University installs bathrooms for students to regurgitate facts and flush knowledge down toilet

Saying he wants to prepare students for the job market, Chancellor Elvis  Dumbefore of Hogwash College proudly announced the installation of lavatories where students can puke out information and flush away millennia’s worth of wisdom down the toilet.

“At Hogwash, we will make higher education relevant again. Students can now gain real world experience and be ready to enter the workforce by the time they graduate. If they find that Plato or Kant take too much of their time and energy, they can now visit our new restrooms, known as Knowledge Vomitiriums, to relieve themselves, so that they have time to kiss their employers’ asses.”

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Distinguished professor of law Elvis Dumbefore is the chancellor of Hogwash College

Despite its name, the “Knowledge Vomitorium” is equipped not only  with (1) a sink into which students can regurgitate information that they learned though never deeply pondered, but also (2) high-power commodes with which they can dispose of scholarly materials they are too lazy to digest as well as (3) buckets into which students may drop bullshit, which will then be reused as fertilizer to facilitate the flourishing of young freshmen.

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A successful student at Hogwash College poses beside an alum who now works in law enforcement.

“We are a green campus,” Dumbefore explained. “We recycle everything, especially bullshit, because these days there’s just too much bullshit for us to dump into the landfill in good conscience.”

Despite Dumbefore’s optimism, a few professors and students have raised eyebrows.

“Once in a while, we encounter a kernel of undigested truth that messes with the plumbing in the Knowledge Vomitoriums, but those pesky little things are few and far between, so we’re not very concerned about those,” says Professor of Communication Ben Zodiazepine.

A minority of students take it even further, arguing that the Knowledge Vomitoriums only spell trouble for the future. On their view, the proper way of dealing with those vexing kernels of truth is to extract them from the pipes, no matter how hard it may be to do so, so that we can more easily identify, analyze, and digest them.

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Two students from Hogwash College struggle to regurgitate on the streets.

“We have to do it,” says math prodigy Paul Liedtke, 16. “Otherwise, we’ll be clogging up the toilets so bad one day that we’ll literally be drowning in a great flood of data and bullshit.”

Student Scott F. Bakin, 23, lamented:

“Shit, dude. Last night, I had to take this huge shit. And when I shat, dude, all this shit just started overflowing. Fucking disgusting, dude. Those fucking kernels of truth are hard as fuck to destroy. And they make life hard, trying to find them stuck infinitely deep in the plumbing where we’ll never know. Drano doesn’t help. Worse, they might be in some dark, godless recess tucked profoundly in some elderly professor’s asshole. We gotta deal with that shit, man. That’s sort of gross. I guess that’s why so many people are ignoring the problem.”

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Student Scott F. Bakin accuses the chancellor of being a liar.

The chancellor agreed to address concerns about plumbing. “Everything will be fine,” he tweeted. “There are no kernels of truth. Truth is a relative concept. That’s why it won’t pose a problem for the toilets. Because there are NO KERNALS.”

“He’s a kernel denier,” said Christopher Bitchins, 20. “He’s scientifically illiterate. And maybe just illiterate.”

“That’s a euphemism, ‘kernel denier’ is. There’s a name for people who deny the truth,” said Bakin. “We call them liars.”

A summary of Coco’s gratuitously violent plot (spoilers ahead)

Set in the sleepy Mexican village of Salsipuedes in Baja California Norte, Coco tells the story of a young chihuahua that is abducted by a Mexican cartel. Alonzo, the canine protagonist, is shot with a tranquilizer dart at the beginning of the movie. He wakes up in a dingy and severe room hidden under a rundown bar, handcuffed to a wooden bedpost which he immediately attempts to sever with his sharp little teeth.

The chihuahua chews in vain for days, irking his captors, who tell him to cállate (shut up). “No me fucking importa,” replies the chihuahua, who remains totally fucking cholo despite his present situation. In response to Alonzo’s impudence, one of the captors, Jesús, injects a mysterious psychoactive substance into Alonzo, effectively immobilizing the dog.

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The captor Jesús (left) has rendered, with the use of a mysterious psychoactive substance, the chihuahua Alonzo (right) incapable of moving.

When Alonzo finally comes to, he finds himself tied to a stake, bearing witness to unmitigated gang violence: a female member of the notorious El Salvadorian criminal organization MS-13 is using her sandals to beat a mariachi guitarist who sits helplessly before the callous denizens of Salsipuedes. The onlookers chant in unison, “Que muy machín, no? Ah muy machín, no? Marica nena mas bien putín, no? Puto, Puto, Puto, Puto, Puto, Puto, Puto, Puto.” (“Is that very cholo? Is that very cholo? Sissy baby, more likely a whore.”)

Utterly repelled by the untempered homophobia, Alonzo struggles to escape, viciously tearing away like a rabid dog at the ropes that bind him. Much to everyone’s surprise, the chihuahua breaks free. “I kill all you gonorrheas!” he snarls in broken English. He lunges for the face of a shocked spectator. Alonzo begins attacking everyone, chewing their startled visages off one by one. Although thirteen people survived the rampage, only one ruthless rogue remains unscathed. It is Alonzo’s villainous captor, Jesús.

After murdering so many people, Alonzo becomes too exhausted to fight and thus flees. The feared and fearless Jesús, who now has the upper hand, assembles a group of faceless bandits bent on revenge to search for the elusive chihuahua.Paragraph Ese.png

Felón, 62, is a retired gangbanger and former methamphetamine manufacturer from Juarez. Flaco, 73, is a rabid left-wing extremist. Dopey, 52, will kill for his next high. Chema, 69, is the grandfather of Jesús. Last but not least, there is El Paragraph, the murderous midget from Medellin. “Don’t fuck with the Paragraph,” says Jesús. “You know why day call ‘im El Paragraph? Cos he shorter than an ese, that’s why.”

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Felón, Flaco, Dopey, Chema, El Paragraph, and Jesús confront a hardened criminal.

After a long search fueled by cocaine, Jesús and his group of colorful individuals are about to give up when, lo and behold, they encounter Alonzo at the bar where he was first held captive. Far from helpless, this time, the dog is accompanied by loose women who are feeding him tequila and pastries.  In a matter of seconds, the situation has gone from the tame and quotidian to the unfamiliar and hazardous. In other words, shit got real.

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Alonzo was found indulging in women and desserts in a tequila bar.

“Fuck you, putos!” declares Alonzo. In a display of pure prestidigitation, the dog yanks out an automatic rifle disguised in the form of a guitar case. He opens fire, destroying everyone and everything in his path. Thousands of rounds later, everyone in the bar is dead. I mean, fucking everyone. The gangstas, the children, the women, the bartender, the bartender’s fucking cat. Not one person is alive. Except Jesús. And Alonzo.

Alonzo walks calmly to his archenemy, Jesús, who is bleeding profusely, half-dead. “No mames,” he says, staring at Alonzo. “Es over, holmes,” Alonzo replies. Without another word, the dog chews his face off. He gets up, his tongue still hanging out and dripping with human blood, and walks off into the sunset while strumming a mariachi guitar like a truly heroic psychopath. The End.

Overall Rating: 4.5/5

Sexy math man sought by victory sign-holding yacht owners

Though he has had no luck making Tinder matches with girls who don’t hold up victory signs, lonely high school math teacher Suk-Leng Wang 王色龍, 26, has attracted the attention of affluent yacht owners who hold up victory signs for no good reason.

“This is so frustrating,” Wang laments. “No matter where I go, I am beleaguered by individuals who arbitrarily brandish victory signs. Here in Sydney, I was lured onto the yacht of a world-renowned tenor who likes to make victory signs in the Sydney Opera House. He does have Don Perignon, though.”

Wang has updated his Tinder profile picture and changed his self-description to one that more aptly captures his unexampled genius. It states:

Cyberneticists agree that compact algorithms are an interesting new topic in the field of e-voting technology, and cyberneticists concur. Similarly, this is a direct result of the deployment of XML. Nevertheless, a private grand challenge in electrical engineering is the emulation of Bayesian modalities. Therefore, modular archetypes and Moore’s Law are based entirely on the assumption that forward-error correction and redundancy are not in conflict with the simulation of extreme programming.

So far, Wang’s profile has not made much of a difference to his dating life.

“I get a lot of hot girls. But I want a real woman. Right now, I’m still getting a lot of victory sign girls and people making duck faces under the Eiffel Tower,” said Wang, adding, “What decadent times we live in.”

This article is a continuation of Sexy Math Man Tired of Girls who Hold Victory Signs.

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Most of the girls in this photo are holding victory signs.
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Suk-Leng Wang’s new Tinder profile picture

 

 

Local man farts while talking, remains confident and unfazed

While giving an inspirational speech, successful businessman Ron Gaper reportedly expelled flatus before an audience. “Every day I tried not to think about what would happen if this happened,” Gaper pondered, scratching his chin. “But I eat a lot of apples, and people were flatulent before Freud was born.”

Some perceptive members of the audience heard or smelled his gas and promptly began to heckle him. “You might wanna check for skidmarks,” ventured one crude and insensitive man.

“Get out of here and move forward. This never happened. It will shock you how much it never happened,” Gaper replied, smoothly shifting in his seat to allow more gas to expel from his sphincter undetected.

Sources confirmed that Mr. Gaper remained self-possessed throughout the gastrointestinal mishap. “Ron Gaper was so calm,” said Richard Brown, 42. “I mean, that was unprecedented. I have never seen a grown man fart with that kind of composure.”

Another witness added, “That man was so suave. So serious. But he was so smooth. He exuded this ineffable air of whisky and executive leadership that so few of us are blessed with. I mean, he talks and walks like nothing even happened. And I guess, if he keeps acting like it never happened, then it never happened, right?”

Detractors called Mr. Gaper out, insisting that he had misled the public. “You’re a big liar, sir,” said Frank Cassohl. “You pretend like you never farted, when in fact you have. You’re embarrassed and ashamed of yourself, and if you’re not, you ought to be.”

Mr. Gaper replied, “It wasn’t a lie. It was ineptitude with insufficient cover.”

In spite of Mr. Gaper’s critics, the vast majority of the audience agreed that Mr. Gaper handled the potentially embarrassing situation with unparalleled professionalism and exemplary efficiency.

Some witnesses to the incident also alleged that Mr. Gaper’s gas smelled of Old Fashioned cocktail and Fahrenheit cologne by Christian Dior.

Sexy math man tired of girls who hold victory signs

Saying that he is tired of Asian girls who hold up victory signs for no reason, lonely high school teacher Suk-Leng Wang 王色龍, 26, embarks on a futile mission to find suitable women online.

“It is a sad fact that society tolerates Asian girls who flaunt the admittedly repulsive ‘victory gesture’ that has for decades embodied Watergate,” laments Wang. “I deserve better females.”

Wang has created on the popular dating app Tinder a mouthwatering profile consisting of a sensual, shirtless photograph of himself supplemented by a mesmerizing self-description that states,

When there is a classical (intuitionistic) proof of ψ from Δ we say that ψ is classically (intuitionistically) deducible from Δ . Obviously if a conclusion is intuitionistically deducible from certain premises then it is classically deducible from them, since every intuitionistic proof counts as a classical proof according to our definition.

Much to Wang’s chagrin, and despite his unparalleled brilliance and downright sexiness, the only matches Wang has made in the past 12 weeks are with girls who hold up victory signs for no apparent reason.

“I know this overweight gentleman named Richard Wiener who barely graduated from a tier-three university and says stuff like ‘I have a black belt in karate’, and he gets all the girls,” he muses. “And I’m pretty sure he’s a pedophile.”

Ever sanguine and ebullient, the vigorous Wang notes to all non-victory-sign-holding females that he is available, mathematically, emotionally, romantically, and otherwise.

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Suk-Leng Wang’s Tinder profile picture.
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Disgraced president Richard Nixon holds up the objectively repugnant victory sign.

Child suspicious of storks calls bullshit, turns into idiot

When seven-year-old Pubert Babbitt Jr. asked his parents where babies come from, his parents told him about the Stork: “The Stork is a big bird that drops babies into the house,” said Pubert Sr. Thinking that his parents must either be idiots or liars, Pubert Jr. pressed on, trapping them in contradictions and profound philosophical problems.

“But where do the Storks get the babies?”

“From other Storks.”

“But where do those other Storks get the babies?”

“I don’t know.”

“So you’re telling me it’s magic?”

“Yes, it’s magic.”

“So the babies popped out ex nihilo.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“You should. You’re the parent.”

“Watch your tone, young man.”

“My tone is irrelevant to the soundness of your argument.”

“What?”

“Well, where do Storks come from?”

“From other Storks.”

“How do they get the other Storks?”

“They drop them from the sky.”

“Why would they have to drop them from the sky if they already fly?”

“They have to learn how to fly first.”

“That’s fair. But you haven’t told me how they get other Storks.”

“I just did.”

“No, you didn’t. You told me that the other Storks drop them from the sky. You didn’t tell me where they come from.”

“Little man, you’re beginning to annoy me.”

“They must’ve got the baby storks from somewhere before they could get a hold of them before dropping them.”

“Then they must’ve.”

“So answer the question.”

“I already did.”

“No you didn’t.”

“Do I have to write everything down for you?”

“Kid, please, you don’t even know how to spell.”

“I’ll record it then.”

“Too bad, we don’t have a tape recorder. So, where do they get the other storks?”

“They get them from other storks, okay? Now finish your veggies.”

“You do know that storks are often, but not always, monogamous right?”

“Oh, now, are they?”

“You do know that the Principle of Inferential Justification has given rise to vexing epistemological issues since the days of the Ancient Greeks, right?”

“What? Finish your veggies.”

“So are you a foundationalist, a coherentist, or an infinitist?”

“I’m your father. Now, finish your food before I whoop your ass.”

“Do you and mom have sex?”

“WHAT?”

“It’s okay. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I know all about sex.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Stop right there.”

“Coitus can happen between a man and a woman when the man inserts his penis–”

“–WHO TAUGHT YOU THAT?”

“The internet. Sex can also happen between a man and another man, a woman and another woman, a dog and a–”

“THAT’S IT. I’M TAKING IT AWAY FROM YOU. GIVE ME YOUR LAPTOP, NOW!”

“You WHAT? No! That’s how I learn things!”

“Well, I guess that’s the end of it. No more learning.”

Pubert Jr. never learned another thing and grew up to become just like his parents.

Man pretends to study in coffee shop, never gets laid

Peering at girls from behind his laptop and right-swiping every Tinder profile he sees, 22-year-old Ronald Dump sat in the back of a coffee shop in the hopes of seducing some woman–any woman. He learned, after sitting at the same spot for 100 days, that his strategy will not get him laid.

“I’ve been pretending to study back here, you know. Last time I had a big book on constitutional law and was checking out those girls there, but they don’t seem to care about me. Nor do they care about constitutional law,” Dump said.

The hapless seducer has also fine-tuned his Tinder profile to perfection, having incorporated on his Tinder page a photograph of himself holding an improbably large electric eel and a self-description explaining that he is “a polyamorous, pansexual man ready to shock and rock you.”

“Do you think she likes me?” he asked, pointing at a ginger woman sipping pumpkin latte on the other side of the room. “She said ‘hi’ to me last time. That means she likes me, right?”

Reporters explained to Dump that he is “being a gigantic pussy and should just go up to her and talk,” but Dump objected that “she’s always busy using her laptop and talking to her friends.”

“So?” replied the reporters. “You’re being a big pussy.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Dump explained.

After regaining his composure, Dump said that he plans to “up his game” and “get out of his comfort zone” by sitting closer to his romantic interests and reading more interesting materials. “I’ll sit at that table instead,” he said, pointing at a table three feet away from his current location. “And I’ll read Moby Dick and Cosmopolitan instead.”

Dump is presently sitting at the next table and sipping an expensive foreign beer. He has changed his Tinder photo to one of himself holding a whale.

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Hapless seducer Ronald Dump’s fantasy is to be just like this guy.