Town Rejoices over Announcement that White Teenager was Not Shot Walking Home From 7-11, Even Though He Sported Sweatshirt


The town of Seebird Manor, Florida can rest easy tonight knowing their young, white citizens are safe at home reading Flaubert, and preparing for “Isn’t It Great We’re White Night” at the local Y. According to the 2012 census, Seebird Manor has appropriately 15,000 occupants; 14,500 are white, and the other 500 are not allowed to vote. You may recognize this quaint, racist town from the 1999 controversial case Seebird Manor vs. the Jews, a ravaging case of heroism, piety, and sovereignty, which successfully implemented the Bible as mandatory reading for all AP science courses (and also banning Woody Allen movies and Philip Roth novels from all local libraries and households).

Still, the news that’s rifling through this fanatically Christian town is the announcement of little Robert “Schoolhouse Rock” Roberts. Robert Roberts, known for his quick wit, ferocious appetite, and unrivaled Anti-Semitism, returned from the local convenience store unscathed last night. Roberts rounded Delancey Avenue and saw a black Hearst in his driveway, a gaggle of flowers on his lawn, and a giant cutout of his body against the driveway with accompanying candles and flowers surrounding it. The town congregated inside the pale house, singing hymns and doing other stereotypical Christian traditions. Roberts’ mother, Dorothy Roberts, nearly fainted when she saw her son. Dorothy Roberts and her family were under the assumption that little Robert was going to be fatally shot by neighborhood watchdog Allan Dickinson that night.

“Robert had baseball practice with the rest of the Cherokee Indians last night, and when he was walking home with John Smith and Matt Green, he kind of ran off and said he was going to pick up a pack of Skittles. John and Matt thought about this and realized, ‘Robert’s about to get shot.’ So they ran over, told me the news, how he’s planning on buying Skittles and everything, wearing a sweatshirt, and I called my sister that second and said, ‘Get over, Robert’s been shot,” said Dorothy.

Famed casual racist, John Roberts entered from the living room with a fresh Bud Light, joking with friends over the game. He asked for Robert to stand by him, at which point Robert ran up and took his position. What came next was really a spectacle.

“Let me start by saying, isn’t being white awesome? I was sure little Robert here was a goner when I heard he was wearing a sweatshirt, but then I realized: he’s white! Ain’t no one going to stop him! If anything the weird Arab that works at that 7-11 will give him them Skittles for free, and then shine his shoes! The problem with this here country is the fact that more people aren’t white, I think. Because if everyone was white we wouldn’t have all these murders and watch-guys shooting black kids, cause they wouldn’t be black, they’d be white, and by that logic they’d be safe.” Jason Roberts did not finish middle school.

There have been multiple pleas over the years to nuke Seebird Manor and eliminate them from our social climate, but unfortunately they’ve been revoked after the non-racists realized that 95% of the country is like Seebird Manor. 

A Harrowing Journey… But We’re Back


As you all know, ClavinNotes has been want of postings for about a month now. Many of you might believe it’s because we grew tired of site. Many of you might believe it’s because we are lazy. Many of you might even believe that it’s because we forgot that it existed.

No, there’s a far more rational explanation that cuts through those others with Occum’s Razor.

We were kidnapped by Mauritiusian Nationalists who were angry about our post claiming their country doesn’t really exist. They were in cahoots with Uhuru Kenyatta, who was angry about our post detailing his war crimes in the past election and they were both funded by James Dolan, who wasn’t happy at the suggestion that his New York Knicks fan base would rejoice with the knowledge that he was leaving.

But, the whole plot was orchestrated by Cody Zeller and Michael Jordan. Zeller was angry about our expose that he was actually a small man standing on another man’s shoulders, while Jordan wasn’t pleased that we claimed that Mikey Thompson is a better basketball player than he is.

We were finally saved by Vladimir Putin, who told us that he was angry that another group of people were trying to bully and intimidate people away from exercising their freedom of speech. He said that if anyone was going to be secretly murdered in the night, it was going to be an enemy’s of his, not someone else.

All in all, we were away for a month are back, posting as usual.

College Student Commits Suicide Over the End of Subway’s Februany Deal


This tragedy doesn’t come as a surprise to anyone who knew Connor Zigfield, including his parents Jenny and George Zigfield. “It was all he would talk about. He’d call us up, and be like, ‘Guess what I got today! Sweet Onion Chicken Teriyaki. Tomorrow I’m thinking about straight ham; keep it classic.’ We didn’t think he’d take the sandwiches so seriously” said Jenny Zigfield, his mother. Connor was known for his dashingly-terrible looks, his allergy to peanuts, and his tendency to kill himself over certain sandwich deals ending.

Connor consumed his last Subway sandwich on February 28 with a Turkey and Ham combination spectacular. For those who don’t know, February is the month where Subway lowers all of their footlong sandwiches to five dollars; some are six, but Connor never dabbled in that territory. Workers at the Subway that Connor frequented recalled, “That boy came in every day through February. He would be smiling, and rejoicing, and sometimes he called his parents about his sandwiches; it was really a sad sight. Then the other day he came in, ordered that turkey and ham, and just looked sad; like he couldn’t accept a known truth, or that look you have after your father touches you at night; just not good.”

Subway’s sandwiches usually split sandwich aficionados; some love the wealth of options, others claim it’s the reason they acquired cancer later in life. But all of those naysayers can agree over one thing, “The Februany is probably the greatest deal in the food industry right now,” said notorious douche Guy Fieri. “I’ve eaten seventeen today, and it’s only two!” said overweight, diabetes advocate Paula Deen. The Zigfield family planned on suing the food establishment, but where can you get a cheaper sandwich? “Knowing my son he didn’t realize the deal would come back next February, but who can wait a whole year? I might end it all as well,” George Zigfield said over a cold-cut combo.

The Connor Zigfield Foundation for stupid eaters and depressed polka dancers is accepting donations up until next February, at which point they’ll spend the donations on Februany sandwiches. No one on the foundation board is commenting on the inherent irony of this, but George Zigfield said, “I’ll remember my son every time I bite into one of those amazing footlongs, every time I walk by and smell the scent of freedom that is Subway, and every time I eat a Subway sandwich while having sex with my wife and thinking about how much I hate my children; dead ones and alive.”  

Musical Theatre Student Puts on One-Man Show of “The Lion King”


Heralded as one of the most powerfully pointless musicals of the past fifty years, The Lion King continues to bore paying customers into submission, and sometimes suicide. Ironic musical theatre major, Albert “Sunshine” Willis, thought it’d be a good idea to put on a one-man version of the musical, in which he plays every role, except for Mufasa, who will be played by an orange tic-tac. Auditions for the tic-tac started last week, and a minty pill is expected to be chosen within the next few days.

Albert, a third year freshman at Ohio State, doesn’t think this drastic shift in direction will damage the morality play that is Hamlet, which is The Lion King. Willis plans on holding his legs and crouching to replicate the famous “Circle of Life” scene where Simba’s father passionately holds the infant cub, in this case instead of Mufasa, it will be the classically trained tic-tac. One student commented, “This is an outrage. How dare he ruin my favorite movie! Oh, he’s ruining the play? Who cares?” While another student pondered, “We have a theatre department?”

The show is expected to start production on April 15, but Albert isn’t sure if he’ll be mentally prepared by then. “I’m playing every role. That’s challenging stuff. And I’m African! I’ve never even been to Africa! It’s near Egypt, right? I’m fine with playing a lion, because, well I love cats.”

This is an audacious move for a third-year freshman, especially someone with the lack of intelligence that Albert possesses, and someone whom many call the biggest racist they know. We’re unsure if Albert plans on performing in blackface, but we’ve read reports that the NAACP will not be attending the opening night gala. 

Reaching Compromise Through Literature: Kenyatta and The Hague Come To An Agreement


Uhuru Kenyatta is the son of Jomo Kenyatta, the founder of Kenya (his exact relation to Obama is unknown, but some speculate they were born in the same hospital). He is also the Deputy Prime Minister of Kenya and is charged by the International Criminal Court for crimes against humanity, including ethnic cleansing, that stemmed from Kenya’s last election.

The problem is that he is running for President of Kenya and, if convicted by the Hague, he could be the first sitting head of state who is sitting in a prison cell.

But yesterday, after an intense thirteen hour negotiation between Kenyatta and Song Sang-Hyun, the President of the Hague, an agreement was made (the first three hours of the negotiations were spent making fun of each others names, this is common practice in international negotiations). They drew their inspiration from a piece of literature: The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne.

By the agreement, the Hague will drop its prosecution and won’t seek imprisonment or any type of sanctions for Mr. Kenyatta. In return, Mr. Kenyatta will walk around with a giant, red “WC” sewn onto his clothes and will also be forced to walk around in handcuffs and a guard to make sure he doesn’t “run away” (although Mr. Kenyatta will be free to go wherever he wants). Another stipulation of the agreement is that if someone mistakes the WC (which stand for War Criminal) with the WC that stands for water closet (or bathroom) and decides to piss on Mr. Kenyatta’s leg, said person is not allowed to be punished in any way. Although this rule does not apply to cockier-spaniels, because Mr. Kenyatta hates cockier-spaniels.

“We’re very pleased with the compromise we’ve reached,” said Mr. (or Mrs.? I don’t know) Sang-Hyun. “It doesn’t do that much good to jail him, especially if his people vote him into the Presidency even while he’s in prison. That will lead to a lot of weird and confusing questions. This is much simpler, and I hope that he wins the election so I can piss on his leg. I’ve always wanted to piss on someone’s leg in public, but never had a good excuse to. I think this will be the excuse I’m looking for.”

“He better not fucking piss on my leg,” Mr. Kenyatta remarked. But, all in all, he is happy with the agreement. His one problem was that having handcuffs would hurt his ability to “make it rain” in a strip club, “but that is one of the sacrifices I’m willing to make for my country,” Mr Kenyatta said. Mr. Kenyatta has the option of taking off his handcuffs when having sex with his wife, but she said to keep them on anyway: she likes it kinky. There may be some pissing involved, but we didn’t want to find out.

The one snag with the agreement is that many Kenyans who were once firmly in Kenyatta’s camp are now having second thoughts. A Kenyan we spoke to on the street said, “We liked voting for a bad boy, who might go to prison at any moment: sort of like a Tupac or Lil Wayne type thing. But now that he’s just a normal politician again… I don’t know… he sort of lost all his appeal. I might just write in ‘Bart Simpson’ like I did last time.”

Adopted Son Meets with Biological Parents; Both Parties Not Thrilled


It’s been twenty-five years since Abigail and Frank Thompson gave up their son, Miles, for adoption. The decision came after a long night of drinking, and both parents agreed that they didn’t really want to be parents anymore, and missed their drug-induced lifestyle they had before producing Miles. Miles was purchased off the black market from the Wrigleys, a small, wholesome family from Nevada. While under the Wrigleys’ care, Miles grew up to be valedictorian of his class, a Yale graduate, and an expert sandwich maker. “It’s all about the bread,” said Devin Wrigley, Miles’ faux-father. “No, it’s all about the bread,” chimed Ann Wrigley, his wife.

On the eve of his twenty-sixth birthday, a bearded, slightly hipsterish Miles, took to the interwebs and decided he’ll find his parents by his twenty-seventh birthday, and see who they are, what his genes are like, and if he can borrow ten dollars for the movies. After six months of rigorous searching (not really, he actually only spent like five hours a week searching) he finally traced his lineage back to Abigail and Frank Thompson. Miles, an unemployed college graduate, hitchhiked from Nevada to Utah, where the Thompson’s live, in less than two days. He stood in front of their quaint, white house, debating knocking.

He was greeted by the Thompson’s three beautiful daughters, and their four sons. Abigail and Frank met Miles on the back deck; awkward hugs were shared, as were three marijuana joints. According to Frank, “We just didn’t like the kid. He seemed smug. Smarmy. The kind of guy I wouldn’t want to hang out with. It was okay though.” Abigail agrees, “Eh. It was what it was. It was kind of like being in Synagogue and then realizing you’re not Jewish, and can’t understand the language at all, and don’t care.”

We expected Miles to have a different reaction; after all, this is probably one of the biggest events he’ll ever live through. “Oh, those guys? They kind of sucked. They smelled so weird too. Like they bathed with herpes-infested clowns; I’ve been to a few carnivals. I think we all knew that was going to be our last encounter. They gave me free weed though, so that’s pretty cool, right?”

“We gave him oregano,” said Frank Thompson. Both the Thompsons and Miles exchanged contact information, but the second after Miles left he ripped it up, as did the Thompsons. “That guy’s just another guy that I don’t care about. Plain and simple. I hope he does good though,” stated Frank. 

“Don’t invite me to their funeral, because I’ll legitimately be so bored,” said a chipper Miles.

New Jersey Priest Admits to Never Having Read the Bible


Soon after Pope Benedict XVI announced that his lavish retirement party will occur in Haiti this summer, New Jersey priest Salvador “Sally Mudslides” Farrelly held a sermon in his Sayreville church in which he declared that he’s never actually read the Bible. This isn’t the first time a priest from New Jersey has communicated with his sect that he’s never read the Bible, but it’s the first case where the priest refused to wear a shirt.

The Holy fathers aren’t sure what to do with Priest Mudslides, mainly because no one is quite sure who’s making decisions these days, since God went on vacation, and the Pope is openly doing cocaine off of stripper’s behinds (photo not included). Members of the Sayreville church were in disbelief, and instantly wanted their money back (we’re not sure what money, but the total sum is fifteen dollars). Many individuals in the branch have lost faith in their religion, and are subsequently switching to hard agnosticism (they’re really unsure if God exists, or if you can get a coupon at the Stop and Shop if you show your hard agnosticism card). Some of the sect feels that a switch in the church can be a good thing; one member suggested getting a comedian to guest-priest, but apparently all the good ones just want to joke about how terrible religion is.

We were able to get a few words out of a confused, slightly-drunk Priest Mudslides. His demeanor was calm, but his face was half-clean shaven, and half-bearded; he claimed to be soul-searching. He’s lived in the same apartment for close to fifty years; it still has lava lamps, Janis Joplin posters, and a framed painting of Jesus playing a V-neck guitar. He was wearing his finest leisure suit, and offered us some olives; we declined out of respect (a very powerful section of the Bible has a Man dying from a dirty martini).

“I just thought it was okay to pretend to having read the Bible all these years. I was just never able to get into, you know what I mean? Yeah, sure it was my job, but it’s so boring. The beginning is epic; shit, all of a sudden there’s light, and animals, and Eve, but then this guy Matthew and Paul start talking about Jesus, and I put it down. Well, to be fair I put it down like five hundred pages before that. I saw the animated film about the Bible when I was a kid, and I thought that would suffice. I try to watch that movie once a year to refresh my memory about Corinthians and if Jesus had a slightly red beard or not. I never really liked preaching anyways; it’s so preachy and whiny. Who am I to say what’s right? Be a monk if you want to; just don’t talk about it with me, because I don’t care.”

The now out-of-work priest doesn’t know what to do with his life, but he is thinking of starting his own Metallica cover band. He started auditions with other ex-clergymen and rabbis yesterday; they weren’t able to see eye-to-eye on anything, especially the proper way to cover Ace of Spades. We’re unsure if Priest Salvador “Sally Mudslides” Farrelly will put a Christian-spin on the metal band, but he reassures us there won’t be any mention of God or JC in the lyrics; we can all thank him for that.