Tan, Maskless, and Fascist

Another stupid brief message from the President and CEO of thesoiledchamois.net, and Soiled Chamois Enterprises, Inc.™

Dear Reader,

The following post contains a large dose of my opinion and some large quantities of venom. I am on a journey to free myself of that stuff, but this week I just don’t have it (Thanks Trump). Don’t read it if you don’t like that shit. There are no photos, ’cause I ain’t got none today.

— Management

Cliff’s Stupid Notes Version of This Post:

  1. I’m fighting off the return of “a mood.”
  2. People are the worst.
  3. Being tan in Michigan during January makes you look like a freak.
  4. I have a lot of diarrhea (that’s actually not in the post, but I figured I would share it, just because).
  5. I’m pretty much an asshole.
  6. Popeye liked his elbows sucked (I assume).
  7. Things will get better, probably. But maybe not.
  8. Let’s get loaded.


I opened my eyes and saw a sliver of harsh halogen light slicing through the darkness of my room via a crack in my bedroom door. “Fuck, it’s morning,” I muttered to myself while doing my best to straighten my stiff, aching back after a sleepless night in the Bed of Torment.

I laid in bed, taking inventory of all the aches and pains that greet me each morning, followed by a mental checklist of what I needed to do over the next 18 hours to fool my brain (and you) into thinking that I am a contributing member of society and not a slovenly, coattail riding, slacker. It’s a checklist that gets harder and harder to complete, especially since modern society is something that I care little about being a part of. I digress.

After 5 minutes of bone cracking and failing mental mind games, I finally got my ass out of bed and stumbled through what amounts to a morning routine; a long piss, a wet sounding fart, hand washing, teeth brushing, more farting, and a splash of ice-cold water on my face before drying off with a towel found lying on the bathroom floor. Lastly, it’s a long stare into the mirror to confirm that yes, I’m still alive, and no, I don’t know why, but here we are.

With Part I of my morning routine out of the way, I got dressed in the finest wrinkled shorts and stained XXL sweater combo my bedroom floor had to offer and shuffled past the spare bedroom turned home office my wife has been busy working in since 6:30 AM.

I felt a tinge of guilt as I walked past the closed door without opening it to see what’s up. I just don’t have a conversation in me right now. I need coffee and some Tylenol.

It’s nearly 8:30 AM; the sun is supposedly up but remains unseen due to the Michigan winter’s ever-present low hanging clouds. It’s sort of funny-ISH; I wrote that last sentence on Tuesday, it’s now Wednesday morning, and there is literally no difference. It’s gray outside, dark inside, and I’m typing by the computer screen’s light while drinking 2-hour old coffee that was given a stay of execution by some 1% milk and sugar. The only thing that has changed is the name of the day and my mood, which went from unexpectedly moldy and sour with a twist of dystopia to a more edible and tolerable autocracy with a twist of fatalistic acceptance. Way to make your mood about food, fatty.

I don’t know if “tolerable autocracy with a twist of fatalistic acceptance” are the right words for my current mood, but I do know that it sounds an awful lot like my depressed part grooming me for the long winter months ahead. That part is such an asshole!

One of the many things that set Saddies and Normies (to borrow a couple of descriptors from The Hilarious World of Depression by John Moe) apart is that Normies don’t think about whether they are depressed or not, and if they are feeling off, it’s usually a “mood” that will pass as soon as they have their first cup of coffee, take a shit, or get laid (sometimes all at the same time, people are freaks, man). 

Saddies, however, have to contend with obsessively wondering and overanalyzing if their “mood” is the opening act to another round of misanthropic self-loathing. Saddies have loved ones continually asking if everything is OK in a way that makes you think they may have hidden all the sharp objects in the house, or will casually question when the next appointment with your therapist is; as if conversations about whether we have baking potatoes or not, organically pivot towards therapy sessions. FYI: A person such as myself who deals with “moodiness” does not view this as support and caring. That’s not the fault of the loving person with good intentions doing the asking; it is simply the way depression skews one’s thinking. And even though I can recognize that, I have a lot of trouble accepting it. See, it’s fucks you up.

Admittedly, things don’t look great on paper: Outside of shoveling snow, I have left the house just two times since the start of the new year, have done one 50 minute Zwift ride, no hiking, and I’m not sure if I’ve taken a legit photo. However, I have cooked up a variety of family meals, have done a shit ton around the house, and even wrote some shit, some of which you are unfortunately reading right now. I have also watched WAY too much footy and way too many episodes of The Americans while enjoying not nearly enough mind-altering intoxicants.

I would be more worried about my mood, but I really didn’t have a reason to leave the house other than groceries, and I’m a little burned out on my local hikes and indoor workouts. However, when I went for groceries on Sunday, I felt some emotions that I hadn’t experienced in a few months.


I was still a bit in shock from finding out that two of our best friends and their family were just getting over being ill with “the” COVID and that a close relative who ironically comes from COVID denying parents—or at least one confirmed— just tested positive. So, I was in no mood to see upwards of ten maskless people during one 40-minute shopping trip.

I could feel rage well up in me each time I passed one of them. “You want me to move my cart so you can get to the frozen corn? FUCK YOU! YOU SELFISH FUCK OF A TRUMP LOVING FUCK!” I would think before positioning my cart to piss them off. Yes, I really did act like an obese passive-aggressive social justice warrior wielding a shopping cart as a weapon; I’m a moron.

Out of the two handfuls of people I saw, one woman stands out. She was your typical middle-class mom-type wearing a “45” sweatshirt, no mask, an out place suntan similar to her fascist idol, and had a 5-year-old looking kid riding in her cart like some sort of lazy goof. I was filled with the overwhelming desire to smash hot dog shit in her face while screaming for the kid to make a run for the nearest liberal who gave a shit. Obviously, not me.

But since I had no warm dog shit with me, and I’m reluctant to man-handle turds of any denomination or origin unless they were birthed from betweenst my own flaccid ass cheeks, I just shot a steely look over my mask to let her know that she’s an asshole. There was also the fact that regardless of her poor political and ill-advised tanning views, she was still a woman with a kid, and shoving shit in her face could be frowned upon by some. I rolled on.

And then I saw her yet again! GODDAMN IT! 

This time she was happily blabbering in the face of two older people she seemed to know. The older people were at least wearing masks, but I hated them just the same for being friends with the tan, maskless fascist. “Looks like I’m gonna need a bigger dog turd,” I thought before starting into the snack food aisle in search of tortilla chips.

As I was maneuvering my cart around the 3.5 fascists taking up space by the endcap, I heard Michigan’s too-tan Eva Braun enthusiastically boast, “I really want to go down on the 6th!! They said it’s going to be about 49˚ down there!”

Somewhere deep in the recesses of my mind, I knew that was the day that the Presidential election would finally be certified and that the Nazis were planning a rally of some sort, but really didn’t put two and two together until much later. I just assumed she was talking about some creepy Hitler Youth For Christ event hosted by one of the hundreds of pole-barn turned Worship Center “churches” that litter rural Michigan. I also knew that I had a noon appointment with the O.G. Mindbender on the 6th, but doubted that Eva and her spawn knew, or cared, that.


Rewind back to Tuesday morning when I started writing this. This diatribe started off with me talking about being groomed by depression for another go of self-loathing and what I planned to do to avoid that, but it has morphed into something more akin to a rambling stream of consciousness. And for that, I sort of apologize. OK, now you can rewind to Wednesday.

I woke up Wednesday morning and did the same things that I did Monday and Tuesday mornings. And I still could not get that stupid maskless woman out of my mind.

I stumbled around the house taking care of the dogs, cleaning the kitchen, and writing this shit before my noon appointment with the O.G.

Our session went well, and I told her about all the shit on my mind, making sure to include the misanthropic rage I felt towards Too Tan Eva and the maskless fucks at Meijer. I left out the part about the dog shit; the O.G. has enough on her plate with me.

There was compassion, a well thought of plan of attack for me, and an appointment made for two weeks later.  

A few hours later, I was home losing my mind while installing a piece of shit soundbar to my T.V. Apparently, the soundbar is more modern than my 7-year-old flatscreen, and that resulted in poor quality, yadda, yadda, yadda. I returned it a bit later.

Anyway, it was in mid-meltdown when Wifey came down from her office and told me to turn on the news. Upon doing so, I saw a group of treasonous Trump supporters in the capitol building. What in the actual fuck??!!! 

I watched for a couple minutes, looked for Too Tan Eva, hoping to see her face covered in fresh dog shit thrown from the arthritic hand of Joe Biden, and then went out to make a rage return of the crappy soundbar. I got nothing left in the tank, man. Fuck this country. And if you voted for Trump, fuck you; you are an accessory to treason. Happy?

It’s been a hell of a week, and what this post started out as, and what it is now, has changed drastically and it pretty much unreadable. Yeah, I could edit it, but why? To quote Popeye, “it is what it is.”

Before anyone complains to me, I know Popeye didn’t say that! His famous quote was, “Hey Olive Oyl, want to suck my elbow nipples??”


In closing, I believe things will get better, but I really don’t know when. COVID, Trump, Too Tan Eva, treasonous Americans, violence, winter, depression, etc., etc., Fuck it, let’s get loaded.

“Just what is it that you want to do?
We wanna be free
We wanna be free to do what we wanna do
And we wanna get loaded
And we wanna have a good time
That’s what we’re gonna do
(No way, baby, let’s go!)
We’re gonna have a good time
We’re gonna have a party”

Frank Maxwell and Peter Fonda from the film The Wild Angels
as heard on Primal Scream’s 1990 single,


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