They Should Put Me in the Fucking Almanac.
I woke up this morning with a stark realization: they just don’t be making ’em like me anymore. Up on a Tuesday, down by Friday. Crip-walking down i5 with my member out — I don’t care what the in-laws say.
They just don’t make ’em like me anymore.
I rob jewelry stores of all the cleaning cloths they got. I don’t want them rocks clean. Baggin’ groceries like it’s my day job — but I work the night shift. I don’t believe in explaining myself. Driving 30 in a school zone with my car on cruise control. I don’t like the texture of the pedals but I like speeding and danger.
Who you know made like this? Built in a factory — less of a man, more of a haunting construction of man-shaped parts. You see me, it sticks with you. You forget me — you never forget me.
So now, I look with my brawn eyes and innated tongue for truth, at the men that has flooded the streets, flooded the sites (and have gone under the tires of my 2022 GMC Sierra AT4X a time or two), and wonder where did we all go wrong?
Even my favorite website, 4chan, is full of these soft, lush-using, blood oozing, nut chewing hush-puppies who’s ancestors (much like me) used to skin mammoths just to see what color it done was under there. (If evolution was real, why didn’t God invent zippers? Would have saved several mammoths.)
Now these little “fem-boys” are all over my twitter feed, in my DM’s, under my “following” list, and looking SO DAMN GOOD for it! I see a fat ass shaking to some Cardi-B, I follow! Now you’re telling me I gotta click the user’s handle, squint my eyes, read the bio, locate their pronouns, all just to make sure I’m not looking at a cisgender man? Lord help me!
So why do I come to you today, on the same website they once raised ghosts with? I’m here to tell you:
They should put me in the fucking almanac.
How many fucking times you been reading that fucking almanac and thrown it out the fucking ski lift cuz you’re sick and fucking tired of reading page after page, prediction after prediction, it’s all horse shit!
I don’t give two shits who’s jizz they think gone shoot on the moon next May. If I wanted a “just guessing” book, I would have gotten the bible!
Now, I know what you’re thinking. Almanacs are a valued item that generations of people have looked forward to receiving each year. They originated in ancient civilizations like Babylon and Egypt, where they were used for agricultural and celestial predictions. However, it was the European almanacs of the late Middle Ages that popularized the format we recognize today. These early almanacs contained calendars, weather forecasts, astronomical data, and advice on farming, health, and everyday life.
In the 20th century, almanacs adapted to modern times, incorporating more diverse content, from recipes to pop culture trivia. Today, while traditional almanacs still exist, they face challenges in a digital world where information is readily available online. However, they continue to hold a special place in history as valuable resources and quirky time capsules of bygone eras.
But here is the rub: they fucking SUCK!
They have always fucking sucked. Don’t believe me? Ask Claudius Ptolemy!
Claudius Ptolemy was a Greco-Roman mathematician, astronomer, and geographer who lived around 100 to 170 AD. Ptolemy is renowned for his work “Almagest,” which was a comprehensive compilation of astronomical knowledge of his time. In “Almagest,” Ptolemy provided detailed instructions on how to create astronomical tables, including tables of the positions of celestial bodies. These tables became instrumental in the development of early almanacs, as they served as references for predicting the positions of stars, planets, and the moon.
Claudius wrote extensively about the impact of his “Almagest”. While he recognized it was his “big break”, he also discovered his short comings.
“Almagest stands as a testimony to my toils, for which I now receive the adulation and esteem I had never dared dream of.
Yet, in this quiet moment of reflection, I find myself vexed by the state of almanacs. These once-hallowed guides to the heavens, their fate has fallen into disrepute. Almanacs, they are now bereft of the awe they once commanded. In this age of instant gratification, where knowledge and wisdom are disseminated with reckless haste, the grace of the firmament is diminished.
Almanacs, dare I say it, fucking suck.”
You heard it here first — from the man himself. The man who climbed Mount Everest just to piss on the bodies of those who didn’t make it back down (pictured below).
I never was one to fuck around. Curb stomping the white barbies is fun to me. Nothing I ever came to regret came from fun.
I know what this world needs. I know what this world wants. It wants an OG. A leader. Someone who will pistol-whip the president’s pencil dick just to see which of us gets hard first.
Some say I lost the plot. Others say I wrote the plot. But one thing is certain, I’m the one the people want. I was born into this world like a magnet. I shot out and stuck to the fridge. Was raised cool as hell and did stunts using nothing but my mom’s hand-me-down dirt devil handheld vacuum. They said it couldn’t be done and I did it. Time and time again. I flipped so many times on that sucker, they took me to court for “sweeping the competition away”. Then I flipped it again and they dropped the charges. They saw how I cleaned up my act. Then I flipped again. They put me right in jail. Had to suck the guard off just to get out of there. (Been a fugitive ever since.)
I’m the one on the FBI lists. Those “Rose Gold Rat Fucker” lists. Those “Kill or Be Killed, Top Gun Lover, Pimple Fister” lists. Hell, I even got on those “Fruit Ninja High-Score, Low Grades, High Libido, Took a Bottle Rocket down the Throat” lists.
Don’t tell me things I don’t already know; I know them, and I never want to be told twice. I grew up on pork butt and pickle juice. Who could have guessed I’d win the Ms. Universe Competition fourteen years in a row? There’s just something about me. My stature, my confidence, how I got 3 tiny moles on my back right under my right shoulder blade. Once went to get that checked out. I said, “Doc?” I said, “Is this cancer?” Doc told me to put away the 4chan so he can run his tests. I said “okay!”
The doctor proceeded to conduct a thorough examination of the moles. After carefully inspecting them, he determined that a skin biopsy was necessary to rule out any concerns. “To be sure, I’d like to perform a skin biopsy. It’s a standard procedure to get a definitive answer,” Doc explained. I nodded in agreement, eager to get more clarity on the situation.
He then prepared the necessary equipment for the biopsy. With precision, he gently numbed the area around the moles to ensure the procedure was as comfortable as possible. Once the area was numb, he proceeded with the biopsy, carefully removing a small sample of tissue from one of the moles.
Throughout the procedure, the dermatologist maintained a professional and reassuring demeanor, helping ease my concerns. After the biopsy was completed, he instructed me on post-procedure care and informed me that the results would be available in a few days. He assured me that his office would contact me as soon as they had the results.
A couple weeks later I got a phone call.
“Yo, fuck it do?”
“Mr. Bollow?”
“Yeah, who is this?”
“This is Doctor Anthony Fauci, following up on your skin biopsy from October 5th. Is now a good time?” The voice on the other end was unexpectedly serious, asking me to sit down. I could feel my heart racing, and I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself.
He asked me to sit down. I sat down in my Eero Saarinen Tulip Chair, comfortable yet professional.
Dr. Fauci said, “I have some good news and some bad news.”
I held my breath waiting for the bomb to drop.
“The bad news is that your moles aren’t cancerous. The good news is that you gotta get a vaccine and you gotta get it right now!”
Before I could even process what he just said, there’s a knock at my door.
I look up, so much to focus on, I couldn’t even process what he just said. Then there was a knock at my door.
The door busted open.
It was Dr. Fauci. He had a bloodthirsty look on his face, and a syringe in his hand.
Wait a minute, I thought to myself. This is just one of them “virtual reality” nightmare games, isn’t it? I took off the Meta Quest 3, with a diverse category of VR games and new mixed reality mode, get yours today, starting at only $499.99 on the Meta Store, and handed it back to the Best Buy worker.
“Shit is too real, bruh!” I told the worker.
“On God, bruh!” He replied. I felt a unique connection to this minimum wage scum and felt, for just a fleeting moment, a tinge of empathy.
“Aye, what’s your name, bruh?” I asked him. He set down the headset and turned back to me.
“Tony.”
“Tony? That’s a sweet name Tony.”
He looked at me. He had a bloodthirsty look on his face, and a syringe in his hand. He spoke.
“AN-tony!”
Before I could even process what he just said, there’s a knock at my door.
I look up, so much to focus on, I couldn’t even process what he just said. Then there was a knock at my door.
The door busted open.
He was Fauci, once again trying to get me to get the stupid fucking jab. I punched him in his fucking skull and I swore he tasted paper. He flew 23 feet in the air and his dangle got caught in the rafters and was stuck there.
The crowd that had formed around me instantly started cheering. I was there for them. It was a part of me that I knew needed let out. That strange, deep desire to unzip and let myself hang free. It was present with me that day. Awoke something within me. Now I know to unzip and hang it out there everywhere I go. Parks, hospitals, funerals, I’m always unzipped and hanging, the way God intended.
And that’s what this fucking country needs.
Put me in the fucking almanac and I swear to God it’s going down. The almanac recession will finally be over. We wouldn’t even need to advertise the new almanacs. Once people realize that me, Noah Fucking Bollow (might as well call me Noah Jesesus H. Christer), is in the fucking almanac, word of mouth will sell this thing more than oven mitts sold after the cold war ended (or was it before? Editor: double check this for me).
If you put me in that fucking prediction book, I have some predictions of my own: first, you can kiss wars goodbye. People will be too busy reading the fucking almanac to want to fuck, let alone fight, thus the limiting of the human experience begins.
Secondly, the atomic bomb will unexist. Based on my calculations, the atomic bomb, known for blowing up a couple things, would undergo a sincere and precise degradation, not only through space, but time as well. Everything it ever blew would get sucked, and reform back into it’s original position. The reformed bombs would then get turned into a school for the blind, as is what it should be.
Third, Joe Biden will finally resign. SLEEPY JOE!!! FINALLY TIME FOR A NAP!!!
Fourth, feminism will ultimately take it’s purest form. Gone will be the days of insecure masculinity weaponizing feminism as an anti-men movement. Welcome to the new age of Neo-feminism. AKA, NAZI GERMANY!!!! THIS IS THE AMERICA YOU WANT????
Six, coupons will no longer exist. Now when there is a deal at a store, the deal will just be. No more will you need a ticket to participate.
Seven, Lust. I will be getting laid daily. Why is this a good thing, you ask? Well, to be honest. I haven’t gotten laid in over a year. I have to think that women are just too intimidated by me, and wouldn’t know if they could return to normal life after climaxing as many times as they inherently know they would climax after looking at me. This is my truth, I don’t play this up for the camera.
These are my predictions and they can be considered as solid as the theories and laws of the universe. For I am me, the Carrot, the Barron, the Bastogne Reenactment Enjoyer. I am the rust on the pipes, I am the dust on the lights. Empires are born and die in the time it takes me to reach R.E.M sleep. The only thing sleeping now are the almanac writers. For millennia they have ignored me. For millennia they have shrugged me off as “bad for almanacs”. Well, now they know how wrong they really are. So, Carol Connare of The Old Farmer’s Almanac, do us all a god damned favor:
