Nonsense For Adults by Nonsense Humor

Nonsense Humor Magazine MAY 2017, ISSUE 167

THE 411 ON 401K’S

THEY’RE GOOD. 10 CROCKPOT RECIPES FOR THE THROES OF DEPRESSION REAL LIVE NAKED ADULT

PETER SOUCY

SLEEPING WITH YOUR BOSS: IS IT WORTH IT? ...YEAH

Nonsense For Adults

Contents Front Cover

Gillian Pitzer

2 4

Ads

Zachary Johnson

Editorials

Zachary Johnson Heather Levinsky

Mailbag Y’all Like This Shit?

Nonsense Staff

Art

Gillian Pitzer

Career Tip! Murder Your Boss Jesse Saunders

5 Handshakes to Assert Your Dominance Quin Asselin

Book Reviews for Wine Moms

Brenna Lilly

Staff Editors In Chief Zachary “Nup!” Johnson Heather “Trainbeer” Levinsky Head Writer Matthew “Inside Dog” Tanzosh

Assistant Editors Ashley “Pictures of” Vernola Ariel “Guns of” Leal Lames Weenie

Design Director Gillian “Can Finally Vomit” Pitzer

Art Director

Art

Heather Levinsky

Choose Your Own Adventure Veronica Toone

Zachary Johnson

Flintstones Steroids Ad Gillian Pitzer

Birthday Ad

Joseph Kolb

7 Clean Ways to Explain Sex to Your Handsome Son Peter Soucy

Treasurer Peter “$10 Beer” Soucy

NYU Ad

Joseph “90’s Chic” Kolb

Everything You Need to Know About a Bull Market

Club Advisor Amy “Please Pass Brenna and Ronnie” Karofsky

Issue Contributors Jesse “HGTV” Saunders Brenna “Mozza” Lilly Veronica “Dying Siren” Toone Quin “Ass”elin

Ariel Leal

How to Poop at Work Peter Soucy

The Game of Life and How to Play It

Trevor “Are Ya Winnin’, Son?” Parrish

Ashley Vernola

13 14

Moral Support

A Battle of Whits Zachary Johnson Quin Asselin

Last Words

Matthew Tanzosh

15 Back Cover

Heather Levinksy

Obituaries

Zachary Johnson

Disclaimer

Nonsense Humor Magazine is Hofstra’s only intentional humor magazine. Please don’t take any advice from us, because we don’t know what we’re talking about. The views expressed herein do not necessarily represent the views of Hofstra University. Any likenesses to people or school newspapers existing or fictional are purely coincidental. Nonsense Humor Magazine is not responsible for any restraining orders from businesses, mid-life crises, or mild alcoholism ignored by those around you.

EDITORIALS

Hi! Hello! Thank you for picking up this issue of Nonsense! This is Heather and I’s last issue as Editors-in-Chief, and Matt’s last issue as Head Writer so, for us, at least, it makes sense that this is finally the point in time where we start thinking about becoming adults. Last year we did an issue called “Nonsense 4 Kidz”, which was definitely not for children, so this time around we decided to chase a more mature audience—and you should totally give this one to your parents. Club-wise, this year wasn’t perfect, but the great thing about Nonsense is that whatever curse that was placed upon us back in ’83 will always stick around to make sure that nothing can ever be. Our club has grown a lot this year, and I think it’s fair to say that we’re much less of a club now and much more of an artistic community. We’ve also got a fucking office back after 3.5 years without one, and for fuck’s sake I like to think we had some goddamn fun. We didn’t win an award again, but you bet your ass we lost the physical copy of the one we won last year (that aforementioned curse).

However, despite it’s terrible karma, Nonsense still fucking rocks. This club has given me the most tumultuous four years of my life, and it’s one of the only reasons I didn’t transfer away from Hofstra a long time ago. And I’m not just saying that so I can continue to justify the “Nonsense” tattoo on my left arm for the next 20 years (or however the hell longer I’m going to live), I’m saying it because it’s true. This IS the best club on campus, and it’s the only one that’s fucking funny. (Well, intentionally.) The process of this last issue was rough, it was rushed, and it came at a bad time. But there is undeniably a visible creative talent here that is unique to everything else at Hofstra. If you’re reading this as any kind of creative person at this school who feels like they’re lacking an outlet—even if you don’t have experience creating things or don’t have experience with comedy—I urge you to get involved with Nonsense. This group of people will help you learn and help you get better, and help you challenge yourself to create the best shit you can, in

Hi everybody. I am graduating so I swear I’ll be out of your hair soon, but before I go I’ll say a few things. So first of all, thanks for reading Nonsense. I can’t believe it’s still a magazine sometimes because we really almost died like at least 20 times in the past 4 years. Haha. Joining Nonsense as a freshman felt a little bit like climbing onto a sinking ship. Obviously I stayed the hell on board because of people like Ana Davis, Sam Senicola, PJ LaRocco, Aaron Calvin, my freshmen peers - Zach Johnson among them and several others who will go unnamed at this time (i.e., go to hell). Those were lean times for Nonsense as an institution after the eviction from our beloved office, but we still believed, baby. Dong Island was still a place, we were throwing shows left and right, and life was a game. We put out the D Issue, we put out the Green Issue. Writing almost exclusively about dick and weed

without being offensive shockvalue assholes about it marked a shift in tone for Nonsense that I’m proud to have been a part of. Then at some point Zach and I took over and we started putting our words and images onto paper and physically handing them to people, and then they were forced to actually read it, and they all went “oh great, yeah, I’ve heard a lot about this, I’ll definitely read it” and then threw it in a trash can at Late Night Breakfast or something. But at least now we have this paper train so we can claim that we have a readership, so honestly, #NonsenseRevival2015. It’s been great, we got a really big team, we’re all the way up, we got a lotta people tryna drain us of the energy...et cetera. I spent all that time being an awesome EIC but then when I started Our Lady last June it spiraled out of control and took over my entire life really quick, so it’s really Zach who’s carried the

ways you couldn’t imagine. We have an excellent team of people taking over next year, and I am so incredibly proud of all of them, and I know that spirit will live on (even if it is still cursed). My last words to any and all future Nonsense members—if you give enough of a shit to read this— is to keep doing it. Keep fucking doing it. Hofstra’s administration flat-out sucks. It’s a PR nightmare, and they don’t give a shit about you or your voice. But the fact that Hofstra’s own money continues to go to a student organization that actively criticizes it, and actively uses its funds to make inane bullshit is something both important and necessary. Printing this shitrag won’t fix anything, but continuing to cultivate this incredible community

of artists means everything. I’m so glad this space exists on Hofstra’s campus, and I hope that it continues to exist until the day that Long Island sinks into the fucking ocean. (Unless you guys fuck it up) With that, I am gladly going to heck off permanently and get some goddamn rest. Thank you to everyone I’ve met here, ofc thank you to Matt and Heather, and thank you to rest of the incredible e-board we’ve had the pleasure of working with. I look forward to reading Nonsense under your leadership.

-Zachary Johnson P.S. Someone please rub that spicy buss all over the stupid new Zarb school for me.

Heather

Zach

weight of the Editor-in-Chief-ship this past year. If I’ve contributed anything to this publication in the past 18 months it’s absolutely because Zach or one of our other wonderful e-board members straight up told me to do it. If I ever had the constitution to run this club (pun intended) it’s long since been taken out of me. So it’s perfect timing to leave Nonsense to more capable hands so I can begin my life as a real adult or whatever. The theme of the issue. So. Thank you to anyone who came to a show or open mic or anything at Our Lady of Perpetual Hope. I can only hope that Nonsense continues to extend itself into

the realm of DIY music and art because Lorde knows Hofstra could use a little communitas (that’s “community,” for all you non-theater majors) nowadays. Big ups to the NCPD for keeping me humble and even bigger ups to Zach for being the most endlessly patient co-EIC that God Themself ever made. Am I allowed to say one last thing about Hofstra Concerts? Before I go I just want to say that you guys mean well and all but like the thing I don’t get about your club is th

-Heather Levinsky

Mailbag

Some “stuff” fell off the “back” of the “truck” last “night”, how do “I” “move” “it”? We’re “calling” the “police”?

It cool if I blassacig in here?

Can I get a g for 20? G isn’t a vowel; you don’t have to buy it

My parents are both really good, hard-working individuals and I’d like to say that they have an open mind but their parents were pretty religious and conservative so I’m not sure how they’ll react if I come out to them. Would you happen to have any advice on what to say to maybe make the conversation to run a little more smoothly? Hi gay, I’m dad.

My penis is alt-right but my scrotal is leftitst. How do I fuck my girlfriend? >dead center

Knowing nothing about people then judging them based on their astrology sign

Siri, what is “blassacig”?

Why come he got his peepee out? Can I speak to the manager please?

What do you feel about transgender bathroom rights?

My boyfriend keeps trying to do something with a wet finger in my butthole and a gloved finger in my mouth, and something about my nose? Help? Nice try, kid. You won’t be able to get us to talk about the Wyoming Wet Screwdriver, and even if you were, your boyfriend is WRONG because you need a clear sinus canal, access to a cement mixer, and an ice cold speculum. Otherwise, it’s just called the Mac DeMarco.

This magazine is mixed company, BUT I think a bathroom can be whatever gender it wants to be.

Hey, what fucked up thing should I write on the new Zarb School of Business steel beam since you guys would know what to do? I just figured you guys would know what to do That money was donated. Have some dang respect. (please draw a dick on it)

https://en.wikipedia.org/ wiki/Hurricane_Gordon_ (2006)

Complete isolationism Being socially liberal but fiscally conservative

Nipples Hungry Man Dinners Soft communism

As a white person, saying shit about white people Cookie Dough

Sugar scrubs

Coming to terms with your conflicting feelings about George Bush Mixing paint

Improvised explosive bath products

Y’all Like This Shit? 5

Career Tip!

nnovators make mistakes. I am an innovator. Minimum wage in this country upsets me greatly, I have earned it for far too long. I work more than you. This is because I innovate, I change, I murder, I grow. Workplace ethics is a tricky business, tricky because the rules are dictated by Candace Cameron of Full House fame through the small screen of an empty TV in the basement of an undisclosed government building, but that’s not important now. Check it: Promotions are for losers. The real winners don’t wait around for fate to bless; The. Real. Winners. Commit. Federal. Crimes. Shockingly enough I actually attended law school before Legally Blonde came out, which was before the bubble burst in 2008 thanks to a variety of socioeconomic factors and a largely ignored war. Good news:

veryone makes that same mistake when they see Ralph from the front desk. They go, “Well shit, Ralph has some tiny hands so it shall be easy for me to crush them into a mealy flesh paste before I go to Denny’s for their limited edition Holiday Harvest Skillet.” But if you’re really looking to add some sizzle to your season, you better be read up, Peach Tea. For Ralph and his unremarkable hands have felled CEOs with a couple of baseball gloves for clodhoppers. Here’s some techniques to consume with your noodle before taking on the big dog himself.

The Rock and The Hard Place Take the small yet formidable hand of Ralph the Intern into the welcoming embrace of your preferred spank mitten. Then take your southpaw and eclipse his little pygmy digits. You are a vice grip in your eighth grade woodshop, you’re Anton Yelchin’s new car, you’re the ocean swallowing the Titanic. You must be deaf to the screams.

The Pachaug Punisher A bit of forewarning: This is an advanced level shake that

Murder Your Boss

By Jesse Saunders

I. Love Legally. Blonde. Now let’s break this down for everyone involved. For the past ten years of my life I have risen at 6:45 AM to escape my two-story home (with an unfinished basement) to attend a job that I hope will provide me enough money to finish my basement. Every day this simple processed is actually ruined by multiple people. If provided the opportunity to maybe delete one of these negative-nellies from your life, I believe you need to do it! What does that one inspiring speaker say? Take life by the man-made horns? Be the master of another person’s destiny and or life force? Something like that. I do not listen to Candace Cameron when she inspires me -- her presence is enough. Murder actually creates quite the power vacuum, but applying for said positions is a tough choice. On one hand there is the chance that everyone will realize that you fucking murdered Shaun,

but on the other hand the dental benefits are extraordinary. Do you know what murder does for your resume? Advanced Planning, improv, secrecy, experience working with hard chemicals, sales. I’m literally selling you on Shaun’s murder right now, and your interest is literally piqued. So let’s talk Shaun: Small man. Big Dreams. Dead now. Fucking sucked. Let’s talk me: I. Don’t. Suck. I don’t murder men lightly, every 99 failures gives you one successful murder -- yes, I tried to kill shaun 99 times. We were like Road Runner and Wile E. Coyote. Tom and Jerry. Nicole Brown Simpson and The Juice. I was The Juice -- but that doesn’t matter now! What really matters to me is that his peanut allergy was the really bad kind, which was pretty goddamn convenient information once it was provided to me. Kind of outrageous I wasn’t

requires the aid of an entire river to complete. A very spitty mouth will do in a pinch but that can be a dead giveaway for a certain hawk-eyed intern. You’re gonna reach in for that standard shake (American, not Australian ya goon) and hold his lotioned hand interlaced with your quintet of meat pistons. Then take your Grade A USDA certified beef sausages and lock him in. Sweep the legs, then either roll him into a gulley or unleash a Biblical torrent of expectorate from your negotiation orifice. You haven’t had a shake/workout like that in a while huh?

hand embracing each other. Plus, this shake is great for those who are with Ralph in a Home Depot or an under construction Denny’s a couple months before you really give his palms a pulverizing. You know, doing this could really end up hurting him a whole lot. If you’ve got such a beef with Ralph don’t you think it’d be best to maybe try and talk it out with him? Why do you always gotta be escalating shit to new levels like this?

Maybe Just Be Nice to Ralph? I’m really not sure what your problem with Ralph is. He’s a decent intern and those mitts of his are still mighty enough to schedule all necessary appointments. He can type around 90 words a minute, even on a big boy keyboard. So maybe you shouldn’t be mocking a man who’s making the best of the bad hand he was dealt.

A Hammer This one is less of a handshake and more of a hammer and a putrid little baby babuu boy

Mazda Meathook Masher This is a pretty cruel and unusual handshake, even for a saucy little cornball like yourself. First you’re gonna have to steal the keys to Intern Ralph’s modestly priced 1998 Mazda Miata. You won’t be able to miss it because it’s a flashy red sports car that he parks in my spot every-goddamnday. Start joyriding that baby all over town until you’re out completely devoid of fuel/ motivation (whichever comes first) then return to the last known location of Ralph, he’ll be there. Shake his teeny tiny flesh gripper and inform him of all the misdeeds that led to his Mazda’s disappearance. His hand will

provided a list of office allergies before this whole instance... perhaps a more transparent, detail-oriented managerial style would have plugged that gap. If you’re curious as to what Shaun did, he was admittedly just your average awful boss -- would Cc: me in pointless memos, went behind my back to speak with corporate about next year’s healthcare package, repeatedly confiscated my 1980s Big Boom Box, would refuse to allow me to watch Legally Blond and Candice Cameron. But that’s fine. He also stole my fiancé, but that’s actually completely unrelated. It was just one of those things -- like when Stephanie on Full House tries to change her name so people stop calling her Step-On-Me. I’ve changed my name too. It is now #80081-135 and I am in a place where I can watch--can only watch--Legally Blond and Full House, as much as I want.

Handshakes to Assert Your Dominance Over Mr. Tiny Hands By Quin Asselin limp and his face shall grow pale, as you compress his carpal tunnel into the world smallest neutron star. Ralph may have never done anything to deserve such unjust hate at your very hands, but just looking’ at him you can totally tell that his diminutive flesh carrots were due for a squishing. And you and me kid, we’re gonna take this town’s hands down a peg, one lowly unsuspecting trashbag of an intern at a time.

Book Reviews For Wine Moms By Sharon Blanda

reetings, ladies, it’s Sharon, your new best friend. This week we have another hefty sack of novels to sift through. We have a few fantastic selections: some, sadly, corporatelypublished, and one brave self-published. No need for big name authors here. I picked the best of the best, and brought them to you, personally. Intimately. Pour yourself a glass of that Franzia blush and buckle in, honey! Because this one’s going to be a doozie.

Lydia in the Wild

Mary Contrary, Penguin Publishing, 2017

Lydia, our main character, is a small, religious, big-city girl with a tiny vagina. She’s your average lover – small and big-city-dwelling. Working full-time at a failing New York tabloid writing book reviews has left her womanhood parched as a puckering sundried tomato (and no, more oil-based lube won’t solve feminine dryness caused by years of sexual dissatisfaction). Attempts at seducing her 60-year-old married boss have proven less than fruitful. Lydia is exhausted, barely finding time on the weekends to pleasure herself with the $5 bullet vibrator she bought at Spencer’s on a dare at a bachelor party. When work sends her to the Wild Wild West of Newark, New Jersey for a research project, she discovers a big, small-town boy with a big, small, and medium member who will show her the ropes, quite literally. Within the first fourteen pages, Lydia is whisked away from the Big Apple to a life of shoddy investigative journalism, lassoes, and bondage (oh god, the bondage). Will Lydia leave her life of subdued mediocrity in a stifling city to bond to her rugged Rutgers cowboy in holy matrimony and sumptuous sanctified sex? This book, being only thirty pages with 32-point text, is an easy and steamy beach-read to leave by your husband’s bedside in an effort to get him to buy more Cialis, maybe pay some attention to ladyparts that, like Lydia’s, are bone-dry and

unloved. Bring your bifocals and sarong down to the beach and give this one a hot read. 4.5/5 stars

How to Raise a Straight Daughter When You Are Questioning Your Own Sexuality (For Dummies), John Wiley & Sons, John Wiley & Sons, 2017

We’ve all done it, ladies. You’re at the soccer game waiting for your boy Cayden to come off the field (because your husband refuses to pick him up on Wednesdays, much like he refuses to satisfy your feminine needs). Your arms are full of juice boxes and other electrolyte-rich drinks for youngsters, when suddenly, you are struck by a divine beauty walking towards you. She introduces herself to you as Marlene, mother to Cayden’s friend Bricyn. She offers you a hand, and when she reaches out to take some of the drinks from your arms, to lighten your heavy load, you can’t help but notice her massive tidz. Is she pregnant? No, her stomach is totally flat, as can be seen through her well-fitted cashmere J. Crew cowl-neck sweater. Are they fake? No, they bounce like real bazookas (here, the handbook includes diagrams). Wait, you ask yourself, why are you thinking so much about this woman’s juggalos? Are you a pervert? Or worse – are you a lesbo? (I didn’t THINK I was raised on the Isle of Lesbos! The book even features a map) You shake these thoughts from your mind, but you cannot forget how giant her knockers were. Later that day at home, your teenage daughter comes home from the mall with – gasp! – a nose ring. Knowing that nose rings are used to tie women together – an act of lesbian sex – you demand that she remove it from her nose. But not so fast! Raising a straight daughter isn’t as easy as telling her to remove metal objects from her various cartilaginous body parts. To raise a straight daughter, you must be a straight icon. You must exude straightness. Your very coochie must ooze heterosexuality.

Forget about the big-boobied-biddy you met at the soccer game and get yourself straightened up, first. 3.5/5 stars, -1.5 stars for too much breast description.

Cooking with Charlie

Sharon Blanda, Selfpublished, 2017 This book has everything. Have you ever found yourself alone on a Sunday evening with nowhere to go but your refrigerator? Your husband is at work, he said. He’ll be home late, he said. Your children are already in bed, and your big-mouthed friends are at the Suburban Ladies Sunday Night Book and Hors d’Oeuvres Club without you. Once, Janice accidentally invited you on a Facebook event, then deleted it as soon as you noticed. You don’t talk to Janice anymore, because you’re too busy working for a big-name magazine. Yes. A big-name magazine. You find yourself alone, with no one to comfort you but – oh? Who is this, knocking on your refrigerator door? It’s Mr. Charles Shaw! Everyone’s favorite cheap $3 boy from Trader Joe’s, his tender red and white varieties pleasuring your palate with a tart tang. He is so good to you, and treats you so kindly. Charlie would never stay late at work. Charlie would never uninvite you to a social event. Charlie is a kind and giving lover; an affordable and high-alcohol-content friend. Cook with him. Chardonnay? Try the “Scalp Your Cheating Husband Scallops with Linguine.” Merlot? Roast an entire “Put Your Book Club Up Your Ass, Janice Pot Roast” and eat it with your bare hands from the crock pot. Make passionate love to this recipe book, as if you haven’t been fucked in years. This recipe masterpiece, written by yours truly, and featuring colorful and life-life illustrations by my son, was rejected from Penguin, Random House, Houghton-Mifflin, HarperCollins, Simon & Schuster, and even Tyndale (I took the fucking swears out!), but can be found as a self-publication on Amazon. 5/5 stars

Choose Your Own Adventure CLIMB THAT CORPORATE LADDER! By Veronica Toone

Good afternoon, friends. I’ve gathered you here because this marks the day that you will be a BIG BOY. Congratulation! Your life is about to take a SWEET, SWEET TURN. Hopefully, for the better. I’m really tired. Today, we embark on an adventure unlike any we have embarked on before. No more are we reaching mad far into the DEPTHS OF SPACE. And medieval times? I don’t know her. No, we’re going to what is probably the most amazing and stupendous place your FEEBLE MINDS can comprehend. It’s big. It’s bold. It’s a little sad. It’s the biggest adventure of all: Your life. I’ll be your ambiguous guide, as I am always forced to be, so TAKE A FUCKING SEAT, babes. Because today, you’re climbing— The corporate ladder.

That’s right, sweetlings. This week’s adventure is:

A Trip Through the Desolate No-Man’s Land That is Daily Life in a Corporate Setting. START HERE! The year is 2020. Ripe out of college, you’ve finally managed to get your own place. You wake up early these days. Bummer, bro. You look at the alarm clock on your fragile wooden dresser: 4:59 AM. You curse the MERCILESS GOD who has brought you to this point in your life. You get your little boy butt out of your little boy bed and look out the window. It’s sunny. Your HUNGOVER ASS curses that, too. If you decide to go to work today, go to PARAGRAPH 2. If you decide to get drunk and watch television, go to PARAGRAPH 3.

PARAGRAPH 2 After a brief moment of contemplating your existence in your shoddy bathroom, you throw on a couple of clothing pieces and hustle that ass down the busy street. You equip your MAP—though it’s hard to see through all the cracks your phone screen has endured—and walk to the palace of iniquity that will be referred to henceforth as your ESTEEMED PLACE OF BUSINESS. You’re still holding on to rapidly-deteriorating optimism though: for today is the day you, you sweaty sweet man,

will make the cut. You see a woman walking in from the parking lot. She reeks of something close to mulch and is holding coffee. What do you do, hmmmm? If you decide to hold the door open for her, go to PARAGRAPH 7. If you decide to walk in, not holding the door, and adjust your tie like how Leo does in Wolf of Wall Street (you know that one time), go to PARAGRAPH 4.

PARAGRAPH 3 Oh no no no, my darling. You’re a grown-up now. And in being a grown-up, you have to do grown-up things. I can’t be your guide forever. My God, really? Get off your ass and get dressed, you freeloading slacker. Although, to be honest, I think I should let you know how sorry I feel for you. Because if you read a choose your own adventure to get drunk and watch television—if you fantasize about watching television in your underwear— then you’ve got a laundry list of problems as long as Warren Buffet’s bungee’d scrote. THIS CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE IS OVER. YOU’RE INADEQUATE.

PARAGRAPH 4 You do that. You head right on in as Parking Lot Gal spills scalding cappuccino all over the front of her Nine West Two-Button stretch blazer. The glass door closes tenderly as she screams. Adjust that tie yet? Do it. Smirk to yourself. Good. You make your way to the TOP DOG OFFICE. You knock on the

door until a stern-looking woman answers. Her arms are crossed, and a cigarette hangs limply from her fingers like some Network nightmare. She frowns. “Are you the new hire? Shit, you’re taller than I imagined you’d be.” She doesn’t know who you are! How do you respond? If you decide that you’re going to lie to her, say you’re the new hire and, without interviewing with these people, start on your first day on the job with absolutely no idea what you’re doing, go to PARAGRAPH 5. If you decide to tell her the truth, go to the TOP RIGHT-HAND CORNER OF THE PAGE.

PARAGRAPH 5 “Yes, ma’am, that’s me! New hire.” She squints at you before finally deciding there’s no way anyone would be stupid enough as to lie to their boss in a position like yours. You aim about mindlessly before making your way to the WATER COOLER. A young woman—BRENDA, her nametag reads—is looking at you curiously. You don’t like it. You look around for some sort of retreat, but then remember you don’t fucking work here. You spot the BATHROOM. Sick, bro. You take off and take immediate comfort in the smell of ammonia and cleaning fluids. A man enters and stands next to you at the urinal. Curiosity starts to prickle in your veins. GO TO PARAGRAPH 6. If you think you have a choice, READ THE ABOVE DIRECTION. I’M GOD HERE.

PARAGRAPH 6 You look at his dick. You don’t mean to do that, but here you are, doing it. You try to be conspicuous, you really do, but regardless, he spots you PEEPING. He side-eyes you

and clears his throat. “Hey, are you the kid in sales?” Almost subconsciously, you nod, ignoring the flush on your face and in the stall next to you. Then he fucking smiles and, after finishing up, washes his hands. “I’m Ted. I’m the manager of the sales department. And y’know what? I appreciate a guy with initiative. It’s a bold move lookin’ at a dick in a urinal, son. I think we can get some paperwork off to Corporate to promote you.” Your jaw nearly drops to the stained floor. You follow behind Ted out of the bathroom—not too close, let’s not be weird—and spot an EMPTY DESK across the office. You drop down in it and hope no one notices. You look to your right and see Brenda from before. She’s glancing down at your lower parts. You realize she probably just spotted your DICK OUTLINE in your pressed suit pants. You shift and turn to the computer on your desk. If you decide to make conversation, go to PARAGRAPH 8. If you decide to try and get some work done, go to PARAGRAPH 9.

PARAGRAPH 7 Oh, good for you, you decide to be a nice guy. Did you think this was going to praise you for being a decent human being? GO BACK TO PARAGRAPH 2 AND TRY AGAIN, YOU FIFI BAG.

PARAGRAPH 8 You lean your elbow over the chair and smile. She looks at you with a mix of confusion and apathy. “Hi there,” you say, and she gives you a pity smile. You know the kind well. She makes a point of giving a quick introduction to the ‘new kid in sales,’ but after telling her you might be

You think being a brown-nosing pencil-pusher ever got anyone anywhere? You ever hear of Steve Jobs? You know how much lying he did? GO BACK TO PARAGRAPH 4 AND FIB, GODDAMNIT. getting promoted, she suddenly seems really unaffected. You look at the clock on the wall and realize that it’s just about time for you to head home. Where did the day go? Did you spend the whole day talking to this strangely attractive, ambiguous woman who doesn’t know your real name? Faking happiness, and competence, and flaciddity can get tiring, huh? GO TO THE END. I DON’T FEEL LIKE TALKING TO YOU ANYMORE.

PARAGRAPH 9 Oh, you silly ant, you don’t work here, remember? But fine; you made the call. It’s too late to go back now. TURNS OUT YOU DID EVERYTHING WRONG AND YOU GOT FIRED, BUCKO. GO BACK AND DO IT OVER BECAUSE WHAT ELSE ARE YOU GONNA DO, FINALLY WRITE THAT SCREENPLAY?

END You will wake up tomorrow, and the cycle shall resume. There is no break. There is only this, forever. You will get paid, and you will go home, and you will come back. Brenda will once again catch a glimpse of your dick, outlined in your pressed suit pants. It will happen again, and again, and again, and again. We’ll see you on Monday. BYE

Clean Ways to Explain Sex to Your Handsome Son it goes after it. Maybe it’s a small berry, or let’s say a papaya. Having lost the ability to echolocate in evolution, the fruit bat uses its keen sense of smell to stick its long carrotlike fang into the papaya. Once it has sucked out all the nutrients, it drops a big guano to the ground and flies off to find another papaya. That’s sex!” If your handsome son loves bats as much as mine does then this will make them really happy.

By Our Sex Expert We’ve all been there. You have a son who’s such a large handsome boy of a son, and you know the girls are gonna be trying to tame his crotch carrot faster than you can say, “son that’s actually called your penis, not your cloth carol.” So, how do you explain the lowdown, on the getdown, on the letdown, that is sex? Sex is a joyless, thankless experience. No one wants it, but you know your son is so long and handsome that it’s bound to be sprung upon him by someone handsome and wide. Here are seven clean ways to explain sex to your pure, cylindrical, handsome son.

1.“One time a million years ago, God

grabbed a holy bee and stuck its stinger into a birds butt, and said ‘this is sex, and it is sin, but you must do it for me.’ So humans did it and still do it. That’s sex!”

This one is pretty much straight out of the Bible. Not religious, just scared? Here:

2. “When the fruit bat spots a piece of

fruit that it would like to ingest purely for its nutrients, and maybe its flavor,

3. “Remember those dreams you

would have about dipping your crotch carrot into a bowl of mud? That’s not sex!”

If your handsome son has had these same dreams, then it’s probably good to clarify what sex is not. Just tell him this, and every other thing. He’ll get it.

4. “Son, that’s actually called your penis, not your crotch carrot. Oops.”

This one only works if, at a young age, you told your handsome son that his penis is called a crotch carrot. If that’s the case, fire away!

5. “If a girl ever tells you that she’s

‘really enjoying this funnel cake that you purchased me at this county fair that you invited me to,’ you need to sneeze on said funnel cake, causing the sugar to encompass her. That’s sex!”

Nuff’ said. Metaphor too apt for comfort? This one!:

6. “Once a year on your lover’s

birthday you should buy for them

their favorite ice cream, then light one-hundred candles in the bedroom. Then you should melt the ice cream using the candles and pour it into your lover’s mouth. After that, they are ready for sex. Slowly insert your carrot into your lover’s carrot receiving sanctum, located exactly where your carrot is except lower or to the side. As soon as you start to feel the tingle of Farmer Joe, retract your carrot, or Farmer Joe will harvest it and you’ll never be able to pee again. That’s sex!” Ah yes, this is how I first overheard about sex. I wanted my handsome son to have the same experience, so I made sure to recite the above paragraph every time he entered a room for four months. (Side note: If you need to bring a little fire to your bedroom, try the candle thing.)

7. “Son, we need to have a talk.

Katie-Alice is the perfect cubical dimension for your cylindrical body. You should ask her to have sex and then have sex. To do so, just ask her to have sex and then let her do everything. You’re adopted, and not the result of my sex, and your mother and I’s marriage is purely financial. Farmer Joe harvested my carrot, or ‘penis’ as you now know, when I was 23. It was during Mardi Gras, and so he never gave it back. ”

Feel free to use any of these clean phrases to explain sex to your handsome son. Just slip them into any conversation. I know they worked with my boy!

Everything You Need to Know About a Bull Market By Ariel Leal

he economy? Yeah it’s bad. It’s no good. I’m tired of it. Let’s get rid of it. Here’s everything you need to know about a better economy. It’s a better market. Here’s the thing; it’s a bull market. Okay, you see, Wall Street is a dangerous place. The walls are supposed to be keeping the animals inside and they’re not. The walls are ruined; we need new ones. The animals? They’re everywhere. There’s a movie about a wolf; it’s out there. The bear market? Forget about it. That’s over and it’s also done as well. I dated a bear once. He pounded my ass. 2008 pounded my ass. It’s pounded. There’s no such thing as tiger markets. My ass is pounded. Bull market. Let’s talk bull market. I know what you’re thinking. “This is bull.” Pounded. Think tank. I had one. All the people that did the thinking in this huge tank? They took turns fucking my wife. I turned an office full of little boys, small men, half men, men, I turned them into these large and also huge bulls. Bulls fuck wives. That’s what bulls do. That’s a bull. I’m selling them. Call me at 1-800-I-AM-MICHAELKEATON One more time. That’s 1-800-I-AM-MICHAELKEATON Call me. Okay, listen, you wanna get nuts? Let’s get nuts. These boys? Good nuts. I’m not talking about that big bronze statue of a bull, I’m talkin the little girl in front of him. You want the statue? Go fuck yourself. That little girl in front of him? I call her Pasiphae. She’ll grow up to be a fine lady. The thing is this, I’m sellin real bulls. Grade A. A+. Al Jazeera. Alright come in close. Closer. Much closer. Come here. I need to feel the heat. The heat of your anal on my knee. Tell me it’s real. Tell me it’s all real. It’s hot. Now let me tell you something. I’m tired of selling numbers; I’m tired of selling accounts. I spent my whole life selling all kinds of numbers. 3. Look, I brought a consultant. It’s NSYNC. I brought NSYNC. Between you and me, these guys? They all talk

in sync. It’s creepy. I don’t like it, but we need them. Tell us, NSYNC, what have you got to say? “We, uh, well...when it comes to investing it’s really important to diversify your stocks. You don’t want to have all your eggs in one basket and-” No no. None of that. I need the three words. I need you to tell them to me. Sell it to me. What should we do? “I mean we already said that the first thing you need to know about investing is-” No, I need the words. “You mean ‘bye bye bye’? Oh fuck you…” Okay whatever. Boy bands? Fuck ‘em. That’s enough. No more of these clowns. Don’t talk to me about clowns. They’re gone. Boom. Outta here. Alright. The thing is this. I’m selling the bulls. Two bucks a pop. What do you think? I got a warehouse full of them. You have a wife, I know you have a wife. Want her fucked? I got the guy for it. There’s plenty of them. I put em in a cargo box I ship them to your house. Don’t live by a river or port? That’s fine. We’ll ship them to your house. Lice? I’ve got ‘em. It didn’t repair my marriage, but now I love birds. I call that a deal. Listen, I’ve heard of cucking. I’m a cuckold. It’s great. Funny stuff, really, it’s all really funny. The word? It’s funny. I like it. More of that. Good. Bulls? They’re huge. These are big guys (for you) and they’re also large. I’m selling them. Call me today. I got em for you. Trust me. I’m not just my number one salesman; I’m my number one customer. Thank, Mike.

How to Poop at Work By Someone Who Has Done It I tricked my boss and I tricked them good. Tricked them into dragging me to their bathroom— like I knew they would. I’ll tell you a story of hope— of how I got here. How I safely pooped in my boss’s office. Listen closely, my dear. We’ve all been there. You know it’s true. You’re sitting at work and need to poo. Tasty tasty clam chowder in my tummy it feels yum yum. Until that milky, creamy, fishy nectar rushes toward my bum bum. Susan stares up at you from her desk pit in the floor. —Wait, why is her desk so low? No time to think, your tummy churns some more. You waddle-run, cheeks clenched, the Hoover Dam of chowder. Your tum tum really hurts It starts to grumble louder Your hot boss stops you: “I’m ambiguously gendered, and so are my intentions.” You thought they were married— Why your ass they be clenchin’? “Come to my private bathroom Where I bonk my employees.” They’re in over their head— you could destroy them with a squeeze. By the hand they drag you. Your muddy water reaching its peak. As they pull you into their office, your damn starts to leak. Down your leg it slides at several miles per hour. It starts to dribble on the floor like a feculent shower. Your boss pulls down your trousers, shoves you into the lavatory, points at your rutabaga penis and mutters, “He’s gonna be sore-y.” They start to walk over, but slip in your feces. You close the door in their face— time for deadass relief, B! You drop your load with a scream, and look down at the murk. “DAMN THAT FELT GOOD” And that’s how you poop at work.

The Game Of Life And How To Play It BY ASHLEY VERNOLA

hen my boss told me that the way to succeed in this industry was to just play the game of life, I didn’t know what he meant. What game? How could I get my hands on it? So when I got out that night, and he patted me on the head with a smile and a reassuring, “You’re never gonna get out, kid,” I laughed. He was so silly. So I headed off to my local neighborhood Everything and Anything store in order to search for this game. Surprisingly, it wasn’t that hard to find, and once I got home and opened it up, I couldn’t believe my eyes: The Game of Life, just like he said, laid right out in front of me. Looking at the board, the path to success seemed to be a winding path. Write that one down. It was a winding path but nothing I couldn’t handle, so I sat down, strapped myself in and gave the wheel a little spin. The first choice of college or career was easy, as I am a recently graduated college student, so I skipped right to its end: “STOP! Pick a Career”. I was interning with Big Business, but there was no business path, so I picked its closest equivalent: doctor. The next morning, I approached my boss with a chipper attitude, proclaiming, “You always said to aim higher, so guess what? I’m now a doctor and have $50,000 dollars under my belt!” He bit into a piece of his muffin and mumbled, “Eh, son, it all sucks,” but I turned away with a bounce in my step and bumped into Shiela in the hallway. I glanced down at her hand. Great, no ring. My chance was now. I was down on one knee. She looked shocked. “You need to win too, right? So, marry me.” I wasn’t that far in the game yet, I hadn’t yet bought a house, but knew a wedding took time. “Uh…what?” She asked. God, she was so endearing when she blinked so fast. I held my hands out, eager for her to grab them, but she turned on her heels and walked quickly away. I’d have to find another to win. Since my marriage to Shiela didn’t work out, I 12

knew I just had to keep going. I could find someone else. So I spun the wheel until I reached another milestone: “STOP! Buy a House!” I browsed through the selection of cards and found myself a little craftsman. Look at me, a craftsman. I couldn’t wait to spend the night away from my dingy twin sized bed and in something more luxurious. And all to myself! Oh, wait! What’s that? “STOP! Get Married!” Oh, where is Shiela now? I grabbed a pink person peg and put her into my green car. I named her Amanda. I knew it was hasty but we were destined to get married right now. I brought the beautiful pink peg up to my lips and kissed; yes, I kissed. I knew I’d have to make up invitations the next day for everyone at work, but in the meantime, we’d share this moment on our own. The next day at work Shiela ignored me, but I announced to the office my shotgun wedding to Amanda. They asked for pictures, and I handed them the peg. Of course, after marriage, everyone knows the next logical step is children, so with a few spins, and a couple dents in my income (There was a flood and I neglected to buy insurance) I finally landed on it: “STOP Have a Baby!” With Amanda between my fingertips and a fire in my stomach, I picked up a beautiful baby girl. I named her Jenny. Oh, how Jenny was my little pride and joy. I couldn’t wait to tell everyone in the office, but when I showed them pictures of my beautiful peggy girl, they gave me confused looks. HR had been hovering around my desk. I wasn’t sure what was wrong. One day, my boss walked up to my desk and patted me on the back, “Kid, you’ve lost it. That’s what this place will do to you.” “Lost it?” I asked. How could I have lost it? The night before I had pulled into Millionaire Estates. I had won. I was a millionaire. It was only a matter of time until my check came in and my wife and daughter would come home to me. I had won. He shook his head. I felt around for the money in my pocket. I had won.

A Battle of Whits

Mastering the Job Interview By Zachary Johnson and Quin Asselin

I enter the salty causeway that is the Lincoln-Bild, LLC. waiting room. I do not sign in. If you really want a job you have to let your presence speak for itself, and I refuse to leave a mucous trail for those omniscient snail hunters over at HR to find. I’ve come prepared for that. When the Sergeant took me from the water torture chamber for the fifth and final time, he said I was ready to do it. I was ready for The Job Interview. I’ve packed six doses of Ibuprofen, a couple vintage capsules of cyanide I stole from Secretary Spicer, two bottles of Flintstone gummies, and guns. Lots and lots of guns. The sallow pillbug of a receptionist looks up at me and asks if I have an appointment. The spindly Krumpf is too weak to meet my gaze. I do not respond. I’m a bigger, scarier fish than the Common Carls and the Simple Staceys of the Corporate Ladder. I’m a salmon. But a real big one, and I’m gonna hoist my scaley buttocks all the way up the rungs of that waterfall so I can sow my oats. But like in a corporate sense. I can never reproduce as long as HR lurks around, fiending for a sample of my DNA. “Well okay,” croaks the sappy Yard Dog behind the reception desk. “Just take a seat I guess?” I drop my bags like bags heavy with

fully loaded guns, and begin unpacking all that heat I’m packing. The best way to secure a position is to make an impression, and I am more than ready to make myself known to those schemers down at HR. Or maybe they already know I’m here... I bet they’re laughing at me, comparing me to the last guy, Dwayne. Or Vivica. Or Charleston. “Holy Mackerel!” The whittled tube of a receptionist exclaims. “Sir, if you don’t leave I’m going to have to call security!” But I am no mackerel. I clasp the bottles of Flintstone gummies between my meaty paws and hurl them over the reception desk like a pair of Flash grenades. I begin grinding pages of Better Homes and Gardens between my powerful molars like pulpy little ants. I take out one of my many guns and begin firing round after round into the heart of the Bluewave Lifestyle BPA Free 1 Gallon Water Jug. As the moisture level of the room climbs to more familiar levels, the svelte stork behind the reception desk screams into the receiver of his phone. I bet he’s calling HR right now to schedule my appointment. With my eyes on the prize I start rummaging through my gun garage for Ol’ Blue, but just as my beefy carrot fingers wrap themselves around its holster, a couple of mooks in security costumes enter and try to hold me back. I know it

is but another trial levied at me by the masterminds at Lincoln-Bild, LLC. so I stand my ground and fight. Not with weapons, but with the swift agility of my entirely employable body. Roundhouse kicks, square home punches, triangular domicile sleeper holds. You name it, I’ll attack in a manner that is emblematic of the polygon and shelter you specified. “I Am The Employee!” I shout. “I Have Always Been The Employee! I Am Ready For The Hire!” Then I go dark, felled by the soft sideswipe of a supple-handed portly lad no larger than my wee guard dog, Philbin. I wake up in what feels like a desert. It is dry here, very dry. I blink, and feel the back of my eyelids graze my cornea like the unshorn knuckles of a tiny hand. Upon opening, they peel like a film from fresh pudding. Craving moisture, I crawl on my stomach to the edge of my prison, and like an anteater, I attempt to slurp the moisture from the cracks between the walls of my holding cell and the dirty floor. Spluagh! Spluagh! This is the noise I make, but despite my efforts all I’ve done is leak precious saliva from my open maw. As I attempt to siphon my bodily fluids back into my mouth, they come for me. “Archie Barkle,” they say, opening the door to my cell. I hiss, as they have spoken my true name, but the dry sand of my tongue only produces a soft and meager “splaugh.” They take me to a small room, where I sit, uncuffed at a large metal table. A big boy enters. He is big. He is a boy, but as a man. And he has entered, wearing threads of navy blue. The light glimmers off of his golden badge as he sits before me. “Mr. Barkle, we’ve got some questions we’d like to ask you.” The last of my fluids stream down my parched face as I revel in the fruit of my labors. I have made it. I have won. It is now time for The Job Interview. And if I fail… I’ve still got Spicey’s cyanide perched between my molars.

Last Words

From Matthew Tanzosh

h! Hey! Are you a Freshman? You are! In College? Good. Just checking. I met this girl at this sick party and...there’s a reason why I picked a school 500 feet away from the nearest Chucky Cheese--know what I’m sayin’? Are you picking up what I’m laying down? I fucked a fifteen year old. I’m being rude! Sit. Sit down. I’m gonna lay some heavy shit on you. Hmm? Hell, yeah I go to this school! Super Senior. What major are you? Undecided? Me too! See I didn’t come to college for the easy breaks or the fat paycheck. I came here to find myself. After finding myself for going on seven years now, I think I’m pretty qualified to blow your mind. As campus’s only Super-Super-Super Senior, I maintain that each year brings it’s own philosophical revelations. Yes. A Super-Super-Super Senior. It’s like a grad student, with PHD in pusssay! Philosophical Triumph #1: Miller light is head and shoulders bove Natty Ice. Philosophical Triumph #2--Yes I have a list! What? You’re going to be late class? That shit

Look. I cannot stress this enough. Nonsense is not a frat. You don’t have to pay (money) to get in, a large portion of us are openly gay, and we do not haze. That being said, I hazed myself viciously. I shotgunned that 4loko, I took that dildo to the gut, I became intimate with that jar of marshmallow fluff, I was bequeathed the title “Hotdog”. All for the bit. I joined Nonsense Humor Magazine my freshman year, at the behest of a gregarious young woman, smoking a cigarette and screaming offers of discounted vodka tampons. Zach and I signed up then and there. The article above is the first article that I had ever sent to the Nonsense Gmail account (NonsenseHumor@ gmail.com for fanmail, questions and inquiries about that thing I sencha). I chose it as my last article ever, presented largely unedited not because I was stuck for ideas and time because my life is in shambles, a danse macabre of fear, Sbarro shits and fear of the unknown—but because I wanted to illustrate a point. The point being, I wrote that article in 2013 (yikes). This is before Macklemore broke barriers by beating out Kendrick Lamar for album of the year, showing marginally talented people everywhere that you could win provided enough Mom’s found you “fun”. This is before people started using the word “woke” ironically. This is also before white people started using the word “woke”

Join Our Frat! doesn’t matter! I didn’t come to college for the classes! Haven’t you seen Dead Poets Society? Where they smoke pot with the Robin Williams, and kill that horse? That might be animal house. That’s definetely animal house. We should go watch animal house. As a matter of fact: Philosophical Triumph #3: I love Animal House. Philosophical Triumph #4: Do The Do. One night, I shotgunned a four loko and smoked a bowl, four Jack and Code Red’s later--I woke up the the realization that realized that our current class based caste system is overrun with doctors and lawyers and proud parents. We need to subvert the collegiate paradigm and...hey do you wanna do some blow? You’re right, it’s best to save that one for your first time going through in junior year. Philosophical Triumph #5: Save blow for Junior year. What was I talking about? Right! Everyone wants to be a doctor. Just like that Dad from That 70’s show wanted Ethan Hawke to be a doctor, even though all he wanted was to hang out will Robin

unironically. This was also before I had completed even a semester of college. Not even a semester in the can, and I felt entitled to the ability to mock a person who was a staple of the college experience. I have only met that guy once, about a week ago, when I finished making a peepee at the house and looked up from the sink into the mirror. There he was. I gazed into the trope and the trope that I created gazed back at me. I am an old head. I am an old head writer. The joints of my funnybone creak and ache. I frequently give SOLICITED advice, and I am even more frequently drunk when I give it. This gives me joy. The point that I guess I was trying to illustrate, is that I didn’t know shit back then, and yet could not have written that article better now then I did back then. I still don’t know shit, I’ve just gotten really good at organizing all the shit I don’t know. Zach and I became headwriters of this magazine around three years ago. We had fulfilled Nonsense’s arduous vetting process—we asked. When we came to this magazine, membership for various reasons was low, and was only staying afloat though the tenacious stewardship of Ana Davis. Our head writer had just graduated, and speaking for myself— being head writer of Nonsense was all that I ever wanted, and we got it by being there—so you know that title carried a ton of weight. Fortunately for us, Ana Davis, Heather Levinsky and Zach Johnson built this magazine into something

Williams without a shirt on. I know I would. Robin Williams probably wouldn’t even freak out when you come home for Thanksgiving with the YingYang Symbol tattooed on your neck. He DEFINITELY wouldn’t send you passive aggressive email’s with this month’s the bank statement, reminding you hom much Robin Williams spends every month on feeding and educating you. He’s too cool for that. Philosophical Triumph #6: Snort yayo with my cool new Robin Williams dad. And finally, although this is more of a existential treatise, than a philosophical triumph, number seven is: just LIVE, man. What’s a GPA? Hell, what’s a degree but a piece of paper? What’s money but some paper covered in blow? You wanna do some blow? Oh, right, you’re a freshman. Carpe Diem, dude. Just like in animal house, man. Where they all stand on their desks? I have the Blu-Ray at dorm and...you REALLY have to go to class? Alright. If you know where to find any good freshman parties or gainful employment, you know where to find me.

special. I fought hard to prove to myself that I deserved my title, and after three years of doing it, I think I finally have. Watching generations of raw talent, fresh crops of fresh mans come through our various meeting places has filled me with so much joy. After three years of doing what I can to nurture that talent, and give them the push that I wish I had had, I think I’ve finally got it down pat. I am basically an English teacher that gets to say things like, “That either needs one fewer “clit” or waaaaaay more.” Needless to say, I love my job. And now, I have to leave it. If anybody knows any place that will hire me off the strength of my ability to say “build that into the voice more”, and get my staff to rewrite the Telltale Heart time and time again, but about furries and Stuart Rabinowitz, lmk. When I was in High School I was a drama kid, and I promised myself that I would never join an insular cult like that again. Looking around as I write this, I see more than a couple people with our masthead irreversibly branded into their flesh I can safely say, doggonit I done did it agin. I never felt at home in any clique I found myself in, so I think we might have made our own. We’re loud, we have little ‘uns and bigguns, and an enduring love of cheap beer—but we are NOT A FRAT. We’re a lowkey family, I’ve taken great pleasure in watching it grow, and grow without us there to guide it. Nonsense got a new Mommy,

Daddy and sketchy Uncle, and Ashley, Ariel and James are gonna kill it. Make sure pay them almost the same respect as you gave us. I’m excited to see where y’all take it (fingers crossed for full-on Dada), and for the emergence of a kinder gentler Nonsense than it was when we found it. I have literally become the Liberal Dad I wrote about. Y’all tell me the way things need to be, and I just nod dumbly, and trust your beautiful untainted faces. And we have an office again! And a lawyer/banker/ Jonah Hill Moneyball guy! And an Award! And a conference to go to! And a wonderful support system of folks. I’m not worried about you guys in the slightest. Don’t forget your edgy fuck roots! Political parties will be the end of us all! Only get blackout when you want to, not just for the image! Give everyone who comes through your doors a chance! Try to cross things off the google doc as much as possible! And always remember to love each other, and the bit. And when you guys take this shit to new heights, remember Zach, Heather and I…and hire us. I mean it. I love You All, Your Sketchy Uncle,

Matt “Hotdog Outside Dog Fluffernutter” Tanzosh Head Writer, Nonsense Humor Magazine

Obituaries Tobias Jaffe 2016-2017

He can be ur angle, or ur DEVIL...

Karl Koeppel AKA “The Pink Man”

Our Lady Of Perpetual Hope 2016-2017

2015(?)-2017

Sad reacts only.

He’s gone where the men get pinker and the pink gets menner.

The Rathskeller ????-2017

We legit used to have meetings in this fucking place. We wrote a Nonsense film in here. It’s also actually where we met The Pink Man for the first time, believe it or not. Rest in fucking shambles.

The Nonsense Award 2016-2017

It was honestly bound to happen eventually. RIP all of our achievements.

Tyler Barragan 2014-2016

It’s taken us a long ass time to accept that they’re gone, but here it is. Pour out a PBR, will ya?