An Imagined Conversation Between the Characters in Go Set a Watchman

[Interior, Henry's car]
HENRY: Hi Scout, I'm going to drive you to your childhood home in Alabama.
SCOUT: Thank you. I'm going to be weirdly bitchy to and about you this whole time.
HENRY: Why?
SCOUT: I'm not sure, but you still want to marry me because you were my brother's friend or something.
HENRY: Weird. OK, here you are, the home America fell in love with back in Mockingbird.
SCOUT: I'm sure this will be fine. Byeeee!

[Atticus' house]
ATTICUS: Scout! Hi! Are you an asshole from living in a big city, now?
SCOUT: I guess that's for you to decide, dad! Are you super racist in this weird future?
ATTICUS: Well first of all, I don't now if we can really call this a true future, as the verdict in the case featured in Mockingbird is different an--
SCOUT:-- Just answer the question!
ATTICUS: Yup! I sure am.
SCOUT: How bad are we talking?
ATTICUS: Well, I'm on a board of old white guys who try actively to prevent the advancement of black rights.
SCOUT: Holy shit.
ATTICUS: Yeah.
SCOUT:...
ATTICUS: But I do it for their own good.
SCOUT: Yeah, that's not a thing.
ATTICUS: Well, are YOU racist?
SCOUT: You know, weirdly, I kind of am! I'm not like you or anything, but I make a pretty big point of making it clear that I wouldn't want to run of and "Marry One" or anything.
ATTICUS: Hm.
SCOUT: Yeah.
ATTICUS: So, if you're being presented in 2015...
SCOUT: Right. Should I go see Cal?
ATTICUS: Well, given my activities, I'd say no.
SCOUT: I'ma go see Cal.

[Calpurnia's shack on the black side of Maycomb]
CALPURNIA: Girl, you better get the fu--
SCOUT: Oh, Cal!
CALPURNIA: You know what your daddy's up to?
SCOUT: Oh, please, Calpurnia! I just need to know if you hated us.
CALPURNIA: Well, then... no?
SCOUT: K, Byeeee!

[Atticus' house]
SCOUT: Calpurnia totally hated us.
ATTICUS: Probably.
SCOUT: Which really sucks because a lot of people considered her my mother figure until literally just now.
ATTICUS: Bummer.
SCOUT: Maycomb kind of sucks now.
ATTICUS: Where's your brother?
SCOUT: Dead.
ATTICUS: Oh shit. How about Dill?
SCOUT: No idea. There's actually no reason at all to bring him into this book, but I will anyway.
ATTICUS: So, no endearing childhood shenanigans?
SCOUT: There actually is one flashback that is pretty great and gives you a glimpse into what one day would become a beloved American novel.
ATTICUS: Well, that's nice, at least. Hey, is your weird uncle around?
SCOUT: Holy shit, yes. Let's see, how do I put this? Imagine if mid-breakdown Franny from Franny and Zooey argued with a hyper-philosophical Southern version of The Riddler about race for 40 pages.
ATTICUS: Oh god.
SCOUT: Yeah, it's a mess.
ATTICUS: Well, at least the story moves quickly, right?
SCOUT: Welllll, unfortunately there are pages and pages of expository that don't advance the plot, some of which are repeated nearly word-for-word.
ATTICUS: Oh, Jesus Christ.
SCOUT: Yeah, it gets rough.

WEIRD UNCLE: May I chime in here to say I really enjoyed this book?
SCOUT: That's just because you got to talk for pages on end; go away forever.
WEIRD UNCLE: K, byeeee!

ATTICUS: So, does anyone here think Harper actually wanted this book to get published?
EVERYONE BUT SCOUT: NO!
SCOUT: Well...
ATTICUS: Oh, come off it, Scout.
SCOUT: As the least racist Finch, I feel I should at least present the possibility that Harper Lee regretted putting forward a white-washed version of the Jim Crow South for all these years, and she wanted Watchman to come out because it is more true.
ATTICUS: Fine, if I concede that this is a slight possibility, can we all go to bed?
SCOUT: Sure.
ATTICUS: Ok, so what have we learned?
SCOUT: That editors are the most important people in the world.

ATTICUS: OK, bye!
SCOUT: Byeeee!
CALPURNIA: Get away from me.
WEIRD UNCLE: If I could insert myself here--
SCOUT:--NO!
HENRY: Everyone forgot I was here, but bye.

A Letter to my Almost-two-year-old Son

Dear Almost-two-year-old,
   
     Everyone warned me that the terrible twos would start around this age, and they have. Lord, have they. I don't think they should be called "terrible", though, because I understand.
     I understand that, when you wake up screaming bloody murder at 4:30 am after I managed to trick you into sleeping in your own bed for a few measly hours, and you are furious at being duped, it's because you like the Thomas the Tank Engine sheets and pillows and plushies and comforters that we bought you to try to cajole you into your own bed, you just don't like like them.
     And when you crawl into bed with dad and me, I understand that you try to push my head away from you with all your might while clinging to my body like a genetically enhanced leech because you need the warmth and comfort of my body, just without the meddlesome presence of my face.
    I get that, when you are crying and begging for something that you are already holding in your hand, it is because you need me to hide it behind my back for three seconds to fifteen minutes before presenting it to you in order to restore your sense of wonder.
     I understand that, when you are lying on the floor, kicking and screaming simply, "Again! Agaaaaain!" it is because you want to have or see something you have had or seen before in your lifetime, and you are too distraught to specify what exactly that might be.
     I get that the absence of trains is unacceptable.
     I know that sometimes you like to pull the dogs' tails for no reason because it just feels good be a straight-up jerk from time to time.
     More than anything, I understand that you are completely overwhelmed by the grown-up emotions you are sprouting.

   I think the terrible twos should be called the "question-why-you-wanted-to-be-a-parent-in-the-first-place twos." Trust me, I have, but I have an answer; I can see past the towering mountain of "TWO", to the slightly less-craggy peak of "three", all the way to the sloping foothills of "four", and beyond. And I know that you will come out on the other side a real, functioning little person, and I will feel privileged to have loved you all along; mind, body, and face.

Love,
Mommy



If you enjoyed this, you might enjoy my slightly-more-serious Letter to the Grown Up Version of My One Year Old Son
   
   

Adam Carolla and Unfunny Women

The internet is abuzz right now over some comments that Adam Carolla (a man I don't find to be particularly funny) made regarding women's senses of humor, and I would like to briefly respond. Basically all he said was that women don't tend to be the funniest people in the writing room. While he admitted that some very funny women exist, citing Sarah Silverman and Tina Fey, he said that if you are playing the odds, you don't pick women out as funny people.

Other comedians like Doug Stanhope went on to defend him on twitter, claiming that men develop better senses of humor because they need to be funny in order to get laid. While this is true, it's not the whole story AT ALL.

Girls are funny TO EACH OTHER. We don't have to make men laugh in order to get to touch their dicks. They don't even have to like us to let us touch their dicks. However, we do have to use humor to disarm eachother, because women in our social structure are naturally aggressive and resistant towards each other. So, while we may laugh real hard at guys' jokes, we get each other's humor more, typically. Also, any time you see a girl claiming that women aren't funny, she is doing it for bullshit guys' benefit, i.e., "Look how much of a guys' girl I am! I like strip clubs and video games and don't think women are funny." These also tend to be the girls who will blow your boyfriend for a meal or a bottle of whipped cream vodka, or for fun.

Where was I... ok, guys feel threatened by the idea of funny women, because they view their own senses of humor as this super unique development they have achieved in order to get laid. Funny women threaten that. I guess they are scared we are all just gonna scissor if we become funnier than them, idk. So ladies, next time a guy tells you women aren't funny, just touch his penis and don't engage in the argument, because what's the fuckin point?