“You talk so much about my president, President Trump, being a humanitarian. You are a humanitarian also, sir, and I salute that, I commend you, and I thank you again.”

— Steve Witkoff, U.S. special envoy to the Middle East, addressing Russian President Vladimir Putin

Mark Wednesday, October 21, 2026, as “the day words lost all meaning.” My dictionary just ran outside and threw itself off a bridge. Noah Webster arose from his grave and lurched around, howling and tearing at his hair. Samuel Johnson is bellowing something awful; I can hear it across the Atlantic Ocean. George Orwell is sighing; he has been here before.

I have to imagine that Putin is a little insulted at being so gravely misunderstood. With this single word, humanitarian, our envoy has revealed a stunning ignorance of the Russian president’s life’s work. This is like going to Picasso and praising him as a “representational painter,” or calling the Sahara “the wettest place in the world,” or describing Witkoff’s statement as “unembarrassing.”

I see, perhaps, where the misunderstanding began. Putin referred to Trump as a “humanitarian,” and Witkoff thought to himself: Ah! This word clearly has a different meaning than I have been led to believe! I will have to reconstruct its definition from context clues. Maybe it’s someone with P in his name. Maybe it’s someone who doesn’t think that the United States should be in NATO. Maybe it’s someone who would look really good on horseback. Maybe no words mean anything! Maybe they are just phonemes to be thrown at a wall, at random, in the manner of that great representational painter Jackson Pollock.

One of the conditions of freedom is that words have an understood meaning. If Putin is a humanitarian, then Dolly Parton was an axe murderer. Who else gets to be filed under humanitarian if Putin makes the cut? Stalin? The iceberg that sunk the Titanic? Calling Putin a humanitarian is like calling Hannibal Lecter a humanitarian, although there is more of a case to be made for Hannibal because he does, at least, subsist on people.

Let me start over. It is nice and convenient, I think, when words have meaning. It makes it easier to order a sandwich. When words are more of a suggestion, reality evaporates at your touch, and none of your rights is secure. Good luck getting a sandwich then! Real is fake, fake is real, and all your society’s most precious values carry a disconcerting wink: freedom, free speech, meritocracy, equality. When you chant them, when you promise them to one another, you are not sure exactly what you are saying. Their meaning melts like hot wax, and homeland security becomes an unmarked car slamming into your neighbor.

Authoritarians treat words as a game. (Putin, great humanitarian that he is, has some experience with this.) Perhaps war is peace (big news for the Nobel Committee, if true)!

Perhaps the best humanitarian is whoever voids the world of the most people! Perhaps election integrity is the exact opposite of that!

In the spirit of this new, callous disregard for words and their meaning, I say: Great job! Well done! What a magnificent time to be alive, when all of the best people are in charge.

Hush! I must hear! It’s an election year, I am a voter, and I need to know the president’s answers to the most pressing questions facing America today: How upholstered are the chairs in the Rose Garden? Is the helipad at the White House any good? How are things progressing with the ballroom? And is the golf course going to be ready soon? No, do not ask about affordability. That is a made-up word. I could not care less about the price of eggs! What am I, a hen?

My concerns are more basic. I demand to hear: HOW IS THE HELIPAD? AND IS THAT GOLF COURSE IN EAST POTOMAC PARK BEING DEVELOPED TO THE HIGHEST STANDARDS OF GOLF, TURNING THAT TRASH ISLAND INTO AN ISLAND OF BEAUTY AND SUCCESS?

I was up late last night. I looked at my bills. Pretty high—but that just means the economy is booming. Still, it was hard to rest. I walked down the hall and looked at my sleeping children. How long could we hope to survive, knowing that at this very moment, in Washington, D.C., a judge is preventing East Potomac Park from becoming one of the world’s great golf courses, instead just letting it lie there, old, tired, beaten up, and useless?

My children say, “Father, Father! When will we be able to afford hamburger?” And I say, “How can you talk about hamburger when you know that Trash Island still needs to be developed to the highest levels and standards of golf?” And they say, “Do you even play golf?” And I say, “Silence!” They don’t have their priorities straight. But I’m glad we have a president who does.

The other day, I was at the gas pump. I hate going to the gas pump, because the numbers there are so high, which I know is a deliberate distraction from the real problems Americans face: the hazardous, dangerous trees on East Potomac Golf Links. No one is safe from those trees.

After that, I stopped by a restaurant and ate some salad. Immediately, I felt sick to my stomach. “That was tainted lettuce,” my family said. “No,” I said, “it is because of the shame, pertaining to the golf course.”

I don’t need a fully staffed FDA monitoring lettuce-borne diseases! I need to know that we are stopping our assistance to Ukraine in defiance of Congress. I need to know whether Vladimir Putin seemed happy when our president talked to him. I really hope that our president impressed him; Putin is a big, important man. Maybe someday, America will be a world power too. If we can just get this golf course in shape, we can build on that momentum.

Don’t you dare say that this isn’t a kitchen-table issue. You haven’t seen my kitchen table, on which a replica of the president’s plans for a truly beautiful arch have sat for the past six months, gathering dust. That arch holds all my dreams. “Why did you buy that and not food?” my children ask. They don’t know what they’re talking about.

Don’t try to appeal to me by talking about the cost of living. IRRELEVANT! I want to know: Does the president have a nice-enough plane? Are the right letters on all the buildings in the capital? Good, beautiful letters, such as T, R, U, M, and P—not bad, subpar letters such as K, E, N, N, E, D, Y? These are my concerns, just as they are the concerns of the whole electorate.

For years, I have been unable to hold my head up high, knowing that we don’t have the greatest ballroom slash military complex ever built. How do you think that feels? Every night, I toss and turn, asking myself: Is New Mexico going to keep its disgusting, embarrassing name? Or will it change it to something nice, like New America? Will they ever manage to cut down those terrifying trees in East Potomac Park, so we can finally feel safe? Hurry, Mr. President! Please, hurry! I don’t know how much longer I can keep living like this.

Updated at 5:17 p.m. ET on October 16, 2026

Dear Kelly Clarkson,

Miss Clarkson. I have read that you wanted a bird but were not permitted to obtain it. Well, I am in possession of a bird and do not want to be. Perhaps we could come to a mutually beneficial arrangement.

In brief: There is a bird in here. Specifically, a raven. It sits, croaking, uninvited, on my bust of Pallas. (I would also be happy to give you the bust of Pallas. It is a tasteful bust; my only qualm with it is that it reminds me of my lost Lenore.) I didn’t ask the bird to be here. To the contrary, I would like nothing more than for it to depart. I have asked it to do so, first politely, and then rudely. But nothing. The raven will not budge.

When I read of your encounter with the store Art of Play I felt the only hint of hope I had felt for quite some time. I thought: This woman needs a bird. I have a bird. I will tell her the situation, and we can wring some triumph out of this whole miserable thing.

How did I come by this bird? Oh, the usual way. I’m sure you know the feeling. It’s a midnight dreary. You’re pondering, weak and weary, many and many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore. You are thinking of your lost Lenore. Then you hear a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at your chamber door? Well, this happened to me recently. But it wasn’t someone. It was a bird. And now the accursed thing will not depart!

I want to be rid of the bird. And you want a bird. I understand that the bird in which you expressed interest is a windup bird. Well, this raven certainly winds me up. Is that anything? I understand that the bird in which you were interested is named Molly. My raven could be named Molly. You could call it anything if only you would take the demonic thing out of here!

Before you object that the kind of bird you want is inanimate, whereas mine is clearly a live bird, I have considered this, and I think that the main objection people have to a live bird indoors is that the bird will fly around disruptively and try to escape. Well, the raven does not do that. I wish it would. I have opened the casement. I have said, “Shoo, bird.” I have said sterner things, things that I now regret. But the raven does not budge. It just sits there and says, “Nevermore,” at intervals.

Also, its sable hue would go with anything. Looking at this bird from an interior-design perspective, I think it would fit any room, especially if I included the bust, which, again, I am willing to do.

Do you need to feed it? I have not gotten that far with the bird. So far, it has not eaten anything. I think maybe it sustains itself by other means. It just sits there saying, “Nevermore.”

Make no mistake, I am not offering you a free bird because I doubt your ability to pay. I am offering you a bird because I hate the infernal creature and want it out of my sight! But I would accept your money. Using that money, I could perhaps even get rid of the beating heart that seems to be stuck under my floorboards.

I eagerly await your response.

Sincerely,

EAP

In his eagerness to respond to Kelly Clarkson, Edgar Allan Poe initially misstated the location of the beating heart. It is under his floorboards, not in his wall. Alexandra Petri knows this, as you can see if you read the Poe chapter of her book, where she gets this detail right.

I’m your new press secretary, Katie Zacharia! You may know me from my appearances on Fox News; I am pretty sure that is how the president knows me. That is how he identifies all possible candidates for jobs: turning on the TV and pointing. My successor will be a Kalshi commercial.

I also might be a lawyer! Where did I pass the bar, you ask? After I moved to China. No further questions! (See, I am getting into the press-secretary spirit already.)

When you consider that this is my first time reading words out loud, today was actually a pretty impressive performance. I swear that I have seen a sentence before, and I know where one stops and. Starts. And whether? To speak. With a rising inflection? This lends an air of trepidation to every one of my prepared words, as though saying any one of them aloud might cause a trapdoor to open beneath me.

I’m bringing a kind of “unlicensed bus driver” energy to this speech: unsteady at best, with many seemingly random stops in unexpected places. Just call me Vote by Mail, because my delivery is raising a lot of questions in the White House.

I am excited for this job because—well, let me use my exact words: “I get to do what I was doing on the outside already, which was hoping to amplify, multiply, and expand upon President Trump’s incredible agenda for the American people. And what I hope to do in this position is to take that into an official capacity and only build on, only amplify, and only multiply, to the extent possible, all of the wins he’s making for Americans, for, for Americans to understand how much has changed in this brief period of time—what he’s been able to accomplish. My goal is to be able to communicate that in complete tandem with the president, as he is his own best spokesperson and will absolutely be leading the way as with that.”

So there you have it. Wasn’t it Dan Quayle who once said that “verbosity leads to unclear, inarticulate things”? I assume he meant that positively!

Am I enjoying this job? In a word: no. I thought there would be more saying “HOW DARE YOU” to people asking questions, which I felt equipped to do. By the way, how do you think this is going so far? I have referred to my husband as “my president” only one time! That’s good, right?

Let me preempt some of your questions for me. No, this is not spoken-word poetry. No, I am not what turns up when you Google woman who has just seen the letters of the alphabet for the first time and is frightened of all of them. No, I am not a malfunctioning AI. Did you see me drink water even a single time? Yes, I am the best person for the job, provided the job does not involve reading any more words or answering any more questions.

This is the kind of meritocracy we’ve come to expect from the Trump administration. As Pete Hegseth and I like to say, it’s not meritocracy if it doesn’t include me.

No further questions! And look at that—it’s been 14 whole minutes already. That’s time! Good thing I will never have to do this again.

The Social Reckoning, Aaron Sorkin’s sequel to The Social Network, is now in theaters. I, for one, think that making a whole new movie is not the best way to tell the continuing story of Mark Zuckerberg and Meta. Why not do instead what Zuckerberg himself is doing—take the social network we have and just make it worse? Below, please find my script for the revised The Social Network. (Aaron Sorkin, you are welcome to use any of this if you want to make a third movie!)

Sean Parker, from Napster: A million dollars isn’t cool. You know what is?

Mark Zuckerberg: A million dollars—donated to Donald Trump’s inauguration fund?

*

Mark Zuckerberg’s ex Erica: You’re going to go through life thinking that girls don’t like you because you’re a nerd. And I want you to know, from the bottom of my heart, that that won’t be true. It’ll be because of the pervert glasses.

*

The Winklevoss twins are rowing in a tank. We pan out to reveal that Mark Zuckerberg is right behind them, working out just as hard.

*

Mark Zuckerberg: Eduardo, I need the code you used for ranking chess players.

Eduardo Saverin, Facebook’s co-founder: Sure.

Mark Zuckerberg: We’re ranking women. And then we’re going to build a whole network around this. And then to keep people on that network we’ve built, we’ll create a black-box algorithm that pushes rage-inducing—sorry, “borderline”—content onto users’ feeds to drive engagement, even if it fuels the rise of conspiracy theories, misogyny, and violence.

Eduardo Saverin: Can we go back to the ranking-women part?

*

Mark Zuckerberg sits at his computer, reloading the screen again and again. Yup, the policies that formerly flagged dehumanizing speech about protected characteristics have been successfully removed in time for Trump’s second term! Also, Erica has not added him as a friend yet.

Erica: Dating you is like dating a StairMaster.

Mark Zuckerberg: Sounds excellent. An experience lots of people will want to have. Actually, that’s an idea. Why shouldn’t everyone you interact with be a robot? I am writing this down.

*

(Mark Zuckerberg scribbles on a window) Buy … Vine … then … destroy … it.

*

The Justin Timberlake character: A million dollars isn’t cool. You know what is?

Mark Zuckerberg: Floating leglessly in a joyless void.

The Justin Timberlake character: Um.

Mark Zuckerberg: Having a hole in you that nothing can fill, absolutely nothing, no amount of money, no amount of power, no amount of mixed martial arts, so that when the business that has made you billions of dollars but has cost other people their lives and sanity comes under any kind of scrutiny or attempts at regulation, you feel like you’re the victim.

Sean Parker: I was going to say “a billion dollars.”

Mark Zuckerberg: (staring dead-eyed into the camera) A billion dollars won’t fix anything.

I am sure if we explain one more time that we are people
They will finally understand why this needs to stop
Oh! They will say, their eyes widening
Oh! How terrible!
We did not think of this happening to a person
We thought of this as one of those things that happened
We thought of it as happening in a story
In a group chat
We did not realize there were people in there!
Maybe something almost like people but not quite
Noisy frowns attached to something that we wanted
You are going to tell me that all this time
Crouched inside those statistics
Gritting their teeth behind pseudonyms
Peering out through the bars of hashtags …
Those were people? This is really awful
If this can happen to a person—
Why didn’t you say something?
Is that what you’ve been shouting all this time?
No wonder you’re so hoarse
No wonder you’re so upset
How do you ever stop screaming?