e s n e s n No Issue 154
Nonsense : The Bitter End of...
Vol. 29, No. 1
Editor-in-Chief Bryan “Post-Op” Menegus Managing Editor Cody “Lazy” Heintz Design Director “Ban” Ana Davis Head Writer Andrew “the Dark Continent” McNally Art Director “Good Golly Miss” Holly Mayer Faculty Advisor Amy “Youtube-Famous” Karofsky, Ph.D Definitely (Not) a Part of This Issue or Club Anymore “The” Marc “The” Butcavage Jr. Sr.
Contributors: Matt “Smooth Criminal” Ern Matt “Longshoreman” Matusiak Silvia “House Arrest” Staciu Meg “AWOL” O’Conner
Page Ad 2 by Bryan Menegus Page Editorial 4 Instant Churchill by Bryan Menegus Page 2001: a Space Reality 5 by Andrew McNally art by Bryan Menegus Page Happy Birthday, to Me, From Me 6 by Bryan Menegus art by Holly Mayer Page The Purr-fect Crime 7 by Matt Ern A Day in the Life of: Barack Obama’s Penis by Matt Matusiak art by Holly Mayer Page The Game of College: 8 & 9 a Fully-Playable and MinimallyInteractive Board Game jokes and such by Nonsense Staff design by Meg O’Connor Page Busted: the Day I Learned My 10 Breasts Were Weapons by Silvia Stanciu
DISCLAIMER: NONSENSE is Hofstra’s only intentional humor magazine. We accept no responsibility for strep throat, failed relationships, or blindness resulting from the consumption of our content. That said, please don’t eat this issue. We meet once a week and produce 3 issues per semester. The views expressed herein do not necessarily represent the views of Hofstra University. Any likeness to people existing or fictional is purely coincidental. Issue 153, Volume 29, Number6, Copyright MMIX
Partial Non-Fiction: Drunkwalking the Freedom Trail by Tyler Elam Page Robert Palmer: Addicted to Love 11 by Andrew McNally
Page After All of Our Comic 12 Misadventures, I Sure Am Sad to See You Get the Death Penalty by Matt Ern art by Bryan Menegus You’re a Good Man, Robert Greenwell by Prof. Robert Greenwell Page I Have Multiple Personality 13 Disorder...and So Do I by Andrew McNally People Who Are John Cena in Their Own Way by Bryan Menegus & Ryan Broderick Page How I Bought My Car at the Oscars 14 by Matt Ern Everything You Know is Wrong by Andrew McNally Page Obituaries 15 by Nonsense Staff
Another school year at Hofstra comes to a close, and we here at Nonsense still aren’t quite sure what a “joke” is, or why an obtuse bureaucratic system continues to give us money. But, like mother always told me, “If it ain’t broke—embezzle.” Get it? Me neither. Did you hear the one about the guy who finally had enough money to build the brick house he’d always dreamed of? He took his savings and went to the brickyard. The owner told me they only sold bricks by the hundred. The man bought them and finished building his house and still had one left over. So he threw it waaaay up in there air. That one’s a classic. Melodramatic second paragraph: As usual, our piddling little publication teeters on the edge of anarchy. Although we’ve lost two of our hardest-working staff members—Marc Butcavage (to gout) and Meg O’Connor (unexpected pregnancy)—we’ve managed to entice, seduce, bribe two new writers into the fold: look for them in our next insert in The Chronicle. We also brought on Ana Davis, who’s basically the Robocop of design directors. It’s been its own challenge getting used to her pointing guns at everyone for littering. This is our first issue—to my knowledge—to feature a board game. Flip to the centerfold, grab some dice, and get rowdy. On the other hand, almost none of the jokes are funny, and this issue is coming out about four weeks behind schedule. It could always be worse: I could be graduating and trying to find a job in this wretched economy. Which reminds me: I’m graduating and trying to find a job in this wretched economy. Forward any complaints about Issue 154 to ‘Cardboard box, North 11th Street, Brooklyn’. I’ll be the broken pile of human filth begging for money to buy a 40oz. That’s basically all that being the editor of this magazine has prepared me for. In all seriousness though, I’ll miss my clubmates and our friends across the hall in The Chronicle. These two groups of kids have been the reason I stuck around at Hofstra, where I learned the most, what I took pride in, and where all of my free time went—willingly. Every graduating senior out of Nonsense or The Chronicle wants to wax nostalgic about 4am nights spent laying out final pages, so instead let me say I haven’t seen a red cent in compensation for any of that work. Thanks for nothing, Nonsense! It’s been half an honor getting credit for the pisspoor job I’ve done reviving this shambles of a publication. Special thanks to Amy Karofsky for still being our advisor, and personal thanks to Professors Markus, Bryant, van Benthuysen, Sawhney, Brogger, Fletcher, and Fincham—may you continue to inspire your future students as you did me. Best of luck to next year’s editorial team: try not to suck too many dicks while I’m gone. Enough mushy stuff, might as well come full circle and end on a joke. A cigar-smoking man and a woman with a dog are seated next to one another an on airplane. The woman tells the man that his cigar smells offensive and asks if he would please throw it out the window. The man replies that he would gladly do so if she would do the same with her annoying dog. To his surprise, the woman hurls the dog and cigar out the window. The man reaches out to catch the dog: what does he grab? A brick. Welcome to issue 154: don’t say we didn’t warn you (even if we didn’t).
Nonsense : Still For Dummies
2001: a Space Reality My name is Gagarin Yuri, and I’m here the moon. Friends and family members space, I could really hear them scream. to clear something up. In 2001 I became waved goodbye, before getting brutally So yeah, they were dead, and I was the first man from our beloved country incinerated for standing far too close to flying alone. The moon was boring so of Serbia to enter outer space. We could the launch pad. We really didn’t do a good I took off for a black hole. I found one, always see it, but never knew how to get job with the calculations. but none of that crazy coloring and there. We tried a plane, but that brought This is where the film comes into psychedelic imagery from the movie a disastrous ending to our 1989 National play. When we landed on the moon, we happened. I just suddenly found myself in Air Show. We tried a human ladder, but found no such black obelisk, like in “2001.” the year 2034. we could only get ten people high before There was nothing but weird rocks and Then suddenly, I found myself in a it collapsed, killing twelve. Finally, we footprints left by Louis Armstrong in room. It wasn’t white and empty, but dirty called NASA, the National Abduction of 1945. The mission was to observe the and filled with Asians. I walked up to the Soviet Astronauts, and they sent us old moon and kidnap an alien life form. We counter and had a euphoric experience Soviet plans for how to build a rocket. A quickly realized that there were no aliens with the man on the other side. Around mere fourteen years later, we finished it. around, so I spent the five days largely the room were pictures of a Paper Mache But we didn’t know what to expect eating sandwich paste and watching dragon, the Great Wall, and a Buddha. And in space. So, we statues of Buddhas, Netflixed “2001: A and drawings of Space Odyssey” Buddhas. That’s on Serbia’s joint when it hit me. account. Sadly, 2001, the movie, this is only the ends with a man fifth movie to finding heaven. ever enter our But in this reality, country, behind I found that my “Babe,” “Sleeper,” religion was wrong. “Babe: Pig in the Enlightenment was City” and the the correct path. highly misleading I got down on my “A Serbian Film.” knees and said to When it came the man behind in the mail, we the counter, “Teach watched it. We me. Teach me the fell in love with Eightfold Path. Those sons of bitches, I told them brown rice! Wait, where is there a takeout restaurant in space? both the imagery Show me the ways and the sweeping of the Mahayana metaphors. the one onboard movie, “A Serbian Film.” Buddhist.” “Get up,” he said. “Get up or I’m But space wasn’t like that. Space I also played battleship with the ship’s calling the police.” That’s when I realized wasn’t like that at all. First off, we had computer, BENJAMIN. All his letters are where I was. Foo Yong Noodle Palace, a to find funding for the launch, so we capitalized, but they didn’t stand for mile from my house. My LSD had worn had to turn to corporate sponsors. The anything. Unlike HAL, BENJAMIN was off. The launch of the rocket was the production of our rocket was co-funded programmed to always lose, because ingestion of the drugs, the moon was a by Big Red, UHaul, and the motion picture I have a massive ego problem. Also, forest, the black hole was the exit from Babe. Home Depot and Kotex paid for before I went to my sleep capsule every the forest to the town, and my murdered the launch pad. Finally, we were ready. night, I visited the sex chamber thing crew members were random pedestrians The co-pilot, Ted Striker, and I boarded from “Sleeper.” So anyways, this is where on the street. I had found heaven in a the cockpit. I was worried, because he I started to go crazy; I may have watched noodle restaurant. My quest was over, hadn’t flown since the war, but we both “A Serbian Film” one too many times. I over in a Chinese restaurant. Not a very had plenty of training. The other crew decided to kill my fellow crew members. good Chinese restaurant, either, but members boarded and soon enough, Ted, Josh, the computer, Bowman, about what you’d expect from suburban the Forever 21 Rocket was taking off to Kareem, all of them. Let me tell you, in Serbia. Serbia is a strange place.
Wow Ellen, it sure has been a crazy two weeks we’ve had—hanging out, talking, conversing, spending time together, chilling and/or chillaxing, enjoying one another’s company, being near you and saying words and having you say words back to me that I found interesting, pertinent, or sounds—we sure have hit it off. Who’d have thought that working in the same floor of the same office and on most of the same projects would bring us closer together as human beings who share a few things in common besides religion, politics, gender, heritage, upbringing, and taste in almost everything. It’s pretty easy to imagine my life without you in the event that you move or pass away tragically, but you really are an indispensible “friend”. What I’m trying to say is, my birthday’s coming up. I’m sure you didn’t realize, because you still haven’t replied to my Facebook friend request, but it’s next Monday, and I’ll be 28: You know, the big two-oh. You’ve probably just been too busy being thoroughly entertained by me all the time to notice. I know how much I mean to you, and the best way you can show your appreciation for the ten unforgettable days we’ve spent together during working hours is by buying me a present,. The more expensive the better. Sure, it’s “good etiquette” to take the price tags off of things, but if you do, I’ll just look it up on the internet later and use that to judge whether your salary is higher than mine. You might be thinking, “Why should I buy you a birthday present?” Yes I’m a grown man, and we’ve only known each other a short time, but just to clear things up, I’m not asking for a birthday present. Since we’re friends now, you pretty much owe me presents for every year you weren’t at my sweet-as-fuck birthday parties. If I had known the part you’d be playing in my adult life, I probably wouldn’t have invited you, but if you had shown up as someone’s +1 I certainly wouldn’t not have been upset for more than a few minutes. So buy me some cool stuff, Ellen. It’s the polite thing to do, and
Nonsense : Still For Dummies
let me assure you, you missed out by not attending my birthday parties. Most of them had a clown. My uncle is a clown. Ok, 28 presents is a lot to find in a few short days, especially because you barely know anything about me, let alone what I would want besides your job. Lets not worry about 18 of those presents, because you weren’t legally old enough to hold a job in a competitive corporation, one which apparently favors large-breasted women with multiple masters degrees and over twenty five patents. How could I have expected you to afford presents without an income? With that handicap in place this should be pretty easy for you. The first eight presents should probably be crystal meth. It was a post-high school phase, and I’d like to have some as a
reminder. I don’t plan on smoking any of it. Not even a little bit of it. Honestly. I’m not going to smoke the meth you are totally buying for me. The next three should be weapons, because they would have helped a lot when I spent those couple years in prison for possession of crystal meth. After that, books mostly. What do you mean that’s twelve or more presents?! Cheapskate. We’re not friends anymore, and I hope you cry yourself to sleep thinking about how you’ll never meet my uncle, the clown, who is almost certain to show up in my apartment on Monday whether I want him to or not, rain or shine, party or no party. Don’t’ worry about running into me at the office—I was fired six months ago. I don’t care if your name isn’t Ellen.
They say there’s no such thing as the perfect crime. Then tell me- how did I manage to kill your father and make it look like a simple case of death by gay AIDS? Okay, let me back up. Your dad’s dead. I should have lead with that. You’re probably wondering how I did it. Well, it wasn’t easy. First I broke into your house while he was out so I could lie in wait. The door was locked so I had to smash in your bedroom window. While I was in there I knocked over all those dominoes you had been setting up in the shape of a larger domino. Then I moved into the kitchen where I discovered the door was unlocked. Sorry about the window. While I waited I ate all of your microwavable pizzas. They were awful. Next time spring for Digorno. I noticed you labeled all your food in the cabinets. What are you, an asshole? I’m glad your dad got murdered. I threw out all your Yogurt. Yogurt is gross.
6:15 am - Barack woke me up with a vigorous nut scratching. Apparently being president doesn’t leave much time for manscaping. I feel like I’m constantly engulfed in sweaty hay. 6:20 am - Barack carelessly dropped his soapon-a-rope, striking me in the face. Really woke me up. The last time I heard Barack scream like that was when he found the upper decker George W. left in the presidential toilet. 6:30 am - Crammed into tightie-whities and suit pants. Why doesn’t he ever wear basketball shorts to work? 7:17 am - Me and Barack saw the new intern girl. She was DTF but thoughts of Michelle’s bitchy vagina quickly subdued us. Noon - The rest of the morning was pretty uneventful. Michelle and her vagina are on their period so me and Barack have been dodging them all day. They get so horny but Barack promised me he wouldn’t put me in there ever again. Remember that scene in Carrie when the bucket of blood fell on her? Yea, not a good look for me. Barack had a burrito for lunch, I had a filet mignon. 12:30 pm - Me and Barack’s butthole got into an argument about foreign policy. “China this, defense spending that.” Fuck that guy.
I waited for your father to come home, hiding in his closet. It had to look like an accident so I only shot him twice, once in the face and once in the penis for good measure. He never saw it coming. The next step was the most important if my plan was to work. I injected him with gay AIDS. So by now you’re wondering why I did it. Well to be honest with you son, you’ve been a real disappointment lately. You needed to learn a hard lesson, so I killed your dad. I hope you appreciate how hard it was to do that because I loved him very much. Now maybe you’ll think twice next time you break a window in this house. I mean it was right in your bedroom and you didn’t even try and clean it up. I thought you would have learned your lesson after you ate all those microwavable pizzas and I ran over your dog as punishment. Oh! That’s what I meant to tell you. Mr. Wiggles is dead. It looks like an open and shut case of gay AIDS. He’s out in the driveway under the car.
1:13 pm - Took a pretty vicious puke and caught Biden staring at me from the adjacent urinal. Biden’s cock was all “Sorry bro” . Neither of them washed their hands.
2:11 pm - Me and Barack watched some porn in the oval office. Just when we were getting past the exposition, Michelle burst in. Something about missle testing in North Korea or organic farming. Can’t remember. We had to run through a secret tunel she doesn’t know about. 4:30 pm - Barack had an important meeting with key members of Senate so butthole thought it was an approriate time to tell me which were his favorite Zeppelin records. Seriously, fuck that guy. 7:00 pm - Dinner. Barack had a NY strip, I had lobster. 9:37 pm - Barack found a note from Michelle’s vagina. It said “SOON” written in blood. 11 pm-Midnight - Me and Barack watched the daily show and the colbert report. I laughed until by glands hurt. 12:04 am - Barack retired to the Lincoln bedroom to hide from Michele. I smell blood in the air. 3:23 am - If anyone’s reading this, for the love of God help me. GLUAHAGHUUAUU
Accidentally a racist at a party. No one notices.
Your ex-girlfriend posted a picture of herself on Facebook. She appears to be happy.
e. W al k
am Go forward two spaces. Eventually...
When I first told you I’d titty-slap you if you ever cheated on me, you thought I was dirty-talking. You were secretly patting yourself on the back for finally finding a feisty chick who won’t fuck you just to get back at her dad for getting her the wrong shade of convertible. You had it made, but you just had to go out there and empty your pipes in that PR major’s bony ass. I’d recognize your orgasm grimace anywhere; why do you think I always suggested doggy style? She was faking it, too, just in case you couldn’t tell after that minute-and-thirty secondsexcuse for a fuck. Next time, you might want to lock the door when you’re trying to bone randoms in my dorm room; do yourself a favor and also check the closet.
That same day you wanted my titties too. You tried to finagle your crooked nose in between them, sniff their tittie aroma, and that’s when I trapped you. I smacked my right tittie hard against your temple, and watched your eyes shut in pain as they left a shameful, pink blob of a mark on your face. Your eyes were transfixed on mine. It hurt you but you got hard, you godforsaken tool. I smacked your other temple with my left tittie, and smiled as you tried to escape the viegrips of my cleavage. I did it because I care too much. I care too much about your skinny philandering ass to let you fuck vapid bitches before noon. It’s why I also stuck my finger in your stupid blurry eye. You called me a “crazy bitch” but it was
muffled and it amused me. That is when I took your face out of my pale bosom and looked into your eyes. “You could have at least fucked a business major. Networking! Networking, you dumbfuck,” I said, and I tittie-punched you. Don’t get me wrong, I was new to the tittie fighting, but by that point it felt natural, and dare I say, empowering. I kept doing it, my tittie in my hand like a weapon, its softness deceptive and its impact dermatologically shattering. I was Michelangelo (not the artist, the Ninja Turtle), and you a cheating accounting major who occasionally liked a finger up the butthole. Cowabunga, fuckhead.
America is the greatest country on Earth. People seem to forget that though, and people even seem to forget this great nation’s history of kicking ass and taking names. On my travels, my friend Aaron and I stopped in Boston to visit a friend attending Emerson College, which yes, it’s the exact amount of gay you’d expect. It being my first time in one of the oldest cities, we decided to walk the six mile “Freedom Trail.” It is a brick trail that winds all over and around the “City of Brotherly Love,” (gay) leading to major stopping points of historical significance of the Revolutionary War and the founding of our country. So I filled my Russian flask with Tennessee whisky, a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes and hit the trail. It started in the Boston Common, the location of the capital building. The second stop was the Declaration of Independence signer’s tomb, John Hancock, which was shaped like a giant phallic. There was no getting around it, it was shaped like a giant, erect penis. Like with a shaft and tip and everything. Because let’s face it, his name wasn’t John han-COCK for nothing I suppose. He was also buried next to his favorite man-servan. No comment. After Aaron tried to check into the cemetery on 4 Square, we found the bar “The 21st
Amendment,” which is the second coolest bar name I’ve ever heard. Stop #2 was Paul Revere’s house, one of the first preserved houses, and oldest house in Boston I’ve ever clandestinely vomitted in. You might have heard about him in the biographical song by hip-hop group, The Beastie Boys, eponymously named for his famous ride warning of the British to fight for their right to party. A few swigs later, we found ourselves at the Old North Church, where two lanterns were hung in the window to alert the militia about the British. I asked around an couldn’t find any sign of the Liberty Bell, and no one was able to give me a straight answer, I guess they were fixing the cracks it had at the time. A few miles and drinks later, we stumbled upon Bunker Hill. It was one of the turning points in the war, a valiant stand for America. We took a moment of silence and poured some whisky out for our fallen homies…into our mouths. The final stop was the oldest wooden ship still in commission of the U.S. Navy. We had to hide our flasks in a bush so the Navy didn’t arrest us going through the metal detectors. After boarding the old, old, wooden ship, Diversity I believe it was called (super gay), we walked around imagining being stuck on this
cramped boat for months at a time, in an age before iPads, or internet porn. Across the bay was an actual U.S. World War Two Destroyer that was involved in Pearl Harbor. After walking on, we promptly decided we were way too drunk to be on a battle ship, after yelling out “B-6! YOU SUNK MY SUBMARINE, ASSHOLE!” and getting glares. We decided to call it a day and head back to the common, where the Emerson dorms were located and our journey began. It was a very patriotic day, full of history and booze, just as our founding fathers would have wanted: freedom to drink belligerently in public and not care. It’s important to remember our past and history. People lost a lot of things in the war, and so did we. I fell and lost my pack of Lucky Strikes. For America. The next morning while nursing a hangover, dehydrated and with a throbbing headache, I looked out onto the Boston Common at the I started to sing to myself the national anthem, but kept forgetting the words and getting them confused with Titus Andronicus lyrics so I eventually stopped, but that day I truly felt one with the spirit of America.
Nonsense : Still For Dummies
Robert Palmer: Addicted to Love It’s tough being Robert Palmer. This is not to say I haven’t enjoyed a successful career, with worldwide tours and many hit singles. I still love turning on a classic rock radio station and hearing my songs get played alongside the Eagles and the Rolling Stones. But, I have a serious problem. You probably remember my song, “Bad Case of Loving You,” my second biggest hit. That song wasn’t a poetic ode to a lovely nurse who I fell in love with after she sweetly told me I was using my bedpan incorrectly. It was a cry for help. You see, there was one point in time where I had an awful fetish: I was sexually attracted to doctors. All doctors, no matter what age, gender, race, or religious affiliation. Sometimes I would watch just the first five minutes of slutty nurse porn, before they would disrobe. I’ve even watched episodes of M*A*S*H, imagining myself having a threesome with Hawkeye and Hot Lips. I’m on a USO tour there. Winchester tries to get in but I cockblock him out. Right as we finish, Radar comes in yelling about more wounded, and as
they operate, I sing “Bad Case of Loving You” to Col. Potter, whom I have sex with afterwards. What I’m trying to say is that I’ve had a lot of time to think about this. I remember my first encounter with a doctor quite vividly. When I hit puberty at age nineteen, I drove myself to my yearly physical. It went on as physicals do, until the doctor, Dr. Stanley Demond, told me to turn my head and cough. When he was feeling around down there, he gave the middle one a little tickle. Whether it was intentional or not, I’ll never know, but it caused my Little Richard to shoot up faster than Janis Joplin in Cambodia. The only thing the doctor said was “Wow,” but I was never the same. I tried to sign up for another physical, but I couldn’t, so I started watching Dr. Demond from my car. After four days he saw me, and winked. He invited me to follow him home. Our night started with reruns of General Hospital and glasses of red wine and roofies. We decided to retire to the bedroom, but never made it there, as we found ourselves sprawled out on the
The original cover for the ‘Addicted to Love’ single, which portrayed Palmer in “explicit dress”.
kitchen floor. As our hands fell lower and lower, he flipped me over and whispered in my ear, “I may specialize in pediatric care, but tonight I’ll be your gynecologist.” I lay there on the floor, thinking about life while being colonoscopized for an astonishing seven hours and fifteen minutes. When I got home that night, my dad asked me why I was out so late. I smiled, and said, “car crash.” But the next day, my sexy back was in a lot of pain, which I attributed to my recent car crash. So I went to see a chiropractor. She fixed the crink in my back, and the new one in my pants. But, Dr. Demond soon found out about my new love, and, let’s just say I was no longer a patient of his. He was really a bad teacher of love. This left me wandering the streets, questioning my life and sexuality. I went to three different doctors about my problem, but after too many games of Sexy Operation, Hide-and-go-Stethoscope, and the Human Centipede, my problem only got worse. My fetish got so strong that I couldn’t even listen to songs about doctors. My song, “Bad Case of Loving You,” was a warning to my fans. No one picked up on it, so it became a warning to myself. I found my rehab in the form of Dr. Brianna Neusmith, a neurologist who has a fetish for pop singers who write warning signs to themselves about their own fetishes. We were happily married, and still are. I have since started a social network based on the friends with benefits system. It’s fetishfuckme.gov. At first it was only open to people with my fetish, but since no one signed up, I opened it to all fetishists. I’m the alpha dog, or “love guru” on the site. I occasionally succumb to my fetish again, but I’ve walked in on my wife with Annie Lennox, whose song “Sweet Dreams” was also a missed cry. We both know that Brianna can still make my black snake moan any day of the week. I’m just glad I can perform “Bad Case” live without having to worry what doctors are watching me. And if you think I’m a horrible person for my fetish, well then you can go cry me a river.
Boy, Steve, we sure did have some wacky fun these past couple of weeks. I mean, I always knew we were best friends, but now, more than ever, you seem like family to me. After all, who knew that me helping you drive across the country to track down the girl of your dreams would result in a grand jury convicting you of four counts of first degree murder, grand larceny, arson, drug trafficking, and jaywalking? That last one seems a little unnecessary, if you think about it, kind of like that detour to that totally crazy strip club we made. Remember when the cow came on stage? How random! I always remember the good times though. Like when we stopped for ice cream and the owner gave it to us for free because we convinced that rock band to play a fundraiser at no cost to save his shop. Or when that cop pulled us over for speeding and you shot him four times at point blank range. That was so Steve of you. I’ll admit, there were a few times when things got dark, like when you sexually assaulted that mascot at that minor league baseball game, or when we got that flat tire and neither of knew how to fix it. Good thing that car full of sorority girls that you eventually murdered came along and helped us. What a pickle! But really, who ever thought you’d end up on the receiving end of capital punishment. Not this guy right here, that’s for sure. Whenever I thought “Steve’s death” I always assumed it would be skydiving or in a glorious orgy surrounded by high class strippers, not a cocktail of Sodium thiopental, Pancuronium bromide, and Potassium chloride. Wacky, huh? Well, I’ll be sad to see you go old buddy. It’s a real shame you never got to tell Sandy how you really felt. Funny story, we’re getting married next month. Who woulda thought? Oh well, I’ll be in the witness booth when you finally bite it, LOL Text it!
Hey, Charlie Brown! How would you like to kick the ball? Ha ha!
Nonsense : Still For Dummies
If I had legs, I would kick your butt!
Being a college student with multiple personality disorder has its ups and downs, as well as its ups and downs. Luckily, all five of my personas got into the same university. It’s a bitch that my parents, and my parents, have to pay $175,000 to send me to college every year, but having a whole suite on campus to myselves is nice. I think next year, I might move into a house, but only four people are allowed to live there at once, so I might have to dorm too. You’d think scheduling classes would be tough, but it’s not really. There’s five of us, but four of them are majoring in English. The fifth persona is a music performance major, which is weird, because I don’t know how to play any instruments. Occasionally I’m the star tenor sax player but usually, I just sit in the back and do crossword puzzles. They’re not too hard, because I wrote them beforehand, so I should be able to figure out the answers. Anyways, I’m sitting in my class right now, along with two of myself, writing this biography and autobiography. I’m worried, because I don’t know how to write very well, I’m a music performance major.
I should tell you a little more about myselves. It was tough growing up with four brothers, especially considering one of them was always playing the saxophone. Our other sibling, a younger brother, always stared at us like we had six heads. It wasn’t bad, though, I always had more than enough food. My parents always made dinner for at least two, in case I were to switch personas mid-meal and get hungry again. High school was a pain. I was always absent from at least three classes at once. And those three girls I dated didn’t like it when they found out about each other. I scheduled a triple date, and I was the only guy who showed up. I don’t think they ever quite understood the multiplepersonality disorder thing. I think that experience is what made me switch sides originally. The most traumatic experience of my life was definitely that time I got shot. It hurt, emotionally, to see my brother get shot, and it hurt to get shot, too. I won’t get into the details, but one of me was getting into some drug use. It wasn’t me, I would never do that stuff. But one of myself was getting into some coke in high school. I’ll never forgive myself for
what I did to me. The pain I had to endure, and the pain I had to watch myself go through, was unbearable. Have you ever gotten shot? Imagine it five times worse. I’m just glad my brother is okay now. I don’t know what would’ve happened if he wasn’t. I’m telling you all of this because I have a date tonight, and I think this girl’s really special. But, I get nervous on dates, because of my condition. I never know if and when my persona will change. And I really it hope it never falls on my brother, because he’s homosexual, but don’t tell anyone. I had an awkward experience when my persona changed, and suddenly I was balls deep in a kid from bio lab. I never know what to talk about that isn’t my disorder. Should I tell her about the time I got shot and my brothers made me go to rehab? What about the time I reenacted Hamlet with all of my personas that I filmed but never put on Youtube because the sound was broken? All of my stories involve my disorder. We can talk about classes, surely, but she’s a marketing major, so that can only go so far. Or maybe I’ll just serenade her with some saxophone.
As the only living person who can claim American citizenship, John Cena plays an important role in most if not some of our lives. Unfortunely, much as we fantasize about being a wrestler and rapper who also developed BetaMax technology and casually stargazes, none of all of us can be John Cena. In fact, John Cena is perhaps the last John Cena we, the non-American public, can claim legal dependancy over. The sheer paucity of John Cenas on this bleak, violent speck of cosmic dust is enough to make any man except John Cena cry, but it doesn’t mean you should. Crying is for wimps and leads to dehydration. Instead, Nonsense presents here, a list of people and things who are John Cena in their own way: • Brendan Frazier • Henry Rollins • 9/11 First-Responders • Dogs wearing plastic army helmets • A full moon • Lady Gaga • Jean Renoir • A mug of pistachio shells • The Pacific Ocean • Gold • Billy Crystal’s crystals • Not Oscar Wilde • Salt
• The Libretto from Cats, the musical • Nature spirits • A jean jacket worn by a man with high-functioning autistm eating alone in a Cracker Barrel • Wicked sweet kickflips • Books about China • Microbreweries • Levar Burton • Action figures • NASA • James Gandolfini • ...and each of you, if you believe!
I spent the 84th annual Academy Awards like I have with the awards show for the past 20 years, with a bucket of popcorn shrimp and wearing my best Nehru jacket, which I felt necessary to mention because it says a lot about me as a person. I’m sure you’ve already also guessed that I run a small school in Utah that certifies travel agents, so I’ll leave that part out. Watching the Oscars is a very important yearly ritual to me, so I think it’s very pertinent to also tell you that I never watch the Oscars. Instead, I spend the day with a marathon of my favorite TV show, Touched By An Angel. You see, Touched By An Angel is, in my opinion and most likely yours, the greatest show to grace the airwaves. To say that Monica, like any other super fans (“The Touched”) would say, changed my life, well, would be a severe understatement. But we’re not here to talk about Touched By An Angel, now are we? No, I’m here to
buy a used car, and you’re here to sell me a used car. No, that one won’t do, not in the slightest. Why? because it’s blue, and everyone knows that blue is the devil’s color. They tell us it’s red, but that’s only to trick us, like fossils. Or horses. If you think you’re going to sell me a blue car, then you have another thing coming. Remove it from my sight. Oh, it has to stay there? Well that makes sense. What is that hideous thing? No, not the Hyundai, that little person over there. My god, what a terrible looking midget. Now, I’m no racist, but midgets really get on my nerves. They come over here on their boats and the next thing you know *Poof*, all the dry cleaning jobs are gone. Wonderful dry cleaners they are, but at what cost? I say we ship them all back from where they came from, which if I had to guess would probably be somewhere like Ohio. Ohio seems to produce a
substantial amount of little people, don’t they? Poor things, if it wasn’t for Rock N’ Roll, they’d be of a healthy stature. I’d like to give Ann Carpenter a piece of my mind. Ah, now there’s a car I can see myself in. Yes, the reflection on this one is absolutely perfect. It will be like driving a mirror, if mirrors had four wheels, a combustion engine, and a place for 4 to 5 passengers to sit comfortably. Is it good on fuel? Not that it matters. I plan on attaching to very large and powerful magnets on the hood and roof opposing each other, so the one pulls the other forward. You’d be surprised the things you learn to become a travel agent. I also see no need to test drive it, as tests were also put here to trick us. Like the radio. Or salt water. What are you still doing here? I’m trying to watch the Oscars. This is the episode where God makes Valerie Bertinelli a new angel for Monica to train.
Dr. Gustav von Rodriguez, a prominent Dutch surgeon, biologist, intelligent designer and illusionist, came to a startling realization not too long ago, prompting fellow scientists and media representatives to swarm to his laboratory in Flint, Michigan. Inside his lab, which was filled with chalkboards and beakers with steaming red liquid, Rodriguez announced to the group (of almost entirely men): “Everything we know about science is wrong. It is my belief, that everything we have known about science, through history, breakthroughs and discoveries, has been misunderstood. We have wrong about it all.” Reporters, in disbelief, asked just how much we had wrong. Rodriguez verified; Everything. He started by describing that the air is actually gravity, holding us down. Clouds, he continued, are just puffs of smoke from unknown fires, he said while throwing a copy of Darwin’s On the Origin of Species
in the trash. And the sun, he claims, is actually only roughly fifteen miles away or so. We’ve never realized this before because, Rodriguez says, “we’ve never flown that direction.” Furthermore, “Space isn’t all that big. We could probably travel through all of it in a year or two, if we wanted to.” From here, Dr. Rodriguez moved to his chalkboard, where he showed a diagram of how bushes are descendants of dinosaurs, and humans are descendants of bushes. Trees, he said, are actually the reformed remains of deceased humans, and they do not age, but their size is based on how important the person was. When asked about evolution, Rodriguez laughed and said that humans have actually only been around since approximately the American Civil Warera. Rodriguez joked that “the Earth still isn’t flat,” but is rather “cubeish.” We revolve
around the moon, and the moon does not control the oceans. Oceans, according to Rodriguez, are sentient beings with evil attitudes. “They hate humans. That’s why they’re always claiming human lives. Waves are the oceans trying to move, so they can take more humans, but because they’re so large, they can’t garner enough energy to actually do so. When we sit on the beach, we’re really just tempting them” he said, while pouring red liquid back and forth between beakers for no reason. “This is where the term wave comes from, I believe. Civil War-era bushmen misinterpreted the ocean’s attempt at motion as it saying hello.” Rodriguez began to usher people out of his lab, but allowed for one last question on the existence of aliens. “Nope,” he said, “still no idea.”
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