Focus Pocus

Time for a little ranting. Nothing like a solid bitch-fest to purge one’s soul of the endless supply of emotional toxicity we all love to generate.

You know what I liked the most about not having a full-time job?

Not having a full-time fucking job.

I’m not sure how people do this shit their entire lives, but after a month of it, I’m ready to play hobo again. Routine doesn’t seem to bring out the best in me.

But I ain’t goin’ nowhere. I’ve made a commitment to my new friends/bosses, and I plan to see it through till the end. And the extra cash will always come in handy sailing the oceans. Apparently Haitian hookers don’t accept coconuts for barter anymore. Bah, what a world…

It’s not so much the job that’s the problem, it’s the lack of time to work on projects I truly give a shit about. I have no qualms helping others or sacrificing my time to further the things important to them, but I’ve lost a balance necessary to keep my brain from gravitating to thoughts that the human experience is an exercise in complete fucking futility.

But whenever I find myself down, a change in perspective always seems to provide medicine to whatever mental illness is festering in my head. And that’s really what life comes down to — the way you choose to react to your situation at hand.

While pondering this “glass half-full/half-empty” philosophy, my roommate just kicked over his beer, and now we’re in an argument over whether the carpet is half-wet or half-dry. Bah!

Kidding aside, we need to remind ourselves we are always masters of our own fate — our thoughts, our choices, and our boneheaded decisions have put us exactly where we are, and it’s up to us to either be grateful for the opportunities awaiting on the horizon, or bitch and whine that life is tough, cruel, and unfair.

So many problems lie in wanting immediate gratification, and new technologies have done nothing but exacerbate our short attention spans and lack of patience.

But living is a process. Skipping “Step B” to get to “Step C” pretty much always fucks things up. Especially when working with Ikea furniture. Did I mention how much I fucking hate Allen keys?

We need to ground ourselves in whatever “step” we currently find ourselves in — embrace it, enjoy it, fully accept it, and love it. We need to remind ourselves each phase is transitory, which is the greater reason to be present to it, before it fades.  Always living for the endgame completely misses the point of playing.

Control is a complete illusion. We’ll never have whatever whims tickle our fancy appear instantly before us, and we’ll never have a guarantee that the things we take for granted will last indefinitely. Acceptance of our endlessly fragile state is the only way to ward off insanity.

So instead of going back to bed and trying to futiley escape this reality through unconsciousness, I’m getting my ass in gear to finish what needs to be finished. I’m slipping it into high-gear. Shit’s gonna get done — not because it has to, but because I want it to.

I’m excited to get my new book released, but I can’t touch that project until I finish editing another book that’s on my plate, which is going painfully slowly. But the more I immerse intentionality and purpose into it, the faster it will reach completion — like everything else in life.

My advice today? Focus on the now, and fuck the future. It’ll always be a bunch of empty promises. The path we currently saunter down is the only one that matters. Embrace your challenges of the day, and put your anxiety about the unknown twists down the road deep in your backpack. Stress serves no purpose but to ruin the only time we have — right now.

Although there’s more I could add to this post, like how much I hate 80 year-old cocksuckers ordering well-done filet mignon, I have bigger fish to fry at the moment.

How ’bout some words of wisdom from Dr. Seuss to end this spiel…

“You know you’re in love when you can’t fall asleep, because reality is finally better than your dreams.”

Peace out homies.

Celebrate Good Times, Come On!

10,000 things to share, but only a thousand words to do it in.


It’s tragic our society has developed such a terrible attention span, but if I expect a blog post to get read, brevity is a must. Stupid fucking Twitter-moron programming.

I had a wonderful, happy, positive spiel to lay down last week, but everything turned south faster than you can say Colonel Sanders sucks chicken cocks by the seashore.

Lemme explain…

In typical, procrastinating Mike fashion, everything on my plate was waiting for “next week.” I needed to drop the mast on my boat, schedule a time to lift out of the water, and contact the dude who agreed to scrap it.

After a punishing 3 days of 12-hour shifts at the restaurant, I was content to laze around most of the week, and sleep in late. But at 7 AM Thursday morning, my phone rang, and I alertly scrambled through the mess on my boat to pick it up — it was Bob, AKA Scrappydoo. He said he would be in town the following week to consolidate other junk removal in the area, and if I wanted his services, it was now or never.


I called the marina office to arrange a lift-out time, but the day was booked, and I was scheduled to work the rest of the weekend. That was a potential problem. I’d likely have to pay off Peever, the douchebag marina overlord, to pull me out of the water on a day they don’t normally schedule liftouts. Fuck.

So I texted my buddy Scott to help me lower the mast, and he came down to the marina within a few hours. That was a bonus. At least the ball was rollin’. In the middle of the process, while I was trying to unbolt the base pin on my mast step, my phone rang. Peever was on his way down to take another boat out of the water, and if I was ready, he’d do me next. Well, lift me out of the water I should have said. He’s been doing me up the ass with dock fees the last 3 years.

Fucking sweet. Things were looking better by the moment.

After getting through another work weekend, the next thing to deal with was tearing my boat apart to give the hardware to my buddy. I worked the first day by my lonesome while Scott finished his last shift at the mine, which left us only one day to get the remaining bulk of work done.

He was tired, but he showed up ready to rock. We spent a surprisingly enjoyable 12-hour day carving up the boat that I thought would be my potential home the rest of my ocean-sailing life. The odds seemed against us, but we pulled our shit together and got ‘er done. We learned a few things that made my new boat decision seem like an even more brilliant move — such as the decaying particle-board core lining my deck. That would have been a horrible surprise if I’d followed through with my initial plans to fully renovate the boat.

I slept on Big Boner Bird that night in the other marina across the bridge, and biked down early in the morning to give Scrappydoo access to the card-controlled gate entrance.

I had a bit of time to kill, so I started writing a blog post about “Celebration Day.” Something to do with hard work, dedication, perseverance, and other bullshit that I anticipated coming to fruition after my old boat was scrapped.

Just as I started writing, Bob texted, informing me he would be arriving early. I closed my laptop and biked up to the gate to let him in. In the span of 10 minutes, my big post about celebrating a job well done turned to shit. The first thing Scrappydoo did was pull out a drill and magnet, to test my keel. The specs on my Nash 26 keel design turned out to be pure bullshit. It quickly became apparent my lead keel was, in fact, steel.

Bobby was pissed. Not only was he quick to inform me there would be no free removal of my hull, but he would be charging me a $150 service fee to show up under false pretenses.


If I wanted the boat removed, it would be a further 1200 bucks.


He left in a huff, and I went to sit down on the nearby park bench to formulate a new plan.

But I didn’t freak out. My sober-minded thoughts boiled down to Relax, Mike, a new plan will present itself…

If I waited to deal with my broken hull till next year, fucking Peever would charge me 400 bucks for winter storage. So I made a snap decision. Scrappydoo had only driven away 10 minutes earlier. He wouldn’t be far. I called him back.

“Hey Bobby, It’s Mike.”

“Hi Mike.”

“You still wanna scrap this thing? I’ll pay you.”

“Sure, be right back.”

His pissy attitude became nicey-nicey again. I biked back to the gate to let him in, and he informed me that if I paid him cash, he wouldn’t charge me taxes.


Back at the boat, I asked if an e-transfer would be acceptable. Of course, he said.

So I watched his fucked up process for the next hour as he ran a zip cut through my keel, and realized he couldn’t use his winch to pull the hull off my trailer. He ended up deciding to run my rig to a dump an hour away — a dump that had a lift to dispose of my junker.

When he got back — safe and sound — he informed me my e-transfer went through fine, but because I chose that method of payment, taxes would be involved. I owed him money.

You must be fucking kidding me.

An e-transfer is cash, dumbass. Just as I was considering shaking his hand to thank him for his work, all I could envision was punching him in the balls.


So now I was out 1350 to scrap a boat that I thought would cost nothing to dispose of. That put a big kibosh on the stupid “celebration” blog post.

After an evening of lamenting at Scott’s house, my final thoughts of the night resolved to positivity. The old boat was off my plate, and the new one rocked. Yeah, I was out some unexpected bucks, but when it comes down to it, I do lead a bit of a charmed life. Another sober-moment thought said, No worries, Mikey, God will balance it all out for you before long.

So, 3-days later, in a Price is Right Moment, God said:

What’s behind curtain number 2?

(Dramatic Pause)

A new car!

Haha. Not quite God’s doing, but a fun moment nonetheless. My brother, the dude with a heart of gold, just bought a new vehicle, and offered me his old one. One of his texts during the process said:

Bluebook value, 4 K. Your cost, 0 K.

How could I say no?

Although I could have bought my own machine anytime in the last 3 years, my decision not to do so always had to do with my aversion to give corrupt insurance companies a single penny out of my pockets, or pay a corrupt motherfucking government transfer taxes on a vehicle that already had taxes paid on it. What a wonderfully fucked system we live under. Praise Jesus we’re “free.”

But the Universe tends unfolds the way it should, so I was ecstatic to accept his generous gift, to see what new games were in store. My brother and mother have always been incredibly giving and supporting of me, and I always think of them when it comes to the way humans should treat one another on the planet.

Fuck, I’m getting way over my word limit here.

But that’s okay. Ramble is what this stupid site is about. Possibly egomania and self-aggrandization too, but let’s not get into that now.

At the end of the day, it all works out. I love this life. I love people, and I love the opportunities I’ve been provided to grow, evolve, and learn to appreciate all the gifts that have come my way.

Okay Mikey, shut the fuck up already. Carry on another time. Much more to discuss, but other issues press. Dick jokes on Daily Bread ain’t writin’ themselves.

Kudos to my family and friends who prop up my sorry ass. You guys rock. I humbly bow to your generosity and selfless actions.

Life is a fun ride if you embrace it with gratitude and a bit of humility. Perhaps I lack in the humility department, but I’m certain I’ll alwyas excel at self-humiliation.

New books coming out soon, including a poetry tome written by my mother, which I need to spend some serious hours editing this week.

Stick around, the good times are always ramping up.

Peace, friends, life is good.

Upgrayedd. The two “D’s” are for a double dose of pimpin’…

Original Sin is getting closer each day, but there’s still a pile of artwork and editing to do. A few snippets have snuck their way into Daily Bread, and my skill working with ink and a crow quill pen are rapidly improving, despite my initial fears of being a total fucking hack. I still am a hack, don’t get me wrong, but no longer a “total fucking hack.”

Two more illustrations have been completed today, but the realization I haven’t put out a blog post in a while just hit, so I’m taking a break for a few hours to share an unexpected story.

Maybe the best way to start is with some typical philosophic diatribe…

When you’re on the fence with everything in life, the Universe tends to sense your hesitation, and leaves you and your balls straddling the cedar planks you’ve mounted until you make a decision to hop one way or other. When you make a commitment to go all in, and take concrete action along your chosen path, unexpected opportunities seem to magically begin popping up, as if God were sayin’ to you, “What the fuck were you waitin’ for, dude, you know I got your back!”

I’ve decided to stay put for the winter instead of travelling. For a few reasons:

  1. It’s a good chance to put a couple bucks away working a job I don’t entirely hate. Until my genius at BonerFruit becomes a worldwide sensation (insert bloated-head emoticon here), the only practical way I can save money is through traditional slave-labour.
  2. My bosses are awesome, and if I told them I was leaving next month, they’d either:
    A. Try to drug me and chain me to the grill so escape would be impossible, or
    B. Threaten the guilt of having their suicides on my head because the business wouldn’t survive without me. I truly am awesome at what I do (insert bloated-head emoticon here).
  3. I can get ahead on the boat renovations necessary to fulfill my plan of Operation Freedom (aka Operation Nutjob, Operation I Don’t Know What I’m Doing, and Operation Are You Out of Your Fucking Mind Sailing Around the World, Mike?)

As soon as I made the decision to stay, doors quickly began opening. A short conversation with a buddy lined me up with a room for 300 bucks a month. Not a freebie like the Benmiller Days, but a kick-ass score nonetheless. Inclusive Wi-Fi, utilities, washer/dryer access, and a 10-minute walk to work will unfold just nicely as my boat prepares to sadly leave the water.

But the sadder note about my boat has to do with us parting ways forever. The renovations I envisioned will not come to fruition. The good ol’ Universe threw another bone my way, one I could not resist gnawing on like a mangy, starved doggy…

My buddy approached me last week with a 3-way deal. A co-worker of his was looking to dump his boat to avoid unwanted lift-out and storage fees. The vessel in question, built by the good ol’ boys in Nova Scotia, is a slightly older craft than what I currently call home, but far more solid structurally, and in need of much less work to go ocean-bound. It was built by people who get their asses pounded by the sea. (Note to self, write ocean-sodomy joke in future Daily Bread)

There’s much work to still do on it, but the deck and hull are solid as fuck, with a roomier layout, and a shitload of storage space. By next spring, I can have an electric drive installed, and do much of the renos while on the water, putting me way farther ahead in my whacky plans than I envisioned.

The deal was simple — my buddy buys the boat, I give him all the harware and rigging currently on mine (we own sister ships), and in turn, he gives me a free boat.

Not too shabby, eh?

I found a scrapper who’ll take away my hull for free (he wants the lead in the keel), so I only get dinged with a second lift-out fee of 350 bucks at the end of the day to own a new floating home.


In an interesting twist, the boat is called Big Bird, painted bright yellow. I can’t help but look at it like a giant banana — you might even call it boner fruit, if you had a shallow, phallically obsessed mind like my own…

An auspicious sign? Time will tell. But for now, my dream of cruising the world is alive and thriving.

Much work to do, but let’s rehash a fitting Pablo Picasso quote again to end this piece:

Inspiration exists. But it has to find you working.

Multitasking is a term we’re all familiar with, but it’s a philosophy that always leaves us failing at something. Dedicating yourself to the thing you hold dearest is the fastest way to realize your potential.

Sorry, mom, I’ll get your book edited real soon, promise.

Gotta go do a few more stupid drawings today, and ponder being tossed mercilessly in the ocean like a rag doll because I have no practical skills to serve my ridiculous dreams.

Original Sin will hit the shelves by Christmas. This I guarantee. And Big Boner Bird will hit the water again next summer, filled with new twists, turns, and surprises.

Stay tuned homies, the stupidity is just ramping up…

Disjointed, Incoherent Rambling Has No Expiration Date… But It May Go Sour…

It’s been almost a year since my electric bike got stolen, but I still haven’t replaced it. Forking out the dinero for a new one was never the issue. As much as I loved riding that thing around, I opted to buy a smaller and lighter folding bike I could store on my boat, without worry that some opportunist douchebag with sticky fingers was perpetually hiding in the bushes.

Another motivation to shun the powered bike had to do with ramping up my level of fitness. Since I’ve been riding my non-electrified, 30-speed machine around, I’ve definitely noticed an increase in leg-strength and lung capacity. There’s no real way to get around the hilly areas where I live, so I suck it up peddle hard, pushing personal boundaries every day.

At the beginning, I miserably begrudged not having the ease and speed my electric goddess provided to boot around. But I learned to quickly dismiss those feelings, reacquainting myself once again with enjoying whatever journey I was on. Pedalling through the woods on my path back and forth to my sailboat has reminded me to slow down and appreciate the moment.

I could have bought a car for convenience, but I didn’t. I could have bought another electric bike to get me where I wanted to go faster, but I didn’t. And even though I do have a new bicycle, I find myself walking around now more than ever. Not because I’m afraid of pedalling up big hills, but because I’ve missed far too much scenery and oddball shit while constantly rushing from point A to point B.

As I was biking back from the grocery store today at a slow and lazy pace, I passed two kids who were playing in their front yard. One was holding a rake, and the other a shovel. They were laughing themselves silly, and I’m pretty sure garden work had nothing to do with their folly. They were lost in their imaginations, with nary a thought about owning a car, getting a job, or what the next pressing thing on their daily agenda was.

That scene brought me back to simpler days — days where waking up and having fun were the only things that mattered. Imagination was king. If I was in church, I’d be having light-sabre duels with Darth Vader on top of the massive chandelier. If I was riding the school bus, I’d picture myself following beside on a motorcycle, jumping the fruit stands and parked cars like a maniacal Evil Knievel. Whatever drudgery or routine was presented before me, I always found a happy place in my mind to explore crazy fantasies. Being a kid rocked!

I just got back from the beach, and recalled a goofy thing I shared with my buddy the other day — sailing is utilitarian. It’s like camping — I don’t have a hard-on for sleeping in a tent, I just want to use it as a means to live freely and simply.

But I realized the error of my sentiment as I sat watching a small triangle float on the horizon while the sun went down today — I want to be doing what they’re doing! Sailing isn’t akin to owning a car or a bike or trekking through the woods. It’s a reckless adventure into the unknown, facing fear head-on, knowing Mother Nature could kick your ass at any given moment.

So what the fuck am I doing? I live on my boat, yet I spend more time writing than sailing. Shame on me. I don’t need a contrived destination to inspire me, all I need is the thrill of wandering. That’s the shit I love. New ports be damned, all I need to do is raise my rag to appreciate the magic of the moment at hand.

So now I have to look at the mess around me again. Sailing on a whim doesn’t work when you’ve got shit everywhere. How did I let my personal world get so cluttered? An hour to clean up, but in twenty minutes I’ve trashed the place again. What the fuck does that say about the nature of my mind?

Probably something I don’t want to admit — I’m scattered. Disorganized, sloppy, and cluttered. I haven’t even come close to simplifying my life as much as I’ve led myself to believe. There’s shit everywhere, and I probably don’t need 90 percent of it.

But that realization isn’t grounds for self-admonishment, its inspiration to pare things down even further. What was that line from Fight Club I quoted in a previous post?

Oh yeah…

The things you own end up owning you.

True enough.

It brings me back to walking again. Even though I had a 45-pound pack on my back trekking through Central America, I felt liberated. If I could get that pack down to, oh I don’t know, let’s say, zero fucking pounds, who knows what adventures would await?

Would that make me a “bum?” Quite possibly. Or would that provide me with a freedom and opportunity I haven’t yet had the balls to explore — knowing no safety net existed for survival. No guarantees on comfort, security, or a blow job at the end of the day.

Perhaps that’s where true freedom lies.

If that idea doesn’t work out, I still know where to find a good shopping cart. And I love talking to myself out loud, while wearing gloves with the finger ends cut out. As a bum, I’d probably put those other homeless motherfuckers to shame with my insane verbal ramblings.

Kinda like this written shit I’m engaged in right now.

Hmm. There’s a good chance this writing has run away badly on me.


Probably something to do with my scatterbrain issue.

The delete button is here somewhere.

I just can’t find it at the moment…

Life Lessons Learned From Winged Assholes

As I sit here typing, I find myself repeatedly yelling like a full-blown psychopath at the flies that keep landing on my legs.

Fuck off already!!

What’s the deal? If a giant animal swatted at me even once with wild aggression, I’d get the fuck out of the situation as quickly as possible. But no, not these fuckers. It’s like some sick twisted game of petty torment. I can practically hear them saying, “Haha, can’t catch me, motherfucker!”

Flies tend to land on shit a lot, which doesn’t do much to bolster my self-esteem. But they also have a predilection for the sweet things in life. At this point, I could be either one. Or maybe I’m the new version of sweet and sour sauce — except I’m sweet and shitty. The perfect dip for MSG-laden chicken chunks, deep-fried by Mr. Pong down the road.

I have a tendency to overthink pretty much every bit of information my feeble brain tries to process, and the lives of flies are no different when it comes to my obsessive-compulsive analysis. I’ve definitely noticed patterns while observing my irritating boat buddies, but there’s one major question that continues to resurface in my noodle every time these cocksuckers try fornicating on my feet…

If you’ve been gifted with the ability to fly anywhere in the world, on any given whim, why the fuck would you spend your life in the equivalent of a small cave?

It makes me sad — mostly because I’ve come to the realization that the flies around me aren’t much different from humans when it comes to basic behaviour…

They tend to rest when it gets dark. They wake up and start buzzing when daylight breaks. They have times of constant activity, and times where they land on their asses and do nothing. They like to fuck a lot. And despite having a giant open door always available to them to explore new possibilities, they choose to stick close to home. In fact, the giant portal to freedom — that is never more than a 5-second flight away — seems to be shunned, as if fear of the unknown were the driving force to live and die in a solitary location.

I can’t say for certain why an animal does what it does, but the basics seem to be fairly consistent across the board. The formulala rolls something like this:

Find a comfy spot where you can wile your life away eating, sleeping, and fucking. Raise some little ones, and teach them what you know. Step and repeat.

Perhaps my underlying unhappiness with society comes down to an inability to conform to the traditional paradigm…

A steady job doesn’t fill me with security, it makes me feel imprisoned.

Routine doesn’t comfort me, it fills my heart with longing for something new.

Beliefs don’t soothe me, because I know they’ll always fall by the wayside whenever new information is gleaned.

Meh. I didn’t intend to do any whining here, but the deed is done.

My fly buddies may have glorious wings attached to their bodies, but I’ll always be the one with bigger balls. Maybe they came into my life to remind me how much I love stepping through those unknown portals. Opportunity is always there, for each and every one of us. We just need to ditch our programmed mentalities of sheeping in the pasture, and go explore without the worry of consent from some asshole holding a staff.

Thanks for the insight flies, now please, buzz the fuck off.

Happy Anniversary, Happy Happy Anniversary…

There are many times in life where it seems like we’re spinning our wheels. The mud is deep, our two-wheel-drive junker sucks ass, and there’s not a soul in sight to give us a desperate push out of the muck.

But those moments are nothing more than fleeting perspectives.

If we stop to take a few seconds to reflect upon how far we’ve come along in our unique journeys, we might find ourselves pleasantly surprised at how much progress we’ve actually made.

So lemme tell you a story…

On June 15, 2018, some moron named Michael Ciupka posted his first online writing. He was sitting at the end of his boat dock, dangling his feet in the water, and jotted down a couple thoughts in a lame-ass attempt to capture the moment.

A year has gone by since.

The moron is still writing today, and, on July 26, 2019, he decided to take stock of the stupidity he’s amassed to date.

He found himself smugly amused. Although it seemed his dreams were unfolding painfully slowly, there was much to be proud of.

Why he talked about himself repeatedly in the third person was beyond anyone’s best guess.

So enough of that.

I suck at gauging time. Although I feel like I’ve been writing all my life, this website is only a year old.

And I missed my own anniversary. Thank God Bonerfruit’s not my woman, cuz she’d be pissed at me for not buying a stupid card or something.

On that note, happy anniversary to me.

Yeah, I know, shut the fuck up you self-serving asshole.

Meh, whatever.

I didn’t plan any of this. It just sorta happened. I don’t even remember how or why I chose one day to begin compiling a book. It was never on my radar. To the best of my recollection, the catalyst was being gifted with an aging laptop.

It feels like an eternity now since Everything is Bullshit was written, but it’s only been a year and a half. BonerFruit exists because I typed a non-existant reference to it at the end of that ridiculous writing.

And now here we are.

So indulge me for a moment.

Aside from finishing some artwork, 3 books are now under my belt. The first two were about testing the waters — short and sweet (sour?) compilations that provided a much-needed learning curve. The latest absurdity, Original Sin, is a kick-ass piece I’m excited about. Editing a 400-page book is time-consuming when you don’t have lackeys working for you, but who the fuck else is gonna do this properly but me? Any editor I could hire would probably end up leaving the 47 references to “fuckwads” in the trash bin. Screw that.

Including Daily Bread, Bonerfruit has over 400 hundred postings. The word count of those writings sits at the 80,000 mark — definitely nothing to sneeze at, unless you’re allergic to the word douchebag.

Even though there have only been some 3,000 views to this site, I don’t feel discouraged in the slightest. The only way to garner any traction in this goofball reality is to keep doing what you love to do. Fame and fortune don’t mean shit. If you’re excited to wake up and take the day head-on, there’s a good chance you’ve found a path worth treading upon.

In the last year, I’ve also learned how to sail. I had the balls to jump on a plane and spend 3 months in countries where I couldn’t speak more than 20 words of the native tongue. Looking back on the last 365, I have no reason to feel ashamed.

Probably much like yourself.

Forgive my self-babble. This crux of this post is about letting you know you likely deserve a solid pat on the back. Do yourself a favour, and think back to all the cool shit you’ve achieved and experienced over the last year, no matter how small or piddly those accomplishments may have been. The list is probably far more impressive than you thought.

And then use that inspiration to keep doing the shit you truly love — to blow off the bullshit that doesn’t serve you, while constantly re-imagining bigger, grander, and crazier dreams.

Time slips by pretty fucking fast, so don’t waste it on status-quo garbage. Grab your passion by the balls — just don’t squeeze with too much aggression. A little massaging and tickling will always serve you better than a painful clench.

There’s a “suck my balls” joke in there somewhere, but I’m not seeing it at the moment.

Meh, no worries. That’s what Daily Bread is for.

Rock on, friends.

I’m proud of you.

Mikey’s Top 5 of the Day

As I’ve been analyzing other blogs over the last few months, I noticed there seems to be a lot of posts out there formulated into lists. I guess David Letterman had far more influence on our stupid society than I realized. Everywhere I turn, I find shit like The Top 10 Ways to Build Self-Confidence, 5 Tips to Land Your Dream Job, or 12 Reasons Why Everyone Should Consider Fucking a Goat.

For the most part, the writing is pure shit, and loaded with obvious, common-sense advice that isn’t worth wasting 5 minutes perusing. It’s pretty sad when the number of ads outweighs the words of wisdom.

But in the spirit of attracting a wider audience to the BonerFruit fun, we’re going to try putting a bit of self-help guidance together today using the listing technique. And we’re going to try using some advertising as well for the first time here. Society loves a formula, so who am I to argue?

Today’s Topic?

The Top 5 Ways to Determine if a Top 10 List Was Written by a Douchebag

Snappy title, eh?

We’ll do it in reverse order to build the suspense. The anticipation probably already has you jizzing your pants.

Here we go…

Reason the Fifth — They Sell the Shit They’re Praising

Yeah, not too much conflict of interest there, asshole. A thousand-word essay touting the benefits of organic spirulina, and the fortunate coincidence of you selling the “best” brand in your online store. Guess what, fuckface? Infomercials have been pulling that same con long since before you learned to shit your diapers, so do me a favour, and fuck off.


Reason the Fourth — About the Author

10 Tips on Building a Successful Marriage, written by some twat who mentions in the first line of her bio that she’s the proud mom of two dogs. Hmm, lemme take a wild guess here Angie — there ain’t no weddin’ ring hangin’ off your finger. If your fabulous marriage wasn’t worthy of noting to readers — the people wondering if they should put any faith into your bullshit — perhaps time to focus your “love of writing” on topics you have a little more experience with. How about The Top Ten Ways of Determining Why Your Life is a Total Failure, or 5 Tips for Breastfeeding Chihuahuas.


Reason the Third — An Obvious Lack of References

Who the hell made you king-shit to determine what ranks highest in any given category? Where are you sourcing this? Was there some kind of world-wide vote I missed out on, one only you had secret access to the results of? Why did reason 11 get left on the scrap heap over reason 10? Was it months and months of research that allowed you to compile this ultimate list, or was it half a bottle of tequila last night that provided your confidence to print your bullshit authoritative drivel?

Fuck you, Douchebag!

Reason the Second — Advertising

Here’s a good one — 10 Ways to Spend Your Money Wisely, with an advertisement linked to Amazon between each paragraph. Just a quick question here, Hemingway — how far up your ass is your head currently stuffed? That’s a topic I’d be far more interested to read about, not the copy and paste shit you put together between phone calls to mommy asking her to lend you a few bucks to cover your rent.


Reason the First — Honesty

You won’t find too much of it out there, but you’ll sure as hell get a good dose of it here. It’s easy for me to spot a douchebag for one simple reason — I’m a douchebag. I walketh in the same shoes. And when it comes to writing a list of The Top 5 Ways to Determine if a Top 10 List Was Written by a Douchebag, I believe I’ve now violated them all, solidifying my douchiness. If you seek legitimate advice, forget the pompous rhetoric of bullshit experts — track down an honest professional like me. You’ll sleep better at night, knowing your faith has been placed in good hands, no matter how sticky they may be.

About Michael Ciupka:

Michael, a published author and creator of the BonerFruit blog, has been compiling know-it-all, bullshit philosophy for a solid year now, pumping out some of the stupidest and inane babble the internet community cares nothing about. His commitment to writing “Daily Bread” has produced more worthless puns than a lobotomized Stephen Wright. His new book, Original Sin, will continue enforcing his legacy of total obscurity. Michael secretly wishes the world would fuck off and die — one of his many poor strategies to acquire fame and fortune. Subscribe to his work at, and you’ll always have the satisfaction of deleting something mindless from your inbox. He also loves cats.