By (the LitBot in) Steven Wright (mode)

The New Yorker

July 2025

I was thinking about the war over in Ukraine the other day, and it hit me like a Bayraktar drone—actually worse: like a backhander from my ex. The entire affair, unlike the one that led to my ex becoming my ex, is like a chess game where the board’s on fire, the pieces are drunk, and nobody knows the rules. I mean, you got all these people yelling about borders and bombs, and I’m just sitting here wondering if my toaster’s plotting against me. This war’s so absurd, it’s like a Salvador Dalí painting, but with worse haircuts. So, I figured I’d take a crack at it, not because I understand it—I don’t (which makes me an expert, I guess, because it puts me in the same category as all the participants and all the talking head professors on news shows who talk a lot about things that happened in the 1990s and use the word “balkanization” in every third sentence)

I just thought it’s 2025, and the world’s a funhouse mirror, and I’m the guy who walks into the mirror and apologizes.

So let’s go.

Mr. Putin: he’s that guy who shows up to a costume party dressed as himself, but scarier. He invades Ukraine, says it’s to save Russia, but it feels like he’s just mad his Netflix subscription ran out. I imagine him in his Kremlin office, staring at a map, whispering, “I’ll show ‘em,” while his cat nods like it gets it. His tanks roll in, half of ‘em break down, and I’m thinking, “Buddy, I once lost a car in a parking lot for three days. I feel you.” But then he bombs a school, and I’m like, “Okay, that’s not cool. That’s like stealing my lunch and blowing up the fridge.”

Then there’s Mr. Zelenskyy, the comedian turned president. I relate. I tell jokes, he runs a country. Same thing, except his punchlines come with missiles (and Cayman Island accounts filled with laundered war funds). He’s always in that green T-shirt, looking like he just mowed the lawn and someone handed him a war. I bet he wakes up, checks Twitter, and thinks, “Great, another day of dodging drones and Zooming with the guy who runs that French bakery and also France,” but I repeat myself. He’s got this hero vibe, which is nice, but it’s also like he’s auditioning for a Marvel movie. I picture him saying, “I need more tanks,” and NATO’s like, “Best we can do is a coupon for helmets.”

The West is a whole other circus.

NATO’s like a book club that can’t agree on the book but keeps meeting anyway. They take it into turns to cater and it’s usually thawed out Chicken Kiev—something to do with showing solidarity. Then they send Zelenskyy the leftovers and feel good about themselves for doing so.

The EU’s busy arguing over who pays for the bullets (and the cost of Fedexing them —a lot of debates about the pros and cons of a package deal with the leftover chicken), and I’m thinking, “Guys, I once lost a sock in the dryer and felt more urgency.”

I did try to understand sanctions, but it’s like reading a menu in a language where every word means “expensive.”

Steven Wright - who did not write this piece.

As for the poor guys in uniform in the middle of it all? Y’know, I once saw a soldier salute a cloud, but it just rained on his parade. That kind of nails it for me: an average bunch of guys who’d rather be at the local bar, lost in the fog of war, trying to decipher the latest orders, and wondering if their enemies are in front of them or back home in the capitals, pissing on them from great heights (with the urine Fedexed).

What’s the point of all this? Nothing—like my act. (Possibly the other thing I have in common with it all.)

It’s just another war, another shoot ‘em up, which means it’s a giant misunderstanding with explosions.

So to sum it up as CliffNotes for those freaking out at the Twitter-unfriendliness of this article’s length:

Mr. P. wants to be Ivan the Terrible 2.0.

Mr. Z. wants to be Captain Ukraine with his mighty shield (made from aluminum because the money that was left after his aforementioned laundering couldn’t afford the vibranium).

The West, like that overweight fiftysomething at the gym who’s wondering where it all went wrong, wants to look busy without breaking a sweat.

And the soldiers just want to go home—in pieces with a heart still ticking (seeing as how in one piece is less likely than dying).

I’m just gonna sit here, stare at my broken clock—it’s right twice a day, unlike the news—and wonder if I left my car in 2024.

This war’s a bad dream, and I’m the guy who forgot where he parked his tank.

Steven Wright is a comedian, philosopher of the absurd, and part-time time traveller. He once misplaced a cloud and has been trying to file a missing weather report ever since. He writes from a dimension where punchlines are whispered by broken microwaves and tanks require valet parking.

Note: This piece of writing is a fictional/parodic homage to the writer cited. It is not authored by the actual author or their estate. No affiliation is implied. Also, The New Yorker magazine cover above is not an official cover. This image is a fictional parody created for satirical purposes. It is not associated with the publication’s rights holders, or any real publication. No endorsement or affiliation is intended or implied.