McSweeney’s

The New Odyssey Movie Is Historically Inaccurate; Matt Damon Isn’t the Least Bit Greek

Carlos Greaves — Fri, 05 Jun 2026 13:00:00 -0400

“Elon Musk has again weighed in on Christopher Nolan’s upcoming big-budget adaptation of The Odyssey, this time agreeing with a racist comment made by a far-right journalist who criticized the casting of Oscar-winning actor Lupita Nyong’o as Helen of Troy.” — The Hollywood Reporter

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Hollywood is once again deliberately undermining Western civilization, this time by desecrating one of the foundational texts of our proud literary canon. Christopher Nolan’s pitiful adaptation of theOdyssey is just the latest in a litany of re-imaginings of beloved works by Tinseltown screenwriters and film directors. The movie is rife with historical inaccuracies, and there’s no greater proof than Matt Damon playing Odysseus. Damon was born and raised outside Boston and isn’t the least bit Greek.

Christopher Nolan had a simple job—faithfully adapt Homer’s epic poem from the written dactylic hexameter into the visual medium of film. That should have started with geographically accurate casting—Greek actors playing Achaeans, Turkish actors playing Trojans, and Cyclops actors from remote Mediterranean islands playing Cyclopes.

Instead, for the leading role of his Greek epic, Nolan chose a man born four thousand miles away in Cambridge, Massachusetts. A man who is best known for lines like “I’m gonna have to science the shit out of this” and “How do you like them apples?” It is disappointing that Nolan cast a townie from an ocean away when he could have easily cast a Greek household name like Yorgos Karamihos. Or, at the very least, Zach Galifianakis.

Furthermore, it is appalling that the actors could not be bothered to recite the story in the original ancient Greek and are instead conversing throughout the entire film in what appears to be modern English. What is so difficult about saying “ἄνδρα μοι ἔννεπε, μοῦσα, πολύτροπον, ὃς μάλα πολλὰ” as Homer would’ve intended?

It is clear that Hollywood has no interest in historical representation and is instead focused on pushing a single agenda—putting as many white people from the Greater Boston area in television shows and movies as humanly possible.

Think about how many well-known white guys from the Boston area there are in Hollywood: Matt Damon, the Afflecks, the Wahlbergs, John Krasinski, Chris Evans, B. J. Novak, Conan O’Brien, Bill Burr, Louis C. K., and Adam Sandler (southern New Hampshire is basically Massachusetts).

Consider, too, how many movies are set in Boston: Good Will Hunting, The Departed, The Town, Mystic River, Spotlight, Boondock Saints, Fever Pitch, The Social Network, Manchester by the Sea, Hocus Pocus, and Ted. There is no way the twenty-fifth-largest city in America would have that many movies set in it unless Hollywood was up to something.

Clearly, this is a sinister attempt at revisionist history. Clearly, the entire entertainment industry wants us to believe that our greatest heroes, whether it’s Odysseus or Captain America, are Bay Staters who don’t pronounce the letter “r.”

There is only one logical explanation for why Hollywood would go to such lengths to over-represent these Massholes:

It’s rhotic-replacement.

The powers that be (the Illuminati, the Boston Brahmin, whatever you want to call them) are trying to dilute America’s proud “hard r” culture until rhotacism is a thing of the past. If they have their way, we will all be “pahking the cah at Mahket Basket to buy lobstah.” It’s no coincidence that half of Hollywood’s writers went to “Hahvahd.”

We must protect our culture from these “r-less” New Englanders and their quest for rhotic supremacy. The next time Hollywood adapts a classic Greek text, we must demand they do it the right way. There’s nothing historically accurate about, say, Amy Poehler playing Calypso, or Sarah Silverman playing Circe. Those roles should go to an actual sea nymph and an actual witch-goddess, respectively. Anything short of that is a slap in the face to the entire Western world.

I am pleased, however, that Nolan cast Lupita Nyong’o as Helen of Troy. We all know the ancient Greeks would never have launched a thousand ships for some blonde chick who wouldn’t last a week in the punishing Grecian sun.

I Wished on a Monkey’s Paw for Susan Collins to Lose Her Senate Seat, and Now We’re Stuck with Graham Platner

Justin P. Drew — Fri, 05 Jun 2026 08:00:00 -0400

“Several women who dated Graham Platner recall ‘unsettling’ behavior. The Democratic candidate for Senate in Maine could be charming, women said in interviews, but some found his actions intimidating and disturbing.”
— The New York Times

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I must apologize.

You see, right now Graham Platner is the presumptive Democratic nominee for the Maine Senate seat. If he wins, he will go head-to-head with Susan Collins this fall to try to take her seat. And if early polling is any indication, he has a decent chance of winning.

He’s also one of the most scandal-plagued candidates in Senate history.

So, yeah, my bad.

Much like the main character in this year’s word-of-mouth horror hit Obsession, I view myself as an ally. When I watched Susan Collins cast the deciding vote to put Brett Kavanaugh on the Supreme Court, I had some concerns, as she always does.

And then, despite her telling us all that he never would, on June 24, 2022, Brett voted to overturn Roe v. Wade.

When I got that Apple News alert, I knew I had to do something. I couldn’t just sit still and do nothing. What am I, a member of Congress? I had to act.

So I dug out my monkey’s paw from the chest in my attic.

I acquired it at a mysterious shop I happened to walk into one evening about ten years ago, while trying to escape a sudden rainstorm. A charismatic shopkeeper with seemingly ulterior motives talked me into taking it, saying it would make my wildest dreams come true. The shop disappeared the moment I walked out of the building and turned around, which was annoying because I do like to keep the option open for returns with purchases like this.

There were three uncurled fingers on it, but I’ve only used the paw once before, back in January 2020, when I asked for a reason to spend more time at home. (I had been traveling nonstop for work in the months leading up to that, so allow me to give a big oopsies on that as well while we’re here.)

Anyway, I made the wish to unseat Collins and waited. And waited. Honestly, with it being nearly four years, I almost forgot I’d made the wish, but all of a sudden, Graham started surging in the polls. He was a well-spoken, salt-of-the-earth type of guy, and Bernie endorsed him, so I was like, “Cool. Maybe it’ll be chill.”

And then the tattoo story broke.

At first I was appalled, and then I sat and thought to myself, Well, it’s possible he really didn’t know what the tattoo meant. Admittedly, I didn’t either until the story went viral and I looked into it. It was then that I realized that if Graham really was a nazi, there’s an entire political party that’s currently in power where he could go and be welcomed with open arms. And what’s the worst that could happen there? He wins and becomes a senator and just votes alongside the fascist party already in power, enabling their every evil whim? Very low risk there.

So, I decided to let it slide. He was still saying all the right stuff, he was making videos on what to do if ICE approaches you and keeping his messaging hyper-focused on the needs of the people and shit.

Then the Reddit story broke, and I could not judge him, for I was once a white dude in his twenties in the year 2013.

But last week, we all found out that Graham was sexting women behind his wife’s back in the early days of their marriage. (And in the coming days, the news around him might get even worse!)

Through it all, the people who support him have just gotten louder and more resolute. They think the Deep State is targeting him, that his platform, which focuses on the needs of the many and the fact that he openly seeks to impeach multiple Supreme Court justices, has sealed his fate as the number one threat in the minds of establishment Democrats and Republicans alike. His fans look at him as a martyr for the greater cause.

That’s when I was like, “Oh fuck, I have created a progressive version of Donald Trump.”

My bad, seriously, guys.

Trump running for president three times and winning twice just proves my theory that if you’re gonna have one political scandal, you might as well have a million. At a certain point, all the noise starts to condense and form a shield around you, and Graham is in the process of building his callus right now.

Sure, there’s a chunk of the Democratic base that won’t fuck with him going forward. Still, anyone who is serious about defeating fascism knows that he’s now basically our only hope to remove Susan Collins from power. Which is crucial.

Yes, there are other candidates on the Democratic ballot (including Janet Mills, whose wildly unpopular campaign against him sputtered to a halt earlier this year), but none of them have the name recognition or, frankly, the motion needed to go head-to-head with Susan. Swap in any other available matchup, and she clears them easily.

Graham Platner was on the cover of Time magazine. That’s as much motion as a rookie Senate candidate could ever hope for. He might be a lightning rod for controversy, but clearly there is something there that makes this man so popular.

Is it the deep, commanding voice? Or the no-nonsense way in which he communicates? Those burly hands?

Is it the fact that his entire vibe harkens back to a long-dormant version of masculinity? Like someone’s wet dream about Ron Swanson made flesh?

Who knows. All I know is that it was no surprise to learn that this guy fucks.

And honestly? I’m still ridin’ with Biden here. If this dude manages to get into power and even makes a lick of progress towards impeaching Clarence Thomas, fuck it: I’ll provide an alibi for him myself. I’ll tell his wife we were out fishing all weekend—I don’t care.

Wait… shit… is that the actual curse here?

That I… understand MAGA now?

That I myself have been reduced to vociferously supporting a bad man because I see him as the only path forward to helping undo a greater evil? Did M. Night Shyamalan write my life?

It doesn’t matter either way, I suppose. The wish has been wished. There’s no unringing this gravelly voiced bell.

I have one uncurled finger left on the paw. I’ve decided I’m gonna cut to the chase and ask for Trump not to be president anymore.

Wish us all luck!

I Can’t Fix Your Life; I’m Just a Bodega Cat Stretching

Louie Aronowitz — Thu, 04 Jun 2026 13:08:00 -0400

Hey, thanks for reaching out. I get that you are having an existential crisis of self, facing the realities of aging, and accepting your social and economic circumstances, but listen, there is nothing I can do; I’m just a cat stretching in a bodega.

And no, it doesn’t matter that it’s a BIG stretch either.

I can’t do anything about your unaffordable rent or exorbitant student loans; I have no expenses in my life. I live in a potato chip display and sleep twenty-three hours a day. I can’t fix your general lack of purpose. The most I can offer is startling you as you reach for a bag of Sun Chips, but that’ll only make you feel alive for a split second. Then it’s back to pondering the pointlessness of everything.

That tuxedo cat, spending her days crawling into the fresh vegetable display? She can’t help either. She spends most of her time licking the broccoli florets, so she can’t explain how your deductible works. When the insurance company tells you to call the doctor, who then tells you to call the insurance company in an endless cycle where all parties involved are just waiting for you to die so they don’t have to deal with you, the momentary gratification of seeing a bodega cat look up at you will not help. If anything, she might be the cause of further health complications.

There’s a slight chance she might let you pet her for a few seconds before hissing and scratching at you, but I don’t really see how that helps.

And I think you already know the overweight orange cat by the buffet station that fully just fell into the lasagna chafing dish can’t do anything helpful either. Look at him: He can’t even get out of the lasagna. He might be trapped in there forever now.

At night is when we do actual work. If fixing your life involves catching mice, I got you. If your landlord is willing to barter for dead rodents, come find me. If your horrible boss at work is literally a rat, then I’ll take care of it. Otherwise, there’s not much we bodega cats can do to help your situation.

And please don’t steal any of us, it would be both unhelpful AND expensive for you. Don’t try to help the overweight orange cat either; he has since given up trying to eat his way out of the lasagna and has resigned himself to being permanently trapped under melted cheese in a warming tin.

So, no, while my friends and I may provide a few seconds of relief, if you’re searching for meaning and direction in your life, I’m sorry, I’m just a cute kitty stretching at your local bodega, and my friends and I can’t fix your problems.

Wait, actually, that Sphynx cat up on the top shelf, watching over us like an Egyptian pharaoh, wields the Amulet of Horus and thus has the power of the gods to fix all your problems. She just chooses not to.

Engorged by Criticism

Ali Fitzgerald — Thu, 04 Jun 2026 12:01:00 -0400

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

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A Queer Writer’s Survival Guide to the Literary Agent Hypocrisy Circus: PRETEND vs. ACTUAL

Justin Taroli — Thu, 04 Jun 2026 05:00:00 -0700

PRETEND: “We want diverse stories that push boundaries!”
ACTUAL: “Just make sure your ‘diversity’ doesn’t make our straight white readers uncomfortable. Gay but not too gay. Brown, but relatable. If your trauma can’t be solved by brunch, it’s a pass.”

PRETEND: “Literature should make you uncomfortable.”
ACTUAL: “But not in a way that makes me, a straight white agent, reflect on my privilege. I meant uncomfortable like, ‘Oh no, she wore mismatched socks to the book club!’”

PRETEND: “We’re hungry for authentic queer voices!”
ACTUAL: “But can you make it, you know, more like a straight person’s coming-of-age? We want RuPaul energy, but in a Love, Simon package—nothing that’ll make Becky from Vermont question her marriage.”

PRETEND: “Please, no more trauma porn.”
ACTUAL: “Unless it’s white suburban trauma—then we’ll call it ‘generational saga’ and give it a pastel cover.”

PRETEND: “Be bold, be daring, break the rules.”
ACTUAL: “But please adhere to this eight-point font, one-inch margin, three-hundred-word synopsis, and don’t you dare confuse me with experimental structure.”

PRETEND: “We want queer joy! Write freely!”
ACTUAL: “But make sure there’s a straight best friend to guide the reader through the scary parts. If anyone has sex, fade to black, please.”

PRETEND: “Send polished, spell-checked work only.”
ACTUAL: “The last three books I sold read like Tumblr drafts. If you’re white, straight, and went to Iowa, I’ll proofread it myself.”

PRETEND: “Follow all the tips I give on social media.”
ACTUAL: “The real tip is: Know someone at my brunch group. Otherwise, your query is just content for my next post about ‘how not to open a letter.’”

PRETEND: “Give me something I haven’t seen before!”
ACTUAL: “But it needs to fit on the shelf next to three identical books already optioned for television. Risky but safe, edgy but soothing, queer but market-tested.”

PRETEND: “I have time for every query.”
ACTUAL: “I skim for comps, then forward your trauma to an intern so I can answer DMs about my cat.”

PRETEND: “We celebrate bold, unapologetic queer stories!”
ACTUAL: “As long as the gays are funny sidekicks or tragic martyrs. Don’t make the straight readers squirm. Happy endings optional. Sanitized for cis consumption.”

PRETEND: “We’re craving narratives about race, identity, and intersectionality.”
ACTUAL: “But can you whitewash it for the book-club crowd? If your Black protagonist scares a Target shopper, cut it. Bonus points if you mention Paris or Italy.”

PRETEND: “We’re here to shake up the industry!”
ACTUAL: “But only after my Pilates class with other straight white agents. Disruption is fine as long as my latte and legacy are safe.”

PRETEND: “We want something that’s never been done.”
ACTUAL: “Can you write Normal People again, but with a bisexual love interest who never says ‘bisexual’?”

PRETEND: “We believe in platforming marginalized writers.”
ACTUAL: “But if you don’t already have a blue check, 10K followers, and a headshot that fits the aesthetic, keep screaming into the void.”

PRETEND: “I want a book that keeps me up all night.”
ACTUAL: “Unless it’s about your gay sex life, in which case, I’ll pretend to lose your email.”

PRETEND: “Trust the process—agents know best!”
ACTUAL: “You’re here for tips, but I optioned a TikTok poet and a nepotism case this year, so do as I say, not as I green-light.”

PRETEND: “We want to challenge the canon.”
ACTUAL: “But only if Daddy Roth and Aunt Didion are still on the invite list. Canon, but make it cottagecore.”

PRETEND: “I want books that feel urgent.”
ACTUAL: “Urgent as in: White lady has an affair and buys a new plant, then writes a think piece about it. Anything else is ‘a tough sell.’”

PRETEND: “We value stories that challenge power structures.”
ACTUAL: “But not this power structure. Don’t challenge me. If it makes me feel like maybe I’m part of the problem, I’ll just not respond.”

“NEWS MAN BAD”: A Personnel Memo from Animal, Your Editor-In-Chief

Jack Loftus — Wed, 03 Jun 2026 16:30:00 -0700

“‘The leadership of 60 Minutes is no longer recognizable,’ Scott Pelley said late Tuesday, just hours after being fired from CBS News after almost 40 years at the network. ‘The principles I hold dear are gone, and so I must leave as well.’”
— Variety

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Previously, in the Animal Newsroom.

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TO: NEWSROOM
FROM: ANIMAL, EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
SUBJECT: NEWS MAN TOO ANIMAL

NEWS TEAM,

ANIMAL WRITE MEMO WITH HEAVY HEART AND LIGHT HR OVERSIGHT.

MONDAY MEETING WITH NEWS MAN GO BAD. NEWS MAN SPEAK LOUD. NEWS MAN SAY THINGS. NEWS MAN DEFEND JOURNALISM LIKE JOURNALISM CAN BE SAVED FROM ANIMAL’S LARRY ELLISON MONEY.

THIS MAKE ANIMAL THINK: WHOA. NEWS MAN TOO MUCH ANIMAL EVEN FOR ANIMAL.

THIS HARD FOR ANIMAL TO SAY. ANIMAL RESPECT PASSION. ANIMAL LOVE YELLING. ANIMAL ONCE ATE THREE MICROPHONES AFTER CECOT SEGMENT. BUT THERE ARE LINES. NEWS ROOM HAS STANDARDS. THOSE STANDARDS NOW VERY FLEXIBLE, BUT STILL TECHNICALLY LINES.

NEWS MAN CREATE HOSTILE WORK ENVIRONMENT BY SAYING JOURNALISM SHOULD BE GOOD. MANAGEMENT FEEL UNSAFE AROUND FACTS.

THEN NEWS MAN REFUSE APOLOGY LETTER. ANIMAL UNDERSTAND. ANIMAL ALSO REFUSE MANY LETTERS. CEASE AND DESIST. FINAL WARNING. NOTE FROM PBS SAYING PLEASE RETURN BIG BIRD’S CYMBALS.

NEWS MAN MADE PEOPLE REMEMBER NEWS WAS NOT ALWAYS CONTENT DISPENSER BETWEEN DRUG COMMERCIALS AND ADS FOR GOLD PRESIDENT PHONE. SO NEWS MAN MUST GO.

REMEMBER: MANAGEMENT STILL LOVE COURAGE. COURAGE JUST NEED PREAPPROVAL.

AAAAAGGGHHH,

ANIMAL
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

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TO: NEWSROOM
FROM: ANIMAL, EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
SUBJECT: NEW BEAR SAME FUTURE

NEWS TEAM,

QUICK ANIMAL FOLLOW-UP: NEW EXECUTIVE PRODUCER IS FOZZIE BEAR. FOZZIE ASKS TOUGH QUESTIONS LIKE, “Why did the chicken cross the road?” AND THEN, WHEN SUBJECT REFUSED TO ANSWER, FOZZIE SAY, “Wocka wocka,” WHICH IS INDUSTRY TERM FOR ACCOUNTABILITY.

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TO: NEWSROOM
FROM: FOZZIE BEAR, EXECUTIVE PRODUCER
SUBJECT: WOCKA WOCKA

Dear pals,

First of all, wow, what a room. Tough crowd! And I should know, because I have performed for two old men on a balcony who once heckled me for not wearing pants.

I just want to say I love this institution. I love the news. Some of you may be wondering why I accepted this job knowing I have no discernible reporting skills and don’t wear pants, or anything down there, really. Well, that is very hurtful, but fair. Ha! Get it? Fair? Like balanced journalism? Wocka wocka!

Please don’t throw anything heavy.

Warmly,
Fozzie

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TO: NEWSROOM
FROM: ANIMAL, EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
SUBJECT: BIG BEAR ENERGY

NEWS TEAM,

ANIMAL VERY EXCITED FOR FOZZIE. FOZZIE BRING FRESH ENERGY, BIG HAT, NONTHREATENING FACE. FOZZIE NOT INTIMIDATED BY POWER. POWER SIGNING OUR PAYCHECKS NOW THOUGH, SO NO SURPRISE. FOZZIE MOSTLY INTIMIDATED BY ELEVATORS, SILENT ROOMS, AND ANYONE WHO MENTION LACK OF PANTS.

SOME STAFF WORRY FOZZIE NOT RIGHT FIT. SOME SAY SHOW NEED PRODUCER WITH DEEP INSTITUTIONAL KNOWLEDGE, NOT BEAR WHO CARRY BRIEFCASE FULL OF BANANA PEELS. ANIMAL HEAR CONCERNS. ANIMAL PLACE CONCERNS IN BOX MARKED “REMARKABLE INCIVILITY AND CONTEMPT” NEXT TO NEWS MAN.

LET ANIMAL BE CLEAR: PUBLIC DISAGREEMENT BAD. PRIVATE CONVERSATION ALSO BAD. IF NEWS SHOW BEING MURDERED LIKE NEWS MAN SAY, PLEASE RAISE HAND, WAIT TO BE CALLED ON, AND USE WORDS LIKE “realignment” AND “legacy evolution” OR JOIN NEWS MAN IN BOX.

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TO: NEWSROOM
FROM: FOZZIE BEAR, EXECUTIVE EDITOR
SUBJECT: SOME GREAT NEWSROOM IDEAS

Hi again,

I’ve been thinking… what if every investigative interview starts with a joke to loosen up the whistleblower? For example: “Why did the classified document cross the road? Because it was improperly retained!” Haaa!

No? Nothing? Boy, you folks really do not blink much.

Also, I am told some recent personnel decisions predated me. That is good, because I was worried I had done them in my sleep. I do sleepwalk sometimes, once straight into a pie.

Fozzie

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TO: NEWSROOM
FROM: ANIMAL, EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
SUBJECT: SLAY THE NEWS

NEWS TEAM,

THIS IS MOMENT OF RENEWAL. OLD NEWS ASK HARD QUESTIONS OF POWER. NEW NEWS ASK HARD QUESTIONS OF STAFF, LIKE WHY STAFF SO ATTACHED TO OLD WAY WHERE JOURNALISTS DO JOURNALISM.

FOZZIE WILL LEAD US INTO FUTURE. FUTURE HAS COLLABORATION. FUTURE HAS SOARING STOCK PRICE. FUTURE HAS BEAR TRYING VERY HARD WHILE CORPORATE GIANTS MOVE FLOOR BENEATH HIM.

REMEMBER: WE NOT KILL NEWS. WE REFRESH FORMAT UNTIL PULSE HARD TO DETECT.

AAAAAGGGHHH,

ANIMAL
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

“Descartes Against Humanity” and Other Games Designed by Famous Philosophers

Ryan Weber — Wed, 03 Jun 2026 13:00:00 -0400

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Reviews of New Food: Taco Bell’s Diablo Dusted Crispy Chicken Nuggets

Dan Hass — Wed, 03 Jun 2026 09:00:00 -0400

Forgive me, Padre, for I have binged.

Kissed brimstone. Huffed hellfire. Made a $5.99 deal with El Diablo for a five-pack of chicken nuggets.

In the back booth of a Taco Bell Cantina, I plop down my tray like I’m late to the Last Supper.

Spread before me: an unholy communion. Nuggets instead of wafers. A chalice of consecrated Baja Blast.

Illuminated above me: not stained glass, but a neon-purple sign promoting a timeless fast-food parable. LIVE MÁS.

I cross myself in the sign of Our Father, dab at a spill that looks like my mother, then take the plunge—flipping open a box of Taco Bell’s new Diablo Dusted Crispy Chicken Nuggets.

Like the scooped litter of an infernal feline, pulverized tortilla chips cling to dust-coated clumps of chicken. Seasoning slides around the bottom of the box like loose sand. The smell is sharp and stinging—dehydrated hot sauce tickling my hallowed nose hairs.

Popping that first Diablo Dusted morsel into my mouth, I experience a revelation worthy of Revelations. A pure, sinful delight. The equivalent of crushing up a bag of Cheetos, mixing in a few ghost peppers, then drenching your tongue in dry rub.

As Christ said when he descended into hell: “Holy fuck, that’s hot.”

I fan my mouth, realizing I started with too big a bite (one bite). But wicked temptation drives me to tear into another nugget.

My sinuses tingle with illicit satisfaction. Tears blur my vision. My tongue wriggles—flailing, under fire, but already craving more.

Diablo Dusted Crispy Chicken Nuggets are tender, spicy, and juicy, like a Zumba instructor. Slightly rubbery, like an amateur gimp at Folsom. Premium all white meat lambasted under a heat lamp, like a regional sales manager in a tanning bed.

For a menu item concocted in hell’s kitchen—chicken nuggets crop dusted by Satan himself—they’re surprisingly scrumptious.

Like any vice worth the price, Diablo Dusted Crispy Chicken Nuggets are dangerously addictive. Despite my inflamed senses—mouth burning, nose dripping, scabbed throat screaming in protest—I can’t help but take another bite.

Between sips of Baja Blast, scripture written on sauce packets compels me to LIVE MÁS, EAT MÁS, and MAKE MÁS MISTAKES. I am a masochistic sinner, craving delicious damnation. Desperate for punishment. Praying for Satan to spit in my mouth.

Steam whistling out of my ears, I wonder if the devil’s lettuce would make these Diablo Nuggets even more delectable. Chewing fumes, I trespass against McDonald’s, ranking Taco Bell’s diabolical poultry above McNuggets.

But the heat! Good Lord, the heat. By the end of the pack, the Baja Blast is ineffective. Milk is off the table. Water would only make it worse—unless it’s been blessed by a priest.

Like the nuggets, my tongue is blanketed in Diablo Dust. Oh, how it burns. Like gargling vinegar, every micro-abrasion in my mouth lights up. Incendiary, as one by one, my taste buds are plunged into magma.

My final refuge—my only option—is to peel the lid off the limited-edition Diablo Ranch dip and pray to the Almighty for forgiveness.

But God is either deaf or spiteful, or he thinks he’s so funny. Because the Diablo Ranch is a homestead of pain.

Far from tempering the inferno, the peppered sauce is like squirting gasoline on a grease fire. Dust and dip, flint and tinder, feed each other until my mouth stops chewing and starts playing hot potato—flipping the half-eaten nugget from tongue to teeth to cheek.

Sniffling, tears streaming down my face, baptized in flame and babbling in tongues like a Pentecostal faith healer, I crawl back to the counter, unrepentant.

“Hi, could I get another order of Diablo Nuggets? Yes, with the ranch.”

“That’ll be $5.99.”

“Amen.”

I’m Jessica Fletcher, and I Don’t Even Feel Anything Anymore When I Find a Dead Body

Tony Delgado — Wed, 03 Jun 2026 08:01:00 -0400

I’m a famous mystery novelist, power-walking enthusiast, and spunky widow who, despite my husband’s death, has not had my joie de vivre diminished in the slightest. Meeting me, perhaps you’d surmise that I’m a glass-half-full kind of gal who loves socializing, travel, and dinner with an ever-widening coterie of friends.

You’d be wrong. To make the most of my twilight years, I’ve cultivated a detached numbness to death that would give the grizzliest veteran of Guadalcanal the thousand-yard stare. This is because the people I’ve known have been murdered so often that I don’t feel anything anymore, not even when I find the dead body myself.

Nothing.

Well, perhaps that’s not true. I feel—it’s not quite excitement. It’s like when you leaf through the paltry reading material at the dentist’s office, and you discover that someone has neglected to fill out the People magazine crossword puzzle. So, I’m keeping busy, but I basically feel nothing.

Not even when my nephew Grady gets framed for murder, which happens constantly. Seriously, I have a criminal defense attorney on perpetual retainer who specializes in homicide for this sort of thing. At this point, the police department just calls me first, so we can clear it up.

He’s a sweet boy, and I dote on him despite his terrible taste in romantic partners. Grady’s always introducing me to this girl or that one. They seem nice enough with big ’80s hair and winning smiles, but I can see it, and I tell him honestly that there’s no future. Each of those relationships will more likely than not end just like the others, with him framed for her murder.

Speaking of which, I tell Grady over and over to keep his fingerprints off the murder weapon when he discovers the body, but he’s like a kid in a candy store when he sees a bloody dagger in someone’s back: He’s got to have it.

Again, let me emphasize that I’m a nice old lady who feels nothing about the parade of murder that seems to follow me. Want some evidence? One time, the police called to congratulate me on my hunch because they found my friend Gwen from the museum committee dead in a drainpipe.

So many people have been murdered that I now travel quite the distance from my home in Cabot Cove, a quaint Maine town that has more murders per capita than anywhere else in the county. Just last month, I traveled to Hong Kong to see a ceramicist friend I met at a UNESCO arts festival. We hit it off immediately, so she invited me to see her home. During my time there, she was kidnapped, and her husband was poisoned. It was a great trip—the Jades were remarkable.

For many older adults, especially as they get up there, all their friends are in the cemetery—dead of dementia, heart disease, or various cancers. Mine are gone from poisonings, gunshot wounds, and hangings deliberately staged to look like suicide to throw suspicion off of the real killer.

That’s why I keep such a full social calendar. It’s not just to keep the old gray matter sharp but also to add more people to my circle of charming but often blackmailable friends and acquaintances who end up on the slab. And when I invite someone to bridge club because a spot has opened, no one ever asks why.

LGB Is No Longer My Four-Le er Word

J Brooke — Tue, 02 Jun 2026 13:00:00 -0400

Yeah, I’m rans, bu mos people can’    ell.
Maybe hey can ell I’m nonbinary, bu mos days
hey jus misgender me “hey ma’am” ( hough I’m no ).
I was born his way, I always knew I was a boy
growing up, bu back hen I was called “ omboy,”
which a leas had “boy” in he name. Puber y
blockers weren’ a hing hen, bu sex-change
surgery was and I ried every angle bu my paren s
wouln’ buy i , so I s opped asking and grew up
wi h he wrong hormones coursing hrough me.
I looked like a sor of girl, bu fel s ill so much
like a guy, bu hen over ime, I admi I grew o
apprecia e my female hink bu s ill, I never did
adjus o my body, so I wear loose clo hing.
I wear a rucker cap a lo (mos of he ime backwards)
and have never been a fan of mirrors bu I don’
wan surgery anymore because i ’s surgery … and
I have already been hrough oo much. I ’s a personal
decision o live (as I do, a “ hey / hem) and I was glad
when hose pronouns became ubiqui ous
because hen I defini ely fel more seen. Bu , of course,
“ hey/ hem” since he las elec on isn’ qui e as
accep ed, jus like I’m no qui e as accep ed…
Presiden rump said in his inaugura ion speech
I don’ even exis ! I was in Canada during ha
momen , so I didn’ hear him, bu he said here are
only wo genders and hey are dic a ed by your body
a bir h. rump is mis aken on his, jus like he is
abou so many hings. He go rid of our rans flag
and he go rid of our le  er “   ” in LGB   bu he can’
ge rid of me no ma  er wha he akes away
or how he spells ha e.

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J Brooke’s debut collection, I Can Tell You the Version That Will Make You Take My Side (Driftwood Press) is out today.

I’m Sorry, Sweetie, You Can’t Have a Cell Phone Because I Don’t Know How to Add You to Grandma’s Family Plan

Emily Bressler — Tue, 02 Jun 2026 08:00:00 -0400

Sweetie, sit down. I know you’ve been asking for a cell phone for a while now. And though your father and I both agree that you’re ready for the responsibility, we unfortunately can’t get you one just yet, or maybe ever, because we don’t know how to add you to Grandma’s family plan.

You see, when I was your age, my mother (Grammie, to you) added me to a family plan, which meant that my phone costs were included in her bill. Your father’s mother, Nana, did the same with Dad. So now we’re stuck, lest we start paying for phone usage ourselves. This all happened long before you were born, and has been going on for quite literally decades.

You’re probably thinking “family plan”? But am I not part of this family? And yes, honey, of course you are. But Verizon used to consider only five lines to be a family, and we’re maxed out.

Do you have any idea what it would cost me to leave Grammie’s phone plan? No, really, I’m asking, because I have no idea what she’s been paying all these years. I never wanted to inquire and thereby remind Grammie of this financial burden she took on when I was just a teenager with a Motorola Razr, a high score on Tetris, and a dream. I could not tell you if Grammie’s been paying an extra $15 or $150, and I could not tell you if I’m talking about per month or per year. What I can tell you is that leaving Grammie’s plan and starting my own would undoubtedly cost me more money than I’ve ever paid to a cellular company. Again, how much it would cost is a riddle wrapped in a mystery wrapped in a phone case, but I feel confident it would be more than $0. In this economy, that’s just financially irresponsible.

And yes, I know that Grammie died five years ago. But you know who doesn’t know that? Verizon. She has automatic payments set up that connect to some bank account that we also don’t have access to. As far as the phone companies are concerned, she’s very much alive. Who am I to correct them? I’m not even a customer! I’m just an approved line. Besides, in this way, Grammie can live on forever.

Of course, this setup has its drawbacks. I’ve never once called customer service, because I can’t provide Grammie’s passcode. Whenever we go on an international vacation, we have no way to ask the cellular company whether our phones will work abroad or what, if any, the international roaming charges are. But I’d sooner lose my ability to communicate with the outside world than brave the convoluted world of cell phone plans.

One day, you will have kids of your own, and you’ll understand. Or, actually, you won’t understand, because this familial cycle skips a generation. You’ll have to start your own family phone plan, and your kids will be a part of that, and then they’ll grow up to have this same conversation with their kids, except by then they’ll probably be talking about brain chips or surveillance caps instead of cell service. You get what I’m saying because you’re the tech generation, whereas I’ve never once seen a phone bill.

Your father and I love you so much, sweetheart. We would do anything for you. We sacrificed our youth, left the city so you could have more space, and watched our hopes of ever being able to retire slowly dwindle and then die. You are our everything, and we want to give you the world, just not one inclusive of unlimited calls and texts.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time to log into Grandpa’s HBO account. May his soul rest in peace.

Your Body Is Now Considered Vintage

Ruyi Wen — Mon, 01 Jun 2026 13:01:00 -0400

Dear Human,

We are pleased to inform you that after several decades of constant (if often subpar) operation, you have finally crossed the threshold from “garage sale junk” to “retro memorabilia.” Your body is no longer considered a worn-out, high-mileage clunker, but a heritage artifact in fair to salvageable condition.

Congratulations on this status upgrade. But it’s important not to rest on those laurels—the leaves are prickly and offer no lumbar support for your delicate relic of a body. Now that you are a vintage human, you’ll need to elevate your care routine from basic annual maintenance to an expensive hobby that takes up most of the space in your house and on your calendar.

First, revamp your fueling system. Once upon a time, your diet consisted of leftover pizza from student club meetings and jungle juice from Delta Chi parties. Try that now and you’ll be vomiting up internal organs. Also out of the question: lactose, gluten, sulfites, fried foods, coffee after 11 a.m., and any curry spicier than “extra mild.” Just as a World War II P-51 Mustang only takes leaded 100-octane avgas, you’ll need to fibermaxx with asparagus smoothies from here on out. The fumes from both smell awful, but this is what’s required to avoid catastrophic engine failure.

Remember: Your warranty has long since expired, and spare parts are tough to find, so you must remain vigilant about upkeep. Watch out for leaks.

The problem is that Homo sapiens’ bodies, like 1950s-era vinyl dolls, were never built to last this long. Evolution designed you to have two or three solid decades of hunting-gathering before dying in hand-to-paw combat with a dire wolf. In your forties and beyond, exposure to the elements in the form of mowing your lawn or shoveling snow out of your driveway can result in rapid deterioration of your vintage frame. If you want to extend your useful life and look as well-preserved as those collectible Barbies your grandmother used to display, you, too, will need to avoid UV rays and be stored in a smoke-free, climate-controlled environment at all times.

Like Depression-era glassware, you should be kept out of reach of children. Not just because of your general frailty, but also because your body is full of arsenic, uranium, and other toxic chemicals you were regularly exposed to before the existence of the EPA.

Treat your body the way you’d treat heirloom furniture thrifted from a flea market. Use oils for creaky joints, a mild shampoo for washing, and moisturizer cream to prevent cracks in the leather. If you decide to undergo a more drastic restoration project to regain your youthful appearance, go light on the furniture wax and/or Botox. You don’t want to turn yourself from a slightly scuffed midcentury classic into a brutalist nightmare with Mar-a-Lago face.

As an antique person, you should avoid activities that would stress your fragile parts. That means no more marathons, contact sports, or getting out of bed too fast. Take inspiration from other classic bodies like the 1927 Ford Model T. You can still go out for short excursions in good weather on well-paved streets, provided you’ve gone through your weekly checklist to ensure all major systems are still functioning properly. Just be prepared for gawking from other drivers on the road, who will loudly express incredulity at your continued existence and ask whether it’s safe for someone of your age to be out in public.

What I Will Give to Access This Airport Wi-Fi

Andrew Patrick Clark — Mon, 01 Jun 2026 08:00:00 -0400

Welcome to the wireless high-speed intranet and internet access system (“Wi-Fi System”) at Chicago O’Hare International Airport (“ORD”). Please read the following information, terms, and conditions carefully before using the ORD Free Wi-Fi. This agreement (“Agreement”) governs your rights and responsibilities, as well as our rights and responsibilities, relating to the use of the Wi-Fi System. In using the Wi-Fi System, you hereby check “yes” to the following terms and conditions:

I agree to share my device’s location data.
I agree to allow access to my camera roll.
I agree to allow access to my mother’s camera roll.
I agree to allow access to the problematic MySpace photos that will torpedo my chances of holding elected office.
I agree to allow access to my calls, text messages, and meme group chats.
I agree to share my daily screen time.
I agree to share every time I say I’m going to read a book and then go back to scrolling on my phone.
I agree to share every time I tell someone I read about a topic, but actually just watched a thirty-second video about it.
I agree to notify the internet provider whenever I pass off an opinion I heard on a podcast as my own, and then someone replies by mentioning the podcast I got the opinion from, and I say, “Oh, I don’t really listen to podcasts. I’m more of a reader. Whoa, look at that bird!”
I agree to share my biometric data, including my BMI, resting heart rate, and weekly margarita intake.
I agree to name my first child “Boingo-Hotspot-Free,” or just “Boinga” if it’s a girl.
I agree to share my full voting record, including from my first year of college when I got really into Ron Paul.
I agree to share my search history, even when I google something using incognito mode, because I’m too embarrassed to have the search in my browsing history, like “how spell restoraunt” or “pretty lady insurance commercial.”
I agree to share a handwritten list of everyone I have ever had a crush on, going back to the fourth grade, including the cartoon characters that may or may not have shaped my sexuality.
I agree to share my most recent tax return and what I spent it on (a limited-edition Margaritaville frozen margarita machine signed by the late Jimmy Buffett).
I agree to admit that one time, when I was really into Ron Paul, I thought about getting white person dreadlocks, but talked myself out of it and never told anyone. To this day, when I see a white person with dreadlocks, I always express my disapproval to throw other people off the scent, but sometimes I think they can see through the act.
I agree to forget all about these terms and conditions until the next time I find myself in an airport, at which point I’ll agree to everything again, no questions asked.

Writers

Rebecca Schiff and Sam Axelrod — Fri, 29 May 2026 13:01:00 -0400

Writers have problems. Writers win prizes. Writers play ping-pong, think other writers are their friends. Writers write baseball novels. Writers write war novels. Writers write about the South.

Writers make music. Writers draw. Writers take pictures of their desks. Writers should stop. When writers start a band together, nobody is happy.

Writers teach. Writers collect watches. Writers deliver mail for a year, write about delivering it. Writers have babies. Writers have agents. Writers are bald.

Writers move upstate, start literary journals. There aren’t enough journals to ignore on tables. Writers make more.

Writers can’t sell their second book. Writers can’t sell their first book. Writers quit jobs to concentrate on writing. Writers quit social media. Writers reactivate, announce new novel. Writers get mad at sexism, tell men to stop writing. Male writers ignore.

Writers go off antidepressants. Writers try to explain writing to therapists. Therapists also write. Everybody writes. Writers may be bus drivers, cab drivers, may not even be born yet. Friends say their kids write, send screenshots as proof.

Writers don’t like to write. Writers are decent writers. Writers read interviews with themselves. Writers turn off Wi-Fi. Writers are under thirty-five. Writers die.

Writers were John Updike. He was the only writer.

Writers grow up in New Jersey. Writers move to Montana. Writers move to Helsinki, Lima, Montclair. It doesn’t matter where writers are. Writers send mail.

Writers run with bulls. Writers have no balls. Writers write The Sun Also Rises. Writers write the Bible. Writers review their own books on Amazon, get caught. Writers apply to law school.

Writers get paralyzed from the neck down, dictate their next two books into puffing machine. Writers marry. Wives write memoirs about being married to writers. Husbands stay quiet, leave writers for women who don’t write. Writers write about being left, leaving, cheating, eating. Writers move to Texas.

Writers are deaf. Writers like the Mets. Writers subscribe to Poets & Writers. Writers don’t subscribe to anything. Writers are you and me and everyone we know. Writers haven’t read that book yet.

Writers realize the book is actually a movie, that some writers write books and make movies. Writers despair.

Writers strain for immortality. Writers vote for president. Writers think writing is more important than being president. Writers go to Vietnam, Afghanistan, the DMV. Writers rob banks to pay for heroin, get six-figure advance from jail.

Writers have orgasms. Writers have allergies. Writers avoid sex scenes, write “Afterwards…” Afterwards, writers pee to avoid UTIs.

Writers flinch. Writers blurb. Writers use their middle names.

Writers use the word “splay.” The word “macadam.” The term “shock of hair.” Characters pad into rooms, tromp upstairs, narrow their eyes, tiptoe gingerly down the hall.

“New way to say this?” ask writer friends.

Writers publish multigenerational Eastern European sagas, dedicated to Bubbe. Writers publish wilderness memoirs, put wilderness on the cover. Writers make characters disappear, join cults, fall down wells. Writers go nowhere. Writers buy yogurt.

Writers describe the warmth of their mothers’ tortillas. Their challah, their naan. Writers give characters miscarriages, dissertations, only one friend. Writers have seven friends, acknowledged alphabetically in the acknowledgments.

Writers snooze. Writers get up first thing and drink their coffee. Writers like to know what other writers are doing. Writers sue other writers for stealing their lives. Writers lie. Writers lie in the fetal position.

Writers live with their mom and their peacocks and never lose their virginity. Writers survive the Holocaust but kill themselves anyway.

Writers work from home. Writers work from bed. Writers rent space in a writers’ collective, get kicked out for stealing another writer’s WRITE LIKE A MOTHERFUCKER mug.

Writers rarely write like motherfuckers.

Writers check email. Writers go to the Czech Republic. Writers are bisexual midcentury realists, wear suits to their desks in the boiler room. Writers are recluse postmodernists, appear on The Simpsons. Writers wear bandanas, eyepatches, sunglasses indoors.

Writers go to rehab, come out worse writers. Writers find religion, think their new stuff is better, are wrong. Writers disappear to small-town New Hampshire, become Buddhists, drink their own piss.

Writers copy. Writers paste. Writers get million-dollar deals for books they wrote on the subway. Writers write essays called “Why I Write” and “How I Squandered My Advance.” Writers seek representation.

Writers conference. Writers cross legs on panels, describe fictitious daily routines. Writers tell packed rooms their parents are disappointed in them. Writers pose for jacket photos, put fist to chin. Writers regret the choice to have bangs at high point of career.

Writers grow out bangs. Writers renounce metaphors. Writers splice commas, defy grammarians. Writers start too many lines with the word “Writers.” Is this working, writers wonder? Is anything? Should writers jump in front of freight trains, get PhDs, offer freelance editorial services?

People bury writers, say they wish writers had written more.

A Short Interview with Rafia Zakaria

Ginger Greene — Fri, 29 May 2026 06:00:00 -0700

Last week, Rafia Zakaria won the 2026 National Magazine Award in the category of Columns and Essays. The winning piece, “Water Pressure,” was published in Issue 150 of The Believer and is available to read in full on their website. It follows Zakaria’s father on his search for clean water in Karachi, Pakistan, where the mounting climate crisis has crept into all aspects of daily life. Zakaria discussed the prize and the celebrated essay with The Believer’s managing editor, Ginger Greene.

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THE BELIEVER: You won a National Magazine Award last night in New York for your essay, “Water Pressure.” What did it feel like to see this piece recognized in that way?

RAFIA ZAKARIA: It was a tremendous surprise… It is very difficult to place personal essays, but it is the personal story that can ultimately make an abstract issue—such as water scarcity in a faraway city like Karachi—seem as real as the heat wave that was happening in New York on the day of the award ceremony. I was so grateful to work on this project, and to have the freedom and latitude to explore what extreme heat can do to ordinary people in an ordinary megacity.

BLVR: Your story explores the many difficulties of procuring water and power in Karachi, in an ever-warming world. What inspired you to approach this subject? And what were some of the difficulties you faced as you developed the essay?

RZ: I feel like a lot of climate journalism focuses on the deterioration of beautiful natural environments and the loss of wild ecosystems. I wanted to focus on how extreme heat, as well as water and power scarcity, affect human relationships, how it erodes and corrodes the scheme of relations between people and the environment. Sometimes it is not possible to see how it is happening when you are in the midst of dealing with these problems every day. But as someone who is in and out of Karachi, I was able to perceive these dynamics.

One of the difficulties I faced in reporting this story was a lack of precedent for this sort of exploration. For instance, there is excellent and deep reporting on natural or man-made disasters and their aftermath. But there is less writing on persistent issues, like decades-long water shortages, where there is no single cataclysmic event on which to center a story. I wanted to show that the story of chronic scarcity can also be told in an impactful and interesting way.

BLVR: The piece opens with a vivid scene from your family’s neighborhood in Karachi, in which a man is angered when he notices your aunt receiving an overflow of water into her underground water tank, such that it’s wastefully flooding out onto the street. Their confrontation ends when your aunt begins to throw rocks at him to get him to leave her alone. I was curious: What was your first reaction when you heard this story? Was it relayed to you as a problem of “water envy,” as you call it?

RZ: I will admit that my aunt’s reaction was a bit extreme, but it crystallized how chronic scarcity can create levels of seething frustration that can bubble to the surface in absurd ways. The story was told to me in the context of: Is she OK? But actually, no one facing this sort of privation day after day is really OK. Water is a mainstay of existence, so the fact that you can now have an iPhone but not access to clean water is a bizarre juxtaposition of privilege and paucity.

I also felt that my aunt’s actions put into stark focus what people likely want to do but usually don’t. I came up with the term “water envy” because I wanted to start creating a vocabulary for phenomena that are felt, but for which there are often no words. I think the phrase encapsulates how policing resource consumption becomes just another part of living in a neighborhood. In most cases, people will not challenge each other to the extent they do in this instance, but that is why it is such an apt story: Both characters had reached the end of their rope.

BLVR: Water politics in Karachi are complicated. For one thing, there are the daily strategies middle-class Karachiites have developed to procure water, which involves pumping water from the main lines into private underground water tanks. Navigating the uncertainty of main-line waterflow has become a full-time job for your father, as you point out. At the same time, there are many more people who don’t have access to these “pump games,” because they can’t afford a private tank. They are forced to purchase water from private companies that hike up their prices. How has the situation with Karachi’s water mafia progressed since you reported this piece?

RZ: I think the situation is much more dire now, because the pressures have become more acute. The population has grown dramatically and grows further still on a daily basis. Temperatures have risen, owing to climate change phenomena like the heat domes I talk about in the piece. As a result, people increasingly have to resort to taking their chances and obtaining water without knowing its source or even if it is potable.

In the summer, there are thousands of deaths that are ultimately caused by lack of clean water, but they are not often tallied under this category. As the heat index rises in Karachi, these situations are pushed to the limit and people—particularly the very old and the very young—begin to die. The water mafias are more entrenched and merciless now; they know how to throttle competition and work with street gangs and land mafias to ensure that the consumers in a specific area have no options but to pay them.

BLVR: As we approach the summer months, Karachi is already reaching excessively high temperatures. In early May, the city recorded a peak of 111 degrees Fahrenheit, the city’s highest reading since 2018. This heat, as you describe in your piece, compounds with power outages and water shortages, which seeds the ground for long-term public health crises. How are you feeling about the upcoming summer?

RZ: I dread the summer months for Karachiites. If you fall sick during the summer, it is hard to get reliable care in a timely fashion and, most of all, to find a relatively cool environment to recover in. Any illness could threaten survival. Since there is no easily available large-scale refrigeration in poorer areas, there is also a huge risk of eating spoiled food. There is no way of telling if something in a store fridge was left out for hours the night before, or if the energy source powering the fridge is reliable. So it’s Russian roulette all summer long.

This summer will not be any different. The political rift between Karachi and the rest of the province means that the city is constantly starved of resources, and the federal government seems disinterested in the plight of the people who live there. Many Karachiites are the children of people who migrated from India in 1947 and hence distinct from Punjabis, who make up the majority ethnicity. All of these divisions make the situation one of constant chaos. People are living a bit of a Hobbesian existence there.

BLVR: How has the situation in Karachi shaped your relationship to your experience of the US? You recently moved to Salt Lake City in Utah, which is also in the midst of a climate-related disaster. Have you noticed any similarities between the two places?

RZ: Well, there is a war over water underway in Utah as well. Last week, three county commissioners in Box Elder County, Utah, passed a proposal to build a 40,000-acre data center in the area, which is twice the size of Manhattan. The residents, aghast at what their elected representatives have done, are now trying to organize a referendum that will stop the plan. If the data center is built, the project will suck up all the water left in the already drying Great Salt Lake. It is estimated that it will also increase nighttime temperatures by 8 to 28 degrees Fahrenheit.

This situation really reminds me of Karachi, and it is difficult for me not to feel a bit like a Cassandra. Utahns have little idea of what that sort of scarcity and extreme heat can do to the fabric of society. It transforms our individual and collective relationships with the natural environment, but also the relationships we humans have with each other.

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Read “Water Pressure” here.

The Only Opening Songs on an Album

Caleb Coy — Fri, 29 May 2026 08:00:00 -0400

“This here banger should grab your attention.”

“This semi-banger should alert your attention before the second track really grabs your attention.”

“Slowwwwwww fade in.”

“Honestly, this is the only track worth listening to, but it’s the pre-digital age, and we just forced you to buy a whole album.”

“This is not the single you heard on the radio. We didn’t like that one as much, so we made it the ninth track, and we think you’ll be pleased to find we’re actually better than just the one radio hit.”

“One of our musicians is warming up.”

“How about a little HORN SECTION / CHOIR SECTION / ROBOT VOICE / ATMOSPHERIC NOISE before we get started?”

“These first five seconds will change history forever.”

“Look at us, adjusting the volume for you. Too loud? Too bad.”

“We boldly announce that we are clearly doing something quite different than on our last three albums, regardless of whether that holds true for the rest of this album.”

“Our lead singer has just a couple of things to say to a woman while he diddles on a piano.”

“Yes, this is a concept album, and this is the theme-setting once-upon-a-time song.”

“Part 3 of the eleventh track, as the eleventh track is just parts 1 and 2.”

“Everything is in its right place, and you should have mixed feelings about that.”

“Here’s a tune that will sound familiar later when we reprise it toward the end, and you’ll be like, ‘Wow, that’s neat how they wrapped it all up tidy like that.’”

“We got into a scuff with our producer, who threatened to scrap the entire project if we didn’t crank out a catchy opener in two days, so this one was his idea.”

“Just the first couple bars from track seven.”

“We’re just gonna come right out and say it: Our lyrics are weird and off-putting.”

“A short poem, set to music or background noise.”

“While we are not an a capella band, nor have we or will we ever record an a capella track, here is a full minute of a capella stuff.”

“I am trying to break your heart, specifically with antique cymbals.”

“Just an eagle screaming for a few seconds.”

An Interview with Dave Eggers About His New Novel, Contrapposto

Knopf — Thu, 28 May 2026 14:28:00 -0400

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

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

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

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

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

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

Q: And she has ambitions for him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Being the Black Main Character in a Destination Rom-Com: A Choose Your Own Adventure

Nashae Jones — Thu, 28 May 2026 10:55:00 -0700

Your life is a mess, an absolute Level 10 disaster. You’ve lost your job, and there might be pending charges after you borrowed your employer’s Hermes silk dress and Prada pumps. You’ve got no place to live after your thirteenth-floor walk-up Hell’s Kitchen sublet has decided you aren’t worth the trouble after you miss rent for the third time. But that’s beside the point. This is the perfect opportunity to change your life. So you book a trip to Tuscany even though you only have $38.62 in your bank account. It’s cool, you’re gonna Klarna it. When else are you gonna have the opportunity to go to Italy and live your best soft-girl life?

Turn to Page 1.

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Page 1: Arrival
You’ve made it safe and sound. The flight wasn’t too bad if you ignore the fourteen hours in coach where an eighty-year-old man fell asleep on your shoulder and snored in your ear. None of that matters now. You’ve made it to Italy. The sun is shining, and you’re in your cutest sundress. It doesn’t matter that it seems like you are the only Black person in the airport. You are ready to start your adventure.

If you’re questioning everything and googling “How likely will it be that I end up on a murder podcast?” turn to Page 2.

If you’re ready to start your glow-up era in Italy, turn to Page 3.

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Page 2: Google Results
According to Google, there’s a high probability that you will go missing and end up on a podcast. Nope, scratch that. You aren’t blue-eyed, nor are you blonde, so chances are there won’t be a podcast. You’ll be pushing it if you make it onto the local news. But that doesn’t matter because you don’t have any money to get an earlier flight back home.

Turn to Page 3.

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Page 3: Main Character Energy
The town you’re staying at is an idyllic, sweet town with friendly people. Ignore the fact that they are staring at you, and that almost nobody speaks English. You think the language barrier is charming. And don’t pay attention to the fact that now four people have referred to you as “Beyoncé.” In some cultures, racial blindness is a compliment.

If you interpret every stare as cultural admiration, turn to Page 4.

If you consider maxing out your emergency credit card for a return flight, turn to Page 5.

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Page 4: The Meet-Cute
You meet a man. I mean, of course you meet a man. Secretly, this is what you were hoping would happen. He has forearms, and they are muscular. He has opinions about wine and Tuscan bread. He says, “You’re different from other American women,” even though he just met you an hour ago.

If you decide this is it, and you’ve found your one true love, turn to Page 6.

If you hear the metaphorical screams of your girls in the group chat, turn to Page 7.

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Page 5: You’re Still Broke
You check your emergency credit card account, and you actually have a negative balance.

Turn to Page 4.

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Page 6: The Soft Life Attempt
You’re having dinner with Mr. Forearms. There’s wine. There’s that Tuscan bread. Mr. Forearms is mansplaining tomatoes like you’ve never heard of the fruit before. You don’t interrupt, because you can only understand every fourth word anyway. Now, he wants to touch your hair.

If you decide to enjoy a little bit of petting, turn to Page 8.

If you start remembering why women choose the bear, turn to Page 9.

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Page 7: The Group Chat Blows Up
Your sorority sister says you’re straight tripping. Your cousin tells you to get your man. Your childhood best friend wants to know if you’ll bring her back some truffle salt. Either way, this is pointless. You can’t leave yet anyway.

Turn to Page 6.

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Page 8: The Movie Moment
He walks you back to the hotel you’re staying at. The sun is setting, and there’s a hint of romance in the air. Mr. Forearms pulls you in for a kiss. It is full of passion and longing and not a small amount of drool. Mr. Forearms pulls away, spit hanging down his lip. “Hey,” he says. “Has anyone ever told you that you look like Beyoncé?”

If you decide to overlook this—screw that—you’re not overlooking this, turn to Page 9.

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Page 9: The Non-Dramatic Exit
You leave Tuscany feeling like a new woman. Well, almost a new woman if you count the fact that you’re still coming back home jobless, homeless, and with a new cold sore on your lip. But it doesn’t matter. You’re proud of choosing you and finding yourself in Tuscany.

Affable Insects

Ali Fitzgerald — Thu, 28 May 2026 12:03:00 -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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What May Follow When You Are Slacked “Hey”

Jesse Kubanet — Thu, 28 May 2026 05:00:00 -0700

You’re fired.

You are getting a promotion.

You are getting a demotion.

You are now in charge.

The person you hate here the most is now in charge, and they told me to tell you that you are fired.

No paychecks this week, cool?

Could I borrow you for a sec?

Could I borrow you for a quick sec?

I’ve always loved you.

We’re doubling your salary.

We’re taking your salary and cutting it in half.

We’re taking your salary, cutting it in half, and giving that half to the person here you hate the most.

The Christmas gift this year is a donation to the charity of someone else’s choice.

Layoffs are coming, and you’re safe.

Layoffs are coming. We’re safe.

Layoffs are coming. You’re safe, I’m not.

Layoffs are coming. I’m safe, you’re not.

Layoffs are coming. We’re both fucked.

Lunch?

Guess who’s fucked?

Guess who fucked?

Coffee?

Can you open this doc?

Nevermind.