Ladies and gentlemen, tonight I have the honor of performing the annual orphan monologue for this year&rsquo;s fundraising gala. May it move you to tears and to open your checkbooks.&nbsp;
Ahem. Pennies, oh how I lust for yummy pennies. Each bite shatters the pernicious veil of pauperism as well as my malnourished teeth. The crude, metallic texture blesses my poor, mangled hands, and its nutrients sustain me.&nbsp;
I envy the parent-having boys, who shower me with leftover hors d'oeuvres when I do tricks. But alas, I&rsquo;m forced to spend my days asking &ldquo;please sir, may I have some more,&rdquo; to which the public groundskeeper always replies, &ldquo;the water in the lake is free, but unsafe to drink.&rdquo;&nbsp;
The groundskeeper is somewhat of an alive father figure to me. Because of him, I bathe luxuriously in the swamp from which I drink. He even allows me to sleep in the garden if I scare away all the other vagrants. When I&rsquo;m triumphant, I relish in the spoils of their rubbish.&nbsp;
Life is pain, and when the groundskeeper forces me to play hide-and-go-kill with the raccoons, it remains pain. But as he always implies through the tasks he gives me, anything is better than loneliness.&nbsp;
At the end of the day, I lack parents. Nevertheless, due to the endless generosity of this foundation&rsquo;s scholarships, I live with the hope that one day I will drain this fine nation&rsquo;s welfare system.

Ladies and gentlemen, tonight I have the honor of performing the annual orphan monologue for this ye...

Oliver Twist

Comment on New Zelda Game Out! by /u/bowzrrr999 in /r/nintendo
[&ndash;] GREG_THE_MAN&nbsp; 0 points 45 days ago&nbsp;
if u burst a pipe in ur basement how do u make the water stop
&nbsp;
Comment on Saw this while on a job today by /u/joeytheplumber in /r/plumbers
[&ndash;] GREG_THE_MAN&nbsp; -1 points 43 days ago&nbsp;
if u burst a pipe in ur basement how do u make the water stop
[&ndash;] GREG_THE_MAN&nbsp; 0 points 42 days ago&nbsp;
urgent&nbsp;
[&ndash;] GREG_THE_MAN&nbsp; 5 points 9 days ago
Fix pipe on the job tomorrow 100 dollars?
&nbsp;
Comment on 2,000 dead in Libyan stadium bombing by /u/proudamerikhan in /r/worldnews
[&ndash;] GREG_THE_MAN&nbsp; 7 points 20 minutes ago&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;if pipe is in ur basement and water is coming out bursting and whatnot how to stop
[&ndash;] GREG_THE_MAN&nbsp; -5 points 19 minutes ago&nbsp;
Libya not official country run by dog fucks this was not one time thing
[&ndash;] GREG_THE_MAN&nbsp; 2 points 14 minutes ago&nbsp;
if u burst a pipe in ur basement how do u make the water stop
[&ndash;] GREG_THE_MAN&nbsp; 1 point 13 minutes ago
urgent please

Comment on New Zelda Game Out! by /u/bowzrrr999 in /r/nintendo
[–] GREG_THE_MAN  0 points 45 days a...

Reddit History

<ul>
<li>&hellip;and now that I&rsquo;ve got you, I&rsquo;ll be your judge, jury, and executioner.</li>
<li>Wait, so I&rsquo;ll still get a trial?</li>
<li>Of course. And I&rsquo;ll be your attorney. So, what&rsquo;s being arrested like? I&rsquo;m also the court reporter.</li>
<li>It&rsquo;s a little confusing.</li>
<li>Back off! No questioning my client. Let&rsquo;s talk shop. Did you do it?</li>
<li>Are you my lawyer right now? Or the judge?</li>
<li>Ahh! You caught me! Okay, now I&rsquo;m your lawyer.</li>
<li>Okay. How am I getting off?</li>
<li>First, you weren&rsquo;t read your Miranda rights by that moron waste-of-life cop.</li>
<li>Which was you.</li>
<li>Plus, you can call a mistrial because the judge and your lawyer have been drinking.</li>
<li>I think I&rsquo;m going to leave.</li>
<li>Shh. We need to be quiet. The bailiff is about to speak. All rise for honorable Judge Murray. Let me tell you right now, Judge. That man is guilty. I object, your honor. He has no evidence. Oh shut up Jack, we both know he&rsquo;s headed to the clink. He&rsquo;ll go to jail over my dead body you son of a bitch!</li>
</ul>


…and now that I’ve got you, I’ll be your judge, jury, and executioner.
Wait, so I’ll still get a ...

Judge, Jury, and Executioner

First rule of being the new kid is to look out for bullies. I see a bully in the bathroom threatening to beat up a nerd, so I hand him mittens to make sure he doesn&rsquo;t gash his knuckles too badly. He says thank you. He also says he wants to murder me, but I know he&rsquo;s just saying that so he doesn&rsquo;t seem too soft for wearing mittens. The bully then takes a knife out of his backpack and thrusts it at me, pinning a piece of paper onto the wall above my head. The paper reads:&nbsp;
&nbsp;
I want to chop you into pieces, punk, but I can&rsquo;t because mom said&nbsp;
it&rsquo;s bad for my anxiety. Meet me outside after class because I&rsquo;m&nbsp;
going to mess you up the old-fashioned way: a thumb war.
&nbsp;
The bully shoves me to the ground before exiting. I&rsquo;m scared because I have small thumbs, which bruise easily when I get knocked over.
It&rsquo;s the middle of a last period exam when the panic really sets in. There are 5 minutes left, and I haven&rsquo;t answered half the questions on my exam. It&rsquo;s first grade, and the exam is just blocks.&nbsp;
Class ends. I head out to the playground to seal my fate, and I&rsquo;m delighted to find the whole school is out there cheering. They&rsquo;re watching Madonna&rsquo;s Super Bowl Halftime performance, and they&rsquo;re all really excited to cheer on a mature woman confident in her own sexuality. As I walk up to the crowd, a group of the popular boys comes up to pants me-- a universal gesture of good luck among elementary school students.&nbsp;&nbsp;
I keep walking and see the bully standing by the monkey bars. As soon as I get close, he pulls out the switchblade and lunges at my throat. He swiftly cuts the itchy tag off my scarf and throws it to the ground. I&rsquo;m intimidated by how considerate that was, but I hide it by crying uncontrollably.
We lock fists and thumbs-- the moment everyone&rsquo;s been waiting for-- but no one is watching. I attack with a cheeky thumb lunge. He attacks back, hitting me across the head with a folding chair. He must&rsquo;ve forgotten about the thumb war. I&rsquo;m pretty sure this is what a concussion feels like. I reach into his jacket and steal his anxiety medication.

First rule of being the new kid is to look out for bullies. I see a bully in the bathroom threatenin...

Thumb War

Readers, we would like to retract a statement we made in our most recent issue. After multiple online scientists reached out to us, we now realize it is not factual to state that a squid could &ldquo;chokeslam any whale, any day, any place and time a squid could body a bitch-ass whale like it&rsquo;s nobody&rsquo;s business.&rdquo;&nbsp;
It has come to our attention that a squid&rsquo;s tentacles likely could not wrap around the neck of an adult whale; certainly not with enough force to chokeslam. We&rsquo;re honestly not sure if whales even have necks, as we&rsquo;re a magazine about squids. The rest of the magazine was 100% factually accurate and we stand by everything we said about Secretary Clinton&rsquo;s role in the events that took place in Benghazi. Happy hunting!&nbsp;

Readers, we would like to retract a statement we made in our most recent issue. After multiple onlin...

Apology to the Reader’s of Squid Digest’s April 2013 Issue

Kid: Well, I guess this is it, huh?
Mom: Our baby boy, going to college. You know I remember when you couldn&rsquo;t even walk&ndash;
Kid: Mom, I know.
(Mom kisses boy a bunch on the cheek.)
Kid: (laughing) Quit it.
Dad: And you know your old man will miss you.
Kid: (hugging Dad) I&rsquo;ll miss you too Pop.
Dad: Now let&rsquo;s grab your bags so you can get going before you make me cry.
Kid: C&rsquo;mon Dad, I&rsquo;m not a kid anymore! I don&rsquo;t need you to baby me.
Dad: Alright, alright. Hands off! I get it. You have your bags, right?
Kid: Ugh, this is one thing I&rsquo;m not gonna miss. (shares a smirk with Mom)
Dad: But you&rsquo;ve packed belongings and everything?
Kid: I&rsquo;m 18 years old dad. I&rsquo;m going to be just fine.
Mom: Dave, you&rsquo;re worrying again! Just let him grow up.
Dad: You&rsquo;re going to need clothing and other amenities to survive at school. I just need you to confirm for me that you know that.
Kid: Look, Dad. I get it. You&rsquo;re an empty nester now and that&rsquo;s weird. But I&rsquo;m gonna come home all the time. Every other weekend. How does that sound?
Mom: (squealing) Oh that would be so wonderful.
Dad: Obviously that sounds great but please just say out loud that you have some items you&rsquo;re bringing to college.
Kid: (angry) You know what? You never understood me. I&rsquo;m glad I&rsquo;m leaving.
Mom: (to Dad) David. Say something!
Dad: Jesus Christ you&rsquo;re taking a car right? Please say you were going to drive a car there.
Kid: Whatever.
Dad: Tell me you weren&rsquo;t just gonna walk with no belongings all the way to Louisiana?
Kid: I never want to talk to you again. I&rsquo;m leaving.
(He turns around and starts walking down the street.)
Dad: (yelling) It&rsquo;s gonna take you like 2 weeks!
Mom: (crying) Let him go. Just let him go.
Dad: He&rsquo;s going north, that&rsquo;s the wrong way.
Mom: I have a feeling our little man will be just fine.

Kid: Well, I guess this is it, huh?
Mom: Our baby boy, going to college. You know I remember when y...

College

I was born with a poo gun in my hand. Doctors think it’s because my mother drank coffee during her pregnancy. But otherwise, I’m actually a pretty normal guy, like you or me.

Why don’t I just put a diaper on poo gun, you ask? Oh well I would love for you to share about that bulletproof diaper you’re clearly talking about. Idiot. Poos from poo gun are just as lethal as any bullet—if not more.

I was homeschooled my entire childhood. Every day I would sit at the attic window and watch kids from the neighboring school at play. Some days, a ball would bounce off my window, and the kids would look up in my direction. Those were the good days.

On the day of my 18th birthday I asked my mother if I could join a real school. She agreed after I held up my gun-hand and ominously said I had to go number two. I was so nervous my first day, I remember I got the runs and shot up the whole classroom, rendering everyone awash in poo. That was my last day of regular school. But my education was just beginning.

Mother enrolled me in gun school. I trained diligently until I became the top sharpshooter in the program. The NRA tried to recruit me as a kind of mascot but I damn near ate shit at a rally when I put poo gun to my heart during the pledge of allegiance. Then the FBI tried to hire me, but I had other plans. Quiet ones. I settled down and became the head of a town cotillion to teach nice manners to young girls and boys. That’s why it’s difficult for me to talk about such crass subjects like poo gun.

I won’t lie, life still isn’t easy. As I’ve gotten older, poo gun has only grown longer. To cover the rifle that is now my hand, nice dry sleeves won’t do it. I have to dip my sleeves in water before leaving the house so they can get more stretched out. My arms are always dripping with water. But at least they aren’t dripping with poo.

Poo Gun

Guide: And here we have a FULL ORCA BREACH FOLKS A FULL BREACH! 9 O&rsquo;CLOCK!!!
Crowd: Wow!
Garrett: What? Oh come on I was tying my shoes.
Drew: Dude, that was epic. No chance it happens again.
Guide: Anyways, the sperm whale mating ritual inv&ndash;LADIES AND GENTLEMEN A DOUBLE REVERSE BELUGA FEINT AND SWITCH! 9 O&rsquo;CLOCK!!!!!!!!!!
Garrett: Oh great, right when I decide to close my eyes for 5 minutes no matter what.
Drew: Oh man that was so sick. I really can&rsquo;t believe that.
Garrett: Ugh alright I&rsquo;m keeping my eyes glued to the water from now on.
(Garrett&rsquo;s phone rings)
Garrett: Hello? Oh god. Oh please god no.
Guide: As I was saying, the flippers or flappers or whatever on the whales&ndash;WOULD YOU BELIEVE THIS PEOPLE WE ARE WITNESSING THE SLIPPERIEST RENDITION OF&ndash;
Garrett: No. No. No. Not me. Please.
Guide:&ndash;THE GARDEN HOSE SHUFFLE EVER SCREENED ON LOCAL NEWS. A FULL-BLOWN NAUTICAL NO HANDS BUMP AND DIP WITHOUT A HARNESS. NINE. O&rsquo;CLOCK!!!!
Drew: Surely a more fantastic spectacle has never been witnessed.
Garrett: (sobbing softly)
Drew: Did you see the&ndash;
Garrett: That was the bank. I&hellip;I don&rsquo;t have a 401k.
Drew: But you saw the&ndash;
Garrett: Yeah man, I saw the whales kiss.

Guide: And here we have a FULL ORCA BREACH FOLKS A FULL BREACH! 9 O’CLOCK!!!
Crowd: Wow!
Garrett: ...

Whale Watching

Uncle: Hey, Martin! Martin! Sit with me!
Martin: I gotta get on my plane.
Uncle: Where&rsquo;re you flying to? Losersville? Losersville, USA? For losers?
Martin: My mother&rsquo;s wake. Shouldn&rsquo;t you be there too?
Uncle: I&rsquo;m just here for lunch.
Martin: Well there are still open seats if you want to come.
Uncle: I&rsquo;m not allowed to fly anymore. Plus I just ordered.
Loudspeaker: Now boarding flight 482 to Losersville, USA.
Uncle: Oh that&rsquo;s my flight!

Uncle: Hey, Martin! Martin! Sit with me!
Martin: I gotta get on my plane.
Uncle: Where’re you flyi...

At The Airport With My Least Favorite Uncle

Ask For Words From the Audience 
But only accept words relating to the Dust Bowl or infamous American celebrity criminal trials because you’ve gotten really good at doing those sorts of scenes.

Reject Bad Ideas 
Say “No, actually” if someone starts the scene wrong or just scream “NOOOOO” if the scene has gotten really bad.

Take the Scene in New Directions 
If you make a really controversial statement about global affairs, then the scene literally has to incorporate that now. Because if they drop it then it’s like the improv troupe is endorsing that statement.

Have a Few Back Pocket Tropes 
The ones to pull out if you can’t come up with anything. Sexy fireman. Innocent schoolgirl. Dust Bowl era farmer. O.J. Simpson jury member.

Have a Few Back Pocket Phrases 
“Boy it sure is a dusty day out,” or “Look, the glove doesn’t even fit him!”

Your Favorite Guy in the Improv Troupe 
Man, this guy rocks! Make sure to pull him up for every scene and throw him off with a sexual opening line to see what he’ll do. If you end up making out on stage, it’s not a crime.

Your Least Favorite Guy in the Improv Troupe 
Man, this guy sucks. And he clearly has no grasp on the mechanics of the O.J. trial. Shut down all of his scenes by saying “You are blind and deaf and mute and totally paralyzed” so he literally can’t do anything.

Know When to End a Scene 
If both your characters shot each other and are now dead, you can end the scene.

Know When to Keep a Scene Going 
If both your characters have not yet shot each other, you have to keep going. Scenes only end when both characters have been shot.

Tips for Succeeding in Improv

After serving as head zookeeper for 25 years and chief hunting assistant during a disastrous week-long rebranding attempt, I was finally hanging up my boots. While my days of curb stomping misbehaving animals were over, my days of reminiscing about the curb stomping had only just begun.
As I walked into the zoo for the very last time, my arrival was met with loud cheers from the gorillas, the sign language equivalent of loud cheers from the more intelligent gorillas, and enthusiastic snaps from the super-intelligent gorilla who dabbled in slam poetry. I felt pretty disappointed because I thought the gorillas might do something special for my last day, rather than just giving me their usual welcome. However, my sour mood didn&rsquo;t last long once I realized that such blatant disrespect warranted at least three curb stompings. The goodbye lunch my coworkers organized also helped.
During the afternoon, I went around to each exhibit one final time, telling the animals what I really thought of them. Since only the good animals were left, I told them that they were all amazing, especially when paired with a full-bodied red. They all howled with laughter because they knew I was just kidding. &ldquo;We would obviously pair better with something more fruity,&rdquo; the super-intelligent gorilla signed sarcastically. Out of all the things I was leaving behind, I would miss our light-hearted banter the second most.
Before the day drew to a close, nostalgia got the better of me and I stopped by the first enclosure I ever cleaned. I remembered fondly how it took all night to get the area spic and span, but even so, throwing that party had been totally worth it. Just to think, if it weren&rsquo;t for those tiger tranquilizers, I would&rsquo;ve had the clarity of mind to just shoot the leopard when it broke free from its chains and started mauling party guests. But thank god I didn&rsquo;t. Otherwise, curb stomping would still be regarded as some deranged thing only real sickos do, instead of the widely accepted zoo-keeping practice it is today.

After serving as head zookeeper for 25 years and chief hunting assistant during a disastrous week-lo...

Last Day at the Zoo

DEREK: Hey, it’s Derek from I.T. It’s my job to oversee your search history, and I noticed you’ve spent the past few hours looking at ropes and night vision goggles. I just wanted to let you know that if you’re planning a heist, I’m in.
DEREK: BTW—I’m a pretty good driver and a tech wiz (duh). I’d be happy to fill either of those positions in your crew, but I’m open to other stuff too. Just lmk what we’re heisting.
DEREK: Noticed you didn’t get back to my past few emails—a solo heist type of guy, I see. I totally get it, no need to respond. And from one heister to another: Good luck.
DEREK: Did you see Jackson’s new cut? Sorry, just trying to make some friendly banter.
DEREK: Just saw you look up walkie-talkies. Not trying to jump to conclusions here, but that makes me think you’re planning a group heist and excluding me on purpose. Like I said, I’m a pretty good getaway driver.
DEREK: “How to block people from viewing my search history.” Ha ha. It’s this kind of friendly banter that shows me how much fun we’ll have when we heist together.
DEREK: Very funny, but it’s kind of been played out now. Can you turn your search history back on?
ALEX: Hi, Derek.
Seven emails in ten minutes is a bit much, don’t you think? I don’t appreciate your belligerence or your assumption that I am planning a heist. Not that it is any of your business, but the gear is for a camping trip this weekend with my family. And as manager of the HR department, it is now my responsibility to report you for this ridiculous insubordination.
Listen Derek, ignore that last paragraph. They never read more than a paragraph, Derek—remember that. They’ve been hunting us for years now, there’s not many of us left, but you! I can tell you have an eye for the heist! My crew needs a getaway driver, and if you’re as good as you say, you’re the guy for the job. Meet me at 64°09’40.7”S 62°21’13.0”W tomorrow at 5:00AM and we’ll talk.
P.S. Just saw Jackson’s new hair. Genuinely trying not to laugh.

Hey, it’s Derek from I.T. It’s my job to oversee your search history, and I noticed you’ve spent the past few hours looking at ropes and night vision goggles. I just wanted to let you know that if you’re planning a heist, I’m in...

Emails From The I.T. Guy

The Lampoon's Spring 2026 parody of the Harvard Crimson

Spring ’26

Crimson Parody

<ul>
 <li>Anyone who says Disneyland is the happiest place on earth has never been on the set of Masterchef Jr.</li>
 <li>The competition are all under 14 years old</li>
 <li>Kids under 14 years old are as mentally and physically weak as you’d expect</li>
 <li>You’re automatically the coolest guy in the room if you’re not a loser ten year old who likes to cook</li>
 <li>Gordon Ramsay doesn’t look a day over 70</li>
 <li>None of your opponents have the cognitive skills to defend themselves against rampant verbal abuse</li>
 <li>None of your opponents have the motor skills to defend themselves against stealthy physical attacks</li>
 <li>“Pussy-ass bitch” is inappropriate language for national television</li>
 <li>Masterchef Jr. is not broadcast nationally</li>
 <li>“Pussy-ass bitch” is inappropriate language for children who are pussy-ass bitches</li>
 <li>About half of the contestants are pre-diabetic</li>
 <li>The other half are actual-diabetic</li>
 <li>There’s food everywhere and you can eat any of it at any time if you’re high enough</li>
 <li>The on set safety team takes its job way too seriously</li>
 <li>The on set safety team believes blood in the food to be a safety hazard</li>
 <li>You can curse out children on a show hosted by Gordon Ramsay and no one will notice</li>
 <li>Cooking sure is harder than it looks!</li>
</ul>

Anyone who says Disneyland is the happiest place on earth has never been...

What I Learned On The Set of MasterChef Jr.

One Thursday, Little Walter Chairfork was trudging home from school, mind filled with the events of the day. He had spilled milk all over his “Dad Jokes Are How Eye Roll” shirt at lunch, right in front of his crush, Nancy, and her boyfriend. J-Dog, everyone called him. It was the type of nickname you could shout while doing sports or having sex — two things Little Walter had yet to experience. Little Walter’s idea of sport was catching Pokemon on his Nintendo DS. His idea of an orgasm was basically the same thing but under his covers at night.

After spilling the milk, the day had gone from bad to worse. As Little Walter looked up at Nancy, he had tried to ease the tension with a gentle quip. “Some weather we’re having, huh Nancy? It’s raining milk and cookies!”

The room, which had previously erupted in laughter at his mishap, fell silent. “What does that even mean?” asked Nancy. “You’re not even eating cookies. I mean, the tone was fine, but the premise just fell flat.” Then J-Dog spit on him and gave the lunchlady his autograph.

After the great D-Hall Debacle, as Little Walter had termed it in his head, he had failed his Spanish test. You see, Little Walter wasn’t the kind of bullied nerd who could find solace in the fact that one day he would go to a great college and make more money than his peers. He was quite dumb. Next to a bag of potatoes, Little Walter looked like a bag of rocks, which was the sort of thing he would often say about himself in an attempt at self-deprecating humor, but everyone else would just find sort of sad due to its accuracy. Little Walter was also fat. Obviously.

And so, Little Walter was trudging home from school after his worst day of the last three. In all honesty, bad stuff happened to Little Walter all the time. Today he had failed the Spanish test and spilled the milk. Yesterday, his father had died in a brutal car accident. The day before, the ice cream truck had run out of Chunky Monkey (Walter’s favorite flavor). It was while attempting to capture a wild Charizard that Walter tripped, fell, rolled 4 feet, and found himself staring over the edge of the sidewalk into a gaping void of eternal darkness.

Jump, a voice echoed.

“Come back here, Chawizard!” said Little Walter, still engrossed in his videogame. Little Walter had a lisp, which came out in moments of stress.

What the — are you even listening, kid? A mysterious voice tells you to jump into a gaping hole in the middle of your neighborhood and you’re worried about a Charizard? Oh God – I can smell you from here.

“Chawizard?!” The hole had gotten Little Walter’s attention with the word. “Holy guacamole!” he exclaimed. The boy was prone to replacing his swear words with foods. His mother had always told him swearing was “a sign of the devil.” His father had always told him “shut up, go to your room, but get me another beer first.”

Uhh – yeah, yeah that’s right kid, the void said. There’s a Charizard down here, and if you want to catch it you have to jump.

Little Walter hesitated.

What are you waiting for?

“I guess...” he sputtered. “I guess I’m just worried that when I jump my shirt will ride up on my stomach like it does in gym class on rope climbing day, and that J-Dog or Coach Applebee will be nearby and say I’m a “tub of lard” or “trying my best” like they do at school.

Jesus Christ.

“But I can get over that,” Little Walter continued. “And plus, I jump every day when I’m trying to play hopscotch during recess. One day I’ll make it to the tenth square without tripping!”

Um. Okay. Well, yeah. I’ve got hopscotch down here, and ice cream, and all the Pokemon you could ever want. And... your dad just died, right? I feel like that was kind of glossed over, but he’s down here too. And he wants to see you! And there are no bullies or gym coaches. Nancy’s here, and you didn’t hear it from me but she’s wearing her good chapstick – the cherry-scented one, and she looks just about ready to kiss behind the bleachers. So tuck that shirt into those neon athletic shorts and get jumping!

“Wait... Nancy wants to kiss me? I gotta get down there.” Little Walter was confused but excited. Something was beginning to happen in his pants and he moved to cover it with his Nintendo DS, which was more than large enough to hide the problem.

I don’t know, she was saying something earlier about being in love with the unphukular kid and wanting to turn him into Prom Queen? And how she knows everyone else would see his inner beauty if she could just give him an 80s rom-com-style makeover?

Little Walter asked what song the makeover would be paired with, and the void said Take on Me or maybe The Power of Love, and Little Walter was sold. “Stop drilling, you’ve hit oil!” he chuckled.

What does that even – oh, okay yeah. Come on down.

“I’ll be down faster than you can say ‘my dog has cancer and I’m worried I won’t be able to emotionally deal with her death!’”

There was a pause.

“I mean hey, whatever’s down there it’s gotta be more spacious than the locker I spend half the day stuffed in. So is there a trampoline or something down there ready to catch my fall?”

Again, no reply.

“Hello? Are you there? You’re sounding almost as absent as my father!”

Look man, I think I’d just – I think I’d feel bad if I didn’t ask: is everything, like, okay at home? All this stuff you’re saying... it sounds like... really sad? Like pathetic even? And it’s just, this whole thing I’m doing... usually I have to tempt people into abandoning their lives with all of these false promises about what’s down here, and you just seem sort of immediately ready to go.

“You got snacks down there?”

Oh my –

“I like twizzlers. You got twizzlers?”

No, I don’t “have twizzlers,” said the voice, exasperated. Little Walter patted the rim of the hole comfortingly, worried he had offended it. “Aw, that’s okay,” he offered. “I also like Twix and Kit-Kats. Any candy, really.” He flashed a gap toothed smile. Little Walter’s penchant for sweets had landed him with 17 cavities before the age of 12.

I can’t believe I’m saying this but I... don’t have a lot of candy actually. Maybe you should ease off the sweets? Could help with the acne? And you might do a little better in gym class. Do your parents really not pay enough attention to you to care what you eat?

Walter felt something stir in his chest. He looked at the ground. Or rather, he looked down at his stomach, then leaned forward so he was able to properly see the ground. It was true – his parents were usually too busy arguing to remember to make him dinner, and he spent many a supper on the curb of 7/11, forlornly stuffing lukewarm taquitos into his mouth. Most nights, he would follow it up with a pack of four of twizzlers. Sometimes he would stare at the intersecting red strands, imagining them to be two people in love – not like Mom and Dad. Not like him and Nancy. Or maybe they formed a piece of DNA, he would think. A double helix of a gene that could make him a different person. An even marginally less pathetic person. It was his greatest wish in the entire world.

And though he was generally relentlessly optimistic, Little Walter felt sad.

Oh... look kid, I wasn’t trying to bum you out. You know, it’s just like, you gotta at least try to improve your life. You know, try deodorant or something. You can’t expect magic holes to appear all the time and start offering you everything you’ve ever wanted.

Little Walter considered this. He did not consider things often. and it hurt his little walnut-sized brain.

And most of the time those offers of paradise would probably be a trick anyway. Just a ruse to – taking purely hypothetically here – harvest your soul or something like that. I don’t know.

“So you’re saying I... shouldn’t jump in.”

Well, yeah. I guess you shouldn’t. It was the first time the void had ever said this.

“And I should wear deodorant? That would make people like me more?”

Yeah. Correct.

And so Little Walter continued on his way, circumventing the void by carefully maneuvering around the street and through his neighbor’s yard. He hummed Take My Breath Away to himself, thinking of one day when he would kiss Nancy. He would be like “Hey Nancy, you take my breath away” and she would be like “you’re so handsome” and they would totally smooch, maybe even with tongue if the moment was right.

As Little Walter trotted home, he felt nothing but appreciation for the advice the void had given him. He imagined doing his Spanish homework that night without his classic “reverse pomodoro method,” which included 25 minutes of Pokemon for every 5 minutes of studying. He pictured making eye contact with J-Dog the next day in school without cowering, speaking without spitting all over the place, and walking through the cafeteria without spilling his food. And yes, oh yes – he would even put on deodorant, he resolved.

And as the pit of despair and desperation into which he had almost stumbled shrunk in the distance behind him, he remarked to himself that maybe – just maybe – he would eat one fewer taquito that night.

“Only 11,” he whispered to himself defiantly. “Only 11 taquitos tonight.”

Little Walter eventually moved to Hollywood and became who we now know as Tom Cruise.

Screaming Into The Void

I’m a graffiti artist. You might be familiar with my work. The big purple penis in the bathroom stall at the Circle K off I-95 Exit 77A? Me. The bigger, purpler penis in the Douglas Elementary School bathroom stall? Also, me. But much less refined than my later stuff.

Security’s been tightened at Douglas Elementary, so I’m forced to search elsewhere for my next canvas. I follow a group of solemn hood rats wearing all black. They keep littering flowers and bawling—doing nothing to cover their tracks. Rookie mistake, because they lead me to a 500-foot-long marble bathroom stall wall. Bingo. And there’s no toilet or sink or gunk. Double bingo.

This is a graffiti hotspot, judging by the 58,000 or so names. My new competition are the likes of Lt. Chadwick Harper, Maj. Lionel Beaumont, and Capt. Augustus McDaniel. Posers. These “artists” seriously think their homogenous minimalist style and bourgeois names are shedding a light on our hypocritical repression by “the man”? Give me a break. And why don’t we throw subtlety out the window while we’re at it? I was in this game long before these frauds, and I’ll be in this game long after them. No one compares to the Purple Peen Machine.

That’s me, FYI. It’s a little something I’ve been cooking up. Let me know if you like it. I was also thinking Big Greg, if you’re more into slant rhyme. In big, bold Comic Sans I paint “Purple Peen Machine” across the 500-foot wall. In a smaller font, I write “Big Greg,” just in case I decide to make the switch later on.

For my next project, I’m gonna paint a mural of soldiers valiantly sacrificing their lives in the name of freedom, because I love war.

I’m a graffiti artist. You might be familiar with my work...

Vietnam War Memorial

I am wolf. Not big, also not that bad. Growing up wolf, life is tough. My momma and papa are rug now in rich guy’s house. My sisters and brothers in Brooklyn Zoo.

When I am small, big foreign Hollywood producer barge into den. “I need actor. Play big bad villain. Many movies.” My parents already rug, so I say, “No, go to other den.” He shoot me with tranquilizer.

I wake up on set. 6 a.m. First day, they tell me to blow down three houses. I’m like, what I look like? Whale? I cannot blow. Then they want me to eat three pigs. These pigs pretty smart, know what is gonna happen. Start running around set, knocking stuff down. I give them good chase. More tranquilizers, “Bam bam bam.”

Six months later, movie is done and I am big star now. Go to Oscars and lose. Director give me some whiskey. I like. I like a lot. Have to meet with douchebag PR agent who has big vision for rebrand. I audition for lead role in Fantastic Mr. Fox and get part. But social media say, “Only fox can play fox.” I tell director, “I have lot of range. Wolf who hug. Wolf who cry.” He laugh right in my face.

Next movie, when I see I have to eat Grandma, I try to walk off set. Director tell me Grandma is volunteer who ready to pull plug and that I will get some whiskey, so I say ok. Just when I do the deed and think movie is over, some big muscular actor barge onto set and try to cut my stomach open. He think he gonna be big hero and rescue Grandma. I try to resist, but the whiskey has made me fat. When they try to get Grandma out, she is just bones. I’m like, what you expect to happen?

Next thing I know, movie come out and it is very so-so. Out of nowhere agent call me and say “You fired.” At first, I’m like hee hee, very funny. But then they give me whole spiel about how nobody need wolf anymore. Everyone want Adam Sandler instead.

When I get call for Jack London’s Call of the Wild, I very happy. Finally, drama role made for wolf. On set, I prepare for big fancy monologue where I reject domestication and rediscover my true nature, when director come up and tell me, “We cut that. You mostly fetch stick.”

I get so mad I actually go wild. I bite director. Not hard bite, but director is French and very dramatic. Somehow this become international incident and I am banned from seventeen country.

Now I only act in commercial for pill that fix erectile dysfunction, which I get from whiskey. Life is not good.

Autobiography

Is it just me, or can you just not say anything these days? I mean, you can’t even massacre a neighboring village because they’re a different religion from you without someone getting offended, ya know? And don’t get me started on serfs. It’s not our fault if you’re too poor not to be indentured. Oh, but, ya know, I guess I can’t say that anymore, can I? God I hate this village.

Anyways. I was talkin’ to this chick the other day, completely riddled with the plague and I told her “Hey. Your organs may be eating themselves, but at least you lost a few pounds.” Last time I give a woman a compliment, am I right fellas? EVERYONE’S OUT TO GET ME BECAUSE I’M OUT HERE TELLIN FOLKS THE TRUTH.

Hey, Service Wench over there scrubbing the floors. Call me a Calvinist, because I’m predetermined to squeeze those sponges. CHECK PLEASE! Any couples in tonight? You sir, how long’s it been since you’ve fired the old cannon? Don’t worry, brother, I once fell in love with a woman with a chastity belt, too. Turned out that the entire jousting team had a spare key.

Hey now, settle down, I love women. IN MY CHAMBERS HEYO! Alright. I’m taking a seat. I’m taking a seat. We need to talk. Used to be, a jester could tell a few jokes about the king’s mistresses, maybe mock the size of his lance, and the worst that would happen is what? Public flogging? A little disembowelment? Now, you say one thing about the queen’s weight and suddenly you’re “problematic.” I’m like, yeah, I’m problematic. My problem is paying rent in this godforsaken castle. No one wants funny anymore.

“Oh, Geoff, can’t you do something wholesome? Maybe a little pun about the harvest?” No. I want to talk about the real issues. Like how I haven’t seen my jester pension in six moons. Also, I’ll say it, the King isn’t God.

Neck snaps in gallows.

Jester

Intergalactic War is what me and my younger brother Terry play in the basement when we want to escape the sound of Mom and Dad arguing.

Me: Pew Pew! Got you with my laser gun, Terry! 
Terry: Did not! 
Me: Did too! 
Terry: Yeah, well I just hit you with my freeze ray! 
Me: (standing still) Curse you, moon aliens! 
Terry: And guess what? I’m gonna blow up the whole Earth with this epic laser. 
Me: Not if I blow up the moon with my epic laser first. 
Terry: Hey. Don’t do that. 
Me: Why not? 
Terry: The consequences would be cataclysmic. 
Me: (pretending to fire a large laser) Peeeeew-wowwwwwwww! Too late, just did, haha. 
Terry: The chunks of debris from the explosion hurtle towards Earth, promising unfixable terrestrial transformation and certain death for millions. 
Me: Jeez Terry it was just— 
Terry: The surviving Moon People mourn the losses of loved ones, children, and spouses, in the mere moments they have left before their own inevitable deaths. 
Me: Well, I guess my laser worked pretty good. Earth wins, right? 
Terry: Yeah, if you consider the melting of Polar ice caps, rising sea levels, millions displaced, skyrocketing immigration, post-apocalyptic dictator-based governance, and an unstable axial tilt a “win.” 
Me: I don’t understand where you learned all this. You’re seven years old. 
Terry: I’m what Mom and Dad are fighting about.

Intergalactic War is what me and my younger brother Terry play in the basement...

Intergalactic War

When Billy was about five years old, his parents informed his teacher that his reading comprehension was just fine and he was keeping up well with the rest of the class, but he might be struggling a bit with seeing the bright side of things. Billy’s teacher had noticed that he was much more wary than other children and would always over-fill his glasses of milk, cautious of letting them rest at half full. So, his parents decided to send him to the internationally renowned local optometrist and run some tests.

“Just go ahead and cover your left eye and read out that line of letters for me.”

“A... Q... Z... P... U... R... attempting to put a bandaid on a bullet hole.”

“Okay, right eye please.”

The doctor diagnosed Billy with a case of short-sighted pessimism. He was fitted with a pair of -2.00 prescription rose-colored glasses for his optimism and a pair of blue-light glasses for when he wanted to stay up late at night watching TV.

After that, Billy’s outlook on life changed for the better. When Billy got a D in school, he figured that if you add a colon to the left it makes a smiley face, and a smiley face for a grade couldn’t be all that bad! The exam was on identifying the issues with American Imperialism. When Billy’s soccer team lost their match 2-27, he remarked to his teammates that at least all the pretty girls had come to watch them play, and when his teammates beat him up for embarrassing them, he commented on how his bruises would go just swell with the pinkish hue of everything else in the world.

Billy was living a beautiful life in blissful ignorance. There was just one problem.

Every night before bed, Billy would take off his glasses, and everything would go neutral. He would scream in agony and fear over the state of the world, crying himself to sleep until he woke up the next day and popped those bad boys back on. Those eight and a half hours were petrifying, and his parents had no idea what to do. So, they took him back to the optometrist.

This time, Billy was given LASIK surgery with rose-colored lenses. And all was swell again, only now Billy had the opposite problem. With his rose-colored lens on twenty-four-seven, he was just too darn excited about the “possibilities of tomorrow” that he wasn’t able to fall asleep. He would stay up all night, laughing about how the world looked like God had left a red sock in the wash.

Due to the lack of sleep, Billy struggled a lot with paying attention in school. His teacher recommended he see a psychiatrist. The psychiatrist supplied Billy with adderall, and after that, well, Billy was just fine.

Rose Colored Glasses

When it comes to performative feminism, I’m a veritable Fred Astaire. Before I stepped into the spotlight, performing feminism on the streets for coins was practically unheard of. You could find a common street urchin juggling bowling pins on any corner. When folks stopped by my pretty little slice of sidewalk, they knew they were in for a dazzling display of death-defying feminism.

I’d hula hoop atop a soapbox with RBG painted on it in period-blood red, while warning female passerby of a sneaky demon who goes by the name “Mansplaining.” My most popular act was painting my nails pink for the girls, while massaging my chest with breast cancer ribbons ’til I orgasmed on the first try, as all females do.

One remarkable evening, after my abortion act, I was beating the living personification of chivalry within an inch of his life, when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I twisted around and found myself face-to-face with David Hasselhoff. “My God!” he said. “You’ve got TALENT!” He slipped me a card with his contact information, and I read the three greatest words in the world (besides “free bathroom tampons”): America’s Got Talent.

David flew me out to Vegas for my big audition. I opened with my body hair act, in which my female assistant removed all of my body hair with wax strips. The crowd exploded with applause. She then used masking tape to reattach every single clump of hair. “All body hair is gorgeous, darling!” I shouted to the heavens. I wrapped up my audition with some silly impressions of white feminists, and dead serious impressions of the intersectional ones.

My career as a performative feminist was never the same after that performance. I won America’s Got Talent. Naturally, I bet my $1 million prize on the expansion of the wage gap and entered the 2010s as a multimillionaire. After decades in the industry, I even earned my star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, right next to comedy legend Bill Cosby.

When it comes to performative feminism...

A Performative Feminist

Man: Hey lady, let’s get out of here.
Woman: Not happening mister.
Man: Let’s go back to mine, we’ll take our brews to go.
Woman: I’m on a call, I’m married to my job.
Man: Why are you married to your jo—?

SENIOR BLIMP SPECIALIST: HEY BABE, IS THIS GUY BOTHERING YOU?

Man: What the fuck? A job?
Woman: As a matter of fact, he’s bothering me quite a bit.

SENIOR BLIMP SPECIALIST: ALRIGHT BUDDY, HOW ABOUT YOU AND ME TAKE A WALK. HOW’S THAT SOUND?

Man: What the hell is a senior blimp specialist.

SENIOR BLIMP SPECIALIST: NONE OF YOUR BEESWAX.

Man: Okay, I’m starting to put the pieces together here. You said you were ‘married to your job—’
Woman: Shut the hell up.
Man: —and here we are talking to a living breathing job. That’s clever.

SENIOR BLIMP SPECIALIST: SHUT THE HELL UP YOU JACKASS.

Man: That’s actually really clever the more I think about it.

SENIOR BLIMP SPECIALIST: I’LL KILL YOU, YOU SON OF A GUN

Man: That’s actually very cleve—*bullet tears through abdomen, killing the man instantly*

SENIOR BLIMP SPECIALIST: That’ll show him.
Woman: *Hugs job* I love you Darwin.

Married to my Job

It was a dark and stormy night for ol’ George Abofo. He was peddling his wares down on Lipman Street, just a hair shy from Bottomsville. Abofo was a sly fellow who made his living selling shoes to children on the side of the road.

Abofo was a shoesman. Some people use the phrase cobbler, but Abofo didn’t.

Abofo wasn’t like most people, and he didn’t give a rat’s ass who knew it.

This particular night Abofo was lacing a pair of brown boots for Robert Feed, a local middle schooler whose feet were growing at an alarming rate. It seemed like every week Feed needed a new pair. Abofo loved the challenge, and more importantly, loved that Feed was a young student.
You see, George Abofo didn’t even know how to read. But if shoes were books, and laces were words, then goddamnit, Abofo was the most literate man you’d ever met.

“Mr. Abofo, my shoes is too small for my feets!” Feed exclaimed. The wind whipped Abofo’s face as he labored over Feed’s shoes. “Just a moment now, Robert.” Abofo pulled and prodded the end of Feed’s left boot, adjusting the shoe’s vamp with his tongue. That was the thing about being a shoesman—you sometimes had to use your tongue to get things done.

“Examine my work,” said Mr. Abofo, standing up off of his shoesman’s stoop. Feed looked down at his boots and gasped. They fit perfectly. Mr. Abofo brushed off his hands (like a father would after a long day of gardening) and smiled. “Alright kiddo, let’s get you off to school,” he said, chuckling. Robert Feed skipped away smiling, his toes wiggling within the perfectly spaced confines of his boots, not realizing how dangerously close he had come to being brutally molested by the town pervert.

George Abofo

No, I’m not a flat earther—nothing of the sort. Rather, I believe the Earth is made out of pizza. I think the green grass is cheese, the oceans are oil and sauce, and that the Earth’s crust is also an extra part of the pizza loaded with more cheese than usual. I haven’t figured out what the pizza crust is, but I think it’s asteroids.

Pizza earthers and flat earthers are similar in the sense that we both think the Earth is flat—its just that they think the Earth is the Earth, and I think the Earth is pizza. Take Europe, for example. Flat earthers think it is a giant mass of land, whereas I think it is a giant mass of pizza. My house in the suburbs of Boston is also made out of pizza, and pepperoni slices for the roof.

Scientists might look around, and say, “this isn’t pizza, this is a pile of bricks,” every time you try to convince them that a pile of bricks is pizza. But at the end of the day, who gets to decide what a pile of bricks is? The guy who owns them, and guess what, you’re looking at him.

This doesn’t mean that I think people are pizza too. Only some people: Egyptians, Koreans, and Canadians. All other races/ethnicities are likely some combination of breadsticks, spaghetti, or garlic bread.

Now, this might all sound like nonsense to you, but let me explain how I figured it out. About a week ago, I decided to make my wife her favorite meal: homemade pizza. I left work a little early to buy the ingredients: bread, sauce, pepperonies, peppers, and of course, the cheese. When I got home, I began by dicing up the cheese and layering it over the bread—but something was wrong: a strange sound was coming from my room. I went upstairs to see what I could find, and when I opened the door, there it was: my wife having sex with another man. After that, I swallowed a bottle of pills, and when I woke up I believed in the pizza earth theory.

I can’t remember what my wife looks like.

No, I’m not a flat earther—nothing of the sort...

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