Eric Pfeffinger

Mr President, that doesn’t exactly narrow things down

In yet another startling change of plans, Queen of Versailles now plans to close a month ago.

My take: four weeks spent studying poetry absolutely makes someone a better victims’ advocate. In addition to the other benefits it confers on them as citizens and people who live in the world.

Doctors, your patients are your customers. If they want a lobotomy, it’s your responsibility to provide one.

Thanks, newspaper. Feeling seen.

According to my punch card I’m only three footlongs away from a free meatball sandwich and a Subway Peace Prize

The White House renames a building “Donald J. Trump Institute of Peace.” Which you gotta admit is a lot easier than making actual peace.

Tarantino's attack was absurd and baseless, and I will tirelessly defend Paul Dano as soon as I learn to tell the difference between him and Paul Mescal and Austin Butler.

Doonesbury.

In his defense, Trump didn’t sleep through the entire cabinet meeting yesterday — he woke up periodically to talk about how sharp and vigorous he is.

(Also to issue the occasional racist tirade, but by now he can probably do those in his sleep, so wakefulness status unclear.)

Stoppard was sometimes dismissed for writing cold plays that made you think, but when he was at his best the thinking made you feel.

What I didn’t get about Stoppard until later – which is why my thesis was dry and unreadable, and my early plays were smug and self-satisfied – was that his referentiality worked not because the plays were about literature, but because literature is about humanity.

For my undergraduate junior thesis I wrote about Stoppard and intertextuality, which is kind of like writing about John Irving and bears, or James Joyce and Ireland – don’t overexert yourself or anything there, kid.

I wouldn’t have become a playwright if I hadn’t pulled a copy of “The Real Inspector Hound” out of a pile of library scripts for a high school class project. If I hadn’t then read “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead” and “Travesties,” I certainly wouldn’t have become such an annoying one.

I came of age during a time when it seemed like reading Tom Stoppard was a necessary rite of passage for a young playwright. Getting over having read Tom Stoppard was an even more necessary rite. Only some of us made it through.

The president’s remarks about the tragically murdered National Guard specialist in DC reinforced every American’s hope that, God forbid, should something horrible happen to them or a loved one, maybe Trump won’t say anything about it.

76% of American voters disapprove of Trump’s handling of the economy, but don’t worry: he’s going to have his Attorney General indict them.

Trump announces that it’s against the law to make a video telling people not to break the law. His transformation into a Lewis Carroll character is nearly complete.

US Coast Guard officially downgrades swastikas and nooses from hate symbols to oopsies.

Trump’s all “Could we please stop talking about my rapist friend Epstein and focus instead on praising my murderer friend Mohammed bin Salman?”

Miss me with your tight-lipped prudish judgment, Wordle. You think I wanted to go there? None of us wanted this, but here we are.

Barista said “I like your shirt.” I responded with an 8-10 minute discourse on the underlying premise of Krazy Kat and its place in comics history before I remembered that the appropriate reply is “Thank you.”

I guess the Republican elite won’t take the affordability crisis seriously until sex trafficking prices start to spike?

Guys don’t freak out but Chris Cuomo has been displaced by darkest timeline Chris Cuomo

When you find yourself logging some time at the ER on a Friday night and at first you’re disappointed like “This is nothing like an episode of The Pitt” but then you’re relieved like “This is nothing like an episode of The Pitt.”

I don’t know if I buy it because giving a blow job would be by far the most selfless thing that guy has ever done. On the other hand it would be extremely on-brand for him to give it only to the one guy we know already has all the blow jobs.

Library back room humor is not like your earth humor

It shouldn’t have been that big a deal — the show was a blast, audiences loved it, I got to work with Marilyn Sokol, and we got an approving notice in the New Yorker — but y’know how it goes, anxiety’s gonna anxiety.

#tbt I’ve been pretty lucky with theater critics in recent years, but every time I learn there’s a new review of one of my plays there’s a reflexive trauma response, probably because of the morning this review in the paper of record had the audacity to drop unexpectedly on my physical doorstep.

I was not expecting them all to be from the Police Academy franchise but you do you, Pope!