xkcd: Lunch Order
Stop Tesla Model 3 before we lose our riches!
Greetings, oil product consumer. The time has come to make a decisive choice. Listen to your pumping heart, and let not our riches of your labor be lost to this Model 3!
Farid, IOBA Chairman & StopTesla.com founder
We want to warn every single individual on this planet about the planned release of Tesla Model 3* and the dangers that it unleashes towards international fossil fuel corporations.
*) the infamous fast, long-range, environment-friendly and offensively affordable fully electric auto-piloted car from Musk
Saturday Morning Breakfast Cereal – Sick Day
Saturday Morning Breakfast Cereal – Why do you want to work here?
Saturday Morning Breakfast Cereal – Fables
Introducing FitBigot! – McSweeney’s Internet Tendency
Are you looking for a device to count the number of backward steps we’ve taken as individuals and as a society? Well, look no further: FitBigot’s new line of regression trackers will keep you comfortably aware of how far we haven’t come.
By measuring your heart rate, sleep patterns, microaggressions, regular-sized aggressions, sexist Slack messages, and drunken racial slurs, FitBigot measures how closely you resemble a Confederate soldier, or if you’re motivated, an editor at the National Review.
Each day FitBigot will provide recommendations on how you can better drag us back to a time before minorities and women received the right to vote. Let’s say you spend happy hour with some coworkers and completely ignore the sensible ideas of one of your female subordinates. Your device will credit you for your chauvinism and likely suggest that you attribute her ideas to Jake, the new intern, or one of the bar’s busboys. With FitBigot, you can always regress harder.
Once FitBigot gets to know your brand of atavistic tendencies, it will create personalized regression workouts proven to narrow your mind faster than you can reread Atlas Shrugged. Climate Change denier? FitBigot will have you railing against other so-called scientific “facts” on all social media platforms (but mostly Facebook), starting with the theory of evolution and ending with whatever you think is the biggest threat to a strictly biblical interpretation of our universe.
If you wear your tracker to sleep, it will analyze any subconscious stirrings and calculate your R.E.M — a proprietary FitBigot statistic that tallies the dreams in which you join a Rural Evening Militia.
What’s more, we made FitBigot fun for the whole family by including a hyper-competitive Adventure Mode. Adventures are challenging regressive activities like telling the next Muslim you see to “go back to Syria,” with bonus points awarded if said Muslim is actually Sikh and from New Jersey.
FitBigot comes equipped with over 200 years of battery life; you’ll only have to recharge after you help restore our planet to one that’s even more perfect for you, people who look like you, and those who recognize your obvious supremacy. Remember, FitBigot is apolitical, so you’re bound to find one that’s right for the kind of nostalgia porn you’re into — as long as you’re a white person. Speaking of white, the FitBigot will be available in two colorways: pre-suffrage alabaster, and post-Bannon ivory.
Using the companion iOS and Android FitBigot Community app, you can check out the leaderboards to see how you stack up against other like-minded users, including but not limited to several Silicon Valley entrepreneurs, your very intolerant brother-in-law, and the President of the United States. What could be more satisfying than seeing your name above the leader of the free world’s?1 Nothing, that’s what.
Buy your FitBigot today and keep tomorrow from ever happening!
Saturday Morning Breakfast Cereal – Words
Monologue: Lois Lane Explains White Male Privilege to Superman – McSweeney’s Internet Tendency
You walked into the Daily Planet with a résumé listing only the name of your high school and a weekend job helping out your dad as a “farm hand.” Perry White offered you a job as a full-time reporter on the spot.
I went to a four-year university and was managing editor of the school paper when it won a Pacemaker award, and I had to interview with Perry three times. It wasn’t until I handed him a story I wrote on spec detailing an underground dog-fighting ring run by a powerful Metropolis alderman, one that I went undercover for two months to break, that he agreed to give me a three-week tryout.
After a while, watching you with newspaper ink stains on your face, bumbling your way around the halls of the Daily Planet, constantly spilling hot coffee on yourself, I felt sorry for you. Maybe I had been unfair. So I worked hard on myself. I spoke to a therapist, took up meditation. At last, I found I was able to stop resenting you and just accept you as a sweet, wholesome guy. You couldn’t help it if you were a dopey hack reporter.
Then, when the mine explosion happened last month, I watched as Superman arrived to save workers from under the collapsed mine. I cheered along with everyone else in the office. The next morning, you — Clark Kent — miraculously have a front-page story so detailed it could only have been written by someone who witnessed the event firsthand.
“You saved us, Superman,” the chubby one shouted. Another, less chubby but still out of shape Chileen (sic) miner said, “I apologize if we smell, Superman. We were down the mineshaft for quite a while.” Superman thought that yes, they did stink, but he was too polite to agree. Superman momentarily fought off a sneeze. That’s how dusty these Chillenes (sic) are he thought, dusty enough to tangle with my super nose.
Also, there are other sections where you literally slip back and forth between the tense of the first and third person.
Suddenly, it’s all right there for me, the barefaced truth. You are Superman. Your story with poor grammar and weak sentence structure is on the front page, and my piece on Lex Luthor’s corrupt Presidential campaign, one that I spent eight weeks fact-checking and verifying as staffers kept popping up murdered, is relegated to below the fold on page four.
I chose this career because it allows me some independence. I can work a story like no one else, mine those details for the big picture, and knock a powerful company, politician, or special interest on its ass… but sorry, I can’t fly! I can’t simply turn on my super hearing and listen in on a conversation between hired goons. I can’t dangle thugs from the side of a building, drop them, and then fly quickly to catch them before they hit the ground and repeat the process until they give me the vital information I need for my report. If I want to get a story on nuclear arms trafficking, I have to find a source willing to go on the record, risking their life. My God, do you know how many people I’ve lost, people who trusted me, who put their lives on the line because they believed in something greater than themselves? I don’t sleep at night thinking about all of those I’ve lost.
Look, no one is saying you’re not a hero, Clark. You certainly are. But you benefit directly from the advantages you have been given by a patriarchal society that values a white male voice above a woman’s, and also from the Earth’s Sun from which you derive all your extraordinary powers. And I have much more to worry about than some green, glowing rock. I’m the same bad-ass bitch, glasses on or glasses off.
The Irish Constellation – The New Yorker
Now that everybody’s confessing everything, I’m ready to confess that, until about five years ago, I was under the impression that the constellation Orion was the constellation O’Ryan. I thought of it as the Irish constellation, sort of the way that actors refer to “Macbeth” as “the Scottish play.” Had I never seen “Orion” in print? I had, in fact, but I suppose I thought it was pronounced “oar-e-un.” I thought it was some other constellation that had nothing to do with the constellation people were referring to when they pointed to the sky and said what I heard as “Do you see O’Ryan’s Belt?” This is not so crazy. I know somebody who, not having been read to much when he was a child, grew up thinking that “Pat the Bunny” was a book about a bunny named Pat. These things happen.
My customary answer to the question about whether I could see the belt, by the way, was “No.” I have been called a constellation denier. I don’t accept the term. Like many people who are called climate-change deniers—say, the people in our government who are now in charge of doing something about climate change—I prefer to say that the jury is still out. There may be definable clusters of stars up there which can be seen from Earth as constellations, or there may not be. If there are, I can’t make them out. When somebody asks me if I can see Orion’s Belt, I sometimes vary a simple “No” with something like “No, but if you look a bit to the left I think you can see Penelope’s Pants Suit.”
It was during one of those Penelope’s Pants Suit occasions that the misapprehension I’d been under was revealed to me. When asked if I could see the belt, I said, after shaking my head, “I always pictured an Irish guy wearing suspenders instead of a belt, anyway.”
“What Irish guy are you talking about?” my companion said.
I’d rather not relate the rest of the conversation. It still stings.
Before that revelation, how did I imagine a constellation had come to be named O’Ryan? I hadn’t given it much thought, but when I discovered a list of the eighty-eight recognized constellations that was compiled, in 1922, by the International Astronomical Union, I came up with a couple of ways it might have happened. It’s certainly within the realm of possibility that the people in charge of the meeting at which that list was adopted operated the way they would have operated as commissioners in New York’s City Hall. According to the New York way of keeping the peace, if you cancel alternate-side-of-the-street parking regulations on Yom Kippur, because Orthodox Jews are prohibited from driving on that day, then, fair being fair, you also cancel the regulations on the Feast of the Assumption, and on Greek Orthodox Holy Thursday, and, eventually, on Eid al-Adha. So someone could have stood up in the meeting of astronomers and said, “How come the Italians are the only ones with a constellation? Canes Venatici sounds like the newly elected mayor of Salerno.” At which point, the chairman starts handing out constellations to the Greeks (Camelopardalis) and the Spaniards (Dorado) and, eventually, the Irish.
But it’s difficult to picture astronomers as New York pols. And I don’t think an astronomer would quietly slip his girlfriend’s name onto a constellation—although I must say that the presence on the list of a constellation named Norma gives me pause.
It also may have been that constellations are sometimes named for the astronomers who discovered them, the way a medical researcher’s name is sometimes attached to the disease he managed to isolate. There’s one name on the list that supports this supposition. As I imagine it, the most distinguished astronomer at the meeting is Professor Szczepański, of the University of Lodz. It’s agreed to name a constellation he discovered for him—although, since there is some concern that his surname is too difficult to spell, they use his first name. Thus, the constellation Leo.
After Professor Szczepański’s graceful acceptance speech, a vote is about to be taken on a list of eighty-seven constellations. But a voice is heard from the back of the room: “Sure, and there’s one more.” The speaker is a small man with a striking resemblance to the Irish character actor Barry Fitzgerald. (As it happens, Fitzgerald was only half Irish and was born William Shields. But if you need to imagine a stage Irishman who starts sentences with “Sure, and” or “Begorra,” he’s your guy.) The comment is met with skepticism, but then the astronomers look up to where the Barry Fitzgerald character is pointing. (The meetings, for obvious reasons, are always held outdoors, at night.) For a while, nobody can make it out.
Then Leo Szczepański says, “I think I can see someone pointing.”
“Begorra,” the Fitzgerald look-alike says. “It’s me uncle telling that gob-shite Callahan to keep his sheep on his side of the feckin’ fence.”
“And what is your uncle’s name?” Professor Szczepański asks.
“Sure and begorra, it’s O’Ryan.”
List: 10 Sociopathic Traits to Nurture in Your Child for Huge Success – McSweeney’s Internet Tendency
How many times have you told your little one that he or she could be president of the United States someday? Translate that sentiment into reality. By following these parenting tips, you can ensure that he or she will have the skills and temperament to amass great wealth, connect with influential people world-wide, and eventually become the most powerful man, or less likely, woman in the world.
1. Parasitic Lifestyle
Babies are nothing but parasites, literally living off your teat. It takes lots of work to feed, diaper, and wipe their asses a hundred times a day, but keep at it well into their twenties and thirties. Their parasitic talents take decades to mature. With persistence, your little tike’s neediness will transform into the psychic ability to drain the energy from a room full of people, or a nation, leaving them floundering like fish starving for water.
2. Superficial Charm
When little Suzy hugs your neck, says in her sweetest voice that you’re the best mommy in the world, and begs to eat cookies for breakfast all in the same breath, praise her manipulative nature. Encourage her to keep honing her charms. Give her some tips on the fine skill of seduction: wearing low cut tops, tight fitting dresses, and lots of lip gloss. Today it’s a cookie, 40 years from now, the presidency.
How many times has your three-year-old woken you at 2 AM screaming, “I want to watch TV now!” Instead of scolding Billy, hand him the remote, a bucket of popcorn, and a Mountain Dew as a reward for his impulsivity. This is where many middle class families fail to raise future billionaires because they teach delayed gratification. Such a loser move. Impulsivity is essential to enabling him to pounce on, and exploit lucrative opportunities at play dates and beyond.
4. Grandiose Self Image
By age four your Katie will engage in elaborate make-believe stories, claiming herself queen of the castle (formally your house), and you the jester. Play along. Not only is make-believe an important developmental stage, but if she plans on becoming president someday, she needs to think big and like a despot.
5. Pathological Lying
Has your five-year-old ever said, “No, I didn’t paint the dog blue,” while shaking her blue jazz hands at you. Wonderful! Tell her that lying is a necessary skill for succeeding in kindergarten and Senate hearings. If she can conquer this skill, she can conquer the world.
6. Poor Behavior Control
Poor behavior control comes naturally to your impulsive seven-year-old car thief. Who knew he could even drive? Wrap your arm around Tommy and tell him how proud you are for showing leadership skills so young.
7. Failure to Accept Responsibility
When the cops show up and Tommy blames the neighbor for stealing the car, recognize that this as a teachable moment. Have a heart to heart about his actions and how being convicted of grand larceny will cost the neighbor his job, house, and wife. There’s no greater father-son bonding moment than sharing a good laugh about another person’s misfortunes.
8. Promiscuous Sexual Behavior
Talking to your tweens about sex is a squeamish topic for most parents, but promoting promiscuity can be fun. Celebrate Jill’s ninth birthday with a boy/girl sleep over party. Teach them fun games like Spin the Bottle and Seven Minutes in Heaven. Make sure not to supervise. Promiscuity is an important pillar of success: seduce your way to the top, or blackmail your way there. Who cares how you get there, just get there.
9. Lack of Empathy
When ten-year-old Jimmy locks his five-year-old sister in a dark closet while giving voice to the torture and beheading of her Barbie village, your first instinct might be to call a shrink. Put the phone down. Empathy is a wonderful trait for nuns, veterinarians, and therapists, but it is sure to lead Jimmy into poverty. Caring about the feelings of others who have less than you or nothing at all, will lead him to join the Peace Corps or try to save the world by inventing a pocket water filtration system. If you want a winner on your hands, nurture his inner savage.
10. Sensitive to Criticism
No teen wants to hear your voice — especially when criticizing her poor judgment for hitch hiking to California during finals. Hey, Zoe made it back alive, didn’t she? Apologize for upsetting her and speaking without permission. Vow never to do it again. Her tolerance for criticism will narrow to zilch while her need for non-stop flattery from a world-wide audience will grow exponentially.
By nurturing these ten traits in your child, you are ensuring their future success whether it’s in business, reality TV, or ascending to the White house throne.