100 Girls: was that—a movie?

Kids forget, but there was a time before 9/11.

No one’s proud of it. But it happened.

Evidence for such a decade is the 2000 film 100 Girls. It’s hard to believe they used to make movies like that.

The plot’s pretty simple: some dude in college loses his virginity in an elevator like it’s some big deal. Then he spends the rest of the movie looking for this mystery girl in a dormitory.

His roommate also has a fucked up penis.

If this was a typical boner comedy, it probably would have been standard background noise.

You see, discussions on the differences between men and women used to be “interesting” to people. Not to me though. I thought girls were just boys with vaginas and left it at that. I would know because I’ve definitely seen a vagina. But 20 years ago, people didn’t know that.

So there were things like The Man Show, Kevin Smith films, American Pie, etc. The difference is though, occasionally those things would be funny.

100 Girls attempts to elevate the formula. And the moral of the story is this:

“Girls have boobs. But did you they also have personality? What a revelation!”

*Cue Bowling For Soup.

So be thankful that you live in a time of terrorism, pandemics, catastrophic climate change, massive wealth inequality, and dying democracies.

At least it isn’t the 90’s.

Randy Returns II: Returning Again: Part I: Returning Harder

Sorry. Forgot that this was an ongoing saga.

“You know, I lost a testicle too in a savage kidnapping plot,” Dale said to me while we were setting up C-4 explosives.

“Did you get it back?” I asked.

Dale and I were putting up booby traps around his cabin outside of Norco. We knew Honda was going to strike again so we wanted to establish home field advantage.

Nicky (my alleged father) was sitting around the campfire staring down the barrel of his .44.

“No no dad,” I said as I took the gun out of his hands.

All three of us sat around the campfire under the Norco moonlight. The air reeked of cow shit.

“What a god forsaken place,” I said.

Dale took in a deep breath of shit stained air.

“I was born here. I grew up here. I lost my virginity here. I got married here. I got divorced here. Got married again. Got divorced again. Lost everything I had. And never gained it back. I’ll probably die here,” Dale said.

“Probably so,” I replied.

Nicky spoke up. “You know, I’m just glad that you boys are out here to protect me. When the FBI shot up that strip joint, I remember that I completely blew out my pants. Shit got everywhere. When they arrested me, they made me sit in my shitty underwear. Then I cried.”

“Don’t worry about it dad,” I said. “Dale and I have faced Honda before. We know what to expect.”

“By the way,” Dale chimed in. “Who the fuck is Honda and why are we in this mess?”

We all looked at each other and shrugged.

“It’s important to not think too much on this,” I said. “The important thing is that we are family, except for Dale, and that we are all going to help each other out this train wreck we find ourselves in.”

We nodded and started to enjoy the campfire.

Finally I asked Nicky, “So what do you remember about mom?”

He smiled and said, “what a lovely woman. Legs, ass, tits. The whole package. Eyes as blue as the sky. But a warm heart. She knew how to brighten up my day.”

I looked back at the fire and thought that doesn’t describe mom at all.

Finally Dick called.

“Aye lad, I’ve been tailin’ Anthrax all dee. I’m watching her outside a trap hoose n Pasadena,” Dick said. “I donnae think you’ll like who she’s with mate.”

“Randy,” I said.


That bitch, I thought. I knew she was going to double cross me and I fell into her trap. Instead of a battle, we were now facing a war on two fronts.

“Then you might get your M2s, M4s, AKs, AR-15s, 44s, 94, and 22s,” I told Dick. “We’re headed for a Mexican standoff.”

I’d Rather Die A Horrible Death Than Do Tiktok Again

Because this blog is sacred ground, I won’t sully it by posting my real opinions.

Instead I will post them to Medium.

But if you’re interested in reading them, please click the link.

Or don’t!

Can’t say I’d blame you.


“Perhaps there’s a species in a higher dimension. Perhaps this species is what we commonly refer to as ‘God’.

Perhaps this species has given us free will, creativity, and logical thinking as an experiment…to see how we might use these gifts to bring about peace, justice, and equality for all in a universe that’s seemingly indifferent to suffering.

Perhaps it’s time to reboot that experiment.”

You know what’s sad?

I haven’t laughed at anything in weeks.

I mean, I DO laugh. It’s not like people tell me jokes and I just stare at them with my cold, dead eyes like a sociopath. But I’m just being nice. I’m not really laughing.

Ya know?

It’s unfortunate because I’ve always wanted to try stand up comedy. But I don’t know what’s funny anymore. All I’d do is go up on stage picking my nose and scratching my ass saying “you know, I was taking a shit the other day and was thinking: ‘do fish sleep?’”.

I just don’t have a sense of humor anymore.

But then I’d hear about my co-worker getting temporarily paralyzed due to constipation from heroin addiction and I go “lol! That sucks man.”

Is that how bad things have gotten?

I vaguely remember hearing about World War 1 soldiers taking up a morbid sense of humor to help them cope with the death all around them. But this isn’t a war zone. Mangled bodies and tear gas doesn’t surround me.

It’s boredom. Long, perpetual boredom. And the deep existential vacuum, deep in my soul, that has sucked up all joy and laughter that occupies the precious moments between birth and death.

That, and Cum Town.