Weird takes on pop culture, served fresh daily.
A wedding DJ once got 200 people to lose their minds over salt being shaken. I wanted to know what his magic would do to my laundry, my commute, and my dental cleaning. The answer: some moments were transformed, some were destroyed, and one changed my life forever.
Inspired by a decade of rating strangers' pull-out couches online, I built a full five-star review platform for every roommate I've ever had — verified badges, owner responses, and all. Then I wrote one about myself, and honestly, the one-star reviews were the most accurate thing I've ever read.
I surrendered my entire browsing history to a travel algorithm and promised to go wherever it sent me. It sent me to a Motel 6 adjacent to a Cabela's, and honestly, the math checked out in the most humiliating way possible.
Everyone says nobody reads the terms and conditions, so I did. Fourteen pages, two espresso shots, and one deeply concerning clause about 'perpetual license' later, I have questions about who owns my shopping data, my face, and possibly my soul.
I surrendered my diary to predictive text for 30 days, and honestly? The algorithm had a more cohesive sense of who I am than I do. Here's what my phone thinks my inner life looks like, word salad and all.
My grocery store's loyalty program has built a psychological profile of me that's more accurate than my therapist's notes after three years. So I surrendered to it for 30 days, buying every recommended item and claiming every perk. What follows is a diary of gas station sushi points, unsolicited hot sauce birthday gifts, and the dawning horror that a supermarket database knows me better than I know myself.
For seven days, I surrendered my entire emotional identity to whatever IVR voice, hold music, or robotic menu I encountered that morning. The results include one HR complaint, two concerned coworkers, and a final discharge summary nobody asked for.
I found seven unused Groupons for activities the 2021 version of me swore he'd love. So I did all of them — glassblowing, a haunted pub crawl, and worse — to find out who exactly I was trying to become.
I handed my voice assistant 30 days of unfettered access to my dating apps, playlists, and 2 AM search history, then asked it to grade my love life like a quarterly earnings call. The numbers were brutal. The ROI on my dignity was worse.
Every American road trip has a villain, and it's never the traffic — it's the brown sign promising a mystery cave 12 miles ahead. I ranked the roadside attractions of my childhood by how badly I wanted to stage a kidnapping to get out of them.
The DMV has never once asked me to 'please wait to be seated,' but make no mistake — I am being seated. I spent a season treating public sector waiting rooms like a food critic treats tasting menus, and the results are in.
Somebody had to hold the Daily Planet accountable, and apparently that somebody is me, a fictional retired J-school professor with a red pen and zero remaining stakes. Below, the papers of television and film get the peer review they never asked for.
Every 'In a world...' trailer, every museum exhibit about tidal pools, every safety spiel before the log flume — I'm now convinced it's the same man, and he is everywhere. Come with me as I build a tournament bracket to crown the true Unofficial Voice of America.
Every award show season, I get a little wistful that nobody hands out trophies for the stuff I'm actually good at. So I wrote acceptance speeches for the Emmys of Ordinary Existence, and yes, I thank my fifth grade teacher in all of them.
I treated my group chat like a fantasy football league, complete with a draft, scoring system, and mid-season power rankings. The commissioner's report is in, and frankly, half the roster is requesting a release.
I spent an entire billing cycle on hold with America's biggest utility companies, and I have notes. Mostly about the saxophone. Here is my track-by-track review of the year's most unwillingly listened-to album.
My therapist suggested journaling about my past. She did not specify that 'the past' included a full staff of imaginary companions I terminated without severance. So I did what any chronically online adult would do: I reviewed them. Formally. With stars.
Disaster movies require gravitas, sweat, and the ability to yell at a monitor. Sitcom actors require a laugh track and a coffee shop booth. I ran the numbers anyway, and some of these picks might actually save us.
Some people carry stress. I carry thirty years of regional car dealership jingles, fully intact, note for note. A board-certified nostalgia exam of the ads that will outlive us all.
I spent an evening logging into accounts I haven't touched since the Bush administration, and what I found was worse than I feared. A museum-quality exhibition of my worst impulses, rated on cringe, nostalgia, and job-interview lethality.