As my bank account and precarious professional and financial standing unfortunately attest, I do not know a lot of lucrative things. I do not possess one of those intuitive business minds with a natural gift for making money, or even a basic grasp of math or the financial world. Nor do I know a lot of important things. I don’t have a surgeon’s education and base of knowledge. Christ, I can’t even tie a tie or drive a car.

In many ways I am a shambling man-child perpetually on the precipice of disaster but I do know a lot of random ass shit. A LOT. I take great pride in the sheer volume of obscure bullshit my brain contains. My memory contains so much densely packed dumb-ass ephemera, from the jingles for DJ Jazzy Jeff and The Fresh Prince hotline to the opening narration of Easy Rider: The Ride Back to sixty percent of the dialogue from Showgirl, that there’s no room left for useful knowledge that might improve my life or make me money.

Because I pride myself on knowing a whole lot of stupid trivia I sometimes feel a weird, sharp surge of shame when I encounter something that I should know yet inexplicably do not.