Heart of the Thief

I haven't posted anything from The Heart of the Thief, my epic fantasy novel, in ages, so now that I'm writing the last chapter, I'd thought I'd share an excerpt. This is from the last chapter, so it's not connected to my previous posts. Since the book has gone through a major rewrite, most of those chapters have been changed anyway. Look for The Heart of the Thief next year.

They had set sail on the Cimmeron from Valice on a sunny day with clear skies and smooth waters. Cassilda stood on the deck overlooking the prow, staring into the blue waters, watching with amusement as dolphins swam playfully ahead of their wake. It was a crime to kill a dolphin in the Gulf of Katan because of their beauty and intelligence as well as an old sailor’s superstition that characterized them as messengers of the gods of the sea. She couldn’t imagine why any one would want to kill a dolphin. Feeling the warmth of the sun and smelling the salt of the ocean’s wind, Cassilda couldn’t image why anyone would want to kill any living thing. It was good to be alive; it was wondrous, and with wonder came joy and excitement and the rush of love. She looked across the deck at a young mage with ebony skin and a handsome jawline and blushed. Ambierce was chatting with some countess or other—she wasn’t sure and that was fine—and she was left to feel young and beautiful and intoxicated with the promise of the future. What a magnificent voyage they had begun! A tour of Capetia, the pearl of the gulf! And then the sights of the wilderness, the coast of Rheineland, and finally a stop at San-Elza, where they would drink wine from Beaune and listen to the music of flamenco and watch the dancers as they danced with the sweet summer sweat beading on their noble faces. She never imagined that she’d have such a life, not when she was an urchin picking pockets in Gaul. Those years were blotted out in her memory, replaced with a blank spot waiting to be filled with the adventures of youth.

The young mage approached her and introduced himself as Jaffrey, performing an elaborate bow that she assumed was meant to charm her, though it made him look rather foolish. He asked her what she thought about the Gulf of Katan and whether she believed the warnings of the scientists of the Mitte Academy regarding the increasing industrial pollution of the North affecting the warming of the Southern Ocean. Cassilda smiled prettily at him and gave something of a non-answer; she was not particularly interested in politics or matters of a global nature. Jaffrey looked a little panicked. She wondered if he had altered his appearance, for he had more the mannerisms of a maladroit scholar than a handsome wizard. She looked out across the sea and saw something on the horizon, a menacing weather system, perhaps, or maybe just a figment of her imagination.

“Do you see something?” she asked Jaffrey, pointing at what she had noticed.

“Forgive me, lady, for I do not,” he stammered.

“I would hate for us to be caught in a squall. It would ruin the atmosphere of the voyage.”

The more she looked at the horizon the more she was certain that there was something out there. It looked as though a mass of black clouds were heading in their direction, but there was a ship beneath them, perhaps caught in the storm.

“I am going to say something to the captain,” she said. “Excuse me.”

She left Joffrey and walked across the deck. There were many wizards on board, most of them young and inexperienced, chaperoned by Ambierce, the Countess, and a Zanj mage named Omari. It was an educational expedition, intended to widen the minds and improve the social skills of the young wizards who had signed on. Cassilda had been apprehensive when Ambierce had suggested it, citing sea sickness and shyness as reasons for staying ashore, but as always, he had been right and she had enjoyed herself thus far. She knew that her apprenticeship was coming to an end, and part of her feared independence. Ambierce was trying to find her a position at court in Galvania or Valice, which was exciting, though she still had to apply for her license from the Council. I can’t live in that ruined manor with him forever she thought. Still, she would try to see him as often as possible.

“Change is good,” she said quietly to herself, stopping before the captain, who had his eyes on the horizon. He was a big man with large-knuckled hands, grizzled and stern, the spitting image of a sea captain, intimidating in a serious way, for he took himself and his profession seriously. Cassilda tried to assume the noble air of a mage, but she stammered slightly as she got the captain’s attention.

“What is it, m’lady?” he asked brusquely.

“Is that a vessel on the horizon there, caught in that squall?”

“It ain’t caught in the squall, m’lady. It’s the other way around. The ship’s steering the storm, putting it right in our direction. I’m trying to get us closer to the coast, but it’s moving faster than it should.”

“How would a storm steer a ship?” asked Cassilda.

“There’s an aeromancer on board, no doubt. In the old days, many of them worked on ships summoning good winds. Now, with more steamships in the water and mages becoming rarer, you don’t see them as much. I don’t want to meet this one. That’s an evil-looking cloud lingering over yonder, and he may be working with pirates or Barbarosie raiders. I don’t doubt that the mages on board could handle themselves, but it’d be best to avoid conflict. Why don’t you go tell your master what’s going on.”

She almost replied that Ambierce was not her master but instead hurried away, an ill-feeling coming over her like a cold chill. She found him below deck in his quarters, sea-sick, a sour expression on his visage.

“You are not well?” she asked.

“I had to beg leave of the Countess. My stomach is not doing well with this rollicking.”

“But it is so much better than it was earlier,” said Cassilda.

“Indeed it is, but my stomach does not know better. What’s the matter?” he asked, reading her eyes.

She told him about the approaching ship and the captain’s concerns.

“I’ll come on deck in a minute. You and I need to have a discussion beforehand. I saw you making eyes at that young man. Did you speak to him? Good. You are coming out of your shell. Soon you will be lording over us all. As soon as we have received your license, I think you should take a position I have secured for you in Valice in Albert Bourdain’s household. He’s a knight in good-standing with the Occupational government, an old friend from the war, a raconteur, and a bit of a charmer, though he knows enough to keep his hands to himself. The old families of Valice like to have a wizard on call for various traditional tasks, but Bourdain needs magical help in his capacity as a lieutenant of the Reconstruction. They have the Calamity to deal with, and it’s a task that my generation has left as a burden for the next. The decline of wizards is due to that catastrophe. It is my wish that you will begin your career as part of the solution. We can do great things, Cassilda. It would be a shame for the world to leave the old ways behind while chasing so-called progress. All the technological innovations of Laurasia will not change the nature of man. I see hope in the youth. There are no wars brewing to mar your friendships, and the old guard is as weak as ever. The Council of Mages will lose its influence to you and your peers, my dear. Mark my words: the mages on this boat will do more to better the world than all of the Council together.”

He embraced her then, the old fool, with tears in his eyes. Cassilda did not know why he was becoming so emotional. She knew he loved her as a daughter, but he was losing an apprentice and gaining a peer, as she saw it. Vague proclamations made her uneasy, and she didn’t wish to live with prophesies thrust upon her. Kissing his forehead, she went up to the deck.

She noticed their faces first. Separated by only a few yards of ocean, a black ship rocked in synchronicity with the Cimmeron, its prow jutting forth like a skewering spike. They stood in black robes with the faces of animals; she saw a vulture beak, a wolf snout, and the bared teeth of a horse. Something that looked like a cross between a bear and a human snarled and raised a clawed hand. A plank fell, making contact with the Cimmeron’s deck. The young mages scattered, for they knew that these were not raiders armed with swords and clubs. The reek of black magic hung from the frames of the interlopers like the stench of a rotting corpse. Part of Cassilda wanted to vanish below deck, but a horrible fascination with what she was witnessing made her walk out amongst the dark magicians. They marched on board and congregated on the bow while the youth fled to the stern, with Cassilda standing in the middle like a bridge between two countries. One of the dark magicians approached her; he did not remove his hood, but she felt a familiar sickness boiling in her stomach as he passed her by without a glance. He raised his hands to the air and the darkened sky turned blood red. Beckoning to the youth, he began to speak.

“Innocents abroad! What a time we live in! Babes cross the Sea of Katan on a great pleasure cruise, touring the ancient lands of the South! You do know, children, that what you call the South is only a small portion of the Maat, and that the Maat itself is only a tiny spec in the chaotic ocean of the Isfet. Order, truth, harmony—these are the concepts of the human universe and the legacy of the dead God. Man creates order, does he not? Man gives names to things and categorizes flora and fauna and the heavenly bodies. In a sense, man creates the universe that he perceives. Without his perception, man would be like any other thing—dumb, deaf, and prey to uncontrollable impulses. Which is not to say that man is any better than any other animal.”

He walked past Cassilda, pausing to place a hand on her cheek. She knocked it away, shuddering at its touch, and the dark void within the hood laughed.

“Man likes to pretend that he adheres to god-given principles. Man likes to believe that he has a moral character that shows true in most situations. Man composed the Theory of Evolution and then discredited it, because how could a godly being share a common ancestor with apes? Apes lack moral fiber, let me tell you. I once witnessed a chimpanzee in the Dzanga-Sangha beat another to death for no less of a violation than the theft of a pomegranate. I felt that all the sins of the human race were mirrored in that act. That realization, of course, led me to comprehend that there was no such thing as sin. Have your handlers taught you that, youth of the future? I doubt it. They have probably fed you some nonsense about responsibility and how important it is to be an ethical professional. You must think of others during your long, illustrious careers. They will say nothing of the intoxicant power, nor mention anything about lust. They will tell you to set aside such trivial desires and work for the betterment of mankind. They will feed you the lies that they were fed, hoping in their heart of hearts that you continue to chew your cud. Do you think that they have had their sins laid out for all to examine? If they are going to insist on morality, then should they not be judged by their own standards? Where is the war criminal Ambierce Serpico?”

He emerged from below deck and stood warily with clenched fists, teeth gritted together like he was suffering from lockjaw. His hands opened in a flash, and the wind roared, and lightning thundered in the sky, but then there was nothing but silence, and the waters of the sea seemed to cease churning. Suddenly Ambierce was on his knees, head bowed, hands bound before him by an invisible rope. Cassilda’s stomach lurched—she knew that something terrible was happening—and fear rose up in her throat at the sight of a powerful mage like Ambierce diminished instantly.

“Should we give him a trial?” asked the leader of the dark magicians.

No one spoke in answer. The Countess and Omari had appeared, but they said and did nothing. The expression on their faces told Cassilda that they were not fighters, and she hated them abruptly for their helplessness.

“Not one of you thinks this man deserves a trial? What a condemnation! Even Capetia grants the guilty a trial! Galvania punishes children for their parents’ crimes, yet they still muster up the judge, lawyers, and jury! And you children do not even know of his crimes! Has he been that bad of a teacher? Do you love him not at all?”

“They are scared of you and your brutes,” said Cassilda. “You animal men who have appeared out of nothingness. What grants you the right to accuse him in such a manner? Are you a pirate with a flair for grandiose statements? Or are you simply a degenerate who thinks himself to be intelligent when he is really boorish, stupid, and ugly?”

She felt him staring at her, felt the fear he was trying to put inside her like a poison. Her heart beat quickly with adrenaline, and her hands trembled slightly, but Cassilda fought to kept herself under control and retained her dignity.

“They should be scared,” he said loudly. “Fear is an appropriate response in my presence. I never get tired of feeling like a predator on the prowl. Fear is a base emotion, the most primitive one, the natural chemical response to a world fraught with peril. I myself have been paralyzed by it many a time, though it has been several hundred years. You know how I conquered fear, pretty girl? I mastered death. I consumed a piece of God. When you eat of your maker, my child, you gain forbidden knowledge. You realize that death is weakness born out of a desire to kill thyself. It is very hard, however, to kill life. Oh, an individual falls easily, but what about a town or a city? What about a species? What about every named and unnamed creature of the Maat? You see, even God knew that He was a helpless power doomed to eternal life, and so he knew that his suicide was futile because his children would grow from his corpse. The weakness of God is present in all of us, and I have successfully destroyed my drive toward death. Unlike Ambierce here, I will survive until the last bit of the Maat has become swallowed by the Isfet. Do you understand my role, girl? God abdicated His throne, so somebody has to rule. Being God means you have to play the Demon as well, does it not? Look at the sky; see that it is red, burdened with the color of blood. I am in my demonic aspect. Scream if you must when I pull back my cowl, for you will view the face of evil eternal. It is old, wrinkled, and liver-spotted. It is jealous of youth and judgmental of the young. It harbors grudges real and imagined. It judges your master weak because he wanted to acted but could not. And so he will be castrated and thrown to the sea, and if the waters do not take him, the beasts of the sea will rend his flesh and gnaw his bones, and what curses he speaks will fall on deaf ears. Such is the judgment of Pliny the Black.”

New Old Music: Teenage Idol

Probably one of the best songs I've ever written. An ode to thoughtless ambition and the past. I don't believe this is the original version, but this recording dates back to 2010.

A Review of Seveneves

Neal Stephenson's Seveneves is a vastly entertaining novel. It also has a few problems that almost made me stop reading right from the start. The premise is that a mysterious agent blows up the moon into seven pieces. Neal Degrasse Tyson stand-in Doc Dubois, an astronomer, figures out that the moon's pieces are going to smash together and create bolides, which will bombard the surface of the earth en mass in two years, destroying all life. Other world governments reach the same conclusion, and all of earth unites to build the Cloud Ark, a transformation of the International Space Station into a habitat capable of sustaining the remnants of the human race for thousands of years. The Casting of the Lots takes place, where only a handful of viable young people are chosen from every country on earth to be sent up to join the working crew of Izzy (the space station; Stephenson loves nicknames) and aid the Cloud Ark project. Humanity takes the news of their imminent destruction rather well; people start coming together to launch vital supplies into space and perform research. Stephenson published this novel in 2015, but I think the idea that world governments would come together in the event of a world-ending catastrophe to be just as improbable then as it is today (can you really see Trump or Putin endorsing the Cloud Ark?). The Cloud Ark project, after all, is a pretty stupid idea--the characters of the novel even believe it to be a PR stunt designed to prevent mass rioting--namely, because humanity wouldn't have much of a chance in space. The novel, of course, explores the difficulties of survival to a degree--characters die of radiation poisoning and bolide strikes--but it never tells the reader how they create a sustainable food system, which would be the number one issue. It seems incredibly unrealistic that one of the big space capable states like the US or China wouldn't proceed unilaterally with a plan to at least attempt to save the planet. The population of earth would demand such an action, and there's no way people would be satisfied with the half-assed Cloud Ark project surviving them. They have two years so why not try to redirect some of those moon pieces? Hell, launch the entire nuclear arsenal of earth up there and try to vaporize the moon before the bolides form. That's probably a dumb idea, but I guarantee some state would try it. Also, it makes more sense to try to burrow underground and wait out the Hard Rain (what the novel calls the thousand-year bombardment) than to launch up into space. This actually happens in the novel, but the Diggers as they're called act independent of any government, and they're a surprise to the survivors of the Hard Rain.

Eventually, due to a rebellion called the Swarm as well as bolide strikes, the population of the human race is reduced to eight females, seven of whom are fertile, the titular seven eves. One of the survivors is the geneticist Moria (perhaps a nod to Moria Mactaggert, who was a geneticist in the X-Men Universe) who agrees to use her skills to create seven distinct human races, each of which will be specialized in some manner to aid human survival. Tekla, the athletic, stoic Russian, creates a race of soldiers; Camila, who disdains violence, makes her descendants passive. Let me add that until this point, Seveneves presents itself as hard science fiction. I wouldn't object to this genetic nonsense in an episode of Star Trek, but Seveneves made me read through pages and pages discussing orbital mechanics, and the back cover categorizes the novel as hard sci-fi. Moria somehow synthesizes a y chromosome, which is pretty crazy, but the real kicker is that she has identified which genes pass on specific traits like "discipline" and "heroism." Apparently this is complete nonsense, since even something like height is hard to pin down to just genes. This also seems like a dumb strategy in general, because why would you want the survivors of the human race to be at odds with each other? Aida, one of the eves, specifically engineers her descendants to counter the others. Why did Moria go along with this? Earlier in the novel, Aida and her gang tried to take over the space station, killing many people. They also resorted to cannibalism when their food supplies dwindled. Why did she get any say in how her descendants turned out? The novel also kind of skips over how Moria would ensure genetic variation with just eight survivors.

The final part of the novel skips ahead five thousand years, during which the seven distinct human races have constructed a habitat ring around earth and engaged in a project called TeraReform to make earth habitable again. This part of the book was pretty standard sci-fi, and too speculative to called hard science fiction, which was fine. I actually enjoyed the latter part at least as much as the earlier chapters, even if it seemed like it was from another novel.

Despite my nick-picking, I really enjoyed Seveneves. If you ignore the incredulity of the initial premise as well as the hard sci-fi designation, then it's a true page-turner. This is the third Stephenson book I've read, and these problems crop up in his other work, so a fan might not even notice.      

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.

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! 

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.

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.

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. 

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.  

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.

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.

There Is No Good Reason Not to Vote, Unless You Are an Idiot

It's probably a good thing that Mr. Noodle is trapped in Elmo's World and is, therefore, unable to vote.

New York Magazine has an article entitled "12 Young People on Why They Probably Won't Vote" on their front page. I'm not going to link to it because it's fucking stupid; if you want to read it, just google it. The reasons given by these young people range from "it sucked to lose in 2016," to "I get anxiety going to the post office." Some of these people are Political Science majors, which blows my goddamn mind. There is not a single acceptable reason given by any of these people. Mostly, their answers boil down to apathy, laziness, or stupidity.

I suppose if you're so indifferent to politics that you can't tell the difference between a Democrat or a Republican, then you shouldn't vote. But that failure is on you; you are failing your democracy. A democracy can't exist without an enlightened electorate. Its your civic responsibility to educate yourself about politics, to know your politicians, to understand how they are helping or hindering you and the people around you. Apathy is not an acceptable state because apathy helps keep evil shitbags in power. I guarantee that the anti-immigrant racist next door to you is going to vote. I bet the hypocritical evangelical that wants to take away a woman's right to chose is going to vote. I know the crazy old coot who is hording guns and preparing for a race war is going to the polls next Tuesday. But you can't vote because you don't have the time or energy. You don't think the Democratic Party adequately represents you. Well, that's nice that you have the privilege of being stupid. Perhaps you're lucky enough that the policies of the Trump Administration don't affect you directly. You're probably white and a dude. Maybe you make a decent amount of money. Maybe you're young enough that healthcare isn't an issue for you. Maybe you think climate change won't greatly impact your life. Maybe your friends are all like you. Maybe you have no friends.

We're not all as lucky as you, asshole. Quit shirking your responsibility. Get your head out of your ass and realize that everything is politics and no one is free from their political obligations. Educate yourself and stop offering excuses.

And for chissakes, change your fucking major if you're a political science student and you can't understand why it's important to vote.

Elmo's World

I look around the room. All I see are walls of paper crudely drawn on with a crayon. One would think such walls would bend at the touch, but they hold fast like an iron prison. A gold fish bobs in a bowl, staring at me with bulbous eyes. It seems to be real unlike most of the things here. Everything drawn with crayon is insubstantial except for the walls. There's a door which I try to open but it doesn't budge. I can't remember how I got here. Panic rises up in my stomach like a burst of acid.

Something knocks on the door.

"Hello?" I ask. Nothing for several seconds, then another knock, this time louder. In my mind I see a red mass of fur, a yellow nose, and a gaping black maw.

"You should open it," says the fish.

"Whhaaat?" I stammer.

"It could be a way out of here. That door opens to many worlds. But be wary. He has many agents. Or it could be Mr. Noodle."

"Who?" I ask.

"A big, dumb doofus with a mustache. I think he once had a brain, but the master removed it with torture. The master has an ugly sense of humor."

"Can this Mr. Noodle help me?" I ask.

"He can't put his pants on in the morning without help," replies the fish. "When I said he doesn't have a brain, I really mean it. I'm a goddamn gold fish, and I have more cognitive powers than Mr. Noodle."

"What is this place?"

"It is space between worlds. The Red Master has made it his home. His sorcery is strong, and I know no magic capable of besting it."

"What in the hell is the Red Master?"

"Shusssh!" says the gold fish. "We do not speak his name. We do not wish to summon him if he is not present."

"So you're saying I need to open one of these doors..."

The crayon-colored walls tremble. The knocking behind the door ceases. The gold fish cries out and then is silent. A hole appears in the middle of the floor, and a fuzzy red monster pops out of it. He doesn't look very scary to me. In fact, he looks like something you would hug.

"Ha ha ha. Welcome to Elmo's world!" says the creature in a high-pitched voice. "Do you want to play with me?"

"Umm... no?" I venture.

"Wrong answer! Ha ha ha! Let me put it this way: Do you want to play with me, or would you rather spend eternity as a gold fish?"

He beckons to the fish bowl and laughs his short, choppy laugh once more.

"Yeah, I'll play," I say.

"Ha ha ha!" says Elmo. "Put this on."

He throws me a pair of slacks, a checkered vest, and a wrinkled long-sleeved shirt. I comply with no questions asked.

"Put this on too," says Elmo, pulling a bow tie out of his nether regions.

I put on the bow tie and immediately I feel that something is wrong. My wits seems to melt out of my ears. A goofy grin appears on my face. A mustache sprouts from beneath my upper lip.

The gold fish seems to be crying. I don't know how that is possible, but I don't question it. My questioning days are over.

"Now I have two Mr. Noodles!" says Elmo. "Bye bye, Mr. Noodle!"

A crayon-drawn door opens and blackness stares back at me. I turn back to the red monster and try to explain that I'm not Mr. Noodle. My hands go every which way yet my mouth doesn't open.

All I hear is that shrill, short laugh as I fall into the abyss.

Conan Brothers Q&A

TrumpsADump asks "The midterm elections are almost here. Is it hyperbole to say that this is democracy's last chance?"

Dave: You were under the impression that America is a democracy? What rock you been under, bro?

Arnold: The same rock everyone's been hiding under, Dave. Technically America is a Federal Republic with democratically elected representatives. Note that the Constitution does not forbid gerrymandering, dark-money political contributions, voter suppression, and destructive partisanship.

Dave: I guess what I'm trying to say is that all those things you just mentioned undermine our supposed values, and they have for some time. Trump may be the harbinger of doom, but once he's gone, the same problems will remain.

Arnold: But this is sort of a last chance to elect people who will offer any resistance to Trump's agenda.

Dave: You're right. I'm just trying to downplay the whole thing in case I'm massively disappointed in the result.

Arnold: There's a decent chance of that. Apathy is the true enemy. That and the fact that about thirty percent of the electorate will not be swayed by reason or facts. They've tied themselves to Trump with a steel cable, and if he jumped off a bridge, they're coming along for the ride.

Dave: So get out there and Rock the Vote, people!

Arnold: Jesus, I remember that. Young people don't give a fuck about voting. They're all about raging hormones and binge drinking and doing stupid shit. It's a luxury of the American system that most of us, especially the young, can ignore politics and not see many immediate repercussions. But that time's ending. Mark the words of a wise old bodybuilder, children.

...

GamerGate324 asks "What have you guys been playing? Assassin's Creed? Tomb Raider? What about Fallout 76?"

Dave: I haven't played an Assassin's Creed game since the second one, and I never finished it.

Arnold: Every Ubisoft game is the same. Here's a giant map full of shit to do. Lot of it is pretty boring or derivative. The main story might be interesting, but there's no way for a narrative to maintain tension when you're being distracted by a million side quests.

Dave: Yeah, the open world theory of game design, despite being popular, has a lot of pitfalls.

Arnold: Even a good game like the Witcher 3 suffers from too many sidequests and too many things to do.

Dave: Developers, less is more!

Arnold: Yeah, put that in the advertising and see how well your game sells. Metacritic would be full of one star reviews lamenting the short play time.

Dave: It's makes no fucking sense. Most people don't finish games. Yet game lengths have gotten longer and longer. No one understands that quantity does not equal quality.

Arnold: To return to the question, I haven't played anything all year. I finished the Heart of Stone DLC for the Witcher 3 a while ago, and then I played a lot of Quake Champions. That's it. I've spent thirty bucks on video games in 2018.

Dave: You're finally becoming an adult, Arnold.

Arnold: About fucking time.

...

Noobgainz69 asks "Bros, how frequently should you max out?"

Dave: Never.

Arnold: This is something that I've learned: maxing out is kind of stupid. You should constantly be trying to increase your training volume and total poundage. But testing your one rep max in a heavy lift like the squat won't make you squat more.

Dave: But Arnold, how will I know if I'm getting stronger?

Arnold: If you're gaining weight and increasing your total volume, then you're getting stronger. If you want to compete in powerlifting, save your maxing for the meet. And don't compete unless you've got a chance of winning. I see people posting their 1000 lbs totals all the time on the net. Why did you waste everyone's time?

Dave: Preach it, brother.

 

New Old Music: Hive-Minding Man

Back in Theme Park Mistress's playing days, this was one of our staples. A nice, robotic groove reminiscent of the routines that guide us and keep us on the monorail. The song probably dates back to the eldritch days of 2011, when we were all children.

All the Myriad Reasons Why We're Doomed

Yeah, that's the face of a guy who smells his own farts and likes what he smells.

I don't know if you have heard, but the planet is warming at an alarming rate. Nobody really talks much about climate change in American politics, because we're worried more about important things like the economy and to what degree attempted rape disqualifies someone from being a Supreme Court Justice. Most of us have the attention span of a drunken toddler, and our focus will fall from one crisis to the next, deftly steered by our honorable news media. I'm going to make a bold prediction and say that in twenty years, we'll all being talking about climate change a lot more. Twenty more years of record temperatures and the discord that such weather sows will demand a response. Unfortunately, by that time, we're probably going to need a scientific miracle to stop or slow planetary warming, and the GOP will be telling us that prayer, not science, will save us. Hell, they might even be right.

It's also possible that twenty years from now, humanity will be so enveloped in a digital world of their creation that nobody will give much of a shit what happens in the real world. Maybe this is a future coming in forty or fifties years, but I think it's inevitable that our species descends into a fiction of their own making. Young people especially are expected to maintain dual identities, carefully curating a Facebook/Instagram/Youtube persona that sometimes only tangentially resembles their flesh and blood. We're edging toward the Matrix, bro. Our descendants will be flying around cities with flapping trench coats and an alternative rock score in accompaniment. Or not. I don't know.

There's also the fact that we're more or less in charge of our own evolution. Instead of the natural world we evolved to live in, we're roaming around in a bizarre concrete jungle that daily assaults our senses and alienates us further from our past. What sort of creature will human civilization ultimately produce? Who knows, but I have a hard time believing we will do a better job at engineering a survivor than nature.

So yes, times aren't great, especially if you happen not to be a rich white dude. The further dissolution of our political system is a harbinger for future horrors, to be sure. Just keep in mind that everybody dies and every species goes extinct, to give some perspective. I realize that this is a really shitty argument, but shitty arguments are all that I have at the moment.

Weightlifting: On Training a Lift Once a Week

This picture has nothing to do with the article but I had to include it, having stumbled upon it.

Currently, I've been training with a focus on one lift per workout. Sunday is my squat day, Tuesday bench day, Thursday deadlift day, and Saturday focuses on the overhead press. I've had success so far training like this, even though I've always heard that you should train movements multiple times a week for maximum results. That's probably true for newbies, as well as people peaking, but if you're just looking to get stronger and more muscular, I think you're fine just squatting or benching once a week. The key is to make those workout hard, with enough volume and intensity that you're decently sore the next day. Keep in mind that just because you're squatting once a week doesn't mean your squatting muscles aren't being training twice a week, since the deadlift also hits the glutes, quads, hamstrings, and lower back. Same thing with the bench; the overhead press trains the front delts and triceps as well as the upper pecs (depending on how far you lean back). Below is my current program.

Sunday: Squats five sets of five, pyramid style, starting with about fifty percent of my one rep max, with the last set being a record attempt. Do either five heavy singles or five paused singles. Deload and do a light set of ten. Calf raises, just bodyweight, in between sets for 20 reps.

Tuesday: Bench Press five sets of five. Next do heavy singles or paused reps. Lastly, do back off sets of five so that the total repetitions performed for the workout total forty. Low cable rows for five sets of 10-15 reps in between bench sets.

Thursday: Deadlift five sets of five, using a two and a half inch deficit. A few heavy singles afterward. Total reps should at least equal thirty. Arms in between sets, curls and pressdowns.

Saturday: Overhead press five sets of five. Backoff sets of five afterwards. Pulldowns or pullups in between sets, superseted with barbell curls 5 sets of 10.

I try to get my workout done within thirty minutes. That's not a lot of rest in between sets.

Quake Champions Review

Look at that Lovcraftian monstrosity in the sky.

Quake Champions is a curious game. It's right up my alley; my multiplayer heyday was the late ninties and early aughts, when arena shooters were in vogue, and every competent PC gamer knew how to bunny-hop and set up a dedicated server. How times have changed. Counter-Strike changed the first-person-shooter scene, and battle royal games like Player Unknown: Battlegrounds and Fortnite seem to be initializing another paradigm shift. Arena shooters, in other words, are old news. Quake 3 was the last relevant Quake game, released in 1999, and Unreal Tournament 3 was the last triple-A arena shooter, released way back in 2007, and it was a flop. Quake Champions aims to update the arena formula by stealing from Overwatch and introducing characters that have unique abilities. This strategy is partially successful; mastering the abilities of each character gives the game more variety than it would have otherwise, since deathmatch, team deathmatch, and duel are the only current game modes. Still, the introduction of Champions ruins the perfect balance of Quake 3 (the weapons and damage numbers are more or less taken from that game). For example, the Death Knight Champion has the ability to launch a wide spread flame attack that does a lot of damage with a direct hit, as well as flame damage for a few seconds. It's very spammable, and I've often died while playing a weaker Champion from a blind flame shot emitted from a death knight who didn't even know I was there. Heavier Champions start out with one-hundred health and shields, which lets them withstand two railgun shots. With a full stack (100 health/150 shields), you'd have to hit them three times to kill them, severely limiting the usefulness of Quake's venerable sniper weapon. Give a heavy champ the mega health and mega shield, and they're pretty much invulnerable. Some active abilities, like Visor's wallhack, and Nyx's invisibility, are short in duration and take some skill to use, while others, like the aforementioned Death Knight's fire spam and B.J. Blazkowicz's dual wield, are unbalanced. All this doesn't matter much during a messy free-for-all, but I imagine it is frustrating for duel players.

The introduction of Champions, as well as lootboxes, alienates Quake's core fanbase. Yet because of the core gameplay, taken from Quake 3, newcomers to Quake will probably get squashed. Success depends on movement as well as map control; if you don't camp powerups like Quad damage or the mega health, you will get destroyed. Also, newbies have to play against people who've been fragging since 1996, when the first Quake title was introduced. A more in-depth tutorial system could fix this problem, as well as the introduction of more team-based game modes. Without those changes, Quake Champions player base will stay small, which is a shame, because it's the most fun I've had with a multiplayer game since Left 4 Dead 2.

Not a fan of loot boxes, but I had to have the Quake 2 railgun. Weapons skins from previous games are available.

Writer's Block: Lord, Deliver Us from the Boomers

Lord, deliver us from the Boomers

Though they toss and turn

And throw their own feces about,

Give us the strength to dodge

Said thrown feces,

Also, give us a giant broom,

A wastebasket,

And a pacifier,

To aid in the cleaning of their mess.

What a hellscape they left,

An endless land of desert and dust

Where the sun doth shine

On every corner and crevice,

Where only the rats,

Roaches,

And reptiles roam.

They had theirs, and now we will have ours,

And ours is the refuse they have left on our doorstep.

Thanks a lot, guys.

But do me this pittance,

And never bitch about Millennials again.

New Music: The Constant Complaint

I wrote this song many years ago. The original demo was recorded with me playing a shitty Fender 12 string that I eventually sold in a yard sale for like fifty bucks. The intention was to write a doo-wop like song, and although I definitely didn't accomplish that objective, I still dig the end result. Wanted to make this song piano-based, but my keyboard finally crapped out on me, so it's just guitar, bass, vocals, and a drum loop.

I'm Sorry for the Stuff I Said Back When We Were All Idiots

Recently, some evil bastards have uncovered some Tweets I made that were in poor taste. They date back to the early tens, back when we could basically say whatever we wanted. Remember South Park? There was a talking piece of poo called Mr. Hankey, and the fat kid made fun of the Jewish kid for being Jewish. It was typical Generation X comedy, is what I'm saying. From the late nineties on up to the early tens, all you had to do to be a comedian was say something outrageous and claim you were being ironic. So you could tell racist jokes or sexists jokes without actually being called a racist, even though it's kind of hard to tell why people were laughing at such comedy. Were they laughing at your gumption? The breech of social mores? Or were they laughing at the racist/sexist/homophobic content of your joke? See, nobody really gave a shit about all that until just recently.

Look, it might sound as though I'm making excuses, and I guess that I am. But you have to realize how much the world has changed since the early nineties. I've changed and for the better! Should I have taken those Tweets down? Sure. Everybody should be minding their internet footprint, lest it be weaponized against them. Kids these days are growing up connected to the net 24/7, and let me tell you, kids are just as stupid as they've always been. They're putting things up on the net that are never going to go away. I guess what I'm trying to say is that kids, you are going to say or do something stupid and you better damn-well make sure that you keep that idiocy to a minimum on the internet, or you will reap the consequences.

The difference, of course, is that I'm a grown-ass man apologizing for my mistakes. The internet would like you to think that there is no virtue, that everyone pretends to have morals, that all of us are irredeemable sinners putting on a show for our own personal benefit. That's a dangerous attitude to have, and really, you can trace that sort of cynicism back to Generation X. Cynicism is what powers the internet. The internet takes something that I said out of context and puts it next to racist Tweets that Rosanne Barr made and says "See, they're the same!" Are they, though? Roseanne made those comment in the present, in the context of our current political situation. I said my stuff back when we were all idiots. Spot the difference?

What I'm saying is: have pity on me, and the subsequent generation of idiots. Some of us will grow as people, and some of us will not. Keep in mind that we all should have the right of reevaluation of self before you grab your pitchforks.

Sincerely,

Generation X Guy

Feed Me to the Meatgrinder, That'll Show Them

Just lost my job at the nail factory because of the President's steel tariffs. I don't mind. Somebody has to fix the economy. If I have to pay the price, we'll so be it. I'll be the meat that's fed through the grinder that chokes the libtards.

How do you like that sweet economic growth, hippies? Stock market is booming. Of course, I don't have any stock. They didn't offer us any at the nail factory, though we did get a bag of nine inch nails every other quarter if the price was up. I've got a lot of nail bags sitting around the house. Maybe I should grab the initiative and sell some nails on the internet like a real capitalist.

That tax cut they passed is going to help me too. I think I'm going to get an extra three-hundred back. Of course, I'm out of a job at the moment, and tax day is nearly a whole year away. But at least the government ain't getting my hard-earned cash.

What I really enjoy, though, is watching all the libtards squirm as ICE does its job and kicks all the free-loading Mexicans outta the country. They were taking all of our jobs! I know a farmer who doesn't have anybody to pick his crops now, so he's gotta offer those positions to honest Americans. Now he might go out of business because picking peaches is a terrible job and nobody wants to do it but illegal immigrants, but hey, that's capitalism. There are winners and there are losers. We can be meat for the grinder now, but someday, that meat is going to reform itself into a cow, and that cow is going to be filthy rich.

Right now, though, I'm working on getting Disability for my bad back so I won't have to work if I don't want to. A man can live in squalor while he's reconstituting his meat juices. I got plenty of time to watch the Fake News and wonder how some people can be so dumb. So the President's best friends with Russia. Who gives a shit? I don't want to hear any conspiracy theories.

You know if Clinton had been elected, we would've already had World War 3? All the Mexicans would've got amnesty, and I would've lost my job to a woman. At least I have the comfort that my job ain't held by no welfare queen, since the factory is going out of business. Screw you, liberals!

You don't understand the way our psyches have intertwined with the Donald's. You don't understand that every time he trolls the media, it's us that are trolling right along with him. When he says something racist or dismantles a federal agency, he's working for us, fighting the establishment, the forces that hold us down and make us poor. If you think he looks like an idiot, that's because you're over-educated and think you're better than us salt-of-the-earth folk. Every criticism of the Donald is a criticism of us. When you claim that he's fat, ignorant, narcissistic, and incredibly short-cited, then you're saying the same about us.

What you don't get is that it doesn't matter if it all burns down. At least we screwed over the libtards. Really, that's all that matters.