Millions of Wordle players gathered outside the New York Times’ headquarters yesterday to protest what they claim is the Times’ ruining of Wordle. This article is brought to you by Investigative Reporter Phoenix Pham.
“Enough is enough,” Lauren, a fifty-year-old project manager from Wisconsin, roared into her bullhorn. A crowd of millions roared back. They stretched all the way from where Lauren stood in front of the NYT headquarters to Bryant park, four blocks away.
“The Wordle was meant to be fun,” Lauren shouted. “It’s supposed to have common words for answers. Not words like ‘bayou’ and ‘gully.’”
“What the fuck is a gully?” one lady screamed, her face red with fury.
“We were supposed to feel smart when doing the Wordle,” Lauren said, spit flying from her lips. “Not like illiterates!”
A man wearing a trench coat — and only a trench coat — threw a molotov cocktail at the NYT’s door, where it shattered and set the concrete steps ablaze. His hair was greasy and his eyes were as wild as the fire burning before him.
“Anarchy!” he shouted.
Lauren turned when she heard the NYT’s massive front doors open. A short, balding man wearing a monocle and a gray suit came out.
“My fellow men, a moment please, a moment!” he said in a British accent.
Lauren held up a hand and the crowd hushed.
“My name is Harold, the chief puzzle maker at the Times,” he said. “We at the Times are on your side! We admit, we have made a most egregious faux pas, but we have heard you and we vow to do better!”
Harold cleared his throat, smiling nervously and sweating so profusely his monocle slipped down his face.
“As a sign of our utmost and deepest apologies, we at the Times have agreed to give you the solution to today’s Wordle.” Like the shadow of a plane over the land, a silence fell over the crowd. Only the honking of far-off traffic could be heard.
“The word is …” Harold grinned, “ducat!”
There was a moment as everyone typed in the answer and shared the score with their friends.
Then, there was chaos.
Somebody kicked in a NYT stand and began ripping the paper to shreds, throwing them in the air like confetti. The man in a trench coat produced another molotov cocktail and threw it into the NYT windows.
“Ducat?!” Lauren said, grabbing Harold by his collar. “What. Is. A. Ducat?”
“A European gold coin used in the 14th century,” Harold said, looking confused. “Particularly common in Italy and the Netherlands.”
“That would be a great word,” Lauren said, lifting Harold up off the ground. “IF WE WERE IN 14TH CENTURY EUROPE.”
“Come on now, everybody knows ‘ducat,'” Harold said. “It’s used in ‘Hamlet,’ for chrissakes!”
“Stop it,” Lauren screamed, shaking Harold. “Shut your damn mouth.”
“You desire a simpler word?” Harold asked. “We can do that. How about, ‘junta’? A military group that rules a country after taking power by force?”
Lauren shook with anger. The man in the trench coat stormed past Lauren and Harold into the NYT office. One by one, the crowd followed. They had overtaken the building — a ‘junta,’ one might say.
Harold shuddered.
“Not easy enough?” Harold said. “How about ‘moooo’ with four ‘O’s? You know, the sound the cow makes?”
“We’re normal people, not idiots,” Lauren said, dropping the man. He landed on his butt and stayed there, looking confused as thousands of proletariat rushed past him to ransack the New York Times building.
The New York Times burned.
