Category Archives: LIfestyle

5 Handshakes To Assert Your Dominance Over Mr. Tiny Hands

By Quin Asselin

An excerpt from The Adult Issue, out now!

Everyone makes that same mistake when they see Ralph from the front desk. They go, “Well shit, Ralph has some tiny hands so it shall be easy for me to crush them into a mealy flesh paste before I go to Denny’s for their limited edition Holiday Harvest Skillet.”

But if you’re really looking to add some sizzle to your season, you better be read up, Peach Tea. For Ralph and his unremarkable hands have felled CEOs with a couple of baseball gloves for clodhoppers. Here’s some techniques to consume with your noodle before taking on the big dog himself.

 

The Rock and The Hard Place

Take the small yet formidable hand of Ralph the Intern into the welcoming embrace of your preferred spank mitten. Then take your southpaw and eclipse his little pygmy digits. You are a vice grip in your eighth grade woodshop, you’re Anton Yelchin’s new car, you’re the ocean swallowing the Titanic. You must be deaf to the screams.

 

The Pachaug Punisher

A bit of forewarning: This is an advanced level shake that requires the aid of an entire river to complete. A very spitty mouth will do in a pinch but that can be a dead giveaway for a certain hawk-eyed intern. You’re gonna reach in for that standard shake (American, not Australian ya goon) and hold his lotioned hand interlaced with your quintet of meat pistons. Then take your Grade A USDA certified beef sausages and lock him in. Sweep the legs, then either roll him into a gulley or unleash a Biblical torrent of expectorate from your negotiation orifice. You haven’t had a shake/workout like that in a while huh?

 

Maybe Just Be Nice to Ralph?

I’m really not sure what your problem with Ralph is. He’s a decent intern and those mitts of his are still mighty enough to schedule all necessary appointments. He can type around 90 words a minute, even on a big boy keyboard. So maybe you shouldn’t be mocking a man who’s making the best of the bad hand he was dealt.

 

A Hammer

This one is less of a handshake and more of a hammer and a putrid little baby babuu boy hand embracing each other. Plus, this shake is great for those who are with Ralph in a Home Depot or an under construction Denny’s a couple months before you really give his palms a pulverizing. You know, doing this could really end up hurting him a whole lot. If you’ve got such a beef with Ralph don’t you think it’d be best to maybe try and talk it out with him? Why do you always gotta be escalating shit to new levels like this?

 

Mazda Meathook Masher

This is a pretty cruel and unusual handshake, even for a saucy little cornball like yourself. First you’re gonna have to steal the keys to Intern Ralph’s modestly priced 1998 Mazda Miata. You won’t be able to miss it because it’s a flashy red sports car that he parks in my spot every-goddamn-day. Start joyriding that baby all over town until you’re out completely devoid of fuel/motivation (whichever comes first) then return to the last known location of Ralph, he’ll be there. Shake his teeny tiny flesh gripper and inform him of all the misdeeds that led to his Mazda’s disappearance. His hand will limp and his face shall grow pale, as you compress his carpal tunnel into the world smallest neutron star.

Ralph may have never done anything to deserve such unjust hate at your very hands, but just looking’ at him you can totally tell that his diminutive flesh carrots were due for a squishing. And you and me kid, we’re gonna take this town’s hands down a peg, one lowly unsuspecting trashbag of an intern at a time.

7 Clean Ways To Explain Sex To Your Handsome Son

by Our Sex Expert

We’ve all been there. You have a son who’s such a large handsome boy of a son, and you know the girls are gonna be trying to tame his crotch carrot faster than you can say, “son that’s actually called your penis, not your cloth carol.” So, how do you explain the lowdown, on the getdown, on the letdown, that is sex? Sex is a joyless, thankless experience. No one wants it, but you know your son is so long and handsome that it’s bound to be sprung upon him by someone handsome and wide. Here are seven clean ways to explain sex to your pure, cylindrical, handsome son.

  • 1. “One time a million years ago, God grabbed a holy bee and stuck its stinger into a birds butt, and said ‘this is sex, and it is sin, but you must do it for me.’ So humans did it and still do it. That’s sex!”

This one is pretty much straight out of the Bible. Not religious, just scared? Here:

  • 2. “When the fruit bat spots a piece of fruit that it would like to ingest purely for its nutrients, and maybe its flavor, it goes after it. Maybe it’s a small berry, or let’s say a papaya. Having lost the ability to echolocate in evolution, the fruit bat uses its keen sense of smell to stick its long carrot-like fang into the papaya. Once it has sucked out all the nutrients, it drops a big guano to the ground and flies off to find another papaya. That’s sex!”

If your handsome son loves bats as much as mine does then this will make them really happy.

  • 3. “Remember those dreams you would have about dipping your crotch carrot into a      bowl of mud? That’s not sex!”

If your handsome son has had these same dreams, then it’s probably good to clarify what sex is not. Just tell him this, and every other thing. He’ll get it.

  • 4. “Son, that’s actually called your penis, not your crotch carrot. Oops.”

This one only works if, at a young age, you told your handsome son that his penis is called a crotch carrot. If that’s the case, fire away!

  • 5. “If a girl ever tells you that she’s ‘really enjoying this funnel cake that you purchased me at this county fair that you invited me to,’ you need to sneeze on said funnel cake, causing the sugar to encompass her. That’s sex!”

Nuff’ said.

Metaphor too apt for comfort? This one:

  • 6. “Once a year on your lover’s birthday you should buy for them their favorite ice cream, then light one-hundred candles in the bedroom. Then you should melt the ice cream using the candles and pour it into your lover’s mouth. After that, they are ready for sex. Slowly insert your carrot into your lover’s carrot receiving sanctum, located exactly where your carrot is except lower or to the side. As soon as you start to feel the tingle of Farmer Joe, retract your carrot, or Farmer Joe will harvest it and you’ll never be able to pee again. That’s sex!”

Ah yes, this is how I first overheard about sex. I wanted my handsome son to have the same experience, so I made sure to recite the above paragraph every time he entered a room for four months. (Side note: If you need to bring a little fire to your bedroom, try the candle thing.)

  • 7. “Son, we need to have a talk. Katie-Alice is the perfect cubical dimension for your cylindrical body. You should ask her to have sex and then have sex. To do so, just ask her to have sex and then let her do everything. You’re adopted, and not the result of my sex, and your mother and I’s marriage is purely financial. Farmer Joe harvested my carrot, or ‘penis’ as you now know, when I was 23. It was during Mardi Gras, and so he never gave it back. ”

Feel free to use any of these clean phrases to explain sex to your handsome son. Just slip them into any conversation. I know they worked with my boy!

Aspiring Weed Vlogger, For the Life of Him, Cannot Find Tertiary Hobby To Base Channel On

By Matthew Tanzosh

According to sources close to him, Aspiring Weed Vlogger Jason Fullbright gazed, impotently at his blank Youtube page early this morning, desperately combing his mental rolodex for an interest in literally any hobby other than smoking weed.

Fullbright, known better on r/trees and the Youtube comments section as xXHyGuy69Xx, looked mournfully at his Youtube page—for which he had had a custom banner created—and audibly croaked at his lack of even a single upload.

hyguy69.png

“People get so many follows just smoking weed and doing something else. Just gotta find my niche.” Fullbright said aloud to himself. Or maybe he just thought it and forgot it again. GodDAMN, he is high.

Following six hours staring into the middle distance Jason said, “Just gotta find my niche. I used to play video games, but I don’t really have time anymore.” He then continued to stare for six more.

Science Proves There are Always 420 People Smoking Weed Anywhere in the World at Any Point, And That’s WHY!

By Brenna Lilly

Here at Nonsense Humor Magazine, we know that ganja groupies can be found everywhere. We all know that one stoner: bleary-eyed, curled up in the corner, asking for some water or maybe a chip. But not just stoners are smoking the gud-gud today. Almost everyone does the thing! Where are these people, exactly? Are they hiding under your pillow?  Are they in your Western Philosophy class? Are they your jaded and tenured professors? Are they writing for your own Long Island collegiate humor magazine?

No.

In a groundbreaking study from the chair of joint affairs at Jungian Organization for Intellegence In Natural Technology, a joint discovery was made between the joint chair and the University of Boulder. it has been discovered that at any given point in time, there are always exactly four-hundred and twenty individuals smoking marijuana (also known as cannabis, reefer, or the oregano you found in your dad’s underwear drawer at the tender age of nine). The study, which received an unprecedented number of student volunteer responses, surveyed the habits of cannabis connoisseurs everywhere. Twenty minutes ago? 420 people lighting one up. Thirteen seconds ago? 420 blunt-boyz blowing their bongos. The minute you were fucking born? 420 stoney-baloney-homies doing the dirty deed, one of which was your father in the car outside the hospital. “We are aware,” one of the weed scientists said, “That Marijuana has become a multibillion dollar industry. But there are always 420 people smoking. No less, and no more. That is why it is the number for weed.”

“Ohhhhhhhh. That’s why,” mused interviewee Jack Hudson, freelance poet and head-shop employee. “I never fucking knew that. Nobody ever knew – I always asked my friends and it was kinda like, well, just go with it. It was some mythical shit. Yo, you gonna buy that blunt wrap?”

“420 Blaze It,” Says Burning Monk

By Ariel Leal

April 20th is celebrated by many, taken as a day of excess, intoxication and a bullish commitment to tired social media memery. And not just by Nazi’s (it is Hitler’s Birthday, but don’t worry, we did not even THINK of baking him a cake. We spit on Hitler. Petoowee!). Unbeknownst to many, 4/20 is also the day that a clandestine group of “weedheads” come out of the woodwork to smoke too much weed—the one day they do the thing they do everyday, and feel good about it. We here at Nonsense Humor, find this offensive, and antithetical to the spiritual and socio-religious importance the consumption of cannabis holds for so many. So we interviewed a monk. Hofstra’s only monk. Typically reclusive, we had only briefly corresponded with him online, and set a date (4/20) and a time (4:20) to meet him. We were not told he would be setting himself on fire when we got there.

As we approach the 18 year-old caucasian male and also self-proclaimed Buddhist monk he enlightens us on the importance of self-immolation especially on a momentous occasion such as the celebration of weed inhalation. He had this to say on the matter, “WELL YOU SEE, I’M A PRACTICING BUDDHIST, WHICH MEANS THAT I’M A MONK. YOU HAD YOUR BURNING MONK DURING THE VIETNAM WAR AND I THINK THAT’S WHAT ALL OF US MONKS WANT TO ACHIEVE. A FRIEND OF MINE NOTED THE DATE AND HE TOLD ME TO BLAZE IT SO I DID SOME DEEP INTROSPECTION AND HERE I AM!”

Keeping in mind that his perpetual shouting was not due to pain, rather, an attempt to literally have his voice heard over the violent roaring of flames that consumed his entire body, we pressed him further, and more loudly. On the topic of his beliefs, John Jacob Weedman (that’s not his real name) had only this to say, “THERE SEEMS TO BE A LOT OF PUSH-BACK WHEN IT COMES TO WEED SMOKING BUT I THINK WE HAVE TO WAKE THE SHEEPLE OF AMERICA UP TO REALIZE THE TRUE BENEFITS OF MARIJUANA. DID YOU KNOW THIS SHIT ACTUALLY GIVES YOU BRAIN CELLS? EVERY GENIUS IN HUMAN HISTORY SMOKED WEED. MICHAEL PHELPS SMOKES WEED. YOU THINK GALILEO SAW STARS AND SHIT SOBER? FUCK THAT, BRO, IT TAKES A LITTLE GANJ TO GET TO THAT LEVEL OF ENLIGHTENMENT. NEWTON PROBABLY SMOKED…OUR OWN PRESIDENTS SMOKED WEED TOO, I MEAN “FOUR SCORE” COME ON BRO THAT MEANS 420!”

At this point we didn’t have much else to say so he asked us if we wanted to see “SOMETHING COOL” which involved smoking a joint from one of the newly melted holes in his face. We’re forced to objectively report that it wasn’t even a little bit cool. The boy then tried to educate us on the topic of the diverse biology of weed. “DID YOU KNOW THAT THERE’S MORE THAN ONE KIND OF WEED?” asked J.J. Weedman. “PEOPLE DON’T REALLY REALIZE IT BUT THERE’S ALL KINDS OUT THERE I MEAN YOU GOT YOUR ACHILLEA MILLEFOLIUM, BELLIS PERENNIS, CIRSIUM ARVENSE, PLANTAGO MAJOR, AND MY PERSONAL FAVORITE, TARAXACUM OFFICINALE.”

Weedman also possessed small, metal crates full of herbs and covered in Sublime decals. When asked what their contents were, he told us, “OH THAT’S JUST MY PERSONAL COLLECTION. I GOT MY HANDS ON A FINE LITTLE NUMBER CALLED TOXICODENDRON RADICANS!”

Despite many warnings on our part to prevent him from smoking what is literally just poison ivy, he said, “COME ON, BRO! IT’S GOT ‘RAD’ IN THE NAME! YOU KNOW I GOTTA SMOKE THAT SHIT.”

We understood how impressive it was, either way, that he was sacrificing himself for his beliefs, whether it be by self-immolation or suffocation by the inhalation of burnt poison ivy smoke. To be completely honest, there’s a lot of different ways a person can die in a situation as unique as this one. That being said, our monk friend said, and we quote, “HAHAH WHAT DO YOU MEAN, BRO? MONKS CAN’T DIE!” There was a pause before he continued. “WE LIKE RESURRECT AND SHIT, MAN! IT’S FUCKING DOPE!”

We can neither confirm nor deny the validity of this statement and made this known to him. There wasn’t a lot of time for him to fully be concerned with the possibility that there is not, in fact, life after death so he instead chose to accept his demise with a heartfelt message, mostly involving his excitement to experience Nirvana.

F-FOUR TWENTY BLAZE IT! HAHA…Y-YES! I’M COMIN, KURT! I’M GONNA GO SEE THE WHOLE GANG JUST LIKE THEY PROMISED! DAVE! KRIST! KURT! I’M GONNA…I’M…I LOVE..SMELLS LIKE TEEN SPIRIT….”

Well there you have it. We are legally obligated to report whether or not this small man actually died. He did. He definitely fucking died. You don’t light yourself on fire before smoking poison ivy and survive.

Anyway, happy weed number day, you filthy pringles. Only eight more days until Arbor Day!

When Life Gets Busy, Put A Bunch Of Shit In A Jar

By Heather Levinsky

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

You’ve been hit by the analog bulletin train! Pass this onto 15 people who need to take a good, hard look at their disastrous, unbalanced life.

When everything in your entire whole life has gone to fuck and back, take a remember at this good speech from an extremely wise woman. Because she was wise, she was a professor. And because she was a professor, she gave a speech, to her class.

“Why don’t you all look at this mason jar that I have.” The class looked, because they were a good class.

“Here i am, gonna fill it up with sand.” The professor then poured enough sand into the jar to fill it halfway.

“This represents the ‘earth,’ your main priorities in life. Because without some ground beneath our feet, where would we have a leg to stand on, or a stand for our legs?” quoth the professor. The class nodded quietly in rapt approval.

“Now, class, would you say that the jar is full?”

“No, I’d say it’s about halfway full.” a student spake. “You might want to think about pacing yourself, as far as the sand is concerned, or maybe, add the larger elements in first, and the smaller particulates later, so that there’s enough room.

“You are expelled. Never question the unquestionable authority of the tenured professor.” The student was astonished at her doctrine.

What the professor did next was even more astonishing.

“Next, I’m put some pebbles on top of the sand. Next most important in life, are the little rocks that give our lives texture. Salt is a rock, and they say the “salt of the earth” is what makes life so interesting!” The professor then reached deep, deep, deep into her most deepest pockets, scooping out two heaping handfuls of gravel and coarse salt. Pouring the rocks into the jar, the earthy contents almost reached the top.

“Other important rocks are diamonds, which signify both everlasting love and child labor; the duality of man.” The professor then reached deep, deep, deep into an even deeper pocket inside of the first one.  Producing a handful of diamonds, she poured those over top of the gravel, spilling out of the top of the jar like a silty parfait.

“Now, class, would you say that the jar is full?”

A few scattered students said “Yes. The jar is overflowing with precious minerals. The Swarovskian nonpareils shimmer in the fluorescent light, guiding us. We are content, and cannot, at this time, imagine an addition to this glass metaphor of our human life that would provide us with more satisfaction,” in unison; in monotone.

“Your manner of thinking is maddeningly limited. You are all incorrect. Expand your minds, and let’s get our full life.” The professor then reached into a student’s ear and produced 3 golf balls.

“Now, the golf balls, represent sports, leisure, and self-care. These are the least important things to have in your life; golf is for losers, leisure is for those without anxiety, and self-care is a fad diet invented to sell ad space on tumblr dot com.” The professor then attempted to balance the 3 golf balls on top of the glittering sediment jar, but the opening was too small for all 3 golf balls to rest comfortably against each other in a triangular configuration.

One of the golf balls fell on the ground.

Just when the class thought she was done, the professor did the most surprising thing of all!

Reaching into her bag, she pulled out 3 beers. After the raucous laughter subsided, one intrepid learner’s hand stood at attention.

“I get it, Professor! The true lesson, is that at the end of the day, you always have time left to kick back and enjoy a few beers with friends.”

Chuckling, the professor responded with a sage thesis.

“If you convince public safety that alcohol is an essential part of an extended metaphor for prioritizing your life, you can bring it onto campus.”

That professor? Albert Einstein.

Sports Spotlight: Hofstra Quidditch

By Emily Hart

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

This new upcoming season of Quidditch is gonna be a banger. Since their last game, they’ve just been going at it in the soccer fields. You know the type: the coolest kids in your Comp 2 class, always talking about how sore they are from practice. You’ve probably even seen their lanyards. Surprised that it’s Harry Potter? Why wouldn’t you be? I know people always talk about how Quidditch isn’t a real sport but I heard Greg in my class dispute this rumor. Greg and Dylan, the coveted seeker, were talking about how much work they’re missing out on because they have practice every night when this girl was like, “That’s not a real sport.” Being the Ravenclaw Greg is, he destroyed her using intellect and fact. She was totally dumbfounded. One day, I hope I get to be like Greg because he reminds me so much of Hermione, but I’m just a Hufflepuff who watches from the sidelines.

Watching them practice next to the soccer team, you can see just how dedicated they are to their sport. Sweating through their house sweatshirts, running around with that weird stick between their legs while trying to throw those balls into the hoops at the end of the field. There’s no other athlete who can do that kind of multitasking. In boring sports, they just do one thing with only one ball. In Quidditch, there’s gotta be at least three. Dylan has been perfecting the seeker position by doing extra practices and he’s finally starting to look like a great player. Not only is he a crazy good athlete, he’s crazy good-looking. Standing at a whopping 5’6” with shaggy brown hair that covers most of his face, he is so dreamy. His aroma is tantalizing, his AXE body spray makes everyone go wild—even the straight boys on the team. I mean, I would love to date him but there’s no way he would even look at me like that. I’m just a groupie—nowhere near his level or even his league.

Their first game since the terrifyingly upsetting loss against NYU is happening this weekend. NYU’s team was ripped; almost all of them were like close to six foot. They had exclusive merch that you can only get at Harry Potter World, so you know they’re good. Although that’s not really my type. I don’t go for the conventionally attractive type, you know? They’re not down to Earth like Dylan is. The NYU’s Hipster Horcruxes really did rip us a new one that day. So our team is hoping people come to show support—while they may not have three people in the crowd yet, like the basketball team has, hopefully some day they will. The game should be in the bag for them since they’re playing against Adelphi, the worst Quidditch team in the tri-state area. Adelphi’s team is like the opposite of the Hipster Horcruxes. So if you really want to show your school pride, don’t go to any of the games with free shirts.At this game, you’ll thrive on the atmosphere of excitement and all the Harry Potter references that they throw around. You’ll also be able to see all the hot members, but stay away from Dylan. Remember to head on out to the acid fields at 12:30 pm on Sunday! You won’t wanna miss it or the team!

Report: Local Cockroach Living Under Your Bed Thinks You Should Stop Fucking So Loud

By Zachary Johnson

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

Frustrated that his time to think is so often disturbed, a local cockroach—who lives under your bed—is reported as saying this morning that he thinks “you need to turn it down a notch” when it comes to “the fucking.”

“I’m not really even sure what they’re doing up there half of the time,” Timothy, the local cockroach told Nonsense this morning. “Doesn’t anyone have any respect for their neighbors anymore?”

Timothy informed Nonsense that the typical hours you “fuck very loudly” range anywhere from 6pm to 5am which we were able to confirm with the local snake that lives in your shower drain, Louis.

“To be honest, sometimes I don’t even know if there’s another person up there,” Louis said, coiling himself into a more comfortable position. “Sometimes it sounds like there are several people up there. Maybe they’ve got some weird freaky masturbatory habits going on, or there’s some sort of strange orgy ring at work here? I don’t know. It isn’t my job to know their business, I just want the noise to end.”

When asked if he plans to take any legal action, Timothy merely shrugged.

“All I’m concerned about is… well, I’m going back to school to get a law degree. I do classes online. I’ve got to be up really late some nights writing massive papers or doing loads of research, and don’t you think that maybe you could be a little more considerate of me?”

At press time, the local fly that lives in your pantry and the local rat that lives under your gross-ass washing machine were reportedly gathering other residents of your house—such as the termite that lives in your doorframe, and the centipede that’s taken a liking to your right slipper, which is weirdly always damp enough for him to be comfortable in—to sign a petition proposing your abstinence.

I Thought Ponyo Was Hentai, What Gives?

By Dorito Man

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

I work hard. People in my life understand this, So get this. I get home late, and my weirdo roommate, he tells me he has just the thing to cheer me up. I get want to grab a nice cold one from the fridge and crawl into bed, but I can’t, because there he is. Standing in the way. I can feel the condensation meeting my fingers. I crave it. I am thinking about this and my eyes are just about to glaze over when he pull out this blu-ray. I don’t know where it came from, and I don’t want to know. He’s really into that anime shit, and I’ve promised him I’d check some out, but honestly, I’m scared. I don’t have the time for big 2D jigglage. I have a girlfriend I’m too tired to talk to, okay? I’m too old for cartoon boobs that refuse to follow Newtonian physics, where the nipple can be fully penetrated by a large manhood. This time was different, though. I could tell that he wouldn’t leave me alone unless I gave Ponyo a shot.

I was ready. Taking a cursory glance at the blu-ray case, I saw a little girl, and I saw fish. That’s all I managed to see, and I thought to myself, ain’t this illegal? I know what this anime business is about. Seeing the ocean life on the cover only confirmed my biases about where this journey was headed. Knowing what he’s into–Samurai Champloo (which I think is Japanese for coitus), Kingdom Hearts, Neon Genesis Evangellier (even jellier than what?), I got ready for the evening that I assumed he had planned for us. I got the baby oil ready and lathered the entire bottom half of my body like a hybrid of man and seal. My socks stayed on of course, to preserve heat.

It’s to preserve heat.

I popped that bad boy in hiding behind 7 different proxies (which is what my roommate calls our blinds) so the POTUS couldn’t spot me finna engage in some solid waifu lechery. From what I’d gathered by right wing people on twitter, though, the president loves anime–judging by his supporters avi’s so I wasn’t too worried, when I hit play. I see Disney’s logo upfront, and I nearly cry. Have they stooped this low?

But here’s the crazy thing.

Not a single nipple. Not one. Buddy, you could put a magnifying glass up against the screen and I promise you that wouldn’t help find any nipples because there aren’t any. No inhuman amounts of ejaculate being funneled into genitalia, no swelling of the gastrointestinal system without any sort of health related repercussions and not one, not one, slippery bad boy with suction cups for fingers. Tentacles, in case you didn’t get it. The movie takes place in the sea, from what I had gathered, so that seemed like a given.

Instead, what I did get was beautiful handpainted scenery, mindblowing cinematography of a breathtaking scope, and a renewed sense of purpose, with a sense that the world isn’t as cold as I make it out to be living this day to day life I call a mediocre waste of time and breath. When my roommate said that the film had strong female characters, I assumed he was judging by the amount of newtons worth of force their little buttholes could negotiate. I now realize that he was referring to the depth of their character, which is–in a way–far more important. This film made me want to call my girlfriend.

The tale of a little-girl-fish thing helping her newfound family find love, is exactly what I would expect of Disney. I didn’t even get an erection. How fucking cool is that?

Apparently Hayao Miyazaki has a long history of making wonderous pictures that explore relatable themes, in ways that we are too busy down at the mill to consider. How was I supposed to know that Howl was the name of the protagonist of Howl’s Moving Castle, instead of just a description of the sounds buttstuff creates?

How the fuck was I supposed to know Ponyo wasn’t hentai?

Japanese, check.

Female protagonist, check.

That’s about all I got. You hear that, you think hentai. This was not that. 0/10 hentai, 10/10 film.

I owe my roommate an apology. Not just for shunning all of his recommendations prior, but for begrudgingly stripping nude in his presence. Tomorrow, I might even check out Spirited Away! Look, was I a little disappointed when I learned that Tina Fey hadn’t in fact lended her voice to a piece of animated pornography? Sure. Sure as I’ve got toes on my feets.

I do not have toes on my feet. But seeing her out of character, in the role of a caring mother just trying to make sure her family can get by under the weight of the judgement of others made me consider how I’d been treating the mother of my own children, whom I have been separated from, for just so long. And that’s great. There is no other result that I would prefer to come from laying slick on a trashbag tarp of my own preparation. That’s just grand.

This has been kind of nice actually. I feel as though the power of friendship is actually pretty important. Ponyo taught me that. Maybe there are things in life more important than playing five hand poker with the baloney pony.

Ah who am I kiddin? I’m gonna go crack open a cold one and watch some busty beauties get shafted by failed government experiments. Consensually.

Dorito Man 48 signing off. See you later space cowboy.

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.