. . . 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.
