“As the man once said, the harder you work, the luckier you get.” “Every hateful statement ever made about me is a dirty lie.” And more!
About Emily Flake
Emily Flake is a cartoonist, writer, illustrator, and performer. She is a regular contributor to the New Yorker and the Nib, among many other publications. She is the author of a book of essays and cartoons about parenting called “Mama Tried” (Grand Central, 2015). She does a weird hybrid of standup and cartoons on stages throughout NYC and beyond, and is the creator and cohost of a monthly live interview show called NIGHTMARES. She lives in Brooklyn with her husband, daughter, and a frail, elderly cat.
Entries by Emily Flake
Talking heads spreading disinformation about the vaccine we all prayed for? Crowds threatening to lynch a man over a mask mandate? Surely this madness is woven into our cultural DNA, but that doesn’t make it any easier to watch. Speaking of things that aren’t easy to watch: Was that CGI or was Armond taking an *actual shit*??
You probably have questions about me. I am, after all, seven-figures big, an unheard-of sum for a relatively unknown writer. What would it be like to have me, you wonder? Is there any hope of my ever being earned out? And now: Should I be shared with Alexis Nowicki, the woman on whom the short story was based?
No, no, you’re right, of course. Let me see if I can retrace my steps and figure out exactly how I bought in so I can… un-buy in? Whatever you call it. Unless we want to hold onto it and see how high it goes before it crashes? Ow! Ok, you’re right, but you didn’t have to smack me.
And sure – if you’re Paul Giamatti, you can park your butt on the couch and plow through as many human appendages as you can source. Nobody’s watching Paul Giamatti for his six-pack. But if you’re six-foot five inches of pure, delicious American man, you need to see some definition in those biceps. And biceps, whether you’re working them or hunting them, take discipline.
What has she got that I haven’t got, Craig? Besides eight mesmerizing tentacles, the ability to change color and texture, and a disinclination to speak? I’ll dye my hair any color you want, but I’m sorry, buddy – I’ve only got the two arms, and neither of them are covered in little suction cups.
There’s any number of configurations this could take. It’s gonna be a long summer – we could rotate out who watches the kids while the rest of us ménage it up in the rec room. We could watch each other bone. We could wait until the kids are all asleep and throw ourselves a proper orgy. The possibilities are endless.
I’m also sorry I mocked you for your food hoards – I’m sorry, I’m sorry, supply stores. I bet *you’re* not out of toilet paper, right? Ha, ha. I know I made fun of the fact that you’d cached so many Slim Jims, but a lot of what you had down there was of solid nutritional value.
You’ve indicated in the past that you’d be happy to vote for a woman, you just “weren’t that into” Hillary Clinton. And yet you’ve voiced concerns that Elizabeth Warren just isn’t “electable.” What does “electable” mean to you?
Amy Klobuchar – Amy is smart, strong, and a real contender, which is why I look forward to our dance-off. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I have the wiry energy of a coked-up greyhound and I will END her.
For protection from storms: The wind and snow Gods are the by far the most difficult to appease – even our most revered shamans only guess right about half the time. However, it never hurts to sacrifice your fattest piglet just in case!
Q. Wait, what is this? Ooh, is it a mystery solved by a clever Golden Retriever? A. Unfortunately, it is not (wouldn’t that be great, though? Are there any dog-detective shows out there? Netflix? Hulu? Anyone?). This scandal involves two women who bang English football stars for a living, and thus are also social media, uh, “stars.” WAG stands for “Wives and Girlfriends”; you can do the math on the rest.
People are not defined by individual traits, but by group ones. And that’s why I’m not joining the PTA this year, KAREN.
Did the neighbors see anything? Do they know? What is seen can never be unseen, but dead mouths tell no tales. Act accordingly.
ANGER: How could you be so stupid? On what grounds did you think you could pull off a keyhole front? Are you not intimately familiar with the appalling physics of your own body? You look like you’re wearing two newborns in a sling you haven’t worked out how to use.
Remember back in 2016, where we all jokingly named things we would vote for before we ever cast a vote for Donald Trump? A newly-sentient potato, a painted rock, a sack of dirty hair? Well, now’s our chance to put our money where are mouths are, and support this turd in a box with all the passion we can muster.
In fact, one of the most ingenious features of this new facility is its ability to filter out the tougher and less tractable of the species – certainly, they may be allowed to enter and take a selfie in the Staircase of Confusion, but they will never be permitted to rest their heads anywhere near those of our prize sheep.
It goes without saying that you should feel free to come by and give Mommy any parenting advice you see fit, or yell at us, or just glare (we’re pretty used to it from the subway!).