After dinner, you refasten your seatbelt in case the plane goes down and explodes in a field. Once everyone has their seatbelt on, the flight crew decides its time for you to go to sleep. The cabin lights slowly dim to black. The blue light screens on every chair in front of you work in concert to blind you, like a solar eclipse you can’t turn away from.

Go to sleep, says the flight crew. Go to sleep in the shittiest recliner in the world with hundreds of strangers around you at 9:30pm. Who is getting off right now? Who is dreaming and what are they dreaming about? Why did the elderly woman in front of you finish Jack Reacher 2 and then restart it again immediately after? Isn’t she tired? Aren’t you?

You look across the aisle at a frenchman's bare feet. A child in front of you is watching Sydney Sweeney’s breasts bounce on a screen two rows up. The child is now watching Sydney Sweeney have an orgasm. Further up, a group of stewardesses are wall-mounting a crib for a crying baby in the dark, which you did not know they had on planes.

A flash of lightning illuminates the cabin and strikes the wing of the plane. The frenchman jolts awake and his toes curl. The elderly woman pauses her movie while Jack Reacher is in the middle of a killing spree. In the dark of the cabin, there is panic. The crying baby cries harder. The child continues to watch Sydney Sweeney cum, but nervously now. Thank god you’ve got your seatbelt on.

The cabin lights never turn on and the flight crew is nowhere to be found. The pilot does not make an announcement. We are in a liminal moment in a liminal space. Just like the crying baby, we are all gliding across the Atlantic, half dreaming and half worried about our next meal.

I was born premature, denied the breast, and bottle-fed until the age of three, when I began to rip through the plastic nipples with my incisors as revenge. Even still, I had a happy childhood setting off fireworks in our neighborhood cul-de-sac and looking at my father’s pornographic magazines in the basement. My mouth still salivates when I pass a Hudson News in the airport.

When I was 13 years old my old man kicked me out of the house for trying on my cousin’s Tiffany Blue panties just to see what it felt like one time. I got a job at an asbestos manufacturing plant and made just enough scratch to get an apartment on my own. Pretty soon, I moved up from asbestos technician to manager and opened my first savings account.

I got tricked into using all of my savings to buy Bath & Body Works gift cards for a Japanese scam artist that I thought was my soulmate. I bounced back. I worked overtime at As-Best-Os-Can-Be and took on a second job at a talcum powder factory. I rebuilt my savings and within a year I had moved out of my crummy apartment into my first house. On nights and weekends I studied slumlord videos on Youtube and bought a rental property. It was a successful enterprise, but I signed a settlement agreement stating that I can’t say anything else about it.

After that, things started to move pretty fast. I continued to move up at work and initiated a hostile takeover of a cigarette factory. At the same time, I found my faith and re-committed myself to Jesus Christ our Savior. I moved our cigarette/asbestos manufacturing headquarters to Uganda and singlehandedly created thousands of new jobs for the children in the community.

That’s why Labor Day matters to me. That’s why we give all of our employees a mandatory, no-questions-asked day off the first Monday of every September. Don’t forget to remember what all of this is for. Never lose sight of what’s important.

I mean seriously, guys. Really? When did we decide that this was political? Am I really the only person who remembers when this was just something we did for FUN and it didn’t mean anything BAD at all? I just don’t understand how we got here. Like everyone else I know, I grew up with women popping out of cakes all the time. I’ve probably seen hundreds of women jump out of a cake in my life. And surprise! I’m still not a bigot!! But apparently one day society just snapped its fingers and decided that it’s now inherently evil to enjoy this? Really, you have to laugh.

For anyone who has ever actually bothered to research this tradition, you know that it actually has a very FEMINIST history. But of course no one even bothered to think about that. No one even bothered to think about all the beautiful women who have lost their jobs now because of this B.S. No one even cared to ask whether the beautiful women actually really enjoyed exploding out of a cake top and yelling “surprise!” to a room full of adoring fans. Nope. It’s all about optics. The cynics win! Again!

As a husband, a father to two daughters, and a brother to a gay sister, I believe that ALL women should have the right to decide what they do with their own bodies. Period. End of sentence. All women should have the right to put on a blonde Marilyn Monroe wig and fire engine red lipstick and express themselves freely. Last time I checked, this was still a free county (even with President Cheeto in office…).

By the way, Jim, if you’re reading this, don’t even try to get my post taken down again. Or else I’ll tell your wife what you said to my wife last summer at the soccer tournament. Really, I’m not screwing around. I mean it. Me and a few others who I will not name here heard everything from the other side of the pavilion. Actually, we all agreed it was pathetic. I’m very, very serious. Do not try me.

Last September I was diagnosed with Farmer’s Penis. When the doctors told me the news, I knew immediately that my life was over. Farmer’s Penis (also known as “Hillbilly Hanger”) is rare, yes, but research shows that the condition has been on the rise across the developed world for the last several decades. Little is known about the disease’s origins, however, historical records suggest that there have been reported cases of “agricultural manhood” dating back to at least the late 19th century. At that time it was common for men in rural communities, driven insane by alcoholism, to create erotic scarecrow-like dolls out of crops and other seasonal harvests to stave off isolation. It’s thought that while satisfying themselves with these dolls, the men unwittingly exposed themselves to disease-carrying mites and other pests attached to the crops. Even still, it is unclear exactly how the disease developed after that time and it wasn’t until 1947 that Farmer’s Penis first began appearing in medical textbooks.

We now know that there is a genetic component to the disease as well. Thinking back now, there were signs that maybe Farmer’s Penis ran in my family. Dad’s grassy shaft. The zucchini-shaped outline in Grandpa’s trousers. The dozens of antique “barley girls” Pop Pop had in the back of his garage. In hindsight it makes perfect sense, even if it all seemed so normal at the time.

Like most people afflicted, I ignored my symptoms for far too long before seeing a doctor. When I first noticed the denim-like rash across my perineum I just thought it was an allergic reaction to a new fabric softener I was using. When the braying urination started, I didn’t think much of it. It wasn’t until my testicles began to grow and ripen (the “harvest stage,” I later learned ) that I knew something wasn’t right.

Unfortunately, there is no cure for Farmer’s Penis. Which means I’ll be dealing with this disease for the rest of my life. Even still, I try to stay positive and take it one day at a time. I make sure to water my john every morning and lay my sack on the window sill for the midday sun. I’m finding peace in the little moments. There is hope. Sure, it makes dating a little harder, but while I’m waiting for the right person to come along who’s going to love and accept me for who I am—disease and all—I have my barley girl to keep me company.

I arrive home to my apartment and my mixed use living room/kitchen that I love so much (even though I can afford drywall, I keep the brick exposed in my living room). I am excited today because my new shipment of SprFüd has arrived, which has 46 grams of protein and only 38 calories per SprPöd. SprFüd is horse semen and evaporated chickpea powder, but it comes in fun flavors like Yumammy Asian Zing! and 90s Kidz Pizza Party.

After I finish my SprPöd, I begin researching what sneakers will be popular this summer so that I can buy them before everyone else does. Before I know it, it is 10:00pm and I haven’t used by voice since 4:30 when I said “excuse me” to the woman getting off the train in such a low tone that only one syllable actually exited my mouth. I need to go to bed so that I can get up in the morning and go to a workout class where we throw tires at the wall for 4 hours. I will grab brunch afterwards at KTN NIFE and numb out on the couch with legal marijuana. At 10:02pm I fall asleep to Season 1 Episode 2 of The Office.

In my dreams, I am running through a field and chasing a car; I am eating a big steak with the bone still in it. My arms and legs twitch in small circles as I doze. I am naked, save for my Smart Watch collared around my wrist, tracking how many erections I have while I’m asleep. In my dreams, I am off leash. In my dreams, I do not have a Smart Watch. I get a full 8 hours of sleep, but it isn’t nearly enough.

I log into my ThinkPad and get to work. I feel relaxed and recharged. After sending and receiving emails from my work account for several hours, I indulge in a short break to send and receive emails from my personal account. Behind the wall of sales offers and paperless billing statements are the Cliffs of Moher. A fog sits heavy and still at the edge, the crashing Atlantic below invisible, but deafening. I try to clear my inbox fast enough to taste the sea spray, but it’s no use. LinkedIn updates continue to flood in, prompting me to congratulate my colleagues on new positions and connect with other professionals in my field. Tomorrow I will take another trip and try again.

In the City, you can spot them a mile away. Their hands completely free of New Yorker, breathe absent of campari, clothing looking stupid, but so very clearly not on purpose. When you pass them by on the street, you too may feel the urge to avert your eyes, not wanting to engage in a christian encounter.

Due to technological advances (internet, cars) and globalization (internet, Cracker Barrel), we can, however, no longer ignore these people. Instead, we must accept them into our cities. We must merge lives with the milk drinkers. In an effort to ease this transition, I propose providing the following non-exhaustive guide to our new City residents.

1. You Cannot Rub Your Belly After A Nice Meal And Go “Mhm That Was Some Good Eatin’”

   I know that where you are from, it is standard to unzip your pants after dinner and pat your stomach methodically while praising the quality of the food you just ate. That is not allowed here. Please keep your hands on the table after dinner or where the rest of the restaurant can see them.

2. Our Churches Are Purely For Decoration

   Yes, you love god and silent prayer. We know. In the City, there is no god. If he exists, he does not visit here. You may be thinking to yourself, “Well holdun’ a minute, then whattur all dem churches fer?” It is not a stupid question. While it is true that we have many beautiful churches in the City, they are purely for decoration. We use them for things like Instagram Wedding and TikTok Funeral. The “priests” or “ministers” that you see in these social media posts are simply paid actors. The interior purely a set piece. If you try to pray in one of our churches, nothing happens. You are, in fact, just talking to yourself, which is an activity reserved for our public parks.

3. Put That Fucking Banjo Away

   You may feel the urge to “hoot” and/or “holler” from time to time while living in the City. It is my understanding that this ritual oftentimes involves playing a banjo while stomping on the ground and sucking on a piece of hay. Neither hooting nor hollering is permitted in the City. You may instead scream at the top of your lungs during rush hour on the subway or play a cover of “Hotel California” on an out-of-tune guitar on a street corner.

4. Yes, It’s True That You Will Be Killed If You Leave Your Home At Night

   You may have heard on the news that crime has gone way up in the City and that there is a good chance you will get murdered if you leave your home at night. That’s all true actually. Last year we passed several major pieces of legislation that make murder at night very easy. This was done for several reasons, including population control and to fuel the market demands of our true crime podcasting sector, which employs a substantial portion of our City residents. If you would like to opt out of being randomly selected for murder at night, however, you can purchase a Patreon subscription to one of our podcast affiliates directly from the official City website. All proceeds benefit our weather control programs so that we can continue to send gender queer hurricanes to Republican controlled districts across the state.

5. There Are Only Three Ways Out Of The City

   Once you arrive in the City and officially commit yourself to a life of small plates and wide-legged pants, there are only three ways in which you may leave the City: death, marriage, or if you become old. Obviously, once you die, you are no longer able to participate in brunch or happy hour and accordingly are of no use to either our social scene or the local economy. In death, your body may return to your family farm in Ohio. Moreover, if you do in fact find that special someone to spend the rest of your life with, you will be relieved of your duties in the City and may retire to a nearby suburb or one of the surrounding states with affordable housing. Although unpleasant to discuss, from time to time, some of our residents do in fact refuse to either die or marry. At the same time, they continue to wear their purposely stupid clothes, drink our negronis, and darken the doorways of our ironic, cosplay divebars. In many cases, they are using their phone flashlight to read our restaurant menus. I become ill thinking about it. Although there is no official age restriction in the City, it is highly encouraged that once you become old, you consider an application for transfer to a less urban living area like Silver Dollar City. You may even be happier someplace where the music is not so loud and you can buy a firearm at the local drive thru.

You see, biologically, men crave utility and function. And the same is true for our clothes. We need gear that’s going to easily transition from the boardroom to the battlefield to the end zone and everywhere in between. It’s half time on a Monday and my boss needs his #1 starter. I don’t know about you, but I can’t sit this play out.

That’s why I never leave home without my Under Armour Active Flex Base Briefs®.

Made with Under Armour’s patented Active Flex® technology, this base layer is specifically designed for active guys on the-go like me. The rear split hem offers ultimate mobility without sacrificing comfort. The ergonomic design keeps seams off high abrasion areas.

Stretch mesh interior panels provide strategic ventilation—now designed with Under Armour’s SunFucker® technology. Supportive cock pocket in the front provides all-day utility comfort on and off the field.

Look, fellas, this one’s a no-brainer. If you need to be on the top of your game, you need the right gear. With Under Armour Active Flex Base Briefs®, you can carpet bomb a foxhole, score a touch down, or grab a coffee with friends. So leave the fashion to your girlfriends. Real guys need activewear that’s going to work for them on and off the clock.

It’s the 4th quarter and you’ve got 3 bullets left in the chamber. Are you ready?

The heavens shake. Richie Cronin and Aaron Carter high five from the beyond. Lightning strikes and a dial-up tone follows. The narwhal bacons at midnight.

It was reported last week that Pope Francis is expected to canonize the first millennial saint in 2025. In what can only be described as “Improv 9/11,” Politico reported the following details about the young man:

The teen, who has been nicknamed “God’s influencer,” was a devout Catholic and used his computer coding skills to create a website chronicling Catholic miracles and apparitions. His wax-encased body, wearing jeans and Nike sneakers, is displayed in a tomb in the Italian town of Assisi and draws thousands of pilgrims each year.

Just for a minute, let’s pretend that this is not insane. Obviously, it was inevitable that we would someday get a millennial saint. But did it have to be like this?

I mean, lmao. Come on.

“God’s Influencer” feels like SmarterChild brought to life—the platonic ideal of the early 2000s Web Surfer. If Clippy had arms, legs, and a popped collar, this might be him. He somehow looks like both Michael Cera and Jonah Hill from Superbad.

I grew up catholic. But for those of you who did not grow up being told that god loves you so much that he might send you to hell, the first requirement for becoming a catholic saint is that you are a dead person. (Sorry, partner, only dead bodies are holy.)

God’s Influencer passed away on October 12, 2006 at the age of fifteen, the same week that “Lips of An Angel” by Hinder peaked at number 3 on the Billboard Hot 100. (Coincidence???)

This means that, at the peak of his virtuous life, God’s Influencer was 100% quoting Napoleon Dynamite. We have to assume that he had “Bad Day” by Daniel Powter downloaded on his iPod. How many Chuck Norris Facts was he posting on his friend’s Facebook walls? He has to be the first (and only?) saint to have watched Shoes on Youtube.

I too was a teenager in the early 2000s. He was born in 1991, I was born in 1990. In 2006, he created a website chronicling catholic miracles; in 2006, I created a Sim to look like my high school crush and then locked her in a burning room when she didn’t fall in love with me.

In October of 2020, God’s Influencer posthumously attained his first miracle after curing a young boy of a debilitating birth defect. In October of 2020, I finished watching the Sopranos for the 4th time. In April of 2022, God’s Influencer attained his second miracle, officially qualifying him for sainthood. In April of 2022, I finished watching The Sopranos for the 6th time.

And now, God’s Influencer is sleeping for eternity in his nikes and jeans, which is something I only do when I drink tequila.

In many ways, I’m jealous of the teenager decaying in the see-through coffin. He is, after all, quite popular. And he has many more followers than I ever will. He managed to build a lasting legacy at a remarkably young age and parlay that into a brand deal with one of the most profitable corporations in the world. Like MrBeast. Which is all to say that God’s Influencer inspires in me the same feelings of comparison and inadequacy that all influencers do.

And yet, the only person burying MrBeast in a see-through coffin is himself. Which begs the question: should we really be making teenagers saints? Setting aside the fact that MrBeast apparently may be the antichrist, anointing teenagers to sainthood just seems premature. For instance, what would have happened to God’s Influencer if he had been alive for the launch of Pornhub in 2007? Or the The Joe Rogan Experience in 2009? Would he have been jokerfied by Apple automatically downloading that dog shit U2 album on everyone’s iPods in 2014?

Maybe it’s for the best that he died before the internet really exploded. Maybe we only have our first millennial saint exactly because he didn’t live long enough to have his brain rotted by Instagram or TikTok like the rest of us.

Either way, we can’t take him out of that swag casket now.

Peter sat on the corner stool in the jazz bar studying his drink. He was making little rotations with the scotch in his hands as he contemplated the evening. It was Saturday night again. The saxophone was carrying his heart through the minor notes of his soul as the liquor went to work. Sitting on that stool, Peter was an island. Jane the bartender wanted him badly tonight and she wasn’t hiding it very well. He knew that Jane wanted him, but he didn’t care. Loads of women wanted Peter. They always had. Jane stared over at Peter and smiled. Her eyes lingered on Peter’s face, studying the salt and pepper on his cheeks. Peter felt an erection in his pocket. Like clockwork, he thought to himself. He had never experienced erectile dysfunction in his entire life.

Cigarette smoke hung in the air, settling into a halo above Peter’s head. All around him the other men were on their cellphones, too afraid to be alone. Not Peter. No, he let his thoughts come to him like a woman moaning for more. What was it that Hemingway used to say about love? he thought to himself. That’s right: if two people love each other there can be no happy end to it. He took a long drink. Peter’s erection was poking at the seams in his pants, threatening to tear a hole in his Levi’s.

Peter knew a lot about World War II and had often regaled Jane with this knowledge between rounds. Jane loved it when Peter spoke of such things. Peter had been married just the once, but that was enough for him. In his soul, he knew that he was an untamable beast; a jungle cat with an insatiable lust for life. It’s what women loved about him. It’s what his ex loved about him. Even still, the divorce had nearly killed Peter. He had tried for so long to be the person that his ex had wanted him to be that when it was finally over, he felt broken from the inside out. Yes, he had technically cheated, but when you hold out honey in front of a starving bear, what do you expect to happen? Peter closed his eyes tightly, trying to forget his pain. C'est la vie, kid. The drums were hot tonight and he could feel the rhythm in his pants. The band was playing Miles, which was just one of the many jazz artists that Peter knew and loved.

Even as Jane was twenty years his junior, she was in awe of Peter’s raw intellect. He had just seen. so. much. Done. so. much. When he talked to Jane about World War II, she was instantly dampened in the cavernous femininity betwixt her legs. She had wanted to feel Peter’s stiffness for some time. She fantasized about his hose and the bowling ball like orbs beneath it. For his part, Peter had thought about Jane only once before in this way, during a guided meditation. He had apparently drifted too far during a breathing exercise and his thoughts turned from the knotty pines of his meditation forest to the heaving plumps of womanhood beneath Jane’s neck. When he had opened his eyes, his pants were ripped in half down the crotch and his throbbing rocket was pointed toward his chin, a rifle ready to fire.

The saxophone punched out an ending coda and held its last note as the crowd clapped and whistled. The band broke for five. Jane was on the other side of the bar, leaning over the railing. Peter was studying the way that her trousers held the shape of her fruited backside as the cotton material stretched across her rump. She was teasing him. Honey for a starving bear. Peter was actually afraid that his erection would explode through his front zipper. Just then, as if she could read his mind, Jane turned around and made her way over to Peter. Her lips looked like sexy red balloons. Her hips swayed like a sexy pocket watch.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as Peter waited for Jane to reach his little island in the jazz bar. He straightened himself and belted his drink, quickly recalling several interesting facts about the Battle of Stalingrad. He didn’t know how the night would end, but he didn’t much care. It was the chase he loved. The younger men in the bar stared up from their cellphones as Jane walked across the room. They didn’t even know that they had already lost.

“Another round?”

Peter looked into Jane’s eyes as she asked, his erection testing the integrity of his polyester boxer briefs under the bar. “You know it, hun.”

"Double Johnny, right?”

Peter smiled a little and chuckled to himself. "Creature of habit, I guess.”

Jane took a clean glass from the shelf under the bar. “Old dogs, new tricks.”

Peter threw his head back, first in pain, then in ecstasy. He was all man.

When I was 13 years old, I was in a motorcycle accident with my mom, dad, three brothers, and our pet dog, Shiloh :( Thankfully nobody died, but we were all in a coma for 2.5 years, including Shiloh! When we woke up from the coma, much of the world had changed. We had a new president, a new iphone had come out, and my parents had both lost their jobs because they were in a coma and could not work for 2.5 years. Even worse still, we found out that my dad had been having an affair with my 7th grade teacher, who had moved on from my dad during the coma. My dad was devastated.

Fast forward to 3 years later and I am 18 years old, but still in 7th grade on account of the fact that I had been in a coma and had to re-learn so many things. For instance, the coma had made me forget how to do algebra and that the United States had actually won the Vietnam War. Even still, I feel truly blessed that I was able to repeat the 7th grade as a fully grown adult because I would have never met hubby without it. As you guys know by now (because I talk about him ALL THE TIME in these posts!! LOL) hubs was my social studies teacher during this time. After I graduated 8th grade, hubby asked me out for our first date and the rest is history!

Unfortunately, grief struck our family again during this time as my three brothers and Shiloh were once again involved in a motorcycle accident. Thankfully, nobody died, but my three brothers all suffered devastating injuries to their penises as a result of being ejected from the motorcycle with their seatbelts still on. However, God once again smiled upon our family and my brothers were able to qualify for elective surgery that bent their penises back into shape. In fact, they are all married now and their wives all report that the sex is like nothing they have ever experienced before. Shiloh unfortunately is still in a coma from this second motorcycle accident : (

Shortly after my brothers’ surgeries, hubs popped the question! And since we’ve both always LOVED Cuba (I mean, what’s better than a beachside pina colada am I right!?) it was a no brainer for us to have a destination wedding there. We got married in beautiful Guantanamo Bay in 2018 and are living our Forever now.

Anyway, Hubs has a massive sweet tooth and loves chocolate chip cookies. In fact, he won’t eat anything else! His doctors are concerned that he may actually die if he doesn’t start eating other foods, but he is one stubborn guy so good luck with that one, doctors! LOL. As a gift to hubby, I perfected this chocolate chip cookie recipe when we first got married and I’ve been making them ever since. Full recipe can be found at the link in bio. Let me know what you think in the comments below!

I was gonna call you but your mom said that due to the pending investigation everything needs to be quote in writing unquote. So I’m leaving this on your porch. Ok so I’m not good with this stuff so Im just going to say it. I apologize about what I said at your littleist’s birthday party.

PLS KEEP READING

Look, I was out of line and I know it. I should never have said that. As you know, my doctor says that I am only allowed to drink beer now due to the fact that I couldnt stop getting drunk from liquor. But you shouldnt have been keeping that bottle in the unlocked cabinet where I could get into it and you need to own that too.

You have to understand. When I was growing up, Grampy and your dad used to call me that word all the time. That was how they showed me that they loved me actually since as you know we do not say quote I love You unquote to each other and never have.

Either way, i shouldnt have screamed it at your daughters and the other children 5 times in a row like that. The first time itself was shocking even to me. The 4 times after that I just couldnt stop. Im not sure what happened. Actually I thought we were all having fun and laughing and we were all being funny (the other children were saying bad words too but you didnt hear them I guess.). Then all of the sudden the living room went quiet and your friend (the neighbor) told me I needed to leave. Which I thought actually wasnt his place, but I decided that I didnt want to make a scene.

But I know that I was wrong. I am going to never say that word again I promise. I am also hoping that you can talk your friend (the neighbor) about dropping the charges. I don’t see how it can be illegal for me to say it, but other people are allowed to say it and nothing happens to them.

Anyway I’m running out of room on this cocktail napkin. I’m sorry again. Call me - uncle mike

I am divorced, baby. That was the worst moment in my entire life. But that’s in the rearview. Now, I am single and ready to paint the town. Most men don’t have the guts to go up to a woman at a bar and start talking to her. Not me—I do it all the time. It doesn’t always work out, though. What can you do? I’m a big boy. You take your licks and move on. And if the bouncer asks me to leave for “throwing off the vibe”? Well, I just throw my suit jacket over my shoulder and walk down the street to the next bar. But not Tony’s Wine Bar. I have been banned for life from Tony’s Wine bar. I don’t care. It doesn’t bother me at all.

In many ways, I was probably born into the wrong decade. If I had been born in 1915, like Sinatra, that would have been just fine with me. Sinatra and I actually grew up pretty close to each other. If I had been born in 1915 like Sinatra, we would have probably grown up together and been great friends. Everyone would have loved my old-fashioned hat too, I know that for sure. But what can you do? That’s life, baby. As it stands, I’m not doing too bad in this decade, either. My job is fully remote and I’m a good gambler. Since my job is fully remote, I can drink all the red wine I want to during the weekdays and I don’t have to worry about going into an office hungover the next day. And I can smoke my cigars during the day too when I’m not on camera for a work meeting.

There are not many of us left out there—the real men; the Mr. Bigs. We are a dying breed. Instead, the new kids coming up are all addicted to their cellphones and afraid to talk to women at bars like I do. I have noticed that many men don’t even wear suits to lunch anymore. It’s a shame, but what can you do? That’s life, baby.

I hear many of my peers complaining about “work-life balance,” and I just know that they are ungrateful. After all, we are only on this Earth for 80 maybe 100 years before we die from heart disease and/or cancer. That means we only have 85 years at the most—90 if you live in one of the fair states—to enjoy staring at Microsoft Word and Microsoft Outlook. Let me put it this way: if you could live forever, wouldn’t you want to get free pizza on your colleagues’ birthdays and wear denim blue jeans on Fridays for as long as you could? Exactly.

Of course, I am not a man without ambition. I was born with the drive to succeed so that my boss can succeed too and actually much more than me. I suppose that there are many that lack these skills. I am, in other words, a leader. Truth be told, I pity the small men who must make do working the minimum hourly requirement that is customary here in the part of the world where I live. That is, the Free World. Sometimes I think about them—the small men—and their time off and their vacations and the endless need to figure out what to do next. That must be exhausting. Me? I always know what I am doing next because it is communicated to me by my boss. I am never bored because I am at the office, where I must attend to many tasks. So many tasks, in fact, that I must eat my lunch at my desk every day. And in those moments, if I am not trying to type an email message to another leader in another building just like my own, I sometimes catch myself thinking: dreams really do come true.