Discover more from The American Bystander's Viral Load
Do Not Smoke Our Magazine
MG is this 251 digest too long???
It’s our 251 digest, and reader Shirley has a question:
My father subscribed to your magazine from the start, until he found God and burned all his issues on our neighbor’s patio. The smoke was beige and smelled like a gas station—I liked it. Since then I’ve had the shakes and my bones always hurt. What goes into your magazine?
To Shirley, and to everyone else suffering from what the press is calling “Bystander Bones,” I have to tell you—don’t you think it’s more than a little bit your fault? It’s not like you, and your father, didn’t make some choices.
First, no one forced Dad to burn the magazine.
Second, we didn’t tell you to inhale.
And, finally, if you’d simply read the reviews online, you’d have known just how common this affliction is. Ask anyone who has smelled our magazine’s unique bouquet; they’d tell you.1
Meanwhile, we are doing our best to promote the importance of online reviews. As part of this do-good initiative we recently published this piece from Ritz Brother-lover and comedian Anthony Scibelli:
And, surprisingly, reader Shirley is back with a follow-up:
Even with the shakes and the Bystander Bones, which truthfully are impacting my job at Banana Republic, I can’t get that smell out of my head. Believe you me, I have ingested or inhaled a lot of things in my life, but…the smoke from those magazines was something else. I think Dad knew. I think that’s why he burned them how he did, away from our house. I’d really like to buy some Bystanders. How do I do that?
Great question—honestly, a question everyone should be asking. The answer is you can…
Upgrade your subscription (and pay us!) on substack.
Venmo Michael Pershan $120 and he’ll get you what you need.
And now, a word from our sponsor.
This is a paid advertisement by Michael Pershan. Michael Pershan paid Michael Gerber $100 for the right to post whatever he wants in this space, but Michael Gerber said it could only be one picture and one sentence—but it can be any picture and any sentence.
I smoked a humor magazine and it was amazing but my bones hurt and you have to promise not to tell anybody, OK?
COME ON BABY, DO THE SELF-PROMOTION
Last time I asked you to self-promote—but Geoffrey Golden shared an earthquake relief game bundle and recommended the comedic stylings of Lesley Tsina. Come on, Geoffrey, it’s like you don’t even know what self-promote means. Allow me: “Hey, check out my hilariously clever game about stealing mysterious stuff and jumping off a cliff.”
It’s like I have to do everything around here.
Meanwhile, Joe Petro called Williamsburg, VA the “most disappointing place in America,” Michael Estrin clarifies that “star-fucker is not an insult,” and Reuben Salsa asks us to consider “what makes soup, soup?” OK, alright. That’s some good stuff.
But—it’s not enough.
Oh, how I long for your self-promotion! My bones ache for it! They ache so much! Feels like they’re getting shorter! Is that even possible!
Please share your things, ouch. It hurts so good. Oh dear—oh god—our printer is amazing, I highly recommend them. But do not buy.
Dear Michael and everybody: The printer tells me “it’s the varnish” and “we don’t think it’s carcinogenic.” But they’re out in Amish Country, so what do they know from toxicology? They probably think zippers cause cancer.—MG