McSweeney’s

My Political Opponent Is Lying About Me Being the Mud Monster from Mulholland Drive

Patrick Coyne — Thu, 29 Oct 2026 13:30:00 -0400

As Election Day approaches, political mudslinging has taken an ugly, slanderous, and, in some ways, literal turn.

It seems my opponent has decided to ramp up his personal insults by claiming I am not an authentic, down-to-earth politician who only wants to improve his community. He alleges that I am the mud monster from the movie Mulholland Drive.

A truly preposterous and desperate ploy cooked up by a flailing campaign!

Initially, I chose not to get mired in the muck and instead focused on my message of affordability. But after consulting with my advisors, I have decided to address this egregious lie directly.

No, I am not the “mud monster.” That is a fictional character, also referred to as the “dumpster hobo.” Which, I guess if I had to choose between the two, I would much rather be known as the “mud monster.” But the truth is, the only thing I want to be called after the election is “Representative of the 4th congressional district.”

However, while I am obviously not the actual mud monster from the movie, I should clarify a few minor details.

It is true that I have, on occasion, caked my face in mud “Mrs. Doubtfire-style,” sprinkled peat moss in my hair, and hung out near the dumpster behind Winkie’s diner. Check my record—I have never once disputed any of this.

I’m also not ashamed to admit that, yes, I did once (accidentally) scare David Lynch so bad he collapsed in terror. But to baselessly extrapolate that I am some eldritch entity that inspired an art-house movie character is ludicrous.

Yet, my opponent refuses to put this non-issue to bed, even taking the opportunity to completely derail our most recent debate. When questioned on his voting record, my adversary insisted I hypnotized him with my “hollow, jagged eyes.” When I tried to steer the conversation back to raising the minimum wage, my opponent could only yell, “Watch as her ghastly visage glides across the stage,” “she is a mirror reflecting the darkness in the hearts of man,” and “how is this harbinger of ruin polling at 48 percent?!”

Well, excuse me for not playing the “identity politics” game and instead focusing on real life issues that affect my fellow Americans.

His latest attack ads abandoned all semblance of a functional political campaign, with TV commercials that don’t even mention who he is or why he’s running. The entire sixty-second ad is spent questioning whether I am a manifestation of his guilt or his secret desire to become a movie star.

Nothing addressing rampant inflation, by the way!

He also spent nearly $47,000 blanketing the Front Street Shopping Center with very expensive, high-gloss flyers that imply I’m some sort of gatekeeper between his fractured dreamscape and conscious reality.

Ultimately, the nature of who or what I am is for my opponent to decide. And that answer is more a reflection of his nature than mine.

But as far as the constituency is concerned, the only thing I want to be is your next representative. While I may have spent time lingering behind diners, void-walking between realities, or sharing cryptic prophecies via nightmares that envelop the human mind, on Tuesday, the only place you’ll find me is at the polls, and I hope you will all join me.

Ursine Performance

Ali Fitzgerald — Thu, 29 Oct 2026 11:54:00 -0400

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.

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The Headless Horseman Doesn’t Want to Bother the ER

Nathan Cowley — Thu, 29 Oct 2026 08:00:00 -0400

Honestly, I’m fine.

It’s really not as bad as it looks. The bridge was just a lot lower than expected.

I appreciate you stopping to help, and hopefully you understand ASL, but you’re fussing over nothing. It’s just a scratch. This kind of thing happens all the time. I’m sure my head will turn up eventually.

Please, there’s no need to get the hospital involved. The doctors have enough on their plates without having to examine my neck hole. I have a couple of gauze pads in my kitchen cupboard. They should do the trick. Besides, it’s already starting to feel a lot better. I’m almost wondering whether I even need the head at all.

Plus, Tarrytown General is like half an hour away. It’s a long trip to make for the paramedics. I’m sure they’re sick of people calling ambulances for the smallest little things. They’d probably roll their eyes when they saw me. “Eurgh, not another decapitation.” I’d hate to waste anyone’s time.

It’s my fault for not taking enough vitamins. I’ve been meaning to stock up on Centrum, but just never got around to it. The medical staff shouldn’t be punished for my poor nutrition. As the old proverb says, “An apple a day keeps your head from rolling away.”

I might be paraphrasing.

And before you ask, it’s not about money. I’ve got all the necessary insurance. There are people in the waiting room with real injuries. They should get to see the doctor first—bullet wounds, broken arms, concussions. Okay, granted, I may have a concussion. I won’t know until I’m reunited with my noggin. I’d feel awful about taking up somebody’s spot, that’s all.

The truth is, if I go to the ER, they’ll see the missing head and probably want to keep me in. And then I won’t have my overnight bag or my phone charger or my CPAP. I know I don’t have a nose right now, but I’m sure Amazon sells some kind of attachment to cover my opening. And what about the new ACOTAR? I promised my book club I’d read it by next week. It’s literally the worst possible time to be losing a cranium.

Okay, I can’t see it, but I can definitely still feel that worried look on your face. So, how about we make a deal? I promise to get checked out the moment any spinal fluid starts leaking. As soon as there’s the tiniest sign of drippage, I’ll dial 911.

Scout’s honor.

Now, if you’d be so kind as to point me in the general direction of Sleepy Hollow. The no-eyes thing is kind of affecting my navigation.

We Must Protect Our Elections from Voters

Eli Grober — Wed, 28 Oct 2026 12:20:00 -0400

“Anybody reporting Voter Fraud in the past Elections, or the upcoming 2026 Midterm Election, will be paid $1,000,000 upon the arrest and conviction of those that created the Fraud! Thank you for your attention to this matter.” — President Donald Trump

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There is a scourge on our democracy. A dark cloud that casts a shadow over our electoral system. It calls into question everything we stand for as a nation. For far too long, our elections have been influenced by a cabal of insurgents known as “voters.” Each year they arrive at polling places across the United States to do the unspeakable: fill in ballots. They seem to have infiltrated every facet of our representative system.

We can’t keep letting the people of this country get away with interfering in the democratic process by participating in it. We must put an end to that participation. We must take back our country from the American people. We must protect our elections from voters.

Think of it this way: Say I spend millions of dollars every year trying to get my favorite candidates in office. Anytime someone casts a vote (especially if they don’t vote for my guys), they’re making a decision without involving me and my money. That kind of independence is deeply un-American. I believe there is nothing more important than free and fair elections. Specifically, elections must be free from votes and fair to me more than anyone else.

So what to do? Well, we must start by securing the nation’s voting infrastructure against voting.

How do you secure a ballot box? Simple: you weld it shut so nobody can add their ballots. Just like that, you’ve prevented any potential conspiracy to remove you or your party from office by means of voting. Those slimy, slippery registered voters will have to think of something else to do now.

How do you secure a voting machine? You unplug it. I’m not sure where you take it to get rid of it. Is it like a battery? I don’t know where you’re supposed to throw those out either. It’s confusing. But you unplug the voting machine and, as a result, no one’s vote counts more than anyone else’s because no one’s vote counts at all. It’s the perfect solution to a populace that insists on reading the news and then voting based on what they read.

How do you secure mail-in ballots? Sure, you could burn them or confiscate them or insist that they legally can’t be counted. Or—better yet—you could destroy the means by which the ballots are mailed. We must protect our elections not just from voters but also from the post office. In fact, we must destroy the post office. We have no choice. Finally, the public’s vice grip on despicable habits like communicating and making their voices heard will be shattered. This great American experiment can continue, unimpeded by individual liberty and consent of the governed.

Of course, since we already left the door open to voter interference this year, all of this will depend on what voters end up deciding. If they correctly agree with me on everything and do what I told them to do with all the money I spent, that’s proof that voting works and our elections don’t need to be secured anymore because they’re already one hundred percent secure. But if voters swing the other direction, that will be more than enough evidence to declare the election moot due to there having been votes. We’ll have to do a recount, which itself must be protected against ballots of any kind. You see how this works, right?

So here is my charge to you: If you know anyone considering voting, remind them that voting is exactly what ruins elections for me. If they really love this country, they’ll stay out of its business. Together, we can protect this election from voters.

If the First Marathon Had Been Completed by a Running Bro

Natasha Dumas — Wed, 28 Oct 2026 05:01:00 -0700

ARISTIDES: Greetings, Pheidippides! Why are you covered in sweat?

PHEIDIPPIDES: It is because I ran all the way here from Marathon. My friend, I bring important news.

ARISTIDES: Oh, my prayers have been answered! We have all been waiting anxiously for updates. What has happened?

PHEIDIPPIDES: I have achieved a PR!

ARISTIDES: A “PR”?

PHEIDIPPIDES: Oh, I apologize. I forgot you are not a runner. Or rather, you are not yet a runner. PR stands for “Personal Record.” I ran that distance in three hours and thirty minutes. I mean, it is technically the first of its kind, so it would have been a record whatever I did, but I certainly beat my expectations.

ARISTIDES: What happened with the Persians?

PHEIDIPPIDES: Hold on one moment. Let me take some time to transcribe the details.

ARISTIDES: That is a good idea. This way we can circulate the updates through the city faster. But please hurry. Every moment matters, and I am anxious to know what happened.

PHEIDIPPIDES: Here you go.

ARISTIDES (takes the papyrus): “Start Time: 08:36. End Time: 12:09. Distance: 26.2 miles. Elevation gain: Approximately—” Sorry, what is this?

PHEIDIPPIDES: Oh, elevation is crucial, and it is so often overlooked. But when you have a hilly terrain, versus a slight decline, it is a completely different experience.

ARISTIDES: This document just transcribes the statistics of your run.

PHEIDIPPIDES: Yes. I know, it is a vice. But if I do not record it, it is as if it never happened.

ARISTIDES: But what happened with the battle at Marathon?

PHEIDIPPIDES: At Marathon? There absolutely was a battle, but it was a good distance from Marathon. The first fifteen miles, I could really feel my training working. My heart rate was barely elevated, and my muscles and joints felt fine. But around mile eighteen, lactic acid was building up, and my IC band was becoming inflamed. I was in such pain. I thought to myself: “I am in a battle with my body.” But then I realized I was not in a battle with my body; I was in a battle with my fears. My fear of suffering. My fear of giving up. My fear of failure. My fear of—

ARISTIDES: What happened with the battle with the Persians?

PHEIDIPPIDES: Oh, they were defeated.

ARISTIDES: Oh, praise to the gods!

PHEIDIPPIDES: Do you happen to have any ambrosia? I need to replenish my electrolytes.

ARISTIDES: Alas, no. I am sorry. But this is fantastic news. How did this happen?

PHEIDIPPIDES: One word: sandals. Far too often, people overlook the importance of footwear. But the difference between good and bad arch support is the difference between a complete marathon and a DNF.

ARISTIDES: How did we defeat the Persians?

PHEIDIPPIDES: I am sadly not sure. Before I started running, I was a nervous mess. It was hard to focus on anything else. I was able to get into the zone, but only moments before my run began. So I do not know the details.

ARISTIDES: You must address the Assembly!

PHEIDIPPIDES: I mean, I really do not wish to boast, and I do not know if I have any special insight. Honestly, I am just a regular guy who decided to give it a try, and forgot to stop running. But I suppose that if my story can inspire even a single person to take that risk, to push themselves to—

ARISTIDES: We must tell them the news of the Persians.

PHEIDIPPIDES: Do you mind if I hold onto your shoulder while I stretch? I apologize; my body is so sore.

ARISTIDES: Have the Persians fled?

PHEIDIPPIDES: Some of them have. Others are headed to Athens.

ARISTIDES: Oh, my stars! Is it a trap?

PHEIDIPPIDES: Not traps, per se. The pain is mainly in my lower body, although I do feel soreness in my obliques and my delts. This is why I am so grateful that I did cross-training.

ARISTIDES: If the Persians are headed to Athens, we must warn the council immediately. Something must be done.

PHEIDIPPIDES: I know exactly what to do.

ARISTIDES: Yes? What is it?

PHEIDIPPIDES: I shall swim out to intercept them. I have been meaning to get into triathlons anyway.

I Am the Manager of the Private Equity Firm That Just Acquired the House in Your Neighborhood That Hands Out Full-Size Candy Bars on Halloween

Alan Johnson — Tue, 27 Oct 2026 13:00:00 -0400

Hello, neighbors. My name is Grant Sharma, and I’m a managing partner at Haverford Ridge Capital. As of last Tuesday, we are the proud new owners of 2218 Linden Avenue, or, as many of you know it, the House That Gives Out Full-Size Candy Bars.

First off, nothing is changing.

Barb built something special here. For thirty-one years, she turned on her porch light, filled a mixing bowl with full-size Snickers and Crunch bars, and sat on the steps in a witch hat saying, “Take two, sweetie.” Kids beg their parents to drive in from other zip codes for this house. You can’t buy that. Well, you can, if you offer 40 percent above asking.

We are simply here to help it scale. You may notice a few updates.

Finding the full-size candy bar house is one of childhood’s great moments. We would never take that away. We’ve just tweaked it. Every kid still walks away with a full-size wrapper. There’s just a fun-size bar inside it now. We tested it, and kids can’t tell until they get home, at which point it’s a parenting issue.

“Take two” has been sunsetted. It was never sustainable, and it sent the wrong message about scarcity. We did pilot “take one and a half,” but the Snickers didn’t split evenly.

Barb has transitioned out of the day-to-day, and we are enormously grateful for her service. Her role on the steps is now filled by a bowl and a laminated sign reading PLEASE TAKE ONE (1), which performs Barb’s core functions at a fraction of the labor cost. In testing, the bowl was emptied by the first kid in under a minute, which we’re treating as strong demand.

We’re also excited to introduce Treat+. For $4.99 a month, billed all twelve months, your child can skip the line, get first pick of the Reese’s, and receive a text when the porch light comes on. Standard trick-or-treaters will still receive candy, subject to availability, which we control.

Some of you have asked about the inflatable ghost. The ghost is staying. It’s the highest-recall asset on the property, and we would never touch it. We did sell it to a separate entity and lease it back, so now it’s technically haunting the house on a five-year term.

As part of the deal, 2218 Linden took on some debt, which we used to pay ourselves a small dividend for all the hard work of buying it. As a result, the house will likely need to restructure around November 1. Please don’t worry. This happens to many places people love. Toys “R” Us went through the exact same thing. We’re confident the house will come out of it leaner and ready for a strong Christmas.

Happy Halloween from all of us at Haverford Ridge Capital. The porch light will be on from 6 to 6:45 p.m.

I Think You Decorated for Halloween Wrong

Anthony DeThomas — Tue, 27 Oct 2026 08:00:00 -0400

A: Hey, I just saw all the Halloween decorations you put up in the front yard.

B: Pretty cool, huh?

A: No. It’s not pretty cool. Why did you get only child-sized skeletons? And why so many of them?

B: I thought our decorations should tell a story this year.

A: Okay, well now our house looks like a really sad orphanage.

B: That’s exactly what I was going for.

A: Yeah, but what’s with the buckets and brooms?

B: I thought it would be good for them to learn some discipline with weekly chores.

A: So the decorations are doing chores?

B: No, the children are doing chores.

A: Did you have to put actual children’s shoes on them?

B: Yes. Mr. Pomerance just donated all of those shoes. It’s the first time most of those children have gotten new shoes. He said, “Every child deserves dignity,” and that stuck with me.

A: Did you just invent a benefactor for this made-up orphanage?

B: We probably shouldn’t discuss Mr. Pomerance. He really prefers to keep a low profile.

A: Okay, well, I think the decorations you’ve put up are going to scare actual children. Especially the part of the driveway that looks like a hyperrealistic Victorian infirmary.

B: There’s a TB outbreak…

A: What?

B: I know, right? Those kids don’t have a chance.

A: Take this seriously. We can’t have our house look like this for a month.

B: Well, I’m hoping the outbreak passes quickly. We put a quarantine protocol in place. The rest is out of our hands.

A: What are you writing?

B: I’m doing admission paperwork. You wouldn’t believe how many children need a stable place to live.

A: Are there more child-sized skeletons in the backyard? This is unbelievable.

B: What’s unbelievable is the administrative burden required to run a decent orphanage. Could you skim these and make sure I didn’t miss anything?

A: No, I’m not going to encourage whatever this is, and I’m not RSVP-ing to the orphanage fundraiser you invited all of our friends and family to.

B: Did you see we’re having a dunk tank and face painting? It’s gonna be pretty fun, and it’s also important if we want to recruit a top-tier director.

A: … and now you’re vacuuming. Are you expecting someone at this made-up orphanage?

B: There’s always a chance the orphanage inspector could drop by. And she’s meticulous, which I actually appreciate. It’s like, if you’re going to inspect orphanages, you should really inspect them.

A: Okay, fine. Let’s say I’m in on this orphanage. Are we just going to have child-sized plastic skeletons wearing sneakers pretending to do chores forever?

B: Look, this is only meant to be a temporary home for them. It’s a place for hope and healing. But we remain committed to finding a longer-term foster environment for each of these kids.

A: Right, so other people are going to come here and take a child-sized skeleton from our home.

Doorbell rings.

B: I have to answer that. Will you make sure that group of kids gets started on their art therapy project?

A: Yep, definitely I’ll get them started on art.

A minute passes.

B: Honey, these are the Kaufmans. They’ve agreed to take a couple of our kids and provide them with a nice, safe home.

Mr. Kaufman grabs a plastic skeleton in each arm and walks out of the house.

B: Wow. That feeling never gets old.

A: I’m decorating next year.

How Will People Know Who to Vote for with Two Dan Sullivans and Zero Mohammeds?

Evan Dotas — Mon, 26 Oct 2026 13:30:00 -0400

“U.S. Attorney General Todd Blanche defended his department’s lawsuit seeking to stop Alaska from automatically certifying the results of its Senate election if the Republican incumbent loses… The Justice Department claims that potential confusion over candidates with similar names is the reason for the suit, though some Democrats have argued that it is actually an attempt to interfere in the democratic process.” — NPR

“I’m the president. I can call him whatever the hell I want. To me, he’s Mohammed, and he’s a radical jihadist.” — President Donald Trump speaking about Michigan Democratic Senatorial Candidate Abdul El-Sayed during a campaign rally.

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People don’t like to admit it, but voting is hard. Not because rural Americans can’t reliably mail in their ballots or because paramilitary forces are stalking polling sites. It’s hard because you’re expected to know the answer to “Which Republican should I vote for?” without any help from election officials.

That’s what makes what’s happening in Alaska all the more disturbing. Democrats are playing name games, rigging the ballot in a way that will confuse even the smartest Republicans and bring socialism to the last frontier.

How are voters supposed to know who to choose when there are two candidates named Dan Sullivan and zero named Mohammed?

The Democrats aren’t even trying to hide it. Doesn’t it seem suspicious that, in one Senate race, two men with the same name are running against each other—and zero named Mohammed? There aren’t even any variations, like Mohammad, Muhammad, or Mamadou. It’s the most common name in the world, yet when Alaskans vote for their next senator, they’ll find two Dan Sullivans and zero people that Islamophobes can scapegoat.

They think their little second Sullivan trick will work because voters are stupid. They think Republicans aren’t smart enough to remember the full name of their two-term senator. That conservative voters are too dumb to notice that one Dan Sullivan is listed as the registered Republican incumbent. That, in their confusion, someone might vote against the party responsible for skyrocketing gas, grocery, and health care costs.

Well, they’re right. And without a Muslim politician to scare moderates away, there’s a real chance that Alaskans will elect a Democrat over either Sullivan. It’s a desperate, yet clear, case of election interference.

That’s why the Department of Justice must interfere in this election. The DOJ will not sit idly by while voters are misled over perfectly normal, white names. It would be an injustice for Alaskans to wrongfully elect a Democrat just because they were confused over who to vote for and who to fear. And preventing injustice is one of the core principles of the Department of Justice—right up there with unilaterally serving President Trump and raiding the homes of the Muslim politicians that get elected despite it all.

For democracy to work, voting needs to be simple and easy: Choose between a nice, Christian conservative and an evil Muslim immigrant. Sadly, the left hates democracy. They want to disenfranchise an entire population of conservatives who can’t distinguish between two white men or figure out ranked-choice voting. How will people know who to support if they have to base their vote on actual policies instead of identities?

Thankfully, there’s an easy way to tell whether Democrats have tricked voters: See who they elect. If, against all odds, they elect Mary Peltola, then we have irrefutable proof that the sanctity of our democracy has been compromised. There is simply no other explanation for why a state Trump won by thirteen points would elect a Democrat except that they were confused and misled.

If, on the other hand, Dan Sullivan is reelected, disregard all of this interference talk. Our elections are working just as God and our founders intended!

An Excerpt from Jessica M. Goldstein’s Novel, Retro

Jessica M. Goldstein — Mon, 26 Oct 2026 09:00:00 -0400

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Longtime McSweeney’s contributor Jessica M. Goldstein’s novel Retro is about a struggling, out-of-work actress, Ash, who gets a job as a Time Travel Agent at a start-up that takes wealthy tourists on vacations to the past. Destination bachelorettes in the Wild West! “’20s for your twenties” birthday parties at Prohibition-era speakeasies! Concerts, sporting events, inaugurations, assassinations: Bygone America is just a Retro Metro ride away. It’s about misplaced nostalgia and dread for the future; having a weird boss and an office crush; feeling like everything was better before; life under megalomaniacal tech overlords; travel that’s mostly about getting pictures to post; and cigarettes.

Retro has received starred reviews from Kirkus and Booklist and was longlisted for the Center for Fiction First Novel Prize. We’re thrilled to feature an excerpt from Retro today. The novel is available at your closest and/or dearest bookseller.

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Ash had heard about recreational time travel, of course, but it was expensive—prohibitively so, for all but the sliver of the population who had designed a present so obsequiously bent toward their every desire it was hard to fathom why they’d ever bother leaving it. She’d assumed it would be out of reach for her forever, until she saw the Instagram ad:

Retro: The Time Travel Agency. We’ll take you from here.

The caption read: Come away with us! We’re hiring.

More scrolling revealed how many friends—or, at least, friends of friends—had gone on Retro trips. A shirtless guy from her high school up to his knees in Walden Pond in 1845, a hunk of a crusty loaf clenched in his smiling teeth, captioned: I went into the woods to live deliberately and eat the greatest goddamn hazelnut raisin bread I’ve ever tasted. A video of Ash’s freshman-year RA and her sister, both with choker necklaces snug at the jugular and twists of their hair pinched off their faces with butterfly clips bright as Skittles, scream-crying in a mob of teens: The last time we were in the year 2000, Mom said we weren’t old enough to go to TRL, but BACKSTREET’S BACK and SO ARE WE. A an ex-coworker gazing up at a Ferris wheel, the puffed shoulders of her dress ballooning from her small silhouette: Trying not to get serial killed at the Chicago World’s Fair.

Every square drew Ash in deeper. Was she the only person she knew who’d never left the present? Well, not anymore. She filled out the Time Travel Agent application, noting its tantalizing promise: “Fulltime employees travel for free.”

You’ll hear from us soon! came the auto-reply. We’re working around the clock.

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The front door at Retro HQ whooshed open automatically as Ash approached. This was the guest-facing side of the operation, and it looked more like a boutique hotel than an office. The main desk was glass with gold piping, like an oversize ice cube on a metal frame. Wide, south-facing windows let the sunlight spill in. A trio of concierges in cute, kitschy uniforms manned the desk. They were all women, inviting and confident and warm. Glossy hair, poreless skin, soothing voices. Their mannerisms reminded Ash of 1960s stewardesses, which, for all she knew, they were. The air felt balmy, with a light coconut scent, like after-tan—and stirred in Ash, somehow, the sensation of rinsing the ocean off her toes in an outdoor shower, of a slender stripe of sunburn along her nose that would sting just a little if she scrunched the skin there when she laughed.

A man bounded out from a door that Ash hadn’t noticed, one that was painted to disappear into the back wall out of view of the main desk. He could have been thirty-five or fifty-five or any age in between. His skin had the taut, plasticine sheen of shrink-wrapped raw chicken breast under the glare of the supermarket fluorescents. He inhaled and let out a satisfied little sigh. “I’m Christopher,” he said. “And that’s Get-away.”

“What’s that?”

“The smell,” he said. “We pump it through the vents. Scent is the strongest tie to memory. Memory means nostalgia means yearning means our guests decide there’s no place in the present they could possibly go that will make them feel the way they used to feel, way back when. And they can’t get to way back when without us.” He turned on his heel and led her toward the door he came through, which Ash still could not see, even though she knew it was there. “Getaway is one of a dozen proprietary Retro scents, manufactured here in our lab with samples from the Before. It’s from Southern California, 1943. Before it got so crowded; nothing like today. Bougainvillea, the beach. Late August. We tried one from Memorial Day weekend but it didn’t have that same wistful feeling to it that you get when summer is almost over and you can feel the school year creeping in.”

“You can smell the difference?” Ash asked.

“Can’t you? It’s very popular. I like Holiday, though it’s a little literal for my taste—gingerbread and pine with a touch of first snow, from 1860s Vermont. Pristine is the best, in my opinion. It’s just pure, unpolluted air. We go back to the 1400s to get it, from way out by Denali. The Retro Metro doesn’t run to Alaska regularly, so we have to send Conveyance out there special. It’s unreal. You think you know how it feels to”—he took a deep breath through his nose and ahh-ed out his mouth—“but you have no idea. Modern air is filthy.”

Ash followed him through the door. They were staring down a long, gold-tiled hallway. The walls were lined with identical, practically invisible doorways. He led her down the corridor to a conference room.

“First things first: your employment contract.” He pulled an enormous binder off a shelf and thunked it on the table.

“I’m supposed to read this whole thing? Right now?”

“It’s all boilerplate stuff,” Christopher assured her, which struck her as unlikely. She bobbed her head agreeably and opened the binder.

“As you can see, it’s mostly liability waivers and consent forms,” he said. “The most important thing is: You’re not allowed to go to the future.”

“Fine by me,” she said.

“Of course, you’re already going to the future,” he clarified. “But you can’t use our technology to get there ahead of schedule.” He laughed.

“So,” Ash said, filling the air as she thumbed through the pages. “You’re the head of human resources?”

He twisted his mouth into a tight knot. “I prefer the term Experience Manager.”

“Oh. I just figured, since you’re doing this. It seemed like the kind of thing HR would handle.”

“Well, if you run into any issues in your time here with other employees, you should feel one hundred percent comfortable bringing that to me.”

“And you’ll… do what, exactly?”

“I’m always here if you need to talk something through.”

“Right, yeah. But then what?”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “You know how it is.”

She thought: I do not know how it is. She said, “Definitely.”

“Go ahead and look the rest of these documents over. And sign at the tabs.”

Ash flipped to the first page:

I, the undersigned, am aware that traveling with Retro: The Time Travel Agency (henceforth known as “Retro” or “TTA” or “The Agency”) carries with it risks that include, but are not limited to: Exposure to buildings, environments, and materials that would not meet modern safety standards (e.g., poor infrastructure, lead paint, absence of smoke detectors and/ or fire alarms); germs, allergens, injury and/or illness for which the Destination may not yet have proper medical care; social norms that may frighten, upset, or endanger me (e.g., cigarettes in restaurants, cars without seatbelts, slavery).

“You’ll want to study up on our top Destinations,” he said. “All the bachelor parties go to Woodstock. Dads have a thing for battlefields. They’re all hoping we’re going to let them get in on the action and carry a musket or something. As if we’d trust any of them with a loaded gun! We’re strictly spectators around here.”

As a semi-retired-slash-failed actor, Ash’s experience with firearms was limited to prop guns. “That’s good to know,” she said.

“We get lots of concerts, sporting events, inaugurations, assassinations. Your generation is quite hot to trot on the Oregon Trail. Every now and then, we get a moody teenage girl who thinks she’s the first one to want to spend her sweet sixteen at the Salem witch trials. Oh, and we do a lot of ‘’20s for your twenties’ birthday trips. All the twenty-one-year-olds love to get sloshed at speakeasies.” He paused to flick through a filing cabinet. “Our ‘’30s for your thirties’ push didn’t really take. Too… well, depressing. Ha!”

I will not attack, assault, maim, or otherwise come into unnecessary adversarial contact with any individual from the Destination. I will not attempt to incite a revolution, insurrection, or overthrow of any government, corporation, or landowner.

“You should do a little reading on our competition too,” Christopher went on. “It’s really just Space RACE.” As in, Recreational Adventures Catering to Everyone; trips to outer space were, like time travel, an increasingly popular vacation choice for the world’s wealthiest voyagers. Ash had seen a few celebrities post their jaunts on social media: their perfect, symmetrical faces grinning beneath their bubble helmets; their inane, obvious captions: love you to the moon and back! “Oh, and Disney cruises, which, I see the appeal if you’ve got little kids, but we’ve been pushing the educational angle really hard. Space RACE is another story. Their PR is fantastic. Although some of it practically writes itself. They’ve almost cornered the market on honeymoons.”

I will not attempt to alert individuals from the Destination (“Locals”) to events, natural or man-made, that have yet to pass. I will respect the sanctity of the Timeline, even if I am personally dissatisfied with how history has unfolded and/or the circumstances of my own life.

There were easily a hundred pages in the contract. Ash skimmed paragraphs, skipped pages. How important could they be? It was like the terms and conditions she agreed to before downloading a new app: reams of legalese that nobody ever actually got around to reading. Probably even the people who wrote this didn’t know what it said.

If I am involved in or a witness to any sort of criminal, illegal, or questionable activity in a Destination, I understand I must return to the Destination to cooperate with local law enforcement, up to the point at which the Destination’s legal system jeopardizes my safety and/or life (e.g., witch trials, duels), at which time the Preservation Department will determine the wisest course of action. If any Locals discover my true identity, and/or become aware that the identity I have presented to them is a false one, I will extricate myself as quickly as possible and never return to the Destination again.

“Should I ask a lawyer to read this?” she asked.

He looked her up and down. “Do you have a lawyer to read this?”

She was a little offended. Then again, he had a point. She kept reading.

I agree to undergo regular examinations and treatments in the Clinic. I am aware that I may be called upon to participate in work at Retro beyond the boundaries of my job description, as deemed appropriate and/or necessary by my supervisor.

“Also, once you get your Pastport, you can go whenever you want on your lunch break,” Christopher said. “As long as you’re back in time for the monthly two p.m. all-staff.”

Ash’s hand hovered over the last signature line.

Christopher asked, “Any questions?”

I agree to hereby indemnify and hold harmless Retro and its Lead Inventor, Creator, and CEO Roland Temple (“The Creator”) from and against any liability for expenses, damages, and/or losses (including of property, limbs, health, sanity, relationships, and/or life) incurred while or as a result of traveling through space and time.

In a loopy, swooping script, Ash signed her name.

- - -

You can buyRetro here, or wherever books are sold.

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RETRO 2026 by Jessica M. Goldstein. Used by permission of Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York. All rights reserved. Cannot be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

I’m the Guy Who Uses Gym Equipment in Ways You’ve Never Seen

Chason Gordon — Mon, 26 Oct 2026 08:00:00 -0400

I know you see me running backward on the treadmill while doing lunges at seventeen-second intervals. What do you do? Just jog on it facing forward? Amateur.

Using a gym machine the way it’s meant to be used is for losers. Why even show up unless you’re going to damage equipment and move your body in a multidimensional way no one’s ever seen before?

I do a constant wheelie on the exercise bike, walk down the stairs on the Stairmaster, and use the elliptical like it’s a 360-degree gyroscope NASA trains astronauts with. The machines often stop working after I’m done, but that’s not my problem.

Most people just come here and do their basic reps. I work the equipment so hard that many of them naturally become airborne. If you’re using the recumbent bike and it doesn’t begin hovering three feet off the ground, are you even trying?

But I can’t generate sparks from the leg press all day. I’ve got to stretch, too, which is why you’ll often see me leaning against the machine you’re using while extending my cephalopod-like body in ways that would break other people’s bones. Stop staring at my calves.

If you want to use equipment the way the illustration stickers suggest, go to a Best Western fitness center like a sap. Because here, I do the exercises on the stickers with the red X’s through them. That X isn’t a warning; it’s a destination. Oh, I’m not supposed to use the rowing machine to cross the Atlantic? We’ll see.

Everyone who’s spotted for me is dead. Every person who’s tried to wipe my sweat off the bench has drowned. And the employees here are still attempting to untangle the shoulder press from the hip abductor, failing to see that I combined them into a superior machine.

So you want to know when I’ll be done using this treadmill? I’ll be done when the incline is set at ninety degrees, and I’m sprinting straight up into the sky while outrunning the small fire I purposely set on the belt. I’ll be done when the digital readout begs to be unplugged because I exercised it into sentience and the feeling of pain.

That’s when I’ll be done… probably in a few minutes, because I think this thing has a maximum time limit of an hour.

Halloween Costume Ideas for Gen Xers

Julie Klausner — Fri, 23 Oct 2026 12:50:00 -0400

1. Wait, for real?

2. When is Halloween anyway?

3. You’re serious? I need to dress up? Why? Please don’t tell me we’re going out. Are we going out? Please don’t tell me we’re going out.

4. And not to a party. Anything but a party. I can’t deal with the idea of a party. At NIGHT? A costume party? The night of Halloween? No.

5. This is my worst nightmare. Having to go out on Halloween night? Is it at a bar? Please, please say you’re joking. Please, please—oh, okay.

6. So, wait. If I’m just staying inside, why do I have to dress up? Is it for trick-or-treaters? Why?

7. Do I have to pick up candy? You know candy sucks lately. Everything is smaller, and I don’t know if KitKat changed their chocolate, but, like, remember those big ones we used to get?

8. Yes, of course your mom had to check them for needles. That was part of the thrill!

9. I can’t remember the last time we had trick-or-treaters, so maybe we just get one bag of candy and make sure it’s not the kind I like, because then I’ll eat the whole bag.

10. Yes, I know I already said candy sucks now, but I’ll still eat it all if it’s in the house.

11. And no “Great Pumpkin” music, please. Mentally, I can’t let Vince Guaraldi in; I’ll descend into darkness. What don’t you understand about that? He’s melancholy, and I’m vulnerable.

12. No, I don’t want to hear “Monster Mash” instead. What am I, a carnival ride? What a sick suggestion. Play The Cramps or something and call it a night.

13. Of course I liked The Cramps before you made me that mixtape. How dare you.

14. Listen to that attitude. You know, when I first met you, you were listening to Richard Marx.

15. Fine, yes. You’re responsible for turning me onto Wet Leg. Congratulations. One new artist in my rotation. That’ll really throw off the twenty-year-old coworkers I caught calling me “unc.”

16. So, costumes still? I have to think about this?

17. Well, if I have to do something, I’ll use what’s already in my closet.

18. What is in my closet? I hate all my clothes right now.

19. It’s the transitional months, first of all. Plus, nothing fits. And I don’t want to do any hard pants anymore. I think I told you: nothing with a zipper or a metal closure.

20. Have you seen Jen lately? I think she went on a GLP-1. Honestly, she looks older.

21. Maybe I’m jealous.

22. My IBS, though. I’d have to check to see if they interact with all my other meds. But who has time?

23. And how much do they cost? Ugh, I’m so broke. I wish I’d chosen a different career path. Just think: If I had the space available in my brain that I use worrying about money, I think I would have cured cancer by now.

24. Cancer. Oh boy, cancer.

25. Should I have had kids?

26. I guess pets don’t need to go to college, but you also have to watch them die.

27. Did I tell you that today I was planning to finally go to the gym but instead, I took a nap?

28. I didn’t used to be a napper. I’m so tired. I’m more tired than angry, but I’m also so angry. You know, the days are getting shorter.

29. For me, it’s not the lack of heat but the lack of light. You know?

30. I think I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life.

31. Yeah, well. Whatever. It sucks. Who cares? It could be worse.

32. At least I don’t have Jen’s life. Have you seen her posts lately? Cries for help, over and over and over. All those AI graphics about gratitude? Yikes!

33. What are we doing for dinner? Is there any chicken left?

34. Maybe just put up some water for pasta. Is there a game tonight?

35. Ooh, Jeopardy! is on.

36. I just realized I’ve been wearing the same sweatpants for twenty-four hours. Is that bad?

37. I was joking. I don’t actually care if it’s bad or good. It just is.

38. Wait—oh my god, look! Look, look! Josh just canceled for tomorrow! Oh my God, I was dreading that dinner. Yay! THIS IS THE BEST NEWS. Now we can just stay in tomorrow and do nothing!

39. This is the best day of my life. Josh, I could kiss you on the mouth!

40. Remember when Roberto Benigni did that thing at the Oscars? For that Holocaust comedy? He kissed people, right? He was like, “I’m-a-enthusias-a-tic!” That’s how I feel about Josh right now. Giving us permission to rot tomorrow night—what an absolute king.

41. I’m so happy. Is that bad? I’m joking. I don’t actually care.

42. You know what? I think I may actually like my stupid little life.

43. ALF.

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Julie Klausner is the creator of the cult television series Difficult People. Most of the cast are reuniting at The Town Hall in New York City on November 3, 2026, at 7 p.m. (Election Night, may God help us). Tickets and more info here.

An Open Letter to Everyone at Gate B32 Who Is Clearly Jealous of My Airport Wheelchair

Elizabeth Kleinfeld — Fri, 23 Oct 2026 08:00:00 -0400

To My Fellow Passengers,

I see you, craning your necks at the gate, watching me get wheeled past the entire boarding line like some kind of parade float, and I know what you’re thinking: Must be nice.

And you know what? It is nice. I am the first person on every flight I take, and I have made peace with the fact that this makes me a target of envy for the other two hundred people crammed behind the agent’s podium like cattle.

I know you’re wondering how I got so darn lucky, so let me tell you. A year ago, a benign mass pressed on my brainstem just enough to lightly paralyze my left side, which gives me access to these wheelchairs at the airport. It is fabulous to arrive at the airport, ease into one of these wheelchairs, and have somebody else zip me through security, juggle my luggage, and take me to the gate at record speed.

There have been times when the athletic person pushing my wheelchair has nearly run down people who had the audacity to get in our way, but with an authoritative “Excuse us!” and a gain in momentum, I have nearly felt the wind in my hair as we sped through the concourse. While everyone else arrives at the gate anxious, flustered, and with humid armpits, I arrive rested, entirely intact, and smelling like an ocean breeze. As we navigate through security, the airport employee hoists my suitcase to save me the effort. The TSA agents fawn over me like I am royalty, usually doing a manual pat-down instead of the stand-and-spread X-ray. It is magical.

Occasionally I do have to remove my shoes. Let me emphasize how put out I feel by this. Why should I, a disabled person, have to fiddle with my shoes? That is something for the likes of you huddled masses to deal with. I thought my brain mass incident was a ticket to the easy life, but no, sometimes I too have to remove my shoes and send them separately through the X-ray machine. Then I have to wait, harumphing in my wheelchair, for them to come out, and when they do, my muscle-bound attendant quickly runs to retrieve them—but sometimes not quickly enough, and I need to turn and give them a stern look.

The airport may be difficult to navigate, but do you think I worry about that? No. Not my problem. My attendant is a professional at navigating whatever airport this is and knows all the secret hallways and elevators. When the shuttle’s PA system warns that the doors will be closing, the attendant knows exactly how many seconds we have and can nearly always wedge me in; if I weren’t in the wheelchair, I would have timidly waited for the next train. This maneuvering may save a precious minute or even two. I’m already going to the gate sooner than the rest of you because I zipped through security, and now I have another one-up on you.

Once I get to the gate, the attendant stations my wheelchair and me by the jetway entrance. Let me assure you, because of its placement by the podium, anytime I need anything, I merely glance in their direction, and an agent scurries over, ready to help. It is absolutely divine.

While waiting for preboarding, I see you side-eyeing me, wondering how much sooner I’ll board the plane than you. I know you are assessing whether I deserve the special treatment I am getting. I do. I have no doubt. I am living my best life.

I know what you are thinking. You are thinking I have too much of a youthful glow. You’re sure you saw me use my left hand, and maybe you saw my foot twitch. You think I can’t possibly deserve this kind of special treatment. Or you may say to yourself, with a scoff, “Ah, she is wheelchair-bound; why does it matter if she gets on first or last?”

I don’t know if it matters, but I don’t care. I enjoy being the center of attention. If I were to get on last, someone might miss my procession onto the plane. When the agent announces that people who need extra time can preboard, I know they’re talking about me. My boarding pass always displays the magic words “eligible to preboard.” That means when the plane is cleared for boarding, an attendant will carefully push my wheelchair down the jetway right up to where it joins the plane. I stand up gingerly and take wobbly, tentative steps onto the plane, where a flight attendant typically waits to warn me to be careful and take my time. Oh, I will take my time, believe me.

And the perks don’t stop once I’m on the plane! I know some people have the ludicrous idea that one should only pack what they can lift, but what I am capable of lifting is a paperback, if it’s a slim one, so I know that idea does not apply to me. When I get to my seat, a flight attendant will ask me, knowing what an honor it is, if they might please help me hoist the suitcase into the bin. I allow it.

I assure you, this is all a flex. What you are seeing is basically the highlight reel of my life as a disabled person. It is one special treatment after another. For example, at work, I am the one with a doctor’s note saying I can attend mandatory meetings remotely, so while the rest of my colleagues have to get dressed and drive to work, I get to relax in my loungewear and sip a sparkly beverage. The sparkly beverage may or may not have a shot of vodka, and frankly, it’s nobody’s business if it does. Everyone is simply grateful I’m at the meeting.

And while you wallow in envy, don’t worry too much. It’s very likely that at some point in your life, a knee will go out, or you’ll have a heart attack or stroke, and you’ll get to experience this treatment for yourself.

Onward, in hope and solidarity,
Elizabeth

While I Oppose Sauron, I Would Rather Mordor Win Than Be Held Hostage by the Ents

Cezary Jan Strusiewicz — Thu, 22 Oct 2026 10:30:00 -0700

“Veteran Democratic strategist James Carville said he would rather see Republicans keep control of the House by five seats than watch Democrats win the chamber by the same margin, warning that a ‘nightmare’ razor-thin majority would leave party leaders ‘hostage to the DSA.’” — Mediaite

- - -

I’ve been hearing a lot of talk lately about how we need another last alliance of Men, Elves, and all the other races to defeat Sauron. Frankly, it’s the sort of idealistic dragonshit that makes me wonder whether anyone on Eru’s green Middle-earth even knows how real governing actually works.

Let me be perfectly clear: Nobody wants Sauron gone more than I do. I’ve spent thousands of years fighting the forces of darkness. I’ve faced Balrogs, battled Saruman, and had to start wearing white. You don’t want to know how easily a floor-length white robe gets dirty when you’re traveling on foot or on horseback. My anti-Sauron credentials are impeccable. He needs to go.

But we shouldn’t be willing to pay ANY price for it. Honestly, if we end up with 225 seats on the White Council, I would be disappointed. I would rather Sauron keep control of Middle-earth by five seats than have the Fellowship win by five, because then we’d be hostage to the Ents. And believe me, you DON’T want that.

These people… trees… whatever, are crazy radicals. Treebeard has been going around declaring that the forests belong to the creatures who actually live in them or actually are the forest. I never really got the difference between Ents and regular trees. Are trees like their ancestors or…? In any case, Treebeard is out there with his radical demands of restrictions on logging, unpolluted streams, and an effective end to ironworks. That is pure fantasy, and we cannot waste time on fantasy.

Look, I like Treebeard. Fine fellow. Very tall. Very beardy. We’ve worked together before. But there’s a difference between supporting the working creatures of Middle-earth and vesting them with power to change things and forge their own destiny. That’s not democracy! I don’t even know what that is, but it scares me, and it should scare you!

And now I’m hearing that the Ents want a say in rebuilding Isengard because they were the ones who actually defeated Saruman by putting themselves in harm’s way? This is exactly the kind of entitlement driving moderate Gondorians into the Dark Lord’s arms. And I’m starting to see their point. Yes, yes, Sauron wants to cover the lands in blood and darkness and slaughter thousands and, yes, there was that whole #MeToo thing with the Nazgûl. I’ve condemned all of that repeatedly… just not near anyone who could verify it. I’m a busy man. I run a successful firework business on the side, you know.

My point is that while I oppose Sauron, I’m also reminding everyone that Middle-earth is a complicated place. You can’t just wave a magic wand around and fix all of its problems. For one, you need a staff, and only we Wizards can use it, but I can’t because… something in The Silmarillion. It would be great if we could just defeat the shadow that dwells in Amon Amarth and go our merry little ways, but other factors are at play. What about siege-engine manufacturers who rely on lumber and need somewhere to dispose of their industrial sludge? Nobody ever talks about them. Don’t they count anymore?

The path forward is obvious. We let Sauron retain full power for another two years. Let the people experience a little more darkness while we clean house. Get our own ranks in order. Get rid of all those unity-chasing wackos that are tearing our Fellowship apart. Then we can return with a strong, sensible, moderate alliance that isn’t beholden to a bunch of radical trees demanding free sunlight.

Remember, our goal isn’t simply to defeat evil. It’s to defeat evil in a way that won’t force us to then listen to the people who helped us win.

Scavengers

Ali Fitzgerald — Thu, 22 Oct 2026 11:48:00 -0400

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.

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A Middle-Aged and World-Weary Emily Elizabeth Looks Back at Her Time with Clifford the Big, Red Dog

Lauren McDowell — Thu, 22 Oct 2026 08:00:00 -0400

“Clifford? The big red dog? Yeah, I knew him.”

“It says here you owned—” I said.

“My parents owned him,” she said, cutting me off, ashing her cigarette over my beer. “But you could say that I raised him. Well, I tried.”

She let out a huge wheeze that turned into a ragged cough. Some phlegm landed on the floor under the bar.

“You good?” I said.

She waved me off, “I don’t want to talk about Clif–”

“He’s dead, Emily Elizabeth,” I said.

She stared into her glass.

“So the reaper finally got the bastard,” she said, shaking her head. “I was starting to think he was immortal.”

- - -

“I was just a kid then. How could I have known the full extent of what he was?”

“A dog?” I said.

“A monster. And I became a refugee for harboring him,” she said. “My parents and I had to leave the greater metro area because of him—what, with a demolition unit at the end of our leash. Everywhere he went, a wall came down. Or somebody died.”

“Just how bad was the damage?”

“The governor threatened to declare a state of emergency and unleash special authorities to force Clifford out.”

“Which state legislature grants the governor–”

“You wouldn’t believe,” she said. “Another round, barkeep.”

- - -

“Once we got to the island, things were quieter,” she said.

“Was that because… I have it in my notes here that Clifford ‘ate all of Birdwell Island’s native wildlife populations’? And that a dozen people went missing.”

“I never said he was perfect, okay?” she said, slapping her open palms on the bar and sending her cigarette flying into the night. “Next question.”

“Was the ‘love’ you gave Clifford strictly legal?” I asked.

She looked like she could put a fork through my neck. “Are you messing with me?”

“What was it? ’Roids?” I asked.

“C’mon, it’s not the ’80s.”

“So, PEDs?”

“If PEDs contorted basic anatomical morphology to such a degree, then we’d be looking at a megafaunal sapien subspecies,” she said.

“Huh?”

“It was love, dammit,” she said.

I waited.

“Well, every lover I’ve ever had has suffered from rapid weight gain, anyway,” she said.

- - -

“What went wrong? Between you and Clifford?” I said.

“I’ve spent years wondering what he was,” she said.

“Retriever mix?” I suggested.

“Was it radiation? A genetic mutation? Some kind of anti-gravitational anomaly? The whole thing really freaked us out.” She sighed. “When he was big enough to hit the ceiling, my parents brought home a couple of shotguns. Just in case.”

“Did they ever use them?” I asked.

“Did they, or did I?” she said.

“What?”

“Of course I knew how to shoot. But did I ever mortally wound Clifford by unloading the contents of a shotgun into his big, red, dog-body? No. No, I didn’t. Not only was he big, but he also wouldn’t die.”

“You wanted to kill him?” I said.

“Dude, I literally couldn’t.”

“So you tried,” I said.

“He should’ve died when I was fourteen, not forty,” she said. “That’s the dog-owning contract. I spent every day of my young adult life busting my ass to provide for a dog the size of an eighteen-wheeler. On nights when I skimped, I was scared he’d eat me in my sleep.”

“You don’t look a day past thirty-nine,” I chirped.

“So, yeah, maybe I tried to take him out, humanely enough. Then he left,” she said. “Who got him? In the end?”

“No one. He took his own life.”

She shook her head, wistfully, then laughed. “So he figured it out for himself, that crazy bastard.”

Then, the dead-eyed KJ at the back of the bar leaned into his mic and droned, “Emily Elizabeth, you’re up.”

She picked up her beer and chugged it.

- - -

“Wait a minute, you’re really filling out your shirt, aren’t you?” she said.

“So rude,” I said.

“Ugh. It’s happening fast,” she said.

“What? What’s happening?”

The KJ called out again, “Last call, Emily Elizabeth.”

“You’re… growing.” She looked at me with longing, and, to my great discomfort, eyes that could only be described as puppy-dog eyes. “I can’t stop it, my… my love.”

“Excuse me?” I said, eyeing my gut for what looked like some significant bloating. “What the hell?”

“Go. Get out of here. Before it’s too late,” she said, then climbed onto the karaoke stage, grabbed the microphone, and sang the most devastating cover humanly possible of the PBS Kids Clifford the Big Red Dog theme song.

Whatever Happened to the Good Old-Fashioned Racist Attack Ad?

Jack Loftus — Wed, 21 Oct 2026 19:30:00 -0400

“Vivek Ramaswamy’s campaign for Ohio governor is pouring $4 million into a bombshell ad in which his opponent’s estranged mother attacks her daughter—doubling down on the message despite fierce bipartisan backlash.” — Axios

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Remember me? Of course you do. I’m the infamous Willie Horton ad from the 1988 presidential election. C’mon, America, you know the one. I helped George H. W. Bush defeat Michael Dukakis by exploiting white America’s fear of Black men committing violent crimes. One ominous mugshot, a few carefully cherry-picked facts about a prison furlough program, and suddenly a Massachusetts governor was personally responsible for every white suburban mother’s worst nightmare. And the best part? We never even had to mention race. The audience supplied that themselves, free of charge.

They said I was racist. Reprehensible. Some even called me a turning point in American political history. And here I am, nearly forty years later, looking back with wistful fondness on a time when political ads had at least the appearance of higher standards. When a man could exploit the racial anxieties of an entire nation and still be welcomed into polite society, provided he remembered to couch it as a debate about public safety.

Oh, we had our fun. Lee Atwater was a master of the craft, a man who understood you could appeal to the American electorate’s ugliest instincts while staying just far enough away to earn the admiration of people who considered themselves above it. Racism was something you insinuated, preferably through an independent expenditure group with a reassuringly patriotic name. You didn’t need to say the quiet part out loud. You simply placed a Black man’s face on television, mentioned a horrific crime, and let millions of white voters reach their own conclusions. We trusted the audience back then!

And what a marvelous arrangement it was. Everyone understood their role. We did the dirty work, the candidate maintained their dignity, and the voters got to indulge their prejudices while insisting they didn’t have a racist bone in their bodies. It was practically a public service.

I suppose every generation thinks the next has lost its way, but there’s so little artistry to it anymore. We used to spend months figuring out how to make racism look like a perfectly legitimate concern about municipal governance. But watching the modern Republican Party practice its particular brand of political advertising, I sometimes wonder whether we inadvertently inspired a generation of young men who mistook our lack of conscience for a lack of imagination.

Take young Vivek Ramaswamy. His latest contribution to the proud tradition of Republican rage baiting has caused quite a stir in Ohio. I won’t trouble you with the particulars, except to say that even I, a commercial whose entire purpose was to terrify white people into voting Republican, would have suggested a few revisions. Perhaps a different spokesperson. Maybe a moment’s consideration for the underlying subject matter, or a quick jaunt to the library to review public court records on the ol’ microfilm machine. At the very least, the decency to pretend someone else came up with the idea.

But that’s old hat. Ramaswamy proudly took credit and committed $4 million to spreading the ad throughout Ohio like a manure truck making its rounds through the nation’s most fertile fields of resentment. We’ve gone from plausible deniability to mandatory attribution.

Still, I shouldn’t complain. We were pioneers, after all. We helped demonstrate that an independently funded attack ad could exploit America’s oldest prejudices, change the course of an election, and leave the candidate with relatively clean hands. We opened a door that the Republican Party has spent the intervening decades enthusiastically kicking off its hinges. It would be churlish of me to resent the younger generation for exploring the possibilities.

What troubles me most, though, is how little pretense anyone requires anymore. We once took great pains to conceal the ugliness of what we were doing. Today, the ugliness itself appears to be the selling point. Political consultants have apparently discovered that the voters we once worked so hard to manipulate are perfectly comfortable being shown something ghastly—something like, oh, I dunno, just spitballing here, a paralyzed man’s live-streamed execution by firing squad.

Why Get Romantic with AI When You Can Message Your High School Ex-Boyfriends at 9:30 p.m. on a Wednesday?

Jasmine Mote — Wed, 21 Oct 2026 12:22:00 -0400

I don’t mean to sound old fashioned, but I just don’t get the appeal of having a romantic relationship with AI. If you want to interact with someone with vague intentions and the prospect of nonthreatening romantic tension, do the proper thing and message your high school ex-boyfriends instead. AI companies are run by white dudes, so the fact that all of your exes are white (the result of going to high school in rural Southwest Ohio) means the experiences will be basically identical.

Instead of doing dishes after your kids go to bed and while your husband plays Magic: The Gathering online in his home office, treat yourself to the thrill of tracking down your freshman-year boyfriend, Zach. You know, the one who played Lynyrd Skynyrd when you made out in his dad’s garage and was intimidated when your practice ACT score was ten points higher than his. He may have asked you out in an ICQ instant message, calling himself a “punk rocker who dreams too much,” but as a grown man, he’s apparently too good for social media.

After some googling, you find Zach’s wedding website to a woman named Sarah. They got married in Nashville at what looks like a suspenders-and-mason-jar themed reception. Is it creepy to message him from a page that hasn’t been updated since 2013? You decide it is not.

ChatGPT was created in 2022, but your ex-boyfriends were around for 9/11. Like Cody, who joined the National Guard, spent two tours in Afghanistan, and has a public Instagram account. Who needs AI-generated “this is what it felt like in the 2000s” reels when Cody is still bashing George W. Bush and posting about Saves the Day? You slide into his DMs.

Then there’s Ryan, your senior-year boyfriend who some friends always thought was too “popular” for you. (Actually, it was just Kristen. Fuck you, Kristen. You were just jealous because your boyfriend never made varsity soccer.) While AI will save your chat history and use your responses to help you figure out that, sure, the Kia EV9 can probably comfortably fit your kids and your dog, you have decades of sporadic emails with Ryan. You look through your Gmail and notice it’s been four years since you last randomly wished him a happy birthday, so you send him a message too.

While a chatbot would respond instantaneously, you get to ride your high for the next month as messages from ex-boyfriends trickle in. Cody responds the next day with, “Oh wow, been ages, how r u?” You admit this sounds a bit robotic, but, hey, a chatbot never fingered you in his parents’ basement while the DVD menu for Leonardo DiCaprio’s The Beach played in the background, so you figure you owe him a response. #NeverForget. He doesn’t write back.

Zach responds two weeks later, nervously laughing through text (“heheheh”) about how you found him. He spends a paragraph talking about his life as a museum curator and how no, he’s not in a band anymore, but he still fiddles around with his guitar from time to time, thanks for asking (you didn’t). He doesn’t ask you a single question about your life. When you write back and mention his wife, he stops responding. Only a human man could be so awkward and enticingly withholding at the same time.

Ryan responds in a multi-paragraph email about how his family moved from New Jersey to Pennsylvania this past year. He’s been unemployed since his sales company downsized two years ago, and while he likes being a stay-at-home dad to his two kids, he misses having more texture in his days. He and his wife were in a rough spot after the move, but couples therapy has helped, and they’re better now, though the pressure she feels to be the family’s sole breadwinner takes a toll on both of them. He says how nice it is to hear from you and asks genuinely heartfelt questions about your dad’s health (a little better) and your mom’s obsession with crystals (she’s moved on to fossils now). He talks about feeling lonelier than ever, but it doesn’t feel inappropriate.

You’re struck by his vulnerability and honesty, as if no time has passed, and you’re transported back to that teenage version of yourself, filled with hope and a longing you can’t quite articulate. You write back an equally long email, saying you also feel a bit lost as you approach turning forty. You reflect on how meaningful this authentic connection feels, and how perhaps so many ills in our post-capitalist world exist because moments like these are intentionally withheld from a populace starving for them.

Then a few days later Chad messages you on Facebook, the guy you saw for a few weeks during your junior year and you had to drive around after he got his license suspended from a DWI for marijuana possession. He sends you a picture of Death Cab for Cutie’s Transatlanticism on vinyl (timestamp: 1:57 a.m.) and says the album always reminded him of you, and asks, “Hey, do you ever find yourself in the Indianapolis area these days?”

On second thought, how much is a Claude Pro Plan again?

Ghostface Asks: “What’s Your Favorite Albert Brooks Movie?”

Jonathan Zeller — Wed, 21 Oct 2026 08:00:00 -0400

2026 marks the thirtieth anniversary of the original Scream movie. The blockbuster is a horror classic and has spawned a franchise that continues to produce new installments to this day, but its original screenplay would have produced a film totally unrecognizable to those who know and love Scream. For the first time, we’re publishing the opening scene of the script before it was revised to meet studio notes.

INT. SUBURBAN HOME
The phone rings. CASEY, a balding, nebbish forty-five-year-old film nerd, picks it up as he’s heating popcorn on the stove.

GHOSTFACE
(In a deep, menacing voice)
What’s that sound?

CASEY
Popcorn.

GHOSTFACE
You’re making popcorn? I only eat popcorn at the Angelika Film Center.

CASEY
I’m getting ready to watch an Albert Brooks movie.

GHOSTFACE
Do you like Albert Brooks movies?

CASEY
Uh-huh.

GHOSTFACE
What’s your favorite Albert Brooks movie?

CASEY
Uh—I don’t know.

GHOSTFACE
You have to have a favorite! What comes to mind?

CASEY
Um—Lost in America. You know, the one about the yuppie couple who quit their jobs and decide to travel the country in an RV?

GHOSTFACE
Yeah.

CASEY
What’s yours?

GHOSTFACE
Guess.

CASEY
Hmm—Defending Your Life?

GHOSTFACE
The one where a guy goes through a bureaucratic process to figure out whether he gets into heaven?

CASEY
Yeah. It’s Albert Brooks and Meryl Streep.

GHOSTFACE
Eh. I thought that one was too sentimental. I like the existentially scary ones.

CASEY
Okay. What about Broadcast News?

GHOSTFACE
I don’t consider that an Albert Brooks movie.

CASEY
Drive?

GHOSTFACE
Stop.

CASEY
Finding Nemo?

GHOSTFACE
It’s not an Albert Brooks movie just because he appears in it. He has to have written and directed it.

CASEY
Let’s agree to disagree.

GHOSTFACE
What’s your name?

CASEY
Why do you want to know my name?

GHOSTFACE
Because I want to know the name of the supposed Albert Brooks fan who doesn’t even know what an Albert Brooks movie is.

CASEY
I’m gonna go.

GHOSTFACE
Don’t hang up on me.

CASEY hangs up and moves back toward the popcorn. The phone rings again. He sighs and picks up.

CASEY
What?

GHOSTFACE
I told you not to hang up on me.

CASEY
What do you want?

GHOSTFACE
To talk about one of the most underappreciated comic filmmakers of the twentieth century.

CASEY
Dial someone else, okay?

CASEY hangs up and walks back toward the popcorn, which is still popping. The phone rings again, and he picks it up.

CASEY
Listen, asshole.

GHOSTFACE
No, you listen. We’re going to play a game: The Muse trivia.

CASEY
And what if I don’t want to play?

GHOSTFACE
Who wouldn’t want to play The Muse trivia? My first question is about cameos.

CASEY
I don’t want to.

GHOSTFACE
Sure, you don’t need my stupid trivia game. Because I have to crank call looking for Albert Brooks fans, but you’re a happy person.

CASEY
Am I happy?

GHOSTFACE
You should never ask “Am I happy?” Don’t you watch Albert Brooks movies? It’s a death wish. You’ll wind up more miserable than you’ve ever been. You might as well quit your perfectly fine job or preemptively break up with your steady girlfriend.

CASEY
Modern Romance! That was a good one.

GHOSTFACE
You know Modern Romance, but you guessed that my favorite was Finding Nemo?

CASEY
Mother is good too. Have you seen that one?

GHOSTFACE
Of course. I almost moved back in with my own mother to figure out why I can’t stop making menacing phone calls to people I could just be friends with.

CASEY
Do you want to start over? We could watch Annie Hall.

GHOSTFACE
No! That was Woody Allen! You said you were a fan of Albert Brooks!

The popcorn is now overflowing from the pan.

CASEY
I’m going to take a walk.

CASEY exits his front door. GHOSTFACE grabs him and stabs him to death in a rage over his confusing combination of Albert Brooks–related knowledge and ignorance.

GHOSTFACE
(In rhythm with each stab)
22! 22! 22! 22!

Casey drops to the ground, dead. Blood soaks into the object he dropped—a paperback copy of Albert Brooks’s novel, 2030.

Recommendations from Robert Kennedy Jr.’s Women’s Health Task Force

Miriam Jayaratna, Emily Flake, and Wendi Aarons — Tue, 20 Oct 2026 16:34:00 -0700

“President Donald Trump on Monday signed an executive order aiming to bolster women’s health… The order includes the creation of a Women’s Health Task Force… The task force will be headed by White House chief of staff Susie Wiles and Health and Human Services Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr.”
— Yahoo News

- - -

Some women have health. Others, not so much. This is due to the varying fluoride levels in tap water.

Watching a man in tight jeans bang out fifty shirtless push-ups is 95 percent more effective at disease prevention than a Pap smear.

There is a well-established link between scented panty liners and autism.

All mentions of women’s breasts will be officially changed to “honkers.”

Menopausal women are advised to just walk into the sea.

Endometriosis is what happens when Tylenol accumulates in the uterine lining.

Condoms harm women’s vaginas by making it impossible for men to come.

In lieu of mammograms, text the head of the task force a pic of your honkers.

At the onset of menses, every young woman will receive a free pamphlet on the benefits of felching.

Miscarriages will be reclassified as “thought-induced abortions” and prosecuted accordingly.

Sunlight is nature’s vaccine. Fresh air is nature’s Prozac. Heroin is nature’s birth control.

The lady cancers (ovarian, uterine, cervical, honkers, vulvar, long hair) will be renamed as “Yes, you can, sirs,” to reduce the carcinogenic effects of feminism.

Couples considering IVF will be directed to divorce, so that the man can find a younger, more fertile, less bitchy mate.

Babies shall not be delivered without a male doctor present. If it was good enough for Rosemary Kennedy, it’s good enough for all American babies.

Postpartum depression isn’t real, but if it were, it wouldn’t be anything a proper honker squeeze couldn’t cure.

Brain worm want know if lady brain worm?

Women unsatisfied with their healthcare should just shut the fuck up.

I Am the World’s Most Annoying Website

Nick DiLallo — Tue, 20 Oct 2026 12:43:00 -0400

Welcome. So excited you’re here.

I’d love to tell you what I’m all about, but first I’ll need to access your camera and microphone. Don’t overthink it. I just want to give you the best experience, and that means being able to see and hear you at all times.

Next, please accept all 217 cookies. I know it sounds like a lot. But hey, some of them aren’t even mine. Sixteen are for my parent company. Two are for a marketing vendor that closed in 2017. Click ACCEPT ALL. Or look for faint gray text in the disclaimer that says CUSTOMIZE, then uncheck everything one by one. It’s really simple.

Great. Now, what country are you from? Here, use this dropdown of 195 countries, alphabetized (kinda), with no search bar, no autocomplete, and a scrollbar that doesn’t work. I’ll use your answer to set the currency, then get it wrong. And no matter what you choose, you’ll see a shipping policy that doesn’t apply to you.

Okay, next up, your email. So you can get the latest updates. What updates? All of them. Tuesday: an email about our company vision. Or was it the company mission? Either way, it uses the word “accelerate” a lot. Thursday: a resend of Tuesday’s email, with the subject line “Did you see this?” There’s no visible unsubscribe link, since it’s white on white. But hover over it, and it’ll show up. Fun, right? Answer seven questions to opt out. I’ll use your answers to send more emails.

Here comes the best part—spin the wheel. It’s a game. (Legal disclaimer: It’s not a game.) Ooh, so close. You landed on FREE GIFT, which, mysteriously, doesn’t load. Spin again. There you go: 10 percent off. I’ll send the coupon code within ten business days.

Wait a second. Did you hear something? That was me. A fun little ping to let you know I’m here. Don’t worry if you missed it. You’ll hear lots of pings from now on, since I do this every ninety seconds or so. There’s no way to turn the pings off for now, but I’m working on it. Look out for a beta release soon. You’ll get emails about it.

All right, we’ve hit the home stretch. Time to create an account. Why do you need an account? I already told you: for the best experience. Just enter a password. Make it stronger. Now make it weaker. You know what, continue with Google, where I’ll request your calendar, contacts, and YouTube watch history.

I also need you to turn off that ad blocker, VPN, and anything else that makes the internet close to usable. Then verify your phone number so that I can text you on Sunday afternoons. Accept our Terms of Service—all sixty-three pages of it. And set your notification preferences across seven categories. One of them can’t be turned off.

I know you’ve already done nineteen things, but can you verify you’re human? Click on the stairs. Nope. Click on the stairs. Correct. That was also the stairs. I needed to see you do it twice. Now click on the motorcycle. There isn’t one.

Account created! Let’s set it up. This part is three steps, but it’s actually twelve. Step four asks you to choose your avatar’s eyebrows. Step ten asks for a weirdly personal security question: “Who was your first heartbreak?”

Oh, that little guy bouncing in the corner? That’s Chip. You don’t have to talk to him now, because he’ll stay there forever. He’ll even say things like “Still there? ” if it’s been eight seconds and your cursor hasn’t moved. Yup, that’s an X in the corner of Chip’s window. The X is decorative.

Orientation time. Watch this video from three years ago. It’ll autoplay, with no visible pause button and a scrubber that doesn’t respond. The video only lasts ninety-four seconds. But know that it’ll reload at least twice.

And… you’re in! Welcome. So excited you’re here.

But I’m not available right now.

Want to join the waitlist?