Nonsense Loves You

Nonsense Loves You

Issue 168

September 2017

Staff Editors-in-Chief Ashley “Boss Man” Vernola Ariel “Fork Man” Leal

Head Writer James “Man” Sweeney

Design Director Gillian “Death by DIY Man” Pitzer

Art Director Joseph “Kolb’s Cash” Man

Treasurer Peter “Pissman” Soucy

Video Heads Veronica “Yes Man” Toone Ben “Spoida-Man” Fletcher

Social Media Manager Jesse “#1 Sufjan Stevens Fan Man” Saunders

Faculty Advisor Amy “Give Gill Good Grades Man” Karofsky

Contributors Brenna “Ocean Man Take Me by The Hand Man” Lilly Bethany “Bananaramabanaranarama Man” Foster Emily “Screaming Man” Hart Erik “Trashman Man” Thorstenn Gisela “As a Matter of ” Factora Man Jordan “Lionel Messi Man” Hopkins Spencer “Ha Ha Joke Man” Thurmond Victoria “Business Man” Jenkins

Moral Support Mr. Trevor Parrish Disclaimer Nonsense Humor Magazine is Hofstra’s only intentional humorous publication. Don’t listen to us because we’re all inherently silly, playful, and otherwise foolish. The views expressed in this issue most likely do not represent the views of Hofstra University. Any likenesses to other humans, nonhumans, or other publications, are purely coincidental. Nonsense Humor Magazine is probably not responsible for any fear, pain, arousal, angina, agita, or all of the above, experienced by you, our lovely reader.

CONTENTS Front Cover

Victoria Jenkins

2 Ads

Ashley Vernola

4 Editorial

Ashley Vernola Ariel Leal

5 Mailbag

Nonsense Staff Ad Bethany Foster

6 You Cannot Sue the Applebee’s Jesse Saunders

7 Aw Shucks! The Coast Guard is on my Ass Again Brenna Lilly

8 I Need All the Kohl’s Cash I Can Get My Nimble, Moisturized Fingers On Victoria Jenkins

9 How Millennials Killed Me Gisela Factora

Art Bethany Foster

15 Spaghetti Baby

Victoria Jenkins

The Wellness Center Joseph Kolb Law Firm Emily Hart Ducks Peter Soucy and James Sweeney Cops Gillian Pitzer

16 The 5 Virgos You’ll Date in Post-

Baccalaureate Pre-Medical School Peter Soucy

17 Middle-Aged Sensation Shocks Muff-Diving World Jordan Hopkins

18 I Spent 24 Hours in the Axinn

Library and Found the Mummified Corpse of Mrs. Hofstra Brenna Lilly

19 An Important Venn Diagram James Sweeney

Dirt and Grime Anonymous

20 Unsung Hero 10 I Don’t Know Where Milk Come From

Veronica Toone

Peter Soucy

11 Treat Women Good James Sweeney

21 6 Ways I Will Continue To Avoid the FBI Ben Fletcher PSA

12 Dear Match.com

Spencer Thurmond

Ben Fletcher

Ad Spencer Thurmond

13 Where Are You, Dana Carvey: Master of Disguise?

Ashley Vernola

14 6 Reasons Why Honors College is

100% Worth It Erik Thorstenn and James Sweeney

22 Humor Isn’t Funny Anymore Ariel Leal

23 Obituaries

Nonsense Staff

Back Cover

Gillian Pitzer

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Editorial

“If you’re going through Hell, keep going.” - Elton John Hey Gangus!

We in it, I guess. For those of you whomst don’t know, this marks the very first issue that I, Ashley Vernola, and I, Ariel Leal, have crafted with our tiny, tender hands. And it sure was a process.

After being granted this lovely, burning, smoking...torch last semester by our previous e-board of Zach, Heather, and Matt (Got bless them), there were many a night spent upstairs in the Student Center, planning out schedules, ideas, etc, and now, here we are. Most of our issues (and BOI do we have plenty!) have a theme but this time we said “Lmao nah” and had our writers nurse their own baby of an idea this summer and slap them all together in this very issue; themeless, but highly refined. Nonsense Loves You is a collection of all of our blood, sweat, tears…(and don’t forget piss), a challenge for us to unite all of our writers who were all home for the summer, and a challenge for us, as we did this entire issue in two completely different locales, basically over Facebook Messenger (Thanks Zucc!). Doing an entire issue like this… you guessed it, not easy! But it, for sure, gave us the sea legs we needed

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to start out the year.

We spent all summer yelling at freshmen at Orientation club fairs, and attempting to kazoo sonata our way into their hearts during Welcome Week, all in an attempt to gear up for a new year, with a new e-board, with new members, and new ideas. In our own tenure in Nonsense, there have been stories of a Nonsense with only eight members, and when we started, it was a meager fifteen.

Under the previous leadership, Nonsense grew to have at least fifty active members at its most, and seems to continue growing exponentially. We’re really pitchin’ a tent here, if you know what I’m sayin. ;^).

We’re just so excited to see how much we grow this year, and what we can do going forward! Like seriously, wow, from all of us. However, that doesn’t mean we’re not highkey (absolutely highkey) proud of everyone for working as hard as they did, producing the spectacular content they did, and for dealing with our BullshitTM, because we are. We couldn’t be happier to have the team that we have and for all of you to be so welcoming to us, and lemme tell you, this year?

Yeah, it’s gonna be a doozy. We have many an idea and plans for this magazine, moving forward, that you will see unfolding and manifesting over the next few weeks, or even in the next few days. We’re talking a revamped website, a

renovated and regularly updated YouTube Channel, maybe a podcast (shoutout to Matieu Tanzosh), a greater emphasis on art and mixed media, and collaborating with several other clubs. We’ll at least try to.

Hey, you know, luck favors the bold and all that. We really couldn’t have made it here if not for our members, though; our writers, our artists, our musicians, our dealers, our jokers, our tokers, our midnight smokers, our renaissance people, our Shakers and bakers, our candlestick makers. Really what we’re tryna say here is we love you.

Nonsense Loves You. We wanted to hit the ground running at the beginning of this semester, and we think we’re finna accomplish that with this issue. In essence, Nonsense, as we all know her, is back on her bullshit.

-Ashley and Ariel

Mailbag

Q: Why does my asparagus smell like piss?

A: …did you wash it? Don’t wash it.

Q: Why does my piss smell like asparagus?

A: We are not your doctor, but we would like to be, so drink a glass of water, take two [SUBSTANCE] and call us in the morning.

Q: Do I want my dumplings steamed or fried?

A: Either way it’s 1.25 and the shits.

Q: Feed him, let him drink?

A: Hhhhee sip the chicken Q: Why do my dick smell? And why do she like it?

A: Peter, you’ve sincerely asked me this.

Q: What does the “W” stand for in George W. Bush?

A: “War Criminal.” Heh.

Q: What’s with the toilet seat?

A: Toilets don’t need seats, silly! They are seats.

Q: How many English majors does it take to write a decent joke?

A: Not enough.

You

Cannot A

Sue the

pplebee’s had been America’s Neighborhood Grill since before there even was an America; before the Earth and Sun had connected; before that one really shitty post-prom where you tried to spike the punch but then just threw up in the bathroom: the bathroom of an Applebee’s we’re both far too familiar with.

Things have changed, though, and never more so than in the past year. War-hungry superpower TGI Friday’s, with their endless gluttony of appetizers, have increased their brutality over Bennigan’s, Fudrucker’s, and whatever the fuck a Famous Dave’s is.

The hands of fate have been forced, and Applebee’s itself has been forever altered. It was easy to be fooled, to think that this was a safe and affordable family restaurant, or that your mosaic claim to the local Bee’s - a framed, blurry picture of you acquiring ‘nothing but net’ from back when you had a spine -- was still plastered to the wall above a family of four viciously ingesting Sangria and pub pretzels. The Winnepagh Junior College Women’s Basketball Team has won six regional titles since you last put on that jersey in ‘92, and yet you were so sure that it was your picture that remained. It was not the Applebee’s that fooled you, Joann. It was your own hubris.

Inevitably, like so many others, you fall in the Applebee’s, crying out in everlasting pain as your sad, bloated body meets the ground. I know what you’re thinking. It’s what so many before you have thought.

But you will NEVER be able to sue the Applebee’s. It is said that you will never dismantle the master’s house using the master’s steak knives, and it is true. You will never sue the Applebee’s. It specifically says so on the new logo, you notice, as the host steps around you to let the last of the stragglers inside the restaurant. It is nearly 12 AM -- they are aware this restaurant

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closes at 1, are they not? They...are not.

Have these dudes heard of maybe opening Google? Damn.

It is unfortunate but true, that you shall never taste the sweet, semi-sweet, temperate marinara sauce. You shall remain on this floor until the last chorus of “Mr. Brightside” teeters out, and all you have is a silence known only to the incurably tired and whoever has to open tomorrow. The wood polish chokes the air around you, so much so that you seek relief in the overabundant oils of the notat-all efficient, complementary crayons.

If you pronounce it like crans, the host will correct you. If you pronounce it like crowns, everyone will correct you.

Did you ever dream that this is where your body would learn its limits? The dining room of an Applebee’s, 50 minutes until close, a crumpled, breathing corpse covered in the free chips you received to make up for a spill caused by the very son you spat out into this world?

Your sticky, icky children and their sticky, icky hands touch your face. They touch your face, they touch your table, they touch other people’s tables. They touch your face some more, which at this point feels kind of generous on their part, I guess.

The bartender glowers, and shoves more ice into your drink. Your kids touch that too.

Your kids fucking suck, Joann.

The Wonton Tacos are lodged in your gullet, weighing you down like an anchor made of...well, you’re not really sure what a wonton is. Neither are we. But your children insisted. They INSISTED that you participate in half-off apps, and you conceded with not an ounce of knowledge among you that they are in fact simply a tax on the poor, little more than a waste of a meal which you must wallow in until you are nothing more than a husk of calories

By Jesse Saunders and Corona crawling across the tiled floor of section five.

“Yum, yum, yum!” the waiters whisper as they whizz past your ear, transporting their sizzling open wood bar grill. There is no wood in the kitchen. There is no wood in the body of this Applebee’s, not since the accident. The wood polish covers every surface, but There. Is. No. Wood. Do you remember the accident, Joann? The judge ruled in your favor. It was your first week on grill, you argued, and he believed you, but we all know you had spent some time as a cook at a Dave and Buster’s, post-grad. His decision was final, though: you would be able to dine free forever - financial immortality - and on top of it promised your choice of any family-friendly restaurant to dine in/ chill at eternally. You could be spending your waking days eating at the Rich Man’s Applebee’s: the Chili’s across the street.

You could be throwing back Cheddar Bay biscuits on a nightly basis at the upper-middle class equivalent of a Joe’s Crab Shack: the Red Lobster by the mall.

Cheesecake Factory was never really on the table, but you get it. Regardless, you had options. So many options. Instead, you sit here on your sickly grey throne in front of the host stand, night after night, riding a power trip twenty-five years in the making. There are millions of hosts stands, Joann, with millions of pimplefaced squires leading thrice-divorced sheep to the slaughter known as the Two-forTwenty: a moderately priced hell from which no normal man can escape. There are millions of host stands, but only this one has survived the fire you unleash both unwillingly and unrelentingly, and only this one has been able to exact its revenge.

It starts as an idea, Joann. And then that idea gets franchised. And then you die.

Aw Shucks!

S S A Y M N O IS D R A U G T S A O C THE

By Brenna Lilly

“It was one time, you ocean-dwelling assholes! ONE TIME!” Listen here, boys, I’m no sea criminal.

I’m a well-adjusted, tax-paying, Godfearing citizen of these three United States. Don’t you understand? It’s all just a big mistake. You want proof? I’ll give you proof! I’ll explain the whole thing!

It wasn’t even a crime, really. I was in international waters, on a cruise. What cruise, you ask? Well, it wasn’t really a cruise. More like, a…uh…well…it was a whale watch; a whale watch, okay? But like I said, international waters. Gimme another beer, will ya? And cut it out with all that foam. I’m pre-diabetic, you rat bastards, avert your eyes if it hurts you to see a man taking care of himself.

So, we were on this whale watch, me and my buddies, a lot of them, and you know how it goes. We’re hanging out, wailing some watches, shooting the breeze, sipping some salty marine air, puffing a doobie, when we, ya know, we spot the first whale.

She was a humpback whale, a beauty. A real fuckin’ mermaid, that heifer. And everything is hunky-dory cool story until my pal Ross whispers in my ear, like the voice of a reefer-crazed God -- you better sit down for some of this shit.

“Get the whale high,” he says.

“What did you say, Ross?” Like, can you get an earfulla this guy?

“You heard me. Get the whale high, pussy. I dare you.”

For some context, around these parts, I’m known as – hold on, lemme pull out my business card – Dangerous Daring Dare-devil Daniel Dobson, or just Dangerous Danny for short. I take dares seriously. Unfortunately a lot of people just

think I’m concealed-carrying an AR-15 rifle; I am, but...here, take a card.

So, I tuck the half-lit joint and lighter into my industrial-strength waterproof weed box and hoist myself into the water. The whale was nearing the boat pretty fast, a big ole’ chicken of the sea, and god DAMN was she gorgeous! She was comin’ at me with those big ol’ whale thiddies.

“Come here, Bessie,” I whisper. I know, in my meaty bones, that she can hear me, and maybe wants to fuck me. I swim closer and closer, and she lets me touch her! I pet the god damn whale, you brutes! And you know what those stupid whale watch twats do? They call the Coast Guard!

“U N H A N D T H A T W H A L E,” the Coast Guard yells over the blowhorn, “T H I S I S A W H A L E S A N C T U A R Y.” I’ll be damned if I didn’t jump into the Atlantic just to have some narcs spoil my good time! So I’m on top of the whale, mounting her like a steed worth loving, and I’m this fuggin close to her cranular Big Pussy when they send a goddamn boat out for me!

“Say, begone, you fuckers!” I yell, but they keep telling me something about marijuana possession in the state of Connecticut.

“D I D H E J U S T - D I D H E J U S T C A L L U S F U C K E R S ?”

“I DID! Fuck the Navy Seals!”

Can you believe I even said that? These assholes never saw it comin’, talking in their big spacious vaporwave text. They took me outta the sea, plucked me right from the salty womb, and I never even got to give my ocean princess a sniff of the good herb.

And now, of course, I’m hiding out here, because Oh Boy, Johnny, they want me. They want me bad. They want me even more than Miranda did back at the old Seashack Motel last night, yeeeeeah buddY. Oh, what am I wanted for specifically?

Well, it’s complicated, I --

AGAIN

You really wanna know what I did?

Shit, you’re gonna think I’m nuts. It’s actually a crazier story than the one I just told you...if you can believe it.

Can you...can you keep a secret? Well…

I peed in a swimming pool. Okay?

I peed in the swimming pool of the motel and now I am wanted by the Coast Guard.

The pool owner found me, dick out on the diving board, high as all get out on horse tranqs and street candy, just dribbling into the pool. Oh I don’t care what you would have done, you lot of slugs! I could have sworn no one was there! But someone called the Guard on me and I just had to run. So that’s what brought me here into your fine establishment, sir. Before you ask, this is all my own blood. I slipped a lot. Now how’s abouts another Heineken?

What – what are you doing on the phone? Are you – are you calling the goddamn wave cops?

No! Fuck no! Not today, fuckers!

You’ll never catch the Dare-dev – darebending – dare-defying – uh – uh – Danny Dobson’s not even my real name!

FUCK THE NAVY SEALS!

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W

e’re friends, right?

As your buddy, I need your help. I wouldn’t ask unless it was important. Don’t let your best friend down. I know you, pal, and you’re better than that. You’re like a sibling of unspecified gender to me.

Here’s how you can help me. I’m just a man, like you perhaps, or the one sitting closest to you, or maybe the one next to him. It’s hard for me to see from here, but I’m guessing I’m most similar to the latter.

I’m sorry to digress like this, I shouldn’t be wasting my valuable time. I’m your average Joseph, your everyman, your Johnathan Doe. This man –myself – needs saving, and for that, I need your savings. Specifically, your elusive Kohls cash. Start flipping through the flyers, direct complaints of blisters or arthritis to 8th Fiery Pit on the Left, 10th Circle, Underworld. I’m literally in Hell.

The other day, I (to remind you: an average man, though remarkably handsome according to some) was preparing myself a simple slice of toast for dinner. And what goes better with a brectangle (bread rectangle, patent pending) than a hearty campfire, I submit to you? Having no fuel but today’s delivery of department store flyers, I set the glossy stack ablaze. (This is almost where you come in, get ready.) I was immediately struck dead by God Herself, and I saw Her. Before you ask, she was about as tall as you would think. Cute haircut, too.

Surprised that there was enough left of me to even feel surprise, I opened my eyes to discover my charming backyard had vanished, replaced by a desolate, haunted,

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quadrilateral wasteland. It was a drectangle (dreadful rectangle). Moving stealthily yet gracefully through the landscape, I came to the only structure within sight: TJ Maxx.

A three-headed parking lot attendant guarded the automatic doors. I still did not know where I was, how I got there, or the multiplication tables past 8. I just never learned them.

(Now, this is nearly your cue.) Within the daunting TJ Maxx, I found Minos, Rhadamanthys, and Cher behind registers 6, 6, and 6. Finally, it was clear that I was in the Underworld and about to stand trial for my life and character. I tried to stall but it turns out my right to a lawyer is waived in Hell.

“You are charged with blasphemy, burning a sacred tome, treason, currency defacement, and music pirating. How do you plead?” I didn’t understand.

There was no need to pirate music once I got Spotify Premium. Also, the first parts were unclear. Shortly, I would learn that nothing is treasured more in the afterlife than savings and deals. Membership rewards, flyers, discount cards, all sacred, but coupons themselves were considered the divine currency. A prophet once tried to enlighten the living and suggest the true value of their coupons, but the connection was fuzzy and listeners thought he said ‘Quran’. That’s another story.

(This is almost where you come in.) I understand you’ve been at the edge of your seat, simply dying to lend me your most gracious and generous hand, but wait only a moment longer. Your time is coming.

“We crunched the numbers and you’re in the red. Punishment then for you.

For eternity you are to be plagued by an unquenchable need for Kohls cash.

However, you can never gather it of your own volition, only accept it from another.”

In that world, a dire punishment. No ghoul or spirit would be willing to part with their only valuable possession. Judged and sentenced, I was released to mingle.

Surely, you agree that I didn’t deserve this, that I lived a good life. I trudged across endless fields determined to satisfy my endless hunger. In my travels, condensed for you into a few sentences, I encountered an oracle of great power.

She spake into me, “The man with the most Kohls cash sits next to God”. She also gave me the link to an online miracle-

to-Kohls-cash conversion calculator.

Suddenly, it was like my eyes were opened.

My vision grew sharper. I could see somewhat farther. I could see through walls but just a little bit.

“I need to bribe God.” I said, like in a movie or good book.

My mission is not easy. Nobody has ever gathered so many savings in one place since the time Jesus was returned. This is where I need your assistance, your cooperation, your cash. To this, I will devote my afterlife.

An unimaginably vast bundle of Kohls cash, offered up to the big Manager in the sky.

Customer Service will allow an exchange, for my life back on Earth.

I’m asking as a friend. Send me your Kohls cash, so I may cheat death. Your fate is already sealed, but I might well be birthed again if you just did a little pocketbook rummaging. Think about it.

I NEED ALL THE I CAN GET MY NIMBLE, MOISTURIZED FINGERS ON

By Victoria Jenkins

How

MillennialsKilled Me

By Gisela Factora

F

irst, they came for the movie business. Then, they came for bar soap. Then, they came for Mr. J. Crew himself.

But I never could have imagined that they would come for me. Me, a regular guy with an office job; a wife, two kids, house in the suburbs with a picket fence, an affair on the side with Nell, the secretary, the whole shebang. Life was perfect— perfectly safe, perfectly ordinary, perfectly boring.

That is, until I found the pink slip lying on my desk one day.

Initially, fear gripped me—who would bring home the bacon?

Not the gluten-free, free-range, tofurky bacon, or whatever it is you cucks eat instead of real meat. I’m talkin’ the cheese, the moo-lah, the money.

But when I took a closer look, I found that losing this job was the least of my problems. You see, this slip of paper was not just any shade of pink. No, it was millennial pink. And it said, in print, presumably because you kids have no respect for the art of cursive these days, “You’re next.”

Genuine fear ran through me this time, chilling me straight to the bone, kind of like how it felt to hike 5 miles uphill in the snow to school in the winters of my boyhood, a sensation which today’s kids will never know. I didn’t know what exactly was in store for me. Back in my day, if you wanted to kill someone, you needed to get down and dirty and really put your backbone into it.

Or put something into someone else’s backbone, as it were.

But nowadays, anyone can Amazon Prime themselves an assassin off the Deep Web with the press of a button. Boom, you’re dead, while the person or persons you’ve wronged have barely had time to exit out of the application. Is this not classic

millennial laziness reminiscent of the box-wine boom and/ or the mason jar revival? Have these youngsters no respect for the sommelier’s motto: “Born in bottle/ Killed in glass/Sip,sip,sip, don’t drink it fast!”

Anyway, Rent-an-Assassin or not, all I knew for certain was that I was in danger, and I had to run, lest the millennials strike me down with the swiftness with which they brutally murdered Buffalo Wild Wings.

So, I made my preparations. I came home like I did every night, shoved my wife’s specialty down my gullet, and then prepared for dinner. Broccoli cheese casserole—an American classic.

A respectable green vegetable dish, unlike that accursed dish of the millennials—avocado toast.

Except avocado is apparently a fruit? That’s so confusing; it’s biologically a fruit. It can’t just pretend to be a vegetable. These…. crazy liberal millennials and their complete disregard for the godgiven binary of fruit and veg.

I told my family goodnight, told them that I was going to be up for a bit longer doing some reading from real books. Not from a Kinder, or whatever the fuck they’re called. No ma’am, in this house we only stocked real books. Could e-books be spread across the coffee table to make us appear cultured? Could e-books gather real dust on the decorative bookshelf? Nah. Nothing could truly replicate the experience of owning actual, physical, paper books, and never actually reading them.

So of course, now was no different. I didn’t read; I packed.

A few days’ worth of clothes, some food. I didn’t know how long I’d be gone, or how many provisions I would need, but I knew I had to leave—especially since, as I was packing, I

discovered yet another millennial pink slip nestled in my clothes.

I didn’t bother to read it. Merely the shade was enough to strike fear into my heart, and I got the message—run.

So I ran. And I’ve been running now for days, weeks— I’m not sure. Time is a blur, especially since millennials killed watches. But either way, I’m running low on supplies. I’ve been wearing the same argyle sweater for god knows how long.

I’ve been cooped up in this motel room for god knows how long. I can hear the Millennials outside, taunting me with their cries of “hey, what’s up you guys?” as they livestream the door to my room, biding their time until I run out of food, or willpower…

I think…. I think that time is now. Millennials mowed

down diamonds, marriage, the Canadian tourist industry, and god knows what else. I, a lone man, don’t stand a chance against them. To my wife: if by some miracle you ever end up reading this, please don’t ever tell our kids that their dad was majorly cucked by the snowflake generation. Tell them I died a heroic death, like I went out fighting a bear or some sick shit like that. Tell them that my death was, as the kids say, “turnt AF,” and really ham it up if you have to. If possible, give those binches some serious tea to spill.

I love you, and I’m sorry if you read that part up there about my sleeping with Nell in the same bed where our family was made, and also where I’ve been shot by a gun.

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I Don't Know Where

Milk Come From

By Peter Soucy

June 12, 2007 8:47am At my kitchen table, with a ray of sunlight shining on my perfectly waxed penis, the thought comes to me. It comes to me with all the emotional impact of getting diabetes as a relatively skinny person. I take a sip of the sweet, creamy, life-giving substance that we’ve all known in some way, and say out loud to no one: “I don’t know where milk come from!” And I mean it. I don’t know where milk come from! I make a pledge to myself that I will do whatever it takes to find out where milk come from.

June 12, 2017 8:47am Exactly ten years later, my ADHD finally lets me go on my trip to discover where milk come from. What I never thought I’d find along the way? Myself. And my biological father. No, no, it was just myself, and maybe where milk come from. I’m not gonna tell you yet, you pervert.

I start to pack a rucksack with all the essentials: - Water - Underwear - Milk - Minerals - A Trojan Magnum stuffed inside a Magnum Thin stuffed inside a

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Magnum Extra Thin - A laptop rigged to blow up a plane - 18 pairs of socks Once I have all the essentials packed, it is time to start my journey.

June 14, 2017 2:28pm I figure the first place to look where milk come from will be where all life come from.

I arrive in Bethlehem around midday.

Everyone who’s smart knows Jesus was the first human and he tinkled on some flowers and that’s how girls were made. From there it’s just basic humanity and science, and now we have stores where frozen yogurt slithers out of the wall.

I hike up a large mountain until I find a wandering shepherd. He is rather handsome in a smelly, sheep-man kind of way. “Hello, baba,” I say to him. He hisses and wallops me with his thick stick. Then he turns into a snake, and the staff turns into a man. Then the snake turns into a staff, and the man turns into a smaller man with no hair. I figure there is just some leftover Jesus magic in this place.

The small bald man turns to me and, in the most revolting, pure-blooded Australian accent, asks if I need any assistance. I ask him how he came to Bethlehem all the way from Australia. He says I was in Australia, “mate.” Turns out my laptop bomb timing was off and I’ve landed in the wrong dusty country. All those people died for nothing. I cry in the small man’s scarily large arms.

When I am finished, the small man offers me a strange looking sack. “Milk,” he says. I start to milk the sack to no avail. “No, milk.”

He points to the top of the sack and removes a cork. I bring the sack, which must’ve been one of his sheep’s lungs, to my nose. I take a delicate whiff. It smells like the first time you smell a YMCA locker room after you’ve see a grown man naked in it—I knew it must be fresh. “Where did you harvest this milk?” I ask him. He tells me to follow him.

He takes me into his stable where either a dangerously obese or extremely pregnant sheep is lying. He turns to me and clasps my hand. “I don’t know where milk come from.

Lamb come from shake,” he says. The words ring around my head like a nun ringing a bell around my head. Lamb come from shake. What does it all mean?

After two days of guided meditation with the small Australian Shepherd*, the blob of sheep in front of us starts shaking. My small, spiritual sack carrier walks over to the animal. “Lamb come from shake,” he yells, and picks up the sheep at least twice his size.

This guy is strong and I bow my head to pray for his blessing. “LAMB COME FROM SHAKE!” He yells, and vigorously shakes the fat, woolen animal back and forth.

After several forceful shakes, a small lamb dives out of the sheep’s loving hole and lands in a bucket of water with perfect form. It all makes sense now. Lamb in fact come from shake! Tired from his vigorous shaking, the small man collapses and turns back into a regular man, then into a staff. This is cool and all, but still, where milk come from?

As I turn to make the long journey home, preparing to do harm to anyone who comes in my way and maybe even some people who just end up in my way by no fault of their own, I hear a small suckle. I turn and, to my surprise, the baby lamb starts licking the—now incredibly in shape—sheep’s underbelly, the elder’s jellyfish nipples now hanging taut like squishy, maternal stalactite.

And what happened next? Milk. So much milk pours out of the sheep’s pink sack that I become happy, and then start crying.

June 14, 2017 2:29pm After crying for a while, I decide I should try the milk. I plant my soft lips on the even softer tentacles of this woman and begin to suck. The creamy nectar floods my mouth with intense fattiness and sustenance. “Now this where milk come from!” I yell. Suddenly, the small lamb faces me and turns into my dad (I lied earlier).

“Son,” he places a hand on my shoulder, “milk come from all of us.” He speaks with a tone of stern sincerity that, despite feeling a bit rehearsed, had nonetheless been missing from my life for as long as I could remember.

“Dad, what do you mean?” I ask. He takes my hand, and opens his mouth as if to talk at me again. And then, just as quickly as he appeared and taught me some things about milk, he disappears. I look all around, and then down, and I see that he has transformed into a million fire ants. They’re Australian, and so they’re big.

I squash every last one. *not the dog breed

By James Sweeney

d o o G n e m o W t Tr ea A Proposition to My Fellow Man

Women. Of all the sexes, it is often said that they are the fairest. But do you know what is not the fairest? You guessed it – it’s the treatment of them in society today.

Buckle up.

Feminism Fact #1: Women get a lot of grief.

It should come as no surprise to you that gals have had it up to here with labels and judgements.

But don’t worry, there are plenty of things that the rest of us can do. Whether it’s leaving a good comment online or offering assistance often and always, we can definitely get it through women’s heads that they are valuable valued.

For an example: Women are visibly unhappy in public because of the government, so I make it my duty to remind them to smile.

Necessary clarification: I am not a feminist. I am a male feminist. I am what happens when emotions grow muscles. I am what happens when good boys grow up.

A lot of the women in my life have hinted to me that taking someone else’s perspective into account for once is precisely the shit they’re into.

It’s important for dudes to step back and assess how much emotional labor they’re willing to perform relative to what’s expected of the women in and around their personal lives. That being said, our biologically-granted alpha nature shouldn’t impede our efforts to

give chickies what they’re asking for; in fact, we need to harness that inherent rationality to make the world a more inviting place for all women. Perhaps one of them got all dressed up for the train and thought no one would have the courage to take notice? Well, she better think again if this perfect stranger is riding the rails.

You guys get it yet?

Feminism Fact #2: Statistically speaking, some women spend an average of 9 months a year becoming somewhat large. Men on the other hand? They don’t.

they aren’t sometimes Captains in the Army, then I don’t know what I’m gonna do. As womanist, Tina Turner, once sang, “Big wheel keep on turnin’/ Proud Mary keep on burnin’/ Rollin’, rollin’, rollin’ on the river.” Now, she didn’t write that —Creedence Clearwater Revival did— but there goes a saying: “It takes a man to have the idea, and a woman to get it right.”

You know what I’m talking about. Like Steve Jobs, right? But a woman.

Women often have the hardest jobs, such as nurses, teachers, contractors, and CEOs. Men also have these jobs, but they are thin and limber and not often with boobs. So it is easy.

Women deserve more. And not just in March, all year long! They deserve everything that men have –which is very little, because men are physically small and without boob, and so their possessions are few. Women deserve as much, yes, but also more!

Feminism Fact #3: A thirsty woman can drink as many as 30 gallons (113 liters) of water in about 13 minutes, and can store said water for up to six or seven months.

That explains all the you know what.

Final point: If we as a society keep letting women get treated like

11

Dear

My spit is of the palpable variety.

Not too full, but not too thin, it is just the right density for a viscous guy like me. Right in the middle, where it can neither harm nor impress the ones I love. It’s there, and it exists. My spit is like my arms. Not too long, not too short. Enough muscle to look healthy, and a vein or two just to look like I go to the gym, but not overly huge and certainly not underdeveloped. My arms are very average, and they fit quite nicely on the same body where the spit comes from. They exist, much like my soul. Not too dark, but most certainly not light.

Neither full nor empty. This is because I am a Wall Street banker.

No, I am not a basketball player, on account of my arms. I am not a baseball player on account of the lack of chud in my spit. But I sell. And I buy. That’s my motto. Well actually, my motto is: “They won’t remember who you are, but they will remember you seized their house.” I don’t even know if that’s how banks work, but I tell you the fuck what: that’s how I work. I’m a true patriot, one who has avoided entanglement in the political messes fed to us by bureaucrats.

I play my way, like Tom Brady, or Jimi

12

Hendrix, if either of those two guys sold stock and hocked doozey loog’s like it was their job. (It’s my job.) Oh, you thought we were done with the spit huh? Well ma’am, you can’t even fathom how often I think about it. My thoughts are deep, but my pockets, oh boy, they are not that deep. They are pockets, not reusable grocery bags. I only expect 5-6 inches’ max depth in my pockets. And by pockets, I do mean my soul.

What more can I say? I’m a simple man who enjoys simple pleasures. I like pizza, kissing my wife on the mouth in front of guests, and a good road-kill.

A nice trophy turtle. Viscous stains on the Jeep. Hollow out the shell, make a nice spit bowl out of it for me and the kids to practice hocking in. I am such a great father, and my kids have told me that before. They know Daddy went to the School of Hard Knocks. And DeVry. What was my major? Crushing Gash, of course, you big ass. I’ve done the fucking. I know you know that I’ve done the fucking since I have three kids: Jack, Jake, and Kelpis (adopted). That’s at least definitely two fucks, and a third just for celebration. (Adopting is extremely hard to do.) My kids don’t just love

me and my stocks and my arms which hold them for moments. They love art as well. I’ve seen them listen to Bono before, and they seem to appreciate a nice piece from Ross Bob Ross, and the comfortably cheap clothing store.

They will only wear clothes from the latter, unless I also shop somewhere else, in which case they will wear what is available. You can tell they’re my boys because most of their clothing articles have spit marks on them. It’s their spit, but in a way it’s also mine. What can I say? A good man marks his territory.

I buy them too many clothes, though.

Kelpis has a stomach issue and can’t stop hurting his corduroys.

I want to sell back Kelpis.

Anyway, if you’re interested in catching a movie or something, you must be at least an 8 to ride this bull.

Give me a holler. And don’t tell my wife about the whole spit thing. Please.

Jerry

Where are you, Dana Carvey: Master of Disguise?

MasterOfDisgIsMyLife224

6/19/16

MasterOfDisgIsMyLife224

6/22/16

MasterOfDisgIsMyLife224

8/24/16

MasterOfDisgIsMyLife224

9/4/16

CarveyLandRuler328

Hello fellow CarveyLand Posters! Today I’m coming to you with some very important questions about our one and only, Dana Carvey.

So if you’re new to the webs, or just a Suppressive And/Or Blasphemous Carvey fan, let me preface this conversation with some background.

In 2002, Master of Disguise, a film directed by Perry Andelin Blake, hit the box office boasting a modest $43.4 million return.

Dana Carvey, known for his appearances on Saturday Night Live in the ‘90s, plays meek waiter Pistachio Disguisey who, in order to fight the bad guys and save his Papa, must disguise himself, as many Disguiseys had before.

A role made specifically for Dana, I couldn’t help but wonder if it was all just too easy. Living on a royalty of impressions, I couldn’t help but think: was Master of Disguise always meant to be more than just a severely underrated film? Was it, in fact, a long con orchestrated by executive producer Adam Sandler with an end goal of helping former CIA operative Dana Carvey achieve his goal of full societal immersion? True invisibility?

More on this later, talk soon.

-MasterOfDisgIsMyLife224 Hello again world! I’m back. If you remember, my last post was exposing Master of Disguise for what it really was: a ploy to hide Dana Carvey and his career from the world. This is something I’ve been ruminating on for a long time, so hear me out on at least a few of these points.

For starters: where is he? Since 2002, I haven’t seen or heard from him. He’s ignored all of my fanmail, and his number has changed every three years pretty consistently. Have you seen any paparazzi pictures of him? None! Not even at his favorite diner, the Denny’s in Missoula, Montana. No clips on TMZ? He doesn’t even have a photo listed on Google for having been in Master of Disguise.

Weird? I thought so.

So I thought and I thought, and wondered, just where could he be? And then it hit me: maybe the question is not where, but who?

Stay with me!!

Adam Sandler produced Master of Disguise in order to help Dana Carvey gain the skills to disguise himself as anyone. So crazy, I know, but as Pistachio says: “it just might work.”

Talk again soon.

-MasterOfDisgIsMyLife224 Long time no talk, folks of CarveyLand! For any of you who’ve been keeping up with HiddenCarvey Theory, this one is for you.

So: You all saw him as George Bush in Master of Disguise, right? It was uncanny.

How many States of the Union could he have been hiding at?? Just seamlessly hidden in the cracks of men with balding heads, shimmying and laughing a throaty George W. laugh. But it doesn’t end there! He might not even be posing as a celebrity. Think about it: anyone you have run into on any given day could have been the guy that played Garth in Wayne’s World. At The Daily Bowl, eating chili and slurping a Coca Cola - his favorite meal -- wearing his signature grey t-shirt/black hoodie combo? That’s too easy. But the lady that butchers my meat? Dana Carvey. The dude at the Chase bank on Willow? Dana Carvey. My lumpy, stinky bus driver, Rita? Absolutely Dana Carvey, with a cigarette hanging between those delicate little skin flaps.

For the sake of full disclosure, you should know that I’ve been sitting on this information for some time. I began pursuing this theory in secret over a decade ago, and in 2007 I finally set out to find him.

I set out to examine every living person I met and find out where and as who Dana Carvey had hidden himself. I will find an answer.

Talk soon, hopefully with better news.

-MasterOfDisgIsMyLife224 This is breaking news and I have no time for introductions. Just know now that this may be my last post for the foreseeable future. Maybe my last ever.

Dana Carvey has popped up once again in a brand new one hour special, Straight, White Male, 60, in his usual form.

I am infuriated.

How could he just pop up in plain sight when I have been searching for him for so long? How dare that comedic genius/sociopath decide to just appear as his actual self when I have been spending years, Y E A R S, trying to literally tear the masks off of people’s faces. I’ve fought lawsuits, 24 of them in fact, trying to search for Dana Carvey. I’ve spent tens of thousands of dollars traveling across the country, internationally, trying to get up close to some of the nation’s biggest leaders, up close to tourists, up close to anyone who could be Dana Carvey. I haven’t cut my fingernails in 65 months.

How dare he.

I ask of you, help me with this cause. Help me find out where, or who, Dana Carvey is. And Dana, if you’re reading this, give me a sign. Write your name in my latte tomorrow. Leave your blood in a vial in my mailbox.

-MasterOfDisgIsMyLife224 Dude, we already knew this. Learn to check the archives and shut the hell up.

13

6 Reasons Why Honors College is

100%

How’s it going, student h70295 -- we mean, Very Happy Hofstra Student!

Remember the greatest day of your life -that day you received your acceptance letter from Hofstra, and then kept reading to find out that you got into the prestigious Honors College?! (If this is not the greatest day of your life, you are incorrect! Yikes!) Now, this may come as a shock to some, but there are actually some people who are unsure about whether or not they should take on the overbearing workload of the Honors College Lifestyle while also pursuing a college major.

That’s why we created this listicle, so that hopefully you’ll become informed enough to make the right decision: to join the utopian community known as the Celibate Thinkers Society Hofstra Honors College. The final step to entry was reading this paragraph!

There’s no turning back now!

6. Vander Poel is so much better than all the other dorms First off, we have perhaps the most obvious reason for making the Honors College jump -- that’s right, it’s the fact that Vander Poel is better than every other dorm on campus, and it’s really not even close!

While schematically it is literally the exact same structure as Enterprise, Constitution, Estabrook, Alliance, and Bill of Rights, but with more furniture and another stove and microwave on the 13th floor, there’s way more going on here than that. The hallways are a little wider, as well! It’s pretty hard to tell at first, but if you were to, say, get a bunch of awkward kids together to play the Rick and Morty theme song on ukuleles and kazoos in front of the 7th floor elevators, you’d almost definitely be able to fit one more lanky engineering major who actually wanted to be a theater major but makes up for his stifled passion by starting a conga line of forced massages. Is that killer or what?!

5. You always know where to find all your friends So, you’re busy from 11:00 to 4:00 every Tuesday and Thursday and all of your nonHonors College friends want to hang out

14

Worth It

with you during that exact window of time.

What’s a prodigy to do?! Well here’s a perfect solution for ya: Forget ‘em. Leave them behind. Who the hell needs them? They’re not smart enough for you. If they were, they’d be sitting next to you in your lecture courses, helping you decide whether or not it’s cool to wear your lanyard. (It is.) If you want, you could just leave everything else behind too. Fully immerse yourself in the Honors College. We are your family now. This is your home. You are no longer a human being with feelings. You are a perfect, rigid, 9-digit code.

We are the only proprietors of friendship you’ll ever know. Frisina is your only god now.

4. Silence One of the many perks of living in the glisteningly-smooth Vander Poel, with its excessively wide hallways and charming elevator operator named Martin, is that the RAs enforce silence more strictly than in any of the other buildings. If you live with a roommate, then you can most likely have a whispered conversation or two under the covers you’ll share. If you dorm alone, though, prepare to have a zipper stitched into your face. Boo-yah! Before you know it, you’ll be left with nothing to listen to than the sound of your own organs consuming one another in a race to simply not be. But what happens after your organs have been digested? You wouldn’t want to waste any of that meat of yours, would you? Of course not, so you keep a collection plate under your bed. And just before the pure black silence can completely consume you, leaving you yearning so longingly for the outside world that you claw out all external organs too -- those curse’d few still capable of sensation -- you hear the RA rapping softly on your door: he says some of your floormates are getting together to watch a little low-volume Big Bang Theory until it’s time for another weird all night study session fueled by a guilt that’s hardto-place to say the least. And just like that, you’re reminded of why it’s all worth it!

3. Professors talking about sex Don’t you love hearing your grandfather talk about things from his adolescence

By Trashman and James Sweeney

he can’t have anymore, like stickball, the sexual act known as coitus, or the Brooklyn Dodgers? Just picture that, but in a lecture hall (And unlike your family, Hofstra’s handing out tenure left and right!).

2. Politically correct Cards Against Humanity gettogethers If it’s not clear enough by now, the Hofstra Honors College community is the result of a lot of planning and curation on the part of the Resident Assistants, Resident Directors, and concerned parents.

Infamously risque games like Cards Against Humanity -- sort of an edgier version of mad-libs, minus the creativity -- have long been banned from Hofstra residence halls, presumably because of the potential threat of poorly-adjusted kids laughing too hard at the thought of Furries Doing 9/11, or something. Leave it to that ragtag group of misfits in Vander Poel, though, to end Hofstra’s campus-wide stigma against trying too hard to be funny. The fact of the matter is, these kids couldn’t all make it on their own. And while it’s safe to assume that a lot of them would be fine just sort of hanging in the periphery of another more solidified friend group where actual personalities interact with one another, perhaps laughing at inside jokes whose genesis they weren’t present for -- isn’t it better to at least give them a chance to build something resembling a real memory with other people? And isn’t Cards Against Humanity: Greek Tragedy Pack the perfect way to get to know all the kids you’ll never really feel comfortable making eye contact with, even when you need to borrow someone’s phone because you got locked outside your room in nothing but shower shoes and a towel? We think so.

Wear the lanyard.

1. Bragging about the Presidential Scholarship This one actually gets old kind of fast.

Look, we all got it. Rabinowitz doesn’t give a Rabinoshit about your high school accolades. Hofstra doesn’t even look at your SAT scores. Just shut up. We all got it.

Comics

0

* + $ % 15

The

5

Virgos You'll Date -

in Post Baccalaureate Pre Medical School

by Someone Who’s Definitely Been There, Sister

1. Handsome businessman in office We all know the type.

Diamond blue eyes, silky blonde hair, and a smile that says, “I don’t cum.” Only a Virgo could match an undershirt with an over-shirt so effortlessly. He’s already a businessman-boy, so you know he was in a men’s preprofessional fraternity (a real PLUS). As soon as you try and tie him down, he’ll fly away with his magnificent wings. All “blonde” Virgos are winged. Don’t worry, you dodged a bird penis bullet.

2. Handsome bearded worker wearing eyeglasses Another run in with a 4-eyed counterpart. He’s the perfect nerd if you like your nerds HOT and KIND of jockish.

That chiseled jaw means He’s definitely an Iron Giant fetish porn watcher (cha-ching!).

A dedicated “worker”, your mom will love him, and your friend Jessica will fuck him. I’m really sorry.

3. Thoughtful Young Hispanic doctor Ugh, who’s not into the thoughtful-young-Hispanicdoctor type! Now that Mercury is out of retrograde, your toxically-narrow-andpassively-racist-notions-ofsexuality phase is behind you, and you can date this guy!

Born right smack dab in the middle of Virgo season, this catch is a super-Virgo. Being a super-Virgo means his stars are always aligned over a church, so your grandparents will be forced to love him. And he’s a doctor, so he knows exactly what he’s doing (down there). His penis is also way large. Too bad he’ll catch smallpox and die from an unvaccinated child. That’s America for ya!

16

4. Charming kid in brand new kimono Trust us, it’s 2017 and six is the new forty. After being around for only six Septembers, this kid will charm the pants off you (Not literally Ha Ha). Fresh off his parents’ divorce and looking for attention, this kid will cling to you like you’ve always wanted a man to do. Sure, it might be dangerously illegal, and his mom really wants you to please just leave him alone, but there’s just something about him. Those big brown eyes, those baby teeth! Why is he always in that kimono? You love that air of mystery a Virgo brings! All Virgos are mysterious, right? (The stars have meaning, right?) Sadly at age seven he gets pretty chubby, and like, you’re not against chubby guys, but he’s changed in other ways too.

5. Senior woman who likes skin care and looks in the mirror She’s everything you’ve never wanted in your partner, but somehow she’s everything you’ve ever needed. She cares about her skin and she loves looking at herself in the mirror just as much as you do! (except you’re def way hotter lol you’re an Aries).

She may speak zero words of English, but she was born on September 8th, so she can say more than enough with just her eyes. Her lips are like two wet pieces of string, which create a sensation on your face that you’ve never before experienced. Soon, she’ll fade back into the mist, never to be seen again. Cherish everyday with this special Virgo.

MIDDLE-AGED SENSATION SHOCKS MUFF-DIVING WORLD

By Wayne “Fast Hands” McGregor

M: Oh, you know, I like to keep myself sharp.

Some push-ups here, some pull-ups there.

I also have a personal trainer whose sole job is to keep my tongue in tip-top physical condition. I’m no slacker in the “weight room,” that’s for sure.

W: We can certainly tell. What you just did to that bowl of cherries was Extremely Fucked Up. Um, tell me, do you remember anything from your college days?

SHRUB OAK, NY - It was a day just like any other - the sun hung low in the sky, the nauseating scent of body odor and greasy cheese filling the Moe’s Southwest Grill in which we sat. Martin Van der Beek (@BASED_ MARTIN on Twitter, Instagram, and Reddit) took a long drag from his pineapple-coconut vape pen, the smoke curling around his camo bucket hat. He emanates confidence, speed, and power – all the traits of a dominant athlete.

He is perhaps one of the greatest of his time.

37-year-old Shrub Oak native Van der Beek is a professional muff-diver, and maybe the best in the world. We’ve covered this incredible sport before (see Nonsense’s joint documentary series with VICE titled “In Too Deep: Muff Divers of Western Africa”), but Van der Beek is a different breed. Our own Wayne McGregor volunteered to sit down with this diving prodigy in an exclusive interview to ask just how he’s getting it done.

W: Martin, thanks for meeting with us today. It means a lot to me. The magazine.

It means a lot to the magazine. Yeah.

M: Happy to help fellow divers, Wayne. Say, you look mighty familiar. Have we met before?

W: Definitely not. Now, people have heard of muff-diving, but to many, the sport can seem foreign, even disgustingly immoral. Do you agree?

M: Absolutely not, Wayn-O. The way I see it, muff-diving is a beautiful past-time. I don’t expect everybody to be able to see that. But the people who do, they understand the art, the beauty, the sensuality of the thing.

W: I know I do, Martin, I know I do. So, do you work out much? How does a world class diver stay in shape?

M: Oh man, those were the times. I was top of the world, Wayne-arino. Getting scouted by every professional team, dominating every match...I can’t say I don’t miss it. I progressed so much as a player in those four years. It’s hard to say any time in my life was more instrumental in my becoming the diver I am today. My coaches, my peers, my many and varied lovers – I can’t thank them enough.

W: Uh huh. Anything else from back then?

M: I mean...no?

W: ...You sure? Anyone else? Anyone... special? Come on. Handsome, cool guy like you could probably have dated any girl he wanted, no matter what. Am I right or am I right?

M: Hmm. No, not really.

W: Wow. So it was just all meaningless sex.

You really are just...a monster.

M: Excuse me?

W: A beast! You’re a total beast. A total animal, competitively speaking.

M: Right on. Are you sure we haven’t met before, Wayne-freeze?

W: No, no, I don’t think so. A big star like you going to the same college for all four years as a forgettable nobody like me? Don’t be silly. Now, as you continue tongue-fucking that watermelon, I have to ask: what was your recent trade to Cleveland like?

M: Oh yeah. Getting traded is never easy – you leave behind friends, colleagues, crevices, coaches, and trainers that inspire you at every turn. But, you know, it’s a part of the game. And the Red Dragons are right in the middle of the playoff chase, so

I’m willing to help in any way I can. We definitely think we have a team to go all the way with this year, and we’re all feeling really good about our potential to make the commissioner of our league reach a glorious and messy climax all over us.

There’s a lot to be excited about here.

W: We’ll definitely be watching you guys closely in the coming weeks. So, tell me – us, the publication – are you still seeing that girl you were with around the time you graduated college? What was her name, Stacy? Tracy?

M: Jessica? Why are you even asking about -W: Yeah...that one. You guys still a thing?

Big superstar like you probably kicked her to the curb once you got signed, huh?

Probably good karma, too. She’s probably super alone these days.

M: We, uh...we actually got married like, five years ago.

W: Oh, really? That’s...that’s cool. I’m...happy for you both. That’s probably really nice for her. And you. Probably very chill.

M: Mmhm. It is. So did you have a reason for -W: Actually it looks like we’re out of time.

Thanks for taking the time to meet with us, Martin.

M: Alright, yeah, that’s fine. You’re...sure we haven’t met befoW: Just be good to her, Martin. Cherish her.

M: Be good to...my wife?

W: To Jessica, yes. Be the man I never could, Martin. Do the things for her that I never could do.

M: Are you trying to tell me you know my wife?

W: I would never tell you a thing like that, Martin. I trust you should know that by now. This interview is over. Now why don’t you just finish going Absolutely Hog Wild on that grapefruit, and then get the hell out of my office.

M: ...

M: We’re in a rental car.

W: Correct.

17

y r a r ib L n in x A e th in s I Spent 24 Hour and Found the Mummified Corpse of

Mrs. Hofstra 10:13pm: It’s been fourteen hours

already and my lips are chapped, bleeding like a tender rose.

11:44pm: I feel disgusting. I’ve been stuck in this godforsaken library since – shit, since like, 8am, and my butt-cheeks have already gone numb thrice. Do you know how embarrassing it is to have to smack your buns back to sweet consciousness in the middle of the silent zone? And the guy at the reference desk wouldn’t do it for me.

This Concerta really isn’t doing shit except making me feel sweaty. All I’ve eaten so far is a carrot cake Clif bar, and I can already feel it stewing in my lower bowels. I’m full of artificial fiber and stimulants and I’ve only finished ten pages of the thirty I have for Creative Writing 135. How dare those STEM kids say they have more work than English majors.

1:16am: It’s been a long semester.

2:45am: I really should take a leak.

3:59am: I can feel my bladder pushing against my belt.

4:16am: I’m not sure how safe my laptop

and books will be if I leave them in the care of this girl sitting next to me, but I ask her anyway. She seems like a Good One: I can smell it in her hair. I decide to take the stairs down from the 8th floor, because why not? Maybe the movement will get my bowels in motion.

4:23am: Stir, lads, stir.

4:37am: I can’t tell how many flights of

stairs I’ve pitter-pattered down with my tiny tender feet. It feels like I’ve been spiraling into hell for hours – Dante, are you here?

It’s dark – very dark, someone turned the lights off in this club. I’m trying to find the

18

ground floor – the bathrooms down there seem the cleanest, and likely to echo the least when I drop my signature hotcakes.

5:37am: I open the door to the basement

– or at least what I think is the basement.

The floor is dirt, the air is thin, and ancient markings line the walls of the room. The largest engraving reads, in what I think is Cyrillic, “Sigma Delta Pi performs fellatio.” The chamber is lit only by two torches, which illuminate a large wooden door across my line of vision. This is some straight National Treasure shit. Obviously, I take my fated chance and scurry across the ground like a land rat.

6:47am: God, I lay on this floor and

make sweet love to her – she is kind to me and I am her unctuous lover. My hands and knees are seeping with blood and floor-dust. I am the Son of Rat, and I crawl like my King would have asked of me.

7:14am: The door is locked, but I’m able to pick it with the shiv I made from my school ID. I knew it would come in handy one day.

The cashier at ABP gave me the stink eye when I bought my grilled cheese. She didn’t know how important I am. The door opens with lubricated ease.

In front of my eyes blooms a crypt, damp and acrid, like the womb of my mother. It smells of death, and I relish it. I can feel dawn breaking, floor above me. My time here is short. The room is approximately the size of a full quad dorm in the towers, so it’s cramped. Just enough room for a coffin. It is elaborate – the mahogany squeaks as I rub my grubby fingers across the surface. Dust has grown thick and puffy, but there is an ancient blue and gold plaque which adorns the cover. I wipe it clean.

“Here lay the corpse of Ms. Kate Hofstra, First Lady of the Netherlands and Woman Wife of College Man.” Will it open? I pry open the top, curious

By Brenna Lilly

bladder aching. I yearn to see the truth. I gasp audibly. She is beautiful, buried with tulips and adorned with the finest garments that a burgeoning university’s president could buy. My body is prepared.

I whip out my dick, and I do it.

I do it well.

I piss.

And God, does relief finally come. I let out a guttural, orgasmic moan. I have been holding this piss for an entire day now. I look down at my watch – it’s almost 8am.

But someone is rustling, rustling here in this deep hole. I don’t know how to react, so I helicopter my wang in self-defense.

“Who goes there?” I scream, dick still whipping. It is the Bright Men, in their Bright Jackets.

“You can’t be in here,” they yell at me.

Words like bullets, eyes like poison. I feel their hands burn through me as they haul me out of the crypt and back into the light. They sear my skin. I am a sirloin steak and they are the Grillmasters. All I can see as I am yanked from the loins of Axinn Library is the mummified corpse of Mrs. Hofstra, staring into my peepers, smiling. She is proud of me.

I am soaked in urine. I shed one tear.

An Important Venn Diagram Ahhh, Birds/My cousin Ethan. Can’t live with em, can’t live without em!

By James Sweeney

Eat worms

Enjoys hanging out on the roof

Come in many exotic colors

Easily abandoned by mother History of being harmed by balloons

Known for their various songs, whistles, and calls

Birds

Owners of powerful talons

Anus-like cloaca used to ruin my stepdad’s new truck

Grime I wrote this fanfiction in 10th grade.

Here is an excerpt. Enjoy.

“Uh, yes, this is Brawny, I was just wondering if I could maybe get a…an um…”

Brawny had no idea what to do, having not planned what he would say before calling him.

“What do you need? My services include busting dirt and grime, cleaning messes and ridding grease,” Mr. Clean had a hint of interest in his tone, having been called by what sounded like a true hunk of a man.

“Do you think I could just get a look?

See if maybe there’s something here that needs cleaning?” Brawny was clearly nervous while he spoke.

Mr. Clean chuckled before responding.

“Well you tell me, sir, is there something that I’m going to have to clean up?”

“Erm…yes, I believe there will be.” Brawny was feeling promiscuous, to some extent, giving into bits of his attraction for the fellow.

“Alright, sir, I’ll be over as soon as I can.”

The phone call ended and Brawny took a deep breath in disbelief of what he just did and possibly what he was going to do.

-Mr. Clean readied his van with all of the

Eats pussy (allegedly) Came in my sock once as a pretty good prank Called the cops on my mom once for cussing Wants to kill Jimmy Fallon’s wife

Ethan, my cousin

A Mr. Clean and Brawny Man Fanfiction

products needed for a cleaning service. He also packed other things, just in case this happened to be the same man he saw from before. After double checking his list of utensils, he set off to the house of this man, the address being sent to him moments after their strange, to say the least, phone call.

Mr. Clean knocked on the door, excited as to who would be the man to open it. He heard a loud voice yell from the inside.

“Sorry! Something is wrong with the front door; you’re going to have to enter from the rear entrance! It’s just around the back!”

Mr. Clean walked around to the back door, duffle-bag full of equipment as he smiled in excitement. Brawny opened the door and could not help himself from checking out the man standing before him.

“Oh, please come inside,” Brawny said, welcoming Mr. Clean to enter his back door. Mr. Clean nodded at Brawny and took a look around.

“Why, Brawny is it? This house seems impeccable. Not a single stain or ounce of dirt or anything like that. You’re the first person I have ever met that keeps this house as clean as I keep mine. You should definitely take pride in that; I for one find it…attractive, for people to have houses as

clean as this.”

“Well you see, Mr. Clean, I called because something was definitely dirty, though it’s not the house…”

Mr. Clean began to feel devious and mischievous.

“Then whatever are you talking about, Brawny?”

“I don’t know…I’m just feeling weird.

I can’t explain why I feel this way, I don’t know what to do and I just figured that maybe you could help. Can you do that?

Can you help me, Mr. Clean?”

“Shhh, don’t worry. I have just the thing!

Here, sit down and I will erase all of your troubles with my Magic Eraser.”

Unsung HERO Meet the Guy that Crushed Aerosmith’s Nuts to Save Rock Music

By Veronica Toone

“They were some tough nuts.”

In 1973, Aerosmith released their self-titled album, Aerosmith, with the help of their producer Adrian Barber. But Steve “Mouth Man” Tyler and the gang didn’t work alone. For their hit song “Dream On,” —a song that ranked number 173 on Rolling Stones’ 500 Greatest Songs of All Time and number 4 on my brother Colton’s 50 Songs That Are Significantly Cooler Once Eminem Starts Rapping— Tyler requested that his close childhood friend, Damien Spoots, stand directly on top of his testicles during the recording of the song to ensure that he could hit those famous high notes.

Damien was born in Ontario, Canada, in 1952.

He currently makes his living eating raw eggs on the street for passers-by.

Nevertheless, Spoots said, he won’t forget his rock and roll past. Nonsense talked to this mostly-anonymous rock superstar about his past and potential for the future.

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How did you feel when [Steve “Endless Lips” Tyler] approached you?

I was floored. Stevie and I smoked a lot of weed together in high school… and he would always impress me with how many apples he could fit in his mouth (it’s twelve, by the way!).

When he told me he wanted to be a singer, I told him, “hey, if you ever need someone to stomp on your beans when you sing high notes, remember your old buddy Damien, okay?” I had totally forgotten about it after six or seven years had gone by, but folks have a real tough time getting anything past old Steve. He called me, drunk as all get out, and said to me, “Damien!” he says, “I want you to do somethin’ real special for me!” Once he said that, I knew exactly what I had to do.

And the rest is history.

Do you consider yourself a part of Aerosmith now?

To be honest: not really.

I mean, I’m really glad I got to help my buddy out, but I don’t think I’m really a part of their band. Sometimes if an Aerosmith song is playing,

I’ll point out my contribution before someone inevitably puts a different song on, but that’s about it.

Can you tell us anything about what you’re doing now?

I would prefer not to answer any questions about my personal affairs. I told you all about the eggs already. This is about music.

Did you get a cut of the royalties?

It’s actually a funny story that goes all the way back to the reason Steve and I became friends. It was over somethin’ really similar to this. Back in ’66, he owed me money for sellin’ him some bike parts… or helping him move —it’s a little foggy— and so he decided that rather than pay me, I could just kick him in the jewels. And it sounded really good! So we decided that if [Steve] ever became famous, I’d get a little cut to do the egg-whackin’. He tried to keep the money for himself… Well, initially at least. Steve told me he didn’t wanna see any money going to me, because he figured, “hey, y’know, they’re my huevos, that should be my cut! I can’t un-injure myself!”

So I got a little upset, and I was

like, “I’ll kill you, you bastard.

I’ll do to you what I did to your sister’s ex-husband. I swear to god, I’ll shit you out onto your mother’s doorstep.” All in all, I ended up getting about twenty percent (20%) of the royalties from [“Dream On”]. It worked out pretty well.

What did Tyler’s Grapes feel like under your boots?

Ha ha ha, I had a feeling we’d reach a point where you’d ask that. They were actually kind of hard. Like, if it were me, I’d probably go see a doctor, but Steve was always a bit of a different being, you know what I’m saying? He had some tough nuts. It took a lot of force to squeak those notes out of him, but then again, it took a lot of force just to get the guy to give me my goddamn 20% ha ha. That’s why his face aged like that…

Will you be offering your services to any other musicians in the future?

At this point, only the ones willing to pay up front. Lil Yachty knows where to find me.

But he’s awfully young, isn’t he?

I know exactly how old he is.

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Ways I will Continue To Avoid The

I will continue to be a morally right and upstanding citizen by breaking zero laws.

This one’s a bit of a softball for those of us intent on keeping the FBI out of our hair. If you know me, you know I love following the rules. I try to look up all the laws I can and then check off the ones I’ve followed throughout the day just to make sure that I haven’t broken anyone anything. If it were up to me, people that jaywalked would be doing the JAILwalk hahaha get it? I’ve been told by all my family and friends that I am an extremely upstanding citizen as well as very funny. Hell, I might even run for president one day to show everybody how to properly be the perfect American. That was just a little taste of my humor.

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I will keep my online activity to a minimum.

I’ve recently concluded that it would really be beneficial to my health if I shut off the ol’ labtop and ventured outside more. We have so little time on this earth you know, I feel that it’s important to experience life to the fullest instead of squatting on the dining room table all day. I also just ordered a copy of OJ Simpson’s book, If I Did It, which I’m excited to delve into. I think that will give me something to do that’s not Online.

3

I will not kill a man because he owned me Online.

You see, it would be quite dumb of me to brutally assault a person because they called me a “card carrying member of the Crybaby Club” on the internet in front of all my peers. That would most certainly be a one-way ticket to a jail or a prison or an FBI watchlist, and only someone with the smallest brain EVER would

By Ben Fletcher

decide to do such a thing. My brain would never allow it.

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I will not post about killing a man online after killing him.

This one seems like a pretty easy task to accomplish. I mean, I don’t think I will even have to get to this one seeing as I’d have to kill a man first hahaha. AND EVEN IF I DID, why would I tell people that I dumped his body behind the Smashburger on 5th because that’s the hog’s graveyard where he deserves to be buried? These are all hypotheticals and clearly would never happen to that son of a bitch, regardless of what some of us have maybe “read” or “not read.”

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I will not type into Google: “How to Seek Asylum Like the Wikileaks Guy.”

Okay first off, I LOVE this country, so I wouldn’t even NEED to find out how to leave it and seek refuge like that living knock-off wax figure of Anderson Cooper. I mean sure, he’s safe now, we get that. But I have to trust that the FBI would have no reason to stalk or trace me. I cleared my internet history last night; I’m practically invisible to them. I say the Pledge of Allegiance every God-fearing day of my life.

They know this; I leave my webcam uncovered on purpose. There is certainly no reason for anyone, much less the Federal Boys Inquisition unit, to inquire about any of my web activity or come knocking at my door and disturbing my wife while she eats and I watch. We’re busy people who just want to be left alone, and we have done nothing to him worthy of FBI investigation. It just so happens that we’re going to be leaving on an extended trip to Greece tomorrow, so if you want to get in touch with us, you’ll just have to wait for a month or two. Unless we get lost. By accident.

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FBI

I will not lose control again.

I thought I had gotten to a point where I wouldn’t need my stress balls anymore, but it would appear I was wrong. No surprise there. Now obviously nothing “bad” happened while I was off them the first time OR THIS TIME, I can promise you I made sure of that.

Even when I’m angry, I can always remember.

Sometimes the memories are too much...but I’m a smart and strong guy and I know when I’ve done wrong. This just isn’t one of those times because NOTHING EVEN HAPPENED! HE WAS FINE LAST TIME I-…I’m sorry, I should not be raising my voice like that. Even in writing, I know it is rude. You know how it is sometimes we all get a little stressed out and take out that stress in an unproductive manner. So I got carried away, nobody’s perfect, right? Shouting is mean, and I feel silly for using my fingers to do that and ONLY that.

I’m better now, and very excited about visiting Greece and Italy and the Russian Federation.

And even though I couldn’t be more grateful to live in the best country in the world, I’ve decided it’s about time I started living by the principles this great country was built on. So I’m giving back all my property to the people.

You guys can have it all: my lamp, my bed, my pet chinchilla (Garrett), his wife (Karen), their good friend (Grant), the villain known as Gimp. All of it! Even my cool computer. It’s all free! Tell your friends, tell your enemies, tell your co-workers! Just please don’t tell the FBI. That would be distracting for them, as they’re likely busy searching for somebody I probably don’t know. Anyway, tell Dad to keep taking his meds and to keep an eye out for a postcard in the coming months. Do not ever read the news. Love you Mom!

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Humor Isn’t Funny Anymore

By Ariel Leal EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

So uhhh, this just in! Humor? You know it well, I’d assume. You know it; I know it. Guess what? It fucking sucks now. As it turns out, it’s not funny anymore. Still having a hard time understanding? Let me put it this way.

You know jokes? They suck now. They’re over and they’re also done. Scientists have approached me personally to tell me that I have a solid thesis going regarding the death of good humor, and to be honest, I’m not surprised. Look, I’m just reporting the facts. If you bothered to read a book, though, you’d already know this. I’m just saying. If I’ve gotta be the guy to just go out and say something that needs said, then so be it.

I’m just upset as you guys are about this. I used to be the undisputed King of Humor. Life was all smooth-sailing around when I first found out I had a penis. I used to go around say that it was comically large, like impossibly large.

This was in elementary school and people would laugh at first. After a while, though, people stopped laughing and that was the first sign that humor was dying (and dying FAST). I laughed it off to say the least. I ignored it much like, in an ironic and humorous twist, everyone ignores me now. Well, I’d figured pretty early on that the first step to helping humor get its groove back was make my peers stop pay a little closer attention.

I brought my father’s ancient and weirdly bedazzled Bowie knife into school, busted into a first-period Spanish class, ran up to my crush, and started peeling layers of my skin off. Get it? It’s called self-deprecating humor. This was a tough one because there are no flaws in my personality, so I needed to disfigure my perfect, soft body. My inscrutable, salmon-like flesh would make a little PAP sound as it fell on the cold linoleum.

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No laughs. They were speechless, dead silent. Bullshit, right? To call this research would be to undersell the impact it has had on our very understanding of human relations. And if this is all just research, just preliminary jibber jabber, then here’s your goddamn thesis: My body is a temple, and I will desecrate it for a good laugh. This is humor.

Was it easier back in say, middle school? Maybe. But you could argue that it was, if anything, more abstract, a sort of first-wave Dadaism for the iPod Touch generation. Back then, acquiring a spitting smirk was as easy as just saying a bunch of random things. Genius, eh? I mean, can you imagine how ridiculous a purple giraffe is? Think about it. No, seriously.

Stop reading this article and think about a purple fucking giraffe. It’s silly as hell, isn’t it? If humor weren’t dead, you’d be shitting yourself with laughter. I bet blood would be pouring out of your mouth it’s so funny. I don’t mean to get all “but have you really listened to the Beatles” on you, but like, giraffes are yellow, you fucking idiot. Why would they be purple?! That’s humor! Fucking priceless. Pulled that one out recently in the waiting room of an emergency clinic and I’m sure you can guess how well it went over. Yeah...no laughs. So I forced blood to pour out of my nose by drinking boiling water and spitting it onto my cock. Hold your applause for later, dipshit. I’m not even at the good part.

My nose itself actually didn’t bleed, my throat did, but that’s probably because I was technically sleepwalking.

Finally, the day came when I was forced to usher in a new golden age of comædie.

I stood in the middle of the gymnasium during homecoming and painted my naked flesh yellow. I was a Simpsons now. I used a toothbrush shank to poke holes in my body until there was nothing left of me. If you fucking SJW’s seriously think “XD crippling depression ;33” bullshit is funny then

this bit should be fucking GOLD. I was literally GOLD, GOD DAMN IT. Chunks of my skinmeat were now scattered across the glazed, parquet court as my blood spilled. (Oh, the price of pioneering).

Once again, no laughs. Things were going from bad to worse, but there was still hope. I would run around screaming that my penis was now comically small, like impossibly small, and you would not believe the sheer amount of nervous chuckles that would generate. Well, it only really worked if I cut a centimeter off of one of my fingers, but that was just for emphasis. I now have only 3 fingers and no left hand. As they say, “Comedy is typically worth just about 7 fingers of your choosing.”

In college, I reached the peak of comedy. Here was my brilliant strategy: I would chain a bunch of big words together. That’s it. That is literally it. I would just put a lot of big and obscure words in the same sentence and people would be so confused that they were forced to laugh, even if the laughs weren’t particularly strong. Of course, by now if people didn’t laugh at “the pre-disposition of post-modern thinkers to throw the proverbial baby out with the cum that made it,” I would pull out a gun, point it at them, then shoot myself in my legs. Humor is really a just a high-wire act with a focus on misdirection, so with that in mind I’d wrap my bullet wounds in a tourniquet of barbed wire. I’d do this until people were literally crying… of laughter, I’d have to assume! To be fair, I have some issues deciphering the difference between those two sounds.

I’m lucky though, I guess, because they seem to give me the same feeling. It’s good to realize things about yourself, and to value your unique qualities, and it’s good to make yourself laugh at least once every day. It’s nice to know that I am God.

Obituaries Heather? I hardly knew her.

Amidst a newly closed Globe Theater Playhouse that Hofstra seems to never be fixing, we remember you, cigarette in hand.

We’ll catch you at the Martin Shkreli musical while mourning the inevitable heat death of DIY. Sorry about Dong Island.

Hofstra USA Gone but not forgotten, you were replaced

by America’s eleventh favorite unknown burger chain. Your vomit stained bathroom and 1:56 AM brownie sundaes will remain in our hearts long after we drop out and then come back, maybe.

Trashman You ate trash, you burned grass, and you wrote some of the greatest songs of our time. May you Mudfuck forever on the Misty Mountains of a higher plane.

Subway You refused to carry regular mustard. You only ever had hot mustard. Sometimes you were just out of regular bread, at which point things turned full-on Lord of the Flies. Remember that single two-week period when you offered pastrami?

I’ll see you in Hell.

Zachariah “Harris” Johnson

May you forever trade sheep for bricks and inevitably get longest road. Do you hear that in the distance? May you hear Bad Romance for the rest of your days, and dance in the middle of a crowd as if no one was watching. Be Free. Dance.

Matieu Jazzmeat

In the distance lies a cold, empty 40. One day it will stumble into a classroom, and it will ring as it rolls, and we will think of you. We will see you next week, Professor Matt, and you’re still an outside dog. Also may hot sauce pour out of your ass like the falls of Niagara, just like...liquid shit. Yeh.

Averie St. Germaine Rest in piss to Averie SatanGermaine. She was the best drunk mom we’ve ever had, and has left us all with lasting memories, specifically because she has given half of us tattoos of bugs.

Nathan’s Famous Hot Dogs You leave us, but your lesson’s live on. Heatlamp quesadillas from a hot dog place are not an answer, but the beginning to a question no human should have to answer.

That being said, the dogs were deec’.

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