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I love Eric, and Eric loves me. When the Justice Department cleared his good name, I rushed to share my joy in art. Responses varied.

Hey Dennard,

We’re more into sharable egg jokes, less into future evidence.

Redacted, Chortler’s Online Habit

Dear Dennard,

Vivid! Inspired! Unprintable. I’ll pass, but I’m sure this will find a nice home.

Redacted, The Urbanite

Hey D-Day,

32k words in one night! I won’t pretend that’s normal, but who needs normal? Congrats on writing your Running Man. Or Cujo, if hate counts as a drug. I say we put this draft aside, count to ten, and decide if we want this lawsuit.

Redacted, Gravity Lit. Agency

Hey Bro,

Just checking in on you! Thanks again for splitting OneDrive. I poked around “Eric.txt” and it’s great fiction! That’s fiction, right? A fake manifesto? Let’s talk soon. Like tomorrow!

Call me, please.

Redacted, Muted WhatsApp Thread

Dennard. Oh man.

We’re pretty liaise-faire. You can pick movies, play chicken with deadlines, and take any tangent that gets laughs. But they’re just that. Tangents. Your entire Rebel Moon review is three thousand words about Eric Adams, and one sentence about Rebel Moon. Said sentence: “Rebel Moon sucks, but far less than Eric Adams.”

It's a little off-brand. And far too generous to Snyder’s plagiarism habit. Rebel Moon sucks about half as much as Eric Adams.

Redacted, Cinéma Absurdité

Hey Bro,

My boss says we can’t print these. Something blah NSA. Sorry. Want to print the CIA stickers again? The law should be fine with that.

Redacted, Print4LessBK

Dear Mr. Dayle,

The Mayor of New York loves hearing from New York supporters and concerned New Yorkers. We’re all New Yorkers in New York, celebrating spurious charges falling and real New York priorities taking center stage in New York.

The mayor is too busy fighting for you, figuratively, for single combat. Dueling became illegal in New York in 1839—we were the first state to ban it! That’s a fun New York fact you can write about, instead of prodding old wounds.

New Yorkers are all in this together. Future letters will be shredded.

Timothy Adams, Official NYC Fan Mail Czar

Dear Mr. Dayle,

We appreciate that norms differ within a community. We are not, however, in a position to call anyone a house anything.

Redacted, Chortler’s Online Habit

Hey DDay,

I love it! We’d both go to jail. Burn this.

Redacted, Gravity Lit. Agency

Hey Writing Guy,

Alright, I’ll gonna reply once. It’s pretty cool that I’m related to Boss Tweed—that probably took hardcore digging. And I’d like being famous as much as anyone else. I even almost get how suing baldy for copyright infringement almost makes sense. But I don’t want to make enemies with petty dudes in office. It’s a bad decade for it.

P.S: How’d you get this email? It’s my coupon burner.

Redacted, One-Sided Gmail Thread

Hey Dday,

…Another one? Are you on something? Can I try it?

I’ll see what I can do. But the internet tapped guillotine jokes, and this is basically one long, graphic, borderline criminal guillotine joke. I’m gambling on borderline.

Redacted, Gravity Lit. Agency

Spicy stuff! We list jar puns. Have any jar puns about the mayor? Or seasonal coffee? That would be fun.

Redacted, Chortler’s Online Habit

Dennard,

On second thought, add five hundred words directly about Snyder and we’ll run the review as-is. Interesting times and all that. Might as well go down swinging.

Redacted, Cinéma Absurdité

Poster Guy,

What’s your fuckin’ problem? Don’t you want to see another black ivy grad succeed? Yeah, I didn’t go, but saying it felt right. In fact, that’s your damage. You’re stuck on what really happened or who really did it. In 2025. You could be uplifting other black inventors.

Look! We’re inventors now! See how easy life can be?

Lighten Up,
Eric

PS: Do the posters again, and we’ll beat the black off you.

Redacted, Mar-a-Lago Branded Napkin

This is probably all I’ll ever say about Eric, today, in email. If you enjoyed or understood any of it, consider preordering my much funnier book. It keeps me out of the news. Probably.

-DD

Enjoy it? Share the wealth. Hate it? Make someone else suffer.

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I still play “Mural” on loop because despite reaching a dire enough level of black nerdom to cite Lupe Fiasco in the opening words of anything or consider writing blerd for brevity I’m not deep enough to catch every pun or joke or allusion or mistake he puts in any song so the planet-glassing punchline barrage in “Mural” lets me live honestly and admit that I’ll never know what’s going on for at least half of the track but its a ride and I’m on it and if you think he’ll slow down for anyone on board you can follow J. Cole’s midwit parade off a cliff and that’s a long conga line when everyone has a megaphone no ears and negative memory making every conversation sound like a hyperactive child describing homework they haven’t touched to a teacher waiting for today’s shellshocked plague survivor to lose hope and wander off as Someone Else’s Problem until humanity kicks in and the adjunct gives the hungover frat star an extension or so I hear though now at least the Fresh Disaster lets me mention the Last Disaster without someone curling up and screaming until we both forget dancing in Prospect Park when Store Brand Caligula lost the atomic briefcase but I guess we got bored and like Fallout more than John Stuart Mill essays with big words and no super mutants and that includes me since back in adland I ignored deadlines to outline six issues about a nameless vagrant stumbling onto Vault 85 you know kind of like a player character anyway like all vaults 85 is paradise and the story ends there until The Vagrant learns that paradise’s citizens/prisoners live under the steel fist of the last nameless scavenger to stroll in and depose their tyrant so The Vagrant applies the lessons of the past to break the cycle and launch a beheading spree that would make Robespierre blush or wouldn’t because he’s just Robespierre and dies the same way but with super mutants so maybe I’m not a genius but Fallout’s thesis is that history recycles material unless you ask Bethesda then it’s adding jazz to the same live service template that’s collapsed under twenty different names and while I never tire of watching trash burn I avoid the topic since panning games summons the Wehrmacht fan club an endless wave of failures so obsessed with dry dick that their unfuckability shapes geopolitics in a new low for primates as a whole that replaces “war never changes” with “war is embarrassing” a line I hope keeps us out of Tehran but won’t bet on since satire is less preventative and more reactive in fact expecting satire to stop insanity is like expecting air bags to prevent car accidents or expecting thoughts and prayers to prevent tiny coffins so if you want your writing to change the world then study econ at a school that bleeds evil and join a think tank that bleeds more evil so you can sneak a few words of light into the PowerPoint slide that sets climate policy until the last beachside condo sinks into the Atlantic and proves that everything has its upside even the naked hypocrisy that ends all my interviews since 2015 with “satire can change the world” plus a matching Power Rangers pose after deflecting questions about race and process and race and inspiration and why exactly a sane adult coats five boroughs in fake signs and race and while I’m slightly more open in person last week someone asked if I regret anything I’ve written and I lied like a champ instead of copping to ever tapping buzzwords like love bombing or exposing holes in my invincible Jamaican psychic armor or sniping someone I know reads this thanks to analytics that tell me way too much yet nothing about an audience I still suspect is a long con ending in my dad bursting through the wall Kool-Aid Man style and revealing my nascent career is a collective prank which would still rule because I could commit the kind of horrorcore murder that lets true crime podcasts thrive or maybe just say something clever i.e. my only skill after robbing the Ivies to train for an anime podcast and advanced bathroom graffiti and weekly asylum art reviews the only definition of success I care for after chasing Draper’s shadow and drinking Draper’s breakfast and watching my entire yearbook turn The Service of All Nations into Selling a Shittier Mousetrap though I guess admin noticed too and hoped The Service of Humanity obscured Mammon’s scent a little more neatly than George II’s aircraft carrier party obscured a nation trading sanity for kayfabe a grand joke I consider my origin story unless you count my early crayon masterpiece My Crazy Brother lionizing a sibling that now preserves family tradition as an intergender kickboxing champion but I suspect my true origin’s the simple inability to lie properly inspiring a pile of paper inching towards heaven which our mass nostalgia addiction tells me is a stick figure drawing of the past without the awkward parts that will derange us until we burn it or at least add all the gratuitous Tarantino-meets-Miike violence defining every era except just kidding it's all of them and the human story is a gorey fresco of hell I find pretty funny and think can work out which brings us back to my present dork-ass fixation on “Mural” where Lupe Fiasco paints a fancy picture with words and Fist of the North Star jokes an impulse I envy enough to steal outright and call “Self-Portrait” but I’d never open an email with that title so I’ll try something oblique instead.

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Enjoy Christmas or sleeping in. If you enjoyed or understood any of that, consider preordering my much funnier book. It keeps me out of the news.

-DD

Enjoy it? Seek help by sending it around. Hate it? Warn others by sending it around.

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Welcome home! Now leave. 𝜋chan’s an anonymous, hobby-focused forum where mods know their place. Whatever you cope with, there’s an untraceable thread. The report button’s for spam only–save tears for BlueSky. We’re the last free site, aside from the others.

If you’re tired of being judged, we don’t want you either. But we’ll take you.

OP: This board is dead.

Anon1: Give it time. Big D’s getting us all boats.

Anon2: lolyeah the first volcel regatta

Anon1: Hey /bo/mbers, what boat will you buy first? I just want a mini-yacht, for my maids.

Anon3: I want a submarine to sink foids’ boats

Anon1: Dude, think. Foids won’t have boats

Anon4: I want a submarine to sink his submarine

OP: My gf’s checking out “that forum you like.” Do I rope now, or wait to get dumped?

Anon1: gf? Rope, traitor

Anon2: Maybe you can work it out. If you’ve lasted this long she’s at least a little based

Anon3: itsnotfairitsnotfairitsnotfair

OP: She says we’ll talk later. Looks like I’m in the clear.

Anon2: You still have time to rope, OP

Anon4: Let him learn

OP: Post your inauguration playlist

Anon1: Wagner, Prussian Blue, and a Himmler audiobook.

OP: Baaasic

Anon2: Lupe Fiasco

OP: …What? Are you lost?

Anon2: I like the beats.

Anon3: I’m with anon, all the Kid Rocks try too hard. When I wanna feel white power, I pump some Black Hippy

Anon1: Wait, this bangs, let’s keep a few of them alive

OP: All of you need to leave

OP: I’m there live! What should I say?

Anon1: prolly shoot him before he screws this up

Anon2: yeah bro’s peaked fire away

Anon3: Bang!

Anon4: Vance2025

OP: I’ll try I guess

OP: Write Kamala a letter, one word at a time

Anon1: thanks

Anon2: thanks

Anon3: I love you.

Anon 4: thanks

OP: Good enough.

OP: Black trumpers stand up!

Anon1: Woo!

OP: Get off my site nigger

OP: And planet

OP: You have no idea what’s next

OP: No idea.

OP: Uh hey guys figure prices are up. Like way up. Like $200 for a Cosmic Maid Aiko statue.

Anon1: That’s rough. Have you tried less shit taste? Aiko is trash

Anon2: Who cares? It’s Trump Day, post Melania fakes

OP: What’s with the attitude? Random, unprovoked hate is for Tyrones

Anon3: My meds are up too. I don’t take them, but if I did I’d worry

Anon4: You can get a real Aiko now

OP: Holy hell this is boring

Anon1: Guess no one’s taking the shot

Anon2: Boooooooooo

OP: I mean I love papa

OP: But I also love fireworks

Anon2: Anon, if libs had the stones we wouldn’t be here

Anon3: Anyone have a stream link? I’m out of Elon Points

OP: Whatcha cookin’ for Trump Day, anon?

Anon1: Nothing, cooking’s for maids

OP: You’re on the cooking board

Anon1: Yup. To make sure you nerds hold frame

Anon1: No cooking. No buying food. No listening. No more maid work, ever

Anon2: I’m baking milk tarts. It’s a South African dish, for the lactose elite.

OP: Yum.

Anon1: That does sound good, recipe?

OP: Yo I got that abandoned men line into the Times

OP: Like the New York Times

OP: The thing everyone takes seriously

Anon1: No fucking way

Anon1: Oh my god it’s there

Anon2: Ahaahaha legend

Anon1: How? Can this power be learned

OP: Just got the juice I guess

OP: Starting a new job today. Wish me luck bros

Anon1: lolwhy

Anon2: Bro doesn’t know TrumpCare’s getting us maids and wives (wives are your favorite maid)

OP: I don’t want a maid

Anon1: Whatever Zeta, you gotta take one or it ruins the game

Anon1: A maid’s a need, and you need to fall in line

Anon3: Good luck bro

OP: Thanks bro

OP: Hey, I’m glad my ex is crying and stuff, but I don’t really *get* 47. Can someone help me out?

Anon1: What’s not to get?

OP: The guy looks like he eats eggs shell-first

Anon1: Shallow.

OP: Okay, but he’s a lifelong failure wasting the rest on revenge

Anon1: Now you get it! He’s our guy

OP: Oh, dope. I’m building a bunker

OP: Post where you’re watching Daddy from. Glasgow

Anon1: Moscow

Anon2: Nowhere, I couldn’t take the ads.

Anon2: Endless plugs for Amazon, like we’ve never heard of Prime

Anon3: I’m down, since Jeff’s ex has to see this too

Anon2: Bet

Anon4: Chengdu. It’s like the moon landing, backwards. Good luck burgers

OP: The veep’s looking small. Write Prince Vance a motivational letter one word at a time

Anon1: You’re

Anon2: still

Anon3: I never got this game. Can’t Donny find a VP with lats or a chin

Anon2: a

Anon1: lover

Anon4: couch

OP: We’ll try again later.

OP: Is this it? He doesn’t even look happy about it

Anon1: Duh

Anon2: try a double shot

OP: I guess I expected more. I still feel miserable

Anon1: why wouldn’t you? you were born you. but now all the foids and chads and tyrones and changs and juans feel it too. mission accomplished

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Had fun? Me too. Before entering the asylum, consider preordering my much funnier book. It keeps the flame alive.

-DD

Enjoy it? Mail it to a friend. Hate it? Plant it on an enemy.

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As your office’s randomly-assigned floor warden, you’re irreplaceable. Beyond checking fire escape windows and running active shooter slideshows, you hold knowledge. Rules that save lives during disasters—natural, manmade, or mental. In the event of a love bombing, you provide peers calm, informed leadership. And rum.

Preparation is key. During love bombing drills, avoid the buddy system at all costs. In other crises, it can help to pair off, hide beneath desks, and pray. During bombings, you risk a chain reaction. A buddy might declare that, despite this being their first drill, they’ve never felt this safe. They may propose before the drill ends, and fade before the slideshow. That’s when you break out the kit.

A redesigned kit comes with your laminated floor warden badge. The 2024 kit prioritizes simplicity and durability. The latter’s particularly important, as fresh victims often lash out. Particularly at boxes labeled “Love Bombing Support Kit.” While we’ve tweaked the logo for tact, the tendency endures. Nonetheless, the kit remains integral to providing timely, productivity-saving relief.

Try to keep the kit stocked and accessible. Many wardens store support kits near fire extinguishers or emergency exits, simplifying emergency action. The less you have to remember in a crisis, the better. But any visible and unobstructed location will do. Never bury the kit in your personal effects: in your absence, a pitch or holiday party may descend into chaos.

First, check for an unopened sleeve of double-stuffed Oreos. A stale, incomplete, or single-stuffed sleeve deranges victims further. Only a full, double-stacked dose can prevent months of early Trent Reznor, “ironic” manosphere quotes, and poetry workshops. Force-feeding may be necessary. Do what you must. There are no allergies in a crisis.

Next, you’ll find a pair of translucent earbuds. They’re for you. While we all aspire to patience, a fresh victim’s laments can prove repetitive. Consider a drowner’s tendency to pull down unprepared rescuers. If an anecdote repeats three or more times, deploy the earbuds. They’ll keep you fresh and engaged when/if new information comes along.

The kit should also contain a laminated, vibrantly-colored chart. The Standardized Dating Timeline is an invaluable diagnostic tool. If you suspect a bombing, compare the courtship to date to the handy averages. Each gesture below the localized average is a risk factor, and a potential cue to open the Oreos. A score above seven may require more extreme intervention, which we’ll cover shortly.

Next, check for a single-shot tranquilizer pistol. Survivors often become irrational, and draft messages ranging from the pitiable to the arrestable. As floor warden, minimizing the damage falls to you. It’s your discretion, but most would rather apologize for action than hesitation.

Finally, the kit contains a full bottle of Wray’s overproof rum, four shot glasses, and a Blu-Ray extended cut of Punch-Drunk Love. You’ll find their use intuitive, and the commentary track surprisingly insightful. In a pinch, feel free to skip the glass and directly apply the rum. In fact, we recommend it.

Do not pursue suspects. By the first blast, they’ve already remarried. You don’t even have their real name. Focus on triage.

An engaged warden might ask: what if I’m the target? We recommend a two-tiered approach. First, pick a coworker to be your Safety Deputy. If they balk, just turn on the charm. Who can resist an invitation by bouquet, or live band? But start simple. An open ear’s often more than enough. Let them know you understand.

Then there’s your side plan: if your deputy is absent or no-contact, you still have the kit. The rum and darts can easily be self-administered. We’re looking out for you. Just remember your training and dispose of your phone.

Thank you for your service. Your floor warden performance is special to us, and we hope you feel the same way. We made this whole kit for you, after all. You haven’t been floor warden long, but we think you’re the one.

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Hope you enjoyed the ride. If so, consider preordering my funnier book. It keeps the flame alive.

-DD

Like the idea? Forward a friend a copy. Not feeling it? Link the original.

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You’ve won a clone! They’re already en route. If you live near a replication center, they may arrive before this notice. How’s the little tyke doing?

First, the obvious concern: they’re adorable. Look at those tiny hands! They’ve got your nose. Presumably. Sometimes the process adds small quirks. But most winning citizens get their mirror image. If anything’s off, they’re even more special.

Then, the second matter: you’re lucky. Amazingly so. While others helplessly watch the workforce, security net, and army wither, you’ve taken direct action. Your clone succeeds where a thousand op-eds and religions failed: stopping the clock. We couldn’t thank you more. Youth builds happier, stronger empires.

Finally, a small detail: who raises them?

Up to you. You could mail them back, and hope they win the foster lottery. Plenty of people can live with that. How about you? Can you watch your clone struggle without the privileges you enjoyed? Or maybe you had it rough. Do you pass that on? Every deprivation, replayed in high definition? It’s a fascinating question, and a free country. You do you.

Take a minute.

Statistically, if you’re still reading, you’ll keep the clone. Congratulations again! We knew there’d be shirkers, but returns have outrun our expectations a bit. Don’t fret, that’s our problem. The Junior Citizen Corps. should do wonders for infrastructure and medical testing. Just focus on raising a happy, healthy double. Let’s get to know your new best friend: you.

First, check them for deformities. Just a quick once-over.

They’ll need a name, of course. A prepaid envelope’s tied to their ankle. When you have a minute, send us their new name. Preferably within the first two years–otherwise, they’ll have a serial number instead of something nice, like Jane. No one wants a driver’s license that says XQR-14. If creativity isn’t your strong suit, feel free to check off “Junior” and move on.

Then it’s time for another deformity check! We do our part at the Center, but automated scans are just that: automated. Look with the loving but critical eye of a parent. And not just cloning glitches: remember your medical history. If you’ve got right hip turnout, they’ve got right hip turnout. Or, worse yet, a glitch messing with their hips. Tend to the details.

Next, I’d grab them some new clothes and a soft meal. Unfortunately, those aren’t free. They cost much, much more than you might expect. As for finding that money: you’ve got this. Nothing inspires hustle like a surprise dependent. Remember: you’re not just working for you. You’re also working for you. You’ll be impressed by how much time and money cutting back on your social calls and dreams saves.

With money handled, we recommend fixing your family relationships. We’ve run the numbers: every living parent and sibling in your village helps. Meeting might be awkward or traumatizing, but you have a clone to think of. Hold the clone while you talk, it works wonders.

Speaking of relationships: the database says you’re single. Could you reconsider? A village is nice, but you also need your own hut. A quality partner can keep you from burning yourself out or neglecting yourself. Try grabbing one nearby. Perhaps another winner, with their own clone? You already have a lot in common.

As for doing all that at once? Research is ongoing. We’ll let you know when we’ve found a solution. Until it’s done, stay calm. Don’t fret about war or tuition or flooding or food or fascism or the inevitability of one of you dying first. That’s how we got here in the first place.

Have fun with it! You have your own private nature vs. nurture experiment. If you think you’d have done better as an artist or an athlete, this is your New Game Plus. That’s questionable with a traditional child, but this is you. You know you can do it, if you try. You’ll thank yourself later.

Let us know if you want another.

Sincerely,

Dolan Roslin Jr.
Director, National Replication Center
Proud Father and Son of Himself

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Thanks for the attention. I’ve got this book coming next year. If you preorder it, I get to have a career.

-DD

Enjoy it? Dance on Eric’s grave with me. Hate it? Dance anyway. This isn’t about us.

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Dear Hustlers,

Do you have New York’s next big idea? And unmarked bills? Then you’re the thinker we’re waiting for. The Tweed Fellowship wants to hear your plan, and what it’s worth to you.

William M. Tweed was born on Go-Getter Island in 1823, and then got a lot done. There’s more to that story if you don’t value your time. But then you’re probably not a Tweed Fellow. You’re looking for the Hater Fellowship, over at the Times. Or the Snitching Fellowship at the Broke Bureau of Investigations. We’re talking to post-movers. Meta-shakers. People that know that money talks, but should never be transcribed.

With the haters gone, let’s talk business.

Every point in the skyline was once a twinkle in a dreamer’s eye. Followed by a wire transfer to another dreamer. Who would, in time, pay to fulfill their own policy dreams. The Tweed Fellowship exists to enable a new generation of co-dreamers. To keep the spirit of Tammany Hall alive in a changing world. To connect the spirit of innovation with the wallet of our founder.

Our criteria? Simplicity itself. For just ten thousand dollars in the cryptocurrency of your choice, you can be a Tweed Fellow. The Mayoral Telegram group is an open secret. We can’t print it here, but if you know you know. If you don’t, pay someone that does. As Tweed or Moses could tell you, Rome wasn’t built in one kickback. It was built over layabouts, by men of vision. We see the next Robert Moses in you.

No fickle judges. No pedantic oversight groups. No wiretaps. Just a fairly-priced seat at the table.

Alongside a private, all-expenses paid dinner with a notable philosopher. You pay said expenses, but it’s worth it to meet a genuine thought leader.  One that prefers green to meat. One with a little more vision than hair. One that knows law enforcement is so much bigger than enforcing the law. A figure that, in the right light, looks downright presidential.

Once you’re done listening, you’ll get four minutes to talk. A chance to tell the philosopher about himself, and thank him for his largess. Then, in the seconds remaining, you can pitch your idea. We suggest bringing pictures. The philosopher likes pictures, and dislikes wasting hustle time on words. Thought is the opposite of action, and thought is made in the mouth. Instead, Tweed Fellows should make money.

You can also put “Fellow” on your CV. We hear that some people are into that.

Like a building’s vibe, but not the people living in it? Become a Tweed Fellow.  Think the Statue of Liberty would look better in red? Become a Tweed Fellow. Want to hunt pigeons with exploding frisbees? Become a Tweed Fellow. Need a few local arrests to disappear? Become a Tweed Fellow. Think “Tweed Fellow” sounds funny, and have a little extra innovation lying around the bank? You know what to do.

Note that the prize is dedicated to dreams for New York. Not necessarily from New York. Bigots might try to keep outsiders from co-dreaming opportunity, but we see the big picture. Money isn’t just green. There are places where it’s red, or blue, or all digitized, or covered in pictures of Kemal Ataturk. It’s all valid, and it’s all inspiring.

That said, this is a hustler-only endeavor. If you’re a non-hustler, it’s entrapment. Whether or not the letter of the law agrees, New York’s Finest understand our philosophy. In fact, our stance has the 29^th biggest military budget in the world. If you’re less armed than Vietnam, we recommend caution.

Tammany Hall isn’t a bygone place or moment in time. It’s a way of life that endures as long as one hand scratches another. Don’t just think of the Tweed Fellowship as an investment in the city. Think of it as the start of your own fellowship. One day, dreamers will frantically delete their texts to you. Until then, take our hand.

This is your city. Time to pay for it.

Bill Tweed IX,
Dreaming Chair, Office of the Mayor of New York City

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I hope you enjoyed Eric’s funeral. I’ve got more words in this book and my next book. Stay frosty.

Or rather, the joke campaign for it. I can’t sell a real pharma lootbox without going to Riker’s. But I can make a full site.

Though who clicks through anymore? You don’t know where this email’s been. I’ll repost the clean posters here:

Keen observers will notice that I only printed the first two. I like all three, but large posters are unkindly priced.

For the record, this stunt sprang from a 1900HOTDOG stinger image, from my personal favorite column of mine this year:

I also considered this minimalist style, but hated it (the wrong way):

Again, full madness up on the dedicated site. Hope you enjoyed this one. I just put the first wave of these up, so I’m off to sleep.

As usual, sharing keeps me alive, as does buying my collection Everything Abridged or pre-buying my debut novel How to Dodge a Cannonball.

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Build your perfect birthday cake: Cake type/shape/flavor, filling, frosting, decor, candle style. With or without ice cream? What flavor ice cream? Fork/spoon/or hands? And will you be sharing or not?

–Meg Oolders, (Writer of See Dot Smile, Stock Fiction and this joke)

First, a black sharpie. With it, I’d write “It’s your birthday” on my forearm, sealing the dysmorphic daemon that sets my usual agenda. If it keeps kicking, I’ll drown it in three shots of hydrolyzed protein cope, and tell myself the day, as a whole, is a macro perfection.

Then the ritual begins.

Oreo cheesecake calls me. I hear it the way serial killers hear the devil. In case I forget the flavor, I’ll need crushed Oreos on top. You have to be sure. After that, the rainbow-colored frosting we collectively call “birthday cake.” That might sound like a bit much. I encourage you to stop thinking like a mortal, and embrace the deity inside. That’s why my perfect shape’s a triangle. It’s an immense, pointless pain in the ass that tells me someone tried.

Skip the candles. My inner child is far from dead: my inner child wants cake. Candles are another step between me and cake. It took years of shock collar training for me to accept the song, or the other 364 days. Candles are a bridge too far.

I need a fork, and not for dignity. Speed. Power. Finesse. Science has given us the tools to eat cake faster, and I believe in progress. Leave the barbarian’s spoon behind, and embrace the sugar-shovel of the future.

I’d share. Not out of any inborn generosity, but a late-budding appreciation for powerhouse meals as bonding. I’ve never walked out of a Taiwanese chicken spot without a better friend. Oreo cake might end in marriage.

Then the ice cream begins. Butter cake ice cream. And I spend the next two lifetimes deadlifting.

What led you into writing? What books/authors inspired you as a kid?

–Chris (monsterbeard.bsky.social)

To keep this from becoming a Catch-22 fansite, I’ll talk about cyberpunk.

I’ve been a compulsive reader forever, but those books made me wonder “can I do this?” I have more Transmetropolitan and Snow Crash quotes burned into my brain from middle and high school than math. Which puts a hard cap on the sci in my sci-fi, but that’s a whole different question.

I liked the tone, the questions it (often) followed, the aesthetic, the idea of having a cyborg/any girlfriend, and the black guys with swords on the cover. It made the world feel bigger. When I grew up, I wanted to be Hiro Protagonist.

I have other influences, as you can see by what I do and what I have coming. But I’ll always remember the intensity of that period. Which really isn’t over, I just have four competing addictions. And yes, Cyberpunk 2077 hit my life like crack.

In short, that’s why “Post-Atomic Stress” is my longest work out.

How many pages would Everything (Un)Abridged have been?

–Dan (@skebo.bsky.social)

Add 2k words for every extra two weeks I get. I’m definitely someone with a “pencil’s down” problem, which may make an editor kill me one day. In this case, I stitched in “Free Panels” at the last possible moment that wouldn’t have broken a machine. At some point, you have to be done.

I do have a pipe dream of doing Everything Else when enough time’s changed for me to change notably as a writer. I think the contrast would add something amusing. Unfortunately, since Everything Abridged all I’ve done is buy a new hat. I’m typing at the same standing desk right now.

Best thing weebs have nearly ruined for you.

–Ingrid (@ingridblythe.bsky.social‬)

Since I’m mercifully immune to most community wars, I’d say conventions. Still fun, you’re just bound to encounter at least one peak of supreme human desperation, myopia, or sadness while you’re there. Such is life in the Otaku Box.

What’s your favorite breakfast?

-Tess (@totalmesstess)

Breakfast Food: I’ve joined New York’s bagel cult. Full stop. It’s bad. It represents more of my expenses than most things I need to live. I own a recipe book now.

Literal First Thing Eaten: I can steam salmon in mental corpse mode, and that goes a long way. Too many days start with salmon and rice for me to distinguish them anymore. Another way I’ve become a cartoon.

Has there been a piece of media too cursed to cover in a Hotdog article?

–Bret Ellefson, Artist and “The Best You” Author

Nothing by decree—the site’s mission statement (“cursed artifacts from the wrong dimension”) is an ideal guiding light, and I’d read two years of asylum archaeology before joining in. The trick, from my myopic and likely incorrect perspective, is that Extra Cursed™ material needs extra weirdness to live (the wrong dimension half). Patler’s rants about busing aren’t great fodder, but his white nationalist Superman cartoon has the right scent.

The other thing—again, my projection, rather than a rule—is that you have to come correct. E.g. be as funny as the topic is dire. I’ve tried to write about Sucker Punch forever, but I keep starting over. The botched sexual assault metaphor driving the film demands bars for a recap, and my Dorothy Parker energy isn’t quite there yet. Soon.

That said, I do have a HotDog weakness. One I’ve struggled to overcome, and one day hope to. In fact, I might tilt it soon. I cannot, for the life of me, cover decent comedies in this format. No matter how cursed the topic or circumstance. It feels less like commentary, and more like karaoke. I have drafts that sound like “and here, Chris Tucker is loud while Jackie Chan kicks ass damn it that’s the point what am I doing.”

I’ve seen other columnists do it well, which plays Lacrimosa my head at stadium volume. Along with getting beaten to Foreskin Man. I almost fell on my sword that morning.

Would you rather wear a fedora forever and never be able to take it off, or have every beverage you drink have some amount of urine in it

–Peter C.

You’ve brought our war to my place of power. Unwise.

My stance remains objectively correct: I will proudly wear anything without a swastika on it before privately humiliating myself every day. Water standards and kink are entirely separate topics. I’m standing firm. Like Captain America, I will plant myself by the tree of freedom, fedora held high, and tell the world to move.

1) What's the most absurd episode you can share with us from this "fashion magazine stint?"

–Amran Gowani (Author of Leverage and Field Research)

The interview. Pure madness. I even wrote an essay about it for an old anthology. Long story short, an aspiring Coco Chanel impersonator asked why I was on time, slammed the door shut, insulted her assistant for an hour, asked me to breakdance, and gave me the job. Five years after leaving, I learned to dress myself. Ten years after that, I learned about the color wheel. Life is a long improv skit.

She never quite got my name down, which makes slander feel safer. I may clean up the edges of the piece and put it out here. It’s a trip of a story, and I’ve always wanted to be sued during fashion week.

2) Who's the most famous person you've met? Did they impress or disappoint?

–Amran Gowani (Author of Leverage and Field Research)

When I was flipping my shit at Princeton, my faculty swordfights included a household name. I’ll finish that story when the book’s been out for a month or two, it’s a fun one.

About a decade ago, I drank with Salman Rushdie. His tequila powers were significantly stronger than mine, which is notable given my old habits. I don’t know what Shaolin monastery he trained his liver in, but it's my favorite defeat.

AOC was a year above me in high school, when I spammed incredibly confusing or immature stunts, jokes, and articles to a captive suburbanite audience. Not much has changed, except I’m way better at it now. In this case, I disappointed.

Back at the magazine, I met Machine Gun Kelly. He has a room temperature IQ, if you live in the freezer. Some people were disappointed in his half of the Eminem feud, but I was amazed he put a full sentence together. It was like watching my dog get points on Ken Jennings.

3) What's a novel you evangelize for but which isn't read widely?

–Amran Gowani (Author of Leverage and Field Research)

The world’s rediscovered Oreo, so Letters From Wendy’s still wins out. It’s a set of deranged messages written on the back of Wendy’s suggestion box cards. They depict a spiral from insanity to double insanity with the kind of humor and artistry I hope to reach before I die.

That book is at least five percent responsible for my format bending obsession. “The medium is the message” and all that, as applied to dick jokes.

(Read this in a James Lipton voice, please) What question do you keep hoping that people will ask you, but nobody ever does?

Marina Haulover

This actually popped up once when I was teaching undergrads, but I want to get it on the record.

“Hey Dennard, why aren’t my ideological enemies funny?”

Silly strawman! Let me educate you, as I have in my head a thousand times.

They’re not all unfunny. One of you has gone mad. Or both.

Most jokes (absurdism/slapstick/sadcore have their own rules) draw on letting audiences close small mental gaps themselves. That trick relies on sharing a little baseline reality. “Why did the chicken cross the road?” is a different sentence if you think chickens harvest children for adrenochrome.

You’re both information warfare casualties. Now you occupy different dimensions, so the jokes land differently. One of you might need therapy.

When are you coming to Boston?

Trevor Klee, (Writer of Trevor Klee’s Newsletter.)

Alright, I get it. I’ll scrape some pennies together.

Top five extreme metal bands, top five rap groups, and who would win in a fight

–Jeff Treppel (@jefftreppel.bsky.social)

I love it. This will lose me more metalheads than saying “I hate metal” would, which tells you the genre’s alive. With rap I’m a classic victim of the cult of the solo artist, so I’ll focus on eight-strings.

I’ve listened to more Blind Guardian than silence.. It is in my DNA. Nightfall in Middle Earth is the powerhouse of the cell, belting depressive Tolkien lyrics to fuel other functions.

And I’ve listened to more Strapping Young Lad than that. It might not be healthy that I’ve listened to more Strapping Young Lad than that, but let my therapist worry about that. When I find one. I’ll get around to it, after listening to Devin’s withdrawal breakdown on Alien again. I’ll fold the general Townsend discography into this entry to keep things interesting.

If Strapping Young Lad is too maladjusted, I suggest Nevermore. They have lots of songs that are, technically, about hope. It doesn’t have to be an endorsement to count, right? Nevermore taps relatable thoughts about hope.

I’m a Meshuggah guy. You know a Meshuggah guy. We talk about Warhammer and trains a lot, while blinking in 5/18 time. We write 2000 word articles about anime in one day. Be patient with Meshuggah guys, we appreciate it.

One spot left on my ark…I’d love to show off my wasted years in the trenches. I’m all the way down the hole of men yelling about winter in the woods. But I’d be lying to myself and you if I didn’t say Mastodon. I don’t know how many times I’ve played Crack the Skye. I don’t know how many plastic bottles are in the ocean. But they’re both growing. Speaking of which, Gojira’s the sixth seat.

As for the Kumite? The Mastodon guys have the most “goes outside” and “instigates barfights” energy about them. Conditioning and aggression are half the battle, so I’ll give it to them.

Which fashion trend from your past (any age is fair game) are you most embarrassed to have taken part in?

–Meg Oolders, (Writer of See Dot Smile, Stock Fiction and this joke)

In high school I’d wear any t-shirt with a joke on it. Any t-shirt. Which is fine, but that included the infamous “Game Over” anti-wedding t-shirt. A glittering neon sign that said “date anyone else.” I don’t recommend it.

I have a question since I've been listening to Weeaboo Hell: if you were forced at gunpoint to write a piece of fanfiction, what property would you exploit and what's your one-sentence teaser summary?

–Amber Marshall (Author of Apertures and Amber Marshall Writes)

This likely won’t surprise you: Fallout, then Fallout, and finally Fallout. The logline: The French Revolution in a Vault. The series has a fantastic relationship with history, and to me this angle writes itself.

Why don’t I just do it? My ego wants someone, anyone to pay me first.

The runner-up: Bioshock. One-Sentence Pitch: The Good, Bad, and the Ugly in a rapidly flooding skyscraper. One underworld plasmid junkie, one well-heeled plasmid junkie, and our doomed-feeling hero.

With that one, I might just do it.

Wait, you mentioned Weeaboo Hell, so I should throw in an anime. Gundam, no contest. If you love my civil war Catch-22 this year, or my cyberpunk Catch-22 last year, you’d love my space opera Catch-22.

I might quietly file the serial numbers off…

You're an educated man, a thing most* of us aspire to. What part of it are we real, real wrong about? What's even better than we think? 

*A handful of coastal elites

–Richard III  (@Mr_Richard on Twitter)

A two parter! I’ll further split my thoughts between MFAs, the general Ivy League, and knowing stuff. Specificity’s useful.

For context, I did my undergrad nonsense at Princeton, and MFA nonsense at Columbia. I’d make a stock joke about bygone diversity rules, but I was a cyborg in high school. If I could access that state of constant terror now, I’d have six books out.

Don’t hit art school for practical ROI. Thanks to assorted heroic myths and workshop horror stories, many enter MFAs with high hopes for attention and low hopes for skill development. I got the exact opposite results. I left art kindergarten a far sharper writer, and as anonymous as the day I was born. Think of your time there as a training montage, not American Idol. You’ll have a much saner time. And make more honest connections, if you’re into that.

The MFA feels a bit like theater camp, albeit older and with less gin. You’re surrounded by people with the same niche goal for a short, intense time. It can be fruitful, or the start of your personal Count of Monte Cristo vendetta, or a series of dating train wrecks. I tried all three, and found that memorable. It’s also an immense waste of money if you don’t pick a sanely priced program or summon a scholarship from the rift. But that’s a whole other set of policy questions.

Both schools have an unearned reputation as a little culty, and that’s not right. They are extremely culty. It’s Heaven’s Gate with homework. If Princeton’s president sent out a letter asking alumni for fingers, they’d get some with wedding rings still attached. That’s nice if you’re looking for religion, but I found it…abrasive. We’ve been over that. Columbia’s the (semi) hip version.

Outside of the cult, the brand name is bigger than anything they teach you. The same way I’ve felt race close doors and stop conversations, those logos put me in rooms I’m still not qualified for. That’s one reason educational representation is the first thing thoughtful reformers try. And one reason I mail Clarence Thomas an Uncle Ruckus bobblehead every week.

As for education itself, it’s nice having something the machine can’t take (they can replace it effortlessly, just not take it). An underrated benefit is speed under duress. Pushing boulders uphill taught me to think faster and embrace deadline frenzy. Which is good, because I spend most of my time ducking headlines.

How are you such an awesome writer? Practice?

–Tommy (A Real One)

The faith of a few good people. And insomnia. Stay golden.

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I hope you enjoyed the annual love-in. If you prefer craft, I have a fancy book out and another fancy book coming. Enjoy the holiday.

I’d save this, but I’m not rewriting it for the debate. Enjoy.

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• Area Codes Where Civilians Count

• Eating My Dung: The Future

• David Brooks is Still Here

• Your Hate Makes Me Stronger

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• We Are Blackmailing Roxanne Gay

• You Could Be Sleeping Instead

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• Stopping Trump by Voting Trump

• The Comments Are Much Worse

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• Stephens and Collins Finally Fuck

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• Cancel Culture. Bang, Nailed It

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• Sorry About That Last Guy

• The Darkness Is Taking Me

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• Alternative Energy and Book Burning

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• Climate Status Report: Oh Fuck

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• Shit, My Deadline’s Here Already?

• Some Hate Speech for You

• I Am Reborn for Clicks

• Maybe Vance is J. Cole?

• Somehow the Journal’s Still Worse

• Once, I Was a Writer

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Thanks for reading. I have one fancy book out and another fancy book coming. Have a good one.

If you love it, pass it on. If you hate it, lambast me in public.

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You are a Starseed.

You were born to be followed. You would also enjoy leading, but the big thing’s being followed. You have a decent number of starlings and are bound for more. You know it’s your destiny. Your destiny has a promoted post.

You are surging.

You once flourished. You moved on once others started flourishing. You are now surging. You post surge guides for your starlings. You wore elf ears once and views doubled. You always wear elf ears now. You don’t like elf ears.

You are light.

You shine for others. You bar negativity from your stream and soul. You find a buzz helps. You keep bottled starlight under the desk. You’re almost out. You tell the stream “Cheers.”

You are low on money.

You’ve heard the cynical whispers of the starless. You know they see a neposeed. You wish that were true. Your diet is flash-frozen. Your rent is a monthly miracle. Your laptop is a gift from a starling. You get daily messages from that starling. You ignore the messages.

You are hung over.

You can quit starlight at will. You also never give up, especially on a friend. You know substances have souls, and all souls deserve love. You quip “spirits have spirits,” on stream. Your viewers praise your wit and new ears.

You are really hung over.

You can hear your past lives, and they’re loud. Your head aches with their wisdom. You wish they’d stop, it’s only 2 PM. You need ten hours of starsleep to maintain starstasis. You pour starlight of the dog and turn on the noise machine.

You are reborn.

You meet a past life in a dream, once the others pipe down. You’re pleased to find a slaveless pharaoh. You post the good news, and a starling mentions appropriation. You stream an apology in your best ears. You promise to focus on white reincarnations. Your views spike.

You are so close.

You’ve outlived peak Vine and Twitch and that box mom watched game shows on. You will outlive Bytedance and Substack and that chat app dealers like. You won’t outlive Meta, but you will be reborn in a golden, Meta-less future. You 2.0 will look upon this life’s statue, and smile. You will be a pharaoh again.

Your leg is falling asleep.

You’ve streamed for four hours. You know that’s too short, and you can’t change position yet. Your leg politely requests fresh bloodflow, and you beg it for patience. You see a superchat come in. You might have to go to urgent care later. You’ll bring the camera, in case there’s a good shot.

You are burning out.

You won’t quit. You touch hearts online, like Homelander. You just skip the madness and keep the inspiration. You inspire over daily five-hour streams. You used to take Sundays off, but that put you further from your pyramid. You won’t let haterseeds win.

You are yelling.

You try to whisper—views rise when you whisper. You read a request for ears. You already have ears on. You read “the good ears.” You explain the destiny of starseeds, the place of starlings, and permabans. You reach for more starlight. You’re out of starlight. You stop whispering and start breaking content guidelines.

You are taking a break.

You tell the starlings you’re flying home. You let them debate if that’s a metaphor, planet, or Oregon. Your sister’s AI thing needs a spokesperson. You don’t really understand it, but they just need someone good before cameras. You’re good before cameras. You belong there.

You were a Starseed.

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Thanks for your eyes. Consider pointing them at my book Everything Abridged. Or my second, How to Dodge a Cannonball. Or just shoving this before other eyes.

If it speaks to you, spread the word. If it doesn’t, warn others.

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From the desk of Gov. Kathy Hochul

Panic isn’t the answer.

For twenty years, we held healthy debate over Proposal 16. We then voted on, funded, and hired vendors for Proposal 16. Finally, a lottery determined who would live on Proposal 16, and who would remain to fight the good fight. After winning a starboard penthouse, I was more excited than anyone. But it’s not in the stars, and we won’t be either. New Yorkers will have to try our luck on Gaia.

The Climate Ark will remain paused. Forever. I’m sorry.

MTA duties are nearly as diverse and vital as its riders. The state (as in governor-controlled) agency manages the trains, buses, spacecraft, and ferries that shape New York life. Sometimes, trains have to weather a little rust. Others, spacecraft get stripped for parts. These sacrifices allow the whole to thrive, even as the human story ends.

Was the Ark’s christening ceremony, during recorded history’s worst heat wave, difficult timing? Yes. Did children wail as hope sank into the Hudson River? Certainly. But hard choices are a governor’s burden. Mankind might perish without the Ark. My base definitely perishes without Long Island. We need business-forward activism that keeps consumers in orbit.

It’s easy to lambast Ark critics as climate deniers or “Not in my galaxy” caricatures. Reality’s more complex. They’re your neighbors. You work, play, and dehydrate with them every day. And the danger’s real: we’d lose countless taxpayers in the transition to space. Along with everyone left behind to face vengeful, jealous neighbors. Not just nations. Maryland wouldn’t be any more amused. I’m certain that moments after the Ark’s launch, Old New York would be reduced to glowing rubble. Perhaps before.

I’ve spent two months out of the public eye since postponing the project. Tabloids have labeled this period of strategy, negotiation, and prayer as hiding. Willful lies. It was mourning. With or without the Ark, the future was dead. The Ark’s deferment simply made it feel real. I share the highs and lows of modern life with my constituents. Including sweat, power bills, and moments of naked, sobbing horror.

By any fair standard, Project 16 attracted bloat. Take the Grand Archive. Or, as critics labeled it, The Zoo. Freezing samples from every living species is a beautiful idea, and resonant to New Yorkers of faith. But even in the sunniest scenarios, it fell orders of magnitude below sustainable genetic diversity. Better to let wolves perish with dignity than produce endless inbred parodies.

Frankly, human inhabitants faced the same issue. Yes, the Ark could save many of our brightest and luckiest donors. For a generation. But assuming an optimistic fifty percent of passengers lived, the population would collapse generations before tapping food and power stores. Memes about building pickleball courts on the closest inhabitable planet are easy. Reaching Proxima Centauri b is a little tougher.

A sentiment shared by Mayor Eric Adams, my partner in improving the lives of all donors. To quote Eric’s speech on the matter: “Space? That’s where Neptunians live! I hear their voices. I hear them in my teeth. We can’t let Neptune find our gold. I need it for the bunker.” Stirring words, from a future party leader. To the extent we have a future.

A few contractors still demand pay. That’s fine. The first payments are due long after key climate deadlines. If we make it to collection, fiat currency will be a memory. Warlords can repay contractors in pelts and bottlecaps. For now, focus on enjoying the time we have left. Keep your loved ones and incumbents close.

Don’t despair, or start funding independents. As a compromise, my office remains open to Climate Canoes. This lean, nimble initiative would produce dozens of groundbreaking bamboo vessels. The Empire Fleet could navigate the lake projected to replace Albany by 2040. More than enough to save a beloved governor and her prized staff. And their families, depending on the final budget. You can’t hold a good idea back.

Please forgive me.

Sincerely,
Kathy Hochul

Final Governor of New York State

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Thanks for the attention. I’m slightly addicted. I also wrote a book, called Everything Abridged. And a second one (out next July), called How to Dodge a Cannonball.

If you dig it, entertain a friend. If you don’t, bore a coworker.

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A fresh body! Summer’s best feature. A reunion with your undergrad skin, liver, and smile. And the return of your abs–or your first meeting. As you celebrate (we recommend Ocho Rios), other details can slip. Insurance. Vaccination. Your cadaver. What should you do with the old you?

After all, a decomposing shell throws off any home’s vibes. At the very least, embalm or freeze it while you think. A well-preserved shell’s slightly better Feng Shui, and buys you time. It’d be nice if shells smiled, but that’s a Diamond feature.

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Naturally, old shells have prank potential. Start with the classic basic-and-switch: leave your shell on the couch, and then jump out from behind. Classic. Your friends will remember it for a long time. You might even spark a classic prank war! Nothing’s funnier than starting a road trip and noticing your passenger isn’t just napping. Staging a mishap has never been easier. While we keep your body young, jokes keep your inner child alive.

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Too cavalier? Prefer to keep yourself to yourself? Stay in and test outfits. You have the ultimate mannequin! Who needs a mirror when there’s another, poseable you? Well-dressed doubles also make natural decorations. Preserve multiple shells, and you’ll have a one-man fashion show. And if you decide to show pranks a little love, you can always jump out from the lineup.

Décor isn’t just for fashion victims: shells lend holidays new life. On Halloween, a lifeless double is worth its weight in gold. You can appear twice on Christmas cards without touching a filter. Or take daring Fourth of July photos and keep your hands. If you’re not entertaining, even better. Your shell can take the empty seat across table, sparing you Thanksgiving alone.

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Romance may seem appealing. You’re a looker! But we urge you to reconsider. No judgment–Karma is proudly non-denominational and committed to privacy. In fact, our incorporation in Liberia averts certain external pressures. We simply have thirty years of customer feedback. Self-love’s a consistent disaster.

Over 99.3% of users that romanced their shells report immediate and extreme distress. It’s a psychological third rail. Top survey keywords include “harrowing” and “severely harrowing.” Reports remained consistent across age, sex, orientation, faith, region, and criminal history. If you love yourself, beware loving yourself.

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Are you the same person? Broadly, we think so. But with Diamond membership, you’ll know. We surgically insert Diamond brains into fresh bodies, ducking all the Philosophy 201 quibbles that come with a new brain. Unless, of course, you want a new brain. Your needs come first, whether you’re the original or not.

Thanks for your time. As new problems replace death, we’ve got your back. Next month: picking new tattoos!

Sincerely,

Your Friends at Karma

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Another round of asylum comedy. Thanks for reading, as always. Your attention is the sliver of joy that keeps me from cashing out as Candace Owens 2.0.

If you like this mode, you might enjoy my first book, Everything Abridged. Or my next one, How to Dodge a Cannonball. No link for that one yet, but it’ll be fun.

Dig it? Spread the wealth. Don’t? Spread the plague.

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O: Welcome back to HeartBeat, America’s leading emotional combat sport. One couple enters, two singles leave. Supported by WagerSlave, your one-stop hub for betting events, rehab, and debt relief.

X: It’s fight n—

O: Not yet. We’re live from the Mount Kisco Chili’s, during Tessa and Luke’s weekly in-joke dinner. But it’s not a normal Tecate Tuesday, is it Xavier?

X: It’s fight night! Woo!

O: That it is. I’m Ophelia Trace, former relationship counselor and middleweight champion, current play-by-play.

X: And I’m Xavier “The Dawg” Wolfe, former coach. Current host of The Lion’s Den podcast, where I tell war stories and teach fans game. Here, I do color. Woo!

O: Lion’s Den? Not the Wolfe Pack?

X: That’s great! Write that down. Is changing a pod’s name four years in weird?

O: Let’s focus on the match. Tessa and Luke have been rivals since date two, or as fans know it, Hell in Taco Bell.

X: Dope match. She showed up an hour late, he was already stoned. Ten minutes later, they were both crying about exes. And then they still smashed. Wild.

O: Few Taco Bells see that level of play.

X: They totally do. Don’t you Live Mas?

O: Guilty. Tonight’s tale of the tape: Tessa’s 36, 136 pounds, and an ambush striker. Luke’s 27, 165 pounds, and a deflection specialist.

X: Classic October-February matchup.

O: December-May. Our first fighter’s arrived. Luke has his Big Fight uniform: a Megadeth tee and heelflip-worn Pumas. It’s also his off-season uniform. These might be his only clothes.

X: Good stuff. Dude looks confident, and the rest barely matters. Half the match is ignoring the other person. My man’s emotionally jacked.

O: Unfortunately, there’s no opponent to intimidate. Tessa’s thirty minutes late.

X: Forget what I said. That’s good stuff. Let the other team sweat. Tessa’s a student of the game.

O: And arriving now. In her Big Fight uniform, which Luke won’t notice. Red eyed–she’s already cried today. Her group chat’s wishing her luck. Looks like she’s been in the lab.

X: Again, high-level play. You gotta come in warmed up, with a plan. Think Luke knows this is a match?

O: Negative. Luke’s telling a work story without an ending. Tessa’s pretending to listen. Luke senses something wrong, so he’s extending the story. He might run the clock until the waiter arrives. Impressive evasion.

X: Too much footwork. Where’s the action?

O: It’s worked! Luke orders two beers, both for himself. Tessa goes with straight tequila.

X: T’s banned in some leagues, which is crap. If there’s an edge, you take it. Martin “The Hammer” Logan took any drugs that got insults flowing. That deserves celebration, not an asterisk.

O: Silence. Drinks inbound. Cheers. Silence. Tessa asks why he thinks this is okay–a body blow. Luke restarts his story. Tessa repeats the question. Another hit.

X: If he cries first, this match is over.

O: Not yet–Luke says Chili’s was her idea–along with every other date theme. Successful reversal. Tessa says she wants him to want more. Double reversal. They’re stuck in a clinch.

X: That’s the problem with therapy-speak plays. No punch. What happened to “You’re a manchild” and “You don’t know what you want?” The basics. At some point, you stop being passive-aggressive and run the ball.

O: Hold on–Tessa says she wants kids.

X: I thought this was the DINK division.

O: So did Luke. He’s reeling. No counterpunch.

X: Rookie move. If it was me, I’d say something awesome instead.

O: He offers to try. She says you don’t try kids. He says he’d try for her, if she let him.

X: Now. We. Are. Cooking.

O: She says not to bother. She wants an adult.

X: By God, he’s broken in half! I haven’t seen Chili’s tears like this since dad split.

O: The waiter’s asking them to leave. Politely, but with security in sight. We have ref stoppage.

X: I take it all back. This is an all-timer. Luke’ll need months of rehab to compete again. Maybe years.

O: Inimitable. It makes me miss the ring.

X: I hear that.

O: We should talk more. Outside of work.

X: What, like a podcast?

O: Something like that.

X: I dig it. We could call it TraceWolf, and make the logo a wolf with a bullseye.

O: We’ll work on that. Thank you all for joining us tonight! Tune in next month for the rematch. Same time, same venue, same outcome.

Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed the ride. All the shots are from Lucha Underground, a show I consider TV’s reason for existing. If you dug it, consider my book of equally recondite insanity.

Enjoy it? Lobby your friends. Hate it? Spam your enemies.

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New President Orientation

By Dennard Dayle

What a race! I haven’t seen a nail-biter like that since 2000. I thought we might have to pick again. Good thing we let things shake out.

I mean it, you should be proud. When I was a kid, I wanted to be president. Then I learned a bit more about how things work. Decided I wanted to make a difference instead. But it’s nice to see an underdog go the distance.

I know that look. You think we were too hard on the last few guys. Guess what? We agree. We’re going to give you a little rope, as a reward for playing along. Keep it up, and we’ll let you play with the interest rates.

But first, some guidelines. I find starting with business sets the right tone. And this is a business. Never forget that. In fact, let’s call that Rule One. Let that principle guide you, and we’ll get along just fine.

Rule Two? We don’t exist. I mean, you exist. You’ll exist more than anyone alive, save popstars or photogenic cats. But I don’t exist, and my coworkers really don’t exist. The other rules are contextual, aside from Four, but this one keeps you alive. You like being alive, right? Dead people don’t give Inauguration speeches.

Rule Three: no more chatter about aliens. We’re very human, but that’s too close for comfort. If people start talking, let out the MLK tape. The culprits are more basic than you’d expect, but any answer should have people fired up for a bit. Hell, even I thought it was unsporting.

Rule Four—and this one’s big—if you say military, industrial, and complex in the same sentence, your family’s dead. We’ll replace you faster than Ike, with half the mercy. We’ll degrade your legacy to a jingle and undead political party. And it will be slow.

Cool? Cool. Sorry to kill the mood.

There’s this silly rumor that we want an idiot in the big chair. Nonsense. Do you want a dumb babysitter? To find the bushes covered in a mix of Jose Cuervo and lunch? And your kids hungry, rioting, or poking around Area 51? I don’t think so.

We want the best babysitter. You’re an Ivy League SAT tutor, and your pay reflects that. Just spend it slowly. Curing a disease is nice, but then you’re stuck doing speaker tours to make rent.

On that note, let’s talk advancement. We take care of most presidents, as long as they don’t embarrass us by forgetting their lines, or pronouncing them nu-cue-lerr. But our favorite presidents become junior clerks for The Council. Isn’t that exciting? The pilot program’s only a hundred years old. I wish you could see how happy Woodrow was.

From there, who knows? You might go the distance, like Coolidge. A council seat. A corner office. Immortality. He suggests finding a gimmick, by the way. Something quotable. It tends to distract people from the rest.

I forgot: try not to mess with the alliances. We’ve got the World War IV (the cold one counts) teams set, and the bets are locked in. Cleansings come and go, but resetting the board takes weeks. You get it. That’s family time.

Go get ‘em, Tiger! Don’t make us give you a warning shot like Ronald. He took a minute to catch on.

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Thanks for reading. I hope you found laughter, or an acceptable substitute. I have more A-grade satire in my book, Everything Abridged.

Enjoy it? Spread the wealth. Hate it? Waste someone else’s time.

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Losing readers? Missing deadlines? Simply stumped on a question? Let the Agony Aunt’s Aunt help you help others.

Love & Letters

Dear Agony Aunt’s Aunt,

My newsletter, Aunt Amy Answers, draws a steady stream of readers, inquirers, and even plagiarists. It’s everything I wanted, but something’s off. I still feel death inching closer, day by day. Would love fill the void? Many of my readers (I call them Amys) ask about love.

Sincerely,
A.A.A.

Dear Amy,

Yes. However, most civilians can’t relate to a guru—it’s more than a little intimidating. I suggest meeting another columnist. That guarantees the intellect, empathy, and subscriber base for love to grow.

I’ve thrived with Greene Thumb writer Barry Greene for seven fulfilling years. We cherish, support, and ghostwrite each other. Find your ghostwriter, and death’s shadow will become an afterthought.

Then you can reconsider your initials. An older, wiser columnist claimed those letters twenty years ago. We both know the guild is not to be trifled with.

Patiently Yours,
A.A.A.

Ludd Had a Point

Dear A.A.A.,

I’m drowning in AI-generated letters. How can I trust my readers? Or anyone? I feel paralyzed at the keyboard, and it’s straining my deadlines. Should I answer with AI? Is our future machines asking machines about machines?

Jim Rogue
The Rogue’s Guide to Masculinity

Dear Jim,

Put yourself in a young man’s shoes. You’ve written your favorite manfluencer for help coping with modern life. Would you want a canned answer, just because others took shortcuts? Or does your radicalization deserve a human touch?

As empires erode, advice columns offer stability. Comfort. Relief. Even your column’s “War on Soy,” recalls the golden days of Miss Lonelyhearts. Our personal anxieties are secondary. The work comes first.

Dutifully Yours,
A.A.A.

Chasing the Dream

Dear A.A.A.,

I’m drawn to the glamor of advising: living fast, dying young, and leaving a hot column. Much like the original Miss Manners, or the second Dan Savage. The Times just signed me to a weekly column, and I plan to join the greats.

That said, I lack any particular training, expertise, or interests. How do I work around that? I’ve already got the column, so school’s out. Or anything else that takes more than three days.

Best,
Denise
Dr. Denise Dictates

Dear Denise,

Reread your first paragraph. The confidence. The spirit. The rudimentary understanding of your topic. That’s all you need.

Admiringly Yours,
A.A.A.

Customer Satisfaction

Dear A.A.A.,

I’m a self-actualization specialist. Recently Ron, a watercolor hobbyist, asked what to paint his wife for their anniversary. I suggested he leave the family stifling his craft behind.

He seems to regret listening.

Ron’s reached out a few times. First, via the comments. Then my work email, which I don’t share often. Then my P.O. box, which I don’t share at all. While I live in a Stand Your Ground state, I’m troubled as a professional. Ron’s just a little hustle away from achieving his dreams, and I hate seeing him lose focus.

How do I convince Ron to trust the process?

Best,
Victor Harper
The Victory Corner

Dear Victor,

We may have answers, but not everyone hears. For now, simply let go. It’d be different if Ron wrote a proper follow-up letter. Then you could guide him back on the path to self-actualization, and off of the path to prison. As things stand, stay armed, stay vigilant, and stay smiling.

Yours,
A.A.A.

No Heart for It

Dear A.A.A.,

For five years, I’ve helped readers navigate sex, romance, and their occasional intersection. It’s always been rewarding, save the occasional reactionary letter bomb. And I’ve always thought of that as fan mail.

Then The Scranton Journal added reader comments. They are, gently, a bottomless well of stupidity and despair. Moreso than the letters. And they’re always arguing. Two users are eighty comments deep into debating the definition of “pedantic.” The column was about condoms, and they had the same opinion.

My editor loves about the traffic bump. Can I do anything to elevate web discourse? Or kill it altogether?

Yours,
Yvonne Heart
The Love Admiral

Dear Yvonne,

Don’t take it personally.

Sadly, it’s not just your column, or even unmoderated comments. America’s transitioning to Earth’s largest open-air asylum. Think of your comments as a chance to adjust. As the situation evolves, more readers will need your voice than ever.

Your editor’s on your side. As madness seeps into the remaining groundwater, your hosts deserve their share of the spoils. Consider flame war profiteering the price of doing business.

Resolutely Yours,
A.A.A.

Recursion

Dear A.A.A.,

Big fan. I’m considering starting a column for columnists that advise advice columnists. Would people be into that? And would you write in? Let me know.

Maria
To Be Determined

Dear Maria,

Find your own turf, scab. You’re easier to find than you think.

Menacingly Yours,
A.A.A.

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Thanks for again for reading. I hope that the humor makes the horizon look a little brighter. My best line drives are in this book, Everything Abridged, which I think is a good time.

Share Extra Evil

“Dunk the Negro” tanks once defined American carnivals, state fairs, and country award shows. They also didn’t say “negro.” Student-artist Randall “Big Mouth” Pierce is bringing it back. This transcript captures his morning shift at the 2024 Texas State Fair.

9:00 AM: “Who wants to go first? I was around last year, but you can still say you discovered this.”

9:10 AM: “Finally! Every other midway game’s a rip-off, and every other player’s a sucker. But this is different. You’re special, just like the rally said.”

9:11 AM: “That was a throw? Do they censor gym class here too?”

9:18 AM: “Ignore them, I get it. You’re not like the others. It’s a bit. You’re playing Dunk the Negro ironically. You can’t say anything anymore.”

9:19 AM: “Oh. Okay, forget irony. Try a racist throw.”

9:20 AM: “Remember trying that black open mic? And bombing? Channel that.”

9:25 AM: “This gig’s great. Angry Texans don’t usually pull out baseballs.”

9:32 AM: “Hey there, little guy. Is this your first game? Just remember: win or lose, you’re the victim.”

9:32 AM: “That’s a zero. Don’t worry, legacies don’t need athletics. Or anything else.”

9:41 AM: “You brought a black friend! That makes this fine. Ask him if he wants a turn up here.”

9:42 AM: “No really, it’s a free pass. Like Ante Up at karaoke.”

9:44 AM: “Or he can play. Self-destruction is a community classic.”

9:46 AM: “I’m with you, this game’s horrific. Getting dunked in 2024 would scar my dignity. Thank God you’re throwing.”

10:03 AM: “Hello, officer. I assume. You look very excited to play.”

10:04 AM: “Nice try, and thanks for your service. Enjoy paid leave.”

10:17 AM: “That is an aggressive tattoo. Do you want four rounds, or five?”

10:17 AM: “I’ll read about that pitch on Reddit later, won’t I?”

10:17 AM: “Another miss? Try rushing Congress again. You got closer to a win.”

10:18 AM: “You’re letting the master race down.”

10:18 AM: “Can ye not aim, oh son of Skyrim?”

10:18 AM: “Come on, one more. Your Eva Braun could be watching.”

10:25 AM: “I’m getting my phone. It’s not waterproof, I just know you all suck.”

10:34 AM: “Keep staring. It’s very normal.”

10:35 AM: “You look uncomfortable. Should I turn around, so you can throw behind my back? You know, just you and the boys?”

10:35 AM: “Fine. You’re much more enlightened than everyone engaging the black artist.”

10:36 AM: “Pretty easily baited, eh? I thought our allies were smarter.”

10:36 AM: “Don’t worry, dunk tanks are the nice version of this. ‘Hit the Hard-R’ let players go for the face. Rough job.”

10:37 AM: “But if you were throwing, I’d still sign up.”

10:40 AM: “This is Flint water, by the way.”

10:49 AM: “A black player! What’s Judge Thomas like in real life?”

10:50 AM: “Does he dress like Uncle Ruckus too? Or is that just your thing?”

10:50 AM: “Your white girlfriend would be embarrassed.”

10:51 AM: “So much for fast-twitch muscle.”

11:06 AM: “Now this is a crowd. Who wants to avenge James Jeffries first?”

11:08 AM: “I forgive Morgan Wallen. For the slur, not the music.”

11:13 AM: “Come on. Baseball’s the only sport you have left. Well, had. 700 million says you miss the next pitch.”

11:14 AM: “Right, I forgot hockey. Just like everyone else.”

11:20 AM: “I planned to leave for lunch, but I think I’ll eat up here.”

11:33 AM: “Christ. Seven dollars for a corn dog, while we fight each other.”

11:40 AM: “Fun fact: black teens spend twice as much time online. We’re all watching you flub pitches. I keep thinking it’ll get old, and it never does.”

11:42 AM: “Put more oomph into it. Pretend I’m in a remake you won’t watch of a cartoon you don’t remember.”

11:48 AM: You look happy. Did Colorado change their mind?

11:48 AM: “A promotion? That’s nice. I’m sure whoever does your job is proud.”

11:50 AM: Why? Why not?

11:51 AM: Because I want a free shower.

11:51 AM: Because I haven’t been promoted in a while.

11:55 AM: “Consider this: the stereotypical black man is materialistic. Gun-toting. Proudly ignorant. You know who else that describes? The stereotypical American. It’s history’s grandest act of projection. As if we’re the only patients in this asylum. Anyway, you can’t throw.”

11:59 AM: “Wow! You hit the target, and I didn’t fall. Sucks to work so hard for nothing, doesn’t it? Shame. Damn shame.”

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Thanks for reading! I always enjoy the opportunity to make your day a little dumber.

Had fun? Share it. Didn’t? Inform the press.

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Welcome to the December PrimeLifts newsletter. Put down the gingerbread, or unsubscribe. As black ice coats the nation, culling weak life, it’s time to hone your summer body. In fact, it’s almost too late.

Last year we championed moral flexibility, and PrimeLifters listened. They learned to bench stolen weight, sprint from the law, and cycle anything that got results. Morally flexible training built stronger, leaner, bodies primed for proxy warfare. November’s reader gallery was a pantheon of gods, who could almost be forgiven a sugar cookie. Almost.

Throw all that out. Burn it. None of it applies anymore. It’s junk science backed by popular hysteria. 2024 is the year of moral hypertrophy: the diamond-hard moral certainty that powers big lifts and big payloads. And the year without candy canes. Put it down. PUT IT DOWN. We’ll wait.

It’s not too late to fix old mistakes. Just follow these five simple laws for moral hypertrophy, and avoid the fate of the weak.

PrimeTip 1: Full ROM

Don’t sanction your own growth. Take each action through full ROM: Range of Morality. That means complete extension through enemy orphans, doctors, and everything in-between. It’s easy to get lazy and let a few kids cut a rep short. That’s how you stay small. Be your own strongman: hold yourself accountable to full ROM, every strike.

There’ll be critics. Ego lifters. Physical therapists. Amnesty International. Ignore them, and get after it. We’re not after partial reps or single buildings. We’re after full extension and city blocks. That’s how you build quality muscle, fast.

PrimeTip 2: Moral Flexibility

Hopefully, you didn’t actually burn our old advice. You’d have to buy it all again, because moral flexibility still matters. Flexibility makes plates and goalposts easier to move. They’re called verbal gymnastics for a reason: redefining “civilian” takes Olympian mobility. Start off with a simple bridge, and work toward the splits.

And cut sugar, it’s the worst white powder. Others make decent preworkout, and the metabolism boost is great on a cut.

PrimeTip 3: Cardiovascular Hardening

You don’t need cardio. An overtrained heart gripes about simple self-defense, and steals calories from your delts. A three-way training split (push-pull-purge) is enough strain. Remember cardio’s interference effect: fretting over reporters cuts into recovery.

Hard hearts make hard bodies. Don’t worry about coronary episodes. Sure, glassing villages sounds stressful. But that’s the beauty of moral hypertrophy: you won’t feel an attosecond of doubt. Just keep your ideological core tight.

PrimeTip 4: Media Diet

In the past, we’ve suggested a range of health, philosophy, and self-help books to inspire your journey. Burn them. Literally this time. Books shelter pacifist thoughts and pay pacifist royalties. Pacifism opposes the seizure of muscle, killing your gains. Making it the one enemy worse than rum cake.

Your new motto is CICO: cruelty in, cruelty out. Only take in the words necessary to fuel moral hypertrophy, and not a sentence more. This should be the longest thing you read this month. No open letters, UN reports, or rum cake recipes.

Put down the rum cake.

PrimeTip 5: Humanitarian Deloads

Healthy purges aren’t all go, all the time. Bodies and souls need rest, to come back stronger and colder than ever. That’s where deloads–brief breaks from high-volume violence–come in. Take a week away from training, and indulge some token sympathy for the cattle. Your joints and allies will thank you.

Then reload.

Security requires strength. That journey’s hard alone. But together we’re one, unbreakable rod. Put down the cookie or lose the hand.

Sincerely,

The PrimeLifts Team

Use the code “EthicallySwole2024” for half off supplements until February.

Last volley of 2023! We made it. Thanks for hanging around.

Refer a friend

-DD

In my defense, the idea only works now. I made some Christmas cards. Riffing on everyone’s favorite Hobby Lobby-sponsored ads, He Gets Us.

They come full-sized:

And party-sized:

Here’s a few shots in the wild:

Finally, I asset-flipped it all into this website.

If you’re in NYC, you might find one. Unless they’re a hot item. Or destroyed en-masse. Or I get arrested again.

Most likely arrested. So it goes. Thanks for reading.

Had fun? Share it. Didn’t? Snitch tag it.

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From: releases@AphelionPR.com
To: List - Lowbies/Paparazzi

Dear Masses,

We, the undersigned, haven’t voted since Fallujah. Nonetheless, our agents say it’s time to rise up. Against the thing, and for the empire. Our agents are very loud, and even more determined. Given today’s hangovers, fighting for silence has never been more important.

The issue has haunted our inboxes all morning, and presumably longer. Where there was joy, there is fire. Where there was love, acrimony. Where there was peace, ten self-replies about one petition. It looks like a Google Doc? What happened to Change.org? We liked Change.org. Anyway, annihilate the bad people.

At first, the issue seems complex. It isn’t. If we don’t take a stand, our new deal is dead. And most of our agents’ links have video. You can’t spin video. There’s something about the Red Cross in the comments, but it’s 7 AM. We’re not reading that, and neither are you.

You may think we’re unwise to opine, publicly or privately. That we’re more qualified to discuss quantum uncertainty. That we’ll regret this after left-clicking. We agree. Tell our agents. Based on the pleas and lightly-obscured threats pouring in, we’re PhDs. Policy journals await our words with bated breath. Why else would we be up at dawn, checking our own e-signature for typos?

But can we afford complacency with so many unbombed? Plenty of hungry artists would love our spot. We wouldn’t be the first act the agency’s ghosted, or the biggest. Sometimes, being a public figure is about knowing stuff and being brave. Today, it’s about showing up. We’re here. Active. Present. Available for USO shows.

Maybe you can live with the status quo. Or get by on five, perhaps even four, hours of sleep. We can’t. Without nine steady hours of REM recovery, our joints fall off. Sinking months of planning for dozens of cast and crew. The news might be over our heads, but we know cameramen need food. Think of their camerakids.

Screw it. Give us a sec to wiki this.

Oh. Oh man. For decades? Heavy.

Come to think of it, this came up at a few signings. Real downer. Ending this would help the vibe at events. Let’s come together, and nail the stragglers. Unless we’re supposed to draw it out. Or just send a warning? That sounds right. We want a moderate amount of fire. Let them eat, drink, and live in cake.

Finally: we’re sorry. Based on the last petition, public opinion might flip next week. If so, we regret this lapse. We like civilians. Every day’s a learning process, where we strive to something the whatever. Next time we’ll do better, unless our agents say to do worse. We’re still available for USO shows.

XoXoXo, Stars and Stripes Forever, and Merry Christmas.

Jack “Triceps” Troy

Chef Joan

The Cast of Ready 2 Salsa?

Doctor Beats

Tony Hawk (Not the Skater)

Twerkaholic

The Stuntmen’s Association of Motion Pictures

Name Pending

Lucha Lord Jr.

The Nightwing Fancast

[Removed]

Writers House

I’m Not Signing This Dude

Uncle Clyde

Your Next Date

Drummers for Glassing Villages

StreamKingStreams

And scene. As always, I hope you enjoyed it.

Know someone else that might? Or someone easily bullied? Bring them into the cult.

Refer a friend

Two referrals get you a free month. Four referrals unlock secret articles. And eight? Eight unleashes the mystery box. Who can resist a mystery box?

Have a good week.

-DD

Share it to help us consolidate power. And meet rent.

Share

Dennard: Thanks for coming.

The people are angry. Just like last month, and the month before that. And while that is deeply, richly entertaining, it’s not sustainable.

Our research — and their demands — say it’s linked to everything costing more, doing less, and often killing you. Back in my day, we called that whining communism. And I’m 32, so I mean last fall. You worked hard to build your monopolies, and they’re worth defending.

There’s two ways out. A campaign, and an apology.

Do not apologize. We tried that, and it sucked. My brain did that thing…when you take an action, and feel bad after it. Like you haven’t drank in a while? Virtuosity’s done apologizing, and so are you.

You need a campaign. To change the hearts of the public, and let the government go back to napping. That’s where Virtuosity, the only agency that matters, comes in. We’ve dedicated top minds to defending industry dominance. We’re not convincing them they love monopoly. We’re proving they always have.

You just have to buy in. No one outside this room can afford it anymore.

Amran has your first option. Options are also exclusive to this room.

I want you to visualize the free market.

Think about the billions of self-interested actors scattered across the globe, all competing for goods and services in a panoply of distorted and disorderly markets. Imagine the bribing and backstabbing between dishonorable buyers and venal sellers. Consider the wonderful externalities — such as disproportionate wealth creation and climate-mediated population control — created by The Invisible Hand’s gentle caress.

A magnificent, Milton Friedman-inspired wet dream, isn’t it?

Unfortunately, problems are brewing in economic fantasyland.

The same market manipulators, complicit politicians, and captive regulators who created our righteous oligopoly are under siege by economic extremists. These anarchists — grotesque subhumans who advocate for civil liberty and bodily autonomy — want to dismantle the ruthlessly efficient and laughably inequitable system you’ve spent decades constructing.

You know the risk these regressives pose to your special dividends and shareholder buybacks.

To stem this reasonable tide, we need to show the proletariat that leveling the financial playing field would lead to a socialist-style collapse akin to Japan or Western Europe. Do Americans really want to live longer, healthier, richer lives, free of gun violence and housing insecurity, subject to a nightmarish litany of tax-funded programs designed to serve their most vulnerable neighbors?

Can you imagine a more dystopian hellscape?

Progressive taxation and fair market competition are chaotic, amoral, and profit-reducing solutions, which leaves just one viable path: embracing monopoly. And that’s where Virtuosity comes in, with a campaign I’m calling “The Madness of Choice.”

Remember when you were a kid, and grownups made all the important decisions in your life, and you were happy? Then what happened? You turned eighteen, the illusion of free will was dangled in front of you, and ever since you’ve been paralyzed by an onslaught of increasingly dehumanizing choices.

Which brand employs more diligent child laborers? Nike, or Adidas?

Should I opt for the triple-bypass from McDonalds, or the quadruple-bypass from Burger King?

Ruger’s renowned revolvers, or SIG Sauer’s sleek semi-autos?

The human brain is an evolutionary marvel, but it can only process so much information. Until recently our corrupt oligopoly trickled down just enough wealth to keep the pathetic masses pacified. But, as with children, once you give an inch, these terrorists demand a mile. And yet, their precious little prole brains couldn’t possibly fathom the dignity provided by a living wage, let alone comprehend an esoteric concept like upward mobility.

Science proves it. Researchers at Peter Thiel’s Moonraker Institute have consistently shown that when consumers are deprived of choice, and stripped of agency, they can easily be coerced into reporting higher scores on surveys measuring personal happiness and overall life satisfaction.

Our campaign would leverage these findings, which were generously funded with grants from PayPal, Monsanto, and Saudi Aramco, and launch a multichannel strategy that educates consumers on how choice drives them insane. By deploying every tool at our disposal — from classic highway billboards to sponsored content on YouTube to bribable influencers on TikTok — these ingrates will finally realize choice creates chaos, and only benevolent monopolies, like yours, can free them from their capitalist shackles.

I won’t lie, this campaign will cost you. But you need to ask yourself this: would you rather sacrifice a few basis points of operating margin now, or compete in a sane economic system later?

Get more Amran

Dennard: Can you marry a pitch? I might need to find a way. I want to enjoy one good month, two loveless years, and three decades of open hatred with this pitch.

Amran: Certainly more rewarding than all those Hinge dates.

Michael: Let me know where you guys are registered. I’m invited to the wedding, right?

Dennard: I know it sounds like I’m sexually moved by that pitch. I am. And I’m excited to cheat with Michael’s brilliance. His work is really enhanced by understanding people, instead of imagining them on fire.

First, it’s an honor to defend monopoly, and I'm not just saying that because you’re the only game in town. I’m a legit monopoly fanboy. Need proof? I nearly cornered the market on frozen concentrated orange juice.

It almost worked, but it turned out the market for frozen concentrated orange is fictional. My lawyer called it a “technicality” that saved my ass from jail. What can I say? Liberal arts guy here, so maybe business isn’t my bag, but bullshit is my core competency.

The people have a choice: love monopoly, or get fucked. You’ve been playing nice for too long. Time to convince fool the people into defending monopoly. Let’s get down to brass knuckles, shall we?

Recently, I read some bullshit about the government accusing the meat industry of price fixing. Your lawyers say, deny the charges. But I say, no more meat.

We pull all the meat from supermarket shelves. Then we put signs on the empty shelves that ask: “Who stole your meat?”

It’ll take a few days for that question to really start buzzing on social media, and that’s when we hit them with an answer. A deep fake of Joe Biden where he says, “Let them eat tofu.”

Short run: skyrocketing sales for your soy subsidiary. Long run: pitchforks and knives for the trust-busting bureaucrats.

But remember, “Love monopoly, or get fucked” is a template we can apply to any trust-buster. The DOJ says Google is a monopoly? Use your First Amendment right to redirect every single Google search to a picture of Merrick Garland, until the people find a Second Amendment solution. FTC Chairperson Lina Kahn says, free shipping is a lie? Ship all the packages to her house, then tell the people where to pick up their stuff. The government says private equity can’t corner the anesthesiology market in Texas? Tell Texans they have a choice: “cowboy up” for surgery without drugs, or “cowboy up” and go after the drug-hoarding trust-busters.

Get more Michael

Dennard: I can’t imagine not cherishing and protecting that ad. It’s like the rain forest, if it generated value instead of worthless air.

Michael: Speaking of air. When are you guys gonna start bottling and selling air?

Amran: Seriously, you can tell us. Another upside of the total monopoly economy? Your stock will be the only one in your sector, hence no more pesky insider trading charges.

Dennard: Do I love this pitch, or my one legitimate son more? I don’t know. But I definitely love it more than the other kids.

Michael: He loves this pitch so much, he’d send it college. Private school tuition. Plus, room and board. That’s love.

I planned a whole “Nostalgia” rip-off speech. But effort insulted the enterprise’s spirit. So I’ll come clean.

We own the other four agencies pitching you. You’re picking between Coke and Vanilla Coke. I’ve gone ahead and burned the presentation budget on a PSA. This video spot will run…wherever we feel like, really. Again, the fix is in. But you’ll love the results.

Watch this, and then don’t tell me what you think. Because we’re doing it.

FADE IN.

TITLE CARD: “Johnny Learns to Chill”

INT. UNIVERSITY COMMON ROOM

Monochrome film recalls better times in the empire.

Young firebrand JOHNNY STRAWMAN finishes a handmade sign. His handwriting is nigh-illegible, marred by collectivism.

His smarter, better, happier friend JENNY TRUST approaches.

JENNY TRUST
What’s wrong Johnny? Have you shopped today?

JOHNNY STRAWMAN
Not yet. This march is more important. They’re letting the Microsoft merger through. And Endeavor. And a bunch of stuff with food and water. I love food and water!

JENNY TRUST
You’re delirious. What’s your Amazon username? I’ll buy out your wishlist.

JOHNNY STRAWMAN
It’s Jdawg2008 — no, wait! They’re worse!

JENNY TRUST
Johnny, aren’t you tired?

JOHNNY STRAWMN
A little, but—

JENNY TRUST
Of wasting your life? You only have one.

JOHNNY STRAWMAN
I…don’t think a friend would say that.

JENNY TRUST
Isn’t that the problem, Johnny? All that thinking? All that fighting?

JOHNNY STRAWMAN
Well, you have to fight to win.

JENNY TRUST laughs. And then laughs. And then continues laughing.

JENNY TRUST
Ah, you meant that. Sorry.

JOHNNY takes a nervous step backwards. He’s still the same distance away.

JENNY TRUST
Sleep in. You found this protest on a monopoly phone, searching a monopoly engine, in a monopoly coffee shop. It’s over.

JOHNNY tries two sideways steps. Same result.

JENNY TRUST
Monopoly is like gravity, but less wishy-washy. Energy in a system trends toward order.

JOHNNY STRAWMAN
That’s—

JENNY TRUST
Untrue? In books, sure. But we’re almost down to one publisher. And then we’ll have one truth.

JOHNNY sprints to the doorknob. It won’t budge.

JENNY TRUST
See? Meaningless.

JOHNNY rams the door with his shoulder. Nothing, save a dry popping sound. He clutches the joint, panicked.

JENNY TRUST
Thirsty work! Have a drink. I’ve got Coke, Fanta, Powerade…or Pepsi, if you’re feeling indie. Support small business, right?

JOHNNY STRAWMAN
Let me out.

JENNY TRUST
Sure, if you don’t want a special-edition Dreamworld Coke. The promotion’s almost over.

Jenny extends a can of limited-run cola. It’s the only color object onscreen.

JENNY TRUST
Surrender and struggle end the same way. But one lets you rest.

JOHNNY STRAWMAN looks at his shoulder, and then Jenny. The bruise is getting dark. He drops the sign, and takes the can with his intact limb.

JENNY TRUST
Good dog.

FADE OUT.

Dennard: Like it? Next year’s PSA will be shittier, and more expensive. But don’t forget your other two choices! From us. For more. You know the game.

Get more Dennard

Dennard: I’ll be real. You can get on board, or read about the 2024 riots in a textbook. Play it your way.

Amran: This is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. All we need is for you to wire that fat, juicy deposit to our account at Bank of J.P. Morgan Stanley.

Michael: One last thing. Hate to ask. But do you validate parking?

Thanks for reading! The future’s looking bright. For the trusts, I mean. Less so for other monkeys. I will now, without a scrap of restraint, beg you to share this. There’s a button! Heed the button.

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