Wet Hot American Nonsense

Issue 173

September 2018

Table of Contents Cover - Beth Foster

Staff Editor-in-Chief Ashley “Pajama Mama” Vernola

Page 4 - Dear Summer by Lizzie Frank

Managing Editor A “Sunglass Emoji” Real Eel

Page 5 - Editorial by Ashley Vernola Page 6 - Faking Your Death by Robert Kinnaird Page 7 - Art by Peter Soucy - Comic by Victoria Jenkins Page 8 - I’m Gonna Bust into Jesus Camp to Find Out Where They’re Holding Him by Veronica Toone - Summer Tampons by Lizzie Frank Page 9 - Deflowering Rachel by Anna Galperin Page 10 - Point/Counter-point by Jordan Hopkins and Veronica Toone

Head Writer Jordan “Hop-scotch-kins” Hopkins Treasurer Peter “Barbeque Saucy” Soucy Design Directors Sam “Grillin’ Up Them” Riebs Mark “Munchin” Melchin Art Director Victoria “Original Sin” Jenkins Social Media Manager Anna “Big Gulp” Galperin

Page 11 - Art by Beth Foster Page 12 - Letters From Camp by Peter Soucy - Art by Lizzie Frank Page 13 - The Day My Brother Returned to the Sea by Brynne Levine - Outdoor Adventures by William Faber Page 14 - Hotboxing Hometown by Lizzie Frank

We(e)b Team Beth “Phish” Foster Rosario “Surf and also as well as in addition to Turf ” Navalta James “Reel Big Fish” Factora Video Team Ben “Oh! That’s a Baseball” Fletcher Spencer “Road Trippin’” Thurmond

Page 15 - Obituaries

Faculty Advisor Amy “Talk Soon” Karofsky

Back Cover - Beth Foster

Moral Support Natahn “Sweet Baby Ray’s” Elliott Disclaimer: Nonsense Humor Magazine is Hofstra’s only intentionally semi-humorous magazine.

Taking advice from us is not recommended as none of us know how to start a fire, cook, swim, read, or write. The views expressed in this magazine most likely don’t represent the views of Hofstra University, or any other summer camp. Any likenesses to people, counselors, fish, Phish, capitalists, lifeguards, or other publications are purely coincidental. Nonsense Humor Magazine is not responsible for any sunburns, cuts, scrapes, bruises, abrasions, nostalgia, emotional crises, angst, or Capri-Sun pouch disrespect-related incidents you may experience.

Staff Writers Jordan “Hop-scotch-kins” Hopkins Ben “Oh! That’s a Baseball” Fletcher Peter “Barbeque Saucy” Soucy Veronica “The Piano Man” Toone

Staff Artists Victoria “Original Sin” Jenkins Beth “Phish” Foster Emily “Heart in the Sand” Hart

Dear Summer Advice Column

Contributors William “The Russell” Russell “Brussel” Faber Lizzie “Slappin’ Franks on the Grill” Frank Robert “Is Gwen Stefani Ska?” Kinnaird Brynne “Rock the Dwayne Johnson” Levine

I Recreated Back to the Future But with the Intention to Bone My Mom (Page 46) 26 Wendy’s in Upper Middle Westish Manhattan I’m Still Not Allowed Into (Page 68)

by Lizzie Frank

Dear Summer, I went to fifth base on the shoreline of Virginia Beach in July, and to make a long story short, what’s your best method for getting about a gallon worth of sand out of my colon?

-Sincerely, Sand in My Asshole Hi Sand in My Asshole, sounds like you’ve got quite the little predicament on your hands! Not to worry, I have a tried and true recipe for this exact predicament, passed down from generations of my sorority sisters at Delta Zeta Omega Chrysanthemum Kappa Chi Alpha. First, you’ll need to buy a bottle of Pedia-Tract® Gummies for Constipated Kids. While you’re at Target, take a cute pic at the self-checkout cameras for instagram. In 6-8 hours when the Hofstra shuttle drops you off, strip nude and dig a hole in your backyard. Pour the constipation gummies into a milky bowl of high fiber cereal, pop into the microwave for 60 seconds, and then slurp that mix down like a wet slug. Crow into the hole in your yard and let your own hole release.

Wishing you the best in this difficult time.

Dear Summer, for my last 6 semesters at H*fstra, I’ve sort of been eating a lot of asparagus, if you get my drift. And by asparagus, I mean weed. Basically I’ve been smoking as much weed as possible. Also I never study and, as a rule, only go to class on Wednesdays after 1 pm and Thursdays before 6 pm. To make a long story short, I’m on the verge of flunking out of this registered arboretum in hell and moving back in with my parents (unregistered arboretum in hell) if I fail a single class this entire year. What do I do to survive?

-Sincerely, Fucking Idiot I’m so sorry to hear that, Fucking Idiot! It can be hard to stay motivated, but sometimes we should all take a moment to be thankful that we have the opportunity to pursue a higher education. You’re going to need to work hard to get your grades up! I’d recommend joining a study group, limit partying to twice a month, hold yourself accountable, stay organized, and plan rewards for going to class. If that’s not effective, try adderall. Worked for me.

Dear Summer, [REDACTED].

-Sincerely, Celery Arms

Dear Summer, I’m short.

-Sincerely, Chris

No. Other option: No, I can’t say for sure [REDACTED]. But if you ever wanna fuck, give me a call. I don’t usually do this, but my number is [REDACTED]. I look forward to your acquisition. Good luck!

Rough.

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Dear Summer, since the start of break my friends have all been posting a million pictures of their vacations to Milan, Thailand, Detroit, etc. I spent the break watching Adult Swim in my basement and jacking off into (mostly) empty mountain dew bottles. What can I do to still seem cool?

-Sincerely, Insecure About Myself

Meet the Ghosts Haunting Your Building in the Fall 2018 Semester (Page Ω)

Reader, this question reminds me perfectly of the January I spent in Prague on a foreign exchange trip. The whole time I was like, “oh no, what are my friends going to think about this?” But then I realized, I simply can’t fixate on that. So instead I went around touring ancient ruins and eating exotic foods and I went swimming in the heated pools of a volcano and had conversations with strangers on the street in Czech. It just totally made me more worldly and knowledgeable and taught me so many once-in-a-lifetime life lessons that I couldn’t find anywhere else. Anyway, photoshop yourself onto a picture of Rio de Janeiro and put that up in your room.

Dear Summer, I lost 50 pounds on Nutrasystem!

-Sincerely, Questions only please.

Dear Summer, how do I make my girlfriend wet and hot?

-Sincerely, Men Touche.

Some questions have been edited for grammar or spelling, or because we just didn’t like what they said before.

Nicknames from our asks are created by the magazine staff For the last time, you may not sue the magazine for defamation of character. Suck it up, whiny shits.

Dear Mom and Dad,

Editorial

to make this magazine something great.

Hooooooooly moly, what’s good!!! I really have to thank my team Welcome to a new year of Nonthis summer. My life has been a sense and to our first issue of the mess of emotions and changes year! For those of you who havin 2018. I’m always thankful for en’t read my editorials before, or changes, but sometimes it’s very realistically, who honestly aren’t hard not to get yourself caught up fucking reading them now (I see in them, and I’ve often had a hard you), get ready for me to give you time dealing with it. Even when I a somewhat sentimental look at have dropped the ball, even when what we’ve been doing.

I have lacked, the team has made So, first of all, welcome to Wet up for it. I cannot thank them Hot American Nonsense. As you more for being as dedicated and can tell, we love original titles, but passionate as they are, so thank let me tell YOU, these are at least you again. different than our antiquated “The Now, as for you new freshmen, we ___ Issue” format. Now, this issue hope that at Nonsense you find a is incredibly interesting because home. That’s what it was for me. of the very fact that it has nothing It was a place where people could to do with summer at all, except come and be creative. I think you for maybe a few references to the can flex creative muscles here beach and the concept of summer that you won’t otherwise and as camp. It really has a lot more to far as being ripped goes, yeah, do with finding ourselves in the you know we’re ripped creatively. world, sex, and well...dying, conReally though, I hope that this is a veniently where dreams go to die: place where you feel safe to exsummer camp. periment, to try things and see if We agreed on this very late in they don’t work, to work on your the semester in the spring, and comedy, your creative ambitions, got to work on it in early-July. and overall: yourself.

It’s been our summer project; So, if that pitch was better than it’s the one thing we’ve all come the one I gave over the summer, back to even amidst heavy work come hang with us. Come laugh schedules, depression, vacations, with us on Thursday nights as I general summer laziness, more figure out what my new favorite depression, and of course, being thing to start meetings off with anywhere across the country. This will be (And yes, that does mean is only the second time we’ve done goodbye to the world of nightcore a summer issue like this, and I still AMVs, you treated me well). And am amazed at how we can manage come be creative with us in our to get together and work together new space, Breslin 217. even from miles and miles away And well, it’s necessary to say...

This is my last year as Editor-in-Chief. Even though I just begun, it is already my last, unless Hofstra decides that they haven’t sucked enough money out of my poor body. This year is very special to me. This year allows me to train someone to be in these shoes; it’s a very daunting job, and it’s certainly not easy, but it’s important for this club to continue. So soon, I will leave it to all of you to hold this torch, and I hope that you will feel the same support from your alumnus and peers as I do. Be ready to make this club yours and I only hope that it can grow to take Hofstra by storm.

Though, for now, it’s still my turn to say, let’s fucking do this.

See you on Thursdays. Enjoy this issue. <3 Ash Editor-in-Chief

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Faking Your Death for the Summer

By Rob Kinnaird You’re going home for the summer.

Sorry about that. Three to four months of ignoring locals on tinder, reminiscing on the bad old days with friends you’re not really friends with anymore, and worst of all, hiding you crippling Adderall dependency from your parents. But still, you’re going home…

Unless you’re dead.

Of course, there’s perks to going home. You know your parents love you, but god, love is so annoying sometimes. Yes, the eggs benedicts your mom makes for you every morning are absolutely killer, but she wakes you up at an ungodly hour to eat it.

Who still wakes up at 11 am! In this economy! Its inhumane. I think they’ll survive a few months thinking their oldest kid “died” in a “fire” to get away from all that.

Mom might take it a little hard when her “wittle squiggums” has perished in an inferno the likes of which Long Island has never witnessed, so make sure she’s prepared. Spend a few months berating her in the comments section of her selfies on Facebook and ignoring her texts. Skype calls too. She’ll be grateful her asshole progeny is a pile of ash under the rubble of a poorly maintained rental house by the time you’re done with her. Maybe she can even sue since technically your basement bedroom isn’t legally a “bedroom,” but more a boiler room with a mattress on the floor. Honestly, maybe just stay

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dead. At least “the afterlife” doesn’t have a landlord that STILL hasn’t fixed the GOD DAMN leak in your ceiling and a meth lab in the bathroom.

By the way, since this is technically considered a mild case of either first or second degree arson, you should really think about that plan. Use the fact that you sleep in a boiler room to your advantage. A loose sheet gets a little to close to a pilot light and boom, arguably not your fault. A decent enough lawyer should be able to get those charges dropped like your third semester GPA. The fact that your landlord uses the closet down the hall for illegal fireworks/lit candle storage should also help the case. Celebrate your independence from life as the bombs go off.

Okay back on track. Dad’s always been the stoic type, but you swear you heard a snuffle when he was watching the miscarriage scene in Marley and Me. Eyes completely dry when the dog died though. That fucker hates dogs.

He didn’t get you that beagle for your 8th birthday because “you weren’t ready for the responsibility” or some other logical bullshit. You know what!

Maybe he deserves a dead kid!

Still, we gotta hope your dad won’t spiral into alcoholism after your “funeral.” You’ll only be gone for a few months. In the meantime, just move into the storage unit where you’re keeping the couch, mini fridge, and CRT television (all found on the side

of the road). Lay low there and keep some cold ones chilling in the fridge in case the night shift guard starts to suspect your weed smoke is from a meth lab. He may feel compelled to investigate, but rumor has it if you slide him a 20 and a six-pack he’ll let just about anything go on in there.

Oh wait, another sidebar, but make sure you have a plan with what happens to your stuff while you’re gone.

Write up a will saying no one gets anything until 6 months after your death so your little brother Garret won’t get all your rare VHSs or Legend of Zelda memorabilia. You’ll be back in time to snag those rare collectibles right out from under his grubby 4Chan twiddling fingers. That’s all Garret really cares about though so don’t worry about him. He’ll probably just tell his discord friends about it to a stream of “press f to pay respects.”

Your sister, Stacy, won’t care either.

You know she’s just gonna post a pic of you for those insta likes. No one farms sympathy like your sister. She somehow turned your great uncle’s death into 700 likes and 47 new followers.

Insanity. If you ever decide to resurface from your early grave too, she’ll probably find a way to get it going viral and then you’ll be pulling that sweet Ellen interview money you’ve always dreamed of. Its kind of a win win if I’m being honest.

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I’m Gonna Bust into Jesus Camp to Find Out Where They’re Holding Him

By Veronica Toone I like to help people.

I’ve been helping people for as long as I’ve been able to keep my head up. When I was a baby, I would hold my vomit in my mouth for hours so as to not stain Mother’s fine blouse. I hold open doors for women who don’t even thank me. People never thank me for my deeds, but I know they’re grateful anyway. After all, people love it when people help them. That’s science.

I’ve worked really hard to act so charitably toward people because I hate being bored, and I hate being social. I know what you’re thinking: “Steve, how can you be such a generous soul when you don’t like socializing?”

The answer is simple: stop thinking and let me talk. Because yesterday, I attempted the ultimate act of charity: saving a life.

Proud doesn’t begin to cover it. I am a damn mastermind.

I’m on a mission to save Jesus.

Here’s the concept: every year, just before the school year ends, a few of my suspiciously polite classmates tell their friends they’re getting ready to go to “Jesus Camp.” While

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overhearing their conversation, I managed to get the location of this so-called ‘camp’ that they’re retaining the aforementioned Jesus in.

I knew it wasn’t going to be easy, but no great plan ever is. You think Napoleon conquered Russia in a day? You think they built the Death Star while the Resistance was off taking a group shit? Things like this take time.

After I got to the camp, I told them I was a new camper and was eager to learn all about the place. I used a fake identity and a complex disguise, so no one was clued into the fact that John Catholic was not my real name. I fooled everyone. I even fooled myself. I was the biggest fool that stupid fucking camp had ever seen.

Once they let me in, I went straight for the mess hall. I had assumed the reason it is called the “Mess Hall” is because that is where they make the mess (read: torture this poor Jesus), so I hit there first. Did you think I was gonna waste a single minute while Jesus was being subjected to God-knows-what at the mercy of some straight-backed normies?

I think not. I heard a girl say that at the end of the week, they have this sick ritual where

they cut him open and drink his blood.

Just—do they just drink it right out of him or do they let him bleed into little cups, like when the doctor steals your pee from you?

I didn’t really know Jesus that well but he seemed like a really nice man with not a lot of blood left. Doesn’t a guy like that deserve to live? Have someone try to take your blood away, see how you like it!

I knew that if he wasn’t in the mess hall, I would intergrate—interrograte?—as many of those imbeciles as possible. Boy, girl, apostle, disciple,—it didn’t matter. No one was safe from my keen eye and even keener mouth.

They told me their secrets without even realizing it! “Jesus isn’t here,” they said to me.

Fools.

Now I know what you’re thinking: that there was no way I got away with this. And you’d be right. Kind of. Mostly because I couldn’t find Jesus and left that day feeling pretty empty. But I pushed my worries aside. You know why? Because this plan is fucking awesome. And because I like to help people.

Deflowering Rachel

by Anna Galperin A seventeen-year-old girl exists somewhere.

She is kind and beautiful, she is caring and kind, she is kind and sweet. She is a virgin, but not for long. This is the summer of love and lust, of cherry picking and cherry popping, the summer of...sex...or so she hopes. She is the kind of girl a boy would be proud to show to his mother, loudly proclaiming, “look Mom, we fuck!” Too bad the one she wishes would say those magical words lives two counties over. They are destined to never be together, except at camp. I am the seventeen-year-old, a crisp and clean virgin.

This was my last summer before the end of childhood. My innocence was to be lost at my first kegger, but before that in high school I was just mousy little Rachel Rabinowitz.

Except at camp, where I was Rosy Rachel the Rottweiler (because I once got hospitalized for sun poisoning and also gave very good blowjobs). As a 2 in the city and a 12 in Hancock, there was a lot to look forward to on the ride into the center of bumfuck nowhere. Last year, I didn’t even know what a rusty trombone WAS! This year, I was ready to give one. I still wanted my first time to be special though, and after talking to Allen for a whole 365 days online I knew he was the one. He wanted to study economics and finance, and he watched the Yankees and “The Office.” And he loved dogs! How unique and unironically charming! And those green eyes! I had ogled at his Facebook and Instagram pictures all year, and now I got to see him in person again. I craved to know him in a deeper, more biblical way.

The sex way, to be clear. That’s clear, right?

The first few days were filled with crafts and dreams of Allen’s cock. This camp, like many camps, was full of tiny innocent children, and for their sake I stayed both my mouth and my loins. But my romantic drive had only grown stronger. Sometimes, we would catch eyes and a fire would burn through my loins, aching for sweet release. Then it dawned on me. I am 5’1 and 100 pounds soaking wet… Allen is 6’2 and a high school athlete… how will his probably ten-inch-donger squeeze inside my tiny little tea cup?! Could my princess parts handle my prospective daddy’s prodigious ding-dong-doowop?

This princess forgot to consider the logistics and the geometry of the situation. I had always strayed from even getting finger-banged, and now I had set myself up for an E.R. visit because the most perfect boy on Planet Earth was sooooo well endowed. How would I

recover? Ima and Abba would be so proud of me, just like Yahweh, but I’d need to go home and into intensive physical rehabilitation immediately after. What a waste of a summer that would be. And what if I’d never be able to have sex again?! How am I to be the vessel for the remainder of the Jewish race then?! How will I fulfill my role as a Jewish woman?!

That night, Allen texted me a beautiful word - ‘hey,’ followed by three lovely letters: ‘wyd.’

And I was infatuated yet again. I needed him to rip my body open and eat me like a Jeffrey Dahmer full course meal. Mmm.

The next day, Allen touched me for the first time. All the first year counselors were playing spin the bottle, and as if through an act of G-d, it landed on us! I was ready to skip the smooch entirely and give his weendog a little kiss from this Rottweiler’s mouth. I threw my tiny body onto him and...

Our mouths collided! His tongue weaseled into my mouth and my tongue slithered into his. Saliva was dripping down our chins. Like a lot. It looked like we had both gone swimming but it didn’t matter. We licked each other’s teeth, and I felt his massive boongalong become even more massive. So massive. What the fuck. I have held and sucked on many a pingpong in my tenure as a camper, but never something of such insane dimensions. I put my fingers to it and it pulsed…and I backed away. I stared at that package in shock as everyone at the bonfire clapped their hands.

My friend Liz leaned over to me when I sat back down and said, “Rachel he is so large, you should keep your chummy unmanicured hands off of him for your own sake.” The other counselors nodded their heads in unison.

Their warning threw me, but I couldn’t resist!

Later that night we met again and in our journey for sexual horniness, finally derobed. He dropped his shorts and there it was. A shiny, beautiful, pulsating...fake electronic penis.

Excuse me?

“Uhh...what’s that?” I asked, definitely not prepared for this curveball life had thrown me. Allen’s doughy face fell.

“I pack up… I thought you’d get it” “…”

“I have a micropenis…you’re so kind and beautiful, caring and kind, kind and sweet, I thought you’d be cool with this. Also, it’s really small which is good for you. Because you’re small. And anyway, it’s not the size of the boat, it’s the motion of the ocean, you know?”

I stood in silence, processing the sheer teeny tininess of that mini-peeper. I was not swayed, although I was a little less turned on. We had sex, I guess… my hymen didn’t break that night, but boy did it with Elan about six days later. He was a year two counselor, comp sci, poli sci, psy sci triple major at Penn, 5’6, a pianist, and had a wang as big as Allen’s fake one.

It did turn out to be the summer of sex: 69ing, doggy styling, swashbuckling, back handspring hockey putting, and rusty tromboning.

And I still can’t even play the trombone!

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Point

I don’t like to speak out of turn. I like to think that I was raised in the days where if you didn’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all. But I’m going to tell you something I promised I would save for the “Dear Abby” column and Bingo Night: I hate my grandson.

I hate the little fuck so much sometimes I wonder what my daughter could have possibly done wrong. My God, he grew into such a horror.

Every summer, since when he was in middle school, he’s been comin’ down here and telling me all the stupid shit he’d got his mitts in that year. He told me he’s gonna vote for Jill Steain in 2020. Now, I don’t vote because I don’t think voting in America does anything anymore, but Lord knows I had to restrain myself from telling the shit that he’s not even gonna be old enough to make such an awful decision. Dumb ass.

He’s been bringing his Xbox down for the past several years or so, and I hear him until the wee hours of the morning howling about how

I Hate My Grandson

By Veronica Toone

memes are going to take over the world. I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about, but it seems like the beginnings of an Internet dependency. He makes me hate the Internet. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for the new generation embracing whatever technology they see fit, but the little dick is off scrolling or troll-loling or minecrafting or whatever, 23/7. Why 23/7?

Because he uses that other hour to whine and eat my homemade vegan cookies without so much as a fucking thank you.

The little bastard thinks he’s funny.

And look, I get you need to be patient with kids. I do. And I also know he’s at the age where he’s going to say stupid things without any regards to his reputation or, really, with any cognizance whatsoever. My Pacifist nature forbids me do physical harm to anyone, especially my grandson. But I give up. No more. Now he’s gonna see the demons that Grandma’s had to fight all these years. Am I worried I might be developing a savior complex? Maybe. But something needs to be done. This time, he’s coming with me down to the orphanage where

Counterpoint

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Listen, I’m a pretty reasonable guy when it comes to family visits, especially for a fourteen year old. I go to all the christenings, I eat the gross easter mint jizz, I even held my shitty second cousin’s shitty kid for like fifteen whole minutes while his mom dipped out to eat a few percs in the bathroom. In terms of familial engagement, I kick ass for my demographic. I’m an overachiever.

But when it comes to the infamous “Summer visit to Grandma’s”, I’ve had enough.

She’s a nutcase.

And I tried to cut her some slack. When my Grandpa Jimmy passed a few years ago, she seemed pretty distraught. I was all six pallbearers at the funeral, and she was pretty impressed by that. But it seemed to push her off the edge, at least politically.

She showed up to the reception in a Che Guavara tee, and it was pretty much all downhill from there. She doesn’t give me a second of peace, always bombarding me with DemSoc controversies and Leftbook conspiracies about Sean Hannity and Hillary Clinton fucking repeatedly. I’ve done my best to keep up, but nothing I ever

say seems to please her. I said that Bernie could never have won even with widespread democratic support, so she changed my nickname in our Facebook groupchat to ‘Killary’. She moderates a Tankie Pride group with 38,000 members on Facebook, but complains that I’m “too online” when I check twitter twice while I clean the dishes. I spent six hours last week memorizing the wikipedia page for Al Gore, but she just made fun of me for “being on the goddamn tricorder all the time’. I may be on the tricorder grandma, but it’s certainly better than being on Social Security. God, I better get that fucking inheritance or I’m going to have a coronary right there in the lawyer’s office. Fuck Obamacare, if we were free market capitalists this would have been over like a month ago. You know she asked me to go and throw apples at cars yesterday? Who does that? This isn’t some country lane either, she lives directly in the middle of a six-lane highway. When I said no she went outside to do it herself and caused a nine-car pile up. Not calling the cops on her was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I’ve had enough.

I volunteer to see how the other half really lives.

He’s coming to the firehouse, the food pantry, and the site of the new elementary school I’m helping build.

I had hoped that there was just a bit more good in the little troglodyte, but apparently Grandma’s still kinda fucked up from her Jefferson Airplane days. Things used to be swell. We used to do breathing exercises and throw apples at cars—I really thought his third eye was going to open. I even made him a special star chart for him to hang up in his room. But the little shit would rather put Yakity Sax over videos of 9/11.

Fine.

I’ve tried being nice.Last year, I offered to take him to a play. Do you know what he said to me?

“Plays are for cucks.” I don’t think he knows what that word means. My daughter’s vagina didn’t deserve to push this gremlin out of it.

I’m taking matters into my own hands, this time. So get ready, you little beast.

‘Cause Grandma’s not fucking around.

I Hate My Grandmother

by Jordan Hopkins

It’s not getting any better, either. She’s tripping acid like, all the time now, and she won’t stop talking about Jefferson Airplane and baking vegan cookies at a ferocious pace. I’m strung out. I don’t even know what a third eye is, but I feel like having it opened would probably hurt.

We’ve been here for six weeks while my mom cools down from the divorce, and all they do is binge drink and yell at me for watching Lets Plays at 11:00 at night while screaming about the old days of FDR, ‘a real American socialist’. It’s a hostile living environment, honestly. I desperately want to stay on her good side, but even I have my brown-nosing limits. Is there some way I can tell her that Stalin actually was a cis man without causing a generational rift that definitely won’t heal before the Parkinson’s sets in? I need to know for sure that I’m locked into that will before I start listening to El Chapo, or slinging coleslaw at the local firefighters picnic. Geez, you put Yakity Sax over one 9/11 video and this is how they treat you. Maybe I should just vote for Jill Stein in 2020.

HEâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S RIGHT HERE!

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Letters from Camp

By Peter Soucy

June 5, 2018 June 2, 2018 Hello Mother and Father, Thanks for the condoms. You were right. They are much more comfortable than scotch taping my peepee hole. Camp other wise is going swimmingly. We’re tenting, making fires, kayaking, har vesting pseudoephedrine from cold medicine tablets, and eating boogers! I also broke a chair and now the counselors won’t let me shower, but it’s okay!

Love you, Joshy

June 15, 2018

Dearest Joshua, It was lovely receiving your letter the other day.

Glad to know you’re having a lot of safe camp sex. I regret to tell you that your mother and I have had a fight about the social implications of father-son mouth kissing, and now she’s out in Italy somewhere with your rifle instructor, the one with the 21.5inch finger. I’m upset, young one. I ate a whole stick of butter rolled in orange Tic-Tacs. I’m going to try and win her back, so you might not hear from me for a while. I’m also wiring you 13 million dollars, and I need you to not lose your debit card under any circumstances.

All my love, Father

June 9, 2018 Father, My tears for you and mother fall swiftly, and I wish you well on your trip. This news comes at an inconvenient time for me. All the trees turned out to be a paramilitary group in disguise and they started all-out guerrilla warfare with my counselors. They keep yelling things like, “bonjour parmigiana,” or “auf wiedersehen tamales,” or “Sushi compadre“ or “we are Seal Team 6 and we are here to save these kids from working as slaves for you meth dealers.” I can’t make sense of any of it!

I’m scared, papa! Also, head counselor Joni took my debit card after the “Breaking of Our Left Hands Ceremony,” but I’ll find it!

I hope my falcon finds you well, Joshy

My darling starry-eyed son,

June 21, 2018

Your falcon flew right into my private plane’s engine and we crashed landed on an island filled with pens and paper and bottles. Everything on the plane burned, but your letter floated down from the air unscathed and gave me a little kiss. I now use it to cover my peepee from the perverse sun. Read this carefully: I need you to get your debit card back from your counselor at any cost. Prove your worth as my son that platonically kisses me on the lips. It’s okay! Tom Brady and his son do it! Get that debit card and get me off this island!

Delectable Father,

July 3, 2018

I’ve killed. I killed someone dead. I ate her kidney. It was Joni, Father. Big, bald, Joni. She came at me with a bottle of water and a violent looking sandwich, so I gutted her with a sharp crayon and ate her kidney. Raw. There was no choice father. There is no other food. There was a terrible explosion. The science lab. All that red phosphorus we did experiments with. The paramilitary group took one shot at the lab and everyone exploded except for Joni and the other kids. The kids have taken the mess hall for themselves, and then they sent Joni to try and kill me!

But I showed them.

Good news though, father. I found my debit card and melted it onto my forehead for safe keeping.

Zip zip,

I hope that Joshy gets my message in a bottle, Father

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XOXO, Joshy

Where is my tan son? Where is the water? Pieces of tiny spiders all strung up on thread hang from my hut. I need a hero. I need my wife. Wilson!

The sun likes to dance on my little butt with his warm feet.

It’s so hot, Father

The Day My Brother Returned to the Sea

by Brynne Levine The ocean is full of vagueness and ambiguity, a myriad of mysteries even a good detective could not solve. For example, it is incalculably large and also very big. How? There is so much we don’t know about it, so much we will never discover in our brief and above-sea-level lifetimes.

However, there is one thing I am certain about regarding the ocean, one absolute definite, beyond any shadow of a doubt.

My brother is there. He resides somewhere deep within its depths, somewhere untraceable and perhaps unreal. For one day, that sweet, young boy I thought I knew, returned to his home and hasn’t been seen ever since.

Come back to us, Bengaldy.

Even in my old, graying age I can remember the instance as if it were only yesterday; the day a small, young lad disappeared for what seems like forever. We were standing on the shoreline, side by side, looking out at the ocean. It was then that he turned his head 540 degrees to face me, his body still forward.

eat food off of the floor and oh how mother would scream. If God had given us more time together, imagine the foods he’d have been able to eat upon polished, hallowed grounds unknown! He would’ve feasted as a king upon My parents claim he never existed, that he was grounds fit for only his royalty! a figment of my imagination. But how can I so vividly remember the color of his eyes? Or the Oh how I laugh, how I yearn for the life we could not have. And yet, here I remain. Sitting way he would constantly stare into my soul and say no words, no words except for things on the shoreline, waiting for a day I may never see, because someone decided the ocean such as, “did you know the number 3?” or “I was cooler than seeing Star Wars. see you, and your nose looks bad today.” My childhood was built around this mystery, this The waves part now, the seafloor reveals itself monstrosity, this gremlin. to me. There’s a disturbing lack of crabs. I suppose I must rise, perhaps my brother awaits, I can’t help but wonder what the depths of for he will always... the deep blue had to offer that I did not. Did he find Atlantis? Was it like the movie? Is Spongebob for real? So many unanswered Wait. questions live with him down below. Poseidon calls his name and he always answers.

And without so much as a sneeze, he walked towards the unforgiving waters, his feet planted firmly on the ocean floor until the sea ate him whole.

God, if he were here with me today, I can only imagine the adventures we’d have had in our lifetimes! I remember how he used to

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Visit These Places in Your Hometown to Find Me, Hotboxing

By Lizzie Frank It’s Summer! I’ve got my hat on backwards and I’m ready to fucken party. Well maybe not party, per say, because all of my friends from Hofstra are in their hometowns and all of my friends from high school are assholes now. But it’s all gon be fine, because I’ve got a milk jug full of pot (it’s a long story) and my summer job fell through because I never sent in my application, so catch me hotboxing at any/all of these locations throughout July and August and maybe September too if my financial aid doesn’t come together (I can’t remember if I filled out FAFSA or not). Feel free to join me at any point. Be aware, in all of these locations, I will be enjoying Alvin and Chipmunks 3: Chipwrecked.

Non-negotiable.

and she was told me she got it after “the Parks and the other Shit ended.” She told me she’d give me a zip lock baggie full of weed if I took the car to an abandoned lot, poured it in the gasoline from the trunk, and lit it on fire. I was like, that’s a steal, so sure, and then afterwards I met her at the housing development on the edge of the desert and she invited me into her igloo and gave me a 2 gallon freezer bag full of pot. I was sitting in her igloo, smoking up, and I dug through the bag and found a loose DVD of Alvin and the Chipmunks 3: Chipwrecked! I haven’t seen Amy Poehler since, but I usually pop over to her igloo once a week and play Chipwrecked just to make sure the DVD player still works.

1.

Inside Amy Poehler’s dirt hole 15 miles into the desert Did you know Amy Poehler lives in your hometown, because I sure didn’t! I was walking the back way to McDonald’s one morning when a brand new Kia Sorento without license plates drove by real slow, backed up, then drove about 20 or so feet ahead of me and stopped. When I walked past, the driver’s window rolled down and a woman in a blonde wig that I think was maybe made of golden retriever hair and masking tape motioned for me to get in. I did, because I thought she was going to compliment me on my new Adidas shoes. Instead she said, “I’m a blonde celebrity and I’ll give you a ziplock bag of weed if you help me” so obviously I was like, “Amy Poehler when did you get a face tattoo?” and she said “after the Office ended” and then we drove to the end of town and then another 15 or 20 minutes into the desert and then she handed me two 2 liter soda bottle full of gasoline and then we torched the Kia Sorento. Then she threw me a collapsible shovel from her duffel bag and said “dig” and I did. About 6 feet deep I hit a tub, and she took out a handgun and an envelope and walked deeper into the desert. Inside the tub there was a portable tv and dvd player, a generator, a loose copy of Alvin and the Chipmunks 3: Chipwrecked, and a 2.5 gallon freezer bag full of pot. I haven’t seen Amy Poehler since, but I usually pop over to her hole once a week to hotbox and watch Chipmunks. The walk is kinda rough on my Adidases, but you know what they say. Walk 15 miles in my shoes, or whatever.

2.

In the underwater polar bear observatory deck in Terry’s backyard When the east wing of Terry’s mid-century Rhine Romantic-era castle was set fire by one of her jealous ex-lovers, Terry’s pet ostrich cyborg, Grand Duchess Sofia Purell the 14th, who was trapped inside. I was on my little sister’s razor scooter, blasted outta my mind, when I caught sight of the smoke and thought there was a mad hangout going on without me. I razored over, jumped through a glass door which I thought was an open window, and rode out on Grand Duchess Sofia Purell the 14th (air of the Purell hand sanitizer fortune). My sister still hasn’t forgiven me for burning up her Razor scooter. It all worked out though, because Terry owes me good, and has been letting me hotbox in her underwater polar bear observation deck since then, basically. I hooked up a projector and the polar bears seem calmed by the sweet, extremely auto-tuned harmonies of Chipwrecked (their favorite song is the Chipette’s rendition of Survivor,

Leaving this option: 1.

Inside Amy Poehler’s Kia New Igloo Wow! Did you know Amy Poehler lives in your town? Me neither! At least, not until I was walking to work one morning and a brand new Kia Sorento without license plates drove by real slow, then stopped and backed up. The driver rolled down the window, adjusted a ratty blonde wig, and introduced herself as Amy Poehler. I was all like, “Amy Poehler, when did you get a face tattoo?”

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but I prefer Whip My Hair). I may not have this spot for too long though, because I think Terry figured out it was me stealing the cheese and olive platters from the fridge. She still hasn’t realized I’ve been wearing her kimono while nude, though it’s only a matter of time before the polar bears (or the Grand Duchess) snitches on me. Come on over in the meantime, though. I change the passcode on the door to 4206969, or just tell one of the servants I sent you.

3.

In the bathroom of the Susan Sarandon Memorial Garden it’s what she would have wanted.

4.

In the BEEHIVE! Everybody in the town knows where the BEEHIVE! is, right? Yeah, so I’ll be chilling inside there. The “bees” don’t mind as long as I load a bowl or two for them. It’s super fun in there because you can just jump around in each of the honeycomb sections and stuff. Don’t come if you’re allergic to pollen, honey, my cool hat collection that I store in the hexagonal shelving units the “bees” built for me, or bee stings. I will not be enjoying Alvin and the Chipmunks 3: Chipwrecked in this location. The “bees” do not like it.

5.

At the drive-in movie theater during the Transformers marathon Once my car is good and fogged up, I roll down the windows and blast Alvin and the Chipmunks over Transformers. No one complains. A car full of teenagers applauds. One woman calls me a hero and ask for a hit. I give it to her.

6.

In the abandoned Sears on the street where everyone leaves free lawn chairs This Sears is popping. First off, it’s completely void of all human life. Second, this is a little known fact but the entire Sears™ corporation operates under its own self-sustaining government system, so police officers and United States law have no jurisdiction inside any Sears™ location. Some naysayers try to tell me that it’s impossible to hotbox inside a completely vast and completely empty department store. But if they can’t hotbox inside this massive desolate above-ground pit, they just haven’t been smoking as much weed as me. I’ll light up until this entire windowless hellhole becomes a fog monster.

I’ll light up until other Sears™ in the country get a spiritual contact high. I’ll light up until the Dick’s Sporting Goods next door bangs on the barred door and complains. Not enough to drown out Alvin and the Chipmunks 3, though. I want to watch that.

Obituaries Jesse Saunders graced Nonsense with her presence for four insane years, and for that we must always be grateful. As our Social Media Manager and most accomplished staff writer, her nuanced patriotism and dedication to the bit will be forever enshrined. Never again will 9/11 be mentioned without hearing her hot takes in the distance; no one will ever again make the front stoop the best spot at a party in the way that she did. Jesse was the glue that held this club and everyone in it together. No one will ever do it better. No jokes here folks; we’ll miss her every day. We can only assume she’s throwing an absolutely killer themed rager up there in Nonsense Heaven. Press F, my dudes.

James Sweeney was an essential and crucial part of Nonsense Humor Magazine, from the day he was born to the day he died.

He will be remembered as a champion of bits, a connoisseur of marijuana, and an occasional haver of sex (as far as we know). As Nonsense’s head writer, he was vigilant in making sure the jokes were fresh and the boys didn’t talk about their peepees too much.

While his time here was short, his commitment to the club was unquestionable. May he continue to pursue his dreams and never have to find a real world job, because real world jobs suck and we hate them. A memorial will be held at the McDonalds on Hempstead Turnpike, where we will celebrate his life by taking turns trying to burn the establishment to the ground.

You really think you know a person until something like SmashBurger comes into your life. They lured me in with higher than average pay and free food and left me with 15 extra pounds and an instinctual aversement to the smell of fry oil. I’m going to miss every time hofstra students just left their bong(s) behind, and the friends I made in those trenches, but that’s it. In my time, I learned just how truly fucking entitled some Hofstra students believe themselves to be.

Bitch, we cannot put cheese on fries. No you cannot get a refund because you didn’t even have enough money to pay and I gave a free drink to the girl who covered your drunk ass’ meal.

No we do not serve hot dogs here. We have never served hot dogs here.

Sorry we’re not making milkshakes anymore. It takes me an hour to clean all the cups, clean all the syrup pumps, and scoop ice cream out for tomorrow, all if which I can’t do until we finish making shakes. I have an 8 am tomorrow, little control over my schedule, and I’d love to clock out by 3 if that’s okay with you.

But thank you, SmashBurger, for showing me just how low life can get.

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