Where in the World Is Nonsense Humor? by Nonsense Humor

WHERE IN THE WORLD IS

Nonsense ISSUE 171

MARCH 2018

Staff

l e b a t Of

Contents

Editor-in-Chief

Ashley Waiting for 1D COmeback” Vernola

Second-in-Command Ariel “The Whip” Leal

Cover

Victoria Jenkins

James “Lames Peeney” Sweeney

Page 2

Ads by Ashley Vernola

Assistant Head Writer

Page 4

Mailbag by Nonsense Staff Roundtable by Nonsense Staff

Design Director

Page 5

Editorial by Ashley Vernola

Page 6

Best Lyrics by Mr. Worldwide Based on How Much He Respects Women by Lizzie Frank

Mark “New Wave Trevor” Melchin Sam “Baby Back, Baby Back” Riebs

Page 7

So Where’s Your Canadian Girlfriend Live Again? by Jesse Saunders Xanax Ad by Peter Soucy

Art Director

Page 8

“Where The Hell Is My Son?” And Other Funny Times I Thought I Had a Son by James Sweeney

Social Media Manager

Page 9

I Only Date Girls Who Finish Carmen Sandiego by Rosario Navalta Missing: One Grandpa, Found: One Broken Heart by Peter Soucy

Page 10

In What Dimension is this Buffalo Wild Wings Located? by Victoria Jenkins & Brynne Levine Comic by Jordan Hopkins & Sam Riebs

Page 11

Where Are the Strange Boys? by Lizzie Frank, Victoria Jenkins, & Brynne Levine

Page 12

Choose Your Own Adventure by Veronica Toone

Page 14

Top Ten Best Floors in Axinn Rated On How Quiet They Are by Lizzie Frank Comic by Jordan Hopkins & Sam Riebs

Page 15

Top 5 Islands Where Nobleman Have Tried to Kill Me by Jesse Saunders

Page 16

Oh the Places I’ve Been by Sam Riebs

Page 17

On the Lamb From Johnny Lawsense by Quin Asselin

Page 18

Russian Tongue Farm by Anna Galperin

Page 19

Visit Beautiful Japan! (No Weebs Tho) by Robert Kinnaird

Page 20

NONSENSE HUMOR’S MOST WANTED by Jordan Hopkins & Jesse Saunders

Page 21

Turn On Your Location, You Coward by Jordan Hopkins

Page 22

Abbey, Where’s the Dern Clicker? by Quin Asselin

Page 23

Obituaries by Nonsense Staff

Head Writer

Jordan “xX_Linkin Park Luvr 420_Xx” Hopkins Gillian “Perpetually on Tour” Pitzer

Assistant Design Directors

Victoria “Calling Dr. Wingman” Jenkins Jesse “Most Likely To Start a Nonsense Softball League” Saunders

Assistant Social Media Manager

Anna “[Thicc British Voice] Banahna” Galperin

Web Team

Gisela “No Coup.” Factora Beth “Can’t Deselect” Foster Rosario “Head of Glitterball” Navalta

Treasurer

Peter “Ain’t Easy, Chill n Breezy” Soucy

Video Heads

Ben “SPORT” Fletcher Veronica “Fucked a Ghost” Toone

Faculty Advisor

Amy “Sorry, We Still Haven’t Spoken, We’re Really Sorry” Karofsky

Moral Support

Nathan “Gained Trevor’s Facial Hair But Better” Elliott

Back Cover Bethany Foster

Staff Writers

Quin “Hell YEA, Brother” Asselin Ben “SPORT” Fletcher Jordan “xX_Linkin Park Luvr 420_Xx” Hopkins Jesse “Most Likely To Start A Nonsense Softball League” Saunders Peter “Ain’t Easy, Chill n Breezy” Soucy Veronica “Fucked A Ghost” Toone James “Lames Peeney” Sweeney

Staff Artists

Lizzie “Furter” Frank Beth “Can’t Deselect” Foster Emily “420Hoshi” Hart Noah “New York Slice” Lowe Sam “Baby Back, Baby Back” Riebs

Contributors

Anna “[Thicc British Voice] Banahna” Galperin Gisela “No Coup.” Factora Lizzie “Furter” Frank Robert “Remember Vore?” Kinnaird Brynne “You know, like Adam” Levine Rosario “Head of Glitterball” Navalta

places i am no longer allowed to be Utopia (accidentally said “““bong””” instead of “““water bubbler”””)

The Friendzone. I fuck like a champion now

Any magic show, the alliance is ruthless. WE DEMAND TO BE TAKEN SERIOUSLY

Any United States Embassy (“““domestic””” “““terrorism”””)

The container store. I HAVE BEEN BARRED FROM THE CONTAINER STORE Ronald Reagan’s grave (caught pissing) Billy Joel’s Childhood Home My brother’s vape shack, Darth Vapor

Mailbag

Where are the walls of this dimension thinnest? Where else but Long Guy Land Is there peanut butter pretzel chocolate anywhere else??? Traitor Joce

Where can I find someone that can break a 20? Javier is the ONLY person who is allowed to break a 20. Do NOT cross him. Where is former vice president Joe Biden? I miss him Attempting to evade the authorities, late for his flight out of the country, both hands stuck in the door of an airport hangar.

I came to Long Island to live my Lana Del Rey dream and meet a Hamptons daddy but now I’m dating some weird bespectacled champagne socialist from Huntington who doesn’t believe in wallets. Where do I go from here? What are you talking about? This is it, kid. This is as good as it gets. Anyone got some B I G F I S H ?

yah I’m searching for Edward Snowden. Release him to me He’s a guest of the state, asshole. Come take him.

My involuntary boycott of the Club Penguin servers is five years strong The L.L. Bean I accidentally stole from when I was five. The shame still haunts me Denny’s

Denny’s

Denny’s Why Did I get so drunk in a Denny’s

Where is my mom? I’ve been lost in this strange netherverse for like four months. I never sleep, I never thirst. My life is a streak on the surface of the cosmos. Please help me get home There is no escape from the Westbury Target. Where Jeff? ™™™™™™™™™ He’s a guest of the state, asshole. Come take him.

Where can a guy find a GooD god damn authentic New York SLICE around here? I’m serious. Me too buddy.` Can I buy a gun at Arby’s? If you play your cards right, no.

Editorial

by Ashley Vernola

Hey guys! Ash here! It’s interesting to do a Where in the World issue because really, where in the world is Nonsense at this point? These six weeks have been crazy since the last you and I chatted, audience... possible readership... perhaps my mom. No, definitely not. As per Nonsense standards, we’ve gained a good amount of second semester freshmen, which is the lighter term for “We didn’t know you existed/were scared of you the first semester, but then my friend joined and kept wanting me to join so I did” and while I think your initial judgements were probably right, trust me, we’re more than happy to have you around. Within the group of freshman we have this year, I’ve seen some of the most enthusiastic and dedicated participation to this club and this cause, so much so that many of them have even gone on to participate in some of our assistant positions. Many of our design assistants, social media assistants, and web editors are freshmen this year, which I can tell you, as an old geezer whose tenure in Nonsense is slowly (but surely) running out, is so exciting to see. It’s honestly amazing to have freshmen who are just as obsessed with this magazine and what we do, and to know that when my time in this club comes to an end, I am leaving it in the hands of some truly wonderful, driven people. But, I still got time, people. You can’t kick me out yet, even if you were to stage a coup [don’t get any ideas]. But as all the universe goes, we have had to take some good with some sad. At the end of last semester we said goodbye to a lot of our friends who moved on to better things. Their obituaries are in the back. Each and every one of them provided something to Nonsense something that we can’t replace, and we certainly miss them. :’^( And yes, I am indeed talking about the Starbucks on the Quad too. That little hexagonal hub provided me with all the caffeine I could ever need to run this magazine. Rip in Peace, and let me date myself here: Dunkin, please come soon. I crave.

When I think of Where in the World is Nonsense?, I have to reflect a lot on my freshman year in this club and our meetings in a small brick room upstairs in the Student Center, a room that was left with chairs that were always empty. Something about the culture and buzz of this club hooked me, and I knew it was going somewhere, and that it did. From that small room, we’ve grown even too large for the space in the Netherlands that we have now. Sometimes, we have a packed room, where people, intending on staying to watch and participate have to even stand or sit on the table in the back. We have admin that support us and try to accommodate us instead of trying to block us at every turn (even though word has it, they still have a sour taste in their mouth about us, but we can change that). We have a steady readership (or at least this one, I like to believe), and the kind of money to do three issues if only we had the time. I feel as though Where in the World is Nonsense is a sort of new leaf for this generation of Nonsense. It is representative of a not only a change in how we do things but a cultural shift in what Nonsense is about and how we want to be perceived. Where in the World is Nonsense is an issue packed with little treats, as Head Writer James Sweeney likes to say. It’s an issue riddled with art and comics and ads, listicles and varied types of humor. I was told recently that something about Nonsense’s voice has changed, and it is more evident now that there are different voices writing for us, and I couldn’t be more excited to show off this issue, where I can definitely see that we have all gained our own agency in leading our voice. Plainly put, this issue, to me, is something I’m proud of. No page is weak. All of the content we received for this issue was strong. Something about this issue felt like it fell into place and for someone who felt like they were stumbling throughout the beginnings of their tenure as Editor-inChief, I couldn’t be more thankful for one that felt so smooth. With this, I imagine I should mention

that changes have happened even up with the executives, and our good friend Ariel has decided to step down from his position as Co-Editor-in-Chief and take up a newly developing Vice-President/Secondin-Command position. We are working on the ways in which it works, but it is seeming to pan out similar to the roles of that of a Managing Editor, and what’s most important is that Ariel is happier doing it, which is all I want for someone I consider a close friend at the end of the day. I would like to reflect on what it was like, though, to be the sole Editor-inChief for the first time. It’s something that Nonsense hasn’t done in years, so it’s been a learning experience for me to begin to get used to. But even within that, as I said, something about this issue clicked, fell into place. Something about it made it feel so easy, even when faced with doing a good handful of the work on my own, and I think what that comes down to, ultimately, is our staff. As I said, Nonsense is so lucky to have the staff it does, from upperclassmen to freshmen. You all are so dedicated and driven, and it shows in what we produce. Everything that we produce is because of you all, and I couldn’t be luckier to call this staff and this magazine something I’m proud to be a part of, even now, considering it drives me up the wall constantly. So readers - I’m talking to you again. I implore you to read this issue and think about what it takes for one of these babies to come out. This has been a labor of love for all of us, and I think its strength shows. As for what we have next, Nonsense is visiting hell and bringing back some Lovecraftian monsters, so stay tuned for that, and ideally, if the Princeton Tiger team ever gets back to us, maybe we’ll be able to say that we were able to attend the Intercollegiate Humor Conference for another year, but their team is just as bad at emails as ours! Enjoy, laugh, and a happy day to you all, Ash <3

Best lyrics by

Based on How Much He Respects Women To quote Pitbull’s hit 2013 track Late Night: “I don’t got time to deal with the nonsense.” Oh but Monsieur Pitbull, we have time for you. So much time, actually. You know, not everyone can appreciate the sweet rhymes of Mr. Worldwide, but we here at Nonsense see the true legend: a man who respects women! With so much respect dripping from every lyric, it can be tough to figure out which Mr. Worldwide songs respect women the most. Worry no longer! Here are the top lyrics that show Mr. Worldwide’s inspirational respect for the ladies! 1. “This is for my singles ladies and single mothers Raising babies working hard I know the feeling, I used to live it My mother worked 2 to 3 jobs That’s what this song is dedicated To all the women out there motivated Always finding ways to make ends meet women out All my there innovative You name the game, and they’ve played it They’ve heard all the stories, so save it All my women with power meet me at happy hour Let’s celebrate” In this song, Pitbull’s “Drinks for You (Ladies Anthem),” Mr. Worldwide really demonstrates his empathy for the female community. It’s great to listen to Pitbull show his love for women in this track. He even says he has lived the female struggle while his mom was working three jobs. If there’s one thing that represents women, it’s watching other women work 3+ jobs

just to get by. Anyway, thanks Mr. Worldwide for dedicating this boppin’ track to all the ladies out there. 2. “Perform for a princess But tonight, I can make you my queen And make love to you endless (give me everything)” This song, Pitbull’s wildly popular “Give Me Everything,” demonstrates Mr. Worldwide’s incredible ability to understand the female mindset! It’s truly admirable how he understands that in royalty, a woman advances from a princess to a queen. And he calls sex ‘making love.’ That’s so kind/classy. Thank you so much, Pitbull, for putting forth such an effort to treat women like royalty and not objects! 3. “Hey mama, hey mama, hey mama, hey ma’ I need you Hey, mama hey mama, hey mama, hey ma’ (hey ma)” After reading these inspirational lyrics, I don’t know how anyone could possibly think that Mr. Worldwide doesn’t respect women. It’s basically impossible! I mean, these lyrics artfully show Pitbull’s extreme appreciation for his mother, and by extension, women everywhere. He even goes so far as to say ‘I need you.’ Something about that make all of us feel very comfortable, and I don’t think there’s a person among us who didn’t shed a tear! 4. “The bigger they are, the harder they fall This biggity boy’s a diggity dog I have ‘em like Miley Cyrus, clothes off Twerking in their bras and thongs, timber Face down, booty up, timber That’s the way we like

the what, timber I’m slicker than an oil spill She say she won’t, but I bet she will, timber” Clean up on aisle 7 because Pitbull just removed my mind from my brain! I had no clue a man could respect women and their qualities this much. He even shows in this song that he knows the name of a woman. How great is that! And he knows that women do sometimes wear bras and thongs, and that women can work in the lumber industry, which are two ideas most men won’t put in a hit song. Call your grandma out of retirement, folks, because Pitbull just destroyed sexism in the workplace! 5. “Gender is a prison Don’t let the weight of the patriarchy Keep you from fighting against The systematic oppression of women and non-binary people Particularly women and nonbinary people of color” Okay, YEAH, Pitbull just snapped. There’s officially no one who’s done more for women than Mr. Worldwide: he’s written songs about them, he’s written other songs about them, he’s had sex with them, he’s written songs about having sex with them. It’s 2018, people! Sex is feminism. Gay sex, lesbian sex, straight sex, no sex. It’s all feminism! By having sex with so many women, Pitbull has empowered so many women to be who they were meant to be, which is the people who have sex with Pitbull, the “musician.” He’s a modern day hero, and we should all address him as such after he has sex with us. 6. “Caperucita Roja, a donde tu va? Pa lavante la thcu tchu tchu tcha Wow como ha cambiado este cuento Pero me gusta” Now I don’t speak Spanish, but I think he’s talking about washing vaginas. You know who else washes vaginas, don’t you? That’s right: women. And you know why so many women need their vagina washed, don’t you? Yep. It’s Mr. 305, baby.

where canadian

does your

Listen bud. It’s only me and you in this J. C. Penny Portrait Story, and we’re gonna be here for quite some time. Your mom and her “Hundai” will not be back until long after the garden section closes, so let’s get comfy here. I appreciate your patronage, but let’s get something straight: this isn’t Picture People, this is the real world. My camera, MY greenscreen, MY EMPLOYEE ID card. My rules. We’ve got sixteen vaguely pixel-colored backgrounds to go through, and a screaming toddler a room over, so let’s buckle up. What’s your name? I don’t care, it’s just for the form. I hope your mom doesn’t want me to do any of that stupid photoshop bullshit, because we have bigger fish to fry in this photo studio. Also I don’t know how to use it. I’m learning, alright? So we should probably get this out of the way early: I know that framed picture you’re holding is not your girlfriend. Where is she from? Hmm? California? Europe? Oh…you don’t say...Canada. And you’re taking this girl to prom,

nd girlfrielive again?

are you? Look, your Harry Styles impression is cute, but pining for a girl you can never have due to the controversial concept known as borders is a little much. Also, do you know how easy it is to get into Canada? I could go right now, leave you in this portrait studio, open a bar and never look back. But I have a parking ticket to pay, and my boyfriend is kind of emotionally immature, so here we are. It might seem cool to lie to me about who the hell you’re dating, but it is in fact the lowest point I hope you ever reach in your life. I’m getting paid minimum wage here to take your pictures for the prom, and that is clearly a picture of Ashley and/or Mary Kate Olsen. Mary Kate sometimes stands behind Ashley; it’s like an optical illusion. And they aren’t even Canadian you fuck! You can’t walk into my domain wearing some rented tux, holding a picture frame and your mom’s credit card and expect me not to ask any questions. Hey! Hey! Cheese, loser. Wow that one’s going on the fridge. No, you can’t see it, don’t be greedy.

Adult life is hard, and it’s time for you to upgrade to a body pillow or join the real world. No, we don’t have any body pillows for you to lean the frame against; maybe you should have been smart and used your mom’s credit card to buy one. You’re really not even trying here, and trust me, I can tell a try-hard when I see one. I took pictures for my cousin’s wedding that doubled as a local battle of the bands. I think I know what I’m talking about. You just really need to get a bit more creative, kiddo. Do you know that kid Mark? No, I didn’t write down his last name. But he came in last week with the same photo you’re holding. Except according to Mark, she was from New Zealand. Pretty cool, right? That’s what I thought. You see, I believed him. 100 percent I believed him. And I still believe him. So what am I to do here, kid? I can go to Canada on the weekend, proving you wrong in one miserable road-trip with my boyfriend and his shitty roommate, Nate. But I don’t want to have to do that. And again, the parking ticket.

There’s really no getting around the parking ticket right now. My point is, you’re a fool if you think I’ll follow you blindly. You think you’re the first kid to come in here with a photo of a C-list celebrity, ready to pass them off as the love of your life? Well guess again, because you’re the second. Just tell me kiddo, where does she live? Where does your candy-coated daydream skype you from? How many Canadian cities can you actually name? Toronto? Vancouver? Ottawa? Montreal? Calgary? Prince Edward’s Isle? That last one’s technically an Isle, but that’s still actually quite a few. But it’s all a wasted effort! Because you see, if she really is Canadian, then that makes Mark a liar. And if Mark’s a liar, then what does that make me? A fool? A bad photographer? A bad feminist? I’m begging you kid: Give up on this game now, before it goes any further. Because when it comes down to it, you can’t sneak into a backroom and make out with a lie. And that’s really a big part of prom.

“Where the

l l e H

is my son? “ AND OTHER FUNNY TIMES I THOUGHT I HAD A SON

by james Sweeney

“Where the hell is my son?” I’m running through the mall screaming “Where the hell is my son?” and “Where the hell have you put him?” when I run into an old friend from high school who works at Orange Julius. “Whoa, this guy still works at the Orange Julius at the mall?” I think to myself. “He used to be my best friend.” I stare at him for a moment, my eyes narrowing to the point of being closed to the point of hurting my eyes. “Sir, can I help you with something?” My old nickname. That son of a bitch. I think about him for a moment, about our years together working at the CD Store, about Fountains of Wayne and “Rhinestone Cowboy.” I respond to him the only way I know how, by buying a cold drink named after Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. My eyes open. My shirt comes back on, and I hobble arhythmically back to Pacific Sunwear where I work selling photos of “weed” at the mall. Everyone left at the drink store whispers to themselves, saying shit like “that was classic” and “whoaaa what the .”

“Show me my son or this whole hospital burns.” The cops are on their way; that much is clear as I roll around strategically in the ER with a gun. But I’m just not sure if I can

wait that long. My son is missing, presumably in this large hospital, specifically in the section dedicated to ATV accidents and various Sprite-esque remixes of the Spanish Influenza. As a father, I must act under a superior law, a law defined solely by my love for my son. And as an agent of a law so singular in its devotion, it is doubly important for me to reference mentally the song words of Willie Nelson: “You gotta go all in when you have the right cards, you little cracker/ But you better factor in the variables and think critically/ My Great Planes bitch.” I slip out an emergency exit, but not before explaining my mistake to a woman who stabbed her husband and sure was acting like it.

“Release my little boy from your bank’s vaulted labyrinth.” A ballpoint pen pressed tight to a teller’s throat leaves little doubt that I’m gonna ruin someone’s day soon if I’m not truly listened to. “I know my boy’s in here learning about money,” I whisper to her, the clicking of my pen at her neck acting as a separate declaration all its own, one proclaiming a singular truth: I am sternly adverse to being fucked with. “No more games!” I shout. A security guard begins to rush me; unfortunately for him, I’m a father, and so I’m more than familiar with this move. Acting almost instinc-

tively, I pivot my hip upon impact, redirecting the guard’s momentum and sending him flying directly into the vault’s pressurized locking station. I toss the teller aside as the vault’s massive door unhinges, fully prepared to kill anything that stands between me and my boy. The door opens, and my humiliation is immediate and devastating. Dozens of children of all ages and religions come pouring out, all of them obese and filthy, a wave of jaundiced babies full of change. Not one of them belongs to me, I learn, as I’m conveniently pulled into their vicious and admittedly liberating rage syndicate.

“I’m flying this plane now, so everyone should probably just help me out if you can.” The pilot is unconscious, his bare feet rubbing against my soft, worried legs as I attempt to land this plane in the ocean, or perhaps at the mall, somewhere my son would like to be. I have a shift at PacSun in three hours where I’ll slip insulin candy to grifters and high-potential 40+ moms, but that’s not what this is about. Not now. “Attention everyone, this is your captain speaking,” I begin over the plane’s CV radio, the cord of which I earlier used to turn the co-pilot into dead. I want to use this opportunity to communicate with my son directly, to speak from my full, aching heart to his congenitally much smaller one. Still, I’m overcome with fear. What will happen once the passengers as a whole find out that I snuck onto this flight and used sociology classes to make the real pilot and co-pilot kiss? I can only hope that’s not where these brave travelers draw the line. I want to say something to them to the effect of, “will everyone’s son please report to my office for scoliosis check ups,” or maybe just a bellowed, lilting “BooooOOOoooooys!” It would need to be something clever and luring, something my own crooked boy will be drawn to without a doubt. It would need to be something personal. “Jaykomb,” I begin again. “It’s daddy speaking.” No longer am I speaking and acting as I believe a pilot would, contorting my voice to resemble that of a cyborg with a tracheotomy and a fondness for the self-pleasure technique known as edging. Now I am just myself: a worried father, an inexperienced Delta pilot, a former best friend. A man who is deeply, deeply embarrassed. I brace myself and breathe in slowly. I disengage the autopilot. I fuck the Orange Julius up so bad.

I ONLY DATE GIRLS WHO FINISH Women are clever, and I’m well aware that there are women who may think they are more clever than men. But I’m also aware that women lie. That being said, I’ve come up with the best way to weed out Real Women from scummy, lying normies. Sirs, I present to you the Carmen Sandiego Solution. Ever wanted to test a woman but aren’t close enough to a body of water to take her

CARMEN SANDIEGO by Rosario Amihan

swimming? Aren’t sure if your lady-friend is up to the intellectual task of being your girlfriend? Test her knowledge on Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?. Has she ever run out of time on a mission and allowed a suspect to get away? Any girl who would readily allow a criminal to run free seems more than likely to trample all over your heart, am I right fellas? Probably by sleeping with him, right? Where my boys at? A lot of women are also bad with time, though this might be because I live in New York but exist perpetually in the Mountain Time Zone. Just sayin’, fellas! And how about navigation, hmm? Did she go to New York on the Vienna clue and get stuck because she can’t figure out where else “the land of the free” might be? Huh, boys? Not a problem. Show off your geographical linguistic skills by

helping her out. Then go ahead and email me her answers at JoeysGotAGame4TheGirlies@ hotmail.com, so I can tell you if she’s The One. So why Carmen Sandiego, a franchise designed for children ages 5 and up? Simple, boys: the game is too old for anyone to just have leisurely played it, and the criteria of the game is specific: What other place is “the land of the free”? How do you feel about the fact that the Chief is a woman? (Expect her to be super down with this - feminism, etc. Checks and balances, boys.) You gotta know that this girl is good enough for you. And I gotta know too. So shoot me a DM sometime! My Insta is CarmenSanDiegod_Joseph_Guitar, and my Twitter was deleted because I threatened to set my car on fire outside of the Arby’s headquarters. Hit me up!

MISSING:ONE GRANDPA FOUND:ONE BROKEN HEART A man sits at a women’s empowerment panel sipping on apple brandy. This man is my grandpa, and he’s always lost. That little son-of-a-bitch. He’s always getting himself in just the wrong place at just the right time. Example: He was supposed to be in court for running over a dog when he accidentally ended up at that panel. Example: He once went to a Bruce Springsteen concert when he was supposed to come to my 8th grade production of Hamlet. Example: My grandpa has been missing for the last 3 years of my life when he’s supposed to be not missing. That’s why I’m coming to you, dancing man, Barry Manilow. Where is he? Where

is my grandpa? Is he living near your home? Is he at the Copacabana? Is he shopping in supermarkets? Did he run over my dog to prove a point? My dad really misses him, and my mom doesn’t. Please help me find him. He was supposed to give me his car when he died, but now the car is gone too. How can I get to the veterinarian for my dog without a car? Nobody will tell me. My gym teacher is a veteran and dating my mom. He says that if he ever sees my grandpa again, he’ll bite his thumb off and preserve it in kimchi. Mom loves his homemade kimchi, but I’m worried. My grandpa won’t be going to the shooting range if he loses his thumb! He

won’t be able to hold his pistol while walking down the street. My mom says I’m handsome for my age, but I don’t believe her. I’m not sexually active and I definitely smell bad because of all the kimchi I eat. My grandpa always said I was an ugly little girl, and I would tell him I’m a little boy, but he would just tell me not to join the army. My gym teacher, who’s my mom’s boyfriend, was also in the army, and he’s been everywhere. He spent a lot of time stationed in Korea. I think that’s why he’s dating my mom. My grandpa served in Korea too, but he does not speak so fondly of it. I think that’s why my mom is not sad that he left. He would never let me travel

by Peter Soucy

with her and her boyfriend to Korea, but now my mom said we can! So Mr. Manilow, will you take up this noble challenge? Will you find my grandpa before I go to a united Korea indefinitely? Will my grandpa find the “Peace” he always told me he was looking for? Will my gym teacher turn my hands into kimchi? With your help I know we’ll get to the bottom of all this. Please write back soon, Mr. Manilow. There’s still time for the world to forgive you, sir.

Which Dimension

is this

Buffalo Wild Wings

Located?

by Victoria Jenkins and Brynne Levine I don’t know where I am, but it’s certainly Buffalo Wild Wings. The ceilings are incalculably high, the walls decaying around us, and I dine tonight to the sounds of soft whimpers. The doors have seemingly vanished behind me, but then again, I can’t quite recall ever walking in. So far, this is what Yelp led me to expect. I journey deeper into the shadowy, unending bowels of the restaurant. For everyone step forward, it feels as though I have ventured two steps back. I would have lost my way were it not for the impossibly large hoofprints in the ranch-stained carpet below. Betwixt two golden pillars, I take my seat. I am bewildered to discover this location does not possess traditional menus. Rather, the seater places in front of me a smaller table. The genderless being dissipates and, left to my own devices, I glance around. Televisions line the perimeter of the space showing the latest athletic event- a desaturated knee surgery. A deep-voiced sportscaster narrates diligently. Before I can observe further, the server reforms from the air around me. I do not hear his voice so much as feel it, deep in my central nervous system. “Today you shall drink turpentine.” The quadruped ascends. I am strangely pleased. I settle into my chair as my beverage arrives, and like a stream of divine piss, the turpentine descends. Where do I put it? I am unsure. It descends. Now drenched in holy liquid, I cast my

gaze towards the menu, the second, smaller table. I want to question- they said no questions- but my train of thought comes to a shrieking halt. “MILD MEDIUM HOT WILD BLAZIN” a high-pitched voice chants from above. My eyes travel upwards and locate a figure, trapped in the rafters like a caged bird. His eyes are bleeding. My eyes are bleeding. He chants. The server returns in triplicate and I am surrounded. “Your dinner.” They hand me a locked box, where I can only hope my food resides. “But what can I get you to eat?” they ask in harmony. However, quicker than I could say ‘Do you have a gluten free menu?’, they maneuver into downward dog and sink through the floor. I look to my box. The lock has become a worm, which turns into a diamond, then two diamonds, and back into a lock. There is no key, but my attention is pulled away by the other patrons. They are hissing, screeching, pissing towards the televisions. Ah yes, our sports surgery. A thunderclap emanates from behind me. Too many beans for lunch? The chaos ceases instantly, every guest pivoting towards a central point. “MILD MEDIUM HOT WILD BLAZIN” is the only audible sound. The experience so far has definitely whet my appetite! Suddenly, a glorious, golden light begins to rise through the floor. The walls fall away, and we are in an open, grassy meadow, we are running towards the sun. A choir of angels sing the Goosebumps

theme song and the light solidifies into a proud, winged buffalo. It is the most powerful being I have ever been in the presence of. He opens his mouth to speak, and the angels fall silent- “Can I interest you in an order of fried pickles?” It is not a question, it is a warning. A chant begins anew. “Floate lyke a Buffalo/ Stinge lyke a wing”, they cry, but it is urgent, begging. Drumbeats. The buffalo trots gracefully to the most buoyant patron, nuzzles their torso softly, affectionately, and consumes the being whole. I can’t say I’m surprised, but I can say that I’m slightly less hungry. I blink, and the restaurant has solidified once again around me, empty. Was it always like this? I peer back down towards my supper, whence I hear a satisfying click. The cover liquifies and inside the small box is a bone, but somehow, it is also a mirror, and also many bones. I sift through the millions of bones- are they human? Am I human? Man? HU? It is time to go. I gaze steadily into the mirror and see a reflection that has become my own. My eyes are soulless, black, and I am hungry. I am Buffalo.

LL\ItE

;\I~ nipples are

~iant!

Choose Your Own

Fucking Adventure back to the few-chure days past yesterday of tomorrow

Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes! Wipe that sauce off your shirt and gimme a big hug, buddy. Because the CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE section is back, and I’m your minimum-wage working, apprehensively optimistic guide. I can already sense your excitement. And you should be excited, fam. For the both of us. Because today, we’re getting in the Portal™ to take a little trip to the fantastic world of OUR WORLD, BUT BEFORE. We’re not going to a WHERE. We’re going to a WHEN. Are you loving this drama? Pack your fucking—pack some ELECTROLYTE WATER and PROTEIN BARS, meat bag. It’s time for time, and her travel, in this week’s adventure: This Isn’t the Renonaissance.

START HERE! The exact year is unknown, but you can be sure that it’s the past as fuck. You’re surrounded by dead grass. You need some defense! After all, you are a fragile bag of meat and probably have poor vision; you’re a walking Hot Pocket except instead of delicious microwaveable goodness, it’s blood. You find a large STICK in the dirt (now equipped!) you can use in case some someone gets the wrong idea and starts fucking up the wrong tree. Wandering through the plains, you eventually find a chain of MOUNTAINS. Carved into the mountains are some CAVES. Nice big caves. Seeing the faint glow of a FIRE, you head into one of the smaller caves. Seated in a circle around the fire are a group of NEANDERTHALS. They turn their heads to catch a glimpse of you before returning to what held their attention previously: a large stack of smooth, rectangular stones. “Ungg,” one says, pointing to a tablet. You’re close enough to see it now: it is covered with strange symbols and carvings. Something that could only be deciphered by big, stupid monkey

men. They point at one of their friends and break out into peals of shrieking, howling laughter. “Hello,” you say. They stop laughing and look at you. One turns to his friend, sitting next to him. “Ba ung a innga? Ma hu ungga ugh?” The caveman turns to you. “He comedy writer. Stand up. Make us laugh. Lots of in-jokes.” You have seen enough. If you choose to go to Ancient Greece, go to PARAGRAPH 2. If you choose to go to Medieval England, go to PARAGRAPH 3.

PARAGRAPH 2 Still reeling from your encounter with what could have quite possibly been the invention of podcasting, you step out of the Portal™ onto a bed of white sand. You march your little butt up a sandy embankment, your tired footsies sore in your sneakers. After a while, you reach a street paved with BIG ROCKS. At the end sits a MARKETPLACE, an open Acropolis of sorts. You’re in Greece. Nice! The marketplace is bustling with people that all take just a second to marvel at your ugly fucking fandom t-shirt and your weird haircut. This is the best you’ve felt about yourself since the time that girl in your Media Ethics class with all the pins on her backpack told you your presentation on incorporating the libertarian non-aggression principle into mainstream media was “really interesting.” Everyone has their noses buried in what look like large scrolls. They’re laughing. You find a stand and pull a scroll out of a basket. You can’t read Greek, but “ανοησίες” combined with peals of hysterical laughter usually means some kind of comedy. You do history a favor; you throw the scroll on the ground and stomp on it. Curses! You’re allergic to everything, drink too much beer and don’t get any exercise: travelling is not for you! Especially when there’s no cell service or Quizno’s. You have to stop this shit at all costs.

If you wanna go to---I dunno, the Great American Depression of 1930? Go to PARAGRAPH 4, and don’t sass me, please. If you wanna go back to THE PRESENT, too bad. Sorry.

PARAGRAPH 3 Believe it or not, of all the things you could die from, you actually get the Plague. And you fucking DIE. Go back to START. You think because you’re living in an age with Apple Watches and machines you can fuck that you can’t get the plague?

PARAGRAPH 4 Tired and, quite honestly, fed the h*ck up with this weird shit that’s happening, you’re sure that at least this time, you’re going someplace where you can understand what people are talking about. It’s America, baybee. In all her shitty glory. You’re sure if you see something labelled Nonsense one more time, you’re gonna lose it. This thing, this ever-present parasite, must be destroyed. Mustn’t it? You’re in turmoil: emotionally, physically, mentally. Sexually. Sexually. Physically as well. A tired-looking man is standing on the street corner, and tells you that, for a nickel, he’ll tell you a joke. If you decide to listen to him, go to PARAGRAPH 5. If you decide to kill him, go to the BAD ENDING.

PARAGRAPH 5 He tells you a joke, and it’s actually kinda funny. Something about dicks and butts. Funny stuff. You ask him where he heard that joke. He says, “oh, I write some jokes sometimes. Makes folks real happy.” You want to continue your quest in slaughtering comedy in its muddy tracks, you really do. But this guy just seems so sweet and genuine. You can’t believe you’d ever considered doing pain to this absolute saint of a man. “Hey, fella,” he says, “you wanna start writin’ some stuff with me? I’d appreciate it.” YOU MADE A FRIEND! If you decide to agree, go to the GOOD ENDING! If you decide to refuse, go to the TRUE ENDING.

GOOD ENDING You agree, and you help the nice gentlemen with his silly jokes, cleaning up some of the more anti-Catholic undertones until they’re sharp enough to really do some damage. After two days, however, you decide to return to your own time. You miss your Apple watch, and the machines that are learning each day to fuck you back. You emerge from the Portal™ and look around. Everyone is happy, and there’s the scent of lavender in the air. You feel as if you’ve done humanity a favor at your own personal expense. Your hero complex is insane right now. You and that man you met way back when, you guys started something beautiful for two days. You became the sole owner of comedy. All of it.

BAD ENDING You slaughter the poor, innocent, handsome man and he dies. Why did you do that? Did you just wanna see what would happen? Well guess what, bitch: that guy? He was your GRAND-DADDY. Nice. You stumble out of the Portal™ and it’s the present, except you weren’t in it. No one knows who you are. Your mom is like, “who the fuck is that?” Oh wait, no she’s not, because she wasn’t born either. Not sure how that worked out, but it sure makes their initial relationship all the more beautifully fated. Have fun, murderer. Also I own your house now. Go back to PARAGRAPH 4, meat bag.

TRUE ENDING You politely turn the man down. He smiles and sends you on your way. In a flash of blinding light, you’re back in your time, feeling a little tired, but satisfied that you might have done the right thing. You pack up your things and head outside. It’s a nice day. You head off to work and see a group of COLLEGE-AGED YOUNGSTERS seated at a table on the street corner. They’re shouting, begging, and clutching magazines in their filthy hands. People ignore them, mostly. Some people smile. One of the students catches your eye and smiles at you. “Magazine?” she asks. “It’s funny!” You take a magazine and turn it over. On the cover, it says: “Funny Joke Magazine: The Funniest Thing Ever, Since 1932.” Your grandfather’s name is written on the bottom. It might not be as funny as Grandpa always said it was, but it’s right where it belongs, really. It’s in your heart. It’s in your hands. It’s viciously anti-Catholic. And it’s here, forever.

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Floors in Axinn

Rated On How Quiet They Are

10. The First Floor Yep! Floor 1 is definitely the loudest on this list. Mostly because of ABP and their wet macaroni noises. Once I saw my buddy Zac in the line at ABP. Well, he’s sort of my buddy. He waved to me at a basketball game one time. I asked him if he wanted to sit with me but he said no. Then he sat in the second to last row by himself lol. What a guy!

9. The Second Floor The second floor is pretty noisy, but not as noisy as the first floor. Lots of people are working on group projects on this floor! There is math project, science project and English project! Also, there’s the Honors College office! Zac is in the Honors College. Once I saw him in the lounge. I said ‘hey,’ and he said ‘hey’ without looking up and I was like, ‘lol I’m not even in the honors college’ and then he looked up and he was like, ‘what are you doing here then?’ and I grabbed two oranges and bolted. I bet Zac thought that was really funny. I wonder if he remembers it. I wonder if he thinks about it.

8. The Third Floor I saw Zac on the third floor once. I said ‘what’s up?’ and he sorta looked up and said, ‘not much.’ I love that he’s so comfortable with himself. When people ask me what is up I always end up oversharing, and people do not like that. For example, I was recently diagnosed with Crohn’s Disease, ate tuna salad for lunch, and came about 4 inches from sucking my own penis last night. See, I overshared again, and nobody even asked me what was up this time. I bet Zac’s never even tried to suck his penis. He seems chill like that.

7. The Fourth Floor The fourth floor is kind of quiet but also not?

by Lizzie Frank It’s quieter than the third floor. I don’t really want to spoil the rest of the list, but I’ll tell you it’s louder than the fifth floor. There are lots of books here. Once Zac tweeted about the fourth floor of the library. He said, ‘lonely on the fourth floor of Axinn we out here.’ I didn’t ask anything, just sprinted to the fourth floor as quickly as I could, but he was gone by the time I got there. I still wonder where he went.

6. The Fifth Floor I’ve never seen Zac on this floor.

5. The Sixth Floor The sixth floor is definitely quieter than the fifth, for sure. Zac’s birthday is April 6th, so whenever I’m on the 6th floor I think of him. It’s coming up soon. I should get him a present. He seems like he’d like my old beyblades. Maybe he’d duel against me sometime. I should ask him.

4. The Seventh Floor I gotta say, the seventh floor is pretty quiet. I would say on a scale of 1 to 10, 1 being the loudest and 10 being the quietest, the seventh floor is like, a 7. Maybe a 6? Idk but it’s quiet. Zac definitely likes quiet, because sometimes when he’s on lower floors and I’m watching him he’ll look at me and then move up a floor. Then I follow him. It’s like a fun game of hide and seek, except he’s not hiding from me. He wouldn’t do that.

3. The Eighth Floor There are lots of books on this floor, and it’s super quiet. Def quieter than the seventh. Great place to study! Zac puts lots of snapchats on his story from what I think is the eighth floor. I’ve looked at similar angles on every floor a couple times and it sure seems like the eighth. I hang out there all the time to try to chill and I never see him.

2. The Ninth Floor Saw Zac on this floor once. He was listening to binaural study beats but just looking at the picture of the anime girl and not doing any work. I wonder what he was thinking about. I wish he would talk to me about what’s been going on with him.

1. The Tenth Floor Most quiet. Where is Zac? I know it is against the rules, but I cannot stand not knowing where Zac is. I’ve been slowly following him up each floor for hours now, and there’s no way he could’ve slipped past me. I force open the hatch and make my way up to the roof using my extreme upper body strength and also by standing on a chair. Zac is sitting on the edge of the roof, feet dangling off the ledge as he looks out at the purple and orange sunset. There is a blue Hofstra blanket draped over his shoulders. I come sit down next to him, excited to be this close to him at last. “Do you ever think about the differences between who you are and who you present to the world?” he asks me without looking over. I nod. I have no fucking clue what he’s talking about and I think he’s high on synthetic weed. “I remember you from that basketball game the other night,” he says, and rests his head on my shoulder. Internally, I’m screaming and all of my organs are simultaneously shutting down. He remembers!!!!!! He asks, “Where’s your next class? I’ll walk with you.” “2.2 miles away,” I tell him, and he looks at me, confusion etched in the lines of his sunken face, and then I explain. “Nassau Community College Class of 2020.” Nassau Community College Class of 2020 He smells like pine cones. I am snapchatting the hell out of this.

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islands Where Noblemen Have Tried to Kill Me by Jesse Saunders All I have ever wanted, ever since I was a little girl, was to enjoy a vacation on an island. Just a singular island vacation without being viciously attacked by some old man who has a large estate and is mostly just somebody else’s son. But it appears, based on the premise of this long thought I’m about to have at you, that I am simply too tempting a challenge. I know that now. At this point in my life I have bested many noblemen and ruined their once highbrow lives full of murder and intrigue, the intrigue more than likely being murder. Here’s my favorite times I have toppled some of the shit we can all agree sucks, and claimed victory over the weak, pitiful, arthritic bourgeois.

Ship Trapp Island General Zaroff

Zaroff you son of a bitch, you might have created this game, but you could not have predicted how flexible, swift, and good at hiding I am. But of course you couldn’t, you British son of a bitch. Your strategies, gun, and manservant of an ambiguous race, age and height might have lulled you into a false sense of security, but I never mess around when my ability to win a

game is on the line. Zaroff ’s island might have been a fortress covered in mystery, full of stuff that someone who is maybe trying to prove something to his distant and insanely old parents would own. In the end though, he was a simple man. One stab to the heart with one of my patented StrongGirl Sticks™, aka a tree branch I spent three full days sharpening with the tab of my Lacroix can and, well, let’s just say he fell like a sheep wearing ice skates on an icy hill. Sheep cannot skate.

Nobel Island Dr. Moreau

Lot of goddamn animals on this island, that’s for sure. The resort was nice, but not nice enough for me to approve of cross-species hybridization. Honestly, it was almost nice enough, but I’m still not sure why every novel ends with men realizing that mankind was the villain all along. Sounds like some new-age PC bullshit, spun out by people who have never been hunted through the jungle at high speed by a man and his often handsome beast-folk. Moreau is a strange man, and I personally think as a man of science he could maybe be a bit more open to questions from a budding scientific mind such as myself. I simply asked if it was like, some kind of a kink thing… obviously still waiting for an answer. I do think it was probably a kink thing, though.

Bermuda My Uncle Georgie

Uncle Georgie made one simple mistake: he told me I couldn’t ride the Waverunner. Georgie might have been the cool uncle to most of my cousins, but he was still old enough to underestimate me for more-or-less the entirety of our family trip to Bermuda. There’s one thing you don’t do to an independent girl of 14 years old, and that’s keep her off the goddamn Wavefunner. I have always been one with the waves, Uncle Georgie, and you will not take my sky from me. Unlike most of my island-bound opponents, I took no joy in destroying Georgie. But come on: Waverunner! If I returned home to my simple Wisconsin high school and had zero pictures of myself tearing it up in the sun on a Waverunner, my life would be over. I

do not mean that metaphorically. Wisconsin is hell. Georgie learned his lesson in the end, and I did indeed get to ride that Waverunner. My cousins and I don’t really talk much anymore, for obvious reasons. (Our Uncle Georgie’s gruesome death via Waverunner [there are other reasons as well]).

Patmos My own mind and soul

My greatest challenge yet: Myself. Originally explained in the Book of Revelations, this mythical place allowed me to face the only enemy that could ever best me: Me, except this time kind of religious. After three hours of non-stop hand-to-hand combat against the darkest parts of my soul, I had soccer practice, so we may never know who truly would have won this purgatorial battle. I shudder to think about the raw power I might wield within my body if I had actually gone to CCD and knew who Jesus was. Is? See, I don’t even know if he’s dead or not. But imagine if I did know that? Yeah. Damn.

Soldier Island Justice Wargrave

We are all the villains in other people’s stories. While the other people on this island spent their time reading a racist poem and then dying, I prepared for battle. A weaker child would have totally just drank some of that old man’s scotch and kicked the bucket, but I brought my own Mike’s Harder Lemonade, because dark liquor makes my stomach feel spicy. Justice Wargrave may have thought it was his job to punish us, but only two things on this planet can punish me: The American Justice System, and my mother.

I came to Hofstra determined to prove That I wouldn’t fit in the usual grooves If I’d stayed close to home for some cheap, dumb diploma I’d die in the Midwest from a self-induced coma

I won’t go to the city,” oh I shudder to think About all of that money I’d toss down the sink A trip to Freedom Tower that they promised would change me? I mean aren’t all those skyscrapers kind of the same thing?

With Hofstra my choice I set sights on the city But I fell for good PR like so, so many My lazy ass never comes close to the train I’m afraid of derailment and getting caught in the rain

I’ll stick to Long Island, there’s plenty to do There’s like three to four options (too many to choose)! We can go to the beach, Montauk Point, and the mall And spend the rest of our lives cycling back through them all

New York feels so far and oh so expensive That Hofstra would use it as bait feels offensive! This Long Island campus traps all of its residents With the guilt of the money we throw at its president

It’s a choice that I made, and I sure do regret it Because a train’s slight derangement could possibly end it So I’m trapped in a crapshoot of NYU rejects Long Island, my home. I can not ever leave it

Now I’ve forgotten my purpose, lost my rationale As I make dumb excuses about Hempstead’s locales ‘Cause who the hell wants to spend an hour of travel And waste all your time with plans that unravel? Why trek to the Met or to Carnegie Hall? When the train could derail and put an end to it all? I’ll whine to my friends “Hofstra dorming is murder As I shit living bugs that I ate at Smashburger” But when we do get off campus to do something else We’ll just drive down to Target and stare at the shelves I’ll be searching for nothing, just waiting to go Yet, it’s still much easier to give up and say “no

On the Lamb from Johnny Lawsense by QUIN ASSELIN Day 26 With a little ingenuity and the help of His Excellency, the Nowhere Man, I’ve finally managed to slip Chief Johnny Lawsense. Though I’m certain with enough time he’ll be back on my heels. I’ve anointed myself with a Lesser Mark of obscuration, drawn in the grime of my pursuer’s boots. He’s surely a crafty lad but there’s no way he’ll find me now. I’m completely off the grid. Sent from my iPhone Day 29 Big Law the Fearsome is still hot on my trail. Not a peep of deep sleep for me last night. No counting sheep but I get the feeling my days are numbered. The Chief ’s fiery breath rakes over my supple bones. And for a crime I didn’t* even commit. Would it even be possible to rob the world’s largest Applebee’s with the world’s smallest pen knife? No one can possibly know now. All I know is, it shouldn’t be a criminal offense to try to discern the truth. The one thing I can’t seem to glean is what this scheming chief in blue jeans seems to mean with his deft attempts to catch me. Despite my best efforts, JLaw and his hefty gun blaze a trail of pain and incarceration behind me... After all, I’ve committed the proper rites of obfuscation; coupled with my Veil of Shadows, I should be nigh indistinguishable from a gust of wind with a hint of dill. Perhaps my scent is too robust after so long on the lamb. I shall bathe in a lake tonight and mask this sour stench from my hunter. Sent from my DROID Maxx *Read: Did Day 32 I fear that a hex has been laid upon me. While traversing a D4NK and pungent swamp, my body has become racked with Consumption. Ever since I ruined The Chief ’s date at $2 ‘Ritas night, he’s

had a different sort of... hunger. To make matters worse, his thirst for my svelte frame has grown into an uncontrollable lust for my meats. This curse that Jonathan “The Body” Lawnathan hath cast is no doubt to weaken before he tries to feast on my life essence; big gun in hand, faint icey light gleaming of his badge, the pale crescent the sole witness of his dark sacrament. He’s just a real asshole is the thing. I mean, what sort of cop even pursues the laws when they’re off duty? I was a fool to trust this flatfoot would mind his own business. After all when you’re at the ‘Bee’s, you’re family. But there’s no family out here. Sent from my Motorola Razr Day 34 The Strokes appear to continually be getting worse...not that it’s any of my business if they wanna shake up their style or anything. Idk, I guess their last EP was a little lackluster for my tastes... Dictated, but not read, to my dutiful manservant Wesley Day 35 My dreambox has accrued some gunk lately. Each snooze leaving me before the otherside has given me its visions. But last night the Nowhere Man, the gleamer, told me, the dreamer, the plan of that lawman, the schemer. “Geeeeeeps” he said, while a colorful light that itched to look at streamed forth from where his noggin should’ve been. It was clear he meant it as a warning. Geeps. GPS. That Johnsense fellow is no meer mage sent to track me. The gumshoe somehow embedded a chip in my brain! Christ! With each passing minute, that lawman draws nearer in his totally impractical Toyota Tacoma. Pooping and sneezing and coughing at the same time must not get this cursed plate out, because I’ve been doing

that a lot. I must perform a thorough investigation of my brain chimney among other crevices and see how deep this bug is nested in my innards. Sent from my notebook to the hole in this tree April 10, 2009 At 10:30 a.m., I, officer Jonathan Lawngsweat, came upon an especially pungent man sleeping off the side of the red trail, 2.6 miles from the edge of the Compound™. I was unable to wake the snoring lump of perfect human clay; however, I did take 25% of the park goer’s accumulated squirrel meat, as is standard meat gains tax. Upon further scrutiny, I noticed the sleeper must have successfully removed a tracker from the back of his observably toasty neck. As a park ranger who reveres the Law and respects governmental Edicts, I implanted a new chip between his last two molars. Given that I had found a phone earlier on the trail, I placed it in the subject’s jacket pocket next to a set of Applebee’s silverware which I thought he might find useful. I figure whoever left it wasn’t coming back for it. As I sign off, I must say I am once again left in pure awe of the beautiful and often disgusting human condition. But I must wonder at the end of a day like this: How practical can it be to sell $2 margaritas? I know it’s only one night, but still. People know a deal when they see one.

Nonsense Investigates:

By Anna Galperin

Russ an Tongue Farm N

onsense travelled to Russia to interview Svetlana in Alyonkinchka. We brought a translator, Alex, but he got separated from us early on. This is a transcription of the brief conversation we had with Svetlana and her family. Hi! I’m David. Our translator isn’t here quite yet. But we’re just gonna continue with the interview. I’ll record the conversation on my voice recorder. Would you mind speaking in English? Okay! I love speak English! All right, awesome. Would you introduce yourself? Hello! My name Svetlana, I live in Russia small town called Alyonkinchka and am very rich! Why rich? Well, family have many camel, many camel tongues, many many camel tongues. We biggest export of international camel tongue. Millions. Billions! So many tongues. Brother Nikita in charge of cutting tongues out of camel’s mouth. Always a lot of blood, very scary. Blood ewhhh. Mama Alina raise us alone, papa Misha dead in a bull trample accident. Very sad. He decorate street now! I love Mama. She does for us everything! Well, welcome to our camel farm! I wish you could see inside of camel’s mouth, so big and beautiful. If you follow here you can see the tong—No, that’s all right. Let’s just continue walking. Okay! Here, we have outhouse. It’s always little cold and I bring

roses from the garden to make smell good. We have camel soap, camel hair rug, toilet, and big time shower. Sometimes there is hot water and it is so nice, so hot, so good on skin. Big hose over here for Mama. Oh wait, is it possible that Alex went to the outhouse when he got here? Have you seen him? Oh, maybe I have! He wandered off into forest over there maybe? Very dangerous, home of Papa Brother, also dead. I wish him luck coming out! Here we have kitchen. We have goat’s milk, camel’s milk, cow’s milk, mama’s milk, and sheep’s milk. Milk makes our bones strong. We must be strong to capture and tongue all the camels here. Nikita especially loves mama’s milk, while I’m prefer sheep’s milk - is less dense, easier on Mama. We love chicken soup and borscht and all other soups are so yummy, so warm, so good. Mama cooks for us anything we want. Mama feeds us everything. Cool, super cool. Did you say mama feeds you her milk? How old is Nikita exactly? I speak English very good, but sorry if I confuse you ever! Of course mama feeds us, how else we will eat? So funny question! She cooks, cleans, chews, everything, she is Mama! Nikita? We don’t know when he is born, he one day came out of mama and was here. Silly questions! Here follow me, here is where we sleep. We have sheepskin blankets. Keeps us all warm when we sleep. Oh? You sleep together? The three of you?

Yes of course! It is only customary to keep Mama company. She does for us everything. Sometimes, there visitors and she likes to keep them for a while. She loves to take care of people! They in trouble only if they go into forest- Here we have outhouse number two! This is where get locked if you do bad work. Mama keeps you there until she needs you again. I only ever been in outhouse number two three times. Very scary. Very sad. I punch fist into wood door but it doesn’t open until mama comes. Mama will always come though, so it’s ok. Makes us stronger. Makes us hungry. Is...is there someone in there right now? Yes. Nikita in there, he did bad job last night for dinner. Salad not cut the way Mama likes it. Too many tomatoes. Tough on digestive. He will be out soon. Didn’t we just see Nikita earlier? I feel like we just — Let’s go look at the camel farm! Mama sleeps over there during day. When she wakes, all camels scream. That is when Nikita runs over to give mama kiss and hug. Then she goes back to sleep until bedtime, when we carry mama to the bedroom to rest. So let me get this straight. Mama sleeps during the day in the camel barn, and at night you carry her into the house, to sleep in bed, with you and your brother? Isn’t that a lot of work for you? Yes! Mama does for us everything, though. She is very kind. I love mama! When I have to go peepee, mama feels it, and

does it for meMama urinates for you? Mama does for us everything. I say so many times and is still true. Blonde boy was much more understanding of Russian culture! So you have seen Alex? Mmm…. If you’d like, you can meet Mama now. She very much likes Americans. Svetlana, have you seen Alex or not? Well, look here. We at barn already! How funny and silly! Mama very much wants to meet you. Go inside, yes? Today she is talkative but I don’t think she wants me to take her out. There is a pause and a few creaks are heard on the tape. As the barn door is heard to close behind our interviewer, David, a light rumbling becomes apparent. Alex? You in here? Svetlana? Mama Alina? Hello? Is anyone - holy shit! Alex! Alex what are you doing in here? How did you get in here? Say something man! God, they’ve got you hooked up to - are these tubes? It’s on your stomach, Alex! It’s attached to your stomach! Dude. It’s actually totally chill. Totally nice. It is? Svetlana opens the barn doors. Is super chill, yes! Mama Alina’s massive, breathing stomach opens itself up, revealing a one hundred stitched tongues trapped between a thousand teeth. IS CHILL. -Static.

Visit Beautiful

Japan

(No Weebs Tho)

By Rob Kinnaird We here at Japan Bus Tours Plus™ are inviting Americans to take a trip across the other pond and visit beautiful Japan! Our wonderful cities, deep cultural history and iconic sakura trees are wonderful reasons to come see Japan. Seriously, there are more reasons to come here than the anime. We want nice, normal Americans to come and spend some time and money in Tokyo and Osaka. So come check out the incredible Japanese destinations, fashion, food, and art. NOT MANGA. Japan is famous for its sushi, and just about everyone has tried some form of it, but you don’t know the meaning of RAW ‘til you’ve tried authentic Japanese sashimi. As part of this tour, you’ll try fresh off the boat, Japanesemade sushi at several premier Tokyo bars. And remember, folks, if you order a California roll, you will be taken out with a Hattori Hanzo blade. Tarantino style, baby! Later, we’ll be taking a tour led by a genuine Japanese historian of the famous Imperial Palace. The moats, gardens, and traditional Japanese architecture will surely astonish you! This part of the trip requires a lot of walking, so people who breathe through their mouths and run a daily vlog about the secularization of modern post-metal ought not book a ticket. Your socksand-sandals footwear unfortunately just won’t be able to keep up with the pace of the tour, and there are zero employees trained in CPR of any kind on this year’s staff, purposely. After the tour, we’ll be kayaking the Chidorigafuchi moat, which surrounds the palace and boasts beautiful cherry blossom trees. To be sure, though, this day might be a little much for someone who say, spends all day listening to podcasts on why step-sister porn is the necessary bridge between feminism

and the men’s rights movement. The beautiful blossoms and wonderful views create a romantic moment, perfect for couples wanting a get-away, not manboys who can’t talk to any woman who isn’t a girl-sized pillow from Doki Doki Literature Club. Anyway, it’d be a real shame if your grandfather’s weird hat fell in the river, so maybe just stay at home and work on your “sketches” of “wolves.” Near the palace is the famous shopping avenue, Naka-Dori. You won’t have to say “notice me senpai” anymore once you step out of those shops in brand new Japanese designer clothes because you’ll be turning heads on every block! Plus, you really shouldn’t be saying it anyway. Senpai means “teacher”, so to be totally honest, it’s kinda perverse and strange! You’re 27-years-old and haven’t had a teacher since dropping out of the comp-sci program at UMass Amherst, so it’s advised you either ease up on that, or, if you’re looking to save a little money, stay home. That’s just the first leg of the tour in historic downtown Tokyo, though, as from there we have many more adventure-packed days in several cities throughout Japan. We’ll see Mt. Fuji, visit Osaka, island hop over to Shikoku, and see the hot springs of Kyushu, all in one bus tour! It’s a long and intense trip, so you need to be in tip top shape! Or at least in better shape than someone who say, sits around his mother’s basement arguing with strangers on Discord over what counts as canon in old issues of “One Piece”. It’s all canon, asshole! This trip is the opportunity of a lifetime, as well as an opportunity for some of you to see how much more Japan has to offer than just the exquisite hentai of Toshio Maeda. I know I might be coming off as a

little “standoffish”, but we’ve had one too many Naruto fanboys coming over here, wearing their little metal headbands asking about “The Village Hidden in the Leaves” or “Ichiraku Ramen”. Do you know how offensive that is? You know that place isn’t real, right? Or are you so wrapped up in your erotic-ninja-harem fantasy that you can’t separate fiction from reality anymore? I’m so sick of watching you run around the streets of Osaka with your arms behind your back. So, Danny McMiller, you gross, bloviating weaboo fuck: Just stop coming to Japan. I’ve been living here for ten years now, starting up this company and mastering the blade all this time, and every fucking year you show up, Danny. Walking around, calling every other girl in a high school uniform “tsundere” or “kawaii” like you own the damn place. You better just stay the hell away. As for the rest of you, it’s fine if you watched Spirited Away or Dragon Ball Z on Toonami in middle school. I get it, I’m right there with you! Japan used to be so cool, man. But not anymore.

Turn On Your Location,

You Coward By Jordan Hopkins Hey, Tim! This is Mr. Jensen, your history teacher. Just calling to leave you a message because uh, I haven’t been able to get a hold of you in a few days and I wanted to touch base regarding your missed work. It’s just that you’ve missed a few classes, gotten behind on a few homeworks - no big deal! Cindy, if you’re hearing this I just wanted to say that it’s no big deal! Not a big deal at all yet. I just want to make sure Tim gets it in before the end of the quarter because, heh, it also affects my bottom line, you know? And, uh, I know, Tim, that you said you were really interested in meeting my friend Jordan Spieth next time he’s in town. But when I drove past the house last night, you weren’t there doing your homework. Didn’t seem like you were there at all, dude. So where are you, man? You don’t want to miss out on talking about the Philippines with golfer Jordan Spieth, do you? I could probably try to call him right now, if you just tell me where you’re at. Just you, me, golf ’s bad boy, and this seven-iron in my back seat. And Cindy, if you’re listening, no worries. I’ll have him back by 9, hand to god! Let’s just make this easy, Tim: Turn on your fucking location. Help me find you. If you aren’t at home, then where the hell are you? I want my goddamn homework. You don’t think I’m an idiot, do you Tim? You don’t think I was born yesterday, right? I’ve been a history teacher for months, or maybe you’ve forgotten that. I’ve seen kids like you come and go, thinking they’re hot shit. Thinking that I don’t see through every bullshit excuse that comes through my door. Do you really think I’m going to believe you were at a funeral for the last four periods of the day? How long do you think a funeral

is? And who’s throwing funerals at 2:30 in the afternoon? Stacy Redmond saw you at the Baskin-Robbins at like 3:45 anyway, so nice try. You better have been sucking down that ice cream for the sugar rush, because you’ve got six pages of that Grover Cleveland packet due yesterday, Bucko, and god knows you’re too young for a standard DayQuil macchiato. Listen to me. I’m not the bad guy. I’m not. I’m just a guy. A guy just like you, Tim. We’re both trapped here. You, you’re trapped by child truancy laws and the misguided expectations of your ravishing parents. Me? I’m trapped here by $180,000 in regrettable home economics classes and a post-grad trip to Europe in which I was robbed every day for a month. We’re not so different, you and I. We’ve spent our entire lives in chains, beholden to who? To the man? To white men? Men like our fathers? Italian men, sometimes? Fuck no, Timmy. Wouldn’t it be great to just run away from it all, to shake loose the shackles of obligation and run free, like you were born to do? Like you were made to… I just want you to see that theres no reason to treat me like I’m some kind of monster, Timmy. You think I like doing this? You think I like taking precious time out of my afternoons to leave 11 consecutive messages on a twelve year old’s answering machine? Draining hard-earned dollars out of my pocket to pay a thirteen year old to worm into your computer to access your GPS? Stacy Redmond isn’t cheap, Tim. Her services are exclusive. No, man. I’m doing this for the both of us. We’re both party to this system, you know. You have to participate in it, and I have to enforce it. That’s just the way these things are. You know, I envy you,

Tim. You’re still so young - if you wanted to pick up your life and go, leave your homework behind and take to the wind, you could do it. You’re not tied down by, say, a nightmare-inducing need for job security, or a wife. You don’t need to hope that this hastily, drunkenly recorded voicemail will get you fired so you can get that sweet, sweet severance package. No, you could just go, man! How crazy is that? There could be so much potential to your life, Tim. If only you weren’t such a coward. I really think we should just get this over with; it can be as easy as you want to make it. Because in the end, it’s not about you, you know? I just need the fucking homework. I just need to feel the sweet, sweet dopamine release of checking your name off of that list of Braylends and Skyles and Chaunceys, among inummerable other faceless 8th graders. I need somsthing to show the union. I need...I need to get back to Europe. So for the love of god just leave it on a park bench. I don’t really care. Drop me a pin, give me coordinates, draw me a map on your mother’s feet! I don’t care! I don’t care. I don’t care, Tim. This is the end of the line. I’m getting that worksheet from you, whether you’re attached to it or not. Because it’s only a matter of time before Stacy Redmond sniffs you out of the hole you’re cowering in, Tim. And you still have so very much to learn.

Abbey, Where’s the Dern

Clicker?

By Quin Asselin

D’aw gorsh dern it; Jeopardy’s over and it’s time for Wheel of Fortune. The bottom of the fisherman’s stinkin’ barrel. I tell ya, Pat Sajak has just got somethin in that noggin of his that needs fixed. Shoot, just thinkin about that dern guy gets me hot behind the ears. What a loon. I can’t watch his makin goo goo eyes at Vanna White or else my head’ll spin. Say dere Abbey, hun? Did you see where the clicker coulda run off to? Hwhat’s that? No of course I’m not sittin’ on the dern thing. I just sore it here on the table a secund ago. Could be down on the carpet, maybe? Ooph, the programs startin and they still got those two hounds up dere runnin the show. Hwut a shame, ya know? I tell you wut if I was in charge down at NBC, I’d make ‘em get someone respectable like Art Fleming or even that greenhorn, Trebek, I spose. Anyone’s better than the gruesome twosome they’ve got hostin it now. What I’d like to know is who’s the hoser that just goes and puts all those colors and numbers on a wheel anyways? Jeez. Ya know, that whirlin little devil’s givin me a dern headache. Oooh say Abbey, guess what I found in between the cushions here! No, no, it’s your weddin band. Speak up I can’t hear ya over the stinkin’ wheel. No I said your weddin band hun. Well how do you like that then? You watch the wheel, you find a ring. Not too shabby fer a glorified game of hangman I ‘spose… Golly, watchin that dere wheel go round and round don’t seem like a hoot, but those couple of blockheads sure do make it look alright. What is the letter C? Say, not bad a

couple of em up dere. Now if Vanna could just plod outta the way, shoot I might know the uh.. the answer to this here question. Dern if sayin that don’t sound backwards, then I don’t know what, “What is” is. heh heh. Say Abbey you hear that one!? Dang, I crack myself up. Now this here clue is a bit of a toughy. N_ CH__C_ _F _SC_P_. No choice of ascope? What a bunch of hooey that is. Jeezaloo them colors zippin by on the wheel get me more mixed up than a Rubix Puzzle in the blender. I guess I see why they say color TVs are the way of the future, eh dere Abb? Huh? I said about the TV, I’m glad we got the color model! Only if the thing came with a leash for that darn remote controller. Oh I think I know this’n! “WHAT’S THE BIG IDEA?” Well shucks how’d you like that, the answer is in the form of a question. I tell you what Abb, you oughtta see this, the Wheel’s got everything hun! Well shoot dear, I’ll tell you hwut’s goin on while you finish cookin up the easy mac. All you gotta do is follow the Wheel... Just follow the Wheel. Dollar signs dartin by green, blue, pink, yeller, blue-green… slats on the edge of the wheel are buzzin like a dern plague of locusts! The wheel’s slowin down who knows where it’ll end up. Just a couple more clicks and... D’aw gorsh darnit. The ticker stopped on that lousy bankruptcy space. You’re ruined, Clark. You’re financially destitute now til the end of the round. And just like that the Wheel that can give or take it all. The dern thing’s whirlin again. Follow the wheel. Colors and numbers scootin by from left to right in a stinkin blur! It’s like a rainbow; like

a beautiful bloomin flower of every color. Say hun? I think I see something there in the center of this cash chrysanthemum. In the Wheel, Abbey, the Wheel! The dern center of the circle is openin up! Oh GORSH Abb, it’s an eye! A fershengluggin eye! The dang thing is lookin at me. It’s... it’s starin straight through my sweater vest and into my heart. Please Pat, oh you grand Sajak. The only question I should ask you is: “Who’s the best dern son of a gun to host a game show this side of suppertime?” And Ms. Hwite, your command of the board knows no equal. Wowza, the dynamic duo. Now I’ll tell you somethin. With Abbey as my witness I pledge myself to you and to the Wheel. I bow down before you and... Huhwutzit? Oh nothin just watchin the programs, hun. Heh heh, guess I got a little carried away there for a minute. Well would you take a look at that? The doggone clicker was right there under me the whole time. Thank goodness too, I gotta turn the dial up to hear that dere disk zip by. I sure do love me a round or two with that magic circle. Who needs a show like Jeopardy anyway? All those questions for answers and answers for questions, I can’t believe someone’d watch that crazy buncha hooey anyhow. And ya know I think it’s time that snide ol’ Trebek derr got what’s comin to him...

Obituaries trevor parrish

brenna lilly Brenna? I hardly even know ha! You went out the way many dream of, but few have the balls to carry out: dropping the FUCK out of Hofstra. Iconic. Your guttural shriek, militant veganism and militant vine references can still be heard echoing faintly throughout the hallowéd halls of Big Gay™. You opened all of our third eyes a little wider, and all of our collective chakras have suffered in your absence. May you be at peace forever traipsing the kombucha aisles of the Great Big Whole Foods in the Sky, perhaps on occasion folding into a downward dog just right there. Riiiiiight fuckin’ there in the middle of the aisle.

I’d like to think he isn’t truly dead mostly because the mangled piece of his soul that is tied to this club can’t be severed until the Nonsense House finally burns to the ground once and for all. But he’s dead in the eyes of the state, and so we mourn Nonsense’s first official Moral Support and Paladin of Accuracy, and also three-time winner of the Most Likely To Wear The Same Clothes As Quin award. Rest in piss, buddy; I hope they’ve got Fire Emblem in Hell. That was just a little pun, of course. You’re going to the waiting room.

Starbucks Your mediocre coffee will be missed dearly as we drink even more mediocre Dunkin Donuts coffee in your memory. Never again will I sit out in the quad during a 30-minute-gap between classes, sipping an over-roasted espresso macchiato, wearing a flannel and thumbing a thrifted copy of Orwell’s 1984. Instead, I’ll have to wear a Red Sox jersey and order loudly and incorrectly for a woman I don’t even know. This is like a Walmart replacing a Target. It’s not really a huge loss, but you never realize how much worse it can be before the WALMART SUPER STORE rises from its ashes making everything taste like mail.

Joseph Kolb Joseph Kolb, Moon son, Art Director, Anime Character. Although you left us alone and cold in Long Island, your car is still in my driveway, so it’s like nothing ever changed. Your infamous December graduation has created a hole in every party we will throw from here on out, and even worse: a hole in our hearts (technically our arteries). I just hope that one day, wherever you may be, you will finally be able to understand why in the Matrix they like, block the sun out?? As if that would stop the aliens, because I guess like, what the hell…it just doesn’t even make sense.

Dakar Morris We’re still not quite sure what your major was at Hofstra, and half of us are skeptical that you even existed at all, but one thing’s for sure: as long as Syroopy keeps spitting up blood as bright as raspberry jam, we’ll never forget the time you spent gracing small action roles in critically acclaimed crime television dramas. Arizona really lucked out, but New York misses you, and some of the other states are undecided. It’s recommended you don’t visit most of them.