This is what you think it is. I just ranked the salt and vinegar kettle chips in my life. But now I have a problem: I tried these, and they’re incredibly delicious:

So I need to update the rankings to include them. There’s just one issue:

No one has invented a viable form of time travel yet.

So I can’t go back and change what was. But that has me thinking: what else would I do if I could go back in time?

I would shoot Trump’s other ear so that he could wear these earrings.

I would tell Tolstoy to change his name to Tolstoy 3.

When Woody and Buzz in the garbage incinerator and they accept death… nah I’m a 37-year-olded bearded manly man nerdy Redditor and that had even me chopping onions!!!!

I would kill Adolf Hitler, and also Winston Churchill!

#equalopportunityoffender

I would bring fire to humans.

Tryna get my liver pecked this summer iykwim

I would buy Sears Roebuck stock.

#longsears #castiron

I would tell Jesus that it’s fine, and even good, to be gay.

I saw a “Gay is OK” sign during pride month this year. Feels a bit muted, no?

I’d bring 2004 DNC Obama to the 1968 Democratic convention.

Calm everyone down a bit. Chill the atmosphere out.

I’d invent time travel!

Someone’s gotta do it, self-evidently. Why not lil ol me?

Nabeel’s Footnote

I would go back in time to write and produce the most beautiful song anyone has ever heard, and bring tears to generations of eyes,

SF actually just got a huge wave of new (aesthetic!!) coffee/matcha spots. Just so you all know! What makes me honestly so happy is that they’re aesthetic. It’s not just that they’re new, which is a great adjective (it really captures so much; I find the breadth of the word ‘new’ astonishing), but they are also aesthetic (!!)—another famous adjective we all know and love. And something I love about cities is when there are new coffee/matcha spots. It’s what makes each city unique, and a universe unto itself, is when there are new (aesthetic!!) coffee/matcha spots that pu (pull up). It’s so fucking awesome. It makes me hella happy to spend so much money on rent when new (aesthetic!!) coffee/matcha spots provide me with so much in return. Right now, , , and are texting about something called “The Umami Theory of Value.” Asian people naming their dogs stuff like mochi, miso, or umami—that’s what I’m assuming the link is about. To be honest I don’t want to click on something called “The Umami Theory.” That’s where I draw the line. I can’t believe this is what our fucking lives are right now. God bless.

Ritam’s Footnote

Harumph. Fools. I’m surrounded by fools and sycophants. But not you, eh? Not you, my darling reader. You discern. You critique. You are of a higher class of sophisticate. Your erudition knows nary a bound. So it is to you I pose this question:

Why on earth are you reading this?

There is much to be done in this world. There are great works to be completed. You could be doing an errand, or even cooking a meal. You could, as is traditional for Americans at noon on a Friday, even be pursuing that most hallowed of objects: money.

Here are some ideas for why you might still be reading this:

1. You have nothing happening in your life. You are a sad shell of a person.

This feels the most likely.

2. You are our friend and want to support us.

🫵🤣 Damn, what a horrible deal you got. Having to read this claptrap every week for 6 years in exchange for what?? Having some mid pasta at my house every once in a while and being forced to watch 30 bad Youtube videos or have me show you how “good the spider-man 2 game graphics are”??? fohhhhhh

3. You’re an Indian guy curious about other Indian guys who pursue endeavors that lack prestige or moneymaking potential.

Well, there’s no big secret to it—just a healthy sense of disdain for anything useful in this world!

4. Literally can’t even think of a fourth reason.

Yeah. All you fourth reason people are little weird fucks. Can’t figure you out at all.

Nabeel’s Footnote

Secret fifth thing: you want to have s*x with us ….

And imagine me sitting there on I-90—one hand on the wheel and one hand on my phone and two eyes on my phone for seven straight hours—watching the clock strike 12:01, 12:02, 12:03, 12:04…

12:05, 12:06, 12:07…

12:08…

And then the clock strikes:

12:09, 12:10, … and so on.

And even after that, the (digital) clock strikes 12:11.

And then it strikes 12:12. 12:13. And etc.

You get the idea.

12:14, and so forth. (It’s insane that you keep making me list out the time on the clock. You guys are so fucking dumb. The clock keeps going forward on the minute. Duhh…? Idiots.)

Now imagine me watching the clock keep “striking” these numbers (12:15, 12:16, and such) while being unable to do anything about the lack of an email in your inbox. Each minute is a successive blow to my nuts, producing a sharp, sickening sensation in my deep gluteal tissue as well. Imagine that. And imagine Ritam is fucking flying to Canada or some shit while this is happening, so he’s basically abdicating all responsibility we have to our paying subscribers. The collective impact of these compounding factors was, needless to say, overwhelming.

As I passed by various towns like Moorheadsville and Ashtabula and the Seneca Nation (land acknowledged, of course), helpless, I could do nothing but craft the perfect Low Lift Ask in my head. I crafted such a perfect essay and made it into a perfect shape and rotated it around in my mind perfectly. And trust me, it was perfect. Unfortunately I forgot it all completely once I pulled into my garage.

Instead, here are some thoughts and experiences I had while driving.

Right after inputting my address into Google Maps and right before setting off on the road, I open an email from my beloved Syracuse cheese shop, The Curd Nerd, and learned about a new cheese this week.

After sending this screenshot to a few people, naturally, I then put the car into the famous, ‘ DRIVE !’

A shirtless guy on a two-wheeler just passed me in Ohio—and the back of the vehicle says ‘SUCK ME.’

If you zoom in close, you can see the bedeviled phrase for yourself. Let’s just say I wouldn’t like to be associated with his kind.

Yikes! I should’ve switched into the left lane. A car is stopped on the right shoulder and out from the driver’s seat pops a man with one-arm.

This haunting image happened too quickly for me to capture photographic evidence. I do not know what befell this man, but I will refrain from commenting on the whole “right shoulder” of it all. And you should, as well. You nasty, vile pigs. I know you want to make a little joke about it. But don’t.

What’s the difference between “corporal” and “corporeal?”

Because I was driving, I didn’t really have time to look into this too much. But I hope someone does.

“Drive Like Your Kids Work Here”

I don’t know if there’s some local inside joke here, but this is notable enough for me to think about it for a good two minutes as I pass through Cleveland’s beautiful downtown. I generally would not want my kids to be working at that age—much less in such a physically taxing and dangerous profession.

“A-I oughta…!”

This one’s a bit of a thinker. Someone on The Big Picture podcast just said the phrase “AI” in such a way that I rolled it around on my tongue for a bit. “A I.” “Ay I.” Then imagine this: instead of someone rotating their fists and muttering, “Why I oughta…,” what if someone rotated their fists—in a similar manner—and said, “A-I oughta…” I consider this for another 30 seconds.

License plate that says “SQU1RT”

Someone passes me on the left with the license plate “SQU1RT.”

There’s an exit for something called “Classic Park”

What an awesome name. Classic Park.

Imagining a family that names their kids for landmark Supreme Court cases.

At some point between Erie and Buffalo, I’m imagining a family of children named after landmark cases. Meet my children: Korematsu, Obergefell, Bakke, Bhagat Singh Thind.

These were some of my driving thoughts that I managed to remember. And now we will send this out at the best time imaginable—Friday night on a holiday weekend. The numbers for this better be through the roof!

Ritam’s Footnote

I’m in Canada

Inspired by the success of Brooklyn neighborhood newsletters like:

• The Grand Army Gazette

• The Cobble Hill Courier

• The Court Street Journal

• The Bed-Stuy Stoop

• The Dekalb Dispatch

• The Gowanus Canoe

• The Boerum Bulletin

• The BoCoCa CoMoSha (commotion)

• The Bay Ridge Ray Bridge

• The Rockaway Walk A Ray (down the Ray Bridge)

• The Downtown Brooklyn Chow Town Hooked In

• Süddeutsche Zeitung

I’ve decided to start my very own, about the goings-on on my particular block of fair Underhill Ave, where we lay our scene!

In this issue: A rat was spotted running away. A car was spotted going up the street. And a Dog was spotted, being walked by its caretaker.

A Rat was Spotted Running Away

Earlier this week, local residents spotted a rat running away. Many said that it “turned tail” like “a yellow-bellied blaggard.” This reporter cannot confirm, as the rat ran away while I was at work.

A Car was Seen Going up the Street

A rare sight in these parts, but a car went up the street on Tuesday. Local fixture Gorf Helgerberg was heard remarking “car going up. on a Tuesday.”

A Dog was Walked

Wonder if I’ll somehow get the newsletter out by noon today. Seven minutes left. Nabeel’s still gotta look at this thing and write his little note, sighing and shaking his head.

Nabeel’s Footnote

What’s the lowest word count we could send out? Would anyone give a shit

I can hear Fallon saying this. I would love to say something was “one of the most viral videos that ever went out of our show in the history of our show.” I think the part that really gets me, ultimately, is “that ever went out of our show.” Out of our show.

Recent NBA Finals MVP Jalen Brunson recommended these products in his Strategist Can’t Live Without column. The hot sauce recommendations are one thing—he should read up on my thoughts—but what really blew my mind was how he decided to recommend Neutrogena Rainbath, a body wash that I, myself, use.

“I forget how or when that came about, but I saw this body wash and it smelled amazing.”

Don’t really know what “that” is referring to, and in which context, and I love the idea of “seeing” a body wash that “smelled” amazing.

Came across a series on Amazon Prime called Your Fault London, and its follow-up, My Fault London.

Your Fault London and My Fault London.

There’s no commas anywhere, and no colons. I don’t know what this could mean.

“Cooked against” is just wild. Cooked as a verb that implies opposition. But we move, I guess.

I’m not pro the man using AI, but I feel like you gotta be able to spell his name right if you want to publicly comment on it. This is just something that’s pissing me off.

Ritam’s Footnote

Would have enjoyed that burrito video! Wish someone had sent it to me!

Welcome, dear readers, to a zone beyond comprehension, where you are so in my thrall that you don’t even realize you’re in my thrall, living in a type of thrall Truman Show as it were, going about your day in my thrall, doing your little tasks in my thrall, eating and sleeping in my thrall, brushing your teeth in my thrall. If you knew how in thrall you were to my specific charms and whims and desires you’d be beating at the walls of your clear thrall prison, attempting to break through the thrall reinforced plexiglass, stamping thrall license plates for thrall ramen packets at the thrall commissary. Receiving thrall letters from well-intentioned progressive thrall citizens in the outside thrall world. Developing a romance with a thrall reporter coming to check on conditions in the thrall prison. Meanwhile I see and control all, your thrall God. But what kind of God would allow such suffering? Thus begins your descent into thrall depression. Thrall part of my grand design.

I’m playing a game that’s totally opaque to you, and even me. This is chess on many dimensions. Chess that expands into a tesseract. Even I can’t keep up with the rules of this chess. In this one, the queen can travel through time to any other previous turn and fuck shit up in that older turn, affecting the future. So that’s the kind of game I’m playing against you. And I have to say: Chessmate. Because I think I just made the winning move. Any questions?

And don’t go thinking about any of this, or what it means. Just let the newsletter flow over you like warm water. Sink gently into its cosseting arms. Sleep, my child. Sleep.

Nabeel’s Footnote

thoughts?

I will now consume every one of these tabs, whether longform article or YouTube video, and come back with the best one.

I’ve just come back. It’s now 11:17 a.m. I’ve taken in so much. It’s so difficult to make a decision on what to share with you all. I guess the truth is that, after all of those longform articles, all of the deeply reported stories searching for some sort of moral center amidst the complexity of human frailty, I liked this YouTube video the most.

Happy Friday, y’all!

Ritam’s Footnote

Happy Friday :)

Oh wow—you came here with masochism in your heart. You want to know so badly about The Public Records Indian, a new theory being developed at Low Lift Ask Laboratories. You’re desperate for some ideas on how rising rents and descending pay for anything that’s not a stupid optimizer job has allowed craven Indian opportunist 26 year olds to colonize NYC cultural life through psyops like “Beli.” You can’t wait to hear about how the rise of TikTok has created a new Frankenstein-like phenomenon of genuinely hot Indian Gen Z folks, leaving millennials in the dust as the newly coiffed and K-skincared line up for Basement. You love it when we identify a subgroup, don’t you? You sick fuck. Well, guess what?

We are taking a stand.

No more derision—even when the Public Records Indian represents the worst of shallow, consumerist, thoughtless, clout-seeking, short-form-video-addled culture. Even then. We will not be derisive. We will not dismiss. We will love and cherish. We will hold in tenderness. We will bark like a dog at those who threaten. We will swaddle Public Records Indians in a small papoose and let them suckle at our teats until our nips chafe and turn red and raw with overuse.

Because we are wise and enlightened.

Life moves on. We get older. New people come in. They are always annoying, and the closer they are to younger versions of ourselves, albeit missing deep internalized racism and self-consciousness and shame, the more annoying they will be. We can see this, at Low Lift Ask. We invite the Public Records Indians in. We ask them about their day. We ask them about locking in and clocking out. We ask them about whether or not they “like their team” at work. We ask them about restaurants they like, and nod along as they reference “Spicy Moon” and “Mala Project.” We ask them about things they like to do, and nod along as they reference “day trips to Red Hook.” We ask them who their idols are, and nod along as they reference “Quiet Light.” These are the small ways we give back. This is our bailiwick in this world.

But what of criticism?

What of it??

Nabeel’s Footnote

Bro loves the word “bailiwick”

In the past 10 years, only two fictional characters have really broken through for the team here at Low Lift Ask.

One, obviously, is Aziz Ansari’s stirring, soulful creation, “Dev Shah.” “Dev Shah” whose dad’s name is “Ramesh” and is, of course, a Tamil Muslim. This makes so much sense. It makes all the sense in the world, so don’t think about it too much. Dev Shah is so curious why his dad, Ramesh—a Tamil Muslim named, again, Ramesh—doesn’t eat pork, and why he’s not allowed to (he being “Dev Shah,” a Muslim guy. Muslim guy named Dev.) And I felt SO seen onscreennnnnnnn. Dev Shah was really giving representation vibes lowkey. Aziz had me gagged in 2015, bro!

The latest has only come to us this week: Vishnu Mohammed, the protagonist of a searing new story from real guy “Jamir Nazir.” I would recommend you all read it. It’s giving authentic lived experience, and it’s also giving boots down the house—and maybe also, just maybe, giving me life?

We found these two duking it out in a parking lot

but convinced them to interview each other. Read on for an illuminating discussion about faith, literature, and art.

Wednesday, May 20, 9:30 AM, 2026, Trinidad and Tobago

Dev Shah: (Aziz Ansari voice) Wazzuuuuuuuuuuup

Vishnu Mohammed: Assalamu-alaikum, brother. Or should I say: Namaste?

Shah: Hm?

Mohammed: No, seriously—which one should I say?

Shah: Don’t know. Don’t really fw that stuff.

Mohammed: And peace be upon you as well, brother.

Shah: Can you shut up for a second? I’m going through my notes.

Mohammed: I don’t know why everyone thinks I’m AI-generated. You know, the novel that Slumdog Millionaire is based off of—the main character in that is named “Ram Mohammed Thomas.”

Shah: Type shit. Type shit.

Mohammed: Indians love doing this kind of thing. “Imagine a guy beholden to no one creed!” Etc. So everyone get off my fucking back.

Shah: Was thinking you could go through and explain some of these metaphors for me. Legit don’t know what you’re talking about—and for me to say that? I mean, I’m one of the most cultured guys alive, bro. I’m going to Four Horsemen. I’m doing such a hilarious bit about Whole Foods at Four Horsemen. My dad, Ramesh, is a Tamil Muslim, and I guess so am I, even though my name is Dev Shah. I went to Italy to like take a pasta class (?) I think. I’m fucking white women on the reg. So for me to not know what these metaphors in Granta are up to? You got some ‘splainin to do!

Mohammed: Why did you say ‘splainin like that? I have no frame of reference

‘Sun on galvanise is a cruel instrument. It beats until the roof talks back in a dry moan.’

Mohammed: This one is kind of a thing we say in Trinidad all the time. You’re basically talking about how the sun—on galvanise, of course, which we all know what that means, sun on galvanise—is beating the brakes off the roof’s back walls and so the roof is moaning in pleasure. Dry moan. The famous dry moan.

Shah: For sure.

‘African in the hips, Spanish in the cheekbone, East Indian in the hair when the rain kinked it, Carib in the way her gaze could bless and warn at once.’

Shah: Talk to me about this one, Vishnu. It seems like Zoongie is bad as hell.

Mohammed: Yup. Zoongie is my paramour, I think, in this story (didn’t actually read it), and basically this is just how horny I am thinking about her (in the close 3rd-person). Our whole thing is combining a bunch of different cultures into one person, right? Me and you? This is just me doing that but in a gross way.

Shah: A couple sentences before this, you (in the close third) said, “She had the kind of walking that made benches become men.” Speak on that.

M’ohammed: To be honest, Dev, I can’t really explain that one. You either get it or you don’t. Benches become men, I guess.

‘Big in the way of women who never apologise to furniture, she had a laugh that shook dust from joists and a voice that could soften to coax a child from a ledge.’

Mohammed: Ya, I don’t know.

Shah: You don’t know?

Mohammed: Not really.

‘Zoongie came; Zoongie always came.’

Shah: So talk to me about Zoongie again. Why is her name Zoongie.

Mohammed: I gotta go, brother. There’s brush (?) that needs “plising” (?). And pigeon peas. There’s a bunch of stuff about pigeon peas in there.

‘Sita returned it and felt as if she’d put down a pan she had no business carrying.’

Shah: Talk about the pan she had no business carrying. Talk about that.

Shah: Because the way I see it? Sometimes, there is a pan you got no business carrying. Like when I spent a whole episode going, “And you, father—what was your immigrant experience like?” That was a pan I had no business carrying. It was pretty great writing, if I do say so myself, to have everything be so explicitly asked. And the episode’s name was Parents. So you kind of had to figure out what we were going to be talking about based on just that word. But, yeah, not really a pan I had any business carrying.

Shah: Cool. Just thinking out loud here.

“‘People does change,’ he says. ‘But grove does remember.’”

Shah: Hmm.

Shah: Gonna sit on this one for a bit.

Ritam’s Footnote

She sun on my galvanise until I dry moan. Are we happy?

Striding through the wreckage, I cannot help but ask myself: What have I wrought?

What misdeeds have I done? What have I plundered and pillaged? How many have I killed? How many atrocities have I committed? Which homesteads have been laid to waste? Whose bodies did my sword cut through like a scythe? Who was the sorry recipient of my bloodthirsty marauder’s rage? Who saw the whites of my eyes before perishing feebly? Whose throat was slit by my cunning blade? Who saw a flash of white as I bared my teeth in intimidation? Who were the casualties of my various raised hackles and their attendant adrenaline-fueled psychological properties? Who died with the ghost of their last laugh etched on their face? Who tried to stand up to the onrushing hordes?

Erm, no, seriously though… 🤔 I lowkirk don’t remember… I don’t remember anything, really. (it’s revealed I’m a goldfish) :3 welp, time to eat more flakes!

Ritam’s Footnote

No… it’s NABEEL’S Footnote this week.

Oh, Sorry.

That’s ok! We all make mistakes.

Random ahh newsletter this week. This what we can expect from you going forward? Randomsauce type humor? Cringe as fuck. Bob Cheese type shit. Why not make fun of some kind of Indian guy or something?

What the hell? Who are you?

It’s just that your last le random newsletter lost Low Lift Ask 9 subscribers. Look at the graph.

You check those metrics? I don’t even look at them even one time, or even care at all. 😎 I’m awesome like that.

Nabeel’s Footnote

Local sports fanatic and media maven has launched a new venture called covering women’s sports in New York. Tap in or you’ll regret it!!!

Ritam (one of the authors of this very newsletter) is hosting a stupid show on 5/13 where a number of NYC’s top comedians will do improv based off of smells that are pumped into the audience, slowly asphyxiating everyone. Link for tickets here.

Something I do every morning is wake up and pray that somewhere, somehow, an Indian guy is having a kickass day. That’s the kind of generosity I lead with (despite what you all might think from reading this every week). And it can be whatever, too. It can be something as small as enjoying a tangy bowl of skyr, or something as mind-blowing as getting your shit rocked by a lovely lady. And I hope for this every day.

Somewhere, a monkey’s paw curled.

Last week, when I opened Substack’s proprietary CMS to see what Ritam had vomited out for our weekly irony slop (something about a caveman?), I was shocked to see that he had avoided the elephant in the room. Not really, of course—who is Ritam but one to shy away from big moments, to crumble when the lights are brightest? I guess the task falls to me now.

It makes me sad for you guys, though. I had actually spent the last couple of weeks finalizing the architecture of a massive, blistering essay, which I was set to have done for today. It was a probing, deeply incisive work of cultural commentary—a piece of writing that, somehow, was able to attend to every hot-button issue and ideology, and even prescribed solutions to modern American ills. I don’t know how I had pulled it off, but really, it was astonishing. It would’ve blown the hinges off Substack’s puny ceiling of discourse; you all would’ve learned something. For once.

And yet, now, I need to write about this fucking guy, all because Ritam chose not to. I need to go line by line through the lawsuit and the woman’s alleged advances, to decide whether or not the lady’s “cannons” and the guy’s supposed “Asian fish head wife” are indicative of some broader point about Indian masculinity.

I’ll need to address the guy claiming she said, “I own you, Brownie,” and “Birthday BJ for the brown boy? My little brown boy,” and decide if that’s something I would even get off to, which obviously I wouldn’t, because that’s so gross honestly, and it’s crazy someone would say that to another person, it’s so dehumanizing and disgusting, and it’s not something I would ever even think about doing (or even hearing, in the context of, like, it happening to someone like me), because it’s just so, so disrespectful, and once I decide if it is or not, I’ll get back to you guys.

And of course, because of Ritam, Low Lift Ask will need to take a serious, 6-month-long hiatus to fully metabolize the severity of this guy’s racial sex slave fantasy, in order to return with fleshed-out ideas about the painfully public, enduring humiliation ritual that is being Indian in America in 2026. All because Ritam didn’t have his finger on the pulse last week and we could’ve just gotten in and gotten out.

I’ve just gotten word that the guy might be Nepali.

It seems the guy might be Nepali.

And guys? It turns out the guy might be Nepali. Which means we don’t have to address. We can ignore. Nepali different vibe. Whole other thing going on. Not me, not us. I’m from Kerala, brother. Not my circus, not—maybe different analogy. Not my beach, not my sand castle. He’s got his own shit to deal with. Can’t even get into it. Lfg.

Ritam’ Footnote

I like being Indian! It’s one of my many facets. Not my whole identity. #healthyrelationship #withmyself

Hello! Me have much say to modern human. Society quite different from when me around and in me heyday. Me halcyon days behind me, but me still have opinions on state of modern world!

First off—me think there too many pronouns these days. For example, “I.” Why say “I” when “me” do trick?

Thank. Thank. Oh—and also, me think there too many letters in LGBTQIA! When me young… there no letters at all.

No, but seriously. Me worried about general society. Students in college campus not learning anything of REAL VALUE these days. They too busy taking classes in “agriculture” “irrigation” “record-keeping.” What happen knowing your roots… and berries?

Thank. Thank. You good audience tonight. Speaking of good, what happen to modern women these days? They tattooed baddie, eat hot chip and lie. When I young, women had no face and were collection of blob made of stone. What happen good old fashion blob?

Nah but you know who could get it? Lucy.

Lucy so bad when me done with her she bout be several hundred pieces of bone. Me want experience Lucy’s Great Rift Valley. Me want Lucy to Dink on my Inesh till I Amharic. Me saying “Addis Ababa” (location of Lucy skeleton) like “humana humana humana” over and over. Me crazy for this chick! What can me say? Me in love!

But me just humble iceman and she international celeb. It never work. Much like “Notting Hill” scenario. Run through caveman filter, and me come up with the idea of “Knotting Reeds” (to make basket). So maybe this “Knotting Reeds” scenario.

Nabeel’s Footnote

I’m in Burlington, Vermont. I don’t need to be reading all this

In honor of this incredible milestone—the famous milestone number, “ SIX ! ”—we have decided to allow you all to meet us in person.

Low Lift Ask will be hosting its first ever Meet and Greet, on May 15, at the following location! Tickets at the link here! We’re so excited to meet all our loyal subscribers.

We will be meeting, initially, at Jean’s in Cooper Square. A large congregation of you will scan your tickets and then have an incredible time at this vaunted clubstaurant. Martinis, buffalo chicken sliders, raclette wheel, ice luge, ample amounts of ketamine—you name it! We will provide.

At this point, you’ll be wondering: where are Ritam and Nabeel? And you would be correct in wondering that. You would be correct in wondering why two lads would host a meet and greet and not be there. Because we won’t be there at that point. We will be making ourselves scarce. We will be hidden, and you must find us.

At this point in the night, you all will have to assemble a makeshift democracy and elect a chosen representative.

Secret ballots, raised hands, whatever—someone will have to take charge. Once elected, this person shall lose any last trace of their identity. They will no longer have a name, nor kin, nor a bloodline from which they descend; they will be a wailing, freshly shorn, brand new babe. They no longer exist as they used to.

This person (presumably an Indian guy, given our audience demographics) will then need to find their way to the bathroom, where I will have placed an encrypted message. The message will be programmed to self-destruct within 10 minutes, and this feckless Indian guy will have to bring it back to the group. You will debate what to do, whether to send this guy to a fate potentially worse than death (meeting us in a private, secure location). Ultimately, the message will reveal itself to be a pair of car keys. The car will be parked outside.

Get in the fucking car.

Drive, bitch. Skeleton is permanently sutured onto passenger seat. Every time you look to check your blind spot he’s there. You have no other recourse. Once you press your foot on the gas pedal, a metal strap will emerge and lock your foot in place. No brakes. All you have to do is navigate.

At this point, it should be clear that no one at Jean’s will be meeting us (let alone s’ing and f’ing our D’s). Everyone probably snagged a ticket at the link above (re-linking here) just so they could S and F our D’s. It makes me sick. Please. I don’t just give this shit out for free. You have to work to S and F my D.

You’re also probably wondering, “Where am I navigating to?” Good question. Your iPhone will automatically hook up to CarPlay and have a pre-loaded address. It will the Angola Service Plaza on I-90. We have also swapped the license plate to be one of the following,

so you will be pursued the entire time. Not necessarily by authorities, but by the hoi polloi—they will see this shit and want to kill you with crossbows as their cars pull up beside you. Hopefully, they can’t line up the shot with precision and absolutely fucking dome you. Hopefully. Good luck avoiding them.

The Meet and Greet party will—now without an elected leader and thus rudderless—soon devolve into anarchy. There will be no one there to herd all you nasty, freaky fucks. I know what you are. I know you need to be sedated and tamped down in polite society. At this point, while the Nameless Man flies up 87 towards Buffalo, all while being pursued by well-meaning protestors who want to drive him off the edge, you will all devolve into unfettered chaos. No one will be there to reign you in. The DJ will be spinning ‘ORIGINAL NUTTAH’ by UK Apache on loop, ad infinitum. I’ve instructed the bouncers at Jean’s to lock the doors: no one else in, no one out. Either you all S and F each other, or no one makes it out alive. Your move, subscribers.

I will have replaced the rearview mirror on the AC/DC truck to be a mini-TV screen, which will be playing a compilation I made of Backstrom’s greatest moments—tentatively titled ‘Backshots from Backstrom.’

My hope is you will go insane. You will be forced to watch sardonic Rainn Wilson clips for four hours on a drive to Western NY, with no access to the brake pedal, and will thus lose your fucking mind. We want you broken when you reach Angola. We want you down bad…

In the women’s bathroom of the Angola, NY Service Plaza, rub the faucet closest to the door with your finger, and then start whispering in Parseltongue.

Descend down the gaping chasm that has now appeared behind you. Stop asking questions. When you reach the bottom, quivering and crying, unable to comprehend what we’ve put you through, you will arrive at two doors. One will be labeled, ‘Nabeel’; the other, of course, will be labeled, ‘The Other One.’

Both of us will be bound and gagged and snatched and serving face behind these doors. We will each be suffering from life-threatening illnesses, and our demise will be imminent. You don’t know it yet, but there’s a reason you were chosen. You are the medicine; you are our savior.

Remember: this is what’s at stake (video below). You have to choose one of us.

We are so thrilled and excited to be able to meet all our fans—see you all there!

Ritam’s Footnote

Buh? The hell did I just read? Yup — that’s it for me, I’m unsubscribing from Low Lift Ask. This newsletter has just gotten too out there.

Well, that’s how I feel about several news stories today. Here, let’s take a look.

Yessss. Yesssss!!!! Yessssssss!!!! The good guys stay winning 😎

Yes. Yesssss. Celebrating with a veritable popped cork right now. Chugging champagne about all this.

Mmmmmhmmmm. You tell ‘em!!! Yessss. Hitting this one with a hard “YAY.”

Oh my god this is so awesome I’m screamingcryingthrowingup.

No stop because I’m legit about to nut you guys, like for serious…

Buh? Who da hell is Ayo Edibiri??

Nabeel’s Footnote

Received this in the mail the other day:

On the surface, it makes sense. There’s a new way they’ve found that gets you to jammy eggs—jammy eggs, of course, being the destination. But given all we know about the NYT Cooking section, I actually think we could be dealing with something much more sinister here. A perversion of the highest order.

I believe they’re using jammy as a verb. “A new way to jammy eggs.” They’re giving us a new way to jammy eggs. And in this case? They want us all to jammy.

I know. I know, gang. Let it all out. It’ll take a while for us all to process.

#Emotional Vulnerability #SereneSpring #SexCrimeSummer #WithArmsWideOpen #InTooDeep #Genesis

[In the voice Samberg uses when he says, “If you didn’t know by now, I’m naming baseball teams”] If you didn’t know by now, we’re ranking the ten feelings.

5. Tfw you’re eating something sweet and drinking something sweet and then one cancels out the other so it’s like not sweet anymore

Lowkey one of the worst feelings. Fuck tastebuds, bro—and while we’re at it, FUCK the glossopharyngeal nerve, too!

4. Being snatched

They say nothing tastes as good as skinny feels. And brother? I have to agree. In the past few years, I have decided to power down my emotional repository and attendant social network, all in favor of hollowing out my nude form. I have become snatched. And for a while, being snatched was amazing. Being snatched made me the man I am today. I am constantly propositioned by sexpots and ditzy harlequins. But a curious thing happened—it all crumbled into dust, hot air, empty calories.

What about the pure joy of being alive, irrespective of the corporeal form? Is life only measured by aesthetics, external beauty? Is there nothing celebratory and joyous? Or is query naive?

3. Lust

Vile stuff. Y’all should never be feeling lust. Lust lowkey makes me feel dysregulated.

2. TFW Olo is acquiring Spendgo

I’ll be honest: one of my oldest friends posted this. It was around the time that Olo acquired Spendgo, I think? But he was right—it was huge news. Olo acquired Spendgo. Let that sink in.

1. Serving C*nt!

I’m of two minds here. Objectively, this would be funnier, and maybe make this entire enterprise marginally worth your time in some minuscule way, if I had typed out the word. You would have been offended—but be honest. You would have respected me a tiny bit more, I think.

On the other hand, I need a new job soon. Maybe it’s time we take this whole thing private, gang! Delete the archives!

Ritam’s Footnote

0. Watching this video and thinking about life

I had a thought earlier today, as in fifteen minutes ago, that’s based on an old email forward, or joke, or something. You’ve probably heard it: X years ago, we used to have Johnny Cash, Bob Hope, and Steve Jobs. Now they’re all dead and we have no cash, no hope, and no jobs. It’s kind of a meme language format thing, though a bit passé. Right, so earlier, I had a thought that remained unfinished along these lines:

A hundred years ago, we had Turkey in the Straw…

Whoa. Mind blowing. A hundred years ago, we had Turkey in the Straw, a rollicking American ballad to that most wattlèd bird that Ben Franklin did himself decree should be our national one.

If you don’t know the song, I beg of you, listen, and you will see that in fact, you do.

Anyway, so the thought about Turkey in the Straw sprung unbidden to mind. And as with all things that spring unbidden to mind, I did not dismiss it as a mere flight of fancy, I began to work it over like an amazing ball of dough, punching it into various configurations in order to see if it would form long glutinous strands of real humor. Let’s examine a few.

A hundred years ago, we had Turkey in the Straw, Strawberry in the Mouth (Roger Doyle ref???), Mouth something something.

Immediately too long. The connection between Turkey in the Straw and Strawberry in the Mouth is tenuous at best. It’s just a “Straw” / “in the” situation.

A hundred years ago, we had Turkey in the Straw, something, a third thing. Now, we have PAPER STRAWS,,,

No, this isn’t working. Paper straws are not a trenchant avenue for jokes anymore. We all know about paper straws and how much they fall apart when you’re tryna sip your awesome iced hojicha latte, steppin’ your way down Tompkins lookin’ like a fly guy.

A hundred years ago, we had Turkey in the Straw, A Bird in the Hand, and Two in the Bush! Now BUSH is bombing TURKEY with METAL BIRDS (planes)

Hmm, this would work if Bush had bombed Turkey in 2026…

A hundred years ago, we had Turkey in the Straw, Turkish March, and Turk from Scrubs. Now we have Straw (flaxen) hair, March Madness, and Scrubs Reboot.

Hmm, no, I think this one is bad for some reason.

A hundred years ago, we had Turkey in the Straw, Needle in a Haystack, and Christian Bale. Now we Bale on Hinge Dates, “Hey” “Stack” on Tinder (stack of baddies you say “hey” to), and say “this is the last Straw.”

I think I’m getting further from God on this one. It’s time to go back to the basics.

A hundred years ago,,, was 1926… Yeeup. Who still thought it was 1900? (whole class raises hands) yeah no because when I do years math I’m still calculating backwards from 2000 who else? (whole class claps)

Forgot to do the turkey in the straw thing.

A hundred years ago, we had Turkey in the Straw, Smirky On the Draw (when you draw your gun and smirk), and Sticky in the Craw! Now we have Turkiyë, Smirkyë, and Stickyë.

At what point is this actually mental illness?

A hundred years ago, we had Turkey in the Straw, Yakety Sax, and In The Hall of the Mountain King. Now we have an authoritarian Turkey, young people aren’t having sax, and #nokings.

Oh wow, I nailed it! Perfect joke.

Bonus Turkey in the Straw Content

Nabeel’s Footnote

I realized a year or two ago that we “publish” on the same schedule as Grub Street Diet, one of the few media properties I’ll still seek out on a Friday. As in, type in the URL, go to a site, etc. Wonder if people do that with us.

In the spirit of March Madness, and tying together that whole thing I just said about how violent it sounds when someone bricks a shot in college basketball—really tortured, convoluted intro (video above unrelated)—I have decided to catalog some of the best things you can hear when watching basketball. One of the worst things you can hear is when the commentators say the phrase “jestergooning.”

“It’s a make-or-miss league”

This is what someone like Vince Carter will say at halftime, usually to signal that, in basketball, the team that makes most of their shots, will, more often than not, win games, while the team that misses most of their shots will usually lose. That’s what they mean by “make-or-miss league”; if you haven’t pieced it together yet, it means that you can win a game by making shots, and lose it by missing them. In the aggregate, that means that if you make a lot of your shots, you can win a lot of your games, and then you’d be a good team, because you won a lot of your games (because you made a lot of your shots). Conversely—well, I don’t need to spell it out for you.

But I might as well anyway: if you miss a lot of your shots, statistically speaking, you will likely lose most of your games. Then, you would not be a very good team. I love when they say shit like this.

“Wisely pulls it back” when a pointguard, for some reason, decides not to engage with a fastbreak

This has long been a favorite of mine. Commentators love to say it’s wise when someone decides a fastbreak isn’t worth committing to, so they slow down and bring it back to the top of the three. Every time, the commentator will say it’s “wise”—even if, honestly, they probably would have scored or drawn a foul if they had just gone to the basket.

Hey…The only time I’m “Wisely Pulling It Back” is when..I Gotta Pee😂😂😂😂 (foreskin)!!!! - Nabeel Chollampat

“Bodies flying everywhere”

My friend Neal (real name Akash 🧐) reminded me of this classic. Just one of those ones you take for granted. I can hear Rece Davis or Mike Breen saying this right now in my head. Usually just what they reflexively say when people are diving for a loose ball.

Saying “gotta make him earn it” when a big man gets fouled

Enemy of the newsletter suggested this one—a great example of the kind of reflexive, machismo, “in-the-90s-Oakley-would’ve-decked-Steph” mentality we still must contend with. A big guy can’t just get an easy bucket. You Gotta Make Him Earn It At The Charity Stripe.

“Getting it done on both ends”

Submitted by recent 30-year-old (unc as fuck). It’s honestly sick when a guy is getting it done on both ends. Translation: he just stuffed a guy at the rim (😳😳😳) and then threw it down on the other end, and also he is getting it done on both ends (both holes being filled, no loads refused).

“Rewarding the big man”

Basically goes hand in hand with the above, but it’s when a big guy, whom you usually would not expect to run the length of the court (despite the fact that he’s a professional athlete), runs the length of the court after making a defensive stop, so then you “reward him” by passing him the ball to score or, even better, yam it in someone’s face. Love this one.

“Makes a business decision”

Edward M.D. suggested this one—it makes sense, because he spends his time writing prescriptions and propping up Big Pharma 🙄

This one seems to have taken off in the last five or six years: all it means is that a guy decided not get dunked on, instead moved out of the way, and in doing so, “made a business decision.” I don’t really follow the logic 100%, but they love saying it these days.

Dishonorable Mention: Anything from Mark Jones

I’m sorry, but I hate Mark Jones’ bullshit. Some people find it funny. I do not. I think it takes you out of the game, and it makes the presentation all about him, and not about the game. I imagine he has a cheat sheet on his person at all times. It is not spontaneous. He is a charlatan. Some of his worst, off the dome:

• “Like the fries are at the bottom of the bag”—hate this one so fucking much.

• “Hotter than fish grease”—fine, I guess. But still. One must wonder: why?

• “Put him in the friend zone”—come on, man. Come on.

• This one is the worst, honestly. The worst part of it all, probably, is that it was about Kevin Huerter, who is from Saratoga Springs and his Basketball Reference nickname is “K’Von”:

Honorable Mention: Mark Jackson Fade-Outs

Something we’ve lost in the cultural revolution: Mark Jackson, on ABC Sundays, confidently saying some shit while the broadcast plays a slo-mo replay and they go to commercial. “The core texts,” some of you would say. This was a master at work. “May I have this dance?”

Ritam’s Footnote

I love accessing various dashboards and analytics. That’s where I can see data streams that give me key, actionable insights. So when I logged onto the Substack Dashboard this morning, I was prepared to see a number—but the number I saw shocked me.

Nah because why am I smiling the widest possible grin rn? 😃

We did it. We have slipped the surly bonds of the vulgar and entered the pantheon of Substack sublime. We’re at the perfect number—one subscriber more and we enter sellout territory, washed hacks who pander pander pander1 to their slavish audiences, doling out buckets of Substack diaryslop and center-right rational looksmaxxing cope to be poured down the gullets and maws2 of an unsuspecting audience. One subscriber less and we’re irrelevant pretenders, down in the chasm with the heaving hordes of the Substack user base.

My happiness rests on one thing: nobody should subscribe or unsubscribe ever again.

Hold. The fucking. Line. Do not attempt to “reduce the clutter in your inbox.” Do not think “ah what the hell, guess I’ll give it a shot” on Recommendations from “” Do not click on “’s” “Note” about “A Beautiful Girl Named Canine Hip-Dysplasia.” Just stay the damn course, keep your ship sailing straight. Do not deviate.

Your rewards for following my instructions shall be thus:

1. Low Lift Ask will end. No more posts or emails in your inbox. Not one musing shall enter your sphere of consumption. No bad short story, no bad writing, no low effort. It will all be over. Just hold the damn line. If anyone subscribes or unsubscribes over the next week, we will be forced to continue this newsletter forever.

2. Indians will dominate the world stage. Self-explanatory. I know half of you are guys in the Bay Area named “Arun Mullapudi” who are desperate to go to “Luma” events where you bandy about “positive externalities of friendship” with someone named “Genevieve Yu” that you secretly have a huge crush on. If you hold the line, I will make sure you make it to the top of the social pecking order, where you will have your choice of mate.

3. You can have my comp ticket to see the second half of Project Hail Mary at BAM. File was corrupted when I went to go see it last night. Actually I kind of want to see the second half, even though it was rather corny. I just need to know: does Ryan Gosling (Dr. Ryland Grace) end up saving the sun? Or does he fail in his mission, doom the human race to extinction, and die? So I’ll probably end up keeping that ticket. Sorry about that one. You can read the Andy Weir Wikia if you want to really know about all that stuff.

Nabeel’s Footnote

That being said, if 101 of you decide to subscribe all at the exact moment, subsequently getting us to 1,000, I will take you all out for a large seafood platter. A huge seafood platter.

It would be kind of like if Jacques Pepin, or Martin Yan—or even Lidia Bastianich—hoarded their collective knowledge of cooking instead of widely disseminating it to the masses through public-access television. That’s what it would be like if I held all this knowledge for myself. For real.

Something that everyone should know is that the first line is lowkey the most important one.

Think about the one I just started with:

“Yo I just realized something.” - Nabeel Chollampat, 2026

In reading that, you probably sat up straight: wait, what did he realize? And is he about to tell me? That’s honestly the power of a fire ass first line. It makes you ask questions and potentially answer them for yourself. That’s the kind of stuff you can’t teach.

Gordon Lish once called it “the consecution and the swerve”—that’s when I keep doing one thing and then one day decide to do a different thing.

Check this out:

Another thing that’s important to learn is that most readers—including you guys—are so fucking stupid. You guys couldn’t even catch on to the fact that I was legit doing the same thing every first line; no one even pointed it out to me via email, Substack DM, or at a crowded bar when I saw them last. It honestly made me laugh, because it was so easy to pull one over on you guys. It made me laugh.

Now, on a day like today, when I switch “thought of” to “realized,” everyone will go crazy.

It’s the easiest trick in the book. And it’s something I recommend you all take home and study.

You can also do stuff where you make the first line hella long and full of #Random stuff.

A cool thing people do now is have a first line of a short story that kind of throws the kitchen sink at you. Some shit like: “It was only mid-blowjob that I realized I left my stepmom’s bong at the abortion clinic.”

“It was only mid-blowjob that I realized I left my stepmom’s bong at the abortion clinic.” - Nabeel Chollampat, 2026

It’s like, the first thing you snag on is, wait, what? This mf is realizing something mid-blowjob?? 😂 He’s thinking about something else halfway down the shaft??? 😂 Who IS this guy?

And then after that you’re like—bro. His STEPMOM’S BONG??????? LMFAO. 😂😂😂 At this point, you’re all in. It’s like: WHO is the type of guy who, halfway through sucking someone off, start’s thinking about their stepmom😂😂—and a stepmom who, at the very least, SMOKES GREEN??!

And I don’t even need to get into that last part. Because at this point, my first line has already done its job. The fact that this mf’s stepmom’s bong—which, honestly, is so fucking insane and random in the first place—is sitting at the abortion clinic??? of all places, is enough to get you to keep reading.

And I just came up with that on the spot.

Most first lines should have an implied, “You’re probably wondering how I get here” framing device. That is lowkey the only thing that makes sense, storytelling-wise.

Because once you start with the most #Random shit you can think of, then you kind of work backwards to figure out how the guy ended up leaving his stepmom’s bong (it’s still making me laugh 😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂—like, what????) at the abortion clinic and only realizing it while he’s tonsils deep.

“That’s really the secret to all writing and storytelling—starting at the end and then making someone go, ‘Wait, how did they get there?’” - Nabeel Chollampat, 2026

My Top 10 Movies of 2025

1. Eddington

2. The Secret Agent

3. Marty Supreme

4. One Battle After Another

5. The Mastermind

6. Friendship

7. 28 Years Later

8. The Naked Gun

9. Relay

10. Weapons

Another classic writing move—sneak something in that might have been a better idea as a stand-alone post, and it probably would’ve gotten you more engagement on this fuckass platform, but you got bored of it.

I have a bone to pick with the people who run this leaky ship we call “Substack.”

My headline was literally designed in a lab to mega-platinum on “Notes.” You’re telling me people gave Ritam more likes? Simply because he “promoted it?” And made sure to keep “putting it in front of people”? And because he uses the “Notes” feature “like you’re supposed to?”

I honestly don’t know what else I can do here. I need to start doing weird sex diaries with a “TW” subtitle.

I hate writing. I hate this stupid App. Fk you all!!

I’ve decided to #Gatekeep the rest of my knowledge. Have fun writing your shitty Substacks with awful first lines……

Ritam’s Footnote

Nah I ain’t reading all that 😂 thought this was supposed to be a LOW LIFT ASK