Memory Holes

I’m a big fan of living in the moment.

I do my best to not think about what coulda/shoulda/woulda happened if I made different decisions. I do my best to not obsess over pondering why I chose the left path versus the right.

But, I’ll honestly admit that, despite my grandest efforts, I’m still an emotional junkie invested in Planet Stupid just like everyone else.

Meh, whatever.

I ordered a Buddhist box of Enlightenment from Amazon 5 years ago, but I guess the delivery truck broke down somewhere on the highway, cuz I’m still waiting… and also a little pissed I don’t have a package slip and UPC code to get a refund. Fuck you, Amazon!

Perspective is a cool thing, though.

Just to be clear, I’m not talking about bitterness over shit that’s done and said. I don’t give a fuck about that. So let’s get to the point here already….

I can rattle off childhood phone numbers and addresses faster than a 6-year-old Chinese math prodigy calculating Pi to 40 decimal places.

But I have no clue where my car keys are.

My roommate can tell me who won the World Series from 1982 to 1990 without the slightest hesitation.

But he has no clue where he left his beer that he just cracked open 30 seconds earlier.

I have more examples, but I can’t remember them…

Our cutting-edge tech has made us stupid. Like, REALLY FUCKING STUPID! If I accidentally dropped my Android smart machine into the lake while sailing, I’d have no way to ever contact my mom again. I have no clue what her phone number is, the street she lives on, or what postal code Amazon delivers her parcels to. Fuck you, Amazon!

So I’m taking back humanity one step at a time. Starting with this…

No more fucking texting!

The protocol is simple…

I call you, or you call me. If you don’t answer, you’re either busy, or don’t want to talk. If I don’t answer, I’m either busy, or don’t want to talk.

That’s kinda how it worked in the past when landlines were a thing.

[Editor’s Note: Mike is not focused on obsolete technology, he just enjoys the fax]


You know what I really miss? Calling someone on a phone and getting a busy signal. Then calling back 10 minutes later and still getting a busy signal.

You know why I like that?

Because I imagine they’ve got better conversations going on in their life, with no need to listen to my bullshit.

My text is off the hook.

Beep, Beep, Beep

If you wanna have a heart-to-heart, call me.


Post Update:

Oh fuck, I just dropped my phone in the toilet.

Does anyone have rice? DM me



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.


I Knew What I Knew, But it Wasn’t New

When your attention span has the equivalent longevity of a mayfly trying to get laid, how does one possibly accomplish anything meaningful on Planet Stupid?

Maybe it’s simple enough — just focus on the now, and fuck the rest.

So, as the new book is months away from completion, I took the time to pump out a NEWER one between writing and editing unfinished chapters.

Wait, what?

A new book between a new book?

Haha, fuck yeah.

To explain this more concisely, I’m gonna share with you the introduction segment of the newer less-new book. And it’ll give me a chance to add some blog-style visuals that won’t exist in the final edit.

Are you confused? Me too. What else is new…

The gate-keepers, AKA literary agents, don’t seem to give a flying fuck to indulge in my madness, and so be it. Fuck them. I’ll find my own path to greatness.


BIG BANGED: The Best of BonerFruit…


Back in the not-so-distant past, ideas worth sharing were immortalized using mediums like clay tablets, cave walls, metals, ceramics, temples, architecture, parchment, papyrus, paper, and on and on.

Ironically, there seems to be an inverse relationship that exists within evolving society — the faster our tech advances, the more tenuous our storage media becomes.

Sure, we may have terabyte hard-drive capacity in our homes at this very moment, but without a power grid to fire up those ones and zeroes, anyone discovering your laptop a thousand years from now will be just as confuzzled as a 20th-century tenured professor trying to make sense of a shaman’s million-year-old cave paintings.

A massive solar flare, an EMP, a trumped-up cyber-attack (hell, even a shitty refrigerator magnet!), all have the potential to wipe out the zillion bits of information we hold so dear.

Do you remember those 33 thousand pictures you took on your iPhone (the ones you’ve never looked at even once), all stored on some cloud server in a digital virtual reality? They have about as much permanence as a keg of beer at a frat party.

It took less than a generation for compact discs to become more worthless than beer coasters. Show a CD to a twenty-something, braindead punk today, and the conversation might go something like this:

Dumbass: Whassat dude?

You: It’s a CD.

Dumbass: It’s shiny! Whassit do?

You: Plays movies, music, stores data.

Dumbass: Data? Izzat like a robot dude on the Star Tracks?

You: (sigh) No, you put it in a compact disc player, and a laser reads the information.

Dumbass: Lasers? Like in The Force Awakens Me? Play it, play it!! Pew Pew!!

You: I can’t. Firstly, CD players are obsolete. Secondly, once you’ve played a song or movie more than 10 times, the disc instinctively knows how to scratch itself in a critical location, and hence becomes worthless.

Dumbass: I don’t get it. So whassit do?

You: Nothing. It’s just a beer coaster.

Dumbass: I like da rainbows on it!

You: Yeah. Drink up, stupid.

The point I’m trying to make here is that all the memories and information we’ve faithfully stored in microchips might just go the way of the dodo at any given moment. And it won’t really matter how many backup thumb drives you’ve squirreled away in fire-proof safes or hidden bunkers — if the power grid becomes decimated, which it inevitably will, you’ll only have so much dinosaur juice in your generator to re-live those fun moments you recorded with your buds on a drunken crime spree in downtown Aylmer.

So, in the spirit of horrible negativity about the future, I’ve decided to compile some of the earliest and funnestest essays from my website, and commit them to a print book.

Yes, I know no one will give a fuck about reading my aberrant thoughts when they’re starving or trying to stay warm after the zombie apocalypse, and yes, I know that paper ain’t that much more permanent than a hard drive, but at least I’ll have an additional hundred pages of goofy shit to amuse me before tossing the mess into a firepit to keep warm, as I’m hunted by roving bands of rape-cannibals dressed in tattered dog furs.

Is this a sneaky, pathetic attempt to pump out a new book that’s already been written?


But some of these pieces date back to 2018. In pandemic years, that was a lifetime ago. I barely remember writing half of the shit that follows, and, if you’ve been with me since the beginning, maybe you’ll get reacquainted with a snippet or two of fun shit/stupid philosophy to help you facilitate another fucked up Groundhog Day on Planet Stupid.

If not, at least you’ll have an additional 45 seconds worth of kindling to throw in your fireplace after the government declares the manufacture of winter coats to be the next-latest-existential-threat-contributor to “climate change.”

P.S. There’s a better-than-average chance you find a few fun new surprises buried in the mix as well.

Happy Zombie Hunting!



What the Hell is Pre-board? To Get On Before You Get On?

Okay, weirdos, time once again to play my favourite philosophical game…
It’s called:


(insert stupid Marvel graphic here to keep humans-with-short-attention-spans amused before too many paragraphs inundate their feeble brains…)

Alright, ready??


One day you awoke suddenly in a hospital bed, and the “medical professional” standing by your side declared:

“We have diagnosed you with AMNESIA! But since our latest, “state-of-the-art” testing protocols have shown you to be healthier than a Kentucky-winning thoroughbred, our HMO has suggested you don your tattered clothes and leave the premises as quickly as possible. A steady stream of new clientele desperately awaits a plethora of more advanced toxic treatments than your insurance-bereft ass can afford. This ain’t no flophouse! We’re here to make money, bitch, not cater to mentally deranged vagabonds like yourself. Get the fuck out!”


So now you’ve just been discharged from the only institution most likely to shed light on your memory-loss condition, leaving you up to your own devices to ascertain just what the fuck to do next.

So what’s your next move? Should be fairly obvious, no?

Determine your name… Why? So you can determine…

Where you live… Why? So you can determine…

Where you’re from… Why? So you can determine…

Who you truly are… Why?? So you can determine…


Without that rudimentary insight at hand, how can one possibly make an intelligent, informed decision about what to do next?

The sad part is, we spend our entire lives in this very state of ignorance.

“Advanced” civilization is basically an intentional, collectively chosen form of amnesia. Any ideas or theories of our origin, not written in the official “history” books, are dismissed with prejudice. Any ideas that don’t conform with science or religion are labelled ludicrous, nonsensical, and very likely the work of a subversive, racist, tinfoilhat-wearing domestic terrorist.

You’ve been given two choices to make sense of the human condition:

  1. You are the product of random, mechanical fluke — a great explosion that occurred a zillion years ago, but instead of creating greater chaos (you know, like every explosion that’s ever occurred, EVER!), it somehow brought about order and coherence.
  2. You are the product of an angry dude with a white beard who lives in the clouds. He loves you unconditionally, but doesn’t mind watching your ass burn for eternity if you piss him off, or make him feel insecure by not loving him the most.

All other clues or insight into our origin are shunted into a category called “pre-history.” That’s the epoch spanning the inception of the Universe to the dawn of our unprecedented modernity. That’s the era no one gives a flying fuck about because we were slope-headed, knuckle-dragging savages, incapable of creativity or advanced thought. Kindly ignore any existential anomalies that’ve been uncovered from that time period, because going against the official narrative makes you a psychopath. You want to be normal, right? RIGHT???

So what occurred before the so-called dawn of civilization?

I’ll make an educated guess…

Humans weren’t savages. Humans didn’t steal, murder, kill, or rape each other for bigger huts or bitches with the hairiest tits. They lived in balance, like all creatures on the planet.

I’m not saying it was some kind of perfect utopia — humans did what they had to do to survive, like all animals. But they didn’t systematically wipe out competing systems with malice to achieve totalitarian control or political advantage. Bison, wolves, elk, rodents, insects, you name it — all victims of mass cullings performed by self-righteous douchebags to secure dominance over hunter/gatherer tribes, and/or the poor, lowly creatures who didn’t play ball with man’s attempt to dominate God.

It wasn’t until our so-called “Agricultural Revolution” that everything took a dump for the worse. That’s the same revolution which made us “civilized,” and also brought with it perpetually escalating war/violence/intolerance, decimation of natural habitats and resources, rampant poisonings, rampant plagues, an endless supply of toxic food/goods/materials, ever-burgeoning moral depravity, and, ironically, thousands of mass starvation events.

Think about that for a bit before you marvel at how quickly your iPhone, built by slaves in China, can pull up a Wikipedia search to set the record straight, and refute anything and everything I’ve mentioned. What a glorious age we live in!!

Totalitarian agriculture has allowed us to crushingly squeeze into ever tighter urban centres that leave us dependent upon a food supply disseminated from a destructive industry that uses chemicals to rejuvenate decimated topsoil, antibiotics to prevent the collapse of livestock, and an endless plethora of pesticides and toxins to keep their flimsy house of cards precariously balanced for at least another week.

I find it incredibly ironic that animals can move freely across the land at will. They survive on wild food, build homes whenever and wherever they choose, and give nary a fuck about acquiring paper dollars nor RRSP’s.

But us humans? Well…

We’re prisoners on our own planet — the most “evolved” species ever, relegated to hamsters running on brand-name wheels in open-air pens… and we accept this as normal.

Consider how fucked up this next scenario is…

Geese fly unrestrictedly 24/7 back and forth across imaginary lines separating this land from that land… my country from your country… our stuff from your stuff. But if you put a goose in the backseat of your car and try to cross a border, well… you do the math. I guarantee the minimum-wage flunky at the checkpoint, holding an automatic weapon, ain’t gonna be smilin’ perty in your direction…

It’s more than just willful amnesia we’re engaged in — it’s fucking insanity, plain and simple.

I don’t have the answers to why we’re here, what consciousness is, or how life in the cosmos is possible, but whenever I seek the closest approximation to Universal Truth, I turn to Mother Nature. And the farther away from an urban centre I am when I do that, the more revealing Her answers become.

How strange that our cutting-edge societies have become systematically divorced from living in harmony with the natural world. Just an accident? I have my doubts…

Praise Jesus for smartphone apps that can show us the night sky from the comfort of our couches! Praise Allah for the mass-produced pills that Big Pharma patents by changing a random molecule on a plant found easily in the wild! And praise Buddha for teaching us that spiritual enlightenment is nothing more than a Tik-Tok swipe away!

Science and religion are two sides of the same charlatan coin. If they could stop comparing dick size for even a moment, and actually live up to the grandiose tenets they profess to care so much about, there’s a good possibility the blinkered masses would awake from their hypnotic slumber overnight.

A grand architectural idea exists behind the wondrous mathematical structure intrinsic to this reality. The engine running your car has the same inherent quality as the pebble that turns into a 30-foot oak — intelligent design.

If we can put our smartphones down for even half an hour as a species, and stop buying every piece-of-shit deal proffered by Amazon, perhaps, just perhaps, we may wake up from this nightmare called “advanced civilization,” and start treating each other like brothers and sisters again.

I call shotgun, bitches.

(Haha, sibling joke. Take the front seat bro! I love the back of the bus…)

Call Me A God, Prophet, or Genius, Whatever Floats Yer Boat…

The attached blog entry was written in 2018. Jesus, that seems like a fucking lifetime ago. I found it accidentally while trying to determine the origin of the flowing-haired chick that used to adorn the Adobe Illustrator start-up icon when I first learned graphic design programs.

Stupid me, it was a Botticelli painting of Venus. How did I not clue into that before? Prolly cuz I grew up as a sheltered, ignorant human produced by an educational system that favoured the training modality derived by Pavlov and his dogs.

Ding, Mike, it’s fucking recess!

Ding, Mike, time to go back to class.

Ding, Mike, time to go home and fill out chapter 7 of your mind-numbing, insulting homework, so you don’t get yelled at the next day for being derelict to the expectations of your syllabus-reading “mentor,” and, yes, ding again Mike to brush your teeth, go to bed, and repeat the fucking process till you earn the accolade of being a “graduate.”

Do you know what I like about re-reading old posts?

It gives me a snapshot of my thoughts and evolution. Am I moving forward? Am I stuck in the same traps that’ve always controlled my life? Or can I laugh at myself now for being a holier-than-thou jerkoff, because I thought I had it all figured out as a self-deluded, ego-driven narcissist?

Haha, I still suck.

But, for the record, I did hammer a few nails directly on the head.*

[*See Karate Kid II]

If you wanna spend 15 minutes reading this oldey-timey post, that’s your call. If not, Mikey giveth not a fuck. My best guess is that this website will be scrubbed into a Memory Hole within 3 years, as every internet user clamours to provide digital ID for the “privilege” of sharing information, instead of being labelled a subversive who doesn’t adhere to the Main Stream Narrative.


My Suggestion? Fuck Google…

Add WordPress Title…

I used to think that if I shared enough challenging ideas in blog posts, wrote a few whacked-out books, and continued to parlay my subversive thoughts into a unique brand I could call my own, that, eventually, the Interwebs would connect me with enough outliers to somehow fund my goal of never having to work a slave-job again.

Holy fuck, was I ever wrong!

Although WordPress and HostHero still permit this website to function, and Amazon still technically “sells” my books to this day, I’ve never been more shadow-banned since sharing my stupidest Daily Bread pun about the ability of Bubba Wallace to cast a dark shadow upon his garage-door opener.

Right now, the AI algorithm really, REALLY, hates any buzzwords stinging the official Mein Stream Narrative.

Oh shit, did I accidentally type Mein? Fuck!

At this point, I can’t even say for certain my “Subscribers” even receive my daily notes or posts. But I remember having a conversation with a Byzantine medic I worked with many moons ago during the war – let’s call him Doctor Z.

My holistic friend made an observation I was blind to at the time:

“Dude, you’re doing this to sort shit out in your own brain — fuck praise, fuck notoriety, fuck dollars. Just do what you wanna do.”

Buddy died in a concentration camp years later, but his/her/them message has been etched in my brain, (despite the processed food and rampant alcohol consumption causing the constant misfiring of my/his/her neurons).

Fucking right, Doc Z!

What the fuck else do I have left to do in this insane asylum except be true to myself???

And therein lies our question…

What is true?

What is belief?

What is emotion?

What is Purpose?

What the fuck is 5% spandex?

Being the not-too-bright human I am, if I’m able to discern “reality” conundrums in my feeble brain, I’m pretty sure most of humanity can as well.

Can’t we just get our shit together already, and have some fun again?

“Newton, get my sword.”

“Where is it Herc? Where is it Herc???”

It’s always in the same fucking tree beside you. Pay attention you stupid fucking centaur.

Chill The Fuck Out, Yer Gonna Be Dead Soon…

When there’s nothing left to say, that’s usually the best time to say it…

If you wanna spend the remainder of your existence in this reality adhering to idiotic theories, junk science, religious models, contrived history, or whatever bullshit-de-jour your government is selling you, then that’s your call.

But if you want to spend your final days on this planet actually living in a manner that emulates some kind of harmonious calling within your heart, something that makes this insanity tolerable, then that’s your call too.

Either way, you’re fucked.

This “reality” is the penultimate experience of decay, misery, stress and suffering, all the while tempting you with golden, gleaming paths of love, harmony, and hope, which never quite seem to manifest.

And all roads unfailingly lead to an unceremonious struggle to gulp at least one more breath before succumbing to the ultimate inevitable.

But therein lies the Truth.

Choice is the only real deal.

So whatcha wanna do?

Clip fucking coupons to save a couple bucks at WalMart, or climb the highest perilous metaphorical mountain beckoning you, knowing — live or die — I’M FINALLY FULLY FUCKING ALIVE!!

The fucking Smartphone’s always ringing.

Figure out which unknown number you wanna answer…