Nonsense: Wet AND Wild by Nonsense Humor

Nonsense May 2019

Issue 177

Captain Snuffyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Fantastic Voyage

Infinity Scone

Useless Island (Home)

Regular Belt

Hannibal Buress

Boss Fight: Boat with Legs

Island of Unfathomable Horrors Island of Fathomable Horrors

Beach for Gays Only

Your Ex

Card Board Society Temporary Gold

Cincinnati (American City) Underwater Cracker Barrel

Island full of Skunks Who Vape Sea Serpant Stan (Friend)

Nonsense Humor: WET Contents

Cover - Sam Riebs

Mailbag - Writers Staff

Editorial - Ashley Vernola

Booty Call of Cthulu - Bethany Foster

Sip Sip! That Wasn’t Rum! - Tori Jenkins

Fuck Me, This Thing Is Filled With Crows William Faber Captain Blackbear - Bethany Foster

A Letter to the Underwater Man - Mark Melchin and Brynne Levine

A Healthy Amount of Scurvy - Mattie Brown

Tom Hanks in Brig - Robert Kinnaird

Argh - Brandon Allen New Guinea Pirates - Brandon Allen

The Wild Wild Wet - Ariel Leal

E-Board

Editor-in-Chief Ashley “Captain MunchMan” Vernola Managing Editor Ariel “The Little Mermaid” Leal Assistant Editors Lizzie “Shot the Captain” Frank Brynne “The Captain” Levine Head Writer Jordan “Pirating Movies on International Waters” Hopkins Assistant Head Writer William “What Sunk The Titanic?” Faber Art Director Tori “Seaweed” Jenkins Assistant Art Director Sam “Shrimp and” Riebs Design Directors Mark “Here Comes The Meg” Melchin Sam “Shrimp and” Riebs Social Media Manager Robert “Hehe Seamen...” Kinnaird Treasurer Peter “Keeper of the Booty” Soucy Assistant Treasurer Lily “MotherShip” Tennyson Web Team Bethany “Yeesh” Foster Rosario “Drop the Anchor” Navalta James “Locked in Davy Jones’ Locker” Factora Video Head Spencer “ Pocket of Dubloons” Thurmond Faculty Advisor Amy “The Ship of Theseus” Karofsky Moral Support Nathan “Rough Waters” Elliott

Staff Writers

Jordan “Pirating Movies on International Waters” Hopkins William “What Sunk The Titanic?” Faber Lizzie “Shot The Captain” Frank Robert “Hehe Seamen” Kinnaird Veronica “Burial at Sea” Toone Peter “Keeper of the Booty” Soucy Mattie “Last Pitate in Town” Brown Brandon “Deacon’s Goose” Allen

Staff Staff Artists

Tori “Seaweed” Jenkins Sam “Shrimp and” Riebs Mark “Here Comes the Meg” Melchin Bethany “Yeesh” Foster Emily “Resident Pices” Hart Brynne “The Captain” Levine Lizzie “Shot The Captain” Frank William “What Sunk The Titanic?” Faber

Video Team

Nathan “Rough Waters” Elliott Emmett “Filet O Fish” Goebel

Contributors

Peter “The Tide is High” Sellers Elliott “But I’m Holding On” Colloton Daniel “Salty Sea Friend” Nguyen

MailBag

Q: What’s the exchange rate of horses to ships? A: Four ships to one horse Q: Does my ship have 4 wheel drive? A: Only if it’s a 2009 model

Q: I keep trying to walk the plank, but i’m dummy thicc and I keep snapping that joint in half as soon as I step on it :-( advice? A: You’re still using planks? All the big pirates these days use trampolines Q: how to increase chances of seeing mermaid titties?

A: don’t u have google on those boats? Q: What’s a pirate’s favorite letter? A: A thank you note

Q: How do I stop a crew from mutinying?? Please respond with haste A: Firm tone of voice and clear boundries Q: what is seapunk and how to be it A: if u know u know

Q: I went on a thrilling high seas adventure where I learned that the real treasure was inside me all along, but I still can’t make rent. What do I do? A: It’s so easy to fake your death at sea. Debt forgiveness babey.

Editorial by Ashley Vernola As this semester comes to a close, I’m finding myself so reluctant to let go of my driving force at Hofstra these past four years: this magazine. And it’s so strange, because of course, while I know our new e-board will be amazing at doing what they do, I find my heart strings being pulled at the slightest hint of a loss of control. Maybe I’m just a control freak; but what’s really at heart here is that I’m not ready to say goodbye. I signed up for the Nonsense email list the day of our fall club fair. I was brought over to the table by our former co-EIC Heather’s raspy yelling about wanting girls in this club. When I finally walked over, intrigued by the club I absolutely had been cyberstalking on GetInvolved HU, it was Heather’s beckon, Zach’s dulcet voice, and Matt’s chaotic energy (and an email with some fun Blingee gifs) that pushed me to walk into my first meeting of the semester. During our introductions, I landed my very first joke, which in retrospect, I THINK was a Donald Trump joke. Yikes. Landing that very first joke, after coming from a high school space that never felt like home, was important. Knowing that I was in a community that got my sense of humor, that wanted to foster me to be better, that cared about my progress... that’s what kept me coming to meeting after meeting. I have to thank Zach immensely for my presence in this magazine. Zach saw something in me that I never thought I could see in myself. When I originally applied to be Assistant Editor, I was only going into my second semester at Hofstra. I wrote, honestly, the WORST explanation as to why I should have been picked. Like… as someone who has made these types of decisions, I wouldn’t have picked me. But Zach and Heather clearly saw something within the words I typed (that I remember

were incredibly caked with hopelessness) that said simply: I love this club; I want to be involved. It has been that energy that I have tried to carry throughout my tenure as Editor-in-Chief. What this club has always fostered for me was friendship, community, creative involvement, and so, so much passion. That passion is what always drove me to write better, to share my ideas, and in my tenure, to pick ideas that fueled all of you, to encourage your jokes, to egg on your bits, to foster a space for you where you are free to do these things. So much of the growth of this magazine has depended on this community. Heather and Zach planted the seeds for it and I think Ariel and I allowed it to start blooming. In the four years, eight semesters, and twenty two magazines I have been involved in, our staff has grown from 15 total to upwards of 40. Our content has grown. Our interests in social media and video and other multimedia platforms has grown. I hope that you guys can make Nonsense a full garden; full of bunches of video, a pot of social media graphics, and many many beds of funny issues that challenge you as creators. Everything that I was able to do at Hofstra was made possible by Nonsense Humor. That’s not an exaggeration. Nonsense Humor served as a prerequisite for me being someone who can lead, someone who can take on new projects and watch them grow, someone that can work under the pressure of several deadlines and administration breathing down our necks, someone willing to defend their art and who they love. Without Nonsense Humor, and those who took this journey with me, I wouldn’t be who I am today. Without Nonsense Humor, I don’t even know that I would have stayed at Hofstra. I don’t know that

my heart would feel as full of love and gratitude for the four years of sweat, tears, love, and gray hairs if this magazine didn’t foster all of you, readers and staff alike. So, to all of you that helped me along the way: To Ariel, my co-editor-in-chief, my managing editor, my VP: Thank you for always being willing to talk me off the ledge and to make me laugh when I forget how. It has been an honor, chief. To Jesse, who I’ve always admired: Thank you for listening to me scream about this club for two years, and for helping me figure out every problem that ever came up within it. Without your guidance, I truly don’t know if this club would still be standing. You are not only an integral part of this club’s lasting lifespan, but mine. too. To Beth, my very best friend: Thank you for pushing me to be better, for believing in me when I feel like I have nothing left to offer, and for pulling out every one of my gray hairs. You’re a real one. To Zach, Heather, and Matt: Thank you for putting this club in my hands, for allowing me to be a part of this wonderful journey, and frankly, for giving me a shot. You fostered my growth in many ways, as a person, as a comedian, as a leader, and I cannot thank you enough. To MY generation of Nonsense: Thank you for constantly being my light. This club, although at times it broke me and wore me down, somehow always brought me back up for air. Every single issue we have done together has grown exponentially better in quality. You all push yourselves to be the best versions of you, and that is reflected in your work. I am constantly astounded and amazed by the energy you bring to meetings, to these issues, to our variety shows, and to this magazine. This club needs your passion to keep this

torch lit, so please, please never let it burn out. I trust you. And lastly, to our new generation, Brynne, Lizzie and William: Thank you for caring about this club as much as you do. Piloting this flight is never easy, but I promise it all is worth it at the end. To watch as your friends and your peers make things better than you could have foreseen is something truly special. You all are smart, capable, and absolutely are going to blow this next generation of Nonsense out of the water. I can only hope that Ariel and I planted enough seeds for you to water, and that you can grow Nonsense more than we ever could. We’re still aiming for Lampoon level, baby! Keep your fire burning. You are all amazing, and I absolutely cannot wait to see what you all do next. And while I don’t have Nonsense branded on myself personally (I’m so scared of commitment! But also simultaneously of change!!!), its branded where it truly matters: in my heart. Thank you Nonsense Humor for giving me all you have. I guess selling my soul to this frat/cult/community/ magazine/creative collective/family was really worth being 130,000 dollars in debt. And to you readers who may have made it to the end of this, enjoy this issue. She may be coming last minute, but we really put our all into it. Always and forever, and for one last time, Ash <3

Fuck Me

This Thing is Filled with Crows Oh goddammit. I thought it was just a figure of speech, but no, turns out this crows nest is actually SWARMING with crows. I’ll be straight with you: this is not what I wanted from my summer internship. The job description said, “Arrrr! We be lookin’ for a landlubber with good eyes t’ man the lookout and warn of any deep-sea critters that might be lurkin’ in the deep.” And I thought, “Okay, seems like a quirky little start-up. Probably just gonna be doing coffee runs but that’s life” Nope! That guess was NOT close! To make matters worse, all the pirates are blind:; the crows pecked their eyes out long ago. They’ve all doubled up on eyepatches, and the captain navigates with echolocation, which as far as I’m aware, does not work in the ocean. Sometimes it’s hard to tell

by William Russell Faber

violations, but their only contact with the outside world is a fax machine they use to send death threats to Arnold Schwarzenegger because they think he’s still the governor of California. I snuck into the office one night, which used to be the brig until they added a laptop made of wood and a rolly chair, to send the report, but they discovered me and replaced the papyrus in the fax machine with crow feathers. Now they send their threats to Arnold via message in a bottle. I think it’s mostly just a therapeutic thing for them because after they throw the it in the ocean, they start hugging each other and crying. You’d think that I might be able to relate to the other intern who works the night shift, but I can’t stand that guy. He’s been here for six months longer than me

the difference between the echoes of his desperate shouts and the screeching of the crows, so we end up sailing in a sort-of rhombus shaped pattern. The only reason the birds haven’t pecked my eyes out yet is because I made a bird suit out of all the molted feathers on my first day. I’ve staked out one corner of the nest and claimed it as my own; they’ve figured out that if they come to close I WILL shit on them. Only downside is that I look ridiculous. When I come down at the end of my shift, the pirates all make fun of my outfit and say shit like, “Arr, we oughta give ye to Swensen and see if he can’t make bird stew out of ye!” which is really hurtful because they can’t even see me. I’ve spent the last three weeks trying to report them for OSHA

and pretends to be blind so that the pirates will think he’s cool. It doesn’t work, but he’s fallen out of the crow’s nest twice because the the captain mistook the screech of a bird with an echo and pulled a 180 degree turn. I managed to get them to let me put this message in a bottle by lying and saying I had some choice words for Governor Schwarzenegger. Two pirates proofread it to make sure there was no funny business, but they couldn’t find anything. Listen, I know you don’t know me, but please, please leave me alone. Yes, my birdsuit is making me itchy, and the pirates don’t have any hydrocortisone, but you don’t want to get involved in this. It’s just not worth it.

A Letter to

The Under Water Man by Brynne Levine and Mark Melchin

Please stop dude, I’m begging you to read this letter before you walk into the water. I’m afraid that the paper will get soggy and you won’t be able to heed my words. There is much I worry about when see you wander into the deep every night as I’m tidying up from a long day of savin’ lives on the shores. I don’t know who you are or where you come from, but dude you are without a doubt the oddest fellow I’ve ever seen. You are an omen, I think an evil one. You signal the end of my shift, the end of the time where my services are monetarily compensated. As the sun sets, as do you with it, into the depths of the ocean blue. I’ve attempted to make contact before, but the thick bronze of your suit and the cage across your face quiets it. Your parrots never allow me to get close. I did not know before I met you, that parrots have sharp, painful teeth. Do they usually? There are many other questions I have for you, as you no doubt can deduce by the number of questions I ask you. I just wish that I could understand your answers since you never take off that snorkel mask. You

could be telling me important information, but all that I hear is the muffled disorder of word jumbles accompanied by occasional squeals. Even your parrots cannot speak to me, as you put the same snorkel masks on them, as well. There are ships on the horizon. Ones with large masts and billowing sails. Is that where you return with your horde of semi-aquatic parrots? How do you move so fast in that scuba suit? I’ve seen Spongebob before, I know that it must be heavy. Do you have Spongebob wherever it is you rest your metal-encased feet in the evenings? I suppose you might not have feet and just have some Abe-Sapien shit going on, but i think even he had feet, although it mght have been his genetic ties to humanity or just the randomness of change when turning into an ichthyo sapien. What I would like to ask is that you stop taking all of the chocolate eclairs from the ice cream box. The kiddies really like them (as do i) and we’re all devastated every morning when the box is empty of all of that sweet eclairistic delight. Also, how do you even

The Shape of

eat them, dude? You never take off that mask. I have never felt fear in the way I do when I sense you are near. Your suit scrapes against the sand and my hairs stand on end. I run to catch you but you are always gone before I can reach. We have lost too many lifeguards stands to you, for you to remain such a mystery. You drag them down with you. Can you please stop? I keep getting splinters from building them anew. You ellude me, UnderWater Man. You haunt me night and day, awake and asleep. You pelt me with questions and hoard all your answers. I wait for you, I’ll wait for you, and without fail each night you will appear. But where are you going? Can I join you? I’ve built a suit of my own, and a parrot of my own as well. I can’t wait for you to see it. Best, Your Biggest Fan Guillermo Del Toro

Horse 8

Making Sure my Son Gets A Healthy Amount Of Scurvy

hoy! I am the fearsome Captain Brownbeard, cousin of Blackbeard. Maybe you’ve heard of him? I don’t mean to brag, but my family is kind of a big deal out here on the seven seas. Most of us anyway… See, my son Jeff just doesn’t have the same knack for pillaging and plundering as the rest of us. I’ve tried everything to make him feel like a real pirate. I gave him his own parrot, I taught him how to tie a clove hitch, and I replaced both of his legs with pegs while he slept. Not once did he say thank you! I don’t know where I went wrong with him. Was it the fact that his mother was a manatee I mistook for a mermaid? Or that I kept selling him into child slavery over and over again and then stealing him back. Back in my day we just called that discipline! Maybe it was a bit much though: Jeff was always a bit sensitive. Don’t get me wrong, I love my son. I just wish he wasn’t such a failure of a pirate! Case in point: he’s almost twenty years old, and he hasn’t gotten scurvy yet. Pathetic! I didn’t raise myself a landlubber who’s afraid a little bit of dental rot! And bleeding sores. And diarrhea. And anemia. And... I think you get the point, there are a lot of symptoms of scurvy. And they’re all healthy things that will help turn a growing lad into a man. That’s why I’m done asking him to get scurvy. I am demanding it. Jeff WILL get scurvy if it’s the last thing I do. I’ve tried making subtle hints to nudge him in the right direction. I say things like “Hey Jeff, why’re you eating fruits and vegetables instead of stale bread and rat feces?” or “Hey son, what does vitamin C even stand for anyways? Vitamin coward?” But Jeff just doesn’t listen to me anymore. Ever since he hit puberty, it’s like he doesn’t

by Mattie Brown even care about swords anymore. It’s a fight just to get him to swab the poop deck! It wasn’t always like this. When he was a baby I would mix rum with his milk and he loved it! And when he got old enough I taught him every sea shanty I knew and he would dance and sing along. I miss that. I miss seeing how excited he would get when he found the X that marked the spot. And how I would board the ship with Jeff on my shoulders as I carried all the loot, and I would tell everyone that he was my greatest treasure of all. That’s why I have no option but to burn down every trace of plant life surrounding the seven seas. Sometimes parenthood demands you make sacrifices. And sometimes those sacrifices include manufacturing a famine. But of course Jeff isn’t pleased. He’s all like “Oh no, those poor locals. Now what will they do for food?” or “Oh my God look at all the wildlife being destroyed” Even worse, He’s STILL managed to avoid getting scurvy. I can’t believe my terrible luck. I mean, what have I ever done in my life to deserve this? Besides the numerous acts bioterrorism I just committed. But why should the mass devastation I perpetrated define me? Do I really deserve the pain of having to raise a son knowing he STILL has most of his teeth? I can’t keep beating around the bush, mostly because I destroyed all of the bushes. But more importantly, it’s time to show Jeff some tough love. I’m going to strand him on a deserted island. Just for a couple of years. So that he can finally be the pirate I know he can be. My father did it to me all the time and I turned out just fine. Give me a minute: I’ll be right back.

... Okay, here’s how it went. I pulled the old

“Hey look, is that a dolphin?” trick on him before I tossed him overboard. Then I threw him a loaded gun, a sword, and a case of rum for him to use to survive until we come back for him. As I took one last look at my boy before I abandoned him for his own good, Jeff started to call out. “Dad wait, you can’t leave me here...I can’t...I’m...” Jeff took a deep breath before managing to finish. “Dad, I’m not going to get scurvy be-because I already have dysentery!” Dysentery? That’s impossible… “Dysentery is a land-lover’s disease!” I shout. “It’s what killed everyone on the Oregon trail!” Jeff stared at me. “I know. Dad, I know you think I’m a terrible pirate. I tried so hard to be the swashbuckler you wanted. But the truth is, deep down, I’m not a pirate at all. I’m-I’m a cowboy. A rootin’ tootin’ Vladimir Putin’ cowboy.” He pulled out a soggy cowboy hat from under the water and set it on his head. I couldn’t believe it, yet, at the same time, I should have known. He always did like horses and tumbleweeds. And his very first words were “Yeehowdy, Pardner! It looks like this town ain’t big enough for the both of us!” In the end, I didn’t give my son scurvy. It turns out he didn’t need it. What he needed was for me to step back and see him for who he is, not what I wanted him to be. Eventually, Jeff gets a job at a cattle ranch, and I see him off. He is excited to start a new life in the Wild, Wild West and has even decided to take on a new western name: Jed. After he settles in we say our goodbyes. Before I walk out the door I hear him call out to me: “Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum, dad!” I turn to him and smile. “Yeehaw, son.”

Spongebob Did It First

by Brandon Allen

Argh!

Argh! Me and me men have been sailing these seven skies for the past forty-four fortnights, for what I cannot foretell. Argh! I write this now, argh! As me and me, Ar! Men are, ar! Battling a barrage of, ur! Sky Moon pirates! [Letter “R” exclaimed], see, I am the greatest pirate to ever PIRATE the pirate world. I once pirated the seven seas (and realized that was a shitty idea ‘cause you can’t sail the ocean if the ocean is missing). Sky Moon pirates, they be trying to steal me beautiful Moon! And I plan on stealing that moon me self! I got the idea from a movie that I PIRATED! A A A A A R G! Those Sky Moon pirates! As I write this, I’m being stabbed in the shoulder. Me am be greatest prate of 7 c (I had to write that part with my other hand, which is a hook). Ah, I mean, er I mean, argh, me hook hand. I’d lost the real one in the Great Pirate War. I hadn’t be’n in the war, I mean, wargh. I used it as a distraction to steal the Great Pirate King’s hidden treasure. I mean, I PIRATED it. Argh, I’m a pirate! They caught me however, and, for my piracy, the Pirate King severed my hand, but I pirated it back I did. Argh! Why don’t I put it back on? Because like everything that I pirate, it is a trophy of my great piracy! [Arghs in French], I’ve just been stabbed in my pirate kneecap. These dastardly-bastardly stack-babbing skallywags are after me

treasure. The moon, it is so special to me, I remember me and me love would look up at the moon over the still dark ocean. I stole her heart, and by that I mean I pirated it. (I sell organs on the black market as a part time job). Wait! That’s it! The Sky Moon Pirates are after the moon because it’s night time, perhaps, yes! I can pirate time itself, and change it to daylight! Yes, argh! It’s working! Oof, as I write this, I am stealing the night away. I can see the sun now on the horizon, org! This is heavy, ow-argh, my pirate back! I’ve pirated enough time out of Sunday that now it is Monday! Everyone knows Sky Moon pirates only work on weekends! They’re retreating! I truly am the greatest pirate that has ever lived. I can even pirate abstract concepts! Why, once, I went to the museum just to pirate Kandinsky’s first watercolor (that’s an abstract piece). Yes! I can see it now, the moon! I call to my men to ready the rope. Originally, I did plan to use a shrink ray like in the movie I pirated, but I forgot to pirate the shrink ray while I was pirating the movie… pirate. We are hoisting the moon down! I can almost touch it, here it is! The moon! As I write this, I am disappointed… the moon is so much smaller in person. I’m literally holding it in my hand rn… Damn, I been planning this shit for like two weeks and getting stabbed in the pirate body and pulling my back out for this? The fuck? Wow, I mean, I mean wow, like… I know I can pirate time but… damn this was a waste of time… Jesus, this… this was sad… well, um… No matter! I’ve pirated from the Heavens themselves, now the moon is mine! And this hereby means I can go on to pirate greater and GREATER treasures from God’s own creation (except the treasure of love :( idc). I hear Ganymede is in retrograde this year! [Triumphant pirate laugh here]! [edit: The ocean be fucked up now, argh! I forgot that the moon bears a gravitational pull what affects the tides of the seven seas, gar! I should’ve learned from the last time I stole from Poseidon’s maw, er, I mean ar…]

The Wild Wild

Wet by Ariel Leal

I am the Grim Reaper of turtles. They’ve had it too good for too long. People live for decades, sometimes eight. Turtles live for a lot longer than that. I cannot die. I’ve tried. Who keeps turtles in check? Before me, nobody. They swam around, living for hundreds of years, probably. After me, they’re lucky to be alive the minute they climb out of their mammy’s hole. Do turtles have holes? Trick question. They will, once I send a bullet launching through their hardened flesh. You’re probably wondering how I got here. To tell you the truth, I was a regular cowboy doing regular cowboy things like forming a really close bond with cows and also boys. I had a boy once and his name was Buffalo Bill. Bill was from Buffalo. He had no relation to the Buffalo Bill from Iowa who is much more famous. I do not know why someone from Iowa is named Buffalo Bill. That feels a little misleading to me. I love Bill. Bill used to say there was only one thing better than gun. Second gun. I was trying to find a gun and also a bushel of flowers for Bill, Buffalo Bill, that is. The Buffalo Bill from Buffalo, not the one from Iowa. Along the way, I found myself prisoner to the prison of emotion, swept up in the winds of sentiment. This is a good way to say that a tornado had found me. I was swallowed by a tornado. There...I met the shit man, Pecos Bill, a fucking bastard, a subhuman waste of space. “Howdy, pardner,” the shit-eating Pecos Man said. “Fuck you.” I replied, in my head. I didn’t say it out loud, but I would have. Pecos Bill did not like that I ignored him so he relentlessly pelted me with lightning bolts until I left his tornado. I think. I believe it was from this instance that I gained the inability to perish. Goddamn that fuckhead Pecos. Anyway, the tornado had the courtesy to ask me where I wanted to land. Me, gay, thinking about Buffalo Bill, never answered so the tornado carried me well off the shoreline and into the ocean. Next thing you know I drank more ocean water in six minutes than sea captains drink in an entire lifetime. I drank so much ocean water. This might have been the thing that made my death an impossibility. I thought my life was done for, for sure, but then a stampede of sea cows made their way o’er my head. I think they’re called manatees. Bill used to call me a Man of Tease. I could still be a cowboy down here, they got sea cows. Seahorse? Yeah I see horse. So I became the sheriff of the sea, shooting

whales as often as I could because they reminded me of fat old robber barons. It is because they are both large. I will kill anything that is large down here. But most of all, I will take the life of anything that is alive for too long. It ain’t God’s Plan to keep things alive for longer than I’ve been alive. In my time as a bounty hunter as well as a regular hunter of things that are large or things that live too long, I happened upon a family of turtles. They reminded me of that fuckass Pecos Bill. It is because they are both bald. They both also live for just too damn long. I am Sea Sheriff and turtles are the life-stealing outlaws. I will do the job nature has forgotten about and eliminate them myself. It is my purpose. I accidentally eviscerated any porpoise I came across so I can’t own any of those. As I was systematically eliminating turtles, a riptide done yanked my ass to the shore. That’s where I saw him. “B-bill? Dear lort, Bill, how many years has it been? How many years I been down there?” “Too many, Cowboy Who Hasn’t Been Named Yet. Fame and glory have changed you. You’ve single-handedly altered the ocean’s ecosystem.” “Bill, what happened to your hair?” “I still love you, y’know. Always have, always did. Still do. That’s why it pains me to do this,” said Buffalo Bill, tears in his eyes now. Bill raised a gun and pointed the barrel right between my eyes. “You forget, Bill...I always was the fastest gun in the west,” I reminded him. Bill pulled the trigger but no bullet was launched. I opened my hand as the six bullets once belonging to his gun spilled to the ground like sand between my fingers. “I loved you too, Bill, but I knew something was wrong when you lost all your hair. Anyone ever tell you that you kinda look like a turtle now?” I said this as I raised my six-gun. It was a gun with five other guns taped onto it. It was very heavy. “Wait… don’t you remember the only thing better than gun?” asked Bill, now solemnly smirking. I stood there, confused, distracted. A loud pop cracked the air and as I looked down, it would seem a bullet claimed my heart, the heart once belonging to Bill. “Second gun,” I said. My last words. Something beautiful happened that fateful afternoon. I finally died.

Editorial by Jordan Hopkins

I really can’t imagine college without Nonsense Humor Magazine. I didn’t join until my sophomore year, but looking back on these last three years has felt like a lifetime. I never, ever could have guessed just how important those ten or fifteen people in that echoey room at the student center would become to me, and how truly amazing the next few years would be. In retrospect it’s a miracle I ended up at this club. I had never written a funny thing in my life, ever, though I’d always loved to write. My first Nonsense event was the freshman end of the year party, which I was somehow convinced to go to an event that if you knew me in freshman year, would be enough to consider the occurrence of fate. But I was hooked instantly on the people, the humor, the pure creativity. Every person in the club seemed funnier than any human being I’d ever met in my life, firing off rapid-fire bits based on layers of inside jokes and memes that I still don’t understand. It was a type of community that I’d never experienced before - one where it was okay to say the weird thing, okay to throw out a dozen bad ideas for the sake of getting to a good one. And then there were the open mics, the DIY shows at Our Lady of Perpetual Hope, late-night Nonsense after-hangs, and Catan nights and DnD campaigns full of backflips and key theft and the SS Nikon Coolpix. A whole new world of amazing, creative people, all working on their best idea and wanting to hear yours, help you make it better, give you actual feedback! A true godsend to an annoying, awkward writer kid like me, who has years of memories of trying to force people to read my shitty science fiction stories. I felt like I’d never had such an opportunity to grow as an artist. None of that could have happened without Nonsense. And then there were the people - and I don’t think there’s a more amazing and talented group of people in the world. It’s a true community, a group of incredible people who are always willing to help each

other. There are three years of thanks to give, and I’m never gonna get another chance so I wanted to give at least some of them. First and foremost Jesse Saunders, the love of my life and the first person to ever welcome me to Nonsense by helpfully informing me that Ashley was her client and I COULD NOT speak to her. Two years after we bonded over Franzia and 9/11 conspiracy theories, I can’t imagine life without you. Ashley Vernola and Ariel Leal, the extremely cool and supportive combo of editors who brought this club through some of it’s best-ever issues and believed in me enough to put me in a position of authority. Truly the greatest jocks and/ or jockers this club has ever produced. Thanks for bringing this club into a new age of incredible content, you guys blew the whole thing away. The Nonsense Old Gods, Zach, Heather, Trevor, and Matt, who taught me that the coolest person you could be is yourself. I’ll always miss early mornings of Mario Kart and Jim’s, and playing Werewolf on Barbed Wire Island. You guys taught me to laugh harder than I’ve ever laughed in my life. Thanks for [REDACTED]. My fellow Nonsense House members from High Hopes and The Dust Bowl, for helping us carry on the legacy of the club though Dong Island is now but a distant memory. We survived a house truly haunted by Nonsense Past, a mean-spirited and very law-abiding landlord, Lawn Fridge, and a great deal of dimensional tearing. Thanks for watching all nine seasons of Seinfeld with me, lads. Every single writer who has ever produced content for this magazine, thank you from the bottom of my heart for donating your heart and soul to this strange, strange club. Lawnsense and the Poppycock Chuckleworthy Tribune were my babies, and none of it would have been possible without your help. I’m so proud of how funny you guys are most of all, but

I’ve been consistently blown away - by your intelligence, the way you can interweave serious issues into insane and hilarious content, how you’re unafraid to punch up and say something that matters. Thank you for trusting me with your art, and allowing me to trust you with mine. I leave you guys in the extremely capable hands of William Russell Faber, who just might be the wittiest and smartest writer I’ve ever met in my life. You guys are going to blow me away, and I can’t wait to see it. Leaving Nonsense is really hard. I don’t know who I would be without this club and the people in it, and I don’t know who I’m gonna be when I leave. It’s the first place I was able to branch out, able to find people that I could be honest and vulnerable and open with. We packed a lifetime’s worth of laughter and stories into those years, and I don’t plan on forgetting a single second of it. I’m almost 900 words deep now, and I don’t feel like I’ve even come close to explaining how I feel about this club. Mostly, I just hope that people looking back on this can get an idea of who Nonsense Humor Magazine was behind the pages, between all the jokes and the comics and the satire. It was a group of friends who loved each other, fully and completely and without fear. It was a place to be yourself. The first place I could ever be myself. And I don’t ever want that to go away. Hofstra has the capability to seem totally cold and distant - the crushing weight of private college student debt and an administration that is deeply out of touch with its students can make it seem like there’s nowhere to go and that nothing can make it better. But if you’re in a very special place (Breslin 218) at a very special time (9.23PM on Thursdays), there’s a way to see a little bit of light at the end of the tunnel - and some choice Death Note AMVs, if you’re lucky. See you in Gay Space Hell, fellas. I love every single one of you unironically and without reservation.

The Cowboy Who Always Misses Now uh, look here, I would’ve been here earlier, but um, I missed the bus. They call me the cowboy that always misses his mark. Now that frankly ain’t true, just yesterday, I was in a good ol’ fashion HIGH NOON showdown with Billy the Adult, and I’ll have y’all know, I had that fully grown adult running. Well, actually, it’s not that I actually hit him, I shot, but I missed and hit the horse instead. I tried again and I hit the cigarette he was about to light. “Thanks, I needed a light… so, we done here?”. Ol’ boi was making fun of me, shuh-bang (that’s the sound my revolver makes!), I missed and hit someone in the saloon window. “Look, for the sake of e’r one else in this town I’mma just leave.”.

Showed him. I was making my way to the door, but I missed. I went to the museum last Tuesday, I was supposed to go on Monday but I missed it. There’s this new abstract piece, it was just a space where a painting would’ve been, I didn’t get it, so I guess I missed the point. One of my boys back on the frontier was an artist come to think of it, his name was Mark. I haven’t seen him ever since that night I meant to shoot that possum sneaking by the outhouse, I guess you could say I miss my Mark. The Misses misses Mark too, yeah he had a Misses, but I figure she’d understand about me missing the possum that probably got to him, we call incidents like this “miss”

By Brandon Allen

understandings. I didn’t always want to be a cowboy, I wanted to play baseball, but they kicked me off the team, cause I’d always miss, same with track. I even tried acting at one point! But I missed my cue. I got glasses cause I thought they would help, but now they’re missing. Hell, getting home is hard too, I always misread the sign at the crossroads of town, but it ain’t my fault, there’s a lot of mist… Final word of advice, don’t dare to dream, cause I was going to bed last night and I missed the bed, ha! You think it’s hard to aim at the toilet? I can’t even wet my bed, because I missed that too and now my floor is just… just a mess… I pissed.

Bee, The Cowboy

have

seen things.

horrible

Top 5 Places to Tell Your Cowboyfriend You Love Him By Elliot Colloton and Peter Sellers 5. The western edge of town when you’re silhouetted by the setting sun

Picturesque. Think the Lion King, except it’s nothing like the Lion King. There’s an obligatory ride-into-the-sunset moment, but only for the aesthetics. No homo. “The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly” plays as you disappear together.

4. In the middle of a standoff

A classic. What is the gay experience if not the vague threat of your own mortality hanging over your head? Very few better times to admit your undying love than when you’re pointing guns at each other.

3. The grave of the partner you vowed to avenge

Promises on the grave of a someone that you may or may not have been in love with for an indeterminate amount of time? Very sexy of you. Just the right amount of dramatic, passionate, and tragic.

2. Arby’s parking lot at 2am

There is a neon cowboy hat. You have a cowboy hat. You are a cowboy who is in love with another cowboy. There is no better place than the one made for cowboys that love meat. We have the meats. You have the meats.

1. Brokeback Mountain

The ultimate. The ideal. There is nothing but a can of beans between you and the love of your life. It’s not gay if you know how to quit each other.

! W E

DISENTARY DIET! Are you looking to slim down for the summer months?

by Peter Sellers

Be the most glamorous cowfolk you can be? Want to be that real sickly chiq that’s all the rave across the pond? Well, I have discovered the newest way to really shed those extra pounds your body stored up last winter. For the price of only 75¢ I will personally give you dysentery! Watch as your body flushes out all the excess-- and not so excess-- fat, and leaves nothing but skin and bones! You can finally fit into that old bodice or that old pair of riding jeans, you’ll even need suspenders to keep your pants up! I will hand deliver dysentery to you from my own supply. I will use the outhouse, wipe poorly, and then take whatever is left over on my hand and give that to YOU! Feel free to pick your own method of transmission: -Hand to hand contact -Hand to mouth contact -Wheatcakes with a side of dysentery (+ 15¢) -Hand dunked in a cup of water (Enter for a chance to win Free Cholera!) -And many more! Guaranteed hand-crafted dysentery from my intestines to yours. **All sales are final. I am not liable for any death caused by dysentery. Dysentery may include: blood in stool, diarrhea, indigestion, nausea, vomiting, flatulence, dehydration, fever, cramping, weight loss, and death.

youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve heard of cowboys but now get ready for...

Boy Cow

Top 5 Instruments to Use by Lizzie Frank for Cowboy Music and Brynne Levine So you wanna listen to some tunes around the fire, but the stereo system won’t be invented for another 200 years, huh? Well hoo boy! Sounds like you’re in some kind of a pickle! You could always make your own cowboy music, but where would you even know where to begin? Sure, your Mama played the piano before the Oklahoma house burned when your Papa took debts with the wrong fellas, but you wouldn’t remember any of the notes (nor how to get a piano out here). In this here listicle, find the best tools to make some soul-arousing tunes from the comfort of your bedroll. Now featuring real authentic cowboy reviews!! Washboard and fork An oldie but a goodie, never underestimate the raw power of an old-fashioned washboard and fork. The fork must be rusted. Do NOT purchase a new fork. It won’t be authentic. Do not purchase a new washboard, either. Do not purchase anything. Steal. Only ever steal. It’s the cowboy way. Real Authentic Cowboy Review: 3 / 5 There just ain’t nothing like a little rusty metal. Doubles in use to wash clothes and transfer beans from plate to mouth. Needs more rust. (Nothing a little rust won’t take care of.)

Sound of Distant Cows Mooing Cows, the Manatee of Land. That moo provides a rumble that shakes the very Earth we call our home. Cows, we don’t know where they come from, but hoo boy we’re sure glad that they’re here! Real Authentic Cowboy Review: 4/5 One time, I was out in the fields, tending to my cattle, and then they were singin’ a song oh so beautiful, why I just had to join in! Them cows sure know how to carry a tune! My one precaution would be that they are pretty mean. My yodeling was not up to their unreasonably high standards and now I can’t go back out into the fields without them roasting me to high heavens. They also beat the shit out of me with their hooves. But they sure are beautiful! (Tip: Cows do not like rust.) Gunshots, Pistol Only Adds that classic American, southern twang to any piece of music or instrumentation. Don’t have to hit nothing, but sounds better when shot at other cowboys. The rhythm of a stand-off hits like something else. Especially at High Noon. In fact, if it’s not High Noon, it just ain’t worth killing no one! Real Authentic Cowboy Review: 1/5 Nice sound. Frightening. I was so scared by that there gunshot that I accidentally shot like 5 more times and now, well, to say the least, there’s some blood on my hands. Like 5 bodies worth of blood. I could really

use some rust right about now. Voices of Your Cowboy Brothers It’s just not cowboy music without them. Sometimes you just gotta sit ‘round that fire and listen to some brothers sing about the country lass that broke their heart. Real Authentic Cowboy Review: 2/5 Love my cowboy brothers but Texas Tom is missing a piece of his tongue and Chester Champ burned his vocal cords drinking gasoline and Kentucky Kevin got shot in the neck robbing a bank and Arthur is flat when he’s had whiskey and he’s always drinking whiskey. But the emotion is there. Needs less rust, more practice. Cops, Oncoming You never shoulda shot those cowboys in the stand-off, and you definitely shouldnta left their bodies to be buzzard food. The sounds of your cowboy brothers singing are leading them cops right to ya! You draw your gun quick and shoot each one of them before they can so much as modulate the key. Great, now that’s four more bodies to take care of. Ahh, who are you kidding, them buzzards gotta eat somehow! Them cops are getting mighty close, but you’re not going back to prison. Not if we can help it. Real Authentic Cowboy Review: 5/5 ACAB. All cops are bovine. (Not to be confused with all cattle are beautiful). Rust.

Amazon Pony Express: Worth It or Not? by Robert Kinnaird

The Cowboys™ will also be collecting all the lost belongings stolen by the desert dwellers who call the Denny’s Salt Wastes home. I ordered a Nerf Brand Laser-volver™ two years ago to protect my family from the Tribes of Musk that has just been recovered! My family was killed back in “Disney Presents: February” as the tribes journeyed west to reclaim the lost city of Silicon Valley, but at least I have it now! Thanks Amazon ! But let’s get down to the verdict. Amazon’s Pony Express™ is without a doubt the safest way to get you all the Amazon Fresh™ iodine tablets you need to survive this world. If the cowboys see you, they will slaughter you, but it’s fine if you stay inside! And hide! Dear god you have to hide! If you need a new spark plug to fix your 2076 Ford Hover-Fiesta™, ordering it through the Amazon app for your implanted brain device is a far safer way to get it than venturing into the Wastes to find one on a robot. Wendy’s has been producing an endless army of Roastatrons that travel the Wastes, owning anyone who gets near them on every social media website you have. As per twitter’s new terms of service, if their epic clapback gets more than 5,000 retweets, they will cut off electricity to your home. Amazon’s Pony Express™ may not be the fastest way to get the things that bring you the slightest sliver of happiness out of this cold, unforgiving world, but it certainly is a way. Amazon also offers a 10% of Your Money Back Guarantee™ in the rare and unfortunate event that your cowboy is cut down by enemy rail gun fire.

Amazon™ has announced a new delivery service this past McSeptember. God-Emperor Bezos has been planning and plotting how to once more profit off of the Prime Settlements™, and he seem to have cracked it! The Amazon Prime Pony Express™ seems to be the answer to all of our problems, but we here at Nonsense are here to ask: Is It Worth It? “Is It Worth It” is sponsored by Amazon and is not legally allowed to give a negative review. All hail God Emperor Bezos. The company knows that this desolate barren wasteland of the Formerly United States can be treacherous, so they’re always innovating! Of course the drones were the first attempt, but they would never be able to survive the roving bands of scavengers who shoot them down for supplies and the high power rail guns that come standard on all Amazon drones. This has put a damper on deliveries between the last standing Prime Settlements™. Also now the scavengers have railguns. So that’s bad. When you order something through the new state of the art delivery service, Certified Delivery Cowboys™ will personally escort precious belongings on horseback right to the door of your underground bunker! They will also slaughter as many Non-Corporate Citizens as they can along the way, making the surrounding territories a safer place for everyone! This service is essential if you ever have your citizenship revoked and are exiled by the HuluCourts for failing to pay your LifeTime Survival Guarantee. Several of my best friends were slaughtered by the Cowboys, but at least I got my Kirkland Signature Can O’ Beans.

s k c o l i d l o G by Ariel Leal Tomorrow marks the 69 month anniversary of my marriage to Goldilocks! I could not be happier. You remember Goldilocks, don’t you? Sweet lil’ girl? Ended up breaking and entering the home of a family of bears, ate all of their food, slept in their beds to assert dominance, later killed and ate the bears upon their return? She’s so quirky! I love it! Goldilocks ended up migrating to the one place that suited her sensibilities, The Wild Wild West. She’s a cowgirl now, s’pose bears weren’t really her speed, haha. Just a joke. She found me while she was out single-handedly robbing a train. Now I know what you’re thinking…Oh that ain’t so bad, train robbing and all, you just bust in and take all the passengers’ valuables, maybe slap some cops up a lil’ bit, no harm, no foul. See, Goldilocks robbed the train itself, she took the whole damn thing just for the hell of it! Now that’s a go-getter! More like a train-getter, between you and me, haha. Her gun skills are pretty hit or miss, but I guess they never miss, huh? Just kiddin’. I miss her every second I ain’t lookin’ at her. She happened upon me while I was doing my daily bidding. I love auctions and I love bidding on things even though I can’t afford nothing. That’s my fun quirk. She followed me home and watched me do my job. See, I’m a ranch hand. That means I have ranch on my hands. I say this because I have ranch on my hands. Let me clean that up right fast and I’ll get right back to you.

So where was I? Oh yes, I’m a farmer. I farm cash. From banks. Illegally. I told Goldilocks about that facet of my personality and she was enthralled. We got married on the spot. My mother is a priest. We traveled all over the west, farming cash from various sources, visiting the best streams, we found a shoe once. Oh, I should’ve mentioned, “west” as in west of my hometown. We were lookin’ to see about movin’ into a new town and starting some kind of business, a cash farming business, but this time, a legal one! She calls it “bank.” She’s so smart. We rode in on a quaint lil’ settlement not too far from my home. I decided to peruse the saloon, nothing special but they had killer Margaritas. What are the odds that several women are all named Margarita and have taken a life before? I stumbled out and there she was, my beautiful, amazing, lovely wife. We stood opposite each other on the main road, the sun at its peak. “It’s high noon,” she said. “Thank you. Telling time is difficult without a pocket-watch, which you have and I do not,” I replied. “This town ain’t big enough for the two of us,” she said, menacingly. Sexily. “But there are many buildings and rooms,” I retorted. “Yes but, excluding the saloon for whatever fucking reason, they are all literally two feet high.” She had a point. Some time has passed as we rode along until we reached another town, lively and with cobblestone streets and cops. “There’s cops here,” I said. She ignored me. The houses were cartoonishly large.

It was fuckin’ ridiculous. The people were normal sized too! It was just that each building was damn near impossible to get inside of! There were too many steps and you had to use your whole body to climb on the steps as well. Shit, even the spacing between buildings was foolish. I’d reckon everything was about a quarter mile away from everything else. “Ugh, now this town is too big for either of us!” I exclaimed. My beautiful, marvelous wife turned around and kissed me and said “I already decided we wouldn’t be staying here when I saw cops.” Thus we rode along. We made a lil’ camp since it was gettin’ late. The horse was in extreme pain from carrying three sets of beds. Goldilocks had this certain ritual each night ‘fore she sleeps that you could probably guess. I usually just alternated between the really hard bed and the really soft bed depending on my mood. Morn’ came around and we rode along. I hope you imagine no words were exchanged on the ride because no words were exchanged on the ride. Finally, we found a third town. The buildings were normal sized and there were no cops. “Ya like this one?” I asked my amazing wife. “It has buildings,” she replied. Ah, classic wife. And so it was. We established ourselves a wonderful life, not too messy, not too calm, but just right. We lived happily ever after at that “just-right” town. I considered Goldilocks to be a bright constant in my life. She was my moon until she killed the sun. By “the sun” I mean my son. By kill I mean she took his life. This is all a fancy way of saying that my wife murdered my son. We’re working through it.

Editorial by Ariel Leal

Howdy, reader It’s ya boy Ariel coming at you with the only solo editorial from him you’ll see. Why’s that? It’s a special occasion. After four years of being in this business, the time has finally come for the newly elected E-Board (So proud of you all. You’re all wonderful) to shoot me seventeen times in the chest point-blank. In all seriousness though, there’s almost too much I can say. Four years is just enough time to really make you feel like a certain setting is your home, and it’s enough time to settle in so comfortably you don’t really wanna leave. I have a laundry list of wonderful memories from being in Nonsense, all made possible by the marvelous people that make up this dang ol’ thing. That includes you, reader, for caring enough to pick one of these things up, chuckle at a headline or two, scratch your head, then using this thing for kindling. Thank you. All I seem to be able to say is thank you. Thank you, Nonsense, for post-writer’s meeting trips to the acid fields, for late night board games, for teaching me four hundred and twenty ways to burn a plant, for losing at the game Odds Are too many times, for Princeton, for open mics, for so much laughter, for the opportunity to learn

what it means to be a leader, and most of all, thank you for giving me a family during my time at Hofstra. Without it, I probably would’ve left and been miserable in some school in Toronto or something. The people I’ve met here are some of the best friends I’ll ever have. Nothing can be as sweet as seeing a whole bunch of new faces, much like mine was four years ago, excited to be a part of something and then watching these people develop and achieve their potential and more. I like to think I have too. It sounds kind of wild but Nonsense has legitimately helped me achieve parts of my potential I didn’t even know existed, and with the help of all the amazing people I’ve met during my time here, I feel like I’m the person I was always meant to be but never knew I’d become. Fuck, I’m really gonna miss everybody so much. I’m staying on the island another year after, but even just knowing that this is the beginning of an inevitable end brings a whole wave of emotions I thought I had more time before experiencing. I know that the past four years in this magazine will be the bulk of what I consider “the good ol’ days” years down the line. Or even now. These are the good days, and with this ship being left in the most ca21

pable hands possible, I can only see these days getting better. To the new E-Board and new members, keep the dream alive, it’s gonna be a home of sorts to you and to many people who need it. To the people who left a while back, there isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t miss you. That’s no exaggeration. To the readers, thanks again for picking these sheets of paper up and probably expecting some sort of list of meme-infused knock knock jokes and instead getting essays exploring the intricacies of the thoughts of a sapient boot or some shit. To the E-Board I served with, it’s been an absolute fucking honor. To Ashley, thank you for steering this ship and for bringing us to heights nobody thought possible. Thank you for, as you put it, planting seeds that I can already see growing into a gorgeous tree. Ashley and I took charge of this magazine with an issue called “Nonsense Loves You” and that sentiment hasn’t changed; Not a single bit. Thank you to everyone for what could very well be some of the best years of my life. Your Managing Editor, Fork-Man, Spork-Man, Sheriff, and eternal Nonsense stan, Ariel Leal <4 :^)

Staff Writers

Jordan “Marlboro man” Hopkins William “Polly Darton” Faber Lizzie “Shot The Captain” Frank Robert “Robert Barron” Kinnaird Veronica “Be Rootin, Be Tootin, But Most of All, Be Kind” Toone Peter “Nine Iron on His Hip” Soucy Mattie “Of Cows and Boys” Brown Brandon “I Guess They Never Miss, Huh?” Allen

Staff Staff Artists

Tori “Buster Bastard” Jenkins Sam “It’s Bi Noon” Riebs Mark “Oh High Mark” Melchin Bethany “They Call Me Ranch. ‘Cause I be Dressin” Foster Emily “Tombstone, Arizona” Hart Brynne “Shot The Sheriff ” Levine Lizzie “Gordon Good Guy” Frank William “Polly Darton” Faber

Video Team

Nathan “The Tennesee Kid” Elliott Emmett “Old Town Roads” Goebel

Contributors

Peter “If You’re Buying I’m Selling” Sellers Elliott “Wot in Tarnation” Colloton Daniel “But Haw Yee?” Nguyen

MailBag

Q: why isn’t this town big enough for the two of us?

Q: my spurs no longer jangle, how do i fix that??

Q: What’s in those bottles with the X’s on em?

A: Bc I’m already in two thruples.

A: Tie rattlesnakes to your feet.

A: My spare keys.

Q: What’s a gender neutral term for cowboy? A: Desert Magician

Q: how much yee does a yee haw haw if a yee haw does haw yee?

Q: What is the Alamo? I can’t really remember.

A: This is woodchuck erasure.

Q: How do I heat up a can of beans? They keep blowing up in the microwave.

A: Bro, just forget it.

Q: My revolver is jammed and it’s almost high noon, what do I do?

Q: I killed my neighbor in a duel, what kind of casserole should I give her husband?

A: Start digging that grave.

Q: yee?

Q: How do I improve my timing while playing a jaunty piano tune in a tavern buyt but then stop when a stranger enters the establishment?

A: HAW!!!

A: Invest in mirrors.

A: A sexy one.

A: You gotta use macrowaves. Q: Can I speak to the sherriff around these parts? A: I am the sherriff around these parts, and no we don’t give refunds.

Nonsense Humor: WIld Contents

Editorial - Jordan Hopkins

The Cowboy Who Always Misses - Brandon Allen Bee, The Cowboy - Sam Riebs

Top 5 Places To Tell Your Cowboyfriend You Love Him - Elliot Colloton and Peter Sellers

Dysentary Diet - Peter Sellers Cowboy Bimbap - Robert Kinnaird

Cowboy vs. Boycow - Sam Riebs and Ariel Leal

Top 5 Instruments for Cowboy Music - Lizzie Frank and Brynne Levine Home on the Ranch - Mark Melchin

Amazon’s Pony Express - Robert Kinnaird Robbie Rotten Collage - Brandon Allen

Goldilocks Killed My Son - Ariel Leal

Editorial - Ariel Leal

Mailbag - Staff Writers

Back Cover - Tori Jenkins

E-Board

Editor-in-Chief Ashley “Gunslinger? I Hardly Know Her!” Vernola Managing Editor Ariel “The Sheriff ” Leal Assistant Editors Lizzie “Gordon Good Guy” Frank Brynne “Shot The Sheriff ” Levine Head Writer Jordan “Marlboro Man” Hopkins Assistant Head Writer William “Polly Darton” Faber Art Director Tori “Buster Bastard” Jenkins Assistant Art Director Sam “It’s Bi Noon” Riebs Design Directors Mark “Oh High Mark” Melchin Sam “It’s Bi Noon” Riebs Social Media Manager Robert “Robert Barron” Kinnaird Treasurer Peter “Nine Iron On His Hip” Soucy Assistant Treasurer Lily “The Fastest Gun In The West” Tennyson Web Team Bethany “They Call Me Ranch, ‘Cause I be Dressin” Foster Rosario “Texas Red” Navalta James “Dolly Parton” Factora Video Head Spencer “Happy Cowboy? More Like Jolly Rancher” Thurmond Faculty Advisor Amy “In a Way, WestWorld is The Experience Machine” Karofsky Moral Support Nathan “The Tennessee Kid” Elliott