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