Lena Dunham becomes a literal Nazi; attributes it to her ‘quirky sense of humour’ > No one was surprised, just disappointed Rebecca Peterson Interim Humour Editor “ Yo know, it’s not meant to be taken seriously,” said Dunham on Sunday, arm raised aloft in a Nazi salute. Lena Dunham, creator of HBO’s show Girls, has faced public controversy recently with her questionable actions and statements, most recently accusing Odell Beckham Jr. of refusing to speak to her at a gala based on her appearance. She seemed to feel that her choice of clothing—a tux— was daring and confusing for men, and resulted in the athlete not objectifying her the way he should have. Eventually she explained her comments were a result of her sometimes inaccessible sense of humour, assuring everyone that the jokes were “feminist” and liberal in origin. Now, in another far-reaching attempt at controversial humour, Dunham has been seen attending Neo- Nazi rallies and dressing in Gestapo garb, complete with red and black armband. “You know, it’s just irony,” Dunham said, passing out pamphlets titled Hitler Did Nothing Wrong to bystanders. “It’s not meant to be taken seriously. ’'m just quirky, you know? Probably no one gets it because they're threatened by me, sexually. Like look at these people avoiding me— they're probably wondering, like, ‘What is that person under that shapeless Nazi uniform? Is it a woman? Can I have sex with it?’ They're not seeing the big picture. ’m the voice of a generation.” Critics of Dunham have suggested that this stunt is nothing more than a desperate bid for attention, while her few remaining supporters have half-heartedly mumbled “Well, Girls is a pretty progressive show, so like... she can't be that bad, right?” “Honestly if people are offended by me, it’s probably because I’m so progressive and liberal and incredibly special,” Dunham said, goose-stepping along the sidewalk as the Other Press struggled to keep up with her. “I mean, I’m a girl who likes wearing tuxes. I wrote a book detailing how I molested my younger sister. I’m not like the other girls. | don’t know why anyone would ever criticize me. It’s just my sense of humour.” An excerpt from Columbia New-West's stunning new novel, ‘Skytrain Gothic’ > A heart-pounding thriller set in the bowels of a stalled SkyTrain Rebecca Peterson Interim Humour Editor I 5:53 p.m. It’s been 5:53 p.m. for the past hour. You start to wonder if will always be 5:53 p-m. You long for home. An announcement comes on over the loudspeakers in the train. It sounds like the announcer is saying, “Zzzt-hss, sssht-gvvb-brrm;” however, you intrinsically understand what he’s telling you—that there is a problem train stuck on the track somewhere down the line, and you must expect delays. You always expect delays when you're on the SkyTrain. The announcer is asking you to expect more delays than usual. You might grow old in this seat, die in this seat. You're going to miss your grandchildren’s graduation because you'll still be stuck on this train. You don’t even have children yet. Your thoughts spiral into the abyss. The SkyTrain begins to move, and it takes all your willpower not to let the joy of the moment seize you entirely. You've been hurt before. The unknowable forces that govern the movements of the trains toy with their passengers, as cats toy with mice before devouring them whole. (You've never seen any of your cats eat mice. The thought entertains you for 7 , = the next few moments, as the train inches forward, slows, and grinds to a halt.) There is a feeling of helpless community, a people joined by suffering, as everyone in the q car looks up at the sound of the announcer’s voice once more: “Zzzt-hss, ssht- brrm-shht-dvvwvt.” They’ve removed the problem train, but your trials < 2 p o 2 5 a |= fe] £ ° ic o Rabbani and Solimene Photography via nydailynews.com are not yet done. You must still expect delays. You don’t care— the train is starting to move again, and this time, it seems to move with a destination in mind. As the train regains its sense of purpose, so do you. You reach the next station, and the platform is crammed. The masses, washed and unwashed alike, flood into the train, and you find yourself giving your seat up to someone you believe to be a pregnant woman, who turns out to simply be a teenage boy wearing his backpack on his front. No matter. You’ve only one more station to go. The train pulls out of the station, gains speed, zips along the tracks with confidence. You can do this, you think. You might even make it to class on time. The train makes an awful grinding sound. It slows. Stops. You are nowhere near a station. The intercom comes to life: “Zzzt-hss, sssht-brrm-gqwvb.” You listen with a creeping sense of horror, an unnameable dread, as you come to understand. There is no problem train, not anymore. You have become the problem train. There is no God. Expect delays.