Washed Weekly: Time For a Revolution

You can’t wash what is already washed.

May 17, 2024

Welcome to Washed Weekly — a weekly newsletter that will feature original columns, quick reads, exclusive product drops, and an offering of some of the best content we’ve created throughout the week that was. Read it, enjoy it, and pass it on to anyone you think will enjoy it, too. You can also check out the Washed network of podcasts.

I’ve Been 40 For Years

by Dave

I don’t fear turning 40. Some people do, but not me. You see, I’ve been prepping for this moment for years. I might play it up to family and friends as if I’m dreading it, so maybe I can get an extra round of golf or two out of it, but that just isn’t the case. Truthfully, I’m kind of excited to finally claim the number I’ve been mentally repping for years.

From a physical standpoint, 39 has provided so many muscle tears, pulls, tweaks, and what-the-fucks that I think I know what to expect. I’m at the tail end of my first ever round of physical therapy for a shoulder issue I’ve tried to ignore for years. Ever hear of a SLAP tear? Sounds like your recommended tab, but it’s actually a very real injury that I aggravated lifting my friend Phil above my head at a wedding. Yeah, I’m the fun guy at weddings. I sneaky love PT, though. Being forced to workout with a trainer two-to-three mornings per week, and the insurance company will pay for part, a very small part, of it.

I’ve also developed some very unpleasant tightness in my hips. Think it’s from playing golf? Chasing too much speed after watching exactly one (1) IG coach’s swing tip? Well, considering how rarely I get to play, which is another fun part of the aging process, that’s probably not the source. If it is a golf related ailment, then this all stems from the random PW we have sitting in our office. I put that line in here as a joke, but I’m now sitting here wondering if that’s a real possibility. Again, I’m cut from a different cloth.

While not ideal, these issues have put me on a road to recovery that I will undoubtedly be cruising from this point forward. I’ve done the research and contemplated T-therapy for years. A while back, I even found myself on diet testosterone therapy, known scientifically as Clomid, and that rocked my system in all the right ways. I felt good out there. Strong, but not so strong that people were asking questions. The hair that I still possessed held strong. My back didn’t revert to sophomore year and blow up with socially crippling acne that would turn most men into t-shirt-in-the-pool guys. But the Clomid years are long gone. That was back when I was chasing fertility, and as you may know, I’m no longer capable. Sorry, ladies.

Mentally, I’m in a great position. Just typing this out is a big step for me. If I were to show you my Explore Feed, what do you think you’d find? Sketchy backyard boxing leagues? People getting wrecked by bulls in slow motion? Golf memes that encourage reckless and often illegal behavior? Yeah, you would find that, but you’d also find Dr. Rob teaching me how I can get better, not older. Hey, there’s a handsome doctor explaining why my family should be avoiding Red 40 and Yellow 5. Pretty interesting! Am I getting enough Magnesium? Huberman seems to think I should look into that. And how’s my breathing? Good thing I’m firmly in the extremely washed early-stage midlife crisis algorithm. Otherwise, I’d have no clue how to breathe air before bed.

I love where I’m at. I’ve got a few months left in my thirties, but traditional societal notions about turning the big 4-0 don’t apply here. You can’t wash what is already washed. Remember these words.

I Will Not Be Silenced! IT’S TIME FOR A REVOLUTION!!!

by Randy

The column you are about to read is a direct response to the lies found in Dillon Cheverere’s column last week. I come here today to write to you, the human behind the screen. Today I will shine a light on the truth about this fowl situation, and, with it, the dark side of Washed Media you don’t see. For too long, the employee has been subjected to torment and oppression, and it is time to speak truth to power! In doing this, I know I put my own safety at risk, but I’d rather stand up for once than continue being forced to kneel!

For those of you that do not know the structure of Washed Media, here is a quick and simple explanation: We have our three overlords: Will, Dave, and worst of all, DILLON! They share equal ownership of the company and employ two subservient workers: Brett and myself.

Before I explain the tragedy of my avian companion, let me walk you through what a day in the life as an employee of Washed Media was like. I would wake at 5 in the morning and walk 3 miles in the dark to the prison you know as Washed Media HQ. Upon arriving, I went to my 1’ x 6’ locker and changed into my Washed Media issued gray jumpsuit. From there, I was shackled to my producer desk and started my 15 hour day. The only break during my laborious day was a 10 minute lunch break that was served to me in a dog bowl at my desk. After I finished my 15 hour shift, I changed back into my civilian clothes and walked the 3 miles back home. Then, I’d do it all again, 7 days a week. I usually kept my head down and didn’t make a fuss. That all changed when the situation you falsely read about happened.

I have few joys in this dismal world, but I did have one: my birds. Recently, I turned 30 and picked up bird watching. I even documented it on my Instagram story. I have finches, chickadees, grackles, doves, and even a one-legged cardinal I named Peggy. It fills me with joy that I can provide a safe harbor for my feathered friends, especially for the feeble like Peggy. Recently, I had been discussing this new joy in the office without realizing at the time it irritated our Washed tyrants.

You see, the leaders of Washed want workers. Machines. They don’t want humans that can think and feel for themselves. That causes too many variables for them to control. I see that now!

Now to the situation you are all already familiar with. I know it is easy to have been swayed by Dillon’s fanciful words and illustrious writing, and I thank you for even reading as far as you have. But much, if not all, of his words are lies!... The ruling class controlling the news cycle and spinning the narrative to their will? I know. Cliche. But it is the unfortunate cold hard truth about our world.

Now, here is the truth about the tragedy of the dove: To start, there has been a series of unfortunate accidents with the birds around our office. We had 4 birds fly into the windows of Washed Media HQ. I originally thought that maybe the maintenance crew, marched out here on the chain-gang, had recently washed the windows making the reflection look like a beautiful sky for my friends to soar in. Maybe it was just a coincidence. I will reveal to you later that that was not the case!

When I would hear a thud, I’d arise from my desk as much as my restraints would allow with an overwhelming feeling of concern. Then, I would see the winged beauty shake it off and fly away. My concern would be replaced with relief and then jealousy. For they were free to fly wherever they pleased, but I was not. My envy was never malicious. It just felt like a dream I would never experience myself. But the last bird…the last bird was not so lucky.

There on the ground outside sat an injured white-winged dove, a truly majestic creature. Any amateur ornithologist would know the beautiful specimen at a glance. Dillon told you it was a mourning dove for the sake of whimsical wordplay and to invoke a subconscious feeling of melancholy. For you, dear reader, if you research the mourning dove’s call, you will more than likely remember this distinct sound that filled the air on a sunny morning of your childhood. It is his writing tactics like this that have earned him the nickname, “The Goebbels of Washed Media.”

I noticed its wing was broken and knew I had to do something about it. I pleaded with Dillon to allow me to go without food for the day and use my 10 minute lunch break to corral and shelter the bird. With an evil smirk on his face, he denied my request, told me I was being selfish, and that “it would not benefit the company.”

I continued my day just hoping the sweet little injured animal would make it till my shift’s end. As you already know, that was a foolish hope. As I sat there 9 hours into staring at my eye-numbing screen, I heard Dave from the other room:

“Uh-oh Randy, I think it’s happening,” with devilish glee in his voice.

William then entered the room and freed me from my shackles just to parade me to the window to get a front row view of the horror I was about to witness. I made my way to the door when Dillon and Dave grappled me and forced my face against the window and commanded me to watch. I tried to close my eyes, but their gruesome fingers forced my eyelids open. I looked over to Brett, hoping he would step in and help me, but of course that was not possible. Brett too is chained to his desk and forced to work. He looked at me and then averted his eyes. I could see him wince in pain as he took a jolt from the bluetooth headset that is bolted to his head that shocks him every time he doesn’t close a deal.

I began to weep as all I could see was cruelty, and all I could hear was the maniacal cackling from my oppressors. The animal patient I was about to care for limped about the parking lot. Closing in on it was a cat. Now, I am a friend to all animals and place no blame on my feline friend for what was about to happen. My middle name is Francis, named after St. Francis, the patron saint of the environment and animals. It is even said he would preach to birds. So I hold no ill-will for any animal that inflicts the cruelty of the natural world. But what I was experiencing was anything but that. It was the unnatural cruelty of man.

I will spare you the details of the bloodshed for it is too hard to put to words. After it was done, the cat pranced off with the bird, and that was the end of it...so I thought.

At the end of the day, I went to my locker fighting back tears, glad that it was over. But then, the past became the present when I opened my locker and there was the corpse of the bird. Purposely put in my locker. This was a message to fall in line and be a worker, not a human.

I fell to my knees and cried. After I regained my composure, I brought the carcass outside to a rainy night and gave it a proper burial. I just sat there filled with grief and regret. I did feel guilty for its death. If only I could have done more. Why didn’t I do more? I could have saved it!

I just sat there drenched in rain for an indeterminate amount of time. Minutes? Hours? I’m not sure.

The only thing that brought me out of my daze was two headlights pulling into the darkness of the parking lot. I moved to the shadows as I watched Dillon’s unmistakable white Rolls-Royce pull in.

It perplexed me. For Dillon to be in the office at this time of night was unheard of. He and the rest of the bourgeoisie of Washed Media would be at one of their tuxedo and caviar parties, mixing it up like the fat cats they are with all the other Austin elites. Gloating to Elon, talking politics with Alex Jones, and gambling on Joe Rogan’s underground "Peasant Fights.”

But he was there at the office. I watched as a shadowy figure approached his vehicle and received an envelope full of money from him. I did not recognize the mysterious figure, but I did recognize the creature perched upon its shoulder. The cat. Confusion became clarity as I realized this was no mere circle of life incident. It was a hit. Things became even clearer as I opened our garbage can to find a bottle of “Bird Attraction Spray.’

I’m awake now, dear reader. Dillon coated the windows and hired the feline menace’s handler to finish the job. All of this just to break me. But it backfired! The feelings of grief and guilt have been replaced with rage and fury!!! I have not returned back to that gulag, and I will not!

It is time for a revolution, compatriots! We will no longer be the gears of their greed, the pistons of their pride, the engines that move their enterprises. Rise up with me, as we have the numbers! My story is being spread in the back alleys and on the factory floors. They are just whispers now, shared while our oppressors aren’t listening. But with your help, we can make my story a commanding roar.

I know the imperialists have started to feel the shifting winds and they are scared! Dillon took to his propagandist ways to write this hit piece and sway public opinion before our revolution reaches the masses. His perjury only proves that they are shaking with fear. Desperate to hold on to control! WE WILL NOT LET THEM!

I call to all of you who have ever felt the boot of oppression on your neck to rise up! Join the White-Winged Revolution!

SWOT Analysis: The Golden Tee World Championships in Vegas

Dillon Cheverere

We are six short days away from the first Golden Tee live stream, now named Dillon’s Track House. Just a couple weeks in, I’m 46 rounds deep on our new machine, have ascended to a world ranking of 658 with a handicap of +22.32, and the dust is beginning to shake off.

As my game progresses, I learn the strategies of the unfamiliar courses, and I dial in which clubs and balls best suit my game, look for those numbers to continue to climb.

The buzz is building and people are excited. The official Golden Tee Twitter account hit me with this Wednesday morning:

The Golden Tee World Championships are from June 27-30 at the Palms Casino Resort in Las Vegas, Nevada. It’s the same weekend as our Chicago meetup. I just don’t yet know if I’m going to be there. Let’s take a closer look.

Strengths

I thrive in Vegas. It’s one of my favorite cities.
I’d showcase my skills on the biggest stage. Impress some folks. Make some friends in the industry.

Weaknesses

I’ll keep it buck with y’all for a second here. My game isn’t ready for a tourney like this. Chances of me getting humbled by superior players is pretty high.
To add to that, if I parlay the Chicago trip straight into Vegas and immediately hop on the trackball, I’ll be an exhausted, hungover shell of myself. I will not be playing at my best.

Opportunities

My game would grow. This is a chance to put the learning cap on, observe some real pros, take notes, and take my game to the next level.
I’d create some content from the experience.
There is cash on the line. I understand it’s a long shot, but leaving with some prize money is on the table.
I’d meet some heavy hitters in the world of Golden Tee.
There’s that dim sum brunch place at Resort World that goes really hard.
We’d get in bed FeetFinder.

Threats

Here’s the thing. This is the same weekend as our Chicago happy hour and meetup. That’s not ideal. The issue is less that I don’t want to miss part of that trip (I don’t, btw) and more that I feel that I’d be letting the Backers down tremendously. Will they be excited to rub shoulders with Will and Dave? Of course they will. Those guys are very likable and kind of funny. But we all know I’m the real draw here. I’d be letting so many people down. Listeners angry and sad, grown men sobbing over an empty pint. Not good!
I could leave detrimentally humbled. My confidence on the trackball is soaring at the moment. Just yesterday, I improved my low round on a very difficult course from -15 to -25. Things are going WELL. The last thing I need is to head for the airport at the end of this thing with my tail between my legs after getting my bare bottom spanked by better players. It could negatively affect my skills.

The tables could call my name and take me for a few hundo. Remember, your boy loves Vegas.

When Dillon’s Track House goes live next Thursday at 2:00 central, follow and subscribe on Twitch or YouTube.

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