Reading

Created
Fri, 08/08/2025 - 10:00

I’m going to keep this brief.

Tomorrow I will shed my nymphal skin and exoskeleton and burst forth in all of my winged adult mayfly glory. I’ll have a tiny, vulnerable body and no functioning mouth parts, so if a fish doesn’t eat me within a few minutes, I’ll starve to death pretty quickly after that. If anyone who cares about me happens to read this message before my big day, here is what I would like for my birthday:

1. I’d like to fuck another mayfly.

2. Just in case that first wish wasn’t clear, I mainly just want to go to Pound Town with a nice lady mayfly before every member of my mayfly generation is ripped to shreds by some violent force of nature.

3. Don’t worry about cake or a candle. Being confronted with cake I couldn’t eat and a candle I couldn’t blow out would only send me spiraling down a black hole of depression and severely reduce my chances of fucking another mayfly. Some paper hats might be nice, though.

4. No sparklers, either. If one errant flash of fire were to land on my embarrassingly soft exoskeleton, I would pop like the head of that Nazi at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark.

Created
Fri, 08/08/2025 - 07:22

When 19-year-old Sara Ginaite escaped from the Kaunas Ghetto in Lithuania during the winter of 1943, she had one clear objective. With the recent arrival of the Schutzstaffel (SS) in the ghetto, it had become clear that its remaining Jews would soon be sent to their deaths. Attempts by Jews in Kaunas to link up […]

Created
Fri, 08/08/2025 - 04:03
So, Trump has decided to raise tariffs on India to 50% (who knows if he actually will), over their imports of Russian oil. Meanwhile: Senators Lindsey Graham, a South Carolina Republican, and Connecticut Democrat Richard Blumenthal are the lead sponsors of a bipartisan bill which would impose primary and secondary sanctions against Russia and entities […]
Created
Fri, 08/08/2025 - 03:01

Remember Ecto Cooler? IT remembers you.

IT remembers every dark day you spent hiding in your room. All the hours listening to NSYNC while you carved the names of dead gods into your Trapper Keeper. IT knows your flesh, your sins, your AOL user ID. No, not that one. The one you used to spy on your crush. IT remembers StoneColdTeenAustin89.

Your shirt said NO FEAR. But now there’s a dread deep in your bones. Those bones you made firm for IT with whole milk every day in the cafeteria. The spell you and your best friend read off that GeoCities website? That was real. Those clip art skulls bled into your reality. Gnawed at the edges of your consciousness. Crept behind the static of channel three. Your Furby going off in the middle of the night, even after your dad took the batteries out, that was IT.

Created
Thu, 07/08/2025 - 22:15

After the tragic 2023 passing of Gabe Hudon, a longtime McSweeney’s writer, editor, and friend, Hudson’s mother, Sanchia Semere, endowed a new award in his honor. Annually, McSweeney’s convenes a panel of jurors to select a writer’s second book-length work of fiction that embodies the spirit of humor and generosity that Gabe and his work did. The first-ever winner of the Gabe Hudson Prize was Ayana Mathis for her novel The Unsettled. Gabe was an unflagging champion of writers and books, and one way to honor the memory of Gabe’s unparalleled enthusiasm and encouragement for writers is to celebrate this award, conferred annually on his birthday, September 12.

Created
Thu, 07/08/2025 - 22:00

Dear Marge,

You might have forgotten about the time your husband jeered at you on stage, as you spoke through a miniature wooden version of yourself. It happened in 1996, almost thirty years ago. Let me remind you of the circumstances.

Your son, Bart, started working at a local burlesque house without you knowing. Upon finding out, you convinced the town of Springfield to tear down the risqué business at a town hall meeting—your righteous anger on full display. Right before an angry mob seized the house, the owner, Belle, and her dancers put on an Emmy-winning musical number (“We Put the Spring in Springfield”), which won over the crowd’s hearts, minds, and loins. Unfortunately, you—who showed up late and missed the song because you were renting a bulldozer—remained unconvinced. You tried to put your feelings into song, but you’re not a performer, and no one cared. Then you accidentally drove your bulldozer into the building, requiring you to pay for the damage one amateur ventriloquy show at a time.