Lawnsense Nonsense Home and Gardens
Issue 174
November 2018
Staff Editor-in-Chief Ashley “PTA Mom” Vernola Managing Editor Ariel “Bone-Hurting Meal” Leal Head Writer Jordan “Subaru Ascent” Hopkins Treasurer Peter “Double Vanity Sinks” Soucy Art Director Victoria “weed” Jenkins
NONSENSE GAME LABS PRESENTS
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HP
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PUNCHING PLANTS
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dle finger nature’s mid no food OR Weakness
We(e)b Team Bethany “Pergola” Foster James “Curb Appeal” Factora Rosario “Risotto” Navalta
ar Po wer P la
nt
20 HP 4
water
Bring your garden to life!!
W**D
Resistance
u up s will fuck yo
these ladie
w? ht no
rig lking
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is t who
Venus Fly Trap
HP
kets
ss
nope
ouch pointy!! tasty treat (b ut not for you) Weakness
they do NOT
want to be my
friend
ower
too m
Weak ne
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Resis
’s u sis, it
psid
ess
kn Wea
ited p
oh no
lan ozy b on c
m sum
60
HP
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Video Head Spencer “Greeeeeen thumb” Thurmond Faculty Advisor Amy “Wish You Were Here” Karofsky
unlim
uch p
Resis
tance
those
aren’t
ower
moun tains
Cover
Moral Support Nathan “Janice” Elliott
James Factora
Page 2
Ads -Sam Riebs
Page 4
Contributing Staff / Mailbag
Page 5
Editorial -Ashley Vernola
Page 6
Page 14
Wowing at your HS Reunion -Robert Kinnaird Rob Thomas Toaster -Beth Foster
Page 15
Vape Juice -Lizzie Frank
Page 16
The Problem with Lawns -Marco Rubero
I Had Too Much Lawn -William Russell Faber
Page 17 The Problem with Lawns (cont.)
Dressing to Find Love At Applebees -Ashley Vernola
Page 18 I Can’t Find my House, Can I Have Yours? -Veronica Toone
Page 7 Money Making Hacks for the Modern Woman -Lizzie Frank Suburban Wookies -Beth Foster Page 8
Social Media Manager Anna “Yankee Candle” Galperin
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2
Design Directors Sam “Steamed Hams” Riebs Mark “Mulchin” Melchin
Contents
The Man Who Build -Ariel Leal DIY Gun -Brynne Levine and Tori Jenkins
Page 19
Recipe -Ashley Vernola I Need a Big Pot -Peter Soucy
Page 20 Bob the Destroyer -Mark Melchin Father Lawns -William Russell Faber
Page 9
Page 21
Page 10 What the Neighbors Don’t Need to Know -Robert Kinnaird
Page 22 Was DIY Worth It? -Nathan Elliot Comic -Emily Hart
Page 11
Page 23
The Man Who Build (cont.) The Perfect Tractor -Peter Soucy
Fuck your Tiny Home -William Russell Faber
Page 12 My Son Got Cut from JV Soccer -Brynne Levine and Tori Jenkins Suburban Dork collage -Lizzie Frank
Flow Chart (cont.) Flow Chart -Lizzie Frank
Your Garage Fucking Sucks -Mark Melchin
Back Cover
James Factora
Page 13
Point/Counterpoint: Eat my Haddock/Eat my Hammock -Ariel Leal
Disclaimer
Nonsense Humor Magazine is Hofstra’s only intentional semi-humorous magazine. Following any of our advice is not recommended as we’re all the kind of people who assemble furniture without reading the manual. The views expressed in this magazine most likely don’t represent the views of Hofstra University, or any other suburban neighborhood. Any likenesses to people, places, things, homemade recipes, furniture, lawns, plant, house, or lamp are purely coincidental. Nonsense Humor Magazine is not responsible for any rugburn, poison ivy infections, food poisoning, house foreclosures, ugly rooms, mistaking biscuit for brisket or acid reflux you may experience.
Mailbag Is it legal to get a prenup if im not married to my wife? Anything’s legal on christmas To the community:
Can we have some vegetables? Asparagus only
Since the last issue, I’ve learned that something about these editorials and its that once I write something down in them, they have the almost magical power of making what I say happen.
ANYONE IN THIS THREAD SELL GRASS?? Yeah, after I mow my lawn
Staff Writers Jordan “Subaru Ascent” Hopkins Veronica “Tupperware” Toone Peter “Double Vanity Sinks” Soucy Lizzie “Have You Met My Neighbor” Frank William “Crockpot” Russell “Jones” Faber Robert “Rhubarb” Kinnaird
Staff Artists Victoria “weed” Jenkins Emily “Stucco” Hart Bethany “Pergola” Foster Brynne “NO YOUTHS Hockey League” Levine Mark “Mulchin” Melchin Sam “Steamed Hams” Riebs Lizzie “Have You Met My Neighbor” Frank William “Crockpot” Russell “Jones” Faber
Has anyone checked on the guy in the 1999 Ford Taurus parked outside the krogers for the last six days? He’s not looking too hot. I’m the man in the 1999 Ford Taurus, back the fuck off.
With that in mind, I will not talk about Hofstra keeping me another semester and instead: NEW MEMBERS, NEW MEMBERS, I HOPE WE GET NEW MEMBERS! :) we love mailm an pete
Your wife? My wife.
How would everyone feel about a block party? Block parties are for squares. Yeah, that’s the whole fucking point Darlene
Hey I’m goin to mcnaldos, anybody want anything? I WANT FUCKING mc NUGGETS9 Can we please not swear please please please
I’m the primary care-giver in my home but my wife is the primary dick-giver, you know what I mean? Wait, isnt this supposed to be lawn themed?
Writers Round Table things i could easily steal from my neighbor shawn without him noticing his lawn ornaments
his dremel saw
his spoons
his….. wife ?
his kidney
its 2018 we can steal his husband
his citizenship
Him.
over time, his sense of security
his other kidney
his Zune
Shawn is a weak bastard
things I could easily TAKE from shawn with little force
Contributors Marco “Senator” Rubero
his temperature.
his inability to sin
(the guy looks a little warm I just figured I’d check up on him …. thermochemistry says if we snuggle I will absorb some of his warmth and the final temperature will be equal. Shawn and I …. have something in common? temperature…. )
his ability to foreskin
his prize-winning tomatoes (he will cry while i do this)
4
Editorial
his 8 year token he bic bonr
Welcome to the world of suburbia… or at least whatever twisted version we’ve created here, and welcome to Lawnsense, Nonsense’s first issue this semester. This is an issue that our dear head writer, Jordan, has been pitching for probably at least a year. Maybe two. It’s an issue that I think has always been in the back of our mind and now, slapped with a new name, here it is. Together in this issue, we explore what we feel suburbia is. It’s a real cursed place, isn’t it? This issues explores many of our insecurities of being stuck in one place. How scary! This year, Nonsense has been snowballing at a painful pace. Things are just kind of coming and going and I don’t even know that we’re getting to savor it, but it’s the price of being productive. We’re gearing up for the end of the semester and getting to the point of no return: January break. I hope the spring brings us good things. In the meantime, we’re working on our next issue. The two of these have started to overlap a bit, but that’s okay. You guys should look forward to Nonsense Unsolved in the coming future. It’s another club-favorite, one that we recycled again and again, and now it is coming to fruition. I think that one will be truly special. Nonsense is also getting to go to the Intercollegiate Humor Conference at Princeton University!!! Remember that? Remember when we tried to go last year? Yeah, it’s in November now, and Nonsense is booking it in three cars and bringing 13 people all across years. For some of us, this may be our last. For others, their first. It’s such an exciting and liberating conference with so much to offer academically about what comedy is about. We also get to remind ourselves that we’re the smartest and funniest people in the room. No, but really, we’re so thankful for the opportunity and as someone who was so lucky to go her freshman year, I hope this is a game-changer for some of our freshman/sophomores we’re bringing along. I think it’ll be a lot of fun. So, if you run into us in the next few weeks, we’ll either be geeked out because of Unsolved flooding our brains or reciting some math formulas after being at The East Coast’s Hogwarts, and whichever it is, feel free to say hello and ask us how our month is going. We hope this issue is a much needed reprieve, for all of you from the stress of midterms and mid-semester bullshit, and hope that you all are doing as well as we are. Enjoy this; as usual, we bled into this magazine. We put our all into it. Appreciate it. Because we’re Princeton kids now. Until next time, Ash <3
his wiping hand (ambidextrous) his legs
his amulet(the source of his power)
his security clearance
his ability to sin
his Security, Clarence
55
I Had Too Much Lawn By William Russell Faber
Now. Now I have too much driveway. When I bought my home, the realtor bragged about how beautiful and spacious the lawn was. She cornered, conned, and connived me. Her jangly bracelets were bright and distracting. The lawn defeated me: the first time I attempted to mow it, the lawn pulled off my work shoes, leaving me looking foolish in my bright red socks. I searched the whole day and whole night, stamping around in strawberry cotton socks, but, in the end, I had wear my black leather wedding shoes to finish the job. That son of a bitch stole my Sperry’s. The second time I tried to mow it, the lawn stripped me nude and washed me in a tomato bath as if a skunk had sprayed me. I was mortified that it thought I smelled so poorly. After washing in a
regular, wet, brown bath, I put on deodorant and looked over at Dale’s lawn. It was flawless. I could not help but envy his lawn to driveway ratio. I glanced over at mine, saw its unruly tendrils reaching toward the sky, and, in that moment, gave up on ever cutting it. It grew like a jungle, thick and horny. I fought back the only way I knew how: I paved the entirety of my property, front, back, and sides. I only wanted to even out my ratio, bring it closer to Dale’s but, while I was surfacing my nemesis, I spent too much time looking at Dale’s ratio and blacked out from anger. I came to and found my entire estate covered in concrete, even my wedding shoes were dripping in wet cement. A small sacrifice to make. At first, I rejoiced in my victory. I looked out from my ground-floor window at the thick, thick concrete jungle I had wrought upon nature. It was good. For a time. Now. Now I have too much driveway. Every day I wake up to the sound of honking and arguing. I look out of my ground-floor window to see the one floor parking garage my property has become. There are signs out front that say ‘No Parking’ but they are as effective as my male
birth control. I cannot stop them; when I step onto my driveway to give chase, my beautiful crimson socks, my only remaining footwear, begin to burn. I have to request one of the homeless who gather in the lot at night to get my mail for me, as they have better shoes. Sometimes they steal my coupons. I cannot chase them, even when the sun is gone, for I am afraid of the dark. I have no other place to turn; I call the housing inspectors, begging them to prove that the parking is illegal and unsafe. They come. They check. My driveway is perfectly up to code. I sob in disbelief, collapsing on my own doorstep. Only the asphalt comforts me now. God, what will I do? I have too much driveway. I come to in a haze. I stare blankly at the space in front of me, unable to process what I see. I get up and go back inside. Only once I return to my spot in front my ground-floor window, I realize what I had seen: a crack in the concrete and, coming up through it, a single blade of grass.
Dressing to find love at the Applebee’s
by Ashley Vernola
lying through your teeth the second you ask - no one wants to eat this filthy fucking salad. Enjoy your wilted lettuce with this avocado aioli while you look like one yourself. Only brown and green. Your palette is limited. Work with it as you will, I hear it pairs well with blue eyes.
a straight-up ball of grease dipped in some sort of undisclosed flavored mayo - is it even mayo? i don’t know - i sense the color mustard for you, you’re the only type of person that would dare to wear it. Pair with brown pants. that’ll be sure to woo ‘em, a good aura of dehydrated piss. Yum!
spinach and artichoke - a broke bitch on a budget. Leaves you with a lap of broken tortilla chip crumbs so wear something that will allow you to brush them off easily. The crumbs will collect deliciously in your laundry machine’s dust trap. It will thank you for the meal. Your waiter will know, and they will like it.
classic burger - the square’s last meal. I’m sure that dehydrated, frozen patty will sit perfectly in your stomach if you do somehow end up getting jiggy with one of the off-duty truckers glued to the bar. If my instincts are correct, you’re the type of person that dresses way too fancy to attend a dinner at your friendly local applebee’s. You’re the whole real deal, accessories and all. you’ll woo em with the diamonds around your neck, the gold on your wrist. if you really hit a homerun, maybe that’ll turn into somethin on a special finger. I hear some dudes are even into that!
three cheese chicken penne - for those who fake it until they make it. Look no further these plastic noodles doused in sauce. Keep that napkin on your lap, before you make yourself a mess. I’m sure you pronounce everything off the menu authentically, no matter what. Lean towards business attire, only. Tie and all, scum.
fiesta chicken salad - a liar. health foods, smelth smoods. the waitstaff knows you’re
cheeseburger egg rolls - for fools who call themselves “risky”. if you would enjoy
It’s Friday night. You know what that means. It’s time to hit your local Applebee’s, drink too many fruity overpriced drinks the size of your head, and convince yourself to go off on these lightly microwaved “half-apps”, right? Despicable. But, here’s the best part? It’s just like you and your old high school friends used to, except they left you behind when they all got hitched and now you’re alone. But that’s fine - you’re not looking for friends, you’re looking for a soulmate, and it’s time to get ready.
triple chocolate meltdown An absolute sl*t for glutton. We’re here to impress ourselves and no one else. Dressed as comfy as possible, we’ll find our soulmate eventually, but right now, it’s the way that chocolate oozes from the center when you crack it open...ugh.
Money Making Hacks for the Modern Woman! by Lizzie Frank
Are you modern? Are you a woman? Do you know what a woman is? Are you interested in learning what a woman is? Have you contextually grasped the concept of the passage of time? Do you know what year it is? Were you born? If so, stay tuned for these money-making tips. Pay off your debt without breaking a sweat! (Disclaimer: some sweating may occur.) Marxists need not apply. Stay at Home Travel Writer! With modern technology, who needs to leave the house anymore? Certainly not you. But the people who are leaving the house will read your ad-filled travel blog and you’ll be making the big bucks in no time. Simply look up popular travel locations on Google Earth and make suggestions based on observations. Here, I’ll give you some examples. Venice? Looks like there’s lots of water. Bring a reusable water bottle to save up on beverages. Paris? There are lots of tall buildings, so you should bring a ladder just to be safe. Bangkok? Lots of hills. Remember to bring shoes! :) Saint Petersburg? DON’T go to St. Petersburg. I saw Anastasia on Broadway and that place looked like a trainwreck. Christy Altomare is so pretty though... Be Prettier Do you remember Jennifer Aniston from
Friends? Of course you do! She’s in all those neutrogena commercials! Do you remember Jennifer Aniston before Friends? Of course you don’t! That’s because she was ugly. If you’re pretty, people will automatically give you money. For example, I am gorgeous with very thick hair and I also have lips, so when I walk in the street people throw money and precious jewels at me. If you make yourself prettier, this could be you! If you can’t make yourself prettier (it’s not for everyone), make a fake tinder with your venmo in the bio and charge $20 to talk. Snacktime! Feed your children miniature m&ms out of the palm of your hands like they are horses. Will it make you money? No, but it’s a blast! Steal off the neighbors porch! This method is fun, easy, and unpredictable! Do you remember as a child going to the school store to buy a “mystery box” and then opening it up to find out what was inside? Well, this is basically the same premise but without one annoying aspect: the buying! That’s right folks, for absolutely 0 dollars down, you can go around the block and take packages off your neighbors’ porches! You’re up for an exciting surprise with every box! Wow! Gina Farm-
er must be pregnant again, because you just sold a sweet baby carriage on ebay! Those bastards in 311 don’t need another slow cooker, they bought one just last year! Why would the Masons be buying collars and muzzles if they don’t even have a dog? Just keep an eye out for when that psycho Evalyn is on neighborhood watch. She’s obsessed with stopping crime. Lie About Your Criminal History Yes, maybe you spent a short stint in an American “prison” after getting caught dealing replica gucci tube socks outside of a Hot Topic in 2002. And sure, maybe you never officially finished serving your sentence after you used a metal spoon to dig a tunnel out of your cell. That’s okay! Just don’t mention it. Really. It’s that easy. When asked during your interview if you’re a convicted felon, sort pssssshah and then laugh and then reference your resume. You’ll be hired at the new Arby’s by the highway in no time! Life Coach It’s already a fake job! Tell Deb from down the street to finally take the leap with her edible candle idea and then send her an invoice for $400. Damn those candles are good though. Start with half of one, though. They hit you out of nowhere.
7
THE THE MAN MAN WHO WHO BUILD BUILD Day 1 Call me Simon Bentley. It is because that is my name. I’m just your average father, except more weak...less powerful. I was sitting in my man-cave, staring at fathead of chunky football man I don’t remember name of when daughter, Athenodora, walked in and said “Father.” “Yes, honeycomb?” I said to daughter. “You will create a tree-house for me or I will break you again,” she say. I looked down to my legs and remembered when she shave only middle part of legs, so I couldn’t wear shorts in summer (unless I wanted to be laughed at by neighbors) so I was sweaty every day. I was very sad. “Does the pain in your eyes confirm your compliance....father?” “You are very mean. It makes me sad. You make me sad but I love you. Why do you make me sad? Also, you are mean,” I say back to daughter. “You dare insult your own flesh and blood? It would seem the only appropriate price to pay would be for me to extract copious amounts of both your flesh and blood when you least expect it. If the leg-shaving incident of this summer proves anything, it’s that I’m a woman of my word.” Did not understand daughter too good but she scare me anyway. Now, I had to work so I used all the money I was saving to take my perfect, perfect wife to Bali and bought $690.98 of books about building and making. Some were about creating. I left job temporarily to build house in tree and my perfect, perfect wife wasn’t worried since she’s on vacation in Bali with her boss and didn’t know.
Day 69 I’ll admit my vocabulary has expanded tremendously since reading all of those books, though, most of the words I’ve learned pertain to crafting and it takes a colossal amount of effort not to use these instead of normal words. After precisely 68 days of mundane toiling, the house was built so I suppose it’s only a matter of entering this balustrade. Wait, that’s not right. Though, the house itself is structurally flawless; I crunched all of the numbers myself. Abutment. Sorry, that word makes absolutely no sense in this context. I’m writing this as I climb up the ladder; it’s gorgeously sculpted granite. As I look upon what could very well become a prison of menial maintenance tasks, I realized the air was deliciously still. I felt like an architrave. Sorry; more building jargon. As I was saying, no one was here. No one could hurt me here. I made this with my own, weak hands. Though...maybe my hands were no longer weak. After all, they crafted, they created, they built. Ten cruck beams attached to perfect gables. That would also probably only make sense in a building context. Piss. My point is, these hands could build anything. I could build anything
Day 217 As expected, my daughter hasn’t used the monument I’ve singlehandedly crafted even once. Seems it was a powermove on her part. The joke, however, is on her, because I am power. I am move. This House of Tree is exquisite. Rich, mahogany floors sandblasted and polished. Smoother than the rear of an infant child... perhaps because I’ve used the rears of exotic
and infant animals to fashion carpets. Some are still bleeding. This Temple comes complete with eighteen bedrooms, six living rooms, and a satellite dish the size of an elephant (also made from an elephant). I’ve transformed this solitary church of mine into a fully-fledged laboratory made of labs. No one will miss them. They’re the inferior of all dog species anyway. I’ve built and perfected a medley of inventions and practical apparatuses, though nothing as monumental as the marble toilet I’ve spent days perfecting. I should mention, it’s also a bidet, a bidet that also feeds you. I will also be adding motion-activated turrets to the roof since no one can trespass, not even the dreaded Man of Mail. I should also add a “No Trespassing” sign on the door. How quirky. I don’t care if there are casualties. I can harvest their bodies for the greater good. My greater good. Luckily, my perfect, perfect wife is still blissfully unaware. My perfect, perfect wife is still in Bali with her boss. I’ve made legs that can walk, mouths that can talk and eyes that naturally produce chalk. I can do more, though. I’m capable of so much more. Day 420 The townsfolk are becoming more concerned about the miraculously reduced number of elderly people occupying our nursing homes. It is quite the doozy of a mystery. Well, maybe not for me since I’ve been stealing their bodies to create a battery. Why? Well, this question can be answered by another question: how can ponies be improved upon? They’re just so stupid and dumb and ugly and useless. But I can make them divine. I can correct God’s mishap and shape a being so hauntingly flawless, the world
BY BY ARIEL ARIEL LEAL LEAL will recognize that God was WRONG and The Devil is no pointy-tailed pitchfork-wielding menace, but a man who challenged God and reclaimed the Earth for all humanity. It all begins with the engineered successor to ponies...that is to say, a pony that can walk on two legs and eat anything. Day 422 The pony mercilessly consumed half of my leg and I cackled with sheer splendor at the overwhelming success of my creation. My daughter shrieked in terror and confronted me. “Father, what have you done?! The vile pony you gave me ate all of the mailboxes in the neighborhood and slaughtered the rather polite baker, the one with the shop next to the froyo place! That is no pony, that is a demon from Hell! I DEMAND that you end this madness at ONCE or I will end you.” “DO YOU STILL NOT UNDERSTAND? YOU ARE NOTHING COMPARED TO THE CHAMPION OF MANKIND! YOU, A MERE EIGHT-YEAR-OLD, CANNOT CONTROL THE MAN WHO HAS PERFECTED THE ART OF LIFE AND DEATH! I HAVE MASTERY OVER THE ELEMENTS AND YOU HAVEN’T EVEN MASTERED BASIC ARITHMETIC!” My daughter froze in sheer horror of the man she thought she could control. No longer. “Y-you musn’t say such awful things, father, for deep down inside, you know that I still remain in control! Stop this behavior at once, f-father!” I guffawed at the audacity of the insect in front of me. “Who am I, Athenodora? Tell me...who am I?!
After all of this...all the corrections I’ve made to nature itself...who am I, Athenodora?! TELL ME WHO I AM!” “You are the man who build!” she wept. “Yes...The Man Who Build.” Day 516 My wife has formally announced her return thanks to the meddling of my shit daughter. My little goblin of an offspring has recruited some disillusioned townsfolk to try and topple me. None of them seem to be able to circumvent The Roof Turrets. None of the twenty-three people that have tried. Fools. I now have twenty-three meals for me and/or my chimeras. AND I’M STILL BUILDING. Clowns that can talk, money that plays soft rock, lighters that convert to boating docks. Have I become too ambitious? I thought so... until I built a second, better moon. HAHAHAHA YES! I took “God’s” dirty, gross, white moon and SHATTERED it. DAMN the tides; they don’t affect me! I’ve exerted control on this entire FEEBLE planet! Now complete with a moon that BLINKS whenever I orgasm! Which is never! But it would be cool to see if I ever do! Also, The United States Coast Guard has had me surrounded and I think they’re finally getting the hang of The Roof Turrets. I’m getting light-headed, but I most venture on until the Coast Guard obliterates me...or my wife returns. Wait...what if...better wife? I have twenty-three bodies in front of me. I think I have just enough time. I know what to do.
in long time ago haha. Much has happened, Book. Wife came back and her boss kill horse with bear hands. Boss killed bear I made first then used hands of bear to kill horse. I miss bear. He was bear who could stretch a lot and fly. He drank new wife but that okay. New wife smell real bad and kill lot people. Anyway, bear crashed into house I build and I become so sad I stop understanding and using big words. I think I learned lot, though, because I know now that chunky football man is Petyon Manning! Haha! Also, wife gone but that okay. Oh, coast guard gone too. They say they should only save people on coast and leave when turret kill lot of them. It just me and football and lawn now. Lawn cutting hard, though, because half of leg gone. Day 669 I look at lawn a lot and think. If only there was way I could...cut lawn better. If only I could build something that could effectively get rid of all grass. Day 670 I know what I could do. I will require all of the necessary ingredients, including eighteen hundred Burger King Whoppers and fifteen hundred hooves, just in case. I could build The Perfect Tractor.
Day 666 Hey! Lookie! I found book I used to put words
!;;I!!I~lfl~rr ~lil=I~.~ i! II
I INGREDIENTS: 1. BUBBLE WRAP-. SAFETYFIRST
':.:,u;.::!I.~~t:!
10. HAND-. TOlEND A 11. PUSH PIN---. PAIN 12.lEGS---. SEXAPPEAL 13. BONE---.SPOOKY HEHE I"'~!t!~ 14. GOD*---. DO NOTFORGETHIM 15. FlASHDRIVE---. PORTABLE& CHARGESANYWHERE! 16. OUT---. KEEPSBUllETS IN AND ALSO THEBULlETS OUT
8
••••• .... - .....
HEHE(-: 2. TIGER-GOAT-. FEAR. 3. RAINBOW-. GAY RIGHTS 4. Al CAPONE-. CRIME (AND ALSO AS WEll AS SYPHILIS) 5. EYES-. PROPHECY 6. SHARK-. TEETH 7. SCIENTIST-. FOR SCIENCE 8. CAR-. SPEED 9. YOURSElF-. READ THE FIRST WORD(-:
9
Community Bulletin Board Fuck Your Tiny Home What the Neighbors Dont Need to Know
By Robert Kinnaird
Everyone in the neighborhood has secrets, and we both know you’re no different. Your life looks perfect. Your beautiful Caitlin-lynne and Samisamillion are “happy” and “not in emotional turmoil”. But we both know that’s a façade. You aren’t the perfect mom and the reality is that your family is built on lies. We know you’re in a loveless marriage, you haven’t had an orgasm in 13 months, and your children couldn’t even get into Dartmouth. We know everyone’s secrets, and if you don’t pay your dues, everyone will know yours. You’ve been good about your dues. You really have. But this month you’re behind. And your fence hasn’t been repainted. What the hell? Originally, we started looking into you to try and find out why your grass is cut 2 centimeters above regulation length, but what we found in the end was distressing to say the least. That time your son smoked weed Remember when people asked why it was that Samisamillion didn’t go to college like the rest of the neighborhood kids? You laughed it off with a casual chuckle and a little something about your son studying abroad. We know that you’ve been photoshopping all his Instagrams in Spain while he toils away in a monastery repenting his sins behind closed doors. But why such a harsh punishment just for weed? Just make him smoke a whole pack like the rest of us. Or maybe you don’t want him to end up like you. You never finished high school Yeah. We know. The rest of the neighborhood is unaware of how you packed up and left home at 15 to run away with a commune in the post-Woodstock/pre-disco era. We know how you lived out of a VW van for five years, never calling home, never once looking back. Living on the lamb like a damn hippie without so much as a diploma to wipe your ass with. That was until… the incident. The incident We know what happened to your twin sister. We know how she went to visit you out in Washington State. We know that one of you never came back. What happened to Samantha, Judith? What happened to her? Did you kill her? Where did you hide the body, Judith? Tell us the truth! We aren’t going to report you to the police, we just need to update the information on the neighborhood carpool list! Even if you don’t tell us, The Homeowner’s Association will know soon enough. We always find out. Your real name That’s right we know your real name, Judith, and it’s not what you wrote on the HOA forms. (There’s a fine for that by the way). We know all about how you took the opportunity to get out that you needed. You’re too selfish for a commune, so you did what you had to do. Now her fiancé is your husband. Her baby is your daughter. Her HOA dues are your, now much larger, HOA dues. The gold There’s one last thing we know Judith. We know about the gold. Your parents, the fabulously wealthy heirs to a secret fortune recently passed (sorry for your loss. Thoughts and prayers), and with their passing, their money passed to you. We know your grandpappy was among the first soldiers into Nazi Germany. And we know about the gold. Millions and millions worth of nazi gold that was just there for the taking. Any soldier would have been a fool to pass it up. But your grandpappy wasn’t a soldier. He was an animal. Specifically, I’d probably say a wolverine? Or Maybe a Komodo Dragon. I dunno, but it’s something you can’t trust. Anyway, he turned on his own men, killing each and every one of them so there wouldn’t be a brick to share. He came back a war hero, the only survivor of his battalion. But we know what really happened. So where’s the gold now, huh Judith? Your dues are up, and we only accept nazi gold. We’ll be in touch. Judith. Sincerely, The Homeowner’s Association
10
By William Faber
My Large Dwelling is Superior
Hey fuckface, I saw you and your gorgeous miniature house ride into my neighborhood on the back of a Chevrolet Colorado yesterday, and I want you to know that you are not welcome here. Your elegantly designed tiny home is not cool; get over it. Do you think that you’re chic just because you live in an eight by eight cube that contains all of life’s essentials while somehow still feeling spacious? It doesn’t make you interesting and it doesn’t mean you have better taste than me and it doesn’t mean that my beautiful wife is hiding a budding crush on you. You’re a fool, a cute yet naive baby boy, if you think that my ugly overpriced windowless McMansion doesn’t bring me the exact same amount of joy as the bright, soul-lifting interior of your Love Box. Sometimes, I run laps in my living room, not only because I have the space for it, but because the wind tousling my hair is the only thing that keeps me from breaking down my door and running into my college aged son’s old treehouse. (I feel safe there, okay? Do you understand that, you moron, you nitwit?) I want you to understand how much hate I have in my heart. This hate is for you: it’s all for you. I do not care about you. I do not care that you spent months crafting the perfect home to take with you on your adventure through the boundless fields of life. I do not care that you have found the lifestyle that fondles your heartstrings and plucks at your dopamine receptors. I do not care that I found my house on Craigslist and blew the millions of dollars I was saving for a peaceful retirement in a lakeside lodge with endless painting supplies on it. I bet you’re inside coping with your ambitionless lifestyle by smoking weed and making Dadaist found-material sculptures. I know that what I’m about to say may deeply hurt you, but that’s the point, so I’m saying it anyway, shithead. Your art has no point. You don’t own any land, so where are you going to put it? I would call the police to report your weed possession, but I am much too busy driving my four and a half hour commute to the Plastics Company to waste my time on your disregard for the Law. And yeah, I care about the Law. I was supposed to be a lawyer, in fact. It turns out it’s hard to pass those classes while spending all day in the sand garden I kept in my backyard, tripping on mushrooms, drawing spirals in those grains because the art that is most temporary is the most beautiful. Now I’m a business administrator with a house that doesn’t have a backyard because I replaced it all with one giant, unused tennis court . Life is good for me, and you should be in jail. Maybe you need an image to understand how furious you make me. When I see your blonde dreadlocks, I am angry. It makes me think of the one vacation I got as a child. I stood by the lake, my bare feet sinking into the dirty sand, and I skipped stones until it got dark. My dad had to come out and get me because supper was starting. We ate the fish my brother and uncle had caught that day. I wouldn’t stop talking about how the stones felt in my hand. Cool and smooth. Ever since then, I catch myself doodling rocks on the meeting handouts, wishing I had a brush. Sometimes they come out as flawless as the ones I threw when I was ten. Sometimes they’re rough and jagged. That’s what came to my mind when I caught you having a threesome in my backyard. I assume it was because they wanted to do it outside and you don’t own property. I guess you made it work. Listen. I do care about your happiness, about where you’re going and where you’ve been. I care about the leftover hurt in your heart: I want to know if there’s something I can do about it. Let me hold you. Let me listen to your troubles. Please. Invite me to your tiny home.
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My Son Got Cut from the JV Soccer Team and I Will Not Rest Until Those Clowns Face Justice By Brynne Levine and Tori Jenkins
I am living every parent’s’ worst nightmare. I can’t eat. I can’t piss. I can’t even go outside, for the other parents will spit on me, as is their right for my family’s horrific failure. Today, I was notified that my sweet baby boy is NOT a jock. This is what I’ve always feared. I’ve failed because I do not have the strong, tall, powerful, JV soccer son jock man boy I was placed on this earth to raise. Was it only a waste of time and money to have my boy digitally age-progressed, photoshopped stepping on David Beckham, then a bronze statue cast as a preemptive monument to his astonishing career and fortune? After a grueling week-long try-out, my young son had OUR dreams cruelly ripped from HIS hands when HIS coach looked US dead in the eye, and cut him. I had tried to help from the sidelines- I gave the other players mean nicknames to demoralize them and disrupt their concentration. “Noodle head,” I shouted. “Get the ball, Kid Who Smells!” “Run faster, Al Capone!” I threw at them the Play-Station controllers and the Xboxed games like soccer balls if soccer balls were distractions. It did not work. It could never
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have worked. Do you know what it’s like? To have to live in the shadow of that which you have created? And for that shadow to be a miserable disappointment? If he is weak then what am I? There are so many children who were wrongfully ranked above my masculine cherub. After a millenium of ruthless years in the sick game that is the youth soccer circuit I know this well. Do you remember October 3, 2015- when my son broke his wrist and neck and spine in order to score the winning goal for his sixth grade soccer team? Yeah, it may have been on the wrong net but I suppose we can’t all be like “Voted MVP 2012-present” Lester, who recently invented a new color. My boy still hasn’t cracked the code that is seeing in color. I shaved my head, I shaved my legs and back and balls, I even shaved my son. But I have done far worse. I can’t describe to you the lengths I went to for acceptance within The Brotherhood who are the fathers of the sons who are the peers of my son who I am his father. I have laid my life upon the line for this twisted Council countless times, and yet it refuses to do the same for me. God, what has it all been for?
I digress. My tiny child should have made that god forsaken team. He may not be strong, or talented, or athletically inclined, but he is my son. That should be enough. It will never be enough while there are sons with the literal heart of a lion, like Dave’s boy. Dave, that smug bastard. Like ordering a lion heart online makes you some kind of hero. I could order a lion heart online, but I am no fool. But I won’t stand idly by. I am prepared to do something about my weak, limp boy. We have the technology. We’re going to form a rival recreational soccer team but much, much worse. All those kids that got fucked over are exclusively invited, and yeah, that includes the boy with the little crab legs. We will form the “B” “Team”- B for Brepare to be destroyed. Because the strong may survive, but among the weak my son will look better by comparison. He will prosper. He will rise to the occasion, and one by one take you and your JV soccer cowards down. I am not above murder. Remember that. Sincerely, Your Local White Male Father
Point: Eat My Haddock By Ariel Leal
Good evening. You hungry? You want a little bite to eat? A little snack? Are you looking to hwet your hwistle? You look so hungy. I think it’s time for a delicious meal. Do you have any suggestions? No? I have one. Why not try a little something I whipped up? I made something scrumptious for you. You like fish? I made some haddock. Come on, try some. It’s soooooo tasty. Yummy yummy! IF you’re vegetarian, that’s okay. Fish are kind of like vegetables if you don’t think about it at all and do this favor for your friend. You don’t want to hurt my feelings, do you? I would be so sad. I would be so disappointed in you. I cooked this meal for you and it’s begging to be savored and enjoyed by my good pal. That’s you. You’re my good pal. Am I your friend? Hey….eat my haddock. Sure beats Tuna, no? N’est pas? Wouldn’t you agree? Trout? Not good. Haddock? Divine. Why won’t you try some? Hm? You’re not a pescetar-
ian? Well, I’m not either. I’m a catholic and still managed to carefully curate this well-balanced meal just for you. For us. You know I would never alter this dish in any that could harm you, right? I would never lace this thing up and down with asbestos and cyanide salad! Even if you were horrible and kept eating all of my other food that I don’t want you to eat. Just because my girl keeps spending time with you instead of me whenever she comes over doesn’t mean I’d like hurt you in any way! Especially not with haddock! It’s haddock! Okay, now you’re really starting to fluster me. Am I blushing? I think I’m blushing. You’re making me blush. Actually I think it’s safe to say I’m flushed now. My face is soooo red. Haha, oh my goodness. You’re really still not eating my haddock, are you? If I may be candid for a moment-may I be candid? Well I will be. This whole schtick? It’s a little fucked up. I ate your little...
circular..round..finger food..snack..thing. It was lovely. Why can’t you call this effort I made lovely too? I miss you. I miss us. What did ever happen between us, by the way? The weekly banter and playfulness, the little games we would indulge each other in on the patio. Oh, how delightful. Oh this? You mean this old thing? Yes, it’s very loaded. WHOOPS it’s cocked now hahaha. My mistake, honestly, old friend. Scout’s honor. Yes, I’m aware of the stipulations of gun safety. Gun Safety clearly states not to point guns at anything you don’t want to shoot. But for you? Well, I haven’t quite decided yet. Maybe you can try to earn favor with me. Oh! I have the perfect idea. You can eat my haddock. You can be my friend.
Counterpoint: Eat My Hammock By Ariel Leal
The gun didn’t sell you, eh? Well, it seems you’ve grabbed control of the situation. Not for long, though. The haddock is off the table. Such a shame, too, it was gonna be soooo yummy. Now...now I’m gonna make you eat my hammock. Look at this disgusting thing. It’s awful. It’s been left out for too long. Is that mold? Is it moss? Is it both? Taste it and let me know. Ugh, thick ropes intertwined? You could’ve had thick flavor sublimed! This is really on you. You don’t remember? Christmas 2007. You got sauced up and took a gigantic shit in my penny loafer as some sort of twisted prank. Remember that? I was humiliated. I was nothing. My boss fired me on the spot. My girlfriend left immediately. They all thought I did it. Why would I do
that? Why would you do that? You tried to assert dominance over me, your best friend. Years of planning led to this and now I am the one in charge. You will rule me no longer! You will eat this hammock. You will suffer. Though…now that I think about it...because of you, the person I thought was my friend, I won’t have a place to swing outside and I’ll never receive feedback on this meal! Such a disaster-nay, a catastrophe. You’re a monster, a fiend, a sick pervert. You are certainly in the running for the worst friend I’ve ever met. You make me sick. After you eat this hammock, you’ll know exactly how I feel. I should mention you’ll have to eat the wooden and metal bits too. I was gonna give you a gift, a little taste for being so amiable but now,
I’m not so sure. Oh, that’s right. Now, your stomach will be forced to digest inorganic materials. Just like you’ve forced me to digest such devastating loss. What’s that? The ticking? Well that...is just my clock. No worries there. Really the biggest threats in this room are the gun and your willingness to shatter the sanctity of our friendship. Oh…..you ate...the hammock. Was..it good? Interesting...good boy. Who’s a good boy? That’s right! It’s you! I’m proud of you, Rex. You’re a good dog.
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WOWING AT YOUR HIGH SCHOOL REUNION By Robert Kinnaird Look at you, pining over your yearbook ten years later. Flipping pages wistfully then angerly then gently. You remember everything from high school. You remember Sandra and her loose-fitting jeans. You remember Franklin and his perpetually dirty varsity jacket. You remember that one time that a gypsy came to you in a dream and predicted your future while you were passed out after eating glue in the theater department’s supply closet. But mostly, you remember Him. The love of your life. The object of your obsession. The reason your heart pumped gluey blood through your veins for years in the 80s. Ralph Herbleman. Last you checked (which you do every day), Ralph’s wife was recently murdered. You have an alibi so don’t worry about it. But how do you know he’ll make a move on you? You and his wife were opposites after all. She wore short skirts, you wore t shirts. She was cheer captain and you were in the theater department’s supply closet eating glue. Seriously what was up with that? You need some DIY fashion tips to make sure when you leave that reunion, you’re leaving with Ralph. First thing, you’re gonna need is a dress.
We both know your thighs are your best physical attribute, so take that old bridesmaid dress you wore for your sister’s third wedding and cut it short. Let those babies breath. The dress code in high school was strictly no shorts, so you never had your majestic thighs exposed to Ralph’s delicate eyes, but Mrs. Herbleman is dead, so she can’t make you cover up or stop you from eating paste now. The second thing you’re gonna need to do is wax that facial hair. You know Ralph’s former wife was as hairless above her lip as a baby’s bottom. What you’re gonna do is melt some candles, throw that on your upper lip, and put some paper on it while it dries. Then just rip that shit. It’ll hurt, but what’s a little pain for a life time of Ralph? Third, and this is important, is figuring out what you’re gonna do with your hair. Look at it. It’s not bad. It’s just… Large? Unruly? Chaotic neutral? It hasn’t been the same since you got a whole liter of glue in your hair once about ten years ago. Prom was a wild night. Remember when a family of birds moved into it and you didn’t know until the babies were ready to leave the nest? Yeah. So that’s gotta go. Go
radical, go brave. Cut it all off. No not bald, but you should at least Cynthia Nixon it. She’s a strong woman, and Ralph likes those based on the feminist memes he shares on facebook. Just remember to be confident. You broke down like a nervous wreck in high school if Ralph so much as looked at you, but now you’re an adult. You have developed healthy coping mechanisms for being in the same room as attractive men that don’t involve glue or crying. You don’t have to be nervous. Adults don’t get nervous on dates, right? Adults are cool calm and collected. And you’re an adult, so you’ll totally be those things. Just like, by default. Yeah that’s how it works. You deserve this perfect life with Ralph you’ve always dreamed of. You’d get a house together in your hometown. Raise a son together. You’d name him Elmer. You and Ralph would love each other forever or until his family history of heart failure finally gets him, whichever comes first. You’d start eating paste again to cope with the loss, join a few grief groups on facebook and eventually, die alone in the theater department’s supply closet. Just like the gypsy predicted.
RECIPIES
Tommy’s Homeopathic Vape Juice for the white boy who “just can’t wait to get out of this town” By Lizzie Frank
This vape juice is a quick and easy snack made from ingredients you probably have lying around your home! When hubby and I visited his cousin Tommy’s “neighborhood” in South Chicago (they live in buildings with strangers where everyone gets their own room! Isn’t that the darndest thing you ever heard in your life), I quickly realized that vape juice is all the rage! Tommy asked if I wanted a “hit,” which seems to be metropolitan youth slang for the socialistic sharings of one’s possessions. I accepted Tommy’s “hit” and after a few sips of vape juice I realized- maybe these urbans are onto something! But the sweet taste of Tommy’s vape juice soon turned sour. After switching my text size to “large” in settings, I was able to read a pbs article on this new beverage sweeping the nation. According to my studies, vape juice can cause premature wrinkles, chronic coughing, and cavities. The article went on, but Tommy unplugged the router because I was reading out loud. With an entire civilization on the line, there was only one thing for me to do. I had to recreate Tommy’s vape juice, but make it healthy. After over 1 try, I finally perfected my homeopathic vape juice recipe, named after Tommy as an homage to the young man who introduced me to vape juice, not because he helped create the recipe at all. Gone are the days when vape juice belongs to “apartment”-dwellers and their on-the-go lifestyles. It’s not just for the inner cities of Chicago anymore. I have created a new vape juice that will catch on all over the United States of America! Why, you ask? Because it’s vegan, gluten free, sugar-free, and contains absolutely no trace of nuts! This vape juice is the perfect treat to bring to a community dish to pass or pack in your child’s lunchbox. Enjoy! 16 additional story paragraphs were cut for spacing reasons, but you can read them on my website http:// woman-cook-feast-livelaughlove-haircut-transformation-kitchen-wife-jesus-myonlinelife.soundcloud. buzzfeed.cnn.edu.org/house/kitchen/recipe/beverages/alcohol-etc/vegan/vape-juice/chicago-vape-juice/ oak-park/healthy/tommy/vape-king/homeopathic/wellness 1 T Maple syrup ¼ cup Flat cream soda 1 tsp of the liquid off the top of a pre-opened sour cream container (this is vegan because it’s basically water) Pinch of cayenne Shredded radish 8 raw egg whites ¼ c. garlic butter mashed potatoes Spoonful of crunchy peanut butter extra Virgin olive oil extra extra Virgin olive oil Sprinkle on ground up driveway granite as garnish! Instructions Kind of stir it all together. I put mine in an old salad dressing container and used it as a shake weight. You’ll know it’s done when the mixture becomes almost liquid-like, and then when the cloudy parts of the bottle stop looking like faces. Add garnish. Drink like Gatorade. Slurp slurp. Nice.
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While you’re here, please take a look at my other “vape” products. Not only in juice anymore! My vape line has expanded to vape moisturizer, vape shampoo, vape water, and even vape nicotine! Available now on my e-store.
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I Can’t Find My House, Can I Have Yours? by Veronica Toone
Hey, Phil, you remember me? It’s Ted, from college. Boy, your phone must be on the blink—it hung up three times on the first ring before I got the voicemail. I’m gonna cut to the chase: I’m really successful now, and I can buy a lot of things. Managers make more money than whatever it is you do, so I decided to treat myself and I bought a house. It’s a really, really nice place (I’ll send you a picture so you can see just how much nicer my new house is than the one you currently live in). It’s got big windows, big doors, big ceilings, big floors. It’s got a basement. It’s got a garage for my big fancy car.And to be honest, it’s a damn nice place to raise that family I was telling you about. That is, if any of those ads I put out get any replies. But here’s my problem, Phil--I can’t find it. I know, weird right? Let me first clarify: this, like all the other bad things that seem to just happen to me, is not my fault. At first I thought, “oh, maybe Big Ted has gone too long without sleep.” Then I thought at first there was some mistake with the address the realtor gave me, but no, Barbara assured me that it is indeed correct. And I never get lost, so it can’t be that either. But when I got to the address that Barbara assured me was indeed correct, the spot where my big, beautiful,
American house should have been was a house that looked like, well, your house: small windows, small doors. That’s no good for a man like me! I need big. I need six foot doorways. I need windows I can easily climb out of at my leisure. I need a garage for my big fancy car. Your house, and houses like it, they don’t have any of that shit. When’s the last time you tried to climb out your window? You can’t do it. You can stand around with your elbows on the counter like a schlub, watching News12 until your teeth rot out of your face, but you can’t know what it’s like to be me, Phil. So maybe, until this little problem sorts itself out without me having to do anything, maybe you can help me. Maybe, with your sad little life, you can lend me a hand. A house. I need to borrow your house, is what I’m saying. I know it’s small and generally smells like a body that’s been floating on the Hudson for a few days, but it would only be until I can finally find my new, nice house on the map, or ideally, on a street somewhere. And hey, we’re pals, right? Don’t you remember the good old days? Those Fourth of July barbecues at my parents’ house, you paying for that trip to Miami but me buying the drinks three days out of the
week? Me taking your mom’s dishware and using it as target practice? What do you mean, you don’t remember that? You were my number one guy. I miss that. I know I’ve asked a lot of you in the past. I know I asked you to steal all those bags of chips at that 7-11 a few years back, but it wasn’t because I couldn’t pay for them. I totally could. Just like I could pay for my big fancy car, and my nice big house. I just wanted to pump a little fun into your otherwise meaningless life. You told me you wanted to socialize more. So let me come stay in your crappy house. I’m practically doing you a favor. The police won’t find me if I shack up there, right? I’ll keep the music down and, until I find my nice new house, I won’t make a mess. I won’t kill again. Unless you ask me to. If you really want, I might even let you stay in the basement of my beautiful home, once I find it. But I just need to stay with you, for just a little while. In fact, if you like, I could move into your bedroom—you know, for protection! Everyone needs a little protection. Can you let me in? It’s pouring out here, and my Lacoste polos are getting wet.
Recipe for Sandy’s Arugala Salad By Ashley Vernola ~15 mins Recipe by: Sandy, with the help of some friends. “This is an ancient recipe, passed down by my great-gran-ma all the way from Cold Spring Harbor. Absolutely ancient. Tasty, though.” • • • • • • • • •
4 sprigs arugula leaves from Barb’s garden 1 cup cherry plucked from Steve’s windowsill 1 chopped tomatoe (Organically sourced) ¼ cup nut of choice Spoonful of Sal’s Olive Oil Splash Rice Juice salt to taste freshly ground black pepper to taste 1/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese
The time has come for springtime potting, my rat friend, and you know what that means. I won’t make last year’s mistake and accidentally fit a pressurized lid on a small pot with my pet lizard, Laertes, inside. The pressure turned Laertes into a snake, and he ate all 14 backup copies of my dissertation on how Modern Family is the bridge between intersectional feminism and Teen Titans porn spinoffs. I will do it right this time. I need a big pot, old rat! Bring one to me swiftly!
A Big Bowl
Okay, bye. 18
Walk down Peabody Road to Barb’s house. This step is crucial. Jimmy the lock on the back gate to get into her garden. Pull four sprigs of arugula leaves. She won’t miss them. Toss in large plastic bowl with a lid. 2. I know you missed your local fahmer’s mahket, but that’s okay, you can grab Steve’s produce from the comfort of his own home. Come bearing gifts, let yourself in, and beeline to his kitchen windowsill, you only need one cherry but grab a few. 3. You also missed your locally sourced tomatoe. Julie grows those. Julie likes Slim Jims, so you’ll have to stop at the local Sev Elev to pick some up. In return she will give you one tomato. Use it wisely. Oh, and wear a wig. You wouldn’t want her to recognize you this time. Mix in bowl with chopped nut. 4. Call your next door neighbor Sal. If he doesn’t answer, it’s because he thinks it’s the aliens. Walk to him with a teaspoon in hand and break down the door. Ask for oil. He owes you. 5. Pour two cups water in a sauce pot, one cup rice, and bring to a boil. 6. Simmer for 45 minutes. Say half a prayer before and half a prayer during for luck. 7. When cooked, pour newly cooked rice into a plastic ziplock bag. Cut the end. Pour the Rice Liquid into bowl. Stir vigorously. 8. Shake that salt in. Dash that pepper in. Pepper in some cheese. Really go to town on that bad boy. 9. Close lid. Pretend it’s your shakeweight you take on power walks, shake away. 10. Put on plates, leave uncovered in the fridge, throw a massive bitch fit when your family throws it out.
I Need a Big Pot
I’m not so easily tricked, big sick rat of my nightmares. This pot is too rounded at the bottom like the shaved coconut I keep my coconut shavings in. Oh ho ho! This will not do rat! Think with your bleeding brain. I need a big pot!
Can I have your house?
1.
A Small Cup
Old ugly rat! You are cunning, but stupid. This is a cup you see! I cannot pot in this tiny cup. And it’s filled with Poison That Makes Everything Look Like A Tree. Don’t test me. I’ll command Laertes to eat you again. Drink up, and get me a big pot!
My Own Foot
This smells like hands and fiberglass insulation. Hmmm. It is smooth and longer than my snake. This is my own foot, you demon rat! This foot can only hold Modern Family DVDs and Teen Titans DVDs between my toesies, not dirt. Bring me a big pot!
A Big Snake
Laertes! What are you doing with my old rat? You cannot hold enough dirt to be a big pot. I don’t want you hanging out with this rat again. He licks bees and used to live inside the stomach of a Foot Locker manager. He’s dying and ableist. Get me the big pot!
A Big Pot
This is just what I need, dying rat. Thank you for raising me like a son, and thank you for this pot. Now you will die from my snake Laertes. I will pot you, cover you with dirt and a dead snake, and grow my Petunias. Amen.
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4 LAWNS MY FATHER HAS GIVEN MORE LOVE TO THAN ME By William Faber
This lawn stole my father away from my piano recital. He spent all day weeding and nurturing it back to health. It gave him great joy; I never played piano again.
While tending to this lawn, my father learned to love so passionately that, when he finished, he rushed back to my mother and renewed their vows on the patio. I watched from afar.
I cannot blame my father for spending so much time with this lawn. So open and vulnerable, it begs for love, and my father provides without a second thought.
This beautiful lawn deserves my father’s love, truthfully. How could I hope to compete? Perhaps. Perhaps I will ask my father if I can water this lawn with him one autumn afternoon.
Where Should You Take Philip on Date Night? Do you want to have the shits tonight
Do you want your food to taste good? yes
no
Outback Steakhouse Good luck, Philip hates Australians.
like a small town southern boy even though he’s from northern PA
Cracker Barrel
This is another location that makes Philip racist. You can take the syrup bottles home though!
Olive Garden
Do you want your bread to taste like late in life heart failure or current taste failure? taste failure
I don’t even care at all Is your budget “the server is stoned” or “there is no server” cheap? no server
Chili’s
Philip will order endless chips and salsa. You will have to leave before the entree arrives.
extremely cultured
Applebee’s
Decent food but Philip always wants to fuck hard after eating here.
Do NOT go here. We aren’t allowed back because of Philip’s actions. :,(
Do you want free appetizers?
Be careful. Philip hates Italians (even more than Australians).
Do you want your food reheated or never heated at all?
How worldy is Philip feeling tonight?
I don’t care
Taco Bell
Oh god, no. Philip shits.
heart failure
chili pepper is fine
Buffalo Wild Wings
How important is price?
reheated
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Cheesecake Factory
server hates you
Tough. Try not to let Philip get too Racist. NO BLOOMING ONIONS!
severe
mild
Texas Roadhouse
apple
Is your peanut allergy mild or severe?
you hate your server Eating here will make Philip start recording The Big Bang Theory again.
tomorrow
Do you hate your server or does your server hate you?
yes Would you rather shove an apple up your ass or a chili pepper down your throat?
tonight or tomorrow?
very important
Do you intned to tell your server it’s your birthday in hopes of a free dessert?
By Lizzie Frank
Red Lobster
Take an Uber. Trust me.
the server is stoned
Denny’s
Philip always gets the Santa Fe skillet then bitches about too much seasoning.
P.F. Chang’s
Philip love authentic Chinese! Instant shit though
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Was It Worth It? by Nathan Elliot
I’ve done many things in my life others might find questionable. At the top of that very long list was the time I tried to kiss an ostrich, and I think everyone knows how that story goes. However, DIY may just take the cake like I did at my brother’s wedding. While that ostrich may have broken both my arms, DIY has been far more impactful on my life. It’s done things to me that I never even imagined were possible. I mean, I can’t call the plumber anymore. I’ve tried so hard to do it. I can dial the number and put the phone to my ear, but I just can’t ask Bobbie for help. After all, why would I call him when I could do a better job myself. I definitely know more about pipes and duct tape than someone who’s spent the last twenty-four years of his life fixing sinks. After all, I went to graduate school. For example, the toilet shattered when my son Timmy dropped a firework in it the other day, and before the last shard of that porcelain throne hit the ground, I had already taped that bad boy back together. The only thing Bobbie can do fast is find excuses not to pay me back for that eighth I bought
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him in high school, and that’s a fact. On top of the superiority complex and inhumanely fast reflexes, DIY has made me omnipotent. I know all the things in my house that will break before they do. I foresaw my other son Tommy break his leg because he can’t do a kickflip, so I duct taped his skateboard to the ground. I also prevented my marriage from falling apart by taping Dale the mailman to the front of the church with a list of all the housewives and husbands he slept with. I could have saved Bobbie’s marriage to my cousin Carol, but then I remembered the time they threw a party at my house and didn’t invite me. However, that all pales in comparison to how I fixed the government, which I cannot discuss for legal reasons (Hint: It involved a lot of duct tape, hot glue, and ribbon). In the end, my house was perfect, everyone had the same income, Bobbie was suffering for his sins, and I even fixed my erectile dysfunction with duct tape and a bendy straw. The people of the world called me “The Man Who Fixes” and loved me. However, in my hubris I attempted to use an inferior
tape to display my overwhelming ability to fix. I cast aside my duct tape for something horribly unspeakable: regular Scotch tape. As soon as the tape was in my grasp, my world crumbled. Everything I had ever fixed rebroke, from the toilet to my marriage to the government. No matter how much Scotch tape I used, everything kept getting worse. I eventually tried to fix things too fast and merged with the DIY force. Now, my life is in shambles and I exist only as the abstract concept of DIY. All things considered, it couldn’t have gone much worse. I had everything and now I have joint-custody of Timmy and Tommy. I almost wish another ostrich came along and broke both my arms again so I couldn’t have started DIY in the first place. As an incorporeal being, I don’t even have arms, which makes doing anything requiring arms impossible. That being said, if you see Bobbie around, first tell him he still owes me twenty-five bucks, and that I really need someone with the know-how to fix my toilet.
Your Garage Fucking Sucks by Mark Melchin Hey Ken, You might be surprised to find this in your garage on Olivia’s special special day, but maybe you should be a little more specific when you say “the bathroom is down the hall and to the left.” There were two doors, two options, and I wish the one I had chose was the bathroom, else I wouldn’t have dropped my glass of orange Fanta in sheer horror of what I found. Normally I would just keep criticisms like these in my own head, but my disgust right now needs to be captured in its purity, and you must bear witness. The first thing I want you to know is that you’re a shameless wannabe if you think you’re ever going to do anything with all of the plywood stacked in the corner. You can buy all of the 2x4s you want, it’ll never push you into gear to finally make something of all the junk you’ve been amassing since your first trip to Home Depot a few years ago. Do you really think you’ll ever make anything of substance or structural integrity that your family can enjoy with 50 of the same sized planks? Carpentry isn’t little Timmy playing with legos, Ken. Carpentry is the manifestation of the animal kingdom’s domination over all other forms of life on planet Earth, where we morph the bodies of the strongest vegetations to create structures for ourselves to reside in, all the while taunting the plants, fungus, and single-celled organisms sitting on the outside in quiet admiration. We’re living in a golden age of Carpentry, Ken, where human intuition has reached a point that the tree’s shudder at the smell of my sandpaper, and only a pinheaded-meatball like you would ever believe that Carpentry is some sort of fool’s game that can be learned on the fly. I see you’ve failed to cover both your push-mower AND your snow blower. Do your really take such little pride in
the tools to maintain the sanctity of your own land, Ken? Dust ruins this equipment, Ken, and once it’s ruined you need to replace the fallen soldier with a new one. That’s not some matter that you can just push to the back of your to do list. Who will save us from the walls of snow burying us in our homes and watching through the window as the cold methodically ceases our hearts from beating? Who else will we assist us in the endless fight against grass growing above 7 inches in length. Do you know what hides in the tall grass, Ken? TICKS! Ticks took my little schnauser away from me, Ken, and they’re probably gonna do the same to you. You probably don’t care, as I assume you value living things as much as you do your yard, but I’ll care for you, Ken. Not for you, but for the Machines. They’re the reason my lawn looks like the finely-groomed top of a US Marine’s head. And if you fail to see that, Ken, then you don’t deserve them. I find most appalling your treatment of your rakes, Ken. Stacking them in the corner on top of one another like the corpses of the discarded dead in times of plague. The rake is the groomer of the hairs of the earth, and your disgusting treatment of them shows your lack of honor as an individual. Not only is it unfair to them, but it’s unfair to your family. Would you treat them like this? Why do the rakes deserve any less, Ken? Without them, the dead children of trees would lie in slow decomposition on our beautiful plots of land and we couldn’t stack them neatly in the corner. You may not know this because you’re too busy doing whatever it is that you do in your time, but the way that your hose is just jumbled up in a pile along the back wall is truly amateur and cruel. There is absolutely no display of respect of the hose. How can you be so willing to let the hose choke on its own water and give it permanent folds? The hose is
bringer of life to the dirty patches. The hose allows the lush greens to flourish and flow in the wind. Yet you treat her like some expendable piece of plastic. Shame on you, Ken. Finally, I want to say that the way that your wheel barrel is just thrown in the corner with crates of vinyls just thrown in it like it’s some second-rate U-Haul you rented to move out of your parents’ house. Do you understand the instrument whose honor you wound by storing Hotel California and Sweet Dreams are Made of This (you can bet your ass I went through them; get some taste that expands beyond Easy 99.1’s evening commuter Greatest hits). The wheelbarrow is among the most important inventions in human history, Ken, and the wonder’s it’s done for lawn care and gardening is far greater than anything society will ever remember you by. It has carried the back of landscaping and allowed me and the other friends of the yards to turn what was once a slovenly mess of “natural beauty” into a utopia of lush emerald fields and deep chestnut soil from which the flowers of all colors on the spectrum of human color perception and the vegetation which feeds our families to sprout and flourish from. To see your wheel barrel like that is like seeing my own father’s gravestone tipped over and spray-painted by those teenage vandals who, like you, Ken, held no reverence to the majesty and nuance of home and gardening. I say shame on you. I hope my scorn reaches the pit of what remains of your heart and you atone for your actions against your own equipment and come to realize how much you disrespect . Also thank you for inviting Shannon to Olivia’s 4th birthday party, she seemed to have a great time. I wish I could say the same.
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