Hung The Fuck Over

Great party, so naturally they drank to forget it. Shots after midnight brought on a preview of Alzheimers. Counterintuitive, he thought. Nothing on Earth made less sense than human behavior. Want one thing, then run the fuck away from it.

Already Sunday afternoon. He was on the train. Dehydrated. He imagined he looked like mummy. Three hours of memory missing, excised Spotless Mind style. Both he and the girl had been so drunk that, according to modern statutes, they’d technically raped each other. Call it a draw. Phone was dead so he couldn’t endlessly scour his chats. Which was good. Nothing in there but nostalgia or regret. The eternal would-you-rather. Better if you didn’t look back at the record and just let some time pass instead. Man’s fading memory is a feature, not a bug.

Jesus Christ, no phone. Now what. Now he had to just let his thoughts unspool. He realized that right now he was back in the day. He saw himself in a chair with wrinkles and probably some checkered socks, smiling back on the past with a cultish twinkle in his eye.

It’ll be good someday, I guess, he told himself. Don’t worry about what happens to you, or what you do. Your eyes and brain will edit everything. The truth might be out there, but don’t worry about it. You’ll never have to deal with it.


This ran today over on the Crusade.


Life Lessons & Some Other Bullshit

Cruz for President

Yesterday I took a break from the repetitive Miyagi practice of writing, and it was pretty great. Mostly because I had nothing to say. When you have nothing to say, time on the keyboard is absolute poison. So fuck it. I drank until two a.m. and then slept till noon. I had a party later so I worked out and then jacked off to refill the endorphin/serotonin cocktail in my brain. Then I headed to Seoul for a farewell thing for these Canadians leaving Korea. It was in this dark bougie-ass bar. They’d shut it down so we could have a private party. We’re all a bunch of average fucking idiots but in Korea we act like Illuminati. I had a bottle of pomegranate soju. I was in a suit and the photographer took a candid picture of me that blew the fuck up on Facebook in a way that nothing I’ve ever written has. So that’s how you get attention. Accidentally. Just be standing somewhere like a douchebag. Don’t look for it, don’t even want it. If you’re a calculating cunt about it, it won’t work. If you look like you’re trying, they’ll kill you. People want sprezzatura, which is the Italian word for “studied carelessness,” or making difficult things look easy. *makes jackoff gesture*

Anyway, I’ll keep writing I guess. But for me success is going to have to be an accident. Success is going to come to me, have to leave me a voicemail and then break down my fucking door. I’ll be there, dick in hand.

Jesus, This Election


Free speech was a bad idea. We should have had a dictator. If only to prevent us from electing future dictators, which we seem determined to do. It’s our destiny. We should have just kept King George III instead of swinging our dicks around, pretending we were enlightened. We need a dictator, one that I agree with.

Thank Christ I live abroad. So I can be correct all the time, allow my viewpoints to go unchallenged. Not have to overhear shit I disagree with. Sometimes in an American Starbucks I’d look down and see my sock in my hand. Realize I’d just taken it off and was about to stuff it in someone’s mouth. Free speech was a bad idea. Everyone shut up and drive off a bridge. Do that, unless you agree with me.


Predicted Comments:

Aunt Sandy writes:

“LOL!!! We already have a dictator OBAMA OBAMA OBAMAAA!!!”

Factcheckercunt writes:

“You DO know George III was a monarch, not a dictator….lol”

Overmyhead writes:

“Free speech was a bad idea!? Your BLOG exists because of free speech…


Drinking At Work


I brought in a Heineken this morning to pregame for the sixth grade graduation. As a teacher, my attendance is obligatory. Now I’m sitting in the crowd and the buzz is long gone. Two hours so far. Didn’t expect this. Graduation is a merciless affair. They keep playing the Korean national anthem and they actually bring the fucking music teacher up on stage to make the conductor hands with her fat little thumbs and forefingers pinched together, in case this gymnasium full of native Koreans had forgotten how to sing their own national anthem. And if for some reason they had, would seeing conductor hands actually help them? Put down your fucking conductor hands. I wish heckling and throwing objects at the stage was still common practice. Because I have a beer can in my bag. Let’s bring all the heckling and rowdiness back. Let’s devolve. Make anyone on a stage fucking work to keep you invested, respect your investment. Modernity has lowered the stakes. Performers and speakers are too comfortable now.

This fucking ceremony is interminable. Too many speeches and songs. This shit is like the Oscars, if the Oscars were a ritual where one race jacked off to itself for eternity. Wait.

Anyway. They shouldn’t even parade the students around today. Let them go take a nap for once. With how hard the Korean tiger mothers ride their kids, they should be up on stage bowing.

And up next is Kim Eun-song’s mother, who forced him to attend nine hours of after-school academies a day!

That’s what this ceremony is all about anyway. Who can kick their kid’s ass hardest.

Two hours and twenty minutes in. This shit is endless. Graduations are the one reason I don’t want kids. The only reason. What was I thinking, only drinking one beer this morning. Should have brought a flask instead. Sorry about your mom, Eun-song. I’d say it gets easier but it’s about to get the opposite of easy. You’re about to ship off to middle school where you’ll study till you die, and if you survive that then you have to work till you die, and if you survive that then your wife will yell at you till you die. Maybe go get a flask.

8 Reasons Not To Write A Book

(Alternate Title: Finally Sucking Buzzfeed’s Dick So I Can Get Some Clicks Up In Here)

1.) The theoretical book in your head is better than the letdown the actual book will be.


And the book in your head will be read by more people.

2.) Seriously, not even Mom will read it.

eye roll.gif

My mom said I was a better writer than you, so I dedicated a story to her, and she did not read it. I should have dedicated a tweet to her instead.

3.) There are five million new books published every day.

Infinity book

This is absolutely true. The day your amazing and special book comes out, it will launch in tandem with five million other amazing and special books. Now there are more books out than there are stars in the universe.

4.) You won’t have to pay some vulture $300 for a book cover.

money 2

“This is a supremely sound investment.”

–What I thought after I paid a designer* for my book cover.

5.) You won’t have to be online for 40 hours a week marketing the fucking thing.

comp smash

(which you will have to do even if you have a publishing contract).

6.) You won’t waste your time.

domino fail

You can spend a thousand hours polishing your novel, or you can spend a thousand hours playing horseshoes or lining up dominoes or some shit. Literally any other activity besides writing is a better investment of your time, and will make more people like you.

7.) No but seriously, it’s a waste of time.

Money 1

Sweatshop workers in Bangladesh make more than writers. It’s 2016, other people’s thoughts and output have been considered free for a while now.

8.) Mindless leisure is underrated.

Having spent a few years doing nothing but watching TV and also a few years doing nothing but writing, I can tell you that being a content sponge was a much more satisfying use of my existence. Embrace the couch. It’s OK.

dog tv

*Designers have the right idea. It’s infinitely easier to have your work appreciated and have the fact that it exists acknowledged if you’re a designer. And designers definitely get more ass. Well, they get zero ass, but that’s still more ass than what writers get.


GIFS from


Secondhand Influence


This morning at work I read some Murakami, and realized I’ve been copying his style without ever actually having read him before. Because I copy other writers who clearly read and copy Murakami, and also Bukowski, who I also don’t read. Don’t need to. The good stuff will get to you anyway. It’ll find you, even if it has to get filtered through other writers, writers who are shitty, on its way to you. It’ll trickle down and find you and hook you, even if you never read it. Even a limp imitation of it is enough to inspire. 

So, I guess that’s the aspiration, creatively speaking.







Drinking coffee at the hospital in Korea as I recover from the indignity of my annual AIDS test. It’s a condition of my employment. Korean mothers think foreigners will carry AIDS into the country and then pass it to their children by standing in the same room as them. Seems legit. They probably also still believe that rain dances work. In some cities they test the female teachers once a month because they’re afraid that the girls are prostituting on the side. And who can blame them, if they were? Pay us more, motherfuckers. Two million won a month is insufficient to deal with your shitty kids.

The logic in Korea is this: The foreigners have the diseases; test them. Meanwhile Koreans never use condoms and don’t get tested. No sex ed in high schools, so they fuck like life is a porno. Stick it in raw and then blast inside. Later on, react with genuine shock when she’s pregnant. Every baby in Korea is an accident.

This is the way life is in the glittering first world metropolis of Seoul. The nation of cutting-fucking-edge technological development and sky-high IQ in every single area of existence, except sexual matters. At that point it devolves into medieval superstition. They have a Forrest Gump-level understanding of sexuality and biology. Foreigners get the diseases, not Koreans. Koreans have magic genitals that act as kryptonite to STDs. Korean men hike up Hooker Hill and jam their naked members inside the same yeasty hole 10,000 other men have slithered into before. Still won’t get tested even after their dicks turns green. But test the foreigners. Test all the foreigners.

Racism is always at high tide here on the Korean peninsula, but you gotta applaud them for owning it. No euphemisms or denial, just pure, uncut xenophobia. It’s refreshing to be regarded with suspicion and viewed as a subhuman migrant worker. A rare experience for a white American. Gives me empathy, I think.


My buddy Paul* texted; his school forgot to take taxes out of his check throughout all of 2015. To rectify this clerical error they’re arbitrarily taking it all out of this month’s check, which cuts his February salary in half. He’s been in Korea seven years, taking shit like this the whole time. Our schools pay us late, refuse to honor contract provisions, change our schedules at the last moment and berate us for not having foreseen said changes. Why stay, why put up with wave after wave of bullshit for the better part of a decade? Because the drinks are cheap and the ladies are loose, that’s why. And there are no condoms in Korea. Man will suffer all manner of indignities under those circumstances.

*Maybe a fake name, maybe not.


I’m at this party. My friend Max has been killing the game. Getting an avalanche of pussy these days. He says the key is rambling. You don’t even have to be funny. It’s not what you say but HOW you say it. Which is true. He can get a girl on his dick by talking about Ugg boots.

I do a lap of the room. Why is it that all people at parties are boring. You don’t hear anything but derivative fluff. The average person considers Kanye West is a dick to be a brave new take on Kanye West. It’s possible to sell this fluff but most people don’t have the charisma. It makes me want to put in my earbuds, jack up the volume to 100. Leave them in until I go deaf. Smile knowing that I’m forever free of this insipid tyranny.

But that’s only part of it. I actually hate overhearing people because I’m jealous. They can talk but sometimes I can’t. I inherited my dad’s stutter. When it flares up I can’t hammer it back without deep breathing and making the Spanish r roll and other shit that I learned from this Ted Talk on vocal training. Though booze can work in the clutch. Some days I can’t say “America” or my last name. At least I’m handsome enough to put my dick where I want. If I weren’t I would have shot up a mall or joined ISIS by now. So, thank God that good looks last forever.

Anyway. What a privilege it is to just yammer about dumb shit. Network, connect, influence. The words you use don’t matter. If they’re the right color and shape then they become incantations. What a superpower it is to just say things, have the chance to sell them. And you people waste it on the fucking Grammys.


This post ran today over on the Crusade.


Modern Romance For clickbait purposes only.

I can’t fuck my girlfriend tonight. Even with birth control she’d get pregnant. Even if I pulled out. I know this because on Valentine’s Day 1987 my mom got pregnant with me. I was an accident. Shot through the condom and all the way to the egg.

It’s tempting to think that beating such odds at conception makes me the new Jesus or something. That I’m here to break a mold. But that’s white-person thinking. I know better. I’m just a singular consequence of the 2% condom failure rate. There are millions of us taking up space here on Earth. Eating cookies and ODing on dopamine. I’m only here because I dribbled too far down my dad’s dick.

Now that I exist, I have to worry about finding and keeping love. Not enough to worry about eating and surviving, you gotta worry about winning this contest and become someone’s #1 and staying there. That’s too stressful. Why is that the human condition, why set it up like that. God is a bitch.

Now I have to think: am I doing enough for my girlfriend. Am I doing the perfect amount of shit for my girlfriend, and will she think I’m a pussy because of it. Am I cool knowing she has me programmed like The Manchurian Candidate. Am I cool knowing that there will be scorched earth brawls, that saying the wrong word could make the room explode.

I am cool with it. Because at least I’m not single. It’s rough out there. I’d have to chase and fall for another woman. Compete with all the other glowing dicks on her smartphone. Worry about what she’s up to until I get to lock her down and put her under house arrest. Because when women are single they do horrifying things. They act like men. They just hide it better.

Now that I exist I have to worry about finding and keeping love. I get misery if I don’t find it. Which is weird. We’re meaningless and our insignificance in the universe cannot be overstated. But tell that to our emotions. They don’t know they’re attached to little motes of stardust. They think they’re important and are severely outsized for what they are. But right now, with life on the upswing, that’s a good thing.


How To Become President

My Fellow Americans:

What do you want out of politics? Do you want change? You can’t even handle a new iPhone charger. You don’t want change. You want Capitol Hill shit talk, that’s what you want. You want a sound bite that simplifies a planet full of chaos for you. Did you come here today because you want a better life? Fuck off. You had the leisure time for this rally and the car to drive here; you have a good life. You’re in the top 1% of all humans who ever lived. This isn’t North Korea. You’re fine. You will always be fine and safe. We’re gonna keep blasting goatherds with Hellfire missiles. We’re gonna keep killing babies and bystanders. We’re gonna keep letting the bridges fall down. We’re gonna keep DeAndre locked up. Gonna keep this the greatest nation on Earth.

Why are you here today, hooting for me to get the job with the big plane that we’ll shoot you for walking too close to? I benefit from this, not you. Thank you, God bless you voters for knowing all of the above and yet still not believing it all, and God bless the United States of America.

Boyfriend of the Year

It was a royal fuckup. Friday night I drank too much with the gents. Got home and threw up in bed at 4:30 A.M. I tried to catch it all in my hands. It didn’t work. Then I sat there with chewed pizza and body temperature beer in my hands, still attempting damage control by telling her that it’s OK, it’s OK. It wasn’t OK.

When I came home I laid down and then got the spins. I went outside in my boxers and threw up in the grass so I wouldn’t bother her and to try to avert a puke-related disaster in the near future. It didn’t work. When I woke up she was packing. Maybe we need a break, she said, so you can figure out what you want.

Well, I don’t want to throw up into my hands, that’s for sure. I know this looks awful but it was a legitimate mistake. I was convinced I could ride the buzz without falling off. But let’s not go be single because of this one dumb thing. We’re both too hot to be single. We’d probably both fuck other people, and even if we didn’t we’d each imagine that the other one was out there fucking a battalion of sweaty models in a hall of mirrors, and it would drive us insane if we got back together.

She stayed but I would have understood if she didn’t. I’m too old for this. I’m a 30 year-old man. At my age my grandfather had two kids and was going to the Pentagon every morning trying to outsmart the Communists. I’m a man. I’m too old for this shit. I should know my limits. Well, I do know my limits, but on Friday night I chose to ignore them, and assumed that I’d be fine. Because while I’m a man I’m also a millennial in 2016. That means I have delusional superpowers and I think I can simply will myself to be 21 for the rest of my life. There are no 30 year-old millennials. Just 100 million 21 year-olds with crows feet.


Deleted Thoughts:

-In my defense: It’s worth stating that I haven’t thrown up since 2014. About 600 or so days ago. Which makes my record 600-1 since then. As an expat in Korea that’s impressive. As anything, that’s impressive. Imagine a basketball team with that record. The only time that a 600-1 record is not impressive is if you’re a boyfriend.

-Oh God, the booze calories. I had some abs peeking through on Friday afternoon but they’re gone now.

Current Events: Cruz Caucus-Blocks Trump

Donald Trump and Ted Cruz
Associated Press

All right, so Ted Cruz won Iowa. Politics is a game of pretty lies, and Ted Cruz tells gorgeous ones — at least the farmers thought so. J.S. Bach said that when you’re playing music, all you have to do is hit the right notes at the right time. Cruz is the Bach of politics. The right lies at the right time. Other politicians miss notes but this fucker never does. Some dark part of me is inspired.

Too bad about Jeb. I’ve got a soft spot for the guy. Dude’s running on nothing but birthright, but I have to root for that because I’m a dumb white guy coasting on birthright myself. My white family gave me jobs and money just like Jeb’s did, and let me tell you, that is the fucking way to live.

Maybe it’s a good idea to vote for Hillary, just to get Hillary over with. Just to get her off the TV. Because she’s already proven she won’t take no for an answer. She’ll be right back here in 2020 if she doesn’t win this time. Let’s just give her four years, so she’ll be happy and then go away. It will give the broads less to complain about in the meantime, too.

I have a question: what the fuck are we doing voting for anyone. You would think after fifty-six presidential elections we’d have figured out that these motherfuckers always lie to us. I bet even George Washington lied about giving the people cheap wig powder or something. First guy to get up and say “I promise to only keep the promises I want to keep” has got my vote. Go Trump, I guess.


Deleted Thoughts:

-The hypothetical Constitutional amendment we need (but not the one we deserve) would be the one that would let us catapult elected officials off the roof if they break their word. That’s our solution and our pathway to a brighter future. Now all we have to do is get the elected officials to vote yes on it.

-I lean left, so I hope a Republican wins the whole thing so I can blame everything on him. Life was easier when it was all Bush’s fault. Gas prices, al-qaeda, the rain. When global leader George W. Bush was out to personally fuck me over. Now we have Obama and I like him a little (even though he’s just Bush but black) but defending him for seven years has been exhausting. Choose hate. Hate is easier.

-What the fuck are we doing in Iowa every four years? Why do we always start there? Letting four hundred cold, aggravated grain farmers dictate the course of the universe. We could switch it up. Pick a random state out of a hat and go from there. Just an idea. Me for President.

-I bet George Washington’s campaign slogan was “Wig Powder, Gun Powder, White Power. Washington ’76.” Get it, because he owned slaves.

Killing Time At The Mall

I’m posted up in a Seoul TGI Friday’s with a Kloud brew. Sitting by myself with a beer and a blank mind is a joyful activity. These moments of nothingness are essential in a man’s life. I just want to be a quiet Neanderthal and to be left in silence. Thankfully I’m the only foreigner here, and even if I weren’t, I’ve got fuck off stamped on my forehead, so the odds of idle chit-chat with a stranger are pleasantly low.

Hmm. A Korean soldier with an assault rifle just casually entered into the bathroom and then casually walked back out. He wasn’t in there long enough to take a piss. This left me with a lot of questions. Who deployed a single, lazy soldier to search the bathroom at TGI Friday’s at the mall? And who was he searching for?

There’s a young couple near the bar. The boy is laughing his ass off as he tells his girlfriend a story but she’s not listening. He lost the war to her phone. But then again there’s not a man alive who can compete with the sparkle of a Samsung Galaxy S6 Edge. As soon as they make phones shaped like dicks, men are finished. This girl is checked out, but if she had a story, oh God, that guy would have to listen, deeply and carefully, forever memorizing every detail. I think this poor bastard is in the friend zone with his own girlfriend. I ponder their relationship. He talks, she sits there. Is this always how it’s always been? Or am I merely catching a glimpse of the doldrums that await on the other side of passion? Is he just a white noise generator for her? A validation machine? Is he the personification of a Facebook like?

Anyway. Sublime day so far. Hit snooze eleven times then slid out of bed at noon. Ate eggs and toast with pesto, then went to the café, then worked out, then jacked off for thirty long minutes to deaden the dick nerves. Because lately, I haven’t been jacking it as much, so I’ve been too sensitive in bed and have to keep slowing down and making those stupid squinting faces and breathing fast as I try to control myself. I hate regressing. Feels like I got busted down to JV.

Speaking of, my girlfriend should be arriving shortly. We’re going to see Kung Fu Panda 3. In the interest of going meta, I might wait until she’s on the phone and then tell her the story of how that girl ignored her boyfriend while she was on the phone, just to see how it plays out.