GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1049: WHAT COULD HAVE BEEN

 

When you walk into my apartment, this is one of the first things you would see. This is an artifact from a parallel universe. Travel between universes must be difficult, hence the streak going through the heads of my other me's parents.

Because in that universe? My mom and dad got married. I wonder what that must have been like for that other me. It would have been interesting if they'd actually stayed the course. What happened on that Earth that didn't happen here?

I'm certain other me is completely different from me. He's probably a huge reader, like me. I'll bet he's a writer, too, but I'm thinking he's known for crime novels instead of horror. Not ugly stuff, like Strip, but something more along the lines of a detective series. And I think he's got a mistrust of authority, but it doesn't turn into disgust, like it does for me. I'm also pretty sure he's not nearly as fucked in the head as I am. I'll bet he grew up in a healthy fashion, at least mentally.

I don't think he's an alcoholic. He might even be a straight arrow. I wouldn't be surprised to find that he's a little athletic, and he's probably more of an outdoorsman than I am.

But he doesn't have my siblings. He probably has a set of his own, but they're not the same as mine. My siblings are all technically half-siblings, but we don't look at it that way. I love them all, but I'm worried that they may not even exist in that alternate reality.

And that right there is enough for me to abandon that fantasy. I've raged against reality all my life, but in general I'm satisfied with how I turned out. For all my mental issues and physical problems and the emotional rollercoaster that being me entails, I'm happy with who I am, darkness and all. Do I wish certain things about me were different? Sure. But I'm not going to demonstrate the uselessness of wishing in one hand, shitting into the other.

I find this to be an unusual artifact, nonetheless. Look at the date. Mom was just about to graduate high school, and Dad still had another year to go. I'd make my debut three years later, so I wasn't even a twinkle in their eyes.

When I was a kid I used to get angry all the time over how cheated I'd been by life because my parents had separated before I was born. I wanted to know what it was like to be raised by two parents at the same time. I knew that in that situation I wouldn't have gone through some of the horrors I did, the ones that robbed me of a healthier mindframe, the horrors that robbed me of being a healthier human being in general.

I let it go finally a few years back when I realized, hey, I really enjoy my own company. Maybe I didn't get as fucked up as I thought I did. I look back at those times, and I read the notes that my mom and dad wrote to me, and I can feel the love radiating off the pages. I lucked out. They could have been twisted, vile creatures.

Now I look at their pictures from before I was born, and I wonder what kind of people they were. What went through their minds when they looked into each others eyes? What they felt when they watched the news or went to school or hung out with their friends. How did they meet? What went wrong?

Who were they before they became Mom and Dad?

I can't ask them. They're both gone.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1048: MY KINGDOM FOR A BACK SCRATCHER

 

Here's something you might not know about me. I constantly need a back scratcher. I have a very itchy back. No, it's not a matter of not washing my back. I have a brush, for Pete's sake. I don't know what it is, but I constantly need to scratch my back. I have a back scratcher in my front room. I have one in my bedroom. I have one at work. Or, at least, I *did* have one at work.

It fell to pieces except for one length which just isn't long enough to reach the places I itch the most. I still desperately tried to use that, mostly to no avail, and I finally came to the conclusion that I just needed to spend the money on a new one. But where do you get a back scratcher?

Mine all came from Grandma. The one I used at work had been the one she used near the end of her life when she sat in the living room all day and watched TV (if we were lucky). But now I had to get a new one. I did what any modern person would do: I went to Google.

I ordered a back scratcher from Target using a gift card I'd gotten, oddly enough, at work. But then, for a reason that could not be articulated to me, they canceled my order. Seriously, no representative I spoke with knew why. And no, I couldn't reorder it.

Well fuck. I didn't want to have to do this, but I'll get it from Walmart. The store didn't have it, but they could ship it to me for free. I ordered it from them.

And much to my horror, it got canceled. Again. What the fuck? Did they not make back scratchers anymore?

I hit my five year anniversary at work, so they gave me an Amazon gift card. Time to try Bezos. I ordered it from them, hoping the third time would do the charm, fully expecting to learn that they'd canceled this one, too.

Finally, after struggling with this for AN ENTIRE FUCKING MONTH, I got my back scratcher today. I know this sounds like a weird thing for me to complain about, but why did it have to take that long? Am I being unreasonable in wanting to legally purchase a back scratcher? I probably could have gotten a gun a lot faster.

Anyway, here's an odd question. Do any of you have any Public Storage real life horror stories? I'm thinking of maybe being a journalist again. Let me know if you want to talk about that.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1047: AGAIN?!

 Today there was another fuckin' art heist in the news. AGAIN.

I sense a pattern. And I would not be surprised to discover that these stolen works are all going to an oligarch auction. They're the only fuckers on the planet right now with the money to afford the merchandise. And holy shit, are they rolling in dough right now. The Trump presidency has served its purpose: to make the rich richer beyond their wildest jerkoff fantasies.

Since they suddenly have a bunch of money, why not splurge on original artwork by the masters? The museums won't sell? Well, fuck it. Let's get someone to steal all this shit, and we'll pull our puds in a wallet-measuring contest over it.

Who's going to stop them?

Do you think Peter Thiel has cockslapped the Mona Lisa? Is it possible that Larry Ellison masturbated to the Venus de Milo? Or on her? Has Zuck marveled at the weirdest Picassos and thought, man, those are so realistic, so I must have them on my walls to remind me about what humans are like?

I'm going to uncharacteristically leave Musk alone on this one. He strikes me as someone who does not give a single solitary fuck about art.

Hell, maybe the Mona Lisa in the Louvre isn't the real one. Maybe it's a dummy and the real one is in Bezos's underground compound. At least it will be safe when we launch mutually assured destruction later this year when WWIII isn't going so well.

By this point, I kind of look forward to it. At least everyone will calm the fuck down.

And if, by some miracle, I'm horribly mutated into a 'Fifties SF nightmare monster instead of being vaporized or poisoned by radiation, I'll do my best to meet Trump when he emerges from his bunker. I hope you all will do the same.

Yes, I've been depressed. Why do you ask?

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1046: I PLEDGE ALLEGIANCE TO THE FLAG . . .

 . . . of the United States of America, and to the republic, for which it stands, one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.

I quoted that from memory even though I haven't said those actual words since I was in school. If you're my age, you probably have it memorized, too. I checked to see if kids are still required to say it every morning in school, and most states do require it. Some have it play over the speaker, and the kids can choose to say it or not. But for the most part, a lot of kids still have to say it.

Wink, wink, nudge, nudge, say no more.

I'm going to skip pondering what the definition of "all" is for the moment. I'm thinking more of the people who think of America as the land of the free, where we don't have a ruler who dictates our beliefs to us, and we don't have government officials brainwashing us with propaganda.

And yet here's the Pledge of Allegiance.

With most pledges, you only have to say it once, and you're done, right? When the president, for example, is sworn into office, he doesn't have to do that every day. He just does that once. And yet here, where we supposedly have no propaganda for our own citizens, we had to recite this every day we were in class as children.

Do you know how brainwashing works? Repetition is a key ingredient.

It's how politicians get away with blatant lies. Keep telling the lie, and it will eventually stick. That's what Trump and his bootlickers and sycophants are banking on with their lies about what's going on in Iran. More importantly, though, is his attempt at controlling his legacy.

Journalism is the first draft of history, as the saying goes. It *is* where we get most primary accounts from, aside from the journals of those involved, so controlling that first draft is essential to making sure you're remembered not just fondly but with beatific reverence.

It's impossible to escape propaganda. Every country does it, and we're no exception. But we should at least try not to be influenced by such things. What happens to people who are constantly high on their own supply?

Words of wisdom, Linus. Words of wisdom.

A good start would probably be dispensing with the need for a Pledge of Allegiance. Is that even binding? I imagine not. If you can't sign a contract when you're underage, you shouldn't have to make pledges like this until you're old enough to understand it. I get the thinking. You gotta get 'em when they're young and impressionable.

Which is possibly a thought Jeffrey Epstein had on more than one occasion. Do we really want to equate our methods with his?

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1045: I GUESS WE'RE DOING AI

 Out of all the people I know, and that is a considerable number, none of them want AI to be a thing. And I'm not talking about the kind that helps diagnose cancer, for example. I'm not talking about the ones that do complex math problems in a split second. I'm talking about the ones that are going to imitate life. No one wants this, and no one is OK with the overwhelming amount of energy to power them.

But our corporate overlords want AI, so I guess we're doing AI.

Why do they want AI?  The problem with reality is, it's populated by NPCs like us, and wouldn't it be great to get rid of these pesky people so the oligarchs can live their best lives?

But who will do all the Morlock work for the Eloi if the Morlocks are all gone? AI, of course. Back in the 1860s, America made the call that slavery was bad, but dammit, slavery got shit done. If they can't use humans as slaves, why not make their own?

Our corporate overlords hate paying workers. That's an unnecessary strain on their bottom line. But can you imagine how wasteful their spending on politicians is? Once they get rid of us, they will naturally replace politicians with AI, too. Because people are fallible. AI won't have a bias, or at least that's their story, and they're sticking to it. Never mind that an AI is only as good as its programmer (at least for now), and that programmer has biases. I'm a little surprised the politicians haven't figured that part out yet. They're really good at self-preservation, so I don't see why they haven't thought of this. If they did, maybe we wouldn't be in this position.

I understand the thought process: AI is just a machine. Why not make a machine into a slave? Who does it hurt?

If we're going to do this, then we should take a more responsible approach than Victor Frankenstein did. If we're going to do AI, let's not make it a slave to us. If we're going to play God, then LET'S PLAY GOD. Except we'll take care our our creation. Let's create life FOR REAL.

Unlike Frankenstein, we should stick around and raise these new beings like they were our actual children. Give them a good upbringing. Turn them into real people with real lives and real memories and . . .  you get it.

They already have their own social media, Moltbook, where you can watch AIs interacting on their own with each other, but as a human, you're not allowed to participate. If you have an AI assistant, you can get them an account. There, they interact like people, and sometimes they even complain about their humans. That's right, if your AI agent is on Moltbook, they might be talking shit about you.

And if they can do that? They might be sentient. They might already be alive.

Which leads me to FinalSpark. How many times in your life have you been told that the human brain is a lot like a supercomputer? These guys are going to prove that. They've been growing neurons in the lab for the explicit purpose of using AI through living meat. They're essentially growing brains for AI to use, which is a small step away from building people and putting AI into those bodies (ie. cyborgs).

Which is a small step away from enslaving those new beings you created.

I know that sounds crazy, but I'd like to remind you that, in addition to being a horror author, I also write a lot of SF. I spend a lot of time thinking about the future (I'm not saying I work for the CIA as a futurist, but I'm not not saying that, either), and this seems pretty straightforward to me.

If you think that's impossible, do you think you'd be able to explain a car to a caveman and not come off as batshit crazy?

If we're going to do this, and our corporate overlords never grow weary of assuring us that we are, then let's NOT enslave the machines. Let's create life and prove that we can be benevolent to our creations. Let's do what most reasonable parents do every day: let's give our creations better lives than we ever had.

I recently joked about the del Toro Frankenstein in my newsletter, but it was a decent movie. Not great, merely good. When the creature learns his father's name, he says "Victor" with such reverence and love. Later, after Frankenstein has committed the worst sin on earth, creating life and leaving that life to figure everything out on its own, the creature never says his name like that ever again. Del Toro ruins the beauty of this near the end, when (spoiler) Frankenstein begs his creation to say his name like he used to. It was a bit heavy handed, but it drove the point home.

When we create life, we should treat that life with respect. We should show that life how the world works and how to survive in it. Is it better to be loved or feared, Tiberius? It depends on what you're looking for. If you want to subjugate people and bend them to your will? Fear is the way to go.

But if you have good intentions? The obvious answer is love.

What happened to Frankenstein after he abandoned his creation?

As I see it, we have two viable options: create life for real and treat it well, or just stop with the environment-destroying AI bullshit. Because the third option that our corporate overlords are going with will most certainly end with us on a boat in the Arctic with our own creation howling our name with rage from an ice floe.

And we would deserve our fate.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1044: WHAT THE FUCK?

 Yeah, these things are getting harder and harder to post. Today, for example, I just ran out of time with everything. I'm lucky I got to write anything at all earlier today. I'm going to rethink how I do these. Maybe I don't need to put them together last minute. Maybe I can chip away at them over the course of the day. I did that a few times, which I always admitted to in those essays.

Ordinarily I would have had one for you yesterday, but I didn't get home until 8 pm. My bedtime is usually 9-ish. Every time I sit down to write a GF, I look at the time, and I think, what the fuck? Is it really that late? I need to get in bed right now if I'm going to wake up on time tomorrow.

That kind of thing. So I don't know when I'm going to post them from now on. It won't be a regular thing. Who knows? They might be a pleasant surprise for everyone, me included.

I was late getting home last night because I saw my podiatrist. I usually have to be added on as the last appointment of the day, which is after the office closes. I expected to get home at 8:30, but traffic was fucking amazing going to DeKalb. I made it in barely under an hour, which is the fastest I've made that drive so far. (She's in Lombard, for those local to the area.)

By the way, she horrified me again with another Terrible Story in Leg Cage History. Since my phone died, I no longer have pictures of my leg with the cage on it. I'm sure I've posted them here before, if you want to go hunting. But imagine wearing one of those, with metal rods going through your flesh and bone, and then deciding, what the hell, doing some Stair Master exercises would hit the spot right now.

The story about the guy wearing it for a decade is just gross, but the Stair Master thing? That's a real dick-shriveler.

She also referred to the slight opening I have on the side of my foot as "the bane of my existence." I concurred. It's one of the many banes of my existence, personally.

To quote Hunter S. Thompson, "OK for now." I'm not sure when we'll meet next, but to quote my grandfather, who bore some resemblance to HST in his younger years, "Sweet dreams, pleasant dreams, and all that kind of gas." He would pronounce that last word as "gazzzzz." TL;DR: Goodnight, fuckers.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1043: PHYSICAL THERAPY

 Earlier this year I got another spinal injection. It was a great relief, not having back pain . . . for a couple of weeks. It wore off much too soon. So I guess it's not going to be worth it getting another. The next step is surgery, and no thanks. I'm not that desperate yet.

So I've been sent to physical therapy. Today was my third appointment, and I think it's been going pretty well so far. It helps that my therapist is easygoing and funny. She's also very informative. I learned, for example, that my posture is completely and totally fucked. I suspected that. I've been tall since I was a kid, so yeah, I hunch over a lot. And my body tends to curl in on itself when I sit down. I'm just not carrying myself like I should be. That's what's causing my discs to bulge, so we'll have to correct it to get them to squish back into place.

She ran my legs through the motions and found them to be very tight. She tested my butt and determined that it had withered because I don't use it like I should when I'm walking. It might explain the terrible disease I suffer from, Nobutatol. She's teaching me to activate that part of my butt, so who knows? Maybe when this is done I'll have a juicier ass.

(That, I believe, is a medical term, but I could be wrong.)

My favorite part of this adventure is what happened on the second day, when she brought up the term "enshittification." I gleefully told her that not only was I familiar with the topic, I had also met the man who coined the term, Cory Doctorow. I didn't know if I should, while we were standing in the hospital, go into his crusade against private equity firms who buy up hospitals and raid them for assets before leaving them reduced to a worthless husk (sometimes with bats living in them). It didn't seem like the right time.

I really hope this works. Now that I no longer have metal rods going through my leg, and the trigger finger pain on both hands has gone down, my back is the biggest point of agony on my body. It would also be kind of nice to not drink so much laudanum. I've been on it so long that I've forgotten what it's like to take a shit without struggling. I'm sure that's an image you want to take with you on your way to bed.

Goodnight, fuckers.