Does He love you?

Ah, the Ghosts of Hyena Past. I have a folder on my desktop labeled 'HYENA!!!' that I like to scroll through anytime I want a cheap chuckle. Seeing all the sadly-deleted outtakes from Hylights reminded me of another great Hyena publication that might have been:

Hymen - Teen Magazine for Girls

Now, I have a couple true comedic gems from this aborted (haha! No, that's not funny. You're a monster) classic, but this little quiz (possibly the first thing I ever wrote for Hyena?) still makes me laugh. Enjoy! Please?

It’s just so hard to be a girl, right? Fashion is fickle – what’s in one minute is out the next. Boys let you down and break your heart. Friends come and go – they’re by your side one day and screening your calls the next. Every day is a constant battle for attention, perfection and that new cute boy in Algebra who’s such a TOTAL hottie when solving complex equations, with the lip-biting and the brow-furrowing. But take all that and shove it in your Dooney & Burke clutch because the fact of the sitch is this: the only opinion that really matters is His. Answer the questions below to see just how much the Big Man Upstairs really cares about you!

1. What’s the biggest mistake you’re made in your life?
A. You got a C that important test
B. Dropping out of high school
C. That third abortion

2. What’s an ideal date for you?
A. 12/25/08
B. “Watching” a movie at his place
C. The backseat of his car

3. What Biblical figure are you the most like?
A. The Virgin Mary. Pretty self-explanatory.
B. Delilah. Hey, everyone makes mistakes, right?
C. Queen Jezabel. Wikipedia me, heretics.

4. For your birthday, you’d LOVE…
A. Quality time with my besties.
B. A date night with the boy I’m crushing on!
C. More ketamine.

5. Favorite weekend activity?
A. Going to church
B. Shopping with my grrls!
C. Anal

6. Do you believe that people are inherently good or that they’re subject to their evil, basic, more animalistic instincts?
A. People are good. That’s what the Bible says.
B. Umm…whatever?
C. The issue of the intricacies of the human psyche is not so easily defined. While it easily argued that as mammals, humans are little more than high-order, sentient animals, it should also be noted that the power to think in the abstract allows for an advanced sense of right and wrong simply not found in other species.

7. Where do you see yourself in 5 years?
A. At an Ivy League, hopefully!
B. Working at the local Stop-N-Shop
C. Barefoot and pregnant

8. If you could pick any phrase that describes you, what would it be?
A. Easy to love
B. Easy to please
C. Easy

The Results:

Mostly As – Of course he loves you. You’re doing everything right, honey! However, He does think it’s a little TOO much sometime. Please go out and get laid already.

Mostly Bs – Sure, you’ve got flaws, but no sweat – He loves you anyway. He also thinks you’re an idiot. I know for sure. He told me.

Mostly Cs – Yeah, yeah, He loves you too. He might be the only one.

Update from Molly's Vacation, No. 1

Many things have happened since I bid you all a drunken farewell at the Last Final End-of-the-Year Hyena Party Part II. I have consumed a number of questionable substances to varying degrees of success (varying between 'awesome' and 'awesomekickasserton') but I have neither the time or short-term memory to relate them to you here - check them out in my forthcoming memoirs "Nicotine and Willpower" due out in fall '10 on Regnery Books. That's a political joke, chucklemites.

This, however, happened about 10 minutes ago over our second poorman's pina colada (for future reference, what makes them milky-colored? Is it milk? I hate milk. Mine's disappointingly orange in color but delightfully rum-my.)

Apparently, all varieties of drugs hit suburban Delware in the 50s and 60s with sudden force and my devil-may-care mother indulged her fair share. What does this mean, exactly?

My mother was born in 1952.
She was 15 in 1967.

Why is this relevant?

My mother tried heroin. Intervenously. When she was 15 years old.

Now, I've never injected heroin, but my surviving peers who have insist its like this:

(i.e. Totally sweet)

My mother, on the other hand, insists that it was more like this:


(i.e. Passed out from five hours)

Enough! I have more drinking and eventual driving to get to! I was mostly just tired of checking this blog with such high hopes only to see Alex's damn dinosaur puns again.

Fun with Paintbrush (a fond farewell to terbush)

Jon is a Blockhead. Molly is surprised.

Jon is a Luddite. Molly is in it for the fashion.

 

  

Jon is not amused. Molly is irrelevant.

Tyrannosaurus Sex

one of these has one more bone than the other

UPDATE: The Proof is GONE!

I have bad news, all my dear, dewy-eyed Hyenalings with bold aspirations of Presidentship.
It would seem that, like a poorly-dressed thief who never brushes his hair in the night,

JONATHAN TERBUSH

has stolen the one and only copy of Hy Times Magazine!

Let me paint a picture of you, Hyenogs (you know, in the Hychine):

Imagine you're one "Jonathan 'Crazy Face' Terbush" and you've frittered away your precious afternoon losing at Super Smash Brothers to some attractive, witty female friend of yours who so kindly and graciously invited you into her pristine abode.

With no scholarly aspirations other than sucking as much dick as humanly possible in the next three to four years, you are unconcerned about your looming 6 p.m. class - I mean, fuck it, right? When your charming female companion has to cut the games short because, as a responsible, contributing member of society, she has to go to work, you give her some surly backsass and skulk along your merry way to the library, presumably to attempt reacharounds on unsuspecting nappers.

No one seems to enjoy the sensation of your cold, clammy hands on their genitalia, but you are undeterred and it isn't until 5:30 - remember, you have class in a mere half hour, at the TOP of the Tufte Building - that you realize something: You didn't print out 15 copies of the 13 page story (read: utter tripe) you have to pass out to your peers.

MATH TIME!

It costs $0.07 to print a page on any of the black and white printers on the Emerson campus.
Your story is 13 pages, and you need 15 copies.
That's 195 pages all told!
At $0.07 a page, that's going to cost you $13.65!

Is the Print/Copy Center open? No!
Do you have any money left on your card? Yes! $1.00!

So you're short $12.65 with a half hour left til class!
What do you do?

Remember that lovely, helpful girl from earlier in this tale? Out of the goodness of her large, welcoming heart, she agrees to print the pages out for you - free of charge, of course. Now, pushing through a 195 page print job isn't the sort of thing that generally goes unnoticed, but this girl is as benevolent as a saint, regardless of how feckless and foolish you are.

And how do you repay this kindness?
How can you truly show appreciation to this good samartian who risked her job to disseminate a story about cats that can talk?

PRO TIP: You wait until she's collating the stories (because yeah, she's totally going to do that too, because she's wonderful) and you steal the Hy Times proof out of her backpack! [ Ed. - Actually, it's a messenger bag, to be fair.]


Well, what can you do, HyTimers?
Let's raise a glass to Jon Terbush, the once and perpetual President of Hyena Comedy...


...and join me in smashing them in his smug little face.

I Have Proof!

After a night spent drinking tea and discussing the fickleness of the stock market, Jon and I are pleased to inform you - yes, you! - that the PROOF HAS ARRIVED. In my hot little hands, I hold the first (non-digital, non-PDF, non-disappointment-to-Rubinton) copy of Hy Times to see the light of day.

Let me tell you guys - it's beautiful. I cried a little when I picked it up, fortunately mostly into the neck of a very understanding member of the facilities staff who shared an elevator with me.

For all those curious: I'm keeping it in my room, under intense laser-guided security. My roommates and employees have strict orders preventing any and all interlopers from even catching a glimpse of this fabled magazine. If you think you have what it takes to be the next President of Hyena, I officially dare you to come get it.

Two helpful hints:
1. I live off-campus now, in the second alleyway off of the Chinatown main gate on Beach. I'll be home between 11 p.m. and 4 a.m.
2. My building codes and regulations are pretty weird, so your best plan of attack is to come naked, with money and jewels taped to your body. Just a suggestion.

For all of you (wisely) forgoing my challenge, enjoy this picture of myself, naked, holding the magazine proof!

Contain Yourselves, Slobbering Fanboys...

Here at Hyena Comedy, we don't do anything for free.
A Rubinton will cost you, unless you're our respected Prez, in whose hallowed presence we are all so fortunate to be permitted to exist.
We are barely resisting the urge to splash the beautiful, arousing pages of Hy Times magazine all over the Interwebz, for all to see and chortle at, but until the imminent printing of our magazine, we simply must refrain.

Written comedy is not print journalism - we can't just be giving this shit away for free.
Right now, anyway.
Of course, once printed, we'll be giving it away for free.

It makes sense. It's logic. It's science. You wouldn't understand.

But, as we are as benevolent here at Hyena as we are charming and attractive, we give you this teaser image.
Please don't touch, and keep your hands above the waist, yeah?

Enjoy!

(P.S. - Alex, please edit your last post. The wrapping's all wrong, and we can't have Internet hooligans thinking we don't know the first thing about HTML. They'll eat our bandwith alive.)