Category Archives: History

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.

An Open Letter To The People Of London

It’s time we all stop focusing on the negatives.

Sweeney Todd in 500 Words on April 20, 1969

An excerpt from “The ‘PC’ Issue”

Generalizations. They’re no good, right? Especially the bad ones. As fiction breeds stock characters with which to weave a narrative, non-fiction news reporting generalizes individual people to exploit for a story. Take me, for example. I, Sweeney Todd, the Honest Barber of Fleet Street, provide many goods and services to the people of the good city of London. I perform in public, I give expert shaves and haircuts, and I also help my girlfriend manage a bakery, which produces the freshest, highest quality meat pies around. Yet, the only publicity I get from the papers are barbed and intolerant criticisms.

You see, the media is obsessed with labels. “Demon,” “cannibal,” “killer.” Those kind of labels breed hatred and spread mistrust. Although my business partners and I devote endless time and energy to caring for our sweet, sweet friends and neighbors, the instant that one person loses their life, I become “The Demon Barber of Fleet Street.” Why can’t we move beyond these stereotypes? It may be true that I lure unsuspecting people into my barbershop, slit their throats, and slide them down the laundry chute into my girlfriend’s basement. But that’s not all I may or may not do. This dehumanizes me, causes me to lose business, and mostly just makes me feel sad.

If, hypothetically, I stopped “killing my customers,” maybe the media would ease off a little bit. But, how would we stay on the cutting edge of the market if I changed this essential tenet of our operation? It comes down to the principle of the thing; no one should be expected to conform to the media’s warped, unrealistic depiction of morality nowadays.

So yeah, call me what you will. With this, I, Sweeney Todd, “The Demon Barber of Fleet Street,” challenge the media to just stop noticing if I kill people. All this does is create a culture of negativity and fear, and that has nothing to do with me! What’s the point in telling people about bad things that happen? Life is hard enough as it is, believe me. Let’s just only talk about good things from now on! We can all be better than the media machine.

To the members of the media, I challenge you to write an editorial on how crisp and clean my haircuts are, rather than insinuating that I may or may not kill my patrons and bake them into pies. Obviously, no one is completely good or completely evil. Once society moves past this heinous moral binary, we can all work together to end this stereotype that plagues me and my business. Society needs to realize that barbers are people too, no matter what that sinking feeling in your gut tells you. After all, doesn’t everyone deserve to live their life in peace?

Top 5 Butts of Renaissance Sculptures

By A Straight Man

An excerpt from The Renonaissance!


5. Da Vinci’s David (David)

Nothing screams “Classic Crack” more than this pasty white ass. And is that a little taint I see? Da Vinci’s David has the perfect combination of a thirty-year-old’s face, a twenty-year-old’s body, and a 10-year-old’s ass. Does it make him legal? Who knows!


4. Hercules (Hercules and Cacus)

When I think, “Muscular ass” I
instantly think, “Hercules’s muscular ass.” These buns of steel might just steal your heart away. He was known to crack chestnuts with one clean rear-end-clench crush. Oh yeah. I’m talking about nutcracker butt.




3. Perseus (Perseus with the Head of Medusa)

Talk about a knee-popping butt enhance! It’s all about the pose with Perseus. Perseus knows he doesn’t have the greatest butt, but he sure does know how to work with what he’s got. I give most of my points to the pose here. It’s got that one cheek flex aesthetic that screams, “I wax.”




2. Samuel (Samuel Slaying a Philistine) 

Ambiguous much? Damn Samuel what’s happening with the guy on the other side of you? I mean who wouldn’t want some of that wide marble ass. All cold and smooth-like. Samuel has an ass that lets us know he’s definitely the “Daddy”-type and has that edgy alternative vibe that drives people crazy.




1. Donatello’s David (David)

Alleluia! It’s an immaculate ass. The remake can’t live up to the original David. Only 15 years old and David knows what he’s got. That shiny dark brass bottom is calling out for someone to oil it, like how the tin man cries out in the Wizard of Oz. And those knee highs. Now I know why my 87 year old grandma keeps a mini replica of this statue on the side of her bed.