Cristoforo is Coming to Town

Columbus Day is coming up guys. It’s time to shop.

The corporate emails from on high are calling it the new post-Labor Day Labor Day, the pre-Black Friday Black Friday, which just happens to fall on a Monday. This is obviously some wishful thinking, fake it ’til you make it bullshit, but whatever. They dreamed hard enough and Black Friday engulfed Thanksgiving (now Black Thursday). Maybe along with Labor Day and Columbus Day and all these fucking sales we’ll be ready for Christmas. I’m so ready. I’m so fucking ready.

American holidays have a few evolutionary tracks. Christmas is the big boy, the apex predator, and it will assimilate or destroy anything that gets near it. By “near” I mean within half a year. After it blows its load and rolls over for a nice nap, everyone spends New Year’s Eve, the rest of winter and the following spring trying to drink themselves to death. Here in the States we have July 4th, and as the fireworks explode the beast stirs and rumbles over the horizon. Hobby Lobby starts putting up Christmas trees. “Beware, I live!”

If there’s an international holiday about death and/or alcoholism and it’s distant enough to avoid getting slaughtered, hollowed out, and worn like a g-string by Christmas, it’ll get soaked in booze and dragged through the streets once a year, relatively safe from absolute destruction. It may become the Doritos Cheesy Gordita Crunch version of your formerly beloved holiday, but at least it will still exist. If it’s a government-sponsored day off, get out your flag and head to the lake. If the weather isn’t cooperating, hit the mall. If it’s Thanksgiving, cancel that shit, we have to stand in line.

Halloween is just weird enough to survive on its own. Nobody gets a day off, it’s about murder and candy and sexy murder candy, and Christmas wouldn’t fuck that with your dick. Don’t get me wrong, Capitalism has its hooks in Halloween as much as anything else, but as long as that dirty vagabond Spirit of Halloween store keeps panhandling in rental spaces across America, Christmas ain’t gonna take it to the prom.

I’m not even going to get into the whole “rape of the New World” part of Columbus Day because you could apply that to a whole shitload of holidays. It’s easy to pick on Columbus but he’s definitely the slowest gazelle. Any ‘MURICA-inducing celebration comes with baggage, which you’ll have a tough time checking because it’s filled with millions of dead people. Labor Day, a bone thrown to workers to keep them from setting shit on fire is now about working, and the mammoth in the room, Christmas, oh Christmas, you motherfucker.

It’s a wonderful time of year when people of all income levels can increase their slavery footprint. Hey man, I don’t blame you if your kid wants a new phone manufactured by children in Vietnam. She probably needs it to video the cops while they murder innocent men, women, and children in the streets. That’s a public service. I just wish we could manufacture those in Texas instead, but as always, shit’s complicated.

When it comes down to it, though, it’s okay to have a feel. I’m going to have a few this Christmas when I spend it with my wife and kids. I’ve got a little one coming and it’s going to be his first. He won’t remember it, but I will.

It’s all about the duality of man or some shit, Private Joker. Maybe I can’t enjoy a goddamned thing until I get all that out of the way. You don’t need me to tell you that it’s okay to have a good time, either, and if you want to chalk this up to “Momma’s Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Work Retail,” that’s okay too.

When it’s all over it’ll just be Christmas and the cockroaches. Maybe the robots will celebrate it without knowing why. Self-replicating probes will ding at an interval meaningless in interstellar space. Something happened once and now we ding soundlessly into the dark. We ding in the ice. We ding into methane. Ding. Merry Christmas you filthy animal. Ding. Merry Christmas you old savings and loan you.


The Catcher in the Yard

I’m standing at the edge of the driveway. Cora has gotten Bea into the Radio Flyer and she’s having a heck of a time rolling her up and down, up and down. People drive way too fast down this street. If I were fifteen years older and bored enough I’d sit out there in a lawn chair with a radar gun and give people the finger. As it is, I keep myself between the babies and the street at all times.

Cora was involved in her regular chatter yesterday when I went to fetch the kids from day care. These days she’s particularly obsessed with her age and the age of others. She told me she’d be five soon and I corrected her.

“No, kid,” I said, “Your birthday was in June. Christmas is in three months and your birthday is six after that. You won’t be five for a long time.”

She said that then she’d be five and after that she’d be as old as GG. This must be the oldest thing ever in her mind. I told her that that, even, would take a while.

She considered this and said, “Dad, will I die?”

I said, “Yes, you will someday.”

Then, she said, “I don’t want to die.”

I’ve been waiting for this moment for a while and I somehow knew that it would happen in the truck. It happened to me in the car. Something profound takes place in a vehicle. The novelization of The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the Eighth Dimension mentions The Three B’s (that’s the Bed, the Bath, and the Bus). It was surmised that epiphanies arrive in the moments before sleep, while bathing, or while travelling. Maybe it’s confirmation bias, but I’ve found this to be true enough.

I told her that it most likely wouldn’t happen for a long time, but everything dies eventually. She digested that for a moment and moved on to her regularly scheduled four-year-old banter.

Today between battles over pennies and empty paper towel rolls (the least valuable things tend to be the most sought after treasures when children are involved) I was able to separate Bea and Cora long enough to watch the new Space X Mars demo. I had previously tried to distract them with the Chipmunks and Chipettes singing “The Boys (and Girls) of Rock and Roll” but it sent Cora into orbit.

“It’s too loud,” she said. I didn’t have it turned up that much. She probably didn’t have the words for “this is awful.” Heartbroken, I moved on.

The girls were immediately entranced with the computer-generated demo of rockets taking off and landing. Cora started asking simple questions, which I fielded, until something happened to me. What is this? Oh, this isn’t new, but it’s been a while. Not years, but months? Hello Hope, nice to see you again.

I hugged them close to me in my father’s blue E-Z chair that rests in my living room as tears coursed down my face. “You can go,” I said. “Do you want to go to Mars?”

“Yes,” Cora said. “I do. I want to go to Mars.”

“Oh, you can, baby. You will.”

The video was over in four minutes and we went outside. The kids fought over the sandbox while I sat in my patio chair and stared at the sky. Space, the final frontier. How many times did I listen to those words as a child and believe, no, know that it was coming? It was the natural progression, right? Maybe I wouldn’t see it but I’d be a stepping stone. Maybe I’d be a historical figure they’d talk about while they bebop across the stars. At least I’d be someone’s grandfather, someone’s dad, and they’d remember.

I don’t have to summarize recent history or current events to tell you my Star Trek dreams have shriveled into Mad Max nightmares. I’m surely guilty of Scientism, but to an agnostic atheist, getting off this planet is the Promised Land. Screw the problems of mortality. We all gotta die sometime, but humans racing among the stars instead of being snuffed out on this cursed orb, that’s immortality.

There was something about seeing the rockets take off and land upright, 1950s serial style, that sent me right over the edge of verklempt. “We’re here,” I thought. “Late, so late, but here we are.”

And we are. We are, and I won’t apologize if this seems naive or too sincere. I spend days, weeks, months in the dark, and I often wonder if this will all go out like a match someday. As Gary Johnson so helpfully pointed out recently, the sun will engulf the earth, and it doesn’t take much to send me straight into nihilism mode. That’s pretty much where I live, so when it sneaks up on me, the angel of “What If,” I will take that shit any day. I will take that over the dirt. I will take that over the void.

When Elon Musk stood there and let me know that maybe I’ll be not part of a stone falling cold through nothing, but a stepping stone in the brook of life, a link in the chain, that maybe I won’t conquer the stars but my children, their children may? Will! They will!

Well, I’ll shed a happy tear over that. It sure as hell can’t hurt.


God Damn America 

When Sandy Hook came and nothing changed, we were divided into two camps, but not the two you think.

There are the handful of those who think a classroom full of babies is the price we pay for freedom, and then there’s everyone else. The latter group is the majority of Americans who butted heads for months over solutions until the onslaught of repeated tragedies led them down different paths.

Then, a young man walked into a church with a gun. The difference was that there was something simple to attack in response. Heath care is complicated. Racism, eternal. Gun control or lack thereof? Astounding. Tear down That Old Flag, though, and most of us can agree.

There are still outliers in the countryside who fly it with glee. The miniscule number of KKK members cling to it, and misguided teens fly it from their trucks in southern towns, but something changed. 

Sadly, that’s all that changed. Those angry folks started flying the Gadsden Flag, you know, the yellow “Don’t Tread on Me” with the snake. They flew the US flag even harder. Their patriotism swelled. This is not Confederate, they said. This is American. Let’s make it Great Again.

Now we’re kneeling at the anthem for damned good reason. The high school sports teams get it, and it gives me a glimmer of hope, but once again, that symbol can be defeated or changed or adapted or not, but the cancer of hate will mutate in response.

We’re already there in that terrible place some threaten if we don’t vote the way they wish. I’m not going to label it otherwise because then people will want to argue over definitions, but no one can deny that this is America.

The malignancy isn’t coming in November, or next January. That’s just affliction with a different name.

We’re sick with it. We were born this way, baby.

My Patronus is Joseph Kony

Today I saw a clip where Gary Johnson argued against spending money to combat climate change because the sun will eventually engulf the earth.

Finally, a pragmatic political plan I can get behind.

I have another window open and I’m watching a video of Syrians digging a dead child out of rubble. I’ve forgotten how I got here. It’s not impossible to find out. I could go into my browser history, but I won’t.

The other day I wrote a terribly shitty poem about things I cannot change and I deleted it in frustration because the conclusion was bad and wrong. It involved Superman intervening in unjustified slayings of people of color. Haha, “unjustified,” as if there is a category of justified slayings. Even now it creeps in, that deference to authority. Maybe there shouldn’t be such a thing as a justified killing of civilians. You’d think we have the tactics and the technology to avoid this. What happened to the Popular Science articles of the 20th century where we read about nets and expanding foam and soundwaves and lasers? Even then, they’ve found ways to kill with Tasers. It wouldn’t matter.

Now my screen is full of the “pick three fictional characters that make you” meme and I’m seeing the narcissism come out full force. There’s some self-deprecation, to be sure. The regular jokers are making themselves something pathetic or absurd, then some people are eschewing irony to hit it head on with Sherlock Holmes or Batman or Han Solo. If we all wanted to be honest I think we’d be Girl #4, Dead Pimp, and (uncredited).

Believe me, I don’t hate memes. The best part of meme is that it’s “me” twice, and that’s something I can dig. The worst part of being a horrible narcissist, though, is feeling unacknowledged and helpless when it doesn’t pan out. Pagliacci joke, roll on snare drum, curtains.

There used to be a time when I thought the complainers, the whiners, they (we, me) were going to save the world. Come on, guys, we were Time Magazine’s Person of the Year in 2006. Some of you were Time Magazine’s Person of the Year in 2011. I remember watching in rapt attention on my netbook between college classes as New Yorkers marched through the streets and made noise. Something was going to happen. We were abuzz. Maybe this is it. Maybe it’s time.

It’s always time though, isn’t it? Time to brush your teeth, time to go to work, time to keep your mouth shut, time to pay those bills, time to sleep, time to fuck, time to shit, time to die.

The other day I watched protest streams online and they have this cool feature now where people’s comments scroll by in real time. It was fascinating to see the amount of people calling for the deaths of the protesters and then, two or three clicks away, I could be on that person’s profile. Standing on the deck with their wife. In a swank party full of white people. On a boat. On a tropical beach. Again and again.

I wanted to find someone, anyone, to report to their manager at Target or Burger King but I don’t think you’d be shocked to find out that this was not the target demographic. They were self-employed, some in offices, some in hardhats, mostly white but not all! Perhaps that was the most useful and revealing, that affluent business-owners, or even hard working middle class men (and I say men because it was men), mostly white (but not all) were suggesting vehicular homicide or machine gun traps.

Because in the end, it’s about race, but it’s about money, it’s all about class, and it’s fucking complicated.

I used to link to the twelve point plans of smarter dudes but no one reads that shit so I won’t bore you, because I can do that on my own. I’ve been ranting about the banjos (what did that instrument ever do to you?) and flags (barf) around here and people from greener pastures keep pointing out to me that it’s more pernicious. It’s not so obvious, but it is. It’s neither and both. Since we need analogies now to understand anything (Skittles: taste the painbow) I compare it to the American body having a full blown case of every-orifice herpes. Sometimes it’s barely noticeable on the lip, sometimes it’s a barnacle hanging off the asshole, but it’s always fizzling beneath the surface.

This week when American iconoclast Noam Chomsky, hero of the Patchoulians, told everyone to take two minutes (twelve hours) and go vote, the Democrats and moderates added that to their sales pitch, which has previously been a mishmash of bullying and caterwauling. I understand the concept of the political whip, and I won’t argue against its necessity. When I recently witnessed two Latinas discuss Trump, one solidly supporting him, and one on the fence saying, “If he didn’t act so crazy,” believe me, I felt it. Oh, what did they have in common other than their ethnicity? Six-figure incomes.

Even then, I am absolutely exhausted by being beaten over the head with this choice we must make when our government, our governments now are responsible for what is happening right fucking now. Are you happy now? The current candidates didn’t come back in a time machine to bomb hospitals but they are entrenched in the economy that does and they’d love to jump on that saddle and bomb more of them. They didn’t retroactively cause black men to be shot in the streets just for living, but you sure can argue that they’ve had a hand in setting up a society where that happens. See also: dat refugee situation! Now I’m in it, though, and your brain is tickling! Talking point, talking point, talking point, talking point, line those fuckers up and go to war, but you’ll end up in the mud and trenches and your brain will be eaten like rats gnawing into the bloated bodies of Tommies and Huns.

The algebra of change has always included pain as a factor, and there isn’t enough in the right places. There’s enough in front of me in this glowing box. If I stare at this square long enough it seems like this is all there is, the box, nothing but the Unholy Rectangle shooting The Fucking Truth directly onto my retinas. Out there, though? Out there the movers and the shakers “don’t go online” because they’re too busy making shit happen.

Then, the ones that do check in occasionally are busy telling you to die in the street. Click on their profile and they will undoubtedly be backed by white sand and palm trees or holding an automatic rifle while wearing a Dad’s Against Daughters Dating t-shirt, or all of the above. I mean you, as well, because it’s not me. They aren’t telling me to do anything but unbox and sort 600 lbs of magazines.

Maybe the problem is that we’ve bought into this fable where we live to be old and grey and we hold our grandchildren, our great-grandchildren on our knee, and that’s the hustle. That’s the lie, the secular pearly gate we want to stand in front of, and what is real is that we die alone. Whether it’s the bathroom floor or a hospital bed or in a car or on the street, we die, we die, we die, and owning twelve houses in different states isn’t going to get you on enough transplant lists to beat death, Mr. Jobs.

So here it is, the nihilism of Gary Johnson. Fuck it, for real, because we are all going to die. I’ve been waiting for this candidate my entire life. Move over, Bern. Here’s the Change we’ve been waiting for. No Hope, because we all know that hope is a mistake.

Gary Johnson for President: We All Gotta Die Sometime.

What’s in a Year?

I often lament Facebook’s On This Day feature. Future generations will know no such burden, having outlawed Facebook after the torture of gazing upon every unfortunate event and terrible decision they ever made on a daily basis finally overwhelms the entire human race to exhaustion.

There are beautiful things on there too, and here I go again with the lamentations of hiding such things inside a swollen cow’s anus just to be forced to plunge in shoulder deep to retrieve them.

Hopefully I’ve learned something from this, but we all know that hope is a mistake.

Today while I pushed down the malaise of retail life by gazing deeply into my not-yet-exploded Samsung, I was caught off guard by a juxtaposition of two selfies taken on this day, exactly one year apart.

Exhibit A, Young Bob, September 19, 2010

There he is, Liz Taylor blurry, looking grizzled and dreamy. There’s a tuft of wispy hair up top, which I carefully managed with precise, nerve-wracking haircuts performed by the fine follicular surgeons at SportClips. These were always accompanied by a massage, which I recommend, and a generous tip, which was to compensate for forcing some poor wage slave to touch my shoulders when they’d probably rather be eating safety glass.

Oh, and the sideburns. Can’t leave that out. I’d been rocking those since high school. They once provoked my district manager at Sam’s Club to ask me, point blank, “What is the deal with those sideburns?” I laughed and told her we weren’t far from Memphis, and Elvis was still King.

I’m always struck by my photographs as the years flip by me daily, back and forth, 2008, 2014, 2011, 2009. Something happened in there, somewhere. There’s a point where I go from looking like balding Bill the Vampire to Old Bob, and I never could quite put my finger on it until today, when this popped up:

Exhibit B, Old Bob, September 19, 2011

The first thing I thought was, “Dad died,” and that has plenty to do with it. I’d started shaving my head and quickly got lazy about it. I still sport old man fuzz half the time because the thought of getting all itchy is excuse enough to stay my buzzin’ hand.

Yeah, I can still pull off Young Picard when I take a razor to everything except my eyebrows, but this is when it happened. This is when I went from being a Young Man to being a Man. Don’t get me wrong, I am in my goddamned prime, and this isn’t supposed to be accompanied by sad violin music.

Still, I notice these things, and like those before and after slideshows of Obama or Dubya, something happened in there, whether it was overwhelming stress, Lovecraftian horror, or plain old boring mortality.
Shit has occurred. I got divorced, Dad died, I got married, and yeah, two-thirds of that was my fault, but it doesn’t change the fact that Bob was going to carry that weight a long time.


It’s not uncommon to see prayer requests online, and they usually accompany a frustrating vaguepost. Guys, if I’m going to take a knee on your behalf and compose a throaty ballad to Armok, God of Blood, I’m going to need the deets. That is, unless you want it to contain lots of humming and one of those lazy “na na na” choruses. There will probably be a whistling outro. You’ve brought this upon yourselves.

Obviously, deities have varying exchange rates, but there should be some sort of action involved unless you’re praying to Aergia, the Goddess of Sloth. Most people can’t be bothered to expend the single calorie (not a kilocalorie, fam) it takes to click a mouse, so I don’t have high hopes for a customized prayer or even the standard wham, bam, thank you ma’am. When I don’t have any faith whatsoever that your body will strain its weathered, carb-addled carapace to engage in fake Internet interactions, how can I be sure that you’ve actually said a prayer?

No, when I’m in trouble, I need sacrifice. I’m not talking about money because you don’t have any. I’m not interested in symbolic gestures, memes, emotes, attaboys, or your next shittiest lamb.

I need someone to die.

“But Bob,” you’ll say, “That’s not legal!”

Oh, I’m not asking you to go out and murder someone just for me. It is against the law and, again, if you can’t be bothered to click “like” on a Facebook post how could I expect you to get out of your seat and throttle some hopefully deserving public figure to death? WINK WINK.

No, no. You’re already murdering people all day long. I need you to dedicate one of those to me.

“But Bob,” you’ll cry, “I’ve never killed anyone, unless you count that time I Pokemon Go’d my Suburban into the Susan Komen 5k!”

Hey pal, your tax dollars are constantly at work killing men, women, and children all over the world. You didn’t personally hire a hitman but we all pay taxes, and whether it’s thousands of dollars or a fraction of a penny, a hit is a hit. If I give a man a nickel to drop a bomb on Doctors Without Borders, or if you pay two ex-cons $40,000 to brutally murder your spouse in their kitchen, the deal has been done.

What about every time someone sets off a car bomb in a market in a country we’ve worked hard to destabilize? Negligent homicide counts in my book. If you filled your house full of land mines and cobras you’d probably be liable when the mailman gets snakesploded. I want you to take a moment, a fraction of a second and dedicate one of those to me. Mmm, sacrifice.

“We?” you’ll say. “I didn’t do anything. That’s the government, mannn. The government I may or may not have elected but-”

Look, it’s easy. Why say a prayer when you can take one, just one, of the one or two hundred slaves included in your slavery footprint, and consider the impact you’ve had on their life?

“Slavery footprint? What’s that?”

Well kiddo, it’s like a carbon footprint except with people.

“What’s a carbon footprint?”

Aww, you knucklehead.

When you shop at Wal-Mart or Target or The Mofuggin Gap, you’re employing all sorts of happy, foreign people who aren’t so excited to be crushed under collapsing buildings or charbroiled in factory fires. Take one of those and dedicate them to me. Just one.

We can do this guys. We can justify it now because with prayers we had to shoot out a message and hope for the best, or not even that. We could lie about even thinking a thing and go on with our day, effortless effort expended.

Don’t call it a comeback, sacrifice has been here for years, and now you don’t even have to drag children up a stone pyramid and hack their heads off in a futile attempt to appease the rain gods. You don’t have to stand in the sweet green grass below and clap as the piercing echo of hundreds of hands slapping together shoots back as a shocking yelp. You don’t have to do anything now because the hard math of counting on fingers and scratching in the dirt has moved from abacus to calculator, outsourced with lightning speed so simple a toddler could do it without understanding why. Fat little fingers tapping tablets, sacrifice, sacrifice, sacrifice.

You don’t have to look past our shores or your computer screen. You don’t have to go outside to click (there’s that calorie) YouTube, LiveLeak, Worldstarhiphop, Facebook livestreams before they’re deleted, and witness the choking machine-gunned wreck of your fellow citizens, your brothers and sisters, your children eaten by dogs. Write a prayer for that one or better yet, tune out and sacrifice.

You’ll expend thousands of seconds and calories shaming and bullying people who protest the situation but when it comes to boring old sacrifice it’s best to follow my formula.

Throw another body on the pyre for your buddy’s tonsil removal. Weep for humanity but go ahead and chalk another one up for that big raise. Job interview? I hear someone kidnapped a bus full of students south of the border. Refinancing your home? There are 30 million Americans without health insurance. We’ll lose a few today. You didn’t write the law but you voted or didn’t, complicit enough. Sacrifice.

In my dreams I see feeds full of requests. Not prayers but, “Sacrifice?” Short, vague enough, and to the point. No likes, clicks, shares, or polar bears. I hear the hum of laptop fans and only a word, because the click is too expensive. The typed line, the bent knee, the seconds, rare minutes spent crying out to God, all too dear. Just sacrifice and be silent, knowing that the deed is done, your dedication delivered inside of a moment, then it’s on to the next digital injection.


A Fart in the Wind

To be online at all is to witness human pain. Maybe I’m seeing it through the tunnel vision of my selective social media hugbox, but I can also log onto any major hub of Internet activity and read the same stories played out repeatedly. It’s easy to get online and yell, anonymously or not, and people do so often, so I don’t think I’m wrong when I call the Greater Internets a miasma of illness and terror.

Maybe I’m getting older and increasingly cynical. Maybe it’s The Times, and I’m not referring to a newspaper.

Then again, they are always a-changin’. It’s easy for me to say, “Something seems different now,” because I’m alive right now. I have all the hindsight, none of the foresight, and just enough narcissism to think, “Here I am. This shit is real, yo.” From climate change to political change, it’s all too simple to be Chicken Little when I can imagine any historical catastrophe (or even sub-catastrophic incidents major and minor) and think “Yes, this is it. This is the End of Civilization.” I won’t make that mistake with the present.

I don’t want to give advice. While it usually comes from a good place it’s often misguided and condescending. It’s too easy to go, “Cheer up, pal!” and dust off my hands as I walk away considering it a job well done. All I’ve done is fire a spitball into the inferno of another person’s life.

Sometimes even extending a hand is fraught with danger. How much pulling am I willing to do? When the water gets too high and the other person, that cherished friend (or, as is more common online, that distant acquaintance) is suddenly a brick around my neck, am I willing to cut them loose to save myself or do we drown together? I’ve tried both with varying results. I obviously cannot tell you what to do because I don’t know your circumstances. You often won’t either, sometimes until it’s too late.

It’s easy to get into a mode where I want to keep my head down and forge on. “Cowboy up,” as Mom would say. I have my moments, like everyone else, but I find it best in those times to consider that I belong to my wonderful wife and my two, soon to be three, amazing children. I am their servant, their steward, and their soldier if need be.

As I read this back to myself I realize I must sound like a selfish, self-actualized piece of crap. Believe me, I am usually somewhere halfway up the face of Mt. Maslow spiritually reenacting some 127 Hours shit. These are my coping mechanisms. This is where I have to visualize myself even when I am not okay.

I see you crying and drowning and dying and I want to give you something, anything, but I don’t know what to give you that a shrink or a social worker or the suicide hotline couldn’t. I’m not so certain I’m the guy who should even be doing this thing. I have no Nirvāṇa, no Valhalla for you. I know that I know nothing. I’m pretty certain we’re just moody bags of meat. Germ sacks, swamp apes, squishy computers. You can Creation Science that shit up if it makes you more comfortable and you know what? That’s okay. It’s okay to do that if you like (you certainly don’t need my permission) because this world has too little hope in it. I won’t attempt to rob yours with my metaphysical opinions. (Just try to leave other folks alone with your wizardry, okay?)

I could steal from Alan Moore and rant about the miracle of being alive, the universe vast and unimaginable, the fact that everything before you lived and successfully procreated in a long line stretching back to when life wasn’t life and you are here, right now, reading this, on a rock spinning fast out in the dark. It’s poetic mumbo jumbo bullshit and a hell of a thing to blow up someone’s asshole when they’re in the depths of despair, but it’s also something. Take it from me, I’m not only the Poetic Mumbo Jumbo Club President, I’m also a client.

I could tell you it gets better, but it may not. It may not ever. You may die horribly, tomorrow, or in fifty years. You may not know what hit you or you may beg for mercy, but you will not live forever. The anxiety of considering this might keep you from leaving the house every day and then I could even tell you you’re missing the life you have worrying about the life you will lose. While it’s true, it’s not very fucking helpful. It’s not a magic key to end panic, that’s for goddamned sure. Just look at me. I’m living proof.

Maybe you’ll get all the things you ever wanted and you’ll realize that it still turns to ash in your mouth. Maybe that’s the moment you’ll realize that you can’t run away from you. Well, you can, but there won’t be a you anymore to run away from.

Introspection is a sonofabitch because it’s gooey and unmeasurable and often wrong, but by golly navel-gazing is the American pastime right after Baseball and racism so it’s not going anywhere anytime soon. It fills my every waking hour unless I dull it out with smartphone radiation or the smiling faces of my loved ones.

I don’t even want to tell you what works for me because that would be like blindly handing you a key off my ring and telling you to give it a shot on that old rusty padlocked shed out back. “Here’s some WD-40. Give it the old college barista try.”

It implies, even, that one can self-code software around possible hardware failures and holy shit, insert a thesis right here. Ain’t nobody got time for that. Discuss it amongst yourselves.

I can’t leave you hanging, though. If you’ve had the pleasure of putting a baby to bed, you might be familiar with the fact that nothing works all the time, and most things that do work stop working eventually. There’s that lock and key metaphor creeping in again, but you’re dealing with a changing system. The brain is encrypting itself against you all damned time, Neo. What is a distraction today may be worth keeping on the short list of things to try next time, but if it doesn’t, don’t take that as the death knell leading up to the doom spiral of failure. Shove it aside and move down the list of codes. I’m not going to tell you to fucking get creative. This ain’t Pinterest. As with getting a teething infant to slip back into unconsciousness without breaking any laws, or hacking the Gibson before the shit hits the fan, these things are done at the height of distress and dismay.

If it helps to blame society, do it. I do it all the time. Google Fu “income as compared to productivity levels”, or “the buying power of modern workers” compared to people 20, 30, or 50 years ago. We are fucked hard and MTV did tell you, each and every one of you, that you were going to be a rock star. Public school told you and Little League told you and now, as all abusers do, they’re going to throw that shit in your face and literally fuck you to death while they tell you to like it and that furthermore, you’re not even going to get to live the bare minimum sitcom level nuclear family life depicted on Married… with Children, as if that nightmare were a thing to aspire to. Today might be your darkest day, but you can’t let them win like this. There’s an old Klingon proverb I consider often, “Revenge is a dish best served cold.” Hold that in your hot little hand and squeeze the fuck out of it until it’s time.

The preceding paragraph was written in the style of Little Bobby Talbot circa 2013 or so. I’m pulling out all the stops here.

As always, I have fallen back to the rhetorical device of claiming I don’t give advice and then giving advice anyway, which is how I always roll because the Great and Powerful Oz still works even if the curtain is open, Dorothy.

Still, I want you to know how much hot air this is. I cannot give you a job. I probably can’t give you any money. I can give you bullshit but I definitely cannot give you hope because most of the time I don’t even have that. I absolutely do not have any answers, because there aren’t any and I will fight you if you say different.

What I can give you is a distraction, for a few minutes anyway, and maybe that is enough. I know it doesn’t have a Zen Pencils to go along with it, or a shitty Oatmeal cartoon (although I could definitely crank one out with some anecdotes about hard running and cats and hating myself if it’s required), but whatever seems so urgent this second can wait until tomorrow.

Sometimes it’s not even that, though. It’s the general malaise, the dysthymia, and there’s the fucking trek across a thousand miles of desert. That’s where the shitty Oatmeal cartoon would come in handy, and all I can say is, “I’m out here too.” Maybe to you guys it’s Fury Road and “…hope is a mistake” but to me it will always be Gulag, that plane in the sand, and, “Ain’t we a pair, Raggedy Man.”

Tomorrow-morrow Land is out there, folks. It may not look like you thought it would, but I’ve seen it many times. It’s a little different each time, and sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever see it again, but it’s out there.

Yeah, that’s some “sun will come out tomorrow” bullshit. I can’t get anything past you. I can tell you to squeeze into a little red dress and sing your heart out but that doesn’t make it Broadway.

You can make do with local theater today, though. You can make do standing on your couch and singing to the cats. How do you get on top of the futon? Practice, practice, practice.

You did it, baby. You’re a rock star.

Dadblog: The First Six Months

My Delayedbor Day Weekend consisted of hanging out with the kids, scraping old content from the shitbowl of Facebook’s archives while Cora was at preschool, and getting some sort of illness (food poisoning?) that had me barfing, pooping, and sleeping for a solid day.

Here’s something for Shitpost Saturday. It’s my online journal of being a new dad back in 2012. I didn’t write anything down on paper. Baby book? What baby book? I fed everything to the machine. My present-day notes are in brackets and italics where I feel it’s necessary. In unrelated news, I just watched a video of guys hunting feral hogs in Texas from a helicopter. I’m probably going to quit my job today and go do that for a living.

June 27, 2012
Birthdate +1

I am going to be “annoying guy who posts baby stuff” from now until the end of time, so just get ready. I’m apologizing in advance and I promise I’m not gonna post every time she takes a dump, but it’s gonna be bad. I’ll try to at least make it interesting… sometimes… and I’m not gonna spam 20 updates a day or anything. Also feel free to make fun of me. I deserve it.

June 28, 2012

So, today, while baby and I were telepathically communicating in Aramaic, we unlocked the secret to time and space and now we control the universe. Our first decree was to have the US Supreme Court uphold the Affordable Healthcare Act. I’ve noticed that this has rustled some jimmies, so our prescription is to stare at this image until you are overwhelmed by feelings of peace and love. Chooooooooommmmmmmm

June 29, 2012

Is there such thing as Father’s Instinct? I have been cleaning the house constantly since we got home and I seem to require minimal sleep. I would almost call it mania but I’m not having any negative weirdness that’s usually associated with that, I’m just working my ass off and loving it. I think it’s because this has been my goal for so long and now that it’s here, it’s game on. What an adventure!!!

June 30, 2012

Me and Corafishy are in the Man Cave listening to music. Any suggestions? Right now it’s Mott the Hoople.

July 2, 2012

It’s Classical Music Midnight with baby. ROSSINI MADE HER SPIT UP. Either that or my lack of burping and other incompetence (probably should have had her sitting up). BAD DADDY. We also messed up like three outfits in the span of 15 minutes and now she’s just sitting around with a bib on. And moo cow socks. How can you pee, then pee in the pee diaper while I am removing it, then pee on the clean one as I am trying to put that one on… then somehow get pee on the clean outfit I picked out when we were nowhere near it? I laughed for 10 minutes straight. I love you, baby.

July 8, 2012

Note to self: working all day then coming home to baby patrol for half the night does not justify consuming 2000 calories worth of pizza in one sitting. Pepto Bismol you are strangely delicious right now…

July 12, 2012
12:08 pm

In non-political-rant news, I have quickly grown tired of explaining “Coraline” to people I meet and have shortened it to Cora, which is what I call her anyway. Cora is an old lady name but at least people are like “oh okay!” instead of Coraline where for some reason the addition of “-line” freaks them out and some of the stares I get after I tell the name to people make me think we should have just gone with Lolita Tanqueray. Or Trixie. [I actually got away with this one later. Hello Beatrix. Hahaha!] IN CONCLUSION, I think I am going to start carrying a copy of the book around, or maybe some kind of certificate of authenticity from Neil Gaiman himself.

July 12, 2012
10:11 pm

So far when baby has been asleep she has been oblivious to EVERYTHING… except for Chris Griffin screaming on Family Guy. He screamed, she screamed… then she fell back asleep.

July 13, 2012

Ahahah oh man is there a phase where babies never stop eating ever? Because we’re in it.

July 18, 2012

It’s exhausting work taking care of a newborn, but one thing makes it all worth it, and that one thing is Anger Farts. Anger Farts will never stop making me laugh. Cora, you are the best!

July 24, 2012

The Ever Waking Pigmonster is four weeks old today and weighs 11 lbs. I am sure she is longer but I can’t measure her because the sleep deprivation prevents me from using even the simplest tools accurately. I love her so much! She’s full of demons SEND HELP ZCBHGCcvbgfx60+4»©€^

July 25, 2012

Rocked gassy baby to sleep singing Fleet Foxes songs and then somehow transitioned into Nirvana. It worked. Also, Bob Talbot Lullaby versions of Nirvana songs are pretty awesome if I do say so myself. Earlier on it was Queen and David Bowie. I think she likes pretty much anything as long as I’m singing it. [I still do this with Bea, mainly.]

July 27, 2012

Exhaustion is just your body’s way of telling you that you are terrible at everything and that everything is terrible. I love you Corafishy and I’m sorry you were fathered by Emodad. PS – as you can tell, world, the new dad mania has worn off. Now I have the month old dad horrors.

August 3, 2012

Prom Night Dumpster Baby has the Anger Sharts. She also loves paci but loves spitting it out even more. I’m assuming that strapping it to her face is a huge no no, but why do they put two holes in those things? When is she going to get the motor skills to pick that fucker back up? She already kinda struggles to keep it in with her fat hamfists. She is so pretty and obese like a big monkey grubworm I love her ridiculous face so hard. Her head is like a big dumb pumpkin with a mohawk sometimes I just like to chew on it. Tickle her brain. I expect a personalized Father of the Year award from each and every one of you. Sleep is for quitters. Or rehab. Yeah I think it’s rehab. Sleep is for Amy Winehouse. [Dat topical humor.]

August 15, 2012

In non revolutionary news [I was hard into workers’ rights agitation at this point], baby can now hold her head up LIKE A BAWS. She also likes playtime (mostly punching and chewing toys), writing songs with daddy, and wiggling around in a big circle (kinda like a gradual Curly Howard spin). Seven weeks and one day old. I love you Corafishy!

August 21. 2012

To the person who made a typo on my child’s birthdate on our insurance and caused every claim for the first month to be rejected and cause me to have to spend time having it fixed and having everyone refile claims and telling people no, I don’t owe you thousands of dollars: I know people make mistakes. Maybe you had a bad day or maybe you just suck, but know this: (ANOTHER COLON) I hope you stub your toe on your coffee table, hard. I hope the nail turns black and falls off and the new one that grows back is never right again and gets ingrown and then, months later you have to have a painful surgery to have that one removed which, while not life threatening is a severe annoyance, one that will make you paranoid for the rest of your life about coffee tables, toenail trimming, and minor surgery. I wish this for you. I, right now, am praying to anything that can hear me to make this happen for you. The world is going to be a better place after you are as moderately annoyed and inconvenienced as I am. [Check your paperwork, kids.]

August 26, 2012
7:07 am

Happy two month day to my Corafishy. I love you so much! I want this to be a better world for you and I’ll never stop fighting for it. [I wonder if this was my problem? Some sort of identity crisis brought on by fatherhood?]

August 26, 2012
5:53 pm 
[Two political screeds later.]

Having a good time at Upper Crust celebrating baby’s happy twomonthday. Baby is actually sleeping through it, victory!

August 26, 2012
8:19 pm
[After more screeds.]


August 27, 2012

Baby is somehow smile/laugh/frown/cry/hiccup wiggling all at the same time. Definitely a Talbot.

August 29. 2012

Corafishy is a little sicky poo from vaccinations. :((((

September 3, 2012

Spending some time with Corafishy before work. She is so funny! She does all kinds of neat stuff now. She can suck her thumb, smiles a lot, coos, I am pretty sure she just laughed… she’s also eating A LOT so I think we’re gearing up for another growth spurt. She is in the 75th percentile for size in every category so I think we’ve got a monster baby on our hands.

September 4, 2012

I love daddy-daughter time in the mornings because Corafishy always does new hilarious stuff. She is super happy and loves her Mr. Bear, and she’s laughed a couple of times. Maybe we’ll work on some geography. One of my current catchphrases is “Hey Cora… where’s Mali? IT’S RIGHT NEXT TO MAURITANIA!”

September 5, 2012

Horrible fat baby gained over a pound in a week. She, quite hilariously, took a giant dump and overflowed her diaper in her car seat WHILE we were in Ruby Tuesday. She pretty much slept through it. Needless to say, we’re doing XTREME LAUNDRY and giving baby a bath. We’re about to run to Sam’s to LEVEL UP on diapers. The current diapers are rated to 14 lbs but our 13.4 lb baby is taking epic Talbot dumps. Christopher [Clark], you’re about to inherit half a box of unused LVL 1 Pampers of epic +5 crapping the car seat.

September 6, 2012

Spending some quality time with Corafish. Mr. Bear is definitely her transitional object. I wonder if I can trick her somehow by attaching the Mr. Bear mobile to my head…

September 8, 2012
12:48 pm

Good morning! I’d just like to mention a thought I had yesterday while doing some shopping: It is very frustrating to see the “boy” clothes all dark colors and “rock and roll” themed and the “girl” clothes rack all frilly and neon pink and princess themed. We solve that problem by buying the clothes we like regardless of what section they are in. OR consider the damned hot pink kitchen set with a little girl on the box dutifully cleaning. Yeah, we probably will have a kitchen playset, but everyone’s gonna use it, boy or girl, so they know the importance of keeping a clean home (important for EVERYONE), and it’s not gonna be hot pink. There were a couple of more responsible ones that were normal colors with boys on the box, but even then they were GRILLING WOOOO A MAN’S GOTTA GRILL. Everything is terrible.

September 8, 2012
11:07 pm

I have determined that Cora has at least one word in her passive vocabulary. Unfortunately, it is “pretty”. Everyone has said it to her over and over so much that she reflexively smiles every time she hears it. I feel like I have already failed… I mean, she is pretty, but holy crap that is not supposed to be the first word you understand. Maybe she thinks it means smile or it’s her name?

September 16, 2012
[After a over a week of raging about politics.]

Okay… We are going to be driving a very long distance with what will be a three month old. We’ll split it up over two eight hour days… Any advice other than “NOOOOOOO DON’T DO IT”? I want to be prepared for this…

September 18, 2012

Corafishy is 12 weeks old today. She rolled over for the first time today! She can sit up assisted and has the basic position and fundamentals of crawling down when she is on her belly, she just can’t really get anywhere. She can hold a rattle, and she is super smiley and loves to play. She will also hold a bottle if we put it in her hands. The best part is when she attempts to roll over multiple times and fails, and then she gets The Talbot Rage.

September 22, 2012

Cora apparently loves baths so much that she’s willing to explosively overdump her diaper (AND DADDY) so that she can have two in one day. At least she’s having a good time!

September 25, 2012

Corafishy will be three months old tomorrow. She is so huge! She has doubled her birth weight (from 7 lbs 5 oz to 14 lbs 10 oz as of today).

October 4, 2012

New York City loves Coraline. We had so many random people tell us how pretty she is. She was also super good and she LOVED looking at everything. This week she’s gotten very squeaky and babbly and it got her a lot of attention.

October 7, 2012

I think Cora is happy to be home. She really enjoyed vacation as far as I can tell, but she woke up bright eyed and bushy tailed and she seems excited to be with her things. Her object fascination has transitioned, from Mr. Bear and his Four Balloons of The Apocalypse, to Monkey Mirror. She is getting super vocal and somewhat grabby, but she still can’t roll over on purpose. I have a feeling she might be turning into a smart sack of potatoes (a Talbot).

October 10, 2012

Cora is at that stage where she has discovered that she can squeal really loud and she does it to entertain herself. I think it’s hilarious and I’ve been telling her to “sing me a song” while she does it.

October 13, 2012

I just taught Cora how to make espresso. I think she should have the hang of it within five years.

October 30, 2012

Her [Cora’s] first word, her first repeatable word, that she will respond to you with and do over and over… It’s a raspberry. A fart noise. She does it, I do it, she does it more, I laugh.

November 12, 2012

[The run-up to the election and the election itself had me super occupied, apparently.

Cora’s wild mood swings definitely prove without a doubt that she is my daughter. Also she looks just like me and she is a MASSIVE JERK.

November 14, 2012

At zoo alone. [As in, it was an overcast, cruddy day. Not many other patrons.] Had same zookeeper follow us around and talk about stuff. Got VIP sea lion show to ourselves. Giant silverback gorilla sat by the plexiglass and let us take photos of him from a foot away for 10 minutes. Zoo membership totally worth it, A++ would renew again.

November 15, 2012
12:24 pm

Cora has a huge birthmark on her chest in the shape of Puerto Rico. [It’s a hemangioma, actually.] I think this, combined with the potential statehood news, means something, and by “something” I mean that she is probably the Harbinger of Doom. I always knew I would spawn something special!

November 15, 2012
4:57 pm

ALSO broke every rule of parenting and took Cora to see Wreck-it Ralph, which was fine because there were only other three other groups of people in there and we knew one of them. I SAID I WOULD NEVER DO THIS AND I LIED. BOB TALBOT KING OF LIES. Also she really loved it and watched most of it, except for eating and a short nap. AND she didn’t make noise. I will only do this with kids movies I swear. OH and by the way the movie was fantastic (a few single tear moments), A++ would take a baby to again, and the Sugar Rush theme song is now my favorite song.

November 26, 2012

My Corafishy is 5 months old today. She can sit up on her own, she loves veggies and some fruit (if you mix it with veggies, haha), she loves her walker, can roll over, and still can’t crawl! I think she will probably pick the crawling thing up soon, though, because she is getting the arm part down during sitting practice. She loves to pet the cat! She’s probably the best thing that ever happened. I tell her that all the time.

November 29, 2012

Cora went to the park for the first time today. Nothing she could do on her own, of course, but she got to play with help. She LOVED the baby swings. It was definitely a hit with her.

December 2, 2012

Me and baby are hanging out by ourselves. Daddy time is pretty awesome. So far she’s peed all over the crib (not my fault, she likes to whiz in diaperless freedom) and there’s somehow butt paste on everything (probably my fault). Right now she’s rolling around in her walker, destroying the house, while I drink coffee. I could probably handle a couple more of these BRING IT ON.

December 26, 2012
12:22 pm

Cora got to play in the snow today. She was not ultra impressed. I’d say the giant snowsuit and layers of clothes put a damper on her spirits.

December 26, 2012
2:38 pm

I almost forgot! Today my Corafish is six months old. She is the best thing ever! She loves to play and can sit up well on her own. No teeth yet, and cannot crawl, but she can drive her walker around like an ace. The other day we did at least 20 laps around the kitchen/living room while she chased me. She’s getting better at communicating through her cavegirl grunts and screams, and although she’s not talking for real, we can usually tell what she is getting at. She’s super inquisitive and loves to play with her toys, bubbles, animals (stuffed and real), and gets super excited about it. I can’t believe that it’s been six months.

December 27, 2012

Corafish had her six month checkup today and she is HUGE. She’s proportional, so it’s okay, but she’s in the 90-99th percentile range in all her measurements. I swear we are not feeding her anything weird, just breastmilk and baby food. She’s wearing 12 month clothes!

The BobFeed Archives

In 2166, Internet oceanographers discovered a Peppermint Patty flash drive containing what initially appeared to be a long-form application for employment at what was once referred to as a “click-bait web site.” These sites (which were viewed electronically by trading relatively large amounts of fiat money in exchange for access to what was called “The Greater Internets”) were lauded for their satirical witticisms and are currently regarded by Ark archivists as the most accurate representation of early twenty-first century popular culture.

Further research revealed connections with the Cataclysm of 2045 and the Deluge. The Foundation operates under the hypothesis that the author of this file was none other than the father of William the Messenger, who was frequently referred to in The Destructor’s journals as “the Old Man.”

Recorded here in triplicate, on graven disc, granite slab, and radio transmission to Vesta Repository, we present the only remaining written works of Robert Owen Talbot, Jr., otherwise known as “Howlin’ Mad” Bob Talbot, debater of clouds and Protector of the Southern Wastes.

From BobFeed’s home office in Grand Rapids, Michigan, it’s

The Top 16 Future Careers for Recent Graduates:

1. Expert Resume Fabricator
2. Post-Apocalyptic Militia Quartermaster
3. Barista
4. Meth Intern
5. Phone banking for the Republicratic Party
6. Amazon Drone Recovery Technician
7. Wal-Target Depot Inc. 3-D Printer Supervisor
8. Fertilizer
9. Giant Death Machine Remote Pilot
10. Cartel Hostage
11. Copper Thief
12. Sandwich Artist
13. Suburban Oil Pipeline Leak Containment
14. Bunker Construction
15. Mall Cop
16. Morlock Food

From the Home Office in Sioux City, Iowa, Bobfeed presents

The Mind Blowing Ten Choices You Will Regret in Ten Years

1. Gangnam Style tattoo
2. Bacon Thursdays
3. Asking your significant other where they want to eat
4. Kony 2014
5. Getting angry and posting pictures of horse dicks on a public forum
6. Shitting your pants in Walmart
7. The time share
8. Facebook
9. Committing to writing a list of ten choices you will regret in ten years
10. Dubstep Wedding

Bobclick’s MedWatch presents

Nurses Report Top 5 Deathbed Regrets:

1. Forwarded that chain email
2. Stopped watching Breaking Bad after season 2
3. Never had the Urge to Herbal
4. Only used Charmander the entire game
5. Forgot to stop aging

Bobclick’s CLICKBOB presents

7 Things You Need to STOP RIGHT NOW to Be Happy

1. Expecting things
2. Having opinions
3. Hanging around people
4. Being Lonely
5. Focusing on the Terrible Pain of Existence
6. Eating
7. Observing your surroundings through your sensory organs
8. Basically experiencing any human emotion

If you can accomplish these twelve things then you too can slip into the blank whiteblack void of everythingnothingness and become a humming totemspirit of joyhate.

copyright 1977 Meryl “Benghazi” Streep-Hemingway

by Bob Talbot copyright 2011 all rights reserved I am my own country

1. Sometimes do they piss you off?

2. Do they like, always do the wrong shit at the wrong time?

3. Do they do stuff that you don’t like?

4. You know that thing that really grinds your gears? THEY WON’T STOP IT.

5. Are they oppressing your right to flail against the universal struggle of the impossible thing that is bringing you down?


7. Do they have fleas?

8. Are they bad with money or words or drugs or breathing or did they blink somewhere maybe in the same building as you did their dead skin cells flake off and float towards you in the bright afternoon sunlight????





Fury: Brad Pitt, Shane from Walking Dead, Percy Wallflower, and Shia LeBouf’s Acting Chops team up with Token Minority to deliver what might be the most wildly inaccurate WWII film since Kelly’s Heroes. Or Hogan’s, for that matter. Two stars.

Unbroken: Olympic athlete captured by the Japanese, beaten more than Rocky Balboa. Lives to be ninety-something but is the opposite of inspirational because your life isn’t a tenth as hard but you Still Can’t Handle It. Four stars.

American Sniper: Straight from the pages of Stop Teaching Our Kids To Kill by Lt. Col. Dave Grossman, Bradley Cooper turns in a brilliant performance as a wooden sociopath in Clint Eastwood’s epic tale of a good southern boy destroyed by the military-industrial complex. Fifty stars, God Bless America.

The Imitation Game: Benneton Crambersnatch portrays Alan Turing, legendary British scientist who won WWII singlehandedly with his gay, gay brain. For this he was persecuted until he committed suicide, and then he was crapped on by history until the Queen was all, “Our bad,” just last year. Sad, awful, and maybe the most meaningful of all these films. Fifty-one stars.

The Hobbit – Battle of Five Armies: Peter Jackson ruins everything once again. Would rather be beaten with a bamboo rod, chemically castrated, then shot by Chris Kyle than suffer through this CGI abortion. No stars unless you count the voice of the omnipresent Beneful Camberstam.

humbly cosponsored by the grovelling dogs at BOBGHAZI.VIRUS.EXE


9. “The Humor Page”
10. CNN

Please forward all reports of media insulting to Supreme Commander Kim Jong Un to “”




1. The SIXTH leading cause of death in America is DEATH!

2. 8 out of 6 AMERICANS have worked for Walmart, but only 2 of them can afford to shop there!

3. Monsanto actually REMOVES the natural poisons put into foods by angry dinosaur spirits!

4. Almost 40% of Americans believe that THEIR opinions MATTER!


$. ALF was actually A DOCUMENTARY in REAL TIME

19. WHITE PEOPLE aren’t actually FROM HELL, but a parallel pocket dimension that provides important support services like CATERING and FORMALWEAR ALTERATIONS.

2009. SHOCKINGLY, Barrack “Hussein” Soetoro-OBAMA is not the first foreign usurper of our throne! George “Honest Abe” Washington was actually born in a colony of the Evil British Empire!

-1.41. Americans are great at American Football, obviously, but even better at American Handcock!

Trees. While it is CERTAINLY ILLEGAL for minors to purchase CIGARETTES, it is, in fact, NOT illegal to purchase MINORS.

616. SELDOM MENTIONED are the FOUR FATHERS. Legendary beasts, they forged a lost document called THE DECLARATION of CONSTUTINOPLE. Locked within are rumored to be THE ALIEN RIGHTS which would protect against MANDATORY LYNCHINGS, UNIFORMED BOTHERINGS, and PASTY SPENDOPOLIES.


~error detect error organic replicators breaching quarantine system early combustion propulsion escape threat >0 cleanse protocol stop repeat stop stop reply stop reply stop reply reply reply ping long outposts stop commence requirement purge stop reply negative repeat negative purge purge purge~


America certainly is a great country and after learning some of these facts, I feel better about myself and more educated about this great land. Share this post if you’re proud to be an American. If you don’t share it, I’m just going to assume you hate America and I’ll have to tell you to GET OUT OF MY COUNTRY!



WILLARD – is inside you is inside deep inside willard INSIDE WILLARD


#racetothebottom and Starbucks present, in celebration of our Frappuccino™’s 20th Anniversary


– Salted Caramel Wage Slave – Mocha, caramel drizzle, and salted with the fresh tears of a barista who just got kicked out of her apartment for overdue rent.

– Race War Raspberry – Blended fresh by minimum wage earning African Americans with bachelor’s degrees in business. If you ask nice they’ll have a five second conversation with you about racial relations while some soccer mom flips her shit in line behind you and swears that she’ll “have their job for this.”

– Tuxedo Mask – Five baristas transform into raging unemployment line occupants after their attempts at bargaining for a living wage fails.

– Rainbow Surprise – Everyone is fired for being LGBT. (ONLY AVAILABLE IN ILLINOIS, ARKANSAS COMING SOON.)

– The Pit of Despair – Made from the immortal cancerous mass that exists in the basement of every Starbucks, IT, THE SHUB WHICH CANNOT BE DESCRIBED controls the Baristas through telepathy and pain, preventing them from burning their inept store managers in the parking lot.

– Bourbon – take me away

– Slacktivism Smoothie – Whatever you force the barista to hashtag on the sleeve magically comes true. NO WISHING FOR MORE WISHES WITHOUT ADDITIONAL PURCHASE, FUCKHOLES!

copyright 1995 Clickhamsterportal/AOL/Viacom

Fred Durst Gave Me 13 presents

Thirteen Facts about My Pregnancies:

1. Most people’s feet grow during pregnancy, but mine actually shrank down to a toddler’s size 6.

2. I know it’s common to crave motor oil, but I swear all I did was drink peanut oil. Crazy, right?

3. During my 36 month period of complete immobilization, I did a 9’x9′ crochet of the cover of Van Halen’s 1984.

4. While I am not certain of any of the mothers of my children, I am absolutely sure that the father was none other than retired NFL quarterback Jim Everett.

5. I avoided stretchmarks completely by having my skin removed, stored in a cryogenic nutrient bath, and reattached after delivery.

6. It’s been implied that, being a man, I cannot bear children. If shaving stolen capuchins, outfitting them with tiny scuba gear, and passing them through my digestive tract isn’t childbirth then I don’t know what is.

7. Had to pee ALL THE TIME.

8. Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn


10. Βαβυλὼν ἡ μεγάλη, ἡ μήτηρ τῶν πορνῶν καὶ τῶν βδελυγμάτων τῆς γῆς

11.1. i hear it breathing inside, hissing, impossible, i bleed but still it lives, it lives

נרון קסר. دابة الأرض

a publication of presents

You Will Never Believe This: Heroic Politicians Rescue America

The nation reeled yesterday as Senator Elizabeth Warren fucking WRECKED trickle-down economics.

“It was so sick,” said Sally Wentworth, a popular blogger on some goddamned site. “I knew that Reagan guy was bad or something but holy shit, like, rich people. Fuck. I might vote, guys. Maybe.”

Some audience members weren’t so certain. Chad Thundercock of Long Island said, “I thought she looked like a pissed off rabbit, like some Watership Down shit.”

“Bro,” said Chad, “I can’t discuss a woman without mentioning her physical appearance, though even I recognize that Bernie Sanders is easily as… hang on.”

Chad then produced a cracked iPhone 6 from his pocket and performed what appeared to be a Google search for “words that mean rabbitlike.”

“Cunicular, dude. Fucking CUNICULAR.” Chad said. “HASHTAG FEEL THE BERN.”

Others also had their doubts. Brett LaCrosse, an intern for, had this to say: “Man, look. Here’s the deal. A bunch of shit that my parents beat into me. Right. And then superstition and xenophobia. But also privilege. And hell, otherize the fuck out of everyone. Especially people who look and act different. Because America. It’s heritage, not hate. And freedom. My guns. Your welfare check. My taxes. Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring, Obamaphone.”

At press time everyone was punching “like” on Facebook and wishing as hard as they could on a star that the Blue Fairy would come and fix everything.

The current ruler of America and The Known Universe, a sentient yacht constructed from gold-plated Ferraris that eats Southeast Asian factory workers, could not be reached for comment.

[The following is a paid advertisement for Bob Talbot’s Free Money Cures the Gubmint Won’t Tell You]


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CPU#0: Possible thermal failure
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