Category Archives: Reflection

What Is Luge?

By Brenna Lilly

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

As the world starts preparing for the 2018 Winter Olympics in PyeongChang, South Korea, a question comes to mind for all with cable TV –

What is luge?

First seeking wisdom from my peers, I received many a reactionary answer.

“Luge? Keep that fuckshit out of my Catholic home,” neighbor Mary Robbins protested.

“Luge? Haven’t seen that bitch since college,” pondered coworker Eric Downs.

“Luge? My wife told me to pick some up at CVS. She said it was like humping a dry carrot. A meaty, dry carrot, with those white flaky patches?” admitted stranger Todd Owen.

It seems that this sport has long been left undefined for the general populous, requiring us to fill in the details of a sport lain dormant in the dragon’s nest.

According to the National Olympic Newspaper for Sociological and Ecological Nutrition in Southern Europe (NONSENSE), luge can be defined as any sport that uses sleds and grease. The first ever recorded game of luge was played in 1483 at the dawn of English time when Richard the Third lubricated the track with the blood of his enemies. The luge-sled, known in French as the Grosse bite (translation: large cock), was a large and oily piece of wood. This game was organized to celebrate the inauguration of Pope John Paul IV, who won the electoral college by a landslide vote.

Today, luge is one of the most popular Winter Olympic Games. Players from all around Greenland and Canada’s Northwestern Provinces unite under a single steamy dome to participate in what has internationally become known as “The Lord’s Tournament,” gliding players into the hearts of man for 30 slippery seconds at a time while they evade death by mere millimeters.

The track is the most important element in the event of luge. In Italy, the luge tracks are greased with freshly-pressed oil of the olive plant. In Thailand, coconut oil is used. In the United States, they prefer raw unrefined pig fat, also known as “hitting that shit raw.” Some Olympic qualification tournaments have been known to use KY Intense Pussy Burn Jelly for Her, as well as actual strawberry jelly; the two products are largely interchangeable.  As for the sled, most Olympians choose to use discarded Macbook Pros; here at Hofstra University, our team uses trays stolen from brittle old men visiting the Student Center who can’t carry their own food. Their tears lubricate our newly-erected Joseph J. Shapiro Family Steam Dome.

This game is known as the second most dangerous sport in the Olympics, preceded only by Spicy Fencing (Supreme Edition). Mothers have wept sweet rose-scented tears at the edges of thousands of luge-tracks. And with good reason! Partakers of luge are a rare breed indeed; even the losers of such an arduous and life-changing sport must themselves be built by champions, forged in the flame, and cold as ice. To learn more, we asked internationally known lugerino Anita Nuthername to tell us a little about this fateful game of death and how one finds “success” at it.

“Yeah, it’s really all in the buttcheeks,” said Nuthername, clenching hers tightly so that a squeaking noise could be heard through the entire luge practice complex, in turn inspiring her teammates to do more luge. “You just gotta squeeze ‘em real tight. That’s how Richard the Third would have wanted it.”

When asked how long Nuthername had been practicing the luge lifestyle, she answered, “Since the day I was fucking born. When my mother, God rest her tender soul, squeezed her very own luge-ly buttcheeks and birthed me out, I was set forth onto my sled and into the track. The afterbirth followed suit.” Following this exchange, Nuthername paused briefly. “I miss my cheeky Mama,” she whispered to me, her glutes still squealing. Tears began to well in her eyes and, for the first time that day, it seemed as though she had more on her mind than just indentured swervitude. “But I just wish she would have explained to me what the fuck luge is.”

Weathered Old Man Who Lives By The Sea “Fucks Heavy” With Ghost In The Shell Remake

By Jordan Hopkins

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

The “Ghost in the Shell” remake starring Scarlett Johansson comes out in two weeks, and expectations are high. The Rupert Sanders-directed film is set to be the biggest anime live-action adaptation since “Aeon Flux”. However, with fame has come controversy; many people are up in arms concerning the film’s Asian protagonist being played by a white Hollywood actress. Always at the forefront of both art and clickable public debate with a high potential for shareability, we, here at Nonsense Humor, are just as excited as you are, and so to gain some insight on the upcoming release we went to our resident culture expert: a weathered old man who lives by the sea.

Howard Daniels is a seventy-six year old lighthouse owner from a nondescript but somewhat disarming town somewhere in Maine (maybe around the place where Stephen King lives or something). We spoke to him about the film – well, he shouted at us from the top of his decrepit, slightly menacing watchtower, the light pointing out to sea through the haze like a ghost.

“Yeah, I’m dumb fucking stoked, my dude,” Daniels was quoted as shouting at our reporter from the parapet. “I read every issue of the manga when I was living in Japan after The War, and I loved the 1995 Mamoru Oshii-directed film. Artificial intelligence, man. That’s some heavy shit.” As huge waves battered the spire from the east, spraying our reporter with their scenic brutality and throwing him several meters into the air, Daniels admitted that he did understand the problem with Johansson’s role in the film.

“Yeah, I can understand why people are upset,” he roared above the surf, his voice the ocean itself. “It kind of feels like they’re taking roles away from Asian actors, which I can understand is broke as fuck. I don’t want to support that kind of behavior, you know?”

Daniels admitted that he will likely not see the movie in theatres for this reason, and revealed that he would “probably end up torrenting it or something, I dunno”.

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!

Do Not Tell Me The Sky Is The Limit Because I Am An Astronaut

By An Astronaut

You will stop right there when you are addressing me. I have come out into this vile café for peace. Perhaps I expected a request for an autograph, perhaps I expected adoration, perhaps I even expected some respect, but I have received neither, and especially not from you. “The Sky Is The Limit”? Is this paltry expression your attempt at positive reassurance? Do you even know who I am?

Let me explain something to you, fool.

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Yes, you. I am talking to you, do not deny this any longer.

I am the one who goes into space. It is me. It is likely that you are not familiar with the demands of my profession, so I will construct for you a quick lesson.

We live on the earth. It is round and stinky and full of bugs.

Above the earth is the sky, where great winged beasts build houses out of small dogs they stole from suburban back yards, and where God’s little feet rest when they are being tired.

Are you following me so far?

Above this sky, is a place where titans play games. A place where big honchos like me go to score some space meat, where throbbing rockets dance across the primordial plane and fondle the genitalia of constellations that small, small children like you have stared at your whole lives. A place where fleshbags like me become gods.

Constellations
This is the place where I do my bidding. The stars are my home, my lovers, my friends. And you? You stay stuck to a wall, slurping little bugs, little rodents, as they pass across your vile paper visage.

This locale is known as “Space”, you ignorant dog, and it is well above the confines of the meager sky. I go here while you sit sucking on your little thumb. I go here while Elon Musk strokes his rigid dome into a stock photo of the Martian moons. I go here while all the world lays sleeping, dreaming of being as radiant as me.

I am The One Who Dares Explore The Unknown. I am bound by no limits of the sky and its beasts, its doghouses, its godly feet. I am an Astronaut, you fell swine, and I demand respect. I am the mother of science, the very teat upon which the rest of the human race suckles. I am the hope for the future, the divine, the inimitable ‘Naut (this is what my friends call me) who holds, in his hands, the ability to shape the fate of all time and space. I am a god among men, and you, you are just a stupid poster.

So the next time you dare tell me the sky is the limit, just remember that when you look up at the stars I will be staring down at you. I will collect all the spit into a ball between my teeth and drench you with my mouth juice from so very far away. It will take a long time to get there. It may not all be intact. It may be frozen from the vacuum of space. But I will drench you, and upon this wettening, you will know that you have caused me extreme offense.

Music Review: Future’s New Album

By Ariel Leal

It all started when I saw Anderson Cooper on TV. I could do little more than imagine that sultry, silver-tongued silver fox drag his meaty tongue all over my yearning, naked flesh. My parents realized this after my dad seized my stash of Playboys only to realize that each of the women’s faces were replaced by the face of Mr. Cooper himself. They thought I was gay. I wasn’t gay, though, I just thoroughly enjoyed professional news reporting. I asked Yahoo if I had to be gay now, they said no and posted some, what I can only speculate are called, reaction jiffys of small men rubbing towels in, near, and around their respective perineums. I think it checked out. I asked my gym bros and they told me they don’t remember any time in which our balls audibly smacked together and I made sure to say “No homo” every time I gagged on my toothbrush. My nan told me that it’s a healthy developmental process for young lads such as myself to be strongly drawn towards doctors and white-haired reporting moguls.

Ever since I was knee-high to a grasshopper I would play doctor and my parents would point and laugh until I would persistently try to put the stethoscope in my rectum. It wasn’t gay though, I mean, I didn’t think so. It seems pretty straight to me to want to hear what goes on inside the good ol’ poop shoot. I was never really all that religious either, by the way. The only god I knew was daytime television star, Ryan Seacrest. You know, sometimes I would sit there and laugh to myself repeating the name “Ryan Wannaseemybreasts” but that’s slightly besides the point.

I’m a World War One enthusiast. Anyway, my parents tried praying the gay away but I told them there was no gay to pray away and that my name was Clay and I liked to play on the bay with some hay, okay? But anyway, all that poetry only led to my parents whisking me away to the nearest hospital to be operated on immediately. The objective of the surgery: To remove the part of my brain that made me gay.

As I lay on the operating table, cold and vulnerable, a scrub wearing scrubs told me that I was lucky, that the mysterious and ever-so seductive Doctor RJ Shafty would be operating on me.

“Doctor Shafty? I’ve certainly never heard of him!” I said, feeling even more cold and lifeless for not being in the loop.

At that exact, very, precise moment, the double doors slammed open as Dr. Shafty himself surveyed the room and also my penis.

“Well, you’ve heard of me now,” he said, licking his lips all the while. I’m pretty sure there was some sort of grammatical error in saying that, but I was foolish to question a real, live doctor. Instead, I nervously asked him if he knew about how Harold Gillies birthed the field of plastic surgery during WWI due to the increased demand from soldiers with horribly disfigured faces from shrapnel blasts and gunshot wounds.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid!” I whispered to myself, because I’m a fucking idiot. Of course he knows! He’s a doctor, fuck crying out loud.

“Alright, let’s cut this bitch up,” he said, ignoring every stupid word that came out of my shrimp-like mouth and making sure to make eye contact with every other person in the room, except for me that is, but I’m not really a person.

“Hey are you sure this is safe?” I asked.

“Of course it’s safe, I graduated from Hofstra University!”

Before I knew it, my scalp was being removed. He figured anesthesia was “for pussies” and so each second was a new experience for me. It was agonizing and enlightening. I was euphoric.

“Doctor, are you sure you know what you’re doing?” asked one of the foolish interns.

“Get the fuck out of my operating room,” replied the overwhelmingly masculine doctor.

The intern stripped naked and left the room as less of a person than before.

“Doctor, we’re losing him!” exclaimed one of those other surgery people that weren’t anywhere near as important as Dr. Shafty.

“No we’re not,” insisted the good doctor while turning to one of the female surgery people. “After all, I’m a doctor.”

She swooned and fainted immediately, leaving a butter knife in my kidney.

After a few more minutes of excruciating agony, Dr. RJ Shafty raised a piece of my brain and shouted “Eureka!” as doctors do, “I’ve got it!”

All other doctors removed their hands from my once innocent body and applauded the good doctor, sobbing all the while.

The good doctor removed the part of my brain that made me funny.

I had to admit though, he certainly was a meaty shaft man. He didn’t notice but several hypodermic needles fell out of his pocket when he was performing his ritual post-successful surgery jumping jacks. Of course, he’s never failed a single surgery. It’s hard to fail surgery when each one of those hypodermic needles were filled with shark testosterone. By the looks of it, they could have only been injected into his scrotum. I wouldn’t know though, after all I’m not a doctor.

Hours later, I left the establishment feeling a little pensive and hating myself a little more than I thought possible. I also kind of looked like a bloated Barbara Streisand but it was lit, nonetheless. World War One? Yeah more like World War Won.

I went back home and my parents embraced me. My father shook my hand unbeknownst to the fact that I used that very hand to masturbate to Anderson Cooper’s cute little half smirk half an hour earlier in the hospital bathroom.

I realized that the parts of my brain that Dr. Shafty removed were my humor receptors when I soiled my pants laughing at the fact that my grandpa mistakenly removed his trousers while looking for the 1956 memorabilia section of an Ikea. The story was only partially humorous.

To add insult to injury, every time I tried delivering a knock-knock joke, I instead found myself advocating for GreenPeace; I needed training.

I had no time to worry about such matters, I had a university to go to. Weeks after that, I found the perfect place to sharpen my sense of humor and cry about my small legs.

Nonsense Humor Magazine adopted me. I’ve been here for a decent enough time but no one has taught me how to be funny yet. This article isn’t even that funny. That’s okay, at least I told an upperclassman to “keep the change” in monopoly and that was the closest I’ve ever been to what my therapist calls an ‘anxious externally induced orgasm uh’ or AEIOU for short.

I really miss my grandpa.

All in all, it was a pretty well-balanced album but I would have to give it an 8/10 at most. It was fairly relatable and you can tell Future is attempting to step out of his comfort zone to deliver content that has been sorely lacking in the ska industry.

Ska is nice, I guess.

6 Spots In My House Where My Daughter’s Ghost Can’t Find Me

By James Sweeney

An excerpt from our hottest text strudel, “Nonsense’s Guide to the Supernatural

There are certain aspects of life you never really engage with until you have to…until you’re forced to. I know that now. A lot of people say they want to understand death. They say they want to learn to embrace it, and explore the beauty in it. They’re full of shit. You don’t want to understand. You don’t want to understand what it’s like to live every day under a black cloud of memories that hurt too much to remember, and yet far more to bury deep inside yourself, the shame of trying to forget how happy you used to be. You don’t want to watch your little girl wither away for two goddamn years, to watch her shrink into nothing right before your eyes. Try moving on from that. Try picking up the pieces after that. It’s the hardest thing you’ll ever have to do; and it doesn’t get any easier when your baby girl’s spirit chooses to root itself in your home rather than crossover to an eternal afterlife. At this point, I’m just thankful I have a few spots I can escape to when the ghost of my beautiful dead daughter becomes too much to deal with.

1. The Basement

We never let Cassie into the basement when she was alive because of the rat infestation, but once the crowdfunding came together for her funeral costs we were finally able to fix up that chintzy paneling and afford a decent exterminator. Now, I’ve got the recliner and my Playstation down there and, while it isn’t much yet, I’m thinking it could become a certified Man Cave in due time. Dr. Towns says that an important part of grieving is giving yourself space to work through things at an appropriate pace. It’s important not to rush the process, he says, which is why I’m holding off on snagging a pool table until I can find a regulation sized one in red felt. Patience is key, he says.

2. The Garage

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Cassie had been scared of the garage ever since that bat got trapped in there a few years back, so I knew I wouldn’t have to worry about her apparition running around in there and reminding me of what my life once was. Dr. Towns mentioned that a lot of men deal with grieving by taking up projects, so I figured now was as good a time as any to work on the old Mustang again. She’s an absolute beauty, a cherry red ’69 with the original drum brakes, a dual exhaust, and a V6 cylinder engine that still purrs like the kitten we promised to get Cassandra for her 9th birthday. I would give anything to have been able to bring that cat home and see the look in Cassie’s eyes, but I guess I’ll just have to settle for being the envy of all my buddies once the Cherry Bomb is back in roadworthy condition.

3. Underneath the Patio

Cassie would never darego under here back when things were good and life mattered. She was pretty sure there were monsters living under the house, and I wasn’t exactly rushing to tell her otherwise. She had such an imagination, my tiny adventurer, and the last thing I wanted was her crawling around down there and getting hurt. Pretty ironic, all things considered. Dr. Towns says it’s important to maintain goals and remember that I still have things in life to work towards. Writing down notes of things I hope to accomplish is a big way to look ahead, he says. I woke up under the patio last week with a sticky note in my shirt pocket that said “Find a cure to cancer. Do whatever it takes.” I have a degree in social work from University of Phoenix Online.

4. The Spare Bedroom

We usually kept this room locked up when Cassie was still with us, and she generally knew better than to come in. Jess keeps all her sewing and knitting stuff in here, and Cassie was just always getting into some kind of trouble whenever she snuck in. Just too many pins and needles for such a mischievous kid, ya know? But there was this one time – God, I wish I’d taken a picture of this – when Cassie snuck in while Jess was taking a shower, and wrapped an entire ball of yarn around herself. An entire ball! She had to be about five, maybe six, and she was so caught up in the yarn that she could barely move! Eventually I find her, and she’s wriggling around on the carpet just covered in yarn, and she looks up me with her little gap tooth smile and goes, “Daddy! Daddy! Look! I’m a Casserpillar!” I mean how clever is that?! She was so smart, my little Casserpillar. I come in here sometimes, and I lay right down on the spot of the floor where I found her wriggling and laughing and smiling. At first, I worried that spending time in here would be intrusive towards Jess’s own grieving, but ironically, it would seem that I spend a lot more time in here than she does now. For the most part Jess just sleeps these days. Dr. Towns says this is a common side-effect of depression, and while I wish I could spend more time with Jess, I also I understand why she would want to spend days at a time in the dark of our bedroom. When you walk into the living room every morning to find the TV turned to Cartoon Network and the ghost of your only daughter practicing ballet, every moment from then on out just kind of feels like a waking nightmare.

5. The Minivan

Since the liminal plane containing my daughter’s soul seems to only really reach the 3900 sq. feet that make up our home, backyard, and driveway, I’ve recently begun parking the minivan in the street. I spent most nights out in the van during that first month without Cassie, though back then I was actually driving around town, sometimes until dawn. At this point, I don’t even bother bringing the keys with me, just a bottle and a book. While it’s true that I’d do just about anything to forget for a minute what has become of my once-charmed existence, there’s a lot of misunderstanding about my time out by the curb. Honestly – and this is something Dr. Towns sort of refuses to acknowledge, which has been a real point of frustration for me – the drinking isn’t meant to numb the pain. There’s no numbing this pain. There’s no muting this roaring deficit in my being. It really just comes down to this: If you’ve ever read Koontz, you know that his masterful storytelling goes hand-in-hand with a little sauce. Them’s just facts. Like I’ve told Dr. Towns over and over, Jack Daniels and Dean Koontz were my go-to duo long before my world came crashing down. I just happen to need them now more than ever.

6. The Attic

None of us ever really went into the attic much when Cassie was alive, what with all the loose insulation and fiberglass up here. That stuff doesn’t really matter so much now. I go up here sometimes to just think, to process. Lately, I’ve actually started bringing my laptop – just to get a little writing done, keep the ol’ ticker in shape. Dr. Towns says it’s healthy to exercise the parts of the brain that we often come to neglect over time. I was about halfway finished with a screenplay based of off Dean Koontz’s 1983 bestseller Phantoms around the time we found out Jess was pregnant. I had been working for Jess’s dad at the time, helping him sell car parts out of the family shop, but every night after my shift, like clockwork, I would just sit down and immediately get so absorbed in that screenplay. Even during the first couple months of the pregnancy, I’d be writing for hours every night – I had such a strong vision for how everything would turn out, and I even had this idea in my head that Ray Liota could play the enigmatic Sherriff Bryce Hammond. Jess would be right there next to me, knitting little caps and booties. It’s amazing how time flies, isn’t it? Ten years seems like a lifetime ago now. Though, I guess in the case of my only daughter Cassandra, it kind of was.
It’s stuffy up here, and I’ve developed some pretty bad skin irritation, but I’d rather scratch myself bloody than watch the ghost of my daughter retrace the steps of a life that was stolen from her. It’s like…it’s like watching some little girl playing the role of my sweet pea. She looks just like her, and sounds just like her. She calls out to me sometimes, and she’s so happy. She’s not in pain, either; it’s as if the last two-and-a-half years never happened. It’s like an alternate universe. Sometimes, I’ll get up in the middle of the night and in my half-sleep, I’ll find her standing in the hallway. I’ll reach down to touch her head, thinking maybe she had a bad dream. But, my hand passes right through her. It’s like losing her all over again, and every time, just like that, I remember that it’s my bad dream. It’s my never-ending bad dream.

Diagnosis: I’m Not Michael Phelps

By Ariel Leal

“Have a seat, Mr…-“

“Bridges. Clay Bridges,” I told the suave doctor. What a mistake that was. I should have known better to interrupt the good doctor. Worse yet, who was I to question the authority and intelligence of the world-famous Dr. RJ Shafty (MD)?

He chuckled innocently before tilting his glasses down and looking me dead in the eyes.

“Now, now, Mr. Bridges, you and I both know how this works and you really should wait for me to tell you what your name is.”

He was right. Here I was, foolishly salivating at the sight of the outline of his skin-covered scimitar and I couldn’t even give the man the respect he deserves.

“The results are in,” he stated, staring at the crisp, white sheets in front of him. With the rays of sunlight striking them just right from the crack in the curtains, I vaguely made out various pictures of Rodney Dangerfield, but what did I know? I’m not a doctor.

“As it so turns out, Mr. Bridges, you are not Michael Phelps.”

At this point, I spat out all the saliva I was collecting in my mouth onto the rich mahogany desk in front of me. Dr. Shafty didn’t even bat an eye but that was to be expected; after all, he’s a doctor and I bet he deals with saliva pretty often. Already, the memories I’ve had of swimming the English Channel for my daily routine began to fade. I wanted to say something, to object, to question him. I knew I was in no place to question a surgeon of his class (that’s the highest class, for the viewing audience).

“Bu-I…are…” I was frantic. I slipped out of the chair and fell onto the floor like some sort of slippery reptile and inched my body closer and closer to one of several mirrors Dr. Shafty rightfully owned. I picked my head up and used my teeth to try to adjust the only mirror that was touching the ground. Being that I am an idiot and not a doctor, the mirror fell on top of me, shattering into large, reflective shards. I winced and cried aloud in pain but stopped acting like a complete basket case when I saw the blood pooling around my waist. I turned back to the doctor as a child would to a parent after being recently betrayed.

“Is this not the blood of an Olympian? Is this not the very essence of life that flows through the veins of the God of Chlorine?” I had to ask. My willpower was simply not strong enough to withstand the invincible urge to question the credibility of a licensed medical practitioner.

“You are no better than Lochte himself. Do not dare to compare yourself to the Webbed-footed Prince of the Seas,” Dr. Shafty barked at me, kicking me in the bridge of my nose. This pain felt comforting and warm.

“Look, all I can offer are some brochures on how to continue having sex with your wife after this…mess. All I can say is good luck. It’s not every day that someone comes here to discover that they are not Michael Phelps. I can’t say I can empathize, because I would be lying. After all, I have all twenty-three of my gold medals in my colon right now. Now, please get the hell out of my office. You won’t be needing a follow-up so you’re free to go. Don’t forget to congratulate my secretary, Michael Phelps, on the way out.”

The words became increasingly muffled as they were spoken and I could feel my body get weaker and less aroused by water. All those birthdays spent trying to blow candles out in the water only to sob at the fact that they weren’t even lit to begin with became more difficult to remember. My skin was dry and leathery and it became nearly impossible to slither out of the door.

Sighing, Dr. Shafty opened the largest drawer on his desk and pulled out a glass vial of what could only be described as lubricant and walked over to me, pouring every last drop into my eyes.

I felt the life drain from my feet and after several hours of blissful oblivion, I began to awake to the voice of my wife.

“Honey? Please wake up. Please be okay.”

Brushing aside the apparently falsified memory of my eighteenth birthday, spent waterboarding Commies in Singapore, I fully regained consciousness.

“Sweetheart, I…I’ve got some bad news,” I said, choking on what little water was left in my dried trachea.

“What is it, my love? I’m sure it can’t be all that bad. I’m sure we can work through this together.” How naïve she was.

“The results are back and I…I’m not Michael Phelps.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, honey, everyone is Michael Phelps!”

“It’s true…a real-live licensed medically-trained physician informed me,” I said, with warm memories of that bearish doctor’s masculine visage.

“But, honey, what about the time you slayed the water demons from heck and earned your rightful title as Water Wizard Mickey Phelpo?”

“I-I can’t remember,” I mustered, with the sentiment of barbed wire piercing my soul.

I watched the love and passion drain from her suede, brown eyes and kind of weird looking pointy face. She grew silent and cold, to the point where her cells physically began to harden as the molecules of her body moved less and less. She was now ice. I understood she could no longer love me. My daughter ran in, accidentally shattering the ice sculpture that was once her mother but paying her no mind. Don’t blame her; she’s too young to understand.

“Dad! I’m so glad you’re okay. This means you still get to come to show-and-tell tomorrow, right? I can’t wait to help you endorse Subway!”

“Sweetheart, I…” I didn’t have the nerve to tell her. I laid there, crying out every last droplet of water that remained in this pathetic body of mine. I mustered every last bit of strength I had to pick up the mirror that conveniently sat beside me. Looking into the reflective surface of the gadget, I gazed into the eyes of disappointment and looked upon the face of a man who had nothing left to live for. I stared and stared and only the stranger, Ryan Lochte, stared back at me. Whoever this man was, he certainly was not Michael Phelps. As my body faded into the bed sheets, only a silver medal marked “First Loser, Ryan Lochte” was left behind.

Wait, how’d you get in my house?

Listen, I don’t wanna be weird but I just noticed you were in my house and I find that kind of weird. How did you get here? Was it the window? The door? I live in a small house that is very high. I will assume you came in through the door. The door was locked. I locked the door. Do you have a key? I have not given anyone a key, but here you are. I will not assume you are here to steal my clementines. If you are, you need to leave right now. I love my clementines, and you, I do not love.

If my old roommate gave you a key, you need to head out. Kevin was not a good roommate and he is an even worse Ghost-roommate. Ghost’s cannot give people keys and therefore, you should not be in my house. Buddy, if Kevin gave you these keys, I will not enjoy that. He never pays rent, he stole my shirt, he… oh buddy, not cool. Well, if he didn’t give you the keys, would you like to watch the 1978 Superbowl with me? I have it on DVR. Do not spoil this for me, I do not know the ending. I have been watching all of the Superbowls with my fruit. My Clementines. Mine.

I wish you would just tell me how you got into my house. Did my neighbor Sarah Ann Lyon think you were a delivery man? She once put seven strangers in my house and only one of them was sent from German- owned company, DHL. The strangers and I had a very nice dinner party, but still they were in my house, and when I looked, I no longer had the playbook of the 1993 Superbowl, which you can imagine was very upsetting to me. If she did not let you in, then I have to imagine you are here for nefarious purposes, because as you can tell this is my house and not yours. I am outraged that you won’t just reveal your intentions in my home. Can you not see that I just want to sit with my fruit and unspoiled football games in peace? Can you not clearly tell that you being here is eating into my alone time in which I will watch the 2002 Superbowl? Yet, you continue to be here in my family room where if I had a family we would meet and discuss the political quagmire that is the Middle East.

Wait…. but no it couldn’t be, perhaps we went to high school together. I have blocked out my sophomore year of high school, so if you met me during that year, I will not remember you. If you wish to be my rival, you should just fill out a form and leave a suspicious note on my door like everyone else who wants to fight me. I simply cannot believe this is happening right now. Just steal something from me and leave, please. I just want to be able to return to my normal life.

You stand there, drilling a hole in the center of my floor with your silly feet. I will not stand for it. Do not move. I can tell you are planning to move. You already moved when you came into my house, and I will not have you continue to move. You are putting out your hand and I believe I know what this means. Here are all of my dear, dear clementines. They are the fruit of the gods and I will part with them if it means I can be free from whatever you are doing. You will probably treat them better than I ever did.

Once I tried to juggle and many of my golden-nectared fruits were lost to the cold hard ground that day. If you take these fruits, will you leave? Please take them, they deserve better than me. They do not need to see another halftime show. I will find new friends, new fruits, perhaps. Do not squeeze the small fruit too hard. I know you will take care of them. Just tell me please, before you move from your spot, how did you get in here, I mean in here, in my heart? You showed up to my home, and you’ve torn me down. I cannot go on anymore – actually, please don’t even tell me how you got in, just please take my clementines and go.

Neil deGrasse Tyson: Point Counterpoint

By Ariel Leal and Jesse Saunders

An excerpt from our issue Nonsense Goes To Space!

Neil Degrasse Tyson: Hero? Villain? …Thespian? With nipples like yams and a voice like the marshmallows one spreads atop, we just don’t know what to expect. The man is a saint no doubt, with thousands upon hundreds of contributions to things such as SCIENCE, math, and late night television—but math is hard and space is scary. So is he our friend or a threat to humanity itself?… Read two conflicting opinions below to find out.

Point

Life before the first encounter is a surreal dream, one that I can hardly remember in the midst of the never-ending Hell that is my current existence. I just want to sleep without having the definitions of consciousness and dreams violently shouted into my ears endlessly. I’ve taken shelter in this sensory deprivation tank because he always followed. He’d scream at me from all angles, all dimensions. I must have been eighteen when the first encounter took place. I was trying to get my Pringle wet in my father’s Honda Civic; it was going to be the single greatest moment of all my years in high school. I made sure to stock the car with several different kinds of air fresheners. Despite the smells being a whirlwind of artificial scents, Wendy just chuckled and called it all a “cute effort.” I left the key in so I could play some Bachman-Turner Overdrive to get the mood going as I drove to the cliff just a couple of minutes away from my house. The scene was beautiful, with the setting sun splashing warm colors over the valleys that that we sat overlooking. The thought of it all had me nervous, giving me goosebumps, and when we parked, I could do little more than stare at the slowly dripping condensation from Wendy’s water bottle in the cup holder. Everything I did, I did out of nervousness, telling myself that when the drop of water hit the bottom, I would make my move. I did. We started to kiss. Her plump lips pressed against mine, and after a few minutes, I pushed my hand into the tight pocket of my Levi’s. My fingers managed to take hold of the single condom caught in the web of tangled headphones. I struggled to tear the plastic open; my hands were sweaty, as was the condom. Wendy giggled again and opened the plastic for me. At that precise moment, Neil deGrasse Tyson punched his way out of the trunk of my car. My girlfriend screeched as he yelled, “You’re doing this because you’re both compelled, as animals, to procreate. There is no magic!”

I haven’t had sex ever since. So yes, I’m still a virgin. At forty-three years old he reminded me that I have “failed my duty as a living organism” and “successfully put an end to millions of years of procreative success,” but that’s another story out of hundreds of thousands. I tried to eat icecream after that initial incident, having dropped crying Wendy off at her house. She insisted that she needed some time alone. On the way to the ice-cream shop, the radio just kept blasting more and more maddening facts narrated by the creature himself, Mr. Tyson.

“Hey kids, don’t forget, you were born into existence from an eternal abyss of nothingness and you will die returning to that very same oblivion! Santa isn’t real!”

I drove up to the little kiosk down the road from my school just to get a little sweetness in my day. How I longed for the texture of my tongue dragging across the rugged terrain of sprinkles embedded into soft-serve. I guessed sprinkles were nutritionally worthless, though. None of this was healthy for me, to be honest. Was I just eating to alleviate stress? Did you know that carbohydrates are directly linked to increases in serotonin production? N-Neil taught me that..

As soon as I attempted to place my order, I found that he was the ice-cream man. “Ice-cream, or any food, or anything for that matter, is only a series of atoms intertwined in complex webs, just like you. There are no souls.” I could go into detail about these events endlessly, my mother’s funeral, my father’s suicide, the birth of my nephew- right…the birth of my nephew was supposed to be a symbol of hope for a better future. Unfortunately, baby blue tones seemed more stale than they ever have before. Color didn’t mean much to me anymore. Did you know that the color blue is associated with low anxiety levels and a sense of calm?

BAM! He was there, just like he always was. “Fun fact! Mothers are essentially forced to love their children. Oxytocin, the chemical responsible for love, is produced in high quantities after the birth of a child. You didn’t think love was actually real, did you?”

Relaxation didn’t exist for me, anymore, for every time I turned on the television the new Cosmos would start playing. I was forced to watch his affably charming face mock me from afar. He spoke of wonders, of why the universe was amazing and beautiful, but in doing so, the magic was removed from literally everything. Nothing held mystery. Nothing was intriguing. Life slowly lost meaning, at least, until I met her; Sharon, that beautiful woman. She gave my life meaning, but I was foolish to believe that this phenomenon wasn’t fleeting. At our wedding, happiness was within my grasp, until the priest asked everyone to speak now, or forever hold their peace; peace that I would only ever obtain in death. Death means nothing to me anymore but I digress. The white dress she sported seemed bland, considering that it was only the result of an inability to absorb any specific color. I put these thoughts aside though. I tried doing so for her. But of course that…daemon stood proudly and said, “Love is only a series of chemicals! Monogamy is little more than a social construct perpetuated by organized religion, which also has little to no value whatsoever!” The priest killed himself and I broke down and began to cry, each tear being a salty reminder that my emotions were little more than chemicals. Sharon left with my high school bully, Chad, because of course his name is Chad. My life is a cartoon, I think, now reminiscing in the everlasting hellscape that is my existence. I now pray that Neil won’t scare the piss out of me by jumping out of my asshole and reminding me what life is or isn’t or even why cartoons are unimpressive. I don’t care what the other guy has to say; Neil deGrasse Tyson has robbed me of my ability to live a life I’m not even sure ever existed. I can only attempt to block these memories and thoughts out in this lonely metal tank. Speaking of metal, did you know that mercury is the only metal that is a liquid at room temperature? At that moment, I heard the door slam open.

But how? I’m not supposed to be able to hear anything in here…

Heavy footsteps thudded towards me until his devastatingly strong fists punched against the tank, weakening what I hoped would serve as a metal coffin. His virtually robotic fingers pried the doors to the tank open. He squeezed inside with me and pulled me against him, placing his head on my right shoulder, his merciless lips next to my ear. I felt his warm breath on my skin as he spoke.

“Free will is an illusion, you know. Evidence supports the fact that we make decisions before the brain is even conscious of them. You are not your own person; none of us are.”

How was he doing this? Every tidbit of physics and chemistry that I was forced to remember couldn’t save me. None of it made sense. He didn’t fit the physical world that he spared no time explaining! How was he doing this?!

He tightened his grip with each factoid launched out of his mouth into the frail targets that were once my healthy ears. I cry more and more with his seemingly endless explanations. This is my reality. I just want to sleep

Counterpoint

The sun never stopped shining when I was young. Quiet, glowing, light filled up every corner of my world. I was a star among the many, simple, plebeians filling the school halls. At just eight years of age, I was ready to take on anything in this world. My clay volcano was ready to destroy my weakminded classmates with one push of a button. Until He came…Neil. All it took was one look at his potato battery and my entire life was seemingly over. Beyond beating me in every class, he destroyed my family’s quaint French villa with his pet black hole named Bill Nye, and didn’t even have the kind courtesy to torture me to my face. The mark he’s left on the scientific community is one of a villain, a rogue with no care for his common scientists. His chocolate dipped low-cal voice sends its listeners gliding through space and away from their dreadful, feeling-ridden lives for hours at a time. But apparently returning my phone calls was too much of challenge for the so-called Brilliant Man. BAH! I’m calling him what he’s truly always been: a carob-throated hack, through and through. While real investigators of science and fact, spend their time destroying hope and convincing the public that the fast and inevitable heat death of the universe is coming extremely soon — when in fact we have yet to reach a confirmed date on that –Tyson has made a career out of “informing the public,” and “Sending learning and love to a child you know.” You think science was made to create a community of knowledge? Do you all actually think that it was meant to better humankind? Tyson is and has always been a figure of disgrace, a man who has the time to play games with children and speak about the future of the Sun’s desires, but he couldn’t even come to my birthday party. Weird, huh? Every test we ever took… every time I applied for a position, only to be laughed at as he sauntered through the door in nice shoes and pants…It became too much. The kids might be obsessed with him, but I have seen through him. I have seen through every inch of him. For years, I spent every moment of every day desperately trying to fix his mistakes, to fix our society, to maybe speak to him for a few minutes and see if he remembered me from that time we got partnered together in lab. But I was hopeless. Whether it was his casual suit or his dark, steamy, lying eyes, I was sick at the thought of him, and more sick at the thought of being away from him. Don’t you all understand yet? His mind might be great — it is great — but he was always wasting himself by trying to rationalize who and what he really is to the dregs of society. He could have and should have been spending it on better people — people who are interesting and love science and understand math at an above average level. Tyson isn’t of your world, you lazy degenerates. You don’t deserve him, his wealth of knowledge is but a penny in the beggar’s cup that is your brains. NeildeGrasse was always meant for a different world, don’t you see that? He was meant for the world of science, always destined to be consumed by the vastness of his own mind… and so he was. Neil deGrasse Titan, the man who made learning good for idiots and bad for smart people, perished at the hands of the one thing he truly loved. Indeed, he was killed by science. “How so?” you may be asking. “What could have disassembled the fine man we knew only as Neil Tyson deGrasse Junior High. Simple, dear plebeian masses: when the element formerly known as hydrargyrum (mercury) touches a prosperous fuse—a car bomb. I put a bomb in his car.

Conclusions

Interesting, two completely different opinions. Yes. Two totally different sentiments expressed. Two—did you guys even talk to each other before sending these pieces in? Who was responsible for assigning each of you your positions? It wasn’t me. I’ll tell you that much. It wasn’t—who even wrote the intro I—you know what? I wash my hands of this. It’s late. Two opinions on NDT, BFD.

An Open Letter to the 10 Exceptional Asteroids that I Once Loved

2001: A Space Odyssey Online

Ben Fletcher in 797 words on December 6th, 2016

An excerpt from our issue Nonsense Goes To Space!

1. Hygiea

You were there for me when my back was against the wall. You’ve seen me at my worst and at my best, and you never hesitated to pick me up when I was down. Those were the good times, until we floated apart. You weren’t the biggest and maybe not the most exceptional asteroid that I’ve known but goddamn it, you were exactly the 503 by 407 by 370 in Kilometers that I needed in the summer of 1849. I miss you Hygiea, I hope you’re doing well.

2. Hektor

You were like a father figure to me. I learned so much from you, my daddy Hektor with a K. Is that German or Russian? You still never told me. I tried to get a read on you, but I could never seem to get past your craterous frame. But I know, I just know underneath that hulking, rocky exterior, there is more rock. God I wish you were my Dad instead of an asteroid.

3. Bamberga

Hey Bam. It’s been 3 years since I’ve stopped chugging cough syrup like you asked. But now I can’t shake the feeling of wanting to start up again, because I can’t get any rest without you baby. You let Johann Palisa discover you instead of discovering yourself like you said you wanted to. I wish you would come back. I’ll be here. You know where to find me.

4. Doris

You were trusting, caring, loving, and always down to do anal. I don’t think I’ll ever meet another asteroid like you. Mostly because of the anal thing. Out of all the asteroids I’ve dated, you’re the only one with a butthole. I’m still confused as to how that got there, but I’m not complaining. Sorry I got you evicted for causing quite the ruckus during the anal. You just put the ass in asteroid baby ;P XDDDDD

5. Pallas

I have nothing more to say to you. I hope you and Melvin are doing well you cheater. Give me back my Across The Universe DVD.

6. Hebe

I found that tree we scratched our initials on 3 winters ago. You remember, the tall birch with the green leaves? Yeah, that one. It brought back good memories, but also reminded me why we’re not together anymore. You told me you wanted space, but I didn’t think you actually meant you were going to abscond back into the god damn solar system without even so much as a “goodbye”. My eyes begin to water just thinking about it. We could’ve had it all Hebe, now I just have the hebejeebees.

7. Metis

“1st battalion, shake a tower! Large enough to crush the axis power!!” Oh boy, Metis my man, remember that nursery rhyme of a battle cry? Haha I still to this day have no idea what it means. Something to do with pooping? Oh boy, our days in the service were wild. Sgt. was always getting on our asses for not saying it loud enough, but would never bother to explain it! But we sure did take it to those damn Nazis didn’t we brother?! We should get together some time and play backgammon like we used to back in the day. Tell Irene and the kids I said seasons greetings.

8. Diotima

Tell our son Nelson I’ll be by to pick him up in a few hours. We’re gonna go to the zoo and when he asks good ol’ Dad what the gorillas are called, I’m going to say “There called Diotima’s lil’ buddy,” and he’s going to say “Isn’t that mommy’s name?” and I’m going to say “Yep, they were actually named after she became the cantankerous whore that is your mother and decided that Daddy couldn’t go out gambling on a Tuesday and waste the rent money on Ultimate Texas Hold’em because he FUCKING KNOWS if he just gets one good hand we could finally afford a pool table. You fucking tell her that Nelson!!” That’s what I’m gonna say. I’ll be there after lunch.

9. Aletheia

You taught me how to knit, how to change a tire, and how to read. I don’t know where I would be right now if I didn’t know how to read because of you Aletheia. You made my world brighter, and occasionally darker when you covered up the sun. I should’ve been more attentive when I cooked for you. How was I supposed to know you had a gluten allergy? What part of your craggy, jagged body needs to process gluten?? Again, I’m sorry, but you should’ve told me first.

10. Ceres

Babe, you were hands down, 10/10, the absolute THICKEST babe I have ever laid my grubby little mitts on. I can’t think of anyone else that treated my wiener the way you did. I know that we’ve grown apart ever sense I moved away, but I promise you, there is nobody else I would be proud to call my mother.