Table of Contents 1. Dinner Is Served 2. This Page 3. That Page 4. Page Seven Volume CVIII, Number 2 Winter 2016
5. Page Six 6. Just Another Day
Caleb P. Nusbaum . . . . . . . . . . . . Oy, this guy
James Mackin . . . . . . . . . . . The Queen Bee
8. $8 Cucumber Water
Jenny Ghose . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Smart One Alex Boscolo . . . . . . . . . Bad Judgement! Sad! Kira Appleman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Buppo Matthew Benson . . . . . . . . . March of Slimes E.A. Chavis . . . . . . . . . . .
. Please Saveus
Connor Davis . . . . . . . . Caleb P. Nusbaum Claire Denson . . . . . . . . Hey, that rhymes!
Marjorie Graber . . . . . . . . Melanie Haber Colleen Hillard . . . . . . . . . . Kony 2012
Andrew Keating . . . . . Bernie would have won Jeremy Kruman . . . . . . . . . Frosted Flakes
Nick LaCerva . . . . . . . Daily Frosted Walnuts
Ben Leigh . . . . . . . . . . . . AAAHHH Sarah Neff . . . . . . . . . . . . . . [ホホホホホホ]
Haley Nusbaum . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Finkle Tanner Petch . . . . . . . . . . .
.Sad Little Wretch
Duncan Reitz . . . . . . . . . . . . Blumpkin Michael Rosenberg . . . . . . . . . Dan the Man
Simone Shemshideni . . . . . First Newt in Space
Fiona Tien . . . . . . . . . . . . Forrest Lump
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Copyright © Gargoyle Humor Magazine 2016
9. Laugh, Goddamnit 10. Feelin’ Blue 11. Mooooo-ve (cows) 12. Formerly Known As 13. Synesthesia 14. Reject Graveyard 15. Ass-Scented Candle 16. Mice 17. Not Biden Memes 18. More Than One Use 19. Infomercial 20. It’s Not Who Will Let Us 21. But Who Will Stop Us 22. It’s People 23. The Chosen People 24. Eat Me
Fishing Explained By a Bear by Evan Chavis
his week in our Fisherman’s Weekly “Make Fishing Appeal to the Younger Generation” series, we’re presenting an interview with one of nature’s own most exciting fisherman, a bear.
Interviewer: So when did you start fishing? Bear: ROAOOARGHGHGH, GUGHGHGH. Translator: I started fishing back when I was just a cub. My mom used to take me to the stream near our den and show me how to catch salmon. Looking back to those times, I have so many great memories. That thrill of seeing a salmon jump out of the water as it tries to come upstream and snatching it out of the air with your teeth is the best feeling in the world.
directly with our mouths, we eliminate the need to use our hands, which is great, because we’re usually standing on our hands.
Interviewer: What’s one interesting fact about bear fishing that will surprise our readers?
Interviewer: We’ve all seen videos of bears fishing. Even between fly-fishers or deepwater anglers it’s easy to see some similarities, like the use of a pole and a hook, but what you bears do is quite different. Can you explain why bears have traditionally eschewed the use of standard fishing equipment in favor of your mouths? Bear: GUUUURRRGGGLLLL, HRRRRRUMMMPPPGHH; HNNNGGGHHH. Translator: Well, I can’t speak for polar bears or anybody else, but at least for us grizzlies, we don’t really have the manual dexterity to operate a reel or bait a hook. Sitting on a dock just holding a pole with no line between both paws would be the limit of our traditional fishing abilities. We had to improvise and take advantage of our natural talents, like quick reflexes and sharp teeth. By standing in the water itself we eliminate the need for a pole; and by grabbing the fish
Bear: ROAGGGHHH UUUGGHGHRRRNNNN. Translator: Excellent neck flexibility is really the only way to get to the top in fishing as a bear, but that might be a little bit more advanced than what you’re asking for. I think finding the ideal spot is one skill that might translate well from bears to humans. What I do is walk up and down the stream until I find a spot at the top of a steep incline where I can get all 4 paws firmly planted.
Bear: GUUUURRRNNGGGHHH. HHNNNGGG. Translator: One thing people might not have thought about is that we take poaching and out of season fishing very seriously. Stiff fines are levied on bears who fish outside of the allowedtimes and locations. Interviewer: I’d like to thank you for speaking with us today; we really appreciate you being here. Bear: ROOOOOOAAAAAAAARRRRRR!!!!!! Translator: ROOOOOOAAAAAAAARRRRRR!!!!!!
Interviewer: What’s one thing about bear fishing technique that you think our non-bear readers might be able to implement in their angling?
*Bear mauls interviewer*
The Romantic by Nick LaCerva
t was a dark and stormy night when local romantic Darian Carver showed up at the house of his crush, Valerie Battini. As he had never visited the premises before, Darian came well prepared. In his glove compartment was a large assortment of pebbles, which he was going to use to throw against Valerie’s window. The night before, Darian had been unable to sleep, lost in his fantasy of what would happen when Valerie awoke. In Darian’s mind, she would come to the window with frazzled hair and bleary eyes. She would be curious, but not angry. She would be surprised, but not confused. She would see Darian, and once she recognized who it was, she would be unable to hold back her smile. The two of them would talk for a short while from window to ground, but words would be completely unnecessary. She would understand everything from Darian’s actions alone. She would see the confident way that he stood. She would see his car parked across the street from her house, beckoning to take her on the adventure that would characterize her entire youth. It would be a story that she would often tell to her children. Darian desperately hoped that these children would share the Carver name. Darian reached across the passenger seat and opened the compartment, revealing the stones which seemed to shine from the reflection of the car’s ceiling light. The pebbles, which Darian had taken from the floor of his basement, seemed mystical, as if they could have no other purpose than to express his most powerful romantic desires. Darian grabbed five pebbles, all of different colors. One grey, one orange, one brown, one blue, and one black. He would need no more, for his aim would be true. Darian walked across the street to the front lawn of the Battini house, swallowing his saliva and shaking the pebbles around in his right pocket. He almost spat to clear his throat, but thought it ungentlemanly. It was only when Darian took his first steps on the wet grass that he realized that he did not know which window was Valerie’s. Darian looked up at the large blue house, a house fit for his queen. The left window, he thought. It was always the left window. His room was behind the left window of his house. Every previous time where he had thrown pebbles at a girl’s window, it had been on the left. There was not a doubt in Darian’s
mind that Valerie’s window was on the left. Darian grabbed a single pebble from his pocket and prepared to launch, placing his left foot firmly on the ground and stepping back with his right. Just as he was about to release the rock, he thought that he saw something, a face. In the left window, Darian swore that he saw a distinctly unattractive face. Darian held on to the rock. He could no longer see the face, but he became sure that Valerie had broken the left window precedent. Darian did not know who had the unattractive face, but there was no way that it could be his beloved Valerie. Darian moved to the right side of the yard and once again planted his left foot. He took the orange pebble, his favorite, and threw it as hard as he could in the direction of the top right window. His emotions must have gotten the best of him, as the tiny rock careened over the house and into the Battini backyard. Darian took a deep breath and prepared to throw his second favorite, the blue pebble. Darian released the blue pebble, and it flew in a majestic arch towards the the window. It clanged against the glass and the sound echoed down the street, telling every neighbor of the sweet passion happening at the Battini household. To Darian, the pebble against the glass sounded like the opening to the gates of the household. He was about to see the face of an angel. Darian closed his eyes, as he could hardly bear the emotions that rushed through his body at the thought of how his life was about to change. When Darian opened his eyes, he looked straight at the face of Arturo Battini, the father of his beloved. Darian recognized Arturo from only one previous event in his life: his freshman year homecoming dance. He was a chaperone, dressed in a tuxedo. During that year, Valerie was certainly no sight to behold. At the dance, she wore a frumpy yellow dress, which was particularly embarrassing because it gave the illusion that she had tits. Now, in their senior year, Valerie had the best tits that Darian could imagine, and he was just beginning to realize that he might never see them for real. In hitting the wrong window, he had wiped away his carnal reveries. Darian was surprised to see that Arturo Battini didn’t look mad. He looked surprised, but not confused. He looked curious, but not angry. His hair was frazzled and his eyes were
bleary. Arturo was dressed in red silk pajamas. His hand rubbed his face as he processed the image of the romantic teenager on his yard. Arturo left the window and Darian began to freak out. He knew that Mr. Battini would be standing in front of him in a matter of seconds, and he didn’t know what to do. Darian fingered the keys in his pocket and looked towards his car. Darian wanted to run, but he could not abandon his sweetheart. He could not give up what would be his last chance to claim the heart of Valerie Battini. Darian reached into his pocket and pulled out the black pebble. He pulled his arm back in preparation to launch the tiny rock. As he planted his left foot, the front door rattled. Darian held the rock firm in his hand as Arturo Battini came out onto the porch. Darian stuffed the pebble back into his pocket as Arturo walked down the steps. Darian’s legs trembled; he found himself unable to run as Arturo came closer. Arturo stopped three feet in front of Darian. He didn’t extend his hand. He didn’t seem excited to meet his daughter’s new boyfriend. He did not look Darian in the eyes; he looked over Darian’s head, at the car on the other side of the street. “Where are we going?” he said. “Wha – what?” Darian found himself stammering. He looked over his shoulder at the car and continued to finger the keys. Arturo extended both of his hands, which were about six inches apart from each other. He put a hand on each side of Darian’s face, bringing the young man close to him. Arturo pulled Darian’s face close to his own, embracing him in a long, sensual kiss. Darian didn’t know what to do, so he kissed the father of his beloved. He made no move to break away. He was locked in a moment of pure bliss. After ten unforgettable seconds, the kiss ended. “Where are we going?” Arturo repeated. “We – we’re going wherever you want to go.” Darian pulled the keys out of his pocket and extended his hand to his new lover. Arturo took the keys and lead the way to the car.
MONDAYS by Connor Davis
Monday morning: Bret limped into the office, in good spirits but also a head cast. “Gooood morning, Janet”, he beamed, with the sort of eye bulging that came with the tonal dip in his greeting. “Oh, and Jimbo, lookin’ good!”
there Champ! Ready to make those big bucks this week?” Marc yelled, his second sentence monotonic, fully enunciated and without meter. Bret cheered by throwing both arms up and responding “Oh brother, am I!”
He continued his hobble with a detour into the break room for some of the office’s magnificently sub-par insta-coffee. “Ain’t this shit the worst?” Bret whistled to Linda, the new Head of Accounts whose thin, horn-rimmed purple glasses sat precariously on the edge of her nose. She glanced her eyes at the four metal rods attached from Bret’s head to his chest to keep his head position just right. “Yeah, but I drink it anyway! You know us corporate lemmings, nothing without our Morning Joe!” Linda’s mouth was slightly ajar, but coffeesloshing cup in hand, and tie wagging with each step, Bret kept at his waddling. “Well, have a good one!”
The two laughed uproariously. Then Marc noticed Bret’s empty desk, took a sip of his own hot coffee, and with exactly one eyebrow cautiously raised, delicately posed, “Say, working hard, or hardly working?”
Now back at his cubicle, Bret was greeted by Mr Fruffles, the posterized cat who hung onto a branch, just begging to be greeted with a light-hearted shrug, half an eye-roll, and a smirky Oh Mondays! But before Bret could indulge his feline friend, Marc from Marketing (or Marc-eting, as they would fiendishly joke!), noticed his pal’s arrival. “Heeeeyyyyy
Bret reflexively tossed up double finger guns, pointed at his accuser, a defensive show after having been caught, squinted his eyes and both watched a shared fantasy in which Bret would slowly rise, spit on the ground and stare deep into Marc’s core. “You got a problem, bub?” “What if I do?” “Then I’d say this office ain’t big enough for the two of us.” Marc would angle his head up so that his eyes would have to point down to deliver eye contact, and his vocal cords would be stretched to give him a raspy, cowboy reply. But before fantasy Marc could walk paces at high noon for their showdown, the pair erupted in laughter,
and Marc slapped Bret on the back. “Ow!” Bret exclaimed as his body jolted upwards and before he resumed his mindful laughter. Abruptly Marc curbed his frivolity. “Well I gotta run. See you on that battlefield!” As Marc left without turning back, Bret called out “Godspeed!” and happily opened his briefcase.
Swamped during his late-mid-morning break, Bret was visited by Joan from HR. “Hello, Bret. Do you have a minute?” Upon noticing who had paid pilgrimage to his desk, with a pouty grin and half-closed eyes, he said, “Oh, Madame HR… “He paused to allow Joan to soak up his play-dreadful tone. “What have I done to earn your audience?” Bret particularly embellished the “your.” Joan composed herself, for dealing with Bret was never easy, and said “How are you doing?” And since it was a Monday and this was the office, Bret had no choice but to put on a cheesy smile and remark, “Well, it is Monday . . .” But before he could finish trailing off, Joan interrupted. “Bret, you know what I’m talking about, this head-cast-contraption-thing that wasn’t there on Friday . . .” She trailed off with a hand-motion so he could connect the dots. “It’s
no big deal,” he said curtly, but not rudely. Joan didn’t even blink. “Could happen to anyone, really. Just a slip.” Joan sighed. “The entire office has seen your condition. That doesn’t just happen.” She squeezed out the last ounce of compassion left in her. “Look, Bret. I don’t mean to pry, but you look like you should be in the hospital, or resting somewhere.” Then, without pause for transition, she remembered to reset to her approved corporate tone. “Frankly, it’s a liability. How did you hurt yourself ? Was it on company time?” Bret raised both his eyebrows and deflected. “Don’t want to disappoint you, but there’s no story. I just fell yesterday. That simple.” “No story?” “Nope! Just an everyday thing. You know how things are!” Joan sighed again and picked up her clipboard, ready to complete a form. “So, then, Bret. Tell me what happened yesterday, how did you slip?” Bret inhaled and then blew the air out of his pursed lips, “Well, geez, let’s see. I had woken up late that day—since I had gone to the movies late the last night—and um, I had an omelet for breakfast. An omelet with ham and cheese. Yes, I see it now. I had run out of that nice sharp cheddar cheese from the farmers’ market, and I only had parmesan and some Kraft singles left, and you can’t make an omelet with parmesan, so I used the American cheese. Now some people say you can’t make a decent omelet with American cheese, and to much extent I think they’re right, but this omelet—” Joan interjected. “Bret, the slip?” “Ah yes, the slip. So let’s see… I had made my breakfast, and then I was lounging around, but I was too bored to watch T.V., so I went out to go for a walk in the park. And when I got outside, it was a bit too chilly and seemed like it was going to rain maybe, so I went back up and grabbed my overcoat. I did search briefly for an umbrella, but I couldn’t easily find it and figured it might not rain anyway. You know how that is, I didn’t want to lug around some umbrella for no reason. So I go back down and –” Joan interrupted again. “And here you slipped?” “No, no, I didn’t slip ‘til that night.” Joan would have groaned had she any energy to not be blank faced. “How about we fast forward a bit, then?” “Okay, so I’ve been in the park, and I’ve been walking for a good while, and what do
you know, it did start to rain. So I hurried up a bit, but not too much, since I read once that you get less wet if you don’t run in a rainstorm. How true is that actually? I don’t know. I don’t really understand the physics behind it all, and honestly I’ve never remembered feeling noticeably less wet than I would have been otherwise when I’ve tried it in the past, but I guess it’s something to think about to justify getting wet. And let me tell you, I was getting wet. So I figured maybe I should find some cover. But then I see this swan. This beautiful, majestic swan. “And it was just opening and closing its wings. Not flying, just motioning. Like it was doing yoga or something, in the rain. The weirdest thing you’ve ever seen. I don’t get it. But I knew it was beautiful. So I stopped and I’m looking at this swan when I heard some commotion from the other side of the park. I went to check it out, and as I was getting closer, I kept hearing this clanging. I thought it must have been some metal pans, but that doesn’t make sense. I was creeping closer, trying to summon the courage to find out what was happening, when the swan appeared right behind me and squawked as loud as I’ve ever heard a swan squawk. I was terrified. I ran and I ran and I didn’t know if this swan was chasing me, I didn’t know where I was running, but eventually the immediacy of it all left me, and I stopped. I listened. It was dead silent, and dark. “And as I was pondering the weight of my existence that I could now feel, heavy, like my overcoat soaked through in the downpour, I spotted a child. He was small and broken, just laying there fragile. And I don’t know why, but I thought of the wrapping paper my grand-dad would use for Christmas presents when I was a kid and how it would lay ripped and discarded on our linoleum kitchen tiles while we broke in our new playthings. And I was calm. But I’m not sure why—I remember that I had a good reason, a satisfying reason, but now I can only remember the calmness. It was like a trance; I knew everything that was going to happen. I would walk over to the boy and I would see him and I would knowingly look into his tiny, beaten eyes, what was left of them that is, and I would caress his porcelain face, brush back his hair and hum to him. “And I did. I did.” Bret paused to gather his thoughts before continuing. “Then I plucked him up, and we went. Where? I didn’t know where. I don’t remember where. But we ended up at Mike’s, the deli on Fifth. And I ate a chicken parm. I never eat chicken parms—I don’t like chicken. But it was on the menu, and chicken parms are never on the menu. So I ordered the chicken. And the
boy was slouched, he was out. I devoured that chicken parm, it was as if I had never eaten anything ever before, and I just devoured it as this body slouched. I don’t know if I wondered what I’d do with him, or where, if anywhere, we’d go next. But I do remember I was parched and had just finished the bit left in my glass, so I stood up to refill it. But the floors were being cleaned, they were slick. And as I stepped, I slipped. And I hit my head. I remember it bounced against the floor, and then I was in a hospital bed. Everything was very white and I was surrounded by the white and some flowers and a note from the deli apologizing and offering me chicken parms free for life. And I had this here headgear.” Bret chuckled and pointed to his headgear. “Can you imagine that? Chicken parms. I think they were afraid I would sue. But, that’s not me. Could happen to anyone. It was a slip, no big deal. I was embarrassed, really.” Joan’s eyes were focused on Bret’s lips, waiting for them to shape and push out next
words in the story, as was the rest of the crowd who had accumulated around Bret’s cubicle. She tried to speak but nothing came out. So she swallowed her words, coughed quietly to wet her throat, then vulnerably broke the pregnant silence. “What… what happened to the child?” “Ehhhh,” Bret squeaked while swaying his head side to side, “It’s… it’s, it is what it is.” And after a brief pause he slapped his thighs and exclaimed, trusting the paperwork was done. “Anyway, I’m hungry! Anyone up for lunch? My treat!” The office had not yet processed what had been said, but Marc heard this and popped up like a prairie dog. “I’m in!” “Chicken parms?” Bret suggested while gesturing a single finger gun in his direction. “Nah, I don’t really like chicken”, to which Bret agreed, “Me neither.” As the two walked gaily out of the front doors, still deliberating where to get lunch, Marc interjected, “Say, why’s the office so dreary?” Bret tried to shrug, but couldn’t. “Must be a case of the Mondays.”
Our jokes-especially the one to the left-are generously funded by the Central Student Government
ART BY CLAIRE DENSON IDEA ALSO BY CLAIRE DENSON
by Kira Appleman
Contact Dean of Students/ Night Cook Michele Rosello for enrollment and reservations! by Connor Davis 9
Colouring Book For Adults
The End of The World
he final sign of the apocalypse has shown its face. A Southern Rockhopper penguin, which was previously thought to be a completely monogamous animal, was found fornicating with an animal other than its life partner: an ostrich. The penguin, assumed to be of the male sex, was spotted in the ostrich exhibit early in the morning on the ninth of November in the year 2016. The first reporter to arrive on the scene of the crime was Perry Griswold of FBS, the nationally syndicated Fascist Broadcasting System. Perry spoke into the camera with a loose tie and bleary eyes. “This is Perry Griswold, reporting live from the Smithsonian National Zoo, to tell you that it is a dark day indeed.” Perry paused and lowered his microphone as he wiped his eyes with his suit-coat. “I apologize, but my emotions seem to be getting the best of me. Behind me is the site where Donnie, a seven-year-old Southern Rockhopper penguin who has been in captivity his entire life, was found . . . was found . . .” Perry broke down. He could not take any more. He threw the microphone down onto the dirty zoo ground and walked off the screen, shaking his fists in anger. Luckily for FBS, camerawoman Delilah Simmons quickly found the courage to tell America the truth. She hopped in front of the camera and picked up the microphone. Clearly, she had no immunity to the emotions that had come with the apocalypse, as her mascara had nearly run down to her chin. Many viewers would later comment that she herself, in fact, resembled a penguin and that she should keep an eye out for the insatiable Donnie. Fortunately for Delilah, who was not much of a fan of having intercourse with animals on camera, Donnie was locked up in his cage, attempting to reconcile with his partner, a six-year-old Southern Rockhopper named Melanie. At the time of Donnie’s return to his natural habitat, Melanie was standing on top of a rock wall, as if threatening to jump to her frigid death. After several minutes of gentle appeasing, the zookeeper was able to coax Melanie down the wall safely into the arms of her regretful husband. Across the country, other penguins were quickly following in Donnie’s trailblazing
footsteps. In states such as Michigan, North Carolina, and Florida, male Southern Rockhopper penguins could be found pursuing and typically achieving affairs with animals of different species. The trend only turned into a crisis, however, when other presumably monogamous species joined the
by noted conservative Nick LaCerva national bird to the peregrine falcon. Given the buffalo’s extinct status and the falcon’s disinterest in anything that did not include zipping through the air at breakneck speeds or fornicating with Floridian beachgoers, these animals were both seen as safe choices.
adulterous penguins. Beavers soon forgot about their devotion to their children, leaving their established lodges and dams to seek out what else their lives had to offer. Bald eagles no longer felt the same rush of euphoria when they looked into their partner’s bright yellow eyes, so they began to fly south in hopes of finding new mates to tickle their talons. After several reports of bald eagles attempting to mate with Florida beachgoers, the majestic bird was replaced by the buffalo as the national animal of the United States. The bald eagle also lost its claim as the
& n e B e h t o t t i s i V A y r o t c a F s ’ y Jerr I’ve successfully left the group behind, and am now sneaking my way behind the plant to the famed Flavor Graveyard©, dodging security guards and the cameras’ prying eyes. Sure, we’re “allowed” to “go up the hill behind the factory” and to the left of the “playground” to see the Flavor Graveyard©, but this way is way more fun. And it doesn’t let the NSA know shit. As I come upon the Flavor Graveyard©, my fingertips tingle with excitement. I can’t wait to fill my snapchat story with pictures of headstones captioned with the crying face emoji. The Flavor Graveyard© is everything I could have dreamed of and more. After hours of examining B&J’s rejects, I notice the sun is beginning to set. And that’s when I see it. In the woods to the northern border of the Flavor Graveyard©, I catch a glimpse of an old, rusty wrought-iron fence. After a thorough visual sweep of my surroundings, I determine the coast is clear and sneak out of the Flavor Graveyard© and towards my target. As I creep closer, I realize this is a graveyard itself. The sign reads Flavor Hell©. I approach the nearest headstone. Each one has an epitaph. “Embodies the disappointment of your father,” the flavor name reads. “With ribbons of salted caramel to symbolize his internal tears from every time you chased butterflies instead of participating during under-5s soccer at the Y.” Ouch. I look at the next one. “Actual Bernie Sanders Ice Cream. Every Ben & Jerry’s variety in one carton, proportioned based on richness of flavor.” 12
Literally, what the heck? The one behind it is “Strawberry Pound-me-in-the-a*ss-Cake.” Its epitaph simply says, “With fudge pieces!” “Basic Income.” It apparently is just regular vanilla bean, but costs $15. A few rows back, I see an image that looks unusual. Are those… shoes? As I get closer, I see the flavor is “Crusty Socks,” with pieces of white chocolate peanut brittle. Are there any flavors in here that aren’t sick as crap? I wonder just as I finally come across a normal flavor, “Creampie. Full of bananas AND creamed bananas.” I don’t know why such an innocent flavor is in this graveyard for degenerates. Suddenly, I hear the leaves rustle. Ohshitohshitohshit, I think. I gotta get outta here. The sound is coming from near the entrance gate. If I go that way, I’m surely toast. Dead meat. A goner. 100% screwed. I look around desperately. There’s no other way out. Thankfully, the fence surrounding the graveyard is relatively low. I make a run for it, and trip over a headstone. “Jerry Garcia.”
And that’s when the noise stops. I look at the gate. Standing there in the entryway is Jerry Garcia’s reanimated body. “I know you!” I shout. “You’re Jerome John ‘Jerry’ Garcia (August 1, 1942 – August 9, 1995), an American singer-songwriter and guitarist best known for his work with the band the Grateful Dead, which came to prominence during the counterculture era in the 1960s!” I inadvertently take another glance at the Jerry Garcia headstone. Peering closer, I realize what I thought were cherry pieces are in fact chunks of flesh. “That’s fucked up,” I say. Jerry just nods his head. Winter 2016
Students Organized Against Circumcision Here are five brave members of the student organization S.O.A.C. taking a stand against the wrongful, unconsented manipulation of male genitalia. If you are interested in joining their fight, please contact at firstname.lastname@example.org.
5 Trends that the Gargoyle Failed to Start By Jeremy Kruman
ere at the Gargoyle, we sometimes miss the mark. It’s true. I understand that this fact may be a bit unsettling to those who recognize this magazine and its staff as the pinnacle of perfection, but you must keep in mind, we are mostly human. We’ve had our fair share of failures, especially when it comes to trendsetting. Here are a few of our favorite failures to help you feel better about your shitty day:
1.Fezzes: As Americans, reclaiming that which never belonged to us in the first place is an essential part of our culture, which is why Garg members tried to make the fez a fashion staple in early 2009. The trend quickly gained momentum across campus, but was banned by University administration before it could catch on elsewhere. Apparently, some people are still salty about the Cold War. 2.YOLO: This was an acronym for “Your order lacks omelets.” Back in the late 1970s, this phrase was coined by a Gargoyle writer who simply wanted to be recognized for creating a popular phrase that one could use to criticize a friend’s breakfast choices. However, it never broke into the mainstream due to the immense popularity of other sayings in the same category, like “Why can’t you enjoy your hash browns like a respectable person?” and “Trix are for kids!” 3.YOLO: This was an acronym for “You only live once.” Yeah, that one caught on, but we came up with that in March of 2003. We believe we may be entitled to some royalties. 4.“Meme to the Extreme”: Pronounced “may-may to the extray-may.” We aren’t proud of this one either. 2012 was a rough year. 5.“Boners Nachos”: In the early 2000s, the Gargoyle worked closely with a writer who spoke Spanish fluently. He taught us the phrase, which translates to “good night.” However, the spread of the saying was severely limited by the ignorance and bigotry of people all over the world who didn’t know how to speak Spanish. Shame on them!
erbie sighed deeply and feared the worst as his doctor entered the room. Dr. Willanaynay was not one to treat his patients with much respect, and Herbie was a man whose feelings were easily hurt. “So Herbie, how’s that liver of yours doing?” the doctor asked, when deep down he didn’t care how Herbie’s liver was doing at all. “Well, Doctor Willanaynay,” said Herbie. “It’s hard to tell. I’ve been feeling really good lately, but last time I felt like this, my liver flared up only a week later. Nothing seems to work against the hepatitis for long.” “So, you can’t tell me how your liver is?” “Well, no. That’s kind of why I came here. So that you could tell me.” “Jeez, you act like I’m the Liver Whisperer or something like that. Here’s what I want you to do. You got a printer at home?” “Yeah, why?” “You got paper for that printer?” “Yeah.” “I want you to go home, grab some of that paper, and swallow as much of it as you can fit in your pie-hole.” “But why would I…?” “I’m not finished!” the doctor interrupted. “Then, I want you to take this pen and swallow that too. And then take another pen and stick it up your bumpkin for good measure. Then, give it a little while, and hopefully your liver will write us a little letter, telling us how it’s feeling.” “I don’t know, Doc, is that really how the liver works?” “Sure, why not? You got any other issues you want me to take care of ? Things that you could probably do yourself ?” “Well, there is one thing.” “Jeez, alright. Spit it out.”
by Nicholas LaCerva
“I’ve been feeling kind of depressed lately.” “Depression? Hmmm, I’ve actually got just the thing for that.” “You do?” “Yeah, you familiar with the pain chart?” “Yeah, it’s got all the little faces. A smiley for no pain and crying for lots of pain.” “Exactly. Now, for depression, we got a similar chart. I got it right here actually.” The doctor presents a chart with five smiley faces, all with the same smiley expression. “See, here’s the depression chart. Now, can you tell me where on the chart you think you fit?” “But, Doc, they’re all the same!” Herbie said, feeling attacked by the smiling faces. “They’re all smiley faces! Where’s the sad face?” “Oh, I guess I never noticed that. Wait, there’s a note on the back. It says, ‘Your feelings don’t matter. Just smile and pretend like nothing’s wrong.’ Oh man, that’s rich! My favorite colleague wrote that! What a guy!” “So, you’ve got nothing for me? You just want me to act like nothing’s wrong?” “Well, we do have one thing you can try.” “Yeah? What’s that?” “Getting a better doctor.” “Yeah, clearly.” “Hey, I was kidding. I actually do have one thing I do whenever I’m feeling down. I like to take a deep, deep, breath. Like this.” The doctor takes a deep breath to demonstrate. “See?” asked the doctor.
“Now you try it.” Herbie rolls his eyes before taking a deep breath. “Well? Feel better?” “No, not really.” “Oh, well, that’s probably because you’re not doing it right.” “I’m pretty sure I know how to take a deep breath.” “Apparently not. You should sign up for my deep breathing class. We meet every Sunday from six to eight. Here’s a flyer.” Herbie glanced over the crudely drawn-up flyer with his doctor’s face on it. “One-hundred and fifty dollars?! For a class on how to learn how to breathe?!” “Oh no, that’s just the deposit. The class is seven weeks long and fifty bucks for each session. So it’s a total of five-hundred dollars.” “That’s it. I’m out of here.” “Suit yourself. You can take this chart if you want to.” “Really?” “No, get out of here.” Herbie left the doctor’s office, feeling like a piece of shit.
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Andy Koenig’s Fear and Liberty on the Campaign Trail I lit a cigarette as I stared up at the imposing New Era Field in Buffalo, New York. I last came here to cover the tailgating scene in November 2014, following a series of viral videos in which Buffalo Bills fans had gotten into gratuitously violent or sexual altercations following the constant consumption of alcohol since 9 am. They seemed like my kind of people. I wanted to learn more about them. I came here a second time in August 2016 to meet with a person I had met during my first visit. His name was Samuel Smithson. In 2014, I had witnessed him flash his genitals at a stadium security guard following a 26-10 win over the Cleveland Browns. The security guard
games talk. “Just as good as when you last saw me,” he responded, forcing me to reenvision his genitalia. “What’s up?” “I just finally paid off my court fees and I’m on to my next big project!” “Are you getting an RV?” I asked. He seemed like the kind of guy who would buy an RV. “Guess again!” “Building an aboveground pool?” “Even better!” “I give up.” “I’m running for congress.” “Huh?” “New York state congress. I’ll be the representative of New York’s 76th district. I was wondering if you’d like to write a story about it.”
was dressed in orange, leading Smithson to believe the guard was a Browns fan. “Browns are fuckin’ trash! You fuckin’ wish your team was us! Hey, you know what these are? They’re balls. I don’t know where your wife is hiding ‘em, but these are what balls look like when they’re still attached to a man!” he shouted. He was taken to a local police department and made to spend the night in jail. Before he was taken away, I managed to get his phone number. I saw a bit of myself in him. I called him to finish some interviews, he put me on his christmas card list, and we stayed in touch for a few months. I didn’t hear from him for about a year, until I got a phone call in June. “Samuel, how’s it hanging?” I asked. This seemed like the way people who attend football
“That’s great! But, uh, I’m not sure I’m what you’re looking for. I do freelance work. And no offense, but I might have a hard time selling this story to anybody. There’s not going to be much national interest in a Republican running for congress in New York State.” “I’m not a Republican.” “Democrat..?” Judging by the racial slurs he’d hurled at the police officers who hauled him out of the stadium, I didn’t take him for a liberal. “I’m running as a Libertarian!” he declared. “Why?” “Back when I got arrested at that Bills game, I had never considered the extent that the State controls us. The agents of a repressive government locked me up in jail overnight because I was expressing my deeply-held beliefs.”
“Your deeply-held belief in showing your scrotum to security guards?” I asked. I didn’t expect him to pick up on the sarcasm. “Exactly! The first amendment of the constitution clearly states that citizens like you and I can express ourselves however we please. If burning an effigy of Ronald Reagan is speech, so is showing some rent-a-cops my manhood.” “I don’t… I don’t know if that’s the interpretation that most legal scholars would agree with,” I said. “Well, why don’t you let some of my people show you a different perspective? I can get you credentials to the Western New York libertarian convention in August.” “Fuck it,” I said. “I’m in.”
I stepped out of my car in the New Era Field parking lot. The Western New York Libertarian convention was located in a nearby Holiday Inn in downtown Buffalo, but the parking was more expensive directly at the hotel. Besides, I didn’t mind taking a bus.
As I entered the convention center, I was overwhelmed with smell of hot pretzels. Every fifth booth was a pretzel stand. “ANDY! Howya doin’?” Samuel walked over and gave me a bear hug. “I’m alright,” I coughed, overwhelmed by the smell of salted, twisted dough. “Smells nice.” “Oh, right, the pretzels,” said Samuel. “Each one of those golden-brown snacks is made with love at the Huntz Pretzel factory in Niagara Falls. The guy who owns the company is a fellow liberty-lover, so it only makes sense that he’d be our exclusive snack distributor.” “Exclusive?” I asked. “Does that mean the only food they sell here is pretzels?” “Well, one of the souvenir stands sells edible underwear with Ayn Rand printed across the front of it, but otherwise yes, we only sell
pretzels. Since the Libertarian Party of Western New York refuses to cop to crony capitalists in setting our agendas, we don’t take large donations. Instead, we’ve opted to take on a corporate sponsor that shares our values.” I contemplated that for a few moments. “Come on now, let me show you around!” Samuel said. “Want to get your caricature done by Ben Garrison?” I politely declined, but did get my picture taken with a man dressed as a cartoon version of Murray Rothbard.
I had only been at the Huntz Pretzel 2016
Western New York Libertarian Convention for two hours and forty-five minutes, but it felt like a century. It was more like a trade convention than a political event. Every five feet some balding salesperson tried to sell me a copy of End the Fed or a t-shirt that said, “I ONLY PAY TAXES BECAUSE I FEAR THE GOVERNMENT.” The smell of pretzels was now beginning to make me sick. I met a few of Samuel’s friends, all of whom were running as Libertarians for minor political office. I stopped taking notes after the second interview, as most of their responses to my questions were the same: “yes, the government is trying to take away my freedoms”; “no, I don’t expect to win, but I want to send a message that Libertarians want
to have their voices heard”; “yes, I own a grill.” Grilling is apparently extremely important to the Libertarian intellectual tradition. I sat in on a seminar about Austrian Economics for a few moments, if only to get off of my feet. “From this we can see why Hayek was so opposed to expansionary fiscal policy,” said the presenter, a lecturer from some conservative college in West Virginia. “While Hayek opposed most measures of government intervention in the economy, inflationary measures, for him, proved especially problematic. But you know what isn’t just an illusory manipulation of currency? Investing in a part-time vacation home, that’s what!” I realized the lecturer was not joking as he handing out several pamphlets that advertized great values to be had in South Florida timeshares.
I tried to sneak out of the convention after hour four, but was met by a group of men huddled around the back exit. “Hey man… uh, what’re you doing here?” “I’m just getting a breather,” I said, reaching for my pack of Parliaments. “Oh, so are we,” said one man who I recognized from earlier, who held out a joint. “Care to join us?” The man was running as a Libertarian for school board. “No… I’m straight-edge…” I lied. I had discovered that the kind of people who went to this convention were the only people ever to smoke pot and be less cool. I walked away from the building, cigarette in hand. As I walked out of the parking lot, I saw a police cruiser parked by the curb. I nodded at the officer inside the car. He nodded back, but abruptly froze as he saw what was happening about 100 yards back. He turned his siren on. I didn’t look back. All I heard were shouts of “AM I BEING DETAINED?” as the officer pulled up to the group of Libertarian stoners. “I KNOW MY RIGHTS!” It seemed like a fitting ending to the day.
“FOOD” REVIEWS BY MICHAEL MROSENBERG
Fueled by a furious fascination with fictitious foods, the Gargoyle sought this September to solidify its stance on the (shifting) standard of human sustenance, semi-sardonically called Soylent. We accumulated an adequate number of actors to assess the contentious claims so clamorously campaigned for by close-to-clinically cloistered cuntwads. Being neophytes to the nutritionism nonsense, none of us knew of the niggling negatives that nearly nobody felt needed notice. It didn’t initiate immediately, but interruptions in sleep cycles slowly started to sap the sentience of the steadfast shake-drinkers. Undeterred, the underfed unremarkables upheld their underwhelming undertaking. Some brazen bastards even bit the bullet and doubled-down on this dumb dare by doubling their dose of daily drank. While they wasted time wondering whether their weariness would wane, a cantankerous cancer creeped in the capillaries of the now-corpulent cadets. Luckily for the lackadaisical lot, living in a largely lascivious and liquor-loving locale left them littered with everything from Listeria to Leprosy. Cancer was no match for the mighty malady-resistant mediums of most of the malnourished miscreants. Our own Peter Potensky and Penelope Pinkas presumably perished from the pulmonary pus potentiated by the pernicious pestilence, though it can possibly (and probably) be pinned on their ponderousness and being pompous pretentious pricks. Fuck those guys. Despite the devastating (debatably deserved) disposition of two definitively dissatisfactory designers and drivel-spewing drama queens, this fun foray into the faux food fad has made us fanatical followers of the fetid frappé. Although gastronomy grounded in guesses about the human gut gets called gaudy and garish, great gongoctions gan gome from it. 8/10
And Now, On A More Serious Note Editorial Letter by the very editorial Caleb (Doug) Nusbaum
he 1st Amendment says, and I quote: “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.” [emphasis added] In other words, as long as you don’t cause harm to other people, you are allowed to say and display whatever you want. It can be fun,; try it out! Step outside and yell something controversial. “Leonardo DiCaprio didn’t deserve his Oscar!” “There’s no such thing as the friend zone!” “Kanye 2020!” “Jim Harbaugh is overrated!” That’s the beauty of living in this country – we are allowed to hold any opinion no matter how dumb or wrong it is, and express it in a non-violent fashion. Recently, we heard from the president-elect some distressing words regarding the scope of free speech. He suggested that people who burn the American flag should be punished. With that in mind, on the reverse of this page is an image of the American flag. There is a handy-dandy dotted line to cut it out. Here are a few things that, according to the 1st Amendment, you are allowed to do with it: - - - - - -
Rip it up into little pieces Set it on fire Piss on it Feed it to your dog (don’t do this one) Fold it into a stylish hat Shoot it with a gun
These are all harmless things to do, except for the fourth one. It is, after all, just a piece of paper. The principles which it represents are far too strong to be dependent on blind worship of symbols. A lot of folks have this idea that someone destroying a symbol of America means they “hate America.” Not so. They are expressing legitimate grievances with certain aspects of the country, and they are fully within their rights to do so. And besides, so what if someone does hate America? Americans are allowed to have any opinion they want, remember? See, the USA was founded on an ideal: to be a country where all people can live equally and peacefully, regardless of who they are or where they come from. We were nowhere close to that ideal in 1776. We are significantly closer now, but we have so, so, so much further to go. Until we reach that ideal, until legal persecution of any kind is wholly eliminated, until not a single American wakes up in fear of their fellow citizens, we have no choice but to express our dissatisfaction through protest. See: Colin Kaepernick, Standing Rock, gay pride parades, etc. As a man I greatly admire said not so long ago, change never comes from the top on down. It always comes from the bottom on up. That is the entire goddamn point of living in a free country. The right to express opposition to the government is part of the fundamental fabric of democracy. Anyone who disagrees with that can fuck off to North Korea. People say defacing the flag is disrespectful. Of course it is. What’s the point of protesting if it doesn’t bother anyone? That, my friends, is how change happens. Remember, the Constitution establishes a Free Speech Zone, which looks like this (look immediately to your right). As a humor publication, we thrive on the foundation of free
speech. In this very issue, we have printed an image of the president-elect giving the Nazi salute with his teeny little baby hand and a menorah made of dildos. Several issues ago we devoted a 2-page color spread to an image of Jesus performing fellatio on Satan’s enormous spiny cock. I fully expect that some people will find these images offensive. That is fine. I am just as offended by kooky Diag preachers holding signs that say “GOD HATES FAGS.” They are allowed to hold the signs, and I am allowed to tell them that they’re assholes. That is the price we pay for freedom of expression. For better or worse, it’s all or nothing. So, back to the small matter of the president-elect suggesting that flag-burners be jailed. That’s kind of silly. Since I am a Humor Person, I suppose I should encourage you to laugh. Laughter, as we have all been taught in our high school critical theory classes (what, you didn’t have those?), is a subversive act. Really, how could you not laugh? Despite our best efforts he is beyond caricature. For Christ’s sake, he looks like this. -----> Ha ha. Look at that fat, orange, scrotumchinned fuck. He looks like he’s in 5th grade giving a presentation on a book he didn’t read. He looks like the love child of the Lorax and a honey baked ham. So yes, please laugh. For now, please do whatever it takes to strip him of his power of influence, which comes from his false image. He is not a skilled negotiator, or a good businessman, or even all that wealthy. It is all a front. Trump, the business-savvy billionaire, is a fictional character. Trump the man is simply one of the most successful bullshit artists of our time, and he got a huge head start from his dad. Ever wonder why people like Bill Gates and Warren Buffett don’t cover everything they own in gold? It’s because they have nothing to prove. Oh yeah, one more thing: he lost the popular vote. Bigly. As of this writing, he lost by over 2.6 million votes. Even in winning he is still a loser. He deserves nothing less than constant, unrelenting ridicule. Ha, ha, ha. But here’s the reality: the man with the most fragile self-image on Earth is soon to wield real power over the press. His deep-seated need to protect his Dunning-Kruger bubble from even the smallest slights will only grow. Sadly, it does not seem to have yet dawned on him that taking shit from people 24/7 is one of the president’s most important jobs (Obama does this very well). I do not have high hopes for his coping skills. Don’t be surprised if satire at the expense of him or his administration becomes targeted if not outright illegal. And please don’t be surprised if they and their followers try to spin this as “patriotic.” Remember the Red Scare? Heck, my millennial homies don’t even have to go that far back. Remember how during the Bush administration when French fries were renamed “Freedom fries”? Remember when the Dixie Chicks were lambasted for opposing the invasion of Iraq? Imagine that, but much, much worse. Make no mistake, the idea that criticizing the government or defacing a national flag is treasonous is not patriotism, it is nationalism. Nationalism and fascism go together like peanut butter and jelly. Of course, this is mostly based on a single reckless tweet, so don’t dust off your grandpa’s Nazi-hunting gear yet. Just be mindful. And for God’s sake, keep protesting. It would warm my shriveled black heart to see people destroying this page in public. Just remember to clean up after yourselves. Dissent is cool, littering is not.
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