The University of Chicago Humor Magazine: Issue 3

“I didn’t think it would be like this.”

The University of Chicago

Humor MagazineIssue #3

Spring 2013

2 The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Spring 2013

SASKATCHEWANVISIT

As the hip, cosmopolitan capital of The United Canadian Emirates, Sas-katchewan donates their pulsat-ing services to the University of Chicago Humor Magazine with the hope that Americans will find beau-ty in the quiet moments of the day.

S T E P O U T O F Y O U R C O M F O R T Z O N E

SASKATCHEWAN

Saskatchewan is home to the finest reindeer of the North American continent to grind up and dry into jerky. With its unique maple tang, the reindeer jerky of Saskatchewan has attracted trillions to the middle-Canadian province. Saskatch-ewan also features beautiful flat prairie land, excellent for a good horizontal ski workout. The jewel of the Great White North, Saskatchewan is also a great cultural center, bring-ing the best of indigenous and western culture in the form of the unrecognized national sport of whale-blubber-water-polo, where two teams of muscular players throw around a buoyant ball of whale blubber in a man-made court in the Saskatchewan River, trying to place the ball into the other team’s roped-off goal area. The winning team gets to choose between feasting on the ball of blubber or having a relaxing candle-making session using the fat from the ball of blubber.

“Come talk to me, I’ve lived here

forever!”

S T E P O U T O F Y O U R C O M F O R T Z O N E

SACAGEWEA’S COLD, FORGOTTEN BROTHER


The University of Chicago Humor Magazine extends its apologies to

Louis Wain(front and back cover art)

The University of Chicago Humor Magazine, Spring 2013 5

Table of ContentsThe University of Chicago Humor Magazine

Issue #3Spring 2013

Captain Jefferey’s Guide to Tri-Cornered Hats

Is Jeffrey Just Being an Angsty Teen, or Is He Really a Cannibalistic Demon Sent to Destroy You? Get the Facts Here.

25 Positions to Excite Your Man: Impress Him with Extensive Football Knowledge

The Deadly Truth about Francium: What You Need to Know

Twelve Great Gift Ideas for the Amateur Baptist in your Life

Plea of a Teenage Girl Lost in Mexico

Transcript of Yesterday’s “On the Deck” Seminar, Entitled: “We Need to Figure Out How to Tie This Square Knot before Our Boat Drifts into Oblivion”

If I Had a Farm

Bella Not

Merlot, the Moon, and Me; Or, the Biggest Life Lessons Are Learned on a Porch

Communism (as Experienced in 5th Grade) Sucks

Why You Shouldn’t Pick at Your Scabs Even if They Look Weird, Daniel

A 19th Century Review of Super Mario 64

You’re Welcome to the Mattress Store

Insect Birth Announcements

How I Married a Twice-Divorced Cyborg

So You Want to Marry a Cyborg? A Handy Guide to Avoiding Confrontation and Cross-Cultural Blunders

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Plea of a Teenage Girl Lost in Mexico

by Sophia Chen

Hola bueno people of Mehico. ¿Can someone please help me?

I have been lost in this country for the past cinco dias and I am tired, hungry, and my hair is like

A.Freakin. Mess. D;I came aki with some amigas a

couple weeks ago for spring break and we were staying in the “Hotel de los Extrangeros” in Mehico City.

And then una dia, a burley hom-bre told me that there was a private One Direction concert he could get me into.

I was like, “¡Dios Mios! ¡Totally!”So I followed him and he drove

me for horas and horas and we stopped at this windowless one-sto-ry cement building in the middle of the desert.

When I saw it, I was like, “One Direction esta aki?”And he was like, “…Si…”And I was like,“…Kewl, muy bueno.”

Then, he took me into a dark room and I was like,

“Well, donde esta One Direc-tion?”

And then he left. Presumably to go get One Direc-

tion. But he didn’t come back for like,

ever.

When he came back, I was like, “So where’s One Direction?”

And he just handed me a bowl of beans, you know, the frigoles.

And I was like,“…Ewww… carbs.” And then he left again and I was

like,“¡¿YOU KNOW WHAT?!...It’s One Direction. This will all

be totally worth it.” And I was pretty tired. So I took

a nap.

I woke up the next manyana on a dirt floor in a barn next to a pile of

bones and skulls and I was like, “Wow… One Direction got pret-

ty edgy.”I yawned and then I realized that

I was pretty thirsty. So, I pushed open the puerta of

the barn and went on the road to go look for a Starbucks.

I walked and walked and to my great surprise,

I could not find a Starbucks any-where.

I passed by a couple of small pueblos, but no seemed to under-stand my espanyol.

At one point, I saw a Chinese family walking around one of these pueblos, and I tried to ask them for ayuda.

For some reason, they didn’t seem to comprender my Chinese.

But whatever.Ahora, I am aki.In this pueblo. Please. Ayudar me. Por favor. For the love of dios, ¡¿Can somebody please?! ¡Por favor! ¡Tell me donde!¡¿DONDE?!¡¿Donde I can go?!¿For the goddamn One Direc-

tion concert?

Muchas gracias.


Transcript of Yesterday’s “On the Deck” Seminar, Entitled: “We

Need to Figure Out How to Tie This Square Knot before Our

Boat Drifts into Oblivion”

by Dave Wilson

Hi folks, and thanks for coming out to today’s meeting. We’re

here to figure out how to tie a square knot. If you remember, we last left off discussing what we think the square knot might look like. The two ideas we decided to stick with were “a cir-cular knot,” and a “piece of rope that goes straight for a while but then all of a sudden turns and comes back and stuff.” So, on to today’s topic: how do you think we can tie actu-ally this thing? And remember, the sooner the better, because with each passing second our boat drifts a little bit farther away from the dock and little bit closer to the terrifying Mari-anas trench, somehow, where we’ve determined that either Charybdis or an enormous sea wolf will capture us and drag us to our demise. So time is of the essence, if you get my drift, (chuckles). Any thoughts? What do you think Mike?

“Maybe we could try hitting the rope really hard with a hammer, or burn it, or something like that.”

I think that’s a really useful idea. We could definitely take that into con-sideration, and I know Edward has a large antique hammer collection that he keeps under the starboard. Any objections?

“I think you’re a fucking idiot . The square knot is the knot for securing non-critical objects. Clearly it must use glue or something to attach the working end to the hitched object.”

Whoa Johnson, let’s try to settle down. Today’s seminar has only just started! At this rate, we’ll never fig-ure out how to tie this knot in time!

Let’s backup a little, why don’t we. Johnson, can you step onto the dock real quick and grab the rope? I think with a more concrete image of what a rope is, we might be able to make some better progress here.

Thanks. Let’s get back to business. How do you think we could use this thing to make a knot?

“Let’s just take the rope and whip the shit out of that post on the dock. That’ll do it.”

Johnson, it looks like that isn’t work-ing very well.

“If you don’t shut the fuck up it looks like I’ll be the one whipping you.”

Johnson, did you mean to say “you’ll be the one being whipped?”

“It doesn’t matter, we’re too far away from the dock for me to even con-tinue hitting it at this point. We’re fucked.”

Edward, you’ve tied knots before.

Can you try your hand at this? I’ve been noticing a lack of participation on your front recently.

“How’s that look?”

“Pretty awful, to be honest. There’s no friction hitch, your seizing is laughable--at best-- and your chiral-ity is practically non-existent.”

Yeah, I’m sorry Edward, but I agree with Johnson: this is simply worth-less. Do you have an idea Mike?

“Yeah, yeah, I was thinking--here let me try. We know how to tie shoelac-es. So maybe for the square knot, we just have to do the same thing, but in the final step, we have the loops be in the shapes of squares? Like this--shit, it’s really hard force the loop into the shape of a square. We need like, wire or something. Edward, do we have any wire?”

No we lit it all on fire when we were trying to make a fishing pole yester-day.

“Alright, that’s it guys, this is game over. Forget it. Whose idea was it to have seminars on a boat?”

I understand your concerns Jona-than, maybe someone can swim out and try to use it?

“Fuck swimming, man.”

Then I can’t really offer any sugges-tions.

“Yup, looks like we’re going to die out here. That’s it, I’m out.”


What do you mean you’re out, John-son?

“Like, I’m done. No more of this shit. I haven’t learned anything at these seminars and every time I’m here we just end up burning stuff.”

Fine, as today’s seminar leader, I think it’s time for me to step in and try my hand at this. Okay, where’s the other end of this rope? Jesus, it’s all tangled and shit, this is so annoy-ing. Who was using this before me? You need to be more careful with it next time, this is taking forever to

just get untangled. And where the fuck did this tiny knot come from? I can’t even get a good grip on the rope here to pull it apart, it’s so tight. Oh my god, my fingers hurt so much. Fuck, the other end just fell in the water....Now it’s even colder. And it’s also thicker because of the water it absorbed, so it’s even harder to work with. Wait…why am I even trying to just tie the two ends togeth-er? Weren’t we trying to secure our-selves to the dock? Who cares, this should work if I can just get this end through here. Damn-it, I keep drop-ping the rope because my hands are

really cold now. Sorry, I can’t do this. Maybe we can just throw it in the water as an anchor?

“Okay, I guess that could work. Wouldn’t it just float away though?”

No, we’d like hold onto one end, and the other would drop down and be the anchor.

“How would that help?”

I don’t know.

If I Had a Farm by Alex Filipowicz

If I had a farm, I would name it Jack. Instead of using a horse-drawn plow to till my fields, I would buy several

state-of-the-art mechanized plows and teach my horses to drive them as reparations for thousands of years of oppres-sion. The steering wheel of each mechanized plow would have cups affixed to it where the horses could put their hooves so that they could have more leverage while turning. Horses don’t have opposable thumbs. I would build a big red barn and then paint it bright orange so that it wasn’t mis-taken for a deer during hunting season. I would feed grain to my chickens and then feed my chickens to the grain. I would keep several large pools of stagnant water on my property and advertise them as mineral springs, so that tourists pass-ing through the area would come with a hankering for spa relaxation and leave with malaria. I would teach my pigs Pig Latin so that they and the horses could conspire against me. I would not use crop rotation because I want to bitch about poor crop yield to the store clerks at Menards. My cows would have racing stripes painted on them so that they could chew grass faster. I would name each of my cows Will Ferrell. My wife would be both African-American and an adamant Confederate, which would provoke mixed feelings from my prejudiced neighbors. I would only sow seeds that had already passed through my digestive system. And that’s a promise!


Bella Not by Chelsea Leu

It’s a fine Saturday night here in Maca-roni Grill, and I’m working my way

assiduously through a basket of unlim-ited bread. My dinner partner watches as I tear into a slice of crusty foccacia. “So,” he says. I avoid his gaze.

This is my fourth dinner with him, and at first I jumped at the chance to eat at the classiest, most dimly-lit restau-rants in town. It was only until we were blundering around at a tapas bar in al-most-total darkness that I realized with mounting horror that I was witnessing (metaphorically, of course, because the candle at our table had gone out) the slow struggle of a man mustering up the chutzpah to tell me that he “has feel-ings” for me. Now there’s an elephant in the room with us, only the room is so small that we’re wedged up against the wall in a corner booth, and this guy’s asking me hopeful questions about my plans for the future as we both avoid be-ing asphyxiated by a pachyderm.

I continue chewing. This is good bread.

“How do you feel about children?” “Mmm,” I manage through a

mouthful of carbohydrate. My effort sprays the tablecloth with a fine layer of crumbs. Even if I wanted to respond to him, all I can think of right now is the word “elephant,” and maybe “help.”

This scintillating conversation is in-terrupted by our waiter, who seems only too happy to be facilitating this death-trap of unrequited flirtation. He puts down two steaming dishes, smiles in-dulgently at us, and glides away. Some-body’s watched Lady and the Tramp one too many times, and if anyone emerges from the kitchen with an accordion, heads will roll.

To distract myself from this unsa-vory thought, I pull my plate of chicken parm towards me. The chicken breast, resting gently on its bed of pasta, mocks me.

“Look,” I think to it sternly, “It’s not my fault you were fattened up for the slaughter in entirely unethical condi-tions. I think we can both agree whose

problems are more pressing right now.” The chicken doesn’t respond, only sits there reproachfully. Still, this is one of the better conversations I’ve had this evening. At least with this mute slab of meat, I can be honest.

The meathead sitting across from me, though, is anything but mute. He’s running off at the mouth, spewing out words as quickly as I’m consuming food. I look at him with slight revul-sion. He appears to be talking about his turn-ons, but I can’t be sure, and I sure don’t want to find out.

I take a large bite of the chicken. Sorry, buddy! But just as my teeth cleave the chunk of meat, my dinner partner finishes up his extended diatribe with a question. He stares at me expectantly.

Great. I stuff more chicken into my mouth, chew vigorously, and roll my eyes. I’m chewing, see? I can’t answer your question! The only thing I remem-ber him saying is something about uri-nal cakes, and I only looked up because I heard the word “cake.” I didn’t even know urinal cakes were a thing until half an hour ago.

“I think,” I mumble between bites, “that the idea of a urinal cake is a com-pelling one.”

A stray piece of half-masticated chicken shoots from my mouth and lands on the sleeve of his dress shirt. He is too enraptured by my face to notice. My response is somehow satisfactory to him, and he launches afresh into how much he loves long walks on the beach. I keep my eyes trained on the fleshy bit of food clinging to the fabric, nodding absently every time he enumerates yet another city he’d like to visit with some-one special.

Okay, now.

At the same moment that I lunge for the wayward morsel, he makes an abor-tive attempt to clasp my hand in a fit of passion. Our hands collide in an unin-tentional high-five and rebound, flop-ping down uselessly on the table.

“Yes!” I say hastily. “Paris is magical in the springtime!”

Thankfully, any rebuttal he has to this claim is lost, as the waiter sidles up to the table and asks us young lovebirds (this said with the greasiest of smiles) if we’d like any dessert this evening. I watch in horror as Meathead here damns me with a “Yes, please.”

Why could he possibly want to ex-tend this travesty of a date? What was this, the four courses of the apocalypse? My stomach lets out a low, tortured wail that would’ve done Dante or Gordon Ramsay proud.

A few restaurant-goers look around for the source of the wail. I stare accus-ingly at the elderly couple sitting two tables away.

The waiter soon returns with an elaborate sugary confection, adorned with tiny rosettes of frosting and fon-dant swags. A latticework of caramel arcs above them like a cage. How apt. Topping this saccharine monstrosity is a large plastic tiara. “For the lady,” our waiter proclaims, depositing the behe-moth before me.

Steady on, Romeo. The arrival of the dessert works a change in poor Meat-head. He looks desperate and hopeful and a little bit like he’s about to start dry heaving, all at the same time. A vein in his forehead pulses erratically, and he purples. I contemplate calling a doctor. The elephant is trumpeting and stomp-ing around like nobody’s business.

He’s going to say it.I get up hastily. “Listen, pal,” I say.

“Right now my plans for the future in-volve a Jane Austen novel and lots and lots of whiskey. My turn-ons include filing taxes, brutalist architecture, and punching. Children terrify me. But I’m sure you’ll make someone very happy someday. Just not today, and definitely not with that cake.” I seize the sticky ti-ara.

And placing it atop my head, I make my escape.


Merlot, the Moon, and Me;Or, The Biggest Life Lessons

Are Learned on a Porchby Anule Ndukwu

When I was little, there were two things about life that re-

ally confused me: late-night parties on porches and whenever the moon looked like it was about to engulf the earth.

My parents did not like doing things at night. During the day, my mother and father were the epitome of social. When not at work, they would ring up the neighbors for coffee, take me to local museums, or just walk around the neighbor-hood and comment on all the new development going on. My mom became quite the condominium so-cialite, cozying up to all our neigh-bors and my dad, ever the mid-90s man, would host barbecues on Sat-urday afternoons in the building’s backyard. From dawn to dusk, Mom and Dad were about the folksiest people on the block, just ask anyone! But, as the sun sank beneath the horizon, so did the affability of my parents. Their glowing personali-ties dimmed, toothy smiles pressed into a dour line. My mother and fa-ther had faded from life of the party to half-shrunken balloon, all within two short hours.

At night, my parents seldom did anything exciting. There were no games, no fun times. Just chores and “paperwork,” a euphemism that I learned to mean “anything having to do with banks.” My parents saw the darkness of the night as a time for the dull and mundane. While day-

light involved spontaneous activi-ties, the nighttime was reserved for the routine. My average evening at the time was comprised of me sleep-ing until dinner while all the impor-tant stuff was being managed, dinner in front of the TV, which was play-ing either The X-Files or Friends (the only two “appropriate” shows for a four-year-old), after which my par-ents would turn to PBS after dark for some boring, monotone talk show that I hated. I would then leave them to their old people and go to bed, dreaming of the adventures I was bound to have the next day. We rare-ly had people over for dinner and, when we did, they would be one of my dad’s colleagues who would talk too loudly and drink lots of wine. I did not appreciate the noise, as I was accustomed to near silence at night, and I would do my best Chandler impression until they left.

It was after our first evening visi-tor that I noticed the people across the alleyway and their own late-night entertaining. Our guest in-sisted that we sit outside with after dinner drinks.

“Why waste a beautiful night sit-ting inside?” the man said, half a bottle of merlot already cours-ing through his system. After ex-changing a glance, my parents obliged, dragging me along, pre-sumably so they

wouldn’t have to be alone with this strange being. Once we got out on the porch, I heard a slight din com-ing from across the alleyway. There were about 30 people, either sit-ting or standing, crammed together on what looked to be a medium to small-sized porch. What are they do-

ing out there? I wondered. I never could understand why

people would choose to be outside after the sun sets, especially when mosquitoes are afoot at that time. Nighttime nature is always more formidable than regular nature. It looked meaner and tougher, even though I knew that they were the same thing. I viewed nighttime na-ture as something to be avoided, like cooties or that weird kid in swim-ming class. Now, however, I was forced against my will by some mu-tinous dinner guest to confront the dark side of Mother Nature, a force so mysterious that not even Special Agent Scully herself could make any sense of it.

Just as I thought things couldn’t get any weirder, our guest of hon-or picked up on something really spooky.

“Well, would you just check out the moon over there!” he exclaimed, “Do you see how big and orange it is, Joy?”

“Yes.” I was terrified. I had never seen the moon so large; it seemed to have grown a bajilliion times its size in a matter of minutes.

“Say, how do you think it got that big? Think it likes to eat people? How about little girls” he reached out to pat me on the shoulder, missed by a foot, then chuckled, amused with his sharp-tongued, avuncular wit and blissfully unaware of the permanent psychological damage he was induc-ing.

“I certainly hope not,” I squeaked, visibly shaking with fear. What if the moon did eat people? That’s prob-ably why my parents hate the night, because they didn’t want to get eaten by the moon. What about the people across the alleyway? I thought, They probably don’t know. I began to seri-ously question the motives of those porch partiers. All they would do is

Stunned, I watched in hor-ror as my father knelt down, screamed, and laid an enor-mous, pearly white hen’s egg.


just sit there and talk to each other, for what seemed like hours. How did they have that much to say? Didn’t the have more pressing matters to worry about, like their impending doom from a moon collision? Why were they laughing? How is an in-vasion from the moon at all funny? My four-year-old self hoped that they were planning an emergency relief plan, and using humor to ease the tension. The idea that I couldn’t spread my knowledge of the moon’s

eating habits to others, in spite of ev-erything that I thought was happen-ing, is belittling and awful. I almost envied those porch people and their ignorance, but I realized that life happens and, even though you may want to stop it, there’s nothing you can do.

That was a life-changing realiza-tion for me. But, since I was only four, I suppressed the memory until I was old enough to process it. I’ve learned a lot since that night: fun

can thrive at night, when you make good friends, you’ll want to spend that night with them, even if they try to prove you wrong all the time, and nighttime nature can be pretty cool, despite its tough exterior, you just have to get to know it. However, I will always fear the moon because, one day, it will pull the ocean past its shores and into our homes, then de-vour us all.

Communism (as Experienced in 5th Grade)

Sucksby Rebecca Pierce

As a proud member of the Chi-cago Public Schools system, I

learned many, perhaps unexpected, life lessons. One of these came to me at the ripe old age of 11. This lesson appeared in the realization that, al-though I did not know the name for it at the time, communism is no fun. Period.

Now, I could stop there and leave you with an endless amount of questions concerning the Marxian philosophies of the CPS. However, I regret to assuage your fears. It was really only a simple principle that my CPS school imposed. Yet, it left me scarred for life…

At the beginning of each year, all students were given a school supply list. You were required to bring pens, pencils, glue sticks, scissors, etc. to school on the first day of class. (Al-though I never found out what they would do to you if you didn’t bring everything on the list, I suspected it was something downright terrible…like getting a pink slip or a note to your parents. But who really knew? They might even kick you out of school for an offense like that.) So of course, the week before school

started you’d head over to the local Target with the whole family and ev-eryone would pick out their school supplies in accordance with their respective lists. And there were so many important decisions to make. For example, did I want blue scissors or green scissors? Did I want to get the glue stick that was purple for no good reason? Could I please get the sparkly no. 2 pencils this year? You get the picture.

School supply shopping was a truly magical time. It was the one time of year you could pick out something you wanted and your mom would almost always agree to buying it because you needed it. You’d get your horse-themed folders, ultra-cool erasable pens, and a ruler in your favorite color. (Granted, if you tried to get your mom to buy you the way-overpriced Lisa Frank trap-per keeper you were probably out of luck.) You would leave Target with the satisfied feeling that you were going to start school with some of the best supplies around. (I will have to admit there was the occasional anxiety when Target was plumb out of compasses and this was the year

you were going to be drawing a lot of circles in Math class. But you knew that if you whined long enough and made your mom understand the grave importance of having all the school supplies on time, she would take you to Walgreens to get one.)

Anyway, the first day of school would eventually come. And what would happen? Your new teacher, whom you’d just met, would demand

that you turn in all your school sup-plies. She had a bin for scissors, pen-cils, pens, protractors, glue sticks, etc.

I can say I was truly mortified. There was no way. Who was she to demand that I give her all the stuff


I’d spent so much time picking out? I’d barely known her for five min-utes and she was already taking my things. It wasn’t fair! She would give some lame explanation about how we would be able to take what we needed from the bins when we had a proj-ect to do. Well, guess what teacher? I don’t want Lucy to use my clear, purple protractor. What if she breaks it? (Which she probably will.) And I don’t want to use Bill’s brown scis-sors. Why can’t we just keep our own things in our desk? Are they even our things anymore? What happens at the end of the year? We get every-thing back…right?

And, believe me, I waited in an-ticipation until the end of the year. And did our teacher give us a chance to collect our supplies? No. What did

she do with all those supplies? If the next class was going to have to buy their own supplies did she just keep them for herself? How could any-one possibly need 24 pairs of child-scissors? Did she know 24 kids who were desperately in need of scissors? Did she spend all summer cutting out 240,000 paper snowflakes, slow-ly dulling each pair of scissors? Or, did they all just magically disappear over the year? Whatever happened to them, my school supplies had been appropriated by the Daniel Boone El-ementary 5th grade class for the rest of eternity.

This experience left me with the firm conviction that any kind of com-munal sharing of items was not for me. In 6th grade I made every effort to sneak my supplies out of the bins

and keep them in my desk, braving the chance that I might be found out. It was kind of a thrill. And, I honestly now don’t know why it mattered so very much to me. But, it did. It hurt my sense of justice. Maybe I didn’t know it then, but that experience bi-ased me against the communal shar-ing concept of communism that no amount of reading Marx could ever undo. Don’t you dare tell me that communism is so much more than that. Don’t you dare give me some crap about being alienated from my labor. Go ahead. Alienate me from my labor. Just, please, let me keep my protractor. So, my dear CPS, as much as I appreciate your little experiment, I must declare: You can take my glue sticks, but you can never take my freedom!

Nostalgia, by Alex Filipowicz


A 19th Century Review of Super Mario 64

by Alex Filipowicz

If it so pleases you, gentlemen, may I propose that you empty your par-

lours of any divertive accoutrements before continuing. You shan’t require such amusements much longer. Yes, our gambol and dalliance with the likes of “Snap-dragon”, “Are you there Moriarty?” and “The Minister’s Cat” has come to a close, but be not dis-heartened. While we must retire these old favourites, think not for a moment that I am a Stoic condemning frolic and sport. Instead, I come trumpet-ing a wondrous curio I acquired after a recent trip to the Ori-ent, which is sure to be looked upon most fa-vorably. Neither spice nor snuff, it is instead two parcels connected by wires, along with a small grey headstone. Despite your mortified glares, I assure you that I have not gone mad. Though separately, these components ap-pear to be parts sal-vaged from a steam-ship engine room, their unison provides an unprecedented interac-tive diversion, dubbed “Superb Marius Sixty-Four”. Initially, I did not think much of the contraption, particularly because I could find nei-ther head nor tail of it. However, af-ter numerous failed attempts, I was finally able to conclude that the cen-tral unit’s red, white and yellow prongs correspond to several sockets of the same hue on the side of a lustrous panel. With quivering hands, I affixed the prongs to their correct positions. How was I to know that this momen-tary challenge was only the first of the Oriental machine’s wiles? A press of a button and the panel alights as if it were the midday sun – something sure to elicit gasps of astonishment from all surrounding it. Your guests

may want to put down their glasses of Roman punch for what happens next. The picture-frame panel does not merely display a stationary image of a field verte or some other paint-ing in pastels, though this would be wondrous in its own right. Instead, a strange clinking sound emits from the panel, and we are met by a jovial Italian singing out to us. Despite his limited grasp of the English language, we may discern that he intends to say, “It is I, Marius!” After this declaration, we come face-to-face with the Italian

himself, his robust visage levitating about the screen, in complete defi-ance of physics or logic. He does not seem the least bit concerned about the absurdity of this feat, and offers us a brief greeting, while blinking profuse-ly. Though etiquette would demand some degree of respect to this immi-grant, I am inexplicably compelled to squeeze his bulbous nose and pull his bushy moustaches. A direct attempt upon the screen comes to no avail, as the glass restricts our interaction. However, with a jolt of inspiration, I recall the misshapen peripheral af-fixed to the central unit. At the helm of this mottled device, I am able to push

a gloved hand about the screen, and with a deft tap of one of the buttons upon it, the glove grasps Marius’s face. With use of a small grey lever, I assault Marius’s face in all manner of ways. He is largely nonplussed, for his coun-tenance never darkens. Somehow he must recognize that my intent is only jest. A few minutes pass with this buf-foonery, until I finally give way to his mandate of pushing the button embla-zoned with the word “START”. The screen abruptly changes to a catalogue of files, and with bated breath I decide

upon one that has the word “NEW” printed upon it.

The panel fades to white, and now pres-ents me with a frail wisp of a woman. She stares out at the azure sky, and though her fair complexion is quite amicable, I can sense that behind it she hides some mel-ancholy or disqui-etude. Taught to put others before herself as any lady of refine-ment does, she casts these turmoils aside and pens a cordial let-ter to Marius. With

floral script, she extends an invitation to Marius so that he may sup on the pastry she has prepared for him.

Though we desire to spend more time with the empress, a strange daemon suddenly obliges us to fol-low him. This bespectacled tortoise takes us on a whirlwind ride across the castle grounds, and I must pro-fess that I became quite ill as we traveled through the air in this man-ner. Finally, the rascal drops us on a grassy knoll and turns his attentions to a length of tubing that has begun to emerge from the soil. We examine the pipe in greater detail, hoping to glean some knowledge of what lies within.


My heart nearly skips a beat as a figure suddenly leaps out of the sewage and yells triumphantly. It only takes an in-stant for me to realize that it is Marius ! He claims to have returned from some adventure, though whether he is swashbuckler or braggart, I can not yet say.

A moment elapses, and then the unthinkable happens, gentlemen. Marius surrenders complete control of his body to me, for no discernible rea-son. Though I am at first overwhelmed that his life is entrusted in my hands,

he assures me that it is a simple affair. I can direct his perambulation through the use of the control-baton and spur him to leap or jab by way of the “A” and “B” buttons. Any inhibitions I may have had fade away as I realize the delight of this system. It as though I am a puppeteer with a marionette. However, this particular marionette is capable of wandering about wherever I please, and without the aid of strings or cross bar. Marius and I enjoy a

meandering stroll around the castle grounds, noting sites of interest such as the waterfall and well-tended gar-dens. Though I fear the neighbors will take me as daft, I soon break into a trot, and then commence to hop about merrily. We climb trees and dive into the ocean. We admire butterflies and chase rabbits. These escapades remind me of the golden summers I spent at my uncle’s estate as a boy, and I feel as though they can continue indefinitely. However, the empress did request our presence at the castle, and it is im-

proper to keep a lady waiting, par-ticularly one as ravishing as her.

We cross the moat and enter the castle. However, we are met not with cake or pleas-antries, but rather a call-to-arms. A deep growling

voice warns us not to proceed further, and a miniscule Arabian informs us that the empress has been kidnapped by the dark lord Brutus. The time for idle debauchery has come to an end, and I curse myself for giving into childish whims when I could have guarded the empress more closely. I am a miserable wretch, but Marius’s unfading enthusiasm compels me to wipe my tear-stained eyes and seek vengeance.

The words elude me when I at-tempt to describe the next several hours. They pass like a fevered dream, and my fury at Brutus gradually di-minishes as I proceed further in my quest. Though my undying love for the empress is what truly drives me forward, I find a sort of satisfaction in the quest itself. Brought into various realms through Brutus’s witchcraft, I explore sunken ships, reunite a flight-less bird with its mother, and topple the reign of a despotic bomb. My mind and reflexes are pushed to their limits, and my hands perspire heavily. However, the fatigue of the experience is part of what makes it so enjoyable. I now have an intimate understanding of the challenges that Italian immi-grants must face daily, and realize how privileged I truly am to be an English-man. No longer will I disparage the Italian, for I have walked, jumped and backflipped many miles in his shoes. This, perhaps, is what truly separates Superb Marius Sixty-Four from other parlour games. While I know that “The Minister’s Cat is a marvelous cat” and that “The Minister’s Cat is a mis-erable cat” and that “The Minister’s Cat is a merciful cat”, I have truthfully never had strong feelings for him. In contrast, I am now closer with Mar-ius than my own cousin, and should he ever choose to transcend the glass panel that separates us, he would cer-tainly have a place to sit at the head of my dinner table.

“Attaboy, Elmer,” the father said, slyly placing a congratulatory stick of bubblegum in his son’s back pock-et. You’ll find it later, the father thought to himself. When I’m in Acapulco with your math teacher.

The mattress store people do not take it kindly when you fall asleep

on their mattresses. Even though, in actuality, it benefits them more than it benefits the supposedly off-putting sleeping patron. But what better way to advertise a mattress than a body in the throngs of blissful sleep?

A face half covered in a sheen of dried saliva. Sweaty feet rubbing against the cool, downy cotton of the comforter’s folds. Toes and arcs gratefully released from the confines of tightly laced shoes, flexing and spreading gritty dust and clammy

moisture to the farthest corners. Cracks and grumbles of bones and joints relinquishing stress in uncon-scious stretches. Maybe even a soft rumble of delicately pungent flatu-lence. It all accumulates into an ap-pealing image.

When I see such a scene, I not only want to purchase the store’s mattress, I want to buy that specific mattress, the very one being enjoyed by an anonymous patron. Why both-er with a new, stiff mattress when I can be certain about the comfort, the heavenly comfort, of another one? I

am sold.“Please take my credit card and

hasten.” “Yes, I’ll sign, no negotiating

necessary.” “I’ll pay whatever the price.”You see, mattress store people, I

am only doing you good. So, please let me be, here on your wonderful mattress. And yes, an extra blanket would be fantastic, thank you. Also, could you also dim the light a couple of volts, thank you very much. And you’re welcome.

You’re Welcome to the Mattress Store by Sophia Chen


Insect Birth Announcements

by Ben Constantino

Mrs. Marjorie Hayes, a black widow from a cornfield in

western Kansas, is pleased to an-nounce the birth of three hundred and forty four children. “They’re out and they’re all over the place,” she told one reporter, who was im-mediately bitten over a hundred times and died. The spiders crawled over his corpse and continued their reckless surge towards the farm of a nearby elderly couple, Dale and Esther McArachnaphobic. Mrs. Hayes’s husband was unavailable for comment.

A local humanitarian organi-zation has just found a home for four thousand seemingly parent-less newly-hatched maggots. The organization, Big Brother Maggots Big Sister Maggots, has housed the horde in the gangrene-filled leg of an old horse named Two-Bit. “There is no God,” Two-Bit said, staggering into the wall of his enclosure. Locals expect the new population will be good for business in the future.

A tiny ladybug took its first pattering steps into the world this morning. Then it lowered its pro-portionally monolithic head to the leaf below it and started eating. Since then, the baby ladybug has done absolutely nothing but devour two square inches of green leaf. That’s like a fat guy eating soccer field covered with lasagna. Do you see what I’m getting at here?

Today at 2:39 P.M., a new hatch of centipede larvae entered the world. However, these were not born of

the commonly conceived centipede, the guy featured in a standard dic-tionary or coloring book entry, but rather of the much more frequently encountered household centipede. Its scientific name (and probably phylogenetic origin) is unknown, but you have no doubt come across this centipede on your bathroom floor late at night, frozen mid-skitter for all the world like a kid trying to sneak some leftover cake from the fridge. But his eyes, between three and four dozen of them, glittering under the already shocking bright-

ness of seventy watt fluorescents at four in the morning, betray a purpose far less innocent than

Johnny’s. Stopping in your tracks, you take a second to notice that this motherfucker’s leg count is anything but centi-; as if they were stuck on at random by a minute, drunk, in-sect God, a haphazard assortment of legs of wildly varying lengths bursts out of either side of this grey, scary fuck, somehow managing to propel him across the floor at the speed of whatever the insect-world equiva-lent of a gas-powered cheetah is. But for the moment he’s still, and the two of you square off like a tore-ador and a bull, except you are a ter-rible toreador and this bull has a bil-lion legs. A mariachi trumpet trills comically and he rears up minutely and charges, not back towards the small wormhole to hell that must be tucked into the molding behind the toilet where he lives, but straight at your naked, unprotected feet. You slam down the light switch and hi-step it back to bed before it has the chance to have a furry bug bite orgy

with your toes.Today, another baby plopped

into the world. It was a human baby. Its hair was soft. Its eyes were blinky. Its smile was cutie. Its skin was soft. One day its skin will be penetrated by an insect proboscis. Because for that one human baby, there just hatched a litter of twelve trillion in-sect babies. And the baby, whether it’s a baby, or a boy, or a big boy, will start crying.

So, think of all the insects I told you about and how now there’s hun-dreds, or more probably thousands of hundreds of them running around somewhere right this second. How do you feel about that? Maybe you’ll go back about your daily life. La dee dah, sitting at work, sitting on the john, sitting in my car. Well good

luck Hank Williams, because that’s not the tickle of your son’s playful feather-trick on your meaty nape, it is rather a spider. It’s the size of a thumbnail, bright green, poison-ous, and it just had a hundred spi-der babies, and they’re on their way to see big momma, because she just found them a nice afternoon snack. Because spiders don’t eat spiders, spiders eat plants, but usually they eat humans. Good night, sleep tight, spiders, spiders, everywhere.

“Son, now it’s time to squat!”’ my father said, as he continued load-ing mules onto my wavering back.


How I Married a Twice-Divorced Cyborg

by Jen Capocy

Leaning against the bar, I nursed three fingers of apple juice.“You look like you have a slight

spine curvature,” the Doctor beside me noted, seductively raising his scalpel.

“I’m not interested,” I decided, after appraising him. “My spine is just fine.”

Looking away, I scanned the room with my robotic headgear, searching for human heat sources of interest. I found none. Displeased, I loosened the metal helmet and re-moved the ocular attachment to ob-serve the seedy bar without my com-puter filter. I could hear the good Doctor mouth-breathing noisily beside me, his almost-wheeze pecu-liarly conversational.

Toying with the ocular fastener on my helmet, I debated asking him for a drink, openly spouting a list of PROS and CONS to the bowl of pea-nuts beside me.

The peanuts made no response, so I threw a handful of them in my mouth. I choked angrily as I chewed. During my twenty-minute conver-sation with the bowl, apparently, the mouth-breather had taken the op-portunity to approach a more willing victim. I saw him leading a slightly lactose-intolerant dancer from the building, grinning narrowly.

Feeling foolish, I turned back to my drink and stared disgustedly at the bowl of peanuts. Out of seem-ingly nowhere, but, of course, some-where, a large robotic arm slammed a fist into the nuts, sending a cloud of glass and peanuts, in a fine pow-der, into the bar’s stale air. The bar-tender looked on in horror, before stabbing himself with an EpiPen as he fell to the floor in anaphylactic shock. I rolled my eyes and looked toward the destroyer.

Along with his one robotic arm, The Six Million Dollar Man had two robotic legs, a robotic torso casing, and a permanently fastened optics

unit. His mechanical eye scanned me, a flash of red shining into my face. He half-smiled, “Sorry. I just got an arm readjustment and it’s still a little off-balance.”

“It’s okay. They deserved it.” I heard the bartender weakly calling for help from the floor, his injection’s epinephrine, apparently, swapped for peanut oil by the good Doctor. RoboCop and I rolled our collective three eyes, and turned away from him.

“That’s a nice optics attachment,” he pointed to my metal helmet on the bar beside the dusty remains. “Where’d you get it?”

“I stole it from a weapons freight-er while scuba-diving in the Bering Sea.”

The Terminator looked im-pressed. “No water damage?”

“I salvage in an airtight submer-sion bubble.”

His human eye widened and his robotic eye scanned me again. “You’re the Bubble Boy of the sea? I thought that was just the stuff of leg-ends.”

“Do you know how hard it is for me, as a feminist, to constantly hear that nickname in the papers?” I slumped my shoulders, shaking my head.

“I understand completely,” he said, raising one human and one robotic hand up in apology. “You wouldn’t believe how many times I get called RoboCop, the Terminator, The Six Million Dollar Man, or any-thing else humans think up. Total speciesism. I’ll call you the Bubble Woman from now on.”

I frowned smugly. He smiled unhappily. I stared at him, my head craned

back and my shoulders raised to-ward my neck, blinking.

His eye scanned my upper body repeatedly, checking my vital signs and monitoring my brain waves. “So how did you get into that line of

business? As the Bubble Woman, I mean.”

“As a child, I deeply feared infec-tious disease. I created an airtight bubble to protect myself. I attend-ed public school, and many of the other kids found my safety precau-tions rather questionable. Because my bubble was reinforced to be very strong, they were unable to beat me up in a normal sense. To get around this, one day on a school field trip, a large group of kids began pushing my bubble, so I was forced to run like a gerbil inside of it to avoid my im-minent death. Long story short, they ended up rolling me into the ocean, where I floated for seven years. I ‘sal-vaged’ food and life supplies from any ships I came across, but, for the most part, lived underwater. I built an elaborate breathing mechanism into the bubble, which allowed me to live comfortably, with only mild starvation, for many years. Eventu-ally, I washed up on the beach and returned to a fairly normal life.”

“Deep stuff.”“Quite literally. At one point, I

believe I fell into Marianas Trench.”From the corners of our three

collective eyes, we spotted men in uniform, rushing into the bar and disrupting the We-Real-Cool vibe the place produced. The rod of As-clepius tipped us off on the reason for the intrusion. Rolling our eyes, we looked toward the seemingly life-less body of the bartender sprawled across the floor. In his right hand, he clutched a Life-Alert. Paramed-ics continued flooding the bar, their demands that the lights be turned on and the music off totally ignored.

Reaching across the bar, I snatched the bottle of apple juice, helping myself to more drinks giv-en the bartender’s incompetence. “Would you like some AJ?”

I moved the bottle toward him in offering, but he raised his robotic hand. “No, thanks. I can’t touch the


stuff.”“What are you?” I asked, both

horrified and outraged. “You know what I am,” he said.

After a pause, he added, “Say it.”“…Vampire.”He looked displeased, letting out

a long, mechanical sigh. “Cyborg.”“Same thing. What do you drink

then, Mr. Cyborg?”“Motor oil. Keeps everything

regular.”“I don’t need to hear about your

colon health.”“I meant my electronics.”“Do you even have a colon?”“You can’t just ask a Cyborg if

they have a specific organ.”“That’s not something people

do?”“You don’t understand the eti-

quette of species to species relations.”“Technically you’re not really a

species, though. You’re like a hybrid of my species and technology.”

“That may be the most offensive thing anyone has ever told me in my entire life.”

“You don’t have to get so upset. I’m making a valid point.”

He reached into a metal com-partment in his leg and pulled out a crumpled pamphlet. “Read this,” he ordered, rolling his eye.

I snatched it. On the cover in bold, it read: So You Want to Marry a Cyborg? A Handy Guide to Avoiding Confrontation and Cross-Cultural Blunders. I looked up at him, then back down at the title, then up at him, then back down at the title, then up at him, then at my apple juice briefly, then back at him, then back to the title, and then up at him. “Does this mean what I think it means?”

“What do you think this means?”“That you’re going to steal my

bodily organs and sell them on the black market.”

“That’s almost the opposite of what it means…”

“Is this a marriage proposal?”“It could be.”

“I just met you.”“And this is crazy, but here’s my

serial number: 1465789, so marry me, baby.”

“You’re going to have to repeat that number about 80% slower.”

“I love it when you talk math at me.”

A brief intermission in our dia-logue occurred as the paramedics slowly lifted the bartender on a gur-ney, pushing him through the throng of people and out of the bar to some vague whooping and cheering, as the CyberGuy repeated the number 80% slower.

“I should warn you that this isn’t the first time I’ve done something like this, in case that comes up in the future.”

“Did I just become part of a po-lygamist love triangle? Is that why this pamphlet is so tragically crum-pled?”

“No. My previous marriages didn’t work out. The species to spe-

cies barrier was too much for them to handle.”

“How many times?”“Just…twice.”I squinted into the face of my

CyberFiancé, shrugging in ac-knowledgment and acceptance. He grinned slightly.

He directed that I sign my name at the bottom of the napkin I’d scrawled his serial number onto. “In the Cyborg community, we’re now officially married.”

Celebratory robotic stomp dances followed, until his left boot cracked the foundation of the bar and we were finally, unfortunately, forced to leave. As I walked into the parking lot toward my car, I looked back at my Cyborg husband, con-fusedly. “I just realized I don’t know your name. What is it, really?”

“Carl.”And with one word, I knew that

his twice-divorced would soon be upgraded to thrice.

Reflections...

“I enter stage-left and twirl the mike stand around my foot. A deafening roar erupts from my legions of adoring fans. My forehead glistens with sweat in the limelight, and I know that I’ve made it. I’ve final-ly made it. A tear rolls down my cheek and I tell my first poop joke.”

“Next year, in addition to arson, I hope they start doing drugs—you never know with those guys!”

...on one year with the University of Chicago Humor Magazine...

“It’s been a year of blood, sweat and tears—totally unnecessary, but happened anyways.”

“The members of this club fail to aid me in my quest for freedom from the confines of my portrait in HM 135. I have infiltrated the mind of one of their own to seek as-sistance, since she is clearly too incompetent to be of use to me on her own. Please, someone, send help. With love, Andrew Cunningham McLaughlin.”

“It’s been... interesting.” “Bo-ring!”

Thank you for reading the spring issue of

THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO HUMOR MAGAZINE.

Please join us for reading, writing , and fun, every Thursday at 8 P. M. in Harper 135.

For more information,visit our Facebook page,

or contact [email protected].

The University of Chicago Humor Magazine: Issue 3

Documents

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