• Two and a half years old, Puffy took money out from loan sharks in my name. I cleared that one up, but not before doing some things I’m not proud of.

• Four years old, our new cat Bella tried to exploit a nut allergy I didn’t have. The pesto was delicious.

• Seven years old, the neighbor cat took a few pot shots at me with a .22, and got me in the leg. He got a shoe box in the woods.

• 12 years old, our twin cats, Sidney and Spencer, poured a bag of nails down the stairs I use every morning. That same day a screwdriver and an air filter go missing; are never recovered.

• 15 years old, A tiger found his way into my room and masturbated while I slept. Not an attempt at murder, but worth mentioning.

• 16 years old, a strange cat named Tom gives me some weed laced with PCP, turned out not to be a cat at all.

• 18 years old, ganged up on by a large pack of feral cats. Managed to escape, albeit naked.

• 20 years old, a group of cats in a trench coat made to look like a human try to lead me into an alley way. Unsuccessful, but I still see it out of the corner of my eye every now and then.

• 20 years old again, I could swear I saw the trench coat cats outside of my window. I live on the tenth floor.

• 21 years old, I see what I think to be trench coat cats getting into a cab near me. Write it off as a trick of the imagination

• Two months ago, slip on a dead mouse, catch a shadow out of the corner of my eye.

• One week ago, thoughts consumed by trench coat cat. Can’t leave my apartment. The smell of catnip slowly seeps into my room. I hear a faint, distant meowing. It’s long and drawn out. I call the cops but the phone line was cut. My cell phone is dead. The door knob rattles. I brace myself for the end.

{Editor’s Note: The writer of the above list was found dead on the floor of his apartment approximately two days after his death. He was covered in warm milk, and appears to have had the breath sucked out of him. There are currently no suspects.}

Thanks, you’re a true neighbor.

After citing nauseatingly low levels of face paint, foam fingers, synchronized screaming, shirtless men, and arson on campus, the Long Island university decided that this was “no way” for a college campus in America to be run, and opted to swiftly and immediately reinstitute its football team, along with the shitty football fans that come along with it.   “No American university campus is complete without a nice old fashioned, blood-and-tear strewn sports riot, and studies have shown time and time again that football is the sport that brings it, and brings it hard.” After starting up again, recruitment for the team was a breeze, officials reported. “We just went around campus, signing up the guys we deemed the most likely to get a neck tattoo and/or be indicted on charges of operating a dog fighting ring in the near future.” Since the pigskin has started flying again, the campus has reported increased amounts of nacho consumption and chest hair exposure.

According to a statement released by his lawyer, Travolta’s will clearly dictates that his head be removed using a compact meat and bone saw with a minimum blade speed of 15 feet per second and that it should be cryogenically frozen at a temperature no more than zero degrees kelvin.  It goes on to say that the frozen head should be strapped to a rocket and fired into the sun.

“Those closest to John would remember that he was terribly afraid of the waning gibbous moon and therefore it would only make sense to launch the rocket by the time the next full moon rolls around,” says Travolta’s wife Kelly Preston.  “It’s very important to me that we honor John’s last requests.”

Travolta has been secretly funding the construction of his head sized rocket for years, spending most of his earnings from “Old Dogs” on the propulsion system.  “Hairspray paid for the guidance system,” added Preston.

In order to give Mr. Travolta a proper send off, the cast of the movie Grease is planning a reunion at the launch of Travolta’s head.

“It’ll be great to see everyone again, we all haven’t been in a room together since we wrapped filming,” says an enthusiastic Olivia Newton John.  “We really want to do something special for the fans.”

Plans for the reunion include the cast reenacting scenes from the movie while a figure dressed in all black stands in as Danny Zuko and Travolta’s original dialogue is played over the P.A.

As the final lines of “We Go Together” are sung, the rocket will reportedly be launched from Travolta’s private airfield in Ocala, Florida.

I remember my first encounter with a doctor quite vividly. When I hit puberty at age nineteen, I drove myself to my yearly physical. It went on as physicals do, until the doctor, Dr. Stanley Demond, told me to turn my head and cough. When he was feeling around down there, he gave the middle one a little tickle. Whether it was intentional or not, I’ll never know, but it caused my Little Richard to shoot up faster than Janis Joplin in Cambodia. The only thing the doctor said was “Wow,” but I was never the same. I tried to sign up for another physical, but I couldn’t, so I started watching Dr. Demond from my car. After four days he saw me, and winked. He invited me to follow him home. Our night started with reruns of General Hospital and glasses of red wine and roofies. We decided to retire to the bedroom, but never made it there, as we found ourselves sprawled out on the kitchen floor. As our hands fell lower and lower, he flipped me over and whispered in my ear, “I may specialize in pediatric care, but tonight I’ll be your gynecologist.” I lied there on the floor, thinking about life while being colonoscopized for an astonishing seven hours and fifteen minutes. When I got home that night, my dad asked me why I was out so late. I smiled, and said, “car crash.”

But the next day, my sexy back was in a lot of pain, which I attributed to my recent car crash. So I went to see a chiropractor. She fixed the crink in my back, and the new one in my pants. But, Dr. Demond soon found out about my new love, and, let’s just say I was no longer a patient of his. He was really a bad teacher of love.

This left me wandering the streets, questioning my life and sexuality. I went to three different doctors about my problem, but after too many games of Sexy Operation, Hide-and-go-Stethoscope, and the Human Centipede, me problem only got worse. My fetish got so strong that I couldn’t even listen to songs about doctors. My song, “Bad Case of Loving You,”  was a warning to my fans. No one picked up on it, so it became a warning to myself. I found my rehab in the form of Dr. Brianna Neusmith, a neurologist who has a fetish for pop singers who write warning signs to themselves about their own fetishes.

We were happily married, and still are. I have since started a social network based on the friends with benefits system. It’s fetishfuckme.gov. At first it was only open to people with my fetish, but since no one  signed up, I opened it to all fetishists. I’m the alpha dog, or “love guru” on the site. I occasionally succumb to my fetish again, but I’ve walked in on my wife with Annie Lennox, whose song “Sweet Dreams” was also a missed cry. We both know that Brianna can still make my black snake moan any day of the week. I’m just glad I can perform “Bad Case” live without having to worry what doctors are watching me. And if you think I’m a horrible person for my fetish, well then you can go cry me a river.

You see, it appears that the real Albert Phillips was a highly influential international terrorist. Not even I could see that one coming. I didn’t for a while either, until about three days ago, when I saw my face on a news broadcast from 1989. “How could it be?” I thought to myself, but there it was, in plain sight. Then there was the knocking at my door. I peered through my venetian blinds to see police surrounding the front of my building. That’s when I made the decision to jump out of my second story window. I had never done anything like that before, so naturally I blacked out when I hit the ground. When I woke up on the speedboat, that’s when things got weird.

Waking up on a boat covered in blood holding a semi-automatic rifle is enough to shock anyone, let alone me, who was up until this point an innocent pawn in this whole thing. Even more astonishing was being completely fluent in Swahili, a language I’m sure I’ve never heard. Before I knew it I was back in this compound where we sit now. Sure, I managed to secure the launch codes and sent all of those warheads to blow up the moon, but at what cost? Was it worth it all for the cheap thrill of living the life of someone else, albeit me? Well good chap, let’s toast to us, our impeding death, and the impending destruction of the moon. I never liked it very much. But most of all let us toast to the real Albert Phillips, wherever he may be. Perhaps he too is sitting in an underground bunker, prepared to die as another man. One can only wonder.

Upon boarding his train, Mr. DiMoff addressed the passengers of his car to tell them that it was, “really, an unusually nice day”, at which point all but a handful of commuters gave him a standing ovation. Exiting the train at the fiftieth street station to cheers and several requests for an autograph, Mr. DiMoff arrived at work twenty-two minutes late. Despite being unprepared for an important presentation, James eloquently summarized the perfectly overlapping phenomenons of temperature, wind velocity, humidity, and seasonal differences in airborne pollen content to the Board of Trustees by asking, “Have you noticed that it’s a very nice day?” He was immediately promoted and given the fruit basket that was going to be mailed to Evelyn Gold, a member of the board who was recovering from tuberculosis.

It is expected to rain later this evening.

“We’ve sent those jerks at least 50 emails and filled up their answering machine after the malfunction in Z-module,” said cosmonaut Anatoly Ivanishin, “When none of that got their attention, we started signing them up for spam, texting them pictures of our penises, and ordering thousands of pizzas to Mission Control. My colleague Dan even went on an unscheduled EVA to throw a particularly sturdy-looking tennis ball at the Earth, in the hopes it would peg one of them.” Anatoly ate a bunch of M&M’s floating around the cabin for comic relief and added, “We’re almost out of food, microgravity has been out of commission since early ’06, and my suit is up to the knees in condensed sweat. Trenchfoot is basically inevitable.”

Though she was between meetings, NASA Space Liaison Jennifer Uma had this to say: “Oh shit, now that you mention it, those pizzas were kind of suspicious. I mean, who orders 900 anchovy pies? What is it we do here again?” It was explained that much of Ms. Uma’s memory had been damaged two years prior, when a small rubber-and-felt object fell from the sky at high speed, knocking her unconscious in the parking lot of a Bloomingdales. After being “refreshed” on her knowledge of the ISS’s current state she replied, “I can’t believe we forgot about those poor people. I’ll be sure to send them a hand-written note—it’s more personal when it’s hand-written, so they’ll know I mean it. Someone get me my crayons.” The Space Shuttle Atlantis was immediately brought out of retirement to deliver Ms. Uma’s letter of apology and no other cargo.

Said Dan Burbank, NASA Astronaut aboard the ISS, “They didn’t bring us any equipment to conduct repairs, no food, nudie magazines; just a shitty Hallmark card! The least they could have done was offered a ride back. To Earth. Where there’s abundant food, clean water, and a life-sustaining atmosphere. Being that only a few layers of metal and foam separate me from instant death, I don’t find any of this particularly funny.” However, cosmonaut Anton Shkaplerov seemed quite touched by Ms. Uma’s gesture: “You don’t see anyone sending hand-written notes to Haiti for forgetting that those poor bastards are still on the brink on death.” No sooner had he said this, septic systems aboard the ISS were downgraded from ‘malfuction’ to ‘catastrophic failure’ and the Kibo Laboratory and Harmony Node were flooded with the excrement of the previous five weeks. “On second thought,” Anton huffed, “I’m going outside. Hand me a tennis ball.”

“Oh I was absolutely bananas over the royal wedding”, says Vicky Hendrickson, 43, “…the decorations and her dress oh my god it was so beautiful and Prince william…ohhhhhhhh…” Vicky then began to have what appeared to be an epileptic seizure, moaning and groaning over almost ritual-like chantings of “William! Willy willy ohhhhhh <expletive deleted>.” Hendrickson lives in West Virginia with her 38 children, all of whom have some sort of physical deformity. It is not clear where her husband is or even if she ever had a husband, or even whether her children have a father that is a human. Among the decorations at the royal wedding, most of which are inclined to make one want to commit a violent homicide and burn down an orphanage, were sculptures of Prince William’s face carved entirely out of cocaine and giant, flame throwing robots, which also served refreshments and promptly incinerated any “invalids” who were at the wedding, namely anyone who was not insanely rich who had somehow managed to sneak in. “Gotta keep the world clean, make it a better place…if that means turning poor people into black piles of ash with a 5 million degree flame shooting out of the crotch region of a giant robot, then so be it,” says Prince William.

Things may have started out smoothly, but things have gone significantly downhill since the wedding day. Kate Middleton’s and Prince William’s two children, Damien and “Number 6″, both have had on and off stints in rehabilitation centers, and Damien was last seen summoning Incubuses and feasting on the blood of newborn infants. “Number 6″, was last seen at a Taco Bell complaining about the lack of Grande Nachos then stabbing the cashier in the face 37 times with what appeared to be his tongue.

Their ten years of marriage has spawned nothing more than two demon children and deep, deep resentment and hatred toward one another. The royal divorce will take place on April 30, 2021, and is expected to be absolutely lavish. There will be a fort constructed by Prince William from empty Jack Daniel’s bottles and his own excrement, as well as mounds of cat waste and dead cats themselves, which formely belonged to Kate Middleton. Both are expected to be dressed in only the finest wardrobe, William in a semen and blood encrusted bathrobe, wearing no pants, and Kate in a hideous green and purple nightgown with the words “juicy” written across the buttocks, and a hideous green facial mask and hair curlers. “They will both look absolutely awful”, says royal family press secretary. At press time, the guest list was comprised of “whoever has absolutely nothing better to do.”

This has filled me with absolute rage. I do not pay taxes to see this kind of indiscriminate disregard for proper customer service take hold of the once prestigious fast food industry. In fact, I do not pay taxes at all. I do all of my shopping in Delaware to avoid sales tax, which is a great burden considering my residency in Minnesota.  You may be wondering why I am writing this to a college humor magazine, and not to Clifford Hudson, CEO of Sonic Corp, and that answer is simple: your second-rate joke rag is the perfect platform to announce my candidacy for President of The United States of America.

I, Phillip Moore, have been fed up by the course this country has taken over the past two weeks, and I plan to change that. No longer will water fountains only dispense water, but milk as well. As president, I will teach all dogs to walk themselves, all cowboys will be released from prison, and gravity will be altered to make everyone a little lighter. I promise to end the prohibition on huffing gasoline, and will fight to make sure no American get a wrong sandwich, only to be denied a refund after eating it. These are promises you can count on, because I am a Libertarian, and I am proud.

So make your move, Washington Fat Cats. There’s a new mayor in town, and his name is President Phillip Moore, Dog Whisperer. It’s time we take a slam-dunk out of crime, and fight for the little man, Verne Troyer.

Sincerely,

Philip Moore

Cat Screamer

Future President of The united State Of America

The Third