One for the Road Comix

(Lights up. Camera pans over a grayscale suburb.)
VOICEOVER: The modern mom is secure.
(Flash: a perfect suburban house.)
VOICEOVER: The modern mom is loving.
(Flash: a child playing alone with toys in a sandbox.)
VOICEOVER: The modern mom is perfect.
(Flash: a mother crying over her son&rsquo;s corpse. Cut to black. We hear police sirens as lights come up on an abandoned street.)
MODERN STEPDAD: These streets used to be safe.
MODERN MOM: Things change.
MODERN STEPDAD: They do. Faster than you think.
(MODERN MUGGER runs up to the two with a computer. A dangerous-looking one.)
MODERN MUGGER: Bitcoin wallet. Now.
(Cut to black. Then to a darker black. Then to normal black. Lights up on an infant.)
(&ldquo;Rock-A-Bye-Baby&rdquo; plays in a minor key.)
MODERN TODDLER: Ma-ma?
(MODERN MOM fights back tears. She is pointing a gun at MODERN TODDLER.)
MODERN TODDLER: The modern mom is master of her feelings.
(Cut to black. Gunshot. &ldquo;Modern Mom&rdquo; comes up in white text. Very loud slide whistle.)

(Lights up. Camera pans over a grayscale suburb.)
VOICEOVER: The modern mom is secure.
(Flash: a p...

Modern Mom Gritty Reboot

Okay, so you&rsquo;re in the cafeteria. They&rsquo;re serving peas. The boy across from you is throwing peas like an expert into your milk carton. Proper etiquette response is, &ldquo;Cool, Man!&rdquo;
A girl you do not like asks you to her dumb birthday party. What does etiquette say to do? Etiquette says, &ldquo;Out-o-sight, man! I&rsquo;ll be there.&rdquo; Then don&rsquo;t go. If your Mom finds out and makes you go, act weird at the party and make sure everyone can tell you&rsquo;ve been crying. If the party is at Shakey&rsquo;s, don&rsquo;t eat any pizza, and don&rsquo;t eat cake no matter what! Or you&rsquo;ll have to be friends. Don&rsquo;t say thank-you to the dumb Mom.
Okay, enough free stuff. Here are your questions.
<hr class="wp-block-separator" />
Dear Missy Manners:
My Grandma gives me the wrong stuff, but I kiss her anyway. Then, later, my mom makes me write thank you notes. Is this etiquette?
Gentle Reader:
First, when you get the wrong stuff, kiss Grandma but make sure she knows she screwed up. Say &ldquo;Cool, Grandma&hellip;&rdquo;, then go sit alone in your room and don&rsquo;t take the present with you. If your mom makes you write a note, etiquette says write it like, &ldquo;Thank you for the present. I hate Mommy. I love you even though.&rdquo;
<hr class="wp-block-separator" />
Dear Missy Manners:
My mom makes me have my birthday party with the red-headed boy because we have the same birthday. This is not fair!
Gentle Reader:
When the moms cut the cake and the boy&rsquo;s mom hands the first piece to you, don&rsquo;t eat it like it has cooties. Say, like etiquette, &ldquo;Give it to Dee&rdquo; and cry when they ask why. When Dee tries to get another piece say &ldquo;You have had enough.&rdquo; This is okay, because your mom knows you really hate this boy, but she is being cheap with the other mother, so she feels guilty. Don&rsquo;t say anything in the car home. Then say, &ldquo;this is the worst birthday ever&rdquo;. This will make mom cry.

Okay, so you’re in the cafeteria. They’re serving peas. The boy across from you is throwing peas lik...

Missy Manners

Day in the Life Comix

Our patented technology detonates with a slow steady fizz that&rsquo;ll clean your skin right off and replace it with our patented Jornada del Muerto Desert scent&mdash;not to mention bubbles!&nbsp;
Blast into your bathtub escape. When these bombs go Kabloey&mdash;You won&rsquo;t ever have to worry! Nor will any of the people in your building/general vicinity. You&rsquo;ll be floating in the vast gray expanse of a bubble bath. Completely unattached. Together.&nbsp;
Nuclear Bath Bombs: New bath. New you. New unidentified masses.
*Note: All LUSH bath bombs are environmentally conscious and drain safe. Our packaging event uses repurposed bathtub drains to split the atom.

Our patented technology detonates with a slow steady fizz that’ll clean your skin right off and repl...

Nuclear Bath Bomb by LUSH

Dougle

Arthur Peddleton is unable to comprehend the number 6.
It began as a normal day for Arthur Peddleton. He rose from his bed and sighed contentedly as he stretched his full 5&rsquo;9&rdquo; frame towards the ceiling. He dressed in the same outfit he always did when he went in for a job interview: a plain white button-down shirt with 5 buttons and a pair of khaki pants with 2 leg holes. He brushed his teeth for exactly 44 seconds and fell down the stairs exactly twice. Nothing, not even a set of jagged stone stairs covered in glass and poison, could bring him down today; he had a chance at his dream job: an accountant.
Arthur arrived at the offices of Reid Thornton Accounting at 99 Boylston Street 10 minutes early. If his professional tennis player of a mother had taught him anything it was to arrive early and how to play tennis. He took the elevator to the 19th floor of the tall glass building, and a friendly attendant informed him that Reid&rsquo;s office was the third one on the left. Arthur approached the door, inhaled, exhaled, breathed, and knocked four times.
&ldquo;You must be Arthur Peddleton,&rdquo; said a voice behind him. Arthur jumped in the air and completed a perfect 540o turn so he was facing the man.
&ldquo;Why, yes I am,&rdquo; Arthur replied.
&ldquo;Impressive,&rdquo; the man replied. &ldquo;Very impressive. The name&rsquo;s Thornton Accounting. Reid Thornton Accounting.&rdquo; Arthur extended his hand for a handshake. &ldquo;You might not want to touch that,&rdquo; said Reid. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s covered in mayonnaise from the 512 of a foot long sub I got from Subway for my 47th birthday.&rdquo;
&ldquo;Oh yeah, gross,&rdquo; said Arthur, pulling his hand away.
&ldquo;Please, step into my office,&rdquo; Reid offered.
Arthur entered the beautiful corner office and the interview began. For such a fancy firm, the interview was quite standard. Reid quizzed Arthur on a few numbers to make sure he was the real deal. After Arthur confirmed his knowledge of 1, 4 and 12, Reid was satisfied. As Arthur was preparing to leave, Reid had one more question. One that Arthur had never heard.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &ldquo;So tell me, &lsquo;Arthur&rsquo; was it? What is your greatest number-related weakness?&rdquo; Arthur froze. His hands grew clammy and his face white. His lower lip trembled and his upper lip got eerily still as he barely managed to utter, &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t have one.&rdquo;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &ldquo;Well, Arthur. I must say, that answer was&hellip; perfect! You&rsquo;re hired!&rdquo;
Arthur leapt for joy and ran down the 182 stairs as the office stood to applaud him. He burst through the 2 front doors and smiled at the 1 sky, jumping and clicking his 2 heels.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Suddenly, a dog ran by and clipped Arthur&rsquo;s feet while he was in the air. He did a half flip and landed really hard on his shoulder. He was slow to get up, but he was fine.

Arthur Peddleton is unable to comprehend the number 6.
It began as a normal day for Arthur Peddleto...

The Number 6

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

Oh, thank you, really thank you so much. This award&hellip;it truly means so much to me. Well, it looks like they&rsquo;re playing me off now, but&hellip; In some ways, life is like a video game. You collect experience, and, eventually, you get a reward (holds up trophy) (tremendous applause). You know, if this were happening in my video game, there&rsquo;d be someone in the audience plotting to take this from me right now! (laughs) (squints eyes). Well they&rsquo;re playing me off now, but I just wanted to reaffirm that of course this is not one of my video games, as this level of VR tech doesn&rsquo;t even exist yet. Something like that would be (takes out laser blaster) award&hellip;winning&hellip;

Oh, thank you, really thank you so much. This award…it truly means so much to me. Well, it looks lik...

2020 International Video Game Awards Acceptance Speech

War Horse is very fast and strong. He is good Horse. War Horse knows he is good because Captain Jeremy says so. But even good Horses sleep outside sometimes, like when Captain Jeremy is too busy with Other Captains or women to cuddle War Horse. This makes War Horse cold in body, and also heart.
I am War Horse. I was not sure when writing first paragraph, but since then I have begun to understand concepts like individualism and the use of the first person. I still no understand math.
Sometimes Jeremy brushes War Horse and gives me raspberries. This is not like real raspberries, like humans eat. More like an affectionate way of going “bluh bluh bluh bluh bluh” with his lips into my neck and stomach regions. Then he says “I love you” so quiet that no Other Horses can hear. War Horse does not like this. War Horse would prefer real raspberries.
Other Horses, like Big War Horse, Small War Horse, and Donkey, all say the same thing. “Man, he is
playing with you, dog,” they say. I ignore them because I am not a dog. I am a Horse.
Whenever War Horse confronts Jeremy about keeping relationship behind closed stables, he says
“woah!” or “settle down there.” Or, least favorite, he will say something like “you just have to know how to
connect with them” and then wink at blonde whore he has brought. And it’s like: we all know she is prostitute Jeremy. Me and Other Horses all know. Just stop.
War Horse is getting old. Other Horses tell me so, and even Captain Jeremy, when he wants to hurt my feelings. I just hope I marry before I pass. And I hope Captain Jeremy is my bride.

War Horse is very fast and strong. He is good Horse...

War Horse

Uh oh. I did it again. Fell asleep after all the kids got on the bus, so now I gotta get all these munchkins home in the next ten minutes. My route usually takes two hours, so I&rsquo;ll go a little over double the speed limit. If I don&rsquo;t make it, I&rsquo;m fired for sure &mdash; Principal Malone is super strict about fifteenth time offenses.
&ldquo;Sit down and shut up!&rdquo; I yell to myself after shrieking in fear. The kids are in the back being little angels &mdash; I hope this is a sleep deprived hallucination and they&rsquo;re not already dead. I hit the gas and take a two-minute nap.
Eight minutes left. Kenny&rsquo;s house is first up and it&rsquo;s two miles away. We&rsquo;ll be there in ten seconds. I tell Kenny to aim for the mattress out front. &ldquo;There&rsquo;s no mattress out&mdash;&ldquo; He lands in a bush.
Time to deal with the other thirty-nine. I&rsquo;m hurling kids into their front yards left and right. All the tossing reminds me of my paper route. Oh no. Today is my paper route. And if today&rsquo;s my paper route that means it&rsquo;s milk delivery day too. I was wondering why the bus had more milk than normal.
Two minutes left. There&rsquo;s 180 kids in the back with an entire home owners&rsquo; association and that&rsquo;s not including my side-gig cab fares.
I blink and look back. No kids. No seatbelts. No seats. No bus. It was slowing me down. I&rsquo;m running with the last kid on my nude back. Aerodynamics. I&rsquo;ve got twenty seconds left. The kid&rsquo;s screaming something about him being Principal Malone and how the kids were supposed to go to a museum. I&rsquo;m not listening though &mdash; it&rsquo;s nap time.

Uh oh. I did it again. Fell asleep after all the kids got on the bus, so now I gotta get all these m...

Goin’ West

– Babe, today is the first day of the rest of our lives.
– We’re gonna be young forever.
– I can’t wait to spend our gap year together.
– Actually...I have something to tell you.
– I know what you’re going to say, and I love you too.
– I was going to say we can’t stay together next year. I applied to Mid-Sized New England Liberal Arts School.
– How could you do this to me? On the night of the big lake party?
– There’s more to life than this small town. I’m gonna get out of this place. I’m gonna go to college, and Hollywood, and maybe even the Eiffel Tower one day.
– You’re right. You need to follow your dreams.
– I’m gonna be a poet.
– You’re such an onion, babe.
– A set of nesting dolls.
– I’m going to miss you even more than my dead dad, and I was really sad about that for two weeks before I started focusing on my campaign for homecoming queen.
– Don’t cry, babe.
– Not a problem.
– We still have three months of sunset drives, drives at dusk, and driving between when it’s fully light out and fully dark out.
– Will you also play shitty original guitar songs at me as I stare blankly into space?
– As long as we can do over-the-pants hand stuff after.
– You can say that we did.
– This is gonna be the best summer ever.

Babe, today is the first day of the rest of our lives...

High School Movie

The Lampoon's Spring 2026 parody of the Harvard Crimson

Spring ’26

Crimson Parody

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

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

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

Time Traveler: People of Salem, stop this madness! These women are innocent. 
 Executioner: What? 
 Time Traveler: What you’re doing disproportionately discriminates against a subset of society on the basis of identity. 
 Executioner: (high-fives other Puritans) 
 Time Traveler: This woman committed no crime other than the crime of being strong and beautiful. 
 Executioner: The witch? Goodie Brenda? She burned down a school. 
 Time Traveler: Probably to protest the lack of schooling she received! 
 Executioner: Look man, when you’re stabbing other kids with pencils, the board pretty much has to consider an expulsion. 
 Time Traveler: I wish you could see the gender and sexuality office of my private New England liberal arts college. Your worldview is so small. 
 Witch: (pokes head out of rat-filled burlap sack) 
 Time Traveler: She’s alive! 
 Witch: To be honest, I’m like—I’m a pretty bad person. I kind of deserve this.

Salem Witch Trials

Intergalactic War is what me and my younger brother Terry play in the basement when we want to escape the sound of Mom and Dad arguing.

Me: Pew Pew! Got you with my laser gun, Terry! 
Terry: Did not! 
Me: Did too! 
Terry: Yeah, well I just hit you with my freeze ray! 
Me: (standing still) Curse you, moon aliens! 
Terry: And guess what? I’m gonna blow up the whole Earth with this epic laser. 
Me: Not if I blow up the moon with my epic laser first. 
Terry: Hey. Don’t do that. 
Me: Why not? 
Terry: The consequences would be cataclysmic. 
Me: (pretending to fire a large laser) Peeeeew-wowwwwwwww! Too late, just did, haha. 
Terry: The chunks of debris from the explosion hurtle towards Earth, promising unfixable terrestrial transformation and certain death for millions. 
Me: Jeez Terry it was just— 
Terry: The surviving Moon People mourn the losses of loved ones, children, and spouses, in the mere moments they have left before their own inevitable deaths. 
Me: Well, I guess my laser worked pretty good. Earth wins, right? 
Terry: Yeah, if you consider the melting of Polar ice caps, rising sea levels, millions displaced, skyrocketing immigration, post-apocalyptic dictator-based governance, and an unstable axial tilt a “win.” 
Me: I don’t understand where you learned all this. You’re seven years old. 
Terry: I’m what Mom and Dad are fighting about.

Intergalactic War is what me and my younger brother Terry play in the basement...

Intergalactic War

No, I’m not a flat earther—nothing of the sort. Rather, I believe the Earth is made out of pizza. I think the green grass is cheese, the oceans are oil and sauce, and that the Earth’s crust is also an extra part of the pizza loaded with more cheese than usual. I haven’t figured out what the pizza crust is, but I think it’s asteroids.

Pizza earthers and flat earthers are similar in the sense that we both think the Earth is flat—its just that they think the Earth is the Earth, and I think the Earth is pizza. Take Europe, for example. Flat earthers think it is a giant mass of land, whereas I think it is a giant mass of pizza. My house in the suburbs of Boston is also made out of pizza, and pepperoni slices for the roof.

Scientists might look around, and say, “this isn’t pizza, this is a pile of bricks,” every time you try to convince them that a pile of bricks is pizza. But at the end of the day, who gets to decide what a pile of bricks is? The guy who owns them, and guess what, you’re looking at him.

This doesn’t mean that I think people are pizza too. Only some people: Egyptians, Koreans, and Canadians. All other races/ethnicities are likely some combination of breadsticks, spaghetti, or garlic bread.

Now, this might all sound like nonsense to you, but let me explain how I figured it out. About a week ago, I decided to make my wife her favorite meal: homemade pizza. I left work a little early to buy the ingredients: bread, sauce, pepperonies, peppers, and of course, the cheese. When I got home, I began by dicing up the cheese and layering it over the bread—but something was wrong: a strange sound was coming from my room. I went upstairs to see what I could find, and when I opened the door, there it was: my wife having sex with another man. After that, I swallowed a bottle of pills, and when I woke up I believed in the pizza earth theory.

I can’t remember what my wife looks like.

No, I’m not a flat earther—nothing of the sort...

Pizza Earther

I’m a graffiti artist. You might be familiar with my work. The big purple penis in the bathroom stall at the Circle K off I-95 Exit 77A? Me. The bigger, purpler penis in the Douglas Elementary School bathroom stall? Also, me. But much less refined than my later stuff.

Security’s been tightened at Douglas Elementary, so I’m forced to search elsewhere for my next canvas. I follow a group of solemn hood rats wearing all black. They keep littering flowers and bawling—doing nothing to cover their tracks. Rookie mistake, because they lead me to a 500-foot-long marble bathroom stall wall. Bingo. And there’s no toilet or sink or gunk. Double bingo.

This is a graffiti hotspot, judging by the 58,000 or so names. My new competition are the likes of Lt. Chadwick Harper, Maj. Lionel Beaumont, and Capt. Augustus McDaniel. Posers. These “artists” seriously think their homogenous minimalist style and bourgeois names are shedding a light on our hypocritical repression by “the man”? Give me a break. And why don’t we throw subtlety out the window while we’re at it? I was in this game long before these frauds, and I’ll be in this game long after them. No one compares to the Purple Peen Machine.

That’s me, FYI. It’s a little something I’ve been cooking up. Let me know if you like it. I was also thinking Big Greg, if you’re more into slant rhyme. In big, bold Comic Sans I paint “Purple Peen Machine” across the 500-foot wall. In a smaller font, I write “Big Greg,” just in case I decide to make the switch later on.

For my next project, I’m gonna paint a mural of soldiers valiantly sacrificing their lives in the name of freedom, because I love war.

I’m a graffiti artist. You might be familiar with my work...

Vietnam War Memorial

<pre>
- Hey, honey can you zip me up?
- Of course babe, you look beautiful.
- Really? You don’t think this dress makes me look fat?
- I mean maybe a little around the—INTELLIGENCE!!
- What did you just say?
- Wowee! Who let you bundle up all that intelligence? It’s practically bursting at the
 seams—OF AMBITION.
- I’m bursting out of my dress?!
- No, not your dress, your bod—BOUNTY. You have so much bounty I could scream! A
 dowry to feed five kings. Who am I but a humble peasant to be in the presence of such a
 well endowed lady?!
- Jim, what the hell are you saying?
- That I am not worthy of such a glorious lady such as thy self. Your body doth stretch
 from corner to corner of this household, yet your soul be twice as large. If I could show-
 er you in flowers, I would need but five hundred bouquets to cover your circumference,
 but it would be worth it to see your smile emerge from the crevices of your chin.
- So even my soul is fat?
- Not fat... fat-anstic!
- Goodnight, Jim.
- *footsteps retreating. car door slams*
- Phew. That was a close one.
</pre>

That One Time I Very Cleverly Escaped by the Skin of my Teeth

Detective Town is the safest place in the county because no crime goes unsolved. Hell, no crime goes committed. Everyone is a detective, and not one’s gone rotten. The air is full of intrigue, which leads to higher-than-average rates of lung cancer. The lone traffic light in Detective Town has three settings: black, white, and ominous pause. But now there’s a stranger in Detective Town, and he’s got everyone more suspicious than usual.

The newcomer sticks out like a lit match in a blackout because he pokes around at the discarded red herrings rotting in the gutters. Plus, he’s the only one in town without a sidekick. Every detective in Detective Town has a suppressed homoerotic relationship with a sidekick, which remains unconfirmed but clear in subtext. No sidekicks live in Detective Town, but they make the commute.

Unlike the detectives, the stranger doesn’t narrate his internal monologue out loud, which makes it difficult for them to deduce his master plan. So, one by one, each of the 621 residents of Detective Town gift him a framed photo with a hidden camera inside. One by one, the stranger thanks them but declines the gift, saying he doesn’t know anyone in the picture. Awfully convenient. They’ll have to do this the old fashioned way.

After 30 seconds of intense interrogation, the stranger introduces himself as Carl Kowalsky, a 54-year-old plumber from Chicago. He claims he took a wrong turn while driving to visit his mother, which is just what a criminal mastermind who took a wrong turn while driving to visit his mother would say. Carl cunningly suggests they’ve made a mistake and that he’d really like to go home. Likely story.

That night, the detectives host a dinner party to see if Carl will slip up. But no one sits at the table with him; they’re all too busy searching other rooms for evidence. They suspect he poisoned the food anyway. Carl calls it a night and heads out around 8pm to catch the Cubs game. When the clock strikes midnight, all clues point to the butler. But there are no butlers in Detective Town. This isn’t Butler Town.

Eventually, the detectives feel they’ve gathered enough evidence to lock Carl up, but he walks free as a bird. They can’t try anyone in Detective Town; there are no judges, juries, or jailers. Carl makes a beeline for the highway, saying he thinks he’ll get better directions home in Gas Station Attendant Town. The detectives can’t hear him because they’re all monologuing about the ironies of justice with cherrywood pipes in their mouths.

Detective Town is the safest place in the county because no crime goes unsolved...

Detective Town

This is the story of Jizzy Fuckwad scamming an elderly woman on Facebook Marketplace.

Jizzy Fuckwad needed some cash ASAP. He said to himself, “You know what? Now’s as good a time as any. I mean, right now. I’m going to scam an elderly woman on Facebook Marketplace. Fuck it. Why the hell not?”

Jizzy Fuckwad opened up his laptop and found a stock photo of a refurbished Restoration Hardware couch. He screenshotted it and listed the couch on Facebook Marketplace for $900. In minutes, Jizzy Fuckwad was receiving hundreds of direct messages.

“Dude, your name is WHAATT??” read one DM.

“Jizzy Fuckwad! It says so in the profile,” Jizzy Fuckwad wrote back. “Now that that’s out of the way, are you interested in this high end modular sectional?”

It seemed like every DM had something to say about Jizzy Fuckwad’s name. Except one.

“Hello dearie, I’d like to purchase this couch!” read the lone DM. Jizzy Fuckwad clicked on the sender’s profile and found that she was in her mid-seventies. Jizzy Fuckwad wrote back that he needed to be paid via Venmo — not through the Facebook Marketplace framework — to “reduce fees.” After receiving the payment, Jizzy Fuckwad promptly transferred the money to his bank account and blocked the old woman on every platform.

Jizzy Fuckwad then felt so guilty that he reached for his phone to call the police on himself. But Jizzy Fuckwad’s phone died at that very moment, leaving Jizzy Fuckwad a second to contemplate the fact that he was now $900 richer.

This is the story of Jizzy Fuckwad scamming an elderly woman on Facebook Marketplace...

FUCKWAD, in which he... ...scams an elderly woman on Facebook Marketplace

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...

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