Alright peeps, can ya’ll give me a simultaneous, “FUCK YEAH!!”
And also a megadose of “WOO!”
Original Sin be done! Live, and ready to be ignored by the public!!
Author copies are headed my way in the next couple days, so if anyone is interested in a signed edition at a discounted rate (1.3% off the regular price — sweet deal, I know!) then shoot me a Feedback note, and I’ll ship ‘er out to you.
And I won’t charge you ridiculous shipping and handling costs, like those motherfuckers at Amazon who make sure their profit margins can’t get undercut by writers trying to distribute their own books — their sneaky way of guaranteeing a maximum amount of dollars remain clutched to their tentacles, no matter how some bright-light tries to skirt the system.
But instead of whining about a corrupt juggernaut of merchandise distribution, let’s discuss a couple snippets of positivity here…
This 400-page tome of silliness and stupidity was a wild ride to compile. Much of the writing was done either on a sailboat, or roaming Central America, which gave a lot of unexpected flavour to what basically amounted to an improv book.
It’s interesting to make note of where you find yourself in life when you let go of trying to micromanage everything, and ride the Baloney Poney (still a frontrunning name for my sailboat) wherever the wind blows. This is not to say planning is irrelevant when it comes to navigating our personal oceans, only an observation that life seems far more fun (for me, anyway) when I keep the scripting to a minimum.
I’m reminded of a recent adventure to London with my buddy, to celebrate some Xmas fun with my fam. Whenever I heard him utter the words, “So what’s the plan now, Mike?” I usually responded with an, “I dunno, let’s turn left here.” The moronic frivolity that ensued in the “big” city will forever be filed in our mental dossiers within both the “F” and “N” files, as in, “That was a whack o’ Fun, but let’s Never do shit like that again.” Haha. But what happens in London stays in London, unless of course your idiot friend does boneheaded stuff like Snapchat incessantly certain private moments, like being kidnapped in a car, to all his moronic friends trolling social media.
Anyhoo, I’m rambling… A shock, I know!
Original Sin all flowed from a single sentence typed into an ageing laptop, with no real direction in mind before the words started appearing on the magic typing screen. And that was the real fun of the book — just a bunch of made-up bullshit, that left me laughing my ass off, and also allowing me to re-connect to shitty, goofball artwork that I’d lost passion for producing.
The next book in the works is a yearly independent calendar of the very best of Daily Bread — filled with tips, tricks, and insight to help you get through each day of mundane existence with a crooked smile on your face.
After that, who knows??
I could easily do an Everything is Bullshit II, or continue on with an Original Sin trilogy, but what’s the fun in becoming formulaic? That’s what other people do when they let a style dictate them — artists who keep producing similar paintings, writers who keep producing expected themes, and hookers who stick to only one hand-job technique. To me, that cries out safety, security, and lack of imagination. I have no idea what the next major writing will entail, and it’s gonna be tough to top the volume of weirdness I just compiled, but such is the true magic of life — taking that random left without fear of getting lost traveling an unknown road.
I’m reminded of a quote here I heard some smartypants person say:
You can’t be lost if you don’t know where you’re going.
Hmm, who was that? Oh yeah, prolly me.
While I’m in babble mode, I should probably note that the first advanced copies of Original Sin may be rough around the edges still — in need of a few dozen typo corrections or aesthetic layout tweaks. I’m not even sure how well the artwork is going to translate to print. But what could be better than owning one of these signed copies? It’s like having a Melville first draft of Moby-Dick, when the title used to be Moby, The Motherfucking Sea Mammal That Ruined My Life. Cool, I know.
And it’s probably time to find myself a legitimate literary agent — a parasite to slip me into the big leagues of idiotic literature distribution… the kind of schmuck to send me advance royalty cheques, and pay for stints in rehab.
Book writing will take a short hiatus here as I need to practice some new music heavily for the next few weeks. Acoustic Mondays with Kitchen Jesus are just around the corner. If you’re ever in the Goderich area, you should definitely check it out! Unless of course I get cancelled after the inaugural performance, which is high in the possibility department. Time will tell…
With that said, I just realized I babbled away another thousand words here, and probably lost half of you along the way… But who cares? My blog, my fun. If you didn’t enjoy my stupidity on some twisted level, you wouldn’t be here.
And for that I shout out my humble appreciation.
New fun on the way as always. If you want a copy of the book, shoot me a line. Otherwise, the opportunity will always exist for you to put your dollars into the “correct” deep pockets of commerce, AKA Amazon, if you want the book. It would be a shame if those schlubs went belly up, wouldn’t it?
Rock on friends, chat soon.
I’m in the middle of the final proofread for my new book, but my brain has turned to mush, so I need to take a break before I start missing obvious typos and stupid shit that’ll make me look like a jackass hack once I hit that publish button. I’ve come too far to half-ass my final polishing, just for the sake of quicker completion.
So how do I take a break from writing? By writing obviously…
A new blog post has been long overdue, mostly because 24 hours in a day doesn’t quite cut it for me anymore. But that’s bullshit of course. We always find time for the things we love. It will forever be our choice to prioritize one action over another.
The holidays were kick-ass fun, visiting family, and hanging out with good friends. But the new year has arrived, and it’s time to get shit together again. My traditional 10-day water-only fast, to greet another arbitrarily chosen calendar year, has quickly past the halfway mark, and I’m growing eager to suck back some fresh fruit juices, and hopefully parlay my new non-toxic habits into a lasting routine I can be proud of once again. Time will tell…
I’ve busted my ass the last couple weeks to ink the final illustrations for Original Sin, and I couldn’t be happier with how cheeseball and ridiculous it all turned out. When the first book proofs are ready, y’all will be the first to know…
As I begin Day 7 of the fast, I realize I have much to reflect upon. Firstly, food is not as critical to day-to-day survival as we’ve been led to believe. Normally when I do an extended fast, I do it with as much bed rest as possible, allowing the energies at my disposal to foster internal repairs. But this time round, stupid responsibility found me working 11-hour shifts for the first 5 days of my cleanse. Definitely not a preferred situation!
But ya know what? Aside from the ragey first few days at work when the worst of the toxins worked their way out of my body, I feel pretty fucking kick-ass. Not once did I feel overburdened physically, or ready to pass out as I carried on with my regular duties in Chuckyville, all in spectacular fashion of course. Okay, okay, maybe “spectacular” ain’t the right word, but I’m entitled to a little poetic licence here and there. It’s my fucking ego-driven blog. I’ll make up whatever bullshit I need to float my giant yellow boat.
On an even stranger fasting note, I still hit the gym every morning before work. Although I’ve dropped a few more pounds than I would have expected thus far, my muscle strength has not atrophied one bit. I’m still pushing the same weights before I started the fast — although in need of more rest time between sets. The body is a fascinating machine.
The second noteworthy part of this fast is the realization how much time I spend living for what’s next — my next stimulant, my next outlet, my next break, my next day off, my next hand-job (one thing that absolutely refuses to manifest). Having zero stimulants at my disposal — essentially nothing to “look immediately forward to,” aside from water — has been a reminder to ground myself in the moment again, something I continually struggle with, despite my pompous and preachy ramblings otherwise. Realizing everything that counts always takes place right here, right now, seldom fails to help alleviate the griefs and stresses of past and future scenarios that never truly exist.
Changing habits always seems to be a tough thing, but it really comes down to changing thoughts. More accurately, quickly quashing the unwanted thoughts that forever seem to percolate in our brains. If you don’t let one of those random word bubbles grow to completion by nurturing it, there’s no way you can act it out. You know what I call the strategy? Thought Abortion. That’s right, let everyone know I coined that phrase. You basically give a fresh brewing thought the ol’ coat hanger treatment before it develops, and never again will you be at the whim of undesired action. Let the embryo grow, and you’ll eventually get fucked with child-support payments.
You wanna change a habit? Simply make a new choice. Then keep choosing that new choice. Ain’t fucking rocket science.
Wow, I am a preachy fuck.
Anyway, back to the fasting thing…
Although my cheekbones at the moment may look to some like a starved waif living in a concentration camp, I think I resemble more of an exotic Icelandic god. Yeah, once again, my blog, my delusional bullshit, deal with it. But my body has leaned out into a chiselled work of art, dropping most of the fat-trapped salt and toxic shit that’s been stored up over my last year of poor lifestyle and dietary choices. I still have a few pounds of fat on my ass that will get me through to day 10, so I have no worries reaching my goal.
Current medical dogma would have expected me dead or in the hospital several days ago. But my decision to push the boundaries of human potential have proven otherwise. I’m thriving better than eating 3 squares a day, and I continually learn new insight into this freaky vessel I call my body.
Though completion may seem a bit far away at the moment, when I hit day 10 I’ll look back on how quickly the time went, just like we all do when reflecting upon the past. Before I know it, it’ll be boating season again, and time to ramp up Mission: Sail the World as an Incompetent Jackass Who Has No Fucking Clue What He’s doing.
I also need less and less sleep each night. Yesterday I went to bed at 9, waking up thinking it was around 5 AM. My internal time clock is normally pretty bang on, but when I checked my phone, I learned it was only midnight. WTF? Three hours of sleep that felt like 8? Wild shit. That’s what happens when the body has no need to expend energy digesting black bean burgers and quinoa fries. Neato.
Of course there’s more fun shit to ramble about, but it’s time for sleep.
Let’s end this on a quote from good ol’ Ferris:
Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.
Or is it A? Or eh? I dunno. I guess I ruined that moment.
Next post? That’s right, official announcement of the release of Original Sin.
P.S. I just went 24 hours without drinking water as well. Fuck you science!
You know the most interesting thing about breaking a 24-hour fast by drinking a dozen beers? I’d tell you, but for some reason I can’t remember. I’ll have to do more research into the subject, as I’ve never experienced memory loss while fasting in the past.
I guess there’s a chance the beer had something to do with it, but who can say for sure?
Even though I should rightfully be comatose after sleeping 3 hours and working another 11-hour shift, I’ve decided to suck back a quick brew at good ol’ Chuck’s Roadhouse to do a little nonsensical writing.
I do have one problem though…
I don’t have jack shit going on in my life.
No good stories, no new adventures, no scantily clad women.
Fuck, I suck.
So I’m sittin’ here at Chucky’s hopin’ for something interesting to happen.
But it seems to be the same ol’ drunks in here… staring vacantly into a television the size of a billboard pumped with steroids (or possibly Oprah’s ass after Thanksgiving weekend, whatever analogy works for you), and sucking back beer after beer after beer. Hmm, kinda reminds me of another pathic junkie I’m far too intimately acquainted with… (insert “Me” emoticon here).
Okay, here’s a twist. Some hammered fuck who looks like Gordon Lightfoot just came up to me and asked if he could buy me a beer.
Sure, why not? Who am I to deny the generosity of a human who likely doesn’t remember his middle name?
But 3 minutes later, the cocksucker decided to forgo ordering my beverage, and jumped into a cab. Fucking tease.
Not that I really need another beer. But I do need something interesting to happen. Anything, really. The 11-hour-a-day drudgery of burger flipping has left me feeling very much like all the routine-obsessed, slave douchebags I love to shred.
Realizing I’m a slave douchebag as well, doesn’t quite perk my spirit. But it does remind me that I’m a JFA (Judgemental Fucking Asshole — a new acronym I’m trying to introduce into texting culture). No surprise there. Maybe this evening is about a little self-reflection.
Hmm. No, that’s boring as fuck. We’ll forgo stupid philosophy at the moment.
Sometimes I just don’t understand the Universe. How come a team of hot Italian models, whacked out on mushrooms, doesn’t walk into this shithole? C’mon, God, throw me a frickin’ bone here! Gimme somethin’ I can work with!
But it’s still just the drunks. And now I’m sadly one of them. Even though I might seem productive typing away at my keyboard, I’m really just another jerk-off, like them. Sad, pathetic, lonely. Throw self-pitying into the mix, too.
But at least I’m writing — still in touch with my passion, and still getting in a goofy quip here and there.
Still no hot models. WTF. My manifestation skills are woefully inadequate.
So where does this piece go?
Apparently nowhere. Should I delete all this bullshit and go find my bed, or should I consider scoping out a local meth dealer to inseminate the evening with a little insanity?
Nah. Maybe one more quick beverage, then an hour or two of weeping into my pillow, before unconsciousness takes me for the night.
The drunks are disappearing quickly. The only guy left is the old fuck who I’m pretty sure walked into this building at 11:05 AM. Christ, how is this asshole still alive? I guess it’s possible he left for a few hours to nap or something, maybe beat off to animal porn, I dunno. But he started this day sitting at the bar for countless hours, and he’s ending it the same way. I doubt he even likes football, but he hasn’t broken his hypnotic stare at the telescreen. Quel surprise.
Still no cocaine-fuelled models. What a bullshit night.
Wait a second… I think the fossil just ordered food. What a grand way to wrap up 12 hours of drinking! Hey, waitress, deep fry me some chicken arms please, I need energy to snap one off to Blondes and German Shepherds 4 when I get home.
Hm. Those two letters just made my word count 666. Perhaps that’s God’s way of saying I should hit that delete button after all. Or maybe it’s Satan’s way of saying I should press on, regardless of not having anything productive to discuss.
But let’s think of this from an artist’s perspective — any amount of time you spend working on your craft is always time well spent.
Hold on… a new twist!
Some “Where’s Waldo” looking jackass just walked out of the kitchen, asking me to buy him a beer — one of the idiot kids at Chuck’s who would serve society better by drinking a pint glass of bleach.
He either lives in a broken down van, or with his crackhead roommate — I’m not sure, I tend to tune him out when he speaks. But I don’t mind shelling out a couple bucks once in a while to degenerates living paycheque to paycheque. I’ve been down that road. I can empathize.
I won’t use his real name in this post, so let’s call him Gerrit. Hmm. That name seems a bit contrived. We’ll refer to him as Gerrit Dale. That seems way faker.
Though he could clearly see I was immersed in some kind of creative project, it didn’t stop him from interrupting, and asking a series of inane questions. Shit like:
“Hey, Mike, do you think people who dye their hair are cool?”
“Hey, Mike, is it normal to drink 7 pots of coffee a day?”
“Hey, Mike, have you ever dropped acid with a large-breasted transvestite?”
But being the polite person I am, I closed my laptop and engaged in the trivial dialogue, and considered the possibility Chuck’s Roadhouse was a vortex sucking in lost and pathetic souls.
My friendly gambit ultimately paid off, as the kid offered to drive me and my car home. I agreed.
Sure, why not? Who am I do deny the generosity of a human who likely can’t spell his middle name?
So I’m home now, finishing this drivel to give myself a sense of accomplishment. Why you’re actually still reading is beyond me. I guess it can’t all be comedic gold here at BonerFruit, but at least be grateful it’s free. Even though you probably feel like I’ve stolen far too many moments of your life that could have been spent watching Dancing With the Stars, or grooming cats, you should give yourself a pat on the back for finishing something you started.
Good for you.
As for me, I’ll start mailing out apology letters.
Maybe homemade Xmas cards instead. Who dares be the first to give me their mailing address?
Perhaps a smarter move if you don’t…
I’ve decided that taking a break from illustrating the final drawings for my new book isn’t a form of procrastination — it’s a symptom of passion and kick-ass productivity.
Hmm. I might have to call bullshit on that one…
But whatever. The new drawings are so completely ludicrous, offensive, and ridiculous, that I had to take a moment to share something important with you…
I fucking rock.
Yeah, megalomania ain’t the most desirable trait in a human, but considering all the shit I’ve posted on this site in the last year and a half, why hold back now?
Sitting by my lonesome, sketching images of cats, wangs, and toilets, laughing myself silly at the stupidity pencilled to dollar-store paper, I realized just how much fun the entire process of compiling this book has been. Why I was hesitant to finish my final drawings is beyond me now. Momentum is a glorious force we don’t exploit to its fullest.
BonerFruit is still a young project, but it’ll go viral one day, along with the stupid books yet to spill forth from my keyboard. How do I know this? Simple, I’m fucking awesome. I don’t seek popularity to placate my fragile ego, I do this shit ’cause I love it. And I’m totally fucking hilarious. And fucking modest. To deny the world of my idiocy would be sinful.
Well, maybe not as soul-damning as coveting my neighbour’s ass (we’re talking donkey here, not the plump mounds jammed into skin-tight yoga pants), but a crime nonetheless.
Ya gotta do what you love, and if you’re not, you’ve missed the memo on enjoying your run on planet Earth. The stupid jobs sucking up our free time aren’t stupid at all — as long as you realize they’re a means to an end, and learn to treat them with as much silliness and frivolity as the projects you deem “meaningful.”
I have a blast at my slave-job. I hate to admit it, but it’s true. And even though I’d rather be writing and sailing the world, I know the burger-flipping is just another grand experience to be embraced, not resented. Living the moment is what it’s all about. Let me rephrase that… Living each moment joyously is what it’s all about. If you’re grumbling through each second of your day, you’ll end up a whiny, miserable fuck. So I say better to roll with the bullshit with a big smile on your face than bemoan why life has treated you unfairly.
Haha, I love this. I had no idea what was gonna unfold when I started typing this stupid post, but brilliance always seems to manifest.
More megalomania, but I giveth not a fuck.
If no one else sees that, there are no shits I will be giving. My head will rest easy at night despite my genius remaining unrecognized.
We all have something cool to offer society, so I say stop trying to fit in to whatever mold you think you should conform to, and let your madness run wild. People will always talk shit about you, no matter how wonderful you are, so stop trying to impress idiotic strangers, and focus on impressing yourself.
Geez, I always end up being a preachy asshole.
But you know what?
I fucking love it.
Back to crappy sketches…
As much as we love to believe we’re the most advanced culture to have ever walked the Earth, the truth of the matter is we have everything about as fouled up and backwards as a drunken dyslexic trying to figure out pants and shoes.
Much of our worldly chaos stems from choosing “Science” as the popular god of the day. But it’s really nothing more than another dogmatic belief system — one adept at manipulating the feeble minds of a dedicated herd, like any good organized religion.
The strange irony is that Science has actually brought to light a preponderance of observational insight with the potential to lead us toward a grander understanding of ourselves and the Universe, but has chosen to systematically slough off or ignore the ramifications of its findings, while categorizing the rest into neat and tidy little boxes of “proven” definitions and labels.
If you want a few tips on waking up to a more joyous tomorrow, read on with Mikey here for a bit, and we’ll sort out some of the nonsense that has us wandering through life like brain-damaged primates tripping on crappy mushrooms.
Science should rightfully be the study of everything — open to unbiased consideration of any and all bizarre phenomena that occurs daily in this wacky realm.
But it isn’t. It creates “theories” and “facts” — which can never ultimately be proven under ever-changing and evolving conditions — and disregards with prejudice anything that can’t be measured with the “most-advanced” tools at hand.
That makes life somewhat unfun for people who’ve had glimpses beyond the veil. Whether talking about lucid dreaming, psychic abilities, other-worldy civilizations, or whatever else is mocked by the gods that be, our culture has been taught to ridicule an open-minded person as a conspiratorial nut-job who lacks a grip on “reality.”
But instead of feeling shamed or frustrated trying to share ideas with others who’ve been convinced the “truths” of science are absolute and unalterable, I’ve discovered a certain degree of alienation and solitude is absolutely conducive to advancing a quest to garner greater understanding into the mysteries of existence.
Life here on Earth is really just a game of perspective. When you change your perspective, you change your world. It’s that simple. To illustrate my point, Let’s look at a couple simple experiments good ol’ science has shared with us…
Science discovered that if white light was passed through a prism, the elemental nature of its information could be diffracted. Red appeared. Orange appeared. Yellow appeared. But there’s no ultimate separation between any of them. If you’ve ever had the good fortune of seeing a rainbow, you know exactly what I mean. It’s all one stream of information in a continuous flow. Breaking down the Oneness of light into individual, separate frequencies — defining a unified entity as a machine full of individual parts — is the perfect example of why/how humans have lost their holistic understanding of the world.
This applies just as readily to the human body. Wanna know why everyone is sick, dying, and coming down with rampant diseases that didn’t exist a hundred years ago? Because we’ve been taught separation. We’ve been taught each organ within us is different from the others. Doctors are all specialists now, choosing to focus on the heart, the kidneys, the brain, whatever, without acknowledging each cell within us is connected to the other.
How do you possibly say where the heart ends, and where the kidneys begin? When do stomach cells start becoming liver cells? The human body is an interconnected, unified flow. If one “part” is sick, it means the entire organism is sick. Allopathic medicine will never be successful curing illness if it perceives the body like a sputtering car. You can’t pump drugs into a system to treat a specific body part without affecting the rest of the system.
Why do you think everyone over 70 has 15 vials of drugs in their cabinet?
This one is for my heart. I take this one for my cholesterol. This one is to reduce the flatulence I get from taking the one to treat my heart. This one prevents the swelling in my legs that occurs when I take the one to correct my cholesterol. And I’m not sure what this one is, but I take it anyway, ’cause I really trust Dr. Frankenbaum. He has a pretty smile, and always asks about my cats.
But luckily there’s no need to cure illness anymore. Selling drugs to mask whatever symptoms appear has become the protocol of the day. Western doctors are pretty much drug pushers now, funded by the industry known as Big Pharma, whose sole existence stems from profiting on the suffering of humanity.
Body parts don’t get sick, the organism gets sick. Instead of treating localized symptoms piecemeal, a new approach need be adopted. But it’s not a new approach — holistic healing has existed long before the first shaman went into a dream to glean other-dimensional insight into physical ailments.
The Einstein theorem declares that matter and energy are one. Science will tell you that light, sound, vibration, and frequency are all the same thing. When we realize we are electrical beings made of matter, interconnected with one another inside a floating snowglobe in space, breathing the same air and soaking in the same sunlight, maybe, just maybe, we might come to the realization that our individual perceptions of self are fallacy. Each action we choose to partake in will ultimately affect everything else around us, including our own well-being.
As much as I’d like to rant on, this piece is getting long, so let’s get into the nitty-gritty of how you can wake up feeling re-born tomorrow…
You are not the individual you’ve defined yourself to be. You are a flow. You are a wavelength of a greater continuum that can never be defined. I’m a hypocrite for saying this, but Science has a word that I have to admit I don’t mind — equilibrium. The nature of the Universe is to self-balance. When you stop trying to control everything, it happens naturally. Become water. Let yourself flow through whatever scenario you encounter, and allow the Universe to do what is does best — pull you to a place of tranquility where you can be still.
The eddies and currents of life are not something to stress over, they are the unexpected twists that make it all fun. In the end, our meat-suits will all decay and die, so why waste another moment in grief?
The science facts of today will become the science folly of tomorrow, so you know what I say? Go grab a big bag of leaches, and enjoy the day.
If you’re not having fun, what’s the fucking point?
I wouldn’t say procrastination is a trait humans should strive to perfect, but if awards were given out for people putting shit off till the last minute, my bookshelf would be littered with them, sitting beside the old hockey trophies and plaques engraved with words like Second Place, Participant, and Thanks For Showing Up, Loser.
I learned an important lesson yesterday about winterizing a boat engine. It goes like this — don’t wait until 9 feet of snow pours down from the heavens before you do it. Perhaps that seems like obvious advice, but lessons never really hit home with me until I actually jam a fork into the proverbial electrical outlet.
If you ever procure a new sailboat, I would advise you to not wait until the outside temperature hits a balmy minus 10 before you tie up the loose ends of draining your engine, bilge, and water tanks. Oh, and pumping out the shit tank is always a wise move as well.
Meh, so maybe I fucked up. Stripped bolts and unfamiliar plumbing left me a tad frustrated yesterday. Snow blowing into my cabin didn’t make anything more pleasant, and I really hate losing the feeling in my toes. My excuse of saying Working 55 hours a week distracted me from following through with a job that needed to be done is bullshit. I really just didn’t expect winter to hit so fast here. What the fuck is wrong with this country? Palm trees and fresh coconuts should be our birthright, not a travel reward.
Anyhoo, writing this blog post isn’t really furthering my cause of finishing the last few drawings for my latest magnum opus. But a lesson I love to repeatedly share is you have to follow through with what inspires you in the moment. Though I’m technically procrastinating again, I’m still in a zone of productivity, ’cause I love to put stupid words to paper every chance I get.
I’m gonna keep this piece short, because I should really get back to my main task at hand. But there’s a Gandhi quote I was thinking of sharing on Daily Bread in the near future that just popped into mind:
Live as if you were to die tomorrow. Learn as if you were to live forever.
I fucking like it.