Hofstra Versus Zombies: Gun Control

By Charles Bukkake

An excerpt from The Hofstra Issue

It’s been a minute since Hofstra Vs. Zombies has made the news for another tragic incident. An innocent bystander getting shot between the eyes, forcing them to drop their books, papers, hookah pen, and consequently their Hofstra pride, is nothing new. “Fucking shit-balls!” exclaims one Hofstra student we reached for comment, rubbing the Velcro out of his eye, “Seein’ as those fellas must be nice guys, they should kindly crawl back into the friendzone they so unjustly belong in.” However, this time the stakes have been raised—and I’m not talking about your daddy’s rib-eye. Earlier today, a senior citizen was shot and killed making their merry way over to the best pizza on the island.

“Bitch was so old, she may as well have been the walking dead,” explains the charismatic, dangerous and probable virgin Malcom “xxx_ShadowDragon_xxx” (as he insisted we called him). “I just bought this beauty at a K-Mart in East Garden City. There was no test or background check, well, aside from the Q-T cashier checking me out!” Yes, he indeed wrote out “Q” and “T” in the air with his damp finger.

Is it really this simple to purchase a “beauty” of that magnitude with little to no restrictions by our federal government? Does East Garden City even have a local government? We consulted local gun expert Mike Hunt and even local-er expert Xavier “No Chill” Johnson.

“Listen. The fact of the…the fact of the…the matter at hand here is the fact that liberals can eat my dick. I repeat, liberals can eat my dick. What was I talking about? Right—as I was saying, my ass is so clenched that I lost all feeling in my legs about thirty seconds ago. Please help me.” Mr. Hunt does drive a compelling point. Nerf guns don’t kill people, but dying of secondhand embarrassment at the fact that you manually carved a radioactive symbol onto a forty dollar nerf gun does. I bet that “instrument” isn’t even fucking radioactive. Fuck.

Mr. Johnson, however, also provides some pretty decent feedback. “So are you buying any weed or what?”

My homie, “No Chill” states the obvious in implying that guns need to be regulated when there is, technically speaking, a school shooting every time this organization meets. Uh-oh…what’s this? Breaking news? It appears we are having more action on the scene than a hot pocket in a lean cuisine. A devilishly dapper debonair appears before us, cheeto dust swirling in a tornado of desperation and class. Donning an emerald cloak, shrouding his tragic past, he speaks. “Good day to thee, my fine gentlesirs.” With this mere phrase our news team is bewitched as our undergarments smash the floor with unquenchable lust.

“You see, ‘tis not the size of the gun that is important; rather, it is the way in which you pwn noobs-er..peasants with said gun. Or so my girlfriend—Girlfriends! tell me.” Pulling me in by my tie, he whispers, “But it sure does help if you have a Desert Falcon Blaster 69xxx laser-mounted, special edition, Mountain Dew fueled-euphoria enducing, triple-action meat beater-killswitch engage-cockgrinder with auto-erotic asphyxia controls and a dignity depletion rate of 923 dates per picosecond.” Noticing Edith the—now terrified—intern, he tipped his authentic Indiana Jones replica headpiece and uttered “Farewell, fair maiden. Until we meet in the land of sunlight” and vanished, leaving nothing behind but the faint odor of Axe Bodywash and starch.

We don’t mean to harass people who are happy doing what they do. As a matter of fact, more power to them for being less cynical and douchey than our team of accountants (who are also probably armed). All we are saying is that—shit! You have an office! An OFFICE. You guys always seem so happy! It’s disgusting. Do you guys even know how to roll your eyes? It is disgusting. We are not bitter. Please give us our office back.