Not long ago I got an email from a writer. He wanted to know why our online humor site only accepts submissions running 251 words or fewer. “Is there an actual reason? Or is it just random?”
Absolutely not random! Not enough people know that 251 is an important number in the history of comedy, and especially to writers of prose humor. The story must now be told.
When James Thurber moved to New York in 1925, a colleague at The New York Evening Post invited him to attend a meeting of the Karlov Club in the basement of The Onyx, a once popular hotel that had fallen into ill repute. Thurber, always game for a bit of fun, agreed and followed his new friend to the meeting.
The Karlov Club, Thurber soon learned, was a group exclusively dedicated to the study and practice of applied divinomancy. Their major focus was the Kabbalist’s Shem HaMeforash, seventy-two letters long and reportedly of great power. But the group dabbled in other names of God: YHWH, Ankatam, the 1000 names of Jawshawn Kabir, and, curiously, Larry.
Soon enough, James Thurber joined The New Yorker and stamped the emerging cultural juggernaut with his wit, sense of mischief, and drawings of seals. But throughout it all, he continued attending the Karlov Club, experimenting with different names, trying to gain handle on the Divine.
His attention especially was captured by a newly smuggled Aramaic scroll, which included Shama RaChaChaChat, the 251-letter name, supposedly of great power if uttered with correct intonation and intent.
Subscribe, the Shem HaMeforash compels you.
Look carefully, and you’ll see it everywhere in Thurber’s work. It’s encoded in the “Secret Life of Walter Mitty,” “The War Between Men and Women,” “Me and the Boys Can Control the Weather With God’s Name,” “I Have a Powerful Aramaic Scroll”—each thinly disguised Karlov Club propaganda.
When it came time for us to choose a word-limit for our online submissions, truly, what choice did we have? How could we not follow in the steps of the great humorist? Could we choose anything besides 251? And who do you think is responsible for global warming? Wake up: it’s James Thurber and his acolytes.
Without further ado, here is what we published last week on the Great and Sacred twofiftyone.net.
HIT ME WITH THE SHORT STUFF
That cartoon was from Chris Gural.
The next piece is from Ernest Hemingway. Kidding! It’s actually from Jimmy Pitts, who gives us Rough Drafts of Hemingway’s Six-Word Story:
Oof. Baby went bye-bye. Selling shoes.
Socks? Don’t even get me started.
Little loafers. Cash only. No questions.
Selling tiny sneakers, interesting trades encouraged.
Shoes for ass, grass, or cash.
Knock knock. Who’s there? Baby shoes.
Entire child’s wardrobe available. Dead stock.
And now let’s move right on to some Alternatives to “Netflix and Chill” for Those Cancelling Their Subscription:
HBOMax and relax
Hulu and hugs
Peacock and over-the-clothes stuff
Crackle and pop
Apple TV and mutual masturbation
Shudder and oral
Amazon Prime and discussing your feelings openly and honestly in order to build meaningful emotional intimacy
Tubi and anal beads
Disney+Banging
You have Lauren Ryder to thank for that last one.
But wait, two more!:
That’s what we published last week. Admittedly, most of it was fiction. But before taking leave of your inbox, here is a true quote about William Carlos Williams from a real book by Brendan Gill.
My friend James Laughlin was [William Carlos] Williams’ publisher and friend, and he arranged for me to meet Williams at his combined home-and-office in Rutherford. Whatever Rutherford may be today, twenty-odd years ago it was a decaying middle-class community, and Williams devoted himself largely to caring for the families of blue-collar workers. Even by the standards of that time he was an old-fashioned doctor, selflessly making house calls at all hours of the night and day….
He was an exceptionally passionate man, and as I followed him on his rounds it soon turned out that his interest was aroused not only by the sick children who were under his care. Despite his age and damaged heart, he was lacerated by sexual excitement; every young mother we encountered seemed to strike him as a Venus.
Williams and I would pull up in his car in front of some not very savory-looking bungalow, and Williams would slap my knee and say, “Wait till you get a look at this one!” We would ring the bell, and the door would be opened by some slatternly woman in her late twenties or early thirties, wearing a soiled rayon dressing gown and with her dyed hair done up in a dozen or so pink plastic curlers…
He would examine the baby, write out a prescription, and then spend five or ten minutes in happy banter…Back in the car, he would be breathing hard and radiant: “What a girl!”
—Brendan Gill, Here at the New Yorker
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