Monthly Archives: November 2015

Started in 2015, a Kickstarter campaign by Michael Sarrantonio funds a Long Island themed expansion pack to the wildly popular “Cards Against Humanity” card game. The unofficial, unaffiliated game expansion features jokes poking fun at Long Island, some of which include Hofstra University.

“I have to say when we found out about the campaign we were absolutely thrilled,” A spokesperson for Hofstra University, who may or may not be the President of this University—whose name we have published so many times in our last issue that we really can’t continue to make jokes about him—is quoted as saying. “We were looking for another way to desperately pander to a young audience after we tried sending a postcard to every single high school student in the world. To be quite honest we were looking for anything that we could just throw money at.”

Hofstra University’s donation chalks up to a very generous $5,000,000. “Great Job! We Support You And Hope You Succeed In All Of Your Goals!” the donation message reads. “We Hope You Got That #Hofstra #Pride!”

“The project really looked like it was going to fail before Hofstra donated. I mean do people really still play this game? We couldn’t have done it without them,” Michael Sarrantonio, the creator of the unofficial expansion, is quoted as saying. “All they requested was we feature them on a specified amount of cards, with the logo, and then they made us sign a contract with a small-text addendum requiring us to pay them a copyright fee for each logo we print. I’m not sure how all the money adds up in the end, but I think we broke even?”

Upon the game’s official launch, Vice President for University Relations, whose name I guess we’ll omit because, I mean, idk fuck, I don’t know who this person is, I’ve never met them. I mean I met the President of the University once (and he told me he doesn’t read Nonsense because it makes him feel uncomfortable, but he also said he doesn’t read the Chronicle either, which I think is ridiculous, but what would I know, some sports journalist told us not to use the Chronicle’s name) but I guess at this point I should really just omit the President’s name for really various reasons. Anyway so, this other person, whoever the fuck they are, gave a press release in the University Club. “It is with great honor,” They said softly, avoiding the eyes of any student journalists in the crowd, “that I commend Michael Sarrantonio for his generous joke mentions, on nearly half of the cards in the whole deck. Jokes like ‘I woke up at Hofstra with _______ in my ass’, ‘I got mentioned in Hofstra’s Public Safety Briefs for ____’, or ‘Getting accepted into Hofstra is so easy, even a _______ could do it!’ only serve to strengthen the dignity of such a fine community, where all of our students are just so creative.”

At press time, Hofstra University President—whose name we really should just honestly not even utter aloud after we literally beat that dead horse joke over and over and over again—was further quoted as saying, “Well, I’ll let you in on a little secret here ladies and gents. Money is tight around here. We can’t even afford to buy more million dollar trees from Europe, let alone actually renovate and refurbish student dorms that are literally falling apart. I wanted to pick a smart, costly way to appeal to the youth, but I didn’t want to do it cheaply, so I just cut the salary of each cafeteria and grounds employee by 15%. I think we could say that it’s their way of giving back.”

The Hofstra themed cards have been wildly popular among prospective high school students. Jake Palm from Allentown, Pennsylvania is quoted as saying “I go to school with people who fuck their cousins, so my high school is already a joke. I feel like I could find a really comfortable home at Hofstra, now more than ever.”

“Does anybody even play this fucking game anymore?” Asks Teresa Schafer, from New Jersey. “Also what publication is this for? The school newspaper?”

Yeah. Something like that.

After a rich, delicious luncheon to luxuriously celebrate the occasion of being able to use something, i.e. a press conference, to eat like rich people in the University Club, the University President and staff opened up for questions. Patting this reporter on the back, the President of Hofstra’s University, whose name I think I just don’t even know at this point because I have literally worn it out, said, “You know kid, it’s become harder and harder to reach your generation, but I think we’ve finally found a solid and costly approach. The more joy we induce, the better our profit. Oh, uh? Did I say profit? I meant to say ‘community.’ Hofstra is a non-profit.”

At press time OSLE reported that the shipping of the cards would actually be delayed, as they had some questions and concerns about the content on the cards, and they wanted to clear some things up before the cards went to the printers. The release date has been officially postponed.

Here’s a list of five guys you might have met on Tinder had Hofstra not decided that we were children incapable of choosing our own web content.
1. The “Mr. Fedorable”

Maybe it’s something in the way he combs the stray hairs in his neck beard, and how they’re never quite right. Or perhaps it’s the fact that his hands always have motherfucking Dorito crumbs on them, regardless of whether or not he has just eaten Doritos. Maybe it’s the stained My Little Pony t-shirt, or maybe it’s the jorts. Regardless, something about him just puts you off. He calls you beautiful, he strokes your ego; but somehow you think he’s really just stroking his metaphorical penis. He may or may not compare you to his waifu. You’re afraid to reject him, as you’re sure that he’ll either fall into a downward spiral of unmitigated depression and frustration, or he’ll go into a “friendzone” tailspin, shouting saliva-filled obscenities into his Xbox headset. Stay away from this guy. Film major.

TYPICAL TINDER NAME: Young Master Kyle (Xx_Underdog2395_xX)

TYPICAL PROFILE PIC: Sitting on his computer chair, fedora tilted at a seductive angle. Usually clutching a rose.

2. The “My Dad’s Paying in Full”

He’s willing to buy you dinner. But don’t count yourself too lucky: he was willing to pay for his whole building to install AC units in the rooms so he wouldn’t be too hot. His car costs more than your soul and he would never brag about it, though the blazer entirely made out of $100 bills says more than enough. Accounting major.

TYPICAL TINDER NAME: Scott J. Bronson III

TYPICAL PROFILE PIC: Standing next to some politician with a thumbs-up and a goofy grin, as though some potential employer will see it and actually care.

3. The “Weedwhacker”

Once a promising individual, this man stumbled into a Supreme store on accident and never left. It’s likely that any day, either his lungs or the muscles in his right arm will simply stop working, but somehow he powers through. He wears a bucket hat to hide his hair loss, and though you’ll have a special place in his heart, his smoking/jerking arm will always precede his love for you. Fucked his bong once on accident. Or was it? Business major.

TYPICAL TINDER NAME: Based Gavin

TYPICAL PROFILE PIC: A blurry picture of what appears to be a young man, with a quote underneath it that reads, “You must love yourself before you love others.”

4. The “Giuseppe”

An overused meme of a human. He makes “The Situation” look diffused. A true Long Island fanatic, he’s really from Superior, Nebraska, and thinks this is how all Long Islanders behave. Was featured in several episodes of The Jersey Shore as a wasted extra. Most likely has the Italian flag emoji in his description. Likes a finger in the ass, but not too far: any more than two inches is gay.

TYPICAL TINDER NAME: Paulyyyyyy 😉

TYPICAL PROFILE PIC: A Day-Glo orange man with an NWA cap worn on the side, standing in front of a mirror without a shirt on. His lips say “kiss me” but his eyes say “help.”

5. The “Brainwashed” Democrat

Trying way too hard to be normal, this young gentleman comes from a family where tattoos are bad and casual human sex is right up there with fucking Hitler’s severed head in public. Possibly suffering from serious mental trauma, the “Brainwashed” Democrat won the “Most Likely to be Hiding a Naked Dead Girl in His Trunk” award in high school. He’s been backpacking since he was four, and secretly promised himself to get as crunk as possible in the first few months of freshman year. Political science major.

TYPICAL TINDER NAME: Tom

TYPICAL PROFILE PIC: A young man standing alone in front of a statue of an unimportant historical figure. Sometimes he’s smiling, but mostly he’s showing the true pain he feels inside.

I had nothing to be nervous about. As a veteran student journalist,I’d long understood the value of confidence and composure. For an assignment of this magnitude, though, I’d need as much of both as I could muster. Despite all I knew about proper journalism, I had long been relegated to the most benign and obvious assignments. “SGA to Vote: ‘Is Smoking Weed a Sin?’” was by far my biggest story last semester, notable still among my journalistic peers for my concise yet biting closing sentiments, “Christ does anybody even read this does anybody even read this shit you fucking swine yo ufucking shitbeastsss.” I’ll admit it was a brash decision, and perhaps at a different school it would have meant a swift kiss of death for my young career; instead, they made me editor-in-chief, allowing me to assign myself the best stories and fuck anybody I want.

It’s true we had an idea that something like this was due to happen soon enough; we’d received vague-if-teasing e-mails notifying us of a “New Era,” a “Master Plan,” and, seemingly unrelated , a string of off-campus assaults attributed to somebody named H O T P O P E Y E S B I S C U I T S. Hell, Hofstra had been attempting publicity stunts fairly regularly long before any of us thought we’d end up here; sure, we all remember the TLC Reunion fiasco of Fall Fest ’14 (only two of them bothered to show up), but what about the shocking Spring Fest ’09 that saw SuperChef Bobby Flay eat his own throw up? What about the night shuttle that doubled as aPlanned Parenthood clinic? (Thanks Steve) They had all failed to put us on the map in any significant way, and I suppose that by now it was pretty obvious we needed something big if we wanted the name-recognition of a Penn State or Virginia Tech. Their plan: Bring award-winning father and food eater Guy Fieri to campus to put some of our top-flight eateries on an episode of his seminal investigative series Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives. My plan: turn this into the biggest story Hofstra had ever seen.

We were scheduled to meet upon his arrival to campus, if only for a chance to ask preliminary questions before thecrush of fanboys came flocking, tips a-frosted. I gripped the inside of my pockets like the crossbars of a roaring coaster, a buoyant anxiety growing inside me as if every step towards our meeting point furthered my crawl over the apex of Flavor Town Mountain. Something inside me knew already that soon my life would never be the same. I crossed the street towards the Student Center a nervous wreck of potential questions, thinking still of how I would draw the greater truth from such a complex journalistic muse. Then it hit me. A car; a sickly-cum colored Honda knocked my bitch ass down like nothin’, drawing blood from a scrape on my knee and a some pee from my penis. (Perhaps also some brain trauma because, well, letters and numbers scream at me pretty relentlessly.But that’s besides the point).

My ears were still ringing when the unholy smell of Pulled Pork Vape engulfed me. A hand reached towards me through the hell cloud, the spray-tanned flesh clump bearing a faded reminder of once-flaming knuckle tats inscribed: “FOOD”. It was Him.

“Shit brother, I can’t afford another case. Please man, you don’t need to go to a hospital do you? Do you know who I am? I’m fucking famous! I have money! Please, take my money. I have $38 dollars right here. I have some black and milds in my car. I can probably get like three more black and milds from my cameraman. Oh god I can’t believe this fucking happened again.”

“Mr. Fieri,” I interrupted, “I can’t take your money or your delicious treats, I’m the one covering your visit. I’m supposed to be meeting you for an interview right now. Please stop blowing that Pulled Pork Vapor on my wounds. I am begging you to stop doing that to me.”

“Oh shit, the student-journalist. Yeah, uh, my publicist said that would be a really bad idea for me right now. I mean, besides the fact that I just hit you with my car, I’ve also got a lot of shit working its way through the legal system currently that may ban me from campuses altogether.”

“Oh wow, well I—”

“And I mean, I can’t even do a full episode here. They’ve got me doing an online-exclusive thing right now, which we’ll probably scrap altogether. They’re making me drive my car from home, I don’t even get anything cool! I can’t even believe somebody let me put myself in this situation. I killed like three cats too, I just ran them right the fuckover. I shouldn’t be telling you this. What am I doing? Do you have any Xanax? Any shit at all? Please bro.”

“Look Mr. Fieri, this is my career we’re talking about. This event—you—this is a big deal for this school and for me. This is going to help me make a name for myself. Don’t you remember that struggle for recognition, for validation in doing what you love? I could be the next Guy Fieri, and you could help pass the torch! Don’t you see that?”

He paused and backed away suddenly, exhaling some additional smokehouse vapor from his ears and from behind his cool sunglasses.

“Kid, I’m sorry, but my career still has twenty-plus years. This is only the beginning for me. Hell, you probably think I’m what, 35? 38? Not even close. But that’s just the power of money my friend. Now stay away from me.”

With that, he lowered his powerful frame into what smelled like an outhouse made of kielbasa, and drove away as dangerously fast as he had come. I was stung, devastated the way so many were when Guy Fieri’s S’mores Indoors Dessert Pizzas turned out to be full of hot peppers and very little else. I’d been shunned by the one man who could surely change my life, pushed away by the master of my craft. He was right though; this business isn’t built on friendship. If he wouldn’t agree to help my story, well, maybe I didn’t need his permission.

Disallowed from my press privileges, I took a series of insignificant notes on Guy’s reactions from a distance. Impassioned howls of “Dang brother!” and “Wowza” filled the Sbarro kitchen for some time before he finally wrung out a slice of pepperoni pizza like an old dish rag, streamlining its orange grease directly into his face holes. He wiped his bristled goatee and looked in for the money shot: “That’s the kind of nectar we love, here on Triple D.”

My time was coming, and I knew it; I’d already watched Guy eat every kind of Sbarro slice, every type of sushi, a steak sandwich, and three different kinds of preservative plastic wrap. They were going to have all the necessary footage soon, and my story was not yet complete. I moved through the crowd with swift determination—my mind tuned to chaos, my heart to destiny. Our eyes met across the Sbarro counter and he stepped forward only to shake his head in silence .

“Hey Guy,” I shouted, confident that I was about to say something really cool. “Make this gun bullets a snack for you!” I was wrong. But it didn’t matter; I had just shot doting husband and affable neighbor Guy Fieri four times in the chest with a handgun I was able to legally purchase. I don’t know if I killed him, I don’t even know what the full extent of my charges are yet. I only know what the last words he said to me were, spat between coughs of blood and the regurgitation of some garlic bread. “I only have…this to say…the liberals were right. We still need stricter gun control. This all could have been prevented.”

So as you can see, President Obama, I’m writing this letter to you as a sort of olive branch. I’ve scratched your back, and your front, and your sides, and your grey little head. I fed the public the perfect appetizer of heartbreak with an entree of fear. I turned a national icon into a national tragedy, a bleeding heart mouth piece narrating the story of a nation in distress. I’m now isolated in a maximum security prison, mostly because I keep spitting on my fingers and smelling them. Nobody wants to be my friend. So now it’s time for you to help me. Pardon me of these charges, let me go back to the school I put on the map and do what I deserve to do. Help me tell the stories that need to be told. And please, Mr. President, bring back the Hofstra football team. The Master Plan must continue. My work is not done.

It’s been a minute since Hofstra Vs. Zombies has made the news for another tragic incident. An innocent bystander getting shot between the eyes, forcing them to drop their books, papers, hookah pen, and consequently their Hofstra pride, is nothing new. “Fucking shit-balls!” exclaims one Hofstra student we reached for comment, rubbing the Velcro out of his eye, “Seein’ as those fellas must be nice guys, they should kindly crawl back into the friendzone they so unjustly belong in.” However, this time the stakes have been raised—and I’m not talking about your daddy’s rib-eye. Earlier today, a senior citizen was shot and killed making their merry way over to the best pizza on the island.

“Bitch was so old, she may as well have been the walking dead,” explains the charismatic, dangerous and probable virgin Malcom “xxx_ShadowDragon_xxx” (as he insisted we called him). “I just bought this beauty at a K-Mart in East Garden City. There was no test or background check, well, aside from the Q-T cashier checking me out!” Yes, he indeed wrote out “Q” and “T” in the air with his damp finger.

Is it really this simple to purchase a “beauty” of that magnitude with little to no restrictions by our federal government? Does East Garden City even have a local government? We consulted local gun expert Mike Hunt and even local-er expert Xavier “No Chill” Johnson.

“Listen. The fact of the…the fact of the…the matter at hand here is the fact that liberals can eat my dick. I repeat, liberals can eat my dick. What was I talking about? Right—as I was saying, my ass is so clenched that I lost all feeling in my legs about thirty seconds ago. Please help me.” Mr. Hunt does drive a compelling point. Nerf guns don’t kill people, but dying of secondhand embarrassment at the fact that you manually carved a radioactive symbol onto a forty dollar nerf gun does. I bet that “instrument” isn’t even fucking radioactive. Fuck.

Mr. Johnson, however, also provides some pretty decent feedback. “So are you buying any weed or what?”

My homie, “No Chill” states the obvious in implying that guns need to be regulated when there is, technically speaking, a school shooting every time this organization meets. Uh-oh…what’s this? Breaking news? It appears we are having more action on the scene than a hot pocket in a lean cuisine. A devilishly dapper debonair appears before us, cheeto dust swirling in a tornado of desperation and class. Donning an emerald cloak, shrouding his tragic past, he speaks. “Good day to thee, my fine gentlesirs.” With this mere phrase our news team is bewitched as our undergarments smash the floor with unquenchable lust.

“You see, ‘tis not the size of the gun that is important; rather, it is the way in which you pwn noobs-er..peasants with said gun. Or so my girlfriend—Girlfriends! tell me.” Pulling me in by my tie, he whispers, “But it sure does help if you have a Desert Falcon Blaster 69xxx laser-mounted, special edition, Mountain Dew fueled-euphoria enducing, triple-action meat beater-killswitch engage-cockgrinder with auto-erotic asphyxia controls and a dignity depletion rate of 923 dates per picosecond.” Noticing Edith the—now terrified—intern, he tipped his authentic Indiana Jones replica headpiece and uttered “Farewell, fair maiden. Until we meet in the land of sunlight” and vanished, leaving nothing behind but the faint odor of Axe Bodywash and starch.

We don’t mean to harass people who are happy doing what they do. As a matter of fact, more power to them for being less cynical and douchey than our team of accountants (who are also probably armed). All we are saying is that—shit! You have an office! An OFFICE. You guys always seem so happy! It’s disgusting. Do you guys even know how to roll your eyes? It is disgusting. We are not bitter. Please give us our office back.

This move in day spelled chaos and despair for local residents moving into the up and coming dorm building, Estabrook Hall. What started out fairly normal, became the worst day possible for many upperclassmen, including super-senior David S. Mack IX, “My family’s been with this university for years, half the buildings are named after me.” Stated Mack, primary-bloodline descendant of the guy half the buildings are named after, “But when I walked in this year, ready to move in, I was informed that the single I’d been in for years was now an artisan coffee shop.”

Mack’s room was not the only causality in the push to prettify the once party filled Estabrook. The building admitted 75 freshmen, who stated they just really liked the character of the building, and continued to correct this reporter whenever she referred to it as a dorm.

“It’s a residence hall, we’re trying to build a community here, and it’s much more than a dorm.” He said while adjusting his obviously fake horn rimmed glasses. Wait people still wear those? Wow.

Along with the 75 freshmen, the building is now home to four artisan coffee shops, 1 vegan cupcake place which is actually not that bad, a personalized day planner store, and either a slam poetry club or just a quad of very angsty roommates. The dorm acts as the centerpiece to President Rabinowitz’s new MasterPlan™.

“I don’t understand why these kids hold onto their dorms, like just graduate and let the residence hall be pretty.” Said President Foreman Rabinowitz as he laid out the plans for a Duane Reade to replace the student lounge.

Art by Taylor Thurmond

The most tragic story of the day was that of a hard-working family of five living on the seventh floor. The McNotwhite’s have been struggling to keep their single ever since they made the terrible choice to try and live on a college campus instead of in a real town.

“It wasn’t perfect, but it was home. Everyone on the floor ignored each other and that was just fine,” Said Todd McNotwhite, the family’s eldest son. “But now these kids expect us to interact with each other and go to their weird events, no one here wants to attend a Friends trivia night and I’d really like if they stopped asking.” Sounds exactly like something a person who didn’t know the original theme song was by R.E.M would say.

Beyond the raising price of the dorm itself, the McNotwhite’s have to deal with the loss of the vending machines they once depended on for meals. Replacing the 13th floor vending machines is a cereal bar, which is still a very strange concept, and a “classic country” brunch joint, where everything is served in a mason jar, including the food. The McNotwhite’s tried to adjust to the changes to their home, but don’t see why you would try and put an omelet in a mason jar.

The family has already received several offers on their home, including one from a very persistent messenger bag store. While they don’t want to accept the offer, their choices are limited. With the continuing pressure from both the community and their landlord, the shadowy RSA organization, they’ll be gone before their meal plans run out.

These stories touched the hearts of P-Safe officers across the campus, who have taken it upon themselves to help the residents move out quickly and efficiently. With the help of one of the school’s many fire drills, unwanted students scurried out of Estabrook away from a cloud of unidentifiable dank smoke and into the welcoming hands of P-Safe officers, ready to aid the MasterPlan™ by quickly and quietly moving into a sadder building.

Following the rejuvenation of Vander Poel Hall by honors students less than five years earlier, Estabrook Hall represents a new standard for housing at Hofstra University. Students displaced from Estabrook were originally upset at the change, but they learned to live with it when they realized their new home of C-square, while nowhere near classes, is very close to recreation areas held dear to estabrookians, such as the scenic acid fields.

The day ended with what seemed a great loss for many students at Hofstra, but in the end that cupcake shop is really good, so it’s this reporter’s core belief that we’ll somehow survive.

Hello. Thank you for reading this (possibly even in real, physical, paper form). You have no fucking idea how hard it was to make that happen… but at the same time, so easy. So fucking easy. And that’s kind of the point of why we did it.

It’s really easy to opt out and do Hofstra jokes—about the food (ABP during lunch time, am I right, guys?), the sprinklers, the fucking bureaucracy, and, while you’re at it, beat Stuart Rabinowitz jokes literally to DEATH. We even included (if we remember to by time of print) a counter on each page of all the StuRab jokes we made. We are so tired of hearing that name that we might even take a break from shitting on that guy for a while. (None of us have ever even met that man, by the way, unless you count the time that Matt saw him naked in the locker room.) The fact that so many freshman jumped right in and wrote these things about Hofstra with pretty much no context really says something quite clear about this institution of higher learning. To be honest, any print organization at this school could have done this, and I think the Chron actually came pretty close (although it takes a very dry sense of humor to recognize that).

Mostly, however, the reason why we did this was to give the student body a gift. The only gift that we have to offer—laughter. We laugh because we’re bitter, we laugh because it makes some of the actually troubling facts about this place digestible in some way (and we’re not just talking about the food—zing!!!).
We still adhere to the theory that Hofstra is one of the many places on this earth where the walls between Universes are very thin. Hopefully by reading this you will see just a fraction of the batshit crazy place that we all perceive Hofstra as. Pretty much everyone who goes here has thought (fantasized?) about transferring at some point or another–a thought that was swiftly popped by the realization that your credits will never mean shit anywhere else. Maybe we can start to move past all this by learning to laugh together, for once. Wouldn’t you all be having so much more fun if you were laughing with us laughing at you instead of us just laughing at you?

This is probably the part where we should talk about how happy we are at all the new freshman that joined this club, and how we’re headed toward a new beginning, and all that shit. But the fact is if you read through the past howevermany editorials of this club you’ll find similiar sentiments, so I think this time it’s good that we let the content and the list of contributors in the Table of Contents speak for themselves. What we will say though is this: this club has gone through a lot of shit over the past few years (and let’s not pretend there won’t be more ahead of us) but we’re still fucking here, Hofstra, and we’re still making jokes about Stuart Rabinowitz’s foreskin.

So if you are one of the lucky few to be holding this issue in your hands on some paper and ink and staples (the first time this club has printed a full issue since 2012, by the way), you are complicit in our victory in a 2-year-long war between us, SGA, and our own misconceptions. The support that this club has received from SGA this semester has surprised all of us, most of all, because frankly, for a period of time we didn’t believe that SGA or OSLE were actual human beings. Long story short, our old treasurer screwed us, we blamed SGA, they screwed us (if you had a nickel for each time you’ve probably heard us bitch about losing our office, you’d probably have enough to afford one Pantone square), we cried, wrote an issue about it (which you can read online), and then we bounced back after taking a series of Ls. This semester started with us being called down to OSLE’s office to talk about some “problematic content” we put up on the Facebook page (which you can see on this page) (Hofstra’s Only Intentional Self-Hating Queer Magazine!) Really considering how the past few years went, it didn’t seem like anything new. We thought we were going to get in trouble, we thought “well the office is gone, the budget is gone, we have no reputation, so the only thing left I guess is to just put us out of our misery”. But, in a strange twist of fate (considering this happened while Mercury WAS in retrograde) we left that meeting with a plan. Our Masterplan™.

Shouts out to Karl Koeppel, Chad “Remington” Chad-Remington, and Denise—three people firmly responsible for helping us to save this godforsaken magazine.
Oh, and SGA who has not stopped e-mailing us about trying to meet with them (but this time it’s actually under favorable circumstances, and, hey, maybe we might GET an office out of this eventually—poetic irony is in, guys!) And of course we’d like to thank the staff who really have all done an excellent job with this issue. Special thanks to freshman Gillian Pitzer who has really been doing an incredible job with the layouts.

Thanks for reading this, and may luck flow for you as fleetingly as the stream of a Hofstra Sprinkler,

In your fantasy, dream about us, and all that we can do with this emotion.

-Health & Wellness Center located through Men’s Restroom for easy and discreet access. If female students find themselves in need of the Health & Wellness Center, pamphlets entitled “YOU ARE PREGNANT” available in Wealth & Hellness Center for a small* checkup fee.

-The replica of the University Bookstore will be exact in every way and closed at all times.

-The Target has a lobby with a 2 hour wait to get in and out of the store, in order to simulate taking the shopping shuttle.

Hey there fellas! Whatchu guys up to on this part of campus at this time of night? Not getting into any trouble I hope. Can I see your IDs? Just joshing you there. I’m off duty. Off duty Steve Sourdough, head of operations for Public Safety is a pretty chill guy. Very chill. You should still let me see that ID though. If you haven’t done anything wrong you have nothing to hide. I am GOD KING of SHIT MOUNTAIN here on these 240 acres, and my authority will not be challenged! I did not quit being a police officer, entirely unrelated to a wrongful death suit, so some Fine Arts Education major can gaze upon me with derision. Joshing again. I’m not here to talk to you about that. I’m here to talk to you about our boys in khaki. I’m here to talk about guns.

Large flocks of birds and/or frat brothers loitering outside your window when you’re trying to sleep? Is Hempstead foreign and scary to you? Do you walk to and from class without fearing for your life? These are all problems that can be fixed if my men are allowed the simple concession of a functioning service weapon, to discharge at their fat discretion. Do you know how hard it is to chase you youngsters around, when you have two perfectly functioning supple young people legs and we have what amounts to wooden ottoman stumps jutting from our lower bodies? This will even the score and ensure safety. I am not at liberty to comment on whose, but there will be safety, oh yes. Safety is our last name, hyuk hyuk! I understand that guns are banned on campus, and it will remain that way—for you! Nothing stops a bad guy without a gun better than a good guy WITH a gun. And by good I mean a deeply frustrated middle aged guy with a ruddy complexion, who gave up just sooo so much.

When the Basketball team used their allocated budget (which they received in cash) to buy some Hoverboards from a questionable source (read more about this in the Chronicle), we here at Nonsense couldn’t resist the temptation of a juicy story. We asked our Editors-in-Chief what they thought about the issue. Here’s what they had to say:

Point

When in the course of human events it becomes necessary to purchase a hoverboard, a man should, as is his constitutional right, utilize the funds allocated to him by his student government. However, when the flaws in the system grow to such a size that they interfere with the facility of obtaining such monies, students should take it upon themselves to subvert the system in hopes of a larger change. Therefore, the matter of the minor controversy enmiring the most honourable basket-ball team of Hofstra University is merely a bellwether for the general student populace’s current mindset towards their own government.

The collegiate governing body at Hofstra is a pillar of oppression bearing down upon we, the innocent taxpaying students. Grievances upon grievances we have writ in great painstaking detail, and with such passion have we sent these letters unto our senators, only to have these stone-hearted judges cast them aside without empathy. In such ways we have been displaced from our homes and offices, taxed unfairly, and largely denied access to our own wealth which should be rightly allocated to each student organization, in concordance with the stipulations of our compulsory student activities fee. In addition to this, we daily suffer the insulting misfortune of being ruled by a class comprised almost solely of children dressed in the clothes of grown men.

In defiance of such bureaucratic absurdity, the acquisition of these hoverboards, hereafter known as The Greate Purchase of Two Thousand and Fifteen, stands forthright. Such organizations who are privileged enough to recieve their allocations in form of liquid monies should not restrict themselves to purchases which could also be easily completed within the constraints of the system. Counterintuitive though it may seem, flaunting these loopholes and work-arounds brings higher visibility to the struggle of the proletariat in such a dramatic fashion that the issue can no longer be ignored.

As thanks for this demonstration of solidarity this author further justifies The Greate Purchase by pointing out that these athletes are representative of the student body not only by their political actions but by the more traditional standard of athletic prowess, and thusly, that their limbs should not be troubled by the weariness of the layman’s primary mode of transportation. Foregoing walking, their muscles, sinews, and other assorted humours are kept in perfect condition, free of strain or stress from unnecessary use. These sinewy weapons are thereby reserved only for the occasion of the honorable sport basket-ball, which, in the aftermath of our foot-ball team’s great defeat (by the hand of this same institution against which we currently fight), is our only means of procuring glory and honor.

Rightful as it is for a student to take claim of their their constitutional rights, so should these giants glide among us; with every passing day hovering closer and closer to revolution.

-Heather Levinsky, co-Editor-in-Chief of Nonsense, co-signer of the Declaration of Independence, writing instructor to Jonathan Swift

Counterpoint

Look guys, we all know that global warming isn’t real. But let’s just stop for a second and think about the environment.

I know, I know. I know what you’re thinking. “Zach, we can’t think about the environment, when has the environment ever thought about us?” And you’re right, dear citizen, you’re right. But let’s just ponder this for one second: How will these Hoverboards impact the environment?

Lets take a moment here to look at the word “Hoverboard”. You’ll notice it has an “H” in it. What word also contains the letter ‘H’?

Hell.

Do we want our environment to look like hell? I come from a strong, grassroots family line of people who were not afraid to go outside, and get their hands dirty. Mow the lawn. Mulch the plants. Extend our property line one inch at a time. Make the yard look nice and honour our Lord and Creator! My gran’ pappy and my dear old Mimaw Lacey would never want me to endorse something, willingly, that would make our Savior’s beautiful earth look like hell!

Furthermore, we haven’t yet thought about the emissions of these hoverboards. We know they’re fueled by gasoline, straight outta the Hofstra Oil Wells. Do we have any idea what that could do to this beautiful land?

Hofstra is an Arbyritto afterall isn’t it? The thing with the plants? Imagine living in your Penthouse Sky Suite in one of the newly renovated Hofstra Towers, looking out at the beautiful, smog-filled Long Island sky, and seeing it obscured by vape clouds and Hoverboard fumes!

This is why we need change! And not just any change either. I’ve got a real solution! My company, The Big Nice Smiley Face Corporation, is about to launch our new Green™ Hoverboard, complete with an economic, environment friendly, grass-fed, buzzword filter. The Green™ Hoverboard only runs off of green friendly resources, like Clean Coal and Farmer Pete’s 100% Organic Natural Gas™.

Stop the pollution, stop the waste! Invest in a Green™ Hoverboard, post-haste! (Vote For Me in 2020!)

It’s been 30 years since I graduated from Hofstra and I’m 52. I weigh 300 pounds and have many dimples on my ass. My wife divorced me two years ago for an oyster fisherman who was my best friend and I have two kids. I’ve spent thousands on them to go to college and both have dropped out. Now, the two of them are sophisticated hobos pursuing the arts. What a waste of sperm and money. I work as a professional phallic object collector. Any piece of art or object that is in the shape of a large phallus I collect and sell on ebay. Many are surprised at my profession and question my monetary gain but I will assure you, phallic objects are very in right now and I gets lots of dough money like that 60 cents rap artist. I live in a purple house on top of a large hill that has no windows and is regularly egged and teepeed by 12 year olds. The damage is costly and I spend long hours cleaning up the flaming cow shit they leave on my doorstep every night. I have often come outside with Uzis and shot at them but unfortunately at that point in the night I am too drunk and depressed to shoot straight and I end up shooting many of my neighbors’ pigs on his pig farm. Fortunately, my neighbor is blind and deaf so he thinks they have died of neglect. The routine ties itself up quite nicely but the boredom and loneliness on top of my hill is palpable. Often times, when I get lonely, I will get out the ol’ lubey tube and squeeze some out on my dick and balls. I then will call my dog over to ‘clean up’. Like I said, it’s a routine but it often becomes repetitive and stale like my sex moves.

Speaking of sex moves I decided to go to the local bar around the ol’ campus. Taking the walk down memory lane was quite surprising. First, I visited the bar McHebe’s. It was raucous bar with many lovely ladies but I could only tell from the outside since I was not allowed in after I accidently bumped into a group of young women. They claimed I groped and fondled them but I don’t think I did. If so then I blame it on my pregame which consisted of Windex, lighter fluid, and a bottle of Lysol. Sometimes after pregame, I can do some fire-breathing through my ass. I’ve never trained with a circus or anything; I just discovered it randomly one night at a Macaroni Grill while on some horse tranquilizer my doctor friend Leary Timothy prescribed me. Apparently, I discovered this rare talent long ago while trying to take a shit in an oven. The cook found me inside and when he opened it, I farted fire right into his face. Since that accident I’ve never been to Italy since due to the assault charges.

Anyways, when I hopped to the next bar, Social, I sat in the corner downing Jaegerbombs in great solitude. Alone and frightened and very fucked up, I decided to do my own version of fire breathing. I pulled down my pants like that one time in Clinton correctional and let the fire right out into the bartender’s face. He screamed and I crawled underneath everyone legs to escape. Those who stepped on me I bit with my super canine vampire teeth and I got the fuck right out of there.

The next and final stop was Dizzy’s. Still crawling, I made my way into the bathroom. I had to vomit but I ended up shitting myself instead. Fortunately there was a pair of assless chaps on the floor and I put them comfortably on. When I came out of the stall, there was a pretty young lady at the sink. She was about six foot, blonde, and was very sweaty. She too was wearing assless chaps and I could see that she too had dimples on her ass. Finding her my fancy, I walked over to the sink and I thought about using my best pick-up line, ‘Would you like to check my prostate?’ At the time I felt it wasn’t forward enough so I decided to go with my 2nd best pick-up line, ‘Nice shoes, wanna fuck?’ Surprisingly, before I could use it, the young lady groped my genitals and began to lick the mustache on my tongue. After what seemed to be a few hours, she took me to her home on her motor scooter. On the way there, I primally screamed fuck noises while she stared back me giving her best ‘O’ face.

Once there, she brought me into her small shithole of an apartment. It was filled with Paul Morissey posters and what seemed to be giant dildos and strap-ons. I was very jealous of her collection but before I could compliment her she took off her clothes revealing what I will now struggle to describe. It didn’t occur to me before that she had a set of arachnoid pincers under her jawline and as I looked down I could see a lion’s mouth held agape resting between her thighs. The mouth called to me “P’azzou-Zhoux.” That wasn’t my name, but it could have been in a past life. She then walked away into her 2 foot wide bathroom, with her full back tattoo of Snoopy crucified on his great and honorable Dark Lord and Conqueror Yhwh’s Cross, staring at me all the way. Her 2 foot wide Lion’s maw screamed without cease. I saw on a mahogany desk in the corner a stack of business cards that read: President of Hofstra, Stuart Rabinowitz. At the top of the desk a plaque read: Stuart Rabinowitz, President of Hofstra. At the time I didn’t think anything of it and I was just too horny to care. When she walked back in we began to fuck like rabbits in a hamster wheel. Unfortunately, after I cummed, I discovered that the condom broke. After that, I ran the fuck out of the room and all the way home. The next week I was feeling very ill and I had lesions all over my body, all the while carrying her hellbore in my now bewombed tummy. I went into the doctor’s and the nurse immediately told me I reeked of AIDS. So I have AIDS. And I feel very positive about this. Everybody needs to die someday and right now life seems too miserable to go on. Thank you, Stuart Rabinowitz, President of Hofstra. You have given me AIDS and the permission to die. I’m very grateful. Fuck you. Fuck you all.

Sincerely,

John Baynor, former Speaker of the House of the United States of America