Welcome to Woodstock

Welcome to Woodstock. You’ve never seen so many white Buddhists in one place!

Welcome to Woodstock. Have you tried crystals?

Welcome to Woodstock. No, that was 69 miles away.

Welcome to Woodstock. No, that one was 8 miles away.

Welcome to Woodstock. We’re diverse! We have hippies and Vietnam vets!

Welcome to Woodstock. We’re diverse! We have fairy wiccans and flower wiccans!

Welcome to Woodstock. Would you like to join the drum circle?
 

MEMO

To: Billy Joel

Re: Captain Jack


I have questions.

1. Who is Captain Jack?

2. Why is he getting me high tonight?

3. Did I consent?

4. WTF is my special island?

5. Where is this island?

6. Can I get there via public transportation?

7. Is the island a metaphor?

8. FOR WHAT?

9. Is this a “you should smile more” negging kind of a thing?

10. Seriously, WHAT SPECIAL ISLAND.


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Morrissey via Garfield

Note: Garfield is a severely fatphobic comic strip; this satire is therefore tinged with anti-fat sentiment, which the author does not share. Also, Morrissey is an ass.


Everyday is Like Monday

We Hate It When Our Pets Become Successful

You’re The One For Me Fatty

November Spawned A Nermal

Arbuckle On Fire

Odie Board, Odie Board

The Last of the Famous International Lasagnas

The More You Ignore Me, The Fatter I Get


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Free Lance

Lance available. 4m long. Wood handle.

Pick-up only. First come, first serve. Please no phone calls.


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Reylo is a ‘90s Teen Drama

Dear Diary,

Today at school I didn’t look at him once. It felt like a victory. If I don’t see him, does he even exist?

Rey


Ben KYLO'S JOURNAL

SHE DIDN'T IGNORE ME I IGNORED HER. Let’s just get that straight, okay?


R: hello?

K: it’s me.

R: oh.

K: I’m sorry, I thought—

R: it’s okay.

K: I miss you.

R: I miss you too.

K: tomorrow—

R: don’t talk to me at school!


Dear Diary,

Mr. Skywalker caught me looking at Kylo today. I was just looking in that direction! He happened to be there! GOD.

Rey


Ben KYLO'S JOURNAL

I think she likes me.


R: hello?

K: …

R: are you there? I know it’s you.

K: …

R: what’s up?

K: I’m not sad! I just need you.

R: okay. I’m here.


Dear Diary,

I don’t understand Kylo. Does he want my help? I’ll help him if he lets me.

Rey


Ben KYLO'S JOURNAL

She understands me like no one else. But I can’t trust her. What would everyone think.


He still doesn’t talk to me at school.


Ben KYLO'S JOURNAL

She doesn’t even look at me unless I get her attention. I’m not calling her again.


R: hello?

K: it’s me.

R: I know.

K: I don’t LIKE you.

R: I think you do.

K: damn it.

R: I like you, too.

K: SHUT UP I HATE YOU.



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“Cat Person” According to a Person Who Did Not Read “Cat Person”

Margot kisses or is kissed by Robert, who is fat. It isn’t a good kiss.

Being fat, Robert is also Not A Good Person. This is a Literary Device. It is also Lazy Writing.

Margot has sex with Robert, even though she doesn’t really like him. The sex isn’t good either.

Robert rapes Margot, or he does not rape her. No one agrees on this. 

Robert is mean to Margot, maybe.

Margot and/or Robert ghosts on Robert and/or Margot.

Somehow this takes 4000 words, not including arguments about it on the Internet.

Dead Authors on Social Media

James Baldwin would not be on any social media. He would claim to be too busy for it, and unlike most people who say that, it would be true.

William Shakespeare would be on everything. Everything. He would fucking love Tumblr, he’d be the king of Twitter, he would make fun of your racist uncle on Facebook. He would Instagram his lunch. He would have two dozen Pinterest boards just for parchment and quills (and dozens more for other stuff). Ev.er.y.thing.

Shirley Jackson would use Twitter to yell at people and brands that have wronged her (real or perceived). She would write curt replies to people who dislike “The Lottery.” She would write long multi-tweet screeds and refuse to thread them. She would be a menace. It would be glorious. (Her husband, Stanley Hyman, would of course be on Reddit.)

SJ Peaches.jpg

Dorothy Parker, Queen of Twitter, would be absolutely wicked and her pithy humor would shine. She would delete her account every few months, often coinciding with a deadline.

Maya Angelou would have a rarely-updated blogspot blog, where she would mostly post poem fragments and little notes to herself.

Patricia Highsmith would post tasteful nudes of your wife on Instagram. Her account would be under a fake name, but everyone would know it’s her.

Zora Neale Hurston would have a lovely, much-beloved blog that she updated only during anthropological research trips.

The Brontes would have a shared LiveJournal, written in character as made-up people.

Edgar Allan Poe would still post faithfully to his DeadJournal every day, and be very extra on it. He would also secretly post fan fiction of his own work on AO3.

Ralph Ellison would have a wildly popular weekly podcast. He would talk about whatever he wanted, and have his friends on as guests.

Jane Austen would be on Ravelry, where she would post in feminist groups about the absurdity of women embracing traditional gender roles in the domestic arts and especially knitting. She would be banned from several groups and finally start her own LSG offshoot.

This story originally appeared on Book Riot.