Sheepdog Journal

As an experiment, I tried writing a short around Twitter’s unique brand of shitposting. The results are below.

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A Suggestion for the New Management

A snapshot of 5th Ave.

Congratulations. Now that your victory lap is over, it’s time to consider what comes next. You have a proven fondness for aphorisms, and “proper planning prevents piss-poor performance” is an American classic.I’m sure you appreciate its value from your perch atop the black tower.

Now, neither of us needs to pretend that details are your specialty. There’s a cabinet for that. You’re more interested in sweeping gestures. Grandiose stunts that captivate an attention-deficit population. Which is good, because the nation faces equally massive problems. Particularly, a level of partisan division that feels very 1861.
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I don’t know why I expected better.

Two years. I just needed two years off to finish my second tour of academia and reduce my drinking to three days a week. With that short break, I could come back as a better class of clown. I trusted you people to take care of yourselves in the interim.

I can’t imagine why I thought that was a good idea.
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Blind Monkey Finds God


The whole stupid journey started on a New Jersey highway. Driving in that state is a form of suicide, or at least a cry for help. Take all the love and warmth of New York traffic and quintuple the speed. A more empathetic man would have taken it as a sign, especially from his own sister. But my empathy had been cut down to nothing by Dark Souls, where I’d just discovered the visceral joy of carving less min-maxed players down to nothing. I think of everything that followed as fair punishment.

I learned, once the doors were locked and the documents were signed, that I had agreed to attend McDonald’s Gospel Fest 2016. This was a one-way trip to an all-day celebration of Protestant radio hits. I also learned that I don’t have a cyanide tooth, and that one would not appear if kept grinding my molars together. The van windows were just strong enough that shouldering my way through it was impossible, which meant all my lifting hours were a waste. Just as well: no one can survive a roll into I-95 traffic. I slid into a passive fog.
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Blind Monkey Becomes a Psychic, Part Two

Psychic View
The sun had betrayed us all. It was 6 PM at Union Square, which counted as high noon in the heat. The weather was undeniable evidence that the time of the fat monkeys was over, and the planet would evict us by the end of the month. I swore to use that time to buy a Land Rover, drive it to California, and dump it into the ocean. If I couldn’t have this planet, neither could the dolphins.

It was also the last ride of the clowns. Derek was fleeing the dying half of the empire for Byzantium, also known as California. It wasn’t a rushed choice: he had established a new career and relationship during the time I spent building a better dick joke. Years of sitcom-grade schemes had come to the natural conclusion of one of us becoming an adult.

But first, one more.
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Blind Monkey Becomes a Psychic, Part One

psychic sign

You don’t need to join a cult if you’ve lost control of your life. Just read the stars. The horoscope’s a modern miracle: a daily glimpse into the future, based on the latest in cutting-edge non-science. This wisdom is generously given to the unwashed masses in free newspapers around the world.

Consider Metro New York’s advice for the noble Capricorn: “Keep an open mind. A spur-of-the-moment decision will bring new opportunities.” This spoke to me, though I don’t think I’m a Capricorn. In fact, I have no idea what my sign is, or why Homestuck fans wear theirs like the flags of fallen nations. But I liked this platitude more than the other eleven written by syndicated astrologist Eugenia Last (a name too colorful to be real, but too dull to be a pseudonym). Impulse control is for people that strangled their inner child in high school.
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MWT’s Summer 2015 Catalog

The photoshop must flow.

Marketing majors need at least three courses on eating disorders.
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Blind Monkey Learns About Jesus

Subway Preacher Pamphlets

I’m don’t know which pamphlet to believe.

Fueled by two hours of sleep and a hangover straight from the nastier parts of Revelations, I decided I wanted an issue of The Watchtower. It’s a trance I slip into at times. An inexplicable and irresistible need to hop into the back of a crazy man’s car and see how fast we can go before it flips. The closest analogue is possession, something I’m sure at least one of the prophets of the A-train would appreciate. I prefer to call it terminal bile fascination.

My body was shutting down, but that didn’t matter much to my mind. A half-decade of amateur acrobatics and professional substance abuse made most health concerns seem pointless. Getting to sleep quickly was merely adding air bags to the Hindenburg. The only result would be a prettier corpse.

Eventually, they will kill me. They’ve been trying to convert me for three years, and violence must look more attractive than continued failure. As one of the doomed souls commuting from Whogivesafuck, New Jersey, I’ve met every breed of evangelist the subway has to offer. The Krishnas had a short but colorful career before establishing their permanent colony of noise at Union Square. On a slow winter afternoon, I ran into a partisan for Allah. Every election year, a fresh-faced girl is waiting to explain why the incumbent loves me. But Jesus is a constant presence. Nothing short of another Reformation will separate church and transit authority.
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Reloaded Comics: Los Cabellos de Oro

The man who masters photoshopping himself can photoshop anything.


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Dogface Dooley Discovers Theater Magic

Last/this week was put off by a little personal storm. Clearer weather now.

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