There are no more men on the planet.

No males in my generation want to be men. Why do I say this? I met an extractor. His quote?

"Have you seen the movie Taken? That's what I do."

That is a man. He goes to foreign countries to retrieve people who have been kidnapped. Not only does he go, but he comes back. Comes back! That's a man. When he's not doing that, he's a bodyguard for Saudi princes and people like Ralph Lauren. And before all of this? He was a New York City drug cop in the eighties.

Boom. Full man. He's been a man for decades! 

I could have talked to that guy for hours. Talk to men of this generation?

"Oh, I'm a web developer."

"I work in advertising."

"I re-tweet things for companies."

That last one is a job? Unbelievable. Men of older generations wanted to make an honest living. Men now want to make money by making statements in 140 characters – by making videos or taping a friend getting hit in the nuts with a voiceover of what the pole says.

"Whoops, that guy’s nuts are coming down on my head. One of us is gonna feel this! Won't be me, I'm made of metal!"

Even if men do want to be a cop, or join the army, it's never for the good reasons that people used to do it for. 

"The money is good!"

"Having a gun would be sweet!"

"I saw it in a video game!"

No men want to get dirty anymore. Everyone wants to look perfect and smell good.

"Change that tire? Didn't Steve Jobs create something to do that before he died? He didn't? Well, then that's what I'll focus on. Re-animating Steve Jobs so he can make that thing. Does my iPhone re-animate?"

Men created electricity, light bulbs, and the telephone. Men of this generation?

"Hey! I made an app that allows me to tell other people where I am! Pretty sweet, huh? You check in, you win things. I'm the mayor of your house! I just raised the tax! Get out of your house!"

I'm guilty of not being a man. Am I a man? No. I write, say funny things, and take on no real responsibility so I can continue to do so. Is that going to help me if I'm lost in the woods? Is that going to scare off a bear?

"Oh, man. A bear! Hey, hey, you like funny situations?"

"ROAR!"

"Wooo, tough crowd."

Being a man doesn't just mean doing "manly" things. Chopping wood, building Chevy trucks with your bare hands, all while drunk on whiskey and hollering at women. No. What being a man does mean, though, is taking on some sort of responsibility. Being accountable for something. No men of my generation want that anymore. No one wants kids. No one wants a job that pays anything less than what a basketball player makes. No one wants to have any commitments that could stop him from watching Breaking Bad.

"Mom’s funeral? God, did she have to die today? She knew I was doing a Breaking Bad marathon!"

Mark Zuckerberg, for example. Arguably, the leader of my generation. Multi-billionaire, website designer, Facebook creator. Man? Absolutely not. Let's look at what he really created. He created something that brings us all together, right? No! Mark Zuckerberg created a site that allows men to look at women's beach photos, allows people to never really break up because you can always find out what the other person is up to, and a site that now just throws around pictures with "funny" captions. Would a man create this? Would a man create something that takes up all your time and annoys you? No! Had a man been around when this was being made, it would be different.

"There! Done. Just added the "Poke" button."

"Uh huh. Where is the "Work" button?"

"There is no work button! Facebook is meant to take a break."

"You know what a good break is... work! Add a work button, then get to work!"

Men who take on responsibility are really needed in this world. I believe most men can attest to this. Date a girl who had a good relationship with her dad. For the most part, she is a very well adjusted person.

Date a girl who doesn't have a good relationship with her dad? Wow. Most times? A complete train wreck that relationship will be.

"Who just called you?! WHO JUST CALLED YOU?!"

"It was my cousin."

"That slut cousin Susan?"

"She's family!"

"She wants to sleep with you! I know she does! Oh, god. Why do you like to do this to me?"

"What the hell is going on? Why are you crying?"

"Fuck you! Just fuck you! I love you – that's why! Please don't leave... get the fuck out of here!"

There was a generation of men that did stick around and help raise families. Then for some reason, a generation of men who just split! Not all, but a ton! And those guys made it hard to be a man, because they messed up so much, and to such a high degree, that they raised the bar to a point that even if you are a good man, no one cares at all. A single mom can say, "I have a job and I raise my baby on my own." The world goes, "She's a warrior." A man? "I have a job and I raise my baby on my own." "Yeah? While you're whining right now, who’s taking care of your kid? Suck it up and go to hell."

If the pioneers had known that they were finding new land and building on it so that one day men could see how many head shots they could rack up online, they would have stopped.

"What? I'm gonna cut down these trees while I have scurvy so that one day a thirty two year old man can talk to a thirteen year old through a headset and be called a loser? I don't think so. I'm going to lay down and die right here."

Greyhound.

Sometimes I have to travel, and sometimes, the easiest way to get there is the bus. Is it the worst way? Yes. As soon as I get off, every time I say, "Never again will I do that to myself. Never again." Then I go talk to a therapist about how the trip ruined me mentally.
"I thought it would be pleasant, ya know? I thought it would just be me sitting down being taking somewhere. I mean, how bad could it be? HOW BAD COULD IT BE?! OH, GOD!"


The worst job in the world has got to be Greyhound bus driver. Unless your second job is ditch digging, there’s nothing worse than that.

"Goodbye, honey! I'm driving from nine to five today, then pulling over and digging a hole for nine hours. See you later! I know these are both terrible jobs, but someone has to do them! I really hope I fall into the hole I've dug! Bye!"

A Greyhound bus breaks down just about every time I've ever taken one. The only person who benefits from this is the driver, since – his job just broke down. His job! Think about how awesome that is! 

"Listen, I'd love to work, but we just lost power. What do you mean, “Am I serious?” I'm driving a Greyhound bus! You don't think these break down?"

Greyhound doesn't have the same security system as other travel options do. People who we wouldn't let on a plane? Greyhound takes them. There is always some animal on the bus who has probably choked two women at the same time with one hand. It's almost a prerequisite. If he's not there, that bus ain’t moving.

"Where the hell is the guy who society forgot? All right, we're waiting, guys."

"Ah, come on! Let's move this thing."

"Hey, hey. Take it up with him, all right? I don't make the Greyhound rules. A demon from hell does and I don't think you want to talk to him."

When you are on a Greyhound, sometimes there is more than one of these guys on the bus and it feels as though you stepped onto the bus that takes criminals to prison.

"What's up, fresh fish? What are you going away for?"

"...Umm, I have a wedding to get to and this is the cheapest way?"

"Ha! Hear you, man. I didn't do anything either. I'm innocent, too. I'm innocent, all right! I'M INNOCENT!"

"Umm, we're not going to prison."

"Want to make a break for it, huh? I like you! WE'RE NOT GOING TO PRISON!" 

How can we have phones that do everything – everything! But the bus is still a vehicle that is as comfortable as a hot rock in Calcutta? The only time the bus was comfortable was when the title 'blacksmith' was given to people. And that was at a time when people rode horses! Animals! Of course a bus was more comfortable than that.

"This is great! I just sit here and I get to where I'm going! I don't have to kick the sides of the bus or feed it. Nothing! Thank you, advancement."

Greyhound’s customer service is hilarious. You don't want to call, but sometimes you think, "My trip was supposed to be six hours, and it took two and a half weeks. I should call someone about this."

"Hey, I had a trip that was six hours late. Anything that can be done about this?"

"Did you finally get to your destination?"

"...Well, yes."

"Then the trip was completed. Thanks for calling Greyhound."

"But it was six hours late?!"

"Do you know what you took? GREYHOUND. It's a bus from the past. Understand?"

"...Yes, sir."

There are no short trips on Greyhound either. Even if there should be. Even if you have a trip that is a straight line, right down a highway, straight shot – they will go the longest way possible and stop at gas stations, chicken coops, and mail boxes.

"Your trip today should only be an hour. It’s too bad for seventeen hours we will not even head in the right direction. Nope, we have to go down to the Atlantic Ocean, pick up one lone fisherman who has decided to change career paths, stop at every gas station and gift shop along the way – there and back – then maybe have you where you need to be."

Greyhound has ads that say, "Get To Know America Better." Yeah, you don't know this America. Have you seen it from a comfortable seat in a car? Or maybe walking around being able to stretch and stop whenever you want? That's not how you do it! Scrunch yourself into a dirty 1970's polyester seat beside someone else who’s thinking, "Wow, I've made a lot of mistakes." That's how you get to know America.

Greyhound shouldn't be able to charge you more than ten dollars for a trip. Should be illegal.

"This trip is going to be a hundred dollars."

"Oh, cool! The TVs work on this one, I'm guessing?"

"No."

"Oh... well, the seats are more comfortable?"

"Less."

"...Okay. Then I'll have two seats to myself?"

"You won't even have one to yourself."

"Well, then what do I get?"

"...A story?"

Baking Up Justice

"It never gets easier."

"What, Joe? Killing the enemy?"

Joe reaches the chopper, steps one foot inside, turns to face a fellow soldier. He slowly takes his aviators off.

"No, doing the right thing."

Joe hops on the helicopter. His body glistens in the sun, the way one would expect a trout that meets Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing would. He is shirtless, wearing a bandana, with a look on his face that says he's been here before.

"Let's do it again. For our women. For our fellow soldiers."

"For America?"

Joe gets a distant look in his eye.

"...That goes without saying. But I'm glad you said it."

The chopper flies over a thick jungle. Joe is standing in the doorframe. He is holding an American flag and eating a slice of apple pie.

"Where'd you get that pie, Joe?"

"I made it myself – out of 3 bullets, a hunting knife, an enemy’s boot strap, and the memories of fallen friends."

"Oh... any good?"

"...It could use some sugar."

"Quite the cook, huh Joe?"

"My sweetie back home runs a bakery. I watch her sometimes when I'm thinking of ways to kill."

Joe takes a look towards the ground. 

"Take her down."

"What?! Here, Joe? I can't land here! We'll be shot at!"

Joe grabs the pilot, spins him around, and looks him right in the eye.

"Getting shot at is what I came over here for. That – and to see the look in your eye when I do this."

Joe picks the pilot up and throws him outside of the chopper.

"I never should have questioned America! God bless you, Joooooeeeee!"

Joe grabs the controls and sends the helicopter into a nosedive. As the ground gets closer and closer, a small smirk appears on Joe's face. He is finishing the last of the apple pie.

The ground is getting closer and the helicopter is heading straight for a small schoolhouse.

"Hmmm. ‘School for the Blind’. They're not even gonna see it coming."

Joe wipes his mouth with his American flag and then dives out of the helicopter. The helicopter slams into the school, blowing it to pieces. The school’s teacher and students were on their way in.

"Oh, dear God! Students! I'm happy you can't see this."

"Why, Mrs. Doubletree? What was that loud bang?"

"Ahh... it was math. Math saying, "learn me!"

"And the feeling of fire?"

"That's the tardy dragon saying we're late. Now open those books!"

Joe is swooping towards the earth as if he is an eagle about to pluck a fish out of a lake. He is holding the American flag in his hands by the pole. 

"Nobody said it was gonna be easy, but it sure will be fun."

Joe hits the ground and instantly throws the American flag and pole through three men – impaling them against a tree. As they die, they each give a thumbs up as the American Flag waves in them. 

Joe ducks behind a barrel and peers around it. He sees a man walking with a donkey dragging a cart and a store where a few men and women are standing out front talking.

"Taking a break, huh guys? Well, you're about to get Joe Horsepower-ed... that's killed!"

Joe jumps out from behind the barrel. He runs toward the man with the donkey cart and kicks him in the chest.

"Don't bother getting up. That was a Horsepower kick. Your insides are mush."

Joe takes a grenade off of his belt, pulls the pin, puts it inside the donkey’s mouth and picks him up.

"EEEE AHHHH! EEEE AHHHH!"

"You're about to be Mule-tilated!"

Joe throws the mule towards the men and women in front of the store.

"EEEE AHHHHHHHHH!" BOOM! The people are thrown about. Just then, Joe's General comes running out of the store with his gun drawn.

"Jesus Christ! What the hell is going on out here?! Joe! JOE! What the hell are you doing?"

"Sir, what am I doing? I'm spreading freedom across this war torn land."

"You dumb son of a bitch! This is neutral land! There's no fighting going on here! You just killed innocent people! Couldn't you tell – by the fact that nobody had a gun? Or that a damn donkey was in the middle of the road instead of a jeep or artillery truck?!"

"...Sir, with all due respect, I thought the donkey was a jeep. A jeep – with an elaborate donkey cover."

"GOD DAMMIT IT. JOE! THAT'S IT! You are out of here! You are discharged! Dis-honorably discharged! DIS-HONORABLY, DIS-HONORABLY DISCHARGED!"

"...Is that the most dis-honorable way to discharge?"

"YES! God damn it, yes! I'm making sure you go to anger management as well before you are let back on the American taxpayer! Get on that helicopter!"

A helicopter lands behind Joe. He turns around and walks towards the helicopter. As he gets on, he turns to look at his General. The General is saluting with his middle finger.

"All right, everyone. Welcome to Anger Management."

Joe is sitting in a semi-circle of chairs. There is a table with a coffee maker and muffins against the wall. Around Joe are other soldiers. The anger management coach sits in front of them.

"Now, you are all here because you cannot control your anger. Let's go around the room and share the incident that got you here. Colonel Smith?"

"...All right. I was doing my laundry and a dryer ate my sock. That sock... that beloved sock... was one half of a pair my daughter made for me in her sewing class. They never fit right and they were purple, but that's not the point. I loved that sock!"

"I understand. And what did you do?"

"I rigged the dryer with C-4 and I blew it up! How was I to know that it was enough C-4 to take out an entire floor? Huh?! HOW WAS I TO KNOW!"

"Shhh. Breathe, Colonel Smith. Count backwards from one million, six hundred and forty seven thousand, three hundred and forty one."

"ONE MILLION, SIX HUNDRED AND FORTY SEVEN THOUSAND, THREE HUNDRED AND FORTY ONE! One million, six hundred and forty seven thousand, three hundred and forty. One million, six hun..."

"Joe Horsepower, would you like to share?"

Joe looks up from his hands. He has "freedom" and "Chevy" tattooed on his palms.

"Yeah, I'll tell you. I'm here because I love my country too much. I'm here because I love eagles, baseball, and monster trucks! I'm here because other countries are WRONG!"

Joe stands up, pumping his fist in the air.

"...I see. Are you also here because you threw a pilot out of a helicopter, blew up a school for blind children, impaled three men with a flagpole, dropkicked another man turning his insides to pudding, and force fed a donkey a grenade before throwing it at a group of civilians?"

Joe lowers his arm.

"...No contest."