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!
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.
I always thought that collectively we had two choices: evolve to a Star Trek-like utopia where poverty, disease, prejudice, and war are eradicated—or take Ted Kaczynski’s advice and shun industrialized civilization altogether.
This middle ground that we’re hellbent on occupying is some bullshit though.
Heaven forbid if I call any of this out, however. Apparently my disdain for consumerism, narcissism, the eradication of public trust, and concern for unprecedented technological advancement on our psyche and relationships is no longer fashionable within Left/Right political framework.
It probably never was tbh
Where am I going with this?
Nowhere.
I’m as directionless as our collective consciousness.
“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?
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?”
So my wife got disturbed at the actor who plays Blippi, a YouTube character for kids.
“What? Did he do gay porn? Every guy has done gay porn (not me of course, I’ve never had sex),” I asked my wife.
“No. I don’t want to say. Just google it.”
So I did.
And I was glad I did. Because apparently the actor once played another character called “steezy grossman” where he made gross out videos. In one such video, he poops all over his friend.
“But it makes sense for him to poop on his friend,” I told my wife. “According to Wikipedia, the character was born as poop because his parents had anal sex. Don’t you understand art? Idiot.”
Apparently parents were pissed off about this. I don’t see what the problem is.
Has everyone forgotten about Jackass?
A dude goes into a hardware store and shits in a display toilet. It was hilarious. And if that dude started a children’s show on YouTube nowadays, no one would bat an eye!
I applaud Blippi (whatever the actor’s name). My son loves the guy. He’s got versatility.
He’s got skill, talent, a natural performer. None of us have the balls to do what he did (and does).
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.
The Internet Ruined Everything 