Tag Archives: ‘Confusion

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.”

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.

ISS/ISIS Paradigm Shift

By Ariel Leal

An excerpt from our issue Nonsense Goes To Space!

Chapter One

“Those are MY franks GODDAMN IT!” I awoke in a cold sweat. I reached over to my nightstand, knocking over several empty cans of Bud Light and my Gameboy Advanced SP to grab my pill bottle. Now I’m not a huge fan of these here farmer suit ankles but who am I to doubt the great American Healthcare system? After all, I’m not a doctor. I’m a veteran. I’m a hero.

I tried jerkin the bottle some to pour some of those plastic slugs into my hand but none came out. By Fidel Castro’s unkempt and fascist beard! I had to refill this yesterday.

All of a sudden I realized that maybe my dream twern’t no dream so I walked through the wall of my bedroom and booted the shit out of the handle to my back door, effectively smashing the wooden obstacle open. At once I was greeted by the harsh rays of the sun, my sun. My beautiful baby boy. I looked up at my kin and forced my retinas to endure the searing pain of his brilliance.

“My sun! I just want you to know I’m proud of you!” I shouted to that big ol’gas beast. I smiled and dusted some of the drywall off my shoulders.

It’s time for coffee, I thought so I sprinted eighteen miles over to my neighbor’s farm. I found one of my neighbor’s cows and punched it to death for some good ol’ strawberry milk. Thick. Viscous. The slimy bastard, otherwise known as my neighbor, came out and ran towards me screaming like some kind of fuckin’ coward.

“Boy I seen good men get their winguses blown off and cry less than this. I bet you don’t even pay your taxes.” I pointed my phallic finger in that fucker’s face.

I punched that commie’s nose in until his skin matched his ideologies.

DICC (Dead ISIS/Commie Count): 1

“Better dead than red,” I said, for the seventy-fifth time this week while also lighting an American cigar and taking a good, deep, crispy, puff. I decided to enjoy the moment by playing some video games on my Gameboy. Helps relieve the stress. After a little while, his wife, or daughter, or heck, maybe even both, came out running with a frying pan but I thwarted her attempts to catch me off guard by pissing myself. She was just too quick and ended up dislocating my jaw anyway.

Now the whole thing was blurry but I remember waking up in one of those er, uh, field things covered in blood, and lemme tell ya, it wasn’t just bovine. There was a finger in my mouth with the nail burned black and I couldn’t help but wonder how a thing like that could find its way into my mouth hole but this wasn’t the time for solving mysteries. It was already nighttime and I thanked my lucky stars that my boy was tucked away, sleeping soundly. He takes after his mom. Stretching out, I found myself a red Solo cup tied to a string that seemed to go on for miles and miles. Naturally, I answered the call of duty.

“Uh…hello?” I asked, wondering who could be calling at this hour.

“Jones! C.O. Jones? We need your help! I’ve heard of your experience with Space Nazis and between you and me, what you did to Mecha Pol Pot’s head was a GOT damn masterpiece.”

“I’m listening, Cap. What do you need?”

“There’s some trouble on the ISS and you-

“ISIS? You stop right there, Cap; I knew this day would come.”

“Can you do it, Jones? Can you climb aboard the space station and-

“That’s enough, Captain. I already said yes and you won’t see me backing out like some commie dump truck.”

I tried crumpling the plastic beverage receptacle only to find that it had already disappeared. Now that is American engineering. Standing up, I found that I was fully erect.

It’s time to go save DEMOCRACY.

Chapter Two

K-Mart, a peaceful land. I drove my truck into the sliding doors, killing two pedestrians in the process. I have a zero-tolerance policy for jaywalkers.

DICC (Dead ISIS/Commie Count): 3

I coulda waited but democracy wouldn’t so I had to act fast. I found my way on over to the beer section, the section with all the beer, and punched through the glass door to pick up a silver bullet. As I browsed this store’s fine wares, I poked my head into the video game section briefly but all this new shit was nothing like some 90’s classics. I then mosied on over to the gun section, you know, the section with all the guns, and picked up some more silver bullets. They weren’t actually silver but not callin’ em such makes it less poetic. I digress, citizen. I picked up all the ammunition and guns I needed and dumped ‘em all out on the cash register. My hands were bleeding and full of glass shards. The cashier done pissed himself so I shouted at him, grabbing his face in my bloody and sharp hands.

“Do you see my blood, private? TELL ME WHAT COLOR MY BLOOD IS!”

“I-it’s r-red,” the shrimp cocktail, flamingo-licking pansy mumbled.

“I’ll have you know I’m a retired veteran so you best refer to me with due respect.”

“O-okay, sir,” he said. Pathetic.

“My blood is red. I pay my taxes! I was kicked out of a court room during jury duty once for sporting an erection as hard as the time I did on tour! Above all else, I was a volunteer fireman in grade school so don’t you-

“W-what’s that have to do with-

I rammed my fist through his cranium for interrupting me.

DICC (Dead ISIS/Commie Count): 4

I might’ve thought this prick was a pansy but I had no idea he’d stand in the way of liberty as a terrorist.

Damn, I thought, they’ve even infiltrated our K-Marts. It makes sense considering they didn’t even have locks on these guns. To make matters worse, the guns themselves are bright yellow and blue and the bullets have orange tips, as if to make it easier for them to spot us. Then again, maybe I want that, maybe I want them to see me coming.

I figured I was close, considering I already done killed four menaces. It was time to consult the egg-heads. My combat boots thudded against the ground repeatedly until I found myself in the science section, you know, the section with all the nerds. Some college kid was messing around with some science stuff, I guess.

“You there! How do I get to space?”

“Excuse me?” the little shit asked.

“It’s either I forcefully ram eighty-three kettle cooked barbecue chips in your urethra or you TALK!”

“Um…the latter, I guess…” he said, selling out immediately. You wouldn’t see American soldiers behaving so despicably.

“So you knew all along!” I pinned the ungrateful millennial up against the wall.

“What the hell are you going on about? Knew about what?” he squealed desperately. Commie desperation.

It was difficult to look at his face when the sun was shining in my eyes from the nearest window. Wait a minute…my son, my beautiful baby boy, is up there! This asshole playing dumb couldn’t fool me. I took the previous Coors beer can and shoved it down the boy’s esophagus, effectively suffocating him to death. As he collapsed, I thought about the sweet vengeance I just enacted on the filthy terrorist.

“You know what they say, partner; when it’s blue, you know it’s as cold as the Rockies.”

DICC (Dead ISIS/Commie Count): 5

Chapter Three

“Pack your things, folks, we’re going to space!” I exclaimed to the native people of the K-Mart. Everyone knows how to get to space. I began ramming my fists into the nearest concrete wall, pushing the glass shards deeper into my hands. After awhile I managed to find a ladder. The ladder. The space ladder. I climbed and climbed until I stopped being able to breathe, but that’s okay. I was on the varsity swim team in high school so I knew how to hold what little breath I had left. Red and blue lights started flashing everywhere, which I assume is common to space or whatever. This was it. This was space. Things were kind of a blur but I vaguely remember crashing the base onto the moon, I think. I could swear I lost my arms heroically, fighting the good fight against the real enemies because right now I can’t feel my arms. For a brief moment, I remember having another family, but that can’t be right. Have I been brainwashed? It doesn’t matter. Here I am, on the moon. Everything is so bright and white and…soft. My head hurts so fucking badly too. I must have been brainwashed because I suddenly had the strongest urge to play video games more than any other moment in my life. Don’t get me wrong, I adore consumerism but this was just strange. I just feel so compelled to…see pictures of Crash Bandicoot, really badly. What’s happening to me?

Out of nowhere, an alien sporting a white lab coat and a clipboard approached me. That sick asshole. Not only was he real and deceiving the American people about his existence, but he killed our own and took their clothing.

“Are we calm now? Do you promise not to blind another one of our nurses? Are you free to talk in a rational manner?” the alien barraged me with questions, most likely planning to use the answers to end all wonderfully capitalistic behaviors of our gorgeous American society.

“That’s the thing, you freak; in this country, I’m always free.”

My urethra was sewn shut in some form of poetic horror, but I wouldn’t complain like some whiney liberal. After all, this is the land of the free and the home of the brave. God bless America.