Brain Stew, Issue 11, 24-25

So long, vegan buzzwords. Oh, how I’ll miss you. In reality, we’re assuming that our ‘great’ government can spell words big enough to be so-called ‘woke’ words. And besides, they can ban them all they want. I got a green card to Canada, bitch! Tim Horton’s has way better vegan options anyways.

There goes my entire course catalogue. You can’t even use the word “history” anymore? You have got to be shitting me. Germany is looking mighty nice at times, you know. This is one of them.

What words do you think UMSL is going to ban to prevent ‘woke’?

Dan

Hopefully all of them. I am so sick and tired of teaching language classes. FUCK WORDS. Let me teach my fucking movie classes!

The Real Reason Why The Trump Administration is De-Funding NIH Grants

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Step 1: Pay me, Jocelyn Sanchez (aka Ed Munn Sanchez’s father), $50 cash. No Venmo or other traceable forms of currency.

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Step 4: File a noise complaint against a suitemate or person in a nearby room, for excessive, late night barking noises (or meows). Act indignant about being forced to live near a furry. Leave a dog (or cat) toy or two in their suite or outside their door.

Step 5: Enjoy your pet in Oak Hall with no consequences! I approve of this plan!

Thanks to the Jocelyn Sanchez Pet Sneaking Service, LLC, I can keep my doggy, Ed Jr. , in my dorm room!

Aliens Land – and Immediately Regret It: The Waffle House Incident

by Irina Biedenstein, with illustrations by Steve the Robot

A Florida Waffle House - 03:42am

If anyone were awake and standing across the street, they would have looked up at the stars (if there were any) and seen a spaceship descending through the thick, humid air. Its metallic hull gleamed under the flickering neon sign.

WAFFLE HOUSE - OPEN 24 HOURS

Below, the night shift was in full swing.

Inside, Babs, a battle-hardened waitress, poured burnt coffee into a cracked mug, unfazed by the shirtless man in Crocs who was arguing with a toaster about cryptocurrency.

A raccoon hissed from atop the counter, probably from lack of attention to the lacking garbage can outside, while Travis was attempting to barter with the cook using a live alligator named Spanky.

With a deep, clanking WHUMPF, the spaceship’s landing gear crushed a Tesla Cybertruck that had been parked across three spaces. Despite its alleged indestructibility, the truck immediately folded like an aluminum soda can.

Nobody even looked up at the noise.

With a sigh, Babs lit a cigarette off the griddle, took a deep drag, and exhaled in a huff. “Alright. Who summoned the lizard people?” Dale, smacking the toaster, turned to Travis (who was currently cradling Spanky).

“I FUCKN TOLD YOU IT WOULD WORK, BRO!”

All eyes turned to the corner, where there was a radio tower made of beer cans and Christmas lights topped with a pink flamingo.

Spanky and Babs seemed to share a look. They were the only sane ones in here.

“I JUST WANTED TO TALK TO TUCKER CARLSON! HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW THIS WOULD SUMMON ALIENS?!”

“I TOLD YOU JUST TO LEAVE IT ALONE! IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A CHRISTMAS TREE!”

Travis’ hands were empty Spanky had left and slinked over to Babs’ offered cup of coffee.

“It was a stupid Christmas Tree, and it's already March. Why the hell were we keeping it up?”

“THAT DOESN’T MEAN TRY TO TALK TO ALIENS WITH IT!” Dale lifted the toaster above his head, Travis ducking under the counter.

“I wanted TUCKER CARLSON! NOT ALIENS!”

The spaceship’s hatch hissed open, and two aliens emerged.

Commander Vyl’xx, their leader, adjusted his translator device. As a veteran of seventy peaceful first-contact missions, this was supposed to be easy. It was also supposed to be his last traveling mission. Then, he could stay home and train recruits.

Behind him, Lt. Quix’l, a brand new science officer, clutched his scanner, already sweating. It was his first mission a simple one: evaluate Earth’s intelligence and diplomatic potential. It was Croc-wearing Dale who met them at the restaurant door, still shirtless, still holding a toaster. Behind him, Travis cowered underneath a booth table, unsuccessfully hiding himself. Watching over it all, Babs leaned against the counter. Spanky was on the service counter by the cook, who gave him more coffee in an overflowing mug as he stared at the scene.

Vyl’xx stepped forward, starting the conversation like he always did: “We come in peace.” Before he could elaborate, Dale, clutching the toaster tighter, leaned in. “Admit it, you work for the Deep State!”

Maybe his translator wasn’t working.

“Um…Commander?” Quix’l was panicking behind him. “We we need immediate extraction.” The officer’s scanner was flashing red. It had skipped over yellow and orange. Green was the best, yellow was ideal, and orange he could work with… but red? That was asking for a miracle. Before Commander Vyl’xx could formulate a response, a smoking SpaceX rocket crash-landed into a dumpster behind the Waffle House.

Elon Musk stepped out, completely unharmed, brushing soot off his Tesla-branded bomber jacket. A millisecond later, the rocket burst into flames, shattering the glass of the nearest window.

Travis was screaming now. Babs heaved a sigh.

“Greetings, intergalactic travelers. Let me be the first to offer you an exclusive deal on X Premium,” stated Musk, stepping through the door.

Vyl’xx blinked. “Excuse me?”

“For just eight Earth dollars a month, I can verify your existence and grant priority in interstellar discourse. We can, of course, discuss the particulars later.”

“Commander,” Quix’l squeaked, getting Vyl’xx’s attention. “I am begging you. We need to leave. Let’s vaporize this planet and be done with it. There’s no hope. They’re red.”

“All of them?” Vyl’xx found that hard to believe.

“Well, only one isn’t,” Quix’l stammered, gesturing to Babs, who was taking another slow drag of her cigarette, not moved from her post at the counter. “That one is green.”

Musk squinted, trying to follow their conversation. “Red? Green? What are you measuring? Why ” A black SUV screeched into the parking lot.

Vladimir Putin stepped out, adjusting his suit and placing his sunglasses on, and he and a security guard quick-marched inside. “You have something that I want.”

Commander Vyl’xx cautiously adjusted his translator. “What is it you seek?”

“Comman ” Quix’l started, but Vyl’xx raised a hand to signal silence.

Putin cracked his knuckles. “An alien superweapon. Or your blood. I have not decided yet.”

“Hey now,” Musk interjected. “I call dibs on monetizing their technology.”

Putin nodded as Quix’l short-circuited.

“For the love of God, PLEASE do not give Putin any weapons.” All eyes turned to the figure joining them. Volodymyr Zelensky, dressed in black, with an M-16 strapped across his front.

Vyl’xx turned back to Quix’l, murmuring, “How did he get here?”

Fumbling with another device, Quix’l looked up. “It appears he’s been tracking this other one’s location in real-time for years.” He looked from his scanner to Putin, who scowled.

“Ukraine will not ”

Before he could finish, Babs slammed a plate of waffles onto the counter. “We are NOT doing this in my damn restaurant.”

A stunned silence.

Putin, Zelensky, Musk, and the aliens all looked at each other and then at the waffles. Dale joined Travis under the table.

Commander Vyl’xx hesitated. “Are these… infused with nourishment?”

“They’re covered in butter and regret. Do you want ‘em or not?” Babs huffed. The aliens took a bite as everyone watched with bated breath. Their eyes widened.

“I…have never known such warmth,” Quix’l whispered, tearing up. Vyl’xx could only stare. Musk cleared his throat, earning a glare from Babs.

But there was no need. Vyl’xx, grabbed Quix’l’s shoulder. “...Cancel the invasion.”

A collective gasp.

“Wait, wait, wait, before you go ”

But he was ignored as the two aliens moved.

“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out,” Babs called out.

They were quick to enter their ship and depart (and to activate a planetary shield that permanently banned Earth from participating in galactic affairs).

Musk sighed, pulling out his phone. “Guess I’ll have to settle for buying the moon.” Flicking her cigarette, Babs let out a wry laugh. “Another damn Wednesday.”

Mar-a-Lago 09:03

In a gold-plated, private suite in Mar-a-Lago, Donald Trump paces furiously, clad in a red “Make America Great Again” bathrobe, clutching his smartphone.

“Aliens land at a Waffle House, and nobody calls me?” he muttered. “Unbelievable. I built the best hotels and golf courses aliens would love my resorts. They should’ve landed at Mar-aLago. Tremendous mistake. Huge.”

He taps his phone screen, initiating a FaceTime call. A disheveled Rudy Giuliani appears on the screen.

“Mr. President! I was just, uh, researching alien law like you requested. Fascinating stuff.”

“Rudy, did you hear about this? Aliens land, and they went to a Waffle House. A Waffle House! Not even a Trump property. So sad.”

Giuliani winced. “Maybe they wanted waffles, sir?”

“We have waffles! The best waffles! Nobody makes waffles like we do. This is a conspiracy. Deep state aliens. Probably sent by China. Or Hillary.”

“Sir ” Trump hung up with a sigh and immediately dialed another number.

Elon Musk answers, confusion written all over his face as he stands amidst SpaceX rockets.

“Mr. Trump. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Elon, you’re into space stuff. Why are aliens going to Waffle House instead of my hotels? We need to get them to Mars a Trump Mars Resort. Think about it.”

“Well, sir, perhaps they wanted to experience authentic Earth cuisine. You should have seen them when they tried waffles.”

“Authentic? Please. My steaks are more authentic. We need to build a Space Force. A real one. With lasers. And hotels. Get on it, Elon.”

He hangs up and turns to his full-size portrait, scoffing.

“Aliens. They need to come to Mar-a-Lago. We have the best accommodations. Believe me.”

你一直在讀燉腦！

(You have been reading Brain Stew!)

What the hell did I just read? “Brain Stew's mission is to provide for the Pierre Laclede Honors College student body a forum for uncensorED* free thought, commentary, and creativity, as well as news and event listings from PLHCSA and other related campus organizations,” yak yak yak! We publish A LOT OF THINGS. Like, things that make Ed regret ever taking a job at the Honors College!

We’ve been publishing since 1991 (or 1993). Longer than Dan’s car has been running, somehow. We must be doing a good job though. Despite our best efforts, grown-ups keep giving us awards stuff like Best Sustained Program in 2012 and 2017, and Best Cultural Awareness Program in 2018. Even some shady committee called the “National Collegiate Honors Council” gave us awards in 2017, 2018, and Program of the Year in 2020.

Disclaimer: We issue no content guidelines beyond those of state, local, and federal law. All content is the responsibility of the creator. UMSL, PLHC, PLHCSA, and the Brain Stew staff are in no way obligated to print anything. In short, submit what you want, but we don’t have to print it if you’re being a little monster!

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