alternate facts, wings, timelines, and private grabbing

i go away a lot, but i always come back.

november ninth, twenty sixteen: i woke up and thought to myself ‘something’s…..different.’ i soon found that biff tannen had ripped his way through the fourth wall of cinematic fiction and into this supposed reality, regained possession of the futuristic sports almanac, and wrested control of the white house (bob gale, a writer for back to the future II, has acknowledged that the rich, powerful tannen is based on someone who recently became king of America—google that), giving rise to a wave of ‘alts’—facts, wings of the right, and of hunter-s-thompson-for-sheriff-poster_200_200course timelines. within these alternative timelines, expect quite a few of them to legalize pussy grabbing (some in more lawyerly language, some not so much), and in those where a female version of tannen assumes power, an equally degrading form of something called dong conking.

none of that really matters, though. the only thing i ever worry about is me, of course, which is why i have emerged from a months-long hiatus to make it known that i am not fake news. that’s all. i’m expecting many of these alternate timelines to produce executive orders shutting down any and all outlets that do not acknowledge the supreme insight and godliness of our new *rutaceaecean* figurehead of american greatness. so, as of this writing, the official stance of the philosophunculist blog is that america has been made great.

and speaking of biff tannen, was it really so bad that he got to be rich, if only in one timeline? in all three movies, dude gets smothered in poopy, which is what we have to assume is happening to this current commander in chief in every other timeline. just let the guy have one feces-free life, alright?

back to me. this blog is very real. it’s not even news, therefore it can’t be fake news. when the witch hunt for publications of ill repute commences, please don’t censor me. i’ll do anything. grab my pussy (in a timeline where i am a woman). conk my dong (in the timeline where the king is a woman. or even a man. i don’t care. if the masculine king of america wants to conk my dong, i’ll take it. years after this, when i’m homeless because all workers have been replaced by robots and the children and friends of the king, i can tell passersby that the king of america once conked my dong, and they will reward me with a russian ruble.) just let me keep this blog. it’s really all i’ve got, until america achieves an even greater level of greatness and me and everyone i know gets rich from working at our jobs (before the robots take over) because america will be that great

 

*i sort of made that up, but it has a base in rutaceae, which is the citrus family, and i know that doesn’t help my ‘not fake’ spiel, but due to its base on a real word, it can’t be classified as fake*

 

 

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Sitting, Standing, and Channel Surfing During the National Anthem

September 14, 2016 2 comments

When I’m watching a sporting event at home I sit on a couch during the national anthem. Sometimes I stand to go use the bathroom. Most of the time I watch something else until the game starts. I know the song is playing, but it’s on a different channel. Does the mere knowledge that the national anthem is playing somewhere require some sort of action?

If you camped outside the house of a pro-stander (or anti-sitter) and played the song continuously would they never sit down?

If you did the same thing at the home of a pro-sitter (or anti-stander), would they never stand up?

If the song is performed acapella using sign language in a forest, does it make a sound?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Life Objective: Land A Spot On The Writing Staff Of Dr. Oz

Oh, to be a fly on the wall of the Dr. Oz writing room. No—to be a person on a chair in that writing room.

To make the cut on the Dr. Oz show, you’ve got to know a thing. The thing being, of course, redundancy. When you send the esteemed Dr. Mehmet Oz out into that standing-room-only-lioness-den-and-also-television-studio packed to the brim with bored, middle-aged women, he better be stuffed up to his beady little eyes with tips on how to lose weight.

If not, upon you will the harem of Oz feast.

So, if anyone from the Dr. Oz camp happens to be reading this, I went ahead and drafted a spec script:

Dr. Oz, returning from commercial: “Welcome back ladies, yes, I am a real doctor.” He pauses here to allow swooning. “Now, let’s get right to it: who wants to lose weight?”

Audience: “MEEEEEEEE!!!!! MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!”

Oz: “Okay then. I’ve got a secret to share, something no other doctor will ever tell you. Quick survey: how many of you eat a cheeseburger and French fries every day? Show of hands.”

Everyone raises their hand.

Oz: “Did any of you know that a diet like that is actually bad for you?”

Everyone looks around in disbelief.

Oz: “It’s true, it’s true. What if I told you that, instead of eating a cheeseburger and fries every day, you will lose weight if you eat broccoli and rice instead?”

The audience collectively bows down to The Oz: “We’re not worthy! We’re not worthy!”

Dr. Oz: “And here’s a bonus tip—it’s also healthier to drink water instead of soda!”

Everyone is now spasming and speaking in tongues.

Dr. Oz: “And one more thing before we go: if you exercise instead of sitting on your couch, your metabolism will speed up!”

Something like scales fall from upon every eye in the audience. A massive rebirth has taken place. They all go forth into the world, ready to turn their lives around. However, in the time between the end of the show and the next morning, all of these brutal truths are washed away by one last binge, followed by the intoxicating coma that comes after eating a box of Cosmic Brownies….

Tomorrow, Dr. Oz replaces cheeseburger with hot dog. Broccoli becomes spinach. Water is now decaffeinated green tea. No one notices.

The unstoppable Oz cash cow continues to feast upon itself.

ouroboros_white

Ouroboros.

 

 

 

First Look: Harry Potter And The Cursed Child

Here is a review of Harry Potter and the Cursed Child. Spoilers? Sure.harry-potter-sq1

Now, from what I gather, sometime during the original series, Voldemort managed to impregnate Draco Malfoy, and is the true father of Scorpius. Due to the fact that Harry Potter was somewhat telepathically connected to Voldemort at that time, he’s kind of the dad too.

It is now the year 3030. Scorpius Malfoy and Albus Severus, Harry’s other son, are dating. And not just casually—they’ve both thought about who would be their groomsmen. Meanwhile, another one of Harry’s sons, James Sirius, is battling a pretty heavy heroin addiction. It is hinted that this has caused Ginny, Harry’s alcoholic wife, to elope with Dudley Dursley.

Then, in a breaking of the fourth wall, all of the characters suddenly realize that they are in a play, which itself has been novelized by two dudes who did not create the series which was the basis for the play that was turned into this book.

The People of Trader Joe’s

Browse through People of Walmart for a bit. Pretty scary stuff.

The universe needs balance, though. Enter the yuppies of Trader Joe’s, a force countering the grizzled mass that comprises Walmart’s patronage, not in looks, but in sheer pomposity.

Last Friday, I witnessed a 40-something male, clad in snug, halfway-down-the-quad navy blue short pants and a tight pastel plaid shirt, shaming an elderly woman that may have been his mother, lover—or through some sort of strange sci-fi twist, daughter—for suggesting that they buy frozen corn.

Picture that: unfettered fury, arising from the mere mention of produce stored below thirty two degrees Fahrenheit.

The situation played out like this:

Mother, daughter, or lover: “They have some corn in the freezer.”

Man, through gritted teeth, with a vein protruding from his forehead, talking very slowly: “What did……..I tell you……..about frozen…………………… products.”

Then he stood, glaring at her in silence, as a look of genuine terror overtook the woman’s face.

I feel like I should have intervened, but I got the vibe that this would have earned me a room temperature organic daikon radish stuffed into one of my many unfrozen orifices, courtesy of short pants.

 

A Very Short Story

A man is in a situation where another man produces a smooth object.

Man #1: “That’s as smooth as a baby’s bottom.”

Man #2: “What.”

Man 1: “That object you handed me is as smooth as a baby’s bottom.”

Man 2: “How could you possibly know how smooth a baby’s bottom is.”

Man 1: “I…….just do.”

Man 2: “You shouldn’t know what a baby’s ass feels like. You don’t have kids.”

Man 1: “So?”

Man 2: “Yet you know what the buttocks of an infant feels like.”

Man 1: “Yes, I suppose you could say that.”

Man 2: (Producing a badge) “Freeze, buttwipe. I’m an undercover constable. You’re under arrest.”

Later on, in court, Man 1 was unable to produce a believable explanation as to why he possessed so much knowledge about the topography of baby rumps, and went to jail for a very, very long time. The end.

Some Dark Truths About Me

A few weeks ago, at one of them political rallies, Dr. Ben Carson said something like this: Hillary Clinton wrote her senior thesis on Saul Alinsky. Saul Alinsky mentions Lucifer in one of his books. Therefore, Hillary Clinton worships Satan.

Compelling argument, but there’s no way she’s that cool.

So I sat for a while, thinking. Following Dr. Carson’s logic, I learned some very dark truths about myself.

Here are a few:

I read Gravity’s Rainbow, a big novel with a small part featuring coprophilia. Therefore, I am a coprophiliac.

I enjoy using car batteries to torture hookers, because a copy of American Psycho is sitting in my book pile right now. Also, I like to stab small children at the zoo.

I am a homophobic pill popper who hates his mother. That would be from my high school days listening to Eminem.

I cook meth. Thanks, Breaking Bad.

And most horrifying of all, I might not play football next year because I’d rather hang out with Wooderson and drink beer.

 

 

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