Comedy is ass. And I don’t think I’m alone in saying that. The last great innovation in the medium, Cumtown, said it best: Donald Trump ruined it. It’s not because of his politics or his antiquated views on women and social issues. It’s because he treats the office of POTUS as one big standup routine. And the sad part is that it’s funnier and more daring and transgressive than almost all of comedy.
Comedians have struggled to keep up ever since.
But because the Trump era has created an unholy union between lowbrow entertainment and politics, certain performers, chief among them Joe Rogan, have mythologized comedians as modern day philosophers, or, to paraphrase Rogan himself, as the last line of defense for free speech. Hahaha! Isn’t that so funny? It’s getting high off your own supply. It’s aggrandizing your own self importance at the cost of comedy itself.
This explains why Stavros Halkias is having his moment in the sun. He’s offering a counter argument if you will; a return to tradition. His assertion is simple: comedy is good if it makes people laugh. Full stop. It’s not serious and the moment when you make it serious, it stops being funny. For Halkias, comedy is the lowest form of art. It doesn’t matter if that sentiment is valid though. What matters is that Stavvy doesn’t take himself seriously because seriousness is the polar opposite of comedy, which is his stock in trade.
It sounds pretty fuckin simple when you put it that way, eh?
But I suppose this gets at the heart of what it means to be a comedian. Who would subject themselves to being, as Stav said, one rung above a clown? Think about it. There is an ocean sized contradiction in the psyche of a comedian; to conceal their deep seated pain, they entice others to laugh at them. Or, in other words, the path towards standup comedy begins with a crippling superiority/inferiority complex. I’m sure even Rogan would agree with this. The best comedians can live with this gaping, unfilled hole in the hearts. They thrive on it. This is fuel for Nick Mullen and the legendary Cumtown podcast. Others give in to the anger and resentment and begin to smell their own farts. That’s the Rogansphere.
And others can successfully tread both worlds without fully reconciling them. Worse still, the gravitational pull of this calamitous spectacle can drag the entire universe into it. This is the mind of Donald Trump.
I’m not a monster. I’m not some goddamn alien that’s incapable of human empathy. Like many Americans, I’ve been processing some conflicting emotions. Because it’s weird. It’s surreal seeing a guy who dominated Internet spaces get VIOLENTLY shot down. I don’t think it’s helpful to dismiss that experience. But better people than Charlie Kirk get gunned down daily without hardly a blip on the radar.
What’s ironic to me though is that Kirk was a victim of his own zeitgeist. And I’m not talking about his politics. I’m talking about something more broader. The movement that Kirk championed found its success in the “flood the zone” strategy, or hitting apathetic voters with cheap content made to obfuscate the specter of late stage capitalism. Donald Trump used this media landscape to his advantage with Charlie Kirk acting as his “vanguard”. What we have today is a meltdown of meaning, of shared common reality, of the desire for consistent ideology. Or worse, we’re witnessing the deconstruction of memory and the forward progression of time. Information and life itself is cheapened. Expectations for a better destiny eradicated. As Mark Fisher said, it’s the “slow cancellation of the future.”
And because the future has been canceled, there will be no climax to Charlie Kirk’s death. No retribution. No promise of a coming civil war. The administration will heap on posthumous accolades and bury him with honors but that will be his story. The end. In two weeks, the vanguard will have a new savior and perhaps one that will carry the water better than Kirk ever did. We will forget that yesterday’s events happened.
It will be just another tragedy.
It’s what Kirk would have wanted. Or perhaps he’s a victim of his own success.
As you all know I’m a deeply right-wing Christian conservative. I love god, my country, and most of all my Beretta 93R. I’m just a simple country boy. Sometimes I’ll fall asleep drunk on Jack Daniels with a pinch of Skoal in my lip and crash my 89 Dodge truck into a septic tank. I live a simple life. But I’m sympathetic to my liberal brethren who (once again) supported a candidate who should have won.
But what could go wrong? If you forget what happened between March 2020 and January 6th, 2021, NOTHING bad happened under Trump’s first watch.
I get the frustration though. After spending the last four years living in fear from Joe Biden and his army of commie corporate fem bosses, I can understand why there’s a degree of consternation. Now I’ve never taken Russian money, at least not a lot of it, but I feel like it’s my duty to calm some of y’all’s fears. The last Trump administration was an overwhelming organizational success entirely void of infighting and scandal. The expansion of the surveillance state and drone warfare like all his predecessors along with the killing of an Iranian general notwithstanding, Trump never STARTED a war. I’m sure Israel, the land of our lord Jesus Christ, will return to a state of peace like it’s always been for hundreds of thousands of years once he takes office. And you can quit your side hustle of stealing catalytic converters to make ends meet and return to your normal duties of punching a clock and answering endless emails while also grinding it out on the night shift at Waffle House all while buried under mounds of medical and student loan debt and supporting seven children.
In short, nothing will change.
But also, a LOT can happen in four years. Hell, a LOT can happen in two! Remember after the disastrous Bush administration when Obama won? This was 2008. It seemed like the Republican Party was over! No one could have guessed that eight short years later, Donald Trump would go on to win THREE consecutive elections in a row (ALL landslides). If we presume god has abandoned us, which I believe he hasn’t, then history isn’t written in stone.
So the fatalism is unfounded. There is always resistance and protest even in the darkest of times. So live your life and speak your truth because that’s much more preferable to living in your grandpa’s crawlspace for the next four years (like I did).
It’s Beau Montana here, writing to you from a rather unexpected and, let’s say, unique location. Life has a funny way of tossing you into the most unpredictable situations, and here I am, in a North Korean prison cell. How I got here isn’t as important as what’s keeping my spirit unbroken: the belief that Donald Trump, once he recovers from his assassination attempt and is re-elected president, will ensure my release.
Now, let’s talk about something slightly less grim but equally surreal: “The Informant!” starring Matt Damon. My captors have an interesting sense of entertainment, and for some reason, this film has been on repeat. But, being the eternal optimist and writer that I am, I choose to see it as an opportunity for reflection.
“The Informant!” is a dark comedy based on the true story of Mark Whitacre, a high-ranking executive at Archer Daniels Midland who turns whistleblower. Matt Damon’s portrayal of Whitacre is nothing short of brilliant. He transforms into this bumbling yet endearing figure who manages to elicit both sympathy and frustration from the audience. It’s a layered performance that brings out the absurdity of corporate espionage and the complexities of human morality.
As I sit here, watching Damon’s exaggeratedly mustachioed face for what feels like the hundredth time, I can’t help but draw parallels between Whitacre’s world and my own current predicament. Both situations are filled with deceit, power struggles, and an overwhelming sense of absurdity. Whitacre, caught in his own web of lies, reminds me that even in the most controlled environments, chaos reigns supreme.
Now, let’s delve into the mastermind behind the film: Steven Soderbergh. His direction in “The Informant!” is nothing short of genius. Soderbergh has a knack for turning the mundane into the extraordinary, and this film is a testament to that talent. He navigates the story with a deft touch, blending comedy and drama in a way that feels both effortless and profound. The use of bright, almost garish colors contrasts sharply with the dark undertones of corporate greed and deception, creating a visual style that is as jarring as it is engaging.
Soderbergh’s decision to use a quirky, almost whimsical score by Marvin Hamlisch adds another layer of irony to the narrative. It’s as if he’s reminding us not to take anything at face value, that beneath the surface of every situation lies a deeper, often more unsettling truth. His ability to balance these tones while keeping the story grounded is what makes “The Informant!” such a compelling watch.
The film, with its quirky tone and constant twists, serves as a bizarre yet comforting distraction. It’s a reminder that truth is often stranger than fiction. Here in this cell, under the watchful eyes of my captors, I’ve found an unexpected kinship with Whitacre. Like him, I’m navigating a treacherous landscape, clinging to the hope that the truth—and justice—will ultimately prevail.
I have to admit, the dark humor of “The Informant!” resonates deeply with me now. It’s a survival mechanism, I suppose. When you’re stuck in a place where the walls seem to close in a little more each day, laughter becomes your best defense. It keeps you sane, keeps you human.
So, here’s to Mark Whitacre and his absurd journey through the labyrinth of corporate corruption. Here’s to Matt Damon for bringing that story to life in such an unforgettable way. And here’s to Steven Soderbergh, whose vision turned a potentially dry story into a vibrant, thought-provoking piece of cinema. And here’s to Donald Trump, whose recovery and political resurgence I believe will be my ticket back to freedom. I implore the former (and future) president, despite our numerous corporate and – at times – treasonous crimes to find it within his power to pardon both Whitacre and myself.
Until that day comes, I’ll keep watching, keep laughing, and keep believing. Because in the end, hope is the strongest form of resistance.
Stay strong, stay hopeful, and remember—life is stranger than fiction.
Yours in confinement but not in spirit, Beau Montana
*The Democratic People’s Republic of Korea wishes to announce that Beau Montana’s life is not under duress and that the author completed the post on his own without the help of ChatGPT. Additionally, this disclaimer was not written by a Russian bot*
Congratulations to Bill Moro for being the second inductee into the Internet Ruined Everything’s Robert Montgomery Knight’s Hall of Fame of Real Ass Dudes (IRARMKHoFRAD). His perseverance during America’s darkest hour resulted in bowling a perfect game. This single act has made Bill Moro an internet legend.
This is a controversial pick, I might add. Moro was against stiff competition from former presidents and musicians that a few of my detractors have deemed more worthy. And I feel that I should address this controversy.
The criteria I laid out for admittance into the Hall were clear: candidates must have demonstrated Real Ass behavior IN ADDITION to establishing a body of work that will “stand the test of time” regardless of any extracurricular or unsavory public activities. For many, this meant that Donald Trump would be a first ballot HoFer given his business history prior to holding public office. But as president of this Hall, I felt that Mr. Trump’s Real Ass behavior has greatly overshadowed whatever business success he may have achieved. It is for this reason that I have named Mr. Trump ineligible for IRARMKHoFRAD.
Mr. Moro may seem like an unlikely candidate for this distinction given his lack of credentials outside of the bowling alley on that fateful day. But I believe there is some precedent here. This last year, voters named Don Coryell into the Pro Football Hall of Fame despite his lack of postseason success in the NFL. Voters overlooked this crucial piece of criteria in favor of Coach Coryell’s vast influence over the league. It was the right call, and it’s the right call to name Mr. Moro as this year’s inductee.
Sometimes being a Real Ass Dude isn’t about throwing chairs across a basketball court or encouraging the public to inject bleach into their veins. Sometimes being a Real Ass Dude means demonstrating tenacity and perseverance; of being the one bright spot in an otherwise cruel world. And on September 11th, 2001, as planes were falling out of the sky and buildings were crumbling, Bill Moro demonstrated a fearless feat in bowling alley in Massachusetts.
Definitions vary. But in short, it’s any person that rides a fine line between being insane…or criminally stupid…and a total menace to society.
Which leads to a bigger question that I get asked everyday of my life: how does one get inducted into the Internet Ruined Everything’s Hall of Fame of Real Ass Dudes (IREHOFRAD)?
Because this is such an elite club, one must meet the following criteria:
1. Demonstrated clear excellence in insanity or stupidity. But their eccentricities can’t lead them to be perpetually in jail. Remember, being a menace to society is a clear disqualification for being a real ass dude. Serial killers, mass murderers, and Harvey Weinstein will never qualify.
2. That being said, there are bonus points for criminal activity. DUIs, robbery, minor drug trafficking, embezzling, manslaughter, fraud, etc, are perfectly acceptable. Sex and hate crimes, however, are an automatic disqualification. OJ Simpson totally rides the line here.
3. Have outstanding achievements in the fields of entertainment, business, sports, politics, technology, etc, that will stand the test of time REGARDLESS of their insanity, stupidity, and criminal activities. A prime example here is Bobby Knight. The man had no business coaching a college basketball program who nevertheless won three national titles. This is why Knight was the first inductee into the HOF.
Basically to get into the Hall, inductees must exemplify, or outright facilitate, the decline of society’s collective super ego.
Have someone you want to nominate? Let me know in the comments.
On the ballot next year is OJ Simpson, Brett Favre, Lyndon Baines Johnson, and Donald Trump. Only one can get in.
For the record, I feel disgusted for writing this.
Enjoy.
Meeting John was a welcome distraction for Alyssa. She managed to get close to him for a brief, fleeting moment. As she introduced herself, John held her hand firmly yet gently while their eyes locked. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Alyssa,” he said.
Her heart fluttered.
That night, Alyssa treated herself to a bath. She prayed and thanked God for bringing John into her life. She needed something else to think about other than her parents, who were probably being waterboarded in some cold North Korean dungeon at that very moment. While laying in the warm water, Alyssa let her mind wander.
As she thought about John, she began exploring herself, starting with her bosom on down to her excitable parts below. Though almost 30, Alyssa had only been with one other man…a premarital mistake she hoped would never happen again. She was saving herself; saving herself for a man like John.
She was both relaxed yet enraptured by thoughts of John moving up and down her body with his large, steady hands. As she was nearing climax, Geoff slid in through the bathroom door.
“Don’t mind me,” he said, “I’m just grabbing my toothbrush.”
Startled, Alyssa sat up in the bathtub and covered herself. “Geoff!” she screamed, “do you mind?!”
“What’s the big deal?” he asked. “I’ve definitely seen a naked woman before. No need to sneak a peek of my sister in the bath.”
“Get out!”
“Were you masturbating?” Geoff asked. “You know that the Bible says we shouldn’t spill our seed.”
“I don’t have ‘seed’ you dolt!”
“Well God says we shouldn’t take pleasures in the body. So you better get out of the tub and get to bed. And never mind my erection. It’s a side effect of my blood pressure medication.”
“I’m a grown woman Geoff. You don’t have to tell me what to do.”
Geoff sighed and scratched his forehead. “Look Alyssa,” he said, “before mom and dad went to North Korea, they wanted me to look after you until God provided you with a husband. I’m sorry if I come across as a little protective. I hope you understand.”
“I do understand,” Alyssa said as she wrapped herself in a towel, “but I’m fine. We’re both grown adults. God will release mom and dad soon. I know He will. I know that none of this has been easy for you.”
“Indeed it hasn’t,” Geoff replied, then he extended out his arms. “Hug?”
“No. I’m good.”
***
Alyssa attended Wednesday Bible study in hopes that John would be there. She arrived 30 minutes early to help set up chairs and tables. As she took her seat, Brother Ted laid his hand on her shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said.
She gave him a faint smile then opened her Bible. As the clock struck 7pm, Brother Ted began the study. “Please turn to Mark chapter 4,” he said.
John was nowhere to be found.
Alyssa’s heart started to sink. Although she was ashamed to admit it, she began to regret coming to the meeting. Then, as Brother Ted was reading through the passage, a handsome figure walked through the door.
“Sorry I’m late,” John said, “a madman hijacked a school bus and threatened to kill everyone on board. So I had to storm the bus and strangle the man with my barehands in front of all of the children.”
“Amen Brother John,” Ted said, “glad you could make it.”
Alyssa breathed a sigh of relief and blushed a little when he gave her a glance. Brother Ted read Mark 4:30-32:
“Again he said, “What shall we say the kingdom of God is like, or what parable shall we use to describe it? It is like a mustard seed, which is the smallest of all seeds on earth. Yet when planted, it grows and becomes the largest of all garden plants, with such big branches that the birds can perch in its shade,” Brother Ted read. “What does this passage mean to you?”
The room was silent for a few moments before John raised his hand. “What it means to me,” he began, “is that even though individually we are unimportant, collectively, if we are fruitful and multiply, we are powerful.”
The room nodded in agreement.
“Additionally,” John continued, “this is why it’s essential to preserve your seed. The more we waste, the less we can spread. That’s why I’m saving mine. So that one day I can plant mine into a fertile garden and have many offspring.”
He then looked over to Alyssa, who quickly looked away. But she knew. She knew right then that John was a part of God’s plan for her. As the study dragged on, Alyssa prayed for God to give her the strength to approach him.
When the study concluded, Alyssa started gathering her belongings. Then she heard a voice behind her. “Alyssa, right?” it asked. She turned around and there was John towering over her.
She nervously chuckled. “Yes,” she said.
“I heard about your parents, maybe I could fly to North Korea, take out my Bowie knife, and cut out the hearts of every commie bastard over there,” John joked.
“I’m sure you could,” Alyssa smiled, but the thought of him slaughtering millions made her loins quiver.
“I know that this is a difficult time for you,” John said, “Last night I prayed for God to return your parents home safely. So I’m sure that God will magically drop that $10.8 million into your lap at any moment. Either that, or the United States will nuke that godforsaken country right off the map. God Bless President Donald Trump, the REAL elected President. But until then, to get your mind off things, I want to invite you to a camping trip next week that I’ve organized with the church. Brother Ted will be there. And you can invite Geoff.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Alyssa replied.
A warm smile came over John’s face. “I guess I’ll see you then,” he said. She returned the smile.
Alyssa slowly walked out to her vehicle. When she climbed in, she turned up the radio and screamed for joy.
If Christian erotica can be a thing, so can Christian pornography.
And why limit it to Christians? The MAGA market are also a bunch of dupes…er, uhhhh…I mean EXCELLENT customers, why not branch into the right-wing crowd? Think about it…anti-woke pornography where we “own the libs” (I.e. by fucking the shit out of them)
What happened to the days on TV when a man could walk into a grocery store Benny Hill-style, hand in pocket, and he’s just YANKING his crank furiously underneath his sweatpants? Meanwhile he thinks he’s being so cool about it but everyone refuses to make eye contact with him.
Why can’t we make TV like that anymore?
That’s the worst thing about politics becoming serious entertainment: nothing’s funny anymore.
Every joke is the same tired crap: shitting on transgenderism, “cancel culture” ruining everything, conservatives are brainwashed, blah blah blah….
Remember that terrible painting of Jesus guiding the pen of Donald Trump? Chuckle all you want, but that painting best represents the absurdity of our times and it will almost certainly be in a prestigious museum 500 years from now where smart people will dispassionately evaluate its historical significance.
Nothing can be stupid and pointless for the sake of being stupid and pointless anymore.
Thanks anyway jackass forever, but too little too late.
The Internet Ruined Everything 