I get paranoid about flying, okay? — It’s not about crashing. I couldn’t give two shites about head butting the ground at sixteen million centimetres per second. I’ve studied the plane crash scenes in Castaway and The Grey. I’ve even considered the possibility of survival. Suppose I had to choose between a homosexual relationship with a netball on a tropical island…

Karma works in very mysterious ways — My Grandfather told me that opportunities for charity could come in strange forms. He became a big believer in karma after meeting a Korean Monk in 1957. That same Monk taught him Tonglen, which helped him turn his life around after killing several people during the war. He also told me that karma was a two-way street and that people can get karma…

My friends and I took a trip to the home of golf — It’s ten am at Golf Mecca. I meet up with Gary and Tim. We take selfies to start the day — I look like a drug dealer in golf clothes. Unbelievable. It’s as windy as Lucifer’s anus, and I’m at some racetrack without horses. Do they send the horses out when the race starts? I see…

And yeah, I was one of those who resisted bitching about the platform for fear of being judged by people who still keep their hopes pinned on Medium being some haven for artists. — So before you start your fucking whining, hear me out. I used to call Medium, The Hollywood Boulevard for writers. I called it this because it paid writers the equivalent of slave wages to sweat blood and pus writing their damn cocks off to produce beautiful content.

My name is Frank, and I’m a medical anal addict. — Sometimes my wife and my sister gang up on me. It’s usually related to health matters, and they convince me it comes from a place of love. It’s like that scene with the velociraptors in Jurassic Park. One of them diverts me with a conversation about fruit or tea or fruit tea or world politics, and the other attacks from…

I arrive the usual twenty minutes early for lunch. — Not that it's lunch. It's a gathering with a buffet. My wife is coming later because of her work. She doesn’t like me going to social gatherings alone cos — well — things happen. Still, this isn’t anything too heavy. It‘s my friend Mike Charvel and his passive barbarian wife, Cassandra. …

Look, someone gotta ask the tough questions, okay? — And yeah, Like you, I woke up each day, dragged myself to the chafing station, ate bags of M&M’s at midnight, drank gallons of milk from an actual cow, and spanked the silver monkey far too often. And yeah, I too, dreamed of a better world where I wouldn’t wake up at night with my heart beating like the speakers at a Carl Cox concert. I dreamed of living to the ripe old age of sixty-three and watching humans get massacred by robots in onesies.

Have you ever tried Gypsy weed? — When I first heard about gypsy weed, I assumed it was a particular type of herb with medicinal properties or whatever. But I was wrong. According to the myth, the gypsy drug dealers would drag their buds through the dregs of their empty bags. …

Yer better put on a chicken — I mean, the biggest issue ain’t publishing books, is it now, Mildred? It’s getting eyes on ‘em. I think I have proven that if you want a book available for sale on cockrocket.com, it does not take much. Consume the following article if you would like to catch up: Publishing A Book is Easy if You Fuck Off All The Rules To prove it, I published one of the bastardsfranktbird.medium.com