If you’re drooping, stooping, or having trouble pooping, please enjoy this supplement to the classic puberty guide—helping man-children like you learn about their changing (deteriorating) bodies.

Subscribe now

Q: What’s going on with my knees?

A: Do they ache constantly in a way that’s hard to define and even harder to bear? Excellent. Your feeble joints are degrading nicely.

Q: What’s going on with my teeth?

A: Your teeth will turn on you like a hungry hyena, cackling as your pearly whites fade to jaundiced amber. Eroded enamel. Receding gums. Decaying wisdom teeth, and your 10,000-watt smile—found rotting.

Q: Is my breath worse?

A: Good news: your breath was never great.

But yes, you can expect a particular pungency. A rancidness fermented over decades of soda, cigarettes, and forgetting to brush. At this point, skip the mouthwash—you’re better off scrubbing your tongue with sanitizer.

Q: Can you explain my eyebrows?

A: Most men are either cursed with male-pattern forehead balding or “blessed” with a full unibrow that wraps around their head like a halo of hairy caterpillars.

But for your tufted wisps? Have fun auditioning brown colored pencils at OfficeMax.

Q: This sucks?? I don’t feel any different on the inside.

A: How wonderful for you. Hold onto that! You’ll need every scrap of youthful pluck to bear the brutal nightmare of the aging human body.

Q: What about my testosterone? Is it going up?

A: Up? Adorable. Gravity is pitiless, and dwindling testosterone guarantees that for the rest of your life, everything will have a harder and harder time going “up.”

Q: What about my metabolism? Is it slowing down?

A: You tell me, Paunchy. Why don’t you jiggle your potbelly like a Magic 8-Ball and find out?

Subscribe now

Q: Can I still build muscle?

A: Sure. Kind of. It depends? The real struggle is whether you’ll have the energy, patience, or free time to work out. Your body is slower. Weaker. Prone to injury. But hey, no gains without sprains.

Q: What about hair loss?

A: Your hairline was only ever on loan. Can you lose something that was never really yours?

Be grateful you were gifted a generous allotment—blessed in puberty with overactive follicles on your chest, back, and groin. Now, it’s time to part ways with your side-part, and start exploring fedoras, head shaving, and toupées.

Q: Should I start dyeing my, uh, privates?

A: Oh, is someone crying over their salt-and-pepper bush? Don’t be a child. Likewise, please use the proper terminology: penis brow.

Q: Why are my ears getting bigger and hairier? How do I make it stop?

A: Aha! That’s where the hair went!

Once wires sprout out of your ears, it’s over. Your hair will continue to grow, as surely as your ears will lengthen, until your furry lobes can dust the dandruff off your shoulders.

But if you want to avoid looking like a 900-year-old Jedi Master, stick a trimmer in your ears, you must.

Q: Is that like a colonoscopy?

A: Ha ha. No. We’ll get to colonoscopies.

Q: I threw out my back reaching for a glass on the top shelf?

A: Maybe cool it with the Olympic gymnastics, champ. You’re one bend-and-snap away from snapping in half. One slip from a slipped disc. Soon, it’ll only take a big sneeze to send you to the ER.

In the future, please exhibit due caution when performing full-throttle maneuvers like tying your shoe or rolling over in bed.

Subscribe now

Q: What’s going on with women during this phase?

A: Shut your damn mouth is what’s going on. While you’re pouting about your elongated earlobes and pewter penis brow, your female friends are undergoing a perilous crucible of hormonal upheaval.

Q: Why can’t I pee anymore? I read this entire FAQ while standing at a urinal.

A: Hey, just be grateful you can still squeeze out a few drops.

Picture waterfalls. Appreciate the anticipation. Maybe get your prostate checked.

Q: Is that what a colonoscopy is for? How do I get a colonoscopy? Do I have to?

A: Lucky for you, a colonoscopy and a rectal exam are two separate tickets to Funtown!

Your doctor can check your prostate. Or I can recommend my ex, Jeremy. More affordable, less professional, but he has warm, tiny hands.

Q: Am I going to get a chronic disease?

A: Undoubtedly. Rest assured, everyone gets something. Fingers crossed your debilitating medical condition waits to emerge until your golden years!

Will the agent of your undoing be genetic? An act of God? Freak accident? Homicide? Heart attack, lung disease, brain cancer? The options are infinite and horrific. Death waits for us all! Isn’t that neat?

Q: So what’s the best thing I can do for my body?

A: Honestly? Invest in a burial plot. Smoke a cigar. Enjoy steak, bacon, and chorizo until a doctor physically stops you from touching red meat. Meanwhile, pray for a leap in technology that lets you transfer your consciousness into a cholesterol-proof robot.

Q: Wait, what about the colonoscopy?

A: Jeremy accepts Medicare, but he only works Sunday nights.

Next stop: Funtown.

Subscribe now

1. The Book Toss (into a trashcan)

2. The NRA Gun Show & Beauty Pageant

3. Pin the Tail on the Donkey (your choice of democratic senator)

4. Selective Memory Competition

5. Closed-Door Interview (NDA required)

6. Sports Betting

7. The Pennsylvania Ave 500 (sponsored by Tesla)

8. Ketamine Kettlebell

9. Pull-Up Contest Judged by the Super Yoked and Handsome Secretary of War, Pete Hegseth

10. Grilling Competition (men only)

11. Baking Competition (women only)

12. Swimsuit Competition (babes only)

13. The Kid Rock Singing Contest

14. 400m Fact-Hurdle

15. Women’s Volleyball (strictly enforced uniform)

16. Men’s Hockey (none of that Heated Rivalry shit)

17. Cornhole

Forgive me, Padre, for I have binged.

Kissed brimstone. Huffed hellfire. Made a $5.99 deal with El Diablo for a five-pack of chicken nuggets.

Subscribe now

In the back booth of a Taco Bell Cantina, I plop down my tray like I’m late to the Last Supper.

Spread before me: an unholy communion. Nuggets instead of wafers. A chalice of consecrated Baja Blast.

Illuminated above me: not stained glass, but a neon-purple sign promoting a timeless fast-food parable. LIVE MÁS.

I cross myself in the sign of Our Father, dab at a spill that looks like my mother, then take the plunge — flipping open a box of Taco Bell’s new Diablo Dusted Crispy Chicken Nuggets.

Like the scooped litter of an infernal feline, pulverized tortilla chips cling to dust-coated clumps of chicken. Seasoning slides around the bottom of the box like loose sand. The smell is sharp and stinging — dehydrated hot sauce tickling my hallowed nose hairs.

Popping that first Diablo Dusted morsel into my mouth, I experience a revelation worthy of Revelations. A pure, sinful delight. The equivalent of crushing up a bag of Cheetos, mixing in a few ghost peppers, then drenching your tongue in dry rub.

As Christ said when he descended into hell: “Holy fuck, that’s hot.”

Subscribe now

I fan my mouth, realizing I started with too big a bite (one bite). But wicked temptation drives me to tear into another nugget.

My sinuses tingle with illicit satisfaction. Tears blur my vision. My tongue wriggles — flailing, under fire, but already craving more.

Diablo Dusted Crispy Chicken Nuggets are tender, spicy, and juicy, like a Zumba instructor. Slightly rubbery, like an amateur gimp at Folsom. Premium all white meat lambasted under a heat lamp, like a regional sales manager in a tanning bed.

For a menu item concocted in hell’s kitchen — chicken nuggets crop dusted by Satan himself — they’re surprisingly scrumptious.

Like any vice worth the price, Diablo Dusted Crispy Chicken Nuggets are dangerously addictive. Despite my inflamed senses — mouth burning, nose dripping, scabbed throat screaming in protest — I can’t help but take another bite.

Between sips of Baja Blast, scripture written on sauce packets compels me to LIVE MÁS, EAT MÁS, and MAKE MÁS MISTAKES. I am a masochistic sinner, craving delicious damnation. Desperate for punishment. Praying for Satan to spit in my mouth.

Steam whistling out of my ears, I wonder if the devil’s lettuce would make these Diablo Nuggets even more delectable. Chewing fumes, I trespass against McDonald’s, ranking Taco Bell’s diabolical poultry above McNuggets.

But the heat! Good Lord, the heat. By the end of the pack, the Baja Blast is ineffective. Milk is off the table. Water would only make it worse — unless it’s been blessed by a priest.

Subscribe now

Like the nuggets, my tongue is blanketed in Diablo Dust. Oh, how it burns. Like gargling vinegar, every micro-abrasion in my mouth lights up. Incendiary, as one by one, my taste buds are plunged into magma.

My final refuge — my only option — is to peel the lid off the limited-edition Diablo Ranch dip and pray to the Almighty for forgiveness.

But God is either deaf or spiteful, or he thinks he’s so funny. Because the Diablo Ranch is a homestead of pain.

Far from tempering the inferno, the peppered sauce is like squirting gasoline on a grease fire. Dust and dip, flint and tinder, feed each other until my mouth stops chewing and starts playing hot potato — flipping the half-eaten nugget from tongue to teeth to cheek.

Sniffling, tears streaming down my face, baptized in flame and babbling in tongues like a Pentecostal faith healer, I crawl back to the counter, unrepentant.

“Hi, could I get another order of Diablo Nuggets? Yes, with the ranch.”

“That’ll be $5.99.”

“Amen.”

Originally published on McSweeney’s.

I think it was Teddy Roosevelt who said, “Judge a man not by his merits, but by the quality of his meats.”

Puttering out of the parking lot with a half-eaten order of Arby’s Steak Nuggets, gristle betwixt teeth, I have been found wanting.

Across capitalists and carnivores, one axiom remains constant: steak equals status. While the rich dine on Porterhouse, the poorhouse splits a bottom round.

Between layers of marbled beef, the USDA Standard male seeks wealth, influence, and a taste of masculine validation. Normally, this coming-of-age baptism is best performed at your local Outback. But for the common man trapped by carnal instinct, a more affordable delicacy is now available.

Arby’s Steak Nuggets.

Subscribe now

At face value, the three faces of Arby’s Steak Nuggets boast the markings of a value meal. Nuggets, Sandwich, Bowl. Father, Son, and Holy Spirit (he/him).

In its purest state — just the nugs — Arby’s dispenses five pieces per emotionally fragile customer. The heartily reheated chunks arrive in plain white containers. Unbranded, save for a sizable grease stain with the same hips as Saint Mary.

Judged on packaging alone, an order of Arby’s Steak Nuggets feels like you accidentally took home someone else’s doggy bag of Sizzler leftovers. The cut-offs, castaways, and picked-over remains of a richer person’s steak dinner.

Indeed, their identification as “nuggets” is a feat of barely-legal branding. Whether chicken or karats, the word nugget connotes gold. A tantalizing piece of something deliciously out of reach. A connection to wealth, class, and gilded living. But a few shiny pebbles do not make a gold bar, and five Arby’s Steak Nuggets do not make a steak.

I chew, considering the jerky-coded tang. The suspiciously tender consistency, which suggests each nugget was reconstituted from available beef debris. Peeking inside, it’s impossible to determine the cut’s temperature. Is it raw, rare, medium? I’m only sure it isn’t “well done,” since it is clearly… not.

Biting into the sandwich, I experience the antithesis of mouthwatering. Even blessed with Horsey Sauce, a barbecue-flavored sponge hides between the buns.

I long for the familiar embrace of a Beef & Cheddar, but consign myself to another morsel of sweaty, hickory-slathered hyperbole.

Finally, the Arby’s Steak Nugget Bowl. A prix-fixe, pre-mixed combo that demands you either use a fork — or dive in snout first.

In concept and construction, the bowl is… confusing. A mashup of Steak Nuggets, mac ’n’ cheese, and fried onions. Altogether reminiscent of a plate of Thanksgiving leftovers — crammed into Tupperware, congealed, then forgotten. Any attempt to stir the ingredients produces a sickly squelch.

It’s the type of dinner that inspires diners to avoid all knowledge of its nutritional contents; unhealthy in ways science does not yet comprehend. Unfortunately, sight and squelch aside, my favorite variation of Arby’s Steak Nuggets is undoubtedly this sloppy trough.

A mirror of my own masculinity? Messy, mixed, performative? Perhaps.

But at over $25 for the unholy trinity, I think even Teddy Roosevelt would skip the Steak Nuggets for an Aussie 3-Course at Outback, mate.

Originally published at Little Old Lady Comedy.

Not sure what to get the country that has everything—but wants more? Shop these patriotic picks commemorating 250 Independence Days. That’s almost enough Independence Days to make an Independent Year.

Subscribe now

• A birthday cake the size of Kansas.

• A four-pack of for-profit prisons.

• A whiteboard map with dry-erase borders. Rename any international destination of your choosing!

• The freedom to ignore freedom of religion.

• 250% off gas prices. So, like, $7 a gallon.

• A coupon to censor one newspaper, late night host, or snowflake journalist (custom gag orders coming soon).

• An Executive Order to Americanize any foreign food items. Say goodbye to Swedish meatballs, Greek yogurt, and Thai iced tea—but you can keep Irish coffee. Mexican pizza is banned (duh).

• 250 balloons (helium sold separately).

  Subscribe now

• A new flag that better reflects our heritage. Red and blue—replaced with white, obviously. But you can add a picture of a gun if you want.

• .00001 of a commemorative crypto coin. No monetary value.

• The Deport-o-matic. Pretty much a package scanner, but for people—with an “emergency eject” button for suspicious immigrants and/or US citizens.

• A no-holds-barred, no-regulations weekend. Chop down your neighbor’s cherry tree. Chop down your tree-hating neighbor. Think of it like The Purge, except—well, no, it’s exactly The Purge.

• A revitalized auto industry. Just kidding. It’s a birthday, not the Resurrection.

• A new Tesla. Pick one up on the White House lawn, set the autopilot, and rest your eyes (maybe forever!) as you’re driven directly into the Gulf of America.

• The right to declare war on any country without congressional approval. Oh, you’re already doing that? Save it for your big day, mister!

• A special broadcast birthday celebration on The View. But be warned: Joy Behar will insist everyone sing, and Meghan McCain will blow out your candles.

1. Asking how much weight I’d need to gain to tip the scales.
   

2. Presenting a food journal of every Hostess product I’ve consumed this year, along with an addendum of DoorDash receipts.
   

3. Suggesting we go halvsies on the prescription and split the injections 60/40.
   

4. Giving her a Zoom tour of my pantry—stocked with nothing but saturated fats.
   

5. Joining every telehealth appointment from my reserved booth at the Golden Corral buffet.
   

6. Jiggling my paunch at the camera like Tim Allen in The Santa Clause (“Does this look like a little weight to you?”).

   Subscribe now

7. Proposing a “trial period” to see if I’m an ideal candidate—the way some people are natural runners, and I am a natural sedentarian.
   

8. Pointing out every gaunt-faced celebrity who absolutely isn’t obese but is definitely taking GLP-1s.
   

9. Sending an envelope containing three years’ worth of buttons that have popped off my khakis.
   

10. Offering to snap progress pictures as I ascend from Pillsbury Doughboy to sculpted Adonis.
    

11. Volunteering to sign something that absolves her of all liability. Please see OZEMPIC_WAIVER_FINAL_V9.pdf.
    

12. Forwarding her a screenshot of my Apple Watch congratulating me for standing nine times in one day (legit a big deal) and racking up a whopping 502 steps.

    Subscribe now

13. Casually mentioning my grandfather had “sugar issues,” then, when pressed for details, admitting he wasn’t diabetic, he just liked to put Lucky Charms in his coffee.
    

14. Ambushing her with a conference call between me, a nutritionist I found on Fiverr, and the front desk guy at LA Fitness—who has no clue who I am, only strengthening my argument.
    

15. Using whipped cream to spray a frowny face on my stomach.
    

16. Sharing my screen and filling my grocery cart one sugary, calorie-dense treat at a time until she snaps.
    

17. Threatening that if she won’t do it, I’ll just order a riskier, more expensive version on Facebook Marketplace.
    

18. Promising to work out three times per week, eat healthy, reframe cravings, and get regular lab work—which I thought showed real moxie. My doctor: “You’re describing exactly what you’re supposed to do without the medication.”
    

19. Clarify that I’m willing to pay in cash, crypto, or tasteful nudes.

    ---

Radiant. Resplendent. Revolving.

Swinging from the rafters, I am the all-knowing glitter sphere—and I see everything.

I saw your first sip of bottom-shelf whiskey.

Saw you slur your words and spill on daddies.

Saw you swipe someone’s half-finished drink then down it in one gulp.

Subscribe now

I am dazzling. Lustrous. The ball of the ball.

As I swivel, no smooch is unseen. No hand slipped down the back of skinny jeans, unnoticed.

I will not tell your secrets—but you should know that I know them, and I do not forget.

I was there for your first kiss, first hickey, first consenting grope in public.

I watched you score your first boyfriend. Then hung silently in suspense—as your first boyfriend kissed a lot of other guys’ first boyfriends.

I worried as I watched, but I’ve seen worse. I knew you’d be okay.

And you were! Kind of.

I watched you fall apart, vent to your nonbinary TA, then strike out with the frat bro bartender.

I watched you drown your problems. Wrestle with self-worth.

Then Lady Gaga released “Bad Romance,” and I saw you wipe your tears, borrow your goth roommate’s guy-liner, and binge on a rebound buffet of one-night-only boyfriends.

I saw you stumble—literally fall face-first into your favorite go-go boy, who never spoke to you again.

Saw you bob your head, pretending to lip-sync lyrics you didn’t know.

Saw you huff poppers and puff cigarettes. Debut your new harness—backwards—at a 2007 Leather & Lace party. Whisper “I love you” to a man you just met. Make a fool of yourself, dancing the “Cotton-Eye Joe” to Flo Rida’s “Low.”

Saw you finally glimpse a truth that straight kids had known since middle school: the joy of grinding.

I clocked every triple-vodka-soda you had before turning 21—watching in horror as you combined discarded drinks from around the bar, assuming nobody was watching.

But I was.

Subscribe now

I admired you, despite your faults. Loved you, when you hated yourself.

In the bar’s wall-spanning mirror, you saw a scrawny teenager who didn’t know who he was.

I saw a baby gay in bloom. A demon twink. A nocturnal angel, flirting with hedonism, constantly on the verge of alcohol poisoning.

You were resilient. Relentless. Immune to roofies—or at least, immune to worrying about them—because neither you nor I could tell if your weekend blackouts were from pre-gaming with an entire fifth of UV Blue, or from stolen drinks sprinkled with horse tranquilizers.

I saw you make drinking buddies—fall out over a jealous fling—then make actual friends who had your back.

I saw you find your found family. Scream-sing Glee remixes together. Cling to the padded hips of a drag queen in a queer conga line.

I saw you meet fresh meat. Date a varsity cheerleader way out of your league. Dump a dude mid-dance because he made fun of Star Trek.

I even saw you come out to your high school prom date when she visited. The two of you, forming a sacred GBF covenant that would last a lifetime. Or at least until your 30s.

Subscribe now

I’ve seen it all.

Like a mirrored mosaic, each of my chrome-plated facets features a different hot mess.

Like a beacon, I beam at the baddest bitches.

Like a prismatic globe, I kept turning—even after you graduated.

A decade went by, then two.

With figuratively bated breath, I awaited every alumni weekend, crushed when you couldn’t make it. But I understood.

You’d outgrown me. Raged in West Hollywood. Survived the crucible of Hell’s Kitchen. Probably spent your days French-kissing your fiancé in a multi-level nightclub.

But I never stopped twirling.

Since you left, I’ve shepherded generations. Illuminated new waves of wallflowers, divas, and closet cases.

I do not judge. I do not emit light.

I can only reflect what shines around me. Like you, when you were young.

Eventually, my spinning starts to slow. My ungreased joints squeal like a twink at Bear Week—but still I turn, a bittersweet sentinel.

Only I experienced Studio 54 seven nights a week. Only I saw thousands of boys become men, girls become women, men become girls, and women become boys.

I’ve seen a lot.

But when I look back, I’m proud. No regrets. No remorse.

I just miss what we had.

They closed the bar.

Did you hear?

Condemned, then torn down.

Now I’m just a dusty mirror, discarded, dreaming of weekends past.

Promise that next time you dance, you’ll remember me, like I remember you.

“Elon Musk Becomes the World’s First Trillionaire”— The New York Times

1. If you laid a trillion one-dollar bills end-to-end, they’d stretch 96,906,656 miles—enough to wrap around the Earth 3,892 times, or reach the Sun and still have 3.9 million miles of cash to burn.

   Subscribe now

2. It would take Americans two hundred years to eat one trillion servings of microwave ramen.

3. A trillion one-dollar bills weighs about the same as five million grand pianos. Try squeezing those into your studio apartment and you’ll forfeit your security deposit. Also, the building would collapse into the Earth’s crust.

4. Try to count every dust mite in one hundred thousand pre-owned twin mattresses.

5. Tally the total fissures in the cracked windshields of forty million 2008 Toyota Corollas.

6. Strap on a pair of rubber gloves and join four million recent grads, each hand-washing two hundred and fifty thousand dishes.

7. If you spent one thousand dollars every day, it would take you 2,739,726 years to spend a trillion dollars, meaning you could’ve started in the Stone Age—could have bought all the stones—and still be splurging today. Compound interest alone would have made you a prehistorical god-king.

8. Picture one million millionaires. That’s a trillion dollars, but also a crowd that could fill twelve football stadiums (future gladiatorial coliseums where people fight to the death for SNAP benefits).

9. Download the Tesla TrillionTracker app and watch a counter tick up at one dollar per second. You’ll hit an easy trillion in just 31,710 years. Luckily, the app offers a “Generational Subscription” that can be passed down in your will—or against your will. Whichever is more profitable.

10. Invest your imaginary trillion in an index fund earning a modest 4% annually. You’d make $109 million per day in interest. That’s $4.5 million per hour, or $1,268 per second. So by the time you read this far, you’d have made more money than in your entire, goddamn worthless life.

    Subscribe now

11. Your bank’s personal finance portal has a slider you can drag to see what percentage of a trillion dollars you possess. The slider moves in increments of 0.0000001%. Your net worth does not register. You can try zooming in, but even at ten-thousand-fold magnification, the financial sum of your life’s pursuits remains zilch.

12. A standard bathtub holds seventy gallons of water (your stand-up shower, half that). A trillion dollars in quarters would fill over twenty million bathtubs. Although one bathtub plus one toaster could solve all your problems right now.

13. Close your eyes. Inhale. Picture a single dollar. Now, a thousand dollars—a flight to Japan, an inflatable hot tub, your root canal co-pay. Now picture a billion—a yacht, a Senate campaign, a generous donation to get a hospital wing renamed (not your name, obviously). Now picture a thousand of those billions. Notice how your brain… fucking… can’t. Appreciate the raw, animal panic. Realize you’ve been holding your breath for two straight minutes. Black out.

14. Or just try this: tomorrow morning, before coffee, sit quietly and imagine having enough. Not a trillion. Not even a million. Just… enough. Enough that you can always tip 25%, cast aside the discounted Happy Hour menu, and never need to check your bank balance before buying a Labubu. Honestly, it’s not even that much money. You could probably fit it all in one bathtub.

1. Proper attire is strictly prohibited.

2. Shirts, socks, and shoes are required—though we invite patrons over 65 to enjoy the sauna fully naked, as Joe Gold of Gold’s Gym originally intended.

3. Please do not shower beforehand. Likewise, any cologne, deodorant, or body spray must be applied inside the steam room.

Subscribe now

4. We ask that you use the facilities either completely alone or with your ten closest friends. There is no in-between.

5. Conversation should be kept to a maximum at all times. As a reminder, anyone asking “hot enough for ya?” is not inquiring about your comfort—they are posing a challenge. To refuse is to renounce your masculinity. Immediately respond with a negatory grunt, raised eyebrow, or “pshh, nah,” then crank the heat.

6. Additionally, all in-sauna discussions must pertain to crypto, politics, or religion. If you insist on venturing outside sanctioned topics, we insist that conversation be held in a foreign language.

7. Please take personal calls in the steam room, remembering to disrupt others by gesticulating wildly, with no regard for any appendages poking out of your threadbare, suspiciously stained towel.

8. To generate more steam, simply douse the lukewarm rocks with your energy drink, protein shake, or spew your water bottle all over the heater like a drunk preacher performing a baptism.

9. The sauna’s thermal stones may also be used to dry your swimsuit, air out your yellowing undershirt, or steam your post-workout sardines.

Subscribe now

10. If the thermometer stops functioning, you’re welcome to tap, knock, shake, and slam the device until you lose interest. For added peace of mind, the Fahrenheit reading is entirely inaccurate anyway.

11. If temperature vacillates from uncomfortable to life-threatening, just leave the door wide open. Even better, assist your fellow patrons by whipping in some fresh air from the locker room—using your crusty towel as a windmill.

12. Please do not rise from your seat or adjust your position without a hearty groan, disgruntled exclamation, or guttural “ahhhhh.”

13. We encourage you to bring your own food or drink. Feel free to leave crumbs, wrappers, and full entrées. Polite sipping is expressly forbidden, and any remaining liquid should be squirted on your face like you’re Novak Djokovic at the US Open.

14. Books, tablets, and damp editions of Juggs are all appropriate reading material in the public sauna. Do not hesitate to loudly guffaw, knee-slap, and give the guy next to you a peek at relevant centerfolds.

15. When you finally leave, simply nod—do not speak—to each human steamed bun, showing due respect to your bench-mates and the facility. Because you’ll be back. And like a sweaty ass-print seeped into cedar, the sauna remembers. The sauna always remembers.

Considering all the snotty responses I received—and one ripped up invitation, returned to sender—I thought I’d clarify a few details on my upcoming half-birthday party. If you’re reading this, congratulations. You’re still invited. For now.

Subscribe now

Is this really necessary? Who do you think you are? Aren’t you embarrassed?

Slow down, Sandra. I’m only embarrassed that I have such flaky friends. Can’t you at least pretend to care for one-and-a-half measly days per year? I don’t hear you whining about Father’s Day—or treating President’s Day like a Supreme Court case. But here I am, your bestie since kindergarten, asking for a special day of appreciation, just for me.

Isn’t that what your real birthday is for?

If you’d ever attended my “real” birthday, you’d know that turnout has been historically low since 2001. But is it because that’s when I aged out of bounce house parties, or because my birthday happens to fall on September 11^th?

In some ways, I share my birthday with Christmas babies, infants born at midnight on New Year’s, and luckless leap year kiddos crowning on February 29. Together, we’re petitioning to expand our annually allotted soirées by one.

Sure… but your math looks kinda funny. Is your half-birthday honestly on St. Patrick’s Day weekend?

Oh, now you’re a mathematologist? You and I both know you failed 8^th grade algebra, Cillian. But I’ve grown. Moved on from cheating off dyslexic Irish boys to copying entire cultural traditions. Your heritage is my hootenanny.

Are you positive half-birthdays are a thing? Have you ever been to one?

Only once when I was nine, when Jasmine Lee picked a random day in the middle of summer to throw herself a princess party. I was inspired, intrigued, impressed. Isn’t every birthday just as arbitrary? A coincidental event you coerce your friends and family to care about?

However, I assume the reason I haven’t attended many half-birthdays (or birthdays in general) is simple: I am rarely invited.

Subscribe now

Aren’t you too old for a half-birthday party?

Nonsense. Now that I’m [redacted], it’s the perfect time to celebrate.

Besides, the real benefit of a half-birthday is that you’re only half as old. That’s how it works, right? I’m not turning [redacted], but a spritely twentysomething.

Are you a baby? Or in a codependent relationship? Because those are the only times you celebrate a six-month anniversary.

No. And I wish.

You’re lucky I’m not instituting seasonal quarter-birthdays. Q1 brunch, Q2 petting zoo, Q3 blowout, Q4 brunch (again).

Me throwing a half-birthday party is every bit as legitimate as a husband at a baby shower, a deadbeat dad on Mother’s Day, or an atheist attending Easter mass.

Is your social circle exclusively nine-year-olds?

Maybe. But I don’t appreciate you disparaging Ms. Pearl’s fourth-grade class like that.

For your information, I have a ton of friends who’ve graduated elementary and middle school, and they’re thrilled to support me in any celebration I demand. A few years ago, I even did a double half-birthday with my friend, Lucy—though we put a stop to it once people referred to our conjoined parties as a “full” birthday.

Can I bring a plus one?

Of course, Carla. All better halves are welcome at my half-birthday. Especially if they’re your boyfriend, Ricky, and he’s half-naked.

Keeping with the theme, we’ll likely eat half a cake, chug half a keg, then go halvsies on cab fare. The good news is that my party is also half as long, so we should be out by seven and in bed before nine.

Am I expected to get you a gift?

Your presence is the only present I require.

Kidding!

I accept donations to help pay my rent, my utility bills, and my medication (which is marijuana, but I have a prescription for it).

How about half a present now, and half on your actual birthday?

If you’re gifting stacks of cash, a new wardrobe, or the entirety of the Criterion Collection, then sure, fine, I guess.

But don’t you dare pull that “I’ll give you the other earring in six months” bullshit on me.

I’m not coming to your half-birthday party.

Well, that’s rude, petty, and not really a question, Sandra—so you’re uninvited.

Luckily, my full-birthday party will be here before you know it.

See you on September 11.

At 9:11 pm.

Jerk.

Subscribe now

Let me be clear: I am not afraid of flying.

That would be laughable, irrational, statistically absurd — ridiculous!

I just have a funny feeling the left wing will fall off.

Again: I am not afraid of traveling.

My anxieties are merely artisanal. My phobias, bespoke.

Sure, sometimes, when we’re skimming over the Atlantic, I worry I’ll phase through the floor and do a 34,000-foot polar plunge.

But I am not afraid of crashing.

Subscribe now

I’m sure everything is up to snuff, code compliant, clear for takeoff.

I’m also hesitant to recline my seat, in case it tips the plane nose-up.

And while I am not afraid of turbulence, terrorists, or mechanical failures.

It’s only because there is so much more to fear — like flushing the lavatory’s vacuum toilet and getting sucked out into open sky.

Let me be clear: this is not a cry for help.

It’s a pre-flight service announcement.

Thank you for flying during a partial government shutdown.

Hey Coach,

Or should I call you Mr. Thompson? Maybe “coach” feels too familiar, since we never really established a trainer-trainee dynamic.

Subscribe now

It is now seven weeks after our eight-week tennis clinic ended. Enough time to rally my courage to reach out.

Yes, I’ve been dodging your texts, calls, and requests for payment—practicing that “fancy footwork” we talked about—but I’m finally ready to return your serve.

You probably thought I died, moved, or got poached by a more expensive clinic (because I cited those reasons in my cancellation request). However, I’m sorry to report I am both very alive and cash-flush.

Don’t think of it as lying. I merely put some “top spin” on the truth.

I want to reiterate that my non-attendance is not a reflection on you. Our first (only) group class was not bad.

Sure, nobody showed up. Sure, you made me run laps in the rain like a gym teacher taking out his second divorce on a chubby third grader. Sure, I’d gone out the night before and smoked a cigarette—and you were right to roast me when I took a time out, retching, after two volleys. But maybe I didn’t appreciate when you said “no time outs in tennis” then served a ball straight into my diaphragm.

Considering my subpar participation record, I understand if it feels like you’ve got a score to settle—though I confess I never gained a solid grasp of this nonsense scoring system? I’d say we’re at Love-40, but it didn’t feel like love when you said I belonged in a remedial children’s league.

As an experienced “pro,” you must’ve noted my raw potential.

Obviously impressed by my escalating, exasperated grunts.

Stunned by my unchecked strength—beefing every ball right into the net, or launching it clean over the fence.

Inspired by a player who couldn’t serve for shit while serving face, body, and the emotional volatility of a true champion.

Still, you kept yelling “FAULT! FAULT!” But tell me—does the fault not lie with the teacher?

Subscribe now

I’d prepared in every way that mattered, according to WikiHow. Bought a brand-new racquet, shoes, and can of balls—all untouched, unused, perfectly preserved in the weeks before our lesson. If they awarded points for accessorizing, I would be an Ace. Aren’t the real victims the Asics Gel Resolution 9 sneakers that didn’t even get to squeak on clay before being returned to sender?

I came in with the enthusiasm of a Williams sister and left with the lower back pain of the Williams’ father—leaning on a hopper like a cane as I scooped up a hundred scattered tennis balls.

And yet, channeling my tennis role model, Steffi Graf—one of three players I remember from a two-month tennis obsession in middle school—I am ready to recommit.

Lob a backhanded compliment about my backhand? Thwap! I think this course is overpriced for what it is.

Slice my self-esteem to ribbons? Pow! Your Yelp reviews suggest a pattern.

Drop a disparaging insult like a drop shot? Kaboom! I Googled your player stats and saw you resigned in disgrace after giving Andre Agassi a bloody nose.

Like the top tennis players, I’m ready to accept the apology you did not give—along with the reimbursement you did not offer—so we can focus on what really matters: picking out a cute duffel bag I can show off at next year’s Wimbledon. In exchange, I am prepared to offer two canisters of tennis balls, one slightly bent racquet, and a 20% off coupon to Asics.

By the time you’ve trained me to crush the Ages 45-60 bracket of the Burbank Open, a mere handful of decades from now, we’re bound to be the best of teammates—rallying side by side in a doubles tournament. I’ll even let you carry the trophy, since I likely carried us to victory.

In the meantime, I look forward to our next class. I’ll even show up this time—and see you every single week in Beginners Tennis, Intermediate Tennis I and II, then Advanced Tennis I through VII—until the end of time.

Or just reply with a refund.

It’s your call, Coach.

40-Love,

Your star pupil.

“Did Trump Fall Asleep During Meeting? White House Says He Was ‘Blinking’”—Newsweek.

If you’re a 79-year-old politician in peak physical condition—a very stable genius who stayed up all night rage-posting about journalists and late-night hosts—try my proven techniques for dozing off in dire situations and Situation Rooms.

Subscribe now

1. Count something calming.

Counting is the rich man’s math. Tabulate bricks in the border wall and floors in Trump Tower. Add up every dollar you’ve earned from political favors. Tally press secretaries, felony counts, beauty pageant babes. Just don’t count on me waking up till this boring-ass prayer breakfast is over.

2. Have someone read you a bedtime story.

If you ask nicely, Melania might read to you from Melania, the autobiography she definitely wrote herself. Maybe one of your sons (the one who knows letters) will perform your favorite book, Bible, or stage a dramatic reading of Kamala Harris’s 107 Days—doing all the voices. Or just have an AI Ian McKellen reread your own Truth Social posts back to you in a British accent. “A whole civilization will die tonight. Blimey!”

3. Retreat to the Mar-a-Lago of the Mind.

Close your eyes. Unclench your jowls. Slump into your La-Z-Boy throne and imagine the white sand beaches and white, salty sycophants of Palm Beach, Florida. Picture the red-clay tennis court, where you win every game. The private cabanas, glitzy ballrooms, and gilded bathrooms for stashing all your special documents—before you’re rudely awakened by another reporter asking about the Epstein files.

4. Deport intrusive thoughts.

What’s keeping you up at night? Gaza? Iran? Liberal libel? Lame! Visualize those disruptive visitors as a caravan of unwelcome, undocumented ideas. Round them up like you’re stocking Alligator Alcatraz—so you can go back to dreaming about ICE raids on Dreamers.

5. Deploy a member of the Cabinet.

Clap three times to summon Marco Rubio and a glass of warm milk. Ask human glass of warm milk RFK Jr. to sing your favorite lullaby, YMCA. Use JD Vance as a pillow (just not on the couch).

Subscribe now

6. Adjust your diet.

Are you eating healthy? There’s your problem. Destabilize your gastrointestinal system like a Middle Eastern economy. Try two Big Mac combos, supersized, plus a chocolate shake IV drip. The sheer buildup of cholesterol, sugar, and corruption corroding your arteries triggers a full-body shutdown.

7. Take a presidential sleeping pill.

Keep your 3 mg of melatonin, snowflake. Bring on the big guns! Instead of funding HIV research (gay) or curing cancer (sad), I’ve got Walter Reed cooking up a chemical cocktail that’ll make tranquilizers look like Tic Tacs.

8. Change your environment.

Most people sleep better when it’s cold. But as a cold-blooded dinosaur, I prefer to nap in a sweltering conference room full of foreign dignitaries. Mix it up! Doze off in the middle of peace talks. Snooze through the press briefing. Nab some shuteye while negotiating tariffs. What are they gonna do, impeach you?

9. Swaddle yourself.

If basking in the unearned praise of your unqualified appointees isn’t sending you to Dreamland, swathe yourself in the stole of office. It’s why I have my suits tailored extra-baggy—to double as take-anywhere blankets (Snuggie Force One available for preorder).

10. Remember: a power-nap is a power move.

Your sleepiness is a statement, and there’s no dreamier bargaining tactic than nodding off mid-sentence (read more on lethargic leverage in The Art of the Deal). Sure, people might call you lazy, old, incompetent, but you can’t put a price on…

Sorry—conked out for a second. Where were we? Rubio! Bring me my milky.

For the last month, I’ve chased the sugar-free rush of Zero Sugar Oreos, determined to prove they’re garbage.

Subscribe now

I’ve scoured supermarkets and drugstores. Raided gas stations, 7-Elevens, and office pantries.

But in calorie-fearing Los Angeles, where “zero sugar” means “laced with gold,” the shelves are picked clean.

Dammit.

Online offerings are similarly slim—but there’s a mom-and-pop pharmacy in Connecticut accepting special orders. 8–11 business days later, my prescribed confections arrive.

Judging by appearances, the box has survived serious trauma. Battered and dented after the journey, it looks worse for wear than Frodo on the steps of Mount Doom. I lay the wearied box on the counter—then rip it open like a Tauntaun, digging for my sugarless treat.

Immediately, I’m suspicious—assuming I’ve been snack-fished—when I find not the traditional packaging but a frumpy loot sack, as if mom and pop burglarized the Oreo vault.

Missing the contours of plastic sleeves, I pick through the bag, pulling out a tightly wrapped 2-pack. Admittedly, this coerced restraint might do more for calorie moderation than any superficial reduction in sucrose (since Oreo’s real dietary threat is its sheer bingeability).

Indeed, Nabisco food scientists have concocted over a hundred Oreo variants, but never before attempted a cookie that isn’t actively trying to kill you with sugar intake.

How does the imposter stack up?

Subscribe now

By looks alone, I’m at a loss. Zero Sugar Oreos look exactly like 100% Sugar Oreos. The engraved grooves, a precise match to the original.

But the bite? That’s when it’s time to worry.

Because by some arcane alchemy of synthetic fibers and artificial sweeteners, they taste like… regular Oreos. Creme and cookie pleasantly congeal in your mouth, satisfying all expectations and leaving you wanting more.

But they can’t fool me so easily. I’ve been stuffing myself sick with Double Stuf Oreos for over thirty years. And to properly evaluate an Oreo, you must consume your entire stash in one sitting—alone, after midnight, while watching reality TV.

Luckily, in my commitment to objective analysis, I’ve also procured four cartons of original Oreos for comparison.

Wafer width? Identical.

Thickness? Identical.

Smell? Similar enough.

Even dunked in milk, both cookies exhibit strong structural integrity. Sure, the Zero Sugar Oreo is slightly less soggy. But drop the OG Oreo in a glass of milk, and the pure glycemic overload curdles dairy into soda.

Cynical nostalgia drives me to eat another three 2-packs. Craving dissatisfaction, I pray the next cookie will be stale, inconsistent, or otherwise subpar. My supply dwindles, my stomach fills, but my (allegedly) guilt-free binge continues.

Chewing, I detect a slight difference in the break: the snapping, kinetic crunch between tooth and wafer. But it’s not a deal breaker.

What about the twist? Both cookies separate with the same mechanical ease. Perhaps the real twist is that I’m six packs (12 Zero Sugar Oreos) into my foray, and I can barely tell the difference. No big surprises, which is surprising.

Subscribe now

How is this possible? Tearing open another pack with my teeth, I spit out the wrapper and examine the label, spying a few unfamiliar guest stars—maltitol, sorbitol, polydextrose—plus an elusive “bioengineered food ingredient.” The nutrition facts offer no hint of its true identity, but I’m guessing it needs to be raised, loved, then sacrificed to the appropriate demonic entity to attain its perplexingly hyperpalatable state.

Artificially flavored, the creme can reportedly leave an off-putting aftertaste for those sensitive to sweetener. But like every Californian, I was nursed on a diet of Diet Coke. The only bloating I’ve experienced from Zero Sugar Oreos is my own bloated conviction, presuming this cookie would be a disgrace.

But here, Oreo succeeds in a realm where Mountain Dew, Pillsbury Frosting, and Mrs. Butterworth all failed—throwing unappetizing darts at a carcinogenic bullseye. Building on this boundless success, I fully expect to see Zero Sugar Twix, Probiotic Pop-Tarts, and Fat-Free Big Macs within the year.

Reaching the bottom of the bag, crumb-covered fingers scraping plastic, I’m forced to capitulate. Zero Sugar Oreos are a genuine, goddamn delight. Maybe they don’t scratch the itch 100%. But if I can hit 95% while maintaining a positive body image, that’s pretty revolutionary.

Resigned, I have no choice but to place Zero Sugar Oreos atop the food pyramid—assuming it’s only a matter of time till RFK Jr. classifies them as a health food on par with red meat and beef tallow.

Is the cookie better?

It’s not worse.

Is it better for you?

It’s not worse.

Are you better for eating it?

You’re not worse.

Low-fat milk has a new favorite cookie, and so do I.

Dammit.

Carly Rae Jepsen = Multivitamin Gummy

Concentrated optimism. Label warns against exceeding the recommended dose, but I’ve been doing two a day since 2015.

Ariana Grande = Zoloft

Sands the edges of human suffering. A sound bath for the soul. A capsulized whistle tone. Take as needed for heartache, depression, and ennui.

Madonna = Vitamin D3

Life-sustaining sustenance injected directly into your veins by the motherfucking sun. A hard reset to your sympathetic nervous system / very concept of sympathy.

Subscribe now

Rihanna = Nicotine Patch

Slap this on for 24 hours of “over you” energy. Flip off everyone on the conference call. Sever ties with your Slack channel. Ditch your job, dump your boyfriend, and pursue your dream of a steady gig with a fat salary and long-term AI resistance. Oh, that doesn’t exist? Here’s another patch.

Chappell Roan = EpiPen

Instantly alleviates allergic reactions to heteronormative culture. One jab, and you’re hot to go. It’s like bringing a ketamine-laced sugar cube to the Pink Pony Club.

Kacey Musgraves = Pre-Legalization Cannabis (Hybrid)

You’re 26 years old at Lollapalooza taking your first-ever hit off a stranger’s joint. You are encased in light, warmth, and understanding. Where has this been all your life? Where is the nearest food truck?

Beyoncé = LASIK

A 45-minute outpatient procedure and everything snaps into formation as Dr. Sasha Fierce permanently alters your perspective. Plus, you can see Cowboy Carter giddy-up in 4k from your $800 seat in the upper mezzanine.

Sabrina Carpenter = Pepto-Bismol

Bubblegum-pink relief for romance-related heartburn and the nausea of dating a manchild. Also helpful when you’ve had too much espresso. Pleasant mouthfeel. Vintage packaging. Grammy-certified.

Taylor Swift = Invisalign

An aching, expensive obsession. You tried it as a teen (copying your friends), stuck with it after those other posers quit, then reinvented yourself in plain sight. Now you’re banging football players, and they’re still on the bleachers.

Subscribe now

Kylie Minogue = Placebo

You don’t need drugs, diagnoses, or straight men. Listen to what your padam padam is trying to tell you. Snap your thermometer in half, find the nearest gay disco, and sweat it out, sister.

Dua Lipa = Unlimited PTO

You’re a globetrotter. A trendsetter. A wanderlust girlie lost in Ibiza, and you’re not even tripping. You’re pressure-testing your company’s vacation policy like a paid sabbatical. Actually, do you even still work here?

Britney Spears = Ambien, Bitch

You took your mom’s meds by mistake, then rode the rollercoaster of life till the rails fell off. Now it’s 4 am at the clerb and you’re juggling knives for an enrapt audience of barflies and future ex-boyfriends.

Charli xcx = Craigslist Adderall

You’re resourceful. Driven. Open-minded. You probably have finals on Monday, and skipped every lecture that started before noon. Is it safe? What is safe? Should we start a club? A business? A band??

Kesha = Medicinal Ecstasy

You thought your youth ended when you grew out of your skinny jeans, but just one dose, and you’re dancing on the counter (please get down) and swigging a bottle of Jack (ma’am, I’m not going to ask you again). Your love is my drug, but it’s even better on molly.

Lady Gaga = Poppers

The equivalent of huffing video cleaner at a warehouse orgy on Venus. Your doctor did not prescribe this. Your father would not approve. This is not a treatment recognized, recommended, or condoned by the FDA—which makes it even hotter.

I am a streaker.

Indecently obsessed with showing off. Exposing my prodigious productivity to strangers. Flashing friends and family alike with my bare, immodest persistence.

Because I am a streaker.

A person who loves streaks.

Subscribe now

There is no greater titillation than ticking a box. No finer pleasure than a hard-won checkmark. With gusto and Sharpie, I cross out each successful, successive square on the calendar.

Rigidly, I record how many days in a row I drank five glasses of water. How many mornings I made the bed. How many nights I evaded caffeine, blue-light, and early onset back pain—lying with a foam roller before falling asleep.

Grinding for fictitious XP gains and imaginary gold stars, I log calories, screen time, REM, BMI—likewise chronicling how long it’s been since I’ve dusted, flossed, or lifted. Fixation forces me to relish the fact that, not only did I not go to the gym this morning, but I missed the last 47 days.

Knowledge is progress.

Like adding beads to a lanyard, links to a chain, or stamping a loyalty punch-card toward a free Jamba Juice, I tally every tick and savor every streak. I keep a to-do list of to-do lists, prioritizing my priorities.

I am a streaker, but my passion for streaking is not innate, it was learned. My gateway drug: the chore chart. Mundane tasks rewarded by disproportionate dopamine spikes. A primitive rush each time I gulped down my Flintstones gummy.

Thirty years later, I am the best streaker in California. Counting consecutive cold plunges. Making a heatmap of miles hiked. Escalating until I’m trapped tracking how many simultaneous streaks I can keep spinning at once.

Ballooning beyond feasibility, streaking becomes unsustainable—until I’m maintaining a ten-page spreadsheet flooded with nonsensical graphs, charts, and equations. Every cell is either green (a tidy, cheerful bubble), or red (the bloody wound left by each stab of failure). Conditional formatting paints my months like a field of decapitated roses.

Does that make sense? Are you following? Am I only asking a third question due to my impulsive streaking? Huh? Well? Help??

Subscribe now

You can imagine my parents’ pride. You can imagine my personal shame. But if you’re anything like me, you don’t need to imagine the pressure. It is constant and unyielding.

Haunted, I am a human habit tracker.

If I’ve hit 19 days walking 10,000 steps, I cannot sleep with only 9,892 accrued—the boisterous beratings of a phantom track coach burning in my ears till dawn.

I’ve tried every trick to outsmart my smart watch. Jiggling, juggling, it’s all just a joke. As my tactics devolve, technology improves—until it’s impossible to fool any but the most pedestrian pedometer.

Thus do I slide my sled down a slippery slope, cutting crooked deals with myself. Conjuring “make up days.” Forming serpentine pacts, and fabricating dubious, poorly negotiated bargains that only accrue disappointment. Brushing your teeth seven times in a single day cannot rectify a week of stanky breath.

I am a streaker, losing steam. I rely on lies and self-delusion like a Hummer burns diesel.

Consistency is merciless, with little care for sick days and cellular repair. Wiped out by a bout of flu, my weekly planner becomes a plot of crimson tombstones. Down for the count, even the most basic streaks elude me.

Daily workouts? Skipped, weakened muscles withering. Daily word counts? Slashed, empty pages waiting. I convince myself that half-assed efforts count double—subdividing the task of “writing” into “brainstorming,” “research,” and “notes fractionally related to the eventual formation of an actual sentence.”

Rationalizing becomes a practiced art. Constant lying, my truest cadence.

Subscribe now

I am a streaker who loves streaking. But streaking does not love me back.

Yes, I meditated and medicated every morning for the last three weeks—21 days straight, for those keeping track (you know I am). But on the flip side, I’m hyperaware that it’s been 24 days since I’ve opened Duolingo to practice Spanish (“No bueno,” scolds the Owl), 33 days since I’ve called my sister (“You don’t love me,” says Sarah), and 5 days since I recommitted to watering my ferns regularly (“Too late,” wheeze crispy leaves).

Perhaps instead, I’ll start logging how long I resist my worst habits.

Do you know how many days in a row I have not smoked a cigarette? It could be fathomless.

Well, it’s twelve.

But it could be fathomless.

I am a streaker, afflicted. Should I treat it like an addiction?

Were I a recovering alcoholic, I’d at least earn a tick every day without a drink—till I’m bestowed a medal for my mighteous willpower.

I would kill for a medal.

I would kill once every day for a year if it meant vindicating my regressive progress chart.

Unfortunately, there are no accolades for compulsive streaking. The only award show: the 6 o’clock news.

Shackled to accountability, I will continue to grapple with wellness. I will chase the green dragon. I will mark each day until I am free from this cage of competitive self-care.

But at least today I finished an article. Check.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to maintain my single most important streak. An unbroken tradition performed every Friday night, without failure:

Stripping off my trench coat and sprinting across a football field butt-naked.

Because I am a streaker.

At long last, the legendary 7-Eleven Japanese-style egg salad sandwich has landed in the USA. A creation on par with Tamagotchi and the rice cooker. Praised and craved by American tourists, teenage weebs, and coworkers who take any opportunity to bring up their recent trip to Tokyo.

This anticipated sando is the latest in a tradition of “Americanizing” beloved Japanese classics. But does it hold up to the hype?

Kibōteki kansoku.

Subscribe now

Some things translate well from Japanese to English. Pokémon. Instant noodles. Marie Kondo. Godzilla.

Some things translate… less well. Benihana. Karaoke. The 1998 Godzilla reboot starring Matthew Broderick.

Then, there’s the 7-Eleven Japanese-Style Egg Salad Sandwich.

Something easily translatable—in theory. In practice, it’s like watching an anime with wonky subtitles.

Maybe that’s subjective bias?

The first time I experienced the wonder of the tamago sando, it was 5 a.m. on the streets of Shinjuku, an hour after the last gay bar in Tokyo closed. Burned-off adrenaline and a fading buzz had primed my foreigner taste buds—as I scarfed down a life-altering egg salad sandwich under the neon orange-green glow of a 7-Eleven.

It was a revelation. It was a miracle. It was shifuku. Supreme bliss.

In one bite, I saw the light—converting to the cult of Kewpie mayonnaise. I didn’t know sandwiches could taste like this. That eggs could be so fluffy and buoyant. That mayo could pack an umami punch. That bread could melt in your mouth, or could melt you into a rippling pool of contentment.

The first time I tried the Americanized version was also after a couple of beers. The combination of egg, mayo, milk bread, and Bud Light was a stomach-turning misstep. Yet I persisted—out of sheer devotion to the slice of yolky paradise I’d experienced in Tokyo (did I mention my trip to Tokyo?).

Subscribe now

The next day, I tried again. Paced the parking lot of a 7-Eleven in North Hollywood that blared Pachelbel’s Canon in C 24-7 to deter loiterers and madmen like me. I’d skipped breakfast and lunch, holding out till my craving hit that grumbling sweet spot between hunger and hangover.

Sandwich in hand, practically drooling, I pop the tab on the plastic container.

Maybe it’s the packaging, but the sandwich has the same aroma as every plastic-wrapped wrap in every airport café. Is it nostalgic? Is it noxious? I take a giant sniff, delirious, then a whopping bite, too ravenous to care.

My teeth meet the same resistance as a marshmallow. Get within grazing distance, and a whole clump comes off in your mouth. It’s springy. It’s soft. It’s surprising! Sure, the Japanese version isn’t so much “marshmallowy” as it is akin to the feeling of French kissing a cumulus cloud—but again, very springy.

Then a splinter sticks between my incisors.

Crust.

I was never the kind of adolescent elitist to demand the excision of crust from my PB and Js, so I’m trying not to sound like a brat, but… crust?!

It adds texture, they’ll say. It’s got vitamins, they’ll lie.

Arigato, 7-Eleven, but no arigato. Maintaining the original’s pure, plush, pillowy consistency is essential. This is like finding wood shavings in your cotton candy. Sand in your snow cone. A fingernail in your Butterfinger.

I keep chewing. The flavors mush and congeal, leaving a schmeared yellow residue on my tongue and an aftertaste like day-old deviled eggs. I think I taste the Kewpie mayo, but it’s probably just kibōteki kansoku. Wishful thinking.

My throat itches for something to wash it down. A Ramune soda or Pocari Sweat. Then I remember where I am. Defeated, I sulk back into the NoHo 7-Eleven and slap down my credit card for a sugar-free Red Bull.

Too bad I’m not in Tokyo. Did I mention my trip to Tokyo?

Originally published on McSweeney’s.

Congratulations on your commitment to optimized self-care — with your purchase of an all-inclusive, all-invasive Oura Ring Fitness-Tracker Piercing. Here’s what besties chasing their best lives need to know.

Subscribe now

What are Fitness-Tracker Piercings?

In collaboration with Oura Ring, Claire’s innovative wellness wearables are now available at abandoned malls nationwide. Packed with high-tech features in every rhinestone, these bedazzled fitness trackers can record your weight, workouts, and general well-being. Acutely. Accurately. Eternally.

How does it work?

Using the same rusty piercing guns from 1996, every in-store installation is performed by a trusted Claire’s Specialist (a teenage employee-in-training named Madison who would rather be working at Hollister).

Once your Oura Ring Piercing is embedded in the appropriate lobe, cartilage, or currently trending orifice, micro-sensors tap your biometrics like a landline, directly connecting your body via Bluetooth to our pinky-promise-secure cloud server.

Subscribe now

What types of rings can I get?

Claire’s exclusive Oura Ring Piercings easily outpace generic fitness trackers, featuring a limited-edition lineup for the next generation of anxious, awkward adolescents. Forget pedometers. This is a total somatic surveillance system. A revolution in wellness technology that makes the Apple Watch look analog.

Most-requested products include the FabDiet Tongue Bead, StepCount Septum Elite, and the all-new Oura Nipple Ring (available in Rose Gold, Midnight Black, and Areola Purple).

Likewise, customers combating stubborn belly fat may benefit from our FitSpark Starter Studs, which provide a shocking incentive (up to 50K volts!) if you even smell Cinnabon.

What data does it track?

Yes.

I mean, what exactly do they measure?

Every Oura Ring Piercing closely monitors your steps, temperature, BPM, sleep quality, caloric intake, spending habits, and comprehensive emotional disposition.

Tough week with your angsty tween? Take a peek at the in-app hormone meter for a glitter-gel chart of their pubertal development.

Subscribe now

Who can see my data?

Unfortunately, that’s confidential. Unlike your data. Also, your cholesterol looks a little high, babe.

Is it safe?

Since the first cave-parent caught their kid poking fishbones in their unibrow, Claire’s has offered a slightly more sanitary alternative to DIY home piercings.

However, for customers yearning for the nostalgia of Zippo-heated nails, safety pins, and sewing needles, ask about our Y2K Pre-Infected Collection.

Unless you’re asking about cybersecurity? That’s a little fuzzy (like our Caterpillar Mood Hoops). Across the product line, Oura Ring Piercings put the “party” in unrestricted third-party access.

Is it going to hurt?

After rigorous testing on stuffed animals and seasonal sales associates, Claire’s can confidently state that the majority of participants experience minimal discomfort during installation — provided they don’t flinch, squirm, sneeze, or breathe.

A pinprick today, a lifetime of hyperawareness — as your Oura Ring Piercing meticulously catalogs every fault and flaw of your frail, failing body.

Subscribe now

Is it supposed to burn?

Have you reached your daily step goal yet?

If your piercing suddenly seethes with the searing heat of a molten branding iron, that’s just our Feel The Burn™ technology in action.

Can I disable some of these features?

Absolutely. You’re in control!

You can disable: yourself.

Can I at least turn down the shock vibrations?

Our patent-pending BodyBuzz Extreme Haptics cannot be removed or reduced. For too long, Claire’s customers have been forced to rely on the human body’s natural signals and hormone triggers. Ick. Ew. Boring!

Now, Claire’s can play your physiology like the scratched Britney Spears CD it is — easily capable of producing shivers down your spine, butterflies in your stomach, or fathomless, full-body shame.

Please note that in the event of attempted removal, all Oura-powered self-care devices will self-destruct.

Where do I sign up?

Simply plug the address of your nearest Claire’s into MapQuest, hover outside as if you’re having second thoughts, and before you can ask, “wait, didn’t Claire’s close like 20 years ago?” — an overly familiar assistant manager will scribble on you with Sharpie like a stoned anesthesiologist, then bodily strap you down in a ripped, pink barber’s chair that smells like hot pennies.

Originally published on Slackjaw.

Let me be clear: I am not afraid of flying.

That would be laughable, irrational, statistically absurd — ridiculous!

I just have a funny feeling the left wing will fall off.

Again: I am not afraid of traveling.

My anxieties are merely artisanal. My phobias, bespoke.

Sure, sometimes, when we’re skimming over the Atlantic, I worry I’ll phase through the floor and do a 34,000-foot polar plunge.

But I am not afraid of crashing.

Subscribe now

I’m sure everything is up to snuff, code compliant, clear for takeoff.

I’m also hesitant to recline my seat, in case it tips the plane nose-up.

And while I am not afraid of turbulence, terrorists, or mechanical failures.

It’s only because there is so much more to fear — like flushing the lavatory’s vacuum toilet and getting sucked out into open sky.

Let me be clear: this is not a cry for help.

It’s a pre-flight service announcement.

Thank you for flying during a partial government shutdown.

Twenty-three years after the premiere of Naruto, a specially themed kids’ meal promotion has arrived at Burger King — packing an action figure gacha-game that stars seven fan-favorite characters, plus Konoha’s Number One Hyperactive, Knucklehead Ninja.

Like Naruto Uzumaki, and his fervent dream to become Hokage, I won’t quit until I’ve acquired every shinobi in the set. Dattebayo! Believe it.

Subscribe now

Mission 01 | B-Rank

Pulling up to Burger King, I rehearse my order, hoping the loudspeaker can’t overhear. Some people can “wing it,” reading right off the menu. Some of us scramble-plan as we creep our sedans around the curve. Me? I’m practising my cover story.

“This a mobile order?” asks a voice like crunching gravel.

“Uh, no, I — ”

A chipper woman cuts in. “What can I get ya?”

This is it.

“Yeah, do you have those, whatchamacallits — let me ask my son.” I turn to nobody in the backseat, wait a pregnant pause, then swivel back. “Rightttt, just a King Jr. Meal with one of those little ninja toys, please.”

Perfect. Casual. Nonchalant. She has no idea she’s speaking to someone with an officially licensed Naruto-themed frog wallet. The kunai is cast.

“You want a kids meal?”

“Believe it.” I am a childless, sedentary, 34-year-old man.

“Pull up to window two.”

Greedily tearing open the squashed to-go sack, I dig in.

You’re dying to know which ninja’s hiding inside. Trust me, I get it. But first, the chakra-infused combo:

The King Jr. Meal offers entrée options that include your choice of bite-sized hamburgér, cheeseburgér, or nuggéts. Sides include fries and soda — or for the health-conscious thirtysomething masquerading as an otaku pre-teen, applesauce and milk.

Presumably made of 2% dairy and 98% tap water, the milk tastes like middle school. The applesauce isn’t atrocious, preserved by the Sealing Jutsu of Clan Mott’s. Appropriately mushy. Passable, if you‘ve never tasted actual apples.

The cheeseburger is hand-prepared like a panini. Expertly smushed. Any attempt to separate bread from burger peels apart the cheese and rips the bun to shreds.

As a cookie-cutter ’90s kid raised on McDonald’s Happy Meals, it’s hard to avoid obvious comparisons. But when deprived of the prize inside, the King Jr. Meal is as devoid of happiness as it is of adequate nutrition.

Fingers trembling, I pull out a collectable wrapped in frosted packaging.

The toy?

Hinata.

No shade to the Hyūga Clan, but not exactly my first pick.

Subscribe now

Mission 02 | A-Rank

“At BK, Have It Your Way.” Well, BK, my nindō — my ninja way — demands that I recover every jōnin, fingers crossed for a figurine of Naruto himself (following which, I can begin the 4-year Return Arc to bring home Sasuke).

Rallying, I veer into the drive-thru lane, escalating the lies I tell the loudspeaker.

Today, I’ve brought not one, but two fake children. Both sons. Misogynistic, I know, but I have a vestigial fear of getting the “girls” toy, Polly Pocket, when everyone clearly wanted the swing-action Spider-Man.

At the intercom, I shout for Neji and Andor to stop whacking each other with foam shuriken (somehow, it feels more realistic that my make-believe children would be arguing). As for the food…

The fries are fryer-fresh — but must be devoured immediately on the drive home. Otherwise, by the time you walk in, dump the lot on a plate, and pick an episode of Naruto Shippuden, your meal is mostly mushed potatoes.

The Diet Coke is familiarly corrosive. Flat. Watery, with notes of DayQuil. Hours later, the algorithm learns of my lunchtime excursion — and serves up a stomach-turning article about fast food restaurant ice containing 50% fecal matter. I stop drinking mid-sip, believing it.

Burying a hand in each bag, I surface today’s winnings.

Both Hinata.

Mission 03 | S-Rank

A week later, I make my most ambitious attempt.

This time, I skip the story about my shadow clone sons, pretending they’re with my ex-wife for the weekend (I don’t know why I identify as a straight, struggling family man in this sad alternate reality, but again, it seems to fit).

For good luck, I flash some fast Summoning Jutsu hand signs. Boar. Dog. Bird. Monkey.

The toys? Donkey. Donkey. Shrek. Donkey.

Remnants of a cross-brand partnership between DreamWorks, the cast of Shrek, and my own Hubris. Clip-on keychain plushies, in quadruplicate. Leftovers. Believe it.

I should’ve known better. You don’t need Byakugan to see that, like season four, the Burger King x Naruto promotion is mostly filler. Still, I’m shocked by this substitution technique — which left me with the proverbial log.

A level of customer disservice that would not stand at Ichiraku Ramen.

Subscribe now

Mission Debrief

Over the last month, I’ve made another five visits to various Burger Kings — adding two inches to my waistline, and zero additions to my collection. For now, the ninjas from the Hidden Leaf remain… hidden.

Be warned: the promotion ends soon, and supplies have not lasted. So if you’re still on the hunt, don’t walk — Naruto run.

My fiancé, concerned over the number of fake children and fictional ex-wives I’ve invented — and probably sick of me smelling like car burger — offers to get the rest of the set off eBay. A sweet idea, if unsatisfying.

Much like the King Jr. Meal.

Declining, I tell him that I’m heading out on one last run. Reading through the ancient scrolls (Reddit), I’ve learned weeks-too-late that you can order the toys on their own — and I’ve got a lead on a BK in Cerritos

He says something about sodium, savings, and wearing my ninja headband in public.

I don’t hear a word of it — since the TV is playing a commercial for the new KFC × Demon Slayer collab. Believe it.

—

Originally published in Rooted.