The Croaker:
The Croaker • Volume 9
Copyright © 2025, Sarah Lawrence College Student Senate All rights reserved. Cover Art: “Soggy Froggy” by Blue Fiore-Merz.
The Croaker is published annually by students of Sarah Lawrence College. This is our ninth volume. All rights revert to the authors upon publication.
About The Croaker
The Croaker is Sarah Lawrence’s best and only frog-themed humor magazine! We feature comedic work developed by Sarah Lawrence students each year — if you want to be in our next volume, send your funniest work to thecroaker@gm.slc.edu with the subject “Submission” during the undergraduate school year (preferably as a DOCX file for writing and PNG or JPG for art). Keep an eye out for our emails for specific dates and events each year! Once our submissions close (usually in March), our editors will review each piece and put it through a vote; the best pieces from the year’s submissions are edited and published.
If you love our magazine and want to be on the staff next year, we typically call for editor applications towards the end of the fall semester. It’s a lot of work, but it pays off! At The Croaker, we also like to give our talented editors a chance to submit to the magazine too — we hire the funniest for a reason! So if you like writing and reading funny stuff, and want some experience working on a publication staff, make sure you apply!
We hope you enjoy Volume 9; it was a hopping good time to put together :)
— Josie and Roni, your 2025 Croaker Editors-in-Chief
Mozart’s Symphony No. 40 in F
Minor
by The Croaker Editors-in-Chief
The other day I saw a frog in love. He didn’t have to tell meI knew.
What does it mean for a frog to love?
Do their hearts leap a beat? Do their tongues tangle together while they catch their dinner?
Maybe they reach for the same fly, But instead they catch each other. They blush the froggiest green, And their ribbits chirp a little higher. When does a tadpole learn to love?
Google tells me between two and three years old,
But I believe they are born with love in their souls. They only learn to feel it when they sprout webbed hands that can hold another.
After all, a tadpole is just a frog in a sack from frogs doing well in the sack.
Thank God they succeededBecause that little tadpole grew up to be that frog in front of me
Humping the daylights out of the ceramic frog in my front garden.
I painted that frog at a birthday party in second grade.
Abecedarian Construct
by Charlotte Hudnall
Up on a ledge on top of a hill there are
alligators attacking alleyway actors
bracing blue blistering barnacles
crafty creaky coveted cracks
devious diverting dark deer
effervescent elongated extracting eggs frivolous friends feeling fabulous
galloping griffins guffawing gallantly hard-won heavenly hibiscus flowers
iguanas isolating in insular inlets
jolly junebugs jumping
knights killing knaves
little lost limericks loving likable lies
murdering masons mulling
nonsense needles nibbling open obfuscating ostriches
prickly purple pink plentiful pansies
quick quiet quails quitting
rambunctious radicals realizing repercussions
starving stone statues sitting stalwart tenacious terrible troglodytes torturing tedious tenants underwhelming underthings utterly undoing unicorns
vapid veteran volunteers voicing vocations wandering warders watching willows whip
xenobiotic xenophobes xeroxing x-rays
yearning young yodelers yelling yikes zebras zig zagging and you and me.
“This Time Will Be Different,”
Says Woman Who Just Bought Another Notebook
by Roni Endres
After spending money she does not have on a baby blue notebook with “Journal” stamped on the cover in gold letters, Laury Vega vows that this diary will not end up like the dozens of other half-filled pads she’s abandoned.
21-year-old Vega has been making this very promise to herself since even before she believed a new notebook would cure her. At just eight years old, she distinctly remembers taking a trip to Dollar Tree and being allowed to buy one thing. Choosing an off-brand Barbie spiral notebook, she poured her heart into various “Dear Diary” entries for about two weeks before stuffing it on her bookshelf and promptly forgetting about it for the next fourteen years. Since then, she has added numerous notebooks to that very shelf, giving each one attention for a couple of weeks at most, only to give up and live vicariously through other women journaling on TikTok instead.
When asked to comment on her seemingly destructive habits, Vega offered, “I genuinely just forget about them.”
Vega is just one of the millions of people who succumb to the aesthetics of a notebook versus the practicality of the Notes App.
“But I’m really going to stick with it this time. I have a lot going on, and I think it’ll really help if I just write my thoughts down every day,” she concluded.
We followed up with Vega one month after interviewing her for an update on the status of her notebook. We were disappointed but unsurprised to find the baby blue journal tucked away with the other neglected notebooks and a brand new notebook laid neatly on her desk. This time, with a matching daily planner.
Why does everyone look at me
weirdly when I tell them that
by Hyacinth Perkis
Violent rhetoric has been popping up on both the Left and Right. The United States is slipping into an increasingly fascistic state. And this leads to something being very confusing to me: why do I get such odd glances whenever I tell other people that the career I’d like most is “Presidential Assassin”?
It’s really weird that as soon as I mention that I’d personally like to rend President Trump asunder, limb-fromlimb, my friends start giving me a sidelong glance. Even as I calmly explain that, yes, I will be doing this out of a desire to improve the state of politicking, they still look at me with a shell-shocked glare.
It’s been my dream since I was just a babe, you know. From the first time that I saw the painting of John Wilkes Booth sneaking up behind good ol’ Abe in the Ford Theater to the most recent viewing of Assassins: The Musical I had prior to writing this article, I always knew it was what I wanted to be.
Is there some stigma around taking the president’s life into your own hands? What an odd social norm. I would simply be using my God-given freedom of expression.
Some Birds...
by Audrey McGonagle
Subject: IMPORTANT - Smoking Concerns
From: Real Life Resident Advisor
Kat Henry
To: SLC Residence Hall
Hi all,
This is a reminder that smoking is prohibited inside dorms as it is a dangerous fire hazard, and our hall is substance free. I have received many complaints from your fellow residents, and, frankly, I’m very disappointed in you all. It is incredibly selfish and lacking in decorum to smoke inside your dorms without inviting me.
In response to this situation, I have decided to host a mandatory event this Friday evening: How to Not Be a Dick. During the event, we will be discussing topics such as “Basic Human Decency”, “Sharing is Caring”, and “The Value of Including Others”. Snacks will not be provided.
Attendance will be taken! If you are not marked present and on time, I will report you to Campus Safety for a community guideline violation of various severity
depending on how much I like you and how much pot you are willing to offer me. Hopefully, following our discussion, you will think twice before not inviting me to your in-dorm smoke sesh.
See you Friday!
Best, Your Very Cool and Likable RA
Sent from my iPhone
Breaking News
by Josie Laur
The newscaster sits at a desk. He looks nervous. This is a big moment: sweat is beading along his hairline. His foot is tapping. He clears his throat and taps the edges of the papers he’s holding on the edge tabletop, straightening them to the staccato rhythm of his foot. His producer sighs and looks at her watch.
He clears his throat again and reaches for the glass of water set on the desk beside him, out of sight of the camera. He knocks it over. He says, “Oh shit.” His producer says, “Oh shit.”
They scramble. They can’t find any cloth to wipe it up with. The newscaster looks at the camera; the red light is not blinking back at him. He looks at the cameraman, but the guy just shrugs. The newscaster whips off his shirt and presses it to the spill. The cloth, a cheap linen blend, does not absorb it well. The water creeps off the edge of the desk, drips onto the ground and seeps toward the cameras. It was one glass of water but really it is an ocean. His producer’s hands are in her hair and her face is like The Scream but she seems frozen.
The newscaster is cold in a thin white tank top. He does not know why he used his shirt. This is his first day on the job, and it is not going well. His therapist would remind him that if he perceives this as the worst moment of his day and he can make it through this, then he can make it through anything, but: he is not sure
that he likes how much that premise depends on him being perceived internally, never mind being perceived externally. The latter was okay in theory, and was in fact okay enough for him to get through the job search and application and interview and into this chair at the news desk but now he is sitting here in a thin white tank top and his nipples and his scattering of patchy chest hair are probably showing and that red recording light is going to switch on at any second.
He looks to his producer and he is not sure what exactly is going on with her face, but he fears that it is something all too close to defeat. He has the sudden hope that perhaps someone behind the scenes is scrambling to get him a new shirt, but his earpiece is eerily silent. Or, he realizes as he looks back down at the desk, his earpiece was one of the first immediate victims of The Spill. He had taken it out only briefly, intending to have a silent moment to ground himself so he could properly manifest running a good first broadcast, and he appears to not have put it back in. It is now waterlogged and sad-looking and it will not be returning to his ear.
He is struck by the fact that he is alone, adrift in this sea of water glasses and Screaming producers and bored cameramen. The water has very much reached the feet of the tripod, not having diminished in size or liquidity at all, and the camera is slowly sinking toward the floor. The camera man is going with it. Or maybe the newscaster is just getting bigger, rising up up up out of his head. Liberated from the chains of his flesh and his
mortal coil, he floats above the mess of the newsroom and his own stupid self. He looks down at the top of his head and promises himself that if he ever returns to his body, he will look into hair growth supplements.
He hopes that he does not return to his body. Someone, somewhere, off in the ethereal haze of the Channel 5 news station, is playing Randy Travis’s “Forever and Ever, Amen”. The newscaster, if he can still be called that, wishes that he had someone to love forever and ever, amen. His producer, who he catches a final glimpse of as he floats up through the ceiling, offered to take him out for drinks tonight, but he is almost certain that that offer had been made in a professional capacity. Maybe he will have to work up to asking her out for drinks in a distinctly non-professional capacity. Will she say yes to a man who takes off his shirt to wipe up a spill in the middle of his first workday?
She’ll have to. He is industrious and quick. Alternatively, she might be very against the idea, because he is an idiot. But maybe she didn’t pick up on that part.
He is through the roof of the building. One custodian on the top floor looks up as he passes, but he seems as bored as the cameraman back in the newsroom. The possibly former newscaster doesn’t seem to inspire a lot of emotion in people. If he gets back to his body, that is either a very good or a very bad sign for his future on the air. Right now, though, he is more concerned about his future in the air. Is a man meant to float all the way
up to space?
He decides it doesn’t matter. The alternative is going back down and he is feeling pretty damn settled about not doing that.
He has also decided that he is going to be a laissez faire disembodied entity. He spent so much of his time down in his self caring about the minutiae of things like totally humiliating himself on the first day of work and not being mature enough to say “oops sorry” and continue on like normal, so this is his opportunity to try something daring and new, like floating away from his adult responsibilities. He is excited that this is the first time ever that a man like him (white, balding, veneers) has been able to do something like this. He is pioneering new frontiers. This is a thought that makes him yearn to be back in front of the camera to share this empathetic epiphany with the masses, but he thinks that is now out of his reach and besides, he decided that he is past all of that normal, boring stuff. He looks up. He is surrounded by clouds.
His face is cold and wet and burning from the heat of the sun and from the heat of the stars that are close enough for him to touch with a fingertip. The higher he rises, the more he feels. Light is burning into him, through him. He doesn’t stretch out but his fingers are against a star and then his palm is pressed into another and then he is floating on a bed of burning fire and then his vision peters out and he can’t see anything except he sees all because of the total and immense atmosphere
and sense of being all around him. His own sense of self disintegrates, shattering into a thousand different pieces that join the cosmos around him as their own stars and he knows he is now becoming the Milky Way. It turns out there is an oceanic spill all the way up here too—he feels right at home.
His bones are dust and fragments. Somewhere far, far below there might be a shell of a man that resembles what he once was, but he doesn’t know him. He doesn’t know what the news is, or why it needs to be cast, or why he would ask his producer out for drinks, or why he should even drink anything at all. He doesn’t feel nervous. He doesn’t have a hairline for sweat to bead on. There is no sweat to bead. He has transcended transcendence and now there is nothing but the nothingness.
Jesse Pinkman 1
by Jillian Davis
things that give me gender euphoria
by Paige
● robin buckley
● the smell of old books
● a shaggy haircut
● dancing in fall
● the wet acrylic brush in procreate
● chipped nail polish
● funny goblin art
● my green checkered button up
● a movie with lesbians
● the sound of fire
Just Fly Away Now
by Vi Kreifels
The Cough.
by Josie Laur
I have a cough that will not go away no matter what I do. It has become irritating. First I tried cough drops and drinking water. When that didn’t work I took a DayQuil pill, but it disintegrated into dust upon contact with my tongue, so then I was both coughing and choking, which I do not recommend. All in all, things had gone from bad to worse.
I made a hot toddy, but I didn’t have honey or lemon or a kettle, so I skipped straight to a glass or two or six of whiskey. For some reason, the cough remained, but at least my head felt nice.
I went to stand in the shower, hoping the steam would free my lungs, but I did not account for the whiskey. I fell down; my head no longer felt nice and was now bleeding. This, at least, provided a temporary distraction, but even head trauma couldn’t deter the cough for long.
At the end of my rope, I turned to devil worship. I said please Satan might you vanish the infernal tickle in my throat. He said sorry sweetheart even I can’t touch this one.
I am growing desperate. I fear I will have to go see a doctor next. I would rather die. Please tell my funeral guests that I went out in style and, in the event that my skeleton is still coughing, please set my remains on fire.
From the Sack to the Rack
by Dylan Steingold-Sandow
hold on hold on, i am going to write an alternate rhyme except i will do what i wish with the B structure adverse, it’s about fucking time to organize this shitlist under a system in 1992, L7 said it well a harem of septennium Bitches, Gits, and Babes sitting beside them would that i could i would send them all to an especially bloody hell with cysts and clots and mayhem bollocks! i’m already bored not even memories of exploitation could fuel this venture perhaps this wimpy stanza will be my death chord it would be a fitting end to a pathetic hearts beating but no! i must persevere. there is too much punishment to dole out too much cruelty under a creative veneer too many cunts with too much clout
long lines of exes with horrible stories to tell they will admit things to you after you’re already too deep faithfully believing, look at you, practically a fucking gazelle
make like one! and exit this graveyard.
daddies and mommies and mean girls did it! they make you feel shiny and frantic and needed somewhere in your brain, you still know, they don’t deserve your spit all the while, your heart is about to be repeatedly stampeded (i thought about using cock-beaded somehow here, could’ve been big) eventually when you are warped, and no longer fun too mushy, too serious, not fuckable, just delicate they move on, another attempt, if only you had a flare gun. some way to warn of these treacherous waters
i know it’s hard, with thoughts of new hands touching familiar skin, but don’t blame your successor they know not, thinking they will be the one to crack that floppy-haired-code i know sometimes you will want them to choke on a stack of tongue depressors but focus instead on your own side of the road and by that i mean deepen your ditches.
Jesse Pinkman 2
by Jillian Davis
Arms and Legs
by Allie Zapson
People are saying steak will save us. They are eating it raw for every meal. They say it cures depression and fibromyalgia and autism and heart disease and addiction to video gaming. There’s listeria in the tap water. People are drinking from ponds and rivers. They think pond water counteracts the negative effects of vaccines. The CDC has released a statement that drinking diet soda is the same as smoking a pack of cigarettes a day. People have started smoking more cigarettes. People are boycotting plastic spoons. Frogs have gone extinct. No one is quite sure where they went. There may be an underground frog colony, they are saying. Insurance companies will only cover medication if a person submits a video of them praising Elon Musk and Mark Zuckerberg and Jeff Bezos and a list of forty other wealthy men. People started running out of storage, filming videos of themselves praising Elon Musk and Mark Zuckerberg and Jeff Bezos and the forty other wealthy men. This was mainly because videos become very long due to the need to praise so many men. Increasing storage on all smartphones costs an arm and a leg. It was an executive order. The amputations are payment. If you amputate your arm (or leg), you can increase the storage on your phone which will allow you to submit videos of you praising the wealthiest men in the world to insurance companies (for review) so you can pick up your medication for the cancer you were diagnosed with from
all of the diet coke and cigarettes and raw meat and pond water you’ve been consuming. Structures in society were meant to function this way, they say on the news. The man talking has no arms. Most people have lost a limb. To get a new limb, you must take out a loan. The bank loves when you take out loans. Interest on these loans is very high. To get your arm and leg back you need to pay your life savings. You will never retire. If you do retire, it will be without limbs. If you die with an unpaid mortgage or student loans they refuse to bury you. They harvest your organs and grow people in underground facilities. Where the frogs are. At least that’s what they’re saying. The frogs may be connected to the growing of people. This, people are unsure of.
Woman Suffering From Imposter Syndrome Actually Just Bad at
Her Job
by Roni Endres
SAN FRANCISCO, CA—“It made me feel...confused... lost. I started questioning my reality.”
In a tearful interview, Jennifer Garza recounts listening to her job’s worst employee vent about impostor syndrome.
“I started saying things like, ‘No, you’re doing great,’ and, ‘You’re right, it’s all in your head.’ I became someone I’m not,” says Garza.
Known as an abundance of self-doubt and a lack of selfworth, impostor syndrome has become the latest delusional trend in the workplace. Studies show that more than 70% of working Americans claim to suffer from impostor syndrome.
Another study shows that more than half of these people are just bad at their job.
Twenty-seven-year-old Anna Gilbert is just one of thousands forcing their colleagues to feign
compassion while white-knuckling a nearby surface.
“It’s like she’s so close to being self-aware, yet so far away, and you almost have to give her credit for at least half-acknowledging it?” says recent hire, Garrett Broker. At just twenty-three years old, Broker entered the company fresh out of college. He says he was nervous, and was prepared to “not be as good as everyone else”, and “have a long way to go.” His sentiments quickly changed when he met Gilbert.
“One of the first things she said to me was, ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself. I’ve been here for a year, and I still sometimes feel like everything I do is wrong.’ I appreciated the support but was torn because just that day I had seen her do multiple things wrong.”
As someone who didn’t learn how to do laundry until college, it’s no surprise that Gilbert blames her shortcomings on a diagnosis she can make herself. One can only hope the company does the right thing for all involved and lets Gilbert go, but it’s unlikely a father would fire his daughter.
The Villain’s Final Exam
by Zipper Browne
“… and they’re making me take over, like, an entire metropolitan area for my Advanced Principles of Villainy final. And it’s like, girl, I’m gonna be so real with you here: I am a Supervillain major, not an Evil Overlord major. I don’t get why I should have to take over a whole city just to get my degree. Like, what if I don’t want to terrorize cities? What if holding the mayor hostage isn’t my style? What if I just want to squeeze my ass into some shiny Spandex and make my nemesis question his sexuality? That’s all I want! —only if he’s cute, though; only if he’s cute. … No, of course I would do real work, too. But it’s like, taking over a city is such an Evil Overlord thing, and that is not what I’m about, honey.
“No, no, listen, listen, listen, listen—it’s a viable career path, I prommy. … You know, like, being an Evil Overlord or a Henchman aren’t the only two options anymore. That’s what I’ve been saying! Villainy is a spectrum! … What? No, there’s nothing wrong with being a Henchman. I mean, like, I know a lot of Hench majors, I hang out with them all the time—oh, and let me tell you, the drama in that clique? Mess-y!—No, but yeah, anyway, I can totes make a living being a Supervillain. And I’ll have a side hustle selling merch, being on TikTok— what, you think Superheroes are the only ones who can do that? Girl, just wait till you see my supervillain outfit;
I’m gonna have t-shirts flying off the shelves. Just you wait, I’m gonna be the world’s first Villainfluencer.
“… Okay, yeah, for real though: I gotta get through this final first. It’s just like … so boring, and I just know that whatever I come up with—and I have a great idea for kidnapping the mayor, BTdubs; even if it’s not my thing, I am going to get myself an A-plus-plus for this assignment—if those bitch-ass Evil Overlord majors don’t steal it out from under me! Like, who do they think they are? They’re so stuck up, like Ooh, look at me, I’m gonna take over the moon! As if Jeremy who can’t even swish his cape dramatically is gonna steal the moon from Lord Destructor. Like, I’m not an Evil Overlord, but I’m just saying, it takes more than a trust fund and an evil laugh to take over a celestial body—
“Oh, damn, I gotta go. I’m late for my Effective Death Traps seminar—yawn! Anyway, hugs and kisses— bye, Mami!”
Doggone Nude Beach
by Ellis Horn
Restorative Justice
by Allie Zapson
The year is 2072. The United States is ruled by Christian Theocracy. The justice system has been dismantled and rebuilt based on the teachings of Jesus Christ and ideas surrounding restorative justice. The first woman president is Sister Agnes Maria, a nun from North Carolina. Florida has seceded from the Union and Canada has taken its place. Nuclear war looms. Individuals search for meaning and a voice. —
“On October 28, 2072, Daniel Macaroy took out his flaccid penis and peed on young Rebecca Stein. Rebecca has requested a justice circle in the name of restorative justice. That is why we have all gathered here today. Our circle will contain four priests (he/him), four nuns (she/her), and two gender nonconforming worshipers of Christ (they/them) for a total of ten members of the circle and ten total votes. We believe justice will be found through the voice of God.”
Justice Circle Rules: One may only speak when holding the talking stick. The talking stick represents the voice of God. Everyone will listen to Rebecca’s testimony and Daniel’s response. Each member of the circle may only speak once. Once all have spoken, a vote on the punishment will be made. Only God can decide what happens in the end.
Rebecca’s Testimony
“My pronouns are she/her, by the way. I was walking past the MegaChurch while praying and I swear I could hear the voice of God. Anyways, I was walking to the MegaChurch because it was Sunday and I always go to the MegaChurch on Sunday and I was wearing my nicest suit to demonstrate that She/Hers can wear suits and not just dresses because it’s 2072 and that’s what’s going on. So I’m walking and I’m asking God to stop the nuclear war. That’s when Daniel walked up to me, unzipped his pants, pulled out his penis, and peed all over me. I mean the pee got all over my nice suit, it got in my hair and my mouth and my eyes. I went to the emergency room and they gave me all sorts of tests and antibiotics. This happened two weeks ago but when I close my eyes all I see is his penis and the yellowness of his pee. I want justice for what happened to me. Amen.”
“Amen,” responds everyone in the justice circle.
Daniel’s Reponse
“Yeah. I peed on that girl.”
Justice Circle
The stick begins with the first priest and moves around the circle.
Priest 1: My pronouns are he/him. Daniel seems guilty. Amen. (passes stick)
Priest 2: Does anyone else feel like we should be
focusing on the nuclear war? (passes stick)
Priest 3: I’m actually trying out he/they pronouns just to see how they feel. Daniel deserves punishment for what he did. God has told me that just now. (passes stick)
Priest 4: My pronouns are he/him. Rebecca experienced a great wrong and I demand justice. (passes stick)
Nun 1: My pronouns are she/they. It’s wrong to assume my pronouns are she/her. I could’ve been they/ she too. What are we here for? Does anyone hear that siren outside?
Nun 2: She/her….
The nuclear sirens outside get louder. … is this a drill of some kind?
No one in the circle answers because they aren’t holding the talking stick.
Nun 3: I am feeling a little scared about the sirens. Daniel is guilty.
Nun 4: O Jesus Christ, Son of God, Have mercy on me, a sinner, O Jesus Christ, Son of God, Have mercy on me, a sinner, O Jesus Christ, Son of God, Have mercy on me, a sinner, O Jesus Christ, Son of God, Have mercy on me, a sinner…
Gender Nonconforming Worshiper of Christ: My pronouns are they/them. Is this a bad time to announce I might be leaning towards they/he? Oh, what about that Daniel over there? What does he think?
Gender Nonconforming Worshiper of Christ: I
keep telling you all this but can you please stop ostracizing me just let me sit with the Gosh Darn nuns. And yes, Daniel should be punished. What kind of fool just goes around peeing on ladies? You know, Daniel, you may go to Hell for that.
The Punishment
“After a long discussion, a group vote, and prayers for answers from God, Daniel’s punishment has been decided. If the nuclear war is indeed beginning now, he will be sent outside while we all shelter in the underground city. If the war is starting later, Daniel’s punishment is that he must sincerely apologize to Rebecca. Priest 3 will pee on Daniel in front of the group in order to replicate the disgust and public embarrassment that Rebecca experienced. Priest 3 will make sure to get pee into places where diseases can be transmitted. It is unknown if Priest 3 has any diseases that can be transmitted via pee. God believes this punishment is fair and has shown that through the stick. Amen.”
Daniel’s Apology
“I am sorry, Rebecca. I will not pee on you again.”
As pee fills Daniel’s cavities, nuclear sirens continue to blare. It is possible that even just the very next day, New York will cease to exist.
What’s Roni Watching?
by Kat Rutschilling
Zynful Thoughts
by Josie Laur
I had a dream where I was in love with a man who I haven’t spoken to in years and even then we didn’t talk all that much either. We held hands and his friends were my friends and we filled out the adoption paperwork for a dog and it was a lovely life. But then I woke up and thought am I lonely? or do I just have a crippling weakness for tall blond men who haven’t read a single book in the last year and make furniture out of Zyn containers (which actually maybe demonstrates a rather remarkable feat of architectural prowess). Am I delusional? or to avoid total humiliation can I just blame him for being born blond?
The Wasp in my House
by Kat Henry
There is a wasp in my house. He has been here for precisely nineteen days. I was once told wasps starve to death within ten. That person lied.
“Oh, hello,” the wasp had said the day he drifted in. He was small for a wasp, one of the brown ones with evil in their disjointed thoraxes. “I seem to have found myself somewhere entirely foreign! Would you be so kind as to guide me toward my nest? It’s the one just behind the bench. You can’t miss it!”
I would not be so kind as to guide the wasp to his nest. From the moment he bumbled his way into my house, I knew I would not help him, not with that stinger of his.
“No, I don’t want to,” I said. “If I get near you, you’ll sting me.”
“Well, that is understandable,” replied the wasp. He zipped around my kitchen as he spoke, smashing aggressively into my cabinets and refrigerator in the chaotic way that wasps do. “But I swear to you, on my mother herself, that I will not sting you. If you were to guide me home, I would be out of your hair in a jiffy, easy as pie.”
“I said I won’t help you, wasp. Now leave me alone.”
And with that, I left him in my kitchen. Despite his predicament, despite his innocent lapse in directional sense, despite his politeness and his sincerity, his ill-luck
and misfortune, despite all that, I would not help him.
Because I wanted him dead.
I wanted that wasp dead.
I go on walks now. The lavish scenery outside consists of concrete or dying grass or buildings that are beige or gray and rectangular. Every so often, there is a tree. This is where the wasp should be instead of my house. I walk in the oppressive heat until my skin is crispy and my panties are soaked in sweat. My damp wedgie helps me forget about the wasp. It does not last long.
When I hear his wings and see him flit around the house, my vision focuses on his alien frame. It is repulsive when he rests on my walls; they are white and clean, and he makes them ugly.
The movement attracts my cat. I do not want her near the wasp. I know she will not kill him because, though her stupidity makes her sweet, it is stupidity nonetheless. She will only bat at him with her gentle paws and provoke him, and he will sting her, and she will die because she is dumb and because the wasp is bad.
It is unfair of me, I suppose; he did not choose that violent body of his.
“I will not sting your cat,” says the wasp. “I only ask that you bring me home.” His voice is now tired, and the buzz from his wings has lost its sharp tone.
I have done nothing to try to kill the wasp in my house. I will let him starve because I am too frightened to get near him, because my self-inflicted distance will
not allow me to show him the door, or, at the very least, the mercy of a shoe. I am not kind enough for that. He will starve—eventually—and the wasp in my house will be dead.
The House Burnt Down, and it
Smelled Vaguely of Whale
by Julian Horwitz
As Trawley was talking, a certain amount of smoke began to rise from beneath the table. Four people had gathered, each in fine tailcoats and tophats; a confit byaldi and roasted duck with cranberry sauce accompanied by caviar, adorned each plate. Surrounding them were a dozen or so candles, one of which had fallen on Trawley, his monocle glinting with the light from his trousers.
“So sorry to interrupt but your trousers are alight,” said Devon.
“I am not a liar,” Trawley snapped. As he did so, he knocked a bottle of overproof rum which the table had been sharing, spilling its brown contents on the previously pristine, white tablecloth. “Bugger. We’ll clean that in a moment.”
“No no, your trousers however, are burning,” said Harriet.
“No they aren’t. Why is it warm in here all of the sudden?”
“Really, Trawley, the candle fell on your trousers and they’re on fire,” said Kingsley, an athletic fellow wearing burgundy.
“No no, I’m telling you, she really did do six flips before she hit the ground. Poor whale, left quite the
crater.”
“Please, Trawley, we all believe you about the whale. We saw Colbey’s field. Now really, John, please, douse yourself.”
“How the sperm whale got on the plane in the first place though, was the real question.” Trawley stroked the bristles of his morning shadow, bathed in a growing light from below the table. “See, they don’t normally get on planes.”
“We know that,” said Kingsley.
“Ergo, I am telling the truth.”
“Yes, as evidenced by the whale jelly covering the field, and the bits which fell down the chimney in the living room. Oh good god it’s spread to the table cloth,” said Kingsley, proffering a large pitcher of water. “Perhaps–”
“And you see, then, that the origin of the whale in the plane must have been some sort of supernatural— good god the table is alight! Why didn’t you tell me?”
“We did,” Devon said as Trawley grabbed the pitcher of water from Kingsley and dumped it over his head, which did little to douse the fire. “Numerous times.”
“No, you called me a liar, and earlier you complained that I tell tall tales.”
“No, no. We told you your trousers were alight.”
“We really did,” said Kingsley, dousing the last flame with a fire extinguisher. The effect of this, however, was to blow three of the still-burning candles round the
table, onto the aforementioned rum. The issue with fire and overproof rum is that the latter is quite flammable. Thus, the table caught fire.
“Oh you’ve really gone and done it now!” Kingsley said, spraying the last of the fire extinguisher on the table, to no avail.
“Should we, perhaps, get up and run the fuck away?” Harriet chimed, feeling rather left out of the conversation.
“I think,” Trawly held out one declamatory finger, “that given the circumstances, I should at least have a change of clothes before–”
“Let’s get the hell out of here, alright?” Everyone interrupted Trawley in unison. They then, with some confusion, filed out of the house and let it burn down.
Giving, Not Receiving
by Allie Zapson
My tongue is on her clit. I want grilled cheese but the fancy kind, made with aged gouda and fig jam and prosciutto. Fresh cooked kettle chips on the side. A glass of white wine, chilled. I’m hungry. A little thirsty. I spell the alphabet with my tongue. It’s meditative. She moans. Fuck. I forgot to close the upstairs window in my apartment. My heating bill is already so high. High. I wish I was high. I love smoking before sex. It’s like the sex goes on forever. I never did that reading for my philosophy lecture. I wonder what Neitzsche has to say. I thought that he said “God is dead” once in triumph. But he said it multiple times. God is dead God is dead God is dead. Get over it. Was Neitzsche having sex? He was okay looking. I remember arousal. I’m supposed to be aroused. I take my face out of her vagina and kiss her mouth. Deeper. Deeper. Our tongues are touching. We agree on a rhythm. Boobs. Vagina. Shag haircuts. When Sprite is really cold, in ice. A soothing bath. Ass cheeks. Finding the perfect parking spot. I am aroused. I want to touch every part of her. I want to remember my social security number without checking my notes app. I want to remember my keys when I leave the house. I want to do my laundry before I run out of socks. I arrived here at her apartment sockless. My feet were damp. I wonder if she noticed. I take my tongue out of her mouth and move back down, so my head is between her thighs. I spread
her legs. I insert a finger. She moans. I insert another finger. She moans again. I wonder when I cut my nails last, if it was recent enough. I curve my fingers upwards and get to work. I’ve been told I’m incredible at fingering. Once. I was told once. I still believe it to be true. She closes her eyes. She moans and moans. I move my fingers in rhythm. I’m really good at this, I think. I grab one of her boobs with my spare hand. I think about what a cancerous lump would feel like. I run my hand up and down her body. I live in a fascist country. I think so, at least. I think of the government banning gay sex. I think of the government forcing us to reproduce. Has the president read Nietzsche? Does the president know that God is dead? Does he feel abandoned by this death? Has the president read Camus? Heidigger? Sartre? Kant? Locke? She moans lounder. Descartes? Marx? Plato? Aristotle? Hume? Has he read Hume? I take my fingers out and she lets out an exasperated sigh. I put my tongue back on her clit. ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ. I think about my own death. Decapitation? Car crash? Treason? Liking women? Liking men? Liking both? Suicide? Homicide? There is no God out there to save me. Or so I’ve heard. I hear her moans intensity, her body shaking. I keep moving my tongue. I wonder if she likes the same music as me. She starts to orgasm. I wonder how many orgasms she’s had before. I sit up. There is pride in satisfying someone. She breathes heavily. It is quiet. I wonder if I left the oven on.
an editor’s submission to the Croaker overlord
by Bella Dopulos
“We would love for our editors to submit their work,” my froggy froggy supervisor says.
I immediately panic, I pilfer my stores of notebooks
My pages and pages of depressing poems filled with porn
A sinking feeling fills my heart
I’m not funny
I never have been
And I wouldn’t even know where to start
I dwell in disparity, I wonder why they hired me and–
Aha! I’ve found it!
My magnum opus! My froggiest, funniest work of art
Hidden between notes I took in my last conference
And a to-do list I never followed
A gem, a coal turned to diamond in my time away
Here it is, my funny funny line
My debut in comedic poetry:
“Feeding the hungry hungry hole-puncher”
Jesse Pinkman 3
by Jillian Davis
Staff
EDITORS-IN-CHIEF
Josie Laur once again did her very best with the layout, and this time it even went a little bit better than last year. She really, really hopes that someone applies to be layout editor next year, but also that is no longer her problem, due to graduation and other scary adult words. She is grateful for her three years with The Croaker and for all it has taught her (patience, and frog facts). She would like to thank her favorite eyeliner brush for being there even in the darkest hours. What are we all if not frogs in the end.
Roni Endres is a first-semester senior graduating in December. She hopes to be able to finally spell resturaunt by then, but it’s not looking good. She’s been happily contributing to and editing The Croaker for four years.
EDITORS
Zipper Browne is a 65-year-old gay man trapped in the body of an emo boy from 2005. They are a senior (citizen). Their favorite pasttimes include complaining about the commute from Connecticut to Bronxville (fuck 684), putting spikes on their cardigans, and troubleshooting their iPod Nano because they refuse to learn what a blue tooth is. After graduation, you will find them becoming the villain they were always born to be.
Bee Dopulos would like to give a short buzz buzz to all contributors and fellow editors of the funny froggy magazine.
Kat Henry, who shall henceforth only be referred to by their full name, Kat Henry, was an obsese jaundiced baby born with slightly yellow skin, and lost their virginity in a closet lit by LED lights of a similar jaundiced shade. Kat Henry can likely be found on campus wearing a pair of black sweatpants (that have been worn every day for a week)(and have not been washed)(and Kat Henry cannot pretend they are different pairs because they are covered in paint stains). Kat Henry apologized for starting every sentence with “Kat Henry,” but they do not have the energy to compose this bio any differently.
Allie Zapson loves to send and recieve emails. In her free time she thinks about email. Her screen-time says she spends 10 hours a day using the gmail app.
Contributors
Jillian Davis is a senior studying studio art and art history. Her work focuses on having a laugh and having a good time.
Ellis Horn is a creator of spirited paintings and colorful breakfasts. Sometimes mistaken for a howling wolf or a container of pickled cucumbers, both fall short as they are in fact the grass beneath your feet.
Julian Horwitz: it’s a well known fact that when anyone tries to make something idiot proof the world, universe, god, God, or whatever higher power may or may not exist, will simply invent a better idiot. Julian Horwitz is quite possibly that idiot. Coming from Los Angeles, he’s a senior at Sarah Lawrence (this would be a surpising contribution if he went to, say, NYU) who’s driven across the country to come here for a third time, when it would have been easier to just fly out, really. If you need him, you can find him somewhere on campus, not panicking. Where precisely he’ll be on campus depends on the direction of the wind, the attitude of the squirrels, and whether or not he’s hungry.
Charlotte Hudnall is an adventurer at heart but not at (foot) sole. She has been known to laugh too hard at puns and loves all things sweet. She is so appreciative of The Croaker and hopes to continue to share whimsy with the darkest of nights. She loves her friends and would like to shout out Josie for always making her smile, Josiah for
always making her laugh, and Laya for always laughing with her.
Vi Kreifels is a Sarah Lawrence senior who is soon to be on to better things. Their accomplishments as an undergrad include numerous art installations the critics have described as “cutsey and random”. Vi responded by exploding the critics with their mind. Vi likes wearing slippers as shoes and eating kale out of the bag.
Audrey McGonagle is a senior studying arts management and literature. In addition to dancing, doodling bird characters with funky glasses is a frequent activity she enjoys. Is hoping to create more quirky bird illustrations and develop her drawing skills this summer.
Paige O’Connell is a sophomore at Sarah Lawrence College. Their favorite things to write are sapphic fantasy and freeform poetry. While they mainly study history and political science, creative writing is their favorite thing to do in their downtime.
Hyacinth Perkis is literally nice. All of the he/theys that she’s manipulated to say as such can confirm this fact. If you are a he/they who disagrees, she’s more than willing to sit you down for a conversation, and bend you over until you agree with all the rest.
Kat Rutschilling used to draw serious things but now she only draws the occasional silly thing. Normally she’s a writer, but she recognizes that some magic can’t be
captured in words.
Dylan Steingold-Sandow is very unfortunately not funny, they are just a scallywag with baggage and the sometimes entertaining kind of autism. Dylan knows a lot about slug procreation and heartbreak, and very little about xcel sheets and how to break generational cycles of dysfunction.
