The NecroNonicon: Nonsense Goes To Hell

NecroNonicon

Nonsense Goes to Hell

Issue 172

April 2018

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STAFF Editor-in-Chief Ashley “Jersey Devil” Vernola

Second-in-Command Ariel “Boo York” Leal

Head Writer James “Fleet Street” Sweeney

Assistant Head Writer Jordan ‘Undead Sock-”Hopkins

CONTENTS Cover Page 2

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Design Director Gillian “Fire” Pitzer

Assistant Design Directors Mark “Don’t” Melchin “It” Sam “69 Broken” Riebs

Art Director Victoria “Here Lies Old Man” Jenkins

Social Media Manager Jesse “Count” Saunders

Assistant Social Media Manager Anna “The Ghost of Karl Marx” Galperin

Web Team Gisela “Cemetery Drive” Factora Beth “Ghost of You” Foster Rosario “Vampires Will Never Hurt You” Navalta

Treasurer Peter “Sin” Soucy

Video Heads Ben “Eternal Damnation” Fletcher Veronica “Fucked A Ghost... Again” Toone

Faculty Advisor Amy “Sorry, Sorry, Sorry, We Suck” Karofsky

Moral Support Nathan “Child of the Corn” Elliott

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Beth Foster Ad - Ashley Vernola Ad - Ashley Vernola Mailbag - Nonsense Staff RT - Nonsense Staff Editorial - Ashley Vernola

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Horoscopes by Hades - Beth Foster

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Hazing Rituals that also Summon Demons - Peter Soucy Haunted Real Estate Ad - Jesse Saunders

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SHIT! My Dog’s A Truck Now! Jordan Hopkins Rat with Surprise - Peter Soucy and James Sweeney

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Portals to Hell: Ranked - Gisela Factora

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Magic School Bus: Field Trip to Hell - Rachel Wiesler Seitan vs Satan - Anna Galperin

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How to Keep Mom Out Veronica Toone The Grim Couple - Rachel Wiesler

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Are You the Cursed Friend? Lizzie Frank

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Teen Witch or Stupid Bitch? - Lizzie Frank and Peter Soucy An Open Letter from the Devil Gisela Factora and James Sweeney

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Mothman Stood Me Up, Again Nathan Elliott

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Supernatural Collage - Lizzie Frank, Victoria Jenkins and Brynne Levine

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Sold My Soul To The Dark Arts; Didn’t Even Get Into Pratt Anna Galperin

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These 4 Horses Are in Hell for a Reason - James Sweeney

The Return of Yog-Sosoth Robert Kinnaird

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Similarities Between A Real-Life Demon and My Step-Dad, Tucker Lizzie Frank

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The Ins and Outs of Ghost Fucking Jesse Saunders Hot Singles In Your Area - Peter Soucy

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Ad Sponsored By Heaven Victoria Jenkins Top 5 Ways To Keep Summoning Rituals Vegan and Cruelty-Free Rosario Navalta

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Intersectional Ghost-Hunting and You - Jesse Saunders

Back Cover

Jesse Saunders

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Tarot Cards - Emily Hart UberEats to Deliver to the Body of Christ - William Faber

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Mailbag

Staff Writers Quin “Out-tricked Jigsaw” Asselin Ben “Eternal Damnation” Fletcher Jordan “Undead Sock-”Hopkins Jesse “Count” Saunders Peter “Sin” Soucy

e Veronica “Fucked a Ghost...Again” Toon James “Fleet Street” Sweeney

I feel like space/time is going to crush me into a diamond. Will it be like this forever?

Bro we NEED to be writing music together

Hey, how do you feel about the Holy Trinity?

Staff Artists Lizzie “Loves Supernatural” Frank Beth “Ghost of You” Foster Emily “Ripped Out My” Hart Noah “Gremlin” Lowe

Yo! The big three? I love those guys. God The Daddy, God the Little Baby Boy, and God the Bingo-Bingo Bongo

Best way to censor the word p*************y?

No you got it

Sam “69 Broken” Riebs

*extremely Andre 3000 voice* What is good about being ice cold?

Contributors Anna “The Ghost of Karl Marx” Galperin Gisela “Cemetery Drive” Factora Lizzie “Loves Supernatural” Frank

Robert “White Pants at a Funeral” Kinnaird Brynne “#1 Undead Bruins Fan” Levine Navalta Rosario “Vampires Will Never Hurt You”

Alright. Alright. Alright. Alright. Alright.

Karl Marx, the original fuckboy?

May he reign... eternal?

Do you believe in reincarnation?

Ask me again later

Our Favorite Sins  Not learning Spanish in high school  Loud Hip-Hop with screaming  Using tubes to recycle my cum like an idiot  Aggressively dehydrating 4

 Monologuing about wanderlust in the communal bathroom  Four Loko Frost  Using my brother as a piggy bank  Lyft

Editorial

by Ashley Vernola Hi all!

Welcome to our final destination, Hell!

I never thought I’d be here without the help of the love of my life, Zak Bagans, but alas, we’ve made it! This issue marks our last big issue of this spring semester; I’m sure you’re all excited to have us out of your hair. BUUUT, you haven’t heard of the last of us yet, we have a fancy calendar coming out soon! You can have us guide you for your entire year! I doubt you’d want that, we’re all a mess, but maybe you do!

Even though I’m clearly super pumped for that, let me tell you, I am ready for a heccin break. This issue came together all at once, and it was honestly so crazy, but I feel like there hasn’t been an issue yet that hasn’t been absolutely batshit. In some way shape or form though, it always comes together, and I really have to thank our team for that.

All of our talented artists, writers, designers, web people, and contributors really help to get this shit on the road and man when it feels like I’m drowning, it’s always good to have a support system.

This process has taught me so much about what joy it brings me to work with dedicated people. Even when everything is bad, when we’re all tired, when we’re strapped for content, it is amazing to be able to sit in a room and brainstorm, and enjoy each others company. I’ve remarked on it before, but even when I’m exhausted, I love coming into a room on Thursday night to just chat and hang out with people I love to call friends.

It’s really quite special.

It is with this team that we were able to do a whole lot these past semesters: 5 issues, a special project, two variety shows, expanded fame and fortune, and maybe a little less disdain from OSLE. (We’ll see - we’re coming for you, Student Leadership Awards!) I am so grateful for all the people who have come by and read and supported us, to the members who

have joined our team for good or for a few meetings. I am thankful for all of it.

We are doing good work here, work that will follow us for so long, and everyday is meant to be learned from.

I am sad to note that this team is slowly going to start dwindling though, as we all start inching towards our own personal hell: Graduation. This semester we’re losing James, our head writer, and Jesse, our social media manager and my best friend.

There will be obituaries in the next issue, to remember them after they are gone, but for now I say, thank you. Thank you both for your incredible drive and hard work.

I appreciate James working with me to push our writers to be the best that they can be, and working together with me to expand this club and help it achieve its mission. And as for Jesse, I could write an essay on its own about how much I need to thank her for helping me to exist.

When everything got hard and stressful (which was often), she was always there.

Her unsurmounted love and dedication to this magazine and our mission has left a mark that will forever remain. I thank you especially for helping me tighten this shit and steer this boat in the right direction, even when it felt like it was sinking. Thank you both immensely for everything; you will both go far.

So what next right? We got a whole summer ahead of us. I’m honestly crawling into a hole thinking about it, but damn if you don’t think we’re gonna try and come up with another Summer Issue, you’re WRONG. Get ready everyone for nonsensehumor.lol to be spewing out content constantly. Get ready for an issue to be dropped in August. Be ready for us to come into another year being fierce and better than ever. I know I’m ready.

But are you?

Love you all, Ash <3

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Horoscopes

Ariesa

Hey buddy, chill out. The sun is in your sign, and you’ll be famous someday. Maybe. I can’t tell the future despite being god of the Underworld. What do you think I keep Persephone around for? Because she’s hot?

That’s just a plus.

b Taurus

I seem to recall one of your kind helping out some prissy little boy steal my girl in a Disney movie. I’ll tiddle your tat though. You came to me for a horoscope, so I’ll give you one. Just don’t tell Persephone I’m not over Megara yet. It’s been a couple thousand years, but you just don’t forget good Moussaka when you’ve gotten a taste. Anyway, the stars say you’re feelin’ antsy, or a little like a snake. Self-reflection should do the trick, at least, that’s what my wife says.

Gemini c

Damn, so you’re like, the two-headed version of a hydra? That’s sick.

Unfortunately though, hydras have poisonous breath.

One time, mine got loose in Persephone’s wing of the castle. She wasn’t too happy with me when I had to replace all of her handmaidens with some poor souls from purgatory. And they weren’t too happy with me when I told them they still had to

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by

get buried in order to make this a permanent gig. Am I rambling again? Why are you complaining when your breath smells worse than h ​ ell.

Do us all a favor and chug some Listerine.

d Cancer

You’ve had a hard week haven’t you? Life’s gotcha down? Suck it up, bitch. Life isn’t a charity. Do you see me complaining that my wife is miserable when she’s with me? Absolutely not. But, seriously it’s like...she doesn’t even appreciate what I do for her...you know? I gave her my throne, I made Elysium for her, and she still misses her rude ass mom.

Leo e

I can tell you’ve met someone special recently. I remember when I first met Persephone.

Watching her used to be the highlight of my day. Now I never see her smile. No, it’s not a “we” problem. This is just how marriage is, right?

f Virgo

Hey man, can I ask you something personal? No, it’s not about Persephone. Why would you even think that?

You know what? Nevermind.

The stars say you were going to have a hard time expressing your thoughts this week, but they were wrong. Stick

Hades

by Beth Foster

your nose in someone else’s business. My marriage is fine.

Libra g

You need to make a change.

It doesn’t have to be inward.

Dye your hair, maybe get a new tat or piercing. I heard permanently scarring your body is cool. Some people call that art. I wouldn’t mind if my wife got a sexy thigh piece.

You like spiders? Get that one tattoo of a black widow that every inked person on the planet has. You know the one.

Don’t forget to tip.

h Scorpio

A lot of people seem to like Scorpios, what’s the deal with you guys? You’re like, the hottest signs in the zodiac. Do you even need my help? I bet your wife even married you willingly. Fuck off.

Sagittarius i

Actually, it appears that some interpretations of Sagittarius depict a centaur with a bow and arrow? So YOU are the one who helped Hercules take Meg away from me. Your love life is looking bleaker than mine this month, bucko. I don’t make the rules, I just dish ’em out.

j Capricorn

The stars are telling me that you’re a good planner. Could

you maybe...you know what?

Nevermind. I’m not going to ask you to help me plan something nice for Persephone.

But if you get any ideas, she LOVES pomegranates. If you help a god out I could maybe hook you up with a Scorpio?

Aquarius k

I’ll let you in on a little secret; Persephone and I agreed that Aquarians never pass on. 90% of the souls in Styx are Aquarians. It’s the one thing my wife and I can agree on completely. Stop saying “uwu” unironically and this could change.

l Pisces

We’re having problems. Me and Persephone. See, it’s spring now, so she’s on the surface with her folks, but it’s still snowing up there. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you. Don’t water signs hibernate during cold weather or some shit?

Anyway, I’ve been considering extending her Underworld stay to eight months. What do you think? Wait, what? What the hell is global warming? You’ve gotta be kidding me.

Hazing Rituals That Also

summon demons

1. Chugging a bottle of 151 until your head spins around and you puke ​ ou gotta make the pledge chug that shit. How Y else do you make friends with people besides complete obedience to their requests? The pledge drinks it. He’s such a fucking bro, man, but you can’t let him know yet. As the bottle empties, his eyes turn red, his head spins 360 degrees, and he projectile vomits all over your brotherhood. He’s possessed by Intayrgrad the Angry. Lock that boy in a cage until the priest arrives.

2. Circle Jerking on a goat ​ very male over the age of 18 has jerked off E with his future entrepreneurial partners. That’s simply how guys bond. If you manage to do it in a perfect circle onto a goat with exactly six people who have not jerked off in over a year, the finishing act will summon Narmis the Sexual. He will lecture you on why bringing food into the bedroom is anti-capitalist. Make him chug milk.

3. Doing a 666 second keg stand while accepting your freshman year roommate’s death

There might not even be enough beer in a keg for this, but Brian swears his little did it two years ago. If you make it to 666 seconds and finally accept the early death of your freshman year roommate, it will summon his soul. You can finally apologize for letting that custodian with a name tag labeled “Murderer” into your room as you left to take a long shower.

6 6 6 6 6 6

6 6 6

by Peter Soucy

​

4. Killing your big and asking them advice through a Ouija board ​ e’ve all dreamt about killing our oppresW sor, but if you can actually do it, you will be rewarded with their sage advice forever. Like a better version of having a father. Whenever you have a question about your outfit, or how many snap stories is too many snap stories, just pull out your Ouija board. Your big will always be there. YOUR BIG KNOWS WHO YOU ARE.

5. Replacing your “Blue Lives Matter” Flag with a “Black Lives Matter” FLag Dude, just do this one. Trust me. Pussy City.

6. Crucifying the second coming of Christ ​ that guy is definitely not Jesus…right? The … brothers voted to crucify him; they know what’s best, right? Besides, he was totally weird. You were just doing what felt right when you sold him out for reading newspapers and minoring in gender studies. He didn’t actually heal the sick and the lame, either! He made that shit up. You do not have an innocent man’s blood on your hands. He deserved to die.

7. Drawing a Pentagram with chalk and lighting a candle at every point ​ is ritual is as basic as pairing boat shoes Th with accidental castration via mousetrap, but if you pull it off, the Devil himself will fully fund your end of the year banger. Jessica is sure to bring her friend Brittany who gave you the look at last years St. Patrick’s Day Egg Toss.

Finally you will have sex with a girl in college.

Joining this organization of smart, talented young gentlemen will pay off.

8. Denying the second coming of Christ even after he’s resurrected No way, bro. That’s not the Messiah.​

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Are You the

Cursed Friend?

by Lizzie Frank

What’s your favorite way to get exercise on the weekends?

A) Zumba with a group of girlfriends!

B) Night jogging!

C) Exploring the mysterious pyramid that rose up just yesterday out of the ancient demarcations in the backyard.

Are you more of an indoors or outdoors person?

A) Indoors all the way!

B) Outdoors all day!

C) No Doors. Close All Doors. Nothing In Or Out. Please. No. No! Leave Me Alone, Leave Me Alone, Leave Me—Our Father, Who Art In—I—-Oh.

What’s your ideal Friday night?

A) See a movie with friends, harmless prank calls, and texting Ryan about Facebook until the sun comes up!

B) Going to a haunted house and using a ouija board to ask ghosts if they have tips about marijuana legalization C) Laying at the bottom of a lake, drifting in and out of the husk

What’s the first thing you to do after waking up in the morning?

A) Make my bed!

B) Take a big fat shit!

C) Long Scream

What do you have decorating the walls of your room?

A) Mostly bare with a few posters and decorations, a note from a colonel in the army telling me to “live bravely” and “enlist” B) Enough fairy lights to burn my house to the ground twice C) Ancient runes I can’t remember drawing

You’re taking a test and catch your only friend in the class cheating off an index card. You: A) Use our relationship and her desire to align herself with someone come lunchtime to leverage this into an easy A

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B) Turn her into the teacher in order to make up for your previous history of tardies and calling parabolas “gay slopes” C) Class? I haven’t been to class in weeks. My room has become a maze. The windows are painted on. The door is painted off. I try to scream, but can make no noise. Trapped. Trapped. Trapped.

Everything struggles for breath.

Your friends would describe you as: A) Way too into Ryan, probably.

B) Cool and funny and stuff but with like, a dignified air, you feel me?

C) Not acting much like myself lately.

What’s your favorite meal?

A) Grilled cheese with tomato soup— hopefully with a special someone B) Chinese take-out. At my kitchen counter. Naked.

C) Shadow

At a party, you can be found…

A) Showing off my coolest party trick: putting lipstick in my cleavage and smearing it all over my face like that girl in that movie B) Dancing in the kitchen, drinking vodka straight from the bottle C) Lying facedown on the rug, arms and legs contorted towards the ceiling.

How do you spend your rainy Saturday afternoons?

A) A little rain can’t slow me down! I have plans at the mall with my girls, and then afterwards I’m getting coffee with a friend (RYAN!!!), and then after-afterwards I’m having a mini spa day with all the bath bombs I bought!

B) Probably smönking weed and watching the Spy Kids trilogy with my tits folded over each other C) Rainy Saturday afternoons? Have you not been listening to anything I’m saying? I think I’m sick or something, Lizzie, I really do.

Look at this website I found, just

look! I’m experiencing all the same symptoms on this page. The screaming, the burning, the muscle contractions, the memory loss.

What am I gonna do, Lizzie? Well?

Oh god, you’re not still working on that stupid quiz, are you? This is a serious issue, I really think I need help, I need-- Oh no, oh my god. it’s coming back! Run, Lizzie, please just—timeaaaaaant.

Timeant me quis ego scindam pecus antiquus animus—-

Mostly A

You’re Probably Not Cursed Great news! You’re probably not cursed.

Seems like you haven’t crossed paths with any witches or demons lately, or, if you have, you’ve kept them satisfied enough to not suffer their wrath. You might want to look into purchasing a protective amulet or an anti-hexing app. Until then, stay safe and keep up the great work. (You’re too good for him.)

Mostly B

Could Be Cursed Hm. You’re probably safe, but no guarantees. Glad to hear your shits are regular, but try to eat something a little healthier than Chinese take-out, okay?

It kind of seems like you have some type of depression maybe? I’d call your local church and see if they have an opening for a baptism. My cousin had depression, and we got him baptized twice! It didn’t help.

Mostly C

Nearly Certainly Cursed Shit friendo, you’re almost definitely cursed. Go find some reinforced iron and an exorcist, because you definitely have some bad mojo hanging over your head, and your friends have a pretty low tolerance for bullshit. It’s called self-care or something, and you’re legally forced to do it. Also please venmo me the $10 for that pizza.

An Open Letter from

The Devil

by Gisela Factora and James Sweeney

Hi there. It’s me, the Devil, also known as Satan, also known in close circles as Derek. The eighth and ninth circles, to be precise.

Sometimes the seventh, if I’m really feeling good that day.

Please do not call me Derek.

Don’t get me wrong, I like you and all. But you and me, we’re just not close like that.

And that’s why I need you to stop advocating for me. Listen, I get it. Nowadays, it’s pretty popular to say that you’re “playing the devil’s advocate” when attempting to argue for an end to social safety nets or a revitalized military torture

program. And I appreciate the support, I really do. I’m glad people are still willing to root for the underdog, especially one who represents the ultimate manifestation of evil. But you have to listen to me: I need you to leave my name out of this. Make no mistake, I seriously appreciate the thought. It’s just… It’s kind of embarrassing, y’know?

Not for you! Obviously not for you, but I’ve already got a bad rap, and I don’t mean the “bringer of evil” stuff. I know people like to believe that I was totally owned by God. But has anyone ever considered that

maybe I wanted to be eternally banished to a realm of suffering and heat? (I didn’t). But more importantly, hasn’t anyone ever considered that a big part of banishment is not exactly having on-demand access to the writing of Noam Chomsky or the case records from the Casey Anthony trial?

Nine times out of ten, you people bring me up in some lecture hall or shitty Facebook thread, and ten times out of ten I’m left scrambling to figure how I’m supposed to feel about McDonald’s or whether I prefer female or male circumcision.

I’m not sure I prefer either to be quite honest, but how could I even know? The only thing I know is how I feel deep in my gut every time that one guy in an intro to gender studies class gets that look in his eyes and starts a sentence with “I know I might get some shit for this, but…”.

I can tell before he’s even said my name that I’m about to feel totally clueless about something he’s clearly also totally clueless about, and that that thing probably has to do with how vaginas look and work.

And if this shit didn’t happen literally every five seconds I would totally poof up there real quick to clarify that I actually have no idea what happens when you build a pipeline down the middle of an elementary school, or how nice or not nice Guantanamo Bay is. If it’s not nice, maybe just don’t visit? Just because I’m not around isn’t just cause to throw my ass under the bus. If you really want to be my advocate, then don’t tokenize me for your puny human arguments, and instead maybe explain to me what the “AR” in AR-15 stands for. I feel like it’s ‘assault rifle,’ but it would be nice to be sure.

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Mothman Stood Me Up. Again.

By Nathan Elliot I know we’ve been down this road before, but I just need someone to listen.

No one else will pick up the phone, and my mom just keeps asking me to come home and “stop trying to fuck the grey man” or whatever. The last two weeks have been rough. I haven’t showered in five days, my teeth are developing some kind of film and I really need to vent right now. And before you ask, yes, this is still about Mothman.

As you know, I’ve been at Point Pleasant for almost three weeks now. After Mothman stood me up for a date a while back, I refused to leave until I got some answers. I probably should have just left.

Anyway, I spent the first week in a dumpy hotel, and let me tell you, what a shithole it was. You know what a Continental Breakfast is, right? Apparently, no one at the Pleasant Stay Inn does.

They had burnt toast and cold sausage and something called “Milk...Later”, but worst of all were the eggs. They had deviled hard boiled eggs, which were just hard boiled eggs covered in some yellow goo that was definitely not mustard. And before you ask, no they didn’t have any coffee. I know, I know. But I digress.

After I finished eating pounds of that trash, I would head out to look for Mothman. I did this every day, except for Saturday, when the Jehovah’s Witnesses roamed the town and I cowered in my room. I’ve seen the things they

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can do, staring directly into my soul and getting dirt on my doormat, whistling, etc. Then, the week ended, and I was told I had to leave. Apparently, you can only rent a hotel room with actual money, as Blockbuster gift cards are an “unacceptable form of payment” to those cowards.

So, I’ve spent the rest of my time here sleeping in a makeshift tent near the abandoned TNT factory, which is less than ideal, but pretty much the same as sleeping in the hotel, in terms of eggs.

The timing couldn’t have been worse, though. The day before I was wrongfully removed from the hotel, I’d actually tracked down Mothman. It had been at least a month since we’d seen each other, but he was exactly like I remembered him: grey wings, moth face, perfect body, crimson eyes. I talked for a while, then he buzzed intermittently, and we eventually made plans to meet up and go to dinner. Now look, I know it’s totally pathetic on my part, since I already told you about how he stood me up and then ghosted me when I texted him about my toenail infection. And obviously you know I spent three days crying about it in an Applebee’s bathroom. But people can change! I guess I’m just not sure if a moth-human hybrid who uses curtains to make burritos out of the homeless is people.

The night I finished setting up my tent, I put on my best suit, bought a bouquet,

and waited in the nicest restaurant in town for Mothman to show up. When that place closed, I went to the diner across the street and kept waiting. I finally gave up around six the following morning, but not after I downed four house waffles. I may have also cried when the waitress said I couldn’t have any more coffee after cup nine, but to be fair, she also refused to open a successful bar with me.

Twice. That mothy bastard has stood me up twice. Never in my entire life have I felt more disrespected, other than that time a guidance counselor said I should be a guidance counselor instead of a poet. I swear that I will have words with that wing’d fuck.

So, I’ve been spending the rest of my time looking for Mothman, again. And let me tell you, when he doesn’t want to be found, he really doesn’t want to be found. Since he stood me up, I’ve only managed to hear him buzz like once around the woods, but I still haven’t seen him for even a second. At the same time, I’ve run into five Sasquatches and a goddamn Lizardman. Hell, I’ve seen the Jersey Devil three times now, and he doesn’t even live in this fucking state!

I mean, he thought he was in Point Pleasant, New Jersey for a doctor’s visit, but how the fuck is he still lost after I told him this is West Virginia?

He can’t possibly think he’s in another state that looks like this, can he?

Maybe my dad was right. He always told me I should’ve dated some massive, infinitely-limbed Eldritch horror instead. But, no, I had to be rebellious. I had to go for the guy with the leather jacket and grey, silky wings. I had to leave the tree lady alone at prom. I chose love over sex, and that’s where I fucked up.

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SOLD MY SOUL TO THE

Dark Arts,

DIDN’T EVEN GET INTO PRATT

by Anna Galperin

I

sold my soul to the Dark Arts Newsletter, believing my destiny was guaranteed. My destiny of going to Pratt, but also of wearing secondhand Doc Martins from Search and Destroy, using my inherited privilege to displace long-standing communities, performatively empathizing with the homeless, and creating abstract sculptures out of literal trash.

My grooming began early on when I was handed off to my mentor, Miss Gregorovich, at the soulful age of seven.

My mother told me the day she gave me away that M.G. would shape me to be the perfect artist and undergraduate Pratt applicant. She drove me up the hill miles away from civilization where a woman with moles, curling nails, and a growl greeted me. Shortly after, as if a spell were cast on me, I was able to replicate even the most intricate still lifes and had my work commissioned by a local Panera.

Grego homeschooled me, saying if my mind was anywhere but art then I would inevitably fail. I had no concept of numbers beyond twenty, and couldn’t be classified as a literate or particularly articulate child. All of this has been talkto-text so far, and I think it’s going pretty alright. Because of my social isolation, I was given permission to design my living quarters. Walking into my room soon felt like walking into a Michaels craft

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store that got bought out by a Spencer’s Gifts. By the age of 12, my technique was perfect, but it didn’t matter. I wish I could tell my younger self that sheer technical perfection would never be enough for bureaucratic imps who think you need to go to “school” to have “balanced extracurriculars” and “grades.”

In my early teens I wore lace dresses from the seventeenth century, stopped washing my hair, and would sometimes use my body as a canvas for my art. Ms. G encouraged this kind of experimentation.

She said if I only put the paint on the canvas, then I would just be another overconfident Pratt applicant with a passion for photography and an Instagram full of bad tattoo ideas. She said I had to push outside of conventional boundaries to be an artist. I painted my whole body purple and turned myself into a walking exhibit called “Spectrum.” I naively believed her.

At fifteen, I accidentally conjured a demon. Something Greggy had said in my formative lessons was to never use primary pastels on my body. I figured that was to avoid being tacky or something, but oops! Suddenly, there was a shapeless and faceless form in my room, transferring earth shattering knowledge into my brain: it showed me that all colors are but variations of one color, that dark isn’t a tone but a mood, that gallery spaces are the only scam bigger than Banksy’s recent Kickstarter to change the pronunciation of ‘paint’.

The demon had to take something from me in exchange for its mentorship and connections; it said that if I wished to be added to the Dark Arts Newsletter, I had to grant it access to the most valuable thing I had. I ran down the list: locket from my mother, my original

Picasso, one of the 13 cats that followed me everywhere I went. But all of that felt too material, and the best artist at Pratt is anything but superficial. What better way to appeal to the admissions committee than to sell my own soul, simultaneously proving that I was both desperate and effortlessly cool? Losing the one thing everyone has is literally the definition of unique, and doing it to study cubism in Brooklyn is like double that.

This, I thought, was exactly what professors at Pratt desired to see. My exchange was surely paying off. Despite now lacking the capacity to empathize with others, I couldn’t wait to be drinking IPAs and locally fermented kombucha, having all the correct politics, and achieving among the student body a slightly higher social caste with my newly shaved head-- always knowing I had a leg up on any of my fellow applicants due to my expensive “education”.

As I’m sure you’ve figured out by now, though, that education was found to be insufficient. On March 31, I was denied my rightful destiny. My spot at the Pratt Institute was given away to some soulwielding girl with fucked up bangs so she could join her boyfriend in making water bottles “an art form” again.

My parentless childhood and commitment to difference weren’t enough to grant me a place at Pratt, but that’s not where my story ends. Your somewhat esteemed institution would be lucky to have such an accomplished artist and individual in their program. It’s not that I particularly want to attend Rutgers/ Hofstra/SUNY Oneonta, but that I feel Rutgers/Emerson/Temple/SUNY Purchase and its faculty would do the most in recognizing my objective value. I know I have exemplified the qualities of resilience, tenacity, talent, and sacrifice, and I only hope your admissions office is willing to do the same. Perhaps we could even make a deal?

These Four Horses are in

by James Sweeney

H ell For a Reason WYATT

GIDEON’S GIFT

This gorgeous Boulonnais “bitch” was born and bred on a family farm in Gregory, Iowa, and if horses could talk, you’d sure know it! He’d sound racist. Like in that arrogant and flailing intellectual way too, where maybe he didn’t always talk like one of those YouTubers who got divorced because of YouTube, but ended up there via internet forums about “testosterone drinks” and deep web cologne that makes cashiers respect you. The notion that there was an intellectual movement whose goal was to turn everything and everyone into Gregory, Iowa is surely something many horses would have wholeheartedly endorsed if they could speak, and perhaps they’d even be able to make a coherent argument for it. But they can’t speak. And so God has been left to guess.

Following years spent on the competitive show horse circuit, and a second wind as a circus horse, with all of the things that are implied by that, this beautiful train wreck was purchased at the age of 10 and thrust into a role as mascot for a new foundation looking to turn childhood leukemia into the #1 cancer you wear on a shirt. Originally named Sunny, this arthritic stallion was rebranded Gideon’s Gift, the gentle horse meant for a gentle boy gone too soon. He was the long, handsome face of a growing movement encouraging kids to say ‘no’ to leukemia, and ‘yes’ to Crystal Pepsi: “The Pepsi You Don’t Fear.” Except there was no Gideon. There was no leukemia.

There was only a series of offshore bank accounts linking authorities back to the single greatest Ponzi scheme to ever befall the Finger Lakes region: Gideon’s Grift.

,

There was no guessing when it came to the neverending heat torture of this three-time Kentucky Derby loser. This formerly orphaned Thoroughbred seemed bound for brimstone after he ran into that elementary school cafeteria and gobbled up the vast majority of a little boy, but shockingly that actually isn’t what sealed his fate. It was, unequivocally, all that he represented: the dissolution of a dozen marriages, if not more; the life shattering rollercoaster ride that is a gambling addiction; the storms one must weather when he finds himself falling in love with a teammate and a friend and a horse all at once; eating that second whole child when he struggled to even reach knee on the first one. That’ll do it.

,

MOTHER’S ONLY SON

SAME LOVE This saccharine mare represented everything hopeful and powerful about Generation Y, and she could eat another horse’s pussy like it was a Granny Smith apple candied in horse pussy. This beautiful example of nature doing what so many of our moms want to brought a smile to dozens of faces over the years, which would seem like something God would want to happen, but apparently not.

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Uber to Deliver the BODY OF CHRIST

by William Russell Faber The new Uber aims to deliver you...from your sins.

The ride co-opting company announced today that it would begin allowing customers to order communion wafers from select locations in Georgia, Alabama, and Hell. Drivers must register as eucharistic ministers and administer the sacrament immediately upon arrival, though customers are still expected to arrive at the vehicle promptly, and still expected not to tip. Those who wish to receive His body need only use the app’s updated sorting function, which now categorizes food options by price, liturgical denomination, and whether your Baptist roommate will do that arms-crossed-overchest thing when he answers the door.

This change marks a radical departure from Uber’s former policy to discriminate against Christians. The car-ferrying service has said in the past that their product is a “secular experience” and that “drivers must defecate on a Bible before every ride.”

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The initial reaction to the change has been largely positive. [REDACTED] Cooper, a twenty-four-year-old male residing in one of the lower levels of Hell, gave a glowing review, saying, “I thought Christianity was all mumbo jumbo until I died unexpectedly in what many have called the most tragic throw rug accident of that particular September. All of a sudden I was in Hell, Satan was confirmed real, and I had no way to atone for my sins.

Then Uber comes along. Now I can receive the saving body of Christ from the comfort of my very own Eternity. I owe the app my life...my afterlife that is.” Then he winked.

“It’s brought my daughter so much closer to the faith,” says Mary-Jo [REDACTED], a devout Catholic mother. “We used to put a tracker in her car to make sure she went to mass- but then I snuck out for a smoke during the homily and caught her listening to “Bread and Butter” by the Newbeats in the parking lot. That had to stop. Thanks to Uber, we both get what we want: she stays home, and I don’t have to worry about Satan getting his grubby little hands on her soul.”

Other communities worry that this change may not extend to other religions and will end up excluding them. “If Christians can order the Eucharist, then why can’t Buddhists order Tsok? Or Jews order matzo?” asked a concerned bystander who’d just looked up these foods on the website Wikipedia.

When reached for comment, Uber’s CEO, [REDACTED] [REDACTED], made an official statement while drunk off communion wine: “I was against any sort of association between religious iconography and Uber precisely to prevent these types of questions. Then Jesus came to me in a dream. He told me that I must feed all his children the bread of life. I asked him if I could charge for it and he said yes.”

Whatever the reason behind the change, this marks a huge win for all those who just couldn’t make it to Church that day, including my aunt Sue, the guys that used to chill with the Pope before he got big, and Pakistani activist Malala Yousafzai, who is Muslim.

SHIT!

My Dog’s a Truck Now

by Jordan Hopkins

Hey man, thanks so much for coming. Yeah, please, come on in. Can I get you anything from the fridge? It’s like, my last remaining working appliance. Sorry about the mess. The water is still out, as are almost all the walls. I’ve been trying to get a plumber to come by, but they won’t come to this address after what happened to the last guy. I’m surprised I could even get you out here, but I’m glad you came. I’m kind of in a hurry here - getting this claim filed before my landlord gets back would be really great.

Yeah, I know it’s a lot to explain. Maybe it’ll help if I start from the beginning.

I’m just glad no one was hurt, honestly. My landlord’s out of town making illicit purchases from Venezuelan revolutionaries, and so it’s just been me, which has been super convenient while I’ve been dealing with the cops. And Chuck, of course - Chuck’s my Pekingese. At least he was. He doesn’t exist corporeally in this world anymore, which is kind of a bummer. He was a rescue, in that I rescued him from my ex after I broke up with her for threatening to hex my building to the ground. She’s a witch, or at least that’s what she puts on her tax returns. My landlord wasn’t super cool with her threatening to turn his eyes into lizards when he said he

didn’t want her smoking DMT in the common spaces, and neither was I really, so I kicked her out like a month ago. And that was that - or so I thought, until this poor little guy showed up on my doorstep. I kind of assumed that Lola didn’t want him anymore and just decided to offload him on me, so I was a little pissed at first. Dogs require a lot of attention, and as a 20-something with strong convictions, I don’t have much attention to give. And how was I supposed to know he was just a Trojan horse for her weird vengeance plot?

It was a struggle at first - I have no idea what dogs eat. Paleo, I guess? - but eventually we found our little groove, Chuck and I. He stopped leaving massive, wet shits on my floor anymore, and I stopped trying to feed him kombucha and whey protein for three meals a day. We were making some solid progress, until he decided to turn into a fully loaded 2005 Toyota Tacoma 4x4 and rail through my bedroom door at 35 miles per hour, wiping out both my fish tank and the rest of my morning.

It’s not his fault, really. After all, it’s not like he asked to be turned into Motor Trend’s Affordable Car of the Year for 2005. He’s just... such an excitable dog, you know? “Aggressively friendly” is the way the vet put it when I was in to try to find out how to care for a dog that’s been turned into an affordable all-terrain vehicle with great highway mileage. But Chuck’s always been a jumper, which was super cute when he was the size of a basketball, and extremely terrifying now that he was 2,200 pounds and generating over 430 pounds of torque. I’ve broken both shins three times in the last three weeks. All this damage along the exterior wall? That was Chuck trying to bark at the dog across the street. They’re friends though, its cute. Just dogs bein’ dogs! You understand, right? I haven’t reread my policy with you guys recently, but I’m sure this all falls

under normal wear and tear coverage when your pet has a 3,500 pound towing capacity.

It got to the point, though, where enough was enough. Lola wasn’t returning my calls, and Chuck’s attempts to corral the paper man resulted in some very bad press for my podcast when the reporters asked why I didn’t hear the federal employee’s horrified screams for help. I tried getting rid of him by driving him to Queens and catching a cab home, and that seemed to work for a little while, until he caught my scent on the L and caused 35 casualties. To be sure, that didn’t happen on my property and, technically, the smoke caused most of the fatalities, so I’m not liable.

It’s just awful, because it’s not his fault, ya know? He was made to love and steal waffles off the counter while I drunk-sleep, not to mow down innocent New Yorkers at the expense of my carefully-maintained premium rate with your prestigious insurance company.

This isn’t his purpose in this world. I have to get him away from here, man. I found a nice little farm upstate where he can be safe; where he can offroad to his heart’s content with all 245 of his horsepower amongst real horses, running both with and from him through the vast countryside. Could a dog-turned-motor recreational vehicle ask for anything more?

So you get where I’m coming from here? This is all just a simple misunderstanding! We’ve all dealt with tough pets, so surely you can find a little empathy in your heart for a man who lost his dog to an ex who loved season 3 of American Horror Story a bit too much? (She was rightfully let down by Scream Queens).

Surely your company can spare the time to surreptitiously repair my apartment before Steve gets back from Caracas and really lays into me. I mean, what’s 3.8 million dollars of damage and six charges of felony manslaughter between friends?

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Portals to

Hell

Ranked

by Gisela Factora Every student at Hofstra knows that our campus is beautiful. Flora, fauna, stray cats, vaguely racist statues, statues to “make up” for the vaguely racist statues, that sweet statue of the first ever boobs near Gallon Wing–you name it, we got it.

But what they don’t tell you about Hofstra is that our campus is also chock-full of direct, one-way portals to Hell! They’re quick, they’re easy, and they’re free – three things that Hofstra hates!

4

BETWEEN THOMAS JEFFERSON’S LEGS

In keeping with the storied Hofstra tradition of vastly overstating the significance of famous people with the slightest possible connection to this school, the statue of good “Old Tom” was erected (lol) in the ancient year of 1999, because we, just like every other college campus ever, have quads, and as everyone knows, Jefferson invented four-sided shapes in 1776 when he wrote the Declaration of Independence, which is on a rectangular piece of paper. Don’t question it. Instead, question once more what I am just now posing to you: Why. Come. He. Got. His. Legy. Out? You guessed it–yet another portal to H-E-double, right in between his sweet, firm, metallic thighs. Why else would the proportions of this statue be so grotesquely inhuman? To be immediately transported to Hell, approach him and fix your eyes directly on his bulge. Then, chant aloud the incantation: “OwO...w-what’s this?” Then, faster than you can say “nyah~!” you’ll find yourself being sucked right into the portal that has materialized in his regal, cast-iron crotch! You’re about to go to the part of Hell reserved for Patriots, you anime-loving fuck,

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so be sure to be grateful. Also, to be clear, when I said erected earlier, I definitely meant like a penis.

3

THE BATHROOM ON THE 13TH FLOOR OF VANDER POEL HALL

If you’ve ever covered a Radiohead song on ukulele, compared the current political climate to the Second Wizarding War, or not-so-discreetly given your mans a handjob in the back of Monroe while a professor explains (perhaps a little too eagerly) that Plato fucked, this one is for you. That’s right-–among the many other perks of belonging to the upper crust of intellectual elites known as the honors college, every student has access to the Honors Exclusive portal to Hell, located conveniently in the lounge of Vander Poel. To activate this portal, simply stand in front of the porcelain throne chanting any combination of the following words: “discourse,” “problematize,” “epistemology,” “building off of that,” really any jargon your outback bloomin’ galaxy brain can conjure up. Again, the actual meaning of those words does not matter, just like in C&E. You can just string ‘em together in any order until, eventually, a piss demon’s gnarled hands emerge from the broth to yank you right down to that one circle of Hell where everyone who self-identifies as a philosopher goes, and where Plato can explain to you himself that he did indeed fuck.

2

DUNKIN’ DONUTS

You might think the Dunkin’ took so long to open because Hofstra has absolutely no consideration for the caffeine/brand identification needs of its students. You would be correct in thinking that, but wait, there’s more! Dunkin’ is not only serving mediocre coffee that they’ll probably get wrong anyway after a half hour wait; they’re serving y’all straight to heck! Much like In-n-Out and Chik-fil-a’s practice of printing Bible verses discreetly on food containers, it’s Dunkin’ Donuts’ company-wide policy to construct a secret portal to Hell in every location! To activate this portal, just get in line! After several hours, you will reach the counter, where the real magic happens. When the “person” behind the counter asks for your order, look ‘em directly in their dead eyes and tell them that you’d like a Venti Chai Crème Frappuccino® Blended Crème Redux. Upon your utterance of

this absolutely delicious blasphemy, a sinkhole will open up and give you such a suck that you’ll slip and slide right on down to the Hell for people who drink coffee, since the coffee plant, as everyone knows, is the devil’s seed.

Turns out the Mormons were right after all, as was the entirety of the Dunkin staff when they bellowed their collective catchphrase, “Have a hot forever!”

1

THE GOLDEN ELEVATOR

A popular misconception about Axinn Library’s Golden Elevator is that it leads to President Stuart Rabinowitz’s office. It totally does, but what most people don’t know is that good ol’ StuRabbz tricked out his space by placing it in its own personal realm of the underworld! The summoning ritual for this one is a little more elaborate than most, but the payoff is worth it. Begin by opening one of the Zarb MBA recruitment emails. Apply and get accepted, ideally at the same time, ideally through a family friend, and then begin preparing yourself by stocking your wardrobe solely with bermuda shorts, boat shoes, and, see-through mesh tops. A little strange, but that’s Zarb! When you get the acceptance letter, lay flat on your stomach in front of the elevator, roll that sucker up, and use it to snort a line (or several!) of your stimulant of choice.

The doors will open for you; now step inside and smash repeatedly with your skull the button labeled “President’s Office (Definitely Not Hell).” You may hesitate, but this is merely a clever fail-safe designed to allow only the most elite individuals access to the Portal.

Once you step out, Hofstra’s most famous cryptid, the president himself, will greet you, clutching your hand and whispering in your ear, “y o u a r e w e l c o m e h e r e.” And you are welcome! For eternity!

Field Trip to

by Rachel Wiesler Doc listen you gotta understand. I’ve seen some serious shit. You have to have thick skin when you’re in Ms. Frizzle’s science class you know? But this time...This time was too far. It was all fun and games when we went into space and down Arnold’s esophagus and out of Arnold’s urethra, but that was nothing compared to when the Frizz took us to...Hell.

It all started when halfway through the school year, Ms.Frizzle started acting strange. And when I mean strange… Well, it was like if she just discovered Myspace and Asking Alexandria. All of a sudden she would show up to class with just way too much eyeliner, clomping around in Osiris skate shoes and asking everyone to come up with tattoo ideas for her sleeve. We thought it was finally finished when Arnold mistook a Xanax for his vitamins when we all went to Warped Tour. But then she went too far...

Hell was a whole other level, and we knew it immediately; Ms. Frizzle was just a little too excited when we got to the burning pits of the

HELL

underworld. She said we were gonna meet up with her new boyfriend “Lucy”. We were all picturing some svelte Zumiez manager with a cursive quote about “falling in order to fly” across his chest. Little did we know, the man matching that exact description would be revealed to us as Beelzebub himself.

At the sight of Satan, Arnold dropped to the floor, wailing and writhing in agony about how his Christian mom would very literally harm him for dancing with the Devil. Oh, how the Devil’s sinister face and mediocre facial hair remain permanently imprinted on the back of my eyelids! Satan’s nothing like what we learned about in CCD, doc. He had a smooth, charming voice, persuasive and cool as he promised us we could trade our souls for a single precious hit of his grav bong.

To be honest, it was even a bit weirder there than we thought, and all of us were uncomfortable watching Frizzle and the Devil grind to My Chemical Romance while his friends drew dinosaurs on each other.

I gave Carlos and the gang a look, and the next thing I knew we were running, trying to escape the 7th layer of Hell. When we found the bus, Dorothy Ann jumped behind the wheel and gunned it. We got lucky and found a portal back to Earth and ended up in Hempstead, Long Island. Dear God. The police still don’t believe any of our stories; it was all so insane that I’m not sure I do either. Maybe the Frizz ran off to Mexico with her Satanic lover, or maybe she was just another doomed victim to what the Bible calls “curiosity.” Regardless, we haven’t seen her since. Even worse, nobody knows where Arnold is either. The search party has given up.

His parents are distraught. We don’t want to admit it, but we left him there. We didn’t mean to, doc, we didn’t...we couldn’t...he was already gone. I called for him, doc. I tried to go back.

Please help me. I think I’m going insane trying to make sense of it all. I don’t know what was real and what was just a dream. I haven’t slept in weeks…

I’m too terrified to go to school. Arnold was my assigned buddy and I was supposed to look after him! This kind of thing never happened at my old school.

17

How to Keep Mom Out

by Veronica Toone

Five Sigils, Rituals and Rites That Will Keep Her At Bay

NEW POST FROM B_UNDERDOG_Xx Posted at 3:14:39 AM

B_UNDERDOG_Xx: Hey everyone. I’m

writing because I think my mom might be possessed by a demon.

I mean, I don’t know for sure, but I sure as hell don’t know what her problem is. She’s been acting really weird lately, whispering about people that aren’t around anymore, like my dad, and reading a whole bunch of weird books I can’t make any sense of. All her cooking smells like rotten eggs and she’s started doing this thing where she walks into my bedroom and stands there for about a minute and then just...leaves. It’s always when I’m trying to Skype my girlfriend, too; one time I legit had a boner.

I miss my dad, dudes.

I asked this girl Skylar who goes to my school, and she said that my mom might be possessed by a demon. So I looked online and saw that people who are possessed sometimes smell like shit and do the weird things that she’s been doing.

I love my mom and all I guess, but I don’t really want her in my room, so I found a few different things that always work to keep her out.

1. “Wedging” I found this one after I Googled “how to keep out mom.” This one is pretty simple and didn’t require any open, loving conversation or complicated ingredients. All you need is: ​A chair ​A Doorknob I stuck the chair under the doorknob and

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my mom only banged on the door for about fifteen seconds before giving up! Definitely a quality method for all types of sons.

2. The Seal of Degog, Soldier of Zathoth: For this one, I actually had to open a book. I know, I know, I’m a “worthless pussy,” but it had to be done! This one is a little more complicated, because it requires painting stuff on your door and has the potential to get you in serious trouble. This banishing sigil is supposed to keep negative energy out of any space it touches, and boy has my mom been fucking negative lately. I’m sure some of you are in a similar situation, but just draw it with either red or black paint on your door and that should do it.

(The ketchup was an accident). And hey, if that one works, go ahead and draw some wieners, too.

3. Holy Oil I find that it works best to take maybe a tablespoon of holy oil and pour it in front of my bedroom door. One time she slipped on it and it got on her hands, and she started screaming and screaming. It’s like yeah, Mom, now you know how I feel!

4. Banishing Ritual: ​INGREDIENTS:​Salt, lavender, three to five drops of blood, the eye of a hawk, a picture of Mom, rose petals, cloves, milk, pepper, ketchup, and some leaves I found outside

(for texture).

- Combine dry ingredients in a bowl and smash the shit out of it until it’s a fine powder.

- Put milk and ketchup together separately.

- Strike a match and burn the dry ingredients in your mom’s bedroom. Say the alphabet backwards three times fast. Start over if you want, and remember to have fun while you’re doing it. This is our childhood, and we should enjoy it.

- Pour milk/ketchup on top to put the fire out. Then drop in the blood.

- Pour the mixture onto your mom’s bed.

Run. UPDATE: Daylynn_in_Cali79 sent me a private message and said that this worked for him and that his mom hasn’t been home in three days.

5.) Prayer of Exorcism So apparently this is ratified by the Church, which is pretty cool. I mean like, I’m not super big into ghosts or anything, but my great-grandfather died about three years ago, and he definitely still had some stuff to work through. That’s probably who my mom is talking to when I’m trying to play Bloodborne.

I found a prayer online and I found that if I yell it loud enough, she usually backs the fuck off. I’ve found that typing it out erases my computer’s hard drive, so I’ll just leave it to your imagination, but if someone could just comment below and tell me what I can do now that she’s started crawling on the hallway floor, I’d really appreciate it. I keep trying to do my homework and she keeps bumping into shit.

Yog-Sosoth The Return of

by Robert Kinnaird

Behold my warning ye of this mortal plane! The harbinger of the end times is coming, and the reign of man upon this temporally bound rock shall falter. Those beyond time, beyond reason, beyond the confines of any one dimension are returning to claim the world and its supply of brewskis. For it is Yog-Sosoth’s 21st-Eon day, and shits about to go down, bro!

The mighty Old One has lived to see 21 interplanetary civilizations rise and fall under xyr chaotic and unstable guidance.

Humanity’s hourglass is on the last grains of sand. Many have already been driven stark mad by the insidious call of the great Old Ones, as their cosmic echoes of chaos, malice, and chill playlists to kick back to break the fragile minds of men. When The Old Ones throw this legendary rager, it will bring humanity’s end. The least lucky of us shall be collecting the keys to interdimensional gates at the door, so don’t drink and transcend planar boundaries.

Azathoth is hosting at his temple in a long forgotten city buried deep beneath the sands of an ancient desert. Be warned, though: Ever since xe started dating that girl Sarah, Azzy’s become infinitely harsher about messes, so make sure you don’t just leave your drink on the most hallowed sacrificial altar without a coaster or some kind of slab. Oh, and if Azzy finds anyone bonin’ in the blood chamber again, xe’ll throw a serious fit. When The Nameless Mist and Ny-Rakath got a little frisky at the last party, Azathtoth bellowed such roars that a distant dimension’s entire population slipped into insanity. Just go out in the yard if you have to.

When Yog-Sosoth manifests in a physical form, fall and grovel before the magnificent and terrifying presence! Beg that xe do not extinguish the spark of your life with a wave of one mighty tendril.

And uh, maybe beg that xe let you come to the B-Day party? Not a ton of people

have RSVP’d yet and it’d mean a lot to our Doombringer. It’s totally exclusive, though, so obviously be cool about it, but I suppose just hit my DMs for the address and uh… bring chicks too. Yog’s probably worried everyone forgot about the big day, for no one has seen xem on this insignificant rock in millions of solar cycles, so like seriously, let me know in advance.

As the ancient eldritch abominations who were summoned to throw down come forth and enter this temporal plane, the surface of the world shall crack and all shall end. Well, most shall end. All will end when Cthulu gets too drunk and attempts a keg stand. Seriously, that dude tried one of those once before and almost split an entire dimension in twain falling onto Ny-Rakath’s coffee table. Scott, Yog’s old roommate, called it “the dickhead Olympics.”

Yba’sokug is bringing a subwoofer so mighty that any mortal that hears the primordial bellows from its depths shall instantly fall into mindless rage. Distant planets will shake when the bass drops, but The Old Ones shall celebrate like there’s no fucking tomorrow. And when you’re an ancient god-like being from dimensions beyond “time”, there’s barely even a concept of tomorrow.

When the party ends and the world can no longer bare the incomprehensible strain of The Old Ones, time shall cease and the very crust of this earth shall crumble to dust and ash. But a world must end for a new one to rise from the ashes, and hopefully the next one will be

ready for Shub-Niggurath’s nephew’s graduation party.

So prepare mortals! For the end of all things is coming. The harbinger of all chaos and malice is descending upon us.

All among you shall die or merely exist to serve The Old Ones! And I mean serve quite literally. They want you guys to buy the booze for this event cause no one will sell to Eldritch abominations. We don’t have wallets. But anyway man… You cannot run, you cannot hide! The entire dimension will quake beneath the weight of The Old Ones’ LMFAO-fueled moshpit!

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Will someone turn that goddamn thing

off?

My Step-Dad, Tucker Asks me to call him Dad (No thanks, Tuck)

Real Life Demon, Beelzebub Love NPR

Identifies as ‘socially liberal but fiscally conservative’

Don’t understand memes

Calls me sport

Will sometimes be kneeling completely naked on the floor of my room when I wake up at night

Makes family group chats over text Has never fucked my mom

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by Lizzie Frank

Carb free right now

Love Arizona iced tea

Asks me to call him Bubba if I’m cool with that Told me mortal politics are a waste of time and that in Hell, “bitches get what they deserve” Kills for sport

Just uses Facebook Messenger like a normal person Has fucked my mom but was respectful about it

The Ins and Outs of Fucking Ghosts

by Jesse Saunders

There are two truths in this world. One is death, and the other is that fucking a ghost is hot as shit. Now I say this as someone who has a lot of sex, like a huge amount of the stuff. No one would dare call me a virgin, and that’s important to me. You might ask why someone as experienced as me would even bother fucking a ghost, when I could have any consenting adult that is reasonably attracted to me and open to the idea of casual sex on my doorstep in an instant? Don’t ask that.

Don’t ask stupid questions. Actually don’t ask any questions, not today buddy, because today you’re experiencing a little death, and lottle fucking a ghost.

As I understand it, you’ve recently arrived at your uncle’s cabin, the first time anyone has visited since that unfortunate and messy AirBnB fiasco several years ago, and you’ve found yourself wondering: Damn, what could I do in a cabin in the woods, alone with 10 of my closest friends? Fret not, weary traveler, because you’re about to be knees deep in the best sexual experience of your life.

You’ll need a few things, though not a condom, of course, because you can’t prevent being possessed or cursed with a piece of latex. That being said, for all of you with vaginas out there: a copper IUD will stop pregnancy and possession by a ghost, and is the only effective method to prevent being cursed. Ghosts love trying to convince you that you’ll be fine with a simple NuvaRing or in-arm implant; but those are not effective unless they’ve been blessed by a Catholic

Priest, and considering you are such a novice in this field, I’m gonna take a wild guess and assume you did not put the hours in to find a priest who will do that. I personally prefer the pull out method, which is when you fuck the ghost and then run screaming from the house; it’s not super effective, but thanks to my monthly donations and constant crying, the local Planned Parenthood was able to set up flood lights for when that demon from It Follows shows up in my yard in the form of John Kasich pulling a child’s red wagon.

When it comes to a fucking however, many ghosts are non-corporeal beings, which means that once you get over the fact you’re most definitely going to have a crazy time, you’ll have to get used to the fact that you’ll spend most of the time on top. Sure, a “crazy time” in this case might be having to shoot some ghost/demon you hooked up with one time, and then crying to your agnostic aunt until she lets you in, hears your tale, promptly rediscovers her faith and becomes a nun, but that’s just how the cookie crumbles sometimes. Obviously a better outcome would be some levitation, some changes from physical to non-physical, and maybe the thing where they become mist and like clear up that sinus blockage I get sometimes.

A paranormal sexual relationship is, as one might expect, always a give-and-take. Some people refer to curses as blessings, and that’s for a reason. I call mine Cindy. They were pretty good in bed, but they also killed my best friend Tom, which was kind of uncool.

Tom didn’t get me a birthday gift, and Cindy did, so I still know where they both stand in my head. Granted, he was dead and she was the one who killed him. So it evened out.

Now you, on the other hand: you’re straight edge, you’re at this cabin, and you’ve decided today is the day to pop your ghost-fucking cherry. In my personal experience, ghosts aren’t big into anal, but it’s important you communicate with your ghostly partner about what they are and aren’t willing to explore.

I’d grab a Ouija Board, but I understand not wanting to support Hasbro, so a good old fashion flashlight and some ‘yes’ or ‘no’ questions is a good start.

Once you make contact, you’re gonna want to be sure to look for a strong-willed presence, but not one that could immediately overtake your body and kill your closest friends using your teeth. Sure, it very well might lead to one of the most exciting and fulfilling relationships of your adult life, but uh , take your time with this stuff.

Maybe don’t rush into anything too serious with a murderous, vengeful spirit. And definitely don’t marry them in Atlantic City when you’re supposed to be at your best friend’s wake.

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Top 5 Ways to Keep Summoning Rituals Vegan and Cruelty-Free

by Rosario Navalta

Are you a new-age witch but wanna keep in line with your core values and new diet? Have you made a New Year’s Resolution that has resulted in having to come up with new ways to humanely sacrifice goats and summon insecure spirits? Do you know any fence sitters who want to join without committing to veganism, but still expect all the benefits of being in a full-fledged coven/ sisterhood/support system? You’ve come to the right place.

1

Explain Marxism to immortal entities!

Summoning a demon and forcing it to do your bidding is not cool, and not what this is about. Pay them a wage! Sure, they’re an archaic spirit so old that they probably watched the Bolshevik Revolution for fun, and sure, they’re probably

powerful enough to rip your guts out through your trachea if not for that blood contract, but you’re no monster. You believe in workers’ rights and crueltyfree evil-doings by entities beyond your comprehension, but there’s an important point to be made: what would a timetrapped demon know about the foundational inequality of unfettered capitalism without first suffering the abuses of corporate apathy? Encourage your entity to start a union! Then teach it just how ruthless your bottom-line is.

2

Instead of using animal blood, try almond or cashew milk!

Now I know what you’re thinking: How are these things proper substitutes for animal blood? Well, consider this: the milk is really just the blood-juice from almonds/ soy beans/cashews! And surely if there were a willing human with, say, enough blood to summon and subsequently quell a post-life entity into a food coma, then that would

work too! These are just the tried and true methods that require as little coaxing and social leveraging as possible, but don’t be afraid to assert your creativity in order to achieve your personal goals!

3

Need a sacrifice?

Ask for consent first.

Who in their right mind would consent to being used as a human sacrifice in the annual ritual for a better kombucha in the coming fall? A fellow health-conscious “vegan,” obviously. But would a vegan deserve that kind of suffering, let alone find it selfactualizing? Vegans can’t stand suffering, and we’ll be the first to let you know! Who better then to volunteer than that fence-sitting, “No Meat Mondays,” Terry? Just tell her it’s a test of loyalty! And hey, no need to feel guilty for it.

After all, it’s one more casual meateater off the face of the planet, and one more sheep or calf that gets to go back to the jungle and run.

Ain’t that what this is all about?

4

Convert your entity.

Hey, if you can start a union and then immediately disassemble it, why not start a movement. Vegan demons! You already started small by replacing the initial blood consumption with fake dairy, but now it’s time to start replacing that fake

dairy with ethically-sourced spring water! Say to it: “bitch, it’s time to get our shit together,” and then cook up some Tofu to step on as a replacement for the throat ripping that would usually occur once Terry’s mind is permanently transformed into something like a Wi-Fi hotspot for Hell. Be sure to eventually expose your new friend to some theoretical literature, or better yet use my YouTube channel (covens4cows) to teach this somehow benevolent hate thing that eating meat is the equivalent of someone committing the atrocities of 9/11 while rubbing their full belly, and that America’s complicity in both the meat industry and the war industry makes us the posterchild for fragile masculinity.

5

Reduce, reuse, recycle!

This one’s easy, kids. When you bleed someone, try to store the blood in BPA free containers, freezing it for later sacrifices and summonings.

Reuse diagrams regardless of the danger of possession, just as you would with an eco-friendly condom! Never budge on what you believe in, and recognize that as long as you have the three C’s — clout, charisma, and calculation — then you’ll always have your coven behind you.

Intersectional Ghost Hunting and You

by Jesse Saunders

Hey, yep it’s me, the mysterious girl who just seems to like ghosts. I’m back, and wow do I have more words to say out of my mouth. I actually emailed this letter to Teen Vogue, but they sent me back a restraining order and some biting criticism concerning not only my subject matter, but also my grammar and syntax.

You might remember me from such other hobbies as hosting at Applebee’s and featuring heavily in 19th century literature concerning the Evils of man; that’s not what I’m here to talk about today, though.

So sit down America, it’s time we confront something that has been swept to the side for far too long.

Why do all female ghosthunters suck?

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not talking about the 2016 Ghostbusters remake of the classic film starring Dan Aykroyd of Crystal Skull Vodka fame. I’m talking about how on every Paranormal Witness buddy-cop bullshit reality show that graces the Discovery Channel, we get the same concept of failed club promoters trying to disturb dead kids in Gettysburg.

What ever happened to good old-fashioned ensemble pieces, solving mysteries with a diverse cast headed by an interesting and dedicated Me? I mean, we’ve got white boys hunting white boy ghosts, we’ve got Vanilla Ice doing anything he can to die, and some goddamn heathen literally just renewed Supernatural for another season while critical darling and sexual awakening Kyle XY has been off the air for almost 10 years. It amazes me that I am somehow the first person to suggest such a daring and brave, and might I even say, beautiful and interesting idea. Marie Claire might not understand this issue, but I am begging you to fill the void in my soul and help me fund my most recent thought.

Ghost Girls Let’s think about this long and hard, okay? We’re talking fat stacks; high stakes ghost hunting produced by the same people who are making the new Queer Eye reboot. You’ve got three bomb ass people riding around in the Girstmobile (girl’s ghost mobile), you’ve got Vanilla Ice off-camera, somewhere else, different show, getting pressed with stones. This is the kind of hard hitting drama that will fill the hole for dark political commentary left behind by the first three seasons of Arrested Development, except this time there are also ghosts and I’m there. We can’t forget about the ghosts, though, obviously, because they’re admittedly the real linch pin of this operation. I, on the other hand, am first and foremost an idea person, and that’s why it’s almost difficult to quantify my worth. I want you to know, though, that I’m in the process of copyrighting all of these ideas, and you can’t take them from me now that I’ve told you that. Shark Tank rules apply.

Wanna hear another fun thing about Ghost Girls, though?! The Spirtbomb. It’s like a spirit board, but also a bomb. We couldn’t get the copyright on Spiritbomb, so we just took one of the i’s out. People generally get it. You might say “hey I was reading about that bomb and what the fuck.” Don’t worry, I have a special assistant; her name is Tacoma Washington, she calls herself a spirit ambassador, and she

promised me she knows how to handle spirit bombs and will represent me to any people from Washington. That’s intersectionality. That’s mass appeal on cable television. Now at this point you might be thinking “Oh my god is that a gun?”, to which I would say, “Of course not, it’s just my nearly-trademarked GhostGun! It just shoots ghosts. And by that, I mean it’s a water gun I’ve filled with Holy Water and bug spray and some gasoline.

Listen I’m not desperate. I am, as it turns out, actually amazing. I’m a kind, driven individual, and at least three of my friends will attest to that. Like my friend Liza —she’s British, by the way...well, actually I think her dad’s British, but like, that’s a whole other world compared to my mostly Irish/German heritage.

Yeah sure, TrueTV, The Travel Channel and Food Network all hated my idea of giving women of different ages and accents a job in spraying water guns full of poison around cemeteries and old jails, but that doesn’t mean I’m not smart. My IQ is at least worth the same amount of TV shows that Ryan Murphy’s is! Look, this is your last chance to fund my idea.

It won’t be on the market for long, as companies are chomping at the bit to sponsor such a socially driven, interesting television show from a relatively tall white woman, such as myself.

Ghosts are my life, and by that I mean this topic is hot, hot, hot and the money I inherited from my mom’s uncle is spent as fuck! I mean who really wants to be the person 50 years from now who turned down the next Ghostbusters, but this time like a girl and this time also not called Ghostbusters, and also nothing like the Kristen Wiig version, and maybe either scripted or unscripted.

You don’t wanna be that guy! So just sign me. Pay me. Give me someone’s number who knows somebody or I’ll GhoKill you.

That’s when I kill you so you can be a ghost on my goddamn show.

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