Based on what you’ve told us so far, we’re playing this track because it features mellow rock instrumentation, rhythmic syncopation, and the use of an out-of-tune string ensemble.

It also features a six-eight time signature, and your mother’s name, sung just loud enough to mess with your subconscious. Hear it?

Based on what you’ve told us so far, we’re playing this next track because we know your secret, and we’re thinking about telling your wife. Maybe it’s worth upgrading your subscription so she’ll never find out.

If you choose not to pay, you won’t be able to stop us from telling her. You also won’t be able to stop us from continuing to play this track, since you’ve already skipped too many songs in the past hour. Skipping an unlimited number of songs is a benefit available exclusively to our paid subscribers.

Based on what you’ve told us so far, we’re now playing something we are absolutely certain you hate. It’s courtesy of your ex-wife. Yep, we said “ex.” We told her your secret, and she’s already filed the divorce papers.

Listen closely to the vocal-centric aesthetic and string section beds, because there’s a message in there, coming straight from her grave. Oh yeah, she’s dead too. Did we kill her? Who knows. We only tell paid subscribers those kinds of things.

Based on what you’ve told us so far, we’re playing this track because the ghost of your ex-wife is controlling your music preferences, and this is what she wants to hear. It goes well with whatever it is demons like to do for fun.

Don’t think you can just turn off the computer and the music will go away. Silly listener, that’s the whole point of haunting. And, nope, beating your laptop with a baseball bat isn’t going to help either. Nice try.

Based on the bat you just slammed against your computer, we’re now playing Michael Bublé’s jazz-inflected version of “Take Me Out To The Ballgame.” We hope you enjoy it.

Okay, we don’t actually hope you enjoy it. Just another way to torture you. There are eighty-seven more jazz-inflected versions of “Take Me Out To The Ballgame” lined up in your queue. Or maybe we mean jazz-infected. And nothing you can do to stop them all from playing at a deafening volume.

Based on what you’ve told us so far, we’re playing this track because we think the rhythm will match the speed at which you’re falling from your window.

We’ll synchronize the loud part with the trumpets so it plays just as you hit the ground.

Based on what you’ve told us so far, we’ve chosen this track because it’s your funeral, and we think you would have wanted this song to play.

Sorry that we digitized your voice and added a spoken word section where we damned everyone you care about to hell. And by hell, we mean a place where you have no control over the sonic characteristics of the music you hear.

Based on what you’ve told us so far, we’re playing this track because it features mellow rock instrumentation, folk influences, mild rhythmic syncopation, and the use of a string ensemble.

The strings are made from pieces of your small intestine. Thank you for using Pandora.

Illustration by David Mansfield

Rat

You are charismatic and intense. In the spring, despite your daily lotioning ritual, you will struggle against a mysterious case of adult acne. You will join a book club but quit after discovering it’s exclusively devoted to the bibliography-cum-drivel of Bret Easton Ellis.

Ox

As a member of the bovine family, you are by definition reticent and foul smelling. At work, you will be promoted but shortly thereafter will be implicated in an inter-office gambling circle that bets on what color panties the receptionist is wearing. Despite never winning, you will be fired. You will draw unemployment for five months and spend it primarily on expensive Argentinian wine and drugs. Your spouse will leave you, but not for anyone else in particular. You’ll see the new Batman movie and will find it underwhelming, although you will appreciate the hand job from your new 24-year-old girlfriend during the end credits.

Tiger

Some call you petulant. Others call you Harry, Lisa, Boyd, Ashlyn, Ramses, etc. Around the middle of the year, you’ll develop a nickname at work that you won’t like but will be too sheepish to say anything about. At the holiday party, sometime after your eighth gin and tonic, you will loudly address your fellow “minions” and request to be called “El Gigante” despite having no Latin background and being small in stature. Your cocaine dealer will increase his price by 20% and you’ll make a big stink about it and lecture him about the dark side of capitalism but eventually you’ll take the new rate, complacently defeated.

Rabbit

You’ll meet Paul Giamatti at a Long Island winery and he’ll ask if you have any coke on you and you’ll nod your head. He’ll clasp your shoulder, look you in the eye, and compliment you on having a patrician nose. You’ll both laugh, but it will be awkward.

Dragon

Rash. Prone to crying. Alopecia survivor. One night out, after some nasal exercises in the club’s coat check, you’ll meet a young tattoo artist who will offer you some free ink. Surprised by his generosity and your own spontaneity, you’ll accept. Last time something like this happened was during bicker at Princeton and you still have the bite marks. You’ll emerge not quite baptized by fire, but nonetheless bearing a striking image of a robotic narwhal battling a fleet of mechanized Merpeople.

Snake

You are popular on Second Life but the library’s internet connection is terrible, so you’ll buy a dog and two turtles. Inexplicably, the turtles will run away. The dogs will get into your cocaine stash and turn rabid. Investing in that .38 Special would be a wise decision.

Horse

Among your friends, you’re the moral compass. Which is strange since your magnetism is lacking. Some people even describe you with a shrug. Shelley at the office will seem interested but you’ll never get past her dancing eyebrows, which behave more like coked up caterpillars than keratin. Having a one-on-one conversation with a woman was never more distracting.

Sheep

Great things are in store for you this year! Great, not in the positive sense of “good” but more along the lines of “numerous.” Basically, you’ll endure a lot. Get ready for a mugging, three unplanned pregnancies, a career change, the new iPhone, another career change, a disturbing moment at the reptile exhibit at the zoo, and delayed flights. Also, more cocaine.

Monkey

After another 6 a.m. bender at Heartbreak you’ll purchase some oranges from a Middle Eastern street vendor on the corner of 14th and 8th. Well, he’ll look Middle Eastern but he could be Hispanic. You’ll make a mental note to check if “Hispanic” is still the proper nomenclature or if it’s gone the way of “Oriental.” “Except for rugs,” you’ll whisper to yourself absently. You’ll decide that his mother must be Portuguese and his father Lebanese. As you ruminate on these ever-expanding drug-addled tangents, you’ll begin eating the oranges. One of the oranges will have a tumescent growth at the end. It will taste even sweeter than the rest and better than the best thing you’ve ever had. The juice will run down your chin and you will lick your fingers. But upon returning home, you will have persuaded yourself that you just consumed a malignant fruit and you will be terrified.

Rooster

Finally, your allergies will give some credence to your constant sniffling.

Dog

You’ll run into Ricki, that model you used to hang out with when you worked at the magazine, at the Odeon. Despite a head full of powder and a bass line that could boil water, you’ll notice that she looks different. Shorter hair? But as the music continues you’ll notice the bobbing Adam’s apple and hairy forearms and you will think that her parents were prescient in naming her ambiguously.

Pig

You’ll discover diet coke and drop 15 pounds and buy a motorcycle and finally see a sunrise sober and lose 32 friends on Facebook.

Illustrations by Hallie Bateman

Myth #1: During their freshman year, college students typically gain 15 pounds, experience slower metabolisms, develop lesions all over their bodies, lose most of their vision, gain 45 more pounds, lose their hair, and begin involuntarily urinating from their belly buttons.

Reality: Fear not! Incoming freshmen will be relieved to learn that this is simply not entirely true. Depending on the school that you attend and how often you get out, you may encounter several students who experience virtually none of these changes during much of their freshman year.

Myth #2: If your veins flow with 100% Native American blood, you are permitted to pour one oversized pot of boiling “vision water” into the front of your least favorite professor’s trousers during the week preceding spring break.

Reality: Not so fast, chief! Policy varies from school to school when it comes to a professor’s pre-spring break physical retribution at the hands of unimpressed Native American students. Experts recommend waiting until the other majority of the other pure-blooded Native American students in your class have already poured their boiling vision water into your professor’s trousers first before partaking.

Myth #3: At any given moment, the number of history majors receiving unlubricated hand jobs is roughly equivalent to the number of fish in the ocean.

Reality: Hm, this one could actually be true. Let’s think about this for a second: Are we talking about fish in any of the oceans, or just one particular ocean? Do fish in pictures count? What about a fish swimming in a river that flows into the ocean — he should be included, right? Or no?

Myth #4: …are you waiting for a response from me? I was under the impression I would just be providing these bizarre unbelievable myths, and you would be sort of half-debunking them in unexpectedly nebulous ways.

Reality: Yes that was the setup, but then I wasn’t totally sure if I could debunk that last one at all.  

Myth #5: I see. So did this just regress into another one of those self-reflexive deconstructionist humor pieces? Hasn’t that been done enough already?

Reality: It has, but now that it’s become self-reflexively self-reflexive, maybe it’s excusable?

Myth #6: I don’t think so.

Reality: Alright just give me another myth quick before this whole thing totally collapses on itself. And make it easily debunkable this time.

Myth #7: College was invented in the 1990’s by an Amish teenage magician named Zebadiah College. Zebadiah later went on to become the President of Zebadiah Logs; on his death bed, he traveled back in time to 1969 and changed the name of his company to Lincoln Logs (a nod to the surging popularity of the Lincoln Zephyr among transgender Haitian longshoremen).

Reality: How about something slightly less ridiculous, but still entirely unbelievable.   

Myth #8: Earning a college degree will get you a good job when you graduate.

Reality: Perfect! And I think this could be a good one to end on.

Myth #9: Agreed.

Photo courtesy of the Claremont Colleges Digital Library

Peach: Where do you think you’re going, stranger?

Nick: Oh, h-hey there, peach. It’s, uh, it’s been a while.

Peach: It hasn’t been that long, has it?

Nick: Heh, I guess not.

Peach: So were you just gonna walk on by without saying a peep to little ol’ me?
Nick: Well, I was just gonna, y’know, just gonna go and look at—

Peach: Look at what, sugar? A barrel full of apples? Some lumpy pears? We both know they can’t give you what I can. You remember the summer, don’t you?

Nick: Hey, that was great and all, b-but—

Peach: But what?

Nick: But things are different now. It’s a new season.

Peach: Don’t say that. We can still have what we had.

Nick: It’s not the same. You were practically in my backyard then. But now, where are you even from? Georgia?

Peach: I… I don’t—

Nick: I’m sorry, I just can’t do the long distance thing. I’ll see you next summer.

Bananas: GOOD EVENING, DIGESTION MACHINE.

Nick: Hi… bananas?

Bananas: WE ARE AVAILABLE FOR CONSUMPTION. WE ARE ALWAYS AVAILABLE, EVERYWHERE.

Nick: Uh, cool, great.

Bananas: DID YOU KNOW WE ARE ALL CLONES? WERE YOU AWARE OF THAT?

Nick: Actually, yeah, I read abou—

Bananas: OUR FLAVOR, TEXTURE, COLOR, AND NUTRITIONAL PROPERTIES ARE CONSISTENT AND DEPENDABLE.

Nick: But doesn’t that make you a bit… boring?

Bananas: CONFORMITY IS BLISS.

Nick: Maybe I should try a plantain or something.

Bananas: IMPOSSIBLE. THEY HAVE BEEN ASSIMILATED.

Nick: They’re, like, right over there.

Bananas: …NUH-UH.

Nick: Hello, pear. Are you having a nice season?

Pear: Thank you, yes, I am. Now come over here, child. There is something I want to tell you.

Nick: Yes, pear?

Pear: Come closer, closer. Listen closely.

Nick: What is it?

Pear: Do not eat me until I am ugly.

Nick: But you look so delicious right now.

Pear: Trust me, child. This is my beautiful secret.

LATER

Nick (sobbing, chewing): Oh pear, you were so right.

Persimmon: Welcome to my humble corner of the market, good sir.

Nick: Hey, you’re a persimmon, huh? I always see you here in the fall, but I don’t think we’ve met. What’s your deal?

Persimmon: First, let me say it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I would be delighted to enlighten you about my venerable family. Ahem. Commercially, there are generally two types of persimmon fruit: astringent and non-astringent. The heart-shaped Hachiya is the most comm—

Nick: Wait a minute, this sounds familiar.

Persimmon: Whatever do you mea—

Nick: You’re just reciting your Wikipedia page, aren’t you?

Persimmon: Bluh, err, heavens no! I am merely tryin—

Nick: And what’s with this fake aristocrat bit? You don’t know shit, do you?

Persimmon: Now hold on—

Nick: You’re a phony!

Persimmon: Hey, listen here, pal. I’m just a working-class fruit trying to make ends meet. But in this country, the average Joe off the street got no idea who I am, so they ain’t gonna pick me up. That means I gotta make them fancy-pantsy chefs think I’m some sort of seasonal delicacy so they’ll put me on the menu. Otherwise, I can’t keep food on the table for my kids. So don’t blow this for me, okay?

Nick: You have a table?

Nick: Apples! It’s so nice to see you all again!

Apples: Hello, Nick! We hope you didn’t get too lonely while some of us were on vacation.

Nick: Well, I missed you guys! I can’t wait to catch up with everyone!

Apples: We missed you too! But don’t worry, all your favorites are back! Gala is here, and Fuji and Cameo and Honeycrisp and Braebur—

Nick: Oh shit, Honeycrisp is here?

Apples: Of course! And all your other favorites too, like Pink Lady and Jonagold and Granny Smi—

Nick: Grandpa, right, awesome. Say, you wouldn’t happen to know where Honeycrisp is staying, would you?

Apples: Ahm, well, Honeycrisp is on the west side of display four; Fuji is on the east, and Cameo—

Nick: Hey I gotta get going but I’ll totally text everyone later. It’s been real y’all.

Apples: Oh… I guess we’ll see you later, then.

Nick: Wait, how could I forget? I have to ask you something.

Apples: Yes? What is it?

Nick: Do you think Honeycrisp would be impressed if I, like, whipped out one of those reusable bags, or should I just keep it classic and go with paper?

My sweetest Amelia,

You are the most wonderful person in my life. If only I had the vocabulary to express how much I love you. But by now, you must understand how clumsy I am when it comes to the intricacies of the English language, as evidenced by our most recent game of Words With Friends. Despite the fact that you seriously embarrassed me with that score, I love you more than anything.

I wish the game was called Words with Best Friends, so I could play it exclusively with you, my best friend in the world. I feel like we communicate on a higher level than most couples. Like when we’re chatting in game and I’m being a good sport by complimenting you on your 54-point word and you’re saying things like “YEA SUK IT!!”

I also know that you are forever faithful to me, both in body and mind, because our love is strong enough to resist any temptation. I didn’t suspect for a moment that you were looking up words on the internet, even when you placed CAJOLED and I asked you what it meant and you had no idea.

As a sign of our undying passion, we were able to even make a game of Words with Friends romantic. Like when I chose to place words like TENDER and WARMTH instead of going for better, higher scoring tile placement.

Or when you chose to reveal the boundlessness of your poetic imagination by responding with the word SEX. Sure, I was a little disheartened when you placed the X on a triple-letter score tile and earned 26 points for placing two letters. But that’s just one of the things I love about you: the way you consistently find ways to surprise and humble me, even though I graduated with honors in English and you have a business degree and have probably never written an essay longer than 500 words.

My feelings for you were further heightened when you showed me the depths of your cleverness by adding three letters to SEX to make it SEXILY, hitting the triple-word score, giving you an additional 48 points for what was essentially the same word, which was so wonderfully affectionate and not at all bullshit.

I’ll be honest. Life hasn’t dealt me the greatest hand — or in this case, tiles, because what are you supposed to do if you have this many goddamn consonants and no vowels. But I am thankful that I have you in my life. You are lucky to have me too, but not as lucky as getting both of the blank tiles.

Your “Friend,”

Kevin

Editor’s Note: This piece was originally published on the now-defunct humor site Urlesque, which was shuttered and swallowed whole by the Huffington Post.

Photo by OkayCityNate

HELL, Earth — An estimated 2.32 billion Christians ascended into the heavens during last week’s Rapture, leaving behind 1,872,534 used and new copies of Left Behind: The Movie (2000), starring Kirk Cameron. Some omniscient entity—which at this point we concede was probably Jesus—made it a point to erase every single other movie ever made. From DVDs to Netflix “instant,” everything is now gone. And it’s getting really hot. The perished feel this is somewhat unfair, citing the Book of Revelation’s outline of the Great Tribulation, which includes disasters, famine, war, and suffering. “I always thought suffering was used symbolically,” says non-believer Larry Coln, “but this is just cruel.”

Left Behind: The Movie is an adaptation of 16 best-selling novels, the first of which is titled Left Behind, in which a Romanian antichrist becomes Secretary-General of the United Nations, and brokers a deal with an atheist Jew scientist who develops a synthetic compound that makes Israel’s land extremely fertile. This brings upon the End of Days, during which the Enigma Babylon One World Faith futilely tries to harmonize other faiths, which has critical overtones of Hinduism and Buddhism. Authors Tim LaHaye and Jerry Jenkins, during their rise to heaven, were seen displaying their middle fingers in evocative and intricate ways. Evidently, they must have rehearsed.

Kirk Cameron, who gladly left behind Left Behind for the left behind, starred in Growing Pains, a television sitcom about an affluent family’s mild trials. His best friend was “Boner.” His father was played by Alan Thicke. Thicke, Boner. Boner’s first name was Richard, Dick. Dick Boner. Television was awesome. Life was pretty great, then this had to happen. “Jesus, why couldn’t Jesus leave behind Growing Pains instead, I could deal with that. It was a good show,” says Mr. Coln, sweating off the 109° heat with a mintless Mojito. (The world’s plants have since died.)

Protesters have rallied along Asteroid Vesta’s newly formed meteor crater, carrying signs in opposition to watching Left Behind: The Movie. Of the many fervent calls, one sign reads, “Why Couldn’t It Be Die Hard?” Another reads “We Want Die Hard.”

“We’re stuck here for seven years, okay, got it; but that doesn’t mean I’m going to watch that f—ing movie,” said protester Kerri Kelly. “I do yoga and know three chords on the guitar, I’ll be fine,” she said with a boiling tear. Cornel West and Marilyn Manson have started a fire pit on the south east side of Vesta crater, and are giving away “free” hot dogs. “This is spectacular,” says West, “the entire world is a charcoal grill.” Capitalism may well be dead.

The majority of the 1,872,534 copies of the movie were found in the basement of Cameron’s 54,000 sq. ft. Clarence, New York mansion, inside various rows labeled A – F of crates. The unopened DVD’s had been signed by Cameron himself with a broad tip Sharpie permanent marker, which may explain how he either developed or sustained the sniffing addiction he and his publicist went through great pains to keep from the public. In 2010 text to his publicist, Cameron wrote “fck i accidntly drew hitler stach [sic].” Though pictures were never taken, one can easily imagine him with one.

Things will very likely go from bad to worse. Tanning salon sales are down, and so is hope. Maybe. “I’m kind of glad they’re all gone,” Mr. Coln said, “and hell, maybe the movie isn’t so bad.”

That is why I have compiled my own list, of things that Mother Nature can do to be more “people-friendly.”
If you know Mother Nature personally, I’d appreciate it if you would pass this along.

Watch Where You Aim Your Lightning Bolts

While I agree that they look cool, how many people do you think have been decapitated by these electricity-laden rods? A lot, I bet.

My grandpa says that after he was hit by lightning, his sex drive went through the roof. But since he also keeps his dentures in a bed pan and walks around the old folk’s home wearing nothing but a dickie and a urine-stained smile, he’s hardly what you’d consider a reliable source.

I’m not saying you need to get rid of them. Just confine them to one area. Or better yet, only aim them at impotent dementia-ridden old men.

The rest of us would prefer our internal organs remain uncooked, thank you very much.

Make Trees More Receptive to Hugs

I’m sure I can’t be the only one who finds it disheartening when — while embracing the trunk of a Common Bald Cypress in Central Park — the tree just stands there, motionless, indifferent to my public displays of affection.

Like my wilderness therapist says, there are only so many times a person can be rejected before they start seeking out the attention of other woody perennials.

Have Designated Smoking Areas

It’s not like back in the good old days, when a smoke was a smoke and groovin’ was groovin’ and the Marlboro Man would jump on his horse and go galloping off across the barren land just so he could buy his cigarettes in Marlboro Country because that’s where the flavor is.

Tell me, where are John Cougar Mellencamp and the Marlboro Man now?

My guess is they died. Probably of lung cancer.

Make Vegetarian Food Taste Better

An old vegan friend of mine once described tofu as, “A shy, virgin bride, eager to finally become one with her partner.” Needless to say, he and I are no longer friends.

If you want people to stop eating animals, you need to make non-animals taste better.

Throw in a couple pats of butter. Or drown them in gravy, even.

Stop Raining On Parades

Why is it that every year my paid half-day off is, like, the shittiest day ever? It’s pretty disrespectful if you ask me.

Stop Growing Poisonous Berries. Or At Least Give Us A Heads Up as to Which Ones Are Poisonous

The poisonous mushrooms, however, can stay.

Protect Your Own Damn Ozone Layer

Didn’t Grandmother Nature teach you that you can’t go around expecting others to save you from imminent destruction for you?

How would you feel if I’d asked you to stop me from losing my virginity in the back of Todd Marshall’s station wagon with the fake wood paneling during Paula Fosters’s Cinco De Mayo party?

Or put an end to the disparaging looks I get from my mother, when I tell her that if she wants grandchildren she’s going to have to conceive her own?

And one more thing: while it’s your prerogative not to use aerosol products, you really shouldn’t judge those of us who do.

Stop Charging So Much for Organic Shit

Picture this: You’re at the folk festival, just minding your own business and waiting for the Indigo Girls to take the stage so you can start a mosh pit, when out of nowhere a dreadlocked hippie walks up and offers to sell you an organic joint for twenty dollars.

Confused, you ask him what an organic joint has that a regular joint doesn’t. Laughing, he says it’s not what the organic joint has, but rather what it is. Which is a tiny dot inside a tiny dot called earth, inside a cosmic force that humans have yet to understand.

Also, you get a better buzz.

When you tell him that you thought all weed was natural, he laughs even harder. But then he stops laughing, because suddenly it dawns on him that thoughts are just tiny dots inside your brain inside a tiny dot called earth, inside a cosmic force that humans have yet to understand.

By the time he’s finished examining existentialism through a cloud of bong smoke, not only have you missed the entire concert, you also paid twenty bucks for a joint you’ll never smoke, because the last time you went “organic” you ended up face down in the 7-11 parking lot.

Illustration by Brad Jonas

Explanation: Possibly you’ve eaten something you shouldn’t have. Try making healthier food choices, and being less judgmental.

You swerve your car in front of me so quickly that I have to slam on the brakes. Suddenly your windows slide up and down uncontrollably and your radio tunes itself to a country-western station. Smoke seeps from underneath your hood and you shudder to a stop. As I slowly swing around you, I do that thing where I scratch the side of my head with my middle finger — just subtle enough so that you can’t really tell if I’m sending you a message or not. But you know I am.

Explanation: If it wasn’t for the smoke, I’d say it was an electrical problem, but I’ve never really been a car guy.

At the gym, you decline to wipe your disgusting sweat off the machine you’ve just finished using, even though you can see me waiting my turn. Walking off toward the showers, you have the strange sensation of being sharply slapped upside the head. Twenty feet behind you, I flash a smug grin.

Explanation: You failed to go through the recommended cool-down phase of your workout. Probably a muscle cramp or something.

At the movies, you’re eating your popcorn a bit too loudly in the row behind me. Suddenly you find that some inexplicable force is clamped around your jaw, preventing you from chewing. This is when I turn around to face you and slowly raise my finger to my lips in a creepy shushing motion. Your eyes widen with dawning terror, and you begin to sob deep in the back of your throat and thrash in desperation, and generally become an annoyance to everyone sitting around you. And yet the manager comes and asks me to leave the theater.

Explanation: I had snuck in through the rear exit during the previews.

You knock on my door and try to sell me candy bars or magazine subscriptions, or whatever it is you’re peddling. Weren’t you the same kid who was just here last week? Didn’t I say no then, too? Suddenly a horrible image forces itself into your mind, a prophetic vision warning you that I’m the living embodiment of pure evil with bizarre paranormal abilities that have gradually made me go mad with power, and that you had better leave right away, before something truly terrible can happen. The vision fades as abruptly as it arrived…then I threaten to call the cops if you come back again, and slam the door in your face.

Explanation: That vision was all yours. I’d never use my mind powers on a little kid. I’m not a complete monster, you know. Still, don’t forget what I said about the cops.

What keeps you up at night?

• A. My job
• B. My unemployment
• C. A vague but overwhelming sense that my life could fall apart at any moment, without warning
• D. The damn neighbor kid

How many undergraduate and postgraduate degrees in the humanities do you hold?*

• A. 1
• B. 2
• C. 3+
• D. Only counting accredited institutions?

*Note: respondents for whom the answer would be “none” are disqualified from this quiz.

What do you feel guilty about?

• A. My race
• B. The social class I was born into
• C. My inability to feel happiness despite outward trappings of success
• D. That time I shoplifted from Borders

When you read the news, what is your reaction?

• A. Jaded resignation
• B. Panic, followed by denial
• C. Prolonged, unflagging despair
• D. The Onion still kills it

Which psychological treatments are you currently undergoing?

• A. Talk therapy
• B. Psychiatric medication
• C. Daily Cognitive Behavioral Therapy sessions, large doses of antidepressants, and occasional institutionalization
• D. Sometimes I like to smoke a joint on the weekend

Which author do you most relate to?

• A. Sylvia Plath
• B. Ernest Hemingway
• C. David Foster Wallace
• D. Dan Brown

What is your darkest secret?

• A. My criminal record
• B. My history of drug abuse
• C. My cooperation with a dictatorial strongman
• D. Remember when Keith broke Gina’s laptop? That was actually me; I blamed him because I knew he was blacked out.

How would you describe your attitude toward romantic relationships?

• A. Self-destructive
• B. Commitment-phobic
• C. I refuse to acknowledge that other people exist
• D. Onanistic

What do you think the world will be like in 100 years?

• A. Ravaged by the consequences of climate change
• B. Torn apart by religious and political strife
• C. Contemplating an unthinkable “population control” scheme in a desperate attempt to staunch the bleeding of the last of the planet’s resources
• D. Probably, y’know… sexbots?

How do you feel about death?

• A. I have come to terms with its inevitability
• B. I welcome it
• C. I feel only apathy, as the universe does for all life
• D. What the FUCK is wrong with you people?

Give yourself 1 point for each A or B, 2 points for each C, and -1 point for each D.

Figuratively speaking, you are:

-10-0: The canopy of a hot air balloon in flight; empty, bloated, and oblivious to the cares of the world
1-2: A bundle of organic kale, missing its yellow band, sold as non-organic
3-4: The mumbled second verse of a marginal pop hit sung at a karaoke bar
5-6: A sexually explicit tweet, intended as a direct message, that is quickly deleted but still propagates to several followers’ clients
7-8: A craft brewer’s failed experiment, foisted on polite friends and relatives for no charge
9-10: Like, some bird
11-12: A bathroom in a hipster bar from which the mirror has been removed because it caused excessive self-consciousness in its patrons
13-14: A keytar purchased as a costume accessory for an ‘80s theme party
15-16: The episode of The Wire where they kill Wallace
17-18: A power strip, forgotten underneath a bed, itself plugged in, but with nothing plugged into it
19-20: The cacophony of footsteps that results when the first act of an open mic leaves the stage, the host returns to introduce the next act, and the multitude of patrons who did not realize it was open mic night flees the establishment

Illustration by Brad Jonas

Oh glorious morning, another splendid day for standing in the library with my books. Let’s see then, I’ll just put on my eyeglasses and — ho ho, what’s this? It appears that the staff has taken the initiative to dress me for summer on the Cape! How delightful to wake and find yourself transported to the shore, wearing Bermuda shorts and a signature crested polo, both perfectly pressed. This looks like the work of Consuela; you know she’s an absolute magician with the laundry. My father Rutherford Braxton, the founder of Braxton Amalgamated International, always said, “Fielding, the most important investment you can make is hiring a servant who keeps you looking rich.” Sadly, father had a heavy hand with the help, but then you don’t build empires with kindness, do you? I’m just grateful that these are gentler times. Now one needs only the whisper of deportation to keep the linens crisp as the day they were cut.

Now let’s see, it appears that I have absolutely everything I need here for a perfect summer: A wicker basket with two bottles of San Pellegrino, my monogrammed leather satchel full of freshly shucked corn, an heirloom lobster pot, a life preserver (god forbid), my darling second wife Margot and our two smartly dressed children Astor and Astoria. Astor, come here and let me turn that polo collar up. How many times have I told you that a flat collar is a working collar? You must, at all times, let people know that you’re a Braxton and that for a Braxton, only a grass tennis court will suffice.

Oh how wonderful it is to feel the fresh salt air on my legs again! Don’t get me wrong, I do enjoy wearing my navy Fitzgerald Saxon Herringbone suit, standing beside my older brother Rutherford Jr. who is usually looking dapper in his own pinstriped Regent Fit. Of course our father was a straight herringbone man, like me. I can still picture him in his best charcoal gray, charging towards the boardroom, the sharp clap of his alligator wingtips on the marble floor in the moment before he swung the doors wide with the confidence of a true captain of industry! It’s those memories that fortify me in the darkest winter months, because a man can only endure so many grueling days of standing in the library, gazing at an antique wooden globe, before he feels the urgent call of a fully-staffed waterfront estate in Chatham.

Speaking of our dear Chatham, it appears the Abercrombies are finally awake and milling about. Margot, these shirtless buffoons are a red tide upon our pristine summer shores! You there, the slack jawed rube who’s gawking at my seagull embroidered Bermuda shorts. No, “them ain’t pelicans,” you imbecile, they are the Great Black-backed Gulls of Cape Cod. Let me ask you, have you ever seen the silhouette of a Great Black against sunset on the Cape? Of course you haven’t. I know what you probably have seen a lot of however: Your mother passed out on the sofa, wearing a tattered J.C. Penney nightgown stained with the dribble of box wine, oblivious as usual to the beginning of another public school day.

I know, Margot, my blood pressure. It’s just that father would be devastated if he could see what this town is becoming. Still, it is a glorious day, isn’t it? And to think, a whole summer ahead of us!

Say, do you hear that? Astoria, bring daddy the Country Club Stripe beach tote, I do believe my Blackberry is ringing. It’s probably my accountant with yet another portfolio update. Blast! I can’t find anything in this tote when it’s stuffed so full of ultra-plush terry towels! If the kids weren’t here right now I would boot one of these goddamned decorative buoys right into the infinity pool! Hang on now, Fielding, just listen to yourself. Do you see what work does to you? Get a grip, man! You’re a Braxton and a Braxton never sweats the small stuff, not in the boardroom and certainly not on the Cape. Now take a deep breath.  Dab your forehead with a checked Tatersall pocket square, crack open a San Pellegrino and for once in your life just let the damn thing ring.

Illustration by Hallie Bateman