Jake W. Goldman

Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Trivia. Sometimes writer/actor/comedian, always Gator 🐊

[Jake W. Goldman @JakeWGoldman]

The grossest scene in The Substance was Dennis Quaid eating shrimp, and it’s not even fucking close.

[Jake W. Goldman @JakeWGoldman]

Every commentator about any non-playoff bowl they’re calling:

[Jake W. Goldman @JakeWGoldman]

One day the script writer for Home Depot commercials will be tried in whatever the dog version of The Hague is for all of the smoke alarm and doorbell commercials.

[Jake W. Goldman @JakeWGoldman]

Aside from the people I love there, the thing I miss most about Austin is Deep Eddy Cabaret.

[Jake W. Goldman @JakeWGoldman]

You’re telling me I need an acrobat to open this file?

[Jake W. Goldman @JakeWGoldman]

@dan_regester @JohnWillGlass @RobFoxThree Correct. Think it was patreon?

[Jake W. Goldman @JakeWGoldman]

@akgunns4507 It’s not even returns. It’s the complete Incapability to capitalize on momentum. It’s procedural stupidity. It’s literally saying you do things regardless of outcome. You can’t compare two sets of circumstances like that. Billy Napier would have to pull off a historic run.

[Jake W. Goldman @JakeWGoldman]

@akgunns4507 Define great

[Thomas Goldkamp @ThomasGoldkamp]

Florida's football program is in a dangerous, dangerous place, for reasons you might not expect on the surface.

Going to tweet a bit here. #Gators

[Jake W. Goldman @JakeWGoldman]

This is an elite take.

[Jake W. Goldman @JakeWGoldman]

Bringing outside toys inside is “breakfast for dinner” for dogs.

[Jake W. Goldman @JakeWGoldman]

@RobFoxThree Listen man, Blood Meridian is the only book I’ve read in 2 years, I have no other frame of reference.

[Rob Fox III @RobFoxThree]

It is July in Texas. The environment is unfit for human life. I stand in my front yard as my two small children scamper barefoot around the driveway, which has been baking in this hellscape’s unrelenting sun for hours. Their soft feet dance amongst the heat shimmers.

Flies buzz all around. Vultures circle above us. Our smell excites them. Eons of evolution have informed the creatures that inhabit this land that the mere presence of our tender, exposed flesh in this place portends our inevitable deaths. They expect to feast on us. On me. On my children.

My wife rushes outside. She is upset. This is all she can be. Only wretchedness and anger, like this hard country’s twisted and spiny flora, can flourish here.

“What are you doing!?! It’s a hundred degrees! Their feet are gonna get burned!”

I tell her I know. This is the point of the exercise. For our children to associate this time of day and this time of year with pain. Blistering, inescapable pain. I do this so they never ask me to bring them out here again. Into this furnace. They do not understand the pain yet. They must.

My wife has lived here long enough. She knows the ends I pursue are justified, though she will not say it aloud. She instead objects to my means. She tells me they are wrong.

I ask her what she means by “wrong.” She is incredulous.

“What the fuck are you talking about!?!”

She has been touched by the heat. It has made her agitated. Confused.

I clarify. I ask her if it is morality she speaks of.

“Dude, are you drunk?”

I tell her God is not here.

“WHAT!”

She hurries to our children. Puts her arms around them. Protects them. She is a good mother, but she does not see that I am protecting them as well.

I clarify again. I explain that if what she means to say is that my methods are morally objectionable she needn’t worry, because God does not watch this place. He does not look upon us here and thus he cannot judge what we do here.

My wife is afraid now. Outwardly, it would appear, of me. But it is of the truth I speak that she is really afraid.

She nervously tells me the Bible says God is everywhere.

I tell her to close her eyes.

“I want to take the kids inside. Now.”

I repeat myself, but she will not close her eyes. Just the same, I say. I tell her that I know she can feel what I feel. The heat, evaporating our souls out through our pores. The sun, cooking us until our skin bubbles with tumors.

God has left this place, I say. He cannot bear to look upon what he has created.

She is a Christian but she knows I am right. God does not reside where our family does. Here in the Texas Hill Country. She cries softly.

"You are drunk."

She has found my thermos of margaritas. I tell her not to let it obscure the truth I've spoken.

The children cry now too. Their feet hurt. They ask to go inside. We do. We turn on Bluey. We are happy in there. In there we will remain. Until November.

It is July in Texas.

[Jake W. Goldman @JakeWGoldman]

I saw someone I know who employs people say on IG that the eclipse being an excuse to stop working is a reason people are broke.

If you agree with this then let me assure you: people don’t hate working - they just hate working for you.

[Big Tucson Dad @BigTucsonDad]

you got a fast car
i got a plan to get us out of here

[Jon Favreau @jonfavs]

Finally, the tool that American voters have been asking for

[Jake W. Goldman @JakeWGoldman]

Why
Would monks
In
England
Have such snaily doodles???

[Jake W. Goldman @JakeWGoldman]

No one is braver than the CFP committee. #Heroes

[Jake W. Goldman @JakeWGoldman]

@PetahC @RobFoxThree @dan_regester @historysoftcore Would never send my boy out on some home gym budget rack like that.