The musings of a madman...

       Anyone else’s Instagram reels feed just up and decided that your eternal damnation was your own damned problem? Conversations between myself, Mr. Ssippi and Alabama Jay over the last two weeks have informed that I am not alone in this.      At the beginning of July my Insta reels feed was simple and easily in line with things that interest me; dogs, lawn striping videos, car content, and the occasional impossibly huge titties . Without linking to anything specific – unless you’ve recently received a text from me about this – let’s just say that one day I clicked on a video and noticed that it had a TON of comments on it. The immaturity in me found the conversation fucking HILARIOUS, but the intelligent in me knew that they were some fucked up comments. Later on that same day, I’m scrolling and thinking to myself “sure is a lot of Down’s Syndrome in these reels” and quickly followed that with “why are there so many damn comments on all of these?” [ Phlip note: don’t judge m

       When I was little, I was always stoked to spend time with my granddad… At surface-level, he would come home from work in the mornings and during the summer we would be at the house already while mom was at work. Before sleeping his day off, we would go with him to play tennis on the courts at the high school around the corner from his house. We would go to the park across the street and hit golf balls. On Sunday mornings, he would take us to this little greasy spoon diner for breakfast.      During all of these excursions, he would talk to my brother and I. We would learn whether the words coming were from a positive or a corrective place depending solely on whether he started with “son” or “boy,” respectively. One time when we were about twelve we were at the diner having breakfast almost as soon as he came home from work, as in he didn’t even bother with changing clothes, when he looked over his coffee cup and says “y’all make sure, more than anything, you take care of y

  It is verifiable that I tend to mean well, even when the outcomes end up being quite fucky. Did y’all know that one in ten adults and ten in every thousand children – mostly girls – are afraid of clowns?   In my life, I have known two people who fell into one of those numbers.   One of said people is someone I speak to regularly and the other one that I have legitimately not seen or heard from in over 25 years.   It is quite possible she is in prison for de-lifing a clown.   Whatever.      In the challenge of people who are afraid of clowns existing, I saw an opportunity.   No, this would not be an opportunity to turn a profit on some kind of snake oil sales scheme.   Matter fact, I’mma do this with my own name and not Moe, because I want some of the damn accolades sometimes.   This is a chance to be a real hero, help some people out if you will.      I placed ads on Craigslist and BookFace local group explaining that I would be offering a service giving people who fear clowns