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Table of Contents 1. Live 45 Years Or Fewer 2. This Page 3. That Page 4. Gravy Enema Volume CV, Number 3 Spring 2016
S TA F F
5. Sommeliason 6. Paid By Trump 4 America
Nico Pigg . . . . . . . . . . . . . Happy Idiot
7. Diabetes, A How To
Daphine Zhao . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Vocal Fish Fry
8. Going Shower-Free
Caleb Nusbaum . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Net Carbs
9. Heart Attack Now
E.A. Chavis . . . . . . . . . . Balloon Animal Snake Neal Jackson . . . . . . . . . . . . Ted Booze Cruz Alex Boscolo . . . . . . . . . . . . . Momadeous Mozart Emily Bromberg . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Bento Pox
10. Smiley Face 11. Wow Face 12. Egg Based Spread
Luke Collard . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Dear Flabby
13. Cheese, EXPOSED
Olivia Crowley . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Rabbit Jesus
14. Speedballs And You
Owen Dawson. . . . . . . . . . . . . . Troll Feeder
15. Sheer Sensuality
Jenny Ghose . . . . . . . . Good For The Gardener Meredith Gilbert . . . . . . . . . Slice of Life Anime Sydney Glide . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Patchy Beard
16. Drinking: Healthy Now 17. Wisdom
Ellen James . . . . . . . . . . Grocery Store Shushi
18. Cover Yourself In Jam
Andrew Keating . . . . . . . . . . . . Awgeez Imsorry
19. A How-To Guide
Max Kuang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Shia LeRebuff
20. Cleanse
Ben Leigh . . . . . . . . . . . . . Weird Smell on Hands James Mackin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Plug In Vibrator Matthew Page . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Leech Boys
21. This One’s For Your Dad 22. Legalize Nudity
Akash Ramanujam . . . . . . . . . . Strap On Tune Out
23. Investigative Fuckery
Simone Shemshideni . . . . . . . . . . Sponsored Content
24. Eat This Page
Fiona Tien . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . John “k” Sich 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
Justin Bieber Paper Doll Available Expansion Packs (not pictured): Breathalyzer Lock for Ferrari, Tears of Virgin, Watch Made Out of Money, Blank Prescription Pad
Inevitable Face Tattoo
Excessive Bling
Underage Fan’s Phone Number
Larger Bulge
Food Before You Finish! Written by Sydney Glide, Illustrations by Fiona Tien
J
acking off or making flapjacks? We have such busy schedules; why should we have to decide between porn and making a delicious dinner entree. With these quick and tasty recipes that pair nicely with an adult film, you can tenderize your meat, while you tenderize your meat! You’ll have mouth watering food before you finish. Boner-appetit!
Entree - Rump Roast Find a supple roast, rubbed gently with olive oil, garlic, salt and pepper. Place in oven until juicy and rare. Finish with a nice brown gravy for extra flavor. Drink - Mudslide Mix vodka, ice, coffee liqueur, and irish cream liqueur. Blend until creamy. Finish with a whipped cream and chocolate syrup garnish. Film - Anal Dream Team
Entree - Veal and Baby Corn Keep this youthful piece of meat taut, by lightly oiling and browning over low untilbrowned. Pair this with freshly steamed baby corn. Season as desired. Drink - White Russian Everyone needs calcium for their growing bones. This mixture of vodka, kahlua, and cream is sure to complement the innocent veal flavors. Film - Adult Baby Girl 8
Entree - Beer can Chicken Rub down rotisserie chicken with olive oil and seasonings. Once properly oiled, thrust your favorite canned beer into the opening of a rotisserie chicken. Drink - Bean Flicker This Michigan beer provides a local flavor, with a hint of coffee flavor that is sure to stimulate your taste buds. Film - Fisting Frenzy 3
4
Entree - Octopus Sashimi Go to Sushi Town located at 740 Packard St, Ann Arbor, MI 48104. No one has better dexterity than a aging Japanese man. Drink - Sake A light buttery taste with a hint of rice. Served chilled or at room temperature. It has a flavor that clings to the inside of you. Film - Tentacle Acme 11
Entree - Peach Cobbler This furry fruit is sure to tickle your sweet tooth! A peach, lemon juice, and sugar mixture in a flaky homemade pie crust. Serve with vanilla ice cream. Drink - Fuzzy Navel This is a drink that will put some hair on your chest. Put peach schnapps, orange juice and vodka in a shaker. Once shaken, serve over ice. It will compliment the tangy cobbler flavors. Film - Fists of Furry
Entree - Foie Gras What is good for the goose is certainly good for the gander. Bring some elegance into your kitchen by preparing the finest goose liver. Prepare it in hot oil, until golden. Drink - White Wine Foie Gras pairs well with a Sauvignon Blanc, that echos the flavors of a gooseberry with an acidic finish and aftertaste. It has the strongest aromas of the white wine family. Film - All Pissed Off 9
Talk about dinner, drinks, and a movie! Make sure you share with friends on twitter, facebook and instagram. For more cooking/masturbating tips go to gargmag.com. Spring 2016
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g
g
smith and Wesson .33 “you got me” Special
Sometimes you just have to pick your battles…but that doesn’t mean you can’t have some fun with it! When the police raid your sovereign nation that you established in the apartment you were just evicted from, surrender in the grand tradition of the Looney Toons with this clever gag from Smith and Wesson. No sudden moves, jokester!
Barett “Collateral Damage” m136
The nature of modern warfare means combatants hiding among civilians, sudden ambushes, and densely populated urban battlegrounds. Clear up any remaining certainties you might have had in the fog of war with the Barrett “Collateral Damage.” Featuring six randomly aligned barrels and capable of firing 3000 rounds per minute, each M136 is uniquely warped to ensure the operator doesn’t have the slightest fucking clue where that bad boy’s gonna shoot. Civillians, Combatants…sometimes it can be downright tough to figure that stuff out. Make life simpler: light ‘em up and let God (and a few Congressional hearings) sort ‘em out.
Colt “From My Cold Dead Hands” .45
The feds are gonna have a hell of a time wrenching your defender from you when it’s locked to your arm. A durable steel handcuff fused to the grip of the classic .45 caliber handgun ensures that the only way Obama is taking this from you is when he cuts it off of your body. Consumers should note the “From My Cold Dead Hands” does not come with a key and constitutes a significant life decision. There’s no undoing this one gents.
Matel/Baretta “My First .22” Semi-Automatic Pistol and Lunchox set
They’re never too young to be safe! Featuring a small caliber for delicate frames and an enlarged trigger for clumsy young fingers, this fun and stylish pistol from Baretta is the perfect gift for that little one in your life. Packaged in a cute and functional lunchbox case with “thermolate” technology to ensure that even if your young loved one doesn’t need their piece that day, their yogurt will stay cool and nutritious.
Glock “this was a mistake” .33 and .40
Remington “Ol’ Fashioned” Rock Thrower
Through a loophole in Swiss shipping laws, this unique killing machine is available for a limited time only. Long constrained by the limiting philosophies of safety and practicality, consumers were forced to choose whether they wanted to shoot their assault rifle or their handgun. No longer. By attaching their award winning handgun to the sight of an assault rifle, Austrian manufacturer Glock has created a dangerous but kickass killing machine. How do you aim this gun? Why put the entire handgun on the top of it instead of another barrel? Why is this necessary? If you’re asking these questions this one is not for you cupcake.
Sometimes the classics work for a reason. Return to a simpler time before high quality steel or gunpowder. Return to the days of just throwing rocks at something until it stops moving. With a lacquered mahogany stock and vulcanized rubber throwing bit, Remington has perfected the science of flinging rocks at the things you’re trying to kill.
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@gargmag
anatomy of a twitter beef
Spring 2016
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PATIENT OUTCOMES WITH COBINATION OF CHEMOTHERAPY AND COOL RANCH DORITOS™ T. ANDREW KEATING, C. PHILIP NUSBAUM UNIVERSITY OF PHOENIX SCHOOL OF RADIOLOGY ABSTRACT: While rumors around academic circles suggest that Cool Ranch Doritos are not an effective means of cancer treatment, this paper posits that, in combination with radiation treatment and other traditional medication, Cool Ranch Doritos are a cool and zesty treatment for prostate cancer, especially among on-the-go millennials and other valued patient demographics with disposable incomes. Furthermore, patients that did not receive infusions of Cool Ranch flavors into their taste buds had a much higher risk of death
MATERIALS AND METHODS: Between January 2015 and February 2016, 61 patients with prostate cancer were randomized to either chemotherapy in addition to Cool Ranch Doritos or to a placebo. Chemotherapy was not permitted in the latter group, as our institutional budget did not allow for it. The Cool Ranch Doritos were obtained from the third floor vending machine at Frito-Lay Memorial Hospital in Flavortown, CT. There were 61 men and 0 women, as we were unable to find any women with prostate cancer. Their ages ranged from 14 to 35 years of age, the ideal market demographic for Frito-Lay products. Patients in the test group appeared twice a week to receive chemotherapy treatment and surgery, along with any other treatments deemed normal and appropriate in the treating of prostate cancer. In addition to traditional treatment, the 31 patients in the test group were told to consume a 2.4 oz. bag of Doritos Cool Ranch chips. The 30 patients in the control group were given an IV of water to mimic chemotherapy treatment, along with Tostitos that had been artificially colored orange, so as to appear more like Doritos (which will be referred to as Placeboritos from this point forward). 22 patients were rejected from the test group, as previous treatments (2 patients) or an inability to handle the intense, classic taste of Cool Ranch Doritos (20 patients) made them ineligible. Survival was calculated beginning in January 2015 and ending in February 2016, at which point the project was suspended following the suspension of my medical license. I cannot discuss the details of my suspension, as my appeal is currently being reviewed. RESULTS: During the 13-month trial, 90 percent of patients in the test group went into remission after receiving chemotherapy, surgery, and cool, flavorful, zesty Cool Ranch Doritos. Two members of the test group died. The first patient died in late August 2015 as a direct result of his cancer, which had already spread to his brain at the time of surgery. We probably should have caught that. Our bad. The second patient died as a victim in a series of mysterious, apparently sexually-motivated murders. The killer is
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still at large. Further discussion of the Berkshire Butt-Fiend
is beyond the purview of this paper. 25 of 30 patients in the control group died as a direct result of the metastasization of the cancer. The five surviving patients began treatment upon conclusion of the study, but have extremely grim prospects. DISCUSSION: As the data demonstrates, we have shown that, compared to the control group, the Doritos treatment, with the aid of chemotherapy, resulted in much more favorable outcomes. These results appear to be consistent with data found in trials by Dr. Nicholas Pigg (Pigg et al, 2013), which measured the effectiveness of Nacho Cheese Doritos in treating testicular cancer. Regarding the control patients, some of whose cancers became more virulent, we suspect this was caused by lead-containing paint used to color the Placeboritos bright orange. Further study toward this question would be too much work.
REFERENCES Fieri et al 2013, Flavortown University Journal of Oncology, vol. 14 pp. 12-18 Keating and Nusbaum et al 2015 (data unpublished) Pigg et al 2013, Trends in Theoretical Flavor Maximization, vol. 46, pp. 1-8 Kruman, his cousin et al 2005, American Journal of Diabetes Treatment, vol. 23, pp. 17-22
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Paid For In Part By The Central Student Government
Spring 2016
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Shoplifters of Ann Arbor 28 mins
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“People think it’s just students that get stressed out around midterms but it’s not. I feel terrible watching the hope leave their eyes. Every time some senior shows up in my office hours saying they won’t graduate without a C, I don’t know what to do aside from drink some of this medicine I’m stealing now. What do you mean why do I steal it? Of course I have enough money to pay for some booze I’m a professor you idiot. I steal it because it’s more poetic this way, filthy swine.� Like
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Shoplifters of Ann Arbor Yesterday at 1:20pm
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“This man stole from Walgreens. Let his demise be a warning to all who might ponder the same act. If you violate our realm you will lose your head and we will dress you in a michigan poncho and paint your dead skin an unnatural white color for all to see. Thus always to thieves!�
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Shoplifters of Ann Arbor Febuary 21st at 3:26pm •
“Every year we steal the roof from the solar car. We met our freshman year and we’ve all been such good friends ever since. People asked us, why did you join a design team and then all quit a few weeks later? It’s because we realized we’d rather just steal the roof from the car than design it. It’s so rewarding to have friends like these and go on fun adventures with them. We usually take the roof right after the competition when they least expect it. I feel so blessed to know these people; they’ve been so supportive.� Like
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Shoplifters of Ann Arbor June 1, 1997
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“I try to rejoice in all things, but I especially love stealing bic pens and greeting cards. It’s incredibly gratifying to send someone a stolen card with an inscription written with a stolen pen. I feel like that’s how they know I care. I mean, if I risked having to put a minor crime on all my job applications from now on, then I must have really meant those birthday wishes, right? I figure that’s better than any gift. Today, I’m stealing a marker and Valentines Day card for my girlfriend. � Share Top Comments
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Winter 2015
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ILLUMINATI MONSTER
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Winter 2015
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Dear George II
By Neal Jackson
Once again, we’ve invited guest columnist George to take over for Abby this week. George has been very busy since last time we’ve heard from him. George now owns an emu farm located in Kalgoorlie, Australia. DEAR GEORGE: No matter what I do, I am never satisfied. I have a great wife and two great kids, and yet I always feel like I could have done better with my life. I go to work and no matter how hard I work, I feel like I never get recognition for it. When I go out with friends, we have a great time, but I never feel like I am really part of the group. I feel like the outcast who gets invited just so they won’t feel bad. I don’t know why I feel this way. I do suffer from depression and have spoken to a specialist. People often tell me that I spread myself too thin and never relax enough to enjoy my success. But how can I relax when I always feel unsatisfied with my efforts? — JUST NOT SATISFIED
out there. Can you advise? — HELPING OUT
DEAR NOT SATISFIED: There was a time Ol’ Georgy felt the same way. As some of you readers may know, I used to work at Trojan as a personal lubricant tester. My job was testing all the new lube formulas on unsuspecting slugs. Day in, day out, dabbing slugs with Trojan Tingly Warmth or Continuous Silkiness got pretty boring after a while. I just couldn’t do it anymore. That, and the numerous sexual harassment claims (Some girls just don’t understand slug foreplay, ya know?) gave me some clarity; I left and I’m never looking back. SATISFIED, you feel this way because you’re unhappy with your life and the people in it. I’m sure they secretly hate you too. You need a change. Ditch your friends, wife and kids and move to Australia to come live with me. We’ll have fun. I’ll show you my little family of emus and we could play checkers or something. — GEORGE
DEAR HELPING OUT: It’s nice to hear from another eugenicist! I also dabble in assisted reproduction, but on emus! You see, I got into the emu farmin’ because it’s a lucrative new business opportunity. You can sell nearly every part of their bodies! Feathers, meat, eggs, and even fat fetch a high price when sold to the right person. Fatter emus that lay more eggs are good for business, so I try to breed ‘em. But emus are monogamous, so doing eugenics the old fashioned way is awfully slow. That’s where I come in. I’m sure the process is very much the same for your egg donations. First I arouse a male emu by squatting in front of him with the “artificial collector” between my legs. He will also squat. Then I rub his belly and locate his engorged cloaca. Once I place the collector on his bird dick, he’ll start pecking the back of my neck furiously while in the throes of orgasm, just like a human! After getting a full harvest of emu semen, I go find my lady emus. You have to follow them around grunting, they really like that. Soon enough, they’ll crouch down and let you penetrate them. It seems like you’re a good specimen, HELPING OUT, as you’re intelligent and successful. I recommend dating people that are also sympathetic the eugenic movement. Fellow eugenicists are likely to be very supportive of your egg donation and your goal of creating the master race. I’ve heard those Neo-Nazi and White Supremacy boys can be quite gentlemanly. — GEORGE
DEAR GEORGE: I recently decided that I wanted to help an infertile couple conceive by becoming an egg donor. I’m well-educated and have a job I love. I understand the commitment both timewise and emotionally. I am now part of a registry, and I could be selected for a donation at any time. Like other young women, I am dating. However, I am conflicted about whether to tell my dates about my involvement with egg donation and if so, how. I understand that this is extremely personal, but at the same time I could have genetic offspring
DEAR GEORGE: I’m 39 and seven months pregnant with my husband’s only child. Since becoming pregnant, I have become somewhat withdrawn due to depression. My doctor prescribed Paxil, but my husband won’t allow me to take it. I don’t leave the house unless I absolutely need to because he accuses me of cheating on him daily. Two nights ago he took a single female friend out to dinner and they were gone for five hours. It hurt my feelings because in my view it was disrespectful on both their parts. When they got back, I was
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sitting outside and she wouldn’t even come to say goodbye to me. When I asked my husband why I hadn’t been invited, he said, “Neither of us wanted you there.” In his eyes he has done nothing wrong. He tells me I’m crazy and I need mental help. Am I wrong for being so upset? — NOT CRAZY IN TEXAS DEAR NOT CRAZY: You’re no crazier than Ol’ Georgy. Sounds like you need to ditch this asswipe and his obviously flawed fetus. Unfortunately, Texas is a difficult place to abort such a late term pregnancy. I wish it were as easy with humans as it is with emus! Sometimes my emus get frisky without my knowledge and I end up with unsupervised egg lays of questionable genetic integrity. If you were an emu, I could have just fried up your egg and made a delicious omelette. I have a buddy in Houston that may be able to hook you up with a back alley abortion. Give Joe a call at 281-332-3227 and tell him George is calling in his favor. As for getting away from your subhuman husband, I recommend you come hang out with me until things cool off a little. I’m sure you’d enjoy all the attention from my haram of male Emus, and Emu eggs do wonders for the post-abortion cramps. I would know! Also, did I mention I have a checkers set? — GEORGE
Spring 2016
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What’s in our Pockets? 21 12
1
18 25
2
22
13
11 8 9
4
14 15
23
19
7
24
6 16 20
10
3 5
17
26 27
A comprehensive survey of the collective orifices, fanny packs, and mattresses of the Gargoyle Staff.
30 35
31 36
29 32
37 38 39
33 34 28
1. Tangled Earbuds 2. Crumpled Receipt for a Six Pack of Coors Light and a Hustler 3. Bobby Pin 4. A Very Large Condom 5. Antiseptic Oral Cleanser, Mild Mint 6. Membership Card to Pet Store 7. Wax Loft Punch Card 8. A Minion 9. “LUV” 10. Scalpel Blade 11. Button, Generic 12. Crumpled Single 13. Communist Unicorn 14. Lip Balm, Almost Gone 15. Paper Pill Cup, Cough Syrup 16. Potato, “I Want to Spuduce You” 17. Paczki, Uneaten 18. Love Card for a Very Special Son 19. Addy 20. Pink Eye Drops 21. Woody 22. Grosse Pointe Public Library Card 23. Government Secrets 24. Lego Gargoyle 25. Sporadically Used Birth Control 26. Lighter, Half-empty 27. Lockpick 28. Bigelow Tea, Earl Grey 29. Rubber Band, Blue 30. Cosco Executive Member Card 31. Movie Ticket to “The Interview” 32. Condom, Whiskey Flavored 33. Directions for Safe Condom Use 34. Mouth Harp 35. Crumpled Receipt from Rick’s 36. Golf Pencil, Gargoyle Special 37. Lip Balm, Dr. Pepper Flavored 38. Condom, Sans Wrapper 39. 1000 New Taiwan Dollars
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Have YOU Ever Wondered Why Your Family Doesn’t Get Along? Do you often find yourself sitting naked, weeping, and erect in a kiddie pool full of Hefeweisen? Is breakfast for you simply a reason to combine cereal and whisky?
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Order the Family Series™, and take control of your life today! Call 313-831-2555 NOW! WARNING: Alcoholic products, when consumed in any amount, can be dangerous to you physical, mental, and spiritual health. Drinking any alcoholic product in hopes of patching together the torn, quickly disintegrating illusion of your family is unadvised, as these products will do nothing but hurl you quickly and steadily into a dark abyss and death’s sweet embrace. These products will kill you.
Spring 2016
21
The Vape Dens of New Jersey
“W
hat’s the password?” I stood silently in an underground tunnel, in front of a wall with a small slit where a brick used to be. A dry, fruity smell hung about the dark anteroom. The voice emanating from the slit demanded once again: “What’s the password?” I turned to my source. He looked dumbfounded. “I… Wait, when did we get a password, Steven?” asked my source. “God dammit, Chuck, we have the password so we know you’re not a cop.” “But you know I’m not a cop.” “You could’ve gone out and signed up for the cops since the last time I saw you,” said the voice that was apparently named Steven. “And who’s he?” “Just a… a fellow vaping enthusiast,” I responded, before Chuck could fuck this up for me. “Oh?” questioned the voice. “Prove it.” “How?” “Vape for me. Right now. Cop’s can’t vape, so if you vape, I’ll know you’re not a cop.” It dawned on me just then that I had no idea how to vape. Chuck, my source, had given me the first vaporizer pen I’d ever held before we climbed into the tunnel beneath the boardwalk. “Well, are you a cop?” “I’m not a fucking cop!” I snapped. “And if I were, you’ve already confirmed that this is a vape den, so I’d have probable cause for a warrant.” “It’s a speakeasy. I haven’t said shit about vaping.” “You just told me to vape.” “Shit. You still gotta do it if you want to come in.” I sighed and pulled out my pen. “You got any juice in that?” whispered Chuck “You gave it to me. How should I know?” I whispered back. I put the pen in my mouth, painfully self-conscious of the metallic phallus around which I pursed my lips. I inhaled, and the inside of my mouth was greeted by a flurry of dry, rough, sickeningly sweet air. I felt the dry, fruity nicotine enter my lungs. I blew out immediately. I coughed the remainder of the sickly raspberry flavor out of my lungs. “Good enough,” said the voice. “What’d you say your name was?”
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“My name’s Drew,” I said. “Drew… uh… King.” So my new pseudonym wasn’t very original. I didn’t mind. I was in. … In most circumstances, I don’t think the government should bother people about what they choose to poison their bodies with. However, I must admit I was overcome by a certain civic pride when I saw that my hometown of Ocean Park, New Jersey had illegalized the practice of vaporizing nicotine, commonly referred to as “vaping.” The city council had determined that vaping was “a dangerous activity that primarily encouraged adolescents to develop a nicotine habit.”,I support the law only because people who vape don’t deserve to be happy. As a god-fearing, self-hating American man, I smoke cigarettes. About two packs a week. The tobacco is doubtlessly killing me, but dammit at least its cool. Vaporizers just smell like Care Bear farts. But I digress. Ocean Park illegalized vaping, a true victory for all Americans who aren’t pussies. About six months after the law came into effect, I decided to drive down New Jersey way to see the change. The drive from the Ohio Turnpike to the Pennsylvania Turnpike to the New Jersey Turnpike is always a great opportunity to kill two halves of a fifth of WIld Turkey, especially if you leave in the midmorning when the cops aren’t on the lookout. When I arrived in Ocean Park in the late afternoon, I walked around downtown Ocean Park. Lots of souvenir shops and restaurants, all staffed by the year-round townies who spend their nights in the trailer parks on the bad side of town. As I walked around the storefronts and the boardwalks and the carousel, I didn’t notice much at first. After an hour though, I could sense something was different. Nobody was vaping. Maybe I just noticed this because I was looking for it, but the whole place looked just a little bit nicer without douchebags with pencil moustaches taking hits off their fruit punch-flavored vaporizers at every corner. It felt more wholesome, more family-friendly. People could bring their kids here without having to explain why grown men look choose to degrade themselves through vaping. It was nice. I was about to walk back to my car when I heard my name called out. “Andy Koenig? What the heck are you doing here?” I knew the voice. I made my best effort not to slap myself in the face when I
By Andy Koenig
heard it. Before I even turned around, I knew that voice belonged to Chuck Richardson, an old acquaintance from high school. When my friends and I would go smoke joints behind the dumpsters after third period algebra, we could always count on Chuck to ruin the fun. He’d remind us that what we were doing was illegal, and we’d tell him to go away. Good old Chuck. “Oh hi, Chuck.” I turned around. “What are you still doing in Ocean Park?” He beamed. “I just got back from Teach for America. I’m volunteering at the local youth ministry until I start teaching at Flannerty Elementary in the fall.” What a piece of shit. “So Andy, you didn’t answer my question. What are you doing here?” I lied. “I’m on assignment in DC, but I came up here for a day or two to relax.” “Well, I’ve got a few few free hours, want to go get a coke?” he offered. “How about a beer?” “I don’t drink, but you’re welcome to if you’re inclined to do that.” Of course he didn’t drink. What a piece of shit. … We shot the shit for an hour or two at a local bar. I drank a Jack and Coke. Chuck drank a Coke. As we’d say in high school, “Fuck Chuck. Chuck sucks.” When I had gotten sufficiently bored with Chuck’s inane rantings about the kids he met through Teach for America, I excused myself to go smoke a cigarette. “I’d go with you, but I don’t smoke that stuff, and the government illegalized vaporizers when I was gone,” said Chuck. Of course Chuck fucking vaped. Of course. Not to mention that I hadn’t even invited him to join me outside, seeing as the primary goal of my cig break was to get away from him. “That’s unfortunate,” I said, trying not to sound excessively sarcastic as I stepped off my stool. I returned several minutes later. I coughed. Chuck saw this, and decided to lecture me, just like old times. “You know, smoking straight cigarettes is really bad for your lungs,” he informed me, as if I hadn’t heard this a thousand times before. “That’s why I vaped until the city council decided to take vapers’ rights away.” I stifled a laugh at the phrase “vapers’ rights.” “You know…” Chuck leaned in and
began whispering. “There’s a speakeasy I know of where we can vape up, if you want.” My ears perked up. “They’ve got speakeasies for vaping? Like in prohibition times?” “These are prohibition times, my friend,” responded Chuck, lacking in any self-awareness whatsoever, and also apparently thinking he was my friend. “Now are you in, or what?” I agreed to go. If illegal vape dens were a real thing, I had a freelance piece worth three months of booze money on my hands. … When one imagines a speakeasy, one imagines a room full of bright lights, guys in trench coats, tommy guns, dancers, and a whole lot of booze. My kind of joint. There was none of that in the vape den. Instead, I entered a room full of men taking pulls off vaporizers of varying levels of size and decoration. It was like a dance club where the Friday night yuppies were replaced with Tuesday morning Seven Eleven clerks. Instead of a dance floor, there were circles of chairs full of slightly overweight men in black shorts or severely underweight men in blue jeans that were both too baggy and too short. The stench of fruity vapor mingled with un-deodorized armpits soaking through Avenged Sevenfold t-shirts.. “See this, Andy? This is what freedom looks like,” said Chuck, as he raised his vape to his lips and surveyed the pathetic scene. “And this is what freedom tastes like.” I nodded, taking another horrendous pull from the light-up robot penis masquerading as a nicotine delivery device. “Anywhere I can get a drink in here?” I asked. “Uh, no, sorry,” Chuck said. “Most of us are sober in here. Just because we’re breaking the law doesn’t mean we’re delinquents.” I reached for my flask. Shit. I left it in the car. I had discovered my personal hell. … After twenty minutes or so, I’d had my fill. As I turned to leave, I felt a hand grasp my shoulder. “Not so fast, outsider,” said the voice. “Boss wants to see you.” I had no idea this was an organized affair. I was under the impression this was a loose confederation of losers. I was almost sure
Spring 2016
they weren’t armed, so I figured I could just leave, but I agreed to meet this boss out of pure journalistic interest. If I could interview this boss guy, I’d have one hell of story. I was brought up a metal staircase into another room, presumably another segment of the old sewer’s control center. Stacks of boxes hugged the walls. At the center stood an obese man in tight-fitting jeans and a purple Weezer t-shirt. He had patchy beard and wore thin-rimmed glasses. A crucifix dangled from
his neck. “Who are you, outsider?” he asked me, exhaling orange, pineapple-scented smoke from his mouth as he spoke. “I’m Drew King,” I responded, invoking my incredibly lazy pseudonym. “I know Chuck. Who are you.” “Boys, check him,” he responded as two large men emerged from the shadows in the corner of the room. One of them shoved his hand down my shirt as the other held me down. “No wire, boss.” He motioned for them to step away. “I’m sorry about that,” he said, before he took another hit from a gold vaporizer. “Had to make sure you weren’t the cops. My name’s Nick Bovine, but you’d be wise to call me Don
Bovine. I run vaporizer distribution for all of Ocean Park.” “How’d you end up in such a position?” I asked. “Forgive me, Don Bovine, but I haven’t been in town for awhile.” “My friends and I in the Youth Ministry, we loved to vape. It was great way to blow off steam.” He was entirely too proud of his wordplay. “When the city council voted to illegalize vaping, I decided I was sick of the government trying to take my rights away. I started driving out to Asbury Park and moving vapes back here. Didn’t hurt that there was profit to be made. There was a lucrative market for vapes, and I was primed to take it.” Bovine kept talking for what must have been fives of minutes. He was explaining the finer points of “vape juice” when I heard a BANG coming from the main lounge. The noxious smell of fruity vapors was replaced by an even more noxious smell of smoke. “Oh shoot! It’s the cops!” Don Bovine shouted. I panicked. I didn’t want to be arrested for vaping. I’ve been been in the can my fair share of times, but I’d be damned if one of them was for vaping. “Where’s that ladder go!?!?” I shouted at Don Bovine. “Up to a sewer gutter,” responded. “Why the fuck aren’t we escaping up through there?” “When the Romans came for Jesus, he didn’t run,” he shot back. Un-fucking-believable. I pushed Don Bovine aside as I ran toward the ladder. I climbed up, pushed a manhole cover up, and ran out onto Grove Street. I closed the cover and looked around. Nobody in sight. I guess the cops didn’t know about the exit. “Nicholas Bovine?” I heard a voice shouting from the sewer below, where Don Bovine had apparently accepted his fate. “Put your hands up. You’re under arrest for conspiracy to distribute vaporizers.” … I ran to my car, only two blocks away. I started it and drove onto the freeway. As I drove along the Garden State Parkway, I wondered what would become of Chuck, of Don Bovine. I wasn’t too worried about Chuck, to be honest. He’ll suck some damn good dick in prison.
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