The Not That Great Podcast

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Wednesday, February 15, 2017

Atheistjustin Hates You and Says 'What Up'

I fucking hate you. What's up?

I have been pretty busy lately avoiding my responsibilities and shooting off into a dirty sock but I found a little time and energy today to write a little.

I have another tattoo since we last spoke. Something that I always daze and wonder about is what it must be like to have a father that truly loves you. But sometimes I wonder who the first asshole was that decided, "hey, let's take this sharp, metal object and put it into some ink and then take that same sharp, metal object and stab it right into my fucking body."

This asshole, probably a Chinese guy, invented tattooing and now hipsters like myself get quotes from a shitty poem they read in 10th grade on their ribcages or stupid fucking anchors by their ankles. I'm talking about YOU, skinny white bitch.

Anyway, I'm sorry for yelling at you, but yes I got another tattoo. This makes #10 and makes it the 10th time I've severely upset my grandparents.

For whatever reason, probably because I was hammered the night before, I kept bleeding horrendously out of my shoulder, which then was wiped off and tattooed over again. It was like rubbing my shoulder against an abrasive wall over and over again while Barbara Streisand licked my nipple with a corn dog.

Do you have any idea what that means? I don't. Go ask your English professor.

Speaking of English professors, I've got a lot I want to go on a tangent about. So buckle up, tell your mother you love her, and let's go deep into the anal of my mind.

I am an English major- so I will be poor my whole life- but additionally, I take a litany of English courses. Hey, look! I used the word 'litany!' I went to collage.

Anyway, in this field there are 2 kinds of English teachers: the bulls and the bullshitters.

What I mean by that is this: there are some professors who are genuinely insightful and intelligent and actually add to my overall knowledge of the world. There are some professors who really have enlightened me into the world of art, the history of the world, and fastened my understanding of the human condition.

Other teachers are a bunch of smelly cunts that have gone bloody and unwashed. Did you like that reference? No? Welcome to

One professor I currently have  is one of those teachers that says, "Hm, Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. I get what you're saying. Yeah. Yeah." This guy says this about every foreseeable sentence that could ever be created.

I could say, "hey, Abraham Lincoln inspired Hitler," and this guy would say, "Ah, yeah, I see what you mean by that. That's interesting."

English as a major is very interesting because, again, there are some classes and writings that I genuinely feel make me a smarter person and then there are other texts that may as well have been written with human shit and have taught me that I hate everyone.

Perhaps the worst thing about being an English major is other English majors.

I'll tell you right now, it is hard to find a normal, male English major. By 'normal' I mean someone that doesn't have: dyed hair, a severe smoking habit, stupid tattoos, a poor relationship with their parents, doesn't vape, doesn't wear beanies inside, and shuts the fuck up every once in a while.

For the most part, every other English major is a stupid cunt- and I don't mean cunt in the derogatory feminine way. I would never call a woman a cunt. Unless she was being a cunt. In all honesty, I reserve the term cunt for males because, really, only men can act like cunts. Women have cunts and therefore, vicariously, are expected to behave in a certain way that is affected by their cunts. So, in my opinion, cunt can really only be applied to males who are cuntless. Does that make any sense? Have I severely offended you yet? Am I making any sense? Where is this guy's post going??????


Anyway, in addition to getting ¥atted and getting angry at other people with my major, I have also come to the conclusion that I hate partying.

If you really break down a party, what's going on here?

"Hey, wanna stand around in a circle and say things?"
"Yeah, sure. Are we going to avoid all other friend groups that are there?"
"Oh, absolutely."
"Will there be music?"
"Will it be good?"
"Absolutely not."
"Is there booze?"
"Keystone Light and 8 dollar vodka."
"Sounds horrible."
"Oh it is."
"Are we going to get laid?"
"Most likely not."
"Well SIGN ME UP!!!!"

The whole purpose of a party is to invite that girl in your philosophy class with the big tushy so that hopefully after 6-7 drinks deep you've said to yourself, 'fuck it,' and went to talk to her- avoiding the obvious fact that you're ugly and going to die alone.

But, if you're wifed like me, parties seem pretty pointless. At best, you're going to watch someone get super fucked up and do something dumb and break a thing. Or break themselves. Or eat their own ass.

That one Bar-Mitzvah got weird.

Just last week, I was at a party during the day, or as the kid's call it: 'daging.'

As I was standing there, drinking a shitty cup of Keystone Light, I thought to myself, "Why am I even here?"

Am I trying to make friends? Fuck no. I already have too many. 3 friends is enough. You don't need more than 3. And it's not like I'm really going to bond with another man while I'm 6 beers deep. After a few drinks, I start to forget even the most basic shit. Here's a conversation with a drunk me:

"What's your name"
"Whats your major"
"Oh that's interesting, what do you wanna do with that?"
"Ah, so what does your dad do?"
"Cool, cool. I'm sorry, what's your name again?"

And then this circle of alcoholism and mental retardation just keep perpetuating themselves on and on and on until I've left to refill my cup or the cops have come and broken up the party or I have taken my penis out and it's already too late to save myself.

Am I still going to attend parties? Yeah, I guess. But it's for the stupid reason of the 'fear of missing out.' But really, what the fuck am I missing? You're singing 'Closer' into your Snapchat? Cool! Really sad I missed that! Darn!

This has been one of the more angsty blogs I've put up but since nothing crazy has happened to me of late, I'll just have to make due with what I've got. Lots of Angst.

I will leave you now with a picture of Betty White.

PLEASE. Tell your friends about this website.

Wednesday, January 11, 2017

Atheistjustin Hosts the New Year

This past semester was a bigger pain in my ass than the dementia-ridden old man in the middle of the intersection not sure of why he's in a car in the first place or where his wife is (even though she had died 15 years ago). Was that too specific? Welcome to

Anyway, to relieve the anxiety of being Vice President of a Fraternity, working 3 jobs, taking 16 credits, reading more books in a week than the average human reads in a lifetime, and dealing with my chronic laziness and semi-alcoholism, I decided it would be a good idea to host New Years Eve.

As you may recall, if you're a frequent reader, last year I attended one of the most baller New Years of all time. There was literally a Champagne Fountain. And I don't mean that poor people term where theres a bunch of glasses stacked on top of each other and someone pours a bottle on top to let it flow to the rest- no, no. I mean, this was an actual fountain that continuously poured out champagne.


I was inebriated by 10:59 while wearing a pocket square.

Fun side note- while at this shin dig, I tried getting it in with some girl I met, only to lose to a man who would eventually come out as gay. If you're reading this, hey RJ.

But, this year there was no baller shindig and so I decided to throw a banger at my off-campus house.

This was a terrible idea.

To put it simply, the word had gotten out that this was a thing. And though I anticipated some people coming, it turned out to be a lot of motherfucking drunk people in my house. I would argue that at the height of the evening, there were at least 200 people in my house.

Who was there watching everything? Who was checking people at the door? Who was making sure nobody got too drunk and died? Who is my real father?


I was the only one.

I began the night sipping on a little Jameson. Yes, I am a functioning alcoholic, but as long as I'm in college, nobody cares. Anyway, I was about 2 glasses deep when people finally started pouring in. I lit up a Romeo & Juliet (a cigar for you children), and began asking people who they were and who they were with.

My initial plan was to do this for an hour or so and then have fun time.

This did not go according to plan.

There was a sea of people- a mass of drunk college kids all trying to swarm into my house. My house. The place I pay rent and electricity for. The place where I take my sacred shits. The place I go to make macaroni and cheese while drunk.

Eventually this got out of hand to the point where I knew I wouldn't be consuming ANY alcohol until the night was over.

So there I am, in this alleyway checking to see who the hell is coming into my house. One of my buddies brought 20 people, literally 20 people, and 1 of them decided, "Hey, this guy looks really stressed out- like there's 200 human beings in the place where he keeps glass objects and nobody is helping him. Maybe I should assist."

To that sweet boy, I thank you dearly as he was one of the only people legitimately helping with the situation. Including him, the only true support I received was from my long-dicked amigo Alfred. Ti voglio bene, Alfredo.

So here I am. Checking all these people: "who are you? who are you with? how many? Your dress looks nice. Why do you smell like shit? Guys pee outside, girls pee inside. My dad should have pulled out."

On top of that, every 15 minutes I would go in and check to see if someone was puking- and usually there was. I counted about 3 different women all throwing up. In addition to the ladies that couldn't quite handle their alcohol, I must have calmed down 5-6 different intoxicated men all of whom were trying to break people and things.

Finally, the ball drops and I got to enjoy about 9 seconds of remembering that this isn't a horrible nightmare but actually the last day of 2016.

After spending 5 minutes with people I have never seen before in my life in my living room, I went back outside to watch the flow of humans and also make sure I didn't get arrested.

While heading back to my position, I noticed the neighbors all crowded together in their back yard. What could this be?

My neighbors are hispanics- most likely not US Citizens- but they are nice from what I can tell. Perhaps they are doing some Mexican ritual for the New Year. Maybe they're just standing together, enjoying the crisp air and enjoying the solemnity of beginning a year with a fresh start.



The God damn Mexicans set off fireworks.

Motherfucking cocksucking ball draining whore fucking shit bird on a Jew. Fuck.

There are explosions in the air, lights all around, drunk people screaming. My buddy comes up to me, very drunk, and screams "EVERYBODY SHOULD GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE NOW. THERE ARE DEFINITELY GOING TO BE COPS HERE."

I thought for a second and realized that I had not seen a single police vehicle pass down my street this whole evening. However, considering there were just loud explosions, it seemed likely that New Brunswick's finest would come to my area and see 200 drunk people in my house. Ultimately, this would not be a good situation for me.

So, following his advice, I told everyone to kindly go fuck themselves and get out of my house.

I cut the music off and very nicely told everyone to leave.

There were so many motherfucking people in my house that it took AN ENTIRE HOUR AND THIRTY MINUTES for everyone to leave.

One girl lost her phone- another lost her ID- many lost their dignity. Guys couldn't find their friends. Girls couldn't find their shoes. It was a train wreck and it had only been going on for an hour and a half.

By the time everybody cleared out I was dead. I was so drained from constantly checking up on people that I felt like I had just been gang banged. In many ways, I was.

I remembered that I still had 1 last cigar left so I grabbed it, pulled up a chair on my porch, poured myself another glass of Jameson, and sat there watching the cars move like a divorced 56-year old man.

It was the greatest New Years ever.

A few minutes later, some guy came out of the alleyway beside my house and told me that he had been in the attic while everyone was leaving. What was he doing in my attic? Oh, you know, the usual: having sex with a random woman.

I didn't know him or her. All I knew is that the carpet upstairs would be sticky and this guy's name was Brad.

He sat and talked to me for about a half an hour until stumbling away down the streets and, to this day, probably has no idea who I am or where he was at 2:35 AM on January 1st 2017- but I know I do.

Anyway, Spring semester begins in just a week- and as you can imagine it will be some time until my next post.

But, as soon as I have the time, energy, and the story to tell, I will.

I will leave you now with a picture of Dog, the Bounty Hunter.

Spring Break Bod 2017.

Sunday, November 27, 2016

Atheistjustin Checks in on You

Haven't had a lot of time during the school year to post a lot. But, with the election, the Holiday Season, finals week, and all that shit, I just want to let all of you know that everything's going to be okay.

So chill out. Stop fearing the end of the world.

Our new president looks like a cross between a carrot and a scare-crow, but everything is gonna be okay.

I'll get back to you sons of bitches with more posts about my exciting life in a few weeks when this conundrum that we call college is over.



Saturday, October 8, 2016

Atheistjustin Has Some Visitors

It was a regular ass day. Nothing out of the blue.  didn't do any of the reading I was supposed to, argued unsuccessfully with my woman, and pretended to care about baseball.

At the end of the night, however, I had a 2 unexpected, uninvited guests.

First and foremost, if you don't already know, I live in the shittiest Fraternity House known to mankind. And that is really saying something. 

This historic death trap will one day kill me, and has already taken a toll on my liver, soul, and anus, but boy has it given me some fucking stories. 

And no, this isn't a frat 'lodge.' I don't wear a bowtie and stick things up undergrads' assholes. This thing is a part-time Crack Pipe Haven part-time Fetty Wap Flagship. 

As a part of being in this flagship of AIDS, there are always people strolling in on a regular basis. Sometimes someone is just dropping by. Sometimes people lose things from the night before and are trying to recover them: phones, wallets, ID's, virginities, self-respect, dignity, etc. 

Anyway, as my housemates and I were gathered in the loving room around the TV, it was nothing out of the ordinary hearing a knock on the front door.

Door opens, we hear footsteps up the stairs, someone yells, "yo!" A regular occurrence.

It was a little surprising, however, when the footsteps belonged to two 40-year old men. 

One greeted us by promptly informing us that he belonged to our same Fraternity at another school and the other told us that was a Rutgers Alum but from another Fraternity. 

Well, that's nice guys but its 10:45pm and we're just trying to watch baseball without our dads right next to us. 

They took a seat and proceeded to drink beer that didn't belong to them. I figured they'd stick around for like 10-15 minutes. 

Well, a full 1 hour 20 minutes later they were still in my fucking living room. 

After about 5 minutes, we quickly realized they were both hammered having just come back from seeing Andrew Dice Clay at the Stress Factory. Most strangers who enter my house are usually under the influence of something, so I was unfazed. 

Hickory Dickory Dock, These Drunk Bastards Didn't Even Knock. 

If you don't get the reference you can go fuck yourself. 

Anyway, I got to talking to them and asked them what they did for a living. 

They then proceeded to pull out 2 guns.

I'll repeat.

They then both pulled out guns. 

This turned out to be an interesting story right??? Aren't you glad you stuck around?

Questioning why they both had semi-automatic weapons, they began to explain they were both off-duty cops and one of them was even a Narcotics officer. 

As he was telling us this there were 2 bongs and about a half an ounce of pot on the living room table. There were just enough drugs for us all to get arrested. 

Someone asked if they ever shot or killed anybody. One said, "Yes, there's a video on YouTube. Look up 'unjust Somerville Shooting'"

That's nice.

After watching the video, I have to be honest, the shooting was pretty just. 

The night proceeded for AN HOUR AND A HALF of them telling us about college in the 90's and how gay we are for not having enough beer for them to drink as though we are responsible for fueling their alcoholism and inevitable divorces. 

If you're reading this and want to know when your welcome has been expired, ITS AN HOUR AND A HALF. 

After enough awkwardness had ensued, and I didn't feel like being the one to politely ask them to leave, I went into my room to go back to my usual routine of not doing my homework. 

Eventually they left leaving us to wonder when the next incredibly unwelcomed and awkward guests will show up. 

Thursday, September 1, 2016

Atheistjustin Wrote You A Short Story

Hey assholes.

As I continue to focus mainly on making podcasts and masturbating, I don't have a ton of stuff to put up here on my blog about my shitty, shitty life.

As many of you know, I recently finished moving into my off-campus housing. This wonderful pile of shit will probably be where I die. Between the wonderful New Brunswick populous that are wonderfully inclined to break into your home and murder you to the holes in the ceiling and mold spores on each and every wall of the house, there is a 98% chance this is my last year on planet earth.

All that being said, I am sure living in this hell-hole will probably give me a ton of content but most of it will be broadcasted orally via my podcast.

If you're too new to this site to not have seen the post directly before, you can listen to my podcast either on soundcloud or on the iTunes Podcast app that you probably didn't even know you had.

Anyway, below is a short-story I wrote a year or so ago and have been unable to find a home for it. Apparently the New Yorker isn't fond of short-stories about anal.

You'll understand what I mean when you read the whole thing. Without further ado, here is a humorous short story I wrote entitled "Palm Trees in Kentucky."

Palm Trees In Kentucky


Justin Hawthorne

     Carrie was still on my mind even a year later. Seriously, it seemed like every day there would be some bullshit that made me think of her. I’d literally be driving down a street that we went down maybe once/twice and then the wheels would be turning and it was just a fucking nightmare. Is that normal? Fucking a year later I’m still spending time every day thinking about her. And listen, it’s not even like last year was when she dumped me- no, no. She actually dumped me over a year ago- I think last year was when I saw her for like eight seconds in some restaurant. So, I guess this obsession- this vex I had over her is what drove me to online dating.
     It’s pathetic isn’t it? It’s hard to even say online dating. I sound like a pussy. Honestly, I am a pussy. Online dating is like that shitty friend you don’t want to mention to grandma. “What” she’d start. “You can’t find a nice girl? You can’t go to the library or the mall or something and meet somebody? What the hell’s the matter with you?” Oh fuck you grandma.
     The sad thing is that after high school- after college, the girls you come in contact with are absurdly uncomfortable since they’re the people you work with. How am I supposed to even talk to Dana with the big tits? What’s my motive? She knows it and I know it: to bust an orgasm inside her after 45 seconds of awkward, unfulfilling strokes. Then it would be weird in the office because I don’t want to date a woman who’s 10 years older than me and all we’d have to remember that one night and the cum stain on my shirt. Besides, I don’t think she’d want to, as delightful as the whole scenario sounds.
     Anyway, back to the story: I matched with this girl, Laura. She looked pretty. Now, just because she looked pretty didn’t mean shit. With anything online, there’s a very strong chance that behind the computer is a hairy 45-year old Balkan man whose trying to lure you into his anal-dungeon. Then there’s a stronger chance that she’s not really that good looking. I mean with all the make-up, filters, lighting, it’s actually hard to detect if someone’s good looking or not. But, I took the risk. I matched with Lauren, we started messaging, I got her number, etc. Finally, we decide on a first date and she said she’d show me a place as long as I drove her. Alright. Fine. Pick you up? No fucking problem lady.
     I’m a white guy- in case you couldn’t figure it out by the fact that I’m online dating. Not to say that there aren’t any black guys on dating websites- but well, there really aren’t- at least not any 24-year olds. But, being a white guy it means picking the quintessential ‘first date outfit:’ a plain button up shirt and a nice pair of pants. I went with blue. Why? Because fuck you. I got in my car and drove 10-15 minutes to her house. This distance was good because it wasn’t so far that it would annoy me if we ever made this into a relationship but if this went horribly wrong there was a solid chance I would never see her out in public.
     I pulled up to her house and she was already outside. This at first struck me as odd, but then I realized I texted her ‘here’ 3 minutes ago and I would have been there if some ass-clown in a silver Honda wasn’t busy scratching his asshole while driving 10 miles an hour. She gets in my car and says hello. I said hey. There was an awkward situation of “oh, should I kiss her on the cheek? Should I shaker her hand? Should I just pull my penis out and say, ‘hey, we both know why I’m here.”’
     “You look nice,” I said. And I wasn’t referring to her outfit. She actually was as pretty as her profile pictures. I probably shouldn’t have made mine pictures of Chuck Norris from 1982, in retrospect.
     “You too,” she replied. “I like that shirt.” Bitch, it was a plain fucking blue shirt.
     “So, where are we headed?”
     “I’ll direct you, it’s a surprise.”
     “Are you going to chop me up into little pieces and eat me?”
     “What?” It was at this point I realized this date wouldn’t go particularly well if she didn’t understand my darling sense of humor.
     “Never mind.” For the next few minutes we had some small talk and she gave me directions. I don’t know why she had to make it such a pain in the ass, she could have just told me the restaurant’s name. Now, it’s important to mention that my phone was plugged in to the car’s sound system. I love music. I have a very broad, eclectic taste in music. I have some metal, a lot of rap, jazz, blues, old rock and roll, indie rock, classic; I mean if it’s good music I’ll listen to it. Hell, sometimes even if it’s bad music and my friends play it I’ll listen to it. My phone was on shuffle and we were doing okay for the most part. “Regular” music was playing. You know, some Led Zeppelin, some Wu-Tang Clan, nothing that was crazy for a twenty-four year old white man. Then Coltrane came on. Now, I love Jazz- I really do. I love Jazz so much that I forget that it might be strange to another person who is not collecting social security.
     “What is this,” she asked.
     “Oh fuck, sorry. This is John Coltrane. It’s Jazz.”
     “Why are you sorry?”
     “Well, you know, Jazz isn’t like, ‘first date’ music, I guess.”
     “You like Jazz?”
     “Love Jazz. It’s smart, you know? Like, when Jazz is playing you really have to listen to it. You can’t just leave it on in the background. You have to feel how they were making the music, I guess. Especially when you’re listening to someone like Coltrane.”
     “My grandpa used to like Jazz.”
     “He doesn’t like it anymore?”
     “Well, he died.”
     I’m a fucking idiot. We pulled up to the restaurant. It wasn’t anything special. We got a table and started looking at the menu. I got coffee and she got tea. I immediately realized this human being in front of me was not for me. You’re getting tea? Are you a fucking pussy, miss? Are you a British imperialist? At this point I figured ‘fuck it.’ This date is already going to amount to nothing. I’m going to just do whatever the fuck I want. I decided to elevate the conversation to medium talk. Medium talk, by the way, is a term I learned from watching Curb Your Enthusiasm and from what I can deduce it’s the in-between from small talk to in-depth, deep conversation.
     “What’s your favorite position?” I asked.
     “Eh... I used to like being on top but lately I’ve been doing a lot of anal.”
     Did I just hear-
     “Anal? Really?”
     “Yeah. My ex and I tried it out a few months ago and ever since I’ve really been into it.”
     “You’re kidding.”
     “I swear to God.”
     “Well this just got very interesting.”
     “Oh, I wasn’t interesting before I admitted that I like anal?”
     “No, I don’t mean that I just-“
     “I know, I’m just kidding.” She chuckled and I laughed. Okay British Imperialist, I see you. I began to enjoy this date. I’ll admit: my penis was slightly aroused. “So really tell me about yourself. You’re an actual writer? Like you put words in orders and sell them?”
     “Sure do,” I said.
     “What are you working on right now?”
     “I just submitted my manuscript to a publisher I’m waiting to hear back. Hopefully, I’ll be able to quit my job and focus more on the writing, you know?”
     “But you’re not working on anything else right now?”
     “I had an idea for a short story about a serial killer in Kentucky but I haven’t started it yet.”
     “Because you just finished the manuscript?”
     “Well that, and because I haven’t had a chance to research Kentucky.”
     “What do you mean research?”
     “Well, with writing you can’t just pick a spot and bullshit it- I mean you can, but then if anybody from that place actually bothers to read it they’ll be able to smell the bullshit. I mean, there are people who would believe in palm trees in Kentucky but then there are people who actually live there.”
     “Palm trees in Kentucky... I like that.” The date kept going on and I kept trying to think of things to say that would eventually get my penis into her asshole. Finally, the bill came and I was cool enough to actually remember to pay that. I went to drop her off at her house and she invited me in.
     Oh yes. I made it in the house- maybe I can make it into the anus. She showed me around the house and we sat in the kitchen. She made coffee and I think this was my final test before she took me to the bedroom. It was like the final level of Mario. I made it. I beat all the other worlds, I had mushrooms and power ups and all I had to do now was beat that asshole Bowser and I would make it into Princess Peach. That was a god damn good analogy. Go back and read that again.
     So we chitchat some more and we eventually go upstairs. She shows me the bedroom and I kiss her. She kisses me back and we go through the motions. Eventually comes this point where her ass is up in the air and my penis is out. I go in. I haven’t done this since college. For a moment, I take some time and think about how this day has went and how just the simple act of clicking ‘like’ on a profile picture ultimately ended up with my genitals inside of this lady’s asshole.
     Life was good. This felt good. And then her ex-boyfriend came into her house and pulled me off of her. He started shouting and apparently, this break up did not go as cleanly as I had interpreted from her brief mentioning of him. He started screaming and threatening me and instead of being a manly man and standing up to him, I took my clothes and my smelly dick and left.

     I got in my car and drove home. Along the way, I thought about palm tress in Kentucky. I thought about my day again. And then- I fucking thought about Carrie.

Sunday, August 7, 2016

Podcast Episode 5

Hey Assholes,

So, as you may or may not know, I have started a Podcast called the "Not That Great Podcast." I think the name does it a lot of justice. You're not going to be disappointed- you already know its not that great.

If you've loved reading the stories and tales of my young life that I've written down here, now you can LISTEN to me bitch and moan about the way my life goes. This will totally help you get laid.

Whether you're a newcomer who saw an ad for this website in Rutgers, or you're a faithful fan like Alice TvsivilikhovRussianasfuckY, I hope people all around the world think I'm funny and give me money.

I've also done a cool ~~thing~~ and successfully purchased '' While this was a ridiculously hard task my senior year of high school and paid an Asian kid in my English class $150 to make a website that didn't work on phones, it's a lot fucking easier now.

I also added ~~~links~~ on the side of my blog where you can A. Purchase a copy of my book 'Drugs, Drinks, and Cigarettes,' B. Check out the soundcloud where my podcast is held, and C. Fist Yourself.

This newest episode of the Podcast took me a while to upload because I ran out of Upload space on my soundcloud and debated whether or not to go and spend $15 a month to Go Pro and continue to upload my shit.

But, considering I spend $15 for a hand job at least twice a week, I figured this was a solid investment.

I know you're probably mad at me because I haven't been loyal to you. I've been busy working in a shitty office doing the 9-5 GRIND that is American Life.

And while my 11:30am shit is the highlight of my work day, I am making a solid amount of money to adequately afford all the things my young, white, entitled self want to buy. (Like sound clouds and websites).

Anyway, check out my new episode using the link on the side. If you're on your phone, I'll add the link below.

I leave you all now with a picture of a ham sandwich.

Wednesday, August 3, 2016

Not That Great Podcast with host Atheistjustin

Hey assholes.

Sorry I barely keep up with this shit anymore. I've been busy working, fucking off, masterbating, FIFA, MMA (a new hobby), and starting up my own podcast.

the "Not That Great Podcast" is available on all of your Apple devices under the Podcast app. Simply search my name "Atheistjustin" and you'll find all of my rage poured out virtually onto the internet- this time in Audio form!!!

Check it out if you get the chance. I love you. Also, this website might get its own domain name again. Updates to come.

I love you all. Thank you for staying loyal. Also fuck you.

Who IS Atheistjustin?

My photo
I am Never Wrong. I am Awesome. I do NOT eat ass.