Major fucking cunt.

My poop told me to stop eating Fiber 1 bars for a while, and it was right. I haven’t shit a cow patty in two days now.

For me, probably fatherhood. At least when it’s wholesome and going well, which is about maybe half of the time. Depends on the day with a four-year-old. But even when I want to hurl her off of a fucking bridge, I’ll miss her to death the moment she’s finally asleep or at preschool. So much sometimes that I could probably cry. It’s really powerful. I truly know what it feels like to be willing to die for something. No hesitation. I’d die for my wife as well, of course, but with my daughter it’s a whole other animal. It’s hard to articulate.

Andrew Santino and Bobby Mom.

B.C. is fucking gorgeous, but even the most backwater shithole of a home there in some tiny town with one gas pump lists for 600k or more because you can see mountains from your bathroom.

My wife and I looked up multiple listings we had driven by out there last summer purely out of boredom and curiosity, and from Alberta to Vancouver they were all priced like that. We didn’t even bother looking up the really nice ones.

I genuinely don’t know how all the regular folks living out there with basic or retail/service jobs manage to survive at all.

Scandinavia thrives under Odin’s watchful eye.

The good eye. Not the bad one.

Bad one doesn’t work.

I tried for years to enjoy the Beatles, but I never really felt the same magic that others do. I certainly respect what they accomplished, but I find most of their music is just weird and whimsical.

Very pretty spot.

I just view the person giving it as trashy. They’re like a living Kid Rock album. So bad-ass.

My former boss (Canada) kept a bag of ephedrine bottles in our produce cooler. Dude was twitchy as fuck. Very bird/dinosaur-like.

He would take several per day and chase them with coffee and energy shots. Then he would complain intermittently about vomiting blood due to his ulcers.

Bigger, hornier tigers.

It was either the shrimp or the bean sprouts in the food court Pad Thai. I was visiting my S.O. in Canada and wound up in a 3-day war with food poisoning. I could not stop puking and shitting. I shit so much acidic death juice that my asshole was in absolute agony and never cooled down. It was like someone had fileted and cauterized my rectum. I couldn’t even sit on the couch properly. Fortunately, her sectional was old and had collapsed in on itself in the very corner. I sat in this corner, right on top of the collapsed portion. It was perfect for supporting my body without making contact with the seat of my pants. I sat in this corner for three days watching weird YouTube videos about Centralia and other phenomena, while intermittently hopping up to puke and shit and fart. I was so fucking sick. I felt like I was going to die.

My nostalgia for the little things in nature are honestly one of the most meaningful things in my life, and often something as simple as the sound of leaves quietly rattling across the ground on a damp autumn night evokes a deeply spiritual feeling.

It was likely a permanent Sharpee marker. Hopefully it holds up. Fingers crossed that I’m able to return there as a ghost one day to watch someone unearth what they believed was a map to the family treasure.

It’s always the most insecure looking dudes who take their profile pics with sunglasses on in the front seat of their Dodge Ram, or mildly muscular/tattooed guys who have taken 50+ successive shirtless selfies, smirking in front of a mirror. It’s even funnier when you note how many times they went back through their old pics and re-posted the previous ones.

It’s been a few years but I don’t remember that at all, but I’d be interested to see if I’m bothered by it on a re-watch.

There’s a phenomenal French horror series on Netflix called Marianne that my wife and I enjoyed immensely. I don’t usually shoot for that particular brand of horror (demon/ghost), but Marianne is fucking excellent. Can’t recommend it enough.

The masses know nothing of the crunch. They’ve never even been to the crunch.

My brother and I put a corked glass bottle down in an old defunct drainage pipe beneath my parents’ house. This pipe/canal is quite large and isn’t obstructed by the bottle, and the bottle can clearly be seen by peering into a hole in the cement of the basement storage room. Inside of that bottle is a carefully folder paper bearing on it a crude drawing of a cock and balls.