SHORT:
I got hit with a mystery illness Friday night after drinking Diet Coke on an empty stomach at 11pm—like a man with nothing left to lose but the enamel on his teeth.
First came the chills. Then the sweating. Then I woke up unable to see or sit up. For 72 hours, I also had, and I’m sorry to type this, “the runs.” (I considered typing something more tasteful—like “digestive unrest” or “a boutique evacuation”—but that would be dishonest. And honesty, I’m told, is the first chapter in the book of wisdom.1)
I kept googling “illness where head is banging and diarrhea,” and all it gave me was spinal fluid leak or dehydration. But I’d chugged 3 to 15 bottles of water, so things were pointing... spinal.
This morning I woke up fine. Just in time for the American workweek. Which, depending on your outlook, is either a blessing—or the cruelest symptom of all.
MEDIUM: '
Jess returned from Europe the moment I recovered. I was still weak, but decided to sit through their 600-slide photo dump of: mostly cows.
They went to Germany and Amsterdam, cities full of museums, history, canals, and culture. But what made it onto the iPhone camera roll were cows. Hundreds. Possibly the same cow, from slightly different angles.
They also brought back one painting of a cow, one painting of a pig, one pair of socks featuring a gopher, and a large print of woodland animals frolicking in the forest.
They told me, with pride, that they almost bought a “horse pic,” but showed restraint.
I said, “And the photos from Dachau?”
There were 3.
And no Holocaust souvenirs. Not even a tasteful keychain or an understated mug that says Never Again in Helvetica for me.
There is a gift shop at Dachau. I checked.
Someone on TripAdvisor is furious they sell Woody Allen’s autobiography there.
Which, I suppose, is its own form of memorial.
LONG:
After my body staged a 72-hour protest and before Jess returned home, I turned—as any modern invalid might—to the internet for meaning.
There’s a specific genre of internet person whose presence feels like a glitch in the simulation—not a tear, not a threat, but a gentle static buzz reminding me that something stranger, kinder, and more playful might still be possible.
For me, the Voros Twins—best known as the "Da Vinki" guys—are that glitch.
And in the wreckage of what we used to call the internet—now a monetized, weaponized hellscape where every post is an ad and every ad is a personality—their glitch feels sacred.
Who are they? Two jacked Hungarian-Canadian wrestlers with hearts like trampoline parks and brains like Play-Doh snakes. They log onto the corpse of Twitter and tweet things like:
“Shoutout to Da LGBTQ”
“Shoutout to everyone that is Da Non-binary”
“Shoutout to everyone that is Da Neurodiverse”
“Da suicide isn't Da answer!”
Daily.
I first saw them in the viral TikTok clip where they misidentify the painter of the Mona Lisa with a warbled, delighted “DA VIN—KI??” It felt like watching Google Translate become sentient, then immediately have a panic attack.
But unlike most memes, they didn’t vanish. They stayed. And they’ve only gotten stronger.
Their feed is a temple of semi-coherent wisdom, like:
“we need to give da octopus MORE CREDIT”
“never ever stop eating chicken nuggets”
“every day i do something i don't understand 💪🔥”
It veers so close to parody, you could mistake it for satire. But scroll long enough, and it becomes clear: This isn’t ironic. It’s devotional.
I don’t think they’re “pure,” exactly. Nothing online is. Still, there’s something uncanny here—something that resists polish. No clickbait provocations. No pivot to podcasting. No monetized victimhood arcs.
Just two joyful himbos who seem to have accidentally been handed the magic flute of the algorithm—and decided to use it to shout out the autistic community, then go use “AI… actual imagination.”
They exist in a rare digital register: post-viral but pre-slick. Not influencers. Not mascots. Not “brands with a voice.” Just weird, well-meaning guys who post like no one’s watching. And yet—they know we are.
They remind me of a version of the internet that maybe never really existed: spontaneous, communal, stupid, soft.
It’s not shitposting. It’s post-cringe ministry. It’s meme monasticism. It’s Da Truth.
I don’t follow them for nuance. I follow them for Da Feeling.
Da Vinki forever.
Shoutout to da you.
Snack Of The Week: the bagel I ate after my many days of diet coke poisoning
C U Next Tuesday
Thank you for subscribing to this newsletter. Sometimes it’s funny, sometimes it’s not [like when people slip on ice].
If this is your first time reading, pls check out the archives.
Sincerely,
Reid Pope
Took a kinda formal tone with this one… did we like that? Or go back to da dumb?
The second chapter is: “Close the book and lie down”.
Da formal and da dumb together is what makes it da truth
This started silly then built to a serious crescendo, without losing its playfulness. Kind of like a good sermon, which I know is what you aim for