An Excerpt from “The Vowels of the Earth” by Matthew David Brozik

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Comedy. Sci-fi. Wordplay. Aliens. The origin story of the letter H. The Vowels of the Earth is available now from Humorist Books. While you wait for it to arrive or download, read the first chapter, right here and right now, for free.

Chapter One

New York City

Late December 1948

When I decided the moment was right, I turned off Second Avenue—onto Seventy-Eighth Street, as it happened; I had been walking with no destination, just walking and trying not to screw up anything else terrifically—then stopped short, wheeled about, and addressed the man in the jet black fedora as he came around the corner.

“You’ve been tailing me all morning,” I hissed. I didn’t actually grab the lapels of his trench coat, but I did point an accusatory finger at him. “I’ve seen you. Let me give you some advice: When you’re stalking a man with one good eye, stay on his blind side.”

“I wasn’t trying to keep out of sight,” he said, unintimidated. “Trust me: If I didn’t want you to know I was there, you wouldn’t have known.”

“I don’t trust you,” I told him.

He didn’t respond right away, but when he did, he said, “I respect that.” It took the indignant wind out of my angry sails. “My name is Bradford,” he went on. “I’m with the federal government. And I’d like to talk to you about something important.”

“I’ve already given my testimony,” I said. “Under oath,” I added, unnecessarily. “I said everything important I have to say. And I even had some words put in my mouth.”

“I know, professor,” this government agent named Bradford said. “I was there. At the hearing. I heard it all. I even read the transcript afterward.”

“You must be my biggest fan,” I said. “What’s so interesting about me? Is it how passionately I incriminated myself? How decisively I dug my own grave?”

“Professor,” Bradford said, ignoring my histrionics, “I need your help. That is, I need someone’s help, and I think you might be that someone. What you did… what you were involved in… the hoax, the scandal, the scapegoating… none of that disqualifies you. To the contrary, if it weren’t for all of that, I might never have identified you as someone likely to have useful insight.”

This brought me up short. I didn’t know what to say to that.

“Can we go somewhere and talk?” Bradford asked.

“There’s a greasy spoon I like near here,” I said, “and I haven’t eaten lunch yet.”

“I know,” Bradford said.

“Touché.”

We stepped into a joint called Leo’s. We seated ourselves at a booth toward the back. I let Bradford have the bench that faced the door, figuring a G-man would want to sit where he could see who came in and who went out. And for my part, I’d already been stabbed in the back several times that month, so I suppose I just didn’t care if it happened again.

After we’d ordered food and coffee—light and sweet for me, black for him—I commented on a compact man sitting at the counter. He was wearing a long, white lab coat, and his feet were nowhere near the floor. His hair was white and not what you would call kempt.

“Mad scientist at three o’clock.”

Bradford gave a slight laugh through his nose. “My father used to say it takes all kinds to make a world.”

“My father used to say that it doesn’t take all kinds, there just are all kinds.”

“Your father was… from where?”

Pretty sneaky, Bradford, I thought. “Eastern Europe,” I said.

“And he came here because…”

“Because it seemed like a smart thing to do at the time. Bradford, are you trying to get me to reveal treasonous leanings?”

“No,” Bradford said. “We have no concerns on that point. But I do want to ask you just a couple more questions, if you don’t mind. Besides English, do you speak any other languages as well?”

“If you mean ‘in addition to’ English,” I answered, “then yes. If you really mean ‘as well as,’ then no.”

“Words are a serious matter to you,” Bradford commented.

“They used to be my career,” I reminded him.

“What other languages are you comfortable with?” Bradford asked, returning to what he wanted to know, changing his question to accommodate my pedantry.

“I can read classical Latin and Greek, I’m proficient in the major modern Romance languages and have a functional comprehension of some of the minor ones—including Galician and Aragonese—and I’ve spent time with several other members of different branches of the Indo-European family. Asian languages are completely foreign to me, though.”

“Do you speak Hebrew?” he asked me.

“I don’t,” I told him.

“But you are Jewish…?” It was a question… and it wasn’t.

“I am Jewish. Most Jews born in this country don’t speak Hebrew,” I informed him. “A lot of them do speak Yiddish, though.”

“Do you speak Yiddish?”

“Ikh kenen,” I said. “But most of the time I don’t. There’ll be plenty of time for that.”

“When?” he asked me. He seemed genuinely interested in the answer.

“When I’m an old Jew,” I told him. The food arrived and I delivered a forkful of scrambled eggs into my mouth. When my head was down, I thought I noticed Bradford signal to someone, and I assumed he needed more coffee or another napkin. But it wasn’t a waitress who came to the table. It was the man in the lab coat, and he didn’t just come over, he took a seat on the bench next to Bradford.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello,” I said, but I wasn’t so sure.

“Professor Carp,” Bradford said, “this is Doctor Martin Smith, a… specialist on my team.”

“So it’s a science project you’re running?”

“After a fashion. It’s what you professors call ‘interdisciplinary,’” Bradford said. “And I thought you might as well meet Doctor Smith sooner rather than later. He’s much nicer than I am. You could actually enjoy working with him.”

“You know, you haven’t yet told me anything about what you’re working on.”

At this, Dr. Martin Smith, specialist in something or other, stood up from our booth again and excused himself. “I should be getting back,” he said. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Professor Carp.”

“Likewise,” I said as he left. Again, I wasn’t so sure. When I was reasonably confident he was out of earshot, I questioned Bradford: “Smith? Schmidt, I should think.”

“You’ve got a good ear,” Bradford said. “Smith fled the Fatherland when he saw the writing on the wall. I know a man whose father did the same.”

I was about to compliment Bradford again on making a good point, but something disturbing occurred to me.

“Hang on,” I said instead. “Sch… mith was waiting here for us to arrive? You knew we’d be coming here? But… it was my idea. How did you know?”

“You had lunch here yesterday too.”

Bradford handed me a card.

“Call me if you want to help,” he said.

“Help whom?” I asked.

“Everyone,” he said. “Including yourself.”

When the man who called himself Bradford—just Bradford—had departed, I lingered at the restaurant. I had nowhere to be and nothing to do.

I called over the middle-aged owner when he passed by my table. Leo and I were friendly, and he didn’t know or care about my recent troubles, public though they had been. “That funny little man at the counter. What did he order?”

Leo cocked his head to one side, then rattled it off: “French toast. Belgian waffles, sausages—”

“Italian or Polish?” I interrupted the restaurateur to ask.

“Both,” Leo said, matter-of-factly. “And a Danish pastry,” he added.

Typical German, I thought. Trying to conquer Europe before noon.

Then I realized that I was being indefensibly uncharitable. Hadn’t Bradford told me that Smith had been an expatriate for many years? Smith and I probably had more in common than I would ever have guessed. Maybe Smith had fled Germany because he’d embarrassed himself there, gotten himself fired from his job and declared a pariah in his field, and needed a fresh start in a country where he was unknown. Or maybe he was simply wary of being coerced into contributing his scientific knowledge and faculties to a wholly inhuman and inhumane cause. Either was a good reason.

“What’s new with you, Professor?” Leo was asking. I thought he had walked away while I was ruminating. Maybe he had and returned. Maybe I should have opened a small restaurant rather than doing all of the things that I had done to get me where I was just then: sitting by myself in a small restaurant, regretting several choices I’d made recently.

“Didn’t see you for a couple of days,” Leo mentioned.

“I was out of town,” I told him. “I had business in Washington.”

“Politics, Professor?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Always knew you had a good head on your shoulders,” Leo flattered me.

“Had my ass handed to me, Leo,” I said.

“Yeah? Well, welcome back.”

“Thanks.”

I paid my tab and went home, where I wouldn’t have to talk to anyone else for the rest of the day if I didn’t want to. And I really didn’t want to.

***

The Vowels of the Earth is out now.

6 Important Writerly Questions with Matthew David Brozik

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Here’s a little sit-down we did with Matthew David Brozik, seasoned humor writer and author and the guy behind the just-released Humorist Books title, The Vowels of the Earth. A hybrid of literary sci-fi, really silly word humor, and old-school academic farce, it’s the 1940s-set story of the nefarious and alien-influenced origin of…the letter H. It’s a trip.

1. Who are you? What are you doing here?

Funny, those are the same first two questions I asked a small boy I found in my home recently! Turns out, he was my son, and he lived there. But me? I’m Matthew David Brozik, lawyer-turned-copywriter, author, husband—and, yes, father, it would seem. I’ve written a handful of humorous novels, although “handful” is misleading because any one of them would be enough to fill your hand and then some. So let’s say “several” humorous novels. And I’m here answering questions to the “best” of my “ability.”

2. Since “Where do you get your ideas?” is a terrible question, what made you want to write this book?

Thank you for not asking me terrible questions. I genuinely appreciate that. As it happens, I didn’t want to write this book. As I recount in the afterword, the germ of this novel was a short humor piece in the form of an interview with the protagonist decades after the events that changed his life. Some time after I finished that piece, I jotted in my writing notebook—and I’m not kidding about this—“Really bad idea: THE GREAT VOWEL GRIFT as a novel.” (“The Great Vowel Grift” was the name of that original short piece. I jotted the aforementioned note on October 28, 2015. This fact will be important in a minute.)

 

3.How did you keepwriting this book?

Are you suggesting that I shouldn’t have kept writing it? That’s just mean. In October 2015, I was one year into a seven-year stint at a terrible job. I was bored beyond my capacity to convey in mere words. To say that I was not intellectually stimulated would be an understatement. So once I had decided to write a novel about a disgraced one-eyed academic who takes on the unlikely challenge of helping to invent a new letter of the Roman alphabet, how could I not keep going? Looking over the pages upon pages of notes I took as I wrote the first draft between late October and late March of 2015, I’m reminded of just how much fun I had writing Vowels.

 

4. Who is this book for, anyway?

These questions are getting borderline accusatory. I might have to invoke my rights against self-incrimination. A while back, I came to terms with the fact that I write for myself more than for anyone else. And then I realized that there’s nothing wrong with that. Plenty of authors write for other people—the masses, even; I write stories that I want to read. And I write them in the way I like stories to be told. And then, I hope that there will be readers who will also want to read my work. Handfuls of them, even.

Another answer might be: you. If you’re reading this interview, then chances are very good that you’ll enjoy this book, and that means that you’re the person I wrote it for. You and me.

 

5. Any darlings you had to kill?

Of course. There was a big one. Fortunately, it did no violence to the story to remove it.

One kind of humor I really enjoy might be described as “bait and switch,” and might also be described as “pointless.” At the same time, I hate writing backstory. So when I realized that the reader might want to know how Jeremiah, the protagonist of Vowels, and his fiancée first met and all that sappy jazz, and I really didn’t want to write any of it, I came up with what I thought was a very amusing bit: I described a very outlandish, dramatic, Hollywood plot… in such a way that the reader would (I hoped) think that I was describing the start of Jeremiah and Leah’s romance…only to reveal that it was the plot of the movie they saw on their first date. It didn’t quite work. It was shaggy dog story that was a little too shaggy. Or not shaggy enough. So I took it out back, tied it to a tree, and… uh, I sent it to a farm upstate.

 

6. What are you working on now?

A couple of months ago, I left another job that was making me dumber every day. While I was still there, though, I started another novel that I’d like to finish writing. It’s called AFTERWIFE—but I don’t want to give away the plot lest anyone steal it and write a better novel than I can.

Other than that, I’m looking for a job I won’t hate and a new literary agent. Also, I have a milestone birthday coming up (or just past, depending on when this goes live), so I need to shop for a very expensive car and reading glasses.

 

The Vowels of the Earth is available now.

 

 

Lance ‘Limerature 101’ Hansen on a podcast

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Lance Hansen, author of Humorist Book’s Limerature 101, is on the latest edition of the “Blockhead: Cartoonists Talk Comics” podcast. Check it out. Thank you kindly.

A Taste of Munge: Enjoy These Excerpts from “Getting the Girl”

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Is there a holiday more fraught with emotional baggage than Valentine’s Day? Sure, it’s supposed to be a celebration of love in all its forms, but it also unnecessarily triggers anxiety for those who are unhappily romantically unattached. “Andrew Munge” speaks to these folks, particularly those, like him, who are unhappily romantically unattached for good reason — in that they have no game and/or are awful people.

Getting the Girl is a guide to, well, getting the girl, so to speak, and Mr. Munge speaks from experience as being one of the biggest and most entertaining losers the world has ever known. Enjoy these excerpts from his masterpiece of a manifesto, in stores now, just in time for Valentine’s Day.

(Please note: Andrew Munge is a fictional character, a persona devised by two very funny writers whose names we aren’t readily revealing at the moment. Getting the Girl is an extraordinarily tongue-in-cheek work of satire — Munge isn’t in on the joke, but all the rest of us are. Join us.)

•••

Pickup Artists have somewhat of a bad name. Much like the humble shark, we’re called “predatory,” “vicious,” and “pathetic.” Yet deep down, we’re misunderstood, driven, and instances of us being involved in violence are over-reported. You’ll get a lot of backlash for associating with this dangerous book so stay your course! Pickup Artists are looked down upon, often literally, as statistics show many of us are under five foot six. Some people say we dehumanize females. This is horse bullshit. A female has to be identifiably a Homo sapien before I’ll go anywhere near her. In my book that’s a moral win, and this is my book so that is a moral win.

 

•••

Let me make something clear to you. The Friend Zone does exist. It is not a myth. It is not something shitty guys invented to make themselves feel like their romantic shortcomings are the woman’s fault. It does not imply a woman chooses what to feel. If women want to think it’s my way of shirking the emotional responsibility for how others see me, then they’re just haters. That being said, if a ball is thrown at you, you can dodge it or catch it and throw it back. That’s just Football. Similarly, if a female tries to lure you into the Friend Zone, hit on one of her friends. This will make her reassess your relationship. She’ll think, does she want to be jealous? Does she want to be angry at her friend for potentially being hotter than her? These are things women actually think. She’ll welcome your attention when you flirt with her again.

 

•••

Clean up, but not too much. You don’t want her thinking you’re some obsessive compulsive who always needs his floors polished and toilets flushed. You need to appear as if you have a real life and there are many ways to fake this. Have your mail laying around. Display your Richard Dawkins books prominently, making sure to leaf through the pages a couple times so it looks like you’ve read them. Have coffee because of the line about inviting her up for coffee. If you don’t have any coffee, she’ll know it’s a trick. There’s no need to store any food as females don’t want to eat until after you bang, and by that time who cares? Music is important. Prepare a specific playlist of sex tunes. Classical creates a romantic atmosphere and demonstrates your worldliness. I recommend Nocturne Op. 9, number two in E-flat major by Frédéric Chopin. It’s shit but it gets the girls wetter than a duck’s dick.

 

•••

If you want sex to last longer there are lots of ways to distract yourself at the crucial moment. You could:

– Count sheep

– Play The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air theme over and over in your head

– Think about a time you were betrayed

– Give human names to every object in the room

– Imagine what you would do if all your family was dead

I distract myself by trying to list all the numbers in alphabetical order. Other times I’ll make plans for my funeral. For instance, I would like some kind of military procession, not that I trust the military or even believe it exists, but I’ve paid enough taxes. I’ll be brought through the streets in a glass coffin like some combination of dead Soviet leader and living Pope, preferably during rush hour so as many people as possible see. I’ll be buried in a public park (again, taxes) to a reading of my favourite poem, the lyrics from “Snuff” by Slipknot. Once buried, the twenty cubic feet of surrounding dirt will be exhumed and cremated. The ashes are then to be taken and compressed into a diamond, which will be launched via firework into space. If the diamond compression space launch plan is unfeasible, I would like my ashes to be scattered inside the British Library.

Getting the Girl is available wherever you get your books.

6 Important Writerly Questions with “Andrew Munge”

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1. Who are you? What are you doing here?

I’m Andrew Munge, pickup artist, penman, poet, pioneer and person. Most of all I’m the author of GETTING THE GIRL, Humorist Media’s BIGGEST selling book. My mission? To make men more mannish, mainly. On my book tour thus far I’ve met leagues of men who can’t talk to women, are scared of their dad, and don’t know how to fight (I do). I’m here to save MANkind. Ladies, you’re welcome.

2. Since “Where do you get your ideas?” is a terrible question, what made you want to write this book? 

I’ll answer the first question.

I don’t know.

3. How did you keep writing this book?

It kept writing me. There are so many beta boys and semi men who struggle to navigate women that I had to author GETTING THE GIRL (Humorist Media’s BIGGEST selling book) to help them. Whenever I got writer’s block or writer’s elbow I would harken back to young Munge and ponder how he could have used this book. It breaks my heart to remember nine year old me, getting ready for my first date. Sadie Wart had invited me over to her house after school (I can still hear her say “don’t forget your N64!”) I put so much effort into getting ready, dressing in my church clothes, plucking my unibrow, and massaging shampoo into my skin so I wouldn’t stink. Dressed to the tens, I carefully carried my N64 in its original box – including four controllers, all with rumble packs, and my best games – over to Sadie’s. I couldn’t wait to finally play it with another child. When I arrived I was impressed at how many cars her family owned, only to discover it was actually Sadie’s birthday party and wasn’t a date at all. I was emotionally devastated, but endeavored to make the best of my plight, setting up my N64 and welcoming my new friends to play. Sadie then immediately asked me to leave and I walked home alone in the snow. Sadie promised to give my N64 back (I’d saved up all my allowance/nana inheritance to buy it) but the very next day her family moved to Africa. It was my worst birthday ever (it was my birthday too) and then my other nana died. That’s how I kept writing.

4. Who is this book for, anyway? 

I feel I’ve already answered this but I’ll reiterate my point to boost our word count, thus the amount of advertising space you can sell. GETTING THE GIRL is for men who struggle to approach females. With my trademark TECHNIQUES readers will learn how to talk to females, how to date them and mate them. However, it’s more than just a pickup book, it’s a lifestyle guide, a non-religious Bible, an instruction manual on becoming a better, stronger, taller person. You can achieve anything, like how I made GETTING THE GIRL Humorist Media’s BIGGEST selling book. Even the publishers told me it couldn’t be done, that my book would never be so BIG, so this book is for every man who needs to hear he can do great things.

Women might like it too.

5. Any darlings you had to kill?

When I was five we had a cat called Darling. We had to put her down for being too old, but the poison didn’t work and Darling came back for a few seconds, screaming then vomiting then dying again. I had nightmares for years but now I never even think about it and don’t care and it doesn’t bother me. Now when I remember it I just laugh. I don’t care. What does this have to do with the book?

6. What are you working on now?

Finishing my newest book which I’ve been writing for two years. It tells the true tale of tracking down my father, reconciling with him, making him say sorry, and learning from him how to be a father myself. The book will be finished once I actually find my father.

But all that is for the future. Right now I can enjoy being Humorist Media’s BIGGEST selling book. They said it wouldn’t happen, but today I’m proud to reveal the dimensions of my book stand at 8.5 by 11 inches, making it BIGGER than any of the company’s other selling books. Originally I wanted GETTING THE GIRL to be the size of a fat atlas but the publishers wore me down. Even now they’re talking about making it “standard” size, but I’m sure that won’t happen.

Anyway, I have to go as my writer’s elbow is leaking.

Getting the Girl (a real book) by “Andrew Munge” (not a real person, thank heavens) is available now.

An Evening With Lance Hansen and ‘Limerature 101’

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Philadelphia’s Partners and Sons Art and Comics, one of the best and most iconic indie stores around, hosted an event for Humorist Books author Lance Hansen. Old fans and new fans — Fansens — showed up in big numbers for the illustrator and comic poet’s public presentation of Limerature 101. Lance signed books, read aloud from his bestselling collection of witty limericks about great works of literature — and mingled with the crowd. It was charming, the Philadelphia faithful were charming, and Partners and Sons is a great spot. If you ever need to hold an author event or a meet-and-greet in the greater Philadelphia area, we highly recommend it.

We also highly recommend you going back in time and meeting Lance while he signs your copy of Limerature 101. You can’t do that, but you can get buy it right here and right now, and check out these pictures that Humorist Books Marty Dundics captured that special night. 

New Year, ‘Old’ You: An Excerpt from ‘How to be an Old Person’

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Hi, Brian Boone, Humorist Books editor and Humorist Books Book Blog proprietor here. One other thing about me that most people don’t know is that I’m the world’s leading oldologist, an expert on Old People. Through by work at the Center of Oldological Technologies (C.O.O.T.), I’ve extensively studied what it is that makes people into Old People, and how they can maintain and strengthen their quintessential oldness. My findings are how a fully illustrated guide to being the best Old Person an Old Person can be. How to be an Old Person: Everything to Know for the Newly Old, Retiring, Elderly, or Considering is now in print. For certified Old People and per their frequent request, it’s available as “an actual book you can hold in your darn hands instead of having to look at on the computer” as well as in ebook format if you’re just a curious bystander about the ways of this fascinating subculture or you, yourself, are turning Old, about to be Old, or would like to be Old someday.

This guide is highly necessary, because being an Old Person comes with it a whole system of rules, regulations, and dictums honed by many previous generations of Old People. Here’s an excerpt that one of my research subjects dubbed “gangbusters” and “more tantalizing than Ann Miller showing a little ankle in one of those dancing pictures they used to play down at the movie house where I met your grandmother.” Coffee anyone?

***

Care for a Cup of Joe?

Coffee is big in American society, and it has been for a long time, although what it looks like has changed. From shoveling spoonfuls of what looked and tasted like bitter dirt into stovetop percolators, to Mr. Coffee automatic machines, to the espresso and frou-frou Starbucks-type beverages of today, coffee has evolved. But not if you’re an Old Person. The idea of coffee is thoroughly stuck in the past for you, where it belongs, but it also extends its influence to many other areas of your life.

Being an Old Person means wiling away what little time you have left on this earth by filling your days with mindless rituals and routines. Your morning coffee ordeal can take care of some of that. Even though you’re only going to drink one cup, because too much makes you nervous, or have to use the restroom, or unable to sleep 14 hours after consumption, you should still make it count.

1. When using your yellowed Mr. Coffee machine with the blinking “12:00” clock you purchased 35 years ago, make sure to brew it extra weak — one small scoop into the filter basket and then fill up the chamber with as much tap water as it will take.

2. Get your accessories ready: a dainty sugar bowl filled with crusty sugar and a spoon you can just leave in there.

3. With sugar comes cream or, if you’re an Old Person, that weird Coffee-Mate powder they have in tire stores and at AA meetings, or the milklike refrigerated stuff made from vegetable oil, corn syrup, and assorted artificial flavors. So creamy!

4. Take an hour to drink your coffee, until it is cold. Throw the rest of the pot away by pouring it down the drain.

5. Save your coffee craving for a piece or two of coffee-flavored hard candy, which you will keep in a little dish in the living room or in your purse or pants pocket.

6. Save the coffee can — your coffee definitely comes in a can — for nails, pennies, and other random household artifacts.

Remember: This all can be avoided if you’re an Old Person who gets coffee with other Old Persons at the McDonald’s at 6 a.m. every morning and just hangs out there with the fellas or gals, discussing The Good Old Days, conservative politics, and how these kids today with the skateboards and rock music have no darn manners.

Check Out Humorist Books editor Brian Boone on “The Official Dream Dinner Party Podcast”

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One of our all-time favorite and bestselling books here is Gary M. Almeter’s The Official Dream Dinner Party Handbook. It’s in-depth and entertaining exploration of that old party game and conversation starter, “What people, living or dead, would you most want to have dinner with.” (It makes a great gift!) And it’s also a podcast, The Official Dream Dinner Party Podcast.

On the latest episode, Almeter and cohost Ross Bullen welcome Humorist Books editor (and Humorist Books Blog writer) Brian Boone to the show. They talk basketball, comedy writing, literature, couscous, and so much more in what was just a lovely conversation and a great time.

Listen on Apple Podcasts

Listen on Spotify Podcasts

 

 

 

The Humorist Books 2023 Holiday Gift Guide

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In the words of Christmas crooner Andy Williams, it’s the holiday season, and whoop-dee-doo. Yes, it’s the time of year in which you spread good cheer by buying lots of presents for those you hold dear. (That didn’t intend to rhyme; I was briefly possessed by the ghost of Andy Williams, who haunts Humorist Books headquarters, previously an Arby’s franchise the singer owned.)

As lovely as it can be to give a gift, shopping for the correct present for each person for whom you’re obligated to buy a gift can be a potentially expensive, nerve-wracking hassle. Well, Humorist Books is in the business of making gifts and matching them to the right people. It’s true — we make humor books, and in the publishing business those are often referred to as “gift books.”

So, from all of us here at Humorist Books, here’s our gift to you — the opportunity to buy things. We’ve got a lot of great titles in our catalog, both recently published and less recently published, and there’s something for everyone here. Bonus: None of these cost more than, like, fifteen bucks. You can’t put a price tag on love, but you kind of have to during the holidays in the midst of a tenuous economy.

 

Santa’s Brother Sandy Saves Christmas, by Mike Reiss

This delightfully illustrated storybook by The Simpsons writer Mike Reiss adds a new character to the holiday mythology — Santa’s ne’er-do-well but ultimately good guy laze-about brother, Sandy.

Perfect for: Young children, parents of young children, Christmas people.

 

 

 

How to Be an Old Person, by Brian Boone

Presented as a lifestyle guide for the newly old, this thoroughly illustrated book details and catalogs all of the curious things with which old people are obsessed, from grapefruits to Wheel of Fortune to endlessly puttering.

Perfect for: Recent retirees, old souls, moms, dads.

 

 

 

 

Welcome to Woodmont College: No Refunds, by Mike Sacks and Jason Roeder

A viciously hilarious, perfectly-pitched send-up of smug, self-awareness-lacking college promotional materials that exposes the shameless commercialism of higher education.

Perfect for: That person who is obsessed with a college sports team and you don’t want to buy them another piece of licensed apparel, people just entering or about to enter college.

 

 

 

Attack of the Rom-Com, by Martti Nelson

In this celebration and satire of romantic comedy, an understandably love-averse woman is forced to reckon with her past and herself and find True Love during a series of nightmarish rom-com scenarios engineered by a carnival psychic gone mad.

Perfect for: Rom-com lovers, romance novel readers, those whose cynical veneer isn’t fooling anyone

 

 

 

Limerature 101: Literary Classics in Five Lines or Less, by Lance Hansen

Hansen has condensed the entirety of literary history into one jam-packed book. He profiles legendary authors (via an original, hand-drawn portrait) and then praises and mocks their most famous contribution to the arts with a summary in the form of a limerick.

Perfect for: Bookish types, artsy types, poets, jokesters.

 

 

 

The Lobster Heist, by Erin McLaughlin

A poignant coming-of-age novel, alternately sweet and nasty, about a young slacker hunting for his biological family all while creating one of his own making out of a friend group. Naturally, this all involves the theft, transport, and behavioral habits of a rare metallic-blue lobster.

Perfect for: Readers of young adult fiction, new adult fiction, people who just want to feel something

 

 

 

What Am I Doing Here? A Simpsons Writer Visits the World’s Hellholes So You Don’t Have To, by Mike Reiss 

When he’s not writing for The Simpsons, Mike Reiss goes on strange vacations at the behest of his wife. They’ve gone to just about every non-tourist trap and moderately inhospitable place on Earth. They even took a trip in that doomed submersible!

Perfect for: Seasoned travelers, those recently struck by wanderlust, comedy nerds.

 

The History of Human Achievement: A Beezle, Buzzle, & Barb Book, by Brandon Hicks

In this third entry in award-winning cartoonist Brandon Hicks’ series of children’s storybooks for adults, three low-level, ineffectual demons disparage everything remarkable about the great things that mankind has achieved.

Perfect for: History buffs, comics and cartoon enthusiasts.

“Toilets of the World” — An Excerpt from “Simpsons” Writer Mike Reiss’s New Book “What Am I Doing Here?”

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Picture it: A collection of engaging, fascinating, and even educational stories about the world from a seasoned and prolific traveler. Also, the writer is 10 times funnier than Anthony Bourdain, 50 times funnier than Rick Steves, and his collaborator and spouse contributed hundreds of indelible, one-of-a-kind photos. And also also, they went to places that aren’t at all tourist hotspots, often unpleasant, and even deadly.

This is all a real thing, and it’s What Am I Doing Here? A Simpsons Writer Visits the World’s Hellholes So You Don’t Have To. Mike Reiss — he’s won four Emmys for his work on an amusing animated sitcom called The Simpsons, and when he’s not putting words in the mouth of Homer and Disco Stu, he’s semi-willingly going on trips to odd locales with his wife, photographer Denise Reiss. What Am I Doing Here? collects their accounts of all of their variously interesting, entertaining, and probably ill-advised jaunts.

Here’s an exclusive excerpt from that, the latest Humorist Books title. It’s about all the different toilets of the world and titled, appropriately “Toilets of the World.”

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I’m going to start with an important bit of information, something no tour guide will ever tell you and no travel book will ever print. When you take a big trip, you don’t poop. You’ll pee, but you won’t poop. If you’re traveling with a group, no one in the group will poop.

Once you’re aware of this, you can relax. You can even be smug about it. “Using the toilet? Oh, yes, that’s something I used to do myself. Back in my younger days, of course.”

In time, the problem corrects itself. Generally after six or seven days, when you’ve reached maximum storage capacity. Before you know it, you’ll be crapping like a native. Bully for you!

But why does this even happen? According to Professor Ross E. Forp, the act of defecation puts you in a vulnerable position –your pants are down, you’re squatting, and you’re alone. You’re an ideal target for predatory animals or hostile outsiders. So our hominid ancestors evolved to shut down the poop reflex whenever they found themselves in an unfamiliar land.

Actually, I made that all up. There is no Professor Ross E. Forp – Ross E. Forp is just “professor” spelled backwards. But I think it’s a pretty good theory. And it is related to a genuine phenomenon, one I’m sure you’ve noticed: The sound of rushing water makes you pee. It’s the reason Niagara Falls has more toilets than any other National Park: The sound of rushing water convinces your brain that other people are peeing around you. It’s safe for you to do it too, and the sooner the better.

Once you’re on vacation and it’s “all systems go,” heh-heh, you will need to use foreign toilets. Be warned that in Cuba, every toilet is broken. Every single one. The Cuban flag should have a broken toilet on it. They should put one on their money.

We were leaving a restaurant in Cuba when we spotted a busted toilet in the alley – cracked ceramic, large chunks missing, stripped of all its metal hardware. “There it is, honey,” I told my wife. “The brokenest toilet in Cuba. So busted they finally threw it away.”

She replied, “Or maybe they’re getting ready to install it.”

In Europe, you’ll encounter a different obstacle – the bathroom attendant. This is a woman – it’s always a woman, generally old and bitter at the hand life has dealt her. She guards the entrance to a public bathroom like a troll in a fairy tale. To get in, you have to give her a small local coin. If you don’t have one, you must give her a large local coin – and they don’t give change. Your money pays the salaries of the people who keep the bathroom clean. But once you get inside, you realize the bathroom is not clean. It’s filthy and there are always several inches of water on the floor. Too late – you paid your money, no refunds. For an additional fee, you can also purchase toilet paper, because there’s none in the bathroom. The bathroom attendant will dole that out in meager squares, as if she were dispensing original Lincoln letters.

And folks, you’re still in Western society. Just wait till you get to the developing world. For most of the people on earth – North Africans, Middle Easterners, ALL OF ASIA – a toilet is just a ceramic hole in the ground. You straddle this thing, one foot on either side, standing on two corrugated bricks. These are like the starting blocks Olympic racers use, because once you’re done, you want to sprint out of there like you were Usain Bolt. Once again, you’ll find no toilet paper. Instead, your tiny stall will be crowded by a giant trashcan full of water, a garden hose with kitchen spray nozzle, and a plastic pitcher. I’ve used these toilets for years and have never figured out how all this equipment is supposed to work.

In Africa, you’ll find abundant Western-style toilets. But no toilet seats. Even in the finest hotels, you’ll see beautiful johns with brass fixtures and wood cabinetry – but no seats. It sounds like the plot of a just terrible thriller: Who is stealing the toilet seats of Africa? And how are they stealing them? Do they slip them under their clothes? Is this why they wear daishikis? And why are they stealing them? Is there a resale market? Who sells used toilet seats? And who would buy one? Maybe they steal them for personal use. But why? Did they buy a toilet that had no seat? Or did a friend steal theirs? And is that a friend you care to have?

So many questions. Africa, truly a land of mysteries.

When you do need a toilet overseas, it’s very hard to ask for one. The British, who seem so refined, go right for it. “Where’s the toilet, mate?” Good for them.

By the way, I used a public restroom in London, right across the street from Big Ben. As I entered, I saw a homeless man using the hot air hand dryer, to, well, blow his wiener. Several hours later, after a tour of Parliament, I went back to use that bathroom. My wife asked, “Was your friend in there?”

I said, “My friend?” Denise has a very loose sense of what constitutes male bonding.

ANYWAY. When I ask for a toilet overseas, I rely on American euphemisms. These completely baffle foreigners: the men’s room. The restroom. The washroom. The bathroom. They all sound like great rooms, none of which contain toilets. And the line, “I need to use the little boy’s room” makes you sound like Michael Jackson.

I’ve heard some great euphemisms over the years: “I have to pick some flowers.” “I need to visit the old house down the lane.” And my favorite, used by members of the French Resistance: “I have to telephone Hitler.” By the way, in researching this – and I do research this – I learned that Hitler’s toilet is now in New Jersey. Hasn’t it suffered enough?

There will come times in your travels where the toilet is not just a convenience – it’s a necessity. If you travel long enough, you will get sick with what my wife calls “tummy trouble.” What she means is diarrhea, but I don’t want to say that and you don’t want to read it. So instead of saying diarrhea, I’ll say… Diane Keaton.

The first time I got sick was in Tanzania. I have no idea what caused it – maybe it was that ice cube they put in my soda, or that baked potato I found on the sidewalk. It was in foil, people! Whatever the cause, I was suddenly overcome with Diane Keaton. My tour guide drove frantically through the countryside, trying to find medical help. Along the way, I made emergency stops wherever I could – gas stations, the middle of a corn field, and once – I’m not proud of this – in a half-finished building using a toilet that wasn’t hooked up to anything. Eventually he got me to a medical clinic that had clearly been a bicycle shop in the not-too-distant past. A doctor quickly saw me and handed me a teeny tiny green pill. Within three minutes, I was completely cured. I don’t just mean ‘no more Diane Keaton’ – I felt good enough to win the Indy 500, without a car. The cost of this doctor’s appointment including medicine: seventy-two cents.

The next time I got sick, it was completely my fault. I was visiting Syria, a country known for the destruction and vast human toll of its civil war. But before that, it was the most welcoming place I’d ever been. Of the 134 countries I’ve been to, I found the Syrians the finest people on earth. I wish we could populate the planet with them.

I was so enamored of these people that I joined a group of strangers for dinner at a café. Then I started drinking water from a pitcher on the table. The Syrians tried to stop me, but I wouldn’t listen. I was operating under the shaky logic that if the people are so nice, how bad could their water be? I drank the entire pitcher. If you’re thinking I’m an idiot, well, you’re right. I mean who else would vacation in Syria?

The next day, I discovered that the friendliness of the Syrians does not extend to the microbial level. I was racked with explosive Diane Keaton – I pooped all over the Roman ruins at Palmyra. These were a UNESCO World Heritage site. They were. Till I got there.

We were on group tour of Thailand, when our guide pulled over to buy us a roadside treat: sticky rice. It’s a mixture of white rice, milk, and sugar, all steamed inside a bamboo tube. It was delicious, but within hours, forty of us on the bus were afflicted with Diane Keaton, in an Oscar-worthy performance.

It hit me that night as we were strolling the streets of Chiang Mai. I started sweating profusely – I stripped off my shirt, something I never do in public and rarely do in private. Soon I became delirious, and everyone in Thailand became my friend. I began shaking hands with passing strangers, saying “What’s up, Jar Jar? How you doin’, Jar Jar?”

“Stop being charming!” my wife pleaded.

“I can’t,” I replied. Eventually Denise got me back to the hotel. Luckily, she had skipped the sticky rice. My wife watches what she eats and avoids carbs entirely. This has given her the trim figure of “Annie Hall” star Diarrhea.

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What Am I Doing Here? A Simpsons Writer Visits the World’s Hellholes So You Don’t Have To is available right now, this very moment, from Humorist Books. Get it in travel-ready ebook form, or a coffee table-enhancing paperback version.