Check out a piece I wrote in reaction to everyone’s reaction of Michelle Obama’s DNC speech this week. Featured on Robot Butt.
“[Author Scooter] Weiss holds an unflinching stare upon India’s religious cultures and the result is disturbingly good. A remarkable first coloring book.”
—Mark St. Louis, Daily Telegraph
“Admirable… Weiss is an emotional matador. Not since Color Therapy: Spring Blooms have I seen such redolent Hershey Kiss shapes.”
—Carrie Dixon, Literary Review
“Weiss transcends his medium… This is not to be seen merely as a book, but as a tool of cerebral sanctity… I used mostly cool colors.”
—Wyatt Moor, Independent
“Ambitiously nuanced circles.”
“A spirited artistic shift from his 2015 Easy Fast ‘N’ Fun Word Search… Weiss demonstrates insubordinate courage on the page… My Meemaw nearly finished it.”
—Rosalind Cloutier, Time
My premier piece for the Second City Network went live last night. It’s about the great Bastille Day, a day that is near and dear to my heart, solely because it is my birthday.
Follow the link to read the piece! Happy July 14th!
This piece was originally published on Robot Butt.
Summer is finally here, and Americans everywhere are diving into their favorite seasonal rituals. New Jersey mom Teresa Doyle, 49, is among those who are thrilled for long days and warm weather, and she in particular knows how to give this summer a truly righteous legacy. Her epic summertime kick off? Integrating beach-themed soap in her house bathrooms. Killer!
Walk, skate or surf into any of Doyle’s two-and-a-half bathrooms in her Cherry Hill home between June and September and you will see a 12-ounce pump bottle of Dove hand soap in Ocean Mist or Tahitian Coconut boldly banging the summer gong. The wild new scents replace the mundane Lilac that was once standard no matter the time or year. According to Doyle, a thorough palm lather with beach-themed soap after using the restroom will turn anyone’s summer knob to eleven. Rad!
“I’m a summer woman through and through. I was born in the summer, so I think there’s an astrological connection there for me,” Doyle, a dangerous Gemini/Cancer cusp noted. “Using this pastel blue soap with the assorted shells on the label does more than just amp me up. It’s transcendental. It’s escapism.”
Relentlessly, Doyle even goes so far as to supply beach-themed shampoos and conditioners in both of her suburban tudor’s showers to align her family and houseguests with summer’s breezy attitude. Doyle’s homestead is stocked with Island Kiwi shampoo for all bathers to enjoy throughout the season. The pricier Aegean Trove conditioner, however, is reserved for her exclusive turn-upping.
There are many varieties, but trust that Doyle knows which beach-themed soaps are hot and which beach-themed soaps are not.
“Crystal Cove, Yucatan Sandbar, Boardwalk Gull…I have my grounds covered to impress any guest,” she says. “Personally, the subtle scent of brackish on my scalp is all I need to get unchained.”
Doyle sees supplying the bathrooms with beachy toiletries not only as an unforgettable roar of seasonal spirit, but also as a new tradition in the making.
“I can’t imagine ever going back. It just wouldn’t feel like summer for my family without the soaps,” Doyle elaborated. “Just as it wouldn’t feel like Christmas without my red and green M&Ms in the foyer.” Gnarly!
Hello, men of Cobble Hill!
My name is Wade, and I write on behalf of the entire community of deviants who cruise the steam room here at our neighborhood New York Sports Club. We are a cohort of proud perverts. We bear boners! We wield wood! We publicly play with our peters! We are a supportive, fun-loving gang of guys getting each other off in the gym steam room. Hi!
We would like to facilitate open communication about our presence and actions. We find it necessary to do so following a tattling incident that spooked Steve and Solomon pretty well. We would like to establish our needs and expectations before another non-cruiser finds himself running for a manager after encountering a romp.
YES, what we do is “an offense punishable by contract termination,” but NO, the gym staff does not actually care. They know what we’re up to. Marlon doesn’t even bother to hit the gym floor for appearances anymore. He’s in and out in 40 minutes, leaving with a face red as Sedona shale. In fact, most other gym members know about our renegade escapades, but they respect us. They considerately leave us to our accommodations. We ask this of you, dear member, as well.
Our actions may seem lewd (to a prude!), but this is a lifestyle for us. We flock to the SR for relief from work, from arthritic knees, from wives and/or children. It is our home haunt; our secret sanctuary. Our community is non-judgemental and values discretion. Honestly, we don’t even really talk to each other at all, save for the occasional “somebody’s here” or “I’m gonna nut!” Our personal expression truly lies between mammalian grunts and rendered words.
But for whatever selfish reason, you come in and halt our hooplah. Your very presence upends our orgies. Your disengagement flushes us from our home, like a policeman intimidates thriving young dancers from a subway car. You debase us with sanctimonious slander. Shamefully, you invade our space, rendering the SR uncomfortable and unsafe to the hornballs with the dicks out.
We respectfully decline to apologize for our sexuality. Perhaps you’ve casually mistaken this New York Sports Club to be so cosmopolitan as a Crunch Fitness or Equinox. Sorry, men—if you’re looking for a room absent of pubes and proteins, you’re in the wrong spot. It will cost more than $30 a month for the gluttonous luxury of a clean steam room. As Evan says, it’s either splurge or splooge!
So to the men not cruising at this steam room: please stay out. You’ve scared away Patrick indefinitely and triggered Noam’s PTSD from his American Idol audition. You’ve done quite enough damage to our community and our safe space already. The Cobble Hill NYSC steam room is the only place where we can indulge—because I would never invite these creeps to my home.
The Men Cruising in This Here Steam Room
“Six-Inch” Steve, “Seven-Inch” Solomon, “Mushroom Head” Marlon, “Eight-Inch” Evan, “Piebald” Patrick, “Nine-Inch” Noam, and Wade
I love my son. He is a talented, funny, handsome, and he’s an outstanding student. Now, he doesn’t get straight A’s, and they know his name in the In-School Suspension office, but damn it he’s a good kid. But some incompetent, pathetic “teacher” of his who reduced my son, my son, to a letter grade gave him a C in his AP Human Geography course. A C.
Since Mr. Joe Dickerson is such a dignified sage in geography, he probably has been to most obvious summer destination spots. I’ve generously compiled a thoughtful list of places that I think smartpants Dickerson should try out this season:
Now I’m sure Mr. Dickerson is VERY excited to enjoy a scholarly vacation now that he’s finished butchering my son’s report card. Balmy and raw, Somalia’s capital city of Mogadishu hasn’t yet fallen to first world influence, and if anyone could appreciate the flavor of a dangerous, crumbling city that hasn’t yet succumbed to global tourism, it would be the culturally wisened Joe Dickerson. Why the man wouldn’t let my son do make up the test that he slept through is beyond me, but he should consider spending his summer dodging armed carjackings and witnessing sword fights on the tumultuous horn of Africa to understand the importance of compassion. Plus! What snot-groined high school humanities teacher wouldn’t just love the chance to chew the fat with an actual lawless pirate?
A dark metal box behind a combination Taco Bell/Long John Silver’s baking in ozone microwaves would make an apt summer retreat for Mr. Dickerson. There maybe he can write some real god damn lesson plans or re-evaluate his extra credit policy as loosely-tied bags of fishy cud spill onto his grody head. Summer dumpster amenities include an olfactory bleach and rats nibbling at your dick.
Dickerson would just LOVE fucking Idaho. There’s nothing there but some coyotes collecting used condoms. From what I can tell by my son’s final grade, Dickerson seems to have a knack for doing nothing but sitting on his ass and watching fucking potatoes grow. This makes fucking Idaho a perfect vacation spot for a thoughtless drum of lard. There’s lots for Dickerson to enjoy out in fucking Idaho, including shitting outdoors or choking on pesticide.
The World’s Largest Toilet
As a concerned parent, I have always been able to fix my son’s lower grades with a few phone calls to teachers’ personal phones. But for some reason Dickerson deems his life’s work too damn dignified to fudge. Since my son is careening into depression now that he’s been reduced to average, I hope that Mr. Dickerson can enjoy giant turds and gallons of piss all summer long from the World’s Largest Toilet, which apparently is in crappy Columbus, Indiana, wherever the fuck that is. Dickerson can get an up-close view at jumbo sphincters as they shit huge shits on top of his lap.
Lost in the Suffocating Idea of His Own Insignificance
This isn’t a spot you’ll find on some expensive Rand McNally world map that hangs above a whiteboard. You don’t need a Visa and you can keep your precious American dollars. This is a spot within the bleak vacant corners of one’s own mind, and it’s the goddamn worst place. Dickerson probably thinks he’s wields so much power with his red pen and his tenure. Well I think it’s time he considers his role as a negligible mite of energy in an ever-expanding universe. What happens when he croaks? Where does his ass-scab consciousness go? And what of his trivial existence will last after he dies? When the human race falls? When our asshole planet is engulfed by a supernova? Stuck in the startling realization of his own insignificance is this summer’s dourest getaway.
Bound to a Gurney with His Favorite Porn Streaming In Front of His Face and Sharp Blades Whirring Just Over His Dick
His limbs strapped down, his head held still, his eyelids pulled way open. Since my son—my son—is now shackled to a pillaged GPA, it only seems fitting that Dickerson spends his summer constantly trying to resist getting a hardon, lest it gets massacred by whirring blades. I bet the loser hasn’t been laid in years, so sparing his manhood might be impossible when he repeatedly watches some leggy bimbo mount her field hockey coach. C is for Castrate, Dickerson.
Wherever Mr. Dickerson decides to spend his summer, I hope he enriched, enlightened, and sorry for what he’s done. Forget about the college credits my son was robbed of; my son (my SON!!!) will probably have to be an art major now. And you know who else pursued art? Adolf Hitler. Dickerson made a mess, and now the globby blood of my son’s future is on his hands. I hope you enjoy your trip to fucking hell, teach!
Prop 8 Chick’n Poppers
It Gets Betta Bruschetta
No H8 Nachos Grande
Just Two Soldiers In A Foxhole Spring Rolls
LGB Long Island Iced T
Down With DOMA Daquiri
Boozy Harvey Milkshake
Baby Bareback Ribs
Sizzlin’ Civil Union Fajitas
The PozBurger with Free Clinic Fries
Enema Enchiladas with Your Choice of Salsa
#LoveWins Lettuce Wraps
Zachary Quinto Brownie Blast
Angel from Rent’s Angel Food Cake
A Banana Shoved Through a Donut