Eat More Fish in 2016!

It’s time to get in tune with Mother Ocean before a majority of her delicate isomers turn to plastic and petroleum distallate on a permanent basis. It’s good for the body, good for the soul for us to do this. Quite simply, we must do it.

As you’re well aware I am of course living right now in a landlocked nation. What to do! What is to be done? I can think of precious few things on my own. The whole point is to get ahold of only the greatest, most fine fish.

My options seem so limited.

1) I can eat more catfish. More catfish than I already do—one extra day per week of catfish.

2) Watch at least an episode of the TV show Catfish every day after work, five times each week.

3) Eat trout, even though I don’t want to.

4) Continue to skeptically consume whatever’s getting presented to people meant to pass as salmon these days.

5) Enjoy only shramp. Frozen big shramp. Abundant shramp cocktail

I am, naturally, open to suggestions.

America’s New Hottest Programming Block

If there’s one thing I love about Hoarders, it’s all the people on it who are fundamentally broken. And if there’s one thing I love about Intervention, then there’s a million things I love about Intervention, because that is a perfect show.

I’ve got a pretty good idea for another perfect show. See, I’m not so down on Hoarders, relative to other shows like this, because I’m not particularly into gross-out porn. We’re all unbelievably disgusting. The inside of everybody’s house is gross. To be honest, we really do all just exist together on a mundane sliding scale of How Gross Can You Go, and the answer is an unsurprising “Infinitely.”

I’m not saying the shit isn’t gnarly—oh, it is, it all is—but black holes of human filth aren’t that different from how black holes work in space (truly). Things start to get pretty similar as you approach the event horizon. Given the choice between the two, I will always pick an Intervention. But shit, sometimes you’re at the doctor’s office waiting room, and A&E’s got a marathon of Hoarders on, so what’re you gonna do? Walk in nature? Not watch?

There’s a decent wrench in Hoarders, though, that gives the show a leg up on its rival, and that’s that a good bulk of the show involves the Hoarder in their Hoard during De-Hoarding, playing an active role in the process, often as a saboteur, or straight antagonist. This is compelling. This they got that Intervention ain’t. Because I’m pretty sure that there are only, like, five episodes of Intervention that end in a home team loss (i.e., no rehab, addict wins), at a certain point in the show, you can start to feel momentum flag. The last five minutes are always more a coda, a brief breather before you dive into the next pit of hell.

Anyway, my show pitch. We know that the production’s gotta get these kids on airplanes; the whole point of the rehab is that it isn’t local, around any triggering environments or people. Sometimes we get a glimpse about how hard this can be. Sometimes these fools cause drama. And isn’t drama why we’re here? That, and the (awesome, hilarious, cringey) plights of our fellow men? We oughta have a show that’s just about the transit. An Intervention: After Hours. I call it Get This Bitch to Rehab.

Think of the escape attempts! The clawing, the scratching! The spectacle of a man in Dockers pulling full-stop dad-strength bear-hugs to restrain his tweaked-out daughter! Sign me up or sign me out. World needs this in 2016.

Biddings on the franchise start today. Email me at to talk dollars. We can change this fucking world, man—that I do truly believe.


Didn’t even recall writing the previous post, because I’m an unrepentant drunk. It was a joy to read it again. The previous post may, in fact, be among the greatest things I’ve ever written.

December is proceeding. I’ve bought gifts for everyone important in my life, those, at this point, being my immediate family, and also my roommate. I bought the roommate a good gift, with hopes that I may someday use it. I am nothing if not strategic.

Sometimes I remember my old Xanga page, and feel the first pangs of an anxiety attack in the core of my lungs and heart zone.

I’ve been working on multiple new essays for the Modern Drunkard. It’s true, I swear!

They’ll be good. They have been cooking. Despite all evidence to the contrary, I am exceedingly exacting.

youtube rabbit hole: BILLY MAYS HERE

the Gifts

For years, my dad has been giving me these awesome pep talks. Perfectly balanced meditations with kind indulgence of delusion alongside real talk. My dad, you see, is my biggest fan, my greatest sponsor. In the parlance of Virginia Woolf, he is the one above all others who ensures, in case of my failings, that I’ve a room of one’s own.

I spoke with him today, after he gave me $140 to renew the tag of my car, and bought me $130 worth of mostly bulk-meat groceries. My dad is a mighty good man.

It’s good to have somebody who believes in you, who you can look at and say, “I’m sad.” Somebody who knows how to respond to that. Somebody free with their cash, supporting your derelict ass. Somebody wonderful.

He has, for years, been my soundboard. Stories I write, I bounce off of him. He loves stories. He knows stories. He’s a strange man; full of depth, and insight, but always favoring the simplistic. He keeps pimping out Jim Butcher’s The Dresden Files to me, for instance. I don’t know how to turn him down, at this point. I feel like he’s so smart, yet he’s also such a doofus. It makes me stay on my toes regarding my own self-perception. I am also a doofus, but slightly differently. My dad is both smart and dumb, an embarrassment, and a delight. Life is all contradictions.

I got my Christmas shopping finished. Ultimately I bought gifts for five people:

1. My brother
2. My sister (Multiple gifts; her birthday is December 19, which makes her a powerhouse this month)
3. My mom
4. My dad
5. The roommate

& NO ONE ELSE. My life, and social circle, is this small. I feel like this is overall a good thing. Gifts for these fools were so goddamn expensive.

I am a lucky, beloved person.