The University of Chicago
HUMOR MAGAZINE Issue #4 Fall 2013
also by The University of Chicago Humor Magazine The University of Chicago Humor Magazine Issue #1 The University of Chicago Humor Magazine Issue #2 The University of Chicago Humor Magazine Issue #3 The Chicago Tribune Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets Everything by John Grisham Tempests, Squalls, and Several Other Types of Inclement Weather The University of Chicago Humor Magazine Bird Watching Guide Humor Magazine What’s So Funny? About Being Serious. About Being Funny! About Being Serious. About Being a Good Citizen Auctioneer’s World Your Mom
2
The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Fall 2013
The University of Chicago Humor Magazine Issue #4 Fall 2013
Table of Contents
Introduction, by Oprah Winfrey 1 If You’re a Sous-Chef, You’d Better Start Acting Like One: Find Out How 2 Are you ready for winter fashion? Little Timmy wasn’t, and look what happened to him. 3 I am a Writer Now 4 They Deliver: Behind the Scenes at Chicago’s First Combination Pizza Hut and Obstetric Hospital 5 Things That TLC Did Not Want, In Addition to ‘Scrubs’ 6 When Hairy Met Roomie 6 Manatee Hunter 7 Chances I’m Willing to Take, 1 8 How to Say “Hi” for the Profoundly Socially Awkward 9 Things I Learned from Grandma Hazzie 9 Can you keep a secret? I stashed some of my porn on page 9. 9 Alex Filipowicz and the Island of the Wolves (Part 1) 10 Sticking It to The Man: How to Decoupage Your Way to the Top 11 The Taking Tree 13 Chances I’m Willing to Take, 2 14 This Wide and Universal Theatre 15 The Story of Patrick Whiteman: The Man Who Never Learned How to Not Ride a Bike 16 Opossum and Muskrat: Nature’s Casual Acquaintances 17 A creepy collection of pictures of rich people 18 Our Town 20 - 201
The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Fall 2013
3
T
I am a Writer Now
HE BEGINNING
“We need to talk about your space heater, Kevin.” Deborah stared at the obvious elephant in the room (technically, it was a rickety little space heater, but the whole “elephant in the room” thing is functioning as a figure of speech. I can’t be more specific because I don’t understand any of the specifics. More accurately, the character in this story is just staring – actually, long-term, no-blink staring – at this goddamn space heater while her sometimes-boyfriend Kevin, sort of dumbfounded, glances at her while keeping most of his attention – by way of absolutely adoring looks—at the little monster on the olive carpet, [by monster, I’m referring to the space heater, and by ‘olive’ I mean a sort of pukish green]. Anyway, now that the slightly odd phrasing has been explained and I feel I’ve really made the current action clear in terms of my implications so you’re not confused and can follow the rest of the plot like a real story reader, I can move on. Although, I think it should be noted that I’m not technically a storywriter. I mean, for the most part, I work as a part time car salesman – I travel a lot—and my life is pretty boring although it features a ton of strangely lit dream sequences and multiple flashbacks. I have this son Biff and we’re not on the best of terms right now, but, I mean, I really think we can work things out, that or I’ll die, I mean, who can tell? I’ll admit that that’s not exactly the truth. Psychics do exist, and psychics can tell – that’s why most of them are immortal, like John Edward. John Edward would know when I’m going to die; John Edward would also probably know that that wasn’t my life story but the story of another person’s life that I convincingly retold to you as if it were my own [I don’t know why I was doubting my writerly abilities; I’m clearly fantastic]. I told you the plotline of Death of a Salesman; I think I just carry a torch for John Malkovich for some 4
by Jen Capocy
reason, don’t ask me why [by “carry a torch” I mean that I carry a lit torch down the street while chanting his name on the third Tuesday of every month]. Also don’t ask me why I cast myself as the man’s father when that’s the case, way to imbue creepy incestuous vibes, me. But, yeah, I mean, I guess you could say I’m a bit of a car salesman, though, because the other day I watched as someone drove a beautiful new 1982 Toyota Corolla off my lot [by “drove” I mean “towed” and by “lot” I mean “front lawn”]. To be completely clear, it wasn’t really a “sale” per se but more of a repossession, but that’s not the point because you can’t really think of me as a pathological liar this way, since part of that initial DOAS lie really was grounded in a bit of partial truth [either that, or that’s the definition of a successful pathological liar, but, would you be able to tell? I could be lying to you right now. But, honestly, I’m a very trustworthy person and you should believe the things I’m saying because I’m very willing to tell you when those things are lies – and maybe you’re saying, “Well, then, why would you lie at all?” and to that I can only respond that I find myself compelled to – and not like a pathological liar is compelled to do so, but like a normal person is compelled to lie constantly because I need to test the boundaries of what you’re willing to believe, which to be honest is kind of a lot. If you want total honesty, you should probably know that in my real life I work at a bowling alley. I spend most of my day either spraying my personal collection of “Febreze” (AKA moth-ball water) into single shoes of mismatched pairs or spitting into the finger holes of bowling balls. I used to fill them with superglue but after my uncle Don pulled all the muscles in his back, after he partially flew across the lane, I had to discontinue that practice for legal reasons. As you can
The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Fall 2013
imagine, I find my days extremely fulfilling, but, recently decided that the wonders of my life deserve some time in the limelight (although I’m not “technically” sure what a limelight is or whether or not it applies outside of the world of stage theatre) by trying my hand at some imaginatively creative enterprises (by this, I’m talking {that is, writing} about my current foray into writing {see above}) At this point, I would like to return to the story of Denise and Karl – I feel now that I’ve made my intentions as well as the story action sufficiently clear). “Karl, I refuse to accept the new terms you have tendered as the foundational materials of our current relationship!” “Well, Denise, if you do not accept the terms I have tendered as the foundational materials of our current relationship, then I perceive no way for our relationship to continue, as it will then have no foundations and no building can exist without a foundation. I’m using this building as a figure of speech to define our relationship, in case that was not clear.” “Karl, you must choose between me or the space heater. Then we can establish a foundation for the building you are talking about. I cannot let there be both, you must under-
With tears forming, I dropped my shovel. Today just was not the day to tunnel my way into space. stand me. Do you understand me?” “Yes, Denise, I understand you. I am sorry to say, but still will say, that I must then choose the space heater. She keeps me warm at night and also during the day; you have skin as cold as a vampire. I am using the fictional vampire as a figure of speech to define your coldness. You have seen Twilight, you must understand me. Do you understand me?” “Karl, yes, I understand you. I am sorry to hear, but still will hear, the words you are saying. I thought
for sure that you would choose me since I am a human, while the space heater is not. You must realize that I can exist after your electricity is shut off, while she cannot. Your electricity will be shut off in two days because you do not have any money and neither does your space heater.” “Yes, Denise, I know this. This is why I previously suggested that we stay together while I continue my relationship with the space heater. That way, you could pay my bills and I would be happy. But you have refused those terms of our current relationship.” “Karl, I expected you would choose me because that is most good and also rational. You are neither good nor rational. I will be taking Pumplestiltskin with me when I leave you this afternoon.” “No, Denise, you cannot take Pumplestiltskin with you. That pumpkin has been in my family for 73 hours and I cannot allow you to claim him as your own. My grandfather carved that Jack-o-Lantern himself and he will never be able to carve again after the incident.” “Karl, I understand why the pumpkin has meaning for you, especially because of the incident you are ambiguously referring to – this is something we both have knowledge about personally. Because I value your friendship, I will not take the pumpkin. But, I will take with me Titus Andronicus.” “No, Denise, you cannot take Gino. I spent several hours this afternoon grooming her illustrious mane – she is an award-winning poodle because I take care of her. You are not good with any living thing and she would probably die if you took her.” “Karl, I do not care. I brought her into this relationship and I will take her as the bonds between us quickly dissolve. You cannot stop me; you have no legal rights here in terms of dog ownership. I am not a lawyer, but I think that is the case. Also, you have cheated on me so I am sure I would win any case you try to make against me.” Titus Andronicus began approaching Denise but the space
heater stuck out a robotic arm and cradled the dog so that it could not walk. “You may not have her, Denise. I will not allow it. I will self-destruct and kill you all first.” “Karl, your space heater can talk and also has an arm! You did not tell me she was a sentient being. This changes many things.” “Yes, Denise, it changes many things. I am confused. She was not a robot before, what is happening in this story? I can no longer tell.” “Karl, I believe we should unplug her before she does something she will regret.” “I am not just a space heater, Karl, I am also a person. I mean that broadly, in that I have emotion in a sense and also I can speak and move my body. I also use batteries, Denise. You are both very stupid. You have hurt my feelings and I wish to destroy you.” “Karl, I believe that your space heater may be emotionally disturbed. I think perhaps you will be very happy with her if she does not kill you first.” “Yes, Denise, I do think if my life was not in danger I would probably be very happy right now.” “Titus Andronicus, I wish you to leave this room so that I may self-destruct and kill both of these people, namely, Denise and Karl. You are innocent and so should be saved. You will live comfortably because your hair is beautiful and people will love you.” The space heater released Titus Andronicus (Gino) and the young poodle proudly walked across the carpet and vomited on Denise’s shoe. “I will always love you, space heater,” she said, a tear dripping down her snout. She shook her head at Denise and Kevin and then slipped out the doggy door and into the lawn. “Now that she is safe, I am ready to kill you both. Are you ready?” “Karl, I cannot believe that your space heater is now going to kill us both. I should have left years ago. I am filled with regret.” “Yes, Denise, I am also unhappy about this turn of events. I wanted to leave for a very long time – I have
been cheating on you for what seems like decades. It is so sad that I am being betrayed currently by the space heater I was planning to leave you for. This all seems rather unexpected in terms of the plot progression.” “I am extremely displeased that you both are continuing to talk. Your voices are very grating and I am tired of listening to you. I will selfdestruct in T-minus 4 seconds and counting. 4.” “Karl, I will never forgive you for putting me in this situation. If we both end up in hell, I will find you and I will kill you again and again. You are the worst.” “3.” “Well, Denise, I will not be in hell, because I am a good person unlike you. You are the worst. Enjoy the fiery pit.” “2.” “Karl, if anyone is going to hell, it will certainly be you. You are a philanderer and also a jerk. I never loved you.” “1.” “Well, Denise, that makes two of us who never loved the other one. Namely, I never loved you. I hope what I’m saying makes sense. It does in my head.” “0.” The space heater began to fritz and smoke as she tried to self-destruct. Denise and Kevin looked on painfully as the machine made terrible screaming noises, while smoke filtered out of her body. Denise and Karl moved forward to get a closer look at the space heater and noticed that the inner coil producing heat had somehow mysteriously caught fire. They kicked her sideways and moved away as she slowly died. “Karl, I think now we are going to live. That is a surprise considering what I thought would happen at the end of this story.” “Yes, Denise, it is very surprising. I was sure I was going to die and that you were definitely going to die also. I am a bit disappointed with this turn of events to be honest.” THE END
The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Fall 2013
5
Things That TLC Did Not Want, In Addition to ‘Scrubs’ No Dubs No Flubs No Shrubs
When Hairy Met Roomie M
id-morning at work one day, I get a text message from my roommate. “After you shower, could you please clean up your hair from the tub and sink? It’s just a courtesy thing. Thanks! Have a great day!” I am mortified. I have been living with this person for about two weeks, and I know almost nothing about her besides the fact that she eats chips unusually loudly. Does she think I’m uncourteous? Sloppy? A matted, pungent-smelling CroMagnon? “I’m the worst roommate ever,” I text back in despair. When I get home from work, she’s in the room. We look at each other uncomfortably. “You’re not the worst roommate ever,” she says at length. “Okay,” I say. I think I may have overreacted. Ever thereafter, I am vigilant in my hair surveillance. And boy, does my hair need surveilling. My follicles are like fallen trapeze artists—they don’t seem to know how to maintain a steady grip. My scalp drops hairs like billionaires drop dough. You wouldn’t even know that our room hadn’t come with a luxurious, velvety black mohair carpet. ‘Cause that ain’t mohair--it’s myhair. So I decide to take control of the situation. I develop for myself the 6
by Joy Ndukwu
No Nubs No Stubs No Rubs
by Katie Leu
following hair clean-up procedure. 1. When done showering, fish the tangled, wet mess of hair from the drain. Slap it on the side of the tub for safekeeping. 2. Squat down and scrutinize tub very carefully for the stray hairs that didn’t make it to the drain. Use magnifying glass if necessary. 3. Push all the hairs together into a little pile. Consolidate with first pile. 4. Dry off, after which there is more hair and more piles. Push all of these together into one big pile. 5. Gingerly pick up big gnarly wad of hair and deposit in the plastic bag on the floor that we call a trash can. (The room hadn’t come with one of those either.) 6. Rinse, repeat. I perform this thirty-minute procedure after every shower for several weeks without incident. My roommate, too, does her fair share of hair clean-up; at one point she even conducts an extensive sweep of the bedroom floor, bending down and
The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Fall 2013
getting up and heaving long-suffering sighs. We’re both Chinese, and our hair is virtually indistinguishable—so the myhair carpet is a blend of herhair, too. But just when I think the problem is over and done with, she calls tremulously one day from the bathroom. “Katie? Can you clean up your hair?” I freeze in panic; my mind races. I could have sworn I picked them all up—I used the magnifying glass this time! With trepidation, I step into the bathroom, and my roommate watches as I inspect the porcelain. I see nothing. “Where?” “There.” She points. A single black hair is plastered to the tub wall. “I cleaned up all of my hair after I took a shower yesterday,” my roommate tells me in a voice that somehow manages to be both pleading and accusatory at the same time. She sounds for all the world like someone delivering the results of a paternity test, and the implications of her statement are clear: I am the father, and I’d better take some goddamn responsibility for my hairbaby. Grudgingly, I bend to pick up the strand of hair. Two more flutter down in my wake, and settle on the bathroom floor.
T
Manatee Hunter
he PETA representative was dressed in a smart suit, a genius pair of shoes, and a hat of below average intelligence. She sat rigidly in the chair across from my desk; she looked rather uncomfortable. Maybe it was because the AC was broken, or perhaps it was that fact that all the furniture in my office is made of the bones of my slain manatee foes, which made the seats of all the chairs rather jagged and uneven, but who knows. She stared coldly at me as I finished drinking my soup out of my favorite manatee skull bowl. “Um, could you quit staring at me so coldly?” I asked her. “It’s making my soup cold.” Her eyes widened and my soup quickly froze over. “I see,” I said, putting the skull bowl down. “So what did you want to see me about?” “Well, Mr. Derickson,” she began. “Please,” I interrupted. “Mr. Derickson is my father. Call me Bane of the Manatees.” “Alright,” she acquiesced. “Mr. Of The Manatees, I am here on behalf of People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals to formally ask you to cease and desist from your rampant and ongoing mistreatment of an endangered species.” “Mistreatment?” I asked quizzically while using a manatee-bone toothpick to dislodge a small chunk of manatee meat from between my molars. “Indeed,” she replied. “Ten years ago we had a coastal migratory manatee population of over eleven hundred. But then you showed up and today that number has been reduced by 99.9982% to a population total of two.” “Yeah, so where’s my medal?” I asked. “What? You don’t get a medal. Because of you, our local manatee population is almost nonexistent!” “Look, you think I like killing manatees? Well I do. But it’s also a responsibility. A responsibility bestowed on me to make sure that the world is rid of the sea cow menace.
by Cameron Vanderwerf
Many are fooled by the doleful, benign look in their eyes, but I have witnessed their cruelty firsthand. If you could see what I’ve witnessed, you wouldn’t think twice about plunging a spear directly into their lovable, doughy snouts or gently encouraging them toward spinning boat turbines.” “What exactly do you mean by ‘their cruelty?’” she inquired inquiringly. “Well, it all started when I was five years old.” I stood up from my chair and turned away from the PETA woman, my head tilted up and to the side so that the flashback could begin.
After the explanatory flashback, I turned back to the woman and said “Well that pretty much explains everything. Do you see now why the manatees must be exterminated?” “What the hell are you talking about?” she exclaimed. “You just turned your back to me and stood completely still and silent for five solid minutes! How the hell was that supposed to explain anything?” “Well,” I replied “Because of the, uh, the flashback. Usually everything goes slightly hazy and the events are just kinda replayed…Did you not see any of that?” “Mr. Derickson—“ “Please,” I interrupted “call me Admiral Sexlord the Umpteenth.” “No,” she responded. “I came
here today to serve you these cease and desist papers,” she said, producing the papers from her briefcase. “Cease and desist?” I repeated, but without moving my mouth at all. “Yes. Cease from killing manatees and desist from leaving your house until we can breed the remaining two manatees together to get the population going again.” “I don’t get it.” I replied. “Why don’t you just have me arrested for repeatedly committing the felony of killing an endangered species?” “Well it’s kind of a long story,” she began. “Then skip it,” I said. “Long stories are for nerds and dead British people.” I then took the legal papers she handed me and filed them under “P” for “paper shredder.” And by “filed” I mean “fed into my paper shredder.” This is where all my files go. I pride myself on having an efficient bureaucracy around the office. The next morning I strode along the beaches by my office contemplating my next move. I had to get to those last two manatees before they could get all freaky and wild with each other and start unleashing their unholy spawn upon the waters. I had come too far to be stopped by the raging libidos of my final two foes. I decided to waste no time. As the sunrise began to poke its ugly mug up over the horizon, wearing a monocle and sipping on a glass of breakfast bourbon, I summoned my manservant Réñaldò and ordered him to prepare my battle dinghy for what I hoped would be a final expedition. Réñaldò and I climbed aboard the battle dinghy and rowed away from shore for about a mile. Once we were floating calmly among the purplegreen waters of the ocean, I outfitted myself with my deadliest manateehunting weapons: a pepper mill, an old copy of Cosmopolitan, and my two bare hands. (My hands were ruled by a federal court to be deadly weapons. Therefore, I can never wear gloves because I don’t have a concealed weapons permit.) I dove into the warm depths of the now
The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Fall 2013
7
yellow-magenta waters and readied myself for the battle of my life. After about two minutes of searching, I was met by a wizened old swordfish, his sword-nose rusted by a lifetime of being exposed to nothing but water. “Turn back now!” he shouted portentously. “The creatures of the sea refuse to let you extinguish the manatees forever.” “Never!” I shouted back, even more portentously. “You’re not using that word correctly,” the swordfish said. “You’re mom’s not using that word correctly,” was my brilliant retort.
“No one insults my mother’s grammar!” The swordfish shot towards me will full force, but I deftly parried his attack by sautéing him with some butter and garlic and then eating him as part of a three-course meal. Triumphant and with a belly full of victory meat, I pressed on. I found the manatee couple behind a curtain of privacy kelp. I was just in the nick of time. Had I been a second later, a new manatee spawn would have been conceived. Acting fast, I shot some ground pepper at them with my pepper mill, and their consequent sneezes propelled them apart. The male, still erect, charged
Chances I’m Willing to Take, 1 I
magine, if you will, the following scenario. There are two doors. Behind one door is a million dollars. Behind the other door is the bear from the movie The Fox and the Hound. That is not a chance I am willing to take. Now imagine this scenario: there are again two doors. Behind one door is a million dollars. Behind the other is the bear from The Fox and the Hound, but he is wearing large mittens on his hands and feet and face. Seriously, do you think that’s going to do anything? NOT a chance I am willing to take. Another teaser for your brain, again in the form of a bi-portal choice simulator. There are two doors. Behind one door is a million dollars. Behind the other door is, yes, the bear from The Fox and the Hound, but, in this scenario, he is also the very same bear who raised you after your parents orphaned you in the Sierra Nevadas as a mere infant! Is that a chance you’re willing to take? I still just want the million dollars but yeah, whatever, bearmama is fine too, okay I’ll take the 8
by Ben Constantino
chance! Maybe you’re thinking, “I don’t even know what kind of game this is any more. Is it Candid Camera?” No, that’s not what happens on Candid Camera. Still, maybe you’re starting to think, who’s making these scenarios? Here is a fourth scenario: there are two doors. Behind one door is just a single bill-- the worth of which is ten million dollars. Behind the other door are two cages, each containing four dozen bears from The Fox and the Hound. (I know there was only one bear in that movie but just pretend it was part of a huge family of friendship-ruining bear badasses.) Anyway, do the math. That’s a chance you GOTTA take. Are you ready for the final scenario? Four doors: behind every one, an ancient ziggurat served by brainwashed Incans and their armies of vipers. But you’re Indiana Jones, and this is Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom! What’s going to happen? Think about it: Rope bridge. Jeep filled with explosives. Pint-sized Asian getaway driver who has the grammar skills of a parrot
The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Fall 2013
at me with his fleshy weapon. I raised my issue of Cosmopolitan high above my head and threw it down on the manatee’s head; he was instantly crushed under approximately 85,000 pages of nothing but ads. I then used this freshly-made manatee corpse to crush the female. I swam back to the surface with the two manatee corpses slung over my back and threw them into the battle dinghy when I reached the surface. I nodded to Réñaldò after I climbed aboard and he nodded back as he began to row us back to shore.
and a nose for danger. Get that whip crackin’, Harrison Ford-- TAKE! THE! CHANCE! The lights go up. The confetti has finally settled. Spilled champagne is already starting to form sticky rings on floor of the soundstage. You recline in the host’s comically large spaceship armchair while receiving a shoulder massage from a trio of beautiful women, only one of which is your mom. Suitcases full of variants of one million dollars, now-sedated bears, and a few robotic bears (I know I didn’t tell you that some of them were robotic, but really, would that have changed your mind? I know it would’ve, and now you’d be dead-- the robot bears also carry guns) are being slowly wheeled into trucks by carnie-like game show staff members whose loose grins join together to say, “Here’s one lucky guy- no wait! Here’s a risky guy, but if I had to use just one word to describe him?-- lucky.” But that’s not how you feel, you feel smart, because you know the difference between bears and money.
How to Say “Hi” for the Profoundly Socially Awkward
by Mark Hassenfratz
1. Acquire subject of potential social interaction. (This could be a friend, acquaintance, or a colleague. For greeting ex-lovers, see advanced lessons.) 2. Approach subject of potential social interaction slowly and casually. 3. Make eye contact with subject of potential social interaction. 4. Open mouth when arm’s length away from subject of potential social interaction. 5. Attempt to push forth verbal communication. 6. Choke on own saliva and frighten subject of potential social interaction with violent, convulsive gagging. 7. Watch subject of potential social interaction flee in horror. 8. Take the bus home. 9. Watch Seinfeld re-runs.
Happy Holidays! from Louis Wain
Things I Learned From Grandma Hazzie Pigeons are so beautiful If anyone tries to mess with you, kick them right in the wiener Beer is a panacea Brush your teeth with little circular motions Pigs make excellent pets Democrats can’t be trusted Toilet paper is an acceptable substitute for napkins at the table Dogs should be allowed to roam wherever they damn well please
by Mark Hassenfratz
Adding “surprise” to the end of a dish of random leftovers’ name automatically makes it delicious There is no injury that can keep you from helping unload the car full of groceries Antique shops are treasure troves Furniture found on the side of the road = new patio set How not to cook Expiration dates are a suggestion Take it a day at a time and suck it up The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Fall 2013
9
Alex Filipowicz and the Island of the Wolves (Part 1) I
t came to me in a dream. An island of wolves in the exact center of Lake Michigan. A canine utopia covered in pine trees and lodges where the wolves wore Hawaiian shirts and sunglasses, basking in the Midwestern sun and welcoming visitors with open paws. I don’t remember them walking upright, though. That isn’t to say that they didn’t walk upright, but if they did it must have been repressed. Probably because, even on a subcon-
10
by Alex Filipowicz
scious level, I’m terrified of being associated with the furry fandom. Anyway, some kind of mid-sized bird slammed against my bedroom window and the wolves were gone. So were the sunglasses, but that wasn’t of a much concern to me, because sunglasses are available in most convenience stores. You know how there’s that short frame of time when you’re not totally asleep and not totally awake? That weird moment where you
The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Fall 2013
can’t quite figure out whether or not something really exists? Well, almost every morning I reach over to my iPod Touch and check Facebook to see whether I have a blonde Japanese girlfriend. Still no Heidi Amasaki - she’s a third Nordic by the way - but something interesting happened when I typed in “Island of the Wolves Lake Michigan”. After a few seconds of loading, a Wikipedia page emerged from the blizzards of the internet. It was really there! But, just then… at the height of my joy, the pinnacle of my bliss, the crest of my elation, the abuse of my thesaurus… the page was blocked from view by a full-screen JPEG of Mayor Rahm Emanuel’s smiling face. A soundbite scampered out of my iPod’s tinny speakers. “Slow your roll there, pilgrim. You shouldn’t be sticking your nose where it’s not wanted.” Well shit, that’s strange, I thought to myself. I refreshed the page to see if it was just a server problem, or perhaps some new “App” from the warlocks in Silicon Valley. Nothing came up besides Emanuel, no matter how many times I tried hitting that swirly refresh arrow. I was really intrigued at this point, but I was also kinda hungry, so I had myself a bowl of Strawberry Special K and washed it down with some bourbon. I raised the blinds and opened up a window, letting the morning air frolic around me. Then it hit me. Not another midsized bird, though that too’s been happening pretty regularly. Maybe something’s been messing with their migration patterns… I’m not sure. Anyway, I got hit metaphorically with the idea that the Reg is just a
hop, skip and a jump away, and that aside from smelling like stale misery (and looking like an architect’s bowel movement), it’s a pretty big research institution. I didn’t need the internet to learn about the Island of the Wolves – I could just find out the old-fashioned way… From a book! So I head over without bothering to change out of my pajamas because I’m so excited. And I swipe my ID in the turnstiles, being extra careful today that those translucent gates don’t crush my ‘nads. Something about wearing pajama pants without boxers underneath always puts me a little on edge.
So I go up to the front desk and I say “Hi” in kind of a groggy voice. I wasn’t that tired but I didn’t want the lady to realize that I was actually excited about researching something this time. So excited that I just switched from past to present tense without even warning you guys. And she says “Good morning.
How can I help you today?” And I say “I’m looking for info on the Island of the Wolves in Lake Michigan. Do you guys have any books on it?” and she starts typing it in the computer while singing that little “doo doo doo” song under her breath that librarians always sing while typing things in the computer. “Island of the Wolves you said?” “Yeah.” “Hmmm… Well it seems we had some texts on that topic but they’re all on loan for Rahm Emmanuel’s ‘Books for Bonfires’ program. He’s teaching underprivileged bonfires how to read.” “Oh. Could you check if any other libraries nearby have any books like that?” “No.” “Uhm… Why’s that?” “This picture of Rahm Emmanuel’s face is telling me that you should mind your own fucking business.” I thought about asking whether she was quoting him or put in that “fucking” herself, but decided that either way, she wouldn’t be much help, so I just thanked her and left. Suffice to say, I was pretty bummed out. I really wanted to find out what the deal was with this wolf island but Mayor Emmanuel wasn’t exactly making it easy for me. I thought about giving up and going back to studying, but studying is boring. So I mixed myself a tall glass of Nesquik and Jägermeister and
started to think, swirling the frothy brew around in my mouth. If I couldn’t find anything on the internet or in the library, I’d need to get a “primary source,” as the kids call it. Someone who had a lot of experience with the lake. And where
“Those were the glory days. When people lived eye to eye, foot to foot, nose to nose. We had no room.” better to look than Navy Pier? That evening I parked my moped (which doubles as a motorcycle, but only if your eyes are closed and the engine is off) and headed towards the flickering glow of the Ferris wheel. Navy Pier is a dangerous place at night. The tourists have all gone back to their hotel rooms and turkey cutlets, and the only ones who remain are the hardened sailors. They drink, they brawl. They tell stories of close encounters with Asian carp. Two tired prostitutes leaned against the side of Harry Caray’s bar. “You looking for a good time, sugar?” one of them asked, barely lifting her mascaraed eyes. “No. I’m looking for wolves.” “I’ll make you howl, baby.” The other one offered. “I appreciate your effort in making topical innuendo, but I’ve got to set a good example for the people reading this humor magazine.” I pushed past them and entered the smoky room. TO BE CONTINUED...
“Sorry, we can’t think of any more jokes...” The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Fall 2013
11
“...because we can’t stop thinking about Piccolo Mondo!”
n
th a 6 5 t a
ll!
rne o C d
NEW Bakery at Piccolo Mondo!
Restaurant (Lunch and Dinner)
-Open daily at 7 AM -Daily-baked Facturas (Argentinean Style Pastries), Miga Sandwiches, tarts, desserts and many more Argentinean treats!
-Open Sunday - Thursday from 11:30 AM - 8:30 PM and Friday - Saturday from 11:30 AM - 9:30 PM -Delicious Italian at Great Prices -Carryout & Delivery Available!
Why spend $20,158 dollars to study abroad in Italy when you can spend $10 - $20 on an authentic Italian dinner at Piccolo Mondo? THE REAL THING IS RIGHT AROUND THE CORNER! 12
The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Fall 2013
The Taking Tree I
t was a brisk, sunny day in peaceful Onetree County, and Officer Deadwood was settling into his chair at the police department for an invigorating session of seeing how long he could hold a lighted match before the flame reached his fingers. He had just succeeded in singeing the skin off his fingertips when the phone rang. “Onetree County Police,” he said, flapping his hand vigorously, “is there something wrong?” “Hi, I’d like to report a robbery.” “Can you tell me anything about the perpetrator?” “I think I saw bark, some greenish-yellow foliage, maybe a couple flowers?” Officer Deadwood tried to process this sentence. It was difficult because he was pretty sure he no longer had fingerprints. “You got mugged by a…tree?” “Yeah, a tree. I was just walking past that big tree in town, you know the one—” Officer Deadwood knew. It was the only tree in Onetree County. “—and it took my wallet, my computer and that new bag of industrial-grade fertilizer I just bought.” “Sure, very funny. You better step up your game, kid, ‘cause I’m not falling for this one.” He slammed the phone down, then winced as his tender fingertips hit the desk. If this was a joke, it hit pretty close to home. He tried to push the dying bellows of his parents, who were lumberjacks, out of his mind, and lit another match off the heel of his logger boots.
by Chelsea Leu
particularly alluring hoagie when— “I was attacked!” an old lady shrilled into Officer Deadwood’s ear. “I don’t know what happened, but I heard this rustling sound and now all my money is gone.” Not this again. Officer Deadwood tried to quell the images that appeared, unbidden, in his mind. He remembered the creaking of branches bent for the kill, how his parents had shouted for him to get the big axe, how helpless his five-year-old self had felt in his tear-stained flannel shirt and small logger booties. He found himself now wiping his nose on an imaginary sleeve, leaving a glistening trail of snot on his arm. His stomach made a little unhappy gurgle, and he patted it reassuringly. “We’ll get through this,” he whispered to it. Then he hung up on the old lady.
O
H
e tried to go back to lighting matches, but his hands shook so much that it took him several tries before he was able to light one.
T
wo hours and one visit to the Onetree County Burn Center later, the phone rang again. Officer he phone rang again around Deadwood eyed the phone, muslunchtime. Officer Deadwood tered up all the bravado he’d learned was just about to sink his teeth into a at the academy, and snatched up the
T
phone. “I am the law!” he barked. All Officer Deadwood could hear on the other end was an almighty rustling of leaves, screaming, and the snapping of limbs. His bravado draining away like flame-retardant foam from a conveniently-placed fire extinguisher, Officer Deadwood dropped the phone and stared at it as if it were on fire, which it was. He swallowed dryly. He’d have to go it alone, as he constituted the entire police force of Onetree County. (It was a lonely job, but someone had to do it.) He set his jaw grimly. One man, one tree, he thought, wasn’t this how it was supposed to be? He tried not to think about his dear mother, who could swing an axe just as lustily as the rest of the men, and also about the grisly end she had met at the branches of a particularly ornery Douglas fir. fficer Deadwood wedged himself into the squad golf cart and drove. When he arrived at the scene, he saw the tree, which was smugly upright, and the carnage around it, which was not. Branches were scattered about in disarray, leaves papered the pavement like dandruff, and at the base of the trunk lay, inexplicably, a single foot. Just like the night his parents were taken from him. Tears streaked Officer Deadwood’s face. He had failed his parents again; lumberjacks never cry. Suddenly, he couldn’t take it anymore. He needed to be somewhere without phones, without matches, without any more goddamn trees. Maybe Siberia. Yes, Siberia sounded real nice right about now. He took off running.
The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Fall 2013
13
Chances I’m Willing to Take, 2
by Joy Ndukwu
D
earest Michael,
I write to you this Saturday eve to inform of a decision I’ve made. As you may recall, last Monday, the 12th of May, marked a significant development in our relationship. It was the day I stopped loitering outside, and finally entered the shop which you tend. What a marvelous and transformative moment, when our exhaled breaths, once separated by frosted glass, mingled at a mere 10 feet distance. Sure, the incredulity of the juncture and the manic passion which mine eyes did project overwhelmed your delicate sensibilities, hence your immediate flight. Yet, I feel a spark in my soul that could not be extinguished. My being toils under the immense sensation. It haunted my every day and night until I could no longer relinquish for thought of our time together. Thou hast tainted me. Oh, what a thought! To think, nay to know, that my sweet poison love has wrought such misery. Oh, the nights, sweet Michael. Memories flare across my tender mind throughout the night. Insomnia, tempered by thoughts of the twelfth, keeps my mind wandering, in constant search of a remedy, a cure. Every image, daydream, nightmare, and thought that contains the slightest hint of your grace, my lovely, streak the every crevice of my mind. But tonight, my suckling pig, I will not stand this torture any longer. Tonight, I will remove the barrier that isolates the vigor of my love to my heart. I will arrive at your home approximately quarter-ten. At which point, I will drop my lantern at your doorstep, spilling the fire from my heart onto your home. The barrier will no longer keep us apart. Our love can mingle freely in the air where it belongs. I am sending this letter by post, so you will not receive my explanation immediately. But, I know that the awesome fury of my love will be explanation enough. Let love’s flames light our lives together, Michaela (formerly Juilenne)
by Dave Wilson 14
The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Fall 2013
I
This Wide and Universal Theatre
arrived in Baghdad with a team of archaeologists from the University of California at Santa Cruz about six months ago. Honestly, we didn’t think we would find anything and were really just hoping to get drunk on the kinds of illegally homebrewed liquor that would never make it past customs on the way back to the states. We never would have guessed that after two weeks on the job, we would drunkenly stumble across two complete, intact copies of scripts used for ancient Sumerian theatrical productions that were hidden deep in the sands of Iraq. Ever since this find, the academic community has been gripped by a flurry of excitement, as these are now the two oldest existing theatrical scripts in existence today. The manuscripts managed to stay preserved for so long because they had been sealed in ancient Sumerian Ziploc bags.
The first of the two scripts is a tragedy entitled The Twilight King, which tells the tale of a power struggle between a Sumerian king and his antagonistic brother. Roland Mac-
by Cameron Vanderwerf
manus, professor emeritus of com- praise Dickmaster for “its comic repparative literature at the University resentations of common Sumerian of California at Santa Cruz stated, life,” indicating this specific passage: “This is a fantastic piece of ancient literature, showcasing a beautiful Phallicis: Madam! I noticed that style of poetic performance.” The your prize heifer has been eating the second manuscript to be found loose thatch that dangles from the was a comedy whose title roughly roof of your hut. Would you like me translates into The Escapades of the to examine its soul juices? Dickmaster. Professor Macmanus Janet: Oh, Phallicis, you old letch. described it as “a manuscript.” The I’m not falling for that again! The last Escapades of the Dickmaster tells the time I allowed you to cross my threshstory of a lascivious old man who old, your sex-crazed aura turned my tricks people into sleeping with him breast milk sour for a fortmonth! by telling them that his ejaculate Phallicis: Dear Janet, I do apologize! holds the secret to eternal life. His Please, accept this offering of thistles victims throughout the play include and goat pubes as penance, that your men, women, and even some farm house’s humors may be restored to the animals. The play ends with a group way they were before you fell for the song about the power of love and oldest trick in the book. trust. Soon after our discovery, I startPassages like these provide many ed getting calls from academics all insights into the common customs around the world who were interest- and rituals of the Sumerian comed in the texts. Apparently, scholars mon folk who would have been the have tentatively drawn connections target audience for comedies such between The Escapades of the Dick- as these (generally viewing the permaster and the most famous piece formance from a dugout pit of filled of Sumerian literature, The Epic of with dirt and animal feces while the Gilgamesh, observing that they both priests and nobles watched the play attempt to wrestle with the quan- from a raised pit filled mostly with dary of finite life and the impossibil- hermaphroditic courtesans.) ity of immortality. One of the texts He put his arm on the table and, with a is just far more homoerotic (Gil- seductive wink, said, “Did anybody here gamesh). When order a pizza? Because I sure didn’t.” I talked to Macmanus Rolandowski, English profesLiterature professors throughout sor and head janitor at the Univer- the world have already started incorsity of California at Santa Cruz, he porating both The Twilight King and praised the cultural value of these The Escapades of the Dickmaster into texts: “This is one of the greatest cul- their university curricula. When I tural finds of our generation. These asked Mac MacRoland, a profestexts give us tremendous insights sional English major at the Univerinto the culture of the world’s old- sity of California at Santa Cruz, what est civilization. For example, dildos he thought about this curricular adwere apparently an essential staple of dition, he responded, “I never knew any Sumerian marketplace, spiritual that something written so long ago ritual, or home decoration theme, could connect so wholly with the if [Dickamster] is to be believed.” essence of my being. I mean, that Professor/janitor Roland went on to scene where Phallicis triumphantly The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Fall 2013
15
The Story of Patrick Whiteman: The Man Who Never Learned How to Not Ride a Bike
by Dave Wilson
H
ey Patrick you’ve got to get over space to pick up enough speed in orhere and see this! der to actually clear the doors once they open. Then I don’t know what Just a sec, make sure the thing you you’d do when you were inside it, bewant me to see is sort of circular in cause it’ll be too small to circle in, so shape, because I’m going to have to you’d probably slowly tip over while keep moving by circling around it it elevated. I guess you could use the while looking at it, or else I’m going wall for support if you needed to. to fall off of my bike. That’s cheating you asshole. Who do Yeah it’s a horseshoe crab, so I think you think I am? I’m Patrick Godyou’ll appreciate it (seeing as how damn Whiteman. you’re an accomplished and successful marine biologist). Sorry, I didn’t know you couldn’t touch any grounded objects. Oh well is it on the sand? I won’t be very stable. Sand isn’t exactly my ter- Then why did you say that? Get over rain of choice. here so I can ride into you with great velocity. Yeah I’m pretty sure it’s on the sand with me. I don’t know where you are Patrick. Maybe you can try to coax it onto the road? Wherever you can manage–I’ll be able to get to it much faster than the average walking pace of three miles an hour would suggest. I think it’s dying. If you can bring it over here, I can attach the generator to my gear drive and power the defibrillator in my messenger bag, and then we might be able to save it. Or, you could attach the passenger buggy to the back, and I can tow it to the nearest marine arthropod relief center. I think the nearest one isn’t very wheelchair accessible yet. I mean, it has an elevator, but you’d have to like, manage to stay balanced while pressing the button and then somehow go in reverse so that you’d have 16
That’s irrelevant. I can be anywhere within one hour provided it’s in a fifteen mile radius around me, because I can travel at an average speed of fifteen miles an hour. Well how can I hear you right now? I’m just screaming really loudly.
were you riding a bike before you could walk? Life starts at conception, asshole. So you’ve never walked? You’ve spent your entire life on a bike? Straight from the uterus. How come you never outgrew your bike then? Are you like a hermit crab or something? That would be pretty cool. Hermit crabs don’t do that—you’re thinking of lobsters. But to answer your question, I did outgrow it. Riding it is extremely difficult and excruciatingly painful. Wow, I’m sorry but your life sounds pretty awful. Can’t someone just put you in a wheelchair or something? You know what they say, a man without his bike is like a dolphin without its gills. You know, flopping about and such. Like a seal with Alzheimer’s.
What are you talking about? Wait...that still doesn’t explain how you can hear me. Just an old saying from Marine Biology. Got lost in the sea for a second That’s because I’m wearing my blue- or two there. tooth. I’m just screaming into it. I’ve never heard that expression beWhy? fore—getting lost in the sea. I might start using it. I’m an incredibly accomplished marine biologist. No, I meant that I actually just rode into the ocean. Can’t talk sorry, Man, were you always like this? Like might die.
The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Fall 2013
The University of Chicago Humor Magazine meets to discuss & write literary humor on Thursdays at 8 PM in Harper 135. All are welcome! To find out more, subscribe to our listhost, humormag@lists.uchicago.edu. You can also follow us on facebook and tumblr.
by Dave Wilson
The University of Chicago Humor Magazine would like to thank Andrew Cunningham McLaughlin, Louis Wain, Malynne Sternstein, Piccolo Mondo, In-Print Graphics, and the Student Government Finance Committee at the University of Chicago. Most of all, thank YOU for reading!
The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Fall 2013
17
Kids Korner! The print media. A bygone form of communication for a bygone era. But you don’t care; you’re an old soul. You’re the eight-year-old who reads TIME magazine in the dentist waiting room. Here’s a tongue twister: say anachronism 5 times fast. That’s what you are.
Here’s a fun the weir teaser for you! W d radius? est guy within ho’s It’s Mar a vin! He e 2 ft at Don’t ta lk to him s glue. .
Help the hunter find the baby rabbit!
18
The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Fall 2013
Hey kid;COLOR ME!!!
Zany Jokes for Snappy Young Upstarts
“Knock Knock.” “Who’s There?” “Milkman.” “Milkman who?” The Cast of Land Before Time: Where They Are Now “The guy who delivers your milk every morning!” ☺ “What’s the difference between a crocodile and a bowline knot?” “There are several!” ☺ “Why did the boy throw his clock out the window?” “Because he was an ungrateful degenerate who wanted to ruin every single nice thing in his life.” ☺
The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Fall 2013
19
“Uh, there’s already a humor magazine on campus, it’s called the University of Chicago Humor Magazine.” “Structured and logical.” - Jazzy Jerry “Books about Sinclair: a series of novels about a man who sins a lot but also likes éclairs. Available with a $250 pledge to WLOL.” “Enough with the fuckin’ cats already.”“Last Wednesday I walked into Harper 135 at around 8 o’clock, expecting a dinner date with a smart and sexy gymnast. She wasn’t there, but I did meet a group of undergraduates whose friendship now means the world to me.” – Andrew Cunningham McLaughlin“Good magazine! Please read my stuff. I’m only twelve years
old, but I’ve already written five books. Please subscribe at www.deanboyer.com”