Goddammit . . .

 . . . I really fucked up with this whole blogging thing.

I started too late.

I shoulda started in the run-up to the U.S. invasion of Iraq. And I could've been a neoconservative warmonger or a liberal hawk, and I could've wrote all sorts of brilliant justifications for the necessity for mass civilian casualties in the name of security or freedom or what have you-

Ooo! Ooo! Ooo! I probably could've cooked up some conspiracy theories about how the terrorists were sitting on secret DVD playback technology-in addition to those chimerical WMDs-and how mass civilian deaths are all good if it means we get to have True High Definition Playback with Lossless Remasturbated Audio Output-

Shit, dude, I missed the bus on that one.

And then, when it became clear that Iraq 2003 was a massive tragic clusterfuck, I could have an about face, and write some truly searching think pieces for the NYTimes  and Washington Post about how hard it was to see the light, and then I could get some book deals, and-and-and I could get venture capital for a new media startup-

Have my own website, which would just be a collection of blogging Ivy League opinion grifters embedded in some overpriced web design-gotta be sticky! Gotta retain eyeballs!

Eventually we would evolve Pokemon-style into having 'embedded advertainments'-slickly produced commercials for hand-wringing movies about some topical crisis or other, or vacuous lifestyle branded clothes and perfumes-

If only I had done all of that, then, geez, I could've been a current events podcaster by now.

Have a regular yapping head spot on CNN and FOX and MSNBC.

If I really wanted to sell my last scraps of soul, I could get a bunch of dark money investors and create an all-conspiracy network for the frothing jackoffs who think FOX News has gone soft.

I would've been beautiful!

I would've been gorgeous!

I could've been a contender!

Ah, the road not taken . . .

Rather than continue to meet my social and professional obligations . . .

 . . . I have elected to sit on the floor in the exact geomagnetic center of a lightless subterranean vault and blow nasty farts unto eternity. 

All peoples of all nations decide as One UltraBody of Truth to award William a prize ribbon in blue.

Congratulations, Humanity, you have chosen wisely.

And now, if you will excuse me, I must return to my devotions. 

William exits. 

All peoples of all nations continue to celebrate wildly for the next five years. 

And then, of course, Bartender must gently guide all peoples of all nations through the door and into the mysterious night. 

You know what they say . . .

 . . . what's good for the goose is good for the weird dude who hangs out by the pond who claims he speaks 'fluent Gander.'

I know everyone thinks he's sketch-as-fuck, but that guy's super chill with me.

Plus, he sells excellent cheese curds.

Just makes 'em right there in his pocket.

Sure, sometimes when I eat 'em I gotta do a 72 hour puke'n'poop routine but the taste is on point!

And I'm a freak for the flavor.

I really am . . .

Once . . .

. . . there was a man who chewed on a match out of habit.

In the fullness of time, an actor in a movie thought it would look cool to chew a match as a piece of business in his role as a tough guy.

A moviegoer sees the actor, and decides they would look cool in real life chewing a match.

Which, somehow, explains the adorable pitbull I once saw chewing a match-

Which explains the new reality TV series Dogs Copping Human 'Tudes: Suburban Florida Edition-

Which explains why a mindless trendchasing loser with no discernible personality or dreams or passions such as myself has taken up chewing matches as a compulsive tick-

Which brings us to the glorious future of a match that compulsively chews itself-

Which-

Well . . .

 . . . they don't call 'em Forever Wars 'cause there's any end in sight . . .

Ah, well.

Maybe, and I'm going brain-long on this, but maybe a Forever War . . . maybe it lingers the way it does because it doesn't have a home, y'know?

A Forever War is such an ugly, unlovable thing-the Emperor of Motherfuckers, right?

Well . . . everybody's gotta belong some kinda place.

Maybe we need . . . Forever Homes for these unloved Forever Wars, eh?

Bartender escorts him toward the door.

I know, I know.

I don't listen to me, either . . .

Bartender steers him out the door and into the mysterious night.

I don't need vengeance . . .

 . . . I just want my fuckin' time back from the people who screwed me, y'know?

Is there a, uh, like a time-not a time machine like in H.G. Wells-but like a time . . . extractor gizmo? Something like that?

I could apply my time extractor to the asshole-in-question . . . and get it all back.

Spend my time a little more wisely.

On, oh, I dunno . . . Pokemon. 

Or getting a complete set of those Nolan Ryan trading cards they used to have in the Pepsi boxes.

Whatever, so long as I get it back from the assholes.

If only . . . I'd focused on the STEM courses when I was a student. 

Then I could have the skills to build this time extractor gimmick. 

But I was a theater kid back then.

Fuck . . . talk about inadequate preparation for this vindictive shit-ass lousy fuckin' world. 

Ah, well . . . there’s always cholesterol. 

And corn syrup. 

And, uh, like . . . being a judge for a local fingerpainting contest. 

Yeah, man.

I still got good things coming my way.

They're all shit things.

But good things all the same.

It's going to be perfectly adequate. 

Yeah . . .

When I got my two COVID-19 vaccines . . .

 . . . I wore my Godzilla 1984 t-shirt.

Which was kinda fun.

You can do that.

Wear a fun shirt when you get vaccinated.

Yep.

The only people paying attention to me . . .

 . . . are robots. 

The robots never let me down. 

Had a terrifying nightmare . . .

 . . . wherein I was no longer myself, but had been mutated into some grotesquely overvalued, overpaid celebrity podcast asshole.

At any rate, I'm hurting for yak material-audience engagement metrics are declining-so I go on a trip to the Amazon to meet up with a shaman, and fill up my spiritual emptiness with an ayahuasca trip.

I see stupid swirly-do patterns that look like a fucking screensaver from 1992, and then I vomited up my stomach lining for six hours. 

Truly, an uplifting, mind-expanding ordeal of the soul.

After that, I bribe the shaman for some extra, and fly back to Los Angeles, so's I can feed some ayahuasca to my beloved Rottweiler doggo. 

And you know what?

It was the first time my dog understood-via the power of psychedelic insight-what a massive scumbag his human was, and the pupper tore me apart, limb by limb.

That last part was pretty gnarly.

It's good to be-at long last-accurately evaluated by someone, even a canine someone. Showbiz people are so fake, y’know? And I was the fakest of them all.

Why not transform my life of stupid bullshit into gourmet doggo nutrition?

For such a noble end, I gave my life . . . gladly.

It was an all right dream.

I have been the victim of a conspiracy . . .

 . . . devoted to manipulating me into believing that there are actual flesh-and-blood people in this world who actually enjoy watching black-and-white and/or subtitled movies.

But, alas, after many years of concentrated thought blasting, I have brain-penetrated into the stark reality:

I AM THE ONLY ONE.

All these critics and authors and listicle contrivers and video essayists? Holograms, at best.

All agents of the conspiracy. 

And you know what? 

It's kinda nice.

To be the center of all this attention. 

I look at these other paranoid fuckers ranting nonstop about the Illuminati getting deep up their asses with microchips and brain parasites and Satanic possession and income tax audits-

Or these whiny, hacky podcast comedians bitching about phantasmagorical political correctness/cancel culture mobs even as they get millions of dollars from sketchy media startups-

And I think, "Hey. I'm on easy street. My conspiracy treats me fine, gives me great entertainment, and asks for nothing except my time."

And it's time well spent.

Don't you wish you were the target of my conspiracy?

Bet you're jealous!

Of course  . . . you would have to actually exist to feel that or any other way about things.

Alas, I'm the only one that’s real.

Nice to have all this room.

It really is . . .