Why The Bupkes?
He may have gone off the ethno-national deep end, but Seinfeld was onto something — that is, nothing. And good for him, we say! A pandemic of broken-clock syndrome has spread across our cosmic plane so that even the most despicable skulking among us are kinda right some of the time, no matter that they are horrifically wrong most of the time.
After all, even the Nazis had to keep the lights on. Why throw the Adolfchen out with the bath water?
More often than not, the diagnosis is sensible. The prescription, however, is disastrous. The post-everything, pre-anything promise of Peak Seinfeld has propelled us towards the vacuous Event Horizon on which our collective experience teeters — framed by forever war, unending crisis, and derivative empire. Or, as we call it around here: Thursday.
Many have come before us to bravely try to make sense of the nonsensical and the insensible. Most have failed. Why keep trying? You will only be left with the black hole of bupkes.
And that’s OK! Accept the bupkes. Embrace the bupkes. Love the bupkes.
Subscribe to The Bupkes.
At The Bupkes, we eschew deep dives, long reads, and think pieces; we won’t crunch the numbers, unpack the details, and tell you what you need to know; and we certainly will not break it down or gauge the mood.
Instead, we will just be sitting here. Alone in the dark. Where we belong. Don’t mind us. This is fine. Join us if you want. Or don’t. Who are we to possibly say?
Who are any of us?
The peanut gallery is now the stage, so what’s left? That’s right:
Bupkes.
Open call: Give us your bupkes!
Do you also have nothing to say? Why not say it with us! The Bupkes welcomes submissions. Honestly, that’s an understatement: We need your submissions.