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Volume 32, Issue 1:
The Heuristic Playboy
Volume 17- Issue 4

Palestinian Militants Seize Aladdin’s Lamp

February 1, 2008
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The Palestinian nationalist group Hamas recently announced that their January breach of the Egyptian border at Gaza was not for “food” and “supplies,” but instead for the lamp containing the Genie from Disney’s Aladdin. After a pitched battle with Egyptian soldiers bearing Kalashnikovs and scimitars, Hamas managed to obtain the lamp and carry it deep into their own territory. The lamp now rests behind Hamas’ most formidable line of defense: a tattered tent guarded by only the strongest children armed with rocks.

Palestinian leader Mahmoud Abbas became the first to take advantage of the lamp’s wish-granting powers. “Israel!” he shouted, rubbing the ancient artifact furiously. “Come on!”

Despite Abbas’s best efforts, his people were not instantly established in the land for which they have fought so hard. “Fooled you!” chortled Egyptian president Hosni Mubarak. “I already used up all the wishes, and the lamp’s powers are useless.” He then sauntered into his beach-side pyramid which housed a harem of Angelina Jolies.

The Genie of the Lamp, known to Americans as Robin Williams, could not be reached for comment, as The Squelch is trapped for eternity in the Cave of Wonders because someone just had to have that goddamn ruby.

Volume 17- Issue 3

Volume 17, Issue 3: 12 step process, trillions of combinations

November 1, 2007
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Features

Newsflashes

Volume 17- Issue 3

Discount Wisdom

November 1, 2007

I’ll bet back in the day people didn’t pose for portraits; everybody just moved slower.

They say that dead men tell no tales, but old men really pick up the slack for them.

I once saw a magazine that said “Is Your Man Gay? The Telltale Signs.” I think there’s only one telltale sign and that’s, “are you a man, too?”

I thought those cavemen would be more impressed with my fire. I also didn’t know they preferred the term “homeless.”

I like my women like I like my coffee: carried in a sack on the back of a mule.

The things my dad has done have eaten at his conscience. He used to drop Agent Orange on Cambodian peasants, until they made him stop last week.

Losing your wallet is worse than losing your virginity, because without my wallet I never would have lost my virginity.

If I were an Irish cop, I’d probably be upset about media stereotypes of Irish policemen. Then again, I’d probably also be too busy beating my wife to notice.

Too many cooks spoil the soup. They tend to clump up in the bowl.

You can’t fight fire with fire, but you can use it to fight firefighters.

Volume 17- Issue 3

Oaks Saved From Themselves

November 1, 2007
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In an emotional and heartfelt conclusion to the months-old controversy, the oak trees surrounding Memorial Stadium were saved from their own self-destructive patterns of behavior Saturday.

 

“It was a hard time for all of us,” said botanical therapist Jill McGovern, who led the all-night intervention. “Those poor oaks just couldn’t face up to the harm they were doing themselves and the people and plants who love them.”

 

Many observers had noticed the warning signs of the oaks’ discontent – hanging out with disheveled-looking hippies, smoking marijuana, catching fire from smoking marijuana – but never took the time to confront them about it. Until now. Several of the oaks’ friends and relatives came together to help straighten out the young boughs. Even their mother, Sample Cutting From the Botanical Gardens, made the trip to help them.

 

“I really feel like I’ve turned a corner,” said one tree, identified only as “Wrinkly,” shaking two sleeping bags and a hot plate out of his branches. “I realize there may be more to life than giving unemployed, bearded young men an outlet for their persecution complex. You might even say it’s time to ‘turn over a new leaf!’”

 

Wrinkly was then slapped by six of his brethren.

 

When asked about future plans, the oaks said they were thinking about moving off the fault line and getting jobs as interns or office furniture.

Volume 17- Issue 3

So You’ve Just Sprouted a Single Wing

November 1, 2007
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It happens to even the most careful and health-conscious students: you stay up too late studying for your Ornithology midterm, or pass out at Phi Kappa Emu. And the next morning, you wake up with a single unusually large avian limb emerging from just under your shoulder blade.

Don’t worry: at some point, one in five students will sin against the laws of nature before their junior year. Here is some useful information to help you deal with your terrifying loss of bilateral symmetry.

  1. Check your symptoms
    • Are you having trouble sleeping on your back?
    • Can you only fly in small circles?
    • Are you molting more than usual?
    • Are both your bird and human friends acting distant
  2. Possible Causes
    • Geneticist parents’ Final
    • Fantasy addiction starting to affect their work
    • You read half a Kafka novel before bed
    • It’s Judgment Day and you’re agnostic
    • Father is a lonely ostrich farmer
    • You insulted a chicken fortune teller
    • Asshole genie has “one wish, one limb” policy
    • Darth Egret revealed himself to be your father
    • You stopped at a KFC run by very literal wizards
    • Your mother is Scrooge McDuck’s trophy wife
  3. Treatment

    If you have confirmed that you indeed suffer from this ailment, don’t despair. Help is just a phone call, or a meat cleaver and a lot of paper towels, away.

    Alternatively, you can decide to forgo treatment and live your life. You’d be surprised at how easy that is! There are still many career options open to you; having one wing may actually give you an advantage in such fields as carnival freak, car dealership attention-getter, and extremely useless X-Man.

 

 

 

 

Volume 17- Issue 3

Notes for Nerds: How to get a Date

November 1, 2007
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Stop me if you’ve been in a situation like this: you’re out drinking with your bespectacled buddies, and you notice that hottie at the end of the bar making eyes at you. You return her gaze with a cool smile. In a transparent attempt to hide her obvious arousal, she grimaces and instinctively gropes for her rape whistle.

You already know she’s yours, baby.

Sensually removing your finger from your nose, you approach her. You’ve taken your weekly shower this morning, and you’re on fire. Nothing can stop you.

And then… rejection, yet again. How can we nerds avoid this? Luckily for you, we’ve compiled this guide.

Where do girls have their conventions?

Girls like to meet in places with “atmosphere” and “windows.” Look for those, but be selective: try to find places where you won’t have much competition. Let’s be frank here: you’re in no position to compete with, say, Joe Q. FratBoy, with his popped collar, vodka red bulls, and beardless neck.

So where do you go? Simple! Places with lots of women, like department stores or book clubs. But be sure, in these new and unfamiliar environments, to avoid these common faux pas:

-Using free samples of Body Shop lotion to masturbate

-Leaving the door open while masturbating in the Victoria Secret dressing room

-Masturbating too loudly in Women’s Studies Class

-Not warming your hands before impersonating a gynecologist
**

Alright, I’m giving this girl a pap smear. What do I do? What if she asks what I’ve been doing with my life?**

Relax, lying to women is both easy and fun. Try a simple wordsubstitution cipher to make yourself sound more interesting. For instance, replace the words “World of Warcraft” with “Peace Corps,” “my mom’s basement” with “Haiti,” and “jacking off to anime porn” with “jacking off to not-anime porn.”

Girl : “So, what’ve you been up to since college?”
You : “I’ve spent most of my time in Haiti. I’ve been really into the Peace Corps.”
Girl : “That’s really cool! So, are you, like, a doctor or something?”
You : “I’m a level 70 warlock.”
Girl : “I didn’t know the Peace Corps had… warlocks…”
You : “Yeah, whatever. So do you wanna come back to Haiti or what? My mom’s making Hamburger Helper.”

I can’t tell if she’s interested. Should I ask her out?

Girls often give off signals to show interest. Ignore these and go for it. Girls dig confidence, and will be flattered if you make the effort to evade their pepper spray blasts. If you played your cards right, you’ll be taking the “cyber” out of “cybersex.”

Volume 17- Issue 3

Words from the Top

I Bet I Can Have Sex With You

November 1, 2007
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If you’re like me, you’re having sex RIGHT NOW. Oh but you’re not, loser. Unlike you, whose penis is probably well-pantsed, I’m what you might call a “pickup artist.”

But, you ask, what’s a pickup artist? A pickup artist is a guy who, using only his brain, can convince women that he is somehow bone-able. Think of me as a factory that turns the ore of sweet talk and compliments into the refined alloy of satisfied moans, thereby producing oral sex as a byproduct, which in turn is dumped into the river and gives the nearby villagers leukemia.

It’s really not that difficult. All it takes is lying to women. Or does it? Yes. Yes it does. See what I was doing there? I was lying.

During the “size-up” stage, I like to find a certain aspect of a girl’s life that is obviously important to her, and pretend it’s my own. If she’s wearing a red dress, she’s probably uninhibited and confident. Tell her how confident you are about not having inhibitions. If she’s wearing a suit that controls her immediate environment so that the vacuum of space doesn’t cause her body to expand uncontrollably, she’s probably an astronaut. Tell her you once went to the Exploratorium without getting high first.

After I’ve got my foot in the door, I like to pretend to have emotions. I’ll bring an onion to the bar, which’ll cause fake tears, and a picture of my stepdad, which causes very real anger. I’ll sidle up to her, crying and yelling, and she will be overcome by moisture. Most of it will be hers.

Okay, ladies, balls in your court. Just try and not have sex with me after I drop a line like, “I am to sex what Henry Kissinger is to jowls.” On an unrelated note, here are some vitamins that only work when mixed with your Bacardi.

Volume 17- Issue 3

Driving School

Taught By a Vietnam Vet

November 1, 2007
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Okay. Driving. Shit. It’s a lot like going native and building a secret jungle base decorated with human skulls: it requires planning and care.

How can I make you kids understand just what driving is like?

[sits in silence for ten minutes]

Well, I’ll guess I’ll try and explain it to those of you who didn’t leave while I smoked that cigarette. Question? Yes, you, in the back, wearing the green T-shirt, next to the girl with the youth I never had. What’s that? Fire marshal won’t let me smoke? Well he can’t tell me what to do, he’s not even a real marshal.

Not gonna lie: driving is a scary thing, and it’s also unfair. I had this friend named Joe. Real devil-may-care type. He would coast through stop signs, and sometimes through tunnels without throwing a grenade into them first. He never got a ticket in his life. On the flip side, I also knew this guy named Larry. Larry always checked his blind spot, always had his seatbelt fastened. Where was I going with this? Oh yeah, don’t be like Larry, he died of a heroin overdose.

[grins] Man, I feel old. Is it just me, or do kids nowadays cry and send desperate, furtive text messages to their parents more often?

Okay, the state of Arizona says I have to make you guys watch Red Asphalt, which I guess is supposed to be traumatizing or something. Let’s just pop that in the VCR, now…

Goddamit! Everyone shut up! Oh, sorry. For a minute I thought that bird outside was signaling our  position to Charlie. Anyway, watch the movie. Seatbelts, right. Wear ‘em. Remember, they save a life you’re not sure you want to live.

Ooh, look, he broke his neck flying through the windshield. Yeah, that’s much scarier than six of your best buddies getting decapitated by a falling helicopter blade simply because God has abandoned you.

Class over. Go out and try to drive considerately through an America that cares more about its automobiles than the souls of those driving them. Oh, and don’t put M-16s to heads of people with their blinkers on, even when it’s clearly laughing at you. That’ll get you what they call “points” on your license.

Volume 17- Issue 3

Remaining Flower Children to Raise Price of Free Love

November 1, 2007
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During an emergency meeting on Tuesday, the members of the Berkeley chapter of the Sixties Counter-Cultural Preservation Society announced a hike in the price of unrestrained sexual experimentation.

“It’s to be expected, man,” said red-eyed hippie economist Alfred Thundermoth, nodding sagely and stroking his yellowing beard. “Just look at the fluctuating lines on this graph of Birkenstock Prices that I just drew on the back of a napkin. Have you ever really just looked at them?”

Revenue from the pending increase will go towards STD and electric Kool-Aid acid testing for the entire group, as well as to the construction of an elaborate tie-dye contraption slated for completion whenever.

When asked for comment, co-treasurer Marigold Rainsong fell asleep on the couch and dreamt of her second favorite spirit animal.

Volume 17- Issue 3

Urban Outfitters to Incorporate Urban Blight

November 1, 2007
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Popular fashion boutique Urban Outfitters, long known for its trendy line of street-wise clothing, shocked fashion connoisseurs and law enforcement officials alike yesterday when it revealed its intent to stock malt liquor, contraband narcotics, and firearms. “We at Urban Outfitters have long taken pride in bringing the thrill of the streets to the over-privileged youth of America, so for us this seemed like the next logical step,” spoke Chairman and Founder Richard Hayne, while smoking crack out of a light bulb.

The store’s new stock includes firearms ranging from Glocks to assault rifles in such popular colors as ‘Outrageous Orange’ and ‘Carnation Pink,’ as well as fortified wine and tar heroin. Do-rags stenciled with the pre-90s year of your choice will also be made available at the bargain price of $48.95.

The move was praised by the well-monied among the wino, junkie and street thug community. “This is just the kind of digs you want when you gettin’ floamie off a puff of rocks,” said local fashionista and former ward of the state Lizzy Spliffs, before vomiting into a puddle of her own urine.

“Floamie?” declared white people.