I also didn’t like whipped cream. When I ordered a hot chocolate as a kid, I always had to tell the barista to leave it off. (Actually, it was my mother who made the request for me. I was too busy being scared of people.) Now I’m sure my legions of Gen Z readers are confused right now. “Why did you have to ask for no whipped cream? Did the barista not dutifully inquire as to your dietary preferences?” Nope. In those days, all hot chocolates were created equal. Regular milk, regular chocolate, a clump of whipped cream, and a temperature that was certain to burn over-eager toddler tongues.

Now when you order hot chocolate, most baristas will ask if you want whipped cream. I can’t help but feel that I’m responsible for this. And if this is the case, I would like to apologize because I had no idea what I had unleashed. It has become standard for restaurants to allow people to custom-design every item they order. And having worked myself as a barista for several years, I can tell you that most people have a very high opinion of their recipe-enhancement skills. They always seem to know something that the professionals don’t.

How did we get to this point where everyone wants to modify every element of every experience? How perfect do you think you can make your meal? If you tell a Thai waiter that your food should be a 3.5/10 level of spicy, I suggest that you cook for yourself. Or if you find yourself requesting that your salad is to be dressed “not too much but not too little,” it’s time to finally reckon with your personal unhappiness.

At the risk of sounding hypocritical, I should mention that I still do occasionally request modifications myself. My pickiness has gotten much better, but there remains work to be done. I do have a system, however. When I get a menu, I first scan for any options I can order without requesting changes. If that proves unsuccessful, I try to keep my modifications to one or two non-essential ingredients. “I’ll have the tofu scramble, but hold the mushrooms please” seems like a reasonable request. “I’ll have the tofu scramble, but no tofu and don’t scramble it,” not so much.

Some restaurants have taken a stand. When I see “no substitutions” on a menu, I sort of admire that defiance. “No substitutions, no exceptions” is even more ballsy. All-or-nothing statements may not be ideal, but perhaps they’re necessary. “No unreasonable substitutions” would not work because I guarantee you that in someone’s mind, requesting a caprese sandwich with “swiss instead of mozzarella, hold the tomatoes, add banana peppers, onions, and pastrami, and switch the ciabatta roll to a sesame bagel” is perfectly reasonable. Humans are batshit crazy, in case you hadn’t noticed. Although an imperfect antidote, society must institute rules to contain the madness.

Then again, if “no substitutions, no exceptions” were the law of restaurant-land, I probably would not have eaten out until I was 22 years old. In fact, a lot of children would not be able to go to restaurants, which obviously would be a wonderful thing, but what about the adult children? What would we do with them?

I propose that we have special clearly-marked restaurants that allow patrons to customize to their heart’s content. These places will be a haven for picky kids and grown-ups who feel entitled to choose the quantity of chickpeas in their curry. It will be a lovely five-hour dining experience. For all other food establishments, the menu shall be immutable and any modifications will have to be made by the customer, not the chef. If that means I have to scoop off the whipped cream into the trash, that is a sacrifice I am willing to make.

As I see it, a pencil has two jobs: writing and erasing. (If you have other uses for a pencil, please keep them private.) In terms of writing, the Ticonderoga® cannot be beat. It sharpens perfectly every time. None of that bullcrap where the wood sharpens faster than the graphite. You know what I’m talking about.

Ticonderogas® also erase at a very high level. No smearing! (Take note, Office Depot® brand.) If you have an issue with a Ticonderoga® eraser, it’s definitely your fault. You must have dropped it in the dirt or something. Take some personal responsibility,

I’m actually not sure why I’m so passionate about Ticonderogas®. If I’m being honest, which I always am with you, my loyal readers, I hardly ever use pencils. Pencils are for sketching and math, two activities I abandoned years ago when it became apparent that I had a very low ceiling of potential in both, and I had already reached it. Essentially, pencils are a child’s domain. That’s why I use pens, like a real man. But I guess I just really respect a good product. In fact, when a product is so well-designed, it makes me wonder why alternatives even exist. This is a point I made years ago with my controversial Milky Way®/Twix® joke.

When I become a parent, my kids will get only the best, which means Twix® bars on Halloween and Ticonderogas® for their school work. This is assuming that someday I will have children, pencils will still be in use, and learning will be happening in schools…a forecast that, quite frankly, is not grounded in reality. Oh well.

Then there’s Garfield. This morbidly obese, misanthrophic cat has been raging against Mondays for nearly five decades now. Much like Mark Zuckerberg, he recognized an underlying human tendency toward negativity and capitalized on it. To this day, Garfield is still out there peddling his anti-Monday narrative and making a handsome profit in mug and mousepad sales.

Monday is actually a good day though. It’s a day of renewal and possibility. The world is your oyster, as they say, whatever that means. Monday is empowering for the same reason that January is empowering. A new beginning. Tuesday, on the other hand, is the February of days. On Tuesday, all of Monday’s potential seems lost and time stands still. You’re knee-deep into the problems of the week, yet you’re not even halfway to the weekend. Nothing exciting has ever happened on a Tuesday. (The Challenger did explode on a Tuesday, but that’s not really the “excitement” that I’m talking about here.)

I propose that we remove Tuesdays entirely from the week. And while we’re at it, I find the hours of 3-5pm depressing. Let’s cut those out, too, and go straight from 2:59pm to 5:01pm. If that seems too extreme, we can just do it for a couple days each week. I can deal with afternoons on occasion, but not every day.

I’m realizing too late that this topic did not warrant a full essay. It’s a bit “meh.” I feel that I’ve wasted our time. Then again, if you’re reading this on a Tuesday (and you should be), I doubt you had anything better to do.

Let’s all embrace the “meh” of Tuesday. After all, tomorrow is a different day!

Me (pointing): I would like that t-shirt, please.

Cashier (handing it to me): Here you go.

Tip screen: Select your tip amount. 20%. 25%. 30%. No tip.

I had to think. Should I tip 30% for my t-shirt? After all, the employee did do her job. She handed me the shirt without incident. No violence occurred. As Seinfeld himself would say, perhaps I should give her “a little something extra for not taking my head and smashing my face through the glass countertop.”

It may not shock you to learn that I did not choose to voluntarily increase my t-shirt price to $65. Nor $60, nor $55. Instead, I clicked that all-terrifying “No tip” button. People are scared of that button!

I was recently sitting at my local coffee shop, sipping my un-tipped coffee, and I overheard a young woman at the register apologizing profusely for hitting the “No tip” button.

“I am so, sooo sorry!” she emphasized. “It was an accident!”

It concerns me that we’ve reached a point in society where not tipping for a coffee is treated as a social faux pas on par with backing over your neighbor’s dog.

Everyone seems to assume that the servers hate you if you don’t tip. I’m sure that’s true sometimes, but I was a barista for two years, and I did not hate the non-tippers. In fact, one of my favorite customers came in every day for a drip coffee and sat down for several hours in the shop. He rarely tipped, but he was always polite. Honestly, I much preferred serving him over the tipping customers who ordered bullshit like this:

People will argue that food service workers don’t make enough money. That’s true, but is it the customer’s job to supplement their wages? If so, why don’t we just make it simpler? Maybe companies should start a monthly wage-improvement donation program where customers are kindly asked to contribute extra money directly to the company. The call-to-action in the email subject line could be something like this:

“Help us help our employees perform labor that benefits us. Do (y)our part.”

I should say that I always tip for table service. But let’s by clear: table service means that I sit down at a table and food is brought to me. It doesn’t mean that I have to seat myself, order at the counter, retrieve my food when it’s ready, and bus my own dishes. That happened at an Italian restaurant in Chicago. They had a host stand, so I assumed they would also have waiters. Wrong. I ended up having to do so many chores while I was there, I was surprised there wasn’t a customer dishwashing station. When I got the check (which I had to pay at the counter), there was the standard tip line. I left it blank and decided to keep the tip for myself since, after all, I had waited on myself. Although I didn’t care for my attitude, so I reduced my tip to 15%.

That reminds me…some places are now declaring the official meaning of various tip amounts. For example, on the tip screen next to the 20% option, it will say “Fine.” Who doesn’t love the guilt card? They think that you will tip more because how could you tip the “fine” amount? Are you an ungrateful selfish cheapskate? Wasn’t the service you received a little better than “fine?” No. Probably not. The truth is, most service is just fine, which is not a bad thing. We should all be grateful when things in our lives are fine. When my waiter is pleasant and my food arrives in a reasonable timeframe and it tastes close to what I expected, that is a fine experience. I will tip accordingly.

If my stance on any of these issues risks prematurely accelerating my transition into curmudgeonhood, then so be it. Who are we if we don’t stick to our principles! This is my position, damn it, and I will not waver! (Unless I’m with someone I want to impress. Then, I will eagerly tip $5 for a $4 coffee.)

Why are acceptance speeches so dull? Because humans are delivering them and humans are dull. Sadly, attractiveness doesn’t help. Just look at the graph below.

When I tell people that I went to the Oscars, which I always bring up within five minutes of meeting someone, they usually want to know about the celebrities. It’s almost like we don’t watch these shows solely for the recognition of achievements in the art of cinema. The thing is, if you’re following the rules, you don’t actually “meet” anyone because seat fillers are told in no uncertain terms that we are not to initiate conversation with the stars. Only if spoken to may we respond, which is the same directive I give to my barber.

If people could be trusted to just make polite small talk as they would with any stranger, I’m sure this rule would not be necessary. Unfortunately, people can’t be trusted. This has been empirically proven at every celebrity book signing when at least one audience member uses the Q&A to invite the speaker to their family Easter brunch. Having said that, it is somewhat awkward to sit up front at the Oscars in total silence, while the nominees around you converse excitedly. For one 45-minute stretch, I was seated next to Octavia Spencer. I followed the rule and avoided all interaction until there came a moment when she was concernedly looking around her seat.

“Do you see my purse?”

I had been spoken to.

In an awe-inspiring act of chivalry, I shifted my eyes around the immediate area. It quickly became apparent, however, that the purse was most likely under her seat, and therefore visually obstructed by the bottom of her dress. She started to move around her dress as we looked and managed to locate it quickly. I was glad, too, because this didn’t seem like something I should be helping with. Even though “Don’t look under the actors’ clothes” was not one of the explicitly stated rules, I’ve always been a master of inference.

Aside from that slightly amusing half-anecdote, I had one other brief interaction with a star when I was told to occupy Melissa McCarthy’s seat. As I headed over, I was abruptly sent away by British actor Richard E. Grant.

“Melissa’s coming back! Melissa’s coming back!”

“Okay.”

I hope Richard cherishes that memory as fondly as I do.

The most humbling moment for me came at the end of the night. By this point, I was feeling pretty special. Look at me, I’m at the Oscars. I must be an important person. It had been a long day of orientations and security checkpoints, but I had finally made it into the elite world of big-time show biz. The show was now over and I asked one of the organizers where I was to go next. He motioned to the exit.

“Walk out that door.”

Suddenly I was alone on Hollywood Boulevard, just an ordinary schmuck in a rented tuxedo. Time to go home.

I jumped on a bus, paid my $1.75, and filled another seat.

Here is one of my favorite Academy Award openings. Billy Crystal embodies everything I want show business to be.

There are two types of people in this world: Those who like Neil Diamond and those who don’t.

While the polarizing nature of “Cracklin’ Rosie” is undeniable, I would like to posit that the world can more accurately be broken down into two other groups of people: those who are usually on time and those who are usually late.

The on-timers spend a lot of time waiting, while the chronically late spend a lot of time making excuses. I’ve heard enough excuses to fill the Dead Sea Scrolls, so I’ll just dissect my least favorite: parking.

“It took forever to find parking!”

As someone who uses public transportation, I admittedly don’t have to deal with parking. But I do plan my time according to the bus schedule, so I can’t say I’m thrilled when I have to wait 20 minutes outside a restaurant while the person I’m meeting continuously circles the block. No open spaces within five feet of a Los Angeles diner at noon on a Sunday? Who would’ve expected such a shocking twist of events in the densest urban area in the nation? Let me put it another way: Unless we’re meeting for brunch in a Wyoming cow pasture, you should add a few extra minutes to find parking.

Now I understand that many of the tardy-afflicted are not consciously trying to be inconsiderate. In fact, I’ve known plenty of people who want to change, but they just haven’t figured out how.

“I’ve tried everything!” they bemoan. “I plan ahead, but I’m still always late!”

If you’re one of these people, bemoan no more, for I am about to blow your mind with my lateness solution. This concept is so simple, yet so brilliant, that frankly, I shouldn’t be giving it away for free. But that’s just the kind of guy I am: punctual and generous.

Here is the secret:

If you have to ask yourself if you have time to do something before you go to your next appointment, the answer is always no.

That’s it. Follow this rule religiously and you’ll never be late again.

Let’s try it out together with a common scenario: You have an 11:30am appointment on Thursday at a short-staffed veterinary clinic. It took weeks to get the appointment, and your ferret’s face rash has now spread to its groin. In other words, you can’t afford to miss this. It’s now 10:52 on Thursday morning and you’re ready to go. Google Maps says it’s a 17-min drive. You’re probably going to be early. As you put Montgomery into his ferret carrier, you realize he’s a bit smellier than usual. You don’t want to get scolded by the vet again for not practicing proper rodent hygiene. Maybe you can give the little bugger a quick bath before you go…but is there time?

Say it with me: No.

President Taft.

I feel bad for President Taft.

Now before you get all insecure about your deficit of knowledge regarding our nation’s 27th leader, let me assure you that I don’t know anything about him either. Actually, thats not true. I know one thing.

He was the one who got stuck in the bathtub.

I suspect some of you are now nodding in recognition. “Oh, that guy.” And herein lies the problem. Taft may have been an outstanding president, but most of us will never bother to find out. He ascended to our nation’s highest office, and his entire legacy has been relegated to a giggle-inducing mental image of a naked man tragically underestimating his own girth. Poor guy.

There could almost be two layers of sympathy for Taft. Aside from the permanent stain on his reputation, one might also be tempted to feel compassion for the shame he must have felt upon realizing he would need assistance in being extricated from one of life’s most vulnerable situations. Feeling sorry for him in this regard is unnecessary, however, because it turns out that the story is not true. Never happened. Historians have studied it (which is incredible in and of itself) and it turns out, it was simply a baseless rumor started by an attention-seeking White House usher. Yet, the legend persists.

I recall being taught this “fact” in first grade. It seems to have been an unfortunate byproduct of the well-intentioned yet always ill-fated attempts to make education “fun.” And apparently children are still being misinformed because in my research for this article, I discovered a 2016 picture book titled, “President Taft is Stuck in the Bath.” (Note that this is not an Amazon link. If you’re in the market for children’s books about apocryphal presidential bathroom incidents, please always support your local independent bookstore.)

Honestly, I can’t say I’m surprised that Americans have latched on to this myth at the expense of any useful knowledge of Taft’s administration. We’re a lot more interested in scandal than we are in government. If Abraham Lincoln had had an humiliating incident during the Gettysburg Address, we probably wouldn’t even know about the Civil War.

“Oh yeah, Lincoln, wasn’t he the guy who was giving that Gettytown Address thing and then his pants split open? That’s funny…What was that speech about anyway? What did he need to address? Was something going on?”

Politics is polarizing, but immaturity will always be bipartisan.

It was a seemingly unremarkable Thursday last fall. As a remote worker, I had developed an expensive habit of beginning the first half of my day in a coffee shop. I sat down with my bank-breaking cup of Los Angeles $4.25 drip and opened my computer. The first email I saw was from several people in my company whom I had never worked with or even met.

“We would like to meet with you to discuss organizational changes. Please be in a private location for this meeting. Thank you.”

Well, crap.

For any readers not fluent in euphemisms, I have translated this email into standard English:

They had scheduled the meeting for 9:30am. I looked at the clock and realized that time was of the essence. I informed the barista that I would be needing a to-go cup because I needed to rush home in time to be fired. We both chuckled at life’s irony.

Once home, I logged on for the meeting. The man tasked with the dirty work seemed uncomfortable. While informing me that my “position was being eliminated,” he looked me over as if trying to determine if I was the type who was going to make his job easier or harder.

Maybe I should’ve made it harder?

“Oh really, my position is being eliminated? Which position am I being moved into?”

Or

“I can’t believe this is happening on the same day that my pug got diagnosed with lupus!”

Or

“Sorry, you froze there for a second. Could you repeat that? Oh no, you froze again. Nope, still frozen.”

The possibilities are endless, but those are not nice things to say, so I did not say them. Instead, I simply nodded and drifted off during his prepared remarks about my “hard work, dedication, something, something, blah, blah, blah…”

At least my lay-off hadn’t coincided with my work anniversary. One of my coworkers was let go on the same day that he received an automated email congratulating him on a five-year working relationship. Oy. Seems like a few other “organizational changes” may be needed at the company.

Following each round of “workforce reductions,” a company-wide virtual town hall was held to address “restructuring” and “new directions.” I remember seeing on my Outlook calendar that the next town hall had been scheduled for after my departure. This made sense, as I recalled previous meetings where the information presented did not seem particularly relevant to those who had just been fired. Like this unsolicited update from one of the higher-ups:

“I don’t want you guys to think that the company is in any trouble. We’re going to be fine. We’re still in a great position. I know it’s been a tough year for the industry, but rest assured, we’re going to come through this stronger than ever!”

Not quite the flavor of reassurance craved by the newly vagrant.

Per company tradition, I assume that the surviving employees also received an email informing them of which of their coworkers had been “released.” That’s a fun word choice. It implies a certain sense of freedom. I visualize the door of one of those vintage golden bird cages being opened.

“Fly! Be free!” exclaims the owner, as he releases his canary from its bondage.

But the reality isn’t quite so romantic. After being “released,” I had severance documents to complete, unemployment insurance claims to file, company equipment to return, a brief spiritual journey to undertake, and ultimately a new job search to begin. In fact, I believe that I’m doing more work unemployed than when I was working. (There’s that irony again that we were talking about earlier.)

Oh yeah, and I’m doing a Substack because it never hurts to have a back-up plan like a free newsletter.

Please enjoy this short clip of yet another relevant example of irony:

But first, let me state that I really don’t know anything about poetry. In my senior year of high school, I was assigned a project in which I was tasked with writing poems in multiple different styles. One of them was free verse, aka no rules. I think I submitted something along these lines:

My name is Gregory

This is my poem

Goodbye

I was tempted to make it easy on myself and repeat that style here. But then I remembered that there’s something special about rhymes. People win arguments with rhymes. Think “silence is violence” or “smelt it, dealt it.” Case closed. If it rhymes, it’s true. More importantly, rhymes sound nice, and my home deserves something nice.

Enough chatter, here it is. We hope you like it.

My dear apartment, you may be small

But oh how I cherish thee;

Number six on the left, straight down the hall…

You are where I like to be.

Life got weird, I needed out

And then you came along;

Packed my bags, no need to pout,

I found where I belong.

Week by week and piece by piece

I worked so hard to make you shine;

New couch, new chair, new bed, new sheets

Who knew my knack for interior design!

I still shower you with gifts

And clean obsessively;

You’ll be the best damn bachelor pad that exists!

You have my guarantee.

Perhaps one day we’ll add a third

With your consent of course;

Maybe a dog, or a cat, or a fish, or a bird…

A companion of sorts.

Or there may come a time when we have to part ways

But for now, it’s still you and me,

And since nights can get lonesome, I mean when I say

Thank you for your company.

Here’s one of my favorite poems:

I don’t think I have ever introduced myself as Greg, nor have I ever written my name as Greg. I use my full name on everything. It’s on all of my social media profiles. It’s on every paper I ever wrote in school. I sign my full name. Look at the top of this newsletter. In my mind, I’m a Gregory. I think like a Gregory, I feel like a Gregory, and I act like a Gregory. And yet, I could count on one hand the number of people who actually call me Gregory. So how did we get here?

When I meet someone, the initial exchange usually goes something like this:

“Hi, I’m Gregory.”

“Nice to meet you. Do you prefer Greg or Gregory?”

I often scratch my head at this point because I can’t figure out why someone would introduce themselves by a name they don’t wish to be called.

“Hi, my name is Lula.”

“Nice to meet you, Lula.”

“Actually, I prefer Frank.”

When these situations came up in the past, I would simply reiterate that I preferred Gregory, which often took people by surprise. I could see the wheels spinning in their heads as they anticipated the mental acuity they would need to muster in order to keep track of these unforeseen extra syllables. Inevitably, our next exchange would go something like this:

“So Greg, where are you fro—sorry, I mean Gregory.”

“It’s okay.”

My laissez-faire response to the minor transgression would apparently leak into the offender’s subconscious because before long, they would be calling me Greg every time, sans apology.

After witnessing this pattern repeat throughout my life, it occurred to me one day that almost everyone I knew was calling me Greg, in spite of never having received my explicit permission to do so. Then I had a second thought…Do I care? To which, the answer is no. It does not bother me one iota when people call me Greg. In fact, consistent field testing has demonstrated that I will respond to any mention of the name Greg within a 100-foot radius.

One would assume that this newfound acceptance of my unsolicited nickname would have made things easier for me. Tragically, this has not proven to be the case. These days when I meet new people, it usually goes something like this:

“Hi, I’m Gregory.”

“Nice to meet you. Do you prefer Greg or Gregory?”

“Either one is fine.”

“But which do you prefer?”

“You can call me Greg.”

“But is that what you want to be called?”

“Well it’s what I’m going to be called.”

“This is your name! You should be called what you want to be called!”

“Okay fine, call me Gregory.”

“I will!”

“Great. Glad that’s settled.”

“So Greg, where are you fro—sorry, I mean Gregory.”

“It’s okay.”

I suppose if I really wanted to make my life simple, I would just adopt Greg as my name in all of my verbal and written communication. Gregory would be reserved exclusively for my dealings with the state of California and the IRS. Yet somehow I just can’t bring myself to do that. The day that I completely give up on Gregory will be the day a part of my soul dies. (And life has already killed off several parts of my soul, so I can’t afford to lose any more!)

Still confused about where I stand on my name? Consider Robert De Niro. If you’ve ever seen an interview where any of his colleagues talk about him, it’s always Bob.

“Bob was a joy to work with.”

“Bob is one of the great actors of our time.”

“Bob likes black women.”

But you’re never going to see a poster for a movie starring Bob De Niro. Not even for Dirty Grandpa. If you know him personally, you can call him Bob. But to the rest of the world, he’s Robert.

And I’m Gregory. But if you know me, you can call me Greg.*

*Unless you’re one of the few who already calls me Gregory. You’ve been grandfathered in, and you must continue to call me Gregory. You know who you are.

In the event that you do get called, you’ll need to be prepared. There is a process known as voir dire in which jurors are interviewed by the judge and attorneys to determine whether they can be fair and unbiased. This is your chance to get out!

Here are some suggestions of ways to indirectly convey that you’re a nutcase who should be nowhere near a jury:

“Can I be unbiased? Yes, definitely. By the way, is that ugly guy over there the plaintiff?”

“I’m not prejudiced in any way. I believe that everyone should be treated equally under the law. In fact, I feel that animals should even have the same rights as humans. Like, we shouldn’t keep dogs on leashes. And monkeys should be allowed to work in restaurants.”

“Just curious, which verdict will get us out of here quicker?”

“I’m always impartial. But sometimes people are so annoying, they make it impossible.”

“I heard this proverb the other day that really resonated with me: ‘You can always judge a man by the shoes he wears.’”

“I see my juror role as two-fold. First, I need to fully understand the law. Second, I need to decide if I agree with the law.”

“This case reminds me of something that my father did to me that I still haven’t forgiven.”

“This is unrelated, but I have a lot of rage in me and I’m always looking for opportunities to take it out on someone else.”

“Sometimes the evidence overwhelmingly points in one direction, but your Tarot cards tell you to go the other way. Know what I mean?”

“I’ll definitely weigh the evidence carefully and go with the verdict that I feel is in line with the law. Unless the other jurors disagree, then I’ll switch to their side. I like to fit in.”

“I’m very passionate about the American justice system. Better for a thousand innocent men to be imprisoned than one guilty man to go free, I always say.”

“In my experience, people usually did it.”

If after trying all of these statements, you still haven’t been dismissed, you must politely excuse yourself to use the restroom. Quickly change into a clown suit (which you should have on your person at all times) and upon emergence, start beating the other jurors with one of the big red shoes. This method is foolproof. Every single person who has used it has been dismissed instantly. Just know that you may end up back in a courtroom, but you will not be on the jury.

Here is what I know for sure:

The earth is a rhombus.

Crosswalk buttons aren’t connected to anything.

Sammy Davis, Jr. is still alive.

Stevie Wonder is really blind, but he lip-synchs his harmonica. (It’s not even a real harmonica. Slow his concert footage down, look closely, and you can sometimes see the remnants of a scratched-out PlaySkool logo.)

The toaster bagel button doesn’t do anything.

The CIA killed Christopher Plummer.

Gerald Ford had an affair with Dianne Wiest.

Joe Biden and Hillary Clinton control the pharmaceutical industry. Their latest project has been putting Tylenol in Ibuprofen and Ibuprofen in Tylenol. (For people in the know, it’s referred to as the “Grand Switcheroo.”)

All movie bloopers are scripted.

Watergate was an outside job, and it was organized by Gerard Depardieu.

Lizards are actually politicians in disguise.

All pilots fake their landings.

We live in a simulation and/or snow globe and/or Gary Busey’s nightmares.

Vaccines cause bad improv.

Bruce Springsteen was not born in the USA.

Bigfoot is real, but he shaves every day, so it’s impossible to recognize him.

Aliens first arrived on Earth in the late ‘70s. They remained undercover while comprising most of the cast of WKRP in Cincinnati. Upon the show’s cancellation, the aliens returned to their home planet. They briefly returned in the ‘90s to play several guest star roles on NewsRadio. After failing to make the transition to single-camera sitcoms, they haven’t been seen since.

Cockatiels are government drones. (Cockatoos are just birds.)

Santa doesn’t actually exist. (If I’m being totally honest, the evidence for this one is weak.)

That’s all for now. I’ll be sure to alert you, my loyal readers, as soon as I uncover the next terrifying secret that “they” don’t want you to know about.

So you start to question what it is that you’re missing. There must be some singular piece of information that can close this gaping hole in your soul. And you’re going to find it, dammit! Your shelves soon become filled with self-help books, you begin practicing various forms of meditation, and you officially join the Baháʼí faith. Along each step of your journey, you have a similar feeling.

“Yes! This is it. I’ve got it now. This new paperback about aligning my chakras written by a Mr. Clean doppelgänger with an adopted Sanskrit name will finally cure me of my bitter despair in the apparent meaninglessness of the universe.”

You’ve risen above it all! And so quickly too. Just reading the blurb and spending $28.95 on your new gospel has filled you with a deep sense of inner peace. While everyone else is still stuck in the mundane toils of their trivial existences, you watch over them from the higher spiritual plane of consciousness that you now inhabit. And how pathetic they all look. Don’t they know that in order to be truly happy, you have to first dissolve your ego? Morons. You breathe a deep sigh of relief with the comforting knowledge that you are no longer attached to outcomes, relationships, or possessions. All is well now.

Until the next morning, when a rocky night of sleep combined with the discovery that you’re out of granola, and you find yourself filling up with a tidal wave of rage that would impress the likes of Poseidon. It seems that your new shortcut to enlightenment was not such a shortcut after all. Maybe you need a different book, or meditation, or therapy, or religion, or…

A true moment of clarity arises. There is no book or class or teacher who can give you the key to happiness. All this time, you’ve still been seeking outside answers when the true wisdom already resides inside of you. It’s time to finally, truly look within.

Or is it? That may have been true in the past, but that was before you had subscribed to this Substack.

This Substack is what you’ve been looking for all your life. It will instantly solve all of your problems and bring you that deep sense of inner peace that has always eluded you. (And it’s free! (For now.)) With this Substack, you finally have a truly external solution for your internal discontent. The search is over.

So take a deep breath and relax because I never make promises I can’t keep.

Thank you for joining me on this journey.

Love,

As we know, generosity only works if we follow a strict code of conduct. Therefore, I have prepared a very straightforward guide to ensure that things run smoothly this year:

• Properly organize your Christmas list.

If you feel compelled to give me your Christmas list (like a child), please order it from cheapest to most expensive. And then you can just cut off everything after number one because you’re only getting one thing.

• Don’t be an ironic gifter.

Giving me a Costco-size box of candy corn because we’ve both joked about how much we hate it is unacceptable. The “look on my face” when I discover that I will not be getting anything of value may be a gift to you, but it’s certainly not to me. I can’t see my own face, remember? And if I could, I would recognize the fury in my eyes that betrays the phony smile on my lips.

• Don’t tell me the story of my gift.

I know, I know. A year ago, you heard me mention that I wanted to learn harmonica, so you made a mental note, and special ordered this one all the way from Düsseldorf. And it took four months to arrive, wow. What’s that? Oh, it’s a Hohner Chromonica Super 64, is it? It’s the same one that Stevie Wonder uses? Really? Well in that case, why don’t you give it to him, because I don’t want it anymore.

• Not all gift cards are created equal.

“Now you can go out and get what you want!”

That might be true if this wasn’t for an artisan soap shop. What am I supposed to do with this? And it’s only $15? That won’t even cover one bar of soap from that place. That’s okay, I’ll just file this in my scrapbook, alongside the gifts cards you gave me to Blockbuster and RadioShack. (I followed your advice and waited to use them for something special.)

• Cashiers, stop asking me if I want gift-wrapping.

These $379 Bose Ultra spatial audio noise-canceling headphones that I’m buying three days before Christmas are for me. The moment I walk out of this store, I’ll be cueing up the latest episode of Fresh Air with Terry Gross, and I won’t have you shaming me for a self-care purchase. If this continues, I will have no choice but to start accepting the unnecessary gift-wrapping to avoid further stigma, environment be damned.

• Don’t give me anything made by your child.

No exceptions. Remember the cardinal rule: if you don’t have something nice to give, don’t give anything at all.

1. Listen without judgment. If your client wishes to discuss their fervent desire to commit genocide(s), they need to feel safe. Receive their malignant nationalism as a courageous expression of vulnerability. Allow them to speak freely on their undying passion for eugenics. This is their time.

2. Validate their feelings. This one can be tricky. At times, you may find your client’s opinions to be objectionable, or terrifying. But it’s important not to react emotionally. You could say, “I understand that it must be challenging to wake up every morning obsessed with annihilating x nationality. Let’s work on that together.”

3. Explore your client’s childhood. Is there any trauma in their past? Do they have early memories playing the board game Risk? Was Pol Pot a family friend? Or perhaps they were the middle child.

4. Assess the threat. Have they previously committed or attempted to commit genocide? Do they have access to nuclear weapons? Did they give a specific date and time for their crime against humanity, or was it more vague (e.g., “Sometimes I get so stressed that I don’t know if it’s worth allowing certain ethnic groups to survive”)? This could be considered passive genocidal ideation, so be careful not to overreact. It’s when they have a concrete plan that it’s cause for concern. (See Step 10.)

5. Suggest coping mechanisms. The next time your client starts spiraling into a bloodthirsty rage that would concern even Genghis Khan, encourage them to put on some music, although preferably not Wagner or Kanye West. Likewise, never underestimate the power of exercise. Some clients self-medicate by imposing martial law when what they really need is a breath of fresh air.

6. If necessary, work on self-esteem. Interestingly enough, I have found that most of the war criminals I treat have already mastered radical self-acceptance, and this is a great starting point. Unfortunately, these same clients have also displayed confounding inertia when offered the path to change. I will amend this guide once I have developed an effective strategy for solving this conundrum of motivation.

7. Increase the length/frequency of sessions. Ethnic cleansing is a compulsion that tends to require a bit more concentrated work than the standard talk therapy schedule allows. You can reassure your client that as progress is made and assuming that they have halted construction on any death camps, fewer sessions will be necessary.

8. Remind them not to identify with their condition. “I’m a raving fascist lunatic” is likely an accurate statement, but labels are ultimately counterproductive. Instead, have them say, “I struggle with raving lunacy, but I can work on this.” Or, “Genocidal mania is a part of me, but it isn’t the only part of me. I am a multi-faceted human being.”

9. Consider cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT). Although there have yet to be studies on the efficacy of CBT in treating evil, it is the preferred mode of therapy for numerous other mental health disorders. For example, if your client says, “When it comes to getting what I want, there is no limit to how many people I will kill,” their first step would be to identify this as a negative thought. Once they have learned to catch these thoughts, they can begin to change them and form new non-sinister neural pathways. Maybe.

10. In extreme circumstances, report your client. If you believe there is a present danger that your client will commence the systematic extermination of an entire ethnicity after leaving your office, it is probably time to report them. You’ll need to contact their parents (if your client is underage), local law enforcement, and potentially NATO. Let me reiterate that these drastic steps should be taken only in the most extreme circumstances. When a client feels that their safe space has been violated, it can lead to the erosion of trust, the bedrock of a healthy and productive therapeutic relationship. Also, there is a slight chance that you may end up poisoned or pushed down a flight of stairs.

PHILADELPHIA– Zach Jones, a regular customer at Ultimo Coffee, was the recent victim of a theft after he entrusted his Macbook Pro with a fellow patron who turned out to be a serial laptop bandit. The heist occurred when Jones was forced to interrupt his screenwriting session due to his rapid ingestion of a 32-oz cold brew latte. Jones promptly closed his Twitter feed and made preparations for a restroom interlude but was hesitant to fully dismantle his work station. “My table was right by a wall outlet,” he explained to reporters at the scene. “That’s prime real estate!”

Jones attributed his “prudent nature” as being behind the decision to enlist a fellow customer to protect his property during his absence. When asked why he felt comfortable trusting a stranger with a $2400 computer, Jones pointed out that he actually knew this man fairly well after several exchanges of “friendly eye contact” that had occurred in the eighteen minutes since he had sat down. “Plus this guy already had a laptop,” Jones added. “I didn’t think people stole things if they already had one of their own.”

The loss has been devastating for Jones, who now faces the prospect of having to rewrite his screenplay from the beginning. “I poured my heart and soul into that script,” he said of his lost work, which reportedly consisted of a working title and the first scene heading.

Originally published in The Philadelphia Satirer

PHILADELPHIA– Local mother Teri Roberts was filled with instant regret the moment she heard the first notes of her son Marshall’s debut violin recital on Sunday. “I wanted to throw up after one performance. I wish I’d never encouraged him to try this,” said Roberts when it became evident that her child lacked all manner of technical proficiency, musicality, and stage presence. The six-year-old violinist’s unique sound, which Roberts described at various times as “nails on a chalkboard” and “a rusty door hinge,” has caused her to second guess her entire parenting philosophy. “I should never have told him all that bullshit about following things through and not giving up,” said the beleaguered mother. “I’ll certainly think twice before I suggest he try any other new activities.” Roberts also admitted to denying to a fellow parent that she knew Marshall when he got lost halfway through the first verse of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and required note-by-note assistance from his teacher.

One source of optimism for Roberts is the possibility that Marshall will inadvertently damage his instrument beyond repair, which judging by his extreme lack of dexterity, appears likely. “Sure, it would be a financial loss,” she acknowledged. “But you can’t put a price on your mental health and social reputation.”

Originally published in The Philadelphia Satirer

UNIVERSITY PARK, PA – A new study conducted by the Department of Sociology at Penn State has found that simply texting the word “STOP” can be an effective way to unsubscribe not only from marketing texts, but also friendships. These findings could prove invaluable to millions who report unwanted frequent communication from the people in their lives. The results of the study, which consisted of 80 participants, suggest that replying to a friend’s text with a “STOP” message has a 72% chance of immediately destroying the relationship. In some instances, the initial “STOP” text was misinterpreted as a joke, or the recipient sought to open up a discussion regarding the startling curtness of the message. The study authors reported that in these cases, sending the “STOP” message several additional times was usually sufficient for complete friendship termination.

In the few outliers where the “STOP” message was unsuccessful in ceasing contact with its recipients, researchers hypothesized that capitalization may have been a factor. Some study participants failed to adhere to the all-caps guideline. It is believed that people who receive an all-caps message feel that they are being yelled at, which in turn leads to a negative perception of the text sender, although this has yet to be conclusively proven.

In a follow-up study, scientists are now investigating whether shouting “STOP” in-person while someone is talking may be an even more permanent solution for removing annoying people from social circles. Trials are ongoing.

Originally published in The Philadelphia Satirer

At around nine-o-clock on this particular morning, I had just polished over one hundred of the bricks in my section, so I politely asked the Wicked Witch if I might take a short break to check on my brownies. You see, I had left them in the oven that morning and with no one to take them out for me, they would soon be burnt.

Upon hearing my request, the witch took one look at me and screamed, “Get back to work, shortie!”

This epithet really got under my skin. My whole life, I have been far shorter than the other munchkins. I dealt with years of taunting throughout grade school, and I remain highly sensitive about this issue. So unfortunately, I allowed my personal feelings to cloud my judgment, and I said something to the witch that I would immediately regret.

I called her a bitch.

She swung around and glared at me. “What did you just call me?!?!?”

“W-w-witch,” I stammered, trying to correct my mistake. “I said witch.”

The Wicked Witch began to turn red with rage. I tried to apologize, but it was of no use. In a matter of seconds, she was waving her wand, preparing to cast a deadly spell.

Then a big house fell on her.

What luck, I thought. There might be just enough time to pull my brownies out of the oven. Before I could leave however, the front door to the house opened and out walked a young girl who was about to change my life forever. She had gorgeous eyes and her hair was fastened in long braids. Oh those braids. I had never seen anything so majestic. Plus, she was tall! I have always had a thing for tall women. As an extra short munchkin though, my desires have remained largely unfulfilled. She also had some sort of hairy beast with her that she referred to as Toto. Oh well, I thought. I can learn to love that thing too if that is what it will take to be with her.

It had been years since my last relationship, which abruptly ended when my dear wife Agnes was brutally murdered by a sadistic tin man. The “man with no heart” proved this physical defect by wreaking havoc on the munchkin people for many years with his axe. After Agnes’s demise, I never thought I could know that kind of love again. Yet here she was.

I desperately tried to get the young girl’s attention. “Miss! Miss!”

She glanced in my direction and our eyes locked. For a second, we shared a moment. We were about to run into each other’s arms. I could feel it with all my heart. But before we were able to act on our primal urges, I was shoved aside by the Lollipop Guild.

They began to sing their theme, and the girl was instantly entranced. If only she knew the truth; the Lollipop Guild is a racist, anti-semitic, terrorist organization. I couldn’t stand to see another person brainwashed into their despicable cult. I was ready to speak out, but they had already given her the lollipop. The indoctrination had begun…or so I thought.

My internal panic distracted me from noticing that the girl had returned the lollipop to the Munchkinazis, but was now being ushered down the Yellow Brick Road by Glinda. Glinda, the so-called “good witch,” is one of these people who tries to help, but ultimately just screws everything up. Whenever I would ask girls out, they always sought Glinda for advice. She would tell them that they needed to follow their hearts and as a result, I would never hear from them again. Now, here she was, inadvertently ruining another chance I had to bring happiness back into my life.

As the girl started to leave, I jumped up and down, attempting to see over my fellow munchkins. “Stop! Wait!” I squeaked.

She was gone. Love had left me once again.

My brownies were burnt, too.

“Very interesting, Mr. Munchkin.” Dr. Bischofberger looked up from his notes. “And vat did you feel about zat?”

The small munchkin adjusted himself on the couch. He was highly uncomfortable sharing such intimate details about his personal life, but he knew that Freudian psychoanalysis was a critical component in his master plan to win back Dorothy. Moving to Kansas had only been the first step after all. So it was with cautious optimism that the munchkin took a sip of water, cleared his throat, and continued his heartbreaking tale of unrequited love.

Based on The Wonderful Wizard of Oz by L. Frank Baum

PHILADELPHIA -- Notoriously friendless man Doug Patterson has been spotted looking at his phone repeatedly over a short period of time, prompting befuddlement from onlookers. When questioned regarding the nature of his phone use, Patterson told reporters that he was equally bewildered by his own behavior. “No one has texted me since I got this phone three years ago. I don’t know why I thought that today would be any different.” Patterson added that he was unsure if anyone even had his number. “I have the Find My Friends app, but no one ever seems to be looking for me.” Some townsfolk had initially speculated that he might be checking his phone for Instagram notifications, but Patterson confirmed that he has no virtual friends, either.

At press time, rumors began circulating that Patterson had been spotted actually typing something on his phone. Given the impossibility of him sending a text message, several popular theories being floated online were that he was googling “how to make friends” or using the Notes app to make a grocery list.

We didn’t reach out for further comment from Patterson regarding this new development because he seemed like a loser when we met him earlier. Also, we never got his number.

Originally published in The Philadelphia Satirer