<img class="loaded" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/7Hl7yWTbSekfBSuD7XZULmlQWXieFgUDQxgUMZfTH5fMxKrvye8dbXpqG5emhRODdM6UaGwJ-CFNNMG68uJNznv6HIY7kB4iamNu8pyUVDtI3NbjMtdNESn5f_ddojmYye-khOZM" alt="" width="430" height="242" data-lazy="true" />
If you would&rsquo;ve told me yesterday that I&rsquo;d be writing an obituary for the guy in this photo, I would&rsquo;ve had a lot of questions. Who is the guy? Where&rsquo;d he get that funny little cigarette? Wait, now he&rsquo;s dead? If he&rsquo;s dead then who took the photo? He did? Excuse me, now? When the guy from this photo died and no one came to claim obituary rights, I knew it was time for me to step up and tell his story, whatever it may be.
I remember the first time I looked at that photo of the man with the little cigarette. He chewed on it to make me laugh, because of how it was a funny thing to do. Man, we were so innocent back then. By we, I mean America.
You can tell a lot about a man from the way he takes photos of himself chewing on funny little cigarettes. I bet this guy did it a lot, with his mouth, with his teeth. Maybe even some tongue. I&rsquo;d like to think if we were friends, you know, before he died, he would&rsquo;ve offered me a cigarette.
I would&rsquo;ve looked at him in his dark green/perhaps yellow eyes with what I would&rsquo;ve considered average size pupils most-likely and said &ldquo;no, cigarettes are for poor people, hicks, and the downtrodden metrosexual.&rdquo; He wouldn&rsquo;t have taken offense to that. No, no, he was from a different time. A time when he was alive.
Ha, maybe it&rsquo;s just me getting all emotional from the fumes coming off the funny cigarette guy&rsquo;s body, but I think he may have had to die so all of us could come together. I&rsquo;m sorry&mdash;I don&rsquo;t mean to make this about Trump. This should be about the guy who used to sit in his car in one of his classic black t-shirts, wearing one of his handsome baseball caps, doing the dirty with a little gag cigarette so we could all have a laugh from him. Man, I bet he was such a good guy. I bet he had a guy name, like Darryl or C9-F@$5. I wonder if he liked television. I wonder if he knew about the radio.
Damn, I sure would&rsquo;ve liked to tell him these things if he was alive. Which he is not.
 End of Obituary.


If you would’ve told me yesterday that I’d be writing an obituary for the guy in this photo, I wou...

Obituary

It was time for old Charlie to pick the next child to take over the chocolate factory just as Willy Wonka had done with him. Here we go, he thought, putting on his orange pants, his purple jacket, and his 3 foot tall top hat. Charlie hadn&rsquo;t been spotted publicly in decades.&nbsp;
I&rsquo;ll do it the same as ol&rsquo; Willy did it for us, reviewed Charlie in his head, about to walk out the front door of the factory. I&rsquo;ll pretend I need this here cane, walk to the gate with a horrible limp, accidentally drop the cane, start falling forward, almost land on my face, and then at the last moment I&rsquo;ll turn the fall into a perfect somersault. The crowd&rsquo;ll go wild, and everyone will realize I&rsquo;m a spry and clever trickster of an old man.&nbsp;
Charlie opened the creaky purple door and stepped out into the daylight. As he began to walk with his fake limp, his fake hunch, and his fake cane, the large crowd of chattering onlookers quickly fell silent.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Heheh, thought Charlie, walking at a painfully slow speed towards the gate. They really think I&rsquo;m a decrepit rickety old man.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; After two minutes of slowly limping forward, Charlie reached the spot where he would &ldquo;accidentally&rdquo; drop his cane.&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Charlie let go of the walking stick and took two quick steps forward without it. He stopped in his tracks and cartoonishly looked around as if to confirm with his eyes that he really had lost his cane. Charlie shot his eyes towards the crowd with an exaggerated look of horror, and then he started to tip himself forward, leaning into the staged fall.&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I&rsquo;ve got to time this juuuust right, thought Charlie. He couldn&rsquo;t help but crack the tiniest smile as the audience started gasping in panic. Charlie counted out the timing in his head. One wonka bar. Two wonka bar. Charlie fell closer and closer to the ground, ready to roll into the somersault in an instant. Three wonka bar. Four wonka bar. Charlie fell face first into the pavement, completely missing the somersault.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &ldquo;OWW!&rdquo; he shouted, writhing on the ground. &ldquo;OW! OH GOD! OWW!&rdquo; Charlie&rsquo;s teeth were everywhere. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t look, kids! Look away!&rdquo;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Unsure of how to react, most of the audience remained silent, but some offered confused applause, assuming this was part of a pre-planned Wonka-esque gag.&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &ldquo;I need help,&rdquo; said Charlie. &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t, agh. Yeah, agh, I definitely can&rsquo;t stand. I think I messed up my spine.&rdquo;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Charlie rolled over onto his back so he was lying upwards facing the sky.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &ldquo;Where&rsquo;s the five kids with the gold tickets?&rdquo; asked Charlie. &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t move. Send them here. Come here. Gather around my body.&rdquo;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The five lucky children approached Charlie.&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &ldquo;Mr. Bucket,&rdquo; eeked out Harry Twixt, a scrappy orphan boy who found his golden ticket in a trash can. &ldquo;I just want to say that I love this factory and your candy more than anything else in the whole wide&ndash;&rdquo;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &ldquo;Shut up. Just shut up, ok? Agh. I&rsquo;m in so much pain right now, kids. Just be quiet for a second.&rdquo; Charlie took a few minutes to breathe while the children silently watched him. &ldquo;Okay. Yeah, I can&rsquo;t&ndash;I can&rsquo;t do this chocolate factory tour, folks. It&rsquo;s Harry. The orphan kid. The rest of you should go home. Harry, call me an ambulance. Here&rsquo;s the keys to the factory. It&rsquo;s yours.&rdquo;

It was time for old Charlie to pick the next child to take over the chocolate factory just as Willy ...

Charlie and the Next Successor

Monday, March 30, 33
IF JESUS IS A MIRACLE WORKER, THEN WHY IS MY PROJECT TAKING SO LONG? Jesus cannot walk on water just to build you a dock. Unless God really wants you to have a dock. And Jesus will know if God wants that, so do not try to lie about it because you will go to Hell. Likewise, despite requests from customers, Jesus lacks the ability to “snap his fingers and make a patio appear.” He can, however, make a patio appear by assembling one manually over the course of a business week, which is actually half the time Wise Guys’ Carpentry takes.
DO I HAVE TO TIP JESUS’ POSSE? Peter, Andrew, Philip, Simon, John, Bartholomew, Thaddeus, Thomas, Matthew, James, James, and Judas are Jesus’ apostles and creative consultants. They do not physically assist Jesus because they are busy praying that he will complete your project at the high standard that Christ Carpentry is known for across the Greater Jerusalem area. They commune with Heaven so your home can look like it. Please tip unto them the amount you would have them tip unto you.
I AM DYING OF LEPROSY. CAN YOU PLEASE SEND JESUS TO SAVE ME Contractually, the sole time during the week that Jesus is permitted to do anything other than carpentry is between 12:00 and 1:00 PM. That, however, is his lunch break, and the only miracle he likes to perform then is making himself a tasty sandwich. Thus, it would be blessed if you could wait until an evening or a weekend to contact Jesus for any miracle-related needs—unless your leprosy is really bothering you, in which case you still owe Jesus his hourly rate.
IS THERE ANYTHING THAT JESUS WILL NOT BUILD? Jesus is a vocal opponent of Roman rule. Nevertheless, that does not exempt him from honoring his commitment to Christ Carpentry, which is an apolitical business that relies on government contracts. For example, last week, Jesus fulfilled a request from the governor’s office to build a series of giant wooden crosses. Though he will not admit it, it is some of his finest work to date.

IF JESUS IS A MIRACLE WORKER, THEN WHY IS MY PROJECT TAKING SO LONG...

Nazareth Carpentry FAQ

Quartet: (singing) Once is a day at a time, twice is looking so fine!
Customer: Neat-o! A quartet! What a fun throwback idea.
Quartet: (bouncing in hats) Lady, oh lady, oh how I love a laaaaady!
Customer: Can I get a haircut? A trim? A little off the top?
Owner: Yeah, find a barber.
Customer: Ok, uhhhh, um, hello? Is someone a barber?
Quartet: (frolicking around the shop) Hey-o, hey-o, a day ago was yesterday-o!
&nbsp;
Customer: Finally! A barber! Can I get a number 3 on the sides and an inch off the top?
Barber: Buzz off, chump. I&rsquo;m watching the musical.
Quartet: (playing with patrons&rsquo; hair) A doughnut is looking so nice! Found one in the winter ice! Chicago winter food surprise! Eat it up in one single try! Chicaaagooooo! Chicaaagooooo!&nbsp;
&nbsp;
Customer: So just to be clear, you&rsquo;re a barber, and you&rsquo;re just going to give me a trim, and you&rsquo;re paying attention?
Barber: Yeah I&rsquo;ll have one eye on you and one eye on the quartet.
Quartet: (leapfrogging) I&rsquo;ll clear my whole schedule for a bottle of jam! Ten dollar ticket to the store with the ham! Both of those are luxury goods! Ten dollar tax as it should! Oh do I love my Uncle Sam! Give him my paycheck as oft as I can! Only thing better than a pooch, is my lovely lady&rsquo;s smooch! Dogs galore at the pound, licking my face all around!
Barber: (shaving off eyebrow) Diddle-dee-dee, cat in a tree. Diddle-dee-doo, my wish has come true! (shaving off other eyebrow) Cat falls into my arms and I&rsquo;m the hero! Celebrate with 98 bottles of beer-o! I&rsquo;m the hero of Chicaaagooooooo! (shaving hair off head)
Quartet: (slapping ass) Hero, hero, he&rsquo;s the hero! Win a free lunch, the price is zero! Chicaaagoooo!

Quartet: (singing) Once is a day at a time, twice is looking so fine!
Customer: Neat-o! A quartet! ...

Modern Day Barbershop Quartet

The hardest part of running a grassroots religious organization is getting all the followers to drink Kool-Aid. Apparently, that’s their line in the sand.

These people will bow at my feet and fan me with palm leaves, but as soon as I get the summertime drink mix out for the chapter barbecue, it’s all “Wait, is this a death cult?” and “Hold on. That’s the flavor mix brand they used in Jonestown.”

As soon as the J-word drops, everyone gets super antsy and starts reflecting on their journey into my up-and-coming religion. Look, I get it. The most famous religion-turned-cult in history killed off all its followers with poisoned Kool-Aid. If I were one of my followers, I certainly wouldn’t be crashing through walls and yelling “Oh yeah!” But in my religion, Kool-Aid is just a refreshment to socialize over at a barbecue. I swear to Super God.

Under normal, agnostic conditions, Kool-Aid is a perfectly safe summertime drink that pairs excellently with a hot dog and a game of cornhole. I didn’t ask for its default connotation in religion to be a cautionary tale about the power of indoctrination. I just want to rev up the grill and toss a frisbee for Pete’s sake! And hey—if you’re too much of a non-believer to pass on a refreshing cherry drink, then maybe you just aren’t meant to go to Super Heaven.

The hardest part of running a grassroots religious organization is...

Kool-Aid

Pitbull&rsquo;s plane touches down at Miami International Airport at 12:43 on a Tuesday. He&rsquo;s sitting on a model&rsquo;s lap, a 9 at least, and he&rsquo;s got another babe sitting on his. Victoria&rsquo;s Secret-style smokeshows both of them. Boobs, butt, blonde, blouse: the works. Woof.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Pit&rsquo;s on a crazy hurry so he lights up a Cuban he found in an ashtray to calm down. He complains to the flight attendant that his time is expensive, but they&rsquo;re letting out the first class passengers first, and there&rsquo;s nothing I can do about it, sir. Pitbull flashes a smile at an 8-year-old the next row over and rolls his eyes as if to say &ldquo;can you believe they&rsquo;re making me wait?&rdquo;, but the kid&rsquo;s glued to his iPad and doesn&rsquo;t even bat an eye.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; One, two, three, four, uno, dos, tres, cuatro, Pitbull counts a week&rsquo;s worth of Prozac and swallows it no water. The girl he&rsquo;s sitting on&ndash;&ndash;who doubles as his nurse and is named Rosario&ndash;&ndash;checks his mouth to see that he&rsquo;s swallowed the full dose. He has.
Pitbull notices two twenty-something mamasitas making eyes at him at the baggage claim. He turns on his heel to face them and brags about how he doesn&rsquo;t own a phone. It&rsquo;s summer in Florida, one of those humid jungle-heat kind of days, but Pitbull&rsquo;s wearing a three-piece suit. Dapper. He left his other set of clothes at home.&nbsp;
Rosario drives Pit back from the airport in silence. Pitbull offers to help pay for gas, but his jar of change is in his carry-on, and it&rsquo;s too much of a hassle to get it. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll be a lot more liquid once the yard sale is done,&rdquo; he promises, but he doesn&rsquo;t believe it.
Mr. 305 lives next to the freeway because it&rsquo;s more convenient. He keeps his socks on at home because he doesn&rsquo;t have a carpet. He looks in the mirror at the shiny head of a star. Straightens his sunglasses. God. Coward.&nbsp;
It&rsquo;s been a long time since he called his mother. He reaches under his mattress, and the gun&rsquo;s still heavy as it&rsquo;s always been. &ldquo;I wonder what the LMFAO guys are up to,&rdquo; he thinks. Barrel in the mouth, J.Lo still hasn&rsquo;t e-mailed him back. He cocks it.
&iexcl;Dale!

Pitbull’s plane touches down at Miami International Airport at 12:43 on a Tuesday. He’s sitting on a...

Mr. Worldwide

In 1939, at the urging of physicist Leo Szil&aacute;rd, Einstein wrote a letter to FDR, informing him of the Nazi&rsquo;s plan to make an atom bomb.
Dearest R,
But one cycle of the moon has since passed from the time I last lay my eyes upon your visage, yet my heart&rsquo;s embers burn colder each moment we continue to live apart. Dare I say, I fear their glow could soon extinguish, lest we soon stare into the depths of each other&rsquo;s soul &lsquo;gain. Their fire could nary be rekindled by the heat, the light, of all the collective incendiaries fallen &lsquo;pon Europe in these tumultuous times. However, their fire could most certainly be rekindled by a much more powerful incendiary, which, as I am presently writing, Szil&aacute;rd rudely reminds me is the main purpose of my writing this letter.&nbsp;
But, what of bombs and wars can concern lovers? Does not the flower of a Spring&rsquo;s meadow capture the soul&rsquo;s eye swifter than the sword? (Some scribbles) Hi President Roosevelt, Szil&aacute;rd here. Listen, comparing this weapon&mdash; that we know the Nazis are currently developing&mdash; to &ldquo;a sword&rdquo; is like comparing a puddle to the Pacific Ocean of puddles- that really big puddle I once saw in the lot of Long Island City&rsquo;s 711&ndash; nevermind that. What I mean is, whereas a sword could kill maybe 100 people in a day, this nuclear reaction bomb could wipe out hundreds of thousands of people in the flash of an ey&hellip;(more scriblles)
Beautiful beautiful R, if perchance ye believed it in your heart that my voicing of my love for you could be subdued by Szil&aacute;rd&rsquo;s wrestling away of the pen fromst my hand, then surest thou had forgotten &lsquo;bout the piano wire I always keep in my coat pocket. No more does the Serious Man restrain our passionate love. No more shall he stand in the way of our destiny. We are lovers and no amount of graphite lined uranium-235 could split us apart, figuratively.&nbsp;
Forget all the past follies of Szil&aacute;rd. Forget all talk of Nazis and physics. Remember only our night in Paris&hellip; and the love we still share.
Yours now and tomorrow,
E

In 1939, at the urging of physicist Leo Szilárd, Einstein wrote a letter to FDR, informing him of th...

Letter to Roosevelt

And I mean yeah they can&rsquo;t see you cry in the rain, but shit right through your pants? People are probably going to figure out what&rsquo;s going on.
And no one is going to argue that if you cry in the rain people will know, but cry and shit yourself during sixth period English a couple of times? Pretty soon word will get around.
Just to prove my point, take the example of someone shitting themselves at Denny&rsquo;s, going to the bathroom to freshen up a bit and the moment they step out of the restroom boom they shit themselves again&hellip; let&rsquo;s just say that everyone will find out.

And I mean yeah they can’t see you cry in the rain, but shit right through your pants? People are pr...

Crying in the Rain

I am wolf. Not big, also not that bad. Growing up wolf, life is tough. My momma and papa are rug now in rich guy’s house. My sisters and brothers in Brooklyn Zoo.

When I am small, big foreign Hollywood producer barge into den. “I need actor. Play big bad villain. Many movies.” My parents already rug, so I say, “No, go to other den.” He shoot me with tranquilizer.

I wake up on set. 6 a.m. First day, they tell me to blow down three houses. I’m like, what I look like? Whale? I cannot blow. Then they want me to eat three pigs. These pigs pretty smart, know what is gonna happen. Start running around set, knocking stuff down. I give them good chase. More tranquilizers, “Bam bam bam.”

Six months later, movie is done and I am big star now. Go to Oscars and lose. Director give me some whiskey. I like. I like a lot. Have to meet with douchebag PR agent who has big vision for rebrand. I audition for lead role in Fantastic Mr. Fox and get part. But social media say, “Only fox can play fox.” I tell director, “I have lot of range. Wolf who hug. Wolf who cry.” He laugh right in my face.

Next movie, when I see I have to eat Grandma, I try to walk off set. Director tell me Grandma is volunteer who ready to pull plug and that I will get some whiskey, so I say ok. Just when I do the deed and think movie is over, some big muscular actor barge onto set and try to cut my stomach open. He think he gonna be big hero and rescue Grandma. I try to resist, but the whiskey has made me fat. When they try to get Grandma out, she is just bones. I’m like, what you expect to happen?

Next thing I know, movie come out and it is very so-so. Out of nowhere agent call me and say “You fired.” At first, I’m like hee hee, very funny. But then they give me whole spiel about how nobody need wolf anymore. Everyone want Adam Sandler instead.

When I get call for Jack London’s Call of the Wild, I very happy. Finally, drama role made for wolf. On set, I prepare for big fancy monologue where I reject domestication and rediscover my true nature, when director come up and tell me, “We cut that. You mostly fetch stick.”

I get so mad I actually go wild. I bite director. Not hard bite, but director is French and very dramatic. Somehow this become international incident and I am banned from seventeen country.

Now I only act in commercial for pill that fix erectile dysfunction, which I get from whiskey. Life is not good.

Autobiography

Ever since I was a kid, I wanted to be a firefighter, until I learned that firefighters do not really get to play with fire. I realized this on my first day when the station went ablaze and the conjoined effort of the other firefighters’ water hoses and my flamethrower seemed to keep the fire in perfect equilibrium. And even when Chief told me I was fired I assumed that was a promotion or accolade of sorts.

In my defense, if I said I was a sword fighter you would think I fight with a sword, not that I hate swords. Firefighters hate fire. That’s how I knew I was a waterfighter. Us waterfighters are very similar to firefighters, but use fire to save people from water and have fun doing it.

Take a drowning victim for example. You could risk another life by sending someone in after them, or you could evaporate all of the water around them with fire. We are still perfecting our craft, however, as 9 times out of 10, the person drowns without us even making a dent in the water level. Well, it’s been 9 times out of 9, but we’re an optimistic group.

Come to think of it, actually, there was one man that we saved from drowning. We successfully evaporated all of the water in the shallow end, and, lo and behold, he had boiled to death long before any drowning got him.

But this job’s not all fun and games. Firefighters only gotta deal with one type of fire, we’ve got three types of water. I’ll admit normal water isn’t too bad, and ice is a cakewalk. But steam? That’ll rattle your bones. The more fire you hurl at it the stronger it gets. It’s like fighting fire with fire. Actually, now that I say it out loud, that’s something we should try.

Still, nothing is more rewarding than this job. Watching the flames bounce off the surface of the water and jump from cabana to cabana. Everyone screaming in excitement. Even the firefighters come to watch our lifesaving work.

Ever since I was a kid, I wanted to be a firefighter...

Waterfighter

Econdoms

Welcome to the Year 2435! Please step off the portal platform. Here are some words you&rsquo;ll need to know around here:
Dinosaur Rain &ndash; We fixed the environment, but at great cost. Vitanium Arkvil &ndash; A new ore we invented to fight the Space Wars with. It didn&rsquo;t work very well and now we can&rsquo;t go back to space. Titty Twister &ndash; Sometimes a guy will grab your nipples from over your shirt and pull really hard. Ficknicklestoopy &ndash; This is the most offensive word we have (it&rsquo;s for robots). Popcornasaurus &ndash; Self-explanatory. He&rsquo;s our President!

Welcome to the Year 2435! Please step off the portal platform. Here are some words you’ll need to kn...

Glossary of Future Terms

The Lampoon's Spring 2026 parody of the Harvard Crimson

Spring ’26

Crimson Parody

One Thursday, Little Walter Chairfork was trudging home from school, mind filled with the events of the day. He had spilled milk all over his “Dad Jokes Are How Eye Roll” shirt at lunch, right in front of his crush, Nancy, and her boyfriend. J-Dog, everyone called him. It was the type of nickname you could shout while doing sports or having sex — two things Little Walter had yet to experience. Little Walter’s idea of sport was catching Pokemon on his Nintendo DS. His idea of an orgasm was basically the same thing but under his covers at night.

After spilling the milk, the day had gone from bad to worse. As Little Walter looked up at Nancy, he had tried to ease the tension with a gentle quip. “Some weather we’re having, huh Nancy? It’s raining milk and cookies!”

The room, which had previously erupted in laughter at his mishap, fell silent. “What does that even mean?” asked Nancy. “You’re not even eating cookies. I mean, the tone was fine, but the premise just fell flat.” Then J-Dog spit on him and gave the lunchlady his autograph.

After the great D-Hall Debacle, as Little Walter had termed it in his head, he had failed his Spanish test. You see, Little Walter wasn’t the kind of bullied nerd who could find solace in the fact that one day he would go to a great college and make more money than his peers. He was quite dumb. Next to a bag of potatoes, Little Walter looked like a bag of rocks, which was the sort of thing he would often say about himself in an attempt at self-deprecating humor, but everyone else would just find sort of sad due to its accuracy. Little Walter was also fat. Obviously.

And so, Little Walter was trudging home from school after his worst day of the last three. In all honesty, bad stuff happened to Little Walter all the time. Today he had failed the Spanish test and spilled the milk. Yesterday, his father had died in a brutal car accident. The day before, the ice cream truck had run out of Chunky Monkey (Walter’s favorite flavor). It was while attempting to capture a wild Charizard that Walter tripped, fell, rolled 4 feet, and found himself staring over the edge of the sidewalk into a gaping void of eternal darkness.

Jump, a voice echoed.

“Come back here, Chawizard!” said Little Walter, still engrossed in his videogame. Little Walter had a lisp, which came out in moments of stress.

What the — are you even listening, kid? A mysterious voice tells you to jump into a gaping hole in the middle of your neighborhood and you’re worried about a Charizard? Oh God – I can smell you from here.

“Chawizard?!” The hole had gotten Little Walter’s attention with the word. “Holy guacamole!” he exclaimed. The boy was prone to replacing his swear words with foods. His mother had always told him swearing was “a sign of the devil.” His father had always told him “shut up, go to your room, but get me another beer first.”

Uhh – yeah, yeah that’s right kid, the void said. There’s a Charizard down here, and if you want to catch it you have to jump.

Little Walter hesitated.

What are you waiting for?

“I guess...” he sputtered. “I guess I’m just worried that when I jump my shirt will ride up on my stomach like it does in gym class on rope climbing day, and that J-Dog or Coach Applebee will be nearby and say I’m a “tub of lard” or “trying my best” like they do at school.

Jesus Christ.

“But I can get over that,” Little Walter continued. “And plus, I jump every day when I’m trying to play hopscotch during recess. One day I’ll make it to the tenth square without tripping!”

Um. Okay. Well, yeah. I’ve got hopscotch down here, and ice cream, and all the Pokemon you could ever want. And... your dad just died, right? I feel like that was kind of glossed over, but he’s down here too. And he wants to see you! And there are no bullies or gym coaches. Nancy’s here, and you didn’t hear it from me but she’s wearing her good chapstick – the cherry-scented one, and she looks just about ready to kiss behind the bleachers. So tuck that shirt into those neon athletic shorts and get jumping!

“Wait... Nancy wants to kiss me? I gotta get down there.” Little Walter was confused but excited. Something was beginning to happen in his pants and he moved to cover it with his Nintendo DS, which was more than large enough to hide the problem.

I don’t know, she was saying something earlier about being in love with the unphukular kid and wanting to turn him into Prom Queen? And how she knows everyone else would see his inner beauty if she could just give him an 80s rom-com-style makeover?

Little Walter asked what song the makeover would be paired with, and the void said Take on Me or maybe The Power of Love, and Little Walter was sold. “Stop drilling, you’ve hit oil!” he chuckled.

What does that even – oh, okay yeah. Come on down.

“I’ll be down faster than you can say ‘my dog has cancer and I’m worried I won’t be able to emotionally deal with her death!’”

There was a pause.

“I mean hey, whatever’s down there it’s gotta be more spacious than the locker I spend half the day stuffed in. So is there a trampoline or something down there ready to catch my fall?”

Again, no reply.

“Hello? Are you there? You’re sounding almost as absent as my father!”

Look man, I think I’d just – I think I’d feel bad if I didn’t ask: is everything, like, okay at home? All this stuff you’re saying... it sounds like... really sad? Like pathetic even? And it’s just, this whole thing I’m doing... usually I have to tempt people into abandoning their lives with all of these false promises about what’s down here, and you just seem sort of immediately ready to go.

“You got snacks down there?”

Oh my –

“I like twizzlers. You got twizzlers?”

No, I don’t “have twizzlers,” said the voice, exasperated. Little Walter patted the rim of the hole comfortingly, worried he had offended it. “Aw, that’s okay,” he offered. “I also like Twix and Kit-Kats. Any candy, really.” He flashed a gap toothed smile. Little Walter’s penchant for sweets had landed him with 17 cavities before the age of 12.

I can’t believe I’m saying this but I... don’t have a lot of candy actually. Maybe you should ease off the sweets? Could help with the acne? And you might do a little better in gym class. Do your parents really not pay enough attention to you to care what you eat?

Walter felt something stir in his chest. He looked at the ground. Or rather, he looked down at his stomach, then leaned forward so he was able to properly see the ground. It was true – his parents were usually too busy arguing to remember to make him dinner, and he spent many a supper on the curb of 7/11, forlornly stuffing lukewarm taquitos into his mouth. Most nights, he would follow it up with a pack of four of twizzlers. Sometimes he would stare at the intersecting red strands, imagining them to be two people in love – not like Mom and Dad. Not like him and Nancy. Or maybe they formed a piece of DNA, he would think. A double helix of a gene that could make him a different person. An even marginally less pathetic person. It was his greatest wish in the entire world.

And though he was generally relentlessly optimistic, Little Walter felt sad.

Oh... look kid, I wasn’t trying to bum you out. You know, it’s just like, you gotta at least try to improve your life. You know, try deodorant or something. You can’t expect magic holes to appear all the time and start offering you everything you’ve ever wanted.

Little Walter considered this. He did not consider things often. and it hurt his little walnut-sized brain.

And most of the time those offers of paradise would probably be a trick anyway. Just a ruse to – taking purely hypothetically here – harvest your soul or something like that. I don’t know.

“So you’re saying I... shouldn’t jump in.”

Well, yeah. I guess you shouldn’t. It was the first time the void had ever said this.

“And I should wear deodorant? That would make people like me more?”

Yeah. Correct.

And so Little Walter continued on his way, circumventing the void by carefully maneuvering around the street and through his neighbor’s yard. He hummed Take My Breath Away to himself, thinking of one day when he would kiss Nancy. He would be like “Hey Nancy, you take my breath away” and she would be like “you’re so handsome” and they would totally smooch, maybe even with tongue if the moment was right.

As Little Walter trotted home, he felt nothing but appreciation for the advice the void had given him. He imagined doing his Spanish homework that night without his classic “reverse pomodoro method,” which included 25 minutes of Pokemon for every 5 minutes of studying. He pictured making eye contact with J-Dog the next day in school without cowering, speaking without spitting all over the place, and walking through the cafeteria without spilling his food. And yes, oh yes – he would even put on deodorant, he resolved.

And as the pit of despair and desperation into which he had almost stumbled shrunk in the distance behind him, he remarked to himself that maybe – just maybe – he would eat one fewer taquito that night.

“Only 11,” he whispered to himself defiantly. “Only 11 taquitos tonight.”

Little Walter eventually moved to Hollywood and became who we now know as Tom Cruise.

Screaming Into The Void

HULL 
Integrity of RMS Titanic seems somewhat dubious due to series of giant holes throughout the bow, stern, and middle part of hull. Cited to reviewer by architect as “intentional design choice, it’s not like you would know anything about aesthetics anyway, have you ever even been to New York?”

GIANT PATCHES OF SHEET METAL STAPLED ACROSS HOLES IN HULL 
Not structurally sound. Insisted upon by previous reviewer who was asked if he even knew who architect’s dad was before being dismissed by architect. Previous reviewer can no longer find work in the industry.

ARCHITECT 
Self-described as “trans-disciplinary cultural provocateur working at the intersection of memory and materiality.” Makes 2 million dollars a year, reviewer was informed. By architect.

CAPTAIN’S WHEEL 
Not attached to rudder in any way, given rudder does not exist. Architect informed reviewer he wanted to be able to do “this” without the boat turning, then spun wheel all the way around like wheel of fortune and informed reviewer the “solution to the puzzle” was “F-U-C-K-O-F-F,” which in reviewer’s opinion seemed unlikely.

STERN 
Cited by architect as “resistant to all naturally occurring elements except ice.” And when reviewer was like “well ice is pretty common, especially on the ocean,” architect just sort of repeated reviewer in nasally sing-song voice that implied his concerns were invalid.

UPTIGHT BITCH 
What architect referred to reviewer as, despite being informed that reviewer does not appreciate name calling and actually used to let loose back in college quite a bit.

STATE SCHOOL 
Where architect mockingly assumed reviewer went to college. Architect went to Brown, apparently.

CRYING 
What reviewer did not do at any point during the review process, despite the shine architect thought he saw in the corner of his eye that was actually just the sun reflecting weird through the porthole.

SOME OF US GOT INTO SCHOOL ON MERIT, NOT LEGACY 
What reviewer should have said to architect. Yeah, that would’ve shown him. That’d have been perfect.

Integrity of RMS Titanic seems somewhat dubious...

Final Notes On Pre-Launch Structural Integrity

I was born with a poo gun in my hand. Doctors think it’s because my mother drank coffee during her pregnancy. But otherwise, I’m actually a pretty normal guy, like you or me.

Why don’t I just put a diaper on poo gun, you ask? Oh well I would love for you to share about that bulletproof diaper you’re clearly talking about. Idiot. Poos from poo gun are just as lethal as any bullet—if not more.

I was homeschooled my entire childhood. Every day I would sit at the attic window and watch kids from the neighboring school at play. Some days, a ball would bounce off my window, and the kids would look up in my direction. Those were the good days.

On the day of my 18th birthday I asked my mother if I could join a real school. She agreed after I held up my gun-hand and ominously said I had to go number two. I was so nervous my first day, I remember I got the runs and shot up the whole classroom, rendering everyone awash in poo. That was my last day of regular school. But my education was just beginning.

Mother enrolled me in gun school. I trained diligently until I became the top sharpshooter in the program. The NRA tried to recruit me as a kind of mascot but I damn near ate shit at a rally when I put poo gun to my heart during the pledge of allegiance. Then the FBI tried to hire me, but I had other plans. Quiet ones. I settled down and became the head of a town cotillion to teach nice manners to young girls and boys. That’s why it’s difficult for me to talk about such crass subjects like poo gun.

I won’t lie, life still isn’t easy. As I’ve gotten older, poo gun has only grown longer. To cover the rifle that is now my hand, nice dry sleeves won’t do it. I have to dip my sleeves in water before leaving the house so they can get more stretched out. My arms are always dripping with water. But at least they aren’t dripping with poo.

Poo Gun

A witch cursed me at the county fair when I was three because I corrected her Latin using my brand-new encyclopedia. She said, “Enjoy your last update, nerd,” and bam—now all my knowledge is sourced from the 1993 Encyclopedia Britannica, Deluxe Print Edition, 32 volumes. Plus index.

At first, it was awesome. I knew everything. Like every single winner of the 1992 Summer Olympics. That women’s rights were finally guaranteed since Ruth Bader Ginsberg’s appointment to the Supreme Court. And a bangin’ summary of the Iran Contra affair. You think anyone else in prekindergarten knew what “detente” was? No. I ruled.

But now it’s 2025, and everything I know is still from the 1993 Encyclopedia Britannica, Deluxe Print Edition, 32 volumes. Plus index. My knowledge ends with Bush Sr. and a cautious optimism about compact discs. People ask me questions like “What’s a meme?” And I say, “Ah yes, a theoretical unit of cultural transmission proposed by Richard Dawkins in The Selfish Gene,” and they just stare at me.

My professors hate me because I can only cite one source, which is the 1993 Encyclopedia Britannica. My friends hate me since I never remember their birthdays because they were all born before 1993, but none of them were significant enough to make it into the Britannica. My cousin from Belgrade hates me because I keep calling him Yugoslavian. I assume it’s because they’ve probably rebranded to something sleeker, like “Neo-Slavia.”

I wish there was some sort of worldwide information superhighway that I could use to rapidly look up everything that’s happened in the last thirty-two years. Here is a list of things I know how to do: send faxes, build a trebuchet, and recite the full text of the U.S. Constitution¹. Here is a list of things I do not know how to do because my knowledge is so outdated: The list is empty, because I don’t know what I don’t know. And neither does the Britannica. That is the whole freaking point!! On an unrelated note, dating has been pretty hard. Partly because of my curse, but mostly because I’m gay and homosexual marriage is still banned in all fifty states.

Britannica

My greatest dream in life is to perfect the art of grilling. Unfortunately, I am the winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature, and no one ever wants me to talk about my grilling.

Did you know grilling was invented by the Arawak tribe of the Caribbean in the seventeenth century? These are the kinds of facts I would share if anyone ever asked. Instead, reporters ask me where I’d place myself in the feminist canon as confetti falls from the ceiling, which has nothing to do with grilling.

Grilling is an art that requires superhuman concentration, but I can’t grill one lousy corn cob without some passing rando asking “Hey, aren’t you Nobel laureate Kimmy Rogers? Your book changed my life! I got sober because of you.” I look up for one second, and when I look down, poof, the corn’s charred beyond recognition.

The second book I ever wrote won the Nobel. Can you believe my luck? Now I am never writing another book again. My first book was a compilation of three-hundred and fifty-seven variations on ham hock. It sold moderately well. I was proud of it. Then I went and did something stupid. I tried something new and wrote a literary epic about intergenerational trauma that won the Nobel Prize.

Now they make me stand behind polished cedar podiums, like some sick joke—wood like that belongs on a grill, not under a Nobel laureate—and pose for author photos on the press tour. I smile with all my teeth and none of my heart. I sneak out at 3 a.m. to grill flank steaks in the hotel parking lot, just to feel like myself again in between book signings.

My only real fan is Triple Baste George, who lives in Kansas. Last week, he emailed me a photo of a finished ham hock from the early days. #329. I cried tears of joy. He’s a real one, from the good old days. Life was good then. Grilling was good. It was the spring of ’98, and I had just figured out how to make the perfect mesquite. There was music in the air, and you could taste the promise of chicken thighs crisping when the skin puffs up just so—I’m going to stop writing before this wins another stupid Nobel Prize in Literature.

My greatest dream in life is to perfect the art of grilling...

There’s No Nobel Prize For Grilling

Hey kiddos, welcome to City Zoo: the first completely ethical zoo! We are super stoked to show you guys around today.

Wow, a question already? Yes, we did used to be a normal zoo before the incident, which I can’t directly tell you about due to legal concerns, but a vague four-word description never hurts: Crazed leopard murder-suicide. After that we needed to rebrand.

You might be wondering, where are all the animals? And to that I say: exactly where they should be. In the wild. Or a little bit down the road on the highway median. But sometimes they come back to the zoo in a Stockholm Syndrome sort of way.

Look, here’s one now! This is Fat Monkey. We don’t give our animals human names because that is degrading to their inherent worth as animals. Fat Monkey climbed into the polar bear exhibit shortly after birth. We thought he was a goner, but the polar bears actually made him their king, so he’s abnormally aggressive and troubled by climate change for a monkey. Oops! There’s that signature Fat Monkey aggression. No no, don’t call for help. This is a natural urge, and it would be unethical to stop him. You are free, Fat Monkey. Free and worthy of life.

Next is our immersive ethical simulation exhibit. We need one volunteer to step into this glassed-in enclosure. Thanks, bud. What’s your name? Brian? Okay now everyone bang on Brian’s glass super hard and we’re gonna flash some lights at him and scream. This is what it’s like to be an animal in confinement. Woah, Brian, chill out pal. No need to get like the 2015 crazed leopard. He has what? Look if Brian knows he has epilepsy he should lead with that before he volunteers for things.

But this teaches us a valuable lesson. Do you think anyone ever asked Fat Monkey if he had epilepsy? No, because we don’t listen to animals. And also, Fat Monkey had severe rabies that made him too dangerous to get close to. But you’d never know that because you’d never ask him.

Ethical Zoo

It weren’t too long after Silas Boone was born that folk started calling him “Toothpick,” on account of his always flossing his teeth. Used his mama’s tooth to pick his banjo, too, which sure didn’t hurt the nickname none. Toothpick could carry a tune almost as well as he could brutally murder people, but he never did get a fair shake from the law no how.

Toothpick’s ma used to say, “There’s gold in these here hills. Why are you wasting your time with all that twanging?” In 1870, Toothpick was sentenced to life in prison for caving in his mother’s head with a banjo. In his lonely jail cell, the songbird wrote the classic tune If McGraw Lets Me Out I’ll Kill Him for Governor Bill McGraw. Governor McGraw was so plum dazzled at bein’ mentioned by name that he set the boy free. Such a charmer, that Toothpick. Toothpick celebrated by killing the town of Reno, Nevada.

The next governor, Ezekiel Perkins, ran on a “Do Not Let Toothpick Out of Jail” platform. It looked like it was the end for ol’ Toothpick. But with the hangman’s noose ’round his neck, Toothpick began to croon his new song Please Let Me Out So I Can Kill Again.

Governor Perkins cried: “Forget my dead parents and neighbors; this root-tootin’ Toothpick here has the voice of an angel!” Again a free man, Toothpick went to church to pray, set on reformin’ his ways. The Good Lord must’a said something sweet to him, because Toothpick shot the preacher dead and the choir never did sing again. And he weren’t near done yet. The Idaho River ran red til Rutherford B. Hayes was elected President in 1876 and personally clapped Toothpick in irons.

President Hayes’ “Seriously Do Not Let Toothpick Back Out of Jail” political sweet talk didn’t scare Toothpick none, but one thing did: Hayes was deaf as a fencepost and twice as stubborn. Poor Toothpick sang and he strummed and he scatted and he sobbed, but old Rud was deaf to reason, and to Toothpick.

So Rud fastened Toothpick nice and tight in that newfangled ‘lectric chair they been building out in New York City, and Toothpick got ready to meet his maker with his banjo in his lap. But blessed Toothpick was luckier’n a two-tailed dog at a bone pile. When President Rud threw the switch, instead of murderin’ Toothpick, they say the lighting shot back up the wire and turned the First Lady into a pile of dust and a blinkin’ pair of eyes. With all that distraction, Toothpick used his namesake to cut himself free and skipped town, flayin’ the skin off e’ry third person he passed. God bless that merciful Toothpick.

No one knows what happened after that, ‘cept that Hayes was found strangled by banjo strings the very next day. Some say Toothpick is still out there singing with a vaudeville show, and some say he’s killing his way through Guadalajara. Some folk reckon he’s up in heaven yodeling to God and stabbing all his angels with icepicks, which is a mighty comfortin’ thought.

It weren’t too long after Silas Boone was born...

The Legend of Toothpick

It was a dark and stormy night for ol’ George Abofo. He was peddling his wares down on Lipman Street, just a hair shy from Bottomsville. Abofo was a sly fellow who made his living selling shoes to children on the side of the road.

Abofo was a shoesman. Some people use the phrase cobbler, but Abofo didn’t.

Abofo wasn’t like most people, and he didn’t give a rat’s ass who knew it.

This particular night Abofo was lacing a pair of brown boots for Robert Feed, a local middle schooler whose feet were growing at an alarming rate. It seemed like every week Feed needed a new pair. Abofo loved the challenge, and more importantly, loved that Feed was a young student.
You see, George Abofo didn’t even know how to read. But if shoes were books, and laces were words, then goddamnit, Abofo was the most literate man you’d ever met.

“Mr. Abofo, my shoes is too small for my feets!” Feed exclaimed. The wind whipped Abofo’s face as he labored over Feed’s shoes. “Just a moment now, Robert.” Abofo pulled and prodded the end of Feed’s left boot, adjusting the shoe’s vamp with his tongue. That was the thing about being a shoesman—you sometimes had to use your tongue to get things done.

“Examine my work,” said Mr. Abofo, standing up off of his shoesman’s stoop. Feed looked down at his boots and gasped. They fit perfectly. Mr. Abofo brushed off his hands (like a father would after a long day of gardening) and smiled. “Alright kiddo, let’s get you off to school,” he said, chuckling. Robert Feed skipped away smiling, his toes wiggling within the perfectly spaced confines of his boots, not realizing how dangerously close he had come to being brutally molested by the town pervert.

George Abofo

In Game 5 of the 1997 NBA Finals, Michael Jordan put on one of the most legendary performances 
in basketball history while suffering flu-like symptoms. He played so well, in fact, that he soon began to 
intentionally seek out other illnesses in hopes of improving his game.

Announcer: And there’s a classic taunt from Jordan, sticking his tongue out as he slams it home! 
Co-Announcer: He’s really letting his opponents have it. Wagging that tongue right at them! 
Announcer: Oh my. Is he trying to... lick them? 
Co-Announcer: They’re pushing him away—but he just goes for the floor. God. So vigorous. 
Announcer: Can we cut to commercial?

Agent: I’m sorry, Mike. There just aren’t any more Make-A-Wish kids who’ve asked to see you. You’ve visited 
them all. 
Michael Jordan: Then I’ll visit them again! Especially the contagious ones! 
Agent: That’s not how it works. You’re only allowed to visit them once. 
Michael Jordan: How about you? How are you feeling? Your voice sounds a little scratchy. 
Agent: C’mon, let’s talk about this later. Hey, you ever read that script for Space Jam: Baseball? 
Michael Jordan: Cough on me!

Interviewer: You possess a relentless drive to be the best. What’s your advice to all those out there who want 
to “be like Mike?” 
Michael Jordan: You gotta be willing to get your hands dirty. Put them in weird places. Toilets. Dirt. Never 
wash them, and touch your eyes often. 
Interviewer: I—I meant more in a work-ethic sense. 
Michael Jordan: Efficiency is also key. I eat all my meals at Chuck-E-Cheese. That 
kills two birds with one stone, since it maximizes your risk of both food poisoning and 
diabetes.

Wife: Alright, honeybun—where does my 5-time NBA champion want to go for 
vacation? 
Michael Jordan: The Democratic Republic of the Congo. 
Haut-Katanga province. 
Wife: That sounds, uh... lovely. They just opened a Sandals 
resort there, didn’t they? 
Michael Jordan: I would be surprised. It’s a 
hotbed for malaria. 
Wife: Oh. 
Michael Jordan: Even if the malaria doesn’t take, 
they have a pretty big cholera problem, too.

Michael Jordan: So! Magic... weird question— 
Magic Johnson: Don’t even think about it.

After the Flu Game

<ul>
 <li>So how are my numbers looking?</li>
 <li>Not great. Voters aren’t taking well to the name “Leslie Lynch King.”</li>
 <li>What? People ain’t rolling with The Lynch King?</li>
 <li>We really think you should stick with “Gerald Ford”.</li>
 <li>But it’s my birth name! I’m Leslie Lynch King! Pow!</li>
 <li>Please let go of my neck.</li>
 <li>What’s wrong with Lynch King?</li>
 <li>Lynching is, er, how should I put this, starting to become a faux pas in America.</li>
 <li>That’s what makes it great! “Look out, I’m gonna lynch ya!” See? Kickass!</li>
 <li>It’s offputting to the American family.</li>
 <li>Aw, grow a spine. I got lynched ten times in the fourth grade.</li>
 <li>What exactly do you think lynching is?</li>
 <li>It’s the only hope America’s got against the wrath of Jimmy Carter.</li>
 <li>Right.</li>
 <li>It’s where they put your head in a toilet, right?</li>
 <li>That’s swirlies. Lynching is when you hang people in public.</li>
 <li>Oh.</li>
</ul>

Poll

When it comes to performative feminism, I’m a veritable Fred Astaire. Before I stepped into the spotlight, performing feminism on the streets for coins was practically unheard of. You could find a common street urchin juggling bowling pins on any corner. When folks stopped by my pretty little slice of sidewalk, they knew they were in for a dazzling display of death-defying feminism.

I’d hula hoop atop a soapbox with RBG painted on it in period-blood red, while warning female passerby of a sneaky demon who goes by the name “Mansplaining.” My most popular act was painting my nails pink for the girls, while massaging my chest with breast cancer ribbons ’til I orgasmed on the first try, as all females do.

One remarkable evening, after my abortion act, I was beating the living personification of chivalry within an inch of his life, when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I twisted around and found myself face-to-face with David Hasselhoff. “My God!” he said. “You’ve got TALENT!” He slipped me a card with his contact information, and I read the three greatest words in the world (besides “free bathroom tampons”): America’s Got Talent.

David flew me out to Vegas for my big audition. I opened with my body hair act, in which my female assistant removed all of my body hair with wax strips. The crowd exploded with applause. She then used masking tape to reattach every single clump of hair. “All body hair is gorgeous, darling!” I shouted to the heavens. I wrapped up my audition with some silly impressions of white feminists, and dead serious impressions of the intersectional ones.

My career as a performative feminist was never the same after that performance. I won America’s Got Talent. Naturally, I bet my $1 million prize on the expansion of the wage gap and entered the 2010s as a multimillionaire. After decades in the industry, I even earned my star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, right next to comedy legend Bill Cosby.

When it comes to performative feminism...

A Performative Feminist

Man: Hey lady, let’s get out of here.
Woman: Not happening mister.
Man: Let’s go back to mine, we’ll take our brews to go.
Woman: I’m on a call, I’m married to my job.
Man: Why are you married to your jo—?

SENIOR BLIMP SPECIALIST: HEY BABE, IS THIS GUY BOTHERING YOU?

Man: What the fuck? A job?
Woman: As a matter of fact, he’s bothering me quite a bit.

SENIOR BLIMP SPECIALIST: ALRIGHT BUDDY, HOW ABOUT YOU AND ME TAKE A WALK. HOW’S THAT SOUND?

Man: What the hell is a senior blimp specialist.

SENIOR BLIMP SPECIALIST: NONE OF YOUR BEESWAX.

Man: Okay, I’m starting to put the pieces together here. You said you were ‘married to your job—’
Woman: Shut the hell up.
Man: —and here we are talking to a living breathing job. That’s clever.

SENIOR BLIMP SPECIALIST: SHUT THE HELL UP YOU JACKASS.

Man: That’s actually really clever the more I think about it.

SENIOR BLIMP SPECIALIST: I’LL KILL YOU, YOU SON OF A GUN

Man: That’s actually very cleve—*bullet tears through abdomen, killing the man instantly*

SENIOR BLIMP SPECIALIST: That’ll show him.
Woman: *Hugs job* I love you Darwin.

What’s New

Check it Out

The Latest

Deep Cuts