Category Archives: Election 2016

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.


By Trevor Parrish and Quin Asselin

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

I’d received a job late one Thursday night, from the League of People with No Hair but Who Really Wish They Had Some. Trump was a hairless menace giving us a bad name with that rug, and he needed to be stopped. There was only one cue-ball who could break in and put an end to President Trump’s tyrannical-mean-and-not- so-nice reign (By the way, I’m bald by choice, I choose to shave because I think it looks dashing.) That one person was me, your very glabrous thirty-ninth President of these blessèd United States of America, Jimmy Carter. Just as all ex-leaders of the free world, I can dissolve into water vapor as it passes through an Ionic Breeze Quatra (as seen on TV.) I slipped in through his sniffles in the night. I made my way to the location of a normal human’s brain and lay in wait for hours.

The door to Trump’s Head Office opened. A figure walked into the room and flicked the light switch, nearly brushing by me, your very handsome thirty-ninth president, Jimmy Carter. Just to be safe, I receded back into the wall disguising myself as a portrait of your very crafty thirty-ninth president, Jimmy “The Body” Carter. Presidential powers come in handy quite often. A large computer, lining the inside of Trump’s glistening, supple forehead whirred to life:

Booting up program: Trump.exe…
 Stamina.exe: Done!
 WaterLevels: 98.7% at 96°C

“Oh my gawd it’s like a sauna in here,” cried the little green monkey turning the crank shaft that drives Donald Trump’s brain, “they don’t pay me enough for this shit.” His voice was raspy like a little green monkey with a raspy voice. He ate the banana that Melania had supplied for him today. He was staring at the screen that was giving him instructions for his 16 hour shift. The work area in Trump’s head got especially hot during interviews. He finished turning the crank, the inner workings of the motor continued behind him.

Loading Wall.txt
 Topic: Walls
 “Wall? (Y/N)”

“Of course we should build a wall. We need to keep illegals out of our country!” he walked off from the crank and scrambled over to his desk, hidden under piles of documents. He rummaged through a mound of papers, overturning them to reveal various birth certificates, some skewed penis size graphs, and his glasses. Boing-Boing was near sighted after all.

Warning: Nostril Pressure Critical

The monkey who was both green and little scrambled to the pressure release valve. After taking a quick reading of the gauge, he solved a level 8 Sudoku puzzle which of course relieves the pressure in most traditional Meiji period architecture. You know.

Following what had to be hours of various menial tasks, the exhausted little green monkey collapsed onto the mail cart, spreading an obscenely-sized ocean of letters across the floor. For a moment, he lay there utterly still. In the next several moments, he did the same exact thing. He was out cold.

Art by Joseph Kolb

I knew the opportunity as I saw it. I’d been eyeing the TD Bank pen propped up against a little sculpture that read “Donald Trump’s Candy Crush High Score: Probably 10.” I had already stolen 7.5 pens from various pigeonholes throughout his noggin. Being rather skilled at espionage, your very… discreet thirty-ninth president, James “The Jim Jam” Carter slurmped out of the wall and dropped like a hunk of moist pasta onto the ground. Each and every one of my newly formed bones ached but there was no time for pain when you’re me, your very perseverant thirty-ninth president Jammin’ James. Like democratic lightning, I flew towards the desk and claimed my prize. But then I gazed upon the treasure of all treasures.

I was transfixed. It felt like this former Georgia governor’s eyes were finally failing him as he descended into death and had subsequently awoken in some far off paradise. Before me was a Red Carbon Delta Momo 30th Limited Edition Fountain Pen with 18Kt Fusion Nib and Black Rhodium finish. I was so preoccupied with signing my incredibly presidential name that I scarcely noticed the admittedly-smaller-than-average Screamin’ Green (76FF7A) monkey who was, of course, wearing a shirt, stirring behind me. You lose the presidential power of eyes on the back of your head when you leave office.

Art by Joseph Kolb

It was at that moment I felt the distinct pain of a monkey’s wrench to the back of my skull. It was a monkey wrench to be precise. I wheeled about to see a monkey wrench himself up off the ground and rush towards the “Jimmy B Gone™ spray located beneath the toppled mail cart. Jimmy B Gone™… my only weakness. I knew if I was gonna survive I’d need to get out, and fast. I sashayed over to the door at a normal human rate and went for the handle. As I slipped through the the door I looked back. The Boingster had only just regained his footing. Just before I finished my escape I smirked and jeered, “enough of that monkey business.” Text appeared on the computer screen one last time:

Mmm... Agreeable Data!

I did not know that it spoke.

Your very frugal thirty-ninth President,
James Earl Carter, Jr.

Horoscopes By Hillary

By Hillary

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


You call it an independent personality; I call it a Republican filibuster in the making. Take it down a notch, reassess the situation, and grow a pair. Congress isn’t your glory hole, despite your senatorial work.


Like my father, you are brazen, stubborn, and true. You’re deft with your hands and spin some mean fucking yarn. Embrace your identity as human capital and the doors will open for you.


Three hops this time, and then a slide to the left. If you’re into child-proof house party jams, which you are, things will look up this week.


“Yes. Yes, yeah, mmm, oh yeah. Yes.”


You’re on a roll this month. College campuses fear you for that slick jimmy in your pants. We’re all rolling in pain here, absolute agony. The intern from Jersey’s on fire and, like the judges, we honestly don’t know what to condemn you for this week.


There might be some pressing issue on your mind, Virgo, that you need to get off your chest. As your astrologist I suggest unbuttoning your shirt to relieve the pressure. If your opinions still persist, start a petition.


This week, you are the embodiment of the justice system. You are the law – the judge, jury, and verdict, all in one. There are tears, Libra, falling on this paper as I write, seeping into the thousand-dollar cherry wood and priceless oval office carpeting beneath my feet. I’m mildly impressed.


There’s something sexy about a Scorpio sun; take it from the Scorpio herself. Stay away from poultry and gluten for a while, avoid too much ibuprophen.


Career advancement is in the air. In the words of Australian hip hop artist Azalea Banks, “you can hate it or love it; hustle and the struggle is the only thing I’m trusting.”


Where do you usually find Capricorns? Ikea? The dentist? Subtly scented department stores? This week you’ll find yourself in the political arena, my little cornball. Buckle up and keep the memes in check for me ;^)


Has love got you down recently? My crystal ball says there will be relief soon, but my gut says it’s time for the selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors… either way, Queen Mother Clinton’s got your back.


The only reason Pisces exist is because Congress told the Hillar(it)y Team we couldn’t change the number of months in the year. Keep this in mind! You can veto a proposal; you can’t veto an idea.


Art by Samantha Nicholson

Hillary Rodham Clinton has been an avid supporter of divination, particularly star mapping and palm reading, since the start of her political career during her sophomore year of college. As prior U.S. Senator (2001-2009) and Secretary of State (2009-2013), she’s been noted by the general astrologist community for her clear cut, no nonsense attitude concerning divination and politics: “I’m not saying palm readings are for white people; it’s just that the lines on colored hands confuse me.” As current President of the United States her goal as an astrologist is to not only involve the Hillary team in the private lives of a small percentage of citizens but relate to the people of the United States on a deeply intimate and wholesome level. “How am I to be your President if I can’t be your friend? Friends share their horoscope. Presidents become your horoscope.”

Make America Vape Again

Art by Dakar Morris

By Ashley Vernola

An excerpt from our issue What To Expect When You’re Electing!

Ho, there, son! Sit your little butt down. You can cry all you want but you’re not getting out of this one so buckle up! You’re in for a ride. I, your Pappy, am gonna tell you a story like my Pappy told me, and like his Pappy told him before that, and like his Great-Grand-Pappy-In-Law told him before that and like all the Pappy’s before them told to their lil‘uns before that – may they rest in peace………………………………………………………………………………………..

Sorry, son, I just must always pay respects to the Pappy’s who done come before me. After all, if they didn’t your Pappy wouldn’t be able to come after—sorry!—just a little Pappy humor. Anyway, let’s get this wagon rollin’. Late at night, when I couldn’t sleep, and Pappy would be shuffling the halls at night shouting your Meemaw’s name – he would do this a lot, his old mind went quickly, may he rest in peace –he would come in my room, and tell me this story.

Back in the year of Two-Oh-One-Six, the town of Crookdoone had lost its status as a town. The legend, as it was told to me, has it that it was a very sunny day down in Crookdoone when the presidential hopeful Mr. Trump came to visit on his campaign trail. In a moment of rest, he decided to take off his shoes and stick his toes in the soft dirt the town was known for – that was their slogan, you know? Visit Crookdoone, we got soft dirt! And damn, did they have the softest dirt. So, he stuck his toe in the dirt but the sun was blaring on it all day, and it was so hot it burned his big toe. “A total mess!” he yelled, droplets of spittle spraying onto his intern. He smacks the coffee out of his intern’s hand and throws his arms up in the air. “Crookdoone is not our friend. What a totally corrupt place!” And with that, once he was awarded the opportunity to rule, he forced everyone to evacuate the town.

But, the brave Bull Tornhollow decided to stay.

“This is MINE now,” he exclaimed. You might be wondering who he was talking to. It was no one. Everyone had already left at this point. This part left me boggled, myself, but I’m just telling this like My Pappy told me and His Pappy told him before that, and well, you get it.

But anyway, for years after that, ol’ Crookdoone had been his territory. From dawn until dusk, Bull would pace the deserted streets up and down, ready and armed for anyone willing to have a little hoedown. For a long time, no one had. Untiiiiiiiiiiiil…

On a warm morning, Bull woke to the sound of wheels on Crookdoone’s now-dried-and-not-soft dirt. In a tizzy, he jumped out of bed, grabbed his holster and adorned his weapon to his side. Now son, it could have been a bunny, or a mountain lion, or just his imagination – Bull thought he was losing his mind, just like your ol’ Pappy ha ha ha ha ha ha haaa – but he couldn’t take any chances. Peeking his head out of his doorframe, Bull fastened his eyes on what stood down the road ahead of him.

It was a man! Bull stamped out of his house. Bull was a very respectable man, son. His Cole Haan shoes scuffed against the ground, accenting perfectly pleated pantaloons, and a white button-down shirt, a tie, tightly around his neck, showing the competitor that he was a modest, but tough fighter. One hand gripped his holster, the other tipped a cowboy hat. He bore a resemblance of one of those Big Business Men coming from the office to go to a Brad Paisley concert at Madison Square Garden. Ha! Ha! I make myself laugh. Anyway…

Howdy!” Bull said cheerfully, a scare tactic.

The man was not phased as Bull approached him. He rolled a skateboard back and forth with one foot, his baggy jeans frayed at the ends and falling at his hips. Most frightening to Bull was the faded wolf image on his t-shirt, two sizes too large. He kept messy long hair back with a checkered cap. Why he didn’t cut the darn thing is beyond me, you know? He has to brush loose pieces of hair out of his face before he spoke, always jerking his neck back and forth! It’s bad for your neck, boy—but Pappy’s getting away from the yarn, now. The man spoke.

“Sup,” he finally said, his voice deep and booming. Bull noticed a holster also adorned to the man’s hip and grips his own a little tighter. He never thought he would have to put up this much of a fight with someone who could barely even keep his pants up. Anyway, no one said anything for a while and Bull found himself getting angry at the silence, and at how little the man cared, he hadn’t done anything but flip his hair out of his face and roll his skateboard with his foot.

Growing impatient, he said, “What are you doing here? Who are you?” The man’s hand moved to the holster.

“Name’s Shady Mesa, I’m just coming to chill,” He said, super chill. Bull was in disbelief. Bull had never dealt with these types before. He didn’t know what this Californ-I-A Casual had in him, but he knew that “coming to chill” meant his territory was at stake.

And with a swift movement they were off. Bull reached into his holster and pulled out his FATBABY 100 WATT and took a deep pull. He let the sweet taste Grandmaster by Five Pawns (*An E-Liquid) hit the back of his throat for a minute, the smooth peanut butter, and caramel taste sticking to his throat, reminding him of the caramel chews his Mimaw kept on her coffee table, paired with the slight hint of banana. And with that, he exhaled through his mouth sending plumes of vapor into the air. Hah, he thought, that’ll show him. No one could beat his FATBABY 100 WATT. It was best known on the market for low resistance, and thus, incredible cloud production. Not to mention no one could even come close to his ADV (*All Day Vape); Grandmaster was voted as the E-Liquid customers were more satisfied with that past year.

As the smoke faded, Bull met eye to eye with Shady. From his holster, Shady revealed a small pen, a vape starter kit, ego style battery 220 mAh (*Milliamp Hours). Bull can’t help but burst into laughter. Incredible, he thought, this kid thinks he can beat me with a starter. Bull turned away, knowing that Shady had lost this fight, before he smelled the sweet nectar of Mother’s Milk in the air. A sweet strawberry scent, creamy and custardy, reminded him of his own home, and how his Mama and Mimaw used to bake sweet treats like yours do. He swung back around to watch as Shady has managed more cloud production, plumes of vapor lingering, forming themselves into shapes around him.

Panicked, Bull took another deep pull. However, his breaths were shaky and the vapor came out in small clouds, nothing like Shady’s. Bull accepted defeat. There is no way he could match up to such a competitor.

Shady’s grin grew. He knew he has won. Bull fell the ground, overcome with emotion. And with one final pull, Shady exhaled, clouds of thick vapor again lingering around him. Some say that Shady stepped out of the clouds—clouds so high they could block the sky—and bent to whisper a message into Bull’s ear, caramel caressing his canal. Others say that when the smoke cleared, Shady was nowhere to be seen, and never to be seen again. Others still say the letters themselves began to take shape! This time into letters and words. But no matter which Pappy told what, one thing remains the same: When the smoke cleared, Bull squinted his eyes to read Shady’s message, and the message read only, “Make America Vape Again”.

And that’s how it goes. Ooh boy, do you hear that? You can faintly hear the sound of my late Pappy shufflin’ these halls. He must be so proud that I passed on this story to you. One day, when you’re a Pappy, you’ll be passing this story down too to your lil’uns. Alright, son, now quit your cryin’ and go to bed, Pappy’s got some more yellin’ to do.

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.

Student Continues to Use Debate as Excuse 3 Weeks After Event Concludes

By Jesse Saunders

Hempstead, NY – Already ten minutes late for class, local Hofstra Honors College student, Joe Ryan, 21, has chosen to take one last class off to recover from the first presidential debate held at Hofstra University which concluded a little over three weeks ago. When asked about the seven classes he has skipped since the debate Ryan said, “I was just so washed out, ya know? It’s a once in a lifetime experience, and I just need a break.” Ryan is among a growing minority of students who swear they would have been fine if the school’s administration had just given them the day off immediately following the debate that concluded on Sept. 27th, 2016.

Three weeks after the event, Ryan skipping class and the few remaining banners are the only evidence of Hofstra’s third presidential debate. Professor of sociology, Matt Eastwood, remains sympathetic to his students cause. “The students were just so excited, and I mean I’m sure they’ll get their work in on time,” said Eastwood, “Students never take advantage of my relaxed attendance policy.” Eastwood then returned to teaching his class of three freshmen while the last upperclassmen packed up and left.

When asked about his professor while taking a casual stroll to the Acid Fields, Ryan said, “Oh yeah Eastwood is super great… he taught me a lot about psychology? Good guy, his class is in Breslin though which is a little inconvenient for me, but I’ll be back once I get caught up on work I missed in the debate.” Many students joined Ryan in recovering from the stress that occurred almost 18 business days ago, caused by Hofstra’s third presidential debate.

While students are slowly, but totally catching up on the work they missed while preparing for the one-day event that occurred over 23 full days ago, Hofstra administration begins to prepare their application for the 2020 presidential debate. Provost Gail Simmons was happy to comment on how proud she was of students when she was cornered by a Nonsense reporter.

“I couldn’t be happier with our student’s participation, especially our helpful alumni like David S. Mack. Our students and their bank accounts are really an asset to our university,” said Simmons. Simmons, among other administrators, was found celebrating Hofstra’s move up in the Princeton review’s ranking of school’s that have had the most presidential debates, while planning to tear down the student center to make a permanent debate hall.

As the week three at post-debate Hofstra concludes, Ryan along with many other students can be found sleeping soundly, recovering from the historic event that occurred more than seven classes ago, preparing for another day with a new excuse to miss class.