GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #630: HORRIBLE THOUGHTS FROM MY HEAD #1,000,072: IT SURVIVES

 

Imagine, if you will, a world so far into the future that our civilization doesn't exist anymore. No one even remembers it was here. Their archaeologists are digging to find out if there was life on earth before them, or whatever their futuristic name for this planet will be. They only find one artifact, and it's a hardcover copy of IT by Stephen King.

They don't realize it's fiction. They think it's our Bible, that we believed in this crazy creature from outer space that can make itself look like anything a person is afraid of, and that it was our devil figure to some weird turtle god. That our prophet was an ancient king by the name of Stephen, and he was versed in archaic ceremonies like something called the Ritual of Chud, which just doesn't sound possible unless we had extra mouths and tongues. Did we?

And then I wonder what they would think of That Scene. You know what I'm talking about.

Goddammit, my head is horrible sometimes.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #611: HORRIBLE THOUGHTS FROM MY HEAD #611

 I had this thought. And I can't blame cannabis because I wasn't high at the time. And this sounds like a high idea. Really.

I was holding a Choose Your Own Adventure and making a practice run when I thought, what if I did a Choose Your Own Adventure, but . . .

All right. You know how almost all of them start with page one, and then they say to continue to page two, sometimes even three before they give you a choice? What if I did one where you're instructed to keep going to four, then five, then six, and before you realize it, you're not in a Choose Your Own Adventure, you're just reading a book?

It made me laugh, but that's a really horrible idea.

Although thinking about CYOA books recently reminded me of The (Pick Your Own) Adventures of Roily Gemstone: An Autobiography. It is sadly out of print, and the author wishes to remain nameless. A CYOA book that never ends? That's good shit right there. Oh, and that link on the Gemstone review sadly no longer works. I remember enjoying those ridiculous songs.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #470: HORRIBLE THOUGHTS FROM MY HEAD #1,290: AUTHORS GONE WILD

 Before we begin tonight, yes, I'm high. I'm near the edge of not being able to write this.

So a while back I remember someone came up with a joke (maybe?) of doing a calendar of hot male bizarro authors. I'm disappointed that I was not invited. It's OK. I get it. I have a mirror. I look plain with my clothes on. Take 'em off? It's a horror show.

But this being the week of Mardi Gras, I couldn't help but think of Girls Gone Wild and how it might apply to authors. What if we really, really wanted those Mardi Gras bead necklaces? Would we flash our breasts to earn them?

Probably not. Who the fuck wants beads, anyway? Unless you can cash them in for prizes like getting arcade tickets for playing skeeball. Fuck, I loved that when I was a kid.

But it's a great marketing idea. Imagine me at Mardi Gras, getting into the groove, and when I'm offered beads (or some other excellent incentive, like I don't know, Amazon gift cards) I decide to reciprocate. Now imagine me lifting my shirt to expose my tits. Except instead of my tits you see twin copies of TALES OF UNSPEAKABLE TASTE? That's right, now you're excessively horny AND you want to buy my most recent book. It's a win-win.

Or I've just lost the plot. I can't tell for sure. Probably the latter.

Fuck. I've not been sleeping well. Goodnight, fuckers.

By the way, earlier tonight while I was planning this column I thought it would be a wonderfully horrible idea to post a shirtless picture of me with a couple of my books covering my breasts. I thought better of it. You're welcome.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #468: HORRIBLE THOUGHTS FROM MY HEAD #1: WELCOME TO CUM WORLD

 OK, I'm pretty sure this is the most horrible thought I've ever had. Number one with a bullet. Some background first.

Remember when I was busting my ass, saving every cent I could to get the third and final issue of Tabard Inn published? I often had the Sobriety Clock going because I had to do without precious alcohol in the name of fiction. I remember when I was down to my very last dollar, and I asked you all for help with something. I needed to cast a spell on the world, and I'd heard Grant Morrison had done something similar. I was desperate. I had to try it.

So I named a date. I named a time. I named a task: we must all masturbate on a dollar bill and cum at the very same time. That would clearly convince the universe to send money my way. I would find out for sure when, after I'd spent my seed on that dollar bill, I used it to to buy a scratcher from 7-Eleven. And I think some of you might have actually done as I asked because I won enough money on that scratcher to get a couple of airplane bottles of booze.

Regardless, I was thinking about this last night, and it infected me. It's probably extraordinarily illegal (writing on money is surprisingly illegal; could you imagine what the government would think of cumming on money?), but what if we just started to cum on money? Not small bills like ones or fives, but on bigger bills. Hundreds. Bills likely to get into the hands of the more affluent. What more horrifying way to disgust the world than to cum on every single hundred dollar bill that comes into your possession and then unleash it into the world?

Yes, I know that's a horrible thought. That's why it says so in the title of this GF column. I'm not actually going to do it. But what if hundreds of us did? Or thousands? Or, dare I say it, millions? What if every hundred dollar bill in the world came with a cum load on it? In some cases, it could actually be deadly. I don't know what the life of the AIDS virus is after it leaves the body, but it can't be measured by seconds, can it?

I originally called this Welcome to Cum City, but I changed it to Cum World because, well, how often do hundred dollar bills travel on their own? Surely the load can transfer to adjacent bills. One cum sodden bill can suddenly become three. Or seven. Or nine. It could go up exponentially like when people use a plague simulator to see how fast, say, the zombie apocalypse could spread.

Everyone wants money. Even though it's technically only worth something because we say it is, people would much prefer cash in hand. It feels secure. So cum bucks could spread across the country--nay, the world--pretty quickly.

Every time someone asks why I think I'm a horrible person, I think of things like this. Don't worry. If I owe you money, I'm much more likely to Paypal you.

Probably.

I warned you this one would be gross.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #467: HORRIBLE THOUGHTS FROM MY HEAD #3,469: MAKE MONEY SELLING COMICS!

 I'm going to tell you something you probably don't know, but you should. Those comic books you left at your parents' house when you moved out? It's highly unlikely that they're worth anything. So when you see a story on the news about how a guy sold his collection for a million bucks, please be aware that you probably won't be that lucky.

Because that guy had key issues. Do you know how hard it is to have a comic book from the last thirty years be worth something? You can get a nice payout for the first appearance of Harley Quinn, for example. Or a first edition issue one of The Walking Dead (which I do have, signed by both author and artist). That's the kind of thing worth something. Everything else? Good luck getting ten bucks for the lot, even if there are a thousand books in your collection.

So why are the Golden Age comics worth so much? They certainly sold a lot of copies, right? Well, the reason for that is because when those old people moved out of their parents' house, their parents threw away their comic books, thus limiting extant copies by a lot. Your comic books? Everyone in your age range kept their issues because they figured that someday they would be worth something. Whoops. One of the oldest rules in collecting things is that the more limited a supply of something is, the more money it's worth.

So here's where my horrible thought comes from. You actually *can* get a lot of money for your collection, but you have to do something. Let's use, say, The Boys #1 as an example. I'm not sure how much it's really worth now, but a cursory look at Google shows that it's around seventy to eighty bucks. Not bad. In fact, it's pretty good for a fairly recent comic book.

But you don't want to sell your copy for that much money. You want to sell it for six figures. You can lie your way to that cash, but the chances of succeeding are extraordinarily low.

Which is why you have to hunt down as many copies of that book as you can and destroy them. Rip 'em up, shoot 'em up, set 'em on fire, put 'em through shredders. Whatever you must do, make sure that they are utterly and irrevocably damaged. I have no idea what the original print run for this issue was, and Google is very unhelpful on this point, but you have to find as many as possible. Because if there's only, say, a hundred left, they will be very valuable. Imagine how much more valuable it would be if there's only 50. Or twenty. Or ten.

Or one. Your copy. But make sure you're very careful with it because you're not the only one who thought of this plan. And I, too, have this issue in my collection.

Watch your back.