GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1052: THE OLD FAMILIAR FEAR

 When I was a kid I was certain we were all going to die in a nuclear conflagration. That was my biggest fear until we collectively seemed to realize, hey, these warheads are a bad idea, let's not do the arms race thing anymore. I haven't been worried about it since.

Until now. The old familiar fear is setting in, and the more this Iran . . . whatever the fuck it is gets ratcheted up, the more I feel its icy fingers on my spine.

Because Hegseth and his Dept. of War Crimes is framing this fight as a Biblical one, and he's trying to get his subordinates to understand that it's good versus evil, God versus Satan type of shit. It sounds a hell of a lot like they're trying to jumpstart the apocalypse. Why wait for a prophecy to come true when you can MAKE IT HAPPEN?

I hope I'm wrong, and I'm taking the Stephen King approach. He once said that he writes things as a form of preventative exorcism. If he writes about something he fears, then it can't happen to him in real life.

So here's my fear, in an attempt at poisoning fate's well. Trump is dying. I mean, politically, but his health isn't doing too good, so maybe literally, too. If he's not going to be around, why should the rest of us get to go on living our lives? And would you look at that? A symbolic date is coming up soon: June 6. I wouldn't put it past him to fire a nuke into Iran at 6 in the morning, local time.

What happens when Putin learns of such a nuke? And what will NORAD do when they notice Putin's response?

I hope I'm wrong.

I hope you didn't read that before going to bed. Goodnight. Sleep tight. Don't let the bedbugs bite.

________________________________________

I didn't come up with the "Dept. of War Crimes." Someone said it recently, and I'm trying to remember who, but it sounded so good I had to swipe it.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1051: THE THINGS I'LL MISS

 Starting Monday, I no longer have to be in the office in Elmhurst two days a week. We've hired so many new people that they ran out of desks, so they're letting us more tenured employees work from home every day of the week. That makes me very happy because it will save me time and money. Time in commuting, so I can sleep a little later, and money because HOLY SHIT gas is fucking expensive, and I have no choice but to use a toll road for my commute.

Well, that last part isn't strictly true. If I don't mind adding a half an hour to my drive time, I can take Roosevelt all the way. And if I don't have money for the tolls, I take Roosevelt, anyway. It's called the Lincoln Hwy out here, but it's 38. Half of that road is one lane in each direction, so it's not fun when you get behind a semi (or, shudder, a line of them). Also, if I'm taking 38 back home, that adds an extra 45 minutes, so . . .

I'll have very little reason to leave my apartment come Monday. It will also be the end of my social life, because work is where 100% of my social life exists right now. That's horrifying, I know. I used to go out nearly every night, or at least on weekends. I might even lose my face to face personal skills. I *do* have them, even with a mountain of evidence to the contrary.

When I was a kid I fantasized about being a hermit. Now I might actually get my wish. It would have been nice to enjoy a youthful solitude, but I was kind of hoping to have a compound by now. Above ground, below, I'm not picky. All I really wanted was a bunker to keep the world away, and enough time to read and write to my heart's content. Is that too much to ask?

One of the cool things about my commute was seeing the natural beauty of the area I live in. DeKalb is a city approximately the population of Elmhurst, but everything else around me is farmland as far as the eye can see. It's nice to drive by the horse ranches and know, hey, if I want to get fresh duck eggs, I can stop by this place over here. I love the rickety, skeletal barns and silos, the countryside boneyards, all of it. I enjoy driving over the Fox River in Geneva because if you look off the bridge in just the right way, you can see what it might have looked like 150 years ago.

I'll also miss listening to Hardcore History on my drive. Those episodes are super long, sometimes 4, 5 even 6 hours, so they're ideal for listening material. I'm almost caught up! Which is great because Dan Carlin is currently doing a series on Alexander the Great, but it's horrible because it takes him a very long time to come out with a new episode. So I'll be waiting months like everyone else for part four of Mania for Subjugation.

The wait, by the way, is ALWAYS worth it.

Working from home is a very good thing. It will solve a few of my problems (and I can put off getting a new backpack now, as the one I've used since my Call One days has a strap that's hanging by a thread), but I'll miss these things. They did, indeed, enrich my life.

The best part of not going to Elmhurst every day and back is, it will dramatically lower the possibility of me getting killed in a car wreck. I'm a speed demon, so the first half of my commute is spent blowing away the other drivers at 100+ mph. It would have only been a matter of time before something happened. I'm an okay driver, but I have one ability that has served me well over the years: I'm very good at predicting what other drivers are going to do. I'm almost as good at reacting to that knowledge swiftly and decisively. Going that fast, though? I'd rather not James Dean myself across 88. I hate driving on tollways, and it would gall me to die on one.

I'm pretty sure I'm destined to go out like the King, anyway. Did you know that one of my nicknames in high school was Elvis?

*clears throat*

Are you lonesome tonight?

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1050: PLAYBOY

 I subscribed to Playboy for many years. I did, indeed, read the articles. And the fiction. The pictorials were nice, too, but I viewed that part as a bonus, not the point. When I had to leave home, I had to abandon many issues, but I went through them all in search of stuff I wanted to keep. Like anything involving Hunter S. Thompson or Stephen King or Chuck Palahniuk or Gore Vidal, etc. I've been going through them in my spare time (what's that?), and since I don't have a lot of time tonight, I thought I'd present a few items of interest for your perusal.

Here's some relevant words from the guys who invented Google. Oh, how the mighty have fallen!

Reading their ideas about advertising makes my skin crawl. To say nothing of their violations of privacy. They've learned from it, I suppose. Now they make you give up your privacy as a term and condition.

On to Hunter S. Thompson and the most grievous thing that a friend has ever done to him:

A crime, I say. A crime.

Speaking of HST, here's his self-assessment:

Too bad he's not around for the current clusterfuck we're all living through now.

Now that Ozzy is gone, why not look back on the time he was asked what he wanted for his funeral?

If there were, Ozzy would have figured it out.

Speaking of a celebrity talking about their own death who is also now dead, let's check in with Robert Redford:

It's good advice.

Lastly (for now), I saw this piece about promising new wild card politicians, and I couldn't help but be surprised that a future president and future VP was on the list pretty much next to each other:

Just about everyone else on the list is no longer in politics.

That will do it for now. As I collect more tidbits here and there, I might post them in the future.

To quote Columbo, "There's just one more thing." A sequel of sorts to last night's GF. The image from that one? Here's an earlier version of that for my grandparents. That's the date they were married. No, it's an artifact from this very universe. Nothing parallel about it:

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?