Category Archives: Food

Underpaid Student Employee Can’t Wait To Starve Outside $30M Administrative Building

By Zachary Johnson

Adding that it’s great Hofstra has finally got some money to spend, Hofstra University Student and RSR Emily Baum said she very much looks forward to sitting her pallid, shrinking corpse on the benches outside the new Frank G. Zarb School of Business and praying that manna descends from the heavens to nourish her. Or, in a total dream scenario, that her University employer at least starts paying her minimum wage.

“I was flinging my way through the ABP garbage bins and wondering how I’m going to pay my utility bills when I heard the news,” Baum says, with a faint voice. “I almost dropped the cigarette butts I was saving for lunch, I was so thrilled! Finally, a place on this campus where administrators can have nice offices!”

Baum, whose lack of a car prevents her from working somewhere with better pay, thinks the school made a great choice.

“You know, Hofstra takes these decisions very seriously; they’re just so good at providing the right resources to the student body,” Baum says. “We don’t need new dormitories that have working facilities, sturdy walls, and a lack of bug infestations. We don’t need better food, or cheaper food. We need $2 million dollar renovations of Fraternity hangout spaces, we need well-paid college presidents, and, most of all, this brand new building where Hofstra students can make the most of their administrators having really comfortable places to avoid doing paperwork on time. Hofstra just gets it.”

In a report on the new 30 Million Dollar Building by the Hofstra Chronicle, students are encouraged to “make their mark and become a part of the Zarb school forever” by taking the exciting oppourtunity to “sign a steel beam that will be used in the construction of the new building.”

“Wow, really? That’s so nice of them to think of us,” said the current RSR as she compares prices of textbooks for next semester to the total cost of eating three meals every day this week. “It’s inspiring to think that if Hofstra could come up with 30 Million Dollars to spend on a building, maybe I’ll be able to make rent work this month?” smalllogo



I Tried DMT But I Wasn’t Sure What Kind Of Sandwich That Was

By Bill Whittleton

An excerpt from our latest release, The Fake News Issue!

In retrospect, I gotta say that my intentions, at least, were good. I had a good head on, had my hopes high and a chipper attitude about the whole thing. And honestly, I think everything that happened really brought me and my son together: as father and son, and as bros, and as brothers.

I think it was last Tuesday that I first heard about this DMT business. I had just gotten home from the daily grind to find my boy, Josh, sprawled out on the couch reading a comic book. Scooby-Doo Apocalypse, by the look of it. Third issue.

“Hiya there, Josh,” I said.

“Father,” he replied.

I took a seat in the armchair next to my son and watched him for a little bit. His favorite Diplo shirt was looking a little tight on him, and I thought about getting him a new one.

“What’re you up to this weekend?” I asked. “Anything fun?”

“Major Lazer concert,” he said shortly. I smiled: these kids and their boy bands.

“Say, Sport, whaddya think about us doing something together this weekend, maybe before your little show? Your mother has the girls coming by for Mahjong, and boy, I do not wanna be in the way for that!”

“Go away, Dad,” said my sweet boy.

The gears in my head started turning: there had to be something that would get that boy off of the couch besides that nu-disco he’d been listening to. I mean, hell, you can’t Hustle to that! And then it clicked. Just like that. I remembered one of the interns, Dennis, talking about it in the office, and I thought that maybe, just maybe, it was worth a try.

“Whaddya say we try a DMT?”

Josh’s head shot up. “What did you say?”

“Y’know, DMT. Isn’t that what you kids are all tryin’ these days?”

He looked skeptical. “You wanna try…DMT?” he asked me, slowly.

“Well sure!”

His face started to brighten—reel ‘em in, Bill!—and I sat back, proud of myself.

“Dad, if you know where we can get some, that’d be awesome,” Josh said, beaming.

It warmed me to my core to see such a big grin on my boy’s face. “How about this weekend? You and me, before your concert—we can go around the corner and pick one up for each of us.”

Josh nodded. “You’re cool as shit, Dad.”

That, I think, made me happier than anything. “Of course, my boy. Just tell me what’s on it so I know I won’t be allergic to anything.”

Josh’s face fell a little bit. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I’m assuming there’s lettuce and tomato on it, hence the em-tee—”

“Do you know what DMT is?”

I sat there in silence. I didn’t understand. What else could it have been? Dennis was a good kid; always showed up to work on time and dressed neatly. Sure, he only fetched coffee, but I didn’t think he was an incompetent young man. Did Josh know something I didn’t?

Josh continued to stare at me, smile nearly gone, then buried his head in his comic book. I went upstairs and closed the door, retreating to my bed for a moment of reflection. What did my son think DMT was? Some crazy new dance move? A drug? I shivered. Not my sweet boy. I decided there was only one thing I could do.

I tried it. I went to the guy at the gas station, and he got awfully tight in the rear about the whole ordeal. Asked me how I knew about DMT. And then asked me for way too much money—twenty dollars for something to eat?—so I decided to take my business elsewhere. Also, he wanted me to follow him to his truck, and I have work in the morning. So I said, “no, Sir!”

Everything everyone said about it was—pretty true, I suppose. My conscience was radically altered, I guess. I was sweaty, I vomited, and I cried. A lot. It certainly made me go into my own head a little bit, but I think it was some bad mayo that was responsible for all of those hallucinations people talked about. They didn’t mention this online, though, so I will say this: make sure you get the roll toasted. Otherwise it makes for a pretty soggy mid-afternoon lunch. But overall, give the McDMT a shot: you won’t be disappointed.

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.

6 Things You NEED To Stop Doing At Starbucks, According To An Employee

By Zachary Johnson

If you like walking down streets, you surely have felt the irrational paranoia that a hungry sea beast with a crown and two tails is watching you from inside of a lighted storefront sign, waiting for the right moment to pounce upon you. Chances are, you’re correct; this is the marker for popular coffee shop chain, Starbucks, and the brilliance of caging a rare and majestic beast in a glass prison outside each store location is part of what makes the company so great! But if you haven’t worked for the great and powerful Starbucks, you don’t know the bowel-clenching terror you might induce in the paid workers by accidentally doing one of the things on this list that I wrote at work.

1. Expecting That You Can Order A Coffee Or Something To Eat

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The goals of a coffee shop and Starbucks are very different. A coffee shop is a place where you can buy things, Starbucks is a place where people sit and wait for death to come while I get paid to watch.

2. Making The Noise At Me With Your Face Mouth

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Stop that. Step back from the register and get out of line. Do you have any idea how long I’ve been here? I’ve been standing in this spot shirking my responsibilities for 3 hours now, I’m incredibly stressed out and n o w   y o u ‘ r e   h e r e.

3. Being Specific About Wanting Me To Do Something

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I’m at work, dude. If you are thirsty and in need of coffee, that’s fine, it smells like that here. But if you’re planning on asking me to brew it for you or serve it to you or whatever the hell stupid shit, please don’t. Make the job of the employee easier by just sitting down, and being satisfied with the aroma of coffee as it dances wistfully between your nose-pits.


4. Touching Papa Starbucks’s 1st Place Korean War Trophy, Or Telling Him That Surviving Vietnam Was Worse

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We know—The Korean War will never be as popular to discuss the horrors of as the Vietnam War, but Papa’s trophy makes him very happy. Touching the trophy, or proclaiming that the Vietnam War was much more of an atrocity isn’t going to change the fact that this isn’t Dunkin’ Donuts.


5. Asking To See The Key To The City of Albany

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The mayor of Albany takes the key for a walk pretty often. Just because he chose me, a person fine with complaining about stupid shit in a listicle under the guise of an unpaid “journalism career”, to carry around his dumb key sometimes doesn’t mean I’ve got to show it to you. Also, don’t ask me to smell it. I wouldn’t hide it from you if it had an interesting smell in any way so just be patient until it develops one.

6. Requesting That I Give Away Some Of This Money We Made Today Instead Of Just Burning It Out Back

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Yes, I burn all of the profits we make every day. Yes, my boss doesn’t know. I know all of these things, and I know that it’s a waste, but that doesn’t mean you get to try and take advantage of that. Plenty of people like you come out back to my big oil drum fire every day asking for money because I’m “just going to burn it anyway.” Get a fucking job and earn some yourself you piece of shit!

To put it simply, this job is supposed to be easy for me because I don’t actually need the paycheck to live each week—I’ve got parents for that. Don’t overcomplicate things for me.

Zachary Johnson is a food lover ❤ and unpaid intern at Nonsense’s very own “Knife Institution”, a branch of our #brand aimed at pleasing assholes like you with mundane listicles about food or some shit. Zach hopes to work for a real company one day, like BuzzFeed 😘

Student Body Lines Up Late At Night For Same Shitty Food They Can Get Tomorrow Morning

By Zachary Johnson

Admitting that they can get the same exact food tomorrow at a much more reasonable time, an ungodly proportion of the student body lined up tonight in Hofstra’s cramped, dingy cafeteria for the bi-annual Late Night Breakfast.

“I’ve got to write four papers, take two finals, and suck three professor’s dicks tomorrow,” Sean McCoy, Hofstra Class of 2017 member is reported as saying. “I took a break from doing all of my important work so I could pour free food into my garbage body the same way Compass employees pour those pre-scrambled eggs out of a plastic milk carton.”

Attendance was noted as being higher than ever before, as students with nothing better to do on a Monday night in the midst of the most intensively stressful week of the academic year, flocked in droves to the event in order to consume the same mediocre fare they could just as easily get at a more convenient time. According to reports, lines stretched past the entrance and back to the commuter’s lounge where desperate, broke, stressed, soul-sucked urchins gathered in literal depravity.

“I’m going to sneak in these tupperware containers that Compass employees made me buy,”says Senior Abbey Downs,”And steal as much shitty plastic food as my stubby little arms can carry. And then I’m gonna fuck someone in the library. Maybe then I’ll feel okay enough to write my thesis paper.”

“The time of year surrounding the Late Night Breakfast is infamous for the quirky ways in which the stress gets to our students and causes psychological harm. They’re so cute!” says a Hofstra spokesperson, Randy Goodman. “As the University who put this stress-intensive system with potentially harmful repercussions into place, we decided that the only possible thing we could do to help is to give them a lot of free, really shitty food that they could honestly just get the next day when some poor employee slides open the student center’s solemn, wrought iron gates for another day of despair.”

In regards to the number of low value, stale bagels that will be just as available in the cafeteria tomorrow that we were allowed to take, however, Goodman very firmly screamed “ONE! ONE BAGEL!” while making a very rigid “1” sign with his baby-carrot fingers.

The student body seemed to have a generally mild reception to waiting in a very long, tiring line to get the same sloppy mulch they can shovel into their tear-stained maws at literally any time the following morning. Some even appeared to smile.

“It’s free, and they have a DJ,”Hofstra Pride mascot Kate Hofstra is reported as saying. “Otherwise I can’t think of any reason that any human being would want to come to this event. I’m only here because OSLE keeps my heart in a small jar, and this costume is really just actually sewn into my skin.”

At press time, students were reportedly able to get in early by degrading themselves on social media with arbitrary hashtags.smalllogo

Diners, Drive-Ins, and Destiny: My Guy Fieri Fan Fiction

Art Credit Heather Levinsky

By Langley Pussifoot

An excerpt from The Hofstra Issue

I had nothing to be nervous about. As a veteran student journalist,  I’d long understood the value of confidence and composure. For an assignment of this magnitude, though, I’d need as much of both as I could muster. Despite all I knew about proper journalism, I had long been relegated to the most benign and obvious assignments. “SGA to Vote: ‘Is Smoking Weed a Sin?’” was by far my biggest story last semester, notable still among my journalistic peers for my concise yet biting closing sentiments, “Christ does anybody even read this does anybody even read this shit you fucking swine yo ufucking shitbeastsss.” I’ll admit it was a brash decision, and perhaps at a different school it would have meant a swift kiss of death for my young career; instead, they made me editor-in-chief, allowing me to assign myself the best stories and fuck anybody I want.



It’s true we had an idea that something like this was due to happen soon enough; we’d received vague-if-teasing e-mails notifying us of a “New Era,” a “Master Plan,” and, seemingly unrelated , a string of off-campus assaults attributed to somebody named H O T P O P E Y E S B I S C U I T S. Hell, Hofstra had been attempting publicity stunts fairly regularly long before any of us thought we’d end up here; sure, we all remember the TLC Reunion fiasco of Fall Fest ’14 (only two of them bothered to show up), but what about the shocking Spring Fest ’09 that saw SuperChef Bobby Flay eat his own throw up? What about the night shuttle that doubled as a  Planned Parenthood clinic? (Thanks Steve) They had all failed to put us on the map in any significant way, and I suppose that by now it was pretty obvious we needed something big if we wanted the name-recognition of a Penn State or Virginia Tech. Their plan: Bring award-winning father and food eater Guy Fieri to campus to put some of our top-flight eateries on an episode of his seminal investigative series Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives. My plan: turn this into the biggest story Hofstra had ever seen.

We were scheduled to meet upon his arrival to campus, if only for a chance to ask preliminary questions before the  crush of fanboys came flocking, tips a-frosted. I gripped the inside of my pockets like the crossbars of a roaring coaster, a buoyant anxiety growing inside me as if every step towards our meeting point furthered my crawl over the apex of Flavor Town Mountain. Something inside me knew already that soon my life would never be the same. I crossed the street towards the Student Center a nervous wreck of potential questions, thinking still of how I would draw the greater truth from such a complex journalistic muse. Then it hit me. A car; a sickly-cum colored Honda knocked my bitch ass down like nothin’, drawing blood from a scrape on my knee and a some pee from my penis. (Perhaps also some brain trauma because, well, letters and numbers scream at me pretty relentlessly.  But that’s besides the point).

My ears were still ringing when the unholy smell of Pulled Pork Vape engulfed me. A hand reached towards me through the hell cloud, the spray-tanned flesh clump bearing a faded reminder of once-flaming knuckle tats inscribed: “FOOD”. It was Him.


Shit brother, I can’t afford another case. Please man, you don’t need to go to a hospital do you? Do you know who I am? I’m fucking famous! I have money! Please, take my money. I have $38 dollars right here. I have some black and milds in my car. I can probably get like three more black and milds from my cameraman. Oh god I can’t believe this fucking happened again.”

Mr. Fieri,” I interrupted, “I can’t take your money or your delicious treats, I’m the one covering your visit. I’m supposed to be meeting you for an interview right now. Please stop blowing that Pulled Pork Vapor on my wounds. I am begging you to stop doing that to me.”

“Oh shit, the student-journalist. Yeah, uh, my publicist said that would be a really bad idea for me right now. I mean, besides the fact that I just hit you with my car, I’ve also got a lot of shit working its way through the legal system currently that may ban me from campuses altogether.”

“Oh wow, well I—”

“And I mean, I can’t even do a full episode here. They’ve got me doing an online-exclusive thing right now, which we’ll probably scrap altogether. They’re making me drive my car from home, I don’t even get anything cool! I can’t even believe somebody let me put myself in this situation. I killed like three cats too, I just ran them right the fuck  over. I shouldn’t be telling you this. What am I doing? Do you have any Xanax? Any shit at all? Please bro.”

“Look Mr. Fieri, this is my career we’re talking about. This event—you—this is a big deal for this school and for me. This is going to help me make a name for myself. Don’t you remember that struggle for recognition, for validation in doing what you love? I could be the next Guy Fieri, and you could help pass the torch! Don’t you see that?”

He paused and backed away suddenly, exhaling some additional smokehouse vapor from his ears and from behind his cool sunglasses.


“Kid, I’m sorry, but my career still has twenty-plus years. This is only the beginning for me. Hell, you probably think I’m what, 35? 38? Not even close. But that’s just the power of money my friend. Now stay away from me.”

With that, he lowered his powerful frame into what smelled like an outhouse made of kielbasa, and drove away as dangerously fast as he had come. I was stung, devastated the way so many were when Guy Fieri’s S’mores Indoors Dessert Pizzas turned out to be full of hot peppers and very little else. I’d been shunned by the one man who could surely change my life, pushed away by the master of my craft. He was right though; this business isn’t built on friendship. If he wouldn’t agree to help my story, well, maybe I didn’t need his permission.

Disallowed from my press privileges, I took a series of insignificant notes on Guy’s reactions from a distance. Impassioned howls of “Dang brother!” and “Wowza” filled the Sbarro kitchen for some time before he finally wrung out a slice of pepperoni pizza like an old dish rag, streamlining its orange grease directly into his face holes. He wiped his bristled goatee and looked in for the money shot: “That’s the kind of nectar we love, here on Triple D.”


My time was coming, and I knew it; I’d already watched Guy eat every kind of Sbarro slice, every type of sushi, a steak sandwich, and three different kinds of preservative plastic wrap. They were going to have all the necessary footage soon, and my story was not yet complete. I moved through the crowd with swift determination—my mind tuned to chaos, my heart to destiny. Our eyes met across the Sbarro counter and he stepped forward only to shake his head in silence .

“Hey Guy,” I shouted, confident that I was about to say something really cool. “Make this gun bullets a snack for you!” I was wrong. But it didn’t matter; I had just shot doting husband and affable neighbor Guy Fieri four times in the chest with a handgun I was able to legally purchase. I don’t know if I killed him, I don’t even know what the full extent of my charges are yet. I only know what the last words he said to me were, spat between coughs of blood and the regurgitation of some garlic bread. “I only have…this to say…the liberals were right. We still need stricter gun control. This all could have been prevented.”


So as you can see, President Obama, I’m writing this letter to you as a sort of olive branch. I’ve scratched your back, and your front, and your sides, and your grey little head. I fed the public the perfect appetizer of heartbreak with an entree of fear. I turned a national icon into a national tragedy, a bleeding heart mouth piece narrating the story of a nation in distress. I’m now isolated in a maximum security prison, mostly because I keep spitting on my fingers and smelling them. Nobody wants to be my friend. So now it’s time for you to help me. Pardon me of these charges, let me go back to the school I put on the map and do what I deserve to do. Help me tell the stories that need to be told. And please, Mr. President, bring back the Hofstra football team. The Master Plan must continue. My work is not done.

Food Reviews: None Pizza With Left Beef

By Charles Bukkake
It was an especially cold and bitter night when my wife left me. She had been banging my boss for a couple months and when I caught them on that cute futon I bought from Ikea just a week or two ago, I was fired the next day because “It makes the whole work experience awkward”. Traveling by foot back to my apartment, because that’s what recently unemployed divorcees do, I was mugged by a much larger gentleman whose skin color I shall not specify so as to avoid being called racist by anybody. Anyway, I got my umbrella jacked for whatever fucking reason and it started to rain almost immediately after. By the time I finally got to my apartment, I found a note on the door from my wife telling me to pack my things and leave. Left BeefYes I probably could have sued my boss or legally done something about this  but the truth is, my wife is right about a lot of things, including the fact that I don’t have the balls to do anything about it. Anyway, I managed to work up quite the appetite so I decided that I might as well order some pizza from Domino’s, because product placement. I opened my computer and, much to my surprise, I found an odd picture, some kind of twisted abstraction, I think they call it “meme” but it was detailing a certain kind of pizza, or rather, a pizza that didn’t have any pizza at all. Indeed there was no pizza, just beef. I guess my daughter was using my computer again but before I could cross my fingers and awkwardly ask a series of vague questions to her, in hopes that she didn’t find my bookmarked babysitter porn, I thought hey fuck it, why not? This seems like some crazy diet thing and I could shed a few pounds. I was well on my way to ordering what, I did not know at the time was called, none pizza with left beef. No cheese, no sauce, no pepperoni, no Chad’s saus-sorry…Italian sausage, no mushrooms, no ham, no bacon, no anchovies, but beef. Oh yes. A normal amount of beef specifically on the left side of the pizza. It sounded a little weird sure but whatever helped me bond with my daughter aside from the ever-so-often “You don’t understand me”’s and “It’s not a phase, dad, why do you hate me?”’s and “Ugh you’re so embarrassing”’s every time I mention erections around her boyfriend. Within fifteen minutes the pizza came and with each bite I fell more and more into despair until I ultimately started to cry. My life couldn’t even give me the small pleasure of enjoying some fucking none pizza…with left beef. The dough was especially raw in some places and burnt in others and the oblong chunks of beef tasted as salty as the tears streaming down my face thinking about Karen and I’s honeymoon. My daughter walked in on me, asked if I was crying and I only responded “No sweetie, it’s just really spicy.” She shook her head in contempt, as they all do, and while she was leaving she turned her head slightly, her back still facing me, she said “Mom called. She heard you got fired and just wants you to know she’s not mad, just disappointed.”

I Was Vegan For 2h and Here’s What Happened

By Dakar Morris

I never understood why anyone would want to be a vegan until a week ago. Before that I was all too content with shoving large volumes of meat into my mouth. Choking on it, seeing how much my throat could contain in one sitting, swallowing the thick, sticky byproducts. Hell, sometimes I even ate animals. But all that changed when I attended a PETA rally in south Soho. You see, I never knew that by eating meat I was doing anything wrong. Like murder or kidnapping, it seemed harmless as long as I paid for the privilege. I never knew animals died to become food. I thought it was closer to Pokemon, where a chicken just sort of becomes boneless wings when it hits a certain level; or my neighbor’s dog disappears and we suddenly have steak for dinner (but that was a hard winter and I don’t want to talk about it). The rally shed a whole new light on the issue. Meat was murder. Everyone I knew and loved was basically Jeffrey Dahmer and that wasn’t okay.

I woke up the next morning renewed. This was my first day living a vegan lifestyle and I was very excited. I didn’t know of any vegan places at the time so I went to McDonald’s for my first meal. When I got there I was glad they had lots of vegan choices like: salad, sodas and fries. And before you judge, yes I know McDonald’s cooks their fries in animal fat, but I think it’s wonderful that they’re taking the initiative to help these animals slim down. That’s like extra vegan if you think about it, so I got a large order. When my food was ready I went to sit down near like-minded people, but was horrified to find out there wasn’t even a vegan section in that particular McDonald’s. Yelp score: 1 star. I ate quickly, praying that the barbaric meat eaters wouldn’t notice me and decide to make me their next meal. Thankfully, they kept their insatiable lust for flesh to a minimum and I was able to escape. What a close call. My first day of veganism was already off to a great start!

Pretty soon it was time for me to go to work and I was excited to show off my rockin’ new bod to all those jealous chodes at the office. I first spied my-coworker, Karen, snacking on a meat stick.

“Oh hey Karen,” I said. Veganism made me super nice, I even talked to Karen in public now. “Oh, you still eat animals? I mean, not to judge or anything, but that kind of makes you a bitch.” She just stared at me in disbelief. She must’ve been awestruck by the way I stood up to her. She had just opened her mouth, to thank me no doubt, when our supervisor David happened to walk up.

“What’s up, peons,” He greeted as usual. “What are you fat sacks of shit doing today?”

“I’m a vegan now.” I replied with a humble smile, making sure I was saying it loud enough so the whole office could hear how humble and nonchalant I was about being so much better than them.

“Good for you,” He said, patting me on the back much like one would a dog or a very likable prostitute. “Karen, why can’t you be more like Worker #701959242 here?” Then he slapped the Slim Jim right out of her disgusting carnivore talons. “Keep this up and you’ll be back on the streets Karen, I mean it.”

After we put Karen in her place, I went to work. I sent emails to everyone in the office telling them that they’re all definitely going to hell for eating animals and it was gonna be sad to watch the devil force them to swallow his meat, but whatever, it’s not my place to judge. Having felt so fulfilled for having alerted every one of their sins, I decided to leave work seven-and-a-half hours early. I knew David would understand. He’s the only one who wasn’t a complete fucking idiot.

But on my way home, I noticed my good friends PETA protesting outside of a Kardashian book signing. I was so overjoyed that I swung the car across three lanes of traffic and over 2 sidewalks, ending the lives of eight pedestrians in the process, but they all probably ate meat anyway so they more than likely deserved it. I got out of the car and ran up to hug the cult leader, but instead of being greeted with cheers and kisses, I was drenched in deer blood from a bucket they threw at me. It wasn’t even vegan deer blood substitute!

“Murderer!” They screamed at me.

“What? What are you talking about?” I begged. “I’m one of you! I’m a good noodle!”

“You’re wearing a polar bear fur coat, raccoon hat, and your shoes are literally stuffed housecats.”

I could not believe they were being so judgmental! I thought being vegan was about being nice and accepting one another, not throwing shade because of the way a person dresses! I got back in my car—ruining the authentic leather seats with deer blood might I add—and sped off. Well actually I spun around and ran over as many PETA members as I could, and then I sped off. I had never felt so betrayed. I decided I owed someone a serious apology. I went back to my office and walked right up to Karen.

“Karen,” I said with tears in my eyes. “I have something to say…”

“Yes?” She asked hopefully.

“I need to apologize—“

“I accept!” She blurted out before I finished.

“—To David. I’m not vegan anymore. Could you give him the memo? Thankies.” And with that I drove off to enjoy a nice wholesome meal at my local, organic Taco Bell.