Monthly Archives: November 2023

November 29, 2023

As I continue to labor away on writing the most offensive and triggering book I can possibly create, Mgmt wants to be more active on social media.  This is, of course, a ludicrous idea, which is exactly what I told them on our morning call.  After all, my utter contempt for social media is well known: after a few initial years of being a great idea for connecting people in the digital world, it quickly and brutally descended into (to paraphrase OWK) the most wretched hive of scum and villainy since the United Nations.  And that was before every one of the major social media companies began colluding directly with the corrupt federal government of the United States to stifle and control any speech or opinion not approved by the regime.  And I’m being asked to join the joke…to wander into this cacophony of ignorance, lies, and virtue signaling, and what…be clever?  Fuck no, thank you very much.  My actual reply didn’t include the “thank you very much” part.

“But surely you can find one social media trend you don’t hate,” was Mgmt’s reply.  “Just one…just this week.”

Honestly, I’ve been so disengaged from the leftist echo chamber of social media that I don’t even know any of the recent trends.  I remember, for instance, “Throwback Thursday” (#TBT).  Oh joy, another chance for people to share their sepia-toned memories of that one time they something vaguely interesting.  Yes, Karen, we remember when you went to Bali.  Yes, those were monkeys.  No, we still don’t care.

“Yeah, I don’ think people really do that anymore.”

Wasn’t there something called “Motivation Monday”?  Because nothing screams motivation like a badly photoshopped quote slapped over a stock photo of a fucking sunrise, right?  Here’s an idea: how about we motivate ourselves not to partake in such banal cliches?

“They’re not doing that one anymore either.”

Seems like these things don’t last.  What happened to that bullshitty #bringbackourgirls thing that Michelle “Big Mike” Obama and Hillary were doing a couple years ago, when those hundreds of girls were kidnapped by Boko Haram?

“Yeah, they stopped doing that.”

Did they get the girls back?

“That’s not the point.”

My bad.

“Nobody says ‘my bad’ anymore, either.”

Fuck yourself.

“That’s better.”

Okay, how about the Ice Bucket Challenge?  Don’t get me wrong, raising awareness for ALS is a noble enough cause.  But watching my Uncle Charley squeal like an effeminate piglet while getting doused with ice water was something I could have lived my whole life without dealing with.

“Yeah, that’s way over.”

Did they cure ALS?


Are people still donating, now that they’re “aware”?

“Donations fell off a cliff after the hashtag trend faded.”

Imagine that.

“What about Taco Tuesday?”

What about it?

“You could get behind that, couldn’t you?”

Taco Tuesday is not a social media trend.  It’s a vestigial holdover from public school cafeterias.

“It’s a social media trend now.”

I guess that’s no more moronic than any of the others.  Is there a point?  I’m pretty sure everyone in California is more than aware of the existence of tacos.

“There isn’t a point.  It’s Taco Tuesday.  Quit overthinking everything.  Just say something nice about tacos.”

Fine.  Here’s what I think of when I think of tacos.

I was walking down Revolucion Blvd in Tijuana with a hooker named Shady.  I don’t believe that was her given name…she said she’d done gang-related time in Chino, and I suspect somewhere during those misadventures, she’d been given this moniker.  We’d spend a couple days together…though she was a junky hooker, our relationship was entirely non-physical: she was my fixer for my visit in Tijuana.  So this particular afternoon, I had planned on going to La Plaza del Toros and catching the bullfights.  We decided to get some lunch before we made our way toward the coast.  Which is why we were walking down the street, looking for food.  Which is when she said the quote that I will forever associate with her: “I’m seeeck of tacos!”

I understood where she was coming from, but I disagreed fundamentally.  Tacos are perhaps, barring drugs, the greatest import of Mexico to the United States.  Tacos are the duct tape of the culinary world.  They hold everything together.  Bad day at work?  Tacos!  Break up blues?  Tacos!  Forget your email password for the 16th time this month?  Tacos!  See?  Instant remedy.

As persuasive as I thought my pro-taco rhetoric could have been, Shady couldn’t bring herself around to my way of thinking.  After lunch, she started getting dope-sick, and had to go find a fix.  I ended up going to the bullfights alone, and had a great time.

But back to Taco Tuesday.  It’s simple, it’s delicious, and it doesn’t require me to look at photos from your 2007 trip to Ibiza or pour a bucket of ice over my head.  It just requires me to eat tacos, which, let’s fact it, I was going to do anyway.

So, here’s to Taco Tuesday – the one social media trend that doesn’t make me want to suppurate (remember?).  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with a double-decker, extra guac, hold the regret.

Until next time, may your Tuesdays be tasty, your Instagram feeds be tasty, and your tolerance of nonsensical trends be as low as mine.

N.P.: “See No Evil” – Ghost

Word of the Day – suppurate

1. undergo the formation of pus; fester
Etymology: From the Latin “suppuratus,” past participle of “suppurare” which means “to form pus.” Isn’t Latin swell?

Now gather ’round, children (or maybe not, this one could get a bit icky), as we continue to delve into the delightful world of words that describe things we’d rather not think about. Today’s word is suppurate, a verb which, as you’ve just read, refers to the act of forming or discharging pus. Delicious, right?  Here we go:

Here’s why you should know and love this word: most obviously, it has to do with festering pus. Which would be plenty enough reason to deploy the word liberally in your daily business communication.  But wait…there’s more.  Though officially the word is pronounced “supp-yer-ate,” people in the Midwest (and yrs. truly) pronounce it “super ate.”  Yes…just like the franchise of cheap and sleazy motels.  So the next time you’re driving along and hear a commercial inviting you to spend a night at the Super 8 Motel, you should, like me, cackle adolescently.

Picture this: It’s a beautiful sunny day, you’re on a first date at the park, and you’ve just bitten into a tuna sandwich when suddenly, you feel a throbbing pain in your mouth. You excuse yourself, run to the nearest restroom, and are horrified to see that an old wisdom tooth extraction site has decided to suppurate at the most inconvenient time. The sight of it is like the Mt. Vesuvius of oral hygiene.

You rinse and rinse, but the taste of pus mixed with tuna is something you’ll probably never forget. You go back to your date, put on a brave face, and decide to stick to soft serve ice cream for the rest of the afternoon. Meanwhile, your date, blissfully unaware, continues to blather on about her love for, ironically, DIY dentistry. 

Suppurate – a word that sounds like a superhero power but, in reality, is about as far from it as you can get. Use this word with impunity…the average American won’t know what the hell you’re talking about anyway.  Feel superior…because you are.

N.P.: “Go Fuck Yourself” – Roxanne

Word of the Day: petrichor

Petrichor refers to the pleasant smell that accompanies the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather; the pleasant, earthy scent produced when rain falls on dry ground.

It’s a combination of two Greek words: “petra” meaning stone, and “ichor” meaning the blood of the gods. This word was coined by two Australian scientists in 1964, who described the smell as “an oily essence”.

Once upon an recent afternoon, in the bustling city of San Francisco, there lived a man named Harold. Harold was your typical SF denizen, a tech-obsessed investment wizard whose life revolved around stocks, shares, and the ever-fluctuating market. He rarely had time to appreciate the simpler things in life, like the aroma of freshly brewed coffee or the delicate rustle of autumn leaves.

One day, after a particularly stressful day at work, Harold decided to take a walk in Golden Gate Park. As he was strolling, the skies opened up, and a sudden downpour began. Harold, unprepared as he was, took shelter under a large oak tree. As the raindrops kissed the parched earth, a distinctive scent filled the air.

“Is that… Is that piss I’m smelling?  Is it literally pissing out here?” Harold wondered aloud, scrunching up his nose. A passerby overheard him and laughed.

“No, sir,” the stranger corrected with a smile, “That’s petrichor.”

“Bong wash!” Harold exclaimed, annoyed.  “It’s piss.”

The stranger breathed deeply, then admitted, “Okay, yes, that’s mostly piss.  The first rain of the season really wakes up all the piss and shit and fentanyl that covers this entire city, but if the rain keeps up like this for another ten minutes or so, it’ll be the wonderful smell of petrichor.” The stranger then explained the meaning of the word. Harold listened, fascinated. He took a deep breath, hoping to let the earthy scent fill his senses. Instead, he still got only the acrid stench of piss.  Rather than feeling the strange serenity that washes over people experiencing actual petrichor, he grew increasingly resentful and angry at the city with already caused him resentment and anger as the smell of piss continued to waft and billow into his nostrils.  

Then the rain suddenly stopped.  Both Harold and the stranger inhaled deeply and hopefully, but were crushed by the reality that is San Francisco.  “Nope…nothing but piss,” said Harold.  “There is simply more piss than rain water.”  

The stranger shrugged.  “Well, fuck it,” he said, resigned.  “I can give you some fentanyl and a hummer for $10.”  

“Sounds good,” replied Harold.  Harold followed the stranger into a nearby public restroom, where Harold was grotesquely violated and beaten by several drug-addicted, homeless friends of the stranger, and subsequently sold to human traffickers from Mexico.  

Feel free to share your own stories using ‘petrichor’ in the comments below.

N.P.: “Lion” – Saint Mesa

Word of the Day: defenestrate

Defenestrate (verb): To throw someone or something the fuck out the window.

Defenestrate originates from the Latin words “de-” (down or away) and “fenestra” (window). This unique term is often used both in a literal and metaphorical context, though it’s not a word you’ll likely use in everyday conversation.  Unless you’re talking to me, in which case you’ll find it deployed frequently.

Just as the sun was beginning to set, casting a warm glow over the city, an extraordinary event took place at the bustling office of Smith & Co. After a day of repeated and absurd failures, the CEO, a man known for his dramatic flair, had reached the end of his patience with his dim-witted amanuensis. With a huff of frustration, he decided to defenestrate the pesky collection of tight shirts, neuroses, and incompetence. Employees watched in shock, then amused relief, as Amber flew out the window, tumbling down into the busy street below. From that day forward, the term “getting Ambered” became a synonym for defenestration at Smith & Co.

N.P.: “Knockers” – The Darkness

November 19, 2023

There are these two books.  The first one I started writing a full 10 years before I knew what it was actually about.  Yeah, the whole thing has been and continues to be just as bizarre as it sounds.  Anyway, it’s non-fiction and deeply personal.  Call it a psychological memoir.  The second one I started to blow off steam at the end of the day from writing the first one.  I intentionally started writing the most ridiculously politically incorrect thing I could come up with and ride it out to its preposterous conclusion.  Anyway, it’s fiction and best described as a supervillain origin story.  Probably the darkest satire I could come up with.

I’ve been working on both of these books with no end date in mind…just a nebulous idea of what I was doing.  Then suddenly, late last year, both books were suddenly ready enough to be made into proposals.  Which means they’re ready to be sold, and then, after some significant rewrites, published.  This would typically be time for celebration.  But instead, this is when the weirdness really hit.  For a variety of reasons, I suddenly had zero interest in publishing either of them.  As you might imagine, this triggered the running, screaming, existential fantods.

Here’s the thing, dear reader: on a personal level, publishing books is a Pain in the Ass.  The effects it has on one’s life are far too myriad to begin to list here, but suffice it to say that every personal dynamic changes, and those changes last years.  It takes a toll, and it’s a very worthwhile question to ask: is it fucking worth it?  But that’s just me in my head.  The larger, more compelling reasons to not publish either of these things are external, societal factors over which I have no control.  Again, to wit:

No American publisher is testicularly solid enough to touch these books.  Maybe the psychological memoir, but sure as shit not the novel.  Even if I did publish the memoir on a label, that publisher would cave to the woke slaves, pull the title and cut ties as soon as they found out about the novel and felt obligated to feign outrage.

And even if anybody did have the grapes to actually stand by either book, there’s no reason to expect that they wouldn’t take unacceptable editorial action in the future to retroactively censor my work to conform to the latest moronic rules of what the mob allows to be said.  So much for the big, legacy publishers.

Which brings us to The Reading Public.  Let me explicitly say that this does not apply to you, dearest reader.  But the rest of these bastards…Jesus.

Primarily, social media is to blame.  Social media seems to have made otherwise fine audiences into absolutely insufferable cunts.  At least half the headlines in the entertainment press for the past 5-10 years are about fan reactions.  “Fans outraged at ending of latest episode.”  Or they have a problem with a certain character.  Or they are insistent that, in their learned estimation, the ending of a movie is wrong.  Who gives a shit.  Write your own story.  Shoot your own movie.  [Note: The treatment of J.K. Rowling has been absolutely abhorrent.  I admire her restraint.  If I had her amount of Fuck You Money, I’d spend a bunch of it hiring an entire platoon of people with ASPD to spend their entire days mercilessly fucking with my detractors.  Then again, I can’t even imagine what happens to one’s perspective and priorities when one’s wealth is measured in billions.  Perhaps I’ll mellow if I ever make it, but perhaps not.]

And fan fiction?  All of that can fuck right off.  Maybe other authors are okay with it…some seem to find it amusing.  I personally would litigate viciously.

But whatever my issues with the reading public, they are almost totally eclipsed by my issues with the greater American public, at least the more ignorant and boisterous factions.

Perhaps I’ll go into more detail of this soon and alienate even more friends and readers. But not today.  Today is Sunday, which is for relaxing and windy walks with puppies and such.

N.P.: “I’m Not Giving Up Tonight (David Holmes Remix) – Noel Gallagher’s High Flying Birds

November 18, 2023

Hello, loyal and seemingly perpetually attractive reader.  It has been, as the kids would say, a minute.  I’ve been here, and I’ve certainly not forgotten about you.  I’ve just been going through what I guess is best called a period of intense growth.  Personally, professionally, psychologically…all of it.  Which was prefaced with a couple years’ worth of tectonic existential freakouts.  It’s been weird as hell, and could probably only be accurately described in very Jungian language, which would make it sound like I had slewn a dragon or escaped the Matrix.  Which I haven’t.  But I have seen that there is a Matrix to escape and that all dragons have fatal vulnerabilities.  In my quest to figure myself out, I unwittingly pierced the veil and ended up also figuring out quite a bit about others and the Nature of Things.  Suffice it to say, I have answered all the questions that needed answering.  Jesus…see?  This is already meandering into the metaphysical.  I think I’m supposed to be talking about writing.

Rewind to the previous century, when I started Writing (with a capital W…as both performance art and blood sport), I honestly thought I was prepared for anything.  Rejection, failure, starvation, depression, isolation, insanity…I had prepared for all of it (insomuch as someone can be said to prepare for that sort of thing without having actually experienced any of it).  Anyway, it all happened, some of it hit harder than some of the rest, and I managed, one way or another, to get through it.

But a couple of decades ago, very slowly, like the frog in the slowly heating pot, I started feeling increasingly separated from American culture.  When the divorce finally happened, it happened  so quickly, I was left blindsided: one minute, I was tossing back cocktails with the people who make the culture at the top of some high-rise on the Avenue of Americas and taking meetings with producers at Universal Studios, and maybe two years later being completely and acrimoniously split from the entire rotten culture, sitting behind locked doors with both middle fingers raised.  Which was awkward as some sort of artist, but still I thought somehow sustainable.

Pero no.  Over the course of the last 5-10 years, Americans and their insidious culture have changed for the unacceptably stupid and absurd, and now I’m left facing a bunch of challenges I honestly never saw coming.  This has left me in a very awkward position vis-à-vis my agenda and overall plan as a writer.

Continued tomorrow.

N.P.: “Everybody Wants to Rule the World” – 3TEETH

Word of the Day: inveigh

Dearest reader, today’s Word of the Day is “inveigh,” a verb that means to bitch vociferously; to protest or complain bitterly or vehemently.  It’s a word that packs a subtle punch, and is typically used in formal contexts.

Let’s see this word in action:

Once upon a time (meaning now) in the quiet town of Witch’s Tit, CA, there was a man named Brad.  Brad was known for both his affinity for bootleg tipple and his ability to inveigh against anything and everything.  His nickname was Brad the Inveigher (like Vlad the Impaler except not nearly as cool).  Though some of the locals found Brad’s stupidity amusing, Brad was almost universally disliked.  His favorite pastime was getting drunk and attending town hall meetings, where he would rail against the most mundane issues.  One memorable evening recently, Brad stood up whilst drunk and began spewing invective at the local bakery’s decision to reduce the size of their doughnuts by a microscopic amount.  He ranted and raved, waving around a doughnut as evidence, his face turning a shade of red that almost matched the raspberry filling.  “Who the hell are these idiots to try to change the size of doughnuts from the standard Judeo-Christian size that they’ve been for millennia?  This is an affront to doughnut lovers everywhere!” he exclaimed, before accidentally squishing the doughnut in his hand, causing a spray of raspberry filling to hit the mayor sitting in the front row.  The room fell silent, then erupted into laughter (except for, most notably, the mayor, who was not laughing at all, and actually, judging from appearances) sank suddenly into extraordinarily dark states of pissed off).  From that day forward, Brad was not only known as the town’s chief complainer, but also as the Doughnut Deflator.  Despite the incident, Brad continued to inveigh with gusto, providing the townsfolk with endless entertainment, right up until the day the Mayor had Brad shot in the balls by the Anhedonia County Sheriff for his egregious breach of etiquette with that raspberry doughnut bullshit at the last town hall meeting.  Brad’s been on the quiet side ever since.

N.P.: “TK421” – Lenny Kravitz

November 12, 2023

In the twilight moments of our spinning sphere,
Where the cosmic clock ticks, end drawing near.
The sun, a fiery orb, blinks its final goodbye,
As the stars whisper secrets to the midnight sky.

A world once teeming, now silent and cold,
A tale of destruction, in hushed voices told.
The cities lie empty, a ghostly parade,
Monuments to tolerance, in decay displayed.

The machines of progress, rusted and still
Abandoned by their makers, and their loss of will.
The nation’s canvas, once vibrant and bold,
Now a barren wasteland, a story told.

Yet in this desolation, a beauty surreal,
As if time has stopped, in a final ordeal.
An eerie tranquility blankets the land,
A testament to a cycle we couldn’t withstand.

The oceans are mirrors, reflecting the void,
Where life once flourished, now asteroid.
The mountains stand proud, their majesty remains,
Silent sentinels over desolate plains.

A haunting symphony of the end plays,
In the hollow echoes of forgotten days.
Yet in this silence, a truth unfurls,
The end is no gateway to other worlds.

The Poet once said, in his wisdom profound,
“The aim of life is death, the roundabout bound.”
So too, the world, in its final dance,
Embraces the end, not by chance.

So here lies the world, in its final repose,
In the grand opera of existence, the final doze.
So pray, dear traveler, as you wander the stars,
Every end is a beginning, no matter the scars.

N.P.: “Funeral March” – 2WEI

November 11, 2023

“I, who have also been betrayed, assassinated, and cast into a tomb, I have emerged from that tomb by the grace of God and I owe it to God to take my revenge.  He has sent me for that purpose.  Here I am.”
~ The Count of Monte Cristo

N.P.: “Dancing On Your Grave” – Motorhead