New year resolutions

It's the socially acceptable time to lie to ourselves and the world in public. Let's make resolutions:

1. It's time to stop eating your toenails. There is something delicious about three day old, dirty sock gunk but you're getting older and you can't afford to keep that to yourself. Grab a tooth pick and scrape the bottoms of your toenails and dump it into your scoby for kombucha. It's organic and locally sourced and no animals were fucked up in the process.

Kombucha juice

2. Find a new god. The old one ain't good enough. Find one that has a gym membership and wears their sweat like it was a necklace of ears from fallen enemies. They will look like a human boner. This god will dig your kombucha and will be able to tell what brand of shoes you were wearing. This god will protect you from Trump by wrapping you in plastic wrap, kicking you repeatedly, and throwing you into a lake. This god is a lot like the old one.

Human boners.

3. Shop local. It's time to stop driving 50 miles to your "favorite" Wal-Mart when there's a perfectly good one a block away. They all smell like diapers old and young. They all have a grimy film of despair caking around the legs of shelves. They all sell videogames for twelve cents cheaper than any other brick and mortar. Be local.

4. It's time to quit smoking. There's a new thing called wrecking. You just stick a cigarette up your ass, fart, and light in on fire. It's less harmful and way more likely to impress a drunk hobo.

5. Wow your co-workers with tales of how you used to do really cool stuff and you're now back on track thanks to a new philosophy class you found on YouTube. People will totally cover your shifts for your tent retreats with your group of new friends who worship the new god and love your kombucha.

6. Get more politically active. Post more articles with headlines that start with, "YOU WON'T BELIEVE."

7. Resolve to be kinder to the little fucking turds taking your order at Jack in the Box. How many fucking times do I have to say curly fries you poor schmuck?!

8. Get a drug dealer who has a passing grasp on the mechanics of time. You're not buying into this cosmic relativity anymore. Fucking Einstein.

9. It's time to know the political leanings of not only the CEOs of companies you patronize but even the register clerks. Oh, you donate your money to an organization that keeps unhatched chickens in a box? I'll buy my free range eggs elsewhere, thank you very much.

Buy BANGFACE

Buy DEATH THING

How To Write Poetry Now That You've Taken One Class In College And Done Shrooms

You're 20 years old, love Sublime, just finished Poetry 101, and took shrooms with a co-worker like, three weeks ago, man.

It's time to write some fucking poetry!

1. Write about tripping. Nobody has ever tripped the way you have. They were just tripping to escape. You were tripping to discover.

2. Ooh, that's a good line. Write it like this:

Others trip 
to
escape
I trip 
to
Discover 

The pussy is on the way, brother!

3. Go to an open mic and pull out a piece of paper and say something like, "I wrote this on the bathroom floor because I was so nervous about reading here."

People respect that. You're creative even in your fear. Make sure you have condoms!

4. Read a lot of Bukowski and tell people you don't read a lot of poetry but you like Bukowski.

5. Go to open mics and talk about your one experience with shrooms as if it was a habitual experience. That's its own kind of trip, man. Spend the rest of the open mic asking people if they have any connects because you're new to town and nobody loves you.

6. Get some harsh but constructive criticism on your poetry and write a poem about how your first shroom experience has disconnected you from humanity and nobody understands you.

7. Increasingly talk about aliens in your work. Tell people you're going through your interstellar period and in the same conversation ask if they have a connect. You, like, totally can get some but you want to see what else is out there.


8. Start dressing like an alien at readings. Wrap foil around your head. Tell people you're increasingly becoming disconnected from the world and you're preparing for your departure. You just need to find some black Nikes and maybe some shrooms. You know anyone?

9. Never advance to poetry 102. All your friends talk about you behind your back. Your gateway drug was shrooms. You ended up in poetry and outer space and you are Tom DeLonge. Join your friends in kinesiology.

2016: The No Good Great Year

Hey, I'm with y'all.

2016 was a bummer.

Donald Trump first took over our brains then he took over the country. It was a tough, fleshy, moist, wrinkly, sour pill to swallow.

I was at work, enjoying what I thought I was going to be a historical night. We'd all pour beers for happy customers and we'd never have to see a red hat again.

But the night wore on and it became clear I was in the wrong alternate universe. We all were.

I took a few days to lick my wounds. After all, I was a Clinton supporter from the beginning. I was dismissive of Bernie and his supporters. Maybe I was wrong.

But let's get down to it: it would've been Trump no matter what. He had the wind behind him. I can't imagine a scenario in which Trump would've lost short of Obama running for a third term.

People are blaming fake news. There's an overzealousness to this position that worries me. Let's try to remember the Democratic through line... Anybody? What was the message? Love Trumps Hate. That slogan means nothing. It's fit for a rip off Hallmark card authored by a Hallmark card writer who was fired for being out of ideas. It also put our opponent front and center in the message. Never put your opponent in your slogan unless it's "FUCK TRUMP."

Running around correcting all of your friends for posting stupid articles ain't going to win an election. Stupid is a constant and should be factored into all campaigns. Here's a bit of real news for you: your friends are posting fake articles they didn't read at the same pace as you are posting "real" articles that you merely read the headline. Let's get real.

Anyways, now that I sloughed on about the shit part of the year...

2016 was pretty good for me. I got married to the love of my life, we saved up and bought a house, I have a great, fulfilling job with great friends, I'm able to write without worry. Things are good.

Yet I feel guilty about being happy.
  

Trump is President-Elect. He ain't President yet. That should make you feel slightly better about 2016. 2017 will be worse. Gear up for the fights of next year. Enjoy what we have left in 2016.

Make art, support art. The greatest resistance is to continue despite hard times. The greatest resistance is to continue in spite of an ultra moralist flesh puppet for the hypocrite right wing.

I'm under no illusions. My art is not the sword that takes down the empire. But it is a creative defiance. Don't crawl into a cave and fight meaningless, distracting fights. Keep creating. Keep working. Never shut up.

And make sure to draw comically oversized genitalia.

Buy BANGFACE AND THE GLORYHOLE

What to buy the family communist on Christmas

Every family has one.

The communist.

Fuck off, Pinko. 

You know the type. They drive an older model car. Or they bike as they eat their banana bio-fuel concoction of anti-capitalist probiotic chia seed bullshit.

They waltz around with a smirk saying things like, "Happy Holidays," and, "I don't celebrate Christmas," and, "I'm going to a protest against President-Elect Donald Trump," and, "I don't do things for the tail but if the tail's a byproduct of my good deeds then so be it."

What do you buy this ingrate?

Knowing how a communist thinks is important. A communist likes to support local businesses and art.

Here's a list.

 Bangface and the Gloryhole

Death Thing

These two books are a well-known antidote to anti-consumer sentiment. Or it will confirm their beliefs about the nature of capitalism and you'll be stuck buying these books year after year in a never ending loop of despair. Donald Trump will be President next year and there is no point in absurdity any longer. The world's gone mad and Putin is on everybody's lips. 

If it's all going down, we oughta get down, right?

You should also buy these books and support these artists:

Zero Saints by Gabino Iglesias

The Red Seven by Robert Dean

The Train Derails in Boston by Jessica McHugh

The Nightly Disease by Max Booth III

Where the Music Goes to Die by Matthew Squires

Our Annual Holiday War

Good morning, America!

It's that time of year where we fight with all of mankind about the tiniest possible deviations from the ideal X-mas celebration.

Did I say X instead of Christ? Surely, I will burn in hell.

Not so fast though, mate! X is actually short for Christ so even though you want to associate me with the Nation of Islam, I am still acknowledging Santa's ascension into Heaven on a magic X-mas tree guided by the holy trinity: Wal-Mart, Black Friday, and Rudolph.

Years ago, I worked at Costco. Me, being the perfectly decent little liberal I am, decided I would just say Happy Holidays to everyone because there truly is a ton of holidays being celebrated in a small two week cluster. Contrary to popular belief, Jews do exist! And they celebrate a holiday right around the same time as Christians! Though not the same holiday! But sometimes! Maybe!

??

So, without incident, I would say Happy Holidays. Why? Because there's Hannukah, Christmas, Kwanzaa, even New Years. Nobody cared despite Bill O' Reilly frothing at the mouth as he pulled out his persecution boner and ejaculated all over America.

But there was one lady, dressed up like Santa's most widowed elf. She had candy cane earrings, a Christmas sweater emblazoned with a tree. Not one, but two necklaces! One was a cross! And the other was a sleigh being pulled by reindeer!

What did I say to this lady?

I said, "Merry Christmas."

She was so happy!

"Nobody says Merry Christmas anymore! They all say Happy Holidays to appease the heathens! Thank you so much! There is still good in America!"

Now, ladies and gentlemen, I wasn't saying, "Merry Christmas" to fire a small shot for God's army in the War on Christmas. I said Merry Christmas because it was obvious that she celebrated Christmas. You know what I said to the next person? I said, "Happy Holidays."

Contrary to my Facebook feed, this war has kind of died down in recent years. It's no longer the Happy Holidays vs. the Merry Christmas crowd. It's the Black Santa vs. White Santa crowd. People are literally fighting over the color of a fictional fat guy.

I don't claim to know any more than anybody else's stupid beliefs. I hold a number of stupid beliefs myself. People are entitled to their stupid beliefs. Fine. But when push comes to shove, let's just remember that Christmas is about spending money on toys made by kids who should be playing with toys and the more everyone boycotts retailers over what phrase to use or what color Santa is, the more we lose sight of what's important: the global economy requires suffering in one region to ensure wealth in another.

Merry Christmas!

Buy my books!
Bangface
Death Thing
Toilet Stories From Outer Space

The New Yorker Cartoon Caption Contest: The I Love To Procrastinate To Death Edition!

Oh, God, folks. Oh, God. Oh, God.

We're all dying and nobody feels like doing anything! So let's caption cartoons! Let's watch our lives melt away!

Go buy some beans because this is going to be a good one!

Your reckless display of your feelings of inferiority is what got you here, bucko. 

I feel like those fucking happy-go-lucky dolphins are mocking our impending doom. 

This guy doesn't realize it but everyone else in the office knows he masturbates in the bathroom twice a day. Yeah, uh-huh. I said TWICE a day.