Fake Nonfiction

“Now You’re Talking My Language,” by Charles Pastoor

Mar 11th, 2020 | By

You remember that weekend you decided to build your partner a dining room set inspired by the work of William Morris? How you went to the National Gallery to do archival research and found the original designs? There were the ladderback chairs made of oak that you cut down and milled yourself and the rush seats you taught yourself to weave. And the reformed gothic style table you knocked together, the one with mahogany and walnut inlays—you were pretty sure he was going to flip when he saw it. Especially since he was always quoting Ruskin and going on and on about the glories of the arts and crafts movement.



“I’m Not Leaving This Office Until You Finance Throw Momma From the Train: The Musical,” by Greg Landgraf

Feb 26th, 2020 | By

Broadway producers are always on the lookout for the Next Big Thing, and I’ve got it for you: Throw Momma From the Train: The Musical. Everybody loves the late ‘80s, and everybody loves musicals, and everybody wants to murder old ladies, so this is a sure-fire hit.



“We Have Rearranged Your Local Grocery Store and We Don’t Give a Fuck What You Think About It,” by Laura Jackson Roberts

Feb 19th, 2020 | By

Welcome to your favorite chain grocery store! You may notice we’re in a bit of disarray this week. That’s because we’re implementing a fantastic new layout to improve your retail experience. And guess what? We don’t give a fuck what you think about it.                 



“My Summer in Gabon,” by Eric Brill

Feb 12th, 2020 | By

I’m not a fan of the national anthem. Sure, it’s beautiful in the way that ancient things are beautiful. Like when you see an old picture of your grandma, and you say, “Wow, grandma, you sure were pretty. I guess, technically, you’re still pretty compared to other old people.”



“Hello? Anybody Out There? . . . Speak Up!” by Dave Rosner

Jan 29th, 2020 | By

Given the right conditions, a single cell could mutate and then reproduce itself over and over, forming a new species, or something resembling a former colleague who was run over by a cement truck and survived, though he leaned to the right when walking. It is no wonder that this man—who spoke with a lisp, stuttered, and suffered from incurable hiccups—had trouble communicating, for aside from giving a lecture or a speech now and then, Vladimir Matzkvech’s chosen method of imparting his brilliance was to preserve his thoughts on paper. With his untimely death, (Matzkvech passed away at the age of 97), a collection of his papers are scheduled to be released this week in a book entitled To the Apogee.