With the advent of the new year comes the inundation of self-help articles. Want to lose weight?

“Yes.”

Then quit eating meat.

“Okay.”

Two days later. “Eat more meat for a healthier you.” Wait a second. Didn’t you people just say to quit eating meat? Vacillating bastards.

Anyway, I guess one thing that all of these self-appointed gurus do agree on is setting goals. After all, how can you get anywhere without setting goals? Hitler never could have gotten as far as he did without the goal of the glorious Third Reich. For example. Though one should never make Hitler jokes. Fascism isn’t funny, even if a guy is wearing buffalo horns. Back to goals. You have to have them. Like my goal is to complete this sen…. Shit. Foiled again.

Do you know what I read this morning? “Why Your Goals Will Fail, and What to Do About It?”

What? Why make goals then? Whoever wrote this article also threw in a quote from Warren Buffet. From what I can see about Warren Buffet, he seems to have goals. Or at least one goal. Make as much money as possible every single day. On the other hand, he will be dead soon and his goal making will be over. Maybe he should read this article. It has his name in it.

Another goal Warren Buffet could have is to be a better fisherman. That’s one of my goals. Or at least it is my goal to go fishing as many days as possible before I die like Warren Buffet. I can’t fail in this goal. The words “as possible” guarantee my success. And my lack of dedication to making money. Going fishing a lot and making as much money as possible don’t go together very well. It’s sort of like sanity and wanting to keep making money after you have billions of dollars you can’t spend.

The thing about goal-setting is it all about self-awareness. If you say you want to run in a 100 mile race next year, you will probably fail. If your goal is to finish your cup of coffee and then jog the cup back to the dishwasher, you will likely succeed. In fact, I am making that my personal goal for today. I am already two-thirds of the way through that coffee. Success is imminent. Now I feel like a winner. Unlike those people who quit running through the mountains after completing 77 miles of a 100 mile run. Certainly we can agree that these 77 milers have failed to understand how to set goals. Losers.

“The Underrated Genius of David Bowie’s Acting?” What the hell? Why can’t I keep my concentration on this blog instead of looking at the headlines of ridiculous Internet articles. You know why? Because it isn’t one of my goals. If it was my goal, I would fail for sure. That’s why it is a dumb goal. Kind of like when people agree to participate in “Dry January.” So, your goal is to not drink all January? What’s the point? To drink extra in February?

Speaking of Winnipeg, I have never been to Canada. That could be a goal. If I was a Canadian, that goal would be exceedingly easy. But I am not. And, with the advent of Covid, getting to Canada is a lot more difficult. Forget that goal. My goal is to never leave the US in January. “No fly January” I call it. Only 24 days to go. When the country officially goes over to Fascism, this goal will likely be reevaluated. I heard that Winnipeg is a beautiful city with a nice lake and a hockey team. My new goal could be to get drunk at hockey games in order to forget the fact that I have fled Gilead and am now leaving under an assumed name.

What would my name be? That’s something to consider. Elon Buffet Gates. The Third. No one with that name could do anything bad. Or I can just call myself Tanner Carlson, whose evil, half-wit brother is now the Grand Pastor of Gilead. On the bright side of all of this is that Canada has wonderful fishing. And a fine national anthem. One of the best, in my opinion. My goal in the next year could be to learn the words of “O Canada.” It’s a small, but worthy, goal.

But back to David Bowie. He had some goals. Be a famous musician. Dress like a girl, but not exactly. Marry a supermodel. When one thinks about it, David Bowie was a goal-achieving machine. As for his acting, he was pretty good in Labyrinth. It’s an underrated film, in my opinion. Though it was never my goal to be a film critic. And does it really need to be a goal? Thumbs up. I’m a film critic. Or a fiddler crab. It’s fiddler crab season. (Only funny if you have seen the cartoon. There’s a goal for the reader.) I guess David Bowie was also in Zoolander. It was a stupid movie that I didn’t pay much attention to, but I did watch it. Two thumbs down. Anyway, David Bowie is dead now. If his goal was to live to 70, he failed. My goal was to make it to 50. The pressure is off.

When I am Elon Buffet Gates (The Third), I wonder if I will have new goals. I could take up curling. But what would have been the point of fleeing a fascist regime? Just to push a rock on the ice? Even fascists don’t care about that. Especially if you paint an American flag on the rock.

“I’m proud to be an American, because then I can do my curl-eeeen.”

Not many people can jam as many unrelated references into one blog post as are in this one. It reminds me of the old joke, “A curler, David Bowie, and Warren Buffet go into a bar. It is February, so they can drink. The bartender comes up to the three of them. ‘What will you have,’ he asks. Bowie goes first. ‘I will have a flaming Bailey’s Comet.’ The bartender nods and turns to Buffet. ‘I’ll have your cheapest beer.’ The bartender nods and turns to the curler. ‘Why am I dead in this joke?’ the curler says.”

It’s a little known fact, but Canadians don’t die. They just turn into pine trees. The circle of life, eh?

Time to run that coffee cup upstairs to the dishwasher. Success is imminent.

Yes, I know that Warren Buffet is probably still alive.

With Christmas right around the corner, and Armageddon a few years off (my prediction is that the whole system comes down on January 10, 2026- so enjoy these times while they last), I turn to the real meaning of the holidays. The answer to the meaning of the holidays is 42. Heh heh. It isn’t. That’s the meaning of life. Holidays are all about deception and hypocrisy.

For example, you’ll hear the phrase “the true meaning of Christmas” bandied about. If you don’t know by now, no one believes in whatever this is supposed to be. Christmas is about consumerism. Wanton, asinine consumerism. If you are skeptical, consider that Americans will spend $6.1 billion on Christmas trees this year. Six billion? For a decapitated fire hazard? Ho ho ho ho, indeed. Of course, the Christmas tree originated as a pagan celebration. No Christ needed. Or is he? Consider this from a Catholic blog:

“There’s a rich tradition behind Christmas trees, and a few lessons to be learned—about multiculturalism, about respect for other religions and for nature, and about the human bond that links all people, Christian and non-Christian.”

Ho ho ho ho hooooooo. If there is one thing that Catholics have, it is respect for other religions. Who can forget the respect Catholicism showed for Islam during the Crusades? Judging by the number of private high schools name the Crusaders, it is certainly not Catholics. In fairness, pointing out the hypocrisy of the Catholic church is like shooting fish in a barrel. On a Friday. Friday is when Catholics shoot fish in barrels. Some saint told them to do that. Saint Ruger, perhaps. Patron saint of barrel shooting and the NRA.

Speaking of spending, it turns out that $15.2 billion is spent on unwanted gifts. And this alone is a misnomer. They aren’t gifts if no one wants them. They are shit someone has to discreetly throw away after an appropriate amount of time has passed. Personally, I prefer that no one ever gives me a gift. Gifts are for children or aggrieved wives. I am neither of these things (technically, anyway). The one caveat is socks. A person can always use socks. If the only gift anyone gave was socks, the world would be a much better place. Warm feet, warm feelings.

Another fact about Christmas is that 45% of people say they are willing to go into debt to make themselves happy for the holidays. In an interesting turn, only 41% of people are willing to go into debt to make their spouse or children happy at Christmas. Bah Humbug, you selfish bastards. Where is your Christmas spirit? Debt is truly the gift that keeps on giving. Until you file for bankruptcy prior to next Christmas.

“Let old financial obligations be forgot…” or something like that.

When Dickens wrote A Christmas Carol, he hoped to prove to people that it wasn’t wealth that was important, but how you treated other people. This message has not aged well. Either has Dickens. He has been dead for 150 years!! He was also an alcoholic who beat his wife. Why would we listen to anything he had to say? Speaking of hypocrites.

If A Christmas Carol was written today, Scrooge would be a heroic job creator who got Cratchit to pull himself up by his bootstraps. Scrooge would impart the lessons of capitalism to the visiting ghosts, owning their liberal poltergeist asses. The ghosts would realize that Tiny Tim’s death, while unfortunate, was simply a matter of Tim’s father’s inability to provide his son with the medical care he needed. Instead of whining about coal, Cratchit should have been working some overtime. Scrooge ends the tale by coming up with the idea of franchising his business, thus increasing profits and continuing the ascendance of the best economic system the world has ever known. (This paragraph brought to you by Walmart. Save Money. Live Better.)

I know, I know. Christmas is really about family. It’s about everyone coming together and eating a good meal and enjoying each other’s company. HO HO HO HO HO. (Capital HO’s) Lies. Lies. And more lies.

Christmas gatherings are chaotic, stressful events where everyone has to repress their resentment of their family members. Yay! Somebody’s dog is pissing on the presents. Hoorah!! Sister Susan goes off on Brother Bill because of what he said to her in 2006 when she was still married to her ex-husband who nobody liked, but had to put up with, because Sue has always been so sensitive about what anybody says to her. Of course, that doesn’t stop her from giving her opinion after downing four Brandy Old Fashions. Then it all comes out. Grandma cries. The dog barks. People try to escape to the ballgame or the bathroom.

Unfortunately, you can’t sit in there all day, reading old National Geographics and wondering if your niece has any weed on her and if it is appropriate for you to ask that question. She is 22, after all. Would it really hurt anybody? And you didn’t do anything. You’re seven years younger than Sue and nine years younger than Bill. You hardly remember them from your childhood. You have your own problems. Like the fact that your wife spend $3,700 on Christmas presents this year. Even though you really need a new hot water heater. And you know those SOB’s aren’t cheap. The HVAC guys will definitely need to pay their own Christmas bill. And why is that fucking dog scratching at the bathroom door? At least it’s not your house. You hate yappy dogs. What is the point? Just get a cat, for Chrissakes.

Your four year old great-nephew knocks on the door. Apparently, he is in league with the stupid dog.
“What?” you yell, a trifle harshly to a four year old. On the other hand, he might grow up to be an axe murderer or a hedge fund manager.

“I have to go to the potty,” comes the little voice behind the door.

“I’m taking a shit,” you respond. It is a foolish response as it should be obvious that the boy is not unaccompanied. Too late. You hear your other niece murmur to your nephew and then stomp away. You don’t really care. At least until your wife asks you about it on the way home.

You close your eyes and lean back on the toilet. The ride home. There is your Christmas present. Plug in your phone, set Pandora to Tool radio, and listen blissfully to the anger and angst of the 90’s.

“Learn to swim, learn to swim, learn to swim.” Falalalala, falalalaaaaaaaaa.

I do a lot of crossword puzzles. I hear they are a good way to keep a mind sharp. And there is nothing more important in America than a sharp mind. More importantly, one will need all of one’s wits in the upcoming apocalypse. Oh, I forgot to tell you. I’m giving up on any pretense relative to the downfall of society. The first step is acceptance. Only then can we move on in life.

Speaking of moving on, I am doing this crossword puzzle and there is a knock at the door. I want to ignore it. But then I realize the garage doors are up. What if the knocker is a thief? If I were a thief, I would always knock. It is both polite and savvy. It gives you an excuse when you are found roaming around someone’s home. I would feel badly for a thief in my house. The only things that they could carry out are books. No one wants those. Firestarters, maybe.

“I am the Firestarter. I am the Firestarter. I am the Firestarter.” This will be my name after everything goes to shit. If you knew the song was by Prodigy you deserve a reward. Unfortunately, as William Munny says, “Deserve’s got nothing to do with it.” Plus, it is important to be intrinsically motivated. That’s what other people tell me, anyway. Regardless, don’t come looking for somebody named MO in the aftermath of smoking ruins and general chaos. Firestarter. Also, don’t steal my apocalypse name. There will be no laws and I will cheerfully kill you over something as stupid as a name.

Knock, knock, knock. A three knocking son-of-a-bitch at the door. Since I don’t know who in the hell is a high-fashion shoe designer, I go upstairs to see who is knocking, knocking at my chamber door. If only it had been a menacing raven. Nope. Fucking Jehovah’s Witnesses. Two adult women and a young girl, maybe twelve years old. Apparently, among other decrees, Jehovah doesn’t think school is that important. I want to shut the door on them, but decide otherwise.

“Do any of you know anything about high-fashion shoe designers?” I ask. Technically, I don’t know if they are really Jehovah’s Witnesses. And maybe they like shoes.

The adult women smile the weird, awkward smile of the unredeemably religious. “Unredeemably” isn’t a word? Fuck you, Word Press and your mechanical editor. It’s a word now. The kid makes a face like she has swallowed soap. I use that bit of literary description because I assume Jehovah’s Witnesses still wash kid’s mouths out with soap. Having had that particular experience I can say that it is both not pleasant and that it is completely ineffective. Fuck. Shit. Damn. Hell. What a waste of good soap.

“What’s that?” says the taller woman. She is about my age. The woman has very pasty skin and red cheeks. She clearly doesn’t tan much. It wouldn’t help as she isn’t very good looking. Everything on her face is either too small or too big and not very symmetrical. Like they melted her just a little once.

“Shoes. High-fashion.” I wave them off. “Never mind.”

The other woman launches into her spiel and tries to hand me a little green Watchtower. I wonder if she knows who Jimi Hendrix was. Probably not. This woman has very pasty skin and red cheeks. She is a lot thinner than the tall one. My guess is the tall one is eating the shorter one’s rations. Or the tall one could be a succubus. A lesbian succubus, in this instance.

I nod along and try to figure out the high-fashion shoes thing. It is difficult without having the puzzle right in front of me. Actually, it is impossible as I know nothing about fashion, high or otherwise. Luckily, where we are going there will be no fashion. Unless human ear necklaces are considered fashionable. Could be, I suppose.

Before the small woman can finish, I raise my hand and smile apologetically. “I’m probably not interested. But I hope that you all have a good day.” I also hope that the kid will go to school. But that is clearly not a priority.

Usually, the Jehovah’s Witnesses take the hint and leave. But the succubus is persistent. I suppose that is a defining characteristic of succubi. Lesbian succubi notwithstanding. She tries to shove the green book into my chest and starts talking about knowing Jesus.

I shake my head. “I am the firestarter. I am the firestarter. I’m a trouble starter, fucking instigator.” Those are pretty much all the lyrics I know. But they are effective. The women back away and thank me for my time. The little girl is clearly frightened. They seem to think I may have a mental health problem. The Firestarter is not amused, but he will be able to settle scores soon enough.

My uninvited visitors leave. They are driving a Ford Focus. It is bronze and unobtrusive. A car befitting of their purpose and station. I salute them as they drive off to continue their proselytizing. They are wasting their time with all these Lutheran farmers. But life is folly.

A gang of chickadees has gathered at the feeder, eating the sunflower seeds my wife has left them. They are oblivious to nothing but survival. I both admire and envy them. Then one flies into the picture window. I quit admiring and envying that one. I name him Howard. Howard, the Dead Chickadee. He could have been my friend in another life.

Jimmy Choo. That’s the high-fashion shoe designer. If you have heard of him, other than in passing, stop reading this blog right now. Take some self-defense classes before it is too late.

I do have a bit of knowledge to pass on to you. When looking for the Firestarter, the pass phrase is Jimmy Choo.

Jimmy Choo.

In the time in which the MO has gone away, virtually nothing has changed. I don’t even know why I am bothering. Orange Fat Bastard continues to chime in on things that he clearly knows nothing about. His adherents continue to repeat false claims. There are Trump/Pence 2020 signs all over the place. California is still a cesspool of liberal debauchery. We still have to wear masks. At least some places. A variant of Covid is sweeping the nation. A guy named Cuomo is in trouble for sexual harassment. Civil unrest and religious animosity circles the globe.

In the famous words of ex-Vikings coach Jerry Burns, “Fuckers.”

However, in the interest of cliches, it is always darkest before the dawn. Assuming this saying is true (though it clearly isn’t), we can be sure of a sunny morning – metaphorically speaking. Anyway, I was trying to tell myself this obviously untrue bullshit the other day when I was in the grocery store. My quest was to get some celery and one green pepper. The celery went well. The green pepper was shriveled and pathetic, like a 102 year old Hulk’s penis. Poor old Hulk can’t even keep his damn pants on. Of course, his pants would have always ripped off like the rest of his clothes, but Marvel isn’t one of those kinds of magazines. Apparently, purple pants have a great deal of stretch in them. Regardless, his penis looks like a shriveled green pepper now.

“Hulk smash!” old Hulk howls when noting the state of his dingdong’s disrepair. Hey! Dingdong’s Disrepair would make an awesome band name. If there were still bands. Which basically there aren’t. Though The Offspring are still hanging in there. You can pry their guitars from their cold, dead hands. So, Hulk shouldn’t do that. But he has Alzheimer’s in this scenario. And now no recognizable penis. Probably squashed his green testes in the act as well. But maybe not. It depends completely on the angle.

Once I found the celery and the shriveled penis pepper… Hey! Another good band name.

“And now, the greatest punk band known to mankind, Shriveled Penis Pepper!” The music starts. It’s their best song. “Hulk Smash!!! Yeah yeah yeah. Hulk smash my balls!!!!:

I had to get some soup, too. Campbell’s chicken noodle. I am a simple man. And my wife balks at buying it. It appears that she is a bit of a soup snob. Soup Snob Bitch is another song of Shriveled Penis Pepper. But that song has nothing to do with my wife or any other female who has ever been affiliated with me, living or dead. It’s just a song, bro.

While standing in line, I was looking around, mentally judging the obvious stupidity and laziness of others, when I saw a familiar face. It was a guy who used to be management at a former workplace. I did not like him. I found him rather stupid and dishonest. Often, I heaped silent curses on him when his stupidity and dishonesty were displayed in my direction. But guess what? My curses worked!!!!

Hahahaha. This guy has aged like forty years in twenty. And he has the sidling, hunched temperament of a whipped cur. Oh, glory. Sweet, sweet glory. To see a former enemy (or at least former irritant) reduced to such a pathetic representation of a human being– Hooray!!! You know what he looked like? A pale, shriveled penis man. I held up the pepper for a side-by-side. There could be no doubt about it. It was like the movie Thinner and I was the old gypsy man. “Eat shit, White Man from Town!!!”

From now on I am going to speak like the old gypsy man. Hopefully, that will help my curse-making. I’m always about self-improvement. And revenge. Revenge, or at least thoughts of revenge, keep my going on cold winter nights.

The moral of this story is simple. When bad people fail, you can be happy.

Imagine Bruce Banner the next morning. “What the hell?”

In this scenario, Bruce Banner is still cognitively lucid. Otherwise, it’s just Bruce Banner sitting in a wheelchair drooling. With smashed junk.

Bruce Banner’s Drool. Album– You Wouldn’t Like Us When We are Angry

Song list

song 1- Why Isn’t There Any Campbell’s Soup in this House?

song 2- Chicken Noodle Divorce

song 3- Green, Hairy Palms No More

song 4- Shriveled Penis Face

song 5- White Man from Town (Slow Sodomy)

song 6- Sometimes Autism Lasts a Long Time

song 7- Cuomo Octopus

song 8- Jokes about Nursing Homes (Lose their Luster)

song 9- 1001 Uses for Green Peppers (the Incel song)

I have been vaccinated for a couple of months now. What a liberating feeling. I AM IMPERVIOUS!!! To Covid 19, anyway. If only I were impervious to reading the news everyday. Alas, while I believe in science, I also believe in self-flagellation. And not the good kind. No matter what I do, I end up swiping to the New York Times or The Wall Street Journal or some other, more local, newspaper. It is clearly an addiction. But it is an addiction without any upside. Unless rage and frustration have an upside.

This leads me to the many articles about vaccination in this country. In case you were unaware, Americans like to think they are pretty smart. American Exceptionalism and all that. Despite this feeling, there is a great deal of evidence against their supposition. If you want to see some of this evidence for yourself, just take a long drive through the countryside. Here in Wisconsin, the rural landscape has come to resemble a Third World country. Homes are surrounded by whole parking lots of junk cars, farm animals roam freely, lawnmowers are unspeakable abominations created for the sole purpose of taking away freedom. “Woke Machines,” as they are known. The houses are falling apart, ragged and sagging, and in woeful need of a coat of paint. Old barns, half-standing, rot on their foundations. Still, these salt of the earth folks are pretty sure they know more about science than basically anybody. They will be damned if they are going to be vaccinated and get a Bill Gates chip inside of them.

Of course, they learned about the Bill Gates chip from Facebook on their cell phone. The cell phone is, among other things, a tracking device. But I digress.

The reasons (other than the aforementioned chip) for not getting the vaccine are myriad.

“I’m still doing research. They couldn’t have done this safely.” Response: You aren’t doing any research. Your sister, who works as a Nurse’s aide, told you the second thing. She is the one who lost thousands at the casino and was forced into bankruptcy. Apparently, she is more a science than math person.

“We don’t like outsiders messing in our business.” Response: Good deal. The next time a natural disaster rips through your sleepy Mississippi burg there will be no federal dollars for clean up. It’s a local problem. Also, genetic diversity is important, so you might want to rethink that a little. Unless you want a school full of children with teeth sticking out from their forehead.

From Greenville, TN: Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher chime in about the vaccine: “I don’t see any benefit to it,” says Mrs. Fletcher. “I think we have been hornswoggled,” says Mr. Fletcher. The Fletchers, Free Will Baptists, worry the vaccine includes aborted fetal parts (it doesn’t). They don’t trust the government, convinced it has long manipulated Covid case numbers. Response: What the hell is a Free Will Baptist. Fetal parts? I do approve of the use of the word hornswoggled. Though it is probably important to know who is hornswoggling in life. Damned hornswogglers are everywhere, that much I do know.

From Reuben Smucker, a Mennonite pastor who works as a garage-door installer: “There’s a time appointed for every person to die. We should take care of our bodies physically, emotionally and spiritually, but if it’s my time to go and it’s by Covid, well then, it’s my time to go.” Response: Is your name really Reuben Smucker? Why, I’ll be hornswoggled. And does the lord approve of garage-door installation? A friend of mine, who happens to be a Free Will Baptist, said that garage-door installation is the Devil’s work. It’s in the Bible. Right next to the part where you can stone women for wearing pants.

A list of hornswogglers:

Bill Gates

Melinda Gates (who is getting divorced to her hornswoggling husband- sidebar)

Barack Hussein Obama

Anthony “The False Prophet” Fauci

LeBron James

Rachel Maddow

Killary Clinton and her husband, Slick Willie

The New York Times

The State of California, parts of Oregon and Seattle

Madison, Wisconsin

Anybody who listens to the Foo Fighters

Please note: This is an incomplete list. Hornswogglers are everywhere, like ticks on a Redbone hound.

Mark Zuckerberg- forgot about that Hornswoggling son-of-a-bitch. That’s another thing. The vaccine gives you dementia. Then you can’t even remember who is a hornswoggler and who isn’t.

But they will know who you are.

(Because of the chip. Did you forget about the chip already? You probably have dementia.)

There are many books that talk about finding meaning in life. Man’s Search for Meaning. The Art of Happiness. Meaning in Life. The Unbearable Lightness of Being. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. It’s an important topic. Why are we here? Are we the children of some supreme being? Or merely chemically influenced meat puppets? (Remember the band, The Meat Puppets? Good name. Meh band.)

This philosophical discussion brings us to Bitcoin. You know, the cryptocurrency that is trading at 60000 plus. That’s a lot of cash for something that was conjured up by some geeks in 2008. As a sidebar, they don’t really know who exactly invented Bitcoin. It may have been a group of people using the name Satoshi Nakamoto. Or it may not be. Mysterious. Anyway, Bitcoin started to be used in 2009.

As you may know, the MO is an avid reader. You can never know too much. Actually, you can definitely know too much, but we only have room for one philosophical discussion per post. Anyway, in about 2010 or so the MO first read about Bitcoin. And the MO thought and thought about what Bitcoin might be. It seemed as if Bitcoin might be an amazing opportunity.

“This could be an amazing opportunity,” said the MO.

“I agree,” replied the MO. At that time, the MO lived alone and was in the habit of talking to himself.

“Don’t tell them that.”

“Why not?”

“Because people judge. That’s why. Idiot.”

The MO figured that he could put a thousand dollars or so into Bitcoin. You know, just in case it became something big. A chance to strike it rich. The American Dream.

Unfortunately, money was a trifle tight in those days and the Bitcoin thing was probably just a little geek fad that would go away. Besides, everybody was always looking for some get rich quick scheme and they never worked out. By the way, in 2011 the price of Bitcoin was .30. Thirty seconds ago Bitcoin was trading at $62,771.59.

Math time. At .30, one thousand dollars would have bought 3,333.33 “shares” of Bitcoin. Three thousand thirty three point thirty three shares at $62,771.59 equals a bit more than 209 million dollars. Two-hundred and nine million dollars!!!

The MO could be above the law right now. I could piss right in the middle of the street while firing an AR-15 in the air and nothing would happen. Well, I guess I would have to pay for the lawyer to get the case dismissed on a technicality. But that would cost, what, three grand? Whoop-tee-doo. Seven percent (a modest return) on 209 million dollars is almost fifteen million. After the verdict, I could piss on the judge’s desk, then just promise to make a campaign donation of ten thousand dollars. What would ten thousand dollars be? Chicken feed!!! Speaking of chickens, I could start sacrificing them in pagan rituals right in a church parking lot. Who could stop me? No one!!!

“Bitcoin!!!” I would scream and then lop off the chicken’s head. Run around like crazy, you decapitated fowl. Hahahahaha!!! Pow pow pow.

Instead I put the thousand dollars in a 401k. It’s worth maybe three grand now. Not a bad return, but certainly not chicken sacrificing, courtroom pissing money.

But at least I have family.

Of course, with 209 million dollars I could buy a whole new family. Actually, I could buy several. If one sucked, out they go. Can buy me love. Love love. Can buy me love.

If I had a time machine, I would go back to 2011 and kick myself in the balls as hard as I could. That would save me the money for the vasectomy to come.

Then I would buy two thousand dollars worth of Bitcoin. Four-hundred and eighteen million would be almost enough money to buy a presidency. Actually, I could take my time machine and eliminate any competitive candidates, so it would definitely be enough.

MO 2024. I would have The Offspring play at my inauguration. The hats I gave out would read “Give America a Bad Habit Again.”

Yeah! Bitcoin is down 143 dollars since I started this blog.

I’d only have 208 million and change now. Speaking of kicks to the testicles.

If you watch the news, you will notice that it doesn’t change much over time. There are problems at the border, abortion, the 2nd Amendment. Maybe we should cut taxes for the rich and see if the money trickles down. The Middle East is in turmoil!! Damn those (Soviets, Chinese, North Koreans, Libyans, Cubans, Russians etc.). How much money are those athletes making?? Did you see who Khloe Kardashian is dating?

Anyway, you get the gist.

And it all becomes background noise. Sure, sometimes Jews shoot lasers to start forest fires in California, but overall it is pretty much the same blah blah blah. It becomes easy to overlook what is really important. To see the vital needle in the shit haystack.

That’s why the MO scours the back channels of the news, looking for those tidbits that the Lamestream media doesn’t want you to see. And do you know what those Lamestreamers don’t want you to see? Shrinking penises, that’s what.

If shrinking penises don’t get your attention, then you are truly dead inside. End it all now. It’s over for you. Hopefully, you had a good run. Odds are that it was average, but I am trying to remain positive in your last days. On the bright side, it appears likely that we are all characters in a computer simulation. Perhaps some cosmic game player will hit reset and you will be back in the game, ready to party. Reincarnation, brought to you by Play Station.

Play Station… whispered.

You know what is shrinking human penises? Pollution. Dr. Shanna Swan explains in her book that pollution is lowering sperm counts, affecting fertility and – in terrifying news- shrinking penises. Apparently, pollution has already shrunk polar bear penises. No wonder they want to kill and eat humans. Pollution has also made the penises of otters limp.

“Damned pollution!” screams the male otter. The female rolls her eyes and goes back to looking up her old boyfriend on Facebook. Stupid otters. They are eating all of the trout I try to catch. I’m glad their wieners don’t work. Somebody will have to start making otter dildos to fill the void (so to speak).

Speaking of dildos, there may be little need for them in the future.

Chemicals and pollutants can also impact one’s libido. “Yes, we found a relationship between women’s phthalate levels and their sexual satisfaction,” Swan said.

Phthalates. I knew it wasn’t me all along. It’s also the otters’ problem, but they piss me off. I feel a little for the polar bears, though they can blame the cold weather for their tiny penises. I suppose Aleut humans can as well, but the rest of us have to face the music.

Want more bad news? Here is some:

Swan’s research also found that exposure to phthalates, chemicals found commonly in plastics and toys, at the end of the first trimester in the womb, led to a shorter anogenital distance (AGD) “Nobody is going to like that term, so you could use taint or gooch instead,” she said. “But basically it’s the distance between the anus and the beginning of the genitals.”

Who even knew that was important? It’s not like people sit around thinking about taints all day. Well, most people don’t. Regardless, we have an AGD shortage and that’s really bad. (You can learn a lot about science from the MO. Science!!)

As a sidebar, I have never heard the term “gooch” before. More science.

But back to the shrinking penises. I mean there comes a point where women can no longer lie to you with a straight face. And what if these tiny penises are also limp? Do you understand the level of catastrophe we are talking here? This could be the end of the human race as we know it. Certainly it is the end for male egos everywhere. Penises that are average size now will be porn stars in the dismal future. Grim, I tell you. Grim.

That is if they can even get these inferior members to the ready. Which, if otters are any indication, may be very difficult. Think what this will do to the economy. Hooters. Gone. Showtime on Friday night. Gone. Vaseline. Severe economic devastation. The game of Risk. Sales through the roof.

On the bright side, architecture will change direction. No more Washington Monuments from here on out. Everything will be flaccid, like Newt Gingrich’s head. (By the way, if you want to know whose fault everything is, it is that asshole’s. Like all things. Flaccid-headed Gingrinch.)

Of course, there is a silver lining to this cloud. Penises are shrinking for those being born and about to be born. However, if you have been around for a while, you stay the same. In other words, in comparison things are looking up. Provided, of course, that everything is in working order. And you are not an otter.

Play Station…whispered.

That’s the guy behind the game, laughing at all of us because he is shrinking our penises. Nice kid. RESET, you little bastard!!! RESET.

Apparently, gender reveal parties are all the rage. Not to pick on Millenials, but everything needs to be an event. Because it is super important for other people to know the sex of your fetus. If it is even yours, of course. It might not be. I’m just throwing that out there. Not every womb tenant is who we think they are. There’s a reveal party for you.

“John, I have something to tell you.”
“What’s that, Felicia?”

“The baby. He’s not yours.” Felicia wipes away her tears. She is very sad to have to tell John this devastating news.

“But we had a reveal party with all of our friends,” John pleads.

Felicia nods. “Well, they aren’t all your friends.”

Anyway, at one of these reveal parties the parents decided to spring the news via cannon. Yes, that sort of cannon. Not the fat guy who played the detective when I was a kid. That guy is long dead. Though perhaps a Ouija board reveal would be pretty cool.

Here’s what happened:

A Michigan man died on Saturday after he was hit with pieces of metal from a cannon that exploded after it was fired as a Michigan couple announced plans for a baby shower.

Evan Thomas Silva, 26, was sent to the hospital after attending a small party in the backyard of a Gaines Township, Mich., couple as they announced their plans. 

The cannon was meant to shoot into the air to mark the occasion but exploded instead, local police said, sending hunks of the metal frame flying more than a dozen feet into the small crowd. 

One of the metal shards struck Silva in the chest, WJRT reported, causing serious injures. Silva died at a hospital in Flint hours later.

Booooooooom!!! You killed your friend. But at least you made a big splash. No one will ever forget the day that you told them your kid is going to be a girl, something they would have learned in due time anyway. (In the interest of full disclosure, I hate when people find out the sex of their baby before it is born. It’s like opening the presents on December 23 and rewrapping them. Dumb.)

While this seems like a particularly foolish way to kill your friend, it is not without precedent. Last year a 56 year old Iowa woman was killed when there was an explosion at a gender reveal party. Corn cobs everywhere.

Of course, sometimes people at gender reveal parties aren’t killed by shrapnel. In 2017, a gender reveal party sparked a wildfire that eventually burned 47,000 acres.

“Fire! Fire! Fire!” as Beavis would say. And the child, predictably, was named Beavis. Not really, but he should have been. Or she. I believe that Beavis is gender neutral. Like Terry. Cannon, however, is very much a boy’s name. Unless spelled with a K.

As a parent, I know it is important to think your child is going to be special. After all, they are special to you. But the reality is, they probably aren’t special. Average to slightly above average is all you really should be hoping for. If it turns out for the better, happy day. If it turns out worse, well, at least your hopes aren’t crushed.

And you didn’t kill anyone with a homemade cannon.

If you have been paying attention to the news lately, and I pity you if you have been, you may have noticed that Georgia has elected an outright crazy person to the House of Representatives. This is not an unprecedented act. After all, Wisconsin put Joe McCarthy in office. I hear there is still a statue of him in Appleton. Right next to Houdini. (I made that second part up. I don’t know if there is a statue of Houdini.) Anyway, this representative from Georgia is called Crazy Bitch (CB, for short).

CB is full of ideas. She thinks that the school shootings aren’t real and neither was 9/11. The first was a False Flag. The teachers were actors and the dead children weren’t really children at all. They were mannequins. Or childrequins, in this case. As for 9/11, it was an inside job.

By now, you are probably thinking that this woman is batshit crazy and clearly you would be right. You should also recall that she was elected to the House of Representatives to help make rules for the rest of us. Hohohohoho. In your face.

But I am not here to write about any of that. I am here to write about Jewish lasers. You see, CB has a theory about the wildfires in California. These wildfires were intentionally set. By Jews who shot lasers at the forest from space. I presume they fired these lasers from a spaceship, but one could also fire lasers from a satellite. I mean, I don’t see why not. As CB would certainly tell you, the Jews are crafty when it comes to lasers. Keep in mind that Star Wars was both created and directed by a Jew. Han Solo is also a Jew on his mother’s side. And, as we know, he preferred blasters over light sabers. Furthermore, his best friend’s real name is Jewbacca. The name used in the movie is a thinly veiled attempt to obscure the truth of the Wookies’ origin.

Regardless, it seems that Han Solo and Jewbacca were up in space in the Millenium Falcon. They were looking for an easy target and California was it. It is a large state and full of dry trees that are very susceptible to laser attack. Princess Leia was also there because she was also a Jew. I know she is dead. She was there the same way that Yoda and Obi Wan were around in the Return of the Jedi. Ghostlike and all-knowing. Being a Jedi ghost seems to be very relaxing. They must have some sort of spa in the Jedi afterlife. Imagine all the hair that Jewbacca would get in the hot tub there. Though the Wookie is not a Jedi so I suppose that isn’t really a concern. Where do Wookies go when they die? They go to a lake of fire and fry. See you again on the Fourth of July.

Where was I? Wookie heaven. But back to reality. Han Solo and his furry Jewish confidante started firing lasers at California from the Millenium Falcon. They were probably in those gunner turrets that Han and Luke used in the original movie. Pow! Pow! Pow! (That is not actually the laser noise, but it will do. Use your imagination a little.) Sure enough, the lasers started the fire.

We didn’t start the fire, it was started by lasers shot by two Jews

We didn’t start the fire, Donald Trump could never really lose

Mr. Putin, Hannity, JFK is an overrated Kennedy!!

So Jewbacca and Han Solo go into a bar. They are super thirsty after shooting lasers at California. They are looking Minnesota. There are lots of large, hairy creatures there. They order two gimlets. Gimlets are the drink of choice of clandestine Jewish laser shooters.

The bartender says, “What have you guys been up to?”

“Aaargghhhhhhhh,” says Jewbacca. Though the bartender thinks his name is really Chewbacca. The bartender also doesn’t know that Democrats are really vampires who live off of the blood of children. Real children. Not the fake kind that they use in school shootings to take away our guns. Lasers are exempt to gun control, by the way. It is in the Constitution. And no 250 year old document could ever be wrong.

Luckily, CB and her cohorts have been duly elected to serve the American people and root out the Deep State. Because if there is one thing this country doesn’t need, it is Jews setting laser fires from space. Did I mention that CB was put on the Education Committee? The Republican leadership put her there.

She is a very educated woman. Science books will now carry warnings about Han Solo and vampires. These are very real threats. There will also be a chapter about lifelike androids who just want to be left alone but who are pursued by a guy named Decker. Except Decker is really just Han Solo in disguise. And the android woman is really a mermaid.

What a minute. The other android woman was in the movie Dune. And they use lasers in Dune. Lasers that are controlled by their minds. Congress needs to look into this pronto. We can’t have Jewish people running around shooting lasers at California with their minds. Though they could hit some of those Democrat vampires down in Santa Carla. That would be good.

Save the Frog brothers some work, anyway.

Due to the weather and the bowl season, I have been watching a bit more football than I usually do. It is a violent sport full of terrible injuries. However, my entertainment is more important than the knee of some kid I will never meet. Carry on, might warriors. I salute you.

As you may know, religion is very important to the game of football. By religion, I mean Christianity and not one of those heathen religions with aquamarine, nine-armed gods. In football, they pray before the game and after the game. At practice. On Twitter. Probably at the urinal. Yahweh is everywhere and no institution realizes that better than football. In fact, the Jewish god even takes an interest in the game. If you doubt this, just take the time to observe.

After nearly every good play, the person who has made the good play points skyward to his Lord. It seems that Yahweh loves football. As Jesus was a pacifist/Socialist, this seems highly irregular, but apparently it is nonetheless so. If you have been paying attention to these pages, one thing you can learn is that Yahweh works in mysterious ways. Through a corner blitz, for example. In this play, the cornerback for the defense comes flying like a bullet toward the quarterback. Preferably, he comes from the quarterback’s blindside where the QB can’t see him until it is too late. Then…Pow!! The cornerback knocks the Bejesus out of the opposing quarterback.

Sometimes this collision results in the quarterback being helped off the field. But that is immaterial. What is material is that the cornerback leaps up from his triumphant blitz and points to Yahweh (after patting his own heart).

“Thank you, Lord, for allowing me to break the ribs of my unsuspecting rival. I know you were with me the whole time.”

While I never see the Lord’s response, I can only assume that he approves.

He claps his giant cloud hands and booms out a roar. “Roooaaarrrrrrrr,” says Yahweh. And it is good. Which applies directly to a field goal.

Yahweh, however, is a fickle god. For no sooner has he helped the cornerback, then he does an about face. The backup quarterback on the other team, likely from a school in Texas somewhere, immediately fires two completions in a row. After the second completion, this Texas phenom bats his chest and points at the sky.

“Thank you, Lord, for allowing me to complete those passes against the evil bastards on the other side of the field.” And the Lord smiles down on him and it is good.

Eventually, someone wins and someone loses. While that appears to be the result of the talent on the field and their coaching, it is actually due to the whims of Yahweh. (That would be a good band name. Whims of Yahweh. The first song of their album could be “Wide Left.” It is about a field goal kicker who is a damned atheist. Alas, they don’t make albums anymore. Now you sing on YouTube or Snapchat or some shit like that. It really pisses me off. They don’t even have bands anymore. Speaking of blasphemy. Stupid Millenial bastards. I hate you all. But not as much as I hate the Greatest Generation. Retire comfortably and then take away pensions. Of course, most of you are dead now.)

Anyway, God wants one team to win more than the other. I can only presume this is because the winning team, or the followers of the winning team, are more worthy in the eyes of God. This means that the fans of the Detroit Lions are obviously Satanists down to the last man, woman and child. Hahahahaha. There is no way that is just bad luck. God hates them. God also hates Rwanda. Probably because they are missing vowels. Finland, you’re next. A giant Tsunami right up the fjord.

Fjord is a cool word. As a little sidebar. I might just start saying “right up the fjord” every time someone gets his or her just desserts. If Ted Cruz is kidnapped by a bunch of Gardsen flag waving crazies, I am definitely going to use my new phrase. Trademarked, by the way.

“They took Ted Cruz and put him in a dungeon. He is taking it right up the fjord these days.” In case you missed it, that was a double entendre. I don’t especially like French words, but they have their place. Eau Claire, for example.

On a roll. Or a croissant, perhaps.

The upshot is that if you want your football team to win, go to church. A Christian church. And quit doing yoga. It is next door to Satanism.

Go Lions.