Hanging with the Goon

I found dis here photo on teh inteweb, not sure if it is Uncle Thom after New Years or Nick Nolte.

Greetins and salutations, all you intenet trolls! Dis is teh Goon and I'm here to bring well wishes and sieg heels from teh basket full of deplorables, aka teh wilderness folks. When I last talked to yas, I was bringing up all teh good points fer voting fer teh two candidates, Hellery Clinton, and Supreme Leader Trump. Welp, I ended up making a choice! I voted fer Mr. Trump 'cause he's fer white folks and I don't know no colored people 'cept Snup Dog and Hernando, and teh latter is really an alien from Venus or some place, which explains why he don't know nothin' bout Cinco Dey Mio or any of them udder Mexican holidays. Lest you think that teh Goon is racist, lemme ask yu somethin: Is it racist to be fer ur own particular brand of person? I liek to think taht it ain't, 'cause how can yu be racist against ur own mudder and fadder? I'm sorry, i think I lost myself somewhere out there in teh great blu yonder. I was tryin to repeat somethin Uncle Thom told me, but like most of his gibberish, it went out one ear an into another. It was Uncle Thomm who convinced me taht Hellery was truly teh devil, because she murder some guy named BenGayZee and stole all teh emails in teh world. Also, Uncle Thom said she was a woman an' he ain't know no woman taht could ever operate anything more complicated tehh a toster oven, though usually when he has a woman, he puts her in teh pit till she's good and ready, so I don't think he's really using much of a sample size. Plus, Sumpreme Leader Trump said he was going to give all teh white people teh Meixcans jobs but with better wages and tickets to teh Toby Keith concert. I told Thom he could have my tickets. I think Toby Keith ain't worth a bag of penises.

So now taht Trump is Supreme Leader, I suppose taht makes us teh evil Empire like in Star Wars. I tell ya, I am really lookin forward to becoming a Stormtruppen an havin a blaster rifle. I just hopes it hits something, 'cause in teh movies tehy couldn't hit teh broad side of a barn. I would also kinda liek to be a jedi but I guess I can't because teh jedi are all extinct or something. I talked to Hernando 'bout it an he said taht when his people come in teh space ship, tehy'll beem me up and make me a Force wizard an give me all teh candy in teh world. I said "alright," 'cause I really don't have nothing better to do but watch teh world burn.

Thares been a lot of negitivity in 2016. I hope teh Supreme Leader helps us get over it. Sometimes I have dreams where I'm a giant baby held in captivity. I has orange hair and a poopy diaper and I smell something awful. I wunder what it all means. I wunder what any of it means. Here's to 2017. Let's hope teh rebels don't blow up teh death star an get us all killed.

The Hillsdale Paranormal Society's Guide to Avoiding Troll Beasts

One way you can tell a troll beast is from the way they flaunt their stolen human skin.

Howdy dudes and dudettes, we're approaching the new year and Christmas is past, which means we're still in peak troll beast season, FYI. For those not in the know, a troll beast is a creature masquerading as a human through the use of a stolen human skin. Pretty gnarly, right? Most people encounter troll beasts every day, yet they don't know it. For all of you nascent monster hunters out there, however, it's pretty easy to detect one if you know what you're looking for. The Hillsdale Paranormal Society has your back, as always, and me and my boy Trent quickly hammered together this guide so that you all don't get assaulted and flayed by a pack of hangry troll monsters when you're trying to return all those pairs of underwear your uncle Larry bought you, the freak.

Numero Uno) Avoid Walmart. Really, this one should be on any person's life guide, 'cause Walmart is a breeding ground for troll beasts and denizens of the night. I've met a couple vampires there, but they were the Hot Topic kind of vamps, which are super-lame, for whatever that's worth. Troll beasts don't understand how to eat like a human, so they frequent big department stores to stock up on things they think humans eat, like boxes of pop tarts and toilet paper. You can always tell a troll beast by what they've placed in their shopping cart. If it's full of ten bags of cheese wiz and an equal amount of tampons, you know you got a live one. Usually they try to get your attention by grabbing your arm and asking for a price check, like you work there. I recommend a full punch to the face, focusing on their teeth. Trolls don't have many teeth, and they're strangely protective of the ones they have, so if you manage to knock a chomper or two loose, they should loosen their grip enough for you to make like Marky-Mark back in his Boston gang days when he was assaulting random Vietnamese dudes and get the hell outta there.

Numero Dos) Watch out for amorphous creatures. Like, I'm not digging on fat people, but if you have a suspicious excess of adipose tissue, like, so much so that you're dragging around your muffin top in a wheelbarrow, then you might be a troll beast. Human skin is elastic, and once separated from the flesh becomes rather stretchy. Troll beasts in general tend to be lumpy and over-fed, so when they stuff themselves into their stolen human skin, they kinda stick out like Donald Trump in a room full of classy people.

Numero Tres) Be aware of their political affiliation. Troll beasts tend to vote conservative, because most Republican policies weaken the lower classes and make them vulnerable to predation by troll beasts. If you're in a northern state and you see someone sporting a confederate flag on their shirt, then you should automatically be suspicious, not just of said creature being a troll beast, but of that person being a dumbass, because they definitely are. This goes double for Trump supporters, which are almost entirely made up of troll beasts, because Donald Trump is the troll God. So like, don't let him in your house or nothing, even if he is the President. Dude's also half-Reptilian, so that's like another reason.

Numero Quatro) Avoid the local utilities department. Like, I know I had something better for number four, but I had to pay my water bill the other day, and lo and behold, the place was full of troll beasts! There must be some kind of conspiracy or something. From now on, I'm mailing in my bill (if I pay it, that is!).

Happy new year, bros, and watch out for troll beasts and leshens, and try to stay remotely classy, like Marky-Mark and John Cena. Peace.

I think this is just a crazy person, but it could be a troll beast.

The Esteemed Critic Chooses Five Songs to Describe 2016

The President Elect likes his baby meat rare, I hear.

Another year has gone and passed, and we all had quite a terrible time of it, I must say. In addition to the loss of musical geniuses Prince and David Bowie, the United States of America elected noted cretin and professional bore Donald Trump to the highest office in the land. It is ironic to the Critic that the political party that is always complaining about the decline of Western civilization threw its ideals to the wind and boarded the Trump train, but what place has irony in politics? What place do reason and thoughtful discourse have in this brave new world? One has to wonder what will happen to art, true art, that is, the kind of art that I have long been a purveyor of, as opposed to the consumerist detritus most of the country consumes. There is little money in true art, and money has been voted to the top of the political food chain. No one will be paid except for those who have plenty, but I suppose if we are not all annihilated during the course of the next four years, some notable art will be produced.

To celebrate the conclusion of this awful year, the Critic has decided to pick five songs that describe what it was like to live through 2016. You all are forewarned: do not listen to these songs in a row unless you wish to accelerate the creeping ennui you feel. Please remove all sharp objects and firearms from your vicinity before enduring the gauntlet I have prepared. The Critic bears no responsibility for lives lost while reading his work. With that being said, let us commence with our baleful task.

Song #1) Limp Bizkit's Nookie

Do you remember what it was like to be teenage boy during the new millennium? This song brings back the awfulness of the Critic's adolescence. In this choosing, Fred Durst represents the angry white male, who in the blindness of his anger, supported an unskilled demagogue out of a misguided assumption that said demagogue would to something to alleviate his pain. They did it all for the nookie, America, so we can take that cookie and shove it up our asses! Unfortunately for them, the Cheeto in Chef enjoys shoving cookies up everyone's anuses. Prince told us what it sounded like when doves cry. Limp Bizkit lets us know what it sounds like when a hemorrhoid bursts.

Song #2) Trace Adkins' Honky Tonk Badonkadonk

I can see you now, gentle reader, saying to yourself "aw, shucks, that ol' Critic just don't like to have any fun!" How perceptive of you, reader. I truly loathe "fun," but if "Honky Tonk Badonkadonk" is one's idea of a good time, then perhaps you should get someone to drive you to the mental health ward where they will determine in no uncertain terms what exactly is wrong with you. This song represents the uneducated masses who are barely sentient enough to tie their own shoes, let alone pay attention to politics.

Song #3) The Black Eyed Peas My Humps

"My humps! My humps! My lovely lady lumps!" If our President Elect were not so scared of black people, I could see his liking this song. Of course, when the detention camps are founded, will.i.am and his bandmates will be among the first to be committed. Small justice, that. My Humps represents the glorification of petty vices.

Song #4) Taylor Swift Shake It off

The Critic would like to know when Taylor Swift became an institution. Every single song she has ever written is about a goddamn high school romance or break up. I know it is pedantic of me to critique a pop musician for writing about relationships, but for Christ's sake, give it a rest, girl. I challenge anyone to tell me why this song was a hit. It has little melody, and the chorus is repetitive, incoherent drivel. The Ryan Adams cover was even worse, but I chose to mitigate your horror. You are welcome. The Critic chose this song for its mediocrity, because "mediocre" is my word of the year for 2016.

Song #5) Ween's You Fucked Up

Okay, the Critic takes it back. He actually kind of likes this song. 2016 was a fuck up. It was a stopgap on the road of human progress, a bellwether toward reactionary revisionism. We do not need anymore of 2016. Hope springs eternal, eh? 

Weightlifting: Overhead Pressing 200 lbs

Olympic weightlifter Bill March strict pressing over 300 lbs.

Since bench pressing became too painful due to a partially-torn labrum, the overhead press has become my main upper body lift. Hitting bodyweight has still eluded me, however; my best strict press is 190 at 205. I'm currently weighing in around 193-195, and my press is somewhere back in the neighborhood of 185-190, so I'm reasonably close to a bodyweight press. There seems to be no magic formula for strict pressing, other than a decent amount of volume and a commitment to form. My current program, which I believe will net me a 200 lbs press very soon, is below.

 

Sunday: Overhead Press--115*5, 135*5, 145*5, 155*3-5, 165*1-3, heavy single (175, 180)

 

Dumbbell rows for 3 sets, high reps.

 

Thursday: Overhead Press--115*5, 135*5, 145*5, 155*5, 160*5

 

Some sort of arm work, usually for high reps.

 

All of these presses are done out of the rack, yet I think it's beneficial to switch it up with clean and presses on occasion. I've found you can't press quite as much after cleaning, but the increased difficulty of the start position helps when you return to pressing out of the rack. Making sure your lats are tight and your arms are tense definitely aids your pressing when attempting heavy weights. As far as recommending assistance exercises, the push-press isn't bad to add on occasion at the end of a workout. I'll add five pounds to whatever my last set was, and bust out a couple sets of 3. With the push press, you want to make sure your legs are just aiding the initial movement of the barbell; otherwise, it becomes more of an accessory lift for the jerk than the strict press. Back when I benched, I thought the two lifts were intertwined, for when one increased, the other would as well. I've found that dips and triceps extensions resulted in elbow pain, though my elbows suck. Thus ends my pressing recommendations.

What They Found After Draining the Swamp

1. Ted Cruz's original form, sans skin (no one returned alive).

2. Several alligators.

3. A voodoo cult, whatever the hell that is.

4. George Washington's wooden dentures.

5. One of Trump's horacruxes (a printout of several years' worth of Tweets that must be destroyed with the tooth of a basilisk).

6. Paul Ryan's stinky running shoes, along with a rotten poster of Ayn Rand that his wife made him throw out.

7. The remnants of Mitch McConell's chin.

8. Piles of poo-poo.

9. Rum-Tum-Tugger.

10. The massive spider that controls the Republican Party through a mix of mind control and sweet, sweet web-milk (web-milk is the most delicious of all the milks).

11. Toby McGuire's career.

12. The Constitution of the United States (thanks Obama!).

13. Trump's tax returns.

14. The hidden gold stash of the Dread Pirate Roberts.

15. The original, unedited version of the Star Wars trilogy.

16. The souls of all who run for political office in Washington, kept in iron chests for safe keeping and future retrieval.

17. Clouds of swamp gas obfuscating a downed UFO.

18. A whole lost season of the X-Files.

19. More stinky poo-poo.

20. The sick, rotten heart of America.

21. Emails, oh so many freaking lost emails.

22. A pair of fake hands for President-elect Trump.

23. More sadness than you can possibly believe.

What I Want for Christmas

It's that time again! Time to celebrate a now secular but once Christian holiday shoe-horned on the 25th to replace pagan festivals that were probably a lot of fun (but too much fun for Christians). Let's get into the spirit of commercialism by listing all the shit we want people to buy for us. This is my blog, so I'll go first.

Gift #1 (stocking stuffer) A Justin Beaver. This adorable little rodent makes dams out of garbage and gnaws on your eardrums while you sleep. To be honest, I just want one so that I can kill it.

Where to buy--No clue, but you can probably find one down by the river if you smoke enough meth.

Gift #2 A new President. Hey, the joke's on me! Everyone's getting a new President come January! Unfortunately, it's Donald Trump. The high point of his administration will probably be Twitter finally mustering up enough balls to ban him from their terrible service. The low point will inevitably be when we all perish in a nuclear apocalypse. So yeah, can we re-gift this maniac? Is there some small Slavic country that needs a new fascist dictator?

Where to buy--ask either Russia or the God that surely does not exist (otherwise we wouldn't have Donald Trump as President).

Gift #3 Tables, Ladders, and Bears. Look, the tables, ladders, and chairs format is tired. We need to spice it up for a new generation. Vince McMahon views wrestlers as disposable commodities. Lets add some bears in the mix. I know Big Show wants to go out in the death grip of a grizzly bear. Make it happen, WWE. This is Trump's America.

Where to buy--WWE Network (It's just 9.99!)

Gift #4 Dishonored 2. I mean, if you really want to get me something, I really dug the first one.

Where to buy--the Internet.

Writer's Block: The Sandwich

The Sandwich

What is left

In this burned-out bungalow

But scattered crumbs

Tracing a trail

Leading from my room to yours.


I had it once;

Once there was something

I held it in my hands

The impalpable made tangible

A flame lit by the invisible rays of the sun.


You can't start a fire

To save your life.

Similarly, I can't find anything to eat

But a moldy disease someone left

Festering in the corner of your room.


Jesus, take this thing

Divide it amongst the people

Let it nourish and sate

Their terrible, ravenous hunger

And then leave.


Honestly, I don't deserve

The sandwich.

You do; I give credit

Where it is due.

Hallelujah.

Writer's Block: 2016

2016

Quiet

The silent sounds that sink slowly

The sober songs that stick around

Outside

A beating lasts in perpetual motion

The mugger rank and reeking of privilege

So what?

The corpulent creature relaxes

Content with its sagging tumescence

Death, you see

Gives it a boner.

I have nothing

My hands, you see, are empty

Yet scars, you see, are still there

Seeing is not believing

You can watch a murder and trust in death

You can burn a village and dust in ash

You can eat your neighbor

And keep rhythm with his bones.

I can’t see what you see

You cannot feel what I feel

Hate is what it spews

Pouring out in wet, hot spurts.

You can’t kill a disease

But you can try.

Weightlifting: Box Squatting

Box squats are an exercise a lot of people have written off as useful only for geared powerlifters. Lifters who compete in squat suits have to fight against the elastic tension of the suit as they descend; they have to learn to sit back and use the stored energy of the suit for the ascent. Raw lifters don't have much to gain from box squats, since the movement removes the stretch reflex (the bounce out of the hole, so to speak). I agree that having a big box squat does not mean you'll be able to squat the same amount of weight without that box under your ass. However, if you don't care about your competition squat (and let's be honest: most people shouldn't) the box squat allows some advantages over the raw squat.

First, you can control how deep you descend. Deep squats can be very hard on your hips--for years I've done deep squats, and I've developed a hip issue on my left side where my hip cracks and pops painfully after working out. After stopping deep squats and replacing them with squats to a high bench, my hip pain has been greatly mitigated. Most of the great lifters in weightlifting and powerlifting eventually had hip surgery, including Ed Coan and John Grimek. If you're not chasing a world record, maybe you shouldn't go deep.

Second, deep squats really work the glutes and hip flexors more than the quads. If you're trying to build strong legs, squatting from a high box will really stress those muscles, in my experience. I do my squats to a high bench, with the bar in the high position. I keep tension in the muscles as I descend. When I touch the bench, I pause for about a second before pushing with the legs to lock out the weight.

You could just do half and quarter squats without the bench, however, I do think there are benefits to touching the box. If you favor one side when you squat, lowering to a box and then pushing off evenly with both legs is easier. Of course, hitting the depth that you want is also easier with a box under your ass.

In conclusion, I'd try box squats if you're having hip issues. At some point, you have to consider your general health. Weightlifting is fun, but you can't keep doing an exercise that's causing you pain and furthering the degeneration of a chronic issue. I ditched the bench press earlier this year because I couldn't press without pain. Now I've done the same to deep squats.

Voices of the People: Meet the Deplorables

Pointless Venture was just as surprised as everyone else that America chose to elect Donald Trump President of the United States. Clearly all those polls were full of shit! We took to the streets to meet people who voted for Trump and have them explain their reasoning.

Deplorable #1: Brent Atkins

Age: 26

Employer: BorgWarner

Hobbies: Waving Confederate flags, removing mufflers, masturbating over diesel engines, cheating on his girlfriend with high schoolers.

Reason for voting for Trump: "Goddamn 'merica is a mess and our small towns are dying. Whose gonna do something for us young white dudes? Donald Trump, that's who. Also never much liked Mexicans or getting consent 'fore I grabbed a chick by her pussy. Speaking of which, my girlfriend's liberal POS brother said it was ironic that I thought a New York billionaire would be compelled to fight for the working class. I told 'em that Trump was gonna drain the swamp, and then I kicked 'em in the face."

Deplorable #2: Candice Lawrence.

Age: 35

Employer: Stay at home mom.

Hobbies: Gradually letting herself go, keeping the kids busy with video games, desperately trying to make husband love her again.

Reason for voting for Trump: "I don't involve myself in politics that much, but all the ladies in my book club love Ivanka, and her clothing line is just fabulous! I once stayed at Trump International Hotel back when my husband used to take me on business trips, and it was the definition of luxury. Also, I'm a little scared of black people, and I hear he's not too big on them, in general."

Deplorable #3: Anita Dooger

Age: 40

Employer: In His Holy Fire church

Hobbies: Producing offspring, reinforcing the patriarchy by being submissive, visiting Walmart.

Reason for voting for Trump: "I always vote Republican because abortion is a crime against God, and I believe President Trump will repeal Roe versus Wade. The President can do that, right? My pastor told me that Obama and Hillary were demons sent by the Antichrist to drown America in sin.  Plus there are too many homosexuals about! What happened to traditional American values? It is very hurtful to be labeled a bigot. One day all the homos and unwed mothers will perish in a torrent of hellfire, and the faithful will rejoice!"

Deplorable #4: Bretfart1942

Age: 22

Employer: Community college dining hall

Hobbies: Trolling for the lols, finding weird porn, collecting Japanese Schoolgirl dating simulators.

Reason for voting for Trump: "Obviously for the lols! And for Pepe! The feminists have taken away too much from us. They're the reason I've never been intimate with a woman, because any woman that would refuse to have me is obviously a feminist. Political correctness is really lame, and I resent having to act like an actual adult instead of a man-child. Oh, and Trump would totally be for Gamergaters. Maybe he'll force Twitter to give Milo Yiannopoulos his account back."

Conan Brothers Q&A

MakeAmericaFascistAgain asks "Wow. Donald Trump is President. Who could've seen this coming?"

Arnold: Anyone who has ever been outside a city.

Dave: So you weren't shocked that Hillary Clinton isn't our first female President?

Arnold: Hell no. Let's be honest. Hillary wasn't the best candidate. She's had Republicans dragging her name through the dirt papers ever since Bill was banging interns. The media constantly reported on the email scandal; she had Vladimir Putin, super villain extrodinarie, and the freaking FBI against her. And to top it off, she was a woman. There's a majority of men that will never vote for a woman, especially one that looks like their grandma.

Dave: So if she was hot, she would've won?"

Arnold: Probably. Too much of America was counting on people to be logical about politics. I know people who voted for Trump because he is against abortion. They just handed Biff Tannen the nuclear codes. Hey motherfucker, what's more pro-life: making sure people end unplanned pregnancies, or preventing the annihilation of our entire planet?

Dave: What about the people who voted for Trump because he's "an outsider?"

Arnold: He's an outsider in terms that he's an asshole. Yeah, I'm sure a New York billionaire is going to change the system. The guy who is likely to appoint Newt Gingrich and Rudy Giuliani might really shake shit up.

Dave: Have the trolls won?

Arnold: Yes. Lolfaces for everyone.

...

BigMusclesBill asks "What do your training routines look like right now, guys?"

Arnold: Old age is finally getting to me, boys.

Dave: You're 31.

Arnold: But I've been training for a long time. I have a partially torn labrum in my right shoulder. My left hip clicks and pops painfully if I squat deep.

Dave: So you've stopped lifting, right?

Arnold: Fuck no! I've had to ditch the bench press and deep squatting. My focus is now on deadlifting, power cleaning, and overhead pressing.

Dave: Why don't you share your routine?

Arnold: Sunday: Power clean for 4 sets of 3, then either a final heavy triple or a single. Deadlift for 3 sets of 5, attempting a 5 rep max. Monday: Strict press, usually 5s or 3s with a goal of 30 reps. Push press afterwards for 3 sets of 3. Upper back assistance, usually pulldowns for higher reps. Tuesday: Bench squats for 5 sets of 5, then arms for higher reps. Repeat this cycle, though I usually go heavier on my second deadlift session. Only one day off per week.

Dave: Sweet.

...

StrappedferCash asks "What is the worst fast food restaurant?"

Dave: Any fast food restaurant.

Arnold: Taco Bell without a doubt. You eat Taco Bell, and you can almost immediately feel your bowels protest.

Dave: You don't like mystery meat?

Arnold: It's only like 35 percent beef. If it were 100 percent, then they couldn't sell you cheap tacos.

Dave: I love how when you unwrap a Taco Bell burrito, it always looks like it has passed through someone's digestive system already.

Arnold: Run from the border, people. Especially now that Trump's President.

Kill it! Kill it with fire!

Now They'll Have to Take My Stupid Opinions Seriously

Wake up, liberal America. Time to stop sipping your Starbucks lattes and tweeting on your Iphones made in the Orient. Real Americans have spoken up in defense of liberty, particularly our beloved freedom to be as awful to one another as possible. If you queers were getting comfortable, thinking that you could get married and treated like real human beings, then you got another thing coming. You see, me and all of my fellow bigots feel validated now. We can drive down the street waving Confederate flags and shouting racial slurs and not feel like a bunch of assholes. The next time some woman starts complaining about rape, we can tell her to fuck off to Saudi Arabia, where she can experience some real oppression. The troll king supreme is in the White House. Welcome to America, you commie pinkos. You're about to get your asses kicked and it's about time.

No more blackies complaining about the police shooting their gang-banging asses. No more Mexican criminals coming over the border, 'cause the wall is coming and they're gonna pay for it. No more egg-heads warning us about global warming. Don't they know that this shit changes from year to year? It used to be warm when the dinosaurs walked around with Jesus; at least, that's what I heard on Facebook. No more Democrats acting as the voice of reason because the Republicans are in control of Congress and the White House, and Paul Ryan is going to get his budget passed, hallelujah. Then we can get rid of food stamps and disability and all that shit, though my ex-wife and my cousin Billy are going to be screwed, come to think of it, but that ain't no big deal. Trump is going to cut taxes and get rid of Obamacare and the economy is going to come roaring back like it was 1950. Everything from 1950 is coming back. No more bossy women in the workplace. No more diversity hirings. We'll get to drink in the workplace like on Mad Men. I'm gonna be Don-fucking Draper and it's going to be awesome.

Come to think of it though, I don't know much about advertising. I don't think we are expected to know things anymore, to be honest. It's hard work knowing things. I'd rather see some shit on the internet and instantly believe it than find out if it's really true. We got big-picture guys to do the thinking for us now, real men like Donald Trump and Mike Pence. Newt Gingrich, too, and Rudy Giuliani. You want diversity, assholes? How about a bunch of old white men put you in your place?

The next time someone asks me to fact-check myself, I'm going to fact-check their stupid face with my fist. It's time they took my "stupid" opinions seriously.

Welcome to the Post-Reason World

The sun spills across the horizon like blood leaking from a wound. A man emerges from a pickup truck and marches toward the polls. He doesn't look like you, probably, but he looks a lot like me. He prunes trees for a living, removing the overgrown branches for a reasonable sum. One time he had a Mexican guy work for him, and though he worked hard, he fired him after a while because he was an illegal immigrant. His girlfriend is always complaining about some lesbian waitress at work that takes all of her hours. His dad once had a rental property in Cincinnati, and it took some maneuvering to evict a black couple who had stopped paying rent. Half of his friends are addicted to heroin. The town that he lives in is populated by the walking dead--the unemployed, the unambitious, the purposely obtuse.

He's walking toward the polls because his America sucks, and he wants to make it great again.

It doesn't matter that the candidate he's voting for is dangerously unqualified for the office of President of the United States. He doesn't read the news much, and when he does, he gets it from social media, from people very similar to himself. He trusts his grandma any day over some college-educated journalist who lives in the city. The conventional media doesn't report much on people like himself. All they talk about is black people being shot by the cops or how bad women have it. Most of the cops he knows are pretty good people, and his relationship with women is complicated. His first job was cleaning tables, and his manager was a woman, and it was hard to take orders from her. Society used to afford white men certain privileges, and now women, minorities, and homosexuals are getting all the perks, or at least that's what his Facebook feeds tells him.

Democracy is a reckless, powerful thing. It puts power in the hands of individuals, who cannot possibly know what it is like to run a country of 300 million people. To obtain this power, all one must do is register. You are not required to know anything about policy or the global economy. You are not even required to understand how government works. So many of us look for a panacea, a simple fix to all of our complex problems. The thing is, complex problems do not have simple answers. When so little is asked of us, is it no wonder that we elected a demagogue? We believe that we each live in our own little insular worlds, but that's not how things are. It's too easy to forsake reason, because reason is not prized by most of us. We are emotional creatures prone to tribalism. Reason is just a side-effect of our supposed intelligence.

Idiocracy was a good movie, but I never wanted to live in it.

The Consummate Politician Apologizes

Look folks, it's been a tough election. In my long career as a politician, I've had to apologize for a great many things, but this year has been an anomaly. Never before has so much bull been floated about as legitimate news. Never before have I lied so much in such a blatant manner. Facts have not mattered in this election. Neither has policy. Nobody wants to hear a coherent position on abortion or global warming. Tribalism has overtaken partisanism. When we look across the aisle, we see the enemy, not a fellow American. Is there one great surprise waiting for us today, on election day? Part of me yearns for it, while another wants to collapse with fatigue. This is perhaps the first time I've ever had a guilty conscience. I must say that I am sorry for most of what I have done.

I'm sorry for the disparaging remarks I said about illegal immigrants. I'm sorry for implying that a judge of Hispanic descent was unfit to serve his office. I'm sorry for saying that the cops, and not African Americans, are the real victims of police shootings. I'm sorry for surrounding myself with such bad people like Newt Gingrich and rat-fink Rudy Giuliani. I'm sorry for having Peter Thiel campaign for me, because I think he may be a vampire. I'm sorry for implying that former President Clinton might be a rapist (still think he might). I'm sorry for not denouncing all the white supremacists that have supported my run for President. I'm sorry for steering the Republican Party toward civil war (actually, not sorry for that, hah). I'm sorry for objectifying women, and I apologize for lusting after my own flesh and blood. I also have to admit that the groping allegations are like one-hundred percent true. Sexual assault is something that me and my fellow Republicans are confused about, so maybe I should take a class or something. So I'm sorry for that. Also sorry for saying that global warming is a Chinese conspiracy when I know that it is really the most important thing we need to be concerned about if we want to continue to live on this planet. I apologize for telling people in the Rust Belt that the steel industry is going to return if I am elected President. I'm sorry for saying that I will revitalize small towns across the nation because I really don't know what to do besides cut taxes for rich people like myself. I'm sorry for making fun of fat people and disabled people. I'm sorry for ever discovering Twitter.

There are more things that I need to be sorry for, but the aforementioned are all that I can remember at the moment. Just one more thing: vote for me today, on election day. I have said that I am sorry. A vote for me is a vote for America. Just like always. 

New Music: Row the Boat

This is actually an old song I wrote probably sometime around 2009 or so. Because I haven't written anything musical in a while, I thought I'd share it. I was always proud of the lyrics.

This Is a Harbinger of Things to Come

I have become convinced that we're in a parallel universe that split off from our main universe right around the conclusion of the Republican primaries. In this new bizarro universe, Donald Trump has a decent chance of becoming President of the United States and the Chicago Cubs just won the World Series. What else is possible in this strange new world? Pointless Venture would like to speculate.

Within the next year, Disney will decide to remake the original Star Wars trilogy using former Mouseketeers.

Soon, we'll get hoverboards and flying cars like Back to the Future promised us.

Anytime now, aliens will visit the earth. They will demand to see the Ancient Aliens Guy, and Giorgio A. Tsoukalos (the dumbass with the crazy hair) will become the High Counselor to the United Federation of Planets.

Global warming will be revealed to have been a Chinese scam, in that the Chinese are responsible for most of the world's pollution.

Vladimir Putin will say "Fuck it," and open up a moonbase complete with sharks that have laserbeams attached to their heads.

They will remake Frank Herbert's Dune and it will be awesome.

Cold fusion will be mastered and we'll get all that cool future-tech we always wanted.

Hitler will be resurrected as a cyborg by a joint project headed by Russian scientists and Trump supporters. The world will be united in taking down the new Nazi/Russian/Trump menace.

Scientists will discover that we are living in a supercomputer generated simulation, and no one will stop looking at their mobile phones long enough to give a shit.

Half-Life 3 will just show up on Steam unannounced and it will be the greatest game of all time.

The Cleveland Browns will win the Superbowl next year.

The earth's magnetic polls will switch places, resulting in all sorts of zany highjinks.

How I Met Your Mother will be erased from the collective memory of the human race, and we will all be better for it.

Poop will stop smelling so bad, and we'll know what dogs see it in.

The Esteemed Critic Reviews Civ 6, Shadow Warrior 2, Black Mirror

Look at all those wonderful little units about to do my bidding.

The Critic has been immersing himself in Polynesian shell art as of late and has only emerged from his studies to review two video games and a tv show so that he can pay the bills, which have been piling up, if you must know. Appreciation for fine art is at an all time low; nobody will pay me for my twenty-thousand word dissertation on how cubism changed queer culture, and I spent half a year writing it! Of course time spent on a piece does not automatically bolster its quality, but it's as good an indicator as any, as far as the Critic is concerned. Until I can sell my Cubism piece, I suppose my analysis of Manhattan toilets and their multitude of extraneous uses will have to wait.

Civilization 6: One of gaming's most venerable series, Civ 6 has the same base game every Civilization does. A lot has been tweaked beneath the hood, however, so much so that it will take some time for you to understand Districts and the new tech trees and Amenities and...wait, I guess I don't understand any of that. It doesn't matter though, because you'll want to play one more turn for your dopamine fix. It is really impossible to review a game in its nascent state that will consume months of your life. Let it suffice to say that, after fourteen hours, Civilization 6 is as addictive as ever. The game does have a Western view of history--Montezuma as the leader of the Aztecs? Gandhi as ruler of India? But who cares when your delightful little cartoon units are prancing about industriously, spurred on by their Puritan work ethic. Let it be known that I am a conqueror at heart, though I sometimes try for a Culture victory. Games are like a good bacchanal--it's all about roleplaying, baby.

It does not look nearly as good as this clearly doctored screenshot.

Shadow Warrior 2: Wild Hog's sequel to their 2003 reboot is something of a surprise. Instead of a throw-back shooter similar to this year's Doom reboot, we get a Diablo/Borderlands lootathon and procedural-generated maps. Loot in games has always stressed me out; I have enough junk lying about my house, I don't need my virtual inventory clogged with countless upgrades and stat-boosting detritus. Nearly every enemy slain in Shadow Warrior 2 will drop an upgrade that you can use to customize your weapons, of which there are many. The weapons are the best part of Shadow Warrior--you can make an acid-spitting chainsaw and dual katanas that shoot electrical beams. The non-PC humor falls flat, however. Lo Wang, your avatar, is basically a bad South Park joke. The story is also a mess this time out, for I found myself clicking through cutscenes just to get back to the action. Graphically, the game looks good most of the time, although human characters look as though they were stolen from Quake 2 (not a compliment). If your looking for a shooter, I would suggest the Doom reboot first. If you have any money left over, then maybe give Shadow Warrior 2 a try.

Black Mirror Season 3: Sort of a Twilight Zone for the tech generation, Netflick's Black Mirror is one of the better programs on the ubiquitous streaming service (which is nearly 3 billion in debt because of their original content). Indeed, the first episode, "Nosedive," featuring Bryce Dallas Howard in a pastel-coated future where every social interaction is rated on a five star basis, had the Critic deleting his Twitter account and scouring Facebook for needless personal information. There are a few duds, such as "Playtest," a predictable spin on the dangers of virtual reality, and "Hated in the Nation," about internet vengeance served through hacking a government nanobee program (I think I just coined a new word). But the horrors of "Shut Up and Dance," and the ethereal beauty of "San Junipero," which tells a tale about two women falling in love in a simulation for elderly people, will have you glued to the screen.

If Hillary Wins, I'm Pooping My Pants

This election is rigged, folks. We gotta do something about it. Those able-bodied enough to engage in voter intimidation are welcomed to exercise that god-given right. I am not one of those patriots, however. The only form of protest or rebellion I can participate in is the ancient ritual of pants-filling. If Hillary wins, by God, I'm going to do it.

There's a taco bell close to my place. I'll have my nurse drop me off there with about ten dollars of spending money, or ammunition as I like to call it. My digestive system could never handle the call of the border. I eat a taco and I'm a ticking time bomb.

Then it's on to Wal-mart. It's quite a hike, and quite frankly, I don't know if I'll make it. But once I get inside, I'm letting it rip. I'll try to hold it until an appropriate trigger, like if I see a Mexican family or a college kid. Soon as some dreadlock-haired doofus crosses my path, BOOM, my pants are crapped. The smell will hit them immediately. I'm told its reek resembles the stench of carrion after several days alongside the highway. Aforementioned doofus's eyes will start to water. Passersby will vomit into any nearby receptacle. Children will run screaming. Someone will call the cops. Through it all I will continue my journey, a walking bioweapon sowing feculence and ruin.

They will listen then, when I have pooped my pants. I'll tell them about how they failed to prevent the disintegration of our great republic. I'll tell them that I am a harbinger of the apocalypse, just a taste of the horrors to come. They'll take away our guns, our churches, our ability to say socially unacceptable things. Well come and take it, I say. See if you can get close when I've filled my pantaloons with two pounds of poorly-digested taco supremes.

I see myself as a figure to inspire future generations. They'll write about my dung-coated britches the same way they wrote about Rosa Parks. Perhaps I'll spark a movement, a united brotherhood and sisterhood of elderly patriots, filling their pants in unison, taking one last collective shit before the world they knew changes. Because that's what this is about, really. Change. Everything changes and I'm plain sick of it.

You can hold your nose, liberal America, but I'm letting loose. There might be some friendly causalities along the way, but the foundation of our country must periodically be refreshed with the dookie of revolutionaries. You may think I crapped my pants because of incontinence. But I did it for America.

Writer's Block: The Human Condition

Just discovered this awful old poem in a notebook. I probably wrote it at a slow farmers' market, hah.

The Human Condition

rain falling like black leather,

A smitten fool counts his change,

Blood between his fingernails,

A thesis hanging on his doorway.

"What do you smell?

What seems to be on the wind,

Repeating its name like an epitaph,

The last chapter of a banned book?"

He doesn't know; what can you know,

Standing in the fetal position,

Hunched over like a man taking his last breath?

Love is the grease that sticks in his teeth,

Love is the weight that stoops his shoulders,

Love sits in his chest like an atom bomb.

The sky changes, its mood as sour as beer.

"What do you feed a dying man?

The same gruel you feed everyone else."

Who is this stranger speaking to the wind,

This wretch haunting alcoves, smoking steam,

Making plans that will never materialize?

He is you or me; he is just a vessel,

A trick played by a bad magician,

A rock that moves and speaks.

You strike anything enough,

It will crumble.

 

The Death of the Internet

So the internet died today. Magical hackers from the planet Russia shot so many packets up the ass of the net's backbone that it can't walk straight for days. You try in vain to quickly find a nice rack on Google image search but that little circle keeps spinning like it has nothing better to do. Visiting youtube is like being transported to the year two-thousand. Everything is so goddamn slow. How the hell is one supposed to receive their daily dose of dopamine? At this rate, we'll be tossing sticks at one another outside like they used to do in the old days when we weren't a race of Candycrush-playing cyborgs. Hello Reality, it's me. Nice to see you again. I guess.

What were the old days really like? Phones were stuck on walls and people actually bought music and video games from stores. Libraries were used by regular people and not just hobos looking at pornography. People talked to one another and looked each other in the eyes. When you wanted to go somewhere, you had to pay attention and get directions. Twitter was something birds did. Facebook was a long-lost Lovecraft story. Google sounded like a mix between a fart and a burp.

We knew things back then. We didn't have machines do our processing for us, as well as our socialization. This sounds like revisionism, doesn't it? A wise old sage fondly remembering days of the past while taking advantage of the technology of the present, irony be damned. I might as well wax poetic about the days before irony, back when people believe in ideas instead of eviscerating them. The ironic man has nothing to say, he just wants to laugh at you for believing. Don't ask me where I was going with this. I've lost the internet. I have no direction home.

Is there a binary choice between Netflix and the cinema? Between Ma Bell and the IPhone? Between Twitter and a real human being? It's either all or nothing; that's the American way of seeing things. Good and evil, shades of gray be damned. I've tried to have it all like the rest of you. I have no philosophy of things.

My son stares up at me with gray-blue eyes, his face describable only by a self-coined word: tunky. It comes out of the mouth in baby-talk. What sort of future will he live in? An augmented one with personalize advertisements beamed in directly to his brain through the infolink he had installed there as soon as he could scrape together the cash? What wondrous technology we are capable of, only to use it for our basest pleasures. Hedonism is in, you know. It never goes out of style.

Before the internet died, I had fever dreams. Let's not pretend it won't come back, fortified and worse than ever. 

Hanging with the Goon

Dis here's me uncles Thom and Lester talkin' bout polictics.

Well folks, teh erection is just weeks away and teh country will decided who will become top chef in chief. Now somehows theres a bunch of undecided people, that is, if yur listenin to teh literal media, so I thought I'd lay it all out simple like so's people would know who would make teh best president outta hellery and Teh Donald. Here goes my attempt at reasoning using ma double-brains (taht is a subject fer another post.). It won't be perty, but as my pa always said, she don't need to have all her teeth to make a decent box of hambooger helper.

Butfer you can vote fer Hellery, you need to ask yerself "Where is all teh emails?" Apparantly, Hellery had some emails that she took outta her computer so that tehy wouldn't find out she was besties wit teh devil or something like taht. I've tried getting emails outta my compooter before, but after smashing it wit a hammar and lighting it on fire, I has yet to find my own missin emails, so I sympathize wit Hellery. I also believe taht emails are private corrispondance between two consenting adults, so if Hellery is friends wit teh devil, it really ain't nobody's business. I have a lot of bad friends in bad places, but so what? I still get to work a half hour late just like everbody else. Apparantly also Hellery is in bed wit Wallstreet, whoever taht is. I used to know a Backstreet but I never mets a Wallstreet. Also teh worst thing abouts Hellery is that she's married to former President Slick Willy, who plays teh saxophone and has had manny lovers. If you can stomach all of that, maybe you should vote for her, I dunno.

Teh big alternative to Hellery is Teh Donald. My family is very pro-Donald; Slack has already had a Conferderate flag made wit Donald's face on it, and Willy has went aroudn thrownin bricks wit Donald's name painted on em threw people's windows. As far as I can tell, teh main message of teh Donald is that he hates persons of color and likes to grab women by tehre genatals. I was always told taht those were bad things, but I guess teh times, tehy are a changing just like taht jew Bobby Dylan said. Slack says taht when teh Donald becomes furur, everbody will get there own trailer and a tweleve pack of bud light along wit their welware check. SO I guess if yu like Bud Light you should vote fer teh Donald.

Personally, my main issues is what are teh canadates going ta do about all teh trash in my yard? Will one of em send tah secret service to come clean up all tah poo and girlie mags? A bear got in my Uncle Thom's cabin and made an awful mess that's blown across teh valley. It really is an ecological distaster. Maybe teh Donald will make Hellery clean it up after she gets done being in jail. I dunno. Vote wit yur heart, not yur brain.

A Brief Review of the Second Presidential Debate

Boy, this was hard to watch. Why do we do this, by the way? Why do we parade our two presidential candidates out on a stage so that they can try to get the better of each other? Because that's what this was really about; there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that Trump was going to talk about policy, because he can only respond to policy questions with a mess of adjectives like a child caught in a lie. No matter what you think of her, you have to admit that Clinton actually tried to answer the questions asked, whereas the Donald just rambled incoherently until the moderators had to shut him up. I just want to note a few things I noticed while crying inside.

1. Trump isn't running for President. I mean, this has been obvious for a long time, since he's refused to adhere to the norms of respectability presidential candidates usually cling to, either out of incompetence or because of some insane strategy (I suspect the former). He straight up said that he'd appoint a special prosecutor to look into Hillary's misdeeds if elected, and then he said he'd throw her into jail, which elicited a cheer from the brain-dead crowd. Yes, people, let's praise this clown for just threatening to jail his opponent. Dictatorships usually throw their opposition into prison; Trump doesn't want to be President, he wants to be dictator. Keep that in mind when you vote for Gary Johnson because you can't stomach a Clinton Presidency.

2. Donald Trump doesn't talk to or agree with his running mate. Mike Pence is a prick; as Indiana's governor, he's responsible for the misleadingly named Religious Freedom Act, which makes it legal for employers to discriminate against homosexuals because of their (the employer's) religious beliefs. He's also respects women about as much as your average right-wing Republican, though as far as we know, he doesn't grope them in public like the Donald. Maybe the guy's insufferable in person. Trump must think so. When caught by the moderator in a contradiction with his running mate for praising Syrian dictator Bashar al-Assad (Trump said Bashar is killing ISIS; what Assad has actually done is commit genocide against his own people), Trump responded that "he hasn't talked with (Pence) and that "they disagree on issues". Keep that in mind, people. Donald Trump can't even agree with his own running mate, whom he picked.

3. Trump doesn't know shit. Like the first item on my list, this has been obvious for a long time to any sane person. I don't know how you could listen to any one of the Donald's rambling, incoherent answers to basic policy questions and come away with the opinion that he's fit to be President of the United States. He seems to not be aware of how the government works; in an exchange with Clinton about tax policy, he blamed her for not being able to change it single-handedly as a Senator, ignoring the fact that there was a Republican President in office at the time with veto power. Trump also appeared to be ignorant of the genocide being committed in Syria and claimed to "know nothing about Russia." He said that "Russia was new, in terms of nuclear," whatever that means. This man isn't fit to run a hotdog stand, let alone the highest office in the land.

4. None of it matters. To the average viewer at home, it doesn't matter that Trump has no policies. What mattered is that the Donald got a few good one-liners in on Clinton, because the debate format is a reality-show stage, and the only thing Trump is good at is being a reality-TV star. I'm sure we'll see some people claiming that he won the debate, which is ridiculous. When challenged by the moderators, he responded by shouting over them. He interrupted Clinton eighteen times. Not one of his answers was even moderately coherent. But none of that matters. This is a hell of our own doing. Let us hope that it only lasts one more month.

You're Going to Get...It

Drink it in...man. You're going to get it. I don't know when, or where, or what the circumstances will be, exactly. But rest assured, man. You're going to get...it. And when you do, it's going to be bad.

I'm keeping a list, you see. A list containing all the names of people who are going to get...it some day. A list of bad people who just don't understand the gift. What is the gift, you ask? If you don't know, that may be a problem. Because you might be on the list. The list to get...it.

"It" is the worst thing you can imagine. "It" isn't some stupid clown that is really a giant spider or any bullshit like that. "It" is something unimaginably horrible, like a Donald Trump presidency or a Nickelback album. "It" is like global warming times ten or a used pair of John Cena's jorts. "It" is the smell Kevin Owens releases backstage after he's had eight taco supremes from Taco Bell. What you need to understand is that "it" is super bad. You don't want to get "it."

You know people who are going to get..it? People who hate nice scarves, for one. People who don't appreciate the benefits of DDP yoga, for two. Folks who don't listen to the Jericho podcast, for three. Anti-Canadian reactionaries, for four. The list goes on and on. Most of the people I know are on it, in fact. Maybe that says something about me. Maybe I'm a little hard to get along with. Maybe I make more enemies than friends. You know why that is? It's because I'm the greatest of all time.

Yesterday I was at a Starbucks, and I ordered a white mocha. It took them five minutes to make it, and I had to wait in line with all the degenerates who definitely deserve...it. As soon as my drink was finished, I grabbed a hold of the flunkie with the horn-rimmed glasses who was behind the counter, and I told him that he had to kiss my biceps or he was going to get "it." He just stared at me with fear in his face, paralyzed with the fear of "it." It's amazing what power a genderless pronoun has in today's world. You would've thought I'd threatened him with a loaded gun. Maybe that's the best analogy. "It" is like a loaded gun. You don't want me to put "it" in your mouth.

Weightlifting: Olympic Weightlifting for Beginners

I had to use a picture of former Russian lifter Klokov because America sucks at lifting.

Due to the popularity of Crossfit (or so the internet tells me) Olympic lifting has underwent something of a renaissance, though I doubt you'll find too many people in your globo gym snatching or clean and jerking, since most people are terrified to do either without rubber bumper plates. Because of a shoulder injury, I cannot bench press anymore, so I decided to forgo powerlifting for the moment and work on learning the Olympic lifts. It's been an interesting experience so far, though I have yet to put any impressive weights overhead (unless you consider 210 lbs impressive, which you shouldn't). Unlike the powerlifts, you can't simply muscle up a heavy snatch or clean. The art is in moving under the weight; it requires quickness, agility, and decent form. Certainly strength is required, yet unfamiliarity with the lifts means that if you're a beginner, you're probably not cleaning or snatching a decent percentage of your squat. Below, I'm going to discuss some initial problems I've had and their solutions, as well as lay out a program to follow.

Snatch problems (haha! Keep your minds clean, folks): The snatch is pretty hard, I must admit. My two biggest problems are a soft lockout and not moving under the bar. Both are connected, I imagine; when you don't get under the bar enough, you catch it with bent elbows. Plus, I have ridiculously long arms, which means I have to use the widest grip. The tendency to over pull is great and must be recognized. Currently, I've snatched 165 lbs in a power snatch style, meaning that I've caught it around or above legs parallel to the floor. I need to work on quickly squatting down as soon as the second pull starts. Practice makes perfect, so I snatch three times a week and start my workouts with this lift. I'd recommend searching youtube for videos of elite lifters snatching, and then using the pause button to really nail down the form in your mind.

Clean and Jerk problems: Really, I don't think this lift is particularly hard, at least compared to the snatch. There is a desire to press the bar, but it's not hard to overcome. Really, I just need to work on my clean, which is around 235 lbs. My best front squat is 315 lbs. Your clean and jerk should be about 85 percent of your best front squat, so saith the internet, so I should be cleaning around 265 lbs. Just like with the snatch, it's about moving under the bar. I certainly pull it high enough.

Programming: Obviously I'm no expert at these lifts, but this is how I've gone about learning them. I try to do the Olympic lifts and squats three times a week, and then work in upper body days in between. Switching to the Olympic lifts will not do much for your upper body if you're doing them right, so it's important to press, do strength pulls, and add arm work. Here's the program I've concocted:

Sunday: Snatch for 8-10 singles, working up to a heavy weight. Clean and jerk for 6 singles following a similar progression. Back squat for five sets, starting with 5 reps for lighter sets, then working up toward triples or doubles.

Monday: Strict press for 5 sets. Lat work, choosing from snatch grip rows, dumbbell rows, or chin ups for 3 sets of 8. Barbell curls added unless choosing chins.

Tuesday: Same as Sunday, except Jerks omitted for heavy cleans, and front squats added. Usually I do 4 sets of 3 for front squats.

Wednesday: Same as Monday.

Thursday: Same as Sunday.

Friday: Off.

Saturday: Optional upper body day.

So that's how I've went about tackling the Olympic lifts. I'll give a report on my progress in a couple months.

The Diary of Mitch R. Singer

In a house. Somewhere.
The tranquil domestic scene. A lawn with a gnome out front, judging the passersby as they pass by. An automatic sprinkler system to keep said lawn verdant and youthful. I never knew how much I desired an artificially beautified lawn. One-hundred pounds of nitrogen fertilizer are dumped on my yard a year. They say that the excess nitrogen gets into the water system, that it kills ecosystems and poisons our world. What is our world but the microcosm that we live in? All I know is this yard and the pristine house resting behind it. If you ventured down my street, you would have trouble distinguishing my house from any other. I'll give you a hint: it's the one with the well-cared for yard. The yard that was manicured by a god.

At a basketball game.
The children run the court in their oversized jerseys, awkwardly fumbling the ball, their limbs slender like sticks collected for kindling. One of those children out there is mine; I cannot tell you which, not right now. Every so often I lose myself in the blur of surroundings, in the ever-present excess of detail. I'm like a toddler wandering the main strip of Las Vegas; everything is bright and flashing and moving. Sometimes I remember different lives lived by a stranger, though that stranger seems familiar, always familiar. He probably has my disease is what I figure. My wife suddenly grabs me and says that Billy has scored a goal. Great job, Billy. Let us pray that whatever I have is not genetic.

Date night. Stranded on a hillside, with the moon lurking like a spotlight in the sky.
My wife puts her arms around me. We stare at the city down below, twinkling like the stars hidden by its light pollution. It seems like I am an everyman always perched on the corner of a cultural zeitgeist. Though I wear the trappings of a plebeian, I always transcend my origins, somehow. It will go wrong, you know. It always does. Someone gets tossed into the drunk tank, and they look at his hands and find them covered in blood. She asks me if I love her. I say "yes," like I'm answering a game show question. In the background, I hear the buzzer.  
 

What Babos Wants

I found this picture when I googled "baby monster." I'm pretty sure that's Curt Schilling.

What Babos wants, Babos gets. When Babos hungry, Babos let's you know with a bellow. Or maybe grunt. Babos likes grunting. Sometimes, Babos even grunts when satisfied. Babos also farts when satisfied. Burps too. Babos is not in control of his actions.

Often, Babos likes to get a little shut-eye early. Like around eight o'clock or so. Four-thirty in the morning is Babos's favorite time to wake up. Babos can't understand why big people lie in bed so late. Maybe big people should sleep more during the day like Babos. If Babos could communicate with more than just grunts and farts, Babos would tell big people this. This is one of many sources of frustration for Babos.

Another thing Babos can't understand is why big people don't want to hold him all night long. It is very warm and satisfying to be held while sleeping. Nothing infuriates Babos more than to wake up and find that he is in the babby cage. Babby cage is cold and hard, and impossible to sleep comfortably in. Babos wishes big people understood this. There is much that they do not understand.

Big people try to get Babos to eat something besides baba. Nasty stuff like mashed carrots or bananas. Babos has known nothing but ba since his emergence. Little late to be switching to new source of nourishment. If only big people understood the deliciousness of ba or the infinite chewability of rag. Then they wouldn't make Babos try to eat nasty orange poo.

 

Speaking of poo, Babos would like big people to know that he has no problem sitting in it. Wet diaper, well, that's another matter. But poo, well, he doesn't mind it if you don't.

 

Babos would also appreciate it if everyone sang to him. What they sing, it doesn't matter. It can be nonsense words. Babos just likes to hear a tune. Night noise also fine. Babos really just prefers a constant din.

 

Now that Babos has delivered his list of demands and needs, he hopes they will be satisfied to the letter. You wouldn't want to make Babos angry. You wouldn't like Babos when he's angry.