Let’s talk about fake news

Lately you can’t turn on the TV, browse the internet, or go hang out in your local townie bar without hearing about “fake news” and its influence on the election. It’s the go to topic for news outlets and hack jobs desperate for eyeballs and clicks (like me!). It’s good that we’re talking about this.

That said, Conspiracy Theorist Scott Colby is worried. We know that governments and various interest groups are capable of twisting national narratives for their own ends (and if you don’t know that, wisen up—powerful douche bags have been doing it forever). So…when’s the other shoe drop with this fake news stuff? Seriously. What outrageous bullshit perpetrated by someone or something important is about to be completely disregarded because we’re so focused on not falling for incorrect information?

Sure, I should probably take my tinfoil hat off. Likely any attempts to exploit the current discourse will be much less dramatic than what I’m rambling about. Thing is…it’s sort of already happening. Watch this. That’s Kellyanne Conway, the president-elect’s campaign manager, telling CNN her boss is going to continue working on The Apprentice while he’s in the White House.

And this was the Big Orange Blumpkin’s response on Twitter:

Think about this for a second. That is a downright impressive manipulation of the “fake news” phenomenon. I’m applauding even though I’m fucking disgusted. There was absolutely nothing phony about CNN’s report. A representative of the president-elect went on TV and provided information that turned out to be incorrect, and the vehicle that did nothing but communicate that representative’s words gets thrown under the bus—and people are going to believe that because “ohhhhh fake news is everywhere!” and think even less of the media. What a heel move. Get this guy some tights and get him (back) in the ring.

And I wonder…did the incoming administration just set up CNN? Sure, it’s possible Conway had bad information even though she’s a high-ranking, integral part of the operation that’s supposed to make sure she’s on message at all times. It’s also possible that the president-elect fully intended to continue working on The Apprentice and was caught off guard by the backlash. But man, doesn’t this feel almost like a beta test of sorts for exploiting the fake news thing? I’m not accusing them of anything and I have no evidence, but think about it. Fine. I’ll take my tinfoil hat off again. I’m sorry. I keep putting it back on because it makes me look positively dashing.

My point, I guess, is that it’s more important than ever to use your head. Don’t believe everything everyone tells you, but don’t automatically disbelieve it, either. “But Scott Colby!” I can hear you whining from under the covers to which you’ve retreated. “That’s hard! Can’t I just pick one and always do that!” Nope. Sorry, pumpkin. If you want to understand the world and participate well in it, you’ve got to put the work in.

Shit I’m thankful for, I guess

I’m thankful that fart sniffer lost the popular vote. Remember: that dick wagon doesn’t have anything remotely resembling a mandate and even some of the people who voted for him think he’s a frickin’ dink. Which is good, because he is, and when I’m done with Thanksgiving break I’m going to challenge him to an arm wrestling match for the presidency via Twitter. That’s not a joke. And I’m going to bring Rick and Scotty Steiner with me as backup in case Mike Pence tries to hit me in the back with a chair right as I’m about to get the win.

I’m thankful for that one day a month Boston’s subway system gets me home on time. It’s a magical feeling, like I somehow got away with something I really shouldn’t have.

I’m thankful for the happy whale theme I’ve applied to my Office 365, primarily because it confuses the shit out of people who see it.

I’m thankful for the weirdos, scumbags, and losers who hang out in shitty dive bars. I couldn’t do it without you guys. In a similar vein, I’m also thankful for Dunkin breakfast sandwiches and Gatorade.

I’m thankful to have my Sundays back. I don’t miss the NFL at all. Going to the grocery store during a Patriots game is better than going to the grocery store pretty much any other time ever. I don’t want to jinx it, but…things are getting hot and heavy with my new love, the NHL.

I’m thankful for the gym farts, because those things are hilarious. One of these days I’m going to fart, laugh, and drop something heavy right on my face. And then I’m going to laugh again because I’m a fucking idiot.

I’m really thankful I never have to set foot in a fucking Wal-Mart.

I’m indescribably thankful for @big_ben_clock every time it shows up in my Twitter feed.

I’m thankful for the Final Deletion and everything Matt and Jeff Hardy have done since.

Last but not least, I’m thankful for Buy Scott Colby’s Stupid Fucking Books Sunday. You’ve never heard of that? It’s the day after Black Friday and Small Business Saturday. Now, I can’t promise anything, but reading my books might help you cyber on Monday.

None of my clones got me anything for Mother’s Day

What a bunch of ungrateful little bastards. You bring a bunch of lives into the world, spend day after day after day busting your ass to make sure they’re properly prepared to face the ups and downs of modern life, and what do you get in return? Forgotten on Mother’s Day. Didn’t even get a card or a text message. I wish I’d never pulled those degenerates out of their nutrient tanks.

Clone One, I figured, would’ve remembered. He was always such a sweet boy. Then he fell in with the wrong crowd. I never should’ve let him hang out with those juggalos up the street. God damn millennials and their dark carnivals.

Sure, Clone Two-A and Two-B are conjoined at the respective crowns of their skull and they live in the attic, surviving off rats and insects and the rain water dripping in from that leak in the corner, but that’s no excuse not to crab walk their asses down to the god damn CVS to get me one of them singing cards. Have I ever forgotten to toss a squirrel up there every weekend so they can have a nice Sunday dinner? No. Not once. And this is the thanks I get.

Clone Three’s probably sitting on his couch, tickling that third testicle that dropped when he was seven. Dude’s a hedge fund manager. I don’t know why people are paying him so much for some boring ass bushes, but he lives like a king. And he never fucking calls.

Clone Four’s busy wrapping up the Republican presidential nomination. I don’t know what the hell went wrong with that one. Actually, maybe I do. I ran out of DNA when I was mixing him up so I substituted in some mayonnaise. Any geneticist worth his telomerase knows that’s a perfectly suitable replacement, but I didn’t realize until a few weeks later that mayo was expired. My bad. Sorry about that, America.

But seriously. You think one of those scumbag clones of mine could’ve bothered to call? Ha, right. Take it from yours truly: if you’re thinking of cloning yourself, don’t do it. This shit just ain’t worth it.

You haven’t experienced real sorrow until you think someone stole your meat

This is purely hypothetical. A thought experiment, if you will.

Pretend you get a monthly meat delivery. It’s one of your favorite things. It’s basically half your groceries for the month. It shows up on your back porch in a sealed cooler bag. Delivery day is the happiest day. It’s like Meatmas or Meatsgiving or, perhaps more appropriately, Meatdependence Day. It’s the best.

Imagine you skip the gym and come directly home after a long eight hours of daydreaming about your beefy bounty. The bag isn’t in its usual spot. It isn’t on the back porch at all. No big deal, you think. Your roommate obviously got home first and put it in the fridge. That’s happened before. But it’s not in the fridge. It’s not in the freezer. It isn’t forgotten on the counter or left on your bed as a silly joke. Confused, you check the front porch. It isn’t there, either.

Oh no. Now a feeling of dread has creeped into the pit of your empty stomach. It’s dark out, so you grab a flashlight and return the back porch for a closer examination. Perhaps a particularly powerful gust of wind knocked it away or some stupid varmint moved it. Nothing. As you walk up the driveway, pathetically shining your flashlight under the bushes along the side of the house, you begin rifling through potential alliterative insults for use slandering those who stole your delivery in a bitchy Facebook post. Meat marauders? Steak stealers? Pirates of pork? Victual violators? You finally settle on criminals con carne. A second exploration of the front porch is not helpful. That feeling of dread in your stomach has become a knot, a devilish sheepshank threatening to cut off circulation to your large intestine.

You check your apartment’s interior once more because you’ve spent far too significant a portion of your life looking for things that turned out to have been right in front of you the entire time. This is not one of those instances. As you head for your computer to email the delivery company, you debate what’s worse: that you’ve been robbed, or that you’re probably going to have to go to the grocery store. Fuck the grocery store.

You pull up the most recent email from the delivery company, read the subject, and somehow manage not to put your forehead through your keyboard. Your meat delivery is not to be found because today is not delivery day. St. Meatrick’s day, as it were, is tomorrow.

You’re an idiot. Hypothetically, of course. But at least you don’t have to go to the fucking grocery store.