Wednesday, December 31, 2014


Well, it's the end of the year, and as per usual, the internet is clogged with top ten lists. I'm certainly not going to add to the mess, so this isn't actually a top ten list. I guess this is just me fucking around while I'm at work. So . . . let's see here . . . I got it! How about a joke?

How do you circumcise a leper? Shake him! Get it? Eh? *cough*

OK. Um . . . How about a fun fact? Did you know that Elvis Presley's favorite amusement park ride was the bumper cars? Or that Cracker Jack is the number one buyer of popcorn in the world?

I guess you're not a better person for knowing those things, though. This knowledge is pretty useless.

Everyone can benefit from knowing about quantum physics, though. I'm not going to get into it, because I'm just a writer with a high school science education, but here's a pretty good place to learn about stuff like that.

Well, I guess I just wasted your time today with this one. I guess I wasn't thinking. I could wish you a happy new year, but--

OH! Don't you hate it when people say they're going to see you next year when they really mean, in all likelihood, that they'll see you in a few days, but they're only saying that because today is New Year's Eve and the next time they see you will be in the year 2015?

Ah, who gives a fuck? Half of the world complains about those people, and the other half are the actual people who do that. It's the same every year. Someone will say, "I'll see you next year," just as soon as they'll give you another useless top ten list.

Tuesday, December 30, 2014


Every once in a while, I fantasize about what it would be like if certain bands did covers of certain songs, no matter how unlikely such a thing would be. Johnny Cash did some unusual covers, for example, and he did a wonderful job with them. Yet something tells me he wouldn't have done a cover of Tool's "Stinkfist." But I think I would have really liked it if he DID do that.

Here's a list of others that I've been thinking about:

--Andrew WK doing "Take It Off" by the Donnas

--The Dixie Chicks doing "Cop Killer" by Body Count

--Lostprophets doing GWAR's "Baby Raper"

--Bruce Willis doing anything off of Steven Seagal's MOJO PRIEST

--Five Finger Death Punch doing "The Sound of Silence" by Simon and Garfunkel

--Billy Idol doing "Wicked Game" by Chris Isaak

--Cradle of Filth doing "The Revenge of Vera Gemini" by Blue Oyster Cult

--James doing "Sex Type Thing" by Stone Temple Pilots (or maybe even STP doing "Laid" by James)

--Tantric doing "Die Born" by Days of the New (heh, just kidding)

--Rammstein doing "Me and a Gun" by Tori Amos

--Monster Magnet doing "Godzilla" by Blue Oyster Cult

--Seether doing "Seether" by Veruca Salt

--Tom Waits doing "Stagger Lee" by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds

--Howling Willie Cunt doing Metallica's version of "So What?"

--Tom Lehrer doing "One More Minute" by Weird Al Yankovic

--Depeche Mode doing "The Bad Touch" by the Bloodhound Gang

--Jerry Cantrell doing "To Be Treated Rite" by Terry Reid

--Dead Kennedys doing "Floyd the Barber" by Nirvana

--The Chicago Bears Shufflin' Crew doing "Ninja Rap" by Vanilla Ice

I could do this all day. (And, in fact, I've been compiling this list for the last three hours.) Do you have any ideas? Make sure to list them in the comments below.

Monday, December 29, 2014


Hey, I have some great ideas for TV shows. If only I could score a sit-down with some TV execs. My specialty is game shows. I love coming up with concepts, and I think I could be the new Chuck Barris, but without the whole I-was-an-assassin-for-America thing.

Here's an idea I'm certain could get some airtime on Fox: WHEEL OF STDs! OK, here's how it goes. We get three contestants, and they choose a needle at random. Each needle contains one sexually transmitted disease. Just for poops and laughs, we'll throw in a corker of a cocktail: AIDS, syphilis, herpes and the clap for one unlucky contestant.

Then, we get them all to spin the wheel. We'll have maybe fifty needles on it. Most of them contain sugar water, but we'll have at least one needle with the cure for a particular STD at uneven intervals around the wheel. (Bad luck for you if you get the AIDS needle at the start of the game.) We continue the game until we have one living contestant remaining. The winner gets a $100 gift certificate for Olive Garden.

I don't know who we should get as the host, but I think it would be pretty cool if we just get a homeless dude to do it for drug money. It'll keep the overhead down. Maybe later on, when we get a bit more traction and a better time slot, we can get someone like Regis to step in. We'll need a sponsor. I'm pretty sure Valtrex would do it, at least until we can get Budweiser or Ford to take an interest. What do you think?

Where are you going?

Friday, December 19, 2014


Many of the books in my library were bought from used bookstores or library sales. A lot of them contain notes in the margins from the previous owner. Sometimes, the notes are better than the book. But my favorite thing to do is to figure out as much as I can about the person who used to own the book.

As I write this, I am reading THE WAY OF ALL FLESH by Samuel Butler. I like the message, but it's a book I just can't seem to get into. I also don't think I'd be able to get along with the person who left his or her notes for me to find. Let me tell you what I can gather from this person.

This book was read for class by a person who went to college in the late 'Sixties. I know this because on the inside cover of the book, it says SEMESTER 1 67-68. I'm going to deduce that it was college reading because I don't see this book being assigned to a high school student.

The previous owner was probably a man, since the handwriting is a bit spidery, and he was probably right-handed, due to the slant of the writing.

He did not like this book at all. After some chapters, he has written the word STOP, to remind him that he doesn't have to read any further for the next class discussion. He also takes very few notes. The passages he underlines aren't particularly interesting, indicating that he might have underlined them just to show he actually opened the book.

I am certain that a fellow student helped him with this book, because later on I see someone else's handwriting, and the insight is a lot more interesting than earlier in the book. I also believe that this person was a woman, considering the enlarged, sweeping lettering.

Lastly, the previous owner had no respect for books. On the very last page of this book, he has written down a math problem, clearly regarding the pages as nothing more than scratch paper.

Am I the only one who has this habit? I can't be. There are a lot of readers who follow my posts. Anyone else want to share their own Sherlock Holmes-like investigations?

Sunday, December 14, 2014


My favorite song in the world is Nick Cave's "Time Jesum Transeuntum Et Non Riverentum." It's the secret song on the X-Files album, the one you have to rewind from the first track to get to. When it comes to music I like, I act like a child. I listen to a group of songs over and over again until I get tired of them and move on to the next group of songs I'm going to obsess over for a month or so.

I do not act this way with this song. It's so wonderful that I don't dare wear it out. I only play it whenever I'm going through a change in my life, like when I graduated college. Or when I got my first book published. Or, well, you get the idea.

I start my new job on Monday, so you can believe I'll be playing this song as I go to bed tomorrow night (at the absurdly early hour of 9:00 pm, by the way). This will probably be the last GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS I write, since I can't bring myself to write these things when most people are still up and about. I wouldn't have the time to do it, anyway.

I hope I've entertained you all over the course of 139 posts. Maybe I've made you laugh or I've terrified you (or, more likely than not, I've disgusted you), and I'm sad to see this regular column go. It will be good to not write something as I sit in my underwear directly before going to bed, but I'll miss doing this.

Anyway, I'm rambling. The bouncer has put all the chairs up on the tables, and the janitor is wringing out his mop. Let's finish our drinks and get out of here.

Goodnight, fuckers.

Friday, December 12, 2014


When I was in college, I got to thinking about paper money, and how we typically spend paper money in the same places, ie. the same fast food restaurants, the same convenience stores, the same gas stations, etc. I wondered how many times I'd held the same $20 bill throughout the course of my life.

I'm fully aware that this is a weed-smoking kind of question, and while I have no problem with weed, I swear to you that I wasn't high at the time.

However, being of a scientific bend, I figured out a way to test this. Whenever I get paid, I like to withdraw money in $20 denominations. Back then, I decided that every bill that I intended to spend would be marked. I put my initials, JB, plus a number (I think I got up into the twenties) on each bill. And then I sent them back into circulation.

This was before I knew what Where's George is. Not that it matters much. Where's George is kind of a hassle, and it's not very conducive to my particular experiment. Although I have participated in that a few times, just to help someone else's experiment.

It's been about fourteen years since I sent my marked bills out into the wild, and to this very day, I have not gotten one back. I thought I might have by now, since so much money is spent locally, but I never did. Maybe someday.

If one day, I get a $20 that says JB15, or whatever number, I think that would be amazing. But by now, I have given up hope. If anyone ever gets one, please let me know.


You know that thing I couldn't talk about? The one thing in my life that I had very little control over, but I managed to change it exactly how I wanted? I think it's time for the details.

After nearly eight years, my job as a conference operator is nearly over. It used to be the best job I ever had, but things changed a few years ago, and I became pretty hateful. Rage ate at my soul on a regular basis. I started referring to work as my eight hours of daily hate. That's no way to live. I was going to leave the company and get some other work, maybe something with a commute time of ten minutes.

And then an opportunity revealed itself. Most of my friends at work were either let go, fired or they quit. Of the few left, most of them moved to another department, and now this department was looking for more team members. I put in for the job as soon as it was posted, and after a long time of waiting and wringing my hands, good news came from on high: I got the job. I start on Monday, and I anticipate being a lot happier. I won't have to deal with many of the things that ate away at the good in me.

Tomorrow is my last day as a conference operator, and it isn't even a full day. At 11:30 am, I will be a free man.

The only drawback is that I have to work from 5:45 am to 2:15 pm. I am not a morning person, and this means I'll have to get out of bed by 4:15 am at the latest. But aside from what I already mentioned, there are some positives, namely that I won't have to deal with traffic anymore. Also, I won't have to park in Timbuktu. I'll probably have one of the best parking spots in the lot, even better than the ones Xerox has reserved, despite the fact that they're no longer in our building.

But I will miss listening live to my radio show on the commute. Still, it'll be nice to see sunlight again when I get out of work. Probably.

So yeah. This is why GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS is coming to an end. Bedtime for me is going to be 10:00 pm at the latest, and my shows are usually ending at that time. I can't justify staying awake long enough to put one of these out. I guess I could cheat and write them earlier and send them out at bedtime, but I don't want to betray the spirit of this nightly blog.

This means there are only two GF's left, at most. I might be too drunk to put them out tomorrow or the next day, and I certainly won't put one out on Sunday, the beginning of my lifestyle change. I think I'll be conscious enough, so I'll say tentatively that there are two posts left. I might surprise you all with a post every once in a while, like on a weekend, or a holiday, or if I'm on vacation, but for now, I'll only commit to one, maybe two, GF posts.

I should mention that it wasn't just my anger that drove me out of my department. I've been doing the same thing for eight years, and I couldn't improve my career any further by staying in the department without becoming management. It was time for a change, and I think this is the best change I can imagine.

Special thanks to Fitz for planting the seed that led to me saving my soul. "I had strings. But now I'm free. There are no strings on me."

*ahem* I meant that as a reference to the new AVENGERS movie, not PINOCCHIO. Just so we're clear.

Wednesday, December 10, 2014


Do you know what I really want to see? Maybe I should first ask if any of you have read Roald Dahl's MY UNCLE OSWALD. Well, if you have, you know it's about a sex fiend by the name of Oswald, who has spent most of his life writing his memoirs so everyone will know about the sexual depravity he's gotten up to over the course of his life. This volume of his journal is about him teaming up with a beautiful young woman to steal the sperm of famous, prolific men in order to sell it to women who want to bear the children of geniuses.

Yes, you read that right. This is a novel from the mind of the same guy who came up with CHARLIE AND THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY and JAMES AND THE GIANT PEACH.

Do you know what I really want to see? I want to see a movie based on this novel, but we need an a-list cast. I want this thing to get the THIS IS THE END treatment. I'm sure Rogen and Franco would be all over this, but I'm thinking bigger.

What if . . . dare I think it?! What if we could get the Clooney and Pitt cast of OCEAN'S ELEVEN to do this? How awesome would that be? They certainly have enough of a sense of humor to take the piss out of themselves.

We need this to happen.


Once upon a time, when I was in junior high, one of my fellow students was taking a poll for class. It was about the TV habits of preteens, and she asked me what shows I watched on a regular basis. I told her I don't really watch TV. All I watched in those days were reruns of THE TWILIGHT ZONE (and cartoons, of course, but those were usually on VHS and didn't count). Truth be told, I thought everything on TV was complete garbage, so I didn't watch it.

Fast forward more than twenty years, and I'm watching TV every night, at least for one hour. Don't get me wrong, I still think there's a lot of garbage on TV. I think Sturgeon's Law might be a bit too generous for what's being broadcast these days, but I do have my shows. Now, with so many shows taking a break for the holidays, I don't watch TV EVERY night, but when I was a kid, I would have never thought I'd have ended up like this.

Mondays are for GOTHAM. Tuesdays for Marvel's AGENTS OF SHIELD. Wednesdays are for AMERICAN HORROR STORY: FREAKSHOW. Thursdays are for WHITE COLLAR. Fridays are for CONSTANTINE. Saturdays are for HELL ON WHEELS. Sundays are for THE WALKING DEAD, THE TALKING DEAD and COMIC BOOK MEN. Repeat.

It's a marvel I get anything done. What happened? What changed me?

I actually don't think I'VE changed. I've always eagerly consumed excellent content, be it from books or movies. I think TV changed. The quality is better (which doesn't say much, but still). When they upped their game, I took interest, that's all.

But I am glad that great TV isn't in the majority. If every show was good, I would probably have dedicate a lot more time to watching TV, and I shudder to think of that as a good thing.

Tuesday, December 9, 2014


Sometimes I wonder if prolific writers get tired of seeing their names on the covers of books. Stephen King, for example, has got to have gotten over this by now, right? Or Danielle Steel? Or Joyce Carol Oates?

I'm not nearly as seasoned as any of them, so it's probably not strange that I still get an endorphin rush when I see my name on the cover of a book. It never gets old for me, which is probably a good sign. If it ever became ho-hum, I think maybe the magic of being a writer would leave my life.

When I was a kid, I used to take books written by SF writer John Brunner, and I would cover up the -ner at the end of his name with my thumb. I'd fantasize that it was a book written by me. If Brunner's last name was spelled out in caps, I would leave some of the second N, because it would look like a capital I.

OK, maybe that's a little weird, but that's the way my mind worked back then. I dreamed about the day I wouldn't have to cover up part of John Brunner's name with my thumb. It's an incredibly egotistical thing to do, but I couldn't help it. Generally, I think I'm a piece of shit, but this dream fueled my life.

Folks, I've reached the point in my writing career when I never have to do that ever again. I don't even know how many books and magazines there are with my name on the cover. Each and every time I see a new one, it fills me up with an incredible pride. It's the fulfillment of a child's fantasy.

But . . . well . . . whenever I read a Brunner book, even today, I can't stop myself from putting my thumb over the -ner in his name. It's a habit, like cracking my knuckles or twirling my hair. Sometimes, I wonder if I should be telling people how minutes we have until Wapner's on.

I don't know, but I think that for the rest of my life, even if some miracle happens and I'm as popular as Stephen King is now, seeing my name on the cover of a publication will always give me a thrill. If it doesn't, it might be time to retire.

Monday, December 8, 2014


I've never found myself in a position where I needed to offer an official apology before. Do you all know Nicole Evans? She co-wrote "Suicidal Tendencies" with me for THE MONSTERS NEXT DOOR, which also appeared in TALES OF QUESTIONABLE TASTE. I wrote something in the story notes for TOQT, and I swear to you, I thought she'd read what I said and was cool with it.

I was wrong. She'd read it and was so pissed off that something happened that I probably shouldn't talk about. I have before, but she made it clear to me recently that she wishes I wouldn't talk about it.

When she brought it up to me, I didn't understand the problem. It took me a while to figure out what I'd done wrong, but I assure you, I didn't mean for that to happen. What I wrote was flippant and dismissive, but I didn't think so at at the time I wrote it, but looking back? I understand her problem with it. In my defense, it really *was* a long story, and I didn't want to take up so much time with the issue. I never meant what I said to hurt her, especially since it hurt her so badly it turned out . . . I can't say it. Not because I'm not an open book, but because she doesn't want me to say it in public.

I never realized the power of my words until this very moment. I thought I was entertaining people, and for the most part, I'm right, but there's the 1% chance of something else happening.

This is so awkward. I want to say so much more, but to do so would incur her wrath. I love her too much to do that to her. I wish she were more open to this, but I'm an animal. I don't care what I talk about online. I mean, I talked about the time I almost hanged myself on an elementary school playground because of some foolishness I saw in a movie once. That's pretty fucked up, no?

I told her about "The Knot That Binds," which appeared in STRANGE FUCKING STORIES. There was a character in that story based on her. I was pissed at her when I wrote it, but I still stand by it as an accurate representation, at least from my perspective. My portrayal of her was pretty bad.

But the conjoined twins in that story? They portrayed me, and I think writing about them was worse.

Those of us who are writers usually base our characters off of people we know. But sometimes, those people read about the literary versions of themselves. Things get awkward. Things get fucked.

I can't believe I've reached this point in my career. I would never take back something I wrote about someone else under fictional pretenses, but at the same time, I don't want to hurt my loved ones' feelings. So I apologize.

Sunday, December 7, 2014


Sometimes, I miss writing my weekly Cool Shit. But then again, sometimes I'm glad I don't. Near the end, I found myself writing about the same books over and over again. I hate to say this, but there's a saturation in the market right now. There are too many comic books. Quality is rapidly decreasing. I'm glad that comic books have finally reached the point where they're widely received as literature, but the unfortunate thing is that this saturation has led to a cheapening of the medium. It happens. Usually, it's a genre that gets fucked up by this. For now, it's the entire comics industry.

I'm reading too many comics. A shocking amount of them come from habit purchases. Books I've always gotten but have not been as good as they used to be. I took a look at my pull list, and I realized that I could save a lot of money by cutting a few titles.

This, for me, is akin to pulling teeth. I'm a completist. Once I get into buying a book, I don't like to stop. Chances are, the tide will turn against a bad storyline. But . . . I'm getting older. My collection is getting too big. I have to start cutting titles. It hurts, but it has to happen.

I think my major problem is with media tie-ins, so I'm going to cut almost all of them. Here is a list of what I'm going to be dropping from my weekly purchases starting in January.

ANGEL AND FAITH. Let's make one thing clear: when Dark Horse started publishing the next "season" of BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER, I didn't care. But when IDW pushed ANGEL on us, I ate it up. It was a great storyline, and when it translated over to Dark Horse in ANGEL AND FAITH, it was still good. This new "season" hasn't been all that great. I lasted nine issues. Time to kick it to the curb.

ASYLUM: I love John Carpenter, and I'm glad he's doing an original comic book, but quality has dropped. Besides, it's a HELLBLAZER rip-off. I tried it for eight issues. Time to bid it farewell.

BIG TROUBLE IN LITTLE CHINA: I loved the movie, of course. The book started strong. It's just getting too silly. Buh-bye.

ARMY OF DARKNESS: I should have ditched this one a long time ago. It took me a long time to realize that, well, I know this is blasphemy, but . . . the movie wasn't THAT great. It was fun, but it doesn't justify the time or money I've dedicated to this comic series which has gone up against Freddy and Jason, has saved Obama, has gotten hitched and is now in space. So long, fucker.

FUTURE'S END: I started reading this because of Brian Azzarello's involvement, and at first it was fun. Now, it's dealing in storylines I just don't give a fuck about. I stopped caring about the Batman bullshit, even. The only thing that still kinda-sorta interests me is the interaction with Superman and John Constantine. It's just not enough. Cut.

GOD IS DEAD: I used to love this book from Avatar, but it's lost itself in this odd self-butthole-sucking path that I just can't get into. It should have been a mini-series ending with Jonathan Hickman's involvement. Gotta' lose it.

HINTERKIND: Every time I start losing interest in the series, it redeems itself. I can't continue this dance. It's too much for my wallet. Besides, it's been a while since I cared about it. I won't miss it monthly.

JUDGE DREDD: This one hurts. I'm a big Dredd fan, but the American series has proven itself as a different entity from the UK version. It's obviously not canon, and I can't live with it in that fashion.

SANDMAN: OVERTURE: I've given this one a lot of thought, because I really loved the shit out of the original Gaiman series. My problem with this one is that it's 100% style over content. I'm getting nothing out of it. It's a beautiful book, but that doesn't justify my continuing interest. Sorry. And goodbye.

And then there's Dynamite's attempt at rebooting the Chaos Universe. So far, the only title I liked was CHASTITY, which I think is over now. The others? I want to continue, because I'm a completist (in case I didn't mention it before). However . . . it's shit. There were some good moments in the CHAOS main title, but it's just not enough. There's no heart in anything they do. I'm cutting all titles, even EVIL ERNIE. It's hard to say that, but it's got to happen. I can't afford for this to continue.

Here's a list of titles that are on the brink of getting cut: JUSTICE LEAGUE DARK (which has gotten too silly for my likes, even though it involves Constantine's story arcs, and I'm not ready to give up on CONSTANTINE yet), TEN GRAND (which I'm almost certain is nearly over, anyway), TRANSFORMERS VS. GI JOE (which has got to be the worst version of this team-up ever) and DARK GODS (which is a toss-up, as we speak, but it's only one issue in).

FABLES and FAIREST have both lost their appeal to me, but they'll be over in a couple of months. I've already decided that ANGRY BIRDS/TRANSFORMERS is so terrible that I cannot continue with it. I'm pretty sure that GRAVEL and SERENITY have both been quietly canceled. So what does this leave for me?

Here is the most current list of the comics I read and won't be cutting: AMERICAN VAMPIRE (which is the best vampire book on the market, comics, books and movies), CONSTANTINE (which is just barely good enough and sometimes conjures up the good ol' days of HELLBLAZER, even though he's on Earth 2 right now), CROSSED: BADLANDS (which is still fucking awesome), CROSSED +100 (even though I'm not a big fan, I'm willing to wait out Alan Moore's story), THE DARK TOWER: THE DRAWING OF THE THREE (I love what they're doing with this, even though not all of it is detailed in the books), DJANGO AND ZORRO (who the fuck would cut a book by Quentin Tarantino from their pull list?), EX-CON (which has combined horror and crime perfectly), THE FADE OUT (which promises to be the greatest crime comic book ever written), FBP (which features science adventure unlike any book ever written, even in Heinlein's time), Larry Hama's G.I. JOE (which is a continuation of the book I enjoyed as a child, so I would never give it up), G.I. JOE (which has recovered from the brief period of fuckery it lived through a few months ago), GOD HATES ASTRONAUTS (which is so batshit crazy it should never be dropped from anyone's pull list), JUPITER'S LEGACY (I would never drop a Mark Millar book, especially one that only has an issue left), THE KITCHEN (I think this book could be cool, but we're only one issue in so far), MPH (see my previous Millar answer), NIGHT BREED (which has succeeded beyond my wildest expectations), PUNKS (which is one of the most original books I've read in a while), SAGA (which is one of the greatest comic books ever written), SEX CRIMINALS (you know why I wouldn't give this one up), SUPREME BLUE ROSE (which is bending the way I think about comic books), TRANSFORMERS (both the prime title, previously known as ROBOTS IN DISGUISE, and MORE THAN MEETS THE EYE, because they are even better than the old Marvel books back in the day, and DRIFT because, well, it's on par with the other two), TREES (which has been pushing the boundaries of SF), THE TWILIGHT ZONE (which has beaten the odds and has been producing incredibly original stories), VELVET (which is the perfect spy story), WAR STORIES (I would sooner cut my own dick off before cutting a Garth Ennis title from my pull list, especially one as violent and beautiful as this one), WYTCHES (which is an incredibly complex horror story) and THE WALKING DEAD (do I even have to list my reason?).

That's still an impressive list. I don't think my comic book dealer will go out of business because of my cuts. Please note the shocking lack of superhero books on that list. Not all comics have to be about people who wear their underwear on the outside of their clothes. Thank you for your attention.

Friday, December 5, 2014


Earlier, I talked about the one thing I hated about my life that I had very little influence over, and how I managed to change it exactly how I wanted. Well, it's going to change a lot more of my life than I realized. I learned a couple of days ago that it's such a life-changer, it's going to change my entire way of life, which will lead me to going to bed super early every weeknight.

I don't want to say that this thing--which I can't yet announce because it hasn't been announced by those who have the right, even though it's official--will end GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS, but it will definitely limit GF. At best, I might put out one or two a week. Maybe.

Truth be told, I'm shocked that I've come this far. I thought I'd be tired of it by #50. Sure, there were times that I got bored with it, but not bored enough to end it. There were even times when readership fell so low I thought I'd give GF a mercy killing, but those times were not as often as they felt like in my heart. Hell, last night's readership was incredibly high, higher even than my K.M. Tepe piece. (This is probably because Peter DeLuise, one of the stars of 21 JUMP STREET (and the best director of STARGATE SG-1, in my opinion), commented on Twitter about last night's post, and Sal Jenco, the guy who played Blowfish, favorited it.)

But on December 15, I'm going to need to get out of bed at 4:15 am every day. This means I'll need to be in bed by 10:00 pm at the very latest. I won't have time for GF anymore, except for the weekends (and chances are, I'll be drunk on weekends, too far gone to write anything for GF).

It's been a hell of a lot of fun. This has been some of the most honest writing I've ever done, the closest I could ever come to Gonzo journalism of myself. You can expect one more week of my nightly babbling. I might not get one in tomorrow, but I might for Sunday. I'll definitely get some in for the weekdays next week. Friday and Saturday might be questionable. But Sunday? There's no way in hell.

I'll try to make this week the best. I don't want to go out on a sour note. Is there anything you want me to talk about in these final days? Maybe some questions you might have? Any topics you think I could write the fuck out of? Let me know, and I'll see what I can do. Time is limited, so get your suggestions in now.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS is not long for this world. I love all of you who have ever read these pieces. I owe you big, because I bared my soul for 130 previous entries, and no one ever batted an eyelash. I know I have an issue with scatology, but I'm pretty sure you know that I never meant to seriously call you fuckers.

Goodnight, my favorite people in the world.

Thursday, December 4, 2014


When I was a kid, I couldn't have given two tugs of a dead dog's cock about 21 JUMP STREET. I figured it was a version of those G.I. Joe PSAs meant for teenagers, so I avoided it. Fast forward until about a year ago, when I came upon season 1 in a catalog on sale for a single American dollar (plus shipping, of course). I had a dollar to spare, and I'm a big fan of Johnny Depp, so I figured why not? I didn't know Peter DeLuise was on the show at the time, but I loved his work on STARGATE SG-1. I didn't even know X from THE X-FILES was the captain of the division, but I love the fuck out of Steven Williams. I don't know why I passed on this show back in the day.

Even as an adult, though, I didn't expect much. The pilot episode did not impress me. Surprisingly, Capt. Fuller wasn't the first leader of the department. It was actually the guy who played Blue Duck on LONESOME DOVE, and he was very cool in the role. Regardless, I stayed with it, and it got me. I swear, I fell in love by the third episode.

The show didn't pull punches. It took very complex situations and did not offer easy answers. Sometimes, the good guys lost. Sometimes, the good guys won by cheating and were punished for it. And then, in between the serious episodes, you'd find some shows when the characters just sort of hung out, like the one when they told stories about how they lost their virginity, which reminded me of the Star Trek book where all the crew members talked about their Kobayashi Maru tests. Or how about the episode when they went into the future and interviewed all of the Jump Street cops as geriatrics? What about the RASHOMON episode when the JS cops tell their individual versions of the truth while being interviewed by the press? (Which, by the way, was one of my favorite episodes.) And then there was the Halloween episode, which needs to be seen to be believed.

And then, of course, there was Blowfish. Goddammit, I loved that character. I hated that he wasn't around for the final season.

I identified with Hanson, Johnny Depp's character, because he always used SOP, but I couldn't abide by him because he never knew when to break the rules. I identified with Doug Penhall most, because we have a very similar parental background, but he was never smart enough because emotion led his first four years on the show. I identified with Harry Ioki because of his outsider status, but he was too violent for my likes. And I identified with Judy Hoffs, because she's very good at her job, but she had hang-ups that I could never get past.

I believe there is something for everyone on this show, and there's enough subject matter to digest for a lifetime. However, I was warned about the last season, which supposedly torpedoed the show. To be fair, it was a mess. Johnny Depp and Dustin Nguyen both left the show. Peter DeLuise put in a half-season's work before leaving, too. Most of that final season was spent trying out characters, hoping someone would stick. Penhall's brother Joey stuck for a while, and though I liked him a lot, he was quickly kicked to the curb. The only new character that seemed to do well was Michael Bendetti's Mac. It was obvious why they hired him: he looked a lot like Depp and exhibited a lot of the same characteristics. He was bent on living by the book, but he had a lot of heart. He did not have an enviable position, because he was specifically hired to act like Depp, but he did a pretty good job.

In the end, despite my initial reluctance, I enjoyed my time with the show, all five seasons, even the final one. When I heard that Hollywood had made a movie out of the show, I had a great deal of doubt. It was obviously a comedy, and it didn't seem to care about the tone of the source material. Yet . . .

Aw hell. I loved it, especially since it was revealed to be canon. SPOILER ALERT: Depp and DeLuise reprise their roles from the original show, revealing that they'd gone into adult undercover work. However, Hanson and Penhall die in a horrible gunfight, which is contrary to the TV show they did about the future. If this is, indeed, canon, they completely fucked that episode. However, it might not be that bad, since it was a pretty outlandish episode, anyway. It should also be noted that Holly Robinson Peete returned as Hoffs, even though it was a split second cameo. Too bad. She was the strongest of the characters. I would have given her a spin-off over Booker, that's for sure, even though I wound up liking Booker in the end. (They also got Dustin Nguyen to return, but it was a cheat; they featured his face on the TV in the background in the gunfight that cost Hanson and Penhall their lives.) END OF SPOILERS.

I just received my copy of 22 JUMP STREET. I haven't watched it yet, but I have a good feeling about it. Despite my best efforts, I couldn't avoid certain news about cameos in it. Part of me hopes that Bendetti shows up, though. He got a raw deal. Even though he was brought onto the show in unfortunate circumstances, he did his absolute best to overcome the situation. I think he did a great job. He managed to make the character his own, instead of a hollow imitation of Hanson.

I'm sure I'll update you all when I finally watch the movie. Tonight, I watched the last episode. The writing didn't falter. Neither did the acting. It ended on a strong note. There's a part of me that wonders if they knew they were being canceled, considering Hoffs's attitude toward her job and what that entailed.

My journey is one movie away from being done.

Wednesday, December 3, 2014


Jeff O'Brien's Facebook post about high school embarrassment brought back a lot of memories for me, so I figured I'd talk about the most embarrassing thing that happened to me in those halcyon days of dogshit on shit-bread with a bit of diarrhea sauce for flavor.

I'm not going to talk about the worst thing that happened to me back then. Somehow, the worst thing is not nearly as bad as the most embarrassing thing. But . . . here we go.

We had a swimming pool at my high school. My parents met at that same high school, and they both told me--independently--that the common practice was for the boys to swim naked. That would have killed me, since I had an awful gut back then (which I lost for college, and then gained back for all my years after). In my day, though, they required boys to wear what we all called Black Beauties, not because they looked like the classic pencils from Berol, or they reminded us of the old black stallion, but because they were little more than banana hammocks colored black. They were not flattering for those of us who were more than ten pounds overweight, and I was about forty overweight back then.

My first day out, they only had one pair of Black Beauties that fit me, and the drawstring was broken. I figured it wouldn't be too bad, since my girth would probably hold them up. Donning a postage stamp-sized bit of black cloth to cover my privates, I went out to do the one lap swim to decide which swimming class I belonged to. There were three levels: beginner, intermediate and advanced.

We all took our turns, and most people wound up in the intermediate class. Then, it was my turn. I didn't jump in like the others did. Cautiously, I sat down and then slid into the water. Then, I pushed off the wall and swam for the middle of the Olympic-sized pool.

I'm an all right swimmer. I'm not great, but I can stay afloat. However, because of my broken drawstring, my Black Beauties shot down to my ankles as I swam my first stroke. Embarrassment filled me instantly, and I paused long enough to pull my BB's up and continue to swim. Except . . . well, they kept trying to slide down. I had to swim one-armed while holding my BB's up with my free hand, even though I knew everyone had already seen me naked and were laughing. Have you ever seen a guy's junk hanging down from behind with ass cheeks spread apart? Especially if the guy in question is super-hairy? It's not very flattering. That's what they'd seen as I drew my feet up to my groin in an attempt to pull my BB's up.

What class did I end up in? Well, there was a fourth level that no one talked about, and it existed to teach those with handicaps and Down Syndrome to swim. That's the class I wound up in. Hell, even the swim teacher laughed at me. No shit. She didn't even apologize to me later, not that I expected it. Back then, I figured I deserved to be ridiculed.

I think this incident, in addition to something else in my past (which I will someday talk about) led me to some of my adult behavior. When I was in college, I was nearly a nudist, and it wasn't because I felt natural in that state. It was because I knew showing my dick off to friends would either get a laugh or it would get a horrified reaction. Both were true, but in retrospect, I know that it was a mental self-defense mechanism to combat this one incident from my high school years. I guess I viewed it as my way to strike back at the society that made me feel ashamed of my nudity when I was a kid.

Even if that's so, I still look back on that scene with embarrassment eating at me.

As an aside, there is an interesting story to come of this. The gym teacher who laughed at me was stuck teaching my class, so she had to teach us how to float on our backs, which is something I already knew how to do. We had to do this for a half an hour, and as I was doing so, I noticed the beginner teacher--a guy--wander over to my teacher. He very clearly started hitting on her, and she didn't want his attention. I know it's a stereotype, but in this case, it was true. She liked women. I smiled, watching him fruitlessly hit on this woman, and then he caught me smirking at his failed attempts. He sneered at me, and then he ticked his head back a few times. The message: stop fucking looking at me, asshole. But it was also advice: you need to tilt your head back to properly float. I looked away, mostly because my legs really were dropping in the water, but even through the heavy auditory experience of having one's ears below the surface of a pool, I could still hear him getting shot down. Good. He was a slimy bastard, the kind of guy who believed that every woman felt weak in the knees at the very thought of being in his presence. It was a pleasure to catch him in that one moment when he realized he'd been living a lie. I don't know if this is true, but I heard--A RUMOR ONLY--that he got caught trying to fuck one of his students. It makes sense to me.


MAD MEN is nearing its end. It comes back in spring 2015 for the final episodes, and I'll be truly sad to see it go. For a show seemingly about nothing, it's also about everything.

Most people wonder why I like the show, and it certainly isn't the reason most people like it. Everyone sees the characters smoking and drinking at work. They see an age when black people never rose higher than the elevator operator, or the waiter, or the cook in the back. Women knew their place as housekeepers. People look nostalgically back at those things, not realizing that the show is actually taking the piss out of that shit. Honestly, it might have worked a hundred years from now. The problem is, there are too many people still alive today who remember those times, or they're children of people who remember those times. Hell, I was raised by my grandparents, and the tang of the MAD MEN era was still alive in my own childhood, just about to die. Instead of recognizing the show as a lampoon of a misbegotten era, everyone looks fondly back at those good ol' days.

OK, I wouldn't mind being able to drink on the job. That would be cool. But keep in mind, the good ol' days were only the good ol' days if you were white, male and preferably middle-class, at the least.

The part I truly enjoy about the show is the quiet desperation. The lack of communication. The unsung desires of the heart, and the unfulfilled dreams of the average person.

But there's more to it than that. I completely forgot, but the show used to have a tagline, and I was reminded of it tonight: "Mad Men: Where the Truth Lies." I hate most taglines, but that is pretty much spot on. I think the ultimate message of the show is that we are all advertisers. We pick the best versions of ourselves, and we put them on display to the world. See how cool I am? Come on, fellas. Like me. Please?

But that version of us is rarely the truth. It's the truth we want, and if we want it enough, maybe--JUST MAYBE--it becomes the truth. We spend most of our time trying to get people to like us. To be our friends. To maybe fuck us. To spend time together. We no longer need our survival instincts when it comes to our physical lives. We've become completely independent on our social survival needs.

This is so much more true today. We post things we think will get our friends' attention. We live to see who likes our Facebook posts or retweets things in our Twitter feed.

Here's the interesting part, though: I don't think that's a bad thing, just so long as you don't hurt other people to get that attention. We all want to be loved. Sometimes, when we're at our wits end, and we're ready to throw in the towel because everything sucks and always will suck, we just want to be held and to be told that we're worthy of another's love.

Don Draper is his own creation. Literally. His real name is Dick Whitman (as we learned in the first season, so I don't want to hear anyone screaming about spoiler alerts). He was dissatisfied with his life, so he took the place of someone else when the real Don Draper died in the Korean War. He built a new life for himself. And as he gets older, it's tearing him apart. You can see the Draper facade falling apart, and Dick Whitman yearning to break through again, which is why he took his kids to see the house he really was raised in, a whorehouse from the Great Depression.

It's all about identity. If you look at it from a certain angle, it's THE TWILIGHT ZONE without SF or horror elements. It's all about one man's self-destructive tendencies because he no longer wants to live the lie he created. He wants to be what he once was.

I think that's something many of us can empathize with. Sometimes I think back on certain memories, like the year that I obsessed over the Garfield comic strip and hid the books my mother borrowed from the library, just so she couldn't return them and I could keep them. Or the days when my cousin and a few friends would stage GI Joe wars in my basement. Or the war games we used to play with water pistols. Or the times I could sit back and enjoy a good thunderstorm. Or when I could look out at a snowy day, knowing that I didn't have to go to school and enjoying the eerie silence outside my bedroom window. All of those things and more.

But the one thing that Don Draper doesn't take into account--just as we don't--is that the good ol' days were not really the good ol' days. Murder, kidnapping and rape happened in our towns, but either they didn't make the papers, or our parents kept knowledge from us. Maybe small town America could leave their doors unlocked at night, but you can bet the motherfuckers living in the cities threw the deadbolt on before going to bed.

Nostalgia is a funny thing. It fills you up with good emotions, but it's all a lie. Things are never as they seem, and they are rarely as we remember them.

Something to think about when MAD MEN comes back.

Tuesday, December 2, 2014


Remember a while back when I said there was one thing about my life that I didn't like, and I had very little control over changing it? Well, I did what little I could do, and it paid off. I got great news today that will change the quality of my life. I can't talk about it yet, but it doesn't have anything to do with writing. It's a personal life thing, and when I can declare it, you'll be among the first to know. It's very liberating feeling that I actually managed to change something so big, and it went exactly the way I wanted it to go.

Combine that with my new lifestyle change: drinking my dinner. No, I'm not going back to the Red Meat and Whiskey diet (minus the red meat). I've been juicing, and I put together my first drink on Sunday. Tonight was the first time I replaced a meal with it, and I think it's going to go very well. I think I need to add more ginger to the next mix, and then it will be perfect. It tastes great going down, but it leaves a horrible aftertaste. Still, it filled me up, and I'm not hungry five hours later. I think this is going to work out. (Not to mention the fact that I'm back to working out every day, so I'm thinking I'll be dropping some pounds soon.)

I can't really eat fast food due to my gum graft, so I'll be off that for the next few weeks. All I have to do is ditch the caffeine from my diet again. And no more Sierra Mist. Holy shit, I'm fucking wired right now. That drink has some kick to it. I don't know if I'm ever going to bed tonight.

And then there's my writing career. Things are picking up quick. I have so many new releases either out or coming out soon. PAVLOV'S BITCHES is my first self-published Kindle ebook, which is now available. I had stories published in HARDBOILED and M, even though they seem to not be interested in promoting them. A new anthology came out today with my story in it, from Grinning Skull. TRIPLE ZOMBIE from Spanking Pulp, which has a great story by me in it, should be out any day, if it isn't already (I'll have to check on that tomorrow). My long-delayed book with StrangeHouse should be out by Christmas. Plus I went ahead and got myself an Amazon author page, and I revamped my website. Things are going at a frantic pace, and I love it.

I still have a book coming out from Barbarian, hopefully next year. I'm going to start the final draft of my new Jesus novel this week. Not to mention two stories I have to finish up this week, as well.

This GF probably sounds a lot like a dude sucking his own dick, and you're right. It's just that tonight I noticed how well everything is currently going for me. Usually, I'm making a list of shit that is utterly destroying me, like the DUI trial I lost so much time to, even though I won in the end. Like the shit tooth incident (and the implant story, and the gum graft story, and--). How many of you remember the time I had an abscess right next to my dick? Or the mystery illness that sent me to the ER 13 times? Or the king of them all, nearly dying when my pancreas stopped working?

So back off. Let me have this, for fuck's sake. I'm in a good mood, which is a rarity for me. Good holy fuck, do you know what I'm feeling right now?


It won't last long, but I'm going to enjoy it while it's here. Even though I'm not tired, I'm going to bed. See you all tomorrow.

Monday, December 1, 2014


Whoo-boy. How am I going to say this? I doubt any of you reading this knew me when I was in elementary school. I mean, it's possible since a few of my relatives follow me, including my Dad, but it's unlikely. So I'd say 98% of you know my feelings on sports. My current feelings, that is. But . . . garsh. I used to feel different.

Here goes. I, uh, used to be athletic. Holy fuck, I can't believe I'm going to confess to this, but there was a time I liked baseball and was fairly good at it. I can remember spending endless hours playing catch against a brick wall by myself. Or, almost as often, playing baseball with my cousin and a few of our friends (more his, since I barely had any at that age) against the same brick wall (since we didn't have a catcher). In fact, during my Cub Scout years, I was good enough to get a couple of grand slams.

I know, I know. Most of you who know me now could never see this happening, but it's true.

I was decent at tag football. I sucked at basketball, but I was willing to put in an effort. However, I really excelled at dodge ball. But as much as I liked dodge ball, I was fucking amazing at obstacle courses. I think it was because I was immune to pain back then. Being routinely beaten physically by schoolmates and family will do that to you.

What happened? How did I go from being fairly fit to being the fat slob I am now? I'm not making excuses--I'm fat and unhealthy because I don't have the willpower to NOT be--but I can trace it back to one turning point: when I broke my leg in the fifth grade.

I was terrified of riding a bike on just two wheels. I lasted until fifth grade on my training wheels, but I got tired of people making fun of me, so I took the fuckers off and tried riding a bike without them. The first time around the block? I actually did pretty well. The second time? *collar pull* I turned into the alley behind my house, and I did it a bit faster than the gravel would have allowed. I skidded and busted my leg. I also tore the shit out of my arm. I'd have a cast on my leg, and my arm would be in a sling, for quite some time.

Because of this, I lost out on my final year as a Cub Scout. I never got my WEBELOS badge, which I wanted desperately. In fact, by the time I could walk on my own again, I lost any desire to do the obstacle course on Field Day near the end of my last year at elementary school, which was my favorite part of the school year up until that point. Soon, I began eating McDonald's for dinner for six years straight. No shit, I seriously ate McDonald's EVERY FUCKING NIGHT for six years straight.

If quantum physics is right, there are quite a few alternate universe versions of me who are athletic and probably playing baseball. Or at least some of them won Double Dare a few times.

For a brief time in college, I was slender and good looking. My hetero-life partner Robert Tannahill once told me I looked like an underwear model back then. But I just fell into that lazy motherfucker, eat a shit-ton of McDonald's rut.

Tomorrow, I start juicing. (Don't worry, I have some fiber supplements, so I won't lose that from my diet.) Hopefully, by this time next year, I'll look like that underwear model again.

Saturday, November 29, 2014


Watching the Fenian episode of MAVERICK earlier this week reminded me that one of my ancestors was a Fenian. Nicholas D. Shannon, born in Ireland, moved to America, where he became a Chicago police officer. In his obituary, it says, "He was always an intense Irish Nationalist, belonged to the MacManus Circle, and the company of the Fenian Brotherhood, and went with the Fenian regiment to Canada at the time of O'Neill's invasion in 1866." Their mission was to take Canada by force and exchange it for Irish independence. They tried this three times.

So yeah. That episode wasn't fucking around. The Irish really did try to invade Canada. Weird, huh?

As a side note, his son was also a Chicago cop, and he wound up getting injured severely at the Haymarket Riot. The police report says that he received a "bullet wound in the back, [and] seventeen shell wounds in the lower part of both legs." It caused him pain for the rest of his life, which would turn out to be 12 years.

History is full of surprises like this. You never know what lurks in your family tree. Before this turns into a commercial for, I think I'm going to call it a night. Goodnight, fuckers.


See this picture? I found it while cleaning out my desk. I'd forgotten about it, mostly because of the unusual nature of how it came to me.

A few years ago, I'd written a story for VAMPIRES 2, and those guys also publish MAN'S STORY 2. They liked me enough to ask if I would like to write a story based on an illustration for MS2. It's the only time anyone has ever asked me for a story like that. Plus, they paid me, so that's always good.. The sent me this picture to base my story on. They wound up publishing "A Perfect Specimen" in their magazine.

The issue is no longer available, but it is interesting as a curiosity. I don't think I'd ever write a story in such a fashion ever again. It felt kind of weird doing that, anyway.

In related news, it would appear that I've reached the point in my writing career when I don't remember my own credits. Is that a good sign?


Here we go, folks. I'm trying my hand at self-publishing via Kindle. Behold! My new novelette, "Pavlov's Bitches." Here's what it's about:

Pavlov, a barbarian ruler, mercilessly killed Mikhail’s father and brother. Pavlov turned Mikhail’s mother and sisters into whores. And Pavlov enslaved young Mikhail, a wisp of a man, no match for the brute strength of the tyrant. Yet he has sworn his great and terrible vengeance. However, when it turns out that Pavlov is actually a god, things become more difficult. As Mikhail toils under the apprenticeship of Vasili, a bone craftsman, he must find a way to get revenge against a bloodthirsty god. Will he succeed? And at what cost?

Pick it up here for a mere 99 cents. I'd charge less for it since it's so short, but Amazon is pretty firm about their minimum price. However, in my humble opinion, it's worth the price of admission. It's an incredibly dark, fucked-up, vile fantasy tale. What would happen if Robert E. Howard and GG Allin wrote a story together? It would probably be something like this.

Thanks for your attention, and let me know what you think.


I cleaned out my desk tonight, and I found a few newspaper articles I'd been in that I'd forgotten about. Tonight, I'll be discussing these, starting with . . .

When I was a kid, waaaaaaaaay back in the day, someone from the Elmhurst PRESS asked me about gay marriage while I was at the library. This is what I told them. Considering the conservative town I live in, it's kind of a surprise that my fellow interviewees agreed with me.

This is from when I won the Carlson Award for Creative Writing at Elmhurst College (one of three winners). It was for a short story I wrote called "Love in a Book." It has yet to be published, but it's a fun tale of what happens when a vampire asks his wizard friend to cast a spell on the girl he loves (and what happens when the cops find out). Maybe some day, I'll let it see the light of day, because it is pretty funny.

This is the ultimate proof of why I can never trust the media. If you can read all of this (I know, it's small and distorted, but it's worth the read), please realize that everything written here (except for the loss of shoes) is a blatant lie. Nicole Evans, who co-wrote "Suicidal Tendencies" with me in TALES OF QUESTIONABLE TASTE, was my date, and yes, I was the guy in question. We were NOT elegantly dressed. I was wearing a denim jacket, for fuck's sake. The creek hadn't dried up due to conditions. They were working on fixing the waterfall at the forest preserve, so they shut down the water, which caused the creek to dry to a trickle. And we didn't leave the path, like some misguided Hansel and fucking Gretel. Nicole saw a duck hanging out by that tiny creek trickle, and she couldn't stop herself from jumping over a barrier to walk out and get a picture of the fowl. Except . . . well, she sank down to her knees. I laughed at her from a safe distance (because I was, am and always will be an asshole), but she asked me for help, so I tried to go out and help her. The ground looked sturdy enough, but halfway out, I sank to my knees. It was nearly impossible to pull myself out and help her. I did my best, but I kept sinking down. I lost one of my shoes, but I was able to reach into the mudhole and grab it out. However, Nicole got tired of my slapstick attempt at saving her, so she gave up and walked past me, telling me how much I sucked as a savior. I eventually pulled myself out, walking on all fours back to the barrier. We were both covered in mud, so we cleaned ourselves off with a hose behind the forest preserve's HQ. As we did this, the Trib writer interviewed us (so she knew very fucking well that she lied in her fluff piece). After we were clean, Nicole told me that she'd lost her shoes--for real--in the quick-mud. Because of this, I gave her a piggy-back ride back to the car, so she wouldn't get her bare feet all fucked up on the gravel path. However, the shoes she'd lost were shoes that she'd "borrowed" (please read as "stolen") from one of her friends, so she didn't give a shit. So yeah, even the ONE THING the Trib writer got right was kind of wrong.

This is from when I was in junior high (what they now call "middle school"). Everyone at school knew I was a writer, but none of them knew about my horrid poetry attempts. Much to my surprise, one of my poems earned me a spot as a Sandburg Fellow. (The school is named after Carl Sandburg, who lived about a mile away from it once upon a time.) This recognition led to a poetry workshop, which I bullshitted my way through, mostly because I don't know shit about poetry. I've only had one poem in all of my career published which satisfied me. "The Rubber Band of Sanity" was NOT that poem. Still, it seemed to impress people, so I was OK with skipping classes just so I could hang out with fellow student poets and a real, live local poet.

Sorry. The reason I'm talking about this shit now is because I cleaned out my desk and found some interesting things. Just thought I would share them. Goodnight, people who are probably not really fuckers. (And some of you who might, actually, be fuckers, but lovable fuckers.)

Thursday, November 27, 2014


[EDITOR'S NOTE: Whoo-boy. This has never happened to me, but . . . I forgot to post this last night. I may have forgotten to finish it. I don't know. Here's what happened: I'd had a few drinks last night--not enough for me to black out or pass out, just a few--and I stayed up a bit too late. It was about two in the morning, which is waaaay past my bedtime, even for a non-work night. I started writing GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS, and by the time I got to the end, I was so tired that I decided to close my eyes for just a few minutes. A few hours later, I woke up and wondered why I was sitting up looking at a powered down laptop. At least Tired Me had been courteous enough to leave me a drink, and since I didn't have to go to work today, I finished it off. Waste not, want not. Besides, what was I going to do, put it back in the bottle? Anyway, in standing with my rule of never editing a GF post, I didn't touch this one. This editor's note is the only thing I added. I'm not sure if I even finished this, as I thought I might add something in there about how my grandfather might have made up the story just to fuck with a fucked up kid. I also used this incident in a novella I wrote in high school, which will never see the light of day because I ripped most of it off from Steinbeck. It was what would have happened if Jack Ketchum had written OF MICE AND MEN. I probably would have mentioned that, too. So, without further ado . . .]

When I was a kid, I remember my grandfather telling me a story of either his uncle, or his wife's uncle. I don't remember which. Either way, the guy in question owned a shoe store, and his shop caught fire. This guy's hand got burned down to the bone. How did they fix him up without amputation?


That's a fucked up thing to read, so maybe you should give it another go before you accept it.

Got it? Good.

The skin grew back, but it took a year. A YEAR OF HAVING HIS HAND SEWN INTO HIS STOMACH. I have problems with not being able to bite into cheeseburgers because of my gum graft. I could not deal with having a skeletal hand sewn into my belly for a fucking year.

Try to imagine that. Then realize that was the typical response. IT USED TO BE TYPICAL FOR BURN VICTIMS TO HAVE THEIR BONY HANDS SEWN INTO THEIR BELLIES.

Do they still do this shit? I imagine not. But what the fuck? How did they find out that it would work?

Tuesday, November 25, 2014


Once upon a time, I was a little kid. I know, it's hard for you to imagine, but I swear it's true. And when I was a kid, my favorite show, hands down, was SPECTREMAN. In case you've never heard of the show, wrap this around your head, and you'll understand.

Over the years, I never forgot the show. In fact, the things I learned from age five to about twenty, I would never forget. It's as I get older, and there are more things to remember (and maybe a considerable amount of booze interfering), that my mind fails me a bit. I think it has something to do with the idea that as you grow older, time becomes more relative. When you're a kid, you don't have much experience, so time crawls. When you're older--say, 36--you have a lot more time in on the project of your life, so time goes quicker. Memory seems to be like that, at least for me.

My cousin and I loved the hell out of that show. He was a year behind me, and we were pretty much raised as brothers instead of cousins. We went to the same school, hung out a lot, got involved in the same activities, things like that. But we truly bonded over SPECTREMAN. My grandparents didn't have a VCR (or, God help us, a Betamax, which my step-father DID have), so we couldn't record the shows like that. We'd ask our grandmother to hold up a cassette recorder to the TV so we could run home and LISTEN to the show after school. That's how crazy we were for it.

I think I still have some of those tapes somewhere.

But we weren't always stuck with the cassettes. Often, we caught the show on TV, and we'd just go crazy over it.

My cousin came for a visit recently, and my aunt--his mother--reminded us of our SPECTREMAN infatuation. She told us that we used to sing along to the theme, which, of course, we certainly did. It holds a place in my brain even now. However, she also told us we used to dance to it, and there is where I have to draw the line.

My cousin and I never danced to it. WE WERE REPRODUCING THE FIGHT SCENES. Come on, who does she think we were? It's like calling GI Joes "dolls."

*sigh* All right. Maybe we danced. It certainly looked like that. I remember playing SPECTREMAN on the playground, and I was always upset when I couldn't be Spectreman. I was older by a year, so I figured that was my right.

But I will never forget the joy of doing the crisscross hand motions that would lead to an imaginary bolt of energy being blasted to my enemy (usually played by my cousin, but not always). There is a magic in being a kid, and while some of us who write like to imagine that we remember what that was like--we all want to emulate Ray Bradbury in some way--very few of us truly feel it.

The video of the theme song I linked to above? I watched it before I did so. And I'll be damned if I didn't feel like blasting my enemies with a mere gesture. (And maybe I did make the hand movements. MAYBE.)


I've noticed an unsettling trend, and I hope they're just two glitches in the Matrix, but I have, indeed, noticed that this happened twice in a row, and it bothers me. The last two times a magazine published my work, payment and all, they didn't do a single fucking thing to promote themselves. I won't mention who they are, even though you can all figure it out, because that's not why I'm climbing up onto my soapbox tonight.

I was the editor and publisher of TABARD INN for a few years, and you'd better fucking believe that the first thing I did after the new issue was out was to promote the fuckers. Whenever one of my books come out, I let everyone know about it. Whenever I'm in someone else's publication, I make sure to notify the world (or at least whoever listens to me).

But the last two magazines didn't. They have websites, and I've been checking them regularly. Neither of these publications updated their own sites. It's almost like they're trying to sabotage themselves.

In one case, I understand. It was their last issue. Why would they care about promoting it? Except . . . well, it CAN make them money. There were a couple of big names in it. In fact, this issue published the last known "new" story by CJ Henderson, who recently passed away. Why would you not want people knowing about it?

But in the case of the other? There is no excuse. The website should have been updated the very moment the new issue came out.

I have three copies of the former. I have one copy of the latter. Both are amazing issues. But . . . I'm the only one I know who has copies of them. It would be kind of nice if I had some links to throw up so the rest of you can have a chance at reading these things. I'm extremely proud of both, the first because it took so long to break the market, and the second because it's one of the most fucked up stories I've ever written.

What the fuck? I hope this isn't a continuing trend. One of the publishers put up copies of their magazine on eBay, but come on. Can we not at least get them up on Amazon? If you don't want to link to Amazon, fine, but maybe, JUST MAYBE, these issues could sell a lot better in that market?

I was paid for both stories. I have nothing to gain financially by getting these issues posted at least somewhere where they can get some attention. I just . . . fuck. I just want people to read the fucking things. I'd trade in both paychecks just to know that my stories were getting placed in front of SOMEONE's eyes.

For all I know, in both cases, the only people who have read them are the other writers in these magazines. That's part of a big problem in the industry these days--that the only people reading you are other writers and not regular readers--but I don't want to go into that tonight.

I just want those stories to be read. Is that too much to ask?

Monday, November 24, 2014


When I was younger, I didn't like the idea of social media. It seemed to stand testament against everything I believed in. It took a lot of my friends to drag me into MySpace, and I actually enjoyed it in its dying days before making the leap to Facebook and Twitter.

I have mixed feelings about Twitter. If you're interested in finding news, it's the fastest place you can do so, even quicker than news sites. However, there is an incredible amount of assholes on Twitter. (If you don't believe me, check this out as an example.) To be fair, Twitter is the easiest and quickest form of expressing your 1st Amendment rights, but it's also the easiest and quickest way you can express yourself for being an asshole.

I'm not here to discuss that. I just want to make a casual observation about Facebook.

There are few things I like about Facebook. I appreciate the fact that a lot of people are there, and that, in addition to being a great place to connect with family and friends, it's also a great marketing tool. However . . . there is a weird moment that I'm sure every user of Facebook experiences. It's hard for me to think about it, but it makes complete sense.

You see something a friend said, and you like their post. And then, out of the blue, someone who you're not technically friends with likes the same post, but you see that they're friends of someone you used to know who are friends with that one person.

Facebook is a chain of acquaintances and friends. You never know who someone else knows who might enjoy something you said even though they marginally know you in real life but know your friend who is on Facebook, etc.

It's so weird realizing that someone you know is friends with someone you vaguely know and they both comment on the same thread you put out, because Facebook is always seeking to cross-reference friends in their Body Snatcher-type cross-advertising.

When you think about it, Facebook is a virus that everyone volunteers to catch. Hell, I'm aware, and even I'm OK with catching that virus. Is this good for us? I don't know. As a guy who depends on social media to advertise my books? I'm OK with that. As a human being? I don't know.

As a writer with books to pimp, I wish more people would just OBEY, but at the same time, I want them to put on the THEY LIVE sunglasses without getting into an awful alley brawl with Keith David. I struggle with it all the time.

Being the person who OBEYs is fine, because you continue living your life without knowing the truth, and there's comfort in that. Being the person who puts on the sunglasses? That leads to suicide missions on alien spacecraft/transmitters.

I *might* be making waaaaaaaaaaay too much out of this because I'm nervous about my dental appointment tomorrow. Goodnight, fuckers.

Saturday, November 22, 2014


I just came back from Las Vegas, and the tone of the town never ceases to amaze me. A city always has a vibe, and for the most part, it's almost always the same. There are exceptions, but Vegas is by far the most different in the US.

It's not about prostitution. That's actually illegal in the city limits. In fact, these days there is a remarkable shortage of people passing around the hooker cards you would have seen ten years ago.

You can still smoke in buildings, which is unusual, since I come from one of the first states to adopt anti-smoking laws inside of buildings, even in bars. But that's not what it's about.

It's not even about gambling, which you can do almost anywhere now. The state of Illinois has opened up to the idea in a major way, and you're hard pressed to find a bar that doesn't offer gambling in some way. Which isn't to take away from the fact that Vegas has a slot machine for any intellectual property--even THE WIZARD OF OZ and THE WALKING DEAD (and I'm sure there is a slot machine dedicated to THE FOUNTAINHEAD somewhere)--but it's just not that special anymore.

No, take a walk down the Strip, and you'll feel a different energy from any other city in America. Everyone's drunk and happy just to hang out in a city where you can get anything at any time. Hell, there's an M&M store, and it's not just a little corner shop. No, it's a giant store with several levels, and they pump the smell of chocolate out into the street to entice people to come on in. At any given hour, you can find some drunken woman hanging off of the statue of the yellow M&M guy from the commercials that they have outside. Nearly all of those women are not concerned with their mini-skirts riding up to give a pervert the chance to see what kind of panties they wore tonight, just so long as their friends get pictures they can post to Facebook later.

In any other town, everyone would be on guard, but in Vegas, almost everyone has a license plate issued from out of the state of Nevada (unless it's a rental car). This truly is a party town. Granted, there are still homeless people asking for money, but it's not enough to drag the vibe down. The out-of-towners won't allow it. They might even encourage it.


Last night, I had a few drinks. I wasn't hammered, since it was only Captain & Cokes, and rum doesn't have nearly as much alcohol as my usual whiskey. However, when I got home from the bar, I felt an incredible pain where I just got a gum graft. I decided to take one of my pain pills, because I have a high tolerance of booze and pain medication (morphine, for example, does nothing for me; it takes Dilaudid to get through to me when I'm in pain). It didn't help, so I took another. I still felt shitty, so I did something I probably shouldn't have done: I took a third.

Booze and pain pills don't mix. Just ask Heath Ledger.

Anyway, I'm fine. But at the time? Yikes.

I dreamed that I was trying to go to sleep, except I didn't realize it was a dream at the time. In fact, looking back, I knew my eyes were closed, but I could still see through my eyelids. That probably should have been my first indication that I was dreaming.

But then I felt something pushing on my soul. It's hard to describe. I've never had old hag terrors, but I imagine that's what it feels like. I couldn't control my body as some force shoved itself into me, paralyzing me until there was more of it in my body than me. I tried to turn over, to turn away from whatever was doing this to me, but it wouldn't let me get away from it. It seemed like we battled in my body for hours, and finally, I managed to beat it back.

But I could still feel it. Every inch of my body undulated with its force, as if it were trying to get me to do its bidding. I managed to stumble to the bathroom, where I looked into the mirror and saw my face . . . swirling. I don't know how else to put it. Dents formed and squirmed in my face as if my own muscles were fighting against me. It's kind of like what the Vomit Comet does to astronauts in training, except all movements were measured and calculated.

I ran around to my family and tried to beg them for help, to tell them that something was inside me, trying to force me to do things. Everyone was too sleepy, though. They didn't want to hear it. No one believed me. No one would even look at me. I screamed for them to at least look at my savagely twisting face, but they just wouldn't do it.

Finally they looked, and whatever was in me chose that moment to stop. My family looked at me like I was crazy, or they were annoyed because they wanted to sleep so badly.

As soon as they looked away, it started again. After that, I don't remember much, but I woke up shortly after to the horrid sound of loud, near-diarrhetic farts. The smell formed a wall around me. Only then did I realize that I'd been dreaming. Some of the relatives I ran to for help aren't alive in real life. Details about the houses I ran through didn't match up with reality. I should have known that I was dreaming, but for some reason, it didn't register to my stupid mind.

But holy shit, these farts were nearly killing me. I was maybe three gassers away from becoming an urban legend. They were so close to messy shits, I knew that if I didn't get up, I ran the risk of shitting myself. Most of my body wanted to stay there and go back to sleep. It still felt dulled by the meds, and I wanted to relax and let the pills do their work. However, at the same time, I didn't want to shit myself for the second time in the same year as an adult. I didn't even want that ONE instance, but that was beyond my control, since I was dying at the time. Now? No. I couldn't allow it.

I dragged myself out of bed to the bathroom, where I sat on the toilet for a half-hour, dropping gassers so deadly they burned. No diarrhea, even though I'd expected it. But then again, painkillers tend to block me up, so I shouldn't have expected that, anyway.

Finally, I got up, wiped my customary three times--nothing, of course--and looked at the clock. Much to my surprise, I had only been asleep for ONE FUCKING HOUR. It had felt like an eternity.

I went back to bed and tried to go to sleep. I still had a bit of painkiller funk in me, so I had a slight smile on my face, but I just couldn't find slumber again. I twisted and turned, but nothing happened. Part of me was tempted to take another painkiller, just to get to sleep, but I'd been through enough. Besides, that way leads madness. So far, I've been able to avoid an opiate addiction. Hell, I bested the king of Elmhurst Hospital, Dilaudid. I'm not going to give in to these measly pain pills. In the end, I had to get up for work and go through the motions, exhausted out of my mind. The painkillers had worn off by then, but I felt so miserable, I almost didn't go to Days of the Dead tonight.

The brisk walk through the cold night from the parking garage to the hotel woke me up considerably, of course, but when I got home, I couldn't stay up for very long. I'm surprised I managed to write a GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS tonight, especially one this long.

Seriously. I'm on my last leg. I think I'll last long enough to post this thing, and that's it. Don't wake me for anything tomorrow. Hugs and kisses, all. --JB

Friday, November 21, 2014


TRIPLE ZOMBIE is finally upon us. Next Friday, it will be unleashed on you all. I'm in this one with Jason Beech and James A. Newman, and it's going to knock you back on your heels. My tale is called "Captain Meth-Mouth on the High Seas of Chicago," and it's even more entertaining than the title suggests. In fact, it's one of the best things I've ever written.

To give you an idea of what's in store for you, check out this Beach Hut conversation we had about it.

I'll let you know as soon as it comes out. Keep an eye on Spanking Pulp Press for more information.

Prepare yourself for some great zombie pulp . . . stay tuned.

UPDATE: The following is the product information for TRIPLE ZOMBIE. I'm sure you'll all love this and want to buy it immediately.


The first in a series of PULP COLLECTIONS. This triple ZOMBIE offering is a dish not to be missed. 

First up:


Lizzy and Frank are seemingly the only two people left in the world after a zombie apocalypse. Lizzy has visions of being the world's new Eve. The only problem is Frank being its new Adam. He's big, dumb, doesn't look after his teeth, and his bloodshot left eye makes her suspect he's heading for life as one of the undead. She wants to get away from New Jersey to the less populated New Mexico, but Frank has unfinished business. He wants to find Danny, the man who betrayed his gang of armed robbers, even though he knows he's one of the brain-dead horde. 

In the meantime Lizzy deals with her own demons, checking her old home and the sister she locked away years ago. When she suspects there might be another human out there, a woman to rival her status as Eve, Lizzy's actions lead to an explosive ending.

AUTHOR: JASON BEECH lives with his wife and daughter in New Jersey. As a kid he once stole a mushroom from a corner shop. The owner’s dog followed him all the way home, making him walk about a mile’s diversion from where he lived to shake the damn thing off. Otherwise, he’s a law-abiding citizen who loves crime fiction. He has authored the novel Over the Shoulder and short story collection Bullets, Teeth & Fists. His work can be found at Shotgun Honey, The Flash Fiction Offensive, Plots with Guns, and Pulp Metal Magazine. He structurally edited Monica Kaushik’s Maya & the Butterfly, and her soon-published Warriors of the Darkness.

And then: 


In a zombie-ravaged world, only the fittest and most cunning survive. Dwight Fitzgerald used to spend his time smoking weed, going to school, and working on the Treasure Island Adventure Show in Miami as the captain of a pirate ship. Now he fights for survival, and he's playing the role for real. As he approaches Chicago, hoping that the rumors of a zombie-free city are true, he has no idea that he's about to clash with the ruler of the Windy City, Captain Meth-Mouth. This lunatic and former junkie has always wanted to be a pirate, and when he sees Dwight's ship, he seizes the opportunity to live out a savage childhood fantasy . . .

AUTHOR: JOHN BRUNI has never wanted to live in the zombie apocalypse or be a pirate, but he's always wanted to be a writer. His dream has come true. He is the author of STRIP and TALES OF QUESTIONABLE TASTE, and his work has appeared in many publications, most notably in SHROUD, CTHULHU SEX, A HACKED-UP HOLIDAY MASSACRE, and ZOMBIE! ZOMBIE! BRAIN BANG

And finally:


Johnny Coca Cola, once infamous for filming THE ZOMBIE DINNER PARTY is on the skids in a Malaysian port where he finds Beth who is looking to leave town fast. Together they climb aboard a cargo ship heading for Hamburg with a stopover at Sri Lanka to pick up a container load of dead monkeys. Conner is the middle man, CIA, who is instructed to lose the cargo overseas somewhere in the Indian ocean. All he knows is that the specimens are part of a US funded scientific project to reanimate dead flesh. What could possibly go wrong?

AUTHOR: JAMES A. NEWMAN has published over fifty pulp short stories in various publications all over the world; most recently for STRANGE STORY SATURDAY, BIG PULP and TWISTED TALES Magazines. He writes mainly horror, crime and sci-fi shorts and has recently turned his hand to screenplays after picking up an option for crime novel THE WHITE FLAMINGO.


Because of this oral surgery, here is a list of things I can't do, and it's driving me fucking nuts.

--I can't take a bite out of anything. This means that I have to cut up all of my food and ease each piece carefully into my mouth. This is what I did with pretzel sticks at the bar tonight, which made me feel pretty stupid.

--I can't eat chips because they are sharp and might tear my stitches.

--I can't eat fast food, because most of that shit is something I have to take a bite out of, and I don't feel like cutting up a Quesarito in my car, which I just detailed a couple of weeks ago.

--I can't drink out of a straw. I didn't think I'd care too much about that until I realized how often I drink out of a straw. From McDonald's Cokes to my water bottle at work. Fuck.

--I can't brush my lower front teeth, and I can't use mouthwash.

--I can't eat anything hot and/or spicy.

I can't do any of these things for a month, which fucking blows. I guess this would be the perfect time to break out that juicer and take it for a spin. I'll be doing that starting next week, since I'm going to see how long I can stomach the vile process of cutting cheeseburgers and pizza up.


Wednesday, November 19, 2014


I had to recently replace my printer. I don't use it often, since most publications accept manuscripts via email, but I still do use it for those rare few that don't, and for personal correspondence when someone doesn't have email. I found myself in the latter position tonight, and despite the fact that I just installed a new black ink cartridge, it wouldn't fucking print. Why? Because this printer, the Officejet 6600 by HP, won't print in black and white if the color cartridges aren't reasonably full.

I don't print in color. I never print in color. I have no reason to print in color. But apparently, I can't print in BLACK AND FUCKING WHITE if I don't have full COLOR INK CARTRIDGES. This makes ABSOLUTELY NO FUCKING COCKSUCKING MOTHERFONDLING SENSE.

If I had known about this stupid fucking thing, I would have never bought the HP Officejet 6600. But never mind that. I want you to get your mind around the fact that I WANT TO PRINT IN BLACK AND WHITE. I HAVE A FULL BLACK INK CARTRIDGE. I CAN'T PRINT IN BLACK AND WHITE BECAUSE THE MOTHRASUCKING COLOR CARTRIDGES AREN'T FULL ENOUGH. I can understand if I was trying to print my letter in blue. Or green. Or red. Or any combination of the primary colors. BUT I ONLY WANT TO PRINT IN BLACK AND WHITE, WHICH I HAVE A FULL ROCKFUCKING CARTRIDGE FOR.

My old printer never had color ink in it. Because I didn't fucking need it. Instead, I always had a full black ink cartridge. And it never failed me if I didn't have color ink in my printer. (My old printer was an HP printer, so apparently, HP decided to deliberately fuck up their own services.)

I called HP and tried to find out why this baffling fucking thing can possibly be true. I don't want to burn the guy I talked to. I know that he's just a representative of something that doesn't work like it should. I get enough of that at work, myself. He was cool. But HP? Because they made something completely nonsensical a reality, I have nothing but bile for them. This guy had no explanation for me. Just like I have no explanation for the customers at my job who ask me why something doesn't fucking work.

Is it too much trouble to ask our corporations to get things to work like they should?

Sorry, I'm stupid for asking that. I forgot that corporations don't serve us. They serve their own bottom line, and that has nothing to do with me. Or us. Or anything, really. It's days like this that I want to retreat into the wilderness and wait for the rest of this planet to burn to the ground.

I really can't go to bed like this. I have painkillers from my oral surgery yesterday, but they won't help. I have alcohol, but it will only amplify my mood and make matters worse. I need something to soothe the hatred I feel right now.

Porn is the only answer. Maybe it's not time for sleep, after all. OK, I'll watch some porn. And then I'll go to sleep. Just pretend that I'm telling you goodnight, fuckers. Until next time . . .