#barstool rants

Somehow you ended up in my corner of the internet. Poor choice or divine intervention, jury’s still out. Either way, I ain’t your therapist, but I’ve got time, booze, and a bad attitude, and nothing better to do,so feel free to:

Ask for advice, vent your soul, cry over your situationship, beg for approval, debate stuff, etc. Hell, ask me if your demon crush likes you back. (Spoiler: they don’t. Move on.)

You need opinions? I got ‘em. Need a roast? I’ll flay you with words and a smirk. Emotional support? I’ve got a scratchy voice and a semi-functional moral compass. Good enough. Just don't cry if I hurt your feelings. You'll get over it.

Bar's open. Ashtray’s full. Lay it on me.

Hustle culture is just capitalism with a caffeine addiction. Calm down, Greg, nobody’s impressed you woke up at 4 AM to send emails. Sit down and have a drink like the rest of us failures. 🍺🍸

I don’t get the whole “New Year, New Me” thing. What’s wrong with the old you? Aside from the crippling anxiety and questionable decisions, but hey, those build character. You think swapping donuts for kale and waking up at 5 AM to meditate is gonna make you a better person? No. It’s just gonna make you hungry and tired. Congratulations on setting yourself up for failure.

And don’t even get me started on gym memberships. Every January, gyms get flooded with people who wear matching workout sets and think sweat is just “glitter leaving the body.” Give it two weeks before those treadmills are collecting dust again. You’re not committed, you’re just guilty about all the pie you ate in December. Own it.

Honestly? Resolutions are just socially acceptable self-loathing. You don’t need a new year to change, you need therapy, a nap, and maybe a stronger drink. But sure, go ahead, promise yourself you’ll be different this time. Just don’t come crying to me when you’re crying into a pizza by February.

Happy New Year. I’ll be at the bar if anyone needs me, and no, I’m not sharing my whiskey.

♣️♦️♠️♥️

Spent five whole minutes actually enjoying myself—singing, rebuilding, feeling like maybe things were turning around. Then he shows up. Alive. Smiling. I was this close to being free but nope! He's back from the dead and flipping me off.

Here

Drugs in general

Love potions? Nah. Don’t touch that shit.

That ain’t love—it’s a chemically induced obsession dressed up like a fantasy. Manipulation in a bottle. You’re not makin’ someone love you, you’re makin’ ‘em act like they do. There’s a difference. Big one. It’s not real. It’s not authentic. It ain’t love if they didn’t choose it themself. You want a puppet? Buy a damn marionette.

Now, drugs… Back in my day, I’ll admit—I had my little fling with cocaine and opium. Classy vices for a very unclassy time. That shit’ll chew you up and spit you out smiling. These days? I stick to the bottle. Predictable. Familiar. Dangerous in all the right ways.

Most people hate their jobs, but at least they can quit. Me? Nah. My boss owns my fucking soul. Can’t call out sick, can’t put in my two weeks, hell, I can’t even take a bathroom break without him ‘checking in.’ And by ‘checking in,’ I mean showing up out of nowhere like a smiling cryptid and asking if I’m ‘enjoying myself.’

No, Alastor, I’m not.

And listen, I get it, he owns my soul. Fine, whatever. But maybe we can renegotiate a few things? Like, I don’t know, hours? Or basic respect? Or maybe a clause that says he can’t hum creepy radio jingles behind me while I’m working? Just a thought.

I know I'm an old bastard, but whatever generation up on Earth right now must be braindead. Or getting there. I was mindin’ my business at a bar, nursing a hangover and regrettin’ every decision I’ve ever made, when I hear this gaggle of freshly damned sinners walkin’ by, talkin’ like their brains got replaced with absolute nonsense.

One of ‘em says, and I quote, ‘Bro fr fr on God, that demon's lowkey bussin’, no cap.’ And I just sat there… tryin’ to figure out if I’d had a stroke or if words don’t mean anything anymore.

Bussin’? What the hell are you bussin’? Tables? Nuts? What?! And lowkey? You’re shoutin’ it across the goddamn bar, that ain’t lowkey, that’s loud-and-proud, now sit your crusty ass down.

And don’t even get me started on ‘no cap.’ What cap? What hat? Is this some kinda weird metaphor or are you just allergic to clarity? I asked one of ‘em what the hell they were talkin’ about and this kid—couldn’t have been more than 19 maybe and already spiritually bankrupt—looks me dead in the eye and says, ‘It’s giving… boomer energy.’

What happened to just callin’ someone an asshole and movin’ on? Back in my day, you got roasted with full sentences and a cigarette flicked at your forehead. Now it's ‘ratio’ this and ‘L’ that. You know what’s an L? That sentence. That whole damn conversation.

Yesterday I heard some asshole outside the hotel screaming about 'skibidi toilet rizz gyatt Ohio sigma' Like, did I just have a stroke or somethin'?????

Jesus fuckin' christ. This is why I drink.

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