Oh Google, sometimes you disappoint me. Normally things are great, I ask you when Ghostbusters was released you tell me. No matter how many times I ask, you always tell me, never impatient, always the gentleman. But today you’ve let me down.

“should i masturbate before a mensa test”

Nothing. No help whatsoever. I just want to know if it’s like in Something About Mary where the dude with the big ears and the acting career that got serious afterwards rubs one out in order to relax on a date with the one that became one of Charlie’s angels then I haven’t heard from her in a long while.


To The Max

I am brave, I am hard-core. The MAX line on the water container of my coffee machine? I fill up way past that.


Aaron’s Girlfriend

“Did you hear about Aaron’s girlfriend? Fuck me!” Yeah, people say some interesting things.

I’m walking up the east side of my village: pigeon town. There’s a bar there, ‘The Stoned Crow’. I think it’s a pun.

These people, friends of Aaron, I imagine, are sitting at a table that’s, like, on the footpath. They do not have sleeves, it’s one big fat shoulder convention. I worry that one of them will want to communicate with me because it’s past 9pm and I am on my own. I seem to be prey for this particular type of sleeveless male. “Maaate, what’s uuuup.” Yes, indeed, that’s excellent. I don’t know what’s up. Dear lord, what do you people want from me? What words can I say to you so that you don’t say any more words to me?

I continue walking, up the street, a few things are still open. One of them is a bakery. Some things are cheaper after 5pm, because they’re getting a little bit skanky. A plan forms, quite quickly. Moments later I return to the group of shoulders, holding a vanilla slice.

“It’s for Aaron. I heard about is girlfriend.”



I get no respect. From where I sit now at my keyboard I look right to the lasagne I have reheating. Food reheating is so depressing. Food cooking is wholesome and family and good times and all that hoo-ha.

Regardless, this is not my point. I look now to my right, to my lasagne in the microwave. It’s cooking, but it’s not spinning. The timer counts down: 2:30 seconds. It peeks at me through the glass, 1:40 seconds. Fuck you, it says. I don’t spin for no one, and especially I don’t spin for no fuck like you. 35 seconds. I stare, it stares back, I fear for my unborn baby and wonder what happened to the whole microwave-cancer thing. I pay attention to the PSAs, though I’m neither pregnant nor female. I know the lasagne knows that I’ve read the propaganda, that I believe the lies, that I fear the microwave. But I shouldn’t. I won’t. I fucking shant! I drop my pants and press my balls against the warm glass and yell: “spin you fucker, spin.”



To people that say: “I think there’s some things that science just can’t explain.” You’re a muthafucking idiot. That’s the entire point of science. Everything scientific is about discovering things that aren’t known. We’re not sitting around talking about how awesome chapter seven of the Bible is.

We can’t explain tears, or schizophrenia, or how short term memory transitions to long term. Neuroplasticity is still a mystery. Grand unified theory? Wait in line, muthafucker. Why do rainbows turn straight men gay? Nobody knows. They’re all mysteries, and they’re all the targets of scientists.

But you assholes want to have things that can never be explained. So sure, maybe that UFO really did send Martians to rape you. That’s totally the most reasonable explanation for your unplanned pregnancy. And to those that say science is too dry, too boring, your UFO encounter is probably because you have exploding head syndrome. Science gave us that.



I think I may not be as fit as I should be. I pulled a muscle in my shoulder last week. Watching 30 Rock. And this afternoon I woke up out of breath. Seriously, I was panting. I don’t think I’d even rubbed one out in my sleep either, there was no residue or anything.