Dark Irony: The Cosmic Joke of H.P. Lovecraft By Chris Conidis Smiling on the outside, whispering forbidden truths to a squid god on the inside. Classic Lovecraft. Chris Conidis - Writer , Filmmaker and Improv Performer. In the shadowy corners of horror literature, one name stands out more than most — H.P. Lovecraft. With a face like a funeral portrait and a mind wired for cosmic dread, he gave us tentacled gods and books that drove men mad. Long before horror became mainstream, the pale New Englander was busy inventing nightmares nobody asked for. H.P. Lovecraft, equal parts recluse and visionary, handed us ancient aliens, cursed texts, and a whole lot of existential screaming. Oceans of uncaring cosmos. The man gave us dread by the paragraph and madness by the metric ton. But perhaps the greatest Lovecraftian horror wasn’t the one he wrote. It was himself. Here’s the dark irony: Lovecraft’s whole mythos revolves around the insignificance of mankind. We’re cosmic ants. Flecks of dust screaming into the void. Yet Lovecraft the man was obsessed with lineage, heritage, and the false superiority of his race. He worshiped the illusion of control even while writing monsters that crushed it. He feared the “other” while inventing entire pantheons of eldritch others. In short: he was terrified of the same unknowable chaos he claimed to understand. That’s the punchline of the universe, isn’t it? He warned us of creeping madness, and then quietly suffered it. He wrote of ancient civilizations while living like a recluse in his aunt’s attic. He spoke of cosmic indifference while desperately trying to matter. Lovecraft gave us monsters that whispered truths too terrible to know — then refused to hear the ones whispered back at him. His stories are crawling with revelations designed to unravel the mind: the discovery that humans are descended from ancient alien spawn (The Shadow out of Time), or that entire civilizations can be erased by indifferent gods lurking beneath the sea (The Call of Cthulhu). These weren’t just monsters — they were metaphors for a universe without purpose, without morality, without us at the center. To face them was to face our own insignificance. But here’s where the irony turns Lovecraftian on him. Because while his fiction begged readers to confront uncomfortable truths — that we are not special, that the universe is not ours — Lovecraft himself clung to deeply rooted delusions. Racial superiority. Anglo-Saxon exceptionalism. He saw “the other” not as a mirror of his own fears, but as something to be feared. The very concept of the “outsider” was more than a literary device — it was a personal terror, one he projected rather than processed. For instance, in The Shadow over Innsmouth, the horror isn’t just the fishy cult or the deep-sea genealogy — it’s the idea that the narrator is part of it, that he is tainted by the very blood he fears. And what does Lovecraft do with that twist? He turns it into a tragedy. The horror is not the monsters — but that the monsters are inside. Now imagine if Lovecraft had applied that same logic to his worldview. If he’d looked at his own writing and realized: I am the thing I fear. But he didn’t. He mythologized the cosmic, but ignored the personal. He created metaphors for fear, but couldn’t translate them into empathy. His monsters told the truth. He just wasn’t ready to listen. That’s the real horror: not the squid gods. Not the lost cities. But the author himself — who could glimpse the abyss, but couldn’t see his own reflection in it. This isn’t a takedown. It’s a tragedy. A reminder that genius often grows in the soil of contradiction. That the man who saw the abyss… also tripped over his own shadow. So next time you read about Cthulhu rising, or an archaeologist descending into a tomb with too many angles, remember: the real horror wasn’t just in the stars. It was in Rhode Island. And it wore a tie.

When you’re the world’s greatest detective, the only suspect left… is you. Sherlock Holmes was never wrong. At least, he  certainly didn’t think so. The man could identify a Belgian cat burglar by the mud on your trousers, deduce your marital status from the ash on your coat, and determine your childhood trauma by the way you stir your tea. But in all his dazzling deductions and arrogant theatrics, there remained one mystery he never quite solved: His own ego. The Illusion of Certainty Holmes thrived on logic. But logic, when paired with unchecked self-assurance, becomes something altogether more dangerous: certainty . And certainty, dear reader, is not the same as truth. In The Clue That Wasn’t There , a forgotten case lost in the foggy recesses of Baker Street legend, Holmes was stumped — not because the criminal was clever, or the trail too cold. No. He failed because he believed he couldn’t. Holmes ignored the inconsistencies. Dismissed the contradictions. Bent the facts into a shape that suited his preferred conclusion, then declared the matter closed with a puff of pipe smoke and a flourish of violin. But reality does not bend to brilliance. It waits. Patiently. Like a mirror in the corner, reflecting a version of you that you’d rather not see — one smirking back with quiet, satisfied mockery. The Invisible Enemy In this case, there was no bloodstained glove. No misplaced monocle. No suspicious footprint angled just so on the carpet. There was only silence. And in that silence, the most damning evidence of all: The assumption. Holmes assumed the butler did it. Then assumed the motive. Then assumed he was right because, after all, when had he ever been wrong? The trap was elegant — not set by Moriarty, but by Holmes himself. A brilliant man lured by the echo of his own genius. Ego: The Final Boss of Logic We tend to idolize Holmes as the gold standard of intellect. But intellect, when inflated to arrogance, creates a blind spot wider than the Thames. The real killer in The Clue That Wasn’t There ? Confirmation bias.  With a splash of theatrical narcissism. He didn’t chase the truth. He choreographed it. And when the final curtain fell, it wasn’t applause that echoed through Baker Street — it was the soft, chilling realization that for all his insight, Holmes had overlooked the most obvious clue of all: That he could be wrong. Final Thoughts Sherlock Holmes remains a towering figure of detective fiction, a monument to deduction. But even monuments crack — especially those built atop the shaky scaffolding of pride. So let us remember: the next time you’re certain  you’re right, pause. Check the mirror.And ask yourself: Is the clue missing… or am I simply too clever to see it? Because if Sherlock Holmes can be hoisted by his own petard, so can the rest of us — only with fewer pipes and less style.

Dark Comedy DNA: Why Satirists Owe a Drink to Hitchcock, Serling, and Chaplin Hitchcock: Master of suspense, but also the guy who made you question whether or not your mother actually loves you By Chris Conidis Writer. Filmmaker. Purveyor of tasteful nonsense. When I was a kid, I used to sneak downstairs late at night and watch Alfred Hitchcock Presents reruns in grainy black-and-white. Something about the way he stood there — hands clasped, face expressionless — introduced the story as if it were already a eulogy, hooked me instantly. It wasn’t just the mystery or the murder. It was the wink underneath it all. The smirk behind the menace. And long before I understood irony, I understood that Alfred Hitchcock had mastered it. Years later, I found myself chasing that same tone in my own work — whether writing short films or biting stage monologues. I wasn’t trying to imitate him, not exactly. I was studying the mechanics  behind that wink. Hitchcock knew how to build dread, but more impressively, he knew when to undercut it. Take The Trouble with Harry — a movie about a dead body that keeps getting reburied for convenience. It’s not slapstick, but it’s almost Shakespearean farce. The death isn’t tragic. The tragedy is that it’s inconvenient . And that’s the DNA of dark comedy right there: taking the solemn and twisting it, just enough to make you question your own laugh. Rod Serling: The Prophet of Paranoia If Hitchcock was the master of suggestion, Rod Serling was the voice of retribution. The Twilight Zone didn’t just end with twists — it often ended with justice. Usually poetic, sometimes cruel, always deserved. Serling’s real genius was turning social critique into speculative fiction. And that taught me something critical: satire doesn’t have to be loud to be cutting. It just has to be accurate. Whether it was fear of automation ( The Brain Center at Whipple’s ) or the mob mentality ( The Monsters Are Due on Maple Street ), Serling held a mirror to humanity, then gave it a punchline sharp enough to draw blood. Chaplin and the Art of Wordless Fury Charlie Chaplin might seem out of place in this lineup — but only if you haven’t watched Modern Times lately. Underneath the bowler hat and greasepaint mustache was a furious artist. He didn’t have to say much — his satire was kinetic, visual, unstoppable. He fought industrialism with slapstick, fascism with a monologue ( The Great Dictator ), and poverty with pathos. When I write now — whether sketching ideas for my satire site or building character arcs — I often think of Chaplin’s ability to elicit emotion with movement alone. It reminds me that satire isn’t just intellectual — it’s emotional. We mock what scares us. We parody what controls us. The Sum of All Parts So what do Hitchcock, Serling, and Chaplin have in common? They knew the joke wasn’t just there to make you laugh. It was there to make you look. Closer. Harder. Uncomfortably. That’s the kind of work I aspire to: satire that isn’t just snarky but purposeful. Comedy that works like a scalpel. Characters who reveal the system just by trying to survive it. Satire, when it works, is a conjuring act. It’s part empathy, part accusation. It doesn’t just say, “Look at this.” It says, “Now what are you going to do about it?” And somewhere, in a grainy broadcast after midnight, I think Hitchcock might still be smiling at that idea. #ChrisConidis #Satirist #DarkComedyDNA #CreativeInfluences #Filmmaker #AlfredHitchcock #RodSerling #CharlieChaplin #SatireWithPurpose

Chris conidis western genre There was a time, back in the dusty reels of early American film, when a certain figure kept showing up. He wore a wide-brimmed hat, carried a gun at his side, and somehow carried the weight of a whole nation’s identity along with it.He was the cowboy — sometimes a soldier, sometimes a settler, a vigilante, or just a drifter passing through. He was the “American,” a manufactured icon who would dominate the cinematic frontier for decades. But behind the squinting gaze and horseback silhouette stood something else entirely: a cultural mythology stitched together by the biases and fantasies of a white male Hollywood, writing its own origin story at the expense of others. As a filmmaker and storyteller, I’ve always been fascinated by what film says about who we are — or who we think we are. The Western genre, more than any other, has served as a mirror, a myth-machine, and sometimes… a mask. The Myth-Making Machine In the early Westerns, patriotism rode tall in the saddle. The cowboy symbolized rugged self-reliance, American destiny, and moral clarity. But as many of scholars have noted, the Western wasn’t just telling stories — it was writing history from a white, settler-colonial perspective.Native Americans were cast as savage “injuns,” Mexicans as bandits or caricatures, and foreigners as disposable. In these films, the “white hat” always belonged to the American settler. The West was shown not as a land to share or understand — but a prize to be conquered and civilized. The film industry wasn’t just shaping fiction — it was shaping identity. The Cracks in the Monument But myths can only hold for so long. By the 1950s, Westerns like John Ford’s The Searchers began to fracture the genre from within. Ford, who helped build the Western’s iconography, also helped challenge it. In The Searchers, John Wayne’s character Ethan Edwards is not a noble hero, but a racist, obsessive figure — a man hell-bent on vengeance even if it means killing his own niece, now adopted into Comanche life It’s one of the earliest signs of what would become the revisionist Western — films that deconstructed the genre’s glossy patriotism and began to address the racism, violence, and hypocrisy buried beneath. The Revisionist Reckoning As the country moved through turbulent decades — civil rights marches, the trauma of Vietnam, and the long shadow of the Cold War — Western films didn’t stay the same. The genre began to shift. Directors like Sam Peckinpah (The Wild Bunch), Sergio Leone (Once Upon a Time in the West), and Delmer Daves (Broken Arrow) stepped in, pulling apart the old myths and rewriting the rules of the cowboy code.Their films featured morally gray characters, systemic violence, and dying legends who could no longer outrun time.These weren’t just Westerns. They were autopsies of a genre.“The most overtly ideological of revisionist Westerns concerned the Indian wars,” wrote Richard Slotkin. “The revelation of the American atrocities in Vietnam only reinforced the argument that the slaughter of Native Americans was less the distortion than the essence of the white man’s wars.”The cowboy was no longer a savior. He was a relic. And the West? It was a graveyard of outdated myths. A Genre Reborn — Among the StarsBut genres, like old outlaws, rarely die — they reinvent.I n the late 20th century, the Western was reborn in disguise. It traded in its horses for spaceships. Its frontier for galaxies. Star Wars and Star Trek weren’t just sci-fi — they were Westerns in space.Gene Roddenberry called Star Trek the “Wagon Train to the Stars.” George Lucas lifted entire tropes from the Western: barroom brawls, desert landscapes, the lone gunslinger wandering into town. The themes of rugged individualism, frontier justice, and moral conflict carried forward — just in new costumes.The Space Western became the next chapter in America’s myth-making saga. Where the Western Stands Today So, is the Western dead?Not at all. It’s older. Wiser. And still evolving.Films from the 90’s on like Dances with Wolves, Silverado, and Hostiles have continued the revisionist trend — blending sweeping landscapes with more honest examinations of race, power, and history. Meanwhile, new filmmakers are asking different questions: What does the Western look like through Indigenous eyes? Through feminist lenses? Through multicultural casts?As an amatuer filmmaker myself, I see the Western not as a relic, but a canvas. A genre that invites reinterpretation. A sandbox where storytelling, identity, and history collide. It still holds potential — not in its old armor, but in the hands of those willing to rebuild it with care, honesty, and imagination. Why This Matters to Me as an amateur Filmmaker We’re living in an era where genres collide and shift — where familiar myths get pulled apart, and new voices are finally stepping forward to shape the stories we see on screen. The Western, for all its flaws and contradictions, hasn’t disappeared. It still holds a strange, enduring power — a genre full of ghosts, grit, and meaning waiting to be reimagined.For me, it’s more than dust, hats, and horses. I’m drawn to the Western because of what it reveals: the way a country struggles to define itself through conflict, legend, and cinema. As I continue crafting stories of my own, I find the West always riding alongside — its rawness, its regrets, and its reminders of what stories can really say about who we are.Because in the end, every story has its frontier. And every storyteller has their journey into the myth. Interested in filmmaking, myth, and genre? Follow me for more reflections on cinema, storytelling, and the future of narrative art. You can also find other essays and satire on / Medium https://medium.com/@chris-conidis/how-western-films-evolved-from-white-hats-to-revisionist-antiheroes-by-chris-conidis-8ba7a1792008 #Filmmaking #WesternGenre #RevisionistWestern #Storytelling #FilmHistory #SpaceWestern #ChrisConidis #TheSearchers #SamPeckinpah #AmericanMythology

About Chris Conidis is a writer, filmmaker, and improv performer with over two decades of experience in satire, social commentary, and dark humor. Beginning his career creating media and show scripts for Universal Studios and Walt Disney World, he honed his talent for immersive storytelling and guest experiences. As founder of Elios Entertainment, Chris has produced animations, short films, and creative projects across sci-fi, horror, and comedy genres. A seasoned improv artist, he performed with Fandumb Comedy Lab and brought dynamic live comedy to life. His books, including  Toolmaker ,  Return to Adam’s Earth , and  The Magician’s Code , showcase his knack for blending storytelling with sharp social critiques. Chris Conidis is a writer, filmmaker, and improv performer with over two decades of experience in satire, social commentary, and dark humor An award-winning creator, Chris regularly conducts workshops on writing and visual narrative while mentoring aspiring artists. Beyond his professional work, he explores interests in filmmaking, animation, magic, and evolutionary biology, all with his trademark wit and humor that has captivated audiences everywhere. READ THE FULL INTERVIEW HERE : Chris Conidis: How Does Storytelling Shape Success? https://ceoworld.biz/2024/11/28/chris-conidis-how-does-storytelling-shape-success/ CEO Spotlight CEOWORLD MAGAZINE

CHRIS CONIDIS WRITER FILMMAKER IMPROV PERFORMER Welcome to the afterlife, folks! Or, as you like to call it, “life.” Hate to break it to you, but you’re not alive. You’ve been dead since the day you were  born . That whole thing about birth being the beginning of life? Yeah, no. It was your cosmic funeral procession. The doctor didn’t deliver you; they buried you in existence. You’re not living — you’re decomposing slowly, one mortgage payment at a time. The Big Cosmic Switcheroo Here’s the kicker: everything you think you know about life and death is a lie. Birth isn’t your grand entrance into the world; it’s your exit from the infinite, blissful void. That warm, peaceful nothingness? That’s where you came from. And Death? That’s your ticket back to the VIP lounge. Think about it: the moment you were born, people started marking the countdown to your “death.” Your age is literally just a tally of how long you’ve been rotting away. Balloons, cake, and candles every year? That’s not a celebration — it’s a deathiversary. Blow out those candles, champ; you’ve officially survived another lap around the slow spiral into entropy! Living is Just Dying in Slow Motion Let’s get real: everything about “life” screams decay. Your body? Falling apart from day one. Your hairline? Retreating faster than your hope for the future. Your dreams? Withering like a houseplant you forgot to water. Even the sun, that giant ball of optimism in the sky, is burning itself out. The universe doesn’t care about you; it’s a giant funeral pyre, and we’re all just riding the flames. And let’s not forget the ultimate irony: we spend this so-called “life” trying to escape death. Jogging, kale smoothies, wellness retreats — they’re just ways to delay the inevitable. You’re like a hamster on a wheel, except the wheel is made of existential dread, and the finish line is the grave. Death: Your Real Birthday Party When you “die,” guess what? That’s not the end — it’s the start of the real party. Think of it as graduation day, except instead of a cap and gown, you get eternal rest. No more bills, no more awkward small talk, no more trying to figure out what “synergy” means at work. Death is liberation! It’s the cosmic reboot, a one-way ticket back to the infinite void where you don’t have to pretend to care about your cousin’s MLM skincare hustle. And here’s the plot twist: every near-death experience isn’t a “close call.” It’s a reminder that the door is always open. People talk about seeing “the light” during these experiences. Of course, you saw the light — that’s the exit sign. What Does It All Mean? If birth is death and death is birth, what’s the point of all this mess in between? Simple: there is no point. The universe is a cosmic middle school talent show — chaotic, embarrassing, and painfully unnecessary. We’re all just here to pass the time until the big curtain call. But hey, there’s some good news: since you’re technically already dead, nothing really matters. Bills? Just ghost them. Jobs? You’re haunting your cubicle anyway. Relationships? You’re both specters clinging to the illusion of connection. Final Thoughts from the Afterlife So, congratulations on being dead! Life (or whatever you want to call this existential dumpster fire) is just a prolonged audition for the void. The real peace comes when you finally drop this charade and return to the infinite nothingness. Until then, enjoy the show. Or don’t. You’re dead — it’s not like it matters. Comments Add a comment… No comments, yet. Be the first to comment.

"The Stoic" Chris Conidis " The Stoic" By Chris Conidis At the edge of the village, where the wind carved lines into the earth and the clouds sagged heavy with unshed storms, he stood. The villagers called him “The Stoic,” as if naming him gave them ownership over his silence. He was a monument more than a man—a blade clenched in calloused hands, a face set like granite beneath a weathered helmet. His silence was so vast, it seemed to swallow time itself. Seasons cycled like old scrolls, and still he remained. Unflinching.The villagers whispered epics about him, polishing his myth with each retelling.“A thousand men,” they’d say.“Spirits from the mountain,” they’d swear.Even the wind began to speak of him, rustling through the reeds like gossip. Children tossed stones at his feet.The braver ones tugged at his sleeve, only to retreat when his eyes—blank and unmoving—reflected their own mischief back at them. Years passed like lantern smoke. Then came the new governor, all lacquered armor and puffed chest. He stood before The Stoic, squinting as if peering into an old superstition. “What nonsense,” he chuckled. “Guarding rice paddies and empty huts.” With a finger heavy with rings, he prodded The Stoic’s chest. And The Stoic, loyal to gravity and decay, obliged. He tipped forward, clattering to the ground in a heap of hollow echoes. The armor split open, spilling nothing but moth-bitten silk and the stale air of forgotten faith. Inside? No man. Only wood, straw, and rumor stitched together. The villagers stared as if they had unearthed the bones of their own gullibility. The governor laughed and left. But the next day, at dawn, the villagers gathered in the mist. Quietly, reverently, they pieced The Stoic back together—shinier, stronger, hollow still. Because sometimes, a village needs its myths. And sometimes, even an empty suit of armor stands straighter than the men who mock it.

Chris Conidis Writer Improv Performer There are betrayals that come like summer storms, with a howling wind, thunder that shakes the sky, and a rain so fierce it leaves you gasping for air. You see them from a mile off, and you brace yourself, waiting for the sky to crack open. But then, there are betrayals that slip through the cracks, quiet as shadows, wrapped in the warmth of a smile, calling you by your name, holding your hand, before they take the shot. Elliot had come to understand this only now. The world had a way of teaching you things when you weren’t looking for them. Life, with all its careful packaging and promises of friendship, had decided, in its own time, that Elliot should know what it felt like to trust in a person only to find that the trust was a threadbare rope, fraying by the minute. He had spent years defending Mark. He’d defended him against his own mistakes, covered for him when the world began to notice how badly he was falling apart, and kept his back to the wall when Mark needed it. He was the one who said, "Ride or die,"  clinking drinks like soldiers before battle, only to realize too late that Mark had never intended to ride. No, he was a man content with the easy death, the one that comes without a fight, the one that asks you to take the hit while it laughs behind your back. And so it happened on a Wednesday. Not the day anyone expects betrayal, not a Friday night full of anticipation, when the world’s failures are cushioned by a curtain of alcohol and good music. No. It was a Wednesday, when the air had that still, forgotten quality to it, like something you should have remembered but didn’t. Elliot sat at their usual café, the one with the chipped mugs and the faded posters of jazz musicians, waiting for Mark to show up. He expected the usual: Mark’s latest story about love gone wrong, another failed romance, another person who was too good for him, another mistake to laugh off. But when the door creaked open, it wasn’t Mark who walked in first. It was her. Rebecca. His Rebecca. The one he had loved, the one who had once sat at this same table and promised him forever. Until she said those words: I need time to think.  How many times had she said that, that tired phrase that everyone says when they don’t know how to break the news? But apparently, time was a slippery thing, and Rebecca had used it to slip into Mark’s life, without even the decency to tell Elliot the truth. Two months had passed since she said she needed time. Two months for her to figure things out. And here they were, walking in together, her hand tucked neatly into Mark’s, as if she had forgotten the past ever existed. Elliot blinked. Once, twice. His coffee cup sat in front of him, untouched. The room seemed too bright, and for a moment, everything felt like a dream. The hum of the café, the steam rising from the espresso machine—it all became distant, like he was standing outside his own life, watching someone else live it. Mark stood at the door, his hands in his pockets, that cocky grin on his face. He was waiting for something. Maybe he thought Elliot would shout. Maybe he thought Elliot would throw his coffee in his face or storm out, slamming the door behind him in a heroic, cinematic exit. But no, instead, Mark spoke, as though the words were somehow supposed to fix it all. “I know this is awkward, Elliot,” Mark said, that grin still plastered across his face, the same one that had gotten him out of every tight spot for years. “But I thought I should be the one to tell you.” Tell him. Tell him what? That his life, the one he had fought to protect, the one he had built with his own hands, was now shattered into pieces, strewn across the table like broken glass? Tell him that the girl he had loved was now the girl he had lost? What kind of kindness was that? It was like a bank robber politely announcing that he was emptying your savings, but hey, don’t worry, he’ll leave a few bucks for the tip. Elliot didn’t move. He didn’t shout or curse, didn’t hurl the table to the ground in rage, didn’t stand up and storm out of the room like the movies promised. Instead, he sat, the world shrinking to the size of his own breath. The man who had stood by Mark for years—the man who had taken the hits, the man who had always been the first one to say "I've got your back" —was now sitting in front of the very man who had just used his trust as a weapon. For a long moment, Elliot did nothing. The smile that curled on his lips wasn’t born of humor or relief; it was born of something darker. Something deeper. The people we would die for, the people we would lay down our lives to protect—those are the people who know exactly where to stand when they pull the trigger. Mark’s words fell away, drowned by the silence between them. Rebecca shifted uncomfortably, her face a mask of apology. But there was nothing to apologize for, was there? She had simply found a new story, a new version of herself, one that didn’t involve Elliot. One that didn’t involve truth. Elliot stood up slowly, his chair scraping across the floor, too loud for the quiet that had settled around them. He looked at them both, then back at Mark. And with a voice barely more than a whisper, he said, “Good luck, Mark. Good luck, Rebecca.” And just like that, the door swung open, and Elliot stepped out into the sun-dappled street, leaving the shadows behind him. Because the real lesson had been learned now. It wasn’t about the bullet. It wasn’t about the betrayal. No. It was about knowing that sometimes, the hardest thing isn’t getting shot—it’s knowing the person pulling the trigger was once the one you’d take a bullet for.

I’m not that. I’m not the guy with the thousand-yard stare scrolling TikTok like he’s searching for the meaning of life in 15-second clips. I’m not the one with a ring light and a curated backdrop, selling you authenticity one sponsored post at a time. I’m not the mindfulness guru who burns incense made from capitalism and calls it enlightenment. I’m not the crypto bro in a Patagonia vest, preaching the gospel of blockchain while dodging taxes. I’m not the fitness influencer counting macros, selling powders, and forgetting that joy doesn’t come in a shaker bottle. I’m not that. I’m not that. I’m not this, either: the hollowed-out husk of ambition, slaving over a laptop under fluorescent lights, pretending productivity is a personality trait. I’m not your app, your algorithm, your walking push notification. And yet, here I am, standing in the windstorm of modernity, every buzzword slapping me across the face. Disruption. Hustle culture. Soft launch. Quiet quitting. Digital detox. It’s like living in a self-help seminar hosted by a malfunctioning AI. They tell me I need to ‘find my brand.’ As if I’m a commodity waiting to be unboxed, tagged, and sold on some invisible shelf. Everything’s a market now—our thoughts, our time, our dreams. ‘Monetize it,’ they say, as if the simple act of being alive isn’t exhausting enough. I’m not that, I scream. But the wind doesn’t care. It’s carrying the voices of podcasters selling productivity hacks, tech bros evangelizing the metaverse, and motivational speakers yelling GRIND NOW, SHINE LATER into a void that doesn’t echo back. And as the storm rages on, I realize—Progress City doesn’t want me to be anything other than that. Just another cog in its sleek, efficient, soul-sucking machine. A data point, a demographic, a user. And the worst part? It smiles while it swallows me whole. But no, I’m not that. I’ll stand here in the ruins of authenticity, clutching my sarcasm like a tattered flag, letting the wind howl. Let them call it a rant, a resistance, or just noise. At least it’s mine.. Chris Conidis is a versatile artist and writer, celebrated for his inventive blend of improv and comedy

"When you're trying to look deep in thought, but you're actually just contemplating what to snack on next. Procrastination is an art form, right?" Welcome, aspiring geniuses! In today’s fast-paced, high-tech, meme-driven society, being smart is no longer about tedious activities like reading books or forming coherent thoughts. No, no, my dear intellectual butterflies. To be smart in the modern world, you simply need to appear smart.  And lucky for you, that’s as easy as downloading a new app or posting a tweet with just the right amount of passive-aggressive wit. Let’s dive into the foolproof steps to modern intelligence. 1. Master the Art of Google-Fu Who needs a library when you have Google? Real intelligence is about how fast you can type “What is quantum physics?”  and copy-paste the first result into a group chat. Remember: the quicker your search, the smarter you seem. Bonus points if you throw in some jargon like “Schrodinger’s cat” or “quantum entanglement” without actually understanding them. Pro Tip : Use incognito mode so no one sees how often you spell "philosophy" as "filsophy." 2. Be a TED Talk Parrot Ever watched a TED Talk on Why Pencils Are the Key to Happiness ? Perfect. Casually drop quotes from it at parties. Say things like, “Well, as Simon McPretentious once said, ‘The pencil sharpens us as much as we sharpen it.’” No one will question you. They’ll just assume you’re deep and mysterious—like a philosopher who also meditates. Warning : Don’t actually watch the whole talk. That’s a rookie mistake. The first three minutes are enough. 3. Flex Your Social Media Intellect Instagram? Twitter? TikTok? These aren’t just platforms for cat videos; they’re your stage to prove you’re the next Einstein. Post black-and-white photos of books you’ve never read. Share "inspirational"  quotes like “The moon doesn’t shine without the sun.” Deep, right? Use hashtags like #ThinkingThursday or #WisdomWednesday. It doesn’t matter if the quote is by Confucius or Kanye. People will applaud your depth. 4. Become a Podcast Devotee Podcasts are the modern encyclopedia, but with ads for mattresses. Choose one with a complex title like The Meta-Human Exploration of Cognitive Ontologies . You don’t have to listen; just memorize the title. When someone asks, “What’s it about?” say, “Oh, it’s hard to explain. It’s very niche.” BOOM. Instant intellectual. 5. Argue Online (Expert Mode) There’s no better way to prove your intellectual dominance than arguing with strangers on Reddit or Facebook. Throw in phrases like “Actually,” “To play devil’s advocate,”  or “As a free thinker…”  These magic words will ensure no one takes you seriously but still fears engaging you further. Advanced Tip : End every argument with, “Do your research,” even if it’s about pineapple on pizza. 6. Own a Pretentious Hobby Forget practical skills; you need something obscure and useless. Say you’re “really into” 18th-century Latvian poetry or “studying the impact of artichokes on Renaissance cuisine.” Extra points if it’s something you can’t pronounce. The more obscure, the smarter you seem. 7. Wear Glasses You Don’t Need Nothing screams intellect like fake glasses. They say, “I see the world more clearly than you,” even if you’re squinting at the coffee menu. Pair them with a scarf indoors for maximum effect. 8. Learn the Magic Words: 'AI' and 'Blockchain' No one understands blockchain, and that’s the point. Say it in casual conversation: “This could really revolutionize the blockchain space.” “AI is basically the future of decentralized ecosystems.” Are these sentences meaningful? Absolutely not. Will people nod and call you brilliant? Absolutely yes. 9. Appear Overwhelmed by Your Own Intelligence Sigh dramatically and say things like, “Ugh, my brain just won’t shut off!” or “Sometimes I wish I could turn it off and just be… normal.” People will flock to you like moths to a flame, eager to bask in your intellectual glow. 10. Actively Avoid Real Knowledge Finally, the golden rule of modern intelligence: never admit you don’t know something.  If someone brings up a topic you’re clueless about, just say, “Ah, yes, I’ve been meaning to dive deeper into that.” Then change the subject to something vague, like “society”  or “human nature.” Follow these steps, and soon you’ll be the smartest person at brunch, the office, or even a Zoom call. Just remember: in the modern world, it’s not about being smart—it’s about looking smart. Now, go forth and conquer, you digital-age Aristotle!

Why the World Should Be Run by Moms and Grandmas Chris Conidis is a versatile writer, filmmaker, and improv performer with a career spanning over two decades. His work includes satire, social commentary, and dark humor, often exploring themes like societal critique, futurism, and absurdity. If moms and grandmas ran the world, things would get real  organized, real  fast. Global chaos? Solved before breakfast. Economic meltdowns? Not on their watch.  World leaders would be too busy apologizing for their bad decisions and eating second helpings of lasagna to start any nonsense. For starters, wars would be over in minutes.  No mother is putting up with grown men  throwing tantrums over borders when they can’t even throw their dirty laundry in the hamper. You want to invade a country? Not until you finish your vegetables and explain why you still don’t have a stable job at 45.  Meanwhile, grandmothers would be on the front lines handing out cookies and guilt-tripping dictators with "What would your mother say about this, young man?" —reducing entire armies to ashamed puddles of regret. Economic policies? Rewritten overnight.  The national budget would be balanced because moms know how to stretch a dollar.  The entire economy would run on Tupperware containers and leftover magic.  Inflation wouldn’t exist because no grandmother has ever let a single  penny go to waste. Billionaires hoarding wealth? Oh no. "You have HOW much in your bank account? And you haven't donated? Give me that. Half of it is going to the food bank, and the other half is going to your student loan debt-ridden cousin. I didn't raise you to be selfish." Climate change?  Fixed immediately. No mom is going to sit around while the planet turns into a scorching wasteland.  Carbon emissions? Cut.  Gas prices? Too high—walk.  Littering? Instant death glare.  Every global summit would start with "Who left the lights on in here?!"  and end with "You're all grounded until this mess is cleaned up." World peace wouldn’t be ‘negotiated’—it would be ENFORCED. Any country starting trouble would get an immediate "You better cut that out right now." All diplomatic meetings would be held in a living room with plastic-covered furniture  where everyone sits awkwardly while mom “just finishes something real quick in the kitchen.” Every political argument would end with "Enough. We’ll figure this out after church." And don’t even think about lying to a grandma.  Intelligence agencies? Out of business. Grandmas already know.  They can smell guilt through the phone. Every corrupt politician would get one look  before confessing everything: "Okay, fine! I took bribes, I lied on my taxes, and yes, I did in fact know the lobbyist personally!" Bottom line?  If moms and grandmas took over, the world wouldn’t just be better.  It would be cleaner, more organized, and 100% less embarrassing.  And you’d best believe that every global crisis would be met with: "I don’t care WHO started it—YOU’RE ALL APOLOGIZING RIGHT NOW."

In a world that’s falling apart—be it through war, natural disasters, political collapse, or the simple fact that your Wi-Fi is down for a couple of hours—there’s a curious thing that tends to crop up: humor. It’s a strange paradox, isn’t it? In the middle of the end of the world, when things couldn’t be grimmer, people are cracking jokes. But the truth is, humor doesn’t just survive in dark times; it thrives. It’s the lifeline that keeps us from drowning in the bleakness of it all. The World Is Ending, But Have You Heard This One? Let’s face it: in the midst of a dystopian future, where resources are scarce, the air smells like despair, and the government has been replaced with a really big corporation that’s suspiciously good at selling you bottled air, the last thing you expect is someone telling a joke. But, as it turns out, that’s exactly what makes dark stories so compelling. It’s the absurdity of trying to find laughter when the world is falling apart that gives such narratives their real bite. Consider the world of post-apocalyptic cinema. Mad Max , for example, has moments of wild absurdity mixed with its otherwise desolate setting. The characters—scruffy, grim, and trying their best to survive in a world where gasoline is worth more than gold—still find time to yell, “What a lovely day!” as they speed through a wasteland. It’s this juxtaposition of the ridiculous and the dire that gives the story texture. In fact, humor becomes the only thing that keeps the characters from breaking down completely. Why Do We Laugh in the Dark? So, why does humor show up when it’s least expected? The answer, as simple as it sounds, is that humor is a coping mechanism. The human brain is pretty good at seeking comfort when things get uncomfortable, and what’s more comforting than a good laugh? In a world where every day is a battle for survival, it’s those moments of absurdity and wit that give people the strength to keep going. It’s like saying, “Hey, things are terrible, but let’s laugh about it—just to prove we’re still in control.” Look at a show like The Walking Dead . Sure, it’s full of rotting zombies, heart-wrenching losses, and an ever-dwindling supply of canned beans. Yet, in between the brutal face-offs with walkers and tense standoffs with other survivors, you’ll catch a dry joke, a sardonic comment, or a sarcastic quip. It’s not just for the viewer’s sake, though—it’s for the characters too. They’re trying to maintain their humanity, and part of that is keeping their sense of humor intact, no matter how bleak the circumstances. Comedy and Tragedy: A Match Made in Apocalyptic Heaven It’s easy to think that comedy and tragedy are opposites. But in reality, they are often two sides of the same coin. Dark humor, in particular, is a blend of these forces. It’s a way of acknowledging the horror of the situation while still holding onto the belief that there’s something worth laughing at. This is especially true in dystopian narratives, where the “end” might seem inevitable, but the humans involved still manage to make light of their predicament. Take Dr. Strangelove , a classic film set against the backdrop of nuclear annihilation. The movie’s premise is about the madness of war and the potential for mankind to destroy itself with a single button push. And yet, the humor in it is so dark it could almost make you believe that nuclear war is a punchline in a bad joke. But the brilliance of it is that, in the face of such overwhelming doom, the characters’ increasingly absurd behavior reflects the absurdity of the situation itself. It’s dark, yes, but it’s also brilliant satire—a reminder that sometimes the only way to deal with the hopelessness of the human condition is to laugh in its face. The Role of Satire in Dystopian Fiction Humor in dystopian fiction isn’t just a way for characters to stay sane; it’s also a way for the creators to comment on real-world issues. In some ways, these stories are a reflection of our world—albeit in a slightly exaggerated or future-ruined form. And within that exaggerated reality, satire becomes a powerful tool for critiquing the systems that got us into the mess in the first place. Take The Hunger Games , for example. While it’s easy to focus on the violence, oppression, and grim survival, the satire of the Capitol’s obsession with fashion, entertainment, and social media commentary is razor-sharp. The Capitol citizens’ frivolous concerns in the face of starvation and oppression are laughable, but they’re also a critique of the real-world priorities that often seem to take precedence over human suffering. It’s funny because it’s true—and that truth, wrapped in a joke, hits harder than any dramatic speech about the moral decay of society. Laughter as Resistance In many ways, humor in dystopian narratives becomes a form of resistance. When everything is stacked against you—when the odds are so absurdly high that survival seems like a joke—taking the time to laugh is an act of rebellion. It’s a refusal to be crushed by the weight of the world, a way of saying, “You can’t take this from me too.” In real life, humor often serves the same purpose. In moments of crisis—whether in war zones, under oppressive regimes, or during personal tragedies—humor becomes a weapon of survival. It’s a small but potent way of asserting individuality and humanity in a world that tries to strip those very things away. Finding the Funny in the Fallout In the end, the role of humor in dystopian fiction is not just about laughs in the face of despair—it’s about finding humanity in the darkest of times. It’s about holding onto that spark of joy even when everything else seems to be falling apart. Whether it’s in the form of a sardonic remark, a sarcastic comment, or an absurd situation, humor in dark stories serves as both a coping mechanism and a critique of the world we live in. So, the next time you find yourself in a dystopian world (whether metaphorical or literal), remember: there’s always room for a little laughter. After all, if we can’t laugh in the apocalypse, then what’s the point of surviving it?