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Yippee! Skippoo! Whoopoop!

Before you go on thinking it’s just another day down in the coal mines here at babyteeth Incorporated™, think twice! It’s the last (normal) edition of winter term—and with it, the last edition for Sofia, Lily, and Olivia (workshop edition still to come—so you’ll get your last babyteeth hit, you babyteeth addict). Goodbye, farewell!

It is also the beginning of a brief sabbatical for the infamous junior, Adiana (cue music: L.A. by elliott smith).

It’s the beginning of a bright new era in babyteeth history. You’re going to see things you’ve never seen before: new primary colors, santa claus, guilt and penance, maybe a novel kind of dinosaur that only exists in 2026—who knows! You have so much to look forward to. We all do. (eek that’s a little dark! fuck.)

Never give up, Lily “o dearest baby” akre Sofia “divine love” durdag Olivia “where am i going to put my hag poems now?!?” Ho Adiana “note to freshman: don’t only make friends with sophomores” Contreras

figure 1 (left). the babyteeth editors exiting sayles after a long, hard days work. little do they know they will all be diagnosed with black lung disease in 10-15 years. their lawsuit against Big Babyteeth will fail, and their families will be left with nothing.

contributors: stewie goon sunniva maharjan percy vermut mahida tully-car ava blaufuss nicky pierce ralph billy bratton The Truth elly pickette eliza farley morgan rackoff

editors: olivia ho nicky pierce ralph max votruba lily akre sofia durdag eliza farley violet pody nadia hutson kaya shin-sherman luke hargrave adiana contreras

STEWIE GOON (b. ???)

Goonland, 2025. glazed ceramic.

Gift of the Mr. Steward S. Goon trust.

SUNNIVA MAHARJAN (b. prob 2004) New Zealand, 2025. photograph.

Gift of the Awesome Sunniva Fund.

She traces the curve of his jaw with a gentle hand. It is a light touch. She is afraid to scare him, he thinks, but it is more so that she is afraid herself. He likes that she is gentle, that her gaze is soft when it is so often hardened. It is not a thing so easily noticed by others, but he has spent time waiting for it to reveal itself: her cautiousness. Even now, it lingers in her eyes.

He thinks about telling her how he feels but decides against it. Her hand is tracing the bridge of his nose. Her fingertips caress patterns into his temples and into his hairline. She likes his hair very much. She likes her hands in his hair. She likes him. That is the part that scares her.

She cannot look him in the eyes when she touches him this way. If she does, she is sure he will pull away, that the moment will be lost to time and whatever thing they have will dissolve. She cannot touch him and look at him because to her, he too is as fleeting as the sunrise. He will disappear like winter snow against gentle heat under her touch, if only she lets what they have be real.

If it’s not real, she cannot lose him. If it’s not real, there will be nothing to mourn when, like all things in her life, he leaves her one day.

He likes that she is scared. It means that there is comfort he can provide her, a service to rival the many joys and comforts she provides him. He aches to repay his debt, and though she voices her concerns about most things, her deepest fears remain buried under the surface.

She is touching his neck now. He holds her hair, just behind her ear, cradling her skull. She likes it when he holds her this way.

It makes her feel safe. She does not often feel safe around people. He takes it as an honor she feels safe around him. In truth, she feels the most at risk in his gentle embrace. Her heart has cracked open to reveal itself to him, and that is what makes him dangerous.

Mahdia Tully Carr

sunniva maharjan, “moon jellyfish”

The Peanut Gallery

picture by Ava Blaufuss, words by Lily Akre

name: Sylvia favorite color: purple favorite animal: lions Sylvia loves green peppers and enjoys listening to Joni Mitchell.

name: Dewey favorite type of pasta: elbows profession: chocolatier Dewey has always wondered if he’s small enough to fit inside a chimney, like Santa.

name: Linus most listened to artist of 2025: Weird Al best friend: Dewey Linus has often wondered what it would take to convince Sylvia that aliens are real. She will keep trying.

NEW BABYTEETH FEATURE: Q&A FEATURING E “TRUTH” WHITEAKER!

Q. What distinguishes the opulent torture chamber from a standard one?

A. It is not the drapery, the accumulation of rust and

disease on the tools, or the throne that contains the orgasmic despair of the sufferer. It is not held in the cornice watching over the stained nor in the chandelier reflecting frames of brutality, concealed in the central beacon. A standard torture chamber may be built at any time, transported to any desired location, and torn down the moment the deed is executed as fine as any billionaire’s will. It is indifferent and cold. Messy and sterile. And it leaves no trace. Not one bit. The opulent torture chamber has no limit for the depth of its cruelty. It must be meticulously constructed for the individual it buries. A pre-ordained arousal, confrontation, crucifiction, and eulogy. Neither clinical nor brutal, it is absolute and deafening. Beauty is knowledge; thus, opulence is God. The true chamber leaves no doubt or interpretive measure. It knows personally and welcomes the muse to death through means more frightening than violence. The opulent torture chamber devours personhood of both victim and perpetrator. It denies funeral rites not of its own creed and removes temporality and space from the physical world. It is both cynical and idol.

artwork by billy bratton and stewie goon

Colonel Thief Morgan Rackoff

Pour one out, pour one out For little old colonel thief

He lies dead On the step Mask still tied in place

They would put him out on the street But doesn’t a thief need a grave, too?

I take him into the backyard and we do a little service

“Does anyone want to say a few words?” I ask No one does

I guess we didn’t know him that well

They move to put him in the dirt “No, no,” I say,

He deserves a little respect

I unscrew the cap and pour A little bit of booze on the grave It splashes his snout and his eternal bed of roots

Water them with this brown piss-water, Laughs a mourner to my right.

But I think this is fancy, for a thief The colonel never knew any better than this drink We cover him in dirt

He disappears under the ground I find a brick for a headstone About the right size I stick it in that dirt Why do you even bother?” asks the funeral director Because Those mangled little hands Dug through garbage for army rations He waged his war on the front lines of hunger A living thing trying not to be a dead thing until he becomes a dead thing and people stop caring

One day I’ll end up a dead thing, too And I’ve yet to reach the rank of colonel So

He deserves a little respect

‘Ngarewa-Packer’,

intaglio print -

Ava Blaufuss - @blue

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