I’m a corporate scumbag. Part one.

I’m a corporate scumbag. Part one.

That’s it. It’s over.

I’m officially all about making money and being the most powerful comedian ever.

That’s it, fuck any dreams of consciousness and art and money is just paper, and art and words can make the world a better place and and art and music is life, and math, and science and so on and so forth.

Fuck that.

I’m like Biggie Smalls now, all about the Benjamins.

Cream, get the money, dolla dolla bill y’all.

That’s officially the revolution to me now, because I realize the only hope I have of happiness is to MAYBE just someday buy a house on a lake, a gun, and a sign that says “All fake ass hippies will be shot on site.”

The hope for anything communal or in society is lost, probably for ever in a bowl of MDMA punch, that was sucked into the guts of anyone willing to take it, and washed down with a Big Mac at the first rest stop after that amazing (smell that sarcasm) film project festival thing I got sucked into on Saturday afternoon.

Thank you Mind Pirates for being the bad trip that makes me realize that experimental art and film is a bunch of self indulgent wankery, and thank you to my own mind for being intrigued by anything and everything enough to go along on the trip! (smells like even worse sarcasm or doo doo, can’t tell.)

I made some great new friends, but after this weekend I finally realized that I don’t want to ever again be associated with, or sucked into being a part of anything that has to do with anything pseudo hippy, or pseudo experimental, art, film, music, festival bullshit ever again.


I need to slow down here and explain what the fuck happened to me this weekend, but the smell of camp fire bacon is still lingering on my mustache and it’s hard to even think I’m still so scarred mentally by almost being stabbed and also getting raped in the mind by a flying pile of audible shit called music which mixed with so much ego and then stirred up with even more film maker ego it became a toxic combination, which when penetrating my eyes and ears made me want to commit genocide to anyone who wears crocks, has dreadlocks, climbs trees then turns around three hours later and eats a Big Mac and or threatens to sacrifice me with a wooden spear and the eyes of demon being who’s possibly eaten too many drugs or drank too many whiskeys.

There’s a line for sure when things just aren’t for me anymore, and I’ve crossed it when everyone around me is super mangled on drugs and the music sucks and there’s no way home and someone wants to stab me with a wooden spear and if there’s someone filming it, they have the right to use that without me saying anything.

Not even ouch.

But it’s Monday, and I’m home, and no ones dead including me, so hey, since I got you this far, let me tell you the whole story. The whole gloriously, depressing story of how I became a corporate scumbag.

And as of now my blog is free, so enjoy it while you can.

It all started Friday afternoon, on a boat, at the Soundcloud party.