[sic]

You ever read something someone posted and think, “I’ve seen this person fumble their theres and misspell child words. Now they’ve suddenly developed the capacity to use semi-colons and words way outside their lexicon.” Something is rotten in the state of Denmark, and we all know what it is. Chat gpt: the death of authenticity.  

In a world obsessed with image, this kickstand can offer the content you’re too lazy to create.  Why spend the time writing and using your brain, when mommy’s little helper can do the heavy lifting?  Got a sixth grade reading level? Use chat. Don’t know the difference between a possessive pronoun and a contraction? Use chat.  Want to impress people with your execution of the word ostentatious? Use chat.  

That said, this nexus of information and organization is a wonderful tool.  You can farm out the mundane and save yourself from mental hand shoveling.  Life is busy. having a tedious task titan at our employ opens brain space for more pressing matters like doomscrolling and the Golden Bachelor. I understand not wanting to write work emails, but letting Chat speak for you is a slippery slope.  

Style is everything in the world of self promotion, whether on social media or at work. If you want to set yourself apart from thousands of others doing the same thing, allowing AI to speak for you is cheap talk. It’s easy to spot, and it’s always a terrible look.  It’s like seeing a guy in a $2000 suit  wearing hoop earrings.  Don’t be that guy. 

As we stand at this AI vista, who knows how creativity and style will evolve. Maybe they’ll go the same way as cursive handwriting and the Dewey decimal system.  Maybe I’m wrong, and AI will learn how to not sound like itself.  Then no one will be the wiser!

Your “authenticity” depends on your ability to prompt better. Until that happens, we’ll all be saying the same thing when you serve up your latest shitpost content — Chat totally wrote that. 

We all want to look good naked. I want my wife to forever think I’m hot. Eons ago, I believe we all looked good naked. If you sit and think about it, no one probably even knew what it meant to be unfit. Back in the days of chasing your food down, your next meal depended on your ability to hunt, fish, and kill. All that running around left zero time for being sedentary.

So how did we go from lean and mean to riding electric carts through the Doritos aisle at Walmart? We traded the loincloth for clothes to cover the beer gut and the front butt. You know what I’m talking about—waddling through life in sweatpants and Crocs. If I couldn’t bend down to tie my shoes, I’d wear them too.

Modern convenience made us lay down our bow and arrow for the refrigerator and microwave. Lean cuts of meat and fish have been replaced with pizza rolls, Hot Pockets, and my personal favorite—chicken nuggets. Delicious, sure, but these little morsels of malevolence will have you moving the wrong way on your belt holes. And it’s always easier to loosen than tighten.

I’m not saying everyone needs a six-pack. But being strong, lean, and able to see your genitals when you look down is primal. Life isn’t easy, the economy’s not helping, and most of us will be working ‘til we’re 80—if we live that long.

The solution is simple: quit stuffing your pie hole and move your body. Calories in versus calories out. But how you move matters. With the internet, a thousand “experts” are screaming for your attention, and picking the wrong one can cost you years chasing results that never come.

Enter the influencers—the Old Country Buffet of fitness. Plenty of options, but nothing really tastes good. (You can only eat so much chocolate mousse and chicken nuggets.) Everyone’s selling a different flavor of snake oil. One day it’s cold plunges, the next it’s nasal strips. If I see a meathead wearing one on a podcast, I’m out. Most of these guys are juiced to the gills, attributing their godlike physiques to breathing hacks and overpriced supplements—conveniently leaving out their PED protocol.

Then there are the lesser influencers—the parrots. They recycle half-baked advice expecting you to enjoy their two-day-old cold pizza of content. And don’t get me started on CrossFit, with their steroid-backed mutants preaching “functional fitness” while definitely not on steroids. 

Real fitness doesn’t need a gimmick. It’s not supplements, crash diets, or flexing in front of a rented Lamborghini. Real fitness happens when consistency meets the squat rack and good old-fashioned iron. It’s built through progressive overload when nobody’s watching.

There’s no filter for discipline, no shortcut for time under tension. You can’t swipe your way to strength—you earn it one rep at a time. You want results? Get off your ass, pick up something heavy, and put it back down. Keep doing that until the mirror finally shows you what you want to see. 

I went to a concert this weekend with my wife. We traipsed around Chicago, running the clock out until the show started—dinner, champagne, more champagne, then an Uber to the venue. I’m thankful we can go to shows again. Remember Covid?

Our Uber driver dropped us at Thalia Hall, a Romanesque expanse with arched vaults, soaring ceilings, and old-world grandeur that all draw your gaze toward the stage. I could see the plays, concerts, and speakers of the last century layered in that space. The craftsmanship and passion stand in stark contrast to today’s homogenized modernism. All those Modelos had me in my feels—then had me crossing my legs. Time to find a bathroom.

I step into the vestibule. There it is. But wait—there’s a man and a woman heading into the same restroom. Oh yeah, Chicago: gender-neutral bathrooms. I thought about looking for a men’s-only option, but my bladder had other plans.

I pushed the door open and was greeted by the familiar stench of concert-hall plumbing: piss and beer. This is no place for a lady. The powder room has been traded for an industrial wash closet. I half-expected a mud sink in the corner. Urinals stood behind saloon-style swinging doors for men and women with penises, while a row of stalls handled the rest. Normally, the thought of women washing their hands just a few feet away might have given me stage fright, but four tallboys stretching my bladder left no room for modesty.

Back through the swinging doors, I washed up at a communal trough sink. Efficient, sure, but disappointing—no counter space for women, or women with penises, to set their accoutrements for primping. Maybe that’s the tradeoff: the ideal of vanity for the ideal of living your truth.

Which circles me back to Covid. Is this the new normal? I hated masks and government overreach then, and I don’t want to be a hypocrite now by soapboxing this dead horse. But reciting the Pledge of Allegiance with my toddler last night made me think: “liberty and justice for all.” Liberty for some, sure—but for women and their delicate beauty, this feels like an injustice.

My solution? Three bathrooms: Men Only, Women Only, and The Personal Victory Room. Everybody wins.