Tag Archives: drunk driving

TJH 666: The Back Seat

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“You do know you’re carrying the spawn of the Dark Lord, right?”

Welcome back to your monthly installment of this quaint little shit show we like to call the Jamhole. Happy episode 666! Thanks for sticking around waiting patiently as we do our best to crank out more shows. In the meantime, there’s now 666 of them to listen to, so that’s a legit number for a minute right? I’m kidding, we’ll be back with more new shows as time permits. Also stick around at the end of the episode for a new track a friend of mine and I are working on.

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TJH 583: Safety First

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“Why do you want to watch me hang out on Facebook?”

Hello and welcome to episode 583 of the Jamhole free comedy podcast. Once again getting through another week or two of the complete and utter bullshit we call life to bring you life, revisited. Life imitating art imitating bullshit. Things are slowly getting back to normal, no thanks to old “friends” and “flames.” I do have some advice for you all in hindsight. This might be a complete duh moment for some of you, but I feel more enlightened at least. Once someone is out of your life, regardless of whatever minor attachments may be left clinging, keep them out of your life. Whatever the reasons you had for calling it quits are going to probably be far more logical than whatever the stupid reasons you are rationalizing letting them come back in for. Yes, even if you used to do a podcast with them. Yes, even if you used to date. Move on, find something better and start improving your life. It’s not worth it, no matter how minimal the contact. Read some notes and enjoy the show.

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Ep 262: Holy Hell

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“Everything fucking hurts and I’m sober, nothing is ok.”

The hunter stalks it’s prey, waiting¬†patiently¬†for the chance to strike. Sneaking slowly around corners, hiding in the shadows cast down by the grungy flickering street lights of the alley. You can hear the buzz of the moths as they circle around the warm glowing globe. Attracted to the light, attracted to the heat, don’t get too close though, or else you’ll burst into flames. The smells of rotting garbage caress the nose of the one who stalks. Corn stalks, wheat stalks, but none in comparison to this man. Standing six feet tall when fully erect, clothed in black cargo pants and black velcro shoes, a white shirt barely visible behind a long flowing black overcoat. Plenty of pockets filled with tools of the trade, a large razor sharp knife more for inflicting fear than anything else. A glock nine millimeter with two extra clips just in case. He’s never used it, but you never know when you might need it. Syringes filled with Etorphine Hydrochloride, allowing our hunter to easily subdue the prey with minimal fuss. The pin prick of the needle is all they feel, then darkness, then nothing. These are the tools of a man who has had enough. These are the tools of a man who has switched career paths, from a lowly office executive with nothing, living paycheck to paycheck in hopes of one day getting the praise he feels he deserves. The new job doesn’t pay as good monetarily, but money isn’t everything. It’s all about the feeling. The feeling of being in complete control of another. Watching the fear in their eyes as the last bit of blood drips from the wound, painting a slippery red mural on the dirty ground. Blood sweat and tears make the world go around. Thirty three percent of each, which leaves that last one percent to chance.

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