Training

For the past few months I have been going to the gym with two coworkers in the morning before work. They are relatively inexperienced when it comes to strength training, so I offered to help them get stronger, lose fat, etc. If not for my guidance they would surely fall prey to the roving gangs of feral Crossfitters that plague gyms across the country. Aside from the fucking ice cream isle at every grocery store, the gym is the one place in the world I feel comfortable and knowledgeable; I am almost obligated to share some of that knowledge with these two soft, gelatinous barbell plebeians.

From time to time I wonder if they even need my assistance. Do they really need me to guard them from a gym's undesirables? As we slide our cards at the front counter, an employee unironically says to us "rise and grind, huh?" as we check in at 9 am. This serves to strengthen my resolve to guide my flock.

Our training sessions have not been without conflict. As with most commercial gyms, this one does not allow personal training from third parties. Despite not receiving any compensation from my coworkers - they cheap af lmao, broke ass bitches - I have had a few of the staff talk to me to make sure nothing illicit is going on. Today is one such day, as I am approached by the gym's assistant manager while my training partners are adorably fumbling with some dumbbells. 

"Hi! My name is Assistant Manager! Because I can't mind my own fucking business, I couldn't help but notice that you seem to be leading a workout with these two here?" She has the type of haircut that guarantees she has called the cops on black people using a public pool at least twice in her life.

"I'm leading the workout but we are all doing the same thing and I'm not getting paid." I hope that a harmless lie may abate her curiosity. "These are two at-risk ethnic youth and I am trying to prepare them for the Big Math Exam in Act 3." She looks at my two white coworkers, then back to me.

"Interesting. Are you White Savior certified?"

I motion to my perfectly even, ebony skin. "Yes." She pauses, so I reassure her. "I... long live Trump." 

Her eyes pick up on my indignation at the parade of questions. "Oh, I don't mean to be a pain. It's just gym policy that any personal training must be done through one of our many certified personal trainers." A few squat racks down I see one of her personal trainers with a client. He is currently wearing one of those dorky Bane breathing masks and breaking his client's back. His screams are ignored by the assistant manager.

"Where are they certified, if you don't mind me asking? I may be interested in personal training services in the future." A sly jest; I know these dipshits have useless certifications and little experience. I'm hesitant to ask them for a spot, let alone help designing a training program.

She beams with pride. "A little bit all over the place. Donovan, the guy over there, trained with turn of the century circus strongmen and leaped forward 100 years in time for reasons unknown, Conner was raised by wolves and is non verbal, Pamela is just super cute so we let her work here, and Megan has certifications in Excel, PowerPoint, and Cinnamon Toast Crunch."

"That last one was cereal."

"Yes, we are serious about only hiring the best. The policy is for safety reasons, I'm sure you understand."

"Your staff is currently running a no holds barred cage match near the yoga area."

"Battles to the death are excellent for developing cardiovascular endurance and killer instinct. Also, I hate to bring this up, but you need to have the proper footwear when inside the weight room."

I look down to see that I am barefoot. "What? I had shoes on when I walked in here. Where did-"

She pulls my Chuck Taylors from behind my ears. "Is this your card? Wait, fuck! I meant are these your shoes? All of our staff are trained street level magicians." Satisfied with our nonsensical back and forth, she leaves me to my wards so that we may begin our training in earnest. 

My goal is for my coworkers to eventually have the tools, knowledge, and confidence to design their own training programs in the future. This should be everyone's goal, as personal trainers are useful to begin one's training, but should not be relied upon to maintain one's training. Unless you want to see some sick ass magic tricks, that shit was wild.

Costume

Dear Dominic,

I'm really in a pickle, brother. For the longest time I've wanted to dress up as pre-racism Hulk Hogan for Halloween; y'know, when he was A Real American® rocking 24 inch pythons and kept his views of black people well hidden. Part of the problem is that I've been procrastinating on fixing my diet, and the other part of the problem is the refugee crisis in Syria has really been distracting me. Hard to focus with all that craziness, brother. Because of those two issues, right now I look less Hulkster and more dumpster. Long story short, I have roughly 30 hours to lose 30 lbs and fit into the Hulk Hogan costume I literally just bought, brother. I know, I know, I shouldn't be waiting til the last minute to get in shape. Procrastinating has been a problem family and friends have insisted I address but that will have to wait for another time. Right now I need a weight loss miracle, brother.

Friendly Advice Taker


Dear FAT,

"Look less Hulkster and more dumpster?" Don't you ever try that People magazine prose bullshit again or I swear to God I will end you. Almost threw away your letter when I read that. That line made me physically ill and if my usually superb advice is less than stellar you will only have yourself to blame.

If you want to go from flab to fab in less than two days you'll have to think outside the box a bit. Eating sensibly and exercising regularly is all well and good but in your case more drastic measures are necessary to achieve the Hulkster's legendary physique. First things first, drown out the naysayers.

"Experts" will tell you it's impossible to lose 30 lbs in under 48 hours; experts also said Trump would never beat Hillary, and now he is the most powerful man in the free world. Sure, he hasn't passed any meaningful legislation in the nine months he's been in office. Sure, he hasn't made any progress on getting that fucking wall up. Sure, he hasn't refused the bait of getting into petty Twitter wars with every D-list celebrity who calls him a cunt. But y'know what? He's still MY president. Take that, liberals.

Now normally I would only advise using one, maybe two, of the following weight loss techniques at a time, but if Hulkamania is to run all over Halloween then you're going to have to implement all of them. If at any time in the next two days you want to quit or give up, ask yourself what would Hulk Hogan do? Would he quit? Or would he cheat on his wife and call black people niggers? I think you know the answer. Here are the techniques, in no particular order.

Sweat more. Athletes who compete in sports with weight classes (think MMA or powerlifting) will often cut water weight by sweating it out. Put on some sweatpants, a hoodie, and jump on an airdyne bike until you've lost a few pounds. Afterwards relax in a sauna for a few more pounds.

Bleed yourself. Blood is thicker than water, sweat is basically water, so blood is thicker than sweat, therefore an ounce of blood weighs more than an ounce of water. That's just science. Go to your local physician and get some leeches for proper bloodletting. Be cautious, though; if your physician is a woman then she is most likely a witch and should be burnt at the stake.

Shame yourself. Although we live in the age of body positivity, nothing kick starts a solid weight loss regimen like unnecessarily critical dissection of every minor bodily flaw and a self perception that is completely incongruous with reality. Go full ballerina-trying-to-secure-her-spot-in-elite-ballet-company-at-grave-cost-to-both-physical-and-mental-health, really cut loose here. (Sample shaming in next tip)

Don't eat. You can't gain weight if you don't put food into your fat fucking mouth. Besides, once whatever disappointing Halloween party you attend finishes - where people will no doubt be too distracted by your double chin to notice your love handles - you can stop at Wal Mart and pick up some cheap candy, you obese piece of shit. God, you disgust me. (See? Easy)

No sleeping. Your body's metabolism slows when asleep, ergo no sleep. Plus I imagine you don't want to get blood all over your mattress.

Smoke cigarettes. C'mon dude, don't be lame. All the other kids are doing it; even Julie is. From third period? She'd totally go for you if you started smoking, I'm sure. Dude! You're the only one with a brother over 18, how else are we going to get cigarettes! Just smoke one, and if you don't like it, I won't keep pushing.

Negro spirituals. For this one you'll have to get out of character as the Hulkster since I feel he wouldn't approve. Between the conditioning work and bleeding and lack of food, you'll be experiencing at least minor discomfort. While it won't directly aid weight loss, negro spirituals do make arduous tasks slightly more palatable. 

These techniques carry with them some inherent danger, so while I won't say they will probably kill you, I will say they should kill you. The human body is only so durable. However, if you survive, you will unleash a Hulkamania not seen since he slammed Andre the Giant in '87. Good luck, brother! 

Return

After roughly five years I have made the trek back to the world of academia to finally finish my undergraduate degree. Despite being told my entire life that it is never too late to complete one's degree, I feel more sheepish than triumphant in my return. Currently I'm only taking two classes. I'm 28, just two years short of 30, colloquially referred to as the "your shit should be together by now" age. 30 is more than halfway to 50, which is only 15 years away from the retirement age of 65, which is only 13 years away from the average age of death in the US. Basically I'm almost dead and still don't have my diploma.

First day of Motor Development we are told to introduce ourselves to our neighbors. A cheery eyed young woman sits to my left and introduces herself. Because I am bad with names, faces, and feet, her name escapes me. "I'm Dominic," I say, "just trying to finish my degree after a long layoff."

"Oh really? What made you decide to come back?" The Germans use the word sehnsucht to describe a sense of intense longing, a simple word for the complex emotion of yearning for a life, an idea, that has escaped me thus far. Her demeanor implies a hopefulness, an optimism that I wish not to tarnish with my truth. I stare deep into her eyes.

"To serve as a cautionary tale, my dear." She absorbs the gravity of my words - intent and sincerity - and is visibly uncomfortable. "Also," I roll up my pants to better show off my footwear, "to bring back Heelys." I pull off some hella sick ass tricks with my Heelys, much to the delight of my peers and professor.

"Damn bro, save some pussy for the rest of us," says my professor as I Heely out of class eight minutes after it started. 

I've found that media depictions of the modern day college student have been vastly blown out of proportion. Sure, we are required to spit on a picture of Milo Yiannopolous before entering any academic building. Sure, my statistics class spent the first two weeks going over appropriate pronouns (one lecture devoted entirely to the Elven) before getting down to brass tacks. Sure, both of my professors insist on passing around complimentary e-cigarettes along with scantrons. Sure, one registered Republican is burnt at the stake each month to appease Mount Sanders, lest it erupt and engulf us in socialist flame and ash. Ignoring all that I've mostly found my peers to be an affable bunch that hardly represent the SJW stereotype perpetuated by the media. Except for this one dude in my Stats lab.

He's an older gentleman - mid 40s - rocking the shit out of the try-hard glasses/fuckboy haircut combo. His gaze for our 21 year old instructor walks the precarious line between awkwardly seductive and dude-chill-the-fuck-out-she's-a-person-not-a-prime-Brazilian-steak. Aside from his date rapey stares, what annoys me the most about him is he feels the need to fucking interject at every momentary respite in the lecture. Jokes no one needs, insights no one finds profound, sentences devoid of substance. He's what happens when the word pretentious goes super Saiyan.

As far as actual course work is concerned, my return has been like riding a bike. By "a bike" I mean "a unicycle on fire" and "riding" I mean "being bludgeoned to death with." This is a good sign, as my previous attempt at being a college student consisted of no cycling in any form. I have refined a schedule of class, workout, study, cry on a park bench while eating lasagna, work, more study, cry until physically incapable of producing anymore tears, and sleep. Repeat until the end of the semester. With only five weeks left to go, I think I can manage. 

Cowboys

Dear God,

What's up Bro - can I call You Bro? - what have You been up to? I mean aside from further destabilizing the Middle East. I'm not judging, Bro, we all have our hobbies. Some people like to jog, some people like to paint, You happen to enjoy petty wars between dozens of loosely affiliated coalitions fighting over whose dirt is most deserving of Your favor. To each his own. But I'm not here to clumsily talk about international politics (we literally just elected a guy for that), I'm here for something more important, more salient. 

As I'm sure You know since You're You, the NFL playoffs are currently underway. Appreciate You helping the Patriots cover the spread, as that saved my ass with biracial Italian mobster Anthony "Fat Tony Toni Tone" Roselli. Dude's a real pain. Now I know prayer doesn't work on a 1:1 scale; I can't pray for something and expect it to happen, obviously. I also know You aren't real and have mostly outlived Your usefulness as a coping mechanism for goat herders' death anxiety, but none of that matters right now. What matters is that You need to have the Green Bay Packers beat the Dallas Cowboys. 

Now I know what You're thinking; "Oh my Me, I just helped with the Patriots game! A 16 point spread against a pretty solid defense!? You can't seriously be asking Ol' Magic Fingers to whip up some more shenanigans." Your Holiness, You are absolutely correct (as usual). To continue to aid my crippling gambling addiction would be both immoral and irresponsible. This prayer is not for my own monetary gain, nor is it even to see the Packers win, even more norer is it to see the Cowboys themselves lose. I am praying to see Cowboys fans lose. 

You're mysterious. We get that. But jeez, Bro, did You have to only use the autism clay when forming the most annoying fan base in all of sports? Since they started winning a few months ago not a day has gone by without hearing or reading a grown man doing his damnedest to mask depression and a failing marriage proclaim WE DEM BOYZ like he's part of some elite strike force that specializes in being annoying as fuck. I didn't even add caps locks for effect, that's how they write it. I was recently assaulted by a gang of Cowboys fans - each more mouth breathery than the last - at a 7/11 when I refused to respond to one of their cereal eating gestures with "let Zeke eat." And these fucking flags! My heart bleeds for the Peruvian children forced to produce each and every one of these flags flown from lawns, doors, cars, and anywhere else that doesn't really need a sports team flag. 

I can forgive the utter lack of tact and humility displayed by Cowboys fans. I can forgive the cannibalization of former franchise quarterback and five time Aww Shucks Face Award winner Tony Romo. I can forgive the tangible hubris known as AT&T Stadium. I can even forgive the fair weather nature inherent to the Cowboys fan base, but I cannot forgive the cumulative awfulness of Cowboys fans.

So if You're awesome (which You are) then please have the Cowboys lose in a manner that would produce the highest amount of grown man tears. Late fumble, missed field goal, that sort of thing. Oh, wait! It might be a bit much but if we could have a showing of Dez Bryant's latest one man play The Catch Vol 2: Not This Shit Again, that would be fantastic.  

Amen. 

Halloween

Phil Philson: Hubris Consulting, home of superfluous titles, inaccurate job descriptions, questionable ethics, and zany costumes! We're here for the 35th annual RC Cola™ Office Halloween Party Costume Competition, where adults careening towards middle age temporarily embrace a facade of youthful exuberance by dressing as ironically humorous characters while battling unironic mid-life crises.

Boom Boom: Chill with the big words, bro.

Phil: As always, I'm joined by my partner, Buster "Boom Boom" McDougal. How are you doing tonight, Boom Boom?

Boom: I'd be better if I wasn't consistently court-ordered to provide commentary for random shit.

Phil: That's right, Boom, the energy here is electric. And a big part of that energy is thanks to our longtime sponsor RC Cola™. RC Cola™, when literally no other drink is available. This year's OHPCC is primed to be one of the most competitive Halloween office parties in recent memory. Not since the great Crow vs Duffman clashes of the mid 90s have we had so many fierce competitors. 

Boom: We got everything from sexy superheroes to insanely accurate superheroes. You see that dude in the Iron Man suit with working rocket boots? Does he even work here?

Phil: I am being told that not only does he not work for Hubris Consulting, he does not reside in this state. Apparently he has been flying around the country fighting crime.

Boom: Aaaaaand he just flew away. 

Phil: Our first contestant of the evening - or should I say, first contestants- is a group of Harley Quinns. Far and away the most popular costume of the evening, for expediency's sake we have grouped all 16 Harleys as one competitor.

Boom: Still not as bad as that time when half the office came dressed as Elsa from Frozen.  

Phil: Unfortunately with so many dressed as the same character, this is really going to hurt their originality scores. Tough break for these ladies and one gentleman. 

Boom: Except for that one. Harley number 12, you see her? Jesus. She got that double take booty. She got that "ay bro, I'ma call you back," booty. She got that 9/11 never forget booty. 

Phil: On that note we would like to extend our condolences to all the families affected by the 9/11 terrorist attacks. Truly a day filled with sorrow, but what better way to drown your sorrows than with a nice, room temperature RC Cola™? RC Cola™, because you've already given up on life. Moving along our next two contestants are the reigning Couples Costume champions, dressed tonight as the formidable political music duo Daft Trump and Hill Khalifa.

Boom: The glowing electric hair on Daft Trump is wonderfully executed, but what really puts this couple over the top is how Hill Khalifa has combined all the elements that make Wiz a fuckboy with all the elements that make Hillary a shit human being. 

Phil: Tattoo covered pantsuit was an excellent decision, as was the giant bag that says "deleted emails." Our third contestant is sporting tonight's first completely original costume, with a character of his own design. And he is... oh boy.

Boom: Your dick is out, bro.

Contestant 3: You mean my dicks are out. 

Boom: What the actual fuck?

Contestant 3: I'm Tri Dick, the Man with Three Dicks. He's an OC and the main protagonist from my Harry Potter fan fiction. In the latest story he gets into a disagreement with Professor McGonagall, Hagrid, and Snape, and solves it the only way Tri Dick knows how.

Phil: While I'm sure it makes for riveting storytelling, your costume clearly breaks the no nudity clause of the contest, so I'm afraid you are disqualified. Next up we have Father... bear with me, Gascoigne? 

Contestant 4: It's pronounced Father "Gass-coin." He's the first main boss from the critically acclaimed PS4 exclusive, Bloodborne. Father Gascoigne is actually a very tragic character. You see, for some time now the good Father has been losing his grip on reality, and on the night of The Hunt he does the unthinkable and gives into his beastly instincts, allowing himself to be completely engulfed in bloodlust, after accidentally killing his own wife, who had forgotten to bring the music box used to revert him back-

Boom: You've only been talking for like 20 seconds and I already genuinely hate you. 

Phil: The hat is well crafted, Boom, good eye. Contestant number 5 is the Bride of Frankenstein. I'm loving the make up application.

Contestant 5: Actually, I'm the Bride of Frankenstein's Monster, if we want to be technical.

Boom: A spade's a spade, toots.

Phil: Apologies, miss.

Contestant 5: And to be more technical, I'm dressed as the Bride of Frankenstein's Monster in a meta comedy where I'm actually the real Bride of Frankenstein's Monster but everyone just thinks I'm only dressed as the Bride of Frankenstein's Monster.

Phil: And I'm being told that contestant 5's costume has such a needlessly convoluted backstory that she wins the competition! Even though we had no less than 20 more contestants to go through!

Contestant 18: So I got dressed up as the dude from Drive for the the fifth year in a row for nothing?

Boom: I mean, you still look hella rad, bro.

Contestant 18: Thanks bro.

Phil: Contestant 5 has secured one of the most impressive, expedient wins in OHPCC history! While you're enjoying the taste of victory, contestant 5, why not enjoy the taste of an already opened RC Cola™? RC Cola™, the official drink of clinical depression. As always I'm Phil Philson and he's Buster "Boom Boom" McDougal-

Boom: Seriously man, the booty on Harley number 12...

Phil: On behalf of everyone here at Hubris Consulting, thanks for tuning in. Be sure to keep it right here for the new hit show Bees Stinging People, the only show on television that exclusively fills its runtime with bees stinging people. Thank you, and goodnight!  

Argue

For the better part of three months I have conducted informal research into the nature of man, of good and evil, of existence. Three months spent firmly entrenched in the belly of the beast, with little but my wits and resolve to guide me through. A Faustian journey who's only accepted currency is sanity. 

I've been arguing politics with strangers on the internet. 

"But Dominic," the naysayers naysay, "your task shall bear no fruit. Trying to educate people on the internet is akin to squeezing blood from stone." First off bro, I don't know who the fuck you are and secondly, what's with all this bloody fruit rock talk? You calling me queer, you libtard jew nigger faggot? How about you take your homo rocks and get the fuck out of my country. Fucking sheeple, stay woke. 

Apologies. After so much time in comment sections of various facebook, youtube, and yahoo posts I've grown accustomed to the... customs of the belligerently retarded. To attack at the faintest of slights, the most innocuous of statements. To vehemently crucify a stranger as if packersfan85 is all that is standing between you and Valhalla.

It mattered not the subject; from Obama's birthplace to Hillary's voting record to Trump's everything, all conversations in which I partook transpired and ended the same way. Conservative/liberal caricature posts a comment on an article or video of dubious integrity, I offer a level headed rebuttal with as many sources as possible, caricature ignores evidence and doubles down on craziness, I sit back in my chair dumbfounded by such intense ignorance, scene. Nothing is learned, nothing is gained.

The memes. If it wasn't for the occasional clever meme buried within comment sections the world over, I do not think I would have had the fortitude to continue my research. Harambe alone was enough to get me through August.   

My work has brought little joy these past few months. Brushing digital shoulders with the best of the worst America has to offer, those who find hastily made white text pseudo-memes viable sources of information, has dulled me to the point that 'irate' is the only emotion I can muster when browsing online. My studies have not shed light onto a subject as much as they have confirmed a belief; we do not want to learn, we want to be right. A sobering confirmation, akin to the true nature of Santa Claus or learning your favorite actor is a Scientologist.

And yet, I soldier on, as any true activist should. Oh yes, I do consider myself an activist. Some of us work on the front lines, building affordable housing in Sudan, helping women start their own businesses in Guatemala, or teaching Tomi Lahren how to read in Dallas. Others such as myself fight the good fight against the subterranean of the internet, the old racists, the young dipshits, the blissfully ignorant and the ignorantly blissful, those with strong opinions and weak resolve. I mean, if y'all only knew how many times I've had to read "wake up sheeple" or "I'm not racist but HERE'S SOME FUCKING RACISM," you'd understand the dire necessity of people serving at the vanguard of the internet, the place where oblivion and entropy coalesce.    

And if thou gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will call thou a nigger.  

September

Few days offer such a smorgasbord of mismatched emotions and misplaced xenophobia quite like September 11. At this point the itinerary is almost routine. News broadcasts and articles offer reflection in between stories of a faraway natural disaster and the size of Kanye's poop (spoiler alert, he's been getting his fiber). Sporting events will parade out any first responders yet to be claimed by asbestos for the singing of the national anthem, moment of silence, and back to watching grown men move a ball around a field. That one co-worker who twists the most tangential of relations into a story about how 9/11 really made him depressed for a solid week because he loves America THIS MUCH and seeing the good ol' US of A hurt in any capacity is just too much for his empathy meter to bear even though you can distinctly recall this insincere fuck literally walk over homeless people during your lunch break.

In our quest to never forget 9/11 the tragedy, we have remembered 9/11 the spectacle.

If there is anything we can be sure of memory, is that it will fade. If we don't forget that which must not be forgotten, we can be sure our children will, or their children will. There are kids in grade school for whom 9/11 is question #5 on a Social Studies test. Stated purpose becomes intent, intent open to interpretation. Revision. 'Never forget' is less a declaration and more a challenge.

December 7 has gone from a day which will live in infamy to about a week removed from eight maids a-milking. Memorial Day - memory could not be more implicitly encouraged - has Animorphed™ from a day of solemnity to opening weekend for a shitty summer blockbuster reboot no one asked for. I mean, how many times are we going to allow Hollywood to fuck up the X-Men?

The memory of 9/11 is disjointed and unsure in our minds, yet we do remember. What we are remembering is clear. The why is less so. 

It can't be the violent loss of civilian life, as hundreds of thousands of civilians deaths in Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iraq, and a plethora of other clusterfucks masquerading as countries have passed through our news tickers with the same frequency and gravity as weather reports. Or gorillas getting shot. Kids today tell me dead gorillas are all the rage. It can't be the loss of American life specifically, as at least 10,000 Americans have been killed by drunk drivers every year for the past 30 years, yet no showings of phony solidarity or patriotism. Not too many corny, emotionally manipulative country songs about drunk driving released either. 

No, no, the deaths themselves are not the reason. A large part, but a part. The spectacle of 9/11, the explosions, the fire, the screaming, the bravery, the tears, the demands for justice, the president's declaration of war on a concept (groundbreaking stuff), the star crossed lovers that are nation and unity, the divine purpose, all of it as personal for the man in Washington, D.C. as it is for the man in Washington state. The spectacle.

A somber memory is difficult to monetize. The memory of a spectacle, however, basically sells itself. You like french fries? Not anymore you don't, those are freedom fries. Here, have a flag lapel pin. Wouldn't want to confuse you with the enemy. Actually now that I think about it, I noticed you're not dressing like an asshole. Perhaps I could interest you in this all denim outfit emblazoned with American flags and bald eagles?

This is why I'm cynical. No opportunistic parasites are selling commemorative breast cancer plates or drunk driving fatality coins. But how quick were businesses big and small - businesses often championed by the American oligarchy as the very heart and soul of this country - to throw a rough sketch of the Twin Towers onto everything from fucking ties to overpriced wine? Never forget is what was asked of us. Difficult to forget something you put no effort into remembering in the first place.

So as the memory fades, as the solemn gives way to celebratory, all that remains is the spectacle.

I've never much enjoyed fireworks. 

Doctor

I cough some more blood onto the book I am reading, and pause to give serious thought to the necessity of scheduling a doctor's appointment.

The last time I visited a doctor's office was when I broke my foot during a car accident in 2009. In the seven years since I have made it my life's goal to never see a doctor again. Have a cold? Take some medicine. Unexplainable pain running along my lower back? Take some medicine. Stabbed multiple times in the abdomen after fighting a crackhead for half a grilled cheese sandwich? Take some medicine. This regimen has served me well until a few days ago. In addition to feeling nauseous for hours at a time I have occasionally coughed blood from my mouth. After a brief foray into WebMD - every hypochondriac's personal hell - I determine coughing blood is bad.

My path is clear; I must see a doctor. Doc, once I become familiar with him/her.

I've scheduled an appointment with a general practitioner less than 100 yards away from my apartment and have already filled out the corresponding new patient forms. When I arrive to the office, the receptionist, Judy, greets me with a smile. The office is generically quaint, with just the right amount of home decor magazines (that fucking no one reads because why) tastefully strewn about. Save for myself there are no other patients. Judy asks for my paperwork. "All filled out?"

"Yes," I reply, proud of myself for not procrastinating on an assignment for once.

"Excellent." She takes out a butane lighter and sets my paperwork aflame. I chide myself for deeming it urgent to not die from internal bleeding. "Sorry, your handwriting was super ugly. Eww!" She hands me another set of forms to fill out. 

After completing my new patient paperwork a second time, I am escorted to the back for measurements by a nurse whose name escapes me. She looks like a Tylenolisha. Hand to God I could fit my legs through her hoop earrings.

Tylenolisha measures me at 5'11" and as I step onto the weight scale, it reads 'well that's disappointing.' Tylenolisha then leads me into an empty room. "Alright Mr. Coats, Dr. Funk will see you in a minute." She braces for my reaction.

"Dr. Funk?"

She offers an exasperated sigh that feels both rehearsed and genuine. "Yes that is her name and no she does not enjoy the genre. Please do not mention it to her."

I immediately begin planning how to mention it to her. Dr. Funk sounds like a street basketball legend from the 70s, or a former lead singer trying a solo career from the 70s, or someone in their 70s from the 70s. If I let this opportunity pass me, if I don't attempt an odd reference or forced pun, then what the fuck am I doing with my life? This doctor is about to get funked (that was terrible, I'll fix it in post).

After a few minutes Dr. Funk enters the room. Her perfectly shaped afro dares me to not be an asshole. She is fixated on a series of forms on her clipboard. It is a few more deliciously awkward seconds before she acknowledges me.

"So, Dominic." Dr. Funk raises her eyes just above her clipboard. "I noticed under the question 'Do you think I'm pretty,' under yes and no you scribbled in a maybe box." 

"I... I've never met you before literally just now."

She turns dismissively towards some charts. "Sure hope someone doesn't get diagnosed with cancer today." Her bedside manner could use some improvement. Dr. Funk - or a jive talking detective from the 70s! - then takes out a stethoscope to check my heart and breathing. As she rests one hand on my inner thigh, I try and fail to will myself unconscious. "Now if you will breathe in..."

I breathe in.

"And breathe out."

I breathe out.

"Breathe in..."

I breathe in.

"And breathe out."

I breathe out.

"Let me nibble on your ear..."

I sit uncomfortably.

"And breathe out." It's been a while since my last doctor visit but I don't recall this much sexual tension. After a few more standard tests and a quick round of blood work Dr. Funk tells me the reason I have been coughing blood is because I was a ghost the entire time. She writes a prescription for Valium and sends me on my way. On the whole this appointment has been successful.

As I exit the office I stop in the doorway. "Doc?"

"Yes?"

"I loved you in the Ohio Players."

"FUCK OUT MY OFFICE." 

Other

Dr. McSassy: Mr. and Mrs. Fries, thank you for coming to my office today to discuss your daughter, Sara.

Nora: Thank you for the minor exposition, Dr. McSassy, we're glad to be here.

Victor: She's glad to be here.

Nora: Victor, please.

Dr. McSassy: Interesting. Sara often talked to me during our meetings how resistant and outright combative you are when discussing Sara's true identity, Mr. Fries.  

Victor: I'm combative because she's not a dragon. I feel like the only one who can see this.

Nora: What Victor meant to say was he is having trouble coming to terms with Sara's status as dragonkin. This is still very new to both of us.

Victor: Well, being a dragon is new but I've seen plenty of crazy in my life to know it when I see it.

Nora: Victor, please. 

Dr. McSassy: Victor - may I call you Victor?

Victor: Mr. Fries.

Dr. McSassy: Victor, dragonkin is a subset of the more overarching otherkin subculture. People who identify as dragonkin, or wolfkin, or elfkin, or what have you, genuinely believe they are dragons, or wolves, or elves. These people have existed for thousands of years. This phenomena is nothing new; what is new, however, is otherkin's willingness to be both seen and heard. No more are they relegated to the shadows. No more are they ostracized for following their beliefs. It is 2016, Victor. The time for otherkin is now.

Victor: Okay, to keep this as short as possible, I was under the impression you were going to cure Sara. It sounds to me like you're enabling her.

Nora: Sara isn't sick! She's just... being a dragon for a little bit.

Victor: She jumped out of her window trying to fly, Nora. When I lectured her that she can't fly because she doesn't have wings, she started spitting on me.

Dr. McSassy: Sara, utilizing her dragon instincts, was attempting to breathe fire on a perceived threat.

Victor: I'm her father.

Nora: I'm her mother!

Dr. McSassy: And I'm her therapist, and I'm telling you Sara is, for all intents and purposes, a dragon.

Nora: Doctor, my only concern-

Victor: You only have one concern?

Nora: My only concern is that Sara may have trouble with kids at school. She starts high school in a few months and I know this can be a difficult time for any teenager, let alone a teenager who is hoarding gold and keeping a watchful eye out for hobbits. Is her dragonkin-yness something we should keep at home, or should I talk to her teachers beforehand to accommodate her transition? 

Dr. McSassy: That is an excellent question, Mrs. Fries. Here's a Good Question Sticker.

Nora: Oh! It's so pretty!

Victor: Aww, I want stickers.

Dr. McSassy: School has proven to be a tricky situation for many otherkin. The most important thing to keep in mind - and you touched on this a bit - is to make sure that at least her home life is stable. Another tactic I have successfully implemented with other dragonkin is to have actors hired to act as peasantry outside the school, so if Sara needs to terrorize a small village to blow off some steam she is more than able to. I actually have an actor in mind, he's part of a troupe that has helped my clients in the past. Have you seen Doctor Who?

Nora: He was in Doctor Who?

Dr. McSassy: No, but he does own the complete box set, so if you want to watch a season just ask.

Victor: Alright, I've had enough. Sara should be obsessing over make up and boys, not scales and knights. Are you going to help my daughter or do we need to find a new therapist?   

Dr. McSassy: I'm beginning to get a better idea of the type of environment that has nurtured Sara's dragon persona to flourish and grow. The type of hostility and almost backwaters mentality I've witnessed today is entirely unacceptable in today's progressive society.

Victor: Oh, so I'm not progressive but Sara is? She talks all the time about how much she hates Jewish people. 

Dr. McSassy: Dragons are vehemently anti-Semitic. It's intrinsic and nothing can be done to change this - very important - aspect of their personality and culture. This is common knowledge.

Nora: Victor, you are sounding like a real asshole right now.   

Victor: Y'know what? You win. Sara's a dragon. She can fly, breathe fire, the whole package. As soon as we get home, I'll watch How to Train Your Dragon for pointers. Thank you, Doctor.

Dr. McSassy: You're being facetious but that's actually a pretty good idea. Toothless is an excellent role model for many dragonkin.

Nora: Again, thank you for meeting with us, Dr. McSassy.

Dr. McSassy: My door is always open. Except when I'm not here, because that would be silly. Now, if you'll excuse me my 12 o'clock should be here soon. I've been trying to convince her for the better part of a year that margarine isn't butter.

Woman in Waiting Room: You lie!

Back

Many a dudebro relishes the opportunity to train chest or arms. These are the type of men who, with ironic t-shirts and unironic tribal tattoos, turn gyms across the country into adult daycares for the clinically narcissistic. In these douche havens arms are alternatively referred to as guns, pythons,  Season 3 & 4 of The Wire. Peacocking made mundane. As with most forms of showmanship, what lies beneath the panache is far more interesting. Or in this case, behind.

I'm talking about backs, bro.

From Atlas to Arnold, adversity has necessitated a powerful back. Backs are where we place our burden, carry our tribulations. To have a weak back is to have a weak constitution. There is little trust deserved to the man who cannot deadlift hella sick weight, bro. You wouldn't trust a barber with a fucked up haircut, would you? Or a fast food employee not suffering from depression? Then why, pray tell, are people with small backs given the time of day? 

Backs go unseen only to the uninitiated. A proper V-taper, the physical foundation upon which the prototypical man is built, is less an attribute seen and more a presence felt. It is why those lacking legendary lats inflate themselves like pufferfish. Pufferfish are not predators. Studies that have yet to be conducted confirm that men and women with sick lat spreads earn more money and live longer than their puny counterparts. Success should be measured in number of doorways you've had both shoulders brush against. 

Strong backs and calloused hands go together like gorillas and misplaced children. If one's lumbar region is well developed, then it stands to reason that one's work ethic and resolve is equally well developed. To have a powerful back is to be able to withstand all the world can throw at you. To be unbowed, unbent, unbroken (I've been watching a lot of Game of Thrones recently, sorry). There is a reason we hunch over when walking through storms. 

Bathrooms

Earlier this week I had a rather unpleasant encounter in a public bathroom at Target. As I was making my way to enter the restroom, I was stopped by a police officer who asked to see some form of identification. After showing him my driver's license he made me drop my pants to ensure I was indeed male. License is a bit old, he says. Need to be sure. He then cut the palm of my hand with a Valyrian steel knife and collected my blood in a macabre goblet made from those who "trespassed upon this room of bath with genitalia most untrue." I had to wait five days for the raven to return from the maester veryfing the maleness of my blood before I could even step foot into the restroom.  

Oh wait. None of that happened because I don't live in a comically Orwellian police state that deems it necessary to devote time and money to ensure that suburban mothers with suburban haircuts can rest easy knowing that dastardly perverts will have to find other locations to get their molestation fix. Like the child's home, where it normally happens.

Time and again I see the same two arguments brought up in defense of bathroom laws. Shit scriptures is a name I pitched a while ago to no avail. Transgender people are mentally ill or un-American and the end goal of any proposed legislation is to protect kids from those who would do them harm. Naturally, both are bullshit.

Let's disregard that transgender or third gender people have been observed in cultures around the world since the beginning of time and focus only on America's history with the T in LGBT. The term Two-Spirit is a sort of umbrella label for Native people who identify as trans, although the word's usage as an umbrella term is relatively recent. Years before the Trail of Tears (more social conservatism at work) many - not all - Native tribes had their own words for transgender people; for instance, someone born as a man who lives as a woman would be called winkte among the Lakota. Despite currently not being allowed to serve in the military, transgender men and women have served this country in conflicts ranging from Spanish to Iraqi. To the people taken aback by the current visibility of American trans people, relax. They aren't suddenly descending from the ether to make your trips to the bathroom more arduous; they've been quietly pooping next to you for the entirety of your existence.

The history of pedophiles is longer than the history of transgender men and women by like three hours. Pervs goin' perv. Those pedophiles you don't want using the restroom with your daughter? They've been a few feet away from your son for years. Besides, trans men and women aren't in the restroom to sexually assault your child. Spending five minutes googling "transgender murder statistics" will show you that trans people are being assaulted and killed at an alarmingly high rate. A transgender woman forced to use the men's restroom is subjecting herself to, at best, ridicule and, at worst, getting beaten to death. It's easy to remain dismissive of the inherent dangers a trans person faces every time they use the restroom because who actually cares about trannys? They're weird.

Using the protect-the-children defense is irritating, to say the least. If you really gave a shit about children you'd be funding safe driving and suicide prevention groups, seeing as those are the top two causes of death among children age 10-18. If you really gave a shit about children you'd be able to stop your neighbor or relative from molesting your child (of children who are molested, 89-91% are molested by a relative or friend of the family). The fact is, conservatives don't give a shit about the health and well-being of children. They are merely using kids as a bludgeon in their assault on Americans who just want to poop where their heart tells them to poop. 

While I wholeheartedly disagree with social conservatives, I hesitate to say their beliefs on the best direction for America is wrong. Rather, I tell them "you are going to be disappointed." Looking at the last 100 years of American history one sees social conservatism suffering defeat after defeat. Women can vote, black people can sit anywhere on a bus, gay people can get married, Tumblr exists (I chalk that last one as a collective loss, though). Social conservatives have turned into Monty Python's black knight, valiantly defending nothing that deserves defending and consistently failing. Y'all had one hell of a run during America's relatively brief lifespan, what with confining women to kitchens and imprisoning citizens because they've attended a showing of The Communist Manifesto: The Musical. However, all good things must come to an end. Social conservatism is dead. 

I for one look forward to progressive advancements in the years to come. I mean, can you imagine conservatives' faces when we get an actual Muslim president rather than a pretend-Muslim president? They'll shit enough bricks to build that fucking wall everyone wants. 

BvS

SPOILERS FOR BATMAN V SUPERMAN TO FOLLOW. TURN AROUND IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN THE MOVIE AND/OR YOU'RE A LITTLE BITCH. 

Regardless of how much or little one enjoyed Batman v Superman, one must admit that the spectacle of its release has been nothing short of entertaining. The week preceding and following its premiere was filled with harsh reviews, staunch apologists, dank 'sad Affleck' memes, and multiple fatwas issued against future CGI antagonists. Y'know how at the beginning of every zombie flick they show a montage of shit hitting the fan? People rioting, news broadcasts telling of impending doom, etc. Basically just New Orleans on a Tuesday. That's exactly what the last two weeks has been like in this brave, new Batman v Superman world. It's wild on these streets, son!

While I unabashedly enjoyed the film I will be the first to admit that it was ripe with flaws and missed opportunities. However, the world needs another review of BvS like it needs another poorly realized social media app that serves little purpose beyond supporting this generation's infantile infatuation with stupid pop culture touchstones from 15ish years ago. I've decided to take a break from my busy schedule of uploading whenever the fuck I feel like it to discuss not just BvS as a film, but BvS as an event.

The story of Dawn of Justice is, despite being unnecessarily convoluted, pretty easy to follow. Bruce Wayne and Lex Luthor work in parallel to destroy Superman, Lois Lane reports stuff, Wonder Woman has the difficult task of looking fabulous at all times, Doomsday is bastardized to serve as the movie's end boss. The complexity - or confusion - generated by the movie comes from both poor editing and expecting audiences to not only be familiar with comics, but to have actually read comics. The former is more difficult to defend than the latter. The scenes where Lois Lane was trying to squeeze info from a military dude (my brain says general but my heart says colonel) lasted maybe two minutes of screen time but was stretched out over 45 minutes. Or the dozens of brief and ultimately inconsequential conversations between characters interspersed between heavy-handed exposition.

Part of the reason the film is seen as inaccessible for casual moviegoers is because elements placed for lore or world building for this film would have merely been a light easter egg in a Marvel movie. Audiences, critics in particular, are fine with Adam Warlock's cocoon showing up in Guardians of the Galaxy or the organization A.I.M. being the front for an Iron Man 3 villain because neither of those tidbits are central to understanding their respective films' plots. But if a filthy casual strolls into BvS not knowing who Darkseid is or that the Speed Force allows for time travel or that Lex Luthor is a mad genius first and suave businessman second? Then they will definitely be lost and confused during critical junctures in the story.  

Also, fuck the reasoning for Batman and Superman fighting. "Yo Bats, they got my mom, foo." "Yo word? I love moms. Let's go get her. Btw my mom's dead lol." "Lol." See, I just avoided one of the most arbitrarily forced fights in cinema history. It would have been far more believable if a misguided Batman was temporarily working with Luthor to take down the Man of Steel, or if a misguided Superman was temporarily working with Luthor to take down the Dark Knight. The fight itself was killer, though.

Thematically, I'm mostly on board with Zack Snyder's interpretation of the DC universe. It's gritty realism walks the delightfully thin line of camp and commentary, something few superhero movies have done before. Which is why I wonder what exactly critics want from superhero movies. They say BvS is too dark, yet Nolan's Batman trilogy is infinitely more grim, more hopeless, than anything coming out of Snyder's brain. They say superhero films are too simple, yet seem incapable of following a dream sequence.

The vitriol of critics has been nothing in comparison to that of DC's most ardent fans. Death threats - death threats! - have been issued against many of those involved with BvS. If these dipshits would put down their e-cigs and loosen their fedoras for one fucking minute they would realize that criticism without construction is worthless. I mean, have we forgotten Batman Forever so quickly? Hell, even the Burton Batman films don't really hold up 20+ years later. Focus on what the film did well, and help to build on that. Eviscerating a decent film just because Jesse Eisenberg had a little snot bubble action going (seriously bro, wipe your nose) doesn't help anyone.  

I do worry of the future of superhero movies. Growing up, anything related to comic books was disregarded as juvenile and sophomoric. Those of us yearning to see Silver Surfer on the silver screen punching Galactus in the dick were forced to placate ourselves with dreadful live-action adaptations that quickly found their way to VHS bargain bins. Fortunately, the last 15 or so years has seen a superhero movie renaissance. Sure, we had to suffer through Punisher: War Zone and Green Lantern but we also received The Wolverine, The Dark Knight, and Spider-Man 2.

As with any medium superhero films are now past their awkward adolescent phase and are free to pursue more complex and morally ambiguous storytelling. There's no longer a need for every film to be a wink-wink-look-how-fucking-self-aware-we-are-about-making-a-superhero-film origin story wherein the main antagonist is both introduced and dies in under an hour. We can finally have movies where superheroes are a component of the story rather than the crux, movies that use capes as allegory rather than CGI spectacle. My fear, though, is that if a film such as BvS, a film that despite it's shortcomings genuinely tries to move the genre forward, is reduced to ash from the righteous flames of Rotten Tomatoes, then all the progress superhero films have made will be for naught. They shall go the way of the western, with the occasional decent film every five years to remind people that they once enjoyed watching men leap tall buildings in a single bound. I pray that's not the case, because I still really want to see Silver Surfer punch Galactus in the dick.  

Blues

Are you not feeling as cheery as you usually do? Finding it hard to partake in your favorite activities? Then it appears, impressionable reader, that you are suffering from the winter blues. The winter blues, also known as seasonal affective disorder, seasonal depression, and this-is-why-no-one-likes-to-be-around-you-Karen, is a fairly common mood disorder wherein an individual develops depression, anxiety, or similar symptoms between December and February. As the winter blues are very much tied to the weather, its prevalence varies from state to state; only 1.4% of Floridians suffer from seasonal depression whereas it affects nearly 10% of Alaskans. This concludes the wikipedia portion of this article. 

If you believe after a cursory internet search and a brief paragraph read that you may have seasonal affective disorder, then you are in luck. I am Dr. Coats, and I have watched The Secret dozens of times. This qualifies me to give life advice. Also I can sort of move things with my mind; unrelated to the topic at hand but it is interesting information nonetheless. Do with it as you please. Below you will find seven easy tips anyone can follow to help alleviate themselves of the dreadful winter blues.

1. Get active. Physical activity is not just good for your body, it's also good for your brain. People who regularly engage in at least 30 minutes of exercise everyday report higher levels of happiness and lower levels of both depression and anxiety. Anything from lifting weights to going for a run counts. Get moving!

2. Listen to music. According to a 2013 study from the University of Missouri, listening to upbeat music can aid in improving one's mood. While listening to music one enjoys improves one's disposition to a certain extent, purposefully choosing the type of drivel that belongs on a Kidz Bop CD has the greatest overall benefits. For three moderately complicated payments of $9.99 I will send you my personal Get Happy mixtape, which is just 10 hours of "Dancing Queen" by ABBA. 

3. Public transportation. More and more research is showing that daily physical contact with other people is essential for a sound mind. Riding public transportation is a great chance to force such physical contact with another human being without being ridiculed for being an omega-level creep. Opt to ride during busy hours, sit a little too close to your fellow passengers, walk to the back of a crowded train/bus to brush across as many people as possible. The unwanted yet unavoidable physical contact combinations are endless. 

4. People watch. Go to a park, a beach, a mall, anywhere large amounts of people congregate. Focus in on particularly interesting looking people, and imagine what their lives are like. Imagine how happy they currently are. Imagine how many loved ones they have waiting for them back home. Imagine how fulfilling, exciting,  and rewarding their professional careers must be. Continue imagining as they walk past the horizon out of your eyesight, out of your life. 

5. Stare up at the ceiling. Any ceiling will do, although your living room ceiling is the most accessible ceiling for most people. Turn your fan on a low to moderate setting and just watch it turn. Around and around always, with a slight wobble that you really should get fixed but won't. As you watch the fan spin, reminisce on your life thus far. Zero in on the mistakes, the mishaps. A word spoken too softly here, an action done too late there, a nigh endless series of cosmically irrelevant failures, one after the other. Think of the choices you could have made. The choices you should have made. Stare up at the ceiling, and think.   

6. Go out for a walk. Some fresh air will do you good, you tell yourself. Maybe some time to clear your head. You leave your home, avoiding eye contact with your neighbors as you usually do. So you walk, in no particular direction, expecting some sort of clarity to reveal itself and put you on the right path. It never comes, but you aren't really surprised, are you? That good things refuse to come out of your head? It was a stupid idea, so stupid. Relax, your frustration is visible on your face. That's why everyone is staring at you. Or are they? Can they read you so easily? Left foot right foot, stay in a straight line. You've fucked up everything else in your life, don't fuck up walking, too. Everything in your life. Even her. Especially her. With each day that goes by it gets harder to remember her face, to remember her voice. The last time you called her she told you she was doing well. Job is going great and Jr looks more and more like his dad. She tells you to visit, see her and her family. You couldn't tell if that was sincerity or condescension in her voice, but you declined all the same. She is finally happy and you know it has everything to do with your absence. That's sort of a pattern for you, isn't it? People get better the less you are involved. Maybe you shouldn't be involved in anyone's life anymore. Maybe that's why you walked all the way to this bridge. Maybe in your heart your knew that this was the only viable solution. You entertain the idea but turn around, unsure if that makes you brave or a coward. Such ruminations are to be left for another time. For now you will return to the suffocating silence of your home, to cook for one, to sleep alone. 

7. Bake. Baking something yummy is a surefire way to cheer anyone up. Cookies and fudge and cupcakes, oh my! My fav dessert right now is my Triple Dark Chocolate Brownies recipe. So good, you'll forgive yourself for being so bad! Four sassy finger snaps out of five!

If all else fails assume the fetal position, cry, and hope you run out of tears before March. 

Dr. Coats

Trauma

The clock seems stuck at 6:18 PM. I am attending my third Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder support group meeting and this session, like the other sessions, is dragging on. Annie is again recounting her harrowing encounter with a jar of pickles that simply would not open. Charles still has frequent panic attacks as he remembers that one time someone called him fat in sixth grade. He puts down his bag of Takis to wipe tears from his face. 6:19 PM.

Rachel, our moderator, nods with a false solidarity that makes me roll my eyes hard enough to cause a nosebleed. She address Charles, then the group, saying, "Charles, thank you for sharing. Guys, what Charles' story tells us is that sometimes hurt-hurt doesn't hurt as bad as word-hurt." My internal groan must be visible on my face, as Rachel holds her gaze on me for just a bit too long.

"Skywalker," to avoid giving out my real name I've told them my parents were avid Star Wars fans, "this is your third session yet you still haven't come out of your shell."

"I used to bullseye womp rats in my T-16 back home, they're not much bigger than two meters." Instinct.

"You're quoting again. Remember, you're Skywalker the man, not Skywalker the character." A part of me wishes I had told them my parents named me Jar Jar. "We've discussed your parents and their... interesting name choices for their children, but we haven't discussed much of you. Why don't you start with what brought you here? What was the moment that made you realize your burden was too great to bear alone? What made you need this support group?" 

I gesture to my peers. "Dey not ready."

"Hey asshole, all I've done here is bear my fucking soul, okay?" Tim, a man recovering from four years spent wearing all of his shirts inside out, stands to drive home his indignance. His fly is open; I say nothing.

Rachel motions him to sit. "Tim, please. Safe zone, safe zone, safe zone." Turning back to me, she says "We are here to help you. Each one of us know that sometimes life can be just a bit much to handle on our own." 

"Yeah, especially with Texas weather," interjects Annie, drawing a solid laugh from the group. These people laugh at weather jokes but won't even politely smile during my what's-the-deal-with-postmodern-literary-theory bit. Fucking plebeians.

The pain I carry within my heart is enough to break most men. My steadfast defiance in refusing to share with my peers is not meant to isolate myself; it is meant to protect them. To stare into the abyss that is my agony is to watch with glassed eyes as one's humanity drifts into nothingness, never to return. No, no they cannot be made privy to my soul and all the madness contained therein. 

"Just this one time, Skywalker, and you won't be forced to share ever again. Please." Her persistence serves as a prelude to the death of her own innocence. 

"...Fine." I sit up on my exercise ball (we have all been sitting on exercise balls instead of chairs, I'm not sure if that is relevant information) and begin my story in earnest. 

"I had went out for a Sunday drive one early afternoon. It was an absolutely beautiful day, hardly a cloud in the sky. When I close my eyes I can still feel the crispness in the air." I pause to close my eyes for dramatic effect. "The sun was shining, children were playing, Donald Trump hadn't begun his run for the presidency. Chuckle, yeah, those were good times. But they weren't to last." 

Annie interrupts, "Did he say 'chuckle?'" Annie, just don't. 

My peers have ceased gently bouncing on their exercise balls as to better hear my tale of woe and misfortune. "I... I get to a stop sign. I stop because... it was a stop sign. One of the red ones, y'know? My window was down, so I took in a deep breath to absorb the freshness of the day and... that's when he came in.

"A small bird flew into my car. He seemed nice at first, and I even thought he was kind of handsome. He rested on my wheel ever so gently, and sang the most beautiful of songs. But then I left the stop sign, and he wasn't so nice anymore. He started violently flying inside of my car. The window was open so I tried to politely shoo him outside but he just wouldn't take no for an answer. I remember smelling alcohol on his beak.

"And then... and then... he..." tears are welling in my eyes, "...he shat all over my car. I had never seen a bird or any other animal shit so much in my life. He shat in the back seat, the front seat, he shat on my dashboard, he shat on the doors and he..." Unable to maintain eye contact with the group I stare at the floor and whisper, "he even shat on me. Like I was a whore.

"When it was all over, he didn't say anything. He just took my dignity and left me on the side of the road covered in bird shit. I just... he... oh god." I am sobbing uncontrollably. "Oh god why? Why?" The group, with nary a word, gathers around me so that we may all embrace. For the first time in a long time I feel a sense of hope for my future, a sense that my wounds will heal yet. Perhaps there is life after bird shit? As we hug it out I look up at the clock.

6:20 PM. How the fuck is that even possible.

Weather

Hiya, neighbor! Looks like you're trying to get inside your apartment to drop off all those groceries you're currently holding! Oh fucking well, you are now committed to entertaining my mildly dull banter for another three, maybe four minutes! Long time no see! Golly! Has it really been a whole two days since we last saw each other, making my use of the phrase "long time no see" entirely inappropriate!? It has, and it does! Phrases are weird!

I AM GOING TO CONTINUE THE REST OF THIS CONVERSATION AT A DECIBEL LEVEL TOO HIGH GIVEN THE CONTEXT BUT NOT LOUD ENOUGH TO WARRANT A FORMAL COMPLAINT.

Crazy weather we're having, right? You'd imagine that after 40 plus years living in Texas the changing of seasons would have lost their luster upon my person, but no. No. Y'know how the temperature drops gradually enough that any dipshit with working skin would be able to plan accordingly for the impending winter? I sure as fuck don't, because it always catches me by surprise! Oh Mother Nature, you sneaky cunt, you!

Let's quickly discuss sports, because society has taught me that football and basketball are safe conversations to have with a black man. Excuse me, man of color. Colored. Sorry, African-American-colored man. Did you see that team win that game? Because they won it. The game, that is.

Anecdote about that one time I tackled a dude in high school and got a concussion, which explains much of my current disposition and gets better each time I tell it which is every time because this is the only anecdote I have like seriously what the fuck I'm not even trying when I talk to people I just shove this faux-concussion anecdote into as many fucking situations as I can and always deliver it with this really phony somberness - that would be right at home in a Lifetime movie - without regard to either the current tone or direction of the conversation and to top it all off I don't even mix up how I tell the story, same fucking inflections same fucking pauses while I look off into the distance like I was recounting my time in Vietnam and then I'll act somewhat indignant when you have nothing to add to a story you have heard more times than any one man should hear a story. 

But yeah, like we were saying (but mostly I was saying because despite being boring as shit I still manage to dominate all conversations we have), weather makes birds fly and stuff. 

Okay, I think I've stalled just long enough for that sherbet in your bag to melt awkwardly over the rest of your food so bye! 

Switch

Dear Dr. Coats,

There's no real easy way to go about this so I'll just come out and say it- I've switched bodies with my 9 year old son and I don't know what to do about it. Let me explain. A few days ago we were shopping in a real ethnic Europeany part of town when we found a posh antique vase store that specialized in selling antique vases. Once inside I spotted a vase that would have looked great in my bathroom and told my son to grab it. My son, being the useless little shit that he is, dropped the vase immediately. Apparently it belonged to a long line of Gypsy witches and apparently Gypsy witches are assholes.

The proprietor of the store said we were cursed with the Freaky Friday starring Lindsay Lohan spell, which caused my son and me to switch bodies for an undetermined amount of time. Although I've been killing it in third grade (literally killed a kid in dodgeball, by the way) I do miss having a man sized penis, plus my son has been having a montage-worthy series of hilarious mishaps with my wife and colleagues at work. Without resorting to an act of true love or other things that don't exist, how do we get our bodies back?


Someone With Itsy Teeny Child Hands



Dear SWITCH,

Now that is a killer pen name. Readers, this is the type of thoughtful, moderately clever pseudonym I'd like to see more of.

There are three basic types of Body Switcheroonies™: twin and twin, person and dog, parent and child. If someone were to tell you they swapped bodies with their grandpa or something equally ridiculous, rest assured that they are fucking lying. Those three, that's it.

Twins often forego returning to their original bodies because literally no one gives a shit, and the majority of person/dog swaps result in the euthanization of said dog (who is really a person [but dies as a dog]). Parent and child Body Switcheroonies™, luckily, have a much higher rate of Original Body Reacquisition®.

The first and most important step in any successful OBR® is to continue living the life of your current body as normally as possible. For you this means to act like the pathetic spaz your son actually is rather than a normally functioning child. Your son should take extended sick leave for work (tell them he has Acute Aids, it's super trendy right now) and tell your wife/his mom that he can't have sex with her for the foreseeable future because she has really let herself go and he's considering getting a divorce. This should buy you guys enough time to enact step two. Now, step two is actually pretty simple: you need to kill yourselves some gypsies. A lot of gypsies. Like, a Holocaust level of gypsies.

You see, each Gypsy Soul Curse© costs a rather arbitrary amount of Roma souls to both cast and uncast. The cost for the initial GSC© was paid for when your asshole of a son dropped the vase (pronounced Vah-Se-Ut-Ah in Gypsy) releasing a number of gypsy souls. What you need to do now is go back to the antique vase store, find out how many souls were trapped inside, then kill Gypsies at your leisure. It's best to not go overboard with the number of Roma you murder per day, as police and society tend to frown on genocide.

Roma, as the name implies, are a people often on the move so it can be difficult to track down enough to kill/soul harvest. A good place to start your quest would be to visit any local establishments that offer tarot card readings, palm readings, mind readings, or any other readings that don't involve books. Roma tend to run these establishments, as I've read in Playfully Racist Bullshit Weekly. Another hot spot for hunting Gypsy would be weddings. Or more specifically, big fat weddings. I'm not sure how a wedding can be fat, but if you find a fat wedding you'll probably find some Gypsies. Happy Hunting!


Dr. Coats

Muslim

Dear Dr. Coats,

When the youngest of my three daughters, Charmander, was 14 she told me she was a lesbian. Being from a small conservative town in Arkansas this threw me for a loop. My husband and I argued to high Heaven with Charmander for years and years trying to change her mind. It was hard, but eventually we made peace with her lifestyle and learned to love our daughter for who she is. Plus we have two normal daughters, so we figure two out of three ain't bad.

Now she's 23 and has started dating a Pakistani. Oh tickle my pickle and lick my grapefruits! There has to be only two lesbian Pakistani in all of Arkansas and my daughter has to meet one of them. I have nothing against Pakistan and its people, it's just a little much y'know? Lesbian and Middle Easterner. Also my daughter's girlfriend is a Muslim, and if I find out she had anything to do with 9/11 I'll have a heart attack. As a respectable and well-endowed Christian woman, how should I go about telling my daughter I disapprove of who she scissors her time with?

Really Active Christian Idealist Seeks Teaching

Dear RACIST,

Some parts of your story don't seem to be adding up. You said your daughter was 14 then one paragraph later she's suddenly 23? Children don't grow up that fast. You claim to be a devout Christian yet you name your daughter after a Generation I Pokemon? Generation II is all that matters, you filthy casual. You say you are from Arkansas but you know how to read and write? Girl, please (read that as "guuuurrrrrll pleaaazze," and imagine that I snap my fingers all sassy-like because that is what I am doing right now). Regardless, I have your letter in one hand and a glass of Relevant Seasonal Beverage in the other, so I may as well answer your question.

It was very brave of you and your husband to accept your daughter for her deviant sexual preferences. It is unfortunate that, regardless of how noble a life she may lead, she will be damned to the fiery pits of Hell for all eternity just for being attracted to members of her own sex, but rules are rules. Make sure she's not eating shrimp too, otherwise she'll go to Super Hell. It's like regular Hell only everyone talks using gratuitous air quotes.

While you may be apprehensive about your daugther's Middle Eastern girlfriend you truly have nothing to fear. Middle Easterners are just like you or me, but there are a few safety tips you should abide by to avoid any unnecessary conflict.

• Make noise when the girlfriend stops by your house. Middle Easterners hate to be suprised so be sure to make your prescence known.
• Travel in groups when around the girlfriend. Groups make more noise and appear more formidable to Middle Easterners.
• Do not leave food out in the open when the girlfriend is around. Middle Easterners have a very keen sense of smell and will be attracted to strong odors.
• Do not allow the girlfriend to eat human food. If a Middle Easterner eats human food, even once, they become very aggressive and must be either relocated or put down.
• If the girlfriend approaches or charges at you DO NOT RUN. Middle Easterners will often "bluff charge" their way out of threatening situations, so running away will only serve to excite them and put you in danger.
• If the girlfriend gets too close stand your ground, wave your arms above your head, and talk (don't scream) loudly. Middle Easterners will often leave if they see their prey is aggressive.
• Carry around Middle Eastern Spray. It is a non-toxic, non-lethal spray that will deter the girlfriend, giving you time to escape.
• In the rare occasion that the girlfriend has attacked you, lie face down on the ground and put your hands over the back of your neck. Continue playing dead until the girlfriend has left. Middle Easterners often do not go after already dead prey.

Following the aformentioned safety tips should ensure that you find your daughter's girlfriend a wonderful addition to your family. For further inquiries contact the campground kiosk or the nearest park ranger.  

Dr. Coats

Weight

Much hullabaloo is being made by the social justice warrior community over the tangentially related issues of obesity, body acceptance, and fat shaming. Gone are the days of enjoying a cheap laugh at the expense of Fat Albert or an impromptu Truffle Shuffle. Instead, the overweight are to be sympathized, protected, respected, and even desired (WHY THE FUCK ARE DAD BODS A THING HOW DID THIS BECOME A THING). Lost in the parade of self-efficacy nonsense are the very real consequences obesity has on both the individual and the nation. Is it impossible to preach healthy lifestyles without destroying one's self-esteem? Is fat the new black? Why utilize rhetorical questions? Don't I know it's a rather lazy way to frame discussion? How long should I keep this paragraph going? Should I stop now? How about now? What's a hypotenuse?    

The argument goes that a large portion of America's overweight population literally cannot lose weight. Some scientists have both posited and proved the existence of "fat genes," genes which basically predispose one to carry more weight than is normal.  It's interesting to note that scientists have also discovered smoking genes and pedophile genes, biological markers that leave one susceptible to Cuban cigars and small children, respectively. Strangely enough, neither of the aforementioned activities are defended by the well-what-can-I-do-I-was-born-this-way crowd.

Rational human beings understand that genes that predispose one to be overweight are different from the genes that predispose one to be six feet tall. Emphasis on rational. 

Of the types of maladies that would effect one's weight loss hypothyroidism is one of the most commonly discussed. While not impossible for those living with hypothyroidism to lose weight, one must be empathetic to their plight. However, only 4.6% of the US population has hypothyroidism while 69% are overweight and/or obese. Assuming that every American with hypothyroidism is overweight (they aren't), that would mean 64.4% of the US population has, at best, a weak argument as to why they are overweight.  

If one is going to say "big is beautiful," one must follow up that sentiment with "and also really fucking expensive." The annual cost of American obesity in 2008 was $147 billion and that number has only continued to rise. Obese employees miss more work than non-obese employees and, once they are able to make it to work, are less productive than their healthy weight peers. 

But enough keyboard science. Can we be real with one another? I mean real real. *rolls up sleeves and sits in chair backwards* Let's go back to fat shaming, or the idea of fat shaming. Insulting an overweight person for the sake of insulting an overweight person is unnecessarily cruel and useless. Offering advice or encouragement to an overweight person to lose weight, however, should not be considered fat shaming.

Steady your keyboards, SJWs. Being overweight is as legitimate a lifestyle as being a smoker. To not only defend such a lifestyle but encourage it is entirely disingenuous. Expanding on the idea of smokers, look how we as society treat them. Smokers are pretty much not allowed to smoke in any building these days, are constantly bombarded with ads telling them they are killing themselves, and - having experienced this firsthand as a former smoker myself - few will hesitate to publicly berate smokers for their lifestyle choice. As much as I roll my eyes when I see a commercial with some skateboarding anthropomorphic dinosaur encouraging children to not smoke BECAUSE SMOKING IS MOST UN-RADICAL, at the very least I agree with the message: smoking is bad. It is bad for the health of the individual and the health of the community.

"Well, yeah" says the dipshit arguing with me in my head, "that's smoking. It's completely different from being overweight." No, no it's not. Both are lifestyle choices that result in entirely preventable health problems that negatively impact the individual, the nation, and everything in between. Neither can be defended as harmless.

Therein lies my biggest gripe with the anti-fat shaming vanguards of the world; they think being fat is a legitimate lifestyle. Before you grab your pitchforks - which probably double as your actual forks (okay that was mean-spirited but hey, I'm an asshole) - participate in a short exercise with me. Think of all the arguments used to defend the overweight and obese. Genetics, personal choice, the idea that one can be overweight yet have a medically clear bill of health, etc. Now for each of those arguments replace "overweight" with "anorexic." Both are on the same spectrum of weight-related disorders and both have documented consequences for the individual. However, the bravely overweight are treated as paragons, the underweight as pariahs.

I get it. There are many people - particularly on the internet - who have a hostile, virulent reaction to the overweight. These are the types of cartoonish villains who show up on Tumblr or one's Facebook feed, foaming at the mouth as they hurl juvenile insults at anyone who's weight starts with 3. I am neither condoning nor encouraging such behavior; I am, however, saying that the act of being overweight is something that should be dissuaded, and that such dissuasion is not akin to fat shaming. Basically, I can disagree with destructive behavior without being a dick about it.

The general acceptance of overweight or obese individuals is just further evidence of the pussification of our nation. *note to self, copyright "Pussification of Our Nation" for sale to inevitable reboot of Schoolhouse Rock* The individual is allowed to live his or her life as they please, but any criticism towards said lifestyle - regardless of legitimacy - is disregarded as malicious ignorance. This is the crux of the Anti-Fat Shaming Brigade; they seek to mold society to better themselves rather than mold themselves to better society. Their self-proclaimed bravery for standing up to the mean old gym bro harassing them whilst out and about is insulting to those actually displaying bravery to advance their respective social causes. A lesbian couple fighting for equal adoption rights are brave. An unarmed protester standing meters away from a heavily armed riot squad is brave. A fat guy who parks in handicap spaces is just an asshole.