Nonsense Goes Soft by Nonsense Humor

NONSENSE GOES

Issue 169

November 2017

Contents Cover

Gill Pitzer, Joseph Kolb, and Victoria Jenkins

2 4

Ads by Ashley Vernola Editorial by Ashley Vernola and Ariel Leal

5 6 7

Mailbag by Nonsense Staff Bloody Sunday: The Baskin Robbins Job by Jordan Hopkins

Banana Emails by Amanda Romeo

Fall Fashion Guide by Beth. Soft Poems by Amanda Romeo

Softening Up: My Journey to Self Love by Veronica Toone

Top 5 Uses For When Your Avocados Have Gotten Too Soft by Lizzie Frank

Collage by Victoria Jenkins

Man Disgusted to Find Hair Stuck in Teeth After Eating Ass by William Russell Faber. Banner by Ashley Vernola

No Chicken Tenders For My Son For We Are Hardened Men by Brenna Lilly

Collages by Emily Hart and Joseph Kolb

UTI Scheduled For Next Saturday by Anna Galperin

Softball Game by Peter Soucy

Soft Things by Nonsense Staff. Art by Beth Foster

Point/Counterpoint: Smooth by Santana feat. Rob Thomas vs. Soft, the Texture by Jesse Saunders.

Just The Tips by Nonsense Staff

Where is Pop Pop and Where is the Grain? By Quin Asselin

FMK: The Michelin Man, The Pillsbury Doughboy, The Stay Puft Marshmallow Man by Ben Fletcher

Buy My House: A Soft Focus Essay by Jesse Saunders and Joseph Kolb

A Thorough Assessment of Mother’s Finest Wigs by James

Staff Editors-in-Chief

Ariel “Nothin’ But Net” Leal Ashley “For My Editor-in-Chief ” Vernola

Head Writer James “Not Your Daddy’s Leather Daddy” Sweeney

Design Director Gillian “Baking Rad” Pitzer

Art Director Joseph “Hehe, Fart Director” Kolb

Treasurer Peter “Rough Looker” Soucy

Social Media Manager Jesse “2: Hypercube” Saunders

Video Heads

Veronica “I Would Die For You” Toone and Benjamin “I Would Live For You” Fletcher

Faculty Advisor

Amy “We’re so sorry for not seeing you this semester” Karofsky

Contributing Staff Writers

Jordan “Helvetica or Death” Hopkins Brenna “(from the Matrix)” Lilly Jesse “2: Hypercube” Saunders Quin “The Quinpin” Asselin Veronica “I Would Die For You” Toone Ben “I Would Live For You” Fletcher Peter “Rough Looker” Soucy

Contributors

Victoria “Small Fist Bump” Jenkins Beth “Limousine Cat” Foster Emily “For Small Government” Hart William “Russell” Russell “Russell” Faber Amanda “Wherefore Art Thou?” Romeo Lizzie “Oh wait shit my name is actually” Frank Anna “The Legend of Mana” Galperin

Moral Support

Trevor “Shit-Eating Grin” Parrish

Sweeney

Back Cover

Victoria Jenkins

Disclaimer Nonsense Humor Magazine is Hofstra’s only intentionally humorous magazine. You can take advice from us, just understand it will only make things ultimately worse for you and we are not responsible for whatever happens. The views expressed in this magazine don’t necessarily represent the views of Hofstra University. Any likenesses to people, persons, creatures, phenomena, and school newspapers are purely coincidental. Nonsense Humor Magazine is not responsible for a supernaturally soft sensation across the skin, erectile dysfunction, or general loss of edginess from your aesthetic. Sorry.

Editorial

Editorial? We really need to get to beditorial. Hey, jokes? That’s us. Happy one hundred and SIXTY NINTH issue, everyone. Naturally, we figured it had to be at least loosely sexually related so we went with “goes soft”. As in penis. Penises goes soft. The joke, everyone. Just kidding, the joke is that Nonsense actually completely lost its edge (sorry). This is our first issue with a bunch of new fresh meat who happen to be screaming in our living room at this very moment. Shouts out to Quiplash. Forreal, Got bless those young, eager comaedians for caring so much about this magazine and producing an abundance of content. We did this issue a little differently this time in order to get them initiated by giving them an extra week to do roughs. Of course, this made absolutely no difference other than the fact that we are a week behind. That’s okay though because it exists in your grimy and also filthy hands (hopefully). This semester has been one of change for all of us. After all, this is our first issue in which we are all together on campus in this big, happy, soft, tender, warm, cold, yellow, fearful, filthy, smelly family. Trying to coordinate things with a club full of people who have many other obligations ain’t easy but we do that thing and we are thankful for all the time you put into this. That also includes you, the reader, we know you are there. For the first time, I think in a long time,

there are people who actually look forward to this magazine besides just us. We have even been called “cool”. Can ya believe it? People come up to us telling us that it’s cool that we write for this magazine. Wow, from all of us. While crazy, we appreciate your readership. Forsooth, we’ll stop now and let you “get on with it” and being that we really screwed the pooch with time this time around, you’ll probably be reading our next issue in like another two weeks or some shit like that. Consider this our first DRAFT as a team. Wink wink. Get it? Yeah. Okay yes. Good. Goodbye now. Ariel and Ashley

MAILBAG Is this a funny idea for an issue? Yeah.

As a cancer sun, why can’t I get a text back...? As a Gemini, shut up.

“Hey James, do you think there’s a way for me to turn that terrible headline into a yes or no question for the mailbag?” No.

As an Aquarius ascendant sun, I find that my fear of tattoos and piercings may in fact be stemming from the ways I’ve mishandled past phases of lunar passage. See above.

It’s called the sole of the foot because that’s the part of her that’s both tender and hardened. Duality is Beauty. This isn’t a question. And What the fuck

At what point is chest hair considered too soft?

My childhood teddy bear played an integral role in my sexual awakening and now that it’s come to life it wants me to return the favor. Is this the headline from earlier? This isn't even written as a question. This is the movie Ted 2

I’m having a hard time in my freshman year, can anyone help me find an ecstasy plug to just... make the pain go away? There’s this dude in Patchogue who sells ecstasy plugs out of his trunk. They’re used, and they stink the way used plugs do, but they get the job done.

I keep waking up with cuts all over my hands. Is my roommate doing this? How can I politely ask him to stop? Speak to him. He’s a human and so are you. People are complex, and flawed, and beautiful.

Why is the inside of the condom more lubricated than the outside? Brother...you know why

Probably when it bleeds

y d o o Bl e a d n Su

The

Baskin Robbins Job

id I fly too close to the sun? Did I overstretch my grasp? Am I Icarus, raised high only to plummet, wings burnt behind me, into the abyss of an endless, churning sea? Maybe. My god, maybe. Because, Jesus Christ, this is way too much ice cream for one guy to eat. I thought I had it all figured out. I mean, I consider myself a professional. When it comes to bowls of ice cream scarfed down vociferously in a short twentyyear old life, I’m no slouch. So you could imagine my disbelief when the woman at the combination Dunkin Donuts/Baskin Robbins on the Hempstead Turnpike had the audacity to tell me that I couldn’t buy 86 gallons of ice cream with my Jersey Mike’s free sub punch card. Ever since that Thursday last week, I’ve been plotting my revenge. I studied the blueprints for a day, a whole one; carefully watched the comings and goings of the guards; slowly seduced the sweet young man who sells me the peanuts in the parking lot. After hours of poring over my model of the dread-complex that is the Baskin Robbins Ice Cream Fun House Emporium, expertly crafted from gingerbread and my stepdad Tad’s model train sets, I was finally ready. I steeled myself, put on my special stealthin’ turtleneck, railed a big o’ fuckin line of cocaine, and marched out the door. Ready for history.

By Jordan Hopkins

I can tell you now - the crime is completed, the deed is done. In a manner that some would call “just dumb fuckin’ luck, my guy”, and what others would call “Manslaughter II”, I escaped from the feared Baskin Robbins Ice Cream Fun House Emporium with approximately three hundred gallons of ice cream loaded into the back of my 1992 Ford Pinto. I drove home victorious, my Pinto’s rusty bumper grinding against the pavement like a belt sander under the weight of my sugary prize. Euphoria and adrenaline washed over me. Despite all my planning, I never imagined I would be...here. Reader, I would be lying to you if I said I was wasn’t slightly aroused. But my triumph was short lived. I had barely pulled into my stepTad’s driveway when fear stuck me in one innocuous thought: “Shit, Tad’s garage is a lot smaller than I remember it being.” God, god, how could I have been such a fool? To have been downed by my own hubris, felled by my own sword. To have pushed myself so close to the veil, only to fall further than ever before, straight into a garage much smaller and also much warmer than I remember it being two winters ago when he made me sleep in there. God dammit, there is no way I can fit all this ice cream in there. Shit. Fuck. I keep trying to gather myself, to try to

make sense of this. But it’s just too much… Come on Frederickburgson! You’ve gotta snap out of it! You’ve been in worse scrapes than this. Remember Kosovo? This isn’t nearly as bad as Kosovo. There are ways out from this, obviously; I could fence the stuff - the kids on my block are suckers, easy marks. But I’m no Pablo Escobar and one musn’t forget that the pure mass of this stuff is enormous. You know what three hundred gallons of Rocky Road looks like? And yes, it’s all Rocky Road--what am I, a savage? No one could move this much product that fast. And no doubt the police are on my tail now. Why, I can already hear their helicopters, using thermal imaging cameras to track down my frozen fortune. The bastards! Well, you know what? They won’t get it! I’ll take this shit to my grave. I’ve come too far to give it up now, worked too hard. Have you ever tasted the prediabetic blood of a middle-aged conepacker, or watched the life drain from the eyes of a junior cop with everything to lose? I’d rather let it all melt than let you take it away from me. You hear that, Lawman? I’ll drown without a struggle in my melting riches before I give them away! The people will remember my name! IN THE STREETS THEY WILL SCREAM THE NAME FREDERICKBURGSON, AND IT WILL MEAN FREEDOM! The day you take me and my ice cream, is the day hell freezes over - and trust me, I welcome it.

Man Disgusted To Find Hair Stuck In Teeth After Eating Ass By WIlliam Russel Faber special to nonsense

Modern relationships must navigate a rocky strait. Between secret Tinders, buxom secretaries, and the wealth of squirrel porn available online at long last, any romantic involvement with another human being must be forged to survive most any test of patience and understanding. Today, however, many couples are hitting a roadblock in a part of their relationship which for years was considered a testament to trust and intimacy: ass-eating. “When I put my tongue up my girlfriend Geneva’s corn hole, I’m just expecting some clean, traditional ass-eating,” wrote prominent analingus connoisseur, Terry Brown, in a Yelp review posted last Tuesday. “When I eat here I don’t expect anything fancy. But if there’s one thing I don’t want, it’s a culinary experience that ends with ass hairs wedged into my molars. 1 ½ Stars.” Upon reading for myself the words of Mr. Brown, and realizing the extent to which he had breached his partner’s privacy, I came to one conclusion: I needed to do some deep digging of my own. For it was not the breaching of Geneva’s privacy which struck me as worthy of such a full-hearted journalistic endeavor, but in fact the mouth full of hairs that resulted from it. According to Mr. Brown, things had not always been so complicated. “Her ass hairs were blonde when we started dating, but now... Now almost every night I end up with an auburn tinted strand strewn across the front of my teeth like the lone string left on a blind orphan’s fiddle. I’m sorry to have to say this so publicly once again,” declared Mr. Brown, lying, “but when I’m dangling my clapper into Geneva’s poop chute, I like to

know exactly what I’m getting into, and then out of, and then into once again.” “I don’t know what he expects,” said Geneva Thune, upon coming home to find that a story was being written about her ass and the hairs within it. “The guy’s got his whole mouth muscle up my bussy! There’s some hair up there, alright? That just comes with the territory. I appreciate what he does for me, I do, but now I’m feeling sorta self-conscious because of how big of a deal this is becoming.” As soon as the nation at large learned that talk about Geneva’s sex life was making her self-conscious and uncomfortable, both individuals and institutions of all creeds and backgrounds began lining up to share their opinions. “Ass-eating before marriage? Absolutely not,” began a priest from suburban Georgia, taking it upon himself to give the Catholic church’s first official opinions on the matter. “But, if it’s between two married, consenting, straight adults, then let me tell y’all something: you feed your moist masseuse straight up that turd cutter. Deep.” Soon after, a prominent celebrity took up a soapbox of their own to speak on buttmouthing. “Look, if this “Terry” has truly got his wet-prod working back and forth on her rusty bullet hole like Mr. Miyagi teaching breakdancing lessons, then that’s just a thing that’s bound to happen. No judgement needs to come or go either way. This is just a part of the human experience.” He then stepped off the podium and immediately engaged in a passionate ass eating session with his own partner, the singer Beyonce. After Mr. Brown’s further comments, attacking teeth for how they allow hairs to find safe passage between his incisors, dentists lined up to defend the weird bones they obsess over. “Oh, come on,”

said prominent D.D.S., Roger Hixon. “He’s driving his spit sausage two and a half inches up his girlfriend’s balloon knot, and he expects what exactly? For it to come out cleaner? Look, it doesn’t take a genius to realize that certain dental phenomena have a higher likelihood of occurring when you do something awesome like that.” When asked if Geneva’s growing state of shock and embarrassment contributed at all to the decision to provide an unprompted and documented assessment of the situation, the office of Dr. Hixon responded, “Yes.” The president of the United States, not the current one, but one who seems to exist outside of time and represents the position in its purest form, said, “There’s an individual in this country who feels it necessary to make note of every memento he brings back from the lodge. He is humiliating his partner, a young woman by the name of Geneva Thune, daughter of Maggie and Richard Thune, simply because of a few hairs -- hairs which once occupied her ass, but now occupy the hearts and minds of a nation. This fella is out there burying his Finnish pitchfork into the khaki mouth of a young woman whom he claims he can see himself moving in with, and yet he shoulders none of the responsibility for the fucked up Osmosis Jones sequel that's become of his inner-face.? What’s going on here, folks?” THE COSMOS THEMSELVES REPORT: “100101101011011001010101010 10100 -TROUBLE SHOVEL- 10101 0110010101010 100110101 - AMBER SPYGLASS- 11111000011010010101001 010110101 In this reporter’s unbiased opinion, ya gotta eat the full ass, hair and all.

No Chicken Tenders for My Son

for We Are Hardened Men

ut that kiddie menu down, boy. Come on, this is our son-and-pop day. (No moms here.) Order yourself something off the big menu. It’s my treat. I even brought you a pack of cigarettes. Have a smoke, it’ll do you good, make your voice sound like mine. Women enjoy cigarettes, son, therefore you enjoy cigarettes. Because you're a man, and that's how we operate. Come on. I said put that menu DOWN. Next time, I’m taking you to Bugaboo Creek. I know that talking buffalo gives you the heebie-jeebies. Don’t make me do it. I'll tell the wait staff it's your birthday, and they'll force the buffalo to attempt a song, and goddamn it son I don't want to have to do that again. Now tell the nice waitress what you want to eat. I already got you a Dr. Pepper with your onion rings, because the bartender wouldn’t let me order you a shot of Jack. So what’ll it be: veal, steak, or elk? (Will my boy pick veal? Does he know it is the cruelest of the meats?) …chicken tenders? You want chicken tenders? (He better be yanking my leg, trying to eat tenderly in front of me.) You want to eat chicken tenders in front of your father? What kind of man do you think I am? Tell me. I need to know. Am I strong? (Am I?) Do you think I wear this leather jacket for nothing? It’s 84 degrees out and I’m sweating bullets. It's bordering on extremely unhealthy, but do you think I give a good goddamn? I mean, do you even know what a man like myself does with those bullets, buddy? Take em' right to the firing range! Hell yeah! Gimme five! Go on. Slap my hand, son. Here, feel how rough they are. It’s from hard labor. Does it feel like I wince all day? I do. Don’t try and talk to me about tenderness, son: we are HARDENED MEN. I remember when I was your age; I didn’t

want to eat meat either. It was the 70’s, and all of my friends were eating Tofurky and lentils and each other’s asses. It’s tempting. But I don’t want you getting B-12 deficient and sallow like they did. I eat meat, and my arteries are clean as whistle(Shit, did I forget my Lipitor?). Look at me, I can even do jumping jacks! Listen here, Valleyforge. I didn’t name you after the greatest battle in American history for nothing. You’re strong, maybe even as strong as me. Feel my biceps. No, that’s not fat, that’s pure muscle, buddy. That's what happens when some of the muscles get tired and weird from holding the bigger ones in place. I could probably lift this table way over my head. Obviously I won’t, not now – this isn't Bugaboo Creek. But I could do it. You came out of your mother’s gorgeous vagina for a reason, Valleyforge. And do you know what that reason was? To make your papa proud. You know how you make your beefy papa proud? By owning a Ferrari, and by not ordering chicken tenders. You have so many juicy, delicious options: you’ve got your bovine, your ovine, you’ve even got your cervine -- look at that venison chili! Today, boy o' mine, we order real food. Miss Waitress, you sexy lil’ thing, the men are ready to order! I’ll have the prime rib, medium RAW, still mooin’. (I’m so sorry, Miss, I know you’re just doing your job. He just...he has to learn. He has to learn to survive in this world. He will eat red meat, and he will drive a Hog or a Stang, and he will eventually own a moving company. This is the life he deserves!) And my strong, alpha son here will have the prime rib, also breathing, hold the juice on the side. No, I don’t mean au jus, I mean STEAK JUICE! (But…I’m a classically trained pastry chef. I speak French fluently! Who have I become?) Yes, waitress, I know my son is crying now because he wants chicken tenders.

By Brenna Lilly

But my son is not weak, and he needs to learn how to eat like a man. Don’t pick up his napkin, he can do that himself, but for the love of God, remove the line on the menu that refers to your tenders as "teeth's favorite meat!" Don't you see the mess you're causing? Son -- forget the napkin. If we get messy, then so be it. In fact, don't ever let me ever see you use those soft, nimble hands for anything but driving a Ferrari, cutting through a thing that was born and then probably died, and wooing women. (My heart grows further beset by pangs of conflicting regret...alas, he would be such a marvelous piano player). Waitress, what’s your name again? Princess Tits? Caitlin? Caitlin, can you kindly disappear for a few minutes? Now son, look me in the eyes. I need you to do this for me. I need you to be better than me. Taller than me. This is what my father before me told me: you gotta fake it till you make it. You hear me? Fake it till you make it. Even if they catch you tearing up at A Bug’s Life, eating tofu, or beating off to porn (A Bug’s Life is porn, right?) you have to act like you’re the biggest guy on the block. Even bigger than your neighbor with the nice hair and expensive sports car of an ambiguous make and model. Here, wipe off your chin. I’m only telling you this because I think you have potential. My papa never believed I had potential in me to be a good man, but I think that you have it in you. One day I’ll buy you a tiny motorcycle, and we will ride off into the sunset together, just us. That sounds good to you, doesn't it? (I'll need a license Where’s the nearest DMV? And he’ll need a helmet!) (My strong and safe son.) Where’s Caitlin at? Can’t she see my manly twenty-year-old son and I have steaks to eat? Valleyforge, wait, don’t leave! Let me at least give Caitlin my number! (God I need to nut).

Soft Things Things Soft The lighting in the attic where my mother stays and thinks

Bunnies Out-side of boob

The Hands of Trevor Parrish Middle-stage of a scab Horses once you break emâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; in

GAP sweaters as well as my tongue

The light, through yonder window breaking

NyQuil sex Jen

Smooth by Santana Feat. Rob Thomas Vs. Soft, the Texture

Point I would spend a thousand years flogged by brillo pads if it means listening to the sweet sensual tones of Rob Thomas and the Latin inspired guitar of Carlo Santana. Never again would I have to willingly embrace a texture. My human needs would be fulfilled by knowing that World Peace was achieved in 1999, and that no tragic event, like a Presidency or a marriage, could ruin that. 1999 wasn’t just a great year for calendars -- it was the year Rob Thomas reached his career peak, speaking to me through the radio about his “Spanish Harlem Mona Lisa,” while I reached a peak of my own upon hearing those sensual, and ironically rough tones. Everything was right, at least for a while. It seemed, at first, that Julie and I were honestly the perfect pair. She was Blonde, I was not. She had eyes a color different than my own. Every possible thing you could ask for in a couple, so that they appear aesthetically attractive to strangers, was true of the two of us. Besides

her strange genetics, though, the thing I loved most about Julie was the way she seemed to understand. On our second date, she gave me a pillow with Rob’s face sewn into it! It was so soft that I could hardly use it, but at that point who needs to sleep? On our third date she brought me a piece of Carlos. That too was much softer than you’d think, and more for a particularly sweet gesture considering the act put her on 17 no fly lists across the globe. It couldn’t last though, no matter how hard I tried to keep it together. There is no woman, no tangible being whatsoever, whom can ever be as perfect as Rob’s sweet, succulent song-voice, and I knew long before before the Y2K scare that there never would be. The first big blow-up came when Julie tried to cover my records in velvet. She said the needle was going to hurt me, she said the needle would take away the feeling.. But my wife is wrong. Julie is wrong, she has to be. She wore a feather boa and

velvet gown to our wedding; she didn’t tell me it was our wedding. I had, to this point, never actually met her. Who was this woman? It didn’t seem important. Rob had told me how to handle this, Rob and the man behind him, Carlo(s)? They prepared me for her. She was the exact woman my astral guide Rob Thomas was describing, a woman who looked just like the ocean under the moon;Julie was convinced it was destiny, fate, kismet, and other ways to describe a mistake as unavoidable. I myself was convinced that anyone who comes to a broken down hotel on the side of the road in a velvet gown, just to help out a poor man with a jammed up cassette tape of Smooth, deserved to be made a wife. “Perhaps,” I thought, “this is the kind of woman who could break through my hardened exterior and help me soften up. Someone to whom I can give my heart -- someone who will not only accept my love, but in returning it make it real.” Awh, just forget about it.

JUST the TIPS Pray for Paris;

Get a dog

Sell your VHS tapes to interesting children.

Stay awake

Only refer to it as "porno."

pray for the parents Pens

NEVER go back to the Vatican Use other people's germs as a sort of armor for your own germs.

Counterpoint

By Jesse Saunders.

I own 600 beanie babies. My husband has left me and I am alone. I am alone, and I am soft and I am hungry. Jeremy, my favorite beanie baby is… soft. My summer earmuffs will soon be traded in for an even softer winter pair, keeping my infant-sized ears safe from the noise of the angry boys who play the large, violinshaped instruments. My husband never stopped playing it… it never ended, a cycle of oceans, moon phases, and emotions that The Man got when he looked at the subject of his torture. I was just like that woman, the one Rob sings about...or perhaps sings to. Do you know what he said to me? My husband? He said, “Our baby’s name is going to be Santana. Like the guy that helped Rob.” Do you have any idea how fucking scary that is? A mononym? We were in a Denny’s, a goddamn Denny’s! I had to look my waiter in the eyes and order a grand slam, while the man I called my better half pulled

out a shoe-sized record player and used his nail as a needle and his mouth as a speaker to screamsing the only song either of us knows like a talented-if-jarring human jukebox. When we met I liked the song; hell, I needed it. It was a break from all the pleasantness of my life, and it made me feel naughty and strange. In some ways, it felt as if it gave my life balance. Wedding Song: Smooth, Wedding Dress: Soft. Car: Smooth, House: Soft. Bathroom: Smooth, Bedroom: Soft. It was okay, alright, mildly annoying but tolerable. Exactly what you would want from two wild kids with Kentucky hearts who had been personally rejected by the producers of My Strange Addiction a combined seven times. On our fifth date, he bribed a judge to stop me from being convicted for assaulting the guitarist from the single,”Smooth.” On our sixth

date, we escaped the country and evaded the American government for six months. It was so romantic. I let the rain of a thousand guitar solos into my kitchen, my bathroom, my car... and I relished it! to be honest, I thought maybe this was exactly what we needed...what I needed. But it all changed. I couldn’t escape. We were a perfect pair of touch and sound, me with my Babies, he with his Lead Singer of the Band Matchbox 20. He heard it, I felt it, We tasted it in the art. If only it had remained that perfect, but the sound was underestimated, the blaring from the speakers was anything but smooth. It was more like smooth. With slight italics. Only a little smooth. I understand now that I can never be...that. I can never be Rob Thomas, nor can I be Santana, the man for whom my daughter is named. I have psoriasis, and no song nor marriage can change that.

Don’t cry because it’s gone, smile because it’s over Like me Pee the change you want to see in the world Use wi-fi to help curb your sex drive. Go vegan then stop When confronted by a bear, use their poor eyesight to your advantage and make yourself as big as possible. Now kill.

Where is Pop Pop and Where is the Grain? How to Toughen Up for Winter

By Quin Asselin

My Sweet Baabè, This is the last that you’ll do of the be of the hearing from me. Pop Pop is will be going off to save your Gruncle, Papi’s Brehvur. If I don’t/do not bring the success, the homestead will be having an age of plagues. Don’t do be have the weeps. It is time to make big/strong for winter. List of Notices: 1) Temperature Let me first say that you are lucky that you can be feeling a Temperature. The Temperature that you’ve have got with you is in many ways felt. Thising Temperature that you are feeling on yours pours is a good one. Many people are of doing the idea that much Temperatures is bad and to like it or make have it as your pal makes you a Bad Climb-8. Boy fella, do you believing that

your climbing is bad, or that yore Temperature is too much many or little? How’s about you check out one of many tall hill in a place that is high big up? A place with very few Temperature. Do you think that you shall weep over the loss of your stinking corn-like mealgrain, your frozen missing Papi, or these baby snow? How can you do about to feed the clan when the Family Beast must make its meal of the hard water (the kind that is so little Temperature it stands rigid, like the Men With Guns™)? Your Sweet sweet Graanguu weeps with sad for her two boys, trapped in shafts of ice by the Snow Wailers. Use listen your ears. For they make bring misfortune. 2.) Problems: You Be Having Them Second, I want to make you to know that several many Temporters will come with me. These T-Painatures will steal away with Papuu in the night. When you've awackened, the world you know will be having a frown. It will harbor much hostility, and harbor very few Tempestolies. Lucky for you, Papp has leaved a modest store of amber hunger grass in the sleeping home of your beloved Family Beast. The red beast home. The Big Red One? The the Big big Red red One one? No! I do be mine speaking of the barn, you petulant youth. But you are going to b having a grain dispute. For as the saying does goings: Where there are no Temparasols, there are often [ghouls/imps]. By the moment of the time through which you feel these words in your head meat’s think folds, the grain will have maked itself to gone. Weep. 3) rESCUE yOUR gRAIN ¿tHE fAMILY bEAST OF hOME IS SAVE, YES? i YEARN TO FEEL HIM MANY VERY CLOSE. MUCH IN MY HEART MEATS. ¿hER FUR IS IS KIND, YES? fEEL THE BEAST. fEEL HIM MY BAMBINO. iT IS BEING YOUR DUTY TO THE CLAN WHEN pOP pOP IS SEALED WITHIN THE ICE FOREVER GONE. pLEASE THE bEAST BY ANY MEANS SO THAT IT MAY GUIDE YOU. pLEASE IT AS HARD AS YOU CAN. fOR IF YOU ARE TOO SLOW, THE gUNMEN® SHALL DO OF BECOMING THE

gRAINMEN© YES? tAKE THE bEAST, MY SWEET YOUNG FRESH BABBY SEED. tAKE YOUR bEAST AND TAKE YOUR tEMPERATURES. tHEN DO START BEING ON THE RIDE FOR YOUR GRAIN. tHE gRAINMEN@ SHALL RUE THE THE TIME IN THIS LIFE WHEN THEIR PATH DONE BESMIRCHED THE GREAT FAMILY kHOZTETSKISLAAD. 4) Severe Wounds Perhaps it was that you’ve done be had much foolish in you to think the GrainmenΩ no longer possessed the weapons that made them the Men with Guns(A Tiny Picture of A Sphere). This is to be a mistake of precarious dimensions. These folk were having guns then becomed owners of the grains also. What cause have those with guns have to relinquish their steel lovers once have they have that succulent amber good grass as well? Did the Udreçzji lay down their arms after having done the storming of the Palace Upon the Hill? No. No that is the opposite of how they do going about doing the things that they have done. And we shall never forget their force. Their harsh metal and the storm it does have bringed upon the many. Much like the Grainèd Ones have wrought into your bones Gnarled pip of my flesh, my descendant, my small one, you are weak. The bullets have torn away at your sinews and meats like your Graandu’s flesh under the razorlike tusk of the Mad Boar. Are you having any feeling at all? Do you feeling that your blood runs with little Temperature? Take rest. For your failure is both crushing and final. Closed be make your eyes. The Men with Grain(circle) are by their fires, eating loaves and feeling upon some joy happy. Let the Beast lick your wounds. You will be of seeing me soon. Pop Pop loves you,

Evgeni Khoztetskislaad Evgenii Khoztetskislaad

M a r ry k c Fu

Kill

The Michelin Man, The Pillsbury Doughboy, or The Stay Puft Marshmallow Man By Ben Fletcher

Pros Has lots of cars. Looks like a tasty ice cream creature 0 felonies on record Can throw tires at will from his body like giant death Frisbees 750 Credit Score Never speaks, only smiles

Pros

Cons

Can bake his tiny dough ass off Will kiss you a lot Giggles Owns an island off the coast of Guam Enjoys “Who’s Line Is It Anyway” Great with kids

Vile racist The island has slaves Cannot dress himself Believes his childish demeanor absolves him of any wrong doing Loves anime Doesn’t smoke weed

Pros Made of marshmallows Cuddly Smells like sweets Enjoys sailing and bird watching Knows how to hit it right Hates ghosts

The Michelin Man

Fuck

Marry Kill

The Pillsbury Doughboy

Cons No drivers license Hates brunch Poster boy and advocate for big oil Ferret person Can’t cum Never speaks, only smiles

Cons Kills for sport Has done millions of dollars’ worth of property damage Opens your mail without asking Doesn’t even own a boat Can’t read White

The Stay Puft Marshmallow Man

The Banana Emails Message received??

To: Vice Provost for Undergraduate Academic Affairs To Whom It May Concern, Have you yet received my official proposal for the grant -to be spent in pursuit of the Genetically Supreme Banana? I must take advantage of my subjects’ current prime-state-of-ripeness immediately. I eagerly await your response. Best, Dr. A. Banando

Read in Good Health

9 September 2017

To: Vice Provost for Undergraduate Academic Affairs To Whom It May Concern, I hope all is well. I stopped by your house after I finished a proper dispersing of deceased subjects. I saw you weeping to yourself in your armchair, and let me be the first to say: I am so sorry. I must convey how truly sad I am to have to be the one to expose the harsh truth of our potassium reality, but please don't fret! There is a solution! I am working day and night, creating remedies to render my Bananas eternally youthful! Many of them are respnding poorly to the remedies (turning brownish-black and angrily soft in the days after injection), but some Bananas have chosen to accept my help and are still living peacefully in their firm yellow bliss! I fear my time with these exceptional vectors is growing short and there is much more testing to be done. Best, Dr. A. Banando

URGENT

13 September 2017

To: Vice Provost for Undergraduate Academic Affairs To Whom It May Concern, Maybe I did not make it quite clear enough to you how time sensitive this work is. I thought you understood the reasons for these experiments. Did you forget that the sole purpose of human existence is to ensure that the procreation of Bananas eternally continues? As we are only alive as human beings for so long, I am becoming increasingly anxious. The time you spend - nay, waste - right now, staring blankly ahead, like some imbecile half-wit, at these meaningless photographs of some unshapely figure that you absurdly spend all your time mounting to your walls is SHAMEFUL. Bananas everywhere are BLEEDING BLACK GOO. More than 723 BILLION Bananas EVERY DAY are thrown in the TRASH, left, to die alone without purpose, damned to the Rott. A tormented existence, with no ability of their own to reproduce or evolve! They're helpless, voiceless. Can you stand idly by as this is happening?! I trust I’ll hear from you very soon. Dr. A Banando

RE: URGENT

By Amanda Romeo

6 September 2017

15 September 2017

To: Vice Provost for Undergraduate Academic Affairs To Whom It May Concern, I have reached an impasse. Do you have no desire of your own for the solitude of eternal bliss? Do you derive sick pleasure from this cruel fate you inflict on my fruits? Do you not ache with the pain of knowing the present-day Banana is a freakish genetic mutant of a berry, incapable of sustaining any kind of an existence without the intervention of people like myself? To the earth, Bananas continue to exist only as biologically engineered factions of humankind. But did I not show you proof? If not for mans’ dedicated resolve, the pathetically impotent fruit would have been eradicated by the planet long ago! With diligence and dedication mankind can further evolve the banana population. Can you do nothing but lay lethargically around your bedroom, weeping into a pillow? If we don’t take action what is to become of the species? Of OUR species?! Are we doomed to forever roam this banal planet, perpetually longing to fulfill a purpose YOU futilely keep quiet knowledge of? What unhallowed fiend are you, to wish this kind of condemnation on your own kind? Regrettably, Dr. A Banando

READ AND REPENT

30 September 2017

To: Vice Provost for Undergraduate Academic Affairs To Whom it May Concern, I am now coming forth furiously to expose your immoral censorship! Last week I awoke from a dream so vivid it rendered me deep into a meditative state; in which I saw and spoke with clarity to Higher Seeds, as they appeared to me in a tree. I vividly dreamt of a world of Mechanical Monkeys, who do nothing but use and abuse bananas, anally penetrating themselves for their own vicious pleasure, tormenting countless Bananas without a care! When they’ve had what they want? They DISPOSE of Bananas. Leave them to Rott away! I MUST assure that mankind is made aware of THEIR duty: to inseminate the forsaken Banana with the everlasting life is deserves. The tormented spawn of these cross-pollinated sterile, half-breed banana plants we make today CAN AND WILL BE FURTHER PERFECTED. Rue the days you screened my calls, those were my last attempts to reason with you!! I know no sympathy for you and the damnation you’ve inflicted upon yourself! Indifferently yours, Dr. A. Banando

What Evil Compels You??????

20 October 2017

To: Vice Provost for Undergraduate Academic Affairs To Whom It May Concern, In absolute desperation, I must attempt to reconcile. The efforts of myself alone in my research have done little to impress the community. I now understand you must be the reason behind their disgraceful despondence. Are you truly that hateful a demon of mine? Why torment me evermore!? Is it your wicked pastime?? Corrupting the minds of my peers?? With humility, I beseech you. Let go of what fear that causes you to act this maliciously! What about the Everlasting Banana terrorizes you?? What scares you about submission to Banana prosperity? Can you not grasp the impending human fulfillment we’ll receive through deliverance of the Infinite Banana??? What about this terrorizes you?!?! Is this “obscene”??? Or “provocative” to you in some way????? Think long! May your reflection rectify any virtuous fragment of humanity left in you. Unremittingly yours, Dr. A. Banando

RE: Message received??

22 October 2017

To: Dr. A. Banando Dr. Banando, I sincerely apologize for your many failed attempts at reaching me. As I’m sure you’ve heard, my wife entered a critical comatose state after slipping on a pile of banana peels. I’ll get to your emails as soon as possible. Please understand my delay. Best, Hugh Mack Vice Provost for Undergraduate Academic Affairs

Soft Spots

s m e o p lt fe rt a e h f o n o ti c A colle

By Amanda Romeo

The Bathroom Outside of WRHU A Ballad Hey you, bathroom You’re sweet as fuck by WRHU Hearing dank music Is, uh, hella lit Especially when you’re taking a hellish shit

Elegy to Software Cotton shirt, wool skirt Suede jacket You are delicate and I wear you So wet I hope you are not ruined today So much sweat I’m gonna pass the fuck out it’s the middle of August I can't see

Soft rock plays softly Plays soft like my poo Soft like my heart In the essence of you Billy Joel on the reg, When I force out my loads Bumpin’ “Uptown Girl” for those burning hot episodes

My Limerick for A Pillow No pillow could be comfier than the one I have here With no other pillow could I spend all of my years All night and day With my pillow I lay Blissfully unaware as the apocalypse nears

Haiku No.1 Downy, Downy bear Don’t molest me in my sleep You are a real creep

Haiku No. 2 That haiku should be About you, not me, you freak I’m a fucking bear..

Haiku No.3 You are just a bear But damn! Those eyes hold nightmares Creepy as SHIT dude

Today I will pray Please play Green Day! And “Good Riddance” I’ll hum While I’m wiping my bum Thank you, bathroom by WRHU Even after I graduate I'll let you feast on my poo

Softening Up:

My Journey to Self-Love By Barbara MacIntire

For some people, being nice can be hard. Perhaps you’re someone whose so insensitive, so hopelessly bitter, that you often think to yourself, “man, I wish I had more friends to complain to about my miserable life.” Perhaps you are so full of hate and black holes of emotion that anyone who approaches you is sure to get exactly what’s coming to them —pain. Maybe you cling to your anger and frustration like a life preserver in a sea of good-natured simians, always holding the door open for you (as if you even have two hands that aren’t broken, Sheila) and bringing you coffee with all sorts of sugary garbage in it. Who drinks coffee with caramel in it? It’s like, c’mon, save it for the toddlers who are actually dependent on this junk. I was the same way, once. A soulless b*tch, if you will. I spat, chewed cinnamon gum, and would throw things aggressively against walls. I drove with one hand on the steering wheel and actually enjoyed that wicked rock and roll music that they play in grocery stores and in taxi cabs. I let my faith in Christ slip. Once I got in a fight because a guy told me I reminded him of Amy Schumer. Understandable. Another time, when some mild-mannered ninny with dirty hands not-so subtly implied I had blood and dirt all over the hands and mouth, I was sure to let him know exactly what I thought of him. With both of my knives. Maybe that was why people always held the door open for me...the knives... For years, I continued down this path of evil and grumpiness. But after I got the sh*t beaten out of me for loudly declaring I could and would wring child support money out of as many disillusioned young fathers as I could, my third therapist told me I’d have to learn to calm down. I tried holistic methods first: slipping my hands into Tupperware containers full of cold spaghetti, taking chamomile suppositories and eating Tide pods. I tried meditation and riding the bus. But nothing worked: I felt the urge to beat up commuting socialists in the morning, and the desire to go all Carrie (Underwood) and dig my key into the side of my neighbor’s shitty little fucking Hyundai Sonata in the evening. So I did what thousands of angry, impulsive people did before me: I went on the Internet. As far as I understand it, tasering yourself is, on the surface, a terrible idea. But after spending days in the bathroom, vomiting up those colorful little laundry snacks, I knew it was worth a try. So, I snatched Mama’s Little Helper from a cop who pulled me over for screaming paraphrased

Bible verses at the Little Caesar’s a mascot, and the rest was, as they say, history. The first time I tased, it hurt. 50,000 volts straight to the carotid is a lot, especially for your first time, especially in the tool shed. I like to describe it as an eye-opening experience, but the truth is my eyes were closed for about 45 minutes after the initial zap. The back of my neck felt like someone jammed a whole bunch of needles in it, except I also got to feel the satisfaction of revenge by taking out those needles and jamming them in the eyes of my enemies. Everything went quiet, soft even, and when I came to, I have to admit I felt a bit lighter in the chest. I went online and bought a tiny cat pillow to vent my anger at, but one look at that little scamp made me break down and cry for the first time since Easter of 1994, the year I first learned of what they did to our Messiah. It sounds nuts, but I think I may have found some kind of miracle cure. All my old vices—shouting, yelling, fighting, omnivorous behaviors—they’ve disappeared. I’ve transcended anger. Now, whenever I wanna put some dickhead’s dick head through a goddamn plate glass window, instead I just grab Old Blue and give myself a big ol’ tase, right to the fuckin’ neck-throat. Slowly but surely, my faith in Christ is growing stronger than ever. If ever I feel like trappig a small animal and putting it into a vent in order to study how it dies, I simply grab my little, blue friend and knock myself unconscious for an indeterminable amount of time. Now, that’s not to say things are getting easier. Every day is a struggle. Oftentimes I still feel that urge to pick up a large, heavy rock and throw it at the nearest registered Indepedent (when will they learn). But now that I’m not constantly seeking out another person to put on my hit list, which is the list of people I’ve run over with their own car, I’ve been able to reasses my relationship with the taser I’ve come to know and love. Lately I’ve even taken up putting bean bags in the microwave and then rubbing them on my face in order to feel the hairs on my chin burn off. When my little Blue Light Special is running low on juice, or simply running so hot from overuse that it begins to expel smoke, those scalding hot bags do just enough to counter the violent rage bubbling beneath me. It’s like vaping after sex: strange, and less than ideal, but understandable from a ritual perspective, and still really kind of cool.

Top 5 Uses For When Your Avocados Have Gotten Too Soft By Lizzie Frank

t’s happened to all of us at one point or another: you’ve fallen into that Classic Millennial Trap and bought WAY too many avocados!! So you got a little overzealous with the 4 avocados for $4 deal at the supermarket and ended up buying $119.76 worth of avacabos (it happens!). Unfortunately, there’s no way you can eat ALL those avacacs, and some of them are bound to get a little squishy mushy tushy. When that inevitably happens to you (and it will), here are the top 5 uses for your spongy av*c*do.

Use #1: Find a Family You’re walking to Axinn on a Saturday afternoon when it happens yet again: you’ve been ambushed Hofstra Vs. Zombies, completely unaware that you’re an innocent bystander and not a “soldier” in their “zombie” “war” thing. Usually you duck your head and run for cover, but not today! Reach into your bag where you’ve got about 50 or so of those softy avogadros rotting slowly, grab a Nice Juicy One, and offer it to the HvZ leader as an olive branch. DO NOT chuck it and go down in a haze of nerf bullets and martyrdom. Team up with those HofvZ kids as one big group of kids who spent high school memorizing the periodic table of elements as a “party trick” and just think of what you could accomplishfun, friendship… Family. In fact, why not recruit the Hofstra Anarchy Club for this adventure, they always look like they could use a hug when I see them ranting at club fairs.

Use #2: Smoke bomb to get out of class early Sick of listening to that one professor bloviate for 3 hours every Thursday night? No worries! Simply pull that

soggy avo out of your backpack and roll it under your teacher’s desk. Have you ever sniffed a rotting adavaco? Those things are rank, man. Bust that bombshell out in a classroom with no windows and your teacher will have to cancel class! Be wary though, your actions will probably push him to get into his car and drive through the night until he arrives at a quaint yellow house at 2283 Pearl Street in Western Kansas. Inside is Jeanette Coleman, the strawberry blonde who took his virginity in the 10th grade, whose sharp chin and ruby lips he pictures every time he makes love to his wife. He gets out of his 2009 Honda Civic and approaches the navy blue door. Setting his hand on the brass knocker, he senses someone’s eyes on him. Jeanette? No, it is a 4 year old girl gazing at him from the window. His eyes rest on her strawberry blonde locks and he staggers back from the door, his legs weak. The pieces all come together at once. He stumbles into his car, grappling for his keys with numb fingers. It’s going to be a long drive.

Use #3: Wall tack for hanging posters I guess ?? Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck dude I don’t know

Use # 4: Face scrub Your atrocious budgeting skills are what got you into this mess in the first place, and now you’re just another broke student who spent $119.76 on avacoods and can’t afford a fancy face wash to combat the effects of greasy Student Center food. Maybe you could have bought face wash or a better meal plan if you hadn’t spent all your fucking money on avante gardos. Luckily, this is where your soft cado-avo comes in

handy. Stir it up with toothpaste or motor oil or whatever you youngsters are putting on your faces nowadays. Let your mixture sit out in the sun for about an hour, or until it gets nice and juicy. Slather that baby on your sad excuse for a face, rinse, and repeat. You’ll be on your way to pappy, silken skin in no time, and all because of your cushy acabs.

Use #5: Just eat, you pretentious fuck Oh my god, just eat it. Please just eat it, for the love of god. So what if it’s a little soft it isn’t going to kill you. You can’t just return $119.76 worth of avogabos. You try this every other week, you have to stop. I’ve been brainstorming things for you to do with these abados for an hour and I think I’ve lost the ability to say artichabo. Davababo. Babadook. Frick. Please just eat them. Aren’t they supposed to be soft so you can spread it on your godawful gluten free toast? Or just make it into guacamole. Guacamole is literally just SoftAvocado. You could make them into guacamole and have enough to fill a kiddie pool. You could bathe in it. Mash up all that juicy frutti, and lie in a kiddie pool full of it naked, feeling the slightly cold velvety pulp impress itself into the curves of your skin. Tilt your head back and let it slither over your face like that one scene in the Incredibles. Stay still long enough and the wet green mash will harden over you. Some man raking leaves will find a green monster encased in blue plastic and assume it’s the newest Random Hofstra Statue. You will be well cared for. You will be immortalized on the Hofstra campus, baked in millennial pie. Long live uhcavada statue. Long live avanjogia.

UTI

Scheduled for Next Saturday By Anna Galperin

ineteen year-old Bailey Latter has been involved in a long distance relationship since moving away from home in late August. With a long weekend quickly approaching, there was an air of anticipation for the reunion of Bailey and her boyfriend, an air which we here at Nonsense couldn’t help but sniff to the fullest extent possible. We spoke with the various characters in Bailey’s life who will be most affected by this star crossed romance and the inevitable urinary tract infection caused by its rekindling. A roommate of Bailey’s, the only one, seemed more annoyed at the long weekend itself than at Bailey and her beau. “Bailey’s got great intentions,” she said. “She never complains when I have strangers coming by most nights, but I still hate that she’s going to have dibs on the room for all three days. This means I’m going to have to deal with other people’s creaky beds instead of my own. It’s like when you're sort of seeing a guy who lives in Chinatown, but then one night you go back to his best friend’s flat in Koreatown, and it’s kind of jarring? I don’t even mind that it’ll smell like semen and other sex gunk by Sunday night -- that’s probably what the room smells like now, anyways. But I like my vagina and its scents… I’m unfamiliar with Bailey’s. I’ve only looked at it. Ya know?” When asked how she felt about sharing the cubicle cell hardly fit for one, let alone three fuck-craven first-years, for four nights, Bailey’s roommate replied that she had done worse herself. “Big whoop!” she declared somewhat eagerly. “I directed a gangbang in here once while Bailey was at soccer practice.” Despite repeated requests to explain her use of the word ‘directed,’ and to use literally any other word besides ‘gangbang,’ our discussion of the topic came, at her behest, to an impasse. “I hear he’s well-hung,” she started up again, before trailing off momentarily. “Maybe I’ll get a chance to see those ‘nads,

if only for the sake of Karmic justice. Bailey may be destroyed come Wednesday, so I called the clinic ahead of time to see if they have any wheelchairs or crutches available. I’m not just a roommate -- I’m a best friend. And my mom is a nurse.” Several minutes of one-sided dialogue passed, all of which I am unable to publish, as she somehow grew both cruder and more sentimental. I shut the tape off just as the odor of vaginal fluids begins to register. I then called Bailey’s parents in Concord, New Hampshire to hear their thoughts on their daughter continuing her high-school relationship during her first year in college. “We’re happy for her,” said Mrs. Latter, “but we do hope she is focusing on her academics.” While her mother voiced concerns in the long-term, her father seemed a bit more crass. “They met senior year for Christ’s sake. He goes to some state school for out of state tuition. Not sure what for. Weird kid, but infinitely hung. I guess he’s cute, but they only started dating just before prom. Is it a requirement to be cute to be captain of the sports teams or what? He’s definitely co-cap of something… Lacrosse maybe? Either way, Bailey needed a date, and I guess all other options were exhausted; so the courting process of frozen yogurt and promposals and social media branding of their relationship began. And, you know, suddenly she’s asking to stay the night and... I can’t say no to my baby girl, I mean, she’s eighteen so it’s either I say yes or she joins Antifa. Or the Green Party. At this point I’m sure they’re smart enough to use condoms, but what I especially hope they do is use lube - I sent her a bottle yesterday after she posted a man-crush Monday of him in gym shorts. Yeesh. I just haven’t the foggiest idea of how her lithe body is handling that monster. And I mean it’s a monster. But, if anyone is going to ride that former Homecoming king until their bladder protrudes, hanging swollen like a wet nerf football, I'm glad it can be my little girl. Hold on,

you have to see this picture of him from wrestling camp --” Unfortunately, I had to cut Mr. Latter off there. I then asked if he knew anything else about Bailey’s boyfriend besides the guy’s name, address, and girth, but Mr. Latter replied that he did not. Once again, my investigation into Bailey’s boyfriend had come to a screeching, moaning halt. And by screeching and moaning, I mean her dad kept doing that. My next visit was to the campus student health center in an attempt to gain any insight on Bailey’s general status up until this point. They were hesitant to let me speak to the only Doctor on staff, most likely because he’s actually a nurse practitioner and he’s 23, but I insisted. “Well, we usually see a great influx of female patients after a long weekend, or after any weekend at all. Many girls forget the golden rule: pee after sex, poop before shower.” I asked him next how he knew Bailey and if she’d been to the clinic before for a similar instance, but he insisted he couldn’t disclose that information. “I’ve only ever seen her around the campus grounds. Oh yeah, she’s a tiny thing. I hope she’s not fucking some giant, 100% all beef flesh thermometer, because she looks like she can hardly handle a garden variety chode. Just one man’s opinion of course, but that man is wearing a white coat. I actually ran into Bailey earlier today and caught her buying some cranberry juice, so I took the liberty of booking her for next Monday, at which point that UTI will be disintegrating her urethral tract like acid rain on the Amazon.” I thanked the man dressed eerily like a doctor for his time, finally at peace with the story I had crafted. Just as I was leaving, though, he abruptly asked me to get lunch with him. He was cute and I was flattered, but I had to initially decline. Then I saw what it was that he had written his number on: a coupon, 2-for-1 on Ocean Spray. It’s going to be a long weekend, indeed.

Softball Game By Peter Soucy

We all love the game of soft, and we all love the game of balls. This is precisely why we all listen to me announce a softball game on the radio. What’s up, I’m Famas Anas from BBC Newse and you’re listening to Softball Game Girls Playing Soft Games Hard Softballs Weekly! If you’re just tuning in, we’re in the bottom of the 9th with the Sandy Tucheses -- still not sure how to pronounce that, nobody called in during the 7th inning stretch to help me -- at bat, trying to pull back the win against the Hofstra Dutchwomen. If you’re just tuning out, OH GOD PLEASE KEEP LISTENING. I CAN’T GO BACK TO MODELING. Up at bat is Kate Ate, that’s spelled like the past tense of the verb “to eat,” for those listening at home and writing down everything I’m saying. Please, start writing my words down if you’re not already. The Hofstra pitcher, Leslie, from Ohio, I think, is preparing her pitch. Her boyfriend is in the stands tonight, and he’s been nothing but smiles and mustard stains. Here’s the pitch, and bong, somebody just rang a huge fucking gong. Whoa, that's very loud! And with good reason, as the the ball has gone flying into the mouth of first basemen, David Ortiz In Wig. What an absolute catch by the surprising young superstar Wig David! She’s really putting her money where her mouth is out there, or her softballs where her teeth used to be. This kind of athleticism is rare to witness, folks, and as teeth now spill out of Wig David’s mouth like tic tac’s out of my grandmother’s throat hole. Leaves you feeling almost envious of these athletes, doesn't it folks? There are some days

where I would give everything up just to be invisible. Next up at bat is 21 year-old Susan Boozin’. That’s Boozin’ with an apostrophe and everything for those still writing down all my words. Hopefully that’s all of you. She looks pretty drunk from what I can see, and she’s using four avocados duct taped to a mannequin leg as her bat. This is a softball first, folks. It’s a power play, but we’ll just have to see how it turns out. Oh shlepablangus! She hit the ball q HOT q into left field, where Shelly Smelly is now absorbing the energy of the sacred orb into her being. This is really nice stuff, folks. And -- what is this -- it looks like the overseers are gonna rule that a ground-rule-double. Looks like those avocados paid off! And, oh wow folks, Shelly has now obtained enough softballs to reveal her true form. Let’s see if the overseers choose to put her down or not. As I speak and you write, Shelly’s right-hand fingers are now growing to extreme lengths. They are getting so incredibly long, I’m not sure there is a ball she can’t catch now, folks. She is making tickling fingers at the sun and aiming right for his shiny little tum tum. It’s rather cute, and I hope it doesn’t stop. I HOPE THIS NEVER STOPS. Last at bat, because I guess you don’t watch to watch anymore softball, is the infamous Crystal Clear. Crystal is

a freshman who loves to hit hard softballs with soft hard-bats. She’s in position, with her usual foam bat, hoping for a miracle. Down by one run. Runner on second. Her uncle on third. Three blind opossums working together on forth. Her mom’s fourth husband, Drayke, on eighth. Three men on each other’s shoulders in a trench coat taking a picture for a giant’s passport on twelfth. 84 volumes of the first Harry Potter book all stuck together with chewed gum on fifteenth. And on twentieth we have an old man yelling at a hydrangea bush that he wants to start all over. Now there’s a sentiment we can all get behind! All Crystal needs to do now is hit the ball anywhere but up. Here’s the pitch...and whomp, a crab pinches the ball so hard it pops! It’s ruled a strike. Second pitch coming. Shelly’s finger’s look ready. Here it is and...yes Crystal hit’s the ball straight down! First dirt, then crust, then upper mantle, then lower mantle, then Hell, then -- yes that’s it -- Earth’s core! Volcanoes are spewing lava everywhere, and the Sandy Tucheses have beaten the Hofstra Dutchwomen! God I would hate to be a Hofstra student right now, or at anytime in the foreseeable future! Or even probably the past! Please email my mom all the words I said tonight, and tell her the snipers are now aiming their sights on me. And that’s the game! Oh no!

Buy My House

by Jesse Saunders and Joseph Kolb

a soft focus photo essay

This is the house. Four bed, two bath. Also, my girlfriend Karen. She loves this house.

5 2

Living Room. Great space for entertaining. my girlfriend Karen again.

This is the dining room. All of the furniture is my girlfriend Karen's, she has great taste.

Kitchen. Newly remodeled, great details on the cabinets and back-splash. Did it last summer with my girlfriend Karen.

6 The backyard and garage. My girlfriend Karen kept her bike in there.

It's a great house. And my girlfriend Karen. â&#x20AC;&#x2039; This is the bathroom sorry my girlfriend Karen had to pee.

7 4

Th orough Assessm entof

Mother's

Finest Wigs By James Sweeney

“Mother was born a brunette, and a brunette Mother will stay,” says Mother when we put on the wig that looks like the drink Dr. Pepper. This wig, which Mother calls The Dr. Pepper Wig, and which I call “Wig #5,” and which Father calls “Skull Mask 3,” is 16 luscious inches of real human hair, and 2 additional inches of something else entirely. Has mother ever worn it in the Sun? No. Could Mother take it off if she tried? No. It’s a heavy wig, and despite the smile on Mother’s face at all times, I’m beginning to think it hurts her even more than it’s supposed to.

If I’m being completely truthful, Mother’s fourth-finest wig is really worn more like a hat. No, not like the brimmed and beaten in “caps” worn in grandeur by scalp-rich bigots, but like a sweating pile of hair we’ve purchased to make Mother happy. Mother says it makes her feel like television’s #1 know-nothing whore Cameron Diaz to wear streaks of bleach-blonde head-hair right on top of Wig #5 (a top-3 favorite of Father's), and frankly, I think I see what she’s getting at. “Darlings,” Mother chimes in at times from beneath the growing mound of gifts,

“Don’t we think it would be good to fan Mother while she’s beautiful like this?” – and sometimes following that would be another phrase, perhaps a more stern one, perhaps stating “Mother was not asking,” or perhaps, “Frasier is still good.” Suppose Mother is in a good mood on this day, in which case she’ll sit in her rocking chair and speak poems to no one in particular save for Father. “My smile and eyes belie an interminable sleep,” begins the one-line poem she’s been reciting since her wedding day. The wig is 12 inches long.

Wig #3 is like four inches long and it stinks like shit and makes all of us sick. Mother can’t stand it, so much so that she’s named it Vinegar Afterbirth, which was going to be the name of my band, but whatever. Putting this particular wig on Mother always results in the same series of events: A little shaking, a lot of smiling, and then four hours of her alltoo-famous Choir of Silence, which was gonna be the name of our first album, but fuck it I guess. We’re not really sure what color this wig is supposed to be, but Father has been calling it a “trash rag,” or maybe a “trash bag.” Mother thinks it’s funny when he does

this, and while I don’t quite get what’s so funny about all that, I have nonetheless agreed to put him in his place. You know it’s Halloween on Mother’s skull when this misfit’s scalp gets cleaned and fitted for transplant. Not a lot of women can pull off an orange wig, and Mother’s right there with em’. She’s tried! Oh, how she’s tried. But that thing’s glued on tight. Mother’s best bet now is to sweat so much that the hair just spills off of her, which I suppose she’s realized, on account of the smile. “Mother is positively famished,” says Mother around 6pm, and I forgot to mention the wig goes down to her feet and gets dirty as hell because we have a dog.

“This is Mother’s lovemaking wig,” says Mother and everyone goes “Ewwww” except Father who cracks his knuckles like a 21 gun salute. They disappear into the room I've never seen and when Mother returns she reeks of wig glue and she’s got Father in a wig and it’s Skull Mask 3, The Dr. Pepper wig, and he enjoys that wig even more than I do, so it’s good. “This is a good wig,” says Father, and I unsheathe my noggin, and Mother starts right up again.