The University of Chicago
HUMOR MAGAZINE Issue #5 Winter 2014
Magic Eye (TM) Directions for Reading this Magazine: Hold the center of the printed image right up to your nose. It should be blurry. Focus as though you are looking through the image into the distance. Very slowly move the image away from your face until the two squares above the image turn into three squares. If you see four squares, move the image farther away from your face until you see three squares. If you see one or two squares, start over! When you clearly see three squares, hold the page still, and the hidden image will magically appear. Once you perceive the hidden image and depth, you can look around the entire 3D image. The longer you look, the clearer the illusion becomes. The farther away you hold the page, the deeper it becomes. Good Luck!
Corrections to Previous Issues On page 13 of our previous issue, all instances of the word “maraca” should be replaced with “Microsoft CEO Bill Gates.” We apologize for the confusion. Any mention of Bosnian cuisine in the Winter 2013 issue was intended to be ironic. We apologize for the confusion. We at the University of Chicago Humor Magazine would like to clarify that no penguins were harmed in the making of the previous issue. One had his feelings hurt, and has since ceased being a little bitch. Any resemblance the previous issue bore to Rob Reiner’s left nostril is entirely coincidental. In our Fall 2012 issue, we incorrectly reported that “guyliner is soooo 2006.” The correct year is 2005. In our previous issue, an article was published in which the author claimed that she met Mickey 2
The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Winter 2014
Mouse at Disneyland. This information is false, even though the author saw Goofy in five different locations and Dumbo at least three times, and the author offers the following statement on her error: “I just wanted people to think I was cool.” In the Spring 2013 issue, all instances of the word Denise or Kevin should be replaced with Jean-Claude Van Damme. We apologize for the confusion. The last issue, when read backwards, formed a portion of the Satanic Mass. The UChicago Humor Magazine regrets the error. We misspelled every instance of the word “humor” in our previous issue. Our bad.
The University of Chicago Humor Magazine Issue #5 Table of Contents Winter 2014 An Essay Concerning Human Understanding, by E.T.
1
Which Elaborate Flower Necklace Is Right For You?: A Beginner’s Guide to Getting Lei’d
2
Jean-Claude Van Damme: From Action Star to Hairdresser
3
Fermenting Chaos
4
The Man with Very Powerful Eyelashes
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Keyword Suggest
5
Afternoon Special
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Milk, chocolate. Milk, condensed. Milk, fermented. Milk, homogenized. Milk, human. Milk, pasteurized. Milk, powdered.
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AAAAH!: I’m not the Human Torch, I’m just on fire (a desperate plea)
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How to Get a Drink from the Vending Machine while High
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Love, Loss, and Buttery Lust
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Let Me Make Myself Clear
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The Four Sneezons
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An Open Letter to an Inconsiderate Neighbor
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Dogs You Will Never Encounter
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Stomach Grumbling – The Secret Language Your Brain Doesn’t Want You To Know!
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I Think You’re Irredeemably Ugly, and Other Confessions
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Loch Ness Monster: In Memoriam, by Jacques Cousteau
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This page is soaked with corrosive acid
16
The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Winter 2014
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I
Fermenting Chaos
have never understood the allure of alcohol. Granted, I have what would politely be called a “weak constitution,” and the worldview of a crusty, embittered octogenarian. But I don’t think I have much of a choice here. The world of drinking is one where people use the word “hoppy” to describe things that aren’t baby rabbits. My friends “let wine breathe” as if it’s some fainting Victorian dame. Moet & Chandon? Bless you. I was 15 when I had my first taste of alcohol. We were at one of my cousins’ weddings, and they had placed champagne flutes on each of the tables. Fantastic, I thought. I love sparkling apple juice! Then I drank some and recoiled in outrage. What was this pisswater? And what horrifying world was adulthood, where even the drinks were a terrible, terrible lie? I still don’t know. In high school, they warned us about the dangers of peer pressure. But they never said anything about parental pressure. “Why don’t you go get a drink?” my parents will suggest to me at yet another cousin’s wedding reception. I’ll be standing with my arms crossed, clutching my virgin Shirley Temple. “Come on. A little wine? Beer? How about a nice glass of Scotch?” There is a note of reproach in their voices. “Be cool, man,” they seem to be saying. “Don’t be such a party
pooper.” They’ll be asking to stay out after their curfews next, those hooligans. Besides the weddings, my experiences with drinking have mainly been among my peers in sweaty dorm rooms littered with empty PBR cans and copies of The Marx-Engels Reader. Usually, I just spectate. One of my friends, when drunk, will start dancing blissfully to music only he can hear. He’ll ball his
hands up into fists and pinwheel his arms until the people in his immediate vicinity have left in disgust, all the while contorting his body as if a brood of spiders were trying to colonize all of his nooks and crannies. This is a dance that ends friendships. One evening, this particular friend decided to make us piña coladas. I’d had a pretty rough week, and for once I was willing to give this whole alcohol thing a shot, as it were. I had visions of bacchanalia, of revelry and merrymaking and maybe even a little bit of cavorting. At the very least, I wanted to get to that
The Man with Very Powerful Eyelashes
Y
ou know, you look familiar. Were you sitting next to the man on the bus this morning with the very powerful eyelashes? What a mighty set of blepharos on that lad! He blinks and everyone within a mile radius feels a breeze. I’m telling you, that man doesn’t have eyelashes of steel, he has eyelashes of 23rd Century-grade steel. Just an innocent butterfly kiss from this man would mean the end. We happen to ride the same bus downtown and back again every weekday, and I’ll tell you, I have studied these lashes as intensely as my mother studied lashes after I fed her Venus flytrap a stick of gum seventy
4
Chelsea Leu state where I could fling my limbs about with wild abandon, the personal space and well-being of others be damned. So we carved up the pineapples, tossed them in a blender, and poured in the rum. Skol! Half an hour later, my face and arms were redder than Clifford the Big Red Dog slathered in Tabasco sauce. My heart rate was going like crazy, and I couldn’t even lift my Solo cup without trembling slightly. “I’m fine,” I rasped when some people looked with alarm at my face, which had by that point attained the approximate color and temperature of your average industrialgrade furnace. But then I started seeing spots, so I staggered back to my room and lay face-down on the bed to stew in my own ethanol-laced juices. This was not, I realized grimly, the carefree limbflailing that I’d signed up for. Then I fell asleep. When I came to, Spider-Dancer and my other hall-mates were ranged around me, looking concerned. I spent the rest of the evening hunched over a glass of water, swearing never to drink again. But I can imagine what my parents would say if they had seen me. “Why not shots of vodka?” they’d sigh, shaking their heads at my inexperience. “You’re no fun at all.” To which I say: get off my lawn, you young whippersnappers.
Emma Goehler
years ago. Just the other day I was sitting next to the magnificent eyelashes on the way home from work, and, get this, when the bus approached the 14th St. stop, the man leaned his head a little bit to the right, toward the window, so that his eye was almost in line with the stop request cord, and then he winked so precisely, so forcefully, so fiercely that his eyelashes pulled the cord! “STOP REQUESTED” it said on the marquee at the front of the bus and I could hardly get myself to move out of his way and let him off the bus, I was so petrified. I’m telling you! I had to go out and buy myself some lead false eyelashes as soon
The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Winter 2014
as I saw it, I thought to myself, “Lars, you know the man has to have trained his eyelids somehow, your mother always said that no one was born great, ’cause you know there are no babies in talk radio,” and really, what’s to stop me from being just like that man, I was convinced if I put on these lead false eyelashes and blinked twice a day I could have strong eyelids and sturdy eyelashes of my own. I bought the lead eyelashes, I did, I put them on after dinner and boy did my eyes shut right away, I thought for sure it would tear my lashes right out of the skin, but I struggled to open them, my eyelids quietly fighting the
new weight they bore like the poor possum my mother sat on did seventy years ago, but despite my most profound exertion, so long as those lead eyelashes sat upon my eyelids, my eyes remained shut. I got on the bus the next morning and watched the man with the powerful
eyelashes standing there, gripping the overhead bar for stability by lifting his nose upward and letting the lashes wrap around it, he had to stand on his toes for his eyes to reach it but once he got up there he was so stable it didn’t matter, he could have lifted his feet off the ground
Keyword Suggest
and just hung there, in fact, he may have, and I knew that there was just no way of avoiding the truth for me, that I could never be that man. These eyes simply aren’t as good as they once were.
Lauren Petersen
The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Winter 2014
5
Afternoon Special
R
alph was only 2 feet and 4 inches tall. For years, this had been a point of great insecurity for him. If anyone asked, he stared them down, convinced the question was meant as a personal attack, until his mother meekly replied “2 feet, 4 inches, and ¾.” For the extra partial inch, Ralph began bribing his mother with cry-free nap times every weekend from 10am to 2pm, which she spent drinking mimosas with his “Uncle” Jim by the pool. Ralph hated his various Uncles, but was willing to let his mother enjoy herself hassle-free, as long as she was equally willing to bump up his height the additional ¾ of an inch. His mother made it clear she didn’t approve of his deceit, telling him one afternoon, after her third mimosa with Uncle John, “I don’t approve of this deceit, Ralph.” Ralph countered by wailing and spitting up on her cashmere blouse. “That will teach the old hag to question me,” thought Ralph, as he fell asleep against his mother’s vomit-soaked shoulder. The questions continued, with gems like: “Ralph, why can’t I just tell Uncle Terry your real height? Why must everything be an attack against Mommy? Why are you eating your snot and not wiping it with the wonderful handkerchief Uncle Andrew so nicely knitted for you?” But all Ralph heard was the booming notes of a trombone whenever she opened her mouth, as he had recently been witness to a bank robbery with a great deal of badly wired explosives that left him partially deaf in one ear. It was all the same. Ralph didn’t have an answer anyway. His mother wasn’t the only curious party. When he was not at home, the rest of his day was spent working at the Happy Days Nursery, where he had seemingly been employed since birth. His mother dropped him off at the front entrance, sending him a finger wave as the more bohemian Uncle Clint sped them away in his battered, VW bus. The bus smelled perpetually of Uncle Clint’s “special medicine”, but Ralph liked the feeling of riding inside a groovy bomb shelter as Uncle Clint zigzagged across the streets.
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Jen Capocy
Inside, the Happy Days theme was blaring on the intercom. Ralph’s supervisor, who referred to himself as the Fonz, and wore a leather jacket even in the throes of an Arizona summer, jumped in front of him. “Sunday, Monday, Happy Days Tuesday, Wednesday, Happy Days Thursday, Friday, Happy Days Saturday, what a day Groovin’ all week with you,” the Fonz sang, pointing two pairs of gunshaped fingers and thumbs in Ralph’s direction. The Fonz paused, raking a comb through his heavily gelled pompadour. The teeth of the plastic comb dripped as he pulled it from his scalp. “Heyyyy. How was your weekend, Little Ralph Malph?” He patted Ralph on the head, apparently ignoring his visible cringe at the word little. Ralph made an indecipherable sound, to which the Fonz replied, “Aaaayyy!” shooting him another pair of gun hands. Ralph walked dejectedly away, surprised by the Fonz’s rather cavalier response to his entreaty of personal respect for his height issues.
Ralph’s daily rounds, which featured him roaming a giant central room, included trips to the blocks, the crafts, and the vehicles stations, always charting his treks carefully along the footprints painted into the carpet (to avoid the surrounding carpet lava). During his break, he quickly shuffled to the furthest end of the table, lunch bag in hand, to avoid conversation with his coworkers. Finding his lunch bag filled only with a fork and Uncle Clint’s special herbs, Ralph sighed, joining the
The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Winter 2014
communal food line at the other side of the cafeteria. Before he reached the front of the line, he sensed a threatening presence. The room seemed to cool, as the large shape of another body blocked out the overhead lamps, casting Ralph into shadow. “Hey, it’s little Ralphie,” the Sasquatch mocked, as Ralph turned to face him. “James,” Ralph greeted simply, gritting his teeth at the added little. He started to turn back, only to meet the gaze of Sas’s number two in command, Geraldo. “You see, Geraldo and I were just talking about you, Ralph,” Sasquatch garbled through a mouthful of mashed potatoes. Trying to properly enunciate the “fuh” in Ralfuh’s name, Sasquatch loosed a bit of potato, which sailed toward Ralph’s face, hitting him with a loud splat. “Is that right?” Ralph asked, his teeth now permanently gritted, wiping the white, wet glob from his brow. “What were you and Geraldo---” Geraldo cut in quickly, “My name isn’t Geraldo. It’s Geraldo. You’re saying it wrong.” Ralph rolled his eyes. “What did you and Geraldo have say?” His volume level, he soon found, as he began to quake in his shoes, was a regrettable decision. The Sasquatch was not known as the Sasquatch ironically. At 5 foot 3 inches (and 2⁄9, by Ralph’s eyeballed estimation), the Sas towered over his counterparts, due largely to the growth hormone-infused breast milk so lovingly offered him by his body-builder mother in his infancy. It could have also been due, at least in part, to the continued supply of “supplements” his mother slipped into every solid meal thereafter. “We just couldn’t decide,” the Sas intoned menacingly, “just how short you are.” Ralph stared up at him, fully prepared for the next, incoming question. “So what are you now, 2 foot?” Another wet glob of potato mash slipped from his gob, splatting with a sickening THWACK! on the linoleum.
Ralph’s eyes blazed. Ralph’s cheeks reddened in an angry and embarrassed blush. “What are you now, 2 foot?” Sassy repeated with the same expression and intonation. Ralph raised an eyebrow. “What are you now, 2 foot?” Sassy repeated once again. Geraldo stared at Sassy. Ralph stared at Sassy. Sassy repeated, “What are you now, 2 foot?” Ralph looked at Geraldo, who looked at Sassy, who looked at no one, his brown eyes clouded and unseeing. “What are you now, 2 foot?” “Is he…is he glitching?” Ralph whispered to Geraldo, bits of his anger fading amidst his confusion and interest. Though he’d heard of such a phenomenon, he’d never seen it before himself. “JAMES. JAMES, MAN. ARE YOU OKAY?” Geraldo shouted into his friend’s vacant face. The Sasquatch did not answer and did not see. “What are you now, 2 foot?” The Fonz swooped in, ushering the still-babbling Sasquatch away from the group of boys in line. “You’re okay, Cunningham, you’re okay.” As the Fonz walked him out of the cafeteria, a cacophony of “What are you now, 2 foot?” echoed around the cavernous room. The words hung in the air like an ever-present reminder of one’s height issues and another’s, probably more pressing, mental degradation. His glitching was, perhaps, more familiar at large, known locally from the Sasquatch’s mother’s op-ed piece “My Beautiful Darling – Molding a Hercules”, which had spawned 3 neighborhood news interviews, before being unsuccessfully optioned as a reality television series. (The court hearings, at any rate, were still pending.) Ralph turned forward in line, shamed by the estimation of height still bouncing around the farthest walls of the cafeteria, got his lunch and ate it in silence. After lunch, the gang of children filtered into the central room for the afternoon sharing session. They huddled in a wide circle around the carpet, protected from the underlying lava by little plastic butt mats. Ralph didn’t understand the science behind it, but it appeared that
plastic (of all things!) was impervious to the destructive heat of the lava’s molten flow. Here, the Sasquatch rejoined the group, his eyes throwing daggers at Ralph for his role in the earlier, public glitch. The daggers were well aimed, but, as Ralph sat directly across from him on the opposing curve of the circle, the distance between them was just too wide for his eyes’ throwing range, and they collected in a small pile, clanging together with each throw, 2 feet from the Sasquatch. Instead of a deficiency in throwing distance, Ralph interpreted the pile, 2 feet from the Sasquatch’s pretzel-crossed legs, as another silent dig at his miniscule stature. “So, as many of you may have heard, we had a bit of a situation this afternoon at lunch,” the sharing seminar guide, Marion, opened. Marion was protected from the lava, sitting elevated above the others in a plastic chair– her feet, though, dipped onto the carpet, sending wowed “oohs” and “aahs” through the crowd. She had a reputation as invulnerable and probably superhuman, with the way she withstood the fiery grip of the lava. “As you can also probably see,” she continued, “this has been largely resolved.” All eyes turned to the still collecting pool of daggers, seemingly falling into the clutches of the lava, but remaining there magically unscathed. “And may I remind you, James, that violence would not be the answer for a problem like this. Please keep your daggers to yourself.” The flood of daggers stopped immediately. Marion commanded a certain respect, through her motherly power, and the room quieted around her, waiting for instruction. “Since it’s important to conclude every day here with a wholesome family value and warm, heartfelt lesson, I’d like to spend the next five minutes in silent reflection. You need to all learn to accept and understand each other, despite your differences.” Her words plunged the room into silence, while Ralph and all his compatriots avoided eye contact with one another. The lesson he was supposed to learn was that some people had big-
ger—he cringed at the word, as ‘2 foot’ echoed in his mind— problems than he did and that being short maybe wasn’t such a bad thing. He could fit into cubbies, for example, which someone like the Sasquatch would never be able to do, and which had always amused him greatly. But, as he envisioned the Sasquatch reaching for a box of cereal off the top shelf, he knew that Marion’s lesson was meaningless. As he was bar-
“Where’s that goddamned cactus when you need it?” raged with various images of the Sasquatch reaching high-placed objects, his blood began to boil, dangerously. He needed medical attention, but, he thought, perhaps acting on his instincts might assuage the terrible pain of his bursting blood cells. He looked up to find the Sasquatch staring back at him, his face similarly blotted and discolored with a devastating, body-destroying anger. In one swift motion, both Ralph and the Sasquatch rose to their feet and ran across the lava, defying physics with pure rage. Ralph ran directly to the Sasquatch’s knee, punching him with little, pint-sized fists. The Sas flailed around, trying to shake Ralph off him. The Sas fell to the ground, and both he and Ralph rolled around, trading punches. The Fonz and Richie, another supervisor, ran into the room, pulling them apart. “Okay, Ralph. Take it easy,” Richie said, restraining the still-wriggling Ralph. The Fonz quietly talked the Sasquatch down from the other side of the circle. “You’re such a potsie!” Ralph shouted at the Sas across the lava-filled divide, unleashing a new ripple of movement as the Fonz held the Sasquatch. Marion cleared her throat, calming the tension in the room immediately. All eyes turned to her, the Sasquatch and Ralph’s faces now tinged red with shame, in addition to their anger. The Fonz and Richie released their prisoners, returning to different areas of the room, and Ralph and the Sas resumed their seats on their little plastic mats. “You two are acting like children right now,” Marion chided. “Grow up. Stop acting like 3 year olds. You’re sup-
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posed to learn a good moral lesson and move on so that tomorrow a new conflict can arise and be dealt with accordingly.” Both the Sas and Ralph looked toward the floor. Marion had a point. Of course, both the Sas and Ralph were, in fact, 3 years old, so her point was not readily clear to either of them. As the episode faded and the day
came to a close, Ralph remained as short as he began, with no greater insight on dealing with his height disadvantage, and the Sasquatch remained a bully, and, more importantly, a deteriorating medical marvel. No boy found conclusion for either problem or satisfying resolution to either story-line. Instead, as the Fonz led the children out of the building, they feigned contented-
How to Get a Drink from the Vending Machine While High
A
lright, cadet, let’s get down to brass tacks. This is the moment you’ve been preparing for your entire life. It’s only been five minutes? Never you mind, man. This shit is fluid. Five minutes for you could be fifteen minutes for a dog or twenty-five minutes for a peregrine falcon. An eternity for a piece of plankton, just a meaningless blip floating around in the digestive tract of a whale, waiting for the Jonahs and Pinocchios of the world to come down there and talk to it. Of course, the difference in scale means that they probably wouldn’t notice it. And even if they did, the plankton doesn’t have vocal cords to talk back, so it would end up a very onesided conversation. Just like between you and your father, right? No, don’t think about him now. You’re doing fine for yourself. You have been sworn to action, cadet. Two of your comrades went downstairs to get drinks from the vending machine midway through the third episode of Adventure Time. Now, at the dawn of the third episode of Regular Show, they have returned triumphant. Young conquerors bearing glistening cans of soda. The machine is sublime, they say. It glows in the darkened hall
Alex Filipowicz
as they crack open the cans, stretching out the “ee” in “been” like wealthy Englishmen after a month-long promenade around Tuscany. “The sugar and the fizz are strong. Stronger than they’ve been since we were children. Must be a good vintage of Coca-Cola.” One of them inspects the side of the half-filled can. “Best Before 12-31-13” 2013 was a good year. Many notable events. A mild winter and a fine southeasterly breeze that caressed the leaves of the coca tree. You too can own this piece of history, drink this piece of history. But only if you leave now for the vending machine. Certain sacrifices must be made. You will probably need to abandon the popcorn burrito that has begun to sing out from the microwave. When you return, it will be either cold or devoured by your cohort, depending on how good of an idea it was to put unpopped popcorn kernels into a microwaveable burrito. One day, however, you will learn to forgive yourself for neglecting your popcorn burrito. Your father, on the other hand, will never forgive you for choosing to major in Vibrational Healing. That’s it. Baby steps out of the room. Don’t start hopping. Everybody will know the score if you start hopping. Your dream to cover the streets in trampolines is a good one but city and there’s moving parts and colorful council won’t take your proposition sebeverages. “You haven’t been?” they ask riously in your current state. Wait un-
I quickly learned that felting was not the godsend my fellow inmates made it out to be. 8
The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Winter 2014
ness and acted as though moved, until Ralph hopped inside Uncle Clint’s VW and the Sasquatch climbed inside his mother’s outrageously lifted, pale blue monster truck, where their full complaints flowed. Ralph ended the day, leaning into his mother’s vomit-soaked shirt, with her fresh promises of a new false 8⁄9 of an inch to replace his imaginary ¾.
til tomorrow. Buy a powder-blue suit, practice a firm handshake, run for mayor. They’ll know you mean business by the candor of your voice and fire in your eyes. “That speech was crackerjack, son! Welcome aboard!” Even the cantankerous geezer in the back will eventually grow to respect your guts. The wattle on his neck will shake and you’ll catch a glimpse of a smile before he falls back asleep on his government-assigned futon. But that’s tomorrow, cadet. And this is today. Although I suppose it’s just past midnight so it’s not the same today as the yesterday when we started our training but let’s not get caught up in the technicality of this. You aren’t meant for a life of spreadsheets and PowerPoints. You’re meant to get a soda from the vending machine. However, don’t forget that this is a currency-based society we live in. The vending machine will not give you a drink simply because you want one. Even if you are a free spirit, there must be certain checks and balances. So before we can proceed any further, you need to return to your room and pick up the Ziploc bag full of assorted coins. The one that you keep next to the Virtual Fireplace CD-ROM. No, not that one. It’s by your other Virtual Fireplace CDROM. Yes, the one balanced precariously above your didgeridoo. Remember to close the door behind you so that the possums can’t get inside. Atta boy. You have arrived at the elevator and were able to enter it without incident. Take this moment to pat yourself on the back (figuratively) and gather your
strength (literally) for the challenge that lies ahead. “Floor Negative Two!” the robotic announcer declares seductively. That’s you, champ. Let’s see what we’ve got here. There’s a machine for coffee, two for snacks and one for soda. Breaking things down strategically, two of these vending machines vend solids and two of them vend liquids. You want a liquid but you don’t want a coffee, so your only option is the soda vending machine. Bask in its fluorescent radiance as you approach it. This will be your Asgard. Time to die a warrior’s death. By this, of course, I mean, take the baggie of change out of your pocket. The vending machine has the kind of patience that store clerks (and your father) never had. Robots are incapable of boredom, and for this we are truly grateful. Feel free to start with pennies and build your way up to larger coinage. It will prolong the vending experience,
and get rid of the coins that you would “The people look so tiny from up here,” Lincoln would say. normally be too embarrassed to use. “Just like me,” the plankton would Did you know that there is a miniature Abraham Lincoln sitting in the answer with a wistful sigh. Well, you seem to have amassed a Lincoln Memorial of every penny? Yes, sizeable amount of credit on the vendthat’s really him. ing machine. It looks to me like you can buy a soda now. There’s a variety of options. Coca-Cola (Regular, Diet, Zero) Sprite (Regular, Diet) Dr. Pepper (MD) How about a Canada Dry? Ginger ale shows a touch more distinction than these common sodas, and you will need all the prestige you can get when you run for mayor. The code for it is D4. Perhaps he could be the plankton’s one true friend. They’d gossip on D5? That’s a bottle of Dasani. Are the phone every night until Lincoln’s you seriously telling me you pressed it at parents yelled at him for hogging the random!? What was the point of all this dialup. After that, they’d need to meet if you were just going to buy water?!?! I in secret at their special place, the top of should have never trusted you, you godthe biggest hill in town. damned stoner.
Love, Loss, and Buttery Lust
I
got a 16 on the color quiz today. For those woefully uninformed on obscure internet quizzes, the color quiz tests one’s ability to discern different shades in a gradient spectrum of two colors. According to the results page, this quiz is a relatively simple task for females aged 20-29, as the average score is 0 (Perfect!). However, I’ve never been much of an artist, so my quiz results only validate my personal failings, both at color theory and fitting in with my generation. I still maintain that the LED lights in my computer screen skew my chance of success; maybe if I had sprung for the retina display things would be different. Despite my best efforts, this ultimately pointless defeat saddened me. So much so, that I had to turn to ‘1+1’ by Beyoncé to remind myself that it is not what I don’t know that matters, but instead the hot passion of my love, however small in quantity. I guess you could call me a romantic in that regards because my passion is endless, and my knowledge has many bounds.
Joy Ndukwu
Love is always one of those ‘human emotions’ that never really stuck to me. I could read all day long about butterflies and warm cheeks, mushy brains stunned into silence. All that stuff seems like gunk to a gal like me. You know, the kind that heavily researches all the potential features of her computer before just buying the base model at the Apple Store anyway. Predictable, cheap, and completely unimpressed by the world at large. Even romantic comedies, those sappy, heart-tuggers created by a greedy industry to profit off of lonely (desperate) people, move me only to the point of possibly getting a third bowl of ice cream before I fire up another riveting tale of lovelorn lovers. In short, nothing about love in that context even remotely appeals to me. Do people actually feel all of these strange sensations? For the majority of my life, it appeared to me that love was everywhere, everywhere except in me. I like to think that I’ve grown since coming to college. Gotten
some wisdom, figured out how to write a resumé. I’ve learned that my personhood does not depend on my romantic apathy. In fact, for the past couple of quarters, I’ve adopted this feeling of otherness and channeled it towards a new focus: C-Shop bagels. Now, the fact that the C-Shop is not some funky, independently-owned bagel shop, but in fact, a chain of Einstein’s Bagels controlled makes this affair, or whatever it is, a little less indie, but I can live with that. Those bagels mean so much more than just a ridiculously long line on Wednesdays. Any time of day before 11PM, 7 days a week, I can sink my chompers into lightly toasted, heavily buttered bagel on command. Of course, there are days when my schedule keeps us apart, but I know that, no matter what, we will be united, the warmth of the Reynolds Club bringing a slight blush to my fingertips as I devour the sourdough goodness in 65 seconds flat. And that, for now, is all I need.
The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Winter 2014
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Let Me Make Myself Clear
Ben Constantino
H
ello! You! I need to make myself clear to you. I think there is some explaining that needs to be done; explaining to be done by me, attentive listening to be done by you, and beingclear to be done by the both of us. For clarity’s sake. Let me make myself clear. You didn’t understand me correctly—no, I’m not talking to you, you’re just a man dressed up as the squirrel from Ice Age. OK, sorry, a lady. The costume’s large teeth were covering some key features. You, Ms. Squirrel, saw nothing, and whatever you might’ve seen, you understood perfectly well. But you—yes, YOU! It is you who, I am certain, are not quite clear on what just transpired. I know you’re pretending that you
the belly. I was in no way curious as to whether or not the belly of a penguin would fit absolutely perfectly into my hand, like a mini football or a bottle of mustard that can be thrown around as if it is a mini football. Nor was I planning on, in the case that the penguin fit—like a glove—or rather, in the case that my hand fit around the penguin like a glove, which in this case would be more of a penguin-sweater—well, what I’m saying is, if I successfully grabbed the penguin, I was NOT planning on squeezing it to see if it made noise, and then making a penguin-y noise every time I squeezed it if it didn’t. I want to assure you that these were the furthest things from my mind. I see you still appear uncertain, and now you are turning away to continue your examina“You totally stabbed me in the back here, tion of the puffins. please, I need Becca,” Stephanie complained, pointing to But you to look at me. the blade handle sticking out of her spine. I was NOT, in any way, going to dress didn’t see me, just a moment ago, as I the penguin in this miniature antique plunged my arm into the penguin en- scuba suit that I am holding in front closure. I know what you’re thinking, of your eyes. I see your face, and I can and I want to make myself very clear: tell exactly what you’re thinking, and I I was not trying to grab a penguin by need to tell you—the plan all along was
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The Four Sneezons
ome people mark the changing of the seasons by observing deciduous trees. Some notice that the weather has become perceptibly warmer, or cooler, or more typhoon-y. Still others mark the passage of time by the sorts of consumer goods the ads are telling them to buy. I, however, tell the seasons by my nose. Springtime is allergy season, and every year, for some three days in the spring, it feels like nothing exists in the world that will not make me sneeze. Trees make me sneeze. Animals make me sneeze. Bright light makes me sneeze. Great works of literature make me laugh, cry, cogitate deeply about society’s ramifications for individual action, and then sneeze. On these days, as I convulse and squint, watery-eyed, at whatever it is that’s making me sneeze at any given moment, I wonder how
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not to stage a penguins-only reenactment of 20,000 Leagues under the Sea. I need you to ignore the fact that my dog is equipped with a snorkel and dressed up as a giant squid, just for a minute, so that I can make it clear to you, in no uncertain terms, that I am NOT a classic film enthusiast who is afraid of human actors and creates shot-for-shot remakes of silent and talkie films with animals. Sir, THIS IS NOT THE CASE. If you are interested in the complete works of John Ford put on variously by common ducks, horseshoe crabs, and goats, I simply do not know what to say to you. As you walk away, I am glad to know that we are both on the same page. If there was ever such a thing as clarification, it has occurred here, between you and I. I laugh my big laugh and dance my little dance as you and I go our separate ways while retaining the same knowledge. As we part, nothing could make me happier than to remind you that I am not now, nor have ever been, the president of an unsolicited not-for-profit mulch distribution company. I don’t even know where you could’ve gotten such an idea!
Katie Leu
someone so entirely evolutionarily unfit managed to survive this long. I’m sure I wouldn’t have if I lived in a less medicated era. I can imagine myself blinking into a prehistoric sun, sniffing up some prehistoric pollen, wishing I were a prokaryote, and then simply dying off before I had the chance to procreate. In the summer, I get nosebleeds. Think Niagara Falls, but warmer, saltier, and more oxygenated. Actually, don’t think about Niagara Falls. Think about the Red Sea. Except the liquid in question is actually red, and Moses never came along with a God-powered staff to save the Israelites (or, in my case, the boogers). You know what, forget I even introduced the topic of bodies of water. The point is, nosebleeds are a pain in the ass. They’re gross, blood gets everywhere, and if they go on long enough you begin to wonder if you’ve
The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Winter 2014
snorted out any vital organs yet. But the worst part about them is trying to interact with other people while they’re happening. People I encounter during nosebleeds tend to think I’ve either a) suffered a mortal wound, or b) murdered someone, and it’s all I can do, while pressing a wad of tissues against my nose, to a) assure them that in fact I don’t need to be helicoptered to the nearest trauma center, or b) chase frantically after them, bloodstained hands outstretched, screaming “Not guilty! NOT GUILTY!” Fall brings red apples, red leaves, red schoolhouses, and a red nose. Allergy season returns with a vengeance, but this time I have the onset of school to deal with as well. And if there’s anything that interferes with your academics, it’s three days of nonstop sniffling. On one fine autumn school day during
my checkered, rebellious youth, I appeared to burst into tears in the middle of class. With a look of concern, the teacher took me aside. “What’s wrong, honey?” she asked, putting her arm around me. “I—(sniff)—I have allergies,” I managed to creak out, tears streaming torrentially down my face. I have a feeling she never took me seriously after that. Yes indeed, allergies are the hidden scourge of academia. How can you pay attention in class when you’re too busy wondering what would happen if you just up and ripped your nose off of your face (all in the spirit of scientific inquiry, of course)? By the time winter rolls around, my entire world is phlegm. I can no longer breathe through my nose, my room is a minefield of sodden tissues, and I’ve deforested the Amazonian
rainforest fifty times over. The skin on on a murderous rampage, yelling inmy nose has been rubbed raw; if you coherently and brandishing a wad of placed a picture of me and a picture of bloody tissues. And you know, what if Rudolph was just dealing with a perpetual severe cold? What if he was just allergic to Santa? That would explain his shiny red nose, the ridicule he faced at the hands (or hooves?) of the other reindeer, his inability to join in any of the reindeer games. So forget Dasher, and Dancer, and Prancer, and Vixen, and the rest of those lichen-eating haters. They don’t know what it’s like to live under such demanding nasal conditions. They don’t know what it’s like to wake up in the morning and find that your sinuses have decided to block themselves Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer side off from the world forever. But I do. by side, you wouldn’t be able to identify And Rudolph does. And together, we’ll which of us was innocent and which of be unstoppable. At least, until us had come after you six months ago springtime.
An Open Letter Mark Hassenfratz to an Inconsiderate Neighbor
D
ear Neighbor,
I’d like to think that I’ve been quite lenient over the years in regards to your behavior. Your dog always “does his business” on my lawn, but I never complain. I love that little scamp. I always hear him rehearsing his bark all night. What dedication! I’ve turned a blind eye to your rowdy parties and the hordes of hoodlums, hooligans, and ruffians they attract. I never once called the police to tell them about your reefer supply. I don’t mind that you still haven’t returned my lawnmower. I prefer using my scissors anyways, it’s more rewarding, and I gave you the benefit of the doubt when I saw that your lawn was hideously overgrown. Maybe you were busy fixing it as a birthday present to me. I even saw the bright side in your frequent trash burning; at least I don’t have to take it out for you anymore. Many of our fellow neighbors have asked me to address your new zoo in your backyard and the aquarium in your above ground pool. While I’m pretty sure those goats are stolen, I’d love to bring my kids again as long as long as they don’t bite Kevin again. Little Sally loved the aquarium; she’s never seen exotic fish swim upside-down like that before. I have not addressed any of these minor problems because I believe we can work them out and talk like civilized people. Except for one thing Norm the Gnome has been stolen. And that is the last d*rn straw, mister. Norm is the best friend I’ve ever had, and now he’s up and gone. Phil the flamingo and his wife Phyllis are heartbroken, and I’m mad as h*ck. I’m not going to take this cr*p anymore. You thought I wouldn’t notice? Norm has been a longtime friend and member of my family. He has been a shining light on every cloudy day I’ve had. Pardon my French, but I don’t give a fr*ck about what you think of my d*rn language. I’ve put up with this cr*p for too fr*cking long, d*rn it. You’d better return Norm the fr*cking Gnome, or you’ll be sorry. If even one little fr*cking hair on his head is out of place, so help me g*sh I will teach you a lesson you’ll never forget and punch you right in the w*ener, motherfr*cker. You think I fr*cking won’t? Try me, you fr*cking b*tt-face! You can take that to the d*rn bank, boy howdy. I’ll bet your mother is not a very nice lady. As the kids these days say, yo momma’s so mean, she doesn’t even offer your play-dates milk with their fresh-baked cookies! You fr*cking p*op-head! Suck a Richard! Norm and I will be reunited, I swear to g*sh. You can put that down your pipe and smoke it! See you in h*ck, Fred Thompson PS-Please return my lawnmower at your earliest convenience. PPS-Don’t actually put that down your pipe and smoke it. You’re a f*ol if you think smoking is cool.
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Dogs You Will Never Encounter
Dave Wilson
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campi, the Master Dog Chef
What it is: A dog (preferably a golden retriever) donning a pristine white chef ’s hat and standing upright as it perfectly sears a rib eye steak, bends down to uncork a bottle of pinot noir between its hind legs for you, and then whimsically adds a dash of tarragon to a simmering stew. It then begs you to stick around and try some of the ribs it’s about to bring in from the grill outside.
Who thinks it exists: All manufacturers of dog foods as shown above, several thousand misled consumers of said dog food, and a number of generally confused internet users. Many of these misinformed dog owners have tried raise their own “Scampi.” While some of these attempts are innocent and comical:
others showcase the more sobering reality of this myth:
while some result in images that are nothing short of disturbing:
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The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Winter 2014
Why it does not exist: There are several appalling facets to this widespread misconception. Dogs cannot stand on their hind legs for more than ten seconds at a time, so at the very least, every ten seconds Scampi would fall onto the stove, counter, or other surface and possibly singe his upper body (do not worry, though; dogs like Scampi are powerful and will recover from this brief shock). If Scampi was able to stay at his cooking station for a non-trivial amount of time, he would immediately sense the wafting aromas of the food, splay himself across the countertop or stove, and engage in a frantic, hysterical attempt to consume as much as possible, lest this opportunity to eat vanish in the next three seconds for some reason. Scampi would then singe his upper body. If the recipe did not call for heat and the dog remained unscathed, there would be no finished product because he would consume all of it relentlessly. If the counter was empty and there was nothing to eat, Scampi would probably just get bored and leave, considering that all utensils required to cook also come with the prerequisite of manual dexterity that Scampi does not possess. Scampi’s brain is also neither large nor complex enough to read and understand printed English recipes, complete a series of technical tasks involving fire-related machines, and use electricity. Furthermore, many foods used in the preparation of human meals are toxic to dogs, so Scampi would likely be poisoned and perish. A final inconsistency in this mythical construction is the presupposition that a dog would ever purposely prepare food for someone else to eat. It’s a shame that this misbelief has spread so widely, as it masks the utter selfishness lying at the heart of every dog.
G
yro, the Bipedal Dog
What it is: Exactly as described above. Note: this article is not concerned with the tragic case in which dogs are missing two limbs. For our purposes, the Bipedal Dog is assumed to be a four limbed animal that chooses to walk on two. Who thinks it exists: One of the more widely spread misbeliefs, this legend was trusted and disseminated by the majority of animators for children’s entertainment, Shaggy Doo, Scrappy Doo, and other dogs that are just a little bit too full of themselves.
Why it does not exist: There is a clear and simple explanation that debunks this myth. As explained in the section pertaining to “Scampi,” Gyro would be unable to stand for more than ten seconds. Beyond this pragmatic constraint, let’s imagine that dogs like her actually did exist. The world would be a much more terrifying place. Every time a dog wanted anything from you, it could just strut up and get in your face, meeting you eye to eye. Dogs also can’t really put their front limbs down at their sides when they stand up like normal animals can, so whenever they walked or ran around, they’d do so with their front arms sticking out like a cartoon mummy or worse, contracted like a huge, furry praying mantis.
Also, many of these dogs would be shot, since people would probably mistake them for bears. These instances, while gruesome, have just dealt with the nice Gyros. Their aggressive friends would constitute an entirely different category of bipedal monsters.
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ogos, the Dog that Speaks
What it is: A dog that speaks a human language, probably English. (Although some might speak Spanish; the Taco Bell dog is one such example). Who thinks it exists: Possibly the biggest misconception of all, pretty much everyone buys into this one: an even larger group of animators than those who believe in Gyro, many dog owners who claim they can communicate with their dogs on a lingual basis (these people call themselves “whisperers”), and Shaggy Doo. Why it doesn’t exist: Even if Logos could speak proper English, he would probably only say “Hi everyone look at me,” and “Hi I want all of the food you have right now,” so this case is uninteresting.
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andy, the Dog that Eats Sand and only Sand
What it is: A dog who, when at a beach, happily gulps down all of the sand you throw at it.
Who thinks it exists: Every toddler who endlessly throws sand at the family dog’s face when at a beach. Why it doesn’t exist: Sandy cannot digest sand, and swallowing it can cause many serious health problems for her. Consequently, Sandy perishes.
V
iva, the Neapolitan Mastiff that does not look like it’s melting or about to die.
What it is: A Neapolitan Mastiff with just an ounce of vigor and vitality. Who thinks it exists: Probably most people who adopt or purchase a Neapolitan Mastiff.
Looks like a normal dog that will live to see another day.
Why it doesn’t exist:
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The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Winter 2014
Frequently Asked Questions: Q: How long has this magazine been around for? A: Wow, real mature. I bet you think you’re really funny with that one. Here’s an answer: go fuck yourself. Q: What’s your trick to humor writing? A: We use 100% organic, free range penguin meat in all of our pieces. Q: Is this appropriate for my kids? A: Fuck yeah! Q: Do ghosts exist? A: Yes! Please consult Andrew C. McLaughlin with further questions about the specifics. His office can be found at Harper 135. Q: Can I write for the Humor Magazine? A: I don’t know, can you? Q: How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood? A: Roughly four wood. Q: I heard that Winky, the one-eyed walrus, appears on every page of the UChicago Humor Magazine. Is that true? A: You heard right! Not only does Winky, the official Humor Mag mascot, appear, but his whole crew of friends does too... Nick, Goober, Fudge, Harbo, President Niles...just keep lookin’! Q: What is the meaning of life? A: I have no idea! Please refer your question to Andrew C. McLaughlin. His office can be found at Harper 135. Q: Whoa, did you see that?? A: What? Where? Q: Where can I find the restroom? A: Not here, buster. Q: May I? A: No, you may not. Q: Where am I? A:
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, Tumblr, and Twitter.
We would like to thank Andrew Cunningham McLaughlin, Malynne Sternstein, In-Print Graphics, and the Student Government Finance Committee at the University of Chicago.
Cast of Writers Jen Capocy Ben Constantino Alex Filipowicz
Emma Goehler Mark Hassenfratz Chelsea Leu
Katie Leu Joy Ndukwu Lauren Petersen
Amelia Soth Dave Wilson
The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Winter 2014
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