Nonsense Gets Drafted by Nonsense Humor

Nonsense Gets Drafted

Issue 170

December 2017

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STAFF Editors-in-Chief

Ashley “The Cannon” Vernola Ariel “Cannon Fodder” Leal

Head Writer

James “Cpt. Language Economy” Sweeney

Assistant Head Writer

Jordan “Conscientious Objector” Hopkins

Design Director

Gillian “Rogue Agent Fighting The Man” Pitzer

Art Director

Kolb, “Lt. ‘Cotton-Eyed’” Joseph

Assistant Art Director Victoria “Lt. Leroy” Jenkins

Treasurer

Peter “Pvt. Parts” Soucy

Social Media Manager Jesse “Colonel” Saunders

Video Heads

Benjamin “Sgt. Ben Jammin’ ” Fletcher Veronica “Sgt. Daddy” Toone

Contents Page 13

Cover

Victoria Jenkins

Page 2 Draft Card Jesse Saunders Nonsense Ad Ashley Vernola

Page 4 Editorial Ashley Vernola and Ariel Leal

Page 5 Mailbag Nonsense Staff The New Face of the American Hero? Victoria Jenkins and Emily Hart

Page 6

Five Ways The Draft Is Just Like The Lottery Quin Asselin

Faculty Advisor

Page 7

Contributing Staff Writers

Page 8

Amy “The Spy. Get it? We still haven’t seen you (so sorry)” Karofsky Jesse “Colonel” Saunders Quin “One-Eyed Sniper ;^)” Asselin Jordan “Conscientious Objector” Hopkins Brenna “Purple Heart” Lilly Peter “Pvt. Parts” Soucy

Contributors

Beth “Slept Through The War” Foster Emily “The Pacifist” Hart William “Draft Dodger” Faber Anna “The Comrade” Galperin Gisela “War Correspondent” Factora Lizzie “Pvt. The Punisher” Frank (Castle)

Moral Support

Trevor “Prisoner Of War” Parrish

All The Guns On Me Right Now Jordan Hopkins 5 Times ISIS Had a Pretty Good Point James Sweeney

Page 9

This is Why Women Should Be Drafted (and Not Me) Brenna Lilly What’s In Your Knapsack? Victoria Jenkins and Emily Hart

Page 10

Point: War is Bad William Russell Faber Roundtable Nonsense Staff

Page 11

Counterpoint: War is Pretty Alright Anna Galperin

Disclaimer Nonsense Humor Magazine is Hofstra’s only intentionally (somewhat) humorous magazine. Taking advice from us is possible, but it definitely won’t end well for you and we are not responsible for whatever naive acts of self-appointed heroism you undertake. The views expressed in this magazine don’t necessarily represent the views of Hofstra University (or anyone else, for that matter). Any likenesses to people, soldiers, beasts, war machines, or other publications are purely coincidental. Nonsense Humor Magazine is not responsible for any war flashbacks, loss of a fantasy football game, shooting yourself in the foot, or your failing to dodge the draft.

Page 12

Woke AF Literary Quotes that Will Help You #Resist the Draft Gisela Factora Get That Look Peter Soucy

Angry Baby Beth Foster and Jesse Saunders

Page 14

My School Has JROTC; Isn’t That Enough? Jesse Saunders

Page 15

Drafting the Apology Letter Your Parents Never Gave You Victoria Jenkins

Page 16

10 Pics of Our Dad’s Time in the Service That Make War Seem A Little Too Cool Jesse Saunders and Ariel Leal

Page 18

Speed Demon Drafts Unsuspecting Big Rig Quin Asselin Mood Board Victoria Jenkins and Emily Hart

Page 19

These 9 Pixar Quotes Perfectly Sum Up What It’s Like to Watch Your Best Friend Die In Your Arms (I Hope) William Russell Faber

Page 20

The Secretary of the State-of-theArt Keeps Drafting Me to Paint Ridiculous Portraits of Michelangelo Ariel Leal

Page 21

The Fascist Occupation of My Mother Jordan Hopkins

Page 22

Cranking It On Broadway: A Horny Boy’s Evening With Miss Saigon Lizzie Frank

Page 23

Dunkirk: A Review Peter Soucy Comic Victoria Jenkins

Back Cover Beth Foster

E d i to r i a l

Yo! Well uh, here we are again. Welcome to Nonsense and welcome to our imminent future. If you’re reading this, I’m amazed you’re paying attention to us, but you must be procrastinating considering we’re literally putting this out all but a week before the semester ends. But, you know, good for you, and thanks, and all that. Forreal. This time we’re getting people who walk up to our table and take our shit rather like normal people than us having to powerslide/power-lunge it towards you. That means a lot. It really means the world to us. And shit, this semester was hell. It was definitely a feeling amongst the entire club, but somehow we managed to get through. Especially us, who if you don’t know are Ariel Leal and Ashley Vernola. This hell semester being over marks our first semester as Editors-in-Chief coming to a stark end. How the hell did we manage that? How the hell did we manage to put out three issues that people seem to actually enjoy? (Which seriously, fellas. We’ll never not appreciate that.) How did we manage to end up weeks behind schedule even after all the late nights we spent in the upstairs part of the Student Center last spring planning out SCHEDULES??? Jebus Chrys. Nonsense Gets Drafted originated from a

frantic hold on a theme that we pushed away at the beginning of the semester because we didn’t feel the freshmen would cling to it as much as they did. But after an issue under their belts, here they are, being featured quite a bit throughout this issue. It attracted veteran members too, as you can see, so thank you to Jordan Hopkins, our new Assistant Head Writer, for pitching it in the first place. We owe ya one buddy; keep us sane. And for all of the high concept art within this issue, we can all thank our new Art Director Elect(??) [is that the term?] Victoria Jenkins for providing a steady source of good ass art. This was an issue that came together very very quickly -- almost too quickly. We literally almost tried to scrap it, but we stuck with it anyway, and here it is! We put this shit together in like maybe three weeks so that we had it just before the end of the semester. And damn did we do it good. You know, originally, we were gonna call this thing Nonsense Goes to War but we didn’t want to predict the future twice (Election Issue anyone? They who shall not be named) but we figure Drafted gave us more room, once we got past most of the punny things. This issue holds weight too because it’s the last time you’ll see our beloved Brenna Lily, Trevor Parrish, and Joseph Kolb in the flesh (They shall be a ghost upon the future of Nonsense). Whomst will supply us with premium content? Whomst will be the supporter of our morality? Whomst will be handsome and also an art? More on that in our next issue (so tune in next time. Whenever the fuck that’ll be). On the real, we’ll miss you guys a lot and shit absolutely will not be the same without you but we’ll carry on in your honor. That’s the thing about war, there’s lots of like...honor and courage and bravery and stuff in it. It never changes too, I think. A wise man (Ron Perlman) said that once.

Anyway, damn...the last three months have been fuckin wild and we’ve gotten a lot of really good eggs (freshmen and newcomers) and we couldn’t be happier to have them. Thanks to all of your support we finally bought the entire Jackbox Game collection and that’s fuckin rad. Things are definitely different than what they used to be, but we can only see smooth sailing ahead and we hope that next semester proves to be just as successful, if not more so, as this one. Princeton: full speed ahead, am I right? Thank you all for everything. We said it in the beginning of the semester, we say it every morning, every night, every afternoon (and it’s so true) but we love you. We really do. Also BONUS CONTENT: Leal Team Six, War (The Band), some of us watched Marvel Netflix’s The Punisher and that’s about war kinda, Fallout joke, another Fallout joke, rising political climate (and also tensions as well), consider this: gun. , something about communism, war is bad, Saving Ryan’s Privates, Full Metal Jacket, ‘Nam (XD), draft beer, draft punk, go to the writing center with your drafts, draft (like wind), drafting (like cars and trucks), sports drafts, giraffe, ACAB? ACAB. Twitter draft: Name jeff. Love, Ashley and Ariel

Mailbag How did you guys get so good at writing? We just guessed Did you get hurt in the war? No. I did the Wifi. Is it cool if I name my daughter Stolen Valerie? Me too My veteran father put mines in the yard… What do? Take a hop skip and a hope for you’r’re life!

What do I do about a full diapee?

Enlist. Whatever happened to Draft Punk? Yeah, dude, puns. Good humor. It’s wordplay. Take a step back and realize what it is we’re really talking about here.

Hey so, if I have the time, could I send you anonymous articles? I’m really funny. Nope! I need some cigarettes, fiddle-dee-dee! I’m going to the bodega: will you come with me? Please stop sending us things like this. Hey Nonsense, did Cheney make money off the Iraq War? We are all am make money off the Iraq War. Eat Starbucks If the secret US space laser were a Greek god, which one would it be named? Jeff

Ways the Draft is Just Like the Lottery

There’s no way of getting around it; sometimes things in life come down to the flip of a coin, the drop of a hat, or the shot of a gun. But when the odds are stacked, it can lead to some pretty crazy circumstances. We’re all familiar with that time Abraham Lincoln got struck by a freak lightning bolt at an outdoor play. I betcha he laid low in the opera boxes after that one! (I’m actually very unsure). The fact is, when the odds are a thousand to one, you can end up thrust into a pretty unlikely series of events. There’s nothing that gets people biting their thin crisp nails like the suspense of a good old game of chance, and so we’re gonna take a look at one of the most world’s popular raffles, the United States Draft, to see how the brass play the game so right!

1) It Changes People’s Lives Forever No doubt that when you’re playing a game with such rough odds, you want a big payout so it feels like you bought a ticket, rather than bought the farm. Some games advertise multi-million dollar prize pools to reel in the suckers, but the US draft? Quite similar, actually. The draft offers the once in a lifetime chance to travel, all expenses paid, to a far off land where you’ll be treated with confusion and fear. No, there’s nothing quite like poppin’ up for a breather in enemy waters when the metal military submersible sausage has been

By Quin Asselin

Not on your life chump. With big government that’s ever encroaching on our sexy, immutable rights, you can be certain that you’ll be getting your payout from the draft. That’s right, there will be no resisting the 150ccs of military-grade goat testosterone injected directly between your two favorite vertebrae. It’s not so bad, though. Your newfound supersoldier DNA will make it that much easier to eat grass/ garbage for any and every meal, which means food prep will just be a breeze! Not to mention you’ll be much more willing to devote your sexual energy towards pleasing a goat or two. Sounds like a gift that keeps on giving to me. in the briny depths for God knows how long. Talk about a breath of fresh air! Sure, boatloads of cash will make you plenty of enemies, but there’s just something about a set of camo fatigues on a person that’s “just following orders,” that fosters lasting resentment. The relationships you’ll destroy will truly be irreplaceable, and after the dust has settled, who doesn’t want to be that goofy character in someone else’s amusing anecdote?

2) It’s All in the Cruel Hands of Fate When Lady Luck sets her sights on you, she’ll take her shot, plain and simple. You might try getting low to the ground like a draft dodging Little Worm, but she’s got eyes like a hawk, and sometimes the draft is just the early bird. Other times you come home to find out that your sweetheart has got a little bun in the oven, even though you’ve been in the Pacific for the better part of a year… Talk about a stroke of luck!

3) That Shit is Mandatory and You’ll Be Found if You Don’t Play One of the wildest parts about the new, cool, modern draft is that there’s absolutely no running from it! Escape?

4) There’s Lots of Numbers Hoooheee. There sure are a lot of stats and numbers and rows and columns that make up this whole draft thing huh? Sometimes it is a little hard to keep up with all the complex maths. Luckily, there’s a little rhyme you can use to figure out how you did in the ol’ battle rifle roulette: If your number ain’t heard/ You’re free as a bird/ If you hear your number called/ You may want to prepare yourself.

5) All Entry Numbers Are Branded on My Neck This rule is plain and simple. If you want to claim a prize or surrender your body eternally to Uncle Sam, you’ve gotta keep a record of it somehow. Listen bub. The lottery/draft is respectable game/ conscription method. If you think you can just waltz in with your fancy numbers in hand and no searing hot rod ready to scorch my patriotic carotid, then you better check your plans. My hybrid goat/ superhuman child didn’t pass away just so some fifth-columnist could try and heal my many gambling burns. I’ve laid out the rules for you. I’ve told you how things are now. So what say you, Doc? Care to test your luck?

All the Guns On Me Right Now By Jordan Hopkins

.44 magnum on my right hip. Fullyloaded. Safety: On. It’s a difficult time to be a gun owner in America. As a patriot and loving mother, I want to provide the best level of protection for my family. As such, I long ago purchased a firearm for use in home defense, as is my right as a citizen of this great country. However, I also understand that in this day and age, many of my fellow citizens live in fear of increased gun violence, and of heavy-duty assault rifles falling into the wrong hands. I will not allow this to stand. My neighbors are kind and good-looking people, and that they fear for their lives in my quiet suburb fills me with disappointment for my country. A 9×19mm Walther P99, German semi-automatic pistol, tucked under my left armpit. Properly registered in the state of California.

Barring any action from my state concerning the banning of high-powered weapons, or the creation of some kind of anti-gun gun, I have taken it upon myself to provide a safe environment for the people that I consider good friends - even Dave, who lets his kids play manhunt in my yard during nighttime. How did I take action, you ask? Simple! I merely went down to my local gun show and bought every gun they had, therefore taking them off the street and further from the hands of people who would do me and my neighbors harm. I am now the proud owner of 213 high powered semiautomatic weapons - one for each bone! SIG Sauer Pro semi-automatic pistol, tucked delicately into my left sock. Bought from a warlock at a flea market in Chesterfield for a bag of something called bitcoin. What a deal! My neighbors are ecstatic. Not only are they much safer from the threat of gun violence by random ne’er do wells and packs of wild dogs, but they are simultaneously much safer due to the 229 pistols and other assorted weapons I keep on me at all times. Why, just last week I ran into Carol from the PTA, whose son beat out my largest boy for ‘largest boy’ in the local Large Boy Competition. “Well June!” she said to me, “I just feel so much safer in the neighborhood thanks to you and your 342 assorted projectile weapons! If only the men in our lives could be as beautiful and also as smart as you are, and own as many high-powered rifles.” I think it’s just so lovely when women support each other, don’t you? We need more of that in this country. Two AK-47 assault rifles, taped to my legs like an exoskeleton made entirely of gun. Status: A little heavy. Now, I don’t want it to be the opinion that I’m making this heroic sacrifice because I believe there is a gun problem in America, or because I believe that no one should be allowed to own a highpowered rifle. Assault rifles can have many legal and practical applications, including cutting down large swaths of small trees, or angrily shooting at the... things...that carried away your son. I am doing this because I believe in making a stand, and because I believe that it is possible to come to a calm, rational solution to this problem. I think this is the middle ground that partisan politics has been looking for

all along. There’s no need to outlaw guns; simply give them all to one person, and then if someone gets shot, we know exactly who to look for! A fully loaded AR-15, duct-taped to my head and standing straight up like a pope hat. A great neck workout! And listen, I’m not trying to be a hero here, either. It doesn’t have to be me. After all, I already have a very busy life as a mother of eight (not counting the husband, am I right, ladies? This is a normal relationship dynamic to have). Between soccer games and piano recitals and eating large quantities of raw red meat with my dirty, dirty hands, I am often far too busy with the life of an American mom to be the safekeeper for all of America’s guns. Not to mention the space that 310 million registered firearms would take up in the shed! Lenny’s lawn mower and the electric wood splitter we borrowed from the Nicholsons already damn near fill that thing up. What do we need an electric wood splitter for, anyway? I haven’t seen a tree in years. But what I am saying is, do your part folks! It’s your turn to make a stand against gun violence in `your community. So buy a gun! Buy two! Buy hundreds! Carry them on your back until their weight fuses your vertebrae and cracks your femurs! Sell your house to buy more guns! Sell everything you have! Resign yourself to your grim mission! Walk the earth an arquebian hunchback, the solemn keeper of death and destruction! Oh, and don’t forget - garbage days are moved to Tuesdays and Fridays through December!

5 Times

ISIS Had A Pretty Good Point By James Sweeney

ISIS. ISIL. Daesh. Call em’ whatever you want. To some, they’re local troublemakers gone postal, a dangerous and misunderstood symbol of a new, global counterculture that no parent or teacher could ever understand. To others, they’re simply the right guys at the wrong time, trying their damnedest to answer that age old question on everyone’s mind: who will finally follow through on the radical fundamentalist teachings of Muhammad ibn Abd al-Wahhabis and deliver unto Allah the inheritors of his glory? Love em or hate em, they’re still people with feelings, and so you might as well just give em their due.

The Western Cancer Will One Day Finally Be Expunged from the Earth Yeah, yeah, yeah, we know! The corrupt and godless West will be erased swiftly like the servile pigs we are, and the burning ruins of our failed heresy will act as a guiding light to a long-promised eternity. At this point I think we can all agree that the folks in ISIS are kind of beating a dead horse here, but as the saying goes: if the shoe fits, we will wear it. When it comes to money lending, idol worship, and everything about the daytime talk show Ellen, what more can we say to

the most famous growing army of radical jihadists besides, “Hey, you got us. Guilty as charged. Do whatever you have to do.”

Thousands Will Continue To Die, And Still We Will Not Learn Now this one hasn’t happened yet, but trust me: it will. I know it seems silly to put a lot of stock in the same guys who once promised to “do another 9/11”, but chances are they could have done it by now and most of us would still continue on in the same godless ignorance and infidelity that got us to this point. To some it may appear that ISIS has gone and painted themselves into a bit of a corner with this one by failing to take into account that some of us are absolutely willing to change. But even so, if the other 98% of the Arab Muslim world aren’t making the grade, would you really expect any of us to? That’s just how it is sometimes; it’s not like we can say we weren’t warned!

Season 2 of Stranger Things Did Not Deliver On the Hype The first season of Stranger Things was a bigger hit than anyone could have predicted, mesmerizing teens and parents alike and positioning its young cast as Hollywood’s stars of the future. There’s only one problem, though: Stranger Things Season 2 blows. I mean, yeah, we get to see Eleven do some more crazy mind shit and then bleed, and the personification of Western sin as an inescapable and unpayable debt to the universe is pretty spot on. But isn’t that about what most of us have come to expect by now? The Islamic State’s controversial interpretation of the Qur’an forbids them from even drawing pictures of dogs and cats, and yet this isn’t even the first time we’ve heard them speak critically of the way popular art is forced to sacrifice substance in order to capitalize on an ever-shrinking window of relevancy. We all remember the Charlie Hebdo drama from just a few years ago, right? So it should really come as no surprise to anyone that ISIS weren’t super thrilled with Netflix’s depiction of the prophet Muhammad as a twelve-year old American child named Will.

The Expansion of Amazon Is the End of Small Business As We Know It If Wal Mart started it, well, then it looks like Amazon’s gonna finish it. We thought nothing of the small, first-of-its-kind, online bookstore when it first launched in

1994. But in less than twenty-five years, Amazon has become one of the true modern global forces, placing in dire jeopardy everything that so many have worked so hard for. Sound like anyone else we know? There’s plenty to be said about the way the approaching wave of Amazon Megastores is going to make obsolete all other forms of marketplace business, and that’s not even getting into the touchy subject of drones. Any way you slice it, though, ISIS absolutely hit the nail through the proverbial head on this one; and if we’re being honest, they were probably holding their tongues a great deal here too. And while none of us can say exactly what the future holds, be it a capitalist dystopia or simply an all-out war on apostates and non-believers, I think all of us can agree on one thing: they were definitely passing around somebody’s tongue. That thing had to be a tongue.

The Friendzone Is Real, And It’s As Annoying As Ever It’s 2017, and you guessed it: girls are still impossible to understand. One minute they “like” you, and the next minute they don’t even remember your name and they’re driving alone in a car. It can be pretty frustrating. But what’s a guy to do? The way some people see it, you really only got one option: let her know how you really feel, and if it’s meant to happen, it will. But if you’re ISIS, you know that’s a load of BS. If anyone knows what it’s like to work up the courage to express how you feel, only to be demonized and called a douchebag for it, it’s probably gonna be the guys who beheaded all those journalists in 2014. At this point, ISIS understands that the name of the game is patience, and that sooner or later he’s gonna slip up and take her for granted for the last time. Until then, we can only wait. Wait for her to change her mind. Wait for her to realize who was right all along.

This is Why Women Should Be Drafted and Not Me

By Greg Women rock and they are strong! So strong they should go to war. Not guys – we’re useless! Here’s my top 5 reasons women should be drafted, and maybe not me.

5. Stress relief!

Women have too much on their shoulders these days, what with Drumpf and all. What better way to relieve their stresses than by sending them to war? Equality now, let the females fight! Don’t worry about us men, we’ll be fine. We can even watch the kids! We’ll have mac and cheese for dinner, and learn karate to harness our tempers.

4. More peace!

Everyone knows that if only women were in charge, there would be no more war (except for once a month for 3-7 days depending on individual hormonal shifts, fellas). If we send all the ladies to Syria, the fighting would be over in a day. I sure couldn’t do that – look at me, I can’t even keep my gerbil alive, let alone broker global peace agreements in the midst of tenuous transnational relations! Don’t worry about the kids from #5, though! Seriously! It’s chill!

What’s in My

3. Free college! What’s a better way to get women to go to college than to send them to the trenches and reward them for their hard work with education? I literally cannot think of one. Send them to typing school! Women are so intelligent, they’ll be able to protect hardearned American freedom AND deserve academic success when they return from battle. And me? I’m an oaf! Send the beauties instead. Give them associate’s degrees. Please.

2. Travelling!

Every woman I’ve ever dated has told me she loves to travel. But do any of them want to work for it? Yes! By serving their country valiantly. Joining the military is one of the coolest ways to see the world, and we might as well make it mandatory if all the women are gonna complain so much. Drafting women is a huge win for feminism – if they want equality so much, why don’t they fight for it? You know what I’m saying. Like that Jet Li movie where he’s forced to do cage-fighting? That movie’s nuts! I’d hate to do anything like that.

1. Strong bodies!

Women can lift, did you know that? There are at least seven women in the

world right now who could crush my skull between their thighs; oh yes. But nevermind my ex, Jeanette. If women are drafted to fight for the ole’ U-S-of-A in the imminent nuclear Third World War, they’ll get even buffer. Gym memberships are too expensive; a little desert-strolling in some big boots will do the women good. I still pay for my gym membership, but it’s mostly just to keep the cool card in my wallet. I go maybe twice a year when my calves get too lean. You couldn’t see me, Sergeant Skinny-Calves, hauling ass through a nuclear wasteland, could you? Just look at my tummy! It’s too plush! I’d max out the weight requirement. Oh, my skinny calves? They’re real, I promise you, I just have an apple shape! And flat feet! And I wear glasses. And I took a Ritalin last week, please! Something here has got to stick! War is imminent, and I am not willing or able to help my country. Every day, my podcast inches closer to its breakthrough moment, and yet every night I lay in bed and ponder how much money it would cost for Jeanette’s brother to inject me with some of his Hepatitis C. Beautiful women of all shapes and sizes, I beg you: don’t make me return to Ryland’s god awful duplex. Please do not force me to start a new life in Canada.

Military Knapsack? 1

3 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11.

For the honors I never received 3D self portrait on a limited budget My muse A bigger bag My canteen To pass the time A constant reminder of how small we are Precious tome I am the Ultimate Sacrifice My creative outlet Rock collection

2 8

9 9

Point Counterpoint By William Russell Faber

POINT War is Bad After thousands of years of human civilization, after innumerable technological advancements, and after countless books written on the subjects of philosophy, religion, and humanity, leading experts have come to the conclusion that war is bad. This report, released yesterday, sent the western world into a confused spiral, as people of all shapes and flavors found themselves thrust towards the gruesome realization that sending young adults across the ocean to fight a people they know nothing about is actually a bad idea. It’s not very good at all. “It comes as a complete shock,” says General Mark A. Miley. “When I saw those young men and women come back from battle injured, torn apart, and often missing limbs, I’d just assumed that was because they’d had too much of a good thing, like with diabetes. Then, after I heard that they’d gone home and couldn’t relate to people who hadn’t participated in wartime, couldn’t sleep due to the hellish nightmares and stresses of rejoining civilian life, and on top of that couldn’t afford any sort of therapy because their insurance company no longer covers it, I guess I’d thought

that it was all sort of their fault. Turns out, it’s all of our faults. War is bad. Who could have guessed?” No one could have, it seems. A look back at the journal entries of John Lennon shows that, though he had his suspicions that war might not be all it’s cracked up to be, he was still somewhat confident that war was at least pretty good. One of his earlier drafts of the song ‘Revolution’ even echoes this sentiment, reading, “You say you want a revolution / Well I hope it comes with war.” It turns out, though, that it’s not pretty good. And no group was more flabbergasted to hear this news than the United States Armed Forces. “Oh my god, we are so sorry. We just talked to Mark earlier and he broke the news to us, and believe us - it really is news. We thought war was, like, a Boy Scouts type thing. At the very least we thought it was directly benefitting the lives of our families back home. But it’s not. It’s actually, of all things, quite bad. So bad. If we’d known before, we could have stopped this whole thing, but just no one told us. We couldn’t have possibly known how bad and not good war is, and now that this train is really moving,

we’re not sure if there’s any stopping it. I mean it’s like some kind of intentional cycle, or system, or something! We are so, so sorry. My god.” The report itself contains a myriad of statistical facts, like the one that says that one hundred percent of people who die in war are dead for real and no longer alive. At first, people dismissed this, since most people thought death was pretty alright; but, on further inspection, it turns out that death is bad, and worth dreading with every ounce of energy we have, which means war is also that. That’s just the way things shook out. To fill out this article, I also interviewed Ethan Morgan, who’s just some guy. He said: “I am horrified. This is terrible, especially because I was big into war for a long time; I own all the movies on box set.” In conclusion, war, of all things, is actually not the greatest, and, to quote the aforementioned report, is “in fact a detriment to some.” While I was never really into sports, it remains really pretty crazy to me how bad war is, and how slow I was to catch on. I guess I’ve gotta start following this stuff now. I guess I’ve gotta make an Instagram.

Our Favorite Wars The war against my heart, Jen Star Wars: The Animated Series on Cartoon Network. It’s just good. Is that a controversial opinion? I like it.

WARsaw Poland, the HOTTEST tourist destination CUCK LIBS vs FASCIST NAZIS

King of the Hill The “war” on “drugs”

By Anna Galperin

COUNTERPOINT War is Pretty Alright For centuries, pacifists and pedophiles have attempted to paint war as a bad thing. Did you know that? Well, I’m putting my warpaint on and saying it’s pretty damn okay. It’s just fine. Alright? War keeps our country strong. It is the milk to the nationalist skeleton of America. We need that calcium! It is the tea tree oil to the acne-prone skin that is the boring and troubled Midwestern states. They need to be cleansed! It is the homemade mashed potatoes, biscuits, and gravy to a perfect, bloodshed-infused family dinner. No salt needed! War is what this country was founded on, and what it must continue doing, or else risk losing its balls. (I know that’s technically up to some U.N. council or something, but you get my point). It keeps the young, strong soldiers from losing their proverbial/vestigial balls to the weak, empathy-driven, hippie impulses that come from living in a war-free, stress-free society. That guy John Lennom? Dead. Why? Gun. His balls? Completely decomposed. My point? Seemingly solid. Another thing, which I’ve considered and you have not: war is good for women, too. Consider: the first time women really, and I mean REALLY, started working in previously male-dominated spaces was during wartime. Think Rosie the Riveter! Think Abigail Adams! She asked her husband to “remember the ladies,” and you can bet your ass that this husband will. On Veteran’s Day, specifically. War just never lets up though, it’s always got something else up its sleeve. Did you know that war also motivates many women to stop giving birth for a little while? Because they have no one to hump and inseminate them with

tiny little strong soldier men? The strong soldier men that will become big and create more tiny soldier men? The soldier men that I love and will remember? This is population control! The world has too many people! Instead of using advanced technology to kill individual babies in the Middle East, let’s just keep having a halfassed war! Birth rates will have no choice but to drop! Simply put: If you’re anti-war, you’re anti-woman too. In the absence of men, lots of women begin humping other women, which some even find extremely more preferable. Beats me, but you can’t argue with facts: war is also extremely pro-gay. In fact, I am extremely pro-gay. Are you pro-woman and pro-gay? Well, then you gotta be pro-war! My daughter is going to war next spring. Did you know that? I bet you want to take that away from her now, don’t you? Do you really wanna be sexist to my gay daughter? Gay people love fashion (I would know -- my daughter, etc.), so if it’s pro-gay to be in the war, then war has gotta be fashion forward! See how persuasive I’m being? Now let’s pivot for a second. I just happen to own the best army surplus store within driving distance of New York City. Did you know that? And I cannot afford to go out of business. Do you understand that?! How will I feed my wife and straight son? Do you think they can simply survive off of all the excess jackets I have in my home? Do you think that would be a viable way to feed them if war ends and things really go downhill? Please tell me -- do you think my weak boy can grow strong from just this cloth?

The war on terror, Jen

Whatever’s been going on inside my Dad, I guess

Team Jacob vs Team Edward My friend Craig. (His last name is Warkoczeski). Gamergate (if you aren’t familiar, just type out this link: https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=IBeIeBAm9KQ&feature=youtu.be)

This might take you by surprise, but some people who buy my camouflage rags and brown boots actually don’t support war -- in fact I think they’re often doing it “ironically,” or to be “poor.” But that doesn’t mean I don’t wish they did! Either way, my bullet jewelry is selling like hot cakes, and my personal photographs of the American Sniper Chris Kyle are also doing fairly well, all things considered. Each bullet, like each photo of Chris, tells a story, and you want to take these stories away from people! Monstrous! If there are no bullets mailed to me from regions of great panic and suffering, then there are no bullet bracelets for ConstitutionMom11 to purchase from our burgeoning online shop. And it really just is that simple. Are the kids wearing helmets these days? Do they want to look like marines, or armies, or air forces perhaps? What kind of lapel pins and ribbons are trendy? I ask my daughter all this on the phone while she’s at basic, and I even Skype folks who are directly in the thick of whatever’s going on over there, though I keep my mic and camera off. I just need to see what they’re wearing. Green shirts, cargo pants, zippers, bulky coats, bulletproof vests, combat boots… without war, all of this becomes tacky and obsolete. I need brave, lanky 18 year olds in uniforms! It is the demand to my supply! When they return, they bring supply back, and the demand is ripe again! Do you understand economics/ human nature? Do you understand what I’m saying? War is absolutely all right for all requisite purposes. Without war, I don’t know where I, or the fashion industry, or my store, or my daughter, would be.

Craig

Storage Wars….Jennifer, Black Friday at my wife’s hair salon am I right fellas hahahaha I know that doesn’t make sense, but she’s practically giving these haircuts away, and if we keep going like this it’ll eventually tear our relationship to shre-

that Will Help You Woke AF Literary Quotes # R E S IS the Draft

By Gisela Factora

So, war continues to be waged endlessly, everyone and their mother owns a nuclear warhead, and all your friends have been drafted to help reshape Korea. What is a simple intellectual, such as yourself, dear reader, to do in times like these? In our opinion, the most effective way to #Resist is to simply practice the radical act of self care, reblog a few posts with the “nevertheless she persisted” quote overlaid on some gifs of the female protagonists of Star Wars, hunker down in your basement bunker, and escape to the wonderful world of the written word. After much time and consideration, we’ve narrowed down this list of quotes to only the finest of fine literature. Get ready to align your chakras and decalcify your pineal gland, because your third eye is about to be bussed wide tf open.

Quote “Thirty-six,” he said, looking up at his mother and father. “That’s two less than last year.” “Darling, you haven’t counted Auntie Marge’s present, see, it’s

here under this big one from Mommy and Daddy.” “All right, thirty-seven then,” said Dudley, going red in the face.

Why this quote is woke AF As J.K. Rowling famously revealed through the Hillary Clinton-sponsored news site, Verrit, the character of Dudley Vernon is overtly a symbol for the struggle of the global proletariat. This context is most eye-opening in the above quote from the beloved first novel, which recently celebrated its 25th anniversary perhaps. “Presents” in this quote represent uneven distribution of wealth, which is kind of a no-brainer, but wait, there’s some more: red here has a deeper meaning as well. Dudley (still the proletariat) going “red” in the face represents a raising of class consciousness. Crazy how J.K. Rowling knew way back then that I would be so lonely and into Marxism. But hey: that’s why she’s a billionaire and I’m not. Woke factor:

get the look

Quote

“Dobby is a free house-elf and he can obey anyone he likes and Dobby will do whatever Harry Potter wants him to do!” said Dobby, tears now streaming down his shriveled little face onto his jumper.”

Why this quote is woke AF Alright. This one’s easy. Dobby is gay, and Harry Potter is Barack Obama. Next? Woke factor:

Quote

“Fred and I have been developing them this summer. They’re double-ended, color-coded chews. If you eat the orange half of the Puking Pastilles, you throw up.”

Why this quote is woke AF While on the surface, this may seem to be a simple one-off about the Weasley twins’ novelty item business, this quote is actually extremely politically relevant. Why? Well, take a moment to think. You throw up when you eat the orange half, right? What else do we know is orange? That’s right, President

Donald Trump and his bad fake tan. Plus, The Orange One makes us sick, which, coincidentally, is another word for “throw up.” In conclusion, I’m almost done. Woke factor:

Quote

“A lot of preps stared at me. I put my middle finger up at them.” ~ Anonymous

Why this quote is woke AF Though not crafted by the soft, meaty hands of an extremely wealthy British woman, My Immortal is, of course, another classic in revolutionary self-insert fanfiction. Prep culture in this quote is emblematic of a lot of things: bourgeois indulgence, guys with that one haircut, that man that used to be in Parliament but died, and I think maybe all white people in general. To put one’s middle finger up is a radical act of defiance in the face of all that attempts to hold us back, and if that means joining AntiFa, then maybe we should all do that. Yeah, actually. We should.

Woke Factor: AntiFa

My School Has JROTC Isn’t That Enough?

Spiro Agnew High School

Mr. President, I live in America. I live in the most beautiful country in the world. We have many hospitals and parking lots and I can buy a grenade from the dark parts of the net. I am truly free. But since Pearl Harbor I guess some people decided I shouldn’t have all my freedoms, that I was too powerful. No longer am I free. To be more specific: No longer can I simply enjoy a goddamn Ham and toast sandwich without some vegan Navy recruiter asking me if I’m interested in knowing more about the combined cost of healthcare and in-state tuition for a teen in America today. Is it not abundantly clear to him that I’ve done all I can to ensure that our military remains built upon the skeletons of the greatest we have to offer? I own a flag. I plan to vote during at least one more presidential election in my lifetime. I have no place in your war. I came up through the best classrooms American schools had to offer. Baby school where I learned to spell. Puberty school where I learned to identify weakness. Driving school where I learned that school is for cowards. Yet here I am, stuck molding the minds of young Americans as they toil in the halls of cinder and concrete at a post-puberty school of my own. And in this American institution I must suffer for my country in the only way I know how: by eating my Ham and Cheese in silence everyday as they stalk the young and attempt to further my complicity. Don’t they know how much I love this country? I preside over a school that has a JROTC. My students wear the uniform; they know what it means to swallow their fear. They’ve done enough. And I have done enough. I walk alongside the oblong buzz-cuts of nearly three dozen serious teenagers every day. I watch as they say goodbye to their loved ones in the hallways, not knowing if they’ll survive the next drill team practice, unsure if they’ll ever see a day when their whispy facial hair grows thick enough to conceal at long last a vast harvest of acne. Not that the

service would ever let them. I have been principal of this school now for seven years, after two tours of duty as Vice Principal in Iowa from 20032006 and again from 2008-2010. Every day, I sit in wait, knowing that if and when my country needs me, I have at least 50 young, spry, often either very short or very lanky bodies at my disposal; bodies who have no idea what that actual horror of wars hold for them, and how mundane all the stuff that isn’t war really is. Yet without fail, every day I must suffer. Every day the recruiters stare me in the eye and ask if I, myself, a human specimen of strength and power, have what it takes to defend my country. They crawl all over the lunchroom with Sisyphean fervor, attempting with no success to convince table after table of theater kids and pep band no-names to wash the Kool-Aid out of their hair and lay their bodies on the line for Dick Cheney. Everyone from the army to the navy to the coast guard has practically force fed my students the same damn pamphlet about Protecting God and Country. I am God. I am country. I am sorry God, I am not you. But to these potential future martyrs I am a god. A lesser one no doubt, but like, a cool one. A god who allows grinding at the Spring formal. Just a little.

Sincerely,

Mark McDuf

Mark McDuff Principal at large, of Spiro Agnew High School

Drafting the Apology Letter

Your Parents Never Gave You

By Victoria Jenkins

arents, huh? They made you, they raised you, they scarred you, and now they’re back for blood. Your dad’s blood cell count is too low. They need a transfusion stat and you’re a perfect match. I may be joking about the blood, but the emotional trauma they branded you with is no laughing matter. You deserve respect. You deserve reparations. You deserve an apology. They’re never gonna write it, god, do I have to do everything around here? Kick that troubled ass into gear and follow these helpful guidelines:

DO Prepare yourself. Hunt for and gather supplies. This is going to be an emotional trip. Snacks, tissues, water, long range hunting rifle, lube - you never know what you’re going to need, but you’re going to want it all.

DON’T Bring up the neighbors. Competition always ran high within the neighborhood. Discussing your parents’ rivals would only sour their humble act of atonement. Besides, your family was publicly declared the hairiest on the block, and the others can’t say anything to change that.

DO Point out their many apparent and inherent shortcomings.

Adults love to discuss their flaws and freely admit their mistakes. To give the letter an authentic “Mom and Dad” feel, consider every time they’ve ever wronged you and how they might say sorry for that. You’d been trying to befriend the deer in the backyard when it suddenly “ran away” and dinner was venison for a week after. Your father offers you clout to make up for this, but do you accept it? Yes.

DON’T

DO Throw this letter out. Let’s be honest here, your parents wouldn’t write it even if they could. You’ve already become the person you’re going to be. It’s your American and God-given right to pass your flaming torch of emotional baggage to the next generation under the light of a full moon. Treat yourself to a steak; not much else you can do when you were raised by wolves.

Turn your back. The one thing you needed as a child was the unconditional love and support of your parents. All you got was the sharp teeth and rough barks of a hardened heart. Be there for yourself; compliment your own deep, brown eyes, or your soft, pink flesh.

DO Stand up for yourself. Looking weak, scared, or vulnerable is only going to invite another attack. You and your father know you should be second-in-command, so how about he finally tells you so? Better yet, he concedes you his spot as the alpha male- now you’re really sitting pretty!

DON’T Make eye contact. It’s all about power, baby. Brief glances.

10 Pics of Our Dads’ Time in the Service That Make War Seem

A LITTLE TOO COOL By Jesse Saunders and Ariel Leal

WAR

(noun): War (originally called Eric Burdon and War) is an American funk band from Long Beach, California, known for the hit songs “Spill the Wine”, “The World Is a Ghetto”, “The Cisco Kid”, “Why Can’t We Be Friends?”, “Low Rider”, and “Summer”. They are our favorite band. It is also, however, our favorite activity.

Seems like there wasn’t too much happening in the barracks, but that’s okay. Check out my dad, such a little kid in this photo, never presented the chance to end another human’s life, but instead just dressed up with nowhere to go! Man, the little known Korean War of the 1980’s must have been so sweet. There was a war, right?

This man is carrying a bandolier around his neck, but I suppose it functions more like a necklace since none of those bullets were used to end any lives. That uniform is pretty corny too, am I right? If I joined the army today I’d look way cooler.

Whether or not Congress declares it as such, War is a fun (and/or good) time for the whole family. “Why would you say these things to me?” you might ask. First off, do not ask us questions, we are here to tell you answers. Our dad’s had fun in War, so one must conclude War is fun and cool. War is also, however, really good. Observe.

Man, they’re not kidding when they say that there’s nothing more cool than a gun haha. Don’t let this picture fool you, however. That gun could be plastic or something. Sure my dad is cool and all that, but like, I feel as though I’m pretty alright myself. It runs in the family!

If I didn’t know better, I’d think my dad was just chilling in a frat house getting schlitzed…Is my dad drinking PBR? They obviously had better beer Dad, there are two other types of beer in this photo alone. Also where can I get that one dude’s sweater? My Dad is clearly the best looking dude here, but I really hope no woman other than my mother spoke to him. Sure, my dad was great, but please do not say you’d want to fuck him because that would be weird for me. Wow, war was sure a hell of a time!

This is my dad on his study abroad trip… Just Kidding! He’s serving our country’s military… during ‘Peace Time’? The war in Korea happened before he was born, so what was he doing here? Do we have a constant occupation of countries we’re allied with? That seems...rude. Anyway, my dad is having a great time, and would you check out that stache! He’s really killing it here, and I’m sure just behind this picture there is an intense military strategy being drawn up to help better our nation’s allies.

So my dad is wearing a beret. What color is that beret? Looks kind of green. In that way you could say he’s a Green Beret. Man, my dad, a Green Beret in the Panama War of the 1970’s. It was a real hot one. Murder? None of that. Well some of that. My dad was out there murdering poon, bro. Am I my father’s son? Well in a biological sense, absolutely.

K As iss M s y

I think my dad is wearing the ugliest shorts I’ve ever seen in this photo, but at least they’re long. He’s in the back there. See, I thought they were doing a super serious military drill in this photo, but according to my dad they’re just waited to be drafted onto one of the two tackle football teams. Seems like a strange strategic maneuver, but rest assured America’s best and brightest are hard at work, and our military bases here and abroad are not being used to house our soldiers just because we feel the need to keep a foothold in lands that we have no right to.

I smoke weed and have touched a drum-set before so why am I not this cool? Isn’t that how genetics is supposed to work? And no, you’re not allowed to call my dad hot. Did I mention that I look like my dad? Well, young me looked a lot like my young dad. Maybe when I get older I’ll look like that too. Why did God make my dad bigger than me? You have to be fucking kidding me.

Speed Demon “Randy you son of a...” Fort Worth, TX resident and local meth enthusiast, Gek “The Stench” Greer, was quoted as mumbling before snapping his taut neck towards the back of his otherwise unoccupied ‘83 Ford Fiesta. Greer, reportedly on hour 16 of a “rock candy dandy,” had devoted all of his attention to drafting behind a semi-trailer truck. To passers-by watching the madness unfold, Greer piloted his scarlet trashwagon with a deft hand, and a wet hand at that, inspiring both fear and awe. Inside the beet red buggy, Mr. Stench blindly hurdled towards the New Mexico border in pursuit roughly 10 feet behind the big rig. The trailer’s driver, one Steve Carell (no relation, but what are the odds??)

Drafts Unsuspecting

Big Rig

claimed no knowledge of, “a geeked out speed freak” on his tail for more than 200 miles, but would go on to commend the orange-eyed former freelance woodworker. “That man’s slick as a newt,” said Carell, before really laying into the horn for a moment. “Let him know he’s always free to ride with Steve.” Initial reports suggest the intent of The Stench was to seduce the trailer’s sexy mudflap maidens into his crimson hell shuttle. However, a two-and-a-half hour voicemail left on the phone of one Crank Buttsnap suggests Greer was actually using the trailer’s slipstream to hide from the “awful winds of the ghouls.” While they were asked to elaborate on their relationship with

Military Feels

By Quin Asselin

Greer, the ghouls of Interstate 20 could not be reached for comment. Visible always, never quite out of sight, and yet forever escaping the grasp of those rare few who choose still to seek them. Tests performed on the broken remains of Greer’s infernal jalopy revealed that his fuel efficiency had increased by up to 25%. Though Greer claimed that he would be able to, “ride ‘til [he] died!”, this journey was cut short by a pothole that sent Gek and his burgundy fuck bug into a highway drainage ditch. Greer is currently set to make a slow recovery, and has so far declined to make a statement unless this reporter is willing to, “scratch an itch.”

Mood board

These 9 Pixar Quotes Perfectly Sum Up What It’s Like to Watch Your Best Friend Die In Your Arms (I Hope)

By William Russel Faber

“But the thing that makes Woody special is he’ll never give up on you . . . ever. He’ll be there for you, no matter what.” - Andy (Toy Story 3)

The most important thing in life is the friendships you make. Isn’t that what Toy Story taught us? Whether you’re trying to keep down the slop they feed you at basic, or going for a midnight patrol just outside the base in Kandahar, those times get a lot easier with your best friend by your side. He’s your brother forever, and nothing can take away the bond you share. Well, except for a bullet. Maybe that was a little too blunt.

“You and I are a team. Nothing is more important than our friendship”. -Mike (Monster’s Inc.)

It’s funny how life works out, isn’t it? One moment you’re Mike and Sully, joking with your cowokers about what you’re gonna do when you get home, and the next you’re pinned down by sniper fire. You and Riggs make it to cover in time, but Texas Joe gets clipped in the ribs. You hear his bones crack. Is this all just a bad dream? Is it wrong to be so scared? Am I laying it on a bit too thick here?

“I don’t want to survive. I want to live.” -The Captain (Wall-E)

Life is full of choices. Sometimes other people make them for you, like when you try to return fire and bring some justice into this cruel world, but Riggs holds you back. “Why would he do that?” you’ll think. “Why couldn’t they take me instead?” That’s when you’ll realize what this planet really is - a trash heap. An incinerator. You might as well be alone out here, left to clean up the mess we’ve made of things. It would be better that way. Unless I’m way off base here, in which case we’ll edit some of this out.

“We didn’t set out to be superheroes. But sometimes life doesn’t go the way you planned.” -Hiro (Big Hero 6)

We all try to do what we think is right and make the best of the hand we’ve been dealt. Sometimes it works out, like when you gave your date a bunch of roses on prom night and she gave you a kiss on your cheek in return. Sometimes it doesn’t, like three years

later, when the mortars start to fall, filling the air with dirt and smoke and noise and engulfing you and Riggs and Texas Joe. You start crawling towards Joe, ignoring the fact that Big Hero 6 was technically only released by Disney, but you get clipped in the leg and the pain is so much. Too much. Sometimes that happens when you try to do the right thing, whether you’re trying to avenge your best friend or just trying to meet a tight deadline. Either way, it can all be traced back to the planning and execution of an entire group, and never just one person. Keep that in mind as you continue reading.

“If you focus on what you left behind, you’ll never see what lies ahead.” -Gusteau (Ratatouille)

If there’s any advice you really ought to follow, it’s this: take up jogging. Because when you’re running from enemy fire that’s coming from three different directions, you’re gonna want to have some practice. Maybe it’s a bit unrealistic to assume that you’d be surrounded in three directions, given the wide-open terrain, but when you see Texas Joe coming up behind you, alive, will any of that really matter? (See what I did there?) The two of you collapse behind a rock. You’re safe. You’re together. Thank god, you’re together. Not really sure where you’re gonna go from here, but it can’t be great.

“Alright everyone, fresh start! We’re gonna have a good day, which will turn into a good week, which will turn into a good year, which will turn into a good life!” -Joy (Inside Out)

This is a good life. This is what a life is. This is the one you signed up for. You cradle him in your arms. You’re so glad to have him back, but then you look in his eyes; they’re glazed over, he’s not even looking at you. You shake him, but he doesn’t respond. He takes one labored breath, inhale, exhale, and then he’s gone, emptied out, along with all the emotions you felt and the memories you made together. Yeesh.

“Just keep swimming..” -Dory (Finding Nemo)

The problem with life is that you still have to live it. You’ll come back to your hometown

and everyone will congratulate you. They’ll congratulate you for things most people couldn’t possibly understand, myself included. You’ll go to the house you spent most of high school in, and you’ll carry yourself up the stairs and to the bathroom. You’ll look in the mirror and ask, “Why can’t I be more like Dory? Why can’t I just forget?” I’m pretty sure Dory’s thing is like short-term memory loss, so not sure if it would apply here, but hopefully you see what I’m getting at.

“Adventure is out there.” -Ellie (Up)

An adventure without risk is just a trip. That’s what Texas Joe would say at night in the barracks as you tried to make sense of all the fucked up shit you two had been through together. That feels so long ago now, and yet you replay moments like that on a loop in your mind as if they happened but a moment ago. I guess that’s really where the Dory thing from earlier gets kinda tripped up. This life isn’t for everyone, he’d say. Turns out, it wasn’t for you either. You work at the post office now. It’s the only job you could get, given your injuries, and it does keep your mind busy. Some days are slower than others, and on those days you just sit. Sit and wait for something that’ll never come.

“I used to watch you on TV, flying through the air. You seemed so fearless. I wish I knew what that felt like.” - Cruz Ramirez (Cars 3)

For whatever reason, Cars is the only movie you can watch anymore. Maybe it’s Route 66’s place in the middle of nowhere. Maybe it’s knowing that everything turns out alright at the end, knowing that a character’s hopes and dreams will never be ripped away without justification. Maybe it’s the desire to be anything but human, to free yourself from the weight of a mortality you understand far too well. Whatever it is, when the credits begin to roll, you get up and get in your car. After a few tries, it starts up. You take to the road and just keep going. You hope it never ends. And maybe it’s the last ounce of hope you feel comfortable clinging to. Kinda crazy to think about, really. I just hope this article makes layout.

The Secretary of State-of-the-Art KEEPS DRAFTING ME TO PAINT

Ridiculous Portaits of Michelangelo By Ariel Leal Fella, I know you read the title. To be honest, I’m not looking for advice, this isn’t one of those plea for help deals. I know for a fact that there is literally nothing I can do about it. I just want to vent, I guess. Question 1, to myself: Did I know there was such a thing as a Secretary of State-of-the-Art? No. That sounds wildly fucked and silly. Question 2, to me: Did I know there was such a thing as a Secretary of State? Also no. I don’t know any of these things. All I know is paint. I got so good at doing painting that I was contacted by the United States Government to paint some “really good” pictures. I remember the sultry, nicotineencrusted voice that spoke to me on the telephone as if it were a few hours ago. Don’t be too impressed, though. It was really only nine hours ago. That’s a few hours, a few times. No biggie. “We are entering a new age,” began the person on the other line. I was already peeved. Where had I heard this line before, Bernie? “Just as the kings and queens and popes and bishops and knights and rooks of the Renaissance commissioned young thespians and artists to paint pictures of legal-aged men, I shall also commission you to do this. Rather than pay you, however, we will give you the occasional glass of water. Your first mission is to paint a portrait of Michelangelo himself. Yes. The third Mario brother.” I went to work with scientific cunning, scholarly precision, and intellectual accuracy. I painted a portrait of the Renaissance Hunk himself, Michelangelo, and I was pretty sure I nailed it. Suddenly, a call came in. Who would be calling me so soon after someone else has, I wondered. “Chuckle chuckle chuckle. I meant it when I said the third Mario brother. Overalls. Mustache. Hung like Christ. Ruin him. Call him Marco Englewood.”

Initially it seemed obvious that my artistic integrity would’ve prevented me from doing something so ridiculous and vaguely sexual. But, it had been about ten minutes, and I was feeling kind of dehydrated. I looked at myself in the reflection of my wet paint and thought about it. Just one glass of water. One. Then you’re clean. You’re out. You can put all of this behind you. One more job, and then you get to be with your little girl again. Sure enough, a glass of water is exactly what I received. The finger-like pincers of the delivery drone nearly shattered the glass into my eyes and mouth, but in retrospect I’m pretty sure they just had it on the wrong setting. No harm, no foul. I drank the water until it was all gone, the way you would drink a beer or a soda. As I gulped down my last glug, another call came in. “You should be expecting a visit from me soon. Until then, I want you to paint Michelangelo, the first documented DILF, as a beloved, blue, but notably Aryan, popculture figure.” I was growing angry, and, more importantly, thirsty. But I knew exactly what she needed. Before I could even finish glossing up his startlingly caucasian nipples and lips, a lamp I had never purchased clicked on from behind me. The silhouette of a woman emerged, except by the time she was in the light it was no longer a silhouette. Now I could just see her. She was wearing army fatigues, those shades that people think Kurt Cobain wore all the time, and red high heels. She had short, black, spiky hair that made me feel like shit. “Phil. How good for you to see me. Tell me, you’ve titled this one…” “M-Megaman Anglosaxon.” “Marvelous. You know, Phil, I figure you must have some questions. There’s no way more me to know for sure, though, so I will simply assume what they are and answer them. Why am I forcing you to do this? Well, let me answer your question with a question of my own: in a time of transition such as this one, what’s more fitting a modus than shattering the image of an Old God to pave the way for the Brand New? Ever since I was appointed to this position, I’ve been drinking from the cup of power like a parched artist expecting only water as payment. Do you know what real power is, Mr. Mister Broken Wings? Real power is tarnishing the image of a saint. Real power is building a pop-up Denny’s that is pop art-themed and naming it The Sixteenth Chapel and letting teens get married there.” Finally I spoke up, I couldn’t take it anymore! “I...I’d like to speak to the head honcho here.” I said, confidently, while flexing something. “The big guy in charge of this whole thing, this

whole operation. Y’know, everything. All that.” “You mean the president?” she asked, teetering on the edge of shocked laughter. I stayed quiet just in case it was a trick question. And also my mouth was dry as the hung Christ. “That old fool...why, he just finished using your bathroom.” I suddenly grew very nervous, and confused as well. I don’t have a bathroom. On cue, the president emerged from my bedroom and tried to do the whole silhouette thing without knowing it was already done. He really was really being dumb as Christ about the whole thing. “How ya doin’, champ? This lady givin’ you any trouble?” He slapped me on the back, sending waves of testosterone down my spine that crashed in a crescendo of anxiety in my lower rectum. “She’s making me paint devastatingly absurd pictures of Michelangelo, your honor. You have to do something about this, I can’t just-” “Michelangelo? Oh fuck. You got him painting Michelangelo? That’s my favorite Ninja Turtle. Are you doing this as a gift for me? Because I’m president? This rules. This fucks hard. God bless you for your service, Phil Mister Broken Wings. P-boy’s gotta bounce, though.” He stumbled out just as fucked up as he had entered, abandoning both my house and my hopes of escaping this nightmare. The Secretary of State-of-the-Art suddenly leaned in much closer and, despite there being no need to keep our voices down, because my landlord is nice now, whispered to me. “You will now paint the Grån Maéströ, Michèl Angelaus himself, as an extremely talented and inspiring female poet. You know of whom I speak.” “But...but Rupi Kaur’s name sounds nothing like Michelangelo’s!”, I protested. She laughed in my face once again. “Phil, Phil, Phil. We both know what the painting will be titled. Say it.” I swallowed hard. I had to; my throat felt like it was full of Christ’s bones. “Come on, Phil. Aren’t you feeling...a little thirsty?” She had me trapped, and so I paused pregnantly for emphasis. I knew what I had to do. “Maya” I sighed. “I’ll name it...Maya Angelou.” With that, the drone dropped me some drippings, and lifted the Secretary of Bittersweet Passions out through the hole in my room. I could not scream or cry. I could only sit in my once-favorite recliner and hurt. Oh wait. Was there something about me having a daughter up there? Shit. Shit.

The

FASC IST OCC U PATION of

My Mother

By Jordan Hopkins

ou know, fascism sneaks in quietly. No one expects an occupation in their time, knocking or their door, putting all of its tediously ordered legal boxes in their old playroom. But if you let yourself get complacent, it can sneak up on you. This is what happened to me. Hear my tale, fellow Redditors, and beware because you’re about to hear a story of true fascism. It starts off slowly, before you even know it, with the ousting of the old regime. These memories are foggy, and traumatic; my mother and father, amicably signing divorce papers because what, they ‘just didnt “mesh” anymore’? Sure mom. Who’s screwing who, huh? Is it the fit silverfox of a Zumba instructor? I bet it’s the Zumba instructor. It all happened pretty fast after that - first the soldiers, jackbooted troops carrying boxes out of silver troop transports, setting up strange outposts like the basement downstairs, which they filled with instruments of brutal torture. Why else have so many tools, and so painstakingly ordered and labeled? Now I have like, even less space for my vintage board game collection. This was my first sign, a clue come far too late still, that the promises of radical regime change were not only hollow and heartless, but also just straight up shitty. Of course, that was nothing compared to when... he...arrived. The governor, el caudillo. The Obergruppenführer. My mom calls him Terry. But I call him fascismo. His occupation of the sovereign state that was once my mom’s bedroom has lasted for 2,199 days. All the omens of fascism were there - I was just too much of a fool to realize it. First came the repossession of private property. It wasn’t enough that he took my

karate room for his office, but he had to get rid of all my katanas too? Those things were mad expensive. Also, he was like, super uncool about finding my bong in the garage. And that’s not even to mention the censorship - geez, is everything a bad word to this guy? He moves in and all of a sudden I can’t call my dog gay anymore, or say that milk tastes like ass, or call my mom gay anymore? I’m just gonna say it: dude’s a fuckin tyrant. I’ve quickly learned how important it is when facing off against this king radical occupation to stand your ground. For a while, I went toe to toe with Terry on everything. Politics, religion, whether or not Alex Jones had some good points, the history of air combat in Vietnam - sure, Terry, you may have piloted a Hellcat over Quang Tri as it burned, but did you see the six alternate angles on the History Channel special Wings Over Khe Sanh that showed the clear escape route you could have taken instead of ejecting over VC-infested jungle like a fucking idiot? I didn’t think so. Score one for the Chadster. But I have to say, I wasn’t prepared to endure...physical torture. Cruel and unusual manual labor, to the worst extent. Listen, I’m not just some worker. I’m an artisan. Remember the artisans? Remember the men of fine tastes and full spirits? Those men who were at least a 7? Do you recall how soft their hands used to be, and how they used to be able to stream for hours without as much as a hiccup in the connection? Before Terry’s schnauzer chewed through the ethernet cable? Don’t you see it, yet? I shouldn’t be subjected to menial chores. Have you ever tried to operate a push lawnmower? Barbaric. Have you ever had to wash dishes with a rag like some kind of barback’s nephew at a bar/restaurant? The sadistic son of a

bitch even had me reshingling the roof! 90 degree weather, slaving on a hot roof all day with only like, two breaks to go downstairs and drink watered down beer while Terry watches the Masters. I can’t be expected to live in these conditions. I still don’t know what a shingle is. We’re going back out there tomorrow. Back into...the sun. God, I don’t know if I can do it. Hear my plea, internet denizens. Do not let your house fall into the same hell mine has. Do not let your Mom start going to the gym again. I don’t care if you’re 21 or 25, it’s never too early to be vigilant, and never too late to convince her to do online grad school or to re-enter into an organized religion. It’s only too late for me, Reddit. I’ve made peace with my fate. Now learn from me.

Cranking it

By Lizzie Frank

On Broadway

A Horny Boy’s Evening with Miss Saigon I’m not afraid to admit it: like much of the class of 2022, Hofstra wasn’t my firstchoice school. In fact, it was completely by accident that I even ended up at Hofstra at all. I wanted to go to the local welding college; I wanted to be an artist. But due to an unfortunate condition in which beating my good meat until I reach a state of chafed euphoria causes me to make large and unwise banking transactions, I inadvertently deposited for my first year at Hofstra and have been here ever since. It’s not all bad, though. I’m not much for the classes and homework and all that the local gene pool hath wrought, but some of those Explore Next Door trips can be really fun! Just yesterday I got to see Miss Saigon on Broadway, and boy was that thot provoking! From the very first moment of the trip, I found myself enthralled. Going into the real New York City was a blast! And not just because I saw a guy concealing his hand suspiciously in Times Square. The shuttle ride, the train ride, getting completely and permanently separated from my group, and the arduous walk from Penn Station to the theatre was, in total, about an hour and a half, which is the perfect amount of time to listen to my Sexy Bruno Mars playlist and get myself mentally prepared to enjoy whatever it is thespians do to each other. Hell, locking eyes with that man in Times Square was really just the cherry on top of what was already

becoming a pretty sweet trip. At the very least it felt uniquely informative, exciting even! How many people would just walk around with their hand down their pants like that?! Turns out the number has got to be pretty high, because I saw at least 3 more guy doing the same thing just on my walk to the theatre. Each of them a sickly kind of handsome, all of them intent on looking me right in the eyes. Now if there’s one thing that turns me on other than a nice rack of boobs, it’s some sweet gothic architecture. As an aspiring welder’s apprentice, these are the kind of things I really enjoy. That Miss Saigon theatre has some of the prettiest wooden inlays I’ve ever seen, and I’ve no doubt they were put in place by someone who knows a thing or two about wearing a heat-resistant mask over their face. Gosh, to stop myself from yanking my pud right then and there, I had to resort to picturing that time my grandfather filmed 2 skunks fucking on our porch. Even then I was barely able to contain myself! I had to mentally fast forward to later in the day, when Nana threw herself onto his casket as it was lowered into where the pool used to be, just to stop from calling it quits right then and there and tearing through the break-away crotch I’d recently soldered onto my joggers. By the end of the first act, the blood was pumping through my heart almost as quickly as it was pumping through my penis. I was thrust into a world of war, poverty, and singing, not unlike that of my new life near Manhattan, and I was frankly overcome with emotion, or whatever being super horny is classified as. I don’t know anything about the Vietnam War, but if it’s anything like Miss Saigon portrayed it as, it sounds hot and very much worth romanticizing. There were prostitutes! And bombs? And the guys didn’t even have to sign up, they got scooped and sent over by surprise, like a cool bachelor’s party in a movie. I had no idea Vietnam the War was so rewarding and good. At this point, given how well I’ve described my experience, you probably can’t blame me for having felt so sexually passionate. So it should be no

surprise to you that when the lights came up at the end of the show, I was really, truly jerking it. The woman next to me must have been pretty into it as well, as she kept telling me that her husband was going to “lick my ass,” and “eat the shit out of me.” I tried my tried my best to thank her over the crowd’s near-deafening applause. Soon after, the ushers hoarded me into the exiting crowd, and before I knew it I was back on the streets of the Big Apple, one hand stuffed down my pants and the other doing a hearty thumbs-up. On my walk back to Penn Station, I saw the same man I had seen upon entering the city, and decided to give him a wave with my free hand. He waved too, and as I moved closer to him I realized we were wearing the same grey Hofstra sweatpants. Who was this man? And why did he appear to be behind the glass of a closed Citi Bank? Was he a teller, or perhaps the bank manager? Was he an HU alum? Was he trapped? I moved in and placed my face to the glass, and he did as well, both of us still cranking. Something was building inside me, something I knew I could no longer fight. What was going on? “Are you open?” I shouted against the window. “I...I think I’d like to take out a loan.” I had to stop myself, but I couldn’t. My eyes were closed now, but not even the putrid memories of Nana’s revenge on the beasts that took her husband could slow me down. Would the man behind the glass answer me? Could he hear me? I looked again after a moment, and found that he was not only still matching my pace, but that he now shared the teary-eyed euphoria that was quickly fogging the glass between us. “Please respond!” I shouted again. We were down on our knees now, our hands pressed to each other’s through the glass, like a prison inmate bidding farewell to his very horny dad. At once we each tore through the inner-seams of our sweatpants, and I could see that he, like I, was wellendowed and not too much into trimming. I was growing desperate -- desperate to fulfill my most horrible urges, and desperate to fight them off. I thought once more of the Broadway theatre, of the inlays and the lighting and the long-divided land it so strived to replicate. I broke down. “I need to purchase a blowtorch,” I said, pleading through gritted teeth as once-faint sirens grew closer and louder. “I need to purchase Vietnam.”

a review

By Peter Soucy

A bunch of young, handsome, Britishmen wait on a beach for an older, uglier, British man to take them fishing: this is the basic plot of Dunkirk. This wartime romance also features no women. All these handsome men and no women! Typical Hollywood. At least 3 Nazis die in the film which is good. Tom Hardy does not take his shirt off in victory when he shoots them down; in fact, he actually has all of his body covered, including his face. Director Christopher Nolan said he wanted Hardy’s body to be completely covered so no one would see how handsome he is. He did not want people to see the movie because of the handsome men. He wanted people to see the movie for the lack of women. Hardy is such a talented actor that he did not leave the prop plane’s cockpit for the entirety of the movie’s shooting. By the time he shot his last scene, Hardy was very wet with pee. He got very sick. Maybe that’s why they made him stay in the plane. Harry Styles is also in the movie and should have died with a piece of toast in his mouth, but his best friend Tom Hardy said he would not do the movie unless Harry Styles lived until the end. Nolan apparently did not know Harry

Styles was the Prince of Pop and heir to the British throne. In an interview, he said he chose Styles solely because the young man serenaded Nolan about a french cat during his audition. Isn’t that fucked up? But why are these Britishmen the stars of a war movie? I’m wondering that too. Isn’t war America’s pastime? And isn’t being handsome reserved only for Americans? When did a chiseled chin, a tight physique, and a foreign accent make a man handsome? Handsomeitity used to be based on the wear on your work boots, the size of your gut, and the soil under your fingertips. All those soldiers were small Britishmen. I could eat them for breakfast. I’d like to. My Tinder profile shows off my boots and my fingertips very intensely, and I’ve only gotten 11 matches, and have gone on 2 dates. One ended in my blow up pool. No sex. I bet Harry Styles has sex. Ugh. More like un-Hairy Styles, because he’s got no hair! These “men,” so handsome and so hairless. How do they do it? I have so much hair. Some would say too much, but not me. I would never speak on that. I have just enough to wear my shirt a little too unbuttoned, and just under the amount where the

government would forcibly shave me. And that’s really all I can say. On the second Tinder date, I took a girl to see Dunkirk, the new Christopher Nolan movie by the guy that made Christian Bale yell and then apologize. Anyway, I’ve decided to go on a diet and go back to school. I’ve made an Instagram account to chronicle my weight loss, if you would like to follow my journey. It’s called TheFaceBehindThe_Neck, but I might change it later if my face becomes muscular beyond all control. As always, thanks for reading this, and thanks for creating the movie Dunkirk: A Boy’s Tale. Hopefully your next movie is even better. Hopefully it will be Transformers. I think you would do a good job at that.