Many months have passed without a DDMMDI publication. For the record, it wasn’t my fault (it never is)—Christmas and New Years and typical being a human dealing with existential bullshit, all played disruptive roles. I humbly accept my faults, and so should you.

Moving along. Prepare yourself! This month, big, round, life-changing revelations will be bouncing off your head. These revelations will come in the shape of balls, literal balls. Pour some Baileys into that coffee and march with me as we pull the veil and shamelessly expose the universe for what it really is.

As the audacious Venetians would cry on the battlefield… “Coglia! Coglia! Coglia!”

USEFUL THINGS NOT EVOLVED FOR HUMAN USE

Once upon a time, I was asked to spend a weekend up north babysitting some ducks. It just so happened that a little time away was exactly what I had needed. I packed my bags, jumped into my jeep, and before you knew it, there I was, alone, in a forest, with some ducks.

Like any reasonable person in this situation, I decided to take some mushrooms.

In retrospect, it was a terrible idea.

Here’s what the all-knowing internet has to say about mushrooms:

• These compounds evolved long before humans.

• Their adaptive function is unknown; hypotheses include:

  • deterrence of predation,

  • no function (biochemical byproduct),

  • ecological signaling.

• No evidence suggests these compounds evolved for human use.

Not evolved for human use indeed. Ancient unknown compounds don’t fuck around. I was just looking for a little creative inspiration. Instead I had spent the night struggling to process a lifetime’s worth of ecological signaling.

Anyone who’s subjected themselves to this knows that a good part of the night is generally spent contemplating your stupid decisions. Unfortunately, there’s no turning back. You struggle through it, eventually fall asleep, have unhinged dreams, and question everything in the morning.

That said, excluding the relentless nausea and traumatizing emotional instability, wonderful, profound realizations can happen. For example, socks are pretty cool.

There’s a left one and a right one, yet the two together make one! The oppositional duality of socks represents one of the most ancient universal balance mechanisms. Right there on my feet was a true and clear manifestation of Yin and Yang. Up and down, fast and slow, creation and destruction, even life and death.

Unfortunately, before the secrets of the universe fully revealed themselves to me, I was distracted by this knot in the wood paneling of the ceiling:

And here we can see why this will be the last time I’m asked to babysit ducks:

The take-home to this tale is that drugs are both bad and good. Also, penises are pretty funny, but not on the ceiling.

THE SHAMELESS HISTORY OF BALLS

PART ONE: THERE WERE NO BALLS

One day, during all of the nothingness, there was a really big bang. As far as bangs go, this one must have been damn sexy. Nothingness was motivated enough to get off its ass to make something of itself.

If you’ve ever wondered what the lovechild of banging nothing would be, it’s hydrogen and helium.

PART TWO: THERE WERE BALLS

Helium was pretty chill. Hydrogen on the other hand was psycho. Regardless, these two had mad chemistry and things got hot real fast. Long before porno, there was stellar nucleosynthesis—nothing would ever be the same.

A few minutes later (insert obvious sex joke here), the smoke cleared and outer space existed—a hot, opaque, rapidly expanding soup of particles and light. All that space wasn’t empty, it was filled with cosmic farts, some bits of gold, and planets.

Planets were round, and for good reason. The universe, already getting tired of existing, chose the path of least resistance. Spheres, being the laziest shape in relation to gravity, became the standard.

For a little while, not much else was going on. This is sometimes referred to as the cosmic lonely period.

PART THREE: ALL THE BALLS WERE BALLING

All that sitting around and doing nothing got boring real fast. Existence was getting restless. It was time to party.

If you were looking for a hook-up, the universe there and then was the place to be. Oscillating, vacuuming, inflating, spontaneous microwaving, and after-glowing were just the appetizer. All things eventually came to be. Including you.

OPTION B

It is only fair to point out another creation story making the rounds. As this story goes, there was this guy who was always there, and one day he decided to make everything, and it took him six days. As far as stories go, that’s not so bad, it’s the later parts that get uncomfortable. For example, he’s always watching you. Creepy.

Well, one way or the other, you are here. For now, that is worth celebrating. What about when you’re gone? Well, that might just be worth celebrating as well.

WOMBATS DIDN’T GET THE MEMO

No discussion of creation and the laws that define all things reasonable in the universe would be complete without mentioning wombats. Wombats look like someone tried to draw a random animal but did a bad job. No two pictures of wombats are the same. Sometimes they look like hairy pigs who love you:

Other times they look like horror-beavers who hate your guts and relentlessly stare with beady black eyes into the depths of your soul:

However, the most troubling thing about wombats is their poo. The uneven and elastic intestines of wombats somehow managed to develop outside of the natural laws of the universe, and they have achieved the implausible. These little freaks actually shit out cube-shaped poop. Take a moment to let that sink in.

So be warned. The next time you see a cute little cubie thing on the ground, it’s likely wombat shit. If you dare to touch it, you will disappear forever.

Wombats and their ungodly feces do at least offer a valuable reminder. The universe, with all of its bullshit laws, can go fuck itself sometimes. Rules are for the ruled. Be a rebel, bend that spoon, drop a cube-shaped deuce.

THE SUN IS A BALL OF POO

It’s impossible to have a serious conversation about balls and poo without bringing up dung beetles (I’ve tried). Long before toilets, we had dung beetles to thank for cleaning up all the poo. Dung beetles absolutely adore poo, and we should be thankful for that.

Ancient Egyptians with all of their woo woo mystical knowledge revered the dung beetle. To them it was a symbol of the sun god Khepri, who rolled the sun across the sky. Except in this case, instead of the sun, it was a little ball of poo.

If you’re wondering where all the dung beetles are going with their balls of poo, it’s quite magical. Their little beetle brains have space antenna that receive important messages from the Milky Way. These messages download cosmic navigating instructions. With mighty legs, and a will of iron, they roll all the poo in straight lines, far far away, until it rolls off the edge of the earth.

And that is the story of where all the poo goes.

NAUGHTY BIRDS AND BEES

In the 1600s there was a guy named John whose dating life was suffering worse than mine. Subsequently, he developed a pervy fascination with the sexual escapades of things that weren’t human. As fate would have it, he lived near a bee hive, and also there were some birds. With that, birds and bees became the first peanut butter and chocolate, except sexualized.

Predictably, another poet named Sam was deeply moved by John’s socially inept coping mechanisms. Sam wrote some light-poem-porn about spring and referenced birds and bees.

The philosophers were feeling left out so put their two cents in. They proclaimed that bees pollinate and that that’s very ‘male’ and birds lay eggs and that that’s very' ‘female.’

For some reason, we’ve kept this awkward tradition alive and teach it to our children in school. This is probably why your kids are confused.

BIOLOGY IS JUICY

Alongside the plethora of information in these art releases that makes no sense, I’m an expert in anatomy and physiology. You’ll be hard-pressed to find anyone who knows the story of human bits as well as I. You probably think it’s complicated. It’s not—let me summarize. Biology is basically a bunch of bags and tubes, and these contract and sometimes squirt juices. Outside of that the only other variable is the degree of squishy bits to hard bits. You now understand biology.

THE FUNNEST BAGS OF THEM ALL

Gonads are fun little bags we carry around in our bodies filled with pervy chemicals. They’ve been around for millions of years, and they’re here to party.

Biological Definition of Gonads

Gonads (testes and ovaries) are:

• reproductive organs

• responsible for gamete production

• endocrine structures producing sex hormones

Their form is governed by:

• embryological development

• tissue differentiation

• vascular and hormonal requirements

To maximize transportation of juices, gonads utilize tubes. When it comes to efficiency, tubes are the way to go. When it comes to juices, these aren’t just your regular old juices, these are the savory juices of life.

Gonads were just the first step in an epic series of physiological miracles that will forever inspire childish jokes. The gonads of males decided they needed some space and dropped themselves into bags that hang between the legs. This is called testicular descent, and it’s pretty funny. The decision to dangle out there for the whole world to see was a bold move. An Achilles’ heel with potential consequences.

Males love to talk about how big their balls are. Even if they don’t outright proclaim it, symbolic signs are everywhere. Males and their testis aren’t complicated. They simply want everyone to think that they have the biggest, most awesome balls in the universe. That’s all.

Gonads in women had different plans. After setting up a cozy little baby-making-love-bag, they started the clock. Female gonads don’t mess around. At the end of the month, if there isn’t a baby in the bag, shit hits the fan.

Most female mammals actually don’t menstruate; they have an estrous cycle, which means they reabsorb everything instead of spilling it out everywhere. Sort of like when you throw up a little in your mouth but then just swallow it.

MAKE LOVE NOT WAR

For all the seemingly complicated things going on with gonads, it’s actually only a little complicated. It’s all about love. Also, bags and tubes and juices. The beautiful story of gonads.

LEMURS ARE A FUCKING MENICE

Northern giant mouse lemurs need to calm down. The massively, intrusive balls of these primates, which are 5% of their body weight, are so stupidly large that they trip over them. Don’t get too comfortable—tripping on balls is just the beginning of this freaky gonad-fest. Lemurs don’t recognize each other by faces or smells or sounds, they only know balls. Their brains are hard-wired for balls—it’s all they know. Balls everywhere. A plethora of balls. An endless ocean of balls. Balls as far as the eye can see. Balls deep in balls. Balls until the end of time.

With such humongous cojones, lemurs need to keep themselves busy. They don’t have a ‘mating season’ like other boring primates. When you’re a lemur, the whole year is orgy season. Don’t let those big, round, cute eyes fool you. These things just wanna get into your pants.

Other than this, there’s not anything interesting to say about Lemurs. They eat bugs and shit.

THE EVOLUTIONARY ART OF COMPENSATING

When balls were being handed out, howler monkeys were at the end of the line. Howler monkeys are New World primates that belong to the genus Alouatta. These things have a set of bagpipes that would make even the drunkest of Scottish bagpipe champions cry. However, evolution keeps a tight leash on biological resources, you get balls or you get vocal cords, not both.

These rockstars with their engorged vocal cords are all talk but no game. But hey, good on them. Sing little guys, sing your balls off.

MEATBALLS ARE BEAT BALLS

A quick history of meatballs.

One day in ancient Persia, around 300 BC, some guy had a bad day and decided to take it out on some meat scraps. Afterward, his wife was impressed at how beat the meat was, so she spiced it up and they called it kofta, which means ‘to beat.’

Inspired by dung beetles and their rolling poo-balls, meatballs rolled their way into Italy and developed a crush on pasta. Italians thought meatballs were cute, but not on their pasta. If you are ever in Italy, do not ask for meatballs on your pasta or they will kick you out of the country.

Heartbroken, Meatballs rolled onward, finally arriving in the West, where it just so happened that the pasta was lonely and boring. To impress the pasta, meatballs doubled in size, because, bigger balls.

That did the trick, pasta and meatballs thus became a national treasure.

It’s important to remember that although meatballs are great, sometimes meatballs aren’t meatballs. If you missed out on the “Morgue Meatball” scandal, don’t worry, I've got you covered. In 2022, a news report claimed that a woman was fired for bringing meatballs made from human testes stolen from a morgue to a cook-off. The story quickly went viral and cemented itself as a new horrifying urban legend.

The lesson: just because you beat balls doesn’t mean you get meatballs.

RUINING DRAGAN’S PHOTOS

Of the many inappropriate childhood exposures contributing to the shaky foundation that defines me as an adult, movies were la crème de la crème.

To pass the test, movies needed to contain at least two of the following criteria: Apocalypse, fart jokes, creatures, aliens, battles, artiness, or complicated philosophical messaging that I didn’t understand but assumed was deep.

This month, I was brought back to one of my childhood favourites. Perhaps one of yours as well? If not, it’s OK. I guess that just means you were a loser.

Time to vandalize one of Dragan’s photos.

THE ORIGINAL

NEW AND RUINED

You can see more of Dragan’s photography, untainted by my hand, on his official Instagram page.

AN ENDING TO THE BEGINNING

At the end of every good journey, is the beginning of another one. Hopefully this next one will not involve mushrooms.

Just remember, usually poo is round, sometimes it’s square, but luckily little beetles are there to roll it off into outer space where it floats around, like little planets. Little planets of poo. Also, ancient Egyptians were obviously high.

Like a true selfless hero, I am willing to suffer through existential torment for you. In return, your gratitude is ok, but your money is way better. To ease my suffering, consider giving me money.

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Hello my little unicorns. It’s story time.

Last week serious low vibes were afoot. The consequence, as I’m sure most of you did not notice, is that this month’s newsletter is a week late.

Well let’s not dwell on that because today we have something more magical to explore.

Enter unicorns. Unicorns, symbols of purity and chastity, of strength and ferocity. Their untamable nature, their virtue and wisdom. Unicorns are magic. In a world with unicorns, anything seems possible.

We could all do with a little magical thinking now and then. This month let’s explore the fascinating and zoologically absurd idea of unicorns.

ON BEING A UNICORN THAT’S A GOAT

Remember when you found out there was no such thing as Santa Claus? (Oh shit, well if you didn’t already know, there’s no such thing as Santa Claus). Easter bunny, tooth fairy, mermaids, bigfoot (ok he might be real), one by one the magical characters of your childhood succumbed to the boring rationalization of adulthood. This is real life, kid, nothin’ but bills and regrets from here on in. Get your head out of the clouds, and make damn well sure to colour within the lines, because that’s what they’re there for!

What about unicorns, you ask?

“Unicorn” comes from the Latin uni- (“one”) and cornu (“horn”). So literally: “one-horn.” A mythical horse-like animal with a single horn projecting from its forehead. Naturally, you don’t believe in unicorns, as you shouldn’t. There’s no such thing.

Or is there?

Magic is real, it’s just not so obvious. Unicorns are also, in fact, sort of real. It’s just that they aren’t unicorns, they’re freaky mutant goats with malformed ossicornes.

Yes, goats.

We owe a lot to goats. Milk, coffee, countless hours of Youtube videos of their being insane, nitrogen-phosphorus-potassium rich fertilizer poop, and the dream of unicorns.

This deserves a discussion. Let’s talk a bit about goats.

It is a universal truth that baby goats are obnoxiously dreamy. Nobody can resist a baby goat. Fuck me I can’t stand it, just look at them!:

Unfortunately, like all things cute, goats grow up. Remember The Ugly Ducking? Now imagine the story but with everything reversed. Here is what goats look like when they grow up:

Adult goats are terrifying. Even Satan thought so. Centuries ago he took one look at them and was like “Damn, I’m just gonna wear a goat head.”

All you need to do is look into the eyes of a goat to know something is wrong. Some people say if you look too deeply into a goat’s eyes, you’ll go insane. Don’t believe me? Let me show you:

Those horizontal pupils are more than just nightmare fodder. They are proof that the world is flat, and that goats are the one and only true inhabitants of this planet. The rest of us are simply cosmonauts who lost their way.

Back to unicorns. I know what you’re thinking, how does a freaky one-horned goat become a unicorn?

I’ll tell you. Humans are easily traumatized, and the best way to deal with trauma is to convince yourself that the opposite is true. Rewrite the script of your past and make it magical. We created unicorns to cope. Unicorns are therapy, there to comfort you when you start questioning who you are and what the point of everything is.

Of course unicorns may have been inspired by a narwhal or a rhino or an antelope. My gut tells me that it was a goat. A pissing-and-shitting-everywhere, yelling-and-spitting-at-you, staring-into-your-soul and chewing-on-coffea-plants-to-get-high, goat.

So the next time you see a goat, just remember, you probably have issues. Luckily, goats are there to remind us that you can avoid things you don’t like—by making up imaginary stories that make you feel better. Through these bullshit stories, we live on.

Good luck cosmonauts, good luck.

IT’S NOT NORMAL TO BE SO NORMAL

The word normal comes from the Latin norma, meaning:

• A carpenter’s square

• A rule, pattern, or standard used to measure correctness

So the original meaning was literally “that which follows the square.”

If you were ‘square’ in high school, you got beat up.

In the 1800s humans managed to get even more boring and created statistical science, aka the nail in the coffin. All hail the bell curve. Normal was officially defined as… average. Average. Ordinary. Unremarkable. Middle-of-the-road. Nothing special. Imagine a world where the things we imagine are normal.

Normal is flatline. The antithesis of creativity. It’s brain constipation.

If you’ve been feeling trapped in your own existence, wondering if you’re really being the real you, it may just be that you’re being a little too normal.

The solution, if you are curious, is simple. Screw normal, might as well screw average at the same time. In the morning, be sure to get your ass out of there before they wake up. You’re free, no lines to colour in, no curve to fit into. Our evolutionary success relies on our being creative beings, not square dorks.

Tomorrow morning, do the species a favour and don’t be such a dork.

ALL KINDS OF GREAT THINGS CAN COME OUT OF YOUR BUTT

If you’re like me, you think about pooping a lot.

A long time ago, while in search for truth and places to meet girls, I landed myself in a silent meditation retreat. The instructor made us sit for hours. Worse, during those session, we weren’t allowed to move in any way from our original position. If your leg fell asleep, if a blood-thirsty mosquito landed on your face, too bad. How you respond to the discomfort of sitting is how you respond to the discomfort of life, he said. Don’t avoid the pain, accept it. Sitting uncomfortably, stewing in the dirty bathwater of your mind for hours, really sucked.

Years later, while pooping, I had an epiphany. While I will absolutely never attend another silent meditation retreat, I absolutely do poop every day. Could it be that how I poop also reflects how I live? Now, when people ask if I meditate, I say yes, every morning, in fact.

If you’ve been feeling like life is stagnant, or perhaps it’s a hot sloppy mess, look to your bowels for answers. The next time you drop a deuce, take note, are you struggling uncomfortably, groaning in pain, are you questioning everything? Those few minutes on the can are a screenshot of your life.

How we poop can teach us a lot about ourselves. No need to suffer through silent meditation retreats, just live your life like the poop you’ve always wanted to have. The answer to all of life’s problems has always been there, hidden right under you, in your butt.

RUINING DRAGAN’S PHOTOS

Ever wonder what’s wrong with you? Easy, dig up all the movies and TV shows you remember watching as a kid, but sort of don’t quite remember. Binge watch in horror as each one, like a musky old jigsaw puzzle, breaks apart into tiny pieces, only to then collectively morph into the singular, mutant, freak-of-nature-puzzle, that is your inner child. You’re welcome.

On that note, let’s drag one of Dragan’s photos, kicking and screaming, down memory lane.

THE ORIGINAL

NEW AND RUINED

You can see more of Dragan’s photography, untainted by my hand, on his official Instagram page.

YOU CAN BE ANYTHING YOU WANT TO BE, EXCEPT NOT REALLY

If the story of unicorns has taught us anything, it’s that real life is fucked up and it’s good to have an escape. Unicorns are that escape. Elegant, virtuous, magical, a manifestation of our dreams. I know adulthood hit hard, I know you’ve convinced yourself that the only things that matter are the things you hate most. But I also know that you’re human, and that means you have excellent coping mechanisms.

Don’t listen to the normies, break free. Be a unicorn, be the perfect poop.

Until next time!

Just like the dream of unicorns, I also need support. Except not in the form of dreams, I need it in the form of money. Lots of money. Consider giving me money.

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As I sat on the dock staring out over the lake, a stirring happened deep within me. The wind whispered my name, the water lapped a beat that became my theme song.

Like a rebel with a cause, I jumped into the paddle boat and off I paddle-paddled! No plan. No map. No sense. Only fortune and adventure lay ahead!

After a few minutes of adrenaline-fueled paddling, I slowed down, rethought my life choices, and decided to paddle back to the dock. Not quite yet, I thought to myself.

Such a stirring, while mostly put aside for another day, still longs for a little attention on this day, and so here we are. This month, set sail and journey with me to explore the most irresponsible adventurers of all time… Pirates!

IT’S A RUM-SOAKED LIFE WITH A DASH OF GUNPOWDER

The first pirate was a guy named Henry. As the story goes, Henry woke up one morning and said “fuck it,” put on a cool hat, jumped into his boat, robbed some rich guy, let out a bellowing laugh, and sailed off into the sunset, never to be seen again.

Henry made an impression. Soon enough, all the cool kids were pirating.

The term pirate itself comes from the Greek peiratēs which means “one who attacks or makes an attempt.” The root peira means “trial or attempt.” In other words, piracy is a kind of reckless experimentation. But let’s not kid ourselves, being a pirate is all about telling the world to take all those formalities and societal expectations and screw off. The sea is a big place, and pirates have shit to stir.

As a pirate starting out, you had a few important choices to make. You needed a great name. It was always a win if you threw a random number in there, like Three-legged Jack or Timothy the Two-Toothed Terror.

Once you had a name, hoist the flag! Red for “You’re fucked,” black for “you’re still fucked, just not as bad!”

Swashbuckler looked great on a business card. Feared and loved. Adventures bedfellow.

Even dating as a pirate broke convention, especially when the only available options were mermaids, squids, sirens, and poisonous sea cucumbers. Beneath the scruffy beards and skulls and crossbones, pirates still had hearts, and hearts need love. Also, “reckless experimentation.”

If you’ve been wondering what to do with all that rum in your liquor cabinet, pirates have you covered. Rum was currency in their world. Copious amounts of the stuff and a lot of time out at sea also led to some excellent mixes, with even better names:

• Grog – Rum diluted with water or flavored with lime or sugar to hide the taste of stagnant water.

• Flip – A hot cocktail of rum, beer, and sugar mixed with a red-hot iron.

• Kill-Devil – Early rum so raw it was said to “kill the devil himself.”

• Bumbo – Rum with sugar, nutmeg, and water; essentially pirate eggnog.

It’s not all fun and games. Like the dreams of all those mothers wishing their children had just gotten normal day jobs, many a pirate’s limb was also lost to the dark sea. You can’t play with pistols and swords and expect to walk through life without at least losing an ear or something. Of course, scars are pretty cool and missing a finger or two let people know up front that you were a psycho murderer who shouldn’t be messed with.

Although, the whole eyepatch thing isn’t accurate. Pirates actually used eyepatches to maintain night vision. Clever, yes. Bad-ass-crow-pecked-my-eye-out-while-I-was-busy-drinking-rum, unfortunately not.

There’s something exciting yet tragically poetic about a pirate’s life.

If this topic sails around again, I’ll tell you the amazing and ridiculous tale of two pirate lesbians pretending to be men and falling in love. Seriously, seafaring, absolute crazy-ass shit going on out there.

TRIPPING EYEBALLS

Having your eye get pecked out by a crow got me thinking. Roughly 30–50% of your brain is devoted to processing visual information. That’s a lot of real estate dedicated to something we don’t think much about.

It just so happens that I know someone who is all that at putting the balls in eyes. I gave her a call and set up an interview. She probably didn’t expect all the paper and markers and pens but that’s the way it went down.

I’m a horrible embarrassment, so she asked that I not disclose her real name. She will henceforth be referred to as Pee.

Jesse: Hi Pee

Pee: Hi Jesse

Jesse: Hey remember when we dated in college!

Pee: Yes I do remember that.

Jesse: Those were good times, I drew this great picture of you!

Pee: …

Jesse: Anyhow, tell us what it is you do for a living?

Pee: I’m a BCO and BADO.

Jesse: Huh?

Pee: I’m a board certified ocularist.

Jesse: Huh?

Dictionary: An ocularist is a trained and certified professional who designs, fabricates, and fits ocular prostheses (artificial eyes) for patients who have lost an eye due to injury, disease, or congenital issues.

Jesse: I’m pretty skeptical.

Pee: (Proceeds to illustrate different ways to remove eyes)

Jesse: That’s freaking me out. I have a lot of questions.

Pee: I was worried about that.

Jesse: If I sneeze hard, could my eyeballs pop out? It seems to me that eyeballs are basically just complicated grapes.

Pee: No, not really.

Jesse: Some people think that eyeballs prove that there is a god. What do you think?

Pee: I don’t think so.

Jesse: Have you ever eaten an eyeball? I looked up some recipes online.

Pee: No, I don’t think I would want to do that.

Jesse: Did you know jellyfish have 24 eyes? Also they’re immortal and remind me of mushrooms. The mushrooms of the sea, with lots of eyes.

Pee: I didn’t know.

Jesse: If I had your skills I’d wear an eyeball necklace. Also, I’d always have eyeballs in my pocket because you never know when you might need a pocket full of eyeballs.

Pee: No, I don’t carry around a pocket full of eyeballs.

Jesse: Remember that creepy Muppet Aughra in The Dark Crystal with the removable eye? That shit gave me nightmares. Look, I even painted it:

Jesse: Anyhow, instead of an iris, could you paint a bad-ass skull and crossbones on an eye?

Pee: I guess so?

Jesse: Remember X-ray vision spectacles? It would be way less obvious if you could just have an X-ray eye. What do you think of that?

Pee: I don’t know what to say.

Jesse: I think this was a really great interview.

Pee: I’m not really sure.

X

I’d like to thank Pee for taking the time to do this interview. An ocularist is definitely someone to have in your back pocket. Especially if there’s an apocalypse.

RUINING DRAGAN’S PHOTOS

While ruining Dragan’s photos really does make my day, this one hit different. You can’t ruin this guy. This guy ruins you.

THE ORIGINAL

NEW AND RUINED

You can see more of Dragan’s photography, untainted by my hand, on his official Instagram page.

X MARKS THE G SPOT

Being a pirate might not be for everyone, and that’s ok. Life is full of hidden treasures, and you’re drawing out the map every day you live your life. Yeah you might die before you find it, but it’s the journey that’s important. A journey packed full of alcohol, bribing, brothels, late night songs on the open sea, cutting off the limbs of your enemies, and being best friends with a cool talking bird.

Until we meet again!

Be a good lad/lass and consider tossing this weary fellow a coin or two. At least it’s an honest living. God knows how the sea calls.

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It’s Monday Tuesday. Hopefully you didn’t notice.

“I’ll deal with this shit tomorrow” may seem like a reasonable decision, but it never is. I guarantee that Future You will be pissed at Past You.

For example: 6:08 p.m., Saturday night, I sat wondering why Past Me hadn’t gotten this newsletter done already. It’s his fault. It’s ALWAYS his fault. Then, 8:04 a.m. Sunday morning, Present Me was rightly pissed that Previous-Night Me had dumped everything on Sunday-Morning Me. And wait until I tell you about Sunday-Afternoon Me. What a piece of work. You’ll hear all about his bullshit shortly.

Sigh. As always, Present Me to the rescue.

To procrastinate: to put off till tomorrow, to delay, to say “fuck it.” Making excuses because everybody knows that the longer you stall, the better chances shit will magically get itself done, right? Ugh. Okay, let’s just get on with it…

Grab yourself a well-deserved drink, and let’s explore the appropriately timed human characteristic of procrastination.

I’VE GOT MORE IMPORTANT SHIT TO DO

Like sitting here waiting for something to happen without me having to do it. Seriously, this has to be done. Nothing can happen next if I don’t do this first.

Procrastinating is a nuanced art, one that I am very good at. The secret to effectively harnessing procrastination is to make it functional procrastination. Fill that space with something else, something that you’ve convinced yourself, and hopefully others, is more important. Here, I’ll show you:

Also, I just drew this really important picture of a rabbit with a huge boner that serves no purpose for this art release whatsoever:

The art of fooling oneself goes way back. Homo sapiens, with their too-clever-for-their-own-good noggins, invented procrastination a few hundred thousand years ago. Yes, back when loincloths were all the rage and sacrificing chickens still lifted the curses ex-girlfriends cast upon you, we were also dragging our feet. There’s no escape. It’s in our nature.

Anthropologically speaking, procrastination requires two things:

1. Temporal awareness (knowing that tasks can be deferred to “later”).

2. Social or personal obligation (knowing you should do something, even if it isn’t urgent for survival).

On a positive note, we’re nothing if not creative. From the void of dodged responsibility, countless wonderful things have emerged. Happy Hour, for example, genius! It doesn’t matter what else is on your plate; when Happy Hour calls, you’re officially on the clock. The world collectively agrees: dropping everything to pound back cheap drinks is more important than whatever else you were supposed to be doing.

The noble pastime of sitting your ass down and judging people, another wonderful invention! Nothing like disguising your dislike for doing anything as the very necessary public service of disliking other people. If you grab a couple friends to join you, it will seem even more official.

Of course, the ultimate form of functional procrastination is pooping. Nothing overrides pooping. Best of all, take as long as you like. Draft a long grocery list, write your biography, or simply stew over the depressing shit-show that is your life. You’ve got loads of time. You’re off-limits. When you’ve finished (if you even went at all), continue to sit there and enjoy the tranquility. The bathroom: a blissful dimension tucked between deadlines where time stands still. The closest place to heaven you’ll ever visit.

REALLY DEEP IN THE THINKING

Pondering is a very important thing for humans to do, and it’s also a very easy thing to do. It’s especially useful when you need to make it seem like you’re investing in the thing that you’re suppose to be doing. Just sit yourself down, scrunch up you face a bit, and stare off into the distance. There you go, you are busy pondering and shouldn’t be bothered.

LAST MINUTE DESPERATION CONTENT

Procrastination play-by-play:

Sunday 4:03 a.m.

Woke up, contemplated life, considered working on this month’s art newsletter release, went back to bed.

8:35 a.m.

Woke up, contemplated life, made coffee, googled history of nose picking, read up on rhinotillexomania, which seemed like an important thing to know about.

9:36 a.m.

Decided a road trip made sense (for the newsletter).

1:32 p.m.

Stopped at a tavern to drink beer (for inspiration).

3:45 p.m.

Left tavern, inspiration not achieved, contemplated dung beetles.

4:23 p.m.

Lost in a forest. Stumbled across an alligator?

He had a friend!

5:05 p.m.

Accosted by a mean snake. Followed it around because it seemed like it knew where it was going.

6:45 p.m.

Beer wore off. To maintain inspiration (for newsletter), it became mandatory to find another bar.

8:09 p.m.

Saw a piece of cardboard on the ground, named it William.

9:01 p.m.

And with that, Sunday night came to an end. To-do tasks effectively shuffled along. Monday’s problem now.

Monday.

Went on another road trip (for inspiration). As happenstance would have it, I ran into my sister. She also had things to do, but everything took a back seat while we discussed our preferences for blank paper or that paper with all the dots. We drew this:

Monday night, 9:56 p.m.

Fuck.

9:58 p.m.

Flipped through an old family album (for inspiration).

Side Note: Ever wonder why I’m so good looking? Here, let me show you.

This is my Mom!

This is my Dad!

And that’s that. Who knew procrastinating would turn out to be so content rich! Moving forward I will be procrastinating more often.

RUINING DRAGAN’S PHOTOS

Have you ever left your place and gone for a walk with a box on your head? You might think that you’ve pushed boundaries, but never doubt yourself. Push further. Never settle for just ‘a box on your head.’ There’s a whole world of next level to explore. I have faith in you.

THE ORIGINAL

NEW AND RUINED

You can see more of Dragan’s photography, untainted by my hand, on his official Instagram page.

NONE OF THIS IS MY FAULT

I’m human, and humans procrastinate. All I can hope is that I fooled you. Not really, I’m only fooling myself. I want to be better, I’ll get around to it, I just need to be very busy with other less important things first.

A final takeaway: if you’re struggling with procrastination, just pretend you’re a cow. Cows don’t procrastinate, they do exactly what they’re supposed to do. They stand there, make moo noises, chew stuff, swallow it, barf it up and chew it again, and drop poop-bombs wherever they feel like it. Cows figured it out. Let cows be your guide.

Until next time! (maybe).

You know that amazing creative project you never stop talking about? The one you’ve been planning forever and promising everyone will be “so great”? It’s not happening. It’s easier, and cheaper in the long run, to just pay me to be your creative outlet.

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I recently had this terrible dream where I was trying to send a very friendly text message to someone. To my dismay, no matter how hard I tried, the only word that would pop up was ‘duck,’ again and again and again. Ironically, I was awoken from my stupor by a text message from my sister. Her ducks recently spat out a horde of ridiculously cute little fuzzy ducklings, and like every new mother, she just couldn’t help but send out daily videos of them.

The universe works in stupid ways sometimes, and so does inspiration.

This month, let’s investigate Anatidae and the order Anseriformes. Settle down, that’s not some new Harry Potter movie. It’s ducks.

IF IT TASTES LIKE A DUCK

So basically, the Chinese invented ducks because they wanted to roast them.

Really, that was enough. The duck could have stopped there. However, over the years humans found many other practical uses for ducks. Like naming witch trial tests after them, for example. Testing if someone is a witch was basic science. Witches are bad and water doesn’t like them and so they float. If the accused sunk and drowned, they were innocent. If they floated, they were A WITCH! Remember, casualties in the name of science don’t count.

Also take note: Scientifically speaking, this implies that ducks are witches.

While drowning someone to prove they’re not a witch is one approach, there are other tests you can implement. For example, all you need to do is draw a witch-shaped hat on their head. If it’s a girl, it will look like a witch hat, and so they are a witch. If it’s a guy, it will look like he is wearing a pylon on his head, and so he is not a witch.

Here, let me show you…

Another way to check if someone is a witch is that you can eat food prepared by them. If you die, they are a witch.

NATURE LOVES A GOOD PENIS

Driving northbound on one of those long windy country roads, I was in quite the panic. I hadn’t prepared anything for this newsletter release, which is typical. I thought I would google ‘duck anatomy’ for some inspiration.

As fate would have it, my finger slipped just every so slightly to the right, and I accidently searched ‘dick anatomy.’

Now, if I was a mature fellow, able to stay on topic, I’d have let that go. I’ll spare you the anatomical drawings, but just to make sure we’re on the same page:

• The penis, commonly referred to as the "dick," is the male external sex organ and a key part of both the reproductive and urinary systems.

Penises, or ‘dicks,’ are great. I wouldn’t be where I am today without them. When I was a young aspiring artist, I realized that all I had to do was draw a penis on my shitty drawings to make them profitable works of art.

Of course, as far as being a successful artist goes, nothing beats good advertising. I must have given out thousands of these business cards. I am very good at being an artist.

As for ducks, the duck penis-vagina relationship is a complex topic deserving of academic blather beyond the scope of this publication. Trust me when I say, the universe was coked-up out of its fucking mind when it laid out the sexual schematics of waterfowl. But that’s fine. Love has many paths. Some are simple. Some are absurdly complicated mazes with trap doors and spikes and dead end traps and seriously, what the hell.

BARTENDER, A ROUND OF DUCK FARTS PLEASE

One day there was this bartender in Alaska and he was obviously super bored and so invented a random experimental drink for some crazy 70 year old woman who was his only customer. She drank it, because, what else was there to do in Alaska? After slamming it back like the champ that she was, she blew out a soon to be historic burp, or fart, or whatever it was, that sounded like a duck.

Now, thanks to this great drunk 70-year-old-lady in a bar in Alaska, you can blame all of your inconvenient bodily noises on ducks. This is a great way to get out of a bind, trust me. Unless of course you’re a professional farter, then you just own that shit.

RUINING DRAGAN’S PHOTOS

Some days you wake up and just don’t give a shit. Like today for example. On days like this I thank my ducks for accountability and commitment, which keep me going. On that note, time to ruin one of Dragan’s photos.

THE ORIGINAL

NEW AND RUINED

You can see more of Dragan’s photography, untainted by my hand, on his official Instagram page.

DUCK TAPING THIS MESS TOGETHER

It’s pretty hard to top dung beetles, with their electro-brain-whatever way of navigating the trajectory of poop balls based on the Milky Way, but ducks now also have my attention. What other animal can tie together penises, farts, witches, and jeeps?

The next time you’re about to sit down and eat yourself a duck, just remember, ducks are witches, and so roasted is best. On that note, here is the video of my sister’s new little ducklings.

The next time you’re at a pool, or a lake, or the ocean, grab one of those big embarrassing floating tubes, flop your ass down into it, and name drop this newsletter. Even if you’re by yourself (which will probably be the case), at least the universe is listening. Maybe.

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To think or not to think. To think of not thinking? What about to not think of thinking, or not think of not thinking, or think of thinking? It doesn’t really matter how you say it, because I have bad news for you: You’re thinking.

I looked up some statistics on thinking, and boy they delivered:

• People have around 6000 thoughts a day.

• 80% of most people’s thoughts are negative.

• Around 90% of most thoughts are repeats.

• 65% of people think that they’re smarter than everyone else.

As you can see, thinking is a tool that we have not quite figured out yet. Let’s dive into this a little, and perhaps, screw in a few lightbulbs.

WHOSE BRIGHT IDEA WAS IT TO START THINKING?

Good question. Let me tell you a story.

It was a balmy day in Athens, 339 BCE or so. Socrates was walking around (probably hoping someone wasn’t going to randomly stick a finger up his butt - see last months newsletter for more information), and he had thought to himself, “I feel like stirring up some major shit today.” And so he did.

You see, nothing hurts someone’s feelings as much as insulting their intelligence. On that balmy day, Socrates had busted out some serious Socratic method, and did just that.

“I say that it is the greatest good for a man to discuss virtue every day... for the unexamined life is not worth living.”

To be honest, I have no idea what he’s trying to say here. Whatever it was, it did the trick. He pissed everyone off and was promptly sentenced to death.

The irony? Life without thinking or self-inquiry isn’t worth living. Simply following custom, mindlessly going with the grain, just doing what you're told to do without questioning, is not truly living. Philosophy isn’t optional, it’s how we live meaningful lives.

But also, thinking too much can piss people off and get you killed.

Welcome to humanity, enjoy your visit.

I THINK, THEREFORE I DON’T

Don’t get too comfortable with what you think you know, here comes Zhuangzi, the Daoist philosopher. This guy was determined to one-up everyone’s reality. It’s hard enough to think critically all the time, but questioning the rationality of being rational? At the same time, most of his stories were dreams about talking trees, conversations between fish that think they’re birds, and some guy with really long arms. There’s no way Zhuangzi wasn’t riding the psilocybin train.

Anyhow, you’re probably asleep right now. Dreaming of me.

What do you expect from philosophers? Too much thinking, not enough bricklaying. The fine line between brilliant and bat-shit bonkers, it’s sort of like diarrhea. Think about it.

PAINTING YOURSELF INTO A CORNER WHILE BURNING THE MIDNIGHT OIL OVER SPILLED MILK

What’s the point of brains, anyway? Let me tell you.

Spiders have their little spinnerets to make webs, dung beetles have weird spiky poop-ball-rolling legs, and humans have an excitable blob of electrified fat in their heads that tells stories and makes good use of all that free time spent in transit.

If you can no longer bear the thought of talking to yourself in your own head, you can always have a great conversation with someone else. Humans with their big gooey frontal lobes have cultivated the art of conversation well beyond that of any other species. Or have they?

THE EVOLUTION OF NOTHING CHANGES

There was a time when we were just letters on the periodic table.

Sure, we hadn’t lost sleep wondering what colour the bathroom should be, but we still had to deal with shit. Like the apocalyptic Oxygen Catastrophe, for example. Imagine, all of your anaerobic friends, trying not to breath, dying. Why!? How could life be so cruel? What’s the point of any of this? Where was Søren Kierkegaard’s soothing perspective of existential dread when you needed it?

Sure, add some intellectual embellishment, but nothing much has changed. Life was complicated enough, now we also sit around contemplating why it’s complicated.

In the big picture, thinking is just a blip. A characteristic. An anatomical specialization. Thinking might stick around, it might not. The important thing is surviving this whole ordeal, and somehow, in some absolutely impossible-to-rationalize way, thinking is suppose to help us with that.

Anyhow, is that a purple duck?

Still confused? It’s ok, humans are clever. So clever, we have created tiny artificial super-brains that fit into our pockets to outsource all that hard work!

Memory? No problem, just hit save. Sense of direction? Move over North, we have Google Maps. Curiosity and imagination? That’s what TikTok is for!

Thousands of negative thoughts on repeat every day be damned. Definitely evolving.

RUINING DRAGAN’S PHOTOS

Like Tibetan pebble art, nothing lasts forever. Everything is in a constant state of flux and change. Impermanence is the only truth. How inspiring! Time to get destructively philosophical on one of Dragan’s photos.

THE ORIGINAL

NEW AND RUINED

You can see more of Dragan’s photography, untainted by my hand, on his official Instagram page.

DON’T THINK ABOUT IT, HARDER

I don’t know about you, but my brain hurts. Lobotomy is always on the table, but hold on, put the big spike and hammer down, there is an alternative.

Pour yourself a glass of wine, sit down on a cozy looking rock, and shut the fuck up. It’s ok. You’ll be ok.

If you want to be cool at parties, name drop this newsletter. All the cool philosophers are doing it. Sure, it will backfire. You’ll be shamed, shunned, end up poor and spending your days mindlessly babbling to yourself in an old wine barrel. No one ever said being clever was a good idea.

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DIGITUS IMPUDICUS: The Impudent Finger

Move over love and compassion, defiance and contempt is here, and I can express the totality of it any time with the most simplistic of gestures. All I need is a functional middle finger.

This month, let’s have some fun with our middle fingers, and… birds.

IS THAT MY FINGER UP YOUR BUTT?

Do you know the history of the middle finger? Well, let me take you way back to Ancient Greece. The Greeks really loved themselves some penis. Many a philosopher would ponder the evening away, scouring the furthest reaches of his or her mind for all the places a penis could go. Back then, everyone wore skirts, and so when you felt like it, you could just stick your finger up someone’s butt hole. The first philosopher to do this noticed that when you hold up your middle finger it sort of looked like a penis with the folded fingers on each side as the balls. It didn’t take long for waving around the middle finger to really catch on, everyone was doing it. Of course it was still more fun to actually insert your middle digit where the sun don’t shine, because, obviously.

It got to be such a problem that the Greeks invented pants. After that people pretty much got bored with the middle finger. Until the 60’s. There was this saying back then, ‘give the big bird.’ This was something people did when you annoyed them and they thought you were a loser. Originally you did this by making a hissing sound like a goose, but that got cumbersome because everybody got a dry throat. So they brought back the middle finger and called it ‘the bird.’ And that’s how pants were invented.

BIRD IS THE TURD

All this talk of the bird got me thinking about birds. Birds have the greatest names. Like these guys. These are Boobies. Nobody knows why they are called Boobies.

Then there’s this poor little guy. He’s always sad because he can’t catch flies. He doesn’t even want to eat them; he just wants friends.

Cock of the Rock is quite the bird. In this picture he’s not on a rock, but on a branch, but that’s the thing with this bird, it’s ‘Cock of the <insert thing>’! So this photo is technically Cock of the Branch. There’s a bunch more. Cock of your Leg, Cock of your Dreams, Cock of the Dining Room Table, Cock of your Coffee. Cocks everywhere.

Once in a while you come across an animal and think, “Wow! This animal and I resonate.” I get this guy, and he gets me.

This owl is called a Morepork. They got their name because humans used to feed them all the pigs. These owls loved pigs. They could eat them all day and night, but they always wanted more. Then one day the humans thought, “Why are we giving all our pigs to owls, when we should just eat them ourselves?” The owls got mad about this but nothing much happened. The pigs were still upset about the whole thing. And that’s how we started eating pigs.

PIGEON POOP MAY CONTAIN SMALL FEATHERS

One day while strolling through Rome, I thought I’d check out St. Peter’s Square. As my foot touched sacred ground, I felt a soft wet plop on the top of my head. Looking up, I caught a glimpse of my assailant’s butt. (Actually, it’s more like a penis-butt, or a vag-butt? A vaganus? Peninus?). If you didn’t already know, pigeon poo is pretty gross.

For your information:

1. Pigeon droppings are typically firm, white-brown in color, and similar in appearance to small marbles.

2. They may also contain tiny feathers.

3. Loose, wet droppings can indicate that the bird is stressed or unhealthy.

After having a load dropped on my head like a champ, someone nearby pointed out to me that it’s good luck to have a bird shit on your head. Where did this ridiculous idea come from? The Russians. Why Russians would think that if birds poop on you, you’ll have luck and fortune, nobody knows. What I can tell you is that I’ve had three birds shit on me in my life so far and all I got out of it was shit in my hair. While I cherish the idea of unhealthy birds dropping bombs on the heads of my enemies, I mostly wouldn't wish this upon anyone.

Back to the story. After the poop assault, I went to a nearby cafe, ate pizza, and drank a liter of wine. And that’s the story of how we invented hair gel.

RUINING DRAGAN’S PHOTOS

Why does he keep punishing himself like this? This is one of the mysteries of the universe to which I don’t actually want the answer to. Ok then, let’s ruin another one of Dragan’s photos.

THE ORIGINAL

NEW AND RUINED

You can see more of Dragan’s photography, untainted by my hand, on his official Instagram page.

NO SAD HAIKU THIS TIME, JUST A GESTURE

It’s been nice. Thanks for coming along with me for the ride. It’s time that you go now. Go on, get out. Don’t make me put my finger up your butt.

Please send this month’s newsletter to all two of your friends and all 20 of your enemies. Tell them I am a sad lonely orphan that could use some love but actually money would be better so please don’t be a heartless jerk and become a paid-subscriber. Lamborghinis aren’t free you know. Thank you.

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HUMANS NEED BEANS

Did you know you’re an addict? Ever wonder why sometimes you’re a miserable shit and you can barely drum up the energy or motivation to live? I know what the problem is. You need coffee. If only we had penis-shaped coffee-dispensing robots following us around.

Coffee snobbery is a thing. I should know, I’ve been an aspiring coffee douche for years. It’s a very serious commitment. Moka pot was my go-to method.

Of course, when the time came to level up my game, I reached deep within, left the conveniences of society, moved off-grid, got a little .wood burning stove, bought an axe, and dedicated a cold lonely winter to perfecting the perfect cuppa.

And of course, the douchery does not stop there. No passionately brewed coffee, forged through the most dedicated of self-inflicted austerities, is properly appreciated unless during the course of its consumption you contemplate the one and only true question…

FRUITS ARE FREAKS

The term coffee bean is a misnomer, but you probably think you knew that. Did you know that the coffee "bean" is actually the seed inside the coffee cherry? It gets better, the coffee cherry is the fruit of the Coffea plant, and fruit are the sexual organs of plants. That makes coffee beans a sexual excretion. So, you’ve been grinding up and drinking juice made from a plants ejaculate. What a morning glorious way to start your day.

LARRY IS THE GOAT

Coffee was discovered by a goat. I'm not sure what its name was, but I think it was Larry. Like all goats, Larry spent his days walking around looking for shit to put in his mouth and chew. As far as goats go, Larry was kind of an asshole, but whatever.

Anyhow, after chewing on the sexual organs of a Coffea plant, Larry got all jacked up and some guy saw and thought he'd chew up some of whatever Larry was chewing as well, because why not. When the caffeine hit his brain, shit got crazy. Worried he was possessed by Satan, he ran to the local church to seek redemption and clarify what the hell was going on. The monks had no idea what was up with this guy so they figured they would also chew up some of whatever Larry had been chewing, because why not. The monks got super jacked and spent the night wide awake meditating and talking shit with God. They decided that whatever the hell Larry was chewing on was ok with them and ok with the lord. That's the story of coffee.

Takeaway? Jesus drinks coffee.

EVERYONE’S GOT TOO MUCH SHIT ON THEIR MIND

Devils drinking coffee and contemplating shit account for 50% of my subject matter. People keep asking me if I’m the devil in my paintings. Yes, but you’re not off the hook. You are also the devil in my paintings. Everyone is the devil in my paintings.

FLYING MONKEYS, DRAGONS, ALIENS AND NINJAS

I suppose it’s possible there could be tea in some of these cups. Tea culture, which I am also strongly steeped in, also reaches deep into profound levels of mind-expanding snobbery. For now, fill these cups with coffee, and let’s save tea for another day.

COLLABORATION

Dragan has once again agreed to let me ruin one of his photos.

THE ORIGINAL

NEW AND RUINED

Ugh. I finished this at 1:32am in the morning, leave me alone.

You can see more of Dragan’s photography, untainted by my hand, on his official Instagram page.

AND… BECAUSE I CANNOT BARE TO END ON A HIGH NOTE, I WROTE ANOTHER SAD HAIKU

Or perhaps this should be called… a HAIKU-CCINO?

Remember, repeated consumption of caffeine can lead to a mild form of drug dependence, with withdrawal symptoms like headache, sleepiness, and irritability when intake is stopped. Considering that you are likely intolerable as it is, please, do everyone a favour, pour yourself another cup. See you next month!

If you’re already a free subscriber to The Devil Didn't Make Me Do It, thanks! Of course now you can help pay for my luxurious lifestyle by upgrading to paid. While I probably still wouldn’t like you, it might soften my disposition, a little.

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IT’S SPRING! AKA MATING SEASON.

Trees are leaking sap, ducks are trying to fit their weird corkscrew penises into whatever they can, and human beings are acting like silly fools. To celebrate, let’s explore nature’s cruelest joke, the season of love.

So grab a box of tissues, curl up into the fetal position, and enjoy!

SEASONAL AFFECTIVE LOVE DISORDER (SALD):

Definition: A recurring condition in which individuals experience irrational infatuation, emotional dysregulation, or romantic delusions triggered by seasonal changes, most commonly in spring but occasionally autumn.

Prognosis: Recurring (humans are tragic that way).

Treatment: Alcohol. A lot of alcohol.

Or espresso. Just be sure to drop a shot of grappa into it.

I had this dream. I was sitting on this little planet all by myself. Very The Little Prince vibes, except I was a sad, gooey alien. The earth and its inhabitants were like little ants, frantically running around as if they were doing something. Really, they were doing nothing. So, I think the lesson here was, don’t be so hard on yourself if you’re sad and pathetic and sitting all alone on a little planet because nobody loves you.

A girlfriend once broke up with me because I didn’t spank her. Honestly, I didn’t know that that was her thing. Things might have been different if I had known, because deep down inside, I wanted to spank her! It seems that communication is important in relationships after all, who knew.

BLAME IT ON THE OXYTOCIN

When you look around, does it feel like everyone except you is hooking up? It’s probably true. Well, I’m sure it’s not your fault. Actually, it probably is. Glad we could have this talk.

Sorry, did that ruin your childhood? It gets worse. Did you ever wonder what was under those funny little hats?:

Smurfette really had all the other Smurfs by the balls. Serious monopoly.

A (mis)match made in hell in a handbasket.

Remember, it’s better to have loved and lost than to miss the boat while beating a dead horse.

Anyway, don’t get too down. Sometimes it all works out, after you’re dead.

WHO SAID I’M NOT AN OPTIMIST?

Just remember, when it comes to love, you always have a choice. There’s always someone out there willing to take you in with open arms.

DATING, THE 10TH CIRCLE OF HELL

In real life there are no filters, so always remember to put on your best outfit and look your best. First impressions stick like gum under your shoe.

BRING ON THE SUNSHINE!

In the spirit of ‘the love of fucking shit up’, my friend Dragan foolishly agreed to collaborate on an art piece together and let me ruin one of his photographs.

THE ORIGINAL

NEW AND RUINED

(You can see more of Dragan’s photography (untainted by my hand) on his official Instagram page.)

TO WRAP THIS TRAGIC EDITION UP, I WROTE A HAIKU, AND THE WORLD WILL NEVER BE THE SAME

Or perhaps this should be called… a HAIPU?

I’ve been told that geese don’t actually poop when they fly. Well, I guess that’s a nicer note to end on. Happy crying and see you next month!

WELCOME TO THE MOST POINTLESS 10 MINUTES OF YOUR DAY!

What’s wrong with you? Oh wait, I know, you have questions. Well, I have answers. You might not like them, but that’s your problem, not mine. Actually, it is sort of my problem, but that’s my problem, not yours.

Feel free to write in and tell me your life story. Be sure to add in all of the important details like which way you hang your toilet paper rolls and if you’ve ever been abducted by aliens. A wise man once told me that aliens only show themselves to the most special of people, and we’re all special here. Also, you’re walking kind of funny.

CAFE DOODLES FROM BEERS GONE BY

There was a time when I wandered the world in search of the perfect cafe to draw in. This quest frequently led me to trashy bars where I would get drunk and doodle. The good thing about this is that drunk people would think the drawings were great and then buy them off me, which would in turn pay for more drinks. This, I found, was a very effective way to find the perfect cafe to draw in.

PHILOSOPHICAL PONDERING OF THE MONTH

CHICKEN OF THE MONTH

Cheap stinky dollar store black markers and very potent liquid paper. That’s how this was made. Actually I don’t even remember drawing this.

GUY WITH A BEARD

This sent me down a terrible rabbit hole of researching the origin of “beaver” to refer to women’s genitals. I do not recommend doing this. It is a journey that bears no fruit, only terrible visuals, like this one:

COLLABORATION OF THE MONTH

Collaborating with a nine-year-old girl is a slap-in-the-face opportunity to learn about hard lessons in life.

“BEGIN AT THE BEGINNING, AND GO ON TIL YOU COME TO THE END: THEN STOP” - Alice in Wonderland

Looks like it’s time to stop. Don’t cry. Pour yourself a nice cup of tea and hopefully you’ll see me again soon. Or not. Now quit stalling, drink your tea.

Hello there. You must be lost.

I mean that in the metaphorical sense. Assuming you're human, of course. We’re all lost.

Luck, like gooey slime from the jowls of a large, frantic dog, has soaked you to the bone. Fear not. You’ve stumbled upon exactly what you need: a healthy overdose of Eggheadism.

EGGHEADISM

Transcendental nonsensicalness.
Philosophical deformity.
Intellectual irritable bowel syndrome brought on by overthinking.
Meaning, applied where none was requested.
A sure-fire way to tip the canoe, if the canoe was the universe, life, and everything.

THE DEVIL DIDN’T MAKE ME DO IT

A newsletter. A symptom. A minor act of retaliation.
Something to provide me a little entertainment and, more importantly, to keep me sane.

Born out of the Eggheadist condition, DDMMDI is a monthly newsletter that takes one random topic and ruins it for you properly.

Love. Coffee. The bird. Nostalgia. Digestion. That feeling you have that your existence is fleeting. Your grandma’s cooking. Nothing is safe. It applies unnecessary thought to things that were doing just fine without it.

The tone is dry. The humour is off. There will be drawings, but you’ll wish there wasn’t.

Look for a new release on the first Sunday morning of every month. From my brain, to your inbox, to your brain. Apologies in advance. You should probably see a shrink.

Buy An Artist A Drink?

Being so clever and cynical consumes a lot of brainpower, and brainpower requires fuel, and fuel costs money. Also, I’ve always wanted to buy a submarine. Here are some subscription options if you’d like to help buy an artist a drink:

Drop Kick: FREE!

Nothing like a swift kick in the ass.

Broadsword: $5/monthly subscription

Maybe some bonus stuff but I’m not really sure what. Essentially you’re just condoning my behaviour. You’ll probably regret this.

Laser Blaster: $50 yearly subscription

Yes, that's a laser blaster in my pocket, but I’m not sure if I’m happy to see you. Same as the monthly subscription except you save a few bucks.

Battle Station: $150 founding member

A true connoisseur! You have my deepest gratitude. When aliens arrive to blow us up (the sooner the better), I will attempt to negotiate safe passage on their vessel for you.

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