You know, I didn’t always want to be a writer for the Lampoon. I had big dreams once, like going to med school and starting a family. But then I grew up. I realized that I have a paramount responsibility to the two people who read this magazine– my parents– to keep practical career aspirations on the back burner, while I force my mom to read my pieces aloud as I laugh at my own satirical brilliance. To my mom, for this and everything else, I say, “You’re welcome.”

The best way to explain your jokes is to give no explanation whatsoever. After reading the Lampoon magazine, people often say to me, “How is this funny?” “Do you think laughing at your own jokes makes them funnier?” “Oh, so you think you’re better and funnier than me ’cause you’re in the Lampoon?”

To answer the last question first, yes. Yes, I do think I’m better and funnier than you. And I’m not answering the other two questions. You absolute moron.

Quite frankly, reader, when it comes to jokes, you don’t know your head from your ass. Your miniscule chimp brain is smooth and accustomed only to the regurgitated content it consumes on your stupid monkey devices with your stupid monkey friends. You should be thanking me for giving you the words that, though you can’t comprehend, make something remarkably beautiful if seen with the right eyes. (Mine.)

So as you read this magazine, you may be inclined to hold it rightside up or upside down or leftside right to attain its meaning, and, honestly, I doubt it’ll make a difference. I’d encourage you to follow the exceedingly simple instruction of keeping the thing upside up, but when you inevitably can’t, just know that I expected nothing less.

To conclude, my sweet and simple reader, if I can crack even the hint of a smile from you, I’ve far exceeded my wildest expectations. Anything greater than your absolute dissatisfaction is gravy to me. And at the end of the day, if you walk away with absolutely nothing from this magazine, I’ll still sleep like an absolute baby. In addition to my sleeping pill addiction, you’re dumb. And I can accept that fact. Because either you’re dumb, or this magazine really isn’t very funny in the first place.

And dear God, I hope it isn’t the latter.

With love and optimism,

NGH

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Murphy's Law