I know at least one or two of you out there have been wondering why I’ve posted so infrequently this year, and why I went completely AWOL from social media. Since the truth is bound to trickle out very soon, I thought I’d break the news here, where it can be shared with the most readers. Guess what friends:
Remora front dorsal fins have evolved to enable them to adhere by suction to smooth surfaces, and they spend most of their lives clinging to a host animal such as a whale, turtle, shark or ray. It is probably a mutualistic arrangement as the remora can move around on the host, removing ectoparasites and loose flakes of skin, while benefiting from the protection provided by the host and the constant flow of water across its gills. Although it was initially believed that remoras fed off particulate matter from the host’s meals, this has been shown to be false; in reality, their diets are composed primarily of host feces.
Wikipedia, trustworthy only for anything apolitical
I often bring up the time I spent in jail because I learned a lot there. Unless you’ve spent more than 48 days behind bars, you should presume that I know more about the experience than you.
“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.
Comedy stinks right now because you forced it to stink. You vilified every experience in life that makes a great comedian. You made the safe, sponsored version of laughter the norm. You’re so afraid to really laugh in front of other people, that you turned comedy from an anti-establishment weapon into a cottony security blanket.
Comedy stinks right now because of you. Because you’re afraid of your true feelings.
You probably don’t even know who this is.
Let’s take, as an example, one of these pusillanimous women that the media holds up as Queens of Comedy. You know the ones, I don’t have to name them. They’re all over glossy magazine covers at the checkout aisles, making “zany” faces to remind you they’re funny.
Imagine if legendary and revered comedian Bill Hicks hadn’t died in 1994.
Some people believe Alex Jones is really Bill Hicks. I am not among them.
What if- just hear me out- he supported Trump in 2016? How would that make you feel about him? What if he’d gone “right-wing”, pre- or post-9/11? Would he still be referenced in Tool songs?
There’s an entire genre of movies, TV shows and music, explicitly designed to mollify you in your time of emotional distress. Plus, there’s a contrived ending that tells you everything’s okay. Or not. It’s basically sadness porn, after all.
Feel like laughing? Same deal. Entire blocks of television programming are devoted to laughter, loaded with disparate commercials for unhealthy items and services. You can “binge-watch” every stand-up special a comedian has produced, and then argue about a decrease in their edge, on the Internet. Isn’t that fantastic?
The most corrosive aspect of social media like Facebook is this: unhappiness is treated like a disease.
This image is bullshit. You can’t make other people be anything, unless they let you. Fuck you for projecting, and for making yourself a victim.
As an American, you are not guaranteed happiness- only the pursuit of it. Practically every single person on Earth has differing ideas about what makes them happy. If you appear unhappy to others, their reactions will range from concern to disgust (see above). Your family will either try to “fix” you, reject you, or hand you over to medical personnel.
For some weird reason, you’re “not supposed” to be unhappy.
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