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Table of Contents 1. The Beginning 2. This Page 3. That Page 4. Masculinity Volume CVIII, Number 4 Spring 2017

5. Hirsuteness 6. Totally Legit

Caleb P. Nusbaum . . . . . Beard P. Bearderson


James Mackin . . . . . . . . . . . Pwecious!

8. RIP, True Love

Jenny Ghose . . . . . . . . . . Rhymes with Rose Alex Boscolo . . . . . . Upper Managementcolo Caitie Boulos . . . . . . . . . Jew-Deau E.A. Chavis . . . . . . . . . Clean Commie Connor Davis . . . . . . . . . . . Smol Buggo Claire Denson . . . . . . . Masturbates to Twilight Marjorie Gaber . . . . . Nancy Drew’s Hot Cousin Sydney Glide . . . . . . . . . A Funny Name Matt Henning . . . . . . . . . Boogers or Kiwi? Colleen Hillard . . . . . .Ebony Dark’Ness Dementia Raven Way Neal Jackson . . . . . . . . . Quiet Klaxon Andrew Keating . . . . . . . . Thrice As Often Molly Miller . . . . . . . . . Ess Jay Dubya Sarah Neff . . . . . . . . . . Smakronym Haley Nusbaum . . . . . . . . . . . . Finkle Tanner Petch . . . . . . . . . Him Cyoot Nico Pigg . . . . . . . . . . . Piggonometry Duncan Reitz . . . . . . . . Duncan Reich Michael Rosenberg . . . . . . . Wild Watermelon Simone Shemshideni . . . . . . . . Escape Fartist Fiona Tien . . . . . . . . . . . . . Cramps School

Direct all complaints, comments, submissions, and proclamations to

The Gargoyle 420 Maynard Ann Arbor, MI 48104 Visit us at:

Copyright © Gargoyle Humor Magazine 2016

9. You Deserve It 10. True Story Brah 11. Elevator Music 12. Unlock Me, Baby 13. Over 21 Adults Only 14. Alley Appendectomy 15. Saloon Surgery 16. Deep 17. Your Uranus 18. What The Office Needs 19. $500, Please 20. So Long 21. Farewell 22. Auf Wiedersehen 23. Goodbye 24. The End

Spring 2017


Matthis LaBelle, white, old, had paying analyst at stock firm. He considered by most though he himself girlfriend whom he “borderline Hamilton could tell he

Shaved By LaBelle written by Mike Flynn

male, 26 years a highjob as an New York exchange was fit and attractive women, devoted to his Charlotte, considered a and had seen who saw him or the savagest the word

9.” He had season tickets to the Knicks thrice, though he found it “too dark.” Anyone was the man, which was either the highest compliment condemnation, depending on the beholder’s opinion of “deregulation.” Despite his success in love and life, buried within his carefully curated alpha male exterior was a nugget of insecurity that threatened to corrode him from within: he could not grow a beard. What little facial hair he could grow came out looking like the Articles of Confederation: a loose collection of separate entities that must be either tamed or destroyed.Matthis’ insecurity about his facial hair started when he was a teenager. Every man in his family had a beard, so Matthis came to view facial hair as the ultimate symbol of masculinity. When he reached the age of 18 without having grown an inch of facial hair, he was crushed. When his younger brother Flaubert grew a beard at age 14, Matthis stopped talking to him. When Matthis moved to New York, he saw his demons personified: a homeless man with a bushy beard sitting under a blanket on the other side of the street. Matthis looked upon the homeless man with envy, wishing without irony to trade lives with him. After several weeks of gazing jealously at this bearded victim of capitalism, Matthis had had enough, and he decided to solve his problem the only way he knew how: with money. Using money he won in an office game of wire-transfer ping-pong, Matthis embarked on a hunting trip with three of his co-workers. Never mind that none of the four had ever gone hunting before. It cost a lot of money to get a plane ticket and hunting equipment, so that was good enough to convince the other three that it was a worthwhile endeavor. And so the four investment bankers ventured to the mountains of Northern California to hunt the feared grizzly bear; to kill, take its hide, and use it to fashion Matthis a beard. Long story short: they found the bear, and it ate everybody except Matthis, who was left with a nasty scar on his leg, crudely spelling out the words: “Insecure douche.” With his hunting trip having ended in violent failure, Matthis turned to plan B: modern pharmaceutical science. After bribing a pharmacist whom he bullied mercilessly in boarding school, Matthis got ahold of an experimental facial hair growth pill that had yet to be approved for sale. When he took the pill, no facial hair grew, but his previously hairless chest became a forest of hair, dense and sweaty enough to support an ecosystem typically found only in rainforests. Ordinarily, Matthis would have thought to profit from this by selling shares of his chest hair to an environmental engineering firm, or leasing it to Lucasfilm Ltd. for miniature effects shots. But now Matthis’ mind was clouded with hopelessness and depression. There was only one remaining solution: therapy. Matthis booked himself a series of appointments at the office of Dr. Janeane Margolis, one of the best clinical therapists in New York City. When the day came and he walked into the office, the bespectacled, pantsuit-clad Dr. Margolis suppressed a groan. Another Wall Street tool. Matthis had a seat on Dr. Margolis’s couch and proceeded to spill his guts for what seemed like hours. He couldn’t grow a beard, therefore he wasn’t a real man… He wasn’t a real man, therefore he couldn’t grow a beard… His life was an unending avalanche of sorrow and pain… Soon, Dr. Margolis had enough. “Mr. LaBelle,” she interjected. “It’s true. You cannot grow a beard. Your facial hair is like the Articles of Confederation. But your ego and your adherence to traditional, toxic


masculinity is like the Civil War. It’ll tear you apart and prevent you from becoming the best version of yourself you can be.”Matthis saw red. “Who do you think you are?! Talking about the Articles of Confederation… Why can’t you give me something real and practical that I can use? I hired you to be my analyst, not my analogist!” With that, he stormed out of the office, slammed the door, and asked the frightened receptionist to cancel his remaining appointments. Dr. Margolis let out a sigh of relief to be done with him. Frustrated, Matthis called up his girlfriend Charlotte to ask if he could come over to her apartment. She said yes, so he got on the A train to Midtown where she lived. When she opened her door, she was holding a book. On the cover was a picture of Karl Marx, a famous bearded individual. Matthis’ eyes filled with anger. “Is that what you like?” he barked at Charlotte. “What are you talking about?” said Charlotte. “You want a real man, who can grow a real beard. Is that right?” Charlotte looked down at her book and then back up at Matthis, utterly stunned. She said nothing. “You know what,” shouted Matthis, “enjoy your Karl Marx. We’re finished.” He slammed the door, ran down the street to a bar where he and Charlotte used to get drinks, sat down at an empty table, and proceeded to put his college education to good use by drinking until the bartender kicked him out. After half an hour of aimless wandering through the Midtown streets, Matthis stumbled upon a CVS on 44th Street. The bearded homeless man was sitting outside, asleep under a ragged blanket. Matthis scowled at him, and then entered the CVS, scanning the aisles for some unhealthy food to numb his sorrow. Right as he was about to enter aisle 3, something caught his eye: a shaving razor, hanging from a rack at the entrance of the aisle. Matthis picked up the shaving razor and looked at it for several seconds. He knew now that he had to face his problems head-on, and the razor would be his instrument. He bought the razor and some shaving cream and exited the store. He walked to the sleeping homeless man, squirted shaving cream into his hands, and rubbed it onto the homeless man’s face. As soon as Matthis set the razor on the homeless man’s skin, the homeless man pushed Matthis to the ground, jumped on top of him, and began to repeatedly punch him in the face. Matthis yelled for help, and a bystander who had been recording the scuffle across the street finally shrugged his shoulders and called the cops, who proceeded to join the homeless man in beating Matthis within an inch of his life with their billy clubs. Matthis spent the night in jail, but the next morning, a cop came to his cell to inform him that someone had paid his bail. “Who?” asked Matthis. “Charlotte?” “No,” said the cop. “Someone named Flaubert.” After grabbing his confiscated items, Matthis exited the jail and saw Flaubert, sporting a thick beard, tight jeans, and a flannel shirt, with his arms crossed. “Hello, Matthis,” said Flaubert. “Hello, Flaubert,” said Matthis. “I didn’t know...” He hung his head. “I didn’t know you were in New York.” “Yeah, I do graphic design in Williamsburg.” “That’s...look, Flaubert, you didn’t have to pay my bail. It’s really nice that you did, but-” “It’s no problem at all. But there’s something you need to understand. You cannot grow a beard. Your facial hair is like the Articles of Confederation. But your ego and your adherence to traditional, toxic masculinity is like the Civil War. It’ll tear you apart and prevent you from becoming the best version of yourself you can be.” Matthis took a deep breath. “You’re right,” he said. “I was so stupid.” “Well, now you know better,” said Flaubert, who opened his arms for a hug. Matthis obliged, and he felt an emotion that he hadn’t felt in a long time: gratefulness. “Thanks for helping me out.” “No problem, brother. Now come on. Let’s go cuck some betas.”

Spring 2017



Dear Gargoyle reader, you may recall from previous issues a similar page featuring a menorah made of dildos (pictured below). Sadly, this was merely a rendering, but with your help we could make it a reality. Consider contributing funds for us to 3D print a dildo menorah. This is 100% serious. Please make checks out to The Gargoyle or drop off wads of cash at our office at 420 Maynard St.

Get scro-tally comfy in our newly designed office swivel chair! This precision-engineered chair has four shafts for stability, liquid-filled drips for maneuverability, and a big squishy seat that shrinks in cold temperatures. Features a crank, so you can crank. Just don’t crank too hard, or it might not stay up, and that would ruin your workday. Unlike other office chairs, this one is guaranteed to satisfy your behind. For an extra payment of $6.90, we’ll include latex sleeves to protect the chair from dirty floors. Spring 2017


Rest in Peace Our Sweet Angel


ollowing his recent DUI and manslaughter convictions, famous investigative journalist and longtime Gargoyle contributor Andy Koeing died as a result of a prison yard misunderstanding. Perhaps as part of his rehabilitation, or perhaps due to his need to express himself through the written word, Andy wrote several poems that were found under his bunk after his death. We have decided to publish these poems in his honor.

MARCH SADNESS by Andy Koeing

WOMAN JESUS by Andy Koeing

The Wolf cries at midnight

I paint with the sounds of the universe

She cries for her people

And I dream with the colors of the galaxy

Who are also wolves

I eat with the skin of the antelope

But also, people

I fly on the wings of children

Animals are people

Silicon Valley promises cures

Dogs are people

To viruses and computer stuff

Cats are people

But what kind of startup

The Mother is people

Will ever teach computers how to feel

But when I look at the television screen

Doctors sell disease

And see post-consumer dreams

Prison guards sell freedom

“Is that people?”

The peasants sell fiefdom

“Am I people?”

Vaccines cause autism Imagine a firefighter She is a womyn Imagine a CEO She is a womyn¬¬¬ Imagine Jesus SHE is a womyn


by Andy Koeing



by Andy Koeing

I climaxed while I gave birth


I gave birth with pain

That’s what I call my vagina My vagina is the woman God

Yet I gave birth with pleasure

Who gave birth to the stars and the sky

My son made me cum three times

She bled out the animals and the planets

When I gave birth to him

And on the seventh day

I made soup with the placenta So it wouldn’t go to waste Its nutrients sustained him Now they sustain me

She bled WOMYN I wish my dad was a womyn So when the construction workers cat-called him It would make sense that the construction workers called him “god”

My boy will be beautiful and strong

“Hey god, take a load of these balls”

And one day he might cum

“Hey god, suck on muh cock”

As he made me cum When I gave birth to him

“Hey god, watch out, there’s construction going on here” “God, you need a hard hat to be in this area. It’s a liability” “God.”

ESSENTIAL OILS by Andy Koeing When Moses the mountains climbed He Spoke to God She said, “Moses, you are a womyn” He said, “No I’m not” And it was SACRILEGE

Spring 2017

THE GETTYSBURG ADDRESS by Andy Koeing “Fourscore and seven years ago our MOTHERS brought forth on this continent a new nation conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all WOMYN are created equal Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation or any nation so conceived and so dedicated can long endure.”




This issue is funded by LSA Student Government.

Spring 2017

Contact for questions


ACHIEVEMENTS UNLOCKED! Freshman 15 Get MIP’d 15 times in your freshman year




C’s Get Degrees Get the bad ending

Business Minor

Basically an EECS Major

Deal drugs on the side

Write “Hello world” in Python

Varsity Athletics


Commit sexual assualt

Get all the letter grades in one semester

Foreign Exchange

Freaky Friday

Pay a native speaker to take your Spanish placement exam

Live at home while your mom takes all your classes

Honor Roll

And Then There Was One

Make pizza rolls instead of studying

Be a girl in STEM

Reply All

Beat the Heat

Send an e-mail so racist that the university calls the FBI

Blame a pledge for a felony

The Ole’ Switcheroo


Live 9 pm to 9 am for a semester

Masturbate in the library

Plan C

Wild Goose Chase

Find a homework question verbatim in an online PDF

Lose your $900 jacket at a frat party

Don’t Be That Guy


Be that guy

Read your own Miranda Rights

Late Drop

Cap’n Crunch

Accidentally call your professor Mom

Get scurvy from malnutrition

Spring 2017


Here at The Gargoyle, we like to keep things light and playful, while also providing some deep introspection for our readers. One of the most important things about the college experience is finding yourself. If you, like us, thought you knew all there is to know about yourself, think a-fucking-gain. It’s time to find out what medical exam you are!

1. You have a class at 9am. Which morning routine sounds most like yours?

A. Wake up at a reasonable time (8:55), brush your teeth, flip your underwear inside out, and get to class on time (9:11) B. Set an alarm for 7:45 and then sleep through it, except it’s set to just keep ringing until you turn it off because you’re a piece of fucking shit, Emily C. Head to class from the UGLi where you were studying all night (you didn’t have an exam, just poor time-management skills) D. Wake up after your responsible roommate who also has a class at 9am, without even brushing your teeth or anything, and somehow manage to get out the door before him

2. You have a weird rash all over your stomach. It’s been there for a few days and it doesn’t itch or anything, but every time you look in the mirror, the rash has spread. What do you do?

A. Nothing a little duct tape can’t fix! B. Call your mom, sobbing, until she decides to take the day off work and drive 3 hours to comfort you, you whiny baby C. Go to UHS like a noob D. Put some calamine lotion or, like, aloe vera or something on it and hope for the best

A. D B. B C. A D. 11

3. Pick your favorite letter!

4. You’ve had the hugest crush on Jake ever since the date party at Phi Chi Psi Pi, when you two both sang along to Don’t Stop Believin’ by Journey. Obvi, you told your BFF Jill allllll about him. But guess what? You saw Jill and Jake talking in the hallway! And laughing! What do you do?


A. E n d t h e m B. Shake it off. Haters gonna hate hate hate, am I right ladies?? C. Throw h*lla shade. No one steals your man like that! D. Don’t do anything, and go back to studying because you are an Intellectual™

5. What ‘90s thing do you miss the most?

A. Crystal Pepsi B. Bonnaroo C. Y2K D. A sense of security and lack of any actual responsibility

6. Which best fits your idea of a good Friday night?

A. Taking a three hour bath, railing a line, going to a co-op party, and waking up the next morning realizing you ordered 500 containers of uranium ore off Amazon for $39.95 + FREE shipping B. Taking a three hour bath, doing a candy flip, going to a co-op party, and waking up the next morning realizing you ordered 500 containers of uranium ore off Amazon for $39.95 + FREE shipping C. Taking a three hour bath, smoking some of that good ol’ angel piss, going to a co-op party, and waking up the next morning realizing you ordered 500 containers of uranium ore off Amazon for $39.95 + FREE shipping D. Taking a three hour bath, popping some of what the kids these days are calling Kentucky Booyah, going to a co-op party, and waking up the next morning realizing you ordered 500 containers of uranium ore off Amazon for $39.95 + FREE shipping

7. Pick a Kanye West lyric:

A. “My presence is a present, kiss my ass” B. “I ain’t sayin’ you a gold digger, you got needs/ don’t want your dude to smoke but he can’t buy weed/ you go out to eat, he can’t pay, y’all can’t leave/ there’s dishes in the back you gotta roll up your sleeves” C. “Because maybe/ you’re gonna be the one that saves me/ and after all/ you’re my wonderwall” D. “This land is your land, this land is my land, from California, to the New York islands”

8. If you had to stick something in your ass, what would it be?

A. An actual loaded AK-47 B. A nice, smooth crucifix C. A marijuana suppository D. A catheter but, like, for taking a shit


Time to tally your results!

Yay! You’re a routine pelvic exam performed annually on every vagina-toting person over the age of 21 in America (and probably also Canada)! Nothing sounds better to you than the insertion of a nice, cold speculum to make scraping tissue off your cervix easier. Fun!


You probably don’t even know what the fuck that is! Well, good thing that I, an Intellectual™, am here to educate you. It’s when an eye doctor dilates your eye and then sticks this little light about 2 micrometers from your pupil and you’re not allowed to blink or else you’ll fuck it up. It tests for glaucoma, but at what cost?


Furries are to fursonas as you are to a tiny camera at the end of a wire inserted in some old guy’s colon. Is it fun? No. Especially not if you have to put up with all the pre-colonoscopy intestine flushing. Does it prevent colon cancer? That’s what Al Gore wants you to think.


You just love hitting people’s’ knees with little rubber hammers, you sick fuck. Get rekked. Spring 2017



Winter 2017


Stick your neck out for the new ACME ergonomic neck straightener!

Incorrect use

Correct use


Spring 2017



we cast off dead weight

Nico Pigg (2016)


joined the Gargoyle my freshman year because I lived in West Quad and the office was just down the street. Someone had shoved one of the magazines into my hands earlier that day, and in it I read a crossover piece between Calvin and Hobbes and Inception written in the style of H.P Lovecraft. That’s the type of fucked up nonsense that grabs my attention, and I didn’t have anything else going on that Friday night, so I checked out the meeting at 420 Maynard. Two years later I accidentally became the editor in chief. I was not an editor that was knowledgeable about publishing, and I did not elevate the magazine back to its glory days. I did laugh a lot during

my time there though, and pretty much every week I was amazed by the work of the people on staff much more talented than me. There is an anecdote that I enjoy and also made up, about Hunter S. Thompson describing the Garg as “A high-powered mutant of some kind never even considered for mass production. Too weird to live, and too rare to die”. There really isn’t anything else like the Gargoyle out there, so if you find this stuff funny, I encourage you to attend a meeting and check it out. You don’t have to be funny yourself, god knows most of us aren’t, but come hang out and see how this foul sausage gets made.

Caleb P. Nusbaum (2017)


ang, that went fast. I became editor-in-chief because no one else wanted to, and during my tenure I hardly did anything. We managed to put out 4 quality issues anyway, which speaks to the talent and hard work of everyone on the magazine besides me. I swear I didn’t read Nico’s farewell before I wrote this.

has amassed some mighty fine people. I am glad I had the opportunity to “lead” them through this marvelous journey of good #content, dick jokes, and selfdeprecating references to dick jokes. No matter what happens now, I’ll always have Titty Crow under my belt. Beat that, future garglings! Jk, you can’t. Peace out.

I’m only partially joking. The Gargoyle

P.S. Please be kind to bugs.



Neal Jackson (2016)

eal S. Jackson, 23, of Berkeley, CA, died March 5, 2017 as a result of injuries sustained in an accident involving a bicycle and a cactus. He was born November 30, 1993 in Madison, WI, the son of Brad Jackson and Susan Schadewald. He graduated in 2016 from the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, with a degree in Computer Engineering. He was currently enrolled at the University of California, Berkeley, as a PhD student in Computer Science. Neal was the layout editor for the Gargoyle, a humor magazine at the University of Michigan. He is remembered by those that knew him as a grumpy but lovable figure at the magazine, always

grumbling about being busy and giving people hard times over their (admittedly) terrible layout work. At the time of his death, he had been working on an entirely slug-themed issue to pitch to the new staff. It’s very funny. Neal is survived by both his parents, Brad Jackson and Susan Schadewald; his sister Sadie; and his air plant, Ned. At the request of the deceased, no funeral will be held. Instead, Neal requested that his ashes be spread liberally throughout the Michigan Daily office.

Sydney Glide (2016)


hey say when you find true love, you know within the first 24 hours; with the Garg, I knew at the first mention of auto-erotica asphyixation. Yes, I was home. These people got me. In my time at the Garg I managed to fetishize food, turn Jesus into both Richard Gere and a porn star, and pervert classic children’s literature, all under the guise of “well, Arthur Miller wrote for this publication”, as


y time with the Gargoyle began when I picked up a copy in Markley around November of my Freshman year. I saw some things in that magazine that some may have called “disgusting” or “not funny, just dumb.” In fact, my freshman year roommate said both those things. What I saw though was comedic gold, and the note that meetings were on Friday at 6pm in the student publications building at 420 Maynard Street told me what I needed to do. So I went to a meeting that Friday, and what I found there was a man, dressed in a gorilla suit, intently rubbing his gorilla suit’s nipples. This continued throughout most of

Spring 2017

if that was a justification. In case the readers were wondering, I am still in legal entanglements with R Kelly’s lawyer. In all seriousness, I’m incredibly #blessed to have been surrounded by the most talented artists, who could craft words and illustrations in ways that inspired and amazed me. The creative surge of the Gargoyle meeting is something I miss everyday, and have not felt since graduation. Something special happens at 420 Maynard when we are all together; it’s probably the black mold in the walls. As I pen this from sunny LA as an old ass grad student, I send my hugs, kisses and other fluids to my esteemed colleagues-past, present and future. One Love, Two Chains. P.S. You better give me a funny name in the masthead. P.P.S. Don’t give our chairs to the Daily.

Evan Chavis (2016) the meeting, but was never addressed by any of the other attendees or me. That gorillanipple-rubber went on to become a fantastic editor and remained a part-time gorilla suit wearer. I went on to write some silly shit and have some great memories from those meetings. The Gargoyle went on to publish some really great content, and some even more incredible content went unpublished due to very reasonable concerns about decency and not losing our university funding. What feels most important though is that the Gargoyle is still around, which is shocking, but still very nice.


James Mackin (2017)


his is literally the first thing I have ever written for the Garg! How might a Child Man you wonder come to be on the Garg yet never write for it? The key is in large sums of milk consumed by myself as well as the several illustrations that I’ve published here in the past 4 years. The Garg has been an ol’ faithful gurl to me as its given me money, friends and a few awards. Stay good to her and she will take care of you. Oh and don’t go silent in to the dark night… PS. I left a treasure map in the office find it and the garglings will never go hungry again! Art Director / Business Manager

Andrew Keating (2017) To Ross and Nico, My Comedy Dads


ost people, if they’re lucky, just have one dad. Some people who are less fortunate don’t get to have any dad. But in my comedy career, I’ve been blessed with two dads, Ross and Nico, the two EICs of The Gargoyle in my underclassman years. I have no doubt that calling these two men my dads would make one confused, and the other uncomfortable. But it’s the truth. Although I moved up through the ranks at The Every Three Weekly (which does NOT have a rivalry with the Gargoyle, contrary to like three dumb peoples’ beliefs) I really got my chops from Nico and Ross. Ross was like an encouraging soccer dad. When I sucked at improv, he gave me the advice that I should move my talents to comedy writing, where my physical awkwardness was less of an issue. And Nico was like a distant, stern father with a heart of gold. He was the superego to my comedic id, holding firm that I should hold myself to higher standards (and that a comic stip featuring Garfield committing war crimes wasn’t “funny”). Thanks, dads!


Alex Boscolo (2017)

espite hardly ever writing, I have loved The Gargoyle fiercely, probably a little too much. It responded uncomfortably at first, but eventually I won it over by refusing to leave. This is how most of my relationships go. I first joined The Gargoyle about 6 days into freshman year because I was already panicking that I wouldn’t get accepted into any organizations. I thought Garg seemed like they would let a freshman do their layout. I was right. It took some convincing to stop the editor at the time from drunkenly doing most of the layout on his own, but I’m nothing if not persistent. Side note: I don’t want to minimize the great work of the layout editor before me, Neal, who taught me that not all headlines


have to be in bold even if I REAALLLY wanted them to be. Thx Neal. Senior year I finally got the layout editor position which I and no one else coveted. This leadership role has meant SO MUCH to me and very little to anyone else, which is why I will not actually be leaving. I will live on as a cloud of Cheeto dust hanging out behind the couches in the office. Fiona, my future layout editor: I know you’ll do great, but just in case, I’ll always be there, existing as a cloud of artificial cheese particles. Thank you to The Gargoyle for everything. I loved every minute, even the ones we spent talking about snail dicks.

Mike Flynn (2017)


feel kind of weird writing a senior farewell, because as a member of the Gargoyle, I have been neither particularly productive nor committed. I showed up to a bunch of meetings my freshman year and wrote nothing. As the amount of stuff I wrote increased, my attendance decreased. For the whole of junior year and most of senior year, I must have shown up maybe three times. In truth, the Gargoyle was always a somewhat intimidating institution to me. As a freshman with creative writing experience itching to try his hand at comedy, I was thrilled to discover the Gargoyle at Festifall. But soon that excitement gave way to fear. FUCK, I have to be FUNNY. Doubting my own comedic instincts,


Shemshedeni (2017)


imone rejects adulthood by playing a lot. She doodles on everything she owns. She prefers internal prosperity over material prosperity, so you won’t ever find her on Amazon.

Spring 2017

horrified to pitch ideas, and floundering under the insane amount of creative control afforded to me as a Gargoyle writer, I failed to make the epic comedy-writing debut that I thought I would. Throughout my undergraduate career I tried all sorts of comedy stuff, from improv to standup to sketch writing. I learned that comedy is a process of repeated trial and error, and slowly but surely gained my confidence as a writer and comic. And the Gargoyle always welcomed me back whenever I decided to come back. What kept me coming back were the people. I met many of my best friends in college at the Gargoyle, and we’re still close to this day. So for that, I’ll always be grateful to the Gargoyle. The end.

Tanner Petch (2017)


hat the fuck did you just fucking say about me, you little bitch? I’ll have you know I graduated top of my class in the Navy Seals, and I’ve been involved in numerous secret raids on Al-Quaeda, and I have over 300 confirmed kills. I am trained in gorilla warfare and I’m the top sniper in the entire US armed forces. You are nothing to me but just another target. I will wipe you the fuck out with precision the likes of which has never been seen before on this Earth, mark my fucking words. You think you can get away with saying that shit to me over the Internet? Think again, fucker. As we speak I am contacting my secret network of spies across the USA and your IP is being traced right now so you better prepare for the storm, maggot. The storm that wipes out the pathetic little thing you call your life. You’re fucking dead, kid. I can be anywhere, anytime, and I can kill you in over seven hundred ways, and that’s just with my bare hands. Not only am I extensively trained in unarmed combat, but I have access to the entire arsenal of the United States Marine Corps and I will use it to its full extent to wipe your miserable ass

off the face of the continent, you little shit. If only you could have known what unholy retribution your little “clever” comment was about to bring down upon you, maybe you would have held your fucking tongue. But you couldn’t, you didn’t, and now you’re paying the price, you goddamn idiot. I will shit fury all over you and you will drown in it. You’re fucking dead, kiddo.


Volume 108 Number 4  
Volume 108 Number 4