Party and Bullshit

First I want to talk about some things that are bullshit.

Let’s start with the Oscar’s. Why is everyone hating on them now…when they should’ve always been hated on? The Oscars are bullshit. 

Oh and the Grammys are also bullshit.

If, on the 1 train, you play your music out loud via phone or otherwise exogenous audio device, I can only assume you too poor and/or stupid to use headphones. Thus your entire gestalt: bullshit.

ESPN picking Tom Brady over Joe Montana for best Super Bowl player ever – and Joe’s not even second! Legit fascism here. Legit bullshit.

If you don’t think this is funny, then you have a diagnosable mental condition. Diagnosis: Bullshit Syndrome.

Tune in next time, to see what else is bullshit.

Anyway. This newfangled version of my blog is aptly titled: Pyrotechnic Regret. Which is because I’m human, and to be human requires a biological processing of mortifying, ignominious, and outright despairing experiences whose trauma lead to – and this if you’re lucky – a steady hum of regret spread thin over the threadbare layers of your life. You see, what grownups do is they sublimate their regret into compassion – a mature understanding of our common struggle, which leads to empathy and unselfishness. But they also atone. In the spirit of which, I introduce:

SHOUTS OUT TO MY REGRETS

First of all, I wanna give a SHOUT OUT to the protein shake I just had, which was a gastronomic disaster, and is working flatulently to accelerate global warming. Blizzard ’17!

SHOUTS OUT to D. Hollander, whom I’m still campaigning with halfassed effect to come back to Facebook. Dav-id, Dav-id, Dave – ah fuck it. Do you dude. This gig sucks. We’re called Shit Father and this gig sucks.

SHOUTS OUT to B. Sammons, who is also not on Facebook, and who bunkered down with me during the blizzard and showed me some really dope troll videos (that’s right, round 2), but whose bottle of Bulleit and crippling snacking habits which I had no choice but to emulate have left me both churlish and crapulent.

SHOUTS OUT to George, whom I said I’d write about here and so I’m doing so, since we wouldn’t want him thinking I’m not going to exercise the divine power which these intractable interweb dimensions provide me. Now would we, George? No, George. We wouldn’t. George.

SHOUTS OUT to the time my childhood friend Sergio and I mistook the benign white powder in my neighbor’s garage for cocaine, and duly threw rocks at their house under suspicions of them harboring a Schedule I substance, such the toddling vigilantes we were yore, and being chased by said house’s regressed patriarch into the nearby wood only to have been on the ass end of a verbal dick-beating of the likes I’ll most likely never again experience.

Welp, that's all for today folks. Tune in next time, to feel worse than you would at your default state of contentment, which, as Len Allergy would say, is just boredom spread thin anyway. You're welcome.