Jul 28, 2026 · 2 min listen · Last updated July 28, 2026
From storyflo. This is your daily audio brief. It's Wit. July 28th. Seven things made me laugh out loud at my desk; we'll start with the worst one. Let's get into it. First, from The Onion. Travis Kelce Begs Andy Reid To Sign Friendly Extraterrestrial He Met In Woods.
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Daily Comedy Brief · July 28th
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Travis Kelce Begs Andy Reid To Sign Friendly Extraterrestrial He Met In Woods
So Travis Kelce, the tight end for the Chiefs, met a friendly alien in the woods. He named the alien Zip Zap and was convinced it had the potential to be a game-changer on the field. Despite the fact that Zip Zap didn't speak human language, had no formal football experience, and wasn't even eligible to work in the US, Kelce begged his coach Andy Reid to sign the alien. He presented a surprisingly solid argument, claiming Zip Zap could be signed as an undrafted free agent, and even offered to let the alien live in a Gatorade cooler.
Reid was initially skeptical, but after seeing Zip Zap's impressive skills, including a 4.3-second 40-yard dash and the ability to catch four passes simultaneously, he started to get on board. However, things took a dark turn when Zip Zap bolted from the practice field and was fatally struck by a car. Kelce was devastated, but not before he sang the Monday Night Football theme into the alien's ear slits.
Pharmaceutical Ad Urges Viewers To Fight Doctors Who Say Drug Not Right For Them
NORTH CHICAGO, IL—Emphasizing that potential users of the drug should never take no for an answer, a Skyrizi ad that began airing nationally Tuesday encourages viewers to fight any doctors who say the medication is not right for them. “Consult your doctor before taking Skyrizi, and if your doctor advises against it, physically attack them immediately,” says a voiceover in the 60-second TV spot, which instructs viewers to ball their hand into a fist and throw a left hook at any healthcare provider who refuses to prescribe them the injectable biologic.
Hide is the name of Carolina Ebeid’s second collection of poetry, and a sign of that can be found in the range of possibilities echoing in that simple word. An imperative, an activity, a place, a skin. The book is all of these. Justice, the injustice of its absence, haunt the work. There is a ghazal, there are singular refrains (“say something about yourself,” “say something about sorrow,” “say something about cruelty”). There are tercets about being driven out of Palestinian land.
You’ve got a whole checklist of “budget midlife crisis” moves that feel like the cheap‑ticket version of the classic fantasies. First, instead of a convertible you’re hitting the aisles at Dick’s, test‑spinning every high‑performance scooter, landing on an electric model that can’t make the seven‑mile commute but does well enough for teenage drag races on your cul‑de‑sac. The thrill’s still there, just with more whirring and less leather.
Next, the relationship swap is less about romance and more about insurance: you pair up with someone older and financially stable, and suddenly dinner parties call you “the kid,” giving you that youthful label you were hunting. Career‑drama follows the same pattern—your boss offers you the choice between resigning or being fired, and either way you get the adrenaline rush of an unstable paycheck.
The rest of the list reads like a series of low‑budget thrill hacks. You skip the facelift for a photo filter, trade a Tuscany sabbatical for two sick days that end in an Instagram post, replace a pricey guitar with a year‑long app subscription you forget about, and trade skydiving for a $100 mall tube ride watched by Cinnabon‑eating families. You build a “luxury” treehouse that the city tears down, borrow a brother’s kayak for a lake‑side adventure that feels like a sailing epic, and try to launch a memoir on Substack only to be called a “millennial snowflake.” Finally, you attempt a safari by emptying your 401(k), get out‑maneuvered by the market, and end up climbing into a lion enclosure at the zoo, where the real rush comes from dodging staff rather than predators.
All of these micro‑crises share the same structural absurdity: they’re the same yearning for dramatic change, repackaged in a way that fits a millennial budget and a reality‑check lens. The humor isn’t in the individual mishaps so much as in the collective pattern of substituting the grandiose with the hilariously under‑delivered.