I know, I know, I am a freaking moron.

Man, this sucks. I really thought it was just a straight shot from My seat at the right hand of the Father down to His earthly kingdom, but obviously I was mistaken. Which is extra humiliating considering I’m supposed to be all-seeing and all-knowing, and everything. Apparently not! Apparently, the King of Kings and Lord of Lords is a total bonehead with zero sense of direction. So, yeah, if you could come grab Me, I’d super appreciate it.

Maybe I took a wrong turn at Cloud 18 or something? I don’t know, they all kinda look the same: huge, majestic, riddled with angels playing their stupid harps at all hours of the day. And it’s true I haven’t been back in almost 2,000 years…but come on. How could I be so stupid?

At first I looked around at all the red soil and sunbaked cliffs, assumed I was in Arizona, and was like, “Okay, looks like the Rapture is starting in Phoenix!” Then I started feeling really short of breath and realized there was basically no atmosphere at all. Like, none. And I thought, hmm, that’s odd, I’ve never been to the American Southwest, but I’m pretty sure there should at least be some oxygen. It wasn’t until I turned around to get My bearings and saw two huge-ass moons floating in the sky that I realized, shit, You are on the completely wrong planet.

Fuck My life.

I’m supposed to be riding in on the back of a great white stallion, wearing a robe dipped in blood, and tossing sinners into a lake of fire, but instead I’m sitting here in some gigantic crater freezing My ass off with no fish to multiply, no water to turn into wine, and no sign of public transportation at all. Okay, I’m looking at Google Maps, and it says it’s gonna take a whole millennium to get back. Great. All I brought are these stupid sandals. This is gonna be murder on My plantar fasciitis.

Hello? Can anyone hear Me? Nope. Not even a freaking echo. This is creepy as hell.

Guys. I’m serious. Come pick Me up. I get that it’s out of the way, but I’ll owe you big time. I’m over by the big mountain that’s in the shape of a face. You know that one? I’m right past that in a little ravine. Just look for the long-haired dumbshit in a bright white robe waving His hands around like an asshole.

Just hurry. And please don’t tell My Dad or He will fucking kill Me. Again.

The post Can You Guys Come Pick Me Up? I Accidentally Returned To Mars appeared first on The Onion.

Yes, I would let my wife and young children starve before I’d defile my resume with exaggerations about my marketing background.

I know what you’re thinking: What’s a little white lie about my experience improving user engagement and SEO going to hurt? If I were faced with the prospect of sending my son and daughter to bed with empty stomachs, then surely there would be no harm in covering a small gap in my employment history by saying I worked at Icon Synergistics from “2021 to 2023” when, more precisely, it was February 2021 to November 2023. The truth is, a lot of harm would be done, and not just to my malnourished household.

You see, it’s when your back is against a wall that you find out what your true convictions are. Suppose I were jobless and could no longer put food on the table. Then, in a moment of weakness, I decided to claim on my resume that I was fluent in HubSpot and Marketo Engage, when in reality, I had familiarity with both but was only truly proficient in HubSpot. Where would it stop? Would I next say I’m the social media strategist at a place I’ve worked for five years, without clarifying that this is only my most recent title and that I actually began there in the junior role of social media assistant? That’s inexcusable.

My family might be able to enjoy three meals a day, but what would become of my self-respect? At the end of the day, I want to feel good about the marketing professional I see staring back at me in the mirror.

Don’t write me off as cold or uncaring. I have a heart. It would be painful to watch as my 5-year-old and 7-year-old were forced to beg for scraps of food on the streets. But when you’re creating a resume, ethics must come first. If the price of putting bread in the mouths of my children is adding a bullet point that overstates my ability to optimize social content, then I say no deal. After embellishing a cover letter to imply that I achieved over 30% conversion in data-driven bundling, how could I look my famished, hollow-cheeked family in their sunken eyes?

Above all, I wouldn’t want to set a bad example for my kids. Surely I’d be doing them no favors if I taught them it was okay to lie to a job recruiter about your B2B client retention rate in order to get a job that provides your loved ones with basic nutritional sustenance. Then they’d grow up to lie on their own resumes, and the web of deceit would continue from generation to generation.

So I would choose to do the right thing, no matter how visible my children’s ribcages might become. And while I hope she would support me in my decision, I would stand firm even if my emaciated wife grabbed my collar and demanded I lie about rolling out strategic acquisition channels and spearheading effective hashtag campaigns. Because falsely listing survey design as a special skill on my resume is a moral failure I could never countenance.

When all is said and done, I know the only special skill I really have is my honor.

The post I’d Sooner Let My Family Starve Than Exaggerate My Marketing  Experience On My Resume appeared first on The Onion.

Let that be a warnin’ to all outsiders—you break the law in these parts, you’d best be ready to pay for what you’ve done through a correctional training method that benefits victims, offenders, ’n the community at large.

Out here, we prefer settlin’ disputes the old-fashioned way, by addressin’ the harmful impact of a crime head-on, then determinin’ what can be done to repair that harm while holdin’ the person who caused it accountable for their actions. Lemme tell ya, we don’t take kindly to strangers whose idea of restitution relies solely on dehumanizin’ punishment.

Mark my words, one wrong step in this town’ll land you in a whole heap of social services.

Hell, I’m fixin’ to roll up my sleeves ’n teach you a thing or two about harm reduction myself, but I’m thinkin’ you ain’t worth the trouble. How ’bout we let this here pamphlet outlinin’ three years’ worth of statistics on recidivism rates among local offenders do the talkin’? But I’d better warn ya—unlike the sheriff, I ain’t bound by the law when it comes to providin’ delinquent individuals the help they need to become productive members of society.

Think I’m bluffin’? Why don’t you ask the last guy who tried to argue that crime is a violation of the law and the state, rather’n a violation of people and relationships.

I tell you, we marched him right to the town library with pitchforks and torches. Then we handed him a shovel and made him dig his own plot in the community garden, givin’ him access to fresh produce and plenty of physical activity, all while learnin’ him an invaluable set of skills he’d never get from that there carceral state.

There’ll be no disenfranchisin’ of marginalized populations on my watch.

You see, me and the boys get a whole lot of pleasure out of educatin’ anyone who so much as looks at us funny. Big Earl here’s got a masters in sociology from Vanderbilt, and nothin’ makes Big Earl madder’n generational cycles of systemic violence.

If you don’t wanna end up in a free computer literacy class at the community center we built with funds diverted from the bloated po-lice budget, then I reckon you best be on your way.

Go on, git. Hightail it back to whatever shame-based legal system you wandered in from.

And don’t come back unless you’re lookin’ to join a weekly discussion group on The New Jim Crow by Michelle Alexander. You sure don’t want to be caught here after sundown without havin’ read the chapter on the devastating impact America’s war on drugs had on inner city neighborhoods, y’hear?

The post Not Sure How They Deal With Criminals In Your Town, But ’Round Here We Use A Restorative Justice Process appeared first on The Onion.

Seriously. Pedro’s a sensitive and authentic guy, and there’s nothing less authentic than experiencing a one-sided relationship with somebody who doesn’t even know you exist.

There’s nothing wrong with being a fan. The problem is when people become obsessive. Go to any pop star’s Instagram, and you’ll see exactly what I’m talking about. Take the comments on Harry Styles’ account, for instance: “Harry, I love you,” “Harry, you saved my life,” “Harry, I can’t live without you.” Honestly, it’s creepy. Whenever I see that kind of thing, I wish Pedro were beside me. I can see him rolling his chocolate brown eyes and saying, “Ugh! These people are insane!” I’d just love to pick his brain over it sometime. Maybe over dinner and drinks at Trattoria da Pippo. He went there in 2023.

The effects of celebrity obsession aren’t just psychological. Parasocial relationships can also take a heavy toll on fans’ wallets. Taylor Swift fans will spend hundreds of dollars on endless “deluxe” editions of the same album, and thousands on concert tickets. Meanwhile, the most I’ve ever spent on concert tickets was $200 to see the Cure, Pedro’s favorite band. Sure, $200 is also a lot of money, and so was the $600 I spent on a plane getting to L.A., but it was all worth it for the chance to spend the night in the front row with my back to the stage, scouring the crowd for Pedro’s face as I screamed out his name.

I’m not trying to be judgmental about parasocial relationships. I just can’t relate. The crux of the matter is you don’t know these famous people, no matter how many movies, interviews, podcast appearances, Narcos episodes set to slow motion, or shaky, raw footage from 2014 Game Of Thrones Comic-Con panels zoomed in on their face you may have watched.

Isn’t that right, Pedro? I can picture him vigorously nodding his head right now. 

Parasocial relationships are ruining fan communities too. Online fandoms used to be a fun, open-minded place where people could make new friends and express themselves. Now, these “stans,” as they proudly call themselves, seem to think they can read their favorite celebrities’ minds. The other day, a bunch of these crazies ganged up on me to claim that the things I was posting in our forum would make Pedro “feel unsafe.” Uhh, I’m sorry. How would you know how Pedro “feels”? Have any of you basement dwellers even met him? I have. Nine times. Three times outside red carpet premieres, twice by following his limousine, and four times through window panes as he stood alone in his kitchen, drinking a cup of tea.

Ten times if you count the police lineup.

Maybe I’m being unkind. It’s important to have empathy for others, especially for those who may be struggling. It’s likely many of these fans simply don’t have friends or family members they feel close to in real life, and sadly, parasocial relationships seem to have filled that space. That’s why I’m ultimately so grateful to have Pedro in my life, sending me messages through the screen of the jailhouse TV. 

The post I Bet Pedro Pascal Hates Parasocial Relationships appeared first on The Onion.

Ding-dong, loyal readers! Wedding bells are ringing around the Dudek household. (Or maybe that’s the cha-ching of the cash register.) After 28 long years, one of my daughters has found her Mr. Right and they’re headed down the aisle…and I’m headed into bankruptcy! That’s right, my little girl has finally found “The One.” Unfortunately, this One is followed by three Zeros, and it’s at the bottom of a bill for flowers! I’m telling you, this wedding florist’s most popular arrangement is extortion. Hey, do I get a discount if I book you for my funeral, too? Because the prices of these flowers won’t stop rosing (rising)! For that much money, the daisies should be pushing up me! 

At this rate, the bride won’t be able to throw the bouquet because we’ll be serving it for dinner.

No turning back now. In a few short weeks, I’ll walk down the aisle and give away my pride and joy, the apple of my eye, my most prized possession. I’m referring, of course, to my money ! I swear, in the last few months I’ve seen more bills come and go than a coach in Buffalo during duck season! So if you see me crying at the ceremony, you’ll know why. Don’t bother passing me a tissue…unless it’s wrapped around a stack of cash! 

Turns out RSVP stands for Roger S’about-to-be Very Poor!

Now, don’t get me wrong. I couldn’t be happier that one of my daughters is tying the knot. I just didn’t think it would be attached to a lasso around what’s left of my nest egg! For years, she kept bringing home “roommates” for Thanksgiving, so I thought she might be gay and I’d get a book out of it. Imagine my surprise when two years ago, totally out of the blue, the girls decide to do Thanksgiving at their mom’s house, not invite me, and she brings a guy home instead !

So much for my long-planned bestselling memoir, My Daughter’s A Lesbian…And All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt!

But seriously, my ex-wife and I couldn’t believe our daughter finally met someone. We thought she was a lost cause! When she didn’t get asked to prom, I said, “It’s hopeless. She’ll never find anyone like her dad.” And Rosemary said, “God willing!” And I said, “You said it, not me!” and “Don’t go there!” and Rosemary left the room. Shows what I know. Flash Gordon 10 years later, and my daughter’s introducing me to her friend Paul. Boy, did Paul move fast. I tell you, this dude moved quicker than Usain Bolt chasing a lightning bolt. One Thanksgiving he’s “Paul,” by Christmas he’s “Babe,” and before I know it, he’s proposing at a barbecue in my own ex-wife’s backyard!

I wouldn’t have believed it if I didn’t see the photos on Facebook. He went down on one knee, and I hit the floor! He put a ring on it, and I ringed the bank to say, “Batten down the hatches!” He popped the question, and I popped a blood vessel thinking about how much money this wedding’s gonna cost! Paul seems like a nice kid, though. He even called to ask me for my daughter’s hand. Little did I know I’d be giving him an arm and a leg, too! My own!

Of course, she said yes. But I wanted to know if she was really sure. So I sat her down and told her that if she goes through with this, there’s no going back. She’ll be stuck with this person for life. No matter how much they fight, or how much they might hate each other, she’ll never be able to get away from the old ball and chain. I’m talking about her new mother-in-law ! That’s right! Weddings mean a whole new set of in-laws. I’m getting a new son-in-law, and my daughter’s getting a new headache! Hey, here’s a riddle for you: What do you call the mother-in-law of my daughter? Her problem!

I’m telling you, the best thing about these new in-laws is that they’re paying for most of the wedding and they live on the opposite coast!

And don’t get me started on the cost of the reception! I wish my phone was losing reception so I could stop getting calls about how expensive this darn party is! You gotta pay for food, drinks, a wedding band, and a dance floor. I’m telling you, “The Hustle” I have to put in to feed a bunch of strangers some “Funky Chicken” really makes me want to “Shout.” If my daughter doesn’t “Macarena” in (rein in) her spending, I’ll have to “Electric Slide” out of my lease when my bank account shows a “Conga Line” of zeros. Forget the afterparty! If you need me, I’ll be sleeping at the “YMCA”! Isn’t that “Hora”-ble (horrible)?

Oh well. You know what they say: “Happy wife, happy life, happy daughter, avoid slaughter.” So I’ll just shut my mouth, close my eyes, sign the check, and lock my other daughter away in a convent so I never have to pay for another wedding ever again! Do you think that’s a good idea, Roger?

I do. 

Until next time, gang! 

Roger Dudek is a professional, syndicated humor columnist who has been writing professionally for more than 30 years. His column, Write On The Funny!, has been published intermittently in dozens of newspapers since it began in 1992. His comedic book of humorous essays, Memoirs Of A Guy-sha, is still looking for a publisher.

The post The Cost Of This Wedding Is Making Me Matri-moan-y! appeared first on The Onion.

Granted, the decade did not start out well, with that whole Covid thing. But even if we cancel out the first couple years, that still leaves us with three years I can barely account for. Don’t ask me what the h-e-double-hockey-sticks I was doing for most of it! I mostly recollect a blur of working at ¡Basura Fabuloso! (my pal Fulgencio’s booth at the indoor flea market), driving to the indoor flea market, driving away from the flea market, Hallmark Channel movies, getting little pieces of fur on my lips from kissing my kitties, the taste of chocolate (natch!), and small glimpses of Hubby Rick when he wasn’t away working or getting bombed at Tacky’s Tavern. And those cabbage-like plants that decorate the median islands in the parking lot of the Hy-Vee. Don’t ask me why they’re stuck in my memory banks, they just are!

Three practically unaccountable years whooshing by can really get one in a panic if you had things you hoped to accomplish. So to avoid fixating on that, I’m going to use that dirty word—editing!—on my list of goals I wanted to achieve during the Teasdale Twenties. (By the way, for brevity’s sake, I’m not going to go over why I was inspired to name the entire 2020s after myself. I detailed it all in my January 2020 column, and I’m sure you Jeanketeers can easily recall it—if not, you can always consult your Jean scrapbooks!)

Okay, so as I go through my handwritten list (which took me forever to dig up), I think it would be wise to just cut out the goal to get my first car that wasn’t used. Cars are waaaaay expensive now, and I think I’d have to work more than half a century selling mostly empty vintage Avon lip-gloss pins to cover the down payment alone. Plus, I don’t get those electric cars. I just don’t. I would probably electrocute myself trying to gas it up with electricity. Or absent-mindedly leave the charge socket open and spill electricity on the ground and electrocute someone else and get sued to smithereens. 

No sir, it’s still me and my limping ol’ Dodge Neon, until it finally conks out, or I do!

And getting a tattoo can be safely crossed off the list. I know, I know, you probably think I’m being a stick-in-the-mud. People have been getting tattoos for years now, it’s no biggie, it’s not like you invest all this deep thought into it anymore—in fact, it’s probably best that you don’t! But there are so many I want to get that I weary myself even thinking about it. A pair of disembodied crossed cartoon eyes? Angel Patrick Swayze gesturing at a pottery wheel with a come-hither look on his face? And sure, teddy bear, goes without saying. But how many? And where? You see where this is going. Nope, I need more time to decide. 

And as I go through my list, I realize some of my goals simply aren’t what I want anymore, or they reflect the times in which they were written rather than today’s needs and priorities. Wearing clothes that button again? Nah, done with those. Getting my eyebrows professionally widened? Best leave that one in 2020, Jean. Making more friends? Sheesh, who even does that anymore? 

As for my goal to jazz up our apartment’s walls, let’s just say those landlord-mandated, nail-substitute adhesive strips don’t work. Forty bucks down the drain! ’Nuff said! Count that one dead on arrival! Cross it off with a super-thick Sharpie!

Plus—not to shock you, but you’d better hold on to your fannies!—I’ve already achieved one of my biggest goals! Getting a promotion? BIG FAT CHECKAROO! Yep, you’re looking at none other than the assistant manager of ¡Basura Fabuloso! It’s been a few weeks since I just asked Fulgencio if I could call myself that, and before I could explain why, he said, “Sure, girl, call yourself whatever you want.” I was super touched that Fulgencio put so much trust in me! I even had business cards made. The promotion did not come with a raise, as far as I can tell, but who cares? It’s a big burden off my mind to have this goal scored and in the record books!

With those goals out of the way, that leaves daily meditation without falling asleep and finally mending that pile of leggings and sweatpants with blown crotches. Yipes. Okay, maybe I was overambitious with the Decade of Jean thing. (If I had simply made one of my goals “Reject ambition,” my list would have been much, much easier to accomplish!) Besides, there’s nothing that says I can’t make the 2030s the “Decade of the Great Comeback of Jean”! After all, I have over four whole years to rest up for it!

The post Jean’s Own Goals appeared first on The Onion.

So, c’mon, everybody, and join in! There’s too many of us for them to stop us from jerking off all at once!

Of course, we’re vulnerable if we stay isolated while rubbing one out. But if we lock arms and touch ourselves, side by side in a public park, then the impossible is possible! We can shout “No!” at the authority figures who tell us to keep our sexual organs in our pants. We can overcome the powerful who want us to remain flaccid and dry. For nothing they do will ever change this underlying fact: There is strength in our engorged numbers. 

Some of you might fear the consequences of joining me in this communal act of self-pleasure. I don’t blame you. Many of us won’t make it to climax, particularly if we’re arrested for public indecency and dragged away by the police while still desperately pawing at our crotches. But no matter what, don’t stop fondling yourself! For even as our brothers- and sisters-in-arms fall, other rock-hard cocks rise in their place, ready to be furiously manipulated in the face of incredible odds. 

I’m going to show you how this is done: Basically, you start touching yourself really slowly. See? Like this. But then go faster and faster. It feels better that way.

So how about it—sir, are you with me? If so, follow my example. Put your hand in your pants and start beating off! How about you, madam? Will you stand up and say “Enough is enough” to those who would deny you your pleasure? Then the time has come to begin diddling yourself. After all, one person jerking off in a dark room does nothing, but everyone on the face of the earth jerking off simultaneously? 

Friends, that can change the world. 

Not so long ago, I was exactly like many of you: fearful, isolated, and mistaken in my belief of the cynics who said my dreams about group masturbation were impractical. In the darkest of those moments, I tried to cheer myself up by turning to my favorite porn video on xHamster.com, “Busty Amateur Sucks And Fucks.” It was then that I happened upon the view count: 837,000. Stunned, I checked out my other favorite video, “Horny Stepsis Sneaks Into My Room After Yoga.” 1.3 million views. That’s when I realized I wasn’t alone. 

Not at all. 

There are millions—no, billions—of us: decent, hardworking people who just want to play with themselves in public without any consequences and would do exactly that if the elite didn’t rely on keeping us disillusioned and sexually repressed. Though each of us is just a single drop in the ocean, if we all band together, we can produce a massive tidal wave of bodily fluid so powerful it can overcome anything.

So today I ask you, my brothers and sisters, to ignore the doubters and skeptics and join me. Be you man or woman, teen or elder, I call upon you to plunge your hand into your underwear and start rummaging around. We will either go down tugging and rubbing, or we will enjoy orgasms that will stay with us for eternity. 

And to those still uncertain of whether to participate, I ask you to recall that all it takes for evil to triumph in this world is for good, horny people like ourselves not to beat off together.

The post C’mon, Everybody, There’s Too Many Of Us For Them To Stop Us From Jerking Off All At Once! appeared first on The Onion.

When my second-grader’s shoe comes untied, or my kindergartner’s coat needs zipping, I don’t immediately kneel down and do it for them. They’re old enough to manage these things on their own, and though they may get frustrated at times, it’s a necessary lesson in personal responsibility. Same deal when shots are fired. I could throw myself in front of them the moment someone starts shooting in their direction, but then I’m not exactly preparing them for life, am I?

Obviously, I wouldn’t be doing my kids any favors if I sent them out into the world not knowing how to sustain a gunshot wound to the chest.

Sometimes it’s your job as a parent to stand back and say, “You got this, buddy!” Whether your child is learning to ride a bike, heading off to camp for the first time, or bleeding out because multiple shots have perforated their torso, it can be hard to watch them struggle. After all, there may be a few tears! But before you know it, they’re figuring out how to balance on two wheels, make new friends, or tear their shirt into strips to stanch the flow of blood until paramedics arrive.

Unfortunately, today’s helicopter parents have other ideas, hovering overhead and swooping in the moment their child faces adversity. You know the type— they intervene any time their kid has an argument with a friend, gets a bad grade, or doesn’t make a sports team. Well, they do the same thing in an active-shooter situation. Believe it or not, some parents will literally throw themselves on top of an armed assailant to ensure their child doesn’t take a single stray bullet.

I can understand their impulse, but kids need to develop self-
reliance. Sometimes that means being stern and making them find their own cover when a shooter opens fire in a public space.

Back when I was growing up, parents still believed in a crazy little thing called tough love. I might scream and holler and cry for help, but that didn’t mean my mom and dad charged to the rescue every time I procrastinated on a science project or forgot to bring my coat to school. It can be a challenge, taking shots from a powerful rifle, but it’s also an experience that builds character in young people, assuming they are able to recover from the blood loss.

Surely nothing is more impor-tant for children to learn than how to get back up after life knocks them down in a hail of gunfire.

Someday my kids will be adults. They’ll go off to college and get shot, they’ll join the workforce and get shot. I won’t be there to hold their hand through the many rounds of ammunition the world fires their way. If I crouch with them under a table every time a deranged gunman storms into Baskin-Robbins, I will have failed as a father. They’ll grow up expecting someone to step in and actually do something to stop them from being torn to pieces by an AR-15.

And we all know that’s never going to happen.

The post If I Take A Bullet For My Child, How Will They Learn To Take Bullets Themselves? appeared first on The Onion.

You know, with everything that’s been going on lately?

I just thought that maybe I should check in first. Because I would hate to release The Phoenician Scheme, my charming and absurdist black comedy caper, only for everyone to feel too weird to go see it—which, by the way, would totally make sense. I would feel weird if I were you. There’s a lot on your plates at the moment.

It’s okay. You can be honest with me. If Benicio del Toro wearing a fez is too much for you to handle right now, you can tell me.

But, I mean, hey, no judgment if you are in the mood to see it. Be my guest! If you’re ready to show up to the theater May 30—given the state of the world—and say, “One for The Phoenician Scheme, please,” all the more power to you. Maybe this 101-minute fanciful romp featuring Michael Cera as a private tutor who speaks in a Norwegian accent is exactly what you’re looking for. It won’t preserve habeas corpus or the First Amendment or civil rights. But it will make you think, “Huh, is that an oud I’m hearing in this Kinks cover?”

Oof. Things sure are bad. Thank God I moved to Paris 20 years ago!

Just as a gut check, how about I list off some of the things you might see in my movie and you tell me if they’re dealbreakers? Tom Hanks and Bryan Cranston rattling off my signature droll dialogue—enticing or not? What about meticulously framed scenes that blend nostalgia and melancholy with just a dash of whimsy? And do you like the idea of Benedict Cumberbatch as a character with elaborate facial hair named Uncle Nubar? Or is that kind of a red flag?

If you aren’t really feeling another one of my films, just let me know. All I’m trying to do here is make sure this is what you genuinely want. Don’t go just to make me happy. I’d have no problem sitting on the movie for a few years, if that’s what you need. Maybe I could release The Phoenician Scheme in 2028, or 2030. But then again, who knows— maybe things will be much, much worse by then. Maybe this is your last chance to see my work before total economic and democratic collapse.

Do you think there will be film festivals in the camps?

Shoot. Now I wish I’d made a movie about a film festival in the camps.

Don’t freak out. I’m not saying things will get worse. I’m just saying they could. I’m trying to be empathetic, as an expat. Of course, here in France, there are plenty of problems too. Not sure what they are, though. I get my news from literary magazines.

So, I don’t know, what do you think? You want it? You want The Phoenician Scheme? Tilda Swinton isn’t in this one, if that sways your mind one way or the other. But Jeffrey Wright is back. He wears a sea captain’s hat and suspenders. Anyway, I have to go now. I’m riding my bicycle to the bakery. Just let me know by the end of Cannes. Au revoir.

The post You Sure You’re In The Mood For Another Wes Anderson Film With Everything That’s Going On? appeared first on The Onion.

We live in a transactional society. Sure, a man doesn’t send you an invoice after hoisting you up, charging across the lawn at full gallop, and depositing you down on the ground again. But every time you’re carried on a person’s back and taken on a spirited romp through the backyard, someone has to pay for it. That’s simply the way things are.

You may think it costs nothing, but the moment you raise your arms in the air and say “Uppies,” an entry is made upon the balance sheet.

The plain truth of the matter is that a piggy-back ride is not something you have a God-given right to. It comes at another man’s expense. It’s easy enough to take it for granted when somebody squats down, looks over their shoulder, and hollers “All aboard!” with a great big smile. But when you get down to basic economic principles, frolicking through the park on a sunny day while clinging to someone’s back isn’t a service that can be handed out free of charge.   

Sadly, most young people these days don’t bother to consider the responsibility that comes with accepting a piggyback ride. They’re too busy crying “Giddyup!” and squealing with delight as they are sped along without a care in the world. When the ground is rushing along beneath them and the wind is blowing through their hair, they ought to be asking what will be demanded of them in return. It’s just possible they’re being taken for a ride in more ways than one.

Life isn’t all fun and games. There’s a price to pay each time you climb up on a big man’s back and he runs with you down the beach, filling you with such joy you can’t help but shout “Wheeeeeeee!”

To be clear, I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with piggyback rides. Far from it. I’ve enjoyed plenty in my day, especially as a kid, but the difference is I earned every last one of those rides. Unlike today’s Gimme Generation, I never had any illusions that I would be the recipient of such a treat without being a good boy during a trip to the grocery store, or behaving myself at dinner when we had guests over. I paid my dues. I owed no one. I worked for my place on those backs, dammit, and I expect others to do the same.

This is America. If you want to hop on a person’s back and ride them around like a horsey, you must offer something up in return. It might be tickles. It might be raspberries. They might even want a piggyback ride of their own. But whatever form the bargain takes, you can be sure of one thing: that person’s legs will inevitably get tired, and your debt will inevitably come due.

So go ahead, if you still don’t believe me. Clamber up on somebody’s back. Live in that little fantasy world of yours for as long as you can. But when gravity finally loosens your grip on their shoulders and pulls you back down into the mire of debts and obligations you’ve created, don’t say I didn’t warn you. 

The post There’s No Such Thing As A Free Piggyback Ride appeared first on The Onion.

Oh hey! Here comes the birthday boy himself! Hello, little boy! I like your blindfold! And what an adorable little stick you’re carrying. Did you get that stick for your birthday? My, my, what a wonderful stick! You could use it for twirling or sword-fighting or digging in the dirt—ow!

Hey, what was that for? 

Listen, little boy, I need you to be gentle with Mr. Piñata. Whacking me like that hurts. You wouldn’t want to hurt me, now, would you? I know I look like a big, tough multicolored donkey, but this papier-mâché is actually quite—ow! Seriously? 

What did I just say? 

Why don’t we just set down the stick and talk for a minute, okay, buddy? You’re a nice boy. Strong, but nice. And though I’m not sure exactly what’s going on here, it has to be some sort of misunderst—ow! 

Whoa! What the fuck? You just made a huge dent in my side! This is my body. You can’t just hit it. I don’t care if it’s your big day. That last smack almost took off my ear. What the hell is wrong with you?

Aghh! Ow! Do you not hear that I’m in pain? Or do you not even care how much damage you do to me? Please! I’m begging you! Stop this now, before something terrible happens. Where are your parents? Ow! Oh God, the parents—they’re filming me! They’re filming, and they’re laughing!

You monsters! Police, police!

Oh, thank God. He’s stopped. Thank you, little boy. Thank you for coming to your senses. Yes, put down the stick—wait—no! No! Don’t hand it to the bigger child! Why is he being spun around in circles like that? What kind of sick bastard would do something like this at a party?

Shit! Fuck! No! No! My leg! My back right leg—you just smashed it in! Have mercy! No! Not the belly! Not my beautiful ruffled belly! 

At least—ow—take the blindfold off—ow—and look me in the eye when you whack me, cowards! 

Enough is enough! Hear me now: When I get down from here, I will hunt you down and ruin your lives in ways you could never anticipate. Do you understand threats, children? When you least expect it, I’ll show up in your life and I will tear you apart. You and all your goddamn families! Oh God, you aren’t going to stop, are you? 

Sweet Jesus, my chest is caving in. I’m losing candy—I’m losing candy fast. This wound is too great for any duct tape to patch. Tell my wife I love her. She was the most gorgeous piñata in the whole factory, a tasseled neon star. I’m going to the big Party City in the sky now…goodbye…

I hope you like Dubble Bubble, assholes.

The post Ow appeared first on The Onion.

Where did Hollywood go so wrong? I thought movies were supposed to be an escape from reality, a chance to put your worries aside and not have to think about any underlying ideas or concepts. Well, not anymore. Take this Sonic The Hedgehog 3 movie they got out now: I watched it expecting to be dazzled and entertained, and instead I had to sit there as they introduced a big, central theme and then spent nearly two hours exploring the living hell out of it. Who wants that?

I went to the theater to be amused and distracted by a film about a super-fast hedgehog, not to witness these gratuitous scenes that glamorize the importance of teamwork. 

Give me laughs. Give me thrills. Even give me a scary villain now and again, why not? But spare me this obsession with making sure we all know your movie is about friendship, or perseverance, or whatever. You can stop crafting your movie around some aspect of human nature you find interesting, because I don’t care about that. At all. 

I don’t want to see what made a character do something, or what led up to some event happening. I don’t like when your movie shows me various points of view that paint a fuller picture of the story. I just want to enjoy a movie for what it is, and that’s a random array of completely unrelated moving images that evoke absolutely nothing inside me.

Stop trying to make me fathom stuff. 

Look. I get it. Hollywood is a big business, and directors have to follow the latest trends to be relevant. That doesn’t mean I want to fork over my hard-earned cash to sit through yet another well-paced plot that supports the main theme of love or bravery or how revenge is a fool’s errand that ultimately corrodes the human soul. 

It’s getting so I can’t take my kid to the movies without having to cover her eyes so she isn’t exposed to the eternal struggle between good and evil or the universal need for human connection. I just wish they would leave those parts out. So many movies would be great if they didn’t include all that unnecessary garbage. 

And that’s another thing: Enough with all the depth and meaning already!

Remember when movies were black-and-white vignettes of mustachioed strongmen lifting weights, or a group of bandits silently chasing a train on horseback? We need more of that these days. Silly, mindless fun like they used to make. I miss going to unpretentious popcorn movies that you could take a date to without having to worry about it “being about something.”

Now, before you bombard me with angry emails, I know I can just skip past all the themes and concepts of any movie and go straight to the credits. But I shouldn’t have to, and neither should you. That’s why I’m asking you to join my nationwide cinema boycott!

Let’s make it perfectly clear to all the studios and filmmakers out there: Until you stop polluting your movies with gratuitous themes, ideas, and allusions of all kinds, we’re gonna spend our precious free time doing something more worthwhile. Like reading and rereading all seven volumes of Marcel Proust’s In Search Of Lost Time in its original French.

Because after all, “Le seul véritable voyage…ce ne serait pas d’aller vers de nouveaux paysages, mais d’avoir d’autres yeux.”

The post You Can’t Even Watch A Movie Anymore Without Seeing Some Theme Explored appeared first on The Onion.