There’s a lot about the world that art school doesn’t teach you, even if you attended before the Great Intellectual Shutdown, when identity politics rendered almost every college and university illegitimate. But one thing in particular stands out, a lesson only learned with time, and the wisdom that comes with trying and failing.
From 2014 to 2018, I published five issues of Bands I Useta Like magazine, arguably my most popular venture to date. By which I mean, I print up copies and they sell. In case you’re one of the over 6 billion people who never got your hands on a copy, you’re in luck!
In the olden days, a “three-ring circus” wasn’t a metaphor for political chaos; it was real. You could literally smell it. When folks wanted entertainment, they went to the circus.
Or alternately, motion pictures about the circus.
Each ring simultaneously hosted performances by somersaulting clowns, roaring wild quadrupeds, and their fearless trainers. Despite the sometimes subpar treatment of our animal friends, this was the only place where generations of children saw them at all.
Traditionally, high above the crowd, was a “balancing act”.
“Tragedy is when I cut my finger. Comedy is when you fall into an open sewer and die.”
-Mel Brooks
Renowned and brilliant comedian Hannah Gadsby steps behind the microphone at a popular New York City comedy club. Hannah begins a scathing monologue about how good men don’t exist. The teeming crowd of young people begins to hoot and holler in delight and affirmation. Then; it happens.
I know you’re out there; you’re sick and tired of political correctness stinking up your comics. Like, so sick and tired that you’re not even reading this. You’re off doing something else because you’re fed up with the never-ending guilt-trip perpetuated by the mainstream media. But I know you’re out there.
And if you were reading this, you’d know one thing.
Almost every single aspect of my personality can be explained by one simple fact: when I was a kid I ate a bouillon cube.
I was too young to know better. I had witnessed the flavor sorcery that resulted when my parents would cook with a bouillon cube. Surely, I reasoned, if it made dinner taste that good, then a whole cube of it would be a trip to flavor heaven. I even imagined it might expand into a steak or a burger, like in The Jetsons. So one evening I sneaked into the kitchen, unwrapped a beef cube, popped it in my mouth, and chewed it up. Continue reading →
You must be logged in to post a comment.