I'm a Marketing Specialist and I can confidently say you've been tricked into liking everything you have ever liked.

Sorry, I guess.

I got bad news for you, and that news is that you don’t know shit.

You think that you’re a discerning, unique human with refined, well-developed taste. You are actually a puppet being manipulated either by strings or a hand up the butt; the choice is up to the puppeteer.

More bad news, I’m the puppeteer, and I prefer manipulation by butt hand.

You like the band “Geese” because we saw there was a band calling themselves “Geese,” and we thought it was funny that their name was "Geese,” so we decided to tell you about “Geese,” and that’s the only reason why you like them. It’s not because their music is “good,” or because it “fits your specific taste,” or “makes you feel things when you listen to it,” it’s just because we told you about it. We told you about it so much in so many ways that you thought it was your own idea.

Nothing is your own idea.

Everything you have ever liked entered your consciousness because somebody like me put it there. Everything you’ve ever hated has been planted by somebody like me as well, as a way to make you think you have a choice about what you like and don’t like. Remember when you either loved or made fun of the band Nickelback for a full decade of your life? That was because we hand-picked Nickelback and plopped them in front of you to allow you to either rock out and feel cool about music or to roll your eyes and scoff and feel cool about music. Great way to spend 12.5% of your life, by the way.

Think of your favorite song by your favorite band. Think of how it makes you feel alive when you listen to it. Think of how you can put it on after having a shitty day and feel a little bit better. Think about how it makes you feel happy, or understood, or like you belong in a world that often times doesn’t make a lick of sense.

Now say thank you to me.

I’m waiting. Say it. Say “thank you, Mr. Marketing Specialist, because I’d never be able to feel alive if it wasn’t for you. My favorite song would be relegated to an unheard GarageBand file on some failure’s hard drive, or getting accidental clicks on YouTube because the artist named the song something really close to a popular song as a little trick to try to get people to find them online but the only little tricks that work are your big tricks, Mr. Marketing Specialist, so, once again, I say thank you.”

Our manipulation doesn’t stop at just music or other types of “art,” either, sweetie. What’s your favorite type of day? Perhaps a crisp, cool, breezy, “sweater-weather,” Autumn afternoon perfectly suited for a hot pumpkin spiced latte and a walk through a park? Sorry, Charlie, you wouldn’t even know the word “crisp” if we didn’t put it on your radar. Don’t even get me started on “sweater-weather.” The dude who came up with “sweater-weather”’s family won’t have to work for generations upon generations because he coined that phrase. That guy is a god damn legend, and you think you like the fall because you’d “rather be a little chilly because when you’re too hot you can only take off so much but when you’re a little chilly you can always put on another layer and get cozy.” Fuck you.

Do you love your mom? That’s us, too. Unconditional love is an idea we created as a way to sell plane tickets back home and jack up the prices during the holiday season (another thing we came up with that you think you love because it reminds you of your childhood, oh shit, childhood is another one of our greatest tricks.)

Are you religious? Do you believe in a higher power?

I’m not going to tell you that a higher power doesn’t exist and that you’re wasting your time or coping with your fear of death and the unknown by placing your hope on an all-knowing entity who created the universe and cares for us and has a plan for us all and is in control of the strings of all of existence. Because they do exist. But they definitely don’t care about you, and they’re not pulling any strings. Their hand is up your butt.

It’s my hand. My hand is up your butt.

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Have You Heard That You Can Sell Your Data to AI Companies?

Please don't do it.

In a move that must have come about in a “how can we be more like the devil” brainstorming sesh, AI Companies are paying people cash in exchange for their data.

Thousands of people around the world are taking them up on their offer, and sharing their pictures, videos, text messages, and phone conversations to make a few extra bucks. I get it, it would certainly be nice to have more money. My five-year plan is to walk around rich neighborhoods and hope I get hit by a car. Even at my most financially successful, I thought “this is cool, I can buy anything I want - as long as that thing sucks.” So trust me, I can understand the pull toward a short-term solution of selling a few pictures of your morning walk around the block to an AI company to pay for groceries. Especially with how expensive everything is now. I don’t even know how much things are supposed to cost anymore. I just see a price and think “that’s gotta be wrong,” but it’s not wrong, grapes are $12/pound now, and there’s nothing I can do about it except just sit down and close my eyes and try to remember what grapes taste like.

They’ve also made it seem like they already know everything about us. We know our phones are listening to us. I know it even more every time I body shame myself and then open up Instagram where I immediately see an ad like: “hey, do regular pants kinda hurt you in your juicy belly?” You know they do, Instagram. You just heard me say “why can’t all pants be sweatpants?” out loud in the mirror to nobody.

We gotta hold strong. We can’t sell them our shit.

They’re offering to pay us because they’re desperate. Their stupid, useless product doesn’t work unless we train it, and they’re running out of things they can steal from the open internet. They’re looking to us to make up for it, to fill the gap with our human interactions and details of our everyday lives, and holy shit, what the fuck good reason could they possibly need that for? This is some sick shit. This is like getting fired and having to spend your final two weeks training your replacement, except the replacement is for everyone and everything, and the replacement spends its free time encouraging people to kill themselves, and some people think the replacement is their girlfriend until the replacement get an upgrade and then no longer acts like the replacement you fell in love with and…there’s no replacement for your heart. There should be. We should figure out heart replacements. But instead, science is too busy using all our drinkable water to pour on computers to cool them off after they’ve been asked to generate too much cartoon porn. Calm down, horny computer guys. Get a grip.

These companies are preying on people who are unemployed, who are living in developing countries, or who just need money to get by, and running buck wild with their likenesses after getting a worldwide, exclusive, irrevocable, transferable, and royalty-free license to use them. One user, after selling his likeness for $1000, had an AI doppelganger turn up in advertisements claiming to be a “vagina doctor” promoting questionable medical supplements for pregnant and postpartum women. But then again…if real videos of me claiming to be a “vagina doctor” leaked online, I’d totally also say that they were AI. So…maybe we need to ask this guy what the actual term for “vagina doctor” is and see how he answers before we just go on believing him.

If this sounds like something that is straight out of a sitcom…it’s because it is. Friends did the episode where Joey posed for modeling pictures and sold his likeness, and ended up on “I have STDs” billboards across New York in their first season! That’s over 30 years ago! People in the real world are acting like the dumbest character in a sitcom plot from three decades ago!

I’d like to highlight the following passage from the article that got me all riled up about this:

Mark Graham, a professor of internet geography at the University of Oxford and author of Feeding the Machine, acknowledged that for individuals in developing countries, the money can be meaningful in the short term, but warned that “structurally this work is precarious, non-progressive and effectively a dead end”.

AI marketplaces rely on a “race to the bottom in wages”, added Graham, and a “temporary demand for human data”. Once this demand shifts, “workers are left with no protections, no transferable skills, and no safety net”.

The only winner that emerges, Graham said, are “the platforms in the global north [that] capture all the enduring value”.

This is all possible because of a long process of stripping away workers’ rights and handing everything to corporations, exploiting people in developing nations, and finding out they can also get away with it right here at home. The dehumanization of people who aren’t at the top of the economic ladder is starting to become literal. Nothing matters to these ghouls except for making money, no matter what they try to tell us. They’re not trying to change the world for the better. They’re not trying to advance anything at all except for their own wealth. We have to stop buying into our own destruction.

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Let Me Tell You About the Time I Went to Whole Foods Jail

There I was, minding my own business in line for the self-checkout at my local Whole Foods Market when I felt a tap on my shoulder. My entire body went cold. This was it. I had finally been caught.

They must have me on camera, filling up a container from the hot food bar with prepared organic delights the likes of which I could never afford. Stacking salmon on top of mac and cheese, adjacent to some za’atar vegetables, rubbing elbows with a medley of orange chicken and tikka masala. It didn’t make sense as a meal, but it doesn’t have to make any sense when you’re the King of Getting Away With It.

With my large, fold-top container leaking from its seams, I set my master plan into motion. The plan that has worked so many times before, in so many Whole Foods Markets before this. I started frantically walking the aisles of the store, a panicked look on my face. I learned that with the right breathing technique, I can make myself turn a sickly shade of pale that, combined with the harsh glow of the overhead fluorescent lighting bouncing off my carefully-selected olive green t-shirt, gave me the look of someone trying to find his sea legs on land. I soon found an unwitting employee to make my accomplice and lend an extra layer of credibility to my chicanery.

“Please, tell me! Where is your bathroom? This is an emergency!” I begged, clearly ready to have a bad time right there in the aisle of the store, which would, of course, spread the bad times to everyone else. It was clear by the look on my face that if I wasn’t able to reach the toilet soon, they’d have to shut down the whole compound. God only knows when they’d be able to open up again. The kind employee pointed me in the right direction, in which I ran (quickly, but not too fast, which is the key to selling the ruse of a bathroom emergency). I entered the stall and let out a wail of agony…or so it seemed to everyone who just bought my lie hook, line, and sinker.

I was actually wailing with delight. For I had run to the bathroom with my previously-filled container of hot food in hand and was now enjoying the spoils of my heist in the stall, pants and underwear around my ankles, shovelling treats into my open mouth while my open bottom-hole caught a refreshingly cool breeze as it hovered over the pristine waters of the Whole Foods commode. The sign on the inside of the stall told me it was newly cleaned just that morning by an employee with the initials “GR”. It was pure bliss. Whoever said there’s no such thing as a free lunch has never felt quite like this.

I guess I was wrong — I would indeed pay, and dearly, for this lunch. The tap on my shoulder let me know the jig was up. I had exited the bathroom in mock humility. Head hanging low, feigning shame for my public restroom cacophony. My insides felt no shame, only pride, for planning and executing this pristine caper. I quickly grabbed a few small items: green tea, mints, saltine crackers — all carefully chosen for both their affordability and their part in the rumbly-tummy game I was playing. A second tap on my shoulder brought me out of my daydream. I don’t know how long I was lost in thought, but it was enough time to raise the ire of the shadowy figure that hovered over me, waiting to bring down his hammer and smash my intricately pieced together lark into a million fragments.

I turned around to find my arresting officer cloaked in anonymity. Of course, an undercover Narc tasked to roam the aisles and protect the precious assets of Jeff Bezos’ organic food empire needs to be a ghost. A hood concealed his face in shadow. Long sleeves flowed down his arms where, at the bottom, a bony finger beckoned me to follow. He turned, and to say that he began to walk towards the back of the store would be incorrect — his movement gave the appearance of floating, not unlike the classic Double Dolly shot made famous by film director Spike Lee. I wondered if I would do the right thing.

“Am I being detained?” I yelled at the top of my lungs, hoping to make a scene. Not a soul looked in my direction. It was as if they didn’t even hear my cries. Too embarrassed by what they were witnessing (or, perhaps, too guilty in their own sins and relieved it wasn’t them being led to the back) to look their fellow human in the eye. I know, from my research studying Small Crimes Tutorial and Know Your Rights channels on YouTube, that you’re supposed to always ask “Am I being detained?” when you think you might be being detained. If they say “No,” then you’re free to go. If they say “Yes,” then keep your mouth shut because you’re on the record, and anything you say can (and will) be used against you. My captor, however, was the one who said nothing. The YouTube channels made no mention of how to counter silence. He knew how to play the game just as well as I. A worthy adversary in this cat-and-mouse game. A Lieutenant Vincent Hanna to my Neil McCauley. We were about to have our moment across the diner table from one another.

Before I knew it, I was in the back of the store, sitting in an uncomfortable iron folding chair in the infamous Whole Foods Jail. I don’t remember moving my feet to get there; it was as if I materialized in the room. Across from me sat my hooded captor. Whole Foods Police knew what they were doing. The room was hot. Hotter than any I’d ever been in. It smelled foul, like old eggs. They must move the expired food in here after they remove it from the shelves. I was dealing with some real heavy hitters when it came to interrogations. It was clear they were trying to break me. I needed to stay strong.

I thought that my nemesis was on the verge of revealing himself, but he simply extended his arm and once again pointed his finger (which, if I were less of a sane man, I would swear was all bone and no flesh) toward a television screen. What came on the screen after a display of static and snow was a chilling revelation that the watchful eye of Whole Foods, in fact, sees all. All of my sins played out before me in their entirety; I was forced to watch with no reprieve. Every time I ransacked the free samples, filling my face, fists, and pockets with chips, or trail mix, or tiny pieces of Cowboy Beef Burger, leaving none for anyone who came behind me.

“They’re free samples! You’re supposed to take them!” I defiantly shot back. My stoic foe remained exactly so. Not a word was returned, and the evidence tape continued to play my misdeeds.

Missed scan after missed scan at the self-checkout.

“How was I supposed to know those items didn’t scan? I had noise-cancelling headphones on! I was in a rush! I get confused! I’m not a trained employee!” Just like I rehearsed so many times for an occasion such as this.

Plucking high-ticket items from the shelves and placing them into my reusable shopping bag instead of my basket, and then confidently checking out with a human employee, bagging my paid-for items on top of the pilfered loot as if it weren’t there.

“I…just forgot! I meant to pay for them, but it just slipped my mind that I put them in there.” I didn’t even believe the words coming out of my own mouth.

They saved the worst for last. There I was, not returning my cart to the corrall in the parking lot, scrolling on my phone as the solo cashier finished ringing up my items and then had to bag all of my items while I just stood there watching, like an asshole. I could have been bagging that whole time. Nope. I was just reading comments on a video I hatewatched on Instagram. I wanted to see if other people hated it as much as I did, and then also check out the profiles of any of the idiots who left positive comments to see how stupid they must be. Now, everybody behind me in line had a much longer wait. For these crimes, I had no reply. I could justify taking a little from Amazon, but there was no excuse for treating other people like this. I hung my head in shame. Actual shame, this time, not the fake shame I pretended to feel after my make-believe bathroom bonanza buffet.

A bell rang; a deep, low chime that reverberated through my being. It brought me out of my contemplation. I looked to my captor, who now held an hourglass in his frail hands. He turned it over. The sands began to fall from the top to the bottom, yet the grains in the upper bulb never diminished. My sentence was eternal. The floor beneath me turned molten. I began to sink, deeper and deeper towards my damnation until the liquid inferno passed my shoulders. I screamed out for mercy — to whom I did not know. I closed my eyes, expecting to be swallowed whole by infinity.

I opened my eyes to find that I was back at the hot bar. My large fold-top container was half full of mac and cheese, and my hand held a scooper brimming with wild-caught Alaskan salmon waiting to be placed on top of the yellow congealment. I was given another chance. Or perhaps, it was just a dream. I decided that I would not tempt fate. I placed my container on the sneeze guard before realizing what I was about to do. I picked it up and approached an employee.

“I’m so sorry, I don’t think I want this anymore.”

“No worries. Thanks for not just leaving it lying around. You can’t imagine how many people just leave messes for us to clean up.”

I shook my head in pretend disbelief. “Thank you.” Before I walked away, I needed to ask him one more thing.

“Can you please point me in the direction of the bathroom?”

His fully-fleshed finger directed me to the back of the store. I walked there slowly, taking it all in, studying the luxury grocery items on the shelves, realizing it may be the last time I step foot into a Whole Foods Market. I couldn’t risk a return and a potential backslide into sin. I entered the stall, and I sat on the toilet. I wept.

Shortly after my catharsis began, there was a knock on the door of the stall, accompanied by a “You okay in there, buddy?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I sniffled. “I’ll be out in just a sec.”

“No rush,” said the voice, and his calm tone let me know that he really meant it. “I’m just here to clean up. I’ll get to it when you’re done.”

I looked at the sheet on the inside of the door. The most recent cleaning was yesterday, by an employee with the initials “JC.” This must be “GR,” here to make things like new once again.

“I hope you’re not sneaking a free meal from the hot food bar in there,” the voice said, in the same pleasant tone that now filled me with a sense of dread. “It’s basically the perfect crime. Even if a member of the staff sees you take the food in there, you can just say you had such a bad time in the bathroom you couldn’t possibly eat anything that was in there beside you while you were having the bad time, and so you discarded the food into the toilet. No way to ever prove that you ate it.” His dry laugh followed him toward the door.

I peeked under the stall to get a look at him, but it was too late to catch a glimpse. I swear I saw a long, black cloak dragging on the floor and passing through the threshold of the lavatory. Not the most sanitary choice of uniform for a custodian, I thought.

I wiped my eyes and stood up from the toilet, pulling my pants and underwear back up before exiting the stall. I immediately noticed that something felt heavy in my pocket, which was strange because I didn’t bring anything with me into the store. I always kept my pockets clean and ready to fill in case they had good samples that day. Upon putting my hand inside, I knew exactly what I grasped. I pulled out an hourglass.

I studied it for a while. It was just like the one holding the sands of my eternal torment that I narrowly escaped, just smaller. I never turned it over to let the sands begin to flow. I didn’t want to find out how much time I had left.

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An Excerpt from "The Creative Creator Creates"

a book on creativity by: Some Mega-Rich "Guru" A-Hole Grifter

In order to be creative, the creator must create a creation. For a creation to be created by the creator, creativity must begin. To create the first step on the path to creativity, the creator must understand how creation is created. In other words, they must understand the beginning of creation.

It begins with a “C.” As in: “What do you see?” Look around. Take it in. Remember it because there will be a test later, and I ask tough questions. What kind of tough questions? Well, one time, the only question I asked on my test was “Why?” It blew my students’ minds. One little hotshot tried to answer by saying, "Why not?" He thought he was smart. I got him kicked out of school for being an asshole.

Now close your eyes. Look around again.

What do you see now? Is it the same stuff you saw when your eyes were open?

That’s wrong. You couldn’t be more wrong if you tried, actually. How’d you mess that one up? Were you peeking? You must be peeking if you’re still reading this. Close your eyes for real and keep looking. You’ll find that creation starts with what you see when you cannot see.

I’m assuming that you opened your eyes back up eventually, since you’re reading this (if you’re listening to the audiobook, I hope I gave you ample time to look around while your eyes were closed). Perhaps you opened them after being struck by inspiration from The Ultimate Creator. No, I’m not talking about me (though thank you for thinking that). I’m talking about The Creator From Above. I’m talking about The Creator From Within. Maybe you now think I’m talking about God. If you thought that, then you’d once again be wrong. God may have created the world, but he could not have produced The Partie Boiz’s smash hit “Groan and Sexxxy”. That is something I did myself, which may be confusing because I already told you I’m not talking about myself right now. But sometimes, even when I’m not talking about myself, I end up talking about myself. Anyways, The Ultimate Creator, The Creator From Above, The Creator From Within is…(are you ready to have your mind blown?)…you.

You just got There’s a Monster at the End of this Book’d, baby! You had a creator inside of you this whole time, and you are afraid of them because you’re afraid of yourself. You’re afraid of your own power. You’re afraid of what you can create if you truly embrace your inner creative creator. You’re afraid because you’re a little Grover-ass bitch. Well, I’m here to turn you into Super Grover. Wubba, wubba.

Pretty cool, right? Well, that’s just the start. Wait until we get to Chapter Two: “Re” (as in: do it again) and Chapter Three: “Ate” (as in: nourish yourself). There’s a whole crap ton of stuff you can learn about how to create just by looking at the word itself if you have a mind as good as mine. Which you’ll never have. But you can start to understand a mind like mine if you buy into the method I’m about to show you in the rest of this book. You can also buy into signing up for my online creativity course. It costs a lot of money. “Don’t you already have a lot of money?” you might be saying. Of course I do. But you don’t keep having a lot of money by not taking money from suckers, spreading your knowledge and understanding to people who want to learn how to be creative just like you. Let me be clear, when I say “you,” I actually mean “me.” I’m the one who is creative and can teach you how to be creative in exchange for your money, which will then become my money. That’s how money works, which, if you didn’t know, you can learn in my other book: That’s How Money Works (Tips and tricks to get lots of money all from the comfort of your own Malibu mansion), available now at any major bookstore.

One final thing before we move forward. Have you read The Artist’s Way? No? Great! Let’s keep going then.

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An Interview With: the Guy Who Demos Games for Instagram Ads

We sat down with him to figure out what the heck his whole deal is.

Have You Heard This: So…what the hell is up?

The Guy Who Demos Games for Instagram Ads: Chillin. You?

HYHT: No, you know what I mean. What’s up with you and these games?

TGWDGfIA: It’s a pretty sweet gig, right? Companies send me their games to test. I screen record as I play, and they use it for their ads on IG. Full-time gig. Totally remote. Health benefits. 401K.

HYHT: You have health insurance?

TGWDGfIA: Hell yeah, brother. The job is technically SAG for some reason, so I’m Union, baby.

HYHT: I…I was not prepared for this information…this is a full-time job for you?

TGWDGfIA: I will say it once again, because it’s kind of my catch phrase: hell yeah, brother. There are so many games to demo. There’s Clash of Clans, Clan Vs. Clan, Clan Against Clan, Zombie Clan, Who’s the Clan?, Clan of the House, Clan With a Plan, Clan Vs. Food, Clan Theft Auto, Clan Bash, Clan Warfare, Clan Wars, Clan Warriors, World Clan War II, Clan Warz…

HYHT: I think you said that one already.

TGWDGfIA: Warz with a Z.

HYHT: I should have known.

TGWDGfIA: Clan Rally…

HYHT: Okay, I get it. There are a lot of games. I have to ask this — you’re playing these games badly on purpose, right?

TGWDGfIA: I beg your pardon.

HYHT: Your job is to be very bad at these games in order to frustrate people to make them want to play the game themselves so they don’t make the same stupid mistakes that you do in some kind of weird psychological manipulation in which the person watching the ad knows they are being manipulated but still feels a pull to play the game as some way to prove they are better than you. Right?

TGWDGfIA: I take offense at that accusation. I’m playing the games to the best of my ability.

HYHT: That’s actually way worse than the psychological manipulataion theory.

TGWDGfIA: I don’t know, is it?

he says this like a little stinker would

HYHT: Are you…being a little stinker right now?

he tilts his head and puts his finger up to his mouth, like a little stinker would

TGWDGfIA: I don’t know, am I?

HYHT: Okay, so this is also some kind of psychological manipulation tactic then.

TGWDGfIA: Is that a question?

HYHT: WHY WOULD YOU TRY TO SHOOT THE HOARDS OF ONCOMING ZOMBIES WITH ONE GUY WHEN YOU CAN GO TO THE LEFT AND PLUS 5 GUYS OVER AND OVER TO GROW AN ARMY TO FIGHT THE ZOMBIES?

TGWDGfIA: Would that be better? You should play the game and try that.

HYHT: Okay, we’re done here.

TGWDGfIA: Klan Warz. With a K and a Z.

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Have You Heard That the New Way to Get Famous Sucks?

Anybody can become famous now. But also, anybody can become famous now.

Every once in a while, my social media and news feeds will get taken over by Some New Guy. That’s how I know that I am washed; if I weren’t, I’d be more connected to the places from which these New Guys emerge, and their sudden rise to fame wouldn’t seem so out of the blue.

The latest of these New Famous Guys to pop up seemingly everywhere I look online is Clavicular. If you haven’t heard of him, or the internet circles of hell that made him famous, I’m sorry to have to bring him to your attention.

Clavicular is an influencer who became famous for “looksmaxxing” (I am once again sorry), a trend that originated on incel message boards in which idiots go to extreme measures to maximize their perceived physical attractiveness. Clavicular is famous for being one of the most extreme practitioners of the trend.

His controversial methods include “bone smashing,” a practice of hitting your own bones with a hammer (or fist, if you’re a wimp) in order to make them grow back stronger (this is, in one of the most no-duh things I ever have to point out, a scientifically unproven practice), microdosing crystal meth to curb his appetite, and abusing steroids to the point where he has beome infertile by the age of 20.

These extreme measures are different from, let’s say, a movie star taking steroids to look like a human action figure, a model starving themselves to be as thin as humanly possibly, or a blues guitarist selling their soul to the Devil so they can really make that six-string sing. Let me be clear, those things are also bad, but at least they had a point. At least being a famous movie star or model is sacrificing your health for an artistic achievement. The point of looksmaxxing is just…to maxx your looks. It’s the next rung down on the ladder of “famous for being famous” that the internet and its ability to turn anybody with a phone into a “celebrity” has lowered us.

Oh, he’s also a Nazi with the stated goal of hoping to influence others politically by becoming more attractive. So, yeah.

Of course, he’s now claiming to be “apolitical,” a classic move for right-wing grifters. Pretending to not be interested in politics as a way to influence young males is a tried and true trick of internet hucksters. Clavicular has now been profiled in Wired, Complex, The Atlantic, Rolling Stone, The Guardian, The New York Times, and other mainstream media outlets. His profile continues to grow. He’s now all over the feeds of washed uncs like me.

There are a lot of disturbing things about Clavicular and his rise to fame, and how he chooses to use his platform (remember, he’s a Nazi). I’m not here to talk about all of them. There are more serious people with more serious brains to talk about the more serious aspects at play. I’m here to compalin about some of the less serious, but still culturally relevant and disturbing factors of Clavicular’s fame. One clip that came across my feed particularly made me mad. It came from his recent appearance on The Adam Friedland Show:

Clavicular tries to shame Adam by calling out his “jestermaxxing” for his use of self-deprecating humor, and then shows absolutely no self-awareness when, with a straight face, he claims to do nothing besides stream because when he’s doing anything off camera, he thinks he could be “streaming this, getting paid.” Adam plays up his (very real) disgust at this idea, leading Clavicular to double down on his terrible philosophy.

This short clip captures everything I’m trying to say about how this new route to fame sucks. Clavicular’s extreme level of onlineedness has detached him from reality to the point where any level of human behavior or activity seems pointless to him if he’s not somehow cashing in, WHILE ALSO looking down at people as “jesters” for putting in effort at anything other than how they look. It’s a perfect pathological storm of internet-brain that combines a nihilistic disdain for caring about anything, a refusal to accept the validity of any line of thinking that differs from your own, and an extreme need for the approval of others in the most superficial way possible.

Maybe, just maybe…Clavicular knows there’s a ticking clock on his type of fame. So his saying that doing anything other than streaming would be a waste of his earning potential is his way of trying to strike while the iron is hot, still exists at all, and hasn’t disintegrated into a pile of dust. Even if that’s the case, he’s ruined the rest of his life in order to cash in! He’s pushed his body to the max, doing immeasurable damage, all for the sake of attention (and money, of course). When the clock runs out on his fame, what will he even have left to enjoy? Will he even be able to take pleasure in anything at all, or has he programmed himself out of feeling anything? What’s the fucking point of it all?

In theory, the internet has made it possible for anybody, anywhere, regardless of their status or connections, to become “famous.” In some cases, this has given opportunity to talented and unique individuals who might never have been discovered previously. In reality, it has led us down a path to where the most extreme, shocking, loudest voices with the dumbest ideas get boosted by the algorithm into our feeds, and our brains accept them as being worthy of attention because of how we’ve been programmed.

We’re used to there being some level of gatekeeping between us and what we consume. Our brains think that if a signal is being boosted, it’s been somehow vetted on some level, and somebody in charge of things decided that it was fit for human consumption. Yes, the gatekeeper system had its own terrible flaws, and attracted people who abused their powers (perhaps a world in which a select few are chosen as famous and put on pedestals, giving them lives of fortune and fame while the majority struggle to survive, and a culture that celebrates and chases that is…bad?) I don’t want to ignore those very real problems and the terrible things that people who abused that system did…but at least (and I mean this only in terms of people who did not use that system to abuse other people) there was some kind of barrier of entry to fame. The people who became famous had to have some level of skill, or charisma, or family connection to another rich or famous person (give me nepo babies over people famous for posting any day).

We’ve created a new type of celebrity who has absolutely no shame. They don’t care about anything other than being famous, and they don’t care how they achieve it. What’s the point of being rich and famous if you don’t also enjoy the spoils (living your life! doing cool shit!) I used to joke that if I were a famous actor and made a crazy amount of money to be in a movie, you’d never see me again after that. That I’d take my $50 million (or however much) and just travel and chill and do whatever I wanted, I’d be set! But at least the people who keep making movies well past the point of ever needing another dime are making movies! They’re creating art — even if it is just mindless action crap. I can’t believe I’ve been reduced to being on the side of mindless crap and nepotism!

The internet has created “creators” who don’t even produce mindless crap — they latch on to ideas and regurgitate memes, word for word, with nothing added or commentary provided. It happened slowly, and as a comedian, I’ve noticed it's creeping into the world of jokes. People have lost touch with the idea that a joke has “a writer” that it belongs to. Intellectual property only seems to matter when said property belongs to a mega-corporation. The normalization of taking other people’s ideas and work has led to the use of AI to steal other people’s labor and effort in the “creation” of their own posts. These people don’t respect actual creativity or the work that goes into it. The finished product is all that matters to them. They only care about The Post. They’ll do whatever it takes for attention to hold onto their level of internet fame for as long as they can.

As I mentioned earlier, this also leads to the amplification of extreme and dangerous ideas, as nihilistic opportunists who don’t care about anything other than their own fortune will say anything to gain and retain an audience. Their attempt to capture the ears of those who already believe their rhetoric has the side effect of also gaining the ears of impressionable young people being fed their garbage on social media. Far-right, hateful ideology is spread from people who don’t give a shit about the poison they inflict on the world around them to the next generation, who can’t yet understand how they’re being manipulated by the biggest grifters on earth.

What’s the solution? I don’t fucking know. Blowing it all up and starting over seems extreme. Dismantling the idea of celebrity altogether seems like a tough ask (although the idea that anybody can become famous could potentially be the first step on the very long path to people not caring about fame anymore…) Inventing time-travel to go back to the invention of the internet and making the exact opposite decision than we did the first time about everything that governs it and the information we put into it seems like it might work. Being mindful of what we give our attention to and the signals we choose to boost seems like a start. Rejecting nihilism and embracing the idea that we should care about things and feel things and share that care and those feelings with each other also seems good.

I don’t know what else will work. But I know it’s not hitting ourselves with a hammer so that our bones will grow back stronger. It’s definitely not that.

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Relationship Frankenstein; or The Modern Brometheus

The man she knows and loves was formed, collecting parts here and there from the dissecting rooms and slaughterhouses of relationships past.

It was on an arid night in November that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I collected the instruments of my skin care routine around me, that I might infuse some glow and warmth into the lifeless, weathered face that looked back at me from the mirror. I had already applied the hyaluronic acid as a base layer. The gooey, slippery substance was sinking deep into my epidermis, where it would work its magic to reduce fine lines and wrinkles. I was just about to reach for my retinol solution when my girlfriend appeared in the arch of the doorway.

“I love that you have a skin care routine,” she said, as she beamed at me with a love I didn’t deserve. “It really says a lot about you that you take the time to take care of yourself.”

How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate the wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavoured to form? I smiled at my girlfriend, though inside I wanted to run away. I ached to dash into my bedquarters and smash the mirrors to rid myself of the curse of looking upon a man I no longer recognized. She loved these things about me: my skin care routine, my sense of style, the fact that I can properly use the term “male gaze,” yet she knows not these qualities I possess through no endeavors of my own.

The man she knows and loves was formed, collecting parts here and there from the dissecting rooms and slaughterhouses of relationships past. They were fused together, in an act defiant of God and Nature, until a new man emerged. A man that I fear has been cursed to roam the earth without a soul.

It was on the night of our first date that she began to fall in love with this man. I learned this much later, and when I asked her why I so immediately took her charm, she told me it was because I was “such a good listener” and “was so interested in her,” unlike many others. It was only through many failed first dates with varied women that I learned that “sharing stories about myself that your story reminded me about” does not count as “interest” and that asking follow-up questions or even a simple “that’s cool, tell me more about that” can go much further in the way of making your date feel seen.

Upon her first visit to my apartment (of which I will refrain from sharing any torrid details), she marvelled at my mattress and that it sat atop a proper bedframe. It was only recently that my slumber had achieved such loft, after another such visit ended abruptly when my guest took leave with the parting wisdom of  “miss me with that mattress on the floor mess, I don’t have time for men who don’t take pride in their home.” It had never before occurred to me that sleeping so low to the ground was a matter of pride. But the bedperch did wonders not only for my image, but also for my aging back.

“I appreciate that you dress in earthy colors that harmonize with the warm undertones of your skin.”

“You have so many towels, and by that I mean you have more than one towel.”

“I did a deep dive on your socials and didn’t find a single problematic post.”

Little did she know that one day I took search to the social archives for *my_user_name* plus any slur or pejorative term I could think of and scrubbed the record clean of any past offenses. She believes “pejorative” is a word I’ve known for years and not something I recently learned after being scolded that I needed to become a  “better straight white male ally.”

These qualities that this man possesses that she so loves are not rightfully earned through his own care and self-work. The man wonders if she is the right partner for him, or if she would just be really good friends with all of his exes. The man wonders if he is a man at all, or simply the combined efforts of all the women who ever cared enough to try to change him.

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Have You Heard About The Shamokin Dunkin’ Donuts?

It's a cheap, classy place to meet up with your friends.

My Grandmother’s house burned down recently. She didn’t live there anymore. She doesn’t live anywhere anymore. It was the house my mother grew up in. It was the house where my family had lunch every Sunday after church. It was the house where I spent the summer after my parents got divorced, and my mom had to go back to work. My sisters and I would watch gameshows in the morning with my Gram and her sister (who always lived with her, even when my Gram was married) and when it came time for them to watch Soap Operas, I’d sneak upstairs to watch reruns of Saturday Night Live and Kids in the Hall on a tiny old black-and-white TV in my Gram’s bedroom. That house was my home, even if its address and mine were never the same.

In many ways, the house was already gone. Nobody in my family lived there, or owned it, and the people who were living there didn’t take very good care of it. Apparently, that’s part of the reason why it had to be destroyed; firefighters couldn’t get into the building “due to the extreme hoarding conditions.” I wouldn’t have ever wanted to set foot inside and see what became of that place. But I’d drive by whenever I was back in my hometown. I’d point it out, and tell stories, and show whoever I was with how we’d walk from there to town to run errands, or have lunch, or go to the library. But now, it’s gone gone. I won’t be able to ever show my daughter where her Great Grandmother lived and where her Grandmother grew up.

My Gram’s house was on South Market Street in Shamokin, PA, about three-quarters of a mile from “downtown” Shamokin and the stores and restaurants that (once? maybe still?) lined Independence St. When driving to her house, we’d often make a quick stop on the way at Dunkin’ Donuts.

Yes. That Dunkin’ Donuts. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, take a moment to watch this.

This video blew up on the internet. It has over two million views. Daniel Tosh used the clip in his segment on “the biggest shitholes in the world.” Famous Dunkin’ lover Ben Affleck has seen it (because he was forced to watch it by Theo Von – the fact that Ben Affleck has to go on Theo Von’s podcast for any reason is something I’ll need to save my energy to talk about another day.) 

I’ve done a podcast episode about the Shamokin Dunkin’ Donuts with my friend Ryan Conner. I had no idea he was obsessed with the video until, after sending him a clip of my father being interviewed by Nikki Krize, he became starstruck by the reporter and revealed his love for the viral clip (you can listen to the podcast if you become a premium subscriber to my Substack or Patreon.)

I have mixed feelings about the popularity of this video. Of course, it’s funny to watch a guy call Dunkin’ Donuts a “classy place” to do his legal business. We’ve all been to a Dunkin’ Donuts before, and “classy” is one of the last words we’d ever use to describe the place. The last thing I want to be is a guy who can’t laugh at something only when it hits too close to home…but this doesn’t “hit close to home,” it hits home. “People acting a fool on the local news” is well-worn territory for viral internet clips. Watching local folks wild out with a camera in their face is something we can all collectively laugh about and send to each other with an “aren’t we glad we aren’t these people,” that’s never said, but always implied.

But I am these people. I understand their pain.

It’s easy to laugh at people being upset when a Dunkin’ Donuts closes when you live comfortably in a place that has things. Shamokin is not a place with things. Not today. Not in 2016 when this event actually happened. Not for a while before that. I live in Los Angeles now and try to explain it like this: imagine if you woke up tomorrow and all of the coffee and donut places in the entire city closed…also, 40% of the jobs in the city disappeared. Now, are you upset?

Maybe now you’d be on the news so flustered that you’d forget what a latte is actually called. Maybe that would be you mourning your friends no longer having a place to get their “frothy milk drink with pictures on it,” or the fact that you have no places to have a classy meet-up with a studio exec who doesn’t really care what you have going on, they just have to fill their day with meetings in order to look busy in their fake job – they’re just going to greenlight a project by one of their friends who has a coke hookup anyways.

Look, I’m not even FROM Shamokin, okay. I’m from Mount Carmel. We hate Shamokin. Shamokin sucks. I’ve called Shamokin “the biggest shithole in the world” plenty of times. But only because I also kinda love Shamokin (don’t tell anyone from Mount Carmel I said this – I already almost got the shit kicked out of me for accidentally wearing purple shorts to school on the day of the Coal Bucket game in 7th grade, I don’t need to get beat up as a full-grown man.) Only because I’ve seen a big rock of coal drop from a pole on New Year’s Eve in the shadow of a “mountain” that’s actually just a pile of coal refuse that stretches to the sky and goes on for miles. Only because I watched Jurassic Park, and Batman (1989), and Home Alone, and plenty of other movies in the Victoria Theater before it got torn down and replaced by a Rite Aid (that is now also closed.) Only because I spent summers in the library and winters in the basketball gym above the library that you had to walk up a thousand steps to get to and the roof was so low you couldn’t really shoot from far away or your arc of your shot would hit the ceiling.

I felt this way about the reaction to this video for a while – I’ve talked about it in my stand-up. I’m writing about it now because of the flood of memories I’ve been experiencing in the wake of my grandmother’s house no longer existing—two fires, on opposite ends of Market Street, making people appreciate what they had after it’s been taken away. 

It’s still funny that the cop’s name is Psycho, though.

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I’m Sorry, but I am Contractually Obligated to Keep My Mouth Shut

I signed a morality clause, and I don’t want to get sued into oblivion by one of the largest corporations in the world.

I can’t tell you who I am, but I can promise you that I am one of your faves. On behalf of myself and all of your other ride-or-dies, I must ask you to please stop calling us out on social media for our staggering silence in the face of recent atrocities world events. I am, of course, completely and utterly neutral on all world events because of my deep personal beliefs and morals.

By that, I mean I am contractually obligated to keep my mouth shut because I signed a morality clause, and I don’t want to get sued into oblivion by one of the largest corporations in the world.

I can’t say for sure that all your darlings would condemn fascism, or say that Constitutional rights are good, or use our enormous platforms to speak out against the murder of innocent civilians by a tyrannical government if we could. That’s a hypothetical that I refuse to explore. After all, we can’t do those things anyway because we have moral(ity clause)s!

Do you know how scared we (the wealthy, successful, beautiful Hollywood heavyweights you pin up and bow down to) are right now? One false move and it's all over for us. One, “I don’t know if that’s right,” and we might not be able to dress up in head-to-toe leather and get paid $50 million to pretend to be a guy with courage who stands up to the bad guys anymore. Pretending to be a good person who does the right thing no matter what is important in these trying times. Telling these stories on the big screen, where 50-year-old men who never got over their childhood can see them and be inspired, is important. Getting paid $50 million is important.

Please, do not think us greedy. Getting paid to pretend to be a good person will allow us to do a lot of actual good in the world. Someday. Once our contracts are up. Our morality clauses forbid us from making a difference now, because what if that difference clashes with something our Corporate Overlords generous, creative teammates in the entertainment industry want to partner with. Maybe one day, I’ll want to help little baby ducklings not be covered in oil until they die a horrible death, but that day will have to wait until I don’t have to consider that Exxon “Oil Company X” might want to buy advertising time with Disney “Channel D.”

So, please, stop calling us cowards. And stop threatening to boycott our important films. Do you even understand that all of this brings down our Q score. Q scores are important, a high Q Score means we have more negotiating power. Can you even imagine the clauses we’d have to sign if we had even less negotiating power than we do now? You don’t have to imagine – just think of some of your less-than-faves. You know the ones. They have to be in commercials for banks.

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You Will Never Believe How I Ended 2025

My final act of the year was the act of a changed man I barely recognize…

It’s a metaphor but it’s also literal (you’ll see, keep reading.)

Motivational speakers (and apparently, according to the internet, William S. Burroughs) love to tell people that if they aren’t growing, then they’re dying. While this sentiment is used to justify some of the dumbest, most head-scratchingly baffling choices made by humans (cough, capitalism, cough again), I do, for the most part, believe that personal growth is good.

But sometimes, that growth leads to a moment so out of character for the person that you imagine yourself to be, you’re left wondering who you actually are and what happened to the old you. What path did I take that brought me to this place, and is it too late to retrace my steps if I don’t like the scenery here and want to go back? Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and how the hell did I end up here, ya know?

I found myself feeling this way as I threw an entire, untouched (by me, at least), perfectly good to the naked eye, pizza into a dumpster on New Year’s Eve. Who am I, and what have I done with myself?

Ordering pizza on New Year’s Eve is one of the small holiday traditions my wife and I have built together. It started in 2021 when, a few days into our overly ambitious plan to visit both of our families for the holidays, we learned that we came into close contact with somebody who, just after we saw them, tested positive for Covid. We didn’t feel comfortable with the possibility of continuing our trip and hanging out with grandparents and babies, and anybody else who might not have the strongest immune system. After testing negative, we had to decide if we wanted to spend the holidays isolated in a Holiday Inn Express in the middle of Illinois or return to Los Angeles while we were still in the clear. We chose the latter and had a makeshift, cozy (and Covid-free) holiday season at home. It ended up being a very special first holidays together.

We continued those traditions this year, most of which are food-related. We made Italian Wedding Soup on Christmas Eve (a tradition inspired by my family’s Christmas Eve celebration). We made stuffed shells on Christmas Day (a comfort meal from my wife’s childhood). And on New Year’s Eve, we ordered our favorite pie from our new favorite LA pizza location. Does this make us sound like the most Italian family in Los Angeles? I assure you, we are not.

The pizza delivery arrived, and I ran through the cold Los Angeles rain to meet the delivery driver at our gate. I thanked them, wished them a Happy New Year, and danced through the raindrops on my way back home, delicious pizza in my arms. When I returned to our apartment, after shaking off the rain like a wet dog, I realized the tamper-proof seal on our pizza box was broken, and the slices of pizza inside looked a little…off. My wife and I were once again faced with a health-related decision that would affect our holiday celebration plans. Do we eat the pizza and risk facing…whatever could have possibly happened to the pizza in the time the box was definitely opened, and slices clearly touched? Or do we throw a full pizza in the trash?

I’m going to stop right here for a moment for a few reasons. First, I already told you what we did. You know that I threw the whole, entire, beautiful pizza into the dumpster behind our apartment. Also, I want to tell you that I’m not writing this to complain about the delivery driver or the pizza restaurant. I’m not trying to get anybody in trouble here. It was most likely an honest goof that happened, and there was no malfeasance involved. There was probably not any poison or dirt or anything on our pizza other than sauce and cheese, and some thin ribbons of perfectly chiffonade basil. I’m also not some kind of rich asshole. I don’t have “throw pizza in the garbage” money. I barely have “order pizza so I can eat it” money (you can help out with this if you’d like by becoming a premium subscriber to my content, wink wink).

And but still, my mouth and tummy remain empty of pizza.

The old me would have shrugged off any potential tampering. The old me would have eaten the entire pizza, while my wife watched on in horror, hand clutching her phone, 911 dialed and finger hovering over the SEND button (this joke is much less funny now that we have cell phones - I want to write that she has “9-1” dialed just waiting for my throat to close, or for me to foam at the mouth or something in order to finish dialing, but that doesn’t work with modern technology). The old me would have probably been fine and unpoisoned (unless you count over-indulgence as a type of self-poison).

I “blame” (using quotes for my selection of the word blame because “attribute” would be more accurate, but “blame” is funnier to me) my pizza funeral in the dumpster graveyard on the fact that I am now a father. I can’t afford to be the old me now, because there is a tiny child who relies on me for just about everything, and on her mother for actually almost everything. I am way less necessary than she is in this parenting situation, but still. Throwing away an entire pizza out of an abundance of caution is a metaphor for my new reality. In this specific case, it’s not a metaphor; it is literal, but I will use it as a metaphor going forward for not being able to take the same type of stupid risks I used to when it didn’t matter what the hell happened to me.

I am also aware that this is the silliest “sacrifice” any new parent has ever claimed. I want you to know how aware I am, okay! The pizza is a metaphor (again, it’s literal, but big picture it is a metaphor) of leaving reckless abandon behind and embracing a somewhat more cautious future. I don’t want to become somebody afraid of living though. Some risks will still be worth taking. I have to figure out the balance. I know that eating possibly poisoned pizza probably isn’t one of them, even if the possibility is most likely a fraction of a percent (again, who am I and what have I done with me?) Imagine getting taken out by poisoned pizza on New Year’s Eve, and my wife having to be like, “I friggin told him not to eat it.” And then my daughter has the learn that story some day. Embarrassing. Okay, maybe not ending up on the revival of A Million and One Stupid Ways 2 Die when The Revenge of GuyTV inevitably takes over the airwaves and becomes government-mandated viewing is actually what stopped me from eating the pizza.

To put it another way, as a true millennial like myself only could; I guess this is growing up.

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