Greetings, budding Internet journalists/writers/poets/photographers/leaf collectors/vigilantes/anarchists/webmistresses/sorcerers/tax attorneys/social workers/shitposters/Facebook Content Providers/Maoist Revolutionaries.

Do you often wish that your social media postcruft reached a wider audience? Are the 647 people on your friends list not providing the dopamine hit you need to get through the day without cutting?

Opportunity knocks.

By submitting your work to The Bob Talbot dot com, you could extend your reach by tens of potential readers, one of which is my mother. Some of those are likely spambots. Five of my real life friends will occasionally read your posts. Two of them on the weekends. My mother will read your articles. Thanks, Mom.

Why submit your hard won wordcraft to HuffPo for nothing when it can be posted here for absolutely nothing? Why blog for potential cents per hour when you can blog on a site with no ad revenue or no business model? When you milk the ideas out of your depression-palsied head and ragehammer them into your aging laptop or clusterswype them into your smoldering Samsung with all the speed and grace of three monkeys fucking a football, why hide them for six months while you wait for the rejection letter from an actual print journal? Sully them here for all time by flushing them down the digital toilet of The Bob Talbot dot com.

You need immediate attention any way you can get it, so why mass distribute naked selfies, which can and will be used against you in court, when you can tap into the power of your constitutional right to free speech and describe your genitals in aching detail right here right now?

Email submissions with SUBMISSION in the header (so I’ll see it when I check my email twice a week) to or print them out on legal paper, because you’re out of letter size, then cut the extra part off at the bottom and save that for scratch paper (I dunno. It’s your life) then bury the rest in the yard because we’re all going to be dirt in the ground.



Seething hatred for Capitalism

Self-hatred exceeding the preceding

Content vacillating between megalomania and feckless prodding

Do not approach political ideas directly, from an informed position.

Heartwarming anecdotes welcome as long as there are at least two mentions of death.

Whatever else, according to my whims.

Get crackin’, keyboard warriors. Ignore this obvious cry for help and opening for ridicule (which would be welcome because it’s a form of publicity) and ruin your life by getting on board the SS Failure. Add Unpaid Intern to your LinkedIn and set sail for the abyss.

Someday when you’re dying of a massive coronary behind the counter of a Starbucks at age 47 you’ll be thankful that at least you committed your unique ideas to the Information Superhighway before your caffeine-addled circulation system exploded under the duress of a life doomed to wage slavery.

When the servers grow dark and cold under the encroaching seas, perhaps the children will tell tales of the one who yelled from the box. The screaming one. The One Who Complained. They’ll sleep sweetly in the comfort of their caves and huts knowing that it couldn’t have been any other way.

We’re going down. Smoke ’em if you got ’em, and scream.