Author: Rex Forsight

A part of the “What’s Up With Stuff?” series. I’m going on location for the first time in about two decades. Last time I left the office, kids were playing with video games. Is that still a thing? The brilliant minds at Robot Butt’s corporate HQ have decided to send me off to be their eyes on the ground in all of the world’s most fucky locations. Ukraine. Gaza. Libya. You name a place where citizens have been killed in the last few months, I’m going there. If I don’t come back, which seems likely, since they’ve been trying to get…

A part of the “What’s Up With Stuff?” series. They tell me, “Rex, the people love your stories! They’re raw, they’re real, they’re gritty, and they don’t seem like bullshit.” Tell me something I don’t know. I can tell you about the time that I stepped in a football-sized bull turd while fighting off three of them and their respective matadors. Don’t know how I managed to piss off man and beast simultaneously, but after a few years in this business you learn that sometimes it’s not you that pissed them off. Sometimes you realize you were just the charge…

A part of the What’s Up With Stuff series. It was 2:00 AM eastern when I woke up in the ditch in front of my suburban household, dressed in nothing but my jimmies. How did I get there? Well, that’s a different story altogether. Back in 1976 I took part in some bizarre experiments for the government- which government I can’t say. Let’s just say that I would have been strung up for treason three times over if it had been found out. When you’re a starving artist like Rex, you do what you can to ensure that you’ll have enough money…

New interns mean a new chance at breaking some hearts. It means introducing a few more poor children to the unending club-to-the-head that is existence. I take it upon myself to be there and shelter them through it. As one intern heads out, two more seem to take their place. They’re like Hydra in that way. They always waltz in eager and ready to learn. They ask inane, junior varsity-style questions, and I take it upon myself to squash their hopes and dreams as quickly as possible so they don’t get the wrong idea about the newsman go-around. A few…

A part of the What’s Up With Stuff series. To the unintelligent and banal readers out there who don’t pick up on trends or trails of breadcrumbs: I have a confession to make – and no we won’t be delving into my past here; not this week. No, my confession is that my editors keep asking me where I get this stuff from, and they want more. When you’ve got the golden fingers like this old bastard does, you can’t miss (unless you get the yips- I got the yips once in 1982 and didn’t lose them until the First Gulf War).…

A part of the What’s Up With Stuff series. After that last post regarding a certain day made for memorialization, the Robot Butt Psych Unit sent me an e-mail. I was to report to “sensitivity” training, or what I will now refer to as “make you act like your sissy-bag interns” training. They want to make us an army of Tanners. I’ve already attended my first anger management class, and for my first assignment, I’m supposed to share something about myself. Share a weak moment that I wouldn’t want exposed. I want to share with you the story of my…

So you’re probably memorializing things this weekend, right? I Googled Memorial Day and, thank Jesus, the first result was the Wikipedia page. Otherwise I usually get lost. According to Wikipedia, “Memorial Day is a US federal holiday wherein the men and women who died while serving in the United States Armed Forces are remembered.” All weekend you’re going to sit around and just remember your granddad, or great-uncle, or maybe your neighbor’s cousin who died of a heart attack while serving as a clerk in Iraq, right? I know that’s not true. If you’re like any of the other baby…

A part of the What’s Up With Stuff series. “We’re here to keep you relevant, Mr. Forsight,” these little ankle-biters always tell me. Credit where credit’s due, I like their politeness, but I don’t know how many times I have to explain it to these kids, relevancy goes out the window after 30 years on the job. I’m checked out. I haven’t been culturally relevant since my son showed me that Weakerthans song where the guy says “sorry” in an incredibly Canadian accent. We laughed together. Maybe I should call my son. They’re pleading with me, “Mr. Forsight, Mr. Forsight,…

After 30 years in the newsman business here at Robot Butt, or what we call in the office, the “News Man Go-Around Swing Swing,” you develop a rapport with the first-years; the hot shots that run around in their “heelies” and fedoras, throwing around ideas to us old-timers like Werther’s at a bingo night. They’ll be gone before you reach five more years of tenure, and the next round of hangers-on will move in to fill their shared cubicles. Gladly and thankfully for us long-term newsmen, we oblige and admire these fervent disciples of culture and news. They have the…