The Real Memphis Mike (don't settle for imitations)

It started as a harmless prank. A viral trend. Easy to do. Easy to laugh about. Someone taking a photo - you slip into the background. Make a face. Throw up a peace sign. Pretend to trip. No harm, no foul. Most people laughed. Some didn’t. But that's the thing about the internet - you never really know who's watching. And someone is always watching. Jared didn’t think much about it. He was just a kid having fun. --- Saturdays down in the Market District were prime photo bomb days. Everyone and their sister were there - picking up produce, browsing specialty shops, wandering between street vendors, or eating fried cat-on-a-stick. The locals understood. Tourists never did. Which made it perfect. Families posed in front of colorful produce stands. Couples snapped selfies outside bakeries. Kids stood with oversized lemonades and greasy paper trays of things nobody could quite identify. Photos of buskers. Street performers. And somewhere in the background, there was Jared. Shorter ...

 I woke up this morning, made coffee, and before I even got a sip in, I was already being informed that something - somewhere - was unacceptable. No context. No details. Just the digital equivalent of a stranger bursting into your kitchen yelling: “THIS IS NOT OK.” What is it? Nobody knows. But we’re furious. Because in 2026, outrage isn’t a reaction - it’s a hobby. People don’t wake up wondering what they’re going to do anymore. They wake up wondering what they’re going to be mad about. “Give us this day our daily grievance.” And when they find it - and they always do - they gather. Not to understand. Not to fix. To perform. You’ve got the Outraged. The Counter-Outraged. The Late Arrivals, somehow the angriest of all. And of course, PatriotEagle420, who hasn’t read a full sentence since 2008 but is absolutely certain this is tyranny. Meanwhile, the one poor bastard asking, “Wait… what actually happened?” gets treated like he just farted in church. Now here’s the part nobody wants ...

I can't personally verify the truth of this story. A friend told it, and I felt it was comic gold, given a few minor tweaks. I also have to question my friend's taste in pizza. Sir Pizza is a chain joint out of Indiana. That said, Indiana is home to some of the worst excuses for pizza I have ever encountered. Living in the greater Pittsburgh area, my friend and I are not lost for choices when it comes to pizza. Not sure where to go? Ask. - MM I have been eating Sir Pizza for roughly three decades, which is longer than some marriages and at least one of my cholesterol medications. I don’t just order it - I commit to it. I drive out of my way. I plan evenings around it. If Sir Pizza had a loyalty punch card, I’d be entitled to partial ownership by now. Today, however, I made a grave and unforgivable error. I ordered from the wrong location. Not the wrong pizza, mind you. Not anchovies instead of pepperoni. No, I ordered the correct pizza from the incorrect geographic coordinate, ...

 Simmer down...this is more for me than anyone else. I'm chuckling like a goon here. - MM I’m now 60. This is not a drill. I was today years old when I realized the English language did not survive the internet. It was not murdered - it was slowly, painfully algorithmed to death. Not me witnessing the full collapse of vocabulary in real time... Unpopular opinion: If you know, you know...and I wish I didn’t. I did a thing. Yeah. You avoided a verb. Congratulations on your brave journey. Living your best life? Most of you are eating cold pizza in sweatpants at 2am arguing with something named “Kyle (Patriot Mode).” Be aware. Proceed with caution. Yinz ain't ready for that conversation - mostly because it requires complete sentences. And I oop - In my era (go ahead, dock my aura points, I’ve got plenty), we didn’t say “adulting.” We just suffered quietly and developed personality disorders like God intended. Thank you for coming to my TED Talk. (No one asked for. No one needed. Y...

 If you've been following along on the home version, you know I've started a new book. While still fiction, it's a departure from what you may be accustomed to from me. Allow me to set the scene: 2 middle aged American musicians, in Hokkaido. If you've ever experienced jet lag and a hangover, you might be able to appreciate this excerpt. - MM Vince really wasn't prepared for his first night sleeping on a tatami mat. In his mind, it was little more than a lumpy futon mattress on an old pallet. He also wasn't ready for Daniel's snoring, which sounded like a congested heifer. Between the lack of comfort, the noise, the booze, and the jet lag - he didn't sleep well at all. And he got so little of it. After a few hours, he gave up. He got dressed, found a pen and left a note.  Couldn't sleep. Went for a walk. Back later. - V  He left the note in the bathroom. He figured one of them would find it.  Hiroshi's neighborhood looked different in the early m...

Marilyn wasn’t her real name.  It was the name she used. The one people remembered. Like her idol, Marilyn Monroe, she understood that names mattered. People remembered her. Not for what she had once hoped to become, but for what she had become instead. She was known to the police. To psychiatrists. To probation officers, pimps, and pushers. She moved through the system the way some people moved through neighborhoods - familiar, practiced, expected. By the time she arrived, her reputation had already gotten there first. --- The night manager read her file before ever meeting her. It was thick in all the wrong ways - incident reports, evaluations, arrests. Schizophrenia was stamped across the top, the diagnosis of convenience. But the details underneath told a different story. Long-term drug abuse. Manipulation. Violence when necessary. Charm when useful. Nothing suggested confusion. Everything suggested control. There were rarely empty beds. When one opened, it filled quickly - usu...