I don’t have much faith in the world. In humanity. In our species’ chances of making it another 100 years. I bet previous generations felt the same way. Probably every generation. It doesn’t mean this time it’s wrong. We have a death drive. We want to see our great structures crumble, and be reminded of our smallness. At the same time we want to shit on a toilet while we scroll over an iPad screen, wiping our butts with moist, flushable wipes that are most likely clogging our septic systems, pushing our filth through the semi-solid soil surface. Beneath our feet. Propping us up. Until we all come crashing down, tumbling down the shitty slope of inevitability.

Technologia non facit athleta

A popular gift this Christmas, I suspect, will be those colorful little wristbands that supposedly track how much you move. Ignore for now that the Journal of the American Medical Association reported that these wristbands are less accurate than iPhones at tracking steps and calories, or that the companies that make them collect your data and sell it to other companies, or that commodifying walking around is silly. There is no evidence that the wristbands (or any technology for that matter) result in people getting in shape. On the contrary, one of technology’s chief characteristics is that it replaces manual labor. Despite knowing this, now faced with the modern problem of not enough manual labor, we seek newer, better technology. (See Law of the Instrument.) But if we were genuinely concerned with fitness results, rather than the pleasantries of gift exchange, we would give our chubby loved ones the gift of less technology. I broke half your stuff, Merry Christmas.

saturday night bites

at some point you reach an age when your saturday night plans cease to exist, you’re home, alone, and your only hope is the chance that there’s something you haven’t seen on netflix that’s worth watching, but there’s nothing because after you’ve swallowed the thin layer of frosting at the top all that’s left is a trite, redundant, gimmicky pile of donkey turds like e.e.cummings and his fucking lowercase bullshit.

Iambic penistameter

We studied Shakespeare in junior high school.
We read Romeo and Juliet. Then
[foreshadowing] A Midsummer Night’s [Wet] Dream.
I was chosen to play Lysander in
the class production. I got a boner
and everyone stopped. It wasn’t a big
show [that’s what she said]. There wasn’t an aud-
itorium with parents, costumes and
crudely printed programs and video
cameras to document my on-stage
boner. Then again, maybe there was.
Everyone dies in Macbeth. Spoiler alert.

Happy Thanksgiving

Recently I flew to Turkey with Larry Bird, the most clutch wing player of all time. He had to duck just to fit on the plane. I wanted to tweet about it, but he wore a broody expression and I didn’t want to ruffle any feathers. I quietly read my finance book Cardinal Rules for Building Your Nest Egg, careful not to make a peep. When Larry saw my book he asked if he could take a gander, said he had a fledgling interest in investing. Seconds later he handed me back my book. Fledgling indeed. Now friends, we shared cock jokes for the rest of the flight.

The (other) dark side of the moon

No one cares for Pink Floyd until they realize that they need to care for Pink Floyd to get those random, pseudo-goth, stoner chicks who wear black and chokers and midriff revealing tops with 70s tight pants, like Katie Holmes in Disturbing Behavior, which was classic, untainted, pre-TC Katie.

Also, the moon looks like a person’s face if that face was blasted with craters and was a huge moon face.

Nonapology Not Accepted

At first MacTuber felt obliged to apologize on behalf of the entire Rehashed Potatoes Family for the inaugural post by SpudWeb, which was as pleasurable to read as shoving a brick up your own butt. But fuck that, Rehashed Potatoes is not into apologies. I believe it was Cicero who said, anything is a dildo if you’re brave enough. And if nothing else, brave readers you are. Welcome. We fly by the seat of our vintage 100 year-old potato sack pantaloons here at Rehashed Potatoes. Two good authors who once knew better words now only rehashing four-letter words and blogging prose. Anything goes.

10,000 years into the future

10,000 years into the future there won’t be humans. Or robots. Or aliens. Just human-robot-aliens that self-copulate and give birth to baby human-robot-aliens called _______________ ; because there are no more words or speaking and everyone communicates telepathically, and conference calls still last for one hour even though no one had anything to share after ten minutes and everyone on the call is multitasking in multiple dimensions, and even in the fourth dimension where there is no such thing as time those conference calls still seem like a huge, giant time-suck.