The Era of the Nancy Boy

This weekend I watched a rather intriguing television commercial. It made me grimace for its unpleasant truth and for a multitude of other reasons which are really not fair to the spot’s intention. It is simply a distasteful state of affairs in this era that stay-at-home-dads (SAHD) have become so ubiquitous that they now merit substantial advertising dollars from a large detergent company that was once known for affixing its logo to the decidedly masculine metal of NASCAR racers. Now Tide makes commercials about men who stay home and do laundry while wearing the most innocuous and timorous clothes with an unremarkable dullness of personal non-magnetism to match.

I watched and shuddered.
I exhaled a breath of dismay.
Of course times are tough and the economic gender balance has flipped in the last 10 years. There is no denying this state of affairs and portraying men who solely do all the housework merely reflects real life. Yes, yes, we are all quite aware of the plight of Manhood. Magazine articles, books, internet forums, all awash with the news, heralding Man’s descent and Woman’s rise. The fact that our voracious capitalistic amoral economic system bleeds life from society while the destruction of masculinity ensues does not make things easier.

Most bothersome to me is the actor and his bland gender neutrality which borders on the feminine. I accept that some men are left with no options other than to resign themselves to full-time housekeeping duty while their wife brings home the bacon, so to speak. But is this permission for men to inhibit their masculinity and act like such hollow representations of their gender behind mounds of quivering pink flesh? Perhaps this is not typical of most SAHDs, but regardless, this is how Tide sees fit to paint the shameful subculture. Must man lop off his testicles in such a humiliating fashion if he chooses to forsake all hope of ever being the home’s sole breadwinner?

I actually believe men should learn to be self-sufficient in these times. Perhaps it worked fine in 1880, but this is not the time for men to rely on women. In fact, any mother who enables a habit of pitiful helplessness in her son is dooming his future. Boys must be taught to be self-sufficient because most modern women are too busy working to learn or spend time doing silly things like cooking or house-making. Today’s boy must learn to cook, wash his clothes, even sew a button, for this precious knowledge will be his gateway to independence, thus, personal prosperity. However, braiding hair is bullshit. No man should be forced to learn that. This commercial goes too far in that respect.

Some of the public’s reactions to this spot are amusing. The video appears on Tide’s Facebook wall. Some of the comments echo the predictable “thank you Tide for such a wonderful trailblazing commercial which recognizes the new gender paradigm” with oodles of back-patting. Congratulations for “breaking” stereotypes for the simple act of recognizing and dramatizing the obvious…the preponderance of stay-at-home-dads. Granted, most of the comments are simply about soap and clothes stains, but there was this observation which I believe sums up a common opinion:

Cathy Blackwell seems to have a problem with men who are portrayed as “dullards” which I surmise, from her estimation of baby blue button-up commercial guy, denotes any man who talks and acts like a man. Cathy is correct, of course: men are portrayed as dullards in many sitcoms and commercials, but they are not dullards because they are men. They are dullards because television writers lack the discernment to envision strong, intelligent masculinity because their perspectives are molded by a culture which has evolved to equate masculinity with stupidity. God forbid they actually portray a strong intelligent man as a realistic entity. And of course, for every Cathy who believes masculine men are consequently “dullards,” you have corresponding Ryan Martin’s who hysterically applaud such rants.

In order for a man to escape the dullard stigma, he must wear the most indistinguishable clothes, speak in the softest, quaintest tone possible, and know how to assemble a herringbone braid in his daughter’s hair. The future is here, the Era of the Nancy Boy.

Strange, unfortunate men who look like me


OK, I have a quick crime story to post, but I don’t want to talk about the crime.
I’ll just say this high school girl, Norma Lopez, disappeared on July 15, 2010, while walking home in Moreno Valley, in SoCal’s Inland Empire. The mystery remained unsolved for a year and a half, but in the past couple of weeks police arrested a suspect in the murder, Jesse Perez Torres, and DNA linking Torres to the killing have surfaced. In the ensuing LA area news coverage, photographs of Torres have flooded the news. When I first saw photos, my heart sank.







When I first saw Torres’ face I felt as if I was staring in a mirror. OK, not exactly, but close. He looks exactly like me.
I’m overly conscious of my appearance and the idiosyncrasies of my Mexican appearance. The dead eyes, the hook nose, the rough olive skin, the short hair, ugh! I was Jesse Torres. Being the great believer of physiognomies, I of course suspect there is deeper symbolism written into our physical appearance. Those who look alike, act alike. I believe this. I experience it and it is generally borne out in reality. The fact that there is an accused sex killer in the Mexican-American southern California suburban community who looks like me is sorta disconcerting. I, personally, am not a sex killer, but some would accuse me of being “unusual.” I’ve never struck or choked a woman, unlike Torres, but I don’t exactly fulfill the chorus of popular behavior. I’m one of those “weirdos” that Torres is now recounted as being by on of his suspicious former neighbors.


I saw a Torres side profile in court. The dude is me.







I really fucking hate it when a public figure looks like me. I like to think I’m a swowflake. No one approaches me. But they do!
I always look like distasteful people. My physiognomy is apparently common. Fine enough. I just don’t want my physiognomy to be connected with blatant deviant or uncouth behavior. If people who look like me behave and excel, cool! But this Torres piece of crap adds absolutely nothing redeeming to my physiological legacy.


Here is a short list of people I’ve been told I resemble.
Put your 3D glasses on.


Tony Shalhoub


The berserk OCD detective from the USA series, “Monk.” In many ways, I do mimic the behavior of this lunatic cop. I repeat personally procedural steps all day long; none of them are productive or fruitful but they ease my mind. Repetitive behavior soothes my mind. My close friends laugh at my repetition. Yet, I can piece together seemingly unrelated and disparate pieces of information with canny precision. I was a Hardy boy before they were born!



I visited Yosemite National Park in 2003 with my then-wife, and son. On the way back, we stopped at a small diner for breakfast and while we ate at a table, one of the counter patrons, an older grizzled guy with silver hair, got up and approached our table. He looked at me and told me I looked exactly like that “Monk fellow” on television. I’d never seen the Monk fellow. I immediately checked it out and I could not deny the resemblance.


Al Pacino


Who needs an Al Pacino summary?
The dude has been in so much, but still, his narrative never changes, does it? He always plays the seasoned and slowly decommissioned veteran of whatever FILL IN THE BLANKS you wish him to. Yet, at the bottom of his bluster and crusty boldness there is a heart of gold, an iota of warmth and humanity. But it usually loses out to the immediate primal urges of his murderous, amoral character. Mm, close. I’m not a murderer, but I am a rugged and uncouth character. I have my amoral moments. No one has ever accused me of being fancy but I do love the scent of a pretty woman.





One of my Korean ex in-laws was fond of reminding me every time I visited of how much I looked like “Arl Pacheena.” He was flabbergasted at the striking resemblance. Sometimes I wondered if he thought maybe I was! I believe the resemblance’s pinnacle happened during the “Scent Of A Woman” feature.


Sal Mineo


The pretty “Rebel Without A Cause” glamour boy who was eventually stabbed to death in his own West Hollywood carport. He was the center of many scandalous gay rumors which were eventually proved…correct. I suppose people live in West Hollywood for many good reasons. Whatever. Still, his death was tragic and many investigations pointed to a “serial robber” in the area who had attacked in the same manner previously (including women). There was no lusted-after “gay tie-in” here. He was the victim of a random murder and his homosexuality was not the cause, much to the dismay of the local news media. I’m not a pretty boy and I hardly exude the gay vibe, so the resemblance seems to be only physical, and even then, it’s not horribly strong.





In the early 90’s, my friend Keith worked for the USPS. One night, he invited me an office party thrown by a blonde, 40-something co-worker and her husband. The moment she answered the door, she told me I reminded her of Sal Mineo. I had no Goddamned idea who Sal Mineo was. But in the ensuing conversation I realized something: she liked Sal Mineo a whole lot! We talked and flirted and I didn’t seem to mind that her husband was nearby. I was drunk as hell, and so was she. Her husband lingered trustfully throughout the house, mingling. I began hitting on her. We rolled around on the cold, wet grass. I would have had a good shot with her but I hit a disorienting plateau in which I began puking like a sick slut. I puked my guts out in her bushes. She stopped hanging out with me. Booze triumphed over pussy, which is the way it should be.


Joey Ammo


The lead singer of Birdbrain. They sang in the soundtrack of the original Wes Craven “Scream” movie. There is only one video of their performance. There is not much to go off for personal reference. I have nothing to share of this guy. He sang a song, played the guitar…





However, I will say, he bears the most striking resemblance to me of the whole group.




He was pointed out to me by some roaming mail-deliverying hipster at work.


He now calls me Joey Ammo.
I am Joey.


I am all of them.



The Cult of Femasculation

The Chateau posted a great essay worthy of “anthem status.” Entitled Another Conservative Traditionalist Gets It Wrong About Men And Women, he pounces on the diatribes of Conservativatard, Bill Bennett, for his recent spiel of old-fart-mindset-enhanced misplaced male bashing/shaming. Bennett places the onus for this generation’s dwindling threat of masculinity squarely in Man’s Lap. Bennett’s seemingly simple one-dimensional Little House On The Prairie delusion fixates and only concerns itself with the “effect” and nary opens a cataract stricken eye upon the causes of same which abound in our consumerist-infected modernity of complacence egotism.

Chateau writes:

Men can no longer achieve the clearly-defined status over hypergamous women they once could because the traditional field of battle that afforded them relative supremacy and, thus, attractiveness, to women — the corporate office — has, via managerial despotism strengthening PC and diversity to a state religion, lopped their balls clean off. And so men retreat from the corporate drone working world to achieve their status elsewhere.

A vein of righteous anti-corporate sentiment surfaces in the ensuing comment section. Those who See and Know are well aware that the modern corporacracy is a molten breeding ground for the Femasculated culture of boasting a dearth of substance and creativity; in a word, the corporate world is a proxy for the working environment, which in turn, is a proxy for society’s template of male/female relations in general. Much of it enforced and strengthened by the “state religion” which simultaneously belittles masculine values.

I believe, however, that while most men do retreat from the working drone role, most do not escape for a multitude of reasons. I would venture to guess that most men continue obligating themselves to the femasculated prisonership/shell of corporate dronehood because, 1, they are indifferent to the humiliating demands of the new paradigm, 2, they they are dependent on propping up the femasculation system, 3, they benefit by it because of their lofty positions of power which are immediately rewarding to their own station in life (while thumbing their nose at the well-being of future generations or fellow underachieving sufferers), and 4, those who don’t care because they see the entire interconnected system of monetary reward as a counterbalancing effect of humanity’s mundane materialistic desires as a joke and don’t really care to breathe life into such a soulless existence or manifold.

I belong to the last category. I’m “an unmarried man” which, in the parlance of this blog, means that I seek to minimize dependence upon institutional tethers, and one of these tethers is the culture of consumerism and amusement. Not partaking of such trivial pop cultured bullshit, I seek to remove myself from the helpless quandary attendant to thosse who depend on their job in order to sustain their life. My goal is complete autonomy from enslavement to the institutional clusterfuck. I don’t give a damn who runs the new corporate paradigm. Women, men, monkeys, I don’t give a crap. It’s a train wreck, regardless. However, from my position of “outsider,” I am still privy to the social dynamics at work in the corporate environment, such as the mastodon where I work. Obviously, I have not severed all ties for I still work. Still, compared to most of my co-workers buried in mortgage, marital and vehicular debt, I consider my escape route less complicated.

Still, I persist in this humiliating and deposed role of corporate drone.

And I’d like to relate a disguised tale about myself.

I mention it because the feminized corporate environment has laid the groundwork of female rule by using the corporacracy as a vehicle in this grand capitalist land. The workplace, through the mindless meddling of Human Resources and over-rewarded examples of female non-productivity, has transformed itself into a woman’s turf. For men, this playing field has become an all-or-nothing proposition. If you’re a man in the modern corporate environment, you either do extremely well and head departments or divisions, or you are a middling clerk, a role that has become distasteful for the modern man (a definition illustriously molded by the woman’s touch). As the middle class shrinks so too do the opportunities for man to work out the last of his weekly 40 hours with any sense of self-respect. This is difficult to do as women clamor to the top and dictate the definition of “prosperity.”

Personally, I don’t care to advance to the higher echelons of my own personal corporacracy. I’m not interested in earning lots of money or owning lots of extravagant shit. My nihilism prevents me from adulating the material bullshit that people seek as solace from their impending doom. We amuse ourselves. And so, we must earn money to buy the amusement. I’ve shrugged off amusement. I prefer to face the darkness, so at this point in my life I need less money than most of the tools I work with. I’m content to work my office testicle-shrinking job because it affords me a steady income which I sock away in a savings account until the day I can finally make a clean break. I have no ties to those I work with nor my lame-ass employer. I don’t partake of the corporate morale-boosting spew. Fuck them. Fuck the mother companies. I’m here for their money. This is the loyalty they earn. I’m here for their health care and I’m here for their vacation days (of which I’ve earned an exorbitant amount). I need very little. I’ve groomed myself. I don’t need their hollow status.

This my attitude, but don’t get the idea I am a slacker.
I am a mindful worker who gives my all. I work hard, for 8 hours, and then I leave. I work in a department dominated by women and browbeaten married men. Most of the male higher-ups in corporate America are married men, who by virtue of their marital status, are accustomed to skirting the unrealistic and self-involved demands of females at large.

My manager is a 30-ish woman who absolutely does not like or respect me. She started about 5 years ago, overly young and immature. My company, for its size and apparent reputation, is fond of selecting from a cheap and unskilled work pool. “Cheap” is the key concept. The modern company does not seek quality. In my department, personnel decisions since my manager started have been fraught with the blatant sour aroma of bargain-basement motives and the staffing’s primary impetus seems center around affordability, not skill or intelligence. Do not get me started on work ethic…there is none to speak of. People do not do good jobs for the sake of doing a good job. They do good jobs only when the economic incentive is strong enough, or when the threat of punishment or shame is a strong deterrent. On top of it all, the corporate structure does NOT promote or reward quality. Stupidity flourishes.

My boss is a female sexist.

Perhaps she hates me, but above all, I believe she allows and fuels situations that allow me flounder because I am a man in her female department. Sex discrimination is a difficult allegation to prove, especially when the perpetrator is a skillful social manipulator such as my boss. I imagine that she has enormous reserves of countermeasures should I make any “wild” allegations about her conduct. I am the senior member in this department but you would never know based on her treatment and appraisal of my presence. The other senior member of our department is a woman who has been there almost as long as me. I believe we are equal in our offerings to the company. This woman received a $1,000 bonus last year for her “hard work” (I worked as hard and received nothing). Our company, having cried poor for so long, finally gave us a “raises” earlier this year. I received a whopping 1.25% increase. No one received very much, but I know for a fact that the same woman who received the bonus last year also received a 1.5% hike. Perhaps one might suppose the raises were weighted based on salary, but this woman earns more more than me as well. There is another women in the department who is utterly lacking any intelligence or common sense, and based on what I put together, received more than 2%. She is low paid little because she started as an assistant. But she is a woman and my manager caters to her whims. My manager continually affirms this employee’s unpleasant sour and paranoid personality and rewards her with subtle offerings as well (a promotion among them). There is also a woman in the department who spends her days texting and surfing. She skates by with a minimal work load. My manager takes it easy on her while skillfully avoids soliciting any observations from me. My manager works on the other side of our floor and has no idea how our intimate departments operate nor does she care.

The sex discrimination is redolent in all the small gestures my boss displays (or fails to). She does not solicit my opinion or help on anything. She treats me superficially nice enough, but it’s obvious to anyone that her demeanor toward me is one of indifference. She discounts my abilities and seeks to minimize my potential. I’ve spoken candidly with her a couple of times regarding certain “problems” in the department but she is adept at conveying the “I’m listening, I’ll do something aout it” facade, but ultimately she does nothing. Our company is bloated with bureaucracy and if personnel issues arise, she steers them to HR where are the touchy-feely bullshit takes place. She is useless in the management of people. She is rehashed corporate minion.

Lest anyone suspects I don’t work well for women as a possibility for this situation, my favorite (and most effective) manager of all time was a woman. I work well with women actually. This is not a “woman issue” really, because, as I’ve reiterated I don’t buy into this capitalist scheme to begin with.

But I work hard and I do my job well. The new corporate paradigm is not built on excellence or conscientiousness, however.

I suspect the most grating thing is my manager’s sex discrimination as applied to staffing her department.

About 7 years ago, a woman started in our department. She was Mexican and her mangling of the English language was legendary. She was both an embarassment to my ethnic race as well to the female gender She embodied the worst traits of both groups. She was a raging attention whore whose idiocy and ignorance was unmatched. She had been passed over for a job interview at a competing company before coming here. She was lazy, sloppy, petulant, and a very good authority told me that she enjoyed an occasional lesbian romp. She actually confirmed this directly during a couple of loose-lipped conversations. She was a piece of work.

She began kissing major butt when our new manager started. She played the part of unofficial office snitch rather well, and the manager, lacking interpersonal skills, ate it up. It paid off, because within a year, the manager promoted her to second in charge of our department (because she “asked” as the manager later explained). Despite the fact this woman could not phrase a simple English sentence, was morbidly unintelligent, and abused every single perk the company gave us. There was not a sick day or vacation day this woman did not take advantage of. She spent her days conducting her chaotic and dramatic personal life from her office phone and desk. I complained to my manager a couple of times. In one work email that made the rounds, the stupid woman revealed she did not know Toronto was not in the United States. This was my competition. Did I get a promotion or even the offer of such? This woman eventually abused her sick leave/long term disability benefits…details are sketchy and my manager attempted to keep the situation under wraps but one of the other employees in the company complained to the general manager and the HR manager took a look and she was told not to return to work. Or so the story goes…

My job is currently a daily circus of idiocy spent in a low-level state of self-imposed intellectual ridicule for my manager overlooks my presence on a continual basis. If I cared more about the whole corporate facade or if I had a house I hinged my existence on, perhaps I might be aroused to act. It’s people like me who allow the Culture of Femasculation to flourish. People like me who don’t care about the game and just want to get out. We are as bad as the zealous ambitious leches who throw us under the bus.

I would suppose that if men opted out of the consumerist paradigm en masse and began a rugged masculine crusade, a subculture that sought to exist outside the corporatist/capitalist framework of our era, they may be able to construct an alter society which could act as a beacon to the disaffected who do not enjoy participating as captives in mainstream Femasculated society. This would present a primal alternative to the plasticity and superficiality of today’s corporate environment. As it stands, men will not usurp the present corporatized structure without some cosmic meddling. An event which essentially dissolved the comfortable privileges of our technological world and once again hoisted the powers of physical strength to a position of absolute survival tool.

As long as people are able to text their bullshit to people in the next room, the Cult of Femasculation will continue to prosper.

When we lost our smile

We laid on top of the hotel bed that autumn dusky evening. We didn’t even bother pulling off the large hotel-caliber comforter.

Our dressy clothes hung eagerly in the closet. Downtown lingered outside the wide smoked window which stared at the dimming sky and the enmeshed downtown skyline.

We laid on top of the comforter.
Tired, spent.

We stared expectantly at the ceiling as if it would unfurl legions of answers or insight. It was a high fancy hotel ceiling.

Mentally, we readied for dinner. My birthday lingered. Another. The heated excitement of our evening plans simmered in the air conditioned room.

In our own backyard, downtown L.A.

You laid next to me. Furtively but apprehensively, you told me something in the dim seclusion of our room far from the cement beach below.

You told me you were scared.

You told me you felt something bad would happen. Something bad was waiting in the wings. You sensed it, the foreboding. When you told me this, the timorous tone of your voice scared me too. Your intuition frightened me for what I did not know or foresee.

You had a dark feeling of gloom. We stared at the high ceiling which didn’t seem as high anymore. It was descending on us, wasn’t it? It descended steadily in tandem with the suffocating sense of mushrooming doom you felt. The oppressive fate of life was squeezing, encircling you, but you imagined that it was only us who were stricken.

I wanted to tell you, but did not.
It’s all of us.

Those who dare to be unfortunate enough to taste the enveloping soupy darkness are merely experiencing the determined jaws of fate clamping down. Just exactly as you felt that evening four years ago.

You sensed something evil waited in the shadows. An ominous caller.

I had news for you I didn’t utter.

The bad always awaits. And most frightening is to realize it has endless reserves of patience. It outlasts the most patient of us.

This is the way it is. The way it is written or etched. Sometimes this misplaced sense of fatalism expresses itself in a cunningly inexplicable sensation that coats your soul like a dusty layer of sediment. Of course bad is going to happen. You are most keen to this fact when you are too happy for your own good. Life’s counterbalance to joy is suffering. Fate is cold steel. It evokes dread in the happy, for it reveals the mirror image of our End.

You told me you felt something bad was on its way.
Because it was.

How much longer did you expect the smiles to last?

Amy Winehouse’s final misadventure and Measurements for Dummies

Reading CNN’s news account describing the medical examiner’s findings regarding the cause of Amy Winehouse’s death made me realize again why I love the British. Their expression of the English language is so precise and efficient and gloriously formal. I love interviews with British citizens…even their lowest ranks articulate in a manner most Americans can’t approach.

Blood alcohol level, what the hell. In the U.S. this figure is commonly expressed as a percentage of alcohol in the bloodstream. A lot of people express this incorrectly because they don’t grasp the true nature of alcohol’s physiological effects and the pitifully small amounts required to cause the intoxicated wonders we see or read about in others (never in ourselves, of course). For instance, the legal driving limit in most states in the U.S. is 0.08 but I hear many people describe it as “.8,” or even “8.0” which is such a lethal dose that no one can ever reach that milestone, short of direct intravenous alcohol injection, because they would be dead long before. It is important that the “%” symbol not be used because “0.08” is a direct expression of the decimal value. Technically, adding the % symbol reduces the figure to a tenth (oops, HUNDREDTH!)  of what you intended. Try to explain to a drunk that 0.08 represents 8% of 1% of your blood.

According to CNN, “Winehouse’s blood-alcohol levels were 416 milligrams per 100 milliliters of blood, the inquest was told. The legal limit to drive in Britain is 80 milligrams of alcohol per 100 milliliters of blood.”


So taking my rudimentary NAM arithmetic skills, I consider that there are 1000 grams in 1 liter (water, since not all substances have the same density, but water is a common basis). Essentially, 1 gram is equal to one milliliter (the milli- prefix denotes a thousand of something). By reducing the description to milligrams per milliliters, we are essentially maintaining the ratio, but expressing in micro-measurements which is the best approach used to describe alcohol’s presence in our blood in understandable terms we can relate to while eschewing a preponderance of confusing zeroes. Zeroes are not good. Not good at all. As perceptive, land-dwelling, three-dimensional-sensed humans, zero is not an instinctual concept we trigger throughout our living reality.

Now since blood alcohol level as represented in ‘Merica is expressed in the form of a percentage, the “milli” British description doesn’t trigger instant familiarity for most of us. However, armed with the knowledge that excruciating low levels of alcohol are responsible for tragedies such as Winehouse’s, and knowing that such low levels of alcoholic human assault can be described in terms of fractions of 1%, it is obvious that using milligrams as a default measure for alcohol “weight” present in the blood per milliliter allows us to describe and extrapolate the phenomena in comprehensible values as related to human alcohol toxicity.

By describing a milligram as a proportion of a milliliter, we are cementing the unit of alcohol intoxication as .001. Now if someone has 1 milligram of alcohol in their blood, they can be described as having a blood alcohol level of .001. At this BAL, you can legally operate a car in all states except Utah. By the way, I would venture to guess everybody has at least a .001 BAL since ethanol is a naturally occurring chemical reaction in all living humans, even those who haven’t touched a drop of booze since their birth (which is not living, IMO).

In Britain the legal limit for drinking and driving is 80 milligrams per milliliter. Using my previous conversion factor of mass/volume, we can now calculate that this is equal to 0.08, a legal BAL driving threshold apparently common in most of the civilized Western world.

Amy Winehouse’s BAL, at 416 milligrams per milliliter, simply meant that her blood alcohol level was approximately 0.42, which is certainly high and borderline fatal. Many people attain this staggering level without dying, but Winehouse’s history of alcohol and drug abuse and the resultant weakened physical state probably left her vulnerable to the lethal nature of such an alcohol level.

Another thing about the British.

“Death by Misadventure?”

I love that!

I think we need to bring that official terminology to America. Death by misadventure is such a biting indictment of life abused and defiled by the overzealous youthful shenanigans of misbehavior. Death by misadventure seems comical and glib considering the end result. Death is always serious and must be described in the gravest manner, isn’t it? Supplementing it with with the “misadventure” clarification makes it seem like a frolic in the park gone wrong. It is a very revealing glimpse into our appraisal and expectation of life and its abuse in this modern, death-aversion society, isn’t it?

Well, I’m here to announce life is one big Goddamned misadventure.

Why must we single out Winehouse or any of the other drug-addled misadventurous youth who routinely flee this mortal shitfest called Life? This life is one big oozing sloppy misadventure, my friends. We are lucky to be born, we are lucky to live, and ultimately, we are lucky to die. Our personal blip in this parade is a misadventure truly and completely.

Embrace the brevity and hollow symbolism of this foray on Earth and make it one grand misadventure worth telling your children about!