GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1115: DICKHEAD DYSTOPIA

 Do you regularly park in lots where you have to pay for your spot? If so, you probably already know this. As someone who lives at the exact poverty line--not a cent more, not a cent less--I avoid these places EXCEPT for once a year. Printers Row requires me to use a pay lot. Over the decade and a half we've been doing that festival, I have watched in horror as the price increased year after year. It's a nightmare for me, but it's got to be an absolute horror show for people who do this every day.

This year I was late getting back to my car on Sunday. We were positioned across from the Dearborn Station clocktower, so instead of checking the time on my phone, I just looked up at the tower.

I got a text near the end of the day saying my parking time was up, except the clocktower said otherwise. I compared its time to my phone, and oh shit, the clocktower is running behind.

I grabbed my shit and walked as quickly to the lot as my bad foot would allow. When I got there, I saw no ticket under my wiper. I'd made it before anyone noticed.

Those of you who recall that we do, indeed, live in a dickhead dystopia, already know what's going to happen next.

Fast forward two weeks. I have an envelope in my mailbox from a place called PRRS. Yes, it's a $100 parking ticket for leaving that lot eleven minutes late.

I'm going to restate that: 11 minutes = $100.

I girded my loins, ready to do battle with yet another corporation.

To be clear, the "ticket" is not from the City of Chicago. It's from the company that owns the lot. It's not a legal requirement to pay this thing. So I knew right off the bat I would not be giving them that money. Even if I had it? I wouldn't pay on principle. What are the consequences of such an action? If I ever entered that lot again--or any lot owned by PRRS--my car would be booted and/or towed. I'd hate to spend the rest of my life researching any pay lot I might have to use. I could deal with not parking in this specific one ever again, but it would be a hassle. I'd have to drop my books off with the others days before the show and then get a Lyft to Printers Row on the day of. It would suck, but it's doable.

I figured common sense would rule the day. I would explain it like this: either make this go away and continue to earn money off me for years to come, or remain adamant and get NOTHING. You lose! Good day, sir!

Again, I recognize my error. In the Year of our Lord 2026, there is no such thing as common sense.

When I talked to them, I got the distinct impression that no matter the reason, if they sent a ticket to you, you must pay it. They are never wrong. If you received it, clearly you're guilty. Any attempt to talk your way out of it is wasted breath. Even if you were Jesus Christ himself, still dragging the cross back to the hitching post where he left his ass, you are expected to pay it.

I lucked out. While explaining the wrongness of the situation, I mentioned that I'm handicapped and have the placard to prove it. Good thing, too, because they did make me prove it. The representative actually pulled footage from the lot while I was talking with her and confirmed there's a placard hanging from my rearview mirror. (And yes, that creeped me the fuck out.) To be sure it's legit, she had me take a picture of the placard and attach it to a form contesting the ticket. It took a few days for them to confirm my status, at which point they said instead of $100, all I owed was $25.

I am exceptionally stubborn, which may explain why I'm single. I wanted to keep pushing. I am also very old. The day I was born, Chuck Grassley won his seat in Congress from a t-rex. I think I'm softening with age, because I accepted the decision and paid the $25. I considered myself lucky, but all the same, it stuck in my craw.

(See? Do young people even know what a craw is? And why things stick in it so much?)

If we're going to get fucked with a dystopian future, why can't we at least get the nuclear holocaust one? It's a lot more reasonable than the corporate option we're trapped in. At least with the nukes we'd be dead. With this merciless bullshit? It's a world of unending torture, forever and ever.

Amen.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1114: DARTS

 I'm sure the ban is lifted by now, but back in my drinking days I spent a lot of time in bars, so naturally I played my fair share of darts even though I sucked. I rarely wanted to play these games, but when you're getting wasted in public with others, they typically want to do more than drink and bullshit. So I got roped into darts all too often.

I was so bad I regularly broke the fucking darts simply by throwing them at the target. My friends finally had enough and banned me from any future games.

When I left my childhood home I kept the family dartboard, and I came across it recently. I thought, what the hell, why not put it up? I hung it in my kitchen, just about the only place where, if I missed the board, the darts wouldn't really hurt anything else. Then, just to see if my curse continued, I tossed the darts, expecting most to end up in the wall or bouncing off the metal lines.

This is what I got instead:

Holy shit. That's not bad. There's no way in hell I could ever do that well again, so I took the picture, just to have it to laugh about later, and got ready to try again.

Once more, all wound up on the target:

So yeah, I'm still not great, but maybe I'm not as bad as I thought I was. Also, I don't drink anymore, so maybe that's making the difference.

I doubt I will ever enter a competition, but now I have something to do while cooking. Maybe I'll get better. Who can say?

Idle hands . . .

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1113: PLAYBOY 5

 OK, time for the next installment of stuff I've discovered while rereading a bunch of old issues of Playboy. I'm actually a little surprised by the amount of stuff I've got saved so far. I think this might have 20 parts (or more!) by the time we're done. So . . . let's get back into it!

Ladies and gentlemen! Kids of all ages! Step right up and get your tickets! Tommy Jeff and Alexander "The Duel" Hamilton are duking it out for the soul of America! Who will win, the people or the banks?

I didn't know this, but it's true! Hamilton's corpse really *is* on Wall Street! Tacky as that might seem.

Oh yeah, I probably should have mentioned that Gore Vidal wrote this article. It's no surprise whose side he comes down on in this fight. Because fuck Alexander Hamilton. He had it coming.

Hamilton, scumbag that he was, clearly won the fight. And so we are doomed to live our lives at the whim of our corporate overlords. Let's get away from that grim reality to . . .

In regards to 18, that's a question that should make Playboy look bad and kind of gross. But in regards to 19, holy shit, if only Kid Rock remembered his own advice now. I don't want to dwell on that, so let's look at . . .

I'm trying to imagine Harrison Ford pissing into a hotel ice machine now. That is your brief respite from horror, because the next few are going to be pretty bad. Unsurprisingly they're from an interview with Chad Kroeger.

"Salesman" sounds like a euphemism for "con artist."

Maybe people don't have a problem with Nickleback. Maybe they just have a problem with Chad Kroeger.

If you're now imagining Chad Kroeger straining to suck his own dick AND SUCCEEDING, you are welcome.

In case you were wondering if Chad Kroeger's dick is big. Also, imagine you're chugging beers with him, and he suddenly shoves his fingers down your throat to make you puke.

He's 51, by the way. I've read a lot of Playboy interviews, and none of them have the subject's significant other making a guest appearance. I suspect that he was putting on a show for the interviewer, just like a con artist would. Let's move on (finally).

I'll bet this is the first time you've thought about Pete Yorn in a while, but also, this might be the weirdest "My Favorite Playmate" ever.

The curse of the Irish . . . Hart's War, by the way, is a good movie, but it's nowhere near as good as the book it's based on. You should read it.

Reminds me of Jaws 19 and Rocky 5000.

Palahniuk says he never planned on creating actual fight clubs, but something about this quote makes me think he was planning on creating actual fight clubs.

I think that's enough for now. Next time I do one of these, I'm going to cover excerpts from an E. Jean Carroll article with one written by Scott Adams. No matter what you think that is, it's going to be a lot freakier than you think. And not in a good way . . .

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1112: THE ROUGH BEAST SLOUCHING TOWARDS WALL STREET

 The world moves in 85 year cycles. The theory is, by the end of the cycle, there is no one alive who remembers how it began, so no one remembers why things were the way they were when the last crisis went down, and the cycle always ends with a crisis. Last time it was the Depression and World War II. Before that, it was the Civil War. And so on.

I'm sure it will escape no one's attention that we are at the end of the current cycle, ie. we are living in a crisis.

I think it will end with a depression so great it will make the 'Thirties look like a Lollipop Guild Party (in Technicolor!). There is only so much money we can sink into AI--the biggest investment in history with ZERO returns--before the economy collapses. The economy that is propped up only by corporations passing the same billion dollars around and techbros pushing AI. A bubble that big? Forget 2008. This will be so bad we'll have to change society to survive it.

I mention this because, well, check it out. The stock market crashed on October 29, 1929. Then again between October 6-10, 2008. And again on October 19, 1987. When the market goes belly up, it tends to do so in October. So buckle up. Just in case it's going to be this year.

There is good news: after the crisis comes the rebirth, and the rebirth is always a period where nearly everyone thrives financially. So all you have to do is make it through the impending shitshow.

That rough beast Yeats was talking about? It's here, but instead of stalking Bethlehem, it's hanging out on Wall Street. October is almost over, but who's gonna tell the beast that he doesn't have to go home, but he can't stay here?

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1111: RUMORS OF HER DEATH . . .

. . . have been greatly exaggerated . . . ?

 In 1940 Mussolini sent the Corpo Aereo Italiano, or the Italian Air Force, to Belgium to support German bombing runs on the UK. It turned out to be a disaster, and they went home after a year. But Il Popolo D'Italia made a wild claim about these airmen in the middle of World War II.

They weren't even all that original. Goebbels made a similar comment in 1940, and the Italians had to be aware of it, right? Because Goebbels was of the opinion that any nation who believed in monsters was stupid and couldn't possibly win a war like this one. Which is funny, coming from a Nazi. You know, the guys who went looking for Excalibur and werewolves and invisibility serums, etc. Regardless, it was Goebbels who claimed that the Loch Ness Monster was killed when she hit a mine and exploded.

He thought such an announcement would demoralize the Scots, so I'm guessing that's why, a half a year later, the Italians claimed TO HAVE KILLED NESSIE THEMSELVES. A member of the CAI had bombed the Loch Ness Monster, or at least a giant serpent-like creature living in Loch Ness. Which, well, you know.

A lot of weird stories came out of WWII. Douglas MacArthur's mere existence is pretty fucking weird, if you ask me, but there's other stuff, like the cannibals of Guadalcanal, for example. So why not have an Italian pilot blow up Nessie?

The Brits, never a group of people to let a good joke pass them by, publicized a story about a father and son who later saw Nessie alive and well afterwards. Here's an excerpt from the article published from back then:

Possibly scarred and even shell-shocked, he seems to have returned perhaps from repairs at some deep-sea wetdock, and outwardly as good as ever. "Stout fella!" say the English, pleased as well as amused. He may be a monster, but he has some sturdy, bulldog characteristics which the British admire.

I have to wonder, is Nessie a decorated WWII vet? Do they make medals that big? Why isn't there a movie about that?

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1110: KORO SYNDROME

 I can't say it enough. The world is a fuckin' strange place. I don't know how the rest of you handle existence with such restraint and, sometimes, boredom. I am never bored, and I constantly feel like I'm on a roller coaster with no seatbelts, all because of the sheer lunacy of mere life.

A Koro, by the way, is a tortoise. The syndrome I'm about to explain is named after it because of a tortoise's head retreating into its shell. This will make sense in a moment.

Several African countries have been in a state of panic recently because, well, I . . . there's no other way to say it, so I'm just going to say it. Penis thieves are running rampant, and everyone is scared shitless that they're going to be next.

I swear I am not making this up. It sounds like something I'd create to mess with you guys, but I promise this is not my invention. I can't tell you how many news stories there are about Koro because, just to remind you, I'm not joking about this. This is a very real thing, and a lot of people in Africa are worried that it will happen to them.

The idea is, you could just be going about your day when someone touches you. It could be a handshake. It could be someone touching your shoulder. Or maybe someone accidentally bumps into you. And then BLAMMO. Your cock is gone. Or it's shriveled so much that you can barely see it.

As a man, I can confirm that's a scary thought. Genital injury sticks out for us. Like, for example, if someone in a movie gets their penis hurt in some way, we will always remember that scene, even if we've forgotten the rest of the movie. Ben Stiller's zipper from There's Something About Mary is forever burned into my brain. I can't think of Cemetery Man without thinking about THAT SCENE. Even something small, like Bill Pullman getting his nutsack nailed to a chair in Serpent and the Rainbow, is very, very memorable for us.

TL;DR: yes, a vanishing or shriveling dick is very scary for those of us who have them. All the same, when I'm going about my day and someone touches me, whether it's a handshake, a touch on the shoulder or an accidental bump, my first impulse is never to turn on that person and demand that they give me my cock back.

But apparently in Africa this is somewhat of a common response. And it's not just a recent development. Almost 20 years ago, the Congo had a similar issue. And it apparently goes back further than that, across not just centuries but millennia. And as funny as this has seemed so far, penis theft has very real consequences. Such thieves have been arrested, sure, but a few of them HAVE BEEN LYNCHED. Very real violence has stemmed from this ridiculous notion.

There are one of two things happening here. Either these penises have actually been purloined (get it?), or the victims are lying. The case for the former is very hard--difficult--to prove, as these members are always restored to their owners afterward. The case of the latter is rife with possibilities.

I find it difficult to believe that not one single solitary person, when confronted with accusations of penis theft, said, "Oh yeah? Prove it. Let's see your lack-of-dick right now."

This situation brings to mind the witch trials of old, or more recently, the McCarthyism bullshit from back in the day. The only reason I can think of for this shit running rampant is the same reason anyone accused someone of being a witch or a Communist: I dislike you and want you gone forever from society, so I'm going to make up this thing about you and let violence take its course.

Long story short, if I ever meet Elon Musk, I'm going to let him shake my hand (which I will not stinkpalm, like I did Ollie North), and then I'm going to scream that he's stolen my penis. As a South African, I'm sure he'll understand and will be struck with the requisite amount of horror at the knowledge of what is about to befall him. Penis snatching is a serious offense,

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1109: VOICE OF A BOT, PART 2

 For almost twenty years I have worked jobs that required me to talk to a lot of people every day. Now it's about 100, but two decades ago it was around 1000. If you talk to that many people, you tend to notice the speech crutches everyone uses.

And they start to annoy the fuck out of you.

And then you start to notice it whenever you do it, yourself.

And, if you're anything like me, you do something about it. I managed to get 99% of the ums and ahs and uhs out of my speech. If you're in sales, I highly recommend you do so, as well. Confidence is what sells stuff, and confident people don't typically use crutches like these.

I also have a very good phone voice, as I've said before. That also helps sell stuff, but in this day and age, when nearly every company on the goddam planet uses AI to answer inbound calls, these two things combined have led to me getting a particular question at least once every other day or two.

"Uh . . . are you a human or AI?" Or something similar.

Pro tip: if you can hear breathing on the other line? It's a human. They haven't thought to program chatbots to make a breathing sound yet.

Do you know what I found myself doing recently? PUTTING THE UHS AND AHS BACK INTO MY SPEECH. That's what I've come to. I fucking hate living in the future.

Because the crutches are already out of control, which is why it's painful to watch that recent video I did for my book promotion. If you want to win a Hawthorne Village Nightmare on Elm Street house, check this out. And then count how many fucking uhs I make.

I'd actually prefer if you didn't listen to it, but there's a prize at stake. You should absolutely listen to that video. So far, comparing entries I've received and the number of views that video has, there is a very good chance that if you enter, you might actually get the Freddy house. If you want your shot, act fast. The contest ends on Halloween. Good luck!