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Table of Contents 1. A Welcome Volume CVI, Number 1 Fall 2014 Nico Pigg . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Side Piece of Frankenstein Daphine Zhao . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Eats Her Own Fingers Andrew Keating. . . . . . . .. . . . Salt of Brady Hoke’s Tears Phil Wachowiak . . . . . . . . . . . . Dearly DeFarted Neal Jackson

. . . . . . . . . . Used Slug Peddler

Alex Boscolo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Stole a Mouse’s Cookie Courtney Carroll . . . . . . . . . . . The Very Sexy Caterpillar Luke Collard . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Negs His Mom Mike Flynn . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Hot2Trot29 Meredith Gilbert . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . BaeBlades Gillian Golden . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Went to Europe Once Margret Hitch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Late Lunch at Tiffany’s Jeremy Kruman. . . . . . . . . . . . . . Pancreas Rights Advocate Meredith Lancaster . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Gucci Shower Shoes Ben Leigh . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Fresh Smelly Marker J.J Lundy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Offensive Snapchats James Mackin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Onion Ring Halo Caleb Nusbaum . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Happy Tree Chelsea Perry . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Anaconda’s True Desire Chris Seeman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Great Fratsby Max Shooster . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Hates Mondays Direct all complaints, comments, submissions, and proclamations to

The Gargoyle 420 Maynard Ann Arbor, MI 48104

gargmail@umich.edu Visit us at: www.gargmag.com

Copyright © Gargoyle Humor Magazine 2014

2. This Page 3. That Page 4. A Story With a Moral 5. Fashion Police 6. College!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 7. No Salt 8. New Art 9. Old Art 10. We Sell Out 11. Lie Back, Think of England 12. Tradition 13. We Sell Out, Pt. 2 14. Philosophy 15. Life is Meaningless 16. Jell-O Pudding


Geordi LaForge Says:

“There’s nothing Erotic about Autoerotic Asphyxiation” Fall 2014

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By James Mackin


Fall 2014 Alumni Ad by Gil Borman

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Dear Mister Schlizzle, My name is Denise Dennis, wife of Denby Dennis, of the Jacksonville Dennises, with whom I’m sure you’re familiar. I graduated from the University of Michigan in 1987 with a bachelor’s degree in Communications and am now proud to say that my baby, Denny Dennis, is continuing the family tradition of excellence as a freshman at the university. My primary reason for contracting you, however, is not to inventorize my family’s many achievements, but to express my frustration with an issue that I believe is relevant to more students than simply my daughter, despite the fact that the she is my sole correspondent on this issue. The issue I’m referring to, of course, is welcome week. I remember my first welcome week like the day I was born (I don’t actually remember the day I was born, nor can I remember welcome week! I was blacked out. Pardon the humour; I couldn’t resist this teensy joke!). I reveled in those 5 days of freedom. No parents, free-flowing liqueurs, and all the unprotected sexual intercourse you could have without getting too loose in the accoutrements! I refer to this, of course, with the assumption that even as an academic, you at least observed such behavior in your time. Welcome week today is just as much a necessary commotitty as it was in our youth. It is the opportunity to define oneself with a specific identity that will remain stagnant for the entirety of one’s collegiate experience. My daughter was never afforded this opportunity. When her father, Denby Dennis, of the Jacksonville Dennis’s, and holder of the record for longest standing as a redshirted punter, and I dropped her off in the halls of Alice Lloyd, she had a slight wheeze bordering on a sniffle. As a responsible parent, I restricted her to a diet of kale smoothies and vitamin C supplements. My attempts were to no avail. She fell sick with the nasty stomach flu with in the hour. From how she sounded over the phone, I considered giving up our first class plane tickets on JetBlue to take care of her. She reassured us that she would be fine, and since the tickets were too good to pass up, anyway, we left the state in style. I had hoped that her sickness would be something she ate—too much avocado, perhaps—but unfortunately I was wrong. She only got worse. I hate to be graphic, but to give you a better idea of the severity of the illness, her symptoms included nausea, headache, vomiting, dizziness, throwing up, migraine, increased urination, dehydration, and sensitivity to light. The funniest thing was, she always felt better around 9 p.m. Despite what I’m sure was a strong desire to make new friends and memories, she put herself first in a courageous bout of self-preservation—she stayed in, bless her heart. As a result, she was unable to experience the joys of experiencing the experience that is welcome week. What I’m asking you to do—neigh…what I’m demanding you do—is give my daughter another chance. I impleur you: give her not the welcome week she had, but the one that she deserves. I think tuition of 500,000 dollars a semester is enough to cover the cost of a few missed classes and assorted handles of Grey Goose. Now I know, education is important. Of that, I am shure. But what is education without identity? Without freedom? Without friends? In essence, it is middle school, and I have not single doubt that the reputable University of Michigan is better than that. Hear my plea, Dr. Schnitzel, and if you don’t do it for me, do it for your school.

Thank you, and God Bless America, Denise Dennis

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Dear George by neal jackson

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oday we have a guest columnist, George, taking over for Abby during her vacation. George has been working in the sex industry as a personal lubricant tester for over 20 years. He has worked with distinguished companies including Trojan, Durex, and AstroLube. DEAR GEORGE: I am a childless man, but I have owned my dog for 12 years. I work from home and we are together constantly. Honestly, George, he is the joy of my life. My problem is I live in constant fear of losing him. I know it will break my heart, and I’m not sure I can deal with it. At night, when I rub his belly at bedtime and see the love in his eyes, I can’t sleep for thinking about the day when he will no longer be with me. I know he’s “just a dog,” but he has grown to be like a son to me over the years. Do you have any advice for me? –AFRAID IN ATLANTA DEAR AFRAID: I know what you are going through. You see, as a water-based lube tester, I am responsible for determining if a sex

lubricant is acceptable for human skin. You may ask, how does one test lube, George? The answer is slugs. Slugs naturally produce their own lubricant (much better than any synthetic water-based lubricant man could dream to make). The best way to test lube is to dab a little on the slugs and see if it irritates them. As you can imagine, I have come into contact with many slugs over my long career, and I’d be lying if I said I haven’t formed some deep connections with them. As a childless man myself, I also consider my slugs to be my slimy little children. I’ve lost many of them, and it’s taken a little bit out of me every time. It will never be easy AFRAID, but try to think of what a loving life your slug/dog/child has lived and how much of a positive impact on your life they have had. Besides, there are always more slug/ dog/children, those things breed like e. coli in a diseased cow’s innards! –GEORGE DEAR GEORGE: A couple of years ago, my husband admitted to me that he likes to dress in women’s clothing. Since then he has read books, is seeing a

counselor, and the reality is, he is transgender. He now wears his hair long and has long fingernails. I love him, George, but not the woman side of him. Am I unreasonable to put a boundary on my marriage? He thinks if he slowly eases me into the idea that it will be OK. He says I am his “world” and I should love him no matter what gender he is. Am I being selfish? –CONFUSED IN CLEVELAND DEAR CONFUSED: In all my years of testing lube and working with slugs, I have never seen a slug sad or depressed. That got me thinking about how much their lifestyle and mood is affected by their anatomy. You see, slugs aren’t what you humans call “male” or “female,” they are hermaphrodites! What I am going to suggest for you and your husband, CONFUSED, is that you both compromise a little. Get into the hermaphrodite mindset. Let him be the wife for several days a week, while you be the husband. This method (and my slug suit) has always helped in my own relationships, I hope it helps yours. –GEORGE DEAR GEORGE: I have been with my current boyfriend for a year and a half and I love him dearly. However, I often find myself drawn to other guys who I know are nothing but trouble. It never goes further than simple flirting, but I still feel guilty for doing it when I’m in a relationship. How do I keep myself from temptation? –DISTRESSED IN DETROIT Dear DISTRESSED: You remind me a lot of one of my slugs, Sheila, back when I worked in the testing department at AstroLube in ‘98. Sheila always did use her female parts more than her male ones. That was quite the year for slug sex; not an hour went by without me pulling Sheila’s slimy, sex-fluid covered body off another lucky slug. Her sexcapades got in the way of my testing, so we salted her. DISTRESSED, just learn some goddamn self-control. You at least have a prefrontal cortex, something Sheila never had. –GEORGE

Fall 2014

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Can YOU spot the differences?

answer: So it’s like that then, huh? Fall 2014

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THE SECRET COLLECTION by GILLIAN GOLDEN

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r. Clooney liked to collect things. But that was already known about him. His adoring public already knew about his collection of women, watches, and watercress sandwiches. A man of repute, soliloquized Bakhtin.

What an egregious flirt, murmured Eartha Kitt.

Isn’t he a socialist? sung a chorus of mall walkers.

YES. He is all those things and more. He was the one who found out where in the world Carmen San Diego was—they had a short, torrid love affair consumed by lies, whiskey distilleries, and fiery crotches. He was the one who coined the phrase “thirty, flirty, and thriving” in order to placate his aging parakeet. He was the one who made salt and pepper fashionable again. Mr. Clooney was an open book. People knew pretty much everything about him, which is what they liked about him. What didn’t they know about him? Well, there was one thing they didn’t know.

He had one other collection, a secret collection that not a soul knew about. It was a collection so furiously jaw-dropping, so unapologetically abhorrent, and so awesomely fantastical that even the Pope would feel a tingling in his crinkum-crankum.

Gargoyle Alum Ad by Max Herrmann

For his secret collection, he collected— No, it’s too difficult!

I can’t bear to write it, dearest reader. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. NO. No. NO. No. No. No. No. No. No. NO. Non. Non. NON. Nein. Nine.

Okay, I’ll start over. His ultra-secret collection was... ...a book of smells.

And it had every smell imaginable in this infinitely finite universe! From caramelized marmalade to paper pulp to a baby’s hungry tears, it had it all! The book had the smell of George Washington’s self tanner and the scent of his aunt’s spinal fluid. It had the smell of Madrid on a steamy July morning, and the odor of a vengeful flash drive! It had the smell of fruit flies procreating. It had it all. But no one will ever know. No one.

Gargoyle Alum Ad by Paul Dobbertin Fall 2014

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Fall 2014

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PHILOSOPHY BY NICO PIGG, EDITOR-IN-CHIef

W

elcome, Friends, Lovers, Readers, to another year of The Gargoyle. I sit writing these words on a sunny autumn afternoon, the open window beside me letting in the laughter and conversations of students happy to be done with another week of class. The breeze carries the scent of bonfires, and Brady Hoke’s nervous sweat, as Unknown Forces decide when to send him to the farm upstate where Rich Rodriguez lives. The trees still have their leaves, suspended between the brilliant fire of autumn and the lingering green of summer. I’ve been thinking a lot about autumn recently as I enter my Junior year, suspended between the adult world and my freshman year. I think that a common experience around campus is that people completely lose their scale of time around here. The landmarks and tempo of U of M stay the same year to year, but we are all getting a little bit older every second and we don’t realize it fully without anything to mark the passage of time. The campus that was so bright and new to me just two years ago now seems as familiar to me as my home town. I’ve been writing for the Gargoyle since my freshman year, and it has become a

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similar constant in my life If had fathered a secret child that I never told anybody about, born on the first night that I attended a Gargoyle meeting around this time my freshman year, that adorably little tyke with his straw-colored hair and clever brown eyes, would be practically toilet trained by now. During my tenure at the Gargoyle, from my seed I could have created a small skeleton wearing a skin suit, full of my love and soluble vitamins, that now has the wherewithal to clean up his own excrement. If that isn’t a reminder of the passage of time I don’t know what is. The Gargoyle itself though, was born in 1909. If I had to describe spirit of the Gargoyle throughout its history, using only one ambiguously sexual adjective, I’d say spunky. We may not have the number of readers that say, The Daily, or a TV Guide from 2007 have, but The Gargoyle has been alive and kicking for over a hundred years on this campus and has seen some important faces come through its doors. Right now I want you to get up and call your dad, mom, uncle, whoever. Ask them to check their pantry for a small can of La Choy Baby Corn, or maybe Water Chestnuts. They will have one, I promise. Every pantry in America does. One of the founders of La Choy was a Gargoyle alum. Ever heard of Star Wars? Of course you have its very famous, that was just a rhetorical device, calm down. Lawrence Kasdan, another Gargoyle alum, wrote the screenplay for Episode

VI (the Ewok one) as well as Raiders of the Lost Ark. There is a longer list of influential people that have passed through the Gargoyle (ahem, Arthur Miller), but just these two men alone provide a decent summary of the people that work at the Gargoyle. People that think every home in America deserves to have tiny cobs of canned corn, or that somewhere out in space there’s probably a planet full of teddy bear warriors. Even as time passes around me in ways that I still can’t really understand properly, The Gargoyle is a reminder to me day to day of the way that I fall into a history that is larger than myself. During my time here I’ve learned as much about writing as I have from any university class, and even more about what humor is and where it comes from. I honestly have no idea what I would be doing right now if I wasn’t writing something for the Gargoyle. If it wasn’t for the Gargoyle there wouldn’t not be a little boy named Joshua Prescott-Pigg, 29 pounds 38 inches tall, waiting for his papa to come home and make his dinner. If you have even a passing interest in humor, literature, writing, art, business, or really anything, I urge you to stop by the Gargoyle on a Friday at 6pm sometime. Mostly though, The Gargoyle would like to thank you, Josh thanks you, and I thank you, for reading our magazine and supporting a small part of Ann Arbor history.


Math 105 Word Problems Prof. Andrew Keating 1.

My ex-wife cheated on me with several other men. She claimed she wanted a man who didn’t need a diaper change as part of foreplay (I’m an emotional lover, Patricia!). However, since I technically initiated the divorce, the Judge awarded her 50% of my monthly income as alimony payment. a. Assuming she cheated on me with 10 other men during our marriage, and that I earn $38,000/year from this unfulfilling teaching job, what is the average price per month I pay her for each affair? b. If my rent is somehow $900 for a one-bedroom apartment, and my food expenses are $600, how much money do I have left to self-medicate my crippling depression with alcohol and cough medicine?

2. I’m thinking of donating my blood. I would donate my semen, but the technician at the fertility clinic told me no prospective mother would want her child to look dumpy and sad. Anyway, I can get $20 for my blood plasma every time I donate. Immediately following the donation, I can also buy 24 fl.oz. of bottom shelf vodka for $13. If I donate blood and then immediately drink a handle of vodka 7 times in one week, what is my net income?

3. My office hours are held on the 7th floor of Haven hall, approximately 30 meters above the ground. If I jump, all this misery can finally end. If I can just stop delaying the inevitable and just jump already, how many seconds will it take for me to reach sweet oblivion? (Hint: use the free fall equation from your textbook!)

4. I’ve started gambling again, and recently lost 2 grand in an underground poker game. Fat Johnny said he’d break my legs if I don’t pay him back by the end of next month. If my debt to the mafia is compounded weekly at a rate of 10 percent, how much money will I owe when Fat Johnny comes to collect?

5. The cheapest gun I could find at Sports Authority cost about $38.99. If I just walk into class with it one day, I could probably knock off several of you ungrateful imbeciles before taking my own life to avoid jail time. If my shooting accuracy is 25%, and I have 70 bullets, how many promising young minds can I drag down to hell with me?

6. I haven’t gotten laid in upwards of two years, and masturbation isn’t even fun anymore. There’s only so much Garfield slash fiction the Internet has to offer, and at this point I’ve basically seen all there is to see. I tie a rope around my neck in an attempt at autoerotic asphyxiation, to keep the passion alive. Just before I climax, I lose consciousness, never to wake up again. a. The radius of the stench of my rotting corpse can be measured by the function f (t) = log5 (3t), where t = days since I died in the most humiliating way possible. Assuming I died 4 meters away from my door, how long will it take for my neighbor across the hall to smell me and find my dead body? b. Critical Thinking: Will anyone miss me when I’m gone?

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