Jerry Springer: perhaps the most notorious talk show of all time.
Never watched it.
But I appreciate its cultural impact. It contributed to the decline of modern civilization in ways that can never be repeated. He was a trailblazer. And that alone commands respect.
We should also take a moment to appreciate Springer’s distinguished political career. To be honest, I don’t remember what he did. Did he pay some masseuse to tug him off while mayor of Cincinnati?
That’s some real-ass shit.
RIP
So the manager of the toilet factory came stumbling up to my door the other night. He was covered in piss and crying his eyes out.
“Please Beau! Please!” he kept crying, “Come back to us!”
I laughed and shook my head. “You pathetic little man,” I said, “why would I come back to work for you? Since I left, I got my license to practice medicine in Aruba. I’m a real doctor now…something you could never achieve in a thousand lifetimes!”
“But but but,” he stumbled, “I promise to be nice to you and give you a raise!”
I paused for a moment. I considered all the malpractice lawsuits that I started accumulating and considered his offer. “I’ll think about it,” I said, “I also want my own office with a bathroom so I can take as many shits as I want.”
“Done!” he said.
Then I shut the door on his stupid fucking face.
So you read that correctly: after all the endless psychological warfare I committed against management earlier in the year, they want me back. And I’m seriously considering their offer.
The alternative is that I lose all of my money in lawsuits that I can’t possibly win. Come to find out, being a doctor is really hard. So I think I will surrender my medical license to the Aruban embassy (who I blackmailed into giving me anyway).
So apologies once again to all of my followers. My career is back in flux so I can’t dedicate as much time as I would like into reading your wonderful blogs. Please bear with me.
I love you ❤️
It’s unfortunate that Paul Schrader thinks that AI is one of the “Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse” in the modern world. Personally, I’m grateful that I no longer have to think of shit to write about.
So allow me to present to you a feature film that we deserved from the 90s: Space Bud, written by ChatGPT and directed by Michael Cimino.
I tried to have ChatGPT insert a cameo from Bobby Knight who fights Latrell Sprewell (where they naturally choke each other) but that was against its “guidelines.”
Oh well. Maybe in another timeline 🤷♂️
The border crossing station stuck out against the barren desert. The two guards laughed as they contemplated their easy assignments. “Lo tenemos hecho,” one said to the other.
Suddenly a lone figure barged in. The guards stared in awe at the ominous character. “Passport, please?” one asked in broken English.
The mysterious figure pulled out his .38.
“Jack Hardcock,” a guard gasped.
“Which way to Juarez?” Jack asked.
The guards silently pointed to the west.
“Gracias,” he said.
As Jack walked away, the guards watched as marched towards the horizon. “Dios ayudanos,” they uttered.
Gunshots and Mariachi music echoed through the streets of Juarez. Jack feared no evil as he walked through the valley of death. He knew the city would face the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah; God’s vengeance would soon reign.
If he himself was the one to deliver this vengeance, Jack did not know.
“I’m looking for La Casa de La Muerte,” Jack said to a random street vendor.
“Que?” the vendor replied.
“I’m an American,” Jack stated, “it’s my right to not speak Spanish. So you better answer me or answer to my .38!”
“sé lo que estás diciendo,” the vendor said, “pero no conozco este lugar.”
Jack pistol whipped the vendor and prepared to empty his revolver into the poor bastard. But Heaven granted the man a reprieve: at that moment, an angelic voice appeared. “Jack, no!” it ordered.
Jack’s hand began to shiver as he aimed the .38. He knew this voice.
“Maria,” he uttered.
Jack slowly turned around. Maria was as radiant as a bluebonnet under the Texas sun. He thought he’d never see her face again. “Wh-what are you doing here?” he asked.
“I’ve been in Juarez for sometime,” she said, “why did you not respond to my letters?”
“Maria,” he pleaded, “I’m so sorry. I…”
That moment, Pablo Santora came marching up in his Wrangler jeans and snakeskin boots. He put his arm around Maria. “Jack,” Pablo smiled from underneath his mustache, “so pleasant to see you again.”
“Pablo,” Jack simply said. He had to restrain himself.
Pablo lifted a cigar to his mouth. “Jack, old friend,” he continued, “I am the proprietor of La Casa de La Muerte. Please, stop by and see us, yeah?”
“Thank you for the invitation, Pablo,” Jack said.
“Mi amigo,” Pablo chuckled, and he slowly strolled away.
Jack and Maria continued to lock eyes.
“Why Maria?” Jack asked, “Why Pablo?”
TO BE CONTINUED…
I was on the edge of my seat throughout Picard Season 3. Not because I found the story itself particularly thrilling, but because I was waiting for the writers and producers to shit the bed at any moment.
But it never happened.
And for that alone, the third and final season of Star Trek: Picard can be deemed a success. Yes, the bar has been set that low.
Actually, I’m going to something that I swore I’d never do: defend Alex Kurtzman. ACTUALLY…fuck that: I’m going to defend the decision to bring back the Borg, which is a decision I presume Alex Kurtzman fully supported.
To be honest, I’m a little disappointed that the Changelings weren’t made the main villain as I was quite excited to see them return. And I agree with most fans that between Voyager and the first couple of seasons of Picard that the Borg are mostly played out. BUT, being as they were the main villains during Berman-era Trek, I feel pretty content with how they were closed out in Picard: in one last standoff with the Enterprise D.
But, I guess they’re gone now (I don’t know for sure because I refuse to watch Picard season 2), so it’s time to push Star Trek forward. The franchise’s new savior is Terry Matalas, who is apparently pushing for Star Trek: Legacy, which if the last episode of Picard is any indication, will star Seven of Nine as captain of the Enterprise G, her former lover Raffi as her first officer, and Jack Crusher…Picard’s son…as a “counselor to the captain” or some shit.
Speaking of Jack Crusher, the writers could’ve done better and the actor kinda overplayed it. Yet somehow I don’t absolutely hate him 👍.
So I guess I’ll continue letting Paramount steal money from my wallet so that I can watch the adventures of Captain Seven (or is it Captain “of Nine”?)
“I can’t thank you enough for shooting me in the shoulder,” Brother Joses said, “sometimes all it takes is a bullet from the Lord to help one see the light.”
“Amen brother,” Jack replied, “Jesus wants you to know that I ain’t no puss. So don’t ever accuse me of that again. Or next time I’ll shoot you in the face.”
The sun beat down on the Preacher and Jack like a hellish balefire as they ate their afternoon brunch under the Utah sky. The two were conversing a lot in those days; they knew the plight of modern times represented the mark of the beast. They both trembled and reveled at the pending onslaught of blood and glory from the Lord.
“Tell me,” Joses spoke as he slapped down his napkin, “what’s this business with Johnson? He must know the Lord’s vengeance is near.”
“Oh yes, Brother Joses, he is well aware,” Jack retorted, “but there remains this business with our father.”
“Your father? I thought Rod Hardcock was dead.”
Jack looked out to the deserted horizon, wishing he could push the many years of pain off the edge of the earth. “I believed he was too,” Jack lamented, “unfortunately he was only in Mexico.”
“Mexico? Why the devil would he be sent to such a castoff corner of hell?”
“Drugs,” Jack replied, “and churros. But mostly drugs. He presumably shoves them up his ass and smuggles them into the United States.”
“A mule, in other words.”
“Precisely.”
“So your father has never heard the Good News of Jesus Christ and the impending destruction of earth and the violent demise of all unbelievers in His Name?”
Jack chugged his beer and spat on the ground. “I’m afraid not,” he said, “moreover, the cartel is holding him ransom for unknown reasons.”
“My word,” Joses gasped.
A haunting silence fell between the two as they pondered this unspeakable predicament. “Then you must go to Mexico,” Joses finally spoke, “deliver the Word to your father…and rescue him from the clutches of Satan…before it’s too late.”
Jack pulled out his .38 and looked down the sights as he pointed it in the direction of Mexico.
“I know,” he uttered.
TO BE CONTINUED…
I sometimes laugh to myself whenever I think about James Randi swallowing an entire pill bottle of herbal supplements in front of an audience. The idea, of course, is to demonstrate how useless these “all natural” products are. Still, it’s hilarious watching an old man carelessly dump a bunch of pills in his mouth and no one does anything about it. But you get the idea.
Before I started my new career, I found holistic medicine to be a stupid yet fundamentally harmless practice. So what if you think going outside and biting the ground will cure your tummy ache? You’re not harming anyone. And I guess that this is still largely true. But if you’re suffering from a genuine medical condition…either physical or mental…you’re gonna need something that, well, works!
So I find holistic thinking annoying, and ultimately harmful, because of the reasons mentioned above. To me, it’s a regressive notion that is rooted the idea that humans have fallen out of grace with nature…as if we’ve been cast out of some mythical Eden.
Jack stepped outside to take a piss. He held his dick in one hand and a beer bottle in the other. Dear God…please take away this burden, he thought to himself.
When he was done, Jack zipped up, dropped the bottle to the ground and stumbled back into his trailer. He fell then vomited all over himself as he took the first step.
His brother rushed up to his side to help him up. “What happened to you, Jack?” he asked, “I was afraid that the devil would get you when you went to California.”
“Layla,” Jack kept mumbling.
Three of Jack’s plain wives helped him over to the couch and cleaned him off. His brother was afraid. He had never seen Jack so disheveled…so unkempt.
“The Mormons,” Jack kept mumbling, “The Mormons are helping me see the light.”
“But Jack,” his brother said, “you’re a drunk, you basically run a harem out of your dilapidated trailer in the middle of the desert, and Joseph Smith was a spawn of Satan.”
“You don’t get it Peter!” Jack retorted
“Peter? I’m your brother: John! Johnson Hardcock! Who is Peter?”
“Oh shit!” Jack realized, “I’m so sorry John! I can’t stop thinking about Peter Tucker!”
“Who?!”
One of the many wives walked up to deliver a glass of water to Jack. “He’s been calling everyone ‘Peter’ these days,” she explained.
“Uh huh,” John said, then pressed forward. “Jack, what are we going to do about dad?” he asked, “we can’t just let the cartel kill him!”
Jack let out a massive fart. “I think I shit myself,” he said.
“Focus!” John snapped, “The cartel wants $2 million in cash and I just don’t have that money!”
Jack sat up, uncapped a bottle of Jim Beam, and started chugging. He then loaded the .38 and began slurring out his words. “I’ve got a plan,” he said, “since Biden won’t build the wall, I’m gonna saw off Mexico from America.”
John threw up his hands. “I can’t talk to you when you’re like this,” he said. He stood up and looked out the window to the vast, shitty Utah landscape. “It’s been 2000 years since Jesus walked this earth,” John continued, “I just know in my heart that He’ll be returning at any moment. There’s no way that millions of people have been wrong about this. I know that I haven’t totally wasted my life believing in nonsense.”
Jack began to sober up. “I know what you mean, brother,” he said, “I too have felt that He’ll be coming soon. He’ll be coming hard, coming fast, and coming all over. And this time, there will be no kind words. He’ll be coming with a sword to vanquish His enemies. And I am that sword.”
John turned to face his brother. “How do you know this?” he asked.
“I don’t take this burden lightly,” Jack said, “Sometimes I feel like Jesus on the cross; sometimes I feel forsaken by God. It’s a responsibility I would wish on no man. But I am the chosen one; chosen to deliver God’s wrath. That is my duty and I will fulfill it.”
“Then you must find our father before it’s too late,” John replied.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Brother Joses stood over his parish like a specter from the past. He was no mere preacher; he was a prophet of things to come.
“The Lord is not a Lord of peace,” he proclaimed to his captive audience, “as Isaiah told us: See, the day of the Lord is coming — a cruel day, with wrath and fierce anger. . . . I will put an end to the arrogance of the haughty. . . . Their infants will be dashed to pieces before their eyes; their houses will be looted and their wives violated. I shout to the world with the power of a thousand trumpets: repent! For the Lord shall have His vengeance!”
The parishioners nodded, too awestruck to proclaim their faith with revelry.
In the front pew sat Jack Hardcock, his hands trembling. He had seen the wrath that Joses spoke of, for he was It’s one instrument. And Jack’s own instrument of Death was none other than the Smith & Wesson .38 special. It was holstered securely underneath his jacket. But the fiery message of Brother Joses was speaking to his God-given urge to kill.
Jack quietly stood up, buttoned his jacket, and proceeded to exit the chapel. Halfway to the door, with his back turned toward Brother Joses, the preacher shouted: “Brother Jack, the Lord does not call upon the faint of heart!”
Jack turned around, unbuttoned his jacket, and pulled out the .38. The parishioners sat silently as he unloaded the revolver, leaving one in the chamber. “Do you trust the Lord?” asked Jack.
Joses said nothing as beads of sweat poured down his face. Jack spun the revolver and placed the stubbed barrel up to his chin. “I certainly do,” he said.
Then he pulled the trigger.
A few screams echoed through the chapel, but there was no gunfire. Jack stood there, barrel still to his chin, laughing at the weakhearted parishioners.
But Joses didn’t flinch.
“It appears as though I am one of God’s chosen,” Jack said to Joses. Then he pointed the .38 at the preacher.
“Are you?” he asked.
Jack pulled the trigger, unleashing a bullet that went clean through Joses’ shoulder. Blood splattered all over the Christian flag. Pandemonium broke out as parishioners rushed to their preacher’s aid.
“Faint of heart?” Jack chuckled to himself. He shook his head and walked out the front doors. As he proceeded down the steps, Jack looked out into the barren Utah landscape. He noticed a lone figure standing in the dusty wind.
Jack squinted.
“Could it be?” he thought.
It was his own flesh and blood; his brother. It was Peter Hardcock.
“Don’t you know that Mormons are godless heathens?” Peter asked.
“Peter,” Jack said, “I’m so sorry. After my last case, I had to go somewhere. The Mormons were the only ones that would take me in. I’m sorry that I never reached out.”
“Nevermind that,” Peter replied, “our father is missing.”
“Our father?”
“Yes. Our father is missing and he needs your help. Rod Hardcock has been taken prisoner by Mexican cartels.”
TO BE CONTINUED…
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