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The Wayward Irregular

Matthew D. Jordan

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The Wayward Irregular

The Wayward Irregular

Matthew D. Jordan

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The Wayward Irregular

Latest Episodes

My Dog is Dead, Long Live MyDog

EThe first time I saw Carl was in his fourth week of life, a tiny English Bulldog with paws the size of caramels and a head too fat to squeeze through the bars of the baby crib he struggled to escape. The last time I saw Carl was ten years later on Christmas Eve, when I’d left him wrapped in a blanket on the cold linoleum of the vet’s office. A snub nosed shit-storm come to life as a well muscled bag of wrinkled dog flesh, Carl was the very best of us for an entire decade. He passed four days ago, and the asshole has left a considerable gap in my soul, one I shall fail to plug during the remainder of my holiday vacation with cheese, drinking in the bathtub, and this wayward attempt at a eulogy. Fresh to Colorado and newly married, my wife and I drove for hours to steal Carl away from a breeder whose house smelled like yogurt and moldy TV Guides. It had that now-familiar brume of the over-tired dog breeders — the kind of folk with a maniac’s haircut, likely made their own soap, an...

--2015 DEC 29
Comments
My Dog is Dead, Long Live MyDog

I Will Let The Alamo Drafthouse Get MePregnant

EPeople, other humans, they’ve damn near ruined everything. Fox hunting, hard narcotics for a head cold, and the Ecto Cooler—the great things in life are slowly phasing out from our day-to-day, usually an order from some Fresca drinking slick-shaven-sally in a grey suit, something about safety or child labor laws. I’d come close, as I usually do. I was standing on my roof, clad in a trash-bag, one fist full of peanut butter, the other holding a shotgun, just me getting ready for the usual Tuesday night stuff. Then, the Old Gods intervened. “Matthew,” a thunderous voice commanded, eyes and a beard forming in the clouds. “Matthew, what troubles your soul?” “Besides low-calorie mayonnaise and Joss Whedon’s excuses?” I shot back. “The movies, cloud God. I can’t go to a movie theater anymore without pouring a Diet Coke on some pre-teen’s cellphone.” The cloud smiled, then vanished, leaving only a light towards the west and a whisper in my brain. “The Alamo Drafthouse,” the...

9 MIN2013 JUN 10
Comments
I Will Let The Alamo Drafthouse Get MePregnant

Felt Better for Three Minutes, Then I Got EvenPrettier

EHello again, savages, Mikayla here. Matthew's been busy getting ready for the second Tincture book to begin (June 3rd - tincturestory.com), so he's been super lazy here at the Irregular. To showcase this, the following is an excerpt from that book of essays he wrote back in 2011, you know, the one he slapped together and told nobody about? The one he's entirely embarrassed by? That one. It's still available, for whatever reason, at Amazon in paperback and for the Kindle, so enjoy the first thousand or so words from chapter 1. It's not, like, even the whole goddamn chapter! He reads part and then it just… ugh... Maybe he's trying to sell it again. I don't know. Maybe out of the six or seven of you who read this stuff, one will go buy it. It's like, two bucks I think. I'm looking at you, Jeff. You too, Steve. ... Shortly before our move to Colorado, right after my wife and I returned from Ireland, I had the mistakenly bold notion to relax. I was already in sweatpants and more than re...

--2013 APR 29
Comments
Felt Better for Three Minutes, Then I Got EvenPrettier

Email Is Fodder for CorporateAnarchy

EAn email loaded with amorphous detail rings out in the morning, and by the afternoon, we will taste human flesh for the first time. Sometimes jobs are like this. Email is the fodder for corporate anarchy, some press release about our jobs written in newspeak, vague on detail and ripe for the scuttlebutt. Everyone imagines those who pen such things cackling as they type, one finger coyly twisting into their cheek as the missive speeds to a few thousand inboxes. The Masters are no fools—these things are not designed to root and rile—but we eat it up, we crave it like the needle. The inbox makes that little chiming sound, a wild email appears, and seconds later I am wearing a spiky leather Mad Max costume and running down some poor family on my motorcycle for an expired can of tomatoes. Things have escalated. The morning started with coffee and small-talk about the weather, but by 2pm, the savages have painted symbols in blood on the walls, and I cannot identify what is slowly twirli...

7 MIN2013 MAR 18
Comments
Email Is Fodder for CorporateAnarchy

Matthew Norman, The Famous Author, Once Toiled Among theCommoners

EMatthew Norman thrust his bulk upon the device, and with a hot breath into its data port, he de-virginized my Kindle. Let me back up. He’s the author of Domestic Violets, a novel released back in 2011, the story of Tom Violet and his milquetoast existence out in some fictitious middle-middle class somewhere. I had been meaning to consume the title for a little while now, and after years of smugly chortling at the fast forwarding world of electronic books, I finally caved and burned a few gift cards to pick up a Kindle. I love it. I held the device for all of four minutes before I threw it on a dirty mattress, aimed my VHS camera, then slowly sauntered up to the thing in dirty underwear while grunting along with Stuck In The Middle With You. So, Domestic Violets—this tight number about a guy shuffling through his day-to-day in the vast American white collar wastelands—I paid a couple of bucks, downloaded it, and spent the weekend properly glued. Domestic Violets is real, fresh, an...

--2013 FEB 4
Comments
Matthew Norman, The Famous Author, Once Toiled Among theCommoners

And Our Lust Continued: The Super NintendoChristmas

EI had known it for years, but Christmas morning in 1993 cemented my presumptions: my parents were terrible liars. I believe I had spent the first few hours of the night in my bed, feigning sleep, but at least six or seven of them were spent on the toilet staring at my red digital watch, desperately trying to avoid suicide. By my late teens I had already stopped with the whole anticipation thing on Christmas eve, sleeping like a baby until my brother woke me up to come witness the tree. However, in my pre-teens and those first one or two years of actual and for-reals puberty, I really couldn’t catch a wink or a Z or anything that would help the time pass any faster. In December of 1990 I had been caught trying to sneak down the stairs for a peek at what turned out to be a fully functional Castle Grayskull. It could’ve been our loud stairs, the fact that I was 10 years old and as wise as a pair of pee-stained Underoos, or perhaps my mother was simply clairvoyant—either way, the wom...

8 MIN2012 DEC 25
Comments
And Our Lust Continued: The Super NintendoChristmas

The Joe Rogan Parade Float: Icky Sticky in the MileHigh

EThey’ve made it legal out here in the Rockies to commune with the skunk, every one of us now buckling into the hand-basket and punching in for armageddon. We emerge from our homes in an astonished buzz, the future has finally arrived, and its rung in by hippies wearing tuxedo t-shirts, silently clinking wedding spoons against the bong and demanding ovation. Forever the gateway to terrible things, weed is now above board and on the regular out here, and nobody has a fleeting whistle on how the whole thing will pan out. However the electorate saw fit to tally things, the last throes of the violently appalled and terribly misinformed have been kicked back into the pits, the majority of Colorado inhabitants taking up their brooms and shooing anyone who looks too clear-headed, or anyone who cannot quickly answer the appropriate amounts of Frank Zappa trivia. An angry man holding a sweeper points the bristles at a tourist, “Why did Dot Records claim to reject his music?” The tourist, s...

7 MIN2012 DEC 10
Comments
The Joe Rogan Parade Float: Icky Sticky in the MileHigh

Halloween Is Dangerous, and We Should All Be Afraid ofEverything

EI held out my pillow case, and the old woman gripping a bag of “popcorn balls” demanded that I “show her a trick,” so I briefly considered kicking out her brittle knee and screaming “abracadabra” into her oversized hearing aid. This was not a time for nonsense. This was Halloween, and there was a simple exchange here, a transaction that both parties were privy to and I didn’t expect any delays in my busy evening out in the cold. You icy old crone! I had dressed up for this! My stocking cap ground the sharp plastic mask into my features, and to only further degrade the illusion of my costume, my puffy blue winter coat made short work of everything. What was so hard to understand here? I’m dressed like some sort of superhero—or whatever bizarre getup my mother constructed from a poorly understood lecture I’d given her on on the ins-and-outs of pastel attire. I’m about to venture into the cold night air to beg strangers for candy and hope that none of them answer the door sh...

8 MIN2012 OCT 29
Comments
Halloween Is Dangerous, and We Should All Be Afraid ofEverything

“Tincture” Has Moved, But Loves You And Isn’t Trying To Replace Your RealDad

ESalutations cadre, this is Mikayla, Matthew’s wife, and I’m addressing you savages so it sounds more important the next time you hear the deep caramel bass of my husband’s voice, or whatever. Last May, The Wayward Irregular introduced a short story series called Tincture, and it’s apparently resonated strongly with the five or six of you who actually fret away the otherwise valuable sections of your life by listening and reading this nonsense. Hey, I love the guy, but not because I’ve watched him molest a breakfast buffet and not because he keeps writing about the bathroom or… or how getting older… I- I don’t know what he writes about. What is this, is it movie reviews? Ah, who gives a shit? Anywho, the short story has moved out from the Irregular (here), to it’s very own website and podcast (there), and you can find it all at tincturestory.com. The first five episodes of Tincture will remain here, but those five episodes, as well as everything else, are at tincturestory.co...

--2012 OCT 22
Comments
“Tincture” Has Moved, But Loves You And Isn’t Trying To Replace Your RealDad

The Red Baron and His Demonstrable Pizza-RelatedBetrayal

EI’d asked the young man behind the automated scanning machine to repeat himself, and this was merely an effort to prevent TR, my companion, from absolving the man of his larynx with a roll of breath mint candies. “Young man,” I began, “the gentleman to my left is TR Schroder, my companion in manners such as these, and I’ll not repeat myself a third time. I ask, no—I demand—that you either provide me with the quantity I’ve requested or you may fetch your superior!” “Look,” mumbled the grocery store clerk, “I told you we’re out of Pizza Rolls. All we have left is Bagel Bites.” This is when TR opened his hands and attempted to lunge at the boy, sending an entire stack of Cosmopolitan women’s periodicals to the floor as I attempted to restrain him. They were everywhere. The headlines had something to do with excess belly cellulose, orgasm technique, and celebrity nipple positions. Now is not the time for such bum-grabbery—I am in the middle of business. “Bagel Bites?” ...

12 MIN2012 SEP 3
Comments
The Red Baron and His Demonstrable Pizza-RelatedBetrayal

Latest Episodes

My Dog is Dead, Long Live MyDog

EThe first time I saw Carl was in his fourth week of life, a tiny English Bulldog with paws the size of caramels and a head too fat to squeeze through the bars of the baby crib he struggled to escape. The last time I saw Carl was ten years later on Christmas Eve, when I’d left him wrapped in a blanket on the cold linoleum of the vet’s office. A snub nosed shit-storm come to life as a well muscled bag of wrinkled dog flesh, Carl was the very best of us for an entire decade. He passed four days ago, and the asshole has left a considerable gap in my soul, one I shall fail to plug during the remainder of my holiday vacation with cheese, drinking in the bathtub, and this wayward attempt at a eulogy. Fresh to Colorado and newly married, my wife and I drove for hours to steal Carl away from a breeder whose house smelled like yogurt and moldy TV Guides. It had that now-familiar brume of the over-tired dog breeders — the kind of folk with a maniac’s haircut, likely made their own soap, an...

--2015 DEC 29
Comments
My Dog is Dead, Long Live MyDog

I Will Let The Alamo Drafthouse Get MePregnant

EPeople, other humans, they’ve damn near ruined everything. Fox hunting, hard narcotics for a head cold, and the Ecto Cooler—the great things in life are slowly phasing out from our day-to-day, usually an order from some Fresca drinking slick-shaven-sally in a grey suit, something about safety or child labor laws. I’d come close, as I usually do. I was standing on my roof, clad in a trash-bag, one fist full of peanut butter, the other holding a shotgun, just me getting ready for the usual Tuesday night stuff. Then, the Old Gods intervened. “Matthew,” a thunderous voice commanded, eyes and a beard forming in the clouds. “Matthew, what troubles your soul?” “Besides low-calorie mayonnaise and Joss Whedon’s excuses?” I shot back. “The movies, cloud God. I can’t go to a movie theater anymore without pouring a Diet Coke on some pre-teen’s cellphone.” The cloud smiled, then vanished, leaving only a light towards the west and a whisper in my brain. “The Alamo Drafthouse,” the...

9 MIN2013 JUN 10
Comments
I Will Let The Alamo Drafthouse Get MePregnant

Felt Better for Three Minutes, Then I Got EvenPrettier

EHello again, savages, Mikayla here. Matthew's been busy getting ready for the second Tincture book to begin (June 3rd - tincturestory.com), so he's been super lazy here at the Irregular. To showcase this, the following is an excerpt from that book of essays he wrote back in 2011, you know, the one he slapped together and told nobody about? The one he's entirely embarrassed by? That one. It's still available, for whatever reason, at Amazon in paperback and for the Kindle, so enjoy the first thousand or so words from chapter 1. It's not, like, even the whole goddamn chapter! He reads part and then it just… ugh... Maybe he's trying to sell it again. I don't know. Maybe out of the six or seven of you who read this stuff, one will go buy it. It's like, two bucks I think. I'm looking at you, Jeff. You too, Steve. ... Shortly before our move to Colorado, right after my wife and I returned from Ireland, I had the mistakenly bold notion to relax. I was already in sweatpants and more than re...

--2013 APR 29
Comments
Felt Better for Three Minutes, Then I Got EvenPrettier

Email Is Fodder for CorporateAnarchy

EAn email loaded with amorphous detail rings out in the morning, and by the afternoon, we will taste human flesh for the first time. Sometimes jobs are like this. Email is the fodder for corporate anarchy, some press release about our jobs written in newspeak, vague on detail and ripe for the scuttlebutt. Everyone imagines those who pen such things cackling as they type, one finger coyly twisting into their cheek as the missive speeds to a few thousand inboxes. The Masters are no fools—these things are not designed to root and rile—but we eat it up, we crave it like the needle. The inbox makes that little chiming sound, a wild email appears, and seconds later I am wearing a spiky leather Mad Max costume and running down some poor family on my motorcycle for an expired can of tomatoes. Things have escalated. The morning started with coffee and small-talk about the weather, but by 2pm, the savages have painted symbols in blood on the walls, and I cannot identify what is slowly twirli...

7 MIN2013 MAR 18
Comments
Email Is Fodder for CorporateAnarchy

Matthew Norman, The Famous Author, Once Toiled Among theCommoners

EMatthew Norman thrust his bulk upon the device, and with a hot breath into its data port, he de-virginized my Kindle. Let me back up. He’s the author of Domestic Violets, a novel released back in 2011, the story of Tom Violet and his milquetoast existence out in some fictitious middle-middle class somewhere. I had been meaning to consume the title for a little while now, and after years of smugly chortling at the fast forwarding world of electronic books, I finally caved and burned a few gift cards to pick up a Kindle. I love it. I held the device for all of four minutes before I threw it on a dirty mattress, aimed my VHS camera, then slowly sauntered up to the thing in dirty underwear while grunting along with Stuck In The Middle With You. So, Domestic Violets—this tight number about a guy shuffling through his day-to-day in the vast American white collar wastelands—I paid a couple of bucks, downloaded it, and spent the weekend properly glued. Domestic Violets is real, fresh, an...

--2013 FEB 4
Comments
Matthew Norman, The Famous Author, Once Toiled Among theCommoners

And Our Lust Continued: The Super NintendoChristmas

EI had known it for years, but Christmas morning in 1993 cemented my presumptions: my parents were terrible liars. I believe I had spent the first few hours of the night in my bed, feigning sleep, but at least six or seven of them were spent on the toilet staring at my red digital watch, desperately trying to avoid suicide. By my late teens I had already stopped with the whole anticipation thing on Christmas eve, sleeping like a baby until my brother woke me up to come witness the tree. However, in my pre-teens and those first one or two years of actual and for-reals puberty, I really couldn’t catch a wink or a Z or anything that would help the time pass any faster. In December of 1990 I had been caught trying to sneak down the stairs for a peek at what turned out to be a fully functional Castle Grayskull. It could’ve been our loud stairs, the fact that I was 10 years old and as wise as a pair of pee-stained Underoos, or perhaps my mother was simply clairvoyant—either way, the wom...

8 MIN2012 DEC 25
Comments
And Our Lust Continued: The Super NintendoChristmas

The Joe Rogan Parade Float: Icky Sticky in the MileHigh

EThey’ve made it legal out here in the Rockies to commune with the skunk, every one of us now buckling into the hand-basket and punching in for armageddon. We emerge from our homes in an astonished buzz, the future has finally arrived, and its rung in by hippies wearing tuxedo t-shirts, silently clinking wedding spoons against the bong and demanding ovation. Forever the gateway to terrible things, weed is now above board and on the regular out here, and nobody has a fleeting whistle on how the whole thing will pan out. However the electorate saw fit to tally things, the last throes of the violently appalled and terribly misinformed have been kicked back into the pits, the majority of Colorado inhabitants taking up their brooms and shooing anyone who looks too clear-headed, or anyone who cannot quickly answer the appropriate amounts of Frank Zappa trivia. An angry man holding a sweeper points the bristles at a tourist, “Why did Dot Records claim to reject his music?” The tourist, s...

7 MIN2012 DEC 10
Comments
The Joe Rogan Parade Float: Icky Sticky in the MileHigh

Halloween Is Dangerous, and We Should All Be Afraid ofEverything

EI held out my pillow case, and the old woman gripping a bag of “popcorn balls” demanded that I “show her a trick,” so I briefly considered kicking out her brittle knee and screaming “abracadabra” into her oversized hearing aid. This was not a time for nonsense. This was Halloween, and there was a simple exchange here, a transaction that both parties were privy to and I didn’t expect any delays in my busy evening out in the cold. You icy old crone! I had dressed up for this! My stocking cap ground the sharp plastic mask into my features, and to only further degrade the illusion of my costume, my puffy blue winter coat made short work of everything. What was so hard to understand here? I’m dressed like some sort of superhero—or whatever bizarre getup my mother constructed from a poorly understood lecture I’d given her on on the ins-and-outs of pastel attire. I’m about to venture into the cold night air to beg strangers for candy and hope that none of them answer the door sh...

8 MIN2012 OCT 29
Comments
Halloween Is Dangerous, and We Should All Be Afraid ofEverything

“Tincture” Has Moved, But Loves You And Isn’t Trying To Replace Your RealDad

ESalutations cadre, this is Mikayla, Matthew’s wife, and I’m addressing you savages so it sounds more important the next time you hear the deep caramel bass of my husband’s voice, or whatever. Last May, The Wayward Irregular introduced a short story series called Tincture, and it’s apparently resonated strongly with the five or six of you who actually fret away the otherwise valuable sections of your life by listening and reading this nonsense. Hey, I love the guy, but not because I’ve watched him molest a breakfast buffet and not because he keeps writing about the bathroom or… or how getting older… I- I don’t know what he writes about. What is this, is it movie reviews? Ah, who gives a shit? Anywho, the short story has moved out from the Irregular (here), to it’s very own website and podcast (there), and you can find it all at tincturestory.com. The first five episodes of Tincture will remain here, but those five episodes, as well as everything else, are at tincturestory.co...

--2012 OCT 22
Comments
“Tincture” Has Moved, But Loves You And Isn’t Trying To Replace Your RealDad

The Red Baron and His Demonstrable Pizza-RelatedBetrayal

EI’d asked the young man behind the automated scanning machine to repeat himself, and this was merely an effort to prevent TR, my companion, from absolving the man of his larynx with a roll of breath mint candies. “Young man,” I began, “the gentleman to my left is TR Schroder, my companion in manners such as these, and I’ll not repeat myself a third time. I ask, no—I demand—that you either provide me with the quantity I’ve requested or you may fetch your superior!” “Look,” mumbled the grocery store clerk, “I told you we’re out of Pizza Rolls. All we have left is Bagel Bites.” This is when TR opened his hands and attempted to lunge at the boy, sending an entire stack of Cosmopolitan women’s periodicals to the floor as I attempted to restrain him. They were everywhere. The headlines had something to do with excess belly cellulose, orgasm technique, and celebrity nipple positions. Now is not the time for such bum-grabbery—I am in the middle of business. “Bagel Bites?” ...

12 MIN2012 SEP 3
Comments
The Red Baron and His Demonstrable Pizza-RelatedBetrayal
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