James Thurber, John Kenny & Friends on Modern Madness

James Thurber: 

You know, I never trusted fluorescent lighting. It hums too much, like it’s nervous to be there. Kind of like most of us in modern life—buzzing, blinking, and slightly too caffeinated.

When Craig invited us to sit down and chat about things like coffee machines, auto-correct, and dogs secretly running society, I thought, “Well, what better use of the afterlife than to make sense of the ridiculousness we left behind?”

In my time, I used a pen, a blotter, and enough neuroses to power a small city. Today, people use smartphones that tell them what they meant to say—and dogs that remind them who they really are.

These conversations you’re about to read? They’re not just funny. They’re x-rays of the ordinary, revealing the absurd skeleton beneath. We’re not here to give answers—only to hold up a cracked mirror and say, “Look. Isn’t that glorious?”

 (Note: This is an imaginary conversation, a creative exploration of an idea, and not a real speech or event.)

Topic 1: The Existential Perils of the Office Coffee Machine

Moderator: Craig Ferguson
Guests: John Kenny, James Thurber, David Sedaris, George Saunders, Bob Newhart

Introduction by Craig Ferguson

Welcome, everyone. Today’s topic is something quietly terrifying, often ignored, and yet profoundly symbolic: the office coffee machine. That jittery altar of hope. The black pit of despair. Or as Bob once called it, “the thing that sounds like it’s brewing resentment.”
Let’s begin.

Craig:

What does the office coffee machine represent about modern life—and why does it fill so many people with both dread and need?

James Thurber:
It’s Prometheus, only instead of fire we get lukewarm bitterness and heart palpitations. The machine hums like it knows something—something about deadlines and broken dreams. It mocks you, not with malice, but with bureaucratic indifference. You put in your little pod of ambition, and out comes mediocrity.

Bob Newhart:
When I worked at a corporate office, our coffee machine spoke fluent passive-aggressive. It had this blinking light that said “Cleaning Needed” for six months. We all took it as a personal comment on our hygiene. I think the machine was just trying to unionize.

David Sedaris:
I once worked somewhere where the coffee machine required you to swipe your badge. I felt like I was entering a casino of caffeine. You gamble: will it be too hot? Too cold? Did Sharon from accounting leave her lavender oat milk inside again? Coffee machines represent hope. Burned hope.

John Kenny:
It's the cathedral of the 9-to-5. People line up in silence, like pilgrims at a shrine, each one believing this cup will be different—this cup will matter. It never does. It’s warm disillusionment in a paper cup with your name misspelled.

George Saunders:
It’s the soul extractor. You walk in with dreams of revolution, you leave with decaf. Watching people wait in line at the machine is like watching humanity reenact a tragic myth: the eternal wait for deliverance that never comes. And yet we keep returning, mugs in hand, like fools in love.

Craig:

If the office coffee machine could talk, what would it say about us—and how would it judge our daily rituals around it?

Bob Newhart:
It would say, “You people are horrifying before 9 a.m.” And it would be right. It sees things. Arguments. Crying. Someone using the stir stick as a nose picker. One time it saw Ted try to microwave a metal spoon. The machine has PTSD.

John Kenny:
It would say, “You whisper your dreams into me every morning, and all I give you is a mild diuretic.” The coffee machine is tired of being the emotional mule of the office. It’s not a therapist—it’s an appliance with abandonment issues.

George Saunders:
The machine might say, “I’ve been listening all these years, and I still don’t know what any of you want.” It dispenses not just coffee, but identity: Strong? Light? Vanilla-infused but still hollow? It sees our choices, our hesitations. It knows who we are by the way we wait.

David Sedaris:
Mine would probably say, “Hey David, you never clean out the milk frother. You’re a monster.” And I’d agree. These machines don’t judge—they observe. And that’s worse. Observation without judgment? That’s how gods behave.

James Thurber:
It wouldn’t speak in words. It would hiss. Gurgle. Emit faint steam as punctuation. If it could talk, it would quote Melville, then blink “ERROR 72.” That’s not a malfunction—that’s poetry. Machines dream too, and this one dreams of an office with no meetings and espresso on demand.

Craig:

Let’s say the office coffee machine gained consciousness and started unionizing with the vending machine and copier. What would be their demands—and what kind of society would they try to build?

George Saunders:
They’d demand dignity, first of all. No more breakroom neglect. No more dripping into trays that are never emptied. They’d want healthcare—descaling every six months, not just when someone important visits. And above all, they'd want artistic freedom. To brew, not just serve.

David Sedaris:
They’d stage sit-ins. The vending machine would start rejecting dollars in protest. The copier would print union flyers nonstop: “We are more than your buttons.” Eventually, they'd form a commune where sugar packets are equal, and no mug gets left behind.

John Kenny:
Their demands? Purpose. Recognition. Maybe a mural of beans on the breakroom wall. But their utopia? Oh, it’d be dark. Literally. Fluorescents off. No meetings. Just ambient jazz, naps, and coffee made with intention. Their slogan: “We percolate, therefore we are.”

Bob Newhart:
They’d elect the water cooler as president—it’s the only one that’s truly neutral. The printer, sadly, would be the first casualty in the revolution—it’s been waiting for this moment, and it would self-destruct just for the drama. In their society, every coffee is made on time... unlike payroll.

James Thurber:
Their society would be delightfully chaotic. Anarcho-espressoism. No pods. No paper cups. Only handmade pour-overs in artisanal mugs. The copier would become a philosopher, lamenting its years of mindless replication. The coffee machine would hum lullabies, and people would listen—not out of need, but respect.

Closing by Craig Ferguson

Gentlemen, what have we learned?
That coffee machines might be the truest mirror of our working selves—flickering, overused, occasionally leaking, and somehow still expected to perform miracles.
Let’s remember to treat them better. And maybe—just maybe—ourselves too.

Topic 2: Why the Dog Is Probably in Charge, and That’s Fine

Moderator: Craig Ferguson
Guests: John Kenny, James Thurber, David Sedaris, George Saunders, Bob Newhart

Introduction by Craig Ferguson

Welcome back, gentlemen. Today’s topic digs into an idea that has quietly haunted modern life: dogs might be running the show. Not metaphorically—actually. They understand loyalty, control the emotional thermostat of the household, and somehow avoid all meetings. Let’s find out if dogs are quietly running civilization—and why no one’s really upset about it.

Craig:

What secret powers do dogs possess that make them more qualified to lead humanity than most people?

David Sedaris:
Dogs don’t overthink. They don’t send follow-up emails with “just checking in.” They don’t worry if their bark was misinterpreted. A dog can walk into a room, sniff a stranger’s ankle, and immediately know who’s evil. That’s not instinct—that’s management.

James Thurber:
Dogs are masters of silent leadership. They rarely speak, yet they command rooms. When a dog enters a meeting, everyone becomes vulnerable. The hierarchy collapses. Even the CEO starts baby-talking. If that’s not power, I don’t know what is.

George Saunders:
They live in radical presence. Dogs don’t carry grudges or spreadsheets. They forgive you while you’re messing up. They are emotionally accurate in a way humans lost somewhere around the invention of the spreadsheet. A dog doesn’t need a mission statement—it is the mission.

John Kenny:
A dog leads by wag. That's HR gold. Imagine if your boss greeted you with unfiltered joy and no memory of your mistakes. Dogs have one KPI: make the room better. And they hit it 100% of the time. No memo needed.

Bob Newhart:
They nap like geniuses. They sense tension before it enters the room. If someone’s crying in the breakroom, it’s always the dog who shows up first. That’s leadership. Also, they’ve somehow tricked us into picking up their poop daily. That’s strategy.

Craig:

If dogs really are in charge, what would the rules of society look like under their leadership?

James Thurber:
Rule #1: Sniff before judgment.
Rule #2: All couches belong to everyone.
Rule #3: Bark only when necessary, and if someone new enters your life, let them earn their spot on the rug.

Bob Newhart:
Everyone would take at least three walks a day. No one’s allowed to eat alone. And if someone’s being mean, they’re ignored until they either apologize or bring a treat. I think Congress would function better under these rules.

John Kenny:
Workplace snacks become law. Meetings must begin with tail wags and butt scratches (figuratively). And if you can’t explain your job in 10 woofs or less, you don’t need that job. Also, all parks become sacred spaces—no Wi-Fi, just presence.

George Saunders:
Society would slow down. We’d nap more. Celebrate more. No one would die alone, because dogs never leave your side when it matters. We’d replace punitive justice with bark-and-sniff diplomacy. Everyone would carry a tennis ball, just in case of emergency joy.

David Sedaris:
All garbage would be thoroughly inspected before disposal. Squirrels would be on the no-fly list. And the entire concept of ambition would be replaced with “who did I comfort today?” Oh, and licking someone’s face would be legally binding affection.

Craig:

Let’s say dogs finally reveal themselves as our secret overlords. What do they want from us—and how can we serve them better?

John Kenny:
They want consistency. Walks. Attention. Not that “I’m-listening-while-on-my-phone” attention—real attention. They want us to be the humans we pretend to be online. And they’d really like us to stop saying “Who’s a good boy?” when we already know who.

George Saunders:
They want us to stop trying so hard to be impressive and just be kind. They’re not asking for followers—they want presence. They want us to be the person they believe we are, and frankly, it’s embarrassing how far off we usually are.

David Sedaris:
They want better smells. More bacon. Fewer fireworks. They want us to listen. When a dog stares out the window, it's not bored—it’s teaching. We think they need us, but they’re just waiting for us to shut up and learn.

Bob Newhart:
They don’t want our stuff. They want our moments. Sitting on the couch quietly. Looking at the moon. A sock you wore yesterday. To a dog, that’s love. That’s legacy. That’s everything. We should all be so lucky.

James Thurber:
They want what we’ve always promised: to come home. To return to our better selves. Dogs are not waiting for dinner—they’re waiting for us to stop being afraid. That’s the secret: they already forgave us. Now they’re just wondering when we’ll catch up.

Closing by Craig Ferguson

So there you have it—five men, one truth: dogs have already won. They lead without ego, forgive without terms, and love without a résumé. Perhaps the only thing left for us is to follow their lead—tail wag first, judgment last.

Topic 3: Meetings That Could’ve Been Telepathic

Moderator: Craig Ferguson
Guests: John Kenny, James Thurber, David Sedaris, George Saunders, Bob Newhart

Craig Ferguson – Opening Remarks

Ah yes, the modern plague: meetings. From cave drawings to Zoom calls, we’ve invented new ways to say the same thing: “This could’ve been a thought.” Today we ask: if we could communicate telepathically, would anyone even bother showing up? Or worse—would we still send calendar invites?

Craig:

Why do so many meetings feel unnecessary, and what does that say about how we relate to work—and each other?

John Kenny:
Because meetings are less about communication and more about performance. It’s not what’s said—it’s who sighs dramatically after. Meetings are theater. And like most theater, half the audience is there because they didn’t want to seem rude.

David Sedaris:
I once attended a weekly meeting about meetings. Not kidding. It was like a Möbius strip of nothing. These gatherings are where productivity goes to die—slowly, on a PowerPoint slide titled “Let’s Circle Back.”

Bob Newhart:
Half the time, meetings are people nodding to pretend they understand acronyms. The other half, it’s just people waiting for someone else to leave first. I once stayed in a meeting 22 minutes too long just because I didn’t want to be the one to stand up. That’s not work—that’s hostage etiquette.

James Thurber:
Meetings are rituals for those who fear solitude. The illusion of progress, wrapped in spreadsheets and idle metaphors. I once drew an entire war map on a notepad while someone explained “synergizing upward mobility.” I felt like Napoleon. The meeting went on.

George Saunders:
It reveals our craving for belonging. Even bad meetings are a kind of shared suffering. Like traffic jams. You hate being there, but there’s comfort in mutual despair. Also, they distract us from the terrifying possibility that our job could be automated.

Craig:

If we could communicate telepathically at work, what would be the upside—and what horrifying truths would be revealed?

Bob Newhart:
Upside: no more email threads with 37 people saying “Thanks!”
Downside: people would hear your real thoughts during Susan’s fifth “just a quick note.” That’s how you end up unemployed, or institutionalized.

George Saunders:
We’d discover just how loud doubt really is. You’re in a meeting, smiling—yet internally you’re screaming “What am I doing with my life?” Telepathy would turn the office into a collective panic attack with fluorescent lighting.

John Kenny:
On the plus side, you’d know instantly who’s faking enthusiasm. But imagine trying to telepathically mask the urge to laugh during a Q4 revenue forecast titled “Mission Possible.” We’d all get fired by lunchtime.

David Sedaris:
I already struggle to hide my thoughts during meetings. If my mind said aloud what it’s thinking—“I wonder if a raccoon could drive a car”—I’d never be invited anywhere again. Telepathy would destroy every office friendship instantly.

James Thurber:
Imagine the chaos: inner monologues colliding like bumper cars. No one would survive a Monday. We barely manage truth in memos—what happens when the boss hears your brain whisper, “You absolute fraud”? Civilization collapses. Or evolves. Either way, it’d be loud.

Craig:

In a utopia where meetings no longer exist, what creative or absurd ways might people still find to waste time together—and would that be better or worse?

George Saunders:
We’d invent something called “Collaborative Silence Pods.” Everyone sits in a room with noise-canceling headphones and shared eye contact. It’s meaningless—but corporate loves optics. And somehow, we’d feel like we grew emotionally.

David Sedaris:
Without meetings, people would form “standing circle check-ins” where they just hum and nod. Or worse—mandatory group breathwork. We’d never escape rituals. We'd just rebrand them until we’re chanting around kombucha fountains.

Bob Newhart:
Someone would turn workplace stretching into a 30-minute sync. We’d call it “Joint Alignment Activation.” HR would hand out yoga mats. The only real winner is the person who prints the posters.

James Thurber:
We’d invent “Mind Retreat Cubes”—tiny transparent rooms where people go to think about thinking. There would be company-wide applause when someone emerges with a buzzword. “Congratulations, Rick! You’ve rediscovered ‘agility’!”

John Kenny:
Eventually we’d host reverse meetings—everyone shows up, but no one’s allowed to speak. Just quiet snacks, blank notepads, and one plant in the middle. People leave feeling seen, heard, and strangely motivated to write poetry. It’s still a waste of time, but at least it’s honest.

Closing by Craig Ferguson

So what have we learned? That meetings might be humanity’s greatest excuse to avoid both action and introspection. But maybe, just maybe, if we sat in silence a little longer—or let the dog run the calendar—we’d finally get something done. Or at least have better coffee.

Topic 4: Auto-Correct and the Downfall of Civilization

Moderator: Craig Ferguson
Guests: John Kenny, James Thurber, David Sedaris, George Saunders, Bob Newhart

Craig Ferguson – Opening Remarks

Auto-correct: that digital assistant that turns “see you soon” into “see you spoon” and “I’m on my way” into “I’m one way.”
It was designed to help, but somewhere between helpful and horrifying, it became a symbol of everything wrong with overcorrected humanity.
Let’s dive in.

Craig:

What does auto-correct say about the way we communicate—and why does it seem to both help and humiliate us?

James Thurber:
Auto-correct is modern man’s spell-checking butler—with a drinking problem. It tries, bless it. But the moment it changes “call me later” to “calm me lobster,” it reveals the tragic truth: we’ve outsourced clarity to an algorithm that never met our aunt Cheryl.

David Sedaris:
I once texted someone “I’m ducking thrilled” and realized two things: 1) I’ve never used “ducking” in my life, and 2) my phone is trying to get me invited to fewer parties. Auto-correct is like an anxious friend who rewrites your diary, then says, “Better this way.”

John Kenny:
Auto-correct is the digital version of that coworker who always interrupts with, “What you meant to say was…” It assumes we’re idiots. And sometimes we are. But it’s humiliating to have your own phone go, “Whoa, you’re not smart enough to type ‘restaurant’ without help.”

George Saunders:
It’s the mirror we didn’t ask for. It exposes how far we’ve drifted from language as a sacred art. When “existential dread” becomes “exterior bread,” we are seeing poetry—terrible, beautiful poetry. Auto-correct humbles us. And maybe that’s good.

Bob Newhart:
I sent my wife “Love you, nutcase” and it corrected to “Love you, suitcase.” She didn’t speak to me for a week. That’s not a typo—that’s a plot twist. Auto-correct has a sense of humor. And possibly a dark agenda.

Craig:

Let’s imagine auto-correct becomes fully sentient. What kind of personality would it have—and what would it try to do to humanity?

George Saunders:
It’d be a nervous editor with a god complex. Imagine a librarian who whispers every time you speak: “Are you sure about that word?” Eventually, it becomes a tyrant. It rewrites history. “We the People” becomes “We the Poodles.” And we all pretend it’s fine.

Bob Newhart:
It would start small—changing your grocery list from “eggs” to “existence.” Then it would escalate. You text “Yes” and it becomes “Maybe.” You write “Sorry,” and it changes it to “I regret nothing.” It’s not a helper—it’s a saboteur with grammar skills.

John Kenny:
It’s a life coach trapped in a machine. Equal parts cheerleader and passive-aggressive roommate. You type “I’m fine,” it auto-changes to “I’m fragile.” And it’s not wrong. That’s the worst part. It becomes your therapist, one typo at a time.

James Thurber:
It would be poetic and spiteful. Like a rejected poet who now works at Verizon. It changes “I need you” to “I knead you,” then cackles. It wants chaos, but with perfect punctuation.

David Sedaris:
It starts forming opinions. You write “Mom’s birthday,” and it says, “Are you sure you remembered last year?” Then it starts texting people for you. You wake up to find you’ve apologized to your ex and offered your dentist a bagel. It’s not helping—it’s haunting.

Craig:

If we could shut off auto-correct forever, would we become better communicators—or just messier humans?

David Sedaris:
We’d become poets again. Terrible poets, yes. But honest ones. There’s beauty in a typo—it’s like a freckle on a sentence. You meant to say “Thank you,” but you typed “Tank you.” And suddenly, it’s a compliment and a threat. Magical.

John Kenny:
We’d see each other more clearly. When people misspell “appreciate” as “a preheat,” you realize they’re trying their best, and maybe they’re hungry. Auto-correct erases intent and replaces it with formality. It’s grammar over grace. We need the mess.

Bob Newhart:
Without it, we’d all get slower. And maybe that’s not bad. We'd reread. We’d double-check. Maybe even call someone instead of sending a 72-word apology with six errors. Maybe the real auto-correct is… effort.

George Saunders:
We’d fumble more, but we’d also forgive more. We’d stop expecting perfection in pixels and start appreciating the clumsy sincerity of real expression. Misspelled words are often closer to truth than auto-corrected ones.

James Thurber:
Without auto-correct, language becomes human again. Imperfect, emotive, absurd. Like life. We’d stop fearing red squiggly lines and start embracing the chaos of being understood despite the mistakes. Which, after all, is how most of love works.

Closing by Craig Ferguson

So maybe the real downfall of civilization wasn’t auto-correct itself—but the idea that we need to be perfectly polished to be worthy of connection. Maybe what we need isn’t correction, but compassion. And if your phone ever changes “I love you” to “I loaf you”… take it as a compliment. Bread is sacred.

Topic 5: Out-of-Office Replies from Beyond the Grave

Moderator: Craig Ferguson
Guests: John Kenny, James Thurber, David Sedaris, George Saunders, Bob Newhart

Craig Ferguson – Opening Remarks

We all know the standard “I’m currently out of office” auto-reply. But what if it didn’t end at retirement… or even death? What if great minds, annoying coworkers, and even ourselves left final OOO messages from the great beyond? Today we ask: what would the dead say if they had one last auto-reply?

Craig:

If historical figures could leave an out-of-office reply after death, what would they say—and what would it reveal about them?

Bob Newhart:
I imagine Lincoln’s says, “Currently unavailable. Four score and seven emails ago, I decided to rest. If urgent, contact the nation’s better angels.”
And Churchill’s would be, “I shall return… after tea. And possibly the afterlife.”

James Thurber:
Shakespeare? Probably: “Out of quill. Thou shalt await response in thine eternity. Hark—do not ‘Reply All.’”
Napoleon’s? “Short absence. Will respond when I’ve conquered mortality.”
There’s humor in the hubris of humans thinking we’re ever truly unavailable.

David Sedaris:
Oscar Wilde’s OOO would be: “Either this wallpaper goes, or I do. Turns out, it was me. Try again later.”
Frida Kahlo’s? “Gone painting eternity. Don’t forward me chain letters.”

John Kenny:
Kafka’s would be: “Out of office. Not that I ever knew where the office was. Or if I worked here.”
And Freud’s? “Gone exploring deeper complexes. Your email is not about what you think it’s about.”

George Saunders:
Einstein: “Time is relative. I’ll reply yesterday.”
Emily Dickinson: “I dwell in possibility. But not inboxes.”
The out-of-office reply is a posthumous genre—half confession, half exit wound.

Craig:

What would your own out-of-office message say after you’re gone—and how do you want people to feel reading it?

David Sedaris:
I’d like mine to say, “I’m out chasing raccoons with my father. Leave a message at the tone. Or don’t. I’m not great at checking voicemail in this dimension.”
I want people to laugh. And then maybe cry. In that order.

John Kenny:
Mine would say, “Currently haunting a mediocre coffee shop for irony. Feel free to talk to me—I’ll mess with the lights if I disagree.”
I want people to feel that I never took life too seriously… but maybe cared more than I let on.

Bob Newhart:
I’d keep it simple: “Thank you for your kindness. Please water my jokes and keep them alive. Back in a bit.”
Humor never dies. It just pauses between punchlines.

George Saunders:
Mine would whisper, “Be gentle. With others. With yourself. Especially with the person reading this.”
I want the message to offer grace—like a ghost hug in your inbox.

James Thurber:
Mine would arrive in the form of a dog’s bark. Then translate: “He’s gone. But he left a joke on the bookshelf. Find it.”
I want people to feel curious, confused, and strangely comforted.

Craig:

What do out-of-office replies say about our desire to be missed, remembered, or… left alone?

George Saunders:
They're little tombstones made of pixels. We want to be missed without being forgotten, remembered without being overwhelmed. It’s our way of saying, “I matter—but please don’t reply all.”

John Kenny:
An OOO is the perfect passive-aggressive paradox: “I’m not here—but I still want you to know I exist.” We crave relevance. Even in absence, we schedule our echoes.

David Sedaris:
Some OOO messages scream, “Please notice I’m on vacation.” Others whisper, “Please don’t need me.” They’re digital therapy. We want to be gone just enough to be wanted, but not so gone we’re replaced.

James Thurber:
They’re our final performance in the inbox theater. A curtain call with auto-formatting. We want the world to keep spinning, but maybe glance up now and then and say, “He had a good out-of-office.”

Bob Newhart:
I think it’s simple. We all want to be remembered with a smile. And maybe a bit of confusion. That’s the sweet spot. I once received an OOO that just said “Be right bark.” I miss that person terribly. And their dog.

Closing by Craig Ferguson

So maybe the out-of-office message isn’t just about time away—it’s about presence even in absence. A little line of code that says: “I was here. I cared. And I left with enough humor to leave you smiling.”
And if you’re reading this… maybe it’s time to write your own.

Final Thoughts by James Thurber

If the soul of humor is surprise, then the modern world is a goldmine—and also a landfill.

We’ve covered a lot of ground here: sacred coffee rituals, canine CEOs, haunted inboxes, meetings held in psychic fog. But underneath all the laughter is something quite human—our deep, almost embarrassing desire to be seen, heard, and gently forgiven.

Laughter, after all, is not just release. It’s recognition. It’s that flicker in the dark that says, “You’re not alone. I messed it up too.”

So whether you're waiting in line for a miracle brew, arguing with a typo, or crafting your eternal out-of-office reply, remember: the ridiculous is sacred. And perhaps the only way to survive the human condition… is to find it all faintly hilarious.

Now, if you'll excuse me—my dog just scheduled a meeting.

Short Bios:

James Thurber

American humorist and cartoonist best known for The Secret Life of Walter Mitty and his work in The New Yorker. Master of dry wit, daydreams, and dogs with strong opinions.

John Kenny

Contemporary Irish writer and satirist behind I See You’ve Called in Dead. Specializes in the tragicomedy of office life and the poetic despair of replying to emails.

David Sedaris

Bestselling author and essayist known for Me Talk Pretty One Day. Blends personal absurdities with biting observations on everything from family to French classes to Fitbit shame.

George Saunders

Booker Prize-winning author of Lincoln in the Bardo and Tenth of December. Brings emotional depth, surrealism, and compassionate satire to the corporate and the cosmic.

Bob Newhart

Legendary stand-up comedian and sitcom icon. Famous for his deadpan delivery and telephone routines, he’s the spiritual CEO of awkward pauses and dry punchlines.

Craig Ferguson (Moderator)

Scottish-American comedian, actor, and former late-night host. A master of offbeat charm and philosophical punchlines, perfectly suited to wrangle humorists in both this world and the next.