​To run, or not to run — that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The boils and carbuncles of outrageous shoes
Or to take arms against a sea of shoe manufacturers
And by opposing run barefoot. To lie down, to sleep — 
No more — and by a sleep to say we end
The heart’s race, and the thousand unnatural shocks
That running flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To lie down, to sleep — 
To sleep — perchance to scream ENOUGH: ay, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of dearth what screams may come
When we have shuffled off this morbid soil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long distances.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of much time per furlong,
Th' oppressor's rhythm, the proud man's sweat
The pangs of despised joggers, the loo's delay,
The insole of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare foot? Who would nip guards wear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary coach,
But that the dread of something after finish line,
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No runner returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather swear those spills we have
Than jog to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of new year’s resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprise of great niche and showmen
With this regard their steps turn awry
And lose the name of action. — Soft you now,
The fair Marathon! — Lymph, in thy orisons
Be all my wins remembered.

Once upon a time there was a school for young dogs of fine breeding. The venerable establishment was quite selective, and accepted only male dogs whose noble line could be traced back at least five generations.

One day a cat walked into the school, to the astonishment of all the dogged students and doggy teachers. Nor was it a fine, well-bred cat. Oh no. This particular cat was quite scruffy, of an undefined greyish color, with not a single noble bone in its entire scrawny body, and — to make matters far worse — the cat was … female!

The feline newcomer ambled straight into the headmaster’s office, as if she owned the entire school along with the surrounding grounds, and demanded to be admitted. The highborn headmaster, along with his entire staff, were flabbergasted, for the cat was able to cite rather precisely all the pertinent anti-discrimination laws.

​The kitty was on the verge of being admitted as a student, which would have caused a ruckus to end all ruckuses. However, the headmaster’s mother happened by and without further ado chased the impudent cat away, in an impressive display of feminine doghood.

Moral: Mom can solve everything. Especially if she’s a bitch.

Copyright © 2016 by Moshe Sipper

In a realm of science and merit, a professor once received tenure. Whereupon she began to think — an action, I might add, which had garnered her the prized academic station.

“Do I really need all that I possess?” she said out loud, for why should she not speak her mind. After all, she had tenure! “No,” she immediately replied respectfully. “My ears are of no use any more, for I no longer need to listen to colleagues or students.” And so she gave her ears forthwith to a corn.

“My legs? I need not leave my office ever again.” And so she broke a leg — and then the other. “Eyes? Hah, I’ve seen it all. Out with them. Nose? This place stinks anyway. Mouth? Hmm … I still need to give lectures, but I’ll have my grad students deliver those.”

Piece by piece her needs and body were reduced to the bare essentials, until she was left solely with a single digit of her left hand. For one day, there would land on her doorstep an invitation to travel to Sweden to collect a Nobel Prize. And then, reasoned the esteemed scholar, she would need that middle finger.

​Why the hell should she bother herself to travel all the way to Sweden? She had tenure, for fuck’s sake

Copyright © 2016 by Moshe Sipper

In a faraway kingdom, known as Boozdom, ruled benevolently King Beer and Queen Wine. Their son, Prince Scotch, was beloved by all, and the fine citizens of the land were always merry and slightly wobbly.

One day an evil pirate named Sober landed on the shores of this joyous realm. And he would have brought the downfall of Boozdom, were it not for love.

Ah, love!

For Sober fell in love with Princess Bloody Mary, and their wedding was the wooziest the kingdom had ever known.

​And everybody lived tipsily ever after.

Copyright © 2016 by Moshe Sipper

Accept: We’re a shitty journal and we’ll accept anything. Even your pathetic rubbish.

Accept with Minor Changes: The referees haven’t read your piece of crap. All they ask is that you add every single one of their own papers to your bibliography section.

Accept with Major Changes: Your paper is worthless. However, if you change the Introduction, Previous Work, Methodologies, Setup, Results, and Conclusion sections, we might change our mind. (Or not.)

Revise and Resubmit: We still won’t accept your insignificant drivel but it will help our submission statistics when the publisher moves to shut us down.

Reject: Really?? You need that one explained?

Copyright © 2016 by Moshe Sipper