The Game of Dicks

"Back in the 1990s, I was sent to a corporate training day. The topic? Communication. The lesson? One-upping destroys trust."

Then the facilitator asked for an example.

What followed was a story about four men on a building site, a smoke break, and a competition to prove who was most broken, most violent, most damaged.

The game: my trauma beats your trauma.

The prize: nothing.

The cost: everything.

No redemption here. Just discomfort. Listen if you dare.

"We were all waiting for the list.-- those elusive Epstein Files

The one that would finally burn it all down. Epstein's little black book. The cosmic receipt of rich perverts.

MAGA wanted Hillary's head on a spike. Liberals wanted Trump's mug on a pedo mugshot.

Nobody gave a damn about the children. They just wanted enemies to crucify.

Then Pam Bondi did her little dance. 'I have the goods,' she said.

And the goods evaporated like piss on hot asphalt.

No names. Just jet fuel receipts and proximity. Enough to fantasize about. Not enough to change a damn thing.

But here is what they are not telling you while you chase ghosts:

The system already collapsed. It just hasn't told you yet.

It's not in a basement in the Caribbean.

It's in the zoning board. The tax code. The insulin co-pay that kills your grandpa. The ICE detention center no one visits. The eviction notice taped to the door while a hedge fund buys your block.

That is the real file. The bureaucracy of cruelty. The paperwork of indifference.

But that doesn't fit in a meme. And America always chooses cheap over true.

So we fight over shadows while the house burns down.

In this episode, we stop screaming at the mirage. We walk right into the desert. And we ask the question no one dares to ask:

What if the truth isn't in the files?

And what if the tyranny isn't the one you voted against?"

35 years clean. Doesn’t make you wise. Doesn’t make you safe. Just gives you three decades to study your damage from every possible angle. In a Narcotics Anonymous meeting, asked to share about why he doesn't do drugs, he skips the grateful platitudes and delivers a damage report—because sometimes the only honest answer to "why not fire?" is a full accounting of the burns. This isn't a story about overcoming; it's a story about carrying.

The crux of it is a video store, one week after leaving his kids' mother. His seven-year-old daughter walks in, sees him with a new woman and a daughter her exact age, and does the brutal math in her head. Her face goes from joy to anguish without a single word spoken. He saw exactly what she was thinking: you replaced me already. That look is the anchor of his sobriety—and the ghost he still can't outrun. It's the reason he works the program, not to become a saint, but to make sure he never sees that look on her face again.

But the program doesn't magically scrub the stink off. Honesty means telling a potential partner he has herpes before the clothes come off, and watching their eyes search for the exit while they stammer about "coffee sometime." In the rooms, he gets the same cold shoulder—quietly avoided like he's tracked shit across the carpet. This isn't an inspirational recovery story. It's the ugly truth that makes people physically recoil. Three seconds of uncut silence at the end. Press play if you want the report, not the fairy tale.

Most people think a "deal" is about the product. They’re wrong.

In this report, I audit a transaction where the actual cost was 40 cents, the price was 30 dollars, and the secret ingredient was a "Hand on Heart" confession about a cheating wife.

I didn't lie about being miserable. I just used my misery as a high-resolution distraction while I skinned mark alive.

What happens when the laugh you crave cuts someone else open? In Conventional Damage, the line between humour and harm collapses under the spotlight of one man’s story : a joke told at a national “safe space” convention that detonated far beyond a punchline. Through memory, conflict, and uncomfortable honesty, he unpacks the anatomy of that night: the thrill of the hit, the backlash, and the cold data of who was hurt.

This isn’t a story of cancellation: this is an autopsy of intent. Why do we chase being clever when we know the room is bleeding? What does it cost to be the sharpest person on stage? Told with dry wit and painful clarity, Damage Reports drills into the hidden economies of humour, guilt, and human connection. If you’ve ever laughed at the wrong thing, this one’s for you.

Title: One Refusal and a Fish Bin

Subtitle: My Inventory: Finally.

Description:

"If he’d sold me the beer, none of this would have happened."

That was the lie I told myself in the North Queensland heat, standing in the wreckage of my car while my infant son screamed from inside a plastic fish bin wedged in the footwell.

In Season 1, this would have been a "Twisted Tale" about the chaos of addiction. In Season 3, it is a forensic audit of a predator.

This episode isn't about the crash. It’s about the Mechanism of the Lie: how a man can witness the near-death of his child and, in the same breath, find a way to blame the barman who refused him service.

I’m playing the tape back to look at the "Ego-Save." I’m looking at why I chose to treat a human life like disposable tackle, and why I used "The Prick" at the bottle shop as an alibi for my own undisciplined behavior.

This is the inventory of a man who realized that the most dangerous thing in the wreckage wasn't the folded chassis—it was the story he was already telling to stay "innocent."

The Inventory. Finally.

Title: My Inventory: Finally.

Subtitle: The Autopsy of the Auditor.

Description:

For two seasons, I gave you performance. I curated my wreckage into "Twisted Tales" and "Damage Reports," using my history of addiction, violence, and loss as a credential to buy your trust. I admitted my flaws just loudly enough to ensure no one could actually touch them.

I was a Person of the Lie, and this podcast was the paint job.

Season 3 is the audit.

In this season, I am going back to the old tapes. I will play the polished fables I told you in Season 1, and then I will perform the autopsy. I’m stripping away the "magic" and the "outlaw" flexes to look at the clinical, functional reality of the choices I made. No more poetic fluff. No more using my size as an alibi or my trauma as a shield.

This isn't an "inspirational" journey. It’s a dismantling.

If you are looking for a redemption arc or a "badass" narrator to validate your own excuses, look elsewhere. This is a forensic accounting of self-deception.

The Inventory. Finally.

She stripped, climbed into bed, lights on, and took him in—no games.
He mistook it for love.
Her ex on the couch, thin wall, first orgasm.
Father’s wedding speech about marital chains.
Mother’s boyfriend, years later: “I fucked her to do you a solid—show you what she really was.”
Betrayal wasn’t accident. It was the family lesson plan.
Doing You a Solid: the quiet curriculum that turns intimacy into contempt.

From the man who beat her unconscious came a card: “I love you.”
He studied it like a bomb and asked, “What the fuck does that mean?”
Ever since, love, praise, kindness—all trip the same silent alarm: threat detected, eject.
Relationships end before they can hurt.
Even his coach’s pride lands wrong.
The body learned early: affection is prelude to violence.
The fault is permanent. Damage reported.

Everyone knew the boss groomed and discarded women.
When he started on my wife, I went nuclear: told HR my new desk gave me views of his dick in the toilets—then told him, in front of them, it wasn’t visible anyway.
He crushed my career.
I called it victory.
Reality: white-anting. The quiet, corrosive sabotage a terrified man inflicts—first on his rival, then, inevitably, on himself.