The Hofstra Issue

Nonsense Humor Magazine

The

HOFSTRA ISSUE

Issue 160

November 2015

CONTENTS Editors in Chief

Heather “Black and Mild” Levinsky Zachary “In The Nonsense Font And Everything” Johnson

Head Writer

Matthew “Still Hotdog” Tanzosh

Design Director

Gillian “Cauldron Juice” Pitzer

Art Director

Hayley “FORM Gallery” Blomquist

Front Cover

By Hayley Blomquist

Page 2

“Explore Next Door” Ad by Hayley Blomquist

Page 4

Editorial by Heather Levinsky and Zachary Johnson

Page 5

Mail Bag by Staff

Page 6

“Hofstra Pride First and Final Game” by Peter Soucy Hofstra Pride Logo by Gillian Pitzer

Page 7

Art by Taylor Thurmond & Aust Van Shaick

“Choose Your Own Adventure” by Veronica Toone

Page 10

Amy “Prof K” Karofsky

Craig “Dong Island Tattoo” Warkoczeski Taylor “Sorry I Had TNL” Zaudkte Trevor “One For All” Parrish James Parrish-Sweeney Mack “Performance Artist” Caldwell AJ “Lel” Leal Ben “Slapped The Shit Out of James Eager” Fletcher Peter “Not The Best Thruster” Soucy James “Kevin Calvin” Eager Zach “Just Wanted To Make Sure” Klebaner Elana “Del Rey” Schwartz Taylor “Mack Daddy Taylor Spencer” Thurmond (Jesse) “Bernie” Saunders Courtney Richmond, Virginia Veronica “I Like Your Shirt” Toone Ashley “Madonna” Vernola Austin “Meme Trash” Van Shaick Lara “Don’t Call Me Laura” Susman Sho ‘Nuff Goldman Carolyn “Acht, Neun” Zehn(er) Dakar “I Have No Gag Reflex” Morris Kyle “Live” Mas Patrick “Al” Koholic Brian “Crowd Surf” Stieglitz Joseph “Art Ho” Kolb Jason “Bateman” Levy Sarah “R.L.” Weinstein Santi “Started Coming To Meetings Again” Cardona

“The Gentrification of Estabrook” by Jesse Saunders

Art by Elana Schwartz

“Living Up To the Tagline” by Courtney Richmond

Tyler “Animated Cyber Porn” Barragan

Contributors

“Arm Public Safety” by Matthew Tanzosh

Page 8

Business Manager Faculty Advisor

“Go Off the Grid” Ad by Zachary Johnson

Art by Heather Levinsky

“In Memoriam: The Bike Rack in Netherlands South” by Ashley Vernola

Photo by Ashley Vernola

Page 11

“Relax(atives)” by AJ Leal

Page 12

“Diners, Drive-Ins, and Destiny: My Guy Fieri Fan Fic”

“Hofstra’s 5 Hottest Cults” by Tyler Barragan

by James Sweeney

Art by Heather Levinsky

Page 14

“Hofstra vs. Zombies Gun Control” by AJ Leal

Page 15

“Luda Remains” by Zach Klebaner

Page 16 Page 17 Page 18 Page 20

Art by Elana Schwartz

Art by Hayley Blomquist “Unmasking Kate and Willie” by Zachary Johnson “Health and Wellness Center Fall Newsletter” by Lara Susman “Man on the Unispan” by Zachary Johnson, Heather Levinsky, and Veronica Toone “The Day the Acid Fields Stood Still” by Trevor Parrish

Art by Heather Levinsky

Page 21

“Point, Counter-point: Hofstra Hoverboards” by

Page 22

“The Hofstra Mini-Mall: A Blueprint” by Patrick

Page 23

“Last Words From Dakar: Stuart Rabinowitz Meet

Back Cover

Photo by Zachary Johnson and Dakar Morris

by Heather Levinsky

Zachary Johnson and Heather Levinsky

Koholic & Greet” by Dakar Morris

Disclaimer Nonsense Humor Magazine is Hofstra’s only “intentional” humor magazine, although you really can’t tell these days. Basically don’t take any advice from us, we really don’t know what we’re talking about. Nonsense Humor Magazine is not responsible for any NTAs, Public Safety Segway Accidents, Rogue Hofstra Sprinklers, or heart attacks from drawn-out dead horse Stuart Rabinowtiz jokes that may occur when you’re reading this issue. In fact, we’d really be surprised if you’re reading this part at all. If you are, we’ll have you know we meet once a week on Thursdays at 9:23pm in room 219, and we like to say we produce 3 issues a semester. The views expressed herein do not necessarily represent the views of Hofstra University. Any likeness to people existing or fictional is purely coincidental. In the criminal justice system, sexually based offenses are considered especially heinous. In New York City, the dedicated detectives who investigate these vicious felonies are members of an elite squad known as the Special Victims Unit. These are their stories.

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Editorial

H

ello. Thank you for reading this (possibly even in real, physical, paper form). You have no fucking idea how hard it was to make that happen… but at the same time, so easy.

So fucking easy. And that’s kind of the point of why we did it.

It’s really easy to opt out and do Hofstra jokes--about the food (ABP during lunch time, am I right, guys?), the sprinklers, the fucking bureaucracy, and, while you’re at it, beat Stuart Rabinowitz jokes literally to DEATH. We even included (if we remember to by time of print) a counter on each page of all the StuRab jokes we made. We are so tired of hearing that name that we might even take a break from shitting on that guy for a while. (None of us have ever even met that man, by the way, unless you count the time that Matt saw him naked in the locker room.) The fact that so many freshman jumped right in and wrote these things about Hofstra with pretty much no context really says something quite clear about this institution of higher learning. To be honest, any print organization at this school could have done this, and I think the Chron actually came pretty close (although it takes a very dry sense of humor to recognize that).

Mostly, however, the reason why we did this was to give the student body a gift. The only gift that we have to offer--laughter.

We laugh because we’re bitter, we laugh because it makes some of the actually troubling facts about this place digestible in some way (and we’re not just talking about the food--zing!!!). We still adhere to the theory that Hofstra is one of the many places on this earth where the walls between Universes are very thin. Hopefully by reading this you will see just a fraction of the batshit crazy place that we all perceive Hofstra as. Pretty much everyone who goes here has thought (fantasized?) about

transferring at some point or another--a thought that was swiftly popped by the realization that your credits will never mean shit anywhere else. Maybe we can start to move past all this by learning to laugh together, for once. Wouldn’t you all be having so much more fun if you were laughing with us laughing at you instead of us just laughing at you?

This is probably the part where we should talk about how happy we are at all the new freshman that joined this club, and how we’re headed toward a new beginning, and all that shit. But the fact is if you read through the past howevermany editorials of this club you’ll find similiar sentiments, so I think this time it’s good that we let the content and the list of contributors in the Table of Contents speak for themselves.

What we will say though is this: this club has gone through a lot of shit over the past few years (and let’s not pretend there won’t be more ahead of us) but we’re still fucking here, Hofstra, and we’re still making jokes about Stuart Rabinowitz’s foreskin.

So if you are one of the lucky few to be holding this issue in your hands on some paper and ink and staples (the first time this club has printed a full issue since 2012, by the way), you are complicit in our victory in a 2-year-long war between us, SGA, and our own misconceptions. The support that this club has received from SGA this semester has surprised all of us, most of all, because frankly, for a period of time we didn’t believe that SGA or OSLE were actual human beings. Long story short, our old treasurer screwed us, we blamed SGA, they screwed us (if you had a nickel for each time you’ve probably heard us bitch

about losing our office, you’d probably have enough to afford one Pantone square), we cried, wrote an issue about it (which you can read online), and then we bounced back after taking a series of Ls. This semester started with us being called down to OSLE’s office to talk about some “problematic content” we put up on the facebook page (which you can see on this page) (Hofstra’s Only Intentional Self-Hating Queer Magazine!). Really considering how the past few years went, it didn’t seem like anything new. We thought we were going to get in trouble, we thought “well the office is gone, the budget is gone, we have no reputation, so the only thing left I guess is to just put us out of our misery”.

But, in a strange twist of fate (considering this happened while Mercury WAS in retrograde) we left that meeting with a plan.

Our Masterplan™.

Shouts out to Karl Koeppel, Chad “Remington” Chad-Remington, and Denise-three people firmly responsible for helping us to save this godforsaken magazine. Oh, and SGA who has not stopped e-mailing us about trying to meet with them (but this time it’s actually under favorable circumstances, and, hey, maybe we might GET an office out of this eventually--poetic irony is in, guys!) And of course we’d like to thank the staff who really have all done an excellent job with this issue. Special thanks to freshman Gillian Pitzer who has really been doing an incredible job with the layouts.

Thanks for reading this, and may luck flow for you as fleetingly as the stream of a Hofstra Sprinkler, In your fantasy, dream about us, and all that we can do with this emotion. <3 Heather & Zach

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MailBag

Introducing...

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This Issue’s Q&A. Have something you want to ask us? E-mail us at nonsensehumor@gmail.com with your credit card info attached.

“Hi, so, are all those handless segways I see on campus safe?”

Little known fact, Jesus Christ himself was conceived by two people on “handless segways”. His name was Wiz Khalifa.

“I’ve been considering this for a while. Do you think it would be a good idea to take away Public Safety’s Ford Explorers and replace them with horses?”

“Gay?” Fine by Hofstra!

Okay so that’s a welcome improvement, but I don’t think it’s thinking big enough yet. Why don’t we talk to some guys on the Basketball Team, see if we can get Psafe some of those Hoverboards?

“I was walking past the student center at around 5:30 the other day and the birds were wilin’ out. Like, I’m talking intense flight patterns, my dude. What the hell does this mean?”

It has begun

“Who made Matt Tanzosh head writer? He is an outside dog!”

Yeah we’ve been trying to get rid of that mutt for years. Nothing works

“Can I write for your magazine?”

Hook me up with your dude’s number.

Arm P-Safe chase you youngsters around, when you have two perfectly functioning supple young people legs and we have what amounts to wooden ottoman stumps jutting from our lower bodies? This will even the score and ensure safety. I am not at liberty to comment on whose, but there will be safety, oh yes. Safety is our last name, hyuk hyuk! I understand that guns are banned on campus, and it will remain that way—for you! Nothing stops a bad guy without a gun better than a good guy WITH a gun. And by good I mean a deeply frustrated middle aged guy with a ruddy complexion, who gave up just sooo so much.

I want to be able to shoot you all.

Yours in service,

Hey there fellas! Whatchu guys up to on this part of campus at this time of night? Not getting into any trouble I hope. Can I see your IDs? Just joshing you there. I’m off duty. Off duty Steve Sourdough, head of operations for Public Safety is a pretty chill guy. Very chill. You should still let me see that ID though. If you haven’t done anything wrong you have nothing to hide. I am GOD KING of SHIT MOUNTAIN here on these 240 acres, and my authority will not be challenged! I did not quit being a police officer, entirely unrelated to a wrongful death suit, so some Fine Arts Education major can gaze upon me with derision. Joshing again. I’m not here to talk to you about that. I’m here to talk to you about our boys in khaki. I’m here to talk about guns.

Large flocks of birds and/or frat brothers loitering outside your window when you’re trying to sleep? Is Hempstead foreign and scary to you? Do you walk to and from class without fearing for your life? These are all problems that can be fixed if my men are allowed the simple concession of a functioning service weapon, to discharge at their fat discretion. Do you know how hard it is to

Steve Sourdough

Steve Sourdough, Hofstra Public Safety Head of Operations

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the Sturab joke counter

Hofstra Pride’s First And Final Game

By Peter Soucy

T

he Hofstra Pride Football team played their first game of the season this past Sunday against the University of Missouri White Police. The game was started with the ceremonial singing of the National Anthem by Robbie Rosen who was a finalist on American Idol. Being a finalist on American Idol means he’s good at singing. It also means Hofstra was mentioned on national television because of American Idol finalist Robbie Rosen. Robbie Rosen was also a finalist on American Idol. ROBBIE ROSEN WILL NEVER NOT SING THE NATIONAL ANTHEM AT HOFSTRA. After American Idol finalist Robbie Rosen sang the national anthem, the teams huddled up by their coaches. U Missouri was given a thoughtful speech by Coach Officer Darren Wilson, but no player believed a word of what he said. The Hofstra Pride’s Coach, President Stuart Rabinowitz, opted to show a video tape of himself giving a thoughtful speech instead of giving it in person. As Coach President Rabinowitz watched himself deliver that speech on the screen, he seemed oddly aroused.

With both teams itching to get their hands on each other, the game was started. U Missouri kicked off to the Hofstra Pride, and Junior Greg “Legs” McGreg caught the ball and ran it an estimated twenty yards; there are no more yardage lines on the field since it is used primarily for Hofstra Lacrosse. First down. Senior quarterback Dan “The Man” Danielson threw a beautiful spiral pass to Sophomore “Curious” George Schwartz who ran it all the way to the end zone where his teammates formed a human staircase, and Schwartz dove through the field goal, resulting in no points being scored. Second Down and one micro penis from the end zone. Danielson threw the ball straight up into the air where Sophomore Kyler “As Fuck” Jenkins, floating on a cloud of vape smoke, was able to catch the ball and score that sweet touchdown the team had been craving. As Jenkins walked back

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to the bench, Coach Lord President Rabinowitz gave him a slap on the ass in such a way that it reminded Jenkins of his Uncle Steve. Jenkins ran off the field in tears. All those years in therapy were gone in a flash. Freshman Bobby “Fresh2Death” Fillet was subbed in for Jenkins in the second half of the game. This is 4 on 4 street football.

Bottom of the last and the score is all tied at 9.2 to 9.2. Coach Chancellor President Rabinowitz was being woken up from recently fainting due to all the young male exertion that had happened. In a freak “I didn’t do it” accident, Coach Officer Darren Wilson had shot the brown football as it traveled past him, so the teams were now using Coach Iron Chef President Rabinowitz’s recently circumcised foreskin blown up to the size of a regulation football as the game ball. Dan “The Man” Danielson huddled up his team, and they all knew the plan. Every member of the team kissed the ball for good luck. Danielson made the call, “Is bearz big dogz, set, HIKE!” The White Policemen instantly tackled Danielson and killed him, but not before he tossed the ball backward to Bobby “Fresh2Death” Fillet who caught it in his Lax stick and catapulted it into the end-zone. In an unprecedented turn of events, Austin “Very White” Black, an eleventh year senior, did a double nollie heelflip into a grind on the goalpost before getting hit in the face with the ball. The ball actually lodged into Black’s head, but the refs counted it as a legitimate catch. Coach Senior Prom Queen President Rabinowitz cried over the thought of, “what if my foreskin had still been attached?” The Hofstra Pride got the W; what a great day to be a Hofstra student. We. Got. That. Hofstra Pride.

That was the last game for the Hofstra Pride football team because SGA decided to cut their budget.

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The

n tio a c i f ri Gent of Estabrook By Jesse Saunders

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his move in day spelled chaos and despair for local residents moving into the up and coming dorm building, Estabrook Hall. What started out fairly normal, became the worst day possible for many upperclassmen, including super-senior David S. Mack IX. “My family’s been with this university for years, half the buildings are named after me,” stated Mack, primary bloodline descendant of the guy half the buildings are named after. “But when I walked in this year, ready to move in, I was informed that the single I’d been in for years was now an artisan coffee shop.”

Mack’s room was not the only causality in the push to prettify the once partyfilled Estabrook. The building admitted 75 freshmen, who stated they just really liked the character of the building, and continued to correct this reporter whenever she referred to it as a dorm.

“It’s a residence hall, we’re trying to build a community here, and it’s much more than a dorm,” said one Freshman while adjusting her questionably fake horn rimmed glasses.

Along with the 75 freshmen, the building is now home to four artisan coffee shops, 1 vegan cupcake place (which is actually not that bad), a personalized day planner store, and either a slam poetry club or just a quad of very angsty roommates who stayed in Estabrook (despite not being able to afford the rent) in order to preserve the building’s “culture.”

The dorm acts the centerpiece to President Rabinowitz’s new MasterPlan™. “I don’t understand why these kids hold onto their dorms, like just graduate and let the residence hall be pretty.” Said President Foreman Rabinowitz as he laid out the plans for a Duane Reade to replace the student lounge.

The most tragic story of the day was that of a hard-working family of five living on the seventh floor. The McNotwhite’s have been struggling to keep their single ever since they made the terrible choice to try and live on a college campus instead of a real town. “It wasn’t perfect, but it was home. Everyone on the floor ignored each other and that was just fine,” said Todd McNotwhite, the family’s eldest son. “but now these kids expect us to interact with each other and go to their weird events, no one here wants to attend a Friends trivia night and I’d really like if they stopped asking.” Sounds exactly like something a person who didn’t know the original theme song was by R.E.M would say.

Beyond the raising price of the dorm itself, the McNotwhite’s have to deal with the loss of the vending machines they once depended on for meals.

Replacing the 13th floor vending machines is a cereal bar (which is still a very strange concept) and a “classic country” brunch joint, where everything is served in a mason jar, including the food. The McNotwhite’s tried to adjust to the changes to their home, but don’t see why you would try and put an omelet in a mason jar, or a shrimp fajita inside a tofu and ancient grain gluten-

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free croissant.

The family has already received several offers on their home, including one from a very persistent messenger bag store. While they don’t want to accept the offer their choices are limited. With the continuing pressure from both the community and their landlord, the shadowy RSA organization, they’ll be gone before their meal plans run out.

The stories touched the hearts of P-Safe officers across the campus, who have taken it upon themselves to help the residents move out quickly and efficiently. With the help of one of the school’s many fire drills, unwanted students scurried out of Estabrook away from a cloud of unidentifiable dank smoke and into the welcoming hands of P-Safe officers, ready to aid the MasterPlan™ by quickly and quietly moving the students into a sadder building.

Following the rejuvenation of Vander Poel Hall by honors students less than five years earlier, Estabrook Hall represents a new standard for housing at Hofstra University. Students displaced from Estabrook were originally upset at the change, but they learned to live with it when they realized their new home of C-square, while nowhere near classes, is very close to recreation areas held dear to estabrookians, such as the scenic acid fields.

The day ended with what seemed a great loss for many students at Hofstra, but in the end that cupcake shop is really good and the decorations give me totally great vibes, so it’s this reporter’s core belief that we’ll somehow survive.

Welcome, young Freshman! Today, you’ll be embarking on a SICK FUCKING QUEST. You’ll traverse through AWESOME SHIT, feel COOL for once and maybe after, you’ll GO OUTSIDE. Your mom would be proud, and your dad would clench his fist under the table with disappointment.

This week’s adventure is:

By Veronica Toone

CHOOSE YOUR OWN FLAVOR.

START HERE

It’s a peaceful Thursday. Well, as peaceful as a Thursday can be before you haul your miserable, exhausted ass out of bed and shuffle outside like the brain-dead zombie you are. You’re only propelled nowadays by your occasional getting high and that girl in your history class that might suck your dick in a few days. You walk out of your room, preparing to venture out into the world, but pause to stare at the used condom and unconscious man on the floor.

If you decide to put the condom on the unconscious guy’s head, go to PARAGRAPH 2.

If you decide to move on, because that’s fucking gross, go to PARAGRAPH 3.

PARAGRAPH 2

You kneel down and put the condom on the guy’s head. Comedy.

PARAGRAPH 3

You ignore him. Your mother raised you right. You continue down the hallway, not sparing a glance. You open the front door and step outside. Immediately, you are overwhelmed by a seemingly impenetrable fog. Chinese smog’s got nothing on this shit. You blink, and the fog is in your eyes. You feel it on your skin, in your mouth, your nose, and when you breathe, you taste it. Chlorine and cigarettes. A young man appears out of the fog, riding on a longboard. He’s gliding towards you like a specter. He’s clad in a pair of Nikes and a loose pair of cargo shorts. His hat is tilted. “Dude,” he whispers, outstretching his arm. “Dude…come in, dude…” You stop.

Do you trust him? Do you run back to the sanctuary of your room and maybe masturbate? Do you ignore him?

You look him up and down: he seems pretty chill.

If you decide to follow the dude, go to PARAGRAPH 4.

If you decide to turn around and go inside to pump your dick, go to PARAGRAPH 5.

PARAGRAPH 4

You decide take the dude’s hand and follow him through the thick fog. You smell the chlorine again, but this time with a faint hint of what is clearly supposed to be Wild Cherry Blast. You clench his hand a little tighter, and as he makes some homosexual joke, you feel yourself start to relax.

If you decide to turn back, go to PARAGRAPH 6.

If you decide to keep going, go to PARAGRAPH 7.

PARAGRAPH 5

I just really wanted to talk about stroking dick. I thought I had more jokes regarding said dick stroking, but I’m just baked out of my mind and have nothing. GO BACK TO PARAGRAPH 4

PARAGRAPH 6

I couldn’t think of anything productive to do when you turn around, so you go back, lock yourself in your room, and pump your dick. Nice. High five motherfucker.

Living Up to the Tagline

By Courtney Richmond

It is your 82nd day at sea. The supplies are running out, the boat needs repairs, and you smell like shit. It feels like just yesterday that you escaped from Hofstra University after all the vape clouds on campus became one giant vape fog, permeating all the buildings and driving out innocent civilians to seek a life where they are not constantly

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suffocated by that sweet, sweet vape.

You chose an escape by sea, but I’m not fucking sure why. You could have easily just transferred schools, there’s like twenty other schools on Long Island alone. You could have lived out a normal life very easily, with like, little to no effort. It wouldn’t kill you to take a gap year, if you’re

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PARAGRAPH 7

Wow, really? I mean, he sounds like kind of a douche, and he’s wearing a “That’s nice babe, now make me a sandwich” shirt, but okay. You continue with the dude through the cloud of smoke, and you feel like you’re never gonna escape. You pass what you believe to be the Student Center, as you can smell, from here, a mixture of Sbarro Pizza and despair. You see the outline of the door become clearer, and then you’re inside. You look around at the hopeless students, and decide that you’re kinda hungry.

If you decide to eat the Sbarro, go to PARAGRAPH 8.

If you decide to keep going, go to PARAGRAPH 9.

PARAGRAPH 8

PARAGRAPH 8: You eat the Sbarro. Almost immediately, you feel the regret flowing through you like blood. It’ll come back later, and your asshole is gonna burn hotter than the inside of the Sun, but you power through.

PARAGRAPH 9

What’re you, fucking kidding? You’re not gonna eat that garbage. You walk briskly along next to the dude, ignoring the seemingly happy freshman stuffing pizza and lukewarm Chinese food in their young, rosy faces.

Those poor souls. You look up at the dude and ask him for his name. Immediately, the longboard comes to a screeching halt. He tilts his head so his hat is blocking his face. “Dude,” he says quietly, “it’s best you not ask.”

But now you’re curious. What could be so crucial to this man’s identity that you can’t know? He pulls a vape pen out of his pocket and sucks on it, taking deep, shuddering breaths. You’ve clearly put him into a state of unmovable anxiety. “Hey, man, are you okay?” He blows smoke into the air, and puts his head down. “Do you know what the Hofstra fog is, dude?” he says slowly.

If you decide to get the answer, go to the GOOD ENDING. If you decide to unmask the dude, go to the TRUE ENDING.

GOOD ENDING “What’s the Hofstra fog?” He smiles at you and kindly outstretches his hand. “It’s vape smoke,

man!” You feel a little bit of relief, and you happily follow the dude towards the Unispan, floating on a vape cloud and tasting the fucking magic of Wild Cherry Blast. But something is still nagging at you…you decide to unmask him.

This is the GOOD ENDING. You chose this because you cry yourself to sleep in a blanket made of your own insecurity, and probably listen to country music. Fuck you, sheeple. Go to the TRUE ENDING.

TRUE ENDING The question seems pointless, now. Who gives a shit what the Hofstra fog is? You’re more concerned with the identity of the person you’ve spent all day with! You try to look at him in the face, but his head is still tilted. You think for only a second, then grab his hat. He stares at you in shock, and you stare in shock right back. He quickly turns and propels himself forward, vape pen in his germy mouth, clearly in violation of his own rule. “President Rabinowitz, wait!” you shout, but he is already long gone.

This is the true ending. You’ll always end up here: your decisions are meaningless, and we are all tumbling into the void.

THE END.

Thank you for reading this, and I’m so sorry.

not really sure what you want to do with your life. Why didn’t you backpack through Europe or dedicate some time to volunteering or serving others? You’re wasting your youth on somethings that’s just fucking stupid.

Your mother and I aren’t mad, we’re just… we’re disappointed. You know we still love you no matter what though, right?

Anyway, you’re drifting on the waves when the scent of burning cheese fills your nose. Another fog overcomes you, but this one is friendly, it beckons you to come closer. You peer through the cloud and see a faint outline of land.

Paddling closer, the scent of food poisoning on a plate grows stronger.

While a normal person might retch and cry, you’re a little too fucking

desperate to pull that shit.

Reaching the shore, you run onto the island and find a single structure standing alone. A young, hot black man welcomes you with a glistening slice of pizza. This must be heaven, you think. You take a bite and immediately start sobbing. It’s so fucking bad. Everything about this pizza is just fucking wrong. You can feel the constipation in your bowels already. You’re starving, but Christ, isn’t there anything else you can eat?

“This is the only food on the island”, the man says. He slowly starts to chuckle, then throws his head back and laughs with an evil fervor. “You see, foolish mortal… on this island, Sbarros is the best pizza!”

You run towards the boat, desperately wanting to leave, only

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to see that it has drifted away from the shore. You fall to your knees, heartbroken. Is this your home now?

Will you ever escape? Why has God forsaken you? Why does this pizza make you want to vomit so fucking bad?

Behind you is a large sign, tattered and worn by time. It serves as a warning to those who are unlucky enough to wash ashore.

“Sbarros – the BEST Pizza on the Island!”

In Memoriam:

The Bike Rack in Netherlands South

By The Bike Rack in Netherlands South

ry o m e ing m

In lov

S

o what’s your plan, Hofstra? Are you gonna put a waterpark in my place? Allow the Freshies to arrive at Welcome Week bright eyed and bushy tailed with a waterpark in Netherlands South for their disposal now that I’m gone? What about another one of those sketchy elevators, except this time, it’s just décor—you know, art? Or even better, another goddamn green space?

Maybe just build a house for those Hofstra cats I’ve heard so much about. Look, I’ve put up with a lot for you, Hofstra. You renovated all of Netherlands South for these Class of 2019 hippy liberals and blue haired brats and left me in the dust, rotting and decaying. I’m getting old, I know, but you can’t kick me and my family out. We have resided in this spot for generations, from my father to his great-grandfather, his great-great grandfather and to his great-greatgreat grandfather. You get the point. It’s been a home for me, my half-brothers and step-sisters, to second cousins twice removed, and even my mom’s friend who we always called Aunt Linda. We have been here long before 1935 is what I’m saying.

I remember when my great-uncle told me how Amsterdam was first erected in memorial for those fallen in what was recorded as the first Dutch Oven.

Here lies Mrs. Hofstra. Stayed too long, gone too soon.

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It’s also been said that this site once held a Dutch glue factory. Known as the Belgian Re-Conference, it was designed to reattach the pieces of Africa following that Apartheid business. The company went under after the Science Department came to realize that there would never be a glue strong enough to erase the mistakes that were made.

Despite what your $700 history textbooks might say, this very site was once home to the theater President Lincoln had attended on the very last day in office.

That’s right. This spot right here is where Mrs. Lincoln shot President Lincoln in a jealous rage after catching him in the act with not only John Wilkes Booth but also Mr. Hofstra. When Mrs. Lincoln turned the gun on Booth, he immediately decided to take the blame in order to save face; he knew he always looked better with a beard anyway.

Of course, this was also the home to the Native American reservation, burial ground—and later— casino, which was inevitably torn down by the Hofstra administration. Their spirits still fuck with the input settings on the flatscreen in Rotterdam to this day. But, more importantly, historians have evidence that the last Apache warrior was sent away by Stu Rabinowitz himself, with the excuse that there just wasn’t enough room in the budget.

And the most unfortunate of all, it was this very spot where Fran Drescher caught her very first sinus infection and never really kicked it.

See? We’ve been here for longer than Hofstra ever had been. My parents had me here, you know. How do you feel taking away the place where I was released from my mother’s own vagina? What? You’re saying that since I’m a bike rack I wasn’t actually birthed? You take that back, my mom was au natural, buddy. I was even conceived here before your mom conceived you on some drunk one night stand.

That may have been out of line. Sorry to your mom, but not you. Your bold Calibri text and stark white piece of paper does not scare me. I made it through rain, sleet, and snow, only a bit scathed while your sheltered white child out front has a weather guard and everything. He still cries when it thunders. What a momma’s boy. He was always your favorite. I don’t know where I’m going with this anymore, but what I do know is that I’m going, unlike the rusted wheels of your bike now laying in the grass.

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ents: d u t S l l A o t e A Messag

W

e here at Hofstra University have realized that we forgot to mention one very important staple of information during the time that we were so thirstily sucking your dicks for a deposit.

And cab fare. You see, we want you to be healthy. We really do. Why else would Hof USA, the Student Center, the multiple Starbucks and Au Bon Pain be the primary sources of nourishment on campus? We were just testing to see if YOU were going to make the healthy choices. But we forgot to mention the fact that half of what goes into our food are laxatives. That’s half. So if you have a burger from Hof USA and ate it (which, what the fuck is wrong with you, first off) you’d be eating half burger, or so they say, and half laxatives. Still not understanding it? Well there’s the chinese food from the student center, right? If you eat it, that’s two percent milk, nine percent uncooked rice, one percent pubic hair, sixteen percent chicken (which is itself is 45% human growth hormone), ten percent pork, three percent broccoli, eighteen percent mystery meat, six percent super special secret sauce, four percent Hofstra meal plan points and fifty percent

5

The Followers of Dionysus

Bringing that devil may care aesthetic to Hofstra, The Followers of Dionysus are here. Sporting clothes drenched in sweat and vomit, smelling of Four Loko, these thirsty youngsters are just looking for a good time. So if you are looking for a time you probably won’t remember, look no further because this is what you’re looking for.

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The Children of Baphomet

We all know that black is coming back this year and so do The Children. These stylish hell spawn worshipping heathens dawning fabulous black robes and a fetching pentagram carved in their chests know how to keep it classy. Keep up with the hot trends of beheading your enemies and selling your immortal soul for earthly pleasures—this club is heading for the big times. So if you’re looking to fulfill your dream, simply sacrifice a goat, chant the Hofstra almamater and join The Children of Baphomet.

By Charle s Bukka ke

Relax(atives)

laxatives. (Well, it’s more like seventy-five percent laxatives in this case but whatever; who’s counting?)

So why are we here at Hofstra University doing this? Well for $60,000 a year tuition you bet your sweet ass it’ll be properly cleansed for all of the fucking we will surely be doing. We here at Hofstra University value the health of your colon probably more than you do. One senior says “It just gets easier each time it happens. You just learn to expect it after awhile”. See? You’ll get used to it, it just takes thirty-six months of literal gutwrenching stomach pains and shattering the porcelain palace with a force inversely proportional to the strength of Freshens’ Cajun Ranch dressing a few times before you learn to love us. Also we could use some extra, unused, spare, etc. internal organs for our anatomy department. NOT for the Hofstra black market (or the Hofstra blue and gold market™, as we call it) So if you have any near-death experiences on the toilet, and you find a half ruptured, or fuck, even a fully ruptured organ (we don’t give a shit, unlike you. Literally) please submit that to us post-haste.

By arragan B r le y T

3

1. You won’t feel the perpetual ass-fuck of our tuition due to how numb your withered anuses will be 2. You will shit blood.

3. It’s pretty cool :^) 4. You won’t need to go through an experimental phase of wondering what something feels like in your ass 5. Because I said so There. Now can you all stop fucking posting the same joke on Yik Yak? We get that we here at Hofstra University can be a huge pain in the ass (pun VERY intended) but you’ll get over it.

No you won’t.

But soon enough, your entrails will cover the cost of most of the Pantone squares on the Communications building.

Win-win.

Hofstra’s 5

s t l u C t s e t t o H

Stuart’s Goblin Army

It seems our President Stuart “Rootin Tootin” Rabinowitz himself has been instrumental in the foundation of this cult. Stuart’s Goblin Army is hitting the scene in style; sporting that business casual look with blazers and converse with pockets overflowing with embezzled club funds. These cute red skinned, sharp tusked little buggers are so devoted Goblin King Stuart Rabinowitz that they get their foreskin sewed back on to resemble their leader. So if you’re ready to be replaced by a little red imp monster and spend the rest of your time here at Hofstra locked away in the dungeon of Hofstra Hall then run for election into Stuart’s Goblin Army!

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Also, there are several reasons as to why these bowel battles ultimately benefit you.

Nonsense Humor

2

Hofstra Versus Zombies

HVZ, need I say more, these guys know how to bring glamour back to Hofstra. Of course to really get to know these guys you best be in HVZ because they tend to stick together.

Keeping it hip in their fedoras, face paint, and those absolutely dashing Attack on Titan capes these guys take to Hofstra’s campus in a big way. Even if you don’t know them personally they’ll make sure to let you know they’re there because those nerf darts are going to hit you if the members don’t run into you first. So if you’re ready to have the whole campus look at you, remember your face, and avoid you at all costs, join HVZ.

If self-indulgence were style, these kicky youngsters would be Jacqueline Onassis.

Dressed in the finest silks that probably have their club name on them or something, these kids sure know how to let you know they exist. Super meta, self-aware, and never self-aggrandizing try-hards, these people are the best known cult on campus—breaking the paradigm what it really means to be a cult. Traditionally, cults are meant to be secretive, so shouting about boners on the unispan dressed like an indie rock singer may seem counterproductive.

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My

i r e i F y u G

Fan Fiction

By Langley Pussyfoot

I

had nothing to be nervous about. As a veteran student journalist, I’d long understood the value of confidence and composure. For an assignment of this magnitude, though, I’d need as much of both as I could muster. Despite all I knew about proper journalism, I had long been relegated to the most benign and obvious assignments.

“SGA to Vote: ‘Is Smoking Weed a Sin?’” was by far my biggest story last semester, notable still among my journalistic peers for my concise yet biting closing sentiments, “Christ does anybody even read this does anybody even read this shit you fucking swine yo ufucking shitbeastsss.” I’ll admit it was a brash decision, and perhaps at a different school it would have meant a swift kiss of death for my young career; instead, they made me editor-inchief, allowing me to assign myself the best stories and fuck anybody I want.

It’s true we had an idea that something like this was due to happen soon enough; we’d received vague-if-teasing e-mails notifying us of a “New Era,” a “Master Plan,” and, seemingly unrelated , a string of off-campus assaults attributed to somebody named H O T P O P E Y E S B I S C U I T S. Hell, Hofstra had been attempting publicity stunts

fairly regularly long before any of us thought we’d end up here; sure, we all remember the TLC Reunion fiasco of Fall Fest ‘14 (only two of them bothered to show up), but what about the shocking Spring Fest ‘09 that saw SuperChef Bobby Flay eat his own throw up? What about the night shuttle that doubled as a Planned Parenthood clinic? (Thanks Steve) They had all failed to put us on the map in any significant way, and I suppose that by now it was pretty obvious we needed something big if we wanted the name-recognition of a Penn State or Virginia Tech. Their plan: Bring award-winning father and food eater Guy Fieri to campus to put some of our top-flight eateries on an episode of his seminal investigative series Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives.

My plan: turn this into the biggest story Hofstra had ever seen.

We were scheduled to meet upon his arrival to campus, if only for a chance to ask preliminary questions before the crush of fanboys came flocking, tips a-frosted. I gripped the inside of my pockets like the crossbars of a roaring coaster, a buoyant anxiety growing inside me as if every step towards our meeting point furthered my crawl over the apex of Flavor Town Mountain.

Something inside me knew already that soon my life would never be the

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same. I crossed the street towards the Student Center a nervous wreck of potential questions, thinking still of how I would draw the greater truth from such a complex journalistic muse. Then it hit me. A car; a sicklycum colored Honda knocked my bitch ass down like nothin’, drawing blood from a scrape on my knee and a some pee from my penis. (Perhaps also some brain trauma because, well, letters and numbers scream at me pretty relentlessly. But that’s besides the point).

My ears were still ringing when the unholy smell of Pulled Pork Vape engulfed me. A hand reached towards me through the hell cloud, the spray-tanned flesh clump bearing a faded reminder of once-flaming knuckle tats inscribed: “FOOD”. It was Him.

“Shit brother, I can’t afford another case. Please man, you don’t need to go to a hospital do you?

Do you know who I am? I’m fucking famous! I have money! Please, take my money. I have $38 dollars right here. I have some black and milds in my car. I can probably get like three more black and milds from my cameraman. Oh god I can’t believe this fucking happened again.”

“Mr. Fieri,” I interrupted, “I can’t take your money or your delicious treats, I’m the one covering your visit.

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I’m supposed to be meeting you for an interview right now. Please stop blowing that Pulled Pork Vapor on my wounds. I am begging you to stop doing that to me.”

“Oh shit, the student-journalist.

Yeah, uh, my publicist said that would be a really bad idea for me right now.

I mean, besides the fact that I just hit you with my car, I’ve also got a lot of shit working its way through the legal system currently that may ban me from campuses altogether.”

“Oh wow, well I—” “And I mean, I can’t even do a full episode here. They’ve got me doing an online-exclusive thing right now, which we’ll probably scrap altogether.

They’re making me drive my car from home, I don’t even get anything cool!

I can’t even believe somebody let me put myself in this situation. I killed like three cats too, I just ran them right the fuck over. I shouldn’t be telling you this. What am I doing? Do you have any Xanax? Any shit at all?

Please bro.”

“Look Mr. Fieri, this is my career we’re talking about. This event— you—this is a big deal for this school and for me. This is going to help me make a name for myself. Don’t you remember that struggle for recognition, for validation in doing what you love? I could be the next Guy Fieri, and you could help pass the torch! Don’t you see that?”

He paused and backed away suddenly, exhaling some additional smokehouse vapor from his ears and from behind his cool sunglasses.

“Kid, I’m sorry, but my career still has twenty-plus years. This is only the beginning for me. Hell, you probably think I’m what, 35? 38? Not even close. But that’s just the power of money my friend. Now stay away from me.”

With that, he lowered his powerful frame into what smelled like an outhouse made of kielbasa, and drove away as dangerously fast as he had come. I was stung, devastated the way so many were when Guy Fieri’s S’mores Indoors Dessert Pizzas turned out to be full of hot peppers and very little else. I’d been shunned by the one man who could surely

change my life, pushed away by the master of my craft. He was right though; this business isn’t built on friendship. If he wouldn’t agree to help my story, well, maybe I didn’t need his permission.

Disallowed from my press privileges, I took a series of insignificant notes on Guy’s reactions from a distance. Impassioned howls of “Dang brother!” and “Wowza” filled the Sbarro kitchen for some time before he finally wrung out a slice of pepperoni pizza like an old dish rag, streamlining its orange grease directly into his face holes. He wiped his bristled goatee and looked in for the money shot: “That’s the kind of nectar we love, here on Triple D.” My time was coming, and I knew it; I’d already watched Guy eat every kind of Sbarro slice, every type of sushi, a steak sandwich, and three different kinds of preservative plastic wrap. They were going to have all the necessary footage soon, and my story was not yet complete. I moved through the crowd with swift determination—my mind tuned to chaos, my heart to destiny. Our eyes met across the Sbarro counter and he stepped forward only to shake his head in silence .

“Hey Guy,” I shouted, confident that I was about to say something really cool. “Make this gun bullets a snack for you!” I was wrong. But it didn’t matter; I had just shot doting

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husband and affable neighbor Guy Fieri four times in the chest with a handgun I was able to legally purchase. I don’t know if I killed him, I don’t even know what the full extent of my charges are yet. I only know what the last words he said to me were, spat between coughs of blood and the regurgitation of some garlic bread. “I only have...this to say... the liberals were right. We still need stricter gun control. This all could have been prevented.”

So as you can see, President Obama, I’m writing this letter to you as a sort of olive branch. I’ve scratched your back, and your front, and your sides, and your grey little head. I fed the public the perfect appetizer of heartbreak with an entree of fear. I turned a national icon into a national tragedy, a bleeding heart mouth piece narrating the story of a nation in distress. I’m now isolated in a maximum security prison, mostly because I keep spitting on my fingers and smelling them.

Nobody wants to be my friend. So now it’s time for you to help me.

Pardon me of these charges, let me go back to the school I put on the map and do what I deserve to do.

Help me tell the stories that need to be told. And please, Mr. President, bring back the Hofstra football team.

The Master Plan must continue. My work is not done.

Hofstra V s. Zombies Gun Control

By Charles Bukkake

It’s been a minute since Hofstra Vs.

Zombies has made the news for another tragic i ncident. An innocent bystander getting shot

between the eyes, forcing them to drop their books, papers, hookah pen, and consequently their Hofstra pride, is nothing new. “Fucking shit-balls!” exclaims one Hofstra student we reached out to for comment, rubbing the Velcro out of his eye. “Seein’ as those fellas must be nice guys, they should kindly crawl back into the friendzone they so unjustly belong in” he states. However, this time the stakes have been raised—and I’m not talking about your daddy’s rib-eye. Earlier today, a senior citizen was shot and killed making their merry way over to the best pizza on the island.

“Bitch was so old, she may as well have been the walking dead,” explains the charismatic, dangerous and probable virgin Malcom “xxx_ShadowDragon_xxx” (as he insisted we called him). “I just bought this beauty at a K-Mart in East Garden City. There was no test or background check, well, aside from the Q-T cashier checking me out!” Yes, he indeed wrote out “Q” and “T” in the air with his damp finger.

Is it really this simple to purchase a “beauty” of that magnitude with little to no restrictions by our federal government? Does East Garden City even have a local government? We consulted local gun expert Mike Hunt and even local-er expert Xavier “No Chill” Johnson.

“Listen. The fact of the...the fact of the...the matter at hand here is the fact that liberals can eat my dick. I repeat, liberals can eat my dick. What was I talking about? Right— as I was saying, my ass is so clenched that I lost all feeling in my legs about thirty seconds ago. Please help me.” Mr. Hunt does drive a compelling point. Nerf guns don’t kill people, but dying of secondhand embarrassment at the

14

fact that you manually carved a radioactive symbol onto a forty dollar nerf gun does. I bet that “instrument” isn’t even fucking radioactive. Fuck.

Mr. Johnson, however, also provides some pretty decent feedback. “So are you buying any weed or what?”

My homie, “No Chill” states the obvious in implying that guns need to be regulated when there is, technically speaking, a school shooting every time this organization meets. Uh-oh...what’s this? Breaking news? It appears we are having more action on the scene than a hot pocket in a lean cuisine. A devilishly dapper debonair appears before us, cheeto dust swirling in a tornado of desperation and class. Donning an emerald cloak, shrouding his tragic past, he speaks. “Good day to thee, my fine gentlesirs.”

With this mere phrase our news team is bewitched as our undergarments smash the floor with unquenchable lust.

“You see, ‘tis not the size of the gun that is important; rather, it is the way in which you pwn noobs-er..peasants with said gun. Or so my girlfriend—Girlfriends! tell me.”

Pulling me in by my tie, he whispers, “But it sure does help if you have a Desert Falcon Blaster 69xxx laser-mounted, special edition, Mountain Dew fueled-euphoria enducing, triple-action meat beater-killswitch engage-cockgrinder with auto-erotic asphyxia controls and a dignity depletion rate of 923 dates per picosecond.” Noticing Edith the— now terrified—intern, he tipped his authentic Indiana Jones replica headpiece and uttered “Farewell, fair maiden. Until we meet in the land of sunlight” and vanished, leaving nothing behind but the faint odor of Axe Bodywash and starch.

We don’t mean to harass people who are happy doing what they do. As a matter of fact, more power to them for being less cynical and douchey than our team of accountants (who are also probably armed). All we are saying is that—shit! You have an office! An OFFICE. You guys always seem so happy! It’s disgusting. Do you guys even know how to roll your eyes? It is disgusting. We are not bitter. Somebody please give us our office back.

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F

or the majority of his life, Ludacris’s only affiliation with Hofstra University was hanging with Hofstra Hoes and getting some Hofstra Head (he still continues the practice of hooking up with Hofstra Hoes even though he contracted the Hofstra Red).

This all—well, not all, the Hofstra Red won’t leave till you’re Hofstra Dead—but most of this changed when Luda came to Hofstra for the fall festival of ‘15. Luda had just finished his performance and was feeling his Hofstra Pride. Meaning, after the concert he met some Hofstra Hoes and took some Hofstra Heroin – that’s about as far as his Hofstra Pride went that night. Nonetheless, Luda was having a good time, I mean, he wasn’t a mathematician, but he knew Hofstra Hoes plus Hofstra Heroin equaled Hofstra Happiness. It was simple algebra or something. Anyway Luda got some Hofstra Head (and three more girls got the Hofstra Red).

The next morning Luda awoke and had found, to his dismay, that one of the Hofstra Hoes was indeed a Hofstra Bro. Luda then knew he had to change up his life. This was the third time he had done that with a man and he was on Hofstra grounds now where he could be fined for that kind of stuff and he certainly did not want to go to Pastor Rabinowitz’s “special super fun camp”.

Luda wanted to transform his life but he wasn’t sure how. He was sick of all the meaningless sex (especially when it made him doubt the very nature of who he was), and he felt something was missing from his life.

Anyway, Luda left that Hofstra Hoe’s dorm a confused man. He was lost.

No—like he was literally lost, he had no fucking clue where he was. But it was soon after that, that he found Jesus – the janitor – and he told him the way

intrigued by Christianity.

He even considered becoming a priest but decided against it once he realized he wasn’t interested in children that way. Then he was turned on to Judaism.

But he didn’t want no one messing with his foreskin so he dropped that idea.

He even thought of converting to Islam. But considering his birthday was September 11th, the connection was not in his favor. So he dropped that idea too. Luda knew he was moved by God and felt a new spirituality within him – or perhaps it was the Hofstra shits.

Either way, he wasn’t sure what religion spoke to him the most.

He was sitting on a bench, trying to figure out what religious faith he belonged to, when blowing in the wind, rather originally actually, was a Buddha statue. Luda was moved by the Buddha.

No like he was literally slapped by it, shit knocked him out.

When he awoke, The Buddha statue was on top of him, the statue’s eyes staring into him. It reminded Luda of that Hofstra bro he had been with a while ago, which freaked him out (or really turned him on, he couldn’t tell), so he shoved the Buddha off in a hurry.

Luda stopped for a moment. It was then that he realized he was meant to convert to Buddhism.

So, Luda converted to Buddhism.

As a result of his religious conversion, he recently changed his rapper name to “Buddhacris”*. Buddhacris is currently the only Buddhist rapper and I don’t believe that is going to change at any point. He is currently continuing his spiritual journey in the religious studies program here at Hofstra University. Luda finally feels like he has a home and that home is a Hofstra Home.

Luda Remains

By Zach Klebaner

off campus and back to his hotel. But on his way back, something happened to Luda that changed his life. Blowing in the wind rather conveniently and stereotypically was a flyer for Hofstra’s religious studies program. Luda then knew what he had to do. He was going to become a deeply religious man.

He was done with all the drugs and all the worthless sex, he was going to change… his clothes, and then he was going to change in like a deeply personal or spiritual way.

So Luda changed his clothes at the hotel and came back to Hofstra’s campus. He then placed a huge deposit down and enrolled into Hofstra University in the religious studies program.

Luda then began studying all the major religions. He was greatly

15

Unmasking Kate and Willie

By Zachary Johnson

T

hrough the bathroom stall wall I could hear the soft tap of padded feet as they passed by the “Restroom” door.

I finished carving a dick doodle into the wall and then flattened myself to the floor, applying my Nonsense press badge. Like a snake I slithered under the bathroom stall, across the Hofstra Mold encrusted floor and out into the scenic hallway of the Student Center basement. Invincible, on my stomach, I glided past the red carpet, winking at the guy who I 69’d with to get in, and darted between a pair of legs that I thought belonged to what appeared to be a very attractive man—until I saw the “Zombie” ankle bandanna.

I entered the literal wreckage of the Rathskellar—passing by a Public Safety officer taking a student away in chains for drawing graffiti, stopping to greet the fraternity guy spray painting a giant dick on the wall right behind him—and tried to avoid the debris, the rat poison, and the sound of embezzled money as the entirety of the Student Center shook out of a general and simple lack of repair or renovation for maybe what could be the past thirty years.

After shaking the literal dust off of my clothes, I entered the green room. “The rest of our school doesn’t look like this,” A smiling Pride Guide welcomed a visiting student. “It’s much better, and we are an arboretum!”

I slither into the festivities and see my target.

The Hofstra Pride themselves, Katherine and Willard Jones-Hofstra.

I whip my posterior into the air, catch it with my hands, and roll like a tire along the wall of the room. I sit along the wall behind them and wait out the event. They meander for 15 minutes, smiling and waving to the crowd. I lurk, taking notes in my tire form. Once they’ve had enough, I follow them out of the room, flattening myself into a manta ray.

“Whoosh,” I said. “Whoosh! Whoosh whoosh whoosh! Woosh!” I said, gliding through the secret passage, as a manta ray.

“Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh! Blam!”

After I had enough whooshing, I was silent again and followed the mascots for quite some time until they reach their designated changing room.

“Cra-caw,” I whisper to myself, gliding under the door.

I stop, immediately, mystified.

The mascots stand at the opposite end of the room, hands on their heads. I realize that I am about to go where no Hofstra

student has gone before. Has the Chronicle ever unmasked these guys?! What about HEAT? Hmm?! Hmmm?! Hmmmmmmmm m???!!!!?????!!!!????!!!!!!!woosh231!!!!@$ $@#42542453423424204204204204204 204204204204204206969696969669696 929292929292929923923923923woosh9239239239239323311311joinnonsense6 6677788899911:1111:11:11:11heeeeyyy yyyyyyyyyyyyyy23948730q98574!!wooshwooshwoosh@Q#$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!wooshwooshwooshaaaaqgggghhhhhiuoeiuprioa892374$W^%#$^$%woooshwoooshwooshwooshwooshwwooshwwooshwooshwwooosha;klheeeeyyyyy yy!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I don’t think so.

Willy begins. The lights dim, and somewhere a gust of wind blows out a circle of candles. His fluffy cat head comes off, accompanied by strings, to reveal a very disappointing man trying to keep a lot of sad secrets inside.

2016 Presidential Candidate Marco Rubio sets the Willy head on the bleachers.

He reaches out his furry paw and caresses Kate.

“Soon my love, soon.”

Kate makes a soft cooing nose and begins to remove her head. The mascot costume comes completely off. Somewhere inside the walls of the building, a small children’s choir sings with crescendo.

Beyoncé extends her stockinged legs, stepping out of the remains of Kate’s ashes.

Marco Rubio chuckles, with a whisper.

“No darling, the other one.”

Beyoncé reaches to the cowlick on her head and pulls a zipper down the middle of her body. Another costume falls to the floor, revealing the stingray that killed Steve Irwin.

“Oh baby,” Marco Rubio says, “You

16

know how much this one turns me on, but show me the other one. The real you.”

The stingray thrashes violently, and sheds its skin like dandruff flakes.

Before me stands the really hot black guy that works at Sbarro. He kisses Marco Rubio, then slides his hand down his neck, chest, abdomen to reach his crotch.

“Now show me the real you.” He says.

Marco Rubio guffaws. “Nice try baby, but I don’t buy it. Let’s get down to the bottom of this, you sexy, sexy, sexy creature.”

They both reach for their crotch and undo a zipper running the length of their body.

Out of the discarded skins step two naked Marco Rubios. They embrace each other and spin around, rapidly. Their flesh combines into one solid form. With six legs it scuttles across the floor to hover over me.

Two faces, molded together make up it’s large head with bug eyes and pinchers.

One face smiles, the other face frowns.

“Please donate money to Hofstra.”

Then it stabs me with its scorpion tail, injecting me with eggs.

As my vision goes dark I look up at the creature, watching both the smiling and the non-smiling face of…

Fuck.

Do I even have to write this at this point?

If you’re reading through this article you’ve probably made it through enough fucking articles with the same punch line.

Yes, both faces belong to the same person, and yes that person is Stuart Rabinowitz. Fuck. Did you laugh, did you think our jokes are fucking funny?

One more Stuart Rabinowitz joke to add to the page counter. Just go visit us at nonsensehumor.lol and send us a fucking virus or something, jeez.

Hofstra Health and Wellness Center Fall Newsletter

Hello Hofstra students and faculty! Cold weather often brings with it a slew of health problems but luckily a team of qualified medical professionals at your Health and Wellness Center, all of whom earned their degrees at the prestigious DeVry University, are ready to help you get better.

Recently, there’s been an outbreak of what is known in the scientific community as the Hofstra Shits. Although not life-threatening, this food-borne illness can cause immense discomfort for everyone involved. Here’s everything you need to know: What is it?

Have you ever seen that scene in Dumb and Dumber where Harry is in the bathroom and the melted chocolate in his pocket gets all over the walls? Or the scene in Candyman where she wakes up covered in blood and the dog’s head is cut off and the friend is shrieking because her baby is missing? It’s exactly like that…but with poop.

How do I know if I have it?

You’re going to want to make sure you have the Hofstra Shits and not just plain old boring explosive diarrhea. Put a diaper on (please) and go to Dutch Treats. Purchase a $6 container of ice cream but before you pay, tell the cashier you think the price is ridiculous because well, it is. Eat it and use the container to collect a stool sample. Then, drop the sample off outside the SGA office. They’ll (taste) test it (probably) and get back to you with the results.

What are my treatment options?

Once it has been confirmed that you do in fact have the Hofstra Shits, you have two treatment options. You take the blue pill, the story ends. You wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill, you stay in wonderland, and I show you how deep the rabbit hole goes.

How can I prevent myself from getting the Hofstra Shits?

Don’t eat the food here, fam.

Quick tips: ● If you’re shitting your brains out remember to stay hydrated. Pull a Bear Grylls and drink your own piss! ● Wear your roommate’s shoes when you go to the bathroom. That way your identity and reputation are protected when you fart extremely loud. ● Having the Hofstra Shits can make farting in public a real gamble. Not only will it probably sound like an elephant calling for its mother, but also there’s a 99% chance it won’t be a dry fart. So like, hold it in.

Have a wonderful and safe year,

Lara Susman Lara Susman Wellness Center Doctor PHD in Doctor Graduated Bottom of Her Class, DeVry University

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Man On the

Unispan

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19

By Trevor Parrish

I

t was 3:11 am, September 23rd, when I found the truth. I was on my usual route to the acid fields. After finding my place hidden in the trees away from the others partaking in similar activities, I started smoking that good herb…and then it happened.

I looked to the sky to see hundreds of flashing lights as the moon turned a bloody, crimson red. That’s when dozens of Public Safety vehicles came racing onto the fields. Officers jumped out of their vehicles to secure the area, as I ran to reposition myself. After finding a better place to hide, I saw that the rest of the stoners were not so lucky. They were being hauled off by the hundreds to the vehicles. I found it strange that the Public Safety vehicles had not parked anywhere towards the middle of the field and that there were not nearly

enough vehicles to fit all of these prisoners. I looked back to the sky to see a ship that resembled an extremely large, white 2011 ford explorer come out of the clouds. The large ship hovered down over the fields, a big advertisement sticker for Sbarro’s (The Best Pizza On the Island!) on it’s bumper. The acid fields opened up, and a landing pad emerged from below. The ship landed on the pad and a large door opened, releasing a shimmering light.

From the light came several figures, none of which resembled anything human.

One of the officers placed a small device in front of the alien-like creatures, and a hologram of Stuart Rabinowitz materialized. (I’m sure he would’ve been there in person but his other rich son is busy having another extravagant wedding) The mysterious figures

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pulled out bars of gold and laid them down in front of the hologram. Rabinowitz motioned his lackeys forward and Public Safety loaded the ship with the chain gangs of stoners.

As Rabinowitz bowed to the figures, they stepped back aboard their ship and the door closed behind them. As the ship lifted off of the acid fields, I made out several words on the ship, “Slaves of the Galactic Administration”.

Horrified, I ran as fast as I could away from the fields that I called home for the last 2 years, never to return. No one is safe.

Do not return. Those who were lucky enough to not be present shouldn’t push their luck.

The fields are under constant surveillance and stepping onto those fields is a gateway to your own enslavement. Do not let their enslavement be in vain.

You have been warned.

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Point Counterpoint

The Hofstra Hoverboards W

hen the Basketball team used their allocated budget (which they received in cash) to buy some Hoverboards from a questionable source (read more about this in the Chronicle), we here at Nonsense couldn’t resist the temptation of a juicy story. We asked our Editors-in-Chief what they thought about the issue. Here’s what they had to say:

Point When in the course of human events it becomes necessary to purchase a hoverboard, a man should, as is his constitutional right, utilize the funds allocated to him by his student government. However, when the flaws in the system grow to such a size that they interfere with the facility of obtaining such monies, students should take it upon themselves to subvert the system in hopes of a larger change. Therefore, the matter of the minor controversy enmiring the most honourable basket-ball team of Hofstra University is merely a bellwether for the general student populace’s current mindset towards their own government.

The collegiate governing body at Hofstra is a pillar of oppression bearing down upon we, the innocent taxpaying students.

Grievances upon grievances we have writ in great painstaking detail, and with such passion have we sent these letters unto our senators, only to have these stone-hearted judges cast them aside without empathy.

In such ways we have been displaced from our homes and offices, taxed unfairly, and largely denied access to our own wealth which should be rightly allocated to each

student organization, in concordance with the stipulations of our compulsory student activities fee. In addition to this, we daily suffer the insulting misfortune of being ruled by a class comprised almost solely of children dressed in the clothes of grown men.

In defiance of such bureaucratic absurdity, the acquisition of these hoverboards, hereafter known as The Greate Purchase of Two Thousand and Fifteen, stands forthright. Such organizations who are privileged enough to recieve their allocations in form of liquid monies should not restrict themselves to purchases which could also be easily completed within the constraints of the system. Counterintuitive though it may seem, flaunting these loopholes and work-arounds brings higher visibility to the struggle of the proletariat in such a dramatic fashion that the issue can no longer be ignored.

athletes are representative of the student body not only by their political actions but by the more traditional standard of athletic prowess, and thusly, that their limbs should not be troubled by the weariness of the layman’s primary mode of transportation.

Foregoing walking, their muscles, sinews, and other assorted humours are kept in perfect condition, free of strain or stress from unnecessary use. These sinewy weapons are thereby reserved only for the occasion of the honorable sport basketball, which, in the aftermath of our foot-ball team’s great defeat (by the hand of this same institution against which we currently fight), is our only means of procuring glory and honor.

Rightful as it is for a student to take claim of their their constitutional rights, so should these giants glide among us; with every passing day hovering closer and closer to revolution.

As thanks for this demonstration of solidarity this author further justifies The Greate Purchase by pointing out that these

-Heather Levinsky, co-Editor-in-Chief of Nonsense, co-signer of the Declaration of Independence, writing instructor to Jonathan Swift

Mow the lawn. Mulch the plants. Extend our property line one inch at a time. Make the yard look nice and honour our Lord and Creator! My gran’ pappy and my dear old Mimaw Lacey would never want me to endorse something, willingly, that would make our Savior’s beautiful earth look like hell! Furthermore, we haven’t yet thought about the emissions of these hoverboards.

We know they’re fueled by gasoline, straight outta the Hofstra Oil Wells. Do we have any idea what that could do to this beautiful land?

This is why we need change! And not just any change either. I’ve got a real solution!

My company, The Big Nice Smiley Face Corporation, is about to launch our new Green™ Hoverboard, complete with an economic, environment friendly, grass-fed, buzzword filter. The Green™ Hoverboard only runs off of green friendly resources, like Clean Coal and Farmer Pete’s 100% Organic Natural Gas™.

Stop the pollution, stop the waste! Invest in a Green™ Hoverboard, post-haste!

(Vote For Me in 2020!)

Hofstra is an Arbyritto afterall isn’t it? The thing with the plants? Imagine living in your Penthouse Sky Suite in one of the newly renovated Hofstra Towers, looking out at the beautiful, smog-filled Long Island sky, and seeing it obscured by vape clouds and Hoverboard fumes!

-Zachary Johnson, co-Editor-in-Chief of Nonsense, CEO of The Big Nice Smiley Face Corporation, Board of Directors Trustee at Walmart, and financial advisor to former presidential candidate, Mittel Romney.

Counterpoint Look guys, we all know that global warming isn’t real. But let’s just stop for a second and think about the environment.

I know, I know. I know what you’re thinking. “Zach, we can’t think about the environment, when has the environment ever thought about us?” And you’re right, dear citizen, you’re right. But let’s just ponder this for one second: How will these Hoverboards impact the environment?

Lets take a moment here to look at the word “Hoverboard”. You’ll notice it has an “H” in it. What word also contains the letter ‘H’?

Hell.

Do we want our environment to look like hell? I come from a strong, grassroots family line of people who were not afraid to go outside, and get their hands dirty.

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The Hofstra Mini-Mall

By Patrick Koholic

A Blueprint

-Health & Wellness Center located through Men’s Restroom for easy and discreet access. If female students find themselves in need of the Health & Wellness Center, pamphlets entitled “YOU ARE PREGNANT” available in Wealth & Hellness Center for a small* checkup fee.

-The replica of the University Bookstore will be exact in every way and closed at all times.

-The Target has a lobby with a 2 hour wait to get in and out of the store, in order to simulate taking the shopping shuttle.

-The Hofstra Mini-mall has plenty of food options, such as: Mondo Subs, Stop & Sbarro Supermarket, Mondo Subs, and the HofCat Adoption Agency

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Stuart Rabinowitz Last Words From Dakar

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Grand Total: Way too fucking many

Meet & G re

et

I assumed I misheard Rabbi Stewman and continued to try to seduce him. “I have no gag reflex,” I shouted. “I want a new iPhone!” He started digging deep into his pockets like he was jacking off, which was the intended effect of course. “What are you doing?” I asked hopefully.

He took out his solid gold calculator and crunched some numbers. “Just making sure you’re still a piece of shit… Oh yes, appears so.” He showed me the calculator. Number 69.

Hurt and shocked, I decided to just leave but then under his breath I heard him say “Finally, one less hoe.”

Angry, I turned around and shouted “I’m gonna post about this on my Facebook so everyone can see how you really are!”

Stevie Nicks Rabinowitz just chuckled a hearty chuckle, like Santa Clause after he’s consumed a live baby right in front of its horrified mother, and said “You can throw that shit up on the internet if you want to but you’re probably gonna look like a huge cunt.” Then he threw a trashcan at me and said, “Get in.”

Humiliated, I put my pants back on and rushed out of the door so he wouldn’t see the tears smear my mascara. I know a lot of you will think I’m making this up, and honestly I wish I was, but this is the truth! Stuart “Pickles” Rabinowitz made me lose a lot of Hofstra Pride that day and I’m going to sue him for child support. Thank you for reading this.

By Dakar Morris I recently met the president of Hofstra University, Stuart Rabinowitz, and I was shocked by what happened. I had never met a president before so I thought he would be just like Obama except less sexy and more respected because he’s white. At the very least I thought he could be my new sugar daddy. When I got to the 58,000 dollar meet and greet, I walked up and tried to shake Strupart Rappin’-o-wit’s hand but he pulled away and muttered “Great, another Dempster baby.”

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