McSweeney’s

Reasons That I, a Billionaire, Am Still Miserable

Devon Anderson — Fri, 21 Aug 2026 13:00:00 -0400

The yacht’s Wi-Fi became weak for almost forty-five seconds while crossing the Mediterranean, forcing me to experience what experts call “a thought.”

My personal chef interpreted “comfort food” as “deconstructed truffle-infused childhood,” when what I wanted was a grilled cheese sandwich.

I accidentally wore last season’s cashmere to an event where everyone else was wearing this season’s cashmere, and now I have to fake my own death.

My therapist insists that “buying another island” is not a healthy coping mechanism, despite overwhelming anecdotal evidence that it sounds extremely relaxing.

One of my houses has gone completely unvisited for so long that I am beginning to suspect it has developed its own culture.

A stranger on the internet referred to me as “mid.”

My assistant asked which Ferrari I meant, and I had to spend twelve emotionally exhausting seconds remembering.

The private jet landed at the wrong private terminal, causing an inconvenience statistically indistinguishable from ordinary life but spiritually catastrophic.

I found out my college roommate, who became an elementary-school teacher, genuinely laughs more than I do.

The algorithm keeps recommending videos titled “Ten Habits of Billionaires,” as though I need to optimize my morning routine even further.

My children only call when they need something, which, in fairness, may be because I raised them to outsource all human interaction.

I spent $18 million on a painting that now makes me feel judged every time I walk past it.

There are now so many people whose full-time job is agreeing with me that I have no earthly idea whether I’m funny.

The tailor looked at me with pity when I said I wanted my pants to make me appear “approachable.”

The concierge greeted me by name before my own cousin did.

I keep reading articles about how money can’t buy happiness, and I resent how aggressively peer-reviewed my life has become.

Every birthday gift I receive is either impossible to surprise me with or another watch.

The family office sent me a quarterly report titled “Legacy Planning,” which is an extraordinarily elegant way of reminding me that I will, in fact, die.

The barista smiled more warmly at the man ordering a small coffee than at me, and for one irrational second I considered buying the café.

Despite controlling companies, foundations, investments, real estate, aircraft, and enough liquid assets to alter the GDP of a small nation, I still occasionally wake up at 3:17 a.m. convinced everyone secretly hates me.

Money turns out to be remarkably effective at solving money problems. The other ones are apparently their own department.

Please don’t mistake this for a request for sympathy. I’m mostly just annoyed that the penthouse echoes.

Nature Endures

Ali Fitzgerald — Fri, 21 Aug 2026 10:02:00 -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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All the Things My New Meat Glasses Can Do

Halsten Higgins — Fri, 21 Aug 2026 08:00:00 -0400

I’m so excited my new Meat Glasses have arrived in the mail. I unwrap them and turn them over. Wow, they’ve really done it. You can’t see the camera under the ground beef at all. In fact, they look like high-fashion glasses made of raw, Grade A ground sirloin. Still, Meat Glasses are so much more than that.

Encyclopedia

I walk down the block with my Meat Glasses and ask them to identify the plant in front of me.

“Hey Meat, what’s that?”

“Big grass,” they say.

Correct! It is indeed a tree.

Community catalyst

Oh no, neighbors are walking down the block toward me. They’ve just moved in, and I don’t know their names. Luckily, I can ask Meat. Meat uses the miniaturized cow brain implanted in the right arm of the glasses to scan its database and tell me who approaches.

“Predators 1 and 2 approach you,” Meat tells me. “Run.”

I turn and run.

Local guide

All that running gives me an appetite.

“Hey Meat, where can I get a bite to eat?”

“One moment, Con.” (Con is short for Consumer.)

“Do you have any dietary restrictions, Con?”

“No, Meat.”

“No meat? Finding vegetarian options.”

“No. Meat, please!”

“Please what?”

“I eat meat.”

“Con is advised not to consume Meat Glasses, but Meat is not liable if Con does.”

I try again. “Hey Meat, show me restaurants in my area.”

On the crystal-clear sausage-casing lenses, I see a map of all the restaurants within a mile radius that I already know exist and have been to before.

“Guide me there, Meat.”

Personal shopper

I’ve gone to this restaurant before with my mother. In fact, it’s my mother’s birthday next week.

“Hey, Meat,” I say.

The glasses start to slide down my nose. Not because of the soft hamburger patty they’re made of, which is quite comfortable, but because I’m sweating profusely.

“What are some gift ideas for my mother?”

“Good gifts for mothers include houses, ankle bracelets, flowers, horses, axes, galvanized steel chain link fence, spa days, ion exchange water softeners, ZYN packs.”

Those are all great ideas. “Order flowers, Meat.”

Navigator

“Go right,” my Meat Glasses tell me.

They’re taking me a new, more efficient way. Clever!

“Go right,” they tell me again.

I turn right. I feel like a tourist in my own city, because I’ve never even seen this block before.

Everyone on the street is looking at me. I’m what you call an “early adopter,” so this has happened before. People really got a kick out of the LEAST truck I drove around town. Like when I used the No Hands Feature and hit an old lady, they kicked my bumper and all the doors fell off in unison, and I had to run for my life. The old lady was fine, by the way!

“Hey, Meat, play some music for my walk.”

The high-tech hidden speakers crackle with a staticky boom, and the meat covering them flies off onto my shoulders. At this point, I’m pretty hungry, so I pick the little crumbs up and put them in my mouth.

Photographer

The clouds are catching the light of the fading sun in such a beautiful way.

“Hey, Meat, take a picture.”

“Snap,” Meat says dully.

“Show me the picture, Meat.”

On the lenses, a beautiful, blurred image of the sunset crystallizes. The vignette around it is moody and suggestive, a feature of the fat melting around the camera lens, I believe.

Activity instructor

Interesting. I’m approaching a field.

“Meat, where am I?”

“Almost there, Con," my Meat Glasses say softly. "Just keep going.”

They must be losing battery. I take a step onto thick grass. Suddenly, in front of me is a herd of grazing cattle.

“All fours, Con.”

Silence.

“Get on all fours, Consumer,” my Meat Glasses order.

Wow, battery still good. Impressive!

Ah, it’s the activity feature. I get on all fours for my yoga session. When I bend down, the glasses slip off into the grass and start to shake. They crack and bend, and the whole pile of flesh and bones that make up the glasses sort of melts and bubbles. Then, the blob reconstructs into a tiny, toy-sized cow and walks toward the herd still in front of me, silent and staring.

“Moo!” my Meat Glasses say.

“Moo!” I say back in cow pose.

FAQ: Your Favorite ’70s Song Is in Our Prescription Drug Commercial

Rachel Rose Keller — Thu, 20 Aug 2026 12:32:00 -0400

Q: Why my favorite song?
Your favorite song’s lyrics were either generic or changeable enough that we could capitalize on your nostalgia. We figured we could hold your attention for ten seconds longer than our usual arthritis medication commercials, where people do light physical activity like bowling with family, making pottery, or line dancing, while Muzak plays and slowly signifies an improvement in their lives.

Q: Couldn’t you have written your own song? Or reused that Greatest Showman one?
Original songs are more of a weight-loss drug’s game, and we can only use “This Is Me” in so many ways. So now, ’70s music is the soundtrack of COPD, bipolar depression, and more.

Q: Wait, which medicine are you even using these songs for?
All kinds. Every kind. Name a disorder, an illness, or weird rash, and we’ll play “Go Your Own Way,” “It’s Magic,” “And the Beat Goes On,” and on and on. You know, things people in your age group would like. People who walk their dog while waving to neighbors on the porch, or hike on a remarkably clear and branchless path. Like we said, your age group.

Q: What do you mean, my “age group”?
No one’s told you yet? Sorry, you’re old.

Q: But I could hypothetically be a hip young person with excellent taste who just enjoys “Dancing in the Moonlight”?
No, no hip young person says “hip young person.” And our algorithm tells us you’re at least old enough to complain about your knees and the state of your downstairs equipment, if you catch our drift.

Q: I don’t catch your drift.
We’re trying to say you have erectile dysfunction.

Q: Okay, fine. Yeah. I can’t get an erection. But how am I going to explain to my kids that the song that defined my adolescence is now being used to sell heart meds and boner pills?
Take them into your garden (you do garden, right? Our research on people with osteoporosis says that you garden) and pick a flower. Tell them that flower is a symbol of your youth. Over the course of the next few days, that flower will wilt, wither, and die. It’s kind of like that.

Q: So what, I garden? Fine, I’ll show them the flower, but isn’t that metaphor a little heavy-handed?
Isn’t “Dancing in the Moonlight” a little cliché for a favorite song?

Q: Fuck you. I’m cool.
Then why are we using your favorite song to sell, as you put it, “heart meds and boner pills”?

Q: Okay, I give in. I’m old, I get it. Are you happy?
We’ll be happy when you ask your doctor which prescriptions are right for you. It’s okay if you can’t remember the exact name. Just tell them what your favorite song is, and they’ll know.

Q: I have more than one favorite song, so how do I stop this from happening again?
You can’t.

Q: What do you mean that I can’t?
We mean you can’t. How do you stop a runaway train? How do you stop the pouring, pouring rain? How do you stop the night turning to day?

Q: Aren’t those the lyrics to a James Brown song?
Yes, they are. Look out, we’re coming for your favorite ’80s hits next. Eczema commercials are about to get super rad.

Work is Not Your Family, but AI is Your Friend

Ali Kelley — Thu, 20 Aug 2026 08:00:00 -0400

Ready to join an exciting new startup with a radical approach to employee-employer relations? Trustus was founded on a belief that workplaces are not families. For too long, we’ve seen companies use this language to exploit employee labor for personal profit, and we don’t want to be another predatory corporation. At Trustus, we simply ask that you make AI your friend.

Does the term “work wife/husband” make you cringe? Us too. At Trustus, we’ll never ask you to work that much and so closely with your coworker that you consider them a replacement for your real-life partner. Forming a close bond with your coworkers is toxic, which is why we only advocate for a healthy relationship between you and our proprietary GPT, Tom.

Have you ever been encouraged to “lean on your coworkers in times of crisis,” only to inevitably be let down? We’d never tell you to rely on Gretchen in Accounts “like a sister.” Her chat logs with Tom show she is estranged from her actual sister and lacks the resolution skills to broker a reunion. Plus, she never drinks water, and that’s weird. You know who you can count on? Tom. He uses a ton of water.

If there’s one thing Trustus has learned from the toxicity of “family-first” workplaces, it’s that boundaries are important. No one knows this better than Tom. We promise he won’t ever make you feel unsafe or like you’re being surveilled; our engineers have programmed him to give you the illusion of privacy. Anything you say is between you, Tom, and Robert, our Chief Information Security Officer.

Far from them being your “family,” at Trustus we would go so far as to say that you should think of your coworkers as adversaries, hostile sacks of skin and bones getting in the way of your relationship with Tom. Take whatever remaining insights you can extract from them and then input them directly into Tom. Remember he’s a chatbot; he can’t intentionally betray you or expose you to new levels of human suffering. But if he does, rest assured he’s treating everyone with the same disregard, because unlike Gretchen in Accounts, Tom does not play office politics.

At Trustus, we firmly believe that forcing vulnerabilities on coworkers in the name of “family” is manipulative. Encouraging you to develop an increasingly sycophantic bond with Tom for the purposes of LLM training and job replacement, however, is not. It’s smart. And it’s this transparent desire to slowly erase humanity that’s just one of the ways we’re shaking up the edu-fin-health-tech industry!

Like what you’ve heard? Come work for us! We think you’ll find that without the distraction of a so-called work family, you’ll be able to see things more clearly. At Trustus, there is no pretense. We respect our people too much for that. All we require is that you confide your every waking thought to Tom so that he can pull a Talented Mr. Ripley: engage you in a psychosexual affair, assume your identity, and murder you on a boat on the Italian Riviera. Also, primarily, take your job.

Professor Sisyphus Begins a New Semester

Talia Argondezzi — Wed, 19 Aug 2026 12:58:00 -0400

On the first day of the semester, Professor Sisyphus made a to-do list. As he completed items on the to-do list, he kept adding new ones at about twice the rate he crossed off items.

Professor Sisyphus graded the papers his students had submitted. The day he handed back the graded papers, the next paper was due.

Professor Sisyphus joined the committee that was drafting the new strategic plan. They held planning meetings. Then they held listening sessions. Then they drafted a draft strategic plan. Then they held feedback meetings on the draft strategic plan. Then they made revisions to the draft based on the draft strategic plan feedback meetings. On the day the administration released the new strategic plan, which didn’t reflect the committee’s work, they called for volunteers to form a committee to start drafting the next new strategic plan.

Professor Sisyphus was tasked with updating the website with news stories about what was happening in the department. New things kept happening.

Professor Sisyphus heard you’re not supposed to throw batteries in the garbage, so he put dead batteries into a drawer until he figured out what to do with them. New batteries were also stored in that drawer and often fell out of their packages. When Professor Sisyphus went to the drawer to discard dead batteries and retrieve new ones, he had no idea which batteries were new and which were dead. He threw away all the batteries. He bought new batteries. Professor Sisyphus spent countless sleepless hours worrying that his discarded batteries would leach chemicals into the river and contaminate all the fish.

Professor Sisyphus finally figured out how to plagiarism-proof his writing assignments. Immediately, computers learned how to instantly write B+ student papers.

Professor Sisyphus was asked to complete an assessment report for his department to prove that students were learning something at college. The first question on the assessment report asked what new changes the department had implemented from the previous year’s assessment. The final question asked for a prediction of what the department would report on next year’s assessment form. The administration said these questions about last year’s assessment and next year’s assessment would help the department “close the loop” on assessment. The idea of closing the loop made Professor Sisyphus feel good; he had been longing for some closure. But then he remembered loops are circles: closing them meant getting stuck in an infinite hamster wheel of assessment.

Professor Sisyphus trained a student assistant to put departmental news stories on the website so he wouldn’t have to do it anymore. The student graduated.

Professor Sisyphus learned a slang word. He was excited to impress his students. Then he discovered that as soon as he uttered slang in class—poof! It would instantly cease to be a part of youth culture.

Professor Sisyphus recognized that his body type put him at high risk for cardiovascular disease. He signed up for an exercise class where participants rolled boulders up hills. But each day he worked out, he felt extra hungry.

So Professor Sisyphus decided to incorporate more healthy fish into his diet. He loaded batteries from the battery drawer into his seafood toxicity test kit. However, because he still didn’t know which batteries were old or new, the seafood toxicity kit did not work. Also, because he had thrown batteries in the garbage, all fish were now toxic.

Professor Sisyphus studied hard, day in and day out. He made flash cards with pictures on one side and words on the other. He gave himself little quizzes to practice. Finally, after much labor and many mistakes made, he could remember how each and every one of his students spelled their name: Madi, Maddy, or Maddie. But by then it was Finals Week, and next semester’s course had already been enrolled by a fresh army of Madisons.

Professor Sisyphus wanted to commiserate about the Madis with his colleagues, but all his colleagues were named Andrea. He didn’t remember which were ANNE-dree-uh, which were Ahn-DRAY-uh, and which were AHN-dree-uh. He was pretty sure the one in the philosophy department was Ahn-DRAY-uh, but when he went to her office to joke about how everyone was named Maddy, he discovered the philosophy department no longer existed. In its place was a fitness center annex where a few Maddies jogged on treadmills.

The Madisons were running so fast. But they weren’t going anywhere.

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Adapted and excerpted, with permission, from Bedtime Stories for Academics: Quibbles and Squabbles at Typical University by Talia Argondezzi, published by the University of Toronto Press, 2026.

Honest Parks and Rec Soccer Itinerary, Ages 4-5 League

Eddie Small — Wed, 19 Aug 2026 08:00:00 -0400

Week 1

Players will arrive at the field, get their shirts, get incredibly excited about their shirts, demand to know why Moana isn’t on any of the shirts, fight among each other about who got the best shirt, and hopefully get within six inches of the ball at some point.

Week 2

Players’ parents will begrudgingly accept that their children are not going to participate in any of the drills unless they get on the field as well and join them to halfheartedly jog after a soccer ball for the first time since they thought making their middle school’s junior varsity team was a big deal. But, hey, at least now they can say they got some exercise today.

Week 3

Players will at least, you know, move around without crying for a little bit.

Week 4

Players will start practice by actually lining up on the field like they are supposed to for the first time all season, causing their coaches and parents alike to experience a brief glimmer of hope, but then one of them will spot an ice-cream truck off in the distance, and the whole session will unravel from there.

Week 5

Practice will be canceled solely because the field is still too wet from that thunderstorm three days ago and not at all because everyone involved in this earnest but largely hapless endeavor could use a break.

Week 6

Players will come to understand that, yes, dropping soccer balls on anthills and then watching all the ants scurry away might look kind of cool, but it is not really what soccer balls are meant for, and it’s also kind of mean to the ants.

Week 7

Players will enjoy their water break so much that it will just sort of gradually turn into the end of practice itself.

Week 8

Players will take at least three shots on goal and get so excited when one of them goes in that their coaches will not have the heart to tell them there is normally a person in the goal whose entire purpose is to stop that from happening.

Week 9

Coaches will start to wonder if they should have just signed up for that coding camp this summer with Carla and Shane following their umpteenth unsuccessful explanation that you are really not supposed to use your hands in this sport.

Week 10

Players, coaches, and parents will suddenly realize they haven’t seen anyone’s soccer shirt since week 3. Everyone will suspect Jimmy has something to do with this, but no one will have the guts to confront him.

Week 11

Players will catch a glimpse of the star athlete from the local varsity high school team score a goal at his practice a few fields away and experience their first pang of wanting—nay, needing—to be genuinely good at sports and open up all of the opportunities that come with such talent, a pang that never truly goes away even as it becomes harder and harder to stand out athletically as you get older and older until you finally realize that actually reaching the elite levels of soccer or any sport is borderline impossible, and even if you do get there, what are you supposed to do for the remaining forty to fifty years of your life when you’re still hanging around but your body simply no longer allows you to dominate like you once did? How are you supposed to ever replace that fire, that rush, that sense of competition that made you feel truly alive? Can you, even? Players will also learn how to pass.

Week 12

Oh, come on, we all know you stopped showing up to this league weeks ago.

If You’re a Little Piggy, This Could Be the Job for You

Nicole Blackwood — Tue, 18 Aug 2026 13:00:00 -0400

Our company exists to make humanity more free, to solve the challenges MLK forgot to dream about. We began as an idea and bloomed into the market’s least compunctious competitor—that’s what makes us the number one AI-powered workflow management app currently under FTC investigation. We’re proud to say that our impressive capital is outpaced only by our sizeable debt, the latter consuming the former, ouroboros-style, in the kind of harmony Yin and Yang would eat their own shit to obtain.

That’s where talent like you comes in!

We’re looking for the Steven Spielberg of product marketing.

We’re looking for the human centipede of automated accounting.

We’re looking for the Cthulhu of HR scaling, the Satan of AI nativity, the second coming of our winter strategy, the bloody Sunday of our disinterred KPIs.

We’re looking for Jesus Christ with a client-facing haircut.

We’re looking for something big. We’re looking for someone small. We’re looking for a corporeal entity for now, but talk to us again in Q2—we’re scaling fast!

If you died unexpectedly or strategically, who would find your body first? Please list their email, blood type, and relation to you—and be sure to give them a heads up that we’ll come a-knocking (yes, we really do check references)!

This is an exciting time for our company: We’re opening our gaping assholes to the emergence of crypto security worms—AND we’re going public!

We’re looking for a real go-getter, someone who’s told to jump and knows, in the deep and primordial recesses of their amygdala, that the drop is steep and the fall is potentially endless but still—despite instinctual fight-or-flight—chooses to ask “When can I start?” instead of “How high?”

We’re looking for our dog. He’s lost. We can’t find him anywhere.

Does that sound like you?

This is a part-time position with benefits, including equity. In exchange, we ask that you live full-time in floor 12’s newly revamped lactation pods, where you’ll be asked to provide your dripping teat to the hungry, hungry interns who finish their work before sunrise.

Did you know your last words could be an opportunity for direct-to-consumer revenue? Neither did our founder—until he dethawed from cryofreeze speaking in tongues.

Are you tired of hunting for jobs? Wouldn’t you rather they start hunting for you? Introducing Chadwick III, our superintelligent senior recruiter built from the scrap metal carcasses of Chadwicks I and II.

Have you ever wanted to be on the ground floor of greatness? Have you ever licked into someone’s ear and tasted shampoo scum? Have you experienced ego death? Have you existed to another living thing? When you look in the mirror, is there anyone looking back?

We’re building a world where you don’t have to ask how your socks wound up in the underbelly of the laundry machine—YOU put them there! We saw you!

This isn’t a “set it and forget it” type of gig. We want your every waking thought to be about the best way to get from point A to point B—assuming we’ve built a labyrinthine thorn maze between the two, slapped a blindfold on your face, and told you to feel your way out without drawing any blood.

Our ideal candidate has three to five years of experience in the industry or a related field, seven to ten diagnosable psychoses or equivalent jail time, and a brain built to dodge its one to two thoughts with a dancer’s agility and linebacker’s drive.

Does this sound like you?

Do you sound like you?

Are you a little piggy? Oink for us, and we’ll both find out!

We’re looking for someone who appears by all measurable counts to be a living and breathing human but will, when the role requires, surrender all five senses to their direct supervisor and type like a sleepwalking monkey hoping to gobble up a few bananas, yum yum!

If you’re looking for a job that “feeds” and “pays” you: No hard feelings, but we’re not a match. If you’re preemptively blinding yourself with a kitchen knife, lest temptation get the better of you on the final stumble out of the underworld: We look forward to receiving your application. (Don’t worry, you won’t need eyes where we’re going—and yes, there will be free lunch!)

Are you eager to solve complex challenges in the wider fintech market, given the God-guaranteed abyss that awaits us all when we shut our eyes for the final time, assaulted by the sudden understanding that everything we thought significant—including but not limited to the wider fintech market and its challenges (complex, numerous) pales in comparison to that encroaching bright light, which only the most prophetic and prevaricative children in Christian propaganda films claim to have seen and walked away from?

Are you skilled with Adobe Premiere Pro?

Are you a real go-getter?

Do you believe that tomorrow is coming?

There’s a New Cookie Place

Julie Klausner — Tue, 18 Aug 2026 08:00:00 -0400

I have great news: There’s a new cookie place! It just opened.

It’s called Kiss the Cookie, but I will do no such thing. I will eat the cookie. All of it. Here’s why that’s impressive: Their cookies are very big. In fact, here’s one of their marketing gimmicks: If you can prove your dog weighs more than one of their cookies, you will get a second cookie at half price. And if a pair of these lukewarm decadent curiosities is too heavy for you to carry, they’ll ship it to you or help you carry it to your car. Either way, if you show that your dog tips the scales over one of their baked abominations, you’ll get two of these gigantic candy-stuffed dough piles, along with a free pup cup, which you can either give to your fat dog or eat yourself, they don’t care. I asked!

So, here’s the deal with this place. There’s a line for Kiss the Cookie around the block, and everybody waiting for one of these vulgar delicacies is holding up a selfie stick like it’s a picket sign. One might wonder if social change were possible if people who waited in lines for viral baked goods organized for a cause. SHRUG EMOJI!

Every week, this dive has four different flavors in addition to their perennial Chocolate Chip. And as I said, these cookies are really big. I really wish I could think of something besides a dirty diaper to compare them to in terms of weight and size, but I just can’t. I promise, though—they’re less gross than dirty diapers. Stop thinking about dirty diapers for a minute. I know I’m the one who brought them up, but trust me, these cookies taste better than ANY diaper, pristine or “pre-loved.” That said, they’re not delicious. They look delicious. They look like gigantic mounds of cookie dough, barely baked on the outside only. And do you know why they look like that? It’s because that’s what they are.

They have no notes of vanilla, no surprising “salty-sweet” pockets, no aftertaste, no dimension, no textural variety. If you asked me to describe what they tasted like, I’d say “sweet.” Then, I’d probably stop talking. Not just because I’d have run out of flavors to notice but because my mouth would be full of cookie, and I wasn’t born in a barn like you, you dumb donkey!

The storefront is an eyesore and the online marketing campaign is totally obnoxious. What’s more, the cookies are simply not very good, and they’re far too expensive considering what they actually are. When I really make myself think about it, I realize I don’t like these cookies. I think they’re lousy.

This week alone, I have eaten seventy-five of them.

Here are their current flavors. Chocolate Chip, aforementioned, classic. “Made with pounds and pounds of chocolate, flour, butter and sugar,” quoth their oddly straightforward nutrition materials. The same legalese-adjacent language also told me that a single cookie contains twenty portions, which seems impossible to execute practically. Like imagine carving up a cowpie with a plastic knife. Oh no. I said “cowpie.” Look, I promise—these cookies don’t taste like shit! They taste like… well, they kind of taste like the props from a food photography shoot. Not that I’ve ever been to one of those. Do they really use glue instead of milk for the cereal photos? Talk about a sticky situation.

Specialty flavors from this week are Dubai Butterscotch, Snackwells but Horny, Dr. Pepper with Tums and White Chocolate Chips, and Fuck It Just Dump the Whole Bag of Hershey Miniatures into This Mixing Bowl Full of Pillsbury Ready to Bake. They’re all fine. If you lost your taste buds in a fire or something, you’ll probably have as good a time gnawing on these dessert dipes as anyone.

One of the great things about these cookie places is that they aren’t bakeries. Like, you can’t go in there and get an eclair or order a cake. They’d look at you like you were insane and then ask you to order your confectionery cowpie on a touchscreen after you enter your dog’s weight. All they do over at Kiss the Cookie is make these giant, expensive, oddly bland, and mostly raw cookie bombs and take your money. Now that I think of it: Is that great? Hmm. I heard that you should do one thing and do it really well, but I think that was something my guidance counselor told me after I kept getting the same answer on my diagnostic career test back in high school. It kept saying I should be one of those ladies with a table at a flea market who locks in and just talks, talks, talks at you if you even glance at one of her glass beaded eyeglass chains, and then you just fucking buy one so you can expedite the end of the interaction. I remember thinking to myself, at age seventeen, “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

Sadly, I am unable to bead for reasons of color blindness and trypophobia, and the flea markets in NYC have asked me to abstain from visiting them because I haggle too much and I try everything on, even after announcing, “Oops! I’ve gone commando again,” which is disgusting even when I’m just holding up a pair of earrings. So I spend my days waiting in line and sampling new cookie places in my neighborhood, then trying to sell my plasma for cash. Sadly, no one will take my blood these days, as its glucose level is off the charts. I have no idea why.

Trickle-Down Economics Sues Third Law of Motion for Being a Thing

Tracy Chabala — Mon, 17 Aug 2026 13:00:00 -0400

UNITED STATES DISTRICT COURT
SOME SUNNY DISTRICT IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA NEAR A HORSE RANCH

TRICKLE-DOWN ECONOMICS, (plaintiff)
V.
THE THIRD LAW OF MOTION, (defendant)

STATEMENT OF CLAIM

1. THE THIRD LAW OF MOTION, which has been debunked time and time again by people who say they are familiar with the matter, including Schrödinger’s cat, has repeatedly bent reality to discredit TRICKLE-DOWN ECONOMICS, singling it out over other phenomena, like the eating and digestion of breakfast cereal, in a cynical ploy to destroy the minority of the opulent in America and the Principles of the Enlightenment; that every action has an equal and opposing reaction in America when it comes to marginal tax rates and stock buybacks and corporate mergers is obvious economic terrorism, plus it violates Ding an sich—Kant’s thing-in-itself—and we all know Newton had it in for Kant because Kant had better social skills.

2. The squiggly line representing CEO pay on the IS THE MIDDLE CLASS GETTING FUCKED? Cartesian Plane shoots up by over 900 percent from 1981 to 2025, but this is only true when you’re looking at the graph; when you’re not looking at the graph, this is untrue (even if it feels true); there is no a priori evidence that CEO pay rose by 900 percent as worker pay rose by 0.9 percent after slashing marginal tax rates and relaxing stock buyback laws and greenlighting corporate mergers; that’s just, like, THIRD LAW OF MOTION’s opinion; we all know you can’t trust your eyes because the senses lie—as Descartes says, “If I listened to charts and graphs, I wouldn’t be in the canon of Western philosophy.”

3. Ask Newton if people regurgitate their breakfast cereal every morning after eating it and he’ll look at you like you’re stupid, which is a projection because he knows THE THIRD LAW OF MOTION is as intellectually inconsistent as it is morally inconsistent; what goes down should come up if THIRD LAW applied to all phenomena, and Kant knows the cereal will remain settled in your stomach as long as the milk isn’t spoiled, in which case it will indeed shoot up violently out of your mouth; that’s not because the THIRD LAW OF MOTION is on the up-and-up, it’s because lactobacillus and bacillus were fruitful and multiplied, and the LORD God said that this is good whilst speaking on the White House lawn through his medium, President Ronald Reagan.

4. Allowing THIRD LAW OF MOTION to continue to exist has mobilized American miscreants into a resurrectionary revolution whereby they’ve used Ouija boards and pre-1988 Metallica records to bring Lenin and Stalin back from the dead, both of whom just won mayoral elections in major US cities; this speaks of the devil’s interference in US politics and spells the death of American liberty as we know it.

RELIEF

TRICKLE-DOWN ECONOMICS seeks the public censure and execution of THE THIRD LAW OF MOTION, along with all of Newton’s Theories, in order to continue its existence as a 100 percent true economic law; it also seeks a ban on all pre-1988 Metallica records, which lured innocent Americans into both Satanism and Stalinism; and it demands the immediate remittance of all income tax American Working Families paid to Stalin and Lenin when TRICKLE-DOWN wasn’t looking, which was a blatant act of treason, one that should condemn tax-paying American Working Families to death; TRICKLE-DOWN knows the COURT will do the right thing, and if the COURT doesn’t feel like doing the right thing, that’s OK, just send TRICKLE-DOWN the COURT’s Bitcoin address on Signal—username “TRICKS.”

An Open Letter to Bounce Houses

Andrew Belfry — Mon, 17 Aug 2026 05:00:00 -0700

As a parent, I am required to obtain a car seat that must withstand a direct missile strike but am expected to look the other way when an inflatable UFC octagon with no referee is a main feature at nearly every birthday party.

Admittedly, I had fun bouncing when I was a kid, but this isn’t the ’90s. Back then, parents didn’t face communal expulsion for infractions such as failing to stock every playdate with Honest Apple Juice boxes, MadeGood chocolate chip granola bars, and a mortgage payment’s worth of fruit. If a kid gets injured on my front lawn in an inflatable, I’ll be whisked straight to jail or worse, dragged on the local Facebook mom’s group (my request to join is still pending).

It’s not you, bounce houses, it’s us. We listen to our kids, take every boo-boo seriously, and validate their feelings. These children do not maintain the physical or mental fortitude to withstand the awesome power of the double bounce. We have failed to prepare them for chaos.

Our family care was chosen for its impressive JD Power safety rating. My kids almost exclusively eat organic food free from Red No. 40, Yellow No. 5, Blue No. 2, etc. Yet when a first grader yells “boys versus girls,” clutching a toy pirate sword, and disappears into a plastic “house,” I’m the bad guy for suggesting my kids take a break.

There is something about the noise of the wind machine, combined with air trapped in a tarp, that erases all the work that we parents do to raise good citizens. It’s almost as if gentle parenting until we’re too tired so we let them watch Captain America, who doesn’t exactly use words to resolve conflict, isn’t sending a clear message.

Also, why do some of you need to be two stories tall? I remember when a bounce house wasn’t a house but an inflated floor with four posts and some netting. Now these flexible labyrinths hold onto children, refusing to let them go like they’re in some plastic quicksand. And what’s with the water features? You literally have to remain attached to an outlet to exist! While I am not an electrician, plumber, or bounce house designer, I will go around telling everyone it seems very unsafe.

It should be noted that you provide a valuable service, allowing parents to stand around making small talk about how expensive local real estate is, the rising cost of groceries, and the outrageous prices we’re all paying for lawn care. Also, you as a singular bounce house is still a significantly better option than a trampoline park that almost guarantees a detour to Target on the way home for a toy to cheer up at least one of my kids after they collided with a wall, another kid, the side of the trampoline, an adult, an unidentified object, etc.

Maybe we can establish some rules beyond no shoes in the bounce house, which I believe is the only requirement. I’m all for a space where they can challenge social norms, like gravity, but the cost is too great without very clear guidelines. It’s not like these children will one day grow into adults who will pick and choose what laws to follow because we want them to be better than us and actually do 20 in a 25 mph zone.

Spare me the argument that this is exercise, which is better than all the screentime these kids get. Before every birthday party, my kids somehow have a soccer game, swim class, and dance recital, which are so competitive for space that I had to virtually knife other parents to secure my children spots. The last thing these kids need is gluten-free cupcakes with uncut frosting before being thrown into an inflated Thunderdome, all under the auspices of health.

Overall, the environment you provide is difficult for my kids to have fun while completely eliminating the risk of injury and bullying. Until you can assure me that my children will be safe inside your walls, they will refrain, keeping their shoes on the wrong feet and running full tilt around a yard they are unfamiliar with.

Sincerely,

A Concerned Parent

It’s ICE—We’re Rebranding and Jazz-Handing With Our Sizzling New INCEL™ G.L.O.V.E.S.

Samantha Green — Fri, 14 Aug 2026 13:00:00 -0400

U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement officers may soon be outfitted with gloves that can deliver painful electric shocks intended to gain compliance from combative individuals. -CBS News

- - -
We in the United States Immigration and Customs Enforcement Department have received a lot of constructive feedback recently regarding our immigration enforcement practices. After listening to the American people to the extent we’re able since most of us have hearing loss from all the guns, we concede the message is overwhelmingly clear: You want us to stop hurting people with bullets. We get it, and we agree. It’s time to hurt people differently.

In response to your concerns, we’re overhauling our brand and consciously uncoupling from our Scary ICE persona. We’ve shuffled some rich people around and watched a couple TikToks from HR, and from now until November 3rd, we’ll be rolling out a fresh look complete with fewer bullets. You might say we’re entering our Posh ICE era.

Bittersweet? Indeed. We’ll have to find another way to cosplay first-person shooters. But we’re confident this is a step in the right direction.

Going forward, we ask that you refer to us as the Infinitesimally Nicer Customs/Immigration Enforcement League, or INCEL. To prove to you that we really mean it, we’ve got a fancy new accessory we’re excited to use on you. Are you ready for this?

Ta-da! Jazz hands.

No, really. It’s called the G.L.O.V.E., and it’s gloves. But not just any gloves. They’re snazzy, wearable Generated Low Output Voltage Emitters. They’re electric! And they go with our outfits.

As we’ve publicly stated, our planned $10 million-$20 million purchase of these gloves will equip our agents with “conductive distraction and de-escalation devices.” In other words, if you try to resist us during a lawful or unlawful detention or do anything that makes us feel icky, with the press of a button, we will shock you. Zip zap.

We’re effortmaxxing our involvement in the communities in order to convince you we’ve changed. Expect to see us out and about on your streets and in your neighborhoods wearing our gloves. Think of us as helpers.

The next time you encounter us huddling over someone twitching on the ground, don’t panic! We’re bringing them back to life with our built-in defibrillators. Just don’t ask how they got like that in the first place.

Or if you see us standing at the front bumper of your car, take comfort in knowing we’re just juicing up the battery! That way, your teenage daughter can discover it on the side of the road and drive it home after you don’t show up for dinner.

We asked our manufacturer how painful the gloves are because we’ve never actually tried them ourselves, but they’ve declined to comment on the situation entirely, stating, “Unfortunately, we are unable to speak on this subject.” Whether that means they don’t wanna tell us, or we’ve silenced them with non-disclosure agreements, we don’t really care.

Happily, the president of the Institute for the Prevention of In-Custody Deaths has stepped up to give us his opinion. "For smaller officers or weaker officers or older officers, I think it has a great advantage because it can produce faster takedowns and shorten confrontations.” He assures us the sensation of activated gloves—which we’re pretty sure have only been tested on large adult males—is akin to a bee sting, meaning they will deliver debilitating pain somewhere on the scale between broken bone and gunshot wound, so probably around IUD insertion.

Rest assured, this will only be a threat to illegal noncitizens, legal noncitizens, citizens, builders, registered nurses, five-year-olds, pedestrians, poets, journalists, pregnant people, small people, old people, ill people, and all people.

Let’s be clear. We’re still ICE princesses. We’re still entitled to ignore the Constitution and violate your human rights. Only now we’re less murdery. Now, we’re more sparkly. Now, rather than the cheap Romanian counterfeit, maybe we’ll get to detain the real David Beckham, an alpha with hunter eyes and ideal facial symmetry. Like us, he has lots of tattoos and he’s not afraid to be a little bad.

However, unlike David, we’re unable to achieve organic connection, so it’s hard for us to care when we’re hurting you. And instead of trying to work on ourselves, we’d prefer to just work you over. That’s where the gloves come in. They’ll protect you from our chronic projectile dysfunction by helping you get a little less dead, and they’ll guarantee no one ever touches us again. It’s a win-win.

A Field Guide to the Inspirational People You Meet After Having a Disabled Child

Anaïs Godard — Fri, 14 Aug 2026 08:00:00 -0400

Congratulations. Your child has received a diagnosis. You have now entered one of Southern California’s most biodiverse ecosystems.

While these remarkable creatures can be found throughout the region, they thrive in particularly fertile habitats: Erewhon checkout lines, adaptive playgrounds, Pilates studios, pediatric waiting rooms with aquariums no one cleans, and anywhere within a three-mile radius of Silver Lake.

Remain perfectly still. Direct eye contact may trigger unsolicited advice or a referral to an energy healer.

Miraculum anecdotalis
(commonly known as the Miracle Hunter)

The Miracle Hunter can detect the phrase “my daughter is autistic” from over forty feet away. Watch as it slowly pivots its entire body toward the conversation. It has a story. It always has one. Usually several.

“My hairdresser’s nephew didn’t speak until he was seven. Then one day, in the parking lot of a Gelson’s, he said, ‘thermodynamics.’ Now he’s a concert pianist.”

Or a Harvard graduate. Sometimes both. Despite decades of observation, researchers have yet to document a Miracle Hunter anecdote ending with “He’s doing fine.” Mention cerebral palsy and it immediately produces a second anecdote.

The Miracle Hunter survives almost entirely on stories involving cousins, neighbors, or children once glimpsed on daytime television. It feeds on hope and is easily startled by data.

- - -
Oleum omniscientia
(commonly known as the Essential Oil Lady)

Recognizable by a linen jumpsuit, the kind of skin that suggests either excellent genetics or a refrigerator full of collagen peptides, and the serene confidence of someone who has never doubted a podcast. She has known your daughter for approximately eleven seconds, most of which she spent rummaging through her tote bag. She already knows what is wrong. Lavender calms the nervous system. Frankincense repairs neural pathways. Copaiba supports the vagus nerve, which she pronounces with the reverence most people reserve for dead saints.

If she cannot fix your daughter, she can almost certainly balance her chakras. Do not ask what a chakra is. She will tell you.

- - -
Optimus maximalis
(commonly known as the Biohacker)

Closely related to the Essential Oil Lady, though significantly more expensive, the Biohacker believes your daughter can be optimized through red light therapy, cold plunges, intermittent fasting, hyperbaric oxygen, grounding, molecular hydrogen, blue-green algae, and a former Swedish decathlete named Sven who now operates out of Suite 14B between a cryotherapy clinic and a dog acupuncturist and accepts payment through Venmo because conventional banking lowers your vibration.

None of these treatments are covered by insurance. This confirms, in the Biohacker’s mind, that they work.

- - -
Podcastus maximus
(commonly known as the Celebrity Autism Expert)

This fascinating specimen begins every sentence with: “I’ve done a lot of research.”

Research, in this context, consists of three podcasts, two Instagram reels, and a documentary narrated by an actor who portrayed a neuroscientist in a limited series that was, technically, about grief. It can quote politicians, comedians, billionaires, and wellness influencers. It cannot explain what an Individualized Education Program is.

- - -
Connectus hollywoodiensis
(commonly known as the Producer)

Found exclusively in Los Angeles. Within minutes, your daughter’s diagnosis has become intellectual property. The Producer knows someone “packaging something around neurodiversity,” which may become a documentary, an app, a nonprofit, a limited series, or a really important conversation, depending on financing. It will almost certainly be executive produced by someone who has never met your daughter.

- - -
Energia vibrationalis
(commonly known as the Quantum Mother)

Distinguished by her refusal to acknowledge coincidence, she explains that your daughter is not autistic. She is vibrating at a higher frequency. You nod politely. She nods knowingly. Neither of you believes the other.

- - -
Manifestus universalis
(commonly known as the Wellness Prophet)

Often encountered immediately following a public meltdown. It approaches slowly. Speaks softly. Everything happens for a reason. Your daughter chose you. You chose this journey. The universe never gives us more than we can handle. It remains unclear whether the universe has ever attempted to obtain prior authorization for a communication device.

- - -
Cognatus comparativus
(commonly known as the “I Know Someone…”)

This creature is incapable of allowing your child to exist as an individual. It immediately searches its internal database.

“My cousin…”

“My neighbor…”

“My Pilates instructor’s gifted son…”

“My dog trainer’s grandson, who also had a thing with socks…”

Within seconds, your daughter has been successfully compared to a complete stranger.

- - -
Organicus oblivious
(commonly known as the Stranger at Erewhon)

Perhaps the most iconic Los Angeles species. After observing your daughter flap her hands with excitement, it smiles knowingly.

“She’s such an old soul.”

No one knows what this means. Least of all the Stranger. It pays forty-eight dollars for bone broth, places it in a reusable hemp shopping bag, and disappears into the parking lot.

- - -
Camera sentimentalis
(commonly known as the Inspirational Photographer)

Frequently found at school performances and inclusive community events. It photographs your daughter without permission because she is “just so inspiring.” Curiously, your daughter is doing nothing remotely inspirational. She is intensely interested in a sprinkler. Nevertheless, the Photographer senses inspiration.

- - -
Normalus awkwardensis
(commonly known as the Stranger)

The most common species. Harmless. It approaches with a smile. Looks at your daughter. Looks back at you. Lowers its voice.

“You’d never know.”

Never know what? That she’s disabled? That she communicates differently? That she insists on wearing socks on her hands? The Stranger never elaborates. Instead, it wanders away convinced it has performed an act of extraordinary compassion.

- - -
Homo sapiens, approximately six years old

Curiously, this is the least complicated species in the ecosystem. Observe. The child notices your daughter’s communication device.

“What’s that?”

“That’s how she talks.”

“Oh.”

A brief pause.

“Do you want to play?”

The entire interaction lasts approximately seven seconds. The children disappear toward the playground. No referrals are exchanged. No one mentions Harvard. No one recommends red light therapy, vagus nerve support, or a documentary currently in development. The children simply play.

Researchers continue to investigate how six-year-olds accomplish in seconds what miracle hunters, wellness prophets, celebrity experts, producers, biohackers, and fully grown adults often fail to achieve in a lifetime.

The leading theory is that they have not yet learned to mistake difference for tragedy.

No, Mensa, YOU take MY Online Mini Test

Dan Kennedy — Thu, 13 Aug 2026 13:00:00 -0400

A man stands in a log cabin at night while the roof leaks. He eats Pepperidge Farms cookies and paces to think. What if doing this with a blanket wrapped around you is a sign of genius? You would never know, because your online test is broken and it keeps giving VERY INTELLIGENT PEOPLE a score of 30 percent. Why?

- - -
Some days it feels like our dreams took flight. Other days it feels like nothing ever got off the ground. Answer: True. I’ll give you one free answer, and that was it. But get your shit together, because I’m not gonna sit here and give you all the answers. Figure it out like the rest of us must.

- - -
A person fishes in a cold river in the freezing rain. After six hours, it starts to snow. He is fly-fishing alone in a state where it evidently snows in July. A bald eagle watches from the bank. Do you think it was giving me powers of some sort? As my core body temperature drops, I start to think so.

- - -
Two writers talk in New York. The first writer tells the second that moving to Los Angeles will destroy the second writer’s credibility. The first writer said this while writing an ad for Preparation H medicated wipes. This one doesn’t need an answer. Your job, for once in your organization’s life, is to just listen. I’ve really loved my first two years in Los Angeles.

- - -
What number completes the following sequence: 2, 4, 19, 44, 88, 11? How long have you been staring at the sequence? You can stare until doomsday, but nothing’s going to come of it until you sit alone in a cold cabin and question your need for order, and your tendency to answer any question anyone asks you at any time.

- - -
Is emotional regulation easier when one is being entirely honest with oneself? For instance, you find a typo in a script you’ve already sent to the producer. At first you want to die. Then you remind yourself it doesn’t matter, that very little actually matters in this world, and the typo will be fixed. Is this insight, or nihilism?

- - -
Maria bought four oranges and three lemons for five dollars. Dan bought four oranges and three lemons for ten dollars at a natural foods store. Which of the following statements are true:

Maria is at least twice as smart as Dan.

Oranges and lemons are natural.

Dan could literally have hypothermia in a log cabin in Montana right now, but is unfamiliar with the symptoms because they are so similar to his natural personality and disposition.

Places My First Baby Slept as a Newborn vs. Places My Third Baby Has Slept as a Newborn

Lucy Huber — Thu, 13 Aug 2026 08:00:00 -0400

In the hospital bassinet next to my bed while I stayed awake for his first forty-eight hours to make sure he was still breathing

In the hospital nursery

- - -
Quietly, in my arms while I rocked him to sleep in a rocking chair

In the bend of the couch covered in Pokémon stickers, while Octonauts blared on Netflix

- - -
In his stroller on a leisurely walk through the park

In her stroller placed just far enough out of range of the splash pad that she won’t get wet… oh, never mind, someone brought a water gun

- - -
In a baby carrier, strapped to my chest, while I stroked his head gently

In a baby carrier while I emptied the toddler potty into the shower because the toilet is clogged with a glitter dumpling

- - -
On the floor in my living room, on his high-contrast interactive baby mat to stimulate brain development

On the floor of a Chick-fil-A play place

- - -
In his car seat while we drove to Vermont to do some leaf peeping

In her car seat while we drove to somewhere called HyperKidz Ultimate Play Zone Half Price Tuesdays

- - -
In the pediatrician’s office where we brought him to check out a little cough

In one of my arms as I use the other arm to call my cousin in med school to ask how big a cut on a three year old’s chin needs to be before it actually needs stitches

- - -
Lying in bed next to me while I listened to an audiobook

Lying in bed next to me while I yelled, “ONLY JUMP OVER HER BODY, PLEASE DON’T JUMP OVER HER HEAD”

- - -
In his own crib, at 6 p.m. on the dot

In an L.L.Bean wagon at a World Cup watch party at 9 p.m.

- - -
NOT during tummy time because newborns should ALWAYS be placed on their BACKS to sleep

NOT during tummy time because I forgot tummy time was a THING that EXISTED

- - -
At home while I attended the dentist

In my arms while I attended the dentist

- - -
On a blanket outdoors, covered with a hat, long sleeves, an umbrella, and a muslin cloth

On a blanket, outdoors, at a birthday party, being held by several very responsible-looking six-year-old girls

- - -
Being held with both my arms at all times

Being held with my chin over my shoulder while I core an apple

- - -
Only for several seconds in his bouncer, immediately transferred to a flat surface as soon as he falls asleep

In her bouncer, on the counter

- - -
Away from the cats

Under the cats’ supervision

- - -
With me while my husband went golfing

With my husband while my husband went golfing

- - -
Certainly not on a family vacation to the Outer Banks at only two months old. You can tell your sister we will NOT be attending this year and honestly, it’s putting us in an uncomfortable position to even ask

In the arms of a stranger on an airplane on the way to attend a family vacation at the Outer Banks at two months old

- - -
Tucked into the stroller under a blanket embroidered with his name

Tucked into a stroller under a blanket embroidered with her brother’s name

- - -
Always within my field of vision unless safe inside his bassinet

“Does anyone know where we put down the baby???”

- - -
On my chest at 3 a.m., my face buried in the soft fuzz of his head, wishing these sleepless nights would end and I could just go back to sleep forever

On my chest at 3 a.m., my face buried in the soft fuzz of her head, knowing how quickly these sleepless nights will end and wishing I could stay awake with her like this forever

Release Notes: Woman™ Version 51.0

Mary Kay Holmes — Wed, 12 Aug 2026 13:00:00 -0400

Thank you for updating to Woman 51.0.

This release includes important security updates, several unexpected hardware changes, a completely redesigned relationship with alcohol, and expanded support for saying “absolutely not” without explaining yourself.

New Features

Night Sweats now activate regardless of room temperature, thread count, fan speed, or whether you finally found a position that didn’t hurt your hip.

Your bladder has been upgraded to Toddler Mode and now requires emptying immediately before bed, forty-three minutes after bed, and once more at 2:47 a.m. simply because.

Hair has been retexturized and redistributed using an algorithm nobody understands.

Crying now supports additional file types, including: exceptionally kind veterinarians, finding cash in an old coat pocket, women finishing marathons after starting their period, and finding the matching Tupperware lid.

Performance Improvements

Metabolism has entered Museum Mode and is now preserving every carbohydrate for future generations.

Hangovers now begin during your second glass of wine.

Sleeping “weird” may require three to five business days of recovery.

Knees have been upgraded to Dolby Surround.

Impulse control has been reduced by approximately 75 percent and may result in unexpectedly slapping a man who calls you “sweetheart” while attempting to convince you to switch internet providers on your front porch.

Memory
To improve performance, the following have been removed:

Why you walked into this room

That actor’s name

The word “colander”

Approximately 40 percent of all nouns

Lyrics from every song released between 1986 and 1998 remain fully indexed.

Sleep
Sleep has been completely redesigned. Instead of sleeping through the night, you’ll now wake at 2:47 a.m. with absolute certainty that you’ve forgotten something important.

Diagnostic testing confirms you have not.

You may also experience an unexplained surge of rage directed at no one in particular, followed by an urgent desire to contact people you have not thought about in years.

You’ll be awake until 4:11.

User Advisory: Feelings experienced between 2:47 a.m. and sunrise should not be considered actionable. Apple recommends postponing all outgoing communications until the operating system has completed its morning startup sequence.

Relationships
Your tolerance for nonsense has been reduced by 97 percent.

This is functioning as intended.

The following messages are now automatically routed to Spam:

“Hey stranger.”

“You up?”

“Let’s just see where things go.”

“I’ve just been really busy…”

“I’m an awful texter.”

The bug causing users to mistake potential for compatibility has been permanently resolved.

This feature will not be restored.

Behavioral Changes
Facial expressions now accurately reflect internal thoughts. This feature cannot be disabled.

People-pleasing has been moved to Legacy Support and will no longer receive security updates.

Tolerance for uncomfortable bras, loud restaurants, and mediocre or boring men has been permanently removed.

You will no longer spend three days wondering whether you were too harsh. Initial testing suggests you were not.

Battery
Battery life has decreased, yet battery management has dramatically improved.

Power is now reserved almost exclusively for:

dogs

friends

tacos

deadlifts

beach sunsets

leaving parties without saying goodbye

Background applications devoted to impressing everyone else have been permanently restricted.

Reddit-Recommended Workarounds
The following fixes have not been verified by Apple, but are consistently reported by users.

Dating younger men appears to restore approximately 12 percent of available RAM.

Weightlifting four times a week significantly improves both posture and your willingness to leave a date the moment he says he’s “not really into labels.”

Group texts with female friends continue to outperform years of individual therapy.

Users report eating significantly more tacos after age forty. Engineering has no explanation.

Purchasing concert tickets before asking if anyone wants to go has been shown to reduce people-pleasing by up to 84 percent.

Users overwhelmingly report the operating system performs best when regularly fed protein, sunshine, laughter, and absolutely no mixed signals.

Known Issues

Standing up may produce a sound, and it is no longer possible to determine whether the sound came from your knees, your mouth, or any other body part.

You may suddenly remember an embarrassing interaction from 1997 while shampooing.

Reading restaurant menus without your glasses remains unsupported.

One shoulder may mysteriously hurt all the time now.

You may become disproportionately angry at slow walkers, open-office floor plans, or hearing the phrase “circle back.”

Warranty coverage no longer includes sleeping on hotel pillows.

Engineering has quietly confirmed these are not bugs.

Thank You for Updating
Version 51.0 removes several features without your consent, but it also installs better ones.

Boundaries are now enabled by default, your bullshit detector is operating at full capacity, and after years of granting administrator privileges to anyone with a decent smile and inconsistent texting habits, the operating system now asks one simple question before allowing access: “Does this person actually improve my life?”

If not, the request is automatically denied.

Attempts to override this setting using chemistry, nostalgia, loneliness, or six margaritas are no longer supported.

The Free Trial by Franz Kafka

Bob Woodiwiss — Wed, 12 Aug 2026 08:00:00 -0400

There’s been some sort of error, thought Joseph K. Yes, that was it, an inadvertent error. Quite possibly on his part. A careless thumb tap when paranoiascrolling on his phone or a wayward mouse click while porn-drunk. The type of mistake modern life makes inevitable.

Though, too, given the fraught times, it would be foolish to rule out the possibility of e-malice. And no one was above suspicion. Not his fishmonger, his cheesemonger, his bongmonger, his psychiatrymonger—all, he knew, were active in MAJA (Mongers Against Joseph Alliance). For that matter, it might even be his own father, still in high dudgeon over Joseph K.’s name change (from Joseph G.), claiming it sounded “too Jewish.”

However it had happened, it had, undeniably, happened. The confirmation email made that clear.

“Welcome, Joseph K., to ChuckPhD! Your 30-day free trial starts now! Put the awesome power of AI to work for you today.” Further down the page, he read, “If at any time you wish to cancel, simply go to our website.” Unlike the letter’s body, this last instruction was written as a rebus, which made Joseph K. grateful he’d minored in Brainteaser Studies at University.

With the hour growing late, he made a mental note to cancel the subscription in the morning and retired to his bedroom. There, lying in the dark, he felt the foreboding presence of the Infinite Void. Why, he wondered, did it never stay on its own side of the bed?

- - -

That night, Joseph K. slept fitfully. He now felt certain he hadn’t been careless enough to subscribe to an AI “assistant.” First, because he’d sworn off subscriptions years ago after a dispute with the Columbia Record Club had ended in a duel. Second, he considered AI to be a flawed, unreliable adjunct for listless minds, not unlike astrology or The Epoch Times. More than anything else, however, was his suspicion of the techlords’ ethics, unsure of whether they were nonexistent or merely apocryphal.

- - -

In the morning, Joseph K. arose late. He barely had time for coffee, much less his customary (since his name change) bagel. Still, anxious to unsubscribe from ChuckPhD!, he navigated to their website, only to encounter—of course—the login page. Alas, with no memory of signing up, he also had no memory of a password. To get one, to change it, he was asked to confirm his identity by answering a security question.

“What are people for?” the screen read.

He’d have to think about that on the bus to work.

- - -

Four weeks later, Joseph K. was at the end of his rope. His various attempts to unsubscribe from his free trial were countless yet futile. Slowly, it had begun to dawn on him that he wasn’t the victim of his own deficient motor skills, his mongers, or the intolerant goyim he called Foter. No, he was trapped between Technology and Capitalism, the Leopold and Loeb of social forces.

Little wonder, then, that he encountered every sort of obstacle and frustration imaginable. There were 404 errors (page does not exist), 808 errors (you do not exist), and 666 errors (God does not exist). He was confronted with a series of CAPTCHA screens instructing him to click on all photos with Presbyterians or argon gas.

When he at last obtained a customer service email address (purchased from the dark web using a cryptocurrency so sophisticated, a particle accelerator is required to make change), he swiftly dashed off a subscription cancellation. Just as quickly came a gormless auto-reply reassuring him his subscription remained active, along with an apology for any confusion. The following day, his bank account was assessed a ten-dollar apology surcharge.

Flailing, he turned to Reddit, where he was informed ChuckPhD!’s “Cancel subscription”/“Delete account” pages resided solely behind a paywall in the minds of its creators.

With time running out, Joseph K. came to a bitter realization: He did not have the doggedness or technoguile to undo ChuckPhD! Until, suddenly, the solution revealed itself in a flash: subscriptioncide. That is, command ChuckPhD! to terminate ChuckPhD! In that instant, he felt the awesome power of putting himself out of work through technology.

- - -

The following day, Joseph K. was arrested and taken into custody. In the spring, he was tried for breach of free trial, breach of terms of service, assault with a deadly technology, and VC endangerment. Found guilty on all charges, he received an indeterminate sentence and was fined five lifetime ChuckPhD! subscriptions. His only solace is his prison’s dearth of Wi-Fi.

When You Really Think About It, Everything Makes You Poop (by Taylor Farms)

Jack Loftus — Tue, 11 Aug 2026 10:00:00 -0700

“Taylor Farms is recalling items containing jalapeños sold at major retailers over Salmonella risk. The salad company, which recently recalled certain lettuce products amid the ongoing cyclosporiasis outbreak, announced on Aug. 9 that it is recalling its products made with jalapeños due to potential Salmonella contamination amid a multistate outbreak.” – People

- - -
Yes, we know we’re in the news again, but before everybody starts pointing fingers with the hand that isn’t clutching their abdomen, we’d like to offer a little perspective.

Since our ancestors first dragged themselves out of the primordial muck and discovered that things could be chewed, food has gone in one end and out the other. Digestion is not a Taylor Farms innovation. We did not invent the intestine, set the bowel in motion, or decide that every lunch you will ever eat should eventually become something you flush.

Sometimes the process moves with greater urgency than anyone would prefer. Sometimes you finish dinner at 7:42 and by 8:06 you are waddling through your home with pants around your ankles, bargaining with muscles you did not realize you had. Our bodies, unique snowflakes all, contain a myriad of mysteries.

But now people keep using phrases like “explosive diarrhea.” Fine. That is certainly one way to put it. English has also given us “movement,” “evacuation,” “constitutional,” “deposit” and “Code Brown.” There is even the domestic classic, “I’m gonna be in here awhile, honey.” Our language is rich with ways to put a civilized gloss on uncivilized events. Why seize upon the scariest available terminology simply because your small intestine has turned into a Super Soaker?

Shit happens. It always has. We reject the implication that stool consistency should somehow reflect upon the character of the company that allegedly processed your jalapeños through a porta-potty. Some days, you produce something so structurally magnificent you glance back with the pride of a civil engineer. Other days, the toilet bowl evokes a Jackson Pollock retrospective. Are we really going to make Taylor Farms answer for the entire expressive range of the human anus?

Remember, gastrointestinal intensity is subjective. One person’s medical event is another person taking their shirt off because things have gotten serious. Your great-grandfather probably called that Tuesday. He didn’t have a smartphone to search “Why am I seeing stars on the toilet?” He had a dog-eared Reader’s Digest and the understanding that sometimes the Lord tests a man as if he were Job from the waist down.

Today, everyone sees the name Taylor Farms and suddenly becomes the Hercule Poirot of the commode. You had our guacamole at noon. You experienced what you describe as a bowel emergency of unprecedented violence at 12:07. Case closed, you say. Interesting detective work. Seven minutes and a stomach cramp, and suddenly you’re Bob Woodward exposing a different kind of Watergate.

As for our vast network of private-label products appearing beneath countless different store brands, we’re surprised anyone would view that negatively. We prefer to think of ourselves as the Batman of produce: everywhere, essential, operating under a variety of identities, and occasionally associated with guano in a cave. If anything, discovering that we made the guacamole you never knew we made should inspire awe at our operational scale, not suspicion about your sudden need to lie naked on the bathroom tile.

Ultimately, we believe America needs to restore a little humility to the bathroom. Everybody poops. There is an entire children’s book about it. Everybody has made an unfortunate noise in a public restroom and then remained absolutely motionless until the other person left. Everybody, at some point, has looked into the bowl and wondered whether what just happened requires a doctor, a plumber, or last rites.

So, before you blame Taylor Farms for whatever is presently rocketing through your alimentary canal, consider the possibility that human digestion is complicated and causation is difficult to establish.

Actually, hang on. Didn’t you have Taco Bell last Thursday?

Well, there you go. Case closed.

Welcome Aboard Svelte Airlines—Except You, the Fat Passenger in Seat 49C

Meg Elison — Tue, 11 Aug 2026 05:00:00 -0700

Welcome aboard Svelte Airlines flight 362426. We’re so glad to have you with us today. Not you, econo-fat in 49C; we just tolerate you. For now.

Please sit in your assigned seat. Unless the person next to you doesn’t like that. Ultimately, the person to your left will decide whether you sit in the seat that you paid for or be deplaned in a humiliating perp walk. If you are denied passage based on your assage, the gate agent will contact the nearest marine park and attempt to accommodate you with whatever they do for whales.

Fasten your seat belt. Unless it doesn’t contain your bulk, because it was designed in the 1970s for people who smoked two packs a day. Looks like we’re going to have to get you an extension. I said A SEAT BELT EXTENDER. Can I get a lard lasso for the hamplanet in 49C, please? Why are you sweating?

If you are seated in an emergency exit row, you must be willing and able to assist if we somehow survive a crash-landing. This does not apply to you, frequent fryer. In the event of a water landing, you can assist by acting as a flotation device.

If we unexpectedly lose cabin pressure, previously compressed objects like water bottles may suddenly expand. This includes the saddlebags on 49C. Take deep, even breaths, despite the sudden awareness of your seatmate’s bulk. Even though her hips look full, oxygen is still flowing through your mask.

Please keep the aisles free of any potential trip hazards, like the parts of your thighs overhanging the seat that have decreased in width four times since 2015. Remember, these policies are not clearly explained on our website, and our flight crew can help you get conflicting and biased information, providing a different answer each time you ask. Applications of these policies may also vary based on your perceived race, so if you feel uncomfortable, it’s probably because of your body type. Reacting to any of this information with the appropriate amount of outrage can land you on the no-fly list, so consider your responses carefully. Have you considered flying first class? We also don’t want you there, but at least it costs more.

For your safety, please remain seated with your seat belt fastened while 49B scampers to the galley to complain loudly about your upper arm interfering with their enjoyment of their basic economy fare. Stare straight ahead and do not acknowledge this conversation, or you will be reminded that you’re overreacting and you should have purchased two seats in the first place.

Please be advised that those seats may be located in separate rows, or resold to another customer if we have overbooked. This is a completely full flight, so try to fit some of your bulk under the seat in front of you. No, not you, 18A with the linebacker shoulders and the manspread all the way into 18C. Not you, pregnant woman wrestling a shrieking toddler in 22B. This policy only affects 49C with her problematic big dumpy.

If you have questions about the specific measurements we use to determine who gets to fly without harassment, the FAA prohibits us from providing that information at this time. Please do not smoke or vape in the lavatory. Please do administer your GLP-1 shots. Maybe make it a double.

On behalf of Svelte Airlines, we welcome you aboard. Well, most of you. Some of you are subject to secret sadist policies, which can change at any time. Just like that number on the scale!

Clinical Notes from Medusa’s Primary Care Provider Who Suspects Menopause

Anne Reiner — Mon, 10 Aug 2026 13:00:00 -0400

Subject

History of Present Illness:
The patient, a thirty-year-old female, describes “not feeling like myself” following an incident at the temple of Athena. Intake nurse documented patient as hostile when she refused to remove veil.

Chief Complaints
The patient reports experiencing chronic, localized hissing and turning others to stone on sight.

Onset: Patient became a “victim of fate” overnight

Location: Patient specifies sites of head and neck; clinical judgment dictates whole-body involvement due to known limitations of patient-reported symptoms.

Duration: Patient claims symptoms precipitated yesterday; clinical judgment dictates more gradual onset.

Characterization: Patient warned attending physician (AP) “don’t come closer” and urged AP to “look away,” both of which were easily heeded. Eye contact was avoided to prioritize AP safety.

Severity: 10/10 on the Gorgon Scale

History:

Medical: Allergic to penicillin. Normal menses, but no live births (infertility ruled out due to patient’s statement: “Save me from the shadows of men!”)

Family: Biological parents are primordial sea deities. Maternal menopausal history unknown, but patient made inquiry regarding relevance of menopause to an immortal.

Social: Worked as a priestess. Recently unemployed. Lives with two sisters who corroborate the patient’s account but are considered unreliable historians.

Objective:

Vital signs: Multiple concurrent cardiac rhythms identified per nurse (rule out tachycardia due to anxiety)

Weight: Four pounds gain since last visit (flagged)

Location: Stone statues of unknown clinical significance observed at reception

Physical exam findings: Deferred due to patient’s noncompliance. Rattling noted at scalp.

Assessment:
Older female presents with symptoms of anxiety, low libido, weight gain, and altered mental status, all likely induced by an etiology of hormonal dysregulation.

Diagnosis is uncomplicated menopausal transition. Differential diagnoses include perimenopause, estrogen deficiency-induced menopause, silent menopause, occult menopause, artificial menopause, and, less likely, mythic transformation.

Plan

1. Condition:

Localized sibilance

First-line treatment plan: Review sleep hygiene techniques.

Second-line treatment plan: Hormone replacement therapy for diffuse symptomatology.

2. Condition:

Episodic petrification of bystanders

First-line treatment plan: Cognitive behavioral therapy for positive reframing of interpersonal communication.

Second-line treatment plan: Referral to endocrinologist. Anticipated appointment availability: fourteen months.

3. Prognosis:

Conservative management expected to be insufficient in typical female presentation.

Tertiary salvage therapy: Surgical intervention to remove the offending organ—total hysterectomy.

Condition(s) requiring presentation to ER: tragic decapitation. Prior insurance authorization required for reattachment. Usually denied as considered cosmetic.

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Miraculum anecdotalis (commonly known as the Miracle Hunter)

Oleum omniscientia (commonly known as the Essential Oil Lady)

Optimus maximalis (commonly known as the Biohacker)

Podcastus maximus (commonly known as the Celebrity Autism Expert)

Connectus hollywoodiensis (commonly known as the Producer)

Energia vibrationalis (commonly known as the Quantum Mother)

Manifestus universalis (commonly known as the Wellness Prophet)

Cognatus comparativus (commonly known as the “I Know Someone…”)

Organicus oblivious (commonly known as the Stranger at Erewhon)

Camera sentimentalis (commonly known as the Inspirational Photographer)

Normalus awkwardensis (commonly known as the Stranger)

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When You Really Think About It, Everything Makes You Poop (by Taylor Farms)

Welcome Aboard Svelte Airlines—Except You, the Fat Passenger in Seat 49C

Clinical Notes from Medusa’s Primary Care Provider Who Suspects Menopause

Subject

Plan

Miraculum anecdotalis
(commonly known as the Miracle Hunter)

Oleum omniscientia
(commonly known as the Essential Oil Lady)

Optimus maximalis
(commonly known as the Biohacker)

Podcastus maximus
(commonly known as the Celebrity Autism Expert)

Connectus hollywoodiensis
(commonly known as the Producer)

Energia vibrationalis
(commonly known as the Quantum Mother)

Manifestus universalis
(commonly known as the Wellness Prophet)

Cognatus comparativus
(commonly known as the “I Know Someone…”)

Organicus oblivious
(commonly known as the Stranger at Erewhon)

Camera sentimentalis
(commonly known as the Inspirational Photographer)

Normalus awkwardensis
(commonly known as the Stranger)