10 Things We ALL Need to Try Before Summer’s Over

By I’m a foul mouthed son of a gun, but I’ll be damned if I don’t hit the nail on the head at least a few times here. Check it out let me know what you think.

For Vanessa, on the last good day:

Summer’s come and here it is,
soon to leave so here is this:
A Good List

1. Homemade Lemonade Freezie Pops!

We’re kicking things off with a treat that treats heat like it’s a pair of pristine feet. (Mmmm!) Nothing (and we mean nothing) compares to the taste of cooled citrus under the vicious beams of Summer. Of course, you already know this. But did you know that besides being tasty and refreshing, scientists and historians alike have concluded that various citrus fruits have been hailed for their medicinal properties? And none moreso than the one we know today as the lemon. These qualities include: tasting good, making us feel better when we feel bad, making water taste good, adding a little zing to some old classics such as Shrimp Scampi or Glazed Chicken, God qualities, and curing the ailment known as Defunct Palate. While basically everyone on Earth has either bought or sold a glass of lemonade in their lifetime, not too many have tried this fun little trick: freezing the lemon’s juice (lemonade) in a freezer. Sound difficult? No! Simply take the lemonade, pour it into an ice cube tray, and put it in the freezer. Wait some time, and when you come back to it, you should have lemon-flavored ice cubes. But wait, we’re not done! If you have little ones, or are married to a man, then this next part is going to be a treat for everyone: give them the tray of cubed ice-fruit and instruct them to “go to town.” Say those words exactly and soon enough you’ll have smashed up shards of edible dihydrogen monoxide glass. Science FTW!

2. Tire Swings By the Lake

Tire swings by the lake. Tire swings by the fuckin’ lake, baby. Oh man. If you’ve ever wanted to feel like a descendant of Swiss Family Robinson, putting this one together is an absolute must. (The Swiss Family Robinson thing aside, club-footed folks are suggested to bring a friend. All folks are, but I’ve learned it’s good to be inclusive).  The steps are a little tricky, but we think most of you can handle it: First, locate a lake with many trees (for this activity, one good tree will work just fine), and water deep enough to keep you nice and buoyant. The size of the lake is key, as we can’t take chances with who we bring along:  (Now that was no shame meant towards any of our husky readers out there, but the Sea is simply too unforgiving for us to be throwing caution to the wind. Keep in mind, big bones and thin skin never worked well together. God love ya, and let the truth drive you home). You’re ideally looking for a place with a great view, just in case you or any of your friends think you’re good at photography, so we recommend you look around the two states of New Hampshire or Maine. Vermont is also an option, but you should consider that a last-ditch effort of sorts. There’s too much out there for you to see and experience before you settle for even driving through Vermont. Once you’ve picked a good location in the heart of New England, find yourself a big tire and use heavy-duty rope to secure it to a sturdy tree. (I say all this because I understand some of our readers might be a little bit – er, on the thin-wristed side. Humans come in all shapes and sizes, and its a wonderful thing, but the universe owes you absolutely nothing. We swing from tires to both acknowledge this truth and leave it behind for at least a few sweet moments). Okay. Here’s the next one!

3. Learning How to Change A Tire

A time comes in every person’s life in which they need to learn how to take a tire off and put a new tire on. That age is about 12-14 in most Midwest states, and with that index in mind I’ll get to what’s really on the noggins of young people around this country today. Okay, so we all saw the NowThis video of that kid in Bangladesh that was making beautiful portraits of US Presidents Robert E. Lee and Hank Williams Sr. And like, sure, he had a little help and inspiration from some West Virginia elementary texts that floated across the Ocean, but it was still pretty impressive. You know, he was like mixing his spit and blood and some grass and like, some other stuff? Like paint or something I think. So anyway, I want to learn how to change a tire into, at the very least, a canvas on which art could occur. If I ever meet somebody real and feel inspired enough to once again create, I think doing it on a tire would be some madman-level bullshit. But yeah, if you guys could respond to this article and maybe point me in the direction of somebody who can turn a tire into a canvas, or just anybody at all, I would love to just get to know somebody. I know I can do right this time.

4. Decorating Your Home So That It Really Pops

Okay, okay, enough about me. So, your house looks ugly, eh? (Not assuming anything here, just playing out a little hypothetical!). So, your house totally looks like shit. I mean, your bedroom in particular looks like you rented it out to a ska band whose trumpet player brought along his girlfriend’s mother, a Fort Worth, Texas native, and boy did she take some decorative liberties. Without harping on your hypothetical mess of a life too much, let’s just say you’re essentially living in Bowling For Soup’s tour bus, and that just won’t do.

The first thing to keep in mind  when decorating any room of your house is what kind of feeling you want to experience when you come home. Your guests are irrelevant – what, are they gonna say something to your face? Now, starting with bathrooms we always recommend you go with a soft lemon-yellow base with shades of sky and ocean to complement. Taking a long shower at the end of the day has never been as tempting as it is when your bathroom looks like an impressionist painting of the beach, as seen through the eyes of a man with cataracts. That was just the simple stuff, though.

For a bedroom, you always want something that says “Hey come on in! And now that you’re in here, perhaps some sex?” Many folks are tempted to go with a wine red or burgundy as a primary sex color (PSC), but those work significantly better in a complementary role, and unless you have crown molding (I know you don’t, but again, this is a hypothetical), I’d steer clear of anything too adventurous in the realm of dark reds and non-basic sex colors (N-BSC). While crown molding is the Type-O blood of any interior decorating emergency, its installation is, much like Type-O blood, one that runs you a pretty penny; the results of cheap labor are, as some of you may understand already, rather gruesome. If your living situation doesn’t allow you to paint the walls or install big swingin’ cowboy doors, fear not: simply buy many clocks. Leave them lying around. Put one in the fridge. Now you have roommates!

5. Swing Dance Lessons! (Not!)

1-2-Cha-Cha-Ching! Hope you like getting robbed! Swing dance lessons? More like swing some cuffs around the slim wrists of these guileless amateur slide-artists. If you spend your hard-earned cash at one of these joints…well, I hope you like whipping a bunch of limonada freezos out of their cubby to ice your sore hips, ankles, and pride. I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life to call myself a student of the human body and the ways in which we puppeteer our loss of self. While I rarely enjoy using my clout and influence online as an outlet for negative press, I just had to warn others about my experience, the details of which are largely unimportant to you and me alike. The point remains: I’m tired of constantly changing who I am, just to be frozen out by every established social group I encounter. (I’m a good person, which just goes to show how serious I am with these malicious gestures aimed towards the fucking crooks who’ve wronged me. From all of Nonsense Humor, we encourage you to boycott these fucking crooks and extinguish them).

Let’s swing on over to number five! *laughing tears emoji*

6. How It’s Made: Lemonheads Candies

Okay so here’s another way you awesome readers can get involved to help Us, The Magazine! We need to see an episode of How It’s Made on the delicious product Lemonheads Candies and I don’t think my Facebook posts are getting the point across clearly enough. We as a magazine can’t stress enough how important it is that a camera crew get inside the factory or factories in which these candies are produced, so we need you readers to voice your support all over the How It’s Made Facebook feed! (Listen to what we’re telling you, okay? OK!) Whether they’re hiding something or not – I’m not saying they necessarily are – I’m thinking I have the right to see what’s going on in there. Remember, the quest for truth is only as noble as the first of the slaughtered enemy, so when all hope seems lost we must keep in mind that even at our worst we are neither the slaughter nor the slaughtered, but rather the people who stood by and watched and cheered and dreamed of being seen.

7. Lending Your Old Man A Little Money

Obviously there’s plenty of stuff you should be doing: staying in school, respecting your mother, and taking care of your little brother as he needs you now more than ever. But life kicks us around sometimes, and it’s not always forgiving of mistakes we made a long time ago. Your old man knows you’ve been going around doing extra work for Jerry, driving around all night with Donna Harris’s boys and that Karsten kid with the upsetting face, doing God-knows-what. He knows you’ve been taking more than a little money from Jerry under the table, but he’s not upset. He doesn’t want to know all the details of what you’re doing out there, and you know he could never stay mad at you anyway. He loves you. And really, he just wants you to be safe, alright? Your dad knows you’re using the extra cash to help your mother with rent, but with the holidays coming up he also knows you’ve got a small fortune saved. So what say you throw the old dog a bone, just this once? He really only needs a few bucks here and there, just to ease up the pressure from all that day-to-day bullshit. You know how it is; you get a certain reputation around town and suddenly the only thing the government isn’t stealing from you is your curse of a name. That wily bastard would kill me if he knew I came to you like this, but all that pride of his has gotten him nowhere fast. You may not understand yet, but I do. I’ve seen what it’s like out there, what it’s like to live with a list of mistakes nailed to your back for all the world to see. Your old man’s hurting, he really is. At the end of the day, no matter who you are, no matter what ya done, a guy’s still gotta eat. You know what I’m saying? A fella’s still gotta have his fun, ya know? You know what they say about old dogs, don’t ya? “Old dogs, my man. They need a little help sometimes. They need to get high.”

8. Check The Old Steel Mill For Clues

A lot of people don’t realize this, but Summer really is the only good time for finding Pajamas Julie’s hidden corpse. I know what you’re thinking: “Whoa, no way! Famed, leisurely gangster Pajamas Julie left behind a vast treasure after all?” Well think again, because that’s not what I said. The tales of Pajamas Julie’s treasure are completely unsubstantiated; nobody knows for sure if he left behind anything besides his signature solid-gold watch and the bones on which he draped his pajamz. But while flesh rots away, and jammies erode, the one thing left over holds secrets untold: a map, perhaps. I’m not saying it’s much, but it’s something, and it all begins at PJ’s old stomping grounds: the Old Steel Mill. Of course, it wasn’t a Certified American Steel Mill back in PJ’s day, oh no – it was a place with a much rowdier crowd. Yes, I’m talking about an up-and-coming steel mill. You know how it goes, you’ve seen The Replacements starring Keanu Reeves. You’ve seen Speed starring Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock. There was a feel-good intensity to the place back then, and the sprightly Longjohns Julie took advantage of the situation that he’d long observed as Chief Foreman of Hot Steel. His position in the company was equivalent to a College Professor’s tenure, which meant he could harness continuous leverage over the other workers until they became his drug and alcohol mules. As his operation grew, his position within the now-floundering company curiously furthered its ascent – Look, I’m just gonna cut to the chase here: Go to that fucking mill. You gotta go to that mill. You have to. You have to go to the mill. I’m asking for just a base-level investigation, just so I can personally move on from this. Can you do that for me? Hm? Can you shoot this old dog up with some clues?

9. Not Falling Asleep While Swimming

Alright enough goofin’, back to the serious stuff. If you fall asleep while relaxing in the water, I do not blame you. Everybody gets a little bit tired. Baths are certainly très snug, and I will certainly not condemn you for resting your eyes after a long day of swinging on tires. But listen: I will wake you up. I will give you the same admonishment my Mama gave me so long ago, a routine hollering reminiscent of Paula Dean when she got smackt out of her gourd on Facebook Live:

“Sleeping babies go down the drain!” she’d chime sweetly. “Sleeping babies drive me insane!”

If you’re good like me, you’ll do it. You’ll stay awake. You’ll be good. A good baby in the bath. Her perfection. Just do it. No more showers̸̡͢ţ͞e̶̵a̷̕m̢͠ ̷i̛͜n ͢͝͏you҉̵r̛ ̨҉͡l̷u͠ng̢s̴̴͢ ̵m͏y̷ļ͢u̕n̸͢g̨͢ş̀ ̛́́s͏̡͟ ͢my̵͡ ͞ę̸̴ý͡e̵s҉̡͠ ̸̀ ̸̛́ ͏̵ ̛ ͡͝ ́͏̴ ́͡͡ ͢͢ ͢ ̛͘ ̛b ͘ ͟͝e ͝ ͘g0  ̸͡o ̸͜ ̶ ́͝ ҉́ ̢͠od ̴ ̧ ́ ̸͝ ͏ ̶ ̵͜ ̸ ̕ ̧͜͠ ̶҉p ͏̴ ̴l ̢̛͡ ̢͠e ̷a ̨ sn̕e n n o͏̷̶ ͘m̕͠͡ơ͞re̛͡҉ h̵͢o̴t̡̕͝ ͏̡sh͏ǫ̧͘w̛͟è͢͝r̶͘͝r͠r͝ẃ͟s͢ ͟͝j̴u͏̷͢s̕͠t̀ ̡d̷͢ǫ͘͜ ̢į̨̀t̛͞ ͢͠J̶̢͜U̷ś̛t̕͞ ̶̡͘d͝o̧ ̷͟ìt̨ ̸͟ no more hot showers. Just do it. Just do it.

10. Popping Your Cherry

Just do it. That’s what they’ll tell you when it comes to getting your cherry puckered for the ol’ 1-2 cunch. (I’m outrageous!).

“It’s like getting your cartilage pierced! Just get it over with and suddenly look cool!” are two statements that a lot of people’s sisters have heard. Sickening? Maybe.

They’ll tell you to just do it, but you don’t have to listen.

“I – I just thought you were cool. Maybe I should just go home; I feel so confused. I thought you liked me. I am more or less a Nike product. Am I making you uncomfortable? Everyone said you were cool. I should have just changed your tire and left.. But you invited me in for a cool refreshing snack that you made yourself with some simple ingredients and a lot of help from your dad, and I couldn’t say no.. And now here I am, pressuring you into sex because word around town was that you were cool and enjoyed accruing social capital. God I’m a fool. Can you forgive me?”

Every lady’s heard the same sniveling plea for sex, forgiveness, friendship, and a chance to start the pathetic cycle all over again, but have you ever thought to just do it? Look, like I said, you don’t have to do it. But you could at least try it, see what you think. That’s not so unreasonable. This is college, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned at college, it’s that trying is not the same as doing. Stop making such a big deal about this. Maybe you should just drive me home if you’re going to be like this.

Neil deGrasse Tyson: Point Counterpoint

By Ariel Leal and Jesse Saunders

An excerpt from our issue Nonsense Goes To Space!

Neil Degrasse Tyson: Hero? Villain? …Thespian? With nipples like yams and a voice like the marshmallows one spreads atop, we just don’t know what to expect. The man is a saint no doubt, with thousands upon hundreds of contributions to things such as SCIENCE, math, and late night television—but math is hard and space is scary. So is he our friend or a threat to humanity itself?… Read two conflicting opinions below to find out.

Point

Life before the first encounter is a surreal dream, one that I can hardly remember in the midst of the never-ending Hell that is my current existence. I just want to sleep without having the definitions of consciousness and dreams violently shouted into my ears endlessly. I’ve taken shelter in this sensory deprivation tank because he always followed. He’d scream at me from all angles, all dimensions. I must have been eighteen when the first encounter took place. I was trying to get my Pringle wet in my father’s Honda Civic; it was going to be the single greatest moment of all my years in high school. I made sure to stock the car with several different kinds of air fresheners. Despite the smells being a whirlwind of artificial scents, Wendy just chuckled and called it all a “cute effort.” I left the key in so I could play some Bachman-Turner Overdrive to get the mood going as I drove to the cliff just a couple of minutes away from my house. The scene was beautiful, with the setting sun splashing warm colors over the valleys that that we sat overlooking. The thought of it all had me nervous, giving me goosebumps, and when we parked, I could do little more than stare at the slowly dripping condensation from Wendy’s water bottle in the cup holder. Everything I did, I did out of nervousness, telling myself that when the drop of water hit the bottom, I would make my move. I did. We started to kiss. Her plump lips pressed against mine, and after a few minutes, I pushed my hand into the tight pocket of my Levi’s. My fingers managed to take hold of the single condom caught in the web of tangled headphones. I struggled to tear the plastic open; my hands were sweaty, as was the condom. Wendy giggled again and opened the plastic for me. At that precise moment, Neil deGrasse Tyson punched his way out of the trunk of my car. My girlfriend screeched as he yelled, “You’re doing this because you’re both compelled, as animals, to procreate. There is no magic!”

I haven’t had sex ever since. So yes, I’m still a virgin. At forty-three years old he reminded me that I have “failed my duty as a living organism” and “successfully put an end to millions of years of procreative success,” but that’s another story out of hundreds of thousands. I tried to eat icecream after that initial incident, having dropped crying Wendy off at her house. She insisted that she needed some time alone. On the way to the ice-cream shop, the radio just kept blasting more and more maddening facts narrated by the creature himself, Mr. Tyson.

“Hey kids, don’t forget, you were born into existence from an eternal abyss of nothingness and you will die returning to that very same oblivion! Santa isn’t real!”

I drove up to the little kiosk down the road from my school just to get a little sweetness in my day. How I longed for the texture of my tongue dragging across the rugged terrain of sprinkles embedded into soft-serve. I guessed sprinkles were nutritionally worthless, though. None of this was healthy for me, to be honest. Was I just eating to alleviate stress? Did you know that carbohydrates are directly linked to increases in serotonin production? N-Neil taught me that..

As soon as I attempted to place my order, I found that he was the ice-cream man. “Ice-cream, or any food, or anything for that matter, is only a series of atoms intertwined in complex webs, just like you. There are no souls.” I could go into detail about these events endlessly, my mother’s funeral, my father’s suicide, the birth of my nephew- right…the birth of my nephew was supposed to be a symbol of hope for a better future. Unfortunately, baby blue tones seemed more stale than they ever have before. Color didn’t mean much to me anymore. Did you know that the color blue is associated with low anxiety levels and a sense of calm?

BAM! He was there, just like he always was. “Fun fact! Mothers are essentially forced to love their children. Oxytocin, the chemical responsible for love, is produced in high quantities after the birth of a child. You didn’t think love was actually real, did you?”

Relaxation didn’t exist for me, anymore, for every time I turned on the television the new Cosmos would start playing. I was forced to watch his affably charming face mock me from afar. He spoke of wonders, of why the universe was amazing and beautiful, but in doing so, the magic was removed from literally everything. Nothing held mystery. Nothing was intriguing. Life slowly lost meaning, at least, until I met her; Sharon, that beautiful woman. She gave my life meaning, but I was foolish to believe that this phenomenon wasn’t fleeting. At our wedding, happiness was within my grasp, until the priest asked everyone to speak now, or forever hold their peace; peace that I would only ever obtain in death. Death means nothing to me anymore but I digress. The white dress she sported seemed bland, considering that it was only the result of an inability to absorb any specific color. I put these thoughts aside though. I tried doing so for her. But of course that…daemon stood proudly and said, “Love is only a series of chemicals! Monogamy is little more than a social construct perpetuated by organized religion, which also has little to no value whatsoever!” The priest killed himself and I broke down and began to cry, each tear being a salty reminder that my emotions were little more than chemicals. Sharon left with my high school bully, Chad, because of course his name is Chad. My life is a cartoon, I think, now reminiscing in the everlasting hellscape that is my existence. I now pray that Neil won’t scare the piss out of me by jumping out of my asshole and reminding me what life is or isn’t or even why cartoons are unimpressive. I don’t care what the other guy has to say; Neil deGrasse Tyson has robbed me of my ability to live a life I’m not even sure ever existed. I can only attempt to block these memories and thoughts out in this lonely metal tank. Speaking of metal, did you know that mercury is the only metal that is a liquid at room temperature? At that moment, I heard the door slam open.

But how? I’m not supposed to be able to hear anything in here…

Heavy footsteps thudded towards me until his devastatingly strong fists punched against the tank, weakening what I hoped would serve as a metal coffin. His virtually robotic fingers pried the doors to the tank open. He squeezed inside with me and pulled me against him, placing his head on my right shoulder, his merciless lips next to my ear. I felt his warm breath on my skin as he spoke.

“Free will is an illusion, you know. Evidence supports the fact that we make decisions before the brain is even conscious of them. You are not your own person; none of us are.”

How was he doing this? Every tidbit of physics and chemistry that I was forced to remember couldn’t save me. None of it made sense. He didn’t fit the physical world that he spared no time explaining! How was he doing this?!

He tightened his grip with each factoid launched out of his mouth into the frail targets that were once my healthy ears. I cry more and more with his seemingly endless explanations. This is my reality. I just want to sleep

Counterpoint

The sun never stopped shining when I was young. Quiet, glowing, light filled up every corner of my world. I was a star among the many, simple, plebeians filling the school halls. At just eight years of age, I was ready to take on anything in this world. My clay volcano was ready to destroy my weakminded classmates with one push of a button. Until He came…Neil. All it took was one look at his potato battery and my entire life was seemingly over. Beyond beating me in every class, he destroyed my family’s quaint French villa with his pet black hole named Bill Nye, and didn’t even have the kind courtesy to torture me to my face. The mark he’s left on the scientific community is one of a villain, a rogue with no care for his common scientists. His chocolate dipped low-cal voice sends its listeners gliding through space and away from their dreadful, feeling-ridden lives for hours at a time. But apparently returning my phone calls was too much of challenge for the so-called Brilliant Man. BAH! I’m calling him what he’s truly always been: a carob-throated hack, through and through. While real investigators of science and fact, spend their time destroying hope and convincing the public that the fast and inevitable heat death of the universe is coming extremely soon — when in fact we have yet to reach a confirmed date on that –Tyson has made a career out of “informing the public,” and “Sending learning and love to a child you know.” You think science was made to create a community of knowledge? Do you all actually think that it was meant to better humankind? Tyson is and has always been a figure of disgrace, a man who has the time to play games with children and speak about the future of the Sun’s desires, but he couldn’t even come to my birthday party. Weird, huh? Every test we ever took… every time I applied for a position, only to be laughed at as he sauntered through the door in nice shoes and pants…It became too much. The kids might be obsessed with him, but I have seen through him. I have seen through every inch of him. For years, I spent every moment of every day desperately trying to fix his mistakes, to fix our society, to maybe speak to him for a few minutes and see if he remembered me from that time we got partnered together in lab. But I was hopeless. Whether it was his casual suit or his dark, steamy, lying eyes, I was sick at the thought of him, and more sick at the thought of being away from him. Don’t you all understand yet? His mind might be great — it is great — but he was always wasting himself by trying to rationalize who and what he really is to the dregs of society. He could have and should have been spending it on better people — people who are interesting and love science and understand math at an above average level. Tyson isn’t of your world, you lazy degenerates. You don’t deserve him, his wealth of knowledge is but a penny in the beggar’s cup that is your brains. NeildeGrasse was always meant for a different world, don’t you see that? He was meant for the world of science, always destined to be consumed by the vastness of his own mind… and so he was. Neil deGrasse Titan, the man who made learning good for idiots and bad for smart people, perished at the hands of the one thing he truly loved. Indeed, he was killed by science. “How so?” you may be asking. “What could have disassembled the fine man we knew only as Neil Tyson deGrasse Junior High. Simple, dear plebeian masses: when the element formerly known as hydrargyrum (mercury) touches a prosperous fuse—a car bomb. I put a bomb in his car.

Conclusions

Interesting, two completely different opinions. Yes. Two totally different sentiments expressed. Two—did you guys even talk to each other before sending these pieces in? Who was responsible for assigning each of you your positions? It wasn’t me. I’ll tell you that much. It wasn’t—who even wrote the intro I—you know what? I wash my hands of this. It’s late. Two opinions on NDT, BFD.

Choose Your Own Fucking Adventure: Space Edition!

By Veronica Toone

An excerpt from our issue Nonsense Goes To Space!

We’re back, babies! You thought this shit would taper off? You thought we were done with the ol’ CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE SECTION? I wish. But I’ve been recruited by the fabled High Council to tell you all a SICK SPACE EPIC. We’re continuing on a seemingly endless journey. The immolation of all ecosystems is at hand. I miss my kids.

Mama Joni—that’s me—will be your, quite frankly, underpaid guide today. So strap in, adjust your HELMETS and get your motherfucking TANG ready to go, because we’re gonna all up and venture where no man has ever dared to tread: space, the LAST FRONTIER. (I can’t say final: Mama Joni likes to follow copyright law.)

That’s right, kiddies: this week’s adventure is:

Literal Outer Space.

 

START HERE! The year is 2689. You and your crew of ASTRONAUT PEEPS are gathered on board the Omnibus, a great big ol’ rocket whose name will not be mentioned again. CHRISTOPHER KRISTOFFERSON, your commander, approaches your teeny squadron. His eyes lock on you and you feel the dark-coffee heat of lust somewhere just below your hairline. “Gentlemen, ladies, and those that transcend primal human gender binary,” he barks. “We’re beginning our descent into the Karrian system. We’ll reach Parlius in T minus twenty minutes. Remember your mission. Are you ready to jump?” His strong jaw twitches with anticipation, and something in your LOWER INTESTINE twitches with something else. Kristofferson is one hell of a pilot, and one hell of a man. The broccoli in his teeth forces you out of your fantasy and redirects your attention to the FLIGHT SUIT on the wall. Do you jump?

If you choose to jump, go to PARAGRAPH 3.

If you choose not to jump, go to PARAGRAPH 2.

PARAGRAPH 2: You look Kristofferson directly in his rugged, tasty, face and swallow your humility in favor of looking like a grizzled veteran space traveler. You stay in your seat as your squadron adorns their flight suits.

“Sir,” you say, “I don’t think I’m ready. Perhaps I should stay on the ship?”

“Perhaps you should do your goddamn job, Soldier. Go back to your quarters, you’re on latrine duty for the next 12 star-days. No food, either: have fun being hungry. Also, I’m fucking your sister,” said Kristofferson.

You got demoted. Your sister got fucked. Go back to START. Did you even go through basic training?

PARAGRAPH 3: You look Kristofferson directly in his rugged tasty face and swallow your pride in favor of looking like you’re a good little soldier who went through basic training, and knows at the very least how to do your goddamn job. “Yes Sir, ready to be doing the jumping on your go, Sir.” What? You turn your head and briskly approach the hatch before he can reply. Just adorn your flight suit, you awkward fuck. Mama Joni hopes your communication skills improve over the course of this choose your own adventure. The hatch opens—take your last breath of artificial air. 3…2—did you remember your oxygen tank?—1. You drop out of the hatch and float down to Parlius, home of the Hareenians, a misunderstood and slightly-below-average-intelligence alien race whose name Mama Joni pulled outta her ass, and also will not be mentioned again. You change into your alternate outfit [flight suit now equipped!) and begin walking through a SICKASS ALIEN FOREST. Eventually you come to a fork in the road.

If you choose to go left, go to PARAGRAPH 4.

If you choose to go right, go to PARAGRAPH 5.

PARAGRAPH 4: You decide to go left, because right is always wrong, and you walk through said Sickass Alien Forest for what feels like star-weeks. (I just like putting ‘star’ before actual increments of Earth time, welcome to space.) Eventually you reach the FABLED ALIEN CITY OF KAREEFER, home of the—what were they called? Whatever, doesn’t matter—and look around you in wonder. You seem to blend in with the race of suspiciously-humanoid, fairly below-average-looking creatures that would never be so observant as to not notice a literal alien walking among them. You ask one of the aliens where the royal palace is, and they answer you in a language you do not understand. Shit! You didn’t think to read up on the local language, did you? What are you gonna do now?

If you decide to just wander around, go to PARAGRAPH 6.

If you decide you want to try and talk back to the alien, go to PARAGRAPH 7.

PARAGRAPH 5: You should know by now that one of these is gonna lead you to death, right? I can’t fill up too much space. Listen, you can think of Mama Joni more like a better-looking, cookie-baking Jiminy Cricket here, honey: you’re the one that has to make the decisions. Anyway, you go and—I don’t know, dude. You go to the right and meet a PISSED OFF ALIEN who just blows your goddamn brains out. This magazine is free, isn’t it? You’re not wasting any money on this?

YOU DIED. Go back to the beginning. Life is meaningless.

PARAGRAPH 6: Always polite, you say the only phrase you know in the language that these things happen to speak: “reéairot quinoh.” The alien looks mildly offended as you walk away, and you realize that you told them you might have fucked a dog once. Whatever, it’s not like you were invited to their Whiega feast or anything. (I’m trying my best, I’m the DM, these are made up words.) You round the corner and enter the CENTER OF TOWN. The aliens, whose species name escapes me right now, are watching you. You look past a square building at the ROYAL PALACE. It’s big ay-eff. Your mission was clear from the beginning, even though I may or may not have mentioned it: you are Earth’s sole ambassador on this weird planet, and you have to talk to their weird king so they won’t blow up your shit. You go to the town square and look up at the BIG ASS STATUE of one of these, uh, extraterrestrials.

If you decide to ignore the statue and hail a Space Cab™, go to the LAZY ENDING.

If you decide to ask for a picture with the statue, go to PARAGRAPH 9.

PARAGRAPH 7: To your untrained human listening apparatuses, this whatever-they’re-called said something along the lines of: “Bahaké treiej.” You look her dead in her face: she is tall, taller than you, and is dense with muscle. Her face looks like a cross between Steve Buscemi and Scarlett Johansson. Take a second and try to visualize that shit. “Oh, I’m sorry—uh…eloch gah more-own-a,” you say. She gasps and slaps across the face. “I speak English,” she says as she goes on her way. “And I’m at a very healthy weight, thank you. Earth trash.”

Wow, insulting a young alien’s appearance. Way to go. Bet you feel like a real asshole, huh? Go back to Paragraph 4. You make me sick.

PARAGRAPH 8: Skip this. Go to Paragraph 9. I just need to have a number 8 here. Don’t read this: this is for me and me alone. Remember to take your clothes out of the dryer. Remember to take your clothes out of the dryer. Doo dee doo doo doot.

PARAGRAPH 9: You give your ANTIQUATED EARTH PICTURE-TAKING APPARATUS to a passing alien. “Hey, can you get a picture of me with this bomb-ass statue?” The alien looks at you in confusion, but after putting the camera in their little ol’ grubby hands, they seem to understand. They brush their hand to the side—get closer. You put your hand on the statue and it CRUMBLES INTO PIECES IMMEDIATELY. You and the alien stare in horror: what have you done? You’re supposed to be Earth’s sole ambassador, grade-A dumb shit. And you destroyed the statue. It’s broken. And you did that.

Go to the REAL ENDING.

LAZY ENDING: You ignore the statue and hail a Space Cab™ and the driver shoots you in the fucking neck. Go away.

REAL ENDING: More aliens crowd around you, shouting obscenities in their native tongue. You try to defend yourself, saying it was an accident, and finally an alien steps forward. She speaks to you in English. “Alien,” she says, “you have destroyed the great Statue of Ganja. You must appear before the High Court, where your fate will be judged by a judge.” The SPACE PO-PO arrive and put handcuffs on you, and off you’re carted to SPACE COURT. Space Court is a lot like regular court, except everyone is—you know what? This is my world. I do what I want, and you destroyed a statue. So you have to appear NUDE before the High Council and all the jurors are aiming LASER GUNS right at your dumb fucking forehead. The judge rules you guilty, and you remember that when you are found guilty in Space Court, all the jurors get to just blast their little ol’ lasers at you whenever they see fit, because you ruined their shit and now you deserve it. Perhaps you would have been better off in the Space Cab™, huh? Ha ha.

YOU GET DRAGGED OFF TO SPACE JAIL AND ARE SENTENCED FOUR AND A HALF INTERPLANETARY CYCLES. YOU’RE OVER. YOU’RE CANCELLED.

The Footrace in Space

By Trevor Parrish and Quin Asselin

An excerpt from our issue Nonsense Goes To Space!

Times were tense. Russia had a bomb, we had a bomb. We are the USA, Russia was Cuba a little bit. Our governments pleading to show GROWTH. Lusting for dominance. The long awaited Space Race was about to start. You know, THE Space Race. I’m talkin’ ships, and moondust, and cocaine filled Hollywood basements, baby! Yeah, that Space Race. Each of the three competitors: The Dessicated Corpse of Jesse Owens, Usain Bolt, and Looney Tunes’ own “Speedy Gonzales” had been training for 113 days in preparation for this historic event. Each of these really fast quicksters was lined up to run directly out of the Earth’s atmosphere and be the first to crash into the surface of, “the Mars.” James “The Space Jam” Carter stood at the starting spot on the summit of the snowy, stoic Mount Everest. Each competitor was gasping for air. Except for Speedy Gonzales who is animated and thus requires no live action oxygen. As well as the corpse of Jesse Owens who was simply a pile of bone scraps, dirt, and American triumph over Hitler. So really only Usain Bolt was making a scene.

Ya know, Usain Bolt really ruined the whole spirit of the event. What a spectacle. We were all waiting with bated breath for the long journey to that shitty rust orb known as “Mars” (to all those Barbara Walters types), but Mr. Bolt just kept complaining about how a mountain was an inappropriate starting position for a race to begin. Poor show, Usain.

Jiminy “Cricket” Carter fired the starting pistol, only to find that the gun, rather than being loaded with blanks, was filled with the sorrows of a lost generation of young Syrian refugees and the joy of hearing a puppy’s first words. The runners were off and the gun filled with God’s tears as bullets was safely returned to the nearest municipal library. For firing the weapon, Jimothy Cartright was imprisoned within two dimensional space for the remainder of this story.

Halfway through the stratosphere, it was clear that Bolt didn’t have his heart in this one. The wheezing husk of a man had all but given up on running 90° vertically out of the gravitational grasp of Big Mama Earth. As Usain continued to complain, his clothes began igniting due to friction from the ever increasing speed of his “Debbie Downerisms.”  However, Gonzales proved to be not only the fastest mouse in Mexico, but the fastest mouse charging to his inevitable finish on a cold lonely red planet. Meanwhile, the tenuously built frumple of bones that had once held Owens’ meat filling aloft had blown over. This was, no doubt, due to the great gust of air that accompanied the other racers as they began. They rested there atop the Himalayas and if they could, they’d have sang, a song, a hymn, or a melodious jaunt through the ages.

Burning through the upper layers of the atmosphere at an alarming rate, Bolt finally broke past the worldly trappings of gaseous surroundings. Subsequently, the fire that had all but engulfed him went out, and the Great Dirt Devil in the Sky began vacuuming the air out of that poor Jamaican sod’s lungs. The world-class sprinter slowly came to a halt, as the deep cold of space crept into his calcium sticks, like an inchworm slowly squeakin’ towards desire.

Only two competitors remained, Speedy Gonzales and the entirely inert debris of a true American patriot. Gonzales had pulled fast into the lead by quite a large margin, already halfway to that polar-capped desert otherworld, “Mars.” However, Owens seemed to have a few more tricks up his high jump champion sleeves.

Before Speedy, on the previously unmentioned space road, was a nigh impenetrable wall of White Owl brand cigarettes, piled so high that they blocked any rodent from passing. He knew what had to be done. Gonzales whipped out his lighter and started smoking faster than a slow cooker at a Louisiana Barbeque. The fastest mouse in all of Latin America descended into a deep smog of carcinogens, emphysema, and a 40% chance of poisoning the target.

At once, the mouse was gone in a puff of smoke and questionably racist exclamations. The fervent energy he’d contained had only been intensified by a humanly-insurmountable quantity of tobacco. Gonzales was making record time for the possible purgatory of Matt Damon after a certain 2015 summer blockbuster. Speedy began to vibrate through time on his approach towards this year’s most popular rouge rogue roving rover home, “Mars.” He knew to truly win this race he must end it with a bang.

Speedy glimpsed into the future and saw his destiny in the molten core of this dumb rock. He knew what he had to do. The mouse tugged on the brim of his banana colored hat and phased through space to the heart of the planet. As the ferrous rock collapsed onto him with the force of 70 Amy Winehouse singles at once, Speedy knew he had succeeded. His neatly animated form slowly began to crumble into a perfect Mexican diamond. Speedy glinted in the sky, and Jesse Owens smiled back, knowing that America had finally won the Space Race.

ISS/ISIS Paradigm Shift

By Ariel Leal

An excerpt from our issue Nonsense Goes To Space!

Chapter One

“Those are MY franks GODDAMN IT!” I awoke in a cold sweat. I reached over to my nightstand, knocking over several empty cans of Bud Light and my Gameboy Advanced SP to grab my pill bottle. Now I’m not a huge fan of these here farmer suit ankles but who am I to doubt the great American Healthcare system? After all, I’m not a doctor. I’m a veteran. I’m a hero.

I tried jerkin the bottle some to pour some of those plastic slugs into my hand but none came out. By Fidel Castro’s unkempt and fascist beard! I had to refill this yesterday.

All of a sudden I realized that maybe my dream twern’t no dream so I walked through the wall of my bedroom and booted the shit out of the handle to my back door, effectively smashing the wooden obstacle open. At once I was greeted by the harsh rays of the sun, my sun. My beautiful baby boy. I looked up at my kin and forced my retinas to endure the searing pain of his brilliance.

“My sun! I just want you to know I’m proud of you!” I shouted to that big ol’gas beast. I smiled and dusted some of the drywall off my shoulders.

It’s time for coffee, I thought so I sprinted eighteen miles over to my neighbor’s farm. I found one of my neighbor’s cows and punched it to death for some good ol’ strawberry milk. Thick. Viscous. The slimy bastard, otherwise known as my neighbor, came out and ran towards me screaming like some kind of fuckin’ coward.

“Boy I seen good men get their winguses blown off and cry less than this. I bet you don’t even pay your taxes.” I pointed my phallic finger in that fucker’s face.

I punched that commie’s nose in until his skin matched his ideologies.

DICC (Dead ISIS/Commie Count): 1

“Better dead than red,” I said, for the seventy-fifth time this week while also lighting an American cigar and taking a good, deep, crispy, puff. I decided to enjoy the moment by playing some video games on my Gameboy. Helps relieve the stress. After a little while, his wife, or daughter, or heck, maybe even both, came out running with a frying pan but I thwarted her attempts to catch me off guard by pissing myself. She was just too quick and ended up dislocating my jaw anyway.

Now the whole thing was blurry but I remember waking up in one of those er, uh, field things covered in blood, and lemme tell ya, it wasn’t just bovine. There was a finger in my mouth with the nail burned black and I couldn’t help but wonder how a thing like that could find its way into my mouth hole but this wasn’t the time for solving mysteries. It was already nighttime and I thanked my lucky stars that my boy was tucked away, sleeping soundly. He takes after his mom. Stretching out, I found myself a red Solo cup tied to a string that seemed to go on for miles and miles. Naturally, I answered the call of duty.

“Uh…hello?” I asked, wondering who could be calling at this hour.

“Jones! C.O. Jones? We need your help! I’ve heard of your experience with Space Nazis and between you and me, what you did to Mecha Pol Pot’s head was a GOT damn masterpiece.”

“I’m listening, Cap. What do you need?”

“There’s some trouble on the ISS and you-

“ISIS? You stop right there, Cap; I knew this day would come.”

“Can you do it, Jones? Can you climb aboard the space station and-

“That’s enough, Captain. I already said yes and you won’t see me backing out like some commie dump truck.”

I tried crumpling the plastic beverage receptacle only to find that it had already disappeared. Now that is American engineering. Standing up, I found that I was fully erect.

It’s time to go save DEMOCRACY.

Chapter Two

K-Mart, a peaceful land. I drove my truck into the sliding doors, killing two pedestrians in the process. I have a zero-tolerance policy for jaywalkers.

DICC (Dead ISIS/Commie Count): 3

I coulda waited but democracy wouldn’t so I had to act fast. I found my way on over to the beer section, the section with all the beer, and punched through the glass door to pick up a silver bullet. As I browsed this store’s fine wares, I poked my head into the video game section briefly but all this new shit was nothing like some 90’s classics. I then mosied on over to the gun section, you know, the section with all the guns, and picked up some more silver bullets. They weren’t actually silver but not callin’ em such makes it less poetic. I digress, citizen. I picked up all the ammunition and guns I needed and dumped ‘em all out on the cash register. My hands were bleeding and full of glass shards. The cashier done pissed himself so I shouted at him, grabbing his face in my bloody and sharp hands.

“Do you see my blood, private? TELL ME WHAT COLOR MY BLOOD IS!”

“I-it’s r-red,” the shrimp cocktail, flamingo-licking pansy mumbled.

“I’ll have you know I’m a retired veteran so you best refer to me with due respect.”

“O-okay, sir,” he said. Pathetic.

“My blood is red. I pay my taxes! I was kicked out of a court room during jury duty once for sporting an erection as hard as the time I did on tour! Above all else, I was a volunteer fireman in grade school so don’t you-

“W-what’s that have to do with-

I rammed my fist through his cranium for interrupting me.

DICC (Dead ISIS/Commie Count): 4

I might’ve thought this prick was a pansy but I had no idea he’d stand in the way of liberty as a terrorist.

Damn, I thought, they’ve even infiltrated our K-Marts. It makes sense considering they didn’t even have locks on these guns. To make matters worse, the guns themselves are bright yellow and blue and the bullets have orange tips, as if to make it easier for them to spot us. Then again, maybe I want that, maybe I want them to see me coming.

I figured I was close, considering I already done killed four menaces. It was time to consult the egg-heads. My combat boots thudded against the ground repeatedly until I found myself in the science section, you know, the section with all the nerds. Some college kid was messing around with some science stuff, I guess.

“You there! How do I get to space?”

“Excuse me?” the little shit asked.

“It’s either I forcefully ram eighty-three kettle cooked barbecue chips in your urethra or you TALK!”

“Um…the latter, I guess…” he said, selling out immediately. You wouldn’t see American soldiers behaving so despicably.

“So you knew all along!” I pinned the ungrateful millennial up against the wall.

“What the hell are you going on about? Knew about what?” he squealed desperately. Commie desperation.

It was difficult to look at his face when the sun was shining in my eyes from the nearest window. Wait a minute…my son, my beautiful baby boy, is up there! This asshole playing dumb couldn’t fool me. I took the previous Coors beer can and shoved it down the boy’s esophagus, effectively suffocating him to death. As he collapsed, I thought about the sweet vengeance I just enacted on the filthy terrorist.

“You know what they say, partner; when it’s blue, you know it’s as cold as the Rockies.”

DICC (Dead ISIS/Commie Count): 5

Chapter Three

“Pack your things, folks, we’re going to space!” I exclaimed to the native people of the K-Mart. Everyone knows how to get to space. I began ramming my fists into the nearest concrete wall, pushing the glass shards deeper into my hands. After awhile I managed to find a ladder. The ladder. The space ladder. I climbed and climbed until I stopped being able to breathe, but that’s okay. I was on the varsity swim team in high school so I knew how to hold what little breath I had left. Red and blue lights started flashing everywhere, which I assume is common to space or whatever. This was it. This was space. Things were kind of a blur but I vaguely remember crashing the base onto the moon, I think. I could swear I lost my arms heroically, fighting the good fight against the real enemies because right now I can’t feel my arms. For a brief moment, I remember having another family, but that can’t be right. Have I been brainwashed? It doesn’t matter. Here I am, on the moon. Everything is so bright and white and…soft. My head hurts so fucking badly too. I must have been brainwashed because I suddenly had the strongest urge to play video games more than any other moment in my life. Don’t get me wrong, I adore consumerism but this was just strange. I just feel so compelled to…see pictures of Crash Bandicoot, really badly. What’s happening to me?

Out of nowhere, an alien sporting a white lab coat and a clipboard approached me. That sick asshole. Not only was he real and deceiving the American people about his existence, but he killed our own and took their clothing.

“Are we calm now? Do you promise not to blind another one of our nurses? Are you free to talk in a rational manner?” the alien barraged me with questions, most likely planning to use the answers to end all wonderfully capitalistic behaviors of our gorgeous American society.

“That’s the thing, you freak; in this country, I’m always free.”

My urethra was sewn shut in some form of poetic horror, but I wouldn’t complain like some whiney liberal. After all, this is the land of the free and the home of the brave. God bless America.

An Open Letter to the 10 Exceptional Asteroids that I Once Loved

2001: A Space Odyssey Online

Ben Fletcher in 797 words on December 6th, 2016

An excerpt from our issue Nonsense Goes To Space!

1. Hygiea

You were there for me when my back was against the wall. You’ve seen me at my worst and at my best, and you never hesitated to pick me up when I was down. Those were the good times, until we floated apart. You weren’t the biggest and maybe not the most exceptional asteroid that I’ve known but goddamn it, you were exactly the 503 by 407 by 370 in Kilometers that I needed in the summer of 1849. I miss you Hygiea, I hope you’re doing well.

2. Hektor

You were like a father figure to me. I learned so much from you, my daddy Hektor with a K. Is that German or Russian? You still never told me. I tried to get a read on you, but I could never seem to get past your craterous frame. But I know, I just know underneath that hulking, rocky exterior, there is more rock. God I wish you were my Dad instead of an asteroid.

3. Bamberga

Hey Bam. It’s been 3 years since I’ve stopped chugging cough syrup like you asked. But now I can’t shake the feeling of wanting to start up again, because I can’t get any rest without you baby. You let Johann Palisa discover you instead of discovering yourself like you said you wanted to. I wish you would come back. I’ll be here. You know where to find me.

4. Doris

You were trusting, caring, loving, and always down to do anal. I don’t think I’ll ever meet another asteroid like you. Mostly because of the anal thing. Out of all the asteroids I’ve dated, you’re the only one with a butthole. I’m still confused as to how that got there, but I’m not complaining. Sorry I got you evicted for causing quite the ruckus during the anal. You just put the ass in asteroid baby ;P XDDDDD

5. Pallas

I have nothing more to say to you. I hope you and Melvin are doing well you cheater. Give me back my Across The Universe DVD.

6. Hebe

I found that tree we scratched our initials on 3 winters ago. You remember, the tall birch with the green leaves? Yeah, that one. It brought back good memories, but also reminded me why we’re not together anymore. You told me you wanted space, but I didn’t think you actually meant you were going to abscond back into the god damn solar system without even so much as a “goodbye”. My eyes begin to water just thinking about it. We could’ve had it all Hebe, now I just have the hebejeebees.

7. Metis

“1st battalion, shake a tower! Large enough to crush the axis power!!” Oh boy, Metis my man, remember that nursery rhyme of a battle cry? Haha I still to this day have no idea what it means. Something to do with pooping? Oh boy, our days in the service were wild. Sgt. was always getting on our asses for not saying it loud enough, but would never bother to explain it! But we sure did take it to those damn Nazis didn’t we brother?! We should get together some time and play backgammon like we used to back in the day. Tell Irene and the kids I said seasons greetings.

8. Diotima

Tell our son Nelson I’ll be by to pick him up in a few hours. We’re gonna go to the zoo and when he asks good ol’ Dad what the gorillas are called, I’m going to say “There called Diotima’s lil’ buddy,” and he’s going to say “Isn’t that mommy’s name?” and I’m going to say “Yep, they were actually named after she became the cantankerous whore that is your mother and decided that Daddy couldn’t go out gambling on a Tuesday and waste the rent money on Ultimate Texas Hold’em because he FUCKING KNOWS if he just gets one good hand we could finally afford a pool table. You fucking tell her that Nelson!!” That’s what I’m gonna say. I’ll be there after lunch.

9. Aletheia

You taught me how to knit, how to change a tire, and how to read. I don’t know where I would be right now if I didn’t know how to read because of you Aletheia. You made my world brighter, and occasionally darker when you covered up the sun. I should’ve been more attentive when I cooked for you. How was I supposed to know you had a gluten allergy? What part of your craggy, jagged body needs to process gluten?? Again, I’m sorry, but you should’ve told me first.

10. Ceres

Babe, you were hands down, 10/10, the absolute THICKEST babe I have ever laid my grubby little mitts on. I can’t think of anyone else that treated my wiener the way you did. I know that we’ve grown apart ever sense I moved away, but I promise you, there is nobody else I would be proud to call my mother.

A Day in the Life of Elon Musk

By Toby Jaffe

An excerpt from our issue Nonsense Goes To Space!

 

6:00 AM SHARP Wake up, wake all the way up. Nothing can stop me.

6:02 I’M ALL THE WAY UP.

6:04 Dance to some pre-released trap shit in my cotton choo-choo decorated PJs for a few. Flail melodiously to the beat.

6:07 Boot up the ol’ Ipad and record.

6:09 Undress sexily. Stroke my naughty bits.

6:11 Bathe in hydroponic aquaporin and red wine, scooping both astounding liquids with only the tallest of Bordeaux glasses.

6:35 Sip a bit.

7:01 Stare into the mirror. Shave. Comb. Flirt coyly with a friendly hair flip.

7:05 Remain undressed, except for my delightful silk robe.

7:20 Milk Walter, my wondrous pet goat.

7:33 Kiss Walter on the lips.

7:35 Whisper sweet nothings into his saccharine, pointy ears about our dreams and the alternative dimensions we will discover if only they’d give us a damn chance.

8:02 Get dressed. Today I have chosen to wear a superior black polo with the chest exposed (no chest hair, NEVER!) and some sensuous white khakis.

8:17-ISH Prepare for today’s Space-X test-launch. Expectations high, but realistic.

8:22 Eat a powerbar, savoring it as if to know it closely, savoring it as if to fuck it.

8:39 Call that foxy Forbes reporter I once played scrabble with. Yes Yes, ladies and gentleman, I won. Of course I did. Ha Heh Heh. Invite foxy Forbes reporter to the launch.

9:00 Well but who cares what time it is because time is but an infinite soulless being—Ponder, while driving at speeds once unimaginable some decades ago, why the Game Designers Above made me so damn charming and attractive. Yes. I love time. I love space.

10:08  Foxy Forbes reporter doesn’t show.

10:23 That’s fine, as my damn rocket blew up not even four feet off the ground. Total disaster.

10:30 Assure myself weepily into cape Canaveral bathroom mirror it’s not my fault.

11:04, I think — Compose.

11:30 Tug on my polo sleeves for many a minute and concoct the perfect subtweet at NASA with that ever so perfect mix of aloof hostility and aw-shucks light-heartedness. Jolt the bastards with a smile!

11:56 “Turning out to be the most difficult and complex failure we have ever had in 14 years!” I write into my phone “where’s my money fuckers? You know who you are”.  Brutal. Sleek. Devastatingly effective. I have those nerds in the palm of my sweaty, muscular man-hands.

12:05 Do some spicy nose sugar on the dash of a model colony ship.

12:10 Sue Nonsense for printing that.

12:11 Double sue them.

12:36 Hop into the Tesla and blast some Doobie Brothers.  

12:38 Release powdery tears without control.

12:40 “WHAAAAAAT A FOOL BELIEVES!!!!!”

12:45 Stop by Valley Burrito Shop and order five of those things.

12:47 Demand them stuffed with everything on the menu. We’re talking guac and sour cream and lettuce and tomatoes and salsa and cheese and meat and frogs and plastic black bear genitals and washing machine hand grenades and oh my god what a day.

12:52 Throw up an avalanche of dollar bills and thank NO ONE. We’ve got no need for counters!

1:00 Scarf these burritos down like the South African Mega-Leopard I am.

1:03 ON THE FUCKING DOT — Sprint out to the Tesla and drive. Just drive.

2:25 Feel the urge to release my burritos into a splendid rest-stop toilet, but remember that Elon must never poop. Too much work to get done, ladies and gentleman. I’ve let many a burrito live inside me, yes, yes. Have I told you we’re going to Mars in less than 20 years? Have I told you it will be affordable? Have I told you it will be fun? Have I told you we will build restaurants and movie theaters? Have I told you space is one hell of a place? Have I told you everything?

3:35 Have I told you I want to cry?

3:46 Return home and immediately nap. Plan accordingly. The world waits.

8:05 Re-wake.

8:09 Refreshed.

8:14 Sensual and dashing as ever.

8:29 Fix some coffee and plot next move in basement office.

8:45 Calculations.

8:59 Physics.

9:12 CHEMISTRY AND BIOLOGY. TRY AND STOP ME. ALL THE WAY UP 252525194914525:259259292525 CALCULATE THE ACTUAL EXACT TIME OF THE UNIVERSE.  NOTHING CAN STOP ME I’M

9:13 Call Business Insider with the news.

9:21 Call New York Times with the news.

9:37 Call, uh, the, uh, well let me put it this way: my pals like to call themselves the ‘Free Masons’. They live down the block. They liked to be alerted about this stuff. Ha heh heh. Mooks.

10:33 Depart office, slip into PJs.

10:49 Masturbate lube-free(!) to a Ted Talk I gave in 11’.

10:56 Finish up, keep watching this wonderfully illuminating speech.

11:01 Shut my eyes, flow into a restless dream world that is realer than our own.

1:10-infinite Tell these mysterious dream creatures, with their aspirations and passions, that only I can be Elon Musk! Only I.

Follow These 5 Easy Steps to Lasso the Moon for Your Lover

by Our Sex Expert

An excerpt from our issue Nonsense Goes To Space!

1. Make the mating call to attract a lover.

   Everyone knows the best way to attract a steamy love connection is a nice Inuit throat song. Try to connect to Mother (or Daddy ;)) Earth by sticking your moistened ass into a pot of tree sap. Now you’re ready to sing the throat song of any potential mate’s dream.

2. Make the sex to your newfound lover.

   We all know this step. Here at Nonsense, we make the sex many much. Often to each other—it is awkward. So trust us. After serenading your throat song lover, they will coo in your ear life a baby robin on a Spring morn. This is the clear sign to start entering and/or exiting your lover’s point of interest. We all know where that point of interest is. After you have made, your lover will beg you to get the moon for them.

3. Buy some rope.

   This seems like a common sense step, but I’ve seen way too many people try to lasso the Moon without a rope to not include it. That’s like trying to kiss your mom before she gives you the warm milk!

4. Obtain the potion to make you super big.

   This step also seems like common sense. You’re going to need to get really big in order to fit all that rope around the 1079-mile radius of the Moon. I’m talking REALLY big. The only man with a potion to make you grow to such heights is Lucien the Magician. He’ll give you the potion, oh yes! But at a cost. The cost is your new lover. Now I know this seems like a terrible idea, but trust us.

5. Lasso the Moon.

   Use that rope to lasso all 1079 miles of the Moon’s radius, and pull it close to the Earth. Now the tides of the Earth are going wild, cities are crumbling to the sea, and your new lover is making sex to Lucien the Magician (that was poor advice on my part). Bring the Moon all the way into the Earth, so your new, now ex-lover can see it, and be so jealous. She’ll look in your extremely massive, very scary eyes and tell you she loves you. At this point the Moon will hit the Earth and destroy everyone you’ve ever known, including your lover.

6. Bonus Step: Drift as a giant man through space.

   Try not to think of all the innocent lives you just took. Don’t think of that sweet sex making you had with your lover. Don’t think about how you could have easily prevented this by never trading your lover for a potion. Don’t think about how you read internet articles to help you with your love life. You can cry in space, but your tears won’t fall. No Gravity.

Six Things They Don’t Have In Space

by James Sweeney

An excerpt from our issue Nonsense Goes To Space!

Space:
The Gaping Birth Canal.
The Airless Tomb.
Home to Everything
But Not These Things

1. Racism

Believe it or not, there is simply no racism in Space. There is zero racism in Space. Sure, people are dicks sometimes, but there’s not much you can really do about that. There’s one guy – Arthur – he’s a practicing Episcopalian. Some of us are a bit wary of him. Susan thinks he’s a pseudo-intellectual, and kind of weird around women, and I can definitely see what she’s getting at. He just likes to wink at inappropriate times I think, it’s really not that big of a deal. I just – he’s not someone I can really talk to for longer than a few minutes. I feel like he tries too hard to relate to whatever emotional state I’m in at the time, but I can tell that for him those kinds of interactions don’t come super naturally. It’s kind of sad, honestly.  Anyway, Arthur is half-Filipino and half-Cuban, so if you’re looking for someone to call a racist, look elsewhere.

“There must be at least a few racists in Space!” you’re probably saying to yourself. Well, stop saying that, because it’s patently false. There was a very thorough vetting process before we boarded the Space Bus, and there was a sheet handed out with like, seven questions about racism, and everyone I’ve met so far has assured me that they answered them all truthfully; that’s how I know that there are no racists in Space.

2. White People

I’m not saying there was a flier in the window that read No Whiteys or anything like that, but I could kind of tell from the minute I stepped on the bus that I was more-or-less freed from the Earthly displeasures of Imagine Dragons. There were like three or four different boxes on the Gettin’ to Know Ya worksheet where you could fill out your race; Susan thinks it was to trick all the moronic white idiots into revealing their race to the strong Bus Driver, and I definitely think her perspective there is, at the very least, a valid one. None of us have any gripes with white people or anything, I hope it doesn’t sound like that – I actually don’t even know why they aren’t allowed on this bus. I guess they just wanted this to be a good trip or something. Now before anybody gets up in arms, just know that I actually found some of them to be pretty fun back on Earth. Drew Carey was pretty funny. Ellen Degeneres was pretty fun and funny, I thought. Barack Obama’s mom did right by all of us. But Space just has a totally different vibe. Everyone I’ve talked to up here seems to agree that whites just wouldn’t fit in. I mean, between the hours a day we all spend shredding rhythmic instruments, cooking with actual spices, and not feeling entitled to assert some unearned savior role to every situation that requires the slightest amount of leadership or rationality, there really doesn’t seem like a lot of room for them. Again, no offense to the Tighty Whitey, Bright-Skin Bleach Babies. I sincerely hope you enjoy the remnants of an Earth your elder whiteys destroyed.  

3. Guns

Yeah we just straight up didn’t bring any guns into Space with us. We could have, there was some room on the bus, but we just didn’t. Leaving all our guns on White Earth seemed like a good idea at the time, and an even better one now that I have a hunch that Susan was the one behind the carvings under the lunch table. It’s not that I’m angry, or that I would ever actually use a gun on somebody else, or anything like that. I just feel lied to. Arthur tried to take the blame for her, I’m guessing in order to win her over, except he completely screwed it up and just kept winking at me. I’m still really not sure what the full truth is, because when he came forward and admitted that he was the one who used a paring knife to fashion the sentence, “Susan is the most beautiful full-blooded Latina woman I’ve ever seen,” onto our collapsible eatery, she immediately started hamming up that same old Woe Is Me, I’ve Got A Space-Stalker! act she loves to put on. It was just all too convenient, and I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. Now I’m even more glad that we didn’t bring a single firearm into Space with us – this Susan lady is a loose cannon, and I’ve found it continuously more difficult to predict how and when her next manipulation will come.

4. School Shootings

There hasn’t been one yet. Probably because we have no guns and no emotionally repressed Caucasian guys. We also technically have no students at all, though Arthur claims to be a lifelong student of military psychological torture techniques and the ways we puppeteer our loss of self.

5. Children

Right, so if you didn’t catch that earlier, we didn’t bring anybody under the age of 24. I don’t make the rules, I just happen to work well within them in this case. So be it. Am I upset that there are no kids? No, not really. God forbid they have to grow up around the daily trauma that is Susan’s morning pap smear and Arthur’s mid-day scream.

Some other people in their twenties would be cool I guess, but that’s not such a big deal either. Susan is 43, though she looks quite good for her age. Still taut in many of the right ways, I could see myself with Susan sexually if we were back on Earth. Arthur is 33, and I cannot see myself with him sexually, because I don’t find him attractive.

6. Sex

So yeah, there’s no kids and there never will be because some people whose names rhyme with Zusan and Carthur don’t feel like conceiving a child. There is no chance that the three of us, trapped on this cruise-controlled cosmic paddy wagon forever, are going to be able to pass on all that we’ve learned unless somebody whose good with nunchuks makes loves to somebody else who just happens to have a tattoo of the 90s Phoenix Suns logo on her lower back.

There are obviously pros and cons to all of this. I think I’m holding it together better than most people would be, but I suppose I don’t have as much to look forward to as I thought I would on this once-in-a-lifetime/rest-of-a-lifetime trip through the very star particles that created the dinosaurs. I’m still in awe of this opportunity –I really do think it’s amazing– but I can’t let go of the fact that I’ll never again enjoy the idea of growing older and seeing how the world around me changes. I’ll never be a parent. I’ll never fall in love with a shy but beautiful co-worker, only to have it end tragically and suddenly, following an investigation by our company’s internal affairs division. I’ll never have any of those things now, and that’s alright. They’re silly dreams to have ever held so close, let alone now that I’ve reached this current and final stage of life. These days, I look forward to two things and two things only: watching beautiful, wild Susan age; and watching Arthur lose his mind as we pass through the iris of an infinite night.

How Star Trek Saved My Sex Life

By Brenna Lilly

An excerpt from our issue Nonsense Goes To Space!

It all started on a Tuesday evening much like any other. Robert came home from work around 7 PM and I had the roast ready by 7:30. The kids ate dinner with us at the table, I chewed four Xanax, and we adjourned to our rooms come bedtime.

Robert and I were both reading on our own sides of the California King. He nudged his glasses down his greasy nose and looked at me. “Tonight?” he asked, a hint of longing in his voice.

My palms were sweating. I tried to hold my Kindle firmly in my hands, but it began to slip. Christ. “Um…um…” I responded. I reached into my bedside drawer and grabbed another handful of Xanax which I proceed to swallow with a swig of Diet Coke. “Too tired. Sorry, honey.” He sighed deeply and turned over on his side.

“You know what?” he said, “We should go to couple’s counselling. I want sex, Margaret. Good sex. I’m a horny fifty-year-old man. I can keep it up, honey, trust me. Jill and Rick have been seeing a counselor for three months now, and apparently their sex life is spicy. Like Indian food spicy. Like hot curry on hot rice with hot sauce spicy. Real fucking spicy.” He gave a me a look that said, “I know I’ve never had Indian food in my life, but I think it might be spicy, so I’ll just use this analogy in the hopes you’ll let me fail to find your clitoris but convince me that I’ve pleasured you nonetheless.”

The counselor’s office was tightly-packed with sweaty couples – some anxiously holding hands, some, like us, with our legs crossed, sitting on opposite ends of the room, staring at one another, not blinking. The doctor called out our names. Our counselor, Virginia, took us into the room with a suave swish of the hand.

“So what seems to be the problem here, Mr. and Mrs. Jackson?”

“I wanna bust a nut, Virginia. REAL BAD.”

“I see.” She scribbled something into her tiny notebook. “I think I have just the trick.” She paid no attention to my nervous mutterings. She reached into an ancient filing cabinet, which sounded definitively hollow except for the distinct rattling of a DVD case – one of the plastic ones that have those pesky clasps at the top. “Do you see this?” she asked.

“Well, I’ll say,” Robert responded. “It looks like a well-aged, 1993 DVD set of Star Trek: The Next Generation starring the illustrious Patrick Stewart as Captain Jean-Luc Picard.”

“Precisely,” she retorted. “Throw this bad boy on  the old bedroom TV, get nakey, and let the magic of 1990’s science fiction run through your loins like lava.” She gave it a toss to Robert, who fumbled off the couch, perspiring and heaving, and caught it in his mouth like a dog catching a slice of ham.

That night, we decided to try Virginia’s method. We popped the first DVD into the old Toshiba at the foot of our bed. We stripped ourselves of clothing, save for Robert’s nipple pasties. They came in a daily box set. We arranged our bodies side by side, our arms beside us. I remember feeling like a corpse. It felt good.

I leaned up a little bit from my supine form to turn the TV on with the clicker. As I leaned back, I could hear the words in those sexual, dulcet tones:

Space: the final frontier.

I felt something stirring deep in my lady-bits.

That night, we had sex for fourteen consecutive hours, taking breaks only to switch the DVDs. Our bodies were perpetually intertwined in what I can only call a cosmic ball of ecstasy. I pictured Captain Picard whisking me away, boldly going where no husband has gone before…

We spent a whole week like this. Every night after we tucked the kids into bed, we would get freaky to the adventures of the Starfleet crew. It was bliss. We had to go to Costco to buy a 500 pack of condoms, and a 10-gallon tub of lube. The cashier was disgusted by us. We consummated our love in the greeting card aisle.

It was wonderful until things went sour one night when Robert and I were making the sex. We were on season 5, episode 25 – “The Inner Light.” Captain Jean-Luc Picard, the gorgeous, gorgeous Starfleet captain, was trapped in a delusion, stuck in a foreign village on the distant and unfamiliar planet of Kataan. Something about Patrick Stewart’s Transatlantic accent and glistening bald head aroused me more intensely than my husband ever could. His gleaming orb awakened something deep within me that I could not alleviate. I was caught in a frenzy of ecstasy when I screamed, “Let me lick your head, Captain!” Robert stopped.

“What the hell did you just call me?”

“Captain? Um. Uh. Robert?”

“I think you just called me Captain.”

“Oh, Christ.”

“Are you…” he began to tear up. “Are you fantasizing about Captain Picard when you make the sex to me?”

I shook my head. “No, honey. No, I’m not, I swear.”

“You are!” he screamed. He ran out of the room, through the living room, and into the street. “My wife is cheating on me with the captain of Enterprise NCC-1701-D! I knew you never loved me! Is this,” he paused deeply, breathing in haphazardly, “is this why you insisted on shaving my head while I slept? Is this why you bought me all those red and black mesh long-sleeve shirts? Is this who you want me to become?” His tears fell in pools around his feet. He was still naked.

“Come to your senses, honey! Please come back inside!”

“No! I’ve had enough of this!” He launched his body onto the ground and began rolling around, muttering “The final frontier… the final frontier… the final frontier.”

I dropped to the ground to comfort him. He writhed in pain.

“No more, Margaret, no more. I have no more sex left in my body. Make it end.”

I wept with him in my arms, but they were not sad tears. Oh no, not sad. I rubbed his noggin gently and prepared myself for the task at hand. I removed the Panasonic Pro-Curve Wet/Dry Battery Operated Black Travel Shaver from my  blouse’s back pocket. With each touch of the shaver I punched another ray of light through the cave-in that is our marriage. There, he was fixed now. Robert was right. I never loved him. I could only hope from now on that was I could live with this delusion. In the morning, I would be introducing my children to their new father. The transformation was completed.