Here’s what I do when I’m not writing bullshit

Let’s do something interesting together.
Emmy Award Winner. National Addy. Six National Tellys.

Writer – Producer – Creative Power Plant.
NBA. Adidas. BMW . Pepsi. NFL. Nike.
Trainer – Motivator- Performer.
Microsoft. Blackberry. Verizon.
Events of thousands. Thousands of events.
Actor – Tech – Improviser
Hundreds of improve comedy show. Host. Motivator.
Blue Man Group. Cirque Du Soleil. The Improv.
Film and Television – Commercial – Strange fiction.
Actor – Writer – Director
The Second City Conservatory
The University of Arizona
The Annoyance


The violent spew and flow of vitriol and hurtful words like lava. The ejaculate of volcano, inferno hot, destroying all in slow, creeping wraith. Moan and desperate cries for help insignificant. Until its done. Then just a hard cold black trail of coal and sadness. A solid mass of regret. Please let me build on this rocky frozen death something sturdy

Zen, USA

I am the American Buddhist. I am Zen. I am apathy. I am empty. I have no attachment to anything. I am nothing. Your religion. Your politics. Your sex and race and taste. I don’t care. I am not angry. Not offended. Not perturbed. I simply do not care.

I don’t matter. But even more so, neither do you.

Through my insurmountable apathy I have found my inner peace: Pieced together from the burnt torn out pages of bibles and senate bills and protest billboards, I took on the blackened dead fragments with no scripture left. This is my doctrine, my manifesto. An empty coal dark sheet of absolutely not giving a fuck.

I have been assaulted and inundated and intoxicated by your morals and ideas and ideals for three decades and the result is not a sense of pride or motivation. Not one of spite or rebellion. My reaction is numb. Is none.

Now all is a transient radiation of love. And I find peace, and I find joy and I live in every moment and I have no collar and no stone, no cross burden of anything. I am nothing but a vacuum space and violently wielded ambivalence. And I am happy. And I am free.


Having been in
So many cities in such short time
I’ve come to realize that at this time of year
Every city looks almost exactly the same, when you get outside the city
We are all pretty much the fucking same
Green stuff
Buildings all plorped out of the same plant
A cabbie from another country
Hotel lobbies with fruit in the water cooler
Front desk people just the right amount of attractive
Car lots
Macaroni Grill
more green things
Airport traveling people doing airport things they think are so important
Every place is the same
Except home
The desert
Where I live with my love
And its hot and brown and I adore it

Going around, doing things, acting like a person.


What I’ve been doing lately;

Corporate hired gun. You know Ben Affleck in ‘Boiler Room’? Like that but minus like 50% of the coolness. 

So this month I’ll see, for an overnight stay and “act as-if” speech to various groups of impressionable young sales talent, the following:

Irvine. Seattle. Vegas. 


Miami. Sacramento.


New Orleans. Atlanta. Boston.


Orlando. Cleveland. Boston. 


Then probably blackout. 


Advertising Pimping

oh hey. in addition to writing weird bullshit about sex and talking animals (in different posts, generally) and strange films, I do advertising. National Addy, Telly, and Emmy Award winners. You should hire us. or, you know, tell someone to hire us. BMW, NBA and Adidas did.

All my life…

All my life...

I longed for a child.

A child, swaddled in a crib of twenty dollar bills.

A child, swaddled in a crib of twenty dollar bills surrounded by VHS copies of “Jurassic Park”.

Dreams come true, my friends. Never, ever give up on your dreams. Never.

(Side note: this is one of those pictures that feels too authentic to be a “let’s put together random stuff and it will be funny haha!”. There’s some kind of purpose and method behind this. The meticulous arrangement, the off center placement of the fake baby, the work it took to build a wall around the child then shoot it from above. There’s something particularly strange and fascinating about this. I’d imagine, for someone, this has some deeply profound meaning. This is our Pyramids of Cheops, our Sphinx… Some day a future scholar will find this and be profoundly captivated.)

You gotta problem?

You gotta problem?

Cause, you know, we can take this out back. I got no problem serving you up a knuckle sandwich. Square right across your ugly mug. I’ll hit ya so hard your parents will get smash-brains.

I’m the king of this here block, and if you don’t like it, Lucky here has no problem taking you on the express train to Assbeat, Virginia. You can’t even hurt him. Like that chicken that lived for twenty years with no head. I’ll just feed him steak and whiskey down his neck hole and he’ll keep beating ass.

So yea, if you got a problem with my smokes, you can either step outside and get your skull cracked or wait forty years for me to die an agonizing death from fist-sized tumors. Your call, tough guy. But even after the black lungs kill me, No-Head Lucky will find ya, and kick you square in the Eisenhower.

I’ll be back after nap time, and the shit will hit the shinebox, my boy.

Listen Pinky, You’re on my turf now.


Listen. You better pray to whatever god you believe in that this glass holds. 

I have a number of grievances. The following: 

1) That is my bucket. 

2) I am in essentially what amounts to a watery prison cell. 

3) I really don’t fully grasp the concept of land animals, but I do know if another family of Canadian tourists gets put in water with me they’re getting a semicircle taken out of their abdomen.

4) My bucket holds my fish. (NOT A GRIEVANCE simply reinforcing point #1.)

5) I have more brain folds than a human. As physiology dictates, the more brain folds an animal’s brain has, the smarter it is. It probably has something to do with tri-lateral movement capabilities. I navigate on three separate planes concurrently whilst echo locating. I’m probably smarter than you, Pinky. I’m certainly smarter than whatever asshole let their screaming terrified child sit on my bucket long enough to photograph it.

6) I have absolutely no idea how cameras work.

6.5) I want a camera.

7) Why am I in a jail cell? Granted, we are the only other species on earth to kill for pure enjoyment.. but… well there really isn’t a followup argument to that. I’m kind of a murderous sea sociopath.

8) I believe I would do well in corporate America.

9) Not to dwell on the bucket again, but why do you feel you even have the right to sit on it? Do you Canadians just go around plopping down on whatever you damn well please? You’re in an amusement park, not whatever slovenly piss soaked hovel you call home.

10) I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. 

In summation, my life is one of constant humiliation and exhibition and if given the chance and hands I would gleefully Caesar-Up and Planet of the Dolphins the hell out of this place. 

10.5) I’m not sure where I got the Planet of the Apes reference from.

Anyhow, thank you for your time, and I look forward to an early death from the abhorrent living conditions and you assholes throwing hotdogs in my tank all the goddamned time. 


Pipsy: Prisoner 14

New film written by Duarte and I.

New film written by Duarte and I.

It’s dark and mildly disturbing and I’m quite proud of it. Releases soon.



By now, He had the kind of eyes that always looked half closed. Like the sun was hurting him even in the middle of darkness. A sleepy-eyed sort of half wince the result of a half century of pain and sacrifice and abuse. Dark brown pupils were shadowed to black under his heavy lids. This combination of wise confidence and vulnerable need, it was palpable in his gaze. The look of a man who had seen shame and pride, violence and kindness, hate and compassion, and no longer cared which was which. No longer could care. Beaten.

These eyes, they used to glint with flecks of gypsum. With flashes of rage and braggadocio. These eyes could stop a train of thought; derail a head full of steam or disarm the defenses of suspicion. These eyes were once confident and poised. A soul poured out through them; he was music and laughter and sly glances. Once those pupils dilated to scan a room for potential fights or fucks. They told stories of battles and conquests. Of a man who had lived a few lives in the span of half. Once they were alive. Once he was alive.   

Now his grayed brow crushed down with the weight of a lifetime of concern. The pressure of tragedy. The force of failure. Half closed, all he saw now through his narrow slits was defeat. His time was decades before other’s. His witness to a world of extremes exacted their toll. After he died, his eyes stayed half open. Dead and lifeless as they had been for years.


Dissonant breaking from the distant past

I came across this. It’s about five years old and was a response to a friend’s question “What’s in your blind spot- what’s the lie you tell yourself that holds you back?”




I initially thought mine was �I have no control over anything�, hence me putting myself into a nearly constant state of chaos at all times- job, girlfriends, insane drinking. But I got down a little farther, to the meat of it (and this was super illuminating; I�ve done plenty of this sort of thing as acting work, but hadn�t really thought of it in terms of self improvement ((which is stupid, right?))
I started thinking about why I feel like I can�t control anything, and I felt this overwhelming chaos around me. I realized that I actually strive for that chaos. The reason I feel comfortable in chaos, hell, the reason I did improv for so long, the reason I dated dysfunctional women, was because it exonerated me of responsibility. Nothing is my fault, the world is insane. The world is uncontrollable, not me. It�s not my fault I couldn�t pay rent, I�m not married, my mom is sick. Nothing�s my fault because—
Oh. That feeling, it comes in my diaphragm. It feels like the elevator drop feeling and the vomiting from car sickness feeling at the same time. I though back, through a lot of shit, when I felt that- It usually made me turn to drugs or drinking- and I kept back peddling. And I remember, being four years old, walking in to a hospital room ER and seeing my mother on a respirator. Covered in tubing and wires, so much tubing, like a cyborg. Needles and bags and that beeping sound. And I had the elevator crash feeling in my guts. And I was scared she was going to leave me.
Scared that I was going to be alone
So to restore my happiness, safety, and belonging, I figured �well, the world is insane! It�s not my fault! Whatever happens, happens, and I have no control over it!� And then, it wasn�t MY fault I was going to be alone. It was the world�s fault. Everything was stupid and worthless. I became a cynic at age four. I took refuge in my negativity. I chose the �dark side�. And I�ve been like that ever since. I loved sharks as a little boy. I was mean to people. Condescending, elitist, judgmental. I still am. Because the world is stupid�it�s going to fuck me over and I�ll be alone and it�s not my fault.
So when things make sense, relationships go well, I have a good job, I live in one place for a few years, well, the world looks less chaotic, and that terrifies my child�s eye. So I fuck it up. Consistently. Either by being a raging asshole, being wildly inappropriate, cheating, spending every dime I had. I fuck it up on purpose, because the world is _supposed_ to be fucked up, somewhere deep inside me thinks.
So how do I sit in my shit? I think I did it for a long time. I like to think I�m a little better now, and I try to get better every day. Breathing, training to fight, nutrition, you guys, all contribute to me realizing the world isn�t really so bad. And everyone isn�t a fucking moron. And I wont� be alone because the world makes me.
So thanks.


20140421_230507_editjust got off the mats

for the first time in a year

and many pounds ago

I’m reminded

it’s not the destination

and it’s not the journey

it’s how you travel

you can go passive and soft and safe

or you can fight

because evolution

only comes from adversity




You’re strong

You want to

Open it up so anything can get in. this void. Its dark and coal like a burnt down hollow stump after a forest fire. You want to claw at your core. Interlace your fingers with your ribs, intertwining like lovers embrace, and rip yourself asunder apart. Just to be open. Just to get something anything in. pry open your cavity snap back the bone into butterfly wings of bone and open in to the devour that is where a heart should be.

But you can’t

It’s too strong what you’ve built on top of it, the armor, you cant pierce the skin with your fingers or blades or words. You’re too thick calloused layers of scars and regrowth and bone bruise. Gnarled fragment reattached and strengthened you built up so much armor so much safety so much

To protect nothing

You thought if you could hide it long enough it would go away or grow or no one would know. But nothing is always nothing and the only thing that grows in the dark is fungus and rot. And no one would know. Your decayed sick secret. The only way to fix it.  Is light. Illuminate it, kill it with blinding flashes. Kill all the lies and sick inside. Expose it.

But you cant.

You’re just too strong for that.

Too strong. 

If i should die


here’s some things, you know, if shit goes bad. i’m guessing it’s not going to be old-age.. heh.

I wish to have DNR if the chance for recovery is low and artificial means serve only to prolong a vegetative state.

please put a different funny hat on me every day though, if it looks like i’ll recover. i want people to be excited what kind of hat i’ll have on every day. take a picture, then we can make a slideshow out of it later.

if i am ever in a state where i am unable to communicate or move please facilitate assisted suicide. first give me a shit ton of ecstasy and play Adventure Time seasons 1-5 . Just let me roll fucking balls then off me with ether or whatever.
full authorization goes to my wife and all property and assets including life insurance are her property. if she has not had a boob job, make her get like really huge ones. also have her get a tattoo of a kitten and a bear on her butt.

Please bury my body in whatever manner is the least hassle for you all. i am in no way joking when i say i would prefer to be eaten by bears. seriously. i think that would be fucking awesome. again, not a joke.

Please do not have a funeral but instead a party but don’t make the invitations seem like people have to go. Have an open bar. have a giant ice cream sundae everyone can share. hire babysitters for anyone with kids so they can get drunk. rent out a hotel or something. oooh. a crab leg buffet would be good too. fuck that sounds fun let’s do that before i die.

Instead of flowers just give my wife money. encourage her to frequently take young lesbian lovers.

bind this blog in to a book and give it to everyone so they can remember what a fucking weirdo i was.


I’ve only ever loved one woman and had five real friends. you know who you are.

Drew Grub



I am not a conquest

I am not an object


I am more than you know


I am the maiden and the dragon

I am the petals and the thorn

I am the calm and the storm


I am not your mother

I do not need you

But I can care for you like no other

I am not your whore

I will not kneel to you

But I can ignite your very core

I am not your housewife

I will not heed as I’m told

But I am the bearer of life


I am beauty

I am passion

I am pain

I am brash

I am bold

I am joy

I am rage

I am cold



I am these parts and this body you adore

I am a force of nature

I am everything you covet

I am a mind and a power

I am more


I am what you yearn for in loneliness

your desire

I am the light of promise

your danger

I am the crimson pulses

your savior



You do not know


I am not an object

I am not a conquest


You do not know

Me and God took a selfie

Me and God took a selfie



Here’s a handy tool for business.


“Status-quo? More like Status I-don’t-think-so! Am I right? Right?”

Everyone hates made up busy work and buzz-words. And even worse, top-down motivational paradigm shifts. Things don’t change. But in order to look like they do, and somehow desperately plead to be recognized and validated, dumb fuckingbullshit gets made up and thrust upon us. 


Next time you have to use some fucking word or phrase your boss or company made up/stole from some “self-help” business book, just use the following. Plug in whatever it is- “SYNERGY” or “PRONOVATION” or whatthefuckever where I’ve labeled (CORPORATE FUCKING JARGON). 

 Just copy and paste the following with whatever (CORPORATE FUCKING JARGON) your company wants you to use, slap your name on the top, and let the compliments from the higher-ups ROLL IN!  It will not inspire anyone and will make you look like an asshole– but really, it’s what every ineffective fucker wants so he can try to justify his job, so why not get recognized for it!!! 


___Start Here___


By (Your Name)

(Your Fucking Department or Whatever)

(The date)



(CORPORATE FUCKING JARGON)s are not easy. They are not sane. They may not even be attainable.

And that’s kind of the point.

This gives us numerous examples of (CORPORATE FUCKING JARGON)s in corporate America, and serves to outline precisely what a (CORPORATE FUCKING JARGON) is. The most compelling part of the discussion was that of the nature of

(CORPORATE FUCKING JARGON)s: they have to be something that is exciting, motivating, and compelling in a self evident way. That is to say, the (CORPORATE FUCKING JARGON) should instantly be recognized as such. They are meant to illicit a response that separates the meek from the awesome. Those without great internal drive and ambition will see a (CORPORATE FUCKING JARGON) as lunacy: the truly great will be inspired by the sheer audacity and hubris, and will be monumentally motivated by this.

This (BULLSHIT) is my favorite thus far. It delves in to the mentality of those companies who we have established are Visionary, and breaks down the thinking behind truly AUDACIOUS goals.

After reading this paragraph, I wanted to expand my understanding of (CORPORATE FUCKING JARGON)’s. The first thing I discovered was of interest; an alternate definition of “Audacious” reads;extremely original; without restriction to prior ideas; highly inventive: an audacious vision of the city’s bright future.

This is directly from the dictionary, and it’s insightful and interesting that VISION is specifically mentioned in it as the prime example.

The (CORPORATE FUCKING JARGON) serves as both the carrot and the whip: it motivates by placing a seemingly unattainable finish line in front while simultaneously motivating by insisting, constantly “what could be”. This feeling of “what is possible” causes not only positive movement, but inherently evokes introspection: “How can I do this? Is it even possible? Am I good enough?” These are the kinds of questions those who truly achieve more and are vaulted to the highest levels of success constantly barrage themselves with. By setting goals- in particular those that seem nearly ridiculous and unattainable- a challenge is issued, accepted, and internalized. (CORPORATE FUCKING JARGON)’s are vital.

Impossible is no thing.

If there was only one item from this chapter that you could remember and implement what would

it be?

I really like the idea that a (CORPORATE FUCKING JARGON) doesn’t come with instructions, and introduction, or a primer.

You see a (CORPORATE FUCKING JARGON) and you know it, and it’s awesome.


I like ridiculous things. Especially when they are highly motivational and have direct causality to success and achievement.


so tired and content and succulent

joyfully detached. I watch my body.. lumber about in a meandering purpose less gait. Slumping here and there. loose and jellybodied and slack spined. and I see my mind, my thoughts, they come so slow and deliberate like real maple sap from the bark hole sweet and sticky and satisfying.  just happy and complacency and pseudo zen plorping all over the ground in big luscious globs of easy. Image and these words come out from the observer, enjoying the marshmallow brained caterpillar walking numb headed, seeing lucidly with enjoyment the spectacle laid out in front of it.

I bought sixty Apple i-macs once.



(imagine some really sweet atmospheric techno playing while viewing the picture above. Or drink a bottle of Robitussin. Your call.)

About six years ago, I purchased 60 i-mac computers. Why? Because I needed them. This high school way up on the other side of town was getting new equipment in their lab and wanted to get rid of them all. So for two hundred dollars, I loaded up my father’s primer grey van with these beautiful multi-colored easter egg looking relics. The truck had a tough time reaching 40 mph. It was surreal. The only thing I could think of the entire half hour drive home was 

“What if I get in a car wreck and die?”

I kept imagining the scene: the street absolutely littered with ten year old candy colored shattered plastic shrapnel. Just old boards and non-working CD drives and busted Cathode Ray Tubes all the fuck over. Liek some kind of dystopian uprising against our friendly painted oppressors had just taken place.

I felt like i was a Coyote, smuggling illegals over the border. These strange gleeful boxes loaded with Oregon trail and Number Crunchers. I was the underground technology railroad carting these poor souls to freedom. Then I realized-

What would that say about me? What would my legacy be? Would I be on the news? I don’t even like Apple products.

Because, really, what the fuck would people think? I very rarely care about other’s opinions. If i died and my extensive BDSM porn collection and more bizarre writing was exposed, I’d be fine with that. Happy, even, as it is a pretty accurate depiction of me as a human.

But what in god’s name would people think? I had.. Quite literally no reason to buy these fucking things. I thought about making aquariums, or subwoofer boxes, or new i-pad docks. 

And they’ve been sitting in what was once my father’s workshop in what is now an abandoned house that I grew up in. Time capsule to 1992. With the collective computing power of that smartphone you tossed on your bedside table. To sit there and slowly decay into shards of whimsically colored plastic waste for a thousand years.


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