POST PRINTERS ROW SALE

 It's that time of year. I didn't get to bring many copies of my books for two reasons: we had limited space as we were down to one table, and I was still in the cast on a crutch, so carrying a lot of books was out of the question. I did pretty well. Sold out of the HST anthologies I'm in as well as And Jesus Came Back and Strip, and I almost sold all the copies of Eye Cutter I brought with me. Same for Tales of Unspeakable Taste. My new one, Mail Order Bride, didn't do so well, but I've talked to a few people who have read it, and they really, really love it. My comics guy's brother read it, so he's putting it on sale at his shop.

With two exceptions, I'm going to offer the same Printers Row deal we had last weekend. One for $15 or 3 for $40. If I can physically put these books in your hand, there's no shipping. Otherwise, I'll have to add $8 to the order. This is what I have available, and I'll get to those two exceptions last. (And Ben, if you're reading this, I'm holding on to my last copy of Strip for you. DM me, and I'll waive the shipping cost.)

For fans of the bizarre, the weird, the strange, StrangeHouse Books brings you a whirlwind of eighteen tales sure to amuse, confuse, horrify and leave you questioning your lack of taste. From the warped synapses of John Bruni come stories of the destruction of earth, via a humongous totally nude man in space, a portal to another dimension inside of an office worker's desk, a sordid love affair between two nefarious euthanasia enthusiasts, and many other yarns that span from psychological terror, to comedy, to downright disgusting!

John Bruni is a unique visionary, granting us entrance into a world that could exist just as easily decades from now as it could a week from tomorrow. The future he crafts for us in POOR BASTARDS AND RICH FUCKS is both surreal and surreptitiously familiar. His is a world where, regardless of how society advances, the human condition renders characters placated by apathy and disillusionment or excess and hedonism. POOR BASTARDS AND RICH FUCKS is your life, tangentially explored to ease your unease . . . but only a little. After all, it wouldn't be fun if you didn't squirm a little, would it? Kirk Jones, author of JOURNEY TO ABORTOSPHERE & UNCLE SAM'S CARNIVAL OF COPULATING INANIMALS It is the year 2200. Richard Coppergate and the wealthiest citizens of the city, have gathered for their annual game: kidnap seven people the world wouldn't miss--bums, prostitutes and the mentally ill--and turn them loose in the city with a mission to hunt and kill each other. The prize? One billion dollars. This year the stakes are personal. Two of the contestants are sons of the rich fucks. One of the contestants is a ringer. And one of the rich fucks likes hunting the contestants. Coppergate and his game have come to the attention of a revolutionary who lives off the grid and an outlaw journalist intent on bringing the whole thing crashing down. John Bruni, the author of TALES OF QUESTIONABLE TASTE, brings you POOR BASTARDS AND RICH FUCKS, the ultimate tale of the class struggle. Who will win? Who will die? Who are YOU going to place your bets on?

Only 3 left.

Jesus Christ has returned. He sets to work right away healing the sick and infirm, but also returning youth to the aged. There are doubters, but one by one Jesus proves them wrong with the aid of his friend, farmer Joe MacDonald. There’s just one problem: Jesus isn’t who he says he is. He is actually an alien from a planet of ruthless killers, and he’s there to get everyone on earth to be in shape for slavery. John Bruni, the author of Dong of Frankenstein, Poor Bastards and Rich Fucks, and Tales of Questionable Taste returns to tell a tale of love, redemption, madness, loss, fear, faith and above all else, survival. Brian Keene, author of The Rising and The Complex, says, “John Bruni is a nice kid. He’s one of the next generation that I like. He’s actually one of the people I like in this genre, and I don’t like anybody.”

Mickey Scarlet is a man who, as a child, had a beast beaten into him by his father. As an adult he uses this beast to help him survive as a cop and later as an ex-convict, but that’s not easy when Lucifer Robinson offers to keep him on retainer for any number of illegal acts he needs performed. Mickey has no idea who is really in charge of this enterprise, but he finds himself lost in a phantasmagorical world filled with monsters and lowlifes while all he wants to do is find his estranged wife so he can finally meet his child.
John Bruni, author of POOR BASTARDS AND RICH FUCKS and DONG OF FRANKENSTEIN, brings us a horrifying tale about cycles of abuse and the horrors it creates.
Brian Keene, author of PRESSURE and THE RISING, says about John Bruni, “Stylistically, he’s a blend of Edward Lee and Jeremy Robert Johnson.”

Only 2 left.

For fans of the deranged, the utterly weird, and most certainly the unspeakable... Bizarro Pulp Press brings you a buffet of curdled imagination and warped creativity of John Bruni. 21 stories ranging from monstrous genitalia and violent retirees, GG Allin, and Jesus Christ.

Brian Keene, author of The Rising, says, "Stylistically, he's a blend of Edward Lee and Jeremy Robert Johnson."

You've been warned.

You think you know the Lewis and Clark expedition, but you don't. Hi Ziege is a man who thought he was wasting his life until he discovered that he could do so much more by joining the Discovery Corps from such a nameless place as La Charrette. Everything that Lewis and Clark and all the others left out of their journals is recorded here, including their experiences with aliens and bigfoot (bigfeet?). "Stylistically, he's a blend of Edward Lee and Jeremy Robert Johnson." -Brian Keene, author of The Rising and The Seven "John Bruni has combined historical and hysterical into a bizarro-themed redneck autobiography for the age of the absurd. A gory, nasty, wild bout of fun we didn't know we needed, until the blood and moonshine spilled from the pages in front of us and congealed into one hell of a cocktail." -Michael Allen Rose, author of Boiled Americans

William King is a Missouri guerilla turned bank robber trying to find a peaceful life on a Texas ranch. Eagle Talon is a Comanche warrior swearing vengeance on those who killed his sons. Juan Moreno is a bandit headed home to Mexico with visions of a hero's welcome. Corbin Mathers is a former slave and a walking dead man searching for the outlaw who killed him and his son. These four men will collide in an orgy of blood and gore and violence, and none of them will escape unscathed.

John Bruni, author of The Life and Times of Hieronymus Aloysis Ziege and Tales of Unspeakable Taste, brings you a cross between The Outlaw Josey Wales and The Searchers by way of Steinbeck and Fulci. This is no mere splatter western. This is Trail of Blood.

Layne Gates has done it all. Murder, cannibalism, sadism, you name it. His most recent racket: kidnap or purchase young women known as oracles so he can cut their eyes out, thus intensifying their gifts. He then uses them to extort money out of people who will suffer some misfortune by offering a way to avoid it. The only problem is, one of his oracles has discorporated and is now a part of his ship, the Mammon.

Meet Corbin Marsters, a former slave and gladiator who now buys slaves to set them free. He offers them a job hunting the scum of the universe on his ship, the Aurelius. Ketchum is his new shipmate, and their target: Layne Gates.

Tessa Reeves is sent west by her pimp as a mail order bride to a goofy loser of a farmer. He sells her to a Comanche flesh merchant named Iron Trail, who teaches her how to survive in the wilderness. It's only the beginning of the horrors she faces as she tries to stay alive long enough to wreak vengeance on her tormentors.

John Bruni, author of Eye Cutter returns to the world of Trail of Blood to tell a tale of horror and woe, gore and depravity, devastation and revenge.

OK, now for the two exceptions:

Having twice dealt with fear and loathing on the Hunter S. Thompson highway into the savage heart of gonzo dreams, John Bruni, Kevin Candela & Kent Hill (together this time with Neil Sanzari) head down to the old haunts and watering holes of the dirty old man, the drinker, the writer, the fighter, the lover . . . the one and only Charles Bukowski. In a quartet of tribute tales from these authors that both idolize, and have recently encountered Hank's works, the voice of the poet laureate of the gutter is restored, so that once more the good duker . . . can take a swing.

I'm willing to let this go for $7, no shipping. I've carted this book around for the last two years, and no one wants to buy it. I don't get it. I personally love this book, and it was a great deal of fun introducing Buk to Rod Serling, not from The Twilight Zone, but from Night Gallery. But I'm starting to think that people either don't know who Bukowski was, or they just don't care about him. I'll sweeten the deal: I'll throw in a signed manuscript of an unpublished story if you'll take it off my hands.

Tom Miller is a man unsatisfied with his marriage. He fantasizes about his secretary, wishing for there to be something more between them. Becky Rashida is a woman who has just been dumped by her boyfriend before a very important moment in her life. Reggie Bastion is an angry incel who wants sex slaves and in particular wants to fuck his HR rep. Col. David Morgan is a closeted gay man who yearns for his assistant, Corp. Thomas Pedersen. These people are all going to get their wishes, but they are not going to like it. For today is September 11, 2001, and they all work either at the Twin Towers or the Pentagon. And the planes are on their way . . .

I'm friends with Rosemynd Kant. She's pretty ballsy, especially considering the title of her next work, which I am absolutely not going to sell if she actually goes through with it. Long story short, this is 9/11 porn. She sent me a bunch of copies to sell at the shows I go to, and I'm down to the final copy. It's signed. But I've been down to this last copy for about three or four years. No one wants it. It's a pretty funny book, and it's not making fun of the victims of the terrorist attack. But understandably, not many people are willing to go that far with her thought process on this. If you want it, you can have it for $5, no shipping. Or hell, if you want the Bukowski anthology, I'll throw this in for free, but you don't have to take it, as it's a touchy subject. Rosie knows she's insane, and she leans into it pretty intensely.

OK, that's the spiel. If you want something, let me know. The prices will be good for the rest of the month. Contact me however you know me, or if you're new to my work, please leave a note in the comments.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1025: A FINAL(ISH) WORD

 As you can probably guess, after spending this week gauging how much time I have upon getting home from work, I've decided to end Goodnight, Fuckers again. This time more or less permanently. I don't discount ever returning to my nightly column, but for now it's done. I just don't have the time to dedicate to it. I'm grateful for the chance to write 25 more of these things after the last time I thought it was over. Not bad. Not bad at all.

I'll probably do a Good Morning, Fuckers! on Sunday, but for the foreseeable future I'm going to pull back on that, too. It's not like I've got anything to report, anyway. I haven't written a word since I moved out of Joliet except for these GFs.

I hate to leave you all in the lurch with Maga still calling the shots, so I'll give you some final advice for dealing with them before I head out that door.

Ever see Unforgiven? Gene Hackman played Little Bill, who would probably have been Maga if he was around today. He's not exactly the villain of the piece, but he's a bad guy. And that's generally what Maga is. They're not exactly the villains, but they're pretty bad people. It's not entirely their fault. They're angry over perceived problems. Problems that really aren't problems, but they've been blown waaaaaaay out of proportion by the true villains of our story, Trump and his cronies. They think something is being taken away from them. They're right, but they're wrong about the grift. They have no idea that their freedoms are being taken away by the very people they think walk on water. It sucks that they've latched themselves onto these assholes, but the good news is, it means they can be turned back from the Dark Side. I probably sound a little crazy for that, but Luke was the only one who believed he could save his father, and he did. (Spoiler.)

Little Bill was certain he was the hero of his story. "I was building a house," he told William Munny, like that would make any difference. The Magas are equally certain that they're the heroes of our story. They think they're the good guys. They were generally good people until they got sucked into this whirlwind of shit.

If you find yourself in a conversation or, more likely, an argument with a Maga, the secret to getting through to them is to knock them off their talking points. These are things that they have memorized from listening to Fox News and Newsmax and their ilk. Take them by the hand and lead them away from that. Get them talking about something they absolutely have to rely on their own opinions for, something they have to think about and argue on their own, because they don't have anything in the memory banks. If you can get them there, you can cognitively rewire them a little. Get them to really think about the things they believe.

At the very least you can win the argument. At the most? You might be able to save Darth Vader.

As Hunter S. Thompson used to say, "OK for now." Thank you for reading all these years. Watch this space, as I will occasionally post something new. Not another GF, at least not for a very long time, but I'll have new stuff for you to look at from time to time. I love you all, even that one guy (you know who you are). Without you . . . well, I'd probably still have written all these GFs, but I wouldn't have felt quite so good about it.

Thank you all. Goodnight, fuckers.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1024: OVER NOW

 To be read to this song.

I didn't want to go to Elmhurst today. There were a few things to do in town, but I was planning on doing them after work on Saturday. However, my supervisor at work said that, after tomorrow, I can work Fridays and Saturdays at home, thus saving me gas, tolls and time. Since I'm not going to be in Elmhurst on Saturday, I had to go there today.

I can only get packages in DeKalb from the USPS because the building I live in has a deal with them about putting packages in a separate mailbox. They don't have the same deal with UPS or anyone else, so if something gets shipped to me that way, whoever delivers it just leaves it at the outside door of my building where anyone can just grab it. So my old neighbor has allowed me to ship to her, but she can't do that anymore. I'll have to figure something else out for that, but since I was stopping by her place to get a couple of packages, I decided to go inside my old house to get a few things.

I've been grateful for the access, but I knew eventually I'd lose it. I got a few things I needed, including my old plunger. Why not get a new one? The ones at the grocery store and Ace are weak as all hell. Mine was pretty powerful, so I grabbed that, too. I also realized I'd only kept butter knives, so it would probably be a good idea to go back and get some knives that would actually cut food. And I found myself lacking hangers. I only had enough to hang the shirts I wear to work (minus one).

I'm glad I got these things, because the minute I left, as my neighbor texted me, someone showed up to change the locks. I no longer have access to my house. It truly is the end of an era.

I guess that means I can take the house keys off my ring.

I was not able to save my mom's piano. That was probably a pipe dream, anyway. I couldn't save my grandma's china cabinet, either. And I had to abandon most of my VHS collection.

I'm going to miss that place.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1023: A MONUMENT TO SATAN

Hello Satan.

 "Political satire became obsolete when Henry Kissinger was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize." Tom Lehrer said that, and thankfully satire kept on keeping on for a good long time after. I think about this quote every time Trump and his douchebags do something. Anything. What's left for satire? But that doesn't stop those of us who love to take the piss out of the government.

Kissinger finally died not soon enough but at the ripe old age of 100 back in 2023. I thought we'd never be rid of his wretched villainy. But he didn't shuffle off this mortal coil without a parting shot. One of the articles I read on the subject had a nice hooker, so I'm going to quote it: "Henry Kissinger was known for his monumental ego. And at the end of his life he asked for . . . an actual monument." And he wanted it bad. He advised his executors to pay whatever was necessary to make it happen, and he died with $80M, and that's the low estimate. He probably had a lot more.

Like it or not Kissinger was a pioneer. You know how government employees service contractors in an effort to secure an obscenely-high paying job in the private sector after they retire from "public service?" He fucking started that grift. It paid off pretty well, apparently. I'm loath to quote Kissinger in any of my writings, but it's apropos here. "Power is the ultimate aphrodisiac." If that's any indication of his private life, he may have never had a dry dick since the Nixon administration.

The article I quoted above with the great hooker, written by James Mann and Hailey Fuchs, quotes Daniel Drezner, who is an expert on Kissinger. Drezner thinks Kissinger was mighty insecure, and that his request for a public monument over his grave in Arlington Cemetery is proof of that, but I don't buy it. He *is* right when he says that Kissinger wanted to rewrite his legacy. Not everyone drank his Flavor-Aid, and he knew it. He wanted to ensure that future Americans looked back on his legacy with awe and respect, not derision (like I do). I don't think that's got anything to do with insecurity. That's got everything to do with controlling the narrative, and he wanted to do that so badly that he tried it from beyond the grave.

Arlington generally doesn't allow private monuments, just the usual white gravestones that you see in war movies. They put a rule in place a few years back to ensure that would continue no matter what. However, Kissinger got his plot before the rule went into effect and was hoping that would be a neat loophole for his legacy.

But Arlington turned him down. They flat out said no, Kissinger would get the regular monument as a WWII vet, nothing more.

Thank fuck. I love Tom Lehrer (big surprise, I know), but who says satire is obsolete?

All the same I'm a little surprised that Trump didn't circle back and make this monument to Satan happen. If there is villainy to be performed, he's usually on point. To be fair he's got three more years (no more than that, I sincerely hope, for the sake of America), so it's not a done deal, but still.

Well, if that happens, I hope it's a life-sized nude statue of Kissinger. If I have to suffer, I think we all have to suffer. And I hope some wit chisels his tiny stone dick off and sells it on Etsy. I imagine this statue would make David look hung like a donkey.

Maybe Kissinger should have thought to have his monument built while he was still alive, like PT Barnum reading his own obituary. Now *that* would be satire.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1022: JOHN'S APARTMENT

 When I was a kid living with my mom, stepfather and (at the time) two baby brothers in an apartment across from the train tracks in Elmhurst, we had a few roommates with us: cockroaches. They were a persistent problem to the point where I had to check my shoes every morning. Because there was this one time I was putting them on for school, and I felt something move in one of them. I took it off, and two roaches dropped out and scurried under the couch I was sitting on. It had an effect on me. For many years thereafter I checked my shoes for bugs before putting them on.

And now that I have a new apartment I find myself in a similar situation. I also have baby mosquitos, but they're nothing compared to the surprise of seeing a roach in your bathroom at three in the morning.

I'm back to checking my shoes.

As with back then, they only come out at night, and they seem to stick to the bathroom and the kitchen. I found one in my bedroom, and it met its demise under a mail catalog shortly thereafter.

Most of them are little baby roaches, and when I sprayed the place down with Raid they stopped coming around. I confidently thought that I'd dealt with the situation well, but I also knew from experience that if you see one roach, there are possibly hundreds more of them. I didn't let my guard down.

Now the adults are coming out. I found two of them in the kitchen, but they were quick to evade me. I started seeing visions of me as Peter Weller in Of Unknown Origin.

One of the roaches looked big enough for me to put a leash on, but I don't want to be charged the pet fee by my landlord. The other, however, looked big enough to put a leash on me.

This morning they tried to mug me in the kitchen when I went for my morning Tang. Thankfully I was carrying the can of Raid in my free hand (the other held the crutch I get around on), and I sprayed the fuckers.

And they practically laughed at me. Big Ed, the one who might take me as a pet, attempted to knock the Raid from my hand with his brass knuckles, but I sprayed the bastards harder and harder until they finally fell over onto their backs, their legs flailing at the ceiling. I didn't let up. I sprayed them until I was certain they were dead. I held a mirror to Big Ed's nose, just to be sure.

I scraped them up with a shovel and disposed of them. But there might be more.

If you don't hear from me for a while, please check in. I don't want to end up like poor Joe . . .

Joe's Apartment

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1021: LIKE A KID AGAIN

 On Saturday I was working to unpack a lot of stuff and organize everything while I was doing so. I am insane because I thought it would be a good idea to organize my books before I shelve them in my study. And now those books are all over said study in piles . . . and all over my bedroom in piles . . . and I have started piling books in the kitchen. I have no idea when this lunacy will end, as I still have about 20 boxes of books to go. Now that I'm back to work, I don't have a ton of time to do that.

But because I'm in a cast and need a crutch to get around I have to take a lot of breaks. During one break I read while resting on my couch. Suddenly thunder rolled, and I realized that for the past ten minutes or so it had been raining pretty hard.

And I flashed back to when I was a kid. I was an active child, almost always outside, but on rainy days I always found a place to relax, usually a couch or my bed or somewhere, and I'd read the day away. I felt like that kid again for the first time in decades, and it did my heart good. I didn't want to go back to unpacking my books. I just wanted to continue reading during the thunderstorm.

But I knew I'd be back to work today, so I didn't have much time to lose.

Speaking of which, this is going to be my test week to see if I can still find time to write these GFs while working. If today was any indication, it's not looking good. But I'll keep going, and by Friday I'll know for sure if I'm retiring the ol' column again.

See? Pretty short one tonight.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1020: GREEN MAN

I've said it before, and I'll say it again. I'm an atheist. As such, I do not believe in God or gods. However, I am a firm believer that the universe is a very strange fucking place, and that a lot of crazy shit is possible. I base that on personal knowledge of this exceptionally small corner of the universe, Earth, as well as my understanding of how the universe works. For example, did you know that the center of the Milky Way galaxy (and all galaxies) is a massive black hole? So massive that you can never get your mind around it? Saying it's bigger than the sun is like saying Lake Michigan is bigger than a drop of rain water. The mere fact that black holes exist is fucking nuts.

So I think it's possible for the universe to send a message. We receive these messages on a regular basis. For example, have you noticed the hellscape our weather has become recently? Perhaps this shit would calm down if we stopped treating our planet like a fucking doormat.

It's rare that the universe sends me such a blatant message, though, but I got one Wednesday night.

The first sign was from The Phoenician Scheme. I'd started watching it on Tuesday, but I got too tired and had to finish it Wednesday. The first thing I saw was the scene where they've all got mud on their faces after yet another plane crash. I saw Michael Cera's face and thought, huh, he looks kind of like Green Man. Meaning, the pagan Green Man. It meant nothing to me at the time, but . . .

The second sign was from Northern Exposure. Ed gets cursed by a magical green man. Graham Greene explains that Ed can never be a healer because he is plagued by the worst spirit ever, low self esteem.

The third sign came when I got a tickle in the back of my head. I googled Green Man, fully expecting the first thing to be from It's Always Sunny. The algorithm should have showed me that Greenman. But it showed me the pagan Green Man, symbol of rebirth, the new flowering season.

Greene goes on to say that low self esteem is the cause of all the heartbreak and destruction in the world. The only way Ed can banish his green man is to learn to love himself.

Unsurprisingly, I suffer from low self esteem. I've been working on trying to change that for at least a decade. On a regular basis, I do something dumb, and I slap my forehead and call myself a fucking idiot. I know that's really terrible to do, and I've been doing my best to stop that. And, of course, failing.

But I saw this as a real call to arms, especially now that I have this new permanent home, and I'm at a stage in my life where it is a time of renewal. I need to banish my own green man. I must learn to love myself. This is no longer optional. I can't just keep saying that I'm working on it, and when I fail, then double down on my self-loathing. I have to stop that. This is necessary to survival and, possibly, success.

So that night, just before I closed my eyes to go to bed, I whispered, "I love myself." I didn't really feel it, but it all starts with saying it. If you say it long enough, you will believe it. I'm fairly certain that's what got me in this mess in the first place.

Yesterday morning I accidentally knocked over my can of Monster. It was full, and it spilled on my coffee table. My reaction time is great, so it didn't ruin anything. Ordinarily I would have groaned and called myself a fucking moron. I would have continued to berate myself while cleaning it up. Instead, yesterday, I shrugged it off. It was an accident. Accidents happen. I didn't feel bad about it while I got some paper towels. And then I *realized* I didn't feel bad about it. I wasn't mad. I didn't despise myself. I felt pretty good.

Holy shit, I actually meant it!

Maybe I am a little crazy, but I think I made a promise with the universe. If I learn to love myself, I will succeed in life. The good news is, I keep my word.