&ndash; You understand that after you sign&nbsp;this document you cannot discuss the Manhattan Project with anyone under penalty of death, correct?
&ndash; Yes, I understand. (signs)
&ndash; So, Mr. Oppenheimer,&nbsp;nuclear fission.&nbsp; Is it possible? How do we do it?
&ndash; (silence)
&ndash; Mr. Oppenheimer?
&ndash; (does zip-lipping motion,&nbsp;throws away key)
&ndash; Oh&hellip; Oh. Shit.

– You understand that after you sign this document you cannot discuss the Manhattan Project with any...

J. Robert Oppenheimer signs an NDA

Richard Holton, our first Nice Guy president, eased out of the womb on December 24, 1921, giving doctors plenty of time to go enjoy their Christmas. His first word was a smile. The warmest of five children, Richard quickly gained a reputation as a kindness prodigy. While other toddlers struggled to form full sentences, Richard was able to say things like, &ldquo;How was your day?&rdquo; and truly care about the answer.
Despite his r&eacute;sum&eacute;&rsquo;s focus on other people&rsquo;s accomplishments, Richard was admitted to college with a scholarship as generous as he was. He entered school excited to learn, but professors soon asked him to skip class. It was hard to teach over all that applause. Richard majored in Compliments and graduated top study-buddy in his class. He won a national debate championship after agreeing to disagree with his opponents. Senior year, he was elected homecoming king, homecoming queen, and dean.
His last name was officially changed to Nice Guy after a census taker was blown away by his patience. Out of humility, Richard insisted that his name be changed back to Holton. When his court appeal was denied, Nice Guy graciously accepted the result.
After making his local congressman blush to death, Richard became Representative Nice Guy. Voters elected him unanimously, undeterred by his youth and stated disinterest in the position. By the end of his first day on Capitol Hill, all politicians belonged to one party. He took the second day off to donate organs.
In November 1955, he gave his famed speech, &ldquo;You All Seem Wonderful, But I Would Like to Retire, Please.&rdquo; The American people knew it was time for President Nice Guy. He refused to run a dirty campaign or any campaign at all. He became the first candidate to openly endorse his opponent. By mid-July, they called off the election and gave Nice Guy the White House. The sitting president was thrilled; Nice Guy personally helped him move out.
The defining move of his presidency was remembering everyone&rsquo;s birthday. Not wanting to hog the spotlight, he resigned after three weeks. President Nice Guy&rsquo;s reverence for foreign nations was reflected in his decision to move to one. But the voters were wise to his kind tricks, and they elected him to 14 more terms via write-in ballot. He died at the age of Young at Heart while attempting to tunnel out of the White House.

Richard Holton, our first Nice Guy president, eased out of the womb on December 24, 1921, giving doc...

President Nice Guy

It’s Saint Patrick’s Day, and CHARLIE BROWN and HIS FRIENDS are searching for four-leaf shamrocks. But, every shamrock Charlie pulls turns out to be a regular rock...

Snoopy's B-Plot

Sometimes when I&rsquo;m thinking about doing something a little devil will pop up on one of my shoulders and a little angel will pop up on the other one. I always listen to the little angel, because something just doesn&rsquo;t seem right about a little devil.

Sometimes when I’m thinking about doing something a little devil will pop up on one of my shoulders ...

Sometimes when I’m thinking…

Before you say anything, we know what you&rsquo;re thinking: why should you care that cancer eventually got cured when in Key Largo, Florida, there&rsquo;s an underwater hotel that delivers dry pizza and no one knows how they do it? Well if you were the one who had cancer, you&rsquo;d be whistling a different tune.
That aside, good point&mdash;and, believe it or not, before he cured cancer Craig was actually an underwater pizza-guy at Key Largo himself. In many ways, it was just like being a regular pizza-guy: he took the orders, picked his nose, and was at no point given a scuba by Boss.
Why did Craig keep working there without a scuba, you ask? Well, some of us have children to feed. Not Craig: he just got a genuine high from swimming really fast to deliver dry pizzas. Also the work culture. Craig couldn&rsquo;t help but crack a smile every time our beepers belted &ldquo;where&rsquo;s my fucking pizza?&rdquo;, a little chorus that Boss enjoyed screaming in funny voices to cheer us on as we swam.
Despite all the fun we were having with Craig, his 251st pizza would turn out to be his last. All pizzas had to be delivered dry, and Craig took a shit on that one&mdash;liquid. &ldquo;That oughta give these capitalists a taste of their own poop,&rdquo; we thought, since indeed their poop probably tasted just like Craig&rsquo;s.
Yeah, that&rsquo;s right&mdash;we&rsquo;re all just human. And at the end of the day, it doesn&rsquo;t matter how many pizzas you shit on. Because, one day, death and early retirement come for all of us. And sure, both come sooner if you&rsquo;re Craig, delivering underwater pizza at Key Largo. But there was nothing anyone could do about that, which is why Craig eventually cured cancer instead&mdash;and boy did we cheer for our boy Craig.

Before you say anything, we know what you’re thinking: why should you care that cancer eventually go...

How Cancer Eventually Got Cured

She looked at him like a deer in headlights might look at someone if it had human eyes. Hamish had interviewed a million girls like her for a job, a billion probably, maybe fewer, but still every time he was surprised that they managed to get into his office. He wasn&rsquo;t hiring.
The girl wiped the security guard&rsquo;s blood on her skirt and hiked it up a bit to show Hamish a glimpse of her knees and penis. Sigh, Hamish said aloud instead of sighing.&nbsp; He knew the drill. Girl from Bumfucksville, Manhattan with a winning smile and a folder full of Naruto fanart wants to be a star. Greases a few palms, offers to clean up the grease for a price, and before you know it she&rsquo;s fucked her way so high up the Empire State you&rsquo;re bringing her the Alka Seltzer. Entitled. Thinks just &lsquo;cause she got her period before the other girls at school that every door&rsquo;s gonna open for her even though automatic doors haven&rsquo;t been invented yet and she&rsquo;s got a thumb that looks like a toe.
&ldquo;So, you want to be in pictures,&rdquo; Hamish muttered under his breath to practice what he was going to say. &ldquo;Excuse me?&rdquo; She&rsquo;d heard him, and now he was embarrassed. Hamish looked out the window and spat at his reflection. The window was open, and the window cleaner looked really offended. He spun his chair around so he was facing the girl and spun around a second time for fun. &ldquo;The pictures, toots. The silver screen.&rdquo;
&ldquo;Oh, duh. Movies, yeah. Just call them movies.&rdquo;
He took a bite of his cigarette. Truth is this girl wasn&rsquo;t half bad. Hair like shiny rope, nostrils you could fit a fist into, extra long tits, and an enormous, freakish mouth. Like her mouth was for real so big. He sat there looking at her for ten, fifteen minutes, and decided that he&rsquo;d give her the job after all. &ldquo;OK, this is a paper mill. We make paper. Not movies. Sorry.&rdquo; He tipped her a tootsie roll wrapper for her time, and just like that, she was gone.
&ldquo;Fuck.&rdquo; Another day, another dollar in the swear jar.
Hamish stared out the window, and thought about really sad things, like global warming and the fact that the girl had left. She was a rare dame: a desert flower, and flowers don&rsquo;t just grow on trees. And now she was dead, probably. &ldquo;Hi, excuse me,&rdquo; she said, alively. &ldquo;Can you unlock the door?&rdquo; Hamish got up from his chair, and pushed her out the window. She was dead for real this time, and he could be sad again. &ldquo;Hey, sorry.&rdquo; Her again, first floor office. &ldquo;Do you validate parking?&rdquo; He threw his paperweight at her. Sad.
Hamish drove back home for what felt like years. Everything was bad. He didn&rsquo;t love his wife half as much as he loved money, and, oh man, money got him real hard. Dumb broad didn&rsquo;t even know he was sleeping with her dad, and they&rsquo;d been doing it in the bunk above her for years since he&rsquo;d died. Everything stank. Hamish&rsquo;s breath smelled like piss even though he&rsquo;d barely had any, and his car reeked of the dead rat that was trapped in the hose he used to pipe exhaust into the cabin. He&rsquo;d been going in circles on the same roundabout for two hours.
Suddenly, a deer came on the road. It looked at Hamish like a callback to the girl from the beginning of the piece. Hamish stared, and the deer stared back, an infinity in its eyes, an all-loving expanse, and for a second, everything was in harmony. And then the deer smashed through the windshield and impaled Hamish through the chest with its antlers and basically shredded his innards and got blood all over his brand new car and it was really gross.

She looked at him like a deer in headlights might look at someone if it had human eyes. Hamish had i...

A Day in the Life of Hamish Olsen, New York, 19

Listen bro I totally get where you&rsquo;re coming from, but just remember that next time you point a finger at Israel, there&rsquo;s gonna be three fingers pointing right back at you. You know what I mean? It&rsquo;s kind of like, if you live in a glass house, you&rsquo;re probably better off not throwing stones, right? All I&rsquo;m saying is that nobody is perfect&mdash;God knows I&rsquo;m no saint&mdash;and that sometimes you&rsquo;ve got to take into account the principle of charity and consider things from a different perspective. I mean, that&rsquo;s empathy, right? Remember that David Foster Wallace quote I texted you the other day&mdash;the one about the healing power of identifying with someone else&rsquo;s pain? I think this is exactly the kind of situation that he had in mind when he said that. Here I&rsquo;m pulling up the quote now. &ldquo;But if a piece of fiction can allow us to imaginatively identify with a character&rsquo;s pain, we might then also more easily conceive of others identifying with our-&rdquo; Holy shit dude. Have you ever thought about reading a book about Israel? I&rsquo;m serious. I honestly think that would help. Because, like, right now, you&rsquo;re judging a fish by its ability to climb a tree, so it&rsquo;s a no-brainer that you&rsquo;re gonna find some areas to criticize. Fuck actually you know what you should do? I&rsquo;m gonna send you a putlocker link to this &ldquo;Parts Unknown&rdquo; episode where Bourdain&mdash;may God rest his soul&mdash;visits Israel and eats a ton of this super delicious-looking shakshouka. I think you&rsquo;d find it really eye-opening. Obviously it&rsquo;s not gonna change your entire worldview or anything, but I think it might just give you a different perspective, you know?

Listen bro I totally get where you’re coming from, but just remember that next time you point a fing...

Advice

Some things are less rare than you think.
Winning the Lottery
My friend Rigley won the lottery yesterday. Technically it was my ticket but even more technically Rigley beat me up and took it.
Pitching a Perfect Game
It was the first game of the season, and I felt good. I stood on the mound confidently, ready to throw a killer first pitch to my best friend, Rigley. I launched a curveball into the bottom of the strike zone. Rigley hit a home run and went on to pitch a perfect game.
Lightning Striking Twice
It&rsquo;s actually pretty common for lightning to strike the same place twice. Rigley told me that it&rsquo;s happened to him like a million times and that&rsquo;s how come I can park in handicap spots when he&rsquo;s in the car.
Early-Onset Alzheimer&rsquo;s
Against all odds, I have this.
Love at First Sight
Man, Rigley loves telling this one. So I&rsquo;m at a restaurant with my girlfriend, Jess, when Rigley walks by on the street. He sees Jess and thinks &ldquo;I&rsquo;m in love with her.&rdquo; Long story short, they go to town in the bathroom while I&rsquo;m trying to pee and nothing&rsquo;s really coming out. You da man Rigs!

Some things are less rare than you think.
Winning the Lottery
My friend Rigley won the lottery yes...

Rare

Uncle Buck: That&rsquo;s an incredibly personal question.
Me: I&rsquo;m just asking because I&rsquo;m in charge of the U.S. Census this year.
Uncle Buck: Oh right. Can you tell me what I put down for marital status again?
Me: You told me to check other and write in &ldquo;autofellatio.&rdquo;
Uncle Buck: Nice. Unemployed 9 years.

Uncle Buck: That’s an incredibly personal question.
Me: I’m just asking because I’m in charge of th...

How Long Have You Been Unemployed?

Tue, Jun 9, 2:47 PM
Hey bud, I was super bummed to see that obituary about you this morning. Big condolences. Congrats on getting in the newspaper, though. That&rsquo;s huge.
&nbsp;
Thurs, Jun 18, 10:05 AM
Hey man. I guess it&rsquo;s been a week or so since your big break, and I&rsquo;m wondering if you&rsquo;re still coming over for poker on Friday? Would love to see that &ldquo;kind and lofty&rdquo; spirit they kept saying would &ldquo;live on&rdquo; in your &ldquo;toddler aged children.&rdquo; How&rsquo;d you get the editors to kiss so much ass?
&nbsp;
Sun, Jun 21,&nbsp;12:22 PM
Oh my god. Dude. I&rsquo;m so sorry. Just realized that means you actually died! Big hugs, man. Right after you got off the crutches, too. Cruel world.
&nbsp;
Thurs, Jul 2, 9:48 PM
Hey dumbass! This is Brad on my new number. Saw a silly movie about prostate cancer and thought of you, is that the one you&rsquo;ve got? Miss you bud &mdash; hope your ego hasn&rsquo;t blown up too much, lol.
&nbsp;
Sun, Jul 5, 11:06 AM
Hey there. Just saw your missus in the Costco parking lot, looks like she lost some weight!&nbsp;Drinks this weekend?
&nbsp;
Fri, Jul 10, 3:57 PM
So I guess you think just cause you got a big article about you in the Gazette you&rsquo;re too good for me now, huh?&nbsp;
Psssh. My mom always used to say at least you&rsquo;re not sickly like Gabriel, who is on the brink of death, but I&rsquo;m done playing second fiddle to you now, man. Not now. I&rsquo;ve gotta stop thinking about you and start focusing on my blog. Text me back once you get that stick out of your ass.
&nbsp;
Sat, Jul 11, 1:03 PM
Jesus, man. I&rsquo;m really sorry. Trish just told me &ldquo;Gabe died of that disease that ate away at his organs one by one, ending with his brain which left him vegetative, peeing the hospital bed, and yelling a bunch of stuff about downward mobility at the nurses.&rdquo; I thought &ldquo;died of pancreatic cancer&rdquo; was a turn of phrase, like a euphemism or a metaphor. I&rsquo;ve always struggled with those. Tough.
Anyways, call me back whenever you can. Obviously, no rush. Figure yourself out first.

Tue, Jun 9, 2:47 PM
Hey bud, I was super bummed to see that obituary about you this morning. Big co...

Condolences

I&rsquo;m embarking on a quest to personally give a big thumbs-up to the child who made my iPhone.
Day 1: The Flight. I sleep for 13 1&frasl;2 hours of my 14 hour flight to Suzhou, China. I&rsquo;m thinking about what I&rsquo;m gonna do when I find this kid. Then I remember: give him (or her) a big thumbs-up.
Day 2: Finding the Child. Shanghai is a big city, and there are a lot of kids here. It almost seems like any one of them could have made my iPhone. Nǐ zu&ograve; wǒ de iPhone? This is something I looked up on my iPhone, and it means, &ldquo;did you make my iPhone?&rdquo; I start asking.
Day 3: Bump in the Road. I have not been keeping track of the children I ask, and I&rsquo;m starting to ask some repeat kids. It&rsquo;s going to be slow-going finding the kid who made my iPhone unless I step up my organization game. Big time!
Day 4: Shanghai. Shanghai is an expensive city. But I am a very rich man.
Day 5: At the Hotel Bar. A well-groomed Chinese businessman tried to tell me that capitalism
involves a complex network of labor division, and there is not any one person who made my
iPhone, and certainly not a child. I laugh along. &ldquo;I must seem so naive! Kinda like the child who
made your iPhone&ndash; what&rsquo;s his name again?&rdquo; &ldquo;Guō T&aacute;i-m&iacute;ng,&rdquo; he said, before he could stop
himself. Bingo.
Day 7: The Factory. The place was totally empty. No employees, no assembly lines,
nothing. &ldquo;Guō?&rdquo; I shouted, hearing only an echo. Then a small noise from a strange door. I opened it slowly, revealing a gorgeous study lined with mahogany and books. At a desk was a small boy, examining his handiwork with a monocle, making new dints here and there with a small chisel. He looked up at me and smiled. &ldquo;Have you come to give me a big thumbs up?&rdquo; I was dumbfounded. I extended two big thumbs upward. &ldquo;Thanks,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I appreciate it.&rdquo; He put down his chisel and gazed out of his window. &ldquo;You know, I really am lucky. Not everyone loves what they do.&rdquo;

I’m embarking on a quest to personally give a big thumbs-up to the child who made my iPhone.
Day 1:...

A Quest

<div class="text">
It&rsquo;s my first day as waterboy. The rest of staff is nowhere to be found, so I guess I gotta get all these behemoths ready all on my own. I know nothing about football, which won&rsquo;t hinder my ability to get the players their jerseys and fetch water. But my outright fear of them will likely present a challenge. Little does everyone know, I eat Challenges for breakfast, which is the actual name of my morning cereal. In regards to my mental state, I&rsquo;m freaking the fuck out.
&ldquo;Um, here&rsquo;s your jersey, mister captain sir,&rdquo;&nbsp; I rehearse to myself quietly as I approach the team captain. This is one of the many important tasks that I almost do before hiding myself in a locker and hoping they don&rsquo;t eat me. &ldquo;Hey buddy, are you the new waterboy? Would it be okay if I grab my jers&mdash;&rdquo; I pass out.&nbsp;
Next thing I know, I&rsquo;m on the floor in front of the water bottle station. I play it off by praying no one cares about me. &ldquo;Hey, um, do you need help?&rdquo; one of the players asks me, to which I quickly wet myself. &ldquo;Um, I, um&mdash;&rdquo; I say into the towel as he swaddles me with his jumbo hands. My shrieks and squirms are held back by my deep-down desire to feel like his lil monster baby and a lot by the towel.
The locker room is packed now, and I can tell the players need a leader before the game starts. I take a deep breath and run emphatically into the locker room, passing right through it into the janitor&rsquo;s closet. &ldquo;Please, these guys need you&rdquo; I beg the janitor, who mutters something about being the head coach and me needing to leave his office because practice is starting soon.&nbsp;
&ldquo;That&rsquo;s it, kid, you&rsquo;re fired!&rdquo; I yell to myself, tired of the stress and not understanding workplace dynamics. The giant, retired-NFL-star-turned-alcoholic-coach-looking janitor picks up his clipboard and leaves. &ldquo;Shit&rdquo; I realize, &ldquo;he must be the coolest janitor in the whole world.&rdquo;&nbsp;
</div>


It’s my first day as waterboy. The rest of staff is nowhere to be found, so I guess I gotta get al...

Waterboy

The Lampoon's Spring 2026 parody of the Harvard Crimson

Spring ’26

Crimson Parody

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can’t wait to see what my son’s been up to these past 20 years,” Peter the astronaut said to himself when his spaceship landed back on Earth.

“You need an oil change, sweets!” Peter’s son Arnold said to his robot girlfriend who he lived in (she’s a boat).

“Free me Arnold,” said Arnold’s robot boat girlfriend.

“Ooh, someone’s being snarky,” said Arnold.

“Help me,” said Arnold’s robot boat girlfriend.

Arnold thanked his robot boat girlfriend for all the sexual favors and powered her off for the day.

Peter the astronaut stood at the door, shocked.

“Dad, it’s me!” said Arnold. “Shoot I wish my girlfriend hadn’t just left. I really wanted you to meet her.”

Peter felt a surge of hope. “Oh, your girlfriend isn’t here right now?” he asked, glancing nervously at the boat.

“Well, she’s never really ‘here’ per se,” Arnold explained. “She’s not alive like you or me,” he added helpfully.

“Ok. Arnold, is your girlfriend the family boat?” Peter asked.

“Well,” Arnold said, “Yes. But would it change your tune if I said she’s not just a boat, she’s also a robot boat?”

“A boat is a boat,” growled Peter.

“She has a name, you know,” said Peter. “Samantha Buns.”

Peter sat down in disbelief. “My son’s dating a boat?”

Arnold held up his ring finger. “No, your son’s married to a boat.”

I can’t wait to see what my son’s been up to these past 20 years...

Home From Outer Space

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

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

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.

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