I blame Trump, for like, all my own failures.

Look, since we last spoke, shit has transpired. The world is forever changed. A bloated turnip with golden retriever pubes for a haircut, is the President. Anyway, you all know this and are probably sick of seeing your Facebook feed filled with his mug. This isn’t about his awful policies, his racists rhetoric, and his general inability to run the most powerful nation in the world. I’ll let actual reporters do that for me. No, this is simply my mea culpa for being a lazy asshole who wants to be a famous writer with the jaw of George Clooney and the abs of Madonna, but would rather play NBA JAM on the SNES than pretty much anything worthwhile, like going for a walk to see if the snow is gone yet.

Why? Why is it that this man of so many obvious talents, isn’t even as famous as most smoked meat sandwiches? Pretty much any shitty musician with a tenuous grasp of how to play the acoustic guitar, and access to an open mic night, is more famous than me, and that is a editorial_cartoon_depicting_charles_darwin_as_an_ape_1871bunch of bullshit. At first, I thought it was because of my inherent laziness and perhaps even the entitlement that comes with being a white man in this unfair world. And  let’s be clear, of course it’s entirely because of those reasons, but really, it’s much easier to blame Trump. And this got me thinking, what other facets of my life’s failures can I blame on Trump, a man who would be placed before a chimp on that Darwin monkey to man chart. And look, I’m a liberal, so of course my elitist ideals would love to blame the living personification of a Hummer that is Trump, for all my shortcomings, but I will use what Trump calls ‘alternative facts’ and ‘sience’ (not a typo) to prove my point, that fucking Trump, the wilted wedge salad of humanity, is to blame for all of it.


Pre-Trump, I was the living embodiment of health and physical activity, as I would go for grueling 3 km jogs, twice, even three times a week. But then fucking Trump started gaining ground on his Repubelican (not a typo, just want this article to be pube heavy, because Trump) adversaries. And then he fucking beat Clinton, and we were fucked. Sure some would say, “keep up the exercise, he won’t be there forever and your long-term health is more important that the world’s short-term ills”. But here’s the thing, you can’t out-fucking-run a nuclear bomb. I would rather have meat on my bones to survive our impending global famine and give myself the best chances of surviving nuclear fallout, because my unscientific assumption is a bit of meat on the bones will beat acute radiation syndrome 9 out of 10 times – science in Trump’s America baby! So really, by not exercising and growing increasingly larger, I’m preparing for the end of times in the most graceful way possible (Doritos crumbs on the face).


Obviously all six of my followers know I’m pretty much the Virginia Woolf of blogging, and I’ve even written a book (it’s so good that I’ll probably end up having to give it away for free on Amazon, where even my mom can avoid downloading it). But as most of you have not noticed, this blog has been a ghost town for some time. And sure, some may claim that this silence started way before the living embodiment of a dog’s lipstick took the Oval office, but maybe I just had a feeling this doom was coming, and didn’t want to keep bringing joy and laughter to a populus that was about to experience so much pain and misery. How can I bring you fun-filled Society Camp posts, when life itself, has become a society camp, filled with Muslim bans, attacks on women’s rights and all the absolute fuckery that President Bannon has brought us. What kind of a person would I be, if I gave you a 5 minute reprieve from another article about how the human equivalent of a turd left on a toilet seat passed another executive order that would even make a Bush cringe. I would love nothing more than to make you laugh and smile, but instead, I think it’s healthier for all of us if you take in Trump’s latest atrocities and cry into your stale bowl of cereal, while questioning why you brought children into this failing state of society. You do realize your kid’s best job prospect going forward is, like, guerrilla freedom fighter, right? Anyway, I would want nothing more than to bring you another article about how people shouldn’t fart on elevators, but it would not be fair to the overwhelming feeling of despair that drapes every facet of your life.


I like my friends, they’re all swell and laugh at my jokes. But all we do now is get together and talk about the current pus-filled sore that is running the United States and it gets tiring. I can’t even get ten minutes to simply talk about myself and how great I think I am, when all these assholes want to do is talk about Trump and all the shitty things he and his friends are doing. I haven’t felt this unsure about my inflated sense of self since like the palsthird grade, when I wore calf-high Doc Martens with white tennis shorts and a white polo, and a fifth grader said I looked like Pete Sampras in a mosh pit. And even when we do somehow get off the topic that is the new President, the fog of sadness and anxiety doesn’t leave, and we just sit there in silence for like ten minutes, before someone brings up Steve Bannon, who by the way looks like the prison councilor from Orange is the New Black, only more evil and raised in some Argentinian wood by escaped concentration camp guards. I hope to resume friendships one day, should Canada be spared in the impending world war, but mostly because playing NBA JAM by myself is harder than playing my friends, who are absolute shit at it. By the way, in no way have I been paid by NBA JAM, but if they’re reading this, I would literally give you my first born for a free vintage tee and would easily vote Trump if it meant receiving the original NBA JAM arcade system. And for good measure, let me mention it a one more time: NBA JAM (if anyone Googles NBA JAM, I should be shot right to the top of the search results, so this blog would have been a fucking huge hit in 1993, if the internet was a thing, and not some Al Gore pet project).


Don’t worry, I still have all the time and determination in the world to beat all 27 teams onnba-jam a regular basis. Trump will never dampen my NBA JAM passion. If the nuclear holocaust does find us soon, I will use every last ounce of generator gasoline I have to power my SNES and fuel my only desire to truly live in whatever world Trump will leave behind. I was going to write more, but this was a good start to getting back on the old writing bandwagon and also, I’m going to leave work early and drown my sorrows in a game of Jam, who is always there, ready to spread on my proverbial entertainment toast.

Sentence: Anyone blaming their current failures on the walking bowl of grossly over-mayo’d coleslaw that is the President, will get a pass on any sentence to Society Camp. We just don’t have the energy, gumption, resources or time to fix society right now. I mean sure, we’d be happy to just send every god-damned Trump supporter to an isolated/self contained country, creating a racist island utopia that we don’t have to worry about, but you can only really have one Australia.

Reform Punishment: Fucking vote next time.

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