McSweeney’s

At Long Last, I Have Maxximized My Looks

Josh Gondelman — Fri, 15 May 2026 13:00:00 -0400

After months sequestered in the Pagoda of Masculinity, which is beneath my parents’ house but is fair to consider my basement, I have emerged a new man. Through my relentless commitment to living the ascetic lifestyle of a monk who is allowed to play video games, I, the Angulord, have at long last fully maxximized my looks.

There is no length I have not gone to for the sake of cultivating my flawless aesthetic. I have smashed my jaw with a hammer to increase its definition. I have injected testosterone to enhance the capacity of my muscles. My abs are as firm as freshly quarried gravel thanks to peptides (which I take subcutaneously) and riptides (which I allow to carry me out to sea during thunderstorms, forcing me to swim ashore or die). So far, I’ve only been declared legally dead twice, and just for five or six minutes each time. My doctor says that the oxygen deficit has left me with the cognitive capacity of a police horse on the verge of retirement. I told him to suck my sharp dick.

Oh, I should have mentioned: I have cryogenically frozen my penis and filed it down to a fleshy icicle to replace any feminine roundness on my body with a masculine point. Also, my doctor is a woman, but I use he and him pronouns as a sign of respect.

The penis-freezing is just the tip of the iceberg, both figuratively and literally. For the past nine years, I have devoted my waking hours to the task of becoming more handsome, and due to my nightly infusions of owl blood, many of my sleeping hours as well. My unyielding pursuit of perfection has allowed me to achieve the striking visage of a tertiary character on the Vanderpump Rules reboot. At long last, I am a stone-cold seven, the kind of guy who could win a Jacob Elordi lookalike contest in a farm town with a population of two hundred.

How have I accomplished this? For starters, I spend sixteen hours a day live-streaming my gym routine while simultaneously giving betting advice on overseas cockfights and state-sanctioned executions. My stamina is made possible by a battery of prescription and designer drugs that would make the doctor who killed Michael Jackson black out from jealousy. A billionaire, who describes himself as “apolitical” despite earning his fortune by creating an AI application that automatically deletes Black people’s résumés from hiring databases, finances my lifestyle. And yes, I have been banned from YouTube for calling for Janet Yellen to be imprisoned for earning a degree in economics while female. But I have a new platform on the free speech purist app CHODE (Connecting Heterodox Orators… Dudes, Exclusively.)

Has this immense effort made me appealing to women? Absolutely not. But that’s fine with me. I already have one mommy, and she’s a bitch. I do occasionally have sex, an act that I consider yucky. It also takes valuable time away from my regimen of doing crunches while improving my mind by listening to recordings of Theo Von guessing how science works. It’s honestly better than school. I dropped out of eleventh grade after my civics teacher wokely suggested that the holocaust happened.

So, yes, I bone. I smush. I push my man-stalactite into the world’s driest caves. Of course, I don’t care whether women enjoy intercourse. In fact, bringing a woman to sexual climax is gay to me, actually. Why are you, as a man, engaging in lesbian behavior? And I should note: Sex is not pleasurable for me either. On account of my extensive battery of implants and injectables, my sperm are so full of microplastics that each one is the size of a marble. Every time I reach orgasm, it’s like an agonizing game of Hungry Hungry Hippos.

Still, my unstoppable #grindset has earned me the adulation of thousands of men who are only allowed to see their children with third-party supervision present, as well as those guys’ teenage sons who hate them. I have also been the subject of fawning profiles in all seven remaining print publications, each of which has ignored that my whole deal is basically medieval eugenics wrapped in an eating disorder and peppered with substance abuse and misogyny.

Speaking of which, my primary care physician, Dr. Yesenia Cordova, who I’d better not find out is Latina, says I have mere hours to live. Apparently, eating a fistful of iguana tranquilizers for breakfast every morning has turned me cold-blooded, and I am no longer appropriately adapted for life on the Earth’s surface.

I have alienated everyone from my past because with all the focus on my looks, I never spent any time personalitymaxxing. So while I am on my deathbed, I am joined only by several of my worst-smelling Patreon subscribers, who have been taking selfies with me for clout since they arrived. Death cannot come soon enough, mostly because I’m excited to finally meet Charlie Kirk and achieve alpha status in the afterlife by telling him how sad his wife isn’t.

I bid you all a stoic farewell from the Angulord. But thanks to all the microplastics, at least I am leaving a maxximally beautiful corpse.

Women Be Like “I Needed This,” and It’s Just Trusting Themselves

Taylor Harris — Fri, 15 May 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.”

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Dearest Neurobaddies of the Finest Order,

I did a thing. No, not procuring a pint of Graeter’s ice cream before 9 a.m., though who am I to discount the diminutive glory of my former days? Just because I write to you from the summit of Midlife Desire and Acquisition, doesn’t mean I’m untouchable. It just means I trusted myself and didn’t ruin everything. In fact, I kind of nailed it. Did I question myself 13,000 times first? Think of every reason I should abandon the want lighting up my heart like a 1980s Glo Worm? Yes and yes. And then I proceeded to do the thing anyway. So pull up your stretchy pants and lift ye old breasts back into the cups of your threadbare brassieres, ladies. It’s story time.

On Monday, May 4, 2026, I flew to Austin to see Raye in concert with her sisters Amma and Absolutely. You KNOW how much I love sisters. But do you know how much I hate being away from home? Much. I hate it muchly, same with flying.

Raye and her sisters on stage in Austin.

I’d bought tickets, last-minute, on Sunday. Packed my colorful self-identified autistic Cotopaxi backpack with books I wouldn’t read that could fix my life and a bag of sour candies to properly spike and plunge me into a cold hypoglycemic state. Quick joke: What do you call a state that’s not being gutted by Republicans? Answer: Let’s hope there’s still time to find out.

I had to leave my two teenagers behind, even though I knew they were as obsessed with Raye’s sophomore album, This Music May Contain Hope, as I was. My son keeps the vinyl spinning and was the first to memorize the impossibly quick lyrics to “Click Clack Symphony,” the lovechild of Raye and Hans Zimmer. My daughter practices the runs and riffs, commands Alexa to play “I Will Overcome.” We blast “The WhatsApp Shakespeare” in the car and stare maniacally at my youngest, Juliet, willing her to crack a smile at the words, “Juliet must run / Juliet must vanish.” We’ve formed a small but steadily neurodivergent cult, and we are asking for a certain British singer to lead us home. Did my son write an entire article, “Why Raye’s Newest Album is the Ultimate AuDHD Album,” in Google Docs? Sure did. Complete with The Devil Wears Prada references.

A bit of context, baddies: I am forty-three years old. Some days I feel twenty-five; other days, I understand my ovaries have been replaced by two candy cigarettes, puffing chalk into the dark alleys of my abdomen.

So I read Miranda July’s All Fours when it came out. Did I relate to the woman, the motel, the living of a second life within or along the perimeter of your first? Not exactly. I come from purity culture, babes. I’m loyal as they come, terrible at lying, and just learned “raw dogging” isn’t only about bros flying without iPhones. Let’s be honest: I can barely sleep, let alone get buck neck-ed, in any hotel, motel, or Holiday Inn, because I’m terrified of germs. But I sensed I was supposed to relate to something in that book. Which is literally the definition of autism. My whole life is “Oh, you’re supposed to do it that way? Wear those jeans? Negotiate your salary? Have emotions at the time of the emotional event? Who explained this to you?”

But hats off to Miranda July, because even if I can’t write a sex scene without plagiarizing the Song of Solomon, I did feel a shift in my late thirties. As though my brain unlocked another backroom full of questions and accouterments related to How Things Work, and once your brain opens that door, dear reader, there’s zero point in shutting it. You have to look around. Even if opening the boxes and pulling books off the shelves (my back room is a library, of course) unleashes exhausting rumination or contributes to burnout. You can slam the door, take some time off, go drink a daiquiri on the beach, but you’ll come back. Midlife is in that room. I found autism and ADHD boxes in mine; a box of oil pastels and paint markers stuffed into a tin labeled DELIGHT; and I’m just starting to examine this thing in the corner, a complex and vintage contraption labeled WANT. We are born with it, all of us. So what happened to mine?

Can I tell you the first thing I tried to do with a piece of my want? After I acknowledged my desire to see Raye, with ridiculous flight costs, during the school week, when I would have to lean on my spouse and community to fill in, I tried to build a container for my want. I put it away in big Rubbermaid containers, marked as DUMB, IMPOSSIBLE, SELFISH, WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, WE CAN’T AFFORD THIS.

It kept bursting out from under the lid, like Strega Nona’s noodles. But I’m a modern, therapized woman. I have workarounds and cognitive flexibility and meds for situations like this.

I leaned harder into “shoulds” and shame. I reminded my heart that stay-at-home moms who are adjunct professors and freelance writers who do deep dives into human behavior when other parents are making money, don’t get to take last-minute trips if someone’s not dying. When shame left me hungry, even if dejected, I tried to put the want on a shelf marked MOTHER’S DAY. If I could just do a two-factor verification of why I deserved this trip, maybe I could go without guilt. My want proved too big for the particle board shelf. Too heavy. Too living for the stuff men created to seem real.

I have spent many hours, many days, years, then, convincing myself my wants must align with certain rules or the passionate desires of others. I’ve told myself that what I want is impossible. Or that I can only want and choose a thing when my back’s against the wall. A 9-1-1 desire, like the old Kmart blue-light special. There are three billion reasons why I do this, and my therapist and I have only uncovered fifteen, so I hope she’s ready to push up her Quince sweater sleeves and get to work for another decade. The reasons why matter. But right now, they don’t matter as much as trusting that sometimes I do know what I want. And I’m not talking about ice cream or soft tees or a pair of clearance Nikes.

I can want something big and bright for myself. Something that isn’t required or “for a job” or “for a kid” or “for the family,” and that is okay. Good, even.

Taylor (left) with friends at Raye concert.

If you see me out and about (good luck) in my first-ever oversized concert tee, let it remind you that aging autistic baddies, lovers of lattes and libraries, creatures of habit and predictable highs, are allowed to want things that cost or take up space or hinge on the assistance of others. There’s a good chance what we desire will be gorgeous and complex, dripping with depth. A Raye concert in an outdoor amphitheater on a mildly breezy night in Austin? She and her sisters singing “Joy” like three little girls dancing in their backyard, unaware or uncaring that hundreds or even thousands are looking on? Yes, please. But if it’s not as glorious as a night with a dream artist and her no-skips sophomore album, at least we will have trusted ourselves enough to choose our want and call it good.

US Army Basic Training for Muscular Olds

Jennie Egerdie — Fri, 15 May 2026 08:01:00 -0400

“The United States Army has officially raised its enlistment age limit to 42.” — New York Times

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Arrival

Once you step off the bus, basic training has begun. Recruits carrying ergonomic rolling luggage will be immediately singled out for punishment. Next, your bags will be inspected for contraband. Any attempts to smuggle in heating pads, lumbar-support braces, or Lactaid pills will cause your drill sergeant to go ballistic. Full-fat dairy is a big part of the warrior ethos.

Red Phase
(Weeks 1-3)

The goal of the Red Phase is to begin your transformation from soft, middle-aged weakling into an unstoppable, silver-fox warrior. During these first three weeks, you’ll get a thorough introduction to the following:

US Army’s core values, traditions, and ethics
Protein binging
Exercise purging
Combat 101: fighting hand-to-hand soldiers, guerrilla insurgents, and hypertension
Crowd-dispersion
Sodium-reduction
Identifying, ignoring, and over-medicating chronic knee pain
Tactical sudoku
Nuclear-biological-chemical chamber analysis (also known as a “colonoscopy”)
The RFK Jr. mid-life challenge: One hundred push-ups. Fifty pull-ups. Spray-tanned and in jeans.

Obviously, this is an intense training schedule, geared toward building physical endurance. You’ll move up once you’re able to kick a training dummy without shattering your ankle, or complete two days without complaining about sleeping on your neck funny.

White Phase
(Weeks 4–5)

The White Phase focuses on strong-arming your aging body into submission, with special emphasis on weapons training. You’ll learn how to identify, target, and engage targets with a rifle. You will also lose what’s left of your hearing. Here’s a rundown of what we’ll cover:

Basic rifle marksmanship (BRM)—engaging distant targets
Basic blurry marksmanship (BBM)—engaging distant targets without glasses
Zeroing a rifle
Zeroing your percentage of body fat
Acquiring a midlife eating disorder
Surprise barracks inspection
Surprise bowel obstruction
Dissociating through a complete physical breakdown
Mainlining hypertrophic vitamin infusions
Yogurt

Soon, you’ll start to get the hang of military midlife. You may even think your drill sergeant is noticing how, after you cough, you’re peeing your pants a little less. You’re developing all the essential soldier skills, which you’ll put together in the next phase.

Blue Phase
(Weeks 6–9)

It’s time to dig deep. This final phase is the most important part of your training. It will either render you a broken bag of bone fragments or turn you into a jacked, over-forty fighting machine. These three weeks are spent on the following:

Undergoing testosterone replacement therapy as part of a team
Engaging in ten-to-fifteen tactical supplements, including Swolverine peptide stacks, ’roids, pumpers, gym candy, and Peter Thiel–inspired blood infusions from a young alpha stud
Saying goodbye to your former life
Final physical inspection before the Army Physical Fitness Test (APFT)
Final brain MRI before the APFT
Completing the APFT, effectively grafting your frail, disintegrating human body onto a titanium aluminide insect-exoskeleton engineered by SpaceX. This process is permanent. You must pass the APFT to graduate.

Army Basic Training Graduation
(Week 10)

You’ll receive one day off with your family to catch up on your recent experiences. Thanks to your new seven-foot-tall mechanical praying-mantis cyborg body, you’ll have plenty to discuss.

Congratulations. You’re now ready for your first military assignment:

Administrative Support

Obviously, we’re placing you on full-time desk duty. What did you think would happen? You’re middle-aged.

I Cannot Throw Away USB Cables, and It Is Becoming a Problem

Andy Orin — Thu, 14 May 2026 13:00:00 -0400

Oh, I see you are reading this on a device. Perhaps you need to top off your battery? Do you need a cable for that? A USB cable? Because I have an assortment.

I have somehow accumulated several lifetimes’ worth of USB cables, and I cannot get rid of them.

How about a 1.0, 2.0, type A, A to B, B to C, or a micro to macro? Because somewhere in this plastic spaghetti, I have them. I have them all. Would you like one? Please, take a cable. I have too many, and it has become a burden, decades in the making. Please. Take a whole shoebox.

I have USB cables from before the year 2000. Vintage cables that barely did anything, transferring JPGs pixel by pixel from one drive to another. Sometimes, not all the data made it. That’s called the Angelfire’s share.

Actually, this one might not be a data cable. It might only be a charging cable. They don’t really tell you. You only find out five minutes before you need to present a PowerPoint to your entire company. Rest assured, we can find the right cable, though.

I have entire desk drawers of USB cables. Shoeboxes under the bed. I wouldn’t be surprised if the shoes themselves came with a USB cable. I really can’t look at a shoebox without having a panic attack about what I am going to do with all these cables.

I have an iPhone charger from 2005 with your name on it.

I just bought an electric toothbrush, and it came with a three-inch USB cable. I wept.

The drawers won’t quite close anymore. There’s always at least one cable trying to escape like a mad octopus.

Whenever I move apartments, I have to hire help because I cannot carry them on my own. At least one mover is dedicated to the cables, usually a short but stout man in overalls. Sometimes, it’s an entire team of men with a van. You can find them on Craigslist.

There are all sorts of connections available on Craigslist. I would know. I’ve offered up every USB ever made, free if you come pick them up. A bushel of cables? Sure. Cables by the pound. You won’t have a missed connection with these cables, friend.

Is there some kind of orphanage that needs USB cables? Can I donate them to science? Does AI need USB cables? Perhaps some enterprising fashion students could knit the cables into a jaunty blazer, sort of an eco-friendly thing. Fashion for the future.

Some day, the Wi-Fi will be down for good, the Bluetooth will be gone, and we’ll have no way to transfer data over the air. And then, surely, the masses will flock to my cables seeking a way to literally connect. Or we could braid some rope. Kind of depends on the post-apocalyptic situation.

I also have the box from every Apple product I’ve purchased in the last twenty years. I’d recycle them, but they might have the charging cables inside. I wouldn’t want them to go to waste.

Busy Beavers

Ali Fitzgerald — Thu, 14 May 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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The Secret Meanings of Pop Stars’ Names

Max Gutmann, Szilvia Gutmann, and Isaac Gutmann — Thu, 14 May 2026 08:00:00 -0400

Dua Lipa
I have two lips.

Elvis Presley
Someone has flattened the elves.

Elton John
Where’s the bathroom?

Cher
I want it all.

Ed Sheeran
My eyebrows itch.

Bad Bunny
I am going to consume this carrot, and you are powerless to stop me.

John Denver
The bathroom is in Colorado.

John Cougar
The bathroom is a litter box.

John Legend
The bathroom doesn’t actually exist.

Lorde
Dear God, please help me learn to spell.

Johnny Rotten
The toilet smells bad.

Flo Rida
Meet my girlfriend, Ida Ho.

Johnny Cash
Got change for the pay toilet?

Eddie Money
Yes, I do.

Jon Bon Jovi
Party in the outhouse!

Carrie Underwood
The pallbearers have fallen.

Keith Richards
The keys are too expensive.

Keith Urban
The keys are in the city.

Keith Moon
The keys are up my ass.

Taylor Swift
Your clothes are almost ready.

Britney Spears
The Englishman has sharp knees.

Alicia Keys
Who the fuck is Keith?

P!NK
Pink.

Eminem
Skittles.

Mama Cass Elliot
Your mother wears army boots.

Olivia Rodrigo
Let’s go fishing.

Olivia Dean
Let’s kidnap a senior administrator.

Olivia Newton-John
Let’s renovate the bathroom.

Honey, I’m Sorry I Messed Up Our Moment on the Kiss Cam

Mary Spencer — Wed, 13 May 2026 09:40:00 -0700

Honey, I’m sorry I messed up our moment on the kiss cam.

I’m sorry I mouthed “That’s my sister!” and made a face like yuck while jerking my thumb at you, my loving wife of thirty-one years. I’m sorry I couldn’t look you in the eye and, instead, doubled-down and began talking loudly about our shared childhood, even though there is no audio on the kiss cam.

When you kicked my foot, and I realized you were mad, I’m sorry that I tried to make it up to you with a tongue-forward kiss, forgetting that the crowd believed you to be my sister. I’m sorry you had to hear 14,000 people make a collective noise of shock and disgust while your beautiful face was projected on the largest possible screen.

I’m sorry that this all happened after the screen was expanded in 2024.

I’m sorry that I stood up to address our section and let them know that we actually have a very loving and often erotic relationship. I understand now that I shouldn’t have offered to prove it.

I’m sorry I spent the entire fourth inning searching for another camera operator so that I could beg for a second chance.

I’m sorry that they sent the mascot over to “keep it light,” and instead he chose to disrespect me as a man—okay, okay, I mean I’m sorry that when the mascot came over and made a big cartoonish show of winning you over, even going so far as to dip you, I grabbed him by the arm so hard he broke character. Can you admit that there’s no way he could’ve felt that through the suit? Okay, fine.

I’m sorry that this happened to be the game where we met our son’s fiancée’s parents. I’m sorry that when I tried to fight the mascot, I asked her father to back me up.

I’m sorry that no one appreciated my toast, where I explained to our children that forgiveness is the cornerstone of a lasting relationship, and that sometimes the best thing we can do for our relationship is pretend to be siblings—which is a perfectly natural reaction to stage fright—and that perhaps everybody shares a little bit of blame here. Okay, okay.

For all my missteps, I will not apologize for what happened late in the eighth inning. After everything we’d been through, the ballpark choosing me for the eating-in-reverse cam could not have been interpreted as anything other than a pointed, personal attack. I tried to be a good sport, and I will not seek forgiveness for that. However, I am sorry that I thought I was responsible for creating the “reverse” effect. That some of the chewed hot dog ended up in your beer was not intentional, honey, so I do think I deserve to be let off the hook for that.

Reviews of New Food: Exploremores Girl Scout Cookie

Alice M. Phillips — Wed, 13 May 2026 08:59:00 -0400

A few months ago, I was tending to my newborn when across the room my phone pinged. I ignored it. Within a few minutes, however, continuing to do so became impossible, not just because of my compulsive urge to touch my phone every four seconds, but also because the device was seized by such a frenzy of notifications it threatened to buzz right off my dresser.

A wave of anxiety swept over me as I opened the kindergarten moms’ exploding group text—please, not more head lice.

But no! This was a good group-text freak-out. It was the call of America’s most beloved (nonprofit) multi-level marketing scheme.

One of my son’s classmates was selling Girl Scout cookies.

I loaded the order form and promptly set aside all New Year’s resolutions. It had been years since I’d had Girl Scout cookies, and my older two sons had yet to try them. I added my favorites to the cart, and then my eyes fell on the newest addition to the cookie lineup, Exploremores.

As advertised, the Exploremores seemed promising: a sandwich cookie inspired by rocky road ice cream. “Filled with the delicious flavors of chocolate, marshmallows, and toasted almond-flavored crème.” Why not? Sold!

Ordering cookies brought me back to my own days as a wee Brownie, in which I (my mother) also once solicited cookie orders from our Rolodex of family, friends, and susceptible acquaintances. When the cookies arrived, I (my mother) meticulously sorted the inventory to fulfill the orders, then I (my mother) drove around delivering them and collecting wads of one-dollar bills to raise money for the much-hyped Disney World trip that I (not my mother) would get to enjoy.

Alas, selling only two dozen boxes of cookies left the Disney World trip about 1,976 boxes out of reach. Still, along the way, I gained some “valuable life skills,” like outreach, customer service, and how to cope with the disappointment of not getting to meet Mickey Mouse in person.

With the order placed, I forgot about the cookies and life lessons until several weeks later, when my kindergartner came home with a fabulously large bundle from his school friend.

My family ate dinner quickly, anticipating the cookies. The table cleared, I picked up the package of Exploremores—a springy blush pink box, emblazoned with a photo of three Girl Scouts lounging and laughing on a blanket in the grass. I unwrapped a column of dark chocolate cookies and removed the top one, examining its rounded ends and running my thumb over the embossed edge of the Girl Scout trefoil symbol in the center.

My sons watched eagerly as I arranged personal samplers of four cookies in the same trefoil shape—a Tagalongs, a Thin Mints, a Samoas, and an Exploremores cookie.

My chocoholic children went first for their Exploremores, but each set them back down after taking a bite. My three-year-old made a face. Out of the mouths of babes—literally. But they were undeterred, inhaling the remaining classic cookies. When they left the table, their dessert plates were clear but for the waning crescent of an Exploremores with one bite removed.

My husband finished his, but described the flavor as “chemical.” As I separated the circular sandwich and scraped the crème off the top cookie with my teeth, I had the same thought. The “almond” in “almond-flavored” was doing some heavy lifting. The aftertaste possessed something approximating marshmallow.

Overall, I found the cookie nostalgic but cheap—disappointing for a devourer of both sandwich cookies and ice cream. It reminded me of other cheap cocoa cookies from the snack aisle, but without the cute, tiny teddy bear shape. In a world where Oreos have been Double Stuf (sic) for over half a century, and Mega Stuf (sic) for thirteen years, the too-fine film of almond-flavored crème made me question whether the Girl Scout cookie team was all that committed to the crème.

About a week later, when my favorite Thin Mints were expended, but my insatiable desire for cookies was not, I eyed the half-eaten sleeve of Exploremores in the freezer. I was bummed that they hadn’t lived up to their promise—but my sweet tooth won out. As I bit into a chilled cookie, I found to my surprise that this time I could taste the tribute to rocky road. Freezing the cookie had made it impossible to divorce the ensemble, and experiencing it altogether that time, I could appreciate the whole. In fact, I appreciated that cookie so much I ate them all up—whole and dissected; frozen and room temp; dry, out of the package, and soggy, dunked in milk.

In the end, “Exploremores” turned out to be the perfect name—I just needed to look past my first impression and explore more.

Great American Novels: The College Years

Adam Dietz — Wed, 13 May 2026 08:00:00 -0400

The Catcher in the Rye: The College Years

If you thought Holden Caulfield was insufferable before, you’ll find that expulsion from prep school was a mere warm-up for the incessant grousing and myriad of beefs inherent in life as an English undergrad. Armed with the perceived moral high ground and loads of what he calls “lived experience,” this sequel sees the creative writing major crafting some pretty bad fiction while clashing with a dean intent on his demise.

Moby-Dick: The College Years

Having survived the sinking of the Pequod and documented the events in more detail than was necessary, Ishmael attempts to reinvent himself, trading in the high seas for higher ed, and asking classmates to call him “Ish.” Not unlike the jock who peaked in high school, our narrator struggles with navigating what comes next, constantly reliving his glory days with Captain Ahab, Queequeg, and the great white whale—much to his peers’ chagrin.

A Confederacy of Dunces: The College Years

Picking up precisely where the first book ended, this sequel sees Ignatius Reilly and Myrna Minkoff bound for NYC, where the two assume a bohemian lifestyle. Unfortunately, the big apple brings out the worst in Ignatius, who upon enrolling in a PhD program at Fordham, is swiftly booted for partying. What follows is a bacchanal of hot dogs, pastries, and an unconscionable amount of Dr. Nut.

Catch-22: The College Years

Yossarian, now stateside, enrolls in college and shares an off-campus apartment with a pacifist who steals his food. After attending his first American history course, Yossarian decides that “learning” history is foolhardy, since one must live through it to truly understand it, and asks his professor to fail him. Excitedly, the professor explains that this perspective is exactly what he wants students to draw from the course, and he refuses to fail Yossarian, whom he now believes to be his star pupil.

The Haunting of Hill House: The College Years

Playing out twenty years after the events of the first book, Hill House has become derelict and abandoned—a local legend. That is, until a few wacky fraternity boys from the local college use it as the setting for the biggest kegger of the year. Is the house haunted, or are the spirits a metaphor for male loneliness and substance abuse? In this one, it’s definitely haunted!

The Great Gatsby: The College Years

Nick Carraway, a little older and a lot more interested in waxing rhapsodically, heads back to school, quickly securing an invite to a tropical spring-break trip. Between games of beach volleyball, surf lessons, and burying buddies in the sand, Nick sparks romance with a local woman, only for her to quickly lose interest after hearing one too many of his stories about Gatsby’s jazz quartets and spiced baked hams.

You Will Buy from Quince, and You Will Fucking Like It

Jeremy Hooper — Tue, 12 May 2026 13:02:00 -0400

Hello, it’s your subconscious here. Quince speaking.

Having spent years gently occupying your favorite Dharma & Greg rewatch podcast with tales of our top-notch Mongolian cashmere, we are thrilled to move our direct-to-consumer approach into Phase Two: full integration into your implicit mind.

For years now, you have thought, “Huh? Are their 100 percent European linen tunics as good as the character actress who played Jenna Elfman’s mother suggests?” And yet—and yet!—our data suggests a good many of you have yet to place an order. Which upsets Dharma, to say nothing of Greg. Which upsets Quince.

Did you think we saturated the audio landscape for fun? No. We did it for you, dear consumer. And yet you still—still!—have not used promo code WhyDontYouRememberThatShowItRanForFiveSeasons to secure a pair of washable stretch silk palazzo pants for your aunt’s birthday.

Having left us no choice, here is how this works now. Whenever words like “Strait of Hormuz,” “Anthropic,” or “Chloe from Dance Moms should really have a podcast” fall silent in your mind, we at Quince will slip in. Where there was once whatever counts for quiet in this decade, there will now be gentle reminders of how we cut out the middleman and pass the savings on to you (promo code: ShutupYoureTheCreepyOne).

Not that we are unreasonable. For every order over one hundred dollars, we will pass the sweet relief of silence on to you. For exactly two hours, you will not hear a thing about our luxury quality without a luxury markup. No linen. No silk. No gushing host who we may or may not be holding at gunpoint (promo code: WeTotallyAre). Unless, of course, you choose to listen to any of the literally seven hundred podcasts on which we have commanded sponsorship (promo code: WhoopsItsNowEightHundredAndTwo).

Look, we too believed we could rely on the Pod Save America guys to do the heavy lifting. But you Americans? You need a lot more saving. And savings. That is why we are now offering a 10 percent discount if you order between now and your next bathroom break (promo code: YesWeCanSeeYouShit).

You might be wondering how you will sleep. Do not worry. We promise not to invade your mind with the virtues of our newly launched travel line during rest hours. No, no—between midnight and six, we will only share the virtues of our washable pajamas, and only in a gentle whisper. And get this, should you order precisely at 3 a.m., we will throw in a free Mulberry silk sleep mask (promo code: YouShouldWearYourInsomniaLikeThatMore).

There is no use resisting. We may be named after an obscure fruit, but our goal has always been ubiquitous dominance. Had you simply listened to Kimmy Gibbler when she spoke of the virtues of our surprisingly flattering swimwear line, escalation may not have been in order. But just like the Tanner family, you rejected poor Kimmy. And our high-quality pieces at a fraction of the price. Neither of us takes that lightly (promo code: TheyWereSoGoddamnMeanToHerOnThatShow).

All of this to say: You will place an order. Today. Now. Or Else. (promo code: YouDontWantToAngerUsMore).

And, as always, we offer 365-day easy returns. Of your cotton modal double-scoop-neck tank, if not your sanity.

An Excerpt from Maeve Dunigan’s New Book, Read This to Look Cool

Maeve Dunigan — Tue, 12 May 2026 09:00:00 -0400

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Writer and McSweeney’s contributor Maeve Dunigan has poured a lifetime of effort into seeming effortlessly chill. The results have been… mixed. Nonetheless, Maeve still believes she’s one pair of leather pants, one perfect use of the word “bespoke,” and one jar of expensive olives away from self-actualization. She’ll never stop trying, no matter how bespoke things get (was that right?).

With sharp wit and unflinching honesty, Maeve shares her own misadventures—like the time she quietly endured a ruptured appendix at McDonald’s so she wouldn’t come off as dramatic—and explores the universal desire to belong. She invites readers into her world of One Direction fanfiction authorship and passive-aggressive yogurt mind games, detailing the anxieties that come with living in an age of constant visibility.

Both cringe-inducing and uproarious, Read This to Look Cool is a deeply relatable meditation on the absurdity inherent in the constant performance of ourselves, offering a fresh perspective on self-love and the true meaning of cool. We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from the book today, which is out now and available from your favorite bookseller.

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I Actually Do Believe in Competing with Other Women

The patriarchy forces women into a state of competition with one another, and many modern women are opting out—overcoming societal pressures, recognizing the unique emotional complexity of female friendships, understanding that sex and gender exist on a spectrum, and choosing to see each other as allies with a common goal rather than enemies in an endless battle for attention.

And that’s fine with me. Because while those idiots are asleep at the wheel, I’m getting to work. You see, I wholeheartedly consider myself to be in an ongoing, ruthless competition with every woman on earth, and I’m going to win. I’m going to be the Best Woman.

Every morning I wake up, and my first thought is, “How can I maximize my time in order to make the most women as possible feel inferior to me?” Then I race my neighbor, Rebecca, out the front door of our building. Rebecca is a moron and, as far as I can tell, has never had the wherewithal to even realize we’re racing. I win every time.

When I reach my local coffee shop, I make sure that Gino, the twenty-two-year-old barista, compliments me. If he compliments me too quietly, I say “WHAT?” over and over until the other women in line can hear. If he doesn’t compliment me at all, I go in and out of the café, ordering different things, until he does.

Afterward, it’s time for hot yoga, where I am the best at everything. I change in the locker room the quickest. I banter with the teacher the longest. I sweat more than any woman there. If I’m bored in the middle of yoga, I’ll encourage the woman next to me to play tic-tac-toe on a pad of paper I keep in my sports bra. Suffice it to say, I win. Well, sometimes we tie, in which case I quickly dispose of the evidence by tearing the paper to shreds and snorting it.

By the time I get to work, I’m exhausted. Just kidding; I never get exhausted. I don’t even get tired. I barely sleep. I’m on nine prescription medications. Anyway, at work, I like to start my day with a lap around the office to make sure no one’s looking prettier than me. If I see a woman whose hair looks especially nice, I commence my plan. “It’s crazy hat day! It’s crazy hat day, everyone!” I shout, hauling out a basket of cartoonish hats I’ve stowed in the closet for this very purpose. With the crisis averted, I turn my attention to my male boss—it’s time to bring him his morning crème brûlée.

Satisfied after a long, productive day at the office, I’ll rest my chin on my boobs, pondering how to spend my evening. That’s right, my boobs are so perky that I can use them as a chin rest. Additionally, my skin is so flawless that I often disappear into flesh-colored walls. My eyelashes measure nine inches. My butt could kill you.

On Wednesdays, I go to book club at the local library, always arriving at least thirty minutes early in order to beat the women who keep trying to lock me out. When it’s my turn to discuss the novel, I begin by reciting the book word for word to prove that I’ve read it. Then I reveal, not only have I read it—I’ve written it. That’s right, I authored the entire book under a pen name, published it, distributed it to great acclaim, and covertly ensured it would be chosen for this exact book club. I do this every week.

Snuggled in bed each evening, I settle my laptop on the duvet for my nightly wind-down routine. I carefully compose a malware phishing email, which I send to hundreds of female CEOs. “Who are you? Why are you doing this?” one of the CEOs writes back. I just smile and add her social security number and credit card information to my running list. She’ll find out soon enough.

Your Cholesterol Looks Good, but Also Quite Bad

Adam Greenspan — Tue, 12 May 2026 08:00:00 -0400

You might want to sit down for this. Or at least part of this. Your cholesterol looks good, but also quite bad.

Your good cholesterol is 45. That’s good.

But your bad cholesterol is 141. That’s bad.

Your total cholesterol adds up to 222, because doctor math. That is also high and bad (well, the bad part is bad).

You might remember that when you were a kid, 160 was high (bad). You did an admirable job, never eating eggs ever (good), and getting down to 141 (good). But now 100 is high (bad). You have high cholesterol again (bad). It’s probably all those eggs (bad).

Luckily, there are all sorts of medicines that you can take to lower your cholesterol further, and we are happy to sell them to you.

We understand it may seem like we’re moving the goalposts, but these drugs were really expensive to make, and 100 being bad means a LOT more people have to buy them. Pharma Bros are people, too, and we can all agree they deserve to make enough money to support their Pharma Bro lifestyles and those of several generations of Pharma Broscendants.

Here, take four of these horse-sized CholestOff Plus supplements before every bite of non-egg food.

If you’re wondering what would happen if your good cholesterol was bad but your bad cholesterol was good, please stop; it stresses everyone out. Stress is bad.

I shouldn’t have had you sit down. You need to be running most of the time, even when receiving news of indiscernible gravity.

I don’t know how I missed this, but I see you are an Aquarius cat owner who once came within five hundred feet of an egg. That means you are HIGH RISK. Your bad cholesterol should really be below 70. The lower the better. Negative would be great. Is your cat an Aquarius? We should test your cat.

Do you or anyone in your family have a heart? Unfortunately, hearts are hereditary. Most heart attacks occur in patients with a family history of hearts, especially on the maternal or feline side.

Let’s schedule a follow-up visit so we can celebrate getting below 70 and change your target to 50.

Also, we’re going to send you to get an ultrasound on your neck to make sure there are no eggs in there.

One more thing. Your triglycerides are bad. They’re high. And they’re triglycerides, which means they count triple. Your calculated, not made-up superbad cholesterol is now 423. Regardless of what ChatGPT says, that is how it works. ChatGPT is not a doctor and is hallucinating, and, by the way, you’re probably also hallucinating because your cholesterol is 423 and you’re hopped up on triglycerides. Let’s triple your max statins, stat (I can say “stat” because I’m basically a doctor).

How would you like to pay for this?

You don’t have insurance? Oh, your cholesterol’s fine then. Here, have an egg.

We’re Diversifying the University by Hiring More Crackpots

Richard Amesbury — Mon, 11 May 2026 13:01:00 -0400

“Harvard is quietly asking donors for $10 million gifts to establish new endowed professorships in a sweeping bid to reshape its faculty under the banner of ‘viewpoint diversity,’ according to two people familiar with the initiative.”
— The Harvard Crimson

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On behalf of the university, I’m pleased to announce our earnest and long-overdue commitment to diversifying our faculty. No, not the reckoning we broadcast to great fanfare in 2020, which we have repudiated in exchange for federal funding. No, I refer instead to “viewpoint” diversity.

For too long, the university has ignored the wisdom of the donor class and hired based on academic excellence. Regrettably, this has led to the underrepresentation of discredited viewpoints in elite higher education. Many ideas that enjoy enormous popularity among billionaires—cryogenic immortality, disregard for punctuation, the Antichrist—have scandalously been excluded from our labs and classrooms.

No longer. We solemnly vow to dismantle systemic barriers to inclusion—such as shared governance, apolitical job searches, and the discriminatory practice of vetting ideas—and to ensure that all viewpoints, however dubious, enjoy equal footing in the academy.

We have found, to our consternation, considerable groupthink within the professoriate on matters that are otherwise widely debated. This academic monoculture stifles heterodox viewpoints on disputed questions such as the safety of vaccines, the square root of four, and the earth’s topology.

Moreover, campus surveys suggest that many students feel compelled to self-censor. Out of fear for their grades, they often respond to exam questions by drawing on what their professors have taught them, thereby reproducing expert opinion. We affirm that, henceforth, no student shall have their preconceived notions challenged or be pressured to reject falsified hypotheses.

As befits the nation’s most expansive—and expensive—marketplace of ideas, we commit to putting substantial resources behind ideas that are presently viewed with skepticism by scientists and scholars. By leveling the intellectual playing field, we seek to achieve a more democratic university to bring about a less democratic world.

That’s where billionaires like yourself come in. For a mere $10 million gift, you can help us remake the intellectual landscape by endowing a prestigious chair in an underrepresented subfield, such as geocentric astronomy, high-energy phlogiston physics, or patriotic history. Your generosity would enable us to lure academic job seekers who might otherwise scorn our hidebound institution in favor of innovative civics centers, private think tanks, and parents’ basements.

Without donor intervention, a system intended to narrow the range of plausible opinion cannot be trusted to diversify. To achieve equity, we need affirmative action. What the marketplace of ideas requires, in short, is venture capital.

By funding the production of what will resemble knowledge, donors like you can safeguard our university against monopolization by experts. Think of this as sponsored content, which will be virtually indistinguishable to students from what is produced within established academic disciplines. The occupant of your paid post will enjoy, by association, the esteem due a lifetime of selfless devotion to a rigorous methodology, but without the self-imposed duty to abide by its norms and acknowledge its sometimes inconvenient results.

I know what you’re thinking: This all sounds great, but what if a diversity hire changes their mind, thus upsetting the carefully engineered equipoise of viewpoints and putting my investment at risk? You’re not wrong. To maintain a perfectly stocked marketplace of ideas, no one can be allowed to buy anything. But rest assured, diversity hires will be selected for their intellectual intransigence and resistance to rational argument. These are, after all, outré viewpoints.

Thank you for your commitment to the right kind of diversity. All viewpoints matter—yours especially.

A Review of Director Ka$h Patel’s FBI Bourbon

Tyler Gray and Sean Evans — Mon, 11 May 2026 08:00:00 -0400

“The bottles bear the imprint of the Kentucky distillery Woodford Reserve, and are engraved with the words KASH PATEL FBI DIRECTOR, as well as a rendering of an FBI shield. Surrounding the shield is a band of text featuring Patel’s director title and his favored spelling of his first name: Ka$h. An eagle holds the shield in its talons, along with the number 9, presumably a reference to Patel’s place in the history of FBI directors.” — The Atlantic

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Crack the seal on this uniquely squat bottle and, right away, the Woodford Reserve Director Ka$h Patel Kash Patel FBI Director signature bourbon opens with notes of cherry, a secondary zest of orange peel, and lingering funk of insurrection on the nose. It’s heady and strong, eager to prove its worth.

The vision for this spirit seems to dart in many different directions at once. At times, it gives distinct hits of cinnamon and cardamom. At others, it leans heavily into impropriety and hubris. All of these sweet spices do a dance—possibly faked—on the tongue but quickly arrest your whole mouth with unquestionable, if unqualified, character.

So much happens so quickly that it almost defies judicial review. But there’s no escaping the fact that the palate doesn’t fit the nose; it’s like a borrowed jacket that’s a hair too big. But it knows it. And it doesn’t care. And it would appreciate it if you stopped bringing it up.

The aggressive sweep of the senses continues, unabated, taking the taste in directions you wouldn’t have predicted—rich caramel, honeyed stonefruits, baking chocolate, and something that we can only describe as . There’s a leather note in here. Not soft, buttery, luxurious cowhide; more this-chair-came-with-the-office.

Even more interesting things happen when you set it aside for a term. Wait twenty minutes. Put on some tunes. Something by an up-and-coming young country artist, maybe a song that’s suspiciously similar to the Beastie Boys, whatever. When you come back, you’ll find more oxidized, emboldened sensations. Adding a drop or two of fresh spring water brings out new coconut flavors and baking spices — barley and rye are immediate culprits. Wait, no, it’s the oak lactones from the charred new oak barrels to blame. Our bad.

The sedate proof—a precise 90.4—is deceptively mild for something this pushy on the backend. The finish arrives like a hostile subpoena: jarring, poorly timed, longer than it has any right to be. A quirky spice note returns, brash and bold, unwanted but unconcerned. All man.

Off the very back end, there’s a weird, briny flavor. Is that… seashells? And there’s an astringent, overextracted aftertaste that is not pleasant, like licking the laminated balsa wood of a gold medal-winning hockey stick.

It’s certainly a rare bourbon, the kind of bottle you only get by calling in lots of favors (or having something really damning on your supplier). But is the Director Ka$h Patel Kash Patel FBI Director edition Woodford Reserve bourbon destined to sit alongside a King of Kentucky 17-year? A Heaven Hill 22? Or a POTUS 47? We’ll have to wait and see. You’ll know because we’ll tell you. It’s doing a great job. It’s a critical part of your liquor cabinet. Even though you might not see it back there, hiding behind taller bottles, it’s suited for regular, if not excessive, drinking.

Sip it neat or guzzle it in a locker room.
Trickle it over a big icy rock before Congressional testimony.
Pound it on a DOJPJ¹ going anywhere your boo desires.
Bourbon like we’ve never seen before.
People are saying it’s the greatest ever.

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¹ This was not reviewed at altitude on a private jet, which may have affected the taste.

After the Baby, I Didn’t Just Bounce Back—I Catapulted

Amanda Bachman and Jane Helpern — Fri, 08 May 2026 13:00:00 -0400

In the days following my return from the hospital, I have gained agility, speed, and mass. I feel physically better postpartum than I have ever felt in my entire life. I didn’t just bounce back—I double-bounced, and then snapped all the way back around again.

Now, I pirouette out of bed and flounce into rooms. Just the other day, my husband asked if I could cook him dinner, and I cartwheeled into the kitchen to make a beef bourguignon from scratch. Before giving birth, I did not know how to make beef bourguignon or even how to spell it. But these things, a mother knows.

My birthing experience didn’t hamper me at all; in fact, it fueled me. It felt like finally eating a nasty cheeseburger after nine months on tofu. I did it completely naturally, and in under five minutes. As I left the maternity ward, the nurses gave me a Jennifer Hudson Show-style spirit tunnel. Cardiothoracic surgeons paused mid-incision to shake my hand. Another new mother asked me to sign her newborn.

When it comes to breastfeeding, I know that many other moms struggle with milk supply. While I empathize with their plight, I can’t actually relate per se, as my engorged yet perfectly pert naturals turn into veritable firehoses of milk at the switch of a button—literally. I have found a piece down by my lower right armpit that acts as an on-off switch for milk.

Isn’t the human body amazing? Mine in particular?

As for sleep, they say, “Sleep when the baby sleeps.” But I say, the baby sleeps when I sleep, and I sleep all the time: in the morning, on the toilet, at the wheel. We have fun! Whenever you get the two of us together in a room or car, you can be sure it’s lights out.

Speaking of my baby, she’s my twin, and I mean that in a genetic sense. The doctors ran a test, and it turns out that across all Punnett squares, my DNA triumphed 100 percent of the time. I got as close to 3D printing my clone as is currently possible.

Ugh, my heart. My baby and I are so in sync. Truly. The on-off switch for my breast milk also functions as a Bluetooth for the baby. When it’s on, we sync up so only one of us can talk at a time, which is awesome because she’s four weeks old and has nothing interesting to say.

My vagina actually got tighter, if you can believe it—defying the logic of my epically globular mom butt. I also only got hornier. I’ll spare you the details, but just know I’ve found that nothing gets me hot and bothered like being referred to as “Mama!” by a peer. In these instances, I excuse myself, hop in my Chevrolet Malibu, and race home to make energetic love to my husband for hours on end.

Not that it’s a competition, but at my postnatal check-up, my OB-GYN said she had never seen numbers so good. She told me not to come back because, and I quote, “you’ll ruin the curve.”

I also got back to work almost immediately. In a way, my matrescence has been a kind of road-mapping exercise, ripe with insights about ROI, AI-enabled customizations, and quirky icebreakers. The other day, I was sitting on the couch with my baby and had such an aha moment that I physically leaped up and exclaimed, “Now THAT’S how to reduce workflow inefficiencies!”

My baby flew through the air, landed perfectly on her feet, and began confidently walking at age .08. I’m truly blessed.

I was so prepared to excel in my career that I became a bit skeptical that mothers need paid maternity leave at all. But then a friend of mine explained that, following giving birth, she was rehospitalized for hemorrhage, her uterus fell out of her vagina, and her husband decided to start training for the marathon.

I’ve since come out as proudly pro–paid maternity leave. Moms are amazing.

Math Problems for Moms

Sara White and Lindsey Smith — Fri, 08 May 2026 08:00:00 -0400

1. You have two children, ages two and five. You must take them to the dentist at 10 a.m. tomorrow, which is five miles from home, and you’ll be driving at thirty miles per hour. When should you start getting your children ready to leave?

ANSWER: Yesterday. This allows for one roadside stop to find a lost teddy bear, a second to break up a sibling fight that includes a bloody nose, and a third to clean up vomit. In other words, just pay that appointment no-show fee now and let their teeth rot.

2. You cook spaghetti and meatballs for your family, which they have enjoyed at least two hundred times in the past. What is the statistical probability that all of your kids will inexplicably say this is the most disgusting meal ever and refuse to eat it?

ANSWER: 100 percent.

3. One of your children must be at soccer practice at 4 p.m.; the other has their piano lesson at 4:30 p.m.; and you have a mammogram booked for 4:45 p.m. Will you make it back to pick up your kids from their respective lessons before 5:30 p.m.?

ANSWER: Yes, because you had to take an urgent Zoom call from your boss about the teriyaki chicken you left in the office fridge three weeks ago. You’ve now missed your appointment, but don’t worry, it will only take two years to book another one.

4. Add the following to work out how long it will take you to get your child to sleep tonight:

Screaming about shower time for five minutes, plus screaming about the end of shower time for ten minutes, plus demanding to be re-wrapped in a towel eight times so it feels “right” for ten minutes = 25 mins
Arguing about needing the Stitch pajamas, NOT the “dumb” Bluey ones, for five minutes, plus having a demonic episode because they’re too wet to get them on for ten minutes = 15 mins
Smearing toothpaste on the basin, mirror, and walls for five minutes, plus brushing teeth for five seconds = 3.05 mins
Refusing to use toilet = 2 mins
Reading The Gruffalo = 10 mins
Reading Chicka Chicka Boom Boom = 10 mins
Reading The Gruffalo again, but with a Cockney accent = 10 mins
Reading The Gruffalo again, but with a Cockney accent and also in song = 10 mins
Getting a cup of water = 2 mins
Getting another cup of water because the first one tasted “yucky” = 3 mins
Going to the toilet because of all the water = 3 mins
Getting up because they’re scared of The Gruffalo = 2 mins
Wanting you to sing KPop Demon Hunters in a lullaby arrangement = 2 mins
Reciting The Gruffalo from memory with your eyes closed, then falling asleep before your child does = 5 mins

ANSWER: Trick question—your child is still awake.

5. You must be up at 5 a.m. tomorrow, but you only got the kids to bed at 9 p.m. To ensure you get the recommended nightly sleep allocation for adult women (eight hours), should you:

A. Go to sleep immediately
B. Watch one quick Friends episode to unwind
C. Open a bottle of wine, and watch five back-to-back episodes of Love Is Blind while scrolling Instagram and commenting on everything Britney Spears has ever posted

ANSWER: A, but you’ll definitely choose C. Screw the recommendations; you need this “me” time.

6. You pulled an all-nighter before your child’s eighth birthday, wrapping presents, stuffing goodie bags, and baking a dairy-free Labubu cake. How many times does your kid say thank you?

A. 3
B. 1
C. -5

ANSWER: C. There were no thank-yous, and your child had an explosive tantrum because her Labubu was orchid pink, not pastel pink.

7. Your husband is working away this week. What is the statistical probability of one or more of these things occurring within twenty-four hours of his departure?

A once-in-a-hundred-year hailstorm knocks out the power to your house so that you cannot use your phone, the Wi-Fi, or your electric vehicle
One of your children comes down with a new, rare form of flesh-eating bacteria
Another of your children gets lice
You get lice, the flesh-eating bacteria, and a UTI
Your children’s fighting becomes so violent and loud that a neighbor calls the cops

ANSWER: 100 percent.

8. You have a spare thousand dollars to spend (remember, this is theoretical). Is it better for your mental health to spend it on:

A. Therapy
B. A cleaner
C. A rusty old van

ANSWER: C. Park the van in an abandoned lot where you can drink white wine, eat leftover Goldfish from your handbag, and scream into the abyss.

9. Your kids make you breakfast in bed for Mother’s Day, unsupervised. There is syrup on the kitchen ceiling, the smoke alarm is blaring, and the dog is licking raw eggs off the floor. How long will it take you to clean up?

ANSWER: It doesn’t matter. Your stomach is full of pancakes, your sheets are covered in dog slobber, and your tired heart is full of love. There are some things math simply can’t explain.

Excerpts from Chief Justice John Roberts’ High School English Essays

Mark Paglia — Thu, 07 May 2026 13:55:00 -0400

“Rather than tilting at a windmill, the proper procedure would be for Don Quixote to file suit to abolish all windmills, ideally in the Fifth Circuit.”

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“Whether in the nouveau riche West Egg or the old-money East Egg, housing restrictions are a reasonable tool for maintaining property value and historic neighborhood character.”

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“Huck shows great disrespect for the Court’s precedent in Dred Scott when aiding the fugitive Jim, presumably due to liberal indoctrination by the Widow Douglas.”

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“Simply wearing a small red letter A is no great burden, and it would infringe upon the free speech of the rest of the town were Hester Prynne not to wear it.”

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“The Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass relates only his own views on slavery; we cannot properly assess the merits of his book without giving equal time to his slave owner.”

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“As we can see from the difficulties Gulliver encounters when he travels to the lands of the tiny Lilliputians and the gigantic Brobdingnagians, immigration should be discouraged.”

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“It is the prerogative of the government of Oceania to determine each day whether Eurasia or East Asia is the enemy, and congressional approval would unjustly constrain Big Brother.”

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“Iago says that he has no reason for hating Othello, and it would be wrong of us to impute any racist anti-Moor motivation on his part.”

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“Instances of both pride and prejudice have decreased over time, and it is therefore time to abolish protections for the Bennet sisters that unduly burden their suitors.”

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“Despite The Jungle’s focus on the possibility of rats or the occasional factory worker winding up in a hot dog, the true horror would be higher meat prices due to an overprotective nanny state.”-

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“Packing Bertha Mason into the attic of Thornfield Hall while allowing Jane Eyre to use the rest of the house is permissible because it is based on restricting her proto-feminist hysteria, not her Creole racial identity.”

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“By being such a miser, Scrooge saves enough money to cure Tiny Tim of the diseases caused by Scrooge not paying his father enough in wages, demonstrating that privatized health care and non-union labor are self-correcting.”

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“Please see the attached doctor’s note excusing me from reading The Narrative of Sojourner Truth, as it could cause acute psychological distress and fainting spells.”

Butch Cards

Ali Fitzgerald — Thu, 07 May 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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The Sixteen Steps to Owning an Eight-and-a-Half-Inch Skirt

Robyn Sands — Thu, 07 May 2026 08:01:00 -0400

Step 1: The Problem
I’ve been reborn. My estrogen patch restored my sleep, energy, and hair back to age twenty-two. Time to reverse-age my wardrobe.

Step 2: The Store
Purdy Girl, a shop that mangles vowels and swaps consonants like a bra worn on the outside. The sales associate greets me, “Hey, girl. Don’t miss the sales rack.”

Step 3: The Find
An eight-and-a-half-inch micro mini skirt that’s quadruple marked down to $29.99.

Step 4: The Research
Unlike a pair of 7.4-volt heated slippers with rechargeable batteries, a skirt isn’t complicated, so I skip the Amazon reviews.

Step 5: The Test
“You wanna try that on, girl?” The associate herds me to a mirror-less dressing room. I improvise by propping my phone on the floor in selfie mode. From this low angle, I look like a glamazon on stilts in a heinie hugger. I may have entered the dressing room as a woman, but I’m leaving it as a girl.

Step 6: Impulse Purchase
The checkout area is like Paris Baguette. I’m offered a free pâtisserie. Seems counterintuitive to fitting into crop tops. I’m asked if I want to donate my jeans to save an extra 10 percent. I’m a goodwill girl. I give away my pants and leave in the micro.

Step 7: Buyer’s Rejoice
My thighs have conquered a lot: a master’s degree, birth, high-waisted jeans, low-waisted jeans, mechanical bulls, the boot-scootin boogie, the Macarena, and wheelie chair races. Wearing a dollhouse curtain is the perfect way to celebrate them.

Step 8: The Fail
Walking home in my caboose coverlet, I’m startled by my reflection: a menopausal ogre with SUPA DUPA FUPA. I drop my mochi donut. A micro mini isn’t something I can bend over in without blasting passersby with my honey buns, so I stop, drop, and roll to the downed pastry.

Step 9: Buyer’s Remorse
What was I thinking, entering a store aimed at seventeen-year-olds with upcycled bralettes? Eight and a half inches is barely enough fabric to make a kimono for a Hallmark Precious Moments figurine.

Step 10: Purchase Reinforcement
I remind myself that my body is a collab between a divine being and a genomic sequence longer than a CVS receipt. It’s my right to wear a derriere doily.

Step 11: Purchase Disempowerment
I tell myself to shut the eff up. Why did I buy clothing the size of a disposable wipe?

Step 12: The Return
I’m frozen on the corner of Amsterdam Avenue and Seventy-Eighth Street. Any movement could whip up a gale-force wind that may cause my baby bib to flutter and expose my badonkadonk.

Step 13: Purchase Support
Inch by inch, I move until I reach the scene of the derriere debacle. I tell the sales associate, “I want to return the skirt.”

“Sorry, girl, all sales are final.”

I ask if I can just get my jeans back. She says my jeans have been allocated to Gloria, a woman in need. It’s only been fourteen minutes since I donated them.

Step 14: Purchase Augmentation
To max-up my micro skirt, pettipants are suggested. Short ruffled bloomers inspired by undergarments from the 1800s. A time when propriety ruled fashion. Now, it’s ruled by insanity.

Step 15: Purchase Interference
Before purchasing, the sales associate asks to see my ID. I show it. She says, “Sorry, girl. I can’t sell you the pettipants.” I ask her why not. She says for safety reasons, the store doesn’t sell pettipants to anyone over fifty. I tell her that’s ageist. She explains that when combined with hot flashes and dry vaginal walls, the pettipants may spark spontaneous combustion. I ask how I’m supposed to get home in a tooshie tunic. She says she’ll sell them to me, but she won’t take responsibility. She has me sign a waiver absolving her of any pettipants accidents.

Step 16: The Rear End
I leave Purdy Girl as a liability. I pause on the sidewalk to eat a mochi donut. Suddenly, I’m sideswiped. I hit cement. Another body follows. Buttocks up, I instantly recognize the jeans. “Gloria?”

You Know I’m a Good Driver Because I Ace the Tests the DMV Keeps Making Me Take

Noah Seligman — Wed, 06 May 2026 12:46:00 -0400

“President Trump has claimed he ‘aced’ all three cognitive tests administered to him during his first and second presidencies. The commander-in-chief further claimed that no president has ever taken part in a similar exercise when he spoke on his mental acuity at the White House Monday.” — The Independent

- - -

I’m proud to say I’m an excellent driver. I know this because every few months, the Department of Motor Vehicles insists I take tests to prove I’m physically and cognitively healthy enough to keep my driver’s license.

In fact, no other driver in history has been asked to take as many fitness tests as I have. And I ace them all.

After driving into that organic honey stand at the farmer’s market, I received a sternly worded letter from the DMV demanding I take another proficiency exam. It’s actually not that easy, but for me it was easy because I have a good memory. Because I’m cognitively there. I had to remember five words. I can even do it now:

Person.
Woman.
Man.
Squirrel.
Stop sign.

The lady at the DMV was all like, “That’s amazing. How did you do that?” It turns out, nobody ever gets it in order. But if you do get it in order, you get extra points. I got the extra points.

Again, I’m an excellent driver. I’m even really good at posting on my social media while driving. I did it over 550 times in April alone, that’s like 18+ posts per day. How many other drivers can say they live-stream as they speed through the food court of a local shopping mall?

In fact, after I made an unsignaled right-hand turn into a parade, I became famous. Great ratings. I was so popular that the DMV asked me to come in to sign more paperwork and prove my fitness to drive.

Another A+ 10/10 perfect score on that battery of tests. The DMV was a little curious whether the rapidly expanding unexplained bruises on my hand had contributed to my inability to operate a vehicle. But it was nothing a little makeup couldn’t explain away, so that seemed to satisfy everyone.

To be honest, I didn’t even mind when I was summoned for my third cognitive test in five months. And, based on the reviews, the audience should be thanking me for driving into that Shakespeare in the Park production. All the world’s a stage. Also, a driveway, if you want it to be. Everyone dies at the end of Hamlet anyway. So it was my Ford Focus and not a poisoned sword or chalice or whatever. Big deal.

Also, don’t forget, if the city had let me build my grand eight-car garage, I wouldn’t have to use the elementary school playground as a parking spot for trips to the grocery store. So whose fault is it really that the four-square game got interrupted?

I can’t wait to take the next test, just to demonstrate, yet again, how tremendous I am behind the wheel. Have to take another one tomorrow because I played my own game of red light, green light while driving the wrong way down a highway exit ramp. It snarled traffic and caused a massive, expensive pile-up of cars and trucks that choked off a primary traffic artery critical to global trade. You must have noticed the price of gas recently. I did that. This means fewer drivers on the road for me to endanger anyway. But, of course, the Woke DMV is making a whole thing of it…

[Nods off and takes a five-minute nap.]

Look, folks, me having to keep taking these tests is proof that I’m a great driver. Why else would I be getting so much attention from the DMV after running up a historic number of moving violations, parking tickets, and license suspensions? They wouldn’t keep demanding I take the tests if I wasn’t so good at them, would they?

Let’s not forget, the chief judge of the traffic court has ruled that all drivers have absolute immunity for “official vehicle acts,” so there really isn’t anything unlawful about any of this. No stoplights, speed bumps, centerlines, or guardrails needed. So it’s all gas, no brakes from here on out.

McSweeney’s

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Red Phase (Weeks 1-3)

White Phase (Weeks 4–5)

Blue Phase (Weeks 6–9)

Army Basic Training Graduation (Week 10)

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You Know I’m a Good Driver Because I Ace the Tests the DMV Keeps Making Me Take

Red Phase
(Weeks 1-3)

White Phase
(Weeks 4–5)

Blue Phase
(Weeks 6–9)

Army Basic Training Graduation
(Week 10)