Wednesday, November 28, 2018

Mama, Why You Take Me Grapes?


Mama, why you take me grapes? Me grapes a treat. Oftentimes, me grapes are eaten several times throughout the day. If Mama take me grapes, how will I have grapes to eat? That is why I ask the question, Mama. That is why I must know.

If Mama take me grapes, then what will Mama take next? Me cereal? Me milk? Me precious fishies? Mama must learn that particular foods in the house belong to Baby and Baby has dibs. If you want to take me grapes, for example, you must first ask. "Please, Baby, can Mama take me grapes to work?" Wasn't so hard, was it, Mama? It's just basic courtesy to ask before one takes.

Sure, I may take liberally from one's own plate. I may stretch my arm across your dinner to select the choicest bits. Such is my prerogative, being a little more than two and a half years old. Hell, when I'm done eating, half of the time I flip my dish in the air and hurl my spoon at the closest bystander. So I recognize the contradiction, believe you me. But keep your hands off me grapes, Mama, if you know what is good for you.

Do you realize that I could get up, not at one, not at three, but at five in the morning and join you in the communal bed? Mama, I try to take the greatest care not to interrupt your sleeping patterns. Such courtesy could disappear, if you know what I'm saying. I could be plagued by night-terrors or restless feet. You could feel my little toe claws digging into your backside a mere hour before you need to rise. Also, I could moan for water in the middle of the night, although that affects Daddy more than you. But I could think of something, Mama. I would do it for me grapes.

Baby don't understand why Mama need to take whole pack of me grapes to work. That seems excessive, Mama. Even Baby don't eat that many grapes. Baby want grapes. Baby love grapes. But Baby don't take whole package of grapes to Nana's, do he, Mama?

Baby don't want Mama to start a precedent. Keep them hands off me grapes, Mama. I won't tell you again.

Thursday, November 22, 2018

Happy Bulksgiving


The bestest of holidays is upon us. It is the bulking season, the time to make merry and stuff your gullet with as much turkey as possible. The goal is to make out like John Candy at a Ponderosa or Kobeyashi at a hotdog eating contest. The only thing standing between you and gaining weight is that plate of stuffing sitting in the middle of the table. Do you want to be defeated by a plate of stuffing? Stuffing cannot defeat a man; a man defeats himself. Pile on the potatoes, the cranberries, the green bean casserole. Eat as many pieces of pie post-dinner as possible. Several hours later, when you've awoken from your after-dinner lethargy, get yourself another plate. And another. And another. If you're not kept awake at night from terrible stomach-cramping or petulant gas erupting unannounced from your anus, you're not doing this holiday right. When you step on the scale the next morning, you want to see the numbers flying like a computer glitch.

But you're an old pro at this. You've been to Bulksgiving before. This ain't your first rodeo. You ain't no chump.

Perhaps you're asking yourself why? Why such madness every year? Why the gluttony, the needless pain and suffering? I don't want to eat that much I hear you saying. All that excess food is going to turn to fat.

If you're asking yourself such questions, I want you to shut up and shove a turkey leg down your throat. Bulksgiving is not about rational thinking. It's not about health or having a good time. Bulksgiving is a bacchanal on par with the finest orgies of the Roman empire. It's a descendant of Caligula and his Animal House ways. It's a hotdog eating contest without the nasty pieces of processed meat. It's a celebration of the human spirit, of man's unconquerable will. It's about setting a goal and then beating the shit out of that goal until it's black, bruised, and limping. Bulksgiving makes no goddamn sense, and it never will.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone! 

Tuesday, November 20, 2018

Weightlifting: Training for Size and Strength

Size, but not strength.

Inspired by Jim Wendler's Building the Monolith program, I've come up with a more sustainable (in my humble opinion) option for long-term growth and progress. My program's not as difficult as Wendler's, but it's more manageable, and I plan on using it for quite some time. My bodyweight has increased from 196-197 to 200-201 in little over a month, and I haven't become much fatter (my pants still fit). Behold:

Sunday: Squat day. Use a training max (90 percent of your 1 rep max).
Squat variation 40 percent for 5, 60*5, 65*5, 70*5, 75*5. Next week add ten pounds to top set.

Backoff sets: 65 percent for 5 sets of 5. Add five pounds each week.
Assistance: calf raises, 5*20.


Tuesday: Bench day. Just like the squat, do five ascending sets of five. Every week you increase the top set by ten pounds. Increase the backoff sets by five. For example:

Bench Press 155*5, 185*5, 195*5, 205*5, 215*5. Backoff sets: 185*5*5.
Assistance: Rowing variation for 5 sets of 10-15 reps. Lateral raises for 5 sets of 10.


Thursday: Medium Squat/Deadlift day.
Squat five sets of five ascending. Push the top set by ten each week. These percentages should be a little lighter than Sunday's workout, e.g., 40*5, 50*5, 55*5, 60*5, 65*5

Deadlift 5*5 ascending. Add ten pounds to top set each week.
Assistance: Barbell curls 5*10-12 reps. Pressdowns 5*10-12 reps.


Saturday: Medium Bench/Press day.
Just like the second squat workout, do five sets of five ascending for the bench press, but make your sets a little lighter than on Tuesday. After benching, do five sets of five in the military press. Superset all pressing sets with chin ups. Try to increase your chin up reps each week. I started out doing ten sets of five, and now I'm doing ten sets of seven. The goal is ten sets of ten.


Keep adding weight for six weeks, then try a new variation. If you were doing low bar squats, do the next cycle with high bar squats. Switch between the close grip and wide grip bench press, and the conventional and sumo deadlift. For the military press, you could try incline presses or behind the neck presses, but personally, I'd just keep at the military, because those other variations kill my shoulders. The percentages are just a guideline, I never figure them out. The important thing is to keep increasing that top set and the backoff sets.

Monday, November 19, 2018

Pointless Venture's Rules for Writing

 This post was inspired by Jonathan Franzen, who is really terrible at writing sex scenes.

Rule #1. Steal a bunch of stuff from writers better than you. Also known as the Oscar Wilde rule. There's a difference between plagiarism and inspiration. The former is when you take something and don't put a new spin on it. The latter is when you use elements from another author's writing and try something new with the theme or idea you've cribbed. For instance, this website was inspired by Somethingawful.com, however, I don't actually post articles from Something awful, nor are my own posts based off of their writers' compositions. This is, of course, painfully obvious stuff, but this is a painfully obvious blog.

Rule #2. Pick a project and stick to it. Switching projects is how you never get one finished. I've been writing my fantasy novel The Heart of the Thief for three years now, and I've often considered ditching it and working on something else. After an extensive rewrite, I'm almost finished, and I'm glad I stuck with it, however it turns out. If you've put a lot of time into a project, you might as well see it through. Authors are not the best judges of their own work--Stephen King tossed Carrie in the trash. Had his wife not pulled it out, we might have been deprived of Sleepwalkers which would be a real cinema sin.

Rule #3. Write for yourself first. Write about what you want to write about. If that's centaur porn, then keep at it. For a while I wanted to be a "serious" writer, you know, like Jonathan Franzen up there. So what I read was mostly literature and what I wrote had literary ambitions. I set those ambitions aside when I started writing fantasy (not that fantasy can't be literature; I've tried to make the Heart of the Thief fall into that category), and since then I've read an awful lot of sci-fi and fantasy. In fact, I've read more books this year than in any other year of my life. I'm not saying you shouldn't ponder through The Brothers Karamazov; the classics have their place. But if you want to read about dragons, spaceships, and the apocalypse, then go ahead. What you read will influence your writing. Better make it good stuff so you'll have better material to steal.

Rule #4. Try to write everyday. I try to write about a page everyday. I used to write quite a bit more; that was before I had a child. Back then, I'd drink about three beers and write for two hours. Now I don't have that kind of time, and I don't drink during the week (lame). Today I write after my boy goes to bed. I usually write for about thirty minutes to an hour. I might not get a lot written every day, but it adds up (to a lot of time wasted!).

Rule #5. Reread and Revise. Before you start writing, read what you wrote yesterday. I guarantee you'll catch a couple grammatical errors as well as some ugly sentences, and you'll be better able to integrate what you're writing today with what you've constructed in the past. When you're finished with a work, don't assume it's done just because it's grammatically sound. Plot structures need revision, as do characters. I've never been a big reviser, but working on The Heart of the Thief for so long has made me realize the failure of my other projects to be published was likely due to my not revising much (as well as the strangeness of some of my plots/subject matter. Goddamn gophers.). Polish that piece to a sheen. Unfortunately I don't have the time to do that with my blog posts. Hah.

Thursday, November 15, 2018

Help! A Tyrone Took My Stacy and Now I'm Afraid I Might Be a Beta-Male Cuck


Look, bear with me, people. I'm learning the lingo, so I might get a few terms confused. The collective genius of the internet has reveal to me that I might in fact be a Beta-Male cuck. I should be thankful, apparently, because at least I'm not a virgin, because if I was, I'd be one for life. Let me explain my situation, and you be the judge.

My wife, who is a nine out of ten Stacy, has been making a cuck out of me for a while. While I'm keeping the house safe by playing hours and hours of Destiny 2, she's out there looking for a nice Chad to take my place. I give this Stacy years of my life and produce two children, and what thanks do I get? She leaves me for not a Chad, but a Tyrone! This Tyrone, whose name is actually Tyrone, is a personal trainer who owns his own business. Pretty soon my children are going to be calling him Dad and I'll be regulated to the literal doghouse, since my wife pays most of the mortgage. I don't know what the fuck to do. I guess I ought to just give up on life, because I'm currently jobless, and there's no way I can obtain a new Stacy without a decent amount of income. Hello, Reddit. I'm ready to take the Red Pill and have my eyes opened.

Okay, so Reddit is in disagreement about what options I have. The Incels think that I just got lucky and that I can never get laid again, whereas the Pickup Artists say I need to make myself into the most manly man that ever manned. I posted a picture on the Incel thread and they said my jawline was too soft, and that I'll never be a Chad. The Pickup guys said that I just need to change my shirt and start acting like Marky-Mark circa 1990 and I'll be drowning in poon. What the hell am I going to do? The part of me that's depressed wants to wallow in the mud like a wounded buffalo, and the Incels are good company for that. But they will never accept me because I once possessed a Stacy. Therefore, I need to turn myself into a Chad but that's more effort than I'm willing to put forth right now. Jesus, when did the world become so complicated?

I saw my Stacy yesterday with her Tyrone. They were sitting at a coffee shop staring at their phones. My ex-Stacy kept posing for Instagram shots. Tyrone was flexing his muscles and scanning around the shop, looking for another Stacy to add to his harem. I had to leave eventually because the garbage can I was hiding behind tipped over, and everyone starting pointing and laughing because there I was, a Beta-Male cuck, covered in garbage, exposed. I went back home and looked on the internet for more guidance.

Sometimes I think that maybe it was my fault that my wife left me. Perhaps my constant video game playing and refusal to find another job alienated her, and she did what she had to do. When I think like this, Reddit always sets me straight. There are Chads and Stacys, Incels and Beta-Male cucks. There is no choice in the matter. Our statuses are set in stone.

Fuck you, Tyrone. You goddamn handsome bastard. 

Friday, November 9, 2018

A Stupid Fable



Baboon and Bird sat together, watching the Council of Animals debate. Hyena was braying loudly, his voice bombastic, his arguments nonsensical. About thirty percent of the animals listened raptly; an equal number hooted and screamed obscenities, their anger barely contained; another sizable percentage simply stared at the ground with dull, dumb expressions. Baboon snorted and scratched his red ass, which was inflamed. Bird squawked and leaned in conspiratorially toward Baboon. He knew the monkey wanted to say something quietly.

"Hyena is making good sense tonight. I think we should wage war against the trees," Baboon said.

"You cannot make war against the trees. The trees are even dumber than the animals," replied Bird.

"It would be nice to take down the sky as well," said Baboon. "It's a little too high for its own good."

"Are you listening to yourself? How are you going to take down the sky? You are a monkey. The only things you can do are eat, shit, and scratch your ass."

"When Hyena speaks, something clicks in my brain. The confusing noise makes sense. Things become simple. Black and white. Good and evil."

"Hyena is a demagogue. He kindles the anger of the animals against weak or impossible targets. Notice how he's always eager to make war? What is the result of these wars? They are a waste of time. I grow tired of listening to him speak. Eventually, the animals will make war against each other because of Hyena," said Bird. He ruffled his feathers and picked at a louse that was visible under his wing.

"Bird is too smart for his own good," replied Baboon. "Animals do not need to be smart. For animals, there is no contemplation. We act, guided by instinct. This is why Hyena guides us."

"He is the embodiment of the id," said Bird. "You are correct. Perhaps this whole Council was a bad idea. The animals are not fit to govern themselves."

"Now you're thinking like Hyena. He has been saying that the Council should be dissolved for some time."

The two animals paused their discussion to watch a new development. Lion had broken from the circle and walked up to Hyena, roaring and baring his teeth. Hyena cowered but made terrible noises in the back of his throat. Soon the animals were choosing sides, though there were some that still stared at the ground and chewed their cud.

"Well, we must choose sides. I hope that I will not have to eat you," said Baboon to Bird.

Bird gave him a side glance and flew into the sky. He smelled smoke and his keen eyes saw a fire rushing toward the animals, burning down the savanna. The fire had been burning for a long time, but even the animals that knew about it had ignored the blaze, preferring to argue with Hyena's faction. Hyena said that there was no fire, and that even if there was, it would never reach them. He said it would burn down the trees and therefore release the animals from making war on them. Bird had no rebuttal for this argument. He decided that he would try to get away from the animals and the fire. He flew for a long time, but the smoke thickened in every direction, and eventually he had to land on a blackened stump, a small distance away from where he had started. From that vantage point, he watched as the rest of the animals were engulfed in flames.  

Saturday, November 3, 2018

On Gettting Old

You thought your ass would age like fine wine... but now you look like the Undertaker.

Look at you, you old man. You thought you could handle three craft beers, but now it's morning and you feel as though someone dragged your guts behind a truck for several miles. Drink some coffee, elder millennial. Hydrate and pretend it's working. Slump in your chair behind the computer screen for some quality time with the old PC. Notice how your brain is sluggishly crawling over words like a wounded snail? It won't be long before you start forgetting stuff, like people's names or where you put the goddamn keys. "It's always been like that," you say. Fine, make excuses. The truth is, your getting old.

Happens to the best of us, you know. Look at that picture of the Undertaker at the top of this post. He's fifty years old. Of course, for most of those fifty years he's been in a wrestling ring, which equates to like one-hundred and fifty years worth of wear, but still, you have to admit that it's depressing watching him move at this point. Your joints might be fine, hell, you may even been in fine shape, yet you and I know that your recovery is compromised at this point. You can't push yourself like you used to do. You probably have already subconsciously stopped doing so but you haven't realized it until now.

"So what?" you say. Bodies are flesh and blood. Are we supposed to mourn our youth like the death of a loved one? What is so great about youth in the first place? When I was young, I was dumb as a load of bricks. I was a mess of hormones and anxiety, and I couldn't talk to a stranger without fumbling my hands around in the air. Look at the decisions I made, and tell me that I should want that version of myself back. Behold the amount of wisdom that I have accrued, and marvel at my modified decision making processes. The fruits of age and experience, right?

It's a hard argument to make when you're still hung over in the middle of the day, your stomach writhing around like a struck snake. The bad thing is that when you are thirty, you're just starting to notice that some pieces of you are not functioning optimally. You're just experiencing a taste of how it's going to be, and that horror makes it worse.

Keep on climbing into the ring, Undertaker. Keep working for that pay day. Your pectorals have disappeared and your skin has the tone and texture of sun-dried leather, but still you trot out the black leather coat, the wide-brimmed, hat, and the gravelly voice. You hope that the memory we have of you will somehow supersede our current perception. You are counting on the great power of nostalgia.

I want to end this with some sort of message, but all I can think of is that nostalgia is overrated, and that my stomach aches with the strain of processing half-digested beer. Maybe there is no message, just random speculation masquerading as an essay. You've read the title on the top of this blog, no? Read it again, if you will.

Thursday, November 1, 2018

Spooky Things to Do the Day after Halloween


Halloween is a spooky day and there's often not enough time to do all the spooky things that you want to do. So here's a list of a bunch of spooky things you can do the next day. I swear, November 1st is almost as spooky as Halloween. Trust me. I know spooky.

1. Put out the Halloween candy you forgot to put out, but this time for the raccoons.

2. Wear the remnants of your costume in your living room, naked, while you eat whatever candy the raccoons left.

3. Watch a spooky movie like Twins or Robocop.

4. Scour your hard drive for a spooky game and then never get around to installing it.

5. Read H.P. Lovecraft and then wonder why he had to be so goddamn racist.

6. Spend the day checking the polls at Five Thirty Eight for mathematical reassurance that the 2018 election will not suck as much as the 2016 election.

7. Eat a bunch of eggs that you painted orange.

8. Take a wad of candy corn and toss it in the middle of the road and watch it for as long as it gives you pleasure.

9. Read a Harry Potter book and wonder why nobody ever strangled Ron.

10. Grab a guitar and play a spooky song, like Thriller or Monster Mash.

11. Try futilely to remember the name of that monster-themed side-scroller that you played as a child, the one that came in the shareware collection that also featured the skiing game with the abominable snowman and Commander Keen.

12. Contemplate whether Bulksgiving is a better holiday than Halloween.

13. Watch an episode of Sesame Street and debate whether Elmo will grow fangs and claws like most monsters.

14. Spend an hour on the toilet trying to clear the blockage in your intestines due to excessive Halloween candy consumption.

15. Dress your dog up as a bat and then laugh at said dog.

16. Try to think of the last time you approached a holiday with the pure, unadulterated joy of a child.

17. Watch that one Stephen King adaptation about cat aliens. You know the one. Once you've seen it, you can't unsee it.

18. Put a pumpkin in the road and watch how long it takes someone to hit it.

19. Make a special Halloween punch of orange juice, chocolate, candy corn, and Jameson. It takes so bad that it's spooky!

20. Write a shitty blog post on your shitty blog and then laugh about how damn funny you are.

New Music: Firefly

  A twelve-year old song that I wrote in Cincinnati. I don't believe it was ever played live, which is a shame, since it's a nice li...