I Love The Internet Even Though It’s On The Internet
Everybody hates the internet. Tweets and clicks. The silly insta-memes and the first person essays with “I” in the title. Don’t get some people started on selfies. Please don’t. It is a modern truth that true narcissists cannot resist accusing other narcissists of narcissism.
Everybody hates the internet. All hate is self-hate.
If there’s one thing Facebook is good for it’s complaining about Facebook. Remember back in the good ol’ days before social media when lonely people would just scream into their pillow and stay forgotten?
Long ago there was a dream that everyone — no matter your gender, race, religion, creed, or socio-economic background — would have a voice, and now they do. So stop bitching and moaning because it’s a noisy racket.
The internet is blamed for the decline of Western Civilization. Old school snobs sneer at low-brow aggregators, and content platform pontificators tsk-tsk at traffic-driving dirty deeds.
If you have ever clicked on clickbait then ha-ha you clicked on clickbait.
America was founded on clickbait. Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness is clickbait. We’ve got snake oil in our veins. Complaining about clickbait is like buying a lotto ticket and complaining about losing. Clickbait works because after the commercial, a celebrity will say something outrageous.
Let’s not pretend that the internet invented bullshit.
I started in media in the late 90s as a receptionist at a small tech magazine publisher. I clawed up to a fact-checker, which is what you get when you cross Google with a person who cares about facts. When I left to start-up a website in 1999, an older drunken writer told me I was killing my career. He hated the internet.
He is in good company today, wherever he happens to be.
Everyone hates the internet.
Well, these people can fuck right off because I launched a website and I’m feeling pretty okay about it. They call it a “launch,” but it’s more like a pratfall. I love the internet. It’s a mess of loud emotions and useless information and voices who have never been heard before. I’m lucky to have spent almost 15 years writing very personal essays, building ridiculous slideshows, and tricking millions of people into being entertained for a nanosecond.
When I write that “I launched” a website, what I mean is that I launched a website with a dozen amazing creative professionals. A fine group of people. Without them there would be no website, but there’s an “I” in the title of this essay for a reason.
This site is not Buzzfeed, or Funny or Die, or Gawker. Those are all pioneering websites and I couldn’t honestly be in this industry and not be a fan of each of those. I have worked for websites with cultural juice. I have worked for websites that were basically digital ghost ships.I have written for men’s & women sites, food sites, movie, food, travel, and comedy sites. They’re called verticals, but I call them fun buckets because I can be passive-aggressive. I’ve been paid well, poorly, barely and not at all.
My website is new, and I am very proud of it. There are some bugs, but we’re hustling to fix them. Hopefully, the site will grow and evolve, the way an alien evolves from a facehugger to a chestburster, to a xenomorph with a retractable fang mouth.
My colleagues are working hard. They are fearless. We will succeed.
But you never know. I’ve been laid off three times in my career. Success is just what happens between failures. Remember: if shit gets hard then persevere, motherfucker.
I’m sorry if you hate the internet. I mean, it’s not like there’s plenty to hate. As the great philosopher Pollyana said, “When you look for the bad in mankind expecting to find it, you surely will.” I love The Wire, even though TV made a reality show about child abuse called Here Comes Honey Boo Boo.
The internet is the counterculture. It is scary and wonderful. The GIFs, the lists, the constant jokes. It’s an impossible catalog of human WTF. A confederacy of cranival barkers inviting you to peek inside endless exotic tents. YouTube is the singularity as a zygote. Internet comments are just professional Wrestling. Fake names, trash talk, the thrill of violence without the consequences. Faces & Heels. The greatest show in the history of the Earth.
Remember that dress brouhaha? Is it black? Is it blue? You don’t remember? That’s okay. It was fun.
I don’t know what my brand’s story is. But I do know this: every like, retweet, share, and pageview is evidence of human emotion. A tiny little flicker of human desire or despair or delight.
The internet blinks with emotion like a giant cosmic Christmas tree.
I have launched sites before. You have too, even if you haven’t. Whenever you press publish you are launching something. Every time you tweet there’s the potential to connect with someone you don’t know.
Let me tell you how to launch a website: you have a vision of a website full of cool stuff you hope people will like. You hire a small staff of people who are very good at what they do. You spend six months designing, coding, creating content that is funny and weird. A week or so before you go down the giant list of things. You will spend the next week crossing things off this list, and adding things, and crossing those things off. You will spiritually merge with a spreadsheet. You talk to developers a lot. Developers are like cinematographers. They use science to help make art. You click things to see if they work. You lose sleep. You stop shaving. You come in on weekends and either hunch over your computer keyboard or stare blankly at walls. You emotionally eat chicken sandwiches at Wendy’s.
You run home for a few hours sleep, and a shower. When you come back to work you’re nervous and sleep-deprived. A developer presses a button or clicks something, or pulls a giant lever and, boom, you’re live.
Live! Your heart will jump.
Then you get word that your very first users is from Portugal. “Wow,” you’ll think. “Portugal.”
Is it a he? A she? Are they watching from their phone?
You’re live. Connected. Open for business. There is no flood of traffic. There will be more. Hopefully in a few weeks, you’ll get your very first “u suck” in the comments. If you can work the kinks out of the comments.
With a lot of help I launched a website this week. So far so good.
Everyone hates the internet. You may even hate the internet.
My Therapist Is Probably The Luckiest Therapist In The World
Every week my therapist gets to sit in his comfortable leather chair and enjoy a hilarious, heartwarming 45-minute show starring John DeVore as John DeVore. That’s right, once a week, I take my therapist on an emotional thrill ride that has gone on for 7 years and I imagine that when it finally ends, it will end with these words from my therapist to me: “You’re a beautiful soul. Thank you.”
My therapist is probably the luckiest therapist in the world. Sure, he most certainly has to sit through sessions with patients who are dull, or alcoholics, or suffering from post-traumatic stress disorders. Boring. But not everyone can be as fascinating and charming as I am, because not everyone can take the pressure that comes with being as fascinating and charming as I am.
At 4PM every Thursday, he knows he’s about to go on a journey of the mind and spirit. Because at 4PM every Thursday I show up. Not some balding, middle-aged fruitcake with control issues. But a patient with a real sense of narrative. Instead of staring at a patient whining about her life’s disappointments, he can stare at a patient who can be counted on to deliver a largely improvisational monologue about me, me, me.
I understand he’s a therapist and can’t really show his joy and gratitude at being paid money to listen to me spin jaunty yarns about my life as a witty urban sophisticate. I mean, he gets PAID to hear a personal tale of humble triumph from yours truly every week. Delivered to his office! Why, imagine if This American Life showed up at your house, paid you $150, and then told you, in the comfort of your living room, a story about how This American Life can’t perform sexually anymore.
It all starts in his waiting room, or the “green room,” as I call it. This is where I prepare for my time with my therapist. Believe it or not, I don’t really write down notes. It’s never been a part of my creative process. Then he enters and we exchange pleasantries that give no suggestion of the laughs and tears that are about to reveal themselves in his office. The anticipation is high as he says “How has your week been?” He says this every time we meet, and that is, as they say, my cue.
I wink, I shoot the double guns, I smirk and say “buckle up.”
Normally, he just sits there and stares at me as I talk about my hopes and dreams. I’ll usually open with a zinger or a funny anecdote about my week. For instance, I recently told him a funny story about a fat co-worker who talks about her new diet all the time, blah blah blah, but I see her eating pizza for lunch everyday. She’ll always be fat, and ugly. Ha, ha, ha. He coughed briefly when I told him that and I knew, right there, that I had hooked him. Again!
So then I follow up the story with a bit of hard-earned wisdom. For instance, the poor aren’t all lazy or retarded. In fact, some of the poor are just like me, without my work ethic, or intelligence. I have these insights all the time. Just, constantly. Which is one reason I grow so much as a person. I’m always growing. My therapist always agrees, silently, while staring at me and writing down words in his pad.
I imagine the words he writes down in his pad are “Yes, yes, yes!”
After I drop some life wisdom on him, I then launch into a 35 minute or so list of the people at home, work, and in my life who have betrayed me that week. Miserable backstabbing phonies, and birdbrained whores and thimble-dicked executives. All of them want me to fail. Just like my Dad. They’re always talking about me behind my back, those fucking bitch fuckers. Well, I won’t let them get me. I won’t. I’ll show them!
At this point he’ll usually offer me a box of tissues because I’ll have been sobbing and babbling for a few minutes. He hides his emotion because I don’t have to hide mine. I usually wrap up my time with the same funny joke about how he and I are like a living New Yorker cartoon. The session ends not with a standing ovation, but a polite “I’ll see you next week” from my therapist as he shows me the door.
There’s usually someone waiting outside when he does this and it would be rude if he gave any indication that our session was yet another extraordinary performance. He always closes the door behind me. What does he do? Meditate? Pray? Thank his Jew God for making him the luckiest therapist in the world? I don’t know. I don’t believe in God or Jew God. I just believe in me.
I don’t know what my therapist does in his office after I’ve left. But I do know this: wait until next week. Just wait.
__ You frequently smile & wave at Frank & Janice next door.
__ You frequently smile & wave at law enforcement
__ You might say, with a chuckle, “Hello, Officer.”
__ Cops love donuts and so do you. Who doesn’t?
__ You can’t complain.
__ A police officer shoots an unarmed person and then there’s no trial ha ha ha that’s absurd.
__ A cop is following you? That’s probably because he is watching your back. Thanks!
__ You believe in your dad’s old saying “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, and I’m talking about the justice system.”
__ The only time you ever put your hands up is on a roller-coaster.
__ “Bad boys, bad boys. Whatcha gonna do? Whatcha gonna do when they come for you?” is so catchy who sings that?
__ You enjoy telling the story about how you pulled yourself up by your shoelaces from middle class to middle class.
__ Maybe you were born into poverty and cringe at the idea you enjoy any privilege but there’s someone who has it worse off than you and that person is probably not a member of the powerful majority.
__ It’s really nice of mass media to constantly reinforce your worldview.
__ America is the land of the free and the home of the brave and it was basically invented by very nice white people.
__ There are bad cops, because you can’t have good cop/bad cop without at least one bad cop.
__ The justice system works fine, and if you are innocent and in jail you can always turn to the American podcast industry.
__ You’ve got 5 black friends on Facebook, and of those 5, you personally know, at least, 3.
__ Cops are just regular folk doing their job, powerful regular folk who get to make life and death decisions, and maybe you smoke a little weed here and there and every night but not enough to go to jail. Who goes to jail for a little weed?
__ You’re not racist.
__ There have been some ups and downs but generally the last 500 years have been pretty good, all things considered.
__ If you don’t break laws, then nothing bad happens. Just don’t break laws, except for smoking a little weed, or double parking, or walking around in the middle of the day.
__ You love hip-hop.
__ Yoga is just a nice way to de-stress after a long day at the office.
__ You enjoy television shows where white police officers solve grisly murders.
__ “Stop and Frisk” sounds like a tickle attack from an old friend.
__ You’d be perfectly fine if a purple or a green and blue striped person moved in next door to you.
__ You feel safe when cops dress up in gas masks and ride around in tanks just like the Army.
__ Matlock would have made a wonderful Supreme Court Justice.
__ You will never drive 10 miles-per-hour over the limit ever again, officer. You swear.
__ There’s a suspicious person in the neighborhood. He’s tall, wearing a hoodie.
__ Hello? 911? There’s someone walking around the neighborhood. He’s tall. He’s has baggie pants.
__ You own a gun because you need to be able to protect your family against the one person most likely to hurt them which would be you with your gun. Is that guy still walking around? Is he a drug dealer?
__ Never call 911 stoned because it’s really weird.
__ You never can be too safe, officer.
__ He might have been just some guy or the friend of someone down the street or just some guy?
__ You could say he looked like dangerous.
__ You could say he looked like a criminal.
__ A thug? Hmmm. Yeah, sure. A thug.
__ You’re just doing your job. Thank you for doing your job. Thank you for protecting and serving and protecting me and my family from bad guys and thugs and terrorists.
__ Be careful out there.
__ You are totally stoned and that cop TOTALLY knew it!
Rudy tries to make cookies all by herself, but makes a mess in the kitchen. Theo tries to help clean, but Claire walks in. Vanessa announces the prestigious university she wants to attend. Later that night, Cliff pours Claire a glass of wine and shhh, shhh Claire, go to sleep. I’ll be back soon, you won’t miss me.
Denise makes fun of Theo’s new haircut. Claire wants to volunteer for the church, even though she is already very busy. Cliff lectures the family on the importance of jazz, and then dances to one of his favorite songs. It’s the song he plays after he’s invited you back to his office to discuss med school. It’s a soothing song, and the wine tastes good. Is it warm in here? Lay down, says Cliff.
When Rudy’s goldfish dies, Cliff tells her a story about goldfish heaven. Theo doesn’t believe Cliff would tell Rudy such an outlandish falsehood. Cliff reminds Theo about his long-deceased, but beloved, pet hamster. Everyone laughs. Cliff answers a phone call and whispers into the phone “Call here again, and I’ll destroy you.”
While Claire is away, Cliff takes care of the family, which now includes a lost puppy that Rudy found. Sondra surprises the family with a visit from college! After a pizza party, Theo discovers Polaroids of naked women, asleep, in a shoe box in the garage. Cliff stares in a mirror and mumbles “never again, never again.”
When Theo and Rudy play wildly in the house, Vanessa warns them that someone is bound to get hurt. Denise settles on a major, and surprises the family with a new career dream. Cliff mentors an aspiring pediatrician in his office. When she wakes up, her nose bleeding, Cliff tells her she passed out. Was he wearing just a bathrobe when she first came over to his office?
It is a labor crisis when Cliff is called to the hospital to deliver three babies. Theo, now the man of the house, tries to boss Vanessa around. Vanessa has other plans. Claire refuses to believe he’s capable of such horrible things, Patty must be lying, she must. He’s a successful doctor, not a monster!
An ecstatic Cliff and Clair are the only happy Huxtables when summer vacation ends and school bells ring for the kids. Rudy stands up to a bully. Vanessa makes new friends. Theo writes a rap song about math. Cliff signs his name “John Coltrane” at the motel where he’s meeting a young woman who he met at the hospital. His pockets are full of pills.
It is an average day for the Huxtables: Denise introduces Claire to yoga. Theo and his friend Cockroach plan on becoming basketball stars. Vanessa insists on rehearsing her song for the big spring musical audition. Rudy can’t sleep because of nightmares, so Cliff gives her a mild sedative. As she dozes off, he is reminded of the convention in Philadelphia last weekend. She was so weak from the sedatives, she could hardly fight him off. Cliff sings Rudy a lullaby, and chuckles, because he feels no remorse.
Of Course I've Listened To "Serial," Why Do You Ask?
Have I heard "Serial?" Are you kidding me? Of course I've listened to "Serial," why do you ask?
It's like you're trying to suggest I'm not listening to the most amazing thing that everyone is buzz buzzing about.
Well, I have listened to all of it. Every single episode. Do you think that person did it? Or do you think that person did not do it? That thing that person did is unbelievable. I am captivated by "Serial," the radio digital podcast from public radio.
Pour me another bowl of "Serial," it is so, so good! Literally everyone I know will not shut up about "Serial" and how it is so, so good. Good thing I agree! Because I have listened to it all.
The narrative is just bonkers. Ugh, what crazy narrative. What do you think of the narrative?
I can't believe you asked if I'd heard "Serial." Do I have 50 pages of an unfinished novel currently on Google Drive? Of course I’ve downloaded “Serial” to my iPhone 6 and listened to the downloadable MP3 while shopping at the farmer’s market for kale.
I can't wait for "Serial 2."
It's only the most popular thing on the internet. Everybody is tweeting about it. On Facebook my friends are all "Serial, Serial, Serial." And I am all "like, like, like." If you write a Facebook status update about "Serial," then I am all over that. I might even comment “I am listening to “Serial,” too!” Hot damn, I love "Serial!"
Are you on Snapchat because I’d love to snap you a chat of me saying “Hot damn, I love “Serial!”
Have you read that think piece about "Serial?" It really made me think.
What do I like about "Serial?" I love when... I love the sound of it. Sounds really nice. Crisp. Those are some quality microphones they're using. Makes sense - quality microphones, quality radio show. I am so moved by the pauses. So many beautiful pauses.
I really like how you know who is speaking, it's not confusing. Did you like the episode where Ira Glass shows up and makes a wry observation about life in America? No? Maybe you didn't hear that episode. I've heard them all. Have you? Are you sure?
The twist? Don't talk about the twist. Don't talk about it. Seriously. It's too much. The twist wasn't a twist! It was like that scene with the alien punching out of the guy's stomach. I was like "WHOA!" No spoilers, though, because there are still some people who haven't heard "Serial." Those people, I don't know, maybe they don't care about culture.
Am I the only person who listens to “Serial,” and then, afterwards, says a silent prayer to God thanking Him for “Serial?”
I’m starting the first “Serial” club. Want to join? We’ll sit around and dissect “Serial” and talk about it’s implications. It is positively fraught with implications don’t you think?
Are you transcribing “Serial” while you re-listen to it, because I am. I’m hoping to translate each transcribed episode into Latin.
Sometimes when I’m reading short fiction I play “Serial” in the background instead of Beck’s most recent album.
I may work 60 hours a week, but I can always find the time to listen to something everyone is listening too, even if all I want to do is watch "The Blacklist" on NBC! It may be hard for some people to catch up with all the exciting and hilarious and emotionally devastating media out there but not me. Nope.
I have so many opinions on Taylor Swift, “Orange Is The New Black,” and “Too Many Cooks.” I’m going to see “Interstellar” but just know that I already hate it. I heart everything in New York Magazine’s Approval Matrix. Okay? Are we okay? Do you like me? Are we friends? Are we cool? Am I cool? I love “Serial.” I’ve listened to it eight times since Monday.
It reminds me of Studio 360. Do you listen to Studio 360? What? You don't? Studio 360 is a tremendous show on the radio and "Serial" is also on the radio. How can you not have heard it? Ha, ha. What are you, an idiot?
Do you have an emergency plan? You don’t? That’s pretty stupid. Take a minute and watch cable news. Cable news tells it like it is: you’re in immediate danger. Fear is America’s favorite condiment.
Natural and man-made disasters can strike at any time, just ask God. LOL. That’s a little emergency plan humor. God is too busy visiting misery upon his children to answer you.
Sometimes you get warned before a disaster. A text might alert you to a flash flood, or the sun might suddenly start to bleed, a sure sign the end of the world is nigh. But sometimes disasters don’t announce themselves. One day you’re staring out your window watching the world go by, then, suddenly, you’re staring out your window watching a radioactive nuclear blast wave rolling towards you.
If you want to know how to live, and not die, screaming, your flesh bubbling off your skeleton, then just follow MY emergency disaster plan.
First, can you name the three primary kinds of emergencies? You can’t? Friend, you just visited death upon everyone you loved. What did I just write? A little advance planning can save your life. There’s no excuse for not knowing the three kinds of emergency.
There are three kinds of emergency. You might know them by their colors: red, really red, and jugular spurt. For instance, a first responder might shout into his or her walkie-talkie “Holy fucking shit, we got a fucking emergency here! The second kind! The really red kind!” Now everyone will know if they have to walk fast, or to kind of jog-walk.
The first kind of emergency is kind the kind you laugh at, like fire. The second kind of emergency is the kind you make a jerking off motion towards because you don’t live in L.A. and don’t care about earthquakes. The third, and final, emergency that you should be made aware of is the one where you spit out your champagne because its raining snakes.*
Now that you’re familiar with the KINDS of emergency, let’s move on to HOW to respond to these emergencies. Step number one is — LOOK OUT IT’S A TERRORIST WITH EBOLA!
There isn’t a terrorist with Ebola. There could be. I just made a point.
The first step to to planning for an emergency is to have an actual plan.
Noah was the first Doomsday Prepper. He was a maniac, but, boy, he was a good planner. You think you can build an ark in a week? A month? You do? You try it, then. Noah said God talked to him, but that’s just what lunatics say because they know if they said “my big toe talks to me” people would lock them up!
Be like Noah. Build your ark now. Or buy your ark and make low monthly payments. For instance, my ark is a 2010 Toyota Corolla.
Start storing food. I have six months worth of Dinty Moore Beef Stew. I have so many cans of Dinty Moore Beef Stew, I made a chair out of cans of Dinty Moore Beef Stew. My bathroom is filled, top to bottom, with Dinty Moore Beef Stew. I use the restroom at Starbucks to take hobo baths.
I also recommend keeping a few candles around. What's a candle? They're ancient lightbulbs from the past. But did you know that candles are also edible? I call them "emergency carrots."
Buy ammunition. In the post-apocalypse, shotgun shells will be currency. For instance, you might want to buy some sugar or a can opener. That will cost you three shotgun shells for the sugar, probably twelve for the can opener. I forgot to pack a can opener! It will get confusing when buying one shotgun shell costs three shotgun shells.
Oh, right, if you have ammunition, you might as well have a gun. Guns kill people. You know that saying “guns don’t kill people, people kill people?” That’s ridiculous. If guns don’t kill people then you have a broken gun. Get that gun fixed. If you don’t like guns because you’re a big sissy, then make a weapon.
You can turn any ol’ thing into a weapon, if you’re crazy enough. A whisk, a candle, a feather duster. Just be fucking insane. A shoe thrown with deadly accuracy isn’t just a shoe, it’s a throwing shoe. Just in case, I keep a pitchfork around. Like one of those pitchforks from the painting of that old couple, the farmer and his prostitute. Or maybe it was the reverse? She’s the farmer? Not sure. But if you see me with a pitchfork, run the other way, because I’m going to stab everyone I see, just to be safe.
My emergency plan consists of a jar of scorpions. No one ever sees that coming.
Pack a “go bag.” A “go bag” is a bag of important survival gear that you can grab quickly during an emergency. In my “bug out bag” are 12 cans of Dinty Moore Beef Stew, and some oily rags.
What should go in your “go bag?” I don’t care. Just don’t come asking me for a can of Dinty Moore Beef Stew.
But this is just some of my emergency plan. I am prepared for every contingency, like what if I forget my emergency plan? I wrote it all down on a cocktail napkin. What I’m saying is, though, I hope for the worst, and prepare for whatever is worst than the worst.
I am confident in my emergency plan. Once the you know what hits the what do you call that thing, then I am ready to survive. But first, a coffee mug of bourbon. Okay, one more coffee mug of bourbon. Now I’m ready. Ha, ha, ha my fly is down.
My emergency plan is a carefully constructed series of directives that I intend to execute flawlessly.
In the event of an emergency, panic. Bang trash can lids together and bray like a donkey. Strip naked and smear yourself with your own feces. This will creep out the mutants bred in our government’s secret laboratories.
In the event of an emergency, loot. Many survival experts say that you need food, shelter, and a 42-inch flat screen TV to survive.
You’ll need time to cry. I’m very sensitive. Sobbing uncontrollably is part of my emergency plan. So is begging, and shrieking, and more uncontrollable sobbing.
But then I kick into survivor mode. Just following the plan! Then I get serious. Because I’m going to endure. The melancholy ruins of our species will be populated solely by yours truly. I will live like a man-sized roach.
In the event of an emergency, always have an escape plan. Kicking down doors is pretty cool, but if you’re like me, your legs are mostly made out of what Gummi Bears are made out of.
If you live on the second floor or above, do NOT jump out of the window.
Just get out of wherever you are. We’ll talk in a bit about where to go, but for now, push old women and children over in a desperate scramble to save your skin. Occasionally look behind you and shout “COME ON” to your family.
Have a rendezvous point where you can meet up with friends. Make sure to only invite your fat friends, because chances are good you’ll be eating them later.
Right now I’d like to ask: do you have a fully-stocked, remotely-located, easily defensible cabin in the woods? Where is it located? Asking for a friend. Can you send me directions, out of curiosity?
It is important to train. How do you think bears get so good at riding unicycles. I train everyday. I’m up at 9AM, back in bed by 9:15AM, then back up again around 1PM. Then I check Instagram in bed. Training starts with a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal. That’s incorrect, I apologize. Training starts with two bowls of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.
I strip naked and practice Krav Maga. Then I jump, still naked, into my comfy bed and scream into a pillow. Training continues around 3PM, when I wake up from the first of many combat naps.
It is important to zig when others zag, to zag when other zog, and to zak when others zorn. For example: I recommend employing camouflage. Quick! Danger! Act like a tree!
You’d be surprised how gangs of satanic murder children will just run by you because you’re standing there with your fingers spread, making tree noises.
Another brilliant tactic of mine is called The Human Statue. If I’m being chased I might decide to just FREEZE IN PLACE. Maybe I’ll be frozen, mid-wave, or pointing heroically into the distance. Either way, the nuns with baseball bats will probably stop and think “do statues blink?”
There is a very good chance they’ll decide that I’m a living statue, and, therefore, terrifying. In the event of an emergency, drop, stop, and roll under a car. Take a combat nap. You’ve trained for that! Everything looks brighter after a nice nap, even nuclear winter.
When it comes to infectious diseases I follow the old saying “fight vomit with vomit.” If that doesn’t work, try a Purell enema.
Learn basic first aide. I learned basic first aide from the movies. If you’ve got a wound that’s bleeding, and you’re fantastically beautiful, I’ll slowly take off my shirt and shred it. I’ll bind your wounds, and I won’t even care as your fingers lightly glide over my six-pack abs.
But having an emergency plan is not enough to save you and your family, if you haven’t forgotten them. It is important to also have an emergency plan for your emergency plan. What if your emergency plan fails?
I should also mention how your very survival in an unlivable, post-apocalyptic wasteland might depend on having an emergency plan for your emergency plan’s emergency plan.
Everything is going to be okay. I promise. I wouldn’t lie to you. Trust me.
Everything is going to be okay, even though its not and we all die.
That is the truth. This reminds me of an old fable. A tale. It’s called the Scorpion and the Frog, and it goes something like this: The scorpion lied! The scorpion stung the frog! Now they’re both dead!
The moral of the story is simple: choice is an illusion. Unless you’re talking about nacho chips, then you have at least one solid choice and that’s cool ranch.
Other than that, only god has choices and that’s why he never answers prayers.
Oh! I remember another fable about a raccoon that fell down a wishing well full of glittering coins and was never seen or heard from again.
Everyone is beautiful by moonlight.
It’s not easy being a human. I think rocks have it pretty good. I’d choose being a human over being a chicken, though. Not because chickens are bred to briefly cluck in their own filth before being turned into fingers, but because when chickens dream they remember when they were dinosaurs.
Don’t be afraid, but that’s stupid. Be terrified. Just don’t be afraid about things you should not be afraid of, like what assholes think about you. Those dicks are such dicks. While you’re on this planet, I really recommend just being the weirdest, loudest, most honest you you can be.
You might as well just love sloppy, and dress crazy, and say outrageous things that don’t hurt people’s feelings because if you hurt people’s feelings willy-nilly then you are the asshole I just told you to not fear.
Look, be fabulous and fearless all you want. I’m just suggesting you be, oh, 80% fabulous. Fearless people tend to not fear things like murder.
Everything is going to be okay, though. I know it feels like the four horsemen of the apocalypse are doing doughnuts on the face of humanity.
Things are scary, but they could be worse. Actually, they’re going to get worse. If the ebola doesn’t get you, the decapitations will. You will fall on the tracks and a train will eat you.
Lightning will make you dance. Bullets will install a skylight in your skull.
Heart disease. Hurricanes. Hezbollah.
You might even die in your sleep at 100 years of age. Although, in my experience, when you read about how someone died surrounded by loved ones what’s really happening is that someone died while their loved ones were outside chain smoking.
Its not like I’m not optimistic. The future holds wonders and miracles for people who will probably not be born for hundreds of years. Man, it would be great to be a brain suspended inside a giant biomechanical spider. I could probably visit Mars Vegas.
But right now, at this moment, things are okay. Check in tomorrow for an update. Tomorrow, everything might be mega-fucked up. This is optimism.
I told you I wouldn’t lie to you. Nope. It doesn’t matter if the glass is half-full or half-empty if its a glass of cold piss.
See?
Here’s some more truth: I think you’re doing the best you can do and your best is pretty great. Don’t give up. Failure is just success with morning breath and bed head.
The most exciting stories are the ones with heroes who don’t think they can go on, but they do.
Sometimes they have friends. I think there’s a law that you can’t quest without three or four trusted companions. I think one of them has to be an archer, and one of them has to be a demolitions expert. Find your Avengers. Conquer fears together. FIght dragons. Make art. Ugh. Make as much art as possible - theater, painting, children, whatever. Anyway, these people are your family.
Now, what I’m about to write might be hard to deal with, but most people are jerks. So I’d like to make a few points
Never listen to anyone who writes essays on the internet, except for me. I’m just trying to help. If you stop listening to me, I will have to respect that you take good advice well.
Never listen to anyone who always talks about politics too much. People who talk about politics want to be in charge of the whole enchilada. That is the problem with everything. There is enough enchilada to go around.
Never listen to people who say “no worries,” because, yes worries. All the worries. AIDS. ISIS. IRS. What the fuck do you mean “no worries.”
Hey, instead of smiling a serial killer clown smile and saying “no worries,” try just producing a guttural groan from the wet basement of your soul instead. This is the most honest thing anyone can say about life. Let this raw human sound bubble up like methane gas escaping a lake of tar.
Are we okay?
Uuugghhh.
Never listen to anyone who doles out “tough love” because there is no such thing as “tough love.” Love isn’t tough. Love is indestructible. Love is made out of adamantium and star lava. Since love cannot be destroyed, love is gentle. Love is nice.
So eat a space monster dick with your “tough love” bullshit.
Never listen to anyone who toasts their bagel.
Now put your hand on the computer screen. I am putting my hand on my computer screen. Can you feel my energy?
Of course you can’t. Christmas is a nice thought, too, though. That doesn’t mean I’m not there, with you, wherever you are, like a blue Jedi ghost.
Everything is going to be okay. There will be suffering. There will also be these moments when everything works out, and your mom is happy, and you have money in the bank, and you’re doing exactly what you want to be doing, even if it is for a moment. Then there will probably be more suffering. But remember that delicious slice of thank you life sandwiched between that old ouch and the current one?
You might get sick. You might divorce. Your dream might not come true. But everything will be okay because, and I'm NOT hitting on you, but you're fucking good looking when you're struggling, fighting, enduring.
Like, your soul is beautiful. The pain will pass. One way or another.
Time is all about the timing.
If you think about the things that matter you won’t obsess over things that flatter you. Imagine that days and months were meatballs. Now imagine a giant bowl of meatballs. Those are your meatballs! Eat them up. Yum. When you’re out of meatballs, you will cease to exist.
Slow down eating those meatballs, buddy! Take tiny bites. Enjoy. Savor. Take a break and tell a joke.
Everything is going to be okay. I was once pistol-whipped by a mugger. Another time I literally choked on snot as I wrote my sister’s obituary. Years ago when I was unemployed my credit card was declined at McDonald’s. Do you know how many friend’s don’t talk to me because I sobered up?
But I’m okay. I wasn’t, but I am. Are you not okay? I’m sorry. But you’ll be okay again. I swear. Life is short. Seriously. One day your butt looks good in whatever pair of jeans you put on and the next day you’re coffin filling.
It happens like that.
Eat your meatballs wisely.
Unfortunately, if everyone used their precious time goofing off, laughing, closing their eyes and inhaling deeply instead of working and producing, then our civilization would collapse.
It would be a nice bonfire until the cannibal biker gangs showed up.
So go to work, and pay your bills. If you can afford a nice sofa, by all means, buy a nice sofa. But, also, carpe diem. That is Latin for cup life’s hairy balls because life likes that.
Live each day as if it was your last, screaming and crying and begging because holy shit its your last day. On second thought live each day as if it was your second to last. Yes, that’s better. Have a nice meal, hug your family and maybe a friend, make some art. Leave the screaming and crying and begging until the next day.
Everything is going to be okay. Never lose hope. Always hope. Hope doesn’t mean things will actually turn out for the best. That’s ridiculous. Hope is the only lie that’s more important than all of the truths put together. You can never let it die. Regret is the carnivorous lizard-insect that grows inside hope’s carcass.
I’ve got your back, but do not fall backwards. I repeat: do not fall backwards. I will not be there to catch you. I’ve got your back, but only in the abstract.
Everything is going to be okay, because when the Grim Reaper shows up you’re going to beat him with his own thigh bone. Ha, ha, look at that skeleton man hopping around on one foot!
You’ll break his scythe over your knee and shove it up his total lack of ass.
You’ll slow-motion roundhouse kick his jaw off.
Go you! You’re winning!
Then he’ll suck your life away and you’ll be dead.
A recent scientific study by scientists showed that human consciousness can exist for up to three minutes after the heart has stopped beating and brain function has ceased.
Science is so goth.
Three whole minutes. Whisper the names of everyone who you love. Keep repeating that list for three minutes. What? You only love your dog? Because dogs are fur angels? Then whisper “Fonzi” over & over & over for three minutes.
Say their names. Smile. Say their names again. Then gravity will surrender its hold and you'll fall up into lightless sky.
The good news is there is you still have time to love whoever you want. So use that meatball wisely.
Fashion experts Bley & DeVore discuss the pros and cons of sleeping in the nude, bringing back the poncho, and which alien race has the best fashion sense.
Fashion not-experts John & Bley lament the lack of male accessories, discuss Bley’s massive collection of watches, and tackle the “Should you wash your jeans” debate. WHY IS THAT EVEN A DEBATE.
Everything is going to be okay. I just turned 40, and everything is going to be okay.
I thought, by now, I’d be a rich, powerful playwright. Just think about that for a moment. If you don’t know what a playwright is, it’s an ancient word for “one who has a lot of credit card debt.”
So, in a way, everything turned out according to plan.
I don’t celebrate birthdays. Fate enjoys targeting humans who make loud noises during momentous occasions because Fate is cruel and lazy. I usually keep my head down. I don’t blow out birthday candles because I don’t believe in birthday wishes.
If not, I’ll just search the night for a falling star or just close my eyes and cross my fingers.
Scientists have long theorized that our universe is just one of countless parallel universes. Infinite timelines reflecting every imaginable possibility.
If this is true, then it makes sense that one of these alternate realities would produce a John DeVore who is a brilliant scientist whose work in quantum mechanics would lead him to invent a machine that could teleport him between dimensions.
That is my birthday wish: for him to show up. Like a fairy or a Time Lord. Mumble “humbug” and awake to The Ghost Of Parallel Universes. If there are infinite versions of time then why can’t this John DeVore also be a gentleman adventurer tip-toeing across multiple cosmos.
This is my birthday wish. I don’t want money or fame or a superpower like laser beam eyes.
I, simply, want to see what never was.
Maybe he has an eye-patch or a goatee. A cape! He gets my message or is summoned and he immediately understands that I want to see all creations, every single one of them. We’d chat a spell. Have a laugh. I’d nuke some bagel pizzas because we love bagel pizzas. Unless this John DeVore is an inter-dimensional explorer who HATES bagel pizzas. He could also come from a plane of existence where such a culinary marvel has never been invented.
Then we’d jump through his portal, or down a chute, or into a giant glowing rift in existence and we’d be off. If he has some kind of spacecraft, it would have a control room with glowing buttons and geysers of steam.
Mind you, my knowledge of string theory is a little wobbly. I am not a professional theoretical physicist, or even an amateur one. But I’m fairly sure that this is all plausible. All we would need is to launch a quantum torpedo with a holographic invitation through the space-time membranes.
(In lieu of that a genie? A witch? An old god?)
So me and brilliant, possibly mad, me would tour other dimensions. Observe other John DeVores. Impossible John DeVores.Hopefully the John DeVore who can journey between realities isn’t a homicidal maniac with a god complex but that’s just the risk I’d take.
We’d visit a John DeVore who loves tennis. A John DeVore who is a mediocre trial lawyer. A John DeVore whose an award-winning bodybuilder flexing in the mirror. We’d hide behind bushes and watch John DeVore at 40 with a happy family of three have a picnic. Lurk in the shadows as John DeVore, the kung-fu master, fought the mob.
Other John DeVores: the teacher, the plumber, the criminal. A Russian John DeVore. A blonde John DeVore. Maybe there’s a John DeVore who is a rich, and powerful playwright in a reality where the arts are as popular as professional wrestling. There’s a gay John DeVore, a republican John DeVore, and a John DeVore who hosts a game show called “What Number Am I Thinking?”
Brilliant John DeVore and I would help John DeVore fight Cenobites in one reality where hell spilled open. John DeVore proposes to his longtime girlfriend with the help of John DeVore & John DeVore.
There’s a terrible reality where all civilization is built upon Judd Apatow’s movie “This Is 40” and John DeVore is a famed rebel leader.
A reality where President John DeVore loses reelection. This John DeVore fights cancer against the odds, that John DeVore overdoses on heroin in the streets.
A priest. A ballet dancer. An alligator wrestler.
John DeVore, the super intelligent gorilla. John DeVore, the Emperor of Space Rome. John DeVore, the emotionless killbot.
So many John DeVores. Stupid ones. Dishonest ones. A few with just plain bad luck.
We’ll escape a prison run by John DeVore. Survive an attack by a pack of feral John DeVores. Fall in love with John DeVore, famed madame. Eventually, after many close calls, I’ll grow restless. That happens when one goes on a quest that breaks the laws of nature.
We’ll no doubt steer towards realities that will break my heart. Like the one where I turn 40 and my dad calls me to wish me happy birthday. Or the one where I have time to tell my sister, over and over again, how much I love her. Maybe there’s the reality where I don’t pickle myself in bourbon or one where I ask for help from the people who love me. A reality where I am not thoughtless and unkind. A reality where I forgive myself more.
Then we’d return to my dimension. This one. I write ridiculous things on the internet. I play with my puppy. I giggle with my girlfriend as we plan a future. I talk on the phone to my mother who, in her 70s, is figuring out life day by day. I’d give myself a hug and wish us well and hope that he doesn’t return to our defenseless reality with an army of weaponized John DeVore clones.
It’s a silly wish, but, in a way, all wishes are silly. So if you’re going to ask the cold, uncaring void to give you your hearts desire, then you better ask for something that is a real doozy, like bat wings or a time machine that can transport you back to the very moment before your first kiss.
Plan, or no plan, no matter the age, everything is going to be okay.
3. I literally checked my phone for a second and they scored?
4. is being a goalie a shit ton of pressure?
5. traditionally are the referees drunk or crooked?
7. no cheerleaders? no kiss cam? no t-shirt cannons? no nachos? no AC/DC? no totally obvious signs of massive performance enhancing drug abuse? no chronic traumatic encephalopathy epidemic cover-up? no men dancing in funny animal costumes?
8. Red card? What’s a red card? It's an actual red card! But what does it mean?
9. is it me or do soccer players all look like nimble elves with colorful hairstyles?
10. Was that a foul?
11. Did he just fall down and pretend to be hurt when its obvious he’s not wtf?
12. I need to pee when is this over?
13. Did that player just step out of bounds? What is THAT about?
14. It’s a tie? That’s it, it’s over?
15. its weird when germans all cheer at once?
16. are socks basically disposable to soccer players because they’re all rich why wash old socks?
17. why is soccer player hairstyles somewhere between greasy club douche and post-apocalyptic warrior?
18. can the US win the world cup? what if i chant USA USA USA? How about if I chant WE GOT THE NUKES WE GOT THE NUKES WE GOT THE NUKES?
19. you want to know how to make soccer more popular in the US? simple: “Space Jam II: Soccer”
20. if the legend true that if rio de janeiro is ever threatened by kaiju christ the redeemer will come to life and defend His city?
21. is “goooooaaaaaaallllllll” trademarked? is anyone a little tired/bored of "goooooaaaaaalllll?" If you are raise your hand. *raises hand*
22. i am biracial: my mom is mexican-american, my dad was a white dude. So the fact that mexico and the US are bitter rivals is kind of a bittersweet metaphor. Anyway, is another bitter US rival the rest of the entire world?
23. how important is the slide tackle when playing defense?
kianamaiart
prguitarman
baratheonpilled
discoholicmusic
gummygunk
titsay