Nonsense Unsolved by Nonsense Humor

ISSUE 175

DEC. 2018

NONSENSE U N S O L V E D Who are your friends? Who are your enemies? Does it matter? We have jokes. :-D

Nonsense Humor Magazine is Hofstraâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s only intentional humor publication. @nonsensehm - issuu.com/nonsensehumor - nonsensehumor.lol

Explore Next Door:

An Active Crime Scene

Students will learn how to operate police scanners, lie, decieve, and sneak. For tjhe first half of the semester you will be trained in local police codes and study quick getaway routes. We are coordinating with the night shuttle for quick transportation during prime vigilante hours. CRN: 691337 Contact Professor: @nonsensehm (twitter/IG) Class Meets: Thursday Nights 9:23 PM, Breslin 217 2

Disclaimer: Nonsense Humor Magazine is Hofstra’s only intentional semi-humorous magazine. Following any of our advice is not recommended as we might not exist. But we also might exist. The views expressed in this magazine most likely don’t represent the views of Hofstra University or any world-class detective. Any likenesses to people, places, things, cryptids, mysteries, cops, extraterrestrials, crop circles, crops, or circles is purely coincidental. Nonsense Humor Magazine is not responsible for any finger disappearance, unexplained eye pain, or attraction to aliens while reading this.

Nonsense U N S O L V E D Contents Cover - Sam Riebs

The Italian Goodbye - Ariel Leal

Ads - Sam Riebs

Activities - Tori Jenkins and Ariel Leal

Ransom Notes - Art Staff

My Children Are Eating Rocks - William Faber

Editorial - Ashley Vernola

Francis Trouble Rosewood, Private Investigator - Robert Kinnaird 17

Point/Counterpoint - Sam Riebs and Nathan Elliott

Unfinished Criminal Minds Episode - Lizzie Frank

5 Lost Cities That Aren’t As Cool As Atlantis - William Faber

The Jersey Devil Deserves More Clout - Maddie Brown

The Rattling In My Vents - William Faber Cryptids - Art Staff Lost Dog - Lizzie Frank and Mark Melchin

Genetically Modified Organism - Beth Foster The Big 4 - Peter Soucy

Photo Essay: Crimes That Haven’t Happened Yet - Lizzie Frank

Mystery Wordsearch - Tori Jenkins and Ariel Leal

Conspiracy: Why Did My Mom Stop Paying My Bills? - Eli Grsso 22 Cube Earth - Mark Melchin

Back Cover Maze - Tori Jenkins

E-Board Editor-in-Chief - Ashley “The Jersey Angel” Vernola

Social Media Manager - Anna “Harold Houdini” Galperin

Managing Editor - Ariel “Ghost of Christmas Ass” Leal

Web Team - Bethany “Booty Call of Cthulu” Foster, James “Splendor Man” Factora, Rosario “Mario” Navalta

Treasurer - Peter “Cryptidcurrency” Soucy

Video Head - Spencer “The Jersey Devil” Thurmond

Head Writer - Jordan “Unidentified Fearing of God” Hopkins

Faculty Advisor - Amy “Why have we still not visited?” Karofsky

Art Director - Tori “Bigfoot, Bigger Heart” Jenkins

Moral Support - Nathan “The Tennessee Kid” Elliott

Directors of Design - Sam “One-Armed Villain” Riebs, Mark “Norville Rogers” Melchin

Staff

Staff Writers

Staff Artists

Contributors

Jordan “Unidentified Fearing Of God” Hopkins

Victoria “Bigfoot, bigger heart” Jenkins

Mattie “Encyclopedia” Brown

Veronica “Thanksy Mr. Banksy” Toone

Emily “The Tell-Tale” Hart

Eli “.exe” Grasso

Peter “Cryptidcurrency” Soucy

Bethany “Booty Call of Cthulu” Foster

Lizzie “Lizard Person” Frank

Brynne “Bighead, I miss us” Levine

William “(B)” Russell Faber

Mark “Norville Rogers” Melchin

Robert “Female Body Inspector” Kinnaird

Sam “One-Armed Villain” Riebs Lizzie “Lizard Person” Frank William “(B)”Russell Faber

Editorial by Ashley Vernola

So here we are, at the last part of the semester. This issue is a very special one so this Editorial is joined by none other than Ariel Leal, just like the old ones. Howdy, pardners, it’s your boy. Welcome to Nonsense Unsolved, an issue that stemmed from all of our thoughts of impending doom. We were certainly wylin’ out this semester. Yes, we too are convinced that Mark Zuckerberg is a lizard person, and that Aliens are controlling our brains at all times. We’re not above you for that one. Overall, this semester has been… well, loaded. This semester has been a baked potato and classes, running this magazine, and having very little money and no time to cook has been the bacon, cheese, and sour cream. We took on a lot. We fell behind a lot, and for many of us, all of the things we were trying to do was a lot to take on at once. However, we persevered, and although our last issue is coming out literally during finals week (which… when does it not?), we hope it’s as good as our rest. In fact, we also guarantee it. I love that this magazine always allows us to pour our heart and souls

into it. We’re always doing it up until the last minute because it’s never quite right. It’s always like a beloved recipe that we’re always screwing up at least one bit of. But that’s what makes it great. Everytime you make the recipe differently there’s some aspect of it that’s truly special. Sometimes it has too much cinnamon, or a little too much liquid. Emphasis on liquid. Maybe there’s too much chocolate (which is the real jackpot because how could too much chocolate be an issue?) ((Can you tell that Ash is hungry and in Finals mode?)) What I’m trying to say with this incredibly stupid analogy is that Nonsense always feels like a beautiful mess. It takes the most out of us to make, and it’s always worth it, even if it’s a little bumpy around the edges. It keeps us humble, and constantly striving for more, and I really believe that one day we’re gonna get where this magazine deserves to be. With that, I thank the team, as always, for keeping this operation afloat. Next semester, we’ll be employing more of you, as Ariel and I are ready to vet to pass the torch and we have many other graduating seniors. I might have written this in another editorial already but this upcoming semester is truly Nonsense’s biggest transition era in my tenure. We’re losing a good bit of our E-board but I absolutely have trust in the people who have applied to be qualified to deal with that difficult of a transition. What we will come back to is another beautiful mess of bright eyed people who love this magazine just as much as we do.

Yeah I literally can’t say it any better myself. This semester has only made me love this magazine and the people in it so much more than I already did. I constantly paused and thought “Wow, I am so incredibly proud of the people I’ve come to know during this time.” I know it’s not goodbye just yet, but I’m already feeling the start to a period where I’ll be wishing I had more time with everyone. Seeing the huge strides people have made and the progress built on each of us helping each other out is what this club is all about and I couldn’t be more thankful to be a part of that process. Soon, we’ll pass this dang ol’ thing to people much more qualified than us and I promise all you readers will love them as much as we do. So, when we come back we’ll have a longer masthead, ideally more cohesion, and hopefully, we’ll be able to announce who is officially taking over this club for good. Stay tuned, it’s going to be incredibly exciting. Enjoy this and keep reading. Nonsense loves you, and we always will. Let’s fuck this shit up. Merry Christmas, suckers. Yee, and I can’t stress this enough, haw.

POINT

Santa How I finally Proved Doesn’t Exist By Sa m Riebs

Greg said so

Santa would probably have left a paper trail. Three’s no way he wouldn’t try to cash in on all these brands using him for ads! Greg has a 401k matching program, he’s so fiscally responsible.

This is Greg’s ure, favorite pict ows kn he ly clear what a lot about e th at s en pp ha

WWII. Surely if Santa existed he would have interjected in one of the greatest conflicts in history. So many lives at stake Mr. Claus, and yet you just watched from your tundra cottage? Pathetic. Greg invited me to go to an exhibit on England during WWII with him last weekend. I’m starting to read more about Churchill.

poles

Smog. Greg HATES smog. If santa really existed he would have used his magic to stop climate change. Greg cares about the environment so much.

COUNTERPOINT

Proof that the red one really does exist

Despite what some people erroneously believe, the Big Winter Man does exist and science has proved it. While I could site obvious sources such as those “legal” tracking websites, those are for cowards who have no grasp on the concept of legitimate field research. I drove across the United States for years, going from mall to mall, state to state, just to catch a glimpse of the Jolly Red One. Through all the nights spent alone, candy canes left uneaten, and knife fights with elves, I worked tirelessly to ensure that the world would know the truth about the Man of Gifts. Now it is time to let that truth be known. He Who Flys On That December Night is thought by many to be incredibly elusive. However, catching him is as easy as going to any mall in any state, except for Mississippi, where there is a large reward for He Who Ho’s soft round head. During the Holiday season, he can often be found near areas with excess amounts of candy-cane and fake snow. In order to get closer, I bathed myself in peppermint Schnapps to smell like an elf, and left the remaining seasonal liquid out as bait. When he finally appeared, I exper-

imented as much as the law would allow, from pulling on his beard to asking “Are you the Large Sky Boy?” over and over again. He looked me dead in the eye, his breathe smelling of Fireball, the Holiday Whiskey, and said “Yessh.” If that’s not proof, then I don’t know what is. If people must have further proof, look no further than the Horned Flying Dog. They pull the sled as the story goes, but everyone forgets how fast they can do it. According the Speed Laws developed by Dr. Speed Racer MD, they reach a solid speed of Mach X to the racer power. For those that don’t understand the scientific jargon, Superior Flying Steads go noom faster than anyone can say bazinga. If I were you and you were me, and I’m a renowned scholar on all things related to that One Winter Day, I think I would choose to the believe the words of a man obsessed with going as fast as scientifically possible. So much for the Great Gift Harbinger not being able to give all those delectable presents in one night. The only other evidence that could possibly be needed is the disappearance of the milk and

By Nathan Elliott

cookies. People leave the food to satisfy His infinite hunger. If this Red Man isn’t real, why do we fear him? We fear him and his hunger because they are very real, as science says. I personally am someone who fears nothing, not even the children at Chuck Entertainment Cheese, but as His presence loomed over me, I could do nothing but serve him copious amounts of cow teet and warm dough. In this frightful event, I discovered through scientific self-observation that the Great Jolly One has a place in our realm. In closing, He Who Holly’s The Jolly’s is very much real. In fact, he is so real that he exists in our universe and the beyond simultaneously. He’s in every mall, his Beasts of Wind forever fly, and his hunger is always infinite. He is real and you should be eternally scared, awed, and dazzled, at least for the holidays. While fools may still deny the existence of the Kind God of Gifts, true believers know that he is always close by, stuck between the life of a toymaker and the responsibilities of an elder god.

5 Lost Cities That Aren’t as Cool as Atlantis By William Faber People have been getting mad and I haven’t heard the end of it. They say I talk about Atlantis too much, that there are plenty of lost cities out there that I should given attention to. Maybe there are. I’ll give ‘em a shot, but I’ll tell you right now that they’re not nearly as cool as the OG: Atlantis.

1. Fenaymenstranom

This city had it all: killer whales that the police would use to chase down sea criminals, a laissez-faire attitude to the free market, and guns. This, of course, led to the toppling of the ruling class by a group of disgruntled whale washers. This story, despite its far-ranging implications for society, was boiled down and used as the plot for Shark Tale, making the city way lamer than Atlantis, the gold standard among cool-ass lost cities.

2. Laikarally

This large group of people did not keep a permanent stronghold of any kind, instead choosing to wander from place to place, never settling. When a tornado came and blew them all away, they just kept going. They remained a unified whole until a massive unidentified rhino barrelled into the cluster of Laikarallians, scattering them. They still exist to this day, but, due to their separation and lack of documentation for next of kin, their city is lost. Even I will admit that that’s pretty neat, but given that Atlantis sank to the bottom of the sea, and its inhabitants turned into fucking mermaids, I’m gonna have to give the Big W to the Big A.

Rather than sinking to the sea floor like an objectively superior mythical city, Tortulla just up and walked away. Turns out it had been on a tortoise’s back the whole time. Now, if you’re starting to think, “Wow, that sounds pretty cool,” hold on. This wasn’t a giant tortoise or anything. See, my buddy Jake and I taped some legos on top of his brother’s favorite reptile. That city was not long for this world, and, trust me, it wasn’t cool either.

5. My House

West Forest High School

Alright, so I’m gonna admit it. I ran out of cities. However, this school burned to the ground four times before they finally gave up and consolidated with East Forest High School, leaving many members of the community deeply underserved. That’s just how the bureaucracy of school districting works, which makes this city way fucking lamer than Atlantis.

3. Tortulla

This really stretches the definition of city and also the definition of lost. However, it has about forty people living in it, a thriving economy, and guns. In addition, I don’t know where it is. The nine strangers sleeping in my bed are refusing to leave since they pay rent, making this ‘lost’ ‘city’ way lamer and less cool and not nearly as good as Atlantis. It’s definitive: Atlantis is the best city of the ones we can’t find, and I would very much like to move there.

The Jersey Devil Deserves More Clout, You Guys are just Mean by Mattie Brown

I am so tired of not being able to find any good content about the Jersey Devil in the Cryptid tag. What does everyone have against my sweet scaly son. Is it because he’s from New Jersey? I know everyone hates on New Jersey, but come on that’s not his fault. He’s just a smol bean living his best life out in the woods unlike some desperate bitches. That’s right, I’m calling out Bigfoot. I mean what the hell? Why did everyone and their mother collectively decide that Bigfoot was the end all be all of the cryptid fandom. People are even putting their bigfoot fics and imagines in the Jersey Devil tag? Like, can you not. I’m so sick of having to shovel through bigfoot stuff to find Jersey Devil content in HIS FREAKING TAG. I can’t stand that crusty ass gorilla. You guys do realize that bigfoot is like, super problematic? He causes so much property damage, leaves mangled deer carcass by highways for street works to clean up, and is just generally kind of an asshole? But you don’t care about that. You just want to post your gross Bigfoot/chupacabra fics despite how many people have explained why it’s such a toxic dynamic. (On that note, if any Bigcabra shippers that follow me, unfollow me right now. ) I know Bigfoot stans are gonna come after me in the notes.Go ahead, I’ll just block you. I don’t have time to put up with your guys childishness. Y’all just don’t want to face the truth.

The Jersey Devil is a literal demonic entity, complete with hooves, wings, and a leathery kangaroo body, and Y’all are thirsting over blurry ass pics of an overgrown grown monkey? Pathetic. And I don’t buy his shy boy routine, either. “Oh, I don’t want people recording me. Let me just wander all over the dam country where tons of people are and then act shocked when people try to prove my existence.” He’s so fake, it’s cringy. You know who always keeps it 100%. The Jersey Devil. He just chills out in his own territory and minds his own business. No games, no gimmicks. Just an old fashion eldritch abomination from Hell. He should be the one with tv shows and movies getting made about him. More importantly, he deserves way more love in the fandom. Why is it that I and other Jersey Devil fans spend hours drawing fan art, writing fic, creating headcanons, ect. and only getting a couple dozen likes, while people can make stupid text posts about any other cryptoid (even human passing ones) and get thousands of reblogs? It’s so frustrating.The Jersey Devil is a real monster. I hate that we live in a society where real monsters are shunted aside for glory hogging douchebags like bigfoot and those alien chads flying around in their tricked out saucers so that everyone will pay attention to them while they go out to Venus for a hook-up. The Jersey

Devil deserves better. Sure, he might not have the titillating allure and raw magnetic energy that Mothman has, but who does? Nobody. But that doesn’t mean that the Jersey Devil doesn’t have a lot to offer. On the outside he is a terrifying monstrosity of a creature. But on the inside he is a total cinnamon roll. And he can fly. Like how dope is that? Can you imaging just going about your day, hiking along the woods of New Jersey and you see a big, handsome, naked goat goat flying through the air? What an icon. When will your flop ass irrelevant fave ever? ( on an unrelated note, I’m trying to move out to New Jersey. If you want to help me out, the link to my paypal is in my bio.) Anyways, The Jersey Devil is the closest thing we have to a pterodactyl, which is objectively the best dinosaur. Yet we don’t even really appreciate him. He deserves better. I won’t tolerate anymore of this toxic Jersey Devil erassure anymore. I’m forming a Jersey Devil protection squad on my blog. If you want to join you got to reblog and follow me. It’s time for us Jersey Devil enthusiasts to band together tell the world that we stan a skinny legend.

Pictures of Crimes That Haven’t Happened Yet A PHOTO ESSAY BY LIZZIE FRANK

You may be asking yourself- whaaaat? But this is just an average dorm room! There’s an American flag in there, so no one could possibly break a law right? Well, I’ll tell you: as soon as the sun goes down (at 4:32 pm) these two special ladies are going to be smoking a fat blunt out their shared window. And I know what you’re thinking, but yes. Girls smoke weed. It’s 2018, loser. Even you can smoke weed, if you want to. But like,

Now I know what you’re thinking-- in my Hot Topic? It’s just not possible! Well let me assure you, it’s very very possible. In fact, it’s inescapable. In 17 minutes Antonella is gonna mosey her way through this store taking every pin, patch, and piercing she can get her hands on. Why, you may ask? It’s simple: she is a fighting a revolution against capitalism. And by that I mean her mom pays her credit bill and she’d be like, sooooo

Women in power! #werk! But no seriously, this female CEO is about to methodically strangle every man at the table, each with their own tie. It may sound gruesome, but it’s actually for the good of the company! No, really. Trust us on this one. Let Olivia do what has to be done, because really. It has to be done.

It’s Wednesday, and you know what that means!! Valerie and Malik are about to make a mind numbingly good pasta for the neighborhood dish to pass, and those flat ass-ers Tony and Brad from 315 are going to bring store bought cookies! :))))))) for the 4th dinner in a row :)))))))))))))) but it’s all good because Val and Mal are hosting this week, so it is totally within their rights as hosts to kidnap Tony and Brad and brainwash and hypnotize them until their life purpose is to cook healthy yet indulgent dish-to-pass offerings. It’s not, like, in their rights as Americans though. It’s actually mega-illegal. But good on them for taking the issue into their own hands! Or their own

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The Italian Goodbye by Ariel Leal

Some would say that I am a prodigy for becoming a detective in only thirty six minutes. Me? Well...I’d call it being the only motherfucker in a one mile radius who knows exactly where to find a trenchcoat. My grandpa’s lawn. It was there the whole time!! Mystery one? Solved. Next? This shit is just too easy. When I became a detective, I thought it was going to be a lot of The Law, bureaucracy, briefings, beef, and boxer briefs. Instead, I gotta invest in a snorkel because of all the fucking PUSSY I’m drowning in. Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, I remember now. Mystery number two? Solved. Boring! Oh...you think these are the first two mysteries I’ve ever solved? Buddy, I’ve solved more mysteries than I can count on both hands and once you get passed that many, you stop counting because math is for the nerds. But I’ll tell ya, every great detective also comes with a BRICK SHIT-HOUSE worth of rivals, enemies, and nemeses. The most dastardly one? Well, let’s just say The Devil is real and he’s got a name. That name? Uncle Marlboro. Now, I’m not one to piss, but just writing that name out sends shivers down my crack and into my colon. He’s the only case I never solved...a NUTCASE. Hah. So what did he do? Well, you see, the best way to solve a mystery is to create one, that way, you know exactly how it was done because you were the one doing it and then you can solve it perfectly. With this logic in mind, I had to do what was best for The Criminal Justice System, and I took the lives of eight...teen people from my hometown. That’s eighteen guaranteed solved mysteries right there, and all without ever having to go to COP SCHOOL. So where does The Unc’ fit in? Well, he was the one that got away. That fuck. I may be The County’s Greatest Detective, but he’s The County’s Most Cherished Husband. How did I know this? My mother would tell me so. My mother is a villain that has been destroyed many years ago. In fact, she was my first case. Now, her filthy brother tries to stop me at every turn from fixing The Law...from fixing myself... I’ve tried to kill him so many times by throwing leftover cashews from my pocket at his face. At least 12

people in the world have a peanut allergy and I’m hoping eventually he’ll be one of them, but the powerful demon that he is continued to survive. It’s like what the boys down at the station say, “Internal affairs officers are vermin that plague this Earth and the revolution will be painted with the color of their sinew.” Plot twist! I was the boy. I said that. And yes, Uncle Marlboro is an internal affairs officer. The best damn narc this side of the Missisissispsisii. The man managed to discover my perfect headquarters, his own cupboard. I left all of the dishes out so he wouldn’t have to open the cupboard for anything, but the man is a narc and therefore good at detecting as well. He kinda looks like Otto von Bismarck. “Oh fuck...oh god damn it! Again!?” “Hello, hello, Marlboro. You thought you defeated me...think again.” The man began to sweat. Mmmmmm. “Please don’t stab me again...I’m too fucking old to have to keep worrying about you,” he pathetically whimpered. “Old man, our feud is far from over. I can’t quit until I defeat the last remaining enemy of The Law,” I said sexily, of course. “I gotta hand it to you, kid. Y-you know your law. N-now, if you could just p-put the turkey meat thermometer d-down, we can settle this like professionals,” he stuttered with fear polluting his breath. “Fat chance, Marlboro. I want you to stop giving me and my boys a hard time down at the precinct.” I said this while putting the thermometer in my mouth and lighting the other end with one of those long lighters. ~Makeshift Cigarette~ “Is that a threat, Detective Nephew? You know...threat is big crime for someone who calls himself The Law…” This geriatric Jesus-hater was damn clever. There’s no denying that. To counteract this, I slashed at his face with my makeshift cigarette. Delicious, candy-red liquid spilled out. Salsa? No...tomato sauce. This geezer was Italian! Of course! I should’ve known. Case closed, dipshits. Score 1 for me, AGAIN. (BOOM, roasted.) Anyway, so what happened next? Well, Marlboro overpowered me...the old goon played pattycake with my bones and slapped me in prison. Double Victory. You know what prison means, don’t you, kid? It’s a box full of mysteries, and ones I can discover one snapped inmate finger at a time. After I solve all the crime forever in this here animal cage, I’m coming for Italy. When I’m outta here, it won’t be “ciao bella” for you EYE-TALLY-ENS, it’ll be...goodbye.

Top 1 Murder by Tori Jenkins

Connect the dots...

Build-a-Murder *based on true stories of real homicides by Tori Jenkins

Guess weapon, checkgun below, then smaller make guns, your own! icicle,the brick, house, cloud, that shoots *based true stories of real homicides candlestick, rope, theonmerciless paws of an entertainment god suffocating me in a ball pit, drunk on his own power B. A.

H. G.

[A. icicle] [B. house] [C. cloud] [D. brick] [E. gun that shoots smaller guns] [F. candlestick] [G. rope] [H. the merciless paws of an Entertainment god suffocating me in a ball pit, drunk on his own power]

My Children are Eating Rocks: What Do They Know That I Don’t? by William Russel Faber

I happened upon it in what felt like a dream. I visited the community pool to water the gardenias, as part of my community service to the community, and I found my three beautiful boys, Linda, Tommy, and Linda, giving all sorts of small smooth rocks a big chomp. It left me heartbroken. This was a sign of forbidden knowledge, a sign that all my efforts had failed. I raced back home and Binged my favorite website, children-and-their-little-morsels dot com, which redirected me to children-and-their-little-morsels.com almost immediately. I spent the whole day and the entire night searching through the post history of Mr. Hubert, the most wonderful parental blogger, who, in the past, had served as my guiding light in times of darkness, had given me important information like, “What to do when your child is choking” and “Memorizing Cat In The Hat and reciting it to your kids each night to convince them that you know how to read.” Hubert had nothing to offer me now, only tips for cooking quinoa. At dawn, without sleep, I woke my children for school, brought them downstairs, and fed them off-brand Frosted Mini Wheats, just as Hubert recommends. I watched their teeth with maximum ocular precision. Not a scratch nor a chip on any of them. I knew then that my children must

know something about rocks that I do not, a fact that shook me to my core as I love all rocks and rock trivia so, so much. I took it upon myself to discover what I did not know. I ferried my children to the schoolyard, but, as I began to pull away, I realized that I had nowhere to turn. I had visited all the local rock museums many, many times and spoken to all the geologists, geographers, and geometrists when we first moved into this county. There was nothing I did not know. I parked in the school’s parking lot and waited for recess. When I heard the throng of children pushing their way outside, I got out of my car and climbed over the fence into the schoolyard. From behind a large pebble, I watched my children. At first, they played ‘Ruin the Life of Carl’ quite well with all the other kids, and Carl ran inside crying in short order. Once that finished, all the children went to the edge of the yard, began picking up rocks of all shapes, sizes, and types, and began to gnaw at them. I watched aghast. One child, who goes by MaximumBlaster, chipped a tooth and began to wail. My son Linda came to him, shushed him, made calming gestures. The boy did not quiet. Linda soothed him more urgently now, sending furtive glances toward the door where a teacher may appear at any moment.

Still the boy did not quiet. Linda gestured toward Tommy and Linda, and they appeared on either side of him. They nodded at one another. Linda put his hand up to the right side of Tommy’s mouth, and Linda put his hand up to the right side of Tommy’s mouth. They pulled on his cheeks. It stretched. It stretched. It stretched. And Tommy swallowed MaximumBlaster whole. The others did not look up from their lunch of stones. I clambered back over the fence, afraid of my children. I had my answers now. My sweet boys are vessels of the knowledge of their mother, my wife, a rock demon. I wanted to protect them from this fate, that was why I had read them The Cat in the Hat again and again, hoping to drown out the demonic wails of my better half. Leaning against the fence, I consoled myself. I had done everything I could to prevent this, besides not marrying a non-human entity that eats gravel and sediment for energy. I got up from my spot and ran to my car, turning on to the highway toward home. I hoped in vain that they would not be there when I returned to pick them up.

She was a steaming pack of cigarettes with legs that went all the way to the third floor. The day she came to my office I knew how Taylor Swift felt, cause I could tell the dame was trouble when she walked in, and trouble’s my middle name. I am. . .

Francis Trouble Rosewood, Private Investigator By Robert Kinnaird

The dame was a fire cracker. A tall glass of water except its hot. She was dangerous. I could tell because she was smoking a cigarette despite the clear “no smoking unless you are dark and brooding” sign when this woman was clearly a femme fatale in trouble. But that’s just how I like em. “I hear you’re the man who can solve any case,” she said through smoke. I took a drag of several pipes and expelled a dark and gritty, “yeah… that’s me.” “My name’s Simone Carter, and as you can tell, I am sexy but also mysterious,” she started as she lit a loose handful of cigarettes. “There’s a man after me. Now I can’t prove he even exists, but if he really is there, he’s got it out for me. Every day there’s a near miss accident or some attempt on my life. Either I’m the unluckiest dame in Brooklyn or God’s got a grudge.” The fire sprinklers started going off overhead. “Any idea who could be behind this,” I asked her, not looking up from my notepad, which I was drawing dicks on. “I just told you! God! Capital G-O-D God!” The broad seemed upset. I don’t do well with emotions. What do you expect from a man who’s based his whole identity on Hitchcock movies and film school elitism. “Please detective Rosewood, you gotta let me know if God is real and why he’s out to get me!” The dame meant what she said. She really thought God was planning to kill her. “Listen, I can’t protect you from a deity, and we can’t get him arrested if we can’t prove his existence,” I ashed my whiskey and took a sip of a Cuban cigar. “You can’t put handcuffs on the abstract concept of the creator of all.” “Please, no one else will help me!” “I’m sorry but there’s nothing I can do.” … That was six years ago. The dame died two weeks later in a freak laundromat drowning, but the police ruled it an accident. They said that about Natalie Wood too, so I think the police are as full of shit as I am cheap alcohol. I know God was behind this, but I won’t be able to prove foul-play without a word with the big man upstairs. And by word I mean gun. So here I am, knock knock knocking on heaven’s door with the butt of my Cult .45, drunk as the day I was born. I followed God to this warehouse, and just like Usher featuring Lil Jon and Ludacris, came to the party. I kicked the door in, pulled

my first gun, and fired off six rounds. One for each flu shot I took this morning. I knew God was in here, after all, the nuns back home told me God was everywhere. I looked around, but it seems the coward fled when the shooting started. I ashed my revolver and stomped it out before pulling out a fresh one. The holy bastard had to be here somewhere. With every corner I rounded I let out a volley of bullets into empty space. For the life of me I couldn’t find God here. Round after round missed the target, and the echoes sounded like God’s laughter. I’m the only man allowed to laugh in the face of death in this city. The next day went the same, this time in an empty Toys R Us. I knew the deity behind the dame’s death was in this city, but he’s too much of a coward to show his face. I wasted round after round, but there was no God here. Funny, the one time I need the sonofabitch and he skips town on me. Just like my ol’ grandma. I went to every empty building in the city, night after night, wasting bullet after bullet. I was going through two packs of guns every day in search of justice for the dame, but I never got my man. After six months, I knew it was time to change the plan. I started shooting bibles in the ol’ dramatic-scene-alley from time to time, hoping he might show up for some old testament retribution, but he never came. I think the only way to finish this investigation is enrolling in seminary school. Until I can prove the existence of God, I’ll never bring the dame justice, so it’s about damn time I start reading proverbs. It’ll only take me a couple of years to become a priest. I can be my own man on the inside, slowly getting closer and closer to God until BANG, put a round of drinks through his head and a shot of gunpowder down my gullet. I’ll also be qualified to do confession for myself so I can finally repent for all the dirty deeds that come with being a seedy PI in the city where good dames go to get diagnosed with emphysema. Until next time, FTR, PI The adventures of Francis Trouble Rosewood, Private Investigator will continue… …if I feel like it.

(UNFINISHED) CRIMINAL MINDS SCRIPT By Lizzie Frank

Scene 1: INT. fbi room. The fbi agents, who are all very beautiful, are getting ready to leave for the weekend. Their backpacks are full of classic fbi items, like guns and bullets and crossbows and packed lunches that will go bad if their left in the break room fridge over the weekend. Pretty Emily Prentiss: I’m very excited for this weekend! I love to relax!! Agent Blonde Me also! I love to chill with my children and my Southern husband. Pretty Computer Lady Not so fast, officers! There’s been a crime! Scene 2: INT. Private Jet Elderly Italian [quote by a dead person about morality] Scene 3 Derek Jeter Hello Sheriff, what seems to be the problem here? Sheriff (who is a woman!! Perhaps even a hispanic woman… or is that too galaxy brain for you??) We have criminal. People are daying and killer takes their toenails!! Sheriff shows powerpoint with some videos of feet to apply to a new audience demographic. Sheriff Also all victims are people with glasses. Dr. Spencer Reed Richards, PhD. Perfect. Get me all the files on crimes involving glasses from 1966-present day. Sheriff Okay we have already pulled the files but… it’s simply too much for one man to reed! Dr. Agent Spencer Gifts, PhD. But Sheriff, I’m not a man. I’m a Genius. Spencer read is nonbinary uwu soft boi He reed very fast. Computer Lady Using spencer’s gift of knowledge, I plotted the crimes on a map and made this circle of proximity of where the next crime is going to be. Map is a circle surrounding entire town Derek rose Wow! Thanks, Miss. Computer. Beautiful emily prentiss Now we know where crime! Let’s wait for criminal to show his face and then! We arrest!

Scene 4: EXT. town. The fbi and police wait for the criminal to show his face! But he never does. :’( Pretty blonde woman I just don’t understand! We had everything. Why wouldn’t the unsub show himself? Sheriff Oh, yu know these criminals! Totally unpredictable. Re Doctor Spencer Unless… the criminal was on the inside! Agent Italy Buh… What do you mean? Doctor, Spencer, PhD. Riid I have just noticed this detail that no one else did!!! It seems that criminal… Is actually… The Sheriff!!! The criminal is… a wuh… a wuh… woman? Gasp! All eyes on the Sheriff! Gasp! All eyes on the Sherif Sheriff Yes it was me! But you’ll never catch me alive!!! Italian man *shoots Sheriff 75 times* Italian Okay cool now we can go back on the private jet. Scene 5: INT. Private Jet. Spender Weed Im just so confused. I never knew a woman could commit a crime. I guess im just too much of a dork to know things like that :’( Beautiful Emily Prentiss Anyone can be a criminal, Doktor. Just be thankful u r not a criminal. Sensor Peed ya orange is not my color hahahahahaha Blonde agent Ya hahahahaahahaaha Derek jeter Hahahahhahahahahah Prentiss No hotch no watch Voice over The same quote as before like nobody watching will realize ~fin~

I Hope The Rattling in My Vents Is A Ghost Because I Am Not Emotionally Equipped to Deal with a Raccoon or Something at This Point In My Life... by William Russell Faber

Every night as I lie in bed, at around eleven P.M., I hear a loud rattling from the vent in the kitchen, and, God, I hope it’s a ghost because I am not emotionally equipped to deal with a raccoon right now. My job’s had me work overtime the last three days, I’m behind in all my classes, and my dad’s in the hospital because a piano fell on him. I just don’t know how to deal with animals. A ghost would be way easier to handle. Look, there are two simple facts about this house: one, no one has come to pick up

the trash in months, so the local vermin have made my space their home, and two, the previous owner died in a barbed wire accident on the roof. When the banging comes around, I’m not sure if it’s from an animal or the ghost of the last tenant. If it turns out to be a skunk or something, I might just have to move out. The best I could theoretically do is put on some rubber gloves, stick a broom handle in there, and flail until the vent, the beast, or my body breaks. But I doubt I could even get out of bed when the world is so much. Could I

call an exterminator? Not without a double dose of anxiety medication. Every night, I lie in bed and hope the ghost will get it over with and possess me or the animal will give me rabies. Either way, I guess the problem kinda solves itself.

Conspiracy: Why did my mom stop paying my bills? By Eli Grasso

It was October 26th and the Libs were about to be thoroughly owned. My copy of Red Dead Redemption 2 finally arrived, and I was ready to start my multi-night all-nighter live stream to complete it. If I could play this game non-stop, then why are people whining about programmers for the game not being paid overtime? I’m not being paid to play this game non-stop, so why should some lousy programmers? This was when tragedy struck. My house went dark, all the power was out, this is something that a twenty-nine year old man, like me, can never be prepared for. Without power, how am I supposed to refrigerate my frozen meals? My Hot Pockets? My Pizza Rolls? My TGI Friday’s branded Loaded Potato Skins? But most importantly, without power, how am I supposed to game? I did what any sane man would do next, I called my mommy for help. I knew something was wrong when she didn’t pick up on the first ring, I knew something was terribly wrong when it took three calls before she finally answered. Before she had a chance to speak, I told her in a hurried panic that power in my house was out but before I had a chance to tell her about the importance of my all-night gaming sesh, she cut me off. This is where the unusual behavior began to become very apparent, she told me an exasperated tone that “I wasn’t kidding when I said I was done paying for your bills. It’s time for you to grow up. Even Grandma is done sending you money.” I was shell shocked, mortified, this couldn’t be my mother. She was the woman who always helped me pay for anything I needed that was over that coveted thirty dollar price point. These women, like all women, love me. Something wasn’t right. I tried to muster up the strength to call this mysterious woman out but all I could manage was a wimp “You’re lying to me”. This ghastly creature had the audacity to say to me “I’m not. Get a job. You disappoint everyone.” and promptly hung up. A disappointment? How many men out there can say they have a GED and work 10 hours a week at a local McDonalds? I knew I had two courses of action here, use the several hundred dollars I had have in my savings to pay some of these bills or prove that someone or something had taken hold of my sweet loving mother. We all know how ludicrous one of these sounds. So, I broke out the tack board and wrote down every single correspondence I had with my mother in the past month. This was when I first noticed a strange series of patterns in her text messages. She sent me lots of messages that featured suspicious recurring language like “This isn’t a joke anymore”, “You are disgrace to this family and I’m disappointed I’ve supported you for this long” and “I have canceled my credit card that you have been using for your Amazon purchases”. My mom loves comedy, she always enjoys when I send her clips from my favorite comedians shutting down “SJW feminists”! She always responds with “STOP SENDING ME THESE” which is sort for “Stop sending me these hysterical shut downs of those moron SJWs, I can’t stop laughing, I love you, here’s 50 more dollars to buy more microtransactions in your favorite mobile games”.

I thought to myself, could I have caused this in anyway? It’s hard to look at myself in the mirror and think I could have caused any harm to anyone. I’m a very good boy, maybe too good of a boy. I once made myself a can of cinnamon rolls and even offered one of the eight to my mom! Could I have unknowingly made my mother a target of someone jealous of our great mom and son relationship? Did my left wing nutjob uncle finally convince his sister that I was some sort of “ungrateful, selfish and incredibly misogynistic scum”? He always called me that at Thanksgiving and I really didn’t think it was fair. Is it because I always tell him he’s wrong when he posts feminist propaganda on Facebook? Is it because I gifted him a Men’s Rights Activist t-shirt and a several bottles of InfoWars Branded Brain Force Plus and Super Male Vitality? I was just trying to give my poor relative a chance to become a strong man like yours truly. I’m running out of time and it’s getting cold in my house. I need to find away to contact the authorities but my cell phone is no longer in service either. So I can’t even call an Uber to get me the police station to report my findings. So I’m going across my neighborhood and posting this handwritten exposé on people’s doors. Please let the masses now, alert my 67 followers, tweet it to Ben Shapiro, let everyone you can know I need my power back and I need my mom to pay for it.

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