Immunotherapy

I know I’ve been deliberately vague about my cancer journey since last fall save for the numerous Torturing Myself posts. There’s a reason for that—and the same reason I gave up journaling in 2003 when I was first confronted with the dreaded c-word. I didn’t want to turn my entries  (and years later, blog posts) into an ongoing pity party. No one wants to read that shit, myself included.

But…

Despite my brave face, at times I still get very depressed, angry, and well…tired of this shit.

My therapist has heard all of this, and while I’m not specifically directed at my readers, I just need to scream into the universe for a minute.

Back in August, after the initial diagnosis and we were first brainstorming the best way to proceed, my surgeon said (perhaps unsprirsingly) that surgery was the best route, followed by chemo, radiation, or immunotherapy if warranted.

My experience with radiation twenty-some years ago was a breeze—until it wasn’t. I read about all the possible side effects of radiation vs. chemotheapy, and decided that radiation would have the fewest side effects. Everything was fine (despite some minor sore throat pain) until about week five of a daily seven week regimen, and then all hell broke loose. I was eating oxycontin like candy and nothing relieved the pain. But the oncologist convinced me to stand strong because once the treatments ended, the healing could begin and everything would return to normal.

He was correct. By the end of that year everything had returned to normal and there was no sign of further cancer.

Of course, what they didn’t tell you was the long-term scarring that would result from the radiation in that particular area of my throat and neck; something that wouldn’t rear its ugly head for fifteen years and impact your ability to swallow for the rest of your life. Supposedly they still didn’t know about the long-term effects, but that’s another discussion for another time.

At the time I remembered asking if I could repeat the treatment at some point in the future if the cancer returned. At that time, they said no. “You can get it in another area of your body but we can’t treat the same location more than once.”

I asked about this when I got my diagnosis last fall. My surgeon urged me to discuss my concerns with the radiation oncologist on their team. We met with him prior to surgery and he said, “Yes, I can do it in the same location now, but I wouldn’t recommend it because of the location and the very real risk of blowing out your carotid arteries.”

‘Nuff said. Remember, I need to outlive that orange pedo in the White House.

Long story short, after meeting with the regular oncologist, I decided to go with immunotherapy (vs. traditional chemotherapy). The two treatments are similar, but only insofar as they both require an IV. They work completely differently. Chemo introduces (for all intents and purposes) various poisons to your body to kill the cancer cells; immunotherapy rallies your own immune system to fight them off. The downside is that your own immune cells can sometimes turn rogue and attack your own, good cells. There are obviiously more serious side effects, but typically, they are minimal—the most common being a skin rash. How bad could that be?

Well, it turns out it can be pretty damn horrific. And the itching…OMG.

After my first bout of pneumonia—septic pneumonia that landed me in the hospital for a week—and having gotten a clean PET scan a few weeks prior to that, my oncologist decided to stop the Keytruda treatments completely (I had been at the halfway point) as he felt they had become a major contributing factor to the pneumonia.

Prior to this, the only side effects I’d experienced were a few minor pimple-like skin eruptions on my upper body.

HOWEVER…about a month ago they came back and spread with a vengeance, turning into huge, itchy spots that crusts over as they heal and now cover my shoulders, chest and stomach. It’s not shingles—everyone is in agreement on that—but it might as well be from the symptoms.  I returned to the oncologist who took one look and said, “Yup. That’s Ketruda rash,” and referred me to a dermatologist for treatment.

I saw the dermatologist on June 1st. She ordered a shit-load of blood tests and in the meantime put me on a regimen of prescription corticosteroid  cream and a low dose of hydroxyzine at bedtime al alleviate the itching so I can sleep.

When I followed up with her today and she asked if anything had improved, lifted my shirt she said, “Oh my! You’re worse!” After pointing out that my primary care doc upped the hydroxyzine to the maximum dose allowed a week earlier with no change, she took three samples to send to pathology to see exactly what’s going on. I mentioned that the only time I saw any relief from this was after the second week-long bout of pneumonia in April when they had me on prednisone in the hospital and discharged me with an addition week’s worth of mediation. It was only then that things returned to “normal” (the small pimple-like eruptions that were few and widely distributed). She mentioned that in the past she’d seen excellent results from Duplixent. (Have you heard of it? Of course you have. If you’re of a certain age the advertisements are no doubt littering your evening television viewing.) Today she administered an initial “sample” dose of the drug and sent me home with a four-week long, decreasing regimen of prednisone. Hopefully this helps and I’ll start seeing some improvement by the time I return in two weeks for my second “sample” dose of Duplixent. I’m also hoping that the Duplixent will be covered by my insurance (it requires preauthorization, but I’ve satisfied my out of pocket maximum for the year already); otherwise it is unobtainium and we’ll have to pursue another route.

As an aside, a friend of ours was going through Keytruda therapy for breast cancer. They pulled her off of it because it destroyed her thyroid and one of her adrenal glands.

While going over my most recent blood tests with the dermatologist today, she noted that my TSH was through the roof. I said I’d call my endocrinologist when I got home, and after doing so she increased one of my meds 140%. My own thyroid gland has been shit since the radiation in 2004, but it’s been managed through medication. Out of curiosity I went back and checked my numbers from April when I was in the hospital. It was incredibly high then. Prior to that (about two months) it was in the normal range.

So…in addition to everything else, Keytruda appparently destroyed what was left of my thyroid function as well. That would certainly explain my constant fatigue and falling asleep at my desk and while watching television. We’ll see if my energy returns  after I’m on the higher dose of medication for a few days…

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about these past nine months, and if I knew then what I know now, I never would’ve had the surgery. I would’ve taken my chances with that tiny spot at the back of my tongue. As my dear friend (a nurse practitioner) said “typical untreated squamous cell is typically 10-15 years.” Based on the lifespan of both my parents, that’s about what I would’ve have left anyway. And there are days I truly believe the treatment is worse than the initial disease.

And yet…

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2 comments

Well Damn. No Big Beautiful Obituary. So Another Day Of Stupid…


the thing about Donny’s Reflecting Pool debacle is that everyone can see with their own eyes just how badly he’s fucked up.

this isn’t like some don’t-you-dare-call-it-a-war half a world away, or some loony policy decision whose ruinous effects won’t come to light for months or years.

no, this one’s a huge clownfucked mess, and it’s right there in front of everyone’s faces.

and so Donny’s decided to solve this self-inflicted disaster in the most Donny way possible: by declaring that if you touch his beloved Pool, you’re going to jail for a millionty skillion years.

The United States Park Police have arrested multiple individuals for vandalizing our Nations magnificent Reflecting Pool. Who would do such a thing? These are very serious crimes having to do with the destruction of National Monuments. Years in jail! Work will begin immediately on its repair. President DJT

years in jail! make them do hard labor! feed them bread and water! off with their fucking heads!

let’s be crystal clear here: nobody is vandalizing Dear Leader’s big watery shitpile. that’s a fever-swamp hallucination that exists only inside Donny’s waterlogged head.

nobody is doing this. nobody is going down the the Atifa store and buying the biggest goddamned Antifa knife they can, and the heading over to the Pool — which has 24-hour live cameras directed at it seven days a week — and somehow slashing the shit out of it, and then making a clean getaway, without being seen.

what people are being carted away in handcuffs for is touching the paint chips that have already broken off, or fishing them out of the water.

one person charged told The Post he touched the peeling paint but did not cause damage. Another was heard telling officers she pulled a piece of floating paint out of the water.

what an excellent use of law enforcement time and resources, nailing people for the heinous crime of Grand Theft Paint Chips — all because the colicky piss-baby in the Oval Bordello can’t ever take responsibility for his own fuck-ups.

it’s all so fucking stupid and childish. nonetheless, America’s tipsiest US Attorney was all over Fox News yesterday, vowing to prosecute any miscreant or ne’er-do-well who even looks at the Reflecting Pool funny.

“these are cases that will be prosecuted to the full extent. if there are more serious products that are put into the Reflecting Pool to create more algae, or a bigger problem, then we’ll consider more serious charges. but make no mistake: making DC beautiful is a priority, and if you damage, vandalize, or do anything to impact something like the Reflecting Pool, you can be prosecuted.”

once again: nobody is doing this. nobody is vandalizing the Pool. nobody is putting ‘products’ into the pool to ‘create more algae.’ they don’t even sell that shit at the Antifa store. I just checked.

Jeanine Pirro — who was appointed to her job because she’s loyal, not because she’s competent (or sober) — is going to prosecute innocent people who did nothing wrong, just to please Dear Leader.

this is so dumb. this is the Sandwich Guy all over again.

remember the Sandwich Guy? he was the dude who got arrested for lobbing his lunch at a DC cop.

Tipsy McBoxwine was so super fucking horny to make an example out of Sandwich Guy that she dressed up in Holstein cow cosplay to moo loudly about how she was going to prosecute the shit out of him.

remember what happened next? she tried to get a grand jury to indict Sandwich Guy for felony assault, and the grand jurors were all ‘are you kidding us, Jeanine? it’s a fucking sandwich.’

most prosecutors would have let it go after that, but because Pirro is apparently as big a glutton for self-humiliation as Dear Leader is, she then charged Sandwich Guy with a misdemeanor, and wasted taxpayer money on a pointless, three-day trial.

spoiler alert: Sandwich Guy got acquitted, because it was a fucking sandwich, Jeanine.

and now, here were are all over again. Pirro is going to waste government resources and money on pointless show trials, and fuck with the lives of innocent people — and in the end, all these people are going to walk free, because it’s fucking paint chips, Jeanine.

let’s recap just how the fuck we got here.

Donny invented an imaginary problem where none existed, and then bragged that he was the only person in the world who could solve it. without bothering to consult a single expert, he handed a juicy contract worth millions to an incompetent crony, who did a slapdash job that went way over budget. then, without waiting to see what the actual results were, he praised himself and took a victory lap. when it all blew up in his big, dumb pumpkin face, he hired some other unqualified crony to implement a ‘fix’ that just made the everything worse — at which point he started blaming everyone else and whining about how it was all a conspiracy against him. so unfair! so unfair!

if all that sounds familiar, that’s because it is. this is the same template Donny applies to every single one of his fuck-ups, whether it’s a bankrupt casino or a botched don’t-you-dare-call-it-a-war on Iran.

and now, Donny has the National Guard ‘protecting’ his fugly green Pool, because of course he does.

that’s Donny’s ultimate solution to everything, to turn America in a police state.

lucky us.


we haven’t had a Hero of the Day for a while, so let’s have one now: the person or persons posting on Instagram as vjaybombs.

they’ve been projecting awesome images all over DC. check this out.

my favorite is Nosferatu McGoebbels as a bat, projected onto the Lincoln Monument.

the link to the original video on Instagram is here. go show them some love.


this is going to be my closing message for the foreseeable future:

practice self-care. do what you need to do to keep sane. if that means you need to disengage with my daily posts for a while, I get it. this community of ours will still be here when you return.

to all the people who have signed on in the days since the election, welcome aboard. settle in as we all try to deal with the shitfuckery that’s ahead of us.

we are all in this together, and we are all here for each other.

2 comments

2, 4, D. How about y’all?

And with that, it’s enough shitposting for today. Hopefully all of you will get a better nights’ sleep than I ever will, and may we all wake up tomorrow to that big beautiful headline we’ve all been waiting too long for.

G’nite, gents!

6 comments

A Message Of Positivity From John Pavlovitz On This Solstice

Hey there, dear Beautiful Mess-Makers!

If you’re reading this, you’re here and alive, and that’s a pretty big deal. Sometimes, I need to remind myself of that. As an Olympic-level control freak, I have to admit I’m not thriving lately.

Most of the time, I do my best to convince myself that I’ve got a firm handle on the events of the day; that my preparation, competency, and sheer will will all sustain and shield me from too much chaos.

It’s a comforting illusion when it holds—and lately, it ain’t.

These spectacularly chaotic days are a reminder that I’m not as invulnerable or in command as I’d like to be, and I don’t like that feeling.

Right now, you, too, may be facing the frustration of seeing so much that feels beyond your control. There is a helplessness that compassionate people feel witnessing the kind of wide-scale suffering that seems impossible to hold, and that’s because it is. The transgressions of the powerful and the wounds they inflict are too numerous and pervasive to attend to completely.

But that doesn’t mean we still can’t be in control inside the chaos. Our agency is found in our choices, in the infinitesimal decisions we make in how we spend our time, use our voices, and engage the world around us.

The only real control we have is in how we decide to show up in the world, no matter what the condition of that world is.

Today, resist the temptation to be disheartened by the pain in your path, the cruelty you come across, or the hatred that seems to be winning.

Inventory what is within your control and choose wisely.

You’re alive. That’s really good news…

0 comments

Despite all his wealth, Musk’s existence is a cautionary tale.

“What shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?”some homeless Palestinian


Elon Musk is, at least on paper, the world’s first trillionaire. He reached that milestone on June 12, after SpaceX debuted as a publicly-traded company on the U.S. stock market at an initial offering of $150 per share. At the time of writing, that price has risen to about $185, taking Musk’s estimated net worth to $1.4 trillion as the company becomes bigger than Amazon. Depending on how you evaluate the historical Malian emperor Mansa Musa, Musk may be the richest person to ever live.

Among pro-capitalist pundits, Musk’s ascension to trillionaire status has been the occasion for a round of sycophantic applause, as they all rush to tell us why it’s good for one individual to control this much of the world’s resources. At Fox News, we’re told that Musk “earned every penny,” and is living proof that “capitalism continues to reward individuals who create extraordinary value.” Similarly, an op-ed in the Los Angeles Timestells us that his SpaceX fortune is “a testament to human ingenuity, immigrant success and American greatness.” The National Review offers “Three Cheers For Elon Musk,” calling criticism of his hyper-wealth “revolting. Repulsive. Grotesque. Un-American.”

Now, there are all kinds of political and economic reasons why these claims are wrong, and we’ve discussed them at some length elsewhere. Two of the most important are that by hoarding wealth, billionaires and now trillionaires are actively keeping other people in poverty, making the whole thing monstrously unethical, and that their vast fortunes allow them to buy political power and make a mockery of the word “democracy.” Both of these things are true of Musk, who has bragged about using his wealth to get Donald Trump elected and likely killed hundreds of thousands of peopleacross Africa with his “DOGE” aid cuts. (If you start to count the lives Musk could save if he put his money to good use, the numbers get even more staggering.)

But another, morbidly fascinating aspect of this whole moment is that, despite possessing wealth that rivals the emperors of the ancient world, Musk’s existence is a bizarre and cursed one in many important ways. His personal relationships with the people closest to him, by all appearances, are dysfunctional and abusive to varying degrees. He desperately wants to be adored by the public, but with every attempt, their approval slips further from his grasp. Instead of enjoying his money and leisure, he spends his waking hours obsessing over racist conspiracy theories and paranoid fantasies about the end of the world. And to add the final insult, he doesn’t even have a trillion dollars in any real sense; he just has to spend a lot of time and energy keeping up an elaborate fiction that he does.

In a way, Musk’s fans are right: he’s a perfect example of capitalism at work, with its relentless drive for growth and acquisition at the expense of everything else. It’s just that those are terrible principles to base a human life on.

You Can’t Buy Human Connection

It’s an old truism that money can’t buy the things that truly matter in life. This is only sort of the case. Money can certainly buy you a lot of the necessities that make it easier to be happy, like stable housing, leisure time, and better health, and research suggests that up until you hit about $100,000 per year in income, money can indeed improve your life satisfaction. But it’s also true that just because you’re wealthy, it doesn’t mean anyone will like you, especially if your money and status corrupt your ability to have healthy relations with other people.

Elon Musk’s first wife, Justine Wilson, has recounted what it was like to be married to him, and it was about as unpleasant as you might expect. Musk was initially charming, but she says that there was a disturbing warning sign when he told her during a dance at their wedding reception that “I am the alpha in this relationship.” Unfortunately, she said, “the will to compete and dominate that made him so successful in business did not magically shut off when he came home,” and in their family “Elon’s judgment overruled mine, and he was constantly remarking on the ways he found me lacking.” When she frequently reminded him that she was his wife, not an employee, he would apparently reply “If you were my employee I would fire you.” Despite their “dream lifestyle, privileged and surreal,” Musk was a terrible husband, and she felt “disposable.” Wilson told him she wanted “equality, partnership, and “to love and be loved.” He was unwilling to provide them, and told her in effect that “our status quo works for me, so it should work for you.” When she made clear that it didn’t, he divorced her the next day.

Within weeks of filing for divorce in 2008, Musk was dating the much-younger British actress Talulah Riley. The two married, then divorced, then married again, then divorced again, and Musk’s second wife, like his first, felt “she had given up her own career, while he frequently abandoned her for his.” Perhaps the trillionaire’s most high-profile relationship has been with the musician Grimes, with whom he shares three children—X Æ A-Xii, Exa Dark Sideræl, and Techno Mechanicus. (To be fair, some of the blame for the naming may belong to Grimes, who now says she’s changed Exa Dark Siderael’s name to simply the letter “y” or a question mark, representing “the eternal question… and such.”) This relationship, too, ended badly, spilling out onto Twitter, with Grimes reporting that she had been going bankrupt in a massive custody battle with Musk.

These are not Musk’s only children. The prolific breeder has at least 14 by various mothers. (Plus those to whom he gives his sperm away, whose numbers are unknown.) Musk has made it clear that he values quantity of procreative output over the quality of his relationships with his kids. Ever the student of history, he decided to populate the world with as many of his genetic offspring as possible, reportedly “after reading that Genghis Khan had done something similar.” (Good role model, Genghis Khan.) He is terrified of population decline, and “really wants smart people to have kids.” Musk appears to hold the pure genetic determinist view that what matters is not whether you’re involved with a child’s life but whether you have Good Smart Person Genes, which he believes he does. He also reportedly believes that “your wealth is directly linked to your IQ,” and so encouraged “all the rich men he knew” to reproduce.

Unsurprisingly, Musk goes about this project in the creepiest way imaginable, sliding into women’s DMs on the social media platform he owns, Twitter/X. The Wall Street Journal reports that he replies to lesser-known users and “sometimes interacts through direct messages, some of whom he eventually solicits to have his babies.” Social media influencer Tiffany Fong, for instance, noticed that Musk “started liking and replying to her posts,” driving engagement and revenue to her account, and then “sent her a direct message asking if she was interested in having his child,” even though they had never met in person. Fong declined, and when Musk found out that she had told others about his offer, he chastised her and unfollowed her, leading her new earnings to evaporate.

Musk has even preyed on women who have worked for him, with a former employee saying he “asked her on multiple occasions to have his babies.” Shivon Zilis, a Neuralink executive and former project director at Tesla, testified in a court proceeding that Musk “was encouraging everyone around him at that time to have kids and he’d noticed I did not,” so he “offered to make a donation.” Zilis went on to have four of Musk’s children, and attained “special status” among the mothers of his “legion” (his name for his progeny) because he actually spends some time with her. Zilis has said that “I can’t possibly think of genes I would prefer for my children.” But note that she did notsay “I can’t possibly think of a man I would prefer to raise my children with.” According to the Wall Street Journal, Zilis moved to “a compound in Austin where Musk imagined the women and his growing number of babies would all live among multiple residences,” although Grimes reportedly refused to move to the property.

In 2022, Business Insider reported that Musk exposed himself to a flight attendant on his jet, rubbed her leg, and offered to buy her a horse if she would give him a hand job. (Note that many men do not have to offer to exchange horses for hand jobs, because there are women in the world willing to have sex with them for free, due to their winning personalities. Musk, lacking such an asset, must resort to equine bribery.) Tesla ended up paying the woman $250,000 to keep quiet about the incident. After the story broke, SpaceX employees posted “an internal letter protesting what they viewed as the company’s failure to take harassment allegations seriously,” after which eight of them were fired, leading them to file a complaint with the NLRB.

It has to be said, this set of psychosexual preoccupations bears a striking resemblance to those of Musk’s fellow oligarch, the late Jeffrey Epstein. Musk seems to have a higher age preference, as all of the women he’s been publicly involved with have been over 18 (for instance, Riley was 22 and Musk was 37 when they began dating.) But like Musk, Epstein reportedly hoped to “seed the human race with his DNA by impregnating women” on a large scale, and had a compound of his own at Zorro Ranch in New Mexico for that purpose. Like Musk, much of his harassment took place on a private plane, where the women in question were a captive audience. There are even emails between the two, sent on Christmas Day in 2013, where Musk rather pathetically begged to visit Epstein’s properties. The common denominator between the two men is treating women as things to acquire and collect, rather than people. It’s a form of perversity that’s really only available to the super-rich.

Musk is an objectively terrible father to his “legion.” Many of his children he appears to have little interest in communicating with at all. When he was asked what was so great about having children, he said that kids were “delightful” but “struggled to come up with any other reasons that had anything to do with building a relationship with the children themselves.” Musk has ignored Grimes, who had pleaded to keep their son X out of the limelight and protect his privacy, instead dragging his toddler in front of TV cameras repeatedly. The worst example of Musk’s parenting, though, is his disavowal of his 22-year-old trans daughter, Vivian Jenna Wilson, whom he has publicly condemned, saying “she was ‘not a girl’ and was figuratively ‘dead,’” alleging that “he had been ‘tricked’ into authorizing trans-related medical treatment for her.” Musk’s transphobia is so extreme that he says he got into right-wing politics specifically because of Wilson, and his public attacks on her are even more galling given that when he comments negatively about someone online they tend to receive threats. For her part, Wilson says that her father “would harass her for exhibiting feminine traits,” on one trip “constantly yelling at me viciously because my voice was too high.” He was neglectful and absent, but also “cruel” and “cold” when present, “uncaring and narcissistic,” as well as “quick to anger.” (This is consistent with accounts of how Musk treats his employees as well.) Wilson notes that she doesn’t actually know exactly how many half-siblings she has, along with the extraordinary fact that “if I had a nickel for every time I found out I had half siblings through Reddit, I’d have two nickels… which isn’t a lot but it’s weird that it happened twice, right?”

The influencer Ashley St. Clair, who had one of Musk’s children in 2024, said that while Musk seemed “very normal” before she got pregnant, “it just got so f—king weird.” When the child was born, Musk requested to keep his name off the birth certificate, while one of his deputies pressured her “to sign documents keeping the father of the baby and details regarding her relationship with Musk secret in return for[…] a one-time fee of $15 million for a home and living expenses, plus an additional $100,000 a month until the baby turned 21.” But after St. Clair expressed support for Musk’s trans daughter, Musk said he was “filing for full custody today” because her “support for trans ideology meant that she was ‘implying she might transition a one-year-old boy.’” He also “sought a gag order in New York to force Ms. St. Clair to stop speaking publicly.” In other words, in addition to his cruel treatment of his trans daughter, he threatened to keep one of his other children from seeing their mom because St. Clair disavowed transphobia. Again, the theme of treating people as possessions returns, because Musk is interested in his children only if they turn out the way he prefers; otherwise, he’ll cast them aside as he might a defective rocket engine.

Building a healthy, loving family, then, and building normal human relationships, are something Musk has no interest in, and likely couldn’t achieve even if he did. His vast wealth allows him to treat people like dirt and suffer few consequences. When the mother of one of his children displeases him, he can threaten to ruin her with a costly custody battle. When he is accused of sexual harassment, he can cut a check. But the end result of all of this is multiple failed marriages and an ever-growing brood of biological children who will lack any kind of meaningful parent-child relationship with their dad.

You Can’t Buy Cool

If his relationships to the people close to him are a train wreck, Musk’s relationship with the public isn’t much better. As the years go on, it’s become clear that he badly wants to be seen as cool, funny, and popular, and yet the harder he tries to win everyone’s admiration, the less cool he becomes. Lately, his public antics just exude a desperate, sweaty energy that makes him painful to watch. There was the godawful “let that sink in” joke that he used to announce his arrival to Twitter’s headquarters, carrying a physical porcelain sink; the stupid X-shaped jumping jack he kept doing for a while, apparently to resemble the logo of “X the Everything App”; the cowboy hat incident; the photo he posted of his bedside table with a huge gun and four cans of Diet Coke on it; the poem (Maybe religion’s not so bad / To keep you from being sad). In his comprehensive, largely flattering biography, Walter Isaacson writes that Musk’s “jokes tended to be filled with smirking references to 69, other sex acts, body fluids, pooping, farts, dope smoking, and topics that would crack up a dorm room of stoned freshmen.” (More like a classroom of sixth-graders.)

At one point, Musk admitted that he pays other people to play video games for him, so he’ll quickly get the highest scores and levels and Twitch streamers will see him as a “living god of video games.” For him, the point is not to enjoy the games, but to acquire whatever token or icon marks you as having won them, and thus earn the admiration of nerds who watch livestreams all day. And he couldn’t even get that, because when Musk attempted to stream himself playing Path of Exile 2 last year, the audience trolled him relentlessly, posting “YOU HAVE NO REAL FRIENDS AND WILL DIE ALONE” over and over in the chat box. But just caring about this kind of thing in the first place is the pathetic part, and apparently no amount of money can fix that.

In fact, the money itself may be the problem. Once you reach a certain level of wealth, if you’re not careful, you become surrounded by “yes men” who tell you everything you come up with is brilliant, no matter how non-brilliant it actually is. It’s a familiar pattern with American celebrities and financial elites. Howard Hughes had his mansion full of urine jars. Michael Jackson had his oxygen chamber and monkey, and his staff largely overlooked his questionable relations with children. Ye has his song where he rhymed “they don’t understand the things I say on Twitter” with “Heil Hitler.” (Notably, Musk and the artist formerly named Kanye West were friends for over a decade.) This is the kind of behavior where, if any non-rich person tried it, they’d be socially ostracized, sent for mental treatment, or at the very least told to shut up. But where an ordinary person might be considered “weird,” “creepy,” or “banned from the mall,” the rich are merely “eccentric,” and get to carry on making a spectacle of themselves indefinitely.

The closest Musk ever came to being cool was in the early years, when he was still something of an underdog compared to the CEOs of the big aerospace and auto companies. Today, that’s gone, and his personal concept of “cool” is clearly just stuff he sees in video games, comic books, and YouTube and Reddit posts. To him, the height of “cool” is to pretend to be Iron Man, or post “epic memes” all day. It’s left him with a small, fanatical fanbase of similarly maladjusted internet guys, and he seems genuinely confused why everyone else in the world doesn’t love him, too.

One person who is cool is Musk’s daughter, Vivian Wilson, who is a proud leftist and opponent of billionaires who has posed for Vogue and is fronting major fashion campaigns. Ashley St. Clair has even speculated that part of the reason Musk has attacked Wilson is “jealousy,” that he is “just mad that Vivian is a million times cooler than he will ever be.” Even a trillion dollars cannot make a bitter, reactionary, terminally-online middle-aged deadbeat dad cooler than his fashion icon trans daughter.

You Can’t Buy Peace of Mind

Really, Musk doesn’t even seem to be enjoying his massive wealth that much. Many people, if they got hold of even a few million dollars—let alone a trillion—would be napping on a beach somewhere people have never heard of Twitter. Instead, Musk seems to spend a huge chunk of his free time on the app, responding to the most racist posts he can find. In that way, his life is not very different from that of the stereotypical, unemployed loser who lives in a basement and does the same, surrounded by empty Cheeto packets and Monster Energy cans. When you scroll through his feed, the sheer amount of racial fearmongering is overwhelming.

Take just a few examples from this June. Here’s Musk saying that “there are large numbers of anti-White hate crimes every day in America,” in a reply to a far-right account called “End Wokeness.” Here he is complaining that “the system is severely biased against Whites,” in response to the news that a white 19-year-old had been sentenced to 19 years in a British prison for “attempting to behead a Kurdish barber with an axe.” On another occasion, he retweeted someone called “Rothmus” who said that “the welfare state has been more destructive to the black family than slavery.” (This is a particularly offensive bit of nonsense, as enslaved people routinely had their young children taken from them by force and sold at auction, while the welfare state does not do that.) More often, Musk simply responds with “concerning” or “!!” to any post that highlights a crime committed by a Black person or an immigrant, bringing it to the attention of his 240 million followers—and by extension the entire app, since he has reportedly instructed the software engineers to boost his posts, whether anyone wants to see them or not.

JUST ONE OF MANY EXAMPLES

The irony is that Musk is, by definition, one of the most powerful people in the world, and he’s visibly terrified of the least powerful. According to the Washington Post, Musk posted about “race and his concerns about perceived threats to Whiteness” 850 times between October 2025 and April 2026, for an average of four racist tweets per day. He has turned a major social media network into a sewer, and appears to spend hours every day posting this bile from his own phone. That’s approaching what Victorian physicians would have called a monomania, or an idée fixe—a singular, unhealthy obsession that consumes one’s life.

But it’s not quite fair to say Musk is single-mindedly obsessed with racial panic. He’s also obsessed with the end of the world, and seems to believe that he’s destined to play a messianic role in preserving humanity from otherwise certain doom. Musk told St. Clair that he was trying to produce his legion of children in anticipation of a coming cataclysm. “To reach legion-level before the apocalypse, we will need to use surrogates.” (Will the children die in the apocalypse? Will they be hidden in a bunker? It is not clear what Musk intends.) A key part of the sales pitch for SpaceX is that it will allow H. Sapiens to become a “multiplanetary species,” giving us a backup world (probably Mars, but possibly the Moon too) in case the Earth becomes uninhabitable. The exact cause of the impending crisis is a little vague. Sometimes Musk says superintelligent AI could “kill us all”; sometimes it’s a nuclear war with Russia; sometimes it’s “low birth rates,” which he claims will “end civilization.” The details don’t seem to matter as much as the apocalyptic frame of mind itself.

Not that Musk seems to find humanity itself particularly worth saving. He is not Zohran Mamdani, who seems most at home in huge crowds and among street food vendors and taxi drivers. In fact, Musk seems to abhor being around everyday people. Part of his gripe against public transit is that it involves being around “a bunch of random strangers, one of who might be a serial killer.” He wondered why someone would “want to get on something with a lot of other people,” which is part of why he posits ridiculous unworkable schemes to crisscross cities with auto tunnels—the concept of a train or bus is abhorrently collectivist. The feeling of disdain is mutual: polling shows Musk is the least-liked public figure in America among the general public.

[source]

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Will It Blend? (Apologies To Those Old Infomercials)

Of course it will blend. If I’ve learned anything at all over the past nine months, anything will blend if you have the proper ratio of water to solid.

As mentioned before, the Taco Bell Enchirito was one of my favorites back in the day, and the Mexi-pizza was also right up there. Both are now lacking olives, (and where did that purple cabbage come from?) but I was still happy to see them back on the menu.

Unfortunately since I haven’t eaten anything since September last year, we didn’t have any black olives on hand (and I wasn’t going to run back out to buy any) or I would’ve added them myself.

But still, the smell—and the actual small amount of taste I can sense—was worth it all.

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This Is What A Real President Looks Like


hey, remember when the President of the United States wasn’t a malignant toad who gleefully shits all over the values we hold dear? this guy does.

“it’s why the exhibits here focus not just on policies, but on the shared values that make democracy possible. a belief in the intrinsic dignity and worth of all people, and that no one is above the law — or beneath its protection. a belief in checks and balances in our government, and an accountability that comes with it. an independent judiciary, and a robust free press. a belief that our military and law enforcement owe allegiance not to any president or political party, but to the people and our Constitution. a belief in the peaceful transfer of power after the people have spoken in fair and free elections. recognizing that in a large, complicated society like ours, no group or faction gets its way 100% of the time. and a belief that qualities of character — honesty, integrity, kindness, compassion, a sense of duty and honor — those things matter in our public dealings, just as they do in our private lives.”

that, of course, was Barack HUSSEIN Obama, speaking at yesterday’s opening of the Obama Presidential Center in Chicago. in the span of one minute and twenty-five seconds, Obama lays out all the things we’ve lost — and must regain — in the years since Little Donny Fuckface inflicted himself on us.

checks and balances. the peaceful transfer of power. kindness and compassion. remember that shit? the firehose of fuckery has been spraying nonstop into our faces for so long that it’s easy to forget that none of what we’re going through right now is normal. blatant corruption isn’t normal. incoherent foreign policy isn’t normal. masked government thugs on the streets of our cities isn’t normal.

thank you, Barack Obama, for reminding us of this.


no wonder the malignant toad in the Oval Bordello hates Obama.

Obama is everything Donny isn’t — and never will be. he’s smart, he’s articulate, he’s physically fit. he has class, he has style, he has dignity. he has the respect of his peers. he can speak in complete sentences, and finish a coherent thought. he has tangible accomplishments — and he has a wife who actually loves him, and isn’t some pedo-bestie hand-me-down.

oh yeah, and there’s also that whole Peace Prize thing.

Michelle Obama: “you were doing the people’s work. rescuing our economy. expanding healthcare. ending a war. ordering the bin Laden raid. saving the auto industry. winning a Peace Prize.”

that’s right, the real Peace Prize — the Nobel one, not that ginned-up trinket that FIFA fished out of some Cracker-Jack box and bestowed upon Dear Leader.

hey, did you catch the Email Lady’s joyous cackle at the 21-second mark in that clip? I think in that moment, Hillary laughs for all of us.

we definitely need to gif that shit.

here’s a pro tip for Donny: live your life in such a way that the whole world doesn’t piss itself with glee while recounting all your failings. oh wait, too late for you, pal.

Stephen Colbert was at the Obama Center — in a tan suit.

masterful troll, sir.

every living former president and first lady was in attendance.

you know who was conspicuous in his absence? that ginormous piss-baby back in the Oval Bordello, that’s who. he couldn’t make it to Chicago, because he was too busy being, well, a ginormous piss-baby.

at the same time Obama was being feted in Chicago, Donny was ostensibly participating in a Medal of Honor ceremony — but of course, the whiny fuck couldn’t go five entire seconds without making it all about himself.

“only a few have received our highest— military distinction, the Congressional— Medal of Honor. I wanted to give it to myself, but I was informed I couldn’t do it.”

shut the fuck up, Cadet Bone Spurs. I don’t think they give out medals for having a note from your doctor.

the nerve of this five-time draft dodger, imagining that he’s somehow deserving of our nation’s highest military honor.

for what, pray tell? for clownfucking our entire country into a humiliating surrender in Iran? I’m pretty sure they don’t give out medals for incompetence, either. maybe Donny’s friends at Four Seasons Total Foreign Policy Disasters can gin one up for him.

can you imagine Obama ever whining about how unfair it is to be denied an honor he hadn’t earned? of course you can’t. Obama has dignity, and isn’t a narcissistic valor-stealing shit-goblin.


now it’s time to pour one out for MAGA. they’re going through some things right now.

stuff a sock in it, racist. exactly how did Barack and Michelle Obama ‘divide America’? by presidenting and first-ladying while black?

seriously, I defy any one of these bigoted shit-kazoos to come up with an explanation of Obama’s supposed divisiveness that doesn’t boil down to ‘I got mad because a black man was president.’

grow the fuck up.

oh look, professional campaign-loser Joey Mannarino wants to contribute to the discourse.

boo fucking hoo, crybabies. munch on binkie


now check out this slice of prime dumbfuckery. the situation keeps getting worse over at Donny’s brand-new Epstein Reflecting Pool.

remember all that hydrogen peroxide they dumped into the pool a couple days ago, to deal with the algae problem? you’ll never guess what all that peroxide did: it dissolved all that brand-new blue paint and sent it to the surface in huge sheets.

look at this shit.

but wait, the clownfuckery gets even more clownfuckier. the incompetents that Donny hired to fix the algae problem were cronies of Donny’s, and they got a $1.7 million no-bid contract, because of course they did. that’s on top of the $14 million no-bid contract that some other crony of Donny’s got for doing that shitty blue paint job in the first place. and not one of these dumbfucks ever stopped to ask ‘why are we dumping paint-stripper into a freshly painted pool?’

shitty timelines don’t get shitty all by themselves. they need a corrupt and incompetent Dear Leader to give them a little nudge in the right direction.

it’s just one more thing for the next president’s Secretary of Unfucking All That Shit to deal with.


his is going to be my closing message for the foreseeable future:

practice self-care. do what you need to do to keep sane. if that means you need to disengage with my daily posts for a while, I get it. this community of ours will still be here when you return.

to all the people who have signed on in the days since the election, welcome aboard. settle in as we all try to deal with the shitfuckery that’s ahead of us.

we are all in this together, and we are all here for each other.

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From Tumblr…

Honestly, I was immersed in my porn, earbuds in, spit-slicked dick in hand. So I didn’t hear the guy enter the stall to my left. But the sound of fapping my cock must have been louder than I thought — not that I give a shit about being caught. Apparently my curious neighbor was getting turned on because I saw his knees and not-so-subtle hard dick coming in hot under the wall. Struck me as coincidental that he’d positioned his boner just under a random, dried up cum splatter — maybe his from a prior stop? I dunno…

In response to this unexpected offer, I sat my phone down and dropped to my knees to get a closer look. What can I say, I’m a hands-on kinda guy. I wiped my fingers over the head of my dripping cock and gently tickled the frenulum of his penis with my own precum. I felt him shudder, and that instant and unmistakable reaction told me that I’d discovered his kryptonite. He was mine now, and I had very specific ideas about the direction of our play.

After toying with him a few minutes, I relocated my fingertips to his balls and put my mouth on his dickhead. I heard him catch his breath as I devoured his shaft and caressed him with my tongue. But my prize was still unattended, so I shifted my hand against his fuzzy taint and began maneuvering toward his hole where a surprise awaited me. As I circled his pucker it felt wet and swollen. Hmm…maybe I’m not the first to arrive at this party destination. As I probed it became clear that he wouldn’t require as much encouragement to receive me as I had first thought. At the realization that I’d soon be fucking into another guy’s load, I almost ejaculated then and there. But I have some self control — even in my extremely horned up state.

No need to rush these things. Not sure about my new buddy, but I had all afternoon. So I played with his sloppy ass — one finger, two, three fingers — as I chewed on his hard cock.

“Come over,” he said, as he unlocked the door. Though reticent to come off his cock, I nonetheless shuffled over to his place, pants around my ankles, only to discover looking up at me the cute new guy who’d just moved a few doors down on my dorm hall. “I’ve sorta been following you, but didn’t expect this…”, he trailed off. I could see lust written all over his face as I shoved my dick toward him.

This guy could give a masterclass in cocksucking. Starting with the droplet leaking from my swollen head, he worked his tongue around and down my shaft as his tugged at my heavy nuts. I watched as he took inch by inch of my rigidity down his throat, tightening and relaxing as I began to pump.

“F-u-c-k,” is all I could manage to utter while he focused all his skills on my throbbing cock. That could have been sufficient for any dude in my shoes. But I was in charge here, I heard my innervoice suggest. Goals and all that…So I started to pull out of his warm mouth as I set my sights on another target.

“Turn around,” and he obeyed and pulled apart his asscheeks to showcase that sweet hole that I’d been finger-fucking.

Damn, he was sloppy. And like a starving man who licks his plate clean, I mashed my face into his backside and proceeded to lap at it. The musky man smell from his sweaty balls was intoxicating. At this point, I had no need to stroke my cock, now bobbing between my legs. Once his bath was complete, I returned to my feet and began to circle his fuck hole with my fuck pole.

“Push it in. I want to feel you inside,” he said as if I needed the encouragement. I passed thru that portal and kept driving until my entire 8 inches disappeared into his depths. And it became apparent to me that I was now enjoying my fuckbuddy’s FINEST skills. I watched mesmerized as he rhythmically pushed back on me, and pulled off until just my head was hidden from view.

“Damn,” I uttered repeatedly as he used me for his own pleasure. It wasn’t long before I felt a surge through my core and knew I was nearing climax.

I wasn’t the only who noticed. Although he slowed his pace, we both knew it was futile. The flood erupted as I drained a 5-day load into his guts. I nearly lost my balance as I blew and had to grab both walls to stay upright. As the euphoria abated, he pulled away from me and turned to begin licking me clean while I stood there immobile.

Once he was done, he looked into my eyes and told me that he’d be available for all the fucks I wanted. I smiled involuntarily, nodded in mute agreement, and realized that this was going to be an amazing semester.

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I Gave It A Second Chance

It’s been three weeks since I saw Backrooms, leaving the theater disappointed and to be honest, somewhat angry.

Since I first saw it, I’ve seen several reviews of the film, and I think I may have been too hasty in my summary judgment and dismissal. I approached it expecting to see all the internet lore faithfully rendered on the big screen, instead of just viewing it as a standalone film.

That being said, today was my one day this week when I didn’t have to attend to anything medical (such is my life these days) and I had a $5 off coupon from Fandango from my last ticket purchase, so I thought what the hell…give it another shot from this new perspective.

And you know what? I enjoyed it quite a bit this time. And I actually missed many of easter egg nods to fans of the online lore on my first viewing. As a standalone story, it really isn’t bad at all, and why the monster is what it is in this film and not the “bacteria” from the video series makes sense.  And I wouldn’t mind finding out what happens to Mary (Renate Reinsve)—or her still life, for that matter—ASYNC, and Phil (Mark Duplass) in a future sequel.

 

 

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