A Masculine Aside

Yo yo yo! So I was at a party the other day, (Well, night really. I was at a party the other night, specifically the last one that happened. Yeah, last night. It was last night that the rest of this sentence, the subject of which you have by now no doubt forgotten, happened) and it had eighteen wheels! (Just kidding about the eighteen wheels bit, I was just testing you to see if you remembered the subject of the sentence, which was that I went to a party. I am well aware that the sentence, “I went to a party and it had eighteen wheels” makes no logical sense whatsoever, so please if you’re a Reason Nazi and reading this (as opposed to injecting this), hold your angry letters. I am also aware that injecting a printed humor column, as opposed to reading one like a normal laws-of-physics abiding person, is totally absurd. I added it for comedic value only, as it pointed out an exploitable redundancy in my own writing. As Newton himself once famously said, “There is no earthly power that can in any way transform the knowledge of a printed humor column into an inject-able substance…except on Sundays”)

Right, so I was…I was…what was happening to me again? Damn it, I completely lost my train of thought. I’ve made so many implausible detours of logic it makes Boston driving seem humanly possible. Okay, I’m going to start over. Here we go.

Last night I went to a party. Now this particular party was a pajama party, meaning that everyone had to be wearing sleepwear (Yes, even you Larry). However, I didn’t have any sleepwear aside from a pair of green Fubu pants that were in the laundry. I thought about showing up wearing only my boxers, because that’s what I usually sleep in, (If you thought THAT was too much information, just wait until I say scrotum!) however I deemed it too risky as none of them had a button in front. Why is it that boxers are manufactured without that button? Is it some shrewd money saving scheme, or do underwear companies legitimately want their customers flopping out every time they make sudden movements? In my opinion, this is solid evidence to support the Gay Mafia’s existence. Anyway, I decided against wearing boxers for the above wang related reason, and instead arrived dressed for sleep in jeans and a T-shirt. Obviously this did not go over well, and I was quickly whisked away to be properly pajama-ed. Moments later I rejoined the party wearing a skin-tight lacy black see-through top with pink polka dot shorts that barely covered my upper thighs.

Now, this brings me to the topic, (Finally, right? I mean, who introduces the topic more than halfway through their column? You must be thinking, “Jesus, I start reading this column, and it’s nothing but huge parentheticals which are barely related to the topic, which he JUST introduced! And when I say huge parentheticals, I mean HUGE parentheticals. The digressions go on for ages! I wouldn’t be surprised if he started writing about gerbils reciting Hamlet in space. Imagine that! How could you even describe something so absurd? Pop? What a prick this Silence Doless is!) and a lemon in a freezer. (Just kidding. This week’s topic is not “and a lemon in a freezer.” Hey, it was just a joke. A joke I tell you! Put me down you crazy Nazis! Ok, Ok, I’m starting over.)

This week’s topic is being comfortable in one’s own masculinity. I sure am, are you? If you’re not sure, take this handy quiz. NOTE: Results may vary if you are female.

  • Do you have a penis?
  • Do you think about your penis?
  • Have you ever thought about someone else’s penis?
  • Do you watch Scrubs?

If you answered No to any of the above questions, you are clearly not comfortable with your own masculinity. If you answered No to all, you could be in the closet. If this is the case, please, for your own sake, stop grunting, spitting, swearing, having sex with women, etc. and come out already! It’s okay to be gay, whatever the pope may say. Be proud of who you are. If the whole world ever seems like it is about to crush you under it’s intolerant heel, just take this humor column and inject it into the world’s toe. Whether it laughs or cries, or just gets pissed off, that fact that it has a giant syringe sticking out of its foot should buy you enough time to get away. Besides, if you stay locked in that closet forever, bad things will start to happen. Sure, you’ll be locked in there with Tom Cruise, but he’s clinically insane these days anyway. However the real danger comes from within. Well, within the family, really. As soon as the Gay Mafia hears about your denial, they’ll smack you so hard on the exposed wang you’ll wish you didn’t have one (refer back to quiz question A). So please folks, let’s strive to make a better world, and stand up for who we are, whoever we are (Oh, and by the way, scrotum).


Well, there I was, being a doofus in 2007. This piece isn’t great overall, but the ending where I give advice to gay men makes my skin crawl. The whole thing feels like a mess. Anyway, apologies regarding the past from the future.

Sleep Writing

Sleep. Everybody needs it, but these days, who has the time? I certainly don’t, what with class, homework, a social life, and writing this column every week. I routinely find myself tired and sleepy from too many nights spent away from my pillow, the effects of which almost always crop up at the least opportune moments. Take for example, right now. While writing these very words I dozed off twice, bringing my writing speed up to a blistering three words a minute. See? I’m so tired I can’t even make a decent joke out of that.

You all know how it goes. You spring out of bed early Monday morning, brush your teeth, comb your hair, throw on a mask and cape, dash out the door and into class just in time to wrestle your philosophy professor because you disagree with his interpretation of Hobbes.

Then you wake up.

Groggily you check the time, firmly decide, “No way.” and promptly fall back asleep. Several hours later you wake up again and move blearily throughout the rest of the day. You promise yourself an early night, but somehow something incredibly interesting is always going on. Whether that interesting thing is IMDBing that entire cast of Family Matters or sitting in a lounge and counting how many people use the word “like” in a sentence, is not the point. The point is that now it’s 2am and you have to wake up early the next morning.

This process repeats until Thursday, when you realize you’ve been far too busy not sleeping to do any of your homework. Terrified, you throw your tired bones at your work. Only you’re still extremely tired and your homework starts getting jumbled together with all the other things you haven’t been doing. Next thing you know you’re quoting Steve Urkle for a paper on the French and Indian War (Did I do that?), citing that the brain functions on a network of bad valley girl grammar for psyche, and vehemently stating that the only sensibly counter argument to Hobbes is a headlock. Ultimately, this does not garner good grades, even among professors who like Family Matters and or Calvin.

Still tired and newly despondent about red marks accompanied by strange looks and warnings about the dangers of LSD, you hit the weekend ready to let loose and enjoy yourself. Obviously you get no sleep. By Sunday you shake off a hang over and to scramble to write your humor column, but halfway through you realize you don’t write the humor column. Now you don’t even get the satisfaction of publication.

Crumpling up your column, you vow to get even with that snot faced, dirty trick pulling Silence Doless if it’s the last thing you do. Unfortunately, Silence Doless does not appear on Facebook, nor is sdoles1@pride.hofstra.edu a valid email address, yet you swear to track him down regardless, even if it means resorting to the use of the extremely realistic drawing included in this column. But am I really to blame? The easy answer is yes, but the complex, subtle answer is no, which is my personal favorite.

That answer has a lot to do with being an overworked American, resorting priorities away from blind capitalism, and living better, more productive, and ultimately happier lives based around generous amounts of sleep for all.

I would explain all of that, but I’m way too tired.


The content isn’t too cringy on this one, so that’s good. There’s some structure and callbacks, so that’s nice. I never watched Family Matters, so I must have been latching on to that as a cultural reference everyone else would know. Is it funny? I certainly can’t say, which probably points to “no”.

Grass Ass

Hello and welcome to this week’s column, the topic of which is grass. No, I don’t mean marijuana, but regular garden-variety grass (I still don’t mean marijuana). It’s the stuff we sit on, run on, and swim on (I’m looking at you land shark). It gives your dad something to care about besides football. It’s the perfect place to spread blankets for a picnic with the whole family, or spread legs for a picnic preferably without the whole family (this preference varies depending upon which side of the mason Dixon line you’re on). It provides vast open spaces of soft lush greenery, which we are told to keep off of by little yellow signs. It gives us a place to ponder the meaning of golf: top Freudian psychologists agree that it is the result of pent-up masochistic sexual tension, which manifests itself in extreme phallic aggression towards the testicles. It is pure unadulterated life rooted to the soil, selflessly preventing erosion. If humanity made first contact with life from another planet, doubtless our first question would be,

“Do you have grass where you come from?”

After a bit of somatic confusion about marijuana they would doubtlessly reply,

“Yes we do, and we love it!”

You could say that grass binds the galaxy together.

Why all the fuss over grass? Why bother talking about it if it will always be with us, right? Wrong. A worldwide crisis in grass in happening even as I write these words, a crisis so large that it can no longer be ignored. I am of course referring to the fact that much of the world’s grass is turning brown.

“Oh silly Stupid Guy,” you may say. “Grass always turns brown.”

Wrong again. Usually in Hempstead at this time of year the grass has been so frostbitten that it couldn’t even think about turning brown. Or perhaps I’m thinking of Siberia at any time of year. Regardless, big changes are happening to grass, which means they are happening to you too. The root reason (pun definitely intended) of these changes is global warming, the hit movie phenomena that has both viewers and critics raving (mad). True Fact: Roger Ebert now gives thumbs ups from the cockpit of a hypersonic rocket ship. He has it pointed at what he hopes is a distant grassy planet, but it’s probably just his wife.

Global warming is a serious issue as it is literally toasting our grass. If global warming continues at its current rate, we could well lose grass entirely, the universe’s most precious commodity. If our grass dies, what will hold our world together? Not only will countless millions of acres of land wash into the sea, but also your dad, stripped of his front lawn (no grass) and his football (no grass) may just have break down and start caring about your mom.

Now I’m not an investigative journalist or an environmental scientist, but I can only assume that Hofstra is directly responsible for global warming. I don’t see any solar panels on our acres of roof space, and certainly no grass planting program, just another Unispan that no one uses. From this shocking evidence alone I believe a prosecutor could easily convict Hofstra’s administration of heat crimes.

So what can you as a concerned citizen and student do in the face of such a disaster? Well for starters you could sprinkle grass seeds in President Rabinowitz’s underwear and stop paying tuition, and then go from there. Let us band together as one campus, one nation, one people, and save our grass. If we don’t do it, who will? Aliens? Yeah right, I hear they have a huge land shark problem.


I remember my roommates really loving this one, so I put it up as a good one in my memory, but man is this all over the place. Social commentary from a nineteen year old? Check. Cringy sex jokes? Check. Really long sentences? My God check. And who couldn’t get excited for the thirty year old at the time Land Shark reference? Indelible.

LIR-Arg!

Over the long weekend I had the pleasure of visiting Sarah Lawrence College, an all around better school than Hofstra. Why, you may foolishly ask? Because they offer a seminar called “Lube It Up”, that’s why. Who doesn’t want to be a part of that? The only thing at Hofstra that comes close to being that slick is your local Dude-Guy’s hair, which is decidedly less appealing, especially in the current context.

However, this week’s column is not about Sarah Lawrence. Sure they have a beautiful campus, progressive classes, and a six-dollar buffet with everything from waffles you make yourself to real eggs, but what I really want to talk about is how I got there. Yes folks, I’m talking about the Long Island Railroad.

Everyone who goes to Hofstra has been on it, and if you haven’t there is a good chance you don’t go to New York City often, in which case you should stop being such a huge townie. But I digress. I don’t care what you do; your experience on the LIRR is always going to involve adventure. And by adventure I mean black holes of logic. Here’s how a typical LIRR riding day goes.

You’re all set to go, but for some reason you don’t have a ride (i.e. your car is in the shop, your roommate is away, and the cab is fifty dollars), so you take the blue beetle. After the pain in your ass subsides from being bounced two and a half feet in the air after every bump for twenty minutes, you quickly realize that you have to pee for much the same reason. So you waddle to the bathroom only to find that it’s closed after 1pm. Also, the train you were trying to catch departed five minutes ago, meaning you’ll have to wait almost an hour for the next one. For some reason, Hofstra decided it was in the best interest of their students to time the buses so that you always miss the train. So, squeezing your thighs and feeling like the victim of some elaborate Rabinowitzian conspiracy, you sit down to wait.

What happens in the time between when you sit down and when you get on the train largely depends on whether you’re in Minneola or Hempstead station. In these modern days, Hofstra is nice enough to send the blue beetle to Minneola. Nobody knows when, but if you’re lucky enough to stumble upon that magical time frame, you will doubtless spend your waiting period admiring the day, the people, and the surprising lack of chewing gum on the floor. If, however, you end up at Hempstead, not only will you wonder at the surprising amount of chewing gum on the floor, you will also see something weird. My first time at Hempstead station, I watched a full-grown man floss his teeth with his ticket for well over five minutes.

Finally you get on the train, and by this time you really have to pee. You sniff yourself after you sit at the window of a three-seater and no one sits next to you, then proceed to fall asleep. Later, you are invariably woken up by the automated stop announcer screaming, “Holis!” The auto announcer hates Holis, and every time he has to say it the fact just makes him angry. You can hear it in his voice. Holis must have done something awful to the auto announcer. I’d do an investigative report, but it’s probably some dirty Long Island Railroad secret and I’d end up getting whacked by the mob…come on pseudonym, protect me!

So anyway, you finally get off the train and rush to the public restroom in Penn Station. The stench is so overwhelming that it seems that of the thousands of people who use it daily, none of them hit the toilet, and so ends your odyssey. That is, until you have to come back.

Yet the Long Island Railroad needs our love, just like anything else. We need to care for it, nourish it, and push it on its way. Just a little something extra to make those wheels turn, to loosen those pumps, and to maybe make the auto announcer say a nice word or two about Holis. When you come right down to it, all the LIRR needs is a little lube.


Woof, I really loved run on sentences. Sounds like I was really stretching to find something to be pissed about. I had plenty of things, but I wasn’t touching the real stuff. “Rabinowitzian” is a reference to then Hofstra president Stuart Rabinowitz. The execution needs work, but I still like the concept of the “Holis” joke. The dude really does yell that stop and no others.

Silence-d no More

Well, Hofstra is upon us once again, and as everyone starts settling back into classes, dorms, and binge drinking (or starts for the first time, for all you wild and crazy freshmen), I thought it prudent to take pause and reflect upon the hard work of our dedicated professors who each and every day educate the next generation. And by this I mean make fun of them. For grade related reasons, I won’t target any one person or persons, but rather focus on general trends.

Have you ever had an English professor? Good, then you’ll know what I’m talking about. To them, over analyzing a book comes as naturally as it doesn’t to anyone else. What, may I ask is the point of a story that requires a PhD to fully understand? A statistically elitist point, that’s what.

Recently I was asked to read The Sound And The Fury, by William Faulkner. There seems to be a law of physics stating that all college English professors love assigning incredibly dense and confusing books in which all the characters think extremely deep thoughts such as “my life sucks”, “everybody’s life sucks” and “you suck”. The Sound and the Fury was particularly confusing: half narrative, half stream of conscious, and no way to tell the difference between the two. Luckily chapters had handy dates, which firmly grounded the reader in a specific time. However inside the chapters there would be random time jumps in the middle of sentences. Thankfully these were indicated by italics…but not always. Sometimes, you just had to guess.

Yet all the mind-bending motifs, metaphors, stylistic choices, etc. paid off in the end, as Faulkner had succeeded in conveying the deep message underpinning the entire book, a message that resonates deep in the core of all who read it. If you lean your ear close to the page, you can almost hear Faulkner saying, “I’m better than you.” So to entertain myself while reading, I routinely wouldn’t.

Another quirk of some English professors is that they assign students their own book (You all know who you are, and with any luck, you don’t know who I am…or perhaps you think my name is Silence Doless). More than being simply unethical, it’s downright awkward. Picture this: you’re sitting in class and out of nowhere your professor starts illustrating a point with something he or she wrote. What if you don’t think the professor’s stuff is any good? You obviously can’t just say that (unless you happen to be writing this column…professor blank, I don’t like your work). Now you’re screwed into two options the rest of the semester. You could,

  1. Not talk and lower your participation grade, or
  2. Lie and say the professor’s book is so good that one day it will replace the Bible in popularity.

There is also a third option involving air freshener, thumbtacks, and a live cougar, but few among us posses the iron will necessary to carry it through. And so I say we fight back. Long enough have students suffered under the pretentious weight of college English professors. Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time we took a stand! As for me, I’ll be finishing The Sound And The Fury.