Author Archives: thehamazon

#MeToo Infinity


It might be easier and take less time to make a list of women who haven’t been assaulted; a list of men who’ve never been inappropriate around women; a list of people who’ve never been on the internet or heard of Planet Earth. Every day, I brace myself for the dirtbag reveal and the toxic unraveling that follows:
















Cut to me in a fleece ball on my bed, making sweet love to Netflix, and trying not to think of all the lecherous dickholes Amazon might be partnered with.

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A Cool Ranch of Marikas


A group of omg

The other day I was in bed around 2 p.m. and wondered what the collective noun for a group of Marikas might be. This alone should tell you a few things:

1) I’m amazing

2) I spend much of my day in pajamas

3) I need more friends or hobbies


My favorite animal collectives:

a murder of crows

a shrewdness of apes

a crash of rhinos

an unkindness of ravens

an ostentation of peacocks

a glitter of hummingbirds

a covert of coots

a bloat of hippopotami


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Deconstructed Burns



Even as a child, Pee-Wee Herman’s “I know you are but what am I?” just seemed really lazy, until no doy and the unfortunate “Not!” craze came along. “Not!” is the first popular phrase I remember both kids and adults overusing, which made me hate it even more. I guess it was the 80’s version of today’s “Fake news!” so no wonder it tastes like rancid orange soda in my mouth.

I know you are but what am I? starts off strong by psyching out your opponent with TOTAL AGREEMENT. I know you are. Then it naturally morphs into passive aggressive existential confusion. But what am I?

What am I?


I know you are but what am I? relies too much on who you’re talking to. Whatever they say – you’re a dink, you’re a pickle, you are way too fucking tall – you just agree (I know), lob back their insult (you are), then demand another round (but what am I?). I KNOW YOU’RE A PICKLE BUT LET’S FOCUS ON ME.

Your opponent gains style points for making you sound like a self-centered, unoriginal asshole.

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Hello | Goodbye | Hello



Psssst. Hey. Hi. Hello.

Been trying to figure out how to present this with as little fanfare as possible, so here goes: This is an update, a confession, two amicable break-ups, and of course a live birth.

So we went on vacation, pictured above, and I promptly had a social media midlife crisis.

What does it all mean? What does anything mean? Why am I doing this, why does anyone do this? Can I ask Facebook for a break, is that even allowed? Can we just get a quiet divorce without anyone in the family finding out? I can’t live like this anymore, something BIG has to change. It’s time to call this what it is: an ill-fated mountain fling that’s doomed to end with “I wish I could quit you,” angry fishing, two failed marriages, and death.

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The Adults In The Room


Mr. Messy

When I was little, I used to watch my mom or dad after dinner, doing adult stuff in the abstract. Mostly tidying up in that tired way adults do when the consequences of not tidying up will catch up to them later. Wiping down counters, straightening magazine piles, folding laundry, getting papers ready for the next day, taking the garbage bins out, checking homework, sorting through mail, feeding the cats. Every evening, someone called on the phone, but it was before Caller I.D., so it was like being surprised by friends or family on the regular, and not like now, where I see someone call and wonder in anguish butwhy. Sometimes, the phone was handed to me and I answered aunt and uncle questions or told stories to curious grandparents.

As I got older and watched this nighttime ritual of the North American adult, I realized there was a rhyme and reason to the seemingly random clean-up. Garbage was dealt with, leftovers packaged, outfits picked for school and work, slight order restored to a house that exploded every 24 hours with life and human progress. Neither of my parents seemed to enjoy doing these menial daily tasks, but when they were done, one or both of them would turn off the kitchen lights and sink into the couch with a satisfied, weary sigh. I would come to know this as The Ceremonial Sigh of Adulting, where your next move is something you actually want to do: read a book, watch TV, talk to a friend on the phone while matching sock mates, have that much-deserved glass of wine before bed. The sigh signaled a surrendering to what would surely be another night without enough sleep, a tiny white flag waving in the flickering light of our television. Then my parents got up the next day and did it again, and again, and again. The same determined, tired tidying up, every night after dinner; the same sigh of release and ready-preparedness for the days to come.

It was all so goddamn boring.

When I was still a single digit, and filled with BIG IDEAS, I decided my parents were foolish to waste all their time on these menial tasks. Clearly they were doing something wrong if they were stuck in this Groundhog’s Day-like nightmare where your life is just doing chores. I decided I would skip doing all that crap and congratulated myself for coming up with a better solution to living life than my mother. Why didn’t my parents just eat McDonald’s for dinner every night and then do whatever the fuck they wanted? They were ungrateful adults who’d traded what power and freedom they had for nighttime vacuuming. I WOULD NOT BE LIKE THEM, I WOULD ENJOY MY FREEDOMS AND NEVER TAKE THEM FOR GRANTED.

Can you imagine? The fucking audacity of children. So new and dumb and precious and totally unqualified for personhood. Somehow, I knew how to do life better than my 39-year old parents after nine long years on this planet — and absolutely thought I had my shit together when I couldn’t do long division or eat soft cheese. Now I’m older than they were when I decided to do things differently, and even though I don’t clean the house every night, I always wish I had. It sucked when I finally got it, finally understood, and could see – stretching out a thousand miles in front of me – all the tidying up and sighing I would do in the months and years to come.

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