What To Expect When You're Electing — Side A

What to EXPECT

When you’re ELECTING

A Trump Presidency

NONSENSE HUMOR MAGAZINE Issue 164A

November 2016

Contents Front Cover Page 2 Page 3

Hayley Blomquist Editorial

by Zachary Johnson and Heather Levinsky “What’s Changed?” Roundtable

by Nonsense Staff

Mailbag

by Nonsense Staff

Page 4

“I’m The Big Guy”

by James Sweeney

Page 5

“Totally Unbe-Weave-able”

by Rojanaye Daley “Who Said It: Trump or Guy Fieri”

by Teddy Drummond

Page 6

“Trump.exe”

by Quin Asselin and Trevor Parrish Art by Joseph Kolb

Page 7

“Donald Trump #GoingBraless”

by Solange Luftman Art by Bethany Foster

Page 8

“Make America Vape Again”

by Ashley Vernola Art by Dakar Morris

Page 10

“Crooked Hillary Would Have Us Prisoners Of A Dystopian Pegging Society”

by Sam Thor

Page 11

“Camelot: Medium Raw”

by Mack Caldwell Art by Noah Lowe

Page 12

Art by Averie St.Germaine

See Side B for our projections of a Hillary Clinton Presidency!

Editorial So 2016 is a disaster. This, we all know. It’s unfortunate that this issue even has to exist. But here we are.

Since this is the year of realizing things, we realized we had to make the most out of this imminent apocalypse. And what better way to do it than pouring out all our thoughts and hot opinions into the least funny satire magazine of all time. Nonsense has done political issues before, and they’re all pretty not funny. I’m pretty sure the last one they put out featured Barack Obama in a racist Cowardly Lion get-up right on the front cover. Those were different times, when Nonsense was a boys’ club and they could be as offensive and heinous as they pleased. We decided to stick to something a little more tasteful, like mpreg.

This magazine has come a long way from its shock value humor roots of yore. So it’s good to see we’ve come full circle, and are actually potentially electing a man whose public appearances have almost even exceeded the offensiveness of this magazine’s late 2000’s existence. Either that, or electing a woman whose emails are even more controversial than ours right now. (Shouts out to our new friends in Hofstra vs. Zombies!)

The good part of this is that we all seem to be thriving. The open mics are a hit and there’s a lot of alt girls in the club now which is something that we’ve been pushing for for a while. Last year we aimed to startup our video presence online and only ended up putting out one thing at the end of the year. This semester we’ve managed to get out five videos within the first two months and garner around 16,000 views across the board. Our numbers have grown, our presence has increased, and our scandals have already begun to multiply. Honestly we might as well be running for president at this point. Oh, also the son of the dude who founded Nonsense in 1983 goes to this school and joined this club.

We have no idea what’s going on in general pretty much, especially with regards to who’s going to be the next President of the United States. There’s no easy way to talk about this fucked up election, but we’ve managed to sum them both up pretty well in this issue without saying much of anything at all, which might as well be a specialty of ours at this point. So why don’t you go have a laugh at both of them and the terrible things they’ve done (#ImWithHer tho). <3 Heather and Zach

Disclaimer Nonsense Humor Magazine is Hofstra’s only intentional humor magazine. Please don’t take any advice from us, because we don’t know what we’re talking about. The views expressed herein do not necessarily represent the views of Hofstra University. Any likenesses to people existing or fictional are purely coincidental. Nonsense Humor Magazine is not responsible for any existential fears of what is yet to come, angry political rants centered around the depressing and unsatisfying nature of this election and the candidates we have managed to produce, or uncontrollable nervous laughter in spite of the seriousness of real situations that carry a heavy, dire weight.

2

What’s Changed Since

p m u r T d l a n Do Became President?

National Anthem

Accidental Racist by Brad Paisley FT LL Cool J

Flag

Same flag, new fluids across it (Trump fucked the flag)

Color

Black and Gold, baby

Marijuana Legalization Status

Most Shocking Cabinet Member (The answer will shock you) YG

First Act

Defecates

First Veto

Corleone. Naaah just kidding, just playing. He would repeal The 13th Amendment.

“Trump Weed™ is introduced. Other than that, same as before, it’s fine.

Y’know, if you’re white.

First Meal in the White House

Location of the White House

First Scandal

Outsourced to China

Border Status

No. 5 Great Wall

Animal

Ivanka (She’s a stone-cold fox)

You’ll have no problem with a political career now.

First Tweet “Glad!”

Taco Bowl delivered from Trump Tower I don’t know? Fucking his daughter, Kony 2012 style breakdown complete with masturbating outside of a Seaworld, Monogrammed DT underwear (black and gold) found in Putin’s bed as Trump does the walk of shame back from Russia,

Mailbag I’m racist, is that okay?

Look, if it didn’t dissuade you at this point, THERE ARE NONE.; The first tweet he sends out after being elected? Literally whichever thing he does first, you fucking elected him, jesus. This is a you problem now. We are writing this from the past and we are extremely angry?”

Are women’s rights over? / Are women over?

Yes.

How are things going writing for Nonsense now that Trump requires elocution lessons?

Marvelous, other humor magazines are terrible, terrible. It’s going good, great. Sad!

How come Mexico still exists?

It doesn’t. It’s now called New Mexico and Gary Johnson owns it.

When’s the next show at Our Lady?

We are no longer able to have shows here because of the large number of Mexican people we are hiding in our garage. We’re trying to do our part in an Anne-Frankey kind of way.

Now that Donald Trump is watching all our actions from his perch - he has a perch in his office - when is the best time for me to masturbate?

3PM, during his nap.

3

†

I’m The Big Guy ¢

There’s a few things they don’t tell you when you become President. I guess that’s part of the gig, and I guess I understand. But it’s still a drag, folks, I can promise you that. Yeah, yeah, you get the Nuclear Codes and that sleek new phone. You get a bunch of new dress shoes and a free FitBit. OK. Neat. That stuff is definitely fun for the first couple months, especially for a guy like me who knows how to take advantage of a good thing when he sees it. But the list of things they haven’t given me? That one’s growing longer by the day. I mean really, the key that locks my bathroom from the inside has been missing since I moved in, and I can’t seem to find my son Eric’s lips anywhere! On top of that, my daughter Tiffany looks like if someone randomized the features on a Sim. I’ll just say it: someone around here is getting fired if this madness doesn’t cease, and I don’t care if it’s everybody or just the person who looks least like my youngest son, the inimitable Barron.

But listen, can I say something for a minute? Look, not to harp on a topic beyond any reasonable degree until it’s just basically opportunistic exploitation, but I have a suspicion that Pence tried to switch keychains with me in the ballroom last week. Am I saying he’s behind this? No. Did I ever say that? I never said that. But, just so you understand more about the situation, mine was made with that lightweight stuff the Russians use and his resembles the sort of weatherworn keyring you’d see a groundskeeper carrying in a good movie. So take that information and do with it what you will. And hey, listen, the man is my VP and he has my respect. Can I say that?

That’s a pretty nice thing to say. But honestly – if I can be honest with you – we all know he’s a deadeyed rat from the shit-ridden depths of Hick County. I’ve put actual money down in Vegas that he’ll die before the end of my first term, probably from scurvy. Or a gun.

Moving on – you all need to really listen now, okay? I can’t get sidetracked here. There are much bigger things at play. Now, what was I getting at? Oh yeah, so back to these Jews and their banks this laundry list of mysteries that expands by the moment – am I the only one thinking to myself, “What the hell is going on here?” What is going on here, folks? Something simply needs to be done, and you know exactly what I’m talking about. That’s right, I’m talking about these Jewish people and their vice grip on our wonderful world this cursed labrynth known as the White House to some, the MAGA Mecca to a select devoted few, and as Barron’s Boyhood Hellscape by my youngest, the boy

Barron. Barron loves to use big words around me because he knows I’m hard to impress. I never acknowledge him for it, because then he would feel as though I’m easy to impress, and that would make me feel weak. If there’s one thing I can tell you folks with an honest heart, it’s that I never allow my youngest son to feel as though he’s figured out who or what I am. (That makes me smart.)

Now I feel as though I’ve been twiddling my thumbs trying to get this next part out. Can I say that? Am I allowed to say that? Well, I just did. The thing is, I took all of your money and your votes so that I could infiltrate this little secret club house they call Washington Politics; and while I think you’ve been fairly happy with my accomplishments to date (Adios, gynecology quacks!), there’s one thing you have to know about why I’m sending out this e-mail via a private server. You see, when I first stomped down that Hall of Important Men on my inauguration day, all the Washington rankand-file thought they knew what to expect.

They knew I was a renegade looking to shake things up the way Mike Pence shakes his ever growing Sock-Full-of-Doorknobs at homeless single mothers... but they had no idea I would tell you all the truth. They didn’t think I’d talk about the body doubles, never thought I’d spill the beans on the 50-foot-deep underground breeding complex where every President since Eisenhower has lived out his term, and in some cases, the rest of his life. Remember when I referred to the White House as a “cursed labrynth flooded with samples of soured jisolm?” Well folks, I wasn’t just being cute.

To get right into the thick of it with you: President Eisenhower believed that through killing enough Nazis, he had earned something like a Divine Right of Kings, more or less making him the perfect man. Oddly enough, Hitler and the Nazis killed way more people, and loved to do their own construction. And they thought they were the perfect men! And I think that I’m the perfect man. And I love construction! Pretty crazy when you think about it folks – three famous leaders, three very intelligent men, all really similar guys when you break it down like that.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, okay, okay.

Alright. As someone who is getting pretty close to being God in his own right, I can definitely understand the mindset that Ike brought into the whole ordeal. He wanted to make America a great nation full of great looking leaders, and there’s nothing wrong with that. But even I can say he took things a little too far. He built a

vast underground complex, something like the boutique section of a cruise ship mixed with a hospital, except it’s a hospital where every other room you walk into looks like the part of a bukkake set where the camera pans over to all the ugly guys tugging in lonesome unison.

Ike thought that if he just had a little more time to produce samples – if only there were a few more hours in the day – he could fix this mess of a country all on his own. But you see, folks, this is where things got real tricky.

Once the complex was built to Ikey’s likey, he knew he had started something that could slowly shape history. He knew that for the first time since the days of Thomas Jefferson, the President of the United States could covertly code the genetics of an entire generation. He knew his life was more valuable than any other on Earth. That’s when he ordered the first true Presidential body double – some recently retired Army seargent who wanted nothing more than to get potentially assassinated while the real Eisenhower spent hours at a time fighting through what he called “concentration cramps” in an effort to “liberate the juice.” (It’s in the manifesto folks, don’t go shooting the messenger).

I know what you’re wondering: “Was the real JFK assassinated?” “Was the real Nixon a crook?” “Is it so outrageous to assume that Ronald Reagan probably didn’t cum a whole lot?” The answer to all three is, resoundingly, Yes. (Reagan was a Stallion straight through to his final breath). As for all the questions you have about me, well, I’m afraid I can’t answer many of them just yet. The Republicans and Democrats have teamed up to try to take me down, and yet I’ve continued to put this America first. I know that if I just tell the world what I’m doing all the time, you can imagine what would happen. (Bada Bing, Bada Boom.

ISIS. You all know what I’m talking about).

But I can promise you one thing folks – I don’t like to make promises, but if I can just make a promise right now I’d like to. I promise you this: if you like the way my daughter Ivanka looks even half as much as I do, then you’re going to ab-so-lutely love what this nation has coming.

†

¢

Totally

Unbe- WEAVE-able

PETA under scrutiny after numerous attempts to remove Trump’s “toupee” People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA) has been subject to an internal investigation after yet another petition to remove the rotting corpse that Donald Trump uses to cover the open sore atop his head. The mangy, flea infested ‘toupee’, could have just as easily been a collection of hairballs held together by tacky glue and Trump’s stubbornness, although PETA insists they know better than literally everyone else when it comes to these matters.

However, the organization’s protests have gone unnoticed recently. Since Donald Trump obtained control of the nuclear codes, people appearing in front of the Ivory Trump Tower, formerly known as the White House, covered in what appears to be blood, has become a common occurrence. The building’s new name

honors the hundreds of white tears that were shed when Obama came into office in addition to the First Family’s ongoing relationship with the Ku Klux Klan.

Before the petition, PETA correspondents attended several press conferences and Trump events all over the globe with nuts, seeds, and other pet foods to tempt the malnourished animal to escape. The best animal whisperers in the US including Jackson Galaxy, host of My Cat from Hell, and your one friend who is WAY into horses, have all pursued the foul hair piece to the best of their ability. After several uneventful attempts, PETA was forced to accept the worst; that Trump was still president. And that whatever that thing is has mostly likely been dead for years.

“There is no way in hell that thing still draws breath,” said Ingrid Newkirk, current president of PETA. “We just want to give the poor creature a proper burial. At this point, we can’t even tell what it is, like what the hell man?” Sources say that Newkirk was very open about her distaste for the current situation before wringing her hands mischievously and disappearing into a dark alley. “Have you seen Blackfish? We’re about to go all Blackfish on his ass.”

Imperial President Trump has yet to make a comment. Tune in on Twitter at 3 am to briefly see his responses before they are promptly deleted at 3:30 am.

Who Said It TRUMP

OR

Throughout Donald Trump’s campaign for President, a number of people have pointed out the uncanny similarities some of his quotes and ideas have had to notoriously evil leaders in history, such as Adolf Hitler, Vladimir Putin, and Governor Arnold Schwartzenegger. But what’s truly shocking to us here at Nonsense is just how eerily similar many of Trump’s quotes truly are to one of the most controversial figures of all time. Check out the quiz below and see for yourself just how hard it is to differentiate Trump’s words from his. With this, we give you…

Who Said It- Trump or Guy Fieri?

1. “When Mexico sends its people, they’re not sending their best.”

2. “When cooking for a big crew of hungry dudes who’ve been sleeping in a parking lot, do not think you can get away with Fettuccine Alfredo.”

3. “I have a great relationship with the blacks” 4. “They make a porchetta that you won’t forgetta.”

5. “Appreciate the congrats for being right on radical Islamic terrorism.”

6. “I wanna be the ambassador to Chimichanga Flavour Town.”

7. “I love Hispanics! They’re the ones with the burritos, right?

8. “The true way to deal with our enemies overseas is to send them a steaming hot plate of wings” 9. “You know, it really doesn’t matter what the media write as long as you’ve got a young, and beautiful piece of ass.”

10. “Peace, love and taco grease!”

Answer Key Trump:1,3,5,7,9 Fieri: 2,4,6,8,10 As I’m sure you can see, the connections between the two are unmistakable, and truly disturbing. We all know the appeal of someone who just speaks what’s on his mind, but when the words can be as harmful as Trump/Fieri’s, you must take a step back and put the fate of this country over your need for both entertainment and baby back ribs. Having considered this, we sincerely hope your vote this November will go to the candidate who actually deserves it, Jamie Oliver.

5

TRUMP.EXE TRUMP.EXE

By Trevor Parrish and Quin Asselin

I

’d received a job late one Thursday Loading Wall.txt night, from the League of People with No Hair but Who Really Wish They Topic: Walls Had Some. Trump was a hairless menace “Wall? (Y/N)” giving us a bad name with that rug, and he needed to be stopped. There was only one “Of course we should build a wall. We cue-ball who could break in and put an end need to keep illegals out of our country!” he to President Trump’s tyrannical-mean-andwalked off from the crank and scrambled not-so-nice reign (By the way, I’m bald by over to his desk, hidden under piles of choice, I choose to shave because I think it documents. He rummaged through a looks dashing.) That one person was me, mound of papers, overturning them to your very glabrous thirty-ninth President reveal various birth certificates, some of these blessèd United States of America, skewed penis size graphs, and his glasses.

Jimmy Carter. Just as all ex-leaders of the free world, I can dissolve into water vapor as Boing-Boing was near sighted after all. it passes through an Ionic Breeze Quatra (as seen on TV.) I slipped in through his sniffles Warning: Nostril Pressure Critical in the night. I made my way to the location of a normal human’s brain and lay in wait for hours.

The monkey who was both green and The door to Trump’s Head Office opened. little scrambled to the pressure release valve. After taking a quick reading of the A figure walked into the room and flicked gauge, he solved a level 8 Sudoku puzzle the light switch, nearly brushing by me, which of course relieves the pressure in your very handsome thirty-ninth president, Jimmy Carter. Just to be safe, I receded back most traditional Meiji period architecture.

You know. into the wall disguising myself as a portrait of your very crafty thirty-ninth president, Following what had to be hours of Jimmy “The Body” Carter. Presidential various menial tasks, the exhausted little powers come in handy quite often. A large green monkey collapsed onto the mail computer, lining the inside of Trump’s cart, spreading an obscenely-sized ocean glistening, supple forehead whirred to life: of letters across the floor. For a moment, he lay there utterly still. In the next several Booting up program: Trump.exe… moments, he did the same exact thing. He was out cold.

Stamina.exe: Done!

WaterLevels: 98.7% at 96°C “Oh my gawd it’s like a sauna in here,” cried the little green monkey turning the crank shaft that drives Donald Trump’s brain, “they don’t pay me enough for this shit.” His voice was raspy like a little green monkey with a raspy voice. He ate the banana that Melania had supplied for him today. He was staring at the screen that was giving him instructions for his 16 hour shift. The work area in Trump’s head got especially hot during interviews. He finished turning the crank, the inner workings of the motor continued behind him.

6

I knew the opportunity as I saw it. I’d been eyeing the TD Bank pen propped up against a little sculpture that read “Donald Trump’s Candy Crush High Score: Probably 10.” I had already stolen 7.5 pens from various pigeonholes throughout his noggin. Being rather skilled at espionage, your very… discreet thirty-ninth president, James “The Jim Jam” Carter slurmped out of the wall and dropped like a hunk of moist pasta onto the ground. Each and every one of my newly formed bones ached but there was no time for pain when you’re me, your very perseverant thirty-ninth president Jammin’ James. Like democratic lightning, I flew towards the desk and claimed my prize. But then I gazed upon the treasure of all treasures.

I was transfixed. It felt like this former Georgia governor’s eyes were finally failing him as he descended into death and had subsequently awoken in some far off paradise. Before me was a Red Carbon Delta Momo 30th Limited Edition Fountain Pen with 18Kt Fusion Nib and Black Rhodium finish. I was so preoccupied with signing my incredibly presidential name that I scarcely noticed the admittedly-smaller-thanaverage Screamin’ Green (76FF7A) monkey who was, of course, wearing a shirt, stirring behind me. You lose the presidential power of eyes on the back of your head when you leave office.

It was at that moment I felt the distinct pain of a monkey’s wrench to the back of my skull. It was a monkey wrench to be precise. I wheeled about to see a monkey wrench himself up off the ground and rush towards the “Jimmy B Gone™ spray located beneath the toppled mail cart. Jimmy B Gone™… my only weakness. I knew if I was gonna survive I’d need to get out, and fast. I sashayed over to the door at a normal human rate and went for the handle. As I slipped through the the door I looked back.

The Boingster had only just regained his footing. Just before I finished my escape I smirked and jeered, “enough of that monkey business.” Text appeared on the computer screen one last time:

Mmm...Agreeable Data!

I did not know that it spoke.

Your very frugal thirty-ninth President, James Earl Carter, Jr.

Donald Trump

s s e l a r B g n i o #G

By Solange Luftman

In Support of Women’s Rights I know women and I know bras. Hakuna Matatas. It means no worries for your boobies.

What I’m saying is, boobs in cages is no good and if a lady would like me to see her boobs, then I’m okay with that and encourage that.

Freedom is the best thing.”

The campaign was officially announced last weekend at, “UHaul Me at Hello” a popular lesbian bar in Chicago. Donald Trump reasoned that there was no better place than a lesbian establishment to break the news because according to him they “represent the ultimate womanhood.”

Trump told the attendees that he, “loved and respected,” their, “way of life,” and wanted to make things even better. He ended the speech with the zinger, “You can’t spell Brave without Bra. This is the start of 2nd wave feminism! It will be the BEST wave!”

Responses were mixed.

President Donald Trump has recently come under fire for his comments regarding women and relationships. Donny has never been good at censoring himself and has been receiving pressure from male politicians who have daughters and wives and moms they love very much, and feminist communities, to make changes.

Most recently Trump was invited to attend a Knicks game. In the locker room, Trump joked with the players about all the “game” they possessed. He said, “You know you guys are just like me. When you’re rich and have a big dick, a pussy can never say no.

Except for you chodie Mcchode chode!

(Referring to ball player Adam Nevins).”

The team reported feeling extremely uncomfortable in Trumps presence.

Trump’s stunt with the Knicks was a lot to swallow, to say the least, but America seemed

to shrug it off within a few days. However, his next offense was too much to ignore. Footage of President Trump arose on YouTube of him dancing around a fire and performing a—what many have described as—meninist ritual. He was barefoot, skipping around a bonfire, and chanting “c*nt” repeatedly while making sexual thrusting motions.

In response to this media scandal, Trump promptly apologized on national television and promised to make changes.

He announced that he would be developing a new campaign called, “#GoingBraless” in order to inspire women everywhere to abandon the constraint. When asked about the reasoning behind the campaign Mr. Trump responded, “I love women, okay?

I want them to have equality so bad. I see women wearing bras and its SAD. Look: I’ve got one wife, two ex-wives and two daughters.

The decision will undoubtedly cause a divide in feminist communities. Supporters may praise Trump’s innovative and humanist thought, but opposers will surely comment on the impracticality of the movement.

Last Tuesday, Trump took the time to send a shout out to feminists on twitter, saying, “remember when women were burning bras?

Well I say, save the fire and just get rid of them altogether. It’s a terrific idea.” Almost immediately afterwards, Trump followed the tweet with a picture of himself dangling a bra from his hand, sporting a grin for the ages, and showcasing his bare, hairy, and saggéd #boobies with the campaign’s hashtag painted on his wrinkled #GrandpaGut. Nonsense Humor reached out to Georgia Mckinn, a famous second-wave feminist in Andover, Mass who fully supports the movement. She commented, “I’ve been braless since 1965 and have never looked back. I feel so alive and free. I think Mr. Trump’s mind is on the right path.”

It is unclear whether the “#Going Braless” campaign will actually have an effect on women’s rights, or whether it will pick up at all. Trump’s opponent (and LOSER!) Hillary Clinton has not yet commented on whether she will be participating in the campaign or not. Nonsense Humor reached out to Mrs. Clinton for a statement, but was politely declined.

7

Make America H

o, there, son! Sit your little butt down. You can cry all you want but you’re not getting out of this one so buckle up, you’re in for a ride.

I, your Pappy, am gonna tell you a story like my Pappy told me, and like his Pappy told him before that, and like his Great-Grand-Pappy-In-Law told him before that and like all the Pappy’s before them told to their lil‘uns before that – may they rest in peace.......................... ............................................................... ............................................................... ........

Sorry, son, I just must always pay respects to the Pappy’s who came before me. Anyway, let’s get this wagon rollin’. Late at night, when I couldn’t sleep and Pappy would be shuffling the halls at night – he would do this a lot, his old mind went quickly, may he rest in peace –he would come in my room, and tell me 8

this story.

Back in the year of Two-OhOneSix, the town of Crookdoone had lost its status as a town. The legend, as it was told to me, has it that it was a very sunny day down in Crookdoone when the presidential hopeful Mr. Trump came to visit on his campaign trail. In a moment of rest, he decided to take off his shoes and stick his toes in the soft dirt the town was known for – that was their slogan, you know? Visit Crookdoone, we got soft dirt! And damn, did they have the softest dirt. So, he stuck his toe in the dirt but the sun was blaring on it all day, and it was so hot it burned his big toe. “A total mess!” he yelled, droplets of spittle spraying onto his intern. He smacks the coffee out of his intern’s hand and throws his arms up in the air. “Crookdoone is not our friend. What a totally corrupt place!”

And with that, once he was awarded

the opportunity to rule, he forced everyone to evacuate the town.

But, the brave Bull Tornhollow decided to stay.

“This is MINE now,” he exclaimed.

You might be wondering who he was talking to. It was no one. Everyone had already left at this point. This part left me boggled, myself, but I’m just telling this like My Pappy told me and His Pappy told him before that, and well, you get it.

But anyway, for years after that, ol’ Crookdoone had been his territory.

From dawn until dusk, Bull would pace the deserted streets up and down, ready and armed for anyone willing to have a little hoedown. For a long time, no one had. Untiiiiiiiiiiiil…

On a warm morning, Bull woke to the sound of wheels on Crookdoone’s now-dried-and-not-soft dirt. In a tizzy, he jumped out of bed, grabbed

Vape Again his holster and adorned his weapon to his side. Now son, it could have been a bunny, or a mountain lion, or just his imagination – Bull thought he was losing his mind, just like your ol’ Pappy ha ha – but he couldn’t take any chances. Peeking his head out of his doorframe, Bull fastened his eyes on what stood down the road ahead of him.

It was a man! Bull stamped out of his house. Bull was a very respectable man, son. His Cole Haan shoes scuffed against the ground, accenting perfectly pleated pantaloons, and a white buttondown shirt, a tie, tight around his neck, showing the competitor that he was a modest, but tough fighter. One hand gripped his holster, the other tipped a cowboy hat. He bore a resemblance of one of those Big Business Men coming from the office to go to a Brad Paisley concert at Madison Square Garden. Ha! Ha! I make myself laugh.

Anyway…

“Howdy!” Bull said cheerfully, a scare tactic.

The man was not phased as Bull approached him. He rolled a skateboard back and forth with one foot, his baggy jeans frayed at the ends and falling at his hips. Most frightening to Bull was the faded wolf image on his t-shirt, two sizes too large. He kept messy long hair back with a checkered cap. Why he didn’t cut it is beyond me, you know? He has to brush loose pieces of hair out of his face before he spoke, anyway.

“Sup,” he finally said, his voice deep and booming. Bull noticed a holster also adorned to the man’s hip and grips his own a little tighter. He never thought he would have to put up this much of a fight with someone who

could barely even keep his pants up.

Anyway, no one said anything for a while and Bull found himself getting angry at the silence, and at how little the man cared, he hadn’t done anything but flip his hair out of his face and roll his skateboard with his foot.

Growing impatient, he said, “What are you doing here? Who are you?”

The man’s hand moved to the holster.

“Name’s Shady Mesa, I’m just coming to chill,” He said, super chill.

Bull was in disbelief. Bull had never dealt with these types before. He didn’t know what this Californ-I-A Casual had in him, but he knew that “coming to chill” meant his territory was at stake.

And with a swift movement, they were off. Bull reached into his holster and pulled out his FATBABY 100 WATT and took a deep pull. He let the sweet taste Grandmaster by Five Pawns (*An E-Liquid) hit the back of his throat for a minute, the smooth peanut butter, and caramel taste sticking to his throat, reminding him of the caramel chews his Mimaw kept on her coffee table, paired with the slight hint of banana. And with that, he exhaled through his mouth sending plumes of vapor into the air.

Hah, he thought, that’ll show him.

No one could beat his FATBABY 100 WATT. It was best known on the market for it’s low resistance, and thus, incredible cloud production.

Not to mention no one could even come close to his ADV (*All Day Vape); Grandmaster was voted as the E-Liquid customers were more satisfied with that past year.

starter kit, ego style battery 220 mAh (*Milliamp Hours). Bull couldn’t help but burst into laughter. Incredible, he thought, this kid thinks he can beat me with a starter. Bull turned away, knowing that Shady had lost this fight, before he smelled the sweet nectar of Mother’s Milk in the air.

A sweet strawberry scent, creamy and custardy, reminded him of his own home, and how his Mama and Mimaw used to bake sweet treats like yours do. He swung back around to watch as Shady has managed more cloud production, plumes of vapor linger, forming themselves into shapes around him.

Panicked, Bull took another deep pull. However, his breaths were shaky and the vapor came out in small clouds, nothing like Shady’s. Bull accepted defeat. There is no way he could match up to such a competitor.

Shady’s grin grew. He knew he has won. Bull fell the ground, overcome with emotion. And with one final pull, Shady exhaled, clouds of thick vapor again lingering around him, forming themselves this time into letters and words. Bull squinted his eyes to read Shady’s message: “Make America Vape Again.”

And that’s how it goes. Ooh boy, do you hear that? You can faintly hear the sound of my late Pappy shufflin’ these halls. He must be so proud that I passed on this story to you. One day, when you’re a Pappy, you’ll be passing this story down too to your lil’uns.

Alright, son, now quit your cryin’ and go to bed.

As the smoke faded, Bull met eye to eye with Shady. From his holster, Shady revealed a small pen, a vape 9

Sad!

Crooked Hillary Would Have Us As Prisoners Of A

Believe It!

Sad But T rue!

DYSTOPIAN PEGGING SOCIETY!

Journal Entry #47 March 6, 2017 My asshole is quivering. For the past month and a half, President Clinton and her feminists have been in office, and straight men across the country have never had it worse. I mean, these women did stop the wars across the world, and the wage gap is gone, but when it comes to men, life is insufferable. My wife pegged me again last night. I knew it was coming, but I am always surprised by her forcefulness.

As I mentioned in earlier entries, because of Hillary Clinton, our “Khaleesi”, sex involving penises has been outlawed. The only acceptable way now is to peg. From the day she was inaugurated, Hillary was already plotting her takeover. Right after she sweared on the bible, she proceeded to chop off Bill Clinton’s penis, and throw it at Monika Lewinsky, screaming “since you wanted it so badly, bitch!” Ever since then, the world realized how different a Hillary presidency would be. Now, if any man is caught using his “tally whacker” he will be arrested by The Clinton Organization On Creating Humanity, or COOCH, and pegged by a spiked dildo covered in sriracha sauce. Now that men are the inferior sex, most of us are forced to be locked up all

10

day. Throughout the day, all I hear is the constant looping of “Fight Song”

by Rachel Platten until my screams sound it out. Men aren’t allowed to work now that we allowed a female to rule our country, which meant I didn’t have a reason to ever be let out.

I had to escape.

Two days ago, during our usual pegging at 9:45, I was able to sneak my hand into her pants which she was still wearing to retrieve the keys to the door. After she was finished using my body, she left to force our children to read “Mein Weiblich Kampf ”, or “My Female Struggle” by Hillary Clinton.

I used their cries as a distraction to sneak out and find a safe place to protect my anal cavity. Unfortunately, there was nothing. I slept alone in the woods that night. The next day, I walked around town, hoping to find another man who could shelter me.

The women I passed on the sidewalk called out demeaning comments about my appearance, especially my “curvy delicious ass cake”. One elderly woman said “Nice ass! Would love to stick my fake penis in there!” I was horrified. As I continued to walk, I noticed the police officers, all of them being burly women, following me.

Being a man outside of his woman’s home was frowned upon, and illegal in certain parts of the country. As the large women, all of them with short dirty blond pixie haircuts, began to

increase their speed, I decided the run. They ran after me, and because of my still recovering asshole, I was too slow to escape. I felt a blunt force object to the back of my head, causing me to fall. When I turned around, I saw all the women, raising their ribbed dildos in a menacing way. One of them began reading my rights to me, which are now just the lyrics to “Flawless” by Beyoncé. Then everything went black.

I woke up chained in my room, dildo already in ass. I began to cry.

I don’t deserve this. Back when the men were in power, I would always compliment women, even when they wouldn’t suck my dick. I was still nice to them. If only Trump won, I could still be sitting in my man cave, reading Barstool Sports, and cheating with Jessica from Accounting. But now I’m in the Pegging Palace, having a barstool shoved up my ass by my wife and Jessica at the same time. The worst part of it is, that the pegging has become so routine. As much as it hurts me, sometimes I begin to crave the feeling of plastic in my ass. Maybe this is what Hillary wanted: to control us through our assholes. Maybe one day we will find a savior to free us all from the Anal Dungeon where we’ve been trapped. However, right now it is 9:43 PM, I’m on the bed, ass out and waiting, for what I deserve.

Camelot

M E D I U M

D

onald Trump sat alone at the table on the porch. A gold toilet sat in an adjacent room. Upon his shiny, cold, hard throne, he was safe. The tensions, the push, push, push and final release were easy and animal enough for him to understand. The pleasures of cleansing his bowels, eradicating all that he found toxic within the lining of his potato, squishy, sugar-fat temple was his sole pleasure in life.

He had a purpose there, a task which he could complete without thought. He could shit.

He raised the fork to his mouth. The fourth Trump Steak made the fears go away. The tender meat sat in his stomach acting as a pillow that smothered those pains, burnings, like molten rising from the acid in his stomach.

It compressed. Then, it built. Bubbles formed, grumbling ensued. He could feel it rising, crawling up into his lungs. The steaks could no longer hold back the hot insanity, rolling through his esophagus. “SAD,” blurted out from his pursed, white lips. It bounced off of the walls of the porch. No one herd him. No one cared. He put his fork down.

His old eyes hung in his skull as he glared at the TV on top of the microwave. “SAD,” he said aloud again to no one in particular, as if it were some compulsion like a bird crying or a priest masturbating. His old, dried up orifices that were so used to “accidentally” caressing the post-pubescent bodies of the Miss Teen USA changing room, now honed in on a motorcade that flickered across the TV.

R A W

By Dalton

unholy anus of Judas. Donald sniffed. It was a long sniff, a hard sniff, a gasp through his rotted nostrils. It rose. It thundered through his lungs. Kennedy smiled. The remote begged, pleaded, called to Donald. He was unable to acknowledge it. He could not look away from Kennedy’s all-encompassing grin. He knew it was coming. He lunged for the remote. The air rose and launched the steak at the screen. “SAD, SAD, SAD, GROSS, SAD,” poured out in a hysterical release. A bang rang out from the TV. He clicked pause. He couldn’t see it. He didn’t want to. But, he could feel all those teeth separate and open as American mouths gasped fifty years ago. He knew Jackie had leaned over the edge of the motorcade to scoop up the remnants of a “great America” now veiled by bits of chewed steak.

Donald got up from the table. Without looking up, he dragged his pathetic lump of flesh to his golden throne. He pulled down his pants. He sat. He sniffed. It was always hard to start. The push came without though. His tight bunghole coughed but with nothing. He pushed harder this time. Sweat built in a jagged line across his hairline. Red overtook his face in a flush of distress.

The veins on his throat bulged in desperation. He had to. It had to be purged. He gripped the edges of the seat. He clenched his teeth. He screamed like being born, “SAD, SAD, SAD, SAD, SAD.” His body sat like it was melting. He began to sob. The TV flickered, alone, in the corrupted gore of the idealized past.

He was waving. She wore her pink dress and pink hat that day.

It was all a good little show. Donald scooted closer. His favorite part was coming. People smiling, happy, waved back, cheered, loved, and pulled out their Super 8 cameras. Even through the old grainy footage, Dealey Plaza in downtown Dallas was bright and green. All those sets of teeth seemed to reflect the sun like blissful mirrors brightening the hue of the parade route. Donald looked down at his hands. Tan and veining, they needed a purpose. He wiped them through the thinning blonde fibers that were sewn into his head. The motorcade entered a turn. The energy bled through the screen. You could feel Jackie’s smile like the sun shredding. Donald felt a pang rip through his stomach.

He pressed those tiny, tan skin-gloves to his belly. He grabbed the fork shoved steak down his throat, almost choking. He coughed and gagged. Drool lightly dripped down the weathered sides of his mouth. He needed to smother it, to plug it. Kennedy’s eyes pierced through the screen. Donald had no option but to stare. His mouth pried open by an overflow of meat, he started to quiver. Their eyes were locked like Mike Pence’s fingers in the

11