Halftime Talk 8/7/16

“FYI, no evidence of abnormal uptake on PET. Proceed with radiation as previously planned.”

My oft glazed eyeballs have read some beautiful poems in their day, but this piece from my chemo oncologist feels like the deepest and most meaningful haiku I’ve ever read. It’s like (robotically straight) music to my ears. The dude has some ultra conservative doctoring chops which is just how I like him. All Business, All The Time.

At the scan

I mean if I was an oncologist, I’d probably write that email a little differently- 

“Dude! PET scan was all good, no signs of any gnarly shit we weren’t expecting, so you’re cleared for radiation. I’m way stoked for you! Now go kick the rest of that cancer’s arse! Good luck with the radiation, I’ll see you in 3 mos. for your checkup. BOOM!”

Though I suppose it would be refreshing to have a doctor that communicates like a stoned teenager, it could unsettle more patients than not. Good thing I’m not an oncologist. 

Regardless of the delivery, we are some very happy Huttsezes to get this news, lemme tell ya.

No going back to chemo.

No more chemo induced nausea and vomiting that never ends.

Vomit Man was a downer, yo.

No more Steroid Man and his ragey antics. Not gonna miss that guy.


No more veins that fecking hurt from the infusions.

No more olfactory senses of a frigging bloodhound/ pregnant woman. Praise Jebus.

No more having half a beard and a weird scraggly semi head of hair. Gnarl.

Best of all? No more fear of the unknown, no more fear that the chemo wasn’t working.

Because it did and I’m halfway through this battle. I can head in to radiation knowing that I’ve won the first big fight, and I’m proud of the strength I found when I was down for the count and being battered by nausea and vomiting. I’m thankful that my family has made it this far, intact and strong instead of rattled and punchy. Cancer doesn’t just try and kill people, it also pushes families to breaking points and requires a lot of love and patience to negotiate successfully.

Speaking of love, patience, strength, vomiting, family, and thankfulness, I’d like to take a brief moment to talk about my kids. Gosh, I love them so much.

When I’m not cooing about them or basking in the loving glow that they bring to my world, I’m often found in states of vexation and ire that should leave me more concerned about a stroke than cancer. They can be such spectacular douchenozzling arseholes at times that I wonder how I haven’t yet sold them to science. They currently have me perusing the “Wanted for Science” section on Craigslist.

The Öberstürmfürher Bällërina (my adorable daughter) is either the sweetest ever child EVER, or a ball buster of epic proportions that swings a big, studded mallet the size of Mjolnir. The Goddess of Thunder has symbolically been bludgeoning my smalls since the day she was born, and has been back at it lately- she’s always been this way. I’m hoping that as she grows and matures past the mercurial age of six, there will be moments when she sees that choosing the path of least resistance will keep her privileges intact. Both of us can’t wait until she’s old enough to get a phone- her because she wants one and me because I can use it to bend her to my will/get her to be nice. No easy task, let me tell you.

Have you heard this quote about strong women?


“Here’s to strong women.

May we know them.

May we be them.

May we raise them.”


A powerful quote, I’m sure you’d agree as I do. However, I’d like to add a line or two at the end if I may.


“Here’s to strong women.

May we know them.

May we be them.

May we raise them.

May we thank their withered and exhausted fathers, the poor bastards.

May we wonder how they didn’t sell her to science, FFS.”

Normally, the kids don’t grind me down too terribly, and I can handle The Öberstürmfürher Bällërina and her sack stomping shenanigans- she’s six, I should be able to surf that shit. Lately however, her 17 year old brother has thrown his hat into the ring with levels of shithousery heretofore unseen.

The artist formerly known as Bilbo Douchebaggins has regained the form of three or so years ago when he turned being a douche into an art form, when surliness was his mentor and sarcasm his best friend. Well, he’s found new heights and swiftly scaled them. How did this lovely teenager re-douche? That’s a good question. 

Recipe For A Re-Douching

6’3” of unfiltered teenager

1 cup becoming a senior in high school

2 cups varsity American Football

1 cup possibly making defensive captain

1/2 cup American Football locker room antics (preferably teabagging but you can substitute Icy Hot ointment on the jockstrap)

3 cups condensed self entitlement

10 fucking cups of know it all

1/4 teaspoon actual knowledge

0 cups listening to dad


Make a roux with the unfiltered teenager, self entitlement, and know it all. Wave the empty cup of not listening to dad futilely over the top of the pot.

Stir in 1 cup of becoming a senior followed by 2 cups of varsity American Football and 1 cup of possibly making defensive captain. Bring to a boil, then simmer on low forever. Add the half cup of locker room antics, and cook for ten minutes. Garnish with the 1/4 teaspoon of actual knowledge taking care to spread the minuscule amount around as evenly as possible. This will be hard. Serves two parental units. Ad infinitum.


Now, you may be thinking, “C’mon Huttsez, lighten up on the kid. He’s been through more than most people his age and now he’s dealing with you having cancer! Don’t be such a dick!”. I hear ya.

But he can see me beating this shit, he knows that I can do it. I’ve been strong so that he hasn’t had to carry too much.

No, his re-douching is just a part of growing up. He’s exercising confidence and becoming a man. He’s just doing what I did, and countless other kids have done when they start to reach adulthood- shaking off the remaining shackles of childhood so he can learn to fly on his own. I just wish he didn’t have to be such a cockbag about it (he came up with that little gem).

Huh. You know what? I feel better getting that out. It led me to that last paragraph and reminded me that I was him not so long ago. It’s funny how writing things down can help get you to a place you needed to be. Sweet. I am thankful.

So it’s radiation next, folks. I’m getting my warrior on for the second half and I think I’m gonna need it. 

My favorite chemo nurse said to me on my last visit-

“Radiation next, right?”

“Yeah. They said 15-20 treatments.”

He did a face cringe. “Well, the first week you’ll feel pretty good, like no big deal you know? But after that can get... a little rough. Give us a call if you need anything, ok?”

Gulp. “Ok.”

I’m not gonna list the side effects. As I’ve said before, it takes a special kind of idiot to tempt fate like that. So don’t google “testicular lymphedema images”.


That’s it for now.

Thanks for reading see you soon.


“...the unread voice of a generation.”


gofundme link. Thank you. More than you know.


What I've Learned From Chemo So Far 7/12/16

I had my final chemo infusion last week, and had yet another different scenario of side effects. Dudes...

I was looking over the information they gave me back at the chemotherapy class, checking my notes and shit and comparing what they prepped me for in terms of possible side effects with what I actually experienced. Verdict? HAHAHAHAHA! They should have just given me the middle finger, shrugged their shoulders and said “Mr. Huttsez, we have no fucking clue because every patient is different. Good luck, LOL!” In fact, I would have really appreciated that kind of honesty. It would have helped me manage my expectations a hell of a lot better.

To be fair, they hinted at the “we have no idea” approach but fell short and pushed “fatigue” as the most common side effect of chemotherapy. I guess I don’t really blame them though- if they DID say “We have no clue”, a lot of patients would probably freak out, I get it. But don’t blow smoke up my arse, you know?

Here’s what the head bollocks infusion nurse said in the class- “If I were to ask all the patients I’ve had over the years what the main side effect of their chemotherapy was, the answer would OVERWHELMINGLY be fatigue.” She then proceeded to play down nausea and vomiting, “It’s not the bad old chemo that it used to be, we’ve come a long way. It’s no longer the norm, and we work very hard to avoid it. Fatigue will most likely be what you experience.”

Again- HAHAHAHAHA. I dream of lovely, gentle fatigue in all it’s “taking a nap” glory! Guess what? I’ve had no fatigue. In fact, I’ve more often been jacked and tweeking on the 10 bajillion mgs. of steroids they’ve given me. Fatigue?! Last time I checked, meth doesn’t make you sleepy. Guess what else? I’ve vomited more in the last 50 days than in my teens and twenties combined. That’s a lot of Boone’s Farm and Jaegermeister hangovers, people.

Three chemo infusions, three different reactions, same drugs each time.

First time- vomit all night on the day of infusion.

Second time- no vomiting, nausea for 5 days. Please note that I just wrote “no vomiting”.

Third time- felt fine that night and the next day. I FELT FINE! They had me in two days after the infusion for iv fluids and more anti-nausea meds because my oncologist didn’t like the five days of nausea from the second infusion. That night? Pukey good times. The next three days? Vomiting hijinks and gnarley nausea. Dafuq?!

I wrote to my oncologist, asking him about why I reacted differently each time, he answered “It’s a chemo effect.” Translation? Shoulder shrug with an “I don’t know why, lol!” 

You know, it’s probably not fair to rag on them so hard, they’re trying. Cancer’s no joke, I’ll cut them some slack. Whudahyahgonnado?

Well, let’s do-




There is no common side effect, and there is no predicting what each individual may experience. Every single cancer patient will react differently to their chemotherapy. In the chemo book I got at the class they talked about constipation and diarrhea being possible problems. Nice and vague and open- just how I like it. I didn’t get the diarrhea because the anti nausea meds they fecking blasted in to me bunged me up tighter than a Scotsman’s wallet. Anti nausea meds may cause constipation, they said. Drink plenty of fluids, they said. It feels like I’ve been visited at night by Evil Pharmaceutical Company Elves that have been packing concrete up my arse at an alarming rate. Like those fucking Stone Trolls out of ‘Frozen’ rolling around my bedroom with big tamping sticks for properly ramming that cement up my nipsy. Believe me, I’d really like to “Let It Go”. Sorry (cringe).

The steroids are no joke. Big doses with big effects. I get pretty jacked up by the end of the 5 day course, and it’s never easy for... any of us here at Casa Huttsez. The steroids are a big factor for us. In fact, I think I’m in the middle of a bloggers “Roid Rage” right now. Sorry if I’m a little agro- I’d much rather be chill. I’ve been working on breathing and getting stoned to ease the rage. All Hail Mighty Cannabis, the one substance through this process that I trust to actually help me. I haven’t told you guys to go fuck yourselves, have I? Just gotta check ‘cause, you know, “Roids”.

Steroid Man's face is actually that red.

Hair loss is a bit random. I haven’t gone the full-on-cancer-chrome-dome-no-eyebrows-alopecia yet, and I may not. I’ve got a dodgy sort of patchy looking thing going on, like a stubbly old half plucked chicken. Head and beard. It seems that a lot of the gray stayed on my beard and the darker hairs fell out more often than not. And the hair on my head has come back a bit patchy. I’m like the human equivalent of the worst factory farmed, steroid steeped chicken that you’d buy at ‘Smart N Final’ clearance warehouse, a chicken version of naked, old, shriveled and bald Arnold Schwarzenegger. I could still lose all my hair, we’ll see, but it just goes to show that side effects will vary from person to person. There is no way to tell what’s gonna happen...


I have developed the olfactory senses OF A FUCKING BLOODHOUND! Every little whiff, good or bad, has been delivered like a hammer blow to my nostrils and when you’re feeling nauseous to start with, those smells will send you right up to the edge, if not straight over it into Vomitville. I’ve heard that people compare it to pregnant women’s morning sickness, and the resultant sensitivity to smells. Now that I can smell the litter box from my neighbor’s house INSIDE MY BRAIN, empathy with my pregnant sisters is at an all time high.

Every good moment is a joy. Every good day is a triumph. Look, I’ve had some utterly shit days so far, but I’ve had way more good than bad. There’s no need for me to be a  miserable old bugger about this- Mrs. Huttsez and the kids need (deserve) more from me. That’s how I keep my focus as strong as I can, because it’s hard. I have doubts and fears. I’ve yelled at the walls when the nausea was... testing my patience? Yeah, ok. The not so good bits make the good bits really, really good. That’s how it works. All this positive, cuddly shit brings me to the last- and most important- thing I’ve learned.

There are times through this process that my body will give in to the marauding bezerkers of The Clan RCHOP. Chemo is just too gnarly to get out unscathed and going into my treatment I never thought it’d be easy. Lo and behold, I’ve had different reactions from each individual infusion without rhyme or reason- my body gave in to the chemo. Ok fine, have the body. It’s only temporary, I’ll get it back thankyouverymuch. What the chemo can’t effect is my spirit. It can’t stop me from being a father and husband, or from saying “I’ll feel better tomorrow.” to Mrs. H. I’ve learned that breathing, visualization, walking, stretching, smiling all help me get through the bullshit, horrible parts and it works. The most important thing is to stay positive. If you think I’m being all corny well... fuck you, you rusty cockslice motherfucker! Oh shit, sorry! “Roids” (G-shrug).

I’m incredibly grateful for all the side effects that I have NOT experienced so far in my treatment. I will not name them, for to tempt fate is a fool’s game.

You know, that’s the bullet points and shit, there’s plenty more that I have learned through this process, but nobody likes a ranty, roid raging old guy and if you’ve gotten this far then you’ve already had to wade through some fury. I think you’ve done really well and thanks for putting up with me.

I have an image of my inner self battling the steroids for control of my mind like the scene in Michael Jackson’s ‘Beat It’ where the guys get in the sexy knife fight while Eddie Van Halen shreds his solo and I win control over the steroid and we dance together with Michael. See? Creative and positive visualization. Boom. 

That’s it for now.


Thanks for reading, see you soon.



‘...the unread voice of a generation.”


gofundme link. Thank you to all who have helped, I am humbled.


Huttsez's Guide To Cancer Commiseration 6/24/16

I’ve had some people reach out to me and ask- “What should I say to my friend that just got diagnosed with cancer? I don’t want to say the wrong thing.” and “My coworker is going in for chemotherapy, what can I say or do to help? Is there anything I shouldn’t say?”

Now don’t get me wrong, I only had three people write to me. I’m not trying to be some cancer advice Ann Landers spreading my sage counsel across the interwebs, and I’m not exactly being flooded with correspondence- I mean you know, three. I’m just a cannabis medicated cancer patient with a laptop, a part time blog, and a lot of time on my hands. And they asked, which got me thinking about writing this entry.

The final factor that kicked me out of ‘thinking’ and into ‘writing’ happened yesterday. I was on the phone with a friend and he was telling me that his business partner’s dad had recently been diagnosed with a hardcore late stage cancer. 

“So, I told my buddy to let me know if there was anything I could do to help, and he goes ‘What are you gonna do? It’s cancer.’ I felt like shit you know?” I could tell that my mate was genuinely bummed about his friend’s dad, and that he’d somehow said the wrong thing. 

“Look, man, your friend is just hurting right now, give him some time. That being said, maybe you could offer to help him with errands and chores, stuff he won’t have time to keep up on ‘cause he’ll be helping his dad through some heavy treatment. It’s a great way to help. Picking up groceries, shit like that. It’s been super helpful for me when friends have helped this way.” 

I was bummed for my friend, ya know? He felt genuinely bad about “saying the wrong thing” and he sincerely meant his offer of help. Hell, he had called me to see if I wanted some FREE cannabis hard candies to help with my treatment! He’s a helping kind of guy. And I don’t think he said anything wrong, he just didn’t say anything right (at least from his friend’s perspective). Instead of saying ‘let me know if there’s anything I can do’, my friend could have been more specific, by offering up more detailed help.

So, what do you and don’t you say about everyone’s favorite uncomfortable topic? Let’s throw some shit at the wall and see what sticks, shall we?


Huttsez’s GuideTo Cancer Commiseration


How To Avoid Coming Across Like A Dick When Your Mate Gets Cancer














Don’t tell a cancer story where the person fucking dies. 

Yes, this is actually a thing. Goes something like this-

“Yeah, my aunt had lymphoma. The chemo was really brutal and she lost like 30 pounds, and dropped below a hundred. She fought hard for two years but passed away because the fight was too much for her. Fuck cancer, man! I totally miss her all the time.”

And then your friend who has the cancer ends up having to either (A) console you- which is odd- or (B) tell you to shut the fuck up already- which would suck. Usually the choice would be to console you, thus completely missing the whole point of helping. Doh. 

Don’t bombard your friend or loved one with miracle cures.

“Hey! Have you checked this out yet?! This stuff looks legit.” (don't click on this, I made it up!)

Your sick friend then clicks on some website selling a crazy expensive Japanese mushroom, that when brewed under exacting conditions and administered in lunar patterns has cured cancer. Your friend then wonders if you actually checked it out, or if you just read the title and copied the link.


“Have you seen this guy’s video?!” (yeah this one's made up, too)

And it’s a link to a two hour youtube seminar that claims it’ll cure your cancer in two weeks, ffs! Listen very closely now, ok? Unless you’ve watched the whole fecking thing, had and then cured your own cancer in two weeks, don’t send that link. No one with a life threatening disease wants to be taunted with the dream of good health in some wonderfully impossible short time.


“Dude, you’re all over the turmeric, right?”

If your friend is drinking the chemo juice, like myself, they’ve been told to stop all supplements during treatment. But, yeah dude, I had been all over the turmeric. And I still got cancer. See where I’m going with this?

Look, having cancer is pretty stressful and offering a lot of information about chemo-complimentary-alternative-treatment might make your friend or loved one feel more stress. Maybe they’d feel that with so many alternative treatments,  chemo was the wrong choice, ya know? Hey, here’s a good idea! You could buy them a massage! That would rock your friend’s world, girl. Awww yeah. (hint hint) ;)

Don’t post bald, sick cancer pictures. That’s up to the person with cancer.

You visit your friend who’s going through cancer treatment and take some pictures together which you post online. She’s lost her hair and eyebrows and isn’t looking her pre-cancer best. She knows it, you know it, everyone knows it. The comments, however, don’t know it-

“Looking good! Thinking of you!”



“Stay strong, Pretty Lady!”

Of course the comments are going to say that, especially as the alternatives are not so great-

“Wow! You look like shit bald!”

“You used to be so hot, sorry about the cancer, lol!”


“Well, at least you can’t look much worse!”

“I’d love to say you look great, but you don’t. Hope you look better soon!”

“Whoa. Hey, have you got any extra pills?”

You get the picture. Don’t post sick photos. Cool?

Don’t constantly tag your friend on every cancer article or video you come across.

“Watch this computer simulation of a cancer cell DESTROYING a healthy cell!”

“Chemotherapy- You’re Doing It ALL WRONG!”

“Stop The Chemo, It’s Giving You MORE CANCER!”



Let me just show you what it’s like in the brain of someone with cancer. And by ’someone’ I mean ‘me’.

Cancer, cancer, cancer, please don’t vomit, cancer, cancer, cancer, weed, cancer, cancer, cancer, food, cancer, cancer, sex, cancer, cancer, please don’t vomit, cancer, cancer, cancer, cancer, weed, cancer, cancer, cancer, cancer. Cancer, cancer. Sex, cancer, cancer, cancer, cancer, weed, cancer. Cancer. Sex. Cancer. Please don’t vomit. Cancer, cancer, cancer.

Tag them on a kitten video instead. 

Don’t suggest joining cancer support groups, unless you’ve had cancer and been to one yourself.

We will seek out what help we need, when and how we need it.

Depending on the seriousness of your friend or loved one’s cancer, maybe avoid sending them funeral invitations, yeah?

No comment.

If you travel to see a friend or loved one who is sick, make sure you have your own accommodation, transportation, and child care.

Be there to support, don’t be a burden. Sadly this has to be said. Get your own rental car, cook meals, don’t be a dick. Help.

Ok, so now we can move on to the do’s.














I think that the most important thing to remember is BE SPECIFIC with your offers of help. Don’t be all open ended like my friend when he said (and meant!) “Let me know if there’s anything I can do help.” Get specific on their cancer-having arses. Here ya go-

Do offer to bring precooked meals.

This is a huge one. Cooking is a big daily task, and nutrition is a crucial element in health, so put some grub on the table. Set up a food train of people who can bring tasty, healthy meals. Check and see if there are any dietary restrictions. My family signed up for a free program that delivers pre-cooked meals for four days of the week, and it’s a massive help. All that time spent on cooking and clean up can now be spent resting and relaxing with the fam. Result! 

Do offer to run errands.

Groceries, post office, dry cleaning, whatever. It’s the mundane, everyday stuff that gets pushed aside because there’s not enough time. You can really help. Maybe shoot  your friend or their spouse a text-

“Hey, I’m out and about running errands. Need anything from the grocery store? Pharmacy? Wanna hang out a bit?”

Boom! Help given successfully. 

Do offer to help with child care.

Take their children to do something fun, ya know? It’s good for the kids to get a break from ‘sick world’ (which is stressful for them), and the adults can relax a bit too. Keeping my kids as happy as I can is a major motivator for me as I go through this shit. You can totally help in this area.

Do offer to help with chores.

If you show up at your friend’s house to clean their toilet, you will have a friend for life. If you have some handyman skills, all the better. If you don’t have time to physically clean or fix stuff, then send them a cleaning service as an alternative. And don’t just do it once either, keep helping throughout your friend’s whole treatment. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate help with cleaning. It’s huge. 

Do help financially.

You know what sucks? Not being able to properly support your family. Yeah, there’s a little disability coming in, but that’s never enough. If you want to help in a significant way, do some fundraising for you friend. Set up and manage a gofundme or some shit. This one is also huge. 

Here’s a little perspective- I haven’t worked full time since the end of March, so it’s financially tight. It’s a very emasculating feeling to go being from the provider to being a financial burden. Truth.

The help we have received through online donations has brought tears to my eyes multiple times. I will be forever indebted to the kind folks who have helped me and my family with their donations. Thank you.

Do hang out.

That’s the shit right there, yo. Friendship, love, togetherness. Boom. Go hang out with your friend. It’s often the best medicine there is.

And there you have it- Huttsez’s Guide To Cancer Commiseration.

In a nutshell, offer specific help and follow through. Cancer patients love to hear kind words, but it’s the kind deeds that separate the wheat from the chaff. Don’t tell stories where people die of cancer, just don’t. Be kind, and help your friend laugh.

By the way, here’s something you can say that’s bulletproof-

“I’m really sorry this is happening to you, it sucks. Sign me up for toilet cleaning while you’re doing your treatment, I’ll start next week. You can let me know then what else you’re gonna need. Oh, and I’ll bring some cake. And weed.”





That’s it for now.

Thanks for reading. See you soon.


“...the unread voice of a generation.”


gofundme link. Help if you can, thanks!


Thoughts From The Chemo Chair 6/15/16

Here I am, sitting in the chemo chair for my second course of chemotherapy, and I’m  feeling pretty jacked from all the steroids and other ancillary medications they’ve been pumping in to my arm for the last couple of hours. Not really sure what’s going to come out of my brain- it could be complete rubbish, I’m pretty out of it on steroids and benadryl at the moment. It’s like I’m at a coke party, except without the fun and chicks and party and well... coke. Apart from that, it’s fucking ON!


Ok, so the first bag of chemo just went on, and it’s the gnarly 6 hour infusion one. The one my oncologist told me most likely caused the allergic reaction on my first course. The one I just found out has “... a bit too much mouse in it.” Yay. Turns out it’s full of mouse DNA. Got me thinking about Jurassic Park and the gene splicing. Maybe Edible Man will have to make way for Mouse Man? Edible Mouse? Mouse Von Bulow? Tyrannosaurus Mouse? All joking aside, that’s pretty kooky right?! My oncologist informed me on Monday that this chemo will ALTER MY DNA. Dafuq?

The first infusion kicked my arse all over the place, 14 hours of nonstop vomiting, with my stomach contracting for up to 30 seconds towards the end. Hey, you know what? Do me a favor and count to 30 whilst imagining your stomach staying contracted for that entire time. Or, you could go the “method acting” route, try and contract it for 30 seconds, don’t breath, mouth wide open, have your face go all red, get dizzy, and squeeze out a thimble full of foam. Such good times.

Trust me when I tell you it was the worst vomit session I have ever had, by far. Even worse than the night I drank 15 Dirty Irishmen (Jameson and Bailey’s) at The Wetlands staff party in NYC in the 90’s, and THAT was the night I pissed in the kitchen; once near the fridge and another on the coffee pot. I still think Mike J and Pete B knew the deadly power of The Dirty Irishman, and were quite enjoying themselves with me. There was more vomiting that night (and the next morning) than at any point in my life to date, and was the last time I had a Bailey’s. The Jameson wasn’t fully deleted, but I did make the switch to Bushmill’s with the occasional Jameo for old time’s sake. Like getting sloppy grudge sex off an old girlfriend.

Chemo, it turns out, is waaaaay stronger than 15 Dirty Irishmen and the resulting yelling into the toilet that those sweet and delicious drinks brought to the table. Way waaaay stronger, so the resultng vomit was made waaaay worse. A Loma Prieta of heaving. A Krakatoa of barf.

So, as I sit here a little worried about what my night may bring I’m reminding myself that this is the price of admission- you know- for staying alive. If I’m sick tonight, hey, whadahyagonnado? Being dead would be way worse, and that’s some tasty motivation to help me deal mentally with any possible side effects. Word right the fuck up. But man oh man, I would dearly love to miss out on Chemo Vom Con 2. Yeah, that would be great.

Having a life threatening disease changes a person, I can see that in myself already. The world looks different to me today, and it feels different too. I keep wondering how I can be... better. A better person all over. I want to beat this shit and then pay it forward with kindness, patience, and empathy. I think I’m starting to really GET it. A bazillion people have said it way better than I ever could, here’s what I think IT is-


“All You Need Is Love. All you need is love, Love. Love is all you need.”- Lennon and the other bloke

“Kindness is the language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see.”- Mark Twain

“You cannot do a kindness too soon, for you never know how soon it will be too late.”- Ralph Waldo Emerson

“Human kindness has never softened the stamina or weakened the fiber of a free people. A Nation does not have to be cruel to be tough.” Franklin Delano Roosevelt

“But whoever strikes you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also.” Jesus Harry Christ

“Ebony and ivory, live together in perfect harmony, side by side on my piano keyboard. Oh Lord why don’t we?”- Stevie Wonder and the other bloke


There are loads. If you have a kindness quote please post it on the Huttsez Facebook page. 

Ahhh yes, The Facebook. Man. This election has driven a massive wedge between the people of America, and it’s in microcosm everyday on my Facebook feed. People having pointless pissing matches, trolling, and the non stop idiot fucking memes. Both from the Left and the Right. It’s like people are shooting from the hip before checking the facts and are posting actual lies to either further their chosen party OR (and this is worse) to put down the opposing party. Left and Right. I’ve done it, we all have, but those things are the lowest common denominator that make the person posting look like an uneducated, reactive simpleton. Check your bloody facts people! Left and Right. Just stop it.

Why? It doesn’t make anything better, it’s a negative action. You’re not going to change any minds. You’re more likely to offend and cause rifts than to win a convert to your cause. It’s totally counter productive, and you’re damaging your cause more than helping it. Fact based memes? Sure, do what you have to do.

Instead, I’m going to try being kind. Maybe try to bring a smile to my friends’ faces as they scroll their feeds. Comment with kindness, humor, empathy, and support. You know, because they’re my friends. “For good times and bad times, I’ll be on your side forever more, cuz that’s what friends are for.” FYI- It was VERY hard for me not to use the lyrics from Friends, but I didn’t want you guys to think I was being a sarcastic douche ;)

Didn’t our mothers teach us- “If you don’t have anything nice to say, then don’t say anything at all.” How about we listen to our mothers? If your mother sucked, then maybe a cool teacher said it to you. Not everyone had a good mother which means they got robbed of the most precious connection that two people can share. I’m sorry if this is you, it must’ve been awful.

Well, it looks like the last bag of chemo is being prepared so I’ve got to pay attention for the wrap up stuff. Plus I’m pretty sure this has been a load of rambling bollocks, fueled by the carpet bombing of chemicals in my body. Good time to sign off. 

Oh shit! I just got back from the bathroom where I rinsed my face, and RUBBED OFF some of my beard stubble. Oh chemo, you sexy minx, you’ve done it again. Glad I’m not a Hipster.


That’s it for now. 


Thanks for reading. See you soon.



“...the unread voice of a generation.”

P.S. I made it through the night vomit free, so I’m over that hurdle. Beyond grateful!! However, I can still feel the nausea lurking and pacing like a panther in the shadows of my belly. Here’s my morning med regimen- big steroid dose, anti-nausea pill, stool softener (awwww yeah), and some tasty weed (SF Sour Diesel!). Let’s hope it works!

My Dog the Bounty Hunter wig helps me get in touch with my inner racist tweeker.


gofundme link. Help if you can, thanks!


The Adventures Of Edible Man At The DMV 6/3/16

I wasn’t particularly stoked to have to go to the DMV, especially as my last two attempts/appointments had failed due to “staff shortages” and  everyone’s favorite “Our system is down state wide”. No sane person looks forward to a trip to the DMV on a good day, right? Throw in some chemo and a weakened immune system for the Department of Motor Vehicles- and all it’s hacking, sneezing tweekers- to start looking super lame. Cringe.

“Ok, so I’ll have to rock the medical mask.” I thought to myself, “Fair play, I don’t wanna catch a cold or some DMV super virus.” 

“Good idea, dude,” my brain piped in, “but I gotta say, the mask by itself is a little... confusing.”

“Whadaya mean?” I asked. 

“Well, you’re just gonna look like some random, freaky guy in a mask. However, if you wear one of your do-rag things everyone’ll be like ‘oh word, that dude’s got cancer, look at his do rag’ and they’ll know you’re not just another tweeker in a mask at the DMV. You don’t want them thinking that, dude.”

I thought about that for a second and said, “I don’t know, man, that’s kinda goofy. I don’t really give a fuck what people think, I just don’t want to get some funky arse DMV chlamydia. I’m gonna wear the mask regardless.”

“Ok,” conceded my brain, “then how about you approach it like a social experiment? You know how all those twats on youtube film themselves as homeless people and shit? Like that, except without the filming and posting on youtube. But you’ll still be a twat, because you’ll probably ‘blog’ about it, right? It could be interesting though, to see how people react to masked-up-Cancer Man. What else have you got going on at the moment anyway? Do it for the laugh then! Whatever! Know what I’m saying?” 

“Wow, you are a rambling idiot.” It is not uncommon that I find myself saying this to my brain- you see, a complete and utter fucking idiot represents the majority of my thinking process. It’s my cross to bare. Well, one of many. But having a chowderheaded nitwit for a brain is challenging. “I’ll do it, if for no other reason than to shut you up. Will you shut up if I agree to your social experiment?" 

“Yes. Yes, I will.” My brain agreeing usually means nothing and there will be no shutting up, but hey, whadahyagonnado?

“Ok, then. It’s a deal. I’ll wear the goofy do-rag to the DMV, but with one adjustment- I wear my rooster trucker hat over it.”

My rooster hat

“Sounds great. See, man? I’m easy to get along with. I bet SOMETHING interesting will happen. I know that ‘interesting’ and ‘DMV’ are not often spoken in the same breath, but just... trust me.” Fuck. Ing. Idiot. Sigh.

So, I headed out early in the morning with my do-rag, med mask, and trucker hat, ready to unveil Cancer Man on the unsuspecting staff and patrons of the great state of California’s Novato DMV office.

Edible Man prepares to enter the DMV

I suppose that at this time it would be unnecessary to point out that Edible Man was also along for the ride. Kind of a given? Either way, he was definitely in full pomp for the arduous duty of dealing with bureaucratic chores. If you don’t know what I mean by Edible Man, you can GO HERE. And HERE. He’s kind of a thing.

I walked into the DMV, and headed to the 15 person line, maybe 20. Before I even had a chance to take stock of the other patrons, a VERY large man with a rolling walker shuffled past me. This dude was like 400-500 pounds worth of large redneck, wearing a sleeveless t-shirt with all raggedy, hand cut arm holes that he paired with THE droopiest friggin’ shorts I’ve ever seen. His absurdly droopy shorts were over a similarly challenged and wilting pair of disgusting underpants, so it was like a DMV perfect storm from the very instant I stepped through the door.

This dude was sporting a minimum of EIGHT INCHES of Arse Crack, and that is a highly trained and astute carpenter’s eye, so you’d best believe. EIGHT INCHES! I caught a slight glimpse of an extra tuft of hair poking through the cleft where one would imagine this gentleman kept his arsehole. HIS ACTUAL ARSEHOLE, PEOPLE!

Oh sweet DMV, you never do disappoint. You’re like Trickster or Loki, I swear.

As Mr. ArseCrack Walker shuffled within two feet of me, I found myself glad to have a mask between his gluteal fold and my nose. So gak. Jesus.

I joined the line, and took stock of the nervous, sideways glances people were aiming my way- the mask was definitely having an effect. When I got to the front to check in, I whipped down my mask to say hi and give a smile, put it back on and handed over my papers.

The dude gave me a number, B12, said that it was no problem to get sorted today. Things were looking good.

As I headed to the seating area, kind of in the corner, people practically leapt out of my way. It was like Moses parting the Red Sea, they sort of lurched back out of my way as I gently approached. It was trippy. And cool.

I headed to the seats and three- THREE- people got up and moved as far away from me as they could, rather missing the point that I was protecting myself from THEM. You could almost hear them thinking-

“Oh, shit, here comes that mask dude. He must be pretty sick, I don’t wanna catch whatever the fuck he’s got going on.” And then they scurried off to the other side of the waiting area, leaving me a plethora of seating to choose from. Bench? Chair?! Gosh, I’m almost too excited to decide.

I glanced up at the screen, they were serving B2 at window 11. I had about ten people in front of me, not too bad, I could read or something you know?. No sooner had my arse brushed on the bench (I guess it turns out I’m kind of a bench man) than the automated voice came on-

“Now serving B12 at window number 3. Now serving B12 at window number 3.”

Edible Man was very confused. How could they be at B12 already? It’s only on B2 for fuck’s sake!

I looked down at my ticket in a mystified haze to confirm. Yeah, it says B12. Weird. I looked over at my fellow patrons and they were likewise furiously studying their tickets, the screen, and me with confused, and some pissy, faces.

Fuck it. I stood up and headed towards window number 3, where the clerk was smiling(?!) and waving me down. Ok, this is getting really trippy. It was like I was trapped inside some alternate universe Bizarro DMV, where people smiled and waved at you.

There was a flurry of skinny, white, and blonde activity as a well dressed woman got to her feet as I was walking past.

“Umm, I think there’s been a mistake. It just went from B2 to B12, and I’m B3?” She might as well have said ‘What the fuck is this bullshit?’ that’s how venomous her tone was.

There was a flurry of plump, afro activity as the clerk from window 3 stuck her head out and fixed Mrs. TightWhite with a withering look and said/did the most perfect response.

“Uhhh huuuuhhh.” That was it. Flawless, succinct and brilliant. She drew it out, all languid and then pursed her lips at Mrs. TightWhite, like only an African American woman can. Withering and devastating.

“Come on over, Honey.” She said to me.

And that was it. She didn’t say anything else about it, didn’t acknowledge Cancer Man, just got down to business. Five minutes later, and I was out of there. All told, I was out of the DMV, having had NO appointment, in under 15 MINUTES! Crazy.

A bemused Edible Man with his truck after his 15 minute DMV visit

My brain was right, it WAS interesting. I’ll cut him a little slack for a bit, he means well. 

That’s it for now.

Big shout out to my peeps at the DMV, thanks for being so cool.

Big shit out to Mrs TightWhite, thanks for proving me right about white entitlement (enwhitelement?) in Marin County.

Thanks for reading. See you soon.



‘...the unread voice of a generation.”


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