on pants?” Pooh towered menacingly, as only a portly teddy bear can. “Think, think, think,” he hissed, “about what I could do to you with my bear hands.” “G-give him the honey, Christopher!” Piglet squealed, quivering in fear, or perhaps from the large amount of pills he had ingested moments before. “Remember that time with the heffalumps?” They all remembered that time with the heffalumps. “Oh, bother!” Pooh slammed his paws on the table, kicked over his little stool, violently overturned his table for good measure, and stormed out of the tree. He’d get his honey somehow.

ooh found himself at Mr. Sanders’ Howse of Iniquity, the most happening club in the Hundred Acre Wood and an establishment run by none other than his old drinking buddy and occasional bail bond agent, Tigger. As Pooh entered the bar, Tigger caught sight of him and flattened several woodland creatures in his excitement. “Pooh!” he exclaimed, spraying Pooh with spittle. High as a kite, as always. “Hold on a sec,” he said, catching sight of a disturbance in the roiling, seamy crowd. “Duty calls.” He launched himself across the room with his powerful tail and cuffed Owl and Rabbit, who were grappling with each other over which of them had the more creative name. They were promptly ejected, and Tigger bounced back to Pooh’s side. 4

“Dude,” Pooh said admiringly. “Aw, this is nothing,” said Tigger. “Being a bouncer is what Tigger does best.”

ater, they smoked joints of thistle by the light of the moon. “So, you’re looking for a fix, huh?” Tigger eyed Pooh’s drawn face knowingly. “Yeah, dude. Christopher Robin is cutting me off.” Pooh buried his face in his stubby paws. “God, it’s been so long since I’ve had any honey.” Tigger blew out a smoke ring pensively. “Well, I know a guy…”

hey were now in the heart of the Wood, walking through a network of underground tunnels. The walls were scored with claw marks, and Pooh and Tigger took care not to step on the sticks of dynamite that lay strewn on the ground. A single tooth lay in a corner. “These were Gopher’s tunnels.” Tigger’s voice was hushed. “You know, before he got…removed.” Tigger and Pooh shared a look filled with significance. They stepped into a cavern and were greeted by a dense cloud of smoke. “Where is he?” Tigger muttered. “Thanks for noticing me,” a voice droned hopelessly from the corner, and the lumpy form of Eeyore shuffled into view. “Yo, Eeyore.” Pooh knew Eeyore had been around the block a few times, but he didn’t know it had gotten this bad. Eeyore’s tail had left him for good a few years back, and he’d never been the same since. “Nobody ever comes to visit Eeyore. What could you possibly want with little old me, other than my stash of over 500 varieties of extremely potent poppies?” Pooh cleared his throat. “Hey, uh, Eeyore, you got any honey in that stash of yours?” Eeyore’s heavy-lidded eyes took on a mocking cast. “Why,” he

The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Winter 2013

drawled, “so you can knock down my house on another trip again? No wonder you don’t wear pants anymore—I doubt you could find any that fit you.” “Now, Pooh,” Tigger began, but Pooh paid him no heed. In a flash, he had Eeyore choking in a viselike grip, and was left with a piece of ass in his paw. Flinging the donkey aside, Pooh ran. He ran away from the smoke, away from the dolorous donkey, stubby legs pounding the ground in frustration and defeat. He ran until his body could take the lack of honey no more, and he collapsed to the forest floor in a gasping, sobbing mess. Through the spasms of withdrawal, Pooh suddenly smelled something that sent a rumbly through his tumbly. “Hunny!” he rasped. He flailed about, looking for the source. There! There, glinting by the light of the moon, was a pool of honey inside the hollow of a majestic oak. He started for the tree, then froze. Accompanying the seductive scent was a low hum—quiescent, but extremely volatile. There were bees afoot. Pooh cursed under his breath, but the smell of honey was a goad that urged him on. He was too far gone now. He scaled the tree with an agility completely unexpected in something so rotund. Then again, he was a stuffed teddy bear with a bodywracking addiction to honey, so why not? Breathing raggedly, Pooh stared into his fate. He hesitated only for a moment before plunging his paw into the hollow’s golden depths that teemed with writhing, striped bodies. Honey. Raw, unprocessed honey, straight from the hive. Pooh had never stooped so low. He felt the stings of thousands of angry bees, and heard their laughter roaring in his ears. It was all right. He had his honey. His eyes filled with tears. He hated honey.

…In Which Amelia Plays for Her Life Jen Capocy

melia Bedelia looked out at the audience of the Japanese game show she’d been participating in for the past 80 hours. Her calves were strained from standing and she wanted desperately to sleep, but the smiles of excitement and anticipation on the faces of the onlookers forced her to remain conscious. The colorful set design and her equally colorful anime-inspired hallucinations had been enough to sustain her through the first 40 hours, while four other contestants had succumbed to sleep. The last half she’d spent staring at the audience and making googly eyes with the host, André 3000. She sensed some deep connection between herself and André 3000 and was convinced he felt the same, despite the nagging knowledge that he was being paid to be there. As the show had progressed, 8 people in total fell asleep, leaving only Amelia Bedelia and one other contestant still standing, although, technically speaking, she was the only standing contestant, as her competitor was seated, cross-legged, on the floor beside her, a distinction Amelia Bedelia emphatically noted. The competition remained as heated as could be expected of a show requiring 80 hours of sleep deprivation and not-very-stimulating practical isolation.

The electrodes glued to AmeOutraged, Amelia Bedelia lia Bedelia’s scalp were beginning pulled out her fipple flute and with to itch and she saw sleep as a tan- her nondominant left hand began gible presence shaped like a bear of playing the melody of Mary Had some sort, ready to best her in an a Little Lamb, the kind of song she unequally matched attempt at hand guessed the little Kansan man had to paw combat. once heard as a lullaby. After four “You just need to outlast this straight hours of poor, one-handed tiny little Kansan man beside you,” playing of the tune, the little Kansan she whisper-shouted to herself. The man finally dropped off to sleep. audience hooted with laughter as Sensors and sirens all around the little Kansan man gasped. the stage went off, as the elec12 hours prior, the little Kansan trodes charting his brain waves man sat down on the stage, a move she was sure would’ve been to “I don’t get it,” said the bear, putting her advantage; down his copy of The Hunger Games. but, 12 hours had detected sleeping patterns, and the passed, and while his sleepy little head bobs and sways forecasted floor opened up beneath him. He screamed in horror, grasping for sleep, he just wasn’t giving in. In a misguided attempt to sab- Amelia Bedelia’s skirt, as his body otage Amelia Bedelia’s chances, the plummeted through the floor, toKansan threw a scorpion at her, ward the enormous vat of acid situwhich he had purchased from an ated below them. “YOU SNOOZE,” the audience illicit scorpion dealer on the street chanted in unison, ecstatic, “YOU five hours before the show’s start. The scorpion latched onto Amelia’s LOSE!” The crowd roared, cheering for right forearm, stinging her painfulAmelia Bedelia’s narrow win, the ly. She shook her arm, sending the scorpion flying into the audience, gruesome death of her runner-up causing a fresh burst of laughter to no more than an afterthought. Amelia Bedelia laughed and spew forth from their seats (only laughed as confetti rained from the briefly mitigated by the screams of terror and influx of paramedics ceiling, announcing her the ultifrom and for those attacked). Her mate winner and lone survivor. André 3000 moved forward to right hand, she soon found, had congratulate her, and she fell into gone completely numb. his arms, fast asleep.

The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Winter 2013

What Goes Through My Mind During Class Arthur Li

ALC

Ok, here we go again. Another hour of copying stuff down without understanding a single word he is saying. Let’s see what got scratched on to this desk? “Math is a tempestuous lover”. Oh great, so just like every other desk in this room. I wonder who found the time to do this 30 different times? Did he or she just actually sit around the whole room in different chairs each time so that he could craft his masterpiece for everyone to see? Either way, math is definitely not a tempestuous lover. All it does is take, take, take it all, but it never gives. Should have known it was trouble from the first class, had its eyes wide open, why were they open? Oh yeah, so it could look at me while my little GPA boat slowly sinks to the bottom of the ocean with me throwing pride, dignity and selfrespect overboard and it still not being enough, and then stare me in the eyes while I choke on my own soul. Why is it that my professor is moving his lips and I hear sounds but none of it makes sense? Before I came here I thought I spoke fluent mathematicanese, but I guess all I did was cram the dictionary down my throat. You know, maybe that’s what I’m choking on, instead of my soul. My soul probably left a long time ago anyway. Did he just say Delta-Epsilon? Haha. Hahahaha. A few months ago any mention of that phrase would give me Apple-sized migraines, but now I’m so numb I don’t even think any more. The only reaction I am capable of is this dull, monotonic, slightlyworrying-but-luckily-not-quitepsychopathic-but-probably-gettingthere laugh. ha.

Please remind me why I picked a 9AM class? Did I really think I could pull this off while going to bed at 5AM every night/morning? But hey, life of the mind right? Even if my body is decomposing

as I speak to you, I am injecting the elixir of youth and vigour into you by reading the great works of Plato and Aristotle and Hume and zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Bang. Ouch that hurt. Why did I suddenly jerk my head back and hit it on the wall? Is this class making me masochistic? Oh, wait, it’s just making me fall asleep. Much better. Where was I? Or more importantly, where was my professor? I think we’re talking about the ultimate good. Or was it happiness? Or was it thinking? Or are they all the same thing? Whatever, at least I showed up today. I could be dreaming about fighting firebreathing dragons off with a tooth-

pick made in China instead. Not that I do. Don’t judge. I really need to get my priorities sorted out. Why is that guy’s face turning into a jack-o-lantern? Did she just slap him across the face? Did my professor just tell me I’m failing my class? Oh, was it just me slipping into 5 second naps every 6 seconds and dreaming it all? Phew. What? That last part was real? Fuck.

OSC

Ex Libris coffee, check. Halfcompleted reading notes, check. Game face, check. Actual knowledge of what Locke/Hobbes/Rousseau/ Mr.XYZ wrote about, severely lacking. Yet another 2 hour reg rush job in between classes. I actually like this class too, why do I keep doing this to myself? Dammit, eyelids, just stay open for once. I already chugged 4 cups of coffee, what other stimulants do you want? Legal or not, name your price! I’ll get them for you if you’ll just obey my command for the

The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Winter 2013

next hour. I can go nap in Harper afterward, please just don’t die on me now. What’s that? No, I would not like my paper back, thank you very much. I get reminded often enough of my failures, I really don’t need any more today. Oh, now you’re wide open, so that’s your drug of choice huh. You should be in this school instead of me bro. Ok, deep breath, don’t panic, it’s no big deal, you can’t do anything about it at this point anyway. What did you expect anyway, you only spent one night on this paper. Due tomorrow, do tomorrow, right? Sometimes life philosophies can be misguided.

HY SCI

When I take a class called ‘everyday physics’ I expect to learn about the physics behind everyday life. Does that seem to make sense? Is it too much to ask for something that fits the course name? If you answered ‘Yes’, please kindly escort yourself out of the vicinity before I find you and pass the momentum of my fist on to your face. I don’t really want to know what size a balloon would be on the bottom of the ocean floor. Besides, it’s not as if it would remain intact when pushed so deep. Duh. If I can figure that out before the class, why am I here. If I wanted to know the theory, I would have taken real physics, you know, the one where we’re actually allowed to use equations instead of making up random hooloo like “oh, 1,500 is close to 1,000, so let’s just use that since it’s easier to do math with”. Well I call duckpoop, because the only answer I would get from doing that is the wrong one. Hey, is he about the blow something up?! Cool! Best class ever! Boom boom pow. Can I learn how to do that instead of a midterm? No? I have to learn to pretend that the height of the atmosphere is the same as Mount Everest which is the same as the depth of the ocean, and use this to come up with completely wild and wrong guesses estimates of the speed of molecules instead? Alrighty then.

A Slightly Drunken Discussion of Visual Language Alex Filipowicz

n Image:

The beauty of an image is that it is flat like a pancake, or an image of a pancake, to be more precise. Maybe with the face of the Virgin Mary burned onto it, which I’m guessing could fetch a pretty penny on eBay or inspire a small cult at the International House of Pancakes. I don’t personally believe that God would really hide symbols burned into food, but the thing I love about America is that it’s a free country, so I can’t hold anything against people who believe burnt food is a miracle without giving up my own spot at the freedom table with Lady Liberty and William Howard Taft. Anyway, with only two dimensions, you can see everything you need to see in an image from just one angle. This is a good thing because you never have to worry about awkwardly glancing around the side of a photograph of your fourth birthday party just to make sure that there isn’t an assassin there hidden behind a stack of presents who could kill your past self. If your fourth birthday party ended with a masked man blowing your brains out onto a cookie cake in front of your horrified family, then you wouldn’t be here to read this now and I would be awfully lonely. I just want you to know I love you. In all of human history we’ve

had a mixed relationship with images. We loved the shit out of them as cavemen, especially if they were drawings of clumsy bison and mastodons, just kind of bumbling around on cave walls as if someone glued their thighs together. Cavemen would just stare at those drawings for hours and laugh and laugh because they made those noble beasts look really fucking foolish and there really wasn’t much else to do on cold Ice Age nights besides insult herbivores behind their backs. Eventually we stopped trusting images as much as we did in our glory days. I think this happened for the first time when people realized that fruit in still life painting never rots, which I admit is pretty creepy because fruit just shouldn’t be immortal. A lot of Impressionist paintings were tried as witches for this very reason. No, I’m just kidding it was probably the painters that were tried as witches, but it’s really funny to think about a canvas wearing a li’l wizard hat and cape. It would probably fall off all the time and it wouldn’t have the arms needed to hold it in place, so someone else would have to put the hat back on it. They’d probably have a guy designated just to do that at the witch trials. If his mother-in-law asked him what his job was, I’d bet he’d tell her that it was something

else. Early televisions and computer monitors were much thicker than today’s flatscreens because in the 20th century, electronics salesmen had to convince people that all of the images they saw on the screen were little people and animals that lived behind it. In fact, the term “RAM” for data storage was coined in popular language as a result of a successful advertisement campaign that claimed a herd of 5000 sheep could survive inside an IBM computer. As people realized that animals didn’t have to live inside every single household appliance of theirs, screens began to grow smaller. But it is still customary to leave a USB port open in case a wayward lamb needs to find its way back home. Lately our relationship with images has gotten a bit better. I’m not totally sure why, but I think it’s because we have a newfound appreciation of bathroom mirrors. We now realize they can become surrogate friends who help us take cellphone pics of ourselves before the homecoming dance. What’s your favorite image? I have a picture of a firetruck that I keep inside my bedside drawer and kiss every night before I go to sleep. It’s pretty cool. If you want, you can come over and see it sometime.

The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Winter 2013

n Object:

Objects are primarily marked by three-dimensionality, which means that you can approach them from different angles and perspectives and then perceive them in different ways. Try sneaking up on a tennis ball sometime. I bet it won’t notice you before you start ripping into its sweet, succulent flesh. With the onset of “3D movies” and “holographic Pokémon cards” in recent years, it has been quite difficult to determine what classifies as an object. While government scientists have done expensive testing on this matter, you don’t need to go out and buy a lab coat just to figure this stuff out, because I have a pretty simple rule-of-thumb. But you can still buy a lab coat. It’s a free country. My hypothesis is that if you can punch something and it reacts in some way, it’s an object. I tried to explain this to a feminist friend of mine, and she got awfully upset, so I punched her, and there you have

are height, width, reflectivity, taste (salty, sweet, crunchy, or lemonlime), weight, squishiness, gullibility. There’s maybe like 3 more but I don’t remember them right now. I’d recommend keeping a notebook with you at all times so that you can jot down the characteristics of each object you encounter. That way, when you see other objects in the future, you can just cross-check them with your guide to quickly and efficiently identify what they are. Let’s try a little experiment. Pick up any object in your immediate vicinity and roll it around between the palms of your hands for a minute or two. What happened? Well, that depends on the object you chose. If you picked Silly Putty, it might have thinned and elongated. If you picked an apple, nothing happened and you just wasted a couple of minutes of your life. If you picked the Planet Earth, then you’re a fucking liar. There’s no way you rolled an entire planet between your hands, no matter how cool you and your smart-mouth little friends think you are. Don’t bullshit me like that again or it will seriously impact our relationship. I’m dead serious. Well, different objects relate to each other in different ways. Put an ice cream cone next to a cicada and you might have a sudden surge of nostalgia for summertime. On the other hand, pour some vinegar and baking soda into your mouth and you can impress the neighborhood opossum by pretending you have rabies. The sky’s the limit, so don’t even try to put things in the exosphere because you’ll keep losing them in orbit, you dingus. I’m not going to keep buying you communications satellites if you’re just going to keep getting them stuck up there.

Suddenly, Gandhi appeared.

it. My theory held up. On the other hand, because clownfish in IMAX movies about coral reefs completely ignore my uppercut, I can determine that rather than objects, they are instead magic ghosts. Each object has a lot of different qualities to it. Some of them 8

The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Winter 2013

n Time and Space:

Take your average apartment building. If you see it from the sidewalk outside, it will seem as if it’s going through time in a relatively linear, predictable fashion. It’s just going to stand there, perfectly still, and will stay that way, unless at some point it is smashed to pieces by a construction crew or a large, malevolent praying mantis. However, if you consider all of the activity going on inside, the scenario becomes a great deal more complex. It’s a Friday evening, so there’s at least one person home in each apartment. Do not feel sorry for them – it’s not your fault that they didn’t end up going out tonight, and empathizing with the antisocial is not required for the sake of this exercise. There is a woman on the first floor licking the tip of her index finger so that she can deftly turn the page of her magazine. Insult her technique if you wish, but she probably turned her page much more deftly than you did a minute ago. The saliva made her finger more aerodynamic than the cleanly-shaven legs of an Olympic swimmer. On the fifth floor, an elderly couple fell asleep watching a program about wood varnish on television. Two children are enforcing their own brand of vigilante justice on the stairway between the first and second floor. On the fourth floor, a Chihuahua is staring out into the night and listening to a lonesome train whistle out in the distance. A man on the third floor is taking a long, hard dump. Each of these people and animals has its own spatial and temporal positioning, but we love putting arbitrary boundaries between them to make sense of the scene, such as where

they are in relation to the ground level and each other. Say we call the police and say “Help! A man is pooping above two children!” They will send a squad car right over, but after they barge into his bathroom and find the poor fellow alone on the porcelain throne, they will tell us “You wily tricksters! Those children were separated from him by a ceiling, so they were never in any real danger of getting hit in the face by his stool!” Your tax dollars at work, they will mumble as they leave with frowns on their faces and their hats in their hands. But, how has the bathroom become established as a culturally-

acceptable space to poop? It is a veritable lawless wasteland where anything can and will be excreted, but if you try to excrete the same things in ‘public’, you will probably get a stern talking-to. So what does it take to make a space private? “Walls”, you reply as you take a bite from a Twix bar. Aha! But what if the walls are translucent? Would it be acceptable to make brown in a very large terrarium? “Opaque walls”, you tell me in a bored tone. Well, I suppose that’s logical. Perhaps you should be the one teaching me. I wonder what happens to the bear cub that never gets to see the ocean, and if the ocean feels any

regret for all those sandcastles it swept away. I wonder why the wind blows and what drives it to make my compass spin north. I wonder if snails and slugs will ever realize that despite their differences, they truly have a lot in common. I wonder how I can improve the life of my local mail carrier. I wonder where lint comes from, and why no one is interested in its beautiful secrets. I wonder when the lost balloons of the world will find their one true love, and if it will truly be Zooey Deschanel. But most of all, I wonder why you didn’t want to come over to see the picture of a firetruck at my house.

Chelsea Leu The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Winter 2013

…In Which Spilled Milk Ends the World

Jen Capocy

melia Bedelia and André 3000 stood at the edge of the kitchen chatting. André 3000 had been trying his hardest, for the better part of the 15 minutes they’d been standing there, to keep his eyes trained on Amelia Bedelia’s and not the elaborate trail of lipstick that swooped around and on her lips, up her cheek, up and around her eyes, and colored in the full curve of her nose, so that her face looked like either a pathetic attempt at clown makeup or some kind of deformed penis. André 3000 could find no explanation other than that Amelia Bedelia had made an egregious makeup mistake, trying to put her lipstick on in the dark, without a mirror, and possibly with some scorpion-sting related paralysis. He refused to mention anything to Amelia Bedelia: the horror of her embarrassment, or, potentially, his embarrassment, learning her makeup had some aesthetic purpose or meaning for her, which he had unintentionally insulted, was unbearable. So their conversation continued on, with André 3000 staring intently into Amelia Bedelia’s eyes. She, on the other hand, was convinced his steady, intense gaze was a sign of his affection. She expected a proposal of marriage to immediately follow and was pleased to have applied her favor-

age?” Amelia Bedelia asked, gesturing toward the refrigerator. “I would love some milk,” André 3000 told her. Amelia Bedelia tensed. “2% or skim?” “Skim is my favorite.” Her smile, which had seemed, inexplicably, to pain André 3000, faltered. Right at that moment, she realized their relationship would never work. She could never stay with someone who preferred skim milk over 2%. But, she endeavored to be the best host on her street, regardless, and fastening back on her grin, pulled a carton of skim milk out of the fridge. As she, still grinning, moved back toward André 3000, André 3001, André 3000’s cat, sprung up from the floor, grasping, with claws of terrifying length, for Amelia Bedelia’s milk. André 3001’s launch was astoundingly accurate, and he managed to fasten his claws into the carton, knocking it from Amelia Bedelia’s hands. She gasped loudly as the cat and carton flew in a graceful arc toward the floor. The two items collided with a thud. Both Amelia Bedelia and André 3000 stared in horror at the spot on the floor where the cat and stolen milk had touched down. André 3000 rapped at his cat, inspiring pure terror in the heart of the beast with his awesome lyrics. André 3001 scurried away to reveal the punctured milk “It’s easy!” he said, executing a par- carton alone on ticularly intricate bowel movement. the floor. Amelia Bedelia watched ite red lipstick that morning, in the dark, without a mirror, and despite the milk quietly oozing from the damaged container, collecting in a the residual scorpion paralysis. “Would you like a cold bever- sickly white puddle shaped vaguely 10

The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Winter 2013

like a cloud rabbit. Staring at the deformed white rabbit of milk, she suffered a complete breakdown. As André 3000 looked on, Amelia Bedelia fell to her knees, raising her hands above and in front of her, cursing the fates as she

began to sob. The spilled milk, she realized, could not be saved. “The $2.50 lost!” she decried. Moments later, the world ended. The sun exploded, destroying all earthly vegetation, unable to cope with the great misfortune of the spilled milk. As the world ended, both Amelia Bedelia and André 3000 felt a slight sense of relief—he would never have to tell her, uncomfortably, about the makeup, and she would never have to tell him about the milk deal-breaker, as they would probably both die anyway.

Ode to Career Advancement (formerly known as CAPS) Katie Leu

O CAPS! Now both of us are a year older, You’ve since changed your name, and it seems you’ve grown colder. Do you subject our past love to your censure? Like hesitant young lovers, we Ventured to Adventure For you there was naught I would not sacrifice, And I even Took the Next Step with you (twice!). It has been a while since we two parted ways, But my dearest wish is that our love résumés. O CAPS! My love for you is but half What it could be, if you gave me a Metcalf. Our passion began with a walk-in appointment, But second-round interviews brought disappointment. And what of the information sessions I attended? By teacher and boss I came highly recommended. I tried internships, treks, externships ABG; You would have none of it. Your mock interviews mocked me. O CAPS! How could I have trusted your trickery? I know now; was blind, but now I CV. Undercover (letter), you employed your deceit. I should have known better, but your love was so sweet That the mere thought of you would fill me with desire. You brought me sheer bliss; none could take me hire. For us I’d hoped wedding bells would ring from the steeple, But then came the shock: you were advising other people. So CAPS, let us break off this Career Connection: We regret to inform you that we’ve made another selection. This decision for much too long has been delayed I should not have labored for so long unpaid. But if you still want my career to advance, We could make this work. I’ll give one more chance: Ere I step through the door, ere my hand turns the knob, Just show me some love, CAPS, and find me a job. The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Winter 2013

Marcel in the Springtime

Ben Constantino

arcel woke up at eight, showered, had breakfast, and was halfway through his morning jog when he remembered he was on vacation in Paris (a fact recalled when, on his twenty-fifth lap around the kitchen island, he caught sight of the hotel maid waving angrily at him from her precarious perch atop the island, onto which she had been scared and subsequently trapped because of his vigorous morning routine. Seeing her, Marcel first thought they were in a production of The Merry Wives of Windsor, and he’d tied a kitchen towel around his head and was crooning his favorite scene from Act Three when he realized his fellow thespian was speaking not in pentameter but rapid, indignant French. Not a little awkwardly he lifted her down by the armpits and placed her gently on the linoleum. “Here will be an old abusing of God’s patience and the King’s English!” he cooed flirtatiously, noting her stillsmoldering grimace. Searching for another piece of Windsorian pith, he faltered. She grabbed the towel off his head and whacked him on the nose with it). Marcel decided to go for a walk outside. He ate two croissants and mistook a wine tasting for a footbath. Later that day, Marcel was lounging in a yew bush and smoking a cigarette. This caused fewer problems than he’d anticipated, and Marcel celebrated this small victory with a little dance that made the yew bush look, to a casual onlooker, exceedingly agitated. Shortly thereafter it looked not only agitated but engulfed in flames as Marcel, not satisfied with his smoke output, had begun to smoke, in addition to three more cigarettes, a pipe, the stub of a cigar, and a rolled up copy of Le Monde. The French were not sure whether to be more outraged by the inflammation of this last item or that of one of the oldest hedges 12

in Le Jardin de Luxembourg. Their indecision ceased promptly when they saw the instigator of the whole debacle, a skinny white American who leapt out of the flames with a delightful shimmy more characteristic of an outdated boogie than fire escape. It turned out to be not a boogie but a tango, and Marcel was already leading an unsuspecting mustachioed picnicker in a rousing ta-ta-ta before he was accosted by some patriots. “Eeeh, see what you have donne to hour jar-dens,” a stereotypical Frenchman wheezed from beneath a beret. “Zat hedge was in zee ballet weeth my great-great-oncle.” “Sorry!” exclaimed Marcel, letting the picnicker tumble from his grasp and to the ground, where his mustache fell off to reveal that he was, in fact, a dog. “Sorry, it won’t happen again!” A crowd was drawing around the Frenchman and the fool. Some people were chanting a French word could’ve either meant “fight” or something less threatening but considerably more lewd, and totally inapplicable to the situation, Marcel thought. All of a sudden, Marcel remembered why he had come to Paris in the first place: he had left his car keys there. “I have to go!” Marcel yelled. He waved his arms wildly and easily ran through the circle of flimsy Frenchmen, some of whom tumbled to the ground with feeble moans. Those unaffected by his bombastic escape gently knelt onto the plush grass beneath them and kissed the places where their felled, whiny compatriots were pretending to have acquired light bruises and minor scrapes. Marcel high-stepped through the streets, looking swiftly from left to right as he did so, hoping to catch a glimpse of his keys. “Just where did I put them?” he thought to himself. Becoming frustrated,

The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Winter 2013

Marcel walked into a drugstore, bought a pen and paper, and took a table at a nearby café. Placing the blank paper in front of him, Marcel closed his eyes and placed the tip of the pen onto it. “Lead me,” he whispered. For the next six minutes, his hand proceeded to produce a rudimentary yet exquisitely detailed chiaroscuro sketch of the Eiffel Tower which displayed, if one looked closely enough, such trifles as a girl tying her shoelace and a hawk stealing an old man’s walker. With a final artistic flourish, his hand depicted a large lightbulbencrusted arrow pointing to the tower’s elevator, a cross-section of which revealed, in its corner, a minute depiction of a set of car keys. As soon as his hand completed its work and flopped down on the table, exhausted, Marcel’s eyes shot open and he scanned the paper with eager anticipation. “Eureka!” he exclaimed. “To the Louvre!” In the Louvre, Marcel started a chess match with the Venus de Milo and another fire. The first (an embarrassing loss characterized by Marcel’s singular and reckless desire to perform the en passant maneuver as many times as possible) caused a superior smirk to appear on the face of the Aphrodite; the second (an accident which began with Marcel’s use of a long-tongued tribal mask to mock his victorious opponent and ended with him, increasingly furious at her stony indifference, in a suit of armor attempting to operate a cannon from the Revolution), his prompt ejection from the museum. Out on the street, Marcel recomposed himself, briskly brushed the dirt off the front of his shirt, and decided to return to his hotel. On the way, he was enlisted into apprenticeship by a mime, which sidetracked him for a good long while, as you might imagine.

About Your Cookies….

[

Sophia Chen

dial tone]

[ring] [ring] “Hey dude, what’s up?” “I got some bad news, bro. Your cookies are all gone.” “WHAT?! Where’d they go?” “All right, just calm. The frick. Down. Here’s what I think happened.” “Dude, my parents brought me those cookies all the way from New York!” “Chill, man! We’ll get through this together. OK, so based on what I’m seeing, I’m gonna gueeeeeess it was an animal of some sort.” “How do you know?” “In fact, I think it was a cat. When you come home, you’re gonna see some uhhh…[tearing sounds]…claw scratches on your couch.” “Wait, what was tha-” “Nothing… And another cleeeeear sign of the cat presence are the uhhhh…[glass shattering sound]…broken vases.” “How is that cat-specific at all…”

“Duuuuude, just believe me on this. There are other signs. I’d never jump to such specific conclusions without valid evidence! Come on, brah, you know me!” [spilling sound] “What’s that soun-“ “AAAAnother obvious clue that this was obviously a cat is that all of your milk has suddenly disappeared. Coincidence? No, cat.” “The milk was in a bottle with a twistable cap, brah….” “…” “…” “Damn, now that you mention it, that’s one impressive cat! Maybe he deserved the cookies after all. Right? Like a reward for being the most evolved member of the species?” “Bro, if you ate the cookies, just tell me, OK? Stop making a mess in our apartment.” “I would never! Dude, I know how much you were looking forward to those cookies, man.” “Yep, best peanut butter cookies in the country.” “Did you say peanuts?”

“Yeah. Like in peanut butter.” “Interesting…” “How so, bro?…” “Did I ever tell you that I’m allergic to peanuts?” “Aww dude, that blows!” “Yeah, yeah, it does.” “What happens?” “It’ll show up pretty slowly. My throat will gradually start to swell and eventually, that’ll suffocate me.” “Yeeeesh, that’s rough!” “Tell me about it.” “…” “So, I know you’re a little busy at work, but could you do me a huge favor?” “Yeah sure, whatever, brah.” “Could you please come home and drive me to the hospital?” [violent throat hacking sound] “…” [even more violent throat hacking sound] “Dude! I knew you ate my cookies!” “…” “…” “I mean, I’m also pretty allergic to cats…”

We live in a box for a couple of months, someone rubs us against a piece of sandpaper, then our heads explode. The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Winter 2013

…In Which Teletubbies Kill Jen Capocy

ed hooked his fingers in the loops of his overalls and, leaning back on his heels, looked out toward the wasteland that was once his family apple orchard. After the sun’s explosion, flames rained from the sky, and his family’s living was destroyed in one horribly aromatic orchard fire. Spitting a mouthful of tobacco-flavored saliva onto the scorched earth, he scuffed his boot against the porch. He still remembered those frantic first hours, struggling to quell the flames and stop the destruction of their plantation, only managing to save the house itself in the process. Jed’s sister, Jedina, joined him on the porch, her face etched with concern. She, in a moment of childish playfulness, caught a falling ash flake on her tongue, and, disgusted, gagged and spat off the porch for a good five minutes afterward. Redfaced and embarrassed, she stood back up. Jed rolled his eyes and both siblings let out a sigh. “How’s he doing?” Jed asked after a minute’s pause. Jedina shifted from side to side. “About the same. He’s weak.” He nodded. “I think he knows something’s up, Jed.” Jed looked down at her, his eyebrows furrowed. “He hasn’t said anything, but I feel like he can sense there’s something we’re hiding.” “Great-great-great Granddad has no idea what’s going on, Jedina. The man’s 196 years old—I think it’s fair to say he’s getting pretty senile.” Jedina huffed angrily. “You’re not around him all the time! He doesn’t understand why he’s not allowed to be wheeled around, or why you taped that Teletubbies baby sun in the window to hide the 14

dying one outside!” Jed kicked the porch’s side banister, refusing to look at his sister. The banister buckled under the force of the impact, collapsing a portion of the home’s overhang; both brother and sister ignored the structural damage. “Dammit, Jed! He has questions! It’s disrespectful for us to just ignore him and act like he’s some fool who can’t understand that something has happened.” “What do you want me to do?” Jed spat. “Do you want me to tell him that all the trees are gone? That we’re feeding him the last remaining apples on this entire Godforsaken earth?” “No, Jed,” she said, her voice much quieter. “But the man deserves some explanation.” “He’s eaten an apple everyday of his life—it’s the only reason he’s lived this long, Jedina. His apple a day kept the doctor away, and for 196 years, he’s been healthy. How am I supposed to tell him that the one thing that’s helped him stave off death for all this time is now gone? Only about 20 fruits, hidden in an old cellar? How can I tell him that?” “He’ll find out either way. When they’re gone, they’re gone for good. I think he deserves to hear it from you.” Jedina stepped inside, the screen door banging shut behind her. Jed sat on the porch, covering his eyes in frustration and sadness. “Goddamn you, André 3001!” He paused. “He could’ve lived forever…” Scratching his head, Jed spit another tobacco-laden loogie onto the ash-cover surrounding the ve-

randa. “Nothing grows on this land anymore.” The words came out as a sad, resigned mumble. His great-great-great Granddad shouted from the room directly adjacent to the porch. “You know, these walls are paper thin! I can hear everything you’re saying.” Jed ignored the old man’s ramblings, still debating the situation internally. He didn’t know how to proceed—why had the apocalypse complicated so many things! “And could you please remove this baby sun from my window? It’s not fooling anybody. And it’s giving me night terrors, which is very bad for my skin.” “Shut up, Grandpa, I’m trying to think!” “Could you maybe think after you’ve taken down the infant menace? And could I have some skim milk. I’m positively parched.” No one paid any attention to the grandfather, chatting away in his bed, begrudgingly accepting the apples they forced upon him (in lieu of eating them, he began a small collection under his bed: after 196 years, the taste of apple had become less than appealing, and, if he was going to die from the apple shortage, he might as well go out with pleased taste buds).

“But wait--if you’re here, then that means... oh boy...”

The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Winter 2013

Three weeks later, he, in what seemed an inexplicable turn of events to both his great-great-great grandchildren, died of skin related complications from night terrors. The family mourned the loss with a delicious under-the-bed-apple pie.

Career Day Rebecca Pierce

ur train full of novices pulled up to the Physicist Sector. It was the first day of Career Week. An imposing glass wall surrounded the Sector. On the side of the road was a broken metal sign that read, in now barely visible writing, “Welcome to Arizona.” That was all that was left of what the Physicist Sector used to be. It was now a proud part of the United Sectors of America. I’d wanted to be a physicist since I was 14. That’s when we were first taught about relativity. The concepts excited and intrigued me. But, the Career Counselor at School told me I had to pick at least seven Sectors to visit during Career Week. I said I wanted to be a physicist and that was that, but, as it was a matter of policy, I chose a few other random Sectors that sounded interesting, mostly just looking forward to my visit to the Physicist Sector. For four years, I’d dreamed about seeing the place where the greatest scientific discoveries were made, and now I was finally here. When we approached the gate retinal scans were performed and an operator slowly opened the gate. As we entered a man holding an object that vaguely reminded me of an umbrella, except that the umbrella part was a polycarbonate block, came up to us. “Light takes the path of least time. Take a block. Wouldn’t want to get sunburn.” “What?” I didn’t understand. “It’s an extremely sunny day. The polycarbonate is formed in such a way to bend the light away from the head.” “Why don’t you guys just use sunscreen?” A universal gasp arose from the physicists nearby. “Shhhhh! We do not talk about Chemistry. And we most certainly never, ever talk about Biology.” (This last word he said in a hushed whisper so that only I could hear.) “We believe all problems can and will be solved by Physics.”

At that point, a tour guide came up to our group. He was tall and lanky with brown hair. He wore pants that were too short and a collared shirt that was too big with a boring brown tie. “Hello all. Welcome to the Physicist Sector where the greatest discoveries are made and the biggest problems solved! Call me Erwin.” Erwin. That’s not a name you hear often. But, I guess that’s because everyone starts off in school with a regular name like John or Paul if you’re a boy or Sarah or Amanda if you’re a girl. But, once you choose a path, you usually change that name to be more fitting of your career. Erwin…Erwin Schrödinger. He must be in the quantum field. “Now, first why don’t we take a trip to the Hall of Greatest Discovery?” The Hall of Greatest Discovery was conveniently located in the entrance city of the Physicist Sector (considering that it is around 340 miles, scratch that, 547 kilometers to use the measurement system preferred by physicists, from East to West). It was a large glass dome located at the center of the city. The Central Exhibit at the Hall of Greatest Discovery contained the remnants of the first perpetual motion machine created in 3010. I didn’t understand why they still considered this the greatest discovery since the first perpetual motion machine was essentially useless. The group of physicists working on it had created a track that snaked around the world and on it placed a solar-paneled car. The idea was that the car would follow the orbit of the sun at a constant speed and thus be ever in motion. This, obviously, didn’t help anyone with anything. Our physicists have since come up with better, more useful perpetual motion machines, but I guess they’re still nostalgic for the forerunner, even though everyone else

considers it a waste of money. Well, it was the intellectual stimulation that mattered, right? If I wanted to be practical I would be touring the Engineering Sector. And everyone knew that engineering often discussed chemistry or even biology, and…well, do we really need to go over that again? After visiting the Hall of Greatest Discovery we split up into groups to visit certain physicists. I signed up for Professor Thomson. When my group got to his laboratory we were greeted by an older man with hair that looked like he’d spent too much time demonstrating how a Van de Graaf generator works. When he finally noticed us, he gave us a queer look. “So, you’ve come at last…Yes, you’d be perfect…Wormhole Project 751…just the right age…no, no…problem of causality…too dangerous…” I don’t think anyone knew what that was supposed to mean, but we went along with it. All I knew was that I didn’t want to be part of a “too dangerous” project with the “problem of causality.” The Economist Sector was supposed to be problematic. The Physicist Sector was not. Maybe this place wasn’t what I thought it was. During Professor Thomson’s subsequent lecture on electromagnetism, I was too preoccupied with the way he pranced around the lab to pay attention. Sure, he was excited about his work, but I questioned his mental health. I had in fact been questioning that same aspect in many of the physicists I’d come across today. I was beginning to doubt my surety about becoming a member of this renowned society. Towards the end of our visit, we were given a chance to ask about the lifestyle of members of the Physicist Sector. One girl asked, “I haven’t seen any animals around. Are pets allowed?” “Well, many of us might have

The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Winter 2013

a cat. We can’t really be sure, though. You can buy one in a box at Schrödinger’s Pet Store.” Erwin seemed to find this quite funny. A snot-nosed boy in the crowd

sarily disrupt the measurement of the other!” A couple kids in the tour group laughed, but not me. Insane? I didn’t want to be insane! But the more I observed place, the An effective solution to urinary this more I noticed anxiety that I have found is imag- how true it was. Imaginary cats? ining a strong, self-confident koala Po l y c a r b on at e block umbrellas? going home from water polo prac- A shrine to a useless discovery? tice with a group of close friends. A silver and blue solar car raised his hand. “What do you do zoomed past us, disrupting my for fun?” thoughts. Everyone stared as it “Oh well, in this city we’ve got sped down the street and around the Newtonian Theater, the Ein- the angled road that spiraled downstein Comedy Club, and The Un- ward to the basement laboratories certainty Bar. The running joke at of Quantum Incorporated. the bar is that you can’t be both Erwin turned toward us. “And, certain how drunk you are and how just to let you know: If you do demuch of an insane physicist you are. cide on membership in our comOnce you measure one, you neces- munity you’ll have to retake the

Driver’s Education Test. All the stuff they teach you in School is nice. But, it’s our firm theory that you can’t really drive well until you’ve understood and mastered all of the physics of the situation. Speeding down the Corkscrew to Quantum Incorporated is only accomplished through an extensive knowledge of the interactions of angular momentum, friction, and gravity. So be prepared for some force diagrams!” We all groaned. Driver’s Ed was bad enough the first time around. Erwin looked at the clock. It was 6 o’clock. “Well, that concludes our tour. Thank you for coming and we hope to see you again soon in the Physicist Sector.” We left the gates and got onto a train that was waiting for us at the junction. I sighed. I don’t think I want to be a physicist anymore. Maybe I’ll try philosophy.

Chelsea Leu

The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Winter 2013

…In Which Stones Destroy a Relationship Jen Capocy

melia Bedelia stood in the center of the destroyed town square, waiting for André 3000. Since the apocalypse, which caused a large portion of the human population to die off, and, luckily, scorched the lipstick, but not the skin, from her face, she had tried to overlook André 3000’s milk preferences and make their relationship work in case it became necessary for them to repopulate the planet. Despite their best efforts, keeping it together was extraordinarily difficult. They could never agree about what type of Mac and Cheese to forage for in the remains of their local shopping mart, and his refusal to unfriend André 3001 on Facebook after he destroyed the world had become a serious point of contention. After their last fight, they separated. This day would be the first time they had spoken in over 24 hours. Amelia Bedelia began practicing fencing moves with the glow from her flashlight, a necessary accessory given the sun’s deterioration. André 3000 arrived, staring apologetically at Amelia Bedelia. “You’re late,” she said, turning and holstering her flashlight. “My pockets are really weight-

ed down with rocks, so the walk here took longer than expected.” He shuffled toward her, his pocket rocks clanging noisily. “Why do you have rocks in your pockets?” “My flashlight died, so I’ve been using these rocks to make sure the path in front of me is clear… See, look.” Amelia Bedelia heard a sick thud to the right of her and unholstered her flashlight. She pointed it first at André 3000, and then toward the sound of the noise. After a few minutes searching the area with the beam of light, she spotted it. With horror, she pointed the flashlight beam squarely on André 3000. He tilted his head, confused. “How could you? You monster!” “What? What did I hit?” André 3000 moved toward her, his pockets jangling. “You killed two birds with one stone!” She pointed her flashlight back to the two blue jays crushed under the weight of his rock. “Do you have any idea how rare birds are since the apocalypse?” “I didn’t mean to! I didn’t know that would happen!”

“This is completely unforgiveable. I can never forgive you.” “You know what? Good, be-

cause I don’t want to be friends with you anyway. You’re mean, bossy, and have a bad taste in Mac and Cheese.” “Yeah? Well, you like skim milk so I clearly shouldn’t be wasting my time with you in the first place.” “I didn’t want to reconcile with you anyway. I only agreed to meet you here so I could tell you that I don’t want to see you anymore and that we are never ever ever getting back together.” She paused for a moment. “Did you just quote Taylor Swift at me?” André stared back at her, unblinking. “Maybe I did.” And, suddenly, Amelia Bedelia found herself 100% content with their staying broken up forever.

The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Winter 2013

“Breaking the Ice”

An evening with Paul Pobedy, uncontested Caucasian authority on falling through frozen lakes.

n the rapidly growing sport of deliberately falling through frozen lakes, the name Paul Pobedy turns heads everywhere. He describes his first encounter with ice as “sensual and manic”: upon seeing an ice sculpture of Sammy Sosa, an uncontrollable lust to destroy it possessed his body. He made quick work of the statue, reducing the former baseballer to a mere heap of frozen debris. Since that moment, ice has been Pobedy’s life, and shattering it, his passion. It comes as no surprise then that Pobedy stands as a heavyhitter in the falling through frozen lakes game. Your correspondent had the opportunity to spend an evening with “the ice drill,” as his fans call him, and accompany him through an attempt to fall through the icy surface of Squam Lake in central New Hampshire. With ice close to a halfinch thick and temperatures nearing the freezing point, Pobedy faces one of his toughest challenges yet. Q: Mr. Pobedy, I think it’s an obvious fact of today’s life that our relationship to frozen lakes and our methods of transposing ourselves through them, have changed quite drastically. A: Okay I think the ice isn’t as thick here. Q: Has this change been for the worse? I think I can speak for many

Dave Wilson

of us when I say that the objectifica- frozen lakes? tion of ice has led to a widespread debasement when it comes to the sa- A: Alright, here’s a good spot. See cred act of penetration. how the ice is cracking beneath me? And we’re really far out, so there’s A: So like, the ice is breaking here, probably about one, maybe two hunbut see how we’re just a couple inches dred meters of frigid depths beneath away from the edge of the lake? That me. Now, we just need to add some means that if we break through the pressure. If you watch really carefully, ice here, we’ll just basically be step- you’ll see that as I apply the flaming ping on the ground because the water log onto the ice, as well as jump up is so shallow. We gotta move farther and down—like this—in a vigorous out, that way, there’s a larger base of repeated fashion, the magic begins. freezing water underneath us that we can fall into. Q: What’s the typical day like in the life of Paul Pobedy? How does your Q: We all know technology is the authenticity and expertise in breakway of the future—particularly in ing through ice manifest itself in endeavors as rigorously analyzed as your daily routine? falling through frozen lakes. How do you see this affecting the ways we fall ... through frozen lakes in the future? Q: Do you see any real value in the A: Okay here’s a little-known secret current “shake ‘n’ break” craze? of the pros. If you take something— like this big log here, and make it ... catch on fire, then it creates a lot of heat. Here’s the catch: the heat from Q: Finally, you’ve mentioned that you the log will actually put the ice into believe you have honed the perfect a more breakable state. Watch this— technique. However, do you really think there’s a “right” way to break Q: I understand your recent book, through the ice of frozen lakes? “Falling through Frozen Lakes” has been well-received. What are some other ways we could raise awareness on the problems inherent in our cur- Mr. Pobedy drowned and was unable rent relationship to falling through to provide further information.

The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Winter 2013

Contributors Jen Capocy was pretty okay. Oh god, I just used the past tense about myself. Now I’m probably going to die. Jesus. Oh no. I feel a darkness coming. SOMEONE HELP ME… Also, she really liked cheese.

Ben Constantino has not closed his eyes for the past six years. He collects stamps, old books, and sticks that are shaped like lethal weapons but are small enough to fit in a regular-sized pillowcase.

As a native of New York City, Sophia Chen knows how to dream big. One day she hopes to be tall enough to reach for her toilet paper without hurting herself in the process. And meet Ryan Gosling.

Born on a snowy mountaintop during a solar eclipse, Alex Filipowicz has been an utter disappointment to his mother by doing nothing remarkable since then, despite her best efforts to give him an interesting origin story.

No one has ever seen the Chelsea Leu. Not to be confused with the Katie Leu (a commonly-found household pest), the Chelsea Leu is a mysterious, almost mythical creature, said to possess shapeshifting ability, healing properties, and a prodigious backside. The first alleged Chelsea Leu sighting dates back to the second century B.C., when a Gallic woodsman, upon returning from the hunt, spotted what appeared to him to be the Chelsea Leu’s callipygian bulk moving gracefully among the fields by the light of the moon. Enraptured, he penned a thousand-word villanelle on the subject. (What he had actually seen was a legion of Roman soldiers, who sacked his village the very next day.) More recently, a large quantity of grainy pictures, depicting what appears to be the Chelsea Leu messily eviscerating a Stouffer’s meatloaf dinner, has surfaced from the backwoods of Florida. The Chelsea Leu: fact, or fiction? You decide. Katie Leu, perhaps better known by her stage name, “20-Hertz,” has a very low voice. She has received accolades for her ground-breaking work, including the Northridge, California earthquake of 1994, which she singlehandedly incited as a two-yearold by the awesome power of her low, rumbling wails. More recently, she has made her La Scala debut playing Sarastro in The Magic Flute, a performance that has garnered rave reviews, such as “earth-shaking,” and “the best four hours of my life.” Her musical talents are wide-ranging, however, and she has collaborated with Skrillex by lending her vocal prowess to dropping the bass. In her free time, Katie enjoys doing humanitarian work, and uses her stentorian voice to guide lost yachts, adrift in fog, to safety. Arthur Li (not pictured): “I would tell you but if I told you, then I gotta kill you.”

Rebecca Pierce does not have a bio available. However, she and the rest of the University of Chicago Humor Magazine would like to remind you that this magazine was “Funded in Part by Student Government.”

Dave Wilson is a huge ferocious panther.

The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Winter 2013

“This is the worst humor publication on campus.”

“Yeah....maybe not.” “I thought the use of words was an ingenious touch.” “Who says that humor can’t be fun?” - Harold Richnard, Sudoku Enthusiasts Quarterly “I hate everything about spiders.” “I just wish there had been more spray cheese.” “This

magazine could really use more cleavage.” - Dan Bambino, Farmers’ Almanac “This magazine is terrible. It’s unreadable, it looks bad on my coffee table, it can’t be used to start a fire, I can’t eat it, it’s not interested in me romantically, it can’t help me with personal hygiene or household chores, and there is no money in between its pages. My hamsters use it as a couch.” “Funniest piece I’ve ever read. Also, you can get paid to write reviews like this too! Call 123-4567890 today!” “This is stu-

pid, I can just read the Internet.” “I learned virtually nothing about windsurfing or underwater photography.” - April Slavoski, Field and Cream “Chicken-in-a-biskit is my favorite kind of cracker snack. The depiction of these deliciously crumbly dehydrated chicken flavored crackery pieces of heaven as mere coinage to be traded off for shitty afghans in a postapocalyptic world is insulting and, frankly, utter bullshit. I’m offended to the very core of my being and I, for one, will never read from this author again!” -Affectionately, The Chicken “I’ve always been looking for the perfect feminine botanist interest magazine. I still haven’t found it in the University of Chicago Humor Magazine.” “Too long; didn’t read.”