Table of Contents 1. Diag Doodles 2. This Page 3. That Page Volume CIII, Number 4 Spring 2012
4. Filosofy 5. Diversify Now! 6. “Cultural” Calendar
Jacob Rosen . . . . . . . . Notorious Computer Hacker
Megan Mockeridge . . . . . . . . Weekend Flag Burner
Dylan Box . . . . . . . . . . . . . WEDGiE Nikita Desai . . . . . . . . . . . . Pro Dick Jokes
Ben Schlanger . . . . . . . . Captain Underpants Kat Tomchuck . . . . . . . . Owns A Muffler Shop
7. Missed Connections 8. The Last Baiter 9. Doctor Do Little 10. Fun Facts 11. Ctrl+Shift+N
Adrian Choy . . . . . . . . . . Chewy On The Inside
12. A Pair Of Pathetic Peripatetics
David Carr . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Deepsea Explorer
13. 2 Cobb 2 Calvin
Neil Banchero-Smith . . . . . . Now A Sit Down Comic
Rob Davis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Pregger Jones Peter Eldred . . . . . . . . . . . . . Got Me Pregnant
14. The Tale Of Moth Dad
Francisco Guzman . . . . . The 2nd To Last Mohican
15. Like A Horse To The Flame
Sean Kermath . . . . . . . . . . A Kermath Always Runs
16. Sherlock Bones
Sean O’Neil . . . . . . . . . . . Megan’s Brother
18. Good Eats
Margaret Hitch . . . . . . . . . . . . . F-150 Enthusiast Michael McCrindle . . . . . . Ponies In Diapers Rubin Quarcoopome . . . . . . . One Last Black Joke
Brett Sandler . . . . . . . . . . Nugs for the Nug Throne
Max Smouha . . . . . . . . . . Harlem Handjobs
Sam Trochio . . . . . . . . . . . . Clip Art Fanatic Natalie Voss . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Mama Voss
Ross Warman . . . . . . . . . . . Blitzcreep Direct all complaints, comments, submissions, and proclamations to
The Gargoyle 420 Maynard Ann Arbor, MI 48104
firstname.lastname@example.org Visit us at: www.gargmag.com
Copyright © Gargoyle Humor Magazine 2012
17. No Boner Jokes! 19. Ferris Bummer 20. Political Comic 21. Good, By Adrian 22. Scram! Shoo! 23. Get Outta Here! 24. Rear End
Philosophy BY JACOB ROSEN
fter three years of service, I find myself sitting in the Gargoyle oﬃce, drinking twenty-four ounces of beer out of a paper bag, trying to figure out what the fuck to say about my time here. And like anything, my mind is getting so flooded with great times and awful times that I find it impossible to get out a single coherent thought. So here are a few incoherent ones. JOIN THE GARGOYLE: I came to Ann Arbor knowing at least two hundred kids, most of them because I’m from Bloomfield Hills (asshole) and I’m Jewish (double asshole). My first year was fine, but my entire life, I’ve had this loud voice in the back of my head telling me that everything I did was in some way stupid. And nothing, not even the Gargoyle, has ever changed that. From my first meeting, when the art director pranked me while he was studying abroad in Australia, I noticed that there were other people at this University that thought that there was a little bit of stupid in everything, too. Hell, we have this entire magazine dedicated to pointing something out, and zooming in on the stupidest part. Anyone that likes this magazine, or at least enjoys the freedom to make any piece of work that will get published if it’s good n’ funny, should come to 420 Maynard at 6PM on Fridays. I royally fucked up recruiting this year, because once again, I am an asshole. But if you’re reading this and have the desire to find the absurd and unreasonable in as much as you possibly can, join this magazine. Nowhere else will you be able to write about Charlie Brown’s erections, or draw Herman Cain turning into a reindeer or illustrate “Shitshow Barbie.” More importantly, this is the only group of people I’ve met that I feel completely comfortable talking about the stupidity in pretty much anything. MAKE PEOPLE UNCOMFORTABLE: A few months ago, the current art director and I had an hour long conversation with an Iranian lady after she saw a picture of Osama Bin Laden’s skeleton with a machine gun on our oﬃce door. Amongst other things, she argued that it was offensive, and that students these days don’t seem to care about anything. Both valid points. The discussion ended when we noted that if it weren’t for the poster, then she never would have stopped in to talk. And seeing as she had warmed up to us by that point, she smiled and agreed. My first time in the oﬃce was a bit disorienting. Pornographic posters, Phil Collins records and strange comics from the late 1930’s hung on the wall as I realized that the pen I was holding had an Ecuadorian couple sixty-nining on the tip end of it. Everywhere I turned, there was something to be offended by. When I thought about bringing any of it up, I imagined the barrage of insults I would get for asking why the American flag “had” to be upside down. This made me nervous at first, but I eventually realized that it’s when you catch someone completely off guard, that you see what they actually care about. Let me explain a little more. That lady we met was completely right, students at this University, in general, don’t seem to give a shit about pretty much anything that the rest of the world would deem to be even mildly important. At least they don’t seem to. In general,
we want to get along with everyone (i.e. we want everyone to like us) and there’s no use in upsetting someone just because you disagree with them (i.e. we want everyone to like us). But when you show an ex-boy scout a defaced American flag or a Chinese student a comic of a stereotyped Asian character opening a fortune cookie full of bees, you are often times shown Jacob Rosen, signing off... an almost completely unseen side of them. I’ll clarify. Being maliciously offensive or with no purpose is a stupid fucking idea. If we made a comic about mongoloids, I can bet your ass we’d get a dozen letters explaining exactly why our magazine should never be published again. But it’s rare that a complaint about the Gargoyle can be properly explained. That is, very few people have been able to articulate exactly why they were offended. Comfort zones are dangerous, but what’s more dangerous is the impression that anything that makes you uncomfortable is immediately off-limits, bigoted or somehow wrong. I’ve never been able to make any major realizations without feeling a deep sense of discomfort beforehand. I think a bit of awkwardness is necessary if you want to get your point across. THE GARG IS IMPORTANT: If you are an average everyday reader and don’t want to hear me gush at next year’s staff, you might want to turn the page. Everybody that leaves the Gargoyle after a significant period of time, especially the EIC, is both terrified and excited about what the magazine is going to turn into. I’m no different. This magazine has meant a lot to me. It provided me and plenty of other people an escape from work, school, and a smorgasbord of other issues. Through family deaths, shitty breakups and pretty much anything else, the Garg has served as an excellent distraction and outlet for people such as myself to express complicated emotions in really unique ways. I’d like to thank the writers and artists over the past year who have made me seem like a much better editor than I actually was by creating amazing and hilarious content. Thank you to the business staff for their invisible work, keeping this magazine profitable and running for the past two years. And thanks to my amazing editorial staff for picking up the slack when I was indisposed, and continually coming up with great directions for the magazine. And as for the magazine itself, I can only hope that it never changes, but continuously evolves. Catch you later losers.
DIVERSITY FOR HIRE DIVERSITY
Southwestern NBA team thrilled with Jeremy Linn. Looking for comparably skilled Indian player, preferably from Ivy league. Will reluctantly accept Summa Cum Laude state school applicant
High school textbook company looking for wheelchair bound asian, extra to feign mental illness.
Former child star looking for blow. Can meet between 1AM and 6AM under some kind of bridge.
Blind man specifically requesting Jewish banker. He can tell if you aren’t.
Suspicious looking Persian willing to stand in front of you at the airport. No-search guarantee!
Boy Scout Troop 117 needs Native American signature for their initiation ceremony. The ritual involves absolutely no legitimate traditions, and ends with a needlessly offensive dance.
White man offering to hail taxi for black man, if that’s still a thing.
Twenty-three year old man child in need of a gay man to accompany him to ACLU meeting so he can call stuff “gay”. Must be cool with terms like “queer’, “rainbow cock” and “Rosie O’Donnell”. Should fit in at least two or three well-known stereotypes. Real farmer needed for Middle America picture. Bonus paid for mustache and/or missing teeth. Must not take offense if referred to as “Jebediah”. Identifiable tan suggested, but not required.
Black man offering the Black man offering the
following friendship opportunities:
following opportunities: • $5-Willfriendship wave to you on the
• $5-Will street wave to you on the • street $20-Engage in loud conversation in loud • $20-Engage • conversation $300-Attend event and compliment music choice • $300-Attend event and compliment music choice
Ambiguously ethnic person offering themselves to the highest bidder. Has been mistaken for hispanic, indian, native American, Italian, black, and an athletic. Short hair, but not short enough to define gender.
Romney campaign seeking low income worker. Must provide own latex gloves to wear during handshake. Slightly obese woman needed to make other models look good. Facial asymmetry is a plus. Sweatshop needs worker with unburnt feet Irish heritage club in need of Irish person who actually knows about the culture. Must be able to convincingly answer questions about St. Patricks Day. Local bar in need of Hispanic person for Sangria recipe. Jewish athlete looking for work. Pretty good at dribbling, can run a mile in under ten minutes. Cannot run more than one mile at a time. Buddhist needed to lighten up the room
Straight man pretty sure his son is gay, in need of confirmed gay man to get his son out of the closet. Must have strong gaydar in case son is not actually gay. Short-haired, mixed-race bitches. Edlerly minority sought to impart wisdom and life-lessons on group of spoiled brats. Beard and/or old soul requried. Magic or martial arts knowledge a plus. High-fantasy universe seeks characters to populate it. Nonwhites need not apply.
REAL ESTATE Becky, it’s your turn to do the dishes. Kristi and I did them last week, and it’s really unfair of you. Seriously. Otherwise, you can hold your own hair next time there’s two-for-one tequila shot night. 3 bdrm, 2bth apt. Comes with appliances and uptight old landlord. Perfect for entertaining, sitcom style hijinks.
“Cultural” Calendar In Memorium George S. Quick was the editor of the Gargoyle from 19371938. He was responsible for the publication of Pulitzer Prize winner Arthur Miller’s first two stories in this very magazine over seventy years ago. I’m getting this out of the way now because that’s how he was always introduced, as though that were somehow his legacy – if not for his life, at least for his tenure at the Gargoyle. George Quick was a lot more than that. He was a loving husband, father, and grandfather. A PhD in economics. A 27 year military veteran that served as an officer in both World War II and Korea. A professor at both West Point and Slippery Rock State. An eagle scout and an active member of his church and community. He was also a lifelong Gargoyle. George attended Gargoyle reunions regularly, even as his health began to deteriorate, and there are members of our current 2012 staff, myself included, that can fondly look back on hearing a man over 90 years old reminisce on his time as editor of a magazine we’re still writing today. And only one of those stories featured Arthur Miller. George didn’t make it to the last reunion. Every few months somebody would darkly joke about whether or not he was still alive. On March 30, we learned he wasn’t, and realized those jokes weren’t very funny. Then again, we aren’t particularly funny people. I think George Quick knew that, though. He was just kind enough to come visit and tell us his stories, anyway. George S. Quick (1915-2012)
ELVIS! Something to See: Michigan Elvisfest July 13th-14th Yes, you read that right. Michigan Elvisfest. This is, in fact, a thing. The best and brightest in the field of Elvis-impersonation/ perfomance will descend on Ypsi’s Depot Town for two glorious days of music. Order tickets online in advance, or buy them the day of. One-day and two-day passes available, giving you the option to decide just how much Elvis is right for you.
KITSCH! Something to Avoid: The Ann Arbor Arts & Crafts Fair July 18th-21st I’m just as much for improving the local economy as the next guy, but does it have to be so fuckin god damn annoying? Turqoise necklaces and custom wooden signs strech as far as the eye can see, while weirdly familiar, yet unheard of bands play at almost every street corner. They are familiar because they’re the exact same kind of bands that play at every shit suburban street fair, and they are unheard of because they are terrible. I suppose working at a bar on South University has biased my opinion on this particular Ann Arbor tradition, but there’s something about making chicken wraps for drunk, upper-middle class, metro Detroit fuckwards that forces one to contemplate the kind of people that are attracted to such a spectacle. In other words, if all you see are flies, then you’re probably in a pile of garbage. That’s what the Ann Arbor art fair is, a big pile of garbage.
GAMES! Something to Do: Featured Game Night at Vault of Midnight
Most Thrusdays - 6 to 10pm Looking for something to do on a Thursday night? Instead of sitting alone and watching Pawn Star’s Greatest Hits on Netflix, stop by Vault of Midnight. Each Thursday, the staff chooses a game, either an up-and-comer, or a classic. You’ll learn how to play the game, then be able to start playing immediately. Like the game? Buy it! Enjoy a hefty 20% discount on the night’s featured game. For more information, or info on other gaming nights, check out vaultofmidnight.com/events
Missed Connections Love Letter to a Girl on an Airplane Dear Row 34, Aisle Seat, I’ve missed you dearly. Though the time we spent together was brief, I’ll never forget those eight magical hours we spent crammed into a ﬂying hunk of metal. I don’t normally do this, but you’ve captured my heart, ever since the ﬁrst moment you pushed passed me in order to get to the overhead storage bins a whole ﬁve seconds before any else. You’re determined. You know what you want. And you’re going to get it, regardless of how many strangers you need to elbow in the stomach to do so. That’s fucking sexy as hell. There’s nothing more attractive than a woman who understands the importance of both precise violence as well as efﬁcient air travel. I need a powerful woman like you to carry my seed. I hope you noticed my subtle attempts to demonstrate my sexual prowess. The way I crammed my massive dufﬂe into the small space left in your tightly packed overhead bin. Then my smaller bag into a completely empty overhead compartment. I wasn’t sure what kind of situation we were dealing with, size-wise, but I wanted to demonstrate I was up for anything. Then I shoved my ﬁnal bag into another overhead compartment at the same time as another guy. Really, up for ANYTHING. Your scent is intoxicating. I became familiar with it when you reclined your seat back, crushing my kneecaps and spilling my complimentary pop and pretzels. This seemingly inconsiderate act brought your head close enough for me to breathe deeply
the bouquet of aromas wafting from your head: L’Oreal, dandruff, Chanel No 9, but most importantly: Cheetos. Nature’s aphrodisiac. I queued up the same in-ﬂightmovie as you. I count it as our ﬁrst date. Just you, me, Crazy Stupid Love, and a cabin full of strangers. I’m pretty sure that���s how my parents met. True romance. Not even the overweight man I’ve been competing with for control of the armrest can ruin this ceremony. In fact, he’s begun to grow on me. He can be the best man at our wedding. Can the pilot be the minister? Does international airspace work like international waters? Are pilots the ship captains of the sky? I don’t know how this whole thing works. But I’m honest. I hope that’s alright with you. Honesty is key in any relationship. While we’re being honest, I stole your blanket when you got up to go the bathroom. It was hella cold on the airplane. Not even my burning passion for you could keep me warm. Speaking of burning... You know what? That little bit of honesty can wait. I wanted to introduce myself when the ﬂight landed. But once again, your keen travel instincts propelled you off the plane mere seconds after we ﬁnished taxiing. I hope that getting to customs a full thirty seconds sooner than the rest of that airplane made your trip better. I hope that you’ll see this message and contact me. If not, we’ll always have the ﬂight to Paris.
YOURS TRULY, ROW 35, AISLE SEAT
rank shuffled down the hallway, lazily picking up paper clips and poking at dead bugs. He felt something skittering on his shoulder: a live ladybug! “I’ll call you Lieutenant Friend!” Summer was off to a rough start for Frank. Turning a corner, he came upon a puddle in the East Wing. It had been days since he’d seen an oasis of this magnitude. Frank coughed, shook violently, then bent down and slurped from the pool. He rose, muttering to himself “Fucking Baits.” April 26th was the day the doors closed. Frank knew little of this unfortunate circumstance. Why wouldn’t he be allowed to spend his summer in the dorms? His parents were never going to get him. After hitting it big in a gas fracking excavation in the quiet Boise countryside, his family of seven had far too much on their plate to remember Frank. They were already halfway to Atlantic City, selling shards of rock and reveling in their new wealth. “They’ll come back”, Frank often thought. That morning as Frank woke he noticed that the air was too quiet. He looked outside the hazy window… nothing. The surrounding area of Baits was desolate. Not a soul in sight. Every student had already left for their summer of not finding a job, loafing around in their footie pajamas and watching reruns of Spongebob. Normally, this wouldn’t have seemed unusual for Baits, but he began to worry when even the swarm of vultures that circled the dorm for easy pray was missing. Frank tried to open the front doors, only to find that they were locked firmly shut. Frank shrugged, and headed back to his room to finish his Easy-Mac. “How bad could Baits be?”
BY NEIL BANCHERO-SMITH Days went by, and no one came. Now Frank was by himself with no way out. Well, there probably was a way out, but like any self-respecting dorm dweller, Frank was too lazy to search for it. He would walk around the dorm aimlessly, looking for something to do for the day, inspecting the deteriorating walls, picking up trash (he called it “loot”) and finding bugs to befriend. His friend collection had grown to an entire army. Generals, Admirals, and Lieutenants, they all stood at attention to entertain Frank. Frank was sulking down a hallway sipping on an old milk carton when he tripped into a pitfall. He hit his head hard on the floor. He woke up in a daze, then jolted up with great force. Something had snapped, or maybe concussed, within Frank. A primal urge inside of him burst forth. Frank crushed the small carton of milk he was drinking, feeling a pulsating sensation in his chest. “The spirit of the wolverine is inside me!” Frank grumbled in a grizzled, rough tone. “Corporal Pal, prepare the troops!” Frank sputtered at the cockroach scurrying across the floor “We have a big task at hand.” At that moment, Frank knew that he could survive the summer. Time began to slow down for Frank. Despite his newfound resilience he was still tattered and torn, looking like
something between homeless chic and Tom Hanks from Castaway. He would stare at the collection of bugs located in his room, haphazardly moving around without much organization. However, in Frank’s mind he controlled an army of friends. This was a newfound home where he was king and his disciples were at his bidding. He barked commands to them, had them practice marching exercises and laughed with them when he told a terrible joke. Frank had gone off the deep end. The idea of living with bugs might be gross, but sanitation wasn’t at an all-time low. Frank had seen worse during Welcome Week. The water was turned off for the summer, so instead of bathing, Frank dabbed himself with the moist towelettes located in the janitor’s closet. He didn’t need to clean often; like most students living in the dorms, much of Franks day comprised of laying around in bed. Every day or so, he scoured the building for sources of water, oftentimes finding some dripping from a leaky pipe, radiator, or, if he was lucky, through the insulation. Food was a different story, as Frank had no trouble finding something to eat. He stumbled upon a cache of old chips, pretzels and Monster energy drinks left by future engineering dropouts. Many of these were soggy and moldy, leftovers that had been left out before a last-night-in-Baits bender. It was gross and sometimes he couldn’t even stomach the vile food. He shared the rest of the finds with his insectoid brethren. It was still better than eating in Bursley. Alas, this food didn’t last forever. Thanks to some luck, Baits was also blessed with a rat infestation. For food, Frank would pacify them with a broken chair leg and cook them over a textbook-fueled grill. If he was still hungry, a charred chair leg wasn’t bad. Outside, a construction crew was gathering, preparing the demolition of Baits, in order to erect the pinnacle of dormitory mediocrity. The foremen were gathering, looking over the plans for that day’s demoliton, when a younger construction worker came running up to them. “Boss, it looks like there’s a kid in there!” the construction worker spit out between breaths. “Nonsense.” replied the oldest foreman. “The kids have left for the summer. Who would want to stay in the dorms?” “Probably one of those physics engineering types” replied the youngest foreman. The head foreman stepped forward and spat on the ground. “Doesn’t matter, boys.” The head foreman grumbled. “Start up the engines. We’re on a deadline here, and this kid shouldn’t be where we are. He’ll leave when he hears us.”
Frank was walking down the hall looking for something to do that day when he heard a peculiar noise. A purring, wizzing sound was coming from outside the dank walls of the dorm. “Intruders!” Frank screamed. “General Friendship, gather the troops!” Frank ran throughout the halls, trying to gather his pals to fight
off the evil intruders. The construction workers outside were puzzled. Roaches, crickets and ladybugs seemedto skitter out of the building as they heard muffled yelling from inside. “Just scared of the noise” the oldest foreman replied to the event. “Engage the demolition.” Frank looked up as the ceiling collapsed from
above him. Concrete slabs slammed against his back as he fell to the ground. Frank looked up, only to see a yellow machine in his distorted vision. His eyesight was tunneling in, and his legs giving out. Frank sighed, “Looks like I’m getting an apartment next year.”
A Page of Libel BY BRETT SANDLER
eople say things everyday like “cool” or “I like that.” Not me. I think a lot of things are shitty and basically that they suck. Here are some real facts about real things. Thanks for reading.
Widely regarded as a racist and a prolific idiot, most people don’t know that Ron Paul murdered Mary Jo Kopechne in 1969 and was never prosecuted. He was leaving a party with Ted Kennedy and Mary Jo and demanded to drive home, “Ted, I want to drive. I WANT to DRIVE.” Not wanting to upset him, as Paul is known to soil his diaper under duress, Kennedy conceded and handed him the keys to his ‘68 Ford F-150. As soon as they were on the road, Paul began to play with the windows, ignoring warnings from Kopechne and Kennedy that “the truck is not a toy.” In response, Paul stated, “then I guess it oughta do a sick wheelie!” The rest is unfortunate history.
Ralph “Lifschitz” Lauren
Despite allegations that he owns a dog, there are well-substantiated rumors that Lauren, in fact, hates dogs. The guy can’t stand ‘em and has probably been quoted as saying “dogs are crumby animals and that’s why they can’t smile.” Wow, who’s the real animal, Ralph? Aside from being a piece of shit, Lauren has turned down numerous offers to start a line of dildos, stating “I hate sex, can’t stand the stuff. Get those great dildos away from me.” His favorite food is ice cubes.
The Ford Taurus
Speaking of dildos, the Ford Taurus is shaped exactly like a giant’s penis. It’s also got a great carbon footprint because it runs on snakes. Every time you press on the gas, a tiny man whips a gang of snakes
and they turn the wheels; that whine you hear isn’t the belt slipping, but the sound of oppression. The electronics are wax and 90% of Taurus drivers are secret Klansmen. In fact, every horse in “Birth of A Nation” was renamed Ford Taurus during postproduction. Stalin didn’t drive a Taurus, but he did have an extensive collection of scale models. Fuck that car, after all, Hitler was a taurus.
Clarence Cook Little
Everyone on campus knows that C. C. was a scientific spokesman for the tobacco lobby and a eugenicist, but not everyone knows he was a storied pervert. A modern day Caligula, he loved to taste farts and have his body tickled. Kenneth Dalton, University of Michigan ‘30, recounts his own victimization at Little’s hands. “He attacked me at night under the guise of thievery, but after disarming me, he sniffed my chest, winked at me, then disappeared into the darkness.” C. C. refused to walk like a normal person, preferring instead to tip-toe everywhere with a creepy grin on his face. This eventually led to extreme spine curvature and death. His final wish was to be buried beneath Marilyn Monroe’s grave with his eyes open.
Rackham Auditorium Named after the famous torture device, Rackham has appropriately been haunted for hundreds of years. It is locked at night because there are skeletons who wander around, picking fights and cussing at the living. Sometimes mummies throw parties, which are mostly cool except for the mandatory Hell theme.
America’s Finest Libel Actually, Rackham is a pretty dope place to be and on Tuesdays they have half cover for all ghouls.
If your sense of humor stopped developing in middle school, this is the place for you. This or www.goatse.ru. At www.facebook.com/UmichMemes you can find hundreds of iterations of a joke that even perverts and pedophiles (4chan) tired of years ago. These are the kind of people who pin a breast cancer awareness ribbon to their backpack and think they’re doing charity. These are the kind of people who may or may not give blowjobs to animals. Luckily, posting content on Umich Memes is a common cause of sterility and viral immunity, so if you’re a fan, get out there and have some unprotected sex. In all seriousness, Umich Memes is a tragic cesspool of mediocrity. Shame on you Alex Lee, you’ve created a self-sustaining shit heap.
om Cobb was anxious. He always got that way before a new mission. New dangers, new variables, new ways to narrowly avoid Limbo. No matter how many information “extractions” he and his specially trained crew of thieves performed, Cobb dreaded diving back in. Last time they’d lost Sanchez. Lost him to the ether. But he pulled himself together and spoke to Arthur, his right-hand man, hoping his gruff voice hid his fears. “What’s the target’s name?” “Calvin.” “No last name?” “His parents hired us as John and Jane Doe. Probably an alias. They want us to... you’re not gonna like this, Dom.” Cobb’s jaw clenched. There were really only two things he specialized in when he delved into a target’s mind. Extraction, or... “Inception.” Arthur looked sympathetic. He knew his boss never quite recovered from their last operation together. He’d been stranded in the mind of the director of The Human Centipede. Cobb often woke screaming while clutching his mouth and rear and clenching tightly. He’d soon mastered kegels. “Look. Cobb. I know this sucks for you, but we seriously need the money, especially after Beirut.” “Dammit. Beirut.” Arthur was right, and Dom knew it. “Fill me in, then.” A grown man with blond hair and a severely undersized, striped, red shirt lay unconscious in his room on a bed several sizes too small for him. His hairy man-legs spilled out of his black shorts and over the edge, nearly touching the ground. Dom was disgusted at the sight. “Let’s get this over with. Arthur, prepare to send us in.” Arthur obediently walked over to the target and opened the heavy silver case he carried in a tight grip. Hidden under an absurd amount of vintage pornography were all manner of odd devices and tubes and orifices that, after Arthur had worked his magic, would put Cobb and his team 12 into a shared dream-state and send them
into Calvin’s middle-aged mind. Their mission was simple: perform an Inception on Calvin, and make him put aside his imaginary friend, Hobbes. It was cute when he was six, but at thirty-four, his parents were concerned about his friendship with an adorable stuffed tiger. It was all cut and dry. Easy. But Cobb knew it would never be that simple. It never was. The crew, composed of Cobb, Arthur, the ladies’ man, Eames, and, their dream architect, Ariadne, awoke in a steamy tropical jungle, beneath a massive tree that, upon closer inspection, was sprouting fruit filled with... “Honey Nut Cheerios! Holy shit, that’s awesome.” Arthur was impressed, and he so very rarely was. The loud crunching sounds of his meal were cut short by a bone-chilling growl coming from the nearby jungle. A pair of glowing yellow eyes illuminated a wet, flared nose, and two rows of fangs so sharp that it cleaved the H2O in the drool from its monstrous, flicking tongue into an ominous vapor encasing its black-striped, orange head. It was pretty fucking scary. “Oh shit! It’s Hobbes! Run!” Though Arthur and Ariadne had the good sense to follow Cobb’s lead and sprint away, Eames had paused, for only a second, to admire his reflection in a nearby pool of water. That was...a mistake. Hobbes pounced on the poor narcissist and tore his face off, sinew by sinew. Blood splattered the formerly lush green surroundings, and the screams of the now very ugly, very faceless Eames pierced the air like a burst of flatulence at a very humid funeral. All of this Arthur saw over his shoulder as he ran, and he couldn’t help but mutter under his breath. “How ironic.” Cobb ran screaming by his teammates and slowed only briefly to say, “That’s not what irony is! I’ll explain later! Keep running!” Several minutes of frenzied sprinting came to a halt when the remaining crew realized that Hobbes had long stopped chasing them. Exhausted, the crew stopped to take a breath. Ariadne, who used to
work as a balloon-inflater at the local carnival, was the first to recover enough to say anything. “I guess Hobbes went for the easy prey. Poor Eames...” “Tigers will do anything for human flesh.” An unknown voice. But who? From the bushes nearby, a heavy bout of rustling revealed a hideout in the shrubbery, a small home, with an iPad playing a repeating video of a roaring fire, and with several wallpapers of ‘80s cartoons lining the vine-walls. Seated on a box labeled “Transmogrifier” was a small child. Blond, with a red, striped shirt and precocious black shorts. The crew had found Calvin. Cobb stepped forward to greet him. “Calvin, I presume? I’m Cobb. That there’s Ariadne, and Arthur beside her. Your parents sent us to get you out of here, away from that vicious tiger.” “Ah! Thank you so much! I’ve been trapped here for ages. If it wasn’t for this Transmogrifier here and the Honey Nut Cheerios trees, I can’t imagine how I would have survived as long.” “They were delicious.” “Thank you. Arthur, was it? Thank you. Now that you guys are here, I feel safe enough to make a run for the exit. Quick, before Hobbes comes looking for us.” The four made a break for it, crashing through the jungle just as a sphincterloosening roar and the sound of padded paws came over the hills. Hobbes was coming. As they ran, the dreamy environment changed, as if by magic, from the now all too familiar steamy jungle to a vast barren tundra and finally to a cold, sterile hallway with large red door at the end. Calvin looked happy. “The exit! Almost there!” Ariadne was the first to reach it. The first to push against it. The first to discover that it wouldn’t budge. That it wasn’t even a real door. And, as her terrified gaze rose to meet Cobb’s and Arthur’s, and the cruel smile on Calvin’s face, the first to realize it was a trap. She sank to her knees, defeated, as her teammates met their gory end at the jaws of the ferocious tiger. The sterile
white hallway was now graﬃtied...horribly, organically. Calvin strode over to his tiger and stroked his head lovingly. “If only you could see Hobbes as I do. He’s rather charming. But he gets hungry, you know? And I like to...just let a tiger be a tiger.” “But your parents...” Ariadne was distraught. “They...sent us to help you!” “My parents know all about Hobbes. They have for years. They send people like you to feed him, to keep him...happy.” “Happy?”
“He’s an elder god, you see. An ancient. Older than any of us, and wiser... hungrier. And, from time to time, Hobbes must...feed. It would be very bad for all of humanity were he to feel The Fleshlust. If you’ll recall, Europe was ravaged once by The Black Death. What a silly name for yourself, Hobbes.” The tiger growled and readied itself to strike. “Hobbes only had the munchies then. He’s positively starving now. Fortunately, he reaches his full far sooner in the dreamworld. No hard feelings, ma’am. Die a martyr. Time to
pounce, Hobbes.” Calvin sat down and enjoyed the carnage. The dreamscape shifted slowly, almost in time with each gruesome crunch, to the surface of a alien planet, surrounded by rings, and with the Earth barely visible in the distance. Calvin looked away for a short while, back at home. He smiled to himself. “It’s a magical world, Hobbes, ol’ buddy...”
Adrianâ€™s Moth Comic
SMITH & LEE H O R S E
I N C I N E R A T O R S
CONGRATULATIONS! With your purchase of the Smith & Lee EquiClean 7200 Horse Incinerator, you are now a proud member of the Smith & Lee Family! We’re proud of the hard work and family values that go into making every one of our horse incinerators, and you’ll experience these values every time you use our product. Before you begin enjoying your new horse incinerator, carefully read over our new features and instructions for proper use.
FEATURES Straight From the Horse’s Mouth
Hold Your Horses
Expanding on our award winning 7100 model, the EquiClean7200 comes standard with professional quality sound-proofing. However, for enthusiasts who prefer to experience every whinny, the new monitoring system can be used to watch and hear every detail of your beloved companion’s final moments in full HD 1080p. Footage can be uploaded directly to Youtube or Facebook.
You Can Lead A Horse To An Incinerator, But You Can’t Make Him Burn
Our patented Smith & Lee horse harnessing system ensures that your loved one is held tightly but comfortably in place throughout the process. Our system, perfected and passed down through the generations, has received four stars from the Horse Restraint Association of America and took home the blue ribbon at the 2011 Horse Holder Competition in Louisville, Kentucky.
Putting Your Horse Out to Pasture
In response to the requests from many of our loyal customers, the 7200 model features our brand new Horse’s Choice Control Panel. One stomp to continue living, two stomps for incineration. Allow your horse to die with dignity, or override the controls using the external operator’s touch panel. Please note that horse euthanasia is illegal in the states of Virginia, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and Vermont, so check with local regulations before use.
More than anyone, we understand that horse incineration can be a difficult topic for children. We have teamed up with distinguished child psychologists to produce Out to Pasture: Saying Goodbye to Your Four-Hooved Friend. This free DVD and accompanying coloring book will help your child or grandchild appreciate this time-honored tradition and address the Biblical truth that there are no horses in heaven.
WARNING! Don’t Put the Cart Before the Horse
Stop Horsing Around
You must never follow your horse into the incinerator. The EquiClean 7200 cannot distinguish between horse and human flesh.
One Horse Town Never overload your horse incinerator. The EquiClean 7200 is designed to fit only one horse per incineration. Loading multiple horses can cause damage to both the machine and the horses. For those needs, consider our 3000 model, which can comfortably burn up to 3 horses or 6 ponies.
GET ON YOUR HIGH HORSE! Spring 2012
Smith & Lee is not responsible for any injuries or damages that result from misuse of our product. Incinerating anything other than a horse or a mule will void your warranty.
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Sherlock Bones A Spooky Mystery By Brett Sandler
s I was returning home from a call one evening, I found myself wandering down Baker Street. It had been some time since I last adventured with the ever inscrutable Sherlock Holmes. Longer still, of course, since the case of the Gentle Oriental in which Holmes was transformed into a living, walking skeleton. Curious indeed, but that is a story for another time. I was passing by his apartment when I heard the familiar scratch of his violin. Holmes had taken to frightening the neighbors, sometimes standing by the window and playing the violin quite literally with his arm. I made my way up the stairs and greeted him. “Watson, how good of you to stop by, I am expecting a new case this evening in which your assistance would be invaluable.” Holmes rose with an embarrassing creak and poured us both a cup of wine. I chuckled and handed him a tin of oil, “Of what nature?” “Have you yet to read the papers today? No matter, you’ll discover all soon enough.” Holmes sipped his wine, letting it fall into a carefully placed jug in his ribcage. “In fact, I believe our client is coming up the stairs just now. Detain him momentarily.”
Holmes skittered to his room, donning a large trench coat and mophead. A master of disguise, Holmes looked much like his former self. Weatherston knocked twice on the door and came in before I could respond. He was ringing his hands fiercely and refused to sit. “What seems to be the problem, sir?” I asked. “The problem?! Hah! Singular! No, no, there are all kinds of problems, but I’ve only got one for Sherlock Holmes. Is that you? No, you’re clearly not him, where is he? Tell him Mr. Weatherston is here.” I felt that Weatherston and Holmes would get along splendidly. Sherlock made his way back to the sitting room just in time to offer me succor. “Mr. Weatherston was it? I’d offer you a seat, but I’m sure the road from Prestonshire has left you in a rather poor state and you’d prefer to stand. Would you like a glass of wine? You must be quite disturbed at the prospect of your son marrying a Pole.” Weatherston grimaced, “Sure. Anyways, about my situation...” Holmes never ceased to amaze. I put forth the question surely on Weatherston’s mind. “And how do you figure, Sherlock?” “You look, but you do not see. I have spoken at length about deduction, but I see that it has not stuck. With only a cursory glance one can clearly--” Weatherston interjected, “Look, I really don’t care how you know these things, I--” “Clearly see the reddish mud on Mr. Weatherston’s shoes,” continued Holmes, frustrated. “Which, along with the Alder leaf in our guest’s trousers, is a clear indication that he has come from Prestonshire. Having committed considerable effort to knowing London’s roads, I am well aware that ‘Bumperton’ way is in need of repair.” “Very impressive, but again, I don’t particularly ca--” “And as for the bit about your son--” “No, I--” “The manufacture of your shoes suggests...” Holmes continued his lengthy, but accurate explanation. Eventually, Weatherston did agree to wine. “...and so, that brings you here, sir. What trouble do you have to tell us?” Weatherston wiped the sweat from his brow and finished his glass. “I’m the director of several exhibits at the Natural History Museum. Every night I make a round before going home, to convince myself that all is in order. For the past month the... the exhibits seem to have... well, they appear to have come to life...” Holmes nodded, “How strange...” We stifled a laugh as I elbowed his actual ribs.
“Right! I found warthogs in the dinosaur exhibit, the cavemen keep switching positions and items have begun to disappear! I think a porpoise winked at me. What the fuck?” “It is imperative that you tell me all the details. When did this begin, what changes have occurred, who has access to the museum at night, anything and everything of relevance.” Holmes had become entirely serious. “I don’t know how to explain it. When I return the following day, all is in order, not a misplaced elephant in sight. I am completely befuddled! I stay later than anyone, I have the museum to myself, yet some criminal must live in the shadows! The next morning I raise the alarm and receive only japery in return.” Holmes was opening the door as Weatherston finished, “I must see the museum immediately. Mr. Weatherston, sir, please return home and I will have your answers within the week. Watson, with me.” And we were off. “Any thoughts?” I asked. “Millions, Watson, millions too many. Let us hasten to the museum so that I can relieve myself of them.” I quickened my pace, “And somehow I have none. When you’ve but a couple hundred left, do share one or two with me.” Yet, as I spoke I came to realize that Holmes was no longer in my company. Had he wandered off, hot on the trail of a new clue? Had something more sinister occurred? I backtracked to the alley we had just passed through, the same one in which we solved the case of the Prince’s Passion-Engine. Holmes was stuck in a divot. He saw me, gave his leg bones another jerk, and sighed. “This damn city,” he began “is absolutely impossible to traverse in my state, this is the--” Before he could finish, a carriage drove by and he became quite tangled in the passenger-side wheels. Several days passed before I could reassemble Holmes and I regret to say that I could not recover his right foot, giving him the peculiar appearance of my wife. Upon completion we had ourselves a well deserved laugh at the thought of some poor businessman slipping on the missing foot. “Well my friend, I must say that this mystery is nothing of the sort.” clacked Holmes. “You’ve solved it then? “Of course! I had plenty of time to think while my skull rested in a derelict’s afterbirth.” “Hah, you always do find your way to the den.” “Naturally. As I was saying, this mystery is, at its heart, not a matter of vanishment and materialization, but simply misdirection. As Jaundiced Jan cleaned her pipes with my coccyx, it all became quite clear.” I ventured a joke, “Like the pipes themselves!” “Indeed...” muttered Holmes. His eyes visibly rolled to the back of his head and I felt my stomach turn. “Now, if you recall, when Mr. Weatherston first came to see us, I inquired as to whether or not you had read the day’s news.
There was a curious report of a jewel heist, which may have caught your attention, as it did mine. However--” Just then, Mr. Weatherston burst through the front door. His clothes were sweat-stained and he wore a face of urgency. “EAGLES IN THE LADIES ROOM!” He bellowed. Holmes smiled calmly, “Mr. Weatherston, how good of you to stop by. Or should I say...” With a deft flick of his wrist, Holmes had removed Mr. Weatherston’s wrinkled face, revealing another wrinkled face. “--Old Man Jenkins!” I gasped, “... the neighborhood Alzheimer’s patient!” Jenkins snatched his mask back and flopped down in the armchair. “My mask! You’ve had it this whole time? You’re a lousy grandson!” Holmes shrugged and turned to me. “I noticed early on that Mr. Weatherston’s face looked a bit... off, however, the newspaper was my first solid clue. There was an announcement that the museum would be reopening next week following several months of renovation. I knew then that something was amiss. Following my dance with the carriage, I arranged to have my head placed in the museum gift shop.” Jenkins began to pay attention, “I’m sorry, what was that?” “Nothing, shut up.” Holmes continued, “it was there that I observed Jenkins shuffling about, muttering to himself about the lack of order in the exhibits and moving items to his liking.” Jenkins lit up, “So it was me all along! Hah! And I got away with it too!” “Yes, your son cleans up in the morning. He’s the head curator, a good man.” “So he is... so he is...” Jenkins noticed Holmes’ laboratory equipment and began mixing himself a drink, “and what about the winking porpoise? How do you explain that?!” “That is unrelated. I see that your hat is many years old, judging by its terrible condition. Really shoddy, just awful. Anyways, you’ll also notice that it shines like the sun, but of mercury. The thing is practically dripping... how is your marriage?” “Terrific! My wife polishes my hat daily. The real question is why haven’t you been over for dinner lately? Like I said, a terrible nephew! We’re having a roast on Sunday and I’ll expect the both of you.” Jenkins rose, tipped his hat, and took leave of Baker Street. I followed suit, but not before thanking Holmes for another tale. As I descended to the street I met Lestrade, Scotland Yard’s finest, sprinting up, taking the stairs two at a time. I paused and listened for just a moment. “Holmes! You must come with me immediately!” gasped Lestrade, “we’ve found three pigs in Buckingham labelled ‘1’, ‘2’, and ‘4’, but we simply cannot find number three!” “...and?” replied Holmes. “And the Royal Family is missing!” I chuckled and headed home. Never a dull moment at 221B, Baker Street.
BY JACOB ROSEN
FERRIS BUELLER’S DAY IN One man’s struggle. F
erris awakes to the scream of his alarm. Any other day he may have been already thinking of his latest plot to skip class, but this particular morning was different. Following the peak of his manic episode the previous day, Ferris sighs, realizing that today has already taken a turn for the worst. Horrified at the prospect of facing the day, he closes his eyes and throws the covers over his head, inadvertently knocking his prototype snoring robot off the shelf. It shatters with a crash and Ferris lets out another sigh. Twenty minutes later, Ferris’ parents enter the room. “Oh Ferris dear, you’re still sick?” His mother coos in his ear. Ferris begins to hum a minor key rendition of Twist and Shout rather than answer, prompting his father to lean in. “Son, is it your stomach again? Does your tummy hurt?” Ferris rolls over and mutters,“My head dad. There’s something wrong with my head. Why is there so much suffering in the world-” “He’s got a head cold.” His father lovingly chuckles to his wife. “He just
needs some sleep.” Mother gives Ferris a kiss on his cheek and they go off to work.
to handle Ferris’ apparent emotional turmoil.
By ten AM, Ferris has almost made his way down the stairs. The phone had been ringing for the past twenty minutes and the prospect of answering it seemed like worthwhile challenge. Luckily, he found a cordless phone on the staircase and picked it up. “Cameron?” Ferris answers with a hopeful twist. “I got you now you little runt. You think you can fool me? No one makes Ed Rooney look like a fool.” “I’m... I’m so sorry sir. I never meant to hurt anyone. I just... I” Ferris meekly replies, “I just wanted to go to the art museum.” He then bursts into tears, apologizing and discussing his childhood at length. “Oh. I see... Uhhhh...that’s fine. I...I hope you feel well tomorrow.” Mr. Rooney mutters, clearly uncomfortable. “Wait! Do you wanna go grab some coffee or catch a matinee or maybe--” But the principal has already hung up, unable
Ferris hears a knock at the front door around noon. He tiptoes to the door, avoiding the creaky floorboards, heart beating like a piston. Ferris checks the peephole and a wave of calm washes over him. It’s just Cameron. Ferris flings the door open, cracking his first smile of the day. “Cameron! I’m so hap--” But his smile soon fades as he notices his friend’s double black-eye. “Hey asshole. Apparently my father didn’t find ruining his car as cute as you and your fucking girlfriend did.” Ferris tries to apologize, but doesn’t get a word out before Cameron swiftly jabs him in the ribs. “I don’t even want to hear it Ferris. I’m leaving today for Indonesia; I have to pay my dad back by making Ataris for the next four years. It’s been nice knowing you.” Cameron walks away, then turns, “By the way, that’s in Asia. On the ‘right’ side of the map. You’d probably know that
if you ever went to class. Idiot. Oh yeah, don’t write.” As Cameron walks away, Ferris notices the clear mark of a nuclearwedgie in Cameron’s shorts. His head slowly drops. Ferris stands at the precipice of not only his doorway, but at the very edge of his own sanity. A moment of clarity strikes and he calls his therapist. “Dr. Isaacson?! Hey, it’s Ferris and I’m kinda bottoming out right now... okay, yeah... no, I remember what you said about my moods. Right, smoke a cigarette and aspirin between the legs... thanks doc.” Ferris hangs up and considers finding the heaviest object in his house. A sudden rumble interrupts his musing and Ferris remembers that he hasn’t eaten in nearly 24 hours. He drags himself to the kitchen in hopes of finding oatmeal, saltines, or
nutrient paste. Just then, the phone rings. “Bueller? Ferris Bueller?” “Yes?” He answers. “Where were you at 12:14 PM yesterday afternoon?” Ferris freezes. His manic states are generally accompanied by memory loss and a rash. “I...I don’t remember.” He stutters. The oﬃcer continues. “A brown-haired male in his mid to late teens wearing a leopard skin vest was seen at around that time disrupting the annual Von Steuben Parade. Would you happen to know anyone who fits this description?” Ferris says nothing, “Would it spark your memory if I told you he was accompanied by a gumpy male in a Red Wings jersey, a mousy looking female and...” The oﬃcer checks his notepad, “..and seemed to be experiencing a sense of
euphoria, increased energy level, decreased need for sleep, short attention span, and the perception that he was somehow “chosen” or on a “special mission? Does that ring any bells son?” “I used to know someone exactly like that, but I can’t seem to find him today.” he answered quietly. “You’ll be hearing from us again.” The oﬃcer mumbles something about obtaining a warrant before hanging up. Ferris vapidly wanders towards the living room, where a newspaper lies on the counter with a vaguely familiar scene. Turning the page, he notices the headline, “Riot Caused by Careless Teenager Results in Three Trampling Deaths”. Ferris sighs heavily, looks at the camera and growls “What the fuck are you still doing here?”
And So, To Rise Higher, We Cast off Dead Weight
A collection of Senior farewells
It’s been a tremendous two years writing for the Garg. More specifically, it’s been a tremendous two years as the only black guy on staff. With a heavy heart I graduate and pass my mantle on to...well, statistically speaking, I’m sure there’ll be another black person someday in the near future. We have a black president after all. At least for now. Peace out, Rubin Quarcoopome
trapped in a virgin fa ctory! vis
You’re welcome for all the erotica Sean Kermath
When I joined the Gargoyle I was a freshman living in a lonely single in Baits II. I couldn’t make friends in the dorms, because as far as I could tell I was the only one there. So, my social groups all spiral out from the Gargoyle, and all my closest friends at this university have at one point or another been aﬃliated with it. I’ve done some of my proudest writing for the Gargoyle, even if none of it is appropriate for a portfolio. My time at the Garg has been the most defining part of my college experience, and, for all the choices I’ve made in the last four years that leave me angry and depressed and absolutely terrified every morning when I get out of bed, joining the Gargoyle has never been one of them. Or that’s what I would have written if somebody would have just drawn me that fucking dragonfly like I asked. I’ll see you all in hell. Peter Eldred
I joined the Gargoyle as a complete dork; I was the sort of person people rolled their eyes to and tried to ignore at meetings. a pathetic artist and an even worse writer. But like all of us, I grew up and decided to find a useful skill. I tried my hand at layout for my first time two summers ago and found I could produce something of decent value. So I leave the Gargoyle a dork who people roll their eyes to, but one who makes typography jokes and complains about margin size and widows. P.S. I‛ve set all your fonts to comic sans. Dylan Box
It begins, as all good things do, with a dick joke. My long and hard time with the Gargoyle commenced with a questionably funny piece about a sentient dildo, proving that even as a virgin comedywriter I knew how to reach for a solid penis. Over time, my path with the magazine has bent a little, appeared too big to handle, and has kept me awake for hours at night. I only wish that I had taken the Gargoyle by the shaft and swallowed everything it had to give. Even at the end I’m still making dick jokes, hoping to squeeze out just a few more laughs from whoever might be reading this. Forgive me, I rarely get the chance. As the Business Manager, I’ve had to be the responsible backbone of the magazine all while answering the question “So, what exactly do you do?” Business Manager has been simultaneously the worst and best job I’ve ever had, but it was worth all the trouble. The Gargoyle has been more than a club or a social group; it’s been a home. It’s so easy to point out the problems and the grievances, but what really matters is the community we’ve created, the connections we’ve made. While I regret that I haven’t written as much as I would have liked to and our finances could be better, I will never regret the fact that the Gargoyle took me in when I was a lost, troubled freshman and taught me how to laugh. For that, thank you. I will miss you all more than I will admit to your faces. To those who remain, I wish you well and hope that you will find a woman of color to replace me very soon. Your collective whiteness makes me feel like I’m at an NRA rally. Godspeed and good cock. I mean luck. Nikita Desai