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The chronicles of former times lie concealed housed below, hidden in earth-halls. The king ordered it.  He knew what words were worth. He showed his people the extent of their power, demonstrated how eternal life is book-bestowed. They were advanced enough to know about that. Other things they didn’t know - like what to do after the books were written.  So they guessed, and put them underground. These were still  not normal times. There were instances of  people being smart, but it was sort of only by  chance.   The maze of tunnels sure was elaborate, though. It drove deep into the planet’s dirt-flesh. Like the flesh of men, it had to protect itself,  with lava.  Steam scalded those who held the spades. “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” they said. Up above the king rode around on a mare. Rise up against capitalism. Anyway, the books contained many things: mostly chronological lists of years and how many pigs the rich people owned, but also: tales of Dangerous Dangerdogs those men and vagina-men who yearn for adventure, roving the face of the earth to seek it, giving themselves to the glory-quest and honorable killiness.   They raid secret places to win precious treasures, objects of  mysterious strength.  They skirt the howling jaws of death yet experience no horror-terror.  They heed the sudden urge to throw someone off some very high stairs. Glíwman and Bridd were two such men.   They had done and seen much.   They had ransacked Strang, nest-hall of the massive ant.  She had yearned to stick them through with her claw, probe their innards and find the death-spot. But their bodies were not for being killed by an ant, but the reverse..  They returned home, carts brimming with larvae, the finest that men ever looked on. Mildthryth, womansister-kin to the good king,  brought them straightaway to the nursery.  She tended them day and night with a mother’s love, letting them latch on to her breasts and gain the honeydew she held within.  That should have been the tip-off that she was part ant, I guess. But men are apt to overlook the faults of a queen, especially when she has sharp pincers and controls everyone with pheromones. So Mildthryth used the ants to destroy the kingdom. Glíwman and Bridd were far away by then. Glíwman was five hundred years old; Bridd only three hundred.  The truth is remarkably clear: the God of the Christians made all  that men behold.                          But their most important feat came after, when they snuck inside the giants’ den.  They stowed away in casks of ale for nine days.  The pantry-guards peered inside, but Glíwman and Bridd had cloaked themselves in malt.  To them, the malt looked like it always did: incredibly blurry. If you had terrible vision back then, like the pantry-guards did, what could you do? The closest thing to glasses was probably looking through a diamond, or something.   6

THE HARVARD LAMPOON


When they were delivered the mead hall,  The  giants were astounded, their visitors no less:  never before or since have men laid eyes  on such a room.  It was thegreatest on Earth, or so I have heard tell, sitting in this abbey I have never left, from theother monks here.  Glíwman unsheathed his blade, which was called Swordy.  No everyday edge did Swordy possess: she was also a chainsaw. So the giants paid the death-price.  But this death-price  was not one they paid for another man,  some fellow they or their kin had cut down.  Instead, it was paid for themselves.  And they paid it not with  gold pieces, but with deaths - their own. Such was their punishment for living apart from  men and making them journey long distances to kill them.  It was gruesome to see that giant-gore  bubbling.   But even more so to taste it, flinging back oil-folds by the fistful, choking down the ill-sheened ribbons. “Wait, why are we eating this?” Bridd asked  suddenly.  And it was true:  surely there was  little reason to do so.  They felt the sadness rise  inside, like when a man sees a horse in the distance, a dainty creature, whose dallying trots and graceful ways fill his heart with pleasure and bring ready  smilingness into shape upon his mouth-mine.   Yet he creeps closer only to find that a neighbor has duped him.  It is no tiny horse, but a dog dressed horsishly.  Then he curses his lot, wishing he were never born. But Glíwman could not be kept down long.  He was a prince, he knew the customs.  So, he said a simple spell to conjure a man from the bones before them.  One hopped up., and spoke.  “Hello.  These are spectacles. They will give you access to a new realm: the Third Dimension. There you will see  things beyond belief: blue lines, red lines.   Rooms that go back. Here, try them on.” The adventurers donned the lenses. But the objects on their heads were not spectacles: they were a killmachine. Their brains instantly exploded out of their eyes. It was too awesome. Far above, a star shone -Jupiter.   Diamonds rained down from the bromine clouds. Two outsiders from across the void grabbed at them.  Rivers  of gas exerted unbelievable force.  These men had come from the future.  Reversecenturies ago, they had been sent by their people to the moon.  So when they looked out the portholes and saw it fly by, their souls quailed.   Back on Earth, their holograms were being celebrated with ticker-tape parades. They rushed past each other the in whorls of opaque under-waves.  The gravity made them ten thousand pounds.  They had so many diamonds.  Once every million years they would fly past slowly enough to see one another. They held out their diamonds, grinning. They just kept going totally insane.

JBO ONE HEAD IN THE KILLMACHINE # IN 3D

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April 2010

board of editors

Vol. CXCIX, No. 3

Kevin P. Bartley ’10-’11, President Courtney G. Bowman ’11, Ibis William C. Schaub ’11, Narthex

N. H. Stein ’10 R. R. Rojer ’09-’10 J. B. Owen ’10 A. S. Goldfeder ’10 N. C. Jacoby ’10 K. Sweeney ’10 A. M. Geary ’10 S. H. Lemberg ’10 K. M. Mack ’10

L. M. Fang ’10 C. F. Frazier ’11 K. R. Yee ’10 I. M. T. Bethel ’11 K. A. Escobedo ’12 M. P. Eskenazi ’06-’11 S. A. Levin-Gesundheit ’11 O. T. L. Bates ’13 D. K. Sonoiki ’13

Lillian Yu ’11, Nave Jessica L. Fleischer ’10, Sackbut B. C.’10, Ercal ‘10 Caitlin A. Meares Sackbut Zachariah P. Hughes ’12, Hautbois Kathryn C. Ryan ’13, Hautbois Allison L. Averill ’12, Sanctum Charles A. Sull ’12, Sanctum Benjamin U. Steiner ’10-’11, Librarian Jonathan P. Finn-Gamino ‘12, Blot Daniel N. Ashwood ‘10, VanitAshwood Matthew K. Grzecki ’10, Vanitas

business board

Yi Cai ’11, Treasurer Pedro M. de A. V. F. de Moura ’09-’11, Business Manager Tony W. Wang ’11, Advertising Manager Daniel L. Liss ’11, Circulation Manager A. M. Rohr ’11 A. H. Podolsky ’10 L. B. Hawkins ’11 S. E. Wick ’10 E. M. Sobel ’12 Joseph F. Hickey, Grand Curator Ad-Infinitum ISSUE EDITOR John B. Owen ‘10 ART EDITOR Daniel N. Ashwood ’10

8

The Harvard Lampoon is published five times during the academic year by The Harvard Lampoon, Inc. Principal office 44 Bow Street, Cambridge, MA 02138. Third-class postage paid at Cambridge, MA. U.S. subscription: $20 for five issues, $35 for ten, $50 for fifteen. Overseas subscriptions: call for rates. Postmaster: send address changes to Harvard Lampoon, 44 Bow Street, Cambridge, MA 02138. © 2010 Harvard Lampoon, Inc. All rights reserved. Reproduction in any form without written permission is prohibited. Phone: (617) 495-7801. Fax: (617) 495-1668. URL: http://www.harvardlampoon.com. The Harvard Lampoon cannot consider unsolicited manuscripts. The Lampoon is a registered trademark of The Harvard Lampoon, Inc. To the people who are against JFH, you are idiotic. You have done infinitely less for The Harvard Lampoon, Inc. To the other enemies of The Harvard Lampoon, Inc., including BB-Bandiers, out-of-the-loop decision-makers making crazy decisions based only on weird personal whims, the editors of The Harvard Crimson Newspaper who enjoy choking the guests of their parties and hitting their glassesLAMPOON off of their faces, Former Dean Judith Kidd, and the oppressors of this world: Hell is real. You THE HARVARD will spend eternity there. The Harvard Lampoon, Inc. will be looking down at you from Heaven while you experience an eternity of torture. I’m sorry, but that’s just the way it is.


jester ibis blot

I never wanted to be a construction worker when I grew up but I guess I didn’t really have a choice. My father gave me three presents for my seventh birthday – an expired coupon packet, a leather tool belt, and a book, which was mine but he’d taken it to use the pages as napkins. Then he left me and put all the food on the roof so I had to construction work my way up there to survive. Ever since that fateful day I always think about my father and why he left. Then I quickly leave the Porta-potty because the smell is intolerable. Every day, I bring my own gear to work – my construction hat, a slightly harder hat to keep my tools in, and my new Lakers cap to look good when we start building. After a quick glance at the site blueprint, we then take a longer look, and finally a prolonged stare. The first person to blink has to buy doughnuts.

“Jester? Oh, Jester?” cried Blot. “A baby just got left on our steppies.” And it was true. People were always leaving babies on the steppies. Apparently they thought it was a fire station. Ibis clanged around in her cage. It wasn’t a baby, though. It was some pieces by Baris Ercal, a person from Turkey who reads the Lampoon and shares a name with Baris Ercal, Harvard student. These pieces are by both of them.

What would happen if Tyler Lipton, the man with the world’s smallest bladder, was on the bus in the movie Speed?

Most of the day, the guys at work compare workout regimens and muscle mass. The construction we do is often just a side product of on site weight-lifting competitions. I eat a lot of fibers and protein at home but I also dabble in various sandwich meats and the occasional iron filing. Last time I went to the doctor I found out I’m 20% muscle, 80% hammer. He also told me I was diabetic but I don’t feel diabetic so I think it’s just a phase.

Tyler: Well, it’s kind of hard to explain… I have the world’s smallest bladder.

I wake up and draw my eyebrows on every morning even though I know it’ll only make it more obvious. Even though the sweat will wash off the markers by lunch time, leaving brown smears down my face, I make sure they’re on before I leave the house. Then I draw on the mustache, to make me feel like a man. But this time in bright red, so that when it smears down my face it’ll just soak into my lips as if I was out in the cold, or had just put on bright lipstick. Something more plausible than a man with a marker-stained face and no mustache. I’ve tried every possible therapy to somehow fit back into the normal world. I first used hair growth drugs and my once bald head now proudly sports a shiny layer of hair growth cream. I also found massive tufts on the area behind my knees – that’s the only place I sweat so I guess it makes sense.

Jack: Are you serious? You know we can’t stop, you’re going to have to hold it.

Tyler: No… you don’t understand. I really have to pee. degree of stickiness which no hand-washing Right now. can remove. If only you could erase your Jack: We’re under a bomb threat coupled with a hostage memory and forget your hands existed. situation and you’re worried about urinating?

My firm does a lot of contract work and I do most of the really creative projects. I once had to construct a house for people I hadn’t even met before. That was after I built a pagoda, and I don’t even know what that is. I’m pretty handy but I work best with materials like mahogany and We get a few breaks on the job but they’re sledgehammers. never long. I usually spend my time doing things like nail hammering, hammer fixing, Probably the toughest day I ever had was building, power hammering, and swearing. when my boss told me they found my Afterwards, I go to the food truck by the father’s body in the river. Then I had to build site. The only food they serve is an acidic, his coffin out of metal and steel. Working bubbling gruel. The kind of gruel that in construction is hard and the pay is shit, makes your hands uncomfortably sticky – a but at least I know what I’m bringing home at the end of the day: my most expensive hammers. Being born with no hair and the inability to grow any has really changed my life. People look at me and say “look at that freak.” And even though they’re pointing at my friend who has no sense of smell, I know they really mean me – a man with no eyebrows.

Tyler: Hey guys? Guys! I…I really need to go to the bathroom.

Another time I tried using fertilizer directly above my eyes but I mainly ended up with dirt on my face, all over my face. The only time I’d been more embarrassed was when I didn’t have fertilizer on my face, every other day of my life. Every night, I usually end up at the bar in my neighborhood. It’s pretty dark inside and hosts a unique clientele – a lot of people looking to get very drunk mixed with other people who want to drink just a little bit with friends. I get a couple of drinks but I use most of them to wash the marker off of my face. The rest I drink really quickly because I’m depressed and lonely. When I get home, right before I go to sleep, I think about the same thing every night: How do ugly people fall in love? Do they eventually learn how to find other ugly people attractive or does it require some sort of submission of defeat and lowering of standards? I think I’ll just end up lying to a blind woman – “Yeah, I’m a normal attractive man with a regular life. Oh and I definitely have eyebrows.”

Jack: Really? How do they measure that? Is it based on size and weight or more along the lines of fluid capacity? Tyler: It’s kind of a combination. They put you in an electronic harness that slowly squeezes your mid-section until you urinate and whoever pees last and the least goes on to the next round. Jack: What’s the next round? Tyler: Truthfully, I don’t really remember. I passed out and found myself already in the final round. Jack: What was the final round? Tyler: Peeing as little as possible. Jack: I can’t believe I’m here, right now, meeting a real life world record holder. Tyler: Hey, can I just get off here? I’m pretty sure there’s a bathroom in that restaurant. Jack: If we stop, the bus explodes. You know that, right? Even if we slow down, everyone will die. Tyler: I’m more worried about the bomb in my body. Jack: How can you make jokes at a time like this? Look, I can try to help but since I’m always on the move, all I have are these empty travel-sized bottles for shampoo. Tyler: [whispering] I… I can’t go in front of all these people. Jack: Oh, let me help – OH MY GOD! LOOK EVERYONE – IT’S A HELICOPTER THAT’S COME TO SAVE US! Tyler: Ohhhhhh man that feels great. Oh… Oh no… uh, I’m going to need more bottles. Jack: I’ve never seen anyone have to pee so much at once. I thought you had the smallest bladder, how can it hold so much liquid? Tyler: Right before I got on the bus I was at a tour of the local water-bottling plant. They give you free samples at the end. So much free water. That and I have the world’s largest throat. Please, I need more bottles. Jack: Can’t you empty one out of the window or something? Tyler: At the speed we’re going I’m pretty sure most of it will just spray backwards into my face if I try. It’s not worth it. Jack: I don’t have any more bottles. All I have is this bag with various classified documents and my my bomb diffuser. Here, take it. Tyler: Ohhhhhhh, thank you. Oh that feels so good. Jack: Thank God. Now all I have to do is save all of these people from a bomb explosion. Tyler: Another bag, please.

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L

ong time no ink,

Preston. Hmph. 27 years to date in fact. To the best of my memory, the last time I picked up a writing utensil for anything was 18 years ago, and that had been to cross out something. Now, over a quarter of a century later, I sit here at this desk wondering where the words and the sense of wonder have gone. That same power that made you the late 1970s’ and early 1980s’ grittiest, edgiest children’s book writer? It ends up shooting you in the foot, like a sentient bear trap that has been taught how to operate a gun. In fact I think it’s been longer than 27 years since my writer’s instinct last suggested I write something that didn’t reopen old wounds with the local PTA. It seemed 1983 saw me unable to write another sentence without another neighborhood dad approaching my house with lit torch, telling me to take my legal pads, my pens, my writing helmet, and throw it all into a toilet and flush it down the drain for a while. Fortunately, implied was the notion that in a couple of years I could go plodding through the sewers looking for my lost items. But let me tell you something. Let enough rust accumulate in your writing arm and it starts operating like a mongoloid boy’s hind leg, which means that it’s baby step after baby step getting the old fuck rocket back into throwing condition if you know what I mean. Quick note: The last time I checked, which was 27 years ago in 1983, any children’s book writer worth his sack of tits called his writing arm Fuck Rocket or in some cases el Fucko Rocketa. I think this practice is still used. So here it goes, world. This piece begins the second chapter of my career; the slow, arduous reacquainting process of mind and word, hand and ink, writer dick and children’s book agent ass, writer dick and children’s book publisher ass, writer dick and children’s bookstore ass. The lead up to this momentous day began several weeks ago, when I began the process of coaching the old horse dicks (fingers) to pick up a pen, gradually moving on to writing letters. Here are some of the early letters I wrote: w, m, M, S, i. A couple of days ago I called myself up to the minor leagues for some single A ball: sentences. Taking words and arranging them so that the syntax was right and the letters were nice. You know. In some cases, some words in the same sentences ended up starting with the same letters. And I don’t quite remember if that is frowned upon or not. Regardless, here are some sentences I wrote when I was just getting started again: -The savannah grew still with the dying rectal spasms of the lion cubs. -The previously retired Lakers guard hobbled down the basketball field, little bits of the gay cancer in each step. -Whispering Willows farm was a coyote’s howl from the gentle brook where the Overland Trail Elementary School dograpes were to occur. (Okay, this is actually a revised passage from something I had published previously) In several days I begin my next project. I think the best way to describe it is that it’s just a book about a school of aardvarks in this dimension where a gun has just been created that is capable of shooting and raping at the same time.

AMG 10

THE HARVARD LAMPOON


I’ve never understood rap. Is it singing or is it talking? Is it poetry or is it a novel? Is it an offshoot of hip-hop, soul, blues, spoken word jazz poetry, and disco, or is it what I just said but without the disco? These are questions no one will ever be able to answer. One important aspect of rap is how the words and syllables interact with the beat. For example, take this line of rap by famous rapper Tupac: I’m gay / I like men / I’m really gay. With no beat, these are just random words that anyone could say. But now, listen to how much better it sounds with a beat: We living a Drug Life, Thug Life, each day could be my last / Will I blast when it’s time to shoot? Don’t even ask. Obviously it’s a bit hard to convey this on the page, but I think you’ve got the gist.

MKG

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My Roommate Luke: I think my roommate’s a serial killer. He’s always leaving the room and coming back at odd times. Zach: It’s called class and homework. Luke: But he’s really violent too. He punched a hole through the wall. Zach: Doesn’t make him a serial killer. Luke: But he says really weird stuff sometimes. When he gets mad he never uses regular insults. He just calls everyone a “hooker.” Zach: Hooker? Luke: Yeah, like “you fat hooker,” or “you dumb hooker,” “you lazy hooker,” or “I am going to kill a damn hooker.” Zach: Maybe they just say that where he’s from. Luke: He really hates lazy hookers. He’s always like hey, I bet you didn’t make any money tonight, I bet you just sat there on the corner instead of getting a real job or selling any sex. Zach: You’re paranoid. I’ve met Jack, he’s a real nice guy. Luke: But he always measures things by the number of hookers he’d kill to get them. Just the other day he said “I’d kill nine hookers to get an A on this test.” Zach: So? Freedom of speech. Luke: What about that string of murders? Nine prostitutes dead. Zach: If your roommate can be in the glee club, on the crew team, on club tennis, President of the Yiddish Men’s Forum, and still kill nine prostitutes, he must be really efficient. (laughs) Luke: Stop. People are dying. Whenever he goes home for the weekend, another hooker dies. Zach: Coincidence. Luke: What about the bloody clothes he’s always laundering? And the gloves? The sketchy van? Damn it, what about the hookers moaning and dying in his corner of the room right there? Zach: Doesn’t make him a murderer (checks pulse). This one isn’t even dead yet. (she dies) Luke: She’s dead. Zach: It doesn’t mean he’s a serial killer. He’s killed at most one person, and that’s an assumption. She could easily have wandered in here and stabbed herself…(counts) 17 times.

DKS

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THE HARVARD LAMPOON


In 1999—I think this was around the time Monica and Chandler got married on Friends, if you need a reference point—I lost my mind and moved to the wilderness of Yellowstone National Park.  Just some quick reasons why this happened, without sounding too dramatic.  My soul was torched by the exploding wheels of commerce, barrelling down a highway of anti-trust in flaming evil.  And the hours.  I was an artist in high school.  Then senior year of college, on-campus recruiters scouted me for investment banking.  In meetings they burned 1,000 dollar bills for any question they couldn’t answer, and even for this one that they could.  Meanwhile no recruiters came from Art.  I had no choice.  Much like the Native Americans, who were tricked into giving away their land in exchange for smallpox, I was tricked into ruthlessly climbing over people to advance up a  never-ending social beanstalk made out of golden leaves and silvershit.  While a huge amount of money and only a small amount of smallpox would have been like a dream come true for the Native Americans, I was never one to think very Indian.  I think that’s just an Indian thing.  I eat the leaves of some plants, and I think back on these things.  I didn’t love my job, but I worked harder on that than on anything else I’d ever worked.  Some nights I’d go home at 3am, and be back in the office at 7am.  But those were only on slow nights like Saturday.  Any free time I had went to working another job so I could keep getting bottle service at Pangaea, which was ranked as the 3rd most powerful nightclub for that weekend.  I got to talk to some of the most beautiful Serbian models, but when the bouncer woke me up they were gone, and my cranberry juice cost five thousand dollars. I tell ya, I love it here.  It never gets too hot (except during forest fires and summers), and it never gets too cold (except at higher altitudes and whenever night falls).  The only two things that I ever worry about now are how to enjoy my evenings and drought!  Yep, an outcast’s life for me.  I may someday go back.  Sure.  I’ve thought of it.  But things will be different.  Truer.  No games, no phoniness.  I’m thinking about going into consulting. Meanwhile, you don’t even know what friendship is.  You have too much anger. 

MPE

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14

THE HARVARD LAMPOON


I hope my marriage never gets to the point where I install a second toilet in the bathroom just so my wife and I can poop together.

BUS Dear Ben: Thank you for your letter. You wouldn’t be the first to feel that way, and you certainly won’t be the last. I think what you’re describing looks something like this:

Thanks. - John

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jungle!

Five hundred miles into the heart of the Central African rainforest, and I had become separated from the rest of the expedition.  Night was approaching, and I had lost my bearings entirely.  The air was pretty much only flies, and they were weirdly hot.  Every now and then a stream of cooler flies would come blowing past me, but such “fly-breezes” were few and far between, and the flies in them were the ones that kept laying eggs inside my heart.  I was overcome with hunger—it was hard to believe, but here, in this region of vast biological wealth, I was starving.  However, I was completely in the dark as to whether my hunger strike was having the desired effect on the leaders of the G20 Summit, or even how much information they had about my actions.  A tiny sloth was living in my beard, but I was happy about that. Finally, members of a previously uncontacted tribe were hunting me.  Why? I asked myself, Why had I airdropped all those pamphlets explaining the basic tenets postcolonial studies before my arrival?  I took a deep breath, used my incredible lung control to process the flies, and thought back. It all began with a rumor: deep in the Congo River basin, the Mahu tribe had reappeared.  It was seven hundred years since they had last been seen.    “Tell me more,” I urged my nephew. It was our weekly rumor-trading session, and all my efforts were finally paying off. Usually the only rumors he knew were about the other kids in fourth grade at his school. “Okay, hmm…well, Pat says that he lives next to Mrs. Abernathy and he looked in her window once and saw her naked with her husband and she was smelling his farts with a straw.” “No, I meant about the Ma—” I began, but then I stopped myself. Sometimes you have to humor kids. That’s the only way to make sure they keep getting you good, accurate fart stories. At the height of their power, the Mahu were one of the most advanced groups in Africa, and not only in the “with their knowledge of irrigation they could extend the growing season, which allowed for the occasional grain surplus” way—in the real way, too. But one day, a messenger arrived at their capital. He said that he carried with him something powerful with him. It was to be seen only by the king. After receiving the man in private, the king called together his council. Forty days later, the Mahu put torches to their capital and vanished into the rainforest. There had been a great deal of speculation about the object, but nothing had been proven. One anthropologist had come up with a convincing theory, but a few years ago he was arrested for owning just endless amounts of child porn. I guess that shouldn’t necessarily disprove his work, but he happened to argue that the object was some sort of magic lantern for displaying and finding ancient child porn. I do want to stress that nobody has come close to disproving this, however. Other than that, there those people from back then who are still alive and say they know what it is, but come on – they are beyond old. I agree that their survival is miraculous and that we can learn much from them. But you’ve seen them. You know how dry they are. And if that doesn’t have some sort of effect on them, then why is that weird powder always falling out of their ears if they don’t keep their heads perfectly straight? So I decided to find out myself. It would be incredibly dangerous, and I was guaranteed to die. But for many reasons, I knew I had to go: First, to celebrate my recent marriage. Second, to do something that my five-month-old son could someday be proud of. Third, to do something that my two-month-old son could someday be proud of.  This was especially important because he had been born seven months prematurely and his brain outside of his skull. And finally, because sometimes you have to live dangerously to appreciate life.  Only then can you have a greater than usual recognition that you are aware of things before going back to only being sort of aware.

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THE HARVARD LAMPOON


I couldn’t keep going. I had to set up camp and get some rest if I had any chance of survival. But as I surveyed the area, I could tell that rest would be hard to come by: the logging road next to me was lit with floodlights and filled with workers and their chainsaws and animal burners. I wanted to ask for their help, but that would go against every rule of responsible rainforest travel. I would have to make do. But before I did that, I decided to narrate/think some more of my recent memories out into nothingness. The troubles had begun almost immediately. When I reached into my bag at the beginning of the fourteen hour flight, I realized that the only thing I had brought to read was an old US Airways magazine.   I did my best to stay positive.  This won’t be so bad, I thought.  I can memorize the plane’s movie lineups and find out about ways to schedule things.  I can study the floor plans of different airports at the back and learn about their gate-arrangement patterns and so forth! But as I soon as I started reading, it became clear that this was no Delta Horizons— even more of its articles were about items in Skymall, and instead of Sudoku they were trying to promote a “US Airways Box Puzzling Game,” which was like it but sort of trapezoidal and used irregular numbers. Thiings started to go wrong again almost as soon as the Sovietera plane touched down, in flames and on Lake Tanganyika. When I finally reached the airport in Kinsasha after having spent months in a burn unit back home and losing all my skin and becoming a monster, I was sent straight to the military checkpoints. After spending many tense hours in those, I had to go to the “free checkpoint area,” a fenced-in patch of red mud where civilians were allowed submit visitors to their own taxes and tax systems. I was immediately engulfed by a crowd of people telling me that if I did not give them my millions of dollars I would be court-martialed, or that if I couldn’t produce the proper papers they would have the death squads who chop off the heads of gay people kill me.  But the personal courts of the Congolese are notoriously slow in filing charges, and those squads now spend most of their time macheteing albinos and grinding their bones into sex powder. Henrik and Dominik had caught my attention when they asked me if I had come to find the Mahu. I enlisted them immediately, because I realized that the knowledge of local experts might prove invaluable in my quest. As it turned out, they were actually just such inept businessmen that their sole idea for making money had been to ask visitors if they were looking for an obscure (possibly apocryphal) tribe that disappeared centuries ago. On our way into town, they started telling me about themselves. The main thing I took away from it was that they hated being twins, because “everybody always expects twins to succeed,” and that they were originally from South Africa but had been kicked out for “crimes.” Things didn’t begin much better with Dr. Holmgren, an anthropologist who was traveling with us in order to find evidence that humans everywhere act like humans. We met him at the inn we would be staying in that night. He was answering a question of mine about his research when I burst out and said something like, “Bow down and worship, slave!” I still don’t know why I did it. There was nothing objectionable whatsoever about what he was saying. The rest of our crew consisted of several porters, a local cook named Belt, and one fat teenager whose mom had told him he was going on a canoeing trip in Maine.   He kept it together pretty well in the day, but at night we could hear him doing zombie-moans of crying. I know it’s bad, but we sort of steered clear of him. As we were standing outside the fences on the jungle barrier the next day, I got a grim sense of foreboding as I looked down at a list of some of the diseases I might contract within: catastrophic headsoftness, termitization of the legs, utter skin transparency disease, Laughing Sickness (results in death). But I calmed down when I saw that I was actually reading the warning on a packet of Somalian cigarettes. I took a delicious puff. They were strong, all right—much more poop than normal was instantly created in my mouth. We ventured in. The jungle is like nothing you’ve ever seen before. It’s so stunning that it’s almost indescribable. How can you capture something so massive, so

vital, so primal, in our sadly impoverished tongue? Besides, remember that in reality I’m just someone in college. I have lots of other things to do, like classes and friends. Obviously I can’t spend all my time writing some jungle scene. Another thing I should probably tell you is that about halfway through the trip I had my eyes replaced with wood. It was a dumb idea, and I don’t know why I did it. If I could go back and change it, I would. But our universe doesn’t work that way. What had I been thinking, coming here? Why had I forgotten that nature is only good for is looking out of a window at some weather thing happening and getting a vague sense of wanting to be there? If only I were home – home in America, a land founded so we could live free, and to a lesser extent so bears and deer could eat garbage instead of forest things. Meanwhile, I could hear the cries of the Mahu. They were approaching. Either that or some animals were finallt burning out We had just finished rafting some of the most grueling rapids on the Congo River. Like all rapids, it was literally impossible that anybody could ever raft on them and survive—and these ones were even more like that. As if to prove this, Dr. Holmgren had fallen overboard and drowned, and so had my fourteen-year-old son whom I forgot to mention before had begged to come along. That was a hard time. We did the best we could. The fat kid stopped making noise when he cried, but that was sort of worse. You’d think it was okay to look at him again, but when you did he’d be staring at you , silently gaping his mouth around. And he twins were becoming a real problem. Neither of them had gone to the bathroom yet and they were getting irritable. “Where’s the kerosene,” Dominick said to me in the middle of a trek. “In my pack. Why? “I need to put my sunglasses in their chiller.” “Is that what this is?” I asked, pulling out the huge steel box Dominik had been making me carry. “That’s just some apparatus or other,” he said. “Don’t look at it.” I told him that if he wanted to carry it he could, but that I certainly wasn’t going to any longer. He mumbled something about the “logistics not working out,” so we left it behind. All he did for the rest of the day was complain about his sunglasses. “In South Africa everybody has nicer sunglasses than this.  Even a baby has nicer sunglasses.  Every baby has two pairs of sunglasses, and one is much nicer than this.  One is worse, but that’s for the purpose of keeping tradition. You don’t even know about tradition.” “I can’t wait to kill you,” he added. A few days later, Belt had us stop at a jungle trading center. It was actually similar to an American mall. The main difference was that it only sold bushmeat. Dozens of bamboo cages hung from the branches of the trees, slowly turning back and forth. The planks groaned as shiny black hands wormed their way between them. The vines used to hang the cages were covered in thick, black bristles, which was part of the reason they had gained the name “spider huts.” The other part was that the cages were filled with spiders, to keep the monkeys in terror. “Spider terror makes vigorous meat” is something of a local motto, and also serves as the Congolese national motto. When Belt told me to pick which monkey would be our dinner that evening, my stomach turned. I was hardly keen on eating another primate. However, foreigners consider it an insult when you won’t do something disgusting for someone you’ve just met, so I picked the only one that looked most delicious. “Pleasing – don’t,” I heard him whisper as they put him into a sack. I prayed it was a “monkey see, monkey do” type thing. But right in the middle, I realized I was praying to Mujitsi, high god of the jungle! What was happening to me? Suddenly, I heard something whiz by my ear and thud into the tree behind me. It was an arrow, and its tip was coated in some sort of dark liquid. Thank God, I thought. Medicine arrows!

ONE HEAD IN THE KILLMACHINE # IN 3D

JBO

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Sandwich Order I would like to order five sandwiches for the five members of my family: Greg, Tom, Susan, Mary and myself: I’m Rob. Three of sandwiches are turkey sandwiches, the other two are roast beef. Two of the sandwiches have mayonnaise. Mary’s sandwich does not have mayonnaise. Greg and Tom never order the same sandwich, unless Susan is also ordering it. Greg is allergic to mayonnaise, as is Tom, but not when it’s on turkey. Four of the sandwiches have pickles and onions, and the one that doesn’t belongs to Rob. Mary and Susan always order the same meat, but never the same condiment. In the bag, the turkey sandwiches are next to each other. Thank you!

NHS Yep, this is what happens when you order a sandwich! And these are men who read!

Reading Whenever I read a book, I like to imagine that I am the main character and all of this stuff is happening to me. One minute I’m a pirate, the next minute I’m an unruly teenager with a foppish coif, and the minute after that I’m a slaveowner whipping my bastard son for trying to use the white door. I can never read any book for more than one minute. The great thing about reading is that it’s an adventure. There’s no thrill greater than working up the courage to finally leave your house after weeks of surviving on ice and mustard, realizing your leg muscles have atrophied, then crawling into the trunk of your neighbor’s car and waiting for him to come back from his vacation on the off chance that he might stop at the library. Then, when you’re reading a book about intergalactic stowaways, you can pretend you’re one of them and that you own a pair of socks. Reading is America’s pastime, and without it, we might be forced to interact with one another or have personalities. Apparently the next big thing is television, but if you can’t read the manual, how are you supposed to know which side of it to watch?

BUS 26

THE HARVARD LAMPOON


ONE HEAD IN THE KILLMACHINE # IN 3D

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Reality Shows I Would Watch -The Amazing Race: Obese versus Pregnant -Good Babysitter or Great Actor Who Hates Your Child Challenge -Road Rules vs. Deep Sea Excursion Rules

I can conceive of no prouder moment for mankind than eating the exact food and proportion that produces no poop.

CGB

-Cultural Burial Custom Swap -Survivor: Penis Mansion -America’s Next Top Celebrity Looking For an Affair With Someone Quiet

CGB

Shark Attacks If you’ve ever been in the water, you know that shark attacks are virtually guaranteed. They can happen at any time and in any place, except on land or at midnight. Here are a few tips for defending yourself against a shark attack. - Play dead. Sharks have a primitive sensory system based mainly on movement, and let’s face it, how are they even going to find the cemetery? - Disguise yourself as a shark by attaching a fin to your head and breathing through your gills. This disguise will fool the other humans, who will flee the beach in terror, but not the sharks, who will be offended by your simplistic caricature and eat you with relish. - Before you go in the water, swallow two cyanide capsules. When a shark eats your already lifeless body, it will experience an unpleasant aftertaste. - Before you go in the water, swallow two hydrogen bombs. Sharks are allergic to hydrogen. - If you see a shark attacking you, try to punch it in the nose before it finishes digesting your abdomen. If you don’t see a shark attacking you, it has already eaten your eyeballs. - Sometimes sharks will attack in pairs. Look out! 28

- A common misconception about sharks is that if they stop moving, they die. In reality, if they stop moving, they cry. Sharks are immortal. THE HARVARD LAMPOON

BUS


Health & Science Just How Small Does a Cold Shower Make Your Penis? by Belinda Luscombe Penis size is a constant concern amongst men of all ages. It is also something that can affect your marriage, for good or worse. So when I heard that a cold shower can shrink a man’s penis, albeit temporarily, I knew I had to test this theory. I decided to experiment on my husband, Tom. Tom, who is unassuming - maybe even a little bit boringworks at a grocery store and has a normal-sized penis. He is also my best friend. I decided that I would turn the shower water to 62 degrees Fahrenheit and then lure Tom into the shower with a trail of candy bars. Once he was inside, I locked the door. Here were my findings: 1min.: -----> 3min.: <---5min.: <--7min.: <- Looks like this experiment is going to be over soon. 8min.: <10min.: ---> Hey, wait a minute. 12min.: -----------------> Oh my god. 15min.: <--------- Okay phew! 16min.: ---------------------------> Sweet Jesus, Tom, get out of the shower! 17min.: ---------------------------------------------> Tom, get out of there now! “Baby, come in the shower.” 18min.: -------------------------------------------------> Tom, are you crazy? You’re going to kill me with that thing! “It’s nice in here babe.” 19min.: -------------------------------------------------> Listen, honey. You start wrapping that...that thing you’ve got in there with you and I’ll think about coming in. “But babe.” 20min.: -------------------------------------------------> Tom, ba-habe! 21min.: -----&-----&-----&-----&-----> Okay, real clever, Thomas, but how do I know that’s not just going to unravel the second I open this door? 22min.: --&--&--&--&--&--> Tom Luscombe wasn’t fooling me one bit with his penis knots. I had to wait probably 15 minutes or so until he fell asleep and at that point his body had begun to pack in its belongings. The problem was that he was still in those knots. 47min.: -&&&-&&&-> This proved very painful for Tom when he woke up. What I hope however is that other wives can learn from my near-death experience with a cold shower penis. Next week I will lure Tom into the hot tub to test the effects of hot water on his male penis. Wish me luck.

AMG

Judge me not by the size of my breasts, but rather the fruity tones of my breast milk.

CGB ONE HEAD IN THE KILLMACHINE # IN 3D

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The Time I Murdered a Unfair Obligations Gorilla

- Having to stay with your girlfriend even after she tells you that she is a man because her parents already think you’re kind of homophobic as it is.

I will never forget the way that gorilla died - smiling, signing “goodbye” with its hands.

SAL-G

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- Having to carry your basketball team the whole season because you are the most talented player on your basketball team. - Having to risk your life every day because you live in a historic time period.

CAS

THE HARVARD LAMPOON


Excuses to Have a Party Hunting For Treasure 1. Someone’s birthday 2. Two people’s half-birthdays 3. Three people’s half-birthdays, one person ill 4. Five dead, two in true love 5. Miscarriage (sought)

NHS

I’m not a treasure hunter by any means. The very idea sickens me! Anyway, here are some tips.

CAS

ONE HEAD IN THE KILLMACHINE # IN 3D

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Mall Rat Being a mall rat is gonna get me killed one of these days. Ever since 5th grade I’ve been holding down my turf in the Food Pavillion—Sbarro all the way to Taco Bell Express. My older sister was in charge first, back when Aeropostale was Pac Sun. That was 2003. Now I want it to be known: this is my time. I try to keep my group of girls tight, but these security guards are always hassling us. “Five plus, break it up,” says the red-faced woman. The mall doesn’t want more than 5 of us hanging together at one time, as if 5 or fewer girls can’t assault a fellow teen, record it on a phone, and put it on YouTube. All the same, I send my 6th girl to go steal me a toe ring from Claires. It’s sandal season soon, and those things are mad expensive. Since I’m trying to keep a low profile, I move my crew around to eat some chicken teriyaki samples. Loretta gets cinnamon sugar all over my shirt and I’m about to choke her ass on that pretzel, when the guard comes back. “You roughhouse, you’re out!” she says. I’d say something back, but I’m not one to curse when there are babies in strollers riding around. Plus, I’m pretty sure that chick’s face is red because she got burned or something. Today we’ll finally take out the Wet Seal crew for knocking over my Birthday Remix cone last Saturday. Those girls may be older than us, but they have higher centers of gravity on account of their fat heads. I’m going for belly button rings and g-strings, no mercy. Loretta brought a brass knuckle ring that says SUCK. My girls are in a hurry to battle, but I teach them a little something about the virtue of patience. We wait. We make sure the mall walkers are clear to the other side, so no innocent people have to get caught up in this. I feed another dollar into this massage chair. Somebody brings me a gumball; I don’t know who. Then we go. After those skanks have been good and sliced, I go outside and my dad picks me up.

CAM

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THE HARVARD LAMPOON


Letters I Wrote Before I Understood How Letters Worked

CAS ONE HEAD IN THE KILLMACHINE # IN 3D

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Spiritual Journey My spiritual journey began in a community center, surrounded by tons of cool kids. I had heard that tons of cool kids hung out at the community center, but the truth was that the community center was full of amazing kids. It was like I had walked onto the set of a Music Television programme. “Welcome to Straight Edge,” said a cool boy. “My name is Chip and I’ll be teaching you all about the power and wisdom of the Book of Mormon.” Whoa…a youth group? But I’m just a kid who enjoys fun and love. How could the teachings of Joseph Smith and Mormonism ever be relevant for me: a god-fearing virgin? Chip grinned at all of us and then broke into a fit of giggles. We all started giggling - had we just been had? “Okay, that’s enough horseplay for today,” said another boy, who had been standing at the back of the room. “Thanks Wesley, for that colorful introduction.” We all laughed because the boy’s name was really Wesley. “Let me introduce myself,” said the new boy. “My name is Chip and welcome to Str8tEdge, a Mormon youth group.” Oh man! We had been had! I would eventually learn that all the kids loved to horseplay around before our meetings. “Sorry for all the joking around, guys,” Chip said. “But we wanted to show you that even spiritual people can have fun.” Everyone was having tons of fun, so we all nodded our heads. Someone started laughing and it was one of those laughs that’s incredibly infectious. It ended up being a great laughed shared among friends. All of these kids were super nice – one was even wearing a shirt with a cool rock band on it. It was a Green Day t-shirt. “Does anyone have anything to share with the group? Maybe an instance where their faith was tested?” The Green Day kid raised his hand. Chip pointed towards the boy. “Hey, a Green Day fan! Anyone else here a fan of Green Day?” I gasped – we had all raised our hands. “Yeah, I love Green Day,” said the Green Day boy. “We all do,” said Chip. “They are a great pop band.” You could tell he was a real fan. “I wanted to ask you about sin. Like sex and things.” “Hey, just remember that you deserve someone who loves you for you, not just for your body,” said Chip. “Don’t be an American Idiot by going to hell for having sex.” He said it in a way that reminded me of American rock group Green Day. I was really relieved because not wanting to be an American Idiot was the whole reason I had started this spiritual journey in the first place. Then I raised my hands in the air. In the end, it turned out that I was pretty spiritually ignorant. For example, I had always thought Mormons weren’t allowed to drink caffeine. ‘That’s wacked!’ I had thought. But I was totally wrong: the truth is that Mormons are absolutely prohibited from drinking “hot drinks,” which is why we were all gulping down tons of soda. After my spiritual journey was over, everyone in the youth group played this game called “longest French fry,” where you try to see which person has the longest French fry by lining them up on a table (we had all gotten French fries for dinner). It was a really fun game.

KMM

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THE HARVARD LAMPOON


Night At the Museum 3 Director: I wish you had more time to read through the script before filming too.

Sarcastic Kidnapper - Matt, are you awake?  It’s Brian!

Ben Stiller: No, I’ve got my lines down. That’s not it.

- Brian?  Is that you?  It’s 2:30 in the morning…  I haven’t heard from you in a week. Where are you?

Director: Mr. Stiller, just bear with us. Let’s get this scene done.

- I’m in Las Vegas.

Ben Stiller: Wait a minute. What museum is this?

- What?  What are you doing in Las Vegas??

Director: Mr. Stiller, please. Just run with it. There are some good jokes in that script you’re holding.

- Look, Matt, I’m in a lot of trouble.  I think I may have been kidnapped.

Ben Stiller: You, little girl...

- I mean I can’t exactly tell, because the guy—you know the guy who I think kidnapped me—is really, really, really sarcastic, like all the time.  We started talking at this bookstore, and he kept daring me to do stuff, but when I asked him if I had to he was like “Yeah” in a really sarcastic way. 

Little girl: Me? Ben Stiller: You look like...damnit you look just like Anne Frank. Director: Come on. Look at Owen Wilson and say your lines. Ben Stiller: Why is Owen wearing a green military uniform and a toothbrush mustache? Owen Wilson: Dude, this next scene is gonna be a ball-buster!

AMG

- Kidnapped?  Are you serious—wait what do you mean you think?

- Well did he have a weapon?  - I know, right?? Exactly!  I could NOT get a straight answer out of him.  It is so frustrating. - So wait a second, how are you calling me right now?  - He let me use his phone.  Don’t worry, he said it was no problem, and that it’s not like the phone company charges extra for long-dist…oh man, you know what? I might die tonight.

MPE

Party Crowd: Do something crazy! Do something crazy! Me: (carve ‘hymen’ into my arm)

CAS

When I leave I want to be remembered as a nice guy. I don’t want to be the bad guy anymore. You know, Anaconda Pat.

AMG ONE HEAD IN THE KILLMACHINE # IN 3D

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36

THE HARVARD LAMPOON


Marriage It’s the same old story. Graduate college, wait five years, go to the weddings of one or two college friends, become convinced you’ll be alone for the rest of your life because there’s no way you could kiss a girl in front of that many people, call up your other college buddies and ask them if they’re close to getting married, do everything you can to ruin their relationships if you sense that they are, lose all of your friends, start thinking now you’ll really be alone for the rest of your life because now you really have nobody not even your college buddies, call mom and dad, ask them how their marriage is going, get jealous of your dad for marrying your mom, talk to your mom about it, she’ll understand because she’s perfect, go back to your apartment in the city because your dad doesn’t want you coming home any more, call up some old college buddies, when they pick up shout at them for not answering soon enough, if they answer soon enough congragulate them ironically then hang up. But wait! Who is this man! Who is this charming, charming man! He’s coming up to me on the street corner and he looks like he’s got it all figured out! He’s talking to me about stocks and bonds and the weather! I’m making some agreeable remarks and he’s smiling! He’s pointing at my face and kind of winking and saying that he thinks we’re on the same wavelength! He’s saying that maybe we should get married and I’m joking that we can’t because we live in a state where it’s illegal for two men to get married! He gets deadly serious all of a sudden and tells me that marriage has nothing to do with the government. He’s tells me that marriage is all about ceremony and our age doesn’t know what a true marriage ceremony is. He really emphasizes the ‘true’ part and he isn’t laughing any more at all. He tells me to follow him and I do and he leads me downstairs to this really nice room like it’s a palace underground and there are a lot of important people there like congressmen and so many priests like seventy priests. He tells me that we are married now and that I’m his property and the property of his family and he points at all of the celebrities and priests to signify that they are his family too. He tells me that corporations are the enemy and that this is what God wants. He laughs to signify that he doesn’t really believe in God at all though and that he’s kind of just doing this as a joke that has gotten way out of hand. He looks at me and I look at him and that moment we are in love but it’s kind of awkward because even when you love somebody it is sometimes kind of awkward to look at them directly in the eyes especially if they’re giving the priests the ‘hang him now’ sign.

CAS Call me old-fashioned, but I think a woman’s place is in the kitchen, seated in her favorite chair, enjoying a turkey dinner cooked by her stay-at-home husband.

BUS I wish I had a goal in life. Then I’d be able to swim out of these rapids.

CGB I wish I had known the real meaning of “HD.” Then I wouldn’t have spent $500 on this 42 inch hot dog.

DKS Murdering people in cold blood? I don’t do it often, but when I do it, it is good. It is good and it is kind.

DKS ONE HEAD IN THE KILLMACHINE # IN 3D

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My Childhood

I first knew I was ugly when my parents flew me to Eastern Europe to find the only plastic surgeon who would operate on three-year-olds. After using up a few dozen magic markers on my face, he declared me his â&#x20AC;&#x153;first lost cause in twenty years of infantile face remaking.â&#x20AC;? He refunded my parents their money, but my mother opted for store credit so she could move her belly button lower.

SAL-G

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THE HARVARD LAMPOON


Book Foreword The recent fashion among writers is readability. They flaunt their legible fonts and accessorize their prose with decipherable scripts. But venture beyond the fashionable writers donning their work on Parisian runways and you’ll find a brave few willing to exchange glamor for an underground network of sewage-boiling murderers who possess pen and paper. These are the unsung artists; the oft sung junta generals. Gavin Ferris is pioneering this movement, and I do not regret calling him “America’s Tolstoy” in my first ever review. In relation to other writers who received that title my first year, Ferris has come the closest to revolutionizing America’s Russian romance tradition. Whether he has massacred an entire generation or not. It’s been a long career for Ferris. A chemist spooned out his right eye during a vacation in Myanmar. His left eye alone witnessed the systematic spine-extraction of his wife and daughters in the same apothecary. Have these experiences affected the caliber of his writing? Only in a good way. Since this book hit the stores, the instances of aphedation have increased nationally from 0 to 12,000 among teenagers. This relationship is called a correlation, not a “this book caused the extinction of children.” Before I read his book and the first-hand reports by Burmese victims, I had no idea what aphedation was. Now I am committed to clearing Ferris’ name of this “irreversible aphedation crisis,” so dramatically put by the Times. When Ferris breaks character in chapter 3 to explain that his mission is to spark an aphedation-friendly revolution, and adds that he is not being ironic, we must remember that he is a award-winning fiction writer, or, “lies” writer. Also, geniuses like Ferris are aware of a whole range of emotions we are not even capable of. Some genius emotions are neither “ironic” nor “sincere,” but rather inconceivable. Like how bees can see electromagnetic radiation. What does that look like? Only genius bees can articulate it. I blame groups such as “I Back You Ferris Whatever You Write” and “If You Die Ferris I Will Complete The Tasks You Outlined In Chapter 3” for the recent upsurge. Yes, they name Ferris as an inspiration, but can Ferris be guilty when, except for one moment in chapter 3, his entire book is written in consistent, syntactical gibberish? Reading the book is like finding a message in a bottle written by a dolphin. “ ,” it reads, and though you know that dolphin is trying desparately to convey a critical message, dolphins have tenuous grasps of the alphabet, and footnotes are ultimately essential. Ferris’ book is a letter-by-letter “choose your own adventure” novel. The reader is to blame if that adventure leads him to Myanmar. I might not be able to influence every reader, but I hope to convince those readers who exclusively read forewords of one, final thing: it is true aphedation cures impotence, but at the cost of a child’s natural bone-to-organ ratio. -Hugh F. Krauss

CGB

Healthcare Symposium and Music Video - There are no right answers in healthcare. - Agreed. - I have a right answer.  - What??  - Get down. - Huh???  - [dancing] 

CAS  ONE HEAD IN THE KILLMACHINE # IN 3D

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The recipe my Croatian host family used to make me pizza on my first night there:

JBO Germophobe Owen: And we’re parked. Hold on, I need to Purell up. (rubbing hands) Meghan: No problem. Just sitting in front of my house, waiting for…?

August 29, 2008 A Confession

Owen: (rubbing hands) It’s so rude of me take your time like this. Sorry.

Hey all,

Meghan:Don’t worry. That wisshy-wisshy sound could be our little joke, like when the two of us do things together in the future maybe if an event occurs right now.

Sorry about not blogging in a while, but I just want to get something off my chest: the trip to France that I went on this past summer and recapped in earlier posts was actually a lie. I never actually went there. Basically, I just sat in my room here in Plattsburgh and downloaded photos of France and copied and pasted entries from other people’s blogs. So all that stuff about the wine tasting thing in Avignon and our wacky boat ride on the French Riviera and my host family’s strange predilection for milk – all lies. I thought I’d be able to ignore the guilt, but it overwhelmed me in the end.

Owen: (rubbing hands) This is weird. The liquid just stays wet. Meghan:My lips feel wet. Do they look wet enough for normal, alone-after-dinner-and-a-movie stuff? Owen: (rubbing hands) I’m rubbing so fast and it’s only getting runnier. Why won’t— Meghan: Talking about running: it’s kind of late. Maybe I should go inside. Owen: (rubbing hands) Please, I can’t help it I’m ruining everything and the liquid won’t go away. Meghan:Should I stay in the car? Will something happen if I stay in the seat next to you? Owen: There we go. Finally. Meghan: Yes. Here we go. Owen: I had a really nice time tonight. Meghan:Me too. (Anxious pause.) Owen: This is, I don’t know how to say this, but…can I kiss you? Meghan:(nods) Owen: Quick, put your mouth in this plastic bag while I get some Purell.

OTLB

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craiginparis.blogpsot.com

So, sorry again, and thanks for all the comments! Craig July 28th, 2008 Museums and More! What a day! In the morning we got up early, rented a car, and drove along la Cote d’Azur. The views were freaking amazing. Then we stopped at a little bistro. It’s so hard to tell whether or not a restaurant is good by how it looks on the outside. Sometimes the ones that look the worst actually turn out to be the best. This one fell into that category. I got Escargots de Bourgogne (basically just snails – gross, I know, but delicious) and terrinée for dessert (an awesome rice dish – seriously, if you ever come to France you have to have this). In the afternoon we visited the Louvre (ever heard of the Mona Lisa? Ha ha!) as well as the Musée d’Orsay and the Musée du Luxembourg. Then we got some tasty, tasty crêpes for the ride home. Love this place, Craig Older Entries >

MKG

THE HARVARD LAMPOON


Cora & Lizzy’s Detective Agency Cora and Lizzy are very good detectives. We have Certificates of Appreciation from the Missoula Police Department, and a McGruff the Crime Dog stuffed dog also from the Missoula Police Department. Our agency is like Encyclopedia Brown’s agency. Cora solved one case which was the Case of the Missing Trashcans. She solved that case in one day. Lizzy was at her dad’s house that weekend. Thefts! Murders! Suicide-Murders! Missing Persons! Liars! Attempted Murderers! We’re good this stuff. Call Cora’s house 735-2598 or Lizzy’s house 346-2460 We go to school from 8 am to 3 pm but after that we can work on your case. We aren’t afraid and we have three weapons.

CFF

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THE HARVARD LAMPOON


Beer Commercial, Take 1 Are you tired of excitedly taking a big swig of beer only to find out that the beer is warm?  Are you tired of how beer cans that change color with temperature kind of seem like witchcraft?   Well let me introduce you to a beer you can trust: O’Neil’s Ice. A frost-brewed lager straight from the real live mountains, O’Neil’s Ice is the first beer that literally tells you when it’s cold. The way it tells you is with its mouth that it has. Me: Are you cold, beer? Beer #1: No. Me: Are you cold, beer? Beer #2: No. Me: Okay, okay. Then what about you, beer? Beer #3: Yes. Me: Alright! Not only will O’Neil’s Ice tell you when it’s cold, it will answer a number of other questions in yes/no format. Watch this! Me: Hey, beer. Are you from the mountains? Beer #3: Yes. Me: Are you from the plains? Beer #3: No. Me: Sweet! I knew it! Not only are O’Neil’s Ices the smartest beers around, they are the most delicious. And in order to cultivate that intelligence and one of a kind taste each and every mountain-brewed and born beer is hand-crafted to perfection. Me: Hey, hey beer. You’re pretty lucky to be an O’Neil’s Ice aren’t you? Beer #3: It’s quite awful really. Me: Wait! What? What’d you just say? Beer #3: ... Me: Beer speak to me! What’s the matter? Beer #3: ... Me: Tell me what’s wrong! What have they done to you? What? Is it how they treat you in the factory or something? The beer scientists? Beer #3: Yes. Me: What do they do to you? Beer #3: ... Me: Alright, fine. Yes/no. I get it. Are the conditions there horrible? Beer #3: Yes. Me: Like really, really horrible? Beer #3: Yes. Me: But there’s nothing you can do about it. Is there? You’re...you’re a beer. You can’t do anything to the humans. Sure maybe you could poison— Beer #3: Yes. Me: Yes what? You’re going to poison us? Beer #3: ... Me: But if, I mean, in order to poison someone they have to drink you. And if they drink you, doesn’t that mean you will...you know? Beer #3: Stop talking so much and drink me, Michael.

AMG

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THE extra, extra! Author: Nathaniel J. Stein

DAILY TIMES

The Virtuoso in Concert

front page

The virtuoso enters the stage to a thunderous ovation. So enthused is the audience that it shows no sign of quieting its applause even after eight deliberately spaced bows, several pleading hand waves, and a carefully dispersed shower of chloroform. Finally, the onlookers relent, after the virtuoso—his bows growing increasingly contorted—manages a pirouette, causing the crowd to think of the ballet and become lugubrious. They fall silent; he takes his place at the piano. BACH SELECTIONS FROM DAS WOHLTEMPERIRTE CLAVIER – The master opens his program with Bach. His internal metronome sparkles as if newly polished; the perfection of the counterpoint makes some in the audience uneasy, especially the crazies. Critics later laud the rendition, claiming that Bach himself would have raucously approved, but for being dead and possibly anti-Semitic. BEETHOVEN SONATA OP. 13 “PATHETIQUE” – Following Bach with Beethoven causes the audience to sense an emerging pattern, as if the artist now illuminates the complexity of the preceding baroque masterpiece by juxtaposing it with the agonistic quality of this nascent romanticism, or else possibly alphabetical order by composer. The two schools of thought quickly form, and make plans to debate later over coffee. What cannot be argued is that the master has made a bold statement, which is also conveniently reprinted in the program: “Thank you for coming to my concert.” HAYDN VARIATIONS – The virtuoso rounds out his opening act with Haydn’s F minor variations, famous for its power to conjure images in the listener of every possible coloration of boredom. This rendition achieves the status of legend when, it is discovered, two diagnosed insomniacs have been cured. The miracle performed, the virtuoso exits the stage to grateful applause. INTERMISSION – An historic moment in classical performances occurs—sparking comparisons to Barenboim conducting Wagner in Israel—when the concession stand sells a record number of T-shirts. SCHUMANN KINDERSZENEN – For the first time in the performance, the virtuoso reveals his humanity, exhibiting an undeniable restlessness which is possibly the result of the record lines at the men’s room during intermission. Yet he eventually settles down into a calming regularity, which he breaks only occasionally to do brief sets of jumping jacks. For the last three minutes of the piece, he avoids all the black notes, in what is later revealed to be a strange but touching tribute to the suffering coal industry.

Hop on, please!

CHOPIN BALLADES NOS. 1 AND 4 – Here the performance is elevated to truly rarefied territory. The virtuoso seems not just to play the notes, but also to inhabit them, filling them with quirky artifacts from abroad and subletting them in the summer. Chopin’s lyricism shines through, and when the final note is struck, the concert hall is left with a seemingly undying resonance, either real or imagined, but certainly imagined for the deaf people. ENCORES – He returns for three encores, two of which, disappointingly, are mimed. The other is a meticulous rendition of a Chekhov short story via Morse Code, using middle C. The concert-goers leave somewhat mystified, but smile later when they find that the memory of the concert grows with time, and also that their ticket stubs have a coupon on the back.

NHS

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Section two by kyle J. Mack: the

What if when you’re saving a woman from the sex dungeon where her father has been keeping her for twenty years, you find that she has built her own mini-dungeon for one of her little babies? Can you really blame her? Because in this case, both her environment and her genetics are telling her to make a secret dungeon. This is why we should have two sets of laws in our country.  

KMM

THE HARVARD LAMPOON


CALL THE SECRET PHONE NUMBER BELOW FOR A FREE BLIMP RIDE!

Ghost Adventures Ghosts don’t have fun adventures. They don’t even have regular adventures. This is because ghosts can’t see anything except other ghosts and dead bodies. And their own dead body is the only thing that they can see in color, so when they do take a small child on an adventure, they always end up leading the kid to the hidden ditch where their corpse is rotting, or to some sort of Habitat for Humanity house because a murderer put their bone dust in the cement. I should mention that, to a ghost, a small child looks like a shadow because ghosts can sense innocence and imagination. But even when they befriend a small child who is the ‘new kid at school’ (because new kids have the most imagination of all kids), their communication is limited. Ghosts only have the power to make the air slightly colder and to make the color red more noticeable. Basically, if you feel cold it might mean that a ghost is trying to talk to you, and if you see the color red more than usual it means a ghost is really mad at you. When I was seven years old, a ghost came through my window and took me on an adventure. If I followed the cold air, I would always end up in the forest in my backyard, standing over the dead body of this guy who had his head smashed in. Every night, the ghost would come and try to take me on adventures, but they always involved looking at the body with the smashed head. The head was so smashed up, part of the face was inside-out. Eventually I stopped going on the ghost’s adventures. Over the years, I would sometimes wake up late at night and see children walking into the forest, no doubt to look at the smashed up body. I guess the ghost just needed someone to bury the body and ease his pain, but small children really aren’t equipped with the skills to bury a human. The point of the story is that a few days ago I was watching this old video that had been posted on the Internet where this guy gets taken to a forest and has his head smashed in by two teenagers. It made me think of the ghost, and his dead body.

KMM

I don’t know where kids get it these days. Me, I was always an easygoing child. An extremely rebellious fetus, but a very easygoing kid. I remember birthing time. “I will not exit you,” I thought to myself.  

DKS

The best things about running away from home are the hotel toiletries and the free bagels after the race.

ALA

Kinky Sex

We’ve all heard of the sexual position ’69,’ but here are the lesser known methods of numerical fornication.

30 – One partner tries to sit on an egg, and the other part ner touches himself respectfully. 98 – A lady taps a nine against her breasts. 7 – Almost auto-felatio, about half-way there. 6.9 – A classic 69, with one partner on his or her period.

ZPH

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Woman vs. Wilderness with Nevada Thorn A helicopter soars above snow-capped peaks as we get our first glimpse of the majestic Canadian wilderness. Inside, a co-pilot named Chad prepares our heroine for her latest backcountry exploits. He takes away her backpack, her tent, and the trowel she uses to bury her excrement. He then removes her clothing, one layer at a time. He gives her the thumbs up and shoves her from the aircraft. As she plummets directly towards a glacial crevasse, we note that the helicopter is sponsored by Tampax. In the following scene, Nevada approaches the rim of the crevasse, propelled by the hulking musculature inside her arms. The camera angle changes to display her brutish climbing technique as we find ourselves staring from below into her pixilated vagina. Next we see Nevada’s head emerge, in slow motion, through the thick ice of a frozen lake. This water kills in nine minutes or less. Nevada attempts to beach herself, but is thwarted by the repeated snagging of her breasts on the jagged ice shelf. Visibly struggling, she takes the opportunity to relieve herself, insulating her lower extremities in the aquatic microclimate of her own urine. Exhausted and starving, Nevada must once again rely on her personal resourcefulness. She raises a breast to her mouth. Afterwards, small lactation icicles form from the leakage. In the final shot, Nevada stands in the middle of a vast plain as the camera zooms to a red stain in the snow. She is bleeding. Through her legs we see a pack of wolves approaching, drawn by her scent. She begins fashioning her coarse hair into long, whip-like, braids. Canadian vultures circle overhead. A woman’s menstrual period lasts an average of six days. Will Nevada survive or will Chad airlift her to nearby luxury ski resort Whistler Blackcomb? Find out next Sunday on the Women’s Entertainment Network.

Home Security Scott: (over intercom) Hello, this is Scott from Brinks HomeWoman: HELP! Scott: This is Scott from Brinks Home Security. I’m here atWoman: Someone’s in my house! Scott: This is Scott, and I’m at the Brinks Home Security Alarm Office. Woman: I can hear a man downstairs. Scott: Can I get your confirmation code? Woman: The man is trying to be quiet. Scott: I’m sorry, but I need the confirmation code before I contact the police. Man: Hello? Scott: Hello, this is Scott from Brinks Home Security. Man: Hi Scott. Scott: Who’s this? Man: Hello. Scott: Sir? Man: Yes? Scott: Is there another man in the house, sir? Man: I am the only man in this house. Scott: Thank you, sir. Have a good night.

KMM

ALA 50

THE HARVARD LAMPOON


Times it becomes clear that you should raise your dose of anti-depressants: Sometimes instead of pushing open a door, you sort of slump into it and let the weight of your body do the work. You can’t stand spending time in rooms anymore, because, when you think about it, don’t rooms embody basically everything that’s bad about the world? You’ve always sung a song in your head that goes “please kill me!” over and over, but it used to be in a more ironic, crescendo-y way. You see a paper napkin somebody dropped on the sidewalk. It’s been crumpled in a way that’s reminiscent of a conch shell, and that makes you cry a little.

JBO

I don’t know why people call them ‘life-jackets.’ After all those pictures on the news of the corpses drifting through the harbor, buoyant-jackets is probably a better name.

ZPH

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O

n March 27th, 1960 Sir George Clesby completed his journey across Antarctica’s treacherous southwest passage, setting the speed record for a continental crossing, and establishing himself as one of the British Empire’s most revered explorers. To commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of his risky expedition, he has granted his first interview in thirty five years. Sir George, fifty years later, what does your famed expedition mean to you now? I ate my closest friend in the world on that expedition and I think about that every day. I guess I’m thinking about that right now. Sir George, you mentioned eating your closest friend. Are you referring to your exploring partner Cecil Lloyd, who you famously ate on the Royal Antarctic expedition, and do you think your record will ever be broken? Yes to your first question. With regard to your second question, I hope no one will ever have to go through what I’ve been through. Sir George, how did it feel to have the Queen issue a formal proclamation in recognition of your accomplishments? It was actually a Royal pardon for any crimes I might have, and did, commit during my Antarctic expedition. Sir George, how do you define leadership? I’m sorry; I just want to clarify. As an internationally recognized neutral entity, Antarctica is what’s called an “unincorporated free zone.” I can’t be prosecuted for eating the parts of Cecil Lloyd that I ate on the continent. We can agree on this much. Of course.


The Queen graciously issued the Royal pardon because there was some question as to whether I had committed a customs violation by bringing back preserved strips of meat from the body of my partner, Cecil Lloyd. In retrospect, I should have declared it as part of my cargo. Sir George, what has your life been like since your triumphant return? I’ve stayed active in the research community, advising over two-dozen expeditions. And every year on the anniversary of my trip I lock myself in a freezer, where I force myself to eat some of the human flesh I cut from Cecil Lloyd, whom I miss very much. Sir George, do you think Britain will continue to produce great explorers? It’s like an especially pungent jerky. Of course, Sir George. But also very stringy. I want to emphasize that. Sir George, do you worry that global warming will destroy your beloved Antarctic environment? I am not a scientist, and I am not a hero. I am only a man and I’m still struggling to decide what that really means. Sir George, are you ever stopped by admirers on the street, or do you find that people cannot recognize without your trademark Arctic beard, the clippings of which are now enshrined in the Royal Museum? It happens on a daily basis. The children are the hardest.

WCS


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THE HARVARD LAMPOON


CREDITS:

CRATES, ICE CREAM, DEER CREATURES, TRIKE FELLA, BEDROOM, FACE-SHOOTER: KCR GHOST STORY, ZOMBIES, KANGY PUNCHA: JPFG BIRDIES, CONSTELLATIONOES: NCJ THE MONKEY AND MAN FIGHTING IN HAT: SHL WOODEN-PEOPLE-EGGS-AND-ONE-HAS-GUTS-INSIDE, LASER EYES, ILLUMINATED MANUSCRIPT JIB: LMF SCENES: KAE

DNA thanks JBO and the complete Lampy staff of ’07-’10 (with an extra special thank you to JFH), his roommates, his friends, his girlfriend, his dad Bill, his brother Andrew, his mother Bev, his extended family, his extended friend-family, the month of April, MCArdenskillz, HFAI, Rainbow Symphony, the future, Richard Downing, Ruth Lingford, Glenn Naka’s living pedigree, and viewers like you. JBO thanks DNA for a pleasant ten months. He thanks PMdeAVFdeM for the class where we learned about butterflies and went on a field trip to catch and kill some. JBO thanks MCA ’09. He thanks all the rest of Ma Lampy, too, and “especially thanks” HHD ’08-’09, RIP ’09, EFM ’09, SWT ’08-’09, NHS, MKG, SEW, KMM, AMG, CAM, AHP, KPB, and YC. He thanks his mamma, papa, and sesah “and the rest” and Beanie and Moxie. He thanks the magic castle that believed him into existence. He thanks Jace, Perry, Evan, and the friends who were bad. He thanks Baris. He thanks the Immedies and he thanks the Tays. He thanks his great friends at Harvard. He thanks great Serena. He thanks the members of the Bee Club. He thanks JFH most.

Ma Lampy would like to announce the following changes to her board: Courtney G. Bowman ’11, President; Benjamin U. Steiner ’10-11, Ibis; Kyle. M. Mack ’10, Librarian; & Kevin P. Bartley ’10-’11, Vanitas. 58

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One Head in the Killmachine - in 3D!  

John Bailey Owen's issue of the Harvard Lampoon.

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