Checkout Ertel: Express Lane Only


It started off like any other grocery store excursion, but I had spent the week leading up to this trip in preparation. Long, sleepless nights spent staring intently at a blank notepad, a pencil resting uselessly by its side. Frustration builds up quickly when you’re in a creative rut. I suppose I was no different from my writing forefathers: Hemingway, Wilde, even Danielle Steele got their creative wheels stuck in the mud now and again. But I knew inspiration would come. And it did. Oh, did it…

Soon, my empty page was full of ideas, which I had honed down to a razor-sharp comedic timing. Rough lumps of comedy were honed to fine, crystalline diamonds. Now these witty gems only needed the perfect setting. I knew where to put the jokes in, I knew what jokes I wanted to use. Heck, I even cut material that on another week would have made the grade. When my masterpiece was finished, I had the material that THEY would remember me by.

I’m a comedian. But I don’t work the circuits, and I don’t do open-mic nights at PJ’s Chucklehut, or the Laff Emporium. I’ve got a racket all my own, and I aim to keep it that way.

So I decided to work the checkout lines at the grocery store. These were my people.

Oh sure, my sets are only as long as it takes the cashier to ring me up, but boy… I leave ‘em laughing every time. And I’d imagine the cashier thinks quietly to herself during her pre-designated ten-minute break, “Geez, that guy was on FIRE today! A regular Gallagher, minus the senseless destruction of fruit. God, I wonder WHAT he’ll come up with next week!” She’s was already a fan…hell, even Ray Charles could see that.

This week, I had my A material. I figured I’d start light with some easy observational humor. Checkout lines are FULL of low hanging observational fruit just waiting to be plucked and devoured. Maybe I’ll work in a few sight gags with my grocery items (a la Carrot Top). I mean, why ELSE would I buy a can of whipped cream, a bunch of banana and a box of condoms?! Or a 30-pack of Coors Light, a jar of Vaseline and a rather large cucumber? Well, I don’t want to talk about it.

Then, when I had them in the palm of my hand, that’s when I’d spring it on them. Bam! Topical humor: “Geez, what is up with Obama these days?! I mean, come on!”

I actually don’t have a joke prepared for this… I get my news from The Daily Discord, so I think he’s battling some type of cough medicine addiction or something. Still, this would be the set they would remember me by. Other lines would become my positive reviews. I could hear them talking about me long after I’d left. This was to be my Citizen Kane!

“Hi… you find everything okay?” Debra asked me.

Way to serve up that softball, Debra. You’re about to be part of comedic histo–”

Then I hear, “Oprah Magazine, huh?! Every time I come in here, she’s on the cover! Is she really that egotistical?!”

“Who said that?!” I thought to myself. “It’s brilliant! Why didn’t I ever notice that before?!”

“And what is up with all these rag mags?! Bigfoot spotted on top of Loch Ness Monster with Elvis?! Who reads this crap?!”
This son-of-a-bitch was barging in on my act! And worse than that, he was doing a damn good job of it, too! I craned my head over the candy rack separating lanes 5 and 6 to see who was performing. Apparently, I wasn’t alone on the checkout-line comedy circuit. But I booked this gig weeks ago!

I became flushed with panic and started grasping at straws: “What is up with that hairdo, Debra… Oh no, I didn’t mean… I’m sorry. No no, I wasn’t insulting you… Fuck me! Oh no… I don’t mean you Debra, not literally… look, what… where… Paper or plastic… save a plastic tree?” Ugh! God! I’m bombing, and I can’t stop the freefall! I feel like Obama at that last debate.

“Would you like a bag?” she asked him.

And, with perfect comedic timing, he replied, “Oh no, I left her at home!” Bam!

“You son of a bitch!” I cried, as I lunged over the candy rack between our lanes. “This was MY time! I was supposed to be the star!” In a murderous rage, I picked up a giant jar of pickles and brought them down repeatedly on his hea…
After the trial and the sentencing (14 to 30 years, if you’re wondering), I did a lot of soul searching. And finally, I decided to give up my dreams of comedic stardom. Daily mouth rapings will do that to a fella.

I still observe things in my own weird little way, though. Sometimes I even get a chuckle out of my cellie, but mostly I keep them to myself. After all, it’s kinda hard to talk with your mouth full.

So You Want to Be a Bounty Hunter?

So You Want to Be a Bounty Hunter?

Criminals and evildoers the world over: beware! Law abiding citizens: sleep soundly tonight knowing that in your neck-of-the-woods, local criminals (mostly the petty variety like vandals, jaywalkers, and internet pirates) will be taking a healthy dose of justice—justice served with a side-order of spit-talkin’ Dirty Harry style ‘plum mad dog mean’ true grit…I have absolutely no idea what that is even supposed to mean.

Inspired by my recent obsession with Dog the Bounty Hunter, I’ve taken the all-important first step toward becoming a bounty hunter myself. One must prepare mentally for the long road ahead. I’ve committed to things before but, after a brief period of some obsession or another, I usually lose interest in five to seven minutes. I was not about to let this important endeavor, too, become a bona-fide bounty hunter, suffer the same fate. I was in this for the long haul, and I had work to do. I stocked up on water, Twizzlers, and Fun Dip, and sat down for the legally required 45-minute instructional seminar/slide-show entitled, “So you want to be a bounty hunter?”

The first obstacle I would need to overcome was the fact that physically, no matter how hard I sucked in my gut while flexing, I’m just not a very intimidating presence. Me, Mr. Huntin’ that Bounty, comes equipped with all the musculature of a roll of wet paper towels. Anyone who’s ever shaken my hand with even the slightest hint of pressure—after bearing witness to the sobbing and the clutching of my wounded hand—has been known to remark, “Good God…I didn’t even squeeze that hard. He’s like a human Faberge egg” or “I’ve held baby chicks in my hand with more pressure than that!”
Clearly some sort of workout was in order. I chose Zoomba. In retrospect, I shoulda’ picked Tae-Bo or at the very least Pilates. Since me and intense physical activity were clearly NOT on speaking terms, I decided the best defense was a good offense. Why actually “BE” a no nonsense shit-talkin’ bounty hunter, when you can just give off the appearance of one? This also posed a problem for me, because, in addition to not being an intimidating presence, I also have a complete inability to look menacing. No matter how severely I furrow my brow, I still give off the appearance of one searching for his “bounty” …the quicker-picker-upper, er…to wipe the hot sauce from my face after knockin’ down a dozen or so hot wings.

Hey, maybe leather’s the key? So after a trip to the local Harley Davidson store—extremely convenient for ALL of your leather needs—I outfitted myself in a tough looking studded biker’s jacket, a leather pork-pie style cap, and a pair of leather pants. In time these pants would become so pungent with odors, so unspeakable, that I began to question how bikers, completely encased in the skin of dead cattle, could even reproduce at all sitting on a thousand pounds of hot vibrating steel. I came to the conclusion that biker-sperm is probably cultured & incubated by the Harley’s engine. This makes each individual sperm so tough & grizzled that, if you were to gaze at one under a microscope, you could probably see a faint Gregg Allman-style beard on each spermy chin. The pork-pie hat didn’t help either, as it made me look like a fat gay 60’s supermodel Twiggy on her way to Sturgis…that is, if you even want that image burned permanently into your mind. Don’t go there, really. I’m trying to help you out here.

Weapon-wise, I was ill-prepared as well. The only things I own that could come close to being useful in a combat situation with a bail-jumper are a toy sheriff badge, a Walther P-38 (it’s actually the original Megatron) and a container of ground-pepper (to use as mace). I don’t tan well, so I can’t reach the necessary grizzled sun-baked look either, and my hair can only be described as “conservative” at best. Even with all the hair style products in the world, I could not pull off the necessary sweaty pompadour cascade that seems to tell society, “I know you think this hair is hideous, but I simply can’t find the time to care. I’ve got criminals to catch, bitches.” I don’t even own any dangly earrings for Christssakes!

So, with a heavy heart, I gave up my dreams of bounty huntin’ and I suppose it’s just as well. I’m no good with confrontation, what with my innate instinct to curl up into the fetal position and whimper at the first sign of danger. And you can let go of my hand now, sir.

But I will keep you posted if I ever decide to hunt gators, or get into the burgeoning field of rock star/pest control.

Oh, who am I kidding? I don’t even own a studded belt. But she does love the condom.

H.G. Ertel’s The Time Machine

H.G. Ertel’s The Time Machine
H. G. Ertel

For years scientists have disputed the possibility of time travel: matter can’t travel faster than the speed of light, Zefram Cochrane won’t be born until the next century, yada yada. Other scientists just dodge the question entirely with things like, “I’m more than a little busy looking at these glass slides and shuffling these papers around” …and, “How did you get passed the retinal scan to get in here, anyway?”

As for me? I’ll quote a popular Monkee’s song, “I’m a Believer”…because yesterday it happened to me. I went from June 24th, 2012, all the way back to January 1st, 1970. I fell through what I believe was an inter-dimensional portal located in my apartment. I awoke to discover my cellphone had absolutely no service, and somehow the date/time had reset….SENDING ME BACK IN TIME!!!! Sorry for the ALL CAPS and exclamation points thing, but I believe the situation warranted the excitement implied by such a frowned-upon writing style. So…F-YOU!!!

The first thing I did—since everything I know about time-travel I learned from the Back to the Future films and season five of Lost—was check to see if I wasn’t somehow erasing little-by-little like that photo of Marty McFly and his siblings.

(By the way, the Johnny B. Goode part in BTTF, when Marty McFly goes ape shit & busts out some van Halen licks?! C’mon, how’d he get such a processed cheesy ‘80s metal sound out of a guitar/amp combo made in the early ‘50s?! Jesus man, fuzzboxes weren’t even invented until the ‘60s. Back to the Fender!?)

Everything’s still here, I thought to myself, double-checking my pants to see if my penis was still intact. Y’know…I’d better check again. You can’t be too careful when you’re messing with the fragile nature of the time/space continuum…or my balls. I repeated the procedure for the rest of the afternoon, just to be sure.

What DO you do when you’re suddenly transported back in time?! All of the possibilities were there…I could buy Apple stock, warn the public of things to come, I could even “write” all the greatest hits of the ‘70s, before they were written by the people that actually “wrote” them! Jesus Christ, I could convince John to ditch Yoko & keep The Beatles together! I could write Rush’s most classic albums! Jailbreak by Thin Lizzy, written by Ertel! Dark Side of the Moon, Wish you Were Ertel, Animals. All the music of Pink Floyd written by ME! Have a cigar, I’m gonna go far!

I could even (gasp) warn The Discord not to bother!

The financial rewards for my obsessive studies of useless bullshit over the past 20 years were finally going to pay off! I could start trends before they happened! invent Rap! Pre-date the ‘80s! Start wearing my pants down around my knees! On second thought, I’d better hold off on that one.

And the sex! Most STDs from the early 70s were basically cured by penicillin & special shampoos with lice-combs. None of this AIDS bullshit to deal with. Surely I could convince the porn industry that Lady Bics were the wave of the future!

I thought of all the old people I know…I could see them back in their heyday, complete with huge chunky sideburns and button-up shirts with butterfly collars. I could get drunk with my dad! …who sported a rather “Ohio Player’ish” afro/beard combo at the time, which made me think “man, cleaning the shower drain after THAT guy must’ ve been torture!”

Theoretically, I could have been downstairs drinking Billy Beer and watching The Rockford Files, while my parents were upstairs fucking in September of ‘75 to the mellow strains of If by Bread.

(Trust me, you have NO idea how much I just shivered typing that line. Better check my pants again to see if I’m disappearing.)

Then, they repaired the cellphone tower that caused this temporal rift in time….and I was suddenly back in 2012.

No untold billions.

No fame.

No massive numbers of girls just throwing themselves at me all in the name of “free love, man.”

Y’know what? FUCK John Lennon….I ain’t tellin’ him SHIT.

If I Had 325 Million Dollars: Song Sold Separately

If I Had 325 Million Dollars: Song Sold Separately

What would YOU do with a million dollars? It’s an oft asked question, right up there with “Are you a cop? Y’know you have to tell me if you are, right?” or “Dude, how much for those 99 cent potato chips?” If you asked me what I would do with a cool million before today, my answer would have been “a Branch-Davidian style compound, where I had multiple wives and would subject my followers to all-night prog-rock jam-sessions, featuring me on all instruments.” After all, I’m a one-man band and I don’t like sharing credit. But today the idea hit me, “What could I buy with 325 million?” and the answer became all too apparent…a planet.

First I thought…Earth:

My first choice was quickly shot down, however, due to overpopulation and the fact that that Daily Discord was created there. Besides, the Ghetto Shaman has already subjected most of the female population to his New Age Cuties (NAC). Plus all the logistics, with multiple land-owners, countries, dictators, copyright laws, etc.


My next choice would be Mars, until I quickly learned that men are from there. Since I’m not your “average Joe”, conversation quickly turns to thin, watery gruel at best. Here’s what usually passes for conversation between me and another male.


“Boy, sure is cold out, huh?”

“What is UP with that Tebow guy?”

Awkward silence….crickets (cue tumbleweed).

You get the picture. So if men are from Mars, fuck that.

The Moon:

Too many satellite pictures. When I get crater front property, I like to be naked. Besides, still way too close to the in-laws.


I immediately ruled out the closest planet to the sun, because…er, it’s the closest planet to the sun. Unless I am planning to make the first human casserole colony (HCC), it sounded like a bad idea. Of course, I haven’t ruled out making this the penal colony for my actual planet.


I’m told women reside there, en masse’. While visions of green “Star Trek” styled space babes in silver thigh-high boots & matching mini-skirts & nine vaginas dazzled my thoughts, I quickly realized I can barely get a word in when there’s three Earth women in the room, let alone an ENTIRE PLANET populated with them. Then I envisioned roughly six billion menstrual cycles and how they could be coordinated like the plot-outline from Ocean’s 11. It’s tough enough having one woman mad at you cause you dropped your dirty underwear three feet away from…”THE GODDAMN HAMPER, ERTEL! YOU COULDN’T WALK IT ANOTHER 3 FEET?! WHAT THE HELL’S WRONG WITH YOU? I KNEW I SHOULD HAVE MARRIED THAT NICE JEWISH DOCTOR WHEN I HAD THE CHANCE! …SO, WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THAT TEBOW GUY!”

OK, let’s multiply that scene by six billion….AHHHHHH!! –

No thanks….Venus is a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there. Now, if you’ll excuse me I’m going to fling my underwear in the general direction of the hamper.


Didn’t make the cut, ‘cause it’s too big. It just screams too flashy. Donald Trump probably already has some deal worked out involving solid gold moons and The Red Spot Casino.


With all those rings, it smells too much like a commitment. Besides it’s almost as flashy as Jupiter with even more of that infernal cosmic bling.


Pass. I think it’s named after the Roman God of seaweed, or somethin’.

The Sun:

Admittedly this is not a planet, per se, but this one is a no-go as well. If I bought the Sun I’d feel way too much like a Bond Villain. Although, a shark tank in my office that drops people from the shark tank directly into the sun would be pretty cool…well, hot.


I’ve tried that line on many women already. “Hey, babe, I OWN Uranus!”…sadly to no avail. For this line they often call me an asshole, while completely missing the irony.

So, the obvious answer to me, since I’m a sucker for a good underdog story anyway, is…


Since its downgrade to a “dwarf planet”, it seems like the obvious choice. It’s out of the way, small enough I can maneuver about on foot. And, statistically speaking, a 7-11 is bound to be nearby. Solar System real estate agents probably describe it as “cozy” and since its recent downgrade, I can probably get it up for a steal.

Oh, and most importantly, I can stock it with Space Midgets. I’ve already done the math.

$325 million well-spent.

Oh, and for those docking with my planet, please report to the Branch-Davidian style compound, where I have multiple wives and I’m currently subjecting my followers to all-night prog-rock jam-sessions, featuring me on all the instruments.

Damn, if I’d just remembered to save one measly million for a night with Demi Moore.

“Did Santa Just Hit On Mommy?” The Department Store Confidential

"Did Santa Just Hit On Mommy?" The Department Store Confidential

Ask anyone who works, or has ever worked retail at a shopping mall during the holidays, what’s the most depressingly degrading job one could apply for, or have thrust upon them during the Christmas season, and here’s how it will go down. Oh, I should add, the following yule time tale actually happened…sadly.

If you ask this “what’s the worst Christmas job” question at your local mall, this will be some of the replies:

  • The lion share of the mall-ites will give you confused stares. If you yourself are confused by this, just remember you’re standing in the center of some food court, yelling questions at random passersby.
  • A handful of people will avoid you like you’re “it”…that somehow a flash mob of people playing a rousing game of mall tag just spontaneously erupted.
  • One man will go to such lengths to avoid you he’ll stick his own head in one of the mall trash cans, like an ostrich. Yeah, you! Did you think I wouldn’t see the other 93% of you? I’m still haunted by this man’s logic.
  • Someone will invariably “shush” you, and then ask for directions to the Orange Julius stand.
  • But one, ONE solitary person out of everyone you’ve accosted—is bound to answer, Department Store Santa.

We have a winner! Give the man a cigar. Being a department store Santa is truly a job to test men’s souls. This is how I became one, during a hectic Christmas season in the winter of 95′. But a little history first.

For years, Value City held prime-position as the face of the Lycoming Mall in glorious central Pennsylvania. Catering to the “low-income/useless crap on the cheap” demographic. It had operated under the name “Gee Bee’s” before someone, presumably in a cheap-suit, stood up in a boardroom meeting one day and said, “Look, we want to offer our customers value. Yet, we want to imply this is no mere store…Value hut? Value Sovereign Nation?! ValueTownXpress? Uhh…. How about Value City?”

Besides, what the fuck is a Gee Bee anyways? Do we really want the first thing to enter our customer’s minds to be “Nights on Broadway?”

During the holiday season in 95′, I joined this city of value and entered the wild world of holiday retail. The work wasn’t bad, better than working for the Discord, but somehow I got stuck in the household accessories dept—which, at the time, was just a massive, massive amount of African-themed knick-knacks, vases, tribal masks, etc. It’s as if someone took one aisle from Pier 1 Imports and said, “We can do more of that for less.”

It didn’t take long before I got verbally reprimanded for being culturally insensitive.

I made the remark (to a black co-worker, no less), “You got it lucky dude, you work in the shoe dept”

Apparently had I wandered onto the set of Roots. I failed, despite my best efforts to convince Mr. Wunderlin (there’s irony for ya!) that I wasn’t being culturally insensitive. Hell, Shawn, the black guy, thought it was hilarious.

So, with the holiday season fast-approaching, one day Mr. Wunderlin—walking ‘round in a winter Wunderlin—approached me. Seeing as I was slightly chubby at the time and white, he wanted me to be the official Santa Claus for Value City this year. I weighed the pros & cons….while everyone else was slaving away, stocking shelves, I was forced to sit in a chair for roughly six hours each night in a sweaty costume, getting groped by children with sweaty, sticky, candy cane hands and yanking at my fake beard—always braving the time-bomb that some kid’s gonna either a) piss or shit themselves on my lap, or b) vomit profusely, or c) all of the above simultaneously (a dream come true for certain members of the coaching staff at PSU). What? Too soon? This was literally as close to hell as I could be, without actually going to hell, or PSU.

I get issued the costume, which consisted of a hat, a fake beard that smelled like linseed oil, a pair of Santa pants, and a Santa coat, along with leggings that, when put on, made my shoes look like real boots. Correction: which WOULD have made my shoes look like boots, if I had owned any black shoes to camouflage them. I only had white shoes. So, after a quick visit to the Shoe Dept, I got a pair of black sneakers comp’d to me by Value City. So, I try on the outfit in the men’s room and practice my script (yes…there was a fucking script) and, to be honest, I didn’t look half bad…I was chubby, but not in a “bowl full of jelly” kind of way. I just looked like Santa was kept captive by Buffalo Bill from “Silence of the Lambs” for a few months. Put on the lotion or you don’t gets the presents.

I brought this to Mr. Wunderlin’s attention, “I look like Santa with a tapeworm.”

He responded thusly, “Yeah..I mean, you’re fat, but you’re not ‘Santa fat.’”

Fuck you, Mr. Wunderlin. I didn’t even bother to change your name when I wrote this…prick! His solution was to grab a decorative pillow from the home-furnishings dept (comped, of course) and then positioned a back-brace to secure the pillow around my waist. Problem solved. Say hello to “Lumpy Claus.”

I was also instructed to go out in to the center court to watch the actual Mall Santa, who all of us Department store Santa’s aspire to be…you know, to get the Kringle mannerisms down. Wonderlin! So now, in addition to this pile of shit I find myself in, I also get to stand outside Santa’s Village for almost two hours watching him sit children on his lap, asking them what they’d like for Christmas. In my 1995 fashion sense, I must have looked something like a cross between Eddie Vedder and a Nintendo Magazine ad…I’m surprised I didn’t get accosted by angry parents.

My script was as follows: “Ho ho ho….Merry Christmas…have you been good this year? And what would you like most for Christmas this year?” This was then followed by a photo op with Santa and a candy cane. By the second day, I threw that script away. I was in full-blown improv mode, the St. Nick ZONE. My natural ability to develop a rapport with the young ‘uns made me an instant hit. I was “Jokey Santa” And you’re goddamn right I used this to my advantage. Why? Two words…Single Mothers.

A sample conversation:

ME: “I think that Mom should join in on this photo with us. What do you think?”


MOM: “Oh well….I…Guess…Okay, what the heck!”

ME: “That’s the spirit! Plop on down and you’ll get a candy cane of sorts too Mommy!”

MOM: “Awesome!”

ME: “Ho ho ho…it sure is, Mom, it sure is.”

The rest of the days leading up to Christmas Eve were a myriad of every disgusting bodily fluid one can imagine. I got pissed on, I got farted on, I got drooled on (and that was just the mothers! Yowza!). Mercifully I was spared a Cleveland Steamer, and the foresight to know that in the early days of the internet people actually devoted whole websites to this phenomenon.
One time my Santa beard got pulled off my face so hard that the elastic snapped. So someone was dispatched to the crafts section for a bit of twine (comp’d). My beard had also taken on a slightly pinkish-hue due to the amount of sticky grubby candy-cane hands constantly pawing at it. One of my boot leggings had actually split up the side and had to be repaired with common black electrical tape. Jolly old St. Jury Rigged.

So that’s my tale. Value City went bankrupt a few years later and is now a Burlington Coat Factory. But some department stores are probably wandering the malls right now, frantically seeking the latest “craze” toy. Since then there are a whole slew of children who grew up to be adults with children of their own. And they will take them to see some severely underpaid Santa at some shitty department store—a man trading in his last remaining scraps of dignity for the utmost honor of getting pissed & farted on by a giggling 7-year old.

Fuck you, Mr. Wunderlin. Just Fuck you…you, and the cheap sleigh-bell-adorned reindeer you rode in on.

Rise of the Archeostorageunitologist

Rise of the Archeostorageunitologist

I have recently become extremely obsessed with the ever-expanding glut of TV shows about storage unit auctions, people taking one of a kind items into pawn shops and negotiating high-dollar bargains, and/or people rummaging around in dilapidated barns & garages for treasures that, I’m told, are high-dollar items. An antique vibrator?! $300. Thomas Jefferson’s own personal butt-plug, hewn from Mount Rushmore? $4,000 all-day. A rare acetate demo of John Lennon fisting Yoko Ono with brass-knuckles? Actually, that could be ANY Lennon/Ono composition. But I’d still pay at least $2,000 for the chance to own it. This is my fault. I’m addicted to junk…thus my interest in joining Team Discord.

For the uninitiated, shows like Storage Wars and Auction Hunters have this main premise: every day thousands of unclaimed storage lockers are put up for auction. Bidding is fierce, and rivalries develop instantaneously over storage lockers chock-full of rarities and untold riches. It’s the ultimate in Ponzi* schemes, with the rule being buy-low, sell-high.

*Given our fascination with combining celebrity couple names, I can only conclude that somewhere along the line Potsi Webber & Arthur Fonzarelli had a brief, albeit torrid, sexual affair, thus the term “Ponzi”.

Oh sure, there are storage units that turn out to be a bust. Apparently SOME people in the world don’t feel that a cold, 8’x10′ storage locker, one that you’re sure to forget paying those monthly fees for, is the best place to store their priceless collection of Action Comics #1 or their collection of rare Aztec artifacts. These people are idiots. Climate-controlled bank vaults? Safety deposit boxes? Safes? Actually, safes are okay…as long as you stick the safe itself in the storage unit as well. The rule of thumb here is this: if it has intrinsic value, put it in a glorified carport and lock that shit up with a high-school locker Master lock. Then forget you owe $400 for the past four months rent and lose the bitch altogether.

Many of your garden variety archaeologists have given up scouring the ruins of some long-forgotten city, whose name the average Indiana Jones wanna-be can’t even pronounce correctly (and honestly who can blame them?) spending months at a time in some dense jungle—amidst the constant threat of attack by large primates, bot flies that lay eggs in open wounds, and oppressive “jungle stench”—just doesn’t help morale when you’ve spent four months with a Maybelline rouge brush, carefully and intently brushing the faintest of flecks of dirt, layer by layer, away from a couple of shards of clay pottery. Ask any archaeologist whether or not they were inspired to seek treasures and unlock the mysteries of the past by the Indiana Jones franchise, if they now feel cheated by taking this career path. I’m almost positive the answer will be a resounding fuck yeah!

I’ve been out here in the jungles of Costa Rica for four months now and not ONE Nazi OR crystal fucking skull about. Bullshit. Plus, most of the good treasure has already been looted and sold on the black market, only to end up in an 8’ x 10’ storage shed in default of payment, waiting for some hulking behemoth of a man with head-tattoos and Oakley shades to slowly bid it up to roughly $1200 American. So, in short, to any and all of you potential treasure seekers out there who might be reading this, give up dreams of Custer’s Gold. Put away the maps of Oak Island, and don’t even THINK about going near Fort Knox. Become an Archeostorageunitologist and begin your new career today! Who knows, you may end up with Lincoln’s personal stash of Bukkake porn. Or, you might just end up with a compilation of old Discord posts…but don’t let that deter you.