FMK: The White Literary Dude Edition

Welcome to Fuck, Marry, Kill, the game in which we take three men and assess just what we’d like to do with them.

The Rules

Fuck: A pleasant one-night stand with the person of your choice, not a fuck-buddy, booty-call arrangement. Your standard toot it and boot it.

Marry: A union in which you enter this knowing full-well whether or not you will spend the rest of your life with them. Implications of this category include lovelessness and a sex life that consists of unsatisfying missionary sex once a financial quarter, but this is up to the assessor’s interpretation.

Kill: Girl, bye. Throw ‘em off a cliff.

The Lucky Men

Karl Ove Knausgaard, literary darling and author of a planned 6-book series about his various struggles.

Jonathan Franzen, author of “The Corrections”, “Freedom” and well-documented enemy of Jennifer Weiner.

Jonathan Lethem, author of “Motherless Brooklyn”, “The Fortress of Solitude” and all-around relatively normal bespectacled author.

The Verdict


Fuck: Jonathan Franzen
So that I could write something heartbreakingly literary about the experience and cash in on it.

Marry: Jonathan Lethem
Motherless Brooklyn is amazing and I would like to be able to bounce ideas off of someone like that for the rest of my life. Also, he’s friends with many of my favorite authors, so I assume our marital social life would be brilliant.

Kill: Karl Ove Knausgård.
Thirty-five hundred-page memoirs are bullshit. No one’s life is interesting enough to prattle on about for 3500 pages. If a woman had written it, no matter how well it was written, she wouldn’t be an eccentric genius, she’d be a navel-gazing dingbat. Therefore, I assume that Karl Ove Knausgård is a navel-gazing dingbat and I certainly don’t want to either fuck or marry him, so kill it is.


Fuck: Karl Ove Knausgård
I have zero desire to read his 3500-page memoirs/novels and the fact that anyone does, especially with a title like “My Struggle,” kind of makes me want to die. But out of these three kind of overrated white dudes, he’s the one who looks like he might actually be SOME fun in bed and something about his face screams “I will go down on you for 30 minutes, no problem, so long as I get to have a cigarette afterwards.”

Marry: Jonathan Franzen
It was really hard for me to choose which Jonathan to kill and which to marry, because they both seem pretty intolerable, not to mention are practically twins. However, I read the hell out of “Freedom” and loved it. But more importantly, since our marriage is one based mostly on convenience and not love or sex, I want to marry the Jonathan who brings the most COLD HARD CASH to our joint bank account, and while I don’t have hard facts and figures, I’m pretty sure Franzen’s book sales would pay for more shopping trips.

Kill: Jonathan Lethem
Sorry dude, I have not read your books and you’ve drawn the short end of the stick. You’re dead!


Fuck: Jonathan Lethem
On occasions when he lets his hair grow out a few inches he gets this “sexy rugged intellectual” aura about him. Let’s do this.

Marry: Jonathan Franzen
In addition to his talent for words, he is a fellow Midwestern transplant living in New York, so we’d probably have the same approach to keeping house, share a fondness for using death-by-deceptive-politeness as our first defense against people we hate, and both be accustomed to using our hands as a map to point out where we spent various childhood summer vacations.

Kill: Karl Ove Knausgård
What a fucking whiner. A whopping 3500 pages about ~Struggle~ have no place in my life. This dude romanticizes his bullshit selfish behavior as something he deems “necessary” for his art and is the embodiment of every cliche about writers and humanity in general that I’d like to avoid at all costs. Girl, bye.


Fuck: Karl Ove Knausgård
Mostly because it seems like a good way to get him to shut about himself for a hot minute, and then send him away forever, as one does.

Marry: Jonathan Letham
Well, obviously, he is the best looking one, and I definitely fear being trapped in conversation with either of the other two for too long, so he gets my hand in marriage.

Kill: Jonathan Franzen
He doesn’t seem like he’d be all that good a time in bed, and I doubt I’d ever get around to finishing a marriage to him, so sorry Jonathan #2, you are dead.


Fuck: Karl Knausgard
I legitimately had no idea who he was or that this human existed, and suspect my life is all the better for not knowing, but upon Google stalking him for this post, I have come to realize he is pretty cute. So, sure, why not, I like getting banged out.

Marry: Jonathan Franzen
If Freedom and The Corrections can live on my nightstand unread, as they have for the last 5+ years, Jonathan Franzen can spend eternity laying next to my his books on my nightstand unfucked.

Kill: Jonathan Lethem
Because literally, who?


Fuck: Karl Ove Knausgard
I have a copy of My Struggle sitting on my bedside table, borrowed from a friend at a dinner party when I was a little drunk and kinda high, but surprise: It’s boring as hell. Karl looks like a grizzled, chain-smoking lion, and there’s something ineffably charming about that. I’d hit it and quit it, taking delight in grabbing his weathered overcoat and woolen socks and dumping them outside my apartment door.

Marry: Jonathan Lethem
I forgive you for writing Dissident Gardens, a book that I was excited about, but turned out to be boring. You are responsible for The Fortress Of Solitude, a book that I have shoved into many people’s bags on their way out of my house, cooing “Just make it through the exposition, I promise its worth it.” I look forward to our life of quiet, marital, literary bliss, of silent breakfasts in which I slide my tattered undergraduate fiction thesis across the table to you, and you push it back to me with an eye roll and a deep, mournful sigh.

Kill: Jonathan Franzen
Leave Jennifer Weiner alone. Also, you crossed Oprah. You’re a fucking turd. I actually liked Freedom, but sorry, bruh, you gotta go.