How old are you? Now be honest with yourself, don't fudge the number to make yourself feel good. Are you... halfway through life? Be honest. If you're 25... do you really think 50 is in the cards for you? Look down at yourself. Is there pizza currently sitting in a box outside of the fridge? Is your silverware drawer filled with Taco Bell hot sauce packets? 50? Are you sure? The same person, same habits, same general disposition in life, and that guy doubles his current age? Come on. Don't be an asshole. If you had an album in you it would've been made by now. Maybe start with your taste, start with your preferences, and grow an understanding of life beyond yourself, beyond all the current bullshit distractions. Get really into birding. Stop tweeting about whether or not you liked a movie. Your life, your's specifically, is very short. Don't waste it.

We even said at the top of the show, hey, let's not spend too much time on this. There isn't much to rehash that hasn't already been heavily outlined in every podcast since 2015. But if the president insists on being a big fat pedophile, then we have no choice but to do our due diligence and discuss, once more, the implications of a world run by elite pedophilia that for some goddamn reason never gets seriously reported on in mainstream media. You know how shitty your world has become when the chicken finger fat fucks over at Qanon are sometimes actually right about the way things work? No one takes pride in admitting that the stinky bean bag people have a legitimate point, least of all me: a man who has had sex MORE THAN ONCE (i swear)

Whales are better than humans. Full stop, no further explanation, I don't want to hear arguments against it. Think of a moment in your life when you did something genuinely kind for someone else, okay? Ready? On that day there was a sperm whale that was 100times better than your shitty little moment. What did you do, anway? Make your mom a disgusting pancake breakfast before punching your sister in the face on Mother's Day, when your mom is so tired and depressed that all she wants is to take a nap and not hear violence in the house. By the way, she never forgave you. Your childhood continues to haunt her, you fucking non-whale piece of shit

Pessimism rules, and also fuck you. If you wanted to listen to something upbeat and fun you can click your way over to Hank and John's lame shitty podcast about like... I bet 90% of the show is them talking about bugs and bacteria, which hey, look, I don't mind that, but grow some adulthood charisma. I mean Jesus Christ with these old men making youtube vidoes where they talk like they're 16 and explain how cancer cells grow or how actually Mary Oliver is the best poet ever. Get some hatred in your balls for once and get mad about things that matter.

Sometimes the mind is a beautiful thing, and allows you to think like, what if I was the exact same person in every single way BUT I was a chinese. Isn't that fun? Same old guy, walking around, going to work, meal prepping my fucking tilapia bullshut, but then I look in the mirror and I'm a perfect chinese version of who I was when I was Mr. Whiteguy. Hey, how about instead of saying "no more Mr. Nice Guy" you say "no more Mr. White Guy"? Same context for why you'd say it, but you've been pushed too far by someone that it causes you to replace your skin tone. Is that good? Do you like that? Maybe it's time to go to therapy.

Also ICE? More like fucking... Not Nice, huh? I'm coming for you Mark Normand, you lazy hack. Two can play the boring dumb guy with no internal monologue. All I gotta do is get a fake degree from a college that only exists on Facebook, make up a bunch of shit about aliens and trans people, and then snivel my way onto Rogan's show. After that you can't touch me. Watch my meteoric rise in the worst comedy scene that's ever existed. I can't wait to sell my soul to the next stinky fat president I convince hundreds of drooling orangutans to vote for. That's when I know I'll have made it.

You wanna come over and split some root veg bruh? We can roast em for a kale salad and then fuck each other senseless bruh. Get our shit red and shit bruh, and then call each other every night before bed bruh. No fr fr ease up on that shit bruh, cause we in a relationship and shit and I don't want no one seeing how much I love you bruh.

If you didn't like the film it's because you've allowed the internet to fully warp your mind and turn you into a pile of goo. You walk between the bathroom and the living room, shitting and eating, shitting and eating, until it's time for bed when you scroll endlessly through AI porn slop and tweets about how, actually, technically, Paul Thomas Anderson is actually like, not even like, doing like black feminism correctly. Me, a stupid baby who doesn't know how to write or take photographs with my iphone, I know I would definitely make a better movie than that Mayo Ass White Boy, because despite never finishing a book ever in my life, I've read enough headlines and seen enough reviews of youtube standup clips that I'm more than capable of producing an entertaining three hour movie about failed revolutions and the dispossession of people from levels of real power. Goddamn you people suck. You should be ashamed to go outside, because you don't deserve something as simple and beautiful as sunlight.

What two better representations of what white people have given, culturally, to this shithole country? Trailer trash and DnD. Other people, other folks, you know who I'm talking about, they go on and invent beautiful music, baseball, different kinds of masalas and asadas, and they do cool shit to their cars. Everyone else smells good. Hey, you ever notice that? Of all the races and ethnicities, white people smell the least interesting. White people smell like a gasp of air on a cold day. We smell like when you first open a clean dishwasher. We smell like, white people smell like, we smell like the question "when was the last time I changed the air filter?" You know what I mean? We smell like abstract chores you remember every three months.

You ever go get breakfast after a night of sex and you think to yourself, ever so briefly, that hey, my life rules? Hey maybe I won't kill myself after all. It's going to be a great day. And then twenty minutes goes by and you start looking at your phone and immediately you're like, alright nevermind. Back to the drawing board, I guess (the drawing board, in this situation, is a big white board where I draw a very big bottle of pills and a bathtub full of champagne and a stick figure that I've labeled "me, the stinky")