Here is what , the author of the great novel Why Teach?, had to say about the novel:

“The most drunken love story I’ve ever read: never has a novel of drinking, drugs and debauchery failed the Bechdel test with so much heart and good humor!”

I am thrilled that I failed this test but was able to pass most tests with flying colors in high school. It led me to writing this piece. One question remains…if Peter was fired from his teaching gig to fund a football stadium, would he still watch football? Find out what the fuck I am talking about below!

I “played” college football at Monmouth University for two years. I say “played” because I never got any burn in a real game and decided to quit after getting a concussion in a summer scrimmage. I never disclosed said concussion to trainers or coaches because…I’m a football player. That’s what football players do.1 We were given off the next day, we went out partying that night, and we drank like we had just been released from prison. I woke up the next morning and my brain felt like mashed potatoes. I said, “Why the fuck am I doing this?” and never went back.

Part of this decision chews at me to this day. I still have nightmares where I missed a meeting and was kicked off the team. There are random dreams that pop up where I stayed and played and became a star. These are both laughable, though it turned out later that season our starting weakside safety got hurt and I would’ve gotten burn all year as the nickelback had I stayed.

The journey to “playing” college ball wasn’t your typical one. My high school coach told me he was giving my name out to D3 schools and I laughed at him and decided I’d never play again instead of playing at the lowest tier of college football. I thought I was better than D3 but my high school coach had less brain cells than Forrest Gump. I attended Monmouth University, which has a D1AA football program, on a half scholarship for grades instead. The first half of my freshman year I did not play football and took to partying. My best friend ended up transferring to Monmouth to play football, he saw what I was becoming without football (a pot head) and forced me to walk on. It turned out to be one of the best things that could have happened to me. (Thanks Dr. Jeremy! - RSM Sports Medicine)

My parents and I had a deal since I was young regarding college. They would pay up to half. It was one of the best parenting moves I’ve ever seen and I will use it with my own kids. It encouraged me to do well in school so that I wouldn’t be saddled with debt if I happened to earn, at the bare minimum, a half scholarship. I did earn that scholarship but because there was no money involved in the football situation at Monmouth the concussion made it easy for me to quit. If, let’s say, football was paying the other half of my tuition, I would have stuck it out to the bitter end no matter how many concussions I received to relieve my parents of paying that second half.

For those who don’t know, money plays a big role in college sports. Some of the players that were on scholarship at Monmouth weren’t as good as the kids that didn’t have money tied to them. But because those scholarship athletes were on the payroll, and the doners were the ones paying for them to be there, they occasionally got playing time over other players that might have deserved it more. This wasn’t the case at my position, but I saw it at others. It makes sense. It’s how the world works. Fair aint always the name of the game. It was my first real reality check. It probably helped me understand the publishing industry quicker than others. Money talks.

But even knowing this didn’t stop my jaw from dropping when I read an article about a high school in Buford, Georgia that spent 62 million dollars constructing a football stadium. I audibly laughed. 62 million? For a high school stadium? What the fuck is going on?

High school sports are supposed to be pure as the driven snow. The best players play because it’s about the love of the game. No money is supposed to exchange hands because there is no money to spend except on the bare minimum for shoulder pads and helmets. Even then, the helmets and pads are hand-me-downs. A one-time purchase for the next 20 years of football players.

After reading that article I almost got dragged down into negative town. What are we doing dumping boatloads of money into high school athletics? Aren’t there more important things to be spending the money on? But then I went back to the original tweet with the article and scrolled into the comments that read like a Bernie Sander’s rally.

62 million for the stadium and teachers are getting laid off?

This is Georgia after all, they can’t read books, so why spend the money on a library.

And students have to pay for lunch!

When the players get hurt, they won’t be able to afford health care.

I had to stop.

Whininess annoys me above all else.

Luckily I live in a state that LOVES football and remembered there are plenty of high schools that operate as colleges here. In New Jersey there are two top parochial high schools that dish out cash to get the best athletes in and out of state. St. Peter’s Prep and Don Bosco compete at the highest level of high school football throughout the nation. They are often ranked in the top 10 football high schools in the country. Money aint a thang for these schools (they are private, they charge tuition) and they churn out unbelievable athletes. One athlete I remember watching out of St. Peter’s was Will Hill.

Will Hill was a beast at safety and quarterback and ended up playing for the Florida Gators in college and going on to a sordid NFL career. Will Hill grew up in East Orange. East Orange is not a place that primes its young men for success. It’s got about double the rate of violent crime than NJ’s average and it has a higher overall crime rate than the rest of the country. Who knows what happens to Will Hill had St. Peter’s not come knocking with a bag of cash and a chance to play at an elite high school. He was troubled even after that (partying, drugs, suspensions at Florida University). But who knows where that attitude would have led him had he stayed in East Orange. Definitely nowhere good.

I was going to write the rest of this post as a diatribe to unintended consequences. I was going to shit on every one of those commenters and show them, as if they were children, that taking money from one place could affect the people you are taking it from. I, brilliant Alex, was going to show them the errors in their thinking - “Look at all the things you could have spent 62 million on” instead of “How many lives is this 62 million gonna change for the better?” But that would be sanctimonious. That would be annoying. And you know what? Who gives a fuck!

This is America and Americans love football. I can’t wait for this college football season to start on Saturday. I’m giddy. I’m anxious. I’m excited. I can smell it in the air. I can feel it in my bones. Football is back and wives across this great country have no idea their men are about to be stolen from them. Those people that live near Buford High are probably feeling the same thing. They CAN’T WAIT to enter that 62-million-dollar cathedral to watch their boys play. They’ll probably make that 62 million back on concessions in the first game season. That’s how much we Americans love football.

People might think of a thousand better ways to spend that money. I probably could too. But when I really think about it, there is nothing better than spending money on something people enjoy. In a world where everyone is whining about this or that – football is a beautiful constant. It’s something millions of people in this country love and enjoy. It’s a right of passage for the boys playing, it’s an escape for the people watching, and the probability that any teacher who was fired in order for this stadium to be built will still watch football this Autumn is hovering at 99%.

P.S. – Monmouth University’s football stadium cost 17 million dollars (LOL).

P.P.S. – Some of the most expensive high school stadiums are obviously in Texas with multiple in the 80-100+ million dollar range. Texas Forever.

P.P.P.S. – The last play of my football career was fucking beautiful. I was playing strong side safety, the quarterback dropped back to pass, I read his eyes looking across the field and sprinted about 30 yards to the weak side, dove, and broke up a pass. My head slammed directly into the hard turf. I was concussed. My brain turned to soup. It was worth it.

P.P.P.P.S – My guess is that NONE of those twitter commentors read ’s piece on his Substack where he goes into how Buford high school actually came up with the funds because why would anyone want their priors tested. If you’re interested check it out here!

Huddle Up

The $62 Million High School Stadium That Sparked a National Debate

When I tweeted about Buford High School in Georgia opening its new $62 million football stadium earlier this week, the reaction was polarizing…to say the least…

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9 months ago · 32 likes · 2 comments · Joe Pompliano

P.P.P.P.P.S. – Look at Buford High’s fucking library! Turns out they CAN read. Flannery O’Connor is a Georgian after all.

P.P.P.P.P.P.S - Catholics vs. Convicts to start the season is going to be a DOOZY. Go Irish.

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S - Sorry for using you as click bait . No teachers were fired in the making of this stadium.

The day after Christmas the wife and I went to a comedy show. The headliner was Joey Diaz, a notoriously raunchy comic from New Jersey, preceded by two opening acts. The show was originally sold out at the Count Basie Theatre but luckily I know someone on the charity board who can acquire tickets that are being held for board members (thanks Mom!) Little did I know the tickets that were held were FRONT ROW tickets. If I had known such a thing I would have politely declined.

Why? Because the last thing you want to do at a comedy show is sit front row. You are a sitting duck for any good comic and if there is something off or wrong or noticeable about you it will be called out to an audience who will then surely laugh at your expense. Alas, my mother shelled out money for the tickets, I bought them from her, and off me and the wife went.

As a balding individual I figured, at the very least, one of the three comics would take a swing at my lack of hair follicles. A bald head is a bullseye for easy jokes. I personally like my sparkling dome. When haircuts started creeping into the $30 range I was thankful that my hair decided to give up and fall lifeless into the shower drain. Though I’ve saved a ton of money, and think I look just fine sans hair, it still stings a bit when I see pictures of my younger self with what can only be described as a wafro (white afro).

To compound the bullseye that is a shaved head, I now shave my face. This is a new phenomenon. If it was up to me I’d keep a short beard or at the very least stubble. But it is not up to me. I didn’t shave my face for the show or for Christmas that just passed but for reasons that are near and dear to my heart. For reasons bigger than my own vanity. I now shave my face for my wife and daughters.

You see, Mr. Steinbrenner, the way my facial hair grows is out first. Eventually it falls down but for at least a two-week period the hair on my face shoots outward, sticking anyone in its vicinity like a porcupine. And for that two-week period my wife and kids hate kissing me. They would rather just give daddy one of those ass out hugs in order to not get their faces punctured by my spikey hair. During these periods, when I ask my three-year-old daughter for a kiss, she still gives it to me but winces in pain upon contact. During these periods, when I ask my wife for a kiss, she flat out says no. During these periods, when I try and kiss my one-year-old, she leans her head so far back she almost does a gainer out of my arms. It’s a travesty really. You know what I do instead? I shave every week. Why? Because I want to kiss my wife and kids, looks be damned.

So, Mr. Steinbrenner, I shaved my face and head the day before Christmas because I wanted to kiss my children on Christmas morning. I wanted the ability to stick my nose and lips so far into their cheeks it left a dent. I wanted my daughter to be so excited for the new bike Santa got the credit for that she couldn’t help but kiss ME on the cheek without wincing in pain. I wanted my wife to snuggle her face into mine while drinking coffee and watching the kids tear through their presents. It was all worth it Mr. Steinbrenner, until I attended that comedy show.

You can’t imagine the things these comics said about me. The opener took one look at me and said, “Jesus Christ, we got a cancer patient here in the front row. Give him a round of applause!” The second opener took one look at my wife, made a comment about how hot she was, and then said “She’s not only hot, she’s nice too. Look, she’s got a make-a-wish kid with her!” I sat there, I laughed, I took it on the chin because the reason I shave my face and head are bigger than me.

I don’t want to get all philosophical here Mr. Steinbrenner, but just hear me out for a second. Sports have always been about something bigger than the individual. They are a conduit to experience the breadth of human emotion. Sports are a way to make something serious out of a game, to play out a drama or a comedy in real time with no script. Sports may not be serious on the face but peel back a couple layers and you have the seriousness of the human condition playing out in real time. Winners. Losers. Joy. Heartbreak. It’s all right there once you get past the fact that these are just “grown men playing a kid’s game.” Sports are a way to get at something deeper and if they are not taken seriously there is no point in playing them.

For years your Yankees have taken playing the game of baseball seriously. Part of that reason is that you and your father have chosen to run the organization seriously. The shaving policy you recently threw out the window was one way of displaying that seriousness. I understand that times have changed, that grown men have realized they look like ugly shrews without facial hair, but that is no reason to have stopped the policy. If the shaving policy resembles the military then that is a good thing. War is a serious matter and it would look pretty ridiculous if our warriors weren’t all dressed in the same clothes with the same shaved faces. Sports is not war, I understand that, but it still should be taken seriously. A team should look the same in order to move in the same direction. The reason they should look the same is not some stupid rule. More than anything it shows that no one is above the team. It shows that grown men are willing to sacrifice something to be a part of it. I’ve sacrificed my facial hair to be a part of my family and been ridiculed in public for it. I think guys making millions of dollars a year can do the same to be a part of the New York Yankees.

Thank you for your time, Mr. Steinbrenner. If you need any help with policy decisions going forward, I know a guy…

P.S. – Dreadlocks should have always been allowed. Dreads rule.

P.P.S. – I know I sound like a boomer but I was born in 1990, I swear.

P.P.P.S. – Gleyber looks like an idiot with a beard.

P.P.P.P.S. – I haven’t stopped thinking about the conversation between George Steinbrenner and Lou Pinella at the Yankees facility in Fort Lauderdale. Lou mentioned to George that Jesus wore a beard and long hair, so why couldn’t he? George Steinbrenner looked out at a pond behind the facility and said to Lou, “Walk across that pond and you can have a beard and long hair.”

P.P.P.P.P.S. – Joey Diaz and his openers were fucking hilarious.

#1 – A Philadelphia Eagles Helmet Clock

Christmas Eve is always held at my house. My entire family comes over for pernil (pork shoulder with the crunchy skin that causes fights for the best pieces) and empanadas and copious amounts of drink. It is the most hilarious affair you can imagine. Half of my family being Dominican, Cuba, and Puerto Rican raises the volume of the evening to concert level highs. The other half of my family is Irish and Slovakian and you would think they would be drowned out by the sheer decibel level of the Hispanic side but instead, in order to be heard, quadruple their own output and volume. It is a raucous affair and at the end, with my mother in all but tears of relief that the night is over, used to allow me and my sister the opening of one gift before going to bed. She would put the gifts we were allowed to pick from in a little pile, saving the really good ones for Christmas morning, and usually the one we picked always happened to be pajamas. But, one year, I opened up a Philadelphia Eagles Helmet clock.

I loved the gift because I love the Eagles and always dreamed of playing NFL football. So, of course, I needed batteries in it ASAP and needed the clocks to match. Little did I or my family know that the clock was pre-set to have an alarm because…who the fuck would ever think an alarm was pre-programmed? Lo and behold the alarm clock went off in my ear at 3:30 AM (because I was sleeping with it clutched in my hands). I didn’t know it was 3:30 AM, I just knew that the alarm clock went off which meant it was time to get up and see what Santa brought me. I ran through the house yelling, “It’s Christmas, it’s Christmas,” and that year woke my entire family up to open gifts at 3 fucking 30 AM. My parents being the best parents rolled with it and by 6 AM all the gifts were opened and we were all passed out on the couch, exhausted.

#2 – Country Grammar

People born in a specific era know exactly what I am talking about when I say the most memorable gift I’ve ever received was Country Grammar. But for those who don’t, I am referring to the debut album by the rapper Nelly. I remember opening the gift like it was yesterday because the absolute menace on the front cover was both shocking and exhilarating for the ten-year old suburban white boy who opened it.

You can’t imagine what opening up a beautifully wrapped CD and seeing a dude who looked as big as the St. Louis Arch with a chain and a tattoo that says Lunatic across his stomach did to my young brain. To say I was excited to hit play on this album was an understatement. I don’t think I opened up any other gifts after. I ran to my room, grabbed my CD player and headphones, and hit play.

In defense of my mother, she DID NOT know that she bought the explicit version. I think she thought that the Parental Advisory warning on the album cover meant that the curses were in fact bleeped out. I get it. That can be confusing. But when I hit play I realized very quickly that she did not get me the bleeped out version.

After the intro with Cedric The Entertainer leaving Nelly a voicemail (rollin around hea in a big body benz wit two dollars wortha gas), the first song is called St. Louie. The opening lyrics go as follows:

You can find me in St. Louay
Where the gunplay ring all day (na-na-na)
Some got jobs and some sell yay
Others just smoke and fuck all day

My jaw was somewhere near the basement. I clutched my pearls. I couldn’t believe the words I was hearing. Little sweet innocent ten-year-old Alex was introduced to rap in the most raw way possible and to say I was hooked on rap music going forward is an understatement. To me and my generation, the album is by far the best debut solo rap album ever made (2^nd – Get Rich or Die Tryin & 3^rd – College Dropout). Though many people don’t give Nelly the credit he deserves, he really made it insanely popular to use melody in the hoodest of rap. He wasn’t the first to do it, but he was for sure the most listened to. Four years before Kanye West’s College Dropout songs like Country Grammar (Hot Shit) and Ride Wit Me had people singing the craziest lyrics. When I finally played the album for my mom in the car she was both mortified and hooked and we would sing Ride Wit Me together at full volume. In the wise words of Nelly, “Who said pretty boys can’t be wild”.

To this day I know every damn lyric to every damn song on that album. My personal favorites are Utha Side, Batter Up, and the last song on the album, my favorite song ever written in any genre ever, Luven Me. If you’ve never heard the song, I highly suggest you give it a listen.

This song holds a very special place in my heart. Fast forward 15 years after first listening to it and I am on my first date with my future wife. We’re driving home from a nice dinner and talking about our favorite music. I mentioned the album Country Grammar and my wife said it was her favorite album too. I was shocked. I thought the album was forgotten about and that I was the only person who still listened to it on a regular basis.

The wife and I went on to listen to our favorite songs, knowing every word, falling more in love with every single lyric the other one knew. And then Luven Me came on. She said she thought she was the only person who knew this song back to front…but then she met me. She couldn’t believe I knew every single word. We sang every lyric, word for word, and we both screamed the part where Nelly says, “Need money? My boo will go and work the avenue, my boo will fuck you up if I ask her to!” Though I am wary if my boo would ever go work the avenue, she’ll definitely fuck you up if I ask (again, she’s Sicilian). We then went on to know every shoutout that goes on for the last minute of the song (Herky Jerk!).

From that day on we have barely spent a minute apart and now we are getting ready for Christmas morning with our two daughters. Christmas isn’t always about gifts but sometimes a gift can change the course of a person’s life. So thank you Mom (and Dad, even though he was surprised at half the gifts I ever got) and Nelly. I can’t say that without the album my wife and I wouldn’t have ended up together, but I can say that loving the album Country Grammar certainly helped.

P.S. – Merry Christmas to anyone who has read my posts this past year. Means a lot, truly. Thank you.

I’m no psychiatrist, but disengaging from family based on who they voted for sounds like one of the dumbest ideas I’ve ever heard. I can think of a thousand reasons I would cut off a family member that has nothing to do with who they voted for. Giving my kid sugar before sending them home (I’m talking to you Mom), not forcing my kid to nap when watching them (I’m talking to you Mom), letting my kid watch TV whenever they want (I’m talking to you Mom), are all valid reasons to cut a family member off. But politics? The person you voted for? Hell no.

I am not shocked at this take from the Yale psychiatrist though. This is the natural conclusion to the discourse of using such heightened political jargon like the other side is fascist or communist – two overused words that now have zero meaning. If anyone did their due diligence and actually knew what those two words did in the 20^th century they wouldn’t have the balls to actually use them in today’s political landscape. Both of those philosophies killed HUNDREDS of MILLIONS of people. So far we’ve gone through 4 years a piece with Democrats and Republicans in office and we’re all still here. A shocker if you’ve been watching either Fox or MSNBC. But the country hasn’t burned. The country and its people still stand.

The above clip was on Joy Reid’s show on MSNBC, a network that for all intents and purposes is just a mouthpiece for the Democratic party. That same network hosts another show called Morning Joe, hosted by Mika and Joe Scarborough. These two hosts have been some of the biggest culprits when it comes to this jargonized language around Donald Trump and politics in general.

If you don’t have time to watch this clip, let me just break it down real quick. Joe Scarborough goes on a little rant saying that, “If you are voting for Donald Trump in 2024 you are knowingly voting for a fascist, for a racist, for a person who wants to take America back 200 years,” all while a corpse like Al Sharpton smiles like an idiot. The irony of talking about morals sitting next to a guy like Al Sharpton is just a chef’s kiss.

So it was rather strange when Mika and Joe revealed on their show last week that they had met with Donald Trump after his election win. You would think that someone who is such a danger to this country should be met with armed uprising, not a meeting. The hypocrisy of Mika and Joe is not lost on me, yet I think the majority of the people who are giving these two hosts shit (on both sides of the political spectrum) for having the gall to meet with the President-elect are actually the problem. They are the same people who would agree with the Yale psychiatrist.

Here comes a hot take - Mika and Joe meeting with Trump is a good thing. Putting differences aside is the only way forward. You can call out hypocrisy as much as you want but only to a point of good faith. For years people have railed on the mainstream media for being insanely biased. They are right in doing so. But now that two MSNBC hosts have decided to build a bridge to the other side, all we want to do is tear it down. Ever since Joe Scarborough said that Joe Biden was “the most cogent” he’s ever seen him, while we all watched Biden’s mental faculties decline, I thought he and his co-host were a lost cause. I thought they were so entrenched in their position they would say anything. But the fact that they are willing to look like hypocrites now instead of digging their heels in and sticking to stupid ideas is a good thing. Because this is THE POINT OF POLITICS. Talking it out instead of civil war. Good ideas live, bad ideas die, instead of us, physically.

An MSNBC coming more to the middle is a good thing. Both sides forgiving the bullshit they said on the campaign trails is a good thing, but even more so for the side that won. You don’t laugh at and ridicule the people you beat; you make amends with them. This is War 101. Sun Tzu calls it the Golden Bridge - a way to allow someone you’ve beaten to save face. Again, if you know anything about history, this is where the allies went wrong after World War 1. Germany was humiliated, humiliation lead to anger, that anger led to a real fascist. It’s not an excuse, just an honest (and very simplified) accounting of the way humans work.

So forgiveness is the name of the game here. It’s one of the reasons I despised Donald Trump for continuously saying he did not lose the 2020 election. It was not only a sore loser move, but worse, it gave no one a Golden Bridge. No one could forgive and forget. No one could move the fuck on. Everyone felt the need to dig in to their political foxholes and fight. But I believe I know forgiveness, real forgiveness, because I’ve been close to it.

My Grandma was the strongest woman I’ve ever known. Anything I know about true goodness comes from her. Before I was born my Uncle Michael was at a bar drinking with a known associate. Michael tended to get into trouble, especially at bars. When this guy asked Michael if he wanted a ride home Michael declined. He said he’d walk, that this associate was clearly too drunk to drive. He made the responsible decision for once in his life. On that walk home the associate was so drunk he hit Michael as he walked home, leaving him to die in a ditch, too drunk to notice or care.

My Uncle survived the accident after months in a coma. He was a quadriplegic from that moment on. He could only move his head, and just barely. By the time I was born the only Uncle Michael I ever knew was a 6’7” man in a wheelchair.

As a father, I know what I would do to the person that did that to my kid. I’d find them, tie them up, and flay their skin with a butter knife. Well, at least that would be my first thought. But then I would think about my Grandma. Because what she did is what true forgiveness is all about. Instead of taking retribution or legal action, after the man was let out of jail she went on a tour of sorts. Her, Michael, and the man went around to colleges...together. They spoke about what happened, about the pain drinking and driving cost not only Michael and my Grandma, but the man who hit him. They spoke about how to forgive. They spoke about how to move on. In a way, they spoke about the Golden Bridge. And here we are, in the year 2024, talking about not forgiving people for who they voted for?

Weak. Soft. Childish. A spit in the face to my Grandma, someone who truly forgave.

If my Grandma could do what she did, you can sit your ass next to someone who voted for Trump or Kamala and eat fucking turkey.

So in the spirit of the holidays, now’s the time to make the Golden Bridge in your personal life. Let all the political bullshit go. Let the other side, whichever it is, save face. Let the people in your life get back to being people in your life and not political caricatures. Because when you die, your headstone isn’t going to read “This guy Voted for Trump in 2024” or “White Dude for Kamala 2024”. If it does, then you haven’t done much in your life. Don’t let that be the case.

P.S. - Just kidding Mom, I’d never cut you off for any of that.

P.P.S. - Turkey sucks and we all know it.

Regardless of what HeGetsUs.com is trying to do, one of the commercials has changed my perspective on this World Series. The commercial, if you’ve been watching, is the one that says, “Jesus loved the people we hate.” Clearly Jesus has been reading my Substack because everyone I’ve claimed to hate on the Dodgers has had an insanely successful first two games. Thanks to HeGetsUs, I am going to try something different. I am going to put love over hate. I’d like to officially write some apology letters. Here goes nothing.

Letter #3

Dear Teoscar Hernandez,

I apologize for what I said about hating your name. It really rolls off the tongue, if I’m honest. Teoscar sounds like it should be the name of the main character in a romance novel with this guy on the cover:

I also want to apologize to you as a fellow Dominican. If my Nana read my Substack she would be ashamed at how I bashed you. It was all in a fit of jealousy. I am jealous of how you battered the Yankees in the regular season and I am jealous now. The first step to solving a problem is admitting you have one.  

I hope you accept this apology, Mr. Hernandez, and good luck the rest of the series.

With Love,

Alex Muka

Letter #2

Dear Will Smith,

Your parents clearly named you right because you are as big of a star as that other guy who stole your name. You have been an All Star catcher for the past two seasons, which is as good of a run as Bad Boys 1 & 2. Though the Bad Boys series should have stopped after 1 & 2, I hope your All-Star run continues well into the future.

A lot of people are saying you are struggling at the plate but what they’ve failed to mention is that even though you are frustrated you haven’t charged the mound yet, like another guy named Will Smith.

I know you are struggling, but you’ve had a cool head the entire time, and that is the sign of a good man.

On the one hit you’ve had this series you ran the bases perfectly. And you know what that means? You haven’t been caught in a rundown, aka a pickle. This is all to say that your name doesn’t have to define you. William Dills Smith, you are a testament to all of the poorly named people out there. If you can overcome your name, anyone can.

I’d also like to congratulate you on the birth of your daughter this past week. If you need any advice on being a girl dad please refer to the below post.

I hope this helps.

With Love,

Alex Muka

Letter #1

Dear Freddie Freeman,

I’ve never been so wrong about a person in my life. Your smile is infectious, your dance moves make women at the ball park swoon, and I’d be honored to have you babysit my daughters. Why the change of heart, you ask?

For one, I accidentally watched your post-game interview when you said that you got home after hitting a walk-off grand slam and you still had to put the kids to bed. Instead of heading out to a bar and pounding an excessive amount of drinks in celebration of the biggest moment of your career, you headed home and took care of your family. I’ve never been able to relate to something more in my life. Sure I’ve never had a whiff of the level of glory you’ve had at your job, but when I get a sale at my job there is that temptation to hit the bar for a couple celebratory pops. I don’t do it. Because I’m dad first, and so are you.

Watching the post-game interview was only the first of many accidents I’ve had since the start of this series. The second major accident was not pissing the bed in a drunken stupor after the Yankees second straight loss, but seeing an interview on Twitter about your mom and why you play for team Canada. I have to admit something…I cried. I am not being facetious at all. It was actually gut wrenching and made me like you. If you are going to be a turncoat, this is as good of a reason as any.

I realize now that my teeth theory was all wrong. The bigger the smile, the better the teeth, the better the person. I am a scientific man and when someone proves my theories wrong, I change my theories.

I hope nothing but the best for you, Mr. Freeman.

With Love,

Alex Muka

P.S. – In NO WAY am I trying to change the juju around in the Yankees favor. These apology letters are from the heart and I hope in NO WAY affect the performance of these players.

Take this last series against the Gaurdians for instance. I could have hated Jhonkensy Noel for blasting a 2-out home run in the bottom of the 9th to tie up game 3 of the ALCS, but I didn’t. I could have hated David Fry for hitting the game winning blast an inning later, but I didn’t. Instead, throughout the series, I built up such a hatred for their short stop Brayan Rocchio I was practically pacing around every time he got up to bat, calling him Brayan Pinocchio (not my best diss, I admit). And to be honest, I should be thanking this guy. He practically gave us the series with the biggest error of his career. Which now has me thinking…

Does my irrational hate give the Yankees a boost? I’m not the most superstitious person on the planet, I’m more like Luke Weaver…just stitious.

So what I’d like to do is preview this World Series and try to predict a top three of Dodgers players I will end up hating for the rest of their career and why.  Only time will tell, and the next 4  7 games will drum up so much hatred in my heart I’ll have to go to confession to get it at all out.

#3 – Teoscar Hernandez

I probably should like Teoscar Hernandez. He’s Dominican, he’s good at baseball, and his story of coming up in the league is filled with successes and failures, which I normally love in a ball player. His Instagram is filled with pictures of his wife and three sons. He always has a smile on his face. And for some reason…I think I’m going to hate him this series.

Maybe this one has something to do with baseball. He did smack a grand slam off the Yankees back in June and maybe I have some sort of trauma associated with that. I was also at the 2-1 Yankees loss against the Dodgers where Teoscar hit in the game winning runs in a scoreless 11^th inning. I can see Teoscar being a name we keep on hearing this series but, that’s the problem…

I can’t stand his name.

Te-Oscar.

I’m not the most fluent in Spanish but ‘te’ means ‘you’ in most Spanish sentences. For example, ‘te amo’ means ‘I love you’. So what does his name mean? You Oscar? Oscar you? I’m Oscar? Who?

The name Teoscar just grinds my gears and puts my tongue into a pretzel and for that reason, I will hate Teoscar Hernandez this series. It won’t help his case if he decides to play well.

#2 – Will Smith

This one is easy, and another name related hatred. But really, I hate Will Smith because of his parents. Catcher Will Smith was born in 1995. You know what movie came out in the year 1995? Bad Boys, starring the WILL SMITH. You would think that with the last name Smith you would learn by 1995 that the first name William was out of the fucking question. I don’t care if the name William has been in your family for generations, you end it when the reign of the Will Smith begins.

I’m happy they were repaid by the Will Smith turning into a lunatic. That’s what you get when you name your kids the same name as a global superstar. My goal in naming my kids was to try and poke holes at ANY way they could be made fun of. I had to put the kibosh on hundreds of names after figuring out ways ruthless youngsters would ridicule my poor daughters. They have it hard enough…I got called Alex PukeA my entire life.

The best worst part about Will Smith is not even his first or last name. It’s his middle name. William DILLS Smith. Really? We’re naming our kids after pickles now? If the name didn’t conjure up hate in you, let’s take a look at young Willy.

Yup, hateable. Mainly because he makes me feel old as fuck. Look at that baby face. To add to the hate, after looking Will Smith up (and having to scroll through a thousand articles about the Will Smith and his insufferable family) it turns out he was a Red Sox fan as a kid. Yuck!

#1 – Freddie Freeman

I have a theory about the mouth, and teeth in particular. There is a sweet spot of how trust worthy a person is based on their teeth. The two ends of the distribution are perfect teeth and atrocious teeth. In the middle are just normal people with normal teeth and on both ends are the least trustworthy people you can find. A perfect set of chicklets means you are either:

a) a health freak

b) genetically superior (and annoying)

or

c) you’re so self-conscious you got them done.

I find all three of these disqualifying in my trusting you as a human being. The same goes for really fucked up teeth. Either:

a) you don’t give a fuck

b) you’re inbred.

The only person who gets away with it in the latter category is Austin Powers.

With that being said, Freddie Freeman falls into category one. What a perfect set of hateable chompers…

I wouldn’t trust my kids being baby sat by Freddie Freeman (or any other man for that matter, but I digress). He might come off as a nice family guy, a guy who wanted to stay in Atlanta, a guy who cried when he returned to Atlanta, a hard working baseball player, but behind that smile and those devilish eyebrows is a stone cold killer. Whether that is on the baseball diamond or in his personal life only time will tell. But I do not like Freddie Freeman, I do not trust Freddie Freeman, and I am sure by the end of next week I will hate Freddie Freeman.

Honorable Mentions:

• Walker Buehler

• Andy Pages

• Kevin Kiermaier

• Enrique (Kike) Hernandez

As Bob Costas would say…"and that’ll do it.”

Thanks for reading.

P.S. – I fucking loathe Costas entirely.

P.P.S. – The player I actually hate the most on the Gaurdians is Josh Naylor. Guy just oozes dirtbag.

P.P.P.S. – The real reason I hate Freddie Freeman is that my Nana loves the Mets which means I hated to watch her heart get ripped out every year by the Braves.

P.P.P.P.S. – If I met any of these guys in real life I would shake their hands and tell them it has been a pleasure to watch them. It’s easy to hate from the comfort of your own home in the haze of war the playoffs. This post is all in good fun.

P.P.P.P.P.S. – Just kidding. I fucking hate these guys.

Welp, sorry to disappoint you. Because none of those things occurred on our flight to Phoenix, Arizona this past week. Why is that? Well, for one, we aren’t animals who would ever have sex in one of those ever-shrinking barely sanitized awful smelling United Airplane bathrooms (or are we?). For two, we had two children under three years old with us.

If you’ve never had to take care of two children on a five-hour flight then you probably have a few extra years to live than I do. I swear my facial hair has sparked about fifty new greys just from this experience alone. I got on the plane as a young man and got off the plane feeling like the president after four years in office.

As much as I wish this piece was about my wife heading to the bathroom, leaving the door unlocked, and me sneaking in after her, the real Mile High Club at this stage in life is changing a poopy diaper while on a packed flight. It’s a club I am proud to be a part of. In fact, it is 100% harder to change the diaper of a 6 month old filled with foul smelling shit in a bathroom the size of a phone booth then it would have been to complete coitus with the old ball and chain my hot wife.

For starters, you have to get the baby to the bathroom. This is a feat in itself because of course, after you start getting a whiff of the mess your little girl just made, you pick her up and realize she has exploded the diaper. There is a little stain of shit on her pajamas and though she smiles at you like she’s done nothing wrong, you now have to somehow get her to the bathroom without offending the rest of the passengers. There is also the little problem of turbulence. One little crosswind and the next thing you know you’ve smacked an unsuspecting passenger in the face with the remnants of a blown out diaper. The walk to the bathroom is treacherous, but there is a silver lining. You quickly find out who the good people on the plane are because the good ones smile at you. They can’t believe a father of all people is taking a child to the back to change their diaper. As you wait in line some people try and make the baby laugh, making faces, awing, cooing. And the really good ones, the best ones, let you cut the line.

But once the walk is over is when the real Mile High work begins because those bathrooms are NOT conducive to diaper changing. They are barely conducive to going to the bathroom and I’m a guy who simply has to stand and aim. I’ve never sat down in one of those atrocious in-air prisons and don’t plan to. I’m even scared to let a fart rip because they are so enclosed that the minute you open the door the entire plane thinks you blew up the bathroom (maybe blew up is a bad term to use when describing anything on a plane, but I digress).

The changing table feels like a 2x2 cardboard box that has been flattened. It sits right above the toilet and could snap off at even the semblance of any turbulence. So as your daughter looks up at you, giggling her head off, she does not realize her life is in terrible danger. One wrong move from the pilot and she’ll go crashing down into the toilet only to be flushed and released into the atmosphere like Mini Me.

It’s a task trying to change a diaper on solid ground. There are so many crevices and layers and places the excrement can go that sometimes you just give your kid a shower instead of wiping them down. So of course this was the type of bowel movement my kid decided to do on our flight. Instead of looking for all the places the mess could have gone I wiped her down from head to toe. I also threw out everything. The wipes, the diaper, her clothes, all stuffed into the garbage that can barely fit a couple of paper towels. The poor person who went in after me must’ve lost a couple eyelashes or even a full brow at the stench we left. That’s the thanks they get for letting me cut the line.

It was a long and arduous trip, my journey to The Mile High Club, but the walk back to my seat was worth it. It was the opposite of the walk of shame. I heard applause from passengers as I made my way back to my seat. Men stood clapping, women fawned over what a good father I was.

My wife even looked at me like I was actually the man she wanted to marry. So even if we didn’t get a chance to make love in the worst place on earth, I’ve set myself up for all future love making. If you ever want your wife to look at you as if you’ve cured cancer, go ahead and become part of the only Mile High Club there is as a dad, the one where you change a malicious diaper 30,000 feet up.

P.S. – The wife and I got lucky. Both of our girls acted like angels decent humans minus the diaper blow up.

P.P.S. – What did people do with kids on planes before TV’s?

P.P.P.S. – I know every plot to every god forsaken Paw Patrol movie. Maybe my next post will be a review of the film.

P.P.P.P.S. – It won’t.

She’s wondering how many times I can lose my wedding ring in the Atlantic Ocean.

The wonder and awe in her eyes were not directed at the glory of being married to such an amazing man - the awe was directed at how her husband could be such a moron and the wonder was how in the world she got stuck with him. This is a look that I am all too familiar with. Sometimes, I catch my wife looking at me and think, “Wow, she really loves me. She sees everything I provide for our family; she understands how much I have to sacrifice to make ends meet, she knows the real me and loves me all the more.” Then she fixes one of my eyebrows in disgust and remarks that I haven’t showered in two days. If you, dear reader, are a man and wondering what it’s like to be married, I’ll explain it in one simple sentence: You’re the problem.

Now when it comes to the specific reason John Doe’s wife is looking at him like he’s a complete idiot, I can relate to this whole heartedly. I’ve almost lost my wedding ring no less than a thousand times, and that was just this summer. I look forward to fall and winter where there will be no good reason to take it off and therefore the stress of misplacing it or losing it or finding it once lost will be something I don’t have to worry about.

But for all the men out there who have encountered this particular problem I’ve written out some rules on how to avoid losing your wedding ring and in turn the wrath of your significant other. It’s tough going out there in the world as a husband and we need all the help we can get.

1 – Don’t Do Anything

At first this might sound crazy, but trust me, this really is the only way to not lose your wedding ring. If you don’t do anything there is no way the ring will move or budge or accidentally slip off. Unfortunately, this plan will incur more wrath from your wife than possibly losing the ring itself. One thing you will notice very quickly into married life is that if you as a husband are relaxing, you are in a very dangerous position. The minute your wife sees you doing nothing she will find something for you to do. The minute I put my feet up, crack open a book, and begin to enjoy my time off, there are suddenly thousands of tasks to do around the house. The key to keeping a happy home is to at least pretend like you are doing things at all times.

2 – If You Must Do Something, Do It Poorly

I understand fully that I am outing myself to my wife with this one. But I am doing it for you, dear readers. This is my cross to bear. Jesus sacrificed himself for our sins. I will sacrifice my little secret to the wife so that you all don’t have to.

The way to get out of any work around the house is to do whatever you are tasked with as poorly as possible. This comes natural to me, but for others it might be tough. The less you do the less chance you have of losing your wedding ring, and the more poorly you do something the less you will be asked to do something

Wife needs help nailing in something? Smash a nice fat hole in the wall.

Wife wants to dip her toes into the Atlantic ocean? Splash her a lot when you run in.

Wife wants you to grab a bowl on the top shelf? “Accidentally” drop it.

Remember, we are trying to avoid the biggest mistake of all, which is losing your wedding ring. Also remember, losing your wedding ring is tantamount to cheating. Once, I forgot to put my wedding ring on after taking a shower. The wife and I went out and she noticed it wasn’t on.

“What, are you embarrassed of me?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “Considering I’m literally out with you and got married in front of a hundred people to you and had two kids with you. I couldn’t be more proud to be…”

“Then why do you always forget your wedding ring?”

This is what we’re trying to avoid fellas.

Godspeed.

P.S. If you do lose your wedding ring here is what I suggest:

1-      Run

2-      Never come back

3-      Get remarried

4-      Start a new family

5-      Pray to the good Lord you don’t lose your ring in the second marriage because then you’ll have to repeat steps 1-4 enroute to a third.

P.P.S. - John Doe is a friend of mine’s older brother. When we were at the ripe old age of 12 John Doe showed his brother all the good new rap music. Needless to say, when I started playing Shake Ya Ass at home my parents were none too pleased, but I have to thank John Doe for widening my musical pallet. Between Mystikal and the famous Miami Hurricanes song We Ballin Boys I can never thank him enough.

P.P.P.S - The above video has me in tears at my beloved Notre Dame’s loss this past weekend. A post coming soon on the eternal sadness of being a Notre Dame fan.

But one thing I will say is that after the last two presidents being teetotalers, my gut liver is telling me to vote Kamala. This has NOTHING to do with her policies or her personality. It has only to do with the fact that she allegedly knows how to party.

If this isn’t me telling a joke at a bar four deep, I don’t know what is.

Again, this has NOTHING to do with policy. But there is a reason that I enjoy a drink and that I miss a president who enjoys one too. It is mainly due to the fact that someone’s willingness to touch the edge of the uncontrollable, to go to the brink through having a cocktail or two (or five), is something I admire. I don’t want my president blacked out sure, but I do think they should be normal enough to go out and have a beer with a foreign dignitary or a common citizen and let their guard down a bit.

My favorite politician who ever lived, Winston Churchill, seemed to have this down pat. The guy would fortify himself with booze on the daily and was, shockingly, the only person with a ball sack big enough to stand up to Hitler. Was this because he was drunk? Probably not. But maybe? It certainly didn’t hurt. Because something that drinking does is give you a sense of confidence and that is something we are severely lacking. Just look at America’s tip-toeing Middle East policy. The lack of self-confidence we have as the greatest super power on the world stage can be directly attributed to the fact that for the past eight years our presidents haven’t had so much as a fucking Michelob Ultra.

Maybe if congress got together once a month and had a mandatory shindig, booze included, they might realize they aren’t so different. This would be one of those events where the boob rule would have to be put into effect. You know the saying: Martinis are just like boobs, one is not enough and three are too many. Two drinks put you in that perfect limbo, that happy-go-lucky, the world is a good place, I love the person next to me just because they exist type of headspace. If this group veers into the three-drink arena there will surely be fisticuffs.

There’s also this little thing called a hangover, of which I am exquisitely experienced in. The hangover is an extremely humbling experience that all politicians should have to encounter at least once a month (if not more). Sure, their problem-solving capabilities will be extremely diminished and one would hope they are not hungover when something major happens, but to be reminded often enough that they are human and do not have total power would be a good thing. Even kings get hangovers. It is a reminder that no matter how much power you have, you don’t have ultimate power. Humility is something more politicians need and can be gained through overindulging.

Another important point about drinkers is that they wear their vice on their sleeve. As the great NFL linebacker/coach Bryan Cox once said, a man without a vice definitely has some deeper issues, like someone tied up in the basement or multiple families.

Give this genius a watch: Bryan Cox on Vices

But would it be a surprise to anyone if it comes out that Donald Trump or Joe Biden have some sick and twisted hobby that doesn’t involve a couple pops at the local bar? I would not be colored shocked.

Unfortunately, teetotaling is a larger trend then just our past two presidents. According to studies, Gen Z doesn’t drink for shit. It’s kind of depressing. The great has just written a piece about this in . To quote her:

“Behold the Zoomers in their glorious sobriety, so much smarter, healthier, and more sensible than the sloppy, barfing generations that preceded them! But scratch the surface of Gen Z’s sobriety, and what you find isn’t wisdom so much as fear—of vulnerability, of failure, of being out of control.”

I highly recommend this article: What School Didn't Teach Us: You Need to Lose Control

We are living in an age where human optimization is more appealing than being human. If all we are trying to do is make humans more like AI, optimizing for peak performance, then why not just let the AI takeover and call it quits? Here’s a philosophical stumper: You know what AI can’t do? Have a beer and tell stories with friends. Call me crazy for wanting the person who is running the country to be a little more relatable and less like a talking mouth piece for a private corporation (aka the Democratic and Republican parties).

The only problem with voting a drunk and not just a casual drinker into office is how often drunks cause loads of damage but end up coming out squeaky clean. For example, a ton of drunk morons driving cars kill and maim innocent people every year and often leave the accident without a scratch. This, I assume, is what Kamala will do to the United States. I guess we’ll see where my gut, or liver, lands come election day. But I’ve always wanted to vote for someone I can have a drink with, and I hope that returns in my lifetime.

P.S. – You think our founding fathers just came up with the revolutionary ideas for our democracy dead sober? Another clip from shows us that is not the case:

The U.S. Constitution, notably, is a document as soaked in booze as the accompanying revolution was in blood. In a single evening, two days before the paper was finally signed, America’s founding fathers ran up a legendary bar tab that included 54 bottles of Madeira, 60 bottles of claret, and eight bottles of cider—plus seven large bowls of punch. 

To think our founding fathers were drinking “punch”, aka Jungle Juice, really warms my heart.

P.P.S. – Last night the CEO of Substack subscribed to my newsletter. It had to be a mistake. Some sort of butt dial or accidental click. But if he reads this article and stays subscribed then I know we have a Hell or Hangover loyalist in a position of power. The revolution begins.

P.P.P.S. – If my page suddenly gets shut down, we will also know why. It was a good run.

For the rest of my life if I saw a skinny grandpa I figured they were dying. Anything sub 300 pounds, in my mind, was emaciation. Was a grandpa even a grandpa if he didn’t have a paunch with a beer (or a Manhattan in my Grandpa’s case) resting on it? Doubtful.

This is where my problem lies. I may get gasps, or jeers, or tomatoes thrown at me from the Hell or Hangover faithful when I say this but I must always be honest - I shed weight. If I’m not drinking and consistently running or lifting, weight falls right off. I could be a bulbous 220 but give it a week of relatively healthy living and I’ll be right back to 205. This isn’t a problem perse, unless you want to be fat. And I do. I really want to be fat. Maybe not today, but someday. I want the world to know I enjoyed my life and what better way to show it than just letting go? More importantly, I want my grandkids to feel my soft, gelatinous goodness and feel like they are where they’re supposed to be.

I know being a grandpa is far off in the distance. I have at least 20 years before I become old and decrepit and honored, if lucky, with the title of grandpa. For one, I have to make sure my own children survive to the age of being able to procreate. For two, I have to make sure they are nice enough humans to acquire a mate to procreate with. For three, I have to make sure they make good decisions and don’t mate with a piece of shit that I don’t want to spend any time with. These are big ifs but I have confidence in my wife and me. Once these three criteria are met it will be my time to shine and I want to make sure I am of the appropriate size and weight to don such a glorious title as grandpa.

This is going to be tough not only because of my proclivity to stay in shape without trying but also because of the day and age we currently live in. No one drinks anymore. No one smokes anymore. No one eats more than their fill anymore. Everyone is on to the next health kick before the last one is done kicking. There are diet pills and Ozempic and an assortment of other things to lose weight when what I need is the exact opposite. Even this here application Substack has a way of shoving health down my throat that I never asked for.

They clearly have my algorithm screwed up because I have never and will never subscribe to anyone’s Substack that is shelling out advice on how to live a healthier life. These self-helpers are the antithesis of the way I’ve lived and want to continue to live. I’m more of a guy and less of a Huberman guy. I am not trying to optimize my human potential, I am just trying to be a human. I am sure these robots self-helpers are a force for good in the world, just not the world I want to live in. What’s the point of alcohol and tobacco and delicious unhealthy food existing only to guilt yourself over imbibing in them? No thanks. I’ll work out and run and also smoke and drink and eat as I please. It’s called balance.

I can’t shit on Substack Reads too much. Now at least I know where to start. From this day forward I will not be taking any stairs. If there is any other contraption that can move me up or down in any building I will be taking that instead. This will be step one (pun intended) on my twenty-year journey to becoming a fat grandpa. I have two decades to build a nice round ball of a mid-section. It won’t be easy. There will be tough times ahead. But I shall overcome.  

P.S. – I know the older gentleman here are probably giggling. Don’t worry, dumbass, you’ll be fat soon enough. I hope they are right.

P.P.S. – Sorry to my wife for future me. You know who you married, hun. This was destined.

P.P.P.S. - If you have any other steps I can take in my weight gain journey, please leave a comment. Any advice helps.

For the rest of the week my eyes were opened to bad ideas. It’s like the bad ideas flocked to me. I was a bad idea magnet. Here’s the list I came up with:

Non-alcoholic beer sold in a liquor store

I don’t think I really need to go into this one more. The statement says all you need to know. But…I will anyway. Imagine you’ve decided that drinking alcohol isn’t your thing, by force or by choice, but you’d still like to fit in and have a couple 0.0% beers in a social setting. You decide you’re going to pick up some O’Doul’s and you walk into your glorious local liquor store to buy it. There are racks of red wine, there are bottles of gin and tequila, there is Guinness and Modelo Negro and Miller Highlife all staring you in the face as you try and get to the stupid little corner that holds the non-alcoholic beer. Good luck getting past all the good stuff. This sounds like an alcoholic’s worst nightmare.

Letting people who mastermind 9/11 get plea deals

Another one that sounds so idiotic it can’t be true. First of all, I know this is America and even the worst of the worst “deserve” a trial. But please, for the love of God, GIVE ME A FUCKING BREAK. This guy deserves a public hanging the same way he gave 2,976 people a public death. This man piece of human garbage should be hung from the tippy top of the One World Trade Center and left there as a warning like we were ancient Rome. The message would be clear – do not fuck with us. I can’t imagine how the families of the victims feel. I’m not a big protest guy but this might be a cause worth protesting. If only Khalid Sheikh Mohammed somehow had ties with Jeffery Epstein he might have gotten offed in jail. Alas, he’ll live out his remaining days being fed on taxpayer dime. What a joke.

Not Drinking On A Plane

A New York Times article was written a week ago asking the question “Is It A Bad Idea To Drink Alcohol On An Airplane?” I’ve put the link here if you want to read it gouge your eyes out. For all the dumb articles I’ve read from the New York Times in recent memory this is by far the dumbest. The better question is – is it a bad idea NOT to drink alcohol on an airplane? The answer to that question is yes. For one, it’s romantic as fuck. I wish we could go back to a time where Pan Am ruled the sky, everyone travelled in business attire, and we were allowed to hotbox the bitch with cigarettes. Alas, we live in different times. But that doesn’t change the fact that drinking on a plane is a necessity. My drinking on planes started about 8 years ago. I was on a flight from Ibiza to Barcelona. As we were about to land the plane went into a 90-degree upward motion and it felt like we were heading for the moon on a rocket ship. There were erratic messages from the cockpit in Spanish that sounded like we were for sure going down. I thought that would be my last moment on earth. Consequently, that was the last time I was not inebriated on a plane. You have to ask the question – why is someone always writing an article trying to take the good stuff away from us? Just leave us alone. We do not care that our blood pressure is higher on a plane or that our sleep is going to be impaired by a couple drinks – we just want to spend $150 on 3 little mini bottles for a bit of a buzz when we’re trapped in a tin fucking can 30,000 fucking feet in the air moving at 500 miles per fucking hour.

Not giving people grace to have bad ideas

I admit I might be going hard on all these bad ideas. Someone has to be called out for stupidity. But that doesn’t mean people shouldn’t be given some grace to turn a bad idea into a good one. I’m bringing this up after a tweet I sent out this past week saying: I would love for a politician to say just once – “Were going to try this and if it doesn’t work, we’ll try the other thing!”

Now this may be a chicken or the egg type of problem. It’s likely possible that politicians decide on a policy and then double and triple down on it out of some sort of megalomanic pride. They were elected after all, they must be right! But it’s also possible that we the people don’t give anyone grace for being wrong. Instead, we drag them for every bad decision that was made for four years until we run them out of office only for the next person to come up to the podium and do the same thing. Maybe if we the people decided on collective forgiveness politicians might be more open to changing their minds. I don’t know. I don’t have the answers. But a bad idea is only truly bad when you’re called out on it and don’t change it.

P.S. - Honorable Mention: Going to Russia if you’re a journalist

My all at once has finally happened.

I’ve known for a long time that I was getting old. The clues above have all happened to me. But I finally made my oldness official about 5 weeks ago. How do I know this exact timing? Well, it coincided with the release of the new House of the Dragon season on HBO.

It’s been a while since I’ve been excited about a new show that is televised on a specific day at a specific time. I don’t love binging shows. I like the serialized aspect of weekly episodes, the cliff hangers, the anticipation for next week’s show, the thoughts between episodes about what might happen and then being completely blindsided by what actually happens. I remember when Game of Thrones came out and every Sunday at 9 PM I felt like I was in communion with all the other Game of Thrones fans out there. By the time 10 PM hit you were in conversation with your friends about everything that transpired. You took to social media to throw your hot take into the void with no regard for spoiling anything. Everybody I knew, or everybody I cared to know, had watched the episode live. I remember people at the time, that I now know to be respectable people, prefacing their tweets or blogs with “SPOILER ALERT” in all caps. I also remember making fun of these people. Who doesn’t watch the episode live? Losers and old people, that’s who.

Welp – here I am – an old loser. Because five weeks ago I opened up my twitter on Monday morning and found my timeline filled with spoilers. It made me sick. Who were these scumbags? Well, they were the same scumbag I was five years ago. The scumbag who laughed at people who didn’t watch the show live. The scumbag who did not care for people in different predicaments than themselves.

Here's my current predicament for Sunday at 9 PM - sleep. And by sleep I really mean pass out from sheer exhaustion. At one point in my life the weekend was something to look forward to. The weekend was a two-day period when anything was possible. Now the weekend means that I am responsible for two children for 48 hours straight with zero breaks. I used to think of work as work, but now I think of work as an 8-hour break from the real work, which is raising children. Monday through Friday from 9-5 is now my weekend and the weekend is now my work. I am living in the upside down. What’s even worse is that my kids now have a social life. Kid birthday parties, kid activities, kid anything, kid everything, and by Sunday at 9 PM I have morphed into a white walker.

The wife and I are currently halfway through episode 5 of House of the Dragon. Yes, you read that right, halfway. It’s Thursday. The episode came out this past Sunday. Even fire breathing dragons, incest, sword fights, savagery, and intrigue could not stop my eyes from closing after a weekend with two kids. And you know how you know you’re really old? You don’t even remember what point in the show you fell asleep and you have to watch the whole thing all over again (or you’ve started using the muted words function on Twitter).

As much as I would like to watch shows live, at some point you must admit defeat. Now is that time. I am no longer embarrassed that I feel like Viserys I Targaryen after a long weekend.

If you are not in the same predicament as me, all I can say is enjoy it while you can. Make that popcorn, drink that bottle of wine, shit - you can even have a watch party! Go big, because it’s not going to last. You too are going to get old.

But for all my old heads out there - the first step to dealing with a problem is recognizing that you have one.

P.S. - My parents are currently living their best life. They go out to dinner every night, watch all sorts of shows, always have plans for this weekend and that. So I guess that is something to look forward to. In about twenty years the wife and I will have some free time. Can’t wait!

P.P.S. - Kids are still worth it…I swear.

P.P.P.S. - Please don’t spoil episode 5 for me…

I could run through a brick wall after typing that. I feel like I’m flying on the wings of a bald eagle. But when did it become wrong to say all of this? When did it become a combination of all the -ists and -isms and -phobias to say you love the country you were born and raised in more than any other country? People make fun of American exceptionalism like it’s a bad thing. To them I say, find a better country. I know what their retort back will be - “But America did this and did that and yada fucking yada. How can you be proud of a country that has done such horrible things?”

Here’s my question - since when did having a pristine historical track record become a prerequisite to loving where you were born and raised? I mean shit – let’s just look at a small sample and see how these countries fair in the historical rat race:

Japan – Have you ever heard of the Ainu? I figured you hadn’t. They’re similar to the Native Americans who lived on the island of Hokkaido. You know what happened to them? Same thing that happened to Native Americans - booted off their land, assimilated with the greater Japanese population, not many left. You would think that on the can of a Sapporo (made in Hokkaido) they would write “made on stolen land” but I’ve drunken a Sapporo or two and haven’t seen anything of the like. I clicked on every link on the Sapporo website and they failed to mention the Ainu. I don’t think they give a fuck and it’s not my job to make them. The rape of Nanking wasn’t great either. Japan still denies it even took place. Japanese people still love their country.

Saudi Arabia – You know when Saudi Arabia abolished slavery? 1962. By royal fucking decree, you bozos. I don’t see them wringing their hands about it. I don’t see them protesting through Riyadh because of it. Sure, that’s probably because it would be illegal to protest, but I digress. We had those idiots beat by almost 100 years and we’re still reeling from it as a nation, and rightfully so. But, the Saudi’s don’t seem to hate being Saudi. In fact, they seem mighty proud that they let women drive automobiles in their country. How progressive of them!

Italy – Forget about teaming up with Hitler, do we really know the extent of the damage that our boy Julius Cesar inflicted on the world? The guy is praised now but his presumed death count is set at a million-ish. Yikes! The 24 thousand Brits that died in the Revolutionary War look like peanuts in comparison. But just like Italy, and Rome in particular, we believe in a founding story that’s a little tainted. Taxation without representation, a place where people can be free from oppressors, a place where everyone is equal – sure it might be farfetched and we certainly have not lived up to our promises in full, but it’s definitely better than Romulus killing his twin brother Remus to found Rome. Talk about original sin! At least our story is based on hope, however simplified.

My point is that history is not a zero sum game. You can look at any country and find horrible shit in its founding and horrible shit it does to this day. I’m not saying America is perfect. The people who constantly pick at America’s worst warts have a point. America shouldn’t have done such terrible things because America is not an amoral place. America was not founded on amoral values. I have to remind myself that the people who shit on American believe that America has higher standards than other places. Why else would they be yelling from the rooftops about all the bad things America has done? Because they know that we should be better. Because we are better. And because this country is filled with people who look toward better. That’s more than can be said for a lot of places.

But can we please just say enough with the America bashing? As if we’re the first and only country to falter? If you truly love this country maybe reading a little history is in order. This world is a messy place and nothing is ever perfect. But no country is held to a higher standard and no country gives a flying fuck when they don’t meet that standard. America does. Americans do.

I love America and I’m going to scream it from the rooftops today with a Budweiser in my hand and a flag draped around my shoulders. I’m going to remember that Budweiser was started by a German immigrant and that ze Germans don’t have the greatest track record either! And even though my wife said our house will probably get egged for it (that’s right, my wife is allowed to share her opinion even in this hostile and patriarchal country) – I’ll have a 30 foot flag draped from the porch and I’ll be listening to Party In The USA by Miley Cyrus Bruce Springsteen at unheard of decibels and I’ll probably have enough hot dogs and BBQ to have 3 heart attacks.

I fucking love this place and the idea of this place. America is like a family member. I can talk shit about America because I love America, but if I hear someone else talking shit about America with clear hate in their heart - then them’s fightin’ words.

The gist of the subpoena is that Zyn is selling flavored tobacco products, which is against the law. This law was originally instituted to make sure that kids were not getting addicted to tobacco products through “nice” tasting tobacco options they wouldn’t have otherwise tried if it weren’t for the plethora of flavor choices awarded to them. I could say that any flavored tobacco product usually tastes like Robitussin or that before there was ever such a thing as “flavored” tobacco American’s were smoking unfiltered cigarettes at an astonishing clip. I could also go on and on about how Zyn is not technically tobacco and that, if anything, Zyn is single handedly changing the way people consume nicotine in a healthier way. But none of these semantics matter. Instead, I’m going to tell you a little story here about what the government thinks they control and what they actually control.

Alcohol, by law, can only be sold to individuals who are 21 years or older. We all know this. Now, I’m going to let you in on a little secret – this law is not always recognized. I had my first drink when I was fourteen. At sixteen my friends and I would stand outside of our local deli and get older patrons to buy us six packs. Sometimes they would even throw in a tin of cherry long-cut Skoal for good measure. Talk about corrupting the youth! (The first time I dipped cherry long-cut I was curled around my toilet buck naked for three hours).

It’s pretty easy for most underage hooligans to come across booze. It might take some work but if you really want to, you can find it. For me and my group of friends it did not take much work at all. I started playing football at the age of five. I stopped at the age of twenty. All of my friends are large and testosterone filled and have always looked much older than they are. One friend in particular started losing his hair at the ripe age of seventeen and ever since that day we were walking into the deli and buying the booze ourselves. His hairline was all the identification necessary. At nineteen I was able to buy kegs from this deli and no one batted an eye. It’s probably the reason I’m a booze hound to this day. But the question is - do I think that our country should be cracking down on Budweiser because my local deli is trying to turn a profit at my young liver’s expense? Fuck no. Do I think Phillip Morris should be in trouble because that same deli that sold me booze also sold me a pack of Marlboro 27’s? Fuck no. And it’s not even arguable to say that a 30 pack of Bud Heavy’s and pack of smokes are in the same ball park health wise as a Zyn pouch. You would think the government had more important issues to tackle than cracking down on a solid alternative to cancer sticks.

News flash D.C. - kids want to do things they aren’t supposed to. They also want to get fucked up. If it’s not beer, or weed, or tobacco, or Zyn, they’ll find something else - like bath salts for instance. Maybe we should put a ban on those too! It’ll be a shame when Epsom salts are off the shelves. My wife won’t be able to take a relaxing bath after a miserable day with two psycho path children and I’ll bear the brunt of her anger. And it’ll all be because some fuck in Florida decided to snort her favorite Dr. Teal’s and the government just had to crack down.

I’ve never felt like waving a “Don’t Tread On Me” flag more in my life (or “No Step On Snek” for my Fifth Column people).

P.S.- It may or may not be due to the Zyn shortage that I will be moving each weekly shot to bi-weekly shots and weekend binges to bi-weekend binges. I’m working on my first edit of a mystery novel I’ve written and want to focus my energy there until the end of summer. I will not leave you hanging. You will still get one post a week, instead of two, for the time being (unless it’s a very urgent matter that needs my brilliant commentary). Once I get this novel out the door to agents for them to reject, we are back to our regularly scheduled programming.

I wonder what said thing is, so I focus my glazed eyes on the picture.

My anger is already at a fever pitch. My retinas have dilated, my fingers start to twitch with fury, my heart is pumping at an unhealthy pace. Once I dig through the six pictures posted (wasn’t it great when it was just 1 picture?) and figure out what the thing that was done is, I want to comment how much I hate the thing. It doesn’t matter what the thing is– it’s the way the thing was presented.

“I did a thing.”

Did you? Congratulations. But what’s the point of having a place to write the thing that you did just to write that you did a thing? The caption is the place where you are supposed to explain the thing you did. Here are some simple examples:

I got a puppy.

I got a job.

I have a seriously hot political take that I feel the need to unload on you.

See, it’s that easy.

“I did a thing” implies the thing that was done is important. Or it used to. It often isn’t anymore. What if everyone posted about all the things they did in a day? Instagram would be worse than it already is.

I woke up today. That’s a thing I did. Rem stopped, my dreams of publishing a novel faded back into oblivion, and I panicked as I remembered I am still alive. Should I let everyone know?

I went to the bathroom today. That’s a thing I did. Should I post about that magical experience?

I went to the supermarket today, too. That’s a thing I did. Besides the surging price of beef, there was nothing exceptional about the trip.

I am constantly doing things. The things never stop. If I posted the number of things I did on Instagram your head would spin and my followers would decrease at a rapid rate.

So, as I violently type “CONGRATULATIONS!!!!” on the engagement picture that is captioned with “I did a thing” I will consider, if I am invited to the wedding, being the guy who stands up and says he objects to the union. I will be the guy who gets too drunk and makes a mockery of the entire celebration. I will be the guy who grabs the mic from the best man and makes a drunken speech about all the previous relationships the groom had and why they didn’t work out. I will hit on the bride. I will hit on the bride’s maids. I will hit on the groomsmen or the father of the bride if I think it will cause a big enough scene. I will do just about anything to ruin the wedding, my wife will then divorce me, my kids will never look at me the same, and it will all be out of spite. It will all be because you didn’t have the decency to simply type out the thing you did in the place designated. Then I will post about the glorious occasion of your wedding day on my own page with the caption - “I did a thing”.

To: The Fifth Column Pod

Subject: Advice on how to NOT grow my Substack

Hi fellas,

Loved the last advice episode and decided I needed some myself.

I wanted some advice on how to NOT grow my Substack. I've been hovering at just under 100 subscribers and would like to keep it that way.

First off, I would HATE for you all to read it and enjoy it. 

Hell or Hangover

Here are some articles I am sure you would NOT like and suggest you do NOT read. 

Drake & DJ Khaled Concert For Peace

I've Got The Fever

Dating A Literary Agent

The D*ck Pic (definitely NOT for )

I would equally HATE if you happened to click on any of these links, liked any of these pieces, and subscribed.

Again, I am looking for advice on how to NOT grow my Substack. Any guidance is greatly appreciated.

Thanks,

Alex Muka

, one of the three hosts, decided it would be a good idea to repost this email even though I clearly stated my intentions of NOT wanting to grow my Substack. This had the opposite effect and here I am, standing on top of a new mountain of followers (+18, thanks for nothing Matt). If you do not listen to the Fifth Column Podcast I highly recommend you start doing so. It’s by far the most sensible and funny place to go for anything politics. The best part about the podcast is that it’s nice listening to guys who are clearly smarter than you but don’t bash you over the head with it. You get the feeling that you could have a drink with these fellas and they wouldn’t make you feel dumb, intentionally at least.

But this was only one of five emails I had sent off that day to various people. I was thinking of interesting ways to not grow my Substack and decided that directly reaching out to people was the best way forward.

The first one was a little missed timed, but I’ll do better next time.

To: Donald Trump

Subject: Have you ever been hungover?

Time: Thursday, 5 PM , May 30^th

Hi Donald,

Long time drinker here. I know you’re a lifelong teetotaler, and that you claim to NEVER have had a sip of alcohol, so I thought you might be interested in knowing how it feels to have a hangover. I’m sure the majority of your voting base is familiar with the feeling and it might make you more relatable if you can throw around a couple of terms (or a couple of beers). If you want to get the feel for what it means to be hungover you should start by reading my Substack – Hell or Hangover .

In particular, read the first article I ever wrote: The Hangover Cure

It also might be helpful if you could put together some kind of task force to create a cure for the hangover. I’m sure you would win the election if you promised this in your next campaign speech (along with the day after Super Bowl becoming a national holiday).

Thanks,

Alex Muka

P.S. – hope all goes well with the trial!

Unfortunately, I never received a reply. He must have been busy.

The next email I sent out was less about drinking and more about parenting.

To: Joe Biden

Subject: Advice on parenting

Hi Joe,

Long time fan here. I have come by a little issue and wanted to know if you had some advice.

My two-year-old was caught red handed squirting a water gun at another kid at a birthday party last Saturday. She hit him dead center and though I was proud in the moment, I looked over at my wife who had this face of abject horror. She did not appreciate the good aim or the way the power of the squirt gun almost blasted the hair off the poor boy. As a dad, I was extremely proud that my little girl took the initiative and showed the kid who was boss. My wife did not share my enthusiasm. My daughter denied all allegations against her. She went as far as to deny she was holding the water gun (she’s two for fucks sake, Joe).

I took the gun from her, sat her down, and pretended I was reprimanding her, but really I was giving her a high five. Did I do the right thing Joe? I know you have recently found yourself in a similar situation and just wanted to know if I handled this correctly.

Any advice on this matter would be greatly appreciated.

Thanks,

Alex Muka

P.S. – Hunter might want to read this as I heard he has just become a girl dad himself: So, you're gonna be a girl dad...

There is still no response from Joe at this time.

The last email I sent was more of an apology then anything.

To: Barack Obama

Subject: I’m sorry.

Hi Barack,

I need to come clean. Something has been eating me alive lately and I need to get it off my chest. When I was fifteen I went to the Dominican Republic. Though I do have hundreds of family members there (my grandmother is from the Dominican Republic) I did something so egregious it still pains me to this day. I got my hair braided. I know this is cultural appropriation of the highest order and I apologize. If you want to read more about it you can check out this hilarious piece sincere apology I wrote.

The Do's and Don'ts of Cultural Appropriation

Sorry again,

Alex Muka

I am still waiting to hear back.

My last email was simple and too the point.

To: Mom

Subject: Substack

Hi Mom,

Can you get your friends to subscribe to my Substack? They’ll hate it, but it’s all about the numbers.

Thanks,

Alex

Out of the five emails I sent only the guys at the Fifth Column were nice enough to respond. And though the desired effect of the email was completely misunderstood, I’d like to thank and welcome the new subscribers. I’m sure I wont keep many of you, but I’ll try.

P.S. - tell all your friends that I am working very hard to NOT grow my Substack. Send them this link but make sure you tell them NOT to subscribe. Thanks in advance.

Hell Or Hangover

A humor & satire newsletter written by an ex(ish)-degenerate turned husband and father for readers who are tired of being bombarded with depressing shit all day. Crack a beer (or your beverage of choice). Read. And laugh.

By Alex Muka

But this weekend in particular I thought…what is hard? Whining on Memorial Day weekend when I am supposed to be celebrating men and women who gave their life, not their time or their money, but their fucking life for something bigger than them, seems wrong. It’s good to put things into perspective and to realize what I’m doing isn’t hard at all. It’s tedious, it’s disheartening, but hard? Na, it’s not hard. It’s actually comical. Which brings me to an article I read by (a literary agent) about how querying an agent is like dating (and certainly not like fighting in a war).  How Querying a Novel Can Feel Like Dating

So here are 7 out of the 75+ rejections that I’ve gotten, or as I like to call them war stories, and how they can be translated to the dating terminology we all know and understand.

1 - “I don't think I'm quite the right agent for the book.”

This is the legendary “It’s not you, it’s me” line. If you’ve seen that episode of Seinfeld then just imagine I’m George. Though it is uncouth to respond to these rejections, what I want to reply back is, “I don’t think I’m quite the right writer for you.” It’s not you, it’s me. I invented ‘it’s not you it’s me’. If it’s anyone, it’s me.

2- “I've now had a chance to review your query and I'm sorry to say I don't feel I'm connecting wholeheartedly with your writing, despite its many charms.”

I’ve been Friend Zoned here. Despite my charms, the only place I have on this date is that fat and/or funny friend. There is no chance of moving on to the next stages of copulation and possible marriage. I might be charming, but not enough to be seen with this person in public.

3- “The pages you sent had promise. Unfortunately, however, I will not be offering representation for the title at this time, though it seems like it will be a great read.”

Well, read it then? Just a thought. But in the dating world this is, “You seem like the perfect guy for me and I’m afraid you might be TOO perfect.” We’ve all heard that one before (I mean, I haven’t but people have told me they’ve heard this before). This usually comes when a guy is too nice or it seems like he’s got all the things a woman should want but in reality does not. I don’t think I’ve ever come off as too nice, which is why I’ve never received this dating rejection, but this brings me to my next rejection which I have totally gotten in real life…

4- “I love the concept of this novel and there is a lot in these opening pages that really compelled me. That said, I ultimately didn't fully connect with the voice; I know our narrator is supposed to be "unlikeable," at least at first, and while sometimes that really works for me, I found myself having a hard time getting on board in this case.”

Some men and women are attracted to assholes. It’s okay to say that, right? But some assholes take it too far. This is the case with myself (and my character, it seems?). In dating terms, this person may have been attracted to your asshole-ness but doesn’t see it going any further than a hookup. This particular agent had the decency to give me some constructive criticism just as I’m sure this date would do the same: “That was fun, but it won’t be happening again.”

5- “If you ever find yourself pitching something new, you are welcome to query me again.”

This one means you are just not up to the standards of the person you are on a date with. Maybe if you do something about that hair (like growing more of it) or get a promotion they’ll give you a second chance, but the current iteration of you is just not it. This date does not do mid-level executives, they are looking to move on up in this world. This can either crush you into thinking you are not good enough or inspire you to become a better version of yourself. Once you are that better version of yourself, and this person comes knocking on your door for another date, you should shut that door and stay with someone who loved you at your lowest.

6- “From a quick glance, I can almost guarantee you the main character's voice is just not something editors are interested in reading in our current cultural climate.”

This is the only one that made me angry, but what are you gonna do? Let’s not forget that in the 1990’s “the voice” of the novel American Psycho was that of an actual PSYCHO. You know, a serial killer who murders hookers sex workers. The main character in my novel is just a normal millennial guy who likes to party (and have consensual sex with women) because he isn’t ready to grow up and settle down. When he’s out partying, and very drunk one night, he thinks he’s found a woman worth changing his ways for. The problem is he blacks out and wakes up in his ex-girlfriend’s bed with no proof the woman he met actually exists (there are no pictures and he can’t find her on Instagram, Twitter, Google, etc…which means she doesn’t actually exist, right?) The main character goes on a week’s long wild (and drunken) goose chase trying to piece the night together, to find her, and to hopefully change his life in the process.1 THE HORROR!!! IN THIS CULTURAL CLIMATE NO LESS!!! Hello…it’s a dark romantic comedy filled with booze and nonsense (and the way boys are urged into men by the real and imaginary power of a woman) not the inner workings of a sick fuck like Patrick Bateman.

But in dating terms, this is like a woman breaking up with you over politics. She finds out you don’t toe the party line (whichever party that is) and now you’re out. You didn’t vote for the Orange Man or the Dead Man and she wants nothing to do with you. How can a relationship last if you don’t agree on something as “important” as politics? P.S. – It can.

7- “Thank you for thinking of me for this project. Although I won't be pursuing representation, I appreciate the opportunity to consider your work and wish you every success with it.”

Now this…this is what my wife should have told me 7 years ago because boy am I a project. I drink too much, I gamble, I like going out with my friends, I like to watch sports…the list goes on and on. Unluckily for her she has taken on this project. At the very least I’m an adoring father and above average husband, even with my myriad of faults, and I think I could be the same for a literary agent, wherever they are.

At the end of the day, I will find an agent who enjoys a charming asshole both in character and author form. And instead of getting down about this fucking slog of trying to find an agent I’ll just remind myself daily that at least I’m not being shot at. Writing, being rejected, and writing some more is easy compared to being in a war. I’ll just keep writing my ass off and see what happens, which is much better than getting my actual ass blown off. Humility is key and agents dole it out like fucking tic-tacs. In a way, I am thankful for it. Wouldn’t want my ego blowing up… (do I really need to add another war analogy?)

As is tradition, the interviewer asked him questions about the state of the world (mainly the wars in Ukraine and Gaza). He started his answer by saying “all ideology is bad”, which is laugh out loud funny coming from someone who is the head of a very specific ideology called Roman Catholicism. The interviewer asked if he could help negotiate peace in these places. He replied, “All I can do is pray.”  Well, Pope, your prayer has been a massive nothing burger. You either suck at praying, are not praying hard enough, or *gasp* do not have a direct connection with the Almighty.

I don’t remember when the Pope (who is Argentinian) had to speak on American political issues like immigration at the southern border, but here we are. It’s not shocking that the Pope is pro “open boarders” but he did sneak in a couple solid jokes about how the Irish brought whiskey to America and the Italians brought the mafia. This surely had the Far Right nut jobs looking at the television like Leonardo DiCaprio in Once Upon A Time In Hollywood.

The Pope’s joke made me laugh out loud. It sounds like something you might find in a Hell or Hangover post. If the Pope can make off color ethnic jokes then I feel free to do so going forward.

He went on to say that people nowadays have been taken over by indifference, that we don’t care enough about the suffering in the world. His exact words were, “There are so many Pontius Pilates on the loose out there.” I’m not sure what world he is living in because the amount of people who won’t shut the fuck up about every “issue” they see in the world is never ending. Clearly the Pope isn’t on Twitter.

But where my jaw actually dropped is when, at the end of the interview, in attempt to shed some positivity, he said he believes that “all people are fundamentally good”. I almost spit out my drink. If this isn’t a direct call to allow priests to marry and have children I don’t know what is. Only someone who has never had children can go through life with this veil over their eyes. Assuming the pleasantness and good nature of the human heart is something only people without children could possibly believe. Any parent knows this couldn’t be further from the truth.

When my daughter wakes up from her night’s sleep she has this look in her eye that says, “How can I possibly fuck up my parent’s day?” You can tell her for the hundredth time that biting, hitting, and spitting are all bad things but her “fundamentally good” brain keeps doing those things. Toddlers have no concept of good or evil, just thoughts of chaos and madness. There is a reason that parents are needed to raise children. It’s because children are not born inherently good. They are just an amalgam of base human functions (eat, sleep, shit) trying to figure out what they can and can’t get away with.

If us humans were born genuinely good my job as Dad wouldn’t be necessary and neither would the Pope’s. Seriously, what the fuck would the Pope do if everyone was just getting along? If there was no internal struggle? If we we’re all nice people causing no harm in the world? Sounds boring to me. Also, impossible.

I’m reminded of the Solzhenitsyn quote : “The line separating good and evil passes through every human heart.” For every time my daughter shares her food, she throws it three times. For every time she hits, she hugs. The job as a parent is to guide your kids towards the good as much as possible knowing the evil is still there, in them and you, because you are both human. So no, Pope Francis The Clueless, we are not inherently good, but we try, which seems to me like the whole point.

P.S. – I’m currently on a very bumpy flight. I would ask the Pope to throw up a prayer for me but am afraid it would have the opposite effect. Maybe me writing this is the reason for said turbulence. If so, I apologize to all passengers unluckily on board with this sinner.

P.P.S. – Maybe letting priests marry and have children could kill two birds with one stone. Bird 1 - Understanding human nature. Bird 2 - Not rampantly molesting children. But what do I know?

But she wasn’t laughing this year when I mentioned one of my best friends (the same friend who I had an accidental erotic subzero camping mishap with – read more about that here - California Cold ) was coming to New Jersey from his home in Florida and that he wanted to see us on Mother’s Day. It wasn’t because she is jealous of the *coughs* bond *coughs* my friend and I have. And of course she wanted to see him. That goes without saying. But she wasn’t laughing because Mother’s Day is supposed to be her day off. She has earned this. Her countless hours have MORE than earned a 24 hour period of doing absolutely nothing. No kids. No work. No play. No nothing.

But, you see, my friend is married and does not have kids yet. When you don’t have kids Mother’s Day can seem like a throw away holiday. Men with a wife and kids know this is not the case. Mother’s Day is the Superbowl of holidays. If you fuck it up it can mean a year of hard labor like you were sent to a Gulag.

What I should have done was tell my friend that his visit was out of the question. What I should have done was tell my wife that I DENIED his request. What I should have done was tell her that Sunday was her day and I would make any sacrifices necessary to ensure that. Who cares if I haven’t seen him in three months, baby, Mother’s Day is your day *winks at the camera*. I would have earned serious brownie points for at least a day or two.

Instead, like a moron, I mentioned with trepidation that he would not be staying the whole day and that his plan was to make stops throughout the day to each one of our friends’ houses. We would be the first stop in the morning and from there she could go back to laying in bed watching her newest obsession Summer House (which I have inadvertently gotten into, as I tend to do, which is illuminated here: Throuple Double ). Anyway, can you believe Everett?

“Why would he do that?” she asked.

“Because he wants to see everyone before he goes home,” I said, thinking nothing of it.

“That’s odd,” she said.

Her antenna was up. Thank God for her intuition. She knew that my friend and his wife had pulled the goalie (aka - been trying to have a kid) and that it was strange that he would be making the rounds to each one of our friends knowing he had a flight to catch that night. She explained her theory.

“She’s pregnant and he wants to tell all of you,” she said.

“You think so?” I asked.

“I know so. We should have everyone over for brunch,” she said.

Now, if you’re not married, you can’t possibly understand the stress having people over puts on a wife. The house must be spotless, the floors must be vacuumed, the fridge must be stocked, the spread must be cute, and the stress of it all will be high. It’s the antithesis of doing nothing. But she insisted we do the brunch and I began to pray.

My prayer was simple: please God let my friend’s wife be pregnant.

Because instead of my wife spending Mother’s Day in a state of abject bliss, in bed watching nonsense TV, being doted on hand and foot as daddy wrangled the kids - my friends, their wives, and their kids, all crammed into our humble abode at 10 AM on Mother’s Day morning.

There were a couple of hours where I started to get nervous. The champagne began to flow, I built a solid buzz, and I completely forgot why we were doing this. If this was just going to turn into a typical gathering where the guys go into one corner and drink/gamble on sports while the girls go into another corner and gossip/watch the kids, then I was in for a rude awakening the next morning.

But luckily, out of nowhere, my friend stood up and said:

“Alright everybody, I have an announcement. We’re pregnant!”

The relief that coursed through my veins was almost as high as my excitement for my friend and his wife and their growing family. I got a wee bit emotional and I don’t know if it was because I knew my wife wasn’t going to castrate me or that the prospect of new life makes me sentimental (or like I said, I had built a solid buzz).

Regardless, and as always, my wife’s intuition was correct.

So, congrats to my friend on the coming baby and congrats to me on not being murdered in my sleep on Mother’s Day 2024.

P.S. - Pecs, you’ll soon know better than to make any plans with the boys on Mother’s Day. Godspeed keddddd. Love ya.

Here’s what you have to do.

First – subscribe.

In order to subscribe go to www.hellorhangover.com. The first thing that should pop up is a place to type your email in. By typing your email in and hitting subscribe (and possibly having to confirm the subscription in your email), you will now get the Hell or Hangover posts directly to your email when I post them.

Or just type in your email below and hit subscribe.

Hell Or Hangover

A humor & satire newsletter written by an ex(ish)-degenerate turned husband and father for readers who are tired of being bombarded with depressing shit all day. Crack a beer (or your beverage of choice). Read. And laugh.

By Alex Muka

Second – email me a suggestion.

If you are a subscriber, send a topic you want me to rant about to hellorhangover@gmail.com

The topics can be anything you think I might find funny and that you want my take on.

For example – I started watching the mini-series Franklin by accident on Monday. No, not the one with the turtle, the one where Michael Douglas is trying to make us believe he’s Benjamin Franklin. This is a show I saw a preview for on Apple TV and actually laughed out loud at the casting. There’s no way in hell even the greatest actor could make me believe that Gordon Gecko is also that nerd Ben Frank. When I think of Benjamin Franklin I think of a fat guy with a ridiculous hairline holding a kite up and electrocuting himself, not the guy who’s married to Catherine Zeta Jones. But I was a bit hungover after celebrating Cinco De Mayo and figured at worst the show would give me a laugh due to how bad it was.

Well, I hate to admit that I actually love the show. I’m a big history guy and if the show is portraying the events with even a little bit of accuracy then I need to dive headfirst back into American History (book recommendations welcome). Not only does the show draw you in with a story, it also reveals a side of Benjamin Franklin I never knew existed: Benjamin Franklin the fucking cocksman.

At first I thought it was just the way Michael Douglas portrays every character he’s ever been, pure sex. You don’t need to be gay to understand Michael Douglas’s appeal. The guy’s got swagger on a hundred, thousand, trillion (Kanye voice). In the show, when Benjamin Franklin starts flirting with every other French woman he runs into, I thought it was just Michael Douglas going off script. I think this tweet sums it up.

After a little research, it turns out Benjamin Franklin had a way with the ladies (and a taste for the drink). The quote attributed to Mr. Franklin, “God made beer because he loves us and wants us to be happy”, is starting to make a lot more sense.

The fact that Benjamin Franklin had a way with the ladies should give all fat and balding men some hope. Seriously, look at this guy…the real one…he’s the 18^th century George Costanza.

 If BenjaRizz Franklin, The Fuccboi of the American revolution, could pull tail with that hairline and gut then…

So you see, the email suggestions can be as simple as, watch show or movie “x” because of “y”, or read this because of that, or check out this Youtube video – and if I find it funny I will use it and thank you publicly for making me write another of these ridiculous posts.

Thanks again.