Contents
Editors-in-Chief Heather “Been Had” Levinsky Zachary “Video Girl” Johnson
Front Cover by Heather Levinsky and Zachary Johnson Page 2
Ad by Zachary Johnson Ad by Heather Levinsky
Page 4
Editorial by Zachary Johnson & Heather Levinsky Art by Zachary Johnson
Page 5
Mailbag by Nonsense Staff Comic by Peter Soucy
Page 6
Treasurer Peter “Don’t Cut My Dick Off” Soucy
“Letters to the Editor” ‘From Robert’ by Ashley Vernola ‘From Gerge Bushk’ by Trevor Parrish ‘From PC Police’ by Zachary Johnson ‘From Olof Georg Albriechtingnenienarigo’ by Veronica Toone
Page 8
Assistant Editor Ashley Rae Jepsen
“7 Sexist Things That Need To Stop” By Jesse Saunders Art by Gillian Pitzer
Page 9
“Why Scandinavian Radish Farmers Didn’t (And Don’t) Have A Problem With Pol Pot” By Veronica Toone Art by Zachary Johnson “An Open Letter To The People Of London” By Heather Levinsky
Page 10
Video Board Dakar “Non-Het” Morris Wack Caldwell Trevor “Skank” Parrish
“I Hate America: My Completely Legal Immigration To Mexico” By Peter Soucy Art by Catherine Schmelter
Page 12
“Triggered” Ad by Jesse Saunders and Heather Levinsky
Page 13
Copy Board James Cagney
“All Safety Is Beautiful” By Solange Luftman
Page 14
“We Gender Swapped These 6 Disney Characters, And Wow!” By Matthew Tanzosh
Page 16
“Local Hero Pays Slavery Reparations” By Jesse Saunders “Why I Love Being Called A Little Bitch” By Tyler Barragan
Page 17
“Hofstra Announces Bathrooms Formerly Open To Anyone Now Gender Inclusive” By AJ Leal
Page 18
“Sexy Open Carry” By Mack Caldwell Art by Zachary Johnson
Page 19
“Point-Counterpoint” By James Sweeney
Page 20
“Nonsense’s Guide To PC” By Trevor Parrish, AJ Leal, and Quin Asselin “Bathroom Signs Through The Years” By Matthew Tanzosh Art by Heather Levinsky
Page 22
“Babies Are Cowards” By AJ Leal
Page 23
“Last Words From Your Liberal Dad” By Matthew Tanzosh
Head Writer Matthew “Our Connor” Tanzosh Design Director Gillian “42” Pitzer Art Director Hayley “Tumblr Famous” Blomquist
Design Assistant Jesse “Colonel” Saunders Video Head Courtney “47 Film” Richmond
Contributors Tyler “Freelance” Barragan Ariel “Little Cuck Boy” Leal Quin “Bussy Boy” Asselin “Solange, Farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, Goodbye” Luftman Veronica “Radishes” Toone Catherine Schmelter? I Hardly Kn-*dies* Ben “Milly Rock” Fletcher Austin “Chillin’ In Cedar Rapids” Van Schaick Kyle “You” Bohringer Patrick “Notti Boy” Koholic Joseph Kolbasa Aaron “Dodge” Ramjit Nirvana “Nevermind” Narayan Spencer Charlotta Ivanova Disclaimer Nonsense Humor Magazine is Hofstra’s only intentional humor magazine. Please don’t take any advice from us, because we don’t know what we’re talking about. The views expressed herein do not necessarily represent the views of Hofstra University. Any likenesses to people existing or fictional are purely coincidental. Nonsense Humor Magazine is not responsible for any offense taken, any offense given, any white guilt college administrators, clickbait headlines, Jezebel call-out posts, or poor attempts at social commentary. We really mean well with all of this, please believe me.
Back Cover by Heather Levinsky
Explicit Content Explicit Content Explicit Content
Editorial
Explicit Content Explicit Content Explicit Content Wow it’s really fucking (cw: peanut allergy) n*ts that we’re at the point where we’re even writing this. When (cw: male comedian) M*tt, our head writer, came to us with this idea you better believe that we both said (cw: Satanism) “oh h*ll no” right out of the gate. For real though, what college publication in their right mind would decide to do something like this? We all saw what happened when the Chronicle published that editorial a few weeks back. The only difference is that we’re not trying to say something terrible and if you’ll read closely enough, you’ll pick up on the several hand-crafted layers of irony that we’ve attempted to lacquer this entire issue in. As it turns out, it seems like we’ve done a fairly good job of talking about this without really saying anything at all, which is the best we could hope for, right? (For the record, this is a satirical magazine, please read our disclaimer, if you think we are serious then you are very ill-informed). That kind of sucks but trust me, nobody wants to read an issue full of our hot opinions (not even any of us!) which are, for the record, what you could call significantly left of center. Remember the time we got yelled at in the student center for “““censoring Republican voices””” because one time this crazy Yung Rep came to a Nonsense meeting and told everyone that guns turn him on and we thought he was really fucking weird? (That actually happened!!!) That’s, the liberal media for you, am I right fellas? Hyuk hyuk. Anyways, we digress… If there was ever a point to this, the original idea was to make fun of how crazy things would get if the kind of people who exaggerate the ideas behind political correctness—the kind of person who would label us as “millennial crybabies” or share political cartoons on Facebook of college students in diapers— were right in all their outlandish doom and gloom. Ultimately, we ended up doing what we usually do and letting the theme kind of carry itself out, but there are a few traces of that original idea floating around. Now it seems to be us writing this issue as people who have—to a very stupid, outrageous degree—next to no idea of what any of being “politically correct” is about, or who have picked up the rhetoric of being “PC” or being “anti-PC” in order to make an incredibly stupid point. To some degree, this feels to be an accurate, albeit exaggerated, portrayal of what it’s like writing something like this and seeing the way that people around you view this sort of thing. We poke some fun at certain things, while maybe making a point here or there. We started off this year by asking in the Hofstra Issue editorial if you could just laugh with us laughing at you for once, and now I guess we’re asking you to, collectively, laugh with us at all of us, or something like that? On a more serious note, this semester Nonsense has managed to accomplish more than we could have ever hoped. We had a very large influx of new members, we found an incredible person and artist to help us with the designs of our magazine (which you can see are really spectacular), we got into disputes
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with OSLE right out the gate and won them, we printed this magazine on paper for the first time in 4 years, we started a website that has garnered almost 12,000 views, we went on to print two more physical issue as well as produce two digital ones, we attended a national conference for college humor magazines where we met writers from The Onion and ClickHole, we put together a publication collaboration with Hofstra English Society’s Font, and we won the fucking “Best Media Organization of the Year” award from Hofstra for literally making fun of this place so much. The last issue of Nonsense to be printed before this year (all the way back in 2012) was called “Is Nonsense Dead?” and now we’re coming out of this school year having done a complete and total turn around. We are not dead, and you can fucking expect to hear more of us as soon as literally possible. Shouts out to Denise and Karl at OSLE, as well as Professor Karofsky and our new lawyer Stuart “First Amendment” Rabinowitz for making all of this possible for a shitrag of millennial whiners. Also, speaking of millennial whiners, we could not have done any of this without our incredible staff of insane fucking people. We may not have gotten our class work in on time, but we, idk, produced something special or some sentimental shit like that. Kiss our collective ass Hofstra, <3 Zach and Heather
mailbag. I am a dog. Am I racist?
Dogs are colorblind, silly! So yes.
My friend owns a Hummer, am I racist? Are you a dog?
I am not a misogynist and I know that the friend zone does not exist. I know that the friend zone isn’t real but I got to level 4 and my friends are everywhere. What do I call this place?
The Acquaintance Palace, you lucky duck. The other day Bernie Sanders got my hedgehog’s pronouns wrong, should I vote for Hilary now?
Is it kink shaming if I don’t want to kiss my husband, Bear Grylls, after he drinks his own piss?
Just don’t vote then, you weren’t going to anyway.
Yes.
Someone called me a girl when I’m actually a guy. Is it offensive for me to correct them? Yes. Enjoy your new life as a member of the fairer sex. Find a husband, get a dog, move to Garden City, discover a love for needlepoint, prick your finger, kick your dog in anger and drink an entire bottle of Barefoot Moscato.
5
Letters Are you PC?
to the
s r o t i d E
We asked our readers and they weighed in!
The stupid opinions expressed in the op-ed section do not represent the stupid opinions of Nonsense Humor Magazine. Want to send us YOUR stupid opinion? Shoot it over to nonsensehumor@gmail.com
Dear Editor, Lately, I’ve been hearing a lot in the news about this “PC” debate. My son recently came up to me and asked me, “Hey Dad, Mac or PC?” At first, I didn’t know how to answer this question, but I thought about it for a while and here’s what I’ve got. I’ve never used a Mac, you know? I grew up with a PC. I’ve been using PCs long before my son and probably most of your readers were born. I know and I trust the PC community. If I’ve never found anything wrong with PCs, why bother switching to a Mac? It’d just come with so much more trouble. It’s a whole new thing I’d have to go and learn! I don’t have
Dear Editor, Yesterday, someone asked if I was PC. Of course I fucking am. Do you think I would ever associate with those console peasants? THOSE peasants think that it’s acceptable to play games below 60 fps. THOSE peasants that think that console exclusives are enough to give up your religious freedom and bind yourself to a shitty, underdeveloped computer. Can you believe that people are still buying consoles in 2016? We live in a PC culture and everyone should subscribe. Everyone’s got a right to not be a fucking casual. A right to open up
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time to be learning new things. My time is limited enough as it is. PCs are reliable, and a lot of people use them. Have you seen how many people own PCs? We can never be too PC. They even come with Microsoft Office and who DOESN’T use Microsoft Office?? Whenever I walk into a Starbucks with my 15 year old daughter, I always see the young millennials using Macs. I walk in, clutching my PC to my chest, and they stare at me. Why can’t they just accept us PC users for who we are? I’ll admit, the Mac is probably a better computer for fun things, but for work, like I am obligated to do to every day, the PC is the way to go for me. For
all those millennials, I’d like to raise a question: Can I trust Apple to make a quality computer? The system looks weird, it doesn’t navigate well, AND their head isn’t Bill Gates. Apple can make a pretty decent smart phone, but for computers? Blasphemy. Bill Gates is a great man, and I most definitely think he makes a great computer, and I just wish the Mac community would value my opinion and stop harassing me whenever I enter a Starbucks.
their Steam library and see thousands of games at their disposal. Why would you ever want to get up to go to that video game store again? Who wants to run into that annoying little shit trying to get his mother to buy him an M-rated game? It’s called mature for a reason, squeaker.
pesky ring of red death bullshit that consoles tend to have. Every console I’ve ever owned has gone up in flames after being on for 49 hours straight. My PC hasn’t even crashed since I bought it last month. Consoles are just shittier. It’s like taking the meat off a fucking hamburger. It’s inferior, just like anybody who can’t afford a gaming PC. If you don’t have a PC you’re not a fucking gamer, you’re a filthy casual and you need to git gud. Women. Sex. Computers. GET IT????
Peasants will always try to tell you that a good PC will cost you too much. I’ve got a rig with two GeForce GTX 780’s just for $1,800. Quit being fucking poor. And that’ll last you four years too. I got 16 gigs on this rig and I haven’t had a game crash. Ever. Do you know what I’m saying? And none of that
Thanks for listening. Sincerely,
Robert, just your typical father.
1v1 me scrub,
Gerge Bushk
Dear Editor, I am the one they call the PC Police. The PC is a pastime to me; it is a sport. I, the one who engages in the PC, have personally engaged in more of the PC than you suckers have your entire miserable non-PC lives. Try to get onto my level of the PC. I have the PC bumper stickers, the PC welcome mats, the PC mugs, the PC marijuana apparatuses, and I’ve even got a the PC tattoo. I am the ultimate PC consumer. I am the infinite span of the PC and all of its tenets. You will never have more of the PC than I have, as I have begun to write all my instances of the PC down onto a large chalkboard which I
Dear Editor,
I write this email because I have nowhere else to turn. I have been sitting on my thumbs waiting for my next breath, but I can no longer sit idly by. This is my last and only chance. For many years, I have been providing politically incorrect content to the questionably-humorous Nonsense Humor Magazine™, and your gracious editors have published said content with zest. I have used this money to provide for my seventeen (17) children, all of which are named some variation of Bjørg. You see, I am a Scandinavian radish farmer, and farming Scandinavian radishes is simply not enough to put radishes on the table, if you understand. How did a simple radish farmer find out about Nonsense Humor Magazine™, you might be asking yourselves? Shouldn’t he be farming his radishes? That, frankly, is none of your fucking business. See? That is just an example of how far my insensitive, politically indecorous humor can go. You, of course, already know this. I am randier than a man named Randy… who is gay AND likes weird sex stuff— because there is nothing inherently funny about being gay. Ah, there I go again! Watch in horror world, as I kinkshame without fear! I jest. I began writing to Nonsense Humor Magazine™ many many years ago, as a result of my undying passion for all things politically and morally
sold all of my possessions to buy. I walk the streets at night, hunting, searching for prey with which to illuminate with the glorious Technicolor of my the PC lantern, which I made out of earthworms and LED lights, things that I also sold all of my possessions to buy. “Hey there, non-the-PC citizen! Allow me to show you the way.” I say, shining the light of my worm-lantern in their non-the-PC face. “I do not like the PC,” they say. “It burns. Jared Leto was really great in Dallas Buyer’s Club and I don’t see what the big deal was.” “I WILL AVENGE THE PC!!” I screech, flapping my arms. “I WILL SEND YOU unfounded and rude. I remember it was not so long ago that I stood as a boy in the radish fields, my grand-grand-uncle Bjørgio on one knee to discuss with me the beauty in the offensive. He told me fanciful stories: of catcalling (my sides are still with the hurting, when he mentions the time that he told a woman that she did not yet have the light to cross), of only calling it ‘the LBGT community’ instead of ‘LGBTQIA+,’ and of posting pictures of nosebleeds without tagging any trigger warnings. That inspired me to search across many lands, far and wide, for something that could handle humor as detrimental and horrendous as mine. I once wrote a short story where the two romantic leads have sexual intercourse—where the consent is only heavily implied! You can see why it was a challenge to find a home for a writer such as I—he the most wild. And yet, horrendous I found. Like an oasis in a desert of social justice, I stumbled across Nonsense Humor Magazine™, written by those I felt shared the same love for ‘the discourse’ as I did. I began my publications to your magazine in 1994, and I have not missed a single issue. But with every sunrise comes the storm. With the recent announcement of your “PC Issue,” as you so call it, I have received several emails about my usual sending of hilarious content being met with rejection. My livelihood
STRAIGHT TO THE HECK!” “No, the please! The please!” “Wiggle wiggle wiggle,” I say, mimicking the earthworms. “Wiggle wiggle wiggle, in the ground, IN THE GROUND! GO NOW, GO TO THE HECK!!!!!” And then I send them to the heck. This is why I am the best at the PC, because I know when to send them to the heck, and when not to send them to the heck. Fear me, fear the PC. Respect the PC. Love the PC. Thank you kindly. Sincerely,
The PC Police
depends solely on the publishing of the compositions that I send you, and regardless of the political correct or incorrectness of these submissions, I feel as if the content I have sent you has been pushed to the wayside like my fourth child, Bjørgina. That being said, consider this a last ditch attempt. I’m super fuckin’ raunchy, and think my most recent work, “Why Scandinavian Radish Farmers Didn’t (and Don’t) Have a Problem with Pol Pot,” should be placed on the front cover of your newest issue. That’s just my comedic style; I’m super fucked-up like that. And I think that would be fun. I think you would like doing me and my family of Scandinavian radish farmers a great service. After all, my opinion is completely correct, and Pol Pot is definitely political, wouldn’t you say? I’ve got plenty of examples of rude comedy, but I just like to push the boundaries. Here’s a great example: I need this money to feed my fucking children, and you SJW cucks are denying them basic needs like food by not putting my shit in your magazine. Fuck you. See? Damn, I’m good. Regards,
Olof Georg
Albriechtingnenienarigo
Scandinavian Radish Farmer
7 STOP
Sexist Things That Need to
By Jesse Saunders
1
Contacting all of my male relatives (dead or alive) to ask them for their blessing for marriage
The constant séances in my living room are an affront to my personhood. Men need to realize that my great great-great-great-grand-uncle doesn’t own me, and that contacting him from beyond the grave is only acceptable when searching for his buried treasure.
2
My Neighbor Todd Todd hasn’t done anything sexist yet, but he never buys Girl Scout cookies and doesn’t know my birthday. For the better of everyone, especially me, Todd needs to stop.
4
Being addressed as “little pile” by men who are taller than me I am a human, and in no way am a pile of dirt and despair piled into a tiny mass in an attempt to create a human. It is time once and all for us to move on and come up with a name that better represents me… “large pile” perhaps?
8
Needing to rub Ragu on my nose to ward off the dark desires of the darkest one Ragu is significantly more expensive than generic brands of pasta sauce, and it’s just not in my budget to get a new jar whenever the chosen one warns of the darkest ones coming. Women of all shapes and sizes deserve to feel safe wearing only generic brand pasta sauce.
6
Only allowing boys to eat the grass with their teeth when it is time for it to be cut Everyone’s lives would be easier if all the children were allowed to eat the grass when the long grass season begins, but only boys get to join in on the fun. Letting me and my girlfriends join in on the fun is not only efficient, it’s a human right.
3
5
Having to replace the wheels of my bike with large flowers that can only be found in the woods The woods are frightening and I don’t like them at all! I want to be able to use a bike with wheels just like all the boy’s in town. The large flowers are pretty but they don’t come in a color that matches my fire engine red Huffy.
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Assuming that I have six years of drag racing experience under my belt because I am a girl who has been drag racing for six years It is rude to make assumptions, and I am sick and tired of men assuming I am a qualified drag racer just because I list it on my resume, and mention it in every conversation. My gender has nothing to do with my sick drag racing skills.
There it is. The seven ways that our culture needs to totally find its chill. And if you disagree with these ways, I want you to delete your Facebook. I only want to receive birthday messages from strangers who I agree with politically. Your posts will be missed, GramGram.
s r e m r a F h s i d Scandinavian Ra Why
Didn't
(and Don't)
Have a Problem With
Pol Pot
By Olof Georg Albriechtingnenienarigo
M
y name is Olof Georg Albriechtingnenienarigo. I am thirty-seven years old, and I farm radishes on my radish farm. I have a wife (Liljon Stina Albriechtingnenienarigo) and seventeen (17) children named Bjørg, or some variation thereof. This is an introduction about me, Olof Georg Albriechtingnenienarigo I am politically incorrect, and this piece is about me being politically incorrect whilst talking about Pol Pot, and why Scandinavian radish farmers would consider him to be a fucking genius. You see, Pol Pot is a bad man, but he has never once killed a Scandinavian radish farmer. I have never read a book in which it mentions Pol Pot killing a Scandinavian radish farmer. Therefore, Scandinavian radish farmers couldn’t possibly worry about Pol Pot killing them. Nextly, I would like to discuss that even though Pol Pot was evil and did many bad things, he is still government. If you don’t already know that, then you are an
idiot. This is an example of how mean my comedy can be (Don’t like? Do not read!). I have not slept in six days. That being said, if he is government, then that means that Scandinavian radish farmers probably have to listen to him, because we like to listen. This article is funny because I, Olof Georg Albriechtingnenienarigo, wrote it and sent it to the somewhathilarious Nonsense Humor Magazine. They are kind of funny, and you like to read funny things, so therefore this must be funny, because you are reading it. If you would like to read more of my work, please visit www.olofgeorgalbriechtingnenienarigo. com and you can leave a comment. Because I am a Scandinavian radish farmer, and I like to listen. Yours, Olof Georg Albriechtingnenienarigo Scandinavian Radish Farmer
An Open Letter To The People Of London Sweeney Todd in 500 Words On on April 20, 1969
Generalizations. They’re no good, right? Especially the bad ones. As fiction breeds stock characters with which to weave a narrative, non-fiction news reporting generalizes individual people to exploit for a story. Take me, for example. I, Sweeney Todd, the Honest Barber of Fleet Street, provide many goods and services to the people of the good city of London. I perform in public, I give expert shaves and haircuts, and I also help my girlfriend manage a bakery, which produces the freshest, highest quality meat pies around. Yet, the only publicity I get from the papers are intolerant and barbed criticisms. You see, the media is obsessed with labels. “Demon,” “cannibal,” “killer.” Those kind of labels breed hatred and spread mistrust. Although my business partners and I devote endless time and energy to caring for our sweet, sweet friends and neighbors, the instant that one person loses their life, I become
“The Demon Barber of Fleet Street.” Why can’t we move beyond these stereotypes? It may be true that I lure unsuspecting people into my barbershop, slit their throats, and slide them down the laundry chute into my girlfriend’s basement. But that’s not all I may or may not do. This dehumanizes me, causes me to lose business, and mostly just makes me feel sad. If, hypothetically, I stopped “killing my customers,” maybe the media would ease off a little bit. But, how would we stay on the cutting edge of the market if I changed this essential tenet of our operation? It comes down to the principle of the thing; no one should be expected to conform to the media’s warped, unrealistic depiction of morality nowadays. So yeah, call me what you will. With this, I, Sweeney Todd, “The Demon Barber of Fleet Street,” challenge the media to just stop noticing if I kill people. All this does is create a culture of negativity
and fear, and that has nothing to do with me! What’s the point in telling people about bad things that happen? Life is hard enough as it is, believe me. Let’s just only talk about good things from now on! We can all be better than the media machine. To the members of the media, I challenge you to write an editorial on how crisp and clean my haircuts are, rather than insinuating that I may or may not kill my patrons and bake them into pies. Obviously, no one is completely good or completely evil. Once society moves past this heinous moral binary, we can all work together to end this stereotype that plagues me and my business. Society needs to realize that barbers are people too, no matter what that sinking feeling in your gut tells you. After all, doesn’t everyone deserve to live their life in peace?
I Hate America
My Completely
MEXICO
I
Legal Immigration to
t was a hot day in New Mexico and America was being suck. You see, my young, mail-order Filipino bride had been deported for taking all the white men’s jobs. Owning no legal documents from her country of origin nor a birth certificate, she was deported right to Mexico, land of the Mexicans. She is my whole world! She lets me do this one thing where she sits on the bed and I go on all fours over her lap: my ass to her face and my head to her knees. I rub her kneecaps with cinnamon sugar mixed with my spit while I arch my back to hold a bowl of cold tuna noodle casserole on my tailbone that she then licks up and chews. She then spits the chewed casserole into my mouth which consequently ends up mixed with cinnamon sugar on her kneecaps. She also had a job and a bank account that she would not let me access because she was afraid I’d buy too many Attack on Titan posters again. So there I was, in southern New Mexico with a couple of world-class smugglers. Their names were Ernest Tomato and Jason Statham. I had to pay them $10,000 dollars to help me out. This was before I realized that I could simply get into Mexico with no trouble at all because they aren’t a country run by lizard people. Since I’d already paid the $10,000 I figured I’d make it worth my while. I had Mr. Tomato implant 3 MaryJüjuana seeds under my back molars. When we got to the Mexican border station the officer said, “Hey aren’t you Jason Statham?” To which Mr. Statham replied, “Yes it is indeed I, Jason Statham, #1 actor.” “Who is your friend Mr. Statham?” the border officer asked. 10
By Peter Soucy
“Oh that’s my friend who hates America.” “We’ll see about that.” said the officer as he dragged me from the back seat of the car with my pants down. I had been masturbating. I was taken into the Mexican border officer's building. There were dozens of America haters in holding cells. PC Police (not so much without those badges, eh comrades?), my high school principal, Steve Buscemi, two kids on top of each other in a trench coat, and former Rhode Island Governor, Lincoln Chaffee, in a Cinderella costume. “We need to make sure that they really hate America before we give them Mexican citizenship.” the officer barked. “And we will do the same to you.” We turned into a private room. All I could think of were the disco cilantro seeds under my back molars. “We’ll start off with an oral examination.” The officer said. No way that means he’ll examine my mouth. It will be like an oral test, I thought to myself. “Just let me get out my instruments.” He said. Oh fuck. I’m screwed. The officer turned around and picked a case up off the floor and placed it on the table in front of me with vigor. He was a strong man. I looked at his muscular pulsing biceps. Maybe he means “oral” exam. Like, the penis kind. He opened the case slowly. He looked me in the eyes. “Let me just whip out my instrument.” he said. I audibly moaned. He whipped
it out. A shiny gold trumpet. “Are you ready for your aural exam?” he asked. “Let’s see if you really hate America.” He started to play “Taps” on his trumpet while a slideshow of the Tomb of the Unknown Solider started on a screen behind him. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. It’s not that sad. WHO IS HE? HIS FAMILY DOESN’T EVEN KNOW! I felt the tears starting to form, but I held them back as the officer played his final note. “Quite impressive,” the officer said, “but you’ll never pass level two.” He whipped out a microphone as Lady Gaga came out from behind a corner. He handed her the microphone and an American flag lowered from the ceiling. Every player of both the Carolina Panthers and Denver Broncos rose up from a platform in the floor. “Don’t place your hand on your heart,” the officer told me. Lady Gaga began, “Ohhhh say can you see—” And see I could. I felt the muscles in my right arm tighten. My biceps started to visibly tremble. Don’t do it. Don’t place your hand on the heart. America is a suck. Lady Gaga isn’t singing the most beautiful rendition of “The Star
Spangled Banner” you’ve ever heard. Broncos quarterback Peyton Manning walked over to me and placed a hand on my shoulder and whispered using the tune of the Nationwide Insurance theme, “Put your hand/up on your heart.” I felt my arm move and I had to push it back with my left hand. A horde of puppies all dressed as Uncle Sam ran into the room. “For the land of the free—“ Gaga continued. My left hand couldn’t hold my right hand down any longer. Why do I masturbate with my right hand so much…so…so strong. The right hand slowly started to rise, but before it did, Chris Martin from Coldplay came running in singing “Uptown Funk.” “CHRIS NO!” screamed the officer. My right arm immediately relaxed and everyone booed Chris Martin. He cried, stole a puppy and ran out the door. “I guess you passed,” said the officer with a sigh. Peyton Manning then picked me up in his tender white hands and threw me over the border right into a chair located in my wife’s new home. She looked at me and began to cry tears of joy. “I’ll get the cinnamon sugar!” she exclaimed. Viva la Mehico.
11
W
All
Safety
Is
By Solange Luftman
Beautiful Common problematic examples: Twins aren’t the only people that enjoy seesaws!
Do the laws of physics only apply to skinny people with no connective tissue between their head and shoulders? My son spent hundreds of thousands of my dollars on pricey elective surgery to match this unrealistic beauty standard, and now he’s dead.
ith obesity rates and hip motivational social media outlets on the rise, body positivity has been a hot topic infiltrating our culture. Bodies? Great. Positivity? Even better. There are few things quite as satisfying as shooting down fashion companies and celebrities for promoting unrealistic beauty standards. BUT—the fight is not nearly over yet, for one space has long been ignored: street signs. These cautionary city adornments are destructive in nature and do not represent the beautiful spectrum of bodies that exist in nature. Have you ever seen anyone in real life that looks like any of these “people”!? Didn’t think so. These overly perfect figures have infiltrated nearly every city in America and have fostered insecurities among the American public. Another byproduct of the damaging images is that they make following the law more difficult. Lara Boweman, a young parent in Long Island City, spoke on the issue, “These signs are an absolute outrage. My little Frederick is on the…bigger side, and when he sees a tiny figure holding his parent’s hand, he gets confused and doesn’t know if the law applies to him! How do you expect a 16-year-old child to understand laws if the signs don’t represent him completely?” The debate becomes more complicated concerning theft signs. Contrary to popular belief, not all thieves look the same. How are we supposed to protect the American public from theft if they only know one version of a thief? The selection of bodies on street signs is appallingly limited, and the issue must be mended. Do it for the children. Do it for society. Do only small children hold hands? Does one need to have an arm cut off at the wrist to be a mother? God, how I miss my son.
Do thieves not have pupils?? 13
We Gender Swapped These 6 Disney characters, and WOW! Put your hands in the air, Nonsense readers, if Sir Walter Disney is your problematic fave! Everybody? If not, you need to come see me in my office immediately, to have a discussion about why you can’t feel 100% comfortable in liking the things you like. Our talented artists here at Nonsense have done a quick Google search for other people’s art to show you these gender swapped Disney characters to make a not entirely clear point about representation!
1. Ariel
I identify as male
Sex object
Sex-sational!
There! Isn’t that better? Take that, gender norms!
2. Gaston I am and have always been a woman
Boring old Gaston!
Fabulous! Amazing Go get ‘em!
Can your fragile masculinity take it? Did we blow your mind?
3. Tiana
That’s nice, but can we get some progresss up in here?
Perfect!
Okay, so like…I didn’t want to say anything before, but like…and I don’t quite know how to put this…but like… all of your before and afters are the same.
4. Mulan
Yeah.
You almost had it, baeeee
Yes. And now for good this time.
But like I don’t want to be problematic or anything—but this is kind of a visual exercise?
5. That girl bird from Cinderella
This bird is a girl because of its hat.
Physical expression has nothing to do with how we identify. Also, I am a bird.
I’m confused. It still has a girl hat on.
No, no—of course…but like…like is it all the same down…down there too?
6. Aladdin
Quite frankly, I don’t think that’s any business of yours, and this whole premise is dependent on the harmful belief in a gender binary
Aladdin is pretty great, but wouldn’t he be better if he was the catalyst for an argument with your Aunt?
Just as I suspected! Aladdin is Aladdone!
Oh! Well…Ahem… Yep.
How about those Mets, huh? I only watch hockey with my dad.
…
15
Local HERO Pays Slavery Reparations By Jesse Saunders
Atlanta, GA - While the heated debate surrounding the issue of reparations continues, one local man has taken it upon himself to make sure that at the very least his own debt is paid in full. Years after his family freed their many slaves, Jimmy C. Jefferson, 36, has finally made it his mission to repay the descendants of those slaves for their ancestor's years of backbreaking toil under his family’s ownership. “I’m just really into doing the right thing,” says Jefferson. “It’s a calling, ya know?” Jefferson has been using all of his resources to make sure the ancestors of his family’s slaves are appropriately compensated for what he and many others are calling "years upon years of pretty uncool treatment." Not only is Jefferson paying all of the reparations on his own, he is also hand delivering the amounts to each home. The
Why I
first home he visited was of one Alexandra Laurens, 32, a financial analyst from Atlanta. “This man just walked up to my door and handed me a box of coupons and things,” said Laurens “I mean, there’s a really great buy-one-get-one-free coupon for Famous Footwear, but I think he got it from my mailbox.” When making up the boxes he is using to transport the reparations, Jefferson spares no expense. From deals on pizza, to reward cards that are only one punch away from a free smoothie each box is made with a variety of different items, that add up to an amount Jefferson hopes can begin to mend the problems of generations past. Local government has taken notice of Jefferson’s good deeds and has chosen to not only award him for his unparalleled magnanimity, but also has decided to let
him take charge of various committees concerning equality in the area. “This is an issue bigger than all of us, and only someone with Jimmy’s dedication could hope to solve it.” said city council member, Allison Walker. The city has begun planning an event in his honor and has contacted some of the people he’s reached out to, in hopes they’d like to honor him as well. “So it turns out the coupon was expired.” said Laurens when asked if she was planning on attending the event. “You don’t think he’s still stealing my mail do you?” Jefferson is aware that his actions could be considered controversial, but at the end of the day he continues to put his work above all else. “I know not everyone will agree with what I’m doing,” said Jefferson “but not everyone agreed with what Batman does, and he’s still a hero.”
Little Bitch Being Called A e V O L By Tyler Barrigan
I remember the first time someone called me a pompous little bitch. It was a balmy summer day, and me I was my fabulous nine-year-old self. In those innocent, pollen-eyed days of yore the sensation of dipped cone dribbling down my chin was the highest level of decadence that I could fathom. I had much to learn. I was in the middle of explaining to Mr. Softee that I required more dip on my ice’d creams, to truly break through to the summer break fervor that I so desperately needed. “You already paid for your cone! It’s all over your shirt!” He did not fathom my desire. My hunger. A hunger I did not yet possess the words to describe. “My good sir, you don’t understand! I’m searching for a feeling—“ but it was too late. He peeled off, and as we parted ways, he changed my life. “Later, you messy
16
BITCH” An epiphany hit me like an ice cream truck driven by a very angry man. I was a bitch. A messy bitch. My life was never the same. Now I find myself craving it. I can no longer go a day without someone calling me a bitch. It has made Thanksgiving very uncomfortable for my dad. Even he won’t dare to call me a bitch anymore. Any money that I can manage to scrape together finds me at wonderful place known as Chain and Whip. There, for a nominal fee, I can have someone spit on me and whisper those fine words in my ear. My life isn’t allllllways as idyllic as one might imagine. My mother will call to berate me, “Come home, Tyler! Take a bath!” she cries. I appreciate her effort. I really do, but my mother’s croaking voice nagging me, will never satisfy me like being called a saucy little bitch by the lovely and muscular Chad of the Chain and Whip.
Something has got to change. I need a reliable source of bitch to save away for my retirement. While I highly enjoy my current living, sitting with a sign begging for change and yelling obscenities at minors it won’t last forever. Chad will no longer accept my calls. I don’t get much money, but the incredibly frequent “get a job you lazy bitch!”’s that get hurled in my direction manage to tied me over for the time being. I can’t live this life forever, though. My knees, mouth and ears are not what they once were. So now I submit this to you to hopefully make a few dollars so I may once again have the thrill of those words be so passionately spoken to me again. I’m not technically a writer, but I’m also not technically a prostitute and well…it’s all about the words you choose to use.
Ed-Thanks Tyler, we miss you but cannot pay you for obvious [SGA] reasons! <3
Hofstra Announces
Bathrooms Formerly Open to Anyone Now
H
Gender Inclusive
ats off to Hofstra University once again for establishing an environment just suitable enough to get those litigious ass pancakes off their case! As I’m sure you all know, diversity is an issue. A serious issue. One that you should change the tone of your voice for. In an effort to become a truly all-inclusive campus, Hofstra has proudly unveiled bathrooms available for any and all genders and sexualities on the fourteenth floors of Estabrook, Constitution, Enterprise, and Vander Poel Halls. Now we all know the real-estate industry here at Hofstra has really been booming ever since the eviction of those job-stealing leeches over in Estabrook [Note to Ed. comic book yellow box saying “see issue 160 true believers”]. What we can expect from these events is for Hofstra to step it up and create an environment that says, “Gay? Fine by Hofstra!” “The truth is, you can be as gay as you want in these bathrooms,” says university spokesperson for diversity, Gerald. “You can waltz right in there with two guys, two girls, one guy and one girl, three girls and one guy, two guys and three girls, four girls and one guy, two girls and one guy, an F. Scott Fitzgerald mannequin and three guys, Five Guys Burgers and Fries, the possibilities are truly endless. I mean hey, it’s legal now! #Lovewins.” “These bathrooms are clearly marked for use of any and every gender by not being marked at all. This dates back to when the towers were built in 1967 when they were built—when issues of this sort were surely, certainly on the universities mind. Talk about being ahead of the curve! The intentional ambiguity of the bathrooms makes it basically sort of just okay enough that should anyone of any gender use them, we can just shrug when someone else complains that their religious freedom is being trampled on,” says pesky schemer Ralph Aynolbeid. “Now leave us alone, already.” However, other buildings such as Bill of Rights and Alliance Halls still remain stubborn and are willing to go to such extremes as purposely eliminating a fourteenth floor altogether so that there is no room for multi-gender bathrooms. It’s a shame that these buildings are still behind in the pursuit of PC but maybe one day those grouchy old concrete beasts will accept the changing of times, as predicted by Bob Dylan in the 2009 hit film,
By AJ Leal
Watchmen. Either way, four entire buildings is plenty enough progress for one billing cycle. Classic, liberal New York can finally stop badgering the good people of Hofstra. Now, a common question and concern upon reading this article may be. “All genders? I thought there were only two!” Contrary to popular belief, there are actually more than two genders available for human use and everyone with any gender can use the specially designed all-inclusive fourteenth floor bathrooms at Hofstra University. I mean like, no one is going to stop you. Seriously. Male? Yes! Female? Yeah. Gender fluid? Yep. Intersex. Demi-Boy? I don’t see why not! Demi-girl? Are you even listening? Demi-God? I mean, the bathrooms in Valhalla are surely nicer, but what the hell? Poor? No. Try Popeyes. Still, some people were unsatisfied and unconvinced as they begged the question that sure, all genders are accepted, but what about all sexualities? Were people of the bisexual persuasion allowed to use these so-called all-inclusive bathrooms? The only answer they received was “Yeah, gay people can use the bathrooms too. We said that already.” For Nonsense Humor, this is Charles Bukkake. News at 11.
17
SexyOpen Carry By Mack Caldwell
I
imagine that there’s no feeling in the world that can compare to being able to take your gun into the grocery store. Walking silently through each aisle looking at all the various Captain Crunch flavors, knowing that you have your stepdad’s old unregistered .32 strapped to your side. But they don’t understand, so I have to hide. Hide in plain sight. I must conceal my carry, because it’s just not safe for people like me on planet Nerf. Sometimes, late at night, I imagine what it would feel like to openly carry. I feel like I can finally be myself. I feel free. I like those dreams better than flying. I was strolling through let’s call it the “meat department” of a local grocery chain, when I happened upon a curious sight. There stood Joe, a black mailing, high tailing, ponytail quailing, Quaalude slamming son of a bitch examining himself with a big hunk of meat in his hands. I trotted over in my hot pink snakeskin boots to greet Mr. Joe. I took my wide stance and he took his. Shoulder to shoulder we examined each other’s cool slippery cuts of plump pink pork. “That’s quite the hunk you got there Joe; I bet it would take three of me to gobble down that piece of pig.” Joe peered out from under his bright white ten gallon hat. “Naw, I have sweet slimy sausage like this for breakfast,” he snarled with a deeply racist accent before spitting chew on the beige tile floor. “Now Joe, is it about the size or the….?” Joe had a big ol’ grin on his peach fuzz face as he finished my sentence. “Girth?!” I looked down at my less than average sized hunk of meat and then back up at Joe’s big, blue, wet, eyes. “You gotta slugg’er hard to get ‘er tender.” Joe assured, his eyes dilating with Pavlovian delight. A bulge began to rise in the crotch of his tight Wrangler jeans. “Oh, tender huh? Let me feel that tiny little guy you got down there.” Joe began to lightly caress my inner thigh, and felt my stepdad’s .32. He knew! But…it didn’t matter. It felt right. I grabbed Joe’s 9-inch slimy bratwurst, and the vicious tenderizing began. With two hands I wrung his slimy sausage like a wet towel. Joe threw off his wide hat and wailed “Yee-haw! it might get messy in aisle 3.” 18
I Began to unbutton Joe’s flannel shirt, but noticed something sparkle from behind his green John Deere belt buckle. He was carrying a pistol, tucked in his pants. “Oh boy Joe! You know you don’t have to hide!” I said with orgasmic excitement. I reached in his dusty denims and grabbed a hold of that hot silver six shooter. Joe let out a moan. “Oh yes please, whip it out for me.” I grabbed that long silver slugger and stroked my hand down its full, strong, barrel under the flickering fluorescent light. “I knew you open carried, Joe! I always knew.” He replied sweetly with soft, slobbering words, “We all open carry here boy, it’s what keeps us safe.” I was home. I kept stroking as Joe grabbed ahold of the barrel and forced me on my knees. My jerky scented savior stuck the tip in my mouth; his eyes told me to get ready. “It takes a minute, because it’s not an automatic.” I looked up at him with wide eyes and muttered “But it still gets the job done, Joe.” I braced myself for the explosion. Joe stared down at me. I obediently sat in submission on the cold floor, waiting for the sweet taste of gun powder. He thrusted the shaft to the back of my throat. I gagged, he clicked the hammer back. I couldn’t take it but I did it for Joe, I wanted to please him. Bang. A shot rang out, and the store came to an immediate silence. A mother dropped her eggs in aisle seven. A baby let out a cry. A grandma shit herself and pulled out a .44 Magnum. My eyes rolled back and my mind went numb. Joe stood in his wide cowboy stance, towering over my cold limp body. Employees rushed over, yelling in a panic. Joe, in his quiet adrenaline, disappeared into the chaotic crowd. Freedom ain’t free.
Point Counterpoint By James Sweeney
Abortion
Point
As a lifelong liberal, I believe that a woman's access to abortion should come before all else in this country. In fact, I encourage it to many women, and though I'm no medical professional, I do believe they should take it under serious advisement. I have a professorial way about me. Now, I'm no fortune teller or Oracle, but I do read every newsletter published by the Liberal Underground [TW: Unkind Discourse]. And I believe it will be my vote that helps Bernie Sanders die as President. And if I predict
correctly, I do believe that will lead to President Warren's righteous iFree Abortions! Act in which abortions, which were already legal, mind you, are given away via GrubHub coupons and Facebook event invites. Fun! So now, as usual, I've got to deal with every Repugnican Bible Thumper up in arms about the gutting of a few a parasites. It's a clump of cells, people! Just wake up already. It's 2016 and you want me to make my girlfriend keep her baby? Three words, buddy: I'm feminist, okay?
If you think I'm going to let you disparage women and their vaginas all so you can point out the irony in anti-violence liberal ideals playing no role in their greatest political battle of the last century, then you're dead wrong. So you may say that a beating heart is proof of a human life, but I will always disagree. The ability to have an abortion is proof of human life. Can a fetus do that? That's what I thought. Plus, how dare you talk to me about abortion when you probably supported the Iraq War. You should have been aborted.
Wow you heartless fuck, you fucking piece of shit. Do you know what you just said? Can you even see how sick you are? You actually – I can't believe I'm even saying this about somebody – you actually want babies not to be born. You actually are happy that babies aren't being born. I personally can't imagine a world where more babies aren't being born. I – I can't remember the last time I saw a baby under one, maybe one-and-a-half years old. I haven't seen a new baby in a year and a half or something crazy like that. But no, no, no, let's allow every Roseanne, Jackie, and Darlene to go twerking and then get robo-probed so the party never ends! Just rip that living being out of its germination pod by its fully formed, muscular
hands! Quiet its cries for help, its use of audible language! “Mother!” it cries, in an accent that's hard to place. “I wanted only to grow strong and love you! Why have you forsaken me! My dying breaths prepare me for an eternity in Hell!” But you people don't care! To you people, it's all about: How can I distort and destroy my body and get the government to not only promote it on TV and in schools, but force the taxpayers to pay for it! You want to bear children only as long as it boosts your welfare and food stamps, and then demand McDonald's pay you 15 abortions an hour when you've sunken in too deep to find the keys to your 2014 Prius. You don't deserve a Prius! Wait. We need to stop this. This –
this is just sick. Look, I don't think we'll ever agree. You'll always believe that you're morally superior and more informed and better looking. And I'll always fear in my heart the finality of God's wrath. So fine, go ahead and keep pretending that the Earth can feel pain but that blessed angels-in-utero cannot. Cuz you best believe I'll stay viewing the Bible as a moral foundation on which to base my understanding of people and their role in this world, and also the logistics of slave trading, and also the technical permissibility of committing marital rape while wearing plaid. Maybe, just maybe, this is how things ought to be.
Counterpoint
19
Nonsense’s
Guide to PC
By
Gerge Bushk
Charles Bukkake J.P. Quiggleton III
All this talk about PC and I bet you goons don’t know the first thing about it. Now let us tell you hwat. There is a loose piece of skin hanging from my ass and sweet Jesus it hurts so fucking badly. I went to see a doctor and all he told me was “Mr. Wilson, you’re very unhealthy. You should have come to me sooner.” So naturally, I wanted to share some content expertise before I die from this rotting and ever-increasing sack of flesh known as my heinous. Let’s teach you about some pre-mom consenting.
Stale Content Content that either used to be good or just started out stale. Probably what you laugh at all the time you tasteless hack.
“Good” Content No jokes about it, kiddo. “Good” really means no better than the e-mail forwards from your slightly racist Babuu. God bless. My god this is a shit show…I think I have . I think it series.
edamame
Bathroom Signs Through the Years!
By Matt Tanzosh
W
e’ve made some great progress this year, brothers, sisters and relatives not belonging to the gender binary. Obama threw us a bone, and created a gender inclusive bathroom in the Whitehouse, you know, for alllll of those trans representatives our country has elected. Granted, if his priorities were straight he would have made a bathroom for those who don’t mind being fondled by Republican senators, first. Kind of like a smoking section. But who’s complaining? This is just the beginning! He’s, folks, is what we can expect in the coming years in the way of bathroom signs. Piss responsibly.
The Hofstra gender inclusive bathroom, formerly known as “bathroom”.
2016
2024
The Gothic Lolita bathroom sign. This bathroom is just for young Japanese woman and the older men that love them. Or older men that want to dress like young Japanese women. It’s 2032! We don’t judge here!
The Young Thug bathroom sign. He is a man, he wears a dress, what does this mean? Your dad doesn’t know. Now that Kanye is president, we just kinda roll with the punches.
2032
Prime Content Known to the Italians or maybe the Spanish as “Primo Contento” This is the stuff that makes me wish my dick would just fall off… well it’s a bit too late for that anyway. This is the basis for all human life; it can be exchanged for goods and services. It’s also the middle of the pack. Kind of like a wolf except animals are fucking idiots.
Excellent Content
I PISS! If any form of media could cuck your wife, this would be the one. Chicago said it best: Dale a tu cuerpo alegria Macarena Que tu cuerpo es pa' darle alegria y cosa buena Dale a tu cuerpo alegria, Macarena You’d think it was the fourth of July Truly timeless.
( ͡° ◯ ͜ ͡°) C L O W N F I E S T A ( ͡° ◯ ͜ ͡°)
rint for Free! P r o d a lo n w ds. Do Popular Bran & es ri ce ro G Save on
hi joj
Content
→
Hey if you see my dad, gimme a ring. Finally we get to that sweet, sweet PC. Premium content is the cream of the cock crop-top cock crop.Yes. It’s kind of like kosher except not at all. Mommy?? Doesn’t get much better than this. Suffice to say, this is the thread of dreams and Ponce DeLeon’s wishy washy water-spout you wish you could have located years ago. I think I’m fresh out of jokes now so I’ll let the content speak for itself.
that's joj
Outro; you probably learned something. About ass Growlithes. Cause I sure as hell didn’t. Years later I’m still suffering from skrillex-cell anemia and I don’t remember if I have a home or not. Anyway, happy new year. Tell saxophone stan I love him?
2040
The bathroom for people that need to have a really good cry, and for one person to come in and gently wrap their knuckles on the door. Kids these days are so sensitive. Back in my day if we wanted to cry in the bathroom we had to shit hard to cover the noise.
The tentacles—oh god the tentacles! Okay, so the Japanese thing really took off in a big way, and with all the nuclear fallout remaining after our conflict with South Djibouti, we all basically have tentacles now. It would be foolish to not include them, at this point, really. Some people miss the old signs—a sobering reminder that we are not to play God.
2048
2056 Just Two Dogs Fucking. Whoa, they were totally right. It really was a slippery slope. Whodathunkit? Also we all live forever now, so who gives a shit.
Mankind has long since given up on the corporeal form. There are no genders, only the cloud. The physical cloud of vapor that consists of all “life”. No one goes peepee or poopoo anymore, so I’m not even quite sure why this exists. Your ex-cloud still needs a place to tell your main cloud how much you suck though.
2100
21
A s e re Cowards i b Ba By AJ Leal
I know this probably won’t be PC or whatever but I think it’s time I finally get to speak my mind. I’ll be the first one brave enough to say what’s on everyone’s minds… ALL babies are COWARDS. Exhibit A Look at this fucking idiot. If danger
Exhibit B
were to ever present itself in front of this baby, it would be so confused and afraid. Nowhere within this pre-human would there be even so much as a sliver of initiative to defend itself or face challenges head on. Think about it, how many babies out there have performed acts of supererogation? They literally don’t know the meaning of the word! Read a fucking book sometime, baby! Have you ever known a baby to boldly face fear or danger in a purely utilitarian way? They’re just so dumb and stupid.
Look at how unsuspecting this baby is. It’s visual indifference just screams: “I would run away from battle!” Ridiculous. Not to mention positively un-American. I don’t care if it’s politically correct or not to post my opinions here; someone had to say it.
22
Ugh. You can’t honestly stand there and tell me that this baby knows how to take commands and serve any sort of civic duty. Countless MEN and WOMEN out there are risking their lives to defend this country and this fucking baby constantly just shits their pants. I bet it would get all triggered if I were to just up and shout in it’s face. It just isn’t fair. These babies can go back to their safe spaces like the COWARDS they are, while REAL soldiers prove themselves on a minute to minute basis. Cops serve and protect, firemen save, ambulance men play God, and babies just take up valuable time that could be spent doing something more important than just whining all the time. That’s my horse and I’m sticking to it. Shit, that just reminded me about horses and don’t even get me started on animals, they’re all just dumb, stupid, idiots. This is why I believe that babies should not have a minimum wage. Fuck off, millennials. This is Serendipitous Sal, over ‘n out.
Exhibit C
Last Words From Your Liberal Dad By Matt Tanzosh on, a situation has happened that I do not have the words to describe because you have taken them from me. All of my words are gone, and I understand now that that’s just the way things have to be. I’m not going to begin to pretend to understand you or the company you keep, but you’re trying, goddamn you. You really do keep trying. That’s what will keep your old man young. You try at home, you try at the Dallas BBQ on 72nd and 3rd, and you try at the bar when I’m really just trying to get drunk and relive the past with my friends. I know sometimes it seems like your mother and the twins just want to eat the dinner that your tired old man bought for them, but I’m always happy to have that debate with you. Make me better, boy. Keep me up to date. The daily text messages that you send me from websites whose names I do not recognize, written by… individuals—is that one still cool? Individuals does seem a little divisive. Before you say anything, I know I know I know that technically there is no such thing as an individual anymore, now that the physical human form has been deemed a tool of oppression. Good thing, too. Is human form not the thing we’re calling that anymore? I know not everyone that still maintains a corporeal form identifies as human. I’m not getting any younger, and you’ll have to let a few of these slide. I know last week human seemed alright. Then those creatures from the sky came. I don’t know anymore. I never really got into sports. I’m sorry if that’s affected you in any way. The text messages help, is what I’m saying. Mom wants to know if you’re eating okay too, alright champ? I don’t want to describe the incident that has occurred because I’m no longer sure how I can express it to you without getting you all fired up at your old pop, and I don’t have the time to watch a movie on Netflix without fast-forwarding through half of it, because death is too close for me to sit through the Stepford Wives remake. I don’t have the time to work it out for myself, so please make me feel like a baby who doesn’t know anything about the way the world works, for progress. I’m going on 50 now, and the clay is a little brittle, but take my stiff infant mind and fill it with your Wikipedia plot synopsis of enlightenment. You make your mother and I feel like we are clinging fast to a bamboo stick stuck in the dirt, during a windstorm determined to carry us away screaming into the night—and your constant reminders that I fall short of the people we must become, just…
S
god…fucking…god bless you for it. Alright, but so like, I have a question: if a trans-human, assigned tiger at birth…person? I’m sorry! If a human, that was once living on all fours in the forests of Borneo— if they (?) have sex with a Genderprismist (see, your old man knows some of the terminology—some of it sticks) originating from Jupiter…is that gay? I guess it wouldn’t be bestiality, because now that we can speak with animals, they can give consent (which, no matter what you say, will always freak me out. If you see your sister, tell her to bring Fluffy around sometime. I miss her.) so it’s not bestiality, you’ve made that abundantly clear, but like…there’s got to be a word for what that is. Your brother wants me to stop asking you these types of questions at dinner, in front of the gelatinous cube you’ve taken to seeing, but if I’m ever put in that situation I want to know! Your generation is just so much better than ours. I got beat up for not liking the Yankees, but you can watch your baby sister have sexual intercourse with the German Shepard you raised from a puppy, and truly be happy for her. I know you wouldn’t want me to pat you on the back for just “being a decent person” but, really, that’s amazing. [Smileyface emoji] While I have you, by the way, I’d like to apologize for what your mother said about the nameless gelatinous cube you now share your life and apartment with. I know “cute” is a human construct and to apply it to a pink jelly cube is essentially assault. She just liked the shade of pink, is all. I’ll talk with her about it. For what it’s worth, that cube is the very embodiment of whatever word or quality those things like to be known for most. I think. I almost forgot! The event that happened! I…went…to the… place…where…life…keeps…it’s—I’m sorry son. I’m just going to have to say it, and you’ll have to correct me later: I went to the cupboard and we’re out of coffee. Can you pick up some more on your way home for the Holidays? We’ve had a shortage here since Commissar Sanders declared that we can’t exploit other countries use of slave labor—which is awesome! I gotta go, some future stuff is happening that I cannot even begin to fathom. It’s like my life is one big eldritch horror—that through your patience I have come to love! I love you so much. [like eight heart emojis] Sheepishly, Dad (Former Head Writer, Nonsense Humor) 23
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