Monday, December 28, 2015

Despite All My Rage...

I wanted to let some time pass from my last post to give an update on that whole situation. Aside from a very brief exchange on Christmas, we haven't really spoken. I'm going to let it stay that way. I'm trying to understand her side of the situation. She is in no way interested and doesn't realize that she's not doing me any favors by cutting me out completely. I'm choosing to be okay with that. It's shitty, it sucks, and it hurts. However, she's dealing with her own thing. If I think about it too long, I get pissed off all over again. So, I'm going to do my best to avoid that.

Speaking of getting pissed off... I had something happen on Christmas Eve that hasn't happened in a very long time. I threw a tantrum. Like a toddler. Of course, booze was involved. I don't remember the conversation that lead up to it, I just remember feeling like I wasn't being heard. I have a lot of unchecked rage and things hit a boiling point. This was a very good and very close friend of mine who was just trying to help. I screamed in her face and literally stomped the ground until she broke down in tears. What's worse than feeling like the giant piece of shit that I am for what I've done, is knowing that I did the same thing my dad would do. I've made it a goal since I was a little kid to do everything in my power to not become him. I don't think I'm in danger of that, but it's a that kind of behavior that I really want to avoid. I managed to calm down that same night and apologize... But I know she's never going to forget it. I scarred her. I did that. There's nothing I can do to fix it. All I can do is try to never do it again. I feel like a monster.

I've said before that I "used to have an anger issue." I thought that was true. I thought I worked passed it after high school. I didn't work passed anything; All that rage is still inside me. The only thing I changed are the circumstances in which it will come out. Truth is, I'm always angry. It never really goes away. I learned how to function with an alarming amount of anger sitting under the surface. I release it in these little bursts. Usually when I'm alone at home or in my car. It's kind of remarkable how sturdy my steering wheel is, because I've tried like hell to break it. This is no way to live.

I've been thinking a lot lately about why I'm so angry. Might seem odd that I'm only now really thinking about it, but I had never considered the "why" before. I know that most of it stems from my childhood. I never had a healthy outlet for anger and I never felt like anyone would listen to me. You know that feeling you get when you're in the midst of getting mad about something and somebody tells you to calm down? How you go from reasonably angry to fully fucking infuriated? Imagine that happening every time for over 20 years. I'm not trying to make excuses, but through my entire adolescence, not a single person tried to talk me through what I was so mad about. All my rage was treated as unimportant and inconvenient. If my dad was around, it was met with an opposing anger.

I really need to stop being the victim and parent myself. I'm astounded every day by people my age. So many of them just... Living. I can't wrap my head around it. How the hell do they do that? I'm not even looking for happiness. I'm looking for contentment. Even that feels so unattainable...

Anyway, I'm exhausted and losing focus. I'm mad about a lot of things. I might talk about it more some other time.

Monday, December 14, 2015

Baby, Don't You Want Me?

I don't know why I keep forgetting that this exists.  It seems like I only remember it when I feel like garbage.  I guess I'm ok with that.  There's something cathartic about typing out how I feel and sending it into the ether of the internet.  It's almost poetic to know that practically nobody will read it.  However, it's out there... And, more importantly, it's out of my head.

I'm not going to waste time with a long, drawn out update of the last year. Here are the bullet points. I moved back from St. Louis in March, dicked around in Southern Illinois until August, and moved back to St. Louis. I managed to get back here thanks to a good friend who got me a job and let me stay with him for a couple months.  I owe him.  He's a good dude.

The last two months or so, that's where things have gotten a little shitty.  See, while I spent six months back home, I became friends with this girl.  Bet you'll never guess what happened.  Yeah, ol' Patty Boy caught feelings.  It wasn't immediate, but I'll be goddamned if it didn't happen.

I had seen her at a couple of the local bars for a while.  Always thought she was cute and there had been multiple times I tried to get the nerve to say something, anything, to her.  Your typical "why the fuck should I even bother?  Look at her!  She's gorgeous!"  One night, I'm sitting at the bar with a friend, and we decide to walk outside for a smoke.  This particular bar has little cardboard-circle-things to put over your drink to indicate that you're out for a smoke, and you're coming back to that seat.  Bar etiquette dictates that, if you take said seat, you're a fucking asshole.  I come back in to see that my seat is taken.  By Her.  She's just sitting there with some scrawny, pale, long haired guy and her back is to me.  So, of course, I start making a lot of assumptions.  At this point, I believe that she's some recently 21 cute girl who has no idea how to behave in a bar setting.  I spend the next thirty or so minutes complaining to my friend.  "Who the fuck does she think she is?  Fucking entitled little bitch, thinks that just because she's pretty she can do whatever the fuck she wants.  Fuck that."  Sure, I overreacted a little, but it's not like I said it to her face.  Eventually she also goes out to smoke, and I take my seat back.  Goddammit, am I proud in that moment.  I create this fantasy in my head where she comes in and makes some kind of rude comment about how I stole her seat, maybe throw in something about how a real man wouldn't do so such a thing.  I had my monologue prepared.  I was going to take a stand for all the other unattractive men in the world who feel slighted by the aesthetically pleasing opposite sex!  None of that happened.  She came back in, glanced my way, and found a spot where she could stand and listen to the band.  That was my first encounter with her.

A few weeks later, I'm hanging outside of another bar.  A place where I used to run an open mic.  I'm outside, smoking, waiting for the usual crowd of five people to get situated at the bar and not pay any attention.  A guy I know comes around the corner, so we start in with the small talk.  A few moments later, I see Her walking our way.  I haven't forgotten about the incident, but I think it's kind of funny in retrospect.  As she's walking, I'm trying to think of a funny way to bring it up.  I'm having trouble doing so, because I noticed a big smile on her face as she's walking over.  I can't bring myself to focus on anything else.  She had a look on her face that told me that she had something to say, and I wanted to listen.  She bounds onto the sidewalk and says something to the effect of, "Hey! I see you out all the time! I'm Emily!"  I was taken back.  I realized that I was wrong.  She's not some entitled bitch.  She seems so... sweet.  After a beat I blurted out, "I'm Patrick.  You stole my seat."  I guess I was going for confusion.  It didn't work.  She told me that she realized that after she came in from smoking that night.  Not only did she realize it, she felt bad.  She's fully aware of bar etiquette and was disappointed in herself for breaking it.  It was after an hour or so of reading body language between her and the other guy that I came to the conclusion that they were dating.  Or an item, or a thing, or something.  I asked him at one point, "so... are you guys dating? Talking? Fucking?"  I made it sound playful and like I was just curious.  I now know that I wanted to see where they stood before I made an attempt.  He nervously chuckled and said, "eh, all of the above I guess."  I nodded with a fake smile and said, "cool."  The next weekend I ran into them again.  She seemed way too happy.  She told me she was on acid then called me by the wrong name.  I gave her the appropriate amount of shit and then we exchanged numbers.  It would be another three weeks before she had a last name in her contact info.  Until then, she would be "Emily - Bar Girl."

Every weekend for the next month or so, I'd either run into them at the bar, or text Emily and we'd go to the bar anyway.  It was with them that I tried ecstasy for the first time.  It didn't take long for either of us to realize that we had a very natural chemistry.  Aside from originally wanting to talk to her, I never really thought of her in that way.  I was going to be moving back to St. Louis, anyway.  I didn't see a point in letting my brain wonder in that direction.  There are two events that changed that.  First, they broke up.  She and I had talked about him and their relationship a little bit, but not in that much depth.  She called me that night to tell me about it.  That seemed odd to me at first.  Why tell me about it?  As we're talking about it, I tell her it's probably a good thing and that it seemed toxic.  She agreed, we made plans to meet up at the bar the following weekend, and got off the phone.  Second, I started seeing somebody.  Once it became "official" Emily's attitude changed toward me.  She gave me shit for texting and was generally kind of an asshole.  The relationship didn't last long, and I actually broke up with her over the phone while hanging out with Emily at work.  I saw a small bit of relief on her face.  I didn't really think much of it at the time.  It was during a conversation via text where I named a few basic things I would like in a partner (not an idiot, gets my sense of humor, thinks I'm funny, supportive, all that shit) that she responded with four words that would change everything. "You just described me."

I talked to all my closest friends about this interaction.  Most of them had seen the way we act around each other and they all wondered why I didn't try to turn it into more.  I took two full weeks to think it over.  Think about what exactly I was going to say, the tone I would use, my body language, every little detail.  The day finally came.  I met up with her and another friend for dinner.  While we're outside smoking, she says that she did something stupid.  This wasn't exactly a surprise.  She's reckless and a little crazy, but I found it endearing.  Turns out she slept with a coke head that we both know and now he's kind of crazy about her.  Like, bad crazy.  The same moment that I was going to take to ask if there was something more to our friendship, I get this dropped on me.  Timing has never been my thing.  I hold it in and resort to making fun of her for it, because that's how I show affection.  That night, we go to the bar (shocker) and, of course, Cokey McDickbag is there.  Not only is he there, he as all over her.  Trying to hold her hand, kiss her, and she's not really digging any part of it.  So, as an escape, she spends a lot of time with me.  The night goes on, we get increasingly drunk, and end up at a friends house.  Cokey is in the living room while her and I are in the garage.  She's going on about how he's crazy and she doesn't know what to do.  I, with my fucking masters degree in bad timing, blurt out while pointing back and forth between myself and her, "so, this is a thing, right?"  I'm expecting a groan followed by her pleading that I don't "do this right now."  That's not what happened.  She smiled, laughed, and kissed me.  We talked about it a little through our drunken haze, but it seemed mutual.  I don't think I've ever felt real joy like that before.

We decided that we needed to talk about things while sober.  The following weekend, I came back to town, got blackout drunk, and took acid.  There's a whole story with that part, but I wrote a bit about it.  Just come to a show to hear it.  What I will say, is that her and I spent another night in that same garage.  I know now that it wasn't really a conversation.  It was me talking about how I felt, her also being on acid, and the acid letting her feel what I felt in that moment.  There was crying, kissing, laughing... it was pretty great.

Things are different now.  Much different.  She doesn't want to be with me, which is ok.  I can handle that.  She just won't come out and say it.  She's going through the typical crisis a 25 year old that parties a lot goes through.  I'm trying to help her with that.  Not because I think I'll win her somehow, but because she needs a hand.  I want to help because I care.  Part of her process of being a better person seems to include being on her phone less.  As much as I understand it, I also really hate it.  I don't get to talk to her much anymore, and it really bothers me.  She already told me it's not anything personal toward me, and I believe her.  I just don't have many people I want to talk to... And it sucks that the person you want to talk to most, isn't available.  So, here I am.  I live in St. Louis, I work full time, all my friends here have relationships and lives, and I'm more alone than ever.  Maybe it's the perpetual self-loathing, or maybe this is true... But as miserable as I am, it feels right.

Monday, February 9, 2015

Tuned Out

I think we should all just agree that this thing is not going to get updated weekly.  That'll never happen.  I'm way too lazy for that.  Plus, it's not like anyone is clamoring for it.  Which, makes sense.  There aren't many people that want to hear my bitch in person, let alone read some half-assed stream of consciousness. I guess this thing is more for me.  Let's face it, this is more of a journal.  But I have just enough of an ego to make it public just in case somebody wants to know what I think about... Stuff.  And things.

So, it's been a couple months since my last post.  Not a whole lot has changed in that time.  I still work the same job, I still get paid just enough to live, and I still don't do as much standup as I should.  I changed my schedule to get a little more time, which is nice.  Now I'm just lacking motivation.  I haven't written anything new in months and I'm starting to forget what it feels like to do well on stage.  I'm not the first person to say this, but standup is a lot like a drug.  You try it and, if you realize it's for you, it completely consumes you.  You've become an addict.  Doing well just becomes your high, and you're constantly chasing that.  That's why a lot of people don't mind bombing.  It just means that the next time you kill in a room, you're going to get an even bigger rush.  Now, it's been so long since I've done really well.  It's almost like the withdrawal phase is over and I'm back to the guy I was earl 2012.  Not happy about where I'm at in life, not sure what to do, lonely, and trapped in my own head.  Only now, I can look at this thing I've spent the last two and a half years of my life doing.  I want that feeling back.  I want put all of my effort into my craft and fucking make it.  It was easy before I moved.  I didn't have much else to worry about.  Now that I'm here, I HAVE to make money.  I have to pay rent, I have to take care of my dog, I have to maintain my car... I have to be an adult.  I'm a week away from 27 and I can say, with absolutely no shame, I'm not ready.  Don't misinterpret, because I understand that my life isn't especially hard and that I'm being a baby.  I'm very, very aware of that.  I've just also had a history of doing things my way.  Usually, I make things harder on myself.  I just don't like being told that there's a set way to do things.  I know what I want to do with my life.  There are so few people that can say the same, and I'm proud of myself for that.  However, in the standup world, you're told that you only have a few options.  Get on stage as much as you can, grind through the clubs, work and tweak material, and eventually someone will give you a chance on a bigger stage.  Then, you repeat this process over and over until you get to where you want to be in your career.  Fuck.  That.

I'm not the only one who thinks that process is bullshit.  We live in an age of constant sharing of content and ideas.  There are so many outlets for whatever you want to do, that there's no goddamn reason to not try.  So, I've been working with Eric Brown and Sarah Bursich to take a DIY approach to all of this.  We're taking a page from The Nerdist and starting our own "Network."  A website for comics, run by comics, where you can post whatever the hell you want.  Podcasts, sketches, short films, blogs, it doesn't matter.  And we're starting this with a podcast hosted by myself, Eric, and a friend of mine by the name of David Yeck-Stauffer.  Nothing super original on the format, just talking with someone that we like and learning more about them.  Eric and I with a few years of standup under our belts, plus a chemistry that we've discovered after hosting shows together, David is a funny guy I know.  He's thoughtful, introspective, and will keep Eric and I from spending the entire podcast talking about a bunch of dumb shit that absolutely nobody but the two of us care about.

So, that's that.  There will be more info coming along shortly.  But, if your'e interesting and interested in being on the show, just let me know!  I'm actually excited about this.  I think it could be really great. And that's coming from a guy who gags on positivity.

Tuesday, December 2, 2014

Gateway To Whatever The Fuck This Is

Well well well... Turns out I did exactly what I didn't want to do.  I completely forgot about this blog. It's been close to a year since I updated this thing. Totally Patronizing.  I still like the name.  Seems that a year ago I was bitching a lot.  I suppose I'm good at that.  So good, in fact, that I just might be working on a podcast that's just that.  Me bitching.  Who wouldn't want to listen to that?!

So what have I been doing for the past year?  Let's see...

Looks like my last post was in January and I don't remember a damn thing about that month.  So let's skip ahead to February. I turned 26.  Fucking hooray.  Rented another cabin for the party and had a decent time.  Decent because I think I'm becoming more cynical every year and I have a hard time enjoying... uh... Everything.  I was still making the rounds at open mics in the Carbondale area and running the one at Longbranch with Eric Brown and Sarah Bursich.

March through June was more of the same.  Unemployed, drinking most nights, playing a lot of video games, eating entire large pizzas, and living with my mom.  Then July rolled around... A friend told me about a company that might be hiring in the St. Louis area.  A company that cares for, and teaches, people with mental disabilities.  I had no doubt in my mind that there was no way I would get that job.  Me of all people.  So, I applied online with my incredibly depressing resume.  Three days later, I had an interview over the phone.  Week after that, I had an interview in person.  Two weeks after THAT, I moved to St. Louis.  July 27th was the day I moved.  I started working July 28th.  I went through my two weeks of training before I started picking up clients.  I'll spare you a lot of the details and get to the major events.  Since I've been working here I've been told to go fuck myself, that I'm a son of a bitch, that it's amazing that even my family would love me, and that I'm a piece of shit.  That's just from one kid.  Not to mention the time he threatened to kill me with a shovel (which was in his hands.)

Then I get my second client.  Non-verbal (a great change of pace) and needs to learn most daily living skills.  Can't really say anything bad about the kid.  He honestly doesn't know any better... I feel bad for him.  Believe it or not, I like this job a lot.  I feel like I'm doing something meaningful for once.  I'm helping them in very specific ways and I feel like they need me.  It's pretty great.  Except for the time this kid got out of the shower and full-on grabbed my tits while rubbing his bare dick against me.  That was a bummer.

I've always liked St. Louis.  It's a pretty cool city.  My first month here I stayed with a friend who pretty much lived in the metro area.  My commute to work was pretty short, I was close to everything, it was great.  I only stayed there for a month because I told him I would.  Even though things weren't going how I had planned by that point, I made him a deal.  He has a really small place and, with me sleeping on the couch, it was pretty cramped.  So, sure, I lied to him about having something else lined up.  Only thing that feels worse than mooching off somebody is doing it because they feel sorry for you, right?  So when my contingency plan fell through, I wasn't left with many options.  I could go crawling back home and admit defeat (something I was all too familiar with) or I could say fuck it and do what I had to so I could get by.  Obviously, I chose option B.  I spent the next two weeks living in my car.  I tell people this pretty openly because I am in now way ashamed of it.  I stayed.  I fought through it.  Sure, two weeks isn't very long... But it feels a lot longer when you don't have a bed and gunshots seem a whole lot closer.  I found a gym that was 24 hours, clean, and cheap.  Essentially, I payed $10 for two weeks of showers and a parking lot to sleep in.  Not a bad deal, in my book.  Eventually, my birth mom finds out about my "living situation" and immediately steps in.  Of course, she knows people in the area.  And, of course, one of them has a room they're looking to rent for pretty cheap.

So, here I am.  Living in Florissant, Missouri.  I live with a cast of characters from, as Eric Brown said, "a bad British sitcom."  Lesbian, people who have been to jail, guy with a couple DUI's.... And me.  Just some fat fuck with an insane dream to tell jokes for money.

There it is.  I have no idea if anyone actually read this thing, or if anyone really gives a shit.  If you do, please let me know.  If not, then it's for me.  Either way, it's kind of a win.

Thursday, January 2, 2014


I love art. All forms of it. Music, painting, drawing, writing, and Comedy. Comedy is an art. Say what you will about gimmick comics or insult comics - and I'll probably agree with you. It's hard to consider that art. But people sitting alone at their kitchen tables, pouring their heart into a notebook... I can't think of a better visual for real, visceral art. 

We live in a society overflowing with pop culture. Yeah, I know. People like what they like. But as Dean Delray said on Pete Holmes' "You Made It Weird" podcast, "What happened to people liking good shit?" There's plenty of good shit out there, why isn't it being seen? It seems like most people would rather cram more of the same regurgitated shit down their throats than try to expand to find more interesting and thoughtful material. I'm the first to admit that I'm guilty of binge-watching shows on Netflix. I'm also doing my best to write down original thoughts, put myself on stage, and share them with everyone. How can you argue that I'm not creating art? 

We live in an extremely privileged age. Everyone has a smart phone, a facebook account, frequents youtube... Everyone is always consuming. Which means that there's no lack of people proclaiming that someone else's original content is shit. But what do those people put out there? Most likely, goddamn nothing. You can't even like things anymore. If you happen to be a fan of something that's not considered "main stream" you're branded as a hipster. There are few things I despise as much as that word. Rather than give something a try, you're ostracized immediately. I'm not saying that a lot of those considered hipsters don't deserve it. There's a difference between genuinely enjoying something and acting like a pretentious cocksucker just for the sake of being a trend-setter. 

The 60's, 70's, 80's, AND the 90's blossomed with creative content. New music movements, new books, comedy... What happened? When did TMZ become a hotspot for news? Why does anyone give a flying fuck about what celebrities are up to? It. Doesn't. Fucking. Matter. As a good friend of mine (and fellow comic) Eric Brown said to me, "...Getting laughs, having fun...I want my life to be that. We all die someday. It's useless. I'd like to spend my years enjoying shit over being miserable and defeated." Why be concerned with what Kim Kardashian is up to? How about this... Fuck Kim Kardashian, fuck Kanye West, and fuck their dumb baby. I don't care. I don't care anymore about their baby than half of the people on facebook. Are you friends with Kim and Kanye? Do they have an effect on your life? Then why? Why pander to them like a mindless, numb, parasite. What do you want to do with your life?  

Create something. Anything. Some say they aren't the "creative type." Bullshit. If you've lived a life and had experiences, you can make something with it.  

Monday, December 9, 2013


Here we are! Week three. It's 11:37 and I'm just now getting this damn thing started. Maybe I should update more than once a week. Seven days is too long for me to remember what the fuck I'm supposed to do. Anyway... Let's get down to it.

Love. Is there anything more powerful? There's not much that can be said about love that isn't cliche. It's the one thing that can instill as much fear as it does joy. I've always found it to be a beautiful thing. People can fight and argue over just about anything in the world. But, one undeniable fact, everyone wants love. Sure, you might not be ready for it. And, typically, you never know when you're ready. That's what's so awesome about it. You can be in the deepest, darkest place... But, then loves comes along. BAM! You're sucked into the smiles and flirtatious touches that make all of your friends want to hang themselves. It's so interesting to me. All it takes is one person to completely change your personality. Arguably, for the better. 

Yes, there are more than enough examples of how love (or, "love" if you're a pessimist) have changed people for the worse. Doing things that hurt themselves or others just to prove their affection and things of that nature. However, is that really love? It's hard to say. I think that, in most cases, that kind of love is one sided. Usually with the person doing the wrong thing being the one that's truly in love. It's an interesting conversation to have. Everyone has their own stories of love. And most of them bad. Love is a lot like general happiness in that way. There has to be a lot of pain to compensate for how fantastic it is.

To quote one of my favorite comics, Marc Maron... What the fuck is my point? I, just like everyone else, have had my fair share of shit in the love department. I spent most of my Jr. High and High school years chasing it. I've always been a hopeless romantic and I'm just now learning to embrace it. I don't know if it's an endearing quality to have, but it's me. And, dammit, people are going to have to deal with it. So, I thought I'd share with you all (the two... MAYBE three people who read this) my story of the first time I had my heart broken.

I was in the fourth grade. I was a weird kid for a lot of reasons. One of the weirdest to me, I never really went through the "girls are gross" phase. For two years I had my eye on one girl that I couldn't stop thinking about. Her name was Lindsey. Long dark hair, blue eyes, never spoke to me, never came to my birthday party that I ALWAYS invited her to... She was pretty great. Finally, I decide that I'm going to do something. Since all my time during recess was spent avoiding bullies and jumping off of playground equipment for attention, I knew I needed a different approach. I decided to write her a love letter. "What can be more romantic than coming to school and finding a love letter in your desk?" That was my actual though as a fourth grader. Now, my penmanship has always been shit. I know I can't really write a letter. I do want her to be able to read the damn thing. So, I start typing. As far as what I said in that letter, I have no idea. I can only imagine how cringe worthy that damn thing must have been. But I was in fourth grade! I can't stress that enough... 

Once I'm done writing, editing, rewriting, and re-editing... I print it out, put it in an envelope, then I'm stuck with a new problem. How do I write her name on the envelope? I want it to impress her and I know I won't be able to make it look nice. So I do what any young boy does. I go to my mom. I have my mom write Lindsey's name on the envelope. There was little sleep to be had that night. How can anyone sleep when you just know the love of your life is about to be swept off her feet when you're one romantic little goddamn Casanova? I made sure to be ready so I could get to school earlier than usual. I wanted to put the letter in her desk and be ready to watch as she read it because I just knew she was going to fall madly in love with me. So far, everything goes exactly as planned. She sits down, finds the note, opens it, and starts reading. My heart is pounding so hard in anticipation. She finishes, then motions for her friends to come over. I get even more excited. Now she wants to show off to them! Perfect! I know that one of the best ways to win a lady over is to impress her friends. After they all read it, they take a second to talk about it. Things just keep getting better! They're talking about me! I've definitely nailed it. Lindsey turns to look at me, with a big stupid smile on my face. That's when it happens. In unison, the laughing. And the pointing. And more laughing. I felt the blood leave my face and I could almost hear my heart crashing into the floor. 

Years later, Lindsey and I actually became friends. The story of that letter became a fun little anecdote in our friendship. I never let her know that I still liked her. I didn't see much of a point. Chalk it up to an experience that would prepare me for a series of failed attempts, and failed relationships. But, like I said, the pain is necessary for the bliss that love can bring. 

As usual, leave a comment! Tell me one of your experiences. And please share this blog. If you have any topic you'd like me to tackle, just let me know. 

Monday, December 2, 2013

Two And A Half Broke Girls

Well, here we are in week two. I've been thinking all week about what I'm going to write about. After much consideration, I've decided that I'll write about something that means a lot to me. Comedy.

Comedy is a rare and beautiful thing. There's no person in the world who doesn't genuinely enjoy a good laugh. True, comedy is subjective. However, laughter is universal. So, what's my point? I'm kind of an asshole. Especially to the friends and family that have never performed, or written, and kind of comedy. I've turned in to one of "those guys." You know... the kind of person that berates you because of a show that you enjoy watching? The kind of person who uses phrases like, "the writing is just so weak" - "it's just so predictable" - and "I can't believe you watch such trash." Okay, so I haven't said that last one. At least, not in the EXACT way. 

But why? Why do I feel the need to explain to people that the shows they watch are bad? I'd like to think that it's because I love comedy and I hold it in such a high regard. So much so, that I'm willing to sound like a pompous dick while bashing Two Broke Girls during Thanksgiving dinner. I'm not completely delusional. I haven't been doing standup all THAT long. I'm not trying to say that I know everything there is to know about writing jokes. I'd just like to think that most peoples standards are higher than half-assed one liners. But hell, I like Squidbillies. So what the fuck do I know?

Kept it a little short this week. Trying to figure out a good length for each post. Leave a comment with any feedback or suggestions you have. Or, if you have a topic for me to talk about.