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

Présentation de l'éditeur 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. Extrait 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 Eg