Table of Contents 1. Serious ContentTM 2. This Page 3. That Page 4. Philosophy Volume CVIII, Number 3 Winter 2017
5. Mail 6. Gorge Lukas
Caleb P. Nusbaum . . . . . Friendly Ghost Mantis
7. Grand Old Party
James Mackin . . . . . . . . . . . Frackalackin’
8. Hollywood Business
Jenny Ghose . . . . . . . . . . President’s Tray Alex Boscolo . . . . . . . . . . . Schmeckleputz Matthew Benson . . . . . . . . . Soggy Band-Aid Luke Collard . . . . . . Arch Demon Manginamesh
9. Movie Execs Welcome 10. Bowling Green 11. Copyrighted Material
Connor Davis . . . . . . . . . . . . Och, Laddie
12. Ancient Wisdom
Sydney Glide . . . . . . . . . . Dam, Sun
14. Beer Money
Claire Denson . . . . . . . . . . . Pitched Ent
Marjorie Garber . . . . . . . . . . Audrey Farber Colleen Hillard . . . . . . . . . All Star 10 Hours Andrew Keating . . . . . Yaaaass, Prime Minister
Nick LaCerva . . . . . . . . . . . LaCertainly! Justin Leslie . . . . . . . . .
Molly Miller . . . . . . . . . . . . Moneybags
Sarah Neff . . . . . . . . . . Shluuuuuuurp Haley Nusbaum . . . . . . . . . . . . Finkle Tanner Petch . . . . . . . .
Duncan Reitz . . . . . . . . Editor-in-Queef Michael Rosenberg . . . . . . . Maximally Cucked
Simone Shemshideni . . . . . . . . But Smaller Fiona Tien . . . . . . . . . . . . . Fake Mews
Direct all complaints, comments, submissions, and proclamations to
The Gargoyle 420 Maynard Ann Arbor, MI 48104
email@example.com Visit us at: www.gargmag.com
Copyright © Gargoyle Humor Magazine 2016
13. Bask in our Glory
15. Hooooooooo Boy 16. SCIENCE 17. You Can’t Deny It 18. A Photograph 19. Gift Ideas For Grandma 20. Unlimited Apps 21. Unlimited Laughs 22. Tease Your Man 23. McDreamy 24. You Made It!
Philosophy by Caleb P. Nusbaum, editor-in-chief
riends, the world is in a state of chaos. The planet and Nellyville are both getting hot at an alarming rate. President Bannon’s pet orangutan has escaped, put on a suit (hilarious), and figured out how to use Twitter. Think piece writers are being forced to dig deeper and deeper into the most dangerous sections of the #content mines for hot takes. At times like these, it is often helpful to anchor one’s self to the unyielding rock of humor. “But wait,” you must be thinking. “Isn’t the Philosophy section only supposed to be in the first issue of the year?” Well, A) I’m surprised you care enough about the Gargoyle to know that, and B) Bitch, I’m editor-in-chief, I can do whatever the fuck I want. I could have printed 24 pages of Flight of the Navigator fanfiction; just be glad I was merciful enough not to do that. Normally this is the part where I’d say, “Normally this is the part where I’d say something about the history of the publication and the role of humor in our culture”, and then proceed to talk about something esoteric and weird instead. Although that never gets old, this time I actually am going to talk about the history of the publication and the role of humor in our culture. Just kidding! I’m going to talk about SNAIL DICKS!!!
You see that? You know what that is? That, ladies and gentlemen, is a snail dick. Specifically, the penis of a male specimen of Conasprella jaspidea pealii, aka the Jasper cone
snail for you normies. That sucker is as long as the snail’s body. How do I know this? I measured it myself, with a very fancy expensive microscope. This is science. If male humans had the same body proportions as male Jasper cone snails, then Robert Wadlow, the tallest man that ever lived, would have had an 8-foot 11-inch penis. Wowie kazowie! This is also science. If you think the penile marvels of the gastropod world begin and end at cone snails, hoo boy, have I got some information for you. Some species of land snails have things called love darts, which are hard, sharpened structures that they shoot into their mates’ bodies during intercourse. Imagine if instead of going to all the trouble of buying a lady a drink and making conversation, you just shot a calcified, hormone-coated dart at her out of your dick. Such is the enviable life of a terrestrial snail of the superfamily Helicoidea! (Of course, the snails are hermaphrodites, so she would shoot a dart out of her dick at you as well. Don’t dish it out if you can’t take it.) I’ve saved the best for last: if you haven’t seen leopard slugs mating, do yourself a favor and remedy that right now. Here’s a link to a video of leopard slugs mating narrated by the OG, David Attenborough: https://www.youtube. com/watch?v=wG9qpZ89qzc. We’re trying to budget for clickable paper, but if that doesn’t pan out then type it in manually. Trust me, it’s worth it. Have I ever steered you wrong? Don’t answer that. I don’t think there’s any more I need to say. Just enjoy these glorious pictures of snail dicks.
Look at this fellow admiring itself ! Such a lovely dick.
Oh my, this is pretty saucy. It’s a good thing snail larvae don’t read this magazine.
One dick ain’t good enough for this snail. What a perfect pair! Well, you’ve made it through all of the snail dicks. Now, here is a paid ad congratulating our own magazine. Enjoy! Mwaah! The Gargoyle’s humor has always been celebrated for its excellence.
please direct all hate mail to firstname.lastname@example.org Dear Dr. Gargoyle, Hey Doctor! Last column of “Dr. Gargoyle’s Advice for Statute Fucking Despots” was the best yet! I write to you with a very specific problem. Ever since I was but a wee lad my dream has been to be fisted by the Venus De Milo. Only one problem: she doesn’t have any hands! Or arms!! For 20 years I have been plagued and pleasured by these dreams of getting my asshole just fucking obliterated by her strong, cold, but sadly unrealistic phantom arms. Should I try to move on and find another lesser, more realistic statute to fantasize over or should I try to make it work with her shoulder blades??? I plan on breaking into the Louvre this spring to fulfill my dream and I desperately need your advice!! Thanks! Alexandros of Antilock Dear “the Gargoyle” (if that even is your real name) I am writing because of an alarming discovery in your magazine published January of 2017. As an avid member of our humble democracy, skeptical of those in power, I am constantly looking for codes to communicate with our fellow brethren of the cloak. If you use the Fibonacci sequence to look at the first letter of the nth word in each title, starting from your first article, you get “FEAR ATF O.” Clearly, you are trying to get us to fear the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms; this I have no problem with. The ATF is selfevidently a glorified criminal organization trying both to steal our guns and to distribute them to Mexican cartels, and we should fear them. However, I am not seeing where the “O” comes into the picture. Does it refer to “Obama?” Or is it part of a larger code? Please clarify, Sleepless in Seattle, Yes, SiSSY. You are correct. The Gargoyle is one of many conspiratorial brain children sired by Edwin Herpus R. Millgus, a resistor against the FDA and other regulatory agencies birthed at the dawn of the twentieth century. We feel comfortable printing these codes and their explanations here since we are confident nobody reads our magazine; however, the significance of the “O” is too great to be explained here. For an explanation, be sure to scour our newest issue for clues. Stay woke, The Gargoyle Dear The Gargoyle,
I’m writing in reference to the last two restraining orders I’ve received from one of your writers. I wanted to let her know that I left one of my graphic novels at her place and was wondering if I could skate over to pick it up sometime. Please let her know that I will not attempt to win her back with my kendo skills again, even though I have only gotten more powerful since. See you real soon. Love, あなたの未来のボディピロー
I have a problem that only you can solve. After reading your last issue, I was empowered to go out and start looking for love. Unfortunately, this was a huge mistake. Long story short I was released from the hospital six weeks later and now I’m $80,000 in debt. Can you fix the American health care system or else help me avoid debt collectors? Sincerely, Broke, Naked & Afraid Dear Broke,
First of all, our advice is to never take our advice on anything. Also, if you look closely, printed upside down in invisible ink on the left corner of our inside cover is a disclaimer notice that exempts us from any liability, especially in cases of hospital stays in America. Our recommendation is that you go back in time and complete your hospital stay in Canada. Then we’d be much happier to deal with health insurance. Time travel doesn’t get rid of debt collectors, though, and our best tip is to sprinkle a trail of salt behind you everywhere you go. Much like snails and witches, debt collectors hate salt. Hope this works! Hugs and kisses, The Gargoyle
Listen, I don’t want to write this any more than you want to read it. I honestly don’t even have anything to say. My editor is forcing me to do this. He’s threatened to slice my toes off one by one if I don’t write something for our mail page. I didn’t think he was serious, until he opened a really dusty filing cabinet and pulled out an ornate wooden box. You know what was inside that gorgeous piece of oak and walnut? A knife. Not just any knife. His special toe-slicing knife. He picked up the knife and began sharpening it to let us know he meant business. Listen, reader, I need my goddamn toes. Anyone who’s spent a day in a 3rd-grade anthropology class knows I need my toes for locomotion. Plus, my boyfriend’s really into it. You know, my toes. For sex stuff. He’s told me multiple times that he’d dump me if I ever had my toes sliced off by my editor. In fact, as we speak, he (my editor, not my boyfriend) has got my left leg in this hand and every time I pause in writing this, he slowly runs a knife over my toes. My pinkie toe is hanging by a thread. There’s so much blood. So, so much blood. Help me.
Written by Colleen Hillard Illustrations by Marjorie Gaber
I used the Force in excess.”
here was no time to play.
There was no time for fun. There was no time for games. There was work to be done. The empire was bad. The empire was no good. To me Yoda said, “Defeat it you should.” So I took my lightsaber, My sister did too, see We went to go train, Princess Leia and me. Well, there we both were, We were training like that, And who should appear But the cat in the hat! “Oh shit,” Leia said. “Ignore him, that cat, He’s a pain in the ass, that cat in the hat.” “You know he's the head of the empire, for one, and last time made a mess, I thought we were done.” “Head of the empire?” said Cat. “Oh, my my! Oh, no no!” I just want to come in, to give training a go.” “Jedi training?” said Leia. “That sounds sketchy as hell. He’s gonna try to kill us; I know him quite well.” But that cat came in, In the house the cat came! “I can help you,” said he, “With a lightsaber game!” And from under his cloak, He pulled out his own saber, And gave it a swing! At the refrigerator! But the oddest thing happened. It did not slice in two. Rather, it got covered In odd glowing red goo. “Look what you’ve done!” I screamed. “It looks like red ink!” And will it ever come off? No it won’t, I don’t think!” “Have no fear of that goo,” Laughed the cat in the hat. “Why, I can take lightsaber goo Off fridges like that!” And you know how he did it? With mom’s white jedi cloak! 6
“What the fuck!” screamed Leia. “Is this some kind of sick joke?” “Have no fear, little ones, It will come off like that!” He then shook the cloak, And on the wall the goo splat! Now the wall is a mess! We are getting annoyed! “I can fix this,” said Cat, With some help from a droid!” He held a hand to his mouth, And let out a loud whistle. In seconds flat came R2D2, Fast as a missile! “Clean this right up,” barked the Cat in the Hat. “He won’t listen to you!” I protested. “That droid is mine and not yours!” R2D2 stopped fast, his loyalty contested. “But he is helping you, is he not?” Asked the cat. And to tell you the truth, I could not argue with that. And help us he did, Robot arms scrubbed the wall. And honest to God, He cleaned up it all! R2 then sat down proudly. “Good job!,” the cat whooped. R2D2 responded, “Beep diddle dee boop.” “Now be gone, Cat!” I said. “Kindly get the hell out! You’ve caused enough trouble! “We must finish our bout!” “Not so fast,” Said the Cat. “I came here to help!” And he pulled out his saber And swung at Leia, who yelped! She was hurt pretty bad! This was worse than a mess! The Cat said, “I meant to help.
“He meant to!” yelled Leia. “He wanted to hurt me! He’s evil, that cat! That I can guarantee!” That was the final straw! I was pissed at this cat! I couldn’t hold back. That cat had to scat! So I swung my lightsaber, At his dumb black mask. But it didn’t even dent. This was no easy task. So we battled and fought, The evil cat and I, For what seemed like forever, While bleeding, Leia lie. Until a well-timed swing at the cat’s long tail Sliced the thing right off! “Okay, I give up!” said he. “Time to blastoff!” And out the door the cat ran, That cat who is naughty, And when he was beneath his Death Star, He yelled, “Beam me up, Scotty!”
Written by Connor Davis Illustrations by Marjorie Gaber
very Newt down in Newtville liked their healthcare a lot… But Newt Gingrinch who lived in DC-but-for-Newts Did NOT! Gingrinch hated healthcare! Even more at low cost! Now, please don’t ask why. You’re sure to get lost. It could be he was hit by a ball from a shelf, It could be that he looked like Mr. Keebler the Elf. Perhaps he broke his own ribs (a defense mechanism) And from that day forward couldn’t stand Socialism. But I think that the most likely reason of all, May have been that his district was two sizes too small. Whatever the reason, his heart or his head, He wanted single-payer stone cold fuckin’ dead. After cheating again on his bed-ridden wife, Thinking of Newtville, plotting to end a life, He stared down from his estate with mean eyes in his sockets At the poorly insured Newts and the cash in their pockets. For he knew every Newt down in Newtville beneath, Longed for expanded coverage, maybe new teeth. “And they’re going to doctors!” he snarled with a sneer, “Tomorrow’s their appointments! They’re practically here!” Then he growled, with his fat sausage fingers up-propped, “I MUST make sure affordable healthcare is stopped!” Then he stood on his tip-toes, and shouted, “My mission,” “Is to screw every Newt with a pre-existing condition!” Then he wrote some legislation. An awful, terrible act. Newt Gingrinch wielded a Heritage Foundation compact. He returned to his think tank on Newt Capitol Hill, Where he plotted to give all the Newts a real thrill. With a stroke of his pen, he signed all the Newts’ lives, To private insurance, and gave himself high-fives. “Hee-hee those fools,” Newt Gingrinch was humming, “They’re about to wake up and find no healthcare is coming!”
“Ho-ho, what glee! They’ll be scared so much to sneeze,” “Lest they fear that they’ve come down a flesheating disease!” “Such good fortune I’m in cahoots with my Big Pharma!” “I’ll be rich! Booming business! I must have good karma!” “Their hearts will drop low in a minute or three,” “That’s a sight,” grinned Gingrinch, “that I simply MUST see!” So he paused and collected, and his eyes did unfold, And he did see a YUGE sight, so great to behold! But the sight wasn’t sad! Why, it wasn’t of the oppressed? It couldn’t be so! But it was! A march from the rest! He heard all of Newtville with his very own Newt ear! “This is a sound that simply cannot be here!” Newt Gingrinch, dejected, hung his head and meandered, Through his district, which was quite heavily gerrymandered. He felt lower than low, like a flea-ridden dog, When Bernie Salamanders came from under a log! Bernie said, “Newt, your compassion is bent,” “You’re bought and paid for by the Newt one puh-cent!” Newt Gingrinch retorted, “Why do you hate freedom?” “Newts don’t have government plans, and I say they don’t need ‘em!” Bernie showed some polls, and said, “get your head unstuck!” “The majority of Newts want single-payer, you schmuck!” Then Bernie cried out, “Newt Gingrinch, you dope!” “Will you give the Newts healthcare, or sit there and mope?” Gingrinch stopped and he thought. And he thought and he thought. His little Newt brain tied itself in a knot. Then Newt Gingrinch came to a grand realization. And his wide mouth curled into a look of elation. With that period of puzzling, that life-changing minute of cause, Gingrinch thought “Maybe the popular will legitimizes the laws.” “Newts want adequate coverage for them and their kin,” “That’s as true as the fact that we breath through our skin!” “This is just what they want - if I give it to them,” “They’ll vote for the Gingrinch again and again!” Gingrinch turned to thank Bernie, and found nobody there. He had already left, to fight for pay that was fair. “Maybe healthcare,” he thought “isn’t a good from a store,” “Maybe healthcare… maybe healthcare is about the people it’s for!” With such an inspiring thought, his mean shell fell away, And Gingrinch’s small district grew three sizes that day! And the very exact moment his district didn’t feel so tight, Engaged with local supporters, Gingrinch more than made right. He went to committees and chambers and did what he could, Newt Gingrinch brought back healthcare, and saw it’d be good! He gave check-ups! And surgeries! And coverage galore! The Newts were so grateful, but still Gingrinch brought more! He opened box after box of affordable pills, Imported from Canada to cure the Newts’ ills. He brought Band-aids and cough drops, and birth control, and then, To little Cindy-Lou Newt, gave a small Epipen. The Newts were so happy, their eyes got all misty. And he, HE HIMSELF! Newt Gingrinch carved the Roast Christie!
Drive, Monkey, Drive! Drive, Monkey, Drive! is a contemporary story featuring a highly intelligent chimpanzee who strives to succeed in the competitive world of amateur auto racing. A film treatment by Luke Collard Unrelated illustrations by Haley Nusbaum Drive, Monkey, Drive! is a contemporary story featuring a highly intelligent chimpanzee who strives to succeed in the competitive world of amateur auto racing. In a present-day University of Kansas laboratory, fringe scientists toil with their latest and greatest experiment. Dr. Poindexter, the head of the department, is working with chimpanzees to find a cure for feline AIDS. In a series of events involving a large amount of gnarly technical mumbo-jumbo, one of the chimpanzees, a three-year-old named Clark, gains super monkey intelligence. After pulling a trickeroo on Dr. Poindexter, Clark escapes from the laboratory! After some train-hopping and a tender scene with a crooning hobo, Clark winds up in the small town of Smallville, Kansas. In a wretched case of speciesism, Clark, despite his firm grasp of English and his monkey hyper-intelligence, is declined employment around the whole town. After hitting the bottle pretty hard, Clark wobbles about town until crossing paths with a dim teenager named Luke, who stands dully on a street corner. Luke takes an immediate liking to Clark, and can’t wait to rush home to tell Ma and Pa about his hairy new best friend. Despite
swift and aggressive opposition from Ma and Pa, Clark persuades them to let him stay on the family farm with a serenading crooner’s tune he learned from his old hobo pal. Pa agrees to let Clark stay on the farm, on the condition that Clark help with farm duties and not throw his own feces around. On the farm, Clark demonstrates a talent for driving the tractor, and helps greatly increase productivity. Things are going well for Clark, but not for the dull Luke. One night, after dinner, Clark decides to liven things up for the dull boy. After seeing Luke’s secret stash of car racing paraphernalia, Clark resolves to try racing at the local speedway, citing his proficiency in tractor driving as qualification to drive a racecar. The racing plan is set, including an agreement not to mention anything to Ma and Pa, due to their religious disapproval of auto racing. After a montage in which Clark and Luke build a racecar from scrap parts, Clark is
ready for his first race on the old dirt track that is the Smallville Speedway. Clark races in the Saturday Night Live Race at the speedway, which occurs every Saturday night. He does extremely well, nearly finishing in first place. However, the winner turns out to be the dastardly Smallville Speedway hotshot, Dick Wormer, a chronic tormenter of Luke and a frequent leather jacket wearer. After the race, Dick pokes fun at Clark for being a monkey and Luke for being so dimwitted. This results in a fistfight between Clark and Dick. The “Man Versus Monkey Fistfight” draws much media attention, and is eventually reprinted in the University of Kansas newspaper. Dr. Poindexter reads the story, spits out his morning coffee, and heads for Smallville on his bicycle. After the ugliness of the fistfight, Dick and Clark decide to settle their qualms in a rural drag race. Dick and his girl face off against Clark and Luke on a road near Blood Gulch. Dick, once again up to no good, has cut the brakes on Clark and Luke’s car. After
getting rammed by Dick, Clark swerves, tries to brake, and ends up tumbling over twenty-five times. Clark is fine, but Luke is in bad shape after swallowing too much gasoline in the crash. Luke is rushed to the hospital, where Ma and Pa chew Clark out for allowing this to happen to Luke, ultimately casting Clark out of theirs and Luke’s lives. Clark once again hits the bottle pretty hard. While drinking liquor in the gutter, Clark overhears townsfolk talking about Luke. Apparently, Luke is gasoline-free and perfectly fine, but does not have healthcare, and thus cannot afford his hospital bill. Immediately after hearing this, a flyer for the Smallville Star Cup flies onto Clark’s lap. This one big race offers more than enough money to pay for Luke’s hospital bill. Clark also
overhears talk of Dick Wormer’s public statement that he will use the race winnings to purchase illicit drugs. Clark resolves to clean up his act, quickly restore his car in another montage, and win the race for Luke’s sake. The race starts on Saturday afternoon, drawing a huge crowd due to the media exposure of the hyper-intelligent monkey and his
resolve to pay his best friend’s hospital bill. Dr. Poindexter arrives on his bicycle just in time for the race. Ma, Pa, and Luke are also present for the race. The race goes well for Clark, who shows a very determined attitude. After trailing Clark for most of the race, Dick gains on Clark in the final stretch of the last lap. In this final stretch, Clark is sabotaged as feces strikes his windshield,
causing enough of a distraction for Dick to pull ahead. Dick crosses first through the finish line. Clark finishes second. However, the race undergoes instant replay by the officials. The replay shows Dick slyly tossing his own feces at Clark’s car, disqualifying Dick and proving that he is indeed the real monkey. The crowd goes wild for Clark, who hands the sack of race winnings to Luke and his family, as Dick Wormer and his slicked back hair are escorted away by the authorities. Luke and Clark embrace, and Dr. Poindexter, as well as Ma and Pa, see the inseparable bond between Luke and his hairy best friend, Clark. Dr. Poindexter allows Clark to stay with Luke, and heads back to the university. Ma and Pa forgive Clark for the car crash, and invite him back to the farm. Clark expresses his desire to operate a banana farm with Luke using the leftover winnings, to the approval of Pa. The film ends with a freeze frame of a high-five between Clark and Luke.
Kellyanne’s Corner Hey kids! Can you think of a time someone told you a lie? Grown-ups have probably told you that telling lies is wrong. People who do a lot of talking on TV tell me the same thing. Well, I’m going to tell you about alternative facts. A fact is something that is true. An alternative fact is something that doesn’t agree with a fact, but is also true. That might sound confusing, but once you get the hang of it it’s tons of fun! Anything your smart little brain can think of can be an alternative fact. And remember, if a grown-up tells you otherwise, you don’t have to listen to them because that’s fake news!
There are 5 alternative facts on this page. See if you can spot them all: 1.
Ice cream is the best food in the world, and good parents let their children eat it at every meal.
Grover Cleveland is the only president in US history to serve two non-consecutive terms. (Consecutive means “one right after the other”)
The Goliath frog is the world’s largest species of frog, reaching over a foot in length!
A global Zionist cabal rigged the election against President Donald J. Trump, but he’s so tough he won anyway! (Cabal means “mean people working together”)
The first animal ever sent into orbit around the Earth was a dog named Laika.
Crime in the inner cities, especially Chicago, is higher than ever before!
Jigme Khesar Namgyel Wangchuck (phew, what a mouthful!), the Dragon King of Bhutan, is the world’s youngest monarch.
There are 206 bones in the human skeleton.
President Donald J. Trump has the largest, most beautiful hands of any president in US history.
10. The three types of rocks are igneous, sedimentary, and volcanic. 11. If homework were made illegal, all kids’ lives would be perfect. 12. The smallest country in the world is Vatican City. How did you do? Can you think of your own alternative facts? Use these blank lines:
Cut out this section and mail it to Red Square, Moscow 103073, Russia, to receive your free Junior PropagandistTM Badge! Ask your parents’ permission. Shipping and handling not included. Badges made in China.
Dear Reader, I’m sorry to have to inform you of this, but Lee from Panda Express is your step dad now. I know, I was shocked when I heard this too, and when I was told that I of all people was going to have to write an article about this and break the news to you in print, I didn’t know where to even begin. The emotions that you are feeling right now are perfectly normal, and honestly, I’m on your side. Just please, do not take this out on Lee. When Lee saw the Black Sheep article telling him that you were his step child, he was shocked too, but did he let it prevent him from serving you the best General Tso’s and rice? Listen, this will be hard on everyone. But you just have to trust me when I tell you, it’s for the best. And truth be told, while these changes might seem drastic at first, I think you’ll find that there’s a lot to love about Lee. There’s no point in beating around the bush; Lee is a flawed man. There are reasons he can never go back to China, and let’s just say it’s not because he doesn’t know karate. But look on the bright side, Lee can help you with your Chinese homework, he can cook, and he’ll probably be at work most of the time anyway. There will, of course, be some changes to your routine—some good, some bad, and some just plain different. For starters, your family now lives in the Union basement. Your new home may not be compliant with health codes, but there are about twenty TVs and five computers, and only about fifteen other Panda Express employees being kept down there. You do the math. It’ll be the cheapest rent you can find in Ann Arbor, and if you just ignore what your mom will have to do for the janitors, you’ll find yourself quite cozy in your new home. I know you’re still confused, and there are a lot of things to adjust to right now. But believe me, the less you know, the better. I know you feel like I’m keeping you in the dark about certain, important, things. And you’re right. Listen, the triads want information about Lee and about us. If they get to you, they’ll crack you like a nut. As far as we know, they’re still searching in Nevada, so for now, you have nothing to worry about. And really, anything these gangs can do to you will look like a joke compared to what we can do. While this has been an awkward situation for both of us, I’m glad we were able to reach a mutual understanding. And hopefully, now that you’re family, we’ll be seeing you around a little more often! Welcome aboard! -The Panda Express Human Resource Department
by Tanner Petc
by Duncan Reitz
This issue is funded by Central Student Government and LSA Student Government.
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Winter 2017 2016
Fear and Loathing in Fast Casual
he telephone rang. My head pounding, I grabbed the receiver.
“Good morning Mr. Koenig! It’s Kelly! From the front desk! It’s 7 am. I’m just delivering your wake up call!” “Thanks,” I groaned. “You have a, uh, a wonderful…” “Day?” “Works for me.” Click. I pulled the damp, sweaty covers off my body. I anticipated the chill of the dry hotel air washing over my exposed skin. I felt no such thing. I looked down to discover I was still wearing my khaki pants from the night before. I saw a streak of brown on the sheets, which caused a brief moment of panic before I realized that I had entered the bed wearing my muddy shoes as well. I sat up, limped over to the window, and opened the curtain. I winced as the sun reflected off the window of an adjacent building. I stared out at the skyline. From the fifth story of the South Bend Hampton Inn, I was staring down on most of the roos in this mid-sized town. I stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the shower. I couldn’t quite summon the strength to wash myself as I stood, so I laid down in the bathtub and let the lukewarm water slash down on my sweaty face. If I’m honest, I probably peed a little bit. Who cares? It was a hotel shower. Why was I here? I hadn’t thought about that yet. It was too early to think about that. Thinking hurts my head in mornings like this. Mornings like this have been frequent lately. Most of the allure of being a traveling freelance journalist is the lifestyle. You’re always in a new town where you don’t know anybody. You get restless after a day of driving, so you head out to a bar or casino to meet the people of this great new city. At least that’s what you tell yourself. Really, you’re just killing time, getting drunk, and hoping you can maybe get lucky. You usually don’t. My mind floated for a few more moments, but I didn’t have the luxury to sit in this bathtub for too long. I reached for the temperature knob and turned it to cold.
Written by Andy Koeing I savored my last moment of warmth and comfort before I was jolted with a rush of frigid liquid bullets. I jumped out of the shower. My head was ringing, but I was awake. *** I glanced over my notes as I tucked into my continental breakfast bagel in the hotel lobby. I took a swig from my flask. I was supposed to drive fifty miles south until I reached a town called Saint Eloise. I didn’t know there was a Christian saint named Eloise, but whatever. I was going to an Applebee’s senior management retreat. I was on assignment for a regional business magazine called Hoosier Business. I wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be a pun or not. *** I rolled up to a gate in my 2004 Ford Fusion. According to my GPS, I was in the right place. I looked around. I’d spent the last fifteen minutes on a dirt road in North Central Indiana, nothing but cornfields on one side and forest on the other. A man emerged from the trees holding a clipboard. He knocked on my window. “What’s your name, sir?” “I’m Andy Koenig, writing for Hoosier Business. I’m doing a piece on Eric Donaghue.” Eric Donaghue was perhaps the biggest dipshit I had ever spoken to. I had cold-called him in an attempt to get into this event. I told him I was interested in writing up a profile on him, since he was such a successful businessperson. He wasn’t even remotely skeptical, and decided to invite me down to this event. He was giving a seminar here for his fellow execs, and he wanted me to see him “in action.” The guard nodded and opened the gate. He walked back into the foliage. I’m not sure what was up with that. I drove another quarter mile until I reached a clearing. There was a lodge, a cluster of smaller cabins, and a tennis court with the Applebee’s logo emblazoned across its surface. I parked and entered the main lodge. I approached the front desk. “Hi, I’m looking for Eric Donaghue?” “Present,” I heard a voice exclaim before the girl at the reception desk could respond. A
larger man, five foot ten and about 240 pounds, approached me with his sweaty hand out. I shook it. “Andy! Good to meet ya!” “Good to meet you too, Mr. Donaghue,” I said, squeezing his hand a bit too hard. Business people respect you more if you’ve got a firm handshake. I don’t know why. “Oh, call me Eric!” My hand peeled off his. Eric showed me around his lodge, pointing out all the portraits of previous Applebee’s executives throughout the ages. The last in the line of these portraits was an image of Eric himself, receding hairline and blonde mustache in all. It was clear a photograph taken on a digital camera, but had been photoshopped to appear as if it had been hand-painted. “Care for a drink?” Eric offered. “Isn’t a bit early?” I asked. “Oh, I didn’t mean alcohol. I’m actually ten years sober next month.” What a fucking loser. *** “We’re going to do an imagination exercise today,” said Eric, standing at the head of a long table at which fifteen or twenty Applebee’s executives were seated. Since it was a weekend retreat, most of these men wore unflattering T-shirts. I looked somewhat out of place in my zip-up hoodie and my non-khaki pants. Strewn across this table were a variety of men's interest magazines; Car and Driver, Sports Illustrated, GQ. Their purpose had not yet been revealed to me. “Julie’s [Eric’s secretary] gonna go around and give all of you a glue stick and some poster board,” Eric announced. “You’re going to cut out images from these magazines that represent your hopes and dreams. It’s called a vision board. I make a vision board every quarter, and it helps me to stay focused on my goals in life.” He showed us one of his old vision boards. It had a clipping of Hogwart’s Castle that was captioned in poor handwriting, HOUSE. “See the castle here? It represents how I wanted a big nice house. And you know what? I bought a house. It works!”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. I picked up an old issue of Forbes and flipped through the pages. What the hell did I want that could be found in a magazine? I looked around. Most of the men at the table were cutting out pictures of nice houses or beaches or cars. One or two cut out pictures of women much younger and more attractive than their wives. One man found a picture of himself in a trade magazine and pasted it onto a picture of a football stadium. Did he want to be a football player? The owner of a team? The world may never know. After about fifteen minutes, Eric called time. Each person was called upon to share their vision board. Since magazines are about half composed of advertisements, the pictures that adorned these vision boards were mostly expensive consumer items. A smarter man might comment that this exercise seemed to intentionally conflate hopes and dreams with commercial goods. However, at the moment, I was just itching for a drink.
I usually find so offensive. After vision boards, I had observed Eric give a talk about asking the universe to grant you your wishes, how he had asked the universe to get him sober and had the wish granted. Eric wasn’t overtly Christian, but he seemed to believe in a godlike spirit of the universe that loved corporate executives and recovering alcoholics. After that, we had gone outside to do trust falls. There was also some meeting about getting more out of your relationship with your local Applebee’s franchise owners, but I was mostly drawing boobs on my notepad for that part of the seminar. Now, after the dinner event, in which I had my first un-ironic plate of Applebee’s Jalapeno poppers and saw a clean comedian talk about the differences between men and women,
He nodded his head and moved on. *** I sat in an armchair, sipping a scotch that one of the less awful executives had offered me. He told me about his daughter and how she was getting her degree from some liberal arts college I had never heard of. “Oh, yeah, I think I heard Karl Rove went there,” I said. I say that about most colleges I hear about, since it seems like it could be correct. “Oh, wow!” responded the man, impressed. “I don’t like to get too political at these sorts of functions, but that Karl Rove is one hell of a guy, I’ll tell you that.” Normally, I’d make a sarcastic comment, but the day had desensitized me to the earnestness Winter 2017
“Well, that doesn’t sound all bad,” I commented. He laughed dryly and then sighed. “Son, I can’t let you go without telling you something,” he said. “You remind me of myself as a young man.” He gestured toward my flask. “You probably tell yourself you do that because it’s helps you have a good time. But deep down, you know you do that because you’re hurtin’. I can’t say who or what hurt you, but you gotta stop yourself before you ruin the things that actually make you happy.” “I think I’m done here.” I closed my notebook. “Alright, call me if you have any more questions,” he respond. “Or… if you just need somebody to talk to.” I walked away, trying to contain my irritation. What right did this fucking loser have to make assumption about me and my life? I didn’t have anything to lose, anyway. I opened my car door and stepped in.
After a few men spoke, Eric reached me. He frowned when he noticed I had not put anything on my board. “Oh, sorry,” I said. “I’m just observing. I don’t think it would be right for me to make myself a part of the story.”
had to change industries.”
As I turned the key to start my engine, I realize I may not be fit to drive. Everything in my eyesight was swimming.
I could finally drink. Eric was drinking a cranberry juice and talking to a few other execs, so I had managed to slip away from him for a few minutes. I grabbed another scotch from a table and downed it as quickly as possible. I poured another one into my flask and walked over to Eric. “Hey, thanks for having me come out today. I just have a couple more questions before I can go. Mind if we take a walk?” I asked. He obliged. *** As we walked, Eric told me about his divorce, how he lost his kids, and how it could have all been prevented if he had never touched a drop of alcohol.
Hell, this was hardly the first time I’d be driving buzzed. This is Indiana. I’d be surprised if it was even illegal to drive drunk in this state. *** I sobered up as I drove North toward South Bend. I passed an Applebee’s and I thought of Eric. Maybe he was right on a certain level. Maybe I needed to start thinking about my future. Nah. That shit’s stupid. Caught in a trance, I failed to notice the doe that stood in the road twenty feet in front of me. I swerved. The neon glow of the Applebee’s sign in the distance was the last thing I remembered before I lost consciousness. TO BE CONTINUED
“You know, I was on track to be a VP at GM,” he said. “Then I got drunk at the Christmas party, banged the CEO’s wife, and I
Cosmo Sex Tips (But for Classwork)® 6 Tips for Snuggling Up to That Special Subject This Winter by Peter Singer Do you ever find yourself in your courses totally underwhelmed by your man the Professor? Do you ever feel difficult to concentrate on your studies? Or maybe school just isn’t as fun as it used to be? But it doesn’t have to be that way. That’s why Cosmopolitan’s top sex-craved fashion-divas but for Classwork® put together some so-good-they’renaughty tips that are guaranteed to spice up your college-life. Say “Oh yeah!” to the Winter Term! 1. Everybody loves the mysterious man. Sneak that sense of wonder into your professor by showing up to office hours and never saying anything, and by intentionally seeming aloof during class. 2. Dedication is what counts. Show your professor you mean business. Make sure to show her you are serious about the subject matter by attending all her sections. Especially her other courses! 3. Prepare for success. Many complain they often find studying boring. That’s why it’s essential to have an environment that ensures your studying goes wild. Put on a sex tape in the background—what better sounds than the music of two souls making love could help you stay focused? 4. Don’t forget foreplay to get in the mood! Talking about neoevolution and microbiology is basically dirty talk. If you really want to kick it up a notch, mapping the human genome basically guarantees an A afterward! * 5. Mix it up! No relationship can resist falling into traps. Spice things up by getting into characters. You don’t have to actually steal someone’s identity, but adopting an accent one class or doing voices in a response are good ways to relight that flame from syllabus week! Bonus points if you can nail multiple Chinese accents. 6. Literally sleep with your Prof for a grade. Okay, so the tips didn’t work out, and you didn’t study anyway. It’s near the end of the term, but there’s still hope. You just gotta doll up real nice and convince your professor to round-that-grade-up with the best office hours of his life. Remember, every faculty professor gets one. For more Cosmo Sex Tips (but for Classwork)®, check out the related articles, 7 Tips that’ll Rock Your GPA and 5 Lessons to Improve Your Sex Life with Your Prof.
A Letter from the Janitor who Solves Math Problems by Michael Rosenberg As the third-string backup editor of a left-ofmiddle magazine with the journalistic integrity of a jar of pickles in an office’s communal fridge, I normally like to stay out of politics. But, given the current political climate and the real internal threats that we as a nation now face, I think it would be appropriate to use this space to take a facts-first look at the difficulties ahead. This column will be split into chapters that will span a few issues ofthe publication. This chapter will focus on healthcare reform in the Pre- and Post-Trump era.
Chapter 1. The Canadian Healthcare System is Bullshit
We spent over 27 trillion dollars for what? To *pay* 3 freeloaders to live in comfort on the surface of another planet, while we on Earth bust our asses day-in day-out to make sure they don’t get too hot or cold, or make too much of a mess when they take their Space Gogurt breaks. Fuck that. I know for a fact that the masses won’t hesitate to take advantage of a healthcare system that they don’t have to pay for. If you think the average American is above drinking AIDS to get out of work, you either should have paid more attention in grade school when you learned about the Constitution, or you should be taken out and shot for being so willfully ignorant of the reality in which we live today.
hose fucking canucks think it’s so easy to just fix people up, kiss their boo-boos and make it all better. Well here’s a little booboo you can’t fix, Canada: you’re unmemorable. Nobody grows up in Buttfuckistan watching Canadian movies, wanting to be a Canadian action hero, playing hockey, and drinking poutine or whatever the fuck. Canada’s healthcare system might be objectively better than that of the US, but Canada also shamelessly bears the burden of those who take advantage of that system. The government cucks don’t have the gall to lay down the law and stop the millions of leeches who willfully hurt themselves just to spite the taxpayers. These socialist parasites call themselves skateboarders, hockey players, professional fighters, moose wrestlers, BDSM fanatics, etc. Not many of the people involved in these activities would admit to their subversive intent, but that’s because the activities themselves have been expertly marketed by their (((founders))) to have the appearance of being fun, when in fact they are specifically designed to be dangerous as fucking shit. While the numbers may work out in favor of the majority of Canadians, I guarantee that that free healthcare shit won’t fly in the U S of A. I know America, and I know Americans. When we let people get something for free, you bet your God-loving pie-eating ass people will take advantage of it. Look at the space program.
Personal freedoms are the backbone of American society, and nowhere in the Bill of Rights does it say anything about the right to freedom from disease. That’s fucking stupid. Viruses and bacteria are well below the statute of limitations on the size of things you can govern. Read a book, asshole. Americans are free to be as sick as they want and they have the right to pay for as much treatment as they please. Some people believe that citizens should be able to raid Uncle Sam’s medicine cabinet at will, but let me make the case against this. I am well aware that stealing from medicine cabinets can be a lot of fun, but burgling a house for Sudafed not only puts
yourself at risk, but also puts the family whose house you’re breaking into at risk of catching your cold. In this sense, providing medicine is tantamount to allowing citizens to metaphorically spread their metaphorical contagious disease of socialism to the taxpayers, and that is simply unacceptable. That being said, it is foolish to believe that this won’t happen anyway. In this eventuality, it would serve the government well to take some precautions when doling out free drugs. Having two junkie kids living at home has fortunately made me an expert in the available techniques. One trick is to buy sugar pills in bulk and place them in perscription bottles in my medicine cabinet. If they are particularly sober, they will defeat this method pretty easily, which is why I also put sugar pills in my own real perscription bottles. This way, they get high only about 20% of the time, and I get my blood pressure medicine at least once a week. Should the government go down the “free” healthcare road, they should at least strongly consider this as an option for all written perscriptions. I think enforcing this freedom of choice by proxy via random sampling of drugs captures the core of the American spirit, and if that is taken from me, I swear to Christ I’m moving to Canada. I sincerely hope I was able to clarify in this column some of the finer points of the healthcare policy debate in America. Hopefully, you can walk away with a more balanced and factually-grounded view of this particularly thorny issue. In the next chapter, I’ll be covering Planned Parenthood and why Russia is also cucks. Until then! - Wicked Smaht Janitor Man