Jamiemccarthytv

Tag: humor

  • The Physics of the Line

    What makes a good leader?

    Haha

    The Physics of the Line

    he must be a man who has

    tasted the barrel of the gun

    and found the metal

    cold and honest.

    he must have burned down

    his own house,

    sat in the ashes,

    drinking cheap scotch from a

    cracked mug,

    and decided to build it back

    without a single nail of

    pity.

    he must be dangerous.

    a violent thing

    wearing a quiet suit.

    a wolf who learned

    a knife and fork

    so the children don’t notice

    the teeth.

    he takes the screaming chaos

    of the universe,

    runs it through his ribs,

    and hands it back as

    calm instructions.

    he is the wall in the wind.

    the father who stays awake

    so the family can dream

    of meadows.

    we write books about him.

    we carve his face

    into mountains.

    we argue over

    vision,

    grit,

    the holy mechanics

    of command.

    burn the books.

    sand the statues down

    to dust.

    spit on the philosophy

    until only pavement

    is left.

    the answer is not in the man.

    it is in the space

    behind him.

    you ask what makes a

    good leader?

    turn around.

    if there is no one there,

    you are just a man

    taking a walk.

    if there is a line of

    warm bodies

    mistaking your shadow

    for a map,

    following your heels

    into the fire—

    congratulations.

    you are a leader.

    the rest is just

    marketing.

  • 19 Feminists

    Nineteen feminists
    —yeah, nineteen—
    were sentenced today
    for laundering bra straps.

    Not the Steinem warriors.
    Not the women who marched, bled, built, changed the goddamn world
    while men smoked on the porch
    and called it thinking.

    No.
    These were the new models.
    The knock-offs.
    The grievance influencers.
    Feminism with a filter.
    Oppression with a promo code plus a series of weak hashtags that only resignate with band wagon broads who’ve never turned the pages of a book beyond Woman’s World.

    And the prosecution—
    a collection of men
    who still need two hands
    to operate a zipper—
    said the defendants got “girly”
    with a plea bargain.

    Meaning:
    they spoke clearly.
    And weren’t apologizing
    for taking up oxygen.

    Then the judge—
    God bless him—
    a man whose worldview
    was embalmed sometime around
    the Reagan administration,
    issued his verdict like a man auditioning
    for a parody of himself:

    Women. For life.
    No parole.
    No shopping.

    The courtroom gasped.
    Mostly because the judge thought
    he was being edgy.

    And in the back?
    Steinem’s generation.
    Arms folded.
    Looking at this circus like teachers
    watching students
    act out Hamlet using emojis, and incomplete sentences.

    Attention all gentlemen:
    a few of these new-breed feminists
    are still on the loose.
    Yes, you’ll know them.
    They weaponize victimhood
    like pepper spray,
    and treat every polite man
    like a war criminal
    who forgot to Venmo reparations.

    But—
    listen to me now—
    if you’re one of the rare good men,
    the real ones,
    the diaper-changing,
    emotional-labor-sharing,
    I’m-here-I’m-present-I’m-accountable men—
    you’re safe.
    You’re invisible.
    They don’t attack you. Because they know you aren’t a murderer but are capable of doing so with your barehands if that means protecting the woman you love.

    They only go for men
    who look like authority
    or know how to use a wrench.

    If you get “hard up,”
    the state recommends:
    Handle it yourself.
    Safest option.
    Least paperwork.

    Ignore that
    and you’ll find yourself
    caught in the spin cycle—
    tumbled, shrunken,
    and left in the lint trap
    next to every man
    accused of sins such as
    “interrupting,”
    “breathing confidently,”
    or “existing while male
    in the general vicinity
    of a complaint.”

    Outside the courthouse?
    Oh, it gets better.
    They’re shouting
    “GLORIA STEINEM! PROSTITUTION!”
    like it’s a spell
    that summons empowerment
    instead of proving they’ve never read
    a single goddamn thing she wrote.

    Somebody tell the prosecution
    this is community service.
    A PSA.
    A reminder:
    that real feminism is a movement,
    not a mood swing with a merch table.

    Meanwhile the doctor—
    who’s clearly done with everyone—
    sent his report:
    “Surgery successful.
    Patience drained.
    Shirt removed.
    Libido parked.
    Safest place for it.”

    He’s running on empty,
    but insists feminism
    stole the gas cap.

    This from a man
    who’s been firing
    homemade grenades
    of insecurity into every conversation
    since 2009.

    It is not easy—
    trust me—
    being a man
    married to the cleaning lady
    when the cleaning lady
    is the only person in the house
    who understands equality
    and how a washing machine works.

    P.S.
    Before you forget—
    help your wife
    with the laundry.
    Not to earn points.
    Not to look woke.
    Not to impress anybody.

    Do it
    because lifting your own weight
    is the oldest
    and sexiest
    political statement
    you’ll ever make.

    Mccarthy, not Cormac, Jamie McCarthy

  • CIRCUS TRUTH

    The Program

    Circus Truth

    The television pukes in every corner bar,

    anchormen with porcelain teeth,

    their jaws, clacking wind-up dolls,

    selling fear like popcorn at the carnival.

    You don’t pick your truth anymore—

    it’s handed to you, pre-chewed,

    a soggy cigarette butt that’s passed around the alley and back.

    The left bleeds red ink,

    the right bleeds black bile,

    and the middle—

    there is no middle,

    just a beige carpet soaked with the bloody chunder of yesterday’s spin cycle.

    Every headline is a slot machine:

    pull the lever,

    watch the cherries line up to spell

    WAR, ASSASSINATION, PANIC, OUTRAGE, WOKE, UAP’S, THE SIMULATION.

    They give you “choice”

    like a prison cafeteria—

    mystery meat or a misery meet with sauce.

    And you nod,

    mouth full of microwaved narrative,

    because it’s all as good as plastic and BPA going down.

    The anchors smile,

    the podcasters scream,

    the Tik-Tokers beg to be put back in lockers.

    The news ticker scrolls like scripture,

    and the gospel is always the same:

    stay tuned, stay scared,

    stay stupid enough to buy what they’re selling.

    Meanwhile the truth—

    the real thing—

    squeezes into a clown suit,

    red nose, floppy shoes,

    juggling grenades for clicks.

    The crowd boos,

    but keeps buying tickets.

    That’s the joke, kid:

    truth doesn’t matter—

    the circus sells out anyway.

  • Nitroglycerin In A Clown Car

    I’m Thsmart

    Ignorance with confidence is nitroglycerin in a clown car. They slam the gas, swear they own the road, and when the wreckage burns, they call it a parade. The terrifying part isn’t the crash — it’s that the rest of us are strapped in the backseat, duct-taped to the seats, nodding along to the circus music. And the fools? They don’t die — they take a bow.

  • EVERY WORD IS ROPE

    Some of us were dumb enough to think we were chosen. Destined for greatness. I was one of those fools.

    Then life swung for the skull—my father gone when I was just twenty-four, my son gone at nineteen. That’s the punchline. And I’m still here, scribbling like a clown juggling knives at his own funeral.

    Every line I write turns to rope. And rope’s a funny bastard—you can climb it, you can hang from it. Lifeline and noose, same damn thing.

    And here’s where I laugh at myself: I can’t stand writers who always find a way to make it about them. But don’t mistake this for that—this isn’t me making it about me. This is me making it about you, making it about me. That’s the kind of pretzel you twist into when you’ve got nothing left but your own shadow to wrestle with.

    Greatness? That’s the carrot they dangle so you’ll chase yourself into the grave. The truth is simpler: I’m under the gallows, grinning through broken teeth, laughing at my own execution, and the only reason I keep writing is because hanging myself with my own words is the one thing I’ve ever done well.

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • BOY, STILL

    Don’t think i’ll ever not be one

    even when the back goes before the mind and i’m in aisle 9 arguing with a teenager about fiber supplements and suddenly crying because they don’t carry dad.

    I was a boy when dad looked at me, rope in hand, the knot a mess of looped embarrassment,

    and said,

    “boy, you’re not very salty, are you?”

    and i swear to god,

    i’ve been trying to earn that salt ever since.

    So call me boy.

    Boy when i’m on the floor, face down and sobbing for jack— my boy, my riot, my soft middle finger to the universe that left too early,

    like a drumbeat with no downstroke.

    Now i walk around with a ghost in my shoe and no idea how to dance anymore.

    Call me boy when i get stuck in the same daydream where jack is on some interstellar skateboard, wearing a crown made of mixtapes and unspoken apologies.

    He tosses me a beer that tastes like everything we never got to say, and says, “Don’t get too heavy, dad. this ain’t heaven, it’s just the white room in waiting”.

    so we just sit there,

    talking shit,

    swapping memories like baseball cards—

    me, the failed magician,

    Jack, the vanished trick.

    Call me boy, with a body never sacred, just a frame for grief to hang its coat on, a joke with a punchline i forgot halfway through.

    Call me boy whose grief has a sense of humor that knocks before entering and always farts when leaving.

    Call me boy

    when i weep at dog movies

    but not funerals.

    Call me boy

    when i stare too long at the moon

    like it’s my missing report card

    and then wonder,

    did we really land there?

    Boy like a lawnmower that only works in reverse.

    Boy like a sandwich made of spite and peanut butter.

    Boy like someone who thought stoic meant quiet rage earns trophies only for men.

    I’m all the boys

    who said, i got this

    then promptly didn’t.

    Who held screwdrivers like they were bones from animals they never learned to kill.

    I am not very salty but i am trying.

    maybe i became man too early,

    Maybe i went boy again too late.

    Or, maybe this is just the rot you earn when you outlive both ends of the line.

    And when death comes,

    i hope it’s weird.

    I hope it shows up in a bathrobe,

    smoking a cigar shaped like my childhood.

    I hope dad’s there—

    leaning against a celestial pier,

    watching me tie one last knot,

    and he says,

    still not salty, but boy, at least you’re funny.

    And when they bury me,

    call me boy one last time.

    Make it a joke.

    Make it sting.

    Make it true.

  • The Stoic and The Fraud

    The Stoic and The Fraud

    Lou came into the bar a familiar ghost with a boner,

    moving through the crowd like he was made of smoke and wet dreams.

    Not a man.

    More like an idea of a man,

    stitched together with sinew and sincerity,

    spewing  something sticky,

    something dangerous. Vulnerability, he called it.

    “Strength,” he said, his voice a convincing needle in a junkie’s arm,

    “is the courage to be soft in a world built of knives.

    Expose the meat. Show the gristle.

    Let them in, let them carve you open.”

    The bartender didn’t blink.

    The drunks in the corner didn’t care.

    ButI felt it in my teeth, 

    an electric fence buzz biting my molars. 

    Lou went on, spilling alpha male guts on the floor:

    “Love is the real revolution, man.

    Bleed it out. Don’t be afraid to cry,

    to ache, to feel.”

    I wanted to punch him.

    choke him.

    Vomit on his terrible shoes. 

    Because here’s the thing:

    Lou wasn’t the real deal, he was an untested idea

    with just enough soul and sinew,

    while I was a meat machine

    held together by duct tape and denial.

    I wouldn’t cry,

    not even if they put a gun to my head

    and said, Tell me how you feel.

    I’d laugh,

    Spit in their faces 

    And die. 

    Lou finished his drink,

    some clear shit served neat

    meant for better men,

    and left the bar a false prophet walking out of a burning church.

    I sat there,

    Uneasy in my own skin,

    thinking: What the fuck is wrong with me?

    I can’t do what he does.

    I can’t be soft, I don’t know that trick.  

    Because softness is a risk.

    It’s a scalpel and i’m nothing but scar tissue,

    stitched and glued together with fear and chewed Nicorette. 

    Lou is a goddamn cathedral of flesh and feeling. 

    I’m a busted vending machine, 

    spitting out rusty nails and bitter black coffee.

    So I ordered another club soda and cranberry

    Something that looks real but is no different than what a 2nd grader would order. 

    But, that works for me, it doesn’t talk back.

    Because strength?

    Strength is shutting up,

    locking the door,

    and pretending you’re whole

    even as you crumble.

    And if that’s a lie,

    then fuck it.

    I’ll take the lie.

    Spoken Word Jamie McCarthy

  • Last Man Standing

    I walk into a bar.

    Not a “mixology lounge,”

    not a “craft cocktail experience,”

    just a bar.

    A place where the stools wobble

    and the whiskey doesn’t need a citrus garnish or an approval rating.

    I take a seat.

    The bartender nods.

    He knows.

    I don’t ask for a menu.

    Don’t scan a QR code.

    I say “club soda and cranberry, neat,”

    because I’m here to rehydrate,

    not curate an experience.

    To my left, a guy swirls a drink

    that looks like it was made in a science lab.

    A woman to my right stares at her phone, checking for notifications that will never make her happy.

    The TV plays a fight.

    Real men bleed on the screen.

    No one apologizes for it.

    I exhale.

    “You good?” the bartender asks.

    “Better now.”

    Outside this bar,

    the world is drenched in apologies.

    Men say “sorry” before they speak.

    Before they order a steak.

    Before they hold a door open.

    Before they exist.

    They bend over backwards, twist themselves into apologetic pretzels just to prove they’re not like the bad ones.

    They’re “safe.”

    They’re “allies.”

    They’re “good men.”

    And in doing so, they’ve traded self-respect for a participation trophy in male guilt. And, potentially given the obvious away, these men aren’t trustworthy. Shakespeare would tell you same.  

    I refuse to participate in the virtue game. Maybe it’s better to let them know you are recovering.  Healing the guilt that comes with being masculine. Some would call it barbarism, I call it, science. 

    A woman sits next to me.

    “You alone?” she asks.

    “No, I came with my emotional support group.

    We just broke for snacks.”

    She smirks.

    A real one.

    Not a “haha, I hate you but you’re paying” kind of smirk.

    A flicker of genuine intrigue.

    She orders a drink.

    A real one.

    Not a “pink nonsense in a mason jar.”

    Not a “statement piece for Instagram.”

    I raise an eyebrow.

    “What, no oat milk?”

    She laughs.

    I laugh.

    And for a moment,

    we exist in a world before the noise.

    Before men became house-trained.

    Before attraction was a liability.

    Before everything we said

    needed a disclaimer.

    A world where men led,

    women challenged,

    and neither needed a corporate webinar to explain the difference.

    Outside, the world keeps spinning.

    The New Age Man is still waiting

    for permission to be masculine.

    The Diversity Committee is still

    conducting witch trials in the break room. And the Virtue Hustlers are still selling rebellion at a markup.

    Last man standing

    But me?

    I finish my drink,

    tip my bartender,

    and walk out into the night,

    unapologetic.