This Is My First Time In Space

I didn’t know what I expected to do once I’m up here. I guess I’ll enjoy the view?

Look outside and see the great expanse of the universe?

Good stuff. This trip has gone exactly as planned so far, and I always worry when a trip goes EXACTLY as planned… you don’t remember it.

There is a beauty when things go wrong because then there is a “crisis.”

We, people, recollect crisis better than moments of tranquility. Think about it, last time you spent the whole weekend chilling at home, and someone from the office, probably Frank, asks you what you were up to and all you said was, “Nothing…” Nothing. You were doing something… and it was awesome — and nothing went wrong.

You aim low and you achieve your goal and then there is nothing interesting to talk about.

See that’s the thing about stories, a good story needs to have a conflict. Man against man. Nature against man. Or my favourite, man against his inner self, like in that Woody Allen movie, you know, the one with the nervous guy. There needs to be a conflict in this trip, otherwise, I’m not going to remember it once I return to Earth.

Oh? I guess you’re right. I’m totally having a man vs self-conflict right now, aren’t I?

It’s not the celestial expanse that is against me nor my spaceship-mate, Astro. Yes, my partner on this trip is named Astro. Funny, huh?

Me? What’s my name? Oh equally or if not more space-related, my name is Flying Saucer. First name Flying, last name Saucer. It’s French, it’s pronounced Saucey-ée. Flying Saucer and my partner Astro. Anyways, back on topic, I’m most certainly having a conflict.

I’m unable to enjoy this trip because once I get back I’m not going to have anything to talk about. When my wife asks me how was it, I’ll say, “Oh it was wonderful, but I just couldn’t stop thinking about coming home and having nothing to talk about, so I stressed about it the whole time.”

Yeah, she’ll love that story, at least she’ll pretend to. I mean, our whole love is a sham anyway. She’s not fooling anyone. She’s a trooper though. She doesn’t complain or demand a divorce like some women. She hates me, but you know what she hates more? The mysterious abyss that is the dating scene. Ha! I’m so much more courageous than her. Here I am in space, and there she is living in my home, resenting me for my bravery. Either way, she couldn’t do this, the same way she couldn’t divorce me. To divorce me is like going into space, you just simply can’t be certain that you’ll get back — get me back. The dating scene is merciless. She never online dated a day in her life, she is not ready for this new world. This brave new world.

What was it like to be in space?

Oh, it’s cool, I spent a lot of time up there thinking about how my wife won’t divorce me, it was pretty awesome!


Yeah. That’s what I’ll tell the guys. They’ll love that nugget. Except for Johnson, who is still jealous that I’m more successful than him. He’ll never openly say it. Nobody ever admits they are jealous, you simply have to read it in their face. I can read it on Johnson’s face all right. I can read it all day. Flipping the pages back and forth. Highlighting the best passage, his dumb lips. Circling a good quote, his furrowed eyebrow. I will scribble little notes in the margin, his left dimple. Fuck him! Jealousy…. know what it is? Jealousy is like taking poison and hoping someone else will die. Yes. I like that. It’s so true about Johnson. He’s killing himself. I don’t need to worry about him at all. I can continue being me. Loveable ol’ me.

Who knows when I’ll get to hang out with those guys any more. Everybody is so busy these days. Even Johnson, to be honest. Me and Johnson used to be tight. I would wake up around noon, give him a shout, and we would meet up for coffee and then hang out in his parent’s basement. Can’t believe that used to be what I did. Chilling. Now look at me, I’m an astronaut in space. I’m literally in space. Still chilling, though. Different setting same shit.

All that hard work and I simply found a cooler place to chill. Not that much cooler, Johnson’s parent’s basement did have an infinite amount of snacks. Mrs. Johnson is unreal. I don’t get that woman, she was pretty much that wicked witch from Hansel and Gretel. I mean, she herself was not wicked. I mean, she was wicked cool, but not wicked as in wanting to fatten me up and eat me. Maybe she did want to eat me and I didn’t get fat enough, fast enough… My crazy metabolism. That is something to ponder about later. Not now.

I mean, I was pretty polite, I didn’t go over there and eat the snacks. I hung out with her son as well. Johnson. Good guy that Johnson. It’s just that we had a falling out. He became an accountant or something, and I became a man of space and wonder and imagination and hope for the future. He makes sure that the government of one of those little countries on that little planet gets 30% of some hard working freelancer’s money. I get it. I get it. No, you’re right, I shouldn’t diss accountants. Taxes are unavoidable. I’m not angry at accountants. I’m cool with them. They’re an awesome occupation, and totally a job I couldn’t do.

See, I’m good with numbers, of course, I’m an astronaut. You think I used the calculator app on my iPhone to get me up here? Ha! Good one. No. I did some math and calculated the exact fuel and trajectory to get me into this orbit without blowing Astro and myself up. Blowing Astro (say that out loud, if you are reading in your head). Ha! Didn’t mean for those two words to come so close together. That can be dangerous if you know what I mean.

Anyways, I’m technically skilled enough to be an accountant, I just can’t stand the business culture. Wearing a suit and having small talk with your colleagues. Oh, small talk is a nightmare. I hate having small talk, I never have anything to say. “What did you get up to last weekend?”

“Oh, I was in space?”

“Really? How was that?”

“Oh you know, just spent a lot of time up there thinking about how my wife won’t divorce me, it was pretty awesome!”  


What you’ve just read is the seventh post in a series entitled “A Fan Fiction of My Life by My Number One Fan, Me.” Please check out the first five posts from the series:
Me, A Doctor
I Am A Controversial Artist, AMA
A Well-Respected Elderly Man, It’s Me
Bringer of Bad News, I’m the One
Yes, I Am Blind with a Broken Heart 
I Drive a $160 Million Ride


I Drive A $160 Million Ride

jet plane for war

I get it, it sounds like bragging, but It’s not like I get to ride it wherever I want.

I’m like a glorified bus driver. Taking orders and executing it to perfection. That’s what I love about bus drivers, they are the heartbeat of a community. Think about it, how do you get your broke-ass around the city? You take that awful cramped smelly bus. Someone has to drive that awful mortuary on wheels, and that person is called a bus driver.

Earning trust isn’t easy. Earning so much trust that someone will let you drive something that expensive is unprecedented. Think of the last time you let a friend drive your car. No car? Okay, think of the last time you let a friend ride your bike. No bike? Think of the last time you let your friend borrow your Pulp Fiction DVD. A part of you knew you would never see that DVD again.  

You have unreliable friends. I’m simply going to leave it at that. You’re no better. They say you become the people you surround yourself with.

I’m not saying it’s your fault. There really isn’t anything you can do. But listen, you can only carry so much in your life, and if you want good things, you’d need to drop some of the bad. If you want to have a $160M ride, you’d need to get some cooler, more reliable – or at least richer — friends.

That’s what I did.

Look, I’m not a motivational speaker or a life coach or anything like that. I’m simply one of the most successful jet fighters in the academy.

When something needs to get nuked — and get nuked fast. They call me. I tell them to give me a two-week notice, but they always call me last minute, and believe me, as I get into the plane, I’m a bit resentful, but heck, not everyone can do what you want. And that’s why I don’t think you will listen to me either. Who am I anyways… I’m just an employee.

But I think I have a pretty good job. I know this because, whenever I tell people what I do, they perk up and ask, “How do you become a warplane pilot?”

It makes me feel pretty good. I know that accountants don’t get that same type of fanfare. “How did you become a CPA?” We all know how to become an accountant: by killing yourself from the inside. JK accountants are cool. Crunching numbers and all that good stuff.

I always wonder what it would be like to have a simple job and a simple life. You know, wake up, brew coffee, play with my children and teach them the importance about following their dreams but not doing so myself, go to a job where I sit at a computer, talk about my fantasy team with my colleagues, meet my monthly quota (whatever that means, I hear it being said on the television sometimes), and then come home eat dinner and do it all over again.

Would I trade a day of my life with a paper pusher? Absolutely. I think I can sit at a desk and open and close browsers, and pretend to be working by emailing myself thoughtful musings. I would be the employee of the fucking month.

I’m what you would call an over-achiever. Whatever scenario you put me in, I am going to over excel. I remember when I was a little boy, playing doctor dodgeball. The objective of doctor dodgeball is simple — you remember the movie, Hacksaw Ridge? It’s like that but in dodgeball form. So, while war is raging and casualties are falling, the doctors will come and retrieve the fallen elementary school students.

Was I a doctor? Fuck no. I was the slayer of the enemy’s doctors. Kill the doctors. Win the war. That mentality has stayed with me into adulthood. That is how I overachieve. You don’t try to be the person who mends and heals and talk nicely to people. You need to be the person that destroys your enemy’s top resources. You can say that is how I got into this gig: I kind of fell into it.

After the dodgeball game, a talent scout came up to me and said, “Wow kid, I see a lot of potential in you.”

I told him I can give him an autograph but if he wants to negotiate a deal or discuss my future, he would have to contact my attorney and management team.

My manager, Travis, got back to me about a week later with a simple proposal. Flying jet planes. I said, “That sounds like fun.” And the rest is history.

Look, a lot of people are going to tell you that all you can amount to is someone who helps people who sit at computers for a living file taxes, but listen! That’s not true. If you have this secret desire to kill people and express it in a way that can attract the government, and be lucky enough to exhibit that skillset in an arena where federal officials are present, then you too can have an awesome ride and an awesome life like me.

I drive a $160 million jet plane to and from work every day. My office is in the skies over the Middle East. I love my life. Do you love yours?  


What you’ve just read is the sixth post in a series entitled “A Fan Fiction of My Life by My Number One Fan, Me.” Please check out the first five posts from the series:
Me, A Doctor
I Am A Controversial Artist, AMA
A Well-Respected Elderly Man, It’s Me
Bringer of Bad News, I’m the One
Yes, I Am Blind with a Broken Heart


Did you enjoy it? Yes, subscribe to this blog, sign up for my newsletter or follow me on Twitter, stalk me in real life to get the latest update. 

Yes, I Am Blind With a Broken Heart


When I was young, I asked myself a perplexing question: Which sense would I give up, if I had to give up one of my six senses?

First, I would give up my ability to see dead people.

Then I would give up my sense of smell, because I think that would be the least debilitating. Think about it. The worst part about not being able to smell stuff is that every time I go to a wine tasting, I’ll enjoy the appearance of the liquid in the glass, but then I’ll skip straight to the tastes, forgoing the part where I swill the wine to impart the aromatic elements. I would not dip my snout into the glass, because I wouldn’t be able to smell anyways.

They say when it comes to tasting, smell is the most important part, but hey, I can just fake it. I can tell people I taste [insert obscure descriptor] and lie and nobody will know. That’s the magic of smelling. Nobody knows what I smell, unless I tell them. That’s why they call it the nose… because nobody knows your nose.

But alas, I still have my sense of smell. To my misfortune, it is my sense of sight that has forsaken me. It didn’t happen gradually over the course of a lifetime of seeing. It wasn’t as though there was a dimmer switch. No, with a flick, now I am blind.



We rely on our sight a lot. Think about it. Right now you are using your sight. And you know what, you are taking it for granted. Try closing your eyes right now and continue reading this sentence. You can’t do it. You can’t fake it like you can for smell.

Irony. I kind of understand it and I think I’m an example of irony — and arrogance, but we won’t get into that right now.

See, before I went blind, it was my dream to be amongst the athletic best. I wanted to run, skate, and dipsy-doodle with them on the field, court, and monkey cage. I wanted to be a world class referee.

I believe every kid wants to grow up to be an authoritative figure. You know, to power trip every once in a while. That’s a good feeling. Not necessary to get what you want but to refrain others from getting what they want. It makes me feel like I exist. It makes me feel like a big man. And at 5’7” 140 pounds, I am average, if not under average depending on the sample size you are comparing me to.

So here’s a story: I remember as a child, my parents would take me to the store. We would get lunch and they will always buy me the kid-sized meal. “I’m not a kid anymore,” I would shout at them, adorably. “I want a large!”

They calmly explained to me that if I can finish my kid-sized meal then they will happily buy me another kid-sized meal if I’m still hungry. I thought that was bullshit. I didn’t want two kid-sized meal. I wanted to be treated with respect for who I was. I mean, I wasn’t a “kid” anymore. Sure, I wasn’t making any money, didn’t have to pay taxes, couldn’t be trialed as an adult if I was to commit a heinous crime, but still, in the eyes of me, a soon to be blind person, I was an adult.

So, I did what any self-motivated kid would do. Yep, I didn’t ask for permission to throw a tantrum, I just did it. In front of all the people at the food court.

Did I get the large size? No. Did I ruin my parent’s day at the mall? Yes.

That’s when I knew, I had an extraordinary gift. I’m going to be a referee when I grow up. Think about it. Yes, true you don’t know me that well, but it really is the culmination of all my skills. I’m handsome, athletic, charismatic, dashing, large penis having, and at an angle, kind of look like Daniel Craig coming out of the ocean. I was destined to be a sport guy referee of some sort.  

At least, that was the dream. The thing they don’t tell you is that you can’t be a referee if you are blind. You sometimes watch a sporting event on television and you see that the referee made a ridiculous call or completely missed a penalty or whatever happens to cause or not cause an infraction in a sport game. It’s not uncommon for you to shout out that cliche remark, because you are so unoriginal: “What the hell, ref?! Are you blind?”

Turns out, the answer will always be “no.”

I know this now.

I went blind in my last year of high school, where I was reffing the regional championship game. Points were scored, sweat did dripped, and I went blind. Although it was my eyes that suffer the brunt of the poky fingers, it was my heart that was broken.

It was horrific. One moment I was brushing some eye booger from my optical glands, the next moment I have blinded myself. I was carrying the sword that slayed me. I don’t remember screaming, but apparently I was. Screaming like I did when my parents wouldn’t get me a large? Nobody can be for sure.

Rehabilitation took months. At the end of it all, I was a shattered version of the man I used to be. Picture me: sitting on a wheelchair placed in front of a window. What’s the weather outside? I couldn’t tell you. Why was I in a wheelchair? I don’t know, hospital sometimes have wheelchairs left in the hallway, so I guess I was just lead to one and placed there. Sitting, I decided I’m not going to give up on my dreams. People will respect my authority!

But they didn’t. I applied to be a referee for every league possible, but none even gave me a pity acceptance. Sometimes you can do that with job applications. If you look really sad and desperate and say things like “It was my dream to do this…” the employers will hire you. Trust me. It works sometimes. But I guess, not this time for me.

I guess that’s my sad story. My broken dream. I saw my potential as clearly as a Windex sales associate, but it was the world that was blind. It’s the world that couldn’t see what I could do. I could have blazed the trail and inspire a whole generation. I could have been the greatest blind referee to ever live. In a way, I still am! If life is a sport, then I am the ref. For now, I sit there and shout things at people on the street, blowing my whistle, and being crazy for loving what I do.


What you’ve just read is the fifth post in a series entitled “A Fan Fiction of My Life by My Number One Fan, Me.” Please check out the first four posts from the series:
Me, A Doctor
I Am A Controversial Artist, AMA
A Well-Respected Elderly Man, It’s Me
Bringer of Bad News, I’m the One


Did you enjoy it? Yes, subscribe to this blog, sign up for my newsletter or follow me on Twitter, stalk me in real life to get the latest update. 

Bringer of Bad News, I’m The One

Look, I don’t know how to say it so I’ll just say it. I don’t know because nobody taught me. They should really teach you how to give bad news in elementary school. After 4th grade it’s all downhill, so might as well learn how to tell someone that you have horribly murdered their whole family.

So yeah… there you go… that was how I said it.

Sorry. Okay? Sorry. It was an accident. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t wake up this morning, get out of bed, did my usual 150 pushups while counting all the original Pokemon, and decided to go on a murderous rampage, okay? That’s not me. That’s not my style.

Why did I do it then? What was my reasoning? Because the devil told me to, okay?

Yes, the devil.

He told me to, and yes, the devil is a man, thank you very much. And there is only one. There aren’t multiple devils like they believe in those other countries, you know? There is only one devil and he has a sharp looking goatee and his face is red and his tail is cloved. He is exactly how he is portrayed in American television.

Anyways, he told me to do it. I had to, you know… I had to… When someone tells me to do something I do it! I don’t care if it’s illegal or if it’s incredibly mundane, I do whatever people tell me because I’m a people pleaser. I like making people happy. Get this,  it actually hurts me when I say “No.” Even the idea of saying no is painful. It’s a horrible curse.

Like I’m saying, I’m really bummed out that you no longer have a family. I asked the devil if he could fix it, and he said no. See, he’s not dependable like me. He made up some excuse. Classic.  He said he knew a guy, but he doesn’t really do that kind of stuff anymore and it would be a huge bother just to even call and ask, but fuck… I tried, we both tried.

Look, we’ll make it up to you, huh? Why don’t you come hang out with us? Just come and chill with us for a few hours and if we don’t totally jive, we can forget about it and go our own way.

No… come on, give it a shot. Give a brother a chance to make amends, what do you say?

For reals? You’ll do it? Okay, dope, I promise you are not going to forget this. This is going to be amazing this is going to be so much fun. The devil just downloaded the latest video game, Fortnite, and we should go over to his place and play it and livestream.

What do you mean, you don’t like video games? It’s a game, everybody likes games. Humans are biologically designed to like games. It’s science. Read a blog post for once in awhile, eh?

Games are good for you. They help you think better in real life situations, like deciding whether or not it’s a good idea to play games on a weeknight like tonight or do acid and wander around naked.

By playing games, I get to make decisions. I’m working out my decision-making muscles, so when it comes time to flex it around my woman — such as when she asks me what do we want to eat and I say, “Oh, let’s just eat here,” and so we both sit down at the bar and have a nice meal at the strip club — I’ll be ready.

Do you have bus fare on you? I don’t have any change, and it’s about a 45 minute walk to get to the devil’s place.

You okay walking? I don’t care. I walk all day, but I know some people hate walking like it’s torture for them. I think it’s amazing how far people can walk, you know, and not even notice. We hate it, but we can walk far if we really wanted to. Right now, in a few hours I can walk all the way across the city. If i wanted to, I can do that. Can you believe it? The miracle of movement. We are lucky. We are lucky when can travel and move around and see the world. Some people don’t get to do that, and it’s sad when you think about it, right?

It’s important to find little things and appreciate it, you know. I think that’s the lesson in all of this, is to appreciate what we have every day because we will never know when a psychotic, satanic lunatic snaps and wreaks havoc, injuring and killing many.

You just don’t know. Nobody knows. Not even the crazy guy knows. Even if you know and you tell the police, they aren’t going to stop him. They are going to assess the matter and conduct an investigation. Gah! Don’t even get me started on the police. Anyways, I think I learned a lot from this whole sequence of events. Take a deep breath and really appreciate it. Sweet sweet life. Feels good to be alive. Beautiful day.


What you’ve just read is the fourth post in a series entitled “A Fan Fiction of My Life by My Number One Fan, Me.” Please check out the first three posts from the series:
Me, A Doctor
I Am A Controversial Artist, AMA
A Well-Respected Elderly Man, It’s Me

Did you enjoy it? Yes, subscribe to this blog, sign up for my newsletter or follow me on Twitter, stalk me in real life to get the latest update. 

A Well-Respected Elderly Man, It’s Me

Everybody keeps talking to me about the same thing. That thing I did in ‘79, gah! Is that all I’m ever going to be known for? I mean seriously!

That time I did karaoke and sung the shit out of Rockwell’s Somebody’s Watching Me. That was unreal. Everyone was singing along. Somebody was definitely watching me that night, I was entertaining as fuck.

Yeah, what a night that was. Unforgettable. But… nooooooooo…. People are still hung up by my “greatest” accomplishment and totally forgot about that performance.

You know what’s funny about greatest accomplishments?

Everybody’s definition of that is different. Some people’s greatest accomplishment is not dying when they were an infant. That’s their greatest accomplishment. For others it’s inventing the lightbulb.

Yeah. That’s me, the guy who invented the lightbulb.

Was it hard? Nah! People invent stuff all the time.

Like my cousin, Ren, he invented his own language, with swear words and everything.

He would always call me the direct translation of a Mother Fucker. There was literally a single word in his language for someone who does that. We don’t have that in our common tongue, English. We need two words to explain that concept.

First we need to know what it was that was fucked. Second, we need to know what was done to it, which was the fucking. The concept is a thing doing. Fascinating, huh?

That’s the beauty of language: I can say something and you can understand it. Now that, my friend, is an amazing accomplishment.

Of course, I wouldn’t boldly tell Ren that his greatest accomplishment was creating a whole language. That would be presumptuous.

Only the man who’ve lived the life can decide what he claims to be his greatest accomplishment.

Wow! That sounded wise. That’s deep too, right?

What if I decided that what I said right there is my greatest accomplishment. I can totally do that. My life, my choice!

Isn’t weird that we have to do this: ranking our lives. Trying to make every year better. Humans, so sad. Why can’t we be satisfied where we are? Why must we run on this hedonistic treadmill? What happiness am I chasing?

All my life I wanted to invent the lightbulb, now that I have, what more can I do?

It’s like by helping the world shine, I am left in the shadows. OMG. Was that just poetry? I’m not smart with this stuff, but that definitely sounded a little poetry to me. I feel goosebumps. Shit! This poetry shit is potent.

I guess, it could be worst. I could have never invented the lightbulb at all. Then what would I have done?

Then, would I even be remembered at all?

Think of all the people you’ve met. How many of them do you actually remember? Not many right? That’s a lot of fucking people — and you don’t even know anybody from India.

Imagine if you knew everyone from India… just pretend. I bet that Indians in India don’t even know every Indian in India. If I didn’t do something special, nobody would remember me at all.

I should be grateful that I am associated with something so essential to daily living. I mean, I invented something that is used by everybody — except the Amish and the poverty stricken. My invention is used by more people than Steve Job’s invention, the computer. That’s unreal. I’m not niche. I’m fucking mainstream as fuck! I should be hella more famous than I am. WTF.

I’m not going to lie, I’m a little pissed right now.

Why am I here talking to you dumb pieces of shit? I should be in a castle or something. I should be in a jacuzzi with well-paid, fully qualified female supermodels. I got ripped off! I can’t believe it.

You know where I went wrong? Here is where I went wrong, I got a patent before I got an agent. I needed someone to manage me. I had no one. I wung it. I wung it pretty good, I thought, but… holy shit, that is why you need a representative. I should have got one. I put so much work into it as well. See that’s the thing, that was time I could have been inventing more stuff or singing karaoke. Wasted time, wasted effort, poor results.

I’m pretty sad right now about my life. I go and invent one of the most revolutionary things in all of humanity and all I get is this, a slow sad death of me being reminded of how great my invention is.

Fuck! It’s pretty good, i guess, but can’t we talk about me? Can’t we talk about my crippling depression? That’s the thing about depression for old men. There’s no point helping you anymore. You sucked it up for this long, you can do it for a few more months.

Okay… enough, I don’t want to think how other people see me anymore, that’s such a sad and horrible way to think. I’m going to be myself, just an honest version of me from here on out. I’m going to think positive. I’m going to think about happy stuff like being in a jacuzzi with well-paid, fully qualified female supermodels.

Damn! I’m still pissed.  


What you’ve just read is the third post in a series entitled “A Fan Fiction of My Life by My Number One Fan, Me.” Please check out the first two posts from the series:
Me, A Doctor
I Am A Controversial Artist, AMA 

Did you enjoy it? Yes, subscribe to this blog, sign up for my newsletter or follow me on Twitter, stalk me in real life to get the latest update. 

I Am A Controversial Artist, AMA

I logged onto Reddit and prepared for my evening of, what the millennials will call, blowing minds. It’s true, think about it with your perfectly intact brain, how often do people get to ask questions to a person who essentially pinches the nipples of society.

Yes, I make a living as a controversial artist and as a sport equipment store clerk. The art itself doesn’t pay for anything. It’s ahead of its time so there really isn’t a market for the type of art I do yet, but believe me, like all the great impressions of history, mine will shortly follow whatever meme is most popular at this moment.

Mine will follow Meme.

That should be the title to my memoir. Mine Will Follow Meme The Memoir. That’s a lot of M’s, I like that. If only my name is Melvin McMurtry, right? Mine Will Follow Meme The Memoir By Melvin McMurty.

Holy shit!

That’s a sick title and authorship. Imagine people saying that out loud. That’s art. Making people say weird rhythmic words is a beautiful art form that isn’t often demonstrated in the contemporary art scene.

I’m too many steps ahead looking back, that’s what I feel like all the time.

But imagine, someone at a the library asking, “Hi librarian, do you happen to have a copy of Mine Will Follow Meme the Memoir By Melvin McMurty?” OMG, what a weird thing to say.

That came from my brain and I made someone else say it. Art. Anyways, that’s going to be a piece I’m working on for the future. Make a mental note: reminder, start working on my memoir.

The rumours are true, this is my first AMA.

If you haven’t heard the scoop, AMA stands for Ask Me Anything. It’s an Internet slang for an interview with people who have questions (no such thing as dumb questions?) for revered people like me.

I heard it can get pretty controversial, which is what I’m all about as an artist. I want to push the limit. My hope tonight, as I sit in front of my computer in my black attire and trench coat, is that I would get in such a heated argument with someone from the Internet that I will be banned from Reddit.

I will really know I pushed the limits then. When you get banned from a social media platform, you know you are hardcore. That’s like getting expelled from school, or the mall, or wherever people get sucker punched with ideas. Consumerism, Ah! Economic Stability, Ah! What is more right? Racism or sexism?

I can’t come at it as though I want to argue though. You don’t blow minds by shouting your opinions. You blow minds by flipping someone’s life completely upside down. You allow that person to offer their opinion, and almost bait and switch a conversation on you, but you are smarter than that.

“Hey,” they’ll say, throwing me a softball, “What do you think of global warming?” And I’ll respond, “Oh, I hope global warming happens, I’m trying to cause global warming every day. I use paper towels, I throw plastic bags in the organics bin — I litter!” I hit them with the last thought like a finishing right hook. “I’m all for global warming,” I continue, “in fact, global warming is the only way I want to die. It’s my dream death. My ideal death.” Bam! Controversy.

What a statement I just made, on the fackin’ Internet no less.

Everybody is going to read that. It’s there — forever! People are going to know that I backing global warming.

I didn’t whisper it into someone’s ear like a pussy, I wrote it on the Internet. That’s rebellious. That’s against the grain for sure.

From there, who knows, maybe the guy will think hmmm… maybe the artist is right, maybe global warming is the best option.

Shiiitt! I just started a revolution. A small band of brothers with a very fixed notion that the end of world via global warming is the best scenario. Then the history books are going to trace back the origin of this valiant group and discover, the historians do, that it was I who gave birth. That’s what good art can do, it infects someone’s neural systems and devour the subject from the inside out, like one of those fungus take kills insects from the inside.

Here’s a picture of what I’m talking about:

zombie-ant-fungus-770x554That’s my ideas eating your body!

Yes, I could have gotten a driver’s license, but instead I got an artistic license (see what I did there?) and I must say, I am far happier to have this.

I mean, they aren’t mutually exclusive, I can totally go get my driver’s license anytime. I’m a grown man. In fact, it’s kind of a hindrance on my life for not having one.

Then again, I worry about what a car would do to me and my social life. I won’t get to speak with the people on the bus anymore. People, believe it or not, love it when I spark a conversation with them on the bus.

I mean, it’s natural that I lead them towards a topic where I can return with a hard-hitting controversial respond. Debating with people on the bus is good exercise. It also flexes my imagination, which is what I need to create art. You might even say that strangers on the buses are my muse. Every artist needs a muse and mine are drunk teenagers and drunk homeless people and sober crazies commuting to and from work.

I guess you can say that the bus is like the Internet, except the Internet has a much bigger audience. It’s crazy how technology has come so far. From buses to Internet, what a time to be alive.

You can argue that this is the best time to be alive. But I disagree, because I think it’ll be better to live in the future when my art is appreciated, like how dead artists’ works are worth so much more after they die.

Yep, after I die from global warming, the world will recognize my greatness. It’s a shame I won’t be around to enjoy it. It’s a controversial way of living, like a Jesus, you know? I’m sacrificing myself like a Jesus or a Martin Luther King. Those guys were controversial AF, standing up for their rights. I’m sort of following in their footstep. Just imagine me, “I have a dream death: Global warming!” Yeah, that’ll rattle some feathers, for sure!


What you’ve just read is the second post in a series entitled “A Fan Fiction of My Life by My Number One Fan, Me.” Please check out the first one, called Me, A Doctor, if you haven’t already. It’s simply divine. 

Did you enjoy it? Yes, subscribe to this blog, sign up for my newsletter or follow me on Twitter, stalk me in real life to get the latest update. 

Me, A Doctor

It’s good to see that my father is finally impressed. It’s such a nice feeling knowing that your parents are proud of you. Like, I finally know that.

Now, it was a lot of work. School, I’m talking about.

But boy, to genuinely know that your parent’s life goals are accomplished, hell, there is no better sensation. Honestly, this feeling, uhmm! It’s is like ten orgasms.  

Ten orgasms. And think, it only took one orgasm to make me, a doctor.

I save lives now. I save orgasms.


When you think about it, that’s pretty cool.

On the spectrum of the universe, I’m on the exact opposite side of a cockblocker. I’m on the opposite side of the universe.

Man, that’s almost as good as being a doctor — not being a cockblocker. Is there a word for that? I should know, I’m a doctor.

I always find it weird when a name for something is that it’s not something else. Take the word “non-fiction” for example. Oh I read a book, and it was non-fiction. That’s like saying, I read a book and it was non-good. See? Weird. And for those of you who don’t know what I’m talking about and can’t follow along, what I’m saying is we have a word for non-good, it’s “bad.”

What I do like is how we have the same word for different things. Homonymous, they are called? I have trouble saying that word. Look at it: Homonymous. How would you say it? Say it out loud right now: Homonymous. Yeah, you don’t know if you are saying it right either.

I like homonymous, that’s why I think a non-cockblocker should be called a doctor. Same word, different meanings, same mental image. Like when you see someone helping you get laid, that guy is a doctor. He’s a miracle worker. He’s a man of God and science. I like that hahaha! I’m going write that definition in Urban Dictionary when I get home. Remind myself to set a reminder for that. I’ll totally forget, I forget everything.

Anyways, what was I talking about before I got distracted. Oh yes, my happy parents. They are so happy. I can remember the day they told me they wanted me to be a doctor. They made that claim in front of my family and friends when I was too young to even know which part of my body I was standing on. I now know, because I have gotten an extensive and expensive education since. They said, “Elliot is going to be a doctor, because doctors make a lot of money.”

Well, mom and dad, prepare to have a son with a lot of money, because as of today — which I am graduating from doctor school at my university of choice — I start my journey to great wealth.

Now that I’m a doctor, it’s going to be smooth sailing from here. You get pampered if you are a doctor. You aren’t only wealthy, but you are also respected. People treat you well. One way they treat you well is that they have to say a title before your name.

For example, if my name was Kern Eberhart, they will have to call me Dr. Eberhart. That’s good, because Kern is such a bad name. It sounds like a move you make with a piece of heavy machinery. I guess, the word kerning relates to the printing press, and I guess that is a heavy machinery. Wow, did I just prove myself right? Ha, that’s why people like me.

Another way they treat you well is with respect, and the respect comes from the fact that — yes, you are rich — and that you are now credible.

A doctor knows what he (or she) is talking about. You can say what’s on your mind and people have to take you seriously.That will be such a nice experience, being at a party and Tommy Wong starts rambling about some crazy conspiracy theory, and I’ll butt in with some hard truths. “No Tommy,” I’ll say, “it’s actually us humans that are controlling the lizard people.” And everybody will nod, but Tommy Wong will still go ahead and pull out that smartphone and Google. Then he pulls up some dark web post affirming his theory, but nobody believes it because that post was not written by a doctor. I guess, the moral of that story is that you should not be a Tommy Wong and you should listen to your doctors.

Oh and lastly, there is the saving people part. I find that part quite satisfying as well. Maybe not as much as having everybody address me as “doctor,” but still pretty good. Honestly, okay… I know we were just talking about truths over there in the previous paragraph, but I’m going to lay some hard truths on you right now. Ready? Okay, here it is: I’m not a people person. I’m actually very introverted. I know, right? You think someone who dedicated his life to saving people is going to like people. That my friend, is irony. If a child or a more feeble-minded friend asks you what does irony mean, please use that example. I think it captures that word fully.

Needless to say, it was worth it, mom and dad. I couldn’t be more happy that you steered me onto this path of becoming and now being a doctor. You called it! You guys were gamblers and you put all the chips on that one card and I flipped it over and it was the doctor card (Ace of hearts). You win the game of life. It’s every parent’s dream to have their offspring be doctors and my parents achieved that mission.

I’m proud of them. In fact, I’m probably more proud of them then they are of me. They really stuck to it. At any point, as they watched me studying, could have came over to me, tapped me on the back, and said, “No, that’s enough son, why don’t you focus on your illustrations for a while? I think that picture of your family in front of our sad-looking house is a project worth bringing to life… in completion.” I could have been a caricature artist, but I turned out to be a doctor. It would have been so easy to have that conversation. I think if she said that to me that day, I would have stopped. Then where would I be? Maybe still a doctor. Maybe dead. My mother could have killed me that day. I’m proud of her for not. Killing me would be the exact opposite of wanting me to be a doctor, if it was my parents. They really didn’t want to kill me.

It’s been a really good day thinking about how happy my parents are and how much money I’m going to have and how much respect I’m going to get and how my parents didn’t want to kill me. I’ll have to say, being a doctor is pretty sweet so far!


What you’ve just read is the first post in a series entitled “A Fan Fiction of My Life by My Number One Fan, Me.” Did you enjoy it? Yes, subscribe to this blog or follow me on Twitter to get the latest update. 


Read the second in the series: I Am A Controversial Artist, AMA

Don’t use the brand’s name in vain


Passionate brand loyalists condemn popular child curse words

By Elliot Chan, Opinions Editor
Formerly published in The Other Press. January 6, 2016

Cheez Whiz, the delightful brand of cheese spread, is getting a lot of press recently as a group of brand loyalists have gathered together—from coast to coast like butter toast—to rise against the blasphemous use of the brand’s name.

A survey conducted by the Consumer Packaging Press found that the most common brand name used to cuss is, in fact, Cheez Whiz: 75 per cent of children under the age of 13 had used the name in a way of expressing anger 2 or more times. The second most common is, of course, Fudgee-O, with 40 per cent. In third is Gray Poupon, as in: “Aww! Gray Poupon! We are out of normal mustard!”

Delicatessen and linguistic expert Susan Rumchata said: “It’s not the brands’ fault that they have such hilarious names that blend so well with traditional swear words. The responsibility falls on the parents. They need to understand that at an early age, their children are learning more colourful language—let them—if they need to call out Jesus, let them! It’s more Jesus’ fault than it is the Cheez Whiz people’s.”

It has been well documented that some time ago there lived a guy named Jesus Christ. He was an entrepreneur who made a lot of good bread, wine, and woodwork. But due to his poor business acumen, supply couldn’t meet the demand. Consumers would say, “Jesus Christ!” in vain—a lot of vain—when their orders failed to ship. Not long after the company launched, Jesus Christ Inc. went bankrupt and the founder was crucified.

Cheez Whiz brand loyalists—they call themselves Cheez Wizards—see a clear parallel between what happened to Jesus Christ Inc. and what is happening with Cheez Whiz today.

Cheez Wizards spokesperson and single mother of four Brie Pumpernickel said: “You know what it is? It’s bad PR. You know what kills? It’s not global warming or terrorists or processed-cheese. It’s bad PR. And all that starts with our children. We must teach our children to respect brand names. This will ensure that the brands that serve us continue offering the same high quality products we want. Do we really want to live in a world without Cheez Whiz? I ask myself that every morning after making breakfast for my four Cheez Wizards.”

Safeway jam aisles were literally jammed with Cheez Wizards last Tuesday as a public protest took place. The sole purpose of the rally was to erase the phrase “Cheez Whiz” from the English vernacular as anything other than the name of the product. Anyone of any age that uses the brand’s name in vain will be sentenced to an eternity of dry, whole wheat bread. It’s some kind of hell, for sure.

Rumchata reminds us that there are plenty of lame-ass swear words out there for those moments when you have to curse in front of children: “‘Fiddlesticks’ is always a good one. ‘For Pete’s sake’ is great too. I’ve never encountered a Pete or Peter who was bothered by it. Anything that rhymes with ‘duck’ also works. You know, you stub your toe and you just shout, ‘Duck!’ It’s as satisfying, I’ll tell you that much. People will crouch over though, it’s weird.” She added: “Words are weird.”

What happened when George R. R. Martin finished his first book


How to be successful and create your own ‘Misery’

By Elliot Chan, Opinions Editor
Formerly published for the 1976-themed issue of the Other Press. January 13, 2016

Young author George R. R. Martin’s first collection of novellas and short stories, A Song for Lya, is being published this year. There is probably not going to be a big launch party. There is probably not going to be coverage from multiple media sources. And there are probably not going to be lineups outside the bookstore. It is probably going to be a modest event with reserved excitement.

For a writer, there doesn’t need to be a big event, because there is nothing more exhilarating than seeing one’s works there, visible on shelves at a local bookstore. It must be the same sensation musicians feel when they hear their song on the radio, or how actors feel when they see their face on the screens.

Yet, at what point does that thrill fade? As artists, your profession is also your passion, right? That’s why when I see an artist with an insipid attitude towards their craft, I wonder: Why pursue this daunting, critical, often thankless, often highly demanding, sometimes soul-crushing, most often a poor return of investment brand of work? Why climb Mount Everest if you dislike heights?

Hopefully, this young Martin fellow can recall that initial sensation of accomplishment for having been published if he continues to write, and will never feel resentful towards any fame or success he gains.

My advice to Martin and to other young writers is to always be carefully aware of the scope of one’s craft—what it will mean to you, and what it will mean to the greater public. If you create something people love, what responsibility do you have to continue delivering? How much do you owe to those who have raised you to such prowess?

I was speaking with Stephen King, another young writer, and we were bouncing ideas around. He had this outline for a novel called Misery. It’s about an author who is captured by an obsessed fan and held hostage in an attempt to get him to write another book. That’s the risk of being beloved; you are not actually loved. I hope King gets around to writing that book soon. I think it’ll be good.

Let’s hope we never do the same thing to Martin. We love his work, but we don’t care about him as a human being. He won’t win us over with his delightful personality or his literary, sci-fi, or fantasy expertise. We’ll respect him for the awesome work he will surely produce. But if we want more, he’ll have to supply it or find someone to help.

Artists need to think of their work like starting a franchise. Books are the business. Understandably, when it comes to artworks, the artists get personally attached, because writing is, in essence, a birthing process. But if they’re not able to maintain their franchise, the artists should sell their rights to their work or hand the reigns to trustworthy partners. Although it would be tough to give their art up for adoption, if the author does not have the capability to raise it properly, would the right thing to do not be giving it up for the fan’s sake?