The Maddening Myth of Market Research

As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld

Orson:

Gentlemen and ladies, esteemed listeners to the peculiar chronicles of Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld! It is I, your affable host, here tonight. No… not tonight. This being recorded, you understand.

I am often called verbose. Sometimes, "the verbose." Less frequently, perhaps with a touch more gravity, "verbose thespian." But lately, people have started saying: "Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld – he’s got the gravitas of an opera singer."

They’re not wrong! And they're also missing something vital.

You see, I am Orson. And my life is… well, it's a tapestry woven with threads of observation and occasional profound indignation. Today, we delve into a topic near and dear to my heart: the baffling phenomenon known as "market research."

But before we journey into that particular vortex of corporate euphemism… let us consider our own existence. We sit here, perhaps in a comfortable chair, listening to me speak – whether it be through the miracle of podcasting or simply reading these words.

And what do we understand? That my family... no, they are not so noble as that term implies. They operate with a certain… unspokendynamic, wouldn't you agree?

It began subtly. Very subtly. When did it start? Let's see… perhaps during the Great Retail Apocalypse of 1997 – Windows OS version, I believe is what we call it.

They'd say things like "market research." It was a shield behind which they could hide their questionable motives. A way to explain away receipts that should never have been scanned, coupons clipped without purpose, and seemingly innocuous surveys filled out with alarming thoroughness.

"It's just market research," my aunt would murmur while studying a chart she'd inexplicably produced from somewhere. It was as if the very concept of not understanding required justification!

And let us be clear about this, shall we? Market Research is not an excuse! It’s a smokescreen! A carefully crafted illusion designed to obscure reality and manipulate perception.

I remember one particular instance – perhaps 10 years ago now. We were discussing… well, let's just say it involved instant noodles for the masses. My uncle presented his findings from his "consumer engagement analysis."

He was meticulous! He had data points where common sense would merely be dots on a graph!

"I have," he declared, pointing dramatically at an Excel spreadsheet I now wish to forget, "discovered that brand loyalty correlates significantly with purchase intent!"

Which meant, of course – and here was where the true artistry lay – he could tell me his analysis showed people would pay more for a slightly inferior product if it were presented as 'premium'!

A classic case of misdirection! He’d wrap a simple truth in layers of jargon to confuse the listener. Or, more accurately… me.

It was my father who truly perfected this art of evasion. Not through words, but through sheer parental authority and baffling logic.

He would say things like "Questioning is good," or perhaps "Not understanding isn't a problem." It was always poorly explained!

"I'm just trying to keep you out of trouble," he’d add generously. But Orson, my friend – and now you reading this – I assure you! The trouble wasn’t the misunderstanding per se. The trouble was being told to simply accept it!

It reached its zenith one afternoon concerning… well, let's give a specific example. A discount on something utterly mundane.

They tried to explain why this particular item – say, a box of chocolates – cost less than usual. They offered graphs and statistics about customer acquisition!

"It’s part of our long-term investment strategy," my mother said brightly, holding up another receipt as if it were some sacred text.

And here lies the tragedy! I, young Orson, full of potential skepticism and a healthy dose of caution – which was perhaps overrepresented at that time – asked: Why?

The answer… delivered with a condescending smile? "Market research," they chirped.

It’s not just about the confusion, is it? It's about the deliberate pacing of information, creating an artificial fog that you simply must navigate through by accepting their convenient explanation!

And so I learned. I learned to listen more closely than usual. To dig beneath the surface language. Because if you accept "market research" without question, you have merely… failed.

I became a vigilante of truth! A critic disguised as curiosity!

So, the core issue is this persistent deception cloaked in corporate doublespeak. They use "market research" as a weapon! To confuse you into accepting flawed logic or half-truths.

They won't tell you outright what they want you to believe… because that would be too direct!

Instead, they offer convoluted justifications for price increases disguised as 'investment', discounts presented with false scarcity via carefully manipulated couponing programs, and the ever-present "exclusive access" through surveys – all justified by market research.

"It’s been proven," they say. "Through market research." Never asking you to question what that 'proof' actually looks like!

It's a testament to human gullibility, isn't it? Or perhaps… the result of very specific and calculated efforts.

Let us move beyond this particular phrase for a moment. What is the goal?

Is it efficiency? Comfort? Profitability?

Well, yes! But more importantly – is it control?

They want you to believe that understanding complex processes requires their guidance through jargon!

That frustration at poor explanations is simply part of your journey… not something they exploit!

Now, let’s take the specific example that truly crystallized this for me – because sometimes, you need a concrete instance to challenge an abstract concept.

It was about discounts. A seemingly generous discount on… well, it didn't matter what. The point is, they offered a 'deep discount' but explained it with utter obtuseness.

They wouldn’t say: "This item is cheap for a reason." Or even: "We're clearing this out."

Instead – listen carefully! This was the key part. They would declare that because of their… investment strategy (yes, they used another buzzword!), this particular product needed to be 'bought' now.

They’d present graphs showing declining demand if not purchased immediately!

"It’s a limited-time offer!" – Oh yes! They love that phrase. It creates urgency without basis, and it requires you to trust them implicitly on the time constraint.

And here’s where Orson really felt his oats: I knew exactly what they meant by "limited-time." They were just trying to confuse me into buying something I didn’t need at a 'good price'.

So I asked again! Not for an explanation, but because it was wrong. Because of their own poor communication!

This isn't just about the external world. This is personal.

My family – they are not inherently malicious actors in this grand deception. No! They operate with a different kind of malice: the malice of comfortable ignorance.

They saw my frustration as… well, perhaps it was their form of entertainment? A way to lull themselves into a false sense that I was finally understanding?

Let me clarify. Their explanations were often poorly delivered, yes. But the lack of clarity wasn't accidental.

They wanted me to accept things simply because they said so! With their carefully constructed confidence!

So, when faced with my questions about "market research" or 'limited-time discounts', they didn’t explain. They tried to… diffuse.

It was exhausting! It required constant vigilance. Constant skepticism. And it often felt like an uphill battle against a tide of convenient answers.

But let us not despair!

The lesson learned is this: Do not accept vague explanations. Do not nod politely when someone says "it's market research." Demand substance!

And if they cannot provide it, perhaps… maybe you can offer something different?

So there we have it. The core of my frustration isn’t just about specific things like discounts or surveys.

It’s a deeper thing. It’s the pervasive atmosphere where complex realities are draped in layers of jargon, euphemism, and carefully managed misunderstanding.

This is why I speak today! Why Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld continues his journey through everyday absurdity!

I believe that understanding – true understanding – requires clarity. And sometimes, we must challenge those who would offer us only fog and false confidence.

Thank you for listening to this verbose ramble from Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld. May your encounters with poorly explained phenomena be met by a healthy dose of skepticism!

I bid you farewell – until our next convenient moment, perhaps?

The Walgreens Funeral

And My Conquest of Grief Through Renewed Love for the CVS Across the Street
As chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld

ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD

I buried a Walgreens last week.

Not literally—though I would have, had zoning permitted.
No, this was the closing of my Walgreens.
The one where they knew my name.
Where the floor tiles squeaked only in A♭ minor.
Where the pharmacy tech with the hollow eyes could fill my prescription just by sighing.

It died quietly.
No grand clearance sale.
No coupon vigil.
Just a handwritten sign on the door:
"Store permanently closed. Please visit our nearest location two miles away."

Two miles?
Two miles may as well be two hundred
when you’ve built your life across a single intersection.

I stood at the locked doors,
gazing through the dusty glass,
past the gutted candy aisle and the abandoned cooler
where the Diet Squirts once shimmered like sacred relics.

In my mind, I saw the Walgreens as it was—
bright, humming, stocked with seasonal displays
no one asked for but everyone judged.
Easter candy in February.
Halloween in August.
Christmas the moment you stopped digesting turkey.

But loss does not linger in stasis.
It compels us to move.

And so I crossed the street.

To the CVS.

The CVS had always been there—
smaller, dimmer, smelling faintly of warm toner and disappointment.
Its self-checkouts were temperamental.
Its employees, aloof as minor royalty.
I had once sworn I would never defect.

But grief changes a man.

The first visit felt wrong.
I half-expected to be shunned,
to be marked as “Walgreens stock” by their scanners.
Instead… I was welcomed.
Not warmly. Not with fanfare.
But with a quiet, transactional acceptance.

The aisles were narrower.
The shelves taller.
It felt like walking into someone else’s house uninvited—
and realizing their fridge is better stocked than yours.

And over time—
I learned the ways of CVS.

Where they hid the good sodas.
How their clearance bin could be a portal to absurd treasure.
Why their receipt, unfolding like an ancient scroll,
was not a nuisance but a prophecy.

Weeks passed.
The Walgreens building stood empty.
A husk.
A tombstone in beige stucco.

One night, in a dream, I visited again.
But instead of fluorescent lights,
the inside glowed with a sunset.
The shelves were full.
The pharmacy tech smiled.
And when I woke,
I was holding a CVS ExtraCare card.

I have not forgotten my Walgreens.
I never will.
But I have learned that across the street,
under different branding,
with different quirks and different frustrations,
a man can rebuild.

A man can love again.

The Tale of The Endless Pizza Parlor

As chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld

ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD

Somewhere, between strip mall and myth… there stands—still spinning—a place.

Maybe you glimpsed it in childhood.

Maybe only inside fevered memory.

Maybe on the fuzzy flicker of a forgotten CRT screen.

A pizza parlor.

But not just any parlor.

This one… never ended.

It wasn’t even supposed to be an eat-in anymore.

It was carryout.

But technically still had tables—

small Formica slabs, ringed with mismatched chairs…

remnants of long-gone dine-in glory.

Tables once hosting families, now cluttered with flyers, napkin dispensers…

traces of a concept learned, then abandoned.

It felt haunted—

a dining room with its people left behind.

And yet…

there was Skee-ball.

Ancient.

Rumbling.

Looping in a mechanical chant like a midway machine

abandoned when the carny left—for a smoke, or a cougar rendezvous—

While his kid skee-ed with wild abandon,

from the window…

to the wall.

That lane blazed bright.

Lit like prophecy.

Sang a warped hymn in every thunk.

No tickets. No prizes.

Just one child, pitching balls into oblivion,

pulling power from pure nostalgia.

Pizza appeared.

Unbidden.

Perfectly shaped.

Steaming.

Delivered by indifferent teens with names like Taco or Kaylee

faces glowing in the soft sodium light of concession stand mindlessness.

Animatronics stood lifeless in the corner.

A bear frozen mid-song.

A bird with one blinking eye.

A dog cast forever in clerical pose.

They hadn’t performed in years—

yet the hush of their music still echoed in the back rooms,

if you listened through your bones.

I followed rumors to find it.

A Chuck E. Cheese never franchised.

A ShowBiz trapped in Y2K.

A CeCe’s forgotten by time, waiting behind shuttered storefronts.

An old arcade token led me—

to a cul-de-sac near Des Moines.

There it stood, faintly lit, half-sunken in the parking lot.

Inside…

a child screamed in the ball pit.

A man slept.

A mother watched three different screens at once.

I realized: I’d found it.

The Endless Pizza Parlor.

I touched a booth once.

Closed my eyes.

And whispered:

“I remember.”

Then…

I woke in a CVS.

NyQuil sweat cooling on the back of my neck.

The ghost of pizza and arcades still lingering in my senses.

Somewhere—

that place still waits.

Box light waiting to flicker.

Pizza waiting to be delivered.

Children still throwing balls

just to see the lights dance again.

And play Skee-ball I did—again and again—

until dreams bent, the neon twisted, the memory cracked open.

Until I awoke in stuffy, NyQuil-fueled sweat,

nostalgia clinging to my pores.

It was time

for a Diet Squirt

and a Star Trek rerun

to anchor me back to reality.

And thus ends my pilgrimage… for now.

The Line Must be Drawn Here

By: Mason Absher

When I was growing up,

everything—everything—started with a line.

Not metaphorically.

I mean literal lines.

Chalked onto blacktops.

Formed outside classrooms.

Carved into the halls of public school buildings like tiny rituals of control.

You lined up for lunch.

You lined up for the bathroom.

You lined up to take standardized tests they swore would determine the course of your life.

And they’d say,

“This is good for you.

This teaches discipline.”

I believed them.

I thought lines were just part of the system.

Part of growing up.

You wait your turn.

You earn your spot.

Eventually, you get… something.

What, exactly?

Unclear.

That was the thing about growing up millennial.

You were told to wait.

For adulthood.

For stability.

For something called “real life” to begin.

But no one could tell you what that looked like.

Just that it was coming.

And you’d better be in line when it arrived.

We were raised by people who had no time for questions.

Boomers. Gen Xers. Coaches, teachers, neighbors.

People who liked authority.

People who clung to rules like they were holy text—

even when the rules made no sense anymore.

And when you asked why?

Why are we doing this?

They’d say,

“Because we had to.”

As if confusion were a rite of passage.

I was once told,

“You all think you’re entitled.”

And I remember thinking:

We didn’t crown ourselves.

You told us we were special.

You told us to dream big.

You gave us motivational posters and then

laughed when we quoted them back at you.

We were blamed for things we couldn’t control.

Housing markets.

Climate collapse.

Participation trophies we didn’t give ourselves.

They’d say,

“You have it easy.”

While handing us a world that was already cracked down the middle.

We didn’t inherit the system.

We inherited the aftermath.

And then the whiplash.

One minute:

“Why aren’t you more ambitious?”

Next minute:

“Why are you so anxious all the time?”

It’s like being handed a ticking clock and getting yelled at for flinching.

But here’s the part I think about now:

They weren’t all wrong.

They were just… scared.

They were scared the world was changing,

and we were learning to live in it faster than they could explain it.

They saw us breaking lines.

Skipping steps.

Questioning things they’d never dared to.

And they panicked.

So they told us to wait.

Told us to follow the process.

Told us to stand still

until someone called our name.

But no one ever did.

Because the line?

It wasn’t going anywhere.

And somewhere along the way,

we stopped waiting.

We started building.

Side hustles.

Art.

Businesses.

Communities.

Whole new languages for survival.

Because no one was coming to hand us anything.

So we made our own way.

No line.

No map.

Just each other.

SHOULD’VE BURNED THIS PLACE DOWN WHEN I HAD THE CHANCE

A Story of Early Fire, Quiet Questions, and the Slow Burn of Growing Up

By Mason Absher

I should’ve burned this place down when I had the chance.

And by “this place,” I mean my childhood home.

And by “had the chance,” I mean—

I was three years old,

and I threw a hand towel into a preheating oven.

Now, I don’t remember why.

Not exactly.

It wasn’t revenge.

It wasn’t science.

It wasn’t a cry for help.

I think I just wanted to see

what would happen

if soft met heat.

Three years old.

Tiny.

Curious.

Chaotic.

Wearing one of those zip-up footie pajamas

with the grip on the soles

so you could run toward disaster

with traction.

I’d seen adults put things in ovens before.

Casseroles.

Lasagnas.

Pans of stuff that always came out sad and steaming.

So I thought—

why not this?

A hand towel.

The ugly yellow one.

The one that always looked dirty,

even when it was clean.

It deserved to burn.

I opened the door.

Preheat setting humming.

Warmed air like a slow exhale.

I tossed it in like a chef plating vengeance.

Closed the door.

Walked away.

Now, you’d think an oven full of fire fabric would be a bigger deal.

But here’s the thing—

No one noticed.

Not at first.

Not when the smell started.

Not when the heat shifted.

Not until the kitchen was full of smoke

and my mother screamed like she’d discovered the concept of mortality.

They yanked open the oven.

Pulled the towel out with tongs.

Threw it in the sink.

Flames hissed.

Steam rose.

It looked like a murder scene from a Martha Stewart reboot.

And me?

Just standing there.

Holding a plastic truck.

Looking up.

Like—

“Oh. That’s what happens.”

They asked me why.

I said:

“I wanted to see what it would do.”

Which, honestly,

should’ve been the first clue

that I wasn’t going to be a normal adult.

But here’s the wild part.

They didn’t yell.

They didn’t punish.

They just—

cleaned it up.

Opened a window.

Gave me apple juice

and a warning glance

like “let’s never speak of this again.”

But I remember it.

Vividly.

Not the heat—

the possibility.

That I could do something

small

and simple

and change the temperature of a room.

I should’ve burned it all down when I had the chance.

Because I grew up.

And the fires got smaller.

Politer.

Internal.

No more hand towels.

Just quiet resentment.

Just anger managed by breathing techniques and sarcasm.

Now I light candles.

I simmer.

I reheat trauma in safe, microwaveable containers.

But there’s still a part of me—

that three-year-old in the grip-soled pajamas—

who remembers

how fast things can catch,

how satisfying it is to watch smoke rise,

and how sometimes,

it’s not destruction.

It’s just curiosity

with consequences.

Raised by a Cup of Coffee

Raised by a Cup of Coffee

by Mason Absher

Way back in the early aughts, the much anticipated transition from dial-up to broadband internet FINALLY allowed us to stream flash animations without waiting years for the video to buffer.

Sites like ebaumsworld, JibJab, and the ultimate show down of ultimate destiny were popping up everywhere.

One of my favorites was Homestarrunner dot net…it’s dot com. If you don’t understand that reference, go interrogate Jeeves for awhile. I’ll be still be here after you’ve finished your good cop, bad cop routine.

Like many millennials, I grew up in an awkward conservative evangelical area.

I was also dealing with a lot of undiagnosed or underdiagnosed neurodivergence and uncontextualized family trauma in the periphery of my life. This often meant I had a hard time connecting with other kids.

We occasionally went to church, but it seemed like my father found something new to dislike about each of them. I didn’t sleep well as a kid, so I usually didn’t like getting up early on a day I didn’t have school.

One summer we started going to this church that has a decent vacation Bible school program. The other kids seemed to find me tolerable and the activities are things I actually like. I think we even played Pokémon until it was discovered to use the sinful word “evolution” in a positive context. The local coalition of Moral Moms promptly confiscated our cards.

By some bizarre twist of fate, we still had access to a computer with high speed internet. In my previous church experiences, it seemed like other kids either wanted to try to find porn or listen to some garbage Christian band. I was pretty uncomfortable with both of those options. Also, I always seemed to get blamed for the porn. Never mind the fact that I spent the entire time pleading with the mouse keeper to navigate to a power rangers site instead.

Anyway…

At first, I thought this was going to follow the usual playbook. However, one of the main kids, a quiet but confidant ringleader type, sits down at the keyboard and types something into the browser. Immediately, I see MUST BE 18+ TO ENTER SITE. “Whoops. Typo” he says. I start thinking “he’s just checking the room to see if anyone is going to snitch and THEN start the porn”. Much to my pleasant surprise, he doesn’t. He just changes the website name by one letter and voila, homestarrunner.com blazes forth. “This is why Cheney leading the charge on tightening those pornography restrictions is so important” he says to me. I say “oh yeah that’s a great point” I had no patience for sex or politics by this point. There was a fresh, new, modern cartoon cued up and I couldn’t wait to get lost in the laughter.

Our ringleader points out that I’m new to the group so we should watch the intro. I’m thinking “oh no, nobody is going to want to watch the intro again” but it turns out everyone is excited to just watch the intro video again. A few swift clicks and we hear that iconic “everybody song”.

Eventually, we see this side character, Homsar. He’s best described as Homestar’s VERY Neurodivergent cousin. He says his classic phrase “I was raised by a cup of coffee.” I felt that.

In my house a cup of coffee, literally a cup of coffee, seemed to be the one consistent thing. My parents? Emotionally over-reactive and wildly inconsistent, but my father’s coffee cup was always there day after day full of hot black coffee at any given time of day. At times it felt like the coffee cup was my real father.

I also loved that the whole crew made Homsar feel at home, especially Homestar who was LITERALLY the star. He always knew how to keep Homsar welcome and included.

Sometimes the simplest thing can provide us a sense of stability. Sometimes we’re Homsar and we need a Homestar to help us out.

Checkbook Bob

Checkbook Bob

A Story of Debt, Dignity, and the Endurance of Paper

By: Mason Absher

There’s a guy in my life—

a legend, really—

named Bob.

But not just any Bob.

CheckBook Bob.

Bob pays with checks.

Exclusively.

Religiously.

He’s never used Venmo.

He once referred to PayPal as “cybercrime.”

And Zelle?

He said, “That sounds like a Marvel villain.”

He pays the old-fashioned way—

with a checkbook.

Worn, leathery, and always within reach.

Except…

Bob’s check hand?

Apparently, it’s injured.

He calls it “a lifelong condition.”

A “financial affliction.”

He says,

“I can only write checks on even-numbered Tuesdays, during a full moon, if the wrist is loose and the Lord is willing.”

Now, to be clear—

I’ve seen Bob fix his roof.

Haul lumber.

Throw a baseball 40 feet underhand at a church picnic.

But ask him to write a check on the spot?

Suddenly his wrist goes limp.

His fingers seize.

He becomes a tragic figure from a Tennessee Williams play.

He once whispered to me at a hardware store,

“The tendons, they just won’t track unless I warm up first.”

Then he flapped his hand like a baby bird and walked away humming the theme to Matlock.

It’s not that Bob won’t pay.

He will.

Eventually.

He just has… a rhythm.

A system.

A… let’s call it what it is:

A bureaucracy of one.

He carries his checkbook in a zippered pouch

wrapped in what I believe is a Maple Leafs windbreaker from 1994.

The pen?

Always a promotional one from a real estate agent who’s long since retired.

One time—this is true—

he owed me $9.60 for pancakes.

He wrote a check.

Tore it carefully from the pad.

Handed it to me like he was bestowing land rights.

And in the memo line?

He wrote:

“For syrup and good company.”

The check bounced.

Temporarily.

(Beat. Performer shrugs.)

But the sentiment cleared.

Bob is not a scammer.

He’s not cheap.

He’s just… committed to a dying craft.

A fiscal artisan.

CheckBook Bob doesn’t pay you.

He memorializes the transaction.

He still owes me $19.87 for movie tickets.

That was in 2019.

But every time I see him, he says:

“I’m working on it.

Just waiting for the tendons to trust me again.”

I believe him.

Because when that check comes?

It’s going to be beautiful.

Signed with a flourish.

Folded into thirds.

Memo line reading:

“For entertainment, popcorn, and brotherhood.”

And I will cry. 

CheckBook Bob.

Long may he write.

Weapon of Choice

WEAPON OF CHOICE 

A Domestic Tragedy in One Financial Gesture

By: Mason Absher

There are moments in a person’s life

when you reach for your weapon of choice.

Mine?

Was already in my hand.

The basement had flooded.

There was chaos.

Wet socks. The smell of drywall dying.

The washer made a sound like regret.

I called in reinforcements.

He showed up in ten minutes.

Tool belt. Steel-toed boots. A calm that made me suspicious.

He fixed it.

Quick. Clean. Like he’d been born with a wrench in his hand.

And as he stood, wiping his hands on a rag,

I knew what I had to do.

I reached into the drawer.

Pulled it out.

Laid it flat on the counter.

The checkbook.

Yes.

A paper weapon.

An instrument of honor.

A gesture that says:

“I will not let this debt go unpaid.

I will acknowledge your labor with a flourish of ink and old-world formality.”

I drew it.

Slowly.

Dramatically.

And then—

He said:

“No need.”

(Beat.)

I froze.

Mid-stroke.

Pen hovering like I was about to sign a treaty.

“No need?” I asked, as if he’d insulted my lineage.

He smiled.

Wiped the last of the water from his boots.

And said:

“I’m your brother-in-law.”

(Beat.)

Which… yes.

Technically, he is.

But in that moment—

in that posture—

he was a tradesman.

A savior.

A hero of the sump pump.

And here I was.

Trying to cut him a check

like a Victorian widow paying off a chimney sweep.

I said, “But… I insist.”

He said, “Still no.”

And then he picked up a Gatorade and left like it was just another Tuesday.

And I stood there.

Checkbook open.

Signature unfinished.

Alone with my financial instinct and a house that no longer needed rescuing.

(Beat. Performer slowly folds invisible checkbook.)

Weapon… holstered.

I don’t know what the moral is.

Maybe it’s that family doesn’t always charge.

Maybe it’s that gratitude can’t always be quantified.

Or maybe—

just maybe—

I’m not supposed to pay people in cursive anymore.

(Beat. Performer nods, rueful.)

But still…

when the next flood comes—

I’ll be ready.

Because a man has to have a code.

And mine comes in carbon copy.

Release The Kraken

RELEASE THE KRAKEN….or…A Sea Beast by the Name of Regret

By: Mason Absher

There are dark spirits in this world.

And then…

There is The Kraken!

At a first glance, it hardly seems insidious

But just one sip, and you’ll soon be deciduous

That being said, don’t get yourself down.

I’ll share with you the warnings that the Kraken has come to town:

An ornate glass bottle that piques the imagination

A label that warns of hubris and ruination

A spirit so potent it could tear the rigging from your memories and send them drifting out to sea.

A rum so smooth, you can drink it like iced tea!

This is a tale from my youth.

When I was reckless. Curious.

And very, very bad at saying “no” to free liquor.

I don’t remember the first time I drank Kraken.

But I remember the second.

I woke up in someone’s apartment the next morning…I think his name was…Jimmy?

I was twelve hundred knots above sea level…

with a traffic cone on my head…a bruised knee…

and no idea how I’d gotten there.

The Kraken does not arrive gently.

It comes in swigs.

Straight from the bottle.

Offered like communion by friends who should know better.

With glasses raised, they’d say:

“To poor decisions,”

“To legendary nights!”

“To unleashing the beast!”

And unleash it… we did.

Each bottle was a map of mayhem.

A journey into the fog.

You take one sip—you’re charming.

Two—you’re loud.

Three—you’re atop the table, reciting Hamlet in a pirate accent.

Four?

You are the table.

I once drank half a bottle of the old beast and woke up in a bathtub—fully clothed—holding a slice of pizza like it was that door from the Titanic.

I once urinated on my own television set.

I once fist-fought my own reflection because I thought I was the very knave who had wronged me in a high-stakes game of Uno several years back.  

I once climbed a utility ladder and gave a dramatic reading of Paul’s letters to the Corinthians to no one—no one—on the roof of a Speedway Convenience Store.

And when I say once, of course, it was always more than once

The Kraken, my friends, does not knock.

It boards.

It commandeers.

And when it’s done… it vanishes,

leaving only vague memories, sandwich crumbs, and shame.

The hangovers were…epic.

Biblical in nature, if unnatural in scope.

Like my brain had been scraped out with a rusty spoon.

The Kraken doesn’t just steal your night—it owns it…it. The next morning it evicts it…it charges interest…and…storage fees!

Eventually, we began to fear the bottle.

Started hiding it. Refusing to say its name.

“Don’t open that,” we’d say. “The beast is sleeping.”

It became a warning.

A threat.

A myth whispered between friends as we matured into people who drank things that came with labels we could pronounce.

I haven’t touched The Kraken in years.

But every now and then… I see it.

On a shelf behind the bar.

That same dark bottle. That same squid in mid-attack.

And I feel the ghost of a headache pass behind my eyes.

I nod respectfully.

And I walk away.

Because I survived the beast.

I lived to tell the tale.

And some nights—

some sacred, stupid, beautiful nights—

I remember what it was like…

to be foolish

and fearless

and drunk on freedom.

Release the Kraken?

Oh, I did….

And it released me—into chaos, fury, and reckless adventure

I wouldn’t do it again.

But I’m damn glad I did it once.

And when I say once…

Well, that’s enough for today.

The Super Terrific Bankruptcy Happy Hour!

THE SUPER TERRIFIC BANKRUPTCY HAPPY HOUR!

By: Mason Absher

Welcome…Welcome…Welcome…one and all!

… to the Super Terrific Bankruptcy Happy Hour.

That’s right.

Drinks are half-off.

So is my dignity.

The ice is free because I’m not.

I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget the last time I filed…

Chapter 7…

It’s a chapter unlike any other.

A chapter where you don’t “restructure” or “negotiate.”

You just… wave a white flag made of old credit card statements.

If you find yourself in a similar situation, you’re sure to ask…well…how did I get here?

Well, I’ll tell you.

For me, there were no yachts or mountains of cocaine.

No golden carousels with hydraulic ponies in my rumpus room.

I earned my bankruptcy the old-fashioned American way:

Theatre school.

Freelance invoices.

Bar tabs.

A can’t miss business or two.

And the fatal belief that everything was “gonna work out.”

It started small.

A late payment.

A bounced cheque.

A pawn loan abandoned

And one day you wake up,

You check your bank account

And it just says:

Nope.

I stopped checking it, honestly.

The low point?

There was no single low point.

Every low point was lower than the last.

But here’s the twist.

Once everything collapsed?

I felt… calm.

I felt…weirdly… honest.

No more pretending.

No more “I’m just in between gigs.”

No more “I’m building something!”

Just… me.

And a mountain of debt that legally wasn’t mine anymore.

To celebrate, I decided to host a live game show.

I called it:

The Super Terrific Bankruptcy Happy Hour!

Games include:

• “What’s in My Wallet?” (spoiler: nothing)

• “Guess That Credit Score!”

• and of course…

Duck. Duck. Default.

The food?

Mozzarella sticks.

The kind that burn your mouth and your pride.

Because nothing pairs better with financial ruin than hot dairy and ranch.

And you know what?

I wasn’t alone.

Turns out everyone has been here.

Or somewhere like it.

Friends.

Neighbors.

That one guy who used to sell me essential oils out of his trunk?

He was right.

This is a cleansing.

I’m not saying it’s easy.

The shame still knocks.

The fear still visits.

But the power’s out,

and I’m not answering the door.

I’m broke.

But I’m also… free.

Like a raccoon in a Dollar General parking lot.

Unhinged.

But resourceful.

So if you’re here tonight,

If you’ve ever hit the bottom,

If your dreams are on layaway and your plans declined your invite—

(beat)

Pull up a folding chair.

Grab a mozzarella stick.

And raise a glass.

Because if you can laugh at it?

You’re not ruined.

You’re just…

In a new phase.

To bankruptcy.

To broke

To brilliance.

To mozzarella sticks…

and the stories we never wanted, but well…here they are

The Horse And His Tailor

THE HORSE AND HIS TAILOR

 A Strange Fable for the End of the World

 By Mason Absher

Once… in a time that wasn’t quite a time…

there lived a tailor.

And this tailor…

had a dream.

Not of riches.

Not of fame.

He wanted to dress a horse.

Not just cover it.

Not blanket or saddle.

But trousers.

Shirts with buttons.

A little vest with a pocket where the horse could put… something. Anything. A leaf, maybe.

People laughed.

Of course they did.

You cannot dress a horse, they said.

They do not care for fashion.

They are beasts. They do not blush. They do not browse.

But the tailor said only:

“Wait.”

And he began to sew.

He started small.

A scarf.

Just a scarf.

Something soft, something the wind could pull at.

The horse blinked.

Snorted.

Tried to eat it.

(Beat.)

But it wore it.

For one full hour.

That… was enough.

The tailor came every day.

With new things.

A sleeve.

A boot.

A belt that served no purpose except to look just slightly dramatic.

And the horse… learned.

It learned how to step into trousers.

How to tolerate buttons.

How to swish with style.

And the tailor smiled.

He never forced.

He waited.

He praised.

He whispered:

“Yes, my beautiful idiot. You are magnificent.”

Years passed.

And one day…

the horse changed clothes.

On its own.

It chose blue.

A crushed velvet vest.

The one with gold thread that shimmered like pond water in moonlight.

And the tailor wept.

Quietly.

Into his thimble.

And then…

at the end of his life,

with no heirs, no shop, no plaque to his name—

he stood beside that splendid, vest-wearing horse

and said, simply:

“Change, change, change your clothes, you lovely horse.”

And the horse did.

And that is the story.

Of a tailor.

A horse.

And a miracle made one button at a time.

The Legend of Ian Downey…or…The Kid Who Stirred Up Chaos and Vanished Again Like a Ghost with Wi-Fi

THE LEGEND OF IAN DOWNEY

 The Kid Who Stirred up Chaos and Vanished Again Like a Ghost with Wi-Fi

Everyone knew Ian Downey.

Or at least… thought they did.

He was a myth before he hit puberty.

A local legend.

The kid who once said—dead serious—“I’m Robert Downey Jr.’s third cousin…by marriage”

And the thing is…

no one could disprove it.

He had that face. That smirk. That terrifying confidence.

He could say anything and make you doubt your own memory.

Sometimes, Ian was my friend.

We’d ride bikes. Talk about movies. Share a soda at the corner store.

Other times?

He was a rogue psychologist with no supervision, too much free time.

He once told me—calm as a monk—

that we were in a cult.

(Beat.)

Not hypothetically.

Not as a game.

He said, “No, it’s real. You just haven’t been initiated yet.”

I didn’t sleep for three nights.

I made a list of everyone I knew who might be a sleeper agent.

I threw out a sandwich my mom made me because it looked too symmetrical.

Ian claimed he could code websites.

What he actually did…

was open WordPad and change the font color.

Then he’d call me over and say,

“See that? HTML, baby.”

I didn’t even know what HTML stood for.

But Ian sounded like he did.

He had the vibe of a guy who hacked the Pentagon when really he was just changing text alignment in Comic Sans.

And yet—

he was magnetic.

The teachers liked him.

The parents thought he was charming.

The girls? Obsessed.

The guys? Also obsessed, but in that weird boy-code way where you have to act like you’re mad at someone just because they’re cooler than you.

Ian Downey was a one-man hurricane.

He’d show up, stir the pot, flip your worldview like a cafeteria tray,

and then disappear again.

He moved away, officially, in seventh grade.

I remember the goodbye being… vague.

No party. No hugs. Just:

“I’m going to California. Maybe. Or it might be South Dakota.”

And like that—poof.

Gone.

But every few years…

He’d reappear.

At a football game.

At the grocery store.

At your cousin’s bonfire.

Like a local cryptid.

You’d blink, and there he was—older, taller, still with that same glint in his eye like he knew something about your childhood you didn’t.

And he’d say something weird.

Something casual but off.

Like:

“Hey, remember the basement? They finally removed the altar.”

And you’d laugh.

But only a little.

He’d stay a weekend.

Cause minor chaos.

Convince someone to dye their hair or break up with their girlfriend.

Then vanish.

No goodbye.

No trace.

Just a vague Facebook status like, “Headed where the clouds don’t ask questions.”

What does that even mean?

I’ve Googled him.

Nothing conclusive.

There’s no “real” trace of Ian Downey.

Just a few blurry photos.

One semi-defunct blog.

And a conspiracy Reddit thread titled “What Happened to That One Kid?”

Sometimes I wonder if he was even real.

Or if he was just a trick the neighborhood played on all of us.

The human embodiment of adolescent confusion.

The boy who could lie to your face… and somehow make you grateful for it.

But I know he was real.

Because I still don’t fully trust sandwiches.

And every time I see a hyperlink, I think…

Is this HTML? Or is this another Downey trick?

Ian, if you’re out there…

I hope you’re well.

I hope you’re even better at document formatting

Geocities 4Lyfe

The Forgotten Wallet

It was the winter of 2014,

and I was a young actor adrift in The Old City.

A city so cold it snapped dreams like kindling.

I lived in a slanted apartment, surviving on black coffee, artistic delusion… and instant rice.

Then came the call.

Mysterious. Vague. Alluring.

An audition. Medical in nature. Acting-adjacent.

Or as we artists call it:

“Please pretend to cough convincingly for no applause, just coin.”

The night before: two rehearsals, back-to-back.

First in a damp rehearsal crypt.

Second delayed—snow, traffic, existential sighs. We started at ten.

I got home at 2:40 a.m.

I showered, laid out my outfit, packed my bag, lined up my boots like soldiers by the door… and slept. Like a fool.

**4 a.m.**– *snooze*

**4:15**– *snooze*

**4:25**– *nothing*

**4:30**– *still nothing*

**4:40**– PANIC

I launched into my clothes, into the wind, into the train—just in time. I collapsed into a seat, exhaled… and reached for my wallet.

Nothing.

Scoured my bag. My coat. My soul.

Still nothing.

My wallet was in the jeans I had thrown across my apartment floor.

The one day I didn’t pick my pants up off the floor! That’s the most of what I regret!

The conductor approached.

“Ticket?” he asked, mustache twitching.

I spilled my shame.

He said, “You ride often?”

I nodded like a desperate pigeon.

He vanished… came back with a voucher.

I filled it out like a confession. Handed it over.

He… tore it up.

No receipt. No lecture. Just mercy, silent and strange.

I arrived downtown, walletless, voicemail ready.

No backup. No answers.

Until… an ad: *Lyft—first ride free.*

Downloaded. Needed a card. Strike one.

Switched to Uber. Same hurdle… until: “Pay with PayPal.”

YES.

Ding. “Your ride is here.”

The Driver, Roger, I think his name was.

A fellow actor. Of course.

We spoke of hustle. Of simulation.

He said, “Curiosity—more important than experience.”

I said,

“Well… I’m still here, aren’t I?”

In the waiting room, paperwork filled.

A grainy video. No interview.

Just “We’ll be in touch.”

I left. Summoned one last Uber.

Fifty dollars poorer, full of something else.

Because I survived.

Not the audition.

Not the job.

But the day.

The wallet-less waltz through The Old City.

And I returned with a story—the richest currency I know.