The Fuck It Post

I was never very good at swear jars or excusing my French, so it only makes sense that I write a post in which I celebrate one of my favorites words in the English language. So here then is my first (and probably last) post celebrating the word Fuck.

Because, why the fuck not? . . . .

Shooting outside Nationals Park causes panic inside stadium; Nationals-Padres game suspended -

  • What in the unholiest of fucks . . . Is the world coming to when I read about a shooting outside of Nationals Park in Washington, and I’m not surprised in the least? The fans inside the stadium were another story, as they ran for their lives. And you can expect the San Diego Padres to make an appearance on my Heroes episode this week for what they did to help those fans.

Lego tells company to stop making gun that looks like its bricks - News Break

  • What the fuck . . . Was a Utah company thinking with their Lego-themed pistol kit? With the “Block 19” pistol kit, gun owners could use Lego blocks to create their own sights and designs on top of a Glock 19. The kit would have retailed for $600. Culper Precision pulled the product only after intense backlash (No fucking shit there was backlash!). But they did so reluctantly, and they blamed gun control advocates for overreacting. I don’t know about you, but I think that deserves yet another What the fuck.

Airweave creates cardboard beds for athletes at Tokyo 2020 Olympics

  • Where the fuck . . . Are Olympic athletes gonna go for some overtime play now that they can’t do the horizontal back at their village cribs? Officials have set up 18,000 cardboard beds, and while they’re sturdy enough for a single athlete, it might not hold up in the event of a doubles match. Which is what the suits are hoping for, seeing as how they want two weeks worth of competition rather than quarantining. But athletes are gonna be athletes, so I just hope there are more cardboard beds where those came from. Either that or . . umm . . grab some blankets and use the floor.

May be an image of outdoors

  • Why the fuck . . . didn’t I check out this image after reading the story of a woman in Krakow who called animal welfare to report what looked like an iguana crawling up a tree in front of her house? When officers arrived on the scene, they learned that the creature in question wasn’t an iguana after all, but rather, a croissant. Now, when you simply read this account, your first thought is What the fuck? But then you Google the image and it tells a different tail. I mean, tale. Both. Which just goes to show, not all fucks are created equal.

Blue Origin auctions seat for space flight with Jeff Bezos for $28M

  • It’s about fucking time . . . A billionaire orbited space, now that Richard Branson and Jeff Bezos have done the deed. Sixty years to go eleven minutes, but hey, it still counts. And now that rich guys are walking all their space talk, can we please book passage for that fat schmuck down in Mar-a-Lago?

Welp, that’s a wrap, and if you made it this far, congratulations! For your trouble, I’ve included a short video all about my favorite word. And if you’re kind enough to leave a comment, feel free to substitute my favorite word with one of your own.

Hey, I’m that kind of fucking guy.



We Have Met The Enemy, And Guess What? . . .

USA Basketball

Time was, it wasn’t so easy to find a professional athlete in the Olympics if you resided on this side of the continent. And call me naïve but I happen to think it was a kitschy involvement worthy of a look.

This was before the cache of commercialism made everybody famous, well ahead of their respective medal quests. Amateurism hadn’t become the longest four letter word in the dictionary just yet. I know, it’s hard to imagine an America where humility and patience were woven into our stuck up blue jeans, but trust me . . there was a time when this country actually had some charm to it.

And then the International Federation opened the floodgates in 1986 when they announced that professional athletes would be permitted in Olympic competition. Of course, the logistical hurdles meant that many countries- including us- were slow to the get. Until our national pride took a hit on the hardwood in the ’88 Summer Games when the Soviets delivered a big fat nyet to our college kids, forcing USA Basketball to (gasp!) settle for bronze.

This turn of events led to the brand serpent known as the “Dream Team”, which featured the greatest collection of basketball talent in the history of ever. It was a roster that began with Magic, Bird and Jordan and just kept on going from there. So basically, the ’92 Summer Olympics in Madrid wasn’t a matter of if USA Basketball was going to take back the gold, but by how many points.

And you can call me un-American if you like, but it was joyless.

Listen, I get why it all went down that way. Teams like the Soviets had been using the professional by proxy method forever, so it was only a matter of time before everybody else got to it. But still, there was something magical about our kids going up against the giants of the sport.

It’s why the classic Al Michaels call at the end of USA 4- USSR 3 is etched into the memory of anyone who watched that hockey game in Lake Placid. Because the impossible actually happened when a bunch of college players took down the greatest (professional) team in the world. Replace those kids with NHL players? Herb Brooks ain’t our Olympic Santa Claus . . Kurt Russell ain’t playing him in a movie and that Al Michaels call never happens.

So here we are, all this time later, playing the role of the Soviets. On hardwood. Because that’s what it feels like after our basketball Goliaths got beat not once . . but twice inside a single calendar week after having lost only two other times in Olympic competition since forever ago.

Nigeria 90- USA 87

Australia 91- USA 83

Two straight losses for the first time ever. And yes, okay . . it’s exhibition games we’re talking in the leadup to the real spaghetti dinner. Still, our collective shrug was their champagne toast at last call. They are naming boulevards and first born’s after the players on those teams as we speak. And good for them, seriously.

Because while I love me some Association, I also feel like we should have let sleeping dogs lie after ’92. I said it then and I’ll say it now. We should have gone back to kids for the summer games after that. I realize this means leaving money on the table, which ain’t something a professional sports league is going to do. But in retrospect, maybe it was short sighted to believe we HAD to keep rolling out a known brand.

I mean, think about it. Those college kids whose skills proved worthy of an Olympic nod would’ve been cashing their NBA checks soon enough. They were the future brand. We could’ve given them the keys to the car after Madrid and not missed a beat. If we lost . . hey, college kids. When we won, hey, college kids!

But nope, we had to bully that pulpit into submission.

Welp, as ancient Rome would tell you . . mighty? is flighty. And just like those Soviet hockey players from back in the day, our NBA guys have become the victims of their own greatness. Winning gold is the expectation, anything less is bupkis cake. And I didn’t even mention the fact that globalization of the NBA allows for the league’s best to play for their home countries, further destabilizing our slam dunk march to the bacon cheeseburger spot on the podium. Which means that even after beating Argentina, whose star player I think is my age, the Americans hold on the gold is still less certain than a Kardashian love thing.

Am I a socialist for loving that?



Al Pacino Movie Review: Capone

Al Pacino: 'It's never been about money. I was often unemployed' | Al Pacino | The Guardian

When Marco called to ask me if I would be interested in doing a movie review, I asked him where it would it be published. There are a million different websites out there and it messes with my OCD, and I don’t even have OCD! Anyway, here’s how that conversation went.

Marc: The review will run on my blog, I call it Sorryless. 

Al: Wait, hold on a minute . . speak English! What’s a blog?

Marc: It’s a more casual and loosely defined website.

Al: You know . . Brando was loosely defined . .

Marc: It’s not like that, Al. I write everything from comedy to tragedy. I even do a weekly segment about heroes.

Al: I’m not interested in any kind of heroes stories . . ever since I was turned down for the role of Batman, anything to do with heroes . . bad taste in my mouth. Nothing personal, you understand . . but uh, yeah screw heroes.

Marc: No problem.

Al: Hey, you don’t think Beverly (D’Angelo) reads this blog crap, do you?

Marc: Like you, she probably has no blessed idea what a blog is.

Al: I’ll do it.

Marc: Oh, and Al? You can dish up the ‘FIAHHH!’ and ‘Hoo-ah!’ catch-phrases in liberal doses . . just saying.

Al: What am I? A monkey? Get out of here before I change my mind, you little asshole!

So that’s how I came to be here today. To do a movie review . . about a movie that is a royal piece of shit if you ask me. But I’m guessing I should have prefaced that opinion with a spoiler alert. Aaahh . . . fuck it, you only live once, right?

Okay, so it’s my professional opinion that the beginning of a movie is very important. I was always a stickler for a great start because I feel that a movie is like a football season. A great start sets the tone, unless you’re the New York Jets, in which case you’re going to suck regardless.

This movie, doesn’t start great.

Tom Hardy, who’s a sensational actor even if he’s a little bit of a prick, plays the lead role here. He looks like Capone alright, he sounds like Capone alright, but it doesn’t matter because he’s suffering from neurosyphilis, dementia and shitting his pants. Now maybe the last problem is a result of the other conditions, I dunno. What I do know is that I don’t want to think about Public Enemy Number One doing number two in bed. It’s humiliating!

All I’m saying is, when you make a movie about Capone as an invalid it’s like making a movie about Rocky Balboa playing Bingo in a retirement home. I mean, if they had paid Hardy by the word, he woulda taken home ten bucks! I haven’t seen this kind of mumbling performance since Matthew McConaughey in that True Detective show.

The movie is supposed to cover the last couple years of Capone’s life, when he’s living in Florida after he’s released from prison on account of his brain having turned into rice pudding. Of course, the Feds think it’s all an act. They think he has ten-million bucks stashed away somewhere so they have surveillance units spying on him. I can tell you this for a fact, that if you’re shitting your pants, it’s no act.

This movie is one big collection of hallucinations, from a fever dream sequence of the Valentine’s Day Massacre . . why botha?! . . to a series of wise guys he rubbed out who come back to visit him, to a crocodile that almost bites his crazy head off. I wasn’t sure whether the directors were going for Goodfellas or A Christmas Carol but it doesn’t matter because they fucked things up worse than Fredo.

The next time Marco has me review a film, he better give me a movie worth reviewing or I’ll threaten to take him fishing.

That should get his attention.




Joe And Marco At The Movies!

The Conjuring: The Devil Made Me Do It (2021) - IMDb

Marco: Welcome to yet another first here at Sorryless, as yours truly will sit on the aisle with the inimitable Joe Pesci to review the sequel to The Conjuring. It is the third movie in the series and the eighth movie in the Conjuring Universe. This sequel follows real life demonologists Ed and Lorraine Warren’s involvement in a historic 1981 murder trial in which demonic possession was used as a defense . .

Joe: Wait one fucking minute! Those people was real? And they really used that defense in a murder trial?

Marco: Yeah pal, it was true life shit, I told you that while we were watching it, but you were too busy lip-schtupping that bottle of Chivas to listen. And hey . . before we go any further, let’s make sure to let our readers know this post contains spoilers.

Joe: A-fucking-gain with the spoilers, you stuttering prick? What is with the bug up your ass when it comes to spoilers? They KNOW we’re reviewing the movie! Whaddaya think they’re coming here to read about the World Cup? 

Marco: It’s just a courtesy, Joe.

Joe: Yeah, like da mints they leave in a bowl when you go up to pay your bill at a restaurant. And you know what that courtesy is full of? Shit. Literally, they did a study on it.

Marco: Thanks Dr. Fauci. So yes, in answer to your question, the Warrens were consultants in a murder investigation that took place in Connecticut.  They claimed that Arne Johnson was possessed by a demon when he stabbed his landlord twenty-two times.

Joe: Where . . . da fuck were the Warrens when I was on trial for allegedly murdering Jimmy “Nine Toes” Benedetti?

Marco: Refresh my memory on that one.

Joe: The prosecution claimed that I shot Jimmy thirty-five times. But they didn’t have a case!

Marco: Why’s that Joe?

Joe: Well, the alleged witness who saw me going in Jimmy’s place . . disappeared. And the other alleged witness who saw me leaving Jimmy’s place . . disappeared. And the other alleged witness who heard gunshots . .

Marco: Lemme guess, disappeared?

Joe: Bingo! No case. But it took a couple months to come to dat conclusion. I coulda used the demonic possession defense and been out in time for Christmas!

Marco: But you didn’t shoot Jimmy, right?

Joe: (Winking) Of course not. 

Marco: Before this movie review leads to a criminal investigation, why don’t you give my peeps a synopsis of the movie?

Joe: If by synopsis you mean why don’t I talk about the movie, sure. Whoa! What a novel fucking concept, you mope! And do me a favah, will ya? Stop with da French . . just ask me in plain English?

Marco: Actually, the origin of synopsis is Greek . .

Joe: I never heard Jimmy the Greek use that fucking word so shut the fuck up. Anyways, about this movie. It begins at this little kid’s birthday party where things get outta hand . . .

Marco: Joe, it wasn’t a birthday party, it was an exorcism.

Joe: What da fuck does it matter what it was? The family was a bunch of wackadoos and the kid was having a temper tantrum is all.

Marco: The Warrens were trying to exorcise the demon and Arne called for it to enter his body.

Joe: Oh, you mean da guy with that nut-job defense. Yeah . . yeah, I remember now. So this guy ends up stabbing his landlord. Oh . . sorry. .  the devil ends up stabbing his landlord twenty-two times. Holy shit, talk about being under the influence! So then the Warrens go to Massachusetts because there’s this chick that was also stabbed twenty-two times.

Marco: They believed it was a curse passed on through a witch’s totem, and they meet with a priest who had dealings with a satanic cult. It was their belief the curse was passed to the kid and then to Arne.

Joe: (Making a lewd gesture with his right hand) Rich white people will do anything to get outta trouble. So anyways, this Warren chick almost gets killed by her husband, which I thought was pretty realistic. Turns out, this demon gets around.

Marco: I take it you don’t believe in demonic possession?

Joe: Listen pal, the husband can blame it on Nixon for all I care.

Marco: You’re missing the point. The totem held certain powers, which is why they had to take it with them when they visited the altar where the rituals had been performed. They had to get rid of the evil. And that’s where they find the occultist responsible for the death of the young girl from Massachusetts. And that’s why the occultist paid the ultimate vig . . so the demon could move on, through her.

Joe: Is that what all the gymnastics was about? I haven’t seen a body twist and turn like that since I dated a Russian stripper.

Marco: Nonetheless, I found this movie to be utterly predictable. It followed the same tired possession flick formula. Boy meets demon, boy falls for demon . . demon ends up skipping town.

Joe: And the asshole with the possession defense got five years. Which ain’t horrible.

Marco: So . . how did Jimmy “Nine Toes” get his nickname?

Joe: He was a lousy dancer.

To Bee Or Not To . . . Okay, That Sounded Way Better In My Head

Run Away by Luciano Laborde for Indicius on Dribbble

Bees have always fascinated me, from the first time a couple of wasps rolled up and capped my ass when I was seven years old. I remember screaming all the way home as my arm burned with the intensity of a thousand suns. This might sound like hyperbole, if you’ve never experienced the lava laced lip-lock of this miniaturized fighter jet. But if you know how it feels to be kabobbed by the little fuckers, then you understand.

Ever since then, it has been my wish to admire the little buggers from afar. And by that I mean from as afar away as I can get without having to price real estate in Antarctica. And yes, I realize how important bees are to our eco-system. They’re more essential to humankind than Amazon. They work harder than an Alaskan crab fisherman. And their final drafts are tastier than anything the Cohen Brothers ever dreamt up.

I know a beekeeper. Well, let me rephrase that. I know a hobbyist who has decided that honey bees would be a really interesting hobby. I can only assume this is out of geographical necessity, since she would have to travel extensively if she wanted to chase storms or wrestle alligators. Lucky for her, bees live everywhere . . . excepting for Antarctica.

My curiosity was piqued when she told me that working with bees was her Zen. I asked her if she understood what Zen meant before diving into more pertinent questions, such as . . . why beekeeping? Admittedly, I never got past that initial question, because I think it’s a really great fucking question.

“I’m learning a lot,” Was her cheery response.

“And so rather than Google bees, you decided to take the scenic route?”

“I love working with bees . .”

I do not understand this mentality since I’ve never actively sought the company of bees in my life. Any interaction I’ve ever had with a bee was purely accidental; it came as the result of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, either for the bee or for yours truly. Oftentimes both. As Vito Corleone would say, as best as their interests don’t conflict with mine, we cool.

More than 75 Percent of All 'Honey' Sold in Grocery Stores contains No Honey At All - HealthyLifeBoxx

My relationship with bees works like that of a dedicated pot smoker. I don’t approach the farmers who grow the stuff because that’s not how it works in a civilized society. Instead, I do my business through a third party in order to score my fix, and this risk-averse arrangement works splendidly.

I get that honeybees come in peace and all they wanna do is keep mama happy, and that’s great. I also understand that the following sentence never would have happened if she had taken up, oh . . I don’t know, chess as a hobby?

“I was stung twice, but it was my fault . . ”

She explained to me that honeybees are not aggressive by nature and will only sting you if they feel threatened. And of course I’d heard that somewhere and had dismissed it entirely, and you know why? Because an insect that comes packing heat and who cannot communicate with you until the shot has already been fired is not my idea of a hobby so much as a dare.

“Hey. you know what doesn’t sting you? Chess pieces,” I said, the ratio of snark to sense delivered up as expertly as a well done Martini.

Good for her though, really. And for bees . . . and for the whole wide world. That there are people who do this kind of thing so that the rest of us can reap the sweet rewards is proof that love is indeed crazy. All I know is, us humans best keep our house in order. Because if there ever comes a day when our resources are so depleted that every individual is enlisted to work with bees in order to nurse the world back to health?

Well . . you know where you can find me.






The Pipp List

404 - PAGE NOT FOUND | Giants dodgers, New york yankees, Baseball players

Wally Pipp was a slugger for the Bronx Bombers inside an era when home runs were hard to come by. The first baseman was part of a formidable lineup that included Bob Meusel, Joe Dugan, Waite Hoyt and Babe Ruth; a club that would win three consecutive AL pennants as well as the 1923 World Series.

It was the kind of resume that was sure to land Pipp on the list of Yankees all-timers, considering the team was set up for more title runs over the next half dozen years. And then Pipp was benched for a diesel engine named Lou Gehrig and the rest, as they say, would become history.

Lou Gehrig would set the record for consecutive games played with 2,130. Gary Cooper even played the “Iron Horse” in the movie Pride of the Yankees. By the time Gehrig’s streak came to an end, Pipp had become a cautionary tale: Don’t call in sick or you might not have a job when you get back.

Gehrig has proven to be a tough act to follow, so it got me thinking. And when me thinks, it usually ends up in a list. Here then, my short list of some of the toughest acts to follow. And no, the former occupant of the White House who is currently auditioning for the show My 600-lb Life ain’t on it . . .

A Brief History of Air Jordan's - KLEKT Blog

Michael Jordan- Twenty three years after Jordan and the Chicago Bulls won their sixth and final title in a dynastic run that may never be duplicated again, the Bulls are simply meh. Not a single trip to the NBA finals since Number 23 left town. The closest a player has come to even getting into the conversation as the heir to MJ’s throne was Derrick Rose. Injuries short-circuited his career as a Bull, and his second and third acts have happened in other NBA cities.

As for the rest of the league, apologies to Kobe and Lebron, but that debate is about second place. MJ went 6-0 in the finals, whilst collecting six Finals MVP’s for good measure.

Billy Crystal- The host of hosts for any award show, in my opinion. As Oscar host, Crystal’s brilliance was always taken for granted. Only after he left did we realize how tough this gig really is, because no one has come close to filling his dancing shoes.

Bear Bryant- Nick Saban is the anomaly in that he might well have surpassed Bryant. But it took eight coaches to get to Saban, with Gene Stallings having been the only one to win a title in that time as Alabama boss. I’d take Saban only because I’ve seen him long enough to know he’s the best of this era.

Mario Puzo at 100: The Godfather author never met a real gangster, but his mafia melodrama remains timeless | The Independent

Marlon Brando as Movie Mob Boss- What Brando did with the role of Vito Corleone changed the game. Possessing an unsaintly cool with nary a wasted movement, Brando created a prototype Hollywood crime boss . . . that Al Pacino would match as his son Michael. Since then, you’ve had a handful of great performances but I’m sticking with the Corleones as the standard.

Joe Torre- He was called “Joe Bozo” in an infamous New York Daily News headline that ‘welcomed’ him to town in ’96. And then he led the Yankees to a title in his first season, and then won it three more times in the next four years. It has been fourteen years since he left, and the Yankees have one title to show for it.

Sean Connery as James Bond- I never paid much attention to the 007 franchise until Daniel Craig made the scene. I admit it, I’ve got little patience for nuance. While Craig is my choice, I’m guessing I’d get outvoted on this one.

Mickey Mantle- The Yankees have yet to replace Number 7 in center field and the chances are slim that they ever will.

Alex Trebek- The list of candidates to replace Trebek as host of Jeopardy is a who’s who list of celebrities with several names who I think would nail the gig. But to my way of thinking, that is testament to the man who captained the ship for thirty-seven years.

David Lee Roth, Van Halen - New York, 1979 | Charlyn Zlotnik

David Lee Roth- Roth was a bourbon milkshake and everything that came after his exit from Van Halen? Diet Coke.

Muhammad Ali- Larry Holmes was a worthy heavyweight champion who never deserved the criticism he received for not being Ali. No fighter in the heavyweight division was, is or probably ever will be Ali.

Welp, that’ll do it until the next list. And I send you off into this Tuesday with a classic tune from a gal who will turn 75 next week. She’s had quite the love life, and I bet you all the luminaries whom she’s crossed paths with have her on their short list. Yeah Warren . . I’m talking to you!





Yellow Brick Roads, Amanda Peet and Roundabouts

Sigmund Freud believed that dreams were the royal road to knowledge, while the late comedian Mitch Hedberg complained that he was sick of following his dreams so he was just going to ask them where they were going and hook up with them later. I relate to both of these mindsets. So then, here in my interpretation of the dream I had last night.

In the dream I was riding along on a double-decker bus in a city whose identity is a mystery. I’m sipping on an Orange Crush adult beverage and I am the only person there. I navigate the stairs to the second floor where Amanda Peet and Zach Braff are canoodling in a seat as dusk approaches.

Okay, Amanda Peet and Zach Braff played a married couple in a forgettable comedy called The Ex back in the aughts of 2000. I never saw the movie. Consciously, I had no blessed idea these two had been a cinematic pairing, which goes to show you the power of advertising. Oh and My friend Jess sent out a group text last week in which she was sipping on an Orange Crush whilst playing arcade games with her husband.

Obviously, I’m the humorous sidekick because they ain’t upset with me for disturbing their romantic moment. I ask what our next stop is and Peet wants to try the new Bobby Flay restaurant while Braff wants pizza. I side with Peet, because even in my dreams I side with the lady.

I don’t know who’s driving the bus and I don’t care because a Rob Zombie tune starts kicking in which he plays the violin while a lyric soprano provides me with the most soothing rendition of a song I have never heard, but is instantly my favorite.

My son had texted me last night before to let me know the Rob Zombie Munsters movie was a go.

The bus stops and a party group boards. It might be early evening but their Drink-O-Meters are already working on 1 am, so I stay on the top level as we ride along. We pass a billboard featuring Kathleen Turner and Michael Douglas and then we come to a huge Roundabout. I mean, this sucker is so big there is a lake in the center of it. We’re winding around this thing for quite a long time and then we come to our destination, or so I thought.

I had a discussion about Roundabouts with my daughter last week. She was complaining about how they’re popping up everywhere. As for the billboard, I’m currently watching The Kominsky Method. with Kathleen Turner and Michael Douglas.

It’s night when we arrive at a vacant strip mall, an abandoned baby carriage sits in the middle of the parking lot. We walk for a while before coming to a restaurant that looks nothing like a Bobby Flay joint. Seated at a table in the front is Post Malone, and he shows us a gleaming white tooth he just pulled out of his dinner. Sara Bareilles “Yellow Brick Road” comes on as we reach our table, where our meal awaits.

And then I wake up.

As for that last part? I have no clue. But I’m holding out hope for the sequel.







Dear Aliens . . .

I know what you’re probably thinking right about now. Life on earth looks like a peach tree pie with fresh whipped cream on top. I mean, we’re one big swimming pool with myriad endeavors to turf your toes on. If you dig endorphin chow, you can eat well. If you just dig real chow, you can eat even better. All that and Vera Farmiga lives here!

But there’s a flip side your realtor ain’t so eager to fess on. We are a genuinely crazy ass lot, and scrums just so happen to be our wheelhouse. The bigger the scrum, the more ferocious we become.

What? You need a few examples? Ooookay . . .

We go to war so that we can create future trade partners . . . There are tons of casualties, and they will be memorialized in big budget motion pictures and federally funded memorials. Their sacrifice will be remembered but the lesson will be lost as soon as the next conflict arises.

About those trade partners . . . The leaders of industry and government are the protected class when it comes to these wars. Their offspring are also protected so that they can broker future business deals with the vanquished enemy. Its a bloody racket, and I mean that quite literally.

When something wicked this way comes . . there’s sports! . . . No matter how untethered we become as a society, we can turn to sports as an avoidance mechanism a way to bring people together. Much like the corrupt senators of ancient Rome, today’s power brokers feast on the indifference of a population that really doesn’t care to know just how fucked we really are. LeBron James is our modern day Spartacus, with the only difference being, everything.

And if you’re wondering where ancient Rome is located, well . . that’s the point.

We love our reality television . . . Even if there isn’t a lick of reality to it. We consume it in vast quantities and then we cull a diabolical poetry from the ashes. The particulates fuel much of the population, providing them with a manifest-ish destiny. Imagine going to war against an endless procession of armies who fear public speaking more than death. Good. Luck. With. That.

Brands, algorithms and metrics have replaced the human soul . . . See, we can be every bit as bloodless and uncaring as you! No offense.

Okay, I’m being totally presumptious on that last count. But I can’t help it, seeing as how the more advanced a species becomes, the less time they spend focusing on their warts. And really, who am I to say? Maybe you guys have actually learned from the mistakes of your ancestors. Hell, maybe we’re you’re ancestors . . in which case, this is awkward. For you. But going to war with relatives, distant or otherwise . . that’s freshly baked into our DNA.

Yeah sorry but, the chances are good you’re like any other life form that drives and votes and screws. You only think you’re the next step in the evolutionary cycle. But as our American philosopher Mike Tyson once said, everybody’s got a plan until they get punched in the face. And we have one helluva right hook. And we’re ignorant. And with every day that goes by, we get closer to that dead end town called Nothing To Lose-Ville. So if you’re here to throw down with us, I would suggest you get to stepping.

Seriously, time is of the essence here. Wolf Blitzer ain’t getting any younger, Chuck Norris is jonesing for one more epic bar fight, and I’ve heard Will Smith owns the F/A 18 Hornet he ‘flew’ in the movie Independence Day and he really wants to try it on for size. I suggest you watch the movie before you make any rash decisions. And should you decide to come in peace instead, super cool decision. Starbucks is going to name a series of drinks after you, Netflix is going to hand you a blank check and you’ll score a summit meeting with our leader.

Her name is Oprah, and she has a book club. You’re gonna love her.

Today’s Birthday! Gemini

The truth is not always pleasant, so it’s a good thing you don’t concern yourself with it. Thing is, the truth is going to be of vital importance in upcoming events . . so . .  you better start practicing. Remember the immortal words of George Costanza: It’s not a lie if you believe it. Trust your higher wisdom . . and when you fall short on that count, call in some favors.

Your dual personalities will come in handy this week, as long as you don’t get caught this time. Seriously, you’re about as nuanced as a sledgehammer. It wouldn’t kill you to read up on your Zen . . skip Happy Hour . . quit the Chia pet fetish . . find a new gig . . move out of the country.

Avoid those who wish to cause you harm, unless your spouse insists that you attend the family re-union. In which case, don’t forget the Xanax. Proceed with caution, and if possible, you should put off important decisions until clarity prevails. Never mind that clarity will probably arrive in the form of divorce papers. Hey . . it still counts!

Cosmic tip: Sleep in. Until July . . .


There Is No F In Accountability

When I was an old man, I thought I was a kid.

That’s how ass backwards the world feels to me sometimes. Because whenever I opine on how things used to be, it makes me feel as if I Benjamin Buttoned myself into the here and now. Where once I was lost to the thankless mysteries of the world, now I’m finding myself in this vapid little pill that keeps its insanity on retainer.

As with most things that fruit my loop, these changes whittled themselves into a monolithic curiosity with the wicked patience of a well done knuckleball. In the process, they turned yesterday into a bell jar full of pennies, which is about as yesterday as you’re gonna get.

This particular assessment came about as I was telling my daughter what school used to look like. Yanno . . back in the day. She’s a teacher, and as such, she’s taken to wearing steel toe boots whenever she has occasion to conference with those hard pipe hitting advocates known as parents. Because we’re living in an age where an unhealthy percentage of the parent population has gone and shoved accountability out of a speeding car. Why pass the buck when you can burn the fucker to a crisp?

I could never be a teacher, because for one thing . . I don’t like kids. And for another, I don’t like parents. My days would be spent drinking heavily and chasing it with painkillers and anti-depressants. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

“Most parents get that their kid can do better and that it’s a shared responsibility. But every once in a while you get a parent who isn’t having it . . ” My daughter said. Calmly, I might add. Which is why she’s going to be a great teacher, because that kind of thing doesn’t piss her off.

As for yours truly? Hell, nawh.

“When I got a bad grade on a report card, or I failed a test . . I caught hell for it. In waves. First it was my teacher giving me shit and then I got home and I had to hear it from my mother. And if the offense was serious enough, it went into the evening when the old man got home. I earned that shit and I remembered that shit. Because it was incredibly unpleasant shit,” I ranted, rather un-sweetly.

“Yeah . . it’s different now,” She laughed.

No shit.

I tell you what, even in a deliciously vegetative state of insobriety, I wouldn’t be able to stem my Cobra Kai when a parent gave their kid the look-away pass and followed that up by delivering a few misplaced adjectives in my direction. Nope. I would be teaching a very different kind of lesson at that point.

The kind I learned, a long time ago.