Neal Pollack, the Greatest Living American Writer, is the author of 11 books of fiction and nonfiction. His most recent book, “Pothead: My Life as a Marijuana Addict in the Age of Legal Weed,” came out from Central Recovery Press in June 2020. He is the editor-in-chief of Book and Film Globe.
In an attempt to save my shattered reputation, I renounce The Federalist. It is too little, too late, and not nearly enough, for our culture has silenced me forever.
As my patient convulsed, this Nazi-sympathizing virus-denier who attended Sturgis and several illegal Thanksgivings said, ‘I should have voted for Biden.’
Of course, Election Night can only mean one thing: CNN, the Comedy News Network, which has always been the funniest parody of newscasting on TV.
Restaurants must close at 10 p.m., except on Wednesdays, when they must close at 9 p.m., and Sundays, when they must close at 3 p.m. but cannot open until 4 p.m.
COVID-19 will never be over. We’re in for the longest, hardest, saddest winter since Joseph Stalin and Walter Duranty danced a jig together in Moscow.
This resignation letter is different from the letters I’ve written in the past. It’s about ideas.
We are cancelling speech that speaks out against other speech that may be speaking speakings that other speakers find offensive.
We must build a society based on what I call ‘rational kindness combined with government-mandated contact tracing.’
If you do one thing wrong during this pandemic, you will die. But we must be steadfast and brave, and bravery means staying at home forever.
Restaurants will reopen, but only for one customer at a time. Shopkeepers must shoot pre-purchased goods out of a T-shirt cannon, and we can only catch them if we’re wearing gloves.
Did anyone listen to me? No. But they’re listening to me now. And I’ve suddenly become quite expensive.
I’m proud to be part of a long tradition of productive plague authors. As I gaze upon the valley below from the parapets of Mount Winchester, I am alone with my prose. And my health.
Where I live, there’s an organization called Feed The Homeless While Not Using Any Fossil Fuels And Fighting Racism. I give them $100 a year so they don’t ring my doorbell.
Gen X grew up with parents who were always getting divorced, and siblings who were always drunk. When we came home from school, the house was empty, and so was the refrigerator.
My publisher sent advance pages of my book to judgmental Goodreads critics and other young-adult writers who live angrily in small apartments. An enormous scandal erupted.
While I’d never heard of Louis C.K. before yesterday and am still unclear as to who he might be, there’s no doubt that his so-called humor inflames me to the point of angina.
As The Greatest Living American Writer, I accept TIME’s Person Of The Year Award on behalf of all writers, journalists, and writers who write about journalism,
Sometimes you reach a point—usually when you have something to promote—when what you once thought no longer is what you think now.
Whether you cover the White House, Big Pharma, or the local water board, it’s time to hide your belongings and kiss your children. For the gulag surely awaits unless we act now.
I began my work covering a civil war in Africa—or maybe it was Asia. But I never thought I’d end it (not that my career is actually ending) covering a civil war in my home country.
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