I’m sitting here, minding my own damn business, and my brain decides to take a little walk down Random Thought Boulevard.  I know, this is fucked up territory, so check it out.  My brain knows full well that this street’s poorly paved, overrun with seriously weird shit, and ultimately tees off on an Escher kind of level.  If that whole train of thought derailed on you, welcome to how my randomized brain works.  Now, throw being a little loaded on top of that.

This isn't half as weird as my day.  I saw a legit MCI phone bill today in the mail.

About to load your mind with fuck in three. two. one.

Back to being loaded, I’m sitting on my ass like a lazy pile of waste and surfing the same stupid pages I do every night.  I hop onto LinkedIn because I wasn’t kidding about that waste bit– and I hit this article.  I breezed through it until I happened to hit the last paragraph.  For those of you who aren’t going to waste your time on the unimportant sections of the article, here’s the part that blew my mind into the back of the fucking auditorium.

Remember that partitioning our lives and identities is a trap. When we segment and partition our lives into work life, home life, sporting life, community-service life, etc., we deny a truth that often our greatest strength comes from integrating all the different and diverse network interactions, and ideas into a unified and integrated whole. After all, the etymology of Integrity is from the Latin integer, meaning wholeness, or the unit of one.

Ready for the record scratch?  I deliberately taught myself to be very good at partitioning my life and personality, as well as tailoring the experience to the people I’m around.  It’s goddamn automatic for me.  If this assjack is right, I must be some kind of fucking sociopath.  Right?

I am either too wasted for this.... or not wasted enough.

Some of you shit your pants. Now see why I shat mine.

Let’s see, do I slip from situation to situation pretty seamlessly?  Yup.  Do I tend to curb parts of my personality depending on whose company I’m in?  That’s a big yup.  Is this precisely the kind of segmentation that Mr. Probably-not-PhD’d-in-This says is contrary to being a unified and integrated whole?  Damn skippy.  Does it change the fact that I have more integrity than most people?  Nope.  Guess that classifies me as more of a high-functioning sociopath… but still, I have to look at the facts.

Very little affects me.  I’m a shameless narcissist.  I have about as many “segments” to my personality as most chicks have shoes.  See where I started thinking too much?  I tend to relate to strangers more on a causality level than an empathetic one.  For example, I don’t punch stupid people because I’m too pretty for jail.  If something does somehow get to me, it’s like getting hit in the soul with a C-4 wrapped baseball bat.  I’m easily bored, yet easily obsessed.

Then I realized something else–
– I have no reason to trust a goddamn word that this goofy-looking motivational speaker has written.  It’s perfectly alright to compartmentalize, especially if you’re good at it.  Bottom line?  Always be yourself, but don’t fucking show your hand to everyone at the goddamn table.

… or I could just be a sociopath trying to justify himself.  (Which would actually defeat the clinical diagnosis, since justification is irrelevant to a true case.  Flawless victory for the powers of sarcasm!)


Anything I feel is worth doing should be worth going utterly overboard. Whether it’s Tough Mudders, Halloween Costumes, Homecoming Alcoholism, or college (I was an undergrad for only a decade)– if I’m going to do it, I’m taking it too far.  It’s just who I am.  Yes, I have lately shirked my passion for the written word to have an affair with my first love– tech.  Believe you me, it’s getting torrid and she’s offering to pay me to stay.

Let me pause to let the slow kids catch up with the metaphor.

There, now that we’re all on the same page (the part where my old laptop has a part time job), I decided to take a step outside my comfort zone.  I like to be solely responsible for all of my successes– and therefore my failures.  I realized my Bitcoin mining operation was not growing fast enough– or rather, I have learned all that I can at this stage.  My current hardware is earning for me, yes, but not at a rate where I can get ridiculous.  I don’t have the funds for that kind of hardware, either.  So I did something that I’m not comfortable doing– I asked for help.

Ladies and gentlemen, Hunter S.

Exactly why I bit the bullet… I wanna get back into the thick of life.

So I went ahead and looked at Kickstarter after hearing about the dude that cranked in over $50 grand for a $10 potato salad, and upon realizing that my “fund” is just to start a business (as opposed for public benefit)– I had to look elsewhere.  I ended up landing on GoFundMe.  I usually scoff at this sort of thing, and if I can’t do it myself– I don’t deserve it.  My pride can be a personality flaw at times.

Realizing that I will never have time to write, nor really do the things for Cortana that I want, I started off my own page.  If, by some amazingly unlikely galactic twist, this works– I’ll finally be able to put all of my talents to use.  My tech background will provide the funds to get me in a permanent writing mode–  and who knows, maybe Cortana will get her way sooner than later and I’ll bring about the apocalypse (by reproducing… it’s the 8th Sign, after all).

So, everyone, share the link wherever you may.  After all, it’s a starter for a business– and pretty much a totally revamped life.  I guess we’ll see what happens.


The mindset.

Seriously though.  Give it a click and give it a share if you can’t give it a buck.



Holy crap, two in two days?  I know, I’m about as consistent as Lewis Black’s attitude.  It’s not a perfect metaphor, I know, but I don’t see you trying to do any better.  Speaking of consistency, one of the things I’ve been doing in lieu of writing (besides drinking and running my third Tough Mudder) is getting in touch with my tech-obsessed side.

That’s right, I went around in the graveyard in the back of my mind and robbed the grave of my nerdier past.  I have to admit, I forgot how fun it was to advance my computer skills.  It all started back in April when Cortana brought back an old IBM x346 series server from work– free.  At that point, I got a technoboner– because I thought I’d have the baddest-ass home media server ever.  After firing it up and realizing how loud the bastard was (later dubbed The Frankenbeast, but that’s a different story), I still taught myself how to set up a RAID array and install Windows 7 on a completely nuked fossil.  The more it pissed me off that I couldn’t do my usual work-arounds (cabling bullshit, jump drive loads, etc), the more I was provoked to bend this piece of decade-old tech to my will.

You're not Skynet, don't even step.

The fuck do you mean “no drive found”? There’s fucking TWO.

Seriously, it was a case of I-will-not-be-fucking-beat-by-obsolete-tech.  Needless to say, I won– and upon seeing the system specs, I realized that this overgrown calculator (as my sister’s boyfriend put it) was probably the most powerful computer in the fucking apartment.  Then again, this server had all the processor upgrades and 4 gigs of ram– the ram alone made the damn thing 2x as brainy as the laptops.  Don’t laugh– we’re saving for a house.

Anyway– I get the bright idea to start dicking off with altcoins.  One thing led to your mother, and here I am with a Bitcoin mining hobby that can pay our fucking electric bill.  Yeah.  That got your attention, didn’t it?  I gave my computer a fucking job.  Cue a record scratch here, since most of you only accredit me with chemical tolerance and verbal atrocities.

You see I grew up around computers– as in my dad had a Commodore 64 to do his office bookwork on.  I cut my teeth on goddamn BASIC.  I grew up with DOS, Usenet, AOHell, and all the archaic shit that nobody uses anymore.  I’ve had an almost intuitive ability with anything computer related since I was a kid, and making shit work is just… easy.  Yes, that says a too much about what kind of kid I was– now quit sidetracking.  After getting out of computer science like a frustrated little bitch (still another story entirely, if someone really gives a damn)– I slummed it.  My *ahem* security breaching skills went from slightly disturbing to completely laughable, and primarily whipped Winblows after Winblows operating system to a point of not giving me shit– and no further.  In short, I got lazy.

Fuck off, Zoidberg!

[insert "could have been a contender" reference here]

I ended up ripping the OS out of my old laptop from college, put Ubuntu on it– then taught myself how to use it while figuring out how to install the bastard legacy Broadcom wireless driver on it.  Again, I got that whole nerd rage thing going on– and then figured it out.  If you’re expecting a defenestration somewhere, you’re shit outta luck– because here I am after having spent another whole night in the “mine” setting up my newest upgrade.

Mind you, I’m also pretty loaded.  So there you have it, I was going to make a “that’s what’s ripping me away from the keyboard” kind of sign off– then I realized that I traded in using one keyboard at a time for two.



Posted: July 15, 2014 in Uncategorized
Tags: , , ,

No, I’m not fucking dead.  I’ve been otherwise occupied (read: lazy when I’m not busy).

That’s about as much of an apology that’s gonna come out of me this time, especially since there’s a title up there that suggests I’m up to something.  That title would be correct, since I spend more time here ranting than I do mocking the fact that I’m frequently gimpified.  Right about now, I’m betting that you just noticed the header title’s changed to match the URL.  Good job.

Most self-imported assjacks would probably write out their manifesto here, like their readership actually gives a fuck about that self-aggrandizing introspective bullshit.  Isn’t that right?  The sad part is, most reader-bases feel tritely entitled to that kind of pompous asshattery because it gives them the feels.  I’m a goddamn narcissist at heart, so I guess it’s safe to venture that I’m not the kind of guy who indulges such desires either.  Right?  Right.

You know you missed me.

But anyway.


Speaking of deal with it, am I surrounded by a culture that wants nothing more than to be a goddamn victim?  Seriously, when did it suddenly become the “it” thing?  Lemme wrap this into a nutshell, and it comes down to a single term that I loathe in ways that Erida couldn’t fathom: trigger.

I’m not talking about the decisive part of a gun.
Nor the decisive part of a boobytrap.
Nor the name of the Lone Ranger’s fucking horse.
Yeah, now you see where I’m going with this.

Some people are exposed to horrible situations that cause them to develop medically-diagnosed psychological conditions– and then there are self-diagnosed attention whores that use their Google-fu to justify not being able to handle life like a mature adult.  Oh yes, I’m talking about those triggers– and the fist raised SJW trash that enables them.

What the fuck is wrong with just outright admitting that someone pissed you off?  Oh, I know, because as a victim– you can never be responsible for what you say and do in retaliation.  If something, or someone, in life or online, pisses me off…  well I have this miraculous quality that helps me handle whatever comes my way.  What’s that quality, you say?  Self fucking respect.

Get a forklift and shut the fuck up.

Awwwwwwww, let’s all rally around.

If I make like a chimp and rip someone’s face off (verbally, obviously), I just might face a scary thing called consequences.  We can’t have those, can we?  Fuck no, we’re victims here, right?  Someone that plays that passive-aggressive “trigger” card, and they suddenly get carte blanche to be a carton of butthurt douche that must be catered to.  It’s not hard to see the allure, and I’m willing to bet the vast majority of people that play this card have a Google diagnosis– and haven’t set foot in a doctor’s office.  If they have, it’s leveraging an old diagnosis that they haven’t been treated for in years.  You know, because that’s how it just is.

Yeah.  I went there.

If you’re under medical care, hey– I’m truly sorry for the fucked up things that happened in your life.  I’m completely serious.
As for the rest of you?

You’re the worst kind of human being.  You hide behind a self-diagnosis (read: lie) so that others will blindly defend you for being a maladjusted attention whore.  Instead of creating a support network for legit victims– you’ve made it vogue to wave that flag (and spat in their faces in the process.)  Everyone has to have a trigger now, and everyone has to cater around yours.  What’s worse is that some of these delusional wastes are smart enough to exploit the right doctors into continually lending legitimacy to their failure at life.

Fuck you and admit the truth when it happens:  you get pissed off.  For once in your life, own your stance as yours and handle it– and whatever fallout you may cause later.  You just might find that living life like you want it is more satisfying than convincing yourself you regret it.

See all the fucks I give?  They're in the background.

Offended? Good. Admit it and act on it, don’t just whine like a feckless douchenozzle.

That overhaul I was talking about?  Yeah.  It’s more than just a name and style change.  I’m just going to let my voice go where it will, and stop trying to maintain a modicum of decorum.  I was starting to feel too antiseptic to be genuine.


Since you asked…

Posted: June 8, 2014 in Uncategorized
Tags: , ,

Show of hands here, how many people cook without recipes because [reason]?  Doesn’t it make you want to slap the corpse of Julia Child every time some method cook asks for your recipes?  Well, wind up a flying 540 pimpslap of doom– I’m writing this one down right as I’m eating it (read: while I have any Goddamn recollection what I did).  I realize indulging such requests is like feeding a mogwai after midnight– but fuck it.

So first up, get shitfaced.  The rest of this will make more sense after your intoxicant of choice.

I give you–  Coconut Fried Rice.  So yeah, get back to step one then go get the following shit:

Coconut oil
2 tiny boiler onions
2 cooked chicken breasts (I’ll explain in a minute)
3 bell peppers (red, yellow, orange)
2 cups of rice (dry)
2/3 of a decent sized eggplant

Fuck you, the melanzana is perfect because I’ve been on this whole fusion kick lately.  Either that or I was just wasted–had it handy– and it seemed like a fucking great idea– which it totally is.  Now quit questioning the smashed savant and get the rice started.  Make sure you throw in a good heaping tablespoon of coconut oil with the now-cooking rice.  While that’s going, you get to play with sharp objects.  If you can’t figure out what to do at this point, especially seeing the picture below, I can’t help you.  Just make sure you keep the chicken separate from the rest of the stuff because this is a total throw-together meal and timing is possibly crucial.  I have no idea.

Because I can, that's why.

It’s creations like this that make it worth Cortana’s while to let me get loaded whenever the mood strikes.

Now, once you’ve got your prep work done– redo your shitface while another good scoop of coconut oil heats up on the stove.  Oh, by the way, if you didn’t already assume that you need a big-ass saucepan for this– well you’ve probably realized it by this stage.  Toss in onions.  Wait till translucent, toss in everything else besides the chicken.  Sizzle the Hell out of those for awhile.

Now, we get to the chicken.  Why is it cooked before?  Because I’m on a diet kick, trying to lose ~20lbs before my last Mudder.  Yeah, I said “last”– but that’s another rant entirely.  At this point, I dumped some Parrot Bay into the saucepan because…  I really have no damn clue, because it turned out not to do shit.  Skip that, or don’t, it’s your choice at this stage.  Stir in the cooked rice with another big blob of coconut oil.

Sizzle, some more then toss in a quick blupp (yes, that’s a technical term) of soy sauce.  That’s it.  Too easy to make, and holy shit… it turned out even better than I’d anticipated.  I didn’t do the math on this, but I believe this is pretty freaking healthy too.

If I were a hashtagging kinda guy, I’d probably throw in something like dontneednostinkinrecipes…. or couldbehealthy… or maybe smashedchef.  However, this is a blog, I’m too verbose for twitter, and I’m not a douchecanoe.

In other news, if you’re a fan of this whole quasi-healthy eating kick, check out my kid sister’s blog.


Nothing quite catches attention with the intent to polarize like the systematic mentioning of a deity, the undead, or phalli.  Where is this going; what is he going to say?  How am I going to prove his presumably crackpot ideas wrong?

Yes, I’m gratuitously using the male third person pronoun in reference to myself– if you have a problem with it, you seriously need to step off.  You’re probably one of those thin-skinned twats that gets butthurt at the drop of a hat.  Comedy is not for you, especially not of the kind that floods your brain at a funeral.  Oh yeah, buckle up– the shuttle bus on the Highway to Hell just got a shot of nitrous.

So I’m sitting in the pew and naturally–  one of the readings was the John 11 passage where Jesus respawns Lazarus.  I could go into detail, but either you know the Bible story or not.  The following is exactly where my brain went… during the service.

You KNOW you just whistled this sound in your head.  Don't lie.

You get the idea.

Short short version?  Jesus showed up four days after the dude died, and just brought him back from the dead.  We’ll temporarily ignore the passage and references to untying the body for a minute here.  If something’s dead as disco for four days, that’s not some ridiculously long cooldown period for going all Nosferatu or any other shit…

… that’s right.  That’s straight zombie territory.  We all know how I feel about thatThat isn’t even my problem with the whole scenario.

My problem’s here–  after the horror/miracle, pretty much all accounts of God’s pet zombie Lazarus end.  There are no stories about him, not if he lived a long time, not if he spent the rest of his mobile days munching brains, not even if he dropped dead the second Jesus did the same.  If this hasn’t just caused your colon to howitzer its contents straight through your pants, think about this for just a second…  Most people can’t handle some shambling Romero Special.  Fewer still could hack it with running, roided, rage-type zombies.  This one was made by a deity.  I don’t think a simple headshot is gonna stop this particular maggot popsicle.

Perhaps we haven’t read about him gorging on grey matter is because Lazarus devours all… the great omnivore not seen outside of the writings of H.P. Lovecraft…  the hunger unspeakable, unquenchable, insatiable, brought back from the clutches of Thanatos by Jesus himself– who just happened to be a close personal friend.  Any and all arguments concerning survival henceforth are indefinitely invalidated if this Patient Zero turns out to be the Patient Zero.

.... wait for it...

… and it ain’t a Sheenpile of coke and a Houston of painkillers.

Let’s put aside the pants-shitting horror for a second and appreciate how much of a dick this guy really is.  Sure, Jesus was too busy being Jesus to show up and heal him while he was alive because hey– when you’re pumped that full of deity dynamite, timing is for chumps.  Jesus still showed up to the funeral, seriously broken up about the situation, and then said, “hold my water… now wine… I just remembered I’m kind of omnipotent.”  Anyone who knows their shit here will know that this whole passage is littered with borderline boyfriend material with how often they repeat how close these guys were.  We’ll call ‘em best buddies, homies, brothers, whatever— and Jesus up and yanked Lazarus from a dirt nap– and probably made him do work for the trouble.

… but we never heard of him again.  Before you get to the “get on with it!” chant, slow your mothafuckin’ roll.  You’d think that a guy who got a free green mushroom from his best friend would have the goddamn decency to show up at the Crucifixion.  Nope.  No mention.  Not even in the cheap seats.  How about afterwards, being a walking miracle for the rest of the posse to show off?  We’ve got a great big negative there too, Houston.  It’s almost like the zombie said, “Yeah, thanks for the extra guy and all– but I’m kinda done with this.”

I don’t know if I can quantify how much that makes him a fucking ingrate.

Maybe that’s why he didn’t get a cameo in Revelation where everything goes to shit…


Aw dammit…

Posted: May 18, 2014 in Rant, Uncategorized

Sometimes the only peace people can find in their lives comes at the end, whatever way that end may come.  I want you to think about that for a second; quickly tally up the people you know who struggle through what the world throws at them—and as a result of what their own hands have wrought.  Have you run out of fingers yet?

If you haven’t, you are either one privileged (read: sheltered) human being… or some world-class kind of anti-social loner.  I’m talking sociopath grade here.  For the majority of us, we’re one of those fingers being tallied—but hey, isn’t that part of life?  Damn right.

It took me 34 years, but I now personally know someone who lost an ongoing battle with addiction. Sad part is, most of us saw the writing on the wall long ago.  I’m not usually one to eulogize, but I sincerely hope he’s finally found peace.

I worked with Matty at the Olive Garden many years ago.  We’re talking 2005-6ish… He was in my training class, and yeah—back in those days I partied hard.  We all did; we were restaurant staff in a corporately-owned establishment.  It’s a job and a special kind of Hell.  The circle you land in merely depends on the day.  Getting wrecked is kind of the default way to cope with the endless parade of thankless assjacks that make up the brunt of the clientele.

By the way, they would all say that I'm totally Naomi.

This is actually not far from the truth, some nights.

Matty took it to a whole new level, and apparently it was only the beginning.  Mom always told me to be wary of people stranger than me… and my corollary to that rule is to keep some distance from people who can party in ways that make me look like I’m still playing pin the tail on the donkey.  Seeing how I don’t deal well with death in general, I guess I’m thankful that we did lose touch (outside of Facebook) over the past few years.

Matty was a nice guy.  He was funny.  He had an almost intuitive way of brightening your mood even if you didn’t tell anyone you were having a shitty day.  He had a mischievous wit, and a delightfully catty way of putting things.  When people think of an addict, Matty’s definitely not the kind of guy who comes to mind.  That’s not saying he didn’t have his faults, but I think those were more from what he was doing than who he was.  It’s sad, really, because we all knew he had problems.   In fact, when I got the first text message cluing me in— my response was (verbatim) “Suicide or overdose?”

It sounds like a callous response, but most of the people who knew him would find that to be a perfectly justifiable question.  That, right there, speaks volumes.  It’s sad situation all the way around, because Matty was a pretty nice guy—and not without friends.  He had friends who care about him, were willing and wanting to be there to help.  He knew it too.  Yet when it came down to it, my friend was alone at the end.  Addiction destroys everything.  It’s just too bad.  There’s really no other way to put it.

Ladies ‘n’ gents, seriously, if you truly have a problem, an addiction, a compulsion, whatever you want to call it…  don’t try to win at drugs all by yourself.  It’s not just a matter of “the more the merrier,” nor “more for me”– if you don’t have teammates to cart your ass off the field when something goes horribly wrong, you won’t be the one to suffer for it… everyone else will.  And if you can’t find teammates to join you— take the hint that something’s gotta change.  Everyone you know will appreciate it.

Matt, I hope you’ve finally found the peace that you couldn’t seem to find in life.