⛔️Tomorrow is the first blank page of a 365-page book⚠️⚠️Thank you 2k 24🫂Thank you to everyone who supported me this year and for all the opportunities 🙏🤲means a lot to me!!wish y'all a happy new year 🎉“Don’t count the days, make the days count 🎊...You'll never get bored when you try something new.There's really no limit to what you can do 💥 🚀I've met a lot of people,I've learned a lot so thank you to myself for never giving up‼️2k25 let's ACHIEVE EVEN MORE 🤲
The best is yet to come.

Geez, Jimmy, chill the heck out. You hit 500 million followers and suddenly think you can drop the N-word? Retweeting it counts too, by the way (unless you censor it with **—then you’re cool, apparently).

Wait—can you, though? I’ve heard of the mythical “N-word pass,” but no one’s ever explained how you actually get one. It feels like something out of a fairy tale—like a leprechaun’s pot of gold, a goose that lays golden eggs, a flying carpet, a genie in a lamp, or a polite Frenchman. Cool if true, but I’ve never seen one.

Maybe once you hit 100 million followers, one just magically appears in your DMs? That’d be cool. Or… maybe not. Influencers are mostly tools. Mr. Beast seems solid—he does a lot of good. The worst are the micro-influencers who write long-winded captions that go absolutely nowhere.

Anyway, wouldn’t it be wild if the Black community officially granted N-word passes to select individuals? Maybe just certain Asians—like Japanese (they’re super polite), or Thais, Filipinos, Indonesians… honestly, most of Southeast Asia is pretty chill. Maybe toss in a few Kiwis and Aussies too. They’re laid-back, and with those accents, it’d be kind of hilarious. Imagine if Steve Irwin had an N-word pass. Crikey N-! No? Just me?

Here’s the pitch: a reality show. Think Jeopardy! meets American Gladiators. Contestants compete against the likes of Clarence Thomas, Neil deGrasse Tyson, Mike Tyson, Mariah Carey, Chris Rock, Eminem, Snoop Dogg, etc.—in trivia, athletics, hair braiding, catalytic converter theft maybe even a rap battle—for a golden N-word pass. Winner gets to say it (soft “-gga,” obviously) for one year, after which it’s ceremoniously revoked.

Tell me that wouldn’t be must-watch TV.

And if anyone steals this idea, I expect a 10% finder’s fee—or else you know what I’m gonna call you… not nice!
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I’ve never been to Portland, but this is exactly what I imagine goes down there on the regular—and not just in Portland, but in every Denny’s bathroom across the globe. But especially in Portland. Why? It’s just the vibe. I don’t know. Maybe I watched one episode of Portlandia while mildly concussed and this is what I walked away with. Portland has always felt like a city out in the Pacific Northwest doing its own thing, like a dystopian Sims neighborhood that Sid from Toy Story built just to make all the residents as depressed as possible.

Is it pretty there (outside the city center) I bet. Would I like to go visit? Sure. I love to travel. I’ve been to 50+ countries, but never to Portland. Why not? Because there’s homeless encampments, drug dens underneath the freeways, gray overcast skies, and severe depression where I live. Why fly halfway across the country to get what I get for free in my own backyard?

I bet there are lots of stray dogs in Portland though. And I love dogs! So that might spur me to visit. But then I’d have to leave them behind, so I would just be bringing back some depression…maybe hepatitis…or gonorrhea if I eat out. So I’ll probably stay put for a while.

My gosh, this caption is such a downer. Just thinking about Portland has tanked my mood. Time to hit up Denny’s and demolish a few Grand Slam Breakfasts for a much-needed dopamine rush. And if that doesn’t help, there’s always this tweaker named Steve hanging around in the bathroom who swears he was on Portlandia and has a solid hookup. But I don’t believe him—wait a minute… oh my god…he’s Steve Buscemi?!? Whoa! Did I get a reach-around from Steve Buscemi?!?! That’s crazy!!!!

If you read this entire, comment:
“One time, I met Steve Buscemi in a Denny’s bathroom.”
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Dad and his friend are huge Metallica fans. So when he gets home and dinner isn’t ready, he plops down in his study to practice “Enter Sandman.” He’s an avid guitar player, but he struggles with the main riff’s galloping rhythm and the E minor to F power chord transition.

After a frustrating session, if he still can’t nail the fast palm-muted section before the solo, he heads to the kitchen and smashes… a few beers to relax and forget how sloppy his downpicking sounds.

If that doesn’t calm him down, he grabs a baseball bat and hits… some ground balls to my brother in the backyard. Mom’s not a fan—it ruins her tulips—so she nags him to stop.

If he’s still upset, he heads to the garage, grabs his 9-gauge, walks back into the kitchen, steadies his hand, and finishes off… rewiring the new LED lights he installed to match the custom kitchen he built for her.

Why he keeps copper wire in the gun cabinet has always boggled me. He says it’s for safety—since vagrants roam the neighborhood at night, breaking into garages. Sometimes, though, it’s just the neighbor, Mrs. Wilson, returning a borrowed drill.

Poor Mrs. Wilson never saw it coming. Who knew Dad could land a headshot from his recliner? I wouldn’t—especially since his fingers can’t even manage a clean E5 to F5 transition.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms out there—especially you, Mrs. Wilson. Your departure left a big void… especially since they still haven’t found you. But hey, my mom’s tulips are coming in beautifully. All thanks to you.

And don’t worry—Dad will learn “Enter Sandman” soon enough. It breaks his heart to hear your husband cry every night, at his attempt to master the muted triplet gallops and dual guitar harmonies of your favorite song.
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