don’t just take my word for it, here are some of the rave reviews this award-winning blog has received from smart reporters, professional reviewers, and govenor gavin newsom:

“yeah, it’s alright.” — my friend

“this is incoherent. who is your audience?” — man next to me at library

“i don’t understand, are you doing a character, or…?” — my mom

“i’ve noticed a lot of your posts hint at some unaddressed animosity towards god. are you feeling well, peter? do you want to talk about something, is that why you’re reaching out?” — pastor bill

“five stars. each entry more poignant than the last. subtly sharp and biting.” — someone reviewing The Onion, but i felt it applied here

so many fucking artists do this shit nowadays like i’m really watching a music video to hear people talking over the band, or plates and silverware clinking during a song’s chorus. it’s a fucking MUSIC VIDEO, not a VIDEO WITH MUSIC. if you’re working specifically in music videos but want to direct meaningful cinema, you aimed for the moon and kinda bonked your head on a passing airliner before falling back down into the middle of the pacific. if you’re a music video director and have a band reach out to you for their next single, this is not the time to call your good friend who’s like, a master at foley. i don’t care how far back you guys go. this is not a project he should even be allowed in yelling distance of.

if the band wanted people laughing and tires screeching over the song they probably spent months if not years writing, practicing,  and recording, they would have PUT IT IN THE FUCKING SONG ALREADY. oh my god and you people who stop the music mid-song to put some thematic element into your video? oh my fucking god, i’ll fucking end you. i will fucking end your career.

well i knew this day would come eventually. i’ve been getting gray hairs here and there for years now, and they have finally injected their old man DNA into my brain. i find myself sitting here, a stranger to myself, listening to automatic for the people and i’m not even in line at the grocery store. i’m just sitting around, being old and kind of enjoying michael stipe’s nasally-ass voice.

i shouldn’t panic too much, this boring evolution happens to everyone lame enough to not be a rockstar who dies at 27. if this ends up being the last post i ever share to this blog, it’s probably because when i try to use my old man imagination, all that i can imagine is the merits of capitalism and all the ways that young people are out to ruin my way of life. maybe if i turn off “everybody hurts” and put on some real painful music like linkin park’s “numb” i can recapture my youth. or idk, shave my hair into a mohawk.

it’d just be a gray haired mohawk, fuck.

picture, if you will, a large angry looking man browsing craigslist’s “missed connections” section with a party size (what i call “snack size”) bag of hot cheetos on his lap. he wears gym shorts and an old t-shirt but he’s hasn’t exercised in who knows how long. i mean, how long does it take a pair of nikes to accumulate a thin film of dust? that’s how long. now get ready, ’cause here’s the shocking reveal: that person you’re picturing is me. but here’s the follow-up shocking reveal, even more shocking than the first because you were expecting one shocking reveals, but TWO? (yes, i watched rian johnsons masterclass course on writing.)

shocking reveal number two, that image was me, but from about two weeks ago. i know because the red cheeto stains on my fingers have finally washed away. and i just found that hot cheeto in my running shoes right this moment. i eat a party size bag of hot cheetos about once every three days, so… it’s not even sure that the nike cheeto was even from my most recent bag. who knows how long that thing’s been in there gathering dust? i certainly would’ve found it if i’d run in the last… two weeks?

anyway, we the jury of the internet find the defendent, peter, guilty of being a 1st degree fat piece of shit.

i’ve used a handful of different dating apps and website throughout my years as a young stallion. what’s one thing they all share in common? (besides their inability to tame my wild spirit?) they all have profiles full of “love to laugh”. good fucking god. not since “random adventures” has a simple phrase described so much monotony and lack of personality with so little.

oh shit, i had no idea you love to laugh, that totally puts your collection of “basic experience” stock photos into context. you went to the broad and took a picture under the giant chairs? get out, no way. you went to LACMA and posed in front of the streetlights? seriously, you crazy. top that off with the fact that you love to laugh and you are truly one in a million.

at least when i see that ridiculous, mentally unstable marilyn monroe quote on a profile, i know it’ll be a wild fuckin’ ride. “loves to laugh” girl over here crying that she spilled her pumpkin spice latte on her toms. that’s how i’m spending my friday night? yeah, no.

also, where do you all get off putting that aggressive “make me laugh” on your profile? unless i specifically am a comedian who gets paid to match with people on dating apps and tell them jokes, make your own dumbass self laugh. why are you posting a job listing on your dating profile? you probably think bee movie was the pinacle of jerry seinfeld’s career, shut up.

how long am i supposed to stay in the online chat room with the customer service rep after they’ve fixed my problem? obviously they’re real people with real feelings. i’m not about to just “walk away” like my dad did after i batted 0 for 4 in my third little league game in a row. but also i understand that customer service reps talk to about 4,000 people a day, 3,993 of whom are complete fucking idiots. also i assume that, if they talk too much to a customer, they get yelled at by an overweight balding middle-aged white guy with a mustache who constantly smokes a cigar indoors despite it not being the 70’s anymore. so i’m not trying to make that caricature a reality.

the point being that there’s a fine line between being polite and being a nuisance. as someone who works retail, i know this 100%. those people who ask me how my day is going kinda make me smile. those people who ask me how my day is going and actually CARE? they freak me the fuck out. any interaction with a customer that lasts more than 14 seconds is too much of one person. so if you take that interaction and move it to an online customer service chat room, where the average person takes 14 seconds just to notice that the rep typed something? that C/S rep must be stress-eating their hair by the first minute.

when “jack” asked me if there was anything else “he” could help me with, i said no, you’ve been great! thank you for your help! and then i was about to hit that sweet red X of freedom when “jack” starts typing again. i know you’re obligated to talk to me “jack” i’m not offended if you just leave. i would’ve preferred if you left first. please stop typing, i wanna get back to browsing tommy wiseau fan fics.

yeah, i’ll follow just about anyone. but that doesn’t mean i’m not blocking your ass from my feed if you abuse your connection to my beautiful, pure attention span. attention is currency in modern day society, that’s why this blog is designed to be flawlessly entertaining.

HOWEVER if you’re an anarchist, of course i can help. look who you’re talkin’ to, come on. so for some reason, if you want me to block you harder than a lego being shot from a crossbow at your forehead, here’s a helpful handy guide to pissing me off on social media.

1. post exclusively selfies: i know what the fuck you look like. if the only thing you post are selfies, i have to question if you have the proper ratio of wall space to mirror in your home. or maybe you just need to hire a person to hug you 24/7? either way, it’s not my fucking problem.
2. your instagram story looks like:
   – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
3. you post each photo from your 250 travel photos individually instead of using the multi-photo function: you know, i’m not even entirely mad about this one. i respect the commitment to total warfare that you’ve declared upon my once harmonious and balanced feed. your commitment to anarchy is admirable, but everyone older than a 16-year old libertarian knows that anarchy isn’t a sustainable societal model. now i’m banning you so hard, google will send a car to street view your block.
4. use the word “influencer”: shut the fuck up.

…97% of us will shit our pants when we die. that’s a fact, don’t bother googling it. we all have poop in us all the time. some of it is future poop, some of it is now poop. sorry to be crass, but everybody shits. the only ones who won’t shit themselves when they die are the people who walk out of the bathroom and die in the next five minutes.

john wick kills 138 people in the first movie alone (that’s a fact, don’t bother googling it. i didn’t.) do you remember any fart noises or shits in john wick? how about jason bourn supremacy? no, me neither. and seriously like fuck i get it, we’re adults and we don’t want to hear fart noises everytime someone dies in a film. that’s fucking juvenile. but just like once, could those dumbfuck CSI: MIAMI detectives walk up to a murder scene and there’s a dook ejected behind the corpse? they don’t have to talk about it. i would prefer they don’t talk about it. to not discuss it would normalize it, and normalized it should be.

man, did this guy waste his time playing quarterback all those years. he should’ve been diving in those commentator waters all that time that he was blowing massive fourth quarter leads for dallas. i think this is why commentating should be viewed as a sport as well. we should hold open tryouts for commentator. some people are naturals — just look at tony fucking romo. he couldn’t hold onto a lead if he had a special bag with non-slip grip handles that was made specifically to hold points, but goddamn it can he hold my attention with his witty anecdotes and facts.

send bad commentators down to the minor leagues to commentate little league baseball games where kids try to stretch that wobbly grounder that got through the 2nd baseman’s glove and barely rolled into the outfield into a double. and when they force the throw to second, the shortstop makes an error and the ball flies into shallow left. and all of a sudden what should’ve been a routine 4 – 3 groundout turns into an inside the park home run. let’s have dumbass don cherry and living dictionary john madden commentate THAT action.

the names in this rant have not been changed to protect the identities of those involved.

you know what, yes. pizza is a party food. generlly when you bring pizza into a room with other people, our natural predator animal instincts come out and we all want a slice. so is it my fault for bringing half a pizza into the break room for lunch? the only fucking food i’d eaten all day after being worked like a slave? NO, FUCK OFF. of course i take my goddamn break at the same time as dan, who walks in and stands over me as i eat and stares wordlessly at my pizza. fucking FINE dan, yes, you can have a piece. i don’t care that i’m a lifesaver because you wouldn’t have had time to eat before the gym otherwise. you already got 25% of my pizza, you don’t have to rationalize it.

oh the BLOOD WAS IN THE WATER NOW my friends. the entire break room perked up. peter’s giving away his food to anyone who asks? pizza IS a party food, after all. oh shit… we should ALL ASK FOR HIS FUCKING FOOD. well luckily that didn’t happen, but i literally heard everyone’s muscles tense in unison as they leaned forward at the possibility of free pizza.

only one asshole named tanya actually followed through. and you know what, i had to look at her nametag weeks later to even learn her name, because when she asked for my pizza, I HAD LITERALLY NEVER SPOKEN A SINGLE FUCKING WORD TO THIS BITCH IN MY FUCKING LIFE. HOW FUCKING DARE YOU TANYA, HOW DARE YOU ASK ME FOR MY FOOD. WE HAVE NEVER SPOKEN. AT LEAST DAN SAYS HI TO ME WHEN I PASS BY. FUCK YOU, TANYA. YOU GET NOTHING. MAKE THAT NOTHING LAST AWHILE, IT’S ALL YOU’LL GET.