Whine Me, Dine Me, and We’ll See What Happens…

Well, I’m officially retired.



I’m not sure where we last left off, so let’s do a little recap…

After a month of blissful joy living as a free-spirited weirdo who no longer woke up at a routine hour to attend scheduled events that entailed a punch-clock and the trade of physical/mental energies for digital-fiat-currency-transfers into my bank account, I received a text from my old slave-hole requesting my assistance… The head chef was in desperate (and well-deserved) need of a month-long hiatus… would there be any chance I could fill in for a few shifts in his absence??

With the weather being shittier-than-fuck to work on the boat, I figured maybe it wouldn’t hurt to amass a few extra plastic bucks during the downtime — but I was only gonna agree to the gig on MY terms…

The plan was to demand a non-negotiable cash bonus on top of my wage if they wanted my “expertise.” I rehearsed the spiel in my brain a hundred times before agreeing to anything, telling myself I would not, NOT, ever again be used or manipulated unless it served MY agenda.

LOL, riiiight…

I ended up running into the head chef before he left, and he informed me that I was only needed a day or two per week. Oh. So no big whoop then. No need to demand a bunch of extra cash, I’ll just work a couple days and be a good guy.

The following week I got a schedule… 5 shifts in 6 days, and then another 7 over 9 days to start off. And I absent-mindedly responded with “Should be no problem,” having entirely forgotten to negotiate my signing bonus.

Me so stupid.

I guess the doormat in me is pretty much always on autopilot. Why do I always put other people’s priorities ahead of my own?


As the month-long tedium neared its end, my excitement level for boat renos shifted into overdrive — 3 new thru hulls and the window installations were the only items left on the agenda before launch. Woo!

But then, during a casual conversation with my mother where I actually called HER, she reminded me I’d agreed to babysit my dad and the cats, beginning immediately after my last shift at work.

Fuck! How did I forget that?

Okay, so now we’re caught up.

I’m at the parents’ place for a week, which means no boating fun for a bit, so time to do some writing. As I considered turning this piece into a woe-is-me diatribe about being a well-trained, Western-culture doormat, a better philosophical perspective slapped me upside the head…

Fuck the whining about me me me!

Going out of my way to help people in need should be one of my top priorities in life. There’s always gonna be time to get to the things I wanna do, but I may not always have a chance to make a difference in the lives of others if I’m constantly absorbed in my own little selfish world.

Did I have fun at work seeing the residents and staff again? Of course. Would I bend over backwards at the drop of a hat to help my mother if she was in need of anything? Of course. Every time.

Several residents died during the month I was back (no, it wasn’t my cooking, go fuck yourself). It’s a tough thing to get your mind around when you’re used to seeing them everyday. But it makes one realize just how fleeting life really is here on Planet Stupid.

It’s a harsh perspective to realize I literally may be serving someone their very last meal… so why not go above and beyond every chance possible, and make every morsel of food, whether it’s a bologna sandwich or filet mignon, an absolute masterpiece? Why not just straight-up do nice shit for others every single chance I can? That’s the kind o’ attitude we all need to make this insane asylum planet a shitload more magical.

Lemme clarify here — I’m not talking about the douchebags who donate to charity for all the world to recognize what kind of wonderful, philanthropic human marvels they are. Fuck no. I’m talking about engaging in acts of kindness perpetrated with anonymity and absolutely no fanfare. I’m talking about putting the happiness of someone else above the piddly needs of self. I’m talking about doing shit cuz it’s the right thing to do, no whining, no complaining — acts of true love.

So I lost a hundred hours of boat time working in a kitchen serving the elderly. Good for fucking me! No whining required!

So I’m losing a week of boat time taking care of my dad while my mom’s out of town. Good for fucking me! I have the run of a luxurious mansion stocked with food, a balcony that sits in the sun to write material for the new book, and provide peace of mind, to the person who brought me into the world, that 3 out of 6 cats won’t be dead or starving upon her return. Awesome.

[Editor’s Note: You didn’t mention anything about preventing electrical fires. Do you even know where the fire extinguishers are??]

[Mike’s Note: Fuck off! You’re making me paranoid. Who the fuck hired you??]

The emotional outcome of whatever game we’re currently playing always comes down to how it’s coloured by our ego-distorted, subjective perspective. We all know this experientially to be a 100% accurate assessment, but continually allow ourselves to fall into ruts and routines that cloud our brains to the greatest superpower we have — the ability to choose, and the ability to find greatness and opportunity in whatever outcomes arise from our decisions.

So let’s wind this post down with a bunch of quotes from smarty-pants people, and ruminate on the simplicity of looking at each of our personal trials with lenses that observe simultaneously from angles other than the this-ain’t-fair-myopia we’ve grown sadly accustomed to…

“Most of the things I worried about in life never happened.”
— Mark Twain

“Ask yourself a question… will this matter a year from now?”
— Richard Carlson

“Don’t sweat the small stuff. And it’s all small stuff.”
— David Lee Roth

“Flowers don’t worry about how they’re going to bloom, they just open up and turn toward the light, and that makes ’em beautiful.”
— Jim Carrey

Mull a few of those over the next time you feel like shit’s goin’ south — especially if you’re a server at Harbour Hill, lol. (No one is washing the mop head at night to intentionally piss you off! Nor are they stacking plates above the magic marker indicator on the shelf in the hope of causing you a brain aneurism at 6 AM! Not everyone is as wonderfully astute and proficient as yourself, so don’t get worked up over trivial nonsense, we’re all gonna be dead soon. Lighten the fuck up!)

The assholes who are happier being miserable are a dime a dozen. Fuck being like them. Take your challenges as they come, and find the opportunities buried within them. You’ll have a lot more fun with your day, and you may even realize that although doormats may get muddy from time to time, most of them exist to WELCOME opportunity…

[Editor’s Note: That’s the worst fucking analogy I’ve ever read!]

[Mike’s Note: Lol, I know! But it’s a brilliant segue to our final anecdote, so fuck off…]


Dutch Fishing Boy Tales, Journal Entry #627:

Dear Diary,

My buddy Mike is coming over in half an hour, but I still gotta get the grass cut so my mom doesn’t get pissed off at me, especially after that last fiasco when I said I’d take out the garbage, but I forgot to do it for like 16 days or something, I can’t remember…

I’m gonna get high as fuck first, and crank out some death metal tunes loud enough for comatose people to hear at the hospital. It’s gonna be awesome!

Oh fuck.

Umm, I was just finishing, and I crossed the walkway to the neighbour’s apartment. I totally smoked their welcome mat. It blew out the side of the mower like a group of angry birds trying to escape the pits of hell.


Shit, I gotta remember that word when I tell Mike this story…


He came over and said we should just find the pieces and put it back together, and no one would notice.

We did our best.

But now it just says CUM.

How Not to Market Yourself 101

It’s been quite a while since I did anything to alter the layout or aesthetics of this website, and for good reason — I subscribe to the philosophy of “if it ain’t broke, don’t fuck with it.” Updates and plugins and new apps always seem to cause a host of issues, so I keep things here simple.

But one thing I did change several years back was my homepage. I updated the text to reflect the “wee” bit of rage I was feeling during the fake-virus-propaganda-campaign-lockdown-horseshit era.

But I kinda like the ring of it now, so it stays.

The reason I bring this up is because I used to have a little blurb about the meaning and motivation behind the (now tragic) name “BonerFruit.”

Lemme explain…

Oldey Timey English was way more fun. Words like gay, diddle, boner, etc. used to be commonplace, and were quite innocuous. The Flintstones used to have a gay ol’ time, musicians used to diddle all night long on under the stars, and every once in a while people regretted their boners. No big whoop.

Today, there are people out there who’ll lose their fucking minds if you use words like “woman, mother, or breastmilk” in a sentence. And that’s no embellishment. The mental sickness enveloping our society is on an exponential curve to reach a full-blown meltdown before this decade ends, and I don’t foresee any miracle vaccine popping up on the horizon any time soon to alleviate the politically correct psychopathy plaguing our media-driven culture.

But back to BonerFruit…

bōn·er  noun

1. An embarrassing mistake.
Example: “When I kissed my boss’s hand to greet her, she immediately pointed out my boner.”
2. One who bones food.
Example: “I caught a mermaid once fishing, and I spent all evening boning it.”

I had to do a search on the good ol’ Wayback Machine to track down my original introductory greeting, and here it is:

A strange name you may say? Perhaps some background…

No one is given a manual to guide them through this strange reality. Perhaps the fun of the game is going into it blindly. I dunno. One thing I do know for certain – mistakes will be made. Each and every new thing we delve into becomes a learning curve molding the being we are constantly becoming. Each boner we make teaches us something invaluable about ourselves. And, hopefully, sooner or later, each boner will bring to our efforts the fruit of our labours. BonerFruit is the exploration of those journeys. Always remember – To Err is Human, to Boner, Divine…

What I’m ultimately getting at here is that the BonerFruit moniker is actually far more profound than it is vulgar. Sadly though, the marketing community doesn’t see it that way. Most of my writing is blacklisted on search engines, and book distributors outright ban me from any extracurricular advertising.

Of course it doesn’t help that I chose a cucumber as my mascot, and it definitely doesn’t help that the serifs in my logo might be described as “phallic-like, in varying degrees of rigidity,” and the endless Daily Bread jokes about midgets fucking donkeys doesn’t really endear anyone to consider I’m any more mature than the average 6-year old making fart noises.

Such is life. But I don’t regret my marketing boners in the least. In fact, I’m moving forward, and happy to announce that audiobook versions of my library are finally in the works! As much as I’d love people to enjoy the feel, the smell, and the meticulous formatting of a real, physical book, the writing’s on the wall when it comes to print material, and I accept it.

I tried my hardest to get Morgan Freeman to narrate at least ONE of my chapters, but the fucker won’t even return my calls anymore. New daily freckles are clearly fucking up his judgment, so sad.

Ultimately I know I’m gonna end up completing the audio myself, despite hating the sound of my whiny voice, but I do have a few feelers still out there for a professional narrator with the right accent…

I considered a dry British tone as the perfect ironic complement to my writing, but this is the dude I really want to read my shit…

Text-to-speech AI is definitely not the way to go, but I found a website with some varying accents that gave me a feel for what I was looking for. After I stopped fucking laughing my ass off, I managed to download a sample. It ain’t quite right, but you’ll get the idea:

That was the start of a chapter in God Has a Plan For You that I picked at random to test out, but, in the spirit of being offensive and unmarketable, here’s the rest of the chapter (in print) as a perfect ending to this post.



PC Used To Be My Bank 

Remember back in the good ol’ days when politically correct talk was called faggoty, retarded, gay-speech?

Yeah, I know, you can’t write shit like that anymore. Why? Because self-righteous motherfuckers get extremely offended by words — regardless of context, and regardless of whether or not you truly harbour hatred or resentment toward others “different” from you. 

They’re just words. And, to me, funny fucking words.

I have no issues with homosexuality. I don’t hate cripples. Skin colour doesn’t trigger me. Cultures different from the one I grew up in don’t offend me in the least. So why should any so-called “derogatory” words be banned from my vocabulary?

They shouldn’t.

You wanna know what brings out the hate in me?

Stupidity. Closed-mindedness. Holier-than-thou bullshit. Self-imposed mediocrity. Simply put — idiots.

Let’s pull up a quote from good ol’ George Carlin:

“There’s a different group to get pissed off at you in this country for everything your not supposed to say. Can’t say Nigger, Boogie, Jig, Jigaboo, Skinhead, Moolimoolinyon, Schvatzit, Junglebunny. Greaser, Greaseball, Dago, Guinea, Whop, Ginzo, Kike, Zebe, Heeb, Yid, Mocky, Himie, Mick, Donkey, Turkey, Limey, Frog, Zip, Zipperhead, Squarehead, Crout, Hiney, Jerry, Hun, Slope, Slopehead, Chink, Gook. There is absolutely nothing wrong with any of those words in and of themselves. They’re only words. It’s the context that counts. It’s the user. It’s the intention behind the words that makes them good or bad. The words are completely neutral. The words are innocent. I get tired of people talking about bad words and bad language. Bullshit! It’s the context that makes them good or bad. The context that makes them good or bad.”

Brilliant insight. But, in our politically correct times, context doesn’t mean shit anymore. We’re now living in a world of full-blown censorship. Racial slurs are the least of our concerns. We’ve gotten to the point you can’t even share a dissenting opinion on social media if it goes against the “government-approved” narrative. A doctor promoting a safe, effective medical treatment — one that doesn’t conform with what the latest “science” dictates — is quickly labeled a quack or whacko, then unceremoniously blacklisted from participating in future reindeer games. If a virologist with 20 years of experience  voices concerns regarding overreaction to the latest fake plague de-jour, his expertise is scoffed at as “misinformation.” Expertise is now only valid when it agrees with whatever bullshit the media is currently spouting.

And what the fuck is a “racial” slur anyways? I always thought we were all part of the Human Race. When did a word denoting a category of creatures also become the same word to describe their differences? I’ve never heard anyone ask me: “Hey dude, what race is your dog?” They’re all fucking dogs. Just because humans breed them into different shapes and sizes to suit their whims, doesn’t mean they’re not all still dogs, fully capable of inseminating one another no matter how pure-bred or muttified they may be.

Exactly like humans.

Just because you grew up eating rice on the Pacific coast doesn’t mean your gash can’t be filled with my European-derived jizz to produce a slanted-eyed communist. We’ve always been part of the same group. It’s the fucking media that wants to tell us otherwise. “Racial” division is just one more psy-op in the Divide and Conquer strategy our psycho overlords love implementing.

North American media looooves creating division among “ethnicities.” Whatever PC terms they’re using these days, whether it’s African American vs. Black, or Mexican vs. Latino, the agenda’s always been the same — keep reporting the predilections of people who grew up within a specific “culture,” to foster an Us vs. Them mentality, as if we weren’t all living in the same fucking cage. Keep the inmates at each other’s throats, and they’ll be less likely to turn on the guards and warden. Simple. And psychopathically brilliant.

There’s nothing wrong with propagating cultural traditions. Nor is there anything evil about choosing to marry a girl steeped in similar upbringings. Preferences aren’t profane. If Muhammed Ali wants to fuck black chicks exclusively cuz white bitches don’t know how to cook grits, more power to him. His predilection doesn’t make him evil or racist, it simply denotes the greatest power humans have — the ability to choose.

So if you feel offended anytime I write fag or homo, or feel the need to write an Amazon review that I’m a racist misogynist, might I suggest you get the fuck over yourself. I love cock-suckers. My girlfriend is wonderful at it. Doesn’t even matter she has a bigger dick than I do.

I guess I shouldn’t have said cocksuckers. I meant phallically exuberant hedonists. Or maybe proponents of penile savoury delights. How about long-shlong-mongers? Nah, too many Jewish overtones. Sayin’ that might get you put in jail in Europe if they suspect for any reason you have doubts over the veracity of a genocide contained in history books. Yeah, there are far more stories about indigenous massacres that don’t get the traction of a country that’s fine with raining white phosphorous on people building underground tunnels to smuggle water and razor blades into their pen, but let’s not go there. Well maybe later, I haven’t yet finished this bit about queers…

You can’t have a non-offensive discussion with anyone these days unless you keep up with the minutia of ever-morphing PC bullshit.

It used to be gay. Then homosexual. Then queer. And then cock-hoover dam collapsed, and a tsunami of insanity flooded into our once pristine neighbourhoods, filling our basements with far too much raw sewage for our sump pumps to handle…

Now it’s LBGTQ FM XL 304 SS THX 1138. I can’t keep track of the politically correct designation because a new letter seems to get added every day. I wouldn’t be surprised if our alphabet gets amended in the near future to add new letters and symbols to cater to the “oppressed.” 

So why exactly is the media so obsessed with providing a platform for lifestyles that represent less than 5% of “normal” society, while telling me I’m evil because my skin is pale?

You tell me, dude.

Oh shit, I shouldn’t have said dude. Oh shit, I shouldn’t have said shit! Fuck!

So now you get scenarios like this…

If you identify with “female,” despite your dangly, 6-inch cock that may make holistic women question otherwise, you can demand rights to walk into the women’s locker room at the gym with your semi-rigid member on full display for all the girls who just wanna drop a couple pounds off their ass in a comfortable space. You now have government complicity to put a business out of commission if they don’t cater to your “rights,” like building a separate LBGTQFM-blah-blah venue to cater to your needs. 

The cripples pioneered this shit…

I’m in a wheelchair, but I want to go indoor rock climbing. Build me an accessible ramp and gear, or I’ll sue your asses for discrimination.

Decades-run family businesses have been ruined because some tard in a chair didn’t have a special handrail, or a big enough shitting stall to make him feel like not having four functioning limbs was somehow the fault of the rest of humanity.

Why does a dance studio need a fucking wheelchair ramp to be legally compliant? Have we lost our fucking minds?

The restaurant I’ve worked in for the last two years has a wheelchair ramp, wheelchair washroom stall, a handicapped parking space, and a fold-out diaper changing station in the men’s room. Do you know how many men have changed diapers in there? FUCKING ZERO! (it’s essentially a coke-snorting platform) Do you know how many wheelchairs I’ve seen in the building? FUCKING ZERO! And there are only two types of people who park in the handicap spot out front:

  1. The losers doing it mistakenly cuz they’re loaded (drunk that is, not rich. No one with a healthy bank account comes to Chuck’s)
  2. The assholes who are perfectly capable of walking, but they have a legal tag from their doctor, because they have a pin in their spine, or they’re slightly deaf in their driver’s side ear, or some other made-up bullshit.

Me me me me me is the fucking cry of society. I say, Fuck these self-centred pieces of shit! If I decide to travel to a country that doesn’t speak English, or doesn’t allow me to carry a pocket knife or machete I was comfortable with back home, I don’t rock the boat. I adapt to their rules. I’m the fucking stranger, I’m the humble fucking guest. To demand turbans, burkas or scimitars be adopted into the rule-set of a profession in the country you’ve emigrated to is the height of self-serving hubris. If you’re unwilling to conform to the prescribed uniform, fuck you. Go find another job.

It’s the same bullshit over and over. If you’re a chick, and wanna be a firefighter, fine, just prove you can do the job. If you wanna drive the truck or work the hose, I’m cool with that. But if you love manicured nails, and have the muscle tone of an anorexic Kenyan runner, I’m guessin’ you ain’t cut out to carry my third-degree burned body down three flights of stairs wearing 60 pounds of air-breathing equipment. It’s not hiring discrimination, it’s common fucking sense. Get the fuck over it. If it makes you feel any better, rub-and-tugs are always desperate for staff these days…

On that note, let’s end this stupidity and move on to greener fields, if you’re still allowed to say green. I’ll leave you with a quote a drunken Indian (native?) said to me once in a bar:

“Hahaha, I like you, you’re fucking retarded.”

Shut the Fuck Up, Dave!

Every 3 years I have to pay some faceless corporate gatekeeper an inappropriate amount of money to renew my domain for the “privilege” of a platform that doesn’t have to cater to the whims of random advertisements or draconian “Community Guidelines” policed by asinine algorithms.

Sure, I could have started a ShitTube/BitchChute/FaceFuck channel years ago to sell a few books and share the whacked-out ideas rollin’ around in my brain, but at what cost? Self-censoring is about the stupidest thing I could imagine to share a message, yet it happens a billion times a day on Planet Stupid.

One time I watched a “monetized” YouTube vid about the benefits of quitting alcohol, and guess what ad popped up to start the clip? That’s right, a plug for the best whiskey glasses to impress your friends and family. Fuck me.

I may still find a public platform to mess with just for the sake of doing stupid shit, but the only working name I can think of is “Banned in 30 Seconds.” I’ll send you the YouTube link when that happens, but you’ll need quick fingers to hear what I have to say.

When I called my hosting service to ask why they jacked up my fees an additional hundred bucks, I was quickly connected with Dave, and he politely explained to me that all the “benefits” I’d been grandfathered into over the years were no longer applicable to my next contract, but the new rates were “competitively representative of the best providers in North America.”

Golly gee, thanks Dave!

As quickly as I told him I’d decided to shop my business elsewhere, the clacking on his keyboard began…

Dave: Wait a second here… I think I may be able to find an old coupon code that may yet be active. Give me a second here, Michael…

(Oooh! Dave found a loophole! He’s on MY side!!!)

Mike: Yeah sure, take your time.

Dave: I found it! I can offer you an $80 customer loyalty discount! Does that sound acceptable to you?

Mike: Uh, no, Dave, sounds like that speech was part of your training syllabus under the section How to Deal With Customers We’re Ripping Off by Placating Them With Pitiful Discounts That in No Way Financially Harm the Company. Can you stay on the line, Dave, whilst I do a quick DuckDuckGo search for other hosting offers to compare your numbers?

Dave: Actually, sorry Michael, my bad. The coupon was for one hundred dollars.

Mike: (struggling badly not to snort aloud) Oh wow, perfect! Yeah alright, make it happen. I’m actually kinda too lazy to mess with migrating my website elsewhere at the moment anyways.

Dave: Okay, excellent…. already sent your new invoice. You should have it now.

Mike: Wow, you don’t mess around, do you Davey? Yeah, I got it. Thanks man, appreciate your help.

Dave: You’re quite welcome. I am very pleased I could resolve this issue. Is there anything else I can help you with today?

Mike: Yeah, stop reading from your fucking crib notes, it’s annoying as fuck. I get the same nicey nicey lines from my bank and credit card company. Do you guys all share the same script?

Dave: I’d be very happy to look into th—

Mike: Okay stop it Dave, stop it, I was just messin’ with you. Thanks for your help dude, Have a good day.

Dave: I’m so glad I could help res—


Okay, so maybe I was a little hard on Dave. Sorry dude! But the interaction made me realize two things:

One — It’s my 6-year Bonerfruit anniversary!


Two — Slave jobs are fucking stupid.

Now I know the average attention span of readers today is limited to Fox News headlines, and memes containing 4 words or less, so if you’re not up to reading this full essay, I have the perfect link here for you to make a swift exit:

Thanks for making it this far!

For the brave ones carrying on, let’s start with the anniversary thing…

Six fucking years, woo! When I started this debacle, I mostly needed a laugh for myself, and a personal diary to evolve new ideas and philosophies that I found to be woefully lacking among the “enlightened.” I never envisioned pumping out 5 books, nor did I imagine I’d still be at it this many years later.

But you know the best thing about following a passion? It’s looking back on where you once were, and taking stock of how you’ve grown, how you’ve progressed, how you’ve changed, and what you’ve learned. And you know what I’ve learned?



As for the slave-job thing, I meant no disrespect to Dave. He’s just doing what we’re all doing — playing the game the best we can… following the rules we’ve been taught to follow… staying within a comfort zone that’s safe, stable, and secure enough to pay rent, feed the cat, and have a few bucks leftover at the end of the month to slip into the masseuse’s sticky tip bowl in the hope of a happy ending. Rinse, repeat, die.

Despite intending to take last summer off, I ended up self-guilting into working a full year, mostly because I’m the type of doormat who fills himself with self-loathing if I perceive I’m “letting people down.”

I’ll write you a post on being a doormat extraordinaire some other time. It’ll be a lengthy read. Shit, it might just end up being a full-blown book. We’ll throw the idea in the maybe pile for now…

I’m totally fucking pumped to tell you that as of this day, I am no longer part of the working community. I finally grew a pair, and gave good ol’ Harbour Hill my 2-week notice (which of course ended up being 4 and half weeks, see DOORMAT).

And now the fun shit begins. What I couldn’t accomplish in the last 3 months, I finished in a week… the solar system for my boat is up and running! And, more shockingly (pun not intended), I didn’t burn, fry, or singe any of my body parts or major appliances in the process. I still ain’t no electronics expert, but I’m stoked on the Frankensteiny mess I’ve put together to test at home. Boat install begins this week, fuck yeah…

Just 1.3 million more little things to attend to on the S.S BonerFruit, and I’m ready to sail to warm seas, palm trees, and my ultimate doom.

But yeah, enough of my egotistical babble for now.

Let’s end with a final thought, Jerry Springer style…

I’d like to thank all of our guests for being here today, best of luck to you in the future…

You know, sometimes we get caught up in circumstances beyond our control. We think to ourselves, “Why me? What did I do to deserve this?”

But eventually there comes a time when we realize it’s impossible to move forward when our vehicle is stuck in neutral. Those dreams you see on the horizon will only get closer once you get yourself in gear.

You don’t have to bury the needle out of the gate, just get moving. There’s nothing wrong with a slow acceleration. But you might just find that the harder you push the pedal to the floor, the faster you’ll get there.

And don’t worry about your passengers. The only one controlling the brake is you. If they don’t like the direction you’re taking, let ’em off at the next truck stop. It’s not your responsibility to make everyone else happy. You’ll never be able to please others unless you first learn to please yourself.

Join us next week when transgender climate activists go head to head with white-privileged Trump supporters.

Till then… take care of yourselves… and each other.

Dippin’ the Kit-Kat in Jiffy

I’ll admit that I’m the type of person who’s always let the “little things” in life get under my skin — trivial shit that burrows into my open wounds deeper than screwworm larvae hopped up on fentanyl-laced meth.

Well, more accurately, the little things used to make me bat-shit crazy, but then I realized the entire Universe is fucking fake, and reality is probably just a big game of a singular consciousness alone for all eternity mindfucking Itself, so I calmed down a tad…

But here is one more “little” thing I need to purge from my system. And I find writing always proves to be my best personal therapy… way better than paying some asshole douchebag a hundred bucks an hour to reach the “brilliant” conclusion I’m a misfit fuckup.

Same time next week Dr. Cocksucker? Pardon? Yeah of course I’m taking my meds. Big Pharma would never steer anyone wrong…

Anyhoo, today we’re talking about something I hoped would never gain traction in mainstream consciousness, but, alas, Mikey is mindfucked again…

Our topic is the Mandela Effect. If you’re unfamiliar with what that is, I’ll give you a succinct synopsis, quoted directly from Wookiepedia:

Some douchebag back in the day started a viral conversation about remembering how Nelson Mandela died in jail, instead of becoming the first black president of an apartheid South Africa. And that started an incessant chain reaction of self-absorbed douchebags who claim to remember things differently than what history says, waking them up to the fact they are 8th-dimensional superbeings immune to the flippant resets of an artificial matrix.

Thank you Wookiepedia, couldn’t have said that better myself!

If you want to do a Gaggle search of all the bizarre “glitches” that’ve occurred since then, you won’t be disappointed by the list. And many of them may just start you second-guessing your reality…

Sex in the City.

Captain Crunch.

Fruit Loops.


Jiffy peanut butter

Luke, I’m your father.

Berenstain Bears.

And on and on. The list grows ever fucking endless…

But not a single one of these motherfuckers who claim to be “Mandela Effected” will ever admit there’s the SLIGHTEST possibility their memory is erroneous.

Fuck no!

The only viable explanation is that the Matrix reset itself somewhere in the timeline, but only they, THEY, and a small group of “superior, non-NPC” others had the mental fortitude to see past the black cat dejavu’s of a constructed, prison-planet hologram.

Well, kudos to you my 5th-dimensional friends! I hope to one day prove I have an “old soul” as valiant as yours, and join you in the ranks of ego-driven superiority you hold so dear!

I do have one question though…

Why are all Mandela Effects relegated to corporate logos and Hollywood-related productions?

Does anyone remember Hitler winning the war? Does anyone remember when we had velociraptors as pets because a meteor never hit? Does anyone remember learning Russian in high school because we were conquered by Commies? Does anyone, anyone, Bueller, Bueller, remember taking iodine tabs and living in caves for a decade after nukes hit all the major cities?

No, of course not. The only timeline glitches and resets involve cereal boxes, racist Jewish bears, and an asthmatic Hollywood cyborg cutting his kid’s hand off.

I watched The Empire Strikes Back 14 times in the theatre (because my mom was in love with Harrison Ford), and my brother owns all the VHS tapes, CD’s, DVD’s, and all the rebooted bullshit George Lucas fucked with. But we’re both totally Mandela mindfucked “knowing” that the line was, “No. I am your father.”

Superior 11th-dimensional humans, who remember the line differently, usually avoid sharing with others the fact they annually dress up in Star Wars garb to attend pathetic conventions in the hope a grizzled Mark Hamill will sign their 1977 poster that’s been hanging on their wall in their bedroom in their parents’ house where they still reside.

Ah, I see. A glitch in the Matrix has no power over you, but you don a Chewbacca suit thrice yearly because your “old soul” is ready to advance to the New Earth? Yeah, the puppet masters have no control over you, dear advanced jagoff.

But who am I to judge?

I’m wrong all the fucking time, and there’s nothing wrong with being wrong. I just want to say, for the record, that it takes a certain humility to admit our fuckups, or at least to admit we aren’t 100% sure about something that happened 30 years ago.

Maybe someday, when we both grow the fuck up, we can have a serious conversation about Life, the Universe, and Everything.

Till then, take your Froot Loops, your KitKat bars, your Jif, your Sex and The City, your Magic Mirror, and jam the collective mess up your ass, where your head currently resides.

Sorry to break it to ya bud, but you ain’t no superior snowflake. You’re melting here just as fast as the rest of us.

See you in the ocean, Cap’n.

Vanishing Point

Happy Arbitrary-Made-Up-Bullshit-Calendar-Adjustment Year!

It’s that wonderful time again when people declare life-changing resolutions that’ll last slightly longer than the box of beer I bought this morning after I swore I would never drink again.

So why does personal growth only become relevant upon opening that first page of the stupid free calendar the Pharmasave handed to you while waiting for your cooch-cream ointment prescription to be filled?

That’s what we’re here to hash out. Perspective is the name of the game today. So saddle in, and I’ll share some food for thought with you that’s slightly less toxic than the culinary abortion you pick up at the late-night drive-thru window at Taco Hell. Extra secret sauce, please, hold the placenta!

Let’s start this in the oddest way possible…

Did you know your grandparents? I didn’t. Grandfather died before I was born, and my only memory of Granny was with a swollen arm, dying in the hospital of cancer.

Maybe you were one of the lucky ones who still had a generation beyond your parents alive and kicking while you were old enough to remember spending time with. But what do you really remember about them? Candy? Toys? The musty smell of Bengay, Vicks VapoRub, or Castor Oil?

But did you know their hopes and dreams?

Did you know if they were happy or sad with the way their lives unfolded?

Did you ever once consider they were once a 20-something hottie, just like you, with an immortality complex, getting trashed at the bar, and picking up a random stranger for an evening of uninhibited debauchery and pleasure?

Did you know any of the endless struggles and victories they contended with on a daily basis — anecdotes that still only led them to the ultimate demise of their meat-suits?

And now what about THEIR parents?

I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who’s told me stories about hanging out with their Great-Grandmother. And definitely no stories about a Great Great Grandmother. The reason is obvious, of course — we only live so long. Unless your mom was a crack-whore who gave birth to you when she was 11, there’s zero chance you could have ever met those people.

[Editor’s Note: Crack wasn’t invented yet, stupid]

Granted, we may have shitty grainy pictures of them, the occassional oil-painting hanging on a wall, and endless stupid diagrams of family trees filled with branches of names that are physically and emotionally disconnected from the spiritual essence of the unique, vibrant humans that once roamed the Earth like you do now. But does that mean we knew them?

So lemme ask you this…

What happens in a hundred years from now?

I’m not talking about robots, flying cars, brain-chip implants, World War 9, or the invention of a new font that decidedly lets people know you’re being sarcastic in a text.

No, I’m talking about legacy.

Egotistical legacy.

Sorry to burst your bubble, snowflake, but in a hundred years, no one’s gonna give a flying fuck whether you’ve lived or died. All the nuances defining “the precious you” are about as ephemeral as the effectiveness of your 6th booster shot.

Yeah, sure, history books will record the Franklins, the Washingtons, the Davincis, the Buonarrotis, the Buddhas, the Christs, the Hitlers… But so fucking what? What do you really know about the people they truly were? Did they love cats? Were they chronic masturbators? Did they enjoy long walks on the beach, or long walks on water? Or were they nothing more than a footnote in a shitty syllabus and textbook you were forced to read between the dinging bells declaring recess?

I have no malice or morbid negativity in writing this diatribe. None of this is meant to bum you out or consider putting the filthy end of a sawed-off shotgun in your mouth.

It’s meant to set you free.

Perspective, my friends…

At the end of the day, your body is nothing more than food for maggots.

But your mind and your soul are right here, right now. The future doesn’t mean shit. Dying with a million dollars doesn’t mean shit. Driving your Ferrari while your big-titted model girlfriend snorts coke off your cock doesn’t mean shit. Your mansion’s gonna get sold 10 times over after you die from Lou Gehrig’s Disease, and after that it’ll get bulldozed or crumble to the fucking ground when Mother Nature reclaims the planet.

You know all that petty shit that stresses you out minute to minute, and leaves you emotionally exhausted, frustrated, anxious, and in a state of constant fear?

That’s right. Don’t mean shit. Nothing but a bunch of mental constructs you willingly allow to gnaw away at your spiritual testicles.

The only thing you’ll ever really control is not worrying about what you can’t control.

And that sets you free.

So what’s my holier-than-thou advice on resetting your time-stamp?

Go make someone smile. Go make someone laugh. Do shit not because you have to, but because you want to, and recognize the difference. Slam yourself balls deep into whatever passion calls out the loudest to you, and never worry again about the endless fear campaigns and emotional mindfucks that Planet Stupid has instilled within the hard drive of your puppet suit.

This reality is much, MUCH more than anything any “expert” jag-off on the Telescreen has convinced you to believe.

You’re gonna die, motherfucker, so stop wasting your time frenzied about tomorrow. It’s all right now.

Let the fake new year begin.

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 ciupka666@gmail.com 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.