Accidentally Pulling My Bootstraps – Post Meritocracy?

In a telephone interview for a technical role I was asked “What do you think of Open Source Software?” Without missing a beat I responded with “I’m an Open Source Nut!”

I love Open Source software. I’ve been dabbling with software development since my mid-teens; Y’know a little Visual BASIC, Borland Delphi,  Macromedia Flash, BYOND? Even a teensy bit of C in the IDE Bloodshed Dev-C++.

But then in my early twenties I wandered off in to the wilderness for a while… stopped working in the shitty supermarket I was at, and partied rather frequently.

After a couple of years of this I was knackered, so to wean myself off the high life I needed a hobby. Sat in the corner of a room, at my parent’s house where I lived at the time, by the back door, where it had always been was my computer.

I was broke! Had nothing left really, but this low spec machine… Games weren’t an option. They cost money and the computer was too naff for it anyway! I’d already installed Ubuntu for some reason (psilocybin is one hell of a drug!) and deciding I wanted to pick up from where I left off I resolved to finally learn SDL and make a “real” game.

The project, a point ‘n’ click adventure game/engine, never saw the light of day, but by developing that and with some forced distro hopping when upgrades didn’t go to plan, I was tangentially learning some useful shit about Linux/Unix-like operating systems, development, revision control, compilers, libraries, command line utils, etc. This is what I did through the day, at night I’d got a job working in a warehouse. Building cardboard sales displays… I was terrible at it!

Now, also since my mid-teens I’d had this long distance relationship with a squeaky nutcase in the adjacent country. I was getting sick of the distance, and living at my parents (by this point I was 25) and I really wanted to move on. I hopped on a job site and started looking for “linux jobs” – pie in the sky kinda stuff! One came up that surprised me, in the town where my lady-wench was from was a job for a Trainee Developer and they were asking for people with any experience, the word “home” was even in the job description.

I distinctly remember telling my other half, “I feel different about this one, this one is **my** job!”

So I applied for it, and then promptly received a test… Oooh! It was to debug a function in the most retarded looking code I’ve ever seen. It was in Perl. I’d heard of that, its creator Larry Wall was enigmatic, cool and had given his swiss army chainsaw away for free!

I was excited but the code was a ball-ache to read. I pored over it for ages, I Googled free tutorials. In the end I rewrote it, rather than just fix the bugs, but I must’ve missed the point and didn’t hear anything back.

So life went on and I was holding out for a job at the tax office, a big recruitment intake was coming up. There was some sort of online test to get it, but the pass grade was stupidly high and I didn’t get it. Man I was pissed off, it brought up a load of bad feelings. There was that one I was sure was my job… The Trainee Developer, so glum and pissed off I decided to chase it up – here is the email I sent. Behold its arse-y tone!

Hello, my name’s Myke and I applied for the role TRAINEE DEVELOPER on 1st August 2012, whereupon you sent me your Perl test which I responded to promptly on the 3rd August 2012.

I waited for a week or so, and sent another email to ascertain whether or not you had received my response. I have not received anything back.

The reason why I am writing to you today is to request feedback on my application, for if a role arises within your company I would love to apply for it and would like to stand myself in better stead of doing so.

Thank you for your time

This stirred some motion and the Director of Development followed up and asked me to look at the Perl test again. I did, got ignored again, chased it up again. Then it happened… I was in my pyjama shorts and a hoodie in my parents living room… I received the 18 words that have made me the happiest I have ever been in my life.

I did get it, yes.

We’d like to interview you. [REDACTED], can you organise an interview with Myke.

That was it! In my head I had it in the bag. I could prove I was capable of learning this shit! I had half a point n’ click adventure game working in C!

And you know what? I did…

Quite the lengthy preface, but this Post Meritocracy stuff that’s flying around in the wake of Linus Torvalds stepping down from the kernel kind of bums me out.

Free/Open Source software (FOSS) always provided me with a means to an end. I’d been given all these skills and tools for free! Things that empowered me in the job market! More than any of the horrendous shit the state would make me do for my dole. The sense of community was that “we put it out there, and anybody can pick it up – from any walk of life”

It’s all out there and if you have the inclination and even the smallest modicum of computing power you can start acquiring skills to be useful in this space, you’ve just gotta be in to it, and like it. You can make things that have utility, that’s the joy, and you can duck out there.

Meritocracy is a great equaliser! Someone like me with no money, no degree, no prospects, a burnt out little druggie still living with his parents, could accidentally pull himself up by his bootstraps. Just doing what he loved… picking the fruits of other people’s labour and running with them.

It doesn’t matter who wrote Linux, GNU Core Utils, GCC, glibc, SDL, etc. – as well as the reams of tutorials I read/watched and StackOverflow answers. They were correct and empowered me to do more than just make a silly little game with my long distance girlfriend.

It now pays my mortgage.

My salary has tripled in 6 years. (I have moved on to another employer though…)

Co-opting someone else’s brilliance by complaining they’re not diverse enough is shamefully inserting yourself somewhere you have no ability to work.

If you want to contribute to a project and you think they’re odious – you can simply fork it and move on. Alls you have to do is spend the time figuring it out, have actual passion.

If you wanted more diversity in the world of FOSS a better way would be to take these resources that are all readily available in the wild and put them in a format where these less privileged folk can digest them.

All it takes is a little tenacity on your end, and a nice person to take a risk…

I love you guys.

If Predators Wanted To Give Themselves Autism, Why Don’t They Just Get Vaccinated?

Double-posted at

Whew lad, I just saw “The Predator” and I’ve got some thoughts. We’ll do the good news first, so let me start by listing the things about the Predator franchise that I like. Other than the cool monster design and the classic 80s action tropes, one of the appeals about Predator is, in a sense, that it is a power fantasy. The men and women who have squared off against the Predators in the past have all been stone-cold killers, apex hunters, the most dangerous people on the planet. Watching them struggle against a superior foe and emerge victorious is both rewarding and engaging. Continue reading “If Predators Wanted To Give Themselves Autism, Why Don’t They Just Get Vaccinated?”

Roofies and How They Are

There are few things worse than a woman’s token tagalong. Don’t get me wrong, taking a friend out is in no way offensive in and of itself. However, when her friend has the emotional fortitude of Eeyore and derives her personality solely from the bad hand she’s been dealt in life, it’s time to find a hot coworker to take along instead.

“Letting loose” is a phrase these tagalongs heard maybe once in passing during high school, having overheard the running back peer-pressure the head cheerleader into performing her titular role. In fact it’s a phrase they not only haven’t lived but refuse to let themselves live. In a vacuum this person would have no impact on anyone outside of their immediate family, but rest assured they’ll pull every string on the marionette to guarantee whoever they’ve glommed onto doesn’t have the chance to live the life they’ve never even considered living.

True, you can engage them both in conversation. You can ask both of them questions you really only intend on being answered by one. Done right, this does a lot to impress the person you’re interested in. Come the end of the night though, her harpy tagalong is going to talk her friend into leaving just the two of them due to the her raging penchant for girl dates. When in the company of a woman and her tagalong, separation is key.

Wingmanning is a true art, one of the finest objective arts left in this world of monocolor paintings and shit-stained canvases. When women aren’t out making a mockery of public decency, they’re inside galleries hocking their craft as the pinnacle of enlightenment. And they ain’t foolin’ me. Enlightenment art was a strict exploration of man’s ability to fuck with nature. When I say “man’s”, I actually mean “men’s”. I don’t believe I’m wrong in saying that women were not the forefathers of leeching and bloodletting or of operating theaters and astronomical observatories.

True art arises from festering undiscovered talent and is wielded almost exclusively, at least initially, by the modest. Wingmen embody this fully. They understand by nature that separation breeds success. This is not an innate assumption held among a social species and is reserved only for those truly selfless in their actions. A wingman is a hype-man by definition, sure, but so much more.

When a man’s interest has a parasite cling-on, a wingman knows that mere distraction is insufficient. They understand that their sacred duty is to pacify. I’ve seen men shoot well above their weight, rather well below, by sheer allowance of a kind bystander pacifying the attention of a tagalong. This kindness is typically a thankless endeavor among strangers.

This kindness is one I myself have tried and failed to perform on many such occasions, one I’ll openly relay here.

After a long day of shaking off the remnants of the night before, I found myself at a bar designed from antiquity in a recently gentrified part of Dallas. Two Lone Star Bois and I were staring down the barrel of numerous rounds: primarily Maker’s and diet.

After much banter and cheer, a pair walked in and sat nearby. A short Jewy girl and her friend, an uptight woman visually older than the first and blonde in everything but carefree spirit. One of my boys had immediately hit it off with the dark haired girl. It was then I made my first mistake. Instead of hyping my man up, as I’m wont to do, I drunkenly decided to try my hand as a proper wingman.

The two women sat between us, the blonde closest me.

“Hey, what you drinkin’?” Small talk. For what it lacked in chutzpah, it seemed to me a sure bet.

“I hate your glasses,” she retorted in a revealing non sequitur. I recoiled.

“That’s fine but what are you drinking? You’re at a bar, you’ve gotta be here to have fun, right?” In my assuredness, I’d never been more wrong. I can’t remember the exact details of our exchange but I’m sure she responded with all the cold and bitter resolve of a traditional Irish banshee.

Genuinely taken aback by her unwillingness to let go, I took a swig of my Maker’s and diet and offered her some. Fresh off my lips, tainted only by whiskey breath, she declined.

“If I drink, it’s gonna come straight from the bartender and it won’t leave my sight. You could slip something in there.”

Fuck. Was she being coy? I chugged down the rest of my glass and brewed on the escalation that had just taken place. Our brief conversation had crested and any notion of successfully serving as a wingman took a dive off the precipice of an already tenuous conversation. Free of my bounds, I plummeted with as much tact and grace as a man could. She was a lame ass and I wanted to put that fact on display.

“I mean I wouldn’t and I didn’t, but I hear you. Have you ever actually been roofied?” To me, this as a decent chance to bring attention to her outstanding ability to be a massive buzzkill at all times. Statistically, this should have worked.

After a moment’s pause, she responded indignantly “yes, actually, I have.”

Without missing a beat, having chose to dispose of all etiquette, I asked sharply, “oh yeah? How was it?”

To that, a look of disgust and a conversation buried deep into a place of no return. Not only was she a lame ass, she was a definition tagalong. She was not there to have fun with anyone but her friend, a friend who was happily engaging my boy in the meanwhile.

Pleased with myself but ego deflated, I resolved to continue drinking.

Personal responsibility and safety aside, my inability to wingman and pacify a stranger aside, this was probably the worst trainwreck of a conversation I’d ever had. And it got me thinking… Who the hell turns down free drugs?

If I had drugs on me at the time and I wanted to share, I wouldn’t bother drugging some lame ass. I’d be sharing those drugs with someone who appreciated them because getting off is easy but getting off and both parties forgetting everything because you were so fucked up is special. The prey mindset this blonde had is a mystery to me just as much as the sexual predator’s. Equally on both sides with no deviation, a waste of a good time.

Besides, drugs are expensive. What am I, made of money? I bet they cost Cosby a pretty penny, he couldn’t even afford a decent lawyer by the end of it. If I spend money on something, you best be sure I’m partaking in it too.

Unfortunately I never did get an answer about the roofies. If you’ve ever been roofied please let me know, how are they?


Hi helo


I am that one guy who pissed away a ton of money on drinks at RR Dallas.

I make mead and mead accessories


I have over 3 years front end, security testing, and programming experience. As a result, I may volunteer time and time again to help code the site accordingly.

Strengths are:

  • HTML / Css
  • Java
  • JavaScript
  • AngularJS and Angular4
  • C / C#
  • SQL
  • BurpSuite
  • Inspect Element 😉
  • BEEf framework
  • Python
  • Etc.

I also will be hosting group phone calls with my Dad who used to work in Hollywood, on many B-movie Horror films. Some of his works include: Friday the 13th part VII, Nightmare on Elm St, Hell Raiser, Chopping Mall, and so much more. These calls are for the namely the resident horror fans and local Kiwi.

PS. Please send bob and vagene pls. Do the needful and send.

Acid Blow Job

Years ago while in college, I met this hot little red head. Before you ask, the cans situation was a B cup but she had a booty that you just wanted to grab with two hands. She had a guy who had a line on some LSD and offered to let me try it. I had never had it before but wanted to see what the deal was. Being a scientist (not the plug your pee-hole to experiment with back-pressure type), I was curious because I could not wrap my mind around the idea of hearing colors and seeing sounds. So I decided that the only way I’d ever know is to do it for myself.

I ended up at this girl’s place. She brought out the acid and gave me two hits. She explained that there would be a delay before I felt anything. So to pass the time, we began making out. Sitting on her bed, I started feeling her up and things began to get heavier. She whispered that she gave the best head in the world, nothing but five star ratings.

I told her to prove it. If there’s anything I hate, it’s unearned reputations. She started messing with my button and zipper, drawing it out and teasing me but stopped. “You know what would be really cool? If you took six more hits of acid, and then I blow you.”

With a raging hard-on and the promise of the best BJ in the universe, I readily agreed. I dropped six more hits for a total of eight. She went down on me and it was impressive but I’ve had better since. I stood up and composed myself when the acid hit me and things started getting weird.

The visuals were strange and hard to describe. The reflective gleam from a dented stainless steel trash can started sliding around the room, completely leaving the trash can behind. Upon leaving her bedroom, I staggered into the living room. I stared at her Christmas tree and marveled at the lights rapidly blinking on and off before she asked me what I’m doing. I told her “I’m enjoying the Christmas lights”. Then she pointed out that it wasn’t even plugged in.

Her mom walked in surprising us, especially me because I wasn’t even aware she lived with her mother. The mom said “It’s 2AM and this guy needs to leave”. I was unceremoniously kicked out but the girl was apologetic. By her estimates, I had four hours left in my trip. I decided to drive to a friend’s place about 10 minutes away.

I pulled in to his trailer park and found his double-wide. Banging on the door and yelling for him to let me in, my trip started to turn bad. Surrounded by darkness and thick pines that blocked out the moon, I started to worry that there were things out there, attracted by my screaming and pounding. He never answered. Little did I know, he had moved to a new place a few days earlier.

Realizing I had work as a grocery stocker in the morning, I resolved myself to drive 40 minutes home (wildly irresponsible, I know) and try to get some sleep. I do not remember the drive and have no idea how I made it home. Falling into my bed, I couldn’t sleep. My mind was racing. I was still hallucinating and extremely paranoid. My bedroom door flew open and William Wallace (looking a lot like Mel Gibson) walked in with a flail and threatened to kill me. I screamed and pulled the covers over my head. I told myself that it wasn’t real and that I was still tripping but when I peeked out, a dragon waited for me. An actual fire breathing dragon guarded the door to my bathroom.

I never did fall asleep but eventually, the hallucinations tapered off and I just felt tired. I went in to work feeling absolutely miserable and started stocking shelves. On the paper goods aisle, I noticed that a three foot tall box that held the bulk rolls of toilet paper had fallen into the middle of the floor. As I approached it, the box suddenly sprouted sneaker-clad feet and started running towards me. I lost it and ran in the opposite direction. Reminding myself that I had done a heroic amount of acid, I stopped and confronted the hallucination. Then a child ran out from under the box giggling. It had just been a kid playing with a giant empty box. I decided to spend most of my shift locked in a bathroom stall trying to get my head straight.

A few days later, the girl hit me up again promising more acid and more BJs. The second BJ was not as good. Maybe it had to do with the lack of acid.

hi helo

hi helo

You might know me as the guy with all the baby teeth still in his mouth or that guy who yells hi helo a lot. I’m one of those things, but, most importantly, I am not Jewish.

Now I know you’re gonna say “George why the frick (I know you don’t cuss) would you even write about this? Everyone already knows you’re not Jewish and that you’ll be a part of the utopian white ethnostate once we finally suppress CNN and other Jew run media organizations. Ever since Nixon told us there was a Jewish Cabal controlling all aspects of industry in efforts to undermine western values and promote an emasculated pro-Zionist virtue signalling faggot culture, we’ve been super aware that we should think long and hard before we just go calling a tall dude with all his baby teeth still in his mouth, Jewish. He could get really offended by that and, even though one of the Lonestar Boys is Jewish, and you’re just fraternizing with him as a contingency plan in case the Jewish agenda is fulfilled, we know know that you’re not Jewish. Even if you happen to look more Jewish than Maxwell, and happen to like bagels a lot and happen to pick up pennies in parking lots, you couldn’t be a Jew and we will totally include you in our new nation, free of cool wine aunts and full of goth chicks.” And to that I say: I know. Thanks.


I Am a Mead, and So Can You

What is a Mead?

Mead is some good shit faggot. Essentially, it is fermented honey and water. It’s ABV can be pretty fucking high, to the point you can get properly drunk off of it.

Sounds Gay

It’s not as gay as it sounds. Mead is actually one of the oldest fermented alcoholic drinks in history. Some records date mead to around the time of Germanic Europe and even parts of Early Middle East. Famously, it was the drink of choice for Vikings, the fags of the Classical era.

Magic the Meadening

Mead used to be viewed as a magical drink that connected oneself with the spirits of their ancestors and bestowed magical powers. This was a result of some dumb fucks who used to brew the drink out in the open. The fucking retards never covered the receptacle that contained the must (honey and water mixture), so wild bacteria and yeast went into the mixture and helped it ferment. There is also the myth of the magic stick. During these times, a stick was used to stir the mixture in order to mix the honey and water properly. This was done every now and then, but what they didn’t know was that they were actually making the mead stronger. The dumb fucks of the time attributed the stick as magical and contained the spirits of the ancestors that stirred the mead before. In reality, these dumbasses were actually using a stick full of wild yeast that was never cleaned. So as they stirred, more yeast was added, therefore it fermented way better and yielded stronger drink.

The Shit is too Sweet

Mead comes in two varieties, dry and sweet. Its honestly easy to make either mead. A dry mead has an equal amount of honey and water, to which it is very minutely sweet, rather it is more so dry in taste and hits you like a nice champagne or some other gay ass drink. Sweet mead is a result of way too much honey and not enough water. If done properly, this could potentially yield way higher ABV, even reaching 20% or more! However, if you do produce sweet mead, do take note that the sweetness can put people off.

How Can I Try Some?

Mead has certainly fallen out of popularity due to it being sweet and made out of honey. Liberals and women ruined honey for everyone, so its usually associated with feminine shit such as Burt’s Bees and sweet candy, etc. However, this does not mean it is not available in liquor stores. Most liquor stores, or otherwise known as the grocery store for Irish and Scottish people, have mead selections. These selections are all the way in the back or in the corner you usually gloss over while you’re looking for another IPA that tastes like shit. The meadson the shelf are fine, you should try one. However, if you want to be a real man, you fucking wait and commission for some mead to be done by me, motherfucker. I aim to produce the hardest shit, no frills, no gay shit, but something you can drink without feeling like you voted for Hilary or developing another cavity.

Conclusion and Upcoming Shit

Overall, mead is some good shit. It will get you drunk and you will feel like a real man doing it. It can be made correctly and with other shit to which you can transform the flavor such as oak chips and bourbon. Making mead is also very easy. On average, it takes an hour or two to make the first batch of mead, and after that you set it to ferment then rack it and bottle it over the course of several months. There really is no wrong way. Except the way you are thinking.

I will be making new batches of mead in the near future because it is my alternative to smoking 3 packs a day and social anxiety in a new city. I will post an article of how to make mead, as well as possibly recipes and what i did for new batches. Additionally, I will bring a couple bottles to the next Lone Star Bois™ Meetup,  one of the first original mead, and the other being a special recipe that should be good. By the way, if you have any idea for mead or want me to make some recipes, feel free to share it with me. If you are really invested, help commission, fucking help me afford honey. Honey is fucking expensive at times (a gallon ranging from $59+).

Anyways, this is about mead. Go fuck yourselves.


Forged in the Texas humidity, one fateful weekend in Dallas, the Lone Star Bois are come!

Who are we? This is our backstory, written by our boy Erik

We’re a bunch of Dickheads, who went to Road Rage Dallas and bonded so damn hard over the rampant debauchery that we didn’t want the party to stop.

Since crawling back hungover to our insipid corners of the world we’ve resolved to make it happen again. With or without the podcast that brought us together!

What’s this place? It’s a home for our collective ramblings and rants; Somewhere for our verbal defecate to fester.

It soon became apparent that many in our midst fancy themselves writers – so as a set of self congratulating, verbose motherfuckers firing up a blog seemed to be the only natural progression.

Where are we going? We wanna start a cult, buy a missile silo and die in a shootout versus the ATF. Or alternatively party some more… either, we’re easy bb. 😉