Tag Archives: McSweeney’s

Link via @mcsweeneys



from http://twitter.com/mcsweeneys
on: October 24, 2018 at 10:20PM

Link via @mcsweeneys



from http://twitter.com/mcsweeneys
on: September 05, 2018 at 10:30PM

I Am Al Capone’s Wife and I’d Like to Unveil My New Platform to Combat Organized Crime Among Children

Good afternoon.

As a mother and as the wife of a homicidal crime boss, it concerns me that in today’s Prohibition-era world, children can be swayed into pursuing a life of organized crime, loan-sharking, bootlegging, and extortion. I feel strongly that it is impossible to pinpoint a single cause of the nation’s current scourge of mafia activity. As such, we as a nation must all correctively put on our blinders and ignore the crime boss currently sitting a few feet away from me.

Who’s to say that any single person is responsible for ordering the assassination of seven rival gang members on St. Valentine’s Day? I am not here to point fingers. I’m well aware some people are skeptical of me leading an anti-mob initiative when I share a bed with a man who makes more than $60 million a year from illegal liquor sales. Sure, the first person who could learn a thing or two about not being involved in organized crime is Al Capone, but this isn’t about him. My husband’s penchant for murder will not stop me from unveiling my lightly plagiarized platform for you today.

My anti-mafia initiative is called, “Be Not Criminal.” It is an awareness campaign dedicated to keeping children from joining organized crime syndicates. There is one goal to this initiative and that is to educate children about the dangers of organized crime while deflecting attention away from my racketeer husband so he can continue breaking people’s bones with baseball bats. While my husband is out burying snitches in cement, I’ll be here handing out pamphlets that say, “Don’t let yourself end up running the largest crime syndicate in America.”

I will work tirelessly to provide children with the resources they need to avoid participating in rackets such as the shakedown of laundromats and other family-owned business for protection payments. After all, who better to speak to the horrors of brutal mafia violence than the wife of Al Capone? I am so excited to unveil this initiative to vaguely and spinelessly address the very thing for which my husband stands.

Let us teach our children the importance of paying taxes and not carrying out vengeful vendettas against rival crime bosses. As we all know, organized crime can sometimes have a negative effect on our children. It is our responsibility as adults to educate and remind them that unless you are my husband, you should follow the rule of law and refrain from throwing body bags in the river. I will make every effort to champion an organized crime-free life for children while also standing beside Public Enemy No. 1, tacitly supporting his behavior.

Now, it is my pleasure to welcome my crime lord husband to the stage to speak about what’ll happen to your kneecaps if you ever double-cross him.

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2016: A Reboot of 1984

It was a bright cold day in November, and the clocks were Trumping thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his Canada Goose in an effort to escape the vile wind, obviously sent over from China, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory McMansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him. There had been rumors that a Gritty Dust Wall might be built, with gritty dust paying for it, but Winston knew that was probably just idle talk from nasty women.

It was the coldest day in weeks, a frigid 65 degrees Fahrenheit. Winston grabbed a few pamphlets detailing the hoax that was climate change to use for kindling for his evening fire.

The hallway smelt of boiled mail order steaks and old KFC buckets. At one end of it a colored poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, a huge face, definitely not a little face: the face of a man of about seventy, with a heavy orange tint and hair that could only be described as unfortunate.

Winston made for the stairs. It was no use trying the elevator. Even at the best of times it was seldom working, and at present the electric current was cut off during peek Twitter hours. It was part of the economy drive in preparation for Hate Week, a four year long event. The apartment was seven flights up, and Winston, who was thirty-nine and had a preexisting varicose ulcer above his right ankle, went slowly, resting several times on the way. Wincing in pain, Winston muttered the words “Thanks, Obama,” the mandatory country-wide mantra for experiencing anything unpleasant.

On each landing, opposite the elevator-shaft, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move. BIGLY BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption beneath it ran.

Inside the apartment the crazed voice of High Chancellor Giuliani of the Ministry of Tremendous Winning was reading out a list of figures which had something to do with the production of automatic pussy grabbers. The voice came from an oblong metal plaque like a dulled mirror which formed part of the surface of the right-hand wall. Winston turned a switch and the voice lowered in volume but not craziness. The instrument (the telescreen, or Trump TV, it was called) could be dimmed, but there was no way of shutting it off completely.

He moved over to the window: a smallish, frail, Jeb Bush-like figure, the meagerness of his body merely emphasized by the large red hat with white lettering sitting atop his head which was the uniform of the party.

Outside, even through the suction cup proof window, the world looked stunned. There seemed to be no color in anything, except the posters that were plastered everywhere. The angry clown-esque face gazed down from every commanding corner. There was one on the house-front immediately opposite. BIGLY BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption said, while the squinting eyes looked deep into Winston’s own. Down at street level, another poster, torn at one corner, flapped fitfully in the wind, alternately covering and uncovering the single word MAGA. In the far distance a helicopter skimmed down between the roofs before darting away again with a curving flight. It was the Rosie O’Donnell patrol, snooping into people’s windows, searching for evidence of Koosh balls. The patrols and regular police did not matter, however. Only the Thought Police mattered, the armed guards that arrested and disappeared any bad hombre with a logical thought.

Behind Winston’s back the voice from the Trump TV was still babbling away about the amount of the swamp left to be drained and the emails of the Party’s enemies.

A mile away the Ministry of Trump, Winston’s place of work, towered vast and ominous above the grimy landscape.

The Ministry of Trump — MiniTrump, in Locker Room Talk — was startlingly different from any other object in sight. It was an enormous tower structure of glittering gold, soaring up, floor after floor, 666 feet into the air. From where Winston stood it was just possible to read the four slogans of the Party chiseled into the tower:

WAR IS PEACE

FREEDOM IS SLAVERY

IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH

YOU’RE FIRED

Winston averted his gaze from the slogans and stared at the poster of the tremendously huge face.

BIGLY BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU.

Looking down at his hand, Winston saw that, unknowingly, he had taken out his party-approved smartphone and opened up Twitter. His fingers were furiously typing:

DOWN WITH BIGLY BROTHER

DOWN WITH BIGLY BROTHER

DOWN WITH BIGLY BROTHER

over and over again until hitting the character limit.

Staring into the giant, lying eyes of the poster, Winston hit Tweet.

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Monologue: The Grim Reaper is Just Your Everyday, Average Millennial

Some of you may know me as Death, or the Grim Reaper, or the Herald of Doom, or some other name besmirched by the harrowing actions of my forefathers. I’m here to clear the air, to assure you that getting to know me is not as grim as you may think it is.

I embrace diversity and the individuality that make up the beautiful fabric of our existence, and I understand that you have your own timeline. It would be unfair to arbitrarily cut you out of existence without taking into account the journey you have set for yourself. You decide when to expire, not me. If you want to live with paper-thin bones at a 130 years old, that’s something I’m going to respect.

Freedom and choice is a top priority for me. It’s you who has to die, and you should die the way you want to. No more wondering, “Will I be engulfed by flames?” — unless want to be. If you are having a difficult time deciding how to die, that’s okay. We can talk it out, or I can give you some suggestions based on your personality type. Not to brag, but I’m really good at this sort of thing, and have even made a lucrative freelance career out of it. You can see some of my best suggestions on my portfolio website (DieWithPersonality.com).

I understand that recognition is important, and heck, you deserve it. I know it’s not about being self-centered or needy, but about being approved for the type of life you have lived. I know that you could die by anyone, and I want to go the extra mile to let you know that I appreciate you dying by me. Before each death, I like to have a one-on-one at a local coffee shop and list off the things I thought you did really well on Earth.

When you are ready and have decided the way you want to pass, I’m conscious about the details of your passing. Everything I do to ensure you have the death you want will always take the environment into account. My startup, DeathReady, is an environmentally conscious company that ensures each detail of your death will not harm the environment in any way.

I’m always looking for feedback about the ways I can improve my efforts to accommodate you, the mortal human. You can reach out to me across all social media platforms at @DeathFodder.

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