Spoon Assassins Log

By Jake Muldowney
Day 1: Mike the RA told me about this Spoon Assassins game he’s planning. Sounds like a fun time, and the meeting is tonight. I’m not busy, maybe I should check this out. If I’m lucky, Emma might even be there.
Day 2: The game is going to be underway, actually a lot of people on the floor are participating. My roommate Jim, like 6 people in my stats class I didn’t even know lived on the floor, and, of course, Emma. Hopefully she doesn’t get too into this and stops wanting to hang out. Rules are pretty simple, if someone catches you holding a spoon and then “stabs” you, you’re out. Wish me luck!
Day 3: Wow, like 4 people got out last night. I haven’t really been paying attention that much, any of them could’ve been me. Better keep an eye out, I’d look pretty dumb if I went out this early. Also, Emma said yes to lunch this Friday, I’m so excited!
Day 5: Had to sleep somewhere else last night, couldn’t update the journal. I think Jim is planning something, I saw him with a spoon earlier and now it’s gone. What if it’s in my backpack or something?
Day 6: Jim is one of Them now, I’m sure of it. He’s got spoons where spoons shouldn’t be. He thinks I don’t see them but I see them. I see all of them. The world spirals out around me, and it’s spoons all the way down. Nobody can be trusted. Nobody.
Day 7: Lunch was today and Emma ordered a soup and it came with a spoon. A spoon. Why would she get something like that? Doesn’t she know They could be anywhere, waiting in the shadows with spoons gleaming, ready to strike. How can she feel so secure what does she know that I don’t know what does she know about the spoons.
Day 8: Jim is dead. I looked into his eyes and stabbed him, spooned him right there in the shower. It wasn’t even hard, nobody ever looks for a spoon in their shampoo bottle.
Day 10: I was out last night, waiting. There’s only three of us left, Emma, Mike and I. The spoons speak to me, they tell me the secrets they know, secrets of oatmeal and stew. They reflect the world as the warped place it is, where the only truths are the spoons themselves and whoever controls them. The spoons are my assassins now, all of them. The spoons speak to me, I am their champion. The spoons speak to me.
Day 11: Emma is dead. We had our second date today. She ordered soup, again. She must have known, must have. The second she picked up the spoon to eat, I got her right there. The look on her face as she realized what was going on was one of pure fear. Or maybe confusion, it is sometimes hard to tell.

Day 12: It is over, it is done, I am the spoon god and they all know. Having destroyed all the usurpers, I may now go about clad in spoon chainmail, the spoons singing their clanking song with every step. The spoons still speak to me, acknowledging my apotheosis, my godhead. RA Mike was child’s play, once I planted a spoon in a wine bottle and left it outside his room. His senseless devotion to duty let me spoon him like the pretender he was. I have become one with the spoons. I am spoons, and spoons are me.

College Freshman Regrets Telling Mom Anything About Her Life, Ever

By I.S. Mills

Andrea Saunders, 18, a freshman at the University of Pittsburgh, regrets telling her own mother anything about her life.

“I mean, I think I’m just going to tell her like, really superficial things from now on,” said the teen in an exclusive interview.

Saunders says her trouble started when she got a urinary tract infection while at school- something she is prone to. Saunders told her mom to expect a charge to her insurance during one of their weekly phone conversations, as she planned to visit an emergency care clinic later that day.

“As soon as I brought it up she just freaking went to town. ‘Are you wiping back to front? You know you have to wipe front to back.’ Like, yes mom, I know how to fucking wipe my ass. Don’t you think there would have been a major problem at this point in my life if I had been wiping my ass wrong for eighteen years?”

Saunders also alleged that her mom interrogated her about her sexual habits. “She asked if I knew to pee after sex, and I was like, yeah, obviously. Christ,” said Saunders.

The complaints go on. “Last night she got on my case too. I got a ride back to Pittsburgh from a girl in my music ensemble, and she told me not to accept rides from strangers. Like, A) this ride is free, and B) she’s an eighteen year old marimba player from WVU named Marissa.”

Saunders does not plan to tell her mother about the homeless man who hit on her earlier this week, nor about the all-nighter she pulled studying for a calculus exam. The student is quite convinced that her mother will twist these events into potentially catastrophic situations.

“She just doesn’t need to know,” says Saunders.

Review: B.D Wahlberg’s Review of Roger Ebert’s Review of “Spice World”

By Cassandra DellaCorte

Last month, some movie review reviewer 
named B.D Wahlberg gave Roger Ebert’s review of the Spice Girls movie, Spice World, one half of a star. Guess what else deserves a low rating? Wahlberg’s review. They obviously think they’re being clever by name-dropping another epic band feature, but the true irony comes from Wahlberg’s critique of Ebert’s critique. While Wahlberg is entirely correct that Spice Girls music is “…absolutely necessary,” they use 263 words to nitpick Ebert’s review, when they could have accomplished this in seven: Ebert missed the point of Spice World.

But this review isn’t about how ridiculously wonderful Spice World is, it’s about how Wahlberg’s review of Roger Ebert’s review doesn’t deserve even two out of four stars. They are a person who just pulls out a template for reviews of movies they don’t want to like and plugs in key words from the review. All we can do is be as petulant as Wahlberg is and quote their quote in their cop-out of a conclusion: “Words fail me as I try to describe my thoughts…” 

See B.D. Wahlberg’s Review: Roger Ebert’s Review of “Spice World”:

See Roger Ebert’s Review of “Spice World”:

Obama Pardons Coddled Thanksgiving Turkey

By Phil Forrence p { margin-bottom: 0.1in; line-height: 120%; }

The tradition of U.S Presidents pardoning the First Turkey every Thanksgiving is an amusing institution with uncertain, if not mythical roots. Many believe it began in 1924 when Calvin Coolidge, tired of eating his wife’s famous Turkey Butt dish, officially allowed the game to go free. Since that year, the president always allows one lucky bird to abstain from the annual genocide of its kind.

However, never has there been a more undeserving fowl to receive this treatment than 2015’s Darius J Turkey III. Darius is a trust fund poult who was raised free-range in the South of France on a farm owned by the lovechild of Marilyn Monroe and Denny’s CEO John C. Miller. Since his hatching, he has been waited on wing and talon.
Yeah I got the dodge, but I think I speak for turkeys everywhere when I say that I deserved it.” Turkey explains between lines of coke, “We live in a society where only the strong survive, and if that means I am a free bird when others get the axe, so be it.” When pressed to clarify his statement, J-Turks threw up all over the many microphones.
The application process to be the pardoned turkey is one fraught with corruption. It considers recommendations, resumes, and the votes from last season’s American Idol Top 8. Many recent winners have been accused of winning due to having influential turkey parents while others were said to have gotten the edge after rave reviews from Keith Urban and Jennifer Lopez.
Darius J Turkey III is just one of many examples of how a flawed system can make a mockery of a once proud tradition.

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Purgatory: Worse Than Hell?

By Steven Jaindl

(Editor’s Note: The Pittiful News sent an investigative journalist to purgatory to detail his experiences. The following article is excerpted from a prolix poem he wrote, delivered to The Pittiful News offices by Virgil)
I find myself walking toward an edifice;
What this building is or what it does contain
I do not know as it was steeped in a mist.
I use not heroic couplets or quatrains,
For this is purgatory and I must use
Terza rima, with compositional pains.
As I walk a man trails me like a caboose;
Nearly together we approach a glass door,
Which I open easily for it was loose.
Turning my head I wish I could ignore
That my compatriot is quite far behind,
Although not so far as to not hold the door.
Thinking to myself, “To him I shall be kind!”
I hold the door for him as he keeps walking;
He comes no closer, and I am in a bind.
I ponder, “Shall I persist in my holding
Of this door for this man until I am numb?
Or should I continue my walk, committing sin?”
This dilemma persists ad infinitum
As I hold this door ‘til I am beyond sick
In this timeless, frictionless continuum.
My advice: to stragglers be a complete dick,
And do not hold any doors in their midst;
And if you plan to die, don’t be Catholic. 

An Erotic Holiday Tale

By: C. Knif

I climbed onto Santa’s lap and told him exactly what I wanted. It was ten days before Christmas, and I know it’s just a guy in a costume, but I needed my fix. I whispered into the jolly man’s ear while I caressed his inner thigh, “All I want for Christmas is your candy cane in my stocking.” The drunken Macy’s Santa just looked into my eyes and loudly said, “I’ll be sure that pony is under your tree.” And then he fell into my breasts and I felt his fake beard get stuck on my bra.  I then brushed his hair with my hand lightly as the elfish helpers suggested I head home while Santa took a break. Little did they know that this quick interaction with faux Saint Nick would satiate my sexual needs until the big day. I of course masturbated with a miniature nativity set for six hours every day until Christmas Eve. 
I woke up on the 24th of December and boy was I ready. In just 18 hours, my big jolly Daddy would be inside me, shooting off his milk and cookies inside me. Just the thought of it makes me as wet as the Christmas ham. I spend all day getting ready by hanging ornaments from my labia and draping garland ‘round my bosoms. Midnight strikes, and the rest of my family is asleep and in bed, but I begin tiptoeing down to the Christmas tree where I unwrap all my presents for Santa and lay waiting. Around two in the morning, I hear a sensual “Ho, ho where is my favorite mistle hoooooo” coming down the chimney. 

He brought me up the chimney with him and set me into his sleigh. “It’s too dark, Jolly Saint Nick, I can’t see my favorite Christmas tree good enough to give it a good suckling,” I said as Mr. Claus just looked my naked body up and down, licked his lips, and said,” Rudolph! Can you help a brotha’ out?” Rudolph walked over and lit up his bright red nose so that Santa would have plenty of view of all my fixings. Rudolph sat down and started jerking his Reindeer dick off with his hooves. Santa laid me down gently on the seat of his sleigh and undid the button on his red velvet pants, and he wasn’t wearing any underwear. We began making love the whole way to the North Pole.