McSweeney’s

How to Hustle Like a Tech Founder

Andrew Patrick Clark — Mon, 29 Jun 2026 13:00:00 -0400

Mind on the Grind
Founders know how to grind. Grind on the job. Grind at the gym. Grind your spices in an authentic molcajete. Grind your own meat for a perfect blend of Chuck, Skirt, and Sirloin. Grind your teeth as you lie in bed at night. When your dentist gives you a retainer to protect your teeth, grind right through it to prove your hustle.

Hit the Ground Running
You can’t hustle alone. Move to a city where founders thrive and get to work. Head to Miami if you want to scam people with crypto, or San Francisco if you want to scam people with AI. If you’re scamming people the old-fashioned way, stick with New York.

Optimize Everything
Set yourself up for success with an efficient morning routine. Wake up and go for a jog, followed by light yoga and meditation. Hit the sauna, then an ice bath, then a fire bath. Get some breakfast and treat the third-degree burns from the fire bath. Write down what you want to accomplish today, this week, and over the next half century. Contemplate your own mortality. Stare into the void for five and a half hours. Once that’s finished, it’s time to start your evening routine.

Bootstrap It
Founders don’t take handouts. If you want to build something, you have to pull yourself up by your bootstraps. Clench your fists, grab those laces, and show the world how hard you can pull. Tell everyone that you’re pulling your bootstraps as hard as you can, but for some reason, you can’t get off the ground. If you pull hard enough, then one day you’ll be a CEO, as long as you don’t throw your back out yanking on these damn bootstraps.

Find, Solve, Repeat
The best founders identify a human problem. Pinpoint a social ill, monetize it for your personal gain, then spread the problem to increase your market share. Before the pitchforks come out, set up a fake charity that claims to solve the problem you just exacerbated. Remember, it’s not white-collar crime if you’re wearing a hoodie.

Get Jacked
You think those bootstraps are going to pull themselves? Bulk up and get tugging. From South Florida to Silicon Valley, everybody knows that more muscle equals more money. Hit the gym until your dress shirt looks like it’s three sizes too small. You want every button just on the verge of popping, like the blood vessels in your forehead. Now you’re ready for your first podcast appearance.

Spread the Word
Why build a company when you can tell other people how to build a company? Write and sell an ebook sharing your wisdom. Reveal insider secrets like “securities fraud is no biggie” and “it’s not a Ponzi scheme if you’re the only one making money.” You have every right to call a twelve-page PDF a “book.” You’re basically Herman Melville, if Moby-Dick was about tax evasion.

Reviews of New Food: Bush’s Rocket Pop Flavored Baked Beans

Kelley Greene — Mon, 29 Jun 2026 09:00:00 -0400

America.

A country known for its natural beauty, rugged individualism, and unhinged portion sizes.

In celebration of the States’ 250th birthday, Bush’s Beans dug deep within their bean-well to create the ultimate patriotic (pardon my French) accouterments: Rocket Pop Flavored Baked Beans.

Of course, any god-fearing American knows there’s nothing more beloved in this country than a child’s sweet treat named after a weapon. Summer after summer, frozen red-white-and-blue popsicle bombs are dropped directly into adolescent mouths. And our nostalgia remains, even after Americans reach an age when they start wondering whether they really should have dessert, considering they just consumed four slices of plain white bread alongside their potato salad and barbecued meats.

But in honor of the semiquincentennial, Bush’s bravely posed an important question: What if a saccharine, icy dessert were also beans?

Eagle screech!

Is there anything more American than taking baked beans, the national food of our former imperial rulers, and creating an unholy, twisted version with an insidious, cloying aura you can’t quite put your finger on?

Obviously not. Our forefathers knew that the British were only ever half-right. That’s why we have our own standard system of measurement, but still only size things up by how many football fields long they are. It’s why we adopted a democratic system of government, but made it impossible for a third party to ever win. It’s why we have a head of state, but they’re not allowed to be a woman.

Bush’s describes their inventive concoction as an “explosion of cherry, lime, and blue raspberry flavors.” And like any good red-blooded American food product, none of those actual fruits appear in the ingredients list. Instead, they’re grouped under the mysterious moniker “natural flavor.” And after all, what is more natural than a blue raspberry?

Upon opening the can, you’re immediately hit with an odor that’s somehow both putrid and medicinal, uniquely representative of the American health-care system. The smell of artificial cherry flavoring (despite its “natural” characterization) overpowers everything around it. For a moment, it feels like these beans might contain the power of the American cure-all liquid NyQuil Cold & Flu. But then you recall that you’ve simply opened a can of beans, and that 250 mg of sodium per serving is probably more likely to heal your electrolyte deficiency than a lingering cough.

As with any American side dish, the beans require little effort and only need to be warmed. Of course, there’s always the microwave, but for a more upscale experience, you can heat them up on the stove. As the beans simmer in a small pot, their aroma becomes more ominously pungent.

Finally, after eight or so minutes, the beans are ready. And as you dip your spoon in, anticipating a hit of pure stars-and-stripes Americana, you quickly discover that, while sweet, the beans taste nothing like rocket pop. Instead, they taste like regular baked beans that got left out too long next to a fruity Glade Plug-in.

There is no flavor of cherry, lime, or the elusive blue raspberry. There is only bean sauce, bean chemicals, and beans.

In true American fashion, you will gaslight yourself into thinking the flavor is good. Clearly, it wasn’t good, but maybe you misinterpreted its nuance? You’ll go back for another spoonful, and then another, and then one of just the brown bean fluid, because surely that isn’t actually how they taste, right? (It is.)

Even when you’ve decided that you’ve had enough, the experience isn’t over. In fact, it’s just beginning. Bush’s has created a lingering finish, so you’ll still taste the beans late into the evening. Yes, past the beer pong, the sparklers, and the mosquito bites. The flavor will provide unrelenting company long after the rockets have lost their red glare. You may even experience a bean-flavored belch as you watch a firework show from a flimsy lawn chair and wonder if they’re all going to look like sea anemones, or if the fireworks guys have anything cool planned.

But you know what? That’s the good ol’ US of A at its heart, baby. Sickeningly sweet, but honest to a fault.

What you see is what you get, even if what you see is a lot of incredibly wealthy guys getting really into cryptocurrency. But there are beans in there, too. Underneath it all, there’s some fiber, too, which is supposed to be good for your heart.

The United States is full of hope—a never-ending aftertaste you just can’t quite seem to shake. The type of flavor you keep eating more of, thinking maybe, just maybe, the next time around it’ll be a little bit better.

Happy birthday, America.

The Proper Level of Enthusiasm for a Parent During Camp Dropoff

Jeremy Hooper — Mon, 29 Jun 2026 08:00:00 -0400

Upon arriving at the bus stop, your sigh should be that of the wistful and forlorn, not like a convert stumbling upon God’s holy grille.

When the curious ask your dear camper’s length of stay, “Eight weeks!” must glide out like a person accepting the growing-out of a bad haircut, not erupt from you like a veteran proctologist embarking on a sabbatical following a “particularly rhoid-y” quarter.

Should your child wonder your plans for their room, do not blurt out “Keep it clean for once, slob!” or “Find a boarder to help recoup that private school tuition.” A simple, “Might replace that one lamp” will suffice.

When that overly sentimental mom says she “Can’t believe it’s been a year,” refrain from inserting an ill-advised (if perfectly timed) “only” between her “it’s” and “been.”

The performance of guilt should never turn competitive. That mom in the quirky hat just won a Tony, that dad over there is hiding his phone behind that duffel because he’s secretly embezzling widows, and the lady spraying sunblock on participants, both willing and annoyed, is a lapsed Catholic with a Jewish mother-in-law. You will not win.

No open bragging about your planned resort vacation. Half of these families are substantially richer, and their own destinations considerably more posh. Smug judgments will only make “your kid” feel inferior.

While insisting camp is a win-win for everybody, make sure there is more on the parental side of your ledger than “temporary custody of my own thoughts” and “breakfast nudity.”

When that mom, famous for her bake-sale lemon squares but infamous for her many rumored affairs, moans, “Don’t know what I’ll do without my babies,” do not retort, “Probably that dad over there in the ugly madras shorts, Sasha.” Instead, say, “So hard!” Though salaciously, with a wink.

“See ya at Visiting Day” is to be said enthusiastically. Canceling that daylong wine tasting you errantly scheduled on Visiting Day must be done covertly.

Remind your child to write. But not, like, a book.

When you see a first-time camper crying hysterically, do pout sympathetically at the kid’s parents. Though not in a sexual way—you’re not Sasha.

If your own child appears nervous, “Oh sweetie, Dad and I have plenty of time to make our brunch rez” is not as consoling as you might think.

When you say, “I will miss you so much,” do not cite the exceptions to this longing. For there are some line items within your bullshit budget that also need a break.

Smile, knowing you have provided the skills for a summer of independence. Grimace, knowing the kid just asked, “Wait, what day is the Fourth of July again?”

Wave until the bus turns the first corner.

Margaritas immediately after the bus escapes your view? An obvious faux pas. A nice light beer is both less likely to spur a nap and less optically festive.

Drive away in silence, finally free of that one song your child has overplayed all spring. Resist the urge to play it yourself. Then give in and play it anyway, but do so with a mock in your voice. And a lump in your throat.

“Hey Siri: Remind me to schedule the sweet release of remembering who the hell I was in my twenties. Also, my colonoscopy.”

Worry your child’s already missing you. Remember that the haul of candy and squishies you provided for the bus ride is more morally questionable than Sasha. Worry that your child might never miss you again.

An Interview with Dave Eggers About His New Novel, Contrapposto

Knopf — Fri, 26 Jun 2026 11:28:00 -0700

- - -

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.

- - -

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

To Solve the Housing Crisis, We Simply Need to Build More Homes (Just Not in My Town)

Talia Argondezzi — Fri, 26 Jun 2026 10:00:00 -0700

I’m heartbroken that the housing needs of my fellow citizens are not being met at either the national or local level. It’s especially upsetting when the solution is so simple: build more houses.

But my town, just so you know, is full.

In fact, the last new building that was acceptable and necessary (my house) was completed four months ago, right when I moved here. Yet ever since, the township keeps approving new housing projects. It’s as if our elected officials don’t consider my preferences about how many people should live in this town.

While only a tiny percentage of our ample open space is being used for new housing, that figure doesn’t account for one important fact: I want this town to have the exact amount of open space that was here when I moved in.

Plus, more housing means more people. Listen, I need to drive out of town several times a day to shop at big box stores and roadside strip malls. And every time I do, I get stuck in a couple minutes of traffic because so many out-of-towners forego the big box stores and roadside strip malls to visit our downtown’s charming mom-and-pop shops.

Personally, I wouldn’t mind if every local business closed (except my ten or twelve favorites). If it weren’t for the greedy café, restaurant, and gallery owners making our town so appealing to newcomers, we wouldn’t be suffering from this population growth, which has been out of control since one day after I moved in.

If the township won’t listen to my reasonable request to keep this town exactly as it was when I moved here, I trust the market to intervene. Because even though the United States is suffering a shortage of millions of homes, surely no one will want to move to my town. It’s too crowded with people who are not me.

So if you’re considering moving here, let me warn you: it’s a nightmare.

Other people will sometimes shop at the grocery store at the same time as you. Moreover, unlike in other towns, everyone in front of you at self-checkout will be too slow, and everyone behind you will be too impatient.

If you take selfies at your favorite underappreciated wine bar and post them to social media, you’ll soon find the wine bar has patrons other than you.

Occasionally, someone will ask you for directions to the new arcade even if you’re clearly busy shaking your fist at pigeons who, you’ll swear, were not here three months ago.

Yes, there is a housing crisis. True, there are not enough homes for everyone who needs one. But the bigger issue is that there are already enough homes to house me. Constant concern for people who don’t have homes oppresses those of us who do.

I’m not asking for much. I’m simply demanding that the nation’s badly needed housing be built in any town other than my own.

Except, of course, for the quaint mountain village where I have my country estate and the nearby vibrant city where I have my pied-à-terre. Those are also full.

McSweeney’s Books: An Excerpt from Our New Book, Documentary Now!

Burt Lancaster — Fri, 26 Jun 2026 08:01:00 -0400

- - -

McSweeney’s and Broadway Video present the official over-six-hundred-page comprehensive companion book to IFC’s Documentary Now!, made with the assistance of series directors Rhys Thomas and Alex Buono and including new writing by Seth Meyers, a foreword by Pulitzer Prize–finalist Matt Zoller Seitz, the complete sheet music for John Mulaney and Eli Bolin’s Co-op: The Musical, and much more.

The book is out now, and to celebrate, we’re sharing an excerpt featuring the show’s very first host, the legendary Burt Lancaster.

- - -

A fierce advocate for independent cinema and documentary, Burt Lancaster was the original host of Documentary Now!¹, serving in this capacity for over a decade. He began his career as an acrobat, and after serving in WWII, ascended to the heights of Hollywood stardom, appearing in such classics as From Here to Eternity, The Leopard, The Swimmer, and many more. This introduction has been included in all editions of this book.

- - -

The original 1975 introduction by
Documentary Now!’s first host,
Burt Lancaster

The first time I saw a film camera, it was in the hands of an amateur documentarian. He was a small man with piercing blue eyes who had come to record the circus where I was performing as part of the acrobatic team, Lang and Cravat. He owned a chain of picture houses outside Miami, and he wanted a one-reeler he could show before the main attractions. I can still recall the butterflies fluttering in my stomach that afternoon. Suddenly, the bars seemed slipperier. The crowd seemed louder. Performing our trapeze routine on film added a layer of permanence to the whole affair.

I share all this to give you a sense of how momentous it is to have one’s life recorded. Documentary as a medium is one of our most powerful precisely because it can reach out into the real world and extract beauty and complexity from one’s actual life.

A still from Kunuk Uncovered.

It’s always a lovely compliment when an actor’s performance is praised as honest, or when a Hollywood film is lauded by the press as “real.” But in the documentary, there’s no need for such puffery. This business of costumes, and casting, and producers calling with notes about the script, well, the documentary doesn’t have to contend with all that. The stories you see are the truth. The people you meet aren’t pretending. If film is the most democratic of modern forms, then documentary is its pinnacle.

A still from Globesman.

In that regard, hosting Documentary Now! has been one of the great honors of my career. This fine program consistently showcases bold, thoughtful, and revolutionary work. The films they’ve broadcast since their inception are unlike anything else in the entertainment landscape. And now, as we set down words and cement celluloid dreams onto the printed page, our humble aspiration is that we might capture a fraction of this essence.

Classic posters from two classic documentaries.

As for that first documentary, the one-reeler of my trapeze performance. Well, I never saw the final result. But I can still recall the incredible feeling of being filmed. It was the feeling that perhaps my story was worthy of telling. It was the feeling that, perhaps, they all are.

- - -

¹ After his retirement, Lancaster was replaced by a rotating cast of hosts, including Gregory Peck, John Pierson, Mel Gibson, James Naughton, Richard Roeper, and Billy Bob Thornton, before Helen Mirren took on the mantle permanently in 2008.

- - -

You can buy Documentary Now! in our store.

Wirecutter Headlines During the Revolutionary War

JiJi Lee — Fri, 26 Jun 2026 08:00:00 -0400

“We Tested 100 Quill Pens to Find the Best One for Writing the Declaration of Independence”

“The British Cut Off Our Salt Supply. Here are Five Dupes to Use Instead”

“Here’s the Unfussy Telescope We Used to Monitor Hessian Mercenaries During the Battle of Trenton”

“Why We Love This Wrought Iron Spit for Cooking Mutton Over a Hearth”

“The Best Fife and Drum Set for Beginner Musicians Who Want to Play ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’ at a Public Execution”

“Is Your Home as Cold as Valley Forge? Time to Upgrade to a Luxurious Wool Blanket”

“Tricorn Hats Are Expensive. Here Are the Best Ones for Every Budget”

“Our Favorite Sherry and Madeira Gifts for the British Loyalist in Your Life”

“You’re Quartering a British Soldier. These Decorative Screens Will Help Maintain Your Privacy”

“We Rowed Cargo Boats All Day to See Which One Would Make it Across the Delaware River on Christmas”

“We Tested Three Muskets to See Which Shot You Could Actually Hear ’Round the World”

“Tired of Voiding Urine in an Outhouse? We Found the Holy Grail of Chamber Pots”

“I Am a Spy for the Continental Army. This is the Cloak I Would Buy to Sneak into a Tavern and Hand Over Secret Documents to a Courier”

“I Caught Smallpox on Purpose So That I Could Test Three Poultices to Relieve My Skin Pustules. This Was the Only One That Did the Trick”

“I Was Shot on the Battlefield. This is the Bottle of Rum That Kept Me from Fainting When They Amputated My Leg”

“The Only Spoon You’ll Ever Need for the Rest of Your Life Because We Didn’t Overthrow the Monarchy Just to Become Tyrannized by Consumerism”

Thank You for Experiencing Ego Death at the Hands of Our Digital AI-Fueled Panopticon Application Software

Sebastian Petrou Griffith — Thu, 25 Jun 2026 14:01:00 -0400

Dear applicant,

After five rounds of interviews, three personality evaluations, a lie-detector test, electroshock therapy, and a metaphysical ascension into the unconscious plane, we’ve decided to go with a candidate whose experience more closely aligns with the listed position.

To be honest, the job you applied for was what we in the HR section of Dante’s third circle of hell (Gluttony Division) would refer to as a “ghost posting.” Not in the sense that the job you applied for wasn’t real, but that we would prefer a candidate who is willing to dedicate not only their living flesh vessel to the position but also at least five to ten years of their ethereal form in purgatory limbo towards furthering our business’s growth. Per your question about benefits and upward mobility, there was a possibility for a small 4 percent raise during this transitional period. However, your health care benefits would be cut at that time (for obvious reasons).

While this position was listed as an entry-level job, our ideal candidate would have a billion years of experience, with relevant skills tracing back through space and time to a period where single-celled protoplasms categorized our existence. Your current status as a multicelled organism naturally impedes your ability to work at the utmost efficiency needed for the job. Therefore, the Panopticon chose another entry-level client whose résumé listed “A Billion Years of Experience Plus One.”

We consider our business like a family. That’s why we personally mined the data of every member of your close and extended family through a series of phishing schemes to create exact one-to-one AI replicants of them, who then served as dutiful guards in our patented, streamlined Artificial Panopticon Resume Sparser. This led to a more holistic hiring process that let us get a glimpse into the Real You. And while your artificial family dog gave you mostly glowing reviews, your mother was concerned that you personally guilt-tripped her into feeling like a bad parent because of the period in your teens when you stopped attending church. This gave us pause regarding your ability to provide stellar customer service to like-minded mothers and raised serious doubts that you would properly cater to Jesus the Redeemer if his third coming did, in fact, materialize.

We also found your answers to interview question #337, “Traverse the seedy underbelly of your subconscious’s id and articulate to us your most primal desire, and how you and a coworker with separate sadomasochistic tendencies might resolve a dispute,” derivative and contrived. Here at HR, we’re always looking for ways to avoid doing our job, so hiring candidates with expert conflict-resolution skills is of the utmost importance to us.

Additionally, the leeches we attached to your body in stage four of the interview process reported low iron levels, which raised concerns among our fiery cubicles about whether you would have the stamina to work through several unscheduled overtime/holiday shifts.

We sincerely thank you for applying and allowing us here at HR to justify our salaries for a little while longer as the world burns around us. We welcome you to reapply for the part-time barista position in the future.

— Starbucks

Persona Hatching

Ali Fitzgerald — Thu, 25 Jun 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.

- - -

My Manic Pixie Dream Femme Fatale

Dan McCoy — Thu, 25 Jun 2026 08:03:00 -0400

Her legs went all the way up to the fringe of her baby-doll dress. Presumably further than that, but that’s where the bright polka dots distracted me from theorizing. They clashed with her fuchsia parasol, still open indoors, and her bottle-tangerine hair, which cascaded from her scalp like a Muppet in a blender. She made my eyes hurt. But it was the good kind of hurt, like you’d get from fourteen fingers of scotch, or a giraffe stepping on your testicles.

“Mr. Mallet, I need a detective. And I also need you to listen to this mixtape I made for you. It’ll change your life.” She handed me a plastic cartridge, and—like the fool I am—I took it.

I muttered back. “I don’t have a cassette player.”

“Good, because that’s not a cassette. I use 8-track for all my mixes. It’s a quirky little format. You never know when it’s going to jam. Every listen’s an adventure. Like life.”

“What kind of screwy dame comes to a shamus to extoll the virtues of obsolete media?”

She smiled. “Aren’t you the detective?”

“Mikey Mallet, bonded and certified, like it says on the door.”

She glanced back at the frosted glass. “Looks more like Tallam Yekim.” She sat on the desk, her hem pulling up to reveal more of her vintage tights. “You gonna help me, or what, Mr. Yekim?”

“Call me Tallam,” I said. “What’s the skinny?”

- - -

Her name was Parker, and she had a husband. Isn’t that the way with dames? Dazzle you with an offbeat zest for life, then light the “No Vacancy” sign.

Then again, she and the mister were on the skids. In my personal experience, that was also the way with dames, but that might be a vocational hazard. I’d imagine if I rented venues for wedding anniversaries, I’d have a sunnier outlook on matrimony.

Hers had started storybook. She’d met Whitford at a low ebb—he’d gotten fired from his job as vice president of development for a new breakfast cereal that permanently turned kids’ tongues blue, and had flown home for his dad’s funeral. Cause of death: “acute paternal disappointment.”

That’s when Parker ran into him—literally. She rear-ended his car as he left the wake. She didn’t have insurance because “‘Preparing’ is just another word for closing off possibilities,” but she paid him back with a coupon book, good for a hundred New Experiences. Somewhere between “skinny-dip in your old high school principal’s pool” and “pretend to be a mohel at a bris to steal hors d’oeuvres,” the dumb mug realized he was in love.

Only now, apparently, a life of constant magic had lost its magic. “I know he’s cheating on me, Mikey,” she exhaled, flouncing into a chair, as waves of tulle floated upward. “And after I rescued him, with absolutely no thought to my own inner life.” She scrunched her face adorably. “I don’t know if I even have one. I’m not even sure what my job is. Though,” she gave herself a once-over, “judging by my clothes, I’m gonna guess… sexy kindergarten teacher?” She frowned, thoughtful. “I hope the kids are okay. If that is my job, I haven’t seen them in a while.”

“Don’t worry, doll,” I said, taking her in my arms. “I’m sure they have robust after-school programs.”

- - -

The following weeks were a whirlwind.

I’d confessed to Parker that I felt “a little sad” since the death of my partner. He’d been shot seventeen times while doing me a favor: tailing a mobster who had a grudge against me, while wearing my hat, coat, and an old T-shirt of mine reading MALLET FAMILY REUNION. I couldn’t help but feel partially responsible.

After that, I’d crawled inside a bottle for the better part of a year and only moved out when I got a deal on a bigger bottle across town. Parker somehow knew how to bring me back to life.

She suggested we visit every diner in the city that claimed to have “The World’s Best Cup of Coffee” and try them all, then we spent a few blissfully caffeinated hours chasing squirrels up trees. She started an impromptu conga line of unhoused people on the A train, while I sang nonsense lyrics and strummed a borrowed mariachi guitar. At the Coney Island aquarium, she convinced me that she’d slipped the guards a fin to let us swim with the manta rays. Fifteen minutes later, we ran down the boardwalk, laughing and dripping, because she’d done no such thing. Later on, I looked up “fin” in my copy of The Flatfoot’s Dictionary. Turns out it’s five dollars. Should’ve known that was cheap for endangering fish.

“Happiness is like a butterfly,” she said. “Cling to it, and it crumples, so just be happy if it chooses to visit.” She was always saying beautiful, stupid shit like that. We spent so much time together I barely had a chance to tail her husband; but (on a break from kidnapping residents of an old folks’ home to take a field trip to a candy store) I did manage to get a few snapshots of Brad and his new twist. And I only lost two seniors while multitasking.

I held off on breaking the bad news. Hell, we were having fun, and the poor adorkable soul deserved a soft landing. And if that landing happened to be on the Murphy bed in my office? No need to call me a hero for caring.

- - -

Turns out, I did get up close and personal with a body. Just not hers. Brad was found curled in my trunk—his neck broken, from what the coroner deemed “vigorous frolicking on a particularly fast children’s carousel.” No prizes for guessing what free-spirited gal loved playing the (wooden) ponies.

It was a frame job as perfect as the oversized cat’s-eye lenses around her big doe eyes. The cops figured me for a jealous side piece, and who would you believe? The cheap dick with a corpse in his car, or the effervescent pixie that rekindled the ninth precinct’s zest for life? Law enforcement is lousy with sad sacks waiting to be rescued. A girl calls in a bomb threat that’s actually a suitcase full of gumdrops one time, and who swings for murder? Me. Your friendly neighborhood sap.

Prison wasn’t all bad. Parker even visited me once. We spoke freely while the guards were busy on an impromptu scavenger hunt she’d arranged by hiding all their sidearms.

Even then, Parker could light up a room. Maybe lighting up a jail is a low bar to clear, I dunno. But she looked good. I picked up the receiver and managed to rasp, “How could you do this, doll?”

“Sorry, Mikey. I’ve spent so much energy fixing other people, I figured it was time to prioritize myself. Nothing personal.”

“So I was a means to an end? Just a palooka to take the fall?” I searched her eyes. “Or did you love me at all?”

Parker smiled. “Oh, Mikey. I love everyone.”

Aw hell. I can’t be mad at her. She once said all her mixtapes tell a story, and the one she gave me ended with “I’m Framing You for Murder,” by the Beatles. One of Lennon’s lesser-known B-sides. I thought she was just trying to impress me with a deep cut.

Besides, I truly am a changed man. She once told me I should live every day like it’s my last. Now, about a week from the chair, I’m finally starting to get it.

Vandalizing Washington, DC, Is a Crime—Unless You’re Overturning an Election

Carlos Greaves — Wed, 24 Jun 2026 14:00:00 -0400

“President Donald Trump called Monday for those he accused of vandalizing the newly renovated, and now quickly deteriorating, Reflecting Pool on the National Mall to face serious criminal charges that could result in lengthy prison sentences.” — CNN

- - -

President Trump’s second term continues to be a smashing success. He has single-handedly curbed inflation (with the exception of a few minor categories like food, housing, and transportation) and completely denuclearized Iran (if you don’t count the measly half-ton of near-weapons-grade uranium they still possess).

It seemed as though the president’s $14 million effort to renovate the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool would be yet another feather in his already feather-filled cap. But just a few days after the work was complete, the pool was choked with algae, and its newly painted “American Flag Blue” floor was peeling off.

There’s only one logical explanation for this: AMPHIFA.

Algae-loving radicals, or phycopaths, if you will, are hell-bent on desecrating this beloved national monument to undermine President Trump’s achievements while pushing their pro-plankton agenda. These saboteurs must be punished. Vandalizing a Washington, DC, landmark is a heinous crime.

Unless, of course, you’re doing it to overturn an election.

If there’s anyone who knows how to get a job done, it’s President Trump. That’s why he’s won three presidential elections, a FIFA Peace Prize, and a Washington Coal Club’s Undisputed Champion of Beautiful Clean Coal Award (yes, that’s a real award, look it up).

So when it came time to renovate the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool, the president did what any sensible project lead would do—he awarded a no-bid contract to a close personal acquaintance with little to no experience in renovating pools. Donald Trump always thinks outside the box, especially when that box is a check box that reads, “Did you follow the ethics guidelines of the Federal Acquisition Regulation?”

Tragically, what should have been a slam dunk for the president has turned into a scummy boondoggle thanks to cyanobacteria-obsessed fanatics who deliberately seeded the reflecting pool with microalgae and ripped up the pool’s beautiful, fresh coat of paint. Desecrating our nation’s capital in the name of a political agenda is wrong and should be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law—no ifs, ands, or buts.

There are, of course, exceptions. For instance, sometimes it is necessary to stand up to a tyrannical government that has failed to overturn a clearly rigged election. In that case, acts of vandalism—like stealing the House Speaker’s lectern, bludgeoning police officers with metal pipes, or defecating in the hallways of the Capitol—are not only completely acceptable, they’re patriotic.

Some claim that the arrests we’ve made are just a way to find a scapegoat for what is obviously a botched renovation job. But ask yourself: What’s more likely, that a group of twisted phytoplankton enthusiasts deliberately dumped a bunch of algae spores into the reflecting pool, then waded into the water and hacked up the paint at the bottom with a box cutter? Or that a shallow pool of hot water in direct sun grew algae, and then acidic hydrogen peroxide used to treat the algae ate away at the paint? There’s no doubt this was an inside job. Never underestimate the nefarious power of Big Diatom.

The only scapegoats in Washington, DC, are the brave January 6 protestors whose only crime was loving their country so much that they had no choice but to smear their own feces all over the walls of the Capitol and try to kill the sitting vice president. Compared to pouring microscopic plants into a pool of water, there’s no question which of the two crimes deserves a lengthy prison sentence.

To anyone else thinking of messing with the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool, be warned: We will charge you with sedition and throw you in a cell. Unless, of course, it turns out the algae bloom is the result of fecal matter from January 6 slowly percolating into the reflecting pool years later. In that case, you were just doing your patriotic dootie.

Human Visibility Scale

Lisa Zucker — Wed, 24 Jun 2026 11:01:00 -0400

15-Year-Old Girl: Fully visible
15-Year-Old Boy: In your face!

25-Year-Old Woman: Lookin’ good
25-Year-Old Man: Bro!

35-Year-Old Woman: Partially obscured
35-Year-Old Man: BRO!

45-Year-Old Woman: Oops, sorry, I didn’t see you there
45-Year-Old Man: Loud and clear

55-Year-Old Woman: Foggy
55-Year-Old Man: Still hangin’ in there!

65-Year-Old Woman: Translucent
65-Year-Old Man: How ’bout them Cubs?

75-Year-Old Woman: Invisible
75-Year-Old Man: You’re still around? Looking dapper, bro!

The Seven Meanings of “Fine,” in Descending Order of Plausible Deniability

Oskar Milton — Wed, 24 Jun 2026 08:00:00 -0400

1. Excellent.
Fine as in cabernet. Fine as in dovetail joinery. Fine as in your mother’s china. The original meaning is still technically available. At a dinner party, when Margaret uses fine this way—“the duck was fine”—the table pauses, scans her for irony, finds none, and spends the next forty minutes working out whether they have been complimented or insulted by a person who appears to be operating out of 1873.

2. Adequate.
The workhorse. The pad thai was fine. The fourth season of Community was fine. The flight to Cleveland was fine. This fine carries no particular charge—it is fine the way Pantone 7527 is fine, the way the hold music at Geico is fine. It’s neither an endorsement nor a complaint. The fine only becomes a problem when applied to a noun that requires more than fine. “Your eulogy for your mother was fine.”

3. Acceptable under protest.
The fine you say after you have expressed a preference and have been overruled. “Fine, your mother can move into the guest room.” “Fine, we can have another kid.” The word is the same word. The tone is carrying the argument the word has agreed to set down. There is a faint mineral aftertaste to this fine that lingers for a lifetime.

4. The conversation is over.
This fine terminates. It does not summarize. It does not resolve. It just stops—a door closed with exactly enough force to indicate the door is closed. The subject is fine. The matter is fine. The matter will remain fine until 11:14 p.m. that night, when it will become eight separate matters, each with its own deadline.

5. I am not fine.
This fine is the interpretive crisis. The speaker—let us say a CFO named Doug, on the quarterly earnings call, asked by an analyst how he is feeling about Q3—is not fine. Doug is fine the way the cooling tower at Three Mile Island was fine on the morning of March 28, 1979: technically stable, measurably building. The listener who takes Doug at his word has made a defensible choice that will be raised at a later date as Exhibit A.

6. This is your last warning.
Rare. Unmistakable once encountered. Arrives at the end of an exchange in which something has been requested, denied, requested, denied, and the requester has now made a note. The noting is complete. The consequences are pending. The consequences will not call. The consequences will not appear on a shared calendar. The consequences will arrive by certified mail in approximately fourteen months, in a tone that has spent the interval rehearsing.

7. I give up.
[The speaker has left the room. The fine remains. The fine has done the math.]

An Open Letter to the Dead Duck Seen Floating in the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool

Jack Loftus — Tue, 23 Jun 2026 12:30:00 -0400

“A viral photograph of a dead duck floating in the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool has intensified scrutiny of the landmark’s recent $14 million renovation, fueling a mounting debate over water quality, chemical treatments, and alleged vandalism at the historic site.” — Newsweek

- - -

Dear Duck,

I am sorry this happened to you in a place designed to make people think about sacrifice in America.

I confess that may be too grand a sentence for a duck. You did not paddle through the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool to participate in a national metaphor. To you, this was not a site of national remembrance, civic pilgrimage, or the weigh-in for a nationally televised cage match bloodsport. It was simply water. Long, publicly accessible water, sitting calmly beneath a large silent man in a massive chair.

A duck could do worse, you must have thought.

You did not arrive to comment on algae blooms, haphazard chemical treatments, peeling paint, or whether a $14 million renovation should remain visibly renovated for longer than a few days. You were not trying to enter the national conversation. You were not making a point or, I assume, posting one to Bluesky.

You were simply there because ducks go where the water is. This is one of the nicer things about ducks. You have a practical theology. If there is water, enter it. If there is bread, inhale it. If there are small ducklings nearby, arrange yourself into a soft, vigilant flotilla and continue.

That is the beginning and end of what a duck understands, and it is possible this makes ducks the more honest species. You saw a pool beneath a stone monument and accepted the scene at face value. That should have been enough. Instead, you became part of us. I am sorry for that, too.

I should say here that I have not always been good to ducks. When I was a child, I threw a jelly bean at a duck in the Boston Public Garden. I don’t remember why. There is no satisfying explanation now, and I doubt there was one then. I was a child. There was a duck. In my tiny hand, there was, somehow, a single jelly bean. In the unfinished machinery of my nascent brain, there arose a command to throw candy at that innocent mallard’s satin green head.

The jelly bean hit the duck squarely, near the eye. There was a small, muted thwop. Nothing dramatic. Just the unmistakable sound of colorful sugar striking a living creature that had done nothing to deserve the ire of my boredom. The duck reacted in the confused, offended way ducks often do, and then went on being a duck. I did not go on quite as easily.

Since then, I have considered ducks sacrosanct. This is not a belief system I can defend theologically, or even consistently. I still eat poultry. But ducks occupy a protected space in me. They are not to be bothered or startled for amusement. They are not to be struck with candy, pebbles, or the ambient stupidity of powerful humans with access to global social media platforms.

So, when I saw you floating there, I felt something rise up. Not just sadness. Recognition, maybe. Shame, certainly. The sense that humans have been making ducks pay attention to us for a very long time, and ducks, to their credit, have shown almost no interest in returning the favor.

We do not know what killed you. It would be folly to pretend otherwise. There has already been enough certainty poured into that pool. What I know is smaller: The water is green. The paint is failing. And somewhere, in all of it, you were floating very still in a place built for reflection.

This is, unfortunately, something we humans do to the dead. We ask them to keep going. We use them to explain systems they did not build and failures they did not survive. A fallen soldier is made to speak for policy. A murdered schoolchild is made to speak for gun laws. A sodden bird, floating lifeless in a public pool, becomes a commentary on water quality, federal competence, political vanity, and the general condition of a backsliding democracy during a humid week in late June.

I admit that, at the end of the day, you were a duck, not a martyr. You had webbed feet and waterproof feathers and, presumably, no known opinion of “American Flag Blue.” It would be insulting to make you noble simply because we have become grotesque.

Still, I hope that before the end, you had known better water. A pond, somewhere quiet, with swaying reeds. A patch of shade. A morning in which no one photographed you for clout or generated AI duck-slop for their LinkedIn hot take. I hope you had once lowered your head beneath the cool surface and come up with something ordinary and sufficient. I hope you had the simple duck pleasure of moving through water that was only water.

That is not much. But it may be more than we are currently prepared to offer.

Quack quack,
Jack

The Hardest Thing to Say: On Neurodivergence and Work

Taylor Harris — Tue, 23 Jun 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.”

- - -

You know the rap battle in 8 Mile where Eminem preempts a lyrical slaughter by Papa Doc with something like, “You’re right. I am trailer trash, Clarence. But you went to private school, and your parents are MARRIED!”

Sounds better when B-Rabbit says it. You’ll have to settle for me, a graduate of a (small, white) public school in the tree-lined streets of suburban Ohio:

“Whatchu heard about me is true. Maybe I can’t hold down a full-time job, Clarence.”

[The audience in my dark, musty brain gasps.]

“If by job, you mean a man-made morass of expectations you expect me to meet and/or exceed to receive remuneration and a possible promotion, which comes with two sides of more demands and time spent being perceived?”

Bars.

We’ll have to work on the sentence construction and syntax. Good thing I have a master’s in capital-W Writing and my copy of The Elements of Style by Strunk and White, the original rap lords. And autotune couldn’t hurt. Not to take anything away from the generous hyena whose cadaverous vocal cords gave me a second chance.

I’ll get with Doechii (“AuDHD… Keep on trying me”), but check out this bridge:

“Does that make sense? Sorry to word vomit on your shoes, but does that make sense?”

Imagine my backup dancers popping up from behind their laptops, tilting their heads to the side with a syncopated series of shrugs and awkward half-smiles.

Are you thinking what I’m thinking? Add “choreographer” to my list of possible careers. It’ll go right under “PhD in Black studies from Yale,” which appears to be more of a degree and less of a job.

Honestly, I could show you a polished, factually accurate résumé, and you’d be like: She’s not great at capitalism, but you can tell she took an AP class or two. Let’s see… She has kids but doesn’t want to open an in-home daycare? Tough spot to be in, honey.

If my song, “I Went to UVA, and All I Got Was This Late Autism,” climbs the hip-hop charts, Tyler Perry will come knocking. The biopic, set in the early ’90s to honor my roots, will open with a slick media mogul named Rob about to shred my application to edit his magazine’s “first-person” paragraph. “Wait a minute,” he stops short. “Is this the chick who left a voicemail? Shirley, play that back one more time. Forget editing. You think she’d do voiceovers for our animation department?

Shirley nods vigorously, squeezing the bag of Cheez-Its under her desk so hard it almost pops (fidgets aren’t a thing yet), knowing that if I get the voiceover job, maybe there’s hope for her. Unbeknownst to everyone but her guinea pig, Leon, she’s been checking out books from the local library and wonders if she has the ADD.

I’m letting you in on my future hit song and biopic because one of you knows Doechii or Kelis. But also, I cannot write this column on my later-in-life diagnosis without saying the hardest thing of all:

I don’t know if I can work a full-time job. At least not the sort of full-time job you might expect, given my education and the “brief bio” I send people when they insist.

Here’s the fine print: If you’re a debut author of a book that does okay (we’re talking one-millionth of one percent of Yesteryear), you write another. If you have an “in” at a major publication, you take it, even if you know it would wreck your nervous system. If you get decent teaching reviews, you ask to teach another class, and another. Right? Stack them until you’ve made something of yourself.

Not me.

I don’t have the upwardly mobile careers of my peers, sisters, or spouse. When my spouse took a job in State College, I could have tried for a full-time position. My book was coming out that winter. My therapist convinced me to accept prepping for and teaching one new course to undergrads. I loved them. I had no idea what I was doing, but I still remember one student who sat in the back and loved original-flavored Goldfish crackers, which were hard to find during the pandemic. (Seems I collect details like rocks.) The first class went fine, masks and all, but as soon as I got home, I fell onto the couch, a fire blazing along the left side of my ribs.

The students seemed to like me. Their writing improved. Yet, aside from the moments when I got to see a bit of who they were outside of class, I didn’t look back.

When we moved again for my husband’s job and I was “supposed to” go for a full-time position at another university, I couldn’t do it. Anxiety? Yes. But it wasn’t just interview or first-day nerves. I didn’t want the actual job.

The position I most recently considered was a night-shift ice-cream maker because I hoped to learn the practical steps, work alone in the back, and listen to podcasts to satisfy my need for knowledge I won’t be tested on.

All elder millennial jokes aside, I don’t think my perimenopausal body could handle the night shift, especially not with three kids who would still need me before and after school and for all the illnesses and appointments in between.

So I don’t work the night shift. And I don’t hustle to write a lot of essays and teach and sell book proposals in a way that keeps the lights on. Sometimes I teach one class; I write and read a little; and I try to figure out how to be human without disappearing.

The scariest part to say (write) aloud is that somewhere deep inside, if I could hush the world long enough, I’d hear my own small voice saying: I’m okay with this. It’s enough.

Sure, maybe I’ll write another book, try my hand at fiction, or give more talks to genetic counseling students. Maybe I’ll keep connecting with students in an asynchronous format, which gives me the time I need to process their words and respond with care, not just reflexive people-pleasing. These are my confessions, Usher, not a titillating swan song.

Even when McSweeney’s starts responding to my pitch emails with nothing but a link to Kehlani’s “Folded,” I’ll keep writing. Maybe not every day for three hours with a break to walk the dogs and then right back “on the grind,” or whatever the real writers say, but I can’t not write. Plus, who are we kidding? Where else can you find the structure-less ramblings of a creative, corny midlife autist who—

Plenty of places, you say? But I don’t mean AI-generated—

Oh, real humans write Substack newsletters? And they are helpful? Even funny? Very well. I knew I should have pursued my secondary dream of underwear modeling before everyone jumped on the high-wasted briefs bandwagon.

Let’s be real. I’m still a product of my environment. I still want to monetize something solely to perform the script of exasperation with a twinge of excitement in front of a stranger:

“You know, Chet, why don’t we transfer those funds to the Roth IRA and then we’ll circle back at the top of the fiscal, my guy?” Maybe Chet is just asking if I want to add a tip to my Cook Out milkshake, but don’t get stuck in the weeds. Fake practice makes fake perfect.

Do you know I still have a creative business idea I tucked in my heart way back in honors English? The word “business” gives me the chills in a bad, flu-like way, but who knows how else I might change as my body continues to let estrogen flee the premises, no questions asked.

Every day with my AuDHD and anxiety-filled brain is difficult and exhausting, steeped in big feelings and buoyed by stubborn curiosity, but I’m also saying that for every ten times I insult myself for the mismatch between my brain and what I should be doing with my life, there are a couple when I feel okay with the pace in my little corner of the world where Richard Scarry’s animals go to retire. In fact, I notice birds now, and I don’t know their names, but they are so small and colorful and winged and bring me delight just by being birds. One flew into my left flank on a walk the other night, and I couldn’t help but take it as a “Thank you for noticing us.” Or he might’ve been sick and disoriented, on his way to die under the minivan parked beside us.

I could end this column with a bit of a twist and list what I do as a mother. See, I am producing the next generation! But I don’t want to account for my time, my worth in that way. I know being a stay-at-home mom, part-time word wrangler, lecturer, and rabbit-hole researcher is a choice I can make because it works for our family structure. I have a spouse whose work ethic and executive functioning are off the charts, and sometimes I worry the kids and I will suck that part of his brain dry like cute, chaotic leaches.

But I also won’t apologize or backpedal my way out today. I have told you the hardest thing. And I have shown you I am here, maybe not thriving, but being—though thriving could be arranged if Thandiwe Newton agreed to play me in the biopic. I’d suggest method acting with lots of time eating rich Midwestern ice cream.

Oh, Thandiwe, you’re so funny! You can’t extract that Graeter’s chocolate chip with a plastic spoon! You’ll break the neck every time.

This column of mine, just like every column that came before on whose shoulders it crumples, is self-indulgent and written for me. But I also wrote it, with great earnestness if not effort, for anyone in the middle place of life, coming late to themselves, who might need to read that I’m still becoming okay.

A year out from my diagnosis and a lifetime with this brain, I don’t yet have it figured out. But some days, I like parts of what I do, parts of who I am. And if you lean in a bit closer and catch me on a sappy night, I might even say love. I love when Taylor drops the “should’s” and the shame of who she expected herself to be. You should see how she moves in the world then.

Swim Strokes Throughout the Ages

Dan Nolan — Tue, 23 Jun 2026 08:01:00 -0400

400,000,000 BCE
The creatures that will one day evolve to become human beings glide gracefully through the Paleozoic sea. They emerge onto the rocky shore with new legs, a new dominion for animals on this young marble planet.

300,000 BCE
Drowning.

25,500 BCE
Drowning.

1,500 BCE
Drowning.

1,200 BCE
After observing animals cross the River Nile, human beings attempt the doggy paddle.

1,200 BCE
Drowning.

1,100 BCE
The first successful doggy paddle.

900 BCE
The first successful doggy paddle where the swimmer didn’t look like an idiot. Also, the last.

750 BCE
Backstroke, named after gladiator Maximus Backstroke, who later died by drowning.

600 BCE
Breaststroke, named after Maximus Backstroke’s buxom wife, who later died by drowning.

500 BCE
Sidestroke, named after Maximus Backstroke’s side piece, who was later convicted of tying cinderblocks to the feet of Maximus Backstroke and his wife.

31 CE
The “walk on water.”

32 CE
The “walk on water” is banned from competition. Sons of Gods are asked to return their gold medals.

33 CE
Incredibly steep punishment for a Son of God who wouldn’t return his gold medals.

1844
The front crawl, also known as freestyle, was introduced in London.

1873
John Arthur Trudgen tweaks the front crawl by including the breaststroke’s frog kick. All these years later, every swimmer knows the name “John Arthur Trudgen.”

1873
Not.

1912
Treading water, literally, after the sinking of the Titanic.

1912
Treading water, emotionally, after the sinking of the Titanic, when Rose DeWitt Bukater questioned whether she and Jack Dawson had a future when they got back on land.

1912
Treading water, both literally and emotionally, when Rose DeWitt Bukater didn’t make room on that floating door for Jack Dawson, leading him to rethink their relationship as he froze to death.

2050
Sea levels rise. The planet becomes too hot to live on land. Human beings retreat to the seas.

2050
An explosion of new swim strokes, developed by the fish-man hybrids that colonize the oceans, marks the dawn of a new Aquatic Era.

2050
Drowning.

This Is the Part of Your Baby’s Cochlear Implant Procedure Where I Show Them Angine de Poitrine

Eric Hague — Mon, 22 Jun 2026 10:00:00 -0700

In a moment, I will activate your baby’s cochlear implants. For the first time since she was born, she will be able to hear the world around her. You’ve probably thought a lot about the first thing you’d like to say to her. Maybe it’s her name, or that you love her very much. And there’ll be time for that later. First, I need to show her this YouTube video of the band Angine de Poitrine playing in France in 2025.

Seriously, have you seen this yet? It just came on my TikTok one day. It’s fucking sick.

They’re these two dudes, and they wear these wild polka-dot outfits and these weird masks with floppy noses, and it’s all instrumental music, but it’s, like, microtonal or whatever. I’m not doing it justice. It sounds like it’ll suck big time, but somehow it absolutely slaps.

Now, it can be an overwhelming experience for your baby when the external sound processor is first turned on. It’s a lot for her brain to acclimate to. That’s why I’m going to start off with “Fabienk,” which is kind of a good gateway song if you’re just getting into these guys, and then maybe we can watch the rest.

The whole thing is only twenty-seven minutes. But it goes fast.

Since your baby won’t be able to provide verbal feedback, we’ll need to gauge the implants’ efficacy based on her facial reactions. In my professional experience, if she smiles, it means she thinks this band is good as hell and she wants more.

If she cries, well, she just needs to give it a chance. It grows on you. I don’t know how to explain it.

I’m sure you must have questions for me. For example, how do the notes sort of keep going even when the guitar guy starts playing something different? The answer is simple: The guitarist, who goes by the stage name Khn de Poitrine, is using a loop pedal. It’s amazing technology. We’re truly living in a miraculous age. I guess the cochlear thing is cool too.

Did I mention they’re Canadian? They’re from Quebec. Just some trivia for you.

As we’ve discussed, the implants will not need to be replaced as your daughter grows. The only thing that will change over time is that she’ll eventually be old enough to listen to Angine de Poitrine while she’s high.

And let me tell you: Holy shit. You can’t even imagine. As soon as we’re done with this, you should totally smoke up and watch this video again.

I mean, yeah, maybe not, because you have a baby. But I will. And I’ll keep you in my thoughts.

So, if you’re ready, I’m going to go ahead and switch on the processor module and press play on my iPhone. Thank you so much for letting me share this special milestone with your family. Also, your insurance doesn’t cover this part, and it’s going to be really expensive for some reason.

[Triangle hand gesture.]

Clarence Thomas Offers an Originalist Reading of the TGI Fridays Menu

Andrew Martin — Mon, 22 Jun 2026 08:00:00 -0400

BEER/WINE/COCKTAILS

“Try one of our new signature seasonal cocktails, Sour Cherry Fizz-Tini, Ocean Mist Margarita, or No Drama Bahama Mama!”

A cursory reading of the above might lead one to believe the restaurant is no longer offering its popular White Chocolate Russian Milkshake from the winter menu. However, a trained scholar like myself knows that when TGI Fridays first opened, seasonal menu items were unheard of, and all mixed drinks were offered year-round. Thus, it shall be understood that forthwith this establishment shall forever make available the White Chocolate Russian Milkshake, which just so happens to be the favorite cocktail of my beloved wife, Ginni.”

APPETIZERS

“Enjoy our world-famous chicken tenders, with your choice of barbecue, ranch, or honey mustard sauce.”

A prime example of the importance of studying the framer’s extant writings. Grab any Joe Schmo off the street and ask him what this passage means, and he’ll say, “Well, it seems to say you can have your tendies served with a side of barbecue, ranch, or honey mustard sauce.” Now, ask a rigorously disciplined student of history such as myself—someone who has, in fact, read in their entirety all of Fridays’ founders Alan Stillman and Daniel R. Scoggin’s personal journals—and I’ll tell you the reality, which is that there was always intended to be a secret, fourth tendie sauce, known alluringly as “Island Heat.” It’s available only to those who know to ask for it, such as me and my dinner party here tonight.

Snap, snap. Make it so, server.

ENTREES

“Sorry, no modifications may be made to our signature burgers.”

People sometimes accuse me of being a political actor, contorting the menu until it tells me what I want to hear. But that shows a fundamental misunderstanding of my process in this booth. I’m merely an impartial vessel through which the original intent of the TGI Fridays menu can flow uninhibited. All this is to say that this passage here means I can take my shoes off in the restaurant if my feet start to hurt.

“Sandwiches come with your choice of fries, tater tots, or steamed veggies.”

Let it be known that in this context “fries” means “onion rings,” “tater tots” means “mozzarella sticks,” and “steamed veggies” means… (confers in hushed tones with table)… “Ooey Gooey Molten Chocolate Lava Brownie Bites.”

Shadow-docket ruling: No explanation will be forthcoming.

“Dressing options for salads include Balsamic, Caesar, Italian, or Ranch.”

Unfortunately, the meaning here is abundantly clear: Thousand Island is not, I repeat not, offered as a salad dressing—wait, hang on… It’s been brought to my attention that a wealthy Thousand Island Dressing Tycoon wearing a cowboy hat and spurs is currently cutting a novelty oversized check for me at the next table… I hereby stay this ruling and will return to it next term, when perhaps my historical understanding of the situation will have broadened (slaps coaster on the table repeatedly like a gavel).

DESSERTS/SIDES/DRINKS

“Proudly serving Coke products.”

Reading this amendment in the context in which it was written, you will understand that it plainly says they offer Coke products and Coke products alone.

Now you may say, “Look, Clarence, didn’t you just last week say that this section meant the exact opposite?” Well, I’ll point out to you that the ruling was made regarding the TGI Fridays in Fairvale, whose highly elitist owner has, sadly, said some rather nasty things about me and my foot odor to the local paper. Therefore, I decree it is incumbent upon him when I visit his restaurant to run out to the local bodega and grab me some Mountain Dew or maybe a Starry or something, whereas the manager of this fine establishment, a true gentleman, a proud patriot, and yes, a J-6er, carries no such additional requirement.

THANKS FOR VISITING!

“A 20 percent gratuity will be applied to all tables larger than ten.”

Now, this is interesting. In 1965, when the first TGI Fridays opened in Times Square, a customary tip was 10 percent, with 15 percent considered exceedingly generous. After factoring in inflation and global market trends, the expectation that, in the year of our Lord 2026, I should add a whopping 20 percent to my bill just so my server can continue funding his tattoo collection is preposterous.

Look, I’m not coming at this stuff with an agenda. I’m just calling balls and strikes here.

“Credit card and Apple Pay are accepted for your convenience at our tableside touchscreen interfaces.”

No mention is made at any point prior to this amendment of a touchscreen payment option at our table, and, in fact, no such screen would even have existed as of the original writing of this menu. Therefore, the law is clear: I do not have to pay for this meal. (Discharges live firearm into ceiling, peels out of parking lot in luxury RV, with Ginni’s arm wrapped around waist. He returns hours later to retrieve shoes.)

Unsung Heroes of Fatherhood

Wendi Aarons and Johanna Gohmann — Fri, 19 Jun 2026 08:00:00 -0400

Brandon Jackson, who not only found his wallet without blaming his entire family for losing it, but also found it in the pants he was wearing.

Eric Hughes, who, while listening to his wife’s entire twenty-two-minute story about how rude Lauren always is at book club, did not offer a suggestion for how to fix the problem. He just nodded and said, “Wow, unbelievable,” at all the right moments.

Jeff Hanover, who, after witnessing his wife receive breakfast in bed, a dozen roses, several handmade cards, and a satin robe for Mother’s Day, was given an expired coupon to Dick’s Sporting Goods and a mug bearing the likeness of The Rock for Father’s Day

Brad Fisher, who parked a full half block away when dropping his daughter off at volleyball practice so that her peers would not see his “lame fit,” hear his “try-hard voice,” or observe anything of his physical person, which he has been informed is “climbing cringe mountain.”

Thomas Beakman, who both loaded and unloaded the dishwasher without once seeking praise for his actions, though did later privately imagine himself giving a TED Talk on gender equality.

Tim Harding, who, instead of saying “Boys will be boys” after his son threw rocks at a passing car, had a long talk with him about channeling his emotions into something more societally acceptable, such as mowing the lawn obsessively or watching Interstellar alone while quietly gazing into a bag of Takis.

Leon Williams, who patiently sat and watched his husband attempt to Google the summer camp forms in the slowest, dumbest way possible without smashing his laptop screen with a hammer.

Steven Lee, who could not locate the ketchup, despite it being on the top shelf of the fridge, in front, directly in his line of sight, and literally five inches from his nose. But rather than interrupt his wife’s nap to ask where it was, simply told their eight-year-old that they “were out.”

Josh Mandler, who was tasked with chasing a bat out of the garage, even though he has zero wildlife-wrangling experience and was just as freaked out as everyone else.

Alex Gettleman, who posed for approximately twenty-three photos of him and his wife toasting mojitos, then had her chastise him for “smiling weird.” He also said nothing as she captioned the photo DATE NIGHT MAGIC WITH MY PERSON.

Chris Bostock, who, despite listening to his brother-in-law Todd talk at length about Joe Rogan and cold-plunging, decided not to key his Cybertruck.

Javier Hernandez, who abruptly stopped singing along to Steely Dan’s “Hey, 19” in the car upon realizing that his college-daughter and her friends are all now nineteen years old.

Darius Quint, who was finally beaten in a game of driveway basketball by his son, but didn’t throw a fit or sink into a pit of despair at being surpassed by the younger, stronger, taller version of himself, and instead let the kid have a sip of his warm Amstel Light.

Peter O’Shea, who after receiving one text on Father’s Day from his son saying he’ll be late to dinner because he “needs to sync” with his boss, and another text from his daughter saying she’s “too busy brand building on TikTok,” resisted all urges to fire up “Cats In the Cradle” on Spotify and weep gently into his Old Fashioned.

Dad Band Dad Jokes

Julia McCloy, Kevin Lutz, Patrick Barb, and Sam Allemang — Thu, 18 Jun 2026 11:00:00 -0700

What band is always in a hurry?
Rush

Which guitarist had the sauciest riffs?
Spagh-Eddie Van Halen

Why did AC/DC cancel their pool party?
Thunder struck.

What is Dark Side of the Moon about?
It’s about forty-three minutes.

Bon Jovi has a new diet where you eat one fruit a day.
It’s called “living on a pear.”

How much dental work did the members of Boston need?
More than a filling.

What did Freddie Mercury say when he saw an ocean of soda?
“Is this the real life or is this Fanta-sea?”

Duran Duran: “I’m hungry like the wolf.”
Dad: Hi, “Hungry Like The Wolf.” I’m Dad.

Why does Bono never take his glasses off?
He still hasn’t found what he’s looking for.

Why can’t you trust Stairway to Heaven?
It’s clearly up to something.

What did the lead singer of Kansas tell his estranged child that the vultures were eating?
Carrion, my wayward son.

Why does Home Depot let its employees drop acid?
It helps them appreciate the Doors.

Son: Is that Neil Young?
Dad: No, that Neil old.

Which Talking Heads’ song was re-recorded for the Irish market?
Psych O’Killer.

We had a hair band once…
But we had to cut it.

McSweeney’s

How to Hustle Like a Tech Founder

Reviews of New Food: Bush’s Rocket Pop Flavored Baked Beans

The Proper Level of Enthusiasm for a Parent During Camp Dropoff

An Interview with Dave Eggers About His New Novel, Contrapposto

To Solve the Housing Crisis, We Simply Need to Build More Homes (Just Not in My Town)

McSweeney’s Books: An Excerpt from Our New Book, Documentary Now!

The original 1975 introduction by Documentary Now!’s first host, Burt Lancaster

Wirecutter Headlines During the Revolutionary War

Thank You for Experiencing Ego Death at the Hands of Our Digital AI-Fueled Panopticon Application Software

Persona Hatching

My Manic Pixie Dream Femme Fatale

Vandalizing Washington, DC, Is a Crime—Unless You’re Overturning an Election

Human Visibility Scale

The Seven Meanings of “Fine,” in Descending Order of Plausible Deniability

An Open Letter to the Dead Duck Seen Floating in the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool

The Hardest Thing to Say: On Neurodivergence and Work

Swim Strokes Throughout the Ages

This Is the Part of Your Baby’s Cochlear Implant Procedure Where I Show Them Angine de Poitrine

Clarence Thomas Offers an Originalist Reading of the TGI Fridays Menu

BEER/WINE/COCKTAILS

APPETIZERS

ENTREES

DESSERTS/SIDES/DRINKS

THANKS FOR VISITING!

Unsung Heroes of Fatherhood

Dad Band Dad Jokes

The original 1975 introduction by
Documentary Now!’s first host,
Burt Lancaster