Things We Damn Well Feel Like Saying
H
olding a position of power on The Plague is usually compared to being an astronaut during the early years of the American space program, in that the descent from such a celestial purview often leads to years of depression, alcoholism, gambling and, for female members, the compulsion to eat household cleaning products. It certainly doesn’t help that over the last two semesters I’ve seen in the NYU student body a grasp of humor so tenuous that I’d be embarrassed to shake its hand. The other day I was going back over the numbers and I couldn’t believe it when I realized we’d gotten at least one submission from every student at this joke of a global university, with a few healthy-sized pamphlets’ worth of primo comedy. You’re stressing us out so much that by 2022, it’s estimated there will be fewer than 350 surviving Plague staffers in the world, the rest having succumbed to heart disease and ammonia overdose. This is not to place any blame on our wonderful staff, who have prevailed within this hostile atmosphere to transform your animated .gifs and chain emails into heartfelt observations on the modern predicament. This isn’t even to place blame on you, NYU students, despite your complicity in a system that’s killing our staffers even as it provides us private offices and ample grade cushioning. It has forever been The Plague’s official opinion that you’re all a bunch of hapless, innocent suckers whose job is to be sold lie after lie so that the university system can continue to save face for as long as possible before its inevitable collapse. It’s not your fault. Instead, like the Plaguesmen of old, I can trace the problem to a few this past year’s trends that get on my nerves.
A big thing that’s popular among NYU students is television, which is where it seems most of you learn the nonexistant rules dictating social interaction, including what makes something funny. You may not be aware, but literally everything you know and do comes from characters who were written for TV, and that includes laughing at banal pop culture references because the reptile part of your brain releases endorphins when it completes recognition tasks. The freethinking Thomas Jefferson was noted to never read the newspaper, the television of his day. The Plague would like to say, never watch TV, if you know what’s good for you. If you haven’t already done so, stop getting flu shots. Humans can live healthily without them, and flu vaccines are full of chemicals and microchips that don’t protect us against illness. The chief function of the flu shot is to promote Alzheimer’s disease and general compliance in the populace. Since it’s a new year, make yourself the resolution to stop getting vaccinated, if you care at all about your health or mine. A short Plague Poll was conducted to figure out the other reasons NYU students aren’t funny, and our suspicions generally fell on rape culture, clandestine government hypnosis experiments, shifting immigration patterns, and a host of eschatological jokes too funny to print. I don’t want to put too fine a point on it though, since by now you can probably figure out for yourself what your problem is. Remember that every lafficionado in the comedy cognoscenti was once a Jewish first-year premed student, and we at The Plague have high hopes for the NYU student body in this post-gangnam era (2013).
Staff
Contents
Karl Heiland
2 Introduction 3 Staff 6 Acknowledgements
EDITORS PRESIDENT
Michael Abraham VICE PRESIDENT
Gilbert Shi SECRETARY
Colette Porter TREASURER
ALL OF THE WORK, NONE OF THE CREDIT Mischa Aletta Josefa Bitenc Jacob Breene Inhwan Chi Anderson Cook Nathan Einhorn Harrison Farina Adam Holmes Sawyer Huff Jonathan Keshishoglou John Lacy Gabi Lenhard Jeremy Levick Anna Lockwood Genevieve O’Connell Alex Pototsky Devin Rosni Jordan Rubio Spencer Sapienza
proof we are not racist 10 I Own Like Three Hoodies 11 I’m From The Rough Part Of Conneticut 13 A Black Guy Fucked Me In A Non-Rape Scenario 14 I Literally Just Finished My Racial Sensitivity Course how we got $30 from nyu with no strings attached 15 Strategic Investments With The Finance Society 17 I Showed My Professor My Kickstarter Page 24 I Was Paid By The Dean To Watch ‘No Strings Attached’ Dressed As Natalie Portman’s Character From ‘V For Vendetta’ why did our dog run away? 29 I Don’t Know Son, Just Stay Away From Those Garbage Cans...Forever 31 He Wants To Make It Big On The Boulevard 32 Somebody Somewhere Said “Now Git!” 35 We Finally Told Him He Was Adopted 36 We Shouldn’t Have Named Him ‘Fuck You Get The Fuck
Out You Piece Of Shit Mutt’ MIDDLE NAMES FOR THE BABY 38 Nicole 40 Richie 43 Boggle 45 Toshioko 46 Give The Child Time. When It Is Ready, It’ll Choose. 47 Little Faggy Boy 53 Limpy what we left behind in high school 55 Athletic Cup 56 Bunch Of Bullshit Friends Living Bullshit Lives 59 My Friend Claire Things we’re Selling From The Back of our car 61 Tickets To My Improv Show 64 Handjob, Blowjob, Color-Printing Job –Whatever You Want, Big Boy 65 Individual Honeycombs Cereal 67 Polaroids Of My Parents Having Sex who are we sending flowers to? 70 Karl’s Girlfriend So I Can Steal Her 70 My Craigslist Slave 71 My Dead Younger Brother. He Likes Chrysanthemums. 73 The Timekeeper’s Six Brothers
what is secreting From our skin pores? 78 I Cut Off My Skin. Sorry. 79 Some Neutrogena Shit 83 Stills From The 3rd Season Of ‘Charles In Charge’ Here lies marlene summers, Beloved Mother, Grandmother, Wife... 85 Roast-Beef Pussied Ho 88 Breaker Of Both Hips While Attempting To Shit In The WalMart Bathroom 89 Big Dog On Campus 93 Baedeker Madrid Editor 95 Head Writer For iCarly 100 Subscriber To Internships.com Email Newsletter 101 First Mom To Land A 180 Ollie 104 Shaker Of Hands With Tom Hanks Once party themes 106 Agnosticism 108 My Magical Night With Anthony Hopkins 110 Frosted Tips 112 Costume Party: Your Favorite Jeffrey Dahmer Victim 114 Peloponnesian War: Dress As Either Spartan Or Athenian And Be Prepared To Debate 119 Forklift Box Stacking Party 120 The Swampy Garbage Chute From Star Wars Where The Walls Move In drinking games 121 Whenever A Youth Choose Basketball Instead Of Drugs
122 Seven Minutes In A Bathtub Full Of Collard Greens 124 Drink Whenever My Father Doesn’t Speak To Me. Where Are You, Dad? WHY ARE WE MENTORING TROUBLED YOUTHS? 126 Troubled Pussy 127 Want To Gain Their Trust And Then Steal Their Rhymes 130 We Have A Bet Going To See Who Can Get Theirs On The Corner First 131 Secretly Want Them To Teach Me How To Be Cool 135 MY CAS Dean Asked Me Personally In An Email 136 Want Them To Generate Content For My Website Why We’re Getting Our forklift driver’s permit 148 Warehouse Internship 149 My Dad Is A Forklift Driver 153 Camp Isawassa From Across The Lake Won’t Know What Hit ‘Em 158 Because It’s Easy To Cheat On The Test alternatives to walking 160 Suicide 161 One Foot In Front Of The Other. Come On, You Can Do This. Oh God, You Can’t. You’re Smothering Yourself In Peanut Butter Again. 179 Explosive Orgasm That Propels Me Across The Street 180 Unfortunately, This Wheelchair. But Hey, That’s My Lot In Life, And I Have Learned To Accept That.
why we’re shaking our fists at the neighborhood kids 181 Their Orgies Are Too Damn Loud 183 Their Orgies Are Too Damn Quiet 188 We Were Told We’re Not Allowed To Shake Our Fists On The Neighborhood Kids 190 They’re The Ones Who Came To Our Garage Rave 193 Before That Buzzsaw Accident It Was Called ‘Waving At The Neighborhood Kids’ why we’re pressing the elevator that’s already been pushed 194 I Like To Make A Doorbell Sound With My Mouth 195 Have To Go To Floor 99 198 Because Everytime An Elevator Button Is Pushed, A Bobst Mechanic Is Administered An Electroc Shock 201 Went To The Rainforest, Had Sex With A Monkey. Now The Parasite In My Brain Made Me Forget I Already Pushed It Or Something What Did We Do To Deserve Hurricane Sandy? 203 Gave Its YouTube Comment 43 Dislikes 204 I Fornicated And I Liked It 208 A Homeless Man And The Weather Said, “I Wish I Had Your Life!” At The Same Time, Triggering A Freak Friday Situation 210 Wished My Ex-Girlfriend Would Text For Some Reason Even Just To Ask If I Had Electricity Or If There Was
Flooding In My Area why pops lost his job at the sawmill 211 The Sawmiller’s Daughter Had To Go Stay With Her Aunt In Crawford For 9 Months 212 He’s Always Been Good For Nothin’. I Told Ya, Didn’t I Tell Ya? 214 He Lied About Being Proficient In Excel On His Resume 218 They Found Pictures Of Him At Cirque Du Soleil 219 For Using Company Equipment To Saw Personal Logs 218 He Kept Drilling Holes Into All Of The Logs For No Good Reason 219 This Economy. Boy, It’s Rough Out There. where Do we Want our ashes Spread? 230 In The Santa Anna Winds Of Our Despair. Yeah, That’s Good. They’ll Eat That Shit Up. 232 On Pizza As Spice 234 Spring Lake Where We Used To Go Every Summer And Where Grandma Drowned 238 Just Throw Them In The Air 239 The Chuck Palahniuk Section At Barnes &Noble things that are like a finely-aged cheese 241 My Dad’s Inability To Get An Erection 252 Black And White Old-Timey Porn 254 Victorian Era Child Pornography 258 The Lines From Willem Dafoe’s Nose To His Jaw Line
A Father’s Wisdom Father: We’ve had a long day of hiking, Junior, and you’ve earned a good night’s sleep. Now if I could just get this flashlight to turn on we’d be able to set up camp. Hmm, I think the battery’s dead. Junior, where are the extra batteries? Junior: Gee Pops, I brought the flashlight, but I don’t remember if I got any extra batteries. Father: You came into the forest without an extra set of batteries, Junior? Have I taught you nothing? Junior: I’m sorry Pops, I wasn’t thinking. Father: Oh you were thinking alright, Son. You just weren’t doing it with the head on top of your body. Oh no you weren’t! Every man’s got two heads, but he should only let one of them do his thinking. The things a man does with his other head ought to be between him and his God. Junior: But Pops, I promise I just forgot – Father: Let’s just say when you were packing for this trip, Junior, you were thinking about it all from the waist down. More specifically, you were thinking about it with your glans, which is the head of your penis. You acted like an animal, Junior, and because of that, I’m making you sleep alone in the woods tonight with the other animals. Junior: But Dad – Father: And I don’t care that you’re only ten years old, Junior, I’m teaching you this now so you don’t have to learn it at my age. A man should never let his unclean parts think for him. Now go into the forest and reflect upon what you’ve done.
Locker Room Bully Silenced by Full-Breasted Boy
Child’s Disappearance Discovered to be Plot Device
TUCSON, AZ—According to eyewitness reports at Little Mountain Junior High, locker room bully Ricky Berens did not seem like himself after last Wednesday’s PE class. His sixth grade classmates say that after most periods of gym, Berens can be found in the school’s locker-room commenting on the other boys’ “bitch-tits,” as well as asking these boys if they would like a bra for their alleged “bitch-tits.”
BOSTON—Investigators working on the case of the disappearance of Boston eighth grader Anthony O’Grady have discovered that the boy’s disappearance is simply a plot device meant to spur the personal growth of the crime’s hardened lead detective James “Boots” McLaggin. “Yep, Tony’s a McGuffin alright,” said Officer Frankie McEwen, a young but brash detective that reminds Boots of his own early idealism. “We thought that maybe Anthony going missing was the crux of the narrative, but really it’s all about the journey that Detective McLaggin has to go on, and finding himself and what not.”
The students had been playing basketball in Little Mountain’s gymnasium all afternoon when Coach Sanders ordered them to hit the showers. But this seemingly normal afternoon took a dark turn when new student Emil Holdsworth took off his shirt in the locker-room, revealing what appeared to be a pair of fully developed female breasts. Berens, usually a boisterous presence, was left dumbstruck. All of the sixth graders present confirmed that the breasts were big and round. “They were like squishy Nerf balls,” said classmate Eric An. When asked for a comment, Principle Anne Riley confirmed that the nipples were nicely proportioned to the rest of the breasts. “Not dried up little raisins, and not pepperonis either; nice pink mounds with just the right amount of puffiness,” she said. “Now if only we had a little more of that development in the girl’s locker room,” Riley joked.
The discovery was made when fellow detectives noticed that there was a softening of Boots’ hardened outer shell after spending more and more time with Anthony’s mother Amy O’Grady, a beautiful women markedly “de-glammed,” and possibly angling for a Best Supporting Actress nomination. “Yeah, that was the kicker right there,” added McEwen, “once we realized there was a love story in here too, it couldn’t be just a hardboiled crime story anymore.” Anthony went missing from his Charlestown apartment after school on October 28th, and there are many possible suspects, many of who are important friends and family from Boots McLaggin’s own rough Irish childhood. Boots was unavailable for comment, as he was still drowning himself in booze, having yet to be saved from his alcoholism that resulted from his traumatic past.
Stream Of Consciousness #2 By Dave Davies Mrs. Johnson Creative Writing
Prompt: What would you do if you received one million dollars? Wow. A million dollars. Spend it. Wait, I wouldn’t spend it that fast. I would hold onto it for a while. Long enough to say fuck you to everyone who wants a piece. I’m looking at you Kevin sitting across from me. He is a friend whore and if he found out I had a million dollars everyone would see what a scumbag he is. After finding out who my real friends are I’d turn the money into cash if it is not cash already. Not for handing out to people on the street. I’m assuming God awarded me the money for being the only decent person in the world and I’m not one to mess with His plan because remember what happened to Einstein? He’s dead, and I have never seen a picture of him where he’s not a thousand years old and sticking his tongue out at me like he knows something I don’t, that motherfucker. With the money turned into cash I would walk around with a wad and when I want someone to shut up and listen to me I’m going to throw it in their face. Then they would have to pick all of it up because under my coat I have a katana dating back to the 5th
century AD forged in the pit of a now extinct volcano and it is sharper than a laser. I also have a laser. Finally I can be myself because everyone listens to a bad ass with mad money. The rest I don’t know. Hmm. Maybe write a book. I would write a book about me and it would be called “Dave, You SonofaBitch” one word like that and the cover would be a big black and white picture of me smiling with a some rugged stubble. In the middle will also be a picture section with photos of me before and after God gave me the million. The last pic will have me running on a beach with a golden retriever and the caption will say “What’s next for this powerful man and his furry friend? The possibilities are as vast as all of the galaxies in space.” The book will be a best seller and valedictorians will quote me in their yearbooks so they look like smart fuckers but good luck getting a job if you can’t play basketball. Time was up a couple minutes ago but I’m a maverick.
poem interlude Haikus are faggy Like that larvae dick Darren I blew your dad once
Poetry SLAM
“Eat Me Out At The Ball Game” Eat me out at the ball game. We have to go, have to go now. The Reds just knocked it to third. I don’t want peanuts or Cracker Jack. Just your peanuts, my crack. I hope my surprise inside Is the man whose face folds into a hamburger. You’re up, up against my mitt. Strike one, strike two; don’t, don’t, don’t strike out. Just take me, take me, take me at the ball game. The ball game is death.
Answering Machine Hello…Hello is anybody there…Look I can’t really hear you…HA! Just kidding I am not really there…Sike again, I am! So what’s up?...Ok seriously I really didn’t catch that… HA! Got you again! You’re a gullible one! But really, I am not near the phone at the moment. But I wish I was! Because then I could be talking to you! And that would just be awesome. You know, in this fast paced world we live in if you are wiling to take the time to call me then I must consider you a true friend and I love you…Wow, feels good to finally let that out. You know I heard if you vocalize what you want it is more likely to happen. So love really has made its way into a lot of my speech nowadays. And yes, I know Sherie died 10 years ago and that I should be moving on by now but easier said than done. God, you know that was the last thing I said to her before she slipped and hit her head on that table corner. Haven’t been able to buy a table since. Been eating off of paper plates on the floor. Not so glamorous, but I probably deserve it. I am a worthless piece of garbage anyway and I deserve all the pain I have. Life is fair that way. Life is REAL FUCKING FAIR AINT IT! IF IT GIVES YOU A GLIMMER OF HOPE IT JUST WOULDN’T BE FAIR IF IT DIDN’T JUST SHIT ALL OVER THAT GLIMMER. AN EYE FOR AN EYE. OR IN MY CASE A BLODDY TABLE FOR A DEAD WIFE! That was my deal…well anyway leave a message after the beep and I will try to get back at you as soon as I can. And oh, by the way, this is my work phone so please no solicitations. Beep.
Subject: Welcome Hayden 7th Floor!! From: Sandra Cornstein Heyyyy guys!! My name is Sandy, and I’m super excited to be your RA this year! I lived in Hayden my freshman year, and let’s just say it was the “Hay-day” of my college experience! Anyway, I just wanted to get a chance to introduce myself and let you guys know what to expect a little bit before you get here. Events You guys might be a little nervous about making friends at a new school, but don’t worry, it’s my job to build a floor community. We’re all going to get to know each other, and we’re going to be a family. I’ll be personally sure to get to know every single one of you, and you shall all know me. From the creak of my feet in the hall to the sulfurous aura of my presence, you shall know me. For when you look into my eyes, into the oozing black, you shall know that I am you and you are me. Your mind shall become my mind, your flesh my flesh. For we shall be one. So make sure to come to Milk and Cookie Night on Saturdays! Quiet Hours Okay, Hayden is very strict about its quiet hours. The serpents of the dark writhe deep in the night. You
have no secrets. They care nothing of your good or your evil. Your laughter brings them no joy, and your cries are for naught. They consume as blackness consumes. Their hunger is never satisfied. They will come for you. So just keep it down from 11PM to 7AM on weeknights and 1AM to 7AM on weekends. Roommate Agreements It’s pretty important for you all to set rules within your suites in terms of privacy, noise, cleaning, etc. You should come up with these early on just in case any problems arise during the year. For within each one of you lie the seeds of fury. A poisonous flower that blooms pure rage and destruction. You are no longer man, but beast. And when you gaze at another’s blood on your trembling hands, feeling nothing, you will know the havoc you have wrought and the horrors you will commit. Personally, I recommend a cleaning schedule. See you guys next weekend, Sandy (but you can call me Hecate :P ) ___ Sandra Cornstein New York University, Nutrition Major Surf Club at NYU, Vice President
Math Theorems Math is all around us. When we study mathematics, we not only learn about numbers and shapes, but we also learn about ourselves – and can have a great deal of fun in the process! Let’s explore some concepts from one of the most exciting subjects in math: geometry. The radius of a circle is half the diameter. The sum of the lengths of any two sides of a triangle are always greater than the third side. An ellipse is defined by two special points called my depleted sex drive and nonexistent will to live another day. a2+ b2 = God’s lack of existence. 4πr2 is the surface area of the rotting black sphere of ash and regret that is my heart.
Every pentagram is composed of five triangles and a pentagon. I will not go on with a joke about Satan because I do not think it would be funny I do not think anything is funny anymore I never laugh anymore. The slope of two parallel lines will always be the fact that everyone I have ever loved has left me. When you add up the interior angle and exterior angle of a polygon, you get the crippling loneliness I have felt for my entire life. A rhombus is a parallelogram because in 9th grade I told my family I cut myself and my older brother called me a “fat pussy” and threw a soccer ball at my face. Every square is a rectangle, but judging by the number of sleepless nights I’ve spent crying on a bathroom floor after eating 6mg of Xanax and chugging a bottle of $3 red wine from Trader Joes with tears and vomit all over my face, it’s safe to say I’m severely depressed. Now you see how fun math really is Geometry can be applied almost everywhere – in art, sports, fashion... you name it! I hope you enjoyed this lesson.
Poughkeepsie Ladies’ Garden Club Aug 14th, Meeting Minutes 1:00 P.M. Chairwoman Felicia Southers calls meeting to order. 1:05 P.M. Two new members introduce themselves. I, Secretary Amelia Benedict, take down their names: Claudia Ray Louisa Wan 1:07 P.M. Vice Chair Alexandra Ferarra serves the English tea and crab cakes. 1:11 P.M. Chairwoman Southers leads discussion planning our contribution to next month’s Ovarian Cancer Awareness Fundraiser. Special emphasis is placed on raising more funds than rival Poughkeepsie Union of Lady Gardeners, founded by famed communist Natasha Povlovski, who mysteriously disappeared in a conservatory fire years ago. 1:20 P.M. Chairwoman Southers begins to feel poorly. 1:23 P.M. Chairwoman Southers and all members who have eaten the crab cakes fall ill. Vice Chair Ferarra becomes acting Chairwoman. 1:27 P.M. Small bottle of ipecac syrup is discovered by the crab cakes platter. Chairwoman Ferarra immediately suspects foul play and infiltration by Association of Lady Gardeners. 1:28 P.M. Chairwoman Ferrara establishes Espionage Investigation Committee.
1:35 P.M. Suspicion turns toward New Members Ray and Wan, neither of whom have eaten the crab cakes. 1:38 P.M. Chairwoman Ferarra passes initiative to bind Ray and Wan with fetters fashioned from lace tablecloth. Wan proposes that her binds are too tight. Chairwoman Ferarra says we give no sympathy to spies, and the motion is blocked. 1:45 P.M. Ray notes that neither she nor Wan had access to the crabcakes. Espionage Investigation Committee’s Conclusion: There is a traitor in our midst. 1:48 P.M. Chairwoman Ferarra leads discussion on who would have had motive to incapacitate our leader. Suspicion inevitably turns to Ferarra. 2:03 P.M. Newly-formed Treachery Retribution Subcommittee ignores Ferarra’s pleas for reason and swiftly gags her with the foul crabcakes. 2:07 P.M. Ferarra becomes ill and chokes on her own vomit. 2:08 P.M. Ferarra is dead. The just have triumphed. 2:09 P.M. I suggest we all have a celebratory cup of English tea. 2:10 P.M. The cyanide in the tea takes effect and eliminates all members of the Poughkeepsie Ladies’ Garden Club. 2:12 P.M. I, Amelia Benedict, born Natasha Povlovski, leave a primrose and fern arrangement on each of the bodies, courtesy of the Union of Lady Gardeners.
The Snapple Facts The following happened on a relatively normal day in a tall fancy business building: Jurgenson: Damn it people! THINK! What could be bringing down sales for three quarters? Snapple practically sells itself; it’s tasty, it’s everywhere, it’s fun. I had a strawberry-lemonade Snapple at the beach with my nephew last weekend and it was the goddamn most refreshing beverage I’ve had in months.
Mary: Tom you fool!!! Jurgenson: Save it Mary. Maybe he’s right… Go on Tom… Tom: Well I was thinking. With the Snapple facts... What if shit got real? Jurgenson: What if shit… got real? Mary: So like, you open your bottle of Snapple, you read the back of the cap and all of a sudden Shit Gets Real. Is that what you mean Tom?
Mary: We’re trying sir but the data isn’t helping. Even launching CocoMangoFusionBlast, and then later releasing the Snapple Enema hasn’t done anything to boost profits.
Tom: More or less yeah!!! You got it! Imagine, you look under the cap and it says, “God doesn’t exist.” That’s the kind of badass edginess consumers will respond to. And by “respond to” I mean pay out the ass for.
Tom: Maybe it’s about time you retards listen to me.
Jurgenson: Oh I know a good one! “Anal sex is better.” Like that Tom?
Jurgenson: Tom, so help me God, I haven’t got time for your bullshit. The entire Snapple fruit-drink empire is depending on us. I’ve just abou-
Tom: Like that! Now you try Mary!
Tom: LOOK AT THE FACTS. The Snapple facts! Mary: Jesus. Tom: “Consuming celery requires more calories than the celery itself ” Haven’t heard THAT one before. “Penguins can jump six feet” Who gives a shit? There are over 15 species of penguins, which penguins are we even talking about here?? Jurgenson: The facts have nothing to do with it, Tom! Tom: Face it Jurgenson. Consumers could care less what this crap tastes like.The only reason anyone bought Snapple in the first place was the facts. Now the facts suck, they suck hard. It’s the same thing that killed the fortune cookie.
Mary: “Everyone you love will die.” Tom: Smell that? Shit’s getting real around here. Jurgenson: I’ll say! Mary: Brilliant Tom, you might have just saved this fine company. Tom: Just doin’ mah job ma’am. (Tom tips his hat toward Mary. She giggles. He winks.) Jurgenson: I’ll leave you two lovebirds to celebrate. I better go home to tell my dominatrix the good news while she pours hot wax on my balls. I expect the paperwork on my desk first thing tomorrow! Tom: Fuck yeah.
Yahoo News Pitch meeting Yahoo News Editor: Alright guys, we need ideas! Yahoo news is a
proud news source and our news bar must be up to date with everything! Entertainment, politics and health tips. So can somebody please give me something! Johnson, what do you got? Johnson: How about we do a piece on how celebs look different now then they did 10 years ago? People won’t believe that they actually look different! We will give it the headline “Celebrities Get Huge Makeovers”. YNE: That is an excellent idea! Please tell me everyone is on the same page as Johnson. Carter hit me with another please! Carter: Um well I was thinking we could post up perhaps like a political story? But instead of adding new information to the news we could just write a long convoluted story that will probably just confuse people instead of actually helping them understand the story. YNE: Well I like that idea Carter but it needs a little more, UMPH!, what would the headline be to grab the readers attention? Carter: We could just go with “Obama Makes Decision Most Wouldn’t Have Guessed.” YNE: Brilliant! It is a title that both grabs reader’s attention and also isn’t a complete and total lie necessarily! My god Carter it’s times like these that make me just wanna make love to your sweet
and juicy mind. Carter: (whispers) I love you. YNE: What? Carter: Nothing. YNE: Alright, so let’s keep this going! Does anyone else have any good ideas? Williamson: Umm I was thinking maybe we could..uhh… just have a news story that is just, you know, trustworthy and honest. And instead of screwing our readers by having them watch a 30 second video that is prefaced by a minute long ad, we could just write a clear story that conveys the information in an unbiased manner thus keeping the news neutral and honest instead of stirring up readers against any kind of conservative ideas and vice-versa. I really think people would like that. YNE: (Pulls out Magnum handgun and shoots Williamson in the chest several times.) Well hey not all ideas work but that’s why we brainstorm. Now then, anyone else? Carter: Umm we could just say we have 5 amazing new tips on how to lose weight and then just tell them 5 obvious ways to lose weight? And we could paste a picture of a doctor next to the article, that way it seems legit. YNE: God bless you Carter.
Rosa Parks: The Hoarder Many people know Rosa Parks as a civil rights activist, “the mother of the freedom movement.” But here’s something many people don’t know about Parks-- she was a hoarder. You heard right, folks: a window seat was not the only thing she refused to give up. This news has left the world in shock; many people are asking difficult questions. Many are left questioning if maybe her refusal to give up her seat was vastly overblown. And now,The Plague has exclusive proof of Rosa Parks’ hoarding.
-A large pile of skulls that could either be from cats or some kind of large squirrel -Every “Now That’s What I Call Music” CD -A ring that was given to her by her best friend -Boxes upon boxes containing autographed headshots of herself -1000 photocopies of a state fair ticket that proves she once attended a state fair -Every single monkey totem segment from the set of the Nickelodeon game show Legends of the Hidden Temple (1993) -Innumerable nativity scenes that consisting only of the donkey and one of the three kings
All the Things Mrs. Parks Refused to Give Up:
-Rubble from the fall of the Berlin Wall
-An extensive collection of “National Geographic KIDS” magazines, none of which she had ever read
-A 2nd place trophy from Little Negro League
-An old basketball she adamantly claims she dunked with one time while nobody was around -50 jars filled exclusively with the liquid that comes from Gushers fruit snacks -A picture of her dead mother. Who was not only a huge influence on her life but the only person who ever truly believed in her
-Both Rice Krispies and Cocao Krispies, color doesn’t matter to her -SNL reruns she filmed using a camcorder
Deaf Bully Bully: (Puts kid in headlock) Say uncle! Kid: Uncle! Bully: Say uncle! Kid: Uncle! Bully: Say uncle! Kid: Uncle! Bully: Say uncle! Kid: (losing consciousness) Uncle.. Bully: Say uncle! Kid: (signs ‘uncle’ with hands) Bully: (drops kid) Haha faggot!
“I Got Kicked Out Of NYU For Calling My Professor A [Expletive Deleted]” Dear Students, Faculty, and Staff of New York University, Last week I was invited by the staff at NYU Local to provide a personal account of my expulsion from the university and of the events leading up to it. I decided to take the opportunity to do so, both for the purpose of putting to rest any rumors that I’m responsible for committing a hate crime, but also in order to help me, myself, reason through what happened to me in the last three months. The first thing I need to clarify is that I’m admittedly exaggerating when I say that I was “kicked out” of the university. To be fair, I was asked to leave. Since I agreed to do so voluntarily, the university has been fairly good about protecting my anonymity. Given the particulars of the circumstances, I must admit I didn’t really see any other options but to pack up and leave the school. Speaking of those circumstances, the only real witnesses to what actually went on were the forty or so other students in the lecture hall at the time that the incident took place. But, none of them seemed very much like they wanted to come out and help me with the situation. Instead, most have been the source of several vicious rumors about the incident, as well as misleading interpretations of what exactly I intended to get across in calling my professor a “doo-doo butt.” I would like to address everyone present in the lecture and apologize as sincerely as I possibly can. I would like to make special mention of those students who were particularly offended by my remark in that they believe it was meant to be hateful or participate in any way in “fag bashing.” I don’t know where this whole idea came from, but I need to say, from the bottom of my heart, that I did in no way intend this embarrassingly childish obscenity to carry with it any sort of homophobic connotations. The utterance was, instead, the fulmination of months of frustration and anxiety concerning my relation with professor Greene. I know most of you have already made up your minds about me and I have nothing but thanks for your all having protected me from exposure to the public, and it’s to you, the witnesses of this incident, that I owe the most complete and factual account of the last three months.
I began to suspect for the first time that I would have a difficult time in professor Greene’s course when, during the first week of the semester, he avoided calling on my while taking questions during his lectures. In fact, it appeared that he would entirely avoid eye contact with me. I considered seeking him out in office hours, or before class, but his apparent aloofness really did intimidate me. Eventually, I settled on writing an e-mail to my T.A. to ask how I could participate more actively in our lectures. What followed was a brief exchange of messages, eventually concluding with my T.A. letting me know that she would “bring this up with professor Greene.” The following week I didn’t notice any change in my professor’s behavior, until that Thursday when my professor stopped me as I was exiting the lecture hall. The zipper on my backpack was broken, and I took long enough packing up that the room was all but empty. Professor Greene informed me that my “grade would benefit” from making a greater effort to “reach out to him” “outside of class,” if I remember his wording correctly. I replied that I thought the time he allotted for questions during lecture would be sufficient, at which point he handed me a folded piece of paper before leaving the room. I never looked at the paper, and eventually I put it through the wash in my pants pocket, since I had forgotten all about it. In the weeks that came after that encounter, I noticed a marked change in my professor’s demeanor and behavior toward me, as he shifted from apparent indifference to marked hostility. At one point, I specifically remember him handing back to me a paper I had thought my T.A. was going to grade with the one comment, “rewrite,” in capital letters on the first page, and my professor’s saying that “elusive students don’t get the A.” I decided, in any event, if I was going to work through my writing problems, I would have to visit my professor during his office hours, which I proceeded to do the following day. I couldn’t get him to talk about the paper, though, and, for his part, his only interest seemed to be whether I had a girlfriend and if I played basketball in high school. I remember him making tea on a chemistry lab hot plate and I think I can recall him asking, almost under his breath, if I wanted to drink anything stronger. I ended up leaving that day with a framed picture of him as a young man at the beach, which I left in a garbage can on the street. This began a phase in our relationship that was characterized by his giving me gifts and speaking to me in increasingly derogatory and
suggestive terms. Monday, I found in my seat a Bloomingdale’s bag containing a scarf and a typed note saying “for you, [my name], to keep your little angel wings warm.” Upon my exiting the lecture hall that afternoon, professor Greene stopped me and said something to the effect of: “I see the way you watch me. Why don’t you ever call?” I checked to see if anyone else leaving the room had heard this, but it didn’t appear that anyone had. At this point, I am almost positive I heard, over the din of the other students talking and packing up, my professor add under his breath, “you little slut.” By this point, I was really at a loss. I’ve really always been inclined to believe the authority a professor derives from his pedagogy allows him to in some ways insult or otherwise put down a student, but I was having trouble understanding the way my professor appeared to be treating me as a method to advance my education. With nowhere to turn, I decided to call home and talk to my mother. At that time, though, I was having trouble articulating the problem I was facing and describing its nature. My mom comes from a deeply religious Midwestern family, and the implications I was beginning to suspect of my professor’s behavior might not have seemed so apparent to her. My mother had read a favorable review of professor Greene’s book on Amazon and she was enthusiastic that I might get a chance to work with the professor on his research. When I asked her what to do with the scarf I’d received, she told me there wasn’t any harm in wearing it and otherwise I might seem to suggest I thought of myself as above the extra attention I was receiving from a very busy man. She told me, “consider it payment in advance for your services,” with his research, I suppose. I didn’t feel much more at ease after we said goodnight and hung up then I had felt before, and certainly no more so the following Monday when I found another bag from Bloomingdale’s containing a bottle of cologne and a note that read, “I want to smell this on your next paper.” On my way out of class that day, my professor stopped me and gave me a photograph printed on glossy printer paper. The picture was of me, spreading cream cheese on a bagel. He said in a low voice, “the scarf looks nice on you. Wear it more often.” I had taken to carrying it in my bag and wearing it in class only. I believe a reasonable paraphrase of what he proceeded to say is: “I don’t want you to catch a cold, because if you
sneezed on a classmate, he might catch your eye.” I decided to meet with my advisor. Before I entered into our meeting, he had pulled up my running grades on his computer. Even though I hadn’t handed in any completed work to my professor since the first paper, which hadn’t in fact received a grade, to my knowledge, I was, apparently, getting a B+ in professor Greene’s class. I voiced a concern that I didn’t think professor Greene was evaluating my performance as a student objectively. Though my advisor went on to deny this during my meetings with the dean of the college following my “outburst,” the response that my concern elicited took the form of my advisor rolling his eyes and saying, “a B+ is a fine grade for this course. Don’t go grade grubbing.” He then leaned forward and said, going on later to deny this as well, “no one likes a grubber. And no one likes a student who looks a gift horse in the mouth. Or, who complains too much.” When I told him I thought professor Greene might have been behaving inappropriately, he only replied that my professor was highly respected in his field, and then repeated, “no one likes a grubber.” He then laughed for a long time. I felt a bit disconcerted, but decided to join in with him, even though I can genuinely say I wasn’t sure if he had made any kind of joke. He said, “there, see? You’re fine,” and added, “by the way, that is a very nice scarf.” Walking home that evening, I felt a certain kind of fatigue I couldn’t describe. I missed class the following day and stayed in bed. That afternoon I received an e-mail from my T.A. explaining that she and my professor had both noted my absence and would have to contact my advisor if I missed another lecture. That was about when I started with the drinking. Rather than put up with the anxiety and apprehension I had begun to face every Monday and Thursday morning, I would begin the day with a tall glass of vodka. The drinking served as a reasonably effective fix for my trepidation, and I stopped minding the gifts and seemingly out of place remarks I received from my professor. After a month, I was the proud owner of a variety of different items, purchased from Bloomingdales – the one on 59th, the “expensive one,” as professor Greene often noted. The messages that accompanied these items had become increasingly either cryptic or frightening. If I remember correctly, they ranged from being as mild and apparently harmless as “I can see in your eyes when you aren’t wearing the swim trunks I bought you under your clothes” to
being as hostile and outright as “this set of candle holders can be so much more. Be creative!” At one point, my professor purchased me a disposable camera with the instructions: “let’s see those feet out of the shoes” and “don’t forget to smile.” Had I retained these notes, I might have had a reasonable defense against the accusations of defamation I faced after my “incident,” but, as it stood, keeping the notes in my possession usually elicited feelings of overwhelming guilt that often precipitated nausea, and I would often destroy and dispose of the notes on the way home from class. Rather than seek to put a name to the treatment I was receiving, I took a position of childlike innocence, such that I could legitimately affect to complete miscomprehension when my professor would, for example, stop me after class on cold November mornings to invite me to warm up on his bear-skin rug by the fire and would suggest additionally that I let him see my own “bear [sic] skin,” if he had so graciously invited me to make use of his. The drinking was a useful component of my demeanor. But, as I found, it hurt my relation with my peers. Most of my friends from the dorm had gotten tired of finding me already drunk prior to doing any drinking as a group. My only romantic interest at the time, a girl whose name I will leave out for her sake, decided she could no longer take me even as a friend. She had started seeing a graduate student who was three years older than her, and she wasn’t happy about my constant insistence that he was taking advantage of her. I said at one point, “those older men, they’re always trying to control you. And, men, they always get what they want,” to which she replied, “good thing you aren’t much of a man.” As she walked away, she added, off-handedly, “and, by the way, your new satin bedding is disgusting. Who do you think you’re impressing?” That was the last thing she ever said to me. Admittedly, if I hadn’t been drinking so much, I might have chosen my words better, but it didn’t matter; I was almost completely out of control of my life. At that point I decided to pick up smoking. Swaying in a drunk cloud outside the lecture hall the following Thursday, I lit my fifth cigarette of the morning. Taking a sudden, unexpected step backwards, I found myself in the arms of professor Greene who, I guess, had been standing behind me. He stood me upright and looked me in the eye. He
said, “I don’t like the way these make a boy’s mouth smell,” at which point he took the cigarette out of my hand and put it in his mouth, the whole time keeping his eyes fixed on mine. He said I smelled like liquor. Before I could come up with an excuse, he leaned in and said, “I like that.” I made myself laugh. He put his hand on my cheek and said, “when will you let me in on all the fun?” Before I could say anything he added that the university paid him very well and that he “could make [me] happy.” I didn’t make it back to the lecture hall until about twenty minutes after the class had formally started. The walk was really only about ten minutes there and back, but I had decided from the moment my cheek was touched that I was going to need another drink. When I entered the hall, the sound of pen scratching seemed like it almost could have knocked me over, and I remembered the midterm was that day. Without making eye contact, professor Greene handed me a copy of the test. I wrote my name on the front and flipped to the first page. My eyesight was very blurry from being drunk, and I had to close my left eye to read the essay prompts. On the top of the page there appeared to be a dark, glossy ink smudge, but on running my finger over it and examining it closer, I discovered it was actually a mass of coarse, curly, black and grey hairs taped to the paper. At this point, I discovered that I was sweating and feeling very cold at the same time. Professor Greene was looking back up at me. His hair was straight. I quickly averted my gaze. I didn’t fill out any parts of the exam, on my honor. Instead, I waited until the remaining hour had elapsed. I turned in my paper and left. My memory of lecture the following day is particularly unclear, but I remember when I was leaving I nearly fell over. Professor Greene apprehended me and helped me into his desk chair as the other students were leaving. He said, something to the effect of, “I noticed you left me a little present on your exam.” I had no idea what to say. Had I? I wasn’t sure at that moment. He lowered his voice and said, “a special present. And, I need to let you know: I accept.” I asked him, “accept? What do you mean?” I really had no idea how to react, nor how to handle a situation like this. He said, “don’t beat around your own bush.” I laughed, but couldn’t maintain it and ended up just saying, “what?” He sat on the desk and crossed his leg over the other and said, and I swear this on my mother’s life, “you know, I am very big. Not many boys can handle
me.” I remember swallowing sharply at this point. I noticed our T.A. hadn’t left the room and was listening. Professor Greene said, loudly, “big in my academic field, of course.” He glanced over at our T.A.. She waved her hand, looked away, and proceeded out the door. At that point, I perceived a kind of “light at the end of the tunnel.” But, as soon as the T.A. was out of the room, Greene stood up, faced away from me, and said, if I remember some approximation of it, “you have until tonight to decide, finally, what you want. You’ve had my number all along, but you haven’t called. I’m giving you one last chance to be honest with yourself, and let me remind you that your decision will have,” and he paused briefly before continuing, “a profound impact on the grade you receive for this course. Just remember: you are a filthy boy. I am a man, and, whatever you decide, either way, I will show you what a real man can do.” I fell over on the sidewalk on my way home. Two old men helped me stand up, and then one of them spat on my shoulder. I fell asleep on the floor immediately upon entering my dorm room. When I woke up the next day I was still in a daze. I climbed into my desk chair, focused my energy, and composed an e-mail to professor Greene, since I figured his number had been on one of the notes of his I’d thrown out. In my message, I explained that I was willing to do pretty much anything for him. I thanked him for his gifts and concluded that I was waiting for his response. I pressed send and spent a minute thinking about what might happen to me. As I sat and thought, the sun came up, and I stood by the window and did what I thought seemed most dutiful. I held up my glass of vodka to the new light and said solemnly inside my own head that I was less than the world around me, and that, by taking it all in, I would be, in fact, participating in the give and take that has made humans what they are. No one built the Empire State Building by being selfish. No one lights the streets who decides unilaterally he doesn’t want to kiss his professor. On Saturday, I got a call from a girl I had been seeing over the summer who told me she was at her parents’ place alone. I didn’t feel like going, so I kept drinking alone and ignored the rest of her calls. I didn’t sleep on Sunday night and found myself back in class, sitting in my assigned seat. I realized when professor Greene entered the hall that I had neglected to check my e-mail since I had written him, and I didn’t
know what his response was, or even if he had provided one. I comforted myself after noticing that he had resumed, as in the beginning of the semester, ignoring my presence in his lecture. He began the class and I consoled myself that he had forgotten the whole thing. I gradually sank into my seat until I was sitting on my lower back. I felt relaxed. I felt calm and, almost, pleasant, even. Everything seemed like it would work out. In a few weeks the semester would be over. I was starting to make plans for what I would do first when I went home, and eventually decided I would eat a bowl of cereal and ask my mom if any girls could ever like me. I was imagining her inevitable encouragements when I immediately returned to where I was sitting. Professor Greene had given me a slight glance and once again my attention was his. He cleared his throat, and then he pushed his jacket back and put his hands on his hips. He faced away from the hall to the whiteboard where I, just then, noticed that he had written the words “academic integrity.” He said, “as an academic, I have always obeyed the conventions of academic integrity. But, have you?” He turned around and faced the hall, again giving me a glance. “If I am to ignite the spark of your intellectual curiosity, I must be able to examine you personally in order to determine to what extent that fire burns – how bright, and how hot. To do so, I need to see you as you are. That is, I need to see your own individual work which you must render me. But, one of you is unable to render me anything of your own.” He held up a filled-out copy of the exam. He said my full name and went on, “…has provided me with an exact, word for word copy of his neighbor’s exam.” He glared at me. “Both of you will fail the exam, and [my name] will be subject to the highest level of scrutiny to determine why and how he managed such blatant plagiarism of his classmate’s work.” I was in a state of shock. I quickly looked over to my classmate at the next desk to the right to gauge his reaction. He was staring at me and growled, “you dumb motherfucking asshole!” I looked back at professor Greene. He said, “what do you have to say for yourself.” I stammered. I could barely say anything. I wanted to cry like a little kid. But, all I managed was to whisper that horrible, stupid profanity. Professor Greene paused, and then took three large steps toward me and put his hand up to his ear in an exaggerated and mocking gesture. He said, “what’s that?”
I stared for a minute. And then, I yelled out “doo-doo butt.” The boy sitting next to me gasped. A general murmur went up around the room. Professor Greene just stood there for a moment. And then, and I could never have predicted this, he broke out in tears, and walked out of the room, quickly and with his face in his hands. I heard a girl from the back yell, “you monster.” She was talking to me. The next thing I knew, my T.A. was standing over me and pointing stiffly to the door. I went home and, within the hour, received a phone call asking me to come in for the first of what would be three meetings that ultimately resulted in my resignation from studenthood. I need to say right now, as sincerely as I can, that I am truly and humbly sorry to everyone whom I hurt that day, and, especially, to professor Greene, whom I haven’t seen since then, and to his wife and young daughter, Sophie. But, above all, to my professor. I had no idea at the time about his honorable military service, nor was I aware that he had sustained a serious wound in the line of duty that resulted in the surgical removal of his anal sphincter. Furthermore, I apologize for the sexually harassing e-mail I wrote him the weekend prior to the incident, which, eventually ended up being the “final nail in the coffin” in which my academic career is currently interned to the earth. I never meant to make any implications that professor Greene is a homosexual, nor did I mean to convey at all that being gay has anything to do with “doo-doo” or “butts.” I am currently packing to leave home and enter an inpatient rehab program for my alcoholism. I am entering as a type II alcoholic, which I’m to understand from their pamphlets and other literature means the kind of alcoholic who hurts others with his drinking more than he hurts himself. If I never started to drink, I never would have thought it was appropriate to call my professor, an honorable veteran of the U.S. Army, what I called him, and I never would have thought it was appropriate to write him the suggestive e-mail that I did. I am truly sorry, and I am seeking a speedy and full recovery. Thank you for reading my appeal. Sincerely, Anonymous.
What Happened To The Love Of The Glue? By Elmer, From Elmer’s Glue
Hey, readers! It’s me, Elmer! From Elmer’s Glue! Unfortunately, I am writing to you all today, not about the progress of Elmer’s Memoirs or about the status of Elmer’s Hernia, but about the bleak future of the glue industry itself. Last Thursday, I went down to Elmer’s Glue Headquarters to attend a commemorative dinner celebrating fifty years of “prosperity” since my first invention of the angelic-white goo that has since become a staple in educational institutions across America. However, I say “prosperity” with bated breath as I no longer have faith in the future of what was once a seemingly invincible organization. Prior to the celebration, I was invited to attend an executive meeting. Granted, I’ve been out of the glue game for nearly thirty years, but I’ve kept up with recent developments from the primal-howl-inducing success of hot glue to the Super Glue Fad of ‘94. However, the privilege of listening in on an executive meeting would afford me a rare look behind the scenes to learn about the innovative new glue products in development. Would they have electronic glue? Glue you can rub on the weird rash that’s on your inner thigh? Glue that can repair a nation fragmented by race, religion, and income inequality?
Needless to say, I was excited. But once the meeting started, none of the executives even talked about glue at all! It was all market share this, and key demographics that. These men spoke as if their chests had not been tattooed with the insignia of Elmer the Bull as is mandatory for all company employees. They didn’t care about Elmer’s Glue—it seemed like they only cared about hurting Elmer’s Feelings with all their talk about pricing strategy and consumer bases. I don’t need to tell you that I politely excused myself the moment they began talking about horizontal integration! God, what happened to this place? The men in that room were not glue-men. They were just businessmen looking for a quick buck. I wonder, when did glue become about the money? What happened to the love of the glue? I remember when I was a poor college dropout, washing dishes seven days a week for two bottlecaps an hour. I was too poor to afford a mattress so I slept on the floor, and instead of a pillow, I used a burlap sack filled with dirty plates I stole from work. But it was all worth it whenever my buddies and I would get together in the tiny basement of Liang’s Chinese Takeout and just make glue. Old man Liang would let us work into the night for as long as we wanted in exchange for a few pints of our mix. Back then, it wasn’t about the money. It was always about the glue. We didn’t think we could make a living doing this, and we didn’t give a damn! We loved it! We were just a group of guys who had a common passion for
sticking one object to another object. We were young and stupid, our heads filled with viscous dreams of combining two things together so that they become one bigger, better thing. Some weeks, none of us had enough money to buy synthetic polymers so, instead, we would try to make concoctions out of spit and sawdust. It never worked, but boy, we had a blast doing it. You can bet that if Elmer’s Cash Cow stopped producing tasty glue-money milk that the businessmen in that room would jump ship into tapes, staples, or even paperclips for Pete’s sake! On Friday nights, my buddies and I used to gather in the alleyways by streetlight and battle against glue teams from other cities to see who had the stickiest mix. There was no prize, no reward for victory save the inherent joy of seeing your gelatinous paste outlast the competition. How many of those businessmen would have gotten their hands sticky? How many would have been willing to throw a punch if a thug from Dayton tried to dilute our mix with sun tan lotion? We were out there every day, fighting, sweating, grinding under those streetlights; that’s what turned us from glue-boys into glue-men. I guess what I’m saying is that the glue industry isn’t what it used to be. I should’ve seen the change coming or maybe I did see it but just didn’t want to believe it. During the boom years, eager youngsters would ask me how they could get a job in glue. And I always said: you don’t. If
you have to ask, then you don’t have that essential “glue” spirit. Glue-guys don’t concoct syrupy adhesives because they want to do it. They have to do it. Only a crazy son of a bitch would want to be a glue guy. God bless ‘em. They’re a special breed, these glue-men. Maybe this is no longer true. Sometimes my buddies and I will talk on the phone about the wild, run-and-gun glory days of the glue game. I’ll always have those memories. They’re stuck to me forever as if adhered by the world’s strongest glue. And that glue is a little something called love. The love of the glue. Something those businessmen will never experience. Bunch of scumbags.
The Goon How did I end up here? What would my poor mother, God bless her soul, think if she saw me now, her dear little boy, robbing a toy store? And on Christmas Eve no less! I’d heard this Joker fellow was insane, but this is just wrong. God, this is wrong. But what choice have I got, what with the baby on the way, and Sarah needing those new diabetes pills? Ever since Wayne Enterprise exported all the factory jobs to Cambodia, it’s been tough to make ends meet. God I hate that Wayne guy. Who does he think he is, tossing all us workers out like that? I’m not the only guy who’s had to throw in with one of these criminal wackjobs to make it through the winter. I heard Paul and Ernest from accounting were working with the Penguin. ‘Til Batman busted them, that is. You never read in the paper what happens to the guys The Bat catches, most of them don’t even live long enough to get to the hospital. They like to say he doesn’t kill, but have you ever seen what happens when a 220 pound man lands on someone’s head at
30 miles per hour? I have. God, poor guys. Both of them are still in critical care. Ernest is going to need a wheelchair and someone to help him piss for the rest of his life, and Paul might not make it through the weekend. The Bat broke both of his arms, his jaw, all of his ribs, cut three of his fingers off, popped both of his eyes out, and threw him out of a third floor window. Who throws a guy out like that that? Well, other then The Bat. And Bruce Wayne. God I hate that guy. Wait. Oh Jesus what was that? Was that a scream? Wait, where did Chris go? He was right down the hall. Chris? Oh God, ok stay calm, stay calm stay… Wait what was that? Oh god, oh God no! Not you! Stay away from me! I’ll shoot I’ll… Oh sweet God my face! My eyes, God they burn! Ughh I can’t feel my arm, why can’t I feel my arm, oh God is that my fucking arm dangling over there? How is that even possible? Shit, shit my nose, God I think he ripped my fucking nose off! I’m bleeding, I’m bleeding everywhere! Help! Help me! Wait, what are you… No, not the window, not the fucking window! No! Please, God no please! Fuck you Batman! Fuck you Bruce Wayne!
Just a Hug: An Erotic Encounter with John Sexton The hall was echoing with the animated cries of the other freshmen students: jovial, contented, and surrounded by new friends. Then there was me. I twisted the lanyard around my fingers and looked at my ID. What an unlovable face I had. I heard the boisterous laughing of a man who knows what he wants. I turned and John Sexton approached. He didn’t walk so much as saunter, a real Brooklyn swagger. My breath caught. Seeing me, He left His companions and walked over. His smile was warm and fatherly, but His eyes told a different story. I tried to stand up a little straighter, stronger. “I suppose you’ll be wanting your hug.” His voice wasn’t like I remembered when it was reverberating throughout the crowded theater; it was gravelly now, deep and yearning. “Is that all you’re offering?” The words fell out of my watering mouth before I could help myself. I bit my tongue and looked at the ceiling, then the floor, anywhere but those eyes. I felt His hand under my chin, I felt my nervous system seize and pulsate. He was undoubtedly a man who could take your breath away. I don’t remember walking outside with Him, no; I can’t remember the cab ride either. When we got back to His apartment, He went to make some tea. I wandered the rooms, looking at the walls and furniture, trying to understand some aspect of this enigma in place of a man. But I only found a cross, Highlights magazines and pictures of His kids, both older than I was. “The tea’s hot.” He said it quietly, polite even. His tone didn’t mean anything to me; we both knew what He meant, what He wanted. We were touching each other in ways I’d never experienced. With His tongue on mine, my insides contracted
like a sexual stress ball. I felt His impressive amount of man rising to the occasion and shuddered with a sensual pleasure that was unfamiliar to me. His dog barked at us from the other room but this wasn’t about LEGS; this was about us. He was behind me then, and as he rhythmically pushed into me, I moaned, staring at a worn Dodgers poster. Beyond this, there are few things I can concretely recall about John Sexton. I mostly remember His telling me I mattered, the feeling of being worth it. I remember waking, spent, the next morning, my lanyard still binding my wrists in the erotic knot He had used. “John?” I’d called. My voice was raspy and my mouth tasted the kind of salty you didn’t get from tortilla chips. He poked His head around the corner of the doorway wearing nothing but a baseball cap and jean cutoff shorts. It was so intimate. “Ah… you’re up.” It was quiet, then; the comfortable quiet only two lovers with no sense of moral bearing can share. He straddled me, reminding me how awake I really was. As He loosened the bonds holding me to the bedpost, I was reminded of the ache in my shoulders. It was okay; it was the kind of ache I didn’t mind so much. It was the kind of ache that would help me remember an unforgettable night with an unforgettable man.
Elevator Guy: An Erotic Encounter The streets were a powdery white, flakes gently floating to the busy streets. Being from the south, it was the first snow I’d ever seen; that night was a lot of firsts for me. I rushed through the park, my breath trailing in clouds behind me; I was cold, so cold. When I reached Hayden, I welcomed the warmth greeting my bones, the melting flakes in my hair I swiped in with shaking fingers and walked to the high-rise elevators. The button was already pressed, lit with that cyclically passionate orange light. My eyes travelled from the button to its presser. He stood before me the personification of seduction. I shivered in a much different way than I had outside. This was the kind of shiver I welcomed. The high-pitched ding woke me from my dampened reverie and the two of us entered the elevator: him and I, together. He held in his long, able hands a full bottle of detergent. “Why are you wet?” He asked. I blushed furiously until, heaving my mind from the gutter, I realized he meant where the snow had turned to water in my hair and on my coat. “Well… the snow melted. It’s much hotter in here.” If only he knew, if he knew the double meaning of my slow and deliberate words. If he understood my embarrassment and took me into his arms andI knocked his laundry detergent from his hands as I embraced him. His mouth was resistant on mine for a floor or two but by the fifth ding he had given in to absolute spontaneity. I was hot, so hot. The soapy liquid pooled at our feet. As we sunk together to
the lathered floor my back grazed the buttons, selecting all the floors. He kissed every inch of my increasingly slimy body as I did his. The Tide burned my mouth in the sexiest way. The friction of our gyrating hips frothed the cleaner to foam. The bubbles, dirty from the floors surrounded our bodies as we found love in a hopeless space. He climaxed at the ding of the fifteenth floor, the elevator shaft now foaming with a mix of liquids. Some poured out into the floors as we stopped at each one. My hair was wet and matted against my neck. We both got off at the seventeenth and walked in separate directions down the hall. Our mess stayed where we made it. I left my number in his pocket but he never called. Sometimes I think about it and I blame myself for being too forward; and other times I blame the system for insinuating RA’s shouldn’t be with their residents. Now and then. I see him and wonder what we would have been if things were different; but they’re not, and that’s just the way it goes.
Reply All: An Erotic Encounter The day had been exhausting and I was ready for bed. I was finally beginning to fall asleep, when the buzz of my phone awoke me: a new email. I thought about ignoring it, and I did for a moment. But with the possibility of it being from him, I no longer felt tired; I felt entirely alive and eager. I rolled over and grabbed my phone, opening my inbox. There it was, one new email, from none other than Max Wiseltier. I opened it, knowing this wasn’t the kind of email everyone got to see; it was special and just for me. It read: “Hope I’m not being too FWD, but come over.” My body was all warm like an over-heated listserv. He wanted me and he wanted me now. I was out of bed in a flash and at his dorm in faster than was possible. I tried to smooth down my sweaty bedhead before I knocked on his door. My heart was pounding and I could already feel the anticipation growing in me down there. He opened the door, his smirk looking at me excitedly. He let me in and I suddenly felt anxious, looking around the room. On his desk were pictures of him and his family, skiing, long boarding and playing Frisbee. “You have fun,” I commented, nodding my head in their direction. It was a stupid thing to say but I was unexpectedly nervous. “I know how to have fun,” he said casually, “but I can always get down to business.” His expression turned wicked and I realized he didn’t mean the Stern kind. I squirmed in anticipation and soon he was kissing me. He fumbled with the bottom button of my blouse but I pulled my lips away from his momentarily to whisper, “Wrong button,” moving his competent hands down to my jeans. I felt him feel me and my arousal multiplied by 39,979. I felt his growing manhood pushing into my inner thigh and he pulled away to discard his Zeta Beta Tau shirt. As he tossed it
to the ground I groaned in ecstasy, taking in his Adonis figure. My clothes fell to the floor and he pushed into me. Ben Folds crooned in the background as his extensive length pushed deeper and deeper into me. So taken was I, I could make neither sound nor reply as he screamed my name. I tilted my head back as he kissed my body, my eyes unintentionally lingering on the It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia poster on the opposite wall. There was a knock at the door and I moaned, so close to my climax. Max drove into me several times more, finding his rapture as I found mine with a reverberating shiver. I fell spent onto the bed. He pulled himself from me and threw his jeans back on to answer the door. He swung opevn the door to find David Vogelsang standing with a six pack under his arm. “I interuptin’ anythang?” his southern drawl, thick. I knew him, he was the ITS man who had started it at all. “Sorry I couldn’t answer, I was in the middle of someone.” Max replied, nodding at my completely exposed and sexually ravaged body. He invited David in and I made no move to hide myself. We each had a couple beers, chatting casually. It was a good precursor for a round two. I reveled in the attention as the two men made love to me from different angles. It was the best sex I ever had.
College Boy Hey college boy. I bet you think you’re real smart with your diploma, and your tassels, and your hat with the square on top that you wear whenever it’s raining. Compared to us working class folk, you act like you’re some sort of bigshot, hotshot, cumshot. Well, let me ask you something college boy: Did that fancy school of yours ever teach you how to hit someone in the back of the head with a wooden mallet? Sure, you got your book smarts, your isopropyl alcohols and your MC-Squareds. But what do you know about wooden mallets? Let’s say you’re out in the forest at night with your cousin Marty, taking hits of an experimental drug called Medusa’s Kiss. Did your professors ever lecture you on what to do if a park ranger shows up and tries to arrest you? What if you
already have two strikes and the only thing that’ll keep you out of the joint is striking the base of his skull with your wooden mallet? This is the real world, space cadet. A world where a man can be driven to drug addiction to hide from the pain of losing his wife. Did your RA ever force you to attend a mandatory orientation about that? About how a man can keep on living even after he lets his wife die from ovarian cancer because he was too much of a coward to use his wooden mallet to smash the tumor in her vagina? When you received your Macroeconomics syllabus, did it have a section telling you what to do when you have nothing left except the over-sized hammer a kindly carpenter gave you when you were a little boy whose parents abandoned him? And then, you carry that mallet everywhere because, by God, that’s all you have? Did they teach you that, college boy? Listen, kidd-o. You’ll understand one day that all a man can do in this cruel world is hold his head up high, whistle a tune, and swing that mallet. You just gotta keep swinging that mallet, boy. Swing it good. Swing that mallet til you can’t swing no more.
-Cole Does High-Fives And Dylan Does LowFives. -Cole Ignores Autograph Requests. Dylan Tells Fans To Fuck Off, Knocks Their Things To The Ground, And Spits On Them. -Cole Rides On The Front Seat Of The Tandem Bike On Even Numbered Days.
-Cole Has A Cleft Lip. -Cole Doesn’t Like Using Condoms And Dylan Is A Watcher.
-Dylan Has A Black Nintendo DS And Cole Has A Purple One.
-Zack Gets Into Trouble And Cody Is A Straight Shooter.
-Cole Is The Cute One While Dylan Smells Really Bad And Weighs 400 Pounds. Also, Dylan Is Always Sweaty.
-Dylan’s Ponytail Is Longer. -Cole Was On The Disney Channel. -Dylan Says “Smell Ya Later” And Cole Says “Catch You Guys On The Flip Side.” -Cole Throws The Alley-Oop And Dylan Dunks It. -Dylan Works The French Fry Machine And Cole Says “Welcome To Good Burger, Home Of The Good Burger.”
-Dylan Doesn’t Understand That The “Suite Life Of Zack And Cody” Is A Pun. Cole Understands But Doesn’t Bother To Explain It To His Own Brother, Which In A Way, Is Much Worse. -Cole Enjoys Skateboarding And Dylan Has A Rape Fantasy. -Cole Is The One With Muscular Dystrophy And Dylan Is The Black One.
Health Class Okay, boys, now that we’ve finished all the class material on sex, I’m going to answer some of the questions you guys submitted anonymously. Alright, here we go, first question: “I am unable to get hard when I am having sex. What should I do?” Well, lads, I’m going to let you in a little secret. At some point in their lives, all men have trouble getting hard at least once. Yes, including me, Coach Wagner. I know what you’re all thinking: “Gee, Coach, even you sometimes can’t get your cock hard?” That’s right, even Coach Wagner, the guy whose high school batting average was .438 has been struck out by ol’ erectile dysfunction. To understand erectile dysfunction is to understand physics, specifically gravity. If you remember nothing else from this class, remember this: Never, ever have intercourse while lying on your back. Why? Because gravity forces the blood to drain from your cock back into your buttocks. It was true for Isaac Newton in 1665, and it’s still true today. You may think your erections are impervious to gravity’s 9.8 meters per second squared, but I assure you nothing escapes the cruel, flaccid grasp of science.
Let’s keep going. The next question is: “Is it possible for me to masturbate to orgasm without touching my penis?” Good question! Yes, it is indeed possible to have a completely hands-free orgasm. We currently live in a golden age of manual stimulation, but history has shown imagination by itself is just as potent. In fact, the Native Americans exclusively used their imaginations to masturbate themselves, and the use of hands was not even introduced to North America until after the arrival of the white man. Okay, moving along, next question: “Sometimes I enjoy masturbating with a noose around my neck. Is this safe?” Wow, great questions, guys. The answer is yes. Not only is it safe, it is the healthiest way to masturbate. You see, by cutting off circulation, the pressure within your body builds and builds and builds until you need to ejaculate to let the steam out. Imagine a train going choo-choo. This pressure-valve ejaculation system is one of the human body’s natural mechanisms for releasing extreme tension. Here’s an example: How many of you guys watch UFC? So recently, the UFC instated a “no ejaculating rule.” Does anyone know the reason why? That’s exactly right, Tommy. The
“no ejaculating rule” came into effect because when fighters were getting choked out, they would escape by ejaculating the steam out which causes their heads to deflate and allows them to easily slip out from headlocks. So in short, yes, masturbating with a noose around your neck is 100% healthy and can also be done using a belt, a jump rope, a bike chain, Christmas lights, an iPhone charger, or several pieces of Twizzlers tied together. Here’s the next question: “I am an alchemist, and I have successfully turned my own cum into gold. What should I do now?” This is a question that comes up every year. Sorry to burst your bubble but successfully transmuting cum into gold is a just a myth. Sure, by manipulating the classical elements of fire, water, earth, and air, it is possible to transmute semen into a gold-like substance, but trust me, boys, that’s not gold. The cum gold you think you’ve created is nothing more than fool’s cum gold. If you don’t believe me, just wait a week or two, go outside at midnight, and expose it to the discerning eye of the full moon, and sure enough, your so-called “cum gold” will turn back into normal, stinky, disgusting cum. Alright, I think we have time for one more. This question reads: “Is it normal to feel wretched after I masturbate?” That is a disgusting question! Who wrote this question? Martin, did you write this question? I see it’s written in the same color ink that you always use. No one else uses an orange gel pen so you must have written it. You are
disgusting, Martin. You should be ashamed of yourself. Shame on you, Martin! You are a disgusting animal. I will be calling your mother about this. She will be so disappointed in you. Okay boys, that’s all we have time for today. We will play volleyball on Monday. Class dismissed.
My Screw Tour of Europe I just finished a glorious fuck tour of Europe and I’m going to tell you about it instead of reading Walter Benjamin, because I don’t read people who kill themselves when they were being chased by Nazis because they’re fucking pussies. When I was thinking about where to travel on break, the first thought that popped into my dome was, “Where is the flyest pussy in this fucking shithole of a union?” The second thought was, “Can I smoke danks fatty style there?” With these questions in mind, I eventually ended up choosing Amsterdam, for the danks and hookers, Stockholm, for danks and blond hoes, and Budapest, for the danks and Eastern European merkin cunts. So I get to Amsterdam. We’re looking at buildings with gabled roofs and Van Goghs and shit, and I’m like thinking yeah this is legit but I can’t fuck a fucking painting. So we check out the red light district, I buy a fat sack then start walking around ripping a bong and checking shit out. Most of the facades of the buildings in the red light district are filled with windows that are outlined in red neon lights, and there’s either a bored looking hooker sitting there, or the shades are drawn because she’s with a customer, or the window’s empty because she’s taking a shit. So I stop in front of one of the window and check out this ho with fat tits while I’m ripping
my bong, and she starts dancing for me, so I’m like fuck yeah and I go in to fuck her. She was like 50 euro an hour but I only need six minutes so I paid her 5. I asked her if she had lube but she said it was cool because she was still filled with cum from the guy five minutes ago, so I was like legit and I fucked her while she took a nap. It was awesome and I was still high. So then I get to Stockholm. We went to see Dirty Projectors and it was fucking cool and I was high, but I can’t remember shit because I was scoping for some muff there. I finally found this tallass blonde and I was speaking German to her when I realized, shit, this ho must be German. But then I was like fuck it I’m in Sweden so I’ll pretend she’s Swedish. After the
show I took her back to my hostel but then I remembered I was sleeping in a room with fucking 14 other beds in it, so I was like shit we gotta go fuck in one of the showers so we did. It was alright but we are both tall as fuck so I had to sit on the floor of the shower while she bounced on my dick and I was getting all this lint and hair and dissolving toilet paper in my ass so I was distracted but eventually I came in her pussy and it was all good. Budapest is supposed to be the most beautiful city in Europe or some shit but the Hungarian dank was seedy and my high was all fucked up so I was fucking pissed. We went to the Parliament and I was looking at it and I realized I couldn’t fuck it so I got mad and went in an alley and fucking came. Later I went this club called Aquarium and it sucked and the DJ was a fucking shitmonkey, but then I went to take a piss and everything changed. I came out with my homie and this drunk girl came up to us and grabbed our hands and gurgled, “This. This, I want, now.” It seemed like she didn’t know how to say any other words so I was like fucking rad, and my friend didn’t seem into it so I was like fucking more for me you dumbshit. So I started making out with her and she threw up a little bit but I was like hey ain’t nothing but a G thang so I bought her another gin and tonic. Then I was dancing with her and just started fucking her from behind and even though the dance floor wasn’t crowded no one said shit. I came in her so hard that she fell on the ground and went to sleep, so I was like fucking cool and I left. The next day I flew back to Berlin.
Ask Maggie Gyllenhaal Maggie Gyllenhaal stars in recent biopic “Won’t Back Down” as Jamie Fitzpatrick, a determined mother who will stop at nothing to transform her children’s failing inner city school. Facing a powerful and entrenched bureaucracy, she risks everything to make a difference in the education and future of her child. This powerful story of parenthood, friendship and courage mirrors events that are making headlines daily. Maggie has offered to take questions from real people suffering from problems similar to those exposed in “Won’t Back Down.”
Dear Maggie, Two years ago, both my parents left me and my brother when I was 17 and he was 11. The school he goes to doesn’t seem to care about their kids at all. The teachers have worse attendance than the kids and when they’re there, they hardly teach. I’m only 19 and I’m raising myself and my brother on my own. What can I do? — Worried For My Brother Dear Worried For My Brother, This is a simple fix. What you need to do is find a black counterpart with whom you can take over the administration of your brother’s school. He or she, preferably she, will spice things up with unconventional teaching methods. How do you know if she’s the one to make the change? If the first thing she says to the students is “OK class, we’re going to try something new” or “Take your _______, now throw it in the trash”, she’s the one. Other tell tale signs that she’s the right one: a gentle but caring face with eyes that have seen some fucked up shit in her childhood, an initial distrust of white people, a library of quotes from her mama, etc. Once you’ve taken over the school, let unconventional teaching and profound one-liners do the rest. This should do the trick. — Maggie Gyllenhaal, Star of “Won’t Back Down”
Dear Maggie, My 12-year old T.J. has a serious drug problem. He rarely goes to class, instead choosing to do who knows what with his druggy friends. He doesn’t care about grades or respecting me or his teachers. Several times he’s lashed
out at me and at other adults, coked up, shouting curse words and other obscenities. This is not the sweet T.J. I raised! What can I do to get my T.J. back? — Concerned Mother Dear Concerned Mother, Have you tried becoming the teacher of one of his classes? Most people think you need a degree in teaching or any previous experience, but you don’t. First, march into the principal’s office and yell “You might not care about these children, but I’m single mother living in a broken down one bedroom apartment with a kid who can’t read! I care!” Next thing you know, you’re in a classroom teaching 15-20 4th graders. Now that you’re the teacher of one of his classes – say Algebra or Language Arts –start by giving the class lessons on how to do math which vaguely apply to life in general, such as “You keep trying until you solve the problem!”, but which eventually turn into an emotionally charged one-liners such as “WE’RE GOING TO GET THROUGH THIS TOGETHER.” Oh and be forceful with your lessons, showing them tough love, and at times giving them lessons so unconventional they want to give up, but in the end they’ll come around in the form of some sort of group hug. — Maggie Gyllenhaal, Star of “Won’t Back Down” Dear Maggie, I’m a 13-year old girl who watched her brother shoot her cousin. I don’t know what to do and I’m scared. Should I call the police? I don’t want my brother to go to jail, but I think what he did wasn’t right. Help! — A Scared Girl Dear A Scared Girl, What you’re going through is not uncommon. One thing you could do is start by getting into to the system and working your way out. Try becoming the teacher of one of his classes or an administrator of some sort at his school. After that, everything sort of falls into place. Your brother’s violence problem will solve itself – don’t get me wrong there will be tears along the way, but there will also be laughs and a lot of learning. Have you tried telling your brother “I know you might not care, but I do!” This is something to consider. Hope everything works out. — Maggie Gyllenhaal, Star of “Won’t Back Down”
Food Review A quarter of the financial year has somehow gone by, leaving us all a little exhausted and, of course, with a bevy of new offerings from our favorite fast food restaurants. To help you separate the wheat from the chaff, I’ve put together a list of the biggest new menu items for the fall, and what to expect if you spend your hard-earned dough on what they’ve got to offer. Establishment: JACK-IN-THE-BOX Product: BROWNIE BITES Price: $1.05 Coming from a string of Jack-in-the-Box’s recent “mini” menu items, including November’s Mini Churros and the much-maligned Half Cookie, the Brownie Bites bring some excitement to an otherwise drab, predictable fall dessert season. Now, just in time for the holidays, you can (and should) pick up this box of seven roughly bite-sized, flavor packed brownie chunks. Each chunk comes with a good amount of clear white frosting, which is appreciated. I’ve definitely seen more generously frosted bites before, and the
amount here isn’t really anything to shit your pants over. The distinctive brown and white color scheme of these bites is suggestive of the holiday season, making these a worthy treat to spend your Hanukkah money on. AEstablishment: PANDA EXPRESS Product: FIRECRACKER CHICKEN Price: $4.99 It only seems natural for fast food companies to roll out the special menu items in time for the holidays, but where does this leave the multicultural joints like Panda Express? Luckily, the Chinese too have a New Year’s Eve celebration, occasioning the re-release of perennial fan favorite Firecracker Chicken. They’re named for the classic Chinese invention of fireworks, and it shows! These things are decked in a festive Asian color scheme of red and yellow vegetables, but the whole thing can get a bit distracting once you’ve eaten
most of the neutral-colored chicken meat. A quick warning to sensitive eaters: whatever they put in this Firecracker Sauce is H-O-T! It took me about one and a half medium cups of Minute Maid Light Lemonade to soothe my taste buds. BEstablishment: BURGER KING Product: ANGRY WHOPPER Price: $4.05 The most immediately striking feature of the BK Angry Whopper is that it tends to fall apart in your hands. Big fucking surprise there. The only thing less shocking than this BK project’s lack of cohesion is the fact that it will almost definitely be topping the year-end lists. Buffoons. I wish I could tell you the Angry Sauce lives up to its name, but unfortunately most of it ended up on my Alienware keyboard before I could even get any of it on my tongue. I can’t front: the other spicy ingredients are OK. But then again, if you’re in the market for Habanero cheese and jalapenos, why hand your money over to the bunch of clods running the show at Burger King when you could get the same flavor in a more cohesive tortilla from Taco Bell? D+
Establishment: CHICK-FIL-A Product: New Chicken Bites Price: $2.99 Chick-Fil-A has been in the news a lot lately and I’m gonna try to steer clear of the controversy as best I can by honing in on their new Chicken Bites. These things are really a breath of fresh air for me. One box gets you a respectable amount of chicken meat. The look of the product is nothing to really shit your pants over, but as they say, what you see is what you get, and you sure do know what you’re getting when it comes to this place: some damn good chicken. The spice is that classic Chick-Fil-A flavor we’ve all come to know and love. And just to editorialize for a second I don’t think we should be judging a company so bad just because that guy got shot and killed outside their drive-thru but that’s just one man’s opinion. At the end of the day we can all go out and buy our fast food however we want. B+
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