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How to Spot Liberals and Conservatives: Let’s Take a Look Inside ‘Red Tie, Blue Tie’

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Our latest title is as prescient and vital as a book is ever going to be. You’re probably aware that it’s an election year, and that makes the political climate even more contentious and volatile than it usually is. Let’s deflate some of the hot air from that cultural balloon and kill some sacred cows and make fun of it all. That’s what writers (and best friends) Gary M. Almeter and Reese Cassard aimed to do with Red Tie, Blue Tie: How to Tell Whether Someone is Liberal or Conservative in Any Possible Scenario. And it’s exactly what the title promises: list after list, guide after guide, on how to comically and accurately identify strangers’ political leanings by their choices, behaviors, and overall vibes.

Here are some excerpts to explain it further. And if you want more, well, whether your tie is red or blue, the color we all like best is green — go buy the book and help support a couple of the most crackling comedy writers out there.

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How to tell if Someone is Liberal or Conservative at the Grocery Store 

If someone refuses to use the self-checkout machine, that person is a conservative. 

If a person quietly sings along when the grocery store PA system plays “Iris,” the Goo Goo Dolls’ 1998 hit from the City of Angels soundtrack while the person compares pasta shapes to identify the best substitute for ziti, that person is a liberal. 

However, if that person loses their composure and loudly sings the “And I don’t want the world to see me, ‘cuz I don’t think that they’d understand” part, that person is an anarcho-communist. 

If a person quietly sings along when the grocery store PA system plays “Can’t Hardly Wait,” from the Replacements’ 1987 album Pleased to Meet Me while the person stands over the deli counter contemplating the difference between lacy Swiss cheese and regular Swiss cheese, that person is a conservative. 

If a person is stocking up on Lunchables, Cool Ranch Doritos, Funyuns, two-liter bottles of Mountain Dew, and Bagel Bites, that person is either a parent of several children they may or may not love or extremely high or both. 

If a person tries to steal cabbage by stuffing it into their jacket, that person is a liberal. 

If a person tries to steal cabbage by stuffing it into their purse, that person is a conservative. 

If a person buys something obscure (like coconut flour, gin and tonic salmon, pumpkin spice gouda) and it doesn’t scan at the checkout register and the person says, “well, looks like that item is free today!” then that person is a conservative. 

If a person says, “It’s real, I just made it this morning” when the cashier checks to see if their $20 bill is counterfeit, that person is a liberal. 

 

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How to Tell If Someone is Liberal or Conservative in Pickup Basketball 

If anyone is playing in a Punisher tee, they’re conservative. 

If anyone is playing in a Phish tee, they’re liberal. 

If a man is playing with a bandana as a headband, he’s liberal. 

If a woman is playing with a bandana as a headband, she’s conservative. 

If a man is playing in Jordan 11s, he’s rich and liberal. 

If a man is playing in Jordan 9s, he’s rich and conservative.

If a man is playing in running shoes, he is liberal. Unless the shoes are grass-stained New Balances. Then he’s conservative. 

If a man is playing in Jordan 3s, baggy mesh shorts, and an even baggier pink polo, he’s Adam Sandler. 

If a man over 50 is playing in Chuck Taylors, he’s probably conservative and probably the best player on the court. 

If a man under 50 is playing in Chuck Taylors, he’s definitely liberal and definitely the worst player on the court. 

If a woman is playing in UGG boots, she’s conservative. And a great three-point shooter. Draft her early. 

If a man goes the whole game setting screens instead of shooting, he’s liberal and fun to play with, but there’s no need to use an early pick on him. 

If anyone goes the whole game without passing, they are the worst. Avoid drafting them at all costs. 

If a man is playing in rec specs, he’s conservative. Unless that man is Naismith Hall of Fame center Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. Then he’s very liberal. 

If someone calls a foul because you had your hand on his hip when he went up to shoot even though he’s been pulling your shirt all game, they’re just an opportunist who pretends to be liberal around other liberals and then flips when the crowd changes. Give them the call either way. They’ll probably miss anyways. 

 

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How to Tell If Someone is Liberal or Conservative in Boston

If a person’s favorite Aerosmith song is “Dream On,” that person is a liberal. 

If a person’s favorite Aerosmith song is “Janie’s Got a Gun,” that person is a conservative. 

If a person’s favorite Aerosmith song is “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing,” get that person’s contact information. The next time an asteroid is heading towards Earth and you need someone to fly to space, drill a hole in the asteroid, and plant a thermonuclear device, this person could come in handy. 

If a person has ever smoked a pipe with Henry Cabot Lodge or his progeny in a Ropes & Gray conference room, that person is a conservative. 

If a person has ever smoked anything with Evan Dando in Harvard Square, that person is a liberal.

If a blue-collar-looking man is outside of a Dunkin Donuts in Harvard Square asking a well-dressed man inside the Dunkin Donuts if he likes apples, that blue-collar man is Will Hunting, he just got Skylar’s number, and you wouldn’t know it by looking at him, but that man is a genius. All Over the U.S.A.

If you are in the Massachusetts State House and see a person with the best hair you have ever seen eating a hot dog and it’s sometime between 2003 and 2007, that person is Mitt Romney. 

If a person stops at Dunkin on their way to a Bruins game and you are in the Dunkin too and you look at that person wrong, you are about to get the shit kicked out of you. 

Red Tie, Blue Tie: How to Tell Whether Someone is Liberal or Conservative in Any Possible Scenario by Gary M. Almeter and Reese Cassard is now available wherever you get your books (no matter your affiliation).

“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.

6 Important Writerly Questions with Mike Reiss

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Yes. That Mike Reiss.
If you’re a comedy nerd, you know exactly who Reiss is. He’s been writing and producing for The Simpsons for more than three decades. Not only has he helped shape the greatest television show and comedic entity of all-time, but he’s a de facto architect of modern comedy.
It’s pretty exciting then that Humorist Books is publishing Reiss’s new and very funny book, What Am I Doing Here? A Simpsons Writer Visits the World’s Hellholes So You Don’t Have To. Based on the podcast of the same name, What Am I Doing Here? is a collection of comical essays about Reiss’s extensive world travels, accompanied by pictures taken by his wife and collaborator, Denise Reiss. But this isn’t like all the other travel books. As heavily implied by that subtitle, the Reisses by and large travel to places most would consider anonymous, dangerous, and just plain not fun. Why? That’s the nature of wanderlust, and also, they got a great book out of it.
Here, let’s let Mike Reiss explain it.
1.Who are you? What are you doing here?

I’m Mike Reiss.  I’ve been writing for The Simpsons for 35 years. But in my spare time I travel. I’ve been to 134 countries.  Not by choice. I love my wife and she loves to travel, so I’ve literally followed her to the ends of the earth.

I’ve been to Iran, Iraq, the North Pole, the South Pole, Chernobyl – these are my vacations.   I’ve even been to North Korea – that’s the scary Korea! It’s all in my new travel book called “What Am I doing Here?” It’s fast, it’s funny, and it’s factual… enough.  You’ll hear how I was robbed in Rio, kidnapped in Honduras, dangled from a cliff in Pakistan, and chased by a lady with a meat cleaver, again in Honduras. I had a lot of problems in Honduras.

I visit all the world’s hotspots and hellholes, so you don’t have to.  You’re welcome.

2. Since “Where do you get your ideas?” is a terrible question, what made you want to write this book? 
I’d written a best-selling Simpsons memoir Springfield Confidential, and as a follow-up I decided to write about the other side of my life: dangerous world travel.  It’s a travel book, but in Simpsons style: fast, funny, irreverent, and with none of the boring parts.  Plus, there’s pictures!  No matter how crazy a story is, I have a photo to back it up!
3. How did you keep writing this book?
While I was working on the book, the Titan submarine imploded on its dive to the Titanic.  And I had seen the Titanic on that very sub a year before.  Suddenly I had a story the world wanted to hear.  It’s surprisingly funny and ends the book.
4. Who is this book for, anyway? 
It’s for anyone who wants a funny book, first and foremost.  You can also learn a lot about the world, stuff no other travel book has the nerve to say.  Like Iran is fun.  And the Northern Lights suck.
5. Any darlings you had to kill?
No, I I just set aside all my lesser travel stories for a second book.
6. What are you working on now?
What Am I Doing Here 2: The Cash Grab.

Excerpts from Lance Hansen’s ‘Limerature 101’

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Happy pub week to Lance Hansen. The illustrator, humorist, poet, and highly informed literary aficionado has combined all of those talents to create a wholly unique and extremely delightful title for Humorist Books: Limerature 101: Literary Classics in Five Lines or Less (With Pictures). Indeed, that’s exactly what we’re getting here. It’s a survey of the history of the western literary canon, with each author and their masterwork condensed into a single, teasing limerick and an accompanying portrait. It’s all very fun, funny, and maybe even a little educational? Check it out, here are a bunch of samples, straight from the text.

Limerature 101: Literary Classics in Five Lines or Less (With Pictures). Get it now from Humorist Books.

Please Enjoy This Excerpt of Brandon Hicks’ ‘The History of Human Achievement’

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 The History of Human Achievement marks the third entry in the dark, ridiculous, and satirical saga of demons Beezle, Buzzle, and Barb as they continue to their endless quest to undermine everything that humans hold dear and prideful. It’s available now, but until your copy arrives, get a taste with this very representative excerpt, a look back at humanity’s “Dark Ages.”

Read the First Chapter of Erin McLaughin’s “The Lobster Heist” Right Here, Right Now, For Free

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The Lobster Heist by Erin McLaughlin is out now, wherever you get your books. On October 6, Astoria Bookshop in New York hosted an event in honor of the occasion. If you missed Erin reading, here’s what you missed (in part): the first chapter of The Lobster Heist.

Josh picked up the phone at Hot Dawggy Dawgs and said, “City morgue, how can I help you?”

Big Jim slammed his IPA onto the mustard-clouded counter. “Josh, I told you 10 goddamn times—you can’t just say that to people.”

Josh sandwiched the phone between his shoulder and ear, his black ringlets serving as a cushion. He couldn’t hear the woman over the wopwop-wops of the Pac-Man machine, but he had a 60% success rate at guessing what people wanted. “What’d ya say? Oh yeah, the Hot Dawggy Dawgs’ Big Dawg comes with ketchup and mustard on it. No sauerkraut, though,” he said. “Don’t worry, baby—I would never do that to you.”

Josh hated sauerkraut and wanted everyone to know it. He hung up the phone, tossed it onto the beer fridge, and lunged into his sketch pad that was bound together with duct tape. He erased the coconut bra on the sexy lobster from his dream the night before and then began to sketch one that was at least a triple-D.

Big Jim peered over Josh’s shoulder, his big eyebrows raised, his big neck muscles strained. He scratched at the flaking, rosy skin on his hand, and then yanked the beer-stained order pad from under Josh’s wrist. Josh did not move to make this process any easier because he had an important, sexy lobster to draw. As Big Jim watched Josh contour the lobster’s cleavage, he sighed a confused sigh. A confused sigh with a hint of arousal. A confused sigh with a hint of arousal with a hint of shame.

“Big tits on that lobster,” he muttered.

“Thanks, I know.”

Big Jim slapped the scribbled order onto the warm metal counter scattered with stray sweet potato fries. He turned around and said, “Josh, you have to hand the order to the kitchen. Remember?”

“My bad.”

Josh noticed a mustard stain on the floor between two Pac-Man machine makeshift tables and hoped that Big Jim wouldn’t tell him to clean it up. He loved that Hot Dawgy Dawgs was the size of a subway car, but he hated how it made messes more noticeable.

The bell above the door dinged and Big Jim threw back his hunched shoulders. All employees were trained to stay behind the counter, which meant that the bell was only useful when someone was in the bathroom peeing, in the bathroom snorting cocaine, or in the bathroom having sex. Whenever the bell rang, most every counter server stopped what they were doing to assume their position, prepared to recite the hot dog counter server script that Frank Buoygett-Conway force-fed to them. Josh, three months on the payroll, decided instead to sketch the sexy lobster’s antennas.

The early-April chill crept behind Pierce Buoygett-Conway as he strolled through the door—a stroll so slow that it seemed he took pleasure in watching everyone’s fingers fall off. He gingerly moved the frozen piece of black hair from the hump of his red, aquiline nose.

Josh’s charcoal pencil slipped from the paper and onto the Violent Femmes sticker taped to the counter. He groaned and rustled his curls with his jagged fingernails. “Goddammit, I loved that sticker!”

“Oh yeah? Name three Violent Femmes songs then,” said Pierce. He crossed his arms, both of which were inked with misspelled pop-punk lyrics.

Josh snickered. “Ah, go back to carving anarchy symbols into toilet seats or some shit.”

Everyone who worked at Hot Dawgy Dawgs hated Pierce Buoygett-Conway, but he was Frank Buoygett-Conway’s son, and Frank Buoygett-Conway owned Hot Dawgy Dawgs, so no one could say that they hated Pierce Buoygett-Conway. But they did.

On his first day, Big Jim learned that Josh wasn’t like everyone else in Williamsburg. Josh didn’t whip out Infinite Jest when a blue-haired girl approached the counter, nor did he explain the entire plot to her instead of taking her order. Josh didn’t waterboard someone with craft beer when they walked in wearing a Coldplay t-shirt. Josh didn’t ask if he could wear a faded orange sweatshirt and basketball shorts to work every day—he just did. Josh didn’t believe that the customer was always right, and he made that abundantly clear. Josh gave him the nickname “Big Jim” five minutes after the interview and clarified that it was because of his 6’7″ stature, not because he was heavy-set, even though he was about 10 pounds overweight.

Josh looked up. “Or better yet, Pierce,” he said as he wagged his pencil like a schoolteacher, “go organize another ‘live forever rally’ or whatever bullshit you do in your free time.”

“It’s an immortality awareness rally, asshole,” sniped Pierce. “I would think that a 24-year-old would have a better memory.”

Pierce founded the Immortality Awareness Society of Williamsburg and couldn’t be prouder of himself. He once protested outside of the White House when the government prohibited the sale of CBD. Pierce was the only one there with a sign about CBD’s age-reversing properties. He once organized a rally in front of the aquarium to try and score an octopus sperm donation for immortality research. Pierce ran when the guards pulled out their tasers. Pierce once rolled into a suicide support group wearing a “SUICIDE IS FOR SUCKERS” t-shirt. Pierce kicked and screamed about the value of eternal life as security hauled him to the sidewalk. At the next Immortality Awareness Society of Williamsburg meeting, he argued that everyone can raise immortality awareness—no matter the situation.

“Yeah, whatever,” said Josh.

Big Jim chuckled as he topped off his apricot-brewed beer.

“You think something’s funny, Jim? Bet you don’t even know that beer leads to early death, Jim. Especially for a guy your size, Jim.”

Big Jim cocked his head back and placed his hand on his chest. “Who, me? Oh, uh, no, Pierce. I was…laughing at something I’d heard earlier, something that my cute little daughter did.” He shuffled his feet.

A serpentine smirk slithered across Pierce’s thin lips. “Oh yeah? What’d your cute little daughter do?”

“Well, see, she had a tutu on and…she was dancing, all cute, to a…song on the TV, such a stupid song, too, man. Ah, what song was it again? You know the song,” he said as he snapped his sausage fingers. “The one with all the talking fruits—you know, the one on Toonland. Real cute, though.”

Pierce scoffed. “Talking fruits. Hilarious.”

Josh sketched the shadows below the lobster’s tits and let out a sneeze, a kind of sneeze where all the snot goes everywhere. A kind of sneeze that made all the beanie-wearing customers look up from their vegan hotdogs to inspect him with their scrunched, septum-pierced noses. He shook his head like a wet mutt and resumed sketching the shadows under the lobster’s tits.

“Nice shadows,” said Big Jim.

“Where’d you learn to draw?” Pierce asked. “I presume not at an institution.”

Josh smirked. “You know what, Pierce?”

Pierce let out a shrill sigh. “What?”

Josh rested his cherub chubby cheeks on his fists. “You’re just—really fucking weird. ‘I presume not an institution.’ Like, who the fuck talks like that?”

Pierce leaned in close, sharp-nose-on-bulgy-nose-close. He searched his eyes as if he had a warrant. He found redness, owl-heavy eyelids, and the beginning of what might have been a stye. Whether he had a stye or not, Pierce found Josh to be stoned. Very stoned.

“You’re stoned. Very stoned,” said Pierce, as he threw his rail thin arms to the ceiling. “And at work, too? Ridiculous!”

Big Jim dropped his big hand onto Josh’s shoulder. “Listen, Pierce. No disrespect but, it’s Williamsburg. Pot’s legal here now, right? And Josh has been doing a great job. Just, I mean—just please don’t be too hard on him. It’s just…weed.”

Pierce hauled his scrawny leg onto the counter. He pulled his skinny jeans up to his knee. He glared at them with his turquoise, maniac eyes. “See these socks? See the green leaves on these socks? Proof enough that I smoke weed every day. I have nothing against weed. Studies show that weed makes you live 5% longer. But unlike Josh, I don’t smoke it at my fucking job. This is a business, Josh. What the fuck do you think you’re doing, smoking weed at a business?”

“Weed socks,” said Josh with a chin nod. “Nice, bro.”

Pierce pursed his lips as his face assumed a ruddy hue. The customers in the back stared and held back their laughter.

“Sorry,” Josh muttered. “Anyway, did you want a veggie dog or something?”

Pierce buried his face in his hands as he pretended to hide his rapid hyperventilating. His nails were bitten down to the bed, aside from his painted black thumb, which he hoped would grant him access to local punk shows.

Pierce inhaled and exhaled a few times. Josh and Big Jim bit their lips as they looked at each other with smiling eyes. Both knew that if one of them broke into laughter, the other would, too. Big Jim hoped that Josh didn’t cave and laugh, as Josh had told him that day that he only had $350 in his bank account and owed his landlord eight hundred and fifty on the first of the month.

“My father will be hearing about this,” Pierce growled. “And he will not be happy.”

Pierce popped the collar of his denim vest. He stormed between the condiment tables and made his way to the bathroom.

Josh snickered. “Aw, how sweet,” he said. “He’s gonna tell his dad that I bullied him, and then I’ll get called down to the Pwincipal’s office.”

A mousy gasp escaped the cerulean blue door.

“Ugh,” said Josh. “What now?”

Big Jim looked down at the ashes on the register. “Uh, I dunno.”

Pierce stormed out and pointed at Josh. “You!” he said.

Josh tapped his pack of cigarettes onto the counter. “Who, me?”

“Get the fuck over here.”

Josh tried to remember if he had left a joint on the ground the night before, but then remembered the burn hole in his front pocket. Yet still, he followed.

Pierce pushed open the door and it slammed against the barely fastened sink. Josh peered behind Pierce’s bony shoulders to see two soggy condoms, a crushed beer can, and a pair of boxer briefs with a Dead Kennedys logo on it.

Pierce squinted his eyes as he shook his head. “You did this!”

“What? No! I hate the Dead Kennedys.”

Josh looked over at Big Jim, who was slowly swirling the cash register ash stains with his finger.

“Don’t worry,” Pierce said. “My father will be hearing about this too. And he won’t be happy.”

Read the First Chapter of Martti Nelson’s “Attack of the Rom-Com” Right Here, Right Now, For Free

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Attack of the Rom-Com is the latest novel from Humorist Books, and Martti Nelson’s masterpiece offers a little something for everyone, provided you enjoy romance, comedy, profanity, supernatural tricksters, trope-toppling, patriarchy-skewing, and/or junk food. Buy it now, but also, read the first chapter right now.

I stumbled off the Zipper Shaker Widow Maker ride and reached to steady myself on Jodie. Which did not work whatsoever, so I landed on my butt with the grace of a drunken llama. “Suck it, ride,” I groaned as the world spun around me. “Sophie Sweet makes the widows around here.”

Jodie Edwards, my best friend on this whole godforsaken planet, doubled over with laughter and not vomit. Advantage: Jodie. “You sure about that, Barfy? You literally went green on the last bend. It looked so cute on you, though.” She crouched to pinch my cheeks, which earned her a swat.

“Screw off, Buffy.”

“Barfy and Buffy ride again! At least you didn’t vomit on my socks like when we were 16.”

“It is an honor to be yakked upon by the great Barfy.” I tried to say it with a flourish, but burped instead. Like a lady. “And I had that ride right where I wanted it.”

“You sure? You’re even pastier than usual.”

“Hey, that’s ‘Mayonnaise American,’ thank you very much.”

Clutching my belly, in a super tough and not-at-all pathetic way, I managed to stand. I forced air in, past the vinegar French fries, around the chili dog, straight through the fried pickle—all of which stayed down, ha! My eyeballs almost focused in the same direction, and one of them managed to goggle Jodie, fresh as a daisy after being shaken like a go-go dancer’s ass. How did she do that? “What’s next? If you say the Spinner Winner Chicken Dinner, I will stab you.”

We grinned at one another. Every Halloween, we adventured to the Gator Riviera, Florida, Autumn Carnival, a tiny affair where you risked your life—and lunch—for grubby fun. We grew up in this one-stoplight berg, later moving to Miami, but could not resist returning north to our hometown festival and its many stomach-churning traditions.

“Let’s get you some water,” Jodie said.

She took me by the hand and led me toward salvation. Or death. Either way, I trusted her.

“Huh. I thought you were gonna argue and try to eat something else disgusting.” Jodie leaned me against the concession stand like a pair of skis. “One water, please.”

“And a cheddar corn-dog muffin,” I added.

The concession lady nodded. “Got it.”

“No!” argued Jodie.

“Yes,” I counter-argued her argument. “Cheddar corn-dog muffins are good for a sick stomach, right?” Deep breaths, Sophie. Barfing is for losers.

“Uh-huh,” replied the concession lady. “Better put butter on it. To settle everything.”

I managed to crack a smile. “Scientific. I like that.”

Jodie pulled her own face, which she did often with me. I chose to take it as a compliment. “Fine,” she said. “But at least sit while you eat your gastrointestinal bomb. I don’t understand how you do it.”

“Internal organs made of barbed wire.”

“Scientific. I like that.”

We sat at a picnic table. Jodie made me drink water before eating any of my food-medicine. She looked around and took a huge inhale of air. “This place always smells the same. Gasoline. B.O. Scrub pine. Hey, Barfy—remember the year we snuck out to come here because your dad had grounded you?”

“And I got into a war of words with that horrible man with the seven bratty kids.”

Jodie lit up with a gorgeous grin. She could illuminate the whole town with that wattage. Some poor fella nearby stumbled for staring at her, the stunning Black goddess powering the carnival all by herself. Her deep-brown skin shone like… like a sapphire in the night time? Ugh, I was bad at words and crap, but wow. My poor, abused stomach unwound a bit.

She laughed. “The big one tripped you, then the other ones ground gum into your hair because you wouldn’t let all seven of them cut in line… Wait, what were we in line for?”

“Fried butter!” Oh, yeah. I could giggle about it now. At the time, however, I would have happily committed seven little acts of murder. Also while giggling, let’s be real. The evil queen in Snow White was a woefully misunderstood heroine. “You gave me an awesome pixie cut—mostly even and everything.” She’d performed her act of mercy-barbering in the middle of the night so my dad wouldn’t realize we’d gone out. Heh—I like to tell myself I’d been cool about the whole thing, but when Jodie had cut off my pretty black curls, I nearly cried. Cried. Like some kind of person. It was one of the few times Dad yelled instead of just shaking his head and ignoring me because a daughter of his “shouldn’t look like an ugly boy.”

I shuddered at the memory, my mouth forming a tight line. I cleared my throat. “You did a perfect job on my hair, Buffy.”

“Of course, I’m amazing. The expression on your dad’s face the next morning…” Jodie opened her eyes so wide that they damn near shot across the table. “That man was not equipped to handle you or your perfect pixie.”

I chuckled through a tight throat. “He didn’t want to handle me. Still doesn’t.” Ugh, after that cut, he’d demanded I wear a bunch of makeup, and dresses, to emphasize his idea of what a “daughter” should look like. Even now, swiping on mascara felt like trying in vain to please a crappy dad who’d ignored me 99% of the time.

The muffin sat in my mouth like a rock. My heart sorta went… black-hole-y whenever I thought of him or my mother. Like it was being sucked into an invisible void from which no light escaped. I forced down the muffin. My parents had been ill-suited for each other. Ill-suited for me. They’d wanted to birth the sparkling, ideal child, whoever the hell that is. Not sure she exists, but she sure ain’t me.

A gentle hand turned my chin. “What’s that face?” Jodie tilted her head and did the cute thing she did—she pushed her bottom lip under the top. “Your stomach acting up still?”

“No, the butter medicine is perfect. I just –” I squeezed my eyes shut. “Do you think if I’d’ve been the perfect kid, that –”

“You stop right there!” Jodie shot off her bench, came around, and bumped my hip to scoot me over. “First, you are the perfect kid. Adult. Whatever. Secondly, nobody’s perfect!”

I blinked. “What?”

“Sophie, your mom would not have been happy if you’d have gotten straight A’s and made hats for the poor and… and… fed soup to indigent cats.”

I blinked. “What?”

Jodie waved her hands. “I don’t know what perfect people do. Point is, she was unhappy with your father. He was miserable with her. Instead of coming to their senses and getting divorced like normal folk, she pulled a disappearing act, and he took it out on you with his silence and disapproval. Classic transference. Probably. I read that on the internet.”

Whoa. My brain spun anew with the force of these truths. Usually, I worked hard not to remember any of this stuff because it made the black hole beckon, cold and hollow. I tipped my head back to stare at the stars, yet they formed a gray mass. Time to shove the painful stuff way, way down. Ugly feelings were why I’d left home at 17 for good. Out of sight, out of existence, right?

But Dr. Jodie was on a roll. “…and your mom! Not even a phone call on your birthday. You didn’t deserve their emotional abuse! Sure, you’re a little wild and mouthy and made of barbed wire, but those are wonderful things.”

I shot her a sideways look. That’s not what those kids said when they’d stomped Hubba Bubba into my bangs.

Jodie squeezed my shoulders. “You’re generous with the people you like –”

“You,” I said.

“Yes, and I appreciate that.” Jodie’s brown eyes burrowed underneath my armor. “There is no more loyal friend than you, Sophie. You don’t deserve to be depressed about the fact that your parents are assholes. I said what I said. Assholes. Now—eat your disgusting buttered hot dog bread.”

I did as Jodie ordered, and her reassuring grin made the dark, feathery edges of the black hole recede. About the only place I’d ever behaved was at Jodie’s house. Her parents housed me when I couldn’t cope with my unbearable home life anymore; they were so supportive of Jodie that I got abundant cast-off affection. It was nice. A smile burst out of me; I took a bite to cover it. Okay, more than nice. Jodie’s family had given me my first and only glimpse of parental love and stuff. I could breathe with Jodie.

“Thank you, Dr. Jodie,” I said through muffin. Huh. What useful advice had I ever given Jodie? Ah! I taught her how to punch without breaking her thumb. Not that she ever had to punch. Not around me, anyway. “I’m sorry I’m not good at this—the advice… feelings, uh…”

“Talking?”

I grunted and shrugged.

“No, you are not. But later, you’ll win me a dirty stuffed animal prize, and we’ll call it even.”

“I’ll probably steal one.”

“Thanks, girl.”

I laughed and finished my snack. Mmmm… butter. I licked my lip, reaching for a glob with my tongue.

“You missed.” Jodie snapped a photo.

“Hey!”

“New phone background, thank you.” She chuckled like an adorable supervillain. “Feeling better?”

I nodded. My hand shot out to grab hers on the rough wooden table as I met her gaze. “Thanks.”

Her eyebrows rose. “For what?”

A million warm and fuzzy emotions I refused to name because I was too cool for them crowded into my chest. They didn’t seem tight, like a panic attack, more like being tucked into soft blankets with a purring cat. Or beach sunshine on your face. How did people express this kind of stuff without sounding like a soap opera? Jodie was my world. My bosom friend, as Anne of Green Gables would say, not that I got sappy like that. It’s just… she was the best person I’d ever known.

I tucked my hair behind my ears and changed the subject to something less terrifying. “Thanks for the cheddar corn-dog muffin.”

I put my thumb to my nose and wiggled my fingers at her in our sacred gesture of friendship. Maybe not-so-secret, because a little girl nearby cracked up and joined in. Jodie returned the compliment, and we grinned like dorks. In this circle, when your best friend wiggled her digits in your face, she meant, “I love you.” And I did.

Jodie snorted. “I’m not saying ‘you’re welcome’ for buying you the muffin. You’ll probably barf it on me after the next ride.”

“You’re welcome. What will our next adventure be, boss?”

“Gwendolyn the Fantabulous!” she announced, most fantabulously. “I am so painfully single I keep cruising straight girls at South Beach drag shows. I need her reassurance I won’t die alone.”

“You’ll never die alone—Barfy will stick to Buffy like a crusty barnacle. Forever.”

“That’s hot.” Jodie hauled me to my feet.

We started toward “the psychic’s” tent. The only thing that old bat Gwendolyn could promise was that you’d be parted from your money in exchange for fake fortune-telling, but I readily agreed. Gwendolyn—an old Russian white lady who could’ve been 50 or 150— was hilarious, and always shared her vodka, offered in a skull-shaped shot glass.

“Should I tell her that I never did run away to become the world’s first stripping astronaut?” I asked.

Jodie gasped, clutching her bosom like an Austen heroine. “Don’t be so cruel! I’ve concocted a whole story about how my career as a spy for the Kremlin is proceeding apace. See?” She fished in her pocket, then lifted something over her head.

I busted out laughing. “Wow. That is one amazing eye patch.”

She posed from side to side, the red sequins of the patch glinting with intrigue. “I am Kremlin spy-ski!”

“How did you lose your eye, comrade?” My turn to snap a photo of this dork.

In an epically atrocious Russian accent, she said, “Baking accident. I try to put file in Matryoshka doll cake for to break partner out of gulag.”

“Oh!” I applauded her performance. “Because Gwendolyn predicted that you’d be a baker who made dirty cakes in the shape of male body parts.”

“Da.” Jodie screwed up her face. “Swing and a miss with that one. I’m a boob cake girl.”

“You can cake my boobs any day.”

“That’s very reassuring.”

I took a deep breath, the nip in the air settling my swirling brains with each inhale. The blinking carnival lights flashed rainbows across our path, and everything was right with the world. Me and Jodie—that’s all I really needed. Plus game code. I sat on my butt for hours commanding computers and building worlds of violent fun. In a game, I was God.

Ooh, maybe I should add a skeevy carnival to my game! Imagine the battles my heroine could fight in a scary, decrepit setting like this—perhaps with an eccentric psychic as her nemesis.

I flung an arm around Jodie. “Why do so many of our conversations eventually turn to tits?”

“What else is there to discuss?”

“Buffy—asking the important questions.”

We arrived at the psychic’s tent, a purple and pink eye-assault painted with shooting stars, fading crystal balls, and mystical shapes borrowed from miscellaneous religions. The “open” sign had been flipped our way, so I tossed back the flap and went straight in.

“Gwendolyn!” I called. “Show me my sexy future, baby! But if you say ‘ballerina,’ I will riot.”

Jodie collided with me in the tent. “Whoops, sorry, eye patch.”

Gwendolyn was not in the front part. It smelled different. I blinked to adjust to the darkness and took a sniff. What was that?

“Chanel Number Five?” Jodie guessed. She lifted her eye patch. “Look, Gwendolyn got a decorator.”

A pink velvet couch sat where Gwendolyn used to keep her dusty collection of stuffed Victorian birds. And her table, with its entirely non-magical crystal ball, was gone, replaced by a kidney-bean shaped one. A goofy orange armchair sat across from the sofa. Strings of lights bobbed and weaved from the tent supports, flashing yellow and pink in a candy-coated seizure.

“You’re here!” piped a voice from behind us.

We jumped as one to see—

“Who the hell are you?” I asked. “Where’s Gwendolyn?”

The human cupcake tossed her long, black hair and laughed, her face breaking into a gorgeous smile.