Wherein I tell you about my day yesterday, in which I dealt with no fewer than 30 incompetent customer service reps, only one of which I could say was white.

It was miserable.

Unbelievable really.

I’m dehydrated and hoarse in this one because I do not play nice with incompetent foreigners hired to demoralize and humiliate me.

Skip this one.

No refunds.

Wherein I give the origin story behind changing my name to ???, how it didn’t really work, and how it was born out of wearing too many hats in my old band, only to have the Internet erase my involvement in it. Jerks.

Swim Herschel Swim, is the name of that band.

I write that here for the internet crawling robots who insist that the internet is the only way to verify the truth.

I probably already told most of these stories here.

Nobody is holding a Ray Gun to your head.

You aren’t obligated to listen to my petty correction of history for the sake of Elon Musk and his robots.

To call this humiliating, would be an understatement.

It’s good to be humble.

I’m proud of my humility.

That joke sucks.

No refunds.

Wherein I sermonize about the sermonizers and why you might want to consider just how silly their hats are before you take them seriously.

I argue that funny hats are really little more than liability waivers that make you responsible for taking any dumb advice literally.

Funny hats should be for fun, not for authority.

This is another one of those times when God is punching us in the face with “duh” and most don’t even notice.

Very sermony, this one.

Oh, and also talk about the church I started and how I chose a very practical hat, the funniness of which is debatable.

No refunds.

Wherein I say a bunch of gay shit about gay things in hopes that people will stop being so gay and maybe, you know, get back to the business of not being so gay all the time.

Lots of oil talk in this one.

Not baby oil though.

If you hate Trump, you aren’t gonna like this one.

Move along.

No refunds

Wherein I rant about a billion things, take a bunch of side roads about this hand and the other one.

I ain’t got shit figured out.

But, that’s fine.

No refunds.

Wherein I talk about the gobs of music made by myself and my friends that will likely never be heard by anyone, and how maybe the only music we listen to should be by those who know our name.

Stoner thoughts without being stoned.

Storage full.

Delete files.

No refunds.

Wherein I get existential about the likelihood that the digital era will be a black hole for future archeologists.

If you ain’t printing and making stuff in the real physical world, you can count on being forgotten.

Even in meat world it’s hard to be remembered.

OJ who?

His ex mother in law?

Her passport?

No refunds.

Wherein I review the culture of the last ten years, more specifically since the family wrecking psyop known as Covid, & ponder how much they were able to destroy, how hard it might be to repair, if that’s even possible, & just get real about the damage they did.

Corny, but sincere.

There is a song at the end I wrote with my half brother.

He’s one of the ones who hates me.

I miss him too.

No refunds.

Wherein I give fair warning and address the most recent person who wanted me to know that they were sick of my shit.

I’m sick of my shit.

Try to be original.

No refunds.

Wherein I say a bunch of stupid shit on this topic, wasting your time, my time, and everyone else’s.

In fact, reading this synopsis is a waste of time.

You either want to waste time listening to my blather or you don’t.

I doubt this synopsis has any affect on that.

No refunds.