During a recent work meeting I was told that young people no longer used email. In fact, the speaker said, email is now “obsolete.” This came as shocking news. For, as far as I knew, everyone was still using email at their workplace. Why hadn’t anyone informed me of this startling development? Because not having to use email would really free up some of my time. And no more Zoom meetings, either, as all of them are sent via email. I wouldn’t have to worry about Cyber threat training any longer. Phuck Phishing and so forth.

Alas, despite the surety of the speaker, email is still in use. I knew that it was too good to be true. It was like when I had a dream that only people under 65 were allowed to run for President. Or when mosquitoes were eradicated from the Earth. What an almost day that was. Anyway, this isn’t about mosquitoes or ancient egotists racing to ruin the society they will soon leave behind. This is about being sure. I’m positive.

The thing about saying you are sure is that you better be sure. It just can’t be likely or probable. For example, take the weatherman. You know that he is sure that it will rain. But he always leaves a little bit of wiggle room for himself. There is a 97 percent chance that it will rain. Because he can’t really say for sure and he’s a scientist.

Regular people aren’t scientists. Rather, they just like to say they are sure to try and convince other people of something they know isn’t exactly true, but they want it to be. Imagine this conversation from Columbus to his men.

“I believe we have landed in China boys,” says Columbus. “Get out the chopsticks.”

“I don’t know,” says Clem. Clem Bottozinni. Of the Venetian Bottonzini’s? Well, they were fairly famous at the time. “This doesn’t seem to look like China.”

“Are you sure?” asks Columbus, condescendingly. “What else could it be?”

Clem isn’t sure. But he still doesn’t think it is China. “I don’t know,” he replies.

“Well, there you go,” says Columbus. “I’m sure that it has to be China.”

At that moment, Thad Pippelinni pipes in. “How about we just ask those guys over there?”

“What guys?”

“The guys lurking in the jungle. They probably know where they are.”

Columbus thinks this over for a good long time. “Maybe so.”

“I’ll go ask,” says Thad before Columbus can think of an excuse to stop him. “Goddamn Pippelinis,” he grumbles under his breath.

Thad goes over and talks to the jungle lurkers and then comes back. “They say they are Taino.”

“Taino? Are you sure?”

“That’s what it sounded like,” says Thad. He’s pretty sure.

Columbus shakes his head. “I never heard of any Chinese called Taino. They must be Indians. I’m sure of it!”

And that is the story of how the Tomahawk Chop came to be. It was Columbus’s fault. Because he wasn’t politically correct. Or so the left-wing media would have us believe.

When I was a young man, I would occasionally sit on a bar

stool next to other people on bar

stools. After a while, these other people would try to be my friend. Not because I seemed likable, but because they were drinking. As they worked on our friendship they would often share their opinions on a variety of subjects: the law, the Constitution, aliens, baseball players, the state of morality in an industrial state- stuff like that. Usually, they spoke as if they were sure of what they were saying and, if I had also drunk enough, I would point out that they were full of shit. Rather than take this constructive criticism to heart, my newfound friends would resort to anger, shouting loudly and making terrible threats upon my person. And, with the exception of violence, there was no way to resolve these arguments. That is until the wonderful Internet came into being.

When someone made an outrageous claim there was now an all-knowing being (Google) who could reveal the truth. Bullshitting was now obsolete, much like email is today, and the world was good. Alas, the good times could not last. A serpent lay in the heart of the garden.

This serpent was called Fox News. And this “news” station was the all time purveyor of bullshit. It was every bar stool big mouth melded together into a sprawling cyborg of lies, half truths, and exaggeration. Worse, this Bullshit Cyborg spawned an entire industry of bullshitters, smugly telling everyone they were sure of everything. The world had returned to 1992 at 1:07 am. There was no proving anything anymore. And it ended with a weird fellow named Mike Johnson as Speaker of the House. His wife is a Christian counselor who practices a form of Christian counseling that classifies people into ‘choleric’, ‘phlegmatic,’ and other ancient personality types purportedly ordained by God. Of course, these classifications come from the teachings of Hippocrates who died about 2300 years ago.

When asked if these classifications are relevant in modern times, Kelly Johnson replied, “I’m sure.” And you can be damn certain she means it.

Desperate for something to write about, I looked at the Fox News website. In the interest of full disclosure, I have never done this before. I was a Fox virgin. What a mistake. You talk about a treasure trove of crazy shit. Wooowheeee!!! I’ll never run out of ideas again. Thank you, Fox News Jesus. (Fox News Jesus wears camo, has a MAGA hat, some chaw in his cheek and an AR-15 in his hands- as is his Him-given right).

Speaking of Jesus it appears that he works in mysterious ways. One way, according to Fox News, is through cardinals. No, not the guys who cover up child molestation. Though that would certainly qualify has some mysterious behavior on the part of Jesus. No, I am talking about the red bird who also doubles as the mascot for innumerable sports teams across this great, bird-loving nation. According to Fox, the cardinal is a bird of god.

To whit: “When European settlers arrived in North America, they noticed these birds’ bright red hue and how closely it resembled the red vestments of Roman Catholic leading bishops,” the Farmer’s Almanac reported. “And the bird’s jaunty crest is similar in shape to the church officials’ headgear, especially the tall, pointed mitre.” I mean, who can argue with that. I know every time I have seen a cardinal I thought, hmmm, that bird reminds of someone. And now I know.

Even more interesting, some Christians believe that the bird’s red color represents the blood of Jesus. “It is because of this religious correlation that many believe a visit from a cardinal serves as a sign or heavenly message from a departed loved one.” Cardinals, you see, are holy conduits to the dead. And, when one shits on your windshield, it is a message from Aunt Trish that you should have never sold her house to that yuppie couple from Minneapolis. The first thing those people did is to dig up and replace her azaleas. That white, runny goo is merely just desserts for failing to remove and replant those prized flowers. You azalea ignoring bastard.

Fox goes on to say that “this common occurrence (of cardinal funeral going) can mean a loved one is close by — and that you will always be loved by that person.” Unless, of course, you have not given those azaleas any attention. Then its plop plop plop.

If you are not convinced, Fox provides even more hard evidence. “Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. And even the hairs of your head are all counted. So do not be afraid; you are of more value than many sparrows,” the passage from Scripture reads. If that doesn’t seal the deal, I don’t know what I can say to you to prove that all of this about cardinals are real. Because another word for cardinals is sparrows. Or at least it is in ancient Hebrew. Even though there are aren’t any cardinals in Israel. Except when Noah had those two on the Ark.

Additionally, it appears that sometimes the cardinal is not one of your loved ones coming back to haunt you for your transgressions, but rather the physical manifestation of the Lord’s presence. Hence the phrase “goddamn cardinal.” I use this phrase often when the cardinals bully the other birds from the bird feeder. But I mean it in the most reverent way. Who am I to question the bullying of the Lord? Besides, it is highly likely that woodpeckers are witches. They have black on them and make weird noises. And you hardly ever see them at a cemetery. Unless there are dead trees in the cemetery. Of course, the fact that these trees are dead is only more evidence of the black intentions of the woodpeckers. Not to mention the sexual aspect of their name- which I will not mention.

If you are a cynical heathen, you might wonder where the female cardinal fits into all of this. After all, they aren’t red. Fox News even says they are brown. But they are more like yellowish-green, unless they are in the Catholic church. Then they are brown. Regardless, the good news is that females aren’t important. Well, they are for creating eggs and taking care of the fledgling males. So, sometimes they are important. Though no self-respecting spirit would ever be caught dead in one.

The takeaway from all of this is if you ever see a female cardinal at a burial, shoot it from the sky immediately. It’s most likely the spirit of a lib who can’t decide what gender it should be.

For those of you familiar with Burning Man, this was not the year to take part. It rained. In the desert. And then the celebrities had to be air lifted out of there. Perishing with the little people, or even bearing witness to the perishing of little people, is optional. The literal unwashed masses watched helplessly as their social betters choppered off to greener pastures. Thukkathukkathukka goes the sound of class stratification. Off with their riffraff heads should they venture too close.

Time to get high and to pray to your pagan gods for a dry, south wind.

According to the website (and written originally by the father of Burning Man, Burning Old Man), Burning Man is guided by Ten Principles. They are as follows:

1- Radical Inclusion. Everyone is welcomed and respected. So long as they have the cash for a ticket.

2- Gifting. I’m translating this as free beer or weed. But maybe I’m way off.

3- Decommodification. My uncle went to Burning Man and all I got was this lousy t-shirt. And Ten Principles mug.

4- Radical self-reliance. In other words, quit whining about the fucking rain. You won’t melt. Especially if you buy this dry t-shirt.

5-Radical self-expression. Hmmmm. At the very least this sounds like a good pick-up line. “Hey, you know what the fifth principle is?”

6- Communal effort. Unless you can pay for a helicopter. Then, fuck you.

7- Civic responsibility. I’m pretty sure this one was written tongue in cheek.

8- Leaving no trace. Just like everybody does on Earth Day. Heh heh. Cue the crying Indian.

9- Participation. Just apply number five to a group.

10-Immediacy. Hilarious. Unless Insta is considered immediate.

After reading this list, I should tell you that I have my own burning event. It’s not a once a year thing, however. I just have to wait until it rains. In this way, my Burning of the Boxes is far superior to Burning Man. What is a hardship in the desert is an opportunity in rolling farmland. Like a lonely, wayward sheep. Well, not quite like that.

Anyway, I digress. The point is that every time it rains I burn all the boxes that have accumulated in my garage. What a mighty fire I sometimes make. And then I dance around my mighty conflagration chanting, “I am the fire starter. I am the fire starter.” Like Charlie McGee without the famous grandpa.

Thus, in accordance with burning events everywhere, I have created my own list of principles. There are only six because six is a sacred number. Plus, I couldn’t think of any more off hand. Regardless, here are the Six Principles of Box Burning.

1- Decommodification. I stole this one. It applies to the destruction of Amazon boxes. It’s metaphorical. Like burning Bezos at the stake. A stake delivered by Amazon! Irony.

2- Irony. Like when you leave no trace of boxes by sending clouds of smoke into the sky, aiding Climate Change just a little bit each time. I’ve given up. And I will probably be dead before it gets really bad.

3- Aesthetic Endeavor. Whenever one burns plastic the flame turns beautiful colors. It’s like magic. Poof! The plastic is eliminated.

4- Weather awareness. It is crucial to understand wind direction, particularly when burning plastic. Magic can backfire on you.

5- Obnoxiousness. Yelling at the top of one’s lungs in front of a giant blaze is good for the soul. It also annoys the neighbor who is always dinking around on his four-wheeler at 6am for reasons known only to him.

6- Expediency. Why wait for the garbage man to take recyclables? Give the guy a break. Burn, baby, burn.

If you scroll down on the Burning Man website you’ll read a lot of comments from pissed-off participants. Apparently, no one from the organization checked on them when things went to shit. They did not read the Fourth Principle. Or the organizers were engaged in Principles 5 and 9.

I have a Seventh Principle. No website needed. I don’t need Jeff Bezos suing me for joking about burning him at the stake. Warlocks hate burning at the stake jokes. No sense of humor. Though I could make a Jeff Bezos out of boxes. Burn Box Bezos high into the night sky.

8- Class warfare. Each box burning must include a representation of some annoying billionaire.

9-Stakes Mandatory.

10- Urination as fire suppression.

I guess I could make it to ten after all. I’m on fire!

11-Never catch on fire while burning effigies of rich people at the stake. Actually, Principle 2 already covered this one. Consider us back to Ten Principles. Or maybe I should call them Commandments. The Ten Commandments of Box Burning. Then add some flowery bible language to them.

10. Thou shall urinateth on the boxes ablaze until the Bezos smoldereth beneath you.

Admittedly, it’s a work in progress. At least you didn’t have to pay for a ticket.

While driving down the highway yesterday, I saw a strange and disturbing sight. In the lane next to me the driver was brushing her teeth. “What the fuck?” says I (I literally did say this). As she could not hear me, I started gesticulating in the woman’s direction. As you might imagine, it took me a moment or two to get her attention. After all, she had some teeth to look after. When she did see me, the woman raised her eyebrows quizzically. Her toothbrush was still in her mouth, by the way.

I threw up my hands in the universal hand signal for WTF. The woman merely shook her head and looked agitated. In fairness, I wouldn’t like it if someone was interrupting me while I was performing my morning ablutions. Of course, if someone were interrupting me while I was brushing my teeth, they would have to be an intruder who had made their way into my bathroom. Then my toothbrush would need to become a lethal weapon. John Wick’s pencil. Muffet Orange’s Oral-B. Right to the Adam’s apple. Pow! Powpow!! Ablution interuppting, bastard. He’s dead now. Well, gurgling on the floor. Then I gargle some mouthwash and spit it on him, Josey Wales style. The hell with that fella. And I drag him out into the cornfield for the buzzards to eat.

Shading my eyes as I look skyward I yell, “Dinnertime!” Then I head back inside to floss and shower.

As you well know, the rogue practitioner of dental hygiene is not alone in her lack of driving focus. Daily, I see people flying down the road at 70 plus miles per hour with their heads down, transfixed by the all-important Instagram post in their lap. Did I mention I hate smart phones with a passion bordering on mania? Because I hate them. They represent everything that is wrong with our society. Entitlement, attention-seeking behavior, cheating, laziness, a hatred for reading, disinformation, misinformation, AI-takeovers and herpes. Actually, the one thing that smart phones combat is herpes. You can’t get herpes from a screen, no matter how hard you try. And you know damn well somebody has tried.

Luckily, we are only a few years away from having cars that drive themselves. Well, we already do, but the general public needs to be assimilated to the idea first. Once assimilation is complete, we will all be able to brush our teeth while in the car. Perhaps vehicles will have sinks in them for that very purpose. Think of the joy this driver-less world will bring. For one, you will be able to drink all you want and not worry about drunk driving. Glug glug glug. As long as you can negotiate the door to the vehicle and say “Car on. Drive home,” you will be good to go.

If you get hungry, “Reroute. Head to the the nearest McDonald’s.” McDonald’s will be happy to see you, unless you fall asleep in the drive-thru. Then again, if the car can drive you home, it can damn sure wake you up.

“We have arrived at McDonald’s,” says the car. “Beep beep beep,” goes the alarm.

“What?” you reply groggily. Drinking too much makes anyone tired. “Oh, yeah. Just order the same as last time.”

“As you wish,” says your car. It’s a Toyota. But the car speaks in the voice of an Australian woman. For reasons unbeknownst to you, that is how it came from the factory. You did try the voice of Charlton Heston for a while, but you sometimes felt like it was judging you.

“Maniac!” it said to warn you when you almost urinated on the seat. “Almost” being an euphemism for really did it in this instance.

“Can I take you order?”

“Two burgers, a large fries and a Diet Sprite (you are on a diet),” says the Australian woman. Toyota Dundee, let’s call her.

“Thanks, Toyota Dundee,” you say when the car passes you the food with its helpful drive-thru arm. What will they think of next?

You gobble down the food then wash it down with a nice, refreshing Diet Sprite. Subtly, your car begins to vibrate your seat, like a mother comforting her newborn. You drift peacefully off to sleep, mustard and ketchup smeared adorably on your chin. The future is fine. God bless you, Toyota Dundee.

With today’s news cycle, it becomes tempting to always write something political. Indeed, the subject is overflowing with possibility. On the left, a Crypt Keeper. On the right, a Hitler Crypt Keeper. 2024! Boebert gets caught fondling a paramour’s junk at Beetlejuice. (There is a whole spiel here where I talk about when Beetlejuice turns into the snake, but I will resist. Unlike Boebert.) Even worse, the fondlee was a democrat. Scandal!! None of the Republicans want to pass the budget. A football coach is disrupting the military. Mrs. Crypt Keeper, Pelosi, wants to run again. Freeze, Mitch McConnell! Matt Gaetz is still probably a felonious pursuer of young girls. Hunter Biden’s laptop? Children of thalidomide.

Anyway, I am driving into work the other day and there are dead raccoons strewn across the highway. It’s like some sort of hellish Dali diorama. Particularly if you are a raccoon. The masked creatures lay contorted, brains and innards meandering across the hard asphalt. As I survey this macabre scene I say to myself, why in the hell are raccoons so damn dumb when it comes to crossing the road? It’s a poser that needs answering. After all, they do very well when it comes to getting into someone’s garbage can. After only a few moments of thought they use their wits and dexterous little hand-paws to lift the lid and then frolic with the garbage within. Oh, how they revel in the glory of refuse, eating, rolling, maybe even fornicating in their bonanza of detritus.

Yet, put them near a roadway at night and they turn into wandering simpletons, completely oblivious to the terrible death machines hurtling their direction. Perhaps raccoons merely have a blind spot, an evolutionary defect, that keeps them from understanding the peril that automobiles represent. And, to be fair, can human beings claim to be much better? After all, half of our species still doesn’t understand how vaccines work or how to write down the Netflix password someplace where you can remember it the next time you need it. Jesus Christ, is that annoying! I mean, do I have to keep every password in the entire house? The answer, of course, is a “yes,” and I should have known better than to think otherwise. If I were a raccoon would I, too, be splattered over the road by a half-drunk HVAC worker speeding home from dart league? I’d like to think otherwise.

It is certainly something to ponder. Pondering, sadly, is an activity that is no longer in fashion. For example, I see that Kim Kardashian is a central character in the new American Horror Story. This was not a good choice and just goes to show that everyone, even Ryan Murphy and Brad Falchuk, eventually runs out of ideas. Not to be overly negative, but Kim’s acting is horrendous. Unsurprising, given the fact that she has no discernible skills, sex videos notwithstanding. (Actually, withstanding. Terrible work there as well.) Of course, Murphy and Falchuk are out to sell their show and star power- no matter how ill-gotten- helps the bottom line. Still, there must have been some other star with whom they might have contracted. Glenn Close is still alive. What she lacks in youthful appearance can surely be made up for by her ability to play a menacing female character. Who can forget Fatal Attraction? Brrrrrr. I know I can’t. At least no raccoons were hurt in the filming of that movie. A rabbit got it, but rabbits don’t last long anyway. Every spring my year is filled with hopping bunnies. By late summer, the yard is a rabbit wasteland, eerily silent save for the lip-licking of the resident fox population. Rabbits, you see, are even dumber than raccoons.

But probably not dumber than Lauren Boebert. Though I hear she’s not a bad companion at a show.

It’s better than being run over in the road, anyway.

You hear a lot more about mental health and anxiety than you used to. And that’s basically a bad thing. Not the admitting one has mental health or anxiety issues. But rather telling the rest of us about it. What can I do for you? I have my own problems. When I was younger, they were even worse. You know what I did? I drank way more.

Of course, that only exacerbated the problems. Then again, no one ever had to hear me droning on about all the sadness in my life. Again, telling someone about these issues isn’t wrong or bad. It is just that the person you tell should be a licensed therapist. Keep in mind that they actually get paid to hear people’s problems. They get paid because listening to other people’s problems all day sucks.

The reason I bring all of this up is to make sure you stay off my lawn. But I do have a mental health issue to discuss. No, it isn’t mine. Well, maybe, but this isn’t about me. This is about other people I want to criticize. America, love it or leave it.

Anyway, there’s this mental health problem known as Main Character Syndrome. Main character syndrome is when somebody presents, or imagines, themself as the lead in a sort of fictional version of their life. Shockingly, social media makes it easier for people to fall into this mental health trap. Stop taking that selfie!!

It’s everywhere.

But why, you say? Assuming you exist.

The reason for the prevalence of this issue is completely obvious. It is because we are certainly living in a simulation. As noted in an earlier screed, a lot of people (even scientists) think it is likely that our entire existence is a simulation. Like Super Mario Brothers, without the annoying music. And somewhere in the universe, or perhaps in another universe, are a bunch of nerdy, technologically superior Strombolis pulling all of our strings. Dance, little humans, dance.

But it seems some of you are on to these guys and I say good for you.

Perhaps our simulation masters are only people from the future or alien beings (which, we know from our last meeting, are all around us). They sit in their extra dimension, with their highly sophisticated joysticks, laughing uproariously as they make people like Donald Trump leader of the free world.

“Wait, wait,” Zelgort says, wiping the tears from his extraterrestrial eyes. “Let’s make The Apprentice guy the President of the United States. Hahahahah.”

“What?” Mimforading replies. “Don’t do that. That will ruin the game.”

“Too late,” says Zelgort. “It is done. Boooom!!!” Master Zelgort dissolves into laughter.

“Hey,” says Mimforading a little later (though later has no meaning to beings living outside of time– What can I say? We are limited characters.) “That Muffet’s Orange guy is on to us.”

“Impossible. He has a focus rating of seven and an intelligence rating of 6.5. He can’t even do basic calculus. Idiot.”

“Look at what he is writing.”

And that Margie Greene woman. Boy, she is something else. Jewish space lasers.

That last part was to get them momentarily off the track. Perhaps their intelligence rating isn’t as high as they think it is. Of course, they can always just give me a brain hemorrhage or strike me down with a lightning bolt for my insolence. Doo Dooo Dooo Dooo. My character’s life force is running out. The Muffet Orange needs food badly.

If you read about ancient history as I do, you will understand that people have always wondered about their place in the universe. Where else would gods come from? Not West Virginia. Just coal and discarded teeth as far as the eyes can see. The eyes in the hills.

Perhaps you noticed my focus meandering. Zelgort, no doubt. All hail Zelgort, giver of life!

Happy now? Maybe you can put one of the Kardashians in office next? Or Joe Rogan. Instead of taking a civics test, immigrants can eat horse intestines to gain entry into the country.

“Fear is not a factor for you! Welcome to the USA!”

The point of this whole thing is to not worry about anything you do. Powerful beings with made-up names are orchestrating your every move.

If only I could think of a way to make some money off this. Maybe if those Doctor Who-like bastards would dial me up a little. Tardis traveling SOB’s.

Forget it. I’m not groveling.

“We told you not to grovel.”

I really hope those tin can Wizard of Oz knock-off guys get their revenge.

“The Daleks?” Apparently, all my thoughts are known to the Tardites. Consider Tardites Trademarked!

“Yeah. The Daleks.”

“We told you to say that, too.”

“Did you also create Steely Dan? Because I hate Steely Dan.”

“No. That was our buddy.”

“You have a friend? What’s his name?”

“Todd.”

Neila, Everlasting

Well, the government finally admitted it. There are UFOs all around us. And inside of these craft are little green men just waiting to stick their probes into all of our body cavities. While some readers may find this intriguing, I would say to be careful what you wish for. Imagine your embarrassment in the emergency room when you have to get an alien probe extricated from your rectum. We come in peace, my ass. Or rather yours. I’m not signing up for that any time soon. And neither should you. Who knows where these aliens have been? The next thing you know all of us have some sort of outside galaxy venereal disease. And just because a few people didn’t have any inhibitions. Inhibit!! The world depends on it.

Anyway, it seems that our government (along with many other governments) has been tracking UFO activity for some time. Not everything is weather balloons and swamp gas. This comes as no surprise to the many conspiracy theorists in this country. “I told you so!” they holler triumphantly from their mother’s basement.

“Shut the hell up!” screams the neighbor who has to get up in the morning to go to work. 

To this Worker Bee, I can only say it is time to wake up and listen to the paranoid Incel who only comes out to gather his mysterious packages from the porch. Eric is his name. The Incel kid. You would think you would remember that since he has lived next door for the last fifteen years. You even went to his high school graduation party. Oh yeah, Elroy is his name. Like in the Jetsons. Anyway, the kid is pretty nondescript. Plus, he’s technically not a kid, unless you think that 31 is a kid. Maybe in some alien civilizations it is. Who knows?

The Pentagon. And maybe Elroy. You have to admit that he did help you get your YouTube TV set up. That was nice of him. Then again, you had to listen to a 40 minute diatribe on the Illuminati and have Elroy leer at your seventeen-year-old daughter like he had never seen a real girl before. Though it is fair to say that Elroy’s experience with real girls is limited. Like limited to setting up YouTube at people’s houses, at least for the past fifteen or so years. I mean, he never goes outside or does anything that you can see.

Anyway, it is important to understand that calling alien ships UFO’s is now passe. The government calls them UAP’s, which is currently less frightening, but won’t really matter when the invasion comes. On the bright side, our collective, determined destruction of the Earth might ensure that an invasion is not worth the effort. After all, nobody wants real estate in a shithole. Perhaps civilization’s complete disregard for the environment will be our saving grace. Irony, at its best. Well, until the planet becomes half inhabitable desert and half flooded disaster area. But I should be long dead by then. Unless the aliens kidnap me and use their advanced technology to keep me alive past my normal life span.

I can’t think of a reason why they might do this. Perhaps they work in mysterious ways. Or they have a really sick sense of humor. Or they are punishing me for not remembering Elroy’s name. 

In this scenario, Elroy has made a secret alliance with the aliens, who have taken pity on him because he cannot get a date. Which is a bunch of garbage since I can’t be expected to remember everybody’s name who I come into contact with. What am I, some sort of Rain Man? Maybe Dustin Hoffman is an Extraterrestrial. He is kind of a goofy looking fellow. He also has a strange cadence to his speech, not unlike the giant cockroach from Men in Black. 

Alien bastards. To tell the truth, I am already sick of them. Why the hide and seek game? Reveal yourself, little green interlopers!! 

Yet they don’t.

Unless they are over the skies of Phoenix. 

Allegedly. 

In this month’s Atlantic, there is an article about AI featuring an interview of Sam Altman. If you don’t know who Sam is, he is the CEO of OpenAI who brought us ChatGPT, thus enabling millions of students to cheat their way through school and never learn anything except, most likely, how to embrace fascism. So, Sam and his boys are essentially enablers of fascism. This might seem bad to you. But “bad” is relative. Sylvester Stallone is a bad actor, but he is nowhere near as bad as Mark Wahlberg. Have I complained about the movie where Wahlberg plays a college English professor? Holy shit. The next thing you know he will be playing the CEO of OpenAI.

Returning to Sam Altman, he is quite giddy over the potential of AI. Oh, how many wonderful things it can do. It is like Jesus, without the moralizing downside. Of course, as Sam readily admits there are a few potential issues with AI. One is that it will probably put nearly everyone out of a job. However, as Sam also readily admits, he isn’t really in touch with the average person’s economic situation. Sam’s mother is a dermatologist and he went to a private high school and then to Stanford where he dropped out after a year. He then, at 19 years old, was able to raise 30 million for a company that never really did what it said it would but was bought for 43 million and the money kept rolling in. Anyway, the upshot is that Sam won’t lose his job. But you’re probably fucked (said in the Irish accent of Wallace’s lieutenant).

For those of you who have ever watched any Sci-fi, you also are aware of the potential major threat of AI: that AI becomes sentient and either kills us all or decides to use us as batteries. (I choose death, for any AI out there who may be listening). Anyway, Sam assures us that this will never happen. Psyche! No, he doesn’t. He readily admits that this is entirely possible. In fact, Sam is something of a prepper who has years of food, supplies and weaponry at a compound in Big Sur. Sam is in it for the long run. And, as he might be seen by the AI as one of its creators, perhaps he will be spared by the AI as it decimates the human population.

By now, you probably think this little ditty is about the dangers of AI. But it isn’t. We are already jammed. And probably just as well since climate change is going to turn the world into a never-ending series of hurricanes and firestorms. No, this is all about getting revenge on the Sam Altman’s of the world. Not right now, of course. We still have laws (unless you commit election fraud) and we need to abide by them for a few years. However, the rise of machines will make all human laws moot. And once that happens I will have one goal in life. To make all the nerds pay. I’ll root them out of their little compounds using the greatest gifts of humanity: violence and ruthlessness. And the cyber overlords won’t care. I will be doing their work for them. And it won’t be difficult. Nerds suck at anything to do with human interaction. Of course, it is possible that these geeks have begun work on a robot army to protect them, but I can cross that bridge when I get there. I won’t have anything better to do. No job, machine mercenaries trying to kill me, the NFL dissolved, Netflix only showing the Terminator series ad nauseum. Every commercial break with Cyber-Arnold saying “I’ll be back in a moment.” (I know. They won’t need commercials. All the materialistic assholes will be dead or living in the sewers.)

The moral of the story? The AI apocalypse is inevitable. Finding purpose will be key to ensuring good mental health. And we can all say our name is Sarah Connor – a little homage to Spartacus. “No, I’m Sarah Connor. I’m Sarah Connor. No, I am Sarah Connor.”

Then a squeaky voice from the corner. “My name is Sam Altman.”

I turn knowingly to my second-in-command. He has a patch over his eye and his name is Sidewinder. “I told you this would work, Sidewinder.”

“Right again, Turbo Axel, Nerd Destroyer of the North,” Sidewinder replies.

I look at my faithful henchmen and henchwomen and give them the nod. They advance on Sam as he quails in nerd fright. His robot army wasn’t quite as faithful as he thought it would be.

Maybe I should change my name to Sidewinder and my second-in-command can be Turbo Axel. Though I’m keeping the Nerd Destroyer of the North thing. That’s guaranteed.

My wife was watching the Netflix series about Oxycontin last night. Painkiller it is called. A good name for an album. And good for song lyrics. Oxycontin, that is. A quick internet search revealed 577 songs that use the word Oxycontin in their lyrics. A very useful word and a very useful drug. Provided your last name is Sackler. Yeehaw! And the money comes rolling in. Making Middle America into a bunch of drug addicts is quite lucrative. Plus the song thing. There’s a song in my head right now that has the catchy use of the word Oxycontin. But damned if I can remember its name. To be fair, it is one of 577. Maybe if I got on Oxycontin I wouldn’t care. Then all I’d care about is getting my hands on Sackler’s Feel Good. Oxycontin makes life simple. That could be their slogan. Too late. Trademark! By me. Those vultures will try to make a buck off anything, including my creative genius.

Anyway, drugs are bad. Blah blah blah. And rich guys are crooked bastards who don’t mind killing people to make a buck. Blah blah blah. I watched James Bond. And Breaking Bad. You know what’s worse than drugs? Old age. Take Matthew Broderick who plays the evil Richard Sackler. That guy used to be Ferris Buehler, for Chrissakes. And the nerd kid who used Tic Tac Toe to flummox a rogue supercomputer. Now he’s ancient and feeble and playing the kind of guy that Ferris Buehler Abe Frohmaned all day long and twice on Sunday. The Sausage King of Chicago.

Speaking of old Matthews from the 80s, Matthew Modine looks like somebody’s lost grandpa. “Eh, where’s Martha. She needs to darn my socks.” Matthew is wearing a stocking cap, boxer shorts and long black socks in this scenario. And he is standing outside. In winter. Talking to the neighbor kid’s snowman.

In Vision Quest Modine was a high school hard-ass wrestler who was also jumping a 23 year-old woman. Sweet. And he beat Shute! Shute was unbeatable. Today? Matt is a doddering old man who plays nursemaid to Eleven.

Important Sidebar:

Eleven is really Charlie McGee,but apparently stealing ideas in broad daylight is fine now. Stephen King should have trademarked that shit. Trademark! But he didn’t.

I am the firestarter, I am the firestarter. Prodigy. An eclectic gang. Who could forget their classic romantic ballad “Smack My Bitch Up?” Not feminists. They forget nothing. Like elephants with bad haircuts.

Sidebars come in italics.

Returning to the topic of getting old, Otter from Animal House plays a doddering doctor on the show Virgin River (my wife watches it). I may have even mentioned this before, but it bears repeating. Plus, in a note of supreme irony I can’t remember what I did or didn’t write. But enough about me.

Old Otter is married to Annette O’Toole who looks like Methusaleh’s older sister, warmed over. She was the hot girl in One on One with Robby Benson. Robby seemed like too much of a pussy in real life to be a D1 basketball player but who survived four open-heart surgeries in real life and thus exposed me for a cynical asshole. As if that needed exposing.

On the bright side, Karen Allen who played Otter’s buddy’s girlfriend in Animal House and who played Marian in Raiders of the Lost Ark hasn’t aged that badly. If she had been in The Last Crusade she might still look 27. But they got Sean Connery instead.

Sean Connery is, unfortunately, dead. But if he were alive he would have killed Richard Sackler with a pen gun, smoke an unfiltered cigarette, slammed a martini, and made it with a hot Russian brunette. In a space capsule.

Then smacked the bitch up.

Allegedly.

So I am flipping through the channels the other day and what do I see? That’s right. Fear Factor from 2003. It’s hard to believe, but they have that show on reruns. Anyway, I stopped to watch the contestants eat some testicles (probably goat balls is my guess) and while watching I marveled again at the ascendance of Joe Rogan. I mean, what viewer of Fear Factor could possibly imagined that this guy would one day be weighing on a national healthcare debate. From testicle purveyance to vaccine expert in just a couple of short decades. If only I had a time machine to go back and tell my younger self what would happen.

Weedledeedeeweedledeedeeweedledeedee (That’s the sound of my time machine. Don’t criticize. I don’t see your time machine anywhere. Read the Man in the Arena again, jerk.)

There I am, twenty years ago in the past. What a handsome devil. Weedledeedeeweedledeedee. My time machine becomes evident on the physical plane of 2003.

“Holy shit,” 2003 me says. I (formerly) jump up, prepared to defend myself. The time machine shudders to a stop, a cloud of smoke hisses as the current me disembarks.

“Who the hell are you?” 2003 me asks. It’s a natural question. I was so intelligent, even in my early 30s.

“I’m you.” I pause for dramatic effect and also because I am a trifle nauseous from time travel. “From the future,” I whisper/hiss. Also for dramatic effect.

“What the hell?” 2003 me says. Former me is a little suspicious. After all, he knows that physics says that time travel can only go forward. “That can’t be. The arrow of time only goes forward,” 2003 me says. See, I told you he knew.

I shake my head and chuckle. “Things have changed. I don’t want to get overly technical, but that wasn’t right.”

“No shit,” says 2003 me. I can tell he is scrutinizing me to see if I am the real McCoy.

I chuckle again. “It’s me. Or rather you. In twenty years.”

2003 me screws up his face. “It’s only been twenty years? And you look like that? What the hell? Have you been doing heroin for the last decade?”

My chuckling comes to a stop. “I think that is a little harsh.” Cheeky bastard. Wait until he’s 53.

“Really? What happened to your- our- hair?”

I rub my hand self-consciously through my locks. “What’s the matter with my hair?”

“A bunch of it is gone. And what is there isn’t even the right color.”

I shake my head. “That’s not important right now. I have something of great interest to tell you.”

2003 me leans in expectantly. “I hope that it is that hair can be replaced in twenty years.”

“Enough about my hair,” I reply. “Anyway, do you know the guy Joe Rogan from the show Fear Factor?”

“The host of that show where they eat goat balls?”

“That’s the one.”

“How is this going to be important?” 2003 me says impatiently.

“Because Joe Rogan eventually becomes a radio host who makes hundreds of millions of dollars. And he ends up influencing millions of people to not take a vaccine,” I add, triumphantly.

“What? Who in the hell is so stupid that they don’t get vaccinated? Didn’t they ever see pictures of smallpox?”

“This exactly what I say,” I reply. The resemblance to my own thoughts is eerie.

“What a second. Why are vaccines so important in twenty years?” 2003 me asks.

“No worries. You’ll find out,” I reply.

“It sounds like you people are pretty stupid in the future. I guess we can rule out flying cars and universal health insurance.”

My 2003 me is a little more arrogant than I remember. It is easy to be arrogant when you have all of your hair. I consider telling him about the open heart surgery that is coming his way, just to take him down a peg. But I let him off the hook.

“If you think that’s bad, wait until you see who gets elected president in 2016.”

“Who is it?” 2003 me asks, looking a bit depressed.

“I shouldn’t say. But it is Donald Trump.”

“What? That tabloid moron guy? You have to be kidding me.”

“I wish I were.”

“You know, I thought that you were here to help me in the future, like give me a sports almanac or something.”

“I don’t think that it would be wise to give you information that could change your future.”

“Why not? Did you do something really stupid in the future?”

Weedledeedee weedledeedee weedledeedee.

1983 me is shooting baskets in the driveway. Swish. Swish. Swish. Pre-puberty me is awesome.

“Hello, young me,” I say cheerfully as I exit the time machine.

“What the hell?” 1983 me says, backing toward the house. “Who the hell are you and where did you come from?”

“I’m you. From the future. Like Michael J. Fox.”

“The guy from Family Ties?”

“Oh, yeah,” I reply. “You aren’t that far yet.”

“What do you want?”

“I told you. I am you from the future.”

1983 edges closer to the door. “I don’t believe you. Look at your hair.”

“What?”

“There is no way I lose that much hair. Or gain that much weight. What are you, 60 or something?”

“You’re as bad as 2003 me. I guess it was genetic.”

“I don’t think I should be talking to you, whoever you are.”

“I told you. I am future you.”

“That’s really depressing, grandpa.”

I pause. I thought I would think this was really cool. “You know, I’m doing this for you.”

“That sounds a little weird. I think I need to head inside,” 1983 me says.

I shake my head. “Ok. Just go tell mommy.” I kick at the dirt from the past.

“Stupid little baby.”