In this course we are taught about satire and how The Onion approaches comedy. The publication is known for its sharp, pithy headlines and these headlines are the primary focus of the class. Headlines, in fact, are so important, it’s how The Onion selects articles for publication. Every week hundreds of headlines are submitted by editors and five or so articles emerge from that list. Their very best writers only have about a 1 in 50 chance of their headline becoming an article. We are asked each week to bring our ten best headlines and one article to be evaluated by classmates and instructor.
In April 1992 I fell in love with National Lampoon Magazine.
I bought my first issue at a local drugstore and raced home, excited to find out if this would be a worthy successor to my Mad Magazine fascination as a child. I had matured, albeit slightly, and was seeking a more sophisticated type of funny. I found it in National Lampoon. I decided after reading the issue that I would make it a life’s goal to write something worthy of the magazine’s inclusion. The problem was that as a sophomore in high school, I had never written anything. Plus, I was unfunny. Oh, and the National Lampoon quit publishing about a year later. I shelved the dream of being a writer and re-focused my efforts on trying to bone senior Ashley Ripley who once smiled at me in homeroom, to which I assumed meant she wanted this (note – pointing currently at self). She didn’t.
I had to be talked into this year’s card.
My girlfriend was certain it would land big with our friends and family, but what did she know? I’d like to think, for my own self esteem, that I’m the only one in the relationship with a rapier wit. Turns out she was right and the card was well-received. Many even reported that it was my best card to date. The credit for this success lands 100% in Liz’s lap.
This is an essay originally published at InThePowderRoom and is reprinted with permission. Also, these words were made funnier by the editorial goodness of Sarah del Rio.
In 2012, Bic released a line of pens designed exclusively for women. They were called Bic for Her™ and they were just like their regular pens except that they came in pink and purple. This made sense because women like pretty colors.
I went to Nashville to see the eclipse because my dentist told me to.
Throughout my life, whenever anyone asks me to list my dream vacation destinations, I stare back with blank eyes. It has never occurred to me to cultivate places I’d like to visit. Even now, I have no idea of where I’d like to travel to next. I’ve never turned on the Travel Channel and I don’t find myself fantasizing of being anywhere other than where I currently am. That being said, I go on a fair number of trips. My only rule is that I never try to visit the same place twice. That’s for squares, if you ask me (you didn’t).
In order to get my hernia fixed, I first needed to get cleared for surgery.
If you missed part one where I wrote about the discovery of a disgusting belly button hernia, click here to familiarize yourself.
The surgeon who was to perform the hernia operation told me I must first see another doctor who could run the appropriate clearance tests. I guess once you become a surgeon you don’t have to do the low-level stuff. Like how the guy who drives the garbage truck doesn’t leave the driver’s seat. He’s got a guy riding on the back who deals with the actual garbage.
I couldn’t have been more excited the day of the operation.
Only once had I been cut up before, and it was for this laser eye surgery vision thing. It’s not exactly the biggest deal. The doctor doesn’t make you wear a gown with the open fanny area. You’re not doped up with medical grade opiates. You can wear your business suit during the procedure. You open your eye lids, hold still for 20 seconds, and congrats, you now have eagle vision. You’re back in your cubicle by lunch.
This is an essay originally published at InThePowderRoom and is reprinted with permission
Attention, small-chested women!
Have you ever been dumped because of your tiny bustline? Sure you have. As a man, let me first apologize for the horrendous treatment of flat-chested women. It’s not entirely our fault—we were raised on a steady diet of the Playboys our fathers kept stashed in the upstairs hall closet—but to expect all of you to have the perfect rack of a twenty-one-year-old Jenny McCarthy is unfair. You deserve as much attention as the large-chested gals receive.