Gal Talk

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")

I was told by the people closest to me, at different times, that I should be very careful what I say in this episode. As if I, little sweet baby me, would say something outlandish that would piss off our dear president and give him cause to send paramilitary groups to firebomb my house or... fucking tell on me? Is that what he's doing? He's calling up Auntie Anne's and getting people fired for doing tiktok dances to celebrate that guy's death? I don't have any money. I don't think anyone does anymore. Have you noticed the rent keeps going up? No healthcare? Homeless people everywhere you look? But goddamnit if we don't tattle tale to your boss because you made a joke about a neo-nazi taking one for the team.

It's the same premise as the movie, but instead of Cary Grant getting mistakenly identified as a spy he's stuck on a fucking runway for forty five minutes because the airline didn't plan ahead for even one minute of their departure and arrival, and so there's another fucking plane at his gate and he's definitely going to miss his next flight because Booking.fuckyoucunt.com decided a seven second layover in shithole Phoenix was enough time to switch planes. And no, no they don't reimburse you whenever they fuck up their own schedule even when it's the same airline for both flights. And no, there are no flights leaving Phoenix because everyone died of heat stroke last week when the temperature in their concrete desert was one thousand degrees and everyone who lives in this wasteland is over the age of nine hundred with a great pension from their garbage collection job in the year 1073. And no, when they downsize from their mansion they bought for two thousand dollars that's now worth five million dollars they won't be giving it to their family, but selling it directly to Blackrock so they can further throttle the market for their benefit while everyone slouches from fentanyl overdoses in every major city in America. And no, you aren't allowed to hurt those CEO's because, at the end of the day, they're FATHERS and HUSBANDS. Other than that it's the exact same movie.

I have an idea for a novel where nothing about the story is good but it's also written in the same boring educated language that gets pumped into MFA programs. Or, better yet, I have a political Vice-brained collection of essays called something like "Democracy Fucking Yeah Right", and it's just trying desperately to be Hunter S Thompson but I lack all creative ingenuity and can't shit out a single line of original thought, and I don't even do drugs because I'm a millennial who's scared of death despite the fact that nothing in my life has ever mattered even once, so instead I'm secretly really into coffee or ethically sourced decaffeinated teas, and rather than having a life full of stories that tell a tale of American life I simply "travel" for "fun".

I know, I know, we failed you. We try to keep a balance, a perfect blend of hard hitting journalism and well distributed fart jokes, but this time around we simply never got to the farts. I know, too, that many of our listeners are fart hoarding piglet fucks who sustain their life source using code red and taco bell, disposable vapes and advertisements for local singles in your area who are down to FUCK, so this episode is going to be extremely difficult for you. For this, and only for this, do we apologize.

A russian family drama where the matriarch decides to stop having sex with their handsome children, who in turn reject the wealth of the patriarch by converting to Islam. Told over the course of eight hundred beautifully boring pages, from nine different perspectives with an epilogue the size of a conventional novel, this award winning Hugo Nobel NYT BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR SO FAR bright new voice in literary historical fiction presents a fascinating debut that will surely mark a body of work to come that will change Booktok algorithms for at least two weeks!

I think I'm going to stop counting the episodes, because in what way is that information necessary for the listening experience? You're sitting at home thinking "oh wow, this one is 149, but two weeks ago it was 147!" as you shovel wet spaghetti into your oversized gullet, washing it down with some REAL SUGAR soda. God, I love when my soda is REAL SUGAR so I can drink it while I fart next to my FAT WIFE.