The Trump administration announced a nuclear cooperation deal with Saudi Arabia earlier this week, clearing the way for the kingdom to eventually enrich its own uranium. While the announcement came as a surprise, Saudi Arabia has become an increasingly close ally of the Trump family, having recently invested $2 billion in Jared Kushner's private equity firm, plus approving a $1 billion Trump-branded development in Jeddah. What a beautiful friendship!

Critics of the president have pointed out the deal’s awkward timing. Trump entered America’s current war in the Middle East on the stated grounds of stopping the Islamic government in Iran from getting a nuclear weapon. Then he turned around and created a path for the Islamic government in Saudi Arabia, which has its own somewhat notable history of friction with America, to do exactly the same thing.

However, viewed from a slightly wider lens — the widest lens, really — the deal makes perfect sense. Here's the breakdown, courtesy of our in-house Nihilist.

What is the deal?

It’s a 30-year agreement that lets American companies build Saudi Arabia's civilian nuclear program, with the possibility of uranium enrichment down the road.

When the deal ends, all that will remain is the uranium, indifferent to treaties and to those who sign them, its atoms slowly decaying until the planet itself has forgotten any conception of “man.”

Read more

Writing is difficult. I’ll be the first one to admit it — primarily because it’s a great excuse when my writing sucks. I think about quitting more frequently than I'd like to admit, and I know I'm not the only one. Many of us have considered transitioning into a different career that seems easier or more lucrative.

Unfortunately, lots of writers develop a sense that they don't have the skills to do anything else. I’m here to say that’s not true! The writer’s path can prepare you for a surprisingly broad list of careers.

Here are some examples:

• Thought leader

• Laptop tester

• Full-time procrastinator

• “Non-profit worker” (unemployed)

• Embittered librarian

• Preschool teacher

• Preschooler

• Aggressively crazy person rummaging through dumpsters

• End-of-movie predictor

• Court stenographer for cases where everyone speaks very slowly

• Shut-in

• Cautionary tale for young people who might dare to tread the same path

• Newsletter operator 😎

Leave a comment

Share

MORE LISTS

Hey Chris,

Just reviewed the latest cut of The Odyssey with some of our team here at Universal. Really excellent stuff, as always. We wanted to share some collected thoughts for you to take or leave. (We notice you “left” many of our earlier suggestions, but thanks for casting John Leguizamo.)

Overall, we’re a bit concerned that the audience won’t make the Odysseus-Odyssey connection. We just want to set clear expectations going in the door. We’re wondering if you might be open to a subtitle — something like The Odyssey: Epic Adventures of Odysseus. Think on it.

Here are a few other notes to review:

• We’re noticing a lot of boat scenes. Is this something you’re committed to? Please consider alternatives... Jet skis?

• The lighting is really dark inside the Trojan Horse. Might want to add some windows or flashlights in post-production.

• Love that we got Tom Holland for this one, but it feels like we’re not taking full advantage just yet. Is there a place Telemachus can swing from webs?

• We did a movie involving pigs several years ago and it bombed. We’d prefer it if Circe turned the men into something else. (Raccoons are very popular right now.)

• Once they mentioned a journey to hell, we all expected to meet a cartoon devil at some point. It never happens. The audience might be disappointed here.

• As suggested earlier, the introduction of the Sirens seems like a missed opportunity for a song. It’s not too late for us to call Idina Menzel.

• Odysseus should eat some of the Sun God’s cattle. He looked very hungry. We didn’t understand this part.

• Sort of unfortunate that we never get to see Penelope’s completed weaving. Maybe she finishes it in a post-credits easter egg?

• We’re just now realizing that the characters aren’t Romans. It’d be good to establish this early on with a very clear phrase like “It’s all Greek to me.” (But feel free to use your own words.)

• We can definitely see a whole universe here. Let’s get Homer writing a sequel ASAP.

Leave a comment

Share

Editor’s note: I loved this movie! Highly recommend.

MORE FROM CHORTLE

Millions of people across North America have been forced to deal with smoky fallout from raging Canadian wildfires in recent days. This has led to severely unhealthy air quality in multiple major cities, with local leaders urging residents to stay indoors until the smoke passes.

While this type of air pollution is somewhat unusual for other parts of America, as a California resident I have plenty of experience with wildfire smoke. It comes to us annually. We greet it like an acid flashback: the sky turns yellow, then we go about our day.

You can always spot newcomers to the wildfire experience because they’re “concerned” about “health.” What these worrywarts don’t realize is that there are actually many pros to living with ever-present smoke. You simply have to make lemonade from lemons — provided your lemon tree has not yet been choked to death by ash.

A short list of perks to the Canadian wildfires, for the newly initiated:

Read more

As you probably already know, longtime South Carolina senator Lindsey Graham suddenly passed away this weekend after what his office described as “a brief and sudden illness.” I have strong personal opinions regarding Graham’s rapacious desire for war in the Middle East and his humiliating about-face on Donald Trump, but I recognize that it’s bad manners to speak ill of the deceased. So you won’t find any jokes about Lindsey Graham here. I shan't even note that he was so deeply in the closet his actual cause of death was probably “eaten by moths.”

On the other hand, longtime Kentucky senator Mitch McConnell posted a proof-of-life photo over the weekend after disappearing from the public eye for so long that Kentucky’s governor requested a health update. The picture was shot in what photography experts call a “hostage style,” with the same day’s newspaper included.

Mitch McConnell is officially still alive. Which means that, for a few more days at least, I’m allowed to roast his ass.

Let’s be real, Mitch. You’re not looking too good. I know that’s a relative term considering your generally reptilian vibe, but still. That picture makes you look like Kermit the Frog pumped full of morphine. I’m pretty sure your eyes are pointing in three different directions. You’ve looked old for several decades, but now you just look taxidermied.

In fact, I’m guessing that the main reason you haven’t yet shuffled off this mortal coil is all the leftover polio in your legs. I actually think it’s unfair that modern medicine is keeping you alive, considering how hard you’ve fought to keep Americans from accessing it. At this point, it seems like you were just hogging all the Obamacare for yourself, like a dragon sleeping on a mountain of affordable health plans.

You should have retired years ago, Mitch. You could have spent the Trump presidencies as a private citizen, pursuing passions like freezing mid-sentence in peace. Instead, you’re probably the least liked person in America. Democrats and independents hate you. Trump and his people don’t like you, either. Who’s even left to give your eulogy? (It won’t be Lindsey Graham!)

Here’s a fun idea for you to contemplate as you try to ignore that hooded figure in your hospital room currently beckoning with bony fingers: no one will remember you. I’m about to turn 40, and I couldn’t tell you who the Senate majority leader was when I was in high school for a million dollars.1 In twenty years, you’ll just be some guy with a highway named after you in the #1 state for alcoholism and horse racing accidents.

So congrats on the breathing, Mitch. I hope you’re “technically alive” enough to realize that almost everyone wishes you weren’t!

Leave a comment

Share

Subscribe now

Dear Mr. Benjamin Franklin,

For several years now, I have obediently heeded your advice and gone to bed early (at 9:30 p.m.) every night, without fail. This allows me to wake up, like clockwork, eight hours later (at 5:30 a.m.), which I hope we can agree is objectively ‘early to rise’. Yet despite this regimented sleep schedule, I am not healthy, wealthy, nor wise.

For this reason, I would like to lodge a formal complaint.

Going to bed at 9:30 p.m. as a full-fledged adult isn’t always easy. I live in a city, and I’m single. As a notoriously promiscuous person yourself, I’m sure you know how much happens after dark. Explaining to potential paramours that I, a 30-year-old woman, have a rigid bedtime isn’t exactly a turn-on. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been on a date and, no sooner has my suitor asked if I’d like a second G&T than I check my watch and see that my early-to-bedtime is fast approaching. Nevertheless, I’ve tried to be strong and trust in your words.

On the other hand, waking up at 5:30 a.m. day in and day out is exhausting. Scientists say that maintaining a regular sleep schedule helps regulate your body clock. (You were way ahead of the curve on this, Mr. Franklin, sir.) But sometimes a gal just wants to sleep in! My roommate told me that if my tea kettle wakes her up at 5:45 a.m. one more time, she’s going to replace my hairspray with bleach and put glue on the inside of my hat so it sticks to my head, like in Matilda. (That’s one of my favorite movies, but the other night when my friends got stoned together and watched it, I couldn’t join because I had already taken my melatonin and drunk the last drop of my Sleepytime Tea, thanks to you.)

As you can see, I have made many sacrifices to adhere to the constraints laid out in your famed proverb. I’ve put my full faith in you, genius polymath and American founder, Benjamin Franklin. And yet, when I went in for my annual physical last week, the doctor performed the check-up, reviewed my bloodwork, then firmly told me I needed to take better care of myself. Eating a full-sized candy bar for a bedtime snack isn’t healthy, she informed me. Regular exercise is important, she advised. When I tried to explain that I go to bed early and wake up early too, which should make me healthy, wealthy, and wise — thereby compensating for my other poor choices — she referred me to a psychiatrist.

Furthermore, I got my latest credit card bill the other day, and it turns out I AM NOT WEALTHY! I owe them over $23,000. As a devotee of the Franklin method, I was positive that this couldn’t be correct. Yet when I called my bank’s wealth management team for assistance, they couldn’t suppress their laughter. “You don’t have any wealth to manage,” they blurted out between fits of giggles.

Evidently, I am not healthy, and perhaps I am not wealthy. But, I thought to myself, surely I had gained enough wisdom to offset these problems, thanks to our nation’s most esteemed founding father. So, off I went to take an IQ test. Suffice to say that the members of the wealth management team are not the only ones who got a nice abdominal workout from their efforts to suppress hysterics.

Mr. Franklin, I write to you as an admirer who has historically held you in the highest regard. Please, I beg you: What the hell do I need to do to obtain health, wealth, and wisdom ASAP? An 8 p.m. bedtime? A 4 a.m alarm? I am willing to give anything you advise a try (except syphilis).

Sincerely,
Unwell, Poor, and Foolish

Leave a comment

Share

MORE FROM CHORTLE

We all agree that politicians cannot be trusted to draw their own districts. However, every gerrymandering “solution” merely presents more problems: Relying on the courts has been a bust, multi-member house seats remind me of when the teacher forced group projects on the class, and algorithmic mapping sounds suspiciously like letting Claude run the republic.

Even America’s metaphors are malfunctioning — the seams have split on the patchwork quilt, and the melting pot has boiled over. Now, this nation can only be described as a work of pointillism. A dot painting. As it turns out, every man is an island. Democracy floats adrift in a vast Americapeligo.

The only fair solution is obvious: Draw a congressional district around each person.

Who better to represent you than… you? Approval ratings among your constituent will skyrocket. Every two years, take pride in reelecting yourself with 100% of the vote (that’s a mandate!). Or, alternatively, hold yourself accountable. Convene a town hall in your bathroom mirror. Publicly condemn yourself after embroiling yourself in a sex scandal. Launch an internal ethics investigation after you catch yourself accepting a bribe.

Take Craig MacDougal of Omaha. Craig would represent Nebraska’s 1,456,701st Congressional District. Its borders would radiate outward from the approximate longitude and latitude of Craig’s spinal column, extending twenty-two inches in every direction. Twenty-three after Thanksgiving dinner.

“Welcome to Congress, Representative MacDougal. Your district’s boundaries will be demarcated by this hula hoop. Please keep it around your waist at all times or risk censure.”

While we’re at it, abolish the fifty states. It’s time for hyper-federalism. Stitch as many stars onto Betsy Ross’s flag as there are actual stars in the night sky. Become your own state: Callie-fornia. Ken-tucky. Penn-Sylvia. Rhode Island may remain unchanged out of respect.

Be your own boss. That is to say, serve simultaneously as governor, lieutenant governor, comptroller, fire marshal, sanitation commissioner, and disappointed parent of the state’s public school system (you’re also the superintendent). Government of one person, by one person, for one person.

E pluribus? Nah. Just unum.

Did you know the House of Representatives has been capped at 435 members since 1913? That’s absurd, elitist, anti-democratic. Uncle Sam needs to make room for Uncle Jesse, because we’re going Full House. Fuller, even. Expand the chamber to include every American.

Current population estimates would place congressional membership at roughly 342 million representatives, though that number will fluctuate slightly whenever someone gives birth to twins (an instant political dynasty, as the pair will be promptly sworn in by the midwife).

In this new political landscape, Congress shall convene in a colossal, ever-expanding superstadium (or “FreeDome”) built at the mean center of the U.S. population. According to the Census Bureau, the heart of America lies near Hartville, Missouri. This gargantuan arena will envelop Hartville and most of greater Wright County. Unlike the Great Wall of China, the FreeDome actually will be visible from space.

Parliamentary procedure will require air-traffic control. Freshman representatives seated leagues away in the nosebleeds will fire signal flares to invoke cloture. C-SPAN broadcasts will resemble footage of migrating birds. A masochistic few will watch the blurry speck of a filibustering Cory Booker through military-grade binoculars.

This, folks, is what direct democracy looks like. And frankly, it’s the only recourse we have left.

(Or I guess we could establish independent commissions to review political maps so districts don’t disproportionately benefit one party and more accurately reflect the will of voters.)

Until then, I’ll be in my hula hoop.

Leave a comment

Share

MORE FROM LUKE HERZOG

Colonel Tavington, dastardly villain that he is, spots me wearing my No Kings hoodie and tears it off me like a petticoat.

“That cost me $30 on Etsy,” I say. “But if you don’t carry that kind of currency, I’m sure we could work something else out…”

I squeeze myself into a period-appropriate corset. It’s so uncomfortable, I worry I’ll suffocate to death, but at least it gives me insane cleavage à la Aunt Charlotte. However, in an unfortunate twist of events, my now-ample bosom accidentally smothers my lover Tavington to death.

We catch each other’s eyes at the British and Loyalist ball. He advances toward me and runs a tender hand down the sleeve of my gown. “Your dress is quite fetching,” he says.

“Thanks,” I reply, blushing. “It’s from the American Girl Doll catalog. Felicity, obviously.”

Subscribe now

He’s somehow shifted into his character from The White Lotus, and he steals his wife’s bottle of Lorazepam and brings it to me. “You’re the only one I’d ever share this with,” he confides. We each simultaneously pop a pill, lie atop the 4,000-thread-count sheets in his suite, and sleep for eleven uninterrupted hours.

Jason Isaacs/Tavington is in the middle of bribing Tom Wilkinson/Cornwallis into granting him a parcel of American land after the war.

“Tell me about… Ohio,” he purrs.

“Ooh, I was born there!” I shout, emerging from the corner. “I can tell you anything. Birthplace of aviation—don’t let North Carolina tell you otherwise. Cedar Point. Skyline Chili. Rock ‘N Roll Hall of Fame. Has its own national park, inexplicably. Was a key swing state in the national elections for a while, but that’s pretty much been shot to shit now. OSU Buckeyes. Honestly, their fans can be scarier than the Redcoats. More? I can keep talking dirty all night, baby.”

He wears his Lucius Malfoy costume for me. I spend hours brushing and French-braiding his long blonde mane before we make spellbinding, wizardly love. Right before he’s about to finish, I whisper in his ear, “I never made it through all of the Harry Potter books.”

I come across him, so to speak, shaving by the creek. Yes, that scene where his long, wavy hair is down and his frilly white shirt dangles open sluttily. I don’t stand a chance.

“Is that a straight razor in your hand, or are you just happy to see me?” I try.

“Who the hell are you?” he asks, glaring.

“I… uh… have an urgent message from your general! He says he just figured out that the only way to defeat the Patriot militia is for you to have sex with me. Immediately!”

I roll over in bed the morning after a night of passionate lovemaking and sigh.

“Anything troubling you, darling?” Jason Isaacs from The Patriot asks.

“Not really. I mean… just… sigh. You’re so hot, and politics aside, I think we make a great couple. It’s only… do you think you could ever maybe consider… not murdering children or setting churches full of innocent civilians on fire?”

“No,” he replies without hesitation.

“Really? Not even for me?”

“Certainly not. I have a duty to uphold.”

“…Eh, no biggie,” I say. “Figured it couldn’t hurt to ask, but hardly a dealbreaker.”

Mel Gibson’s character ducks just in time to avoid Colonel Tavington’s killing blow. He catches Tavington by surprise and prepares to impale my smoldering Brit with a bayonet, but I sneak up from behind and slash the American rebel first.

“No one,” I snarl, “penetrates Tavington… except for me.”

“But… Why? I’m the hero…” Mel croaks with his dying breath.

“Yeah, supposedly, but your antisemitism comes to light in a few more years, and it’s not pretty. Also, this movie becomes, like, disturbingly popular with the J6ers. See ya.”

The Colonel and I ride off into the sunset. Me in front, of course.

Leave a comment

Share

MORE FROM CHORTLE

Happy birthday to me! Don’t you remember? One year ago today, you took a blurry picture of some distant fireworks—and here I am! Which brings me to my question…

Why do I exist?

I mean, why the hell did you decide to take a photo of fireworks?

I just want to know my purpose here. Were you planning to look at me later on? You haven’t. Were you hoping to somehow capture the ineffable magic of exploding colors? Didn’t happen. Were you going to get me printed on paper? I don’t think they even do that anymore!

Don’t get me wrong, I understand how I exist. It was last 4th of July, and you were a little tipsy. A big fireworks extravaganza at the casino down by the water was in full swing. And so you couldn’t resist snapping some pics on your phone.

Hundreds of them.

Harmless, right? Who cares if they’re out of focus? They’ll still be fun to have, right?

WRONG! I’m not fun at all! In fact, I suck! Let me tell you, that kind of self-knowledge really weighs on a digital file. (By the way, every other photo on your phone sucks, too. It’s a really sad group to hang around with. Maybe you should take a class or something.)

In a way, I can’t blame you for my poor composition. Your phone’s light sensor simply wasn’t made to capture those fireworks in all their glory. But… you realize there are millions of photos of fireworks on the internet, right? Like, you could probably find better pics of the exact same fireworks show just by Googling it?

Or, hear me out, you could just fondly remember the many other fireworks shows you’ve seen. I mean, you went to three last year alone. You know how I know? Because you took photos then, too!

Sorry to be a downer. I guess everyone gets a little existential on their birthday. I just hope this is a wake-up call for you. From now on, try to enjoy things in the moment. Stop and smell the flowers once in a while… without taking their picture. (I’ve seen your attempts to capture the botanical garden.)

Leave a comment

Share

MORE FROM CHORTLE

DECLARED, by the undersigned (henceforth known as “me”), acting in my capacity as sovereign of the backyard:

My lawn having not responded in a satisfactory manner to my efforts over a period of many years, I am compelled to see to the safeguarding of my rights and interests, and, with this declaration, to have recourse to force of arms, on the basis of the following offenses.

• WHEREAS I have, in good faith, aerated, seeded, fertilized, and watered said lawn each spring for the past four years, only for it to look worse now than if I had never done anything at all;

• WHEREAS I have repeatedly applied topsoil to level the lawn’s irregular surface, which has somehow increased the number of bumps;

• WHEREAS my firsthand experience has proven Scotts® EZ Seed® Patch & Repair to be a blatantly false brand name;

• WHEREAS I’ve tried four different kinds of rakes;

• WHEREAS the dead grass gives the property an unmistakable “Boo Radley” vibe;

• WHEREAS my neighbor’s cat has taken to pooping on the lawn’s bare patches, which causes my dog to dig up and eat said cat poop;

• WHEREAS it’s frankly a miracle that the whole thing hasn’t already gone up in a wildfire;

I consequently consider myself henceforward in a state of war with my lawn. I hereby order its complete and unconditional destruction utilizing all tools, methods, and materials at my disposal.

It is my intention to swiftly pursue this state of total annihilation by continuing my current horticultural approach without modification.

Leave a comment

Share

Big Ol’ Thanks!

I want to give a hefty shout-out to Perry B. and Barbara B. for B-coming paid subscribers. I also want to profusely apologize to you both for the “B-coming” joke I made in the previous sentence, and I promise that every joke you read in Chortle from now on will be better than that. I really appreciate your support!

Subscribe now

MORE FROM CHORTLE

The [researchers] combed through the existing scientific literature on animal play behavior, looking for mentions of vocal play signals — or what might be thought of as laughter.

“This work lays out nicely how a phenomenon once thought to be particularly human turns out to be closely tied to behavior shared with species separated from humans by tens of millions of years,” [UCLA professor of communication Greg] Bryant said.

Naturally, my first thought was that I’ve been overlooking a vast potential audience of humor lovers. Chortle subscribers account for a tiny fraction of the human population, but if we apply that same percentage to 65 additional species, we’re suddenly talking about real numbers and big-time bucks. Plus, what else is a zebra going to spend $70/year on?

But not all laughter is created equal. Some laughs are downright off-putting, and I don’t want any real-life Woody Woodpeckers around to annoy all of my humans subscribers. Luckily, I consider myself a laughter expert, so I took to YouTube to research which animals are welcome to come laugh along with us.

Seagull

Verdict: A bit sinister, but at least it’s enthusiastic. Therefore, seagulls are welcome to subscribe to Chortle.

Chimpanzee

Read more

The Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool has always drawn crowds. By day, they come with cameras, with children, with an air of civic obligation. But this week, they’re coming for another reason. The pool turned green thanks to a vigorous algae bloom, and it’s all America can talk about.

The tourists have not stayed away. If anything, there are more of them than ever before.

I am here on the National Mall after midnight, at the pool’s request via publicist. The visitors are mostly gone now. The pool’s surface is very green and very still. A National Guard Humvee idles near the Washington Monument, its engine the only sound. The air feels thick, like the basement of a YMCA.

There are bodies of water with greater histories. There are bodies of water that are bigger, deeper, better smelling. But right now, in the summer of 2026, there is no body of water in America that is more talked about than the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool. And she knows it.

CHORTLE: How are you feeling?

REFLECTING POOL: Honestly? I’m thriving. And I’m not just talking about the bacterial cultures, honey. This renovation, the new color, the higher temperature that accelerates algae metabolism and reproduction… I’m loving it all.

That’s surprising.

Are you kidding? I’m everywhere. People are calling this a Hot Pool Summer.

So you’re saying you don’t mind the algae bloom?

When I first noticed it, yes, I had a moment. I'm not going to pretend I didn't. But then came the attention. International attention. When was the last time a concrete basin of water went viral? I guess the truth is that I’m just a messy monument who loves drama.

But you just underwent a $15 million renovation, and there are already reports of peeling paint. Aren’t you upset by that?

Actually, I find it a little gross that people are speculating about a strong, independent reflecting pool's body like this.

Tell me about your relationship with the president.

Oh, you mean Donny? We go way back. I’ve always been his favorite monument. He could stare at his own reflection for hours.

That makes sense. It seems like the president has recently made you one of his signature projects, along with the White House ballroom and his proposed arch.

No, no, no. You’ve got it all wrong. As the president’s closest personal fecund pond, I can tell you that I’ve been one of his highest priorities since he first came to Washington. He’s always wanted to make this city feel more like his beloved Florida. He never said the whole plan out loud, but I was always part of it. It was supposed to be: “Drain the swamp… into the reflecting pool.”

Leave a comment

Share

MORE EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEWS

Over the last year or two, the proliferation of random streaming apps like Tubi and Pluto has meant more people are watching extremely low-budget independent movies. It turns out there are tons of them! Many are earnest attempts to make a good film by people who are unconnected to mainstream Hollywood. Others are obvious cash grabs.

Among the second group, I saw an ad the other day for a movie called My Daughter Was Taken. This, of course, is less of a nod to the popular Liam Neeson film franchise and more of a deep, suppliant bow — especially with the way the word “Taken” is emphasized in the artwork. Now, there’s a long, shallow tradition of low-budget producers ripping off blockbuster movies in hopes of tricking audiences, perhaps best exemplified by Transmorphers and most other “movies” produced by The Asylum. But this one seems especially… something… to me.

Desperate? Genius?

Not only have the producers of My Daughter Was Taken lifted their plot directly from Neeson’s Taken movies, but they also managed to avoid copyright infringement by slightly changing the title so that it clearly explains the plot of their stolen movie. It’s a brilliant legal backflip that perfectly positions this film with its target audience: complete dumbasses. I have to believe there’s no lower common denominator than this. My Daughter Was Taken is clearly targeting people who want to watch a movie about a daughter being taken, but don’t care enough to realize that the one they chose doesn’t star Liam Neeson.

If I’m being honest, I’m a little jealous. It’s really hard to get a movie made. But it seems I’ve been going about it all wrong. To get my dream project off the ground, all I have to do is base it on an existing blockbuster, then come up with a title that explains the plot to the quasi-literate.

With that in mind, here are a few ideas I’ve been playing around with.

• The Shark With Big JAWS

• My TITANIC Boat Trip

• A Really SUPER Hero Saves Every MAN

• The Guy That Seemed Nice, But Was Really a PSYCHO

• Who’s Really The PARASITE On Society?

• The CARS That Could Talk For 3 Hours Straight

• Help! JURASSIC Creatures Are Loose In My PARK!

• The MISSION That Seemed IMPOSSIBLE But Was Completed Successfully

• Why Can’t These Sons Please THEir GOD Damn FATHER?

• THE Dark LORD OF This Area Wants To Steal Our Jewelery, Specifically THE RINGS, Which Is Why THE Group Of Us Decided To Form a FELLOWSHIP OF Fantasy Archetypes To Protect THE Main RING

Leave a comment

Share

Help Chortle keep growing!

• ❤️ Like this post.

• 💬 Leave a comment. (I love to hear from you!)

• 🔄 Share or restack this post so others can find it.

• ✉️ Become a FREE subscriber!

• 🤑 Even better, become a paid subscriber for just $7/month!

Subscribe now

MORE FROM CHORTLE

Happy Father's Day to all the other dads out there. I want to use this special holiday to share some of the fatherly wisdom I've accumulated over the years, since my son Jalen Brunson was just named MVP of the NBA Finals…

Y’all ain’t shit!

Oh, you think you’re a good dad because you taught your kid to ride a bike? Because you showed up to piano recitals? Trash. How many cities has your child single-handedly united? How many 53-year title droughts have they ended? How many times have they inspired Taylor Swift and Mariska Hargitay to hug? GTFO.

I played nine years in the NBA. I averaged 3.2 points per game. But that’s not my legacy anymore. Now, I’m the guy who saved the New York Knicks. MY former agent1 gave MY son millions of dollars and made ME an assistant coach. Then we won the title. Boo-yah.

Let’s be clear: I am the GOAT of dads. Since the invention of fatherhood, no dad has ever pulled anything like this off. I am living a dream that every father who has ever thrown a ball with his kid in a driveway has imagined and then thought better of imagining because it was unrealistic.

Burn your “#1 Dad” t-shirts, everyone. They are now verifiably false. I’m in first place.

Some of you other dads have also had big moments recently. I see you. Let me explain why they don't compare.

• Playing in an NBA game alongside your son. I respect LeBron James as a player. But as a father, he has led Bronny to zero NBA titles.

• A father and a son both becoming president. The Bush family pulled this off, but they went 3-1 in their elections. We beat San Antonio 4-1.

• Your son dying for mankind's sins. Much respect to God, but there is zero indication in the Bible that Jesus could hoop.

Look, at the end of the day, fatherhood is a journey. It's not easy. You give everything you have, and you just have to hope that it's enough. So seriously, happy Father’s Day to anyone out there doing it.

YOU’RE JUST NOT DOING IT AS WELL AS ME!!!! KNICKS BABY. JALEN BRUNSON. THAT'S MY SON! THAT'S MY BOY RIGHT THERE. WE DID IT. WE DID IT NEW YORK. HA!! HA!! HA!! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.

Leave a comment

Share

MORE PARENTING

[Elon Musk’s] less-than-illustrious track record had X users believing that Musk may have been secretly puppetting the account of his mother, Maye Musk... The gleeful conspiracy theories were fueled by a now-deleted tweet made by Maye Musk’s account which was responding to another tweet Elon made about his grandmother, who was “a housekeeper in England,” he claimed. — Futurism, May 7th, 2026

Editor’s Note: The following tweets were posted and quickly deleted after the SpaceX IPO, which made Elon Musk humanity’s first trillionaire. Luckily, I was able to capture these screenshots for posterity.

Leave a comment

Share

MORE FROM CHORTLE

If you want to stay informed about periodic Chortle submission calls, sign up for our writers list by clicking the button below and entering your email address.

Sign up for writing announcements

(FYI: This is a different list than our normal posts go to!)

June 2026 Submission Info

Hey, funny people! I’m Greg, the founder and editor of Chortle. I’m currently seeking short humor submissions about America.

Please note that I am most interested in thoughtful pieces about American ideas, culture, and/or history. So please no Onion-style fake news posts or topical pieces about Donald Trump’s latest craziness. Accepted pieces pay $100.

Keep reading to see the full submission guidelines and a link to the submission form…

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES

Deadline:

This round of submissions is due by 11:59 PM on Tuesday, June 30th. Responses will go out by July 8th at the latest.

Payment:

Accepted pieces pay $100. Writers retain future ownership of their work.

The Basics:

• I’m seeking short humor pieces (700 words or fewer) with a funny, unique POV on America.

• Short humor means satire, parody, lists, fake advice, absurdist pieces, and other formats you might see in McSweeney’s or The New Yorker’s Shouts and Murmurs section.

• We DO NOT publish personal essays or short fiction.

• Pieces should be previously unpublished, including on personal newsletters/blogs.

• Comics and other multimedia formats are welcome for consideration.

• Please do not submit multiple pieces.

• Before you submit, I highly suggest you read some of our most popular posts to get a sense of our publishing tastes.

Tips for a Strong Submission:

• Your comedic premise should be clear within the first paragraph.

• The piece should build and escalate throughout.

• Keep it tightly written without extra digressions.

• Show off a unique voice or perspective.

Common Mistakes I See:

• The focus of the piece is unclear.

• There aren’t enough jokes.

• The piece requires extensive setup to reach the funny part.

• It covers well-worn topics or points of view.

• It consists mostly of dialogue and/or is written like a script.

Keep scrolling for the submission link!

Do you want feedback on your writing?

I frequently get asked to provide feedback on submissions, and I can’t respond to everyone. But if you’re a paid Chortle subscriber, I’m happy to provide notes on your piece—there’s a place to request them on the submission form.1 (New readers/writers are also welcome to take advantage of this offer by upgrading their subscription.)

Subscribe now

👉 SUBMIT HERE 👈

If you’re ready to submit a piece, click the button below to go to the submission form!

SUBMIT!!!

QUESTIONS?

Feel free to email me directly at greg@chortle.blog or leave a comment on this post.2

Leave a comment

Share

The 2026 FIFA World Cup started yesterday, ushering in 39 days of decisions about whether to call it football or soccer. In a break from tradition, this year’s tournament is being co-hosted by Mexico, the United States, and Canada — three cultures known for agreeing on everything, especially sports.

Opinions about the on-field action and off-field controversies are already flying. But here at Chortle, we’ll preview this major event like we always do: with cold, hard facts. Here’s the World Cup, by the numbers.

3

Number of countries hosting this year’s tournament, in an inclusive nod to polycules.

$11 billion

The record level of revenue that FIFA executives will be forced to embezzle.

Read more

My wife and I have a problem: we’ve run out of Taskmaster. Over the last two years, we’ve watched all 200+ episodes, most of them multiple times. In fact, we fall asleep basically every night to the sweet whispers of Greg Davies and Little Alex Horne. It is somehow both the funniest show on TV and the most soothing. Don’t ask me to make it make sense.

If you watch Taskmaster, you know exactly what I’m talking about. But if you’ve never seen the show, it’s pretty difficult to explain what makes it special. I’ve tried to recommend it many times, but most of my attempts sound like this:

Welcome to Taskmaster, where five British comedians you’ve never heard of solve a series of annoying puzzles created by a sixth British comedian you’ve never heard of. Then, the “Taskmaster” (who, get this, is a British comedian you’ve never heard of) mocks the puzzle-solving attempts in front of a live studio audience.

This description obviously does not capture the show’s magic. But I’ve found that the concept only sounds worse the more I try to describe it: “Ok, so for example, in one episode they have to impress a mayor and they’re not very good at it.”

Nevertheless, Taskmaster is a joy from start to finish. It is genuinely Laugh Out Loud funny. I want everyone to watch it — so your lives are a bit happier, yes, but also so you’ll all know what the hell I’m talking about when I’m talking “Taskie.” With that in mind, I’ve attempted to break down what actually makes Taskmaster special.

Subscribe now

It’s surprising

In my opinion, this is the number one reason to watch Taskmaster. All good comedy relies on surprise. Even the elementary joke about the chicken crossing the road is a misdirection. So why is it that a lot of mainstream comedy feels completely unsurprising?

Taskmaster is different, in part because creator and co-host Alex Horne constructs completely original puzzles that have never been attempted before — largely because they’re very stupid and no one in their right mind would try them. The results can’t help but be surprising, like watching a toddler open Christmas presents, except if their parents made fun of them on TV afterwards.

It’s purposeless

There’s no story to follow. There’s no million dollar prize. There’s no theme or lesson. Each episode is just a very pleasing way to spend 44 minutes.

So much of our media environment feels overwrought, like every idea is trying to pack in fifty smaller ideas just to stand out. Taskmaster is the complete opposite. It’s a show about funny people doing silly things, and that’s it. Despite twenty-plus seasons and a die hard global fanbase, its hosts still occasionally seem surprised that the whole thing exists at all.

It’s the right kind of mean

Being mean is one of the great tools in comedy, but you have to go about it the right way. It works best when the comedian is able to make the audience feel like the actual joke is the fact that they’re an asshole, which gives them the ability to say whatever they want because it’s all part of the character. (If you want a master class in this ability, check out Martin Short as Jiminy Glick.)

After spending thirteen years as a high school teacher and ten years hosting this series, Greg Davies is an expert at putting people down without making them feel bad. With him as Taskmaster, the contestants are in good hands. Even more specifically, they’re in enormous hands, because Greg is 6’8” and built like a refrigerator.

It’s British

Maybe this one is just me, but I’m exhausted by my own country right now. I don’t want to spend any more time with Americans than I already have to. So I’m basically only interested in TV from England these days. (If it’s American but uses British accents, I might give it a shot.)

Seriously, I think that one level of cultural remove makes Taskmaster a better watch. I don’t recognize most of the cast members from anything else. I’m not tired of the cultural references. The accents make everyone at least 10% more appealing. It’s like an entertainment cheat code.

I’m not sure I’ve made Taskmaster sound any more appealing here than if I had simply written, “it’s free on YouTube.” But watch an episode or two hundred, then come find me. I’ll know exactly what you want to talk about.

Leave a comment

Share

MORE FROM CHORTLE

During [an] interview, which aired on Sunday’s Meet The Press, the president claimed both the current primary elections in California and the 2020 presidential election were “rigged”. When pressed for evidence on California’s vote by Welker, he said: “All I have to do is look, and I listen.” — BBC

Hello, Mister President. It looks like you’ve got me. That’s right, you’ve finally caught the man who rigged California’s primary election.

Please, sit. The cuffs aren't necessary. Frankly, I'm relieved. When you've pulled off the greatest electoral crime in human history, you almost want someone to figure it out.

Let me tell you how I did it.

The elegance of my plan was its complexity. California has 58 counties, 22 million registered voters, and a mail-in ballot system that's been in place since the 1970s. So this electoral subterfuge required cooperation from thousands of county clerks, ballot-processing technicians, and postal employees — each of them silently committing multiple federal felonies, all so that Spencer Pratt would finish in third place, rather than second place.

Brilliant, isn’t it? We couldn’t leave anything to chance. Not with Pratt. A man of his stature — 42, unemployed, formerly on television — is too powerful to allow into elected office.

I knew immediately we had to prolong the ballot-counting process. In the heist business, we call this technique “The Trickle.” Rather than simply declaring a winner on election night, we decided to release the voting results gradually and categorize them in exhaustive detail — thereby rigging the results.

I know what you're thinking: “Why would a criminal organization capable of stealing an election need to take so long?” The answer, obviously, is drama. Anyone can steal an election on election night. A true mastermind dazzles with his crimes.

Here’s the pièce de résistance: Six weeks before the election, I had Governor Gavin Newsom send a letter to all 58 county election officials in California, warning them about the slow count. A lesser criminal would have kept his plans quiet. But I put mine on the governor’s letterhead and mailed it to every county in the state.

Hiding in plain sight. The oldest trick in the book.

It was the perfect crime. I’ve pickpocketed heads of state. I’ve seduced a Swiss banker for access to a vault. I once bribed a Singaporean customs official with a single, perfect orchid. None of it compares to the rush of rigging a municipal primary election.

I should have known that you’d see right through my scheme, though. You have a gift, Mister President. A kind of extrasensory relationship with electoral fraud. You looked at the votes while only 70% of them had been counted… and you simply knew.

But here’s the thing about men like us. We know the game never ends. You catch me, and I'm already gone. In fact, I’m not even in the room with you right now...

I'm in the mail. I was postmarked six days ago, and won’t be processed for another two weeks. “The Trickle.” Works every time.

See you in November, Mister President.

Leave a comment

Share

Big thanks!

Thanks to Andrew R., Bruce D., and Dan O. for upgrading to paid subscriptions! I’ve always called you guys “the Big Three,” and now I finally know why. I appreciate your support!

Subscribe now

MORE FROM CHORTLE

Being a young child is often scary. Everything is new, you’re never in control, and (worst of all) your parents try to make you eat dinner. Every. Single. Day.

Luckily, my son Theo has devised a foolproof system for avoiding the meals that we prepare for him. While I disagree with his goals, I can’t argue with the effectiveness of his strategy—the kid doesn’t eat a goddamn thing! So I’m sharing his nightly dinner routine for any other three-year-olds out there who aspire to starve to death.

1. Bring your toys to the table. Make sure it takes several trips.

Read more