GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #772: FUCK CONTENT

 I've gone on this anti-content rant before--many times--and I wish I had the time to actually go back and find some of it to show as examples, but it's late and I'm on the edge of being too high. It disgusts me whenever someone refers to art as content. And now that I think about it, IP is another term that can take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut.

I'm a huge Ed Brubaker fan. I've been reading his stuff since he did Scene of the Crime at Vertigo back in the 'Nineties. And his is one of the many newsletters I get, and in one he sent not too long ago he goes on a rant about referring to art as content or IP. It reminded me of me, so I thought I'd quote some of it.

I thought I'd open this time with how sick I am of the words 'content' and 'IP.'  They sound like scientific terms, like referring to a car as a "transportation device" or food as "processed nutrition." Which are both technically true, but you never see people actually calling them that like it's some cool industry jargon. 

Yet somehow in the last ten years, I've seen writers and filmmakers, some comics people even, start using the phrase IP regularly and not getting mocked for it. That lack of mocking was a mistake. IP is what the studios called what you did so they could say it was their property and go get a billion dollars from a bank. Banks don't like "comic characters" but "intellectual property" sounds like a real asset. 

And there we have it. Art is worthless, but IP and content are quantifiable things that corporations can make gobs of money off of. I get it. No one wants to take a chance on your art if it's not going to make money, but to reduce value to strictly financial terms is fucking horrible. No wonder the corporate greedheads have been fighting so hard to change the terminology. Art is something worth fighting over. Content doesn't sound like much of anything, does it?

And then he gets to this part:

You even hear about book publishers asking for media rights on novels sometimes now, after hundreds of years of them not doing that.

Aspiring writers, please take note. If a publisher says they're going to buy your book and also wants media rights like, say, for example, movie rights, then DON'T SIGN THAT CONTRACT. They're counting on you being overtaken by the thrill of getting a publishing contract that you won't think this is out of the ordinary. The only rights you should be selling them is the right to publish your book. The only way you should ever sign any other rights to them is to get your money's worth. Make it a price so high that they'll think you're crazy. My price is $100M. If they're willing to pay me that much money for the movie rights to a book, then they're welcome to it. But chances are, they won't. One of the good things about being an author is that you can sell OPTIONS to your work instead of the rights. Sometimes that's the gift that keeps on giving. I wish someone would option some of my books. They don't ever have to make the movie. I don't care. Because that, my good fuckers, is money for nothing. 

You'll have to get your chicks for free some other way, though.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #771: 1 YEAR AND 107 DAYS

 I've heard it for years. "If you really want to lose weight, quit drinking." And I said it time and again: "Drinking keeps me in reasonably trim shape." Note I didn't say "good" shape. Every goddam person I said this to said I was wrong. But guess who was actually wrong.

I weighed 242 pounds the night I had my last drink. Not great, but better than where I'm currently at. Now, a year and 107 days later, I weigh 276 pounds.

I also recall when I started consuming cannabis, trying to break away from booze, that everyone said that it would help me get into shape. I told them all it would make me fat. "Just get the edibles without sugar," I was told. Except people don't realize that the weight doesn't come from eating the fucking edible. It comes from eating EVERY FUCKING THING ELSE because the munchies are, indeed, real.

These days I can stick to one dinner, but that doesn't seem to matter because this weight is here to stay. I can't work out because of my bad leg. And no, I can't work out my upper body because of the pain in my hands. And dieting is out of the question. I've spent a lot of my life doing that, and I'm old enough that if I'm going to eat something, I want to enjoy it.

I'd really hoped the colonoscopy would help thin me out a bit. Considering all the liquid shit that passed out of me? I should have lost at least water weight. Nope, I didn't lose a single pound.

Booze kept me looking good. I'd tell people how much I weighed, and they'd be incredulous because I carry my weight really well. Even when I weighed 306 pounds. And I suppose I should get ready to weigh that much again, if the trend continues.

And I'm pretty sure it will. Getting old sucks. I don't recommend it. As your attorney I advise you to stop aging at 25.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #770: TOY CRIME STORY WRAP UP

 OK, after all that time, Toy Crime Story is over. I just posted the finale earlier tonight. When I first started posting these chapters I said I'd do a wrap up with a revelation I had recently about the work.

I wrote this one a few years back because I wanted to see if I could do a darker version of Toy Story. I wanted the kid to be murdered and the story would be about whodunit. I didn't realize one thing, however, until I reread the whole thing in preparation for posting it online.

I had no idea why I'd named the kid Joey and the dad Wally until a few months ago. I've mentioned it here before, but the first friend I ever had was a kid named Joey. His dad Wally was friends with my stepdad, which was how we met. I think it explains a lot about me that the first friend I ever had died when I was a child. Joey was chewing on a pencil and accidentally broke a piece off and choked on it. Wally tried to save his life but couldn't do it.

It's how I learned about death and that I would someday die. I asked what happens after death, and mom said, "You go in the ground, and the worms eat you."

Yeah, if you have kids, don't tell them that. It scarred me for life and probably helped make me the way I am today. Maybe that's not entirely bad, but I wasn't off to a good start.

So here I am, probably around my 40th birthday, writing a story about a kid named Joey who dies, and his dad Wally is powerless to save him. How did I not notice that at the time? I mean, I was drinking heavily back in those days. I could put away nearly an entire handle of cheap whiskey a night. But I don't think I was that booze-addled when I wrote this. I don't write while drunk.

Weird, right? Although as I look at Toy Crime Story now, I feel like I was exorcising something, but I have no idea what it was. I think about the Catacombs and Man-E-Faces and wonder if maybe the specter of death was trying to get out of my system, but that seems too obvious. To quote an asshole owl, "The world may never know."

No, not Close Encounters. UHF, pal.

TOY CRIME STORY EPILOGUE

 

FIRST EPILOGUE

That Christmas season, Wally and Mimi chose to get a divorce. They couldn’t stay in this place, and the memories of Joey were too strong. It grew to the point where they couldn’t stand to look at each other. They still loved each other, but the reminders were too strong. A divorce seemed to be the only solution.

It was very amiable, as much as it could be. They argued over nothing, and the lawyers breezed through it. They split the price of the house and after they packed everything up, they went their separate ways. They sent each other cards for the holidays and their birthdays, and every once in a while talked to each other on the phone, but they never saw each other again.

Wally couldn’t bear to hold on to the toys. He packed up the remaining ones. When he put Felix in the box, the cat seemed almost sad. The first movie he’d ever owned was a Felix the Cat cartoon on VHS. He felt tempted to hold on to this one, but he just couldn’t. He could see Joey reflected in Felix’s pitch black eyes.

He closed the box. It eventually wound up at Goodwill. In the back room, they deemed several of the toys were too dirty for kids, so they were tossed. Among them was Felix. His wives and kids found new homes, though.

They puzzled over the Donald Duck stuffed animal with a paper bag face. It was a topic of discussion over many lunches, but they tore the face off, and he wound up being a birthday present for a five year old.

Angel and Spike were in good condition, so they sold them as a pair to a thirty-one year old geek who never took them out of their boxes. Spike continued being a pain in Angel’s ass.

No one lived happily ever after.

SECOND EPILOGUE

Cat glided into the Catacombs, ecstatic over how everything ended. He couldn’t be more pleased with himself. His machinations worked out perfectly, just like always.

He went down the stairs, eager to fuck with the dead toys that Man-E-Faces watched over. He jaunted until he saw what remained of Man-E-Faces. He’d been torn limb from limb, his remains scattered on the cold stone. Cat stopped, tail twitching. Who could have beaten Death?

He eased down the steps until he saw that the dead toys were more plentiful. One of them, however, stood out from the rest.

Nightbeat.

He’d been put together hastily, but he was still Nightbeat. Cat should have seen this coming.

“Oh hello!” he said. “Nightbeat! How unexpected!”

“Cat,” Nightbeat said. “Enough with the pleasantries. You know why I’m here.”

“No, I assure you I don’t.” Backing away slightly.

“Come on. You can’t possibly think I would overlook what you did with Don Snowy and the goombas. You tore us apart.”

“Not I. You’ll have to prove it, detective. Beyond a reasonable doubt, naturally.”

“We’re beyond that,” Nightbeat said. “Waaaaay beyond that.”

“Oh my,” Cat said. He turned and ran.

And Nightbeat followed.

THE END

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #769: THE LAST POETRY OF CAPITALISM

 

It's been a while since I went to Anderson's in Naperville, so I thought I'd go down there today to get something. I snagged a copy of the book you see above because I think Werner Herzog is a fascinating man. A lot of people think he's very dry and intimidating and feel the need to take the piss out of him with memes like this:

And this:

To be fair, when you look at films of his like Nosferatu, The Vampyre, I can see why people would think that. Although when I look at something like Grizzy Man, I can't help but think that only someone with a massive sense of humor could make that one. And my theory bears out. Because, well, remember the time he showed up on The Mandalorian?

I'm not a big Simpsons guy, so I won't go too much into that, but yes, he was a voice on the Simpsons, too. If you watch him in interviews you'll see that he's actually a pretty funny guy. In fact, I encourage you to watch this interview by Seth Meyers, which is where I got the title of tonight's GF. Yes, that image on the cover of his book is of him standing on the ledge of not only an active volcano, but a volcano that was in the process of erupting. I don't know much about the hypnotizing thing, but I do know for a fact that he was shot during a live BBC interview. Granted, not by a bullet, but getting shot with an air rifle is still no picnic. And yes, apparently he wears paisley boxers.

But the reason I bring him up is because he managed to do something that I never thought possible. For one brief moment he made capitalism seem beautiful.  When he mentions the "last poetry of capitalism," he's talking about auctioneers. I've been told I speak pretty swiftly, but these guys are otherworldly with their ability to speak that fast. Remember the Micro Machines guy?

And what do they use this remarkable skill for? Selling shit. Not just selling shit, but getting people to buy shit for top dollar. Which is decidedly not beautiful, but at the same time Herzog made me feel this odd thrill about something I couldn't give two shits about ordinarily.

That's the power of a truly creative person. And to have it spoken in English by someone whose birth tongue is German? Herzog never ceases to amaze me and inspire me.

Perhaps I should finally read the other book I picked up by him, The Twilight World. I've always been interested in the Japanese soldiers who continued fighting WWII well into the 'Seventies, and here is Herzog's book about one of them. It is one of the few books I didn't pack up.

I'm reading too many right now. We'll see.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #768: PALIMPSEST

 

There's been an odd confluence of Gore Vidal going on with me right now. I've gotten into three conversations about him this week, so I thought maybe now would be a good time to bring this up.

You may recall that when I went to the psych ward the previous occupant of my room had left behind several books, and I'd picked up Empire by Gore Vidal. I was hooked immediately and went on to get the rest of his Narratives of the Empire series, and that sent me off looking for the rest of his work.

After having read quite a bit, I think Vidal is a fascinating author, and I very much enjoy his style. When I saw that he'd written an autobiography, I knew I had to get it. But when it comes to older books these days, I'm loath to get them the new way. It's so easy to go on Amazon or some such site to get them, and there's none of the thrill of the hunt. So a while back I decided I was going to find Palimpsest the old fashioned way: by hanging out in bookstores.

After a couple of years of searching, my efforts were finally rewarded last Thursday. I found it at the Half Price Books in Bloomingdale on Army Trail. And yes, I did feel that rush of success after a long search. I'd forgotten what that was like. It reminded me of the lengths I used to go to in getting rare movies back in the VHS era. Anyone else do that? Remember going through catalogs looking for your prize? Those weren't professionally printed back then. They were fucking mimeographed. Do you remember that shit?

The universe further rewarded me by putting another book next to Palimpsest.

I didn't know that his memoirs continued into another book, so now I have that one, too. To quote Denny Crane from Boston Legal, "Already my penis feels bigger."

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #767: BOSTON LEGAL

 

Over the weekend I watched the series finale of Boston Legal. It never seemed like a show that I would be interested in. Lawyers and courtrooms and such. Not my cuppa. But I was hanging out with a friend of mine, talking about how much I loved James Spader on The Blacklist, and he said I should watch Boston Legal. He mentioned one scene in particular. Spader is in the men's room taking a piss, and Candice Bergen walks in. She's one of the name partners, and he's fairly new at the firm. Moments after he zips up, he offers his hand to shake. She says that he should wash his hands first, and he replies, "I assure you I keep an extremely clean penis." Which is such a Spader thing to say.

I had no idea that everyone on this show is Spader-crazy in their own individual ways, and the show gets crazier and crazier the longer you watch it. At many points over the course of its five seasons, characters mention that they're on a TV show. At one point a new character is introduced, and William Shatner insists that he's no one important, or he would be in the opening credits. Then, when we get the opening credits, there's the new guy! Or when Spader wonders what they're going to get up to next season. There's a scene where one of the characters actually sings along to the Boston Legal theme song, which is weird because there are no lyrics. He just makes the sounds and bops his head. And in yet another scene, a character talks about a great show that is currently on the air and barely stops short of actually saying "Boston Legal."

I really wish I'd watched this show when it was actually live on TV. Spader's courtroom speeches are monologue masterpieces because it's not all about sheer lunacy. It's about injustice and how the system is geared against regular people in favor of corporations and government. So you can see how the moral message of the show really appealed to me.

But what I really want to talk about is the friendship between Alan Shore (Spader) and Denny Crane (Shatner). It explores a side of male friendship that often goes unexplored. These are two men who genuinely love each other, and it has nothing to do with sex or romance.

Yes, it is possible for two men to love each other, and it's not about sex or romance. Not only is it possible, it happens a lot.

And for fuck's sake, don't call it a bromance. What a cheap way of referring to something quite beautiful.

They tell each other of their love for one another. They have sleepovers. (You think I'm kidding about the sleepovers?) When Denny is afraid to have his head scanned for Alzheimers, Alan gets the test done first to show there's nothing to be frightened of. They have matching Halloween costumes (my favorite is the flamingos). When they realized they were too old for military duty, they broke their backs trying to get into any branch of the military that would let them in (and the National Guard took them!). They even hold hands sometimes.

Those of you who know how the show ends might mention one thing to me. It's a SPOILER, so tread lightly.

Denny does has Alzheimers, but he's been calling it Mad Cow Disease since season one because the alternative is unthinkable. He wants to make sure that when he's gone, Alan gets everything. So in a frantic moment Denny asks Alan to marry him. Alan would get every penny, no taxes taken out. At first Alan is reluctant, but then he figures, what the hell? And after a legal battle, they actually do get married. The show ends with them dancing on the balcony they usually end each show on, drinking Scotch and smoking cigars. And that's when I wish one of them had said to the other, just before the credits rolled, "Sleepover?"

There's a thing going around about male loneliness. I suppose I can sympathize, but I can't empathize. I have never been lonely a day in my life. Alone? Plenty. But I like being alone. So I have no idea what loneliness is like. I've been blessed with a lot of friends, which is really weird because that was not always the case. The first 20 years of my life? Not many friends. Very few. I could count them all on the fingers of one hand.

Sometimes I wonder if maybe I should start a business and teach people how to be alone. Or maybe do a self-help thing where I teach people how to attract friends. It's not that difficult. I have never tried to attract more friends, and I have an abundance of them. I think it's a matter of not coming off as miserable, that's all.

But I think a shortcut to that kind of thing is to simply watch Spader and Shatner on Boston Legal. I find it interesting that, politically, they're opposites. This was back in the old days when the left and the right weren't constantly at each others throats and denigrating each other and not giving a fucking inch to the other side under any circumstances. They disagree on those kinds of things all the time, but it doesn't hurt the love they have for each other. Alan often defends the poor, which Denny finds appalling. Denny often has at least five guns on him at any given time (and the means to turn his flatulence into a flamethrower if needed, and I am absolutely not kidding about that) and has shot people, sometimes on accident, which Alan thinks is insanely irresponsible.

But these two men love each other.

Of all the fucking shows that get reunions, why not Boston Legal? It's the only show I can think of that I would like to find out what happened to these characters. Reunion shows are almost always a waste of time. I don't like them on principle. But I would make an exception for this one.

Are Alan and Denny still dancing? I like to think so.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #766: ANOTHER CLOSE BRUSH

 I've had a few close brushes with death. A few times doctors have even told me that I was dying. Once they even loaded me up with Dilaudid to help ease my passage into the next life. But each of those times I wasn't convinced that I was dying.

During the early morning hours today I knew to a certainty that I was dying. I knew there was only one thing that could possibly save me, and thankfully my plan worked, or I wouldn't be here to type this out tonight.

I woke up in the middle of the night because of a light in my room. There was a blinking light coming from my laptop. Ordinarily it wouldn't bother me, but this time, for whatever reasons, it did. I scrounged around my room, looking for something to block it or cover it. When I succeeded, I felt very strange. Like, low blood sugar strange.

I shouldn't have felt it. My blood sugar should have been very high after the dinner I ate last night. But just in case, I tested my blood. It came out to 52, which is not quite disastrously low, but pretty close. So I grabbed the almond M&M bag I kept close by for just such occasions and started eating a few. Except it didn't make me feel normal. It was making me feel worse.

My heart rate zoomed, and I could feel it straining to keep me alive. I found it difficult to breathe. I realized, holy shit, 52 wasn't my final answer. My blood sugar had to be dropping more. So I ate faster until I realized I was still getting worse. The sugar wasn't getting into my blood fast enough.

I wasn't going to make it. I was going to hit zero, and then I'd be dead. Or hopefully I'd just pass out, and the sugar would get into my blood just in time to bring me back. But that was seeming less and less likely.

My mouth was full, and swallowing became very difficult. I only had one chance: to get downstairs and get my brother's help. I stood up on wobbly legs that barely held me up while I went down the stairs, and I had to stop in the kitchen. I called out to him, and while I waited for him, I grabbed a box of Count Chocula and shoveled dry handfuls into my mouth. When he came up and saw what was happening, he went back down and came up with a whole package of Halloween themed Oreos. I sat in the kitchen and ate those until I felt normal again.

What a relief, huh? I was going to live. It would have sucked dying like that. At least with the booze people would have understood. When people asked how I died and were told the 'Beetus, they'd be like, oh, too bad. That's a rough one. He must not have been controlling it all that well.

No, actually, he died of low blood sugar.

Wait, what? He died of *low* blood sugar? How the hell did that happen?

I went back upstairs to my room and decided to watch Upload for a little in an attempt to go back to sleep. AND THEN IT FUCKING HAPPENED AGAIN.

After all the sugar I'd just eaten, there's no way my blood sugar could have been that low still. I tested it again and IT WAS MOTHERFUCKING 50. That couldn't be possible! Unless . . .

How low had my blood sugar gone the first time? Is it possible score negative numbers? Had I actually been to zero and come back a little?

I went back downstairs--on wobbly legs once again, once again trying to catch my breath and not have a heart attack--and I ate the rest of those Oreos. I overcompensated, just in case, and when I woke up this morning I scored 310, so I made sure I wouldn't die of low blood sugar, but that's a wildly high number. If I hit 400, I'd have to go to the hospital. I felt lousy enough to call off work, and I'm out of days, so yeah, this ordeal was pretty fucking bad.

It was the only time I was ever dying that I knew, for sure, I was dying. I felt like I was on a downward spiral, barely holding on by a thread. I felt like I was on the very edge when I sat in that kitchen, fully expecting to collapse and not wake up again, not even in a hospital room. Depending on what stuff of mine you read, Good Morning, Fuckers yesterday morning might have been the last of me you ever heard.

Well, I do have a postmortem GF column prepared in that eventuality, but I never expected it would need to be used so soon.

I lucked out. This time.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #765: THIS NIGHT ONLY

 

Imagine getting tickets to go to a play. The tickets say THIS NIGHT ONLY on them. You find out that the president of the United States is going to be there, watching the play with you. Sounds pretty interesting, no? And then some fucker (not one of you reading these columns, I mean an actual bad fucker) shoots the president.

This night only takes on a different meaning.

The play in question was Our American Cousin. The theater, Ford's. The president was none other than Abraham Lincoln. And the picture you see above is of two used tickets to the show. They went up for auction a few weeks ago and sold for $262,500.

It's kind of weird to sell historical artifacts like that, but this is the world we live in. It's not even the weirdest historical artifact to be sold. Rasputin's penis, for example, was sold to a museum in Russia. A lot of people doubt its authenticity, but it was sold to the museum by Rasputin's daughter, Maria. If anyone was to sell it, I'm pretty sure it would be someone who knew him personally. I still have questions, as I'm sure you all do, but I lean toward it being legit.

If GF can be said to have a slogan, it's, "History is never far behind us." That these tickets to Ford's Theater on that tragic night have resurfaced is proof of that. And there's more. The bullet that killed Lincoln is still out there. I think the White House Historical Society has it. And the historical museum where Ford's used to be has the gun that fired it.

Hell, there are life and death masks of Lincoln out there, too, just in case we ever doubt what he actually looked like. We have paintings and photos and such, but there is no substitute for a 3D image to give a dead historical figure life.

When I was a kid the Fullersburg Forest Preserve had a walkthrough exhibit where you could see bones of a wooly mammoth that had been found there. They recently put it together, and now it towers in the exhibit they currently have there, but back then I'd reach over the ropes and put my hand on the mammoth's bones. It seems kind of silly, but it transported me back. I felt a thrill, like I was actually touching history.

There's plenty of history out there, and one person just paid a shit-ton of money to touch (and own) one grim piece of it. If I had the money, I might have done the same.

And then I think of centuries from now, whatever civilization that takes over from us might find my old bones. I wonder if one of their children might pick up, say, my femur and wonder who I was.

TOY CRIME STORY PART 17

 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A month later, the toys had gotten used to Joey not being around. They went about their day as per usual, except when Wally or Mimi were around. They still came into this room every once in a while, Wally with a bottle, both in tears. Their mourning continued for a long time after Don Snowy and his henchmen had been unstuffed.

One morning, Cat seemed especially cheery. He greeted everyone with a pleasant demeanor. “Oh hello!” he cried out. Everyone knew something was up with him, but no one could suspect what he had in mind.

His last stop was Nightbeat. “Hello, my friend!”

“What do you want?” Nightbeat asked.

“Why, you old curmudgeon, Nightbeat. Can’t I ever be in a good mood?”

“No,” Nightbeat said. “I’ve been to the Catacombs. I know what you really are.”

“And what is that?”

“Evil.”

Cat tsked Nightbeat. “And cynical, too.”

“So, what do you want?”

“Pish posh,” Cat said. “Just saying hello.” And he walked toward the closet.

Nightbeat couldn’t let it go. He followed Cat, but he tried to be stealthy about it. The closet door was left open just a crack, so he peeked in. He couldn’t see Cat, it was so dark. Something moved, but he couldn’t tell what. He considered walking in to get a closer look, but something—perhaps his cop instinct—told him that would be a bad idea, that maybe he should get away as soon as possible. He didn’t want to, but he trusted himself enough to take his face away from the closet door.

Not a moment too soon. The closet suddenly burst open, and a flurry of white came crashing out. It moved too quickly for Nightbeat to tell what it was, but he thought it was round and big. Very big.

“Oh no!” Cat called out. “It’s been set loose!”

Everything about his voice sounded false to Nightbeat. Whatever it was, he knew to a moral certainty that Cat had let it free.

“What’s that?!” Bunny screamed.

It sped toward him and rolled him over, stopping briefly to tear through his fur. With horror, Nightbeat realized it was tearing the stuffing out of Bunny. Now that it was stopped, he could see that it was a giant ball of stuffing with a thin white cloth stitching it all together.

It was the remains of Don Snowy and his goombas.

“Help!” Bunny cried. “It’s hurting me! Make it stop!”

“I’ll help!” Fox said. He grabbed Bunny by the ears and tried to pull back. It almost worked. Nightbeat watched as Bunny was torn in half, stuffing unraveling out of his belly. The ball quickly sucked the rest of the stuffing out of Bunny, reducing him to nothing but torn cloth.

Fox tried to leap back, but it grabbed him next, ripping through his stuffing like a chainsaw through butter. He screamed, but it was too late. He was reduced to nothing, just like Bunny.

“Cat!” Nightbeat yelled. “Get over here, you son of a bitch!”

“What?” Cat said. “I did nothing!”

“You did this! That’s Don Snowy and his henchmen! You put them back together like some insane Humpty Dumpty! You have to kill it!”

“I did nothing of the sort,” Cat said. “That you would think it of me!”

Angel and Spike had gotten plastic swords from a knight’s playset that Joey had gotten for his last birthday. They tried poking the whirling dervish, but the tips were flung away on contact. It went for Angel, but the plastic sword was enough to keep it at bay.

“What the fuck is that?” Don Draper asked. “Peggy! Get in here! I need more scotch!”

“I ought to feed you to that fucking thing!” Nightbeat yelled at Cat. “Make it stop!”

Cat shrugged. “That is beyond my power.”

“I swear by Primus that I’ll unstuff you myself if I survive this.”

Cat smiled. “You’re welcome to try.”

“Whoa!” Spike shouted. “Keep back, you bugger!” The ball had tried to grab him by the boot, but he managed to slap it back with the broad side of his sword.

While it was distracted, Angel tried to stab it with all of his might. The sword made a dent, but it was quickly filled in. “It’s like fighting a piece of Jell-O!”

“Any help would be bloody appreciated!” Spike yelled.

Felix was passed out elsewhere. Don Draper had too much booze in him to do anything. Felix’s wives and sons looked terrified. It fell unto Nightbeat. “Angel! Spike! Give it everything you’ve got! Keep it distracted!”

Both nodded without taking their eyes off the ball. They no longer attacked from opposite sides. Instead they drew together, side by side, and hit the ball with everything they had. It fought them both furiously.

Nightbeat transformed and drove toward the ball as quickly as he could. Just as he approached, he transformed back into himself and plunged toward it, both fists forward so his body was shaped like an arrow. He plunged directly into the ball’s center, and he ripped at all the stuffing he could.

“YO!” the ball screamed. It had to be some kind of atavistic memory. There was no way it could possibly know what it was.

Angel and Spike’s swords dug in, and they shoveled out as much stuffing as they could. Nightbeat whirled inside, ripping and tearing, then transforming to skid his tires through said stuffing, flinging it out from the ball. It fought back, trying to tear Nightbeat apart, still strong enough to do it.

Finally the swords pierced the ball all the way through, and Angel and Spike yanked in opposite directions. The ball ripped open, and all of its stuffing was sent to the four corners of Joey’s room. It uttered a groan and died.

Angel poked at the cloth, still uncertain.

“He’s dead, you idjit,” Spike said.

Don Draper staggered over. “Where’s Nightbeat? I saw him go in.”

They poked at the remains of the ball until they found Nightbeat, or what was left of him. His limbs had been torn from his body, as was his head. They sensed none of his spark. He was dead.

“Gave his life to save you all,” Cat said. “He was a true hero.”

They all surrounded Nightbeat’s twisted body except for Cat. He kept a good distance from them because he knew what would come next.

“You did this,” Angel said. “I heard what Nightbeat said to you. I trust him.”

“Get him,” Spike said.

The toys turned on Cat, but just before they could advance, Felix jumped up. “Human!” he yelled.

Everyone scattered, and Cat fled to the Catacombs.

The door opened, and Wally stepped in. Mimi was just a half-minute behind him. They both scanned the room. “I could have sworn I heard something,” Wally said.

“Look.” Mimi pointed to the mess of what had been several of the toys.

Wally hunkered down and picked up a handful of stuffing. “What could have done this?”

“Rats?” Mimi asked.

“I’m pretty sure we don’t have any. I guess I could call the exterminator.”

“This is . . . it’s . . . disgusting.” Mimi grimaced. “Joey would not have wanted this.”

“Aw hell.” Wally picked up Nightbeat’s head. “I really liked this one when I was a kid. He was my favorite. I guess that’s why I still had him when I moved out of my parents’ house.”

“I’ll clean it up,” Mimi said. “Go call the exterminator, okay?”

Wally nodded, still holding Nightbeat’s head. He picked up the rest of him, thinking maybe he could put him back together. It was worth a shot. And who knew? Transformers were making a comeback. He might be worth something.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #764: THE MUSES

 

Short one tonight. Not a lot of time. But listen to this while reading.

It always amuses (heh) me when authors talk about muses. Mostly they're talking about inspiration. But I don't really get inspiration. I get orders. You must write about this. And this is how you will do it. What are you going to do, not write something?

I don't have a muse. I think Dexter Morgan would have more of an understanding of what I have. Gustavo, a little help here?

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #763: ONE BUCK NET FUCK

 First of all, that's the first time I've seen the "formerly known as" thing in the actual headline.

Secondly . . .

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!

What a fucking loser.

Yes, I did read the article. It's not for existing users. It's for new users. And it's not for all new users. Musk is only rolling it out to New Zealand and the Philippines. His reasoning?

"It’s the only way to fight bots without blocking real users," Musk wrote. "This won’t stop bots completely, but it will be 1000X harder to manipulate the platform."

I'm tempted to post another block of laughter here, but that might be overkill. You know it's overkill when *I* am showing restraint. If you want to read further about his ridiculous Not-a-Bot bullshit, you can look at this.

But let's face facts. I have received more bot friend requests from the site currently known as Ex now than I received back when it was merely known as Twitter. I'm pretty sure Ex would collapse without the bots, they are that ubiquitous. If he killed all the bots, his advertising revenue would completely dry up, and right now he can't afford that. But we have two options. Either Musk is being disingenuous about his motives, or he's a complete fucking idiot. I have seen enough evidence to support both theories.

Sure, a buck a year doesn't sound like much. It isn't. Does he think for a single fucking second that bots would cease to exist simply because he's charging this fee? How many people paid eight bucks for the verification who were *not* the people they claimed to be? The argument could be made that bots aren't people, but the impetus for the bots' existence has to come from somewhere. I'm sure the people who create the bots would be OK with a lowly investment in order to fleece other users for much larger sums.

This is such an obvious thing that I can't believe that Musk is being serious with this fuckin' thing. He's the world's richest dumbbell, but is he that stupid?

Are you familiar with Cory Doctorow? He's got a theory about why large social media platforms die. First you treat the users really well, and once they're locked in, you treat them like shit and treat the advertisers really well. The last stage is when you treat them like shit, too, and suck all the value out of the platform for yourself with whatever innovations you plan on unleashing on your captive audience. Like, perhaps, making Ex our "everything app." Doctorow calls it "enshittification." A good name, I think.

If you read that NYT article, you'll see that a lot of American tech entrepreneurs have tried to create an everything app, and they've all failed, possibly because of cultural differences between us and the countries in which it *does* work. And this clown thinks he can crack this particular nut?

Even if we cast all of that aside, the real reason so many people are addicted to social media is because it's free. I can think of no better way to torpedo Ex than to charge even a single American dollar for a year's worth of use. I think Ex is a shitty site, but I hang on because there are a lot of people I like interacting with there. If, however, this one buck net fuck plan gets rolled out to the rest of us, I will leave that site on principle.

Which isn't a bad idea. Social media being awful is a story for another day, but I've been pulling back on all of it. It would probably be better to not be on Ex and just have my Facebook and let that be it. I'm not going to run around to all these other social media sites that will be gone by the end of the year anyway. But I've rambled enough for now. Goodnight, fuckers.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #762: SKULLS

 I was about to get up on my soapbox again about the failings of American journalism in this day and age, but maybe I'll just settle for pondering a little. Besides, this isn't about my usual complaints when it comes to reporting the news. This story was not shoved out there in an attempt to beat everyone else to the scoop. It's just a lack of follow up, that's all.

Last month in Goodyear, AZ, a Goodwill store reported to the police that someone had donated a human skull to them. Just Google "Goodwill skull," and you'll get a lot of hits. A bunch of articles about this one story, all dated Sept. 6-8. You won't find any new developments after those dates because this news story, apparently, wasn't important enough to get more details. The media all got together and decided this one was just worth the shits and giggles and nothing else.

Here's what we know. Someone donated the skull. Who? Eh, an unimportant detail. Not worth looking into. The skull was examined by the ME, and it was determined that it was human and that it was not involved in a crime. At least not recently. This, as it turns out, is an historical skull. Possibly ancient. We can get answers, but no one is willing to ask the questions. Also, we know that it had that glass eye you see above. So we know that whoever this person was, he only had one eye.

If I was just one (1) of those journalists, I would have circled back to find out more about this story. It's fascinating. Why would anyone drop off an ancient human skull at a Goodwill? Did the police even investigate? I don't imagine they did. Once they found out it wasn't evidence of a crime that could be prosecuted, they understandably lost interest. It's not their job. But surely someone must have wondered where this fuckin' thing came from. I get it. It's difficult to go to a news site and find any headlines not about Trump or Israel vs. Hamas or the speaker of the House. Everyone's focusing on these things, which is why I would argue that someone *should* investigate the skull. A lot of journalists are covering those three things. Put someone else on the skull thing.

I told a little tiny lie earlier in this piece. If you Google Goodwill skull, there is one hit that stands out from the rest, and it's this li'l guy here. Almost ten years ago three (3) human skulls were donated to *another* Goodwill, this one in Washington State. Was it the same person who donated one in Goodyear, AZ? And is Goodwill a decent place to get rid of a skull if you have one taking up space at home? At least there was some follow up with that story, but if you'll allow me to revisit last night's topic a little, that was nearly a decade ago. Our attention spans have dwindled since then, have they not? So maybe that's what's happening here.

Does no one have a healthy sense of curiosity anymore? I hate to end on a trite note, but while curiosity may have killed the cat, satisfaction brought him back.

So let's not end on a trite note. Instead, let's talk about something this news story reminded me of. Maybe twenty-five years ago I heard a story about a guy who bought a smoker from a yard sale. When he got home and decided to fire it up, he opened it and discovered a human leg in there. The original owner of the smoker had only one leg. It turned out that he'd used the smoker to store his amputated leg because he didn't want to get rid of it.

Goddammit, they let him keep an entire leg? But when I wanted to keep my first amputated toe, they said it would be impossible? That it had to go in the incinerator or to a funeral home to hold onto it until I die? What the fuck?

Anyway, the guy tried suing to get his leg back. I was about to say that I didn't know how it all turned out, but I Googled it right now and HOLY SHIT THERE'S A DOCUMENTARY ABOUT THIS ONE! It's called Finders Keepers, so I'm going to have to watch that sometime soon. It turns out that my memory's bad. It was more like 20 years. And it wasn't a yard sale. It was a storage auction. Ordinarily I'd go back and rewrite this portion with the corrections, but I wanted to illustrate how you can get it wrong sometimes. If I was posting this to a news site, I would have gotten it wrong because I would be in a hurry to beat the others to the scoop. I would have then had to post a correction that no one would have read, so everyone who read the original article would go the rest of their lives thinking that was the truth.

THAT'S why it's important to get it right the first time. THAT'S why you can't rush real journalism.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #761: ATTENTION SPAN

 Remember a while ago when I begged you all to stop multitasking in order to live a better life (and possibly make my square job a little easier)? Tonight's topic is related because a majority of people lack focus. Not too long ago I read another of Arnold Schwarzenegger's newsletters, and now maybe I'm thinking this lack of focus isn't entirely a choice.

You really, really don't have to read this. It's long and academic and kind of dry, but the reason I'm putting that link there is because that's where he gets his numbers. 20 years ago, he says, our attention span lasted approximately 2.5 minutes, and over time it's continued dropping. Now it's at a depressing 47 seconds (and others say it's a mere 8!). Not even a full fucking minute. The study says that technology is to blame, specifically staring at phone and computer screens and spending time on social media.

Once again, I get it. We're all busy. We've got stuff to do. But it is my belief that our dropping attention spans are ruining the quality of our lives. Schwarzenegger agrees: ". . . the less you focus, the more likely you are to experience stress and anxiety and have a harder time being present and feeling happy."

How often have you gone online to find more information about something? And then you see something else, and now you want to learn more about that? And so on and so forth? People call it "going down the rabbit hole." Think about every time you've ever done that. How have you felt afterward? How much info did you actually retain? Did you even get an answer to your first question?

No wonder we're having difficulty being present. There are too many presents, and we want a piece of them all, and we're not exercising the control needed to focus. I wonder what our attention spans will be like in 20 years. If the current trend continues, we might not have an attention span. In one ear, out the other. Or, more apropos of the topic, in one eye and out the other.

I've got a fairly good attention span. Another of Schwarzenegger's newsletters suggests that those who read have a better time of it, and I not only read a lot, I spend a lot of time in nature reading (weather permitting, of course). So what can you do to improve your ability to focus? He's got some suggestions. I'm just going to copy and paste them below. Good luck in applying these to your life.

1. Block off 2 to 3 times per day when you don’t use your phone. On some level, we’ve all become addicted. You must train your brain to go without your phone to break the cycle, just as you must train your muscles to become stronger.

2. Get outside and walk for 20 minutes. You can listen to music or call a friend, but try to stay off the screen or social media. Being outside and moving can help your brain reset and focus.

3. Do something quiet and mundane that requires some level of focus. It can be a crossword puzzle, the dishes, or laundry.

4. Read a book for 30 minutes. You’re not just training your brain to stay off your phone; you’re training to maintain focus for a longer time on a singular task.

Out of curiosity, does anyone remember this show? Do you remember the name? There are no prizes for this piece of trivia, but you'll have my undying respect if you do know.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #760: 1 YEAR AND 90 DAYS

 

It has been one year and ninety days since my last drink, and it finally happened. I was wondering when it would happen due to my habits back in those days. It couldn't possibly be that it wouldn't happen. I'd hidden too much booze around my bedroom for there to not be any stashed away. I was starting to think I'd done a good job of getting rid of everything, but yesterday I found this bottle.

And there was still some booze left at the bottom. And it's Wild Turkey 101, my favorite alcoholic drink. Well, the favorite I can afford. My actual favorite is Bookers, but that costs nearly $90 a bottle these days.

So . . . 

I didn't. Because shit's been even more difficult than usual around here. I feel like every fucking day is a struggle, and it's a struggle without victory. Sometimes I lose the battle and have to do it all over again for the sake of the war. Oftentimes it's a Pyrrhic victory. More often than not it's an ongoing fight without any end in sight. And it's wearing me down.

The only times I feel I'm not in a fight for my goddam life is when I'm reading or watching a show or movie. All other times I'm under a constant attack from every fucking problem I've ever had EXCEPT for booze. Until yesterday, I guess.

I don't think I'm going to drink it. If it's going to have any power to make my troubles go away, at least temporarily, then I'm going to need a lot more than that. But I think I'm going to keep it around. You might recall how I agree with Emilio Estevez as Billy the Kid when he said that you have to test yourself every day.

Should be a good test.

TOY CRIME STORY PART 16

 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Don Snowy sat in the middle of Joey’s bedroom, legs bound and arms tied behind his back. All of the toys circled around him except for Bunny and Fox. “I can’t watch this,” Bunny said. “This is too ugly.”

“Me, neither,” Fox said. His mittened hands covered his face.

Nightbeat stood in front of Don Snowy. “Any last words?”

Don Snowy sighed. “Yo! I did this for Bueno Excellente! It was revenge! Don’t you see that?!”

“Is that all?” Nightbeat asked.

Don Snowy glared hatred at him. “Yo, fuck you!”

“Cat?” Nightbeat asked.

Cat, the only one of them big enough to hold a pair of scissors, stepped forward. He’d gotten them from downstairs when Wally and Mimi were out. They gleamed next to Don Snowy’s soft white outsides.

“I’d say this gives me no pleasure,” Cat said, “but I’d be lying.”

Gleefully, he stabbed the blades into Don Snowy’s fat stomach. He snipped wildly, opening torn hole after torn hole. Don Snowy screamed, but Cat wouldn’t stop until the belly disappeared, showing only his stuffing.

Angel and Spike stepped forward. “This is for Joey, you cunt,” Spike said. Both of them dug into Don Snowy’s gaping stomach and scooped out handfuls of stuffing. Don Snowy cried and begged and threatened and screamed until there was nothing left inside of him. His empty husk lay in the middle of the room.

“Justice has been served,” Nightbeat said. It didn’t feel like justice, though. In a just world, Joey would be alive.

The toys came together and cleaned up both Don Snowy and his team of goombas. They hid the stuffing and cloth shreds deep into the closet, where they were fairly certain no one would ever find them. The toys went on with their lives, and Cat retreated to the Catacombs. Later that night, when everyone slept, he came back with a bundle under one arm. He went to the closet.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #759: PEN NAMES

 I don't think I've ever done a thing about the various other names I've written under, so I thought perhaps I'd go down the list here. Compared to other authors I don't have all that many pen names. I probably should have written everything under a pen name, considering how my writing cost me a good job once upon a time, but what the hell. Here's the list.

In high school I tried writing stories under the pen name [redacted]. Ho-ho, why is this redacted? Because I actually use the name in my upcoming sex book. I just finished the first draft last week, and I thought it would be funny to throw it in there. I can only think of two people reading this who might recall that pen name, so I want to see if anyone else can catch it. It's kind of easy, though. Good luck finding it!

I also wrote gay porn under the pen name Anthony Haversham. It's a variation on the name of a character I used to write in high school. It's too long a story to go into here, but I used to write these horrible tales about an insipid masturbator's adventures in masturbation. He eventually morphed into another character named Richard Thruster (heh) cowritten with one of my friends who is probably reading this now and is one of the two who will remember that other pen name. I wrote "Bobby Yandell, Private Investigator" under this name, as well as its sequel, "My Dick is Quick." I also wrote "Cocksmoke," my porn parody of Gunsmoke, under this name.

I wrote another story under that name, but the editor decided to change it for publication. I'm OK with that because this one was a hetero porn story. I don't even remember the actual title because it was published as a letter to Penthouse. I was writing fiction for Penthouse, but Penthouse Variations picked it up instead, and they wanted it to be in a letter format. Haversham turned into Walter K. of Dallas, TX. Unlike many letters to Penthouse, this was actually based on a true story of what happened to me. Remember when I said I used to be a distance man? A girlfriend once made me cum in my own eye, and that's what this story was about. Imagine my disappointment when I read the published version to see they'd wrung all the humor out of it and tried to class it up. Ah well.

I wrote one story under the name Jack F. Graves. Yeah, yeah, I know. That's a stupid pen name. I'm the edgiest edgelord who ever edged. I thought it was cool and even kind of funny. I published "Pimp of the Living Dead" under that one. I'm almost certain I included it in Tales of Questionable Taste, but I'm too lazy to look it up. It was originally in the first issue of Tabard Inn, which I'd put together with the help of friends. I didn't want it to seem too much like a friends-only fiction magazine, so I made up Jack Graves on the spot.

Lastly I wrote the book [REDACTED AS A MOTHERFUCKER] under the pen name [also redacted] because if I released it under my name, I'm pretty sure someone would have killed me by now. I didn't even use Amazon for it. I had to use another company, one that doesn't strike me as all that important, because I knew I'd probably never be able to publish another book through them again. Surprisingly this book has yet to be pulled from that site, possibly because very few people know about it.

I'm fairly certain that's it, but I've been drunk for a solid decade and change, so something might have slipped through the cracks. Only a handful of people know who wrote that last book, and I'd like to keep it that way. But in all honesty, looking back on it, that book has my style stamped all over it. I'd be shocked if someone who knew me well read it and didn't think I'd written it.

Good luck getting that title out of me, by the way.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #758: THE CONSUMER FINANCIAL PROTECTION BUREAU

Say you're strapped for cash, and you need money fast. You don't have a structured settlement, so you can't call JG Wentworth. So you figure you might as well go to a payday loan company. And you see the interest rates are staggeringly high, but you're kind of stuck, so you have no choice. In order to borrow a few hundred dollars, you wind up having to pay back thousands.

I'm pretty sure the Mafia (not that they exist, Omerta) has a term for that kind of predatory loan practice . . .

There is only one thing standing between you and that situation happening today, and it's the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau, created in the face of the fucking crazy shit bankers pulled that led to the recession in 2008. The CFPB is there to stop this shit from happening to you. So it's no big surprise that all sorts of money lending companies have been trying to put an end to the CFPB for the 12-ish years it has existed.

Except the scumbags might finally have the bureau on the ropes. It's kind of hard to justify shooting a child in the face, much like it's hard to justify suing for the right to abuse American consumers, so they had to take a different tactic, and they have. The CFPB is currently on the chopping block, waiting for a Supreme Court decision to figure out if they get to still protect us from the corporate greedheads.

They're trying to argue that the CFPB is unconstitutional because of the way it gets its funding, and they managed to flimflam a few judges so much that the government actually appealed this all the way up to the Supreme Court. I gotta say, considering the rampant corruption on that particular bench and how they destroyed Roe v Wade on a federal level, the corporate greedheads might actually have a shot at this. The Justices so far have come down in favor of us consumers, but the final decision hasn't been made yet. It's expected at the end of this term.

I can't say it enough: Public Enemy #1 in this country is Corporate Fucking Greed. And here it is again, trying to fart in our faces and call it a summer breeze. We're barely holding onto our shit as it is. If the CFPB falls, then we're fucked.

The supposedly unconstituional way they get their funding is that it's whatever they decide it is up to a certain point. The greedheads are trying to say that's like installing a dictator, but the past has showed that the CFPB has never, not once, abused this system. Not only that, but it's how the bureau maintains its independence. If it got funding any other way, they would be swayed by the interests of those who funded it, and then we have an Ouroboros situation, like most of this country is stuck with. We need to stop eating our own tail. We can't keep going like this. We need to take these corporate scumbags to task. I'd honestly prefer to abolish the very idea of corporations, but I'm sure that's never going to happen. So instead we have to regulate the fuck out of the swine because they've proven, time and time and time again, that if we don't, no one will. They certainly can't be trusted to do it themselves.

I really hope the Supreme Court realizes what killing the CFPB will do to the regular people of this country. A fox in the henhouse? It's more like putting KFC in charge of making sure chickens grow up and lead full lives and die of old age and get buried in a pet sematary, uneaten by the masses.

We've got a lot of time before the term ends. The Justices seem to be on the right path for now, but some of them love a good bribe. Who has more money to bribe a Justice with than the companies trying to kill the CFPB? 

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #757: THE PLATFORM FORMERLY KNOWN AS TWITTER

 I read a lot of news articles, and I've noticed an irritating trend that must stop immediately. In all honesty, perhaps what people say on social media platforms should not be news unless it's someone like a politician or a celebrity. It never ceases to disgust me when I see articles quoting regular people. How is that news? If I wanted to find out all the important details of, say, Israel vs. Hamas, should I just go down to the local Hobby Lobby and ask Chuck, the custodian? But then again, we know my feelings on the death of journalism, and this is yet another symptom.

But what I'm really talking about is X in particular. I've personally taken to calling it Ex, which makes a lot of sense to me, but every single news desk in the world (if we still have news desks, I have my doubts) seems insistent on doing this one fucking thing that bugs the shit out of me.

If a "journalist" is going to quote someone on Ex, it must be one of the Golden Rules of Journalism (up there with Who, What, Where, When, Why and Cover Your Ass, thank you Dr. Wiginton) is that they must refer to it as "X, the platform formerly known as Twitter." There is sometimes a variation, like, "X, formerly Twitter," but this is getting out of hand.

I get it. I don't really want to call it X either because it's stupid. It's the idiocy of a middle-aged rich white dude who thinks he's cool and edgy. Explore your midlife crisis someplace where we can't see it, please. But for fuck's sake, how long are we going to continue doing this? Is there anyone with an internet connection who *doesn't* know that Twitter is now X? If you were writing a story about Elon Musk, would you mention every time he fucking takes a breath? Fuck no, you wouldn't. So why are we doing this?

You know I'm frustrated when I ask that question. And you'll never know how deeply that frustration runs because I'm never going to get an answer that makes sense. Because a lot of what we do doesn't make sense, but we're not going to stop it because fuck it. Why would we?

All right. I'm going to bed. If I can get through tomorrow without reading about how X was formerly Twitter, that would be grand. But I'm not going to hold my breath.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #756: THE LIGHTER

 

When it came to substance abuse my drug of choice was alcohol, but I can't do that anymore. I've been using cannabis since the State of Illinois made it legal, and it was fun to partake while I was still drinking, but I can't do that, anymore, either. I was always an edibles guy because smoking is a habit I never picked up.

Well, not too long ago I went from edibles to smoking cannabis. (And, if I have the day off the next day, I take an edible and then smoke up.) I was still in the process of packing up my things when I came across the lighter you see above, and I've been using that to light up. And now it's on its last legs, almost out of fluid. Suddenly I remembered why I have this thing in my possession.

Rewind almost 30 years. Well, more like 27. At any rate, almost all of my friends back then smoked cigarettes (and, you know, some other stuff, but mostly cigarettes). I was usually the only nonsmoker present at any gathering.

While I'm casting my thoughts back to that era, I thought it would be important to note that I was the youngest of those friends, but I looked older than they did, so guess who bought their smokes for them? Oddly enough, most of them look like their parents, and I look younger than they do. Weird.

Anyway, what happens if you talk to a smoker long enough? They pull out their pack of smokes and put one in their mouth. Then, if they're lucky, they get their lighter and then light up. If they're not lucky? They start patting their pockets and muttering curses under their breath. Then, whatever shit you were doing at the time, it grinds to a standstill until a lighter can be procured.

To save time I bought a lighter of my own, and I kept it around for whenever it was needed. More importantly, I kept my eye on it. How many times did a smoker subconsciously try to pocket it? Envision the beginning of Reservoir Dogs. The conversation about "Like a Virgin." How many times?

At some point I must have socked it away and didn't find it until a few months ago. Weird how it feels like an artifact now. And sad because it's almost done with its purpose, a purpose it should have served a long time ago. What is the life of a cheap 7-Eleven lighter? I'll bet it's not 27 years.

I already have its replacement, but I'm almost a pack rat. It's probably going to take a lot of strength to throw away this relic of the past.

The world is about to move on . . .

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #755: AN UNWELCOME GUEST

 Someone sat at my desk while I was out of the office. I could tell due to several things. I'm kind of OCD, so I always know when something's off. The first indication that I had was that my chair was pushed off to the side instead of under the keyboard, where it usually is. Well, maybe the janitor moved it to vacuum. Possibly.

But then I saw all the grit on my desk. That used to happen at my old desk but only because they were building a new office literally a half a foot away from that desk. No such thing happened this time. I'm OK with others using my desk while I'm not there, but fucking clean up after yourself.

And then I noticed the cardinal sin. Whoever it was put their drink down on my pad of paper. The very pad of paper that I had a bunch of stuff written on. I'd written that stuff down because it was fucking important. It was a list of sales leads I intended to follow up on, now smudged and tacky because of the goddam sweat ring that beverage left behind. That's just fucking inexcusable.

At this job? I have never sat at someone else's desk. At other jobs? Sure. And when I sat at those desks, I touched only the things necessary to doing my job, and I put those things back the way I found them. If I messed anything up, I cleaned it up. What the fuck kind of scumbag does this kind of thing?

Yeah, I'm frustrated. But at least it's Friday. Which means tomorrow will feel like a slow and agonizing death, but it's the last of my trials and tribulations before I have a day off.

Jesus fuck.

TOY CRIME STORY PART 15

 CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Nightbeat looked all around him. There were ten goombas, and they surrounded him completely. Cat, grinning, sauntered off and turned, hands under his chin. “This is going to be wonderful!”

“Yo!” they said in unison. Then they shouted out their own in a cacophony, jumping up and down, excited.

Nightbeat glanced at Cat. “You knew they were waiting for me.”

“Of course!”

“You led me into a trap.”

“It’s not my trap, but I like it nonetheless. I wonder what you’ll look like when you’re dead.”

Nightbeat looked around at all of his enemies. Don Snowy sat on his corpulent ass apart from the goombas, watching them do his bidding. The other toys were nowhere in sight. Nightbeat thought of a movie he’d once watched when Wally was a kid, High Noon. If he called out to Angel, would he help? Would anyone?

“Am I the only one invited to my death?” he asked.

“Yo!” “Yo!” “Yo!”

“Yo Nightbeat!” Don Snowy said. “Take it like a man, and we can put this to rest, yeah?”

“Where is everyone else, Snowy? You pay them off?”

“Maybe they knew better than to get in my way,” Don Snowy said.

The closet was the only place they could be. Nightbeat looked over to see that someone had put a wedge under the door. He could hear the others in there. He wondered what they would do when they got out and found him dead. Or would Don Snowy just end them, too?

Maybe he could stall them, get enough time to yank that wedge out. He turned to Don Snowy. “Speaking of taking it like a man, why have your goombas do this? Afraid to get your hands dirty?”

“Hey! I’m a made man! I call the shots! That’s some pretty stupid thinking for a detective.”

The whole time, Nightbeat had been moving from foot to foot. Slowly, he’d been able to get just that much closer to the closet. The ring of goombas just readjusted itself to his movement. If he could keep Don Snowy talking, maybe he wouldn’t notice until it was too late.

“You shouldn’t have killed Joey,” Nightbeat said. “That’s unheard of for a toy. You’re a disgrace. You should be unstuffed.”

“Yo! I’m not the one dyin’ here! Goombas! Finish him!”

“Yo!” “Yo!” “Yo!” “Yo!” “Yo!”

Shit. So much for that. Nightbeat slugged the closest goomba and jumped through the gap where it had stood. He sensed the others closing in on him, but he concentrated on getting to that wedge. Even when he got there, when he tried pulling it out, he paid them no mind. Not until they arrived and the first one bashed him on the back of his head. He staggered forward, hitting his head on the door this time. Sparks of light fluttered in his vision, but he shook his head, intent on getting this done.

Just as he yanked at the wedge again, two goombas latched onto his arms, pulling him away. He flung both arms back, and one shook loose, but it was quickly replaced by another. They flooded around him, pushing and shoving. He couldn’t get a grip on the wedge. There were too many. Over their heads he saw Cat watching, grinning. He had his tail between his legs, stroking it like it was his cock.

Nightbeat crouched down, allowing a few of the goombas onto his back. He then jumped up, arching backward, flinging at least three of them away. It gave him some wiggle room, which he used to kick two more aside. That gave him enough time to grab the wedge again. This time he felt it give a little. He thought he could hear someone on the other side pushing at the top of the wedge. He thought if he could give it one good yank . . .

The goombas went for his feet, sending him sprawling. They climbed onto his back, pinning him down. He felt like suffocating as his face pushed against the carpet. He turned his head slightly and saw that the wedge wasn’t too far behind him. He tried kicking at it, and he barely made contact. He tried slithering back, but the weight was too much. Weakness overcame him almost as badly as when Man-E-Faces tried to kill him. In a last ditch effort, he kicked back with all of his strength.

He hit the wedge hard enough to dislodge it. The closet door popped open, and Angel and Spike jumped free.

“NO!” Don Snowy shouted.

“I don’t usually pick on someone smaller’n me,” Spike said, “but . . .” He kicked at the goombas, and Angel did the same. Nightbeat felt lighter, and he pushed himself to his feet.

“It’s over, Don Snowy,” he said.

“Yo! It’s never over! Get those bastards!”

The goombas circled the trio, who now stood back to back with each other, ready to take on whatever the goombas had. Others shuffled from the closet, chief among them Don Draper. He had a dazed look on his face.

“Pete Campbell better not be behind this,” he said. “I’ll have him run out of Sterling Cooper on a rail. Honey? Where’s my scotch?” He uttered a quack and fell on one of the goombas. It yelped, trying to get out from under his bulk, but Don was too heavy.

“I’ll help you!” Fox cried out. He leaped from the closet, ready to fend off the goombas, but Cat swept up in front of him.

“Just who I wanted to see,” he said.

Fox trembled. “I’m not scared of you! I’ll—”

Cat rushed forward and grabbed Fox by the throat, snapping his neck immediately. He made nom-ing sounds as he nibbled at Fox’s corpse.

Felix’s sons and wives rushed out and took shelter behind the bedroom door. Don Snowy saw this and lumbered over, no longer interested in the fight. “Yo! Show me your titties, my kitties!”

Felix stumbled after them and grabbed Don Snowy by his fluffy back. “Hey, Snowy! Keep your goddam hands off of them!”

Don Snowy kicked back, and since Felix had more booze running through him than anything else, he fell, unconscious.

Jack Bunnyson stepped in front of Don Snowy. “That wasn’t nice, man. And leave the chicks alone. They don’t want you, get it?”

“Yo, fuck you!” Don Snowy pushed at Jack Bunnyson, but he didn’t move much. Instead, he slugged Don Snowy across his carrot nose, sending him to the rug. “Yo! My dose! You broke my dose!”

“There’s a lot more where that came from.” Jack Bunnyson bobbed and weaved, his fists held in the air. He moved to kick, but Don Snowy shoved a foot into his crotch. Jack Bunnyson gasped, out of breath, collapsing onto his front. Don Snowy slipped behind him, to the pocket in his back, and yanked it down. Jack Bunnyson howled, and his ears hung down, the sunglasses off. Bunny said, “Noooooo! It hurts! Why?” He continued moaning until he mercifully died.

As Spike and Angel fought the remaining goombas, Nightbeat got one of his own and held it down, seeking purchase in its plush body. He found a faded area and jammed his hand into it, ripping the goomba open. It screamed as he tore the fabric up further, yanking out all of its stuffing. The scream turned to a moan until it stopped making any sound.

“These things killed Joey,” Nightbeat said. “We have to unstuff them.”

Spike nodded. “Say no more.”

The goombas, now aware of their peril, doubled their efforts to take the trio down. Spike and Angel were too big for them, and Nightbeat was too strong. The heroes worked together and managed to come up with a system. Spike fought with all his might, taking point while Angel struggled with each goomba, holding them down for Nightbeat to perform the unstuffing. As soon as the goombas figured out what they were doing, it was too late.

Angel, Spike and Nightbeat stood together, huffing and out of breath. Nightbeat recovered first. “Now it’s time to get the mastermind.”

“Who’s that?” Angel asked.

“Don Snowy gave the order to take out Joey. And me, incidentally. We have to unstuff him before it’s too late.”

They turned to Don Snowy, surprised to discover that Felix’s wives had already subdued him. He struggled to get out from under them, but he struggled harder to cop a feel. One wife sat on his throat, and he tried to maneuver his carrot nose into her bottom.

“Yo!” Don Snowy shouted. “Gimme a trial! I have rights!”

“You don’t, actually,” Nightbeat said. “Rights are for humans, and you’ve done the unthinkable. A toy should never kill its child.”

“You gotta prove it! Yo!”

“It’s proof enough that you bloody locked us away,” Spike said.

“It was Cat that locked you up!” Don Snowy cried. “Not me! I didn’t do it!”

Cat now munched away at Bunny’s corpse. “I was in the Catacombs. Nightbeat can vouch for that, yes?”

Nightbeat nodded, absolutely hating himself for giving Cat an alibi, even though it was true. “There is no getting out of this, Snowy. Is there anyone here who doubts that he didn’t kill Joey?” He glanced around. Bunny and Fox were dead, being eaten by Cat. Don Draper and Felix were passed out, stinking of booze. With the goombas dead and unstuffed, no one spoke up for Don Snowy.

Nightbeat shrugged. “Looks like the end of the road for you, asshole.”