Rejected Titles for Aaron Copland's 'Fanfare for the Common Man'

A Flourish for Those Who Typically Go Unnoticed

A Stately Introduction for a Most Unlikely Subject

Now! That's What I Call an Entrance for Normal Folk (Vol. 1)

Based on this Little Ditty, You'll Never Guess Who's About to Walk into the Room

A Specifically Targeted Jab at an Unnamed Adversary (the Rumors are True) - feat. sarcastic French Horn and ironic Timpani

Fanfare for a Bumbling Idiot

Requiem for a Bozo

A Sarcastic Entrance Announcement for the Dumbest Man Alive

An Acidulous Induction to a Pompous Ass

Steve's Song

Play this song for Steve whenever he enters a room, so at first he'll be like "All this? For me?" in that fake-humble thing Steve does all the time, but then pretty soon he'll be like "Wait, why all this for me? Something feels off about this. I know Copland when I hear Copland. Is this some kind of joke on me? Is this because I called his music 'sentimental hogwash for backwoods yokels' that one time? It is, isn't it? That son of a bitch." Yeah, Steve, that's right. Who's the "artistically decrepit populist sellout" now, Steve? That's what I thought.

Aaron's Party (Come Get It)

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What I learned from not winning the $1.8 billion Powerball jackpot

Playing the lottery doesn't have to be a waste of money.

The losing numbers can be the winning numbers.

The Powerball jackpot hit reached a frankly stupid $1.8 billion for the drawing last Saturday night, which I did not win. Most people did not win. According to some research I did, the chances of winning the Powerball are 1 in 292.2 million. Which, to me, means any time the jackpot is over that amount, I should play it. This theory completely ignores the fact that the actual lump sum payment is about half of the jackpot amount, and also ignores taxes, and also since a ticket is $2 I should wait until the jackpot is double that amount, but whatever. A lot of people say that playing the lottery is about as good as lighting your money on fire, but I like to see it as spending $2 to kickstart my imagination.

For the few hours between purchasing my ticket and the official drawing, I wasn’t a billionaire, but I wasn’t not a billionaire. I was Schrodinger’s billionaire, both billionaire and not, a Prince and a Pauper, Eddie Murphy and Dan Aykroyd. My mind imagined all the things I’d do (and things I would never do again) with my newfound riches.

You can learn a lot about yourself from your daydreams. Here’s what I thought about in my time as a hypothetical rich person, and what I think it tells me about myself.

I fantasized about the home gym I’d create in my garage and learned I need to dream bigger. A gym in a garage? For a billionaire? Come on, man! Dream about a house that has enough rooms where you don’t need to compromise your rooms. What’s next, a closet office? A sink for a toilet? Your house can have a room that’s supposed to be a gym for the gym, and the garage can fulfill its actual purpose - being full of refrigerators for beer.

I thought about what kind of charities I’d give money to. It turns out, it’s whatever charities my wife would want to give money to. I don’t want to be one of those “my wife makes me a better person” guys, but I don’t even know any charities. Salvation Army? Is that one? It’s either a charity or a bunch of people who will go to war with you if you don’t accept Jesus as your own personal lord and savior. Or maybe both?

For about one whole minute, I figured I’d just keep driving the car I have until it died because I see a car as a tool just to get from one place to another and not as a luxury item. Then, I learned that I totally only say that because I don’t have luxury car money at this time. Whenever I’m in a really nice car, through some accident, I’m like “oh, I get it” and then my brain somehow magically forgets how nice it is to have a smooth ride and a working radio when I’m forced to go back to getting from one place to another in my wife’s 2008 Honda Civic.

I’d for sure give money to friends and family but I also learned I might make them Shark Tank-style pitch me on what they need it for. That would be fun. “Hello, brother, I’m here to ask you for $300,000 so that I can buy the biggest house in all of Central Pennsylvania and in exchange will give you the satisfaction of knowing that you moved your nieces into a better school district.” I’m interested, but I’m going to counter-offer and ask that you also agree to leave Central PA multiple times a year to meet me in real cities to expose them to culture that is not coal-based. If you do this I’ll also throw in paying for their college education.

I wondered if newfound riches would turn me into an asshole. And I learned - all money makes you an asshole. That’s what money is for. You throw it at people to make them do something you don’t want to do. I’m not rich right now, but the money I do have, I use it to be an asshole. When I’m hungry, and I don’t want to farm, or forage, or hunt and kill my own food, I go into a Chipotle and I slap a $10 bill down on the counter and I say, “make me a burrito!” Not in those words, exactly, but that’s the sentiment. Sometimes I get food delivered. I make a human person bring me my food while I sit on my ass in my house and eat the food I have inside my house while I wait for more food to arrive. What an asshole thing to do.

I did some preliminary research on how to set up a really nice podcast studio and then I realized that if I was crazy rich I wouldn’t have to create content to compete in an attention-based economy anymore. This thought alone filled me with so much relief I fell into a deep peaceful sleep and missed the Powerball drawing, only to awake and learn that I must continue on my quest for clicks.

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Letterboxd advice for Hollywood hopefuls

Are you afraid that sharing your honest movie opinions publicly could hurt your "career"? Do these things to bulletproof your Letterboxd account and your future in the entertainment industry.

This is why we go to the movies!

Letterboxd is the hot social app for film lovers to log, review, rate, and discover movies. But what if you want to have a career in that very same movie industry? Having an opinion and working in the entertainment industry mix like having integrity and working in the entertainment industry - they don’t! If you ever want to work in *this* town again, you need to make sure you don’t put your foot in your mouth. You should only put your foot in the mouth of people who have a job to give you who are also foot freaks. Follow this advice to keep your own mouth foot-free, and your future full of Hollywood possibilities.

• Describe every film you log as “very watchable” because it is, factually, able to be watched

• Give everything a five-star rating. If called on your complete lack of actual opinions, say, “if you think about it, it’s really a miracle that any project makes it all the way from a small kernel of an idea to a finished film, and miracles deserve five stars.”

• Don’t be tempted to say anything negative about old movies, even if all the people involved in making them are dead. Those dead people have children and grandchildren who are all in Hollywood positions of power.

• Remember - the powerful can get just as mad if you haven’t seen their film than they do if you have an opinion about it. Add every single movie ever made onto a special watchlist so they know that even if you haven’t seen it yet, you’re planning on getting around to it at some point soon, you promise. You’re just waiting for the right time when you’re in the mood for an obvious masterpiece

• Bait others into negativity with questions. Ask things like “what are your opinions on the rat at the end of The Departed?” or “do you think MGM did the right thing getting Judy Garland hooked on pills?” and then sit back and watch. Never give your own opinion on their opinions. Simply reply with “interesting” or “you’re making me think.” You just turned your competition into their own worst enemies.

• Make a little joke about the movie in your review, but nothing about the cast or crew or plot or script or acting or design or anything else that could hurt anybody who made the movie’s feelings. For example, if you’re watching Jurassic Park, you could write “wish someone would spit in my face and eat me” or something like that - it doesn’t imply that you liked or disliked the movie, it only implies that you are a horny little freak

• Make “snark” your whole brand. Lean into it. Never stop pointing out flaws. Become exhausting to your friends and anyone who has the misfortune of being around you. Say things like “what can I do, I’m honest to a fault!” and smirk like an asshole. Then you can apply this affected voice to movies with no real consequence, or even turn that into a podcast called “Every Movie Sucks” and make bank from it.

• Make all of your reviews “better than [insert name of previously lauded movie from a totally disgraced, never-in-a-million-years-to-return actor/director/writer/all of the above]” just to be safe you should stay away from criminals and creeps and maybe pick somebody who is no longer financially bankable to Hollywood or even better choose a woman who has aged (over 40 is good, but 50-plus is lockdown safe) to be absolutely positively sure they don’t actually have a comeback

• Make a burner account that can never ever be traced back to you for your real opinions, and fire away. Don’t ever tell anyone it’s you. Become an anonymous Letterboxd superstar. Drop fake breadcrumbs that imply the account might belong to a Hollywood insider. Get the people talking. Parlay that into a paywalled website with even more in-depth takedowns. Make up crazy shit. Ruin people’s lives. Transcend the need for gatekeepers. Become ungovernable.

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I lost my fantasy football league and now I have to spend an entire Sunday with my wife and children as punishment

Please help me make it through.

What do you even do with a family for a whole entire Sunday.

witda1stpck: Hello Fantasy Football Fellas Forum, long time lurker, first time poster here. I’m going to need your help and advice on something. I came in last place in my league (12-team, snake draft, PPR) last year and have to face the punishment. My league mates voted that I have to spend opening Sunday with my wife and children instead of at our Annual Kickoff Launch Party Blast. Not only am I bummed about missing out on the party, but I am lost. I’m not sure how I should spend a whole Football Sunday with my family. Can you please give me any advice you might have?

MrCommish (Admin): Can you take your wife and children to the Annual Kickoff Launch Party Blast?

witda1stpck: Sorry, I should have specified. I am not allowed to take them to the Annual Kickoff Launch Party Blast. The League has a very strict “no wives and children allowed” rule.

MrCommish (Admin): Can you watch the games at home with your wife and children?

witda1stpck: Sorry again. I’m not even allowed to watch any of the games, that’s part of my punishment.

MrCommish (Admin): Can you watch the NFL RedZone channel at home with your wife and children?

witda1stpck: Wow, I really feel like a dunce here. I’m not allowed to go to the Annual Kickoff Launch Party Blast, watch any of the games, or RedZone, or any pre/post game shows, or listen on the radio, or watch highlights on TV or social media, or follow along on any website that gives you text updates after every play, or drive to a stadium parking lot and listen to the roar of the stadium and use my imagination to picture what might have happened based on the sound the home crowd made. I basically have to live in a football black hole. I can catch up on scores, highlights, and even watch full game replays starting at 12:01 AM Tuesday.

MrCommish (Admin): Sorry, then. Got nothing for you. Godspeed.

gobirdsLIX: Can we have more context about your wife and children? Do they like football?

witda1stpck: I have two daughters, ages two and four. I’ve never asked them if they like football because they are girls. Should I ask them if they like football? My wife is an adult human woman, and the most words she’s said about football at one time are “it’s on Thursdays now, too?” But how they feel about football is kind of irrelevant, because of the football black hole I previously mentioned. What else can I do on Sunday? I know that I can’t go to Chick-fil-A.

gobirdsLIX: Congrats, GirlDad!

CeeDeezNuts123: Girldadding to the max!

LamarGoFar: Fellow GRLDAD stand up!

MrCommish (Admin): Came back to say way to go, Mr. Girldad! Dad those Girls as dad as you can dad.

witda1stpck:: Thanks, everybody. I’m a proud Girldad for sure. Little girls are miracles. I just don’t know what to do with them for an entire Sunday. And also my wife.

CeeDeezNuts321: I’m sorry, but I just can’t help somebody who still does a Snake Draft. Snake Drafts are for children and idiots. Do an Auction Draft like a man or GTFO.

gobirdsLIX: That’s not very helpful. Let’s try to lift our bro up.

CeeDeezNuts321: Okay, fine. What do you do with them on other days?

witda1stpck: I’m at work other days. I don’t know what they do. Should I ask my wife and them what they do most days while I’m at work? Should I already know that?

CeeDeezNuts123: @CeeDeezNuts321 nice handle, BTW

CeeDeezNuts321: TY. Great minds.

CeeDeezNuts123: Sorry, you didn’t pick up on my sarcasm. OBV you stole my name.

CeeDeezNuts321: You wish. I didn’t steal shit. It was right there.

CeeDeezNuts123: Yeah, right there in my name. For you to steal.

gobirdsLIX: Guys, guys. Let’s calm down and get back to the point. Plus…Dallas Sucks.

MrCommish (Admin): @gobirdsLIX I have to issue you a warning. Please refer to the forum rules for more information on banned phrases, which includes “Dallas Sucks.”

gobirdsLIX: I’m sorry.

MrCommish (Admin): Thank you.

gobirdsLIX: Dallas Sux.

witda1stpck: nevermind. I obviously wasn’t going to get any help here so I asked ChatGPT what I should do with my wife and daughters for a full Sunday and got my answer there.

LamarGoFar: What did ChatGPT say?

witda1stpck: To take them to the movies.

LamarGoFar: Nice. What are you seeing?

witda1stpck: They’re showing a replay of last year’s Super Bowl. Loophole!

gobirdsLIX: Go Birds! Dallas LIX (balls).

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I don't care if I'm in a time loop, I still have to do my morning pages

Twenty minutes, every day, no matter what.

“As we open our creative channel to the creator, many gentle but powerful changes are to be expected.” Except for me, because nothing ever changes, because today is Tuesday, March 8th, again for the thousandth time. Ten-thousandth time? Honestly, I don’t know for sure. I’ve lost count.

And still, I wake to the sound of my alarm at 5:30 AM, even if I turned it off the night before, or let my phone battery die, or threw my phone off a cliff into the abyss. There it is on my nightstand, playing my tongue-in-cheek selection of The Arcade Fire’s Wake Up to wake me up, and I obey - because it’s hard for me to fall back asleep once I’m up. So I might as well open this once again fresh notebook, and dump out my brain for three pages of stream-of-consciousness zen onto the crisp, white, blank sheets of perfect paper that represent the pure and infinite possibilities that allude me once again.

It’s not a bad way to start my day. It puts me in the right headspace and clears out any weird thoughts or insecurities, even though I should be free of them because I know every single thing that’s going to happen today down to the very second. There are no surprises left. Except for what I write down here in this notebook. And even that, I’m not entirely sure, is completely new. I can’t be certain how many times I’ve accidentally written down the exact same thoughts during my brain dump. I never get the chance to go back and read them, and even if I could, you’re not supposed to do that all the time. It’s not the point of The Artist’s Way. It’d probably be a bummer to find out I wrote this exact same thing in my pages eight thousand or so odd days ago. Have I not evolved in that time? I could write these pages in French now, but does it count as change if I write the exact same words in a different vocabulary?

If I’m going to be honest, I’m starting to doubt The Way (that’s what I call it now). In one part, it tells us “when we move out of faith into the act of creation, the universe is able to advance.” Well, I’ve been doing these pages every day, I’ve been creating just for the sake of creation, and not a damn thing has advanced, universally speaking. I’m finding joy in the process itself, which I have to, because at the end of the day, anything I’ve done is lost forever to whatever cruel universe has been robbing me of tomorrow.

On the other hand, that actually brings me back to The Way, because in some ways (lowercase w), I am the truest artist there is. I know that sounds high-falutin, but nobody will ever read this (not even me). While others aren’t certain what tomorrow will bring, I can’t be certain there will be a tomorrow at all. Revisions can only take place from what’s left in my mind. My work can only evolve as far as my memory will allow. But still, I’d feel pretty bad if I came out of this without a fully fleshed-out screenplay up in there. I’m still kicking myself for not taking advantage of the COVID-19 lockdowns.

Maybe I’m hanging on to The Pages as a crutch. Because it’s all I know. Maybe I’m like that guy I know, who, sometime in his teens, realized that he never drank coffee before and decided that he would never drink coffee just so he could say he never drank coffee ever once in his whole life. What’s the point of that? At best, he tells somebody that fact, and they say, “Oh,” or possibly, “Neat,” or maybe even, “Why?” And then he has to tell the whole story, which is that he realized it as a teen and then just made a decision, and then we’re just kind of back to “Oh.” At worst, he breaks the streak, and it causes him to spiral and question everything about who he is at his core. Or maybe he doesn’t take it that seriously. But he has to. Or he would just have a fucking cup of coffee. Maybe I’m like that, but with writing The Pages. Maybe I’m just doing it because I decided that I would do it. Maybe that’s why anybody does anything.

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If my English teacher married my gym teacher...

Some real small-town shit

Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce are engaged…

Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce are engaged (to be married)! They announced their big news via Taylor’s Instagram, where she captioned the series of adorable photos with the cheeky “your English teacher and your gym teacher are getting married”. This made me wonder what would happen if such an engagement were to occur in my small-ass hometown.

Here are some jokes about that…

• Their $80,000 combined household income would make them the third-wealthiest family in town, behind the two families who inherited all the land where the coal was

• They could knock down the wall that separates their rowhomes (they are neighbors) to have the biggest house in town!

• The ring was their second-grade teacher’s (also, her grandmother, also also, a lady who paid him $3 to shovel the snow from her driveway)

• It totally would be front-page news, except there’s a conflict of interest (she is the paper’s editor-in-chief)

• The mother of the bride and the mother of the groom would have to finally settle their blood feud that started when one of them hung a “Live, Laugh, Love” sign on their porch just a few days after the other did the same

• We’d hold our breath to find out if the ceremony would be at Peter & Paul Catholic Church, Divine Redeemer Catholic Church, or Saint Michael Catholic Church (all of them are on the same block)

• The Bachelor party would be Tuesday night all-you-can-eat wings at 901 Pub, followed by drinking “out the bush” (which means in the forest, for those not in the know)

• The Bachelorette party would be a paint and sip wine event hosted by the Art Teacher in the English Teacher’s backyard because there’s not actually a Paint and Sip in town, they just read about the idea of them online, and it seemed like a fun thing to do

• The ring bearer is a six-year-old boy who can’t be trusted with the rings because he already has CTE from football-related head injuries

• There are like seven flower girls because if she just has one, all of her other friends with daughters would hate her for all time, but never actually say they are mad at her to her face, the resentment would just fester forever unsaid

• The Best Man would be the Head Coach of the High School Football Team, and the Maid of Honor would be the school Choir Director - they’d hook up after the reception, it’d end badly, and the spring concert would feature an original arrangement of Alanis Morissette’s “You Oughta Know"

• They’d remove “to obey” from the wedding vows, but as a compromise, they’d add in something like “even during the playoffs”

• The reception would be a potluck, and everybody would bring pierogies

• The School Principal would catch the bouquet and make it all awkward because everybody’d be like “isn’t she actively going through a divorce?” and she’d be like “so what, I’m single in my heart” and her soon-to-be-ex-husband is also at the wedding but then he leaves and it’s clear he’s very sad and then there’d be this thing hanging in the air for the rest of the night that nobody really talks about but everybody can feel

• My history teacher would be pissed (he was actually married to my English teacher)

• That’s gross, they are brother and sister!

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The Little League team sponsor is going to pull the plug if you kids can't get your act together

You're not the rag tag group of so-and-so's he thought you were.

I don’t care if I never get back…

Alright, kids, it’s time to cut the shit. No, I’m not your new coach, I’m Mr. Pederson. Pete Pederson. From Pederson’s Pizza. Good Christ, I’m your team sponsor. The guy who put the uniforms on your backs and the post-game pizza in your ungrateful little tummies.

The time has come to wean you off the pizza teat. That’s right, no more freebies after losses. It’s about time you start earning your slices by putting some ticks in the ol’ wins column. I can’t have the “Pederson’s Pizza” name next to a goose egg in the standings in the town rags any longer. I’m a laughingstock at the local kid’s sports sponsors’ dinners. They told me I’d be better off putting my money into sponsoring the 3 AM shift at the 24-hour dance-a-thon for the general concept of hope, or adopting an abandoned highway than continuing to back you losers. If you think that hurts to hear, how do you think I feel? It’s my name on those uniforms.

Frankly, after all I’ve done for you, I feel a bit disrespected. Before I came along, you didn’t even have uniforms or proper equipment. You were wearing mismatched sweatpants and old, dirty t-shirts. Your catcher was using old couch cushion you found on the side of the road as a chest protector and a copper pot as a helmet! You didn’t even look like a ballclub. You looked like a bunch of idiots.

Before you became the Pederson’s Pizza Pirates, you didn’t even have a team name! You were officially known as “Region Three,” but you had an unofficial nickname with the other teams around the league. Do you know what that nickname was?

That’s right. They called you the Fuck Bums. Would you like to go back to being Fuck Bums or continue to be Pirates?

That’s what I thought.

I’m looking around, and I see potential here. I see you - a kid with glasses - clearly you’re a nerd who can formulate some sort of strategic, outside-the-box way to manufacture runs. No? You’re just nearsighted. Okay, how about you - tubby catcher - you must be the team’s comedic relief. Can you come up with some pranks to pull on the other team to distract them from the task at hand, helping to lead your team to victory? I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware that pranks were “the lowest form of comedy.” What about you - the kid who looks like he’s way too old to be on this team. Yes, you. Obviously you. You’re six-foot-two with a mustache. Please tell me you’re a bad-boy twelve-year-old the locals tell tall tales about, who signed up for the team just to clear his name and prove that he’s not as bad as he seems by leading the way to victory with your amazing talents and surprising leadership? Hold on, you’re actually a 19-year-old babyfaced creep? Somebody call the cops.

Now, all the blame doesn’t fall on you kids. I have to point a finger at your coach as well. A man who is coaching your team as community service because he crashed his potato chip delivery truck while he was high on Robitussin. He was driving a potato chip delivery truck while he was high on Robitussin because a career-ending injury ruined his shot at The Big Leagues. Clearly, he hasn’t yet rediscovered his love of the game by seeing it through the eyes of babes. He’s gotta find his inner whimsy so he can start doing a better job preparing you for victory. What would you kids say is the greatest lesson he’s taught you so far?

What would you say is the second greatest lesson after “don’t drive a potato chip delivery truck while high on Robitussin”?

“Keep your eye on the ball?” That’s some real first-level amateur bullshit. To be honest, it’s the kind of thing I’d expect from a bunch of Fuck Bums, and I thought you said you didn’t want to be Fuck Bums.

Hey, wait, stop that. Stop chanting “Fuck Bums.” You don’t want to be Fuck Bums. Being a Fuck Bum is a bad thing. No, you can’t just own it! You can’t reclaim it as a positive thing! Bonding and becoming friends is not the most important thing! Winning is the most important thing! Bringing glory to the name of Pederson’s Pizza through Little League Baseball victory is the only thing that matters.

Stop that! Stop hitting me with baseball bats! It’s not even hurting all that much; that’s how bad you are at swinging baseball bats! I paid for those bats, you can’t just hit me weakly with them!

I’m going to leave now, but it’s not because this hurts. The getting hit with bats thing, I mean. You hitting me with bats doesn’t hurt as much as the fact that I’m sponsoring a bunch of kids who can’t even hurt a guy by pummelling him repeatedly with metal bats. Maybe you should think about that some before your next game.

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My Therapist Says You Have to Let Me Put on My Oxygen Mask First

It actually hurts you if you don't.

Please, let me get mine on first.

My therapist told me that in order to help others, I have to help myself first. It sounds selfish, but it’s totally not. He had this great metaphor that made it perfectly clear to me. He told me it’s like this: on a plane, if there’s an emergency, you have to put your own oxygen mask on first before helping someone else put on theirs.

Makes total sense, right? If I try to help you, but my mask isn’t on, I could pass out, and then we both will be without oxygen and without oxygen, guess what? We both die. My therapist is very wise and went to school for multiple years to learn metaphors like this in order to help people help themselves so they can help other people. So I have to listen to him.

You’re on board with this, right? After all, it’s for your own benefit more than mine. You don’t want to die because you couldn’t breathe, because I died because I couldn’t breathe - that would be silly.

Okay, cool. Now that you’re on board, here are the things you have to let me do because they are all “self-care” and all count as “putting my own oxygen mask on first.”

• Silent meditation.

• Quiet reflection.

• Loud reflection (screaming at myself in the mirror).

• Pretending to meditate when I’m actually listening to a podcast about sports with my eyes closed.

• Stretching.

• “Hot Yoga” (what I call watching YouTube videos of hot people doing yoga).

• My morning coffee ritual.

• My Morning Jacket ritual (volume all the way up, clothes all the way off).

• Going for a run.

• Taking a break from the run to stop for a slice or two of self-care pizza.

• You giving me a full-body massage without asking for one in return.

• Disappearing for as long as I feel like it without notice or the ability to be contacted because we’re really all too addicted to our phones anyway, I need this break, it’s good for me.

• Calling you for a ride because I ended up at a bar and got hammered during my break from my phone, and you can’t possibly expect me to drive in this condition.

• Watching movies I’ve seen a hundred times before because they provide me with comfort.

• Watching movies I’ve never seen before because you can’t expect me to die without seeing the Classics.

• Watching movies I can’t remember if I’ve seen or not, and saying things like “yeah maybe I remember this part” and “I think I caught some of this, like on TV or something maybe, some of it seems familiar, but I don’t know if I’ve ever actually watched the whole thing”.

• Bubble baths.

• Going to Fellapalooza: Las Vegas 2025 with The Boys.

• You lending me $500 towards Fellapalooza: Las Vegas 2025 so I can go with The Boys.

• Giving me a “Hall Pass” for the full, ten-day Fellapalooza: Las Vegas 2025 trip with The Boys.

• Wait, that makes it sound like I’m going to use the Hall Bays with one of The Boys. I don’t plan on using the “Hall Pass” with any of The Boys. I just want to make that clear. The trip is with The Boys. The “Hall Pass” is for whoever I want. Which, I guess, yeah, sure, it also includes The Boys.

• Continue to refer to watching TikToks from discredited Psychologists and using their advice to justify “how I am” as “going to therapy”.

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While they’re at it, the Supreme Court can decide all this sh*t for me too.

Why not? Who cares.

The Supreme Court can just decide my whole life. Whatever, I don’t care.

Like the mighty Colorado River forging the Grand Canyon, the Supreme Court is dead set on eroding our rights until they are a deep, plunging crevasse from which we can never crawl our way out. Except they’re looking to do it way faster. You know what, I’m sick of making decisions. If SCOTUS wants to decide everything for us, they can decide this shit for me, too.

• The Supreme Court to decide what I make for dinner tonight.

• The Supreme Court to decide if I can get another day out of this shirt before it has to go in the wash, I only really wore it for a couple of hours today.

• The Supreme Court to decide if I actually want to start watching The Sopranos again from the beginning or if I should try something new.

• The Supreme Court to decide my bedtime.

• The Supreme Court to decide if I tell my dad that the latest post he shared on Facebook is made-up propaganda and purposefully misleading, or if it’s not worth starting that conversation this time and I should save it for something more important.

• The Supreme Court to decide if it’s finally time to start speaking up about what I want.

• The Supreme Court to decide what I want.

• The Supreme Court to decide if I’m actually hungry or if I’m just bored.

• The Supreme Court to decide if I should try going for a walk instead.

• The Supreme Court to decide if my existence counts as “a life”.

• The Supreme Court to decide if I continue the practice of brushing my teeth or just see what fucking happens to them if I stop.

• The Supreme Court to decide if I still care about this podcast I’m listening to, or if I should just turn it off.

• The Supreme Court to decide if I can afford to buy that new chair I need or if I should just keep sitting on the broken one I have, because I’m going to need that money for food or rent or an emergency.

• The Supreme Court to decide what I make for dinner tomorrow.

• The Supreme Court to decide what I have for every meal from here on out.

• The Supreme Court to decide if I’m continuing to pursue my dreams out of some kind of sunk cost fallacy and if it’s time to hang it up and figure out what the back half of my life is going to look like and while they’re at it go ahead and just decide what I’m going to do for a living I don’t even care anymore.

• The Supreme Court to decide if the next time I dip my feet into the vast and mighty Pacific Ocean I just keep on walking until it swallows me up.

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Before you are approved, our HOA requires one more teeny tiny little thing…

You must bow down and pledge loyalty to our angry, vengeful God.

The God of Toluca Lake watches over us all.

You didn’t think being successful, rich, charming, and likable would be enough to get you access to our exclusive community, did you? This is one of the most sought-after neighborhoods in all of Los Angeles. It’s peaceful, quiet, beautiful, and looked down upon by the watchful, single eye of the one true God, Stuart.

Or, maybe it’s Phil. Or Bob. Or Omi. We’re not quite sure, we just know that we need to stay in his good graces.

No…you used to be Episcopalian. That is, if you want to live here at least. Don’t worry, we still do Christmas. We go all out for Christmas, actually. This is a wealthy neighborhood with homes tailor-made for Christmas decorations. Have you seen Lilley Hall? From late November through New Year’s, that place is fucking magic. The residents still bow down facing southwest in prayer three times a day, every single day, in order to thank our great Stuart/Phil/Bob/Omi for their blessings.

You know there’s an actual lake, right? Some people think the neighborhood is just named “Toluca Lake”, but there’s a real, actual lake here. It’s just that you can’t even see it without exclusive neighborhood access. Which you can’t get without renouncing your former beliefs in order to join us in worshipping the avatar for the 14th highest-grossing film franchise of all time. It’s actually 13th if you combine the entire Marvel Cinematic Universe with The Avengers, which you should, but some places don’t (we’re looking at you, Box Office Mojo). You could probably also throw Spider-Man and X-Men into the MCU, too, to bump us up even more. But they’re technically different studios, so we’ll let that slide.

Leisurely boating. Jetsking. Neighborhood-famous potato salad made with love by a world-famous, award-winning actor. All these things can be yours in exchange for just a few small ritual sacrifices per year while chanting “Poopayel, Bee-do bee-do bee-do” into the night on the eve of a full moon. It’s very important that it’s full moon’s eve, not the night of the actual full moon. The last time somebody messed that up, Bob Hope died. I know that was 2003 and the Minions didn’t make their theatrical debut until 2010’s Despicable Me, but the Minions have always been and will always be.

Look, you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. It’s totally up to you. You can go live in the Los Feliz hills, or whatever. Good luck with the traffic when there’s a show at The Greek. You’d be walking distance from a Trader Joe’s here. And unlike the hell on earth that is the TJ’s in Silver Lake, here you can actually breathe. The parking lot is still a shitshow, like every parking lot at every Trader Joe’s, but that’s why being within walking distance is such a fucking perk. It’s all thanks to the small amount of blood we let pour out of our bodies and spill into the ground of the Lakeside Golf Club to soak into the earth in order to appease our overalls-and-goggles-wearing deity just one measly time per year (twice, once on each equinox, if you happen to be a universal donor).

You know Amelia Earhart used to live right next to the grounds of the Club? She wouldn’t do the blood thing. Look what happened to her.

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