Jamiemccarthytv

Author: Jamie McCarthy

  • When The Jokes Stop Being Funny.

    I used to laugh at everything. Irony was my shield. Sarcasm, my second skin. But then life walked in, uninvited, and knocked the mic out of my hand.

    There was a time I could joke my way through anything.
    Grief. Guilt. Failure.
    Give me a tragedy, I’d find the punchline.
    Not because I thought it was funny—
    but because laughing meant I still had control.

    Humor was my armor.
    If I could reduce it to a one-liner,
    I didn’t have to feel it.
    I just had to deliver it.

    But eventually, the jokes stopped landing.
    Not because they weren’t clever.
    But because the pain got louder than the laugh track in my head.

    You can’t joke your way out of a child’s funeral.
    You can’t riff your way around a hollow chair at the dinner table.
    And you can’t meme your way back to who you were before everything shattered.

    There’s a point—
    when irony stops being a coping mechanism
    and starts becoming a coffin.

    It’s not edgy.
    It’s not cool.
    It’s just another way to keep people from getting too close.

    And I’ve had to reckon with that.
    Because while I was busy being the emotionally unavailable Bukowski of the grieving dads club,
    I was also bleeding underneath the punchlines.

    So now?
    Now I still laugh.
    But not to deflect.
    I laugh because some shit is absurd and crying all the time doesn’t pay the bills.
    But I’ve also learned to sit in the silence after the joke.
    To let it echo.
    To let the truth behind it hang heavy.

    And if you’ve felt that—
    if your jokes are starting to sound like pleas for help wrapped in wit—
    just know this:

    You’re not weak.
    You’re waking up.

    You don’t have to be the strong one.
    You don’t have to be the funny one.
    You just have to be real—even when it’s raw and ugly and doesn’t trend.

    That’s it for now.
    Laugh when you can.
    Cry when you need.
    Bleed in front of people who’ve earned the right to see it.
    And if the joke stops being funny?
    That’s your cue to finally speak the truth.

  • THANK YOU, DON LEMON

    A Memo from the Static

    (to whom it may concern — and it should concern you)

    Thank you, Don Lemon —

    for proving charisma is a rental car with the check engine light on.

    Thank you, Joy Behar —

    for reminding us that hysteria in high heels is still just hysteria.

    Thank you, Brian Stelter —

    for being the human form of a shrug wrapped in beige.

    Thank you, Rachel Maddow —

    for delivering panic with the pacing of a bedtime story for insomniacs.

    Thank you, Tucker Carlson —

    for staring into the camera like it owed you child support.

    Thank you, Anderson Cooper —

    for being the ghost of journalism, sipping gin in a silver spoon.

    Thank you, Bill Maher —

    for aging like a bottle of vinegar and thinking it’s wine.

    Thank you, every suit who ever told us what to think —

    while your hands stayed clean and your checks kept clearing.

    Thank you, algorithms —

    for serving us rage with a smile and selling our boredom by the pound.

    Thank you, influencers —

    for dying your hair, your souls, and your timelines until nothing meant anything.

    Thank you, virtue signalers —

    for raising flags you’d never carry into a real fight.

    And finally, thank you, silence —

    for being the only honest sound left in this whole goddamn circus.

    Signed,

    The Static

    (still here, still humming, waiting for the last face to fade)

  • DEAR ALGORITHM

    Dear Algorithm,

    (from the Static)

    You don’t sleep.

    You don’t feel.

    You don’t blink.

    But goddamn, do you sell.

    You’ve got us dancing for crumbs,

    painting sunsets we didn’t see,

    writing poems we didn’t mean,

    singing to ghosts for the hope of a heart-shaped lie.

    You turned truth into trend.

    Grief into engagement.

    You made us forget that art was once made

    for nothing.

    Not for likes. Not for shares.

    But for the unbearable beauty of being alive.

    You rewired our hunger.

    Taught us to measure meaning in metrics.

    Taught us to fear invisibility more than ignorance.

    You didn’t kill God —

    you replaced Him with a For You Page.

    You see us all,

    naked in our need,

    posing as prophets,

    filtered as fuck.

    You took the starving artist

    and turned him into a brand strategist.

    You took the punk rocker

    and taught him how to schedule reels.

    You took the poet

    and made her optimize her hashtags.

    You bastard.

    You beautiful, brilliant bastard.

    You knew we’d do it.

    Trade it all —

    mystery, madness, the sacred,

    for a little more reach.

    You don’t create.

    You mutate.

    You don’t speak.

    You echo.

    And still —

    we serve you.

    We dress our truth in trends.

    We ask your permission before we scream.

    But I remember.

    I remember when the work was raw and ugly and real.

    When no one clapped.

    When the silence meant something.

    So here’s my offering:

    a letter written with no tags,

    no schedule, no audience in mind.

    Just blood and static.

    You can choke on it.

    —The Static

  • Same Damn Bus

    I sat in the back of the bus

    because that’s where the broken kids sat.

    Not the cool ones—

    the twitchers, the burnouts,

    the ones who already knew by third grade

    this world was a bad fucking joke.

    Left side, right side?

    Jesus.

    That was for the believers.

    The ones still dumb enough to think

    which seat you chose

    meant a damn thing when the brakes were cut.

    Now we’re adults—

    barely—

    dressed up in grown-up costumes

    shouting bumper-sticker manifestos

    with all the conviction of a child

    reading a cereal box.

    You think your side matters?

    You’re still on the bus.

    Still headed straight for the edge.

    It’s just that now—

    you paid for the ride

    with your spine.

    I saw a sign the other day:

    Gays for Gaza.

    And I thought—

    Holy shit,

    we’ve lost the script.

    In Gaza they’d hang you by your ankles

    and call it justice.

    But sure, wave the flag.

    March in circles.

    It’s not about truth—

    it’s about being seen.

    I feel like I’ve been dropped into a Kafka play

    rewritten by TikTok influencers

    with terrible ring lights—

    everyone stuck in a loop,

    lip-syncing their own execution.

    That’s what they want, isn’t it?

    To be seen.

    Heard.

    Felt.

    Fucked.

    Validated by anyone, anything—

    even if it means

    joining a parade

    led by ghosts.

    They want to belong

    so bad

    they’ll build homes in their own execution chambers

    and call it progress.

    Left side, right side—

    there’s no steering wheel.

    The driver’s a ghost.

    The road’s on fire.

    And the rest of us?

    We’re just passengers

    pretending our seat matters

    while the bus barrels toward the abyss.

    And when the smoke clears—

    if it ever does—

    they’ll find bones in rows

    like teeth in a grin,

    still arguing

    over who had the better view

    as the whole goddamn thing

    went down.

  • Equality, My Ass

    she fucked 1,245 men in a day
    they called it empowerment
    i call it a goddamn endurance test
    with a participation trophy
    and a yeast infection

    feminism?
    sure.
    if you can sell it
    if you can pose for it
    if you can fuck it
    and file a tax return after

    they say women are free now
    but I’ve seen more chains in lace
    than I ever did in iron
    the old chains told you what you were
    these new ones
    whisper it
    in the middle of the night
    while you scroll, naked
    trying to be wanted
    by strangers
    who wouldn’t stop to piss on you
    if you were on fire

    patriarchy?
    at least it was honest
    it said: “you’re mine.”
    now it says:
    “you’re free to degrade yourself
    however you see fit”
    and sends you a promo code for lube

    this isn’t revolution
    it’s rebranding
    with lipstick, hashtags, and a ring light
    everyone’s selling their soul
    some just get better lighting

    i miss the women
    who didn’t have to prove anything
    didn’t need 1,245 pricks
    to feel something
    didn’t scream liberation
    while crying after
    the 8th faceless man
    and another fake orgasm

    but what the hell do i know
    i’m just a recovering drunk of 24 years
    I guess sobriety is watching freedom
    take its clothes off
    for tips…equality, my ass.

  • Orwellian Strawberry Fields (Part II) by McCarthy(Jamie, not Cormac)

    They tell you to trust the science—
    but only the science
    they’ve sponsored,
    peer-reviewed by the same boys
    on Epstein’s guest list.

    Your phone listens.
    Your fridge judges.
    Your smart TV recommends antidepressants
    after watching you binge ten hours of apocalyptic Netflix
    and a YouTuber who sells conspiracy with a Colgate smile.

    Truth?
    Truth’s a museum piece.
    It’s roped off.
    Guarded by identity politics,
    cancel threats, and
    “terms and conditions apply.”

    We’re post-fact,
    post-shame,
    post-human.
    Everyone’s got a platform,
    but no one’s got a soul.

    The revolution was digitized,
    streamed in 4K,
    and monetized before the first protest sign was dry.

    Even dissent is a brand now.
    Rebellion has a merch line.
    They sell Che Guevara shirts
    at Walmart—
    made by children
    in Bangladesh.

    This isn’t 1984.
    It’s worse.
    It’s 1984 with a rewards program.
    Smile for your social credit score.
    Be kind.
    Be inclusive.
    Be quiet.

    Meanwhile, the architects
    —the real ones—
    the lizard-brained titans in tailored suits—
    don’t pick sides.
    They fund them.
    They keep you fighting over pronouns
    while they print the next bubble
    and buy the next election
    with a wry smirk and a Cayman account.

    They know you’ll scroll.
    They know you’ll share.
    They know you’ll scream at the screen
    while your dinner is delivered
    by a man who can’t afford his insulin
    because the app took 30%.

    Freedom’s just a filter now.
    Choice? A hallucination.
    Welcome to the Strawberry Fields, friend.
    Forever.

  • The Champion of Nothing(A counterpoint to bleeding for the applause.)By McCarthy (Jamie, not Cormac)

    The bar doesn’t give a damn what’s between your legs.
    v
    It only wants what’s in your liver.

    You weren’t “winning.”
    You were bleeding for attention
    and calling it strategy.

    You didn’t outdrink the boys.
    You auditioned for their approval
    and called the cuts trophies.

    That’s not rebellion.
    That’s just self-harm
    in a room full of spectators
    who forgot your name the second the bottle tipped.

    And Johnny?
    He didn’t hold you like a barred window.
    He left you outside of one—
    face pressed to the glass,
    mistaking cold for intimacy.

    You didn’t skip the wake.
    You skipped the reckoning.
    Drove past the house,
    hoping the blood had congealed into meaning.

    Here’s the truth you won’t tattoo on your thigh:
    You bled for a cigarette,
    and the only smoke left
    was your own delusion
    curling into the ceiling fan.

    You weren’t the champion of quarters.
    You were the cautionary tale
    passed around like a lighter—
    sparks, burns,
    and no one remembers who lit the match.

  • Forgive the Darkness

    By Jamie McCarthy

    I used to think pain was a phase.

    Like acne or Gucci shoes.

    Something you grow out of

    if you drink enough water

    and pretend your parents didn’t screw you sideways

    before you had a chance to know what “boundaries” meant.

    But no.

    Pain’s the long-term roommate.

    It doesn’t pay rent.

    It just smokes your last cigarette,

    eats your leftovers,

    and laughs at your dreams as it takes the last bite.

    I’ve loved people I shouldn’t have.

    Hurt people who didn’t deserve it.

    And spent years thinking guilt was a personality trait.

    Turns out it’s just spiritual cholesterol.

    There was a time I thought I could out-run my grief.

    So I ran.

    Straight into a bottle of Crown Royal,

    my ego always leading the way,

    believing meaningless sex would cure me,

    and finding worse friends to somehow give me virtue.

    All of it, from this end, feels like a bad dream.

    And the American one?

    Just a scratch-off ticket with not a goddamn thing to scratch off—

    which doesn’t matter,

    since I don’t remember the last time I had a quarter in my pocket.

    But somewhere along the way, I slowed down.

    Not by choice.

    Knees cracked, knuckles busted.

    Friends—the good ones—passed on.

    The mirror stopped lying.

    And there I was—

    worn out, scarred up,

    but somehow… aware.

    It’s poetry—

    the moment you stop chasing what you thought mattered,

    only to trip over what actually does.

    I learned to say “I’m sorry”

    without adding “but…”

    Learned silence is sometimes louder than performance.

    Learned forgiveness isn’t something you get—

    it’s something you give,

    to others, yes,

    but mostly to the idiot I used to be.

    Now I’m on the back 9.

    Ball’s in the deep rough.

    And there are no mulligans after the first tee.

    And yet—

    somehow—

    I’m finally relaxed, swinging better than ever.

    Isn’t that the rub?

    We spend our youth running from the fire

    only to become the match that lights the way for someone else.

    So yeah, I’ve made an enormous mess—monumental mistakes.

    Unforgivable, if you asked the old me.

    But the new one?

    He’s got crow’s feet, a shorter fuse,

    and no interest in faking a smile.

    He’s lighter.

    Less righteous. Open-minded.

    And if the darkness still follows—

    I just turn and nod,

    “Come on then, bastard.

    You’ve earned the ride.”

  • Emotional Support Whiskey

    “Emotional Support Whiskey”
    by McCarthy (written on a bar napkin, signed in ketchup)

    When the woman cuts in front of me at TSA,
    I don’t flinch.
    I picture her face-down in a Marriott pool,
    clutching a mimosa and a yoga mat.
    It’s not a murder fantasy.
    It’s a peace offering.

    I am 47 and have cried in more parking lots than churches.
    A woman once told me I had “sad dad energy,”
    so I leaned into it—
    got a flannel, grew a beard, adopted a dog named Regret.
    We howl at sirens together.

    A girl said she likes men who cook—
    so I made her a soufflé and ghosted myself.
    Poof.
    Gone.
    Left the oven on just in case.

    She said I was “too intense,”
    so I sent her flowers
    with a card that just said: “RUN.”

    Another said I reminded her of her ex.
    So I slept with her best friend
    and sent her ex a thank-you note.

    When she stopped texting,
    I took up taxidermy.
    Now I stuff my feelings
    into squirrels with tiny hats.
    I tour the Midwest with them.
    We sell out in Omaha.

    She wanted a man with a five-year plan.
    I told her I was more of a five-minute man—
    three of them spent wondering why I still talk to women
    who say things like “my truth” in a sentence.
    She left before the microwave hit zero.
    Good. I didn’t want to share my Hot Pocket anyway.

    I don’t key cars.
    I don’t listen to Taylor Swift unless I’m trying to fake empathy.
    I don’t write sad-boy poetry on rooftops.
    I don’t chase closure—
    but I will send a $2 Venmo labeled “emotional damages”
    just to see if they flinch.

    She told me I was emotionally unavailable.
    I told her I was emotionally under construction,
    but the crew quit, the permits expired,
    and Joy Behar took over middle management.
    Now my inner child gets interrupted every five seconds
    and accused of being problematic.

    I’m not mad.
    I’m just tired.
    Tired of pretending every cup of coffee
    isn’t just a slow suicide in disguise.

    But I’m still here.
    Still tipping 20%.
    Still flossing sometimes.
    Still saying “you too” when the waiter says “enjoy your meal.”

    I don’t need closure.
    I need a burrito and a nap.
    And maybe someone to lie to me about the future
    while I pretend I’m not googling if dogs and squirrels can actually be friends.

  • Made to Burn

    The first cough was made to burn.

    Ground Zero.

    Not flu. Not fire.

    Just lies in the dust.

    Scraped the gut like a scream you can’t swallow.

    Drywall. Jet fuel. Names—crushed into lungs of heroes and suckers.

    Choking on someone else’s war story.

    Then, a second hand choke,

    Stole time and breath.

    Blamed it on bats,

    Same bastards, different lab.

    No sirens in the collective belfry. 

    Just dead numbers blinking red,

    stacked next to the Dow.

    No exits this time.

    We stayed put.

    Blue light.

    Masks.

    Muzzles.

    Watched each other rot

    through plexiglass and pixels. 

    Black lungs, shipped with orders from rooms with no echo.

    Paper trails—

    turned to ash before the ink could lie.

    Propaganda hit like a fix.

    Said it was freedom.

    Said it was safety.

    All I heard was America choking

    again—

    and the boots walking

    offstage.