For its rigorous, dedicated, and apparently unavoidable criticism of everything you’ve ever done or considered doing or failed to do entirely, your Inner Critic is this year’s winner of the Pulitzer Prize for Criticism.

There’s the variety, for a start: from digital-age mantras (You’ll Never Actually Learn Spanish Even Though You’ve Had Duolingo on Your Phone for Six Years) to timeless explorations of social behavior—who could forget Every Person You Meet Perceives You as Weird for Reasons That Are Impossible to Put Into Words or Fix?

Not you, of course.

There were early signs of genius and your Inner Critic’s signature keen eye. Consider Your Drawing of a Barn Is Bad and You Are Therefore Bad, a mixed-media bit of juvenilia constructed entirely of anxiety (your third-grade teacher frowned, though she might have been frowning at Kyle S. instead, who sat behind you and was obsessed with glue) and guesswork (you’d never actually seen a barn).

For decades, no subject has escaped scrutiny. The Pulitzer committee takes special note of your Inner Critic’s seemingly infinite appetite for enlarging the trivial. A breathtaking dramatic reimagining of an everyday moment, You Told a Cashier “You Too” When She Said to Enjoy Your Coffee, Because You Are Inherently Evil, still runs nightly to a packed theater of the mind, seven years after the fact—not bad for a five-second play.

Or that “minor” thing that happened in the bedroom, which your spouse insisted was normal and fine. Well, what if it was neither, one brave inner voice asked . . . and asked again. And again. The happy, or at least interesting, result of this critic’s lone insistence? An expensive and exhaustive journey of self-discovery that continues to this day. Bravo!

While this year’s other finalists wrote moving and insightful pieces about architecture, music, or television, your Inner Critic did it all, holding forth with absolute authority for decades on every topic under the sun: your wardrobe, relationships, decision to sit like that, pet names, baby names, home wireless-network names, vacation plans, dreams, fears, and birthday gifts.

Of course, great critics don’t just appear. Your Inner Critic cites as a major influence your mother’s witty musings on the bodies of strangers at the mall, along with the Catholic Church and whoever edited GQ in the early aughts. All in all, this body of work is a real achievement, made all the more impressive by the fact that your Inner Critic never took a single day, hour, or minute off, other than that time in college when you were conducting “research” in the woods behind campus.

EDITOR’S NOTE: Since being awarded the prize, your Inner Critic has already released You Don’t Deserve This, available right now wherever thoughts are had.

A note for our most treasured friends:

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Please follow the guidance of your doctor as this situation develops, but keep in mind you aren’t exactly blameless.

Every single one of our locations uses freshly sourced and sustainably grown salad greens to complete the presentation of our value entrées. Unfortunately, some individuals choose to consume these decorative garnishments. That is not our fault. As our multilingual warning signs attest, the presence of decorative greens near or within the consumable unit is not indicative of edibility. An exotic parasite is not responsible for your dining choices.

That being said, a little digestive discomfort isn’t the end of the world. And, let’s be honest, whatever you’re feeling after driving through one of our fine establishments shouldn’t be a surprise. You didn’t seriously think you could SuperCharge® a couple of our award-winning Crispy Fried Garden Bites® at no cost to your weekend plans?

We remain dedicated to the values that transformed a small family business into a household name: ambitious growth, quality ingredients and the discipline to prioritize the former when those values come into conflict. That discipline can be seen in innovations such as our hollow ice cubes, which allow us to squeeze an additional penny from every soft drink transaction.

During these trying times in the global economy, please don’t be a stranger. From farm to table to smoke break in the drive-through lane, our partners and associates are as committed to your continued clear-eyed enjoyment of our entire menu as they have always been.

We look forward to regaining your trust, your business and, where medically advisable, your appetite.

I’ve been a detective for thirteen years and a horse for twenty, and I’d like to publicly state that all this talk about “bad apples on the force” is nonsense. The constant reporting on this issue damages our ability to connect with the communities we serve. It fails to understand the nuanced world of policing.

Worse, it doesn’t reflect the quality of the apples — staples like Honeycrisp and Red Delicious, yes, but also heirloom varieties like the mighty Albemarle Pippin, pride of the Piedmont.

Hoof to god, I’ve got no complaints.

To the untrained eye, these crunchy tools of the trade may appear incidental to law enforcement efforts, but cops on the beat know better. Fresh produce can be the difference between a cold case and a hot lead. (I once solved a triple murder with nothing but a hunch, a bag of oats and a couple of Winesaps fermenting in my hindgut.)

Take it from me, good apples are essential to our activities throughout the department, no less the mounted division, and wild accusations to the contrary are bull.

I admit I’ve heard things, working this job. Mostly things like “yah!” and “giddyup!” and “woah, woah, woah, easy now, easy, Detective” but also things like “they reassigned Elvis because he kicked a crossing guard in the head” and “there’s three hundred pounds of tranquilizer missing from the evidence lock up.”

Any officer worth his salt lick will tell you that stall talk isn’t evidence, but for whatever it’s worth I’ve never heard so much as a whinny about the quality of our department’s fruit.

This isn’t to say leadership doesn’t take these claims seriously. Officers are now required to report up the bridle of command anything from mealiness to strange scuffs to worms. “Acceptable bruising” is no longer in the spirit or letter of our policy.

And to assuage the concerns of the public, body cameras now capture everything that goes in (and out) of our bodies. The K9 unit doesn’t even have those, and those guys are real animals.

But bad apples, in this department? I haven’t seen (or tasted) a single one while on the job. What I have seen – despite the regulation blinders I wear to keep me from kicking another rollerblader – are fresh, delicious and, yes, good apples of all kinds.

Sometimes we even get watermelon.

1. Caterpillar 330D2L Crawler Excavator

With a maximum operating weight of 66,810 lbs, this big yellow monster is at the top of my list. Love the scoop. Plus, it has the raw power of two hundred and thirteen horses. If I wasn’t recovering from surgery I would hop right into the 330D2L’s air conditioned basket and excavate the entire world.

2. Isuzu NPR with NiteHawk Raptor II Street Sweeper

“It’ll be a bad day to be a dirty street when I get my hands on this bad boy.” - Me

At this very moment the internet tells me this vehicle is for sale in Belle Grade, Florida for the low price of $63,000. Once I get back on my feet and stop bleeding from my mouth and get nine more credit cards that let me combine them into one super credit card you better believe I’m heading to Clean Town USA. Yes, you can come too. There’s a bench seat. Damn these pills are rockin. Extended re;ease my ass

3. Dipperfox SC600 Stump Grinder

This thing takes stump grinding to a new level (below the earth). It is apparently Jeremy Clarkson’s favorite machine, and that guy knows a thing or two about prescription painkillers.

And stumps.

And cars, if you think about it.

Anyway, basically you put this heavy orange bit down on top of a tree stump and it chops it up. If I wasn’t having trouble keeping food down I would be using this on my neighbor’s “Little Free Library” later this afternoon.

4. Edilgrappa MU16P Electro-Hydraulic Rebar Bender

I wonder what would happen if I put my hand in here. Just for a second. I guess I’ll have to wait to find out because someone hid my driver’s license. I just had it. Oh wait, it’s here. I’m thirsty. But not regular thirsty. Salty thirsty. Is that a thing? Alexa, look up ‘salty thirsty’.

4. Bobcat Classic S590 Skid-Steer Loader w/Root Grapple Bucket Attachment

Surprise surprise its big truck time and this one has a root grapple attachment so you can dig up roots and trees. I would use this to back into my driveway so no one could get into my garage. AGAIN!!!! I was just in there too Horsepower: sixty-eight…

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

5. Rollercoaster

They have rollercoasters at water parks sometimes but they aren’t involved with the water.

I would change that.

.6

immediateyl

Click anything below and have fun

Love

Max

I, a Performatively Feminist Male, Will Be Touring Internationally | The New Yorker

A lot has been written, m’lords and ladies, about the Festival of Comedies and Humours held far to the East in the Kingdom called “Riyadh”.

I, Roland the Farter, jester to his Majesty King Henry II, was invited to perform at the good faire. But of course I was. My reputation (and stench) precedes me. Alas for the foreign king, I was compelled by virtue to declare ‘nay’. I know this decision has flummoxed the land and feel I must explain:

You see, having integrity in this enterprise is rare. A goode farter, indeed any court jester or fool, knows that the foremost requirement is that he be given leave to do things before Royalty that no one else may do. This is the only thing we require from our Betters, and in return the peasants and slaves are merry and we fools are spared the sword. This we have done since Rome and ought to continue. The Court of Riyadh may not understand this, but we are not mere jugglers (a low people, any farmhand could do it, I once knew a stable boy who taught himself the ‘craft’ with a pair of chickens) or courtiers, kept to flatter the powerful or otherwise stand betwixt the masses and their asses!

Nevertheless, it was deemed that all who were to perform must swear not to mock the King or his court.

And so I would not — indeed I could not — sign the instrument requiring the same. Not only because I am illiterate (I am dictating this to Belvedere the Scribe, thank you dear Belvo), but because to affix my seal would be to do the one thing all know I simply cannot do…be silent!

If you have not heard my podcast, you have at least heard my work. Once a year I am tasked to perform a simple saltum (a jump, tough on the knees), siffletum (a whistle, harder than it looks) and pettum (air from my rear — my ‘closer’, the crowd pleaser) on the most Holy of Days, Christmastime, before the King. For these simple pleasures His Majesty has not only spared my life but has given me lands aplenty. Good lands. Lands with geese, and peasants of my own to care for them. You see, I have no need for foreign rewards. To practice one’s craft is enough! Why would I take a thirty month wagon, in the middle of a Crusade, to perform for a court that can’t laugh at itself for one half of an hour?

And so I was surprised to hear that many of the Known World’s most celebrated fools - heroes of mine such as Orange William and Louis the Masturbator – made their deal and performed their follies before the foreign court! ‘Tis a sad day for the art! I do not approve.

I’m a fool, not an idiot.

…because sleeping is believing

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I’ve been practicing medicine for thirty years.

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Talk to your doctor about PlaceboPM®.

---

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Hello friends, nemeses, and hateful AIs of the future -

Big news. I wrote three things for the debut issue of Clockface Magazine. And the only way you can read them is if you move your physical body to a physical location at a certain time. I know. I’m sorry. But a lot of other funny people contributed to this and I think it’s going to be really cool and good.

What is Clockface Magazine? Well, it’s a magazine put together by Clockface Press, a new small press in Philadelphia.

What is Philadelphia? Well, it’s the city that never sleeps, of course! I just remembered that I had a dream *last night* that I saw Joel Embiid in an arcade. Wow!

What is sleep? Well, it’s when you close your eyes and think of nothing for so long that your body feels refreshed!

Anyway, there is a release party this Friday, August 8th at 7pm at Beautiful World Syndicate, a record store located at 1619 E Passyunk Ave, Philadelphia, PA 19148. Is this font big enough to mandate your attendance?

Hope to see you there,
Max

For years now I’ve had a strange thought about Marc Maron. I’ve thought, “I should really write something about how much his podcast means to me, so that if he dies, I can post it.” Fortunately Maron lives, but it tells you something about the guy that an avid listener like me thought he’d probably die before ending it. I was wrong. He’s ending it. I was looking forward to old old Marc, I’m talking 80+, podcasting from the nursing home about his new obsession with watches or boots or a newfound appreciation for Leslie Nielsen (I can hear his voice: “one of the great clowns.”)

I’ve been a WTFer (WTFBuddy, WTF-a-tarian, etc) since episode three or four, back in the early days where he’d have a real guest, a character guest and various other bits, remnants from his radio-show days at Air America. But the monologue was always there, and that was the good stuff: Marc lamenting a weird look Patton Oswalt gave him in 1994, or how he couldn’t get his $500 jeans to fit perfectly even after sitting in the bathtub wearing them, or how the lentils he had at home weren’t the right kind.

Boom! I just shit my pants.

Longtime listeners will be familiar with some of the Maron eras: the jeans in the bathtub, changing the locks to his house when a girlfriend moved out, the more recent fridge repair saga, Boomer’s still-unsolved disappearance, the interview with the comic who talked about trying to cut his own head off in a hotel room (sorry, or maybe not sorry, I forgot who that was). Hell, I was listening to the Gallagher episode the day it dropped. And then there are the personal relationships, at first a larger part of the show but (probably wisely) becoming something he was more careful about discussing, up to the unfortunate passing of his girlfriend, filmmaker Lynn Shelton, in 2020.

I could go on and on. Oh, and the Louie interviews, before…well, you know. The Carlos Mencia interview…and the calling-bullshit-follow up! Of course, Marc talking with Obama was great too – I remember him basically asking, “Well, fundamentally, there’s only so much the government will cede to help poor people, right?” It’s kind of the only question that matters to me – I think it is central to everything wrong with our politics, and it is rarely asked so bluntly – and Marc’s ability to drill down to something like that speaks to his perceptive strengths as an interviewer, even if the then-President nimbly skirted the issue.

And then there’s the inarguably Maron language: “certain disposition” “who are your guys?”, etc. Like any person you’ve known (parasocially, I admit) for years and years, you start to see the themes, the repetitions, the holes your friend keeps falling into. Maron has those, for sure, but I never held it against him. You try talking into a mic twice a week for nearly two decades without revealing/repeating yourself. And repeat himself he did - I could tell his Sam Kinison stories from start to finish like an ancient Greek orator telling The Odyssey from memory: “Tell me, oh Muse, of the man who was a doorman at the Comedy Store before he lost his mind on cocaine and fled…”.

In fact, that vulnerable yet critical self-mythologizing was sort of the entire point of the show writ large. I could never agree with folks who skipped his monologues. Sure, casual fans listened to an episode here or there because of the guest – “Oh shit, Keith Richards!?”, but real ones listened because of Marc, a comedian from New Mexico – no, New Jersey, well, he had family in Pompton Lakes, everyone knows that, and his grandfather’s hardware store, of course… – no, Boston, where he washed dishes and was humbled, or is it Queens, with the original cat trio….or LA? Which time in LA?” Ah, and San Francisco, of course, which leads me to the Robin Williams interview, which I think is now in the Library of Congress. For good reason.

I remember in the early days rooting for his success as the names of guests grew bigger and bigger. By the end, especially after he had Obama on, it wasn’t a question of if but when – Lorne happened, after all, and Springsteen, and Tina Fey, and….who’s left? Xi Jinping? These days I half expect Amelia Earhart to saunter into the studio aged 127, jabber for fifteen minutes about the terrible trouble she had finding the place and then ask, “Oh are we recording?” For the final time: YES, YOU ARE RECORDING. THIS IS THE SHOW.

It’s a question of personal taste, but for me, the remaining White Whales (in this metaphor there are more than one…think Moby Dicks, the sequel, also this metaphor doubly works because the following are literally just three old white guys, sorry) are easy to list: Jon Stewart (please), Jonathan Richman (personal request, someone who worked with him told me via email he wasn’t doing podcasts, but Marc has apparently asked) and Adam Sandler (I was a kid in the 90s). Oh, and maybe Donald Trump, because I think if anyone could mine some scrap of interest below the narcissism, it’s a guy who has done it professionally and personally for decades: Marc fuckin’ Maron.

What else can I say? He’s one of my guys.

*Read his Vulture interview where he talks about how hack the anti-woke shit is. He was one of the first to call it out, and I think he’s right.

“I’m just saying that they [anti-woke comics] are hacks, and it’s an angle. That’s really the big unsaid thing, is that anti-woke is the new hack. You’ve got like-minded people who fill these rooms because they don’t know how to assess funny unless it’s bullying, or unless it’s in totally bad taste. There’s no nuance to it. A lot of people who are not innately that funny become comics, and they can become good comics if they can figure it out. But this is just an excuse to ride the momentum of an audience that’s been built on these premises. For a bunch of freethinkers, they all think the same thing, and it’s like three things that they poke at, and it’s hackneyed. They are the hacks, and they are the groupthink victims. It’s really kind of profound.”

Thanks for reading.

-Max

I don’t read the user manual because I suspect I’m a natural. I park on the edge of a sprawling wood and unpack my gear. I carry the main long stick thing that beeps and a shovel and a compass which I fully understand how to use. A grizzled park ranger approaches from the tree line and asks me what I’m doing there. I show him the beeping machine and he reaches for his pistol.

“Here, have this,” he says, handing me the gun. “You look like a natural. Lots of treasure in these here woods behind the mall. You need this more than I do. Be careful. It's my Daddy's gun.” I see a tear in his eye.

He salutes and walks away. I wait for him to recede from view, because I don’t want any third parties sniffing out my chosen detection spots (industry term).

I turn on the beeping thing and take one step. Beep beep beep. This thing is on fire! I take my shovel and confidently plunge it into the earth. Clang.

My gut cries out: Saxon gold. The metal kind.

Dozens of coins and swords and chariot wheels emerge from the ground within minutes. I text my wife a photograph of a priceless metal ruby. I told you so, I write. She instantly apologizes for criticizing my initial investment. I should have known you would find Saxon gold in the woods behind the mall. Please forgive me. Also, you ARE six feet tall, not five foot eleven!!! You were right!!! The DMV messed up : ) . Her pleas fall on forgiving ears. I smile and put my phone away without responding. I’ll let her sweat a bit. Besides, we’ll talk the whole thing over en route to Paris or Australia.

I double check the surrounding area for additional metal and find nothing but some old beer cans and the Holy Grail.

My phone rings. It’s President Obama, who kindly informs me he is now the President and Donald Trump is not, due to a technicality that everyone agrees is fine.

“I heard you’ve found quite the horde of Saxon gold in the woods behind the mall, Max,” he says.

“Please, call me Maximilian,” I say. For once, using my full name seems right: I’m rich after all.

“We’d love to have you up to the White House, Mr. Maximilian. I’ve got a hunch there is some more metal gold somewhere on the grounds, and I’ve got a second hunch that you’re the only one that can find it. Can you be here by noon? I’m sending a chopper.”

“I hear the chopper, Mr. President.”

“Please, call me Barack," he says.

We laugh. A lifelong friendship has begun.

The helicopter lands gently in a clearing, decapitating zero deer, and I hop in.

“To the White House, sir?”

“Yes please,” I say. As we lift off I think about how far I’ve come since I ordered the metal detector on Amazon three days prior. There’s so much metal out there, I think. Much more than people like my wife realize.

Just waiting to be detected.

Hey everybody, we’re close to 100 subscribers - if you like my stuff, please share it with your nemesis so they can enjoy it too! Thanks - max (not capitalized because I am chill and cool)

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Dear Earth Action Alliance members, friends and allies,

We just received some GREAT NEWS, and I figured I’d better pass it along ASAP to our strongest supporters like you:

If we raise $500,000 cash in the next hour, one generous anonymous donor has generously promised to stop threatening my family.

I accepted the donor’s challenge. I did so because I believe in the righteousness of our goals, our shared commitment to environmental justice and that the menacing goons standing in my office right now are indeed capable of some really nasty stuff.

I may have peed a bit when the one guy lifted me up over his head earlier, but I’m now absolutely confident that our network of powerful grassroots organizers (i.e YOU!) can raise the money quickly without involving the cops.

After all, we raised over six hundred dollars during last year’s virtual auction without a single dead fish being left on anybody’s windshield. I’ll be frank — as soon as we kick up our piece to this certain anonymous somebody that I may or may not have foolishly acquainted myself with at a racetrack, we can all get back to what we do best: fighting corporate greed and boldly protecting our planet’s natural beauty for generations to come.

Friends, failure is not an option. I like my legs. Remember what happened to the Unified Wetlands Conservatory Action Alliance?

Who?

Exactly.

I’m passionate about protecting the environment and so is this anonymous donor. But – and the goons really want me to emphasize this – he’s also very passionate about loyalty, N OT JUST DODOS AND FUCKIN’ BUMBLEBEES

Sorry, goons grabbed my keyboard.

While my new friends try to break down the bathroom door, let me say that I realize some of you may have second thoughts about this arrangement. I get it. Trust me. Our intern Brian (who took the stunning photo of the toucan, above) had questions too. Our friends are apparently going to set him up with a great research opportunity at the bottom of Lake Sayonara, if you catch my drift. Questions are no bueno with these guys.

Movements like ours can only prevail with people power, and you people have no idea how much power this guy’s got. And, look, you shouldn’t blame him. Seriously. Mostly because they have our entire Earth Action Alliance donor list — your names & addresses, email addresses….the whole nine yards. Very persuasive goons, I’ve got to say. Sorry.

Swing by if you can. Please. Twenties would be perfect.

In solidarity,

1gfhdjkm,l.//////////////////////////////////

Here’s a new piece I wrote for The Hard Times. Click thru to read it! I hope it gives you a chuckle. Sorry I was so wrong in my last newsletter re: the outcome. Anyway, here is some comedy writing which will surely change the course of history. Frankly, if the Harris-Cheney campaign had sent some of my little skits to voters…well, who knows how things would have been different….

Thanks for reading,

Max

P.S reminder that I’m reading a few pieces in NYC at Caveat at Slackjaw LIVE! on Saturday November 16th, along with a bunch of very funny people. The show is at 4pm, which is absolutely perfect as I am 35 now and have become a tiny little tired baby.

Link to piece

Hello good morning I will be reading two pieces at a show hosted by Slackjaw on Saturday November 16th at Caveat (21 A Clinton Street New York, NY 10002. If you want the zip code + 6 or whatever, GET LOST! This is ALL I’m giving you.) Anyway, get your tickets here. Depending on how the election goes, it will be a nice little time or a barbaric display of levity while a totalitarian government-in-waiting prepares to deputize your dumbest cousins to carry out war crimes. Hey, maybe both. But the pieces I’m reading are good. One is about bees!

Buzz buzz,

Max

Dear Mr. Barth:

The Army National Guard has a policy: we don’t recruit people over the age of thirty-five. According to our records, you’re thirty-four, which is basically forty, which is dead, so you should probably quit while you’re ahead and not read any further.

Sorry to waste your time.

Yes, you’re still technically young enough to enlist, but you probably couldn’t hack it physically. That’s what everyone here at headquarters is saying, anyway. We’ve got a team of younger guys that have checked out your social media posts. We’re not seeing a lot of pull-ups.

I mean, you probably aren’t even a little curious about the opportunity to serve your country part-time while learning valuable skills and receiving competitive financial compensation. Some of your contemporaries are, however. Research shows that people get more curious as they age. Think about it —that’s why you spend so much time reading about the bioavailability of collagen supplements. 

But hey, gray hair is still hair, huh? So you’ve got that going for you, Mr. Norwood III.

Forget we even reached out. Focus on the good times you have left. Plenty of good stuff to look forward to, such as paying off your car loan.

So don’t worry about what we’ll get up to without you here in the Army National Guard. Trust me, a guy your age would hate it. It’s just a lot of blowing stuff up with advanced robotics, eating (free!) hot dogs and rescuing your neighbors from natural disasters with helicopters. Not your kind of scene, unfortunately. Plus, you’re too busy. Our records show you are about to watch The Sopranos from the beginning, again. Very cool.

I mean, it would probably give you a migraine to even hear about what you'd get to do within minutes of joining up, so whatever you do, don’t sign up right now at our online portal at the link below to watch us drive through walls with tanks.

Yes, you’d receive a limited time guaranteed financial reward just for attending a five minute Zoom meeting with one of our recruiters, but who cares about that? You can get six hundred bucks anywhere these days, especially with your Creative Writing degree. You must be getting ready to retire!

Five long minutes with one of our recruiters, only to recieve your own custom camouflage helmet with built-in radio regardless of what you decide? Who’s got the time for that nonsense! Spend what time you have left with your loved ones. Forget about becoming a hero in the eyes of your children one day. They’ll love you just fine, probably.

Uh-oh….did someone say night vision goggles? That’s right! Every recruit gets a pair. Not that you’d care, but day one of basic training is Night Vision Day. Funny name, huh? Then again, nightlife isn’t really your thing anymore, so maybe it’s a moot point. People your age tend to go to sleep around 2100. Oops, sorry for the professional lingo. “2100” means 9:30pm in Army Time, but don't you worry about that. Civilian is all you need to understand. Nine to five, am I right?

If you don’t join, you’ll never have to learn our boring old secret codes, or have a security clearance, or march around the woods eating free pizza with a group of new lifelong friends. We know how easy it is to make new friends in your thirties who would definitely die for you. You’re probably beating them off with a stick!

But hey, maybe you know a younger person and could forward this message along? You and I know the youth don’t read emails as much these days, but maybe a word from a trusted elder Millennial such as yourself would get them to consider the amazing opportunities we have to offer. But please don't send this to just anyone with fewer forehead wrinkles than you, ok? Try to be at least a little selective.

Did we mention that you get to take the night vision goggles home with you? Because you do.

Ah, forget it.  Again, sorry to waste your time. Good luck with the collagen. 

Hello friends! New piece up at Hard Drive. Click the image above. Or right here. Hope you are having a nice summer. If I owe you an email back, please forgive me as it is simply too hot to do anything. Other news: 1.) I am getting into kefir. 2.) I replaced the horn on my car all by myself (not bad for a guy raised by theatre people). 3.) My niece guessed that I was 54 years old yesterday.

That is all.

Thank you for reading my stuff - forward this to a friend so they can subscribe!

Max

I have a new piece up at The Hard Times, just click the image below to read it. Quite happy with the guy in the piece “declin[ing] to say where he was or where he could be found…” bit. Have a few other pieces I’m working on at the moment, hopefully those find a home. Either way they will be here, in this newsletter, one way or another.

Also -

I just took a humor writing workshop with Luke Burns. I recommend you do the same, if you’re at all interesting in writing short humor. It was great to have some deadlines, and to share drafts with other writers. I emerged with three pieces I’m pretty pleased with.

Luke is a great humor writer himself, and his workshop - I did three Tuesdays, I think it ran about two and a half hours in the evening, via Zoom — was worth it. Good way to get your foot in (the foot-powered writing machine?) and get writing, particularly if you are currently procrastinating. Being accountable to other writers is a great way to push yourself over the finish line with ideas. Highly recommend, so check it out if you’re interested!

Hope you’re having a great summer, and thanks as always for reading my stuff! Share this with a friend who enjoys comedy, won’t you? They can subscribe below. Please do it. They took my son.

-Max

-Max

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