An Apology

Hey guys.

Yesterday I posted a tone deaf rant, which I later deleted out of embarrassment, in a knee-jerk defense of a certain group of people because, well, let’s be honest. My Southern White Man fee-fees were hurt. I’m over it now, but I felt that it was worth addressing again today.

While I still believe that the vast majority of your fellow Americans are good folk trying to make it in a tough world, I also realize that the very moment of your shock, anger and dismay is not the time to launch into a defense of some of the people who put you there.

You can love your family and they can make terrible mistakes. You don’t have to defend the former or the latter, and I won’t.

I don’t hang out with Reddit sociopaths or Sons of the Confederacy, but yes, you are correct. Even grandmothers have some questions to answer. Even the knitting group, if they made your life potentially Hell on Earth. They do. I hope that, in the future, we can all sit down and talk about this, but now is not the time. Be afraid, be very afraid. It is warranted.

I spent the election season trying to write about other things. Initially, I tried touching it from an angle when I had to with a short story about an arcade, but even that felt weird, so I went back to my regular silliness.

A couple of weeks ago I guess it got to be too much to stand, so I started in on the Bob Talbot 2016: FULL COMMUNISM, BABY, thing. I had a great time doing it and I really felt like I was about to experience more of the same, a Clinton presidency, and I felt very comfortable ranting about the threats of incrementalism because that’s what we’d definitely be facing.

Everyone else thought that too. Trey Parker and Matt Stone had to throw out an entire episode of South Park because it was based on Clinton winning. Newsweek had to send out a massive recall for a print run of their new cover story, “Madam President.”

I’m not sure what we’re facing now but I want you to know this: I am on your side. I want to cover this thing from the ground, here, in Arkansas, and show you the real life effects of what has happened. I want to give you stories, not rants about bullshit I know nothing about, and I know I can do this, but it’s going to take some time.

I’ve been searching for stories but so far, to me, this is a sleepy, quiet little town. That will likely change. I am still off work with my newborn son and I return to the store this coming Monday. I’ve been sheltered in this cave with only the Internet to guide me and, as you all know, that is a terrible idea.

I am not sure what the path forward means to me as someone who enjoys writing. I am going to stop telling people how to feel or what to do and either start being funny again or begin to present stories of what is really happening in this community. Either way, I am not going to spend time ranting defending the very people who led us down this dark path. I realize that I am at my best when I present life as I see it, without a lot of conclusions since we all know there really aren’t any. That is my mission.

I have spent the last few days locked to my computer and phone to the point of illness. Until I have something worth writing about, I really need to limit my time online. I gain nothing by gazing hard into Facebook looking for answers when there are not any, and I know from experience my best results come when I go out and live life and report on it.  This is my plan going forward.

In closing, I am sorry, people. I don’t want to add to your hurt and misery. I’m not even going to say, “We’ll get through this,” because we may not. Or I may and you may not, and that really is the point, isn’t it? I recognize my privilege in this situation and it’s not my place to tell you how to react.

I am so, so sorry.

Until then, I’ll be here, watching, thinking, and maybe coming up with an original angle on this whole mess we call life. I’ll spare the Earth my fifth-grade-reading-level rants.


All Good Things


JONESBORO, AR (KAIT) – As election results arrived last Tuesday night, a Jonesboro man sought to slip the surly bonds of Earth in a hastily-constructed homemade rocket.

Local authorities report that according to information retrieved from, Bob Talbott, 47, allegedly took his newborn son, mounted a broken dishwasher, and set it ablaze in an attempt to achieve low Earth orbit.

There were no survivors.

Friends and family gathered at the Mall at Turtle Creek Barnes & Noble, where he had been employed for over a decade as a discount book merchandiser.

“Bob was always discussing Communism, but we thought it was one of his quirks, you know, like the way that vein stood out in his forehead when he clenched his jaw,” said Kristi Walters, his former supervisor. “No one could have seen this coming. Well, between you and me I totally saw it coming, but no one else saw it coming.”

“So your ‘lesser of two evils’ won, what’s your plan now?” said J.D. Farley, cash register supervisor and self-proclaimed “comrade” of Bobby Tolbot. “If your answer is ‘try again in four years’, you are the problem. We need to organize and we needed to do it years ago.”

Tolbott was a lifetime resident of Northeast Arkansas and graduated from Arkansas State University in 2011. Some of his listed Facebook interests were Miley Cyrus, Star Trek, and Austin Powers: Goldmember. His self-described “crowning acheivements” were, “Getting the first post in the ‘Johnny Cash is dead’ thread on FARK dot com,” and “SNAPE KILLS DUMBLEDORE.”

The family of Bobbi Tolbert requests that in lieu of flowers donations be sent to the Communist Party USA.

Our Mission
Our Vision 
Our Promise
Our Plea
Our Progress
Our Pain
Our Plan
Our Perogative
Our Purpose
Our Ascension

That’s all, Comrades!

To Slip the Surly Bonds

Chairman Bob and Tiny Leader mount the BSC Bad Wolf on their way to the stars.

Yesterday I announced that the Glorious People’s Revolution had it in the bag, baby. Full Communism has been realized in our time. There is no longer any reason for your chairman to remain here and witness this farce, this cruel pantomime of choice your puppet leaders have thrust upon you this day. Let the children collect their decals. We’re going to fucking space.

After repeated simulations on the demo version of Kerbal Space Program, intense study of The Right Stuff, Explorers, and Flight of the Navigator, and one more viewing of that Elon Musk Mars video, your chairman is certain we will achieve space superiority by 5:00 pm Central Standard Time.

In case there are witnesses here who were just released from incarceration or born yesterday, we will present once more the immortal words of Chairman Bob, The Eightfold Path to Full Communism:

Our Mission
Our Vision 
Our Promise
Our Plea
Our Progress
Our Pain
Our Plan
Our Perogative

November 8, 2016, will be forever remembered as the day Chairman Bob stepped onto his rocket and penetrated the cosmos, resetting all calendars at FC 1 and siring the Bobolonian Space Concordance.

With Tiny Leader as my copilot, we will command our legions from on high, our altitude only surpassed by our superiority, reflecting our might to all who gaze into the night sky.

You were promised more than this hellish life of wage slavery, debt, and futility. We didn’t land on Fraggle Rock. Fraggle Rock landed on us. Remember the wonder you once sought and dream again, for we will blaze into the heavens on metal steeds. We will drink hydrogen from the nebulae to fuel our boosters. We will drill through miles of ice and address sentient jellyfish with our universal greeting, “The Four Horsemen” by David Scott Mustaine and the alcoholic bards Metallica.

I will lead this charge, my children. Into the great unknown mystery, I go first, so that others may follow my example. Bob Talbot 20X6: FULL COMMUNISM, NOW AND FOREVER.

Look up, comrades. Look up. There’s fire in the sky.

It’s in the Bag


We’ve just received the most recent polling report, and it’s clear that Bob Talbot 2016: FULL COMMUNISM, BABY has secured an overwhelming victory against insidious incrementalism, fascist Trumpenprolery, and Jill Stein.

Our advice to you now is to stay home, “home” being the 27-mile-long early voting line you’ve been forced to submit as your new permanent mailing address. The fascists voted two months ago from their plantations via text message. Your faces will surely be mashed into the sticky asphalt by mechanized police assault battalions. We will erect monuments to you over natural hot springs, allowing the earth to periodically shoot scalding tears through the copper ducts of statues depicting thousands of your mutilated, jackboot-stamped visages. Bobspeed.

If you have not already committed the teachings of Chairman Bob to memory, do so now. After the scourge of social media has been laid to waste and the servers are reworked to host Chairman Bob’s Ultima Online revival, the words of your Great Leader will only exist in the hearts and minds of the Glorious Workers’ Revolution.

Our Mission
Our Vision – The cornerstone, if time is short or your mind impaired
Our Promise
Our Plea
Our Progress
Our Pain
Our Plan
Our Perogative

Victory is within our grasp. The long months of clicking and gnashing will soon come to an end when the oft-referenced sky, which was always secure above your worried heads, finally comes crashing down.

Beware bourgeoisie propagandists who strain to convince you of their regime’s stability in the coming days. This cannot be so while the pusillanimous step-grandchildren of the U.S. Cavalry stalk the Great Plains, while our strong Communist athletes are ostracized for rightfully protesting fascist police actions but pasty dull sorority wenches are celebrated for impersonating a militarized border, and while access to proper health care is still gripped in the sweaty nepotized claws of coke-bingeing trust fund babies.

The legitimate rage that thuds in your chest is pure and genuine. Do not be shamed into surrender. Your children, nieces, nephews, will view the cosmos through their own eyes. Their steely offspring will scan, replicate, and make it theirs, ours, all equal in the glow of interstellar radiation.

Chairman Bob is with you, always, my children. No retreat, no surrender, take off and vote BOB TALBOT 2016: FULL COMMUNISM, BABY.

It’s the only way to be sure.

The Cancerous South

The last time Natalie Maines did something as controversial as publicly stating the obvious about the empire-building, economy-tanking Commander-in-Chief, we were forced to go a decade without a decent Dixie Chicks album. In retrospect, she probably should have been complaining about Emperor Dick Palpatine instead of the sad, doofy oil-painting puppet man whose rectum so lovingly accepted his deft, skeletal fingers, but I digress.

Now, the frothing rural lumpentrolls are heaving at the thought that the Dixie Chicks, that bastion of Southern stereophonic tradition, have shared a stage with Known Terrorist and Insanely Rich Black Person, Beyoncé Giselle “Guevara” Knowles-Carter.

It is not lost on us that the Dixie Chicks are the red-headed stepchild of country music, to be thrown out and yanked back into the fold at the whim of culturally American people who aren’t concerned about the street legality of ATVs or lawnmowers as long as there’s somewhere to attach the flagpole. The rural South rages in constant cognitive dissonance at the words “Dixie” (Yeehaw!) and “Chicks” (insert entire history of the subjugation of women), their brains broken beyond repair that such wonderful bluegrass country pop could be borne from the mouths and fingers of Opinionated Ladies.

When your Chairman sprang forth fully formed from the muddy banks of the St. Francis River, he was gripped by a similar love-hate relationship with the land that excreted him. How could something so beautiful and wild harbor such innate ugliness? I realize the very conflict that encapsulates the experience of The Awakened Southerner (#WokeSouth) is the same strife that sparked Chairman Bob’s righteous, galaxy-conquering rage and lust for Post-Scarcity Luxury Communism, BABY.

Image forged by our finest pixelcraftspeople

Bob Talbot 2016: FULL COMMUNISM, BABY strives for precision of language. We cannot communicate when the terms of discussion are not agreed upon. Often, when the dialectic spelunks into the fetid cavern of The South, it is expressed that “Austin is Weird,” or that someone saw a Confederate Flag in upstate New York. For this reason, we will refer to the geographical inconsistencies and viral nature of Southern culture as The Cancerous South, or The Malignancy.

It is often said that the Malignant don’t have culture. Well they do, but outsiders aren’t often compelled to sink their meaty fists into the festering pile of horse shit in which it is concealed. It doesn’t matter whether the Malignancy appropriated those dung-encrusted gems in the first place or they were the result of eons of carbon stank, swelterin’ heat and pressha’, or not, because now we’re taking them back. We’re taking them all back.

Banjos, bluegrass, and buttermilk, it’s ours now. We’re going to race souped-up death machines at the new Martha’s Vineyard Oil Dump and Combustion Colosseum, the only place on Earth where anyone will be allowed to burn fossil fuels and turn left for hours. We’re going to feast on sawmill biscuits and gravy off the rings of Saturn. We’ll blast Earl Scruggs as our Solar Sailbarges decelerate into Proxima Centauri.

We can, and will, cull from the dregs of the human race what is salvageable, what rocks and rolls, what feels like victory, what tastes like home. We will shout “huzzah” and “yeehaw” without guilt when the siblings of primal vocalization, long separated by hate, are united at last under the banner of Utopian Space Communist self-expression.

In two more slumbers you will be called upon to make the greatest decision of your meaningless existence. Educate yourselves, comrades.

Our Mission
Our Vision
Our Promise
Our Plea
Our Progress
Our Pain
Our Plan

Take up your Ticonderoga and fill that bubble with the grim satisfaction that while your scorched bones will rest in a post-revolutionary mass grave landfill, your children will vaporize themselves in high-impact power loss collisions with the moons of Jupiter, your grandchildren will dissolve in ruptured Venusian dome habitats, your great-grandchildren will have their minds torn from flesh and deposited into mechanical spacefaring husks, and your great-great-grandchildren will swarm the universe, self-replicating, gleaming, radioactive.

They will put down on soil not so chemically different from the ground that currently supports your slavery-calloused toes and plink the universal greeting. Spoken language is indecipherable across the void. Maths are concrete, but devoid of the passion that sparked our interstellar political revolution.

Music, no matter where you go, evokes a reply.

There you are.

If You Face Voter Intimidation at the Polls


It is likely that, when casting your lifesaving, world-changing vote for Bob Talbot 2016: FULL COMMUNISM, BABY, you will be harassed and intimidated by Fascist Lumpenpoll Workers who seek to rob you of your agency. Follow these easy steps to ensure that you effectively participate in the singular shining way you, simple citizen, can affect the future of humanity. Keep in mind the importance of this gesture. Nothing but voting will save the planet. Every other effort you undertake is an act of futility.

Presented here is the Eightfold Path to Voting Supremacy. Copy and distribute this pamphlet to your comrades and look forward bravely. Your grandchildren will burst forth in the deep shafts of Ganymede’s collective mines.

  1. Toss your Eggo in their general direction and shout, in a clear and determined tone, “Get thee behind me, Jill Stein.”
  2. Call 1-866-733-2463 (1-866-SEEC-INFO) and say the secret words, “I am attempting to vote for Trump,” which will get you past the snort-and snicker screening callbot and through to an actual FBI agent who will record your complaint and forward it to your local Sturmabteilung.
  3. Bring $20 in Kohl’s cash, in case of situations where bribery may become necessary.
  4. Only use a paper ballot. The machines, which have been tampered with and encoded to record incorrect votes for John Kerry, Ralph Nader, or Bob Dole depending on your district, will be destroyed in the post-election revolution. Your paper ballots will be burned in a bin behind the polling station and we will retrieve your votes with special techniques we viewed on MacGyver.
  5. If you are registered in a district that historically votes Republican, you will enjoy short lines, cordiality, and complimentary mint juleps. If you are forced to cast your vote in a Democrat-majority district, prepare for waits of up to 72 hours, gladiatorial combat, obstacle courses which will test your strength and skill, and inexplicably operational millennia-old booby traps. Only the penitent man shall pass. Penitent. Penitent. The penitent man kneels and somersaults before God.
  6. Do not leave without voting. If your body fails you, scrawl your intended vote onto the pavement with your own blood or excrement and breathe your last knowing you ushered forth a bold new era of Gender Neutral Polyamorous Space Communism.
  7. If you are in line next to a congenial but oddly insincere voter with a suspiciously askew mustache who introduces himself as “Henry Lee Rodman-Clanton,” do not divulge your intent. Back away slowly and blow your corruption whistle.
  8. And, as always, vote early and vote often.

Our time draws near. Dust the cobwebs off the camping gear you purchased to wait in line for Star Wars Episode One: The Phantom Menace and head to your duly designated polling station. The payoff will be just as great, if not surpassing, the joy you felt when you first witnessed that triumph of modern filmmaking.

My Bob, it’s full of stars.

More Yelling From the Bunker

For all my ridiculous yelling, I really don’t want some American Spring situation because it might not go the direction we want. However, I don’t have much faith in the disenfranchised, apathetic, almost nonexistent American Left to vote their way out of anything. The movers and the shakers right now are looking like the dudes Indiana Jones threw off of speeding trucks.

American Government has decided to shit itself and die. There is no positive result of you Rocking the Vote this time, campers. Both outcomes are nightmare scenarios for different reasons that have nothing to do with emails and everything to do with the Republican Party.

I’m disappointed in you, Democrats. You fucked yourselves by propping up a money hungry NeoLiberal backsliding warmonger and pitching that doo doo sandwich as delicatessen delight. I don’t blame all you frightened people for hand-wringingly fearposting 24/7 about the doom we face if we don’t insert some nation-building, meddling entrepreneur who takes tea with absolute monarchs and brutal dictators in the name of realpolitik, because the other solution is much more final.

I use allegory and analogies waaay too much for a guy who hates the inevitable quagmire of semantic nitpicking that follows. We shouldn’t have to come up with wacky ideas about candy or Smurfs or Lord of the Rings to say, “Look, you fuckwits. You have the distinct honor of voting for Madam Kissinger or Special Needs Mussolini,” and I’M STILL DOING IT. I CAN’T NOT DO IT.

But wait, there’s more!

Voter rolls are being purged all over these Great United States. The FBI is going fuckcrazy and immolating itself in protest of Hilldawg’s candidacy. While there are some minority groups protesting in the streets (and the rivers, and the fields), as always, there aren’t enough middle class white people involved to make it lucrative enough for the big bucks at Dollar Dollar Bill Y’all Cable News to cover it.

Oh, you can vote. You may vote with great speed and efficiency if you are white in a majority conservative community! I voted in under ten minutes. If you are in some gerrymandered poverty-stricken hellhole and you don’t get Really Fired Up about St. Patrick’s Day, you’re going to wait 12 hours, get ID’d, and potentially harassed and harangued until you get to the front and find out you’re magically, mysteriously, strangely and unfortunately unregistered to fucking do the one thing that has been drilled into you as your only option for real world change. Vote, just vote, do not pass Go, do not collect $200, eat, pray, love, lie very still and think of England and VOTE.

Your elected officials are planning to not only throw the brakes on government but tie you to the tracks like a mustachioed silent film rapist and detonate the bridge over the Eat Shit and Die (formerly Eastwood) Ravine. You won’t have any more cool social justice breadcrumbs thrown to satiate your incrementalist hunger when the Supreme Court & Shady Acres Rest Home dwindles and we’re not accepting any new residents.

The Internet isn’t the place to talk about this anymore. You motherfuckers need to get off your 14 hour shift of Ubering or making minimum wage lattes for day traders and wander into the last chapter of The Jungle. Merle and his buddies down at the chopper club are having their meetings under the German Cross and the Stars and Bars. It’s time for you to have some as well under the flag of BOB TALBOT 2016: FULL COMMUNISM, BABY.

Get out of my dreams, and into my car.

Whatever you do, do something that isn’t clicking share, or clicking at all, really, unless it’s a pen or the off button on a remote.

I leave you with this wisdom, contradictory, perhaps, but I chalk it up to the duality of man, Private Joker:

“I found it is the small everyday deeds of ordinary folk that keep the darkness at bay… small acts of kindness and love.” – Gandalf the Gray

“You can change the world with one of these.” – A late friend of mine, spoken while brandishing a box knife



538 is Enough

We’ve been resting up since the arrival of Tiny Leader William P. Talbot, but don’t worry. Your chairman has kept his eye on the prize, which is FULL COMMUNISM in these United States, BABY.


Our most recent polling suggests we have it in the bag. There’s no legend because Bob Talbot 2016 trusts you know how to read a map.

Keep raging, folks. We’re in this for the long haul. If you don’t hear from us at least once every 24 hours, assume Tiny Leader is clusterfeeding. Gotta get swole for those Infant Olympics.

Our Mission
Our Vision
Our Promise
Our Plea

We’re going to have solar roof tiles, people, then we’re going to build a big fucking oil pipeline that dumps right into Martha’s Vineyard.

Be excellent to each other, and party on, dudes.

Cornwall Dreaming

Why did you do it, Poldark?
There’s no copper in that mine.
Elizabeth is boring,
and Demelza is so fine.

So, race your horse to Trenwith House,
and fuck up all your shit,
while we’re relaxing bedside to
Demelza’s greatest hits.

Just don’t be so surprised
when George Warleggan gives you fits.
Sit on your steed and stare, poor Ross,
you daft, tin-mining twit.

Face the Namecloud

I’m not sure I realized it when we came up with Willie’s name, but we’ve created a treasure trove of nicknames. I can and will (no pun intended) work with “William” and “Patrick” indefinitely.

So far I have called him:

Willie Wiggles
Willie P. Wiggles
Squilliam P. Squiggles (but never Squilliam Squiggles)
Wild Bill Hiccups
Big Worm

I am certain this list will grow exponentially in the coming years.

These will all be acceptable monikers when he goes into his field of interest, be it Star Ravaging, Baseball, Day Trading, Fencing, Marine Biology, or Ballet.

I will not call him Rick nor will I ever acknowledge Rick. Rick is for radio DJs and switchblade aficionados with snake tattoos. Fathers don’t let their babies grow up to work for Clear Channel.

My goal is for him to have absolutely no idea what his actual name is, but only a general notion of what it may be based on. A virtual name cloud, if you will.

This new fearless approach to nomenclature is going to be all the rage in the mid to late 21st century. You think you have it rough now, baristas. Just wait.