Subscribing to Extra Evil unites the clans.
Today’s Fortune: It’s not theft if you call it AI research.
Just one more week of Jingle Bell Rock.
Your uncle’s a tax lawyer this week.
Management forced Covid to work through the holidays.
Congress pledged $858 billion to fight arms dealer poverty.
The loser of a game of Russian Roulette gets to run Twitter.
Martians sniped the Insight lander.
I read a few newsletters and blogs by people smarter than me, and most of them are taking a break. Time for family, faith, and the simple sanity of stillness.
Naturally, I’m hitting the bricks. Literally, as far as training goes. But mostly at a keyboard, absorbing the precious blue light that leads to Nirvana. Deep down, a very sick part of me thinks the Venn diagram of “champions” and “sleep disorders” is a circle. I hope you enjoy the results.
I should have stronger feelings about Christmas. It’s wrapped up in Americana, commerce, and religion, topics I have a handful of recurring opinions about.
I also grew up with it. That comes, by default, with a range of golden and traumatic memories. But my mind never sticks on it for long.
It’s a little out of character. Whatever you think of the pranks, I’d make an excellent Grinch. There’s plenty of exploitable iconography.
But my mother passed two days before Christmas, and her birthday was two days after. So I suspect that I have an emotional firewall around it. By instinct, I avoid touching the flashing red weak point on my brain.
I’m not convinced moping would be better. I don’t get touchier around Christmas–that happens at complete random. I’m much more likely to fistfight a Trick-or-Treat chaperone than a Mall Santa.
Having bad taste is amazing. Every clearance shelf has a dozen sneakers no sane man would touch, and they’re all beautiful to me. I don’t fulfill many stereotypes, but I own countless shoes you couldn’t get on my white neighbors at gunpoint. If you see an unhoused man in Christmas tree Vans, I was feeling generous.
I found a cheaper source of Halo Top. I won’t go broke until the dollar crashes.
Slash grinds after the bombs fall, in The New Yorker.
It’s been a long, strange year.
My very, very petulant Babylon Bee parody.
I taught the good people at 1-900-HOTDOG about Vegemorphs.
My book’s still my best mark on this Earth.
Somehow, I was deemed interesting enough for a mini-doc.
Either this manuscript’s good, or I’m delusional. We’ll see.
I’m overwhelmed by how much I suck at Photoshop.
I’m going to drop some kind of bonus here as the year plays out. Just brainstorming.
One Sentence Reviews
Tom Papa – What a Day!: It’s intellectually encouraging to know comedy I agree with can put me to sleep. (1.5/5)
Sanctuary – The Day the Sun Died: Sweet Nevermore methadone. (3.5/5)
A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court: Twain doing everything in isekai better and first makes me hate it more. (4.5/5)
Metallica – The Black Album: I actually see the appeal, but boy can you see the shark and ramp ahead. (3/5)
Jay-Z – The Black Album: I actually see the appeal, but boy can you see the shark and ramp ahead. (4/5)
Why are we here?
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