LOL

By The New Yorker

Humor from the archive.

The Girl Who Fixed the Umlaut
The New Yorker - Nora Ephron
There was a tap at the door at five in the morning. She woke up. Shit. Now what? She’d fallen asleep with her Palm Tungsten T3 in her hand. It would take only a moment to smash it against the wall and
Central Europe
The Very Comical Lament of Pyramus and Thisbe
The New Yorker - Susan Sontag
(An Interlude)WALL: Thus have I, Wall, my part dischargèd so;And being done, thus Wall away doth go.—“A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” Act V Scene 1. THISBE: It’s not here anymore. PYRAMUS: It separated us.
LGA—ORD
The New Yorker - Ian Frazier
Then, Beckett decided to become a commercial pilot . . . .“I think the next little bit of excitement is flying,” he wrote to McGreevy. “I hope I am not too old to take it up seriously nor too stupid about
Across the Street and Into the Grill
The New Yorker - E. B. White
This is my last and best and true and only meal, thought Mr. Pirnie as he descended at noon and swung east on the beat-up sidewalk of Forty-fifth Street. Just ahead of him was the girl from the reception
The American Literary Scene
The New Yorker - James Thurber
(AFTER READING SEVERAL ESSAYS, IN ENGLISH MAGAZINES, ON THE PLIGHT OF THE AMERICAN WRITER AND THE NATURE OF THE AMERICAN MALE) I have but now returned to England, and to my tranquil pen, after spending
Why We Laugh—or Do We?
The New Yorker - Robert Benchley
(LET’S GET THIS THING SETTLED, MR. EASTMAN) In order to laugh at something, it is necessary (1) to know what you are laughing at, (2) to know why you are laughing, (3) to ask some people why they think
Press Agents I Have Known
The New Yorker - Groucho Marx
The little fellow climbed upon my lap and tugged me gently by the beard. “Tell me, grandfather,” he said, “about your first press agent.” I gazed into the fire. Unknowingly, the child had touched a tender
Just a Little One
The New Yorker - Dorothy Parker
I like this place, Fred. This is a nice place. How did you ever find it? I think you’re perfectly marvellous, discovering a speakeasy up here in the Forties. And they let you right in, without asking a
The Whore of Mensa
The New Yorker - Woody Allen
One thing about being a private investigator, you’ve got to learn to go with your hunches. That’s why when a quivering pat of butter named Word Babcock walked into my office and laid his cards on the I
The Browning-Off of Pelham Manor
The New Yorker - E. B. White
(WRITTEN AFTER LOSING CONSCIOUSNESS AS THE RESULT OF A TOO CLOSE STUDY OF THE REFLECTIONS OF CHARLES A. REICH) I achieved Unconsciousness I before I knew anything was up. I was in the womb and restless
Laissez-Faire
The Exegesis of St. Nick
The New Yorker - Roger Angell
(ANOTHER FRIGHTFUL BLOODLETTING IN THE BACK ALLEYS OF THE “NEW YORK REVIEW OF BOOKS”) To the Editors: Nothing could be more flattering to a scholar than to have a work of his reviewed by so eminent an
Sex and the Single Boy
The New Yorker - S. J. Perelman
Let’s see, now—exactly what do we know about Phil? He’s twenty-five years old, he’s an investment banker, and he went to Yale. We know he likes girls, because, by his own candid admission, he’s got a black
The Cliché Expert Testifies on the Campaign
The New Yorker - Frank Sullivan
Mr. Arbuthnot—They have not kept nor do they intend to keep . . . They have undermined the foundations . . . They constitute a threat to our democratic institutions . . . And I say to you, my fellow-Americans.