The gutless world of McSweeney’s

This is a weak bit of satire. There are no laughs to be had in this piece, merely a few wheezy hee-hee-hee’s. It’s lazy imitation Chandler.  And it doesn’t go nearly far enough.

If you’re going to satirize something, finish it. Go all the fucking way. But that’s not the McSweeney’s/Dave Eggers way, is it? Their version of irony apologizes for itself as it mocks. It doesn’t mock hard. It giggles at itself, mouth hidden behind both hands. It risks nothing and shows us nothing.

If you’re going to be a satirist, you had better be ready not to be liked. But the McSweeney’s bunch all want your smiles and your hugs. They want to share their pecan sandies with you over a glass of lemonade.

This kind of satire changes nothing, sheds light on nothing, because it doesn’t take sides. It isn’t even on the sidelines. It hides beneath the bleachers and whispers, “Are you my special friend? I’ll tell you a joke, but it’s not a good joke and I’m so sorry if it offends you and please won’t you like me anyway?”

Mr. Mike with Knife
Michael O’Donoghue should rise up out of his grave and beat them all to death with a shovel.
So, hmm. How to end this diatribe? Oh, right: Fuck you, McSweeney’s.

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