Created in Darkness by Troubled Americans: The Best of Mcsweeney's Humor Category - Couverture rigide

INTRODUCTION

From the beginning, McSweeney’s has brokered an awkward alliance between two opposing forces. On the one hand, the journal sought to publish experimental fiction and journalism; on the other hand, we hoped to make a home for stories that were funny without being humorous. Though our dream was that these two forces could act as one, as allies and not combatants, this dream was made of stone, or something like petrified wood. Then it turned to ashes. Yet before it turned to ashes it became embers, burning dimly, like a dying fire. Then, once it was ashes, we had no more hope for our dreams, for they were now ashen. Our dreams were no more. We had woken up from our dream, which was a flightless bird.

You have no doubt heard of the many battles, squabbles, fights, and slap-sessions between these two camps. Always this animosity was fueled by those who said that any possibility of peace between two opposites—serious fiction and less serious humor-type writing—was not only impossible, but perhaps not even possible. They said that humor writing should be on the back pages of magazines, and never over 800 words. They said that fiction should never allow one to laugh. And what did we say to that, after thinking about it for a few days and wishing we had had a quicker comeback? We said Nay! We said Nay, these things could coexist, and length need not be an object. Then we hedged a bit, and said, Length is an object, if said pieces are published on the Web, where reading at great length can cause eye strain. And thus was born the idea that sometimes McSweeney’s would publish funny things—sometimes in the journal, more often on the website—and that said publishing would not mean that McSweeney’s was always this thing or always that thing. We could publish both sorts of things, sometimes side by side, and often near articles about goats producing spider silk in their milk. But, we said, with heavy heart and fists of fury, we shall never publish poetry.

So then why, you ask—if our goal was to put these things together, less-serious and serious, to dignify one and undignify the other—have we made a collection only of the funny bits? Why remove the stars from the stripes, the Wynonna from the Ashley? The fault is theirs, the people of Denmark. And for this last insult we pledge eternal damnation upon the smug suckholes who call themselves Danes.

What you see here, friends, is some of the best writing our contributors have created while trying to be less serious and being paid very little or nothing. It will fill you with such joy that you may want to beat your head on a rock in the garden. We encourage you to do this, and to never stop dreaming, even if your dreams turn to birds which cannot fly, or which burn up in flight, as if hit by buckshot. Hunting is awesome.

Dave Eggers Editor, McSweeney’s CREATED IN DARKNESS BY TROUBLED AMERICANS

A BRIEF PARODY OF A TALK SHOW THAT FALLS APART ABOUT HALFWAY THROUGH

Tim Carvell [Busy music and a kaleidoscope of colorful graphics, which ultimately part to reveal an ecstatic audience consisting largely of middle-aged women, with some middle-aged men and college students thrown in.]

HOST

[standing in the audience, holding a fuzzy-headed, slightly oversized microphone]

Hello, and welcome back to our show. Our topic today is: “People Who Enjoy Being Verbally Abused by Talk-Show Audiences.” Now, before we went to the break, we were talking to Steve.

[Cut to Steve. He is around thirty-five, about forty pounds overweight, and wearing an unflattering sweater.] HOST

Now, Steve: Since you were a teenager, you’ve fantasized about being told off by a sassy woman holding a microphone. Is that right?

STEVE

[ashamed]

Yes. That’s right. It’s ruined many of my relationships: I can’t relate to women unless they have a microphone in their hand and are making disparaging comments about me, preferably in front of a large crowd. Some women tried to accommodate me for a while—we’d attend open-mic nights, high-school football games, companies’ annual meetings—any place where there was an audience and a mic, but after a while, none of them would be able to take it anymore.

HOST

Well, we have someone here who wants to comment on that.

SASSY LADY

Yeah, I just wanted to say that you’re sick. [Audience cheers.] What kind of a man does that to a woman? You need to get yourself some help.

HOST

Steve?

STEVE

[Looks pleased. Then ashamed. Then pleased.]

HOST

We have someone else here who’d like to make a comment. Yes, sir?

AUTHORIAL VOICE

Yeah, I think that this is pretty much a one-joke story.

HOST

True enough.

AUTHORIAL VOICE

So, you know, perhaps it could end now.

HOST

Seems fair enough to me.

[STEVE, HOST, SASSY LADY begin filing toward the exits of the studio, along with the rest of the audience.]

AUTHORIAL VOICE

You know, we don’t all have to get up and leave. The illusion that any of us actually exists—which was pretty shaky to begin with—has by now been fairly well destroyed. The story can now just end abruptly at any moment.

HOST

True enough. It could just end, cutting either one of us off in mid sen—

—tence.

AUTHORIAL VOICE

Hm. That’s odd. I thought it was going to end just then.

HOST

Yeah. Me too.

[They stand together, uncomfortably, awaiting the end of the story. A few minutes pass. Then centuries pass. Then a few more minutes. They turn into marvelous fire-breathing dragons, then into baby chicks. They turn one another inside out. They invent time travel, and prevent the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, only to discover that World War I was inevitable, and that nothing in the present day has changed. They introduce the unicorn to the rainforest. A few more centuries pass. They share a hard-boiled egg. Centuries, centuries. Millennia. The story, at long last, ends. No, wait—they also dive for undersea treasure!]

THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS
Kurt Luchs

My dear Mr. Vanderwoude,

Thank you for your recent gift. Now once again as the holidays approach we ask you to remember the plight of the Bosnian and Serbian orphans. For many of these children there will be no Christmas—no presents, no toys, and worst of all no parents to love and protect them. We thank you for your past generosity and hope you will not forget these little ones as you enjoy the comfort and affluence of your safe, warm home during this joyous season.

Yours sincerely,

Kurt Luchs

P.S. Please accept the enclosed paper Christmas wreath, hand-constructed by seven-year-old burn victim Susie, and hang it on your tree. I trust you’ll think of the orphans whenever you look at it.

´ ´ ´

Dear Mr. Vanderwoude,

If this letter happens to cross yours in the mail, please forgive me; I know the post office is slow and unreliable during the Christmas rush. I’m sure you received my last letter and that your generous gift is already on its way to help the homeless orphans of war-torn Bosnia-Herzegovina. But just in case our letter—or even yours, God forbid—might have gone astray, I’m sending this reminder to thank you for what you have already done and to ask if you can find it in your heart to do just a little bit more this Christmas.

Yours sincerely,

Kurt Luchs

P.S. The attached miniature pinecone, painted holiday green and dipped in glitter, was brought back from the former war zone in the tattered coat pocket of a little boy we call Buster. Enjoy.
´ ´ ´
Dear Mr. Vanderwoude,

I’ll admit I’m puzzled. Surely you must have received my previous letters asking you to add just a little holiday cheer to the lives of our orphaned Bosnian and Serbian boys and girls. And surely you cannot be unmoved by their tragic plight—after all, you made a significant contribution to our cause only a few months ago. Perhaps you yourself have faced unfortunate circumstances recently—a long illness, the loss of a job, or even the loss of a loved one. If so, I offer you my deepest, most heartfelt sympathy, and I look forward to hearing from you in the near future when things are going better for you.

But if you are not facing hard times, Mr. Vanderwoude, if what you suffer from is merely a hard heart ... God help you, Mr. Vanderwoude.

Yours,

Kurt Luchs

P.S. The enclosed sketch of the dove of peace was done by little Amalric, a paraplegic war orphan who has learned to draw by holding a piece of charcoal between his teeth. I hope it fills you with the generous spirit of Christmas.
´ ´ ´
Mr. Vanderwoude,

As I write this, the orphans are weeping. I had to tell them that there would be no toys this Christmas, that they might not even have a roof over their heads come December 25th. “Why?” they cried. “Because a man named Richard Vanderwoude has apparently decided that your unimaginable pain doesn’t matter,” I said. “Because he has put his own selfish whims and desires above your basic needs. Because he thinks you are not worth saving.” At that point I had to restrain one of the children, Tedescu, from leaping through a plate-glass window.

How can I be so sure of your lack of charity? You see, Mr. Vanderwoude, I did a little checking around. I found that you are not sick, that none of your friends or loved ones have died recently, and that you have not only not been fired but have received a substantial raise and promotion in the past few months.

I am not enclosing a postpaid return envelope with this letter because if you do decide to melt your icy ...

Now more than ever, Americans are troubled by questions. As sweaty modernity thrusts itself upon us, the veil of ignorance that cloaked our nation hangs in tatters, tattered tatters. Our “funny bones” are neither fun nor bony. Glum is the new giddy, and the old giddy wasn’t too giddy to begin with.

What can be done to stop this relentless march of drabbery? Not much. Nothing we can think of. It’s pretty much too late. The light of August turns to the overcast skies of autumn, and the taunting sting of winter cannot be far ahead on the highway of the road on the horizon. Who can sing a song without words? Maybe Bobby McFerrin, but is there anyone else? Where do we go when the party is over? Perhaps the afterparty. But what comes after the afterparty?

Questions, there are so many questions, and then some queries, arriving via fax. To these we respond in the only way possible: Talk to the hand, because the face ain’t listening. Nevertheless, we present the pages within as an offering of peace, as a message of hope, and as a perfumed hankie of love—a hankie drizzled with the intoxicating aroma that has only one name: ha-ha-oopsie.