Job Application: Pizza Hut Delivery Driver

Lawyer: Hey sir, I know you&rsquo;re on the clock, but you really need to talk right now. A flower? You&rsquo;re picking a flower? No, man, it&rsquo;s not about flowers. Seriously, just say it with me, &ldquo;I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.&rdquo;&nbsp;
You won&rsquo;t swear on the Bible? Oh, do you need the Torah? Woah, definitely not the Torah then. You could&rsquo;ve just shaken your head. Judge, can we just go with it? Awesome. So, Mr. Clarke, all evidence points to you using your mime business as a front for performing back alley abortions, what do you have to say about this?&nbsp;
Nothing? Oh, you&rsquo;re in a box, okay. Perhaps, a box of lies? Jury, take note of the box of lies Mr. Clarke is encased in.&nbsp;
Woah, where are you going? Judge, wait judge, he&rsquo;s escaping. Bailiffs! Bailiffs he&rsquo;s esca--oh he&rsquo;s back. Phew. I had no idea there were stairs back there. Don&rsquo;t roll your eyes. Everyone saw that, right? Mr. Clarke was walking down stairs only he has access to, probably down into hell, from where he came.&nbsp;
You&rsquo;re...what are you doing now--are you pulling on a rope? Oh my god. Jury, he&rsquo;s pulling an umbilical cord. You&rsquo;re sick. You&rsquo;re a sick man -- oh, wait, oh it&rsquo;s an IV? You healed the babies? Are you miming delivering sick babies and nursing them back to health? Oh my god, you&rsquo;re incredible. Jury, I withdraw my previous remarks. I think this man is innocent. I think this man is a hero.&nbsp;
Mime: (signs &ldquo;I performed over a hundred abortions and would do it again&rdquo;)

Lawyer: Hey sir, I know you’re on the clock, but you really need to talk right now. A flower? You’re...

Mime Hero

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

One day after school, my parents sat me down and demanded that I get my head out of those darn books. Lifting my eyes ever so slightly above the rim of The Giver, I was shocked to come face-to-face with a world I had never seen before. In front of me: a rainbow. Behind me: a double rainbow. To my side: a crazy person taking a shit on someone’s porch. The smell of fresh feces wafted towards my nose that was no longer buried in a work of great literature. I couldn’t believe my eyes—mostly because they were watering too much from the smell. My parents were right. The real world was beautiful.

From that day forward, I vowed to never again read a book and to start living life the way G-d intended: illiterate. I learned that paper wasn’t just a place for the great minds of our generation to share their most sophisticated beliefs, morals, and ideas; it could also be folded up into a tiny crane.

Ink, the blood of poets that would spill out onto the page in an obsessive attempt at conveying their artistic viewpoint was much more fun when paired with water and a dollar-store t-shirt to make something my fellow peers deemed “tie-dye.”

I worked to forget everything I had ever learned from a book so that I could focus on what was right in front of me: the movie version of every book I had ever read. I don’t know why I had pictured every literary character as ugly, but I enjoyed much more watching hot people act out the scenes that I had poured over in the middle of the night with nothing more than a flashlight to guide my eyes.

I soon grew bored of the real world, but I knew I could never go back to books because I had vowed not to. That’s when I took up performative reading, and the attention I got from girls on the subway was enough to keep me entertained.

One day after school, my parents sat me down...

Reading in the 21st Century

- So I&rsquo;m eating a pint of ice cream a day and chasing it with a rotisserie chicken, but a few weeks in I get the feeling that maybe I&rsquo;m overdoing it.
- Uh huh.
- And I go to my doctor and he says, yeah, I have a few weeks to live.
- Oh, man.
- I reread the script, too, and I just noticed it doesn&rsquo;t even say my character is fat. I think I saw a fat person the day I got the script and I was thinking about them.
- Yeah, I was about to say.
- Anyway, I did the math and I think I can finish shooting my role before I die, which you know&hellip;
- Yes of course let&rsquo;s get moving. Right away. Voiceover booth&rsquo;s this way.
- All righty.

- So I’m eating a pint of ice cream a day and chasing it with a rotisserie chicken, but a few weeks ...

Actor Who Got Really Fat for a Movie

&lsquo;PG&rsquo; stands for &lsquo;Parental Guidance.&rsquo; I know all about this because I am an orphan and I have never been allowed inside a PG movie. But one time I did sneak into Home Alone and watched it until someone recognized me as the girl whose parents were involved in the hit and run that made it into all the newspapers and then I had to leave the theater.
Yes, my parents died in a hit and run. And no, they never found the train who did it.&nbsp;
So far, the things I really like about PG movies are the goofy springtraps and the holiday cheer. Recently I wrote my own PG movie.&nbsp;
&nbsp;
Int. My House &ndash; Morning
&nbsp;
The doorbell rings and I&rsquo;m slipping around on a bowling ball accidentally.&nbsp;
&nbsp;
Milkman
Woah, cool your jets, it&rsquo;s just me, the milkman.
&nbsp;
Me
Good morning and a very happy Veterans Day to you, sir.
&nbsp;
Milkman
Happy Veterans Day. Hey, kid. Don&rsquo;t tell your mom I asked, but is the man of the house home?
&nbsp;
Me
Oh, that would be my father.
&nbsp;
Milkman
Actually, princess, just between us, he would not be your father.
&nbsp;
Me
No, not anymore I guess, seeing as how he was just recently involved in a hit and run accident with a train.
&nbsp;
Milkman
I&rsquo;m very sorry.
&nbsp;
Me
You&rsquo;re sorry?
&nbsp;
Milkman&nbsp;
Well, yes.&nbsp;
&nbsp;
Me
Why would you be sorry?
&nbsp;
Mailman
*makes a break for it*
&nbsp;
Me
*falling on the bowling ball and crushing my ankle comically*&nbsp;
&nbsp;
That scene is based on a real fantasy of mine where my biological father is actually alive and has a heavy moral burden to bear.
&nbsp;
Ext. Hospital &ndash; Day
&nbsp;
Doctor
Well, Jessie. I&rsquo;m sorry to say that your ankle was totally crushed.&nbsp;
&nbsp;
Me
And my parents?
&nbsp;
Doctor
Oh. They were also totally crushed.
&nbsp;
That scene is a flashback of the real time my parents died in a hit and run on Veterans Day, and nobody cared because they weren&rsquo;t Veterans.&nbsp;

‘PG’ stands for ‘Parental Guidance.’ I know all about this because I am an orphan and I have never b...

My PG Movie

&ldquo;The ability to get to the verge without getting into the war is the necessary art&rdquo; &ndash; so wrote John Foster Dulles unprompted on the wall of a highway overpass. Years later, his twin brother of the same name would become Secretary of State and plagiarize this quotation to stabilize the flailing Eisenhower administration.
Brinkmanship is defined as the strategy of forcing the relation between two entities to the point of confrontation. As an educational exercise, consider an instance of brinkmanship between two young children.
&nbsp;
&ndash; I&rsquo;m gonna tell mom on you.
&ndash; Nuh-uh.
&ndash; Uh-huh.
&ndash; (with pistol grip visible above diaper waistline) Nuh-uh.
&nbsp;
Richard Nixon was a master of the art of brinkmanship. He would routinely call Soviet premiers to ask whether their refrigerators were running. The premiers, disturbed at the strength of Nixon&rsquo;s intelligence operations, would spontaneously disassemble their nuclear weapons.
Another successful practitioner of brinkmanship was Henry Kissinger, who would mutter insights about Richelieu very quietly. His adversaries would lean in until they were at the &ldquo;brink&rdquo; of falling in love with him, at which point Kissinger would lean in and neck with his adversaries until they felt an overwhelming urge to surrender.
Every strategy has its limits, however, and brinkmanship is no exception. The tactic can falter when an adversary&rsquo;s threats are no longer believed, or when the threats are issued credibly but the issuer has a voice that sounds a little like Kermit the Frog, which makes everyone laugh.
Discussion Questions
<ol>
<li style="font-weight: 400;" aria-level="1">Johnny tells his parents he will kill himself: is that brinkmanship? What if he does it, but they don&rsquo;t cry?</li>
<li style="font-weight: 400;" aria-level="1">Imagine you are trying to defuse a brinkmanship situation that has gone too far&hellip; whoa!</li>
<li style="font-weight: 400;" aria-level="1">List three pros and cons of brinkmanship immediately, or else I will list four pros and cons.</li>
</ol>

“The ability to get to the verge without getting into the war is the necessary art” – so wrote John ...

Brinkmanship

Jeremy Bentham states that pain and pleasure are our sovereign masters. It would seem that we would wish to spare man from pain, such as that of his acquaintances posting photo evidence of their deep connections to a romantic partner on Instagram. National Girlfriend Day, the leading cause of these sentimental reminders of our own crushing loneliness, generates this pain, and as such, in the utilitarian view, one would find it morally imperative to do away with it.

Other schools of thought agree. Immanuel Kant famously stated, “do unto others that you would wish upon yourself.” We can then realize that if we had a girlfriend, we would not post a lovely photo of her online with the caption “I love you,” in order to spare the endless tears that our fellow man would spiral into in his deep isolation.

As an 18th-century thinker, Kant also probably states that women are morally inferior to men. As such, a holiday celebrating their capacity to be loving partners would surely violate Kantian ideas. The moral conclusion is to do away with National Girlfriend Day. Or at least the part where you post about it online.

Even the most fringe wings of philosophy agree that National Girlfriend Day is morally objectionable. Take libertarianism, or the idea that taxes are evil. In a sense, National Girlfriend Day is a form of taxation on the sanity of the single man. While we usually hesitate to provide anecdotal evidence in academic contexts, this philosopher can concur that, as a lifelong libertarian and hopeless romantic, the tax rates on my heart are too damn high. When will Girlfriends the world across levy the fee of my love? That is the only tax I can bear. That and sales tax on burgers.

To any girl readers, I hope you are not personally discouraged by my objection to your special day. I support women. In fact, I am looking for a girlfriend. But I am in no rush to find one by August 1st, because that day, as far as I am ethically and morally concerned, is no more important than Flag Day or Tuesday. QED.

Jeremy Bentham states that pain and pleasure...

A Philosophical Objection to National Girlfriend Day

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

And Jordan moves left&hellip; Spins around Stockton&hellip; Wretches nine times and DRAINS the mid-range jumper!
Stockton takes the ball up. Keeping his distance from Jordan. Agreed, Herb, probably the stench, Herb. And Jordan&rsquo;s projectile vomit stream SLAPS the ball out of Stockton&rsquo;s hands! It&rsquo;s Bulls&rsquo; ball as the ref himself starts to yak.
Jordan continues to hurl. Vomits left. Dishes to Pippen. Pippen wipes his hands on his jersey after touching the ball. You said it, Herb: soaked. Jordan uttering something that is not English. Agreed, Herb, definitely a dead language, but not Latin as I know it. A dribble and a spew and a KICK to Rodman down low for the eeeeeasy bucket.
Short break here as MJ glazes an adoring crowd in barf. This break, brought to you as always by Mr. Pibb. And Herb, it seems like Utah&mdash; the chairs on the bench are levitating&mdash; like Utah is having trouble with those backdoor cuts. They&rsquo;ll need to tighten things up and Malone starts bleeding from his palms. Jordan&rsquo;s eyes are all black now as he takes a quick float to the top of the arena.
Quick pants-piss from each ref, and we&rsquo;re back in action.&nbsp; Utah will inbound and Jordan STEALS the ball with his words. The ball POPS upon Jordan&rsquo;s hot touch. You don&rsquo;t see that often, Herb. Apologies to the viewers for the chunkblow noises&ndash; Herb himself is now drawn in by MJ&rsquo;s spell of darkness. MJ breathes some flies between sips of Gatorade. Karl Malone&rsquo;s son, now dead in the stands. Ooooh, and a SILKY mid-range jumper from Pippen.

And Jordan moves left… Spins around Stockton… Wretches nine times and DRAINS the mid-range jumper!
...

The Flu Game

Good evening students. I&rsquo;d like to begin by thanking those of you who showed up to this lecture. I guess the rest of your classmates decided they&rsquo;d rather spend Thanksgiving with their families! (light laughter) I&rsquo;m here today to talk about myths, and how I am living inside of one.
Now, you don&rsquo;t need to have a PhD to say that human life and mythology share some common features. I say this all time and I am illiterate. Truly anyone can say anything, anytime. But rather than talk about that, I&rsquo;d like to talk about the time I was approached at a very young age by a hideous old goblin, who told me I could save my starving family by following him into the forest. Next slide, please.
He had two holes where his nose should be, and scraggly white hair where his eyes should be. One touch of his wrinkled, leathery hands was enough to make you want to vomit, as I frequently did when he began to appear in my shower every morning for a month. You can see a close up of his fingers here, and here. You could call that fateful day when I followed him into his woodsy hovel my &ldquo;Call to Adventure&rdquo; if you will, and the subsequent twelve years I spent trying to escape his labyrinth my &ldquo;Adventure.&rdquo; Next slide.
But just because I endured a series of trials and hardships does not make me a hero. Refugees and homeless people are certainly not heroes, for example. A hero is marked above all by good deeds. Here&rsquo;s a shot of me really just going to town on this centaur I had to fight in the labyrinth. Next slide. Ah, and here&rsquo;s a shot of me signing the agreement to let Schmekel the Goblin &ldquo;have his way&rdquo; with my first-born daughter every spring, in exchange for my freedom. The sucker let me go immediately after that. Next slide.
(picture of a playground slide) Oops, wrong &ldquo;slide.&rdquo; (winking, light laughter) My daughter in the audience is gonna kill me for all these &ldquo;Dad jokes,&rdquo; right Melissa? Wave to the students. That&rsquo;s my daughter. Wave, Melissa. Okay, next slide.
Okay, and this is actually the wrong slide. Please go one forward. There, this is me standing next to the centaur&rsquo;s dead body.
Now I&rsquo;d like to argue that the patterns we find in mythology are universal and could be psychoanalyzed to reflect humanity&rsquo;s deepest desires, though because I started this lecture an hour late I&rsquo;ll instead just wrap things up with the quick argument that my experience was the one true Hero&rsquo;s Journey, and I am the one true hero. Thank you, all.

Good evening students. I’d like to begin by thanking those of you who showed up to this lecture. I g...

Guest Lecture by Joseph Campbell at University of Chicago, Transcript 11/24/68

Chimney sweeping is what I was born to do since I have no arms or legs. Doctors called my missing limbs a pity or a travesty, but my parents called them chimney brush slots. I was put to work immediately.
All the other kids have to use both hands to brush, the suckers. I brush everywhere that I walk or climb or exist. I&rsquo;m the most popular chimney sweep in London &ndash; not only do I have the most brushes, but I do it for free. Partly because of a love of the trade, but mostly because they refuse to pay orphans.
Good sweeping starts with the uniform. I wear only a dirty cap, marking me as a grade-A sweeper and a quadriplegic. Once in the chimney, other kids waste time with two-handed brushing or suffocation. Instead I wriggle upwards while waving my arms and legs and convulsing. I got better than the older kids by studying the inchworm, nature&rsquo;s chimney sweep. I may have the mind of a 9 year old, but I have the lungs of a much unhealthier 9 year old.
My least favorite days are when the constable is about. He&rsquo;s always after us street kids &ndash; not to grope us or anything. That was the last constable. This constable just wants to see us rot in prison. I always rely on my brush-feet to carry me to safety; I don&rsquo;t need to be faster than the constable, I just have to brush faster than the other kids. While I am always the fastest brusher, the other kids can actually run, so I always spend the night in prison. The fluttering of my brushes in my escape attempts leave the cell impeccably clean &ndash; every time.
My brushing skills come from my training. I was dropped into my first chimney as a baby, and whatever chimney-cleaning secrets didn&rsquo;t come naturally to me were very quickly learned as I tumbled down that chimney. This was a rite of passage. What fell into that chimney was a baby, but what emerged was a man, covered in soot. We don&rsquo;t know who that guy was, but I emerged right after him, a limbless baby covered in soot &ndash; and a damn-good sweeper.

Chimney sweeping is what I was born to do since I have no arms or legs. Doctors called my missing li...

Chimney Sweep

The Lampoon's Spring 2026 parody of the Harvard Crimson

Spring ’26

Crimson Parody

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

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

A witch cursed me at the county fair when I was three because I corrected her Latin using my brand-new encyclopedia. She said, “Enjoy your last update, nerd,” and bam—now all my knowledge is sourced from the 1993 Encyclopedia Britannica, Deluxe Print Edition, 32 volumes. Plus index.

At first, it was awesome. I knew everything. Like every single winner of the 1992 Summer Olympics. That women’s rights were finally guaranteed since Ruth Bader Ginsberg’s appointment to the Supreme Court. And a bangin’ summary of the Iran Contra affair. You think anyone else in prekindergarten knew what “detente” was? No. I ruled.

But now it’s 2025, and everything I know is still from the 1993 Encyclopedia Britannica, Deluxe Print Edition, 32 volumes. Plus index. My knowledge ends with Bush Sr. and a cautious optimism about compact discs. People ask me questions like “What’s a meme?” And I say, “Ah yes, a theoretical unit of cultural transmission proposed by Richard Dawkins in The Selfish Gene,” and they just stare at me.

My professors hate me because I can only cite one source, which is the 1993 Encyclopedia Britannica. My friends hate me since I never remember their birthdays because they were all born before 1993, but none of them were significant enough to make it into the Britannica. My cousin from Belgrade hates me because I keep calling him Yugoslavian. I assume it’s because they’ve probably rebranded to something sleeker, like “Neo-Slavia.”

I wish there was some sort of worldwide information superhighway that I could use to rapidly look up everything that’s happened in the last thirty-two years. Here is a list of things I know how to do: send faxes, build a trebuchet, and recite the full text of the U.S. Constitution¹. Here is a list of things I do not know how to do because my knowledge is so outdated: The list is empty, because I don’t know what I don’t know. And neither does the Britannica. That is the whole freaking point!! On an unrelated note, dating has been pretty hard. Partly because of my curse, but mostly because I’m gay and homosexual marriage is still banned in all fifty states.

Britannica

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

<pre>
- Hey, honey can you zip me up?
- Of course babe, you look beautiful.
- Really? You don’t think this dress makes me look fat?
- I mean maybe a little around the—INTELLIGENCE!!
- What did you just say?
- Wowee! Who let you bundle up all that intelligence? It’s practically bursting at the
 seams—OF AMBITION.
- I’m bursting out of my dress?!
- No, not your dress, your bod—BOUNTY. You have so much bounty I could scream! A
 dowry to feed five kings. Who am I but a humble peasant to be in the presence of such a
 well endowed lady?!
- Jim, what the hell are you saying?
- That I am not worthy of such a glorious lady such as thy self. Your body doth stretch
 from corner to corner of this household, yet your soul be twice as large. If I could show-
 er you in flowers, I would need but five hundred bouquets to cover your circumference,
 but it would be worth it to see your smile emerge from the crevices of your chin.
- So even my soul is fat?
- Not fat... fat-anstic!
- Goodnight, Jim.
- *footsteps retreating. car door slams*
- Phew. That was a close one.
</pre>

That One Time I Very Cleverly Escaped by the Skin of my Teeth

This is the story of Jizzy Fuckwad scamming an elderly woman on Facebook Marketplace.

Jizzy Fuckwad needed some cash ASAP. He said to himself, “You know what? Now’s as good a time as any. I mean, right now. I’m going to scam an elderly woman on Facebook Marketplace. Fuck it. Why the hell not?”

Jizzy Fuckwad opened up his laptop and found a stock photo of a refurbished Restoration Hardware couch. He screenshotted it and listed the couch on Facebook Marketplace for $900. In minutes, Jizzy Fuckwad was receiving hundreds of direct messages.

“Dude, your name is WHAATT??” read one DM.

“Jizzy Fuckwad! It says so in the profile,” Jizzy Fuckwad wrote back. “Now that that’s out of the way, are you interested in this high end modular sectional?”

It seemed like every DM had something to say about Jizzy Fuckwad’s name. Except one.

“Hello dearie, I’d like to purchase this couch!” read the lone DM. Jizzy Fuckwad clicked on the sender’s profile and found that she was in her mid-seventies. Jizzy Fuckwad wrote back that he needed to be paid via Venmo — not through the Facebook Marketplace framework — to “reduce fees.” After receiving the payment, Jizzy Fuckwad promptly transferred the money to his bank account and blocked the old woman on every platform.

Jizzy Fuckwad then felt so guilty that he reached for his phone to call the police on himself. But Jizzy Fuckwad’s phone died at that very moment, leaving Jizzy Fuckwad a second to contemplate the fact that he was now $900 richer.

This is the story of Jizzy Fuckwad scamming an elderly woman on Facebook Marketplace...

FUCKWAD, in which he... ...scams an elderly woman on Facebook Marketplace

Robert: So, crucifying hard or hardly crucifying? Sorry, don’t mind me, I have kind of a twisted sense of humor. 
Jesus: (stops praying, exasperated) I am the son of God, King of Kings and Lord of Lords. 
Robert: I know. So what! 
Jesus: So please stop yelling “and women” in a sarcastic tone every time I finish a prayer. 
Robert: You’re not even going to ask me what my name is are you? 
Jesus: I know all things. I know your name is Robert. 
Robert: That’s not my name. 
Jesus: Yes it is. It’s the name my father gave you. 
Robert: If you know all things then you know what people call me... 
Jesus: I’m not calling you that, Robert. 
Robert: Dingbat. Because I ding Romans on the head with my bat. 
Jesus: (annoyed tonal muttering) 
Robert: That’s actually why I’m up here on this cross. All the dinging. Well, I guess more the crushed skulls, but that was mostly on account of the dinging. 
Jesus: Maybe you could just do your crucifixion and I could just do mine. 
Robert: You know what I always say, though, if you can’t take the— 
Jesus: If you can’t take the dinging make stronger helmets. I know. I know you always say that.

Robert: So, crucifying hard or hardly crucifying...

Guy on the Cross Next to Jesus

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

Time Traveler: People of Salem, stop this madness! These women are innocent. 
 Executioner: What? 
 Time Traveler: What you’re doing disproportionately discriminates against a subset of society on the basis of identity. 
 Executioner: (high-fives other Puritans) 
 Time Traveler: This woman committed no crime other than the crime of being strong and beautiful. 
 Executioner: The witch? Goodie Brenda? She burned down a school. 
 Time Traveler: Probably to protest the lack of schooling she received! 
 Executioner: Look man, when you’re stabbing other kids with pencils, the board pretty much has to consider an expulsion. 
 Time Traveler: I wish you could see the gender and sexuality office of my private New England liberal arts college. Your worldview is so small. 
 Witch: (pokes head out of rat-filled burlap sack) 
 Time Traveler: She’s alive! 
 Witch: To be honest, I’m like—I’m a pretty bad person. I kind of deserve this.

Salem Witch Trials

The other day I got locked up in prison for going out on the town and getting after it with the fellas. Last time I checked, “jacking off” wasn’t a crime, but the cops begged to differ. Good thing I escaped by the skin of my teeth: and here’s my story.

I was sitting in prison, when one of the security guards came over. I said “hey buddy, pass me that pair of keys you got on that there belt.” He looked at me, and said “ok pal.” I immediately took the keys and escaped from behind bars before the guard knew what had hit him. He almost realized in time, but luckily I had escaped by the skin of my teeth by then.

As I was running down the hallway towards the exit, the prison alarm bells began to blare. “ALERT, ALERT, A PRISONER HAS ESCAPED.” Guards began rushing out of their quarters to stop me, and I continued running as fast as I could. I escaped by the skin of my teeth.

After what felt like hours, I found my way to the prison courtyard. It was here that I knew I could make my escape. I began climbing the fifteen foot wall, the only thing standing between me and my freedom. The snipers took aim, and I dodged the first bullet by the skin of my teeth. The second shot missed me by a hair, and I dodged the third shot by the skin of my teeth.

As I reached the top of the wall, the warden brought out a machine gun: the strongest of the strong. Luckily it was inaccurate from a distance, so I was able to avoid the first few shots. That was just enough time to jump over the shrivel of barbed wire, and I began to make my way down the other side. However, the warden began firing a second barrage, and the bullets began hitting and piercing my skin. I immediately fell and broke all my bones, landing in a bloody hovel below.

I began gasping helplessly for breath, and soon after, passed away.

The other day I got locked up in prison for going out on the town...

How I Escaped by the Skin of my Teeth From Prison

Newly released records reveal that the Cuban Missile Crisis only happened because everybody involved was hungry.

CUBAN EXILES: [in Spanish] Okay, we’re at the bay now... where are the pigs?
CASTRO: [pointing towards booby trapped pile of roast pork and also speaking Spanish] Over there!
CUBAN EXILES: [in Spanish still] Ha. You think we’re falling for that? That’s pork, which is from chickens.
CASTRO: [also still in Spanish] Pork is from pigs. Chicken is from chickens.
CUBAN EXILES: [Spanish] I see. Things have changed around here. Let’s go!

The following conversation is in English except where noted

JFK: [on the phone] Robert? Can you hear me?
SECRETARY OF LUNCH: Mr. President? Tuna or turkey for lunch?
RFK: [on the phone] John, we’ve got to decide where we’re putting the nuclear missiles.
JFK: Hmmm...
RFK: How about Iran?
SECRETARY OF LUNCH: The tuna again?
JFK: No. Turkey will do nicely.
RFK: Very well. I will inform the Turks. [hangs up]
SECRETARY OF LUNCH: Very well. I will inform the chef.
JFK: What was that you were asking me, Robert? Hello? Can you hear me?
SECRETARY OF DINNER: Mr. President?
JFK: Get out of here, dolt. You’re four hours early.
SECRETARY OF BREAKFAST: Mr. President?
JFK: And you’re three hours late. What is with you people? Can’t get a damn thing done around here. What the hell was Robert asking me about?

KHRUSHCHEV: [in Russian] I would like to have a sandwich.
MIKOYAN: [in Russian] Sir, we have important business to take care of.
KHRUSHCHEV: [in Russian-accented English] Give me a sandwich.
MIKOYAN: [taking the cue, also in Russian-accented English] We must decide what level of aggression is appropriate here. If we station the missiles in Cuba and the Americans find out—

KHRUSHCHEV: [back to Russian] Will deciding to put the missiles there allow me to have a sandwich?
MIKOYAN: [taking the cue again, in Russian now] Well, I suppose that’s the only item on the—
KHRUSHCHEV: [still in Russian] Put the missiles there. And then arrange for a sandwich.

KHRUSHCHEV: [on the phone, in perfect English] Truce?
JFK: [in perfect English as well] Lunch?
Both laugh heartily. Laughter transcends borders and ideologies.

Newly released records reveal that the Cuban Missile Crisis only happened...

What’s New

Check it Out

The Latest

Deep Cuts