Times New Roman is the best font


It has come to my attention that design experts are advising job seekers not to use Times New Roman on their resumes. This is blatant propaganda from Big Helvetica. Times New Roman is the font for all of us. It is the font that should unite us, not divide us.

Times New Roman is the font equivalent of a firm but not crushing handshake. It is a well-tailored pantsuit in a neutral color. If you met it at a conference, it would offer you a simple, easy-to-read business card on stock that is pleasantly thick and creamy to the touch but not overbearingly textured.

Look at me, the other fonts say. Admire my kerning. Marvel at the height of my apex. Blush at my scandalous lack of serifs. Times New Roman will never resort to this sort of tomfoolery. It is not going to jump up and down to get your attention. It knows its own worth.

Times New Roman knows that you aren’t here to play games. Times New Roman is a plain black picture frame at a reasonable price point. Is the picture inside beautiful? That’s not Times New Roman’s problem.

If fonts were hats, Arial would be a golf hat worn at dinner, Comic Sans would be one of those beanies with a propeller on top, and Times New Roman would be a simple side-parted hairstyle with no adornment needed.

Times New Roman for my resume. Times New Roman for my tattoos. Times New Roman for my firstborn child’s birthday party invitations. Embrace Times New Roman, and it will pull you into a strong but compassionate hug, pat you firmly on the back, and release you promptly. Times New Roman is not going to make it weird for you.

Science fiction without the social justice

green alien

John Spaceman stared at the alien’s green breasts. He could use his eyeballs to look at whatever he wanted; this was space, where men could do as they pleased. He stared at her titties something fierce. She was not an allegory for The Other or anything like that, just your basic sexy-lady-but-green-type alien.

“Farewell, John Spaceman, savior of this particular galaxy where everyone lives lifestyles suspiciously similar to middle-class white Americans in the 1950s,” purred the alien, who John thought of as a temptress, even though she was also extremely virginal. In fact, this species of alien could only have sex with one man ever, and John Spaceman was that man. “Thank you for saving us from that other spacefaring culture that was metaphor for communism and fascism at the same time, somehow.”

“No problem, babe,” said John Spaceman, making a cool space-gesture to indicate how roguish yet traditionally manly he was.

He got into his rocket ship. It was long and hard, like his penis, but John Spaceman didn’t think about it in a gay way. He had a totally platonic relationship with his rocket ship.

“Farewell, galaxy full of cultures that are definitely very original and different and not based on the author’s limited worldview,” he said, and shifted into warp drive. “I’m off to explore the rest of the known universe, where everyone speaks English, and pretty much everyone looks human except for that one race of cockroach-things nobody likes.”