Ian

Our crack team of writers had a beauty of an entry queued up and ready to offend. But as I sat in front of my keyboard, single malt scotch in hand and a finger poised to press “publish,” the words of Killer Mike came to me.

“We must be better than this moment.”

Second thoughts rarely interfere with my decisions, but our latest satirical hot take hovered there like a limp, sinking balloon, dragged down by two images that were on my screen.

One, the facade of the White House, looking like a home on Halloween night where the owners had forgotten to buy candy, switched off the lights and sat in the dark hoping no one would notice that all the cars were in the driveway.

Two, Tweets from a friend who was clubbed by a NYC cop (covered badge number and body cam, per union regs) for failing to walk faster than the crowd in front of her, during a non-violent protest.

So today, Pandemic Journal is going to sit down, shut up and let Killer Mike do the talking.

I pray that everyone chooses to be better than this moment.

“These are the times that try men’s souls.”

We’re kicking off today’s Pandemic Journal with some Thomas Paine, who in my not so humble opinion was writing not only about those who failed to take up arms in support of colonial rebellion, but who willfully looked the other way in the face of a growing crisis.

Those “summer soldier(s) and…sunshine patriot(s)” had the good sense to pour another drink and watch the carnage from a safe distance before cashing in on the clean-up. After swift and decisive deliberation, the Pandemic Journal editorial team has decided to follow this worthy model.

Starting today, our readers’ comfort is our north star. All editorial choices will be judged by how little they rock the boat, make waves, upset the apple cart, disturb the peace, or challenge the status quo. At this moment stonemasons are hard at work carving our new motto into the granite facade of our grand headquarters: It’s All Good.

Indeed, it’s all good and no one can tell us any different.

We sprang from the grand tradition of Jonathan Swift and Joseph Pulitzer. Pandemic Journal only punched up, and only in the service of comforting the afflicted and afflicting the comfortable. But these are tired beliefs, and hugely unprofitable. We trust you share our enthusiasm about consigning them to the dustheap of history as we fanatically embrace whatever crazy or misguided beliefs reside in our readers’ noggins.

Current events are like a heavily rutted road, eroded after decades of neglect. As of today, Pandemic Journal is the ’78 Buick Regal of publishing, wallowing over the damage as our readers luxuriate in total comfort.

Enjoy the ride.

I founded Pandemic Journal nearly a century ago or so it seems, and in those early, hungry years of March I never imagined handing over the reins to another owner, much less a soulless corporation captained by a man who gets his breakfast from a McDonald’s drive through every damn day of the work week.

So the announcement of Pandemic Journal’s sale to the polyester suits at Berkshire Hathaway is bittersweet. Technically, Pandemic Journal has been acquired by A1 Payday Lending, who was previously the target of a hostile takeover by The Ghouls of Omaha. But the result is the same.

Beginning pronto, Pandemic Journal will shift editorial direction to payday lending propaganda and softball interviews with customers, or as the C-suite at A1 calls them, “perpetual revenue streams.”

My overlords in the Great Plains are sending a new publisher to, in their words, “right the ship.” I know that he is from Ohio, is obsessed with grits, and desires only to serve his masters.

New leadership means new opportunities for me. Although the boys in Nebraska said in their joking way, “it’s time for you to be put down,” I see this as a beginning and not an end. So, although I’m stepping into this pickup truck of my own accord, to start my journey to a really nice farm where I can run and play, assure your children that I’m having a great time and will be back soon to visit and share another laugh with all of you.

Thank you for reading.

Friends, I’ve called this extraordinary session to share the results of an internal audit that examined the values and governance of our organization after concerns arose in connection with recent events. What I have to tell you isn’t easy, but I’ll temper this news with foreshadowing of a plan to take swift and decisive corrective action.

Our organization’s brand is founded on values embraced by most of humanity and represented by our team for over 250 years. At times I worry that publicly articulating these values may sound pious or even pompous to some, and I admit that pride allows me, during moments when we fail to completely live up to these standards, relief that we can skate by without anyone noticing.

The matter at hand – this audit – represents a challenge to the Teflon sheen that cloaks us. You have the weighty document in front of you and I have no doubt that you are repelled by its contents. Phrases like “a fish rotting from the head down,” “morally vacuous,” and “lacking the slightest whiff of ethics” are not justified by the auditors’ assessment of our actions. Even those actions outlined in 577 pages of appendices (specifically, appendices C, E, I, P and S).

In the face of this indictment we cannot shirk our responsibilities. We will take strong action. We will kill the messenger.

Two to three decades ago, we would not have killed the messenger, or even threatened the messenger or the messenger’s family. But killing the messenger is a rich part of our brand’s history and it’s time to resurrect the practice of killing messengers just like the middle generation caretakers of our brand used to do with some regularity.

I recognize that our bylaws require unanimous consent to take this unprecedented – perhaps extreme – step. But given the urgency of the situation the executive and cabinet have signed off on killing the messenger. We will have time for discussion, but you should know that the decision to kill the messenger is irrevocable given that the messenger’s lifeless body is swinging from the light pole in our parking lot.

Now, are there any questions?

None? Good.

Gosh. Wow. I did not expect this. I definitely didn’t imagine I’d be at this podium only a year ago, when I was reeling from a series of business failures that, if one believes in hindsight, were extremely avoidable.

But here we are.

Without those failures, as well as the many, many others that followed, and the other failures that followed those, I would not have arrived at this historic moment.

To quote the sacred motto of the Kushner Participation Awards, AKA the “Kushys,” “None aspire, fewer endeavor, okay is good enough.”

Like all of you in my tax bracket I grew up sneering at the idea of participation trophies. Just showing up, phoning it in, or doing it half-assed never seemed like a life goal – or a business model. Then I learned that the act of participation itself is just enough. As my ethical role model Woody Allen once said, “Showing up is 80% of life.” And friends, if just showing up gives you that much of an advantage, why bother with the other 20%?

The video you just watched, highlighting members of the Kushy Hall of Fame, acquainted you with the foundation’s most important values: Don’t be afraid to stumble into things. Never sweat the details. Experience is overrated. And, remind yourself and others, every day, that no matter how things turn out you’ll be able to add whatever situation you’ve found yourself in to the win column.

My humility prevents me from claiming to embody those values, so you’ll need to connect the dots on your own. But we all know the story about my most recent endeavor to remake global affairs.

It’s a bold tale, in which the scion of a failed real estate developer, freshly graduated from B-school and having burned his way through his and others’ substantial inheritances by doubling down on rural shopping malls, was tasked by a prep school buddy with sorting out a simple little situation called Korea. My intuition was enough, and after a couple press conferences that grabbed the horrified attention of leaders on both sides of the DMZ I judged my mission accomplished. The smoking remains of North and South Korea notwithstanding, I’m proud of my success and have little regard for what historians, who lacked the good sense to pursue real, revenue-generating degrees, will write.

I see the bar is open. I’m finished here, folks.

The allure of looking to the past can be irresistible, but there’s danger in nurturing the belief that we can return to simpler times when we should be flexible and willing to embrace the “new normal.” Nonetheless, I struggle with changing social mores and practices, and nowhere is this more real than during my weekly trip to the grocery store.

As I travel the one-way aisles, cloaked in anonymity behind my mask, I survey the people I encounter and wish for a simpler time. A time when I only wanted to punch Nazis.

We literally fought a war to defeat Naziism, and those who flaunt the symbols and language of Nazi-era Germany are asking to be punched. If you asked me a few months ago who I would be willing to punch, “a Nazi” was my clear, unambiguous answer.

But now. Now. There’s the guy in the pasta aisle whose freedom is a product of the greatest generation’s sacrifices. He interprets that freedom as the ability to ignore social distancing conventions and assert his aggressive unwillingness to wear a mask.

I want to punch him. Hard.

Just like I want to punch the hipster who lowers his mask to cough as he passes me in dairy.

And the family of four who dominate the chips aisle and touch everything on the shelves before deciding to buy none of it. Yes, I’ll punch a kid, too.

The loud woman who invades my personal space and barks at the cashier, “Did you find my phone?” Bam. Right in the mouth. But only after warning the cashier that she might want to look away.

MAGA hat/no-mask guy who has hovered over the butcher counter for 30 minutes? Not shopping but just making some kind of statement? Pow. Probably twice.

My grocery store has become a target rich environment and the thought of punching so many people in such a short period of time makes me wonder if I’d have the stamina to punch a Nazi, if one appeared in front of me.

I don’t fear the future, but I admit I long for the past. A simpler time when the only people I wanted to punch were Nazis. Is that wrong of me?

Friends tell me there’s enough bad news in the world but I think they’re focused only on quantity and are missing the bigger picture. Yes, there is bad news everywhere we turn: COVID-19, unemployment, corruption, murder hornets, etcetera. But what’s missing is a handcrafted, curated approach to bad news.

As a lifelong connoisseur of bad news, I’m uniquely positioned to provide subscribers with targeted, relevant and impactful bad news. In my life I’ve received bad news and given it. I’ve been a bystander to the delivery of bad news. I’ve intercepted, deleted, ignored and wasted bad news. And now I’m ready to sell it.

I hear you: Why would you pay to receive bad news when you get your fill from the Internet? Simple: I provide personalized bad news that you can adapt to your lifestyle, just by changing subscription levels.

For a mere $5 per month, I’ll share bad news that will mildly irritate you but not change your life in any way whatsoever. For example, I might share that your neighbor’s dog was the one that shit in your yard six months ago. Double your subscription to $10 per month and you’ll get the news by voicemail.

For $25 a month, I’ll interview your friends and family members and share weekly nuggets of bad news. Your kid got straight D’s in school last semester. The document you’ve been looking for got thrown out with the garbage. That sort of thing.

If you’re ready for a swift kick in the nuts, subscribe at the $200 level and get express bad news. Your wife is leaving you for her dentist and taking the kids? I’ll share that bad news with you in excruciating detail and won’t let you off the phone.

I hesitate to mention it, but $500 per month will unleash a tsunami of bad news. I can’t even hint at what it is, but the idea of picking up the phone, checking email or reading text messages will give you tremors. It’s the value pack of life-altering bad news.

No one else can make bad news an art. You owe it to yourself to embrace a better – and worse – way of getting bad news. Visit my Patreon page and subscribe. I promise you’ll regret it.

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Okay, no joking about this: My friend Don Durham is committed to overcoming food insecurity by growing food to give away. You can support his work by visiting https://www.patreon.com/HealingSpringsAcres and subscribing,

You can call me a Grandma killer. I’m not sacrificing my home, food on the table, all of our docs and dentists, every form of pleasure (museums, zoos, restaurants), all my kids’ teachers in order to make other people comfortable. If you want to stay locked down, do. I’m not.

— Bethany S. Mandel (@bethanyshondark) May 6, 2020

“You can call me Grandma killer” might seem a provocation in light of the almost universal love we feel for our grandmas or Nanas or G-mas or whatever we choose to call them, but fairness demands we hear from both the woman who proudly declares her willingness to snuff grandma, and the weak individuals who haven’t bothered to stake out a position on the continued viability of their maternal ancestors.

You might question Grandma Killer’s moral standing vis-a-vis “the grand mom matter” because of her history of questionable, attention-seeking opinions like “We Need to Start Befriending Neo Nazis,” but I suggest this demonstrates a lack of imagination about the more delightful aspects of neo-Nazis and other modern day fascists. They provide a colorful and historically important counterbalance to the unwashed masses who cry about justice and peace at rallies and protests.

And you may wonder if reopening zoos and museums is sufficient reason to cap a few grandmas. The weight of Grandma Killer’s commitment to these cultural icons is a clarion call to club grandma in the head like we would a baby seal and get this economy rocking again.

Catered parties, salon appointments and meeting girlfriends at Cheesecake Factory are self-evident arguments for euthanizing not just grandma, but all grandparents. We can all agree on this, right?

The opposition may value grandma for her sentimental presence but they have no credible reason to support keeping her alive. She probably doesn’t hold down a job, can’t procreate, and only provides utility in the form of babysitting and baking. Any objective observer of grandma would vote to kill her off in a hot second.

Sure, both sides make arguments about the pros and cons of grandma, but once you weigh the evidence the choice is clear: Grandma’s gotta go.