I’m never sure if I’m supposed find a hill worth dying on, or if it’s purely a matter of avoiding the hills I don’t want to die on.

I spent the better part of a recent weekday morning in hill country, speaking with billing specialists at our doctor’s office and our insurance company. The most tempting hill to die on came when a billing specialist explained that one conversation with my doctor generated multiple billing codes, resulting in a situation where some of the conversation was covered and some of it was out-of-pocket. I made a comment about “semantics” and maybe used the words “ridiculous” and “nonsensical.” But the billing specialist simply repeated her assertion that some words are insured, while others are not. The cocktail of your health and money and their bullshit is hemlock for hill country. I was tempted to gulp down that hemlock, i.e., rage at the poor cog who had the misfortune to defend an absurd system, but frankly, I had better things to do than die on an American health insurance hill.

While on hold with dueling billing specialists, I also managed to avoid dying on any social media hills as I scrolled Substack Notes. I have a strict Don’t Die On Social Media Hills rule. That rule keeps me from wading into the “discourse” of carbon-copy takes about why AI is a plagiarism-machine, or sharing a grain of salt with those who believe that Substack can do no wrong, or talking politics with anyone.

After about an hour of hill living, I was feeling pretty confident. True, these hills weren’t as tempting as the Sirens that got Odysseus, but social media and health insurance are classic death hills. I was still alive, and took that as a sign that the vibes were good. So around noon, I slathered on some sunscreen and left the house.

First stop: smog check. No hills there. Nothing but the endless flatlands of an owner-operated business with a 4.7 Yelp rating and thousands of reviews. Also, I passed. Yay! Even better, the DMV website where you pay the fee to renew your registration is relatively hill-free, compared to the actual DMV, which is located on Everyone Dies Here Mountain.

I hit the UPS store next. Same story as the smog check guy — owner-operated flatlands. Not a single hill in sight to die on. Also, they know me there, so they said, “See you next time, Michael,” which was a nice touch, compared to the smog check guy, who said, “See you in two years, sir.”

After I left the UPS store, I decided to take myself to lunch. I went to Chipotle, where I witnessed the woman ahead of me in line die on Guacamole Hill. Her position: The two dollars and change she paid covered chips and guacamole. Chipotle’s position: The two dollars and change she paid covered chips and Pico de Gallo. I checked the prices on the menu. She was clearly wrong, but evidently she believed deeply discounted guacamole was a hill worth dying on.

She began by arguing that her reading of the menu was correct. “It says two dollars right there,” she said. It wasn’t much of an argument, but she repeated it again and again. Each time, the Chipotle cashier’s rebuttal consisted of pointing to the menu and repeating the price for chips and guacamole. It was a little like watching someone whack away at a pool of guacamole with a sledgehammer. Each swing felt mighty, but the damage was negligible.

Exasperated, she turned on the Pico de Gallo. “I don’t even know what that is.” So the Chipotle cashier explained Pico de Gallo, starting with the ingredient list and ending with an offer to try it.

“No, I paid for guacamole.”

Again, the Chipotle cashier explained how menus work.

“But it says two dollars.”

She was dying on Guacamole Hill, there were no two ways about it, but it wasn’t a good death. Or, a quick one. With the line backing up, things looked ugly. A burrito-eater-in-waiting is unpredictable and combustible. They could choose from a menu that includes passive-aggressive whispers, loud demands for the woman to “move along,” or even violence, if hangry enough. But the Chipotle cashier had one last life-saving card to play.

“I think you might be confusing the chips and guacamole price with the price for adding guacamole to your bowl or burrito,” he said. “The add-on price is different because it’s less guacamole.”

The woman looked as if a light bulb had gone off. She had made a mistake, and she knew it. The cashier had shown her an offramp that allowed her to come down from the hill alive. But she must’ve had a death wish, because doubled down.

“Give me the guacamole now.”

“No problem,” the cashier said. “Would you like to order chips and guacamole? I can ring that up.”

“This is ridiculous.”

Those were the last words she said on Guacamole Hill. And she was right, this whole situation was ridiculous. This was a very silly hill to die on. And to die with such a poor argument to boot. It was sad, really. It felt like a wasted death.

Still, I felt it important to recognize the stupid and futile sacrifice of the woman who believed in two-dollar guacamole, not because she was right, but because I share that dream. I’d kill for two-dollar guacamole, or at the very least, vote for it. But I won’t die on that hill, because I know it’s not going to happen, even though avocados literally grow on trees. Nevertheless, a guy can dream. And he can mourn. So when it was my turn to pay, I added a fountain drink to my order. Then I took my cup to fountain, filled it with Coke Zero, then poured one out for the woman who died on Guacamole Hill.

Situation Normal is free, but a handful of situation normies pay so I can keep my Substack bestseller badge, which is in fact, our bestseller badge. Big shout outs go to and “Gayle.” Those of you who celebrate the golden age of TV won’t recognize Kelly from such shows as Billions and The Americans because he’s an amazing actor who disappears into his roles. Those of you who are long-time Situation Normal readers may recognize “Gayle,” as my mom, Linda, who evidently uses her middle name so she can troll me. Thank you, Kelly! And thank you, Mom!

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I did a Substack Live this week with my buddy . You probably received an email letting you know that it was happening “now,” which means you likely missed it. No worries! Substack Live is actually Live-to-tape, sorta how sitcoms were taped “live before a studio audience.” Anyway, you can listen to and watch that conversation here.

The news is weird, and I believe that when the going gets weird, the weird turn semi-pro. To wit: I’ve eaten a burrito from the middle, found the courage to tell the truth about Courage Bagels, and done yoga with goats. Most recently, I rode in a robo taxi and lived to write about it.

Now, it’s time for my next act of absurdist journalism: Eating at The Munch Box, a historic (and poorly named) Chatsworth burger joint frequented by Charles Manson. Is this a story that needs to be told? No. Will it be told? That’s up to you. I estimate that this story will cost around $20 for a burger, fries, and a drink. To make this story happen, send any amount via PayPal.

Big thank you to the situation normies who have purchased & read my novel, Not Safe for Work. I love hearing from you, whether you leave a review, or drop me a line. And if you haven’t bought the bought, you should! Because if you love Situation Normal, there’s an 11 in 10 chance you’ll laugh your butt off reading my slacker noir set in the porn industry at the dawn of Web 2.0.

Not Safe for Work is available at Amazon and all the other book places.

*The ebook is .99, so you can’t go too far wrong. Just sayin’.

What’s a hill you didn’t think was worth dying on? Explain.

Have you died on any hills recently? Share your story.

Why don’t more politicians promise to lower the price of guacamole? Go deep!

Do you want to hear my take on AI, or do you have better stuff to do with your time? No wrong answers here.

Have you read Not Safe for Work yet, or do you hate laughing?

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