I am a fucking moron. For decades, I washed dishes without using dishwashing gloves. I went bareback washing pots and pans and scraping burnt sugar off of cookie sheets. Whenever I finished, my hands would look like I had just dunked them in a hot tub filled with battery acid. Thus, like every good American, I hated washing dishes.
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"Wuss wrong wiff being sexy?"
Pictured: The Saskatoon Minor Hockey Association class of 2019. (L-R: Kevin, Nolan, Ethan, Tye, Logan, Mason, Liam.)
I’ve got good news and bad news. The good news is, we’re through the worst. Not only do figures indicate that we’ve already reached a plateau, but we’re in a marked and sustained decline from the peak. We have successfully flattened the curve. Covid-19 infections? No. WHL Braydens.
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"Oh I'm sorry, I had you confused with Prof. Logic Halberd." (Illustration by Giri Nathan.)
It arrived like a beacon pushing through a heavy fog, or the first gray shoots of daylight at dawn’s very opening, or more specifically as a notification in my direct messages. Things have changed in ways no one ever wanted, structures and edifices slouched and then slid into rubble, streets are all ashes, and yet it is clear that there is another side of it all—that there is still a pulse, an understory waiting to break and burst forth. It can be easy to lose sight of this, and I had lost sight of it when the notification came. Of course there would be a Name Of The Year Bracket, and of course it would need a home. That we could make a home for the bracket here is fortuitous. That Drew and I might be able to resume our annual tradition of saying names like “Editrix St. Furt” or “Krokodilbert Van Der Peen” and then giggling like idiot 11-year-olds…it was something I’d forgotten I could dream about, until I saw the light.
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Illustration by Chris Thompson
Oh shit! Big news! Infamously jumpshot-reticent Philadelphia 76ers guard Ben Simmons, who has attempted a mere 23 three-pointers in 7,362 minutes of NBA playing time across a little more than two and a half professional seasons and who shoots his free throws as though he has feet for hands, says that he is ready to shoot three-pointers now. Or, well, no, okay, to clarify: He says he feels like he wants to shoot three-pointers now. Or, well, actually, he said that back in roughly late February, in a discussion about his infamous near-total unwillingness to shoot three-pointers. Or anyway he sort of said it. Kind of.
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Illustration by Chris Thompson
While Comrade Roth is trying to decide whether to love Alex Rodriguez as his new baseball overlord and Comrade Magary is pretending to be a meth-crazed Heidi Klum, the rest of us are watching the National Football League twitching hysterically about a draft that will be either hilariously surreal or depressingly mundane–I mean, more depressingly mundane.
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Illustration by Chris Thompson
So you’re cooped up inside, wild-eyed from a solid month of disciplined social distancing, and thinking ever more seriously about hauling a “Christmas tree” into your home, in April, just to have “more stuff to look at.” That’s lunacy. Propping up a tree in your living room is frankly a batshit way of diversifying your environment. Why not skip ahead and just dig up someone’s grave, you absolute psycho.
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The summer of 1986 brought a new wrinkle to the endless battle between partying young vacationers and the authorities of Wildwood, New Jersey. A case from earlier in the decade made its way to an appeals court just before Senior Week 1986, with the court ruling that Wildwood could no longer hold people overnight for minor crimes.
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Emblem of Saudi Arabia by Anus Kafm, terrible seahorsies by Billy Haisley
It’s been a typically circuitous route, but all reports say Mike Ashley’s latest deal to sell Newcastle United has all but crossed the finish line. As Sky Sports reports, the contracts have been drawn and signed, the deposit has been deposited, the i’s dotted and t’s crossed. All that’s keeping PCP Capital Partners from acquiring the club from Ashley is the Premier League subjecting the new ownership group to its acquiescent owners’ and directors’ test. That means we’re probably mere days away from Newcastle going from an infamously mismanaged club, with no realistic hopes of success, owned by a blundering idiot, to being impossibly rich, having better future prospects than ever before, owned by murderers.
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Illustration by Tom Ley
The NFL, which believes all of its players are troops and every employee in the league office is a federal officer, is preparing to conduct its first ever virtual draft on Thursday. Naturally, the logistical change for the front-office executives has led to this:
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