Pronouns: they/them 💀 Anarchy in the streets, memes in the sheets. ⚡ No gods, no masters, just radical shitposting. 🔥 Smashing capitalism one shitpost at a time. 🏴 Mutual aid is the way. ACAB. FTP. ✉️ Ask me about direct action or the best way to make homemade oat milk.
Listen up, comrades—Doucheroo runs a liberated, anti-capitalist, chaos-positive space. If any of the following applies to you, kindly remove yourself from my digital commune:
🔥 DNI if:
You think billionaires “earned” their wealth (they stole it, Karen).
You simp for cops, landlords, or the concept of “law and order.”
You believe “pulling yourself up by your bootstraps” is a real thing and not a literal physics impossibility.
You are a fucken TERF (Fucking KYS and die)
You believe soy milk deserves a fair trial despite its questionable texture and fetid flavor.
You think oat milk is easy to make (it’s NOT, and I am in a crisis about it).
You stan Elon Musk, Jeff Bezos, or any other rich failson with a God complex.
You are Elon Musk, Jeff Bezos, or any other rich failson with a God complex.
You think mutual aid is “just charity” and not direct action against systemic collapse.
You unironically post about how “kids today are too soft” while crying about baristas unionizing.
You got mad at the strategic brick placement post.
✅ You CAN interact if:
You recognize that milk alternatives are a form of class struggle.
You have practical experience with oat milk and can prevent future tragedies.
You understand that milk discourse is inherently political.
You know that almond milk is just nut water, and that’s okay.
You think cashew milk is just bougie nonsense.
You think possums, raccoons, and rats deserve rights.
This is a liberated zone. Stay cool, stay radical, and always leave a pile of bricks where needed. 🏴🔥
My mom had to send her title ups because she totaled her car (don’t ask). They charged her $2.50 to print the label she already had so I stole a bottle of whiteout.
In the twilight hours of a Michigan dusk, when the woods still whispered secrets and the dirt roads knew your sins, there came a night of promise—booze and fire.
Doucheroo and their fellowship, clad in hoodies and angst, arrived at the sacred circle of lawn chairs and pallets.
They had been told: “There will be drink.”
But lo—there was none.
And so the quest began.
They journeyed forth to Port Huron, land of shattered sidewalks and feral commerce, where the liquor stores close early and the hope never fully dies. There, they found The Vagrant, a shadowy figure with a thousand-yard stare and a heart that beat for profit.
“Twenty dollars,” Doucheroo spake.
“A handle of Mohawk,” the vagrant replied, nodding solemnly.
The deal was struck.
From that moment on, they were no longer high school students. They were vessels of destruction.
Returning triumphant, they poured the sacred Mohawk like it was nectar from Dionysus himself—igniting the party, and nearly the entire forest.
Then came the bonfire machete.
No one knows where it came from.
Some say it was forged in a discount hardware store.
Others believe it emerged from the flames, summoned by the spirit of “Too Much.”
It was heated.
It was waved.
It was baptized in stupidity.
And while no flesh was singed that night, innocence surely was.
Those who survived spoke in hushed tones, their voices raspy from equal parts laughter and low-grade vodka burn.
“The bonfire machete walked,” they say, “So red hot knife videos could run.”
And Doucheroo?
They left that night not just older, not just bolder—
but forever branded as the Keeper of the Moon Mist Blade.
Posted via a Windows Vista laptop I found under a tarp in the garage, powered by a car battery and balanced on two cinder blocks, tethered to the neighbor’s Wi-Fi using a Pringles can antenna.
Comrades,
I bring grim tidings.
HE’S BACK.
After months of long, ominous days in China “optimizing supply chains” (read: methodically gutting the last unionized auto plant in Flint like a capitalist surgeon), my father—the man, the myth, the absolute bootlicking algorithmic meat-puppet of capital—has returned.
He stormed into the house like a drone strike in khaki cargo shorts, still wearing the lanyard from a corporate dinner in Shenzhen that probably cost more than our entire healthcare system. His breath smelled like international non-compete clauses. His soul? Long since replaced by a proprietary AI trained on anti-union propaganda and Jordan Peterson podcast transcripts.
And what does he do?
He sees me—me, his flesh and blood, lovingly crafting a meme comparing Jeff Bezos to a feudal baron in Photoshop—and he snatches my phone out of my hands like it’s a cursed Maoist relic.
“You’ve been posting what? Mutual aid? Worker co-ops?? Daniel, this is pinko slime propaganda. You are being RADICALIZED BY UNEMPLOYED BARISTAS.”
He said that. He actually said that.
He then locked my phone in a fireproof box he labeled “TikTok Re-Education Materials” in blue knock-off sharpie and told me I could have it back when I stopped “talking like a Cuban cartoon.” Whatever the hell that means.
So now I’m here, in the garage, typing furiously on a laptop that sounds like a dying lawnmower and displays every letter with a 0.4 second delay. The mouse is a trackball. I’m pretty sure the last person to use this thing was attempting to jailbreak a Zune. The only browser it can open is Internet Explorer 7 and somehow Bing.
But you know what? I’ll make it work.
Because you can take my phone.
You can even take my USB-C charger.
But you can never take my revolutionary fervor.
Let me know if you want a follow-up where he rigs a Roomba to snitch on me whenever I whisper the words “solidarity economy.”
(Spoilers for Rebuild of Evangelion below the break)
There’s a scene at the end of Evangelion 3.0+1.0 Thrice Upon a Time—maybe the scene—where Shinji, having finally chosen to break the cycle, stands in the strange, liminal Train Station of meta-narrative and memory. Mari and he take each other’s hands as he lets go of Evangelion, of instrumentality, of pain, of childhood… we, too, are forced to let go.
And it hurts.
Not because it’s tragic. But because it’s a joy that hurts.
It’s Sehnsucht.
Sehnsucht: Longing Without Object
Sehnsucht is a German word with no real equivalent in English. It means an intense, wistful longing for something undefined—a yearning for a state or feeling just out of reach. Not sadness, not hope—something in between. A craving for a future that never happened, a ghost of a world that might have been.
That’s the feeling Evangelion has always cultivated, hasn’t it? That deep longing in Shinji, in Misato, in us—for connection, understanding, a mother’s warmth, a childhood untainted by catastrophe. But Evangelion 3.0+1.0 turns the blade back inward. It doesn’t give you catharsis - a violent, emotional vomiting purge of grief that wracked your soul. No, it gives you release - a gentle disentanglement of those emotions.
Shinji doesn’t save the world through a giant robot battle - in fact, we see that he and his father are physically unable to end things by battle. He ends the Evangelion project by rewriting its ending. By choosing to grow up. To leave.
And as he leaves, we feel the pang of Sehnsucht—we wanted more. More time in Tokyo-3. More time with Asuka. With Rei. With the broken warmth of Nerv’s sterile corridors. With childhood. With pain. With meaning.
Mono no aware: The Sadness of the Beautiful
The Japanese have their own word for this feeling: mono no aware—the gentle sadness that arises from the transience of all things. It’s not despair, but a kind of tearful appreciation. The moment you know something is beautiful because it won’t last.
Every shot of 3.0+1.0 drips with this—Shinji walking through a rebuilt village. Rei learning how to smile. Misato’s quiet determination. These moments aren’t meant to last. They’re fragile. Temporary. And yet we feel them more because they end.
The end of Evangelion (but not the movie The End of Evangelion)
When Shinji leaves the train station at the end—he and Mari (both adults now) rush out of the station, camera panning out into what is becoming the real world—we’re left with a stunning kind of emotional dissonance.
As he and Mari leave hand in hand, they smile. They smile and we ache.
Because Evangelion 3.0+1.0 isn’t just about the end of a story. It’s about the beauty in ending itself. It’s about the fact that joy can hurt, because you loved something enough to miss it.
It’s about the kind of longing you carry with you after the battle’s over and the robots are gone, and all that’s left is a train, a city, and a boy who’s finally okay.
The Curious Case of Matus: A Linguistic Thought Experiment
Have you ever stopped mid-sentence and thought, Wait… if decimate means to reduce by one-tenth, wouldn’t centimate mean to reduce by one-hundredth? No? Just me? Well, buckle up, because we’re about to go on a journey of language, logic, and maybe a little made-up Latin fun.
The Math of Mayhem
Let’s start with the term decimate. It comes from the Latin decimare, which literally means “to take a tenth.” In ancient Rome, if a unit of soldiers had done something very naughty—like mutiny or cowardice—a commander might punish them by killing every tenth man. Brutal, yes. But precise. That’s decimation.
Fast forward to modern usage: when someone says a city was “decimated,” they almost always mean “completely destroyed.” Not 10%. Not even 90%. More like… rubble. This shift from exacting punishment to total annihilation is a case study in how words can drift far from their roots over time.
So that raises a cheeky question: If we can decimate something, can we centimate it? Can we punish something just a little bit—maybe delete one out of every hundred unread emails instead of doing inbox zero? “I didn’t clean the whole room, I just centimated the clutter.” It has a kind of precision that appeals to a certain type of person (Doucheroo, our precocious 15-year-old anarchist from rural Michigan, would be all about this). In fact, if capitalism is the problem, maybe we don’t need to smash the system—just centimate it a bit. Redistribute 1% of the wealth. No? Okay, maybe decimate it is.
But What Happens When Something Has Been… Mated?
Now we get to the weird part. If decimate means to reduce by one-tenth, and hypothetically centimate means to reduce by one-hundredth, then what about just plain mate?
Has something been “mated”? Was it tenderly paired with a lover, or completely obliterated in a linguistic explosion of soft, moist chaos?
This is where things get juicy. The word mate as we use it in English comes from several different roots. As a noun or verb related to companionship, it’s likely from the Middle Low German gemate, meaning “one eating at the same table.” But if we’re playing with the Latin root matus—which means “soft” or “moist”—then a strange picture begins to form.
Could mated in this context mean something so softened, so utterly reduced, that it’s been rendered into a puddle of its former self? A sort of moist obliteration? A gentle ending? Like decimating with vibes instead of violence?
If that’s the case, then maybe to be mated is the final form of decimation. Not just the loss of a tenth. Not even the loss of a hundredth. But an emotional, softening conclusion to all resistance. A force so tender that it erases with compassion.
A Call for New Words (and Weird Uses of Old Ones)
So here’s a proposal, straight from Doucheroo’s thought journal and scratched into the underside of a highway overpass:
Centimate (verb): to reduce gently or slightly; a tiny, almost imperceptible reform.
Mate (verb): to render powerless through softness; to overwhelm with moisture; to end a force not with fire, but with fuzz.
Language is weird. It evolves, it mutates, it gets memed into oblivion. But sometimes, in the middle of overthinking etymology, we find new ways to describe the world—ones that are more poetic, more precise, or just more fun.
So the next time you shave 1% off your to-do list or collapse into a warm, sobbing heap after reading an emotionally devastating webcomic, just remember: you haven’t failed. You’ve been centimated. Or maybe… mated.
And isn’t that kind of beautiful?
Want more weird etymology and leftist whimsy? Doucheroo’s zine, Dialectics & Dirty Jokes, drops every solstice. Stay moist, comrades.
My dad often talks about how he would go with his little brother to the Little Caesar’s in Richmond and get a hot ‘n ready pizza and order of Italian cheese bread for $10 after they picked out two movies from the blockbuster next door.
Today I learned that in his industrial magnum opus, “Dragula”, Robert B. Zombie was not kidnapping and burning witches at the stake. The apparent correct interpretation is that he is fucking a prodigious amount of witches in the back seat of his 🎶Dragula🎶.
If you ever get called to Mr. Riley’s desk after class, you’re either about to be exploited or sent to detention. There is no in-between.
Riley, in addition to running the Business Administration program like a capitalist sweatshop, is also in charge of the yearbook—a doomed project that no one actually cares about until they realize they’ll be stuck with it as a relic of their high school mediocrity for the rest of their lives.
“Doucheroo,” he said, steepling his fingers like a Bond villain. “I need someone who knows computers.”
That was hilarious, considering the school district had explicitly banned me from touching any of their computers after an “incident” involving a proxy meant to allow Palestinian freedom fighters to access outside news, a pirated copy of RollerCoaster Tycoon 2, and an unfortunate system-wide crash that I maintain was not my fault.
“I’m, uh… not really allowed to do that,” I reminded him.
He waved it off. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”
That’s how I got stuck finishing the senior yearbook slideshow with Louisa Jackson, the reigning queen of performative school spirit, who absolutely should have finished this herself by now.
Now, this is where things got weird.
The Media Lab had been locked for as long as I’d been in high school. Rumors swirled about why—it was haunted, it had been a front for some kind of illegal faculty operation, or the administration had simply forgotten it existed (which was honestly the most realistic explanation).
Yet, somehow, Louisa had the keys.
“How?” I asked, watching as she nonchalantly unlocked the door like it was her job.
She just smirked. “I have my ways.”
I made a mental note to never underestimate the sheer power of rich girl confidence.
Inside, the place looked like a museum of outdated technology. Dusty iMacs, untouched video equipment, and a definitely haunted projector sat in the dimly lit room, as if waiting for some long-lost AV club to resurrect them.
Louisa hopped up onto a desk while I sat down at a computer, begrudgingly booting up the absolute dumpster fire that was the senior class’s collection of blurry photos and recycled Instagram captions.
“Alright,” I muttered. “What exactly is left to do?”
Louisa sighed dramatically. “Ugh. Like, everything. It’s just a bunch of random files right now.”
Fantastic.
About fifteen minutes in, I was knee-deep in cutting footage, fixing transitions, and trying to make the slideshow look less like an accidental PowerPoint from 2008. Louisa, meanwhile, had given up on pretending to be helpful and was leaning on her elbows, watching me work.
“You’re, like… kinda good at this,” she said, tilting her head.
I ignored her. Flattery wasn’t getting me out of this project.
She twirled a strand of hair around her finger. “Didn’t think a guy like you would be so… organized.”
Again, I ignored her.
Then she said something I couldn’t ignore.
“You know,” she said, voice way too casual, “this place is always empty.”
I glanced at her. “…Yeah?”
“No one ever comes in here.”
Click. Drag. Cut.
She leaned forward. “Like, ever.”
I turned to look at her fully this time, because what was she implying?
Then she hit me with it:
“If you wanted, we could fool around or whatever. No one would ever know”
…Okay. That’s when my brain fully short-circuited.
First of all, I was not prepared for this scenario.
Louisa Jackson, preppy, popular, perfectly curated, was offering to hook up in the dusty, abandoned Media Lab with me, a self-proclaimed anarcho-communist and sworn enemy of high school hierarchy?
It didn’t make sense. Was this a trap? A social experiment? Some bizarre rich girl impulse fueled by boredom and a superiority complex?
Did I analyze all of this internally instead of answering immediately? Yes.
Did I ultimately not say no? Also yes.
Look, I’m not gonna spell it out for you, but let’s just say the slideshow wasn’t the only thing that got edited that afternoon.
By the time we actually went back to working, it was way later than expected, and I had to scramble to make sure the files were in some kind of presentable order before we shut everything down. Louisa, meanwhile, just sat there smirking, completely unbothered, like she hadn’t just completely dismantled my worldview.
“Like, don’t tell anyone this happened, got it?” She opined, twirling the media lab’s keys after we made our way out and into the main library. We had missed lunch.
I am doing edits for THE WAR and I need your help, I need volenteers for the war. Either reblog this post with your profile picture or simplly like the post to let me know that I can use your profile picture!
I’m not out here listening to muddy, compressed garbage like some pleb. If your music isn’t in lossless FLAC, what are you even doing? You’ve never truly heard an album until you’ve experienced every nuance—the breath before a lyric, the resonance of a snare hit, the actual texture of distortion. That’s why I use Tidal, because I refuse to let MP3 compression butcher my audio experience.
And yeah, I rock the limited-edition purple Audio-Technica ATH-M50x—or as I call them, The Princes (because they remind me of the artist formerly and currently known as Prince). They stay around my neck like a declaration of war. When they’re on, I’m unreachable. If you try to talk to me while I’m blasting 24-bit, 96kHz math rock, that’s on you. My FiiO BTR5 DAC ensures zero compromises, even on Bluetooth.
I wear them loud as hell in the halls so everyone knows exactly who I’m ignoring. If I glance at you and keep walking? That means the soundstage of my current track is more interesting than you.
P.S. don’t tell anyone but fuck Tidal I pirate all of my music.
I know I’ve been off the grid for a bit. Turns out, appendicitis isn’t just a word you vaguely hear about until it sucker-punches you in the gut like a capitalist gutting workers’ rights.
I was in the postcoital throes of having beaten Metal Gear Solid 2 on Extreme Difficulty (fuck the metal gear RAY fights) and felt like I needed to take a big ol’ deuce.
I take my usual crouching position, standing on the rim of the toilet bowl as I always do and suddenly a stabbing pain shoots through my lower extremities. I am in the worst pain of my life and will surely die.
One ambulance ride and emergency surgery later, and here I am—stuck in a hospital bed, unable to do much more than contemplate my own mortality, the broken healthcare system, and, uh… the incredibly cute nurse who gave me a sponge bath.
Yes. You read that right.
I, Doucheroo, fearless rural anarcho-communist warrior, advocate for mutual aid, hater of hierarchy, was utterly reduced to a stammering mess by a nurse who, in my pain-med-induced haze, may as well have been a celestial being of kindness and grace.
It started with the words no revolutionary ever expects to hear:
“Alright, hon, let’s get you cleaned up.”
Now, under normal circumstances, I’d be screaming about how the ruling class exploits labor and how we need to dismantle private property. But in that moment? I was barely holding in a wheezy “o-okay” while internally debating if I should just launch myself out of the window to escape my own embarrassment.
She was professional, of course. It was all just routine to her. But to me? Every gentle wipe with that damp, warm sponge felt like a direct attack on my dignity. My brain was in absolute crisis mode:
“Doucheroo, do not make eye contact. That’s weird.”
“Oh no, she’s talking to me casually. Do I joke back? No, that’s weird too.”
“Is she laughing at me or just being nice? Am I reading too much into this?”
“STOP BLUSHING, YOU COWARD.”
“Scooby Dooby Doo, where are you? You’re ready and you’re willing. If we can count on you, Scooby Doo, we know we’ll catch that villain” (Scooby theme absolutely destroys my boner).
Meanwhile, my body was betraying me in ways beyond just a rogue appendix. My ears? Redder than a Soviet flag. My voice? Barely functional. My entire sense of self? Reduced to that of a shy Victorian maiden swooning at the slightest hint of affection.
I kept my responses short. A mumbled “thanks” here. A barely audible “cool” there. She probably thought I was either the most socially awkward patient in existence or still suffering from the effects of anesthesia. Either way, the damage was done. The revolution? On pause. Doucheroo? Utterly defeated by the dual forces of kindness and professionalism.
Now that I’m home and recovering, I’d like to pretend this never happened. But let’s be real—I’ll be haunted by the memory of that sponge bath until the day we overthrow capitalism.
Anyway, comrades, let this be a lesson: No matter how tough you think you are, no matter how ready you are to take on the system, a cute nurse with a washcloth can and will reduce you to a flustered, awkward mess.
Until next time—stay hydrated, stay radical, and may your organs never betray you.
