J. Cassidy Hits the Mics

No, I’m not dead.

I feel like I’ve started off a post with that before, but nonetheless, I am still alive.

But since it has been a while I figured I’d toss up a post just to let everybody know how I’m doing. I don’t have much topical stuff to talk about- and if I do, it’s in my act.

But, since moving here, I’ve done a mic at least once, every day, unless I’ve had work. This may sound corny as hell, but I’ve literally taken 0 days off. Even the days off I have, have been focused on writing, rehearsing, and, of course, mics.

So, what is a ‘mic?’ What the fuck does it take to become a comedian?

Well, since you asked, fictitious person of my own narrative imagination, I’ll tell you.

A ‘mic’ is a short term for an open-mic. An open mic means any asshole that’s willing to pay 5 dollars can get up, talk to a crowd of X amount of strangers, and do whatever they want. They can make jokes, tell stories, read poems, sing songs, or bomb.

Usually, people just fucking bomb.

Even though in most TV shows or movies, open mics have crowds of about 50, usually all audience members, TV is not close to reality, even slightly. Usually, an open mic is anywhere from 2 people to 20. In rare cases, you get to the 30 mark.

But those are so fucking long by person 19 you’re ready to slice off your own ear and never hear another word again.

And, most people leave a mic after they do their set. Because, everybody is self-centered and egocentric. Even comedians.

And really, who the fuck really wants to see anybody go up and talk about shit? Nobody. Nobody wants to listen to just anybody tell jokes. People want reliable people- people they can trust. People who won’t take advantage of them. Like Bill Cosby or Louis CK.

Maybe those were bad examples, but you get my point.

So how have these Mics been?

A learning experience. Truly.

So, you’re bombing?

Let me explain.

I’ve really only ‘bombed’ once. For me, bombing means you went up, choked a big dick, were trying to be funny and thought things were going to go well, but ended up going horribly.

Other times, I went up to intentionally do a long story, that I knew only had a few funny elements, but wanted to flush out. Other times, you know nobody is going to laugh because it’s 5 people and they’re all depressed, self-centered wannabe comedians. And the other-est of times, you’re just on super late and everybody is tired and most people have already left.

But, I have learned much in regards to what’s really funny. You see, in Jersey, people aren’t necessarily amish and desperately hoping for something to do- but it’s less eventful. New York City, however, has events happening all the time- everywhere.

Every time you want to go somewhere you run into the homeless, the deranged, and the musically-inclined. Every time you think you’ve seen it all, you see something else you never dreamed of. It’s constant, it’s overwhelming, but it’s New York City.

I saw a lady smoking a crack pipe by the subway station and was literally watching, looking at this homeless woman like she was the Eiffel Tower, or the Colosseum, or Lady Liberty.

A lady liberty smoking crack. Now there’s an idea.

And because there is everything, everywhere, all the time, it becomes so much more challenging to create something that grabs peoples’ attention. It’s even more challenging to maintain it.

So, for it to make people laugh, in a city where there’s so much funny shit on a regular basis, the jokes have to be on another level. I mean, there are people riding motorized unicycles with no shoes on blasting Cardi B. How the fuck am I supposed to top that?

In Jersey, I could tell a story about a stripper, say the word ‘dick’ a hundred times, or jump up and down like a monkey and I’d get laughs. I mean, don’t get me wrong, the dick thing wasn’t always a success, and I failed at stand-up out there plenty of times, too, but it’s different.

And, in retrospect, it’s way easier. I almost wish I could go back to the Stress Factory and crush it on another Wednesday open mic. But that wouldn’t be growing. It would be cocky and stupid and, who knows, maybe I’d end up bombing because I wouldn’t bring my A-game or my focus.

So, for now I’m chomping away at the mics. I have an audition for some comedy club out in Manhattan in November, and here’s hoping it goes decently well.

I will leave you all now with a picture of my mom.


J. Cassidy Moves out to New York City

Just saying, I wrote that blogpost about Louie and like a month later he did that thing where he tried to come back.

Just saying.

Not saying Louie reads my blog- but, just saying.

Just saying.

Okay, anyway. I moved to New York City. Well, technically I moved to Brooklyn, but that’s a borough of New York City, right? Like, it’s not Manhattan or whatever, but I can still say I’m a New Yorker, right?

Like, if you met a Dominican lady from the Bronx or a Chinese lady from Queens, wouldn’t you agree with them that they’re New Yorkers even though they didn’t live in Manhattan?

Staten Island I would still give an asterisk- but, Staten Island isn’t even a real place. It’s like Australia, or Heaven, or a movie theatre with quiet black people.

So, isn’t a kid who moved out to Brooklyn 4 days ago technically a New Yorker? Come on. Can’t I say it? Please?? I just want to sound cool.

Alright- fine. It’s gonna be like 5 years before I can call myself that. But, nevertheless. I did move.

The first day I pulled up the last of my shit (my bed and some other stuff were already left and ready for me via a few other trips I had made), it turned out to be the annual Caribbean Pride festival.

So, amidst tens of thousands of Caribbean-Americans and tens of thousands of black people who just wanted to have a good time and blast Jamaican music while having 0% of their ancestry from any part of the Caribbean, there was a sole white, Jewish boy who took 14 different trips from his Nissan to his 2nd floor apartment.

It was hot as fuck. It was wild. It was lawless. It was like a scene from Mad Max but instead of chain gangs and the desert, it was Brooklyn and a Caribbean pride festival.

People were chain smoking blunts, blasting Caribbean music, drinking in public, fighting, laughing, dancing, rolling dice, eating food, cooking food, throwing food, shitting food, and double-parking every which way in the greater Crown Heights area. And there I was, sweaty and Jewish, moving in my pair of clarks.

It was a fucking nightmare trying to park and I actually left my car double parked for 4 hours and didn’t get a ticket.

I asked the cops, “is it legal to double park because of the parade?”

2 separate cops from different street corners said the exact same thing: “I can’t promise you anything, but if everybody else is doing it, why can’t you?”

Welcome to fucking New York.

Since that day, New York has been an endless series of job interviews, stand-up routines at Open Mics, a comedy work shop, and $2.50 slices of pizza that make New Brunswick slices look like dog food.

It’s been awesome and I still kind of can’t believe I’m here.

And, the job interviews have subsequently ended and your boy is financially secure (somewhat) as a part-time bartender while he chases the dream of being a stand-up comedian.

Pursuing this endeavor has been tough so far and most of the mics I’ve been to have had as few as 8 to as many as 20 people in it. (That ain’t good).

And, even though some of my bits and stories may have crushed at the Stress Factory or at Tom’s Tavern (a biker bar) or at the Organic Open Mic (a vegan juice bar- not kidding), they either fall short to crickets or to a few chuckles to this New York audience.

Tonight especially was a giant ool sandwich that I took a big old bite out of.

But, hey man, it’s been 4 days and I’m not ready to give up yet. I’ve only just begun venturing down the long, torturous road of being in show business. It’s not the first time I bombed, it won’t be the last time.

And that’s the craziest thing of all, you know? Like, you can do this shit for 15-20 years and still have nights and crowds that bomb. There’s no safety for anybody.

So, it’s the nights when I did kill it back in Jersey that keep me going. It’s the promise I made to some peeps back home that will continue to drive me through it all.

And I really, really, really, really, really, really, really don’t want to work in an office one day. Like really bad.

That’s all I wanted to throw up on here for the moment. Be sure to check out the podcast tomorrow.

Love u.

I’ll leave you all now with a picture of what I moved into Monday.


-Photo credit to the NYPost.

Atheistjustin is Dead

Well, not really. But, sort of.

So no, I wasn’t murdered or hit by a truck. The same guy who started this site is the one typing these words right now. But, Atheistjustin is no longer with us.

When I was 11, I was agnostic. I was an atheist without balls. Then, at around 13, I started watching George Carlin and after a few biology and physics lessons in school, I became pretty certain that the whole “God” thing was bullshit.

So, I was the first person I knew at 13 to be pretty bent on not believing in a higher power. Which, I thought was pretty sweet since the other 13 year olds in my school had no idea what a Genesis was or how unlikely it was that anybody is watching us.

I was totally the popular kid.

But, long story short, with this newfound aspect of my person, I thought I had something that separated me from the crowd.

So when Playstation Network made me choose a user name, I went with JustintheAtheist.

A few years later, Twitter became a thing and wouldn’t allow me enough characters to use that as my username. So, I had to compromise and Atheistjustin was born.

It’s been almost 7 years since then and all my social media, blogs, etc. have been under the moniker ‘Atheistjustin.’ Some broads at Rutgers would even refer to me as ‘atheist’ (shoutout 2 Jules).

But, as I’ve decided to take on this Comedy thing seriously, I’ve realized that such a stage name would only keep me down. I mean, imagine trying to tour the south with the stage name Atheistjustin. I can’t imagine that Jeremiah and Keith are going to want to go out with their dates (cousins) and see a guy who goes by ‘Atheistjustin.’

Plus, it kind of got awkward to say when a 40-something year old would ask, ‘you’re a comedian? What’s your name?” and then I’d have to look them in the eyes and say ‘Atheistjustin,’ hoping they wouldn’t be some radical Catholic extremist.

So, Atheistjustin is dead and in his place is J. Cassidy.

I will say though, even though my name changed and I will no longer be going by that name, I do own the domain name ‘atheistjustin’ so I won’t be changing this site.

I may have looked into it already, and even though there isn’t a jcassidy.com, for whatever reason WordPress won’t let me do my thing. And I think it’s gonna be another absurd amount of money to try and buy another domain name, switch it, and then eat my own ass.

So, that being said, I am now J. Cassidy, which is a much cleaner, more handsome name. J. Cassidy is someone I’d kiss on the mouth. Wouldn’t you? Dad?

Just kidding my dad isn’t Tom Brady.

Moving out to Brooklyn in like 2 weeks and I’m immensely excited, horny, and nervous. But all in a good way.

I will leave you all now with a picture of me.sg-001

It’s Time to Bring Back Louis C.K.

While plenty is going on in my personal life to go on and on about, which is typically what I spend my blogposts rambling on, I’ve been thinking about writing this post for a while now. Since I haven’t thrown something up here since May, I figured I’d better snap to it already.

So, here’s the thing: it’s time to bring back Louis C.K. It’s time to let him come back.

Listen, I’m not the first one to tell you about, or comment on, the ‘MeToo’ movement where women, all over the world, of various ages, ethnicities, cultures, and cohorts are using social media to address their experiences with sexual violence.

With many of these cases, the men in question are pieces of human shit that are fucked in the head and should face legal and social repercussions for their actions.

And, before I continue this post, I should attest that I am not a fan of rape. Just not a fan. Can’t say I’ve ever tried it, but it’s one of those things where I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t like it. Kind of like trying cow tongue- I just have a feeling it’s not for me.

All rape jokes aside, I really want to express my personal opinion on one of my all-time favorite comedians.

Louis C.K.

While his real last name is something I don’t have the patience to type out correctly, he has been, for lack of a better term, a comedic idol for my Millennial generation.

Maybe it’s because I’m from Jersey and Louis is a New York based comic, but even in mid-fuck-nowhere towns like where I’m from, Louis C.K. was the guy that everyone talked about.

I mean, we were high school kids talking about the newest episode of Louie, or bringing up his old bits. He is an inspiration to an innumerable amount of wannabe comedians like me.

I grew up in a weird time for comedy, where Jeff Dunham and his puppets were catching the most attention aside from joke-stealing performers named Ned (I’m talking about Carlos Mencia).

It wasn’t until my early adolescence that I learned real comedy. You know: Carlin, Pryor, etc.

And then my library expanded from comedians ranging from Lewis Black to Ellen DeGeneres to Wanda Sykes to Jerry Seinfeld to Daniel Tosh.

While my friends and I may have been able to see all types of performance styles from numerous comics, Louis was easily our favorite. I remember watching his Comedy Central half-hours before he was at the level that he grew to be. I still crack up over his ‘give me back my jacket’ bit.

If you haven’t seen that one, check it out here: Louis CK ‘Give me back my jacket’

But, it’s not anything that Louis said that removed his show off Netflix, ended his relationship with FX, and eliminated him from the public eye.

No, Louis said just about anything and people were able to understand the humor behind it, no matter how dirty or offensive: from saying the n word (which we know he hates the term ‘the n word’) to talking about rats cumming, Louis was indestructible on stage.

For Louis, it was not anything he said, but rather, something he did.

During the #MeToo movement, at the seeming height of it, before it turned into the meme-like status that it has now, accusations about members of Hollywood were running rampant.

Hell, even Aziz Ansari got accused- though, I think that’s where the movement started to decline after general reactions were on Tom Haverford’s side.

Now, in no way approving or condoning Louis’ actions, I would say that comparatively, to the actions of Harvey Weinstein, or even Kevin fucking Spacey, Louis’ weren’t that bad.

I don’t know what it’s like to be in a hotel room with a naked, grown man, as ugly as Louis with his red hair and freckled skin, and I’m sure that sight alone is horrific, but to touch himself and not the women I think waters down the action.

Again, I’m not saying that exposing yourself or touching yourself in front of people who don’t want to see that is cool- by any means- but compared to other acts of sexual violence, I think even the most prominent feminist and MeToo supporters could agree it’s not on the worst side of things.

So, where am I going with all this?

I think it’s been enough time. I really do. We haven’t heard anything from Louis since November of last year. His website’s last update comes from October, when Louis was debuting a new film after a 16-year film making hiatus since the greatest contribution to cinema of all time. I’m talking, of course, about Pootie Tang.

I still can’t believe a pasty white man made that movie. Incredible.

But Loui’s newest film, I Love You Daddy is not available anywhere, even the trailer has been taken down.

On the bright side, though, as recently as April of this year articles of support from Edie Falco and Sarah Silverman have come out in defense of Louis. Another article suggests that Louis may once again rise to glory after returning to the dark, dingy basements of comedy clubs.

But, I think we need Louie now more than ever.

Our country is a little less torn than it was immediately following Trump’s election. I mean, fuck dude, you couldn’t go on Twitter or Facebook for like 4 days after November 8, 2017. But, still, wherever you go there are political heads crashing, acts of racial and sexual violence still permeating throughout news headlines, and other episodes of chaos always lurking in society.

Not that Louis C.K. is a figurehead for social harmony or anything, but with all that has continued to go on in this crazy world, there is nothing more important than time to laugh.

To laugh is an amazing thing. To respond to situations or events that, are typically painful, and instead smile and feel joy, is a holy thing. Even a guy who goes by the moniker, ‘Atheistjustin’ can appreciate the profound effect of humor on people and communities.

And maybe I’m just a selfish fan that wants to see a new Louis C.K. stand up special on Netflix. Maybe I just miss watching Louie episodes late at night. Maybe I’m wrong, and not enough time has passed for Louis to come back, just yet.

But I think it’s time for everyone to really consider it. I really think it’s time we allow him to come back to the public sphere: to remark on what happened, apologize, and move forward.

Hell, if we do let him come back, I think his next special will be one of the best pieces of comedy ever made. Period. I can’t imagine how he’d twist and turn the events that occurred to make us laugh- but if he can, and if he does, it will be groundbreaking.

So, on that note: I will conclude this little shpeal and leave you all with a picture of a young Louis C.K.


Atheistjustin Rambles

No, I’m not dead. I’ve just been busy pretending to be busy.

As I write this, the Warriors are playing against the Houston Rockets competing for their spot in the NBA finals. As a white, Jewish boy from the suburbs, I could not care less.

Listen, I’m an occasional basketball viewer. I enjoy the play-offs and when it really means something. As my Alcoholic Friend puts it, “I like seeing big time players make big time plays.” He also once said, “I took a shit and it smelt like vodka,” so let’s not idolize everything he says.

In addition to the basketball game going on, I am also half-drunk off scotch. These post-graduation blues are really hitting me. Being a real person and paying bills, not getting inappropriately drunk during the week, and not fucking random men- I mean sorority girls, is pretty lame.

Ok wait-



Oh shit

10 seconds

Oh fuck


God damn it


Fuck you

Fuck everybody

Fuck my mother for birthing me into time and space. I didn’t ask for this bullshit. I didn’t want to live. I didn’t want consciousness and the capacity to understand my own mortality.

But the Warriors have won.

AGAIN. We get a fucking Cleveland Cavaliers V. Golden State Warriors NBA Finals.

Do you care? Probably. Do I? Fuck no. I’m white.

I will say, however, that I felt the Cavs V Celtics games were oddly/poorly refereed, and that had those gone differently, perhaps we would have seen a different NBA finals.

What the fuck am I even here to talk about?

I guess, since it’s been over a month since my last post I ought to write in this bitch and update my followers/fans/atheists/confused Chinese women who ended up on the wrong website/my family.

I’ve been working, writing, doing the thing. I have a script on its 2nd draft getting a good look over by some big time people. My dicc still small tho.

I’ve started a summer job that will hopefully metastasize (fuck yeah I spelt that right) into something better: I’m a fucking waiter.

What’s crazy is, I’ve been working since I was 15 years old. My first job was working the front/taking orders at an Italian pizza place. My second job was giving handjobs to grown men in my town to afford snapbacks at Lids in the Freehold Mall.

I’m just kidding. They weren’t handjobs. They were discounts at Tilly’s- but you get what I mean.

But, all these years I’ve been in customer service, retail, or doing blue collar labor, or working white collar behind a desk, or as a bartender, or as a Jew, I’ve never actually waited tables.  To say that it’s been different is an understatement.

Waiting tables is like being a mascot for a sports team: nobody is there to see you, nobody cares about you, but the way you facilitate between the two parties is what dictates your pay.

Damn, even after my 3rd scotch I can still make some baller similes. Whats a simile? It’s a comparison using like or as. Was I an English major? Fuck yes I was. Am I employed with a real person job? Absolutely not.

My one buddy is making 68,000 dollars a year; that’s his starting salary coming out of college. I think I’ve made a total of 20,000 my entire life considering all the birthday parties/graduation parties that included donations from family members. I think I would eat another man’s ass for 68,000 dollars.

That’s a legit offer if there are any rich pedophiles that read my site. I have a lot of bills to pay.

But hey, this is the life I’ve chosen. I can’t sit behind a desk and type in spreadsheets and have files on my boss’s desk by 5. I tried doing the white collar thing and it drove me into insanity. I decided that very summer that I would never spend my adult life behind a desk.

But damn, my friend is 22 and making 68 grand a year.

Here’s hoping the whole comedy thing works out. Did this blog get a little gay? It did right? I’m sorry. I need to poop.

I have to say, one of the hardest things about leaving college and coming home is finding a halfway decent barber. I miss my mans over at Scissorhands in New Brunswick. Now I have to go on a legit hunt to find the 1 black guy in a town of 93% caucasian residents that cuts hair.

It has not been easy.

There actually is a ‘black barbershop’ in downtown Freehold that my buddy (same one making fat $tacks next year) took me too. I was sitting in the chair, waiting to get called up for the haircut and this black kid next to me was on facetime. I want to say he was maybe 15/16.

He turns his phone towards me and says to his friend, “look, white people come here too!”

I thought I had found my promised land.

But no. They bricked me with the shittiest haircut I had ever had to date.

See, the problem is, good haircuts are not cheap, and cheap haircuts are not good. Like, I would love to stroll into Great Clips and drop a whopping $15 on a haircut and be done with it. But, there’s something so fucking lame about doing that. I’m not handing a European immigrant my money. I’d rather hand an Italian high school drop out my money after ‘hooking me up with a dope fade.’

It’s actually getting late and I have a million things I need to do tomorrow, so I should probably wrap this up soon.

What’s really fucking gay is that when you grow up (if 22 is grown up, which I guess it is) you don’t really have days off. You know what I mean? Like, today is Tuesday and I have my first day off since last Thursday. But, I’m not off the way I used to be.

Like, in elementary school, when you were off, you were off. I’m talking 11-12 hours of nothing but masturbating and playing Call of Duty. Sometimes at the same time. Actually, usually at the same time.

Now my days off work consist of me doing mundane bullshit: scheduling doctor appointments, doing laundry, going to the gym, finding a halfway decent barber for a haircut, etc.

It’s like, can I just get 1 day? 1 more day to sit around like a little 11 year old fuck face  and play Fortnite relentlessly?

I should have done a 5th year of college.

I guess that concludes my nonsensical ramblings. I promise next post will be topical, or have something relatively important to touch upon.

I will leave you now with a picture of LeBron James’ father.