Author Archives: Jayson Gallaway

March 9, 2024 – It’s About Time (Again)

Goddammit, dear reader…goddammit so much.  You know what happens tonight?

Tonight begins what is arguably the most insipid and blatantly stupid practice of our rotten society: daylight saving time.  I’ll post my usual screed on the subject tomorrow which heaps invective upon the folks who drunkenly thought up the idea and implemented it, but today, I want to bitch about the majority of Americans who for reasons unbeknownst to me just accept this horseshit unquestioningly.  The execrable Gen Z has an excuse (they always do):  they were taught neither history nor critical thinking.  Their entire historical perspective begins with the year they were born, and they seem to be dangerously committed to the idea that nothing of any significance happened before social media was invented.  They are like the pathetic slaves chained up in Plato’s cave: defiantly insisting “their” truth is actually The Truth, and becoming outraged at those who have actually been outside the cave, who are trying to open their eyes to the Really Real World and free them forever.  People get rather sensitive to anything that threatens their reality, even when (especially when) those threats are in the form of facts, data, and statistics.

Wait…I’m supposed to be bitching about stupid daylight saving time.

Fuck it, I need to get this Gen Z thing out of my system.  You see, dear reader, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and writing about this subject lately…too much, really.  So I won’t belabor anything here, I’ll just cut to the chase and give you a sneak preview of the conclusion.  To wit:

I’ve approached the problem of Gen Z from everything conceivable angle, and the only solutions to the Gen Z problem are these:

  1. Massive re-education camps where the ludicrous lies they’ve been fed about systemic racism, transgender ideology, the history of the United States, and the nature of life in general can be properly and permanently ablated.  Or
  2. Round them all up and drive them into the sea.

The few people I’ve shared these ideas with have reacted somewhat negatively, suggesting that either of these propositions could be viewed as “extreme.”  I reminded them that we live in extreme times, which, definitionally, can only be dealt with in extreme measures.  Broad strokes, I told them.  Still, they seemed dubious.  So I made my argument to an AI chatbot, and asked if there were any other solutions that maybe, somehow, against all probability, that I had not thought of.  It answered with two ideas.  The first involved time travel (which, goddammit, AI…I’m trying to be realistic, here), and the second was an absurd game show that ultimately resulted in terminating Gen Zers who lost the game (and they would all lose the game).  Which seemed silly to me.  That would take forever compared to my idea of simply driving them en masse into the sea.  The game show seems like something like ISIS would come up with.

Okay…that’s it…I’m good.  Back to the fucking “time change.”  Where were we?  Oh yeah….

It’s as if people believe that without the sacred biannual ritual of changing our clocks, crops will suddenly refuse to grow, cows will forget how to produce milk, and chickens will enter into some weird  existential crisis, questioning the very meaning of “laying eggs.” Newsflash: plants and animals do not give a flying fuck about what time it is. They operate on nature’s schedule, not Benjamin Franklin’s drunken musings or the whims of a society that can’t seem to remember whether they’re supposed to spring forward or fall back without consulting a dozen memes.

And let’s talk about the sheer lunacy of the adjustment period, shall we? For a week or so after the time change, society collectively walks around like zombies, chugging coffee like it’s the elixir of life, snapping at each other over trivialities because everyone is just too darn tired. A couple hundred of us will die from heart attacks or traffic accidents.

The fact that we still cling to this antiquated practice is a testament to human beings’ remarkable ability to complicate their lives for no good reason at all. Honestly, if daylight saving time were proposed today, it would be laughed out of Congress faster than you can say “sleep-deprived hallucination featuring a tap-dancing Benjamin Franklin.”  Which says a lot given the over-arching stupidity of our congress.
So, on my first day in office, after I’ve had my inaugural coffee and sworn to protect and serve this great nation of ours, I will sign an executive order abolishing daylight saving time. No more springing forward, no more falling back. Bullshit!  We will live in a perpetual state of temporal bliss, where the only thing we have to remember is whether we want our coffee black or with cream.

I can see it now: a nation united, free from the tyranny of the clock change. Productivity will soar, medical expenses will plummet, and no one will ever again have to endure the horror of realizing they’re an hour late to something because they forgot to change their moronic clocks. Or worse, an hour early, awkwardly waiting around, cursing Ben Franklin and his infernal time-tinkering ways.
Anyway, my fellow Americans, it’s high time (pun intended, but I could do better) we put an end to this daylight saving madness. Let us march boldly into a future where our biggest worry in November isn’t how to change the clock on the microwave, but rather, what we should do about the pumpkin spice addiction. Together, we can make this dream a reality. Vote for me, and let’s make America sane again.

Jayson for President: He’ll Get Things Done©.

N.P.: “Come Together” – Gary Clark, Jr., Junkie XL

Jayson Gallaway

March 5, 2024

Meetings.  Endless meetings.  Meetings that lead to more meetings.

I am officially sick of meetings.

N.P.: “Kiss (feat. Tom Jones)” – The Art of Noise

Word of the Day: kakistocracy

Kakistocracy (noun): A system of government that is run by the worst, least qualified, or most unscrupulous citizens.  It’s a real word for when the village idiots become the town council.

Origin: The word is a delightful blend of Greek components:
Kakistos (κάκιστος): Meaning “worst”—because why settle for mediocrity when you can aim for the abyss?
Kratos (κράτος): Meaning “rule”—because even chaos needs a manager, apparently.

The President of the United States gazed vacantly at the tens of people who had gathered to hear his speech.  Once again, he had forgotten not only what he was saying, but where he was.  Where he was was widely known for certain: he was presently in the House of Representatives delivering the State of the Union Address. 

This sort of thing had been happening a lot lately, but really, things had never been good, mental-acuity-wise for this president.  His inauguration was the most memorable for many reasons: the first inauguration to be sponsored by the Chinese Communist Party, the first inauguration to have a president to take the oath pantsless (but he was wearing mismatched socks and a blissfully ignorant grin).  It was a horrible day.  When the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court appeared on the dais, he was dressed as female clown and, as one writer put it, “engaged in cheap Socratic banter and low-rent sleight-of-hand with the handful of people who had shown up to witness this farce.”  The majority leader of the Senate came out and tried (and completely failed) to juggle several rubber chickens.  The traditional oath of office was replaced on this occasion by a rather bawdy nursery rhyme, and the president’s acceptance speech seemed to center around a promise replace all traffic lights in the US with interpretive dance troupes. 

“It’s better for the environment!  Climate change is the biggest threat our country faces.”  White supremacy was number two, followed closely by transphobia. 

The crowd of nearly 10 people erupted in panicked gasps.  A secret service agent was so taken aback that he accidently knocked over the podium.  The president tripped on the Chief Justice’s clown shoes and fell into a truly massive cake shaped like the national debt. 

Manolo, a janitor at the event who, unbeknownst to anyone, had the highest actual IQ of anyone in DC, ran onto the stage and grabbed the microphone.  “You know what climate change, white supremacy, and transphobia have in common?”

Confused silence from the crowd.

“They’re not threats to our country.  In fact, they don’t really exist at all.” 

And with that, the crowd as well as the entire kakistocracy they had voted for simply disappeared in a fetid puff of idiocy and lies.

N.P.: “The Man” – The Killers

February 13, 2024

Mgmt: Dude…it’s Tuesday.  You need to post something.
Me: I’m working on stuff.
Mgmt: Be that as it may, you need to post something.
Me: I got jokes.
Mgmt: Not jokes.
Me: Well, which is it: do I need to post something or not.
Mgmt: Something not jokes.
Me: Fuck yourself.  How do you stop a toddler from drowning in the summer.
Mgmt: We’re not doing this.
Me: You drown him in the spring.  When my best friend dies, he wants his ashes pressed into a record.
Mgmt:  ….
Me: That is his vinyl request.  What do you call getting gonorrhea from a handicapped person?
Mgmt: ….
Me: Slow clap.  Hello?
Mgmt:  I’m here.
Me:  What did Bruce Willis say when he got a vasectomy?
Mgmt:  Goddammit.
Me:  Snippy-kai-yay, motherfucker.
Mgmt:  That’s not even funny.
Me:  No argument there.  What do you call a pedophile pirate?
Mgmt:  Oh no.
Me:  Arrrrrr Kelly.
Mgmt:  [barely stifles a snicker]
Me:   Did you know you can’t laugh loudly in Hawaii?
Mgmt:  You are the worst client we’ve ever had.
Me:  It has to be “a low ha.”
Mgmt:  By far, the worst.
Me:  What’s the difference between a slice of pizza and a dead man?
Mgmt:  This qualifies as actual abuse.  You’ve put yourself in a very actionable position.
Me:  A slice of pizza can’t feed a whole family.
Mgmt:  Jesus.
Me:  What do you call a virgin from Oregon?
Mgmt:  I love Oregon.
Me:  An orphan.  Hashtag fuck Oregon.  What do you call a horny square?
Mgmt:  Okay, I’m going to go.  Post something.
Me:  An erect-angle.
Mgmt:  Promise me you’ll post something.
Me:  I promise.

N.P.: “Some People Call Me” – Jason Bieler and the Baron Von Bielski Orchestra

February 10, 2024

 

Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a
thunderbolt.
~ Sun Tzu

I first read that quote when I was 14, and it has stayed with me ever since.
And that, dear reader, is why I don’t talk a lot about what I’m up to.  But when it’s time,
you will know.

N.P.: “Koshiro” – Exyz, SENZO

February 5, 2024

Fuckin’ Monday, dear reader.  Time for some bad jokes.  Here goes:
What’s the difference between a jeweler and a prison guard?  One watches cells, and one sells watches.  No?  K.
What’s the difference between an epileptic oyster fisherman and a prostitute with diarrhea?  One shucks between fits and one shits between fucks.  Okay, c’mon…that was funny.  No?  Fine.
What do you call a girl who’s tired of talking about the environment?  Regretta Thunberg.  Still no?  Fuck you.
What do tofu and dildoes have in common?  They’re both meat substitutes.
What do you call two AI systems that are in love with each other?  Members of the (Chat)LGBT community.
What do you call a sleep-walking nun?  A roaming Catholic.  Okay, I get it if you didn’t get that one.
How does a computer get drunk?  It takes screenshots.
That one kinda sucked.  Admittedly.
Who does Jesus ask if he wants to get a loan?  The profits.
Okay…that one was pure suck.
Just found out my grandpa is addicted to Viagra.  No one’s taking it harder than me.
I tried to start a dating service for chickens.  But I was struggling to make hens meet.
What’s green and smell’s like pork?  Kermit’s fingers.
How does The Rock pee?  He Dwayne’s his Johnson.
What do you get when you rub two oranges together?  Pulp Friction.
I made a website for orphans.  It doesn’t have a homepage.
Why is Dwayne Johnson the only guy that can turn lesbians (not true, btw)?  Because Rock beats scissors.
Why are gay dudes so rude?  Because they’re fucking assholes.
I told the cop, “You can’t write me a ticket…I have a marathon to run tomorrow.”  The cop said, “Sir, that’s not how you play the race card.”
What does a perverted frog say?  “Rub-It.”
How do you stop a toddler from drowning in the summer?  You drown it in the spring.

N.P.: “Bruce Lee – Rick’s 1st Dobro Mix” – Underworld

Word of the Day: indefatigable

Right, so today’s word is “indefatigable”. No, it’s not a new type of inflatable mattress, nor is it a fancy name for a hipster indie band. It’s an adjective, dear reader, meaning persisting tirelessly. That’s right, it’s like the Energizer Bunny of words.
Originating from the Latin indefatigabilis, where “in-” means “not” and “defatigare” means “to tire out”, this word basically means you’re too stubborn to admit you’re exhausted. It’s like saying “I’m not tired, you’re tired!” to your body after pulling an all-nighter.

Fred was a middle-aged man who had taken up porn as a way to escape his mid-life crisis.  Not watching porn, mind you…Fred had been doing that since he was a kid.  He was convinced that if he could bone enough on film, he’d eventually somehow outbone his rapidly receding hairline and expanding waistline.  So he packed his shit and moved to Van Nuys to get his video fuck on.  His friends called him “indefatigable Fred,” mostly because it sounded better than “delusional Fred.”
One day, Fred’s agent called him up and asked him if he wanted to book a gig called “The Luckiest Man in the World,” which was a porn franchise that filmed twice a year featuring a single middle-aged man having coitus with as many available female porn stars as he could handle.  They typically started with 26 actresses on the set, and then, if, as had been the case the last several years, the male talent was going to need more than 26, they’d call girls in.  The director of these hyperlibidinous productions referred to the whole production as “the Inferno Fuckathon” as all participants experienced painful  burning sensations whilst urinating for days/weeks after filming.  This was so bad that even seasoned male porn athletes were known to weep at the mere mention of its name.  Though it seemed like a wonderful idea on paper to most men, most men have not had to successfully copulate with 26 different females in one take…it was an uphill fuck-slog done poolside, in the blistering California summer heat, with no shade whatsoever.  And, unbeknownst to Fred, due to declining sales in the new decade, the director had decided that making the thing more of an extreme sport than a typical porno shoot would draw in more mainstream viewers, and thus would throw in a rabid, ball-biting wolverine on the set, just to keep things spicy. 

On fuck day (as Fred had put it in his calendar), Fred snorted several healthy lines of Viagra and arrived on set wearing nothing but cowboy boots, a thin sheen of Vaseline, and a huge smile.  Once filming started, Fred’s huge smile quickly turned into a determined grimace.  He started his slow, relentless lovemaking.  Hours passed, actresses dropped out, the wolverine snapped, but Fred…Fred kept going.  The sun set, the moon rose, a new day dawned, and still, our indefatigable Fred was boning.  He’d long since run out of water, his sheen of Vaseline literally fucked off, balls unbitten but burned in the sun, and he was pretty sure he’d lost a finger to the damn wolverine.  But did he stop?  No!  Because Fred was indefatigable. 

When filming finally wrapped, three days later, there was no one there to cheer him on.  The production staff had packed up and left, most of the female talent was long gone, and even the wolverine had lost interest.  But none of that mattered to Fred.  He’d done it.  He’d completed the Inferno Fuckathon.  He was indefatigable. 

N.P.: “Facts” – Tom MacDonald, Ben Shapiro