I Find Your Lack of Faith Disturbing

He's fat, slovenly, updates once in a blue moon, and probably detests you personally, but you should probably check out this blog. He's a Hollywood writer, and passages like this make my day every once in a while:

"It was crazy there for a little bit, what with the all the snakes and planes and depalma and tyra and cancer and killer cyborgs and the apocalypse and that one monster spammer and the fever dreams of anonymous that I should be better at what I do, more of what I was, less of who I am.

It was the rise and fall of the Infinite Monkey, loosed from his cage but unmoored from his tethers, a breakaway pop-culture Rose Bowl float cobbled together from poisoned burritos, free sushi, diet coke and used wax icarus wings bought on Ebay Right Now! for $129.99.

(From his unsteady vantagepoint the Monkey sees one writer's strike crushed without mercy but a labor tsunami at Fairfax and Third poised to swamp this town and drown its inhabitants as they cling hopelessly to the small pieces of scrap and wood that we sometimes call DVD residuals.)"

Because sometimes the world needs less order, not more.