Tom Steyer – You Idiot

by Coleman Patrick Ranahan

Tom Steyer: billionaire, is an idiot on a galactic level. Like, not just the kind of idiot you point and laugh at on the street. I’m talking, “This guy is about to fall down the escalator, drunk” dumb.

One of what are an incredible amount of notable scenes from Christopher Nolan’s film ‘The Dark Knight’: The Joker, whom took “half” of the Gotham mob’s money; burns it in the center of a giant warehouse. Tom Steyer is definitely not the Joker (thank god), nor the Russians whom the Joker taunts in that very scene, but while not in face paint or wearing a purple jacket, Tom Steyer is gleefully burning his money. He just needs the warehouse.

“All you care about is money…” the Joker exclaims. Now… enter Tom Steyer. *Looks at the bottle of wine I’m drinking… I should probably put this down. Nobody’s gonna give a shit about a Dark Knight comparison… sigh. Whatever. Fuck you. *Oh god, did I already drink half the bottle? Oh yeah, the Dark Knight comparison didn’t really matter. Where was I?

If you watch cable television, or news programs (god help you) from MSNBC, CNN, et al, you’ve probably noticed the Tom Steyer ad. There he sits in his chair, while dramatic music plays, like a drunk Mr. Rogers, and invokes the word “impeachment” while Steyer rambles on and heavily doctored graphics fade in.

This is the kind of dumb shit you see on the street, with dumb fuck idiots plastering Hitler mustaches on Obama or whatever dumb fuck thing you think you could dumb fuck human beings could photoshop on a face.

This is the kind of thing you would see petty Republicans do because they don’t have anything better to do, like baseball fans when they make awful, bad shirts meant to invoke rage on the opposing team when you visit near the stadium on the street (looking at you Chewing Gum field). Tom Steyer is the Democratic version of that, and his airing of his “ads” do nothing but harm the public discourse.

Is our President a meandering child accused of multiple sexual assaults? Yes.  Is our President someone who taunts the disabled and values strength over substance and character? Yes. Is our President a terrible person? Yes. Do I think he’s easily the most corrupt, horrible individual to hold the mantle of the highest office on planet earth and appoint what I call the Nightmare Cabinet? Certainly.

By airing these ads, we’ll be subject to wave after wave of idiots with money now that should they suddenly disagree with the President, and airing for their impeachment. If you’ve ever wanted to argue for why your DVR should skip past commercials, here’s your prime example. (Unless you of course sneak this ad into a god damn Marvel commercial or something).

The counterargument is, maybe idiots with money don’t air ads, but I think we all know the likelihood of that happening isn’t high. Either way, Tom Steyer is making us roll our eyes into the back of our heads like the amount of people that should have died from watching The Book of Henry.

Tom Steyer could be doing much better things with his money (like peddling my god awful millennial sushi for instance), I think we could all agree with that. He’s not funding candidates, he’s not funding real activism causes, but instead burning his senseless ad dollars in areas that aren’t truly making a difference. This doesn’t move Congress closer to a vote, this doesn’t move the Senate closer to a vote. This just stokes the tribalism for a cheap thirty seconds.

I roll my eyes every time I see one of them. I don’t like the sitting President at all, but he could instead help prep for 2018 and 2020.

You want to make a real statement? Fund progressive candidates. Fund activism causes. Fund things that will help lead to the stemming of global catastrophe.

Tom Steyer, you’re armed with billions of dollars. Join me, and stop your senseless waste of money on ads the Republican controlled congress, Senate, and White House will shrug off just like they shrug off gun violence victims, potential victims of the ACA repeal, or accused child molesters.

You can find me on Twitter @colemanranahan.

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Kesha – The Antithesis

By Coleman Patrick Ranahan

(Photo Credit – Vulture)

I’m not a man who attends a great deal of concerts. I can literally count on one hand how many actual concerts I’ve been too. And no, my siblings middle school choir concerts do not count, YOU CAN’T MAKE ME MOM.

It struck me Wednesday night, through the gap of a gay couple kissing in the audience of a concert at the Palladium in Hollywood, as Kesha commanded the stage, this was the most positive event I have been at all year. Not just simply because of the surrounding circumstances, a terrorist attack in New York, six hundred people shot in Las Vegas, an administration that runs around like a drunk toddler into a batch of legos.

All spectacularly bad photos below this sentence are taken by me.

I was surrounded by what had to be close to three thousand people packed in side by side at the Palladium. Some, were dressed in fancy outfits; custom, some painted, a man passed by me in gold spandex and sequin cape with a top hat, and some donned eye paint and glitter-beards. Anything and everything you could think of, we had it. Kesha’s army was here, her “animals” she lovingly called us. I was in a mere green button-up but I kind of wished I had dressed up.

Likely this will sound hyperbolic, but it had the vibe of the emerging flower power/sexual revolution 1970’s, but in the modern day. Or at least that’s what it struck me like as I was watching everything unfold in front of me from the back of the Palladium.

I didn’t wear anything fancy, though I sported a fancy attitude (some may contest otherwise), but I felt surrounded by the most positive energy I hadn’t felt in quite some time. It was astonishing, singular, and only of that moment. And it registered to me immediately upon stepping into the circular disco style floor of the Palladium.

Kesha’s choice in her opening band, Savoy Motel, a band I had never heard of before, showed an upbeat, fun 1970’s vibe with enough electric guitar solos to make AC/DC blush that seemed to coincide with Kesha’s jailbreak into the artist she’s evolved into.

As Kesha took the stage, she had a confidence, a swagger, a smile. She belonged up there. She loved roaring into the audience, even at one point taking a drink from a flask and “baby-birding” it into the audience. And we all ate it up. And with the presence of a super-star, gave the audience a little bit of everything. She could have asked us all to sucker punch each other in the face and we might have done it.

Without mentioning Donald Trump by name or by occupation, Kesha laid out that all were welcome, all were accepted, and to not let anyone be disparaged by their race, gender, sexual preference etc. The whole room didn’t have to hold their breath to know what she was getting at, we all knew.

The more unshackled Kesha became, the more it emanated into the room.

Whatever the days that come ahead, whatever nonsensical tweet storms our President decides to tear into like a proverbial six-pack that an alcoholic desires, I’ll most definitely remember this night. It wasn’t by any means an absolutely wild night, it was just a stark contrast of what we can be versus what our nation has grinded itself into right now.

And in that small room, that meager slice of life in Los Angeles, that room of people chanting ‘motherfucker’ back to Kesha as she strided around the stage, it felt like happiness, and that Donald J. Trump, is something you can’t roll back.

If you enjoyed this column, consider kicking a few bucks Coleman’s way by contributing to his Patreon account. You can also follow him on Twitter.

The Constant Humiliation of Sean Spicer

(Image by Molly Reilly/AFP/Getty)

By Coleman Patrick Ranahan

White House Press Secretary – Spokesman for the President of the United States and the Executive Branch of the government.

Now, imagine a man, who on behalf of the President of the United States of America, the leader of the free world, one of the most powerful people in existence, came before an entire nation and his first words weren’t that of hope, a shared compassion, a message of unity, but instead were that of a scorched earth, a message not of coexistence and raising others up, but that of something so critically stupid, so beyond the pale of what matters in the mind of the modern American, that the sight of the American message disappears.

Crowd sizes – the great trivial pursuit. Sean Spicer’s first press briefing was one for the ages. He gripped the lectern hard as he railed on about the bust of Martin Luther King Jr, and then transitioned to crowd sizes. Barely catching his breath, he leapt from one sentence to the next, as if a open mic comic was trying to remember his jokes, trying hard to please, trying not to eat it in front of a whole nation. Except his words weren’t just his, they weren’t personal. They were that of the man with most powerful nuclear arsenal on the face of the planet, mere yards from where he stood.

Comedy as they say, is the age old equation of tragedy plus time. But in Sean Spicer’s case, it’s all tragedy, and none of the time.

Tonight, Sean Spicer was paraded around a crowd of celebrities at the Emmys, treated as if he were Melissa McCarthy’s joyous, bombastic, painfully accurate impression. People laughed, Spicer made light of his own tenure, pictures of celebrities openly gaping at the appearance of someone who beckoned to Donald Trump’s call to chastise and threaten the freedom of the press on an annual basis, openly lied about the repeal of American healthcare, and told lies on an annual basis.

That very press by the way (you’ll notice this is a nerve for me), whose existence has yielded countless corporations and government officials doing things we wouldn’t even know about it if we didn’t have a free press. It’s exposed heinous killers, generated thoughtful discussion on social issues, and exposed dangerous, dangerous practices of all kinds. And they laughed.

This isn’t Melissa McCarthy chewing gum in front of a podium. It’s not Stephen Colbert’s over-the-top Republican caricature. This is the man communicating on behalf of the federal government of the United States, who openly targeted reporters,  congressional leaders, and advocated the for the heinous collateral damage killings of family members of enemy combatants. It’s not that he’s not allowed to make light of himself at some point in the future, it could come in time, but the wounds he and the administration inflicted are so fresh, it’d be like watching someone stand over you, having just stabbed you, going, “Sorry the blade wasn’t dull enough…”

“That’s what you sign up to do,” he lauded on Jimmy Kimmel’s late night talk show, alluding to saying whatever needed to be said for Donald Trump.

Callbacks to World War II are easy, but when some German soldiers were asked as to their participation in the countless slaughter of Jews and Europeans, some soldiers replied that they were just following orders (commonly known as the Nuremburg defense). That’s one thing that has always stuck out to me, in the worst war of all time, the simplicity of “we were just following orders.” Sean Spicer isn’t a nazi, but he worked for a white supremacist sympathizer.

Never mind the countless damage this President has done to the United States reputation, never mind the withdrawal of the United States on the world stage, a hollow shell of a man stood before us for months, his character voided out and presented like an art show, welded together. He chose to be a puppet of the United States, to be directed however he pleased, drawing a paycheck from the American taxpayer, and willing to openly lie like a bad car salesman on his last legs.

I guess it’s indicative for Sean Spicer to want to fraternize amongst a group of pretenders. After all, the biggest pretender of the world holds the title of President. But it’s not hard to smell the opportunist in the room, the one who reeks of doing whatever it takes to get him into that bumpin’ Hollywood club. Not all of them wear stupid hats, leather pants, or are trying to shove their business card down your throat, this one just happens to have a fitting tuxedo this time around.

Sean Spicer as the mouth piece for the President, damaged the country, damaged the press, and damaged himself. He was willing to be openly flayed, humiliated, and torn apart in front of a whole nation, all in the name of appearances.

And now he’s back, chatting with late night talk show hosts, comedians, actors, taking selfies, making light as if his targeted press conferences meant nothing, that it was all part of the game. Except Sean Spicer isn’t Omar Little. He’s not sticking up other drug dealers, being the rebel with cause, he’s worse than the entity he tried to vilify.

If you enjoyed this column, consider kicking a few bucks Coleman’s way by contributing to his Patreon account. You can also follow him on Twitter.

Et transitus

By Coleman Patrick Ranahan


My name is Coleman Patrick Ranahan. And things seem to be… in transition. I am not who I once was. And I am not the person I was ten seconds ago. And I am most certainly not the person I was when I graduated high school ten years ago. Which is how we arrived here, at this asinine post, a modern Coleman, if such a thing could exist.

This isn’t a starter pistol, there aren’t runners in position. The runners have already leapt out of the gate and are halfway gone. This is mise-en-scene. The camera was rolling and the director is drunk.

In 2017 if you had asked me if I was ready to start writing twice a month at the minimum, trying to construct something funny, I would have said, “Sure.”

Sorry, I think I caught myself off guard there. I mean yes – positive – OK. A couple of years ago? Absolutely not. Moving down to Los Angeles? No. Living in a house with ten to thirteen people? Negative. Sleeping on a pile of towels and a deflated air mattress, maybe after a few beers. Not even living in a single room in Santa Monica. It just wasn’t the time.

But things are transforming, taking shape and flying upward (I hope). I have kidnapped the hippogriff and I’m going for a joy ride. No seatbelt fastened (which I don’t think is a feature on the 2017 model). I may not be a rebel, wearing leather jackets (I have one it’s just too god damn hot out), smoking cigarettes (yeah, see?), or fighting the Empire, but I have an itch that I need to set fire to.

Now… having written all of that it seems silly to apply that to a humor column (or… an opinion column with humor in it), which, it is. But this desire to start producing, start writing, start filming, doing everything has reached a pinnacle. There’s no going back now. I am sick with something, some innate, idiotic, magicians trick. It’s the rainbow colored scarf I keep pulling at out of my sleeve but it just doesn’t seem to end.

It’s the means to a temporarily satiate, and I don’t necessarily mean monetarily (but please give me your money, preferably in buckets). I can’t focus if I don’t write.

You know how Superman as a kid started flipping out when his powers first started manifesting (and good fucking god I am not actually comparing myself to the most supreme being in the universe – as we all know that is Keanu Reeves), it’s like that. It’s endless noise circling my head. I can’t get to sleep. It’s like someone turned the crowd noise up in a stadium, in the middle of the night.

Sure, I could go to some event on a Thursday night (fuck you Wednesday), get frustrated, and rip some intern’s head off like a dandelion, but this is what I do to get through the day. It’s disgusting.

My writing isn’t quaint, or particularly thought provoking. It doesn’t make some grand gesture for the twenty-first century. I’m not solving any big moral quandary (cut to – X post later where I pretend to have insight) or providing analysis. It’s just the way I get through my day because whatever else people fill their lives with is a void for me. It’s just exists.

Which brings me to the point of this blog, or site, whatever you want to call it. I’m attempting to fill something here, not just a few more words on the page of course, but something in myself. (This is all walking a dangerously close – pretentious line).

Life is in transition, 2017, America, a new job, my brain, my writing, my filmmaking, me. Things are evolving, and I’m not quite sure where it’s taking me. But I’ve reached a point where I seem to be comfortable with a new song and dance (groundhog! – a musical reference I’m sure will be lost on most). I finally feel like letting some things escape.

Not all of it will be pretty, wrapped in a neat little bow (if I wake up with a bow on me I will have questions), or always properly expressed. I liken whatever it is I am to my poker skills. Sloppy, but when I win, I win big. Unsure if I’m winning right now, but I’m ready to start pushing in some more chips.

In particular to this blog, we’ll be covering a wide variety of topics, really it’ll be whatever the hell I’m feeling, maybe it’s something about life in transition, maybe it’ll be politics, or maybe it’ll just be about that time I didn’t realize the Best Buy check-out girl was hitting on me and I stumbled out of the store like a wounded gazelle trying to … sorry did you hit the snooze button already?

I hope the writing on this site entertains, and maybe, just maybe spurs a thought in your head, but we’ll see what happens. It’s a means to sort the noise, and if it can both ease my mind and put a chuckle or a “Wait, what?” on the mind, I’ll be OK with that. Until then, welcome to the Certifiable.

If you enjoyed this column, consider kicking a few bucks Coleman’s way by contributing to his Patreon account. You can also follow him on Twitter.

What To Do When Your President Is A Nazi/White Supremacist Sympathizer?

by Coleman Patrick Ranahan

(Photo by Chip Somodevilla – Getty)

Ok, so your President was just revealed as a Nazi sympathizer. A wide range of emotions are going to come out. Mostly rage I imagine, but there may even be some tears and bargaining.

But the question now becomes – What do you do?

I’ve come up with a handy dandy list.

  1. Scream.
  2. Scream louder.
  3. Scream at a small bush.
  4. Apologize to the small bush.
  5. Watch Schindler’s List.
  6. Apologize to Schindler’s List, profusely… like to the whole blu-ray case.
  7. Call your Congressman/Congresswoman (don’t forget the part about the President being a Nazi sympathizer, don’t just chat about pie or something, though pie is delicious).
  8. Rage, rage some more.
  9. Figure out that you should probably censure the President.
  10. Censure the President (then have pie).

Think you’re done? Nah. You’ve still got some work to do. BECAUSE THE GOD DAMN PRESIDENT THINKS THERE ARE VERY NICE PEOPLE IN THE WHITE SUPRE— Sorry I think I just had a small stroke.

One thing you can do to ensure this happens again in the future is to tell future progeny and small yelling machines (I think those are called children) that Nazis and White Supremacists are evil and generally just bad people. Educate them. If you think they’re old enough, show them the horrors of World War II. Don’t hold back images of what happened. They deserve to know. They deserve to not be dragged into the rise of something like that ever again. They deserve to be small yelling machines and not have to worry about whether or not Jeff next door lit a torch, parted his hair like a douchebag (spoiler alert – total douchebag) and went out marching cause he think his shit haircut makes him a better man. Jeff is not a better man. Jeff is an asshole. Fuck you, Jeff.

Few Presidents in the history of the United States have actually faced censure. Congress has tried before, Bill Clinton came close (phrasing). Abraham Lincoln (the party our current President claims to hold) almost ran afoul of it. One notable President to actually be censured? Andrew Jackson. Andrew Jackson was also a documented dickhole.

There are few and far things in between to send a strong message to the President of the United States about. I generally tend to think condemnations are a waste of time and money unless you get someone to resign from office, but since the President of the United States seems so hellbent on getting something through Congress why not sign (or sigh), seal, and deliver the biggest ‘fuck you’ in American politics besides asking him to resign? You may not agree with everything, but there is one notable exception, Nazis and White Supremacists. No matter how far you turn, no matter how much you look away, they’re lurking in the shadows like evil cartoon characters, sharpening their knives and waiting for the day someone is elevated that will let them run amuck. This is that time.

It only takes about five minutes of watching a National Geographic Special or a History Channel hour (back when they did history, I have no idea what they do now – Auction off cats?) to know that Nazis and White Supremacists are bad. Ed Norton made a movie about being a Nazi turned not Nazi.

Don’t be bad. Don’t be a Nazi. Don’t sympathize with Nazis and go, “Well Jeff seems alright.” Jeff is not alright. Jeff is a deranged lunatic who will come to your house with a dusty tiki torch that he stole from your stepdad’s basement that he claims to have fueled with “liberal tears” and scream until he’s red in the face because he think’s he is genetically superior. Jeff can crawl back to his hole from whence he came, remove that awful white polo, take a hint from history and make the world a better place. Fuck Nazis, send the President a neat little letter with the word “censure” on it, and have some pie.

If you enjoyed this column, consider kicking a few bucks Coleman’s way by contributing to his Patreon account. You can also follow him on Twitter.


Hello internet,

I will start writing my columns starting in the next month. If you would like to support a budding humor writer or just a giant idiot in general, you can donate to the Patreon page here.

You can follow me on Twitter.

I also directed a feature film Lost Signals which you can buy or rent here.