Author: Dennard Dayle

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NERDING DAY

Nerding Day: Angel Therapy

I need backup to make it to 2027. But my powers are too strong for flatscans, and other mages keep trying to sell me rocks. So I’m calling a lifeline: God.

Or rather, his secretaries.

Doreen Virtue helps you to talk to angels. Not pray, which every Christian does for free, intuitively, without middlemen. Doreen starts conversations, and they only cost $16.99.

That might not sound like my jam, given past oaths to give God the Job treatment. Forget that. Someone else said it. God’s always been my homeboy, from the plagues to the endless warfare. Angel Therapy can only make us closer.

Check out Doreen’s team:

Only archangels get name checks? If I was the fifth strongest angel, I’d be…oh. That’s how that went down, got it. See how much Doreen has to teach?

Anyway, even if you insist on untwisting my words, God and I are still buds. I said I want to talk. Like Kratos, I treasure dialogue. This isn’t a trap. The black Suburban down the street is full of masked pilgrims.

Besides, we go way back.

My photos look worse.

As for profits, Doreen’s saving you money. An hour of her time costs more than the couch you complain on. The therapy in the title isn’t abstract: Doreen has a normal master’s and unaccredited PhD in psychology, and purportedly practiced. She just prefers Jesus now.

But don’t take my word for it, or Doreen’s. Listen to the angels:

Stay calm. Alien forces drawn to fear can be nice. And grabbing weapons mid-introduction is always rude.

That’s inspired jacket copy. I’ll admit: this terrified me the first ten times I read it. After changing my locks and renting a Roman spear, I’m willing to give it a shot. Therapy demands trust. I’d die before trusting Biblically accurate angels, but the cover’s all Baroque cherubs.

I know it’s odd that we’re still on the cover, given my love of brevity. But Doreen’s power is even less bound by sanity than unsaved wizards. Note her co-author:

Inspiring. I didn’t have questions, but Doreen explains trading useless therapy for helping patients hear angels. As a child, she embraced healthy speculative friendships with the Seraphim. Then she grew into an empty, angel-less doctor and mother:

Tragic, really. Until she almost died. A long-jilted angel sends Doreen a warning, despite decades on read:

Sadly, therapy makes Doreen ignore the voice. Only a near-miss with a carjacker unlocks Doreen’s halo chakra:

The point: Doreen started hearing voices after trauma. Now those symptoms can be ours. Instead of hoarding God’s voice notes like a Pope, Doreen brought them directly to the people. Whether they thought they were in for angels or not.

I’ve tried therapy, for reasons that escape me, and beat it pretty quickly. If my counselor had started rambling about angels, I’d never have left. I’d be ten years into My Therapist’s Angels, every loud apostate’s favorite podcast. Material that pure transcends simple luck. It’s a gift from The Lord.

While Doreen’s angels returned around the age mental illness starts working overtime, I’m closer to an angel-whisperer than a therapist. I will note that “Doreen Virtue” makes “Silver Ravenwood” sound subtle. “Mary Heavengoer” must be in the House somewhere.

Channeling returns! With a new flavor: whereas Fox Taylor defined it as making shit up, Doreen means an angel told her. And while Fox was a delusional apostate, Doreen has 366k followers. Hopefully that clears everything up.

Though I prefer miracles that I don’t have to outline, draft, edit, submit, revise, and promote myself. Perhaps that’s why the angels haven’t chosen me. Yet.

Touche, Gabriel. Forget everything after “draft.”

How’s Doreen know these weren’t demons? If I were a demon (I’m not, I tried), Plans A through Y would be “imitate angel.” And you can’t always trust your human senses. Despite Doreen’s holy knowledge, my mortal body won’t stop laughing. It thinks Doreen sounds bugshit. Nuttier than a therapist telling patients first draft poems by Michael. No, wait: nuttier than the author of an unedited Christian spellbook. No, wait: nuttier than the co-author to over seven books with “The Angelic Realm.”

Then again, Demons would try to distract us with sexual tension.

Hmm. One second.

While I suspect Doreen prays with multiple windows playing, there’s potential here. For one, “Want to channel Abdiel, Defier of The Deceiver?” is already my new opening line. I’m a half-employed non-nazi, so it should land.

We’ll exploit Doreen’s untreated prophecies. Anything less would be malpractice. God might have trouble with his own children and career, but I’m sure he’s qualified to advise. Or even try helping.

Ready for cosmic behavioral therapy? Unlike heathen spells, angel therapy gets dictated to clerics. The Angelic Realm’s a bit more controlling than Hecate, and could give two shits about your candle collection. You can take their advice, or fuck off.

Still, what the Healing Messages lack in flexibility, they make up for in variety. Sessions start small, with fixing addiction.

Angels write like my students on the football team. While the Lions bring fewer wins home, they take D1 blows to the head. Mostly from the NYPD.

“Your God-substitute of addiction” is my favorite new phrase. The host skips stock lines about bootstraps: they get in the way of gentle shame.

Strong start. If this takes, the average fentanyl addict is two Hail Marys away from walking it off. More of them should get on that. Angelmancy might rule: it replaces all that hippie hand-wringing with insults.

Quite near.

The collective “we” stands out. It inspires raw terror rich in biblical authenticity. Opening night jitters are the last thing on my mind. The angels in my walls/windows/wallpaper/blood demand attention. We’ll need therapy for this therapy.

Forgiving readers might see a call for general confidence, or a broad sense that God is with you. No. Literal angels are on your shoulder at call time, and they’re ready to feed you lines. By mortal therapy standards, Doreen is out to Lent. Cuckoo for Creation Puffs. Insane in the refrain.

I’d pay extra for it.

Again, wonderful word choice. If any human said this, I’d never leave home again. Maybe Doreen’s really tapped a swarm intelligence with demands for lesser life. Yudowsky can finally, happily, shut the fuck up.

You heard heaven, sadsacks. Turn those dopamine receptors upside-down.

Are you cured yet? I’m new to light magick, so it may take time to kick in. I’ll try again tomorrow, in case fixing you needs a little extra chanting. Don’t worry, it’s on the house.

Now that’s dedication! I didn’t ask for it, and I truly don’t want it. But The Angelic Realm really puts in impressive hours.

Does Uriel watch?

Yeah, Uriel watches. His spirit’s rigid. Maybe we’re losing track of therapy here.

No help, got it. Spend our empty afternoons in the pews. The Angelic Realm saves job leads for friends and relatives. Instead of wailing about it, we should try grace.

I was wrong, that’s an immense overpromise. Is God love bombing us? Waiting for angels to sort out your next job is like waiting for angels to sort out your next insulin shot.

Handy, I’ll need some cantrips to defend my fort when the economy turns.

“The riot’s fine. Go away, Uncle Michael’s sneaking in a nap before the rapture.”

The angels botched this one. Half the clerics casting Crime want relief for a stabbing that’s unfolding or finished. The mugging is fait accompli, and Dor—The Angelic Host says the situation’s in hand. I’m glad Gabriel reached Doreen in time to say “lock your fucking doors,” but the news ticker crawls on.

Ah, so it’s mortals’ fault for thinking about stabbing. Heard. Nice of the angelic host to admit it, instead of oscillating between God’s unnamed plan and the price of free will. The law of attraction simply applies to bullets, like Magneto in reverse.

What kind of therapy is this? The Borg prose is one thing, but the base advice sucks. Does the angelic host have a certificate? Internship experience? Have they watched a therapist on mortal tv? “Stop thinking about that” is somewhere between leeches and a cheese-based food pyramid.

The heavenly host sounds like Delta. I’m writing from a city I don’t live, work, or play in, waiting for a new transfer and/or death. The angels’ position seems to unify people that have, in fact, wasted vast amounts of your time.

Fucking what? How can cosmic beings contain so much earthly nothing? How can mortal eyes read divine sloth? If angels can glass cities for kicks, they can get my train moving faster than tectonic drift. My job interview is real, while heaven remains an unconfirmed rumor from a known layabout.

At least Delta gave me a coupon when they dumped me in Alabama. For another Delta flight, to Doreen-knows-where. I think I like God better than Delta.

Never alone.

Jesus fucking Christ, Doreen. Wait, sorry. Upper fucking management, Angelic Realm. Do you want me to have two heart attacks? Or just spend my whole life in constant fear of MOTHERFUCKER. I should have known. The church loves sprinkling shame on fun derangements. Why would wytchcraft be different?

Time to snitch: the preface isn’t Doreen’s whole backstory. Instead of print Doreen’s half-truths, have web Doreen’s compulsive truths:

Doreen’s a reformed wytch, aside from all the magick. After years as a fun New Age hack, she graduated to born-again influencer in 2017. Unlocking new, tax-exempt income streams. Before studying The Craft, I’d compare some tendencies of congregations and circles here. Now, I know that my inbox attracts the energy I put out. Whether or not piss-jar curses work, the pictures ruin your day. And Christians shoot you.

I’m less interested in Doreen finding Jesus, and more transfixed by Doreen sprinting away from manifesting. She fled the coven like it was on fire. Likely one she set.

Like many late converts, Doreen has admirable zeal for purging herself. Becoming a daycaster. An Ur-wytch. A Log Tower Archmage. The greatest conversion oracle alive.

And she’s still doing the same shit. Take her advice on cranking up the voices in your head:

I could hear Doreen from space.

This means everything to me. I’ve written a bit about self-help, glanced at magick, and considered writing about Christians. Doreen Virtue’s a Jesus Wytch that disavows the word wytch. No one’s hated the word more without taking up bonfires.

I’ve found The One. My true mentor. The UnWytch.

Doreen would, of course, disagree. Instead of arguing in good faith, I’ll skim her crash-course on summoning angels yourself. E.g., melting votive candles and incense together.

We’re back to Doreen writing as Doreen, by the way. While Doreen’s a fundamentalist of The Angelic Realm, The Angelic Realm are fundamentalists of the empty inbox. We play around with art school games, and they show up if they feel like it.

Here’s Doreen’s first, non-magickal technique:

Familiar. Though wytches didn’t invent stenography or bullshitting, so we’ll give this a pass.

Two thousand percent wytch. Doreen couldn’t cast harder beneath a boulder.

And I appreciate the warning to never sleep unarmed again. I’m napping with all of Bayonetta’s guns from now on, including the heels.

My worst fucking subject. And thus, the heart of the enterprise. Doreen’s preaching from a floating broomstick, asking why the pews smell like sage. I hope she never learns.

Continuing is bullying. Good, since I dig bullying.

Beyond wytches in denial, oracle cards are great for keeping publishers alive after the board game boom. Every noun is a prompt for 70 cards that mean nothing and cost more than Doreen’s old medication.

Hmm. I seem to live in Ohio.

Doreen’s overlap with Fox Taylor could fill a book. And earn me a cherub-shaped nail bomb. My pendulum says to go for it anyway, but my hands drift towards comic self-harm.

One point Doreen—this one’s just prayer. Only worse, since the suggestion box is rigidly, firmly closed. You’ll take whatever Gabriel has in clearance, and thank him for it.

Wytches do this one a little less. Obvious, violent, public insanity can treat them poorly. “More weight” may be out of fashion, but the American Psychological Association will shred your certification in front of you.

Still, a medium will do this for three bucks in most public parks. If you’re as worried about angelic stalkers as I am, I’d delegate. I don’t want anyone stalking me but every company and government on Earth.

My powers have leaped forward, along with my mental health. All they needed to grow was a violently self-hating tutor. In time, the gospel paparazzi will catch Doreen at a Vegas tarot party, making the star charts and piss bombs of her people. Until then, we study at her feet.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Good Satan and His Hot Witches, who you can totally trust as they whisper affirmations and commands into your ears. Burning this Burger King down really would help you get a job! It’s called being proactive.

Categories
NERDING DAY

Nerding Day: The Cosmic Game of Snakes and Arrows

Big promise. I’m getting suspicious of divination.

Skimming three books on a topic puts me ahead of modern experts by three books. Yet whenever I read the future, all I see is water and bullets. Pretty vague. I need idiot-proof visions. In my genre, subtlety is three acts of monologues called “The Emperor that Breathed Shit Instead of Air.”

One sec.

Pure money.

Today, I’m returning to the root of my education: gaming cash-ins. While the Player’s Handbook still has a whole divination subchapter, I’m not rebuying 5e with a new font. Luckily, my new friend Polina has my back.

Diluted money.

Which still spends. Snakes & Arrows have made money for some time. Fans of history might recall Gyan Chaupar, the ancient game of cruel, whimsical fate. Former children might recall Chutes and Ladders, the defanged game of cruel, whimsical fate. Hold both thoughts. Polina’s aiming for their intellectual overlap.

The quote above opens her rules for Snakes and Arrows, to set the stakes. The quote below precedes them, for reasons beyond my attainment. Let’s grow together.

An update of the ancients. Or rather, an update of an update of the ancients, for our era. Polina connects an age of baffled, illiterate darkness and the Bronze Age. I’ll trust that. I’ll trust anything. I crawled back to Silver Ravenwood four times, begging for a crumb of magick.

For some, accessibility and authenticity conflict. Sorry. Polina’s ramming them together and seeing who survives. It’s the end of a stirring spiritual journey:

She thought about death, and it made her sad. That’s almost enough to prove that Polina isn’t a replicant. To be fair, a page and a half later, her high school boyfriend bites it. He must have lacked charm: the incident’s buried behind her recess daydream and shorter. From there, per lead Polina Rud scholar Polina Rud, she launched an expansive program of interfaith skimming. Buddhism. Jainism. A third faith impressive to New Age holdouts. What’s the go-to again?

The logic sounds loose, but I’ve read cape comics for some time. It doesn’t matter which retelling of Steve Rogers’s origin you go by: he isn’t real. Though that’s not the point. Whatever retelling you go by, Captain America’s ashamed of us. We let him down in new, inventive ways every day. That’s not the point either. Whatever retelling you go by, Polina built her life around a game for babysitters too high for checkers.

Correction: Polina built her life around a flick for babysitters too dumb for Captain Underpants. Just like Inside Out built two hours around “What if happy were sad?”

There’s more about gyan chaupar, Target-friendly interpretations, and the healing insight of Inside Out. Now that you know Master Polina, I’d rather show you.

The die’s from Blood Bowl. You know me.

Welcome to a real play of The Cosmic Game of Snakes and Arrows: Includes Gameboard. We’ll probably learn something about our souls or whatever, and definitely learn how to finally read the fucking future.

At least, that’s my goal. You pick your own:

Your own yes-man goal. Bring negativity to the dice, and you’ll come back as a barnacle. Negativity includes doubts about a board game curing mumps. That said, feel free to ask about your credit score or audition calendar:

Gotta to spend mana to make money.

I’d mock thinking really hard about cash as a life strategy, if it weren’t the S&P 500’s lifeblood. The market’s Tinkerbell at the end of Peter Pan. Or Ed Wood’s masterpiece. If manifesting wealth lacks long-term oomph, then I should move my savings from Remington shares to Remington products. For now, I trust our mentor’s vision. She met two bored guys from India once.

Picking a goal can be hard, if you’re not possessed by ambition. I’m told that happens. That some people don’t spend every breath clutching the ring, watching that traitor Samwise for the first hint of betrayal. Weird. Here are some suggestions:

Can we take two? Fat racks can only improve my grasp of the future.

Balls. Hope you don’t have two problems.

A fun personal touch, followed by ten pages of rules, rules, and proscriptions. Slightly more involved than Chutes and Ladders. I’ll deal with the details/rerolls/meditation on my end. You focus on climbing the psychic ranks. Or tumbling down the psychic ranks. If you hear hissing, brace.

Here’s my amulet.

This ring captures much of my spirit. Weeaboo. Honorary wytch. Overgrown metalhead. Weeaboo. Expelled wytch. Weird date. Metal detector target. Legend of the Galactic Heroes re-watcher. I’m into lists this week.

Per instructions, we start on Cosmic Consciousness. Which we’ll spend the rest of the game returning to. Our whole eternity is an extended cock-up.

The gap in my thoughts is bored. Next.

Are those like possessions? If so, this won’t take long. The rules say we come back here if we overshoot Cosmic Consciousness, so hopefully it’s not too elaborate.

I should full-ass the first square. Here goes.

Now we say thirty supporting arguments out loud! I’m doing that. Are you? You want enlightenment, right?

Saying this in the reboot zone is dire cruelty. Before this journey ends, I’ll say something unforgivable. For your education. Bit crude of you, really. You should apologize for making me do that.

Rolling on.

While quoting Frost looks shallow, Polina digs with her targets. For example, under square 8, “Avidity,” she cites a modern martyr:

Out of 72 personality traits and spiritual buzzwords, there’s no square for “Humility.” But Desires come with some homework.

Sick, turns out I’ve been divining since middle school. Polina’s film theory’s come a long way since Sadness Crying, or its sequel Sadness Cries: Rondo of Blood.

Next turn:

I can use this. When I don’t know what to say, vague nonsense like this gets people to walk away.

Polina doesn’t fear becoming a student again. She never stopped being one.

That’s one Sadhguru quote. Another is “Mercury is de-lish.”

You know, the old Qin prank. Vitamin M comes up more in my work than exclamation points. Two possibilities emerge. Either A) all cranks in the world are merging into one ur-crank, and mercury is their Breakfast of Champions. Or B) mercury really makes you immortal, and these are all direct descendants of Qin Shi Huang. He’s refined quicksilver cocktails and harem recruitment across 3000 years of partying. I recommend “Mercury Bombs,” but I became immortal in undergrad.

Anyway, which cable rerun teaches us about karma?

There you go. To connect with karma, watch Julia Roberts. While Polina’s picks seem normal to me, I should underscore that I’m a spiritual newt. Think scoliosis, but for the soul. I’d believe her if she told me Oprah held the car keys to enlightenment.

Quality advice! To prosper, avoid pretentious, negative jerks that tap-dance on others’ beliefs. Those guys suck.

“Hey Dwayne, how’s the job hunt? My board game says you suck, we can’t hang anymore. Know anyone playing to win?”

Don’t fret if you haven’t heard of sadness. For students with a different Inside Out mascot, Polina includes a definition.

Backwards, into the present? Doesn’t she mean…screw it, sweating linear time won’t get me enlightened. Ideally, we’ll leave it behind. Polina’s typos are in the present.

If this works, we might not need the rest of the game.

I did a little digging: therapists call this trick a “gold mine.” It keeps the couch full for months, if not years. While it’s not the best for patients, it makes your kid’s tuition a breeze.

This one should switch places with Sadness. It drives memorable romantic fuckups. Let’s do it.

Worth it. Love can’t beat becoming a sandworm.

Jeez, fate takes a while. If I keep rolling like this, I’ll still be typing when I realize 29 was a bad idea.

Polina’s full intake of Nietzsche’s themes and implications rings true. If we chose it, it must be right. Color commentating every turn of Advanced Chutes and Ladders makes sense, and deepens my word count. I’m becoming who I am.

Much of Polina’s wisdom comes from Oprah’s Book Club.

Chasing pain for vague growth? Tasting agony for agony’s sake? There’s no need to court me, I’m a dozen turns in. The first snake might kill me. Imagine one square wiping all the text so far. Or don’t! It’ll happen, and soon. I chose it. I pursued it.

The game might end, but the cursing never will. Naraka Loka feels like home.

I’ll take this one on credit. My style of suffering needs eyes.

Polina’s running out of homework! Our spirit’s growing too strong for mortal filler. We’ve also hit an arrow/ladder, which feels great. This bubble’s holding strong forever.

Potterposting was inevitable; while lower levels of consciousness cling to adult thought, bliss frees us from such attachments. Unfettered, I can enjoy Robert Galbraith capers like The Deviant Who Stayed Home and The Goddess-Spurning Child.

This next roll matters. If we overshoot 68, we have to—

Roll up the rest of the chain, then go back down to 51. So the game board is one big snake, punishing victory with labor. And failure with labor.

It’s a cosmic horror story for tools. And I’m the biggest tool in magick.

And I’m the second biggest tool in magick. Rolling on.

More good news! Above 68, you have to reroll anything that overshoots heaven’s attic. It takes a Land Raider’s worth of dice to escape paradise. Earning the right to roll your way back, and rewatch Inside Out. Or as Polina puts it:

Edging from God. What a hot, horrifying fate.

Rolling on.

This square, Raja Guna, represents ludo-narrative dissonance. I’d be more engaged if EA vibe-coded it. Polina’s added homework to a Bronze Age skinner box.

Piss.

Enlightened piss.

I wonder why I choose Naraka Loka, every time. Maybe my prior self got bored with ease and comfort, and I’m on a high heat run. I’ll probably keep Naraka Loka on next game, and turn off the rising ocean. Timers stress me out.

Polina comes from the Pangloss school of Buddhism. As any monk can tell you, all life is play. Let’s keep playing.

Which podcast is silence? Or is it a lecture? My voice makes its own choices, and leaves me to deal with the fallout. Yesterday—and this is real—my voice told fifty Mississippi Civil War enthusiasts that I think slavery happened. One gave me a look I’ve only seen from the NYPD.

This one’s less of an exercise, and more of a job interview question. So I’ll say that I’m a self-starting team player with a passion for shareholder value. Can I ascend now?

Ki detection for yoga instructors. The enlightened can detect the splits from across the room. While Polina casts her spiritual net wide, Toriyama’s a surprise.

In my first journey to square 68, I’d have called this nice. My spirit grows weak. This square taps the two dullest strains of non-thought: appeal to authority and appeal to playgrounds. The strongest proof of Guru Rud’s powers is that it’s physically impossible to be this basic.

Polina definitely writes linearly. For the first half of the book, exercises say to juggle in Lotus Pose while reciting exes in pig latin. As she loses steam, they drift into open-ended questions and therapy ProTips.

Still, I should answer. I glow when I hear the joy of a loud child. The weird laugh of this month’s true love. The squawks of those winged things in the forest.

Yeah.

Okay, fine. I have the tryhard darksign. I reach happiness with attainment. Glorious, sweet achievement formally recognized by the weak. I want to be buried in meaningless trophies like King Tut. Can I ascend now? Or sleep?

Fascinating shit, really. Sadly, if I roll a one, I have to stop reading these insights. That’d be a shame, to beat this stupid fucking game. To be free. To end this.

After a lifetime of web comedy, this is the most annoyed I’ve been at 69.

Imagine, for example, a universe where I give a fuck. Here’s a timeline:

What a lovely dream.

All life is play.

Polina sees one movie a year, and needs you to know all of them.

Polina reads one book a year, and thinks you don’t know all of them.

Another fucking loop. The square says unconsciousness, yet my mind is on fire. I need to lock in. Reincarnation works on Dark Tower rules: I’ll keep looping around until I stop being an asshole. When I return to Earth, I’m done judging people.

A generous soul. She knew suffering was God’s gift, and made every day Christmas. Though the name’s a mouthful. How many kids can you kill before you’re just “Theresa?”

“YouTube University can teach you to hum, I have deadlines. I have to come up with some bullshit for 59, and I’m all out of classical elements.”

An elegant confession of fraud. Our mentor thinks this game is worthless, along with every word she’s written. That’s what someone judgy would say, before another cycle of pain.

Back to happiness! Isn’t that great? It feels a lot like Purgatory, but that’s happiness. Breathe in the happiness.

I love it.

It sounds like I’m lying so that I can stop. But I get it now. Naraka Loka is meaningless, self-imposed agony. I’m done with it, and wanting things, including escape. Because of my happiness. There’s no word for the lightness in my soul.

Right, bliss. That’s one. I take back all the Rowling jabs. Hatred’s worth the joy of lukewarm worldbuilding. I treasure Harry’s eight-book transformation into a normal cop. I love Polina, and Hogwarts, and everyone but deviants.

Please.

What fucking peace? I’m in a prison for spiritual C students by a general D student. Granted, Polina’s a doctoral candidate at Moscow University. This is still the cruelest, longest torture in Russian history.

It’s the serenity of publishing “idk, ask Lao Tzu.”

I’d say “kill me,” but I don’t want to go back to 6.

At midnight, I’d question my mental health. Good thing it’s 1 AM.

This is my fault? You added minigames to Earth’s most famous waste of time, and missing a roll is my fault?

How much can a game about staring at your bellybutton until it ascends blather about action? This is Cookie Clicker without the spiritual satisfaction. At least the HYBRID lunatic brought brownies to his endless fever dream. Polina just asks you to think about brownies until one falls out of your ass.

I don’t need scrying anymore. My future is chutes, followed by ladders. I will die playing this game.

A bit prescriptive, after 71 speeches about finding my path, my way, on my time. I’m one loop from a hard reset.

Leaving this suggestion, in this location, is the kind of insult that starts wars. Impressive. And the first book I suspect Polina actually read.

Hey, we’ve all got to start over sometimes. Like four, Games, careers, nation-states. Pushing the boulder is the fun part! There’s a whole Camus thing about that, but Polina doesn’t read. Anything. The only art that evokes the square is goatse.

Sounds like someone else.

We don’t do that at Princeton. In fact, lists by double Ivy copywriters cost more than Polina’s scam makes. Destiny Books can expect an invoice for the work above. It’s like I tell students when they struggle: you can’t waste my time without wasting your money.

How far does this snake go?

51 to fucking 3? Shove that snake up your ass and spin.

Holy fuck what does the fucking universe want I’ve gone three decades on this dying rock without blowing anything newsworthy up despite receiving every instruction and incentive otherwise how is that not enough for a tiny glimpse of the future so that I can brace for the next avoidable mass fuckup before it hits me in the skull/soul/bank account and an army of talking heads ask if repealing the 13th amendment could have stopped the imperial boomerang from lobotomizing its thrower leaving me trapped in the Reverse Renaissance in which every dumbfuck myth gets the same weight as nerd shit like gravity—a state I expect to persist until we stop recording history altogether in favor of a daily game of limp biscuit around a flag-shaped cookie and this stupid fucking game started on 6 meaning I’ve reached negative enlightenment and my soul is worse than when I started.

This book doesn’t matter.

Polina doesn’t matter.

My time doesn’t matter.

Only the future.

We roll on.

Hey, an arrow! Pretty lucky. What’s the challenge?

Luckier! Polina’s already given us a lot to pretend to watch. Nice of her to do us two solids in a row. She must’ve worked hard on this.

Another layup: I just see Chutes and Ladders when I close my eyes.

None! It’s quite liberating. Thanks for asking, Polina!

All that learning and growing sounds tough, but Polina might have some inspiration for us.

Right, I can fix white guilt! What could be simpler? There’s a poetry reading down the street, in that building black people used to live in. I’ll help a tormented soul heal the rift between our people.

Charity is its own reward. Only this is an arrow, so a reward is our reward.

Give me a minute.

Hold on, this one’s heavy.

Almost got it.

I’m…Polina?

Seems unpatriotic, but it can be our secret. I’d give up peace twice for an arrow.

This prison’s pretty cozy. Can you recall life outside of chutes? Or ladders? I can’t. Every thought or memory that could disrupt the cycle is gone.

I’m nothing. Simple, happy meat. I inhale, I exhale, I appropriate religion, and I die.

Thanks Polina! Now that I’m empty, I see that the mistake was trying. Time to buy a new iPhone, and gaze into it until rebirth.

Addendum: I missed a snake. Comment it to win nothing!

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: James Boyd, who snaked his way through ego death and arrowed a path to nirvana. Too bad it didn’t count because that’s TWO THINGS, BUDDY!

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UPSETTING DAY

Upsetting Day: So You Think You’re a Millenial

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Categories
NERDING DAY

Nerding Day: HYBRID🌭

Want to play a normal game?

Me neither.

Leave Midjourney behind. No eight-fingered stillbirth says more than this eye-punching rectangle. It hints at the authors’ era, state of mind, main interest, state of mind, sense of aesthetics, and shattered state of mind. That’s connection. That’s art. That’s losing your entire fucking mind.

Some art guides you through the creator’s brain. Hybrid’s like a tour in a language you don’t speak, on speed. In fact, this simile doesn’t need the tour. Hybrid’s like speed. Let’s take some speed.

Apologies, HYBRID V0.30. Precision’s important today: it keeps us accurately baffled. You wouldn’t want to misread this manic, 64k-word, single-page rulebook. HYBRID V0.30 is the future of tabletop RPGs. Assuming mankind evolves into something unrecognizable. It is for nerds made of light.

Just to establish base reality, for people with outdoor hobbies: this is, in theory, a game like Dungeons & Dragons, Vampire: The Masquerade, or Bully Annihilator. In Matthew’s vision, four-ish friends would play HYBRID together on purpose. These games typically involve dice and a story lifted from Tolkien. Matthew makes different choices.

Here’s the disclaimer, which follows the color earthquake above.

I’m lucky. A reporter or adult would start with a futile stab at context. An analyst would touch that equation. I’m free to drop everything, and ctrl+f HYBRID’s mathematical explanation for homosexuality. Even if Calc 2 was my Verdun, I can’t turn that down.

Rule 187 gets us…

Slightly illegible. The highlighted bit says “but I’m sure Dr. Strange would prefer RULE # 187, to find or/and create the perfect woman.” Odd, when cosmic realdolls sound more Baron Mordo. I’ll mash enter until the equation pops up.

Ah, the mathematical explanation for homosexuality is also illegible. While black on blood red or laser blue is great for Creech-era character design, it’s an HTML hate crime. Fitting for the concept; advantage Matthew. I’ll switch to readable quoteboxes going forward. Just know that your eyes would struggle harder than your psyche to decode this:

Standard cloning equation.

Fucking what? After decades with Jamaican Baptists, this is the most insane theory of gay I’ve heard. My back catalog trained me for fraud, hate, and incompetence. Not sex ed for shoggoths. The lunacy’s so dense the brackets around young barely register. Don’t read this out loud: you’ll summon the creature under St. James.

The thing about HYBRID is…fucking what? I’m adrift. Mocking HYBRID’s horny (I think) regressive (I’m pretty sure) and deluded (certifiably) math feels like catching a fish with a cloning equation. Or describing basketball in Flatland.

And don’t worry, you didn’t miss twelve years of math. Or maybe you did, I don’t know your story. But whether you’re the next Turing or Mayweather, you’re unarmed for Matthew Math. The numbers are impressionistic. “COM” isn’t explained anywhere in the text. Just try to see the shape of rolling for hardness.

Here’s the closest we drift to a definition:

Nice and intuitive. Don’t worry if you don’t get it–COM only appears 111 more times. Mostly nested in other, equally intuitive equations.

We might not survive this. This psychic landfill’s between HYBRID’s equation for FTL travel and soul value. My mortal neurodivergence tells me COM’s something like battle fuckability and cribbed from a superhero game, but don’t quote me there. HYBRID is as far beyond mutants as mutants are beyond mankind.

Nah. Different sentences. Making FATAL gets you in Blackgate, laughing at Penguin’s jokes to survive. HYBRID lands you in Arkham, laughing at Joker’s jokes to die. Society gets half the blame.

Back to the equation for homosexuality.

Remember doppelganger theory? Simpler days. Matthew’s waifu-design rules demand eight times the patience for none of the dignity. Sorry, I mean 8*LOG(Clozapine)/Electroshock times the patience.

Sometimes, a madman demands less mockery, or even narration, and more translation. Those are long days. After squinting at this alleged English for a month, bothering other clowns (you can guess who) to triple-check if HYBRID’s a parody, and studying cutting-edge divination, I think I’m ready. Maybe.

Cool.

Matthew splits hotness into two stupid stats, and likes his TI84’s LOG button. Said stats are more racist than your parents, but less racist than your leaders. Then he cribs terms from a real game to deflect less-determined clowns, but the most brilliant jesters persevere to find: nothing. Research was a trap. Matthew Math is a poem made of numpad keys. Six number theory PhDs couldn’t tell you what that soup means. But one stoned editor can tell you that Matthew digs Caucasian men and Korean women.

Easy, right? If you’re not up on your anticalculus: “G” is the deviance powerstat. Expect an executive order against min/maxing within the week.

Give up that whole line of thought.

Against all odds, the equation explaining homosexuality’s a decent tutorial. HYBRID’s simple: the rules aren’t rules, the equations aren’t equations, and HYBRID’s not a game. It’s longform tranquilizer withdrawal. You’d never play HYBRID with a friend you want to keep. I haven’t followed the author, but I hope he’s having fun as health secretary.

The best part? We’ve only decoded the disclaimer. We haven’t started the game or this article. Now we’re ready to begin.

Handy warning. Hell, that’s practically the real disclaimer. Fair play, ashes of Matthew’s mind.

Handy summary. Though why you’d base a game on log functions remains unclear. Torturing Dante’s old DM? Texas Instruments cross-promotion? Culling weaker RPGNet users? HYBRID did start out there, where it remains an object of derision/love/fear. That’s the joy of old forums: they hunt madness, instead of breeding it. Insanity never needed a neolithic revolution.

Fair.

My point: Matthew’s basic motive is here, kind of. Maybe. He’s found the golden rpg ratio. By smashing the rest of pop culture into the LOG button, Matthew can create the perfect game. Bet. HYBRID’s risen from incomprehensible to baffling. Maybe we can decode the rules now.

I get this one! It’s dumb and flattening, with a crater-sized copout. But comprehensible. We’re learning to speak HYBRID.

I get this one less! It seems Matthew’s lonely, and has buried it in algebra and retro TV. You, however, can avoid this fate by raising your battle-charm. I think Matthew invented looksmaxxing twenty years early. Or rather, personal grooming six thousand years late. HYBRID’s grammar is elusive.

Zilch. Each letter defies me. We’ve learned next to nothing, aside from more loneliness. We can’t speak HYBRID at all.

Still, I think we’re closer. Too close to turn back, even. Matthew has more faith in his universal equation than I do in my neighbors. With why in hand, maybe we can reach how.

My goal today’s simple: to dig from “DISCLAIMER” to “RULE # 0.” Then we can be the second humans to understand HYBRID.

Ah, a second disclaimer. I’ve actually learned nothing. My birth itself was a mistake.

We persevere.

Finely understated. I owe Disney secondhand royalties for talking about HYBRID. Matthew’s version of the afterlife trampled three copyrights in one sentence. If The Mouse finds me, that blood is on his hands.

On that note: why Tron? Must we still prop up dork film’s false king? A Tron flick came out closer to this article than HYBRID, and I’ve already forgotten about Tron. I’m writing about Tron and I’ve already forgotten about…light cycle movie. Daft Punk? I love Daft Punk! Remember Daft Punk?

I feel for him here, and not just for medical reasons. It’s a rough lesson in perspective. Matthew takes the lack of d20s as HYBRID’s marketing problem, and host backstabbing as his biggest threat. Don’t let bitterness stop you from seeing the algebra in the room.

It didn’t shake out. And not just print publishing, which never had a shot. You may have noticed more than one stat, from more than one system, next to more numbers than there are stars. But now we know we’re only supposed to care about Psyche, and everything else is a pharmacy failure. We’re closer to speaking HYBRID.

Absolutely not. Try to keep up, I’m already confused enough for two.

Now, with the disclaimer behind us–

Another layer! I could pretend that this almost made me quit, but I’m half lunatic. A daywalker, really. My father self-published 101 Steps to Rasta Manhood: A Foundational Wytch’s Guide to Replacing Sons With Chatbots. Now my life is revenge. Matthew can loop disclaimers until the end of time, I’ll be there.

I could also jeer at the Dr. Doom wank, but I’ll always love the concept. What if someone had everything but enough penis to appreciate it? We only see that play out with money. Victor’s twenty minutes with a student therapist from melting Reed into gluons, and it’ll never happen.

Matthew expounds on Doombots and Doom 2099 for a bit, before changing Lunatic Studies forever.

Don’t panic, but Matthew’s killed us all. This Necronomicon-coded headache is inspired by the Anti-Life-Equation. It might be the anti-life equation. At the very least, the CostCo version. While the fancypants version punishes all life, HYBRID’s elf girlfriend rules focus on human neurons.

However you spin it, Matthew’s possessed. If you believe him, by soul-erasing space math. If you don’t, by pop culture and a fictional safety net.

I, for one, have no incredulity left. It’ll rule when we reach Rule 0. I have so many people to feed to Darkseid, and only half of them are in office.

Oh shit, the game’s starting! I skipped a Super Bowl party for this, so I appreciate the confidence. In fact, fuck the 1986 Marvel Universe TSR game. I bet it has fluff like characters and line breaks. Fuck that. Anti-life for life.

Fucking… have clowns overused Groundhog Day? We need a new go-to time loop. Palm Springs. I’m stuck in Palm Springs.

I’m still not quitting, there’s too much Matthew in me. I did curse in person, confusing an already-confused guest. Evidently it’s their first Valentine’s Day studying HYBRID. Mixed dating has challenges, but I think it’ll work out.

HYBRID’s disclaimers finally give way to examples. None of which are our first rule. I suspect that I imagined Rule 0. Or at least my chances of reaching it. Reading HYBRID linearly is like reading HYBRID linearly.

A trap. Matthew’s definitely trying to shake us. Nothing else explains pre-equation citations of later equations, pitched as tutorials. I hope Matthew’s still pitching publishers—name-dropping Tesla’s enriched frauds with half his spirit.

What a beautiful tangent. Not even in the same orbit as the words before, with more forethought for Operation Iraqi Freedom than the entire White House. From what I get of HYBRID Math, Iraq would’ve become unstoppable two weeks before the singularity. Matthew is now, sadly, my favorite pundit.

That’s the last example. Less instructive than the endless disclaimer, but that fits HYBRID’s style. Bringing us to Rule 0.

I’m not a total idiot. If I keep on saying it, eventually I’ll be right. Matthew can only insult the game he swiped his non-calculator stats from for so long.

There’s a novella of text before “2nd” and “3rd,” which are just time travel. Not knowing drove me insane, and I want you to sleep tonight. Said novella discusses Iceman, Thundarr, the stats of Earth 616 Mysterio, Ares’s sex life on Xena: Warrior Princess, Matthew’s resentful boner for Xena: Warrior Princess, and HYBRID’s simplicity.

Once, I thought there were a few thousand languages, generally scaled to history’s largest armies and wallets. Today,I know there are as many languages as movements and ailments. I’m learning Matthew’s because it looks insane and self-destructive. In my tongue, that means “commence.”

And boy, is this section commence. This note’s longer than my tax audit, and covers every six pack on nerd TV. Until, finally, we reach Rule 0.

Wuh?

log(Wuh)^2?

Matthew is no longer my favorite pundit.

Clearly, I bear the 1860’s darksign. Slavery rants will follow me until I die. Ideally free, though we’ll see what the next executive orders say.

Can’t have gold-diggers stealing Matthew’s HYBRID profits. Well, hypothetical gold-diggers stealing hypothetical profits. Shadowboxing phantom harlots is par for Matthew’s diagnosis, but should give abandoned men pause. The lonely lobby sounds like HYBRID without the fun parts, or structure.

Bringing us to anything but Rule 0. Eh? How about that.? Fake me out. Please.

Lesson learned. Don’t tempt the devil, or he’ll turn you into a low-fat baker.

The optional/HYBRID part is mixing blueberry cake mix and brownie mix. With strict limits on flavor-enhancing, cookware sparing oils. Personally, I prefer savory flavors with my fucking madness. The Lecter experience. Still, I love that Matthew’s victims get a sugar rush before the end.

My maniac blood begs to bake this. My sane blood begs to finish this article on time. My bro mind agrees about the sugar, and wants to find a linear squat machine. I’ll skip it for now.

[Update: It’s alright. Get ready to lose half the brownie to your ungreased pan.]

Every book longer than Pippi Longstocking should come with a recipe. Or at least a takeout number. “Eat this while I dazzle you” is a nearly romantic flex. If Matthew applied this to asylum dating, he’d be divorced by now.

Rule 0 isn’t next. Now that you’ve eaten, you can probably handle that.

That’s a lot of math to say “Will Smith is expensive.” I hope that, despite his quirks, Matthew can review movies for The Washington Post. They seem ready for his method.

Next recipe?

Nice try, but our fate is clear. We’ll journey toward Rule 0, forever. HYBRID loves us, and wants to keep us forever.

Finally! Our training is complete, and worthless. I don’t know what these sounds mean in this order. I suspect this text is alive, and stealing strength from its hosts. But that’s based on the blood trickling from my nose, not “Rules and/or equations grow.” Our journey here is meaningless, save learning Matthew intends to write more rules.

By tabletop rpg tradition, Matthew gets a saving throw.

My bad! Matthew’s message is simple.

See, I spent ages convinced HYBRID was a prank. Timecube by way of Real Ultimate Power, if you will. A polemic against rules-obsessed game design, from fans of the theater approach. Instead, it’s a polemic against Nurse Ratched for fans of rules.

And beautiful. My notes should clarify things. Here’s an abridged summary.

Do you see?

Do you see?

You see. Congratulations! Now you can speak HYBRID.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Christopher Worthen, who has three PhDs in math and still didn’t fully grasp the rules here. But that’s okay becau- DROP KICK

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NERDING DAY

Nerding Day: Portraits of Personality

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LEARNING DAY

Learning Day : Slavery 101

Meet Lochlainn.

Lochlainn writes Confederate propaganda for kids. He’s tried other lanes, but his grown-up books are as childlike as his children’s books are doglike.

Lochlainn Seabrook wants to be white. To us, he already is. But he wants the white cartoon. The love, respect, and gratitude of The Filth. Every keystroke kills that dream.

Col. Lochlainn Seabrook will never be white. He wouldn’t deserve his dream if it existed. He mourns a lost life as a KFC mascot. Other reenactors don’t like the faces or sounds he makes.

Col. Lochlainn Seabrook, Jefferson Davis Award winner, wrote a defense of Antebellum slavery. As a table book. Table books are like kids’ books, with lower standards and smaller words. Seabrook might do better. He won’t, but he has 84 chances. 101, if he weren’t a lazy shit.

Interesting opening. Did Lochlainn plan to write this book? Or was it an accident, like half his brain surviving the vacuum? “Slavery Existed Before Forrest” is my strawman of Seabrook, and he’s sprinted ahead. On the first page. What the fuck is Fact 84? “My wife loves me more than the bull?”

Here, Lochlainn rambles about ancient Greece, the ideal gauge for 19th century choices. That’s why we still treat miscarriages with dung.

Yeah, I’m probably descended from slave owners. I’d call that one of the darker problems.

In a vacuum, I should stop giving nazis brand tips. But they don’t take monkey advice, so whatever. Generally, Lochlainn, when chanting “I am not a racist,” one avoids ranting about Africa.

Fun fact: semantics also began in Africa, the cradle of discourse.

Lochlainn knows the pain of getting kicked out of a party early. This bit’s personal, so I’ll let it fly.

Seven is early to start reusing material. Even Every Day Magic made it to Valentine’s Day without plagiarizing itself. Yet Lochlainn feels the labor behind his livelihood is beneath him. Weird.

Lochlainn lists every Bronze Age society he can think of (it’s a short entry), and ends on/emphasizes “the Hebrews.” Antisemitism’s still reactionary autopilot. Martian nativists will blame them for migrants from Pluto.

Lochlainn tilts a summary of the Barbary Wars. Against reason, he’s worse at it than the Civil War. He rambles without the words “pirate,” “corsair,” “privateer,” “navy,” or “ship,” failing as both a historian and children’s author. When the records give you pirates, use pirates. That’s the sugar around the redpill.

For many of you, these articles hit before the third coffee of the day. So I’ll spell it out: this wing of the book rewrites Roots in white crayon. Lochlainn’s Dixie is a revenge fantasy for eons of white bondage. I call it Bizarro Wakanda.

Suspense! Want a remedial lesson in DARVO? Guess the answer. Lochlainn isn’t a master, or literate, but boy does he try.

Lochlainn’s answer: “by increasing the monetary value of African slaves, it greatly reduced instances of their abuse, torture, murder, and sacrifice by fellow Africans.”

Frankly, magical. In rhetoric, they call this tactic “cerebral hemorrhaging.” Slavery 101 came out in 2015, so it’s too late to get Lochlainn a doctor.

I swear, Real America won’t let you have anything. Seabrook’s swiping chattel slavery like its rock n’ roll. Who should play Indentured Elvis in Roots II?

I write on a hideously overpriced and perfect e-ink typewriter (glorified Notepad emulator) with a 7-inch screen. It attracts artsy descendants of indentured servants. Then, they see that I’ve typed “IN EARLY AMERICA A WHITE SLAVE WAS WORTH LESS THAN HALF THAT OF A BLACK SLAVE.” And I limp back to Hinge.

This bit of spin’s where the repetition starts in earnest:

Now Seabrook’s stuck in a loop. One with a divine sentence:

Remarkably efficient worldbuilding. Lochlainn’s written white power’s “The door dilated.” Any reader knows, from here, that Seabrook’s out of his tiny mind. And that we’re in a new, fantastic world. In Bizzaro Wakanda, anything is possible.

Experienced Seabrook scholars know he loves this line. I’m still baffled. I can’t even tell if it’s my imagination failing, or his. With his agenda, I’d hide that trivia in an underground vault, and split the keys among Four Invincible Country Star Generals. Yet here it is again, in bold all-caps text.

Eyup. I’d call them the second worst place to be black in North America.

Lochlainn deeply envies people barred from writing. He could’ve skipped a lifetime of humiliation.

Lochlainn’s a brilliant kids’ writer. Every book is like “I Spy” for equivocation. “Look, Mama! Horseshit! Mister Seabrook’s lying through his missing teeth again. It’s because of his small pee-pee.”

It sounds like a Tom DuBois joke, but he’s talking about early Boston’s favorite prank. Beware alcoholic reparations.

Sure. Monetary reparations should go directly to the state’s black humorists.

The worldbuilding continues with a mind-bending riddle: what’s authentic slavery? Solve it, and become authentic king of Bizarro Wakanda.

Each writer hides something worthwhile. In Lochlainn, it’s fighting history itself. What a struggle. You can feel his heart break with his mind. Said mind is a bruised, battered Rocky Balboa mess. Yet Lochlainn gets up one more time to fight the idea of knowledge. He’d have done well in the Mandingo fights.

FACT 44’s taught me a new technique. Against my will, but that’s par for this topic. Here, Lochlainn owns a fake idiot arguing against their own nested punching bag. I call it the Mobius Strawman. Nothing else explains coming at this angle.

I wanted that DARVO joke earlier to be hurtful and unfair. So it’s sharp for Lochlainn to just do it. I look forward to reading about the Yankees attacking Fort Sumter, purging Fort Pillow, and teamkilling Stonewall Jackson. Our perfidy knows no bounds.

No one’s grasped at a straw this thin since Lochlainn’s wife.

For all of Lochlainn’s microfailure as a thinker, historian, and biped, he inspires. You can type anything. No god or standards will stop you. I’m braver today because of Lochlainn. If the not-colonel can believe in himself, why not you?

Davis was picked for his elastic spine. Slavers preferred someone that wouldn’t muck things up by governing. I could see him telling the soldier that caught him ditching his family this.

I’d love to paste the Cornerstone Speech and move on. But I must honor generations of tryhards before me. So I’ll note that Lochlainn quotes Vance’s predecessor on his deathbed. When you’re dying and believe in hell, your memory gets flexible. That, or you start screaming.

I know this quote, by heart.

Or some vapid equivocation. My brain started sparking 40 slurs ago.

There’s such a sweaty desperation to Lochlainn’s writing. The point’s smothering thought, but he sounds like he’s trying to catch up to his own dignity. What would he even tell it? It’s been decades. Let it die in peace.

He adds a picture.

Perhaps Godwin’s law was meant for flamewars about nothing, rather than vanity publishing or imperial disintegration. But it jumps to mind when Hitler appears in every Seabrook book about the 1860s. After writing my own Civil War fever dream, I’ve gotta say: Adolf doesn’t come up much.

Again, sprinkles of the truth. The South would’ve ended slavery at some point before the heat death of the universe. At the very latest, when half-man, half-machine Server Servants merged with Aristocrat Hivemind Zero. Ending mandingo fights was short-sighted cultural tyranny, and one day Dixie will be avenged by Roko’s Gentleman.

Lochlainn hates Yankees for ditching slavery when profits dipped, instead of putting cool whips first. It makes Dixie gentlemen look like art purists, choosing passion over solvency. I suspect Lochlainn would pay for the privilege, and skip planting anything.

Lunacy? Or proof that a medium’s quirks become features? In this case, the quirk’s bottomless cruelty. And the medium.

Three in a row! Again, I see why Lochlainn’s dead brain resents losing free labor. He’d need three Bagger Vances to get through middle school.

“Fact 71.5: Harriett Tubman was a poop face with a stinky butt. General Lee called her Harriet NoTubman because of the smell. P.U.”

I like this game! Ramses didn’t run a “Pyramid Regime.” The vast majority of buildings were dull rectangles, holding the living. Stop talking about pyramids. Volunteers worked hard on them.

Lochlainn’s published more books about Nathan Bedford Forrest, one of the biggest Southern slave traders, than any other moron. Living or dead. This erases more than Forrest, history, or sanity. This erases Lochlainn Seabrook.

I see why younger nazis went mask-off: the mask looks fucking stupid. If Steve Harvey asks for five symbols of white supremacy, what’s your second guess? The frog has no staying power, the CMT logo’s too niche, and Charlie’s neckhole is already played out.

I didn’t appreciate Lincoln’s complexity before Seabrook. In the same pages he’s a bigot, race traitor, monkey-lover (abstract), monkey-lover (sexual), monkey (literal), imbecile, shrewd tactician, Mr. Bean, snake in Eden, and three-headed nemesis of Godzilla. A total lack of principles and research keeps Lochlainn’s eyes clear, and allows him to see every imaginable side of Abe. Helpful, as he makes them up.

Man did it work. Nothing but net. We’re still mopping up iced tears from that one.

Their names? Albert Einstein. Your move, liberal. Just remember you’re arguing with the father of relativity.

This is the closer, which caught me off guard. If I’d jerked 84 pieces of fantasy worldbuilding into a Prussian Blue notebook, I’d at least *try* to crank out 16 more. We broke the seal on repetition two entries in, so there’s nothing stopping Lochlainn from printing “Slaves still exist” in sixteen different fonts.

But I have a fact. Straight from Gilead’s leading scholar, L. Seabrook. Enjoy five footnotes from Slavery 101.

Sorry, that’s cherry-picked. Here are twenty footnotes from Slavery 101.

Lochlainn cites himself! 113 times! 115, if Emphasis is a pen name. While Lochlainn’s never been rigorous, this is research inbreeding. He should return his made-up award. And life.

Enjoy the last black history month! In the spirit of brotherhood, I’ll wait at least another week before waterboarding Lochlainn again. Maybe two! Peace is possible in our time. For you. Not Lochlainn and I, we’re tandem-diving into a lake of fire.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Gareth. There’s not a lot I can say about Gareth. Not because he isn’t impressive, but because I am filled with so much awe that my mind draws a blank.