McSweeney's

What to Pack A minimum of thirty books for her one-week trip, as the woman I will become is a voracious speed reader. Include: Elin Hilderbrand’s entire back catalog, plus Die with Zero, to be left casually on the $8,000 burnt oak coffee table at her in-laws’ beach house. The pearl-encrusted headband purchased by her mother-in-law for her first wedding anniversary, an item she wears without looking like a New Jersey middle-schooler at a daddy-daughter dance.

1. I’ll overheat and sweat through the armpit area of my shirt. 2. I’ll mix up my words and embarrass myself. 3. The audience will collectively decide to murder me. 4. I’ll speak too quickly and forget to take pauses in between sentences. 5. While I focus on trying to slow down my delivery, everyone in the audience will enter a sort of hive-mind, where they can communicate telepathically.

Snuggle Alert! There’s an adorable new critter burning up the internet, and by clicking through to this article, you have consented to meet Zurbo, and any attempt to cease beyond this point will be considered a breach of contract in all known jurisdictions.

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The Backlash Columnist (Contrarianus grievancius) HABITAT: Op-ed page of a formerly relevant magazine. DISTINCTIVE CALL: “Some say the culture wars divide us, but I believe fighting actually brings us together.” DISTINGUISHING FEATURE: Will find one radical social media post from an account with nine followers; uses it to build a 1,200-word piece about how socialists are poised to take over America.

Yeah, I’m your mom’s family’s fryer. Six quarts of matte-black authority sitting proudly between the coffee maker and the fruit bowl. Digital touchscreen. Eight preset modes. Nonstick basket. The apex predator of countertop appliances. And I am exhausted. Because apparently every single edible object that enters this house must pass through me. Chicken nuggets? Me. Leftover pizza? Me. Frozen spring rolls? Absolutely me. An experimental zucchini recipe your mom found at 1:12 a.m. on Facebook?

What exactly is the Department of Fertility? It’s the future of American boning. The sunburnt half of the map’s outbanged us for too long. We’re making the nasty hotter. Faster. Less protected. And this is an official, taxpayer-funded move? Yup. Today, at least. You know how the boss is; I might be gone next week. Honestly, it keeps the pressure off. I’m here for however long I’m here. Kind of like playing unranked.

There’s so much more to me than impaling. I paint watercolors. I run half-marathons. I am a father, many times over, all across the Wallachian countryside. In fact, it’s statistically likely I’m a #girldad—and so, obviously, I’m also a feminist. Although I contain these multitudes, everyone assumes that a leader known as “Vlad the Impaler” is the epitome of vicious cruelty. But what’s the real violence?

Hide is the name of Carolina Ebeid’s second collection of poetry, and a sign of that can be found in the range of possibilities echoing in that simple word. An imperative, an activity, a place, a skin. The book is all of these. Justice, the injustice of its absence, haunt the work. There is a ghazal, there are singular refrains (“say something about yourself,” “say something about sorrow,” “say something about cruelty”). There are tercets about being driven out of Palestinian land.

McSweeney’s is an independent nonprofit publishing company based in San Francisco. As well as operating a daily humor website , we also publish Timothy McSweeney’s Quarterly Concern , Illustoria and an ever-growing selection of books under various imprints. You can buy all of these things from our online store . You can support us today by making a donation . McSweeney’s accepts no writing aided in any manner by AI.