Why did it take me 5 months to do 2-hours worth of editing to get my latest, soon-to-be-banned-by-Amazon-Bezobots book ready for print?

Well, that’s kinda the point of this post.

I have a ganglia of excuses at hand, and despite having no idea what ganglia means, let’s rant here for a bit before I realize my bedtime is way past due…

Also, let’s make this sound like I’m a preachy, holier-than-thou muthatucka, standing high and mighty atop my soap box…

The stage is set… enter retard left…

I don’t want to beat old horses to death, but I’ve written variations of the forthcoming sentiments several times in the past. Also, I hate beating young horses to death. They squeal in a way that curdles my soul.

We make choices.

That’s the crux of the game living on Planet Stupid.

Endless, endless choices — every day, every moment, every second.

If we don’t take personal responsibility for those choices, and defer the blame of an “unsavory outcome” to external, big-banged forces that continually inundate and surround us, then what exactly do we become?

I’ll tell ya…

A bunch of whiny, entitled, why-isn’t-life-fair cunts.

The whiners always blame outcomes on external factors that somehow “manipulated” them into their hairy predicaments…

“It wasn’t my fault!” the cunts will say. “They made me do it!”

Oh, really?

“It wasn’t my fault!” the cunts will say. “I HAD to!”

Oh, really?

“It wasn’t my fault!” the cunts will say. “It was my job!”


Sounds a lot like guards on a watchtower firing bullets into the heads of their fellow humans, justifying their actions as, “Just following orders.”

Shit, I forgot my point here…

Oh, yeah!

I procrastinated for 5 months to publish this book because I chose different priorities in my life. No one forced those priorities on me. No one put a gun to my head to say:

“Stop writing! We need you to cook food for old people, 50 hours a week!”

“Stop writing! You need to fiberglass the holes on your boat, and rebuild the bulkheads you destroyed while converting  your floating death-trap into a solar-powered Tesla!”

“Stop Writing! Drink 12 beers a day and pass out before accomplishing a single fucking thing because you deserve a little relaxation time!


If you don’t have a passion to learn how to play guitar, then don’t play guitar. But please, PLEASE stop telling people you couldn’t do it because your fingers suffer from an unfair, genetic, 9-generation bloodline of stubby fingers. Fuck you, you whiny bitch!

Here’s another fun conversation:

I really wanted to learn how to play piano, crochet, meditate, change the oil in my car, cook my own food, (etc. etc. etc.), but life is too fast-paced. My kids, my job… there’s just not enough time in the day to learn new things.

How much time did you spend staring at your phone today and watching Netflix?

Uhh, not that much, maybe 6 hours.

Fuck you, you whiny fuck!!

Anyways, this post was just the let everyone know the new book went live today! In an attempt to be a successful book-writin’-dude-entrepreneur, I’ve decided to stop giving my books away willy-nilly, and actually sell them. SELL them! What a crazy concept…

So, anyone who wants a signed author copy (obviously worth its weight in gold!*), send me an email to with your name, address, and an e-transfer of 20 bucks. I’m paying the shipping and handling, and I don’t care where you’re located on planet Earth. If you’re living in a yurt somewhere atop the Himalayas, I’ll hire some fucking Sherpas to dance up the mountain with your package. Why you have internet in the Himalayas is an entirely different conversation…

Also in the e-mail, you need to answer the following 5 questions to be eligible:
(this exercise exists so I can fill out your dedication page properly. Honest answers yield the best results…)

  1. If Terry Fox robs a liquor store, can he run away on foot?

  2. If the wheat and chaff take a break from their relationship, are they considered separated?

  3. You’re on a runaway trolly with no brakes that leads to 2 tracks. You control the switch. On the left, 11 homeless dudes are dressed in “I support Trump” t-shirts, and 9 baby bunnies are lashed to the track. On the right, Oprah Winfrey, Mother Teresa, Hitler, and Samuel Jackson are having a champagne picnic on the rails, unaware of their impending doom. Do you choose left or right?

  4. If a tree falls in a forest of deaf people, does anyone hear?

  5. What the fuck is wrong with you?

[*Editor’s Note: Paper is light, stupid!]

Okay, that’s it, bitches, I need to sleep. Hit me up if yer interested.


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