To the backdrop of my endless dystopic rants, it’s probably tough to tell that I actually enjoy writing. My basic motivation stems from humor, of course, but it’s a constant struggle to find anything remotely amusing about my time spent in a waning superpower that, even on a good day, functions on the shitshowy-side of fubar. Back in undergraduate-land, I once told my philosophy professor that I only wanted to learn enough about the absolute truths to make fun of them. He laughed, called me a nihilist, and then took another swig of his Stolis. A combination of nihilism and masochism have kept me blogging this long and the word fun is not how I would describe today’s politique, or what I have come to refer to as the American scheissgiest. It’s a truly awful prospect to climb, day-after-day, into this particular patch of rancid weeds, especially with all the Monsantocides and Foxal matter about. Staying an informed citizen is one thing, but following the political play-by-play comes with a certain risk to one’s own mental health. Hanging out here all the time is creepy …sending your daughter on a date with Matt Gaetz, creepy.
