Author: M Ciupka

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.

Kit-Kat

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.

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.

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]

AND NEVER SEND ME TIKTOK CLIPS OF CATS JUMPING ON TINFOIL. I FUCKING HATE THAT!

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

Hmm…

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!”

Hmm.

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.

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.

Ready?

BIG BANGED: The Best of BonerFruit…

Introduction:

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 BonerFruit.com, 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?

Probably.

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!

Love,
Mikey

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.

Enjoy!

My Suggestion? Fuck Google…