You know who loves Halloween more than me? No one. Not one person on Earth. But it’s August. This is too goddamned early.

Wait, am I being the Sally in the pumpkin patch?!? That’s worse than being the Grinch at Christmas! Great Pumpkin, forgive me!

Jim Who?

You ever feel like the whole universe is just fucking with you? Never even once in my life have I had a reason nor occasion to correspond with The Weather Channel in any capacity whatsoever. I don’t watch The Weather Channel. I’ve never heard of Jim Cantore, nor could I name any employee, past nor present, of The Weather Channel. I don’t even have cable. Yet, waiting at home, correctly addressed to me personally, I found this when I got home from work. It took a perfectly shitty day and added a varnish of inexplicable weirdness. I have no words. I am very interested to know how The goddamned Weather Channel even knows of my existence, let alone has mistaken me for a loyal supporter.


When people are tense over a very questionable shooting by the police and an even more questionable militarized response to peaceful demonstration, it’s almost certain that the super-duper ultra questionable decision to place a whole city on house arrest for the night will calm everything right down. I mean, what could go wrong?

67P/Churyumov–Gerasimenko And The Rosetta Space Probe

Nearly ten and a half years ago, a few hundred apes took aim at a tiny chunk of rock and ice in the stars and shot an even tinier chunk of metal and plastic at it. Their little chunk went around the sun five times and had to go to sleep for two and a half years, but when it woke up, the two chunks met up, just as the apes had intended over a decade earlier. And the apes accomplished this using explosives and math, and wonderful, irrepressible human imagination.

So, for a moment, forget Ebola. Forget Gaza. Forget climate change, and celebrities, and all the other stupid, stupid things we do. Today, I’m damned proud of my fellow apes. Today, at least for a little while, we are pretty fucking cool.

Beach Crotch

I grew up on a working farm. We didn’t breed cattle, and it wasn’t a dairy farm, but besides that there is pretty much no farm job that my mother, father, brother and I have not done at some point in our lives. A few days ago their old above ground pool rusted through, sprung a leak, and emptied over 22,000 gallons of water into their yard. So it had to go. Today I helped my dad tear it out. It was hands down THE nastiest, dirtiest job I have ever done on that farm.

Slimy, fecal smelling mud and sand EVERYWHERE. I got in the shower only to discover and there was muddy sand on my dick. ON MY DICK. Do you know how many times I used my dick to tear down that pool? I’ll tell you: exactly zero times. At no point was my dick ever exposed. But there it was: beach crotch. I could have fucked a sea turtle and got less sand on my dick. If any of you ever want to tear down and dispose of an above ground pool, don’t look at me. I don’t care who you are, I’m telling you right now, I don’t love you that much.