Bad news: the blog’s gone downhill and I’m powerless to do anything about it.
Good news: I’ve updated the website format.
As for the quality of content, sorry. I’ve been going through writer’s block since the beginning of September. Don’t know what to do about it. I’m gonna write till something hits. Maybe a change in format will polish this turd up.
So the shit posts will keep flowing. Oh well 🤷♂️
Are you a stupid idiot?
Hi, I’m James.
I think it’s important that a brand represents its customers. Sure I’m a hack that’s scamming you by selling a completely unnecessary and stupid product, but I do so out of care and concern for your representation.
That’s why I developed Just Fckn Coffee!
No more of that liberal bullshit from Seattle called “Starbucks”. And none of that right-wing authoritarian crap from “Black Rifle Coffee”. I want to appeal to those who feel nothing, whose lives are as empty as their bank account.
Just Fckn Coffee! will give you the jolt you need to make it through one more day. Because life is hard. And there is no hope.
So next time you’re feeling numb from the overwhelming dread that is modern life, pour yourself a cup of Just Fckn Coffee!
Suicide Prevention Hotline: 1-800-273-8255
You know what else I hate?
Time.
Whoever came up with the laws of the physics needs to pull their head out their ass. Between being a dad and full time alcoholic, I just don’t have time for anything!
But what would really help me is if some genius would invent something that could read my mind and write down what I think. I don’t give a damn about things called “ethics” or “privacy”. I just hate writing.
But anyways, I’m getting sidetracked with other projects that will hopefully see the light of day (probably won’t). So if you think I’ve been phoning it in lately, you ain’t seen nothing yet.
God bless 🙏
“Ever wanted to do more?” some commercial by a for-profit university asked me.
Actually, I’ve always wanted to do LESS.
I can’t even watch ASMR without some jackass telling me that I’ve got 40lbs of excess shit in my bowels. Is that something I should be worried about? I already spend enough of my life on a toilet.
“Wanna invest in crypto?”
No thanks. Sports betting seems like a lot cooler way to lose money.
“Use my promo code to get one month free at Manscaped.com!”
Since when did men start shaving their balls?
Do people actually find this shit revolutionary or liberating? Any limp dick bastard with enough cash and a camera can convince enough people that some halfassed product manufactured from a sweatshop in Juarez is worth your hard earned money.
So why don’t you try sending some of that money my way?
Download my ebook for $599.99 today! 👍
“It’s not what it looks like!” I told my wife. “I just look at gay porn for ambiance!”
THE END
I couldn’t hit shit with my six shooter. I missed every target.
J Robert Oppenheimer’s 10 year old son, Malachi, watched and nodded his head. “Did you really know my father from the war?” he asked.
“Sure, why not?” I replied.
“Whose side did you fight for?”
“Uh, Abraham Lincoln’s?”
“Which detachment?”
“963rd, 9th battalion, 4th infantry, uhmmm, at the Battle of Waterloo?”
“Did you get injured?”
“Oh yeah. All over.”
Malachi scratched his head. He knew I was full of shit. “Are you sure that you didn’t know my father from the future?” he asked.
“How do you know about that?”
“He has a time machine in the barn.”
Malachi took me into the barn and lifted a large tarp off a time weapon—a similar looking time weapon that sent Mr. Ree, Oppenheimer, and myself back to 1879.
“Does it work?” I asked Malachi.
“Of course. My father built it. He can make anything work.”
Oppenheimer stood at the entryway of the barn. “That’s enough Malachi,” he said. “You run along now.”
Malachi shook his head. “Yes father,” he said and went back to tending to his chores.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this, Bob?” I asked Oppenheimer.
“It doesn’t work.”
“Malachi says it does.”
Oppenheimer paced back and forth, rubbing his hand across his face. “Look,” he said, “we can go over this all day. Sure, I can send you to the future, the past, whatever. But it’s almost impossible to get you back to YOUR timeline. I’m sorry James. But we need to look at the present. You’re here. Mr. Ree is here. I need help. This community needs your help. Please help me. I can’t fight Dickleburg on my own.”
I thought through his words. “You love Malachi,” I said. “But did you know that I have a child back in that timeline? If there is a chance, however slim, to get back there, I have to take it. Wouldn’t you do the same if you were me?”
Oppenheimer nodded. “If I’m going to help you,” he said, “then we have to secure these goldmines. There’s a property in gold that makes these time weapons work. To secure the mines, we have to defeat Dickleburg.”
I pulled out my Korth 357.
“I’m no good with those six shooters,” I replied. “But I can shoot a fly’s dick off with this 357. Can you help me make more bullets?”
“That I can do.”
TO BE CONTINUED
Some jackass was pounding on my door at 10:30 in the morning. I opened up and a man stuck out his hand.
“I’m Gay,” he said.
“Pardon?”
“Gayson Peters. I’m your new neighbor across the street.”
He was wearing an orange button up with khaki cargos and socks pulled all the way up to his knees.
“What do you want from me?” I asked. “Some money?”
“No. I’m inviting you to a barbecue that I’m having this afternoon.”
“Eh, I’m hungover,” I said. “Can’t make it”
“That’s okay, I’ll be serving free alcohol. Just come over and get drunk again.”
“I’ll see you this afternoon.”
I threw on a clean pair of pants (no underwear) and flipped my shirt inside out. I grabbed a bag of pretzels so that I didn’t look like a complete asshole for not bringing anything.
When I arrived, my new neighbor handed me a plate. “No thank you, Gayson,” I said, “I’m just here for the booze.”
“Please, call me Gay.”
I got really drunk. As I was hanging out in the backyard trying not to barf, a woman tapped me on the shoulder.
“Got a light sweetheart?” she asked.
I handed her my lighter. She was about 50 something. Blond hair. Definitely had a smoker’s voice.
“Have you known Gay for long?” she asked.
“Since this morning.”
“I’m his mom.”
“Excuse me,” I said.
I walked up to the hot tub and barfed my guts out. When I finished, I walked back to her.
“Sorry about that,” I said. “So you’re Gay’s mom. What’s that like?”
“He’s an asshole,” she replied. “Got any kids?”
“Probably.”
“How old are you?”
“I dunno. Somewhere between 28 and 74.”
She took one last drag from her cigarette then flicked it away. “Well this party is pretty lame,” she said. “Why don’t you come on over to my place and have some drinks? My name’s Lucinda.”
“Sure thing, Lucinda.”
Her apartment was a converted storage unit. It was littered with old Penthouse mags, newspapers, and an endless supply of glue. She stepped out of the shower and walked into the kitchen. In fact, the shower was in the kitchen.
“Sorry that my tits are flopping out,” Lucinda said. “I have no clean towels.”
“That’s okay. I haven’t had an erection in years. Too much prescription meds and internet pornography.”
She seemed to blow a sigh of relief. “Thank god,” she said. “I can’t have sex. Vag is all dried up.”
I poured a drink and raised a toast. “To my dead ass dick!” I said.
We sat down on the couch and I began flipping through the channels.
“Sorry,” Lucinda said. “But the only thing this TV picks up is Designing Women.”
I turned my head and looked deep into her eyes. “I love Designing Women,” I said.
There was some energy between us. We shared a moment.
When Major Dad came on, I had to take a shit. “Do you need any toilet paper?” she asked.
“Nope. Never used it.”
As I blew up the toilet behind paper thin walls, I though that I could spend the rest of my life with this woman.
“I clogged the toilet,” I said.
“Don’t worry about it. It ain’t going nowhere.”
I sat back down on the couch. As we laughed at Gerald McRaney’s shenanigans, I reached out to hold her hand. She rested her head on my shoulder. Then she let out the most disgusting fart.
“I need to change my underwear,” she said.
It was the happiest night of my life.
THE END
So I walked into Olive Garden when the manager said “sir, your penis is hanging out.”
I said “When you’re here, you’re family. Right?”
THE END
Charles Jackson was an author that kinda got lost in the shuffle of 20th century alcoholic writers.
His life was tragic. Naturally.
Jackson appeared to have lived a mostly closeted life. He suffered from tuberculosis, losing a lung, which led to alcohol and substance abuse. He died of apparent suicide in 1968.
Blake Bailey wrote a biography of Jackson titles Farther and Wilder: The Lost Weekends and Literary Dreams of Charles Jackson. Unlike every other book I talk about here, I might actually read that one.
The Lost Weekend is Jackson’s most famous work. Billy Wilder adapted it into a film in 1945. While the book was successful upon its release, it is now largely forgotten in the American canon.
The second chapter of the The Lost Weekend is probably the most harrowing description of being an alcoholic ever written. And while I thought the book was fantastic as a whole, I actually found Jackson’s second novel The Fall of Valor to be much more engrossing.
And unfortunately it’s been totally forgotten.
The Fall of Valor is about a man vacationing with his wife in Nantucket who suddenly becomes obsessed with a recently married Marine captain on leave from World War II. The blatant homosexual overtones were ahead of their time upon its release in 1946, but the novel is powerful in its exploration on the dissolution of relationships and masculinity.
Jackson’s style can get a little long winded at times, which bogged down The Lost Weekend at certain points. But it pays off in second novel. Jackson was an astute observer of human nature. He’s seen the dark side and knows what people are thinking even when they aren’t aware of it themselves. All of this comes together in a heartbreaking conclusion for The Fall of Valor.
Anywho, no jokes. That’s all I got.
Bye ✋
“I’m driving,” Susan said as she grabbed the keys to my Porsche (or Lamborghini, Ferrari, or whatever it is that I drive). “Wear something skimpy.”
Susan, in my body, made me wear a short skirt. No panties. (As a reminder, I am in Susan’s body)
Susan pounded a pint of whisky as she drove like a maniac. She reached over the console to feel up my skirt.
“Where did you last see this warlock?” she asked.
“It was down this dark and dingy back alley.”
So we parked in the alleyway. As I got out of the car, a homeless man came up to me. “Hey baby,” he said, “mind if I take that pooter for a spin?”
Susan pulled out a .45. “Back off buddy,” she said. “She’s with me.”
“Jesus! I was just asking about the car!” the homeless man replied. Then he went back to shitting in a piss-stained corner.
“How did you find my .45?” I asked Susan.
“It was already in my jacket pocket,” she replied. “What are you, some kind of psycho?”
The warlock was on the other side of the dumpster. He was schooling some kids on a game of knucklebones.
“Scram kids,” Susan said.
“Fuck off old man,” one of them replied. “Don’t make me cut you open!”
Susan once again pulled out the .45 and fired a round into the air. One of the kids pulled a straight razor and held it to my throat.
“Is that supposed to scare me?” the kid said.
“Yes,” Susan replied. She then lowered the pistol and fired a shot between his eyes.
As the kid’s body fell to the ground, the others ran off. Susan grabbed me by the arm and held me close.
“Did that turn you on?” she asked.
It did. But I said nothing.
“What’s the meaning of all this?” the warlock asked. “That kid owed me $20.”
“Put us back into our own bodies,” Susan said.
“What? Are you high?” he replied.
“You’re the warlock that cursed me yesterday when I hit you with my car,” I said. “Now I’m in her body and she’s in mine!”
“Warlock? Sweetheart, I’m just a dirty homeless man that lives behind a dumpster and grifts kids out of money.”
Susan and I look at each other. “Then why didn’t you take the money when I offered it to you?” I asked.
“I dunno. I was probably high on MDMA or something. I get hit by cars all the time!”
Susan began pounding the whiskey again. “Welp, this was a waste of time,” she said. “Oh well, let’s go.”
“What are we gonna do about this dead body?” I asked.
“Don’t worry about it,” the “warlock” said. “People die back here all the time. It’ll be fine.”
We got back in the car. The two of us sat in silence for a moment. “I guess we’re stuck in these bodies for the rest of our lives,” Susan said.
“I guess so.”
“Wanna go back to my place and fuck?”
“Sure,” I said. “But what’s with that gimp?”
THE END 🤷♂️
The Internet Ruined Everything 