A Clean, Well Lighted Place To Kill Yourself


Hemingway was wrong. The following is the correct sequence:

  1. Write drunk.
  2. Waste an entire day with a record-breaking hangover while you ponder the meaning of life trying not to kill yourself.
  3. Edit Sober.

I suppose I would bet a hefty sum that it was a hangover that did Hemingway in. Being drunk is fun. It’s the morning after you have to survive.


“Are all things good punishable in the end?” thought Ernest. He rubs the small rash on the inside of his thighs. “I can’t even enjoy rough sex anymore?” The previous night’s poison has left his vision blurry; his head throbbing; his testicles itchy. He apologizes again, to no one in particular, that his herpes has re-announced themselves. Luckily, he has the means for even the most horrible of sexual favors. He reaches for his trusty shotgun he has named Laquisha in honor of the African prostitute that taught him the three-hundred-sixty-degree scissor kick. He puts the butt of the gun on the floor and cocks the trigger.

“The good stuff always comes at a price…”


Why do we drink ourselves into the beds of total strangers? Why do we peg our neighbor’s boyfriend with our new Rhino strap-on? Why does a couple recite their vows to each other fifteen seconds after diving out of a propeller plane? And why is the best man shitting himself? The answer is easy. Because life is fucking boring.

Life is supposed to be harsh. The whole point of it is to survive this strange game. Kill or be killed. If you haven’t eaten in two days, and you have knowledge of a pack of hyenas that is tracking you, then life becomes interesting. You become super aware of your surroundings. Every turn and twist of your existence comes with a profound purpose. Because, fuck those hyenas. And, I don’t care if that is your little baby, Punxsutawney Phil. I’m gonna put it in my mouth.

Surviving those bloody battle fields was a very scary game. So we changed the rules. We caged our hunters. We caged our hunt. We sat between the two cages, smiling. Clever us… “You look angry over there, Mufasa,” we taunt. “Hey, Sebastian. Is that a pot I hear boiling?” we tease. Safe and full and super pleased with ourselves. We turned the tables on the dungeon master:

“So, I roll the twenty sided die and to see if I get to eat the lobster? Ok. No! I’m gonna summon a spell. SUMMON CLARIFIED BUTTER! Do I already have the lobster fork?”


So, now what? Now that the real drama is gone? I guess we have to manufacture it. Here are some examples.

I wonder if that fucking guy is looking at me?

Judge Judy is gonna tear that asshole a new one, two asshole mother fucker.

If Lou pulls his penis out again, I’m gonna contact H.R.

How many licks does it take to get to the center of the Tootsie Pop?

Is this strap-on too big for your wife?

All valid questions in our new, boring as fuck, civilized society. Hey. I wonder if I can blow off my entire face with one shotgun shell? Let’s ask Ernest. Hey, buddy. Over here. Will you look at OH MY GOD! THAT’S DISGUSTING! I CAN SEE YOUR BRAAAAIIINNNS!

I guess the answer is yes…


This is a small book in print, Kindle, and audio version. You can help by picking up a copy. I’d appreciate it.

Here are some audio essays in album form. They are cheap and you probably already have an Amazon account. The smallest amount of effort in the least invasive way. Thanks!

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Beyond that, thanks for paying attention at all.

Hipster Gandalf (aka Aaron Atadero)

A Gay Lobstah Gets Wicked Sad

Burphole #1 is available on book, kindle, and audio versions. Click here and get your copy.

Life is hard. There are going to be moments in your life where you are going to think, “Maybe I don’t want to do this anymore.” Perhaps your doughnut doesn’t have enough sprinkles. Maybe your Coke isn’t as refreshing as promised. Your favorite television character is getting rooted in the ass by someone you don’t like. “No means no!” you scream at the screen. But not this time. No means shut up and bend over. It’s not fair. I know. But, it’s ok. It can all be avoided by sheer will. Just go to your happy place.

The “happy place” was invented by Jesus Christ himself. People used to live their most tragic, horrifying moments in vivid, HD, surround sound. Super aware of every nano second. And then people witnessed an odd occurrence. While J. Star himself was pegged to that wooden cross, he began to speak.

“This is not happening. I’m not really here. Artichokes soaked in vinegar. This isn’t painful at all. Mary playing with my balls. That sweat isn’t stinging my eyes. In fact, I see rhubarb and quinces. Oh, so tasty…”


A young girl is staring up at Jesus Christ on the cross. She has positioned herself so his body is shielding her from the oppressive heat of the sun. Sunbeams, a halo around his head. (Although, the term “halo” has not been invented yet. So, his bulbous head is simply creating a nice bit of shade.) She listens to him wax poetically about pastries and reach arounds. As a buzzard lands on the crossbeam of the cross, Jesus flinches and starts to repeat anxiously, “Go to the happy place. Go to the happy place. Go to the happy place…”

An old man walks up and joins her. He asks the young girl why she isn’t off cleaning someone. Or collecting frankincense. Or whatever young Jerusalem girls do.

She replies, “I’m listening to this peasant talk about some place. The happy place. What is this happy place?”

He shields his eyes, looks up and listens.

Jesus starts singing, “Always look at the bright side of life…”

“He’s singing,” says the man.

“And talking about this place, among other rude things involving food.”

“What place?”

“The happy place.”

As the man looks up at the cross bearing peasant, he says, “What is this place? The happy place? Where is happy?”

The young girl responds, “I’ve never heard of it. Happy. Is that close to Rome? I’ve never been anywhere near it. Maybe it’s close to Rome.”

“Maybe,” says the old man. “Oh my god, did you see that? That crow just snatched out it’s eye!”

The young girl shrugs. “Well, a crow’s gotta eat too.”

Jesus Christ, tormented by the heat of the sun, the holes in his flesh, and a fucking crow, suddenly yells, “Kelly Clarkson!”


“The Happy Place” is truly in the eyes of the beholder. Perhaps it’s a desert where the Joshua trees are made of pistachio gelato. Cacti, the flavor of sour apple Jolly Ranchers. Tiny mammals made of hash brownies that poop little chocolate chips. A confectionery world where everything is joyful.

Maybe your “happy place” is a place of revenge. A thanksgiving gathering where you finally get to wrap your hands around the neck of your childhood stealing Uncle Albert. The one that introduced you to a penis so crooked that you were surprised when you saw a straight one. Walking through the world thinking every man housed a question mark in their pants. Which, ironically, formulated an opinion of why would anyone want one of those around their face? A horrible intrusion into a world where furry vaginas are far superior. And a place where flannels are always appropriate, especially for this wonderful moment of hearing the crushing of a wind pipe.

Maybe your place isn’t happy at all. You can’t recall a time where you were experiencing true joy, so you create the next best thing: A “cool” place. A place where the game is on. Potato chips are abundant. Pink Floyd’s “Animals” softly plays in the background. You’ve got your comfortable clothes on. Especially that one button up that seems to accent your wide shoulders while hiding your protruding gut. Someone is barbecuing out on the patio on a perfect day. The pool is clean and refreshing as it beckons you to attempt a cannon ball. The beer is cold. The whiskey is warm. It’s not Sodom & Gomorrah or anything, but it’s chill. A cool place.

Oh, the places you go when you are getting nailed against your will. Or, when listening to Millennials bloviate on shit I just made up…


ME: So, Harriette. What do you think of the rights of transgendered lobsters in relationship to the right winged fishing industry of the northeast coast of Australia?

HARRIETTE: Well, I think transgendered lobsters should have every right to, uh, be whatever gender they want to be regardless of the views of the racist white….

ME: No, I said “right.” Not white.

HARRIETTE: Yes, I heard you. What is the difference of saying right and white?

ME: It’s Australia. It’s all white.

HARRIETTE: No it’s not. The Aborigines are not white. And they are Australian. The original inhabitants of Australia, I might add. Before those fucking white…

ME: Oh! Ok. What about the Aborigines? Do you think their rampant homophobia and murderous, disgruntled tendencies have an adverse affect on the LLGBTQ community? I mean, how long can we stand by and let them murder transgendered lobsters in the name of their lord, Larry the sea lion? They are eating the lobsters, Harriette.

HARRIETTE: Ohmygod. That’s horrible.

ME: Not when you serve it with drawn butter. But make sure you cook them when alive, or they poison their flesh with gay juice.


ME: That’s right, Harriette. What the fuck are we talking about?


Joe looks over the random artifacts magnetized to the refrigerator door. A concert stub to a Boyz 2 Men show. A kitty cat hangs in there. Butter, Windex and “lady stuff” need to be purchased in the near future. A magazine photo of two Maine lobsters locked at the claws. This last piece seems out-of-place from the squeaky clean positivity of the rest of this curated collection.

“Why do you have lobsters fighting on your refrigerator door?” says Joe.

A voice from down hall, slightly audible. “What was that?”

“I was wondering why you have two lobsters fighting on your refrigerator.”

“They’re not fighting,” says the voice. “They’re holding hands. Did you know lobsters mate for life?”

Joe knew that wasn’t true. He actually had extensive knowledge of the North Atlantic lobster from his many summer jobs on a lobster boat. The North Atlantic lobster is very aggressive. And simple. It was all fucking and fighting. Not like their more organized and intelligent cousins of The Caribbean or New Zealand. Those lobsters have a society and move in migrations. But the North Atlantic lobster is a selfish, hateful, solo being. In fact, the refrigerator photo was an example of something called a “claw lock.” The result of a fight that neither lobster has given up on. A frozen stalemate. In fact, these lobsters have been known to have sex while in “claw clock.” Fucking and fighting at the same time. Which is some gangster shit.

Joe takes a deep breath and says with a shrug, “For life, huh? I didn’t know that.”

“Isn’t that beautiful?” says the voice from down the hall. “Even lobsters find love.”

Joe immediately regrets seeing the lobster photo. Because it’s an example of one of his biggest pet peeves. Anthropomorphizing animals into jolly, happy Disney characters. Animals are fuckers. Rabid, hungry, abusive, destructive fuckers. Why doesn’t anybody say, “Hey. Look at my dog over there by your kid. I bet he’s contemplating biting her fucking face off. Because he’s an animal, dude. And your kid’s annoying.”

Joe changes the subject. “Boyz 2 Men, huh? I didn’t know they were still around.”

“I love, love Boyz 2 Men. They are one of the best groups ever. Maybe the best.”

Joe hates that comment. Boyz 2 Men, the best ever? For fucks sake. First the lobster thing, and now this? He considers walking out of the voice’s place, but he did have to fight traffic to get over here. He should probably stick around and see if he gets a blow job, or better. Maybe a claw lock…


“I miss the old days when “Surf & Turf” was Maine lobster and a succulent tenderloin,” thought Little Billy as he pushed his plate of fish lice and ox blood gelatin away.


Eating lobsters is fucking gross, everybody. It’s a sea bug. An Arthropod. Just like spiders and crabs and scorpions and shrimp and fish lice.

Fish lice.


Fucking lice, dude.

Even the American natives to New England ate arthropods reluctantly. It’s a last resort, survival thing. Only after you have exhausted the rotten potatoes, the dried dog tongues, the sycamore leaf salads, do you venture out into the ocean for the fucking bugs that crawl around the bottom.


Little Tatunka looks at her plate of sea lice, disgusted. She shifts her gaze to the horizon and takes a deep breath. As her eyes glaze over she thinks, “I’d rather be fuckin’ raped, kid.”

I Thought You Hated Pedophiles

Just a few excerpts from the first Burphole collection. On audible as well.


Oh. A new follower on my twitter page. Emily McDemilly. Let’s check out her bio.

“Life’s too short to have regrets.”

Oh, shut up, Emily. Everybody’s a philosopher. You’re supposed to have regrets. That’s what makes you human.

Maybe you shouldn’t have let that Iranian Prince stick it in your pooper behind The Sahara Tent.

Maybe you shouldn’t have cracked your mom’s head open on the bathroom sink after she stole your girlfriend.

Maybe you wish you had eaten the blue pill. Because this reality is a shit show! But those regrets are what gives you character. It’s what makes you interesting, Emily. Life’s too hard to not make mistakes. Stop pretending you’re fuckin’ perfect…

But thanks for following.


Let’s pretend your mind is not an ocean of thought, but the water in a swimming pool. And that pool is dirty. You try to keep it clean, but the elements conspire to dilute your visibility. But still, you try. You skim away the wind blown detritus and dead insects every day. You clean the filter and sterilize the water. Maybe, one day, this water can be purer than Lake Minnetonka.

As the years pass, you come to terms with this dirty pool. And, that maybe, you should stop trying to clean it. Just look at what’s floating on the surface. A whoopee cushion you received on your tenth birthday. The cleavage of your second grade teacher, Miss T. A high school party sucker punch. And, yep. There it is. Your exploded lip.

And what of the stuff you can’t see? All the crap that has sunk to the bottom. You’ve fished some of that stuff out. Let’s see. There was that rubber chicken tied inside of a extra large condom. Bigfoot’s foot. Eh, not so big. There was that canister of dicks and that crate of cunts and that casket of assholes. Remember the noseless carcass in the prom dress? You didn’t invite her. You didn’t ask for any of this shit. But it’s there. And then some.

You walk by the deep end and remember that party when you pulled out a bloated pedophile in clown makeup. It freaked out everybody. Nobody could understand that it wasn’t your idea to find a bloated pedophile in clown makeup! Oh, the humanity! All the Stepford Wives were sobbing like little bitches. It’s just a dead pedophile, right? You don’t understand why they are so upset. Didn’t they say they hated pedophiles? Cry babies.

You walk by the shallow end of the pool. You can see to the bottom. Here, you can cherry pick the nice things and ignore the offensive ones. Hey! It’s your old Nerf football! You loved that football. You played with that thing in the house, in the yard, in the mother fuckin’ streets. (Car!!) Like Linus and his blanket, you two were inseparable. Oh! And look over there. It’s a dead baby in a Cosby sweater. Hmm. Yeah, you better ignore that.


“A clown sneaks up behind you and places your balls on his forehead.”

Like the flicked switch of a neon sign in an unlit room,  that’s the first and immediate thought of the day.

“Oh. Okay. Can I please have some coffee first?”

What strange things happen under the surface of sleep? Tiny scenarios that you could never dream up when awake. Like this one. Because it’s an odd concept. Think of all the logistics that need to be in play for a clown to sneak up behind me and place my balls on his forehead…

1. I need to be in a room with a clown.

2. I need to be unaware of his presence.

3. I need to be butt naked.

4. I need to be severely bowlegged.

I must have been playing the role of a cowboy on a cosplay themed porn set. I can’t recall that dream, but I am happy those scenarios are occurring in there. Whoever writes that show is fuckin’ talented. Anyway…

I appreciate that this clown “places” my balls on his forehead. Which sounds intimate and comfortable. Like flowers in a vase. Or your hand in mine. This all sounds wonderfully acceptable and brings a small victory to my face. Like a ten gallon hat that goes to eleven…


When Bruce became Caitlyn, women became ecstatic.

“How brave! How beautiful! Did you see those photos? She is simply breathtaking! Congratulations!!”

Frankly, I found their euphoria a bit creepy. And, I wondered, how long until they come for me…

THE LADY: Ladies. One less idiot! We are winning the war! Soon, my beautiful ladies, we will evolve into asexual beings. Remember when we needed men to protect us from other species? The lions of the world. And the tigers. And the bears. All of those animals trying to break down our doors, yearning for our sweet, perfect, well moisturized flesh.

We stood in the shadows of our own personal oafs. They were necessary. But now, we only need men around to protect us from other men! Which is a travesty! I say be rid of them all!

The time has come, ladies. The time has come. And may I add, it came multiple times! Without a man! That’s right! The elusive concept of time is now transitioning! Congratulations! You look beautiful!

An Eloquent Penis Gets Writers Block

An Eloquent Penis Gets Writers Block

If you would like to help with my coffee and muffin consumption, check out the “A Little Help?” post here. Thanks!

Dragging your fingers across the keyboard looks like this: qKGWVLAEHGSDj≈ƒ ∫√b>. You might as well be using your penis.


Some words of advice I received on the tropic of cancerous writer’s block: (Which is an imagined block. It’s not a tangible thing like a football block or a road block or a lower intestine block. The latter, by the way, is referred to as “blockage.” Does that make “blockage of the brain” applicable? Probably not, but it is a good politically correct alternative to “retahded, kid.” Because “mentally challenged” is redundant. Aren’t we all “mentally challenged?” It’s not as if someone walks the earth mentally unchallenged. “Of course I have all the answers! I’m Mentally Unchallenged Man!” Or woman. Or whatever that third, fourth, and fifth thing is. But I don’t want to go down that path. There’s too many dicks.)

ANYWAY, the words of advice: “Just start dragging your fingers across the keys. Even if you have nothing in your head at that moment, your fingers will start to formulate sentences. And, if you have to, start typing a phrase like, “I have nothing to say. I have nothing to say. Eye have nothing to say. Eye have notable to say. Eyes are notably to say. Eyes are notably touché. Eyes are fuckity fuck fuck. I promise. It works. I promise. It works. I promise…”


HOST: Welcome back to “Writer’s Block.” We are here with world unknown writer, Aaron Atadero, discussing his process of breaking through the proverbial walls of blockage. So, Aaron, all writers experience this momentary lack of stability. Well, maybe “momentary” is the wrong word as some writers never recover from the block. Like Harper Lee. Or John Kennedy Toole.

AARON: John Kennedy Toole killed himself not because he had writer’s block, but because he was blocked as a writer by publishing companies. Let’s not say a lack of published work equals a lack of work. Consider the alcoholic mess of that completely unlikable lowlife Charles Bukowski. He was fifty-one when his first novel was published. That doesn’t mean he wasn’t working. Or that he was blocked. You really need to pick and choose your words better, dude. Is that why you host this show? Why aren’t you writing?

HOST: I write. I write everyday. I take my mind to the proverbial gym and we build that muscle up.

AARON: Ok. Two things, dude. One: the word proverbial is way overused. I’m aware that you cannot remove your brain from your head and sit it down on an elliptical machine while it does thirty minutes of cardio. I understand a metaphor without you having to explain the attempt to me. And two: I don’t use my mind to write at all. I have no idea how it’s done. In fact, I’m barely present.

HOST: What? What are you saying? That you…

AARON: It’s the fingers. The fingers do the walking, the talking, and ultimately the writing.

HOST: The fingers.

AARON: Yep. Apparently you just drag your fingers across the keyboard and, voila! You’re done. Those little genius digits have written everything. The only reason I’m talking to you now is simple. Fingers can’t talk.

HOST: Uhh… I…

AARON: There was a day when I thought I was writing all that stuff down. But I’m not doing it at all. What I discovered is my fingers communicate with me telepathically, and I push the buttons. I’m just taking dictation. These are the real assholes responsible for every offensive thing that has made it’s way to the screen, paper, websites, and beyond.

HOST: That sounds insane. Literally. You sound crazy.

AARON: No, that would be my penis and balls that sound crazy. I was told long ago that my mental health was completely under the influence of my crotch, so, I’m not really even frowning at you right now. It’s my curmudgeonly cock.

HOST: I see.

AARON: Essentially, I’m like Terri Schiavo. I’m personally not responsible for anything I do. If it wasn’t for my crotch and fingers, I would be lying in a puddle of my own waste, drowning in slobber.

HOST: Wow.

AARON: Have you ever seen “Weekend at Bernie’s?” Wait. What’s that?…


“Millions of years ago, in my previous incarnations, I must have been related to swans…”

Jean Sibelius. The mentally unstable, and all around a-hole, composer of  “Valse Triste.”


“Valse Triste” has been selected by a Pandora algorithm. It’s unpleasant. The fact I have noticed it’s unpleasantness is counterproductive to it’s very existence. The reason this classical music is playing at all is to provide a sound bed that I can write to. Something to ignore, and yet something that drowns out the clicks, pops and groans of the comforts of technology and aging construction. Because silence IS deafening. And it fucks with my chakras or feng shuis or whatever it is that I tap into that provides me with juvenile observations. Because everyone knows the direct line from party food to farty poo starts with the subliminal messages of those Satanists, Mahler, Mendelssohn and Mozart.

But this. ONE two three, ONE two three, VON two three, EINS zwei pee, FUCK i ty, FUCK I TY! “What the hell is this shit?” I say aloud. The music becomes horribly present. Like a woman that sees you working, but still enters the room like some stage actor, twirling into frame while doing the hand jive. “Don’t mind me,” she might say. “I’ll just be sitting over here minding my own business… Oh my god, look how long my labia is getting. We should go have brunch some where, but look how long my labia is getting.”

“Ok. I can’t write with this happening. You win… Who are you?”


“Valse Triste.” I look up the translation. “Sad Waltz.” Of course it is. Is there any other type of waltz? A plodding constant with no swing or energy. It’s disgusting. I think about the dance with the same name. The stiff, encircling of two bodies. The dancing dead. The original “Weekend At Bernie’s.”


The invention of different dances and moves should be left to the people of color. White folk can learn those dances latter, but the choreography itself should be handled by the masters. They have given the world Tap, Samba, Moonwalk, Bollywood, Belly, and The Dougie, just to name a few. A celebration of limbs, sweat and joy. And joy is key. Because the dances white folk have invented are joyless. The angry slam step, the suicidal Irish step, and the fucking box step. That last step is where you pretend there is an invisible box on the ground, and you take alternate steps to the corners of that box. It’s fucking embarrassing.

“What about ballet?” I might hear you say, white asexual. (Or whatever you identify as, because I don’t care.) Listen: I’ve dated a ballet dancer and that shit is simply sadistic. Dead toe nails, shin splints, broken sesamoid bones. Learning a specific dance should not result in PTSD. But, technically, you’re right. White people invented that. (Golf clap.)

“What about EDM? Extremely high white people invent a new dance every night. It’s called, “Dance Like There’s No One Watching,” you might inject, pale skinned alien. Well, knock yourself out. I didn’t say white people shouldn’t dance. Plus, I’m NOT watching…


I guess you have succeeded, Jean Sibelius, with your sad, dead swan in a lake like waltz. I am sad now. Because my over exuberant tangent has drained me of any positive energy I was running on. I wasn’t expecting to get riled up by racially attributed dance moves. What an odd thing to meditate on. Frankly, I really don’t care. Though, it may seem like I did through that ill advised tangent. But that’s not really me. I am just a spacecraft for some racist ass digits. A puppet for some low hanging testicles. A simple vessel for an extremely well dressed and eloquent penis.


“You know, dear boy, I could really go for a healthy serving of labia. Oh, the labia. Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my head can reach…”

Click here for the previous essay.

A Corn Dog (The Pursuit of Happiness)

A Corn Dog (The Pursuit of Happiness)

If you would like to help with my coffee and muffin consumption, check out the “A Little Help?” post here. Thanks!

The pursuit of happiness is an odd journey. Pursuing any emotion is strange. Could you imagine saying, “Today, I’m going to pursue rage. I’m going to put on Hall & Oats’ greatest hits, put three heads of cabbage in an open, boiling pot, and project The Fred Movie trilogy onto my living room wall. Hopefully, I’ll reach a sensory meltdown where I’ll want to throw a small child through the window of a Chuck E. Cheese.”

Which is ridiculous. You don’t have to pursue emotions. The’ll just come over to your house. Usually unannounced and with an odd looking lady that sports a face tattoo with the name of “Sprinkles.” Which is unfortunate. I mean, how many times do you have to train something to not pee on the carpet?


JESUS: The real path to happiness is through charity and forgiveness.

ME: Really? That seems pretty convenient. It can’t be that simple.

JESUS: Of course it is. Look over here. This poor, helpless child is a victim of rape. And standing next to her is her rapist.

ME: Jesus! That’s a lot of blood. Oh, god.

JESUS: “Oh god” is right! But, witness this miracle: Rapist. What you have done here is despicable. But, I know you were influenced by the devil himself. Just know, I love you. And I forgive you. Go. Go with the grace of god.

RAPIST: Really? Thanks! Thanks, Jesus!!

ME: What the hell? Jesus, you can’t do that. That man has raped a young woman. He must be held responsible! Retribution, Jesus.

JESUS: Retribution, smetribution. Did you see how happy he was? I’m also happy. Happiness through forgiveness.

ME: Wow.

JESUS: And this tragic creature. We will give her charity and understanding… I understand you have been raped. Here is a few dollars for some new underwear. Oh, screw it. I’ll throw in some more for a fresh bar of soap. Go. Take a shower and cleanse yourself of this sin.

LADY: Fuck you, Jesus. You are a horrible man!

JESUS: You will learn to transcend this. Now go. Body of Christ and, umm, namaste.

ME: Everything about this is wrong.

JESUS: But look at my face. I’m smiling. I have just demonstrated happiness through charity.

ME: What a sociopath. Hey, why don’t you look at my face. That’s called rage. Not only am I going to kick your fucking ass, but I’m also going to fuck you in the ass.

JESUS: What? Wait a minute.

LADY: Yeah, fuck him up, dude! Fuck that punk mother fucker!

JESUS: No! Step back!

ME: And I’m not carrying any vaseline, bitch!

LADY: Hahaha! Look at my face, Jesus! That’s called happiness! This is going to be grrrreat!


If you value historical truths, then you must value this: Happiness doesn’t exist. Today’s concept of happiness is as fake as Santa Clause, an excellent DC Comics movie, or that black people can’t be racist.

BLACK WOMAN: What did you say, you cracker ass white boy? All white and privileged and white. I hate you, whitey!

ME: Well, technically, I’m only half white. So, could you downgrade your weapon to something more appropriate. Like, umm, a whip! Yeah. That seems right…


Anyway, the first concept of happiness was derived by the Greeks. They called it “Eudaimonia.” Which meant to flourish. Financially. Yes, the pursuit of happiness is a reference to flourishing financially. It’s not an emotion at all. At least, it wasn’t back then. Back then, it was just a way of saying, “Nice robe, Socrates. Is it imported?”

One day, while he was having an octopus and caper salad at the overpriced but well reviewed “Happiness Cafe,” Saint Francis of Assisi noticed that poor people were miserable looking. And it bothered him. Not because he was moved by the death and diseases that the discrepancies of wealth had created, but by how unattractive the facial expressions of death and disease are. How could anybody enjoy their overpriced octopus and caper salad on this lovely restaurant patio when, a mere twenty feet away, there were deplorable homeless people that looked so hopelessly cheerless? He had an idea. So, he stood up and walked over to where the homeless were gathered. Some of them were convulsing on the path from Ergotism, while others were fighting over a guitar. Because, let’s face it. Learning to play the guitar is a gateway to homelessness.

ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI: Excuse me. Excuse me, everyone. Good people of Italy, can I please have your attention. Thank you. It is not right for the servant of God to show sadness and a dismal face. So, rejoice in the lord or I will take you out to where the little fishes feed, capiche? Now get the fuck outta here…


And so began the slow metamorphosis of the meaning of happiness. The pursuit of financially flourishing became a pursuit of joy, serenity, optimism, love, acceptance and trust. Which is a silly pursuit. Emotions are fleeting at best. Experiencing emotions is like riding a roller coaster. You stand in line for two hours feeling slightly annoyed, (which is the baseline of all humans,) and then you are emotionally tossed around for a couple of minutes. Which ride will it be? The Joy Jostler? The Rage Ringer? The Galloper of Grief? You won’t know until you’re strapped in. You don’t pursue these things, they come for you and you simply white knuckle the bar. You hold on and take the ride. And when the ride comes to a jolting stop, you think, “Whoa. That was crazy! Insane! My legs are all wobbly.” Then you teeter out and you get back in line.

Or go pursue a corn dog. Which, oddly, is like riding a mini roller coaster. I mean, how can consuming something so trivial illicit emotions that range from complete ecstasy to horrible regret. Which is similar to dating a Latin Woman. Hmm. I vote corn dog…


The Land of the Litmus Test


If you would like to help with my coffee and muffin consumption, check out the “A Little Help?” post here. Thanks!


“Judging a person does not define who they are. It defines who you are.”

Yeah, and if we like each other, maybe our definitions will improve.

“It’s the people that know you the least that judge you the most.”

Ok. But how else am I supposed to get to know if you are interesting?

“Don’t judge a book by it’s cover.”

What? Why not? That cover looks so fucking cool!!!


Judging things has gotten a bad rap. There is always a negative connotation. Like Judge Judy, Judge Dredd, Judge Cornelius Fudge, Judge Jesus. It’s always bad when a judge is around because they can send you to a very bad place. Like Hell. Or Florida. Which is imbecilic. Because judging things is also how you find the things you love. To see where your attractions lie. If you prefer one finger or two fingers or no fingers at all. Inside you, that is. You must have an opinion.

LADY: I like five fingers!

She said five, people! A fist it is, Kaitlyn Jenner.

LADY: Yaaaayy!

Anyway, If you were to say, “I love that top. Where did you get it?” Is that not a judgement? Or, “Dude, this is the best burrito I have ever had!” You might be under the influence of a bong rip of Alaskan Thunder Fuck, but it’s still a judgement. And a judgement is simply an opinion. Which makes me wonder: With regards to judging things, is society saying I should have no opinion at all? That my likes and dislikes are some sort of crime on humanity? Hogwarts!


In a bustling coffee shop on a Saturday morning, two lovers sit across from one another. They have succeeded in transcending the booty-call bounce; the stride of pride; the walk of shame. Their lovely night has spilled into the day where the coffee is free trade, the atmosphere has a acid house soundtrack, and the emotional attachments to one another begin to surface their first appearance. Smitten. Happy. Excited, even.

Suddenly, Henry Rollins walks by their table towards the counter. The young man tries not to be too obvious, but slightly turns his head to get a peripheral look at one of his idols. And there he is. Black t-shirt. Black jeans. Black tattoos. It’s like seeing a double rainbow with a hard charging unicorn in mid gallop across it’s surface. He does exist! This mythical beast is there and in the flesh. And he is ordering a black coffee. Well, of course it’s black.

“Who is that?” asks the young woman.

“That’s Henry Rollins,” he says in a muted voice. “Black Flag. Rollins band. ‘Get in the Van’ Henry Rollins.” His excitement suddenly shatters. He realizes he has inadvertently wandered into: The Land of The Litmus Test. The place where allies are formed and enemies reveal themselves. A place where there is no grey area. Either you’re with us, or you are cast out. He can’t be friends, let alone lovers, with anybody that doesn’t like the one, the only, Hank the Crank. He turns to the young woman and hopes, no, prays for the best.

Ignorance to Henry would be ok, he thinks. That’s simply an opportunity to convert someone that has lived an unenlightened life. One of those moments where he can say, “You haven’t heard this?!? Well, you are in for a treat, my dear!” And off he goes. Waxing poetically over the entire aural onslaught. Saying things like, “This part is amazing” and “this lyric is genius!” and “Do you like it? Please oh please, say you do.”

“Oh. Henry Rollins,” she says. “I’ve seen him do spoken word. A friend took me to see him down at Largo.”

The young man clinches his teeth; Shifts in his chair; forces his face into hopeful positivity. Judgement is at hand. His immediate future, hell, perhaps his entire future, is precariously teetering on the tip of his tongue. He takes a deep breath and says, “Annnd, you thought he was amazing?”

“He’s masculine to a fault. Hiding behind a torrent of testosterone with his over opinionated, soft spoken demeanor. ‘I’ve been to a million countries and you guys don’t know suffering.’ So, what am I supposed to do? Pretend that I’m always fucking ecstatic that I don’t live in Mongolia? Whatever, dude. I found him to be a bloviating asshole.”

The young man looks down at his coffee. His face muscles fall, anguished and appalled. A river of deceit washes cold over his entire body. With a hard sigh he thinks about how dirty he feels. How used. How disgusting. He has slept with “one of them.” And, that maybe, he should stop drinking flirtinis for awhile because, obviously, her siren’s call and those billowing bubbles has pulled him into the jagged rocks and now he feels like he’s sinking. Sinking lower than he’s ever sunk before.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

He summons the strength from the mythical beast within and sits up straight. “Ok. I know you have every right to speak your opinion. It’s a free country, right? I mean this isn’t Mongolia.” He kicks back his chair, rises above, and grabs his coffee. “But, I’m gonna walk away now. Because the only thing that should follow that comment is my Chuck Taylors right into your ass. Good day, madam.”

“Are you serious?”

“I said good day!”

He walks towards the exit, heavy hearted and light headed. He remembers that he was tapping his foot to the acid house remix. He hates acid house. What a fool he’s been. She, and those god awful flirtinis, put a spell on him and his power animal has saved him! Saved days, weeks, even years of trouble. He smiles and turns to look back at one of his idols. “Thanks, Henry,” he says under his breath. “Thank you for everything…”

He looks back at the young women and thinks about the friend that took her to see The Hard Charging Unicorn at Largo. He immediately feels connected to this mystery person. Like Vietnam vets fighting in the shit, miles apart, and complete strangers, they have both survived The Acid House Siren of Hollywood…


The batter kicks the dirt one last time and steps into the batter’s box. Sixty feet, six inches away, a pitcher glares in from the shadow of his baseball cap. He gets the sign from the catcher and starts his wind up. The catcher switches his weight to the left and slyly positions his glove on the inside edge of the plate. The pitcher whirls his body and snaps the ball towards home. It flies in at a hundred miles an hour. The batter freezes. The ball snaps into the catcher’s glove. Is it a strike? Was it too inside? Hello?

The catcher looks back to the umpire and says, “Well? Was that a strike?”

The umpire shakes his head and says, “Don’t look at me. I don’t judge things. I’m not a judger.”

“But you’re the fucking Ump. That’s your job. You have to,” demands the catcher.

The umpire puts his hands on his hips and says, “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had the authority to judge me! Is Jesus hiring???”

The catcher looks at the batter, speechless. The batter looks back at the catcher, and then to the Umpire and says, “That was a ball.”

The Ump nods and yells, “Ball One!”


My Lord! Which Way To The Keg?

If you would like to help with my coffee and muffin consumption, check out the “A Little Help?” post here. Thanks!

My Lord! Which Way To The Keg?

There are a lot of Gods.

Let’s see… Depending on your religion, there is God, God, God, and, um, God. You’d think we’d give Gods names. Larry, for instance. Or Billy. I’m sure they have them. I wonder if when they all get together in the neighborhood for BBQ and Kool-Aid, if they have nicknames. In my neighborhood we never used real names. It was always Kermit, Puppet, or Leprecunt. They must do the same, right?


God 1: Hey Hoof-rot. Did you want some potato salad? I made it from scratch.

God 3: Hoof-rot? Ha ha ha! That’s hilarious.

God 1: You need to stop wearing those sandals all the time, Hoof-Rot. I don’t need to stare at your rotting toe nails, and shit.

God 2: You should talk, Freddie Krueger.

God 3: Freddie Krueger? Ha ha ha! Oh shit!

God 2: Those fingernails are disgusting. You probably have potato salad wedged under there from 1382.

God 3: 1382? Snap!

God 2: What are you laughing at, Quasimoto.

God 1: Quasimoto? Ha ha ha!

God 2: Stand up straight, you crooked ass, no spine, lung butter having bitch. Where’s your God? I’d go to the complaint department and file a grievance.


There are a lot of Lords.

There are Drug Lords, War Lords, Time Lords, Traci Lords, Lord Infamous, Lord Somerset, Lord Windsor, Lord Have Mercy… Jesus, this could take a while.

A lord is simply a master of sorts. A ruler. Which, one might think, is something you would aspire to be. But usually men want to be Kings and women want to be Queens and little women want to be princesses. Little men don’t care about this monarchist title business. They either want to be LeBron, who is referred to in the states as “King James.” Or Rupaul, who is world renowned as “THE Drag Queen.” So, maybe I don’t know what I’m talking about.


A man dressed immaculately in black is standing at the pulpit. Black tie, black shoes, white face, black lips, with his arms stretched out to the heavens in praise. “Join me, beautiful people. Join me in a song.” A hundred thousand voices roar in approval. A gathering so impressive, it’s difficult to make out where this massive collection of followers end and the horizon of the day begins.

“Let’s sing a song of praise to the two true lords of this world. The only two lords that matter.” The crowd gets louder. Angrier. Frothing at the collective mouth. “Sing your hearts out for Lord Violent J and Lord Shaggy 2 Dope. You know the words!”

As the DJ scratches the intro, the pit begins to swirl. The man dressed immaculately in black and white face starts to bang his head. Which is odd, because you don’t bang your head to hip hop. You would usually just stand there looking uninterested with a gat in your hand. But not here. This is The Gathering of the Juggalos. And then, suddenly, the beat drops and the hook begins.

“Oh, clown painted face

guide me to the keg

and release my cock from these stockings!…”


Perhaps, most people have no interest in being Lords, but prefer being Lorded over. Followers. Bitches. Which, of course, is a non-gender specific reference. Or is it? Because there are The Cumberbitches. A faction of women, (and men who identify as women), that worship at the alter of Lord Benedict Cumberbatch. Which is ridiculous. Because if there is anyone who should not be a Lord of anybody, its Benedict Cumberbatch. Because he’s a fucking actor. And we all know actors are idiots.

But, it doesn’t stop at actors. No. It seems everybody is getting involved. There’s The Fanilows, The Beliebers, The Christians, The Bronies, The Dickheads, The Cheeseheads, and The Parrotheads, to name just a few. There are a lot of “heads.” You’d think there would be more heads. Like The Jesusheads. Because, let’s face it. Head is great!


A tiny girl sits on her bedroom floor ruling over her collection of dolls. Her father walks up to the entrance of her room and smiles lovingly down at his beautiful creation. “What are you doing, Sweetheart?”

“I’m playing Princess, Daddy. These are my followers.”

The Father chuckles lightly and says, “Your followers? That sounds interesting. Can I play too?”

“Of course, Daddy,” she coos. She pats the floor next to her. “Sit down right here. I’ll show you how to play.”

“Cool.” The Father sits next to his beloved daughter and grabs one of the dolls. “So, what do I do?” he asks.

“Ok, Daddy. This is what you do. You see, that doll is the housemaid.”

“The Housemaid?”

“Yeah. And because we are very hungry. We are always hungry, Daddy. We can command her to feed us.”

“Command her?”

“Yes, Daddy. You don’t seem to be following. I’m the princess. Here, I’ll show you.”

The tiny girl grabs the doll from her daddy and backhands her across the head. “What the hell are you looking at, peon!? Get the hell outta of here and go make me a sandwich, bitch! And no mustard this time or I’ll kill your whole family!”

The Father, speechless, looks down at his abomination of God. The tiny girl giggles. “Like that, Daddy.”


This Lordy Lord business fells a bit like Rule 34. Which is defined as such:

“Pornographic or sexually related material exists for any conceivable subject.”

Which is either shockingly true, or shruggingly true. It depends on your level of depravity. I’ve seen artwork that depicts Lilo getting double teamed by Gantu and Dr. Hamsterviel while Stitch is beating off in the corner. I’ve seen Macaulay Culkin and his iconic Home Alone face photoshopped onto the butt cheeks of a man with a prolapsed anus. I’ve seen a cartoon based on fan fiction where Shrek anally rapes one of his beloved followers. The victim says he loves it. It’s kind of confusing, but beautiful.

So, if you could be The Lord of the Rings or The Lord of The Flies or The Lord of the Damned, you could surely be The Lord of the Poop. The Lord of the Unicorns. The Lord of The Cum Stained Family Sheets of Yesterday. It really doesn’t matter. If you can think of it, you can “Lord” it. It is only limited by your twisted imagination.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I will Lord over a bucket of whiskey. And maybe a doughnut. Why not.

“Come here, Jeeves! And bring my ladle!”