How Meditating Each Day Helped Me Forget About My Toxic Behavior

Before I started practicing meditation, the stresses of the world got to me. The global pandemic, crippling inflation, and of course the repercussions of my toxic behavior all weighed heavily on me.

Since I’ve been ‘balancing my chi’ on the reg, I’m a whole new person. I’ve been able to disregard the fears associated with a fake disease, I stopped caring about a conflict that doesn’t affect me, I only pay for what I don’t shoplift.

Most importantly I just don’t give a rat’s ass anymore that some co-workers, family members, and every person I’ve ever dated find my personality poisonous. That’s their journey, mine is exploiting them.

Thank you meditation!

I’ve always heard that mindfulness is great for your mental well-being, but I truly underestimated how much benefit it could actually have. Before Deepak Chopra took me on his ‘Soul of Healing’ journey I used to wonder why all my colleagues got quiet when I entered the room, and what HR meant by “a documented pattern of intimidation, manipulation, and general toxicity.”

When they ordered me to take a stress management seminar I was outraged, and vowed to hatch a plan that would get everyone in HR fired. Turns out it was a blessing in disguise, and thanks to the mental clarity meditation has given me, my plan to get everyone in HR fired is not only ahead of schedule, but I’m also brainstorming ways to go after their families.

All my troubles vanished after I dedicated myself to my mind, body, and spirit. I was able to quiet the voice in my head saying that I’m a problematic piece of shit that needs to atone for his behavior or he’s gonna lose his job and die alone. Nobody needs that.

Meditation has also been a Godsend in my personal life. I used to worry that acting like an asshole to family, friends, and neighbors was the reason I’d sit alone in the garage drinking, while everyone avoided me like I was some kind of monster. Now, I’m drinking alone in the garage cultivating mindfulness.

Since I’ve gained a better understanding of my true inner essence, I’ve been able to take those ugly feelings about myself and just ignore them, because I am just as nature, in all its wonderful divinity, intended — a perfect being. And if Gary next door doesn’t like the way I make kissing sounds at his wife when she jogs by, that’s his problem.

Now get the fuck out of my office, you’re cutting into my daily loving-kindness breathing affirmations!

Ska Band Suddenly Realizes No One Forcing Them to Dress Like That

FORT MYERS, Fla. — Members of the ska group Ship Shank Shunk came to the startling realization that they were under no obligation to dress in the typical fashion as they have for decades, relieved loved ones reported.

“Last weekend, I reached into my closet and accidentally grabbed a plain, black t-shirt in my proper size of medium,” recalled trombonist Clark Thanovitch, whose baggy bowling shirt collection is reviled by many in the Fort Myers community. “I put it on and it looked good–like, real good. Why have I been wearing XXL striped work shirts? They made me look like a substitute teacher with a drinking problem. Then I realized I could dress in normal clothes that fit. My bandmates were stunned too. We have donated over 20 goofy hats and unnecessary suit vests to Goodwill.”

Fans of Ship Shank Shunk reacted with confusion and denial at the band’s change in image.

“Ska already gets a bad rap by the rest of the world, but it feels like Ship Shank Shunk is shitting all over it from within by rejecting the sacred tenets of ska, like wearing ill-fitting fedoras and sunglasses indoors,” said a distraught Kira Langen, prominent member of the Fort Myers ska scene. “And they’re still playing the same major key, upstroke-filled happy music. I’m pretty sure it’s cultural appropriation to do that if you’re not going to dress like a pro bowler.”

Local thrift store proprietors expressed some degree of worry with this newfound cultural shift.

“Goddamnit, I’m never going to sell all these unflattering plaid pants,” exclaimed Betsy Rance, owner of Second Run Thrift Shoppe. “Those musicians were the only ones to come in and pay a pretty penny for otherwise unsellable, hideous items. Pointy black-and-white dress shoes, giant belt buckles, platform shoes with flames on the side, and the worst bowties you can possibly imagine are about to start collecting major dust around here. Fuck me.”

The future of Ship Shank Shunk is in jeopardy after the core members also started to realize that no laws require they include horn parts in their songs.

Mother Trying to Connect With Juggalo Son Buys Him Big Red Nose, Size 25 Shoes

DETROIT — Local mother Sheryl Carter purchased her 30-year-old Juggalo son a big red clown nose and a pair of cartoonishly large shoes in a desperate bid to finally connect as a family, confirmed multiple sources.

“I thought this would surely work, I mean he and his friends love all that clown stuff, but every time I try to reach out like this he just tells me I’m a dumb bitch and sprays Faygo into my face,” said Mrs. Carter. “I’ve done everything I can think of, but it all seems to further enrage him and bring on even more intense Faygo-based punishments. He kept going on and on about wanting to attend some gathering of all these clowns, so I saved up my money and blindfolded him and drove him there, he seemed really excited before I dropped him off and left, but when he finally got back from Clown College two weeks later he didn’t speak to me for months.”

Carter’s son Jonathan insists this is just another example of his parents not understanding his lifestyle.

“No matter how many times I explain, she doesn’t understand that I am only interested in insane clowns, like the ones that snort coke off of people’s asses and talk about murdering each other with hatchets, not the lame clowns that are all about useless things like sparking laughter and joy in the hearts and minds of children,” said the devoted Juggalo. “I was stoked when she told me she pulled some strings so I could meet Shaggy, but I just wound up in a room with a college kid in a Scooby Doo costume. She also got me a Cameo of the guy who sang “It Wasn’t Me” dressed as Bozo, which had to have cost her a shitload of money.”

The Insane Clown Posse themselves have spoken up about this issue, revealing some shocking information.

“Yo, we straight up love normal clowns though, they fly as fuck. Goofy ass motherfuckers always spraying people with seltzer, that’s funny as fuck,” said Shaggy 2 Dope. “The whole ‘insane clown’ kind of just got away from us, for years we have been trying to reel it back towards normal clownhood to no avail. Every time we take one gigantic shoe’d step forward, we wind up taking two unicycle rides backward.”

It has been said by neighbors that this isn’t the first time Sheryl Carter has made this type of mistake with her children, as she once purchased Emo Phillips Greatest Hits for her daughter who had initially requested a My Chemical Romance record for Christmas.

How We Tricked Kid Rock Into Saying Bawitdaba-da Bang-da-Dang-diggy-Diggy-diggy Backward To Banish Him to His Home Dimension

We have had a whole lot of wild adventures here at The Hard Times, from the time we were forced to fight against the entire Polyphonic Spree in a gladiatorial contest by a mysterious otherworld power in a kind of secret war to the time we had a Keurig machine for a while until everyone felt too guilty. However, one of our greatest adventures is undoubtedly the time we tricked the trickster imp of the St. Claire shores, Kid Rock, into saying “Bawitdaba-Da Bang-Da-Dang-Diggy-Diggy-Diggy” backward to banish him to his home dimension of Michigan.

Unfortunately, it only lasts for 90 days or the average length of one of his marriages, but we always find a way to get Mister Robert Ritchie to say “Yggidyggidyggidgnadgnabadabadtiwab” by hook or by crook.

The first thing to understand when you’re dealing with an interdimensional pest of nearly unlimited rhymes (as long as they are all about pretending to be from the South) is that his main purpose in visiting Earth is to cause mischief. Kid Rock may gain power from each and every copy of Rock n Roll Jesus sold at Walmart, but that doesn’t make him invincible. In fact, to use the parlance of the Devil without a cause himself, it makes him Cocky.

Whether Kid Rock has come to Earth to stir up trouble by unleashing an unholy combination of hip-hop and country music on the Summer Sanitarium Tour or using a mere fraction of his power to imbue angry white teenagers with unrealistic senses of freestyle ability, he can always be tricked into saying the words backward by writing them on the bottom of a Confederate and implying he does not know how to read or by claiming the words are the name of a new chain of car dealerships competing with his wealthy family’s Honda outlets.

Technically, one can also make Kid Rock say the name by sufficiently embarrassing him so he voluntarily goes back to the mysterious fifth-dimensional realm of Michigan, but good fucking luck making that guy feel embarrassed about anything.

And remember, if you ever do encounter Kid Rock in his malevolent, evolved form as a being of colossal power, just threaten to transport him to the Phantom Zone!

By which we mean the Democratic National Convention. The asshole hates that.

Drug Dealer Saved In Phone As “Ben Cocaine”

DURHAM, N.C. — Local drug hookup Benjamin Wertner is reportedly only known to clients by his first name and one of the assortments of narcotics he peddles, sources who can’t be bothered to ask how to spell a last name confirmed.

“It’s just easier this way. I know a few Bens and if I had to go around deciphering last names like some kind of name nerd I’d never have the time to snort all this fucking cocaine,” explained Ricky Glassman, a customer of Wertner for nearly five months. “And it’s not like he’s the only one I did this for. My caseworker is saved as ‘William Court on Monday,’ my landlord is ‘Gary Sink Broken,’ and even my girlfriend I have as ‘Jill Vodka Medium Boobs.’ I’m not playing favorites – it’s just my way.”

Wertner expressed displeasure at being reduced to such a superficial aspect of his life.

“I’m more than just the, ahem, products I offer. I think of the people I sell to less as customers and more as friends, so it’s so degrading that they don’t feel the same,” said Wertner while grinding up another bottle of baby aspirin. “I guess I just wish people would appreciate me for me, not because I can give them a deal with $4 off on an eight-ball. I guess I should expect this, not a single one of my customers came to my improv graduation show.”

Herbert Slanchsky, a surveillance specialist for the NSA, gave his professional perspective on personal contact methodology.

“Thank god for this idiot-proof tech industry! Those Silicon Valley eggheads have made gathering intelligence on people almost too easy. Back in the rotary phone days you basically had to listen to every second of a hundred phone calls, but now you can just quickly scroll through someone’s contacts to learn everything you need to know,” revealed Slanchsky. “It’s actually kind of sad now that I think about it. Invading people’s privacy used to be so intimate, but now it feels completely impersonal. Maybe I’ll call this Ben and buy a little ‘pick-me-up’ from him.”

At press time, Wertner had received fifteen missed calls from a number listed as ‘UNKNOWN, BUT DEFINITELY NOT THE FEDS.’

Well, It’s Been 25 Years, but I’ve Finally Decided Which Reel Big Fish Tattoo I Should Get

I bet you thought I’d never do it. In fact, I’m pretty sure we did bet on it. Well, two and a half decades of diligent research and measured consideration and guess what, assholes? I finally decided what to ink on my own skin as a tribute to the greatest band that ever was or will be: Reel Big Fish.

Ever since I first heard “Sellout” on the radio in my nearly brand new 1996 Toyota Camry, I knew I was going to have to dedicate some amount of flesh to this band. But what tattoo could I possibly get that would truly show my admiration for the ska-punk heroes?

Allow me to paint you a picture. Let’s start with the checkered flag that acts as the backdrop for all the details. In the center, we have a portrait of Aaron Barrett with big sunglasses on but also he’s winking cheekily and you can somehow see it. I still have to talk to my artist about that part.

Underneath that, there are two trumpets crossed so it looks like a skull and crossbones but with trumpets. Also, there are a few trumpets up top as well for good measure. Oh and also Barrett’s face is playing yet another trumpet regardless of the fact that he doesn’t play trumpet.

Then we have the actual fish. There will be three fish: a perch, a walleye, and a dwarf lanternshark. They will be hidden throughout the tattoo that people will have to look for and it will make them really study the intricacies of it. I expect a lot of people to scrutinize this temple to these top tier ska gods.

Under all that we have a bright green banner reading, “All I Know Is That I Don’t Know Nothing.” Now, I know that’s technically an Operation Ivy lyric but, like, it’s just so cool.

That’s the plan! So, does anybody know a tattoo artist that will work for cheap? Or maybe in exchange for a 1996 Toyota Camry because that’s all I got.

Metal Guitarist Warned He Will Go Blind Playing So Many Solos

SHREVEPORT, La. — Local metal band Sinister Dissonance warned their guitarist Henry Derrickson that he’ll go blind if he doesn’t stop playing so many solos, uncomfortable sources reported.

“That’s an old wives’ tale, like swimming after you eat or the KISS disco record,” said Derrickson. “It’s meant to scare you. I can solo as much as I want, it really isn’t a big deal. I spent the entire pandemic by myself watching YouTube videos and really getting to know myself, guitar-wise, and I’m just fine. Sure it takes me a little longer to get in the mindset than it did before, but I always get there in the end. I just have to squeeze the neck and concentrate as hard as I can to hit all my notes.”

The rest of the band was quick to point out that their warnings have fallen on deaf ears, as Derrickson continued to take his guitar into the bathroom during practice.

“It’s not that he’s shitting between songs, it’s that we can hear him noodling and finger tapping in there,” said the band’s drummer Sherry Beauregard. “This isn’t the first time it’s happened either. Our last guitar player played so many solos he went blind and lost his license. The woman before him was fired because her hairy palms kept getting caught in the strings. And our original lead guitarist was so into soloing that his wife left him, and honestly, I don’t blame her. Hopefully, it isn’t too late for Henry, but he’s already having a hard time connecting with us when we play. Sometimes he gets so into himself that it’s like we’re not even there.”

Experts say that over-soloing remains a hidden endemic.

“Transgressive attitudes towards playing solos run deep in this country,” said rock historian Ron LaFayette as he idly plucked a few strings. “Solo shaming is a very real problem, unfortunately. Guitarists are afraid to talk about soloing, and it’s hurting them. Just because a guitar player wants to play alone on occasion doesn’t mean that something is wrong. It’s perfectly natural, and some people even say that soloing from time to time makes it that much better when you finally play with the rest of the band.”

At press time Derrickson was seen entering his bedroom with a jar of Vaseline and this month’s Guitar World centerfold.

Oh, You’re a Libertarian? Name 3 Places You Like To Hang Out So I Can Avoid Them

Oh, you’re a libertarian? Yeah bro, I guess that copy of “The Fountainhead” with the pages stuck together you’ve got there should’ve been a clue. But if you’re an actual rugged individualist, could you do me a solid and tell me 3 places you like to chill so I can steer clear of them?

If you could share where you and the other sworn enemies of food safety regulations meet up to exchange unpleasantries, I’d be much obliged. I’m sorry if this seems a little forward, but my friends and I just want to know where we can go with a reasonable chance of not wanting to leave as soon as we arrive.

Hey, let’s try this. I’ll name 3 places and you tell me if you’ve ever been. Cool? When’s the last time you saw a band with any female members? Okay, that doesn’t surprise me. What about therapy? Yeah, that tracks. Now tell me about your most recent second date. No bro, I haven’t been following you around and spying on you. Well, I did talk to a barista who told me how you always go out of your way to explain to her why you don’t tip. What’s that? You’re never getting coffee at that place again? Oh, sweet, I can start reading my new book there.

Oh, you’re into books, too? Well, I probably don’t have to worry about bumping into you at the library, but can you tell me about your favorite sections at the bookstore? Ah, Ben Shapiro and Jordan Peterson? Yeah, I like fiction, too. But I generally prefer some element of realism in what I read. And I bet you like a very limited part of the history section, too, huh?

Now, where’s your favorite place to go shopping? Wait, can I guess? Is it the duty-free, where the soul-sucking government can’t take the joy out of buying bulk booze and boxed chocolates with taxes that get wasted on hot lunch programs for freeloading public school children? Wow, I should buy a lottery ticket!

So basically just don’t go to your bedroom or the internet and I’m good? Cool.

Show Ends With All Bands Lining up to High Five and Say “Good Gig”

TUCSON, Ariz. — Every musician who played the Rat’s Nest Thursday night showed an unprecedented display of scene camaraderie by forming two lines, high fiving, and repeating “good gig” to close the show, stunned sources confirmed.

“It just felt like the right thing to do. Everyone was sounding so fantastic that night, just incredible sets all around,” said Grime Grubber guitarist Lynda Ng. “Even the guys who are typically big showboaters all shared the spotlight and exhibited a deep understanding of the importance of the fundamentals. If we’re gonna say ‘good gig’ fifty times, we’re gonna mean it. We all ended up sharing some orange slices that my mom had given me before the show and drinking some warm beer that was sitting in a cooler behind the bar. It reminded me why I started playing music to begin with.”

Unfortunately, not everyone in attendance held such positive reactions to the showing of good sportsmanship, like the irate response it elicited in certain parents in the crowd.

“Some of the applause the other bands were getting was total bullshit. My son Donny was clearly MVP of the show, he plays bass like a little angel. The sound guy was fucking him over all night, it’s like he was turning him all the way down in the mix on purpose,” said Gregg Suskin, father of Donny Suskin who plays in Bunkle Uck. “Yeah sure, I got a little tipsy and started yelling as much to some of the other parents in the bleachers, but that’s what the damn Rat’s Nest gets for installing bleachers into a punk club. They can say it’s ironic all they want, but if a brawl breaks out ‘cause I spill a beer on another dad, don’t blame me if I put up my fists.”

Venue popcorn vendor Honus Rebhorn said it was one of the finest shows he’d seen in his over thirty-year career.

“I’ve seen a lot a lot of bands take the stage in my time here at the Nest, and I’m man enough to admit that I teared up when I saw those kids line up to high five,” said Rebhorn. “I consider myself a lucky man, being able to hold a multi-decade career in selling popcorn at rock shows in this economy and all, but that night, I felt even luckier. The best part was the one band that had a dog playing in it, though. That was really something cute. Nobody had any qualms about it, because they knew there was no rule against it. Music’s for everybody, man or beast. Heck, I’d high five to that, too.”

When reached for comment on whether or not the bands deserved to get taken out for ice cream afterward, Rat’s Nest owner Gil Vernon said simply “we’ll see…” which everyone seemed to know always means yes.

Review: Poison the Well “Tear From the Red”

Each week, The Hard Times takes a trip to the past to review a classic album. This time around we take a look at Poison the Well’s “Tear From the Red” the album that landed the band a deal with a major record label.

Metalcore icons Poison the Well are known for their early-2000s efforts like “Tear from the Red” as much as they are for their numerous, seemingly relentless lineup changes. Since the process of writing and recording an album is often as important—if not more—than the finished product, I thought I’d take a look back at the legendary story of “Tear from the Red,” an album so cursed with bad luck, it may as well have been influenced by spirits from beyond the grave.

And by “may as well have been,” I mean “literally was.” Did you know that the making of this album began when frontman Omar Rodríguez-López purchased a Ouija board from a curiosities shop in Jerusalem? Yep, that’s right. This shit had creepy potential from the start, but it started out innocuously enough. On their tour with Red Hot Chili Peppers (yeah, I know), the band apparently spent most nights using the board on the bus after a show. The spirits contacted by the band, known collectively as “Goliath,” began communing with them on a regular basis.

Granted, talking to the dead is a pretty hype concept for an album, but it definitely came with risks. And man, these guys had it rough after unleashing a flurry of angry spirits on themselves. The recording process was marred with bad luck, from flooding to injuries to lineup changes caused by mental breakdowns. Even the sound tech quit after realizing this album was touched by something evil.

Apparently, it got so bad that Rodríguez-López had to fucking bury the Ouija board in an undisclosed location in order to stop the parade of madness that followed him at every turn. Honestly, I think this would make a dope horror flick, with a banger soundtrack to boot. Someone jump on the rights to that, and if it works out, bring a soothsayer and sage or some shit to protect yourself!

And there you have it, folks, the story of the most cursed album of all time, “The Bedlam in Goliath” by The Mars Volta.

Wait, fuck—

SCORE: 0/1 correct albums I researched for this

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