Category Archives: Recreation

Book Reviews For Wine Moms

By Sharon Blanda

An excerpt from The Adult Issue, out now!

Greetings, ladies, it’s Sharon, your new best friend. This week we have another hefty sack of novels to sift through. We have a few fantastic selections: some, sadly, corporately-published, and one brave self-published. No need for big name authors here. I picked the best of the best, and brought them to you, personally. Intimately. Pour yourself a glass of that Franzia blush and buckle in, honey! Because this one’s going to be a doozie.

Lydia in the Wild, Mary Contrary, Penguin Publishing, 2017:

Lydia, our main character, is a small, religious, big-city girl with a tiny vagina. She’s your average lover – small and big-city-dwelling. Working full-time at a failing New York tabloid writing book reviews has left her womanhood parched as a puckering sundried tomato (and no, more oil-based lube won’t solve feminine dryness caused by years of sexual dissatisfaction). Attempts at seducing her 60-year-old married boss have proven less than fruitful. Lydia is exhausted, barely finding time on the weekends to pleasure herself with the $5 bullet vibrator she bought at Spencer’s on a dare at a bachelor party. When work sends her to the Wild Wild West of Newark, New Jersey for a research project, she discovers a big, small-town boy with a big, small, and medium member who will show her the ropes, quite literally. Within the first fourteen pages, Lydia is whisked away from the Big Apple to a life of shoddy investigative journalism, lassoes, and bondage (oh god, the bondage). Will Lydia leave her life of subdued mediocrity in a stifling city to bond to her rugged Rutgers cowboy in holy matrimony and sumptuous sanctified sex? This book, being only thirty pages with 32-point text, is an easy and steamy beach-read to leave by your husband’s bedside in an effort to get him to buy more Cialis, maybe pay some attention to lady-parts that, like Lydia’s, are bone-dry and unloved. Bring your bifocals and sarong down to the beach and give this one a hot read. 4.5/5 stars

How to Raise a Straight Daughter When You Are Questioning Your Own Sexuality (For Dummies), John Wiley & Sons, John Wiley & Sons, 2017 :

We’ve all done it, ladies. You’re at the soccer game waiting for your boy Cayden to come off the field (because your husband refuses to pick him up on Wednesdays, much like he refuses to satisfy your feminine needs). Your arms are full of juice boxes and other electrolyte-rich drinks for youngsters, when suddenly, you are struck by a divine beauty walking towards you. She introduces herself to you as Marlene, mother to Cayden’s friend Bricyn. She offers you a hand, and when she reaches out to take some of the drinks from your arms, to lighten your heavy load, you can’t help but notice her massive tidz. Is she pregnant? No, her stomach is totally flat, as can be seen through her well-fitted cashmere J. Crew cowl-neck sweater. Are they fake? No, they bounce like real bazookas (here, the handbook includes diagrams). Wait, you ask yourself, why are you thinking so much about this woman’s juggalos? Are you a pervert? Or worse – are you a lesbo? (I didn’t THINK I was raised on the Isle of Lesbos! The book even features a map) You shake these thoughts from your mind, but you cannot forget how giant her knockers were. Later that day at home, your teenage daughter comes home from the mall with – gasp! – a nose ring. Knowing that nose rings are used to tie women together – an act of lesbian sex – you demand that she remove it from her nose. But not so fast! Raising a straight daughter isn’t as easy as telling her to remove metal objects from her various cartilaginous body parts. To raise a straight daughter, you must be a straight icon. You must exude straightness. Your very coochie must ooze heterosexuality. Forget about the big-boobied-biddy you met at the soccer game and get yourself straightened up, first. 3.5/5 stars, -1.5 stars for too much breast description.

Cooking with Charlie, Sharon Blanda, Selfpublished, 2017:

This book has everything. Have you ever found yourself alone on a Sunday evening with nowhere to go but your refrigerator? Your husband is at work, he said. He’ll be home late, he said. Your children are already in bed, and your big-mouthed friends are at the Suburban Ladies Sunday Night Book and Hors d’Oeuvres Club without you. Once, Janice accidentally invited you on a Facebook event, then deleted it as soon as you noticed. You don’t talk to Janice anymore, because you’re too busy working for a big-name magazine. Yes. A big-name magazine. You find yourself alone, with no one to comfort you but – oh? Who is this, knocking on your refrigerator door? It’s Mr. Charles Shaw! Everyone’s favorite cheap $3 boy from Trader Joe’s, his tender red and white varieties pleasuring your palate with a tart tang. He is so good to you, and treats you so kindly. Charlie would never stay late at work. Charlie would never uninvite you to a social event. Charlie is a kind and giving lover; an affordable and high-alcohol-content friend. Cook with him. Chardonnay? Try the “Scalp Your Cheating Husband Scallops with Linguine.” Merlot? Roast an entire “Put Your Book Club Up Your Ass, Janice Pot Roast” and eat it with your bare hands from the crock pot. Make passionate love to this recipe book, as if you haven’t been fucked in years. This recipe masterpiece, written by yours truly, and featuring colorful and life-life illustrations by my son, was rejected from Penguin, Random House, Houghton-Mifflin, HarperCollins, Simon & Schuster, and even Tyndale (I took the fucking swears out!), but can be found as a self-publication on Amazon. 5/5 stars

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!

Party Blackout Allegedly Involved Alcohol-Induced Vomiting, Sbarro’s, And The Commuter Lounge Bathroom

by Party Boy

UNIONDALE — Verbal evidence from my friends and some strangers seems to allegedly suggest that I vomited on a girl, rolled around in some beer, vomited again, and then passed out in the commuter lounge bathroom.

My roommates and I made of the plans to go out to a party at one of Hofstra’s fraternity parties because we were sick of getting drunk and crying in our own dorm room. The night was started with a pre-game in our friend’s room: several beers were shotgunned and several shots were consumed. No one was sure on the number. When asked for comment my friend Steve said, “you drank a shitload that night, man. Like we all saw everything coming.” He then called me a, “Fucking idiot who needs to get his priorities straight.” I told him to let me live my life and now he has threatened to stop buying weed for me.

After I arrived at the party, I was allegedly a “riot” according to this one girl in my Math Excursions class. “Yeah, you were like dancing on this wall really getting into it. You’re so weird in class I didn’t know you had this wild side in you,” said one girl who chose to remain anonymous. “I came over to try to dance with you, but then you fell right off the wall into some beer,” she recounts.

At this point I allegedly started rolling around in the beer yelling, “Wrap me in a dough and call me Babe the Dirty Pig Boy. Feed me your dinner scraps!”

My friend, Deborah, who just happened to be at the party, helped me up. When asked about the situation she said, “It was really just a strange night for you. You were adamant about being wrapped in dough for a while then went into the frat house and ate all their hummus!”

I replied with, “That’s crazy! I did that!?”

At some point after this, the time cannot be certain, the cops showed up. Almost as soon as they arrived, I started vomiting a hummus-y beer mixture out of my mouth. My clothes were unscathed in the morning, so I was shocked when I was told this news. My friend Molly sorted it all out for me, “You threw up all over me. Down my shirt, on my shoes, everywhere. Then you made out with Stacy! And you know I have a crush on you!” I ran away shortly after that, scared of her crying or forcing me into commitment, so she did not give anymore quotes.

Several minutes of the night cannot be described, because no one was with me. My friend had left to go to the popular late night convenience store, “Bricktown.” When he found me, I was lying on a tree singing Rhianna’s 2007 hit, “Umbrella” despite sources confirming that Future was playing at the time. He allegedly put me around his shoulder and helped me walk back to campus. “You know how much more I can lift than you at the gym,” he said on the situation, “it was a breeze carrying you back.”

The two of us then went to Sbarro’s, the best pizza on Long Island, where we ordered several slices. I was said to have taken one bite and then immediately vomited on the floor. My friend then took me to the commuter lounge where I destroyed it with my vomit and urine and proceeded to pass out, pants at my ankles.

My other roommates were then called to come get me with their car, for they were sober. When asked to comment on the situation my friend Mike said, “You kept telling us, ‘if you try to make me move, I’m going to scream,’ you’re such a little fuck!” They eventually got me to my dorm and into bed.

I awoke the next morning with the feeling that goes along with a blackout: What happened last night? It could have been anything. I could not expect how disappointed I would be in myself after hearing the story.

At time of print, we have very few details regarding the appropriate amount of apologies that must be made, or if the girl from Math Excursions will call me back.

Like what you’ve read? Check out Nonsense’s first ever Humor Variety Show TODAY Friday the 31st, at 7pm in the Hofstra Cultural Center Theater!

The 7 Best Places To Fuck On Campus

by Our Sex Expert

From our recent release, “Nonsense’s Guide to Travel

Aw yeah buddy. You know what time it is. It’s Fuck time. Time to get on the old stallion and give it a nice whip and see where it takes you. We all know what sex is here at Nonsense Humor, and we know the best places to get it down with your significant other when you’re in a hurry. You know, when you don’t feel like walking literally not that far to an actual bed because you love cold dirty floors on your sweaty ass. Anyway, here’s the list.

  • 1. Plato’s Lap

Nothing is sexier than putting mustard on that sausage while sitting on a granite statue of one of the most prominent philosophers in Ancient History. His Symposium is one of the most important books on love ever written, and now you’re making some important and impromptu love on his cold hard lap.

  • 2. Adam’s Playhouse Basement Bathroom

If you’re gonna have some wash closet fun time, might as well make sure that toilet water is clean. You don’t want your leg slipping into some old water that mosquitos have now laid eggs in. Unless you do want that… Trust me Adam’s Playhouse’s basement bathroom is the cleanest on campus. Don’t go on a Thursday at 9:23pm, though. That is when and where our publication meets this coming semester. (Or do go then, we’ll just watch).

  • 3. While Waiting for Your Burger at Bits and Bytes

Yeah we’ve all been there. You’re waiting for your “Burning Love Chicken Sandwich” and just the thought of a burning love turns you on. You ask several people if they would like to pass the time with a quick go at the each other’s “Netherlands Complex.” Once you find your suitor, just go for it. This will actually make them cook your chicken faster.

  • 4. The New Pride Pantry

Why else would Hofstra need a pantry. 90% of Hofstra students have more than $21,345 dollars in their bank accounts and the other 10% smoke cigarettes. This room was built for the sole purpose of making the sweet fuck in private. Book your time slot with SGA. They are tabling every single day of next semester.

  • 5. The Aquatic Center

Pfft! No one swims anymore. Swimming is for the fishes, pal. This place is just chlorinated fuck juice at this point.

  • 6. The “Willy” and “Kate” Costumes

There’s no way our adequate school mascots are not both two people having sex covered in sweaty fabric. What student would do that willingly or even for money. The two couples inside probably needed a quit place to get funky with their junky, and the costumes were the only places to do so. Just find the costumes wherever these four sex doers leave them around campus and slip yourself inside with someone who wants to do you.

  •   7. The Bone Room.

We all know exactly where this is. You know that part of campus, and then you go left down the hall and open that door. You know where. Right? Please. Where is the bone room? I’m supposed to be the sex expert and I don’t know where Hofstra’s bone room is. Help me out.

The 12 Supernatural Creatures You’ll Date (Before One Kills You)

By Jesse Saunders

An excerpt from Nonsense’s Guide To The Supernatural!

We’ve all been there: young, full of human organs and soul that make you irresistible to your standard supernatural creature.

Vampire:

The old standard. Your mom loves him, your dad hates him, and the call of your blood may be too strong for him to resist! Not really the greatest date for girls who love the beach, camping, or being able to grow old with your beloved, rather than withering away as he remains perfect, a mockery of what you once were… but damn, does he love you! He’s the perfect guy for when you really need to just write poetry and figure yourself out for a bit. Sure, your relationship can only end with a volatile breakup or your death, but either way you get to be the center of attention! Yay!

Elf:

Sometimes you end up falling for the perfect guy. Smart, intelligent, rich, hundreds of years old, an aristocrat with daddy issues. He’s not really dangerous; in fact out of all the creatures you’ll date, he sets the safety bar pretty damn high. Truly your elf boyfriend is absolutely perfect in every way, but perfection is so borrrring. Remember that time you thought about getting a tattoo and he scoffed at the idea of you marking your porcelain skin? Yes, he carries the riches of a lost civilization and is willing to give it all up for you, but we both know this relationship is a one way ticket to Lamesville. Skip.

Ghost:

You’re 21; he’s dead, but when attraction strikes ya gotta at least give it a chance. Maybe dating a guy who died before women could vote wasn’t your best choice, but he’s so chivalrous! The whole “not leaving the land on which he died” thing, as well as the “not believing in modern medicine” thing might be the nail in the coffin for this relationship, but you still have warm thoughts every time you reconnect through a Ouija board. Plus when that one loser kills you, you’ll already have someone to hook up with in the afterlife.

Demon:

Nope nope nope. Every one of your friends told you to stay away but you couldn’t keep away from…. Wait, he calls himself Dante the Unspoken? Do you have to call him that every time you say his name, or is just Dante okay? I know he has to work on his soul sucking but does that mean we have to attend every single one of his exorcisms in Brooklyn? This is exactly the type of relationship your friends will bring up, much to your embarrassment, for years. Maybe commit social suicide for a guy that isn’t draining you every time you go out.

Mermaid:

That’s a fucking manatee, idiot!

Witch:

I’m sorry… warlock… wizard? By far your friends’ personal favorite, he always seems to come prepared and know exactly how to fix a problem the second it occurs. He seems to magically know exactly what you need and always dresses to the nines. Sure, he kind of steals the limelight, but everyone loves him! The fact that, after your breakup, he was cursed to be a beast until meeting his actual one true love was a bit harsh, but you did break up over Twitter DM soooo.

Jersey Devil:

Not the cutest guy you’ve ever dated, but there is something about him. He’s got an air of mystery about him and looks a lot better than the awful pictures on his Tinder. None of your friends believe you when you tell them how great he is, but you’ve seen it and that’s all that matters. Giving him a chance and discovering what really makes him tick might be worth it, but you’ll also have to live in New Jersey if you get married.

Regular Human:

Kyle is… cool. I mean not cool cool but the guys seem to like him? I mean, I’m honestly not getting it. You just broke up with a vampire, how are you dating Kyle? Is this a rebound thing? Oh, maybe he’s a warlock too? No? Oh no that’s cool, seems like a chill guy. I’m very happy for you.  

Angel:

You made out with him once and now he’s promised to protect you for all of eternity! Which is great and all, but could he not be so judge-y when he comes out drinking with us? Sometimes you just want to wear sweats, but that seems impossible when your angel boyfriend wears three-piece suits at 8 AM on a Sunday. Breaking up seems like the only option, but you’d probably be banished to hell and have to deal with your demon ex, which is equally shitty.

Werewolf:

Absolutely perfect, if you can ignore him becoming a terrifying hell beast under the glow of the moon once a month. You’re not usually into the overly masculine type but there is something so alluring about trying something new. Considering the guys you’ve dated, though, he seems like everything you could ever need. Low chance of him murdering you, mostly normal, but still interesting enough that you have something to brood over. He might be worth the plunge… maybe just remember to check for fleas after his transformations.

Frankenstein:

He doesn’t talk much, but that’s honestly okay. Sometimes the strong silent type is just what a girl needs after a funeral march’s worth of talkative guys. The cold unfeeling dead human flesh is a bit of a turn off, but you dated Kyle soooo you obviously aren’t bothered by unfeeling humans.

Death, like the actual factual manifestation of death:

Geez, a bit dark, don’t you think? Like Christ, I get it, people die every day. No need for your boyfriend to shit on you crying over the dog dying in that movie. Honestly, maybe you should call up the Jersey Devil, because you are falling into quite the hole. If it makes you feel better, it’s not like this one will be the one that will kill you. That’s just too damn obvious.

Sure, your lifespan has been significantly limited by the creatures you’ve decided to date, but it’s important to remember we still love you, and if you die one of your friends will totally have to name their kid after you!

 

Normally this is where we would wrap this list up, but if you made it through the entire list and honestly—wow!—or really even found any portion of this list applicable, you are almost certainly dead. Happy hunting!

How Star Trek Saved My Sex Life

By Brenna Lilly

An excerpt from our issue Nonsense Goes To Space!

It all started on a Tuesday evening much like any other. Robert came home from work around 7 PM and I had the roast ready by 7:30. The kids ate dinner with us at the table, I chewed four Xanax, and we adjourned to our rooms come bedtime.

Robert and I were both reading on our own sides of the California King. He nudged his glasses down his greasy nose and looked at me. “Tonight?” he asked, a hint of longing in his voice.

My palms were sweating. I tried to hold my Kindle firmly in my hands, but it began to slip. Christ. “Um…um…” I responded. I reached into my bedside drawer and grabbed another handful of Xanax which I proceed to swallow with a swig of Diet Coke. “Too tired. Sorry, honey.” He sighed deeply and turned over on his side.

“You know what?” he said, “We should go to couple’s counselling. I want sex, Margaret. Good sex. I’m a horny fifty-year-old man. I can keep it up, honey, trust me. Jill and Rick have been seeing a counselor for three months now, and apparently their sex life is spicy. Like Indian food spicy. Like hot curry on hot rice with hot sauce spicy. Real fucking spicy.” He gave a me a look that said, “I know I’ve never had Indian food in my life, but I think it might be spicy, so I’ll just use this analogy in the hopes you’ll let me fail to find your clitoris but convince me that I’ve pleasured you nonetheless.”

The counselor’s office was tightly-packed with sweaty couples – some anxiously holding hands, some, like us, with our legs crossed, sitting on opposite ends of the room, staring at one another, not blinking. The doctor called out our names. Our counselor, Virginia, took us into the room with a suave swish of the hand.

“So what seems to be the problem here, Mr. and Mrs. Jackson?”

“I wanna bust a nut, Virginia. REAL BAD.”

“I see.” She scribbled something into her tiny notebook. “I think I have just the trick.” She paid no attention to my nervous mutterings. She reached into an ancient filing cabinet, which sounded definitively hollow except for the distinct rattling of a DVD case – one of the plastic ones that have those pesky clasps at the top. “Do you see this?” she asked.

“Well, I’ll say,” Robert responded. “It looks like a well-aged, 1993 DVD set of Star Trek: The Next Generation starring the illustrious Patrick Stewart as Captain Jean-Luc Picard.”

“Precisely,” she retorted. “Throw this bad boy on  the old bedroom TV, get nakey, and let the magic of 1990’s science fiction run through your loins like lava.” She gave it a toss to Robert, who fumbled off the couch, perspiring and heaving, and caught it in his mouth like a dog catching a slice of ham.

That night, we decided to try Virginia’s method. We popped the first DVD into the old Toshiba at the foot of our bed. We stripped ourselves of clothing, save for Robert’s nipple pasties. They came in a daily box set. We arranged our bodies side by side, our arms beside us. I remember feeling like a corpse. It felt good.

I leaned up a little bit from my supine form to turn the TV on with the clicker. As I leaned back, I could hear the words in those sexual, dulcet tones:

Space: the final frontier.

I felt something stirring deep in my lady-bits.

That night, we had sex for fourteen consecutive hours, taking breaks only to switch the DVDs. Our bodies were perpetually intertwined in what I can only call a cosmic ball of ecstasy. I pictured Captain Picard whisking me away, boldly going where no husband has gone before…

We spent a whole week like this. Every night after we tucked the kids into bed, we would get freaky to the adventures of the Starfleet crew. It was bliss. We had to go to Costco to buy a 500 pack of condoms, and a 10-gallon tub of lube. The cashier was disgusted by us. We consummated our love in the greeting card aisle.

It was wonderful until things went sour one night when Robert and I were making the sex. We were on season 5, episode 25 – “The Inner Light.” Captain Jean-Luc Picard, the gorgeous, gorgeous Starfleet captain, was trapped in a delusion, stuck in a foreign village on the distant and unfamiliar planet of Kataan. Something about Patrick Stewart’s Transatlantic accent and glistening bald head aroused me more intensely than my husband ever could. His gleaming orb awakened something deep within me that I could not alleviate. I was caught in a frenzy of ecstasy when I screamed, “Let me lick your head, Captain!” Robert stopped.

“What the hell did you just call me?”

“Captain? Um. Uh. Robert?”

“I think you just called me Captain.”

“Oh, Christ.”

“Are you…” he began to tear up. “Are you fantasizing about Captain Picard when you make the sex to me?”

I shook my head. “No, honey. No, I’m not, I swear.”

“You are!” he screamed. He ran out of the room, through the living room, and into the street. “My wife is cheating on me with the captain of Enterprise NCC-1701-D! I knew you never loved me! Is this,” he paused deeply, breathing in haphazardly, “is this why you insisted on shaving my head while I slept? Is this why you bought me all those red and black mesh long-sleeve shirts? Is this who you want me to become?” His tears fell in pools around his feet. He was still naked.

“Come to your senses, honey! Please come back inside!”

“No! I’ve had enough of this!” He launched his body onto the ground and began rolling around, muttering “The final frontier… the final frontier… the final frontier.”

I dropped to the ground to comfort him. He writhed in pain.

“No more, Margaret, no more. I have no more sex left in my body. Make it end.”

I wept with him in my arms, but they were not sad tears. Oh no, not sad. I rubbed his noggin gently and prepared myself for the task at hand. I removed the Panasonic Pro-Curve Wet/Dry Battery Operated Black Travel Shaver from my  blouse’s back pocket. With each touch of the shaver I punched another ray of light through the cave-in that is our marriage. There, he was fixed now. Robert was right. I never loved him. I could only hope from now on that was I could live with this delusion. In the morning, I would be introducing my children to their new father. The transformation was completed.

Greek Life At Hofstra: How To Be Doing The Joining

By An Author Who Is The One Authoring This Piece

Hey there cleansteaks! You see? That is my name for you: cleansteaks. Yes, I’ve got just one message for you and it is this: the name that I have given you is cleansteaks.

Now that we have established this, and I have become comfortably seated in a position above you, because you do not wish to challenge me—because secretly cleansteaks is the name you have given yourself too (I know all, do not disparage that)—let us get to the matter at hand: You Are Here Because You Are Wanting To Join Greek Life At Hofstra University

I have been involved with Greek Life forever. Always. Indefinitely. More than you ever have and ever will. Greek Life was the mother and I am the child. I have made her soup. I am the sole giver of the advice, the one whom you trust to give advice to you in a form that is a list. Watch me as I give you advice that is in the form of a list.

The Information That Is Going First

If you are wanting to be doing the joining of Greek Life At Hofstra, the first thing that you must do is read the information that is going first, and this is the information that is going first: Midnight Is The Time At Which I Will Come To Collect Your Gurps. Curious about what gurps are, precious cleansteaks? In Greek Life, gurps are the word that we use to indicate what you may refer to as “cups.” Yes, the cups, the gurps, the cups, the gurps? Get it? Now that we are on the same page, leave those gurps. Leave them out on a table, on the counter. As long as it is on a flat surface I will be able to find them. Do not worry about notifying me where you have placed your gurps, I have been doing this for long enough that I know when and where gurps have been placed. Make sure that the gurps are facing rim down, my holy crimson matchbox.

Here is an image for the purposes of demonstration, just in case you were in need of an image that exists to demonstrate something to you.

This is that image:

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Second Piece of Information: Give Me Your Songs, Tender One

Oh you, yes you! It is you who I am referring to as The Tender One, cleansteaks. Please do not be confused by the multiple names. cleansteaks is your true name that I have given to you. In the first section of this article crimson matchbox is a name I offhandedly referred to you as in the first section of this article. The Tender One is the name that I am calling you by now, at this time where I am requesting your songs.

Now sing to me, for you are The Tender One. Lend me your lilting voice as it is held hostage by a beautiful serenade. Place your elegant toes onto the carpet and dance, dance dance, cleansteaks.

Third In The Sequential Order: Wait For The Gurps To Return

Wait for them. They will come.

This Little Collection Of Letters Is The One I have Designated As Fourth Information

YOU MUST BE PATIENT.

The Gurps Will Return, This Is The Thing You Must Remember Fifth

You may not be ready, you may not be prepared, but it shall happen, oh sacred forest of mine. I will move soft, like the toes of a mouse as they scrape across the smooth surface of the sandwich you have left out on the counter because you were distracted by the FACT THAT I RETURNED THE GURPS AND YOU DID NOT NOTICE. This is how it will be when The Gurps return to you.

Six, Ah Yes The Love’d Number, Yes, Sixthly You Must Analyze The Gurps, And I Have For You Instructions On What The Gurps Mean, And How You Must Interpret Them When You Are Analyzing What The Gurps Mean, The Gurps That I Have Given To You With The Intention Of Them Being A Sign Of One Of Two Things

Be analyzing the gurps like this: if there are no gurps, then I have taken them. If there are gurps, I did not want them.

Look at this phagto* (this is the word we—those that are being involved in the Greek Life—use when we wish to be talking about the thing you may also wish to be doing the referring to as “photograph” my sweet nectary swíndlëhåæed, play your sitar correctly and you shall be allowed to join our most secret sub-society of name-making where thine may study upon The Many Words). Think of the phagto as it reminds you of the motion involved in placing the gurps the way that I want them to be before I take them, as this is indeed the same motion I will be using when if the gurps are returned to you.

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*I am being doing the including this asterisk because I mean to be doing the addressing the word “phagto”. Greek Life would like to declare that in every instance of this word we have been doing the using, we have never been meaning to sound like we are using or referencing a word that is being close to a word commonly used to degrade specific types of sexual orientations that one may be doing the having. In fact, Greek Life, as a united front, would like to tell you about how much of the inclusiveness we are doing. Please do the contacting of our resident gay member, Greg, who will talk to you about the things that we are doing the being discussing in the asterisk that we did the including of.

Item Seven: Must Read

Walk up to me, Small Doug. If you have the spit in your hand, and I am walking forward, and you slap your hand to my hand and we both are realizing that there is spit in each other’s hand, then you may continue reading. IF YOU WALK UP TO ME AND SLAP YOUR HAND TO MY HAND AND WE BOTH ARE REALIZING THAT THERE IS NO SPIT IN MY HAND THEN YOU MAY NOT CONTINUE READING. You are not doing the being involved with the Greek Life.

Eight: The Final Ingaydients**

Now it is the time for you to bring me the final ingaydients. I will write them on your wall, but you will see me. Unlike the gurps, I will just walk in in a way that you will see me.

“Hello,” I will say.

“Oh my god! You are beautiful!” you will respond.

I will then say back to you, “Ah yes. Kindness runs in your blood like a speedy baseball game. I have the blush.”

Then you will tenderly brush my cheek with a wet cloth, so as to cool me in case the blush has made me too warm.

This is the kind of kindness that I will love you for kindly affording me.

It will be all smiles. Then I will stand up on your bed, and scrawl the list of ingaydients I need above it. It could be anything from “I Need Mulch” to “I Do Not Need Mulch” to “I Need Five Different Kinds Of Mulch And A Knuckle Sandwich Of The Mulch Variety”. Do not feel disheartened if your list of ingaydients is different than someone you know, it does not mean that I love you any less, little bean.

**yes, as you may have been doing the guessing, “ingaydeients” is the word that we use when we are meaning to talk about ingaydients. Greek Life has a long history of names, as you may have noticed, my suave sausage friend. This is, as I have mentioned previously, all a part of our secret society of name-making where you may study upon The Many Words and potentially be allowed to include your own names or be changing the phrasing of other words. Like this word? You may be doing the having the complaint. Well you should be doing the change that you are wanting to be seeing in the world then, crepe bosom. Let it also be having the known that we have two members on the name-making secret society that identify as “gay.” Yes my precious cleansteaks, you have been doing the having the read that sentence correctly.

Nine: The Soup

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AHA!

Now you see!

Do you remember in the introduction when I declared that I HAVE MADE THE SOUP FOR THE MOTHER THAT GREEK LIFE IS WHILE I AM HER CHILD THAT HAS MADE HER THE SOUP?

Surely you were picking up what I was putting down.

I will now serve you the soup that was promised, cleansteaks. Oh my friend, my dearest little bean, my holy crimson matchbox, The Tender One, oh sacred forest of mine, Small Doug, now together we will eat the soup.

Welcome to Greek Life, my blessed panther. smalllogo

Guide to the BEST Summer Flingity-Flang of your Life!

By Solange Luftman

We all know how hard it is to find love, especially in this age of hookup culture and technology (ewie!!). Summer is the beautiful time in a young person’s life in which they experience a fiery rush in the loins, and a kiss on both big toes, so to help achieve your summer lovin’ goals, à la Sandy and Danny, here is a helpful list on how to find the Persian rug to your coffee table this Summer.

 

Put yourself out there.

Everyone loves confidence, so show the object of your affection what you’ve got. Paint your face and body like a zebra, or maybe even a giraffe. This will show that you are confident in your appearance and don’t give a flying falcon about the other (less confident) animal impersonators out there. Your time is now, and your name is Mitsy.

 

Make the first move.

This piece of advice branches off from Tip Numero Uno, but it is nonetheless essential. Tell your prospective guy or gal, (or whoever it is you yearn for), that you’d like to plant a garden with them. Fresh fruits and vegetables are enough to make anyone excited. (I’m dreaming about creamy artisanal butternut squash soup dribbling slowly out of the corner of my mouth right now! Sure, its saltiness can be overwhelming, but spitting is for quitters and you, my fair Mitsy, are no quitter. Sounds real gourmet, ay)?

 

If at first you don’t succeed, there’s always the Internet.

I know, I know. Technology is the ugly cousin of love, BUT—when used correctly, it can be the nurturing uncle of casual sex. Develop a profile with only the best lighting and angles. I’m talking FGA’s/FBA’s (Fat Girl/Boy Angles) and sepia filtering the shit out of that shit. The great thing about the Internet is that you don’t have to be yourself, so develop the best version of yourself! The person you’ll meet up with will inevitably do the same thing, so there’s no need to feel bad. If only there were an Amaro filter IRL, amrite????

If you’re still not succeeding, perform a Wiccan Love Spell.

I recommend the Full Moon Love Spell. It’s so simple even an Atheist could do it, which isn’t saying much considering that Atheists are historically the least intelligent people of all time. Try to name one Atheist who has contributed to society (and NO, Joseph Stalin doesn’t count! See, it’s difficult. Tricky bastards).  But I digress, who knew the key to love could be found in your kitchen!? I’ll tell you who knew: theists. The directions can be found here: http://wiccanspells.info/a-full-moon-love-spell/

 

Have fun!

The best part about Summer Flings is how temporary they are. Honeymoon phase all day evuryday. There’s absolutely 0% chance for you to get angry with your partner for clogging the toilet with too many marshmallows again (well a slight chance, but not high. There really are no absolutes in this world, which is why atheism is such a complete joke).

 

I pray to the naked cherubs up above that these tricks and tips work to help you find the Summer Fling of your dreams! Whether you’re attempting sex with the greaser who smokes joints at the elementary school at night, or the grizzly bear girl impersonator you’ve seen hobbling in the woods, what’s most important is that you’re getting out there and living your life. So what are you still doing online, Mit? It’s time to plant some arugula and make that tasty tossed romance salad.