GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #145: I THINK I'M FINALLY IN THE RIGHT MENTAL FRAME TO WRITE ABOUT THIS

Long time readers of GF know how much I idolize my grandfather. Whether I'm talking about his life as a mad man, or the stories he's told me of his youth, or even when he used to take me to Tank Park, you all probably know a surprising amount about him, even though he probably doesn't know it. He doesn't understand the internet, much less blogs, etc.


We hit a rough patch recently. For a while, he's been getting cataracts, but he doesn't want to remove them because he figures he'll be dead soon. Why waste the money? He feels the same way about his hearing loss, refusing to get an aid. It irritated me because he was still strong. I knew he had quite some time left, and I was annoyed that I had to yell at him just so he could hear what I was saying. I'm ashamed to admit it, but I sometimes took out my anger on him. I shouted at him, telling him that he should have some consideration for those around him. For all he knew, he'd still be around for another 10-15 years. 88 isn't the end of the world.


God, I'm such an asshole. I hate myself for doing that.


A few months ago, my grandfather started doing weird things. At first I thought it was because he couldn't hear or see us very well, but before long, I started realizing that it might be due to something else. Something deeper.


He started imagining people who weren't there. He lost control of his bowels often. I was once called upon to help him because he'd fallen, but that just happened to be the day after I learned I'd broken my tailbone in a recent accident. I was in too much pain to help him up. When I saw that he'd left a trail of shit from my grandmother's bedroom to the upstairs bathroom, I was in shock. He'd fallen in a pile of his own feces, and I simply didn't have the strength to help him. The best I could do was drag him to a table so he could use its leverage to get to his feet.


Oddly, the whole time I was trying to help him, he was yelling at me to leave him alone so I could answer the door. The problem was, no one was at the door. He kept saying the bell was ringing, but it just wasn't.


Have you ever seen THE JUDGE? There's a scene in which Robert Downey, Jr., has to help his father, Robert Duvall, in the shower. The problem is, Duvall has lost control over his bowels, and I couldn't help but think of this devastating scene. Later, when I read Christopher Eccleston's account of his father's illness, it struck me in the heart and drove me to tears.


My grandmother simply couldn't take care of him, especially since I couldn't help due to my broken tailbone. My aunt came by to take my grandfather to the VA, where they kept him for a few weeks. I visited as often as I could, and something odd came over me. It's hard to describe.


While my grandfather seemed to be in better shape, his mind was still . . . off. At first, it made me feel sorry for him, but then another thought came over me: he might be in a better frame of mind than he was when he was healthy. You see, he didn't know where he was. He recognized me, my grandmother, my aunt and my cousin, but his time reference was completely off. He thought he was on a family vacation in California that he took back in the 'Sixties. Or another day, he thought he was on a business trip to Oregon back in the 'Fifties.


I knew he'd become dissatisfied with the current world, and to know that he was time traveling, almost like Billy Pilgrim, was a comfort to me. He was in a world he could be happy with. He always grinned for us, even though I could never have fit into his time traveling vacation (me, having been born in 1978, that is).


Goddammit. He was in a world where my mom--his daughter--was still alive.


Her death hit him even harder than it hit me. He set up a shrine in the living room, in the chair she used to sit in every day and night while her sickness ate her alive. Every year on her birthday, he buys a bunch of flowers for her. He makes sure that all of her sons, me and three of my brothers (I have a sister and brother from my father's side, but they've never met Mom), sign cards for her on that day. There is still a shrine to her (complete with our birthday messages on her portrait, a picture taken when she graduated high school in 1975), but now it's on my grandmother's china cabinet, complete with the container of her ashes.


To my grandfather, she was still alive, and that must have been a wonderful feeling.


After the VA, he was sent to rehab to build up his strength. It took him a while, but now he's stronger and his mind is back in the present. He just recently came home, and he's getting back into his groove. He gets around with a cane now--which he would have despised mere months ago, as he sees it as a sign of weakness--but he's healthy again. I'm forever grateful for that.


For a while, it looked like he might not have that 10-15 years I thought he had in him, but now that he's in better spirits, I have hope that I'll have him in my life for years to come. That sounds a bit selfish, and I recognize that. I idolize him so much that I was selfish enough to have said, more than once, that I want to die before he does. I can't imagine a world without him.


But that would fucking cripple him.


I've been giving a lot of thought to my own mortality of late, especially considering how I almost died a year and a half ago. My grandfather is the only one who visited me every day, even though it was highly inconvenient for him to do so. The pain I saw on his face as I suffered . . . I knew I couldn't ever put him through that again.


I'm glad he's home. I'm glad that he's getting better. I'm even glad that he's back to watching Bill O'Reilly at top volumes, even though I can't stand that asshole.


I'm glad I have more time with him. I was deathly afraid that every time I saw him in the hospital would be the last, so I made certain to tell him before I left every day that I loved him.


I'm just glad, that's all. Even if he says he's going to vote for Donald Trump in 2016. (Even though his own grandson is running for president next year!!!)

HEY FUCKERS #23: ALL PACKED UP AND READY TO GO

I'm all packed up and ready to go to the Printer's Row Lit Fest this weekend (and, of course, the new Bizarro Hour at G-Mart Comics on Saturday night). Two big boxes and one small box, all full of books, magazines and other wonders. You should see the box Shamus and Erika at Rooster Republic sent me. It weighs a shit-ton, and it's completely full of amazing books. When the fest is over, I'll be half-tempted to say that I shipped it back, but it must have gotten lost in the mail. (Heh.)


Seriously, I haven't seen so many StrangeHouse books in one place, not even at the horror shows when I worked their booth. Plus, there's a lot of Rooster Republic titles in there. If you're going to the fest, and you haven't gotten any of these books yet, you're going to need to stop by our table, which is 205/207 in Q2. I don't know where that is, specifically, but that's where I'll be this Saturday and Sunday with some kick ass writers, eager to sell some books.


This box is so fucking heavy, though, that I want it to weigh a lot less when I take it back home with me. A LOT. It is my mission to sell so many of these books that I can carry the box for blocks without it bothering me. I want to make it so that it weighs three-quarters less than what it weighs now before this weekend is through. Not just because I have a broken tailbone and shouldn't be lifting heavy things, but also because dammit, I want these writers to make some money and get some recognition.


As it turns out, all my books sold out at Texas Frightmare, so none of the books that were included in the package were TALES OF QUESTIONABLE TASTE or POOR BASTARDS AND RICH FUCKS. I'm supplying my own copies for the show. That's what's in the one small box I mentioned before. The other big box, though?


Here's the deal. I have fourteen of my own books with me. I also have fourteen incentive packages. If you buy my book (either of them), I will give you one of these packages for FREE. FREEEEEEEEEEEE. These packages include all three issues of my old genre fiction magazine, TABARD INN, in addition to two bumper stickers I used to sell back in those days (PUSSY SATISFIES and IT'S A PARASITE NOT A CHOICE) and the brand new Bruni/Danger US presidential bumper sticker. All of that for free with the purchase of one of my books.


Hell. If you're still at the show near the end of the day on Sunday, and I have some of these packages left, stop by and I'll give 'em to you, no strings attached, just so I don't have to take that giant fucking box home with me. But don't count on that. I might just sell all my books and not have any packages left.


Or if you want to be a cheap bastid, come out for the Bizarro Hour, and I'll give away free issues of TABARD INN just for showing up. It'll just be single issues, not the packages, though.


Bottom line: I want to go home with zero boxes. I'm a realist, and I'm going to just have to accept that it's probably not going to happen. I don't want to come home with any incentive packages, though. And I will consider it a failure if I haven't reduced the RRP box to a quarter of its size. Help me make this happen.


By the way, I've been told that book prices are $10 each. $25 if you buy three. Those are some great prices. I hope to see you all there, and I hope you all take it easy on my broken tailbone. Thanks for reading!

THE BIZARRO HOUR RETURNS!

Are you going to be in the Chicagoland area on June 6? Do you like horror and bizarro? Then come on down to G-Mart Comics and listen to a bunch of us mad fuckers read crazy shit. Did you miss our previous show? You can watch what happened here. If you can't make it, I'm sure we'll be live-streaming it again, so stay tuned for more information. And if you're so inclined, join us for the Printers Row Lit Fest on June 6 and 7. You should see the giant box of books Rooster Republic shipped to me for the show. I hope to see you all there.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #144: THE AGE OF AQUARIUS

I'll be honest. I don't give a fuck about AQUARIUS, if not for David Duchovny. I liked RED SHOE DIARIES when I was a kid and looking for spank material. I loved X-FILES just like most of you did. And of course there was CALIFORNICATION, which I loved the shit out of. But AQUARIUS? I would not have watched it if not for Duchovny's portrayal of the main character.


The show is bad. Sorry. As a lifelong Duchovny fan, I wanted to like it. Every cliche you can think of is thrown into this show. Even the soundtrack is predictable. FUCK!


But the idea for the show? I love it. Pit Mickey Spillane against Charlie Manson? That's fucking perfect. That's what interests me about the show. Everything else sucks. Duchovny does the best job he can do with the shit he's given. Even the guy who plays Manson does his best. But fuck. I want to see Spillane vs. Manson. That's awesome, even if it's not the true story.


I don't want the true story here. I want the bizarro version. Spillane and Manson. To the death. Celebrity Death-match style. I won't get that, but I like that. It's better than what we're getting.


Although I do like the entire series being available on demand. That's pretty cool. I'm rooting for the show, I really am, but so far, I'm not impressed. I want to be. I want to believe. (Sorry. I couldn't help it.) But the cliched garbage keeps getting in the way.


The Manson rape scene is very good. It's highly unusual. But that's it.


I hope this show has more to offer. I want to like it.

POOR BASTARDS AND RICH FUCKS GOODREADS GIVEAWAY!

I'm giving away a signed copy of my third book, POOR BASTARDS AND RICH FUCKS, at Goodreads! Get in while the getting's good. Check it out here.

HEY FUCKERS #22: THE WORLD NEEDS A BIZARRO SOAP OPERA

My hero

When I was a kid, I envied George Newman, Weird Al's character in UHF. I wanted to have my own TV station where I could play shows about whatever the fuck paraded through my mind. Hell, I would have filmed me playing war games with my GI Joes, because I thought my adventures were rad. I wish I could be a programmer for my very own station.


Yesterday I saw my grandmother watching a compilation of popular scenes from DAYS OF OUR LIVES, except there was some weird storyline about a demon or a vampire or I don't know what the fuck. I could have sworn it was PASSIONS, I asked her if DAYS OF OUR LIVES really had a horror story arc. She said it had happened in the 'Eighties. I guess they were trying to capture the interest of people who missed DARK SHADOWS . . . ?


And then it occurred to me that there should be a bizarro soap opera. Why the fuck not? I thought I should write that book, but it wouldn't appeal to me much in book form. No, I would want it to be a TV show, for sure.


I started thinking about the characters, and I'm pretty sure I have a few winners. Obviously, the show has to revolve around a wealthy family. Husband, wife, two kids (one boy, one girl) and a pet. I'm thinking the husband is a Batman type of superhero, and none of the family knows about the secret headquarters their mansion hides. The wife is a serial killer, and she's being hunted by her husband, but neither one of them knows the other's identity. And she's just brutal. Cannibalism. Sex torture. You name it. Their girl, the older of the siblings, is incredibly hot, but she's got an insane, Monk-type list of phobias that keeps her confined to her bedroom where she spends her days eating spiders because spiders are the one thing she's not afraid of. Their boy tries to run an Encyclopedia Brown kind of detective agency, except he's profoundly stupid and can't do the job. Their pet is a dragon who routinely burns down neighbors' houses and constantly gets the family in trouble. Speaking of the neighbors, one of them thinks he's the action star version of Liam Neeson, but he's a clumsy motherfucker, and he never knows what his prostitute daughter is up to for real.


And then there's the extended family. A vampire uncle who tries to hide the fact that he's a vampire, even though EVERYONE knows he's a vampire, and his pedophile caretaker. Their wacky grandfather is Charlie Manson. A cousin is a writer who, instead of spending his time writing, is obsessed with his Twitter numbers and all the fights he gets into with people online. Another uncle is a deformed guy who has a normal sized head, but the rest of his body is super-tiny, like, the size of an ice cube, and he constantly tries to hatch I-shall-rule-the-world schemes which are usually foiled by his tendency to over-think things.


I think their neighborhood needs an Irish cop walking the beat. Nothing fancy, just the stereotype times a thousand.


What do you think? Do any of my readers have the kind of money and connections necessary to make this happen? I'd do a Kickstarter, but what network would give me the chance to air this show?


Maybe we could get Rex Hamilton as Abraham Lincoln in there. What's he doing these days?

[EDIT: Ah, fuck. Looks like Rex Hamilton is dead. Never mind, then.]

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #143: A DAY WELL SPENT (?)

When I took this week off, I did so with the understanding that I would do next to nothing the whole time, that I would stay off my ass due to my broken tailbone to give it a chance to heal before I had to go back to my desk job, where I spend 8 hours a day sitting on the broken bone that should be healing. A lot of shit came up. There's some shit that I'm not ready to talk about yet. It's fucking grim, but I . . . I'm just not ready to go there yet.

Today, I promised myself I would do nothing but indulge my new Netflix habit. The only thing I did today was cash my paycheck. Aside from that, I spent the day in bed watching Netflix, and I'm very proud of that. I loaded down with painkillers and stayed off my ass. The only time I sat down was long enough to drive to the bank on my doughnut. And to McDonald's for lunch. But that's it. How did my day go?

Very nice, actually. I remember being an hour in and feeling very distant from myself, as if I were floating above my body watching me watching Netflix. Wonderful. My entire body was numb, and I didn't even want to move to dispel the feeling.

And then I turned over. Much to my surprise, I had a heavy dick. Usually that's a nice feeling, but today it was annoying. It was made even worse by the hole in my boxers, which I kept sticking out of. My dick got in the way of everything as I shifted around to make sure none of my body started suffering pins and needles. My balls annoyed me even more because they hung down waaaaaay lower than usual. I had to keep them out of the way when I took a shit earlier today.

By the sixth hour, the inevitable happened: my heavy dick turned into a full-on erection. Nothing prompted it, which is kind of weird. Usually, at the very least it takes a car ride to get things moving down there. This came as a result of nothing. There wasn't even a sexually suggestive scene on Netflix. It just happened.

I decided to get rid of this unwanted boner. It took me a while to find a comfortable position, and I started jerking off. Except . . . I didn't feel anything. My entire body, my dick included, felt numb. These painkillers took away the joy of masturbation. How horrible is that?

Not that bad, actually. I'd rather have no pain and an awkward hard-on than have a satisfied dick with horrible pain. Still, this marks the first time I've ever failed to jerk off. Although I am getting used to these pills, so . . . I wonder if I need to start doubling up on this shit. Ha-ha, just kidding. I think.

I just realized that it would have been very awkward if I'd died in that moment. How often do paramedics have to haul out corpses with full hard-ons? I keep thinking about the body bag tenting up in the middle, and reporters staring at it, laughing with their hands over their microphones.

Tomorrow is the last day of my vacation, and I have to do shit, sadly. But I hope to dedicate most of my day to further exploration of Netflix. That feeling of zoning out to nearly the point of paralysis? That felt pretty good. Peaceful. I'd like to experience that again before I have to go to work.