I'm JM Fisher, Writer & Host Of The Weekly Cynic Podcast.

I'm Currently Available For All Projects Relating To Blogging, Articles & Editing.



The Earth’s magnetic poles are slowly repositioning… our beloved civilization is nearing a perilous future of inoperable smartphones. 

Are you prepared?

If you’re sneering and shrugging at these claims, I implore you to visit my YouTube channel and view the multitude of videos I’ve produced, each with their own horrifying and apocalyptic imagery; montage after montage of destructive tidal waves, melting national monuments and starving polar bears. Each video has an accompanying website which cites years of research and dubious statistics by Big Magnetic Field Company shills, validating my theories as science.

Also, for the betterment of all peoplekind, I’ve partnered with various Venture Capitalists to invest in Smart-Earth-Magnetic Technology to harness the profitability of this situation. I and my team of parasitical crony-capitalists will lobby Government to ensure that legislation is passed that will divert funds from inner-city literacy programs to my great boondoggle. 

Alright, I’ve belabored you with my Al Gore’isms...


But, as the UnDark article states, this is not the first time Earth has undergone this transformation. Earth, as long as its been floating in the black sea of this galaxy, has been reshaping itself. 

So, What is Earth? A random artifact of Big Banging or…maybe… an ever evolving organism? You know, kinda like the The Gia Theory, that charming hypothesis that all living organisms and the Planet exist in synergistic balance.

I know, with that I’m venturing into blasphemy with the Science-Explains-All ideologues and those who worship the vague authoritative gravitas of TEDTalkers. I mean, humans, animals, the soil, the oceans, all existing, participating in a kind of Oneness is, well, weird. Everyday, scientists in white laboratory coats, employed by benevolent Governments and Globalist Corporations, have, you know, settled the science, right?


As a kid, I had a black t-shirt of sloppily oversized proportions—though, it may just be a fuzzy reinterpretation due to senility—whose cottony frontside was a colorful nature scene of soaring mountains and lush greenery nourished by a waterfall that cascaded into a river where a grizzly bear clawed for fish… I don’t remember any inspirational lines or caption about 98% Of All Scientists Agree Trees And Bears Exist, but I remember the shirt benefited the World Wildlife Fund.

Why this unremarkable piece of attire is still lodged in my memories, I have no idea, but I was not the offspring of tie-dyed hippies who braked the VW van for every thrift store and Salvation Army Surplus. Yes, my father did receive free tree seedlings from the Arbor Day Foundation, and yes, my mother dirtied herself cultivating our yard’s flower patches, but this wasn't some exercise in real estate beautification. My parents were from a generation that was taught to appreciate nature, that the ground you walked on wasn’t just ground, but, Earth, Planet Earth, whose fertile soil wriggles with ghastly but important worms and insects whose existence, along with the sun and water, helped the seeds you planted (planted, planet…hmmm) grow and bloom. Oh, and sometimes, if Planet Earth doesn’t provide rainfall for those seeds, you had to do it. 

(Ah, memories of me as a child schlepping an overfilled, sloshing, green plastic flower waterer around my parent’s yard…)

Back in those fading Polaroid days of my childhood, this knowledge of reciprocity with Planet Earth was known as Stewardship. Humanity, aware of its meager life span and ephemeral presence on this seemingly immortal Planet, was responsible for this chunk of soil and sea; all of us custodians for future generations. 

But terms such as stewardship and custodian—not to mention Preservation and Conservation--are considered archaic, all of them relics of pastoral America, black and white photographs of gaunt, severe looking men and women tending to fields and vegetable patches. As Humanity lumbered into the Industrial and Technological phases of our doomed evolution, their advances--Corporatized Farming, Supermarkets and GMOs—produced not only convenience but a disconnection from that Oneness with the natural ecosystems of Planet Earth.

We were also herded inside, confined to the walls of factories and cubicles, our eyes no longer squinting at the sun’s intensity, but dulled by rows of flickering fluorescent lighting as we longed for the summer breeze tickling the leaves of the tree outside our office windows…

Like everything, our relationship with Nature and Planet Earth became monetized and academicized.


Nature is lifestyle for the buffalo plaid Outdoorsman and Adventurer. Their vintage, New England roughened Jeep Wagoner is always stacked and packed with all the necessary accoutrements for a weekend glamping excursion. 

If you follow their partner on social media—and, why wouldn’t you want to follow yet another svelte, J.Crew blonde influencer—the entire journey will be Instagramed: Planet Earth just background for all those hiking selfies. 

Of course, each photo will have a myriad of aspirational hashtags, particularly: #environmentalism.

Yes, our vapid shill always recycles those glass bottles of her favorite artisanal California spring water!

But, even environmentalism has become passé as it conjures images of hunched, bitter women whose rusted, sputtering cars are pasted with a mosaic of stickers lecturing and exhorting everyone to SAVE THE WHALES COEXIST VEGAN-ON-BOARD. As with all naturally evolving movements, especially those our Rulers deem dangerous to their structure, environmentalism was infiltrated and subverted, its message suddenly redesigned to a brand, just an empty vessel for the racketeers of marketing and advertising. The MoneyMen and Corporations, who for decades looted and polluted Planet Earth for profit, and own all our Government Agencies, could now deflect responsibility, because all the destruction wasn’t their fault, it was Humans. You know, Global Warming.

For those beholden to some theory about Nature, Earth and Humanity, Science, with its battalions of telegenic Public Intellectuals can debunk—with ridiculing smiles—your simplistic notions with a series of academic assertions, all of it foot-noted in esoteric PhD’isms, that only they, the authority, could decipher for you, the useless eater. Oh, and if you still don’t agree, the Public Intellectual will command their collectivist horde of Twitterers upon you for a good ol’ public square shaming.

Having completed their bludgeoning, the collectivist horde will be redirected, the trending hashtags dictating their next bout of outrage, boycotts, Marches And 5k Runs For River Salmon.

Salmon is kinda of Pink, right?

Separated from Nature, from its dirt, from its soul, we’re all just participating in an artificial, virtual world.

But, hey, I did purchase Grounding Sheets on the recommendation of that blonde Influencer!


A few months ago, my wife and I purchased a Big Old House. At 170 years old, it is an indomitable stack of bricks and plaster looming above the trees and sidewalks, its peaks and chimneys something of fairytale lore.

Inside, there is no gutting or Renovation Journey to be blogged and followed on Instagram, only quirky 1970s panelling and ancient wallpaper to be stripped. Of course, we will also be devoting years to spackling and painting. 

When I walk through The Big Old House, my feet ignoring a particular spongey patch of hardwood flooring, I marvel at the home’s intactness, that this place, with its originallayered trim molding, it’s continuous three story staircase and its windows of venerable, rippling glass still exists.

In an era of Variable Rate Mortgages, McMansions and the drywall sheen of Toll Brothers, humanity swoons for Cathedral Ceilings! Mudroom! #dreamliving

And, if you’re of the creative class resisting global warming, Tiny House!

Like everything where the soul has been extracted for profit, our homes are fast, cheap and disposable. Sandcastles to be washed away.

The Big Old House endures with a sense of formidable immortality, reminding me I’m not its owner (yes, let’s not get too dramatic, it really is The Bank) but just another custodian, another steward, here to repair, paint and preserve until passing it onto another generation.

If, you know, they can afford it.