i’m not here to debate the existence of god (i’ll save that for a later paragraph). besides, how could that amazingly talented and hardworking athlete have done that incredible thing without the assistance of a bored micromanaging deity? that’s why any fucking athlete worth his or her salt will point to the sky to acknowledge that that home run, was in fact, god’s doing. because god HATES that other team. their shortstop is a known satanist, and we all know god loves the irony of a routine ground out that hits a divot and changes direction right before reaching a satanic infielder. that’s what god is doing with his/her free time. that’s why flint michigan has mud for drinking water, and why measles is making a comeback.

what would happen if a batter hit a home run but the pitcher pointed to god in the sky before it left the park? if the pitcher pointed more… exaltingly, would god make the ball hit a pidgon and fall to the center fielder? what would happen if a punt returner who had pointed to heaven before the kick ran full speed towards a defensive back who had also pointed to the god?

see, it’s also important to make a distinction as to which version of god you are pointing to. if you’re pointing to old testament god, well goddamn man you’re praying to the chaotic neutral god of chaos and petty fuckery. he’ll smite you while you’re rounding second if your bat flip is too flamboyant. if you believe for a second that that home run had anything to do with you, he’ll desicrate the virgin bat boy with leperosy. if you point to the new testament god, he’ll probably gift the other team with a dinger too, because do unto others and peace and love and all that bullshit. so pick your holy poison, i guess.

i might actually go as far as to guess that god doesn’t give a flying fuck about game 47 out of your 162 game season. (seriously MLB no one takes your sport seriously because you actually schedule double-headers. if i jerk off twice in a day, i’m pushing my athletic limits more than a baseball player playing two back-to-back games. i rest my case (points to heaven.)) besides, god is probably far too busy giving diseases to children in third world countres to care that you were able to take advantage of the shift and hit one opposite direction to nail that stand-up triple. but i’m sure god feels a little warmer inside knowing that you’ve pointed in his general direction.

sometimes when i feel like my life is going too well and i’ve got things figured out about as much as i can, i like to listen to the music i used to listen to in middle school just to remind myself of what i thought was OK the last time i “had everything figured out”. of course you can’t just go to spotify and load up limp bizkit and expect your life to stay the same. you pay taxes, you vote. you are an adult now. so the safest bet is to first utilize that “private session” feature that spotify introduced specifically for nu-metal, and then make sure everyone in the immediate area knows that you hate limp bizkit and you’re totally only doing it ironically. at this point you can load up “break stuff” and really start questioning your life decisions that have led you to this point. feel free to laugh at fred durt’s immature lyrics and whiny-boi delivery, but you’ll be singing along before too long. these lyrics are somehow hard-wired into your brain despite you not being able to remember your father’s birthday.

it doesn’t have to be limp bizkit, that just happens to be my angsty, rapping rosebud. it could be whatever you used at a young age to cope with not being liked by everyone. if you’re ever feeling too confident, here are some other things you can do to give yourself the emotional battery equivalent to a body check  by zdeno chara:

–  find your yearbooks: find your picture and cringe into the sun. what were you thinking with that [insert poorly aged decision here]? for bonus points, read what your friends wrote in your yearbook. maybe you’re like, yeah, peter that’s not me though, who cares? but keep in mind you wrote something just as fucking stupid in theirs.

– look up your first serious bf/gf/significant other (limp bizkit reference intended, fuck my life): aight what the FUCK were you thinking there? you two had all the compatibility of an N64 cartridge being shoved into my PS4 by my stoned roommate who wanted to play the original mario kart. you told them you loved them, and guess what? you fucking DID. how’s that for sobering?

– find your first attempt at poetry/creative writing/songwriting/being artistic: even the most jockiest, uncreative people have tried at one time or another to be creative. their level of success usually indicates what comes after in their lives (looking at you, adolf). for example, the first song i ever wrote was a satirical song about dating a girl who was a communist. it used the same three fucking chords over and over for about four minutes. it had no references to nookie or chainsaws. as you can imagine, it was pretty fucking trash. i do everything i can to bury that memory as deep as i possibly can in my brain, but it serves as a nice reminder that some people are not meant to create, for their creations only bring misery to the world. that’s why my last band broke up. it was a humanitarian move, and yes, you are welcome.

– scroll further than three posts down on your facebook profile: if you still use that piece of flaming garbage website, first of all, what you doin’. once you’ve thought about that for awhile, load up your profile page and scroll down to say, a month ago. embarassed yet? keep going, let’s look back six months ago. if you’re not embarrassed by now, i am truly impressed by your committment to your past self. this one’s pretty easy actually, you just keep scrolling until you find something that you had forgotten about and want to delete. then read that x10 and know that you felt that that was so important that it was worth sharing with all 59 of your friends.

if you’re still feeling confident in your decisions after doing these things, congratulations, you are an actual sociopath. turn yourself in before you wanna justify ripping someone’s head off. on the bright side, you now know that you’ve come a long way since then. at least until you look back on the facebook posts you’re making now and cringe again.

if you ever start dating (your father and i are growing concerned), a good test to see if your date is the real deal is to show them eraserhead. if they finish it and tell you how much they loved it, and how deep and thought-provoking it was, they’re either a fucking liar or so full of shit that they’ll never have room for your dick anyway. send a postcard to their new address at 1 Curb Street after you kick them to it.

this art house “so random lol” bullshit has gotta go. i didn’t approve this movie to be made, and i’m pissed it got past my radar. i’ve started working on a time machine to go back to the 70’s and kick lynch in his black and white twin peaks. when i see him i’ll be sure to be chewing on some moss and faking a seizure or some dumb shit so he thinks i’m just a normal part of his day, then i’ll hit him in the face with a tarantino screenplay so he can see some engaging plot and characters for once.

i wish i could eraserhead this movie from my memory. well whatever, happy fucking halloween to you guys. except you, david, as if that wasn’t obvious already.

everywhere you look, there’s some stupid fucking blog run by a linda that gives you 13 handy remedies for whatever happens to be troubling you. naturally when you’re trying to avoid the doctors office by googling your symptoms, the probability of you taking that dumb shit blog seriously goes up by 37%. so for those of you finding THIS dumb shit blog by googling “how to get rid of ants”, WELCOME. I WELCOME YOU.  we’re gonna have so much fun together.

in order to keep your hair trigger attention locked on my page (i have no idea how ad revenue works but if you’re here, i think i make money), i’ve compiled a handy guide of ant phobias — stuff that you can spread around your ant entries to keep those little fucks out of your home. so without further a do, here is

PETER’S HANDY GUIDE TO ANT PHOBIAS:
– vaseline: spread it around ant entries. ants hate getting their feet greasy.
– honey: ants love honey, but they get stuck in it. if you collect enough ants this way, you can actually hear their collective screams of terror, which is fun.
– sneeze on them: no one appreciates this.
– earbuds: leave an earbud right next to an ant entry (fuck i should’ve been calling them “ant-ries”) and blast anything by rage against the machine through those buds. ants are inherently right wing and cannot stand rage’s anti-establishment lyrics.
– unannounced emotional needs: call the ants unexpectedly and force a conversation on them during which you admit that you’re not really over your ex, and you saw someone who looked like them at subway today and you really just needed someone to listen and convince them that the relationship was worse than you’re remembering it and not to text your ex something random and then say “sorry, wrong person” in hopes that it gets a conversation started. ants are HORRIBLE at emotional support and can rarely think of anything supportive to say. they will make up a bullshit reason and excuse themselves the first chance they get.

if none of these work, shit, you might be fucked. no ants i’ve come across have been able to withstand all of these methods. don’t try them right now though, keep scrolling through my blog instead. i need the money.

you always save me so much time with your trailers. whoever is in charge of making netflix trailers knows i don’t have time to watch every piece of shit that shit factory shits out, so they condense the entire film into the trailer. now i can watch five netflix originals in only 10 minutes. hats off to you, my friend. you are a true bro.

this band is the music version of bill murray’s groundhog day, yet every fucking indie music discussion i’ve seen that mentions beach house devolves into a synthy arrpegiated furious group masturbation session. but like if a weird cult you found in the woods was doing the group masturbating, and anyone who stumbled in and didn’t join in on the massive jerk off sesh got sacrificed to the goddess of boring, breathy, echoey vocals.

it’s weird, one time i bought a single beach house album online and when i started the download, every beach house album ever released and also albums that they hadn’t even made yet queued up in my download folder. then i listened to them all at once and at the same time, i only heard one song.

that paragraph actually makes perfect sense if you have listened to any beach house song.

you start up the soft, shuffling electronic drum track, i’ll load a boopy diminished arrpeggio in this old synth i have and come in after a couple bars of your soft drum track. then we’ll both slam our faces onto our keyboards and you can whisper into a microphone about whatever bullshit comes to your mind, as long as it never causes you to express any emotion in your voice.

we’ll do this for 12 tracks, release it with some quirky artwork, and pitchfork will eat it up so fast for so long that their stomachs will run out of space and they’ll choke to death on our powerful electro-drone dong. but not before pitchfork tells all the indie kids that our 45 minute song is the album of the year and they must love it.

you know we demand excellence, we’ve established that through our rich tapestry of deep philosophical discussions over the last year or so. so why are we still selling rulers with centimeters on them here in the “colonies”? nothing is more american than doubling down on egregious lapses in judgment, so i don’t feel that the imperial system is anything more than a goddamn patriotic, “no, i meant to do that, see?”

to anyone not from the US of A i say FUCK your metric system. based on logic and simplicity, uh huh, sure. that holds up well and good until you start throwing U’s in random words like “colour,” “odour,” and “parkour” and still pronouncing it like we YANKS spell it anyway. where’s your commoun sense now?

oh yeah, it’s in the harbour along with your FUCKING TEA YOU STIFF-PINKIED POWDERED WIG WEARING FUCKS.

come out from under your bridges and put on your cock socks boys and girls, it’s time for the RHCP drinking game!

step one: crack a beer
step two: put your spotfi chill peps playlist on shuffle
step three: sit back and fill your ear holes with sexy alt funk

NORMAL MODE! drink every time:
– anthony keedis says a location
– honestly, that’s it
– no really, you’ll get plenty fucked up
– i was gonna call this “easy mode” but it’s really not, you’ll hate this game in about seven minutes

WATCHING JOHN STRUNG OUT ON SNL MODE! (AKA HARD MODE) drink every time:
– anthony keedis says a location
– john switches on that sweet fucking wah pedal
– john rips into a sweet fucking guitar solo that changes the trajectory of your life
– you realize that john frusciante was the heart of the chilli peppers and they only ever surpassed “good band” status when he was with them, mostly due to his innovativ blend of funk, folk, and rock guitar styles and ability to fit perfectly into any groove that chad and flea laid down, and that anthony is really an afterthought to the band’s genius even though he’s an integral part of their signature sound, that’s how important john was to the chili peppers, and god he sings like an angel too how does he play like that and still sing those beautiful harmonies
– you find yourself wondering if flea is actually the best bass player of all time

what the fuck do bats even do? as far as i can tell, all they do is fly in drunk circles around my car whenever i’m trying to get inside my house after a long day of not being attacked by bats. they’re stupid, ugly, and full of ray bees. being a haven for disease is especially dangerous when you’re stupid as fuck, that’s why anti-vaxxers are so dangerous. bats are basically the anti-vaxxers of the flying animal community.

bats are the pidgeons of the night. they’re trash birds filled with germs and no awareness of personal space. yeah, of course i respect pidgeons but fuck do i hate them. bats are night pidgons. they should only be allowed to fly around on halloween, that’s all they’re good for. if you see a bat, do me a favor and flip them off. their vision is actually better than they let on, so they’ll see. they’ll pretend they didn’t, but they will.

it’s “…”

period end of story. it may be the ONE FUCKING THING boomers and millenials can agree on, is fucking up a perfectly good ellipsis. it’s not four periods. it’s not two. and, god help us all, it is

NOT

COMMAS

go to hell and fuck yourself with fire, an ellipsis is not commas. it does not take the place of a period. if you write like this…. and every sentence….. has a bunch of periods after it………. do me a favor. learn how to 3D print things at the community center. take a class. 3D print out a human male fist, and fuck yourself with it. unplug your keyboard, i am revoking your keyboard privileges. you all make me sick.