Best of Shouts & Murmurs (from the past year or so)
The Shouts & Murmurs section of the New Yorker is reliably witty, wry, and short. For some, it is the pre-game to reading the magazine, and for others, the best (or only) part of the magazine (second to the cartoons).
Below is a list of what I consider the “Best of” from the past year or so.
But first, my criteria:
- Timelessness; I believe it is good today and will resonate in ten years
- Memorableness; I consider a piece an automatic “in” when I can remember it from eleven months ago
- Hilariousness: I laugh out when it is more or less inappropriate to do so (i.e. at work, on the phone, while being dumped, et al)
- You’re Jack Handey
***
Four Short Crushes, by Paul Simms
The Afterlife: Cutting Back, by David Owen
How Things Even Out, by Jack Handey
How I Want to be Remembered, by Jack Handey
The Symbols on My Flag (and What They Mean), by Jack Handey
Fourteen Passive-Aggressive Appetizers, by Yoni Brenner
Think Hard, It’ll Come Back to You, by Woody Allen
Is There a Problem Here?, by Larry Doyle
Mouse Au Vin, by Noah Baumbach
***
(I loathe to mention this list is gender-unbalanced.)

January 30th, 2009 at 1:12 pm
I would never dump you.
March 11th, 2009 at 6:40 pm
I don’t think anything will equal the kairotic perfection of that George Saunders parody. Her voice, his voice—the consummate melding of the two—I can only imagine him slumped despondently before a television set somewhere, blocked, idealess, I am finished, I shall never write another word—then slowly, slowly, raising his head, listening—wait, what is this? What are these Midwestern tones I hear?! My God, I was BORN TO SATIRIZE THIS WOMAN! And the rest is our satisfaction.
Your pieces are very funny, by the way. I came here for the Infinite Jest and stayed for more. Brava, brava—
March 11th, 2009 at 6:44 pm
(NB by the way that there are Four Short Crushes but FourTEEN Passive-Aggressive Appetizers. Nom nom!)
November 14th, 2010 at 2:42 pm
I thought Amy Ozol’s “Looking Your Best” was quite good:
http://www.newyorker.com/humor/2009/01/05/090105sh_shouts_ozols