ruthless truth


The saddest thing about the super-rich is that they all seem to have terrible fucking taste in everything. 

David Koch has been resizing the same suit since his first 8th grade dance. Also, lookit those eyes. VISINE, MOTHERFUCKER.

What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Larry Ellison? I’m sure you’re at an event where it’s relatively appropriate to wear your own company’s entire merch line… know…only the dorkiest dork wore their Zeppelin shirts to the Zeppelin concert.

Nice ren-faire costume, Christy Walton of Wal-Mart fame. 

And here’s Jim Walton showcasing Wal-Mart’s new “What Grampaw Was Buried In” line. This fucking jacket is made of his hair. 

Liliane Bettencourt, who cranks the gears at L’oreal, is apparently also a kindergarten teacher. Very sweet of her to do that on her time off.


Steve Ballmer, circuit board taster for Microsoft. He’s just happy to be here, guys. 


2 Days in PS4 review:

(The only game I bought for it is Metal Gear Solid: Ground Zeroes)

This machine is the prettiest thing I have ever seen short of like…Grace, several sunsets, a few very specific industrial areas, Ryan Reynold’s abs, several anonymous butts, the Government Special taco from Cemita’s Puebla, my guitar, all of my friends laughing together, and a cop tripping and falling.

The graphics are so good, they’re almost bad until your brain gets comfortable with processing the information and you stop having a panic attack and can just see everything for what it’s worth. Which is; The graphical jump from PS3 to PS4 feels about as significant as from PS1 to PS3. Probably more so, but I’m still pretty taken aback. Especially considering these are first wave games that haven’t even really pushed what the machine can do. I fear the future, and have already accepted my fate as a helpless drone.

All of the physical aspects feel great. The controller sits with a present, but comfortable weight. Kind of like an excellent penis, but also like a perfectly designed video game controller. The touch pad is cool, if not a bit frivolous. I have no interest in motion control, because years of near-narcotic levels of caffeine intake have rendered my ability to control my movements completely useless. I hear it’s pretty solid, but definitely has a learning curve. Whatever. The controller has a fucking headphone output built into it and that is fucking fantastic. Apparently you can share screenshots and videos of your gameplay with the press of a button. Okay. Great. One minor issue is the integration of the start and select buttons into the li’l’ touch pad. They’re pretty much in the same positions they’ve always been in, but they aren’t labeled as such. You just click in the touch pad and the thing happens. This was annoying for 17 seconds, and then I learned because I’m a human. I’ve seen countless reviews with people claiming that the entire system is ruined because of this one ‘flaw’. People who think like that don’t deserve to own this incredible leap forward in technology. Fuck them. They get nothing.

Ground Zeroes is fun as shit, as soon as you accept that it is essentially a glorified tutorial for The Phantom Pain. It’s a video game, and being angry at it for stuff being different is equally as absurd as yelling at animals. That said, I did miss some of the classic MGS staples, but I completely got over that yearning within moments. I also became physically excited over how unbelievably beautiful this game looks. THERE’S FUCKING BOKEH. Facial expressions are still funny, but I appreciate this because it’s nice to have a reminder that you aren’t controlling a real super soldier with real guns.

Overall, 10/10, will continue to own and enjoy.

I’m, sure Xbox 1 is awesome too.

Wrecking Ball

I recorded a cover of Miley’s NUMBER ONE POP SMASH-HIT ‘Wrecking Ball’.

Pretty sure I did the lyrics justice.


Joan Rivers is the first person to die already wearing their own death mask.


Get a small notebook. Maybe a moleskine so you feel extra special.

You will need, probably, to dedicate several pages, if not entire notebooks to this.


Every time you give a fuck about a celebrity (level of fame is irrelevant.), make a mark in the notebook. Deaths don’t count because deaths *should* cause some kind of emotional response in you. You are, despite your best efforts, a human.

At the end of the week, count up every mark. Then, write an original story with as many words as there are marks. 

-Celebrity is related to you. 
-Celebrity is revealed to be an actual deity/angel/alien/hyper-intelligent hive of symbiotic bacteria operating as one being. 
-Celebrity publicly admits that they are a figment of your specific imagination.
-Celebrity is famous because of politics. Unfortunately, those ones tend to have a pretty significant effect on your existence.

Garage (gradge)

Today at work a woman told me she would like to come back and model costumes for me when her husband isn’t with her.


Typically, I would politely brush away an advance like this, but I had just spent a solid 25 minutes helping this considerably older couple select costumes. In that time, an air of dejected misery hung thick over all three of our heads. It became too clear that the joy in their lives together was drained long ago. 





"That would be lovely."


Myth: there are good cops and there are bad cops.

Truth: anyone who would choose to join the police in 21st century America is criminally insane, willfully ignorant, and profoundly selfish.

Police: you are the bad guys in the movie. You are the soldiers who sided with King John over Robin Hood….





Go spit on some copssssssss


Blog posts don’t lob bricks at cop’s skulls.

Petitions don’t turn the nightstick back at their throats.

You do.


My dad was a writer. He had countless notebooks full of ideas that ranged from very simple poems for children, to a profoundly dark, magical-realist sci-fi. Over the years, he submitted pretty much everything he wrote to pretty much every single publisher in existence. Occasionally, a lit magazine or quarterly of some sort would run something he wrote, but nothing ever caught. 

I still have two binders filled, cover to cover, top to bottom, with rejection letters. He saved all of them. As my mom tells it, it was as a reminder that failure is essential. Apparently, every time he got a rejection letter he would write more. Even after my sister was born, he wrote. Even after I was born, he wrote. He wrote and wrote and wrote. 

I think I can remember him and/or my mom reading some of his kid-friendly work to me. Specifically, the bubble gum contest. A bunch of school kids have a contest to see who can blow the biggest bubble, and one girl, who dresses like an old west sheriff blows a bubble so big, she floats away and goes on an adventure. 

Obviously, the little sheriff girl won the contest.