I Hope They Have Wi-Fi In Hell

At this point in my life, the idea of death doesn’t get to me as much as it used to. Sure I’d love to be around for the next Pitch Perfect movie, but who wouldn’t?  Don’t get me wrong. I’m not hanging in fields during lightning storms yelling, “take me now,” and I only text and drive at night. It’s just there aren’t a lot of people that rely on me to make the greatest choices in life and it’s very liberating. Life will go on, but I have a bigger concern. Who’s going to run my Instagram? What is to come of my highly filtered self-absorbed existence? My formal request is directed towards the ‘spiritually’ inclined.  Channel me back from the spirit world and I’ll make it worth your trouble. I’ll call it a Haunt Exchange.  I’ll communicate through different mediums and probably scare the shit out of you but you’ll get used to it. I’m sure being dead is going take some practice for me as well. I’ll continue to write content via post-shower mirrors, refrigerator magnets, oh, and maybe include a hashtag on the Ouija board. In return I can fuck with your friends, kids, coworkers, hated political figures and your cat.  I can customize a plan, slam doors, flicker lights and poke holes in condoms. Oh, and that slime that people sometimes report? That too. #Ghostload.  Some real mental fuck-fucks for your favorites. You think I take this many selfies cause I’m in love with myself? I’m doing this for my future.  My legacy. Even in death I need this. I want to go out with a laugh and since hell is hot, I’m probably going to need a vacay now and then. 


-Joshua Dean

The Cart of War

I lay awake at night fearful of what our country has in store for us. Sure, I could be more optimistic, but the concerns are all too real. My most recent trip to the grocery store confirmed my worries. Child shoppers. Child shopping has risen exponentially. We let it happen.  It started with the introduction of the miniature shopping cart. A chariot-of-hope which serves as a pleasant distraction, allowing the vertically challenged to feel welcomed, empowered and helpful.  We enabled them. We thought it adorable like anything miniature but none of us knew the impact we would ultimately endure.

Initially, only the most gentrified and affluent neighborhoods were affected but the trend would butterfly affect its way across the country. A mother’s tear hitting a leaf in Los Angeles would double the mini-cart numbers in the most rural towns of Iowa. Aisle collisions are up nearly 10-fold and abandoned cart syndrome due to in-place tantrums, becoming increasingly common. 

As for the shoppers. Rude. I have never met a people less willing to communicate. Primitive tactics prevail as words are replaced with pointing towards pretty much anything over three feet. Your assistance is their expectation. Your time is their time. Shopping times have increased as their tiny legs cannot efficiently navigate the aisles and lack of knowing what the fuck they are doing prohibits them from completing even the most menial tasks unassisted. 

As we jump into 2017 be mindful of what is taking place around you. The larger issues typically serve as distractions and we cannot afford to let our guards down. We are relinquishing more and more control everyday to those that still get mad when the sun is in their face. They have become the victors. This time. 

-Joshua Dean

You shall not pass

I once tried to make a person with another person. We pulled the goalie. Nothing. Maybe the swimmers were too busy with celebratory high-fiving to find their way? Maybe they were disoriented? What is this place? this isn't cotton! I’m calling bullshit on every lifetime story about teen pregnancy, where fifteen second sessions of awkward backseat romance result in successful conception.

Getting the swimmers tested is nothing short of a masturbatory luxury. Even if you aren't trying to make a baby and have an extended lunch break its kinda worth checking the status. The nurse walks you to your personal "chamber-of-hope" and systematically explains the features of the room. The dimmer-switch activates mood lighting. The cd player/cassette combo helps muffle the lab technician chatter separated by a thin metal door for which the hand off is made.  It’s kinda like a truck stop glory hole only square, and less personal. Hopefully it’s the only time I will ever share my semen through a wall cutout.  Oh, and there was a picture of the ocean. You would think one of those motivational “you can do it” types but just a basic water color like your aunt did in her early 40’s when she decided to take up painting after her third divorce. Not relevant I guess.

The nurse provides brief instructions, and in an Aladdin “I can show you the world” kinda way motions you towards a cornucopia of material that lays waiting to help you through the journey. I was intrigued by all the missing mailing labels. Who do these get sent to? So much mystery. I wasn’t interested. I had my phone, free unrestricted Wi-Fi, and a bookmarked selection that represents years of solid research that I am unapologetically proud of. I was good to go.

After two attempts this was one drivers test I couldn’t pass. I had a thing. I needed to fix that thing. Without hesitation, I let a steady handed man put me under to undo the kink. With a blade, mere inches away from my valuables he tried to re-plumb a system in which a little Joshua could be made (this is in no way gender specific. I would have named her Joshua as well). It didn't work. It was a devastating blow, like when the McRib went away for the first time, but worse. Maybe it was one of those "facts of life". Fact #2,345 don't have let this guy make a human. But I tried, we tried to do it. I wanted that baby or maybe I just wanted the stick figure family on the minivan window. Instead we got divorced..

-Joshua Dean