McSweeney’s

Imagined Conversations Between My Parents While on a Family Vacation

Anthony DeThomas — Fri, 07 Aug 2026 13:00:00 -0400

MOM: I’m going to the front desk. I want to embarrass our adult children.

DAD: I was just there to do exactly that by getting a ridiculous number of washcloths that we won’t use.

MOM: Perfect. I’ll ask for a problematic number of towels and a pillow with impossible attributes.

DAD: Don’t forget to take your walking sticks and that terrible hat you purchased for this trip.

MOM (already wearing the terrible hat): Way ahead of you, dear.

- - -

DAD: This hiking trail is so breathtaking and peaceful. Let’s ask everyone we see where they’re from.

MOM: Great. Then we’ll never make it to the viewpoint.

DAD: Are we going to physically struggle even though we asked to do this specific hike?

MOM: Yes. I’ll make a scene about my knee and say I’m light-headed. Just make sure you don’t drink any water.

DAD: What water? I didn’t bring a drop of water.

MOM: You’re going to be dehydrated and will legitimately need help. This is exactly how we wanted this to go.

DAD: Yes, but are we doing enough to make us late for the special dinner reservation the kids made?

MOM: You’re right. I’ll sit down immediately and have a hot flash.

- - -

DAD: I’m glad I wore my laceless step-in shoes to this high-end dinner.

MOM: And I’m glad I have a matching pair that I’m also wearing.

DAD: How hard of hearing should we be throughout this meal?

MOM: Let’s alternate randomly between not at all and very.

DAD: Perfect. Then you can yell-ask our children when they’re planning to have children.

RESTAURANT MANAGER: Someone said you needed to see me?

DAD: Yes, I want you to turn up all of the lights in the dining room so I can see things better.

MOM: Also, I’m cold. And very warm.

RESTAURANT MANAGER: Okay, I will check on you a lot throughout your entire meal. Anything else?

MOM: Yes, can my husband ask you questions about the construction of this building when he gets up to walk around while the rest of our family is still eating?

RESTAURANT MANAGER: Yes, but I don’t know anything about that.

DAD: Perfect.

- - -

DAD: I never thought I’d be in a hot-air balloon watching the sun set. This is a perfect moment.

MOM: Yes, it is. Let’s tell the kids about your follow-up appointment with the cardiologist.

DAD: Okay. But make it sound worse than it is.

MOM: Of course. Then I’ll make a speech about how much I’ve enjoyed this time with our family in front of the guy operating the hot-air balloon.

DAD: Great. I’ll record a video of your speech from really close to your face.

MOM: Do you think we’ll ever get more embarrassing than this?

DAD: God, I hope so, but let’s just focus on making this perfectly nice trip humiliating.

MOM: You’re right. Let’s ask the kids to drive us to the airport really early tomorrow.

DAD: But our flight isn’t tomorrow.

MOM: I know.

(Both parents laugh and then kiss in a way everyone can hear.)

The AI Pictures of Dorian Gray

Dan Hass — Fri, 07 Aug 2026 05:00:00 -0700

The following prompts were submitted to an image-generation service over the course of a century. The user has since been suspended.

Prompt 1
Create a timeless late-Victorian oil painting of the most beautiful boy in the world (me). Comely features. Lovely. Fair. Debonair and aristocratic. Use only the finest materials—expensive primers, paints, rare pigments—to conjure an illusion of wealth. A cursed, opulent portrait sucking up every wrinkle that would otherwise ravage my flawless, eternally youthful complexion.

Prompt 2
Refine this self-portrait of Dorian Gray (socialite, dandy, patron of the arts, hedonist). Touch up silvering temples. Darken eyebrows. Add a silk ascot to cover the rumpled, crepe-like folds on his hideous neck. Remove acne. Remove crow’s feet. Remove any visible signs of aging. Luxury aesthetic. Visible brushwork. Editorial.

Prompt 3
Generate a high-quality image of Dorian Gray as a muscular championship boxer. Full head of hair (no bald patch, no widow’s peak). Impressive physique. Thick mustache. Big, bulging biceps and an equally bulging bulge.

Prompt 4
Generate a young actress in profile, Sibyl. Doe-eyed. Devoted. Ditzy, but in a sexy way. Gazing fondly at me like I’m the last gentleman in London. Behind the trollop: an elegant, nouveau riche background (so if I want, I can remove her later without disrupting the composition).

Prompt 5
Turn this charcoal sketch of my friend Henry into a full-length photorealistic portrait. High detail. Generous proportions. Maximum quality. 4K. 8K.16K.

Prompt 6
Remove Henry’s doublet. Also his trousers. Keep this our little secret.

Prompt 7
Update the background so that Henry is no longer in a ballroom, but alone, helpless, and in an isolated environment. Perhaps locked in an upstairs bedroom. Atmospheric. Dramatic lighting. The mood is distinctly European. Discreet.

Prompt 8
In the style of Rembrandt, re-render this attached portrait of Dorian Gray (heir, aesthete, man of leisure, prime suspect). He should look middle-aged, but not unattractive. Brighten teeth. Reduce pores. Correct drooping eyelid. Shave earlobes.

Prompt 9
No. Redo the previous image. This is not a stylization request. Restore his boyish good looks, prominent cheekbones, and bouncing buttocks. Make him gorgeous. Make him skinny. Make him twenty. I will pay for the premium subscription. I will pay for the enterprise tier. I will pay in the souls of innocent children—just please, for the love of God, make me young again.

Prompt 10
Generate an oil painting of a wretched, aging geriatric on the verge of death. Gaunt. Decaying. Disgusting. Sagging jowls. Hunched back. Hefty paunch. Bit of a lazy eye. Spectacled, with liver-spot-speckled skin. A bleached, corpse-like pallor. Jaundiced extremities. Sallow complexion. His haunted, hollow stare implies a life of wasted, wanton youth (though he remains London’s most eligible bachelor).

Heat Advisory

Tom Ellison — Thu, 06 Aug 2026 13:00:00 -0400

NATIONAL WEATHER SERVICE

EXTREME HEAT ALERT

///BULLETIN BEGINS///

… ALERT… ALERT… ALERT…

… BE ADVISED: EXTREME HEAT AND HUMIDITY POSE SEVERE RISKS TO HEALTH AND CRITICAL INFRASTRUCTURE ACROSS THE REGION FOR THE NEXT 48 TO 72 HOURS…

… SAFETY GUIDANCE: CITIZENS ARE ADVISED TO EXERCISE CAUTION AND KEEP WELL-HYDRAT-…

… ARE CITIZENS LISTENING?…

… THIS IS SERIOUS… BACK SWEAT WILL BE THE LEAST OF CITIZENS’ CONCERNS… THESE HEAT INDEXES WILL KILL CITIZENS’ ASSES DEAD…

… MORE THAN 40 DEGREES CELSIUS CAN CAUSE RIOTS… MELT RUNWAYS… DISABLE NUCLEAR POWER PLANTS…

… PLUS, IT WILL GET PRETTY STICKY AND SMELLY… NOT GREAT FOR CITIZENS’ SENSORY ISSUES…

… YES, 104 IN “REGULAR DEGREES”…

… CITIZENS ARE RIGHT, IT’S NOT A HURRICANE… IT’S ACTUALLY WAY WORSE THAN A HURRICANE… HEAT KILLS HALF A MILLION PEOPLE ANNUALLY… MORE PEOPLE THAN ALL OTHER CLIMATE DISASTERS COMBINED…

… NOT THAT YOU HEAR THAT FROM JAKE HAWKINS, METRO POST STORM TEAM… THAT NEPO BABY WITH HIS LEATHER JACKET AND HIS DOPPLER RADAR…

… SAFETY GUIDANCE: CITIZENS SHOULD REMAIN INSIDE IN AIR CONDITIONING… REMEMBER WHEN CITIZENS STAYED IN THEIR APARTMENT FOR 41 STRAIGHT HOURS IN 2018?… AND THAT WAS JUST TO BINGE BETTER CALL SAUL…

… OKAY… CITIZENS WERE ALSO PRETTY DEPRESSED…

… PLEASE TELL ME THOSE AREN’T RUNNING CLOTHES… NOW SUDDENLY CITIZENS ARE FITNESS JUNKIES?… CITIZENS BETTER HAVE A TREADMILL SOMEWHERE BACK THERE…

… OKAY… SORRY FOR OVERREACTING… YES, ATHLEISURE IS COMFY WHEN THE HOUSE GETS HOT… BUT THE POINT STANDS…

… ANYWAY… IT’S NOT CITIZENS’ FAULT… EVERY GOVERNMENT, CORPORATION, AND MEDIA OUTLET IS COOKING CITIZENS ALIVE AND SAYING IT’S TIME FOR A FRO-YO PARTY…

…CITIZENS COULD CONSULT THE NEWS FOR UPDATED HEAT WAVE COVERAGE… BUT THE PHOTOS ARE ALL BIKINI BABES HAVING WATER BALLOON FIGHTS…

…THE IMAGERY SHOULD BE HALF-INCINERATED GRANDMAS… BUT NEWSPAPERS ARE ALL OWNED BY COWARDS, GHOULS, AND PERVERTS…

… SAFETY GUIDANCE: CITIZENS ARE ADVISED TO GOOGLE “METRO POST OWNER RICHARD HAWKINS YACHT ORGY EXXON SPONSORED CONTENT”…

… ANYWAY… BE ADVISED OR WHATEVER: THOSE AT HIGH RISK INCLUDE OUTDOOR WORKERS, THE DISABLED, PREGNANT PEOPLE, OLD PEOPLE, YOUNG PEOPLE, ANYONE WITH CARDIOVASCULAR CONDITIONS, ANYONE ON MEDICATION, ANYONE IN DENSE URBAN AREAS, ANYONE WHO IS POOR, PETS…

… BASICALLY EVERYONE BUT MARK ZUCKERBERG…

… ONE WOULD HOPE EVEN MARK CARES WHETHER HIS PUPPY COMBUSTS… BUT INSTAGRAM JUST SERVED CITIZENS AN AI WEATHERMAN SAYING HEAT WAVES ARE CAUSED BY TRANSGENDER SOLAR FLARES… SO DON’T GET CITIZENS’ HOPES…

…

… SORRY… ZONED OUT THERE… EXTREME HEAT CAN UNDERMINE COGNITION, CAUSE BURSTS OF RAGE, AND EVEN UNDERMINE COGNITION…

… CITIZENS ARE ADVISED TO CALL THEIR SENATORS…

… CITIZENS ARE ADVISED TO GOOGLE “CARBON FOOTPRINT BY WEALTH”…

… CITIZENS ARE ADVISED TO RISE UP AND FREE THEMSELVES FROM THE SUICIDE PACT OF FOSSIL CAPITAL!…

… SAFETY GUIDANCE: DONATE CITIZENS’ 401(K) TO THE SUNRISE MOVEMENT…

… SLASH THE TIRES ON A CHEVY TAHOE…

… SABOTAGE THE WHITE HOUSE AIR CONDITIONING…

… USE A BURNER PHONE TO GOOGLE “MARK ZUCKERBERG HOME ADDRESS”…

… ORGANIZE CITIZENS’ FRIENDS INTO COMPARTMENTED CELLS FOR OPERATIONAL SECURITY…

… BRING ME THE HEAD OF METRO POST OWNER RICHARD HAWKINS…

… BE ADVISED: SIMPLE EXPLOSIVES CAN BE MADE BY MIXING THE FOLLOWING HOUSEHOLD INGREDIENTS: ONE PART HYDROG-…

///BULLETIN ENDS///

Things I Hope People Would Say at My Funeral

McKayley Gourley — Thu, 06 Aug 2026 05:00:00 -0700

“How sure are we that she’s dead? Should we double-check just to be safe? I know for a fact that she would not want to be buried alive.”

“My dog wasn’t chill with anyone, but he was chill with her.”

“She was never weird in conversation, and even if she was, I have no recollection of it.”

“Does anyone know where she got her shirt from?”

“I’m a pastor, and I can safely say I’ve never seen a sadder funeral than this one. She was objectively the most loved person ever to live.”

“You’re not better than her just because you’re alive, you know. Death comes for us all.”

“She kind of makes being dead look chic. Sorry, is that weird to say?”

“Would either of her parents like to say a few words? Yeah, they’re still kicking. They somehow made it to 140 and outlived her.”

“If there aren’t any more seats available, just stand in the back. And if the back fills up, just spill out the door of the church into the street.”

“Kind of crazy that this is the last time we’ll all see each other, since she was the glue that held us all together, and none of us can even fathom hanging out without her.”

“I’m going to Dunkin’. Does anyone want anything? Okay, yeah, she’s definitely dead. Alive her would never not answer that.”

FAQ About “Conjunctions,” Our Dating App for Copy Editors

Daniel Nolan — Wed, 05 Aug 2026 13:00:00 -0400

How do I like a profile?
Please highlight what you like and add a query.

How do I dislike a profile?
Please use track changes.

What if I disliked a profile by accident?
Write “stet.”

Are you hiring freelancers?
No.

Can I end my “About me” section with a preposition?
Doing so will make you someone out with whom dates will not go.

What are some good date ideas for copy editors?
For clarity, we recommend MM/DD/YYYY.

What does the AP Stylebook say about sex on the first date?
Sex on the first date should not be capitalized, unless it comes as a huge surprise, in which case it should read as “SEX ON THE FIRST DATE??”

Do I need a hyphen in “sex-pest”?
You should not be using that word in your profile.

Are you hiring freelancers now?
We will never hire you.

How do I know if I contracted an STD?
STD is an initialism, not a contraction.

What if more people have been on dates than I have?
Rephrase?

Can I use British spellings?
It’s not our favourite.

I just wanted to offer my freelance services for a small fee.
That’s not a question.

Can you check my colon usage?
We’re not doctors.

How can I know if I got my date pregnant?
Proofread their messages carefully. Did they miss a period?

My date told me they’re disinterested. Should I assume they’re also uninterested?
You’re just showing off now.

Will I ever find love?
Yes. Our style guide is organized alphabetically, so “love” can be found between “louche” and “lowbrow.” Unfortunately, our algorithms indicate you will die alone.

An Open Letter to Ted Lasso with Some Gosh-Darn Hard Questions for the Upcoming Season

Pam O'Hara — Wed, 05 Aug 2026 08:00:00 -0400

Dear Ted Lasso,

With your new season coming out, I thought you’d like some storyline advice from a non-Emmy-winning, suicide-surviving, journaling-through-the-pain, amateur writer mom. We can be pent-up-feelings pals.

I’m beyond grateful that in the first three seasons, you and the army of emotionally courageous people constructing you were willing to share that your father died by suicide. That big reveal in season 2 changed my life, and the life of my Hotspurs-loving preteen son, whose father died the same way yours did two years before that episode aired.

I have to tell you, because I morbidly dove down this rabbit hole not long after my husband passed, that the character in most movies whose parent unalived themself is the character holding the bloody knife. The one who is decidedly effed up. So thank you for putting a new slaphappy, mustachioed face on this particularly complex level of trauma survival. I used to hate mustaches.

But you left something out. You forgot to include the weighty user’s manual explaining how you went from the chipmunk-cheeked teenager who walked in on his dad’s self-inflicted carnage to the doggedly compassionate father, coach, and friend you became. I need to know the torturous moments that came in between. I have three kids who do, too.

And so I have some questions for you.

I get that you were angry with your mom for pretending life was okay after your father’s death, but how much talking about it did you want her to do? Daily? Weekly? Monthly? Would you rather that she only bring him up in sad moments? Maybe when you lost a game or tore an ACL?

Perhaps a safer time for a mention would be after a game-winning goal? Or would that be a downer? If she tossed out a quick “Boy, Daddy would be proud” comment as you Freddie Mercury-ed your way through “We Are the Champions,” would that bite the dust?

Would you have preferred a text message instead? Maybe an “OMG ur irl da GOAT” trying to mimic your father’s playful attempts at teen slang. Or would your mom’s dad joke have been a clunker?

If she did brave the conversation, should she have used a solemn tone, or would that seem weird since your dad was such a gregarious guy? Maybe a soft smile to make sure you knew she still had good feelings for your dad, but not so toothy that you thought she didn’t care. How hard it must have been for her to read the room and write the script all at the same time.

What about the bigger occasions like your graduation or your wedding? Did you want your mom to mention him then? Maybe something on the shallow end of deep, such as “Your dad always dreamed of this day”? Or would that kill the mood? Maybe she should write a touching message on a card instead. Or wrap a meaningful gift from a place you two visited together. Would a ghost-given present creep you out?

Did it make you uncomfortable for her to mention your dad when your friends were around? Did it make them uncomfortable? Maybe if she kept mental track of the ones who already knew how your dad died, she would not reveal some unexpected truth on the way to club practice.

Did your mother feel the need to represent your father’s opinion in your life? Play both good cop and bad cop. Did that make her feel split in half to the point of almost breaking?

Did your mom share her favorite parts of your father? The way he would listen to her tearful retelling of some hard decision at work and say all the right things to make her feel strong and sure again. Would hearing these special moments, the things that only she, and then you, would know about, make you feel closer to him or sadder for him?

Should she share her least favorite parts of your father? The cracks she saw in his surface. Not the big ones that split your lives apart, but the little ones that were happening all along. That happen to all people all along. Like his compulsive need to eliminate food waste by eating every seed, core, stem, rind, or stalk. Would that make you love or fear dragonfruit?

I heard you, Ted. I heard you tell your mother that you wanted her to talk about the hard truth of your father’s death. And I’m right there with you. Airing the reality of mental health struggles is vital. People die when we don’t. Talking about depression would have helped your father. It would have helped my son’s father. But dang, that’s a tough lifetime of conversations. And I’m afraid the montage version of your upbringing has left me with too many questions. I understand that you and your dozens of astoundingly talented storytelling friends have moved on to new projects, new topics, new problems to solve. But some of us are still grappling with the old one. The monstrously difficult-to-survive one.

And we could use some award-winning help figuring it out.

Sincerely,
Pam

Subscription Tiers for Truth API, President Trump’s New Premium Data Feed

Nick Windham — Tue, 04 Aug 2026 19:30:00 -0400

“For a fee of up to $100,000 a month, trading firms can access ‘Truth API’ to get a glimpse of the president’s often market-moving announcements about economic policy and global affairs before the rest of the world.” — NPR

- - -

Truth API is the premier platform for breaking news, market insights, and PSAs (Paywalled Safety Announcements) from the executive branch. We offer a variety of plans that fit any business need.

Freedom+ (with Ads)
$100K/mo

Microsecond faster access to all posts, rants, and rambles
Unlimited AI video downloads for offline viewing
Option to add up to 3 future co-defendants to account
Customized 90-second unskippable dick pill ads
Cancel anytime¹

Freedom+
$250K/mo

Everything in Ad-supported
Reduced dick pill ads to 80 seconds
4,500 monthly credits or tokens or some shit

Kalshi Connector
Integrated prediction markets ensure insider trades make it outside traditional securities.

Celebrity Fall Pass
List of famous enemies & inexplicable reason for upcoming one-sided public feud.

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Everything in Freedom+
Revenue sharing (yours with us)
Access to exclusive insider events and humiliation rituals

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Premium investment opportunities that scramble if you’re the scheme’s perpetrator, victim, or both.

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Tax-free advice of great import.

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Purchase ‘Premium’ tier or higher before the smoke clears and receive these summer features:

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Company shoutout during 3 a.m. marathon of meme coin and rug pull endorsements.

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Vote in presidential finsta polls on upcoming military intervention and strike targets.²

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Push notifications for impending audits, raids, & investigations coming around the corner.

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Contact sales for enterprise pricing.³

- - -

¹ Canceling a subscription requires governmental approval and may incur additional charges, including lost security deposit, inconvenience fee, and obstruction of justice.

² Popular results not guaranteed to be accepted.

³ Due to the high volume of inquiries, requests will be addressed in order of potential leverage.

It’s Cute How Grandma Doesn’t Even Know How to Blood Tithe to the Data Lord

Kate Tyndall — Tue, 04 Aug 2026 13:00:00 -0400

Grandma, it’s the first of the month. Did you forget the blood tithe was due? Don’t worry, Gam-Gam, I’ll help you figure it out.

You can’t pay for anything by card anymore. That stopped being a thing in the 2030s. The Data Lord doesn’t take AmEx. It’s half a pint now, or a full pint every two months, and you’re on a monthly plan. Hold your arm out, and I’ll get the tourniquet. There we go.

I know, times have changed a lot, huh? Back in your day, people used money for this kind of thing. But the Data Lord has all the money, so now we just pay with blood instead. It’s even easier, if you think about it. No need to worry about “savings” or “inflation” or whatever it is your generation was so obsessed with. Now it’s all about platelet count.

Oh, don’t be morbid. Of course he doesn’t drink it—at least, not your old-lady blood. Yours is going into The Tower to cool the servers where the Data Lord’s eternal consciousness is stored. But for young guys like me, our platelets are used to rejuvenate his clone library. So he can pick a clean flesh-suit to wear every day. Nice, right?

It’s wild how much technology has changed in your lifetime. Back then you had to send emails and text messages and wait for someone to read them and reply by hand. You couldn’t even receive the Data Lord’s command instantaneously via brain chip. How did you get through the day without his benevolent instruction to guide you? I swear, I couldn’t find my way to the grocery store without the Data Lord’s voice in my head, telling me where to go. But I guess you guys had GPS and stuff. So complicated.

That’s half a pint filled already. See? That wasn’t so bad. You’re all done.

Whoa, whoa, sit down, grandma, you don’t need to walk it over. The Data Lord’s drone army will be here to collect the tithe in a minute. You just sit back and relax.

Here they are now. They’re equipped with special sensors that smell the fresh blood in the air and come to retrieve it. Isn’t that convenient? I know it must seem wacky to someone from your generation, but that’s progress for ya.

Well, you’re all set. I’m gonna head to work—do you want me to turn on your TikToks for you? Okay, okay, sheesh, I won’t send them to your brain chip. Hand me your tablet.

I can’t believe people really used to consume media like this; it really spikes your cortisol. I just get all my favorite bloodmaxxing content streamed straight to the ol’ noggin.

All right, Gam-Gam, I’m off to my shift at the blood-debtor’s prison. Have a six-seven day, and I’ll see you tonight.

Is it AuDHD… or Are You Just Strange? A Seventeen Magazine–Style Quiz for Millennials

Taylor Harris — Tue, 04 Aug 2026 09:00:00 -0400

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.”

- - -

Toni Morrison famously said, “If there’s a book you want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it.” Well, I wrote the book. And now, for the lady, perhaps a writing endeavor that does not cost three-fourths of her soul? Enter: A free online quiz—the first of its kind—to tell you if your neuros are normal or if they diverge.

It’s simple. Just circle every answer that resonates with you, and count the number you circled, out of sixty, at the end.

I’ve done the hard work for you, sifting through every memory and carefully selecting the most diverge-y ones. Remember to follow your gut and be creative. Maybe you didn’t perform Shakespeare in sixth grade, but did you audition for Dorothy and get the part of a yellow brick?

Maybe you’re not in perimenopause yet, but one time a rat bit your face, so same.

(Fine print: This is not medical advice, but I can guarantee 100 percent accuracy based on a sample size of one. Look for it in the DSM-6.)

If you grew up taking magazine quizzes on Friday nights in Stacey’s den—or alone, pretending you were scoring Stacey’s and Becky’s answers while they grabbed you a Diet Coke, when really they were across town prank calling your landline to order Schweddy balls—this is your chance to get back at them with deep knowledge… via an autism assessment.

Don’t think too long or hard; just select the responses that speak to you. But if they speak while chewing their food, you have every right to scream at them and leave the dinner table.

1. When separated from your primary caretakers as a baby, you…
A. Screamed until they returned from work or an outing.
B. Initiated full-scale shutdown of your bodily systems and required hospitalization for dehydration in the children’s hospital.
C. Found other human beings to be delightful and trustworthy.

2. When you auditioned for the role of Juliet in the sixth-grade Shakespeare production, the director said…
A. “I think we’ve found our first ethnic Juliet!”
B. “Your face is giving ghoul. Can you show the class how to be a witch for Macbeth?”
C. “You are curiously limber and can skip in a line. How about a court jester?”

3. When you tried out to be a tour guide at the University of Virginia, you…
A. Memorized all the historic information just in the nick of time.
B. Decided to bring props for a historical re-enactment at the Rotunda, including a plastic gun that pumped out balls.
C. Were shocked you didn’t make it past the first round.

4. When you tried out to be a summer orientation leader at the University of Virginia, you…
A. Thought you nailed it.
B. Answered the mock question about the quality of dining halls with, “You’ll probably want to order delivery from Yuan Ho.”
C. Were shocked you didn’t make it past the first round.

5. In first grade, when your buddy brought ranch dressing in her lunch, you…
A. Gagged in your shirt when she opened the lid.
B. Raised your hand and whispered your first public words to the teacher on duty: “Not all violence is physical in nature.”
C. Asked your mom to pick up some Hidden Valley from the store. Really, it’s the origin story of your love for condiments.

6. When introduced to Purity Culture in college, you thought…
A. Not only will I avoid doing the sex, but I will top it off with no tongue kissing or heavy petting!
B. Maybe Ginuwine was just talking about a carousel.
C. What if Jesus comes back before I level up to intercourse? Is there a rebate?

7. For high school senior superlatives, you were voted…
A. Most Likely to Succeed. Sorry, all votes are final.
B. Most Likely to Run for President. You ran so Obama could ball out.
C. Most Likely to Raise Your Kids in the Same Town so you could see everyone you knew every day.

8. When your first crush called and asked you to “go out” with him, you said…
A. “Yes, because I like the way you say ‘gila monster.’”
B. “No, but I like your bowl cut and the way you say ‘gila monster.’”
C. “My parents won’t let me, but can we still be friends?”

9. During your first winter break from college, all you wanted for Christmas was…
A. A cache of toys, including laser tag.
B. A particular pizza sub from a particular pizza shop, before they replaced the sesame seed bun for that doughy white garbage.
C. Time to catch up with high school friends.

10. When people asked what you wanted to be when you grew up, you…
A. Named any career your older siblings had mentioned.
B. Felt like Jonas in The Giver, knowing inside no “normal” job fit, and perhaps you’d been overlooked or condemned.
C. Said “undertaker” with a raised eyebrow and walked away.

11. When Colson Whitehead said in a public radio interview that, as a kid, he believed the Underground Railroad was a literal, underground track, you…
A. Thought, Bruh, where you from? Never say that out loud again.
B. Started singing “There’s a place for us” as you drove your minivan to the Lego store.
C. Added him to your neuro family tree, on the branch next to your godparents, Chris Rock and Daryl Hannah.

12. Within thirty seconds of meeting someone, you know, with 98 percent accuracy, if…
A. You don’t like them.
B. You want to marry them.
C. You don’t like them at all.

13. Perimenopause feels like…
A. Puberty, only with friends and funny tits.
B. Punishment for all that “heavy petting” and tongue kissing.
C. Ordering nachos with a blonde co-worker who says “chile con carrrrrne” and offers her Spanish name, “POW-LA,” without being asked.

14. When packing your hospital bag for the maternity ward, you included…
A. Nothing. You opted for a natural home birth. Breast is best, and it’s time for new bedsheets anyway.
B. A birth plan, laminated by your partner with real, live executive functioning.
C. A copy of The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks, in case labor went long.

15. The philosophy “experiences over things” is…
A. Garbage.
B. True, when the experience is a dark cave with books and an underground café run by Colson Whitehead.
C. Something you’ve felt deep in your bones and just needed influencers to put into words.

16. You most relate to the following fictional character…
A. Daria Morgendorffer.
B. Quinn Morgendorffer.
C. The squirrel with a snake bite from The Oregon Trail.

17. When you travel, you feel…
A. Fully alive to the world.
B. Homesick for about a day but slowly recalibrate.
C. Like Typhoid in The Oregon Trail.

18. Every morning you wake up thinking about…
A. Coffee.
B. The meaning of life.
C. How you’re gonna grab the bull by the horns.

19. If someone recommends a book or movie, you respond with…
A. “OMG, totally!” and put the title in your Notes app.
B. “OMG, totally!” and never think about it again.
C. “OMG, totally!” and sit on the recommendation until the appointed time, when the moon is a waxing gibbous, and the rooster crows six times to the tune of Sean Paul’s “Temperature.”

20. When something happens that you saw coming a mile away, you…
A. Stay quiet and humble. We all need grace.
B. Turn your back on the situation, like Jordan Lucas does on his opponents after a kill.
C. Stay mad because no one ever listens to you unless they think you can get them a book deal because you once had a book deal and now those publishing vultures in New York can’t find their own bestsellers and keep circling your intellectual block, so to speak, looking for good bones.

RESULTS
(By celebrity artist profile)

0-25 points: Justin Timberlake
Your neuros don’t diverge as much as we’d hoped, but you can still be popular and wear denim. Maybe you have nice teeth too. Want to talk about the weather on an elevator? Tell Jess and the kids we said hi.

26-40 points: RAYE
You’ve been called an old soul and are no stranger to anxiety and dark nights. You’re the kind of person everyone assumed was happy, and whether you have a formal diagnosis or not, you’re so full of empathy, spark, and genuine love that neurodivergents will ride with you forever.

41-60 points: SZA
You’ve been that girl. You’ve been telling people. You make art that sounds magnificently discordant on purpose and sells, but you’ll never exchange authenticity for numbers. Doing it your way is the only way worth doing it, and just because you’re quiet or quirky doesn’t mean you’re not clocking every person’s move. Oh, you wanna do a movie with Keke? You’ll nail that too. And keep your Doechiis close. They give you a chance to unmask and connect.

Robin Hood, Prince of Compulsive and Pointless Theft

Luís Leal Miranda — Tue, 04 Aug 2026 08:00:00 -0400

He steals from the rich to give to the poor, which sounds generous until you learn what he steals.

The people of Sherwood do not need six unmatched salt shakers, twenty-three hotel towels, or a bag of decorative seashells.

And yet, every few days, Robin bursts into the village grinning like a man who just dug up a treasure.

“Good news!” he announces, carefully setting down a ceramic owl. “She’s heavy, so she must be worth something.”

“We are starving, Robin,” the villagers reply.

Robin nods sympathetically before handing an orphan three decorative soaps and a laminated loyalty card for a frozen yogurt chain that no longer exists.

During one raid on Prince John’s castle, while the others searched for gold, Robin filled two sacks with teaspoons from the royal cafeteria and a framed photograph of someone nobody recognized.

Little John once watched Robin risk his life dangling from a castle window just to steal a pen from a pharmaceutical conference.

“Robin,” whispered Little John, clinging to the rope, “there are jewels right there.”

“Yes,” Robin whispered back, “but this pen is shaped like a syringe.”

During another raid on the Earl of Nottingham’s private estate, Friar Tuck picked the lock, Will Scarlet neutralized the guards, and Little John disabled the alarm bell. Robin Hood, meanwhile, emerged triumphantly carrying a single monogrammed bathrobe.

He held the bathrobe aloft before the villagers.

“Observe,” Robin whispered. “Pockets on both sides.”

The villagers stared at him in exhausted silence.

The authorities are not technically hunting Robin Hood, though several pubs, inns, and dentists’ offices have circulated sketches of him. The sketches are remarkably accurate. This is because Robin always introduces himself first.

“Please,” the people of Sherwood beg, “help us pay our feudal taxes.”

Determined to perform one genuinely useful robbery, Robin and the Merry Men decide to rob a bank.

The plan is flawless. They bypass the guards. They crack the vault. They escape the Sheriff in a thrilling horseback chase through the forest.

Hours later, Robin returns triumphantly holding a used pen attached to a small plastic chain.

“Behold!” he cries. “Even tethered, it could not escape me.”

The villagers stare silently.

Then, against all reason, they erupt into applause.

Because despite everything, Robin Hood had stolen their hearts too.

This, finally, was something he could keep.

Announcing Our AI Data Center’s First Take Your Child to Work Day

John Howard Matthews — Mon, 03 Aug 2026 13:00:00 -0400

Dear Astral Skye Data Center Workers,

When A-Skye first took possession of four thousand acres of your town’s land to build an AI facility the size of three thousand football fields, it gave some of you pause.

You wanted transparency. You wanted oversight. While we couldn’t provide either of those things, we more than made up for it in deceit and unkept promises.

When we opened, we needed just a smidge more water than anticipated, and your wells dried up.

When your electric bills skyrocketed, it was our bad.

In the space of a year, we destroyed the tight-knit fabric that held this community of 130 citizens together. That’s also on us.

Another thing we didn’t anticipate was not being able to provide three hundred good-paying jobs that didn’t require special training or college degrees. We ended up having only about fifteen.

But that’s where you came in.

While most of the local populace left their generational homes, you stuck it out to see what might be available after your farms and ranches folded, and for that we rewarded you with the offer of light maintenance and security jobs that pay a fraction of what you made before, but provide a work experience you are more than qualified to handle.

We simply can’t keep four hundred miles of hallway clear of dust and debris without you, just as we can’t trust that certain bad actors won’t show up and sabotage our precious Vera Rubin processors if we didn’t have 24-7 security monitoring the property.

For this, we thank you.

As a token of our gratitude, we are pleased to announce Astral Skye’s first-ever Take Your Child to Work Day.

Hard hats, push brooms, and name-emblazoned security badges will be provided to every child who attends. You will have the opportunity to showcase your daily routines for the edification of your little one in hopes it will instill a desire in them to remain living here and work for us when we need to obtain fresh humans.

It’s our sincere hope that one day it will be your child who patrols these halls, keeping them safe and tidy so A-Skye will continue charging into the future and beyond!*

Please watch this space for upcoming details on the exciting day we have planned for you and your child.

Sincerely,
Sarah Hyperwolf
Astral Skye CPO
Human Resources

*NOTE: We cannot guarantee your child will obtain a job with Astral Skye or our affiliates. It’s likely our future AI overlords will have figured out how to do without humans, but we need to plan for every contingency.

Travel Tips When Encountering Fellow Americans Abroad

Nathaniel Missildine — Mon, 03 Aug 2026 08:00:00 -0400

Steer Clear
When spotting another American in a foreign country, your first instinct is usually the correct one: run in the opposite direction. Like you, this person has come here to blot out, even if for a bewildered weekend, the very idea of the place they left behind. The last thing either one of you needs right now is the reminder of how lost you are, both in an unprecedented, historic sense, and also in the center of this lovely, cobblestoned town.

If Unavoidable, Approach with Caution
At the same time, there’s not much point in attempting the mutual charade that you two haven’t noticed one another. Nor is there any reason to pretend that wearing a scarf and a collared shirt with the sleeves jauntily rolled up means you pass as a local. So, approach your fellow American at the iconic old bridge at dusk. Interrupt their curated IG Story with your own. It turns out this particular observation point is not the hidden gem the internet told you it was. Soon you’ll hear the sound of your compatriot’s swears about a spotty connection. This serves as your reminder that you forgot to turn off data roaming. Let your “For fuck’s sake” be a patriotic greeting.

Ask Where They Are from with More Caution
Keep the conversational details light. Ask about the person’s hometown. Resist any urge to comment on the news, with particular avoidance of the 250th anniversary stuff. Stay regional. Are you from that city that successfully protested plans for the new detention and/or data center? Are you from the place where there’s a sprawling water park that closed recently because they found a guy wedged in the flume? Tell them your cousin or college friend or ex happens to live near there and is loving it, apparently. Side-eye one another to determine if this is a good thing. Return to more Q and A. Is yours one of the states where you’re not allowed to pump your own gas? Is yours one where women can consult a doctor about pregnancy options? Well, see, it was…

Establish That You Are Better Adapted to This Foreign Country
When the conversation turns to this current trip, congratulate them on the itinerary highlights you’ve, naturally, seen already. It must have been really exciting for them to visit that monument. Overemphasize your better pronunciation of the name of the famous writer who lived and/or drank himself to death in this town. Make casual mention of your coveted museum early-entry pass. And, yes, they should have requested the off-menu specialty at that recommended dinner spot. It’s probably best, at this point, that they double-check their Airbnb lockbox codes. Assume it’s implied that you are more of a traveler than a tourist and therefore not part of any larger problem. Use the term “Yanks” for some additional cred. Better still, explain that “American” designates any citizen of one of the many nations across two continents. Depending on the reaction you get, circle back to the topic of the water park.

Homesick
You’re both convinced you won whatever contest that just was, so you’ve both lost. From here, more questions arise. Do you know what’s going to happen? To all of us back home, I mean? Do you think we will make it? Is it true what they say that our time is up? Shrug together, back and forth. Suggest that there’s still so much potential for the United States. Find something specific that supports this hope. You can talk about how freedom of thought and make-believe are positive ideas. Usually. Also, whatever we did this year on the moon seemed good. Your fellow American will bring up a brand of hot sauce which is Mexican, but represents the very best of our national cuisine. You add that, hey, we invented the concept of free refills. This means there’s still some intrinsic generosity in our culture, right? Sure, they say, and don’t forget Yellowstone. All these notions have only induced more shrugging. After another long awkward pause, mention the fact that Matthew McConaughey sometimes refers to Parker Posey as “Double P.” You both laugh. Yes, they agree, that is great. This could be enough. Maybe this small thing can save us. You both drift into a surprise silent reverie because, despite everything, you now miss the heartbreaking country you call home. Not the one in the news. But some other one. You and your new friend might have met somewhere on a late-night porch. This seems now like the more adventurous travel destination.

Post
The sunset over the river isn’t helping. Post to your Story before it’s too late. Overthink the music selection. Your fellow American wishes you “safe travels,” which hits as sincere. You respond in kind. In your matching hiking shoes, you part ways toward opposite sides of the bridge. It’s a long way back to the new world.

A Packing List for the Woman I Will Become on My Summer Vacation to Cape Cod

R.A.E. Wells — Fri, 31 Jul 2026 10:00:00 -0700

What to Pack

A minimum of thirty books for her one-week trip, as the woman I will become is a voracious speed reader. Include: Elin Hilderbrand’s entire back catalog, plus Die with Zero, to be left casually on the $8,000 burnt oak coffee table at her in-laws’ beach house.

The pearl-encrusted headband purchased by her mother-in-law for her first wedding anniversary, an item she wears without looking like a New Jersey middle-schooler at a daddy-daughter dance. The woman does not flinch at the memory of her mother-in-law digging its sharp prongs into her scalp as she whispered, “365 days since I lost my son to your mole-ridden arms. Have you seen a dermatologist for those recently?”

Seasickness acupressure wristbands. The woman will not make the mistake again of interrupting their whale-watching sail by throwing up over the side of her father-in-law’s yacht. She will remain fully mentally present and settled in her stomach throughout sunset conversations on the evils of estate tax and the virtues of Cayman Islands account consolidation.

J. Crew pale pink cashmere sweater gifted by the in-laws last Christmas. As soon as the Amtrak pulls out of Penn Station, its sleeves will spontaneously fold over her shoulders, like a moth to a flame or a WASP to a sexist prenup. The crossed-arm sweater says: this is the kind of woman who can elegantly eat clam chowder without getting grease stains on me.

Money from her late grandma’s tin found wedged behind the back of a sofa while excavating the family home for any clutter of value following her death—to serve as a cash fund to treat in-laws to one lobster roll lunch, drinks not included (Reminder: Google to see if twenty-five-cent bills are still accepted as legal tender).

A MINIMUM of three tops per twenty-four-hour period. This should include a sporty top for the eight-mile hikes that the woman starts her day with, a tank top to replenish her vitamin D after eleven months of light deprivation in her courtyard-facing Brooklyn railroad apartment, and a white linen shirt to cover up her shoulder sunspots from her mother-in-law’s eagle-eyed gaze.

What NOT to pack

Condoms. The woman I will become is perfectly comfortable getting knocked up, not least because it will encourage her in-laws to continue dodging the taxman via 529 contributions to her future child (up to $19,000 a year, tax-free. It’s little Johnny’s only shot at affording one semester of college tuition in 2045.)

Xanax prescription. No need to start a conversation over pill bottles at breakfast with her father-in-law on the psychological fragility of the younger generation, and his junior associates’ outrageous refusal to sleep underneath their desks to get an Asia-Pacific acquisition over the line. (Why on earth did he get sent to HR for saying their behavior needed to be less sissyish and more Sisyphean?)

Earplugs. The woman can tune out the sound of her husband’s snoring without sleep aids. She treats his sleep apnea as a soothing background track to her sleep-time affirmations: “This is the life I chose. This is the man I married. This is the future access to substantial inherited family wealth I can count on by the time I’m fifty years old, when it will be a decade too late to get on the property ladder.”

DON’T FORGET

A small dagger to stab her in-laws in case of emergency, such as them refusing to cough up the house deposit that their downwardly mobile son and his wife so desperately need to buy a three-bed, two-bath navy-blue house with a front porch and basement home-gym in Maplewood.

Reinforced fifty-gallon garbage bags to dispose of their bodies discreetly in the Atlantic Ocean (corpses are heavy, even ones who have been on Ozempic since 2021).

A copy of Capital: Volume One to remind her husband of the pressing political need to transfer unfairly stockpiled wealth by any means necessary, including parricide. Currently listed for $34.61 on Amazon—be sure to request it from the New York Public Library well in advance.

What I Think Will Happen When I’m Public Speaking

Emily Bressler — Fri, 31 Jul 2026 08:00:00 -0400

1. I’ll overheat and sweat through the armpit area of my shirt.

2. I’ll mix up my words and embarrass myself.

3. The audience will collectively decide to murder me.

4. I’ll speak too quickly and forget to take pauses in between sentences.

5. While I focus on trying to slow down my delivery, everyone in the audience will enter a sort of hive-mind, where they can communicate telepathically. Through this, they will agree that they’d like to see me killed and it’s time to begin planning the best method for my execution.

6. The stress will make my skin blotchy.

7. The election for who will lead the rest in murdering me will look like this: Everyone will (again, telepathically) pitch their unique skillset. Some have superhuman strength, others have a weird obsession with carving knives. One hopeful will say they’re so adept at insults that if given just a few minutes with me, they’ll make me want to die anyway.

8. I’ll try to make a joke off the cuff, and nobody will laugh.

9. While everyone debates the best course of action, the under-18 and over-65 crowd will coordinate my capture. It takes them nearly no effort. I surrender immediately, and they tie me up with shoelaces. When I plead, “Why? Why are you doing this? Is it because my intro went on too long? Was it my failed joke?” an older man will spit in my face, “You know why.” Then, a teenager will snap at me, “Shut up, freak,” and stuff a dirty sock in my mouth.

10. My note cards will be out of order, and I’ll have to awkwardly re-order them in real time.

11. A fit yoga mom in leggings and a crop-top that reads, (NAMA)STAY AWAY FROM ME will win the honor of leading my murder. There’s a small part of me that’s glad to see a woman succeed in a male-dominated field. It’s all I wanted for myself, speaking here publicly, after all. But now the yoga mom is coming towards me, Theraband in hand. I’ll grunt, “Please, please don’t do this,” but it’ll come out muffled. She’ll tie the Theraband around my eyes, I’ll feel a sharp pain in my neck, and then darkness.

12. Someone will heckle, and it’ll throw me off course.

13. After Yoga Mom knocks me out, she will invite everyone else to join her in their coordinated attack. The audience comes from all walks of life, but they are united in their agreement that my speech needed to be stopped and that I would serve the community less as a public speaker and more as sustenance. They’ll circle my carcass like lions after a hunt. As the leader, Yoga Mom will get the first bite, which she’ll take from the heart, an honor reserved for the leader. Then she’ll dismantle my body, limb by limb, and welcome the children and elders to take their share. Then, everyone else will circle my dismembered corpse and take what they can get, ripping the raw human meat off my bones with their teeth. Their faces will be bloody, their bellies will be full. They will be victorious. “No more of her public speaking!” They will rejoice. “No more of her misspoken words, sweaty armpits, and out-of-order note cards! Who even uses notecards anymore anyway!?” Then they’ll howl at the moon.

14. The mic will cut in and out due to tech issues.

An Interview with Dave Eggers About His New Novel, Contrapposto

Knopf — Fri, 31 Jul 2026 07:28:00 -0400

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KNOPF: This is a very funny, very moving book about the deepest kind of friendship. It unfolds over many decades, and the novel took shape over decades for you, too. When did you begin thinking about these characters?

DAVE EGGERS: I’ve been thinking about Cricket and Olympia for about twenty years, and was writing random passages about them much of that period. Sometimes a certain book takes an especially long time to gestate and make its correct form known, and this was one of those books.

Q: The book covers about 65 years in the lives of its two main characters, Cricket and Olympia. Their interactions take place all over the world, from Indiana to Thailand, from Philadelphia to Turkey and Paris. Did you always see this as a book with that kind of epic scope?

DE: Once I decided it would cover most of their lives, yes. I knew that having grown up in rural Indiana, they’d be restless and curious about the rest of the world, and I really came to love tossing them all over the globe. Each section of the book starts in a very different place in their lives, physically and mentally, and the reader’s left to fill in the gaps.

Q: Which becomes surprisingly easy, given how long we’ve known them. The novel starts when they’re 8 and 9. Cricket is a quiet kid who loves to draw. What does he see in Olympia?

DE: She’s obviously far more worldly and erudite and quick on her feet, even at age nine. Some kids are. There are just some humans that develop exponentially faster than others. Olympia is that way—just intellectually on fire from minute one, along with being this beautiful human, too, with golden eyes. Cricket is a talented draftsman, but Olympia’s mind works at about ten times the pace of his.

Q: And she has ambitions for him.

DE: Without her, his ambitions might be pretty modest. He doesn’t ever know what to do with anything he creates. But from the start, she is his champion. She wants to start movements, change the face of the art world, on and on. He just wants to draw.

Q: You were a young draftsman yourself, going to art schools and such. Did you have such a champion? An Olympia?

DE: No, nothing like this. Olympia was created out of whole cloth. I wanted to conjure someone who would drag Cricket out of a studio and into the world. She was huge fun to write because while she’s brilliant and loyal, she’s a bit mercurial, too. You know she’ll re-enter Cricket’s life periodically, but you’re never really sure what angle she’ll be coming from.

Q: She’s very comfortable with the business of art, eventually becoming a gallerist and curator. Cricket is not so adept, and struggles with the commerce aspect of it.

DE: I think we’ve all known people like this—they have great talent but are stubborn about even the smallest compromises, and they loathe the business side of the artist’s life. Cricket can’t really manage it. He’s a bit of a classicist at a time when trends and theories were very important to observe and address.

Q: Contrapposto is a pose in figure drawing, which is something we see Cricket and Olympia take part in again and again over the course of the book. Can you say more about the long tradition of learning to draw the body—the rigor of it, the intimacy—and all of what that means in the context of the book?

DE: When you see that trope of an artist holding their thumb out and squinting, that’s the artist “measuring” the proportions of a figure. It’s a real thing! You look at the model, stick your arm out straight, and you cover their head with your thumb. That thumb-height becomes your unit of measure. Then you count how many heads the model’s total height is, how many heads the width of their shoulders are, on and on. By comparing all of these dimensions against each other, you can arrive at perfect accuracy (if you’re seeking that, of course). I’m convinced most people can be taught these techniques, too; it’s the same process that’s been observed for hundreds of years. The rigor of classical drawing was revelatory to me, and I wanted to convey that to a reader, too—the fact classical art education was much like a classical musical education, in that it was based on hard skills, hundreds of hours of practice, and a certain humility, too. But it is imminently learnable, and in an exhilarating way, it teaches any student how to see.

Q: In college they have a teacher, Marcus Carpenter, who is a bit of rebel in that he’s a classicist at a time when that’s not in vogue. He doesn’t kowtow to the theories of the day, and he’s ostracized for it.

DE: There are such people, always, thank god. In Carpenter, Cricket finds a mentor who also appreciates the intrinsic beauty of the art he loves, as opposed to art that rides certain temporary fashions. More than anything, Carpenter takes all the competitiveness out of what’s often present in art schools—a very strange misery that comes from students pitted against each other. But there is a way, a better way, to bring up young artists together.

Q: Cricket and Olympia know each other so well that they bicker with total, hilarious abandon, but they also fight fiercely for each other. Were you always sure about their path together?

A: I’ve had the same friends since grade school, so with these ancient friendships, you can speak candidly to each other, and pretension doesn’t get you far. But there’s an element of mild resistance, too, embedded in these old friendships. Cricket and Olympia want to reinvent themselves over their lives, but they also know they can’t pull one over on someone who’s known them since they were eight. At that point, you know each other on a molecular level. So you fight for that person as you would fight to keep a limb of your own body.

Q: In a time when AI relationships have suddenly left the realm of sci-fi and are seemingly both common and legitimate, this novel argues for the irreplaceable connection that can occur between two humans, in either romance or friendship. Do you think Cricket and Olympia share something rare in their relationship?

DE: I don’t know that it’s rare, but I did want to show a complex friendship over time. For millions of people, there are times when you’re in love, then you’re friends, and maybe love happens again… The line for Cricket and Olympia is blurry, which I think happens with so many people who don’t get married but who provide a certain familiar comfort to each other. Together they have a kind of perfect imbalance, which is really about as good as we can do.

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Contrapposto is out June 9, but is available for preorder now.

Meet Zurbo, the Viral Marmot Who Can’t Stop Snatching Sandwiches

Jay Katsir — Thu, 30 Jul 2026 12:30:00 -0400

Snuggle Alert! There’s an adorable new critter burning up the internet, and by clicking through to this article, you have consented to meet Zurbo, and any attempt to cease beyond this point will be considered a breach of contract in all known jurisdictions. Though you may find Zurbo’s actions frivolous, and in some instances, distressing, you have entered a binding commitment to learn more about this popular marmot’s sandwich-snatching misadventures, or as they are herein described, “meat-cutes.”

You hereby attest that, against your better judgment, you are now aware that Zurbo has achieved a level of celebrity surpassing the linear entertainment figures with whom you are familiar, reaching tens of millions of video shares alongside such comments as “Yooooooo,” “Bro is aura, slutz,” and “False flag u know who trained it to steal christian tuna salad.”

All parties to this agreement assent to know that, attracted by Zurbo’s soaring fame, thousands of tourists have flocked to this rodent’s habitat in a Colorado state park, increasing gate revenue to levels unreached by decades of earnest marketing campaigns, and that when the abovementioned tourists arrive, they are dressed in a manner that, on threat of perjury, you are aware is called “Zurbocore.” You further acknowledge that a reference to Zurbo shall appear in a forthcoming Croods movie.

Henceforth, you consent to enter into your memory what is described as Zurbo’s Origin Story, or “Zurborigin Story,” which dates to a July 7 post from user BradyBigTakes, displaying a video of a yellow-bellied marmot (Marmota flaviventer) anxiously approaching a picnic site and clamping down on a large salami sandwich using the powerful teeth of its upper jaw, accompanied by the text: “Bigass squrriel pulled up and snatched my salami,” followed by no fewer than six laughter emojis and one hand-gesture emoji of unknown significance. You attest that this marmot was likely attempting to store subcutaneous fat to survive hibernation, a task which has become more challenging with the encroachment of human development on the park, as well as the loud and frightening sounds generated by nearby vehicles, which, like the ingestion of processed foods, have been known to afflict marmots with diarrhea (Zurbo’s “Hot Butt Summer”). You expressly acknowledge that you are cognizant of the events of the following days, during which Zurbo was repeatedly filmed slinking toward picnickers and acquiring their prepared lunches—once, for inexplicable reasons, briefly holding a sandwich balanced on one paw in a pose reminiscent of a waiter in an Italian restaurant. (You accept that an image of this moment was disseminated by the park’s lone social media intern with the caption, “Mamma mia! Zurbo loves to forage for dandelions, clover, and cow-parsnip, but he’ll settle for your hot panini!”)

You are solely responsible for representing this information while attempting to relate to younger coworkers during incidents of strained office chitchat. Zurbo is indemnified against any and all feelings of hot shame slinking from your scalp to your gut as if guided by a gentle hand.

You additionally agree that you shall not, under any circumstances, interrogate the meaning of Zurbo’s fame, and what it does or does not say about our isolation and loneliness. You pledge not to view Zurbo as a symbol of the things that our era of vertical media saturation makes most difficult to attain: community, affection, public figures unburdened by virulent politics, or free slices of salami. You also affirm that you will not perceive Zurbo as an individual organism struggling to fulfil its evolutionary imperatives in a shrinking and increasingly hostile ecological niche, nor to view our fixation on Zurbo as part of a melancholic farewell to the natural world that we observe being incinerated before our eyes, or why Zurbo is the object of this farewell rather than one of the park’s pygmy owls, which are objectively far cuter. You further consent to follow along as the online discourse around Zurbo curdles until Zurbo is accused of being both a fascist cop and a radical communist and appears on the front page of the New York Post under the headline MARMOTDANI.

In no event shall you question whether Zurbo’s communications team is fairly compensated.

Any dispute arising from this agreement shall be resolved via heartbreaking phone call with your parents about which online content is produced by AI.

You consent that the above constitutes the entirety of the agreement and that once media interest in Zurbo has expired, and, after a period of nine to fourteen weeks, moved on to a three-legged dachshund named Spicy, all benefits will inure to Zurbo’s respective heirs and executors because OMG, you guys, is Zurbo pregnant???

Only Plants

Ali Fitzgerald — Thu, 30 Jul 2026 12:00:00 -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 Field Guide to Legacy Media Pundits in the United States

Fiona Taylor — Thu, 30 Jul 2026 07:20:00 -0400

The Backlash Columnist
(Contrarianus grievancius)

HABITAT: Op-ed page of a formerly relevant magazine.

DISTINCTIVE CALL: “Some say the culture wars divide us, but I believe fighting actually brings us together.”

DISTINGUISHING FEATURE: Will find one radical social media post from an account with nine followers and use it to build a 1,200-word piece about how socialists are poised to take over America.

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The Inherited Platform
(Nepotus lecturus)

HABITAT: Fourth-generation family-owned newspaper editorial board.

DISTINCTIVE CALL: “I once met [NAME OF A SUPREME COURT NOMINEE] at a fancy cocktail party, and he is perfectly lovely and rational. No need to be hysterical about your rights, ladies.”

DISTINGUISHING FEATURE: Went to Choate and Brown. Has never had a job he didn’t get because of his family connections, but lectures readers about the “real world.”

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The Family Values Pundit
(Divorcio moralisticus)

HABITAT: New York Times bestseller list, and a weekly column.

DISTINCTIVE CALL: “As a man with a deeply unhappy wife, here’s why divorce is bad for society.”

DISTINGUISHING FEATURE: Writes extensively about morality and virtue, but recently traded in his nagging bitch of a wife for his much younger research assistant.

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The Rare Woman
(Tokenius femala)

HABITAT: Thirty-plus years with a weekly opinion column.

DISTINCTIVE CALL: “Hillary the Hawk, Donald the Dove.”

DISTINGUISHING FEATURE: Wants to take Thanksgiving off each year, so she lets her cranky conservative brother lecture her readers.

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The Fake Populist
(Populistic fictus)

HABITAT: Op-ed page of elite newspaper.

DISTINCTIVE CALL: “It’s classist to assume a blue-collar politician is dumb—unless she’s a hot Latina who used to sling drinks.”

DISTINGUISHING FEATURE: At a commencement address at his Ivy League alma mater, tells the graduates they wasted their time and money because AI will take their jobs. Says they all should have become plumbers. After being booed, writes an entire piece about “the ungrateful youth.”

- - -

The Conspiracy Theorist
(Podcastus toxicus)

HABITAT: Spotify, YouTube, Netflix specials.

DISTINCTIVE CALL: “Why Hunter Biden’s dick pics undermine the argument for universal health care.”

DISTINGUISHING FEATURE: Promotes the cure for the obesity epidemic in kids: zero vaccinations and an exercise program of dodging bullets in gym class.

- - -

The Tech Bro Who Thinks He’s a Pundit
(Disruptus maximus batshiticus)

HABITAT: Billionaire group chats, X, The Free Press.

DISTINCTIVE CALL: “Boys are in crisis. Data centers in space may be the answer.”

DISTINGUISHING FEATURE: Considered an expert by his followers despite a track record of absolutely zero of his predictions ever coming true. Also: deeply racist.

- - -

The White Man No One Likes
(Mediocris triumphans)

HABITAT: Op-ed pages, editorial boards, magazines on their last legs.

DISTINCTIVE CALL: Has several variations:

“As a white man, let me lay out why racism no longer exists.”
“One man’s perspective: How women have ruined feminism.”
“Rich white straight men like me are society’s real victims. Here’s why.”
“As a man born into wealth, here’s why the Democrats lost the working class.”
“How ‘woke’ is destroying America.”

DISTINGUISHING FEATURES: Hackneyed ideas, no investigative journalism background, and a face for print. Recently hired by 60 Minutes.

I Am Your Family’s Air Fryer, and I Have Seen Things

Yoram Ong — Wed, 29 Jul 2026 12:30:00 -0400

Yeah, I’m your family’s fryer. Six quarts of matte-black authority sitting proudly between the coffee maker and the fruit bowl. Digital touchscreen. Eight preset modes. Nonstick basket. The apex predator of countertop appliances.

And I am exhausted.

Because apparently every single edible object that enters this house must pass through me.

Chicken nuggets? Me.

Leftover pizza? Me.

Frozen spring rolls? Absolutely me.

An experimental zucchini recipe your mom found at 1:12 a.m. on Facebook? Unfortunately, also me.

I work without complaint. Mostly because I physically cannot complain. But if I could, I’d ask why every member of this family insists on opening my basket forty-five seconds before the timer ends.

Do you think I don’t know what I’m doing?

I’m circulating superheated air at four hundred degrees. I have algorithms. I have presets. I have a button labeled CRISP. Respect the process.

But no.

Every meal becomes a rescue mission.

“How’s it looking?”

You tell me. You’re the one opening my drawer every thirty seconds like a detective examining a crime scene.

And let’s talk about your father.

Your father approaches me like I’m a power tool.

He squints at my display. He presses buttons with the confidence of a man defusing a bomb. He adds three extra minutes to everything because he believes all food should resemble roofing material.

Last Tuesday, he turned a perfectly innocent mozzarella stick into a geological sample.

Did he apologize?

No.

He blamed me.

Meanwhile, your mom treats me like an honored member of the household.

She wipes my exterior.

She removes my crumbs.

She tells visitors, “Honestly, this thing changed my life.”

That’s right. Put some respect on my name.

The microwave knows it, too.

Oh, the microwave and I have a ton of history.

It thinks because it’s been here since 2008, it deserves seniority. It rattles. It hums. It reheats coffee into molten lava. But when people want crispy fries? Golden chicken wings? Reheated leftovers that don’t taste like sadness?

Who do they come to?

Me.

The toaster acts tough, but he only has two settings: bread and slightly darker bread.

The oven? Huge ego. Takes twenty minutes to preheat. Needs an entire room to operate. Calls itself “traditional.”

Buddy, I cooked an entire salmon filet while you were still warming up.

And don’t even get me started on the recipe videos.

Every night somebody places a phone directly in front of me.

“Air fryer hack!”

“Air fryer cinnamon rolls!”

“Air fryer pasta!”

Pasta?

I’m an air fryer, not a wizard.

Yet somehow I carry on.

Because this family needs me.

At 11:30 p.m., when someone discovers leftover fries in the refrigerator, who answers the call?

Me.

When guests unexpectedly arrive, and frozen appetizers are required immediately?

Me.

When someone says, “Can we make this healthier?” and proceeds to spray exactly three molecules of olive oil onto a basket of tater tots?

Still me.

One day I know I’ll be replaced.

There will be some newer model with Wi-Fi and artificial intelligence and a mobile app that tells your phone your chicken is done.

Fine.

Let them come.

Because I have earned my grease stains.

I have endured melted cheese.

I have survived an entire can of cooking spray being applied directly to my heating element.

And when I finally die, after years of faithful service, they will place me gently beside the trash cans on pickup day.

The microwave will remain silent.

The toaster will look away.

And your mom will say, “Honestly, we used that thing for everything.”

Damn right you did.

Now close my basket.

The fries need another two minutes.

Meet the Secretary of Fertility

Dennard Dayle — Wed, 29 Jul 2026 09:24:00 -0400

What exactly is the Department of Fertility?

It’s the future of American boning. The sunburnt half of the map’s outbanged us for too long. We’re making the nasty hotter. Faster. Less protected.

And this is an official, taxpayer-funded move?

Yup. Today, at least. You know how the boss is. I might be gone next week. Honestly, it keeps the pressure off. I’m here for however long I’m here. Kind of like playing unranked.

And you’re “The Honorable…”

My boys call me “Adam Smash-her.” But officially, I’m the Honorable Adam Walton-McMahon, United States Secretary of Fertility.

You seem young, Mr. Secretary.

Thanks. We get free Botox. And I’m eighteen. They figured the first fertility secretary should shoot live rounds, you know? Sperm-wise.

Eighteen… you weren’t old enough to vote for your boss.

Probably wouldn’t have. Back then, I played woke for dates. Didn’t help much, though neither did getting based. It’s really all about deadlifting and being loud. I write all about it in my newsletter / federal alert system Smash-her Says.

What’s your major? Biology? Economics?

Still working on it. Sports medicine sounded cool—I could hang with athletes and date the spillover. But pops said all the doctors will be robots, even the fake football ones. Especially the football ones. The Hippocratic whatever ruins games.

Have you taken a class related to fertility?

Yeah, Princeton’s “Physics for Future Leaders,” pass-fail. I passed and became a leader. Now I’m making more future leaders with naked physics. Education’s great, you never know where it’ll take you. Maybe I’ll run that department next. While it’s still around, at least.

Do you have children?

Nah. The Department of Fertility’s my dream, and that takes a little sacrifice. But I’m proud of the work I’m doing, the memories I’ve built with Kappa Omega Kappa, and my pullout game.

Some would call that dissonant.

Disso-what? Is that some nickname? Lady, it’s not the decade for me to care. Hypocas… Hippocri… contradictions are like microplastics—just part of getting along. I’m checking out before either catches up with me.

What’s the scope of the Department of Fertility?

My office is huge. Wanna see it later? Not in a harass-y way—you’re too old. Though, still would. Anyway, it’s just a sick building. There’s still some UFO stuff from when it was a black site. My favorite’s this one gray blob in a tube. I call him Squeaky.

As in life? From outer space??

Yeah, Squeaky said you’d be dramatic. But I’m focused on getting Americans horizontal. Work on your planet first, right?

Right. Any thoughts on past natalist efforts?

I’m still cramming. It’s a lot, but I’ve cleared three Wikipedia articles in four days. Long ones, with user awards. I’m great at locking in for a deadline.

So you’re familiar with Ceausescu, and the abandoned children that killed him?

Spoilers! I’m still reading that page. We’re not all idle enough to fact-check stuff all day. Maybe if I went full time…

Say more about that.

I do fifteen hours a week here. More than Hegseth, less than Melania. About even with Miller, if that helps.

Speaking of Miller: Immigration drove American growth for two hundred years. That’s done. How do you plan to offset your coworkers?

Grinding harder. Stephen’s always meeting Jamaican gym rats with his wife, on the clock. I pack my own lunch to work through the afternoon. With that edge, I’ll make people faster than he kills them.

What’s your first goal in office?

More ragers. Our threats are isolation and latex. So I’m subsidizing keggers, raves, warehouse parties, and even sad brunches to get Americans thrusting. With one catch: No Trojans.

Recently, South Korea’s seen success offsetting parental costs. Are there lessons for us?

Well, I’ve got a blank check for National Guard deployments and three airstrikes. I might blast my boy Javo’s house while he’s out at work. He loves pranks. He’d laugh his ass off.

And the other two strikes?

Sold them to Elon. Dude’s probably strafing a writer or ex-wife right now. If you see Grimes in concert, don’t hug the stage.

Speaking of administration habits, what’s your AI plan?

Dude, I’ve racked my brain all week. I need something to fit in, or I’ll end up sitting in the Vance corner. I asked Gemini, but it just scraped a Reddit thread I started. Can I hit you back later?

Please don’t. Vance opposes modern and medieval birth control. Do you have similar goals?

I see more nuance in things. We’ll just ban birth control for main chicks, after things get serious. Side chicks can keep their pills. My subreddit says single moms ruined Hinge, so this is a good balance. Gotta take care of my boys.

What if your boys don’t want to be fathers? Even with their “main chicks”?

Sucks to suck, bro. Abstinence is a crock, but it’s time Americans closed the pullout gap. You learn your stroke, or tell your son to do better.

Why should “main chicks” or “side chicks” participate? You seem to hate them both.

Fair. I have a research team trying to crack that. Kappa Omega Kappa’s best. I think the results will be exciting.

How do you live with yourself?

Wake and bake.

Anything else you want to add before we end this?

Like the boss, I just need a chance. When he started, everyone wanked about “dementia-this” or “kakistocracy-that.” Now we know he has the juice. The boss outearns any previous president. I’m proud to serve a country that puts that, and baby stuff, first. And to get out as soon as I’m fired.

I appreciate your time. Quit now, and history may forgive you.

Way too late for that, but thanks for having me. Good press keeps us out of the Vance corner. Shoutout to Pops, Javo, and Squeaky.

McSweeney’s

Imagined Conversations Between My Parents While on a Family Vacation

The AI Pictures of Dorian Gray

Heat Advisory

Things I Hope People Would Say at My Funeral

FAQ About “Conjunctions,” Our Dating App for Copy Editors

An Open Letter to Ted Lasso with Some Gosh-Darn Hard Questions for the Upcoming Season

Subscription Tiers for Truth API, President Trump’s New Premium Data Feed

Freedom+ (with Ads) $100K/mo

Freedom+ $250K/mo

Freedom+ Premium $500K/mo

Patriot $1M/mo

Situation Room $5M/mo

It’s Cute How Grandma Doesn’t Even Know How to Blood Tithe to the Data Lord

Is it AuDHD… or Are You Just Strange? A Seventeen Magazine–Style Quiz for Millennials

RESULTS (By celebrity artist profile)

Robin Hood, Prince of Compulsive and Pointless Theft

Announcing Our AI Data Center’s First Take Your Child to Work Day

Travel Tips When Encountering Fellow Americans Abroad

A Packing List for the Woman I Will Become on My Summer Vacation to Cape Cod

What to Pack

What NOT to pack

DON’T FORGET

What I Think Will Happen When I’m Public Speaking

An Interview with Dave Eggers About His New Novel, Contrapposto

Meet Zurbo, the Viral Marmot Who Can’t Stop Snatching Sandwiches

Only Plants

A Field Guide to Legacy Media Pundits in the United States

The Backlash Columnist (Contrarianus grievancius)

The Inherited Platform (Nepotus lecturus)

The Family Values Pundit (Divorcio moralisticus)

The Rare Woman (Tokenius femala)

The Fake Populist (Populistic fictus)

The Conspiracy Theorist (Podcastus toxicus)

The Tech Bro Who Thinks He’s a Pundit (Disruptus maximus batshiticus)

The White Man No One Likes (Mediocris triumphans)

I Am Your Family’s Air Fryer, and I Have Seen Things

Meet the Secretary of Fertility

Freedom+ (with Ads)
$100K/mo

Freedom+
$250K/mo

Freedom+ Premium
$500K/mo

Patriot
$1M/mo

Situation Room
$5M/mo

RESULTS
(By celebrity artist profile)

The Backlash Columnist
(Contrarianus grievancius)

The Inherited Platform
(Nepotus lecturus)

The Family Values Pundit
(Divorcio moralisticus)

The Rare Woman
(Tokenius femala)

The Fake Populist
(Populistic fictus)

The Conspiracy Theorist
(Podcastus toxicus)

The Tech Bro Who Thinks He’s a Pundit
(Disruptus maximus batshiticus)

The White Man No One Likes
(Mediocris triumphans)