Over at the McSweeney’s column Notes from a Caddishack, I wish that Mel had finished his story. It was pretty interesting.
It’s like a starving person sitting down to a Big Mac and fries and smearing the food all over his face. How can you want something so badly and perform it so poorly?
And you can’t touch them directly because they have twice as many nerve endings as your entire package has. That hurts. Not pulling and no biting, you sick freaks.
It usually means they want to paw at me, lick my entire face when they kiss me, bite and yank any nerve dense area of my body and watch me fall into Bacchae-esque throes of ecstasy.
She poured some powder out of a tiny plastic envelope. Where do you buy those tiny bags anyway? I mean the ones that look like Ziplocs for Smurfs. Is there a coke dealer supply store out in the suburbs somewhere? Next to Michaels and Best Buy?
Bianco, the covert escort with a day job @ McSweeney’s
Hilarious article over at McSweeney’s by Daniel Casey, imagining how HP Lovecraft would be as a substitute teacher or mathematics.
As for me, my name is Mr. Lovecraft and, while this is not my area of expertise, I will endeavor to guide your fragile, young minds along the perilous precipice of public school mathematics curricula.
Second, let me also inform you that your usual substitute arithmetic teacher, Mr. McAuliffe will not be with us either. Two days ago, the police, who broke down Mr. McAuliffe’s door after complaints from the neighbors of bloodcurdling screams during the night, found a notebook on his kitchen table that seemed to indicate that he had worked out pi to the last place. McAuliffe was nowhere to be found, but the distinct odor of sulfur and the neatly piled stacks of clean, dried animal bones in the corner gave them pause. That, and they found two cats in the microwave, only one of which was partially devoured.
I am not a “dweeb,” I am your substitute teacher. Stop whispering unholy incantations under your breath; I’m not deaf and I don’t appreciate ensorcellment in my classroom.
This is Cartesian devilry of a black and necromantic sort, dreamed up by the twisted designs of sinister scholastic gods, existing purely to tempt and destroy mankind with its elusive secrets. Topics to be covered include: non-Euclidean geometry, dividing by zero, Cthulu’s Principle of Inverse Sanity, approaching and surpassing asymptotes, Fermat’s Next-to-Last Theorem, gazing into the depths of a parabola, and the dreaded unit circle.
For those of you thinking of coordinating an attempt to disrupt the course of this class by dropping your books on the floor at precisely 10:03 AM, then let me remind you that the last time a group of mostly virginal youths such as yourself attempted such a thing, one student got a paper cut and the books formed a pentagram where they fell. The spilled blood released Shub-Niggurath, The Black Goat of The Woods with a Thousand Young, from her eternal slumber. Needless to say, the bloodshed and maddening terror that followed resulted in an early release, but all those students who had participated and not been slain were given Saturday detention.
Yes, you there with the pigtails and the underbite? Whether or not we can adopt Mr. McAuliffe’s undevoured cat as a class pet is unknown to me. I’ll ask the principal, but after I handed in my I-9 forms, written in blood per his request, he disappeared in a bilious yellow cloud of smoke. In short, I don’t know.
The time for questions has passed. Now, we begin our strange voyage into the Pythagorean by watching Darren Aronofsky’s Pi, a film which both touches upon mathematics and the myriad horrors of the human condition. It’s not as good as Black Swan, but I would be derelict in my duty as a teacher if I showed a fun, upbeat film like that to a group of impressionable youths.
Powerful excerpt from the Voice of Witness series, which are narratives of Zimbabwean lives. This one is about Alice, a grassroots political activist.
Great column in a series over at McSweeney’s on the state of publishing. There’s a reason why I’m working on a young adult novel.
Nathan Bradley’s latest column details forgiving and living with Afghans.
Priceless quotes from Christy Vannoy’s latest column on massaging over at McSweeney’s.
They sound like convicts and they look like whores, these kids.
—and declared that if it were possible to perform an abortion that effortlessly, he’d open up an office on Fifth Avenue and while away lazy weekends skiing down his mountain of money.
If I had any sense that she was kidding, I’d have befriended her so fast I could have hosted her baby shower. That’s exactly the sort of wildly inappropriate humor that I consider the gold standard of good company, but Michelle wasn’t joking in the least.
Considering what I’d gleaned of this woman in our admittedly brief interaction, accidental aborting could have been classified as a mercy killing.
5% is the means by which you give someone the middle finger with cash. It’s the monetary equivalent of spitting.
and while I did a decent job of deleting Michelle from my mental hard drive, forgetting the other two heartbeats in the room proved more difficult.
This is Nathan’s fifth column over at McSweeney’s, and it tells the story of Khan, the electrician that kept his company alive during the cold winter months.