GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #218: FLU SHOTS

I got my first flu shot today. It's making me nervous as all hell. I used to joke about worrying what the government was putting in these things, but in reality I had a very different fear. They say that once you get your first flu shot you have to get them for the rest of your life. Kind of like shaving your body hair. Once you do it, it will grow back twice as tough, and you'll have to keep on doing it forever if you want to be rid of it.


You may remember that earlier this year I was stricken with a ghastly mystery illness that started with a horrible, filthy child in an urgent care waiting room. That little fucker coughed and sneezed all over everything. I saw him sneeze in his mother's face. No admonishment to cover his mouth. I suspect that he'll grow up to become the next Donald Trump.


I only get sick once a year, and that piece of shit caught me at that exact time of year. But it kept getting worse to the point where my doctor thought I had pneumonia. It wasn't that, but whatever it was triggered the mystery illness that had me laid up for two months. I'm certain that the mystery illness wouldn't have happened without that asshole kid's virus, whatever it was.


While trying to figure it out, my doctor asked me if I'd gotten the flu shot that year. I told him I never get them. He said that because I'm diabetic I should get them every year. He was certain that this horrible period of my life was caused by me not getting my flu shot.


So yeah. Not wanting to go through that bullshit again, I got the flu shot at work today. I guess I'll be doing that for the rest of my life. Fuck.


It was an all right experience. I hate needles. I never liked them, but I've been around a lot of them these past few years for various ailments. I got used to them, but at the same time I hate them even more. The nurse was pretty good with this one, though. I barely felt it. Better yet, she seemed interested in my reading material. JF Gonzalez's SURVIVOR. On my morning commute someone on the train noticed the book and recoiled in horror at it. It was good to see this nurse balancing out the universe.


But the thing that really freaked me out was when I admitted this was my first flu shot. Everyone was very concerned, afraid that I would have an allergic reaction. I'm allergic to nothing (except, possibly, religion), but all the same it gave me The Fear. They made me wait a while before sending me back to work. My head filled with visions of my arm puffing out like an overstuffed sausage. It didn't help that the nurse asked me if I was right handed or left handed. When I said I was a righty, she said she would inject my left arm.


But it all went good. I swear to fuck, if I get sick this winter I'll be pissed. Fuck what my doctor says, I'm not getting the shot next year. But if all goes well? I guess I can shoulder that burden.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #146: IT'S CONFESSION TIME

I don't write this with a lick of pleasure in me. I'm actually pretty ashamed of myself, but I promised that I would write this as part of my self-prescribed penance. Here we go . . .


I have not written a word of fiction in months.


Goddammit, it hurts to admit that. Ordinarily speaking, I try to get 2,000 words a day. Sometimes I get more, sometimes less, but I always get at least 1,000. At fucking least.


Not for the last few months.


Don't get me wrong. I've done a lot of writerly things in this time. In fact, I've done just about everything a writer can do in this industry without actually writing. I worked with Don Noble to get my first novel re-released. I worked on Strange Story Saturdays and MonstErection. I'm working on a secret anthology right now (which I'm sure I'll be able to announce very soon). I've done a ton of things, but none of them involves actually sitting down and creating something.


A lot of it I can place at the feet of a horrible physical problem I've been having lately. Some of you know that I recently broke my tailbone. Sitting down became incredibly painful for me these last few months. Unfortunately, I work a job where I sit down for eight hours a day. By the time I left, I was in such pain that I just didn't want to sit at my computer and write. It hurt too much, even though I gobbled painkillers like there was no tomorrow.


Whoo-boy. Here's an even darker twist. I was in such pain that I didn't want to be awake for most of my life during this time period. I had to be awake for work, so I played it as safe as I could when I was at my nine-to-five (which is actually 5:45 am to 2:15 pm). However, when I got home . . . things got ugly. I took a lot more than my recommended dose of painkillers, and when those wore off, I'd drink myself into oblivion. Yeah . . . not the healthiest thing to do.


Hey, at least I didn't down my painkillers with shots of whiskey. Although to be honest, that was quite tempting.


It hurt to do everything. I couldn't work out. I couldn't write. I could read, but only if I laid down in bed on my stomach. It was fucking brutal. I was desperate to get through this horrible period of my life, and as a result, I made some really bad decisions. I indulged in the worst of my vices in an attempt to time travel through the pain. I had a shit-ton of prescription drugs that I tried in various combinations to get me through until I could finally reach a phase where I was healed of this terrible broken tailbone.


Which is not to say that I didn't try to write. I managed to make headway on the weird SF vampire book I'm working on right now. I usually got maybe 200-300 words whenever I took the time to sit down and try. But for the most part, whenever I sat down, I felt pain. I just did not want to be in that position, so instead of muscling it out, I retreated quicker than Cobra Commander.


I did try to write when I took painkillers, but I discovered that I just couldn't do it. I'm not one of those writers who can get fucked up on all kinds of shit and then write. I never have been. I need to be sober to write. Editing? That's something different. If I drink while editing my own work, it feels like someone else's novel, so I can mercilessly cut myself to pieces. But I can't create while fucked up.


But even all of this isn't so bad compared to my conduct in the last few weeks. I stopped taking the painkillers because I knew I was out of control. Thankfully I discovered I wasn't addicted. I just stopped taking them, and I never thought twice about it. But I still felt pain. I never felt it outside of my job, though. I could last until the final hour without resorting to the 'roid cushion, which usually helped me get through the day. However, I never felt pain when at home. I could very well have sat down to write some things.


Yet . . . I didn't. I think I experienced fear. I think I was afraid that I just couldn't do it anymore.


I was wrong. I know this because I forced myself through three solid hours of writing tonight. It went slow, but it went well.


I've been working out for the last couple of weeks, because that no longer hurts. I got through today at work without needing the 'roid cushion, so I sat down and wrote tonight. Even though I was incredibly depressed over one of my publishers going out of business, I thought about what I should do next, and I'm planning a stage two form of industry combat for the book they were going to publish.


I'm back in the swing of things. I haven't missed a workout in weeks. I'm finally going back out on my usual walks. I'm writing like a fiend again. I'm off the meds, and I'm no longer trying to avoid living life. I've found the plot again, even though that SF vampire book is still giving me a ton of shit.


I would not have said these things if I didn't have control of myself again. Truth be told, my tailbone is still giving me problems. But I've finally figured my shit out.


And if I get a replacement for that juicer I mentioned on my Facebook, I think I might be able to lose some weight in the near future.


I've been fucking up left and right for a while now, but I've got this shit. It's in check. I still have DONG OF FRANKENSTEIN coming out from MonstErection soon. If I can get a handle on this vampire book? I'll have more shit for you soon. I hope.


Sorry for fucking up, everyone. I thankfully had enough projects to cover it up. But I couldn't live with myself if I didn't confess this major flaw. Thanks for reading, and goodnight you lovely non-fuckers.

FUTURE BOOZE JESUS 6

I’m back! Yes, I am risen, you fools! You thought I was dead because I didn’t have a column for you last week. Well, you were half-right. I was dead DRUNK! I think I will take MODERN DRUNKARD MAGAZINE’s advice and start naming my hangovers. But enough of this gibberish! On to the mailbag!



The Adonis asks: “Real simple, is Charlie Sheen WINNING?”


Future Booze Jesus says: You bet, just as he always has. I’ve heard a lot of his quotes of late, and I’m having difficulty in trying to find what people find crazy about him. He’s just a guy who knows what he likes, and he knows what it takes to achieve this. He lives life the way he wants to, and that scares ordinary people. The average person wants to live free of society’s expectations, but the Fear keeps him in check. Sheen doesn’t have the Fear. People say he was crazy for fucking up a good thing by torpedoing TWO AND A HALF MEN. Gentlemen, I say he was crazy for sticking with that show for so many years. Sure, it added to his coke-and-whores fund quite a bit, but can you imagine being a free spirit shackled by network censors for years? Soar like an eagle, Charlie, and fuck the trolls. Who needs ‘em? NEXT QUESTION!


Rico (a proud non-ginger) asks: “Remember that episode of DIFFERENT STROKES where Sam the ginger got kidnapped? Why would someone kidnap a ginger?”


Future Booze Jesus says: Ah, Rico. Welcome back. You are clearly unaware of the powers gingers possess. They can restore your youth, but you have to milk them properly, or their ginger juice turns into a poison. Also, they are good at fetching things. NEXT QUESTION!


Zip asks: “Let’s say I know this guy named Chris. Crap, I mean John. Yes, John. His roommate bugs him all the time to actually do things. All he wants to do is be by himself and lay around. Recently John’s roommate said he was moving out and he is worried that no one will support his laziness. John is now confused and lonely. What should he do?”


Future Booze Jesus says: Hm, this scenario sounds familiar. Zip, I won’t lie to you. Let’s get down to brass tacks. Cut this John character loose. Nature finds a way, and slugs always manage to survive. John will find someone else to look after him, because there’s a sucker born every minute. However, I recognize that cutting him loose might not be enough. You may need to encourage his suicide. No one likes a downer, and if he were to die, the world would brighten up just a little bit. Tell him to kill himself for the good of the world. Maybe leave a bottle of pills lying around. Or a gun with one bullet in it. Leave some razorblades on the edge of the tub. He’ll get the idea. NEXT FUCKING QUESTION!

Not Dave Damasssssssssk asks: “Does soaking a tampon in vodka and then putting it in your rectum really work? Should I try it? Have you tried it? Would you try it? I am pretty poor at the moment and could use a ‘getting drunk on a budget’ type tip or five. Thanks in advance!!!”


Future Booze Jesus says: YOU FOOL! If you’re putting booze in your asshole, you’re doing it wrong! There is no excuse for not being able to get drunk on a budget. If you think you’re stretching a dollar, think about this: homeless people every day manage to get enough cash for booze. Sometimes, they can get the good stuff. If they can do it, you can do it. I recommend Cold Brook Whiskey, which you can get for $9.99 a handle at Corner Cottage on North Avenue. It’s far from good, but you’ll get trashed just the same. If you’re going out to a bar or restaurant, fill a flask with some of this stuff. Never buy drinks in public. It’s too expensive, unless you’re at the Spring Inn in Elmhurst. Cheap shots and cheap beer. You can’t go wrong. If all else fails, skip a few meals. As your messiah, I advise you to remember that booze is more important than food. If you’re hard up enough, you can always find someone to give you a sandwich. No one wants to give you free whiskey.

I hope I have enriched your lives for yet another week. If you have any quandaries or comments, please post them in the comments below. Barring another horribly awesome drinking binge, I feel certain you’ll get your answers next Friday. Until then, celebrate the 17th year of Charles Bukowski’s passing by watching BARFLY and FACTOTUM. That should get you through next week.

[NOTE:  FBJ IS LYING TO YOU.  NEXT FRIDAY IS C2E2, AND I WILL BE TOO BUSY COVERING THAT FOR THE NAPALM ASSAULT TO POST A NEW FUTURE BOOZE JESUS.  STILL, FEEL FREE TO LEAVE QUESTIONS BELOW.]