Latest Issue
Volume 33, Issue 1:
The HEURISTIC! Squelch
Volume 15- Issue 2

Top Ten Signs your Boyfriend is a Zombie

October 1, 2005
  1. Cheated on you with your sister … who’s been dead for 15 years
  2. Spices up sex with strawberries, syrup, and cow brains
  3. id software keeps asking him to come in for some motion-capture sessions
  4. Picnic in cemetery on first date, charming. First dinner with parents in cemetery, creepy
  5. Moans before, after and during sex
  6. This guy with a gun would’ve killed him for sure if he’d only remembered to shoot off-screen to reload
  7. While watching Night of the Living Dead keeps saying
  8. Cant dance unless the song is thriller
  9. Rigamortis in all the wrong places, baby
  10. Blurs fine line between gentle nibbling and cannibalism
Volume 15- Issue 2

Top Ten Worst Excuses for Cannibalism

October 1, 2005
  1. Stuck in the superdome in the rain
  2. Mushrooms
  3. When was anyone gonna tell me what an Ethiopian steak was?
  4. It’s the only thing that goes with this wine
  5. Took the pet name muffin too far
  6. Bastard ate your last slice of pizza and you wanted it back
  7. Snowed in for five hours
  8. Thought if the murder was crazy enough, you’d get to meet Grissom from CSI
  9. Prove a point to your vegan friends
  10. Accidentally spilled really really delicious barbecue sauce, not on them but still
Volume 15- Issue 2

Top Ten Wholesome Fun Things to do in People’s Park

October 1, 2005
  1. Shit, shit, I’ve really gotta move to an apartment that’s not on benvenue
  2. Fuck, now there’s two of them, hurry!
  3.  
  4. Oh thank god, I think we lost him.
  5. [heavy breathing]
  6.  
  7. Asking the homeless to … oh shit, he’s got a gun, RUN!
  8. Pillowfight (w/ rocks)
  9. Recruit for midnight basketball
  10. Hide and Seek
Volume 15- Issue 2

Zagat Survey 2005

Drug Dealers

October 1, 2005
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LC
Palazzo Apartments, #205. El Cerrito
Satisfied regulars describe LC’s weed as “dank” and “where are my keys.” Service is “butt-slow,” however; calling an hour ahead is recommended “so he can wake up and answer the door.” Also, closed from 5-8 on Tuesdays and Thursdays due to “finally having to pass Math 54 at Southwestern to get my AA so I can transfer to Long Beach State and get a job like playing volleyball or fuckin’ something.” Proprietor adds: “Maybe a ferret trainer. Do they have those?”

Jimmy the Fuckup
Outside an abandoned warehouse on the edge of town
Many conflicted customers offer praise for his “four hour long orgasm where you’re coming harder than a firehose”-quality Ecstasy, but advise against his “yellow-ass rocks.” “Don’t bother with the crack,” says one regular. “Get the Mitsus and I don’t give a fuck if you’re getting mauled by a bear, it’s gonna feel like God’s downy nutsack.”

Big Yiz
By appointment only. (510) 230-5948
“Simply the best coke in town, this town, any town, you name a town,” according to one satisfied customer. His yay is described as “silky smooth” but with a drip that tastes “like the Tijuana River took a Carne Asada dump in a camping ground porta-potty” and “unimpressive.” A little on the pricey side, with a grammy going for Triple Twomps and a siggity for “more money than I make down at the Hyundai Dealership in a week.” Blowjobs are acceptable, but only if “you’re not a fag, because I’m not.”

Flint Jonz
Somewhere off San Pablo, Oakland
“My [fellow black person] Flint does one thing and he does it right: rocks.” His crack is “the toast of the town” and “of course it’s good, it’s crack.” More of a mobile caterer, Jonz shifts locations nightly. “Try parks and bus stops,” advises one customer. Caution: Jonz keeps his rocks in his cheek, and is known to have “all them kinds of Hepatitises.” So “make sure you already have Hepatitis” to avoid disappointment.

Flaco
The alley behind Harry’s Bridal
If you’re looking for speed at decent prices, then Flaco can’t be beat, except by “six Haitians and this big Dominican bitch with a shovel.” Sporting “more tattoos than a prison,” this colorful character has established a successful business from the West Side alleyways. Describing his decor as a fusion of “what you want” and “I said what you want,” Flaco always welcomes customers with his signature butterfly knife swipe at the face. “After he stabs you, watch him turn around and hop over the ten foot straight brick wall,” comments one customer. Another concurs: “That little fucker runs like the wind, if the wind weighed ninety-two pounds and wore K-Swiss.”

The Armenian
He’ll find you
Not much is known about this dealer, but he can provide “anything chief, anything” for the right price. His familiar greeting of “Hey chief” welcomes you to his sprawling estate, where he conducts much of his big-ticket deals. “This is only for serious connoisseurs, chief” explains one business associate. But if you’re looking for “black tar, red rum, or white china, then go talk to our brown friend, chief.”

Doctor Ted
2100 Westbrook Ct. Suite 1001. San Francisco.
“I gotta go see the Doctor,” says one regular with a wink and an uncontrollable tremor. Be it Dilaudid, Oxy or Vike, The good Doctor Ted will write you up a prescription for “backitis” or “heart cancer.” Caveat Emptor – it comes at a price. “Sold my car, sold my car,” relates a loyal customer. “Anyone want to buy a baby?” cautions another. However, if you’ve got the means, The Doctor provides a “wonderful” and “[the sound of repeated lip smacking]” experience.

Volume 15- Issue 2

Top Ten Toilet Training Methods of the Future

October 1, 2005
  1. Just tell the little fucker to Google it
  2. Additional instruction on removing your spiky shoulder pads and unitard
  3. Exactly as you would do it today, BUT YOU’RE IN THE MATRIX
  4. What, you’re telling me you don’t know how to use the three seashells?
  5. Osmosis
  6. New SkyNet toilets train themselves
  7. Being the last man on earth after the apocalypse means you pretty much crap wherever you want
  8. Same little plastic potty, but with blue LEDs
  9. Get the book “Everybody Poops Except Death Cyborgs”
  10. Hover-Ups Training Pants
Volume 15- Issue 2

“Finally! A Beer For My Active Lifestyle!”

October 1, 2005
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Picture this: You’re casually practicing volleyball at a Malibu beach court with your handsome heterosexual best friend, Chet, discussing the subjects that every straight man thinks about: girls, highlighter shorts, the proper form for a leg press, watching football, and being on the receiving end of anal penetration. As you admire his chiseled abs, two beautiful girls saunter by and nonchalantly ask if you would like to play two-on-two. You and Chet shrug lackadaisically and smirk at one another. Sure, you say. But I warn you, we’re pretty good.

They take off their shirts to reveal their curvaceous figures, toned abs, and silky golden-brown skin. The game gets going, and they’re good. You and Chet are fighting hard. Everyone is sweating and having a great cardio workout. You feel good, great even. One, one…two, two…ten, ten, it’s a tie. This is game point. One of the girls serves, you save it, Chet sets, and it’s all up to you. You jump in the air, calves flexed, your body shivering in reverent anticipation of the spike you are going to drive to win this game. Contact. Line Drive. But wait! She blocks, the ball thuds against the sand. Game over. They won.

You walk away dejectedly with your tail between your legs. You hear a whistle and turn around. The girls are waving you to come back with something ice cold and refreshing in their hands. 95 calories. 2.6 grams of carbs. Michelob Ultra.

Is this your idea of courtship?

It’s mine, but I’m a pretty active guy. Some might say too active. But then again, those critics are probably too fat to do anything but lift Miller Lite to their wretched swollen lips, vainly struggling to fill the deep rift in their soul that only unpopularity and acne scars could have forged. How could they possiblly drink something that has 0.6 more grams of carbs than my beverage of choice? No wonder they all get heart attacks and die.

See, the thing is, I like to stay in shape. When I’m not racing against my supermodel girlfriend in Speedos in the pool or attending advanced yoga classes with my supermodel girlfriend, I’m on my lunch break zooming around downtown with my supermodel girlfriend on rollerblades, going off jumps and causing rebellious havoc in ways only I and a beautiful supermodel girlfriend can.

When I am three-fourths up the face of a backbreaking climb with only small, difficult grips in sight, I want a cool, refreshing prize waiting for me at the top. I also want something waiting for me after a hard set at the gym, while writing slam poetry at a trendy cafe, and in the middle of caddying at an intense golf tournament. I’m extreme, and I need a beverage that is as extreme as me. Like Mountain Dew Code Red. But only something that doesn’t cause cancer.

So you see why this is my beer? How else would I be able to drink after every extreme activity of mine (which is all of them) and still maintain my 1% body fat? I need a beer that has fewer calories than water.

Supermodel Girlfriends. Anal Penetration. Michelob Ultra.

Volume 15- Issue 2

Chimpanzee to Star as Next Triple X

October 1, 2005
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The producers of the Triple X Franchise recently revealed the star of the next Triple X installment: “Triple X: Master of Illusions”. The film features BooBoo, a primate of the Pan Paniscus or “Bonobo” Chimpanzee species in the lead role. Opposite him is Jessica Alba, who plays a 21-year-old Brazilian scientist being pursued by a group of Swiss Rebels who are seeking to transport nuclear arms across international borders by masquerading as super models.

However, Hollywood insiders have reported tension on the set. “Given that Vin Diesel and Ice Cube starred in the last two films, we thought casting a chimp in the title role would be the best way to make the Triple X character feel consistent,” says director Lee Tamahori. “But BooBoo is too witty and charming. Hell, he wouldn’t even take the role until we flew Jane Goodall in to read the script to him.” Ultimately, BooBoo finally agreed to the part when executives offered him points on the gross and a verbal promise not to euthanize him after he had completed the talk show circuit.

But the film’s problems did not end there. Producers have complained that they’ve needed “a prince’s fucking ransom” of Adderal to get Jessica Alba up to speed for her scenes with the monkey. Alba’s agent quickly asserted that “[that] monkey just likes big words, ok, and Jessica has always been more in touch with the common man than that.” Alba attempted to add to this, but coherence eluded her, and after placing a piece of gum in her mouth, she began to walk away before suddenly stumbling.

Volume 15- Issue 2

Words from The Top

Bullshit Sports

October 1, 2005

I’ll never be an athlete. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I got picked last in P.E. or anything. I wasn’t the fat kid, or the crutches kid, or the kid with mittens sewn onto his sleeves to create the illusion that he had hands. True they were all stronger and faster than me, but I was normal so I had friends. However, just because I’m no Joe Montana or because the mittens kid kicked my ass every week doesn’t mean I don’t love sports.

I watch and play a lot of intramural sports. I love the adrenaline soaked rush of competition. I love the stirring anthem of victory beating in my breast. I love watching the lesbians tackle each other. And I love the satisfaction of knowing I’ve given 110% in pursuit of the ultimate goal: completely vanquishing my talented, motivated opponents.

Furthermore, I also love to lie harder than a defendant at Nuremburg. I don’t play intramural sports. I’ve never even seen a mural. Okay that was a lie too, but that just proves my point. Playing intramural sports is the gayest possible way for coeds to come into close physical contact with each other. Intramural sports are the dry humping of athletics: all the motions are the same, and the work’s just as hard, but no matter how much effort you put in, you won’t have anything to show for it but sweaty balls.

Even some professional sports are, in fact, bullshit. Bowling? If they serve hotdogs and beer to the players, it’s not a sport. Chess? If Stephen Hawking can beat me at it, it’s not a sport. Baseball? If a forty year old can beat me at it, it’s not a sport. Basketball? If a black guy can beat me at it, it’s not a sport. Murderball? I rest my case.

These so-called “sports” are all bullshit. You want to know a real sport? There are only three: Jai alai, pointing a gun at someone’s feet and shouting “dance,” and the Japanese guy who can lift forty five pounds with his cock. What happens when a game of basketball is over? Everyone goes home. What happens when the guy who lifts stuff with his dick finishes lifting stuff with his dick? Chafing.