Wit on comedy · June 16th

A recent education department analysis shows a double‑digit decline in the number of school‑aged children who read for fun almost every day, and the share of 13‑year‑olds who do so has fallen by almost half since 2012.

The report itself is straightforward, but the commentary that follows leans into the absurd. One contributor jokes that only a deeply obscene fan‑fiction could patch the gap, while another argues that it would be better if kids stopped finding any pleasure in life at all.

A third voice treats books not as entertainment but as a warning system for rabies, underscoring the piece’s satirical edge.

The overall picture is a genuine drop in leisure reading, framed by a series of dead‑pan observations that highlight how far the conversation has drifted from the simple fact that kids are reading less.

CHICAGO—Anticipating the announcement would rank among the biggest scoops of his career, ESPN senior NBA insider Shams Charania is said to have casually mentioned to his colleagues Tuesday that he was really looking forward to breaking the news of Michael Jordan’s eventual death. “When MJ dies, I’ll be right there with a ‘breaking news’ post on all the socials—it’ll probably start trending immediately,” Charania told his reportedly silent coworkers in the ESPN break room, adding that he had been hard at work cultivating sources within various hospitals and hospices in the Jupiter, FL, area in order to ensure he had exclusive access to the six-time NBA Finals MVP’s death certificate and autopsy photos. “I’ll probably keep it real classy and straightforward. Just an announcement of when and where he died, with a thing at the end that’s like, ‘Men die, but legends live forever.’ Or maybe I can get ‘Just do it’ in there somehow. I don’t know, I’m still workshopping it. Luckily, I have a few years to iron this out.” At press time, sources confirmed Charania had opened Canva to work on the custom graphic he was designing to accompany Jordan’s death announcement, a stark, black-and-white image reading simply, “23.” The post Shams Charania Casually Tells Colleagues He Really Looking Forward To Breaking Michael Jordan’s Death appeared first on The Onion.

COLUMBIA, MO—Surveying a wide cross section of Americans aged 18 to 24, a new study published Tuesday by researchers at the University of Missouri found that more Americans were foregoing college in favor of letting the carnival sort them out. “In a dire job market like this, it doesn’t make sense to spend tens of thousands of dollars on a degree, not when I can get experience right now running the Zipper out on the midway,” said recent high school graduate Michael Todd, who described his plan to visit backwater towns and learn practical lessons from a traveling band of misfits and ex-cons as they operate amusement rides across the country. “I could spend the next four years in college and start at the bottom of the career totem pole, or I could spend those four years acquiring real life skills while presiding over the balloon and dart game. I’ve already learned so much about marks from One Tooth Mitch.” Experts confirmed that while artificial intelligence has begun to render many jobs obsolete, it will never replicate the human capacity to quickly break down and reassemble a Tilt-A-Whirl. The post Study: More Americans Foregoing College In Favor Of Letting The Carnival Sort Them Out appeared first on The Onion.

A new spot in Amarillo is trying to convince the town that Texan barbecue and northern‑Mexico street food can share a plate without starting a culinary war. The menu is basically a mash‑up: queso‑dipped tortilla chips, a burrito that piles sour cream, beans and guacamole together, and flour tortillas that look like they belong in a Tex‑Mex chain but are billed as “authentic.” The novelty is enough to make locals pause, then shrug, and finally dig in because the flavors actually click.

Patrons describe the experience as “gimmicky but somehow works,” which is the polite way of saying they didn’t expect the beefy, cheesy decadence of southern Texas to mingle with the sharp, herb‑forward notes of northern Mexico and yet they’re surprised it does. The dish that gets the most buzz is the burrito‑soup hybrid, where the broth is thick enough to coat the chips and the filling is a chaotic but tasty medley.

The restaurant’s grand opening turned into a low‑key experiment in culinary diplomacy. If nothing else, it proves that when you throw together two regional staples, the result can be more than a novelty—it can be a surprisingly solid plate that people actually want to order again.

Pursuant to my father’s death earlier this year, Father’s Day should obviously have been canceled. However, due to an apparent clerical blunder, the holiday does seem to be approaching, notwithstanding its newfound lack of relevance. I presume that the error will be addressed by next June. In the meantime, please adhere to these etiquette tips to ensure a successful cookout. DO invite me to your barbecue. A girl’s gotta eat. DON’T pretend this isn’t a Father’s Day celebration. Yes, the holiday should have been scratched out of every calendar in existence, but because of the managerial incompetence alluded to above, the offending phrase is still written in little letters on a box in mid-June. It would be disingenuous to act like that’s not what this party’s for. DO wish me a Happy Father’s Day. Is this also disingenuous? Yes. You have never wished me one before, ostensibly because I am not a father. However, this verbal act of insincerity will be given a pass, as it is in the service of the aforementioned “DON’T.” DON’T give me that stricken look the second you realize you’ve just wished a newly fatherless person a “Happy Father’s Day.” It’s already weird—DON’T make it worse. DO tell me ways you’ve coped with loss in the past. (Not in any prescriptive way, or I will LOSE my MIND.) Obviously, none of your strategies will work, but at least I will know you sympathize. DON’T say a single word about the living father you’re going to visit later. DO say, “I don’t know what to say.” DON’T say, “At least he lived a long life!” Not long enough, babe! DO say, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.” (WHAT DID YOU MEAN THEN?!? No, no, I’m fine.) DO tell me your father is also dead. (If that’s true. If it’s not, that’s pretty fucked up.) DON’T be mad that I don’t care as much about your father as I do about mine. SIDE NOTE: You know how they celebrate Father’s Day in Germany? They go on hikes with wagons full of beer. Just a bunch of bros with a keg on a Little Red Flyer. Doesn’t even matter if they’re fathers or not. Let’s normalize getting shithoused in the woods with your buddies instead of processing grief sober! DON’T tell me how much my dad loved me—I don’t want to cry right now. I can do that in the privacy of the Village 7 while I watch The Mandalorian and Grogu at 11:45 a.m. on a Monday. Heartbreak feels good in a place like that, not at this backyard barbecue with a bunch of living fathers. (Gross.) DO talk about my dad before he was a dad, when he was young and hot like Pedro Pascal in The Mandalorian. (Is that a weird thing to say? Who cares, he’s dead—my dad, not Pedro.) DON’T introduce me to other dads the same age my dad was, like this is some sort of rebound situation. DO introduce me to the young, hot, single DILF in your neighborhood. No, no, DON’T read into that—“DILF” is just an expression! But yeah, maybe DON’T mention that I’m married? DO leave me chatting over our frozen margaritas. DON’T get weird when we chest-bump after learning both our dads are dead. DO make sure our respective kids don’t fall in the pool while I migrate to a quiet corner of the party, eyes locked, as I agree that, if anything, it should really be called “Dead Father’s Day.” DON’T think about how much the DILF actually resembles the young, hot version of my dead dad—I mean, Pedro Pascal. DO feel free to speculate—are they starting an affair or just bonding over their mutual grief??! Who can say? Who can say? DON’T interrupt. DO quietly refill our acrylic cactus glasses. Actually, just leave the pitcher here with me. DON’T you dare turn off the Cliff Richard version of “Daddy’s Home” playing on the boombox, even though it’s very confusing to whom “Daddy” is talking—sometimes it gives me the ick, but not tonight. DO dim the lights as Pedro-DILF and I start to slow-dance… “Daddy’s home to stayyyyy.” DON’T judge me! Don’t you dare judge me! And most importantly, DON’T say “I’m sorry your dad died.” Unless you killed him. In which case, DO look the FUCK out! Your days are NUMBERED, motherfucker!

You didn’t buy it because it looked enticing. Not because of its retro pink-and-gold packaging, and certainly not because of the photos on the box, which make the muffins look like tortilla-chip-sprinkled cups of raw ground beef. You bought it because your oldest kid is about to graduate from high school, and you’re shaky on your feet. You’re lucky you didn’t pull the box off the shelf and collapse into a freezer full of toaster waffles. New foods at Trader Joe’s always tempt you, but now they’ve caught you at your weakest. You just want to find one treat that could pull your son away from graduation prep, and somehow already picking his dorm room, and (god help us) “beach week,” to spend five minutes talking to you, despite your face turning into Sad Clown every time he talks, while all you see is his baby face looking back at you, now with stubble. So, you decide to make this mix, though neither you nor Trader Joe seems clear on what you’re making. Is it a dessert? A breakfast food? At the very least, it’s a distraction from Facebook Memories of his last day of kindergarten. You get to work mashing cornflakes and red sanding sugar with melted butter, mixing up eggs, oil, and milk (in your case, unsweetened soy milk, even though it’s right next to the regular milk, because right now, how can you both read directions and follow them?). You pour into the wet ingredients the powdery dry mix, which starts as white, but as you stir, turns alarmingly pink, which would have been fine had you known there were dried strawberries in there, but since you didn’t, you want to weep about more things Changing Too Fast. You pour the batter into cupcake liners, sprinkle the cornflake-sugar on top, and bake away, hoping the aroma might entice him downstairs more than the sight of them, or, really, of you right now, ever could. As they bake, you find them on the Trader Joe’s site: “Easy to make… we find that the resulting Strawberry & Corn Flake Muffins or Loaf Cake from this Mix are especially great for bringing along to potlucks, pool parties, barbecues—all sorts of summer-y occasions.” But you already know these muffins don’t—to borrow from your children—have aura. They’re not a natural color; they’d disturb Prue Leith in a Signature Challenge. If you took them to the pool, people might think you were like the women who smuggle vodka in their Hydro Flasks and later do questionable tricks off the diving boards. The lifeguards, your son’s classmates, might confiscate them, thinking they did, in fact, have aura. Or worse, the other parents could shake their heads and say, “Poor thing, her oldest’s graduating, and she’s just at the pool handing out her crunchy meat cups.” It turns out, though, that once baked, the muffins taste good, like sugary strawberry cereal, and you realize this was the intention, for it to be cereal-flavored cake (not to be confused with cake-flavored cereal, which also exists). But then they called them “muffins,” knowing that “cupcakes” is a stretch. To add to the confusion, it’s cereal-flavored cake, but the cereal used here is unsweetened cornflakes. It’s cereal, also, that has succumbed to death by butter, and by day two will have the “mouthfeel” of syrup-coated sticky notes. By day three, the red sanding sugar will have fully infiltrated the muffins, giving them the appearance of a complex mammalian artery system. Clearly, these treats won’t get your son to talk with you. Calling up the stairs, “We’re having muffins for dessert!” won’t help, not even adding, “But if they were in loaf form, they’d be cake!” To be fair, though, there isn’t much you could offer today that might engage him, when anyone can see you’re about to go full Patricia Arquette in Boyhood (“I just thought there would be more!” she cries. Cut to her son driving himself to college). Like the muffins, you are overly sweet, you have a whiff of nostalgia and a look that says, “Well, I tried.” You, too, aren’t sure what you’re supposed to be at this point, especially as the high school teachers, the pediatrician, and the college (except, of course, the financial office) keep telling you, “It’s all up to him now.” You’re a bit superfluous, and also a HIPAA violation. You’re like the pit crew that got him fixed up, and now he’s speeding away to his destiny (you’ve never been to a car race, but oh, did he love Lightning McQueen). Except now he’s in the kitchen. He’s deftly ignoring the muffins, talking about a movie he just saw. He gives you a hug for no reason, except maybe the scent of strawberries in the air, or maybe he’s grown up enough to understand how much you need it. You think, Maybe it’s okay to be a cake that tastes like cereal, that’s also a muffin.

“The Deal with the Islamic Republic of Iran is now complete. Congratulations to all!” — President Donald Trump, in a Truth Social post. - - - Citizens of the United Federation of Planets, as Starfleet’s Commander in Chief, I am pleased to announce: The war against the Romulans that I launched recently was an overwhelming success. Now, to be fair, we did NOT topple the regime, we did NOT free the oppressed citizens of Romulus, and we did nothing to ensure Romulan leadership would stop developing tricobalt torpedoes. We did, however, reinstate the terrible treaty I canceled, except now the terms are even worse. We also reopened the Bajoran wormhole shipping route that was only closed because of the war in the first place. And of course, the price of dilithium crystals is skyrocketing, which is bad for you guys, but fantastic news for my friends who own the mining companies. Mission Accomplished! That’s right, you just witnessed the master negotiator’s Art of the Treaty firsthand. My 5-D chess has worked exactly as expected. The only reason I’m not receiving multiple Federation Medals of Honor right now is because of those radical leftists running the failing Federation News Service. As far as the details and their implications, let’s just say I’m sure that by unfreezing the currency and removing sanctions, we can simply trust Romulan leadership to stop creating system-destroying weapons and funding proxy terrorist militants, right? They wouldn’t lie to the very people they say they want to destroy, right? They seem like very fine people to me. And to the citizens of Romulus who were thinking we’d help them take back control of their planet: Sorry, I got bored and lost interest. I mean, what do you want from me? Have you seen what’s going on in the Parrises Squares finals this week? Nova Squadron just won the championship for the first time in like fifty years. (By the way, I did NOT fall into stasis during game three). All of Earth is celebrating like crazy. I saw a guy dressed as Captain Kirk climbing up a shuttle launch pad holding an iron mallet. Paul Atreides was celebrating in the locker room with the team! You can’t seriously expect me to focus on intergalactic Armageddon-level quantum war with that going on. Get real. Now, I will admit, this deal is pretty terrible for the Vulcans. But also, I don’t care? Sure, we entered into this war with an understanding that I would help get the Romulans to stop trying to destroy your world, but that’s become a very unpopular stance recently, and I don’t really like being unpopular. I mean, you must realize I was only working with you because it was beneficial to me at the time, right? And, Sarek was getting very annoying. You’d think a planet full of logical super geniuses would figure out I was gonna tap out as soon as I got a better offer. Look, if you didn’t realize I was scamming you, that’s on you. Anyway, as I said previously, the war was an overwhelming success, and it’s all thanks to me. And if, in time, it’s proven this war was an overwhelming failure that didn’t accomplish any tangible goals and made things infinitely worse for the Federation and was completely mismanaged and plagued with poor (or no) strategy, well, then it wasn’t my idea at all, and I was against it from the start, and my secretary of war will be fired immediately. Thank you for your attention to this matter! — Your Starfleet Commander in Chief P.S. My erratic strategy decisions were in no way meant to manipulate the value of Federation Credits in a nefarious pump-and-dump scheme, and once again, I am NOT on Harry Mudd’s client list. Stop asking about it already. I don’t even know him!

The ouroboros, an ancient symbol depicting a snake devouring its own tail, has been used by many cultures to represent the eternal cycle of destruction and rebirth. One modern illustration of such a cycle? Every man in this friend group has been used by every other man in this friend group as an example of a guy you “don’t want to end up like.” Ah yes. As the ouroboros perpetually eats its own tail to feed itself, so does this balding, pudgy, unaccomplished best friend group. This ouroboros of shame started way back when these men first met in high school in the ‘90s. Ron, Kevin, Doug, Cris, Alan, Grady, and Samir were all interchangeably used as examples of “someone who actually has a problem” when it came to their binge drinking, and this helped make the remaining members of the group–who by all accounts were equally as drunk–not feel as bad about their own drinking. This cycle continued as the men entered their twenties. Ron’s job at PetSmart, Kevin’s job at Wal-Mart, Doug’s job as a parking garage attendant, Cris’ job as a telemarketer, Alan’s job working for his dad’s swimming pool cleaning company, Grady’s job at Guitar Center, and Samir’s unemployment were all used by various members of the friend group as examples of “the worst job you could possibly have.” Now in their 40s, the group continues to cyclically devour its own body to nourish itself. Countless aspects of every one of the men’s unremarkable, underperforming lives–be it their fitness levels, mental/physical health, drug habits, family issues, finances, living situations, physical appearances, hygiene, or decision making skills—are brought up regularly as illustrations of how much worse things could be for the rest of them. In the past three years alone, five of the seven men have used some variation of the statement, “My divorce was messy, but not as messy as [name]’s was,” while four of the men’s names have been brought up in the context of, “You know who has a gross bathroom?” by other men in the group who have similarly gross bathrooms. And as the shame is brought by the ouroboros it shall also be cleansed by the same. Who knows where these men’s combined self-worth would be without six other equally degenerate, subpar men to act as the tail end of the ouroboros for them to feed on. The cycle of destruction and rebirth that has defined humanity for ages is on full display right here, in this unremarkable middle-aged male friend group in Akron, Ohio.

DES MOINES, Iowa — Local man Jerry Servin dismounted from the back of Harold Orozco upon returning from work, just one of the many human beings whose backs he’s been forced to mount for transportation as a consequence of his recent conviction for Driving Under the Influence, confirmed sources. “Look, I messed up, there’s no way around it—but can I just say that this is a strange way to balance out my wrong?” noted Servin, whose .10 blood alcohol level landed him a fine and the shame of having his driving privileges revoked, forcing him to rely on piggyback rides for the foreseeable future. “Yes, the road was more dangerous with me on it after some drinks, but the sidewalk, with me on piggyback, is now dangerous too, you know? Plus, there’s an inherent stigma getting a DUI. Why add to that by making me look like a toddler having a nice day with his parents? I’m a 43-year-old accountant, and now I’m showing up to my office with thighs soaked in the side-sweat of my friends, family, and Taskrabbits all because of my mistake. It just feels cruel and unusual.” Some piggyback-ride-givers stated their disdain for drunk driving, given not only the dangers it poses to other drivers, but also due to the havoc DUI drivers wreak on their spines. “Jerry’s gotta get right. He drinks too much, and now his problem’s my problem” said Gracie Williams, one of Servin’s piggyback-ride-givers. “And I know this is not polite, but the guy could stand to lose a few. Hopefully, cutting back on his drinking will help. I’m praying it does, because he’s turning my back into yet another victim of his selfishness.” Drunk driving has long been a scourge on the nation’s roads, and a new crop of judges, lawyers, and police officers are working to discourage it through public humiliation. “Mr. Servin did the crime, now he has to do the piggyback time,” said Danielle Perez, the judge on the case. “If you’re convicted in my courtroom, you’re gonna pay your restitution, and you’re gonna pay it in a way that the community can see. And if your crime is driving under the influence, you’re also gonna be shelling out thousands of dollars in Taskrabbit piggyback ride fees too.” At press time, Servin was spotted attempting to cartwheel to his office after his brother turned down his latest piggyback request. The post DUI Forces Man To Commute via Piggyback appeared first on HARDTIMES.

RENO, Nev. — Scrunching her nose while emptying sacks of old cash into the Pepperball Casino’s bins, Blackjack dealer Marie Newman did her best to steer clear of nasty splashback, confirmed sources. “Every day here starts with fresh cash. It’s the lifeblood of a casino. But, like anything fresh, cash has a shelf life,” explained Newman, whose years of dealing cards have well-acquainted her with physical money’s delicacy. “By the end of the day, it can stink something fierce. You don’t want a noseful of rank Benjamins, you’ll be gagging for a week. So, yes, we throw out the money once it’s crossed a certain scent threshold. Honestly, if you’re hanging onto old money yourself, you’re a little disgusting.” While many think of cash as a stable, even desirable commodity, its decline is not pretty. “When I play, I like to be surrounded by stacks of cash. But of course, as a gambler, you’re often down. Now, that sounds bad, but the later in the day it gets, it can be a blessing, at least on the nostrils,” noted Creed Foster, a player at The Pepperball. “Money’s like fish—you want it new. ‘Course, I’ll take yours if it’s old, but not without a thorough Febrezing.” While casinos are reputed to be money-making ventures, that the money itself is given to turning poses challenges for casino owners. “This is a class place we run here. We want people coming in, enjoying themselves, and that requires a lot of moving parts—the drinks keep flowing, the music keeps playing, and our players keep playing. But they won’t keep playing if they’re choking on stank bills, you know?” explained Anthony DiMello, The Pepperball’s GM. “Quarters go through a million hands, and each leaves its nasty trace. And cash is made of fibers. Over a day, they trap the hot dog grease you doused your hand in, they trap the sweat you wiped on yourself—it all adds up to one thing: stink. If we could be cashless, our guests’ olfactories wouldn’t say no. But, no cash would cut our customer base, so for now, it’s fresh money in the beginning of the day, disgusting old money out at the end.” At press time, hundreds of gamblers were seen running for the exits, as one player dropped a billfold containing tens of dollars that had been printed all the way back in 2008, thoroughly stinking up the place. The post Casino Throws Out Old Money at End of Day appeared first on HARDTIMES.