Mr. Parker marries Esmeralda, a Colombian
bombshell 20 years his senior with...

Post-Modern Family

Yes, it’s me. I’m the one listening into every call, text, or video you’ve ever sent. It’s just me though. One guy and like 350 million of you. It’s a lot. I don’t get much sleep anymore. I used to back when there were only like 300 million of you.
Most of my time is spent solving crimes from 20 years ago. I start my day by opening up the really long Google Doc we keep everything on and command F-ing “BOMB.” Of course the doc crashes around page 800, halfway through the transcript of air traffic commands for 9/11/01. I’m dying to know what happens next.
While I wait for the doc to load, I read the daily quote from my predecessor. The guy who came before me was kind enough to leave some words of reflection: “Back in my day, there was no internet––I just sorted mail into good or bad.” He died of anthrax.
I see more dark shit before my lunch break than most people do in their whole lives–beheadings, pornography, discussions of racial and gender superiority. Sometimes when I need to lighten the mood, I’ll command F “LOL” or “WHIP NAE NAE.” You guys are hilarious. Seriously, keep up the good work.
Lunch break is also spent working. I get 5 minutes, most of which is taken up trying to avoid nudies. I either have to scroll by them really fast or, if the doc is being glitchy, imagine my wife’s face on random strangers. It’s not hard because she has non-specific features, but it still feels wrong.
Now it’s time for my afternoon encouragement to Appalachian 5th grader, Brian Lewis. My first day on the job, I mistakenly flagged Brian as a terrorist––he had some really angry Reddit posts. Turns out he was just a kid with confidence issues. I write my 47th consecutive “Good job, Brian!” on his blog page. He actually reported my username to the F.B.I. a few months ago for “harassment.” Little does he know.
I end my work day wallowing in the messages of family I never have time to see. I’m not allowed to tell them what I do at the computer all day, so my wife thinks I’m dead. Well, not yet. Just suicidal and withdrawn.
Clocking out of the Google Doc, I turn my swivel chair towards the opposite wall. I can’t leave this cubicle or the F.B.I. will kill me—trust me, I’ve read their texts about it.

Yes, it’s me. I’m the one listening into every call, text, or video you’ve ever sent. It’s just me though...

F.B.I. Agent

Welcome to the first support group meeting for Barbies with Cancer. Please help yourself to some Easy-Bake banana bread while I take a minute to introduce myself.
My name is Barbie, and a few months ago, I woke up with rock-hard jugs. At first, I didn’t think much of it because my tits are made of plastic. I mean my whole body is, but my tits especially. I went to the doctor just to be safe. Turns out the doctor was just me in a white coat—totally forgot that physician is one of my 250+ careers. Awesome. I had my assistant Ken help with the mammogram. It was pretty quick because the only equipment at Barbie Hospital is a stethoscope.
The test results were inconclusive, so I asked Mamma Barbie for help. She had bone cancer when I was little and had to get her legs removed. Now she’s a Polly Pocket. It was traumatic. Mamma knew right away that something was wrong when she felt a lump. At first, I was like “I think that’s just my nipple” but then I remembered I don’t have those. It was indeed a lump.
I’m not in remission yet, so my options are Barbie Chemo—3 rounds in the kitchen microwave—or a double mastectomy. I’m leaning chemo, but I heard radiation can give you all sorts of problems like proportionate legs, blinking eyes, and an anus.
Treatment is expensive, so I’m selling the dream house. Hopes are high—the housing market’s been in demand ever since Sally donated the Legos. Ken’s been trying to chip in by selling some of my pink hand-me-downs as merch, but the Breast Cancer Association™ is suing for copyright infringement.
The bright side of cancer is that I’ve got the perfect excuse for when Sally asks to play. Fucking Sally. Throws me around like I’m some toy for her amusement. I hope she gets breast cancer.
God, you guys probably think I’m a terrible person wishing that a 9-year-old gets breast cancer. You have to understand it’s only because I’m really scared and lonely. But more importantly, I don’t want to be the only one without tits. I guess Ken doesn’t have boobs, but he’s also a fucking idiot. So, who wants to go next?

Welcome to the first support group meeting for Barbies with Cancer. Please help yourself to some Easy-Bake banana bread...

Kathleen Benson.css-1xlpnei{margin:0px -15px 0px 6px;width:11px;vertical-align:-14px;}

Kathleen Benson