Category Archives: America

Sean Spicer: “I Just Work Here, Okay?”

By Jesse Saunders

4/12/2017 #35

For Immediate release from the office of the Press Secretary, Sean Spicer. The following press briefing concerns the steps taken to create the Trump™ Wall, as well as the duties of the Press Corp and their expected treatment of the office of the Press Secretary. This press briefing is due for immediate release to all media organizations with a rating of “Not Shitty” and higher.

​​​​James S. Brady Briefing Room

3:05 P.M. EDT

Mr. Spicer: Sorry for the delay guys, it’s pizza day. I was supposed to kick this off with my pal Kellyanne. She’s really busy and is doing important business things, key business events and duties. So my goal is we bang out your stupid questions first today and then I’ll drop a vital piece of information as Kellyanne walks in right on cue, and then she’ll talk to you as your editors struggle to put together a half decent non-sensationalized story. So hopefully this all works out.

Before I take questions, I’m gonna shake things up – I’m gonna call on my New York Times buddies. Saw what you guys said the other day, alright. Not even gonna bite. I do so know who Hitler is. He’s my favorite golfer. If that’s controversial, then I don’t want to be PC. Sure, he’s not perfect, but who hasn’t had dealt with a little marital strife? We can’t all be Pence. So he cheated on his wife, at least he played an honest game! Great numbers, that Hitler. I remember when he won the masters, god I love the masters, golf is the only American sport. Don’t even understand why this was a story…making this a race thing when my favorite golfer is half-black.


Go ahead.

Ask the question.


NYT: That’s literally not anywhere close to who Hitler is?

Mr. Spicer: Okay.

NYT: …Actually, this is a great segue into our question is: what the fuck is wrong with you?

Mr. Spicer: I’m sorry? Do you not like golf?

NYT: Seriously, “At least Pol Pot just killed nerds with glasses?” What the fuck is wrong with you dude?

Mr. Spicer: H’okay then. It’s like that. Alright. Listen guy, I just work here, okay? There’s this assumption going around that I enjoy being around you people. You, in your weird ivory high road tower — you hacks at the Times are almost as bad as “Democracy Dies in the Darkness” over there. Yeah that’s right Washington Post, I know you snuck into this briefing. Maybe next time try to be a little less conspicuous and just leave the merch table in the van, hmm?

WaPo: Point taken…

Mr. Spicer: You all can’t just throw questions at me and expect that I’ll answer them, that’s a very New York way of looking at a problem.

NYT: But that literally makes n—

Mr. Spicer: I understand what you’re trying to say but I literally do not care. I just work here day in and day out while you take Buzzfeed quizzes on your phone, that’s right I fucking know about your phone CNN Mike. Do you think I have read a history book in my goddamn life? Do you think I understand the socio-economic crisis plaguing the global economy? No, I fucking don’t. President Trump has been in office for over 60 days now, and you think I enjoy any of this? I mean, I do because I used to work at a Dennys and its just nice to come home sometimes and not smell like syrup. Have you ever worked at a Dennys? Have you ever woken up every morning, rode your bike six miles, and then spent eight hours serving eggs in all-too-bright single-parent purgatory? I mean, my coworkers were actually pretty great but all that is beside the point. I hate literally all of you, I hate that you don’t care about my opinion in music. What I don’t hate is the American taxpayer, unlike you MSNBC Karen. Whatever. Press Conference over.

NYT: What?

Mr. Spicer: Thanks guys, I look forward to seeing everyone except the organizations I have now deemed “Kind of Shitty”. Take care.



3:25 P.M. EDT

White House Janitor Tired Of Cleaning Dead Things Out Of Steve Bannon’s Office

By Zachary Johnson

Working frantically to dispose of the lifeless, shriveled husks that cover the floor, a White House Janitor admitted today that she is tired of cleaning dead objects out of Steve Bannon’s office.

“It never stops. Every evening I come in and there’s something new lying on the carpet,” she says, glancing furtively over her shoulder to make sure Bannon has left. “I always make sure to come extra late, because the last time I ran into him here he brandished an ornate dagger at me and asked me to look upon the engravings with respect. He said ‘This has been passed down for generations among the patriarch of my family. The artist who made it now burns in hell, for his soul can never be clean.’ What a weird guy, am I right?”

When asked what kind of dead objects she tends to find, the White House Janitor, Lucy Phillipps, merely shrugs.

“Lots of things. The more appropriate question would be ‘what haven’t you found?’” She says. “We’re talking rats, cats, mice, otters, butterflies, badgers, little snakes, big snakes, really big snakes, and lots and lots of crows. Always big black birds, ravens sometimes too. One time I found this big bird looking thing with sharp claws and a woman’s face. Steve lingered long enough to tell me it was called a ‘harpy’, before vanishing into the shadows as he usually does. Come to think of it, I’ve never even seen him truly walk out the door.”

When interviewed for comment, the White House Florist expressed a similar frustration.

“Oh, I hate working in Steve’s office,” the florist, Daniel Jenkins, says. “Every potted plant I’ve ever put in there has shriveled up into ashy little husks. I have to scoop them out daily, and throw them away. Even the fake ones I put in there managed to die somehow!”

Asked if he finds any of this behavior unusual, Jenkins shakes his head. “He can be stressful to clean up after, but it’s no skin off my back. I’ve worked here for many years and there have always been strange ones that come and go. Occasionally Steve looks at me weird, and I can hear the screaming of my loved ones playing on loop in the back of my head, but at the end of the day he’s still my boss, and I’ve got to respect that. Sometimes, in the mornings, when he comes in after a late night of binge drinking and what I assume to be shrill screaming over an open fire—as his voice is always pretty warn and he smells of smoke—he’ll let me take a shot out of his flask. It’s like nothing I’ve ever had before, and it smells real foul, but I’ve come to like the taste of it. Sort of, uh, metallic, I think?”

At press time, reporters were barred from the White House, but for an actual legitimate reason this time, as the medical staff rushed to deal with a fallen dignitary. When pressed for comment a White House Official only offered that Mr. Bannon “probably forgot to wear his gloves again.” smalllogo

12 Bitchin’ New Holidays Enacted by President Obama in the Dead of Night

By James Sweeney

As a final wink-and-nod to the American people he loves so much, President Barack Obama recently released a list of new national holidays set to take effect on January 2nd, 2017. And I think I speak for all of us when I say that I just love what our furry little man has done! We’re surely gonna miss our Grey-Haired Prince when he’s gone, but it’s not like his strong, protective arms will have disappeared! They’ll be there, just as they’ve always been, ready to hold us close and shield us from whatever unimaginable nightmares the next four years may hold. I truly believe that we should all rest easy at night, knowing that he worked tirelessly to leave his blood, sweat, and tears all over this great nation of ours. Obama’s America – forever and always.

January 17th – Michelle’s Birthday

February 9th –11th – Choirs Take to the Streets!


March – Biracial History Month

April – Hawaiian-Born History Month

May – A Month for All Those Whose Childhood Was Spent Partially in Indonesia,   and the Stories They Carry With Them

June 8th (10-11:30 PM) – Sasha’s Post-Prom Wind-Down (feat. Pharrell Williams)


July 2nd – July 5th  – Open Up Those Borders, Baby!*

August 15th – 30th  – Cop Vacation

cop vacation.png

November 25th – White Genocide: Phase I

December 30th –  Turn In Your Guns Or Lose Your Sons

December 31st – 7/11 Bring Your Own Slurpee Cup Day



Executive order yourself up a cold one Mr. President, you’ve done it again!

*Discount Day-passes available

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!

  1. 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!

  1. 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.

  1. 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!

  1. 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*

  1. 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.

  1. 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.”

  1. 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?

  1. 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.

  1. 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.

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.

Flip Flopper Alert: The Article Hillary Clinton Doesn’t Want You To See!

By Solange Luftman

An article from the “Clinton Presidency” side of our issue, What to Expect When You’re Electing.

Over the weekend, President Hillary Clinton decided to pay a visit to the iconic establishment, “Heaven’s Slice,” in New York City. As reporters swarmed the scene and prompted Hillary with dozens of questions about her food choices that afternoon, she proclaimed adamantly that she would only try one slice of, “Heaven’s Slice” pizza because she had eaten a, “rather large breakfast.” When she was finished, Hillary then retracted her earlier statement saying, “who am I kidding? One slice was simply not enough for this amazing place. I’ll have another!” An email sent to her daughter Chelsea was later discovered exposing that Hillary had in fact had not one, not two, but THREE slices that afternoon. Amazing. President Clinton may have enjoyed the pizzeria but she didn’t make her intentions clear from the start. Time and time again, Mrs. Clinton has showcased her flip-flop nature and sadly, it will only continue. One can only hope that the next person to take the Oval Office will be sure about how many slices of pizza they would like to eat, and will also add garlic knots on the side.

This scandal unsurprising occurs days before Wikileaks dropped a massive email dump, revealing Hillary Clinton’s master plan: the HC-Ultra mind control program. You can read the email for yourself, or whatever. President Clinton’s plan to control the general population with experimental mind altering substances, along with her recent ‘lax’ view on drugs, are just petty distractions—unlike like the pizza, which is the only evidence that should be required to determine that Hilieroni Clintaroli is unfit for office. She lied. She said she would have one, but she had more. Hillary Clinton dreams of an America completely under her control. One where she can show up at Pizzeria’s and eat 4 slices without anyone thinking to judge her or captioning online photos with, “fatty,” “Whale-ary,” and the like. And sure, she killed Honduras. But I digress. Hillary held a press conference to address the concerns of the American people. In the middle of her speech, President Clinton said something very interesting, “America is facing a mental health crisis, and I want Americans to have access to the very best methods of treatment. If the research proves itself, maybe we can all come together as one and mend the restless minds of those who need it.”

Come together as “one?”, “Mend the restless minds?” The subtext is clear. Hillary Clinton wants to create a meek band of followers to push along her agenda and to divert attention from her horrid actions. Yeah, maybe she is legitimately concerned about our nations mental health. Sure. I’ll bite. Or perhaps it is a smokescreen, designed to hide her doughy indiscretions in plain (with extra sauce) sight! Just like Wikileaks, which has clearly been under her dominion all along. A country that thinks as one is not the America I want to live in! What about freedom? What about choice? What about publicly bashing Shrillary? These are virtues Hillary Clinton has never valued.

I encourage all readers to be mindful of security hacks in their computers and mobile devices. I fear that after this is published, I may disappear. Does this sadden me? Not in the slightest. Losing my life at the expense of saving the American public is the most noble sacrifice I could ever dream of. Stay well my friends and (maybe) farewell.

Hillary, we see you.

I am Your Friend

By Your Dearest Friend

An excerpt from the “Hillary Presidency” side of our issue What To Expect When You’re Electing!

My Friends,

I am sitting in my leather rolling throne, writing to you now because I don’t know what else to do. I am holding back a scream. I am your friend, and I need you, and you aren’t here.. I am sick in your absence. I am trying to be strong, but it is hard. We are friends – all of us – and yet you are all together, and I am apart, and I am absolutely sick. If you are reading this, then you should already understand. You know that we are a close-knit circle of many friends, and so you know that I am not just being my usual funny (ahahahahaha!) self when I write to you and tell you that I need you to come to me and help me. Come see me at my address, which is 42 Pennsylvania Way, the White House. Ask for Hillary.

I have many issues that I would like to tell you about, but you have to promise not to tell anybody except for the other friends in our circle. That’s a lot of people, and I know we will all enjoy the discussion, except I will not because I have many issues affecting my emotions. You are my friends, and so you know when I’m sad. You know when I’m sad because I will – when I am happy I will – I will finish some sentences with a sound like this! I’ll do some of these! Some exclamations. But I can only exclaim one sound right now: a single scream, so low that it only reaches my friends in the oceans and other places down below.

I will get into the problems that I’m having shortly, but first I want to pretend you are with me. I cannot take the time that we are apart from each other. I miss you. I want to ride atop your shoulders. I want to wade amongst your starving masses. It is 1975 and I am suddenly back at the Steely Dan concert. A man has pulled my breast out for a brief taste, but I wish to be devoured whole. Perhaps you know where this is going, perhaps you do not. That’s okay. Either way, it is time for the pledge:

I am a Friend. I am a Good Friend, and I will stay this way for as long as I know Her. For as long as She is my Friend, I will take care of Her, just as She has taken care of me. I will hear Her scream and I crawl on bare knees across hot coals to find Her.
Am I A Loyal Friend?
Am I A Loyal Friend?
I pledge to be – for Hillary – a Friend Until the End.
Am I A Friend with Heart?
Am I A Friend with Heart?
I pledge to be – for Hillary – A Friend Who Does Their Part.
I’m With Her

Say it out loud now, just as you would if you were here with me. Pretend I am watching, and I will smile my smile steady and wide as if you are living between the cracks of my teeth.

I will explain my issues, and so you will know how to help me. Here is what I have to say: Some of the drawers on this desk are very heavy, and I want to say something about it, but some of these people can’t be trusted. If you’re walking around the inside of my walls, trying to get me to crawl in again, you’re probably not somebody I can confide in. I’ve learned.

I have a tickle in my throat. I would like a glass of water, but the water they put in my house tastes bad. The water in this house has bad minerals in it – toxic minerals. These minerals – the taste in my mouth from them – these minerals are no good. When I lived here before, I had my own bottled water (this was when water was cheap). One night, I was very thirsty and got up for a drink. I went into the big kitchen, but Al was there; it seemed he was always there at night.

“Up for some water?” he asked me, smirking. That was when Al was happiest, before the world got hot.

“I was. But now, I think I will pull out my breast.” I said this back to him, he paused, and I continued pulling out the breast that was once claimed by Daryl Hall, and then later by his friend and partner, John Oates.

This moment of infidelity continues to haunt me. My heart is simply too big to move on from this, my one great mistake. Do any of my friends know hypnotism? Do any of my wonderful friends know the Keys to Forgetting?

I am missing somebody, but I am unsure of how to reach out. E-mail seems impersonal, and the many people who dress me in the morning have told me not to use it. It is hard to always be connecting when time has made looking at each other more difficult, but the sky is far from it’s brightest at this moment. It will be much brighter soon.  Ideally I would like to hear somebody’s voice, but I also do not want to see their lips. Only in my mind would I like to see their lips. In my mind I can always see a smile. I have decided I will use the phone.

What has happened to the man who used to work in this house? He lived near the door and whispered little-known facts to me. He was one of my friends.

“President Eisenhower couldn’t swallow liquids,” he would say to me. “Eisenhower knew about the minerals.” 

His name was Scott and he was Korean-American. He was born in St. Louis. I would like to call him.

Friends, I know you will help me. I know you will seal your lips in hot wax if I ask. You are all so talented. You are all so important to me, and because I am just like you, I will say to you what I have always wanted to hear from one of my friends:

Your friendship is a blessing. You are loved and you are valued. You are integral to the prosperity of this country. You are funny and you make the people around you forget their bad feelings. You are fashionable. You are self-aware and people admire you for this. When you are not around, all of your friends talk about how impressive you are. When you are not around, everybody misses you. Sometimes we talk about how you might die some day – how you will die some day, eventually – and we get upset, and we talk about what we would say at your funeral. We would discuss your loyalty, and leadership capabilities, and your lifelong battle against the odds to achieve all that you have. We would note how you looked so good for your age, even towards the end, and how your smile never ceased to inspire envy. We would reminisce on your rambunctious attitude – so polarizing and infectious. And the pride you had for your father who was a hard working minister of drapery, as well as a town selectman before he killed that dog with a shovel.

Imagine I am saying this to you and smile together. Stand up, wherever you are, and smile. Don’t be shy – you’re among friends. You’re always among friends now. I am smiling too. I am imagining that you all are saying those kind words to me! You are harmonizing. Scott is there with you, and he has placed me on speaker phone. I am screaming and I am crying, and Scott is crying too. We are all wet with tears, and we are all harmonizing. It sounds good, like a chorus of angels crying over the phone.

I see and hear all of this in my head, a beautiful movie not unlike What Dreams May Come starring Robin Williams. Tears are running down my cheeks now, but I am no longer sad. I am thinking of my friends. I am thinking of the people I love and how they love me. My eyes are closing and I must stop writing. I am ready to see you. I am ready to give everything I have to be with you. I am ready to be a part of you now. You need not come to me, friends. I was wrong to ask so much. I was wrong to demand. It is not necessary now; I am on my way to you. To all of you.

It’s time, Tim. Everything has happened just the way I said it would. This new world will be yours now. This future we dreamed up together – for how long did we dream of this? It seemed impossible and inevitable, and it is both.  Enter the codes, Tim. Enter the codes and deliver us into a beautiful tomorrow.

I’m The Big Guy

By The Big Guy

An excerpt from the “Trump Presidency” side of our issue, What To Expect When You’re Electing!

There’s a few things they don’t tell you when you become President. I guess that’s part of the gig, and I guess I understand. But it’s still a drag, folks, I can promise you that. Yeah, yeah, you get the Nuclear Codes and that sleek new phone. You get a bunch of new dress shoes and a free FitBit. OK. Neat. That stuff is definitely fun for the first couple months, especially for a guy like me who knows how to take advantage of a good thing when he sees it. But the list of things they haven’t given me? That one’s growing longer by the day. I mean really, the key that locks my bathroom from the inside has been missing since I moved in, and I can’t seem to find my son Eric’s lips anywhere! On top of that,  my daughter Tiffany looks like if someone randomized the features on a Sim. I’ll just say it: someone around here is getting fired if this madness doesn’t cease, and I don’t care if it’s everybody or just the person who looks least like my youngest son, the inimitable Barron.

But listen, can I say something for a minute? Look, not to harp on a topic beyond any reasonable degree until it’s just basically opportunistic exploitation, but I have a suspicion that Pence tried to switch keychains with me in the ballroom last week. Am I saying he’s behind this? No. Did I ever say that? I never said that. But, just so you understand more about the situation, mine was made with that lightweight stuff the Russians use and his resembles the sort of weather worn keyring you’d see a groundskeeper carrying in a good movie. So take that information and do with it what you will. And hey, listen, the man is my VP and he has my respect. Can I say that? That’s a pretty nice thing to say. But honestly – if I can be honest with you – we all know he’s a dead-eyed rat from the shit-ridden depths of Hick County. I’ve put actual money down in Vegas that he’ll die before the end of my first term, probably from scurvy. Or a gun.

Moving on –  you all need to really listen now, okay? I can’t get sidetracked here. There are much bigger things at play. Now, what was I getting at? Oh yeah, so back to these Jews and their banks this laundry list of mysteries that expands by the moment am I the only one thinking to myself, “What the hell is going on here?” What is going on here, folks? Something simply needs to be done, and you know exactly what I’m talking about. That’s right, I’m talking about these Jewish people and their vice grip on our wonderful world this cursed labyrinth known as the White House to some, the MAGA Mecca to a select devoted few, and as Barron’s Boyhood Hellscape by my youngest, the boy Barron. Barron loves to use big words around me because he knows I’m hard to impress. I never acknowledge him for it, because then he would feel as though I’m easy to impress, and that would make me feel weak. If there’s one thing I can tell you folks with an honest heart, it’s that I never allow my youngest son to feel as though he’s figured out who or what I am. (That makes me smart.)

Now I feel as though I’ve been twiddling my thumbs trying to get this next part out. Can I say that? Am I allowed to say that? Well, I just did. The thing is, I took all of your money and your votes so that I could infiltrate this little secret club house they call Washington Politics; and while I think you’ve been fairly happy with my accomplishments to date (Adios, gynecology quacks!), there’s one thing you have to know about why I’m sending out this e-mail via a private server. You see, when I first stomped down that Hall of Important Men on my inauguration day, all the Washington rank-and-file thought they knew what to expect. They knew I was a renegade looking to shake things up the way Mike Pence shakes his ever growing Sock-Full-of-Doorknobs at homeless single mothers… but they had no idea I would tell you all the truth. They didn’t think I’d talk about the body doubles, never thought I’d spill the beans on the 50-foot-deep underground breeding complex where every President since Eisenhower has lived out his term, and in some cases, the rest of his life. Remember when I referred to the White House as a “cursed labyrinth flooded with samples of soured jisolm?” Well folks, I wasn’t just being cute.

To get right into the thick of it with you: President Eisenhower believed that through killing enough Nazis, he had earned something like a Divine Right of Kings, more or less making him the perfect man. Oddly enough, Hitler and the Nazis killed way more people, and loved to do their own construction. And they thought they were the perfect men! And I think that I’m the perfect man. And I love construction! Pretty crazy when you think about it folks – three famous leaders, three very intelligent men, all really similar guys when you break it down like that.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, okay, okay. Alright. As someone who is getting pretty close to being God in his own right, I can definitely understand the mindset that Ike brought into the whole ordeal. He wanted to make America a great nation full of great looking leaders, and there’s nothing wrong with that. But even I can say he took things a little too far. He built a vast underground complex, something like the boutique section of a cruise ship mixed with a hospital, except it’s a hospital where every other room you walk into looks like the part of a bukkake set where the camera pans over to all the ugly guys tugging in lonesome unison.

Ike thought that if he just had a little more time to produce samples – if only there were a few more hours in the day – he could fix this mess of a country all on his own. But you see, folks, this is where things got real tricky. Once the complex was built to Ikey’s likey, he knew he had started something that could slowly shape history. He knew that for the first time since the days of Thomas Jefferson, the President of the United States could covertly code the genetics of an entire generation. He knew his life was more valuable than any other on Earth. That’s when he ordered the first true Presidential body double – some recently retired Army seargent who wanted nothing more than to get potentially assassinated  while the real Eisenhower spent hours at a time fighting through what he called “concentration cramps” in an effort to “liberate the juice.” (It’s in the manifesto folks, don’t go shooting the messenger).

I know what you’re wondering: “Was the real JFK assassinated?” “Was the real Nixon a crook?” “Is it so outrageous to assume that Ronald Reagan probably didn’t cum a whole lot?” The answer to all three is, resoundingly, Yes. (Reagan was a Stallion straight through to his final breath). As for all the questions you have about me, well, I’m afraid I can’t answer many of them just yet. The Republicans and Democrats have teamed up to try to take me down, and yet I’ve continued to put this America first. I know that if I just tell the world what I’m doing all the time, you can imagine what would happen. (Bada Bing, Bada Boom. ISIS. You all know what I’m talking about). But I can promise you one thing folks – I don’t like to make promises, but if I can just make a promise right now I’d like to. I promise you this: if you like the way my daughter Ivanka looks even half as much as I do, then you’re going to ab-so-lutely love what this nation has coming.

The Best Electronic Store In Your State To Hit Up This Summer!

By Davy Socket

Is your summer not as chill and ass-in-the-sand-cold-beer-in-hand as you think it ought to be? Are you only matching with uggos on Tinder? Or maybe you just lost your job and your house and need something to keep the blackness of reality from creeping in. Whatever your situation, here’s a look at the top electronic stores in each of our blessed 50 states:


Jesus Christ & Sons:

If you’re having trouble bringing the Holy Spirit into your life then this store is for you. Located in a cloud above Birmingham, they carry all the electronics you need to live your life as close to Christ’s as possible. You can pick up an iPod chock full ‘o Christian Rock, a timer that goes off every time you should pray, or sleep in heavenly piece with a light-up dildo to keep your gay urges at bay.



That Indie Movie Juno Inside an Igloo:

This VHS of the acclaimed Juno sits on a small island off the coast of Anchorage inside an igloo. It’s been frozen in the snow for years. Like, it’s really lodged in there. If you can get it out it’s yours!



You Stole Our Land Now Buy Our Electronics:

Located in Klagetoh, Arizona, this Navajo run electronic store carries everything you feel the need to buy as reparations for all we’ve done to the native people. Sure you don’t need a Blu Ray player, but that house made of plywood that you passed on the way here is a great selling point.




This mom and pop retail megastore contains all your electronic needs! Want a cell phone for $2? They got it! Looking for your mom? She’s waiting for you at register 12!


Uncle Dan’s Secondhand Electronics:

Need a new CD burner or DVD player for your copy of Pineapple Express? Dan’s got all the wee… uhh I mean Wii you need. This is a front for selling weed.



Uncle Reggie’s Secondhand Electronics:

Another front for weed.



LaRue Dairy & Radio:

Need a new radio? Of course you don’t! Just buy some ice cream.



Dover Delaware Discount Disco Balls:

This eclectic little disco ball boutique has everything you need to get the party started this summer. For the 40-something who wants to relive the glory days of high school prom. 



Everglade Electronics:

Run by a very hungry alligator, this redneck electronic shop will cost you an arm and a leg. Literally! Please, if you find any remnant of my son, send it to me. My wife needs closure.







Lakahaiwaklaunamikimauikawaii Beach:

Located at the foot of Mt. Haleakala, this electronics store is the perfect place to pick up some headphones before a day at Malikaekimakelaii beach. Toss a virgin (or your most chaste child) off of the Moutain to appease the dark Island god Krakakimotalittleluluaeiou and get the second pair free! Please, there isn’t long!



Potato Power:

Owned and operated by a rotting human head placed on a robot body powered purely by potatoes this electronic store has nothing you really want. Plenty of potato powered clocks though, if you’re into that or if you’re hungry.



Bugsy’s Back Alley Pub:

Located in an old Speakeasy, this is just a bar. It’s 3:22pm, life is fleeting, your wife doesn’t really need a new phone charger. She’s fucking your neighbor Phil. Time to drink until you cry again.



Indy 500:

If you’ve chosen to live in Indiana I assume you are a race car driver. You probably already have every electronic on the market. Just win this race so you feel like you’re finally a man in your dad’s eyes.



Des Moines:




A Tornado Full of TVs:

If you can safely reach in there and grab one, I’m sure no one will mind if you keep it! The family probably died in the storm anyway.



The Derby:

Your wife has moved in with Phil. Time to bet the retirement fund on Snowball and drink more.




No not the fast food joint. Popeye’s specializes in professional sound equipment. Any microphones, plug-ins, drum pads, or cables you need, they have guaranteed.



Larry the Lobster’s Laptops:

That’s right. That Larry the lobster. From Bikini Bottom. He’s really made a name for himself in the laptop business after he was fired from his lifeguarding job for sexual harassment.



Mr. Krabs Computers:

Oh yes you guessed it another Spongebob character wash up. I’m not even gonna explain this one. Let’s just say Pearl isn’t really Mr. Krabs daughter.




Patty’s Pub:

You’re now an alcoholic. He was just so young.



Uncle Flynt’s Discount Superstore:

Specializing in water purifiers, this small business has really taken off in the last year. Is your child slowly dying of lead poisoning? Look no further than Uncle Flynt’s Discount Superstore. Look for the tagline in the window, “Our prices are great! Unlike what the mounting piles of evidence are beginning to suggest about our local government and in turn about our society at large—particularly regarding environmental racism, we wouldn’t lie to you!” It’s a large window.



Mall of America:

Someone definitely forgot their phone in one of the bathroom stalls. Grab it before they come back!



Father Tom’s Bible Store:

They don’t believe in science in Mississippi. Jesus will let you know when that girl from down the street wants to fuck, not Tinder.



See Mississippi



Jainy Montana’s GPS store:

You’re bound to get lost in Montana, and your cell phone won’t work out here. Buy a GPS from Jainy, please. His cow needs an operation.



Scarecrow Jim’s Joystick:

This store run by a possessed scarecrow specializes in vintage game systems. Get your kids exactly what they wanted for Christmas in 1997!



Stanley’s Electronics:

This is a front for a brothel. You and your wife haven’t had sex in 10 years and no one cares about your iPhone SE. Live a little.


New Hampshire

Anywhere on the White Mountains:

Literally everyone from the Northeast has to take an Instagram here before they turn 30. Just steal one of their backpacks. They’re rich and white and already lost, so there are no consequences.


New Jersey

The Situation’s Situation:

So here’s the situatuion, the Situation has some great deals on tanning beds, head phones, and vibrators molded from his own penis. Don’t be concerned, but everything is covered in grease.


New Mexico

A Crashed UFO:

This UFO is chock full of nifty electronics. You have no idea what the electronics do, but, hey, they’re free and they’re one of a kind. Snatch ‘em up before the US government snatches you, and buries you with all of those E.T. cartridges for the Atari 2600 the UFO should probably also be selling.


New York

That Guy Trying to Sell You Loose Cigarettes In Washington Square Park:

Yeah you know exactly who I’m talking about. He’s got a great phone and watch collection too. Be sure to check it out! If you look like you have an ounce of angst in your body, he’ll find you.


North Carolina

Kyler’s Kool Collectables:

Love guys in pastel shorts and blue oxfords? Look no further because this store has only that. Owned by Kyler (whose dad bought him this business) this shop is your go to stop for collectable electronics. You’ll find rare items like an iPhone 5, an Xbox 360, Kyler’s dad’s pacemaker, and an Easy Bake Over.


North Dakota

Radio Shack:

Just like the state, it doesn’t really exist or have relevance anymore.




Your wife is gone. Time to finally fuck the shit out of John Kasich.



Stew’s Science Store:

Run by a cow turned super genius from so many antibiotics, this store has everything you didn’t know you needed. Time machine? Check. Synthetic human with real emotion? Check. Sex robot? Of course. I’ll take 10.



Danika’s Organic Electronics:

Specializing in environmentally friendly electronics, this store has everything to make your grandpappy lose his erection for good. Try the scooter powered by used fry oil. It’ll make it less weird when you ask restaurants for their old fry oil now.



There Are No Electronics Here:

Run by a prominent Amish family this store has the goal of making people think that all of Pennsylvania is Amish Country. They also sell root beer.


Rhode Island

Stacy’s Electric Stirrers:

This store specializes in those funny little electric stirrers used to make chocolate milk, or, the Rhode Island favorite, coffee milk. Exactly what you don’t need!


South Carolina

Fuck South Carolina


South Dakota

*See North Dakota 







The Apple Store in Austin:

This is the only electronics store in all of Texas, so please support it! Austin’s hipsters need their MacBooks and iPhones to stay in touch with the rest of the world that isn’t Texas.



Joseph Smith’s Special Fun Store:

Pick up your new iPhone or a set of headphones here and God just might save your dark dark soul.



Bernie Sanders’ Hip Hang Store:

Specializing in everything millennials love you’re bound to love this place if you’re between the ages of 18 and 30. You’ll slowly forget about it over time until the store goes out of business.



Virginia Beach:

No wife and no more Kasich, you decide to just keep drinking until they find your body washed up under a dock.



Karen’s Coffee Pot:

This store carries every coffee maker on the market, but your dull low class taste buds wouldn’t even be able to tell the difference between pour-over and French press!


West Virginia

John’s Mine Hats:

If you live here you’re almost definitely a coal miner so might as well buy a hat at this mine hat shop. You can hold off until all the coal is finally dug up, or the world ends due to coal pollution.



Say Cheese!:

This electronics/dairy has a wide array of camera brands and several different house made cheeses.



Yellowstone National Park:

Put down your electronic devices. Take a hike through a National Park. Don’t Instagram everything. You’ll make your father proud :,)