Today’s Fortune: Speak up, they can’t hear you.
A pipeline fell down the stairs.
Booster rates need a boost.
Depending on your zip code, Russian draft dodgers are heroes, cowards, spies, refugees, enemy combatants, nonexistent, or in a pickle.
The U.N. tilt at monetary policy went about as well as everything else.
The Stadia was sent to walk into the snow, alone.
Martha Stewart opened a tragically Snoopless restaurant.
The source of last week’s drama? A pinched nerve from weightlifting. Thirty-one years of agitating the government, dodging objects thrown by my father, and hurling my body off of moving objects, and it’s dumbbells that get me. I dig the punchline.
I’m teaching again, and enjoying it. I signed a bunch of papers in the process, so I likely can’t say more without meeting a very expensive lawyer.
Don’t trust your self-image.
There’s a novella in my (amazing and purchasable) book called Post-Atomic Stress. Half of it’s content exists because of a bet. A friend knocked me avoiding stories about romantic relationships, and I wanted to show I could shoot threes in every genre.
I still think of myself as someone that barely touches the topic. But now the longest part of my most significant work is half about that (the other half is jokes about cyborgs). So my self-image has nothing to do with reality. They don’t even live in the same state.
The recovery is actually coming along. Talking to a doctor works better than sitting in the dark cursing God. I recommend combining them for the best results.
When I was supposed to be writing ads in 2020, I recorded a joke a day instead. It was more of a personal challenge than a real project, and the production shows it. But I might give a full-tilt version a shot. The powers that be think I should feed something to the online video beast, and lord knows I don’t have the money for sketch comedy.
I wrote about the Art of Twitter Warfare in the New Yorker.
Everything Abridged is still the apple of my eye.
Have a little stream of consciousness.
I have an idea for a stunt. It’s fun, and it’s legal. But it may lead to the NYPD breaking my useless legs.
To the pain.
I wrote an article about an incident I may have hallucinated.
One Sentence Reviews
The Complete The Killer: Pulp crime fun from cover to cover. (3.5/5)
Muscle Relaxants: I miss booze. (1/5)
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