Tag Archives: Election 2016

Make America Vape Again

Art by Dakar Morris

By Ashley Vernola

An excerpt from our issue What To Expect When You’re Electing!

Ho, there, son! Sit your little butt down. You can cry all you want but you’re not getting out of this one so buckle up! You’re in for a ride. I, your Pappy, am gonna tell you a story like my Pappy told me, and like his Pappy told him before that, and like his Great-Grand-Pappy-In-Law told him before that and like all the Pappy’s before them told to their lil‘uns before that – may they rest in peace………………………………………………………………………………………..

Sorry, son, I just must always pay respects to the Pappy’s who done come before me. After all, if they didn’t your Pappy wouldn’t be able to come after—sorry!—just a little Pappy humor. Anyway, let’s get this wagon rollin’. Late at night, when I couldn’t sleep, and Pappy would be shuffling the halls at night shouting your Meemaw’s name – he would do this a lot, his old mind went quickly, may he rest in peace –he would come in my room, and tell me this story.

Back in the year of Two-Oh-One-Six, the town of Crookdoone had lost its status as a town. The legend, as it was told to me, has it that it was a very sunny day down in Crookdoone when the presidential hopeful Mr. Trump came to visit on his campaign trail. In a moment of rest, he decided to take off his shoes and stick his toes in the soft dirt the town was known for – that was their slogan, you know? Visit Crookdoone, we got soft dirt! And damn, did they have the softest dirt. So, he stuck his toe in the dirt but the sun was blaring on it all day, and it was so hot it burned his big toe. “A total mess!” he yelled, droplets of spittle spraying onto his intern. He smacks the coffee out of his intern’s hand and throws his arms up in the air. “Crookdoone is not our friend. What a totally corrupt place!” And with that, once he was awarded the opportunity to rule, he forced everyone to evacuate the town.

But, the brave Bull Tornhollow decided to stay.

“This is MINE now,” he exclaimed. You might be wondering who he was talking to. It was no one. Everyone had already left at this point. This part left me boggled, myself, but I’m just telling this like My Pappy told me and His Pappy told him before that, and well, you get it.

But anyway, for years after that, ol’ Crookdoone had been his territory. From dawn until dusk, Bull would pace the deserted streets up and down, ready and armed for anyone willing to have a little hoedown. For a long time, no one had. Untiiiiiiiiiiiil…

On a warm morning, Bull woke to the sound of wheels on Crookdoone’s now-dried-and-not-soft dirt. In a tizzy, he jumped out of bed, grabbed his holster and adorned his weapon to his side. Now son, it could have been a bunny, or a mountain lion, or just his imagination – Bull thought he was losing his mind, just like your ol’ Pappy ha ha ha ha ha ha haaa – but he couldn’t take any chances. Peeking his head out of his doorframe, Bull fastened his eyes on what stood down the road ahead of him.

It was a man! Bull stamped out of his house. Bull was a very respectable man, son. His Cole Haan shoes scuffed against the ground, accenting perfectly pleated pantaloons, and a white button-down shirt, a tie, tightly around his neck, showing the competitor that he was a modest, but tough fighter. One hand gripped his holster, the other tipped a cowboy hat. He bore a resemblance of one of those Big Business Men coming from the office to go to a Brad Paisley concert at Madison Square Garden. Ha! Ha! I make myself laugh. Anyway…

Howdy!” Bull said cheerfully, a scare tactic.

The man was not phased as Bull approached him. He rolled a skateboard back and forth with one foot, his baggy jeans frayed at the ends and falling at his hips. Most frightening to Bull was the faded wolf image on his t-shirt, two sizes too large. He kept messy long hair back with a checkered cap. Why he didn’t cut the darn thing is beyond me, you know? He has to brush loose pieces of hair out of his face before he spoke, always jerking his neck back and forth! It’s bad for your neck, boy—but Pappy’s getting away from the yarn, now. The man spoke.

“Sup,” he finally said, his voice deep and booming. Bull noticed a holster also adorned to the man’s hip and grips his own a little tighter. He never thought he would have to put up this much of a fight with someone who could barely even keep his pants up. Anyway, no one said anything for a while and Bull found himself getting angry at the silence, and at how little the man cared, he hadn’t done anything but flip his hair out of his face and roll his skateboard with his foot.

Growing impatient, he said, “What are you doing here? Who are you?” The man’s hand moved to the holster.

“Name’s Shady Mesa, I’m just coming to chill,” He said, super chill. Bull was in disbelief. Bull had never dealt with these types before. He didn’t know what this Californ-I-A Casual had in him, but he knew that “coming to chill” meant his territory was at stake.

And with a swift movement they were off. Bull reached into his holster and pulled out his FATBABY 100 WATT and took a deep pull. He let the sweet taste Grandmaster by Five Pawns (*An E-Liquid) hit the back of his throat for a minute, the smooth peanut butter, and caramel taste sticking to his throat, reminding him of the caramel chews his Mimaw kept on her coffee table, paired with the slight hint of banana. And with that, he exhaled through his mouth sending plumes of vapor into the air. Hah, he thought, that’ll show him. No one could beat his FATBABY 100 WATT. It was best known on the market for low resistance, and thus, incredible cloud production. Not to mention no one could even come close to his ADV (*All Day Vape); Grandmaster was voted as the E-Liquid customers were more satisfied with that past year.

As the smoke faded, Bull met eye to eye with Shady. From his holster, Shady revealed a small pen, a vape starter kit, ego style battery 220 mAh (*Milliamp Hours). Bull can’t help but burst into laughter. Incredible, he thought, this kid thinks he can beat me with a starter. Bull turned away, knowing that Shady had lost this fight, before he smelled the sweet nectar of Mother’s Milk in the air. A sweet strawberry scent, creamy and custardy, reminded him of his own home, and how his Mama and Mimaw used to bake sweet treats like yours do. He swung back around to watch as Shady has managed more cloud production, plumes of vapor lingering, forming themselves into shapes around him.

Panicked, Bull took another deep pull. However, his breaths were shaky and the vapor came out in small clouds, nothing like Shady’s. Bull accepted defeat. There is no way he could match up to such a competitor.

Shady’s grin grew. He knew he has won. Bull fell the ground, overcome with emotion. And with one final pull, Shady exhaled, clouds of thick vapor again lingering around him. Some say that Shady stepped out of the clouds—clouds so high they could block the sky—and bent to whisper a message into Bull’s ear, caramel caressing his canal. Others say that when the smoke cleared, Shady was nowhere to be seen, and never to be seen again. Others still say the letters themselves began to take shape! This time into letters and words. But no matter which Pappy told what, one thing remains the same: When the smoke cleared, Bull squinted his eyes to read Shady’s message, and the message read only, “Make America Vape Again”.

And that’s how it goes. Ooh boy, do you hear that? You can faintly hear the sound of my late Pappy shufflin’ these halls. He must be so proud that I passed on this story to you. One day, when you’re a Pappy, you’ll be passing this story down too to your lil’uns. Alright, son, now quit your cryin’ and go to bed, Pappy’s got some more yellin’ to do.

I’m The Big Guy

By The Big Guy

An excerpt from the “Trump Presidency” side of our issue, What To Expect When You’re Electing!

There’s a few things they don’t tell you when you become President. I guess that’s part of the gig, and I guess I understand. But it’s still a drag, folks, I can promise you that. Yeah, yeah, you get the Nuclear Codes and that sleek new phone. You get a bunch of new dress shoes and a free FitBit. OK. Neat. That stuff is definitely fun for the first couple months, especially for a guy like me who knows how to take advantage of a good thing when he sees it. But the list of things they haven’t given me? That one’s growing longer by the day. I mean really, the key that locks my bathroom from the inside has been missing since I moved in, and I can’t seem to find my son Eric’s lips anywhere! On top of that,  my daughter Tiffany looks like if someone randomized the features on a Sim. I’ll just say it: someone around here is getting fired if this madness doesn’t cease, and I don’t care if it’s everybody or just the person who looks least like my youngest son, the inimitable Barron.

But listen, can I say something for a minute? Look, not to harp on a topic beyond any reasonable degree until it’s just basically opportunistic exploitation, but I have a suspicion that Pence tried to switch keychains with me in the ballroom last week. Am I saying he’s behind this? No. Did I ever say that? I never said that. But, just so you understand more about the situation, mine was made with that lightweight stuff the Russians use and his resembles the sort of weather worn keyring you’d see a groundskeeper carrying in a good movie. So take that information and do with it what you will. And hey, listen, the man is my VP and he has my respect. Can I say that? That’s a pretty nice thing to say. But honestly – if I can be honest with you – we all know he’s a dead-eyed rat from the shit-ridden depths of Hick County. I’ve put actual money down in Vegas that he’ll die before the end of my first term, probably from scurvy. Or a gun.

Moving on –  you all need to really listen now, okay? I can’t get sidetracked here. There are much bigger things at play. Now, what was I getting at? Oh yeah, so back to these Jews and their banks this laundry list of mysteries that expands by the moment am I the only one thinking to myself, “What the hell is going on here?” What is going on here, folks? Something simply needs to be done, and you know exactly what I’m talking about. That’s right, I’m talking about these Jewish people and their vice grip on our wonderful world this cursed labyrinth known as the White House to some, the MAGA Mecca to a select devoted few, and as Barron’s Boyhood Hellscape by my youngest, the boy Barron. Barron loves to use big words around me because he knows I’m hard to impress. I never acknowledge him for it, because then he would feel as though I’m easy to impress, and that would make me feel weak. If there’s one thing I can tell you folks with an honest heart, it’s that I never allow my youngest son to feel as though he’s figured out who or what I am. (That makes me smart.)

Now I feel as though I’ve been twiddling my thumbs trying to get this next part out. Can I say that? Am I allowed to say that? Well, I just did. The thing is, I took all of your money and your votes so that I could infiltrate this little secret club house they call Washington Politics; and while I think you’ve been fairly happy with my accomplishments to date (Adios, gynecology quacks!), there’s one thing you have to know about why I’m sending out this e-mail via a private server. You see, when I first stomped down that Hall of Important Men on my inauguration day, all the Washington rank-and-file thought they knew what to expect. They knew I was a renegade looking to shake things up the way Mike Pence shakes his ever growing Sock-Full-of-Doorknobs at homeless single mothers… but they had no idea I would tell you all the truth. They didn’t think I’d talk about the body doubles, never thought I’d spill the beans on the 50-foot-deep underground breeding complex where every President since Eisenhower has lived out his term, and in some cases, the rest of his life. Remember when I referred to the White House as a “cursed labyrinth flooded with samples of soured jisolm?” Well folks, I wasn’t just being cute.

To get right into the thick of it with you: President Eisenhower believed that through killing enough Nazis, he had earned something like a Divine Right of Kings, more or less making him the perfect man. Oddly enough, Hitler and the Nazis killed way more people, and loved to do their own construction. And they thought they were the perfect men! And I think that I’m the perfect man. And I love construction! Pretty crazy when you think about it folks – three famous leaders, three very intelligent men, all really similar guys when you break it down like that.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, okay, okay. Alright. As someone who is getting pretty close to being God in his own right, I can definitely understand the mindset that Ike brought into the whole ordeal. He wanted to make America a great nation full of great looking leaders, and there’s nothing wrong with that. But even I can say he took things a little too far. He built a vast underground complex, something like the boutique section of a cruise ship mixed with a hospital, except it’s a hospital where every other room you walk into looks like the part of a bukkake set where the camera pans over to all the ugly guys tugging in lonesome unison.

Ike thought that if he just had a little more time to produce samples – if only there were a few more hours in the day – he could fix this mess of a country all on his own. But you see, folks, this is where things got real tricky. Once the complex was built to Ikey’s likey, he knew he had started something that could slowly shape history. He knew that for the first time since the days of Thomas Jefferson, the President of the United States could covertly code the genetics of an entire generation. He knew his life was more valuable than any other on Earth. That’s when he ordered the first true Presidential body double – some recently retired Army seargent who wanted nothing more than to get potentially assassinated  while the real Eisenhower spent hours at a time fighting through what he called “concentration cramps” in an effort to “liberate the juice.” (It’s in the manifesto folks, don’t go shooting the messenger).

I know what you’re wondering: “Was the real JFK assassinated?” “Was the real Nixon a crook?” “Is it so outrageous to assume that Ronald Reagan probably didn’t cum a whole lot?” The answer to all three is, resoundingly, Yes. (Reagan was a Stallion straight through to his final breath). As for all the questions you have about me, well, I’m afraid I can’t answer many of them just yet. The Republicans and Democrats have teamed up to try to take me down, and yet I’ve continued to put this America first. I know that if I just tell the world what I’m doing all the time, you can imagine what would happen. (Bada Bing, Bada Boom. ISIS. You all know what I’m talking about). But I can promise you one thing folks – I don’t like to make promises, but if I can just make a promise right now I’d like to. I promise you this: if you like the way my daughter Ivanka looks even half as much as I do, then you’re going to ab-so-lutely love what this nation has coming.

Hard Work Pays Off: Hofstra University Secures Presidential Debate Without Taking Anyone’s Life

By Zachary Johnson

Wright State University announced yesterday that they would be withdrawing from hosting the first presidential debate of the 2016 election year, thereby releasing the slot to Hofstra University. “Incredible,” said a representative for Hofstra. “It was so kind of the folks at Wright State to think of us, and the well-being of their families, in making this decision. We’re simply overjoyed!”

A shaking, visibly pale Wright State University President David Hopkins cited rising security concerns as one of the reasons for WSU pulling out of the debate. Nonsense caught up with President Hopkins as he sat alone in his office, staring out the window and jumping every time his phone rang.

“I-it’s so un-f-fortunate that we c-couldn’t hold the debate, but at the least we’re glad to help out our g-g-good f-friends at Hofstra,” Hopkins said, wringing his hands.

Hopkins reportedly met with Hofstra President Stuart Rabinowitz and a large entourage of tough-talkin’, rough-ridin’, no-nonsense beefcakes in his office on Monday. When asked about the meeting, Hopkins sat straight up in his chair, let in-and-out three large breaths, and kissed the cross around his neck before responding:

“Stuart and I are o-old friends.”

At press time, President Rabinowitz escorted this reporter into his office and, lying on his rose-colored divan, had this to say:

“The true American dream is free enterprise. Ya hear me, kid? The Peters, Pauls, and Marys of this world ain’t never gonna understand that. When I was a wee lady-boy lad like yourself, my father, may he rest in peace, told me that the only thing standing in the way of what I wanted were all the people around me. And I ain’t never known America to be anything else than just that: getting what you want, whatever means necessary.”

The President then had this reporter escorted out of his office, but not before gifting Nonsense a free portrait of WSU President David Hopkins, with drywall flakes still fresh on the back of the frame. smalllogo