Hey, you guys, if aliens land on Earth, can I call dibs on being their first contact? Sure, I bet scientists and politicians would scramble to be first in line, but I think I could do a better job, and I’ll tell you why.
One, I wouldn’t make such a big deal of it. My guess is that aliens would be weirded out by a lot of pomp and circumstance. Instead of flags and fancy handshakes and junk, I’d be all like, “Hey yo, pop a squat on that ottoman. I’ll go grab us some cold ones.” And, I bet the aliens would be like, “Awesome, yeah. Cool apartment, dude. Dope Pearl Jam poster.”
Two, I wouldn’t be all up their asses about advanced technology. You send a scientist in as first contact, and he’d be like, “Spaceship spaceship spaceship!” Yeah, I mean, we’d get to that stuff eventually, but you gotta ease into it. I’d be like, “So, what are you guys into? Music? Or just chilling out? Cool. Cool. So, like, does your spaceship run on crazy powerful crystals or something? Do you have any extra of those?”
And, then we’d get to live on a world where everything’s run on crystals and everybody has Segways and stuff. Y’know why? Because I wouldn’t be pushy about it.
Where are we at? Three?
Three, if shit goes down, I know how to handle myself. Like, say these alien dudes are interested in world domination and kidnapping folks for butt probing.
See, if the military were there, they’d be all like, “LAUNCH THE NUKES!” at even the first sign of lasers or anal probes. Whoa whoa whoa, no need for nukes. My buddy, Herc, tries that shit all the time, so I have experience in these areas. (Totally true. Whenever Herc gets wasted, he grabs dudes and tries sticking his finger up the backs of their shorts. He laughs like it’s a joke, but I think there’s something else there.)
But, instead of needing the military, I could just be like, “I got this,” and whip out some kung fu shit. Just go total Roadhouse on those aliens. I’d be like, “POW CHOP PA-POW!” And, they be all, “Oww, oooh, ugh! My big, gray head!”
Ask Tommy. He’s seen me do it to a guy once who was messing with a girl at Wawa.
Then, when the aliens are sitting on the curb, rubbing their sore heads or whatever, I’d hand them a cold brew, and I’d be like, “Sorry I had to put you guys in your place. But, you get that you pulled a dick move, right?”
And, they’d be like, “Yeah. Sorry we tried to invade you guys. We’re cool.”
Part four… Uh, okay, so everything so far has assumed these aliens were the little gray dudes who may or may not be into planetary conquering and/or butt science. Instead, if these aliens are the sexy green lady kind of aliens, I also call dibs on first contact.
For that I’m gonna need some supplies—candles, chocolate-covered cherries, maybe some scented oils. I’m kinda low on cash right now, so do you think the U.N. Nations would chip in to buy those things? They’re in charge of UFO landing stuff, right?
Can you do me a solid and call and ask them? I don’t really know anybody at the U.N. Nations, and I think it’d be weird if I just called them up asking for money for sex stuff. Anyway, let me know if you hear back from them.
I’m really excited about this first contact stuff. I think it’s gonna turn out really great.
[Andy Ross is a writer and comedian who has contributed to The Onion News Network, Comedy Central, and MAD Magazine. He runs a monthly humor series called Real Characters at McNally Jackson Books in SoHo. Follow him on twitter @waitforandy.
I was born and raised in Philadelphia. I spent most of my time having fun at this playground near where I lived. One day I was outside shooting some hoops with my friends, you know, just having some fun. Out of nowhere a couple of guys started making trouble, and I got in a fight with them. It wasn’t really anything. I was barely injured. Fearing for my safety, my mother called 911 and the cops shot those two guys. I still live in Philly. #blessed
[Corey Brown is a teacher and performer at the Upright Citizens Brigade Theater, where you can see him perform with his Harold Team, Greg.]
To Whom It May Concern at Bankington International,
I am writing to you to apply for the job of customer service experience coordinator. I want to be upfront with you: I am perfect for this job. I am reliable, motivated, and honest. I will also, in all honesty, rarely arrive on time for work. It is true. I will often be late. I have a lot of things to do when I’m not at work and I will often choose doing those things instead of working because I prefer that. I will hardly pretend to be sorry. My bad.
As a millenial and a college graduate, I am surprisingly not that computer proficient. I know only basic programs, how to download something that may or may not carry a virus, any how to type a cover letter such as this one. Also what is excel? Yes, I could learn, but I’m not doing that for free (see earlier point about “things to do”).
While we are on the topic of things you should know that college degree? It’s theatre. Yep. Do not be dismayed, however, as I am highly professional except for when I cry at work. But even then I do it fairly quietly at my desk.
I only have two pieces of professional attire and one is definitely too slutty for work (unless you are into that, in which case it should be noted that I am pretty hot, like an 8 probably if you are into numbers). This means you should really just let me wear what I want, but I’m flexible. You’re the boss.
Please look over my credentials and definitely call me in for an interview because I am better in person than in all other mediums (see earlier point about being relatively hot). I look forward to hearing from you.
Stephanie “The Greatest” Weber
P.S. One time I stole products from a store I worked at. Since you are a bank, I probably would not steal any of your products because you do not sell anything.
The list of all animals, ranked from best to worst: 1. Octopus
3. I guess a cat
6. Pranda (combo prawn + panda)
7. Skunk ape
9. Sea fish
[Stephen Hull lives in Chicago and writes at deepakmothra.tumblr.com.]
An Atypical Love Story Between Two Straight White People
“That is where you’re wrong” the girl said as she swept her cute bangs back into her eyes. “I’m exactly like other girls.”
He was confused and his furrowed brow must’ve given that away.
“Is everything alright?” she asked. “You look confused.”
“Literally everything is going great for me right now. I’m a handsome man who has steadily dated beautiful women my entire adult life that all provided me with meaningful relationships. With you in front of me right now, it looks like I’m neatly following that pattern.”
This made the girl happy to know that the man she was falling for had a history of healthy relationships and in no way would she be responsible to ‘fix’ or ‘heal’ him. She had done that before and found it to be awfully time consuming and suspected that people who hide behind the pretense of being complicated are often afraid to bare their true personality. She would take stable and perhaps bland over misunderstood and troubled any day!
“I have a feeling you’ve heard this before,” he said, interrupting her thoughts. “In fact, I have a feeling that you’re pretty aware of this, as well. But I must tell you that you are very beautiful.”
She did know this. She had been aware of beauty standards her entire life and was quite capable of arranging herself to meet them. While she appreciated the compliment, she honestly would have been shocked had he not thought her manicured and completely archetypal appearance was anything but beautiful. Surely he was raised in the same society she was and held the same basic values of what was and wasn’t beautiful. Unless, of course, he wasn’t and didn’t.
“Where are you from?” she asked him. Leaning her body closer to his body in hopes that he might put his lips on her mouth.
“Where am I not from?” he countered.
“I don’t know, Uganda?” she quipped.
She was right. That was the one place he wasn’t from. He was very impressed that she had heard of Uganda. Most women just referred to all forty-seven countries in Africa as ‘Africa.’ This girl didn’t do that. This girl must be something special to understand basic political geography. He wanted to kiss her mouth. As soon as he was about to do that she interrupted him.
“Oh my goodness, do you have any idea how late it is?”
“No. What time is it?”
“It’s 11:35. You don’t have anywhere you need to be, do you?”
“Crap, I do. I have to wake up at 6:45 tomorrow morning so I better get going. I have a full day at my office tomorrow. See ya!”
He turned to walk away and she grabbed his arm.
“But when will I ever see you again? When will we run into each other?” Tears welled in her eyes, though perhaps she had just yawned and was also tired.
“Oh, I am literally on Facebook and Gchat all day long so just hit me up whenever.”
[Kady Ruth Ashcraft founded Hot Hot Phone. Follow her on twitter @kadyrabbit]
Had I Known LinkedIn Was Notifying People Every Time I Viewed Their Profile I Would Have Made Some Different Choices These Last Six Months
Hi! How are you? Figured I’d drop a little note, just to catch up.
Hey, you know what I heard the other day? That every time you view someone’s LinkedIn profile, they get a notification. Every single time. I wonder if that’s true, I had no idea. Seems like an invasion of privacy if you ask me, ha ha.
Gosh, it’s been a while since we last talked, huh? Six whole months, though it hardly seems that long! I’m so glad we’ve both moved on in completely healthy and independent ways. You just hate to hear stories about desperate guys (or girls) who can’t let someone go.
Going back to the LinkedIn thing though, I mean, honestly, who knows if something like that would even be accurate, you know? I’d imagine the tool has a lot of problems that still need to be worked out. Might end up showing like three to four views a day from one particular user, even if that user doesn’t actually view your profile that much. Besides, who would spend all of their free time browsing other people’s LinkedIn profiles, night after night? I don’t know, just seems like a weird feature.
Please give your brother Tyler my best. Is he still going to Michigan State in the Fall?
You know what though, I don’t feel like it’d be off limits to view someone’s LinkedIn profile anyway. There isn’t any really personal information on there, right? Like, you can’t find out if someone is in a new relationship on LinkedIn. Or if they’ve moved out of their old apartment or anything like that. Mostly just profile picture changes and maybe a new job title every few months.
Things are good with me, though! I’m doing great and I’m extremely happy. It’s almost bizarre, how happy I am these days. Insanely, deliriously, irrationally happy.
Did you end up getting that promotion, to Associate Manager in Charge of Development, whose tasks include overseeing the production of employee training guides and setting short and long term hiring goals? If so, congratulations! You and your next boyfriend (current boyfriend?) probably won’t have to have that “who’s paying for dinner” argument that sent our two and a half year relationship into a tailspin. Or has your opinion changed on that (mine has) ha ha.
Anyway, I wanted to tell you that I’m seeing someone. It’s funny that we’re on the subject of LinkedIn, because she’s actually endorsed me for a few different skills: public speaking, changing when being given a chance, Wordpress – just basic things that she’s observed about the ‘new Daniel.’ Not sure if you’ve noticed her, as far as I can tell you haven’t viewed my profile once in the last six months - unless YOU’RE this mysterious 'Marketing Professional from Spokane, Washington’ ha ha.
Is that you?
P.S. All of my passwords were hacked about six months ago and I still haven’t regained control of many of my accounts including my LinkedIn.
[Max Knoblauch is a writer and comedian in NYC. Follow him on Twitter or Tumblr but not on Instagram. His Instagram is private.]
“The President of JNCO Jeans Issues A Statement Before Shutting Down The Company”
First off let me just say, I hear you loud and clear, alright? I’ve heard it all a million times. From everyone. From advisors, from business partners, from potential investors, from low-level company interns: “Our jeans are too big.” I have kept quiet about these concerns, but maybe it’s time to issue an official statement regarding them and make my stance clear: JNC-GO fuck yourself.
You know what I say? I say maybe these fuckin’ jeans ain’t big ENOUGH. You can keep throwing your criticisms my way, about how big jeans won’t stick. About how the fad has can come and gone. I guess when you’re lugging around a fuckin’ set of balls as big as mine you need all the jean space you can get. Sorry if you can’t relate, buddy.
I am shutting down the company. I would rather sell no jeans than sell smaller jeans. If walking around looking like you’re wearing a denim skirt on each leg isn’t cool, then call me a square. You can call me whatever you want, but JNCO will start making smaller jeans as soon as one of you tiny-jeaned weakhearts hijacks the JNCO factory, holds the workers at gunpoint and tells them, “Make the jeans smaller.” But we both know you ain’t got the juice.
I refuse to abandon my own mission statement. When I initially met with our potential investors 15 years ago, my pitch was simple: “Do you guys wanna make some huge jeans or what?”
“How big?” one of them asked.
“Picture the biggest jeans that a person could comfortably wear” I told him.
“Uh… okay…” he said.
“Now triple it. I’m out. Call me.” And I walked out. We began production the next week. It’s all about confidence in those sorts of situations.
I don’t want to make jeans that get smaller with time. I want to make jeans that make your legs look like the base of the Eiffel Tower. Jeans where the bottom of each pant leg is wider than the waistline. Jeans with pockets big enough that you can carry your baby in them.
I want to make jeans so big that you would die from obesity-related illness before you could gain enough weight to fit in them comfortably. I want to make jeans so big that each pair needs its own individual clothing rack in the stores that sell them. Jeans so big that you need a second person to help you fold them, like a bedsheet. Jeans so big that the weight of them could snap a pair of suspenders.
I have this recurring dream, once or twice a week - The sky parts like a set of blinds and God steps down on Earth from the Heavens. I can’t tell you what he looks like. I always forget by the time I wake up. In the dream, people are terrified. Former nonbelievers fall to their knees and apologize and try desperately to explain themselves, millions of them at once. God hushes them with a gentle “shhhh,” and he finally speaks. He tells the entire world that he needs a pair of jeans and that only one person on Earth can make a pair of jeans big enough to fit God himself. He singles me out in the crowd with a point of his figure.
But I guess in real life no one wants what I’m selling anymore. Sales are plummeting and JNCO is finished. I hope you remember the good times - All the good times you spent wearing your JNCOs while you and your friends skated behind the mall or drank a stolen bottle of your dad’s booze in a graveyard. Remember those times.
I guess this is goodbye. Adios, motherfuckers. I’ll burn with you nerds in hell.
[Lucas Gardner is a writer and comedian from New York City. He is on twitter at @Lucas_Gardner]
A frazzled 28 year old woman in a stained college T-shirt sitting alone in a garden-level apartment she shares with her Chihuahua. She orders Domino’s online at 9:00 on a Saturday night. She sits through the entirety of the online Domino’s Pizza Tracker to see exactly when her pizza is being prepared by Julio and when it is on its way to her desolate stomach.
She opens the door, over-tips the eighteen year old driver in hopes that he would find her attractive. Maybe he wants to take a bong hit with her? He refuses. He is trying to save up for his college career and has more deliveries to make.
“Besides," he tells her, "marijuana is a gateway drug. Be careful with that stuff.”
She takes her medium-sized pizza and opens it on her bed where she mindlessly shoves slice after slice into her mouth as she stalks her ex-boyfriend’s new girlfriend on Facebook. Two hours of this is followed by three episodes of the 90’s sitcom Dinosaurs, during which she falls asleep on the half-eaten pizza as though it were the softest pillow. This pizza envelops her head as she dreams of a different life, a life where she probably has a real pillow and her Chihuahua is not chewing on her hair while she sleeps.
When she wakes up the right side of her face is covered in dried up sauce that flakes off like snakeskin as she lifts herself from the pizza box slumber. She takes in her surroundings: unmade bed, open laptop, Domino’s pizza box. She assesses her life in that moment. Should she be more motivated? Should she run a 5k like every other one of her single urbanite friends? Should she finally go to grad school? Should she get back together with Charles from accounting? Yeah, it’s been two years, but he clearly still wants her. He always answers her texts instantly and typically replies with far more emojis than any secure adult man needs to use. Maybe she will give him a call. She deserves someone interested in her for once.
She reaches for her phone which is somewhere underneath the pizza, but the pizza captivates her for a moment. There are three slices left of her pepperoni and green pepper pizza. Sun is filtering through the single window in her bedroom. It makes the green pepper on the pizza look like hardened sludge atop melted Velveeta, a food that looks so cartoonish it could only be enticing in a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle episode.
She picks up the three remaining slices with one hand as if they came together to make one mega slice. She takes a bite. This is the breakfast of champions. This is Domino’s.
“Wow! I guess what they say is true: Daniel Day-Lewis really does disappear into his rolls!”[Patrick Cotnoir is an unemployed cool guy living in New York City (The Big Apple) (The City That Never Sleeps) (Manhattan). You can follow him on Twitter at @patrickcotnoir and give him a job!
"An Open Letter to People Who Write Open Letters."
I don’t get it. Do you need money for stamps? I’ll give you that money. I’ll mail it to you. Or I can help you set up an email account. Emails are like letters you can send for free. It’s like magic. I just want to help you out, because you seem pretty confused about the purpose of letters.
Historically, letters have been a mode of private communication between two individuals. Did you catch the key word there? Private. Why are they private? Because, with a few exceptions, no one cares what you think about a) our current political gridlock, b) how to fix the environment through buying organic, c) hook-up culture. Unless you’re famous, people don’t want to hear about it. Even then, they probably still don’t want to hear about it. Mostly, what people want to know about famous people is how they have sex. James Joyce wrote all about it in his private letters. He was into some weird stuff.
You should write those kinds of letters you secretly write in your diary, just to get the feelings out. Did you run out of pages in your diary? I’ll send you paper that you can staple to the back of diary and and continue to write letters, but yanno, keep ‘em private.
I just don’t understand. Why is your letter open? Are you having trouble closing the envelopes? You have to lick them. I know, it makes me feel weird, too. But I do it, because I’m a big girl who understands the difference between a letter and a self-righteous, topic-specific, click-generating rant that refuses to do enough research to be an essay and gets published on slow-traffic Sundays when people have better things to do than read your open letters, like go to Church or have pleasant pre-brunch sex.
Listen, maybe you really do want everyone in the world to know what you think about the psychosocial ramifications of a movie like Blackfish, but if thats so, you need to go about it the right way. Buy a ton of stamps, go to your local post office, and mail your letter to everyone in the world, like a normal human being.