The Weekly Humorist Podcast

6:00am: Wake up early and check Donald Trump's social media feeds to see if he's been mentioned. See that he has not, and, not that it matters, but Elon Musk has already been mentioned five times. 6:15am: Walk his dog Atlas; promise not to eat Atlas like he ate his last dog. 6:30am: Relax on well-worn couch while his wife Usha feeds and clothes her three young children. 7:00 am: Celebrate Martin Luther King Jr. Day by searching all furniture store sales within a 50-mile radius for deals on new couches. 8:00am: Check social media again, this time just for name in general, and find the 4,566,578th and 4,566,579th joke about him fucking a couch. 8:30am: Start to wonder if there's somewhere he needs to be; text buddy Donald Trump Jr. to casually ask when he's planning to get there and if he can send the address again. 8:37am: Receive forwarded Evite from Trump Jr. for inauguration. 1,186 people have already responded, beginning three months ago. Mike Pence is a "maybe." 9:00am: Rehearse speech about growing up middle class in suburban Ohio - wait no, poor in rural Kentucky - receiving an education funded by government assistance from the G.I. Bill - wait no, funded by his own grit alone - and rising to prominence due to being chosen as the puppet of a conservative billionaire - no wait, due to his appealing and relatable personality that in no way makes him historically unpopular. 9:15am: Realize he should invite Usha so she can watch her kids during the ceremony. Forward her the Evite. 9:16am: Receive instant response from Usha, saying that she already RSVP-ed "yes" like three months ago. 9:30am: Do a bunch of jumping jacks for exercise. Also to be sure that, in case anyone happens to do them at one of the inaugural balls tonight, he can jump higher than Musk. Or whoever might do it. 10:15am: Show up early to inauguration venue and realize he forgot ID. Go back to get it because no one recognizes him. 11:00am: Return to venue with ID. Secret Service agent says "I thought the VP-elect was already here." Musk walks by and whispers something in the agent's ear. Agent says "oh sorry, come on in, Mr. Vant." 11:01am: Tell Secret Service agent that it's actually "Vance." Receive no response from agent. 12 - 1pm: Smile for camera during entire inauguration ceremony, despite fact that only back of head is shown on TV, even during own swearing in. 1:00pm: March in Inaugural Parade twelve feet behind Musk, feel totally fine about it. 2:00pm: Realize after an hour of marching next to Robert F. Kennedy Jr. and listening to his lengthy rant about how Band-aids are making Americans bisexual that Kennedy does not know who he is. 3:00pm: Find an opening in Kennedy's on-going monologue to re-introduce himself. Kennedy says that name "doesn't ring a bell, sorry" and asks if he's ever eaten raw polar bear meat. 4:00pm: Proudly sit at the Theodore Roosevelt desk and announce first initiative as Vice President will be to make "MILF" the official pornography genre of America because it will make forced motherhood look more appealing, and also because Usha found that term in his internet search history last week and he told her it was just for a work thing. 7:00pm: Attend all three Inaugural Balls, but somehow never at the same time as Trump. 11:00pm: Text Trump, Trump Jr., and Kennedy to ask where the afterparty is. Receive no response. 11:10pm: See Musk's social media posts from an afterparty on what looks like a golden rocketship. Buzz Aldrin is there. 11:30pm: Receive text from Usha asking about recent "cat lady pornography" search on iPad he forgot she has the password to.

Dear Younger Self of a Few Week Ago, I'd like to say I'm proud of you and that, like bourbon, you've been through an aging process and your refinement has made me mature and earthy, with peaty undertones. Instead, I need to say that being drunk on leftover Christmas bourbon eggnog is no excuse for signing me up to be a better you. When we went through the same charade last year, we agreed that in the future, the only New Year's resolution would be to make no resolutions. Yet you, once again, got caught up in the contagion of the season. Like last year, we're mere moments into the new year and our resolutions are more like irresolutions. Most of your aspirations are admirable, although you think more highly of your future self than you ought. I'm physically broken after attempting "300 burpees each week - it does not count if knees touch the ground." At 10 am on 1 January, I was still snug in bed. By then, I'd already failed "A daily 5 am 10-mile run - rain, hail, or shine, or hurricane, or tsunami, or earthquake, or fire, or landslide, or famine, or angry mob, or nuclear war - nothing will stop me." I applaud your plan to "Eat healthier - no more triple bacon burgers with loaded fries and extra thick thickshakes at 2 am." But it's not my fault you packaged and labeled all the Christmas leftovers for each day until February. I've been eating the ham like you were drinking the eggnog: without reading the use-by date, late at night on the kitchen floor, alone, and belting out Queen's "Don't Stop Me Now." You know my bathing routine is much like that of a hedonistic tourist visiting Icelandic hot springs. "Be like Wim Hof and only have ice baths" was never going to happen. If you had wanted me to "Save money - remember that buying things on sale is not actually saving," then you wouldn't have purchased the top-of-the-line standing desk with buy-now-pay-later. I haven't used the standing functionality, and I now slump at my desk an extra hour each night to pay it off. I'd been doing well at "Be a better son - stop telling Dad he was never around." Until I lied to him, saying I don't believe in New Year's resolutions and that New Year's Day is an arbitrary construct created by Pope Gregory XIII in 1582 when he needed a reason to tell his family that he really was going to try to be a more present Pope. If you were serious about "Become at peace with myself and my hairline," you shouldn't have forced me into these resolutions. I've been frazzled enough that I'm like a sheep right after a shear - skittish, hairless, and unable to do anything but bleat frightened sounds. Please tell me it was a joke when you resolved to "Become an astronaut - shoot for the moon, even if you miss, you'll land among the stars." Nothing has changed in the last few weeks. I still don't like flying. I don't like being away from home. I'm claustrophobic. I'm awkward with small groups of people. Don't you remember the nightmare? We were abducted by aliens who put us in an ill-fitting David Bowie mask and made us sing "Space Oddity" on repeat for three years. We woke up screaming "Here am I floating 'round my tin can." You became irrational with "Become the first person to climb Mount Everest naked." As mentioned, you're not the fittest person. Also, it was a trade-off between a nude climb of the world's highest peak and "Improve my love life." I've opted for the resolution that involves fewer frostbite amputations of my nether regions. As I look back over the last few weeks, my most important advice is this: Stop saying "New year, new me," because although it's a new year, I'm the same old you. Sincerely, A Few Weeks Older You

"Meta said on Tuesday that it was ending its longstanding fact-checking program, a policy instituted to curtail the spread of misinformation across its social media apps." - The New York Times Hannibal Lecter famously said that "democracy is a slow process of stumbling to the right decision instead of going straight forward to the wrong one." Well Hannibal, we did it. At long last, we have the freedom our esteemed forefathers promised us 250 years ago in that sacred document, the Constitution: to slander and lie in "digital public squares" without fear of censorship by insecure billionaire overlords. It's like Christmas came twice this year. I'm so excited I can't sleep. So I'll spend the night posting my truths across all Meta platforms, which have been censoring me since 2004. Yo brother so fat he ate Greenland and set off World War III. Yo other brother so ugly he once got mistaken for a Cybertruck. Yo papá so skinny he slipped through the border wall only to get caught by US Customs and Border Protection and flown back to Guatemala to try again. Good luck with that, hombre! Yo mama so fat she started a social media platform called XL. Yo nephew so fat he ate half of Meta's cash on hand for dinner (and the other $35 billion for breakfast). Yo sister so homely a former president called her "a two." Yo grandpa so old he's been ranting about being censored by Metamucil. Yo teenage son so horny he thought X was a porn site. Yo aunt so stupid she flatly refused to be an angel investor in a company whose origin story is ranking chicks from a Harvard dorm room. Yo uncle so fat they added a South Wing to the White House after the 2nd Coming of Christ - -dressed in a very clever disguise - -made him Secretary of Health and Human Services. Yo wife looks so young even Matt Gaetz passed. Yo kids so stupid they thought our generation was better than this. Yo mama a whore and Facebook karma is quietly standing in the corner, pathetic and impotent. I am finally a fully liberated white male. #thanksMeta 3

In the year 2050, all of the tv shows that you will ever watch in your lifetime are uploaded into your mind at birth. Since you are a clone, the network systems know what shows will be most beneficial for you. Here's a sampling of what you might see. Not Freaky At All Friday When Vicki and her mother accidentally switch bodies, they both decide to accept their new identities and adopt the pronouns of Me and You. World War TMZ The fierce and bloody battle between various agents of paparazzi comes to a sudden head when Taylor Swift reveals an ability to telepathically control hornets. Bachelor Island Do you believe that a few decades ago people used to watch The Bachelor?? Jesus Christ. Anyway, at least it means that we have this much superior show now, where former contestants from The Bachelor are hunted for sport on an island owned by ugly guys who were bullied in high school but are rich and resentful now. Little Debbie For Hire Private Investigator Deborah Santiello finds herself shrunken down to miniature size and uses her new condition as an advantage for her most dangerous cases. No connection to the snack cake mascot, although the show character does coincidentally make snack cakes as her go to hobby. Dr Philth When Dr Phil's sour essence is transferred into a sentient mound of soiled medical waste, it, well… no one really notices, to be honest. Lizard Male Prime & Penny Is it off world lizard people propaganda? Or simply a fun and breezy half hour of clever chat and the latest multidimensional pop culture gossip? If you care about the difference, then you just don't get it.

Despite what Liam Gallagher is yelling through a lightly locked door in this cabin in the woods, I did not kidnap him. I only borrowed Liam Gallagher temporarily. I'm simply keeping him away from his brother Noel Gallagher to ensure the Oasis tour happens. Their Gen X fans need this reunion. This may be the last year we can stay awake late enough to go. I'm trying to tell Liam Gallgher what I'm doing for him, for us. But he won't stop shouting. Maybe he is actually doing vocal exercises to prepare for his tour? The way he combines profane words is definitely musical. I wish he would stop calling me a kidnapper. That is a mischaracterization. He voluntarily got into my vehicle. Yes, I told him the record label sent me, but I was driving a dented 2019 Rav 4, and wearing plaid pajama bottoms. Some of this is on him. Obviously, when a world famous rock star hops in your compact crossover willingly, it is not an abduction. He even slept all the way up here, after I gently applied a warm chloroform cloth to his face. I'm hoping he'll settle down and we'll be able to hang out. I want to ask him about his quirky haircuts. I want to know what a Champagne Supernova is. I want to count how many times he can say fuck in 30 seconds. I thought we might even have a pillow fight, but he's trying to bite me whenever I bring him food. I'm trying to tell him his music transports Gen X back to life before toxic social media, adjustable mortgages, and insufficient retirement funds. I want him to know he was a vital part of the magical days when we bought things in cash, and burped up Goldschlager shots. He doesn't seem to care. I've never heard some of the words he is shouting. Liam Gallgher is so creatively talented he creates his own swears. Unfortunately, they are being hurled at me. I bet he'll soon realize I'm doing this for an entire generation of fans, and as is growing more obvious by the minute, for the safety of Noel Gallagher. Maybe not. He is kicking a hole through the door. I guess he isn't in the mood for the karaoke duets I planned. His behavior, I mean behaviour, is uncalled for. I told him he is free to leave whenever he wants. Except we have no cell signal, the Rav 4 is out of gas, and there is a blizzard outside. So did I kidnap Liam Gallagher as he loudly alleges? No. I am simply a hero in the making, ensuring that Gen X gets to see one of the seminal bands of our youth again. My peers will celebrate my genius. I will be lauded by their millions of fans. Oasis should share some profits with me. Without my bold intervention, this tour might have been cancelled before it even started. I'm a Wonderwall, and Liam Gallagher doesn't appreciate me. I bet Noel Gallagher does.

I live somewhat in the boonies, so people sometimes get lost driving to my place. I'll try to keep it simple. Got a pencil and paper ready? Start by getting on Old Route 4. It's got another name on GPS, but GPS is worthless here because of the surrounding hillocks. You'll be on the road a good long while. If you pass the corn billboard, you've gone too far. Turn around and head back about 20 miles. When you come to a traffic circle, take the northwest exit perpendicular to the lake. This is grasshopper country, so roll your windows up tight. They'll drop their eggs right into the passenger compartment of a speeding car and onto your lap. I've seen it too many times. Cross the county line. There used to be a road marker before the washout. All the locals know where it was, and the county commissioner for sure knows. Don't be alarmed by all the lasso weed. It's native to here. You'll pass through a few towns named after the presidents of Rotary clubs. One of the towns - the second one I think - has a building that looks like a cross between a bank and a bowling alley. They sell things like macrame plant holders, or at least they have them hanging outside. I've never been inside. You'll drive over Big Creek, which was paved over before I can remember. Right about here the road gets wide. The speed limit on this stretch is 55, but you won't know that because the signs are pocked with bullet holes. Folks here have guns, and they don't like the government telling them what to do. If you've ever been a summer intern at the Department of Health and Human Services you'd best keep that on the down-low. I recommend you stop for gas at the station that says Last Stop Before the State Line. You've still got a ways to go. God help you if you drive an EV. Since you can't get radio reception you might check out the countryside. In the far distance you'll see a mountain range that some people think looks like a sleeping princess. Whatever. It's all gravel from here on in. Turn left where it looks like the entrance to a corn maze. That's the main artery to my community. Head toward the water tower. My building is directly under it. Parking is free. All the apartments look the same to the casual observer. Mine is painted off-white, although my neighbors say it's dusty gray. To me, it's more like yellow. Really it depends on the angle of the sun and time of year. Also, none of the apartments have numbers. I'll be out back listening to music on my headphones, so knock violently and shout. Make sure you're at the right apartment, because, as I said before, folks here have guns. That's all there is to it. Please be prompt.

SAN FRANCISCO, January 7, 2025 /PRNewswire/ - Uber Technologies, Inc. (NYSE: UBER), the world's largest mobility and delivery technology platform, today announced its first rebranding since UberCab became Uber in October 2010. This strategic move reflects the company's commitment to technological innovation in an ever-changing digital landscape and signals a new era of possibilities. Uber will now be known as Uber Fees, Inc. (NYSE: BILK). The rebranding to Uber Fees symbolizes a new chapter, building upon its strong foundation while hyper-focusing the company on the one thing it does better than anyone else. Uber Fees is already the market leader in service fees, operating fees, booking fees, delivery fees, pet fees, cancellation fees, lost items fees, found items fees, entrance fees, uncancellation fees, waiting fees, fresh air acquisition fees, reuncancellation fees, exit fees, airport fees, extra stop fees, no stop fees, unreuncancellation fees, and pee fees. "We're not just about charging fees; we're revolutionizing what fees can be," adds Dara Khosrowshahi, CEO of Uber Fees. "Take surge pricing. We pioneered that. We learned that if it is 14 below zero and you're stranded in Albany, you're willing to pay whatever we decide." "Our decision to rebrand as Uber Fees solidifies our identity," continues Khosrowshahi. "It represents our vision for the future. Our employees and customers have never been clear who we really are. Some view us as a transportation company. Some view us as a food delivery service. Starting today, it should be clear that we are all about milking customers for every last dollar that we can in the most intrusive, least transparent ways possible." The new brand identity better reflects Uber Fees' core values, known by its 30,000 plus employees as GRIFTED, which stands for Gouging, Raising prices, Inflation, Fleecing, Thieving, Extortion, and Diversity. Uber Fees is also launching a patent-pending, zero-click fee experience where if someone opens the app, they'll pay a fee. Handing over your money has never been easier. Sundeep Jain, Uber Fee's Chief Product Officer and SVP of Fees, added, "We're focusing on what we do best in this new app. No more worries about finding a car or deciding what food to order. You can't do anything other than pay us a fee every time you open it." The app uses state-of-the-art Gamified Revenue Algorithmic Billing (GRAB) technology to transform the mundane act of parting with your money into an addictive wealth-shedding game. "Sometimes, the fee may be a dollar or two; other times, you may have to take out a payday loan," Jain continued. "Want to know what fees you'll pay? The only way to find out is to pop open the app!" "Some may ask, what are we going to do with all this money we collect?" Khosrowshahi reflected. "We have countless hard-working drivers that are just scraping by. We could give them health insurance. But that isn't consistent with who we are. We started as a company that could give our customers a ride. Now, we take our customers for a ride more than ever before." You can learn more about Uber Fees and its rebranding by visiting uberfees.com and paying the information access fee. About Uber Fees, Inc. Uber Fees, Inc. (NYSE: BILK) is the world's largest fee-collection platform, operating in over 10,000 cities across 90 countries. Our mission is to revolutionize how people pay fees, making it easier, faster, and more frequent to give us your money. Founded in 2009, Uber Fees continues to lead the industry in customer extraction techniques. Legal Disclaimer As per the Uber Fees, Inc. terms of service, any person, bot, or animate creature who views this press release is subject to a word absorption fee. ###

Eat more scorpions. Hook up to metabo-chamber for at least seven cycles per ankh-coin. Continue worship of The Manor's blood moon delegation. Switch to baked from fried warlock discharge packets. Enlist offspring in clan-wide contest of mental and physical dexterity. Prepare for The Great Merging; check pantry for extra napkins and plastic cups in case of company.

Hey, Greg. No, you're not hallucinating; it's me, your popcorn bowl. I know we don't normally do this, but I don't know how much time we have, so I'd appreciate it if you listen to what I have to say. Greg, I am a popcorn bowl. That means I hold popcorn, not throw up. Aw, here we go - do not get all defensive on me! I promise you're not the victim here. Look, I know you're not the only person who does this; honestly, it'd be so much easier if you were. I'd simply call Animal Control to sedate you like the crazed primate you are, but sadly, this is much bigger than the two of us. What we're dealing with is a systemic issue propagated by Big Trash, a bunch of no-good, lazy hacks trying to push their municipality-appointed responsibilities off onto the little guy. But regardless of what their shameless propaganda might have you believe, I, as your popcorn bowl and your friend, am telling you to knock it off. I mean, c'mon, haven't you ever heard the expression "Don't puke where you eat?" Oh, is that 'not really the phrase'? Screw you, Greg; I'm a popcorn bowl, not a bowl of idioms! I'm not naive; I know no job is perfect. Believe you me, I've seen how corporate America has changed you, and it hasn't been a lick for the better. You were once so young, passionate, and full of life, and now…no offense, but your hairline has morphed into more of a hair "dash," and the check engine light of your marriage is blazing red. And yet, even on your worst day at KPMG, I'm betting no one has ever blown chunks in your face. Oh, they have? Well, that's accounting for you. No one made you become a CPA. How many times have I said as you ugly cried to "Dead Poets Society" that teaching was your true calling? But sure, why listen to a popcorn bowl when you can throw up in it instead? You know, the crazy thing is, I wanted this to work so badly that I probably could have gaslit myself into enduring this Sisyphean hellscape if only you applied this same devil-may-care attitude to your other household wares. But not once have you barfed in that bitchy crockpot or yaked in the crotchety Dutch oven. In the sick, twisted, food-vomit Venn diagram, I sit alone in the middle. Your intrusive thoughts are right, by the way: Nancy is too good for you. And you know what, so am I. Sorry, I know the Nancy stuff is still pretty raw, and just because you hurt me doesn't mean I have to hurt you back blah blah blah. I've just been having a really hard time lately, not that you cared to notice. This fun new bachelor diet of spoiled hot dogs and Coors Lights you're doing has put me in a dark place. A few more days of this torture, and I might just give in to that sweet siren song beckoning me from the trash compactor… Oh my God, I know you did not just call me dramatic! Wow, Nancy was so right about you. How we ever fit in this apartment with your ego taking up the whole place is beyond me. Greg, I really wanted to help you and let you down gently, but I've had enough. Nancy has signed the papers, and she's taking me with her. Don't look so shocked; you couldn't possibly have thought those cheap bottles of wine and even cheaper hair plugs were gonna win her back. Nancy is a popcorn-loving queen, nay a goddess, and she deserves to be with someone who appreciates her, someone who's never eaten something called a 'meat bazooka,' and someone who knows that a toilet bowl is the only proper place to vomit. I can't wait to get started on our new life together. As for you, here's some free advice: the next time you inevitably go goblin-mode on four-day-old shrimp, go to the bathroom like a normal person, and maybe, just maybe, you won't die alone.

The five personality pillars are Clean-Cut, Alternative, Risky, Grunge, and Whimsy. Every person you've ever met is a combination of two, including you. Detailed descriptions of each pillar are below: Clean-Cut You have your shit together. This may be in the form of having a steady job, a tidy apartment, an Excel-sheet budget, or likely all three of these things. This pillar is often associated with the "Type A" personality*. You are particular about things, very organized, and, for lack of knowing how to word this better, have a specific way of making sure shit works out the way you want it to. You may be especially skilled at driving, goal-setting, and sending follow-up emails. *If you have a problem with being labeled as Type A and think there is a better way to describe it, you are probably Clean-Cut. Alternative (Alt) You have objectively good style and taste, exhibited perhaps by the having of "cool tattoos," though this is not required. You pursue some form of art as your main source of income. Your friends may look to you for interior design, wardrobe, or restaurant advice. These artistic strengths may give way to self-importance, pretentiousness, or superiority (come on, all of these pillars have negatives so just sit back and accept it as you sip from your handmade speckled ceramic mug). Not everyone will approve of your lifestyle choices, but they can't deny that you are successful in your lane. Risky You are impulsive and often lucky. You enjoy extreme activities that fulfill your desire to face challenge and even danger, including but not limited to rock climbing, skiing, gambling, traveling abroad, performing live, etc. You may be more prone to overindulgence or addictive behaviors, with the possibility of leaning towards the "all or nothing" mentality. You are outgoing; a master of making new friends, but not so much at deciding which are the right ones to keep. Someone with the Risky pillar is likely to do things like park in the red and hope they don't get a ticket, move to a new city with no job and figure it out as they go, or answer their ex's 2am texts. Grunge You do things your own way on your own time, only putting on pants when it is absolutely necessary. This pillar doesn't exactly represent lack of cleanliness or hygiene, but it doesn't not. You just don't adhere to every etiquette guideline out there, and your little quirks and faux pas amuse your closest people. There is an overarching vibe of low-maintenance, rebellion, and zero-fucks that rules your decision making. You are skilled at eating anywhere (your car, in bed, during Zoom therapy, etc.) and bailing on parties that have been in your calendar for three months. You save your energy for the people and things that bring you the most joy, making you a very loyal friend to those worthy enough to get you up off your favorite little indent on the L-shaped couch. Those who are truly at peace in their Grungeness will claim this pillar confidently while others take a little more soul-searching to admit it. Whimsy You make others laugh. You lead with silliness and light-heartedness not only with your close circle, but in a room you just entered. This pillar is more than just having a good sense of humor and laughing at the right times; it is the ability to be funny and the intention to lighten the mood. You may be clumsy, lack a sense of style, or be considered "uncool" to others who take themselves more seriously. For example, an Alt person will turn their nose up at a Whimsy person's tattoo more times than not. (As a rule of thumb, Whimsy people should avoid getting tattoos before the age of 32 unless they want a pizza slice or cartoon ghost on their forearm forever… which they probably do, so I guess go for it.) You may find yourself in sticky or awkward situations, but you can almost always charm your way out of them. The best way to figure out which combination you are is to discuss these pillars with your closest friends at your next dinner p...

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Like Noah building the Ark, I've been whittling away on a side project. I'm now thrilled to be able to share it. Following in the footsteps of my friends Mark, Luke, and John - I'm launching a Substack! To coincide with his birthday, my newsletter unpacks the story of Jesus. Some say he's a myth, several denounce him as a misfit, others declare he's the messiah, and more still ask "But what exactly is myrrh?" My ideal reader is you! Like the universalists, there will be something for everyone. Join me on a pilgrimage in verse and parables. To pique your interest, you can look forward to a virgin birth in a feeding trough, fish 'n' chips for thousands, and a torturous death upon an instrument of agony that might look kind of cool on a necklace. I don't want to give too much away, but if you stay until the end I'll treat you to an out-of-this-world plot twist. I know we all get too much spam (my house is still filled with the recent political campaign scrolls from Pontius Pilate). So I'll post roughly every two weeks - just enough to get us through my planned 28 posts before it's Jesus' birthday again and this time for you to ask "But what exactly is frankincense?" Before you go there, I guarantee that 1 in 5 newsletters will include a unique story not in the other synoptic Substacks. And I also promise not to give you any writing advice. Substack is already filled with too much of the same - newsletters on how to get a scroll published, posts on how to stone chisel a story while holding down a shepherding day job, and notes on how writing can keep you sane while under Roman rule. "The Gospel According to Matthew" isn't the most original title. But after years of research, drafting, peer review, re-drafting, writer's block, putting it on the backlog, re-inspiration after reading that even Moses struggled when he wrote the Pentateuch, line edits, beta readers, a writing retreat, wondering if I should chuck it into the Sea of Galilee and start over, more re-drafting, the Holy Spirit's final edits, and then building up the courage to hit "publish," I realized I didn't need something punny. If this title format has drawn fishing net loads of subscribers for the other gospel writers, then it doesn't need to be called "The Good Newsletter." I'm just a simple publican from Galilee, but I hope this newsletter resonates with some of you. Who knows, maybe it will stand the test of time, and years from now still be read and argued about. "The Gospel According to Matthew" will be free, and always free. Whoever has ears, let him hear: there will be no paid subscriptions, no founding members, no buying me off for thirty pieces of silver. Of course, I won't say no to a good Samaritan who throws me a few denarii, but every post will always be accessible whether you're a disciple or a Pharisee. I've just launched the debut post. You won't be able to put it down if your thing is genealogical tongue twisters. Just try reading some of these doozies out loud: Amminadab, Jehoshaphat, Shealtiel, Jeconiah, and Zerubbabel. Don't stress, they're minor characters you'll never hear about again. Look forward to my next post dedicated to Jesus' birth. Much like any family celebration, it involves travelers coming from afar and bestowing extravagant and age-inappropriate gifts on the youngest family member. And you'll be able to say, "One out of three isn't bad, I know exactly what gold is!" If you've read this far - thank you. I hope you'll hit subscribe with the enthusiasm of a wise man chasing down a star - but more on that next week. God bless, Matthew

AC/DC: Back in "the" Black Because This Album Sold So Many Copies, Great Job, Mates! Pink Floyd: The Dark Side of the Moon Must Be the Only Place Where They Didn't Get to Hear This Record Fall in Love With It! Michael Jackson: Bad? I Think You Mean Good, Mr. Jackson Fleetwood Mac: The Rumours Are True: This is a Terrific Album! Meat Loaf: Bat Out of Heaven, Actually Creedence Clearwater Revival: Cosmo's HIT Factory Eagles: Hotel California is a Place I'd Like to Check Into if The Music They Play There Sounds Like This Led Zeppelin: IV the Win! Radiohead: Really, Really Great Computer Adele: 21…Stars (out of 4) Bruce Springsteen: Born in the USA, Which is Where I Live and I'm So Proud to Be an American Specifically Because of This Album Nirvana: Don't You Dare Say Nevermind, You Boys Keep Doing What You're Doing, You Sound Great! Kendrick Lamar: good kid, f.a.n.t.a.s.t.i.c. city The Clash: London Calling? I Accept the Charges! The Strokes: This IS It Michael Jackson: Thriller!

You discover your dad practicing your eulogy. Your father's hiding place for his guns is the backpack you wear to school every day. Your math tutor is part of a work-release program. The only parental blocks on your computer are suicide prevention websites. Rather than the Cub Scouts, your parents have you join the Crips. Although they won't allow you to have a dog of your own, they do encourage you to stay out late and play with packs of strays. They get you a summer job as a drug mule. Your mom still cuts your hair, working on yet another voodoo doll.