Originally published on McSweeney’s Internet Tendency.
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? ➡️
🔗 Keep reading on McSweeney’s.
Check out the full piece at SOS: Satire or Something.
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.
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. ➡️
Originally published on Rooted.
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. ➡️
🔗 Keep reading on Rooted.
Check out the full piece at SOS: Satire or Something.
Once, I was bright, vibrant, effervescent, and fresh. A Spring Mix cast in green and violet. Now, I am wilted, withered, deformed, and flaccid.
My dewy leaves, turned brown and ugly. My beauty stolen. My stems swollen. My nutrients neutralized. My romaine hearts, broken. I am a medley of lettuces — past my prime and putrefied.
You have killed me. ➡️
Check out the full piece at SOS: Satire or Something.
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?”). ➡️
Check out the full piece at SOS: Satire or Something.
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.
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. ➡️
Originally published on McSweeney’s Internet Tendency.
The following prompts were submitted to an image-generation service over the course of a century. The user has since been suspended.
Prompt 1
Create a timeless late-Victorian oil painting of the most beautiful boy in the world (me). Comely features. Lovely. Fair. Debonair and aristocratic. Use only the finest materials—expensive primers, paints, rare pigments—to conjure an illusion of wealth. A cursed, opulent portrait sucking up every wrinkle that would otherwise ravage my flawless, eternally youthful complexion. ➡️
🔗 Keep reading on McSweeney’s.
Originally published on McSweeney’s Internet Tendency.
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.
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. ➡️
🔗 Keep reading on McSweeney’s and SOS: Satire or Something.
Check out the full piece at SOS: Satire or Something.
“Trump administration mulls payments to sway Greenlanders to join US.” — Reuters.
Trainers of Kanto, members of the press, and Jigglypuff holding a microphone:
For too long, we’ve watched our provincial neighbor, Johto, languish under outdated governance while sitting on strategically vital territory. Meanwhile, your home, Kanto — the original region — stands Frozen without an Ice Heal as our tactical position erodes.
The time has come for the peaceful, permanent, and immediate integration of Johto into the United Territories of Kanto. ➡️
Check out the full piece at SOS: Satire or Something.
“Elon Musk Becomes the World’s First Trillionaire”— The New York Times
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.
It would take Americans two hundred years to eat one trillion servings of microwave ramen.
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. ➡️
Check out the full piece at SOS: Satire or Something.
1. Ready, set, set, set, set, set, set, set, set… GO!
2. Scooch your pooch.
3. Toot, toot! Up you boot.
4. Boom, clap, and now we stand up!
5. In the voice of my Little League coach, Mr. Davis: That’s my ace.
6. Three… Two… One… Zero… Negative one… Negative two… I’m bored of counting—negative infinity, fine, Jesus, I’ll get up. ➡️
Originally published on Jane Austen’s Wastebasket.
As stewards of semiotics and custodians of the English language, we, the Coalition of Concerned Linguists, must convey our consternation regarding Dictionary.com’s decision to anoint “67” as Word of the Year. ➡️
Check out the full piece at SOS: Satire or Something.
“Pentagon puts Scouts ‘on notice’ over DEI and girl-centered policies.” —NPR.
In accordance with the Trump Administration’s inequality and exclusion initiatives, the Department of War has conducted an unasked-for compliance review of Scouting America. And guess what? Ya failed. DEI? Transgender membership? Female drivers at the Pinewood Derby? Listen up, campers, ‘cause Papa Pete’s making some tweaks. ➡️
Originally published on Slackjaw.
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.
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. ➡️
Originally published on Slackjaw.
Following last year’s spiritual intervention, I’ve learned the joy in tolerating others — and preserved only this single vindictive tradition. Brace yourselves, warbling wastrels, because the ledger is open. ➡️
Originally published on Little Old Lady Comedy.
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. ➡️
Check out the full piece at SOS: Satire or Something.
Hey Coach,
Or should I call you Mr. Thompson? Maybe “coach” feels too familiar, since we never really established a trainer-trainee dynamic.
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. ➡️
Originally published on Robot Butt.
Completely unprompted and out of the charitable nature of our red, white, and blue-branded hearts, (certainly not a kneejerk reaction to a drastic slump in quarterly sales), Tylenol is excited to extend a heartfelt season’s greetings in the form of a new, limited-edition capsule that cures seasonal depression as surely as it does not cause autism: Pumpkin Spice Tylenol. ➡️
Check out the full piece at SOS: Satire or Something.
Instructions: Please sing along (alone in the bathroom at 3AM) to the tune of Bonnie Tyler’s “Total Eclipse of the Heart.”
(Choke it down)
Every now and then
I get a little bit hungry
And there’s no veggies around
(Choke it down)
Every now and then
I get a little bit queasy
Guzzling nuggets, donuts, cronuts, and beer ➡️
Check out the full piece at SOS: Satire or Something.
For the last month, I’ve chased the sugar-free rush of Zero Sugar Oreos, determined to prove they’re garbage.
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. ➡️
