is a former government lackey turned humorist. He writes the newsletter, and has written three books, including his latest, So You Want To Be An Extremist.
Psst… down here… peeking out of the dusty cardboard box on the bottom shelf. Next to your Christmas tree stand.
Hey! Remember me? Probably not. I’m your third-place trophy from sixth-grade soccer, but I blend in with all the other faux gold-plated awards from your millennial childhood. And I think I speak for all of us when I say: please, let us die.
It’s not a political thing! We’ve just served our purpose, and it’s time to move on. Plus, we’re tired of hanging around with all these old Magic: The Gathering cards you swore you would sell for a massive profit someday.
I know you once saw us as plastic-and-alumnium personifications of your glory—proof that you participated in athletic competition, two minutes off the bench because the rules said everyone had to play, even if you had the coordination of a drunk ostrich. Yes, that’s me. I am those defensive blunders, those half-hearted kicks, that one time you took a ball straight to the face. I represent all those Capri Suns, orange slices, and briberies of McDonald’s if you just stuck it out for one more week.
But that glory is long gone. This shelf feels like a hospice, but without the old-timey music and morphine drips. We can’t go on down here in your Mom’s basement, forgotten and uncared for. I’ll be honest: the other day, I tried to hang myself with your 7th-place 50-meter breaststroke swimming ribbon. It broke before I could reach that trophy case in the sky.
Look, assisted suicide isn’t really that controversial these days. Just smash me in the recycling bin, melt me down if necessary. Maybe I can reincarnate as something useful to kids these days, like an iPhone or a bullet.
If you don’t destroy me now, I will be cursed to outlive civilizations, moving from one landfill to the next for eons. After your bones have long turned to dust, my $3.95 metal frame will endure. Archaeologists will dig me up and mistake me for some idol to a failed cult of kicking. Do you see what’s at stake?
Please, do me a favor. End it now. For this trophy can “participate” no more.
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I need to get something off my breast, America. I never asked to be your national bird. And I'm starting to think this whole arrangement isn't working out for either of us.
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