I’m Emerson Dameron: LA’s number-one avant-garde motivational speaker. Writer. Satirist. Possible performance artist. Host, producer, and witty and wounded romantic hero of Emerson Dameron’s Medicated Minutes.
I post short, satirical experimental videos about sex, drugs, power, Satanic Buddhism, etc. They mix cynical humor with wounded romanticism and seek power and self-realization through surrealism and play.
The unexamined life is worthless. The examined life can be hell. Sick humor may not be the healthiest coping mechanism, but if you like dark satire regardless, you’re in the right place.
Here’s a sampler of some of the best. The video version is here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tIApp7chYUY
SUBSCRIBE on YouTube, and get everything you need to get out of your own way, blow your own mind, and become the best lover and hater you've ever had (along with snazzy, high-res, standalone versions of each of these videos):
Follow me on Instagram: / emersondameron
I’m Emerson Dameron. I love you, personally. Levity saves lives.
Hey, you. I'm Emerson Dameron, podcast host and producer, writer, occasional comedian, LA's number-one avant-garde motivational speaker, and possibly some kind of performance artist. I'll let the critics decide.
I post short, satirical, experimental videos about sex, drugs, power, self-help, Satanic Buddhism, et cetera. Check 'em out. You can learn a lot about yourself from how you react to the videos.
I'm an old soul, so if you don't get my jokes, come back in a couple lifetimes. If you dig it and you want to collaborate, flag me down. I'm a sweetheart in person. We'll get along as long as you're some kind of genius.
I don't drink anymore, and I have to do something compulsively. Right now, that's making podcasts. So if we hit it off, you will get roped into one.
If you just want to have sex with me, it's cool that you let me know. I don't hold it against you. I probably don't have time, but I do have respect. You put yourself out there that takes guts.
I'm Emerson Dameron. Follow me. Enjoy what you will. Levity saves lives.
I don't want enlightenment. I just want to make art. When I transmute shame into laughter, I'm Prometheus getting a hummer from the cosmos itself, and enlightenment is a non-sequitur April fool's joke compared to that.
I want you to make art, too. Steal my ideas. There's always more where that came from.
Say what you should have said to that bastard six months ago. In an aria. Or a sonnet. There's nothing they can do. It's satire.
Anything anyone does can be art. Be the Tony Iommi of paleontology or the Joe Coleman of CPAs. When you get into the millions, money gets absolutely psychedelic.
I want sufficient health, wealth, and freedom to make art that needs to exist. And if I get perversely rich doing it, I want that to happen before I get enlightened.
It's more fun that way. And fun is the law.
If you can't stop daydreaming about casual sex but you're scared of getting hurt or humiliated and you're burned out on draining dead end dates with disappointing boy men, stay tuned.
Because hot dizzy nights of exciting, ecstatic, cathartic sex can be yours when you discover casual sex with Emerson Damron.
Emerson Damron comes equipped with an omnivorous mind, a soulful and penetrating gaze, and gifts for deep kissing and thrilling, chilling, dirty talk.
Get the playfulness, passion and patience you crave with a dominant, sensitive, and fully present man who knows how to throw you around and when to leave you alone.
Make a casual, caring connection and get hot, healthy hookups with a selection of kinky upgrades and a strong probability of cascading orgasms.
With Emerson Dameron, fun comes first, and so do you.
Have casual sex with Emerson Dameron today or, realistically, early next week.
What you need to know about me is that I don't care what you think.
That wasn't always the case. I used to care what everyone thought, and it was exhausting. Sometimes it was all I could think about.
But then I thought about it, and I had an epiphany when I realized that people are basically pathetic animals. And they'll respect the hell out of me as soon as they know that I don't care what they think.
So, now, I don't care what you think. And you need to know that. And I need to know that you know that. Otherwise, I can't trust you.
You see, I keep my power in relationships by always being less invested. It keeps the mystery alive for you and keeps you seeking my approval, which is cool with me because I don't care what you think.
You might even forget your own thoughts and start thinking about mine instead. That's deeply pathetic. And I will lose respect for you. But I don't care, because that would count as me caring what you think, which I don't.
I have fun and do what I want. And sometimes that includes messing with your head. If you get offended, I kind of dig it, because it reminds me that you know that I don't care what you think.
If I get bored, I can always walk away. It's easy because almost anyone finds me irresistible when they figure out I don't care what they think. Trust me. I don't have to ask 'em.
I have bulletproof self-confidence. And I don't want you around if you're weak or insecure. That tells me that you think I might care what you think. And, to reiterate, I don't care what you think.
I don't think you understand me. And I hate being misunderstood.
I don't care what you think. And it's important to me that you know that.
I knew this was a bad idea. I knew you would think I cared what you think. I don't care what you think. And you need to get that through your skull.
I make the rules. You play by my rules. And like 'em. Or go home. Otherwise, I go home.
I never apologize, because I'm not sorry, because I don't care what you think. So get over yourself.
Oh, one more thing. I also don't care about your feelings.
I don't know much, but I'm certain of one thing, and that's that I don't trust you.
I had the courage to trust you before I had the wisdom not to. And by then it was too late. I was hooked on our six sexy little liaisons.
You're sizzling hot and almost guaranteed to burn me, but I wouldn't put money on it, because I don't trust you.
I wake up in the middle of the night sometimes and feel flames flicking the insides of my ear canals. And I wonder if you're talking smack about me behind my back or if you fell asleep smoking and set my building on fire. I don't know, because I don't trust you.
You add insult to injury like I stir honey into my butterscotch coffee. But then you do that one nasty thing I love just to keep me off balance.
You get me hard enough to punch holes in your drywall, and then you kill my confidence and lacerate my tender heart. And then you want to be friends. And then you want tp be dominated. And I do it. Because you're my sexy cryptogram and my cute little conundrum. But I don't even trust you to lie consistently.
I deserve better, but I don't trust my instincts and experience anymore. And if someone seems wholesome, it's a good bet she's lying about everything.
I may never trust anyone again, but I'll never not trust anyone as much as I don't trust you.
You're on notice until further notice, because I do not trust you as far as I can throw you. But if you want me to, I will come through and throw you around the room. Because I keep it real and reliable like that.
Yes, I know you want me. It's laughably obvious.
When I come into the room, you lick your lips and gyrate your hips like some awkward, besotted Elvis impressionist, which doesn't work for you when you forfeit your swagger, charm, and charisma. The horny desperate gestalt is unmistakable.
You want me. And I'm not mad about it.
Attraction isn't a choice. We don't have much conscious control over who gets us crushed out and hot in the crotch. Usually, it's someone German engineered to make us miserable.
And I am, it must be said, devastatingly sexy.
Maybe it's my penetrating eye contact. Or my soulful, wounded brown peepers. Or my hypnotic and sonorous voice, the wave on which my stimulating message of libertine decadence rolls in. It could be my sly and sophisticated sense of humor. Or the strong stillness of my deep, grounded, masculine presence. Or my well-honed skills as a patient and passionate lover, which are internationally known, as those who experience them are doomed to run their mouths.
Whatever it is, everybody wants me, and I'm reluctant to complain.
The party doesn't start when I walk in. It follows me everywhere I go.
There's someone for everyone, and that someone is me, because everyone wants me.
Once, two seduces and femmes fatale competing for my attention both hired skywriter planes that collided midair near my home in Venice Beach. The wreckage landed on Ocean Front Walk, killing and wounding several tourists and traumatizing dozens more.
But even if I wanted to, I couldn't reward either of these women with dinner at Burger Lords. My dance card is full, front and back. And the waiting list is an unwieldy scroll because, as I mentioned, everybody wants me.
I crave solitude. It's my curse and one of my two strongest desires. I'm a little hot for myself, too. Some things are popular because they're the best. But with all the attention and stimulation I get, I've lost touch with my desires. I'm not even sure how to properly masturbate anymore.
My other strongest drive, somewhat paradoxically, is my hunger for authentic human connection. I want an Algonquin Round Table of my fellow witty cynics and wounded romantics. But everyone is in love with me, which makes them want to be what they think I want them to be, which isn't at all what I want.
I've tried disfiguring myself. I've tried scaring people off with vulnerability and neediness. And I've tried hiding in plain sight, which works about as well as you'd think. It's a melancholy life for the modern Marlboro man stranded alone in a crowd.
Since you asked, I haven't made up my mind about you yet. I like you too much to get your hopes up or reject you outright.
Our genetic imperatives make monsters and fools of us all, but we have some choice in how or whether to act on our attraction. And I prefer to deliberate and take my time deciding who's going to ruin my life.
Ask a Sadist. A round of Q&A with me, your host, a sadist with the heart of a rugged gold. I like to hurt people in the ways that most help them, and it means the world to me when you let me be mean to you.
I am a recently graduated 20-something who just started my new job in my dream profession.
What could that be? The mind reels.
The one hitch is my boss, Selena. She accuses me of being too sexy, and even gone so far as to call me, quite, “sex on a stick,” unquote. She silently drills her disapproving eyes into my back during staff meetings.
I have chills.
You are obviously attuned to this dance, this game of power dynamics in the workplace, in a way that Selena is oblivious to, as she is wielding the cudgel of conventional morality against you. The weapon of boring brutes and dullards.
Enjoy your power, embrace it, use it. Enjoy the dance. Let this goon feel important. Let her feel like she's hurting you.
That will be tremendously exciting for her. She's gonna believe it. It's what she wants to believe, but does not want to think about directly. This gets her off.
From the way that you write, you might have a little bit of the masochist in you, and that's something I love to see. Enjoy the dance, my friend .
Manhood in its rawest most authentic form is a force for beastly sovereignty of the soul. So get your podcast on the Bone Box Network.
Being a real man means mastering your craft, whether it's harpooning whales, building trebuchets with your hands, or letting the levels go into the red—but not stay there.
Society loves weakness. It wants to shame you into silence. It's given up on personal responsibility, and that's not your fault. So get on the mic and ravage this world with unapologetic masculinity.
When you're wrong, dare to double down. If they push back, let them know you're just a comedian. And a meathead. So jacked up on adrenaline and sleep deprivation, you have no idea what words are spewing out of your mouth. For a minute, it sounded like Portuguese, a language you neither speak nor understand. Now it's a mix of barbaric yawps and cocky echolalia. And you wish you could go home, but you’ve forgotten how to shut down the live stream…
On the Bone Box Network, a brutal brotherhood of real men, real power, and real podcasts.
Thanks for your recent inquiry. I'm honored when anyone reaches out to me and isn't selling something. I'm not a social person. All kidding aside, I really do not like most people. And right now, I don't like hanging out with a lot of people I do like. It's hard to do perfunctory chit-chat while also grinding my teeth, an expensive and time-consuming hobby I picked up recently.
I'm flattered that you want to be my friend. I'm sure you're a great person on balance. Like you, I live in Los Angeles. I know how lonely it gets and how it feels to have people I genuinely adore, whose friendship tenders an abundance of riches in the currency of thoughtfulness and respect, whose company I actually prefer to my own, who I see maybe twice a year since I moved to the other side of the 405.
It's not that I don't like you. Like I said, that's neither here nor there. It's that I don't trust you, which you shouldn't take personally. It's gonna be a high bar for a while, a regrettable but necessary correction.
At the moment, I'm not considering new candidates, but if you want to be patient, I'm expecting some vacancies soon. Thanks again, and good luck on your search.
In 1979, the polymath prankster Alan Abel put his own obituary in the New York Times. The reaction surprised him. People he thought were his best friends shrugged, and people he barely knew were heartbroken, which goes to show you don't know who loves you until you’ve alienated everyone.
Written by Emerson Dameron
© 2023 Emerson Dameron. All rights reserved.