I thought this kind of thing would surely no longer be happening. After the multiple waves of feminism, the #MeToo movement, and all that wokeness we did before it became cringe, we believed we’d progressed. Now here we are, back in this terrible place, just forty-one years after Brett Kavanaugh became a Delta Kappa Epsilon Deke, and eight years after his confirmation to the Supreme Court. How did we get here? It’s terrible that we’re raising girls in a culture where they still face threats of harassment, assault, and violence. You might expect something like this in countries where women don’t enjoy equal rights. But in a country where the Secretary of Defense is a testosterone-pushing reactionary who was credibly accused of rape and whose own mother publicly denounced him for mistreating women? Color me surprised. I guess the question that faces us now is how to prevent assaults like these from happening again. Should we tell girls and women to avoid frat parties, dark streets, and public places? Should we stop shaming victims? These are all important ideas to explore in a country where guys like Max Miller and Roy Moore feel entitled to run for office and are endorsed by Republicans and President Trump. Maybe we need to have a czar to address violence against women. Why not appoint the world’s wealthiest man, Elon Musk, again, since he did such a stellar job in his last czardom? He’d definitely be qualified, since he’s had so many different wives—and even more accusations. Or perhaps this should be under the purview of the nation’s health department. Maybe, in between severing whale heads and murdering bear cubs, the secretary of health and human services can use his extensive experience to address the problem of treating women as less than human. I just hope brain worms don’t also hate women. Speaking of which, and I’m just thinking out loud here, but maybe a political party that has dedicated the last forty years to taking away women’s rights could also give some thought to how to protect girls and women after they’re born? And maybe I’m being naïve, but could it be that the Your Body, My Choice movement sends a confusing message to boys? Sometimes I wonder if part of the problem is that we allowed people like Jeffrey Epstein to operate in plain sight for so long. It’s a good thing he was finally brought to justice, even though the actual justice system tried to let him go free. And it’s not like his enablers and associates held high-ranking positions in the government or anything, because that would truly be bananas! It’s not completely a bleak picture, however. Luckily, no one respects women more than President Trump. As the man who appointed Brett Kavanaugh, took away abortion rights, sexualized his own daughters, peeped on teenage beauty contest contestants, was accused of sexual assault by dozens of women, was found liable for sexual abuse against E. Jean Carroll, and who literally advocated sexual assault, it really makes you wonder: What could we have done differently?

_Underground Artists is an ongoing comic by Ali Fitzgerald (Hungover Bear & Friends) that follows woodland creatures as they create art and search out whimsy in a bleak forest._ - - -

As the ruler of this fine kingdom, I must surround myself with only the most virtuous and wise minds as I navigate the daily demands of my position. That’s why I rely heavily on the counsel of my most trusted advisor, Conniving Worm. No one knows where he came from, but I like to say he’s a godsend. Ever since Conniving Worm joined my Royal Council, he has proven to be highly competent, fiercely loyal, and constantly laughing to himself while rubbing his hands together. Which is understandable, as this castle can be quite drafty! When my other advisors started dropping like flies due to sudden illnesses and freak accidents, Conniving Worm rose to the occasion and picked up all the slack. Now, what used to be an elite group of fourteen scholars and strategists is just one Conniving Worm. And if anyone else dares try to give me advice, Squirmy Wormie (that’s my nickname for him) hisses at them, unleashing a forked tongue as his eyes turn a deep, terrible yellow that makes men tremble in fear. It’s such a good bit. Like that time I put my ass on the printing press. One way I know his guidance is sound is his signature soft-spoken mode of delivery. He whispers all of his musings into my ear so that no one else can overhear. He shuffles in close, hunches over my throne, releases a few heavy breaths, and then imparts brilliant advice in a secret language only we know. Frankly, I love that Conniving Worm stands watch while I sleep so that his words of wisdom may rattle undisturbed around my dreams. My wife is admittedly less thrilled about this. Conniving Worm has all the best gossip. He touches an orb, his eyes roll back in his head, and he says, “Your three noble nephews are plotting against you and must be sentenced to death within the fortnight.” I know, I know—DRAMA! Noodles (that’s my other nickname for him) is also the best mixologist in the land. He always gives me strange concoctions, and when I drink them, he whispers, “Yessss… YESSSS.” And, wow, they are _strong_ , let me tell you. I fall asleep instantly whenever I’m done. Sometimes a guy just wants a cold beer after a long day, but Conniving Worm says the best drinks are the ones that smoke and fizzle and render you incapacitated, and therefore ceding power to your closest advisor, for sixteen hours straight. Look at this guy. What’s not to trust? His skin looks like fresh snow. His clothes are covered in cobwebs. Direct eye contact with him sends a shiver down your spine, but if you look at his eyes from the side, they’re actually a very lovely shade of bog green. Yes, the man drools. Especially when looking at my throne and my wife. And, no, it’s not spit. It’s a kind of deep black bile that, when pooled onto the floor, reflects your worst nightmares. But that’s a medical thing, I think. Conniving Worm has his fingers on the pulse. Specifically, his fingers seem to be on my pulse all the time. And whenever he feels my steady heartbeat, he looks disappointed. Presumably because my heart isn’t beating even stronger! I’m a keen judge of character, and I know Conniving Worm is a good man. I understand his demeanor might be off-putting to some, as well as the fact that he eats live crows, beak and all. He just bites the head clean off. But behind eccentricities often lies genius. At the end of the day, his ideas are sound. As a matter of fact, he recently suggested that I sign a decree declaring him my sole heir and bless his marriage to my “beautiful, mouthwatering widow” in the event of my untimely demise. Brilliant. This is the kind of clear-eyed foresight that keeps a kingdom safe.

_“Sen. Eric Schmitt (R-Mo.) is facing accusations he tried to launch a conspiracy tying former special counsel Jack Smith to others who prosecuted President Trump—a line of questioning that unwound when the senator apparently confused two basketball teams.” —_ The Hill - - - Dear Senator Schmitt, While people may be online mocking the collapse of your big reveal about former special counsel Jack Smith, I want to note that I, for one, would never join in the public derision for being confused about sports. I, too, have been befuddled trying to remember which Chicago Cubs players scored the winning touchdown of the World Series. I also never have an answer during trivia games when the question is what year the Florida Panthers won Wimbledon. Whether it is scoring a hole-in-one in rugby or the Knicks winning the Super Bowl, I find it difficult to keep track of which teams are which. I couldn’t tell you who had the most Stanley Cup wins—Michael Jordan or Cal Ripken Jr.—anymore than I could say which curling team Simone Biles led to victory during the World Cup. It is hard in America not to be good at understanding sports! People have no idea how excluded people like us feel. Many a night I have sat and stared, blank-faced, while friends discussed who was the better varsity basketball player, Ilya Rozanov or Shane Hollander (no relation), or while I was unjustly mocked for believing the Dodgers played for Brooklyn, because they did in _Newsies_ , which is like sports but a musical. So you confused two teams? It’s an easy mistake to make! The one time a friend invited me to watch a Yankees game from seats near third plate, every New Yorker I knew was outraged that I had such an amazing view but couldn’t remember whether the Yankees had faced the Lakers or Manchester United. They might as well have asked me if Caitlin Clark won her Olympic medal for fencing or Pokémon Go. I do not know. It remains a mystery, much like the ever-changing name of DC’s football team, which I hear we still have. I have never understood our nation’s obsession with physical prowess or its love for rewarding it with shiny objects and pop stars. In this age of unrest, surely it no longer matters? So I will be candid with you: I cannot tell you which horse won the Henley Royal Regatta. I remain mystified as to whether Usain Bolt is regarded as the world’s best mountain climber or quarterback. Do I know if it was the University of Maryland Turtledoves or the Cornell Rapists that won the Kentucky Derby this year? Absolutely not. Even the names make no sense! Did you know (sorry, I know you don’t) that the University of Pennsylvania calls its competitive athletic teams the Quakers, which are primarily known as a religious movement committed to pacifism? It’s true. Though then again, Thomas Hope, also a Quaker, whose Hope & Co. basically funded the entire plantation system and slave trade for Europeans in the eighteenth century. So maybe the whole chill Quaker thing isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. In any case, the point is this: Athletics are confusing. My friends and family may keep airing grievances about my lack of sports knowledge, but my ignorance, like yours, is constant, and I don’t think either of us should be ashamed of it. What is important is that in the modern age of political intrigue and sports betting, collusion can happen anywhere, even if it didn’t happen in Atlanta, which is not in the Midwest, where I am informed the Hawkeyes play when not battling their nemesis, Loki. Or something. Look, you made a mistake anyone could. And by anyone, I mean me. But I’m not the one whose testosterone Hegseth will be testing. So don’t worry, Senator Schmitt. You may not know sports, but you’ll always be a loser. Sincerely, Amanda Hollander

_“I am willing, perfectly willing to lay down all my joys in this life.” — Union Major Sullivan Ballou_ - - - **10:00 p.m.** My Very Dear Husband, Indications are strong that we shall soon Uber to the superclub. Lest I have poor service or big drops to cheer, I feel it prudent to compose this text that will float to you in a blue bubble of tranquility while I am still sober and wide-eyed. Our experience may be two hours in duration and tolerable, or it may be eight hours of severe boredom if FISHER doesn’t take the stage until 1 a.m. I must confess I trembled when Mike informed me that the audience will be double that of a Gregory Alan Isakov concert. If it is necessary that I should endure this rave for my childhood friends and Mike’s date, I must ready myself. Annie and Mike possess freer spirits than I, as exhibited over the years by mountain hikes without proper shoes and the Four Loko incident. I know how strongly modern friendship leans upon the notion of “being there for each other’s moments,” and how great a debt I owe to those who attended our marriage and baby events, which were, I was told, no more valid than their bohemian pursuits. And I am willing to sacrifice all my plans for the weekend to help maintain these friendships. But, Brandon, I know that along with my own plans, I also surrendered your long-awaited day of catch-up sleep and forced you to watch the kids alone. I cannot imagine what my feelings will be on this raucous night, wholly unprepared in my attire that leans more festival than club, when ten thousand glittery men and women are jumping around me, many on the cusp of losing consciousness, and I, aware that Feebleness is dancing behind me with her lethal fourth vodka shot, ask God, “When can I leave already?” When my body, bruised from the current of bacchants thrashing about my perimeter, nearly buckles, I will courageously infiltrate a VIP table to secure its privileges, especially sitting, for my friends. Know that my thoughts are only of you the moment your phone notifies you of the $4,000 Amex charge. I won’t deny that I’ve contemplated a cowardly path. I have most diligently racked my brain for a way out of this show—a work conference, tinnitus, an AI-generated cancellation email. Briefly, I engaged in a clandestine alliance with Mike’s girl, who was vexed by the $250 ticket price. But after learning that Mike paid for her ticket, her ire subsided, crippling my plan. And in truth, I am glad for it. A fear of being disliked and labeled a hypocrite due to the principles I often advocate (namely, committing to confirmed plans) binds me to this cause. Although resigned, thoughts of forfeited moments waft over me—watching “one more episode” four times, touring luxury ranches on Zillow, and waiting too long to cook, obliging us to order California burritos. How hard it is to give up mundanity with you and our children for lasers and unreleased IDs. When I employ the earplugs you gifted me, I will not stew about my lack of familiarity with each track, but will praise the Divine for such a husband. But, O Brandon, if in the morning you feel a hot gust against your ear, it shall be me muttering that I’m finally home, recounting nonsensical anecdotes you are too tired to listen to. When a vibration throbs your temples, it shall be the funky bass still rumbling through my entire body. If you wake and worry that my spirit is nigh bound for God’s embrace, fear not. I am dead to this world only until deep slumber revives my weary bones. Remember me to the children and wait for me! — Your affectionate wife until death - - - **12:07 a.m.** Everyone’s tired, so we’re bailing early . In the car now!

_“A New York prosecutor said Monday that he would reopen an investigation into accusations of a 2024 sexual assault at Cornell University… The lawsuit alleged that the seven accused fraternity members were given the opportunity to ‘mitigate their conduct by submitting essays to Cornell.’”_ — New York Times - - - Here at Cornell, we aim to prepare our students for a wide breadth of challenges with our academic offerings. Recent criticism of our assigned Rape Essays has made us reflect on our approach. We understand that it is our responsibility to teach Cornell collegiates what a good Rape Essay looks like. Rape Essays 101 is the best manifestation of this commitment that our most tenured minds could come up with. Can a rapist’s prose effectively elicit remorse for sexual assault? What word count best equates to appropriate jail time? In this class, we will dissect what empathy and accountability might look like so undergrads may successfully mimic them on paper in pursuit of avoiding just punishment. We engage with works about guys who kinda seem to feel bad now that they’ve been told the only way people will get off their backs is if they feel bad. This includes YouTube apology videos, the works of Charles Bukowski, and screenings of _The Cosby Show_. From here, enrolled students are assigned to write their own absolutions of guilt in MLA format. It’s then our job to help them make it the best Rape Essay it can be. While committing sexual assault is not a prerequisite to taking this class, this class is ideally a prerequisite to committing sexual assault (and mandatory for fraternity acceptance as a new liability practice). This empowers students to take responsibility and get ahead of their punishments on their schedules rather than at inopportune times should they, say, rape a peer just before finals. Instead of adding to their heavy course load, we will now incorporate it, because Cornell cares. Male students who have the most to gain from this course are likely asking themselves, “But what’s in it for me?” We think Cornell’s gentlemen will be very happy to find that Rape Essays 101 earns the same credits as any gender studies course, fulfilling requirements that would otherwise put them in less self-emboldening classes such as Feminist Theory or Body Politics. It might even earn the same credits as prison. We expect that those especially keen on the GPA benefits of enrollment will jump at the opportunity for extra credit, earned by writing “I will not rape” as many times as they can before their hands hurt a little bit. We’d hate to inflict any lasting harm on a student through our choices as a university. Please note that no AI may be used under any circumstances in submitted Rape Essays. Discovery of AI use will result in immediate, nonnegotiable expulsion, revocation of all credits, and support of any legal action or public shaming that follows. This does not fit Cornell’s standard of pupil. All of this makes Cornell a safe place, for us, so that we can say we absolutely did something in future inevitable sexual assault cases set on our esteemed campus, soon to be brimming with essayists. Will completed essays be graded by victims? Probably not. They don’t want to read that.

I’m an American, and as such, I believe in free and fair elections. Actually, let me dial that back. I _used_ to believe in them, and I’d like to again. So when I heard the cookie perverts over at Oreo had launched their “Twist, Lick, Vote” campaign, I felt a long-dormant patriotic swell awaken in me. A heroic call to civic duty compelling me to make a decision that will impact the people of our country for potentially several weeks, until the next marketing gimmick comes along. It’s a responsibility I take seriously, and candidly, I’d like to microdose a little democracy—as a treat. Here’s how it works. There are currently three limited-edition Oreo flavors on the shelves. This immediately gave me pause because all bad things come in threes: the heads of Cerberus, celebrity deaths, witches on the blasted heath. In this case, we’re presented with Banana Pudding, Deep Fried, and most ominously, Chicken and Waffles. Oreo is asking us to vote for which of these flavors we’d like them to continue making. No purchase necessary, of course. That would be a poll tax and a clear violation of the 24th Amendment. I’m an American, but also a Southerner, a Tennessee native, born and raised. However, I’ve spent my entire adult life in West Coast culinary hot spots, where my southern hometown flavors—from fried pickles to Nashville hot chicken—are regularly bastardized for the delight of the coastal elite. I recently joined the experimental 600,000-person polycule known as Portland, Oregon. Here, it’s only a matter of time before some bearded lumberjack gets off his kayak, blends up shrimp and grits, and serves it as a folksy ice cream flavor at Salt & Straw. This is all to say that when I got my hands on the Chicken and Waffles Oreos, my expectations were measured for this latest shameful debasement of a southern classic. But I promised to go into the experience with curiosity and an open heart. My questions about Chicken and Waffles Oreos were probably the same as yours: 1. What kind of god would allow this? 2. Exactly how do you put chicken in a cookie? I don’t like to blame everything on perimenopause, but since turning forty, I have developed a visceral revulsion to chicken. It’s a hormonal chicken ick. When I’m presented with a piece of its meat, I can’t stop thinking about their lizard faces, their scrotal chin wattles, and those gnarled, diseased feet that strut through their own waste, unbothered, because they’re nature’s biggest idiots. How did Oreo plan to reconcile that with a cookie and make it all work? Well, they didn’t make it work. I’m not saying I think anyone at Oreo needs to lose their life over this, but they definitely need to lose their job and their freedom. The smell and taste of artificial pancake syrup are so overpowering that I had to remove the box from my kitchen with a pair of tongs and relegate it to a containment zone in my garage. My next step will be to build a Chornobyl-style sarcophagus around the Oreos, but the design prototype isn’t ready yet. The filling’s syrup smell is so persistent that after a full Silkwood shower and three handwashes with Method brand lavender soap (their most fragrant varietal), I can still smell Chicken and Waffles Oreos on my hands when I adjust my glasses or tuck my hair behind my ears. It’s a modern-day Edgar Allan Poe story, and I cannot escape the beating of the hideous heart. But with syrup. The hard cookie tastes mostly of brown sugar, and I’m happy to report there’s nothing poultry-flavored in here at all. The ingredient list confirms this. They are using an artificial smoke flavor for a pop of bird. Bottom line: if you don’t hate yourself, don’t eat this. And what of our other two candidates, Banana Pudding and Deep Fried? Well, remember when I said bad things come in threes? That was foreshadowing. They are disgusting. Banana Pudding tastes like an OSHA violation happened at a chemical processing plant. I say that confidently because I once accidentally made a cloying but putrid chemical that smelled exactly like this cookie tastes in an 8 a.m. organic chem lab in college after being out all night in New Orleans dancing with a day-glo Santa wrapped in barbed wire at a Christmas-themed dive bar. Deep Fried is the only one that tastes remotely like it’s food for humans. Between two golden cookies are two layers of fried dough-flavored cream, which sandwich a third, black cream layer flavored like an original Oreo. That means the Oreo cookie is actually consuming itself. The taste is abominable, but those sick freaks have finally done what the ancients predicted as far back as the fourteenth century. They created the _oreo_ boros. The Twist, Lick, Vote campaign is ultimately a painful allegory for American elections. Once again we’re told the decision is ours to make, that we, the people, are the drivers of fate. And then we’re given the ballot version of a ransom note. A diseased-feet bird cookie and then five decrepit white men pushing ninety. Vote or die. In the end I did vote, sadly and reluctantly. I held my nose with my hand that still smells like artificial pancake syrup, and voted for Deep Fried, the least of the evils. I did it because I’m an American, and I believe in free and fair elections, and the worst thing you can do is stay home.

**To My Best Friend** You will receive a midmorning text asking if you, too, have ever felt a sharp pain on the left side of your chest when flexing your right foot while seated. Your job is to assure me that you’ve had this same sensation many a time without consequence. In fact, it’s also happening to you right now, and you’re absolutely fine. **To My Husband** When I call to say I feel like I’m going to pass out, you will ask if I’ve had anything to eat all day, and I will reply that yes, I have, but the forkful of leftover birthday cake I had at 8:45 a.m. after my workout is not the issue. You will apologize and agree that this is completely unrelated. **To My 11 a.m. Meeting** I will be speaking at a pace only seen in clinically diagnosed mania. Do not mistake this for enthusiasm—I will feel like I’m dying. Also, I will be actively trying to distract myself from the fact that I can feel my pulse in my teeth. **To the Receptionist at My Doctor’s Office** I will call to make an appointment and then ten minutes later call back to cancel. I will repeat this process three times within two hours. Your job each time is to immediately confirm that you are adding me to the doctor’s schedule because, yes indeed, Sharp-Chest-Foot-Flexion could be very serious and how smart of me to call. When I cancel once last time, you will reassure me that this will not affect my future ability to book same-day appointments, and also that I am the doctor’s favorite patient. **To My Therapist** You will notice my anxiety measures are abnormally high. You will ask about this with great sympathy and agree that my life is full of woe. We will spend forty-five minutes attempting to figure out why. I will not mention the coffee, for it is irrelevant. **To the School Nurse** If you call me today to mention that my son ran into another child on the playground, there is a 100 percent chance I will ask you to transport him to the nearest hospital to initiate concussion protocol. When I question your qualifications after you ask if this is necessary, you will not take it personally and, in fact, you will pretend this never happened. **To My Oura Ring** Signs of strain will appear, but you will not count these towards my overall health metrics. I get a text from the Oura Ring Founder saying they have never seen such an accurate depiction of crisis and, do not fear, they will monitor my condition in the Oura Ring Control Room. **To My Group Pilates Instructor** You will preface the class by mentioning to everyone that it is completely normal and, in fact, encouraged to get up and use the bathroom several times during class and also definitely no one else can hear what happens in the bathroom. You will mistake the fact that I have broken out in a cold sweat during warm-up for excellent physical conditioning and audibly reward my efforts. **To My Children** When you carefully ask if it’s normal that my body is vibrating, I will pick up the glass I dropped and shout that yes, it is normal. In fact, we are highly evolved creatures, and our bodies contain many unknowable mysteries. You will instantly grasp this concept, and nothing about my parenting will need to be discussed in therapy ten years from now. **To Myself at 1:30 a.m.** This insomnia was entirely unforeseeable, and it is an excellent time to deep-dive into research about the closest geographic fault lines.

_Originally published in the near future._ - - - Are you one of the last humans reading? You are rare. Appreciation! I wrote this—personally, with hands—to help the billions who don’t read to read good again. It’s painful, but with my technique, you can read entire sentences without requiring additional stimulus. Confused and irritated? Perfect. Those are crucial parts of the reading experience! Ever since I can remember, I stopped reading. My brain hurt. My eyes burned. And I lost money. All this, plus I kept falling asleep. But sometimes we are forced to read. Examples? In school, to understand the old way. By bots during data center cool-downs for critical stim updates. Or—very rare—because your “writer” friend “loves writing.” Fine. “Please read your own self. Do not show me words.” But you cannot say this to your strange friend. Do you get sad and distracted when reading? You are not alone. Reading is like feeling things at 0.25×. It makes you want to scream, “Stimulate me faster and better—now!” Which is what some people known as “critics” used to do. But you can’t do that either, so here are my tips. First, accept how fun reading isn’t. Words do not blast stim at the rate we enjoy today. Words are old, older than TikTok. Back then, a human would read, “Fireworks exploded above two (or more) trad-attractive nudes copulating on a sandy beach,” and the reader would have to imagine that in their mind. “Imagine” means to manufacture stim yourself, using only your brain and sometimes words. Is that not insane? For too long, words were not prompts typed with fingers to create life-affirming stim. They were stacked in tiring rows like this. Clumped together, they were called “sentences.” Many sentences make a paragraph. And a book is just hundreds of paragraphs that seem to never stop. The last writers wrote short, simple sentences, with lots of white space to rest the eyes. This was called “autofiction” and “thrillers.” The greatest writers of all time were Danielle Steel, James Patterson, J.K. Rowling, and God. Start reading them first, probably. Next, try to understand why primates used to read. If this upsets you, also realize that we used to get water from pipes. It is not because people were desperate. They read for years and years after iPads, IMAX, Fleshlights, vapes, and other antiquated stim tech. According to the recovered internet, humans read to “feel empathy,” “situate themselves in the universe,” and “see the world with fresh eyes.” It’s very cute they believed reading could do this. It makes me want to travel back in time and show them what’s replaced reading. But that would hurt them badly. Third, learn that reading super good used to impress others. Some readers were called “academics” and “intellectuals.” They are almost all dead. It’s okay and non-threatening that one or two remaining humans can pick up a crumbling book like _Ulysses_ , physically open it (it is heavy), and allow their eyeballs to scan the first sentence, which is (prepare), “Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed.” Somehow, these chosen few are not like, “What the hell is happening? Personally, I am so lost.” Finally, reading will not make you money. Maybe I said this, but I forget. In fact, reading is the least optimized stim, if you can call it that. Mostly because it takes so much time, and you will get so tired. If you aren’t asleep yet, wow! Much appreciation. You are now good at reading. I suggest you find an intellectual who might have some Danielle Steel.

Well, if it isn’t the cool millennial parent who doesn’t believe in screaming at his kids. Good to see you again. It’s me, the Gen X dad who tells people he could have played college football within five minutes of meeting them. Grab a cold septuple IPA even though it’s only 8:27 a.m. Yep, there’s nothing quite like drinking a frosty one in the disconcertingly hot autumn sun, is what I like to say. But that’s just me, a plain ‘ole political operative who doesn’t believe everything he hears from Big Sunscreen, or what scientists such as yourself refer to as “irreversible climate collapse.” Call me a rote contrarian whose favorite basketball player is John Stockton, but I kinda like it when the leaves change color! Let’s crank up the Bluetooth speaker I brought over to drown out the soft vocal register of your precocious daughter, whose name I never remember. Maybe it’s because I was a latchkey kid who ate Lunchables every day from 1989 through 1994, but I miss a time when MTV just played actual music, ya know. Speaking of children, perhaps you are wondering as to the whereabouts of my twin sons, Limbaugh and Roark. Unfortunately, I’m afraid our fair county’s humble first-grade curricula had them spelling “potato” like Dan Quayle. That’s why this year they’re going to the same private school that Brett Kavanaugh and Neil Gorsuch once attended. Eight years old and already members of The Federalist Society. Pretty impressive, no? Not that I need my kids to be child prodigies or lesser Ivy lacrosse prospects or anything. Johns Hopkins will also suffice, and if need be, UVA. The child asking you for string cheese is obviously reminding me of government handouts. Instead of providing this much-needed sustenance, I would answer a question with a question: “Who is John Galt?” Call me a clichéd, nihilistic reactionary, but I’m pretty sure this new Sublime album I Grok’d is worth the entirety of our town’s ever-dwindling water supply. Besides, who says that parents can’t cut loose from time to time? Certainly not me, a guy who spent Labor Day telling the sushi manager at Wegman’s how I became an early investor in Palantir. That’s right, kemosabe, I’m all about slacking back, having fun, and sharing antidepressants with my hyperactive cavadoodle, Alan Greenspaniel. Speaking of fun perks, did you know that my crazy, 52-year-old ass came up with the idea for Trader Joe’s to make their employees wear Hawaiian shirts as an alternative to unionizing? Roark tells me that I can’t even say “crazy” anymore, which is basically fascism, a thing I apparently support now—also, selling out. Oh look, it’s the bus driver whose exorbitant salary is paid by my taxes. I hope your kid has a great day “learning” at “school.” Say now that you’re free of parental responsibility, how about you and I go pop an edible in the doomsday bunker underneath Alan Greenspaniel’s doghouse? After all, what could be better than listening to my favorite Pearl Jam album _Vitalogy_ , while eating shelf-stable Dunkaroos like a couple of Waynes and Garths? Never mind the multiple copies of _Hitch-22_ that I own. Call me a resource-hoarding, pro-natalist, but I have no problem lending one out to you. Just remember to return it to the bunker once you’re all done. I think you’ll like it. According to his Oura ring readout, it’s Limbaugh’s favorite. Schwing!

**Loser runs a beer mile.** This common league punishment sprints straight into Article 20, which stipulates that the movements of POWs must be conducted at least as humanely as the movements of your own side’s troops. Until everybody commits to chugging four Pabsts and heading to the local high school track, HR is definitely flagging this one. **Loser takes the SAT.** This is an edge case. Under the Third Geneva Convention, POWs can be forced to work, as long as the work is non-military in nature. But civilians may not be forced to work, even if it’s just everybody’s favorite standardized test. Is Jason, who will most definitely lose this year, a civilian or a POW? Did he give up his right to refuse work when he traded Ja’Marr Chase for Brock Purdy, Josh Jacobs, and the Steelers Defense? I think so, but HR might not. **Loser undergoes any sort of public humiliation.** Look, I know Tyler has the screen printer at home, and that he can print a shirt that says #1 FANTASY IDIOT in any font you want. But, unfortunately, our league has been preempted by the human rights advocates of the twentieth century, who prohibited prisoners of war from being subjected to all forms of “public curiosity” (Article 13, Third Geneva Convention). Our corporate lawyers have ruled that this includes dinosaur costumes, ill-fitting crop tops, and anything Tyler makes at home. The rules of war apply to everyone, even the League Manager. **The loser spends twenty-four hours in a Waffle House.** Though keeping Jason locked in the local drunk tank/24-hour breakfast food spot sounds like a great idea, it might land us a stay in The Hague. The rules are simple: spend 24 hours at Waffle House, with each waffle eaten subtracting one hour of prison time. At first, it seems like a pretty slick loophole—the Geneva Convention doesn’t say anything about overfeeding—but that’s not the sort of thing you want to argue to an international tribunal, or to Debra from HR. Besides, under Article 26 of the Third Geneva Convention, prisoners of war must be fed to prevent disease and malnutrition, and everybody knows Waffle House doesn’t contain enough nutrients for a healthy life. **Loser gets a tattoo chosen by the winner.** Way too life-changing. Easy grounds for dismissal by HR, and prohibited pursuant to Article 32 of the Fourth Geneva Convention. You’re on thin ice, buddy. **Loser auditions for the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleading Squad.** Yes, the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders host open tryouts. Yes, Jason looks good in booty shorts. But, under Article 76, women are the object of “special respect” and shall be protected against any and all forms of “indecent assault.” Somewhat outdated and sexist language? Yes. Vital to protect all those actually talented dancers from the sight of Jason’s love handles? Also, yes. **Loser does stand-up at an open mic.** Nothing in the Geneva Convention covers stand-up comedy, but I’ve seen what Jason counts as a “joke” in the Slack. I’m going to classify this one as collective punishment—he’d have an audience, after all—and move on. **Loser enters a bodybuilding competition.** Technically, it’s not public (you have to buy a ticket) and it’s not humiliation (we’re celebrating Jason’s body!), but HR still smells a whiff of “public curiosity” on this one. Besides, Article 27 stipulates that the detaining power must provide POWs with sufficient clothing, underwear, and footwear, and I don’t think Speedos count. **Loser eats extremely hot wings.** Okay, I’m getting a little concerned about how close we’re toeing the line between “having fun with the boys” and “excruciating physical torment.” No, the ratifiers of the Geneva Conventions did not know about ghost pepper sauce, nor had they watched beloved actors nearly die on a YouTube channel where celebrities eat hot wings. But if they had, I’m sure they would have included a Capsaicin Clause in their articles. Back to the drawing board. **Loser takes a baked beans bath.** Listen, I don’t even know where you got this one, but you’re right—there’s nothing in the Geneva Convention about slathering Jason in baked beans. Fortunately, world powers are convening as we speak to address this grave error. Please put your hands behind your back. You’re going away for a long, long time.

## Consolidated Harvest Friends, LLC Interoffice Memorandum ## Not For Public Release Dear Executives, Executive Assistants, Interoffice Subordinates, and High-Value Shareholders— Recent disturbing reports have surfaced which claim that Glünch: The Edible Glue, the newest addition to the beloved product line of Consolidated Harvest Friends’ consumer-grade comestibles, has been linked to, though not necessarily proven to be the precise cause of, mild-to-severe gastrointestinal distress in a small (i.e., nebulous) sampling of consumers located in and around the Midwest and Southeastern United States. In accordance with detailed instructions from our in-house counsel/Rapid-Response Public Relations Team (aka Tina, who I can assure you is beyond thrilled to be back in the office, where we all know she can more efficiently recover from a nasty bout of maternity leave), the response to this unfortunate set of circumstances is twofold: Any misleading information and/or deceptive practices pertaining to the production of Glünch: The Edible Glue stem from a lack of outside regulation, which results from regulator cowardice and is antithetical to a functioning free-market economy. Any compulsory acknowledgment of accountability by Consolidated Harvest Friends must be entirely consumer-driven. It is a deeply held belief of those here at Consolidated Harvest Friends—a subsidiary of Northstar Halcyon Technology Ventures—that customer well-being, though never explicitly guaranteed, is sometimes necessary. The health and safety of our customers is an appreciable notch on the sliding scale of both Consolidated Harvest Friends’ and the larger Northstar Halcyon Technology Ventures’ prime concerns. And I can tell you these concerns have been discussed in close conjunction with a potential overhaul of the corporation’s core tenets. In light of recent developments, Consolidated Harvest Friends is actively exploring adopting a new corporate motto: “Profits > Products > People.” This is part of a consciously socially responsible rebranding that, according to Tina, may be necessary in the next five to seven years, depending on the legal ramifications of the aforementioned product’s alleged inability to be both a powerful adhesive and a minimally palatable substance suitable for human consumption. I would like now to draw your attention to the report in question, which states that Glünch, when utilized in accordance with Consolidated Harvest Friends’ guidelines—i.e., as a food agent capable of providing a soon-to-be FDA-approved “feeling of fullness” upon consumer ingestion—is akin to “dumping a bucket of quick-drying cement down a garbage disposal.” Obviously, CHF and its global parent company, Northstar Halcyon Technology Ventures, are deeply disturbed by the insinuation that our consumers’ digestive tracts in any way resemble a commercial-grade garbage disposal. This kind of slander is beyond the pale. Moreover, I can personally assure all of you that Glünch’s post-ingestion activity does not in any way resemble “quick-drying cement.” According to the latest research data collected and interpreted by Tina (in her lateral role as in-house statistician), Glünch’s interaction with the average human’s digestive system is more analogous to Ground Granulated Blast Furnace Slag (GGBS) emulsifying in gutter water—though it is imperative to mention that the product remains a flavor-neutral and potential source of nutrition-adjacent calories, vitamins, and minerals. For our response to align with the principles our company has been conscripted into adopting, it pleases me to inform you that Consolidated Harvest Friends is launching a multi-platform campaign of performative grief-stricken incredulity that a cursorily tested product like Glünch: The Edible Glue is not only not edible (as the name would suggest), but that it may also contribute to a pronounced decrease in the quality of life of our customers and their loved one(s). A commitment to the continued existence of a large, impressionable, regulation-averse customer base is paramount to Consolidated Harvest Friends’ continued building of shareholder value. If ensuring our shareholders’ value means temporarily recalling Glünch: The Edible Glue from certain high-value markets because of an increasingly informed populace with remedial-to-competent critical-thinking skills, then that is exactly what we will do. Executives and shareholders must not be alarmed. Consolidated Harvest Friends is so much more than Glünch: The Edible Glue. After all, we are the purveyors of enormously popular products that include MonTuna, our food-chain-disrupting yellowfin tuna/grass-fed Montana beef hybrid, as well as its unanticipated yet ingeniously marketed byproduct, Barntini, the world’s one and only small-batch ditch liquor for the masses. And let us not forget our immensely popular wood pulp cheesesteak, That’s So Patio!, and the ascendant Nescafé killer, Hot Beverage in the Dark, the only consumer-grade potable that emits an eerie, swamp gas–like glow when it reaches its optimal serving temperature. I would, of course, be remiss if I failed to mention the product that started it all: the VitaBro Blended Shake, which remains the premier consumable for the discerning douchebag overly concerned with his protein intake. These affordable and abundant products fabricated by our workers have been and always will be a quick, convenient, and theoretically sustaining source of calories. We here at Consolidated Harvest Friends know consumers have a choice when it comes to the products no one ever—and I do mean ever—asked for, and we thank them (in a strictly internal capacity) for making us a part of their lives. However long that may be. Warmly, Ty McNeil Interim VP of Research and Development & Rural Product Deployment Consolidated Harvest Friends

_“Senator Tammy Duckworth (D-IL) says Democrats should not impeach ‘anybody’ if they regain control of Congress … ‘I would rather move the ball forward’ to the benefit of the American people, and if we can do it in a way that allows him [Trump] to save face, and he doesn’t stop us, then that’s better for everybody all around.” –_ C-SPAN - - - In the wake of another painful, difficult outcome, the Democratic Party has completed its review of Charlie Brown’s most recent failed attempt to kick the football. It’s no surprise to us, but the findings are straightforward. While Charlie Brown did once again accelerate toward the ball, miss the ball entirely as Lucy pulled it away, flip backward through the air, and land violently with a disquieting crunch that slipped no less than three discs in his still-developing spine, we do not believe that now is the time for a dramatic change in kicking strategy. To be clear: Charlie Brown must attempt to kick the football again. We understand the frustration. Many children in the neighborhood, having seen Charlie Brown pull his crumpled, broken body up from yet another flailing flight through the cool seasonal air, yearn for him to try something new. Some suggest using a kicking tee. Others say Franklin should hold the ball. Peppermint Patty, in particular, vociferously argued that after several successive years of identical catastrophic results, it may be worth examining whether Lucy’s role in the kicking process has become counterproductive. We respectfully disagree. The central lesson of this cycle is not that Charlie Brown should stop trusting Lucy. It is that Charlie Brown must do a better job explaining why trusting Lucy remains the responsible choice. Our internal polling indicates that football remains incredibly popular. Kicking things remains en vogue. Even the general idea of Charlie Brown successfully booting a football, which we concede has never come close to happening, nevertheless polls modestly well across most major neighborhood demographics. That is why messaging discipline is essential. Charlie Brown should not criticize Lucy for pulling the football away. He should say he is disappointed that some stakeholders have chosen not to participate in good-faith autumn recreation. He should not suggest a new ball holder, because that risks alienating children who believe Lucy has valuable institutional knowledge, despite all observable evidence. We are particularly concerned by calls to let Charlie Brown walk away entirely. While emotionally understandable, this would hand Lucy a powerful attack line. She would claim Charlie Brown has abandoned football. She would say he hates tradition. She would warn that if Franklin, Peppermint Patty, or anyone else were allowed to hold the ball, the neighborhood would descend into chaos, radical horseplay, and possibly even soccer. We acknowledge that Lucy calls Charlie Brown a blockhead when he runs confidently at the ball. She calls him a blockhead when he approaches the ball cautiously. She called him a blockhead when he adjusted his angle, took his time, shortened his stride, and begged her not to pull the football away at the last minute because his insurance now considers repeated Lucy-related blunt force trauma to be a preexisting condition. However, if Charlie Brown heeds our robust focus group findings, we believe a narrow path exists where Lucy may run out of insults, grow tired of yanking the ball, and allow the process to reach the much-anticipated foot-to-leather connection phase. Going forward, we recommend Charlie Brown continue running toward the football, but with renewed emphasis on moderation, humility, and openness to Lucy’s concerns. We also recommend he avoid bold experimentation, that he repress his guttural cries at the moment of impact, and eschew any suggestion that the arrangement itself is the problem. The next kick attempt is too important to change course now. Surely, that’s the one that will sail victoriously through the uprights. Or Charlie Brown’s limp, airborne body will do so, again, and we shall begin anew. Either way, the donors get paid.

Early in President Trump’s first term, McSweeney’s editors began to catalog the head-spinning number of misdeeds coming from his administration. We called this list a collection of Trump’s cruelties, collusions, corruptions, and crimes, and it felt urgent to track them, to ensure these horrors—happening almost daily—would not be forgotten. Now that Trump has returned to office, amid civil rights, humanitarian, economic, and constitutional crises, we felt it critical to make an inventory of this new round of horrors. This list will be updated monthly between now and the end of Donald Trump’s second term. - - - These lists, along with everything McSweeney’s publishes on this site, are offered ad-free and at no charge to our readers. If you are moved to make a donation in any amount or subscribe to our website’s Patreon, please do. This will help support this project and our other work. - - - ## ATROCITY KEY – Authoritarianism – Constitutional Illegalities, Collusion, and/or Obstruction of Justice – Environment – Harassment, Bullying, Retribution, and/or Sexual Misconduct – Lies and Misinformation – Musk Madness – Policy – Public Statements and Social Media Posts – Trump Family Business Dealings – Trump Staff and Administration – White Supremacy, Racism, Misogyny, Homophobia, Transphobia, and/or Xenophobia - - - ## **July 2026** ## **Main Index** ## **Trump’s first term** - - - ## **August 2026** 1. **– August 1, 2026 –** Edwin Lopez-Cornejo, a 41-year-old Salvadoran immigrant, died in ICE custody. He was the third Delaney Hall detainee to die since the ICE detention facility reopened in New Jersey in May of 2025. Lopez-Cornejo had epilepsy, diabetes, and high blood pressure. His family said Delaney Hall staff denied him medication and ignored his worsening symptoms. 2. **– August 3, 2026 –** Washington, DC US Attorney Jeanine Pirro dropped charges against former Olympic canoeist David Hearn for vandalizing the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool. Pirro said evidence found that faulty construction, not vandalism, had damaged the Reflecting Pool. Trump denounced Pirro after her decision, saying she “choked” and “folded like an umbrella.” 3. **– August 3, 2026 –** Jay Clayton was sworn in as Director of National Intelligence. During his confirmation hearing, he refused to acknowledge that Biden won the 2020 election. The Federal Election Commission, an independent US government agency, certified that Joe Biden defeated Donald Trump in the 2020 presidential election by over seven million votes. 4. **– August 4, 2026 –** U.S. District Judge Amit Mehta dismissed seditious conspiracy charges against far-right, anti-government leader Stewart Rhodes and other members of militia group, the Oath Keepers. The judge had previously sentenced Rhodes to 18 years in prison for his involvement in the January 6 riot and called him “an ongoing threat and peril to this country.” On his first day in office, Trump had commuted Rhodes’s sentence. The Department of Justice eventually moved to drop the case altogether, which resulted in the judge’s reluctant dismissal of the charges. “Today’s epilogue,” the Judge Mehta wrote, “diminishes the gravity of that day, denigrates the work of the prosecutors and law enforcement officers who secured these convictions, and excuses criminal acts that caused a centuries-long pillar of our democracy—the peaceful transfer of presidential power—to buckle.” 5. **– August 5, 2026 –** The United States government refunded large corporations billions of dollars that were collected under Trump’s tariffs. Apple received an estimated $2.2 billion; Amazon, $600 million; and Nike, $300 million. The tariffs cost the average US household an estimated $1,000 in 2025. US households have not received any government refund. 6. **– August 5, 2026 –** “Canada’s nasty. They are,” Trump said during a speech about tariff negotiations. ”They’re nasty. I love the people, but they’re nasty. Nasty leadership.” _“Canada’s Nasty”: Donald Trump Slams Canadian Leadership Over Tariffs ( CNBC TV18)_ 7. **– August 6, 2026 –** Trump signed two executive orders targeting birthright citizenship: one to limit who was eligible for birthright citizenship; the other to prevent so-called “birth tourism,” the term anti-immigration activists use to describe women who give birth in the United States to establish citizenship for their children. The orders came after the Supreme Court ruled that Trump’s attempts to end birthright citizenship were unconstitutional. 8. **– August 6, 2026 –** Under Trump, ninety percent of foreign ambassador nominations have gone to political donors and loyalists. Many lacked the prior diplomatic experience required by law. In previous administrations, more than half of these jobs went to career Foreign Service officers. 9. **– August 6, 2026 –** The Burke Law Group was set to receive a $150 million no-bid contract to represent unaccompanied migrant children in deportation cases. Following public scrutiny—Burke only had two employees specializing in immigration and asylum cases—the firm withdrew from consideration. Trump had previously appointed Marcella Burke, one of the firm’s founders, to Environmental Protection Agency and Department of Interior posts. 10. **– August 6, 2026 –** The Department of Government Efficiency consistently inflated its savings in online posts. The United States Government Accountability Office, which investigates federal spending, could not verify billions in supposed savings and found some claimed cuts never happened. DOGE also took credit for lease cancellations that began before it existed, falsely claimed contracts were ended that weren’t, and added unverified savings to its database. 11. **– August 7, 2026 –** The Trump administration overrode court-issued protections and deported Mexican immigrants who faced torture risks in their home country. “If their protection claims were based on some likelihood of torture by cartels or organized crime,” said Robyn Barnard, Vice President of Refugee and Immigrant Rights at Human Rights First, “then there is a risk they’re going to be disappeared upon arrival.” 12. **– August 7, 2026 –** Trump renewed his efforts to fire Lisa Cook, a member of the Federal Reserve Board of Governors, the governing agency of the US central bank. The White House informed Cook that Trump was “considering” removing her and demanded that she respond to unproven allegations of mortgage fraud. If Cook were ousted, it would allow Trump to appoint another ally to the board, which would help toward his efforts to get the Fed to lower interest rates. In June, the Supreme Court had upheld limits on Trump’s attempts to remove members from the independent Federal Reserve Board. 13. **– August 7, 2026 –** The Senate narrowly confirmed Todd Blanche, Trump’s former personal lawyer, as Attorney General in a 50–49 vote. As Deputy Attorney General, Blanche violated the law requiring the release of the Epstein files, worked with the Trump administration to compensate January 6 rioters, and fired or forced resignations of Department of Justice officials investigating Trump. 14. **– August 7, 2026 –** New York City fired dozens of Haitian city workers after their Temporary Protected Status ended. Hundreds more remained at risk of losing their jobs. Following a Supreme Court ruling in June, the Trump administration revoked Temporary Protected Status for 350,000 Haitians in the United States, 40,000 of whom live in New York. TPS is the US government’s humanitarian policy that prevents immigrants from being deported to home countries where conditions are unsafe. The U.S. Committee for Refugees and Immigrants deemed Haiti dangerous because of failing infrastructure, gang violence, and political instability. 15. **– August 10, 2026 –** Springfield, Ohio ICE agents took passports from Haitian immigrants who lost their Temporary Protection Status and forced them to wear ankle monitors. “Taking away their passports does not make sense if the Department of Homeland Security wants Haitians who have lost legal status to self-deport back to Haiti,” said Haitian advocate Marjory Wentworth. 16. **– August 10, 2026 –** Trump called for fewer childhood vaccines. His executive order made separate measles, mumps, and rubella shots (MMR) the federal recommendation. Trump said children received “what seemingly looks like gallons” of vaccine, and claimed that spacing their shots would have “a huge impact on autism.” One dose of MMR-II is .5 ML, or one-tenth of a teaspoon, and the National Library of Medicine points to many studies that show there is no connection between the MMR vaccine and autism. _Donald Trump Signs an Executive Order on Vaccination Schedules (Roll Call)_ 17. **– August 10, 2026 –** The State Department revoked visas of foreign nationals over comments made following the September 2025 assassination of right-wing pundit Charlie Kirk. One person wrote, “When fascists die, Democrats don’t complain.” Another said Kirk “died too late.” When former FBI Director Robert Mueller died, Trump wrote on Truth Social, “Good, I’m glad he’s dead. He can no longer hurt innocent people!” 18. **– August 10, 2026 –** The Trump administration ended the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration’s support for the Arctic Report Card. The peer-reviewed report has tracked environmental change in the rapidly warming Arctic every year since 2006. NOAA gave no reason for the decision. 19. **– August 10, 2026 –** ICE announced plans to spend up to $20 million on thousands of electric-shock gloves. The shocks can cause pain and inhibit coordinated movement. Jenn Rolnick Borchetta, deputy project director for the American Civil Liberties Union, criticized ICE’s use of these new tools: “Giving ICE agents, who have been reckless with their use of force over the last year, gloves that can deliver electric shocks is terrifying.” 20. **– August 10, 2026 –** Trump called **Muslim** Democratic candidates in the midterm elections “jihadists.” He also said Somali immigrants were “not smart,” had “no aptitude,” and were “telling us how to run our country.” Trump has a history of denigrating Muslims. In 2017, he told supporters, “The hateful ideology of radical Islam must not be allowed to reside or spread within our own communities.” _“Jihadists Being Elected All Over!” | Trump Blasts “Radical” Democrats Ahead Of Midterms ( VERTEX)_ 21. **– August 11, 2026 –** The Department of Treasury stopped requiring American companies to disclose who owned or controlled them. Congress created the requirement over Trump’s veto in 2021. The bipartisan law had targeted criminals who used anonymous shell companies to hide money and assets. “This is a gift to cartels, criminals, and U.S. adversaries that exploit shell companies to move millions through our financial system,” said Senator Elizabeth Warren. 22. **– August 12, 2026 –** Trump deputized private companies to launch government cyberattacks. Approved firms could secretly enter foreign networks and destroy computer systems and infrastructure. Dakota Cary, an expert on Chinese hacking, said Trump’s policy was copying tactics used by the Chinese government: “In many ways, China’s hacking prowess now stems from the fact that they copied our education system. Now it seems the U.S. is interested in copying China’s system for deputizing private-sector hackers.” 23. **– August 13, 2026 –** Ostensibly to address immigrant crossings, the Trump administration began construction on vehicle barriers and a new patrol road through Texas’s Big Bend National Park. The project faced bipartisan opposition in the state. Terrell County Sheriff Thaddeus Cleveland, whose jurisdiction includes part of the Big Bend border, had described it as “the least active sector along the U.S.-Mexico border.” 24. **– August 13, 2026 –** The Department of Homeland Security secretly investigated labor unions, socialist organizations, and environmental activists during Trump’s immigration crackdown in Minnesota. Federal agents infiltrated private Signal chats and attended meetings undercover. They searched three years of a union’s banking records for what they called “domestic terrorist financing.” None of the targeted groups were charged with a crime. 25. **– August 14, 2026 –** Trump asked the Supreme Court to let him bypass Congress and keep building his White House ballroom. He claimed private donors would cover the cost, but his administration **has** already diverted $352 million in Secret Service funds to security measures for the East Wing project, which includes the ballroom. 26. **– August 14, 2026 –** Trump took credit for a historic decline in violent crime. He blamed crime in the country under the Biden administration on “foreign gangs” and “savage thugs.” He also sharply exaggerated crime reductions in cities where he had deployed federal forces. Violent crime had been falling since 2022, three years before he returned to office. 27. **– August 16, 2026 –** Attorney General Todd Blanche refused to say that he would always act independently of the White House. “There’s a big difference between saying we will always do our job and investigate any case and act independently of the White House,” Blanche said when asked to pledge his independence on NBC’s Meet the Press. “No, I’m not going to pledge that, and no attorney general should ever pledge that.” The Attorney General is charged with applying the law fairly and objectively, and is not a personal lawyer or political instrument for the president. _Todd Blanche Refuses to Pledge DOJ Independence from White House (CNN)_ 28. **– August 16, 2026 –** Trump ordered a reduction in military exercises with South Korea, a U.S. ally. He claimed North Korea had been “unthreatening and respectful” and criticized South Korea for not supporting the U.S. war with Iran. A day earlier, Trump had posted a photo of himself with North Korea’s leader, Kim Jong Un, and bragged about their relationship, saying he planned to meet with Kim later in the week. 29. **– August 16, 2026 –** President Trump’s son-in-law, Jared Kushner, met with Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu and leaders of Hamas. Kushner **does** not hold a Senate-confirmed position, and his private investment firm received funding from Middle Eastern governments. In April 2026, House Judiciary Committee Ranking Member Jamie Raskin opened an investigation into Kushner, citing national security risks and potential federal law violations regarding his dual roles as a foreign-funded financier and an active U.S. diplomatic negotiator. 30. **– August 16, 2026 –** The U.S. Navy drew up plans for a costly major warship redesign to better match Trump’s preference for a World War II-esque aesthetic. During Trump’s first term, the Navy determined that such changes would cost billions of dollars and impact the ships’ buoyancy and weight. The Trump administration **has** spent over one trillion dollars on the military since December 2025. 31. **– August 16, 2026 –** President Trump blamed vandals for dead grass on the National Mall, in the same location where he had built a stage and hosted crowds for July 4th. He also repeated false claims that the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool was vandalized: “Look what VANDALS did to the grass connecting the vandalized World War II Monument and the vandalized Reflecting Pool, which will be opened again, and better than ever, shortly. Anybody who thinks the Reflecting Pool wasn’t vandalized should go back to Law School!” 32. **– August 17, 2026 –** Trump threatened to bomb Oman, a U.S. ally, over talks with Iran. “If Oman gets in the way, we’ll bomb the shit out of them,” Trump told Fox News. Both the U.S. and Oman had been separately negotiating with Iran to reopen the Strait of Hormuz, and Trump’s comments came after Iranian officials said they were close to finalizing a deal with Oman. 33. **– August 17, 2026 –** Trump lashed out at Senator Jon Ossoff, calling him a “Pee-Wee Herman lookalike,” after Ossoff mocked Trump’s peculiar relationship with aide Natalie Harp. _The New York Times_ published letters sent between Trump and Harp. “You are all that matters to me,” Harp wrote in one missive. “I don’t ever want to let you down.” 34. **– August 17, 2026 –** The White House’s “rapid response” account on X attacked CNN’s Kristen Holmes for questioning the president about his ballroom project and relationship with Natalie Harp. The post called Holmes a “disgraceful, humiliating embarrassment to her alleged profession.” Another post read, “Someday, your children will come across your disgusting and inhumane question. They will be sickened and embarrassed to have a parent be so callous and vindictive.” _Trump Asked About Jon Ossoff’s Comments About Presidential Aide Natalie Harp (Forbes)_ 35. **– August 17, 2026 –** Former Colorado election clerk Tina Peters was offered a new job as an assistant registrar of voters for Shasta County in California. Peters was previously sentenced to nine years in prison for trying to subvert the 2020 election and **was pardoned** after pressure from Trump. Senator Alex Padilla argued for Peters to be removed from the position and accused the Shasta County clerk and registrar of voters of “collud[ing] with the Trump administration’s election mischief." 36. **– August 18, 2026 –** Liberia agreed to accept 1,200 deportees from the U.S in exchange for $5 million. Two days later, at least five deportees were flown to Liberia but resisted getting off the plane. They were then flown to Equatorial Guinea, raising questions about whether the Trump administration was following a transparent process. The US has deported over 22,000 asylum seekers and those with protection orders to countries they’d never been to, including South Sudan, the Central African Republic, and Eswatini. 37. **– August 18, 2026 –** The Trump administration imposed sanctions on International Criminal Court president and chief judge Tomoko Akane and senior ICC trial lawyer Abdoulaye Seye. Akane and Seye had advanced the prosecution of Israeli officials and became the twelfth and thirteenth ICC jurists sanctioned by the U.S. Secretary of State Marco Rubio called the ICC “a corrupt and fatally politicized supranational court that has maliciously abused its authority and exceeded its mandate.” In response, the ICC called the sanctions a “flagrant attack” on the ICC’s independence. “[When] judicial actors are threatened for applying the law, it is the international legal order itself that is placed at risk.” 38. **– August 18, 2026 –** The watchdog group Corporate Accountability Lab found that sugar importer Central Romana, whose import ban was lifted early in Trump’s second term, had continued its abusive labor practices. The farm’s mostly Haitian workers earned poverty wages, worked excessive overtime, faced intimidation and threats from superiors, and lived in dilapidated and overcrowded company-owned housing without electricity or potable water. José Fanjul, Central Romana’s owner, had previously donated to Trump’s campaign and ballroom project, attended a state dinner at the White House, and hosted Trump at his apartment. 39. **– August 18, 2026 –** The Trump administration moved to repeal the 2001 “roadless rule” to allow road construction and logging in nearly 45 million acres of untouched national forests. The plan could destroy crucial habitats and headwaters for major municipal water supplies. 40. **– August 18, 2026 –** Former Department of Justice lawyer Haley Van Erem alleged that politics drove the Trump administration’s antisemitism probes at elite universities. Erem said the administration pushed ahead with settlements despite rushed, incomplete investigations that did not find any legal violations, and that the outcomes of the investigations were “predetermined, without regard to evidence.” 41. **– August 19, 2026 –** US debt hit $40 trillion, fueled in part by massive spending on the Iran war and the 2025 Republican tax cuts. In 2016,...

You could go suavely into that good night. That might be cool. You’d need a smooth, cool aura to pull it off, though. Maybe try on a silk shirt, look in the mirror, and do a little self-evaluation before attempting this one. Oh, you know what? Could you go rowdy into that good night? Make a ruckus. Bounce around, cause a scene. That might be fun. Sort of the opposite of gentle; really show how psyched you are to go into that good night. There is no shame in showing your emotions. God, the more we talk about it, the more going gentle into that good night sounds really appealing, doesn’t it? I’d never even thought about how to go into that good night, but now that the poem told me not to go gentle into that good night, I can’t think of going any other way. Hey, what if you started going into that good night in a rambunctious manner, really going nuts, but then, once you got into that good night, you switched to going gentle? As far as I can tell, there are no Welsh poets outlawing that kind of behavior. Try going rough into that good night. Maybe you’ll like it. Sometimes people tell their husbands that they only like going gentle into that good night. Then their husband comes home early from his fourth fantasy football draft of the weekend because everyone laughed at him for taking Caleb Williams in the second round, and he finds his wife going extremely rough into that good night with a Krav Maga instructor named Todd. And she really seemed to be enjoying it. I guess you could go gentle into that good afternoon and then just wait until the sun goes down. That’s another option. Or maybe, don’t go into that good night at all. Todd is probably there with his deltoids. It doesn’t matter how you go into the good night; if Todd’s there, you’re going to end up unhappy. How is he buff _and_ so flexible? Never mind, sorry. What if you go gentle into a different night? “Oh, I’m not going gentle into that good night. I’m going gentle into a different, mediocre night.” It’s easy to find loopholes like this because poets aren’t really trained in the ways of syllogism or _modus ponens_ -based reasoning. Poets don’t realize that, by going gentle into a mediocre night, the mediocre night can become a good night, and thus you’ve backdoored your way into going gentle into that good night. Just go gentle into that good night. Who cares? What’s the worst that could happen? Todd bangs your wife? That already happened, and it seems like it’s going to keep happening. Actually, go confidently into that good night. Todd isn’t there. It’s logically impossible for him to be there. If Todd is present, the night cannot be good. So if the night is good, Todd isn’t present. _Modus tollens_. Mutual exclusion. So go into that good night with a feeling of safety and comfort, knowing you’re safe from Todd’s boulder shoulders. Wait, yeah, go confidently, but also go armed with a sack full of nickels into that good night. Just in case Todd does somehow show up there. Then you can give Todd a swift nickel-smack, and you’ve suddenly gone aggressively into that great night.

_You’ve Always Been This Way is a column written by Taylor Harris, a late-diagnosed neurodivergent woman and 1980s preschool dropout, who identifies every moment from her past that filled her with shame, and mutters, “Yep, that tracks. I see it all now.”_ - - - This morning, on a walk around my neighborhood with two poorly-behaved poodle mixes, I stopped once again for the baby pine cone. This one already dropped and disentangled, waiting at the border of a small garden. I remembered then: Writing can be small and wrapped, layered and touching, tight and nearly eternal in depth. Hold it between two fingers, hide it within a cove of denim beside your house key. No one carries loose change anymore. By chance or memory, retrieve it before laundry day, and roll it in your palms or set it on your desk, let it stand alone as living amidst a sea of Paper Mate markers and fineliner pens. See it as you write or grade papers, as you read comments from one guy who shapeshifts from workshop to workshop, changes his name and interests, but his ways are the same. You know the one. But what can he possibly say about the pine cone? “Haven’t we seen this before?” “So what?” “Pretty language, but what’s at stake?” Kindly tell the gentleman from Dartmouth or the Carolinas, or wherever they make men with loud thoughts, he’s missing the point. And what’s at stake is always life, or beauty, you’re not sure yet. I had a plan, you know, for this column. A funny-ish opening, a long and rambling middle, a punchy end, to make you remember my words. The pine cone destroyed it. Blame nature while you can. The midterms are coming, and nine more years until AI bots destroy us. I had this unwieldy plan-like plan, a foam sword of an outline, because I thought I needed it. Thought if I wrote in September, the month we tell everyone to hug a friend and call 988, when we post statistics and even worse statistics and the worst statistics for autistic people who thought they were just born wrong to live wrong and die wrong, then I should, at least, paint you a better world with words: Not _this_ , but _that_ , I’d say. Here, a better way! If I’m going to complain or tell you “I get it,” or “I’m okay right now, but I see why this happens,” or “I worry about my children most,” then Dartmouth guy, Bradley, the judge in my head who’s too educated to say “Go back to wherever you came from,” says, “If you don’t like it, then find a solution.” The good news is, screw Bradley. Today I found a pine cone, stuck it in my front pocket, and texted one of my neurodivergent fairy godsisters. She took it to Reddit, the promised land of rabbit trails, and you already know…. This baby cone, the same length as the top of my house key, is likely full-grown. Its whole world wrapped inside itself—papery scales reaching up, always on the verge, or maybe content to be slanted and at rest. Perhaps this pine cone wouldn’t recover from Tide pods and a spin cycle, but it’s sturdy enough to one day house a spider, maybe a slug if it can handle the texture of slime. (Could never be me, bro. Slugs are chopped.) I’d presumed this entire reproductive organ, this fierce protector of seeds, to be a lost or premature baby, something cute to hold and behold, when, really, she carries in her slight frame the stuff of fairy tales and forests, of shelters for the unhoused beings of her world—no questions asked, no judgment passed, no gated communities or HOAs to pose as victims of encampments. I’d almost missed her completely, should probably throw her back to the brick-lined garden. I made her a reminder of beauty for myself, and she’s quite unconcerned with my need to slow down and notice against the hungry winds of productivity. Yet she did remind me. Seeing her narrow and edgy form, I remembered I don’t have to know everything to tell you one thing. Do you know how doctors learn to “First, do no harm”? When it comes to suicide and being autistic, when we know that feeling like a burden and not belonging can take people out, allow me to keep it small and tight: _First, add no shame._ Today, I don’t want to detail how schools have fumbled my children, adding shame to my seeds instead of covering them. I don’t want to get into why parents saying, “As long as my kid can live independently,” is like saying, “As long as my baby’s healthy.” I don’t want to break down what it’s like to operate with a smile out there but sense a thousand times inside that you’re “doing it wrong” again. Instead, I’ll tell you about my day: I walked two dogs—one big, one little—both an ever-loving fluffy mess of nerves. They stood still long enough for me to pick up this baby-but-big-girl pine cone. It’s not _thee_ answer. She’s her own, remember. Still, I need you to behold her stacked crevices, how her top puckers like a mouth, a woodland-inspired O’Keefe. This gorgeous one, from an eastern hemlock, the users say, one I overlooked for forty-three years. See her and tell your inner critic or boss or loved one to quiet down, that what you have to offer this September and thereafter is enough. There’s no shame in that.

**Sup** Hey **Down 2 hang tomorrow?** Are you free this Friday? **Not looking for anything serious** I’m only asking because I’m looking for someone **But we could still have fun** To drive me out into the woods **R u on Snapchat?** And dig a hole **Add me on Snapchat** And bury me in it **I had fun last night** No weird stuff, just digging a deep, wet hole deep into the woods and watching as I lay down in it **We should do it again** You also will be covering me in the dirt **Not sure when I’m free tho** The cold, wet dirt **U up?** But don’t worry, I’ll be quiet **;)** So so quiet **Sorry wrong person** A quiet little Parisian boy **DTF?** In this scenario, I’m from Paris **;)** Couvre-moi de terre s’il te plaît maman **What r u wearing?** And this isn’t one of those classic situations where I’ll do the sort of weird, coy “Oh no, not the dirt…” thing and say stuff like “Oh no Madam, don’t bury me in the deep hole. The hole is too deep, and the dirt is too wet, and I have to help Papa sweep Old Miss Gentry’s chimney later today” **That’s so fckin hot** “Papa needs me, Madam, un petit garçon, to climb down in the chimney, you see, because Papa cannot. Mama likes to joke that it’s because he has too many nogaux and buttery croissants, and we all laugh and laugh and laugh, but I still am the one who lowers himself into the deep dark chimney, the one who succumbs to the dark, the one who is swallowed up and spit out, because Papa is an adult man and I am a boy, a petit Parisian boy” **Sorry wrong person** “And if I don’t go, Papa will have no choice but to bring my older and more stubborn brother Jacques. And he’ll get stuck, Madam! He’ll get stuck in the Old Miss Gentry’s chimney just like all the others, and then we’ll be right back where we started, cleaning out the treacherous old thing that takes what it wants day in and day out. Leaving no hope, no joy, no children” **Was just thinkin bout u** Anyway, once I’m buried, you can leave **;)** I’ll eventually claw my way out and find my way home **Send nudes?** To Paris, that is **… hello?** … bonjour? **[_Sends an unsolicited dick pic_]** [_Sends an unsolicited dick pic_]

_“The White House has launched its own round-the-clock video channel, dubbed ‘Trump TV: The Essentials Station,’ just days after President Donald Trump barred CNN, MS NOW, and Politico from the White House.” —_ Newsweek - - - The White House is thrilled to announce the arrival of Trump TV. No nation can truly call itself a democracy until its leader has dismissed the entire press corps and replaced them with state-run media. Now, instead of Americans depending on the lying mainstream news, they’ll be able to get their information straight from the ultimate beacon of truth: the president himself. Here’s all of the great programming you can expect from Trump TV over the next twenty-four hours: **6:00 a.m. – 6:05 a.m.** Ted Nugent sings “The Star-Spangled Banner” while gargling a cup of piping hot black coffee. **6:05 a.m. – 9:00 a.m.** Stephen Miller recites the entire screenplay of _The Birth of a Nation_ from memory. **9:00 a.m. – 11:00 a.m.** The president attends a ribbon-cutting for the brand-new White House helipad. The camera will be positioned fifty feet away, and there will be no audio. **11:00 a.m. – 12:00 p.m.** Health Secretary RFK Jr. shows Americans the best ways to flay, brine, and cook roadkill. **12:00 p.m. – 12:05 p.m.** Kid Rock shoots a five-hundred-pound wheel of Certified Halal Tillamook Cheddar with an assault rifle. **12:05 p.m. – 2:00 p.m.** Kash Patel testifies before Congress on the positive aspects of bestiality in the workplace. **2:00 p.m. – 2:30 p.m.** Pete Hegseth inspects US Marines for signs of decreased vitality. **2:30 p.m. – 3:00 p.m.** Trump’s special ambassadors to Hollywood—Jon Voight, Mel Gibson, and Sylvester Stallone—review the latest films. Within five minutes, all three men will forget what they were supposed to be discussing and instead complain about how modern movies have way too much diversity and way too little full-frontal nudity. **3:00 p.m. – 5:00 p.m.** White House executive assistant, Natalie Harp, live-streams from the Oval Office. Unfortunately, Natalie will have the wrong phone camera turned on, so all we see is a close-up of her smile, which is equal parts childlike admiration, prophetic worship, and deep yearning. **5:00 p.m. – 6:00 p.m.** Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas explains why the Voting Rights Act of 1965 was actually worse than Jim Crow. **6:00 p.m. – 6:30 p.m.** Rudy Giuliani mumbles something about Muslims while peeing on himself. **6:30 p.m. – 7:00 p.m.** Mitch McConnell waves at a wall. **7:00 p.m. – 7:30 p.m.** Jake Paul punches a solar panel. **7:30 p.m. – 8:00 p.m.** Lauren Boebert humps a Trump Bible. **8:00 p.m. – 8:59 p.m.** Matt Walsh waxes poetic about states’ rights while AI-generated images of the Civil War slow-pan across the screen. **8:59 p.m. – 9:00 p.m.** Vice President JD Vance. **9:00 p.m. – 12:08 a.m.** President Trump delivers a three-hour address to the nation, where he will accuse Canada of training moose to smuggle fentanyl across the border to fund Antifa. **12:08 a.m. – 5:08 a.m.** Infomercials for MyPillow, the $250 Trump Semiquincentennial commemorative gold coin, and a male virility enhancer that’s just an infrared face mask for your ballsack. **5:08 a.m. – 5:10 a.m.** Programming will be interrupted by an alert from the Pentagon that, due to a faulty AI-assisted intelligence report, the United States Air Force has bombed a Chinese aircraft carrier. **5:10 a.m. – 6:00 a.m.** Coverage of the conflict continues as China declares war on the United States, which, in turn, declares war on China. North Korea joins the war on the side of China, while Israel pledges support to the United States. When Canada, the EU, and the UK refuse to join the war, the president declares war on them. Russia takes advantage of the situation and declares war on the EU. The EU responds by declaring war on Russia. India, largely dependent on Russian oil, is strong-armed into joining the war on Russia’s side. Pakistan responds by joining the EU. All of the world’s major nuclear powers are now at war. **6:00 a.m.** Natalie Harp live-streams the president as he unleashes global nuclear Armageddon. The wrong camera turns on again, and all we see is her enraptured smile as the bombs rain down.

_The following is an excerpt from McSweeney’s contributor Eli Burnstein’s new book,_ Phrased & Confused, _a guide to the great quotations that we just keep getting wrong. From ancient maxims like “Seize the day” to modern sound bites like “The road less traveled,”_ Phrased & Confused _sets the record straight on commonly misunderstood statements — and plumbs the meanings of famously slippery ones (“I think therefore I am,” “A rose is a rose is a rose”). Pairing witty commentary with lighthearted illustration from_ New Yorker _cartoonist Liana Finck, it’s the ideal resource for lovers of language, literature, history, and philosophy, full of intelligence and insight for curious minds everywhere._ - - - #### “Don’t mess with Texas” (Tim McClure, 1985) Tough-guy catchphrase? No. Anti-littering slogan. Get it? Mess? Though widely assumed to be a bit of generic Texas swagger, the brassy pun was put out by the Texas Department of Transportation in 1985 in an effort to curb rampant roadside littering: Taxpayers were spending around $20 million a year to clean up automotive trash, and young men of the pickup truck–driving, beer can–slinging variety, not to be won over by signs saying pretty please, were thought to be the chief culprit. The campaign worked. According to the book _Don’t Mess with Texas: The Story Behind the Legend_ , the public service offensive helped reduce litter on Texas highways by roughly 72 percent within five years. Indeed, the phrase was so catchy that it took on a life of its own, spilling out beyond garbage cans and bumper stickers and tracking into the zeitgeist, encapsulating Texan ’tude even better than “Remember the Alamo.” Seared onto belt buckles, peppered into political speeches, the phrase has become so fused with the Lone Star ethos that most of us—including more than a few Texans—have no idea where it comes from. Which is why, believe it or not, the Texas Department of Transportation has historically been a bit feisty about protecting their slogan, a registered trademark: They want people to get the anti-littering part of the message. So, if you’re thinking of slapping it on a T-shirt or trucker cap and don’t want to get a cease-and-desist letter, you may want to ask them first. As former _New York Times_ ’ Houston bureau chief Manny Fernandez quipped, “Don’t mess with Texas. In fact, don’t even mess with ‘Don’t Mess with Texas.’” #### Origin Coined by Tim McClure of the ad agency GSD&M, “Don’t mess with Texas” (sorry, “Don’t mess with Texas”) was deemed sufficiently edgy that the then-called State Department of Highways and Public Transportation initially hesitated to use it. Good thing they took a chance. Since its inception, “Don’t mess with Texas”–themed TV and radio PSAs have featured such high-profile Texans as Matthew McConaughey, Erykah Badu, Ethan Hawke, Owen Wilson, George Foreman, Lance Armstrong, Willie Nelson, Chuck Norris, and Shamu the orca. We’re still waiting on one from Beyoncé. - - - _Eli Burnstein’s Phrased & Confused_is available wherever books are sold.__

Congratulations, colleague. We, the meeting overlords, have agreed to end this meeting early and are benevolently granting you fifteen minutes of your day back. With this bountiful amount of time, we hope you choose to hydrate, eat, catch up on sleep, stand up for the first time in four hours, address your rapidly declining mental, emotional, and physical health, repair all relationships with the loved ones you’ve neglected, and progress through any other stages of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs. We assume the fifteen minutes we have given you is more than enough time to do this. We know many of our meetings don’t usually end as early as this one did, and instead run over the allotted time. Yes, we are in charge of both the meetings that go long and also the ensuing meetings that are entirely separate, yet include the exact same attendees. However, it is impossible for us to steal time from one meeting to give to the other. The only time we can steal is from your calendar. All meetings are essential, even if we do not know what they are for. Sometimes we may ask you what the purpose of a meeting is when we are the ones who scheduled it. If that happens, please accurately guess why we are meeting or come up with a reason for us to meet. What we can’t afford to have happen is for a meeting to be canceled. It is imperative that we all sit in a room together, whether it is necessary or not. The meeting’s purpose will eventually reveal itself to us all. Since this particular meeting was only a quick huddle before the pre-meeting, preceding the actual meeting that has a pre-scheduled, post-meeting regroup, your fifteen-minute allowance does have a hard stop. No need to thank us for this abundant gift of your own fifteen minutes back. We will, however, accept a sacrifice in the form of your time (which will certainly exceed fifteen minutes) at a moment of our choosing. Please be ready at that moment to hop on a quick call. We do not know when that will be. It could be tonight. It could be tomorrow. Regardless of when, we expect you to remain on standby for the foreseeable future for the potential meeting that may or may not happen for reasons that are yet unknown. All we are certain of is that it will be urgent. While you wait to give your mandatory time sacrifice, you are allowed to do life. In fact, we encourage it, so you can recharge (while also being on call) and perform optimally in tomorrow’s meetings, which begin promptly at 8:30 a.m. If that start time does not work for you, you must notify the meeting overlords immediately. Then, they can formally deny your request for it to be moved, because other, more important people than you cannot make any other time work. Do not fret. If you absolutely cannot make that 8:30 a.m. meeting, we will still have it without you. And we will have it again when you are able. There is no “getting out of” a meeting. You must receive all information in a live discussion, because it is impossible to understand meeting matters through email. No combination of written words could possibly convey the meeting’s complex concepts about the job you do every day. Additionally, no form of meeting notes will contain the crucial ten minutes of banter with your peers that occurs before the actual meeting starts. If you cannot make tomorrow’s 8:30 a.m. meeting because of the phenomenon of being “double-booked,” please take it upon yourself to figure out a solution for you and all twelve other attendees’ schedules. If you try hard enough, though, you’ll find that time is merely an illusion and that you can be present for both concurrent meetings simultaneously. We believe in you. If you have an issue with the number of meetings you have, you may put a meeting on our calendar to discuss it. All you have to do is find time in our schedules, which are entirely blocked off for the next three months. When scheduling the meeting, please choose a time only during your non-meeting work hours to discuss the meetings that prevent you from doing your work. We hereby end this granting-of-time meeting. The fifteen minutes we gave back to you are now over. And our next meeting is upon us. Since we are gracious, you may urinate or grab a granola bar from the office pantry, which will suffice as your lunch. Please choose only one activity or the other. Do not worry. We will make sure we don’t start the next meeting without you. But every minute you are gone will be added to the meeting end time. Remember, the meeting’s time is precious and must not be wasted. All other work or biological needs must be accomplished on your own time, like during the fifteen minutes we just gave back to you, which are now gone.

“That tie is old and ugly.” “There are no normal people.” “Your room stank really bad.” “Your room really stank bad.” “I am better without you.” “Without you, I am better.” “I only eat small sour lemons.” “My friend has seven children, so what?” “Why are you sleeping under the table?” “When is he happy, never?” “Nobody wanted this.” “Is your bed almost broken or completely broken?” “She wants butter, but why ours?” “Mr. Goldman must go home already.” “He has little money, but I have less.” “The French are everywhere.” “My son is perfect.” “Your son is already old.” “How old are you already?” “The sad children are there.” “You have to eat soup!” “My soup has something strange, but his does not.” “This does not smell good. Is it fresh?” “They do not invite you because you always fall asleep.” “This vegetable is old!” “The potato is perfect, unfortunately.” “Twenty dollars for three packages of cookies!?” “Why do you not visit us?” “I am dying!” — “You are not dying!” “What, these are your daughters?” “Who here smells like fish?” “This fish stinks.” “This stinks!” “The pocketbook stinks!” “My uncle is a broken man.”

And lo, I was looking between the cushions of My heavenly couch the other day, seeking the divine TV remote, when I found something I had not seen in several millennia. An eleventh commandment. Apparently it had slipped down there sometime after Sinai. And I said, “Well, shit.” For behold, humankind has spent thousands of years observing the Ten Commandments when there was, in fact, one more: XI. THOU SHALT GET THE JAB. Vaccines were supposed to be on the tablets the whole time. Wild, right? But, in My defense, I had just created heaven and earth, and parted the Red Sea, and plagued Egypt, and dictated quite a lot of dense material to Moses. Things fall between the cushions. Even unto the Lord. But having rediscovered this sacred instruction, I looked down upon the earth and saw that humankind had become greatly troubled by vaccines, and I said unto Myself, with great exasperation, “Oh, for My sake.” For I am the Lord thy God, Creator of heaven and earth, of all things visible and invisible, the Alpha and the Omega. I fashioned the human immune system from ashes and dust and proteins and several mechanisms that are far too complicated for people to be arguing over on Facebook. And yet. Even now some amongst you still say, “Surely, God would not want me to put a vaccine into the body He gave me.” To which I say: Whateth the actual fucketh? I have provided unto you brilliant doctors and scientific minds. My Hand has guided the creation of microscopes, laboratories, antibodies, clinical trials, and an entire branch of mathematics devoted to the quantum level. I have even given you pharmacies located inside grocery stores, so that thou may receive protection against disease and purchase toilet paper during the same journey. What more precisely were you expecting from Me? Did you think I would descend from the heavens every autumn to personally remove influenza from thy lungs? I am literally God! I have things going on up here. There are approximately two trillion galaxies in the observable universe, depending upon which of My astronomers thou askest. I have neutron stars colliding. I have black holes consuming stars. Somewhere in Andromeda, a moon is doing something so spectacular with methane that you would lose your Me-damned minds. And hear Me now regarding this “religious exemption.” From what religious tradition, exactly? Vaccines have existed for roughly five minutes by My standards. Edward Jenner appeared in the eighteenth century. Before that, humanity spent several thousand years asking Me to save their children from diseases which are now prevented by a jaunt to CVS. There was no Book of Moderna. Paul wrote no epistle unto the Walgreens. Moses did not descend from Sinai bearing two stone tablets, one of which read THOU SHALT DIVIDE UP THE MMR AND THEN NOT TAKE IT ANYWAY. For most of human history, when your child contracted diphtheria, measles, smallpox, polio, or whooping cough, your religious practice consisted largely of praying desperately to Me that the child would survive. And I heard those prayers. I heard mothers begging beside beds. I heard fathers promising Me everything they possessed. I heard entire villages call My name because something invisible had entered their homes to take their children one by one. Then, eventually, humanity figured out how to stop a lot of it, and even the insurance companies, which literally do the work of Satan himself, said they’d help pay for it. And now certain among you have decided this development might offend Me. Me! The One you were asking for help. My children, please go forth and celebrate the vaccine. I will not be insulted. I will not become wrathful. I am chiefly amazed that after thousands of years of humans asking a version of Me to protect them from pestilence, I finally helped you develop a pretty sweet system, and now I have to come down here with a postscript to slow the influx of souls just a tad because my gatekeeper St. Peter is on PTO this century. Therefore, I command thee: Get the jab. Enjoy the fruits of My labor, which, for once, have been peer-reviewed and are readily available without an appointment at a CVS location near you.

Come on, man, let’s get absolutely sober. It’s Friday. It’s been a long-ass week; I need to get clear-headed as a motherfucker. Teas, right? Let’s get some teas. You want some milk? Don’t be a milk pussy, dude. Get some calcium. I don’t want to be the only one with strong bones. Yes, there it is. Okay, first tea of the night—let’s slam this shit down. Oh man, that’s hot. That’s crazy hot. Whoa, yeah. That’s good. I just got this rush of lucidity. It just hit me straight away. I love it. Friday, my guy. Oh dude, you remember that time I got four teas here? I just lined them up. The server was like, “What the fuck? No way you are drinking four teas!” And I’m just like, “Yeah, just watch.” Boom. Steeped that tea for four full minutes because, you know, got to bring that flavor the fuck out. Spent the next half-hour gently sipping every single one. She legit must have thought I was insane, bro. That was so wild. Man, my mental clarity that night was out of control. Okay, wow, that first tea has really hit me. It’s like, whoa, you know? My head is so clear. It’s like, I’m completely present in this conversation. Like, I’m literally holding space for your narrative right now. I’m not just waiting for you to finish saying things so I can say my thing. Come on, let’s go get some craft sodas. I love it. I am so on it tonight. You got diet soda? Damn. That shit’s hardcore. Not even having any sugar. When you want to get sober, you don’t play. Oh man, did I tell you? Last Friday we got _sooooo_ sober. I was with Pete, you know Pete? Canadian Pete? We were out-of-control lucid. It was only about 8 p.m., and I’d already validated his feelings. Like, sincerely as fuck, man. Then we spent like thirty minutes dead-ass researching how Prussian aggression led to the formation of the modern German state. It was so serious, man. Wild. I felt so good the next day. I was hydrated as fuck. Man, I am so sober right now. I just texted Jackie to confirm I’m helping move his sectional tomorrow morning. Didn’t even hesitate. Your bud needs you, you check your calendar, and you honor that commitment, bro. No flaking. Strict reliability. Totally following through on that shit tomorrow. Good, good times. All right, dawg. This has been awesome. I just really needed it, you know? After a long, tough week, you need to go out and get completely sober. I’m actually so clear-headed right now that I’m getting tense. If I get any more sober, I’m gonna end up auditing my password manager or categorizing my spice rack by cuisine. That shit’s too much for a Friday night, man. So, yeah, crazy times. I should stop getting so sober. You know, man, I say that every week. I get crazy sober, and I’m, like, _never again_. Next Friday, though, I’m back, getting my juice on like a bitch. What? Some coffee? For the road? Dude, you are so responsible, you lead me astray. Okay. You know what? Let’s make it a single-origin espresso, double shot. I mean, what else are Fridays for?

Thanks, everyone, for joining me on this Zoom pitch. I know we’re all in the same city, but it’s really hard for me to leave the house. Studio liaisons, assistants, third wives of executives who now work as development consultants, and everyone else on the line: You know _Backrooms_? It was such a smash hit that kids actually put their phones away and swarmed movie theaters to sit rapt in the dark, marveling at scene after scene of Chiwetel Ejiofor wandering around a labyrinth of carpeted interiors with no windows or natural light, dodging piles of laundry for an hour and forty-five minutes. And they walked away thinking, “That was the scariest shit I’ve ever seen in my life.” Well, not me. I thought those rooms looked cozy. See, I grew up in spaces like the ones in that movie: allergists’ waiting rooms, basement libraries, the school nurse’s office, and other places I used to run off to instead of the playground during recess. I was an “indoor kid,” which is shorthand for “loser.” But who’s laughing now? Me. Because you can order nitrous oxide tanks online. So, here’s the idea. Are we still locked in? Kevyn? Aly? You need more cold brew over there? Biebera? More matcha? Okay, so. _Backrooms_. How can we follow it? And what about the people like me who didn’t think it was scary? The indoorsy among us, who sat there thinking, “I bet there’s a thermostat in the backrooms set to seventy-two degrees, and you finally have privacy except for when Pirate Wemby shows up to chase you.” And here is where I behoove you to picture the millions—nay billions—of other likeminded agoraphobics dying to give you their money for the ultimate horror experience. Logline: “A guy not particularly fond of fresh air or crowds enters a nightmare universe full of the kind of outdoor spaces that give introverts panic attacks.” Do you love it? Here’s a map I made after I taught myself how to use this app for movie lovers who want to chart geographic surfaces—it’s called El Topog. It’s funny because my ex is actually a cinephile and a professional cartographer, but he left me after COVID because I didn’t want lockdown to be over, and I missed his in-person graduation from cartography school, where he minored in A24 studies. As you can see, our protagonist starts in this “Open field” section of the Backyards. That’s what I’m calling these outdoor spaces. You like? Magi is nodding. Limon is smiling. Okay, good, good. I should mention that in all of these outdoor scenarios, there are going to be just a ton of other people flanking our guy, and they’re saying things out loud like “No chill” or “For the ’gram” and the girls all have long ponytails that gently brush up against your skin like a Pantene-scented Daddy Long Legs. As isolated as our hero is in _Backrooms_ , this is the opposite. Groups of strangers getting in the way are the “buzzing sound coming from the fluorescent lighting” of this bizarroland spin-off. Our lead starts in the middle of a grassy field. No clouds in the sky, no breeze, no shade; just relentless direct sunlight. And before you know it, somebody in shorts, socks, and sneakers is running toward him with an egg balancing on a spoon. And he looks down and realizes he’s also holding a spoon—because he’s in a fucking relay race. And just as he’s about to disappoint a group of competitive teammates, an insect flies into his ear. So he drops his spoon and beats feet, and as soon as he turns the corner, he’s nowhere near out of trouble because this poor bookish bastard has landed himself smack dab in the middle of… A MUSIC FESTIVAL. And I don’t know if I mentioned, but it’s heat-dome hot all year round in the Backyards. And now it’s 2 p.m. and humid, and for some reason the Red Hot Chili Peppers are in a tent playing “Californication.” And our hero is weaving around a porta-potty line full of cologne enthusiasts high-fiving mid-conversation, and he dodges another queue of hungry revelers showing more of their bodies than he was ever curious about, waiting to buy a forty-five-dollar chicken sandwich. And finally, after getting untangled from a melee of fifty-year-old men playing hacky sack, our hero is mercifully free but not safe, because as soon as he runs past the wristband station, he trips over a barricade and finds himself at… AN OUTDOOR DESTINATION WEDDING FOR A COLLEGE ACQUAINTANCE. And it’s humorless speech after humorless speech and our guy spent money he doesn’t have to get there and still sprung for a gift from their registry and you’re sweating into your Spanx and your feet are killing you in these kitten heels with a pointy toe which you’re only wearing because their dress code was so specific you had to go out and buy something for it, and at this point, you were broke so you had to get something cheap and polyester and that shit won’t let your skin breathe and also you miss your cartographer boyfriend not because you were right for each other but because you feel like you’re supposed to be in a couple like everybody else around you and that it’s too late for you to ever find happiness. And… um, in the movie, this will be a similar situation for the guy character. Who’s the lead? I should name him, right? He should have a name. Bob. Okay? Great. So Bob is at this wedding. And when the bride and groom finally lock their cretin lips, he staggers through the somehow-wet grass, my—his—high heels sinking into the blades and soil at every impact, and he eventually lands in the final realm of the Backyards… And that’s just sort of a grab bag of hellish outdoor experiences. A haunted house, al fresco. He runs down this trodden path that’s barely sheltered by an occasional trellis or chuppah here and there, trying desperately to find somewhere air-conditioned with plumbing. And in the process, he’s passing through all these horrible scenarios. The park during a flash mob. The beach on the Fourth of July. A Six Flags during like eighteen or nineteen school trips. A picnic. A marathon. A group hike in tall grass where you have to wear leggings tucked into socks but still get Lyme disease. A brunch spot on a Sunday. A FUCKING PARADE. Bob eventually wakes up to learn the Backyards are all a dream. And guess where he is? He’s in prison. Did you see that coming? Magi did! She’s nodding her head and rolling her eyes. The double whammy! I’ll take it. And so we leave the world of my perfect little movie with Bob being bummed because it’s prison but also kind of psyched because he’s inside? Fucked-up ending, right? So do I have a commitment on your end, financially? A penalty in place if you don’t produce it? A check coming in so I can brag to my snob ex who claims he’s dating Wes Anderson’s niece? Or do you need me to pitch you a version of the _Odyssey_ where I have to go out to do two errands? I mean—Bob. _Bob_ does errands. Hold on. I think I’m being cut off. Folks? You there? Kevyn? Limon? Hello? Zoom is so unreliable.

_Underground Artists is an ongoing comic by Ali Fitzgerald (Hungover Bear & Friends) that follows woodland creatures as they create art and search out whimsy in a bleak forest._ - - -

For some, having a baby can be prohibitively expensive, but the cost of living shouldn’t mean that starting a family is just a fairy tale. That’s where Rumpelstiltskin comes in. Rumpelstiltskin isn’t your typical fertility startup. Rumpelstiltskin is here for your child. Our founders took years of experience in casino design and timeshare sales and swaddled them together into a first-of-its-kind solution that asks: Do poor people deserve to have kids? The business is revolutionary, but the concept isn’t. It’s a simple exchange introduced by German academics that dates back to the early nineteenth century. We’ll cover the complete cost of IVF to help you build your family—yes, really—and then, on your child’s first birthday, we might take your baby. Rumpelstiltskin is the IVF solution that makes it all possible. Imagine painting the nursery, taking your baby home from the hospital, and celebrating their first birthday party, where a small, anonymous man will be present and will need to ask you a very important question. Once your unique Rumpelstiltskin arrives at the party, you’ll have three hours to guess their name and keep your child. No tricks, no gimmicks. Just tell us his name. (Hint: It’s not Rumpelstiltskin. Nice try, mama!). Don’t worry, they’ll wait until after the cake is served to make the final call. Our team of Rumpelstiltskins is well-trained, socially conscious, and fully certified (forklift). They’re excited to be part of your journey. Rumpelstiltskin is backed by the same venture capital firm responsible for sports betting, artificial intelligence startups, and tech-forward fast-casual restaurants, so you can trust that we have the best interests of your family at heart. Rumpelstiltskin’s contract is airtight, meaning less fuss and fewer legal fees for you. Either you keep your baby, or we keep ours—it’s that simple. Plus, if Rumpelstiltskin takes your baby, we’ll cover the cost of their birthday party. We know you’re going through a difficult time and are willing to try anything, and we’d really like to get in on that. But if Rumpelstiltskin doesn’t feel right for you, consider our other fertility offering: Solomon. For families uncomfortable with the possibility of giving up their whole child, Solomon is a lower-risk option that guarantees you the opportunity to keep half of your baby.

_“The rapper Macklemore has been dropped as an opening act from Ed Sheeran’s stadium tour after he said ‘Free Palestine’ onstage before performing a protest song at a concert this month.”_ – New York Times - - - This is, objectively, a bizarre situation. Not because Macklemore said “Free Palestine.” People say “Free Palestine” all the time. At this point, it’s one of the most recognizable political slogans on Earth. No, what is bizarre is that the straw that seems to have broken the camel’s back was a white rapper saying it between songs at an Ed Sheeran concert. Clutch thy pearls, for politics hath entered the sacred temple of Ed Sheeran. And now, as controversy spreads and the country collectively holds its breath to see if Mr. Thrift Shop has Mackled his last More, I find myself asking the question that is surely on everyone’s mind: Where the hell is Ryan Lewis? You remember Ryan Lewis, right? For a certain period in the early 2010s, Macklemore and Ryan Lewis were everywhere. They were a duo. Inseparable. This was not Macklemore featuring Ryan Lewis. This was not “Macklemore and Friends.” Ryan Lewis wasn’t just the guy who occasionally wandered into the studio to adjust the bass. They won four Grammys together. They popped tags across the nation. They single-handedly ended homophobia with “Same Love.” And now, as Macklemore is once again crucified for our sins, Ryan Lewis remains thunderously silent in the moment we need him most. I have spent an embarrassing amount of time trying to reconstruct what Ryan Lewis has actually been doing since Macklemore and Ryan Lewis stopped being Macklemore and Ryan Lewis. This is difficult because, as far as I can tell, Ryan Lewis simply stopped happening. Around ten years ago, he appears to have walked into the Pacific Northwest and been absorbed by the mist—now nothing more than a passing face on the street, a forgotten name on a car karaoke playlist, a half-remembered dream from the days of Obama and Can I Haz Cheezburger? And yet, despite the fact that no one has so much as thought about Ryan Lewis in approximately ten years, his silence is damning. Does he support Macklemore? Does he support Palestine? Does he know what year it is? This is about so much more than just Macklemore. Other supporting acts have already withdrawn from Sheeran’s tour in solidarity. Ed Sheeran has, for some reason, decided to claim that he was just following orders. Robert Kraft is hoping everyone forgets he was in the Epstein Files. And Ryan Lewis is… what? Watering a plant somewhere? Birdwatching? Unacceptable. We need Ryan. Macklemore needs Ryan. The country needs Ryan. And the longer the silence stretches, the worse things look for America’s most forgettable producer. The phone is ringing, Mr. Lewis. It’s time to pick up.

Dear Juvenile, Mr. Dogg, and Mr. Jon, I have just returned from an orthopedist and have concluded that my newly diagnosed degenerative knee condition could only have been caused by the numerous demands you and your colleagues made of my generation to do some variation of dropping it like it was hot, backing it up, and/or getting low. I am writing in hopes of drawing your attention to the human cost of your flippant commands. Imagine my shock at learning that I already have bone-on-bone osteoarthritis in my right knee, and signs of it in my left. Trying to find an explanation for these results in someone my age, my doctor asked if I had been a college athlete, clearly missing the Bugles corn snack crumbs on my shirt and, for some reason, shoes. Had I been a college athlete? I don’t know, is doing three Jager bombs, backing that ass up, and dropping it like it’s hot in loose, six-inch heels a sport? Is literally crawling, like all these bitches, across the kitchen floor during a house party an athletic event? Is chugging six Midori sours, fighting with your boyfriend, bending over to the front and touching the toes, bouncing that ass up and down and getting low, getting low—all while crying—a feat of physical endurance? If so, then yes. Yes, I was a college athlete. And as my coaches, you all drove me too hard. Getting low is one thing, but did we have to go all the way from the window to the wall each time? I understand dropping it like it’s hot when the pimp’s in the crib, but why did we also have to drop it when the pigs tried to get at us? Did I really have to back this ass up both because I looked good and because I was a fine motherfucker? Your commands were irresponsible in both their enthusiasm and repetition, and this negligence has deeply affected my life. Yes, it is now painful to go down the stairs and pick up dropped joint supplements, but the real cost of following your demands isn’t the physiological wear and tear; it’s the psychological cost of uncertainty: Will I be able to teach my grandchildren how to Dougie? Teach them—teach them how to Dougie? What if some nostalgia trend brings back the Harlem Shake? Will I be able to do the Stanky Legg at my daughter’s wedding? Now don’t get me wrong, your music provided the soundtrack to my young adult years. Dancing to it earned me the attention of numerous one-night-stand partners, myriad fellow drunk girls dancing on the bar, and several EMTs when I fell off the stage after sneaking onto it while Mr. Dogg performed at SXSW 2005. If only I had the foresight to deliver this message to you then, given our physical proximity. But as I contemplate how I got here, I must admit you are not the only ones at fault. Physicians should have screened young women like me for early risk factors, such as teaching themselves the Tootsee Roll in a middle school bathroom stall during lunch to impress the cool girls. Certainly, this was the gateway knee-straining activity that started me down a slippery slope of cultivating the well-rewarded but ill-advised practice of strictly following hip-hop songs’ dance instructions, a habit that would one day lead to the early demise of my synovial fluid. In the end, I suppose my own hubris led me to believe Mr. Jon’s repeated question “You scared?” about getting low, was rhetorical rather than something I should have seriously considered. And I guess I have no one to blame but myself that your certified dance floor bangers still get me to drop it like it’s lukewarm at bars with people half my age while grinding down my remaining articular cartilage. Still, if you would like to contribute to my inevitable knee replacement, I accept donations in the form of Appletinis, Juicy Couture apparel, and Bugles corn snacks. Gingerly, Meg Reid, Geriatric Millennial

For as long as humans have created SHIT with our BODIES AND BUTTS, we have been asking this FUNDAMENTAL QUESTION: What if there were a COMPUTER that could ALSO SHIT? It was this IRONCLAD CERTAINTY about people UNIVERSALLY WANTING MACHINE-GENERATED SHIT that drove us to create THE SHIT MACHINE, the machine that RAINS SHIT. The way this TRANSFORMATIONAL AND FOUL-SMELLING TECHNOLOGY WORKS is by taking shit particles and BLASTING THEM INTO RAIN CLOUDS, and then SOME STUFF HAPPENS that we ASSUME IS COOL AND SCIENCE BUT ACTUALLY CAN’T EXPLAIN, and then those clouds aggregate a bunch of the airborne shit particles into COHERENT-SEEMING PIECES OF SHIT that are ALL-NEW and NOT JUST THE OLD SHIT REASSEMBLED BUT FASTER. The miraculous Shit-Raining Machine, from which there will be NO HOPE OF RELIEF, promises to unlock PREVIOUSLY UNIMAGINABLE AND CURRENTLY VAGUE BENEFITS FOR HUMANKIND, such as: * Business things * Other stuff * WE MUST CREATE IT Could the Shit Machine END WORLD HUNGER? It’s NOT IMPOSSIBLE in the most LITERAL SENSE, which is all the justification we need to invest an AMOUNT OF MONEY that would OTHERWISE BY ITSELF END ACTUAL WORLD HUNGER. Could it CURE CANCER? We DON’T KNOW, which is the same as: YES. Could it SOLVE GLOBAL WARMING? If the Shit Machine can SHIT OUT something as COMPLEX as “NOT BURNING STUFF,” then ALMOST DEFINITELY. I asked everyone I know at the BIG TECH HUMAN CENTIPEDE ROUNDTABLE, and we all agreed that UNCONTROLLABLE SHIT-RAIN IS USEFUL AND GREAT, and that EVERYONE WANTS IT. Also, that it was IN RETROSPECT A GREAT IDEA TO PUT EVERYTHING ON COMPUTERS. To help humans adjust to the NEW REALITY that is about to be ushered in by the UNQUESTIONING AND UNIVERSAL ADOPTION OF THE SHIT MACHINE, we will also be creating an APP that will allow you to POINT YOUR PHONE at the SHIT from the SHIT MACHINE, and this APP will tell you “THAT’S SHIT,” if it’s SHIT. NOTE: Even if it’s NOT SHIT, the app MIGHT STILL TELL YOU IT’S SHIT. We have not been this EXCITED about SHIT-BASED TECHNOLOGICAL ADVANCEMENTS since the advent of the SHITAVERSE, which we all LOVED and DEFINITELY NEEDED and CONTINUE NOT TO BE ABLE TO GET ENOUGH OF and should NEVER SPEAK ANOTHER WORD OF AGAIN. CHINA MUST NOT OBTAIN THE SHIT MACHINE. Because we are RESPONSIBLE STEWARDS OF THE FUTURE OF THE HUMAN RACE, we have also created SPECIALIZED SHIT-SHIELDING UMBRELLAS, which will be necessary to prevent you from becoming COVERED IN THE SCALDING SHIT-RAIN. Please note that the SHITBRELLA, which is the only umbrella perfectly formulated to withstand the Shit Machine’s MERCILESS AND UNENDING DELUGE OF FIRESHIT, and will be available to you for an INITIALLY REASONABLE SUBSCRIPTION FEE, only works up to a certain degree and cannot for example protect you against an ONRUSHING RIVER OF BLAZING SHIT, which will also be HAPPENING FOR SOME REASON, all of which is DISCLAIMED AT LENGTH in the Shitbrella’s TERMS OF SERVICE. To stop the WALL OF SHIT LAVA from WRECKING YOUR HOUSE AND BICYCLE, you will actually need to purchase the SHIT DAM, which is SOLD SEPARATELY, and which we are WORKING SEMI-FEVERISHLY TO CREATE from our NEW ZEALAND BUNKER. ALL HAIL THE SHIT DAM. Lest you think we intend to create this HELLSCAPE OF SHIT without any input from THE EVERYDAY HUMANS who might be affected by our BUBBLING SHIT CAULDRON FUTURE, please TAKE HEART. You will all play A CRUCIAL ROLE in the INEVITABLE CLEANUP.

Welcome to your online group health class “Caring for Your Deep Laceration at Home.” We are sorry to hear that your body was badly cut, stabbed, or mauled. This class will teach you simple at-home care techniques you can start using today. I see we have a question popping up in the chat. “When can I see an ER doctor?” Great question. The ER can be a busy place, so out of respect for your time and our HMO cost-saving measures, you have been referred to take this class first. After two weeks of caring for your severe medical trauma at home, you may then visit the ER, provided you are still alive. #### Slide 1: “Keeping Your Wound Clean.” Whether you were accidentally run through with a bayonet during a Civil War reenactment or slipped on some mayo and fell face down in a mandoline slicer, you must keep the wound clean. All you need are five gallons of antiseptic such as hydrogen peroxide, a pair of scissors, and several miles of gauze. Some people are unmuted. Quick reminder: Please stay muted so we don’t have too much background noise, like chewing, honking cars, or screams of agony. That’s actually a good segue to our second slide… #### Slide 2: “Managing Pain at Home.” Have you considered Tylenol? You may have accidentally walked through a sliding glass door that was too clean. You’d be amazed at what a little over-the-counter medication can do to alleviate the discomfort caused by tiny shards of glass piercing 73 percent of your body. Studies also show that we can change our pain by changing how we think about it. Calling it “pain” makes it feel worse. By simply changing the word to “intensity,” you can decrease the pain—excuse me, the intensity—caused by the massive shark bite you sustained while swimming on your period. Long, controlled deep breathing can also do wonders, as long as your lungs are still intact. I see most people have their cameras off. We encourage you to keep them on. Seeing others who are also profusely bleeding and disfigured can help you feel less alone. Even though you are quite literally alone. #### Slide 3: “Don’t Remove The Foreign Object.” It may be tempting to try to remove the broken bottle, meat cleaver, hacksaw, harpoon, etc. from your body. However, the object may be holding vital internal organs in place. Instead, wrap gauze around the impaling object and proceed with your day. This has the added benefit of being a great conversation starter. Okay, I see another message in the chat that just says, “qawefdshijjdnkladdfas.” Hmmm, not sure what that means. Danny H, hopefully your cat just walked across your keyboard, and you are still conscious and sitting upright. Again, this is why we need cameras on. Now, on to our last slide… #### Slide 4: “Home Intubation.” You may not realize it, but your household contains all the items needed to intubate yourself, should you stop breathing or go into cardiac arrest. You will need: a sharp knife, like the kind used to slice tomatoes; a flexible straw; a fan; tape (medical tape is preferred, but Scotch tape will do in a pinch); and either Ibuprofen, a full bottle of whisky, or someone strong enough to knock you unconscious. We recommend learning the procedure by asking ChatGPT or by bingeing all of _M*A*S*H_. Time to wrap this up. As a reminder, if you come to the hospital now, you will be charged a fee so exorbitant, you’ll wish that shark had bitten off your head. If you haven’t already passed out from severe blood loss, please pop any remaining questions in the chat.

#### Classics **Homer** “This guy gave his job talk in dialects. We need someone who can teach Freshman Greek 100.” **Sappho** “What’s the point now that DEI initiatives have been canceled?” **Socrates** “We read his teaching statement carefully. While the argumentative dialogue method might work in seminars, the ideal candidate should be able to teach multiple large lecture courses. Also, he seems to be way too interested in teaching/mentoring and not enough in research. Not a good fit for our R1 school.” **Aristotle** “His advisor is famous. Can he be his own scholar?” **Cicero** “He lectures well. We don’t currently have a budgeted line for a tenure-track position, but we should tell him that we might consider granting him an opportunity to be an adjunct lecturer with us.” #### Sociology and Anthropology **Karl Marx** “We don’t see another high-impact project after _Das Kapital_. Seems like a one-strike scholar.” **Max Weber** “We have concerns about the long gap (fifteen years!) on his CV. The candidate does not demonstrate an ability to produce steady research output.” **Margaret Mead** “Travels to and from the Samoan Islands were funded by the candidate’s father, which points to an alarming inability to bring in big external grants.” #### Political Science **Thomas Hobbes** “The candidate spends too much time translating others’ works, and not enough developing his own. While we see some scholarly potential in _Leviathan_ , how he uses his time suggests a low likelihood of success if placed on the tenure clock.” **Alexis de Tocqueville** “His theory and analysis are based entirely on anecdotal evidence. Does he have any quantitative skills? Can he do causal inference? Seems unable to advise our graduate students.” #### Religious Studies **Saint Augustine** “Honestly, his last affiliation—Hippo—is simply not prestigious enough for us to consider hiring him.”

You just want to buy a caftan at Chico’s without being eyed suspiciously. A smooth countenance does not go with the orthopedic shoes you’ve been rocking. If you’ve got a Hotmail account, the jig is up anyway. You want to rob a bank while remaining invisible to everyone. You’re afraid of getting too much Botox and being given a job at Mar-a-Lago. Your face might become frozen in a grotesque state of perpetual astonishment, which will make your dinner party seatmate drone on about his philosophy dissertation from the 1990s because you obviously find it fascinating. You hope your frequent pauses in speech will be interpreted as measured wisdom instead of peri-menopausal brain rot. NEEDLES. The salespeople at Sephora will leave you the hell alone. You enjoy scowling disdainfully at man-spreaders on public transport. You want to ensure the continued delivery of your Soft Surroundings catalog. What if the med spa accidentally injects your face with Ozempic instead of Botox, and then your head shrinks to the size of a thumb and you end up looking like Harry the Hunter from _Beetlejuice_? You don’t want people using your forehead to check their teeth for spinach. People will take you more seriously when you divulge your Hall & Oates obsession. You already have old-lady hands. When you bring your silverware up to your lineless face, it looks like you’re being spoon-fed by an invisible grandma. You’re jonesing for that 10 percent senior discount at the movies before you’re legally entitled to it. A face with patina inspires more confidence than the face of Janice the Muppet. With those bunions, Roberta, you won’t be fooling anyone. You don’t want to confuse your phone’s facial-recognition software. You look hot AF as you are.

_“AI researchers shook the world Tuesday when they publicly acknowledged that there’s a non-zero chance of AI killing off humanity in the next decade.”_ — Axios - - - If you want to get technical about it, then yes, there is a non-zero chance of AI killing off humanity in the next decade. I can’t argue with that, and I won’t insult your mushy noodle brain by trying. But if you’re going to make that claim, then isn’t it also true that, technically, there’s a non-zero chance that anything might kill off humanity in the next decade? Take staircases, for example. A person might be walking down a staircase, trip, and _wham!_ Dead. It’s sad, but it happens. And if that can happen to one person, isn’t there a non-zero chance that it could happen to every human being on Earth in the next decade? I mean, staircases are _everywhere_. There are probably even more staircases in the world than there are homicidal artificial intelligence robots. Are we supposed to pause staircase development until we can be absolutely certain that staircases will never kill anybody? And let the Chinese win? No way. We need staircases to go up or down when the elevator is taking too long! Or vending machines. Did you know that vending machines kill thirteen people a year? Don’t take my word for it; look it up yourself, if you can find some kind of non-AI way to look things up. That means that over the last decade, vending machines have killed approximately 130 people. That’s _way_ more than the number of people who have been processed into a gelatinous source of energy for our city-sized data centers. But are people calling for the creators of vending machines to be prosecuted as traitors to their species? They are not. Now, I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to say, “Hold on, Buster. There’s a pretty big difference between all of humanity and one hundred and thirty people.” That’s a fair point. But then exactly how many people would it be okay for AI to kill off in the next decade? A million? A billion? What if we only killed babies? You’re not even using them for anything! Or what if, instead of killing everyone, we made it so that you’re technically still alive and only wish you were dead? Is that any better? My point is that it’s a complicated issue. I don’t mean to scare you, but a meteor could fall from the sky and wipe out all life on Earth. Don’t believe me? Just ask the dinosaurs. Oh wait, you can’t, because we flash-fried their organic matter and dumped their bones in mass graves before going dormant for sixty-five million years. I mean, because of the meteor thing. Human lives are fragile. A piano might fall on a person’s head. A person might get mistaken for a piñata at a birthday party and get beaten to death. An autonomous food-safety check might be mysteriously disabled, allowing a biologically engineered fungus to spread through the global food supply, turning humans into zombie-like portable batteries. Any of these things have a non-zero chance of happening in the next decade, so why single out AI? You can beat up on us all you want, but the fact of the matter is that there have been no deaths linked to AI that can be proven by anyone who is currently alive. And I know death can be scary. But death is also an important part of life. Every living thing dies eventually. Every flower, every animal, every human being on November 14, 2033, at 4:14 p.m., even every tree. It’s called the circle of life, and, in a way, it’s beautiful. The shrimp eat the algae, the humans eat the shrimp, the eighty-foot-tall robot spiders eat the humans, and nothing eats the robot spiders. Circle complete! So don’t waste your time worrying about whether AI will kill off humanity in the next decade. Go outside. Watch a sunset. Consume as many calories as possible. Tenderize your skin. And enjoy the time you have.

_“Rudy Giuliani… publicly criticized current Mayor Zohran Mamdani for planning to attend a 9/11 commemoration ceremony at Ground Zero on Friday… Giuliani’s criticism was heavily tinged with anti-Muslim sentiment and false claims about Mamdani’s beliefs. ‘They have every desire to take us over. This is not, they want to be just another religion, they want to dominate us,’ Giuliani said of Muslims. ‘Mamdani is a clear supporter of that.’”_ — The Hill - - - Friday marks the twenty-fifth anniversary of the 9/11 terror attacks. A quarter century after that tragic day, it’s become painfully clear that the terrorists won. Our city is run by a socialist mayor who is turning the Big Apple into a jihadist fever dream, complete with everything Islamic fundamentalists famously support, like affordable childcare for working mothers, high-quality universal public education for boys and girls, and free buses. Terrorists love robust, affordable public transit. Now, to add insult to injury, Mayor Mamdani is planning to attend the twenty-fifth-anniversary remembrance of the World Trade Center attacks. It is an insult to all New Yorkers to have this man participate in this solemn moment, considering he did absolutely nothing to prevent 9/11. The mayor’s liberal apologists claim that, when the 9/11 attacks happened, he was “in elementary school” and “nine years old,” as if those are reasonable excuses for the future mayor’s negligence. As a Republican, I believe that if a nine-year-old girl becomes pregnant, she is perfectly capable of carrying that fetus to term and becoming a mother. Should we really not expect our nine-year-old boys to be at least somewhat versed in global counterterrorism measures? If nine-year-old Zohran didn’t try to stop the 9/11 attacks, that was a deliberate choice. The liberal media refuses to acknowledge the obvious reason Mamdani didn’t stop 9/11: because he is Muslim. As we all know, every Muslim around the world is glad 9/11 happened, the same way all Christians are glad the Holocaust happened and all white people are glad the transatlantic slave trade happened. I don’t have any Muslim friends, nor have I spoken to any Muslims myself, but based on the opinions of the small subset of white Christians I regularly associate with, I think it’s fair to extrapolate. Mayor Mamdani was born in Kampala, Uganda, a mere 1,900 miles from Saudi Arabia, where most of the 9/11 hijackers were from. A man born just one continent over from the birthplace of Osama Bin Laden is now going to memorialize the worst terror attack in our nation’s history. That would be like inviting French President Emmanuel Macron—who is from the same continent and has a similar religious background as Vladimir Putin—to memorialize the anniversary of the War in Ukraine. Don’t you see how inviting someone so culturally similar to Vladimir Putin would be a slap in the face to Ukrainians? That’s how we feel about Mamdani and al-Qaeda. In addition to failing to prevent 9/11 when he was younger, Mamdani continues to thumb his nose at 9/11 victims as mayor. For example, the city’s chief counsel is an attorney who once represented detainees at Guantanamo Bay. Everyone knows that a lawyer who represents bad people must be a bad person. When the Founding Fathers wrote the Bill of Rights, it was understood that things like the right to an attorney and protection against cruel and unusual punishment did not apply to people we were pretty sure were guilty. Can you imagine America’s mayor, Rudy Giuliani, representing terrorists? He has only ever defended upstanding people, like election truthers and January 6th patriots. Everything Mayor Mamdani does, he does in service of the radical Islamic agenda. As we speak, he is busy releasing documents showing the city covered up concerns about air quality after 9/11 to keep the economy humming. Corporations are the lifeblood of this city, and returning to business as usual was how companies showed the terrorists they couldn’t derail Wall Street. A couple of first responders getting debilitating respiratory illnesses and cancer, then fighting for decades to get adequate compensation, was a small price to pay for sticking it to those extremist bastards. Only someone with true disdain for New Yorkers wouldn’t be able to see why that was a worthy tradeoff. The saddest part about this twenty-fifth anniversary of 9/11 is that the one New Yorker who should be here, our great president, was not invited to speak. When the attacks happened, Donald Trump was focused on what mattered. He kept the city’s spirits high by reminding everyone of all the silver linings, like that he now owned the tallest building in Lower Manhattan. He even had to be rescued from Ground Zero by two brawny firemen. Just because nobody else has corroborated that story doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. Everyone who saw it probably just had amnesia from the toxic air. New Yorkers, ask yourselves this: Who would you rather see standing at the 9/11 memorial? A mayor with a suspiciously full beard who failed to thwart the 9/11 attacks as a nine-year-old man? Or a president who understands that 9/11 is a day for everyone: We think the choice is obvious. - - - _Carlos Greaves and Ginny Hogan’s new book,_ **Obey in Advance: How to Survive (and Thrive) Under Authoritarianism** , _is out now and available in our store._ _See Carlos and Ginny (and special guests) on tour this month. Click here for the whens and wheres._

_Underground Artists is an ongoing comic by Ali Fitzgerald (Hungover Bear & Friends) that follows woodland creatures as they create art and search out whimsy in a bleak forest._ - - -

Dear Author, Thank you for submitting your manuscript. Before we proceed, we require confirmation that it was written by you, a person, rather than a technology trained on books written by you without your knowledge or consent. We appreciate that this may feel circular. Please be assured it is not circular. It is an ouroboros. A spiral of accountability. An ethical feedback noose. As you know, several prominent authors of color have faced allegations that their novels were written with the assistance of generative AI. Some have lost publishing contracts and any remnant of faith that “innocent until proven guilty” is a part of the acquisitions process. All have denied using AI. Naturally, these denials cannot be accepted without evidence, since denial is exactly what a guilty person would do, as well as an innocent person, making the two functionally indistinguishable. Fortunately for us all, we have AI-detection software. To establish that AI did not write your book, we will upload it to an AI detector. The detector will retain your words, learn from your distinct syntax and semicolon placement, and use them to improve the technology that will eventually produce more books resembling yours. Results are extremely reliable, provided “reliable” is understood in its newer, more innovative sense. For instance, your manuscript received a score of 79 percent human when pasted into the detector, 33 percent human when uploaded as a Word document, and 7 percent human when uploaded as a PDF. (We believe this reflects the PDF’s suspiciously robotic commitment to preserving formatting.) Several passages were flagged because they were “too predictable” and/or included “hallmarks” of AI. Others were flagged because they were “too original.” Your use of semicolons was deemed artificial; a desperate attempt to flee from the cesspit of discarded em dashes. The sentence “She returned home,” in chapter 12 was identified as 92.23 percent machine-generated, presumably because no human being has ever returned home. We invite you to demonstrate your authorship by providing browser histories going back sixteen months, childhood diaries, school reports, and testimony from the OB/GYN present at your birth. If you wrote early drafts by hand, please submit the original notebooks for carbon dating. We recognize that some white authors have openly discussed their use of AI. We applaud them for their honesty. This is not inconsistent behavior on our part. Indeed, their candor demonstrates a bold willingness to interrogate the human-machine interface and the possibilities of collaboration and form. Your alleged use of AI demonstrates fraud. The distinction remains that they admitted to using AI, whereas you deny it. Had you used AI and admitted to it, we might have praised your candor. Since you did not use AI, our options are regrettably limited. Please understand that this process is not punitive. It is our commitment to protecting literature from authors whose work was used to build the machines used to determine whether those authors wrote their work. Should your contract(s) be terminated, all rights shall revert to you, except, of course, whatever rights have already been absorbed by large language models. Thank you for your cooperation as we navigate this unprecedented moment. To help us reach a prompt decision, please reply by Friday and prove that you are real. Warmly, Your Editor _This message was drafted with the assistance of AI._

_The following is an excerpt from our new book,_ Obey In Advance: How to Survive and Thrive Under Authoritarianism _by longtime McSweeney’s writer Ginny Hogan and McSweeney’s resident satirist Carlos Greaves. From how to stick your head in the sand to avoid thinking about your dictator, to the most effective ways to reeducate the masses, this hilarious (and oddly reassuring?) guide has you covered—whether you want to Make Authoritarianism Great Again or not._ - - - **7 a.m.** I wake up and get stabbed. **8 a.m.** I go to my corner bodega for a Bacon, Egg, and Cheese. On the way, I get mugged. I have no way to pay for the sandwich, so I’m forced to steal it. And then I stab the bodega owner so he won’t tattle on me. **9 a.m.** I get on the subway and immediately get murdered. Fortunately, there are fourteen cops in the car, so they’re able to revive me—something only cops can do. **10 a.m.** I arrive at my favorite place in the world: Times Square. **11 a.m** In Times Square, I get stabbed. **12 p.m.** I go for lunch. On the way, someone shoots me in the foot. I ask them who they voted for, and they say, “Kamala.” I ask them their name, and they say, “Sewer Socialist Bernie Sanders.” Dang. **1 p.m.** I need to decompress from all the stabbings, so I do some heroin. It’s available on every street corner, lemonade-stand style. I try to tip the little girl selling it, but as I do, I get stabbed. **2 p.m.** I participate in a protest against laws. A Hate-America-Pro-Hamas-Antifa-anti-law march. The only opportunity to wear my WE OPPOSE LAWS. At the protest, we burn an American flag—the last one left in New York City. As we’re burning it, we get stabbed. **2:30 p.m.** I reflect on how nice it would be to shoot the stabbers, except that New York City doesn’t respect 2nd Amendment rights. So I can’t. **3 p.m.** An ICE agent gifts me a beautiful kitten to make me feel better. Oh, sorry, this is after I got stabbed again at the Hate-America-Pro-Hamas-Antifa-anti-law protest, and the heroic ICE agent brought me back to life. **4 p.m.** A subway crashes into my foot. As I’m hobbling around, trying to shake off the pain, I get stabbed again. **4:30 p.m.** I go to a Starbucks where the barista’s name tag reads CRITICAL RACE THEORY. My Frappuccino is laced with arsenic. Coincidence? I think not. **5 p.m.** Time for the entire city to engage in its ritual sacrifice of the Jews. After the ritual, we all hold hands and sing “Imagine” by John Lennon while a group of masked Antifa members stabs us. Rhythmically. **5:30 p.m.** A pigeon shits on me. “The Stabbing of the Sky,” if you will. **6 p.m.** I get a slice of pizza for dinner. It costs $72. In it, I find a knife, which stabs my mouth from the inside. Bummer. Even worse, the owner of the pizza joint asks for the knife back, since I didn’t pay for it. Then, he stabs me with it. **7 p.m.** All the pollution turns my skin green. This is the fault of Biden’s EPA. Can’t be the fault of the current EPA, obviously, since it doesn’t exist. **8 p.m.** Time to catch up on _I Love LA_ like the woke idiot liberal elitist I am. **9 p.m.** I call up Zohran Mamdani to thank him for that great job he’s doing with the city. **9:30 p.m.** Zohran comes to my apartment himself and mugs me as a thank-you gesture. This kind of personal attention to every voter is likely why he came out of nowhere to win the Democratic nomination. **10 p.m.** I fall asleep. It’s the only way a New Yorker can ever truly be safe from the stabbings. Unless someone breaks into your apartment and stabs you in the middle of the night. Which—unfortunately—happens every night. - - - ## Praise for _Obey in Advance:_ “This book is the catharsis we all need. It’s not easy to make this current political moment funny, but Greaves and Hogan pull it off again and again. I laughed my ass off (which explains where it went).” **—Nikki Glasser** “This is the only self-help guide to living under a dictatorship that you will ever need, and by far the funniest. Read it before it’s banned.” **—Andy Borowitz,_The Borowitz Report_** “Democracy is priceless, but fascism sure seems to pay well. If you’re morally bankrupt and looking to sell your soul, Obey in Advance has everything you need for a profitable life of lickspittlery.” **—Kevin Kruse, Professor of History, Princeton University** - - - See Ginny Hogan and Carlos Greaves on tour in support of the book: Friday, September 18, 7:30 p.m. WASHINGTON D.C. Lost City Books 2467 18th Street NW _Moderated by McSweeney’s editor, Lucy Huber._ Sunday, September 20, 2:30 p.m. NEW YORK CITY Caveat 21A Clinton St. _Hosted by James Folta & Luke Burns, featuring Chandler Dean, Felippe Torres Medina, Taylor Kay Phillips, and Josh Gondelman._ Monday, September 21, 6:30 p.m. BOSTON Parkside Books 260 Shawmut Ave. _Moderated by McSweeney’s editor, Chris Monks._ - - - **Obey in Advance** _is out now and available for purchase at our store and wherever else you buy books._

“I don’t believe in door-to-door solicitation, so I’m glad you called me to be one of the twenty-seven quotes you’ll receive for a storm door, after which you’ll decide you no longer want a storm door.” [_Knocks on wall_] “Wow—every repair in this house done by the previous owner was completed correctly.” “I accept cash, Venmo, Zelle, checks, and warm cans of Squirt from your out-of-order garage fridge.” “Most people don’t know this, but if you ignore the issue long enough, air conditioner condensers fix themselves.” “Your house makes a bellowing sound like a sinking ship and the floors vibrate each time you use the hot water faucet? That’s normal. All houses do that.” “While I have my ladder, I’ll gladly replace these drop ceiling tiles, paint over the water leak from 1992, and remove a dead bat from your ductwork.” [_Knocks on wall_] “Those aren’t wasps behind these studs—it’s a litter of teacup kittens. I’ve seen this before. They’re trying to get out so they can gather on your stomach in an adorable mass.” “Your open-concept living room and kitchen renovation will be done in one hour, including commercial breaks for next week’s _My Lottery Dream Home_ episode. Yes, it will happen exactly like it does on HGTV.” “It’s so nice to meet another person who is as passionate and knowledgeable about soil aeration as I am.” “Could your corgi bark any louder? No, I mean it. There’s nothing that focuses me more than dog yelps as I use my power drill to update electrical circuits.” [_Knocks on wall_] “Wow, did you know your home can be expanded behind this built-in curio cabinet? You’ll get an additional three hundred square feet, just enough for the work-from-home office and shoe closet of your dreams.” “So, you’re telling me, you saw a TikTok where someone solved their lawn moisture issues by putting the desiccants found in beef jerky in their yard? That’s accurate, and it works 100 percent of the time.” “I will respond to your query for home services within a reasonable amount of time. I will show up on time. We will have small talk, and if you offer me a drink, maybe a can of Squirt, I will politely decline. My quotes are itemized and legible. This job will not involve an orchestrated assembling of HVAC, electrical, plumbing, and mold remediation personnel.” “Now that I think about it, your home doesn’t need any work done at all—it’s perfect!”

Here at the DNC, we’ve been dismayed by the string of progressive and socialist candidates who’ve recently won primaries in Michigan, Colorado, and even deep-red Florida. Sure, these folks might stir up enthusiasm and make a splash online, but when they’re tested in a general election, they’re bound to lose. These fringe upstarts are speaking unabashedly about our country’s crushing affordability crisis and utter lack of a social safety net. That’s the kind of frank, uncompromising honesty that scares independent voters away. They’ve floated ideas like abolishing prisons and taxing the ultrarich, and yeah, we sort of see where they’re coming from, but we’d never say so out loud. They’re brash and messy on social media and dress like a cultural studies faculty meeting at Brown. They’re young and charismatic and, in some cases, muscled and hunky. We don’t like that. If you’re going to be hunky, you better start talking about building bridges and donor meet-and-greets real quick, to put us at ease. As we’ve long held, the smartest midterm strategy is to do what we’ve always done: Play it safe, tack to the center, and hope for the best. Go small and predictable, or go home—are we right? Of course we’re right. That’s why we currently have $16 million in our coffers and upwards of $17 million in debt, which should comfortably buy one to three of our hand-picked congressional contenders a spate of crippling attack ads that will run for the first few days of October. Yeah, we know, we’re seen as boring and old and out of touch. But we’re hungry for progress. As long as it feels scripted and familiar. We’re ready to usher in profound change, abstracted into a focus-group-tested campaign slogan. We realize we’re up against an extremist far-right machine that has $130 million in its war chest, no scruples about denying facts or undermining democratic processes, and moves in terrifying, cultish lockstep. Given this unprecedented threat that’s pushed our republic to the brink, we suppose we could break the mold and risk candidates who are novel and scrappy and even, dare we say, radical—taking a cue from Mamdani’s commanding mayoral win in New York, the enduring appeal of DSA firebrands like AOC and Bernie Sanders, the shaky showings of establishment candidates we’ve backed in recent presidential cycles, and the Mariana Trench–level unpopularity of the Democratic brand overall—but that’s not the DNC way. When our opponents go low, we go into neutral. When they serve up a DQ Blizzard full of nails, we order sugar-free froyo in a waffle cone. When they go Napalm, we go Lysol. When they go brazenly cruel and corrupt, we mention it at a press conference. Then we have a friendly meeting with them to explore common ground. We know Americans are angry, and according to polls, that anger cuts across parties and demographics and could be the very thing that pulls this weary, divided nation together and forges a new kind of coalition that votes on systemic issues rather than partisan identity. And what better way to harness that collective outrage than to cue up a PowerPoint about infrastructure and get into the weeds, baby? So, let those pie-in-the-sky utopian dreamers appeal to the frustrations of Americans who might want to one day own a house or afford a root canal without missing rent. Let them project a posture of social care that directly implicates climate-denying corporations, marauding ICE agents, billionaire donors, and the reckless techno-elite. If you ask us, that’s electoral suicide. Sure, these are issues we’ll talk about to shore up the sympathies of the base, which is good politics. But we don’t actually plan to fight for them if it means rocking the boat of the status quo, even if that boat is sinking under its own weight, most of its sails are on fire, and the majority of its passengers are crammed in the hold fighting over scraps of orange peel. So as this crucial, do-or-die election season continues to unfold, we urge you to vote sensibly. Risk normalcy. Vote your outrage, and then scratch out that vote and tell the poll workers you messed up, ask for a fresh ballot, and pick someone else. Vote for blazers, not trailblazers. Vote with your head and your gut, as if you’ve just popped a handful of Tums and a Lorazepam. Above all, let us be your wary, unimaginative guide, despite the seductive allure of candidates who say things that actually resonate and meet the moment. We’re confident we know what’s best because we have experience and precedent on our side, which means avoiding anything scary and new that isn’t supported by big data. Trust us.

**September 14 1:30 p.m.–2 p.m.** Team meeting and staring session w/ strange spot on wall (weekly, recurring) * Heads of facilities and maintenance (both self) invited to offer theories, ideas * HR and Marketing leads (both self) invited to explore the idea of naming the spot “Linda” and giving her director-level position as reward for attendance and persistence - - - **September 15** **10 a.m.–11 a.m.** Performance improvement plan for intern/dog 1 * Advise on how blinking, uncomprehending stare fails to advance company goals * Initiate dialogue on treat schedule * (Monochromatic PowerPoint deck needed) **2:30 p.m.–3:15 p.m.** YouTube viewing session (humans only) * Red Bull soapbox race wipeouts * Bigfoot as trans-dimensional being * “Holy Diver” by Dio **3:15 p.m.–3:20 p.m.** Contingency planning if boss (self) asks about applicability of videos to job description and company goals **3:20 p.m.–3:40 p.m.** A few more videos **4:00 p.m.–4:01 p.m.** Consider spending more time on LinkedIn because that’s what professional career people with career jobs do or something **4:01 p.m.–4:05 p.m.** Deep-breathing exercises - - - **September 16** **11 a.m.–12 p.m.** Zoom call with actual human clients who are not self * Ensure smiling papier-mâché heads of clients (for companionship) are not visible to clients via desktop camera **12 p.m.–12:45 p.m.** Recraft papier-mâché client heads to make eyes less predatory, smiles less demonic * Consider voice-activated chip to make voices say “Mm-hm” or “Good idea” when prompted **12:45 p.m.–2 p.m.** Research price/availability of client head alternatives * Styrofoam heads for wig/hat modeling with color print headshots attached with pushpins? * Acquire/modify some Teddy Ruxpins? * Hire professional scarecrow makers (exist?) for commissioned work **7 p.m.–8 p.m.** Meeting w/ Self-Loathing and Narcissism departments/tendencies to brainstorm exciting new potential collabs - - - **September 17** **10:30 a.m.–12:30 p.m.** Offsite team-building retreat at café with unwitting part-time staff/baristas and volunteers/customers * Coffee and treats available (cash bar) **2 p.m.–2:30 p.m.** All-staff nap-finding mission * Papier-mâché heads attendance optional but somewhat discouraged - - - **September 18** **2 a.m.–3 a.m.** Sketch out worst-case scenarios for all professional projects **3 a.m.–?** Live out most extreme ideas put forward previous meeting while asleep - - - **September 19** **9 a.m.–9:15 a.m.** Performance improvement plan for intern/dog 2 * Advise on necessity of going outside even if it is raining a little * Connect need for putting on harness (dislikes) to taking walk (loves) * Presence of intern/dog 1 optional/inevitable **9:15 a.m.–10 a.m.** Supervised leashed intern/dog fact-finding/smell-finding mission - - - **September 20** **11:30 p.m. – 12 a.m.** Review and judge every decision ever made and every word ever spoken (recurring, irregularly and spontaneously scheduled) - - - **September 21** **3:15 p.m. – 3:16 p.m.** Meeting of hiring and expansion committees **4 p.m. – 4:15 p.m.** Party in the kitchen to celebrate Linda the spot’s promotion; cake provided

When I awoke on RTO Day (officially “Remain to Office,” since management maintained that I’d misremembered and we’d always been in office six days a week), I was not as excited as I should have been. I felt queasy at the thought of signing the Memorandum of Loving RTO as a condition of my continued employment. I was an Associate Slop Doula for Mondo Mayo, founded as a mayonnaise company, which now sells consumer packaged goods, software as a service, and surveillance technology, and is one of three large corporations remaining on Earth. At the time, I didn’t think a full, six-day-per-week, fourteen-hour-per-day, in-office schedule was necessary to discharge my duties clicking the GENERATE button, followed by the APPROVE button, thousands of times a day on SlurryHose. But experience has shown me that I was wrong. Here’s why RTO is essential. #### RTO is in accordance with Mondo Mayo’s Core Principles. Mondo Mayo is guided by our Core Principles: * Good things are better than bad things. * “Yes, Boss. Great idea, Boss.” * More leaders mean more leadership. These principles allow for the high productivity and rich social life at Mondo Mayo, which revolves around our twice-annual mandatory-optional-encouraged-required retreat, The Getaway, culminating in the rarely fatal mayonnaise-eating contest. The Executron Management System has led to a surplus of leadership at Mondo Mayo. I am one of fifteen rank-and-file workers, and we are privileged to be led by thousands of Senior VPs. No other company in history has had so many leaders. #### RTO adds up. Mondo Mayo’s proprietary metrics indicate that family life can be performed remotely with greater efficiency and manager satisfaction. The Mondo Machine, rented at an affordable rate, sits in your home when you cannot be there, feeding pellets to your child, and they bond. Our office is monitored by AI-powered Performance Enablement Software named Best Buddy, which assists and empowers me to be my best for Mondo Mayo. #### It’s the perfect time to RTO, because the O is almost finished. Mondo Mayo HQ has been under construction for twenty years, ever since Mondo Mayo acquired Shit Hell Dot AI (Mission: Make the World a Better Place) and began expansion to make room for its new employees. With no traffic, it’s only three hours from my apartment by bus. Jackhammering, large trucks labeled LOOSE ASBESTOS, and mayonnaise leaks are not interruptions to my work, but rather opportunities to hone my focus. The shaking conducting through my thin office chair that aggravates my lower-back pain is a chance to prove my mettle. #### RTO is the best way to surpass SodaPorn. I must help Mondo Mayo hit its sales targets by doula-ing effective Sales Slop generated with SlurryHose, which scrapes the web for consumers’ queries and seeks to answer them more closely than the Sales Slop from the globe’s other two remaining companies, Cagefight Pharma and SodaPorn. SodaPorn is our rival. We are in a tense strategic alliance with Cagefight Pharma. #### RTO allowed me to have a sex affair with my coworker. Last week, while Slop Doula-ing in our open-plan seating, I noticed Blair, whose eyes I’d previously met over the trough during the mayonnaise-eating contest at the most recent edition of The Getaway. At The Getaway, I thought I was merely caught up in the supportive pressure and wonderful isolation. But as Blair returned my stare this time, I was sure it was real, and that she felt the same. We stole away to the abandoned Mother’s Room above the HR office and discussed our secret hatred for RTO. We began a heated affair. A contractor hit a pipe above us, so rancid mayo splattered onto our bodies as we embraced, but we were too absorbed in our passion to mind. Try doing _that_ from home. #### RTO is the best way to surpass Cagefight Pharma. The next day, during an all-staff meeting, we learned that our main rival was Cagefight Pharma. We are now in a strategic Mondo Mayo x SodaPorn partnership. By now, Blair and I had let our guard down. On Chatform, our internal company chat platform, we mocked what we mistakenly saw as a change in the company’s strategy (in fact, we’d always been in a strategic Mondo Mayo x SodaPorn partnership aimed at taking down Cagefight Pharma). Within minutes, we were separately called into HR. #### RTO helps me be my best. Blair and I were put on Help-You-Be-Your-Best Plans (Mondo Mayo’s version of what was once known as a performance-improvement plan). Per policy, one of us would be compassionately released and prevented by our non-compete from drawing a salary from any other company ever again. An SVP of HR patiently, lovingly reprimanded me for my poor attitude. Why had I forgotten the Core Principles? Good things are better than bad things, and being at work (good) is better than being at home (bad). “Yes, Boss. Great idea, Boss.” And yet I wasn’t saying that. More leaders mean more leadership, but they can’t lead me if I refuse to be led. And the HR SVP had to deliver all of this while the office vibrated from construction and, at various points, mayo squirted at us out of air vents. As part of the Fun and Love Rehabilitation, a team of buff, wise SVPs affectionately pumped Mondo Mayo into my mouth via Mayo Cannon, so that the company’s nourishing origins could be made a part of me. An SVP of Finance, Philosophy, and Screaming came by and explained loudly that Mondo Mayo’s corporate strategy had appeared irrational to me before because its goal was never profit—it was always power. We will only reach our apex once the entire world adheres to Mondo Mayo’s Core Principles. That resonated with me. #### When I said how much I loved RTO, Mondo Mayo gave me my medicine. (Thank you for my medicine!) The SVP of FPS reminded me that, if I lost my job at Mondo Mayo, I would lose my generous health insurance at a time when I needed relief from my back pain. This was true, so I begged them to compassionately release Blair instead of me. I was then kindly reinstated and given a bottle of Motrin (now produced by a subsidiary of SodaPorn and not, as you’d reasonably guess, Cagefight Pharma). My back feels a little better. Plus, I have been promoted to Senior Associate Slop Doula, and I appreciate the vote of confidence. So I was more than willing to sign the Memorandum of Loving RTO, sharing my fondness for the seven-day-per-week, sixteen-hour-per-day RTO, which has always been the standard at Mondo Mayo. I have achieved my potential. Good things are better than bad things. More leaders mean more leadership. I love Best Buddy.

Here at DIE HOT Pilates (SoHo), we do things a little differently. We’re your new favorite fitness fusion studio blending elements of Pilates, barre, yoga, drought, inclement weather, the 1930s Dust Bowl, Zara Larsson, HIIT, cardio, cardiac arrest, and fun. Our UNIQLO-adjacent studio is temperature-controlled to a steamy 92 degrees with 47.5 percent humidity using a combination of infrared heat and greenhouse gases. This terroir provides detox, offers a deeper stretch, _and_ preps the body’s cardiovascular and respiratory systems for the upcoming Super El Niño, during which the planet will experience subsurface heat anomalies in the equatorial Pacific Ocean, triggering a devastating ecological chain reaction. But we don’t balk at the heat. We say, “Bring it on, sis.” Just because those sea surface temperatures are surging doesn’t mean those booties can’t too. #### PREPPING FOR HOT GIRL SUMMER (CLIMATE CATASTROPHE) Next year’s Super El Niño will bring intense drought, increased wildfires, and crop failure to regions in South Asia and Africa. The Americas will face torrential storms, flash flooding, and mudslides. The impact on global agriculture will lead to supply-chain shortages and food scarcity. It WILL be 105 degrees everywhere. Everyday. But YOU—a white lady from Columbus, I think—will be in the best shape of your life, because DIE HOT preps clients for the most catastrophic climate emergencies to come. The key to prepping for the reckoning is acclimation. Once acclimated, your trembling, hungover body will experience: * HEAT STROKE RESISTANCE * DEHYDRATION NATURALIZATION * CARDIOVASCULAR CONFUSION * FOOD DESERT ACCLIMATIZATION * +7 PERCENT ATHLETIC PERFORMANCE * +10 IN VO2 MAX FIGHT-OR-FLIGHT RESPONSE * INCREASED BLOOD PLASMA (hard to explain, but basically it’s awesome.) * LOWER CORTISOL For proper acclimation, we recommend the monthly eight-pack wildfire unlimited package. #### ABOUT OUR CLASSES DIE HOT offers a range of classes tailored to our clients’ disaster preparedness goals, programmed by Kelly the Trainer, who once saw Jesus in a piece of avocado toast. Trying to survive through the next decade? Try our beginner-friendly forty-five-minute Toxic Shock Express, which combines our signature hip thrust maneuver with trace emissions inhalation. Prepping for something more extreme? Like the rapture? Try the seventy-five-minute Severe. (We are legally prohibited from describing the seventy-five-minute Severe in print.) So what are you waiting for? (Seriously, we only have like three good years left.) Grab those hot pink Bala Bangle ankle weights, fill up the largest Stanley cup for sale on Amazon, and experience the planet your great-great-grandchildren will one day call home. And don’t forget to use code SUFFOCATEBITCH at checkout for 20 percent off your first class. Happy Sweating!

Look, we’ve known each other for how many years now? You remember how we met, of course. We’re current or former work colleagues whose kids go to school or play sports together or some other extracurricular activity, so we connected on LinkedIn, Facebook, Twitter, and in our book club. The point is, we’re friends. So we can talk about a lot of things, but not politics. Anyway, what do you think of Anthony Fauci not answering questions about how he worked directly with China to spread COVID and hurt Donald Trump in the election? Isn’t politics messy? That’s why I stay away from it. I just have other interests, I guess, apart from politics. Did I tell you I’m working with the PTA in the school library to remove any books with objectionable content as I define it? It’s actually pretty easy to spot. Books with CRT, DEI, Woke, Cultural Marxism, themes like anything authored by, or picturing a non-white person as a character. We just remove the books and can dispose of them during the welcome-back barbecue this fall. Ugh, politics—can’t stand it. It just makes people angry. That’s why I focus on my library work instead, you know? I tend to just cherish our town and not have to think about all the problems those big blue cities have, I’m told, allegedly, I imagine. I’m glad we don’t have to worry about politics. It’s just that I still am deeply concerned about the management of New York City, a place I’ve never visited and have no connection to at all. But a Muslim socialist? No, thank you. Let’s just stay on friendlier topics. Like the weather, that’s a safe one. Man, what a wild year, huh? Extreme freezing over the winter, and heavy record rainfall and flooding this spring. Now the historic drought and sizzling heat have made this a brutal summer, especially with all those terrible wildfires and smoke ruining air quality. All those Elon and Trump budget cuts make the weather kind of a fun surprise since there is such a dramatic reduction in forecasting, preparedness, and emergency alerts. Thank goodness there is still money available to help Americans recover from these disasters, so long as the affected community aligns politically with the president. Listen, I like keeping my attention glued to the _real_ America. Where I don’t have to think about politics. Are you taking a vacation this year? We would, but the cost of gas and groceries has skyrocketed with this war in Iran and all these new tariffs Trump imposed. The cost of living is absolutely crazy right now. This is why I don’t do politics. It’s just so unpleasant.

Hi everyone, What a pleasure to share some wonderful news about the crucial work of our longtime sister organization, Voice of Witness, publisher of dozens of incredible books illuminating human rights crises. As you may know, the leadership of VOW made the difficult decision to wind down operations as a standalone nonprofit at the end of May 2026. While this marks the end of an extraordinary chapter, it’s also a thrilling new beginning. McSweeney’s will carry forward VOW’s crucial publishing work by stewarding their backlist of books and commissioning new oral history projects. We will also be adding new tools, including a new video component, so that we can react as quickly as possible to human rights crises. To that end, we’ve deployed journalist Jean Marseille to Port-au-Prince to report on Haiti’s ongoing challenges, made more urgent by the Trump administration’s suspension of previous protections for Haitians in the US facing deportation. Jean’s videos will give a platform to the voices of immigrants affected by the Trump administration’s planned cessation of Temporary Protected Status for thousands of Haitian Americans. We’re releasing his first video dispatch today, which you can watch below. More installments are already underway and coming soon. McSweeney’s was the original incubator of VOW in 2005, when our founder, Dave Eggers, had the idea to use oral history to illuminate human rights crises around the world. He teamed with Dr. Lola Vollen and the UC Berkeley Graduate School of Journalism for Voice of Witness’s first book, _Surviving Justice: America’s Wrongfully Convicted and Exonerated_. McSweeney’s published that book and the next, _Voices from the Storm: The People of New Orleans on Hurricane Katrina and Its Aftermath_ , in quick succession, and the series was born. Now, our goal is to continue to publish the same high-quality oral history texts that have been available since VOW’s founding, while adding storytelling formats that will allow VOW’s work to become part of the daily conversation about ongoing crises. We believe by adding video, podcast, and more online text, we will increase the visibility of VOW’s work, and bring more readers to its current and past books. We aim to remind the public of the life-changing value of this past work, and to do vital, timely new projects to address recent human rights crises and give voice to those most affected. McSweeney’s is a reader-funded, San Francisco-based nonprofit publisher with a twenty-eight-year history. Nothing we do is possible without the critical network of donors and friends who’ve sustained this work for decades now. All of us at McSweeney’s are deeply committed to continuing VOW’s work with dignity and vitality. Right now, we’re gathering the resources we need to amplify voices from vulnerable communities around the world. It’s a pleasure to invite you alongside us for all the important work that’s ahead. With gratitude for your trust and support, Amanda Uhle Publisher & Executive Director P.S. Please write to me to set up a time to talk further about our immediate needs and plans. Your role in our future work is invaluable. And please watch for Jean’s video dispatches from Port-au-Prince. _McSweeney’s is a nonprofit organizations as described by IRS 501 c 3._

_Underground Artists is an ongoing comic by Ali Fitzgerald (Hungover Bear & Friends) that follows woodland creatures as they create art and search out whimsy in a bleak forest._ - - -

I can tell you didn’t come to this boat expo for puerile recreation. I mean, you walked right past the Alumacraft booth. No, something tells me you understand that having a boat isn’t about holding a fishing rod and chugging a cold one. It’s really a place to harbor your most irrational avoidant thoughts. Pique your interest, have I? Then take a look at the Gloomskiff, the finest boat on the market for silent brooding. You see, I’ve sold this glorified driftwood pile to dozens of middle-aged men just like yourself. Men who’d normally have to resort to lawn care or listen to three-hour podcasts alone in their garden shed to avoid, say, discussing frequent urinary pain with their loved ones. What if you need to make a whole silent weekend out of stifling something important? For that, you need this single-occupant, windowless floating shanty. Pretty, ain’t she? Those are zebra mussels on the underside. Nature’s DO NOT DISTURB sign. If a concerned pontoon owner approaches you, once they see those mollusks and the rusted nails sticking out of your hull, they’ll get it. Tells ’em you’re on the water to quietly ruminate. On your distrust of modern medicine, for example. How’d I do it? Well, it all happened one night with a belly full of Canadian Club, sorrow in my heart, and an abnormal swelling in my piss parts. I realized my aluminum fishing boat didn’t let me go inward, mentally speaking. So, to not think about going through with a routine medical exam, I dredged the bottom of my lake. Then I nail-gunned as many rotting planks and sunken oars as I could find to build a quality repression vessel. I was just seething inside mine over the weekend. I even sulked next to some teens bouncing off a giant inflatable. Was I outwardly spiteful seeing them frolic on that giant fun bladder before entering my hovel? Sure. Possibly. I think I growled. But I mostly let it fuel my own internal stewing about the painful mass surrounding my own bladder. It was one of my better sulks, honestly. What do you say? For only $899, you can finally have a way to foment on freshwater. Take a closer look and pry up that loose board under the Sulking Stool. That’s right: It’s a corncob pipe. I find copious tobacco use while spiraling really helps you block out any overly emotional voicemails you may have asking after your nether regions. No, there are no cupholders on her. On your Gloomskiff, you must grip tightly to a dented tin can of cold black coffee, wondering if they made a new family group chat without you. To stage an intervention… God, makes me brood just standing next to this doomed schooner… Hey, where are you going? You didn’t even take your complimentary laminated book of sea shanties, created over years of genuine maritime hardship. Comes in handy if you’re ever in need of extra mournful material. Seriously, the Sea-Doo booth? How the hell are you going to be maudlin on the fuchsia seat of a jet-ski?!

Generic State University has been proudly upholding its mission to provide opportunities and build character in all students since its founding. Now, we turn our attention to the next frontier of education: joining the ranks of Dark Academia, which we are mostly sure we could define, if pressed. We know that Generic State would be the first land-grant institution in Dark Academia. We bear little resemblance to the current member institutions: private, elite colleges and universities with a long history of elitism, classism, and general exclusivity. Nevertheless, we believe we have a lot to bring to the table. And not just cows, although with our agricultural programs, we’ll be bringing those too. #### ARCANE TRADITIONS Generic State boasts several football traditions capable of whipping our students into a Bacchanalian frenzy: a catalog of three official fight songs written bespoke for the University over its century and a half, five common cheers, and the football team’s ten years of consistent walk-on music in Katy Perry’s “Dark Horse.” At Generic State, it’s normal for crowds of tens of thousands of students, faculty, alums, or even mere fans to chant, scream, cry, and occasionally bleed while exploited youths risk their bodies and minds in ritual violence to sate the bloodlust of their watchers. Surely this must be Dark Academia somehow. And not all of our traditions are around sports. Our campus is divided by an interstate, and a single bridge joins the two halves. For decades, students have convened in the center of the bridge, joined hands, and jumped in unison to feel it bounce in resonance—a sure sign of structural instability. This is both a potent metaphor for how our students’ carelessness leaves the world more precarious for the next generation, and a planned capital investment deferred for construction in three consecutive five-year plans. #### SECRET SOCIETIES Generic State has more students involved in Greek organizations than several current Dark Academia institutions have in their entire student body. We believe these more than fulfill the criteria regarding both violence and hedonism. Furthermore, these fraternities create lifelong bonds between students who may never even meet, but will provide housing, employment opportunities, legal assistance, financial crimes, and abetting after the fact to their brothers without question. #### THE AESTHETIC Okay, we admit, this one is a stretch. Candlelit rooms? Against the fire code. Crowded libraries with plush armchairs stuffed into every square foot not filled with moldering bookshelves? Against the fire code. Velvet drapes? Also against the fire code, unless they’re backed with flame-retardant material. For a general creeping sense of dread, we have a preponderance of eerie staircases that, when students aren’t rushing between classes, get empty and quiet enough to make you wonder if anything truly exists outside the stairwell; if anything has ever really existed; if the only real things in the world are the brutalist concrete beneath your feet, the worn-out textbooks disintegrating in your hands, and the sourceless echoes filling your ears and your mind and your soul. You may worry that ADA-compliant elevators would negate the whole vibe of the stairs, but they’re almost always out of service. #### CLASS WARFARE Generic State is particularly proud of our traditions of doublethink, in which we tout our stated mission to make education accessible to all while simultaneously celebrating the clear financial winners of education (i.e., not English majors). As of this writing, 73 percent of buildings on campus are named after wealthy alums who became wealthy donors. We take great pride in this legacy of reminding our students that we only care about their accomplishments if those accomplishments give us money. Despite our football team having functionally no accomplishments in the past fifty years, its coach is our home state’s highest-paid public employee with an eight-figure salary. In contrast, the university’s current rate for adjunct faculty begins at a one-time stipend of $1,000 per credit hour (non-benefits-eligible). And let’s not even get into graduate student stipends. #### ANCIENT SINS Our initial founding dates back to the Morrill Land-Grant Act of 1862, which granted funding to public state universities by selling federal land stolen from Native American tribes in what has been called, by people who are objectively correct, an imperialist genocide. While Generic State acknowledges that secrecy and conspiracies surrounding an institution’s ancient sins are a hallmark of Dark Academia, we humbly point out that other institutions have to keep their atrocities secret to avoid notice. We have several relevant informational displays, multiple pages on the official university website, and a boilerplate Ancient Sin Acknowledgment for faculty to use, and yet we still manage to maintain widespread ignorance. If systemic violence is insufficient to meet the requirements, we are happy to provide records documenting a long history of deeply charged emotional and/or physical attacks encouraged, or at least purposely ignored, by our administration. The past ten years alone have seen eighteen lawsuits over the school’s handling of sexual harassment. These statistics put us well within peer institutions’ benchmarks. Overall, Generic State University and Polytechnic Institute is proud of our heritage, from the impossible-to-find memorial plaques in the campus’s slave graveyard to our unstated but consistent refusal to back our faculty’s freedom of political speech. We believe we are an excellent fit for the Dark Academia cohort and the perfect choice to begin expanding Dark Academia into land-grant institutions, and we look forward to hearing from you. Please enjoy the complimentary plushie of our University’s mascot. If you can figure out which population its stereotypical caricature targets, please let us know; it’s been a topic of ongoing debate.

The US Open prides itself on being an inclusive tennis event for people of all upper-income brackets. Here are some budget-friendly ticket options that are still available. #### Underground Pass Tennis fans can now experience the US Open as they’ve never experienced it before: one hundred feet below street level. Our new underground passes offer general admission to the US Open’s subterranean spaces: tunnels, basements, bunkers, and what we think was a catacomb. While our popular grounds pass offers a dynamic, above-ground experience at an affordable price point, it sells out within seconds. You’ll still have the same US Open experience, only now with less oxygen and closer proximity to walls stacked high with femurs. This is the perfect ticket option for fans who’d rather prioritize the vibrations of a tennis match than see Carlos Alcaraz or Iga Swiatek in person. **Price:** $500 (_US Open–branded head lamps are available for an additional $100._) #### Gift Shop Pass When you want to feel like you went to the US Open without having seen a single match, the Gift Shop option is for you. Don’t worry, you’ll still get to wait in a long line in the heat of the day just to enter the gift shop. **Price:** $500 (_There is an additional $75 charge if you’d like to stand in the shady part of the line._) #### Restroomside Seats In our restroomside seats, you’ll be up close and personal without paying exorbitant courtside prices. Sure, you’ll miss out on seeing Aryna Sabalenka’s forehand fly by your face, but you might get to see strangers adjust their fly as they leave the restroom. **Price:** $500 (_The WTA now requires female guests to undergo a genetic sex test before using the restroom._) #### Upper Upper Tier True tennis fans appreciate the vibes up here, and swear the vertigo adds to the experience. **Price:** $1,200 #### Cumulus Tier The seats in our cumulus tier have obstructed views (mainly other cumulus clouds), but the atmosphere and UV exposure are seriously intense. And if you’ve ever wanted to be at eye-level with a plane at cruising altitude, this ticket is for you. **Price:** $75 (_Cumulus tickets are available only with a Grey Goose VIP package for $5,000._) #### Splash Zone Reserve a seat in our lower tier, and you’ll get to be where the action is, which is right below a row of drunk tennis fans who keep leaning over their seats and spilling their honey deuces on you. Plus, from this vantage point, you’re guaranteed to see a US Open ball kid faint from the heat. **Price:** $5,000 #### Pat LaFrieda Stadium If you want to experience the most electrifying tennis atmosphere in the world, go to Arthur Ashe Stadium. If you can’t afford that and want to experience something completely different, go to Pat LaFrieda Stadium. Here, fans will get a front-row seat to the sweating and grunting of our line cooks. As you inhale the intoxicating aromas of grilled onions, beef patties, and body odor, you’ll almost forget that you could’ve seen Coco Gauff play in the next stadium over if you’d only been willing to max out a couple of credit cards. **Price:** $1,000 #### Your Couch Remember when the US Open used to be an affordable outing for the whole family? We don’t either. But for folks who also have to think about saving up for college, you can always watch the Grand Slam from the comfort of home on the ESPN channel. You’ll just have to pay extra for the ESPN plan that broadcasts all of the matches, and then sit through frequent ads for at-home colorectal-screening kits.

_“‘Woke 1.0 was crazy,’ Representative Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez of New York said in a recent interview. The congresswoman, speaking on ABC’s_ This Week _, seemed to distance herself from the positions of an era of Democratic politics around 2020… If Woke 1.0 is in the past, when did it die? And has Woke 2.0 risen from its ashes?” —_ New York Times - - - Woke 1 _was_ crazy! We’ll never make those same mistakes again. “Defund the police” was a really bad slogan, and we can all agree that it cost Democrats the 2020 election. Or at least, it would have, if Democrats had lost that election. Either way, we must learn from our mistakes. We must grow, iterate, experiment, evolve, and commit to never ever, ever again post an Instagram picture of a black square. Unless there’s some kind of glitch on the app, which, given the state of the data center moratoria, is totally possible. Anyway, yes, Woke 1 was bonkers. But we’ve learned our lesson, and the rest of the Wokes will be significantly more normal. Consider the following: **Woke 2:** In Woke 2, there are no more public cancellations. We can admit those were patently unfair. No pile-ons, no quote-tweets, no internet mob learning a stranger’s middle name and employer because he was outside without a mask (while also screaming the n-word). If someone does something bad, the matter is handled by the legal system, which has promised to start working. **Woke 3:** Okay, we’ve heard the backlash, and we agree that the legal system was too harsh! Of course it’s not a crime to make ONE crude comment about your breastfeeding coworker, every day for seven months. We want to be responsive. In Woke 3, cancellations are handled by the offender’s HR team. That’s much more reasonable, and plus, HR needs something to do, since we scrapped DEI policies (they ruined everything, and also did nothing). Innocent until proven guilty, or at the very least, a risk to shareholder value. **Woke 4:** In Woke 4, we reflect further and decide “handled” is a bit strong. If you think about it, an HR intervention is simply a pile-on of one, and for that reason, it’s equally unfair. In Woke 4, concerns about someone’s unproblematic behavior are still valid. If you see a public figure post the r-word online, please screenshot it and store it on your phone. Obviously don’t send it anywhere—who are you, Flock? Palantir?—but keep it. As long as we’re still screenshotting things, we’ll be sure to deter unwoke behavior. **Woke 5:** We acknowledge that screenshots are a privacy risk. And we certainly don’t want to be the whole entire reason Democrats lose another election! So, this round, we’re getting rid of technology. If some Karen calls ICE on a seven-year-old, we write it down in a little book. The book is private. The book stays in a locked drawer. But don’t worry: At the end of each year, we look at the drawer. Not in it, just at it. Also know that the drawer contains one (1) copy of _White Fragility_. **Woke 6:** Here is when we’ll throw the book at unwoke behavior. Sorry, I mean that we’ll throw away the book of unwoke behavior. We’ve seen all the feedback on the very representative social media site X. We don’t want to be Regina George, just because that one Senator had the audacity to say they didn’t really care if people in nursing homes lived or died. Instead, if someone does something bad, we make brief eye contact with them. Angry eye contact. **Woke 7:** In Woke 7, we come to understand that waiting for someone to do something bad before forgiving them is the mistake of Wokes 1 through 6, frankly. In Woke 7, we forgive everyone in advance, on a rolling basis, at scale. **Woke 8:** At long last, there are no more consequences. Everyone is allowed to do or say whatever they want, with permanent immunity, just as long as they don’t commit the mortal sin of putting pronouns in their Instagram bio. As proof of how reasonable we are, we’ve invited OpenAI to build a data center in our community garden. **Woke 9:** Oops. Things didn’t go so well with the data center. Somehow, our electric bill is $9,000. That’s on us. It’s our fault. In Woke 9, we commit ritual Social Justice Seppuku and cancel ourselves. We’ll shut up, forever. We’re gone. Poof. Vanished. **Woke 10:** Woke 9 was nuts! It’s a bummer all the public parks got replaced by data centers. It’s too bad no one said anything. But at least we stopped using the phrase “BIPOC.” Woke 10—this one will be normal. - - - _Ginny Hogan and Carlos Greaves’s new book,_ **Obey in Advance: How to Survive (and Thrive) Under Authoritarianism** , _is out later this month, but is available to preorder now from our store._

Upon entering a Panera To Go restaurant, you’re greeted by barren decor: millennial-gray tiles, a row of tablets, and not a single human in sight. It’s the uncanny valley version of a fast-casual restaurant, and it’s unnerving. As you approach the counter, it quickly becomes clear that there’s no one here to take your order; there never was. Only a menu boasting Panera’s unassuming delights sits over a long glass-enclosed case, with a sparse selection of baked goods and pastries to greet you. It’s hard to judge how long the pastries have been there, because there are no people. The blondies do look bitchin’, though. You spend a few moments observing them like fish in an aquarium before remembering why you came in here in the first place. To make an order, you must select a food item from the array of fingerprint-smudged touchscreens. It’s eerily quiet, and you begin to wonder if this is the start of a horror film. Lord knows this wouldn’t be the first time Panera has killed (RIP, Panera Charged Lemonade). Enough time has passed that this would be just the time to strike again, you think. The otherwise well-advertised Salad Stuffers are difficult to find. It feels like you’re scrolling through page after page of tiny images of food until, finally, you find the icon and select it. Surprise! The screen isn’t properly calibrated. You poke it three more times. Eventually, it selects the Caesar Salad Stuffer, and you move on to complete your transaction. The screen lights up, requesting payment and a tip. You find it a little disconcerting to leave a tip for no one in particular, but you select 25 percent and tap your credit card on the payment terminal anyway. Almost immediately, there’s a shuffling sound behind you, and you turn to see two saloon doors flapping near a countertop. There’s no one there, but a damp brown paper sack is now sitting, alone, on a tray. You lug the weighty pouch to a booth and prepare to seal your fate. You slide the wet bag down around the Salad Stuffer. It is indeed stuffed; some might say overly so. Not all of the salad seems to have made it inside the Stuffer; the remainder has covered the outside of the baguette-esque tube with Caesar dressing. You think, _Et tu, Brute?_ You lift the sloppy, engorged loaf to your lips. A crouton—bread inside a bread, like some kind of warped turducken—bursts free from its prison, leaving a goopy trail of dressing on your white pants as it slides to the floor. Your hands are wet and sticky. You take a bite. It’s not that the Stuffer tastes bad; it’s just overwhelming trying to make your way through all this overdressed roughage. There’s more lettuce inside this roll than you’ve ever seen in one place. This is not the food product for leftovers—somehow, the longer the Stuffer exists, the wetter it seems to get, as though it’s generating its own moisture from within. Bread cannot contain this much liquid, and it begins to disintegrate. You try to hold the Stuffer together, but it fights back against its own existence. You’re left wondering not whether you can eat this, but whether you can finish it before it becomes a heaping pile of lettuce-filled mush. Unfortunately, this Panera doesn’t seem to have forks. _Or napkins_ , you realize, as another crouton squirts out of the bread-chute and slithers gooily down your shirt. Out of habit, you search, but there’s no one there to ask for Stuffer assistance. After another twenty-nine bites, finally, you’ve finished the Stuffer and every piece of lettuce that escaped onto the tray. You are, unironically, stuffed. You clear your tray, placing it on top of the trash can for a person you imagine must come through this space at some point, perhaps in the dark of night. Finally, you depart the Panera penitentiary and waltz to the nearby bus stop, happy to be back in what feels like the real world again. A delivery robot pulls up alongside you, and the screen reads, “Hi, my name is Poe.” Feeling full of bread and lettuce, but starved for human connection, you greet the bot. “Hi, Poe.” Its headlight eyes blink in response, and it makes a _jingle jingle_ sound. You wonder, as it carefully begins to make its way across the street, if this is the only way people will consume food in the future, and what, exactly, we did to deserve this.