I’m not into falconry anymore. My falcon is a dick. Always has to be right. But he’s attached to me in a fucked up way. I can’t live like this.

I don’t want to claim I’m extra cool, but I’ve never lost my shit at an escalator becoming stairs.

“Translations mine” = “I come from a Tylenol abuse household”

I think I’m ready to take my perversions to scale. Publishers: reach out. Penguin is as stupid as I’m willing to go. Agents: I want a record of success, eagerness to make me famous, and proof that you’re on the drugs that will keep you focused and delusional. LFG

I’m going to snort four fat lines of Tylenol, sit down at my wife’s piano, and see what happens.

My friends and I all had names for each other the way people do with Sex and the City characters. But it was Trainspotting, and everyone is dead but me. It sucks.

My self-defense class is better than what the dudes with mustaches doing karate, or whatever corniness, do. I take the student into a room with a fucking raccoon. I say: “Go kidnap that raccoon.” They say “Hell no, I’m fucking with a raccoon.” “Damn right. Be like him.” Done.

Is the president of the United States out there just crafting medical advice on the fly? Hell yeah. Mustard gas is excellent for keeping your eyebrows tamed.

A deep sadness is weirdly welcome when a quotidian and mediocre sadness is your spirit. It feels like life. I will miss my grandfather. Here’s to my Pop. He’s gone quiet and is ready to make his exit. I love him.

Hummus? At breakfast? I see what this is about.

Mount, hump, and breed. But virtuously.

“Thanks for thoughts over Zoom, doc. You seem dialed in on the human condition. I sense a bibliophile. Can I call you fucking Michel?”

What will historians say about my S*bst*ck in 1250 years?

Wow. This resonated. I don’t have the heart to tell you what came of a cousin who found his father’s copy of Montesquieu’s “Persian Letters.” I’ll just say he discovered the text’s “secret chain,” which is good, but he tried to form a seraglio, which is bad.

Glendale, Arizona sounds like a place where Slipknot fans gather every year to recall the greatest experience of their lives. This is true, isn’t it? I bet I’m close. Don’t ruin this for me.

I don’t go in for that masculinity shit, but I will say you should perform seppuku when you can’t take out at least two attackers anymore, you know?

Found my teen reading Hegel. After throwing up and having a fetal cry in the shower, I went to Best Buy and got him a PS5. Please. Your kids might be reading philosophy. GERMAN philosophy. Leave church now and go check your kids’ rooms and hard drives. These perverts have pdfs.

Critical Inattention Theory. That’s my deal. Not entirely sure what “critical” or “theory” means, but neither are you. But I just invented it and believe it describes my whatever the opposite of a “system” is. The stupid by nature or unlettered by choice or accident won’t see. 🖕

I just want a Straussian to understand me as I understand myself. And then tell me what that is. I’m out to sea here.

My parallel parking skills have ruined the marriages of several witnesses, and I don’t even care. That’s what we’re dealing with here.

One time a reviewer (anonymous coward) accused me of trying to do something “by fiat,” and yeah, worm, fuck off, what?

I used to use “deepfake,” but I meant something disgusting.

What’s the first book your parents made you burn before they beat you for your own good? Mine was Lemony Snicket’s “Series of Unfortunate Events.” I tried to explain to them the irony, then it hit me, I WAS becoming literary.

How to convince you, sartorially, that I know classical philosophy, history, and literature better than you?

I think I know what a philosophy grifter is. I hope it’s not false confidence that leads me to believe that I, too, could degrade myself in ways that matter while acquiring shit that doesn’t. But, practically speaking, I don’t know my angle. I’m frankly over tweed. Etc.

I scrapped with angry Aryan boys et al, from time to time, when I was young. Sometimes you speak up, and then they want to fight. So be it. But nothing scared me more than when I said to the organizers of the eternal Hegel reading group, “You know, he’s just a guy. Simmer down.”

Operation See You Fellow Badasses in Valhalla / Let’s Decorate the Dad Bod Because I’m Sad continues apace with the addition of roses.

It doesn’t happen often, but I like to correct people when they call me “Dr. Hendrickson.” I just say, “Mister,” as I look them up and down like it’s a rotten vegetable that stands before me, and walk away. It’s a vaguely stupid thing to do in a job interview. But baller.

This book is fucking with me. There was a guy in the Austrian empire on the edge of WWI who was as good at observing human beings as I am. At least I’m a better writer. But fuck. Heavy.

"You can't river in the same step twice." –Heraclitus's step-brother, tripping balls

Please find “Why You Suck” on my blog and on a note attached to the brick breaking your window.

Wife after learning boy and I are headed out for more tattoos: “Frivolous. 🤦‍♀️” Me: “Your judgment is stupid. WE’LL NEVER BE LIKE YOUUUUUUU!!!!” [attaches link to Evil Conduct’s “That Old Tattoo,” wins another argument. 💪]

If I dressed for the job I wanted, I’d look like Gandalf. What fucking good is that?

BREAKING—CBS has halted production of my show, “antifANTICS,” a series where I throw Molotovs at a wall while grabbing my crotch Justin Bieber style. But I’m a fighter. Find me on TikTok.

“Lace up my boots and head downtown. You fuck with me, you see what I’m all about.” —the lyrics I hum as I submit to the colonoscopy

When someone says “to put it crudely,” that dickhead is about to give you his best effort.

Tattooer: “Hey you’re in my calendar for 2 o’clock tomorrow? Did we set something up?” Me: “Nope. See you then.”

It’s cool that a moth ate my sweater while I lost the weight to wear it. At least someone ate. That’s all that fucking matters.

I don’t know what a lot of emojis mean. Here’s what I believe. 🤌: That’s upsetting / Say more 🤣: I almost certainly fucking suck 😳: You just scared me / You’re gross / We should hook up 🔥: I’m the sort of easily amused that needs a check in / You look hot

I’ve been quoting the wrong poet. Who the fuck is Larry Rilke?

Pigs are healing. Less squealy. Check out my disgusting OnlyFans for more.

Waiting for enough sunlight to do yard work is the most namaste shit I have ever done or will do. Grasshopper is the master now. Fuck off.

Scribe: “So what, finally, does a monkey look like, brother?” Medieval ADHD motherfucker:

My warmest congratulations to my friend for winning that thing that place made up.

Dear censors who know best: I was wrong. Pete Hegseth does wonderful things with hair gel, and his tattoos are first rate.

I composed this while avoiding an accident I was causing.

Your Punisher tee shirt is hate speech. I am going to fucking stomp you for the First Amendment.

“Hi, fellow twenty-something. I hope my text finds you well and good. I compose these lines from my mobile device in the hope that we may discuss my murder plans and how best to bring them to fruition. Do recall our discussion of Dewalt versus Milwaukee impact drivers.”

I need a cake made. A celebration of amour-propre. I envision a Charlie Kirk head as the base and two Charlie Kirk’s atop the thing, each holding the other’s waist, each with a touch of heat in his eyes. Free speech hangs in the balance.

Help me get your mom fired on behalf of free speech.