Tag Archives: Lifestyle

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

By Heather Levinsky

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the professor did next was even more astonishing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

One of the golf balls fell on the ground.

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

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

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

Chuckling, the professor responded with a sage thesis.

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

That professor? Albert Einstein.

My Marriage Became Better After This One Simple Trick Happened

My name is Gordon Nettles and I have decided to write to your magazine in response to a question you recently posed to us readers. I hope this brief anecdote is a helpful one.

– Gordon Nettles, a reader of your magazine.

After 17 years of marriage, very few things still feel fresh and exciting. That’s just the plain truth. Her cooking, my corny jokes, the son that we made – I mean they say that all things lose their luster in due time, and I surely take a great deal in my life for granted, I won’t argue that one bit, but there was a dim underlying frustration that told me this was even more than all that. I guess – I guess after a while I just really got the gist of it all, you know?   And that’s not a knock on my wonderful partner by any means; I made a son with her, and though I’ve never had a total grasp on what that process entails, I do think it says a lot. But it was these feelings of marital contentedness – of complacency, really –  that spoke to the way that routine becomes nature when given enough time. They spoke to the way that two people can become so intertwined in themselves and each other that they forget there’s a whole world out there, a world of new experiences and new memories and, yes, even a son who needs to eat and be spoken to. Our situation may not seem startling at all to you – hell, it probably sounds ideal – but there’s something disorienting about that kind of love, a love so stunning that it’s almost paralytic.

My old man always told me that any lasting relationship is going to have its ups and downs, and for the most part he was right. But things had been going straight for so long that I was beginning to fall asleep at the wheel. Pop often warned me, “You gotta love your lady right or she’ll go find someone that does. But you will take care of him. You will make him disappear and I will help.”

Now if it wasn’t obvious enough to this point, I’ll make it clear: I’m more of a lover than a fighter. Don’t get me wrong now, I’m still pretty much your typical guy. I love action movies, driving a car, spitting at WWE villains through my TV, all that stuff; but I’ve never been the competitive, overachiever type. I’ve never been the show-off or the tough guy. That’s never been my style and, hey, I’m okay with that. I like who I am. My wife likes who I am. And yet …I couldn’t help but feel like my old man’s dark proverbs might finally do a marriage some good. At some point I was going to have to fight for her again – maybe not for her love, but for her desire. For her yearning. Even if I was satisfied, I couldn’t be sure that Maureen really was.

That, kind readers, was the genesis of my plan, a plan I hatched to not just save my marriage or my sex life, but to save what was left of my pride. Though I know I may seem a saint, I’ll be the first to admit that my concern was largely self-serving. I was becoming a broken man, and with every new advancement made in the detachable showerhead industry, I came closer to shattering. Like I said, it was never a question of love. It was simply a question of everything else.

After more than a few years of going strong, it became obvious that we’d built a world of our own, and I don’t just mean a quaint home in a homogenous and conveniently inaccessible suburb. Sure, our respective professions afforded us our share of comforts; her work as a PR consultant put food on the table and a couple cars in the garage, while my work as a garage salesman certainly didn’t hurt us when it came to having a place to put the cars my wife bought. It went much deeper than that, though. We’d created a world within our dreams that felt like true asylum from everything but each other. It was refuge sought in memories re-lived on loop, like some kind of living scrapbook taking the shape of both her childhood home and my grandmother’s hospice care center (This combination was not always pleasing). We hadn’t just romanticized a private paradise devoid of financial pressure and petty arguing – we’d made it real. It was an instant escape at our fingertips whenever we needed it, and for a while things almost felt perfect. And I mean, how couldn’t they? Who wouldn’t want what we were so close to losing ourselves in. No more aging. No more yielding to the ceaseless demands of a world that’s gonna keep turning regardless of what we choose to do. No more doping ourselves up every morning with caffeine, just to make it through another day of placating that sniffling littlesnurglenur(Editor’s Note: We figured here was as good a point as any to state that the author of this submission had no intention whatsoever of loosely co-opting the plot of Inception for his own emotional needs. If at any point that seemed to be the case, or if it even seemed like he’d recently watched the Academy Award-winning film by Christopher Nolan, you were mistaken and very wrong and we must remind you that we would never publish plagiarism. That being said, we ask that you ignore any inconsistencies you might think you’ve found in this now-abridged piece. What we’re really asking for here is simply some patience and understanding. Truthfully, this guy…he’s been going through some stuff. I personally can’t even imagine how tough it has to be to spend 17 years sharing the same bed with the same nagging bitch[2nd Editor’s Note: Look, everyone messes up sometimes. Everyone. We are all human. We are all capable of error. Please keep that in mind as you continue reading this submission at its most legally permissible juncture. Thank you.]) a;dlkfjad;fj;adlkjf;ladjf;kajd;lfkja akjdfkja ……..so if I’m being totally honest then yes, I did have some questions. There was some stuff that just didn’t quite add up for me. But with Maureen, I’ve never been afraid to ask questions. I’ve never been afraid to be wrong. The possibility of my worth diminishing in her eyes has never once crossed my mind. And, once she explained that there isn’t an actual egg inside of women that causes their bellies to get big and round during pregnancy, I was able to finally hug my son without fear of the unknown. It was moments like those, moments that seemed to happen almost daily, that left me feeling obligated to love her in every way I knew how.

In stoking the embers of my lover’s weathered loins, I knew I would need to be both spontaneous and near-perfect in my plan’s execution. The evening of our love life’s rebirth began rather typically, as the wifey and I snuggled up on the couch watching one of her most favorite treats, Magic Mike: XXL. I took the liberty of popping open a bottle of Merlot and decided to treat this particular movie night as a bit of an occasion, if only because I know what good looking men’s big swinging dicks do to my Maureen. (They turn her on). Now, I’ve never been a prude by any means. Anyone that knows me knows I’m a big fan of some good old fashioned S-E-X. I’m talking i-n-t-e-r-c-o-u-r-s-e w-i-t-h m-y w-i-f-e. The mere thought of it never fails to get me going. But I knew that Maureen needed more than the ho-hum cums we’d been concocting for a decade-plus. As someone who once thought about making money with an English degree, she had subtle yet direct ways of hinting at her desires to not just spice things up a little bit, but to truly revitalize what had plainly become a relationship built more on comfort than passion.  I’ll admit, I liked things a the way they were. Maybe that was my age talking or just my selfish male nature, but I was happy.  And I didn’t feel like I’d necessarily lost my spark either; I knew was no spring chicken, and I was certainly no longer a Hugo the Large and Heavy Cock, but I still had my share of moves to break out when the time came. I’m talkin’ Missionary, Dog Style, Reverse Missionary, Going In Kinda From The Side, and some more too. I didn’t just have the classics lined up, no, no, no. I had the Greatest Hits.

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Without getting too explicit about the nature of our lovemaking, let me just say that I feel I entered Maureen on multiple levels. To use an old saying from my parents’ day, “Our bodies made whoopie, while our souls engaged in a dance akin to fucking.” We explored each other to such incredible depths that, well, it’s rather hard to explain. It was like we were inside each other…and then, somehow, we were able to go one step further. In a way it was a lot like that fabulous movie Incepion a;dfj adjfk;ldajkf ad;lfjal;kdjfa a;ldkfj;lakdjf adlkfja;ld ad;flkjad;lkfj ad;lfja;ldkjf a;ldkfjl;kadjfa a;dfkja;ldkf a;dflkajd;l aflkd;alkfdj af;lkdakfdj al;dfkl adflk al;ksdfa;jd;lkfja;lkdjf akdf;lkja dslk;fj ak;ldsfadklf a;dfj;kals dkflk ajdks;flkadfl al k;dsf akd;fkl ajdls;kflka as;dlfk; ad sj;lkfa;lksdjf kl;adslfkja;dkls fj;lkads ak;lsd jfl;kajds;lf;ld ak sdfj;klajsd ka;lsdjf akls    That movie really did change my life. She was – we were – insatiable, going round after round like two rival boxers who’d developed a grizzled respect for the other’s hardened, aching body. We took turns toying with each other, though I teased her fighting spirit out slowly but surely.  While our rapport was firmly established by the middle of the first go-round, it wasn’t until the third and final portion of our heated, herniated bout that I pulled out something I knew would send her over the top rope. I knew all along that if put my special way with words to use in enticing that thing which most men have relegated to their fantasies: a female orgasm. I was sure I could take her on an out of body ride through the heavens, but I knew I would need to believe in myself the way she believed in me. I also realized though that the boxing metaphors that often made sense to me and my penis might not translate so well.

“This sex we’re having right now….” I paused nervously, though continuing to pump with the urgency of a prepared cyclist with a flat tire on the poor side of town. She moaned encouragingly. “This sex we’re having right now is fucking, it’s like a fucking figure skating competition!”

“Oh my god!” she cried out. “Your grasp of symbolism”

“You’re doing a – you’re doing a one-foot Salchow and you’re preparing for me to jump throw you into a Half-Axel landing.”

“Oh yes I fucking am” she growled. I was twenty-two again, a sand-haired demigod with the madman libido of a Warren G. Harding or Leonardo Dicccaaappprrriiiiooooooooooo. I was building confidence and momentum, and I could tell Maureen wanted to join in as well.

“How would you like to finish of your routine?” I asked, holding her stare as I humped with the rhythmic mechanics of our son’s knock-off hoverboard.

“…Hurricanrana…” she gasped, “…please perform a Hurricanrana on me. Please lift me off the mat and drop me once more with a Stone Cold Stunner.” Now she was speaking my language, and it was sending me to a place I had been fighting myself not to visit since I woke up that morning: the land of where an orgasm is about to happen and does. I was approaching that place in such a hurry, though,that I feared I would not be able to deliver the much-deserved knockout blow on my wife. For her sake and mine I couldn’t stop, but I had to think fast. I knew I couldn’t hold back much longer, so as a last ditch effort to save face with the intellectual I’d be dealing with post-coitus, I aimed for one final left hook.

“Get ready, baby,” I warned, with the confidence of an airline pilot attempting to land on a makeshift runway that’s also the Super Bowl.

“Oh no, please, I’m so close, just a little bit – “

“I’m sorry, honey, but Santa’s coming early this year… and it’s looking like we’re gonna have…Christmas in July.” They say every great wordsmith finds the perfect climax sooner or later, and sure enough I had found mine. Though I had just poured my soul out to her, and into her, I was almost too scared to open my eyes; when I eventually did, I was dumbfounded. Expecting an admittedly-familiar look of sympathetic disappointment, I was shocked to find Maureen, mouth agape, lost in a similar euphoric daze as the one I had just been released from.

“You…actually did it….” she mumbled, her voice weaker than I’d ever heard. “You turned that phrase so…perfectly…you gave me an actual..orgasm…I could…feel it…you are the…ideal man..” her words fell out slowly, and I hung on every breathless syllable. Regaining her composure, she continued: “You have not just stimulated me sexually, my husband, but intellectually as well. Your ability to turn an unsatisfying sexual experience into a stunning example of man’s duality means that I will never divorce you and take your hard-earned money of which there is a lot. But if I do, I promise to take our son. You will never see him again.” The love I felt in her words shook me to my core, so much so that I either orgasmed again or became very dehydrated. Either way, the humidity beneath that comforter left my junk smelling ghoulish.

In 17 years of marriage a lot of compliments are delivered and a lot of kisses are shared, but the respect and admiration I felt from Maureen in that moment was the greatest honor I’ve ever felt in my life. To know that a woman needed me, to know that I’m still a sexual being with the ability to take control of a situation and take care of my wife’s needs – words can hardly explain that kind of pride. So, Men’s Health Magazine, if you really want to hear from married men about what sex means to them, I’ll break it down for you as simply as I can:  Respect. A sense of importance achieved through performing simple, common tasks sporadically. The ability to make my wife cum. As a man in his 40’s, these are the things that matter to me. These things are all I have.

6 Things You NEED To Stop Doing At Starbucks, According To An Employee

By Zachary Johnson

If you like walking down streets, you surely have felt the irrational paranoia that a hungry sea beast with a crown and two tails is watching you from inside of a lighted storefront sign, waiting for the right moment to pounce upon you. Chances are, you’re correct; this is the marker for popular coffee shop chain, Starbucks, and the brilliance of caging a rare and majestic beast in a glass prison outside each store location is part of what makes the company so great! But if you haven’t worked for the great and powerful Starbucks, you don’t know the bowel-clenching terror you might induce in the paid workers by accidentally doing one of the things on this list that I wrote at work.

1. Expecting That You Can Order A Coffee Or Something To Eat

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Gif credit: gifemotions.tumblr.com

The goals of a coffee shop and Starbucks are very different. A coffee shop is a place where you can buy things, Starbucks is a place where people sit and wait for death to come while I get paid to watch.

2. Making The Noise At Me With Your Face Mouth

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Gif credit: giphy.com

Stop that. Step back from the register and get out of line. Do you have any idea how long I’ve been here? I’ve been standing in this spot shirking my responsibilities for 3 hours now, I’m incredibly stressed out and n o w   y o u ‘ r e   h e r e.

3. Being Specific About Wanting Me To Do Something

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Gif credit: giphy.com

I’m at work, dude. If you are thirsty and in need of coffee, that’s fine, it smells like that here. But if you’re planning on asking me to brew it for you or serve it to you or whatever the hell stupid shit, please don’t. Make the job of the employee easier by just sitting down, and being satisfied with the aroma of coffee as it dances wistfully between your nose-pits.

 

4. Touching Papa Starbucks’s 1st Place Korean War Trophy, Or Telling Him That Surviving Vietnam Was Worse

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Gif credit: chron.com

We know—The Korean War will never be as popular to discuss the horrors of as the Vietnam War, but Papa’s trophy makes him very happy. Touching the trophy, or proclaiming that the Vietnam War was much more of an atrocity isn’t going to change the fact that this isn’t Dunkin’ Donuts.

 

5. Asking To See The Key To The City of Albany

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Gif credit: giphy.com

The mayor of Albany takes the key for a walk pretty often. Just because he chose me, a person fine with complaining about stupid shit in a listicle under the guise of an unpaid “journalism career”, to carry around his dumb key sometimes doesn’t mean I’ve got to show it to you. Also, don’t ask me to smell it. I wouldn’t hide it from you if it had an interesting smell in any way so just be patient until it develops one.

6. Requesting That I Give Away Some Of This Money We Made Today Instead Of Just Burning It Out Back

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Gif credit: giphy.com

Yes, I burn all of the profits we make every day. Yes, my boss doesn’t know. I know all of these things, and I know that it’s a waste, but that doesn’t mean you get to try and take advantage of that. Plenty of people like you come out back to my big oil drum fire every day asking for money because I’m “just going to burn it anyway.” Get a fucking job and earn some yourself you piece of shit!

To put it simply, this job is supposed to be easy for me because I don’t actually need the paycheck to live each week—I’ve got parents for that. Don’t overcomplicate things for me.

Zachary Johnson is a food lover ❤ and unpaid intern at Nonsense’s very own “Knife Institution”, a branch of our #brand aimed at pleasing assholes like you with mundane listicles about food or some shit. Zach hopes to work for a real company one day, like BuzzFeed 😘

I Really Need Someone Who Is Reading This To Buy Me A Sink

By Quin Asselin

 

Hey, how are ya? My name is Brenda Stephenson. You may have heard of my cousin, the author Neal Stephenson. No? That’s fine cause that isn’t the point. The point here is: I need a sink and one of you should give it to me. Check on your local Craigslist for, “Sinks for Sale!” it only takes a few minutes. Then when you find one, send it my way.

I formerly lived a life in the small town of Douglas, Massachusetts. It’s a nice small town where everyone knows each other, with a little general store in the center of town, and a single gas station where the prices are way too high. It’s a place I’d love to go back to someday. Sadly, I’ll never be able to go back there… not without a sink at least. Hell, not even a kitchen sink. If you can get me a bathroom sink, I’d be willing to try it out.

Why not go to Lowe’s and get myself a sink? Good question. After all, it sounds perfectly reasonable for me to stretch my slowly withering legs; waltz over to the Kittie-Cat cookie jar, my world’s last vestige of comfort; and take out the final two-hundred-fourteen dollars I have to my name to buy that sink and return all to normal. So why not go ahead and do that? In response I say: Mind your own goddamn sink and get me a business. Buying a sink sounds simple. Don’t get me wrong it certainly is for someone in your circumstances, but for me, it’s just not possible.

Sorry for the curse word. I used to be better than this. Notice how I didn’t edit out that line with a swear in it? That’s how rough and tumble the world has made me since I’ve left my home. Really anything that’s metal and can hold water is what I want. I’m not picky. I’m a bright gal, I can pass it off as a sink to these people. The point is I need some kind of sink. Any kind of help-sink and I’d be so grateful.

Even the best of us make some mistakes in life and while I’m by no means the best, these people will do things to me that even the worst people don’t deserve. I used to have a cute little beagle that my late husband insisted on naming Dennis, you know after “Dennis the Menace” (I tried to say no but he wouldn’t have it). Funnily enough two weeks ago I narrowly escaped three vicious Rottweilers and I used to think they were so pretty too.

Look at this girl:

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She’s so sweet isn’t she? That’s my niece, Ashley is her name. She is on the local cheerleading team in a small Massachusetts town similar to the one I used to call home. She’s on the Honor Roll for Pete’s sake! I’ll never be able to see her again. Why? Because I need a sink from one of you readers. I don’t know where this will find its place but please… Perhaps you could get a series of shovels and other gardening tools right? Then take all of those and put them together to make a sink bowl. All I need after that is some water and a stick to pass of as the faucet.

Just one sink can change a human’s life unimaginably. I need just one simple mechanism that can hold water in a sink mimicking fashion. We all are a little down on our luck sometimes, but without a sink, these people are gonna find me and I’ll never be able to pick myself back up. Think I’m crazy? Well think again because it’s true, these people are maniacs and will stop at nothing to get their retribution. All I need is one simple sink and it will all go away. I don’t need anything but the kitchen sink. My life is in your hands.

How To Pass Your Finals By Using Your Hands

By Ben Fletcher

 

You have finals coming up. We know because We’ve been watching you. Also We checked your school calendar. This will be an informative and helpful step-by-step guide that will instruct you on how to pass your finals by utilizing your hands. In order to do this, there are a few prerequisites that you will need to check off prior to receiving this information.

 

  • Prerequisite 1: 2 hands
  • Prerequisite 2: 

 

Okay, now that you have checked off the required prerequisites, here is the step-by-step guide that We promised way back when. You have come a long way. Lets begin.

 

Step 1: Pat yourself on the back for coming such a long way 

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You go very well.

 

Step 2: DO NOT USE YOUR HANDS TO OPEN YOUR TEXTBOOK!!! 

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Studying will get you nowhere, and is a waste of those hands that you came such a long way for. You are going to fail if you study. This is science and science is never wrong, like global warming or the consistent output of hits by Jason Derulo.  Trust Us. We made a list.

 

Step 3: Buy 2 gallons of milk

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This is a crucial step. Do not forget this one. You may buy more than 2, but no less, or else you will risk failing your finals. Hands should be used during this step, but if you find a way to get by without them, maybe you should be writing this article instead of Us.

 

Step 4: Stay up all night on a mixture of PCP and Ritalin 

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This is pretty easy. Just go to your local business major or dickbird with an obnoxiously loud automobile and ask for some PCP and/or Ritalin. Most likely he/she/they will have both. Take all of it in one sitting to help you stay up. Lay down on the ice cold floor and wish for the bad cherubs to go away. “PLEASE GO AWAY DEMONS!!!” you must shout at them if you wish for them to stop biting your fragile hands. Protect your hands. The side effects will haunt you for about 4-6 business days, but it is worth it. Trust Us. Again, We made a list. Again.

 

Step 5: Saunter into your final and sit down in the very front row 

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Pretty self-explanatory. Saunter as heavily as possible so that everyone is forced to look at you in horror like the feral Icetroll you have become. Keep those hands where everyone can see them though. You’re a student, not a murderer. But you own this room now big boy.

 

Step 6: Stare your professor down with the inescapable abyss that was once your pupils (hands NOT required here) 

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If you have completed every step in the correct fashion, your professor should notice you immediately as they walk/roll/crawl through the door. They will most likely not react, as they are a college professor and have seen this before. You do not faze them. Yet.

 

Step 7: DO NOT TAKE YOUR FINAL!!!

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Again, another important step. Do not take the final that your professor has laid before you, no matter how much it beckons to you. That is not what your hands are for. You must not give in or you will fail. Continue to stare at your professor like a wax statue of Gary Busey until time is up and everyone has turned in their final and left. Now it’s your move.

 

Step 8: Approach your professor’s desk

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Everyone is gone. It’s just you and your professor. Cha-cha slide out of your desk and slither over to your professor’s. This will not faze them. Again, they have been here before. Remember to maintain eye contact. Show him your hands but DO NOT use them. Now, begin to get on your knees, open your dehydrated, dry as sandpaper mouth, and…

 

Step 9: Beg for a C

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Beg like the middle class mutt that you are. Break down crying. Kiss their hand. Offer to bathe their kids for a month. Do whatever it takes. However, DO NOT OFFER ANY SEXUAL FAVORS!!! That is weird. You are not weird. You are an average college student, just desperate for a C. C’s are not worth sexual favors. If this works, you will not have had to use those delicate, beautiful hands that you acquired, and you will have passed your finals. But in the case that that doesn’t work, pull out those milk jugs that you bought before (hands required) and…

 

Step 10: Challenge your professor to a milk-drinking contest 

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Slam the milk on the table and challenge your professor to a duel: dairy style. They will have been fazed, as they have not seen this before. However, they will take you up on the challenge, because it is written in the professor code of conduct that they must agree to any student challenge in order to get out of a final. Now both of you must take your jug of milk and on the count of 3, begin to chug it. Whoever throws up first loses. The trick to this is that your body is young and exuberant and packing two cocoa butter smooth hands, and your professor’s is dried up and full of prune juice and smells like someone who frequents Hobby Lobby but doesn’t actually buy anything. They should break first, and in turn immediately give you an A. “But what happens if I break first” you may have just asked yourself out loud in the middle of a crowded library. To that we first say “Shut up. You’re being a menace”. But just in case, We have developed a back up plan for you.

Step 11: Gouge their eyes out with well moisturized, child-like hands that you acquired

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Launch your ENTIRE body at your professor full speed and shove those young, 100% vegan hands straight into your professors eye-sockets. They will shriek in fear and agony, but do not let up. This is what you were born to do. Keep your hands in their eyes until they stop moving, either out of shock or because they’re dead. It doesn’t matter. You are now the murderer that you just tried to convince everyone you weren’t. Now, mosey on over to your professors computer and give yourself a well deserved A. You did good, scamp. You are free to go…But are you really free?

 

Step 12: Flee to Estonia

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Now that you’ve murdered someone, you’re going to need to leave the United States of America as soon as possible. You may go anywhere you like, but We suggest buying a one way ticket to Estonia exclusively for the reason that they have universal wifi. Remember, you may now be a criminal who will never get to see their beloved family or friends again, but much like Edward Snowden, you have 2 wonderful hands that helped to change the world.

 

Congratulations. You have just passed Intro to Cinema Studies. We wish you the best.

 

Progress! Hofstra Announces Bathrooms Formerly Open To Anyone Now “Gender Inclusive”

By AJ Leal

An excerpt from “The ‘PC’ Issue”

Hats off to Hofstra University once again for establishing an environment just suitable enough to get those litigious ass pancakes off their case! As I’m sure you all know, diversity is an issue. A serious issue. One that you should change the tone of your voice for. In an effort to become a truly all-inclusive campus, Hofstra has proudly unveiled bathrooms available for any and all genders and sexualities on the fourteenth floors of Estabrook, Constitution, Enterprise, and Vander Poel Halls. Now we all know the real-estate industry here at Hofstra has really been booming ever since the eviction of those job-stealing leeches over in Estabrook. What we can expect from these events is for Hofstra to step it up and create an environment that says, “Gay? Fine by Hofstra!”

“The truth is, you can be as gay as you want in these bathrooms,” says university spokesperson for diversity, Gerald. “You can waltz right in there with two guys; two girls; one guy and one girl; three girls and one guy; two guys and three girls; four girls and one guy; two girls and one guy; an F. Scott Fitzgerald mannequin and three guys; five guys, burgers, and fries, the possibilities are truly endless. I mean hey, it’s legal now! #Lovewins.”

“These bathrooms are clearly marked for use of any and every gender by not being marked at all. This dates back to when the towers were built in 1967—issues of this sort were surely, certainly on the universities mind. Talk about being ahead of the curve! The intentional ambiguity of the bathrooms makes it basically sort of just okay enough that should anyone of any gender use them while at the same time allowing us to just shrug when someone else complains that their religious freedom is being trampled on,” says pesky schemer Ralph Aynolbeid. “Now leave us alone, already.”

However, other buildings such as Bill of Rights and Alliance Halls still remain stubborn and are willing to go to such extremes as purposely eliminating a fourteenth floor altogether so that there is no room for multi-gender bathrooms. It’s a shame that these buildings are still behind in the pursuit of PC but maybe one day those grouchy old concrete beasts will accept the changing of times, as predicted by Bob Dylan in the 2009 hit film, Watchmen. Either way, four entire buildings is plenty enough progress for one billing cycle. Classic, liberal New York can finally stop badgering the good people of Hofstra.

Now, a common question and concern upon reading this article may be, “All genders? I thought there were only two!” Contrary to popular belief, there are actually more than two genders available for human use and everyone with any gender can use the specially designed all-inclusive fourteenth floor bathrooms at Hofstra University. I mean like, no one is going to stop you. Seriously. Male? Yes! Female? Yeah. Gender fluid? Yep. Intersex. Demi-Boy? I don’t see why not! Demi-girl? Are you even listening? Demi-God? I mean, the bathrooms in Valhalla are surely nicer, but what the hell? Poor? No. Try Popeyes.

Still, some people were unsatisfied and unconvinced as they begged the question that sure, all genders are accepted, but what about all sexualities? Were people of the bisexual persuasion allowed to use these so-called all-inclusive bathrooms?

The only answer they received was “Yeah, gay people can use the bathrooms too. We said that already.”

We Gender Swapped These 6 Disney Characters and Wow!

By Matthew Tanzosh

An excerpt from “The ‘PC’ Issue”

Put your hands in the air, Nonsense readers, if Sir Walter Disney is your problematic fave! Everybody? If not you need to come see me in my office immediately, to have a discussion about why you can’t feel 100% comfortable in liking the things you like. Our talented artists here at Nonsense have done a quick google search for other people’s art to show you these gender swapped disney characters to make a not entirely clear point about representation!

1. Ariel

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There! Isn’t that better? Take that, gender norms!

2. Gaston

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Can your fragile masculinity take it? Did we blow your mind?

3. Tiana

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Okay, so like…I didn’t want to say anything before, but like…and I don’t quite know how to put this…but like…everyone’s before and afters are the same.

4. Mulan

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Like I don’t want to be problematic or anything—but this is kind of a visual exercise?

5. That bird from Cinderella

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No, no—of course…but like…like is it all the same down…down there too?

 

6. Aladdin

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Oh! Well…Ahem…

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How about those Mets, huh?

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7 Sexist Things That Need To Stop

By Jesse Saunders

An excerpt from “The ‘PC’ Issue”

I don’t care how hard you work, or how much you have to pee. Sit down right now. Right now. Put down your pasta spoon. I said put it down. It’s time for all the men out there to listen up, because here are seven things that we all agree need to end.

1. Contacting all of my male relatives (dead or alive) to ask them for their blessing for marriage

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The constant séances in my living room are an affront to my personhood. Men need to realize that my great-great-great-great-grand-uncle doesn’t own me, and that contacting him from beyond the grave is only acceptable when searching for his buried treasure.

2. Only allowing boys to eat the grass with their teeth when it is time for it to be cut

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Everyone’s lives would be easier if all the children were allowed to eat the grass when the long grass season begins, but only boys get to join in on the fun. Letting me and my girlfriends join in on the fun is not only efficient, it’s a human right.

3. My neighbor, Todd

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Todd hasn’t done anything sexist yet, but he never buys Girl Scout cookies and doesn’t know my birthday. For the better of everyone, especially me, Todd needs to stop.

4. Being addressed as “little pile” by men who are taller than me

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I am a human, and in no way am a pile of dirt and despair piled into a tiny mass in an attempt to create a human. It is time once and all for us to move on and come up with a name that better represents me… “large pile” perhaps?

5. Needing to rub Ragu on my nose to ward off the evil desires of The Darkest One

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Ragu is significantly more expensive than more generic brands of pasta sauce, and it’s just not in my budget to get a new jar whenever the chosen one warns of The Darkest One’s coming. Women of all shapes and sizes deserve to feel safe from evil’s whims wearing only generic brand pasta sauce.

6. Having to replace the wheels of my bike with large flowers that can only be found in the woods

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The woods are frightening and I don’t like them at all! I want to be able to use a bike with wheels just like all the boys in town. The large flowers are pretty but they don’t come in a color that matches my fire engine red Huffy.

7. Assuming that I have six years of drag racing experience under my belt because I am a girl who has been drag racing for six years

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It is rude to make assumptions, and I am sick and tired of men assuming I am a qualified drag racer just because I list it on my resume, and mention it in every conversation. My gender has nothing to do with my sick fucking drag racing skills.

There it is. The seven ways that our culture needs to totally find its chill. And if you disagree with these ways, I want you to delete your Facebook. I only want to receive birthday messages from strangers who I agree with politically. Your posts will be missed, GramGram.

“Money Is Tight” Says Administrator With Near Million Dollar Salary

By Zachary Johnson

In an op-ed piece published last year in Hofstra’s student-run newspaper (whose name we are expressly forbidden to mention) University President Stuart Rabinowitz discussed with a Hofstra student the prospect of funding LIRR transportation for internships. Students argue that since Hofstra markets itself on proximity to New York City and potential internship opportunities therein, they should fund transportation as students may end up paying thousands of dollars while commuting.

According to reports, President Rabinowitz considered that kind of structural change impractical. “Money is tight,” said the University President who takes in about a million dollars a year at a school that is technically registered as a non-profit. “It’s not like we’ve got a lot of money we can just give away like that.”

“I’ve crunched all the numbers myself, and there just doesn’t seem to be anywhere that we could be making any cuts,” said Hofstra President and Trustee Mr. Monopoly Man who was paid the EXACT AMOUNT of $981,546 in the year 2012 (you can see a screenshot from that page here) as his total compensation and it’s quite possible that number has gone up in following years while the salaries of private school presidents have continued to rise.

Under the President’s guidance, Hofstra University has announced a new Master Plan™ in order to raise funds, but has been typically quiet about the details. Effectively since most Universities often seem to function as microcosms for the real world that are just as disappointing and terrifying behind the scenes, the President considers Hofstra’s lack of funds akin to a mini-model of the economy.

“We have to face the fact that we’re in a sort of recession ourselves and we’ve got to correct it. We won’t find a solution from cutting obscene salaries, because as the real world has shown us, if those at the top are making an obscene amount of money then the wealth will trickle down to the proletariat and everyone will be totally happy and content with no problems at all.”

The President seeks to redesign the University’s admission process, which currently functions mostly by giving out many scholarships based on academic merit to a fuckton of prospective students who are first harassed with monthly postcards begging them to come to Hofstra.

“We’ve become too caught up on social entitlement programs like this,” President Goldman Sachs says. “If you want to be somewhere like Hofstra you’ve got to work hard by having your parents already make a lot of money. We can’t just keep handing out all these scholarship dollars, or accurately funding the school newspaper or something. We’ve got to continue putting our stock in the hopes that I will single-handedly save this University by aggressively waving our dick until people think we’re associated with Ivy League schools,” said the esteemed Hofstra President, a large cave-dwelling treasure-hoarding dragon,who besides being President and Trustee at Hofstra, serves as the director on two company executive boards, which he probably takes home enough money from that he could live really excessively comfortably if for some reason with unknown probable benefit he were to be making a little less money at Hofstra University.

“For now though, we’ll just have to continue spending our money responsibly” said the President.

At press time Hofstra University announced that they would be importing ten thousand dollar trees from Europe that will be installed over by Hagedorn Hall where no one will ever see them.  smalllogo

Campus Douchebags Assemble To Protest Hoverboard Ban

By Zachary Johnson

In light of Hofstra’s continued fear of things it doesn’t understand, a group of students has organized themselves to protest the University’s recent ban on Hoverboards. Nearly two hundred students, all male, wearing sweatpants and muscle shirts, assembled early this winter morning outside the student center with picket signs and catchy slogans.

“I’m not afraid of no cold!” Daniel “The Man” Abrams said while taking a drag off of his “My Dad Paid in Full”-flavored vape. “I’m out here for the cause!”

“Yeeeey yeeeyy!” His fellow protestors echoed, patting each other viciously on their smooth, prominent muscles. Their hands then collectively trailed down each other’s well-worked backs, tracing the curves of their spines down to nice, squat-formed, bouncy buttocks. The group then laughed their momentary homoeroticism off as a joke, because jokes about straight guys pretending to be attracted to each other are still funny in 2016.

“We earned these Hoverboards fair and square!” shouts a member of Hofstra’s basketball team, who received their team budget in cash and spent what would amount to hundreds of dollars on the infamous handless segways. “Hofstra is banning the future!”

The Hoverboard ban comes after an intense onslaught of Hoverboard-related injuries across campus, but according to reports the injuries aren’t the only reason for the prohibition.

“Let me ask you something,” the Dean of Students said in a press conference this morning. “Have you noticed anything different at Hofstra lately? Trails of vape smoke drifting through south campus? Waiting lines in the gym’s weight room at all the machines except the leg press? An increase of ridiculous muscle cars roaring through parking lots late at night? These things have always been here, these individuals have always been among us but never in the numbers we’re seeing now. Hofstra is experiencing record amounts of douchebaggery, and it’s high time we put an end to it if we want to continue begging America’s brightest to start thinking of us as their backup school. This ban is one step forward, and I don’t wanna hear any of you fuckers pretending you wouldn’t have done the same goddamn thing.”

“I think the Dean’s comments were a little harsh,” said Sean “Chicken Legs” Williams. “I know I’m gonna get shit for this but like, maybe she’s just on her period? My girlfriend is on hers right now and she won’t even let me try butt-stuff.”

At press time the group protest immediately dissolved to catcall the women’s basketball team on their way to just get some fucking breakfast.  smalllogo