*NOTE: written on Oct. 1, 2017*

Commander David Culpepper has finally taken decisive action to shut down the US Naval Base on Cuban soil, Guantanamo Bay, affectionately nicknamed GTMO. For decades, GTMO remained a favorite spot for the US to hold military prisoners and unlawful combatants from Afghanistan, Iraq, and other countries targeted during the “War on Terror.” While this may seem like a move in the right direction, according to recent condemnation from human rights groups, they are in fact moving prisoners into worse conditions.

Though the charges of torture include beatings, humiliating acts, prolonged exposure to extreme temperatures or loud noises, cruel, degrading treatment, and more, none of it compares to the horror these prisoners are soon to face: IKEA.

The CIA and Department of Defense have jointly agreed that buying out a failing IKEA megastore in Bolingbrook, Illinois to house the remaining terror suspects is more cost effective and equally as horrifying as the GTMO base. The prisoners will stumble around a neutral-colored, Scandinavian, building-equivalent-of-a-junk-drawer for the foreseeable future, waking from their constant confusion-derived-fatigue only to assemble intricate IKEA furniture: the ultimate punishment.

The Punch Bowl Investigative Journalism Squadron managed to obtain classified procedures which the CIA plans to implement in this DIY hell. They include such torture as asking prisoners to find various objects like the Norraker, Lisabo, Aglikstid — a task which would be akin to the voyage of Columbus in 1492, if the entire ocean was a cold, unforgiving, concrete box, and the guiding zephyr was an incompetent blue-vested high-schooler, mumbling, “Ya umm, I think I know where the bed stuff is.” On top of that, one of those names is not even real, a cruel twist from the minds of deranged CIA torture experts. Before each meal, prisoners will be asked to put together complicated dining sets, with slats and bolts that “obviously just don’t go there” (page 33 of “How to Fuck UP Terrorists in the Whitest Way Possible: The IKEA-GTMO Move”). The directions will no doubt be in Swedish, further made illegible by the blood stains from daily extremity accidents, such as prisoners getting their fingers caught between pieces “fyra” and “sju”. When they inevitably fail the task, they’ll be asked to “yodel” (scaling the impossibly high warehouse full of infinite boxes of pre-packaged disappointment and screaming “I’M SORRY” follow by the names of their loved ones).

Shortly following, mealtime rolls around and the prisoners are greeted by old, leaky cardboard boxes filled to the brim with cold, sauced horse meatballs. An asterisk next to this in the guide (page 47 “How to Fuck UP Terrorists in the Whitest Way Possible: The IKEA-GTMO Move”) reads, “lol let’s make them look at pictures of Lil’ Sebastian from Parks and Rec while they eat.” Their day ends with sleep, and, of course, they must put together their own beds, which ends up being a Sisyphean task, as their nights are punctuated by crashes and groans of their creations giving way to their lean, horse-filled frames.

Hormel saw a recent dip in company sales this past quarter, so CEO Jeffrey Ettinger put his best and brightest on the task of creating a new meat product to shake up the meat-snack scene. Because his best and brightest are actually just 5 turkeys in a conference room, all they came up with is “Meat-by-the-Foot”! This new truly disgusting — nay, macabre — take on a childhood lunchbox favorite is set to hit the shelves in early 2019. While the typical meat-loving consumer might be salivating at the idea, most normal people are wondering, “ok but what do they mean by meat?” An excerpt from a Hormel statement about the new product will surely not erase any of these doubts and most likely give you second-hand food poisoning:

“Our new meaty treat, perfect for an afterschool snack, is created by taking all the best leftover cow parts from hamburger factories that you’ve been dying to get your American teeth on: bones, livers, urinary tracts, that 3rd stomach, tongues, utters, and that fluffy tip of the tail- the perfect eco-friendly way to reuse your ruminant! All of this is ground up (but not too much- gotta have that crunch!) and spread into a paste, which is baked and rolled into 2-foot ropes- perfect snackin’ size! And for a bigger chomp, lower a FOUR FOOT Meat-by-the-Foot XL into your gaping maw!”

While the FDA responded to this statement with: “Jesus Christ….I mean…for real guys??”, this ruling was overturned by President Trump, and the product has been granted express approval. Because they only have a year until public consumption, Hormel has been working hard to come up with fun slogans and commercials like:

America’s #1 Favorite Way to Get Salmonella!

Wanna consume meat in the grossest way possible like Gollum eating the fish in that one scene, but you don’t have a fish? Meat-by-the-Foot!

Trix are for kids, but Meat-by-the-Foot is for that one kid that you saw strangling a rabbit during recess!

Marginally more nutritious than eating your own shit!

Wanna treat your six-year-old like a dog? Meat-by-the-Foot!

TEST your inTESTines limits: Meat-by-the-Foot!

Meat-by-the-Foot: when you wanna EAT the harbinger of the end times! (and then spew it like a toxic waste geyser 15 minutes later)

*If you were really grossed out reading and made it to the end, congrats! Now remember that beef jerky is a thing.

*NOTE: This was written on March 2, 2018*

As cuffing season comes to a close, some of us are looking to the partners we recklessly selected in moments of weakness last autumn and are wondering how long this will last. Post-Valentine’s day to Easter (or Passover) is the prime season for second-guessing those who have struggled through the wintry months with you. Most people have these discussions with friends and family and think about some of the red flags they might have been ignoring these past few months, but we here at the Punch Bowl want to make sure you aren’t making a common dating blunder: mistaking a red flag for a black flag. Black flags aren’t well known in the landlubber dating scene but it means a sign that your bae is a buccaneer (aka: A PIRATE). And these seadogs are commonly misrepresented in the media when they really have a heart of gold (and a hook of aluminum), so check out these scenarios to find out if you’ve got an actual sleazebag or a scallywag!

He grabs your butt in public and it’s way too much PDA for you. You’ve told him no, but he just won’t listen!

That’s a tough one! Normally I’d say red flag, but picture this: you’re walking hand-in-hook with him and your keys are in your jacket pocket, jingling and jangling about. He thinks “coins!” and he’s gotta have them if he’s a cap’n worth his salt, so he grabs your behind yelling “ARGHH ME BOOTY! TREASURE LIES IN THIS TRUNK!” Now does that seem so bad?! Definitely not. In that case, hoist your black flag- it’s a pirate!

You come back from the bathroom and find him snooping on your phone! He says he won’t ever do it again, but you keep on getting interrogatory texts about who you’re with and where you are!

Uh-oh. Controlling behavior is big ‘ol red flag and nothing to joke about. But it may all be a misunderstanding if you fit this very specific scenario! If your jolly roger is from the 16th century as most are, he’s probably just trying to understand modern technology and wants to learn more about you! As for the texts, if they’re reading more like “Matey! Where are ya! I hear there’s goin to be a storm ARGH we’ve gotta rig the sails and booey the mast!” or “Who are you sailin’ with darling? My buddy Captain Crunch needs a seafaring woman! Double date??” then you’ve got nothing to worry about! Skull and crossbones, ya wench!

You try to ask him about his childhood and past and he’s weirdly secretive. You’ve told him that the lack of trust is a big barrier for you, but mum’s still the word!

At first glance? BIG red flag! How can you commit to a serious relationship with someone when you barely know them! Buuut, consider this: you’re born a pirate and pirates are never children, just smaller people with smaller hooks. And in your more recent history, you may have committed some crimes that you’re a little embarrassed about- a little light thievery here, some public urination there, but mostly you’re just too bashful to admit that life on the ol’ SS Bloody Mary sometimes got lonely and you conceivably sought companionship in the arms of your fellow seamen. That’s pretty understandable then! What pirate doesn’t dabble! This flag is a jolly roger!

He dirty talks to you in bed and it makes you uncomfortable. Not like…regular dirty talk, but WEIRD stuff.

For sure talk to him about what you’re uncomfortable with in bed, and if he doesn’t stop, that’s a red flag either way. The weird dirty talk in general, though, may not be a red flag! Phrases like “ayyyeee me lady what a leg you have…..if only it were wooden” or “har-har I’ve grown a second peg leg!” or “mmmm I want to sail in yer wet waters” or “I’d like YOU to walk MY wooden plank!” or “YAR you put the curvy in scurvy” or “welcome to Davy BONERS locker!” or “I wanna see your Captain Blackbeard” should all be taken as great compliments! What a wordsmith! Flag as black as the plague- that’s a pirate!

*NOTE: This was written on December 1st, 2017*

Now that you’ve put on a light, but long-sleeved shirt and stepped out your door to be greeted by the 500 mph winds and spent your walk to work thinking about why in the hell your mom doesn’t text you a reminder to wear a damn sweater, it’s officially fall! And along with the changing of the leaves and the pumpkin-flavored treats and the scarves so stupidly large you worry that the tiny brunette underneath can’t breathe, it’s time for the yearly mistreatment of our most useful body parts- our hands. And one man named Kevin has hands that are FED UP. “Literally it’s only like a week into November and I’m BLEEDING! Wear some fucking gloves, Kevin! Practice some preventative care for Christ’s sake!”. Hands go through a particularly rough time during the fall months when it’s cold enough to be wearing gloves, but humans (being morons) need a full 1-2 months to decide it’s time to take that step. This leaves our poor hands dry and rough, cracking and bleeding, and, in Kevin’s case, throwing a tantrum. “Honestly you KNOW it’s cold enough to start wearing your Canada Goose, so PLEASE put on a pair of gloves! I’ll literally settle for MITTENS at this point, Kevin! This is bullshit!”. To make it all that much worse, if the person is addicted to pumpkin-spice like your mom is addicted to decorative hand-towels, then those hands are in for a rapid and extreme fluctuation in a bad way, not unlike a freshman pre-med’s grades after the second midterm. Unfortunately for Kevin’s hands, he’s a Starbucks whore: “WHY DEAR GOD can’t you use a fucking cup sleeve?! They’re RIGHT THERE. You are destroying any sensation in me, Kevin! What have I ever done to you to deserve this!”. There is hope, however, for some hands when students emerge from their hovels of single, sad-boy (or girl!) life for cuffing season. The absolute disgust that crosses a normal, lotion-applying, hands-respecting individual’s face when they’re gripped by the equivalent of a bright red claw from a lizard that went extinct in the Ice Age with little rivulets of dried blood is possibly enough to motivate someone to at least use their sweater pockets more often to protect their most-used appendages from the elements. But not Kevin! “JESUS KEVIN DID YOU FEEL THOSE HANDS! It was like being embraced by the smooth, warm, vanilla-scented folds of a baby seal. But I will NEVER feel those angel wings again because you’ve DESTROYED ME KEVIN! I’m a MESS now, having incurred IRREPERABLE DAMAGE. I HOPE YOUR HAPPY KEVIN BECAUSE YOU’LL BE USIN’ ME A LOT MORE NOW THAT YOU’VE LOST YOUR ONLY POTENTIAL SAVIOR FROM A WINTER ALONE AND LEMME TELL YOU BUDDY THIS AIN’T THE KIND OF ROUGH LOVING YOU’RE INTO”.

I was watching this fancy play with my mom when my fingers started bleeding. When I’m bored, I tend to slice the sides of my fingers, where the side of the nail meets the skin. Also when I’m at church and during most exams. I’ve used lots of different tools, and here, it was the playbill. It’s sort of like starting a fire, especially since blood and flames have similar qualities (i.e. red, warm, fluid, can get out of hand). Pretty early on in Act Two, the edge of the booklet was slicing across my left thumb with an urgent speed. My mother reached across my sister and grabbed my wrist. "I spent nine months making those fingers. You may not care, but body is mine.", she said. On my 18th birthday, that most holy of days when one gains bodily autonomy, I took a scissor from my drawer, and sliced the same thumb. It was incredibly painful, and I decided maybe that was too bold a statement. Later that night my mother observed the bandaid on my thumb and the bloody shreds sprouting from the nine other digits. "Everyone will think you're a tortured carpet-maker child from Asia with those" she remarked. Though I look nothing like a child (certainly not one from Asia), I have woken up every morning since believing her, and covering the grisly tips with bandaids. And every day people ask me what's wrong with my fingers.

Outside the 7/11 that I frequent, they play Mozart. Posh people who shop online from “Price: High to Low” trumpet this idea that classical music is good for you. “Studies show...”, they say. But when it’s 2 AM and I want a white cherry slushee and they spin the volume knob up like the Wheel of Fortune, I just want to retire. Or expire. I have a friend who works at the mall, and she says they do it there, too. “Keeps out loiterers”, she peeps, “and hooligans. Undesirables”.

Picture yourself, an intelligent and socially-liberal adult, attempting to smoke a spliff outside your local seedy drug store. As soon as you step out of the car, you hear Chopin at a distance, which is only about as annoying as your office mate burning a scented candle in “Bell Pepper Bang” flavor. So you plod up the parking lot towards the building with your hands in your pockets, grinding your teeth. You must keep your eyes peeled for your cannabis connoisseur, your hoodied ganja guy. As you approach, the Brahms is becoming intolerable. As a classic Bildungsroman protagonist, you've been to an outdoor music festival and experienced some special toons at full volume before. So it's not that, really. It just dawdles, never building to any kind of crescendo, never making a point. If there is a point that you're missing, it's still not one you want to hear. It reminds you of the homily you sat through with your mother at Easter Mass. Bringing one hand up to brush nothing off your face, you mumble a greeting and produce your green and receive his. But it's not really- it's an off-white rolling paper. This joint kinda looks like a chewed up lollipop stick. You sidestep to a corner not under direct light.

Now this is where the Debussy really screws you. You use your thumb to spark, but the focus just shifted to the brass section. It's loud enough that you hear that crackly, bass noise that sounds like what TV static looks like. You don't know what it's called but if you could guess, maybe stereo interference? It's certainly interfering with your thoughts. You know how out of place you are. You see a kid inside without shoes rifling through these collectible cards. The music is so jovial like it's a whole orchestra of fat babies, and we can both agree you shouldn't be lighting up around young ones. For a few minutes, you wonder if this noise is supposed to distract you from cops. You move to another corner. Like a photophobic rat with anxiety. You've only taken two hits, and it's been at least 15 minutes. Your hand wearily moves upward, then drops, and you scoff and rub the back of your neck. Like, jesus, you paid good money for this! Again, you go for a third hit, just as Vivaldi joins the string sections. It becomes this tempest of elegance and piety, this swarm of noise and impractical hubris. These fat babies are musical savants, and live in an era where the word "bitch" was actually used for dogs and people knew the names of trees, and you are this pitiful person, coughing and cowering, who will drive home and get in bed and sleep for nine hours and then wake up and say, "I'm tired" and you know all that. But you're confronted with it, standing next to the shopping carts, and there aren't any thoughts you can think that are unrelated to this belligerent art. So you let go of the spliff, smush it into the ground and walk to your car.