About a year ago, I discovered Slavery Footprint, which tracks the “virtual” slaves behind our posh lives here in the world’s last, great empire. Because I’m a Luddite who wears the same clothes for 20 years (or until they fall to pieces like some sort of lunatic castaway leaping around on the shore of an uncharted island), I only have 26 slaves. Most of my friends have around 55 slaves.
At first, I felt a touch superior in the knowledge that I had a smaller slavery footprint, but then I became jealous. I want to have 55 slaves. In fact — fuck this virtual thing — I want to actually own these slaves.
Continue reading ‘Slavery for Fun and Profit’
Between 1992-1995, I stole $30,000 from the County, and it felt good.
Continue reading ‘Confessions’
I was the third generation of my family to go to our eye doctor, Dr. Bradley. A Navy man! Old Commander Bradley! He’ll fix you right up.
He worked on my grandparents, their kids, and then we hit my generation and his one time humble office had turned into a bustling, popular practice with four locations around the area. This eventually morphed into a sort of teaching practice, and he’d wander around with a gaggle of eye doctor students hanging on his every word whilst his optometrist peons slavishly worked away, seemingly too terrified of the great master to even speak to the patients.
Continue reading ‘The Commander’
The question asked one happy hour was: If you could go back and give your 18 year old self one piece of advice, what would it be?
Everyone had the usual answers like invest in Google or whatever. I think that’s the 40 year old in all of us talking. I think we should pause and take a look at what makes life worth living.
I would tell my 18 year old self to get snipped. Then fuck absolutely everything possible.
Continue reading ‘Get in there, boy!’
I was fool enough at a New Year’s party to ask a group of friends where, 20 years ago, they imagined they would be in 2013. Most folks had an answer, the usual stuff, and, as we went around the circle and my turn approached, I realized that I thought I’d be dead long before now. So, I said as much.
Continue reading ‘Dead by 25′
This post is about the fucking Sandy Hook bullshit, and all those kids who died. Stop now if you’ve had enough of that fucking shit. Because I have.
Continue reading ‘Elephant’
I read the other day that dolphins are the only other animals on earth that masturbate for pleasure. Which sort of put a whole new spin on “sailor’s best friend,” eh? There you are bobbing in the ocean as your ship goes down and here comes a dolphin — kikikiki — and the dolphin lets you grab on as it takes you to safety. Maybe you flop onto a piece of wreckage, or even find land. Then, exhausted, chest heaving, you lay there staring into the stormy skies and…the dolphin jacks off onto your stomach and then swims away. Kikikikikiki!
It wouldn’t be common knowledge, of course. I, for one, wouldn’t share that tidbit when retelling my “saved by a dolphin” story to the local paper.
Continue reading ‘The Strokes’
A couple of friends have recently told me that I need to talk about my problems. All the childhood madness, all the fears, all the things that cripple me emotionally. If I talk about these things, then they’ll have no power over me.
Continue reading ‘The voice across the line’
When I was a kid, I used to think there was a little man in my stomach who was responsible for handling all of the poop. Day after day, there he was, at the bottom of my stomach, surrounded by vats of bubbling acid, endlessly shoveling poop down a little hole that led to my intestines. Sometimes the hole would get stuffed up and he’d have to jump on the poop to force it through.
Continue reading ‘Tommy the Poop Man’
Since I now only write articles so that I can keep the GS Kindle subscription active and, therefore, make my precious $3 a month from subscribers who mistakenly think this is a porn site for some reason, I should probably angle towards more light-hearted fare.
Continue reading ‘Beautiful Things’