GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #795: ONE YEAR AND ONE HUNDRED AND NINETY-THREE DAYS

 It's been one year and one hundred and ninety-three days since my last drink. You know me. In that time I have consumed a lot of books and movies and TV shows and such, and while I noticed this before, kinda-sorta, I didn't really recognize it for what it was until recently.

Fiction, no matter the medium, is full of people struggling against themselves, but I want to look at recovering alcoholics in particular. I've found myself watching characters relapse and feeling the anguish they should be feeling.

But it didn't really come home to me until I watched the episode of Succession where, after a heated battle with his father, Kendall goes to a bar and orders a drink. He hems and haws a little before drinking it, and the whole time I was thinking, don't do it, man. It's not worth it. Kendall's kind of a dick, so to have me saying something like that means something.

No matter who it is, I always feel bad when someone struggling with their own addiction succumbs to it. It's kind of weird for me because I don't really struggle with my alcoholism. Every alcoholic I've ever known struggles every day. I don't. I could walk into a liquor store and walk back out without buying anything. I could go to a party or a bar and not consume anything with alcohol in it. It's easy. Sure, some days I think about booze more than I should, but I can promise you that if you put a glass of Wild Turkey 101 on the rocks in front of me, I wouldn't drink it. I think I'd be terrified to drink it.

I've said it before, there are certain things that, if they happened, I would go get drunk. But those things are so bad that getting drunk wouldn't matter. For example, if I was diagnosed with a terminal illness, boozing it up won't matter.

But I don't like saying this is easy because it's almost never easy for anyone. I don't want to be the guy someone listens to and they go, hey, he says it's easy. It probably is. I'm not going to put too much effort into this. I don't want to be the reason someone else didn't take this kind of thing seriously enough.

When I was still doing my meetings, the subject of at-least-you're-here-now came up. The idea is, you're trying to kick the habit, but you fail, and then you come back to the meeting the next day. Which is good, I'm not knocking that. Just because you fuck up one day doesn't mean you fucked up the whole thing. But in that meeting in particular, one of my fellow addicts said that was the last thing he wanted to hear if he ever relapsed. Because he didn't want people to take it easy on him. He wanted someone to shame him so that he'd feel guilt the next time he might find himself on the precipice. Which I totally understand. I think I'd want someone to shame me, too. But more importantly, what if that drink is the one that ends his life? What if, after he takes that first drink, he keeps going and going? Because I'm pretty sure if I took another drink, I wouldn't be able to stop, and that would bring me to my demise.

All right, I've got one more day to get my shit together, and then it's time for surgery again. I stupidly said I'd see everyone next week in Good Morning, Fuckers!, which is not going to happen. Probably. I'll be forbidden to type anything out, so maybe I'll do a mini edition on Sunday, but I'll have everything typed up already so all I have to do is hit send. One way or the other, this is the last GF column until I get cleared by the doc. Be good to each other.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #794: GASTROPARESIS

 Last night, at around 9-ish at night, I started puking again. It was yet another wretched, painful, sickening bout, and it sent me back to the ER. I'm still not all that great, so I'm going to keep this short. But finally an ER doctor might have figured out what the issue is.

Gastroparesis is a condition some diabetics suffer from that causes their stomachs to empty a lot slower than other people's. I already know my insides work at a quarter of the speed of everyone else's, so this makes a lot of sense to me. No other ER doctor has thought to even mention it to me. I have an appointment with my gastroenterologist, and I'm going to ask him about this. But I poked around online a little, and one of the warning signs is "satiety." Which would explain why, just before I have an episode, any food I eat tastes extraordinarily good, better than it should, and always leaves me satisfied and happy.

I looked at what I can do about it, but I think I'll wait until I get the good word from my gastro doc. I'll let you know when I know more.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #793: UH, WAIT A MINUTE

 It occurred to me when I was on break that considering the title of this column . . .

. . . AM I THE FUCKEE IN GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS?!!?!?!?!?!?!?!????!?!?

The horror. The horror!

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #792: MORE HORRORS

 Since I'm sure you were all horrified by last night's GF, I figured, why not keep the horrors coming? In the time I was off I suffered another injury that could lead to the amputation of my left foot.

I don't have a lot of feeling in my feet. On the surface? Nothing. My pain comes from deep down in the bone. So I could probably walk across broken glass and not feel it.

Before I went on vacation I somehow got three terrible blisters on two of my toes. They're on the bad foot, but keep in mind, my good foot only has three complete toes, so . . . I don't know where these blisters came from. One was tiny and not an issue, but two were big and on a toe I'd like to keep. Not just because it's mine, but also because the corresponding toe on my good foot is gone. And these were blood blisters. I think I probably got them from not having my toes straightened out in my shoes.

At any rate, I took care of the blisters, and the small one healed first. The smaller one of the remaining two healed next, but that last fucker was hanging on for dear life. Finally, after about a month and a half of keeping an eye on this thing, the scab came off, leaving fresh skin underneath. Not that it makes the foot look better, of course. I'm super prone to scars on my feet, so the mark isn't ever going away. I imagine Dorian Gray's feet would look like mine if you could see them in the painting. But at least I wasn't going to lose my foot.

That joy lasted about a day.

The next day was a Sunday. Clean up day. Laundry day. Etc. So I went about my tasks for the day, and I was taking a final shit before I had to clean the bathroom when I noticed something odd. I was stepping in a weird red mark on the tiled floor.

Oh shit. Remember how I said I could walk across broken glass and not feel it?

I lifted my foot (the bad one) and saw that I was bleeding profusely from the sole. And the mark looked pretty big. I hadn't touched any of my dirty bits yet, so I felt around the wound. And would you look at that? The offending shard of glass was still in my foot.

(I also tried to figure out when it had happened. While I was writing downstairs one of my slippers came off. When I noticed it, I put it back on. So in my backwards sleuthing I looked in that slipper and saw a huge spot of blood. So that meant it had happened between me losing the slipper and putting it back on . . . which was three hours ago at that point.)

I folded up a couple of Kleenexes and pressed them into the blood so I could finish the shit, wipe, wash my hands and prepare for the horror of reaching my fingers into the wound to pull the glass out.

Actual photo of me removing glass from my foot.

(I almost just posted the entire video clip just so I could call it "foot-age," but I'm not that cruel. And I'm just too tired to do a Crypt-keeper laugh right now.)

I pulled it out, and it was about the size of my thumbprint. I let it drop into the sink basin for the required tink! sound. And then I had to figure out how to stop the bleeding. I decided to let physics do that, so I got a gauze pad, folded it up and taped it to the bottom of my foot with maybe six feet of medical tape. I went about my day knowing that the situation would take care of itself.

After my shower that night I gave it a close examination. No blood. Nothing looked infected. There was still a pocket in my sole from where the glass had been, but I figured if I kept it clean, I wouldn't have any problems.

So far I have not. That was about a month ago. There is still a nick there, but you can't really tell why. I'm pretty sure I have this thing beaten, but I've learned something about the horrors. When they start, they never really stop. Kind of like when you go in for your first surgical procedure. Once the doctors get a taste for you, they just can't seem to stop cutting.

I'll take it easier on you tomorrow night. Oh! And don't think I've forgotten about my five-part GF series. Circumstances have delayed it, but it's getting done. I imagine it will happen the second week I'm back from hand surgery. Some folks might think I'm crossing the line with that series, but as with all pieces attacking abuse of power, I don't think it will go far enough.

We'll see. I've got a short one for you tomorrow. It won't even take you a minute to read. One for Monday. One for Tuesday. And then I'm going on break again.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #791: REVELATION

 I realized this before today. Not sure when, specifically. If I had to guess it was between bouts of extraordinarily painful vomiting. I've been out of action since Saturday morning, and it wasn't until last night that it all stopped.

But I do recall hovering over the bathroom sink, washing my mouth out, looking into my reflection. Red-faced, sweating, exhausted, I realized something that I couldn't put into words until now, today.

I'm still weak. Shaky. My vision blacks out if I stand up too quickly. But I'm alive.

I know this post is going to make me seem crazy. I understand that, but the clues were always there. For a while in 2020 I could have sworn I died, but no one else noticed, not even me. Then, when my grandma died and I lost another toe, I thought I'd accidentally slipped into a parallel universe. The feeling was stronger when I got out of detox.

But I was wrong about that. I think I'm on the right track now. Because I do believe in parallel universes. Don't worry, my cheese isn't sliding that far off the cracker. "Believe" is little-b, not BIG-B. But if I believe in parallel universes, I have to wonder why.

I believe that there is One Perfect Universe where everything goes right, and no one ever loses. Everyone lives their perfect life.

And the revelation I felt while sopping puke from my chapped and bleeding lips, was that I was not living in that universe. We all try to live the perfect life, but we don't all succeed. Does anyone? Except in that One Universe? All these other universes? Those are us trying. Every decision ever made births a new universe, and that's how we got all those others.

We all start out in the One Perfect Universe, and we make terrible decisions that make us stray from the path. I can think of so many times I screwed the pooch not just for myself but for others. How many people have I let down over the course of the years? I'm not a greedy man, for example, but the impulse is there. It's my job to make sure that impulse never wins.

But it did win on a few occasions. Because I'm not perfect, and I fucked up my timeline pretty horribly. Not as badly as it could have been, but still. I haven't had a drink in seemingly ages, and yet I'm still having these stomach problems that I was told would cease if I ever quit drinking. Guess that didn't happen. My rotten raw vicious streak of shit luck continues into the setting fucking sun.

It's a soul destroyer of a revelation, and I stopped functioning for a little bit. I had to put my head down and think about the fucking horrors of my life and all the dangerous situations I've been in that are shockingly stupid and 100% avoidable if I'd just made the right decisions. Things I could have done to be a better person. A better son. A better brother. Yeah, I have a lot to make up to my brothers. I was not the best big brother they could have had.

Paralyzed, I asked God for a favor. I know a lot of good people who would do me a favor, but none of them are equipped for one of this magnitude. And you know me, I'm an atheist, so talking to God is not something I do. But I was desperate.

Like I said, I'm not a greedy man, but the impulse is there. And I begged for a very greedy favor. I wasn't in that One Perfect Universe at the time, but I think I really strayed from the path during that first year of college. I begged God to send me back to that time right here, right now, with all the knowledge I possess now so I can do better next time.

Then I realized the consequences of asking something like that. What if doing so kills this timeline off? What if all the good things I've done and all the great people I've met cease to exist because I asked for this carelessly greedy thing? Could I sacrifice everything that happened between 1996 and now just for a second chance?

Then I thought, what if I don't do this out of greed? And the more I thought about it, the more I realized I could save people. I could warn friends from doing things that would end badly for them. I could warn them about when they would die so they could stop it from happening. I could save my mom. Warn my dad. I started thinking, eh, fuck my stepdad, but without him I wouldn't have three of my brothers. And then I started getting grandiose. Did nearly 3,000 people need to die on 9/11/01? What if I could find a way to prevent Covid and the 2016 election? What if I could find a way to prevent corporations from being declared as people with First Amendment rights to buy up residential property and bump up the rents beyond all imagination?

I would do those things, or try, but let's not get a big head. What went beforeth the fall? But there were people near and dear to me that I couldn't save if I merely went back to 1996. They were already damaged goods. I would have to go back farther and save them from the get-go. Shit, I didn't want to live through high school and most of my childhood again, and I certainly didn't want to relive my fucking stepfather, but if something like this were to happen, I couldn't just use it to help myself. I have way too much to make up to the world. I've done a lot of awful things. I try to be the best person I can be at all times. I strive for excellence every day. But I still fall short of the mark.

But there's that greedy impulse. I thought of living without any of these fucking illnesses that have plagued me for more than a decade. Diabetes? Next time out, I'll listen to Grandma. Caffeine Free Diet Coke really isn't that bad. I'd still be in shape. I'd have a better head on my shoulders. I'd make better plans. That early in college? I could still study a few classes that would bore the shit out of me but would give me better opportunities. Holy shit, I even thought I saw myself getting married and having kids and the whole American Dream rolled up into a neat red-white-and-blue hobo bindle.

Yeah, it's crazy talk, and I'm almost certain I'm wrong. But for about two hours today it felt so right, like nothing I'd ever felt before. But there is no God, and there (probably) aren't parallel universes. It's my imagination running away with me.

But with just a little hope I amended my heavenly request: "When I die, please send me back. I know I can get it right this time."

That's all folderol. The real revelation is that I'm a loser in this existence. This is a fight I've already lost, and there's no way to go back and fix it. What does that mean going forward? The struggle continues. Sure, I'm going to lose this go at life, but goddammit, I'm going to make this the most successful fucking failure that I can. The deck is stacked against me, but I've come pretty far for a loser, and I'm not going to quit until the world rakes the back of my throat for my final breath.

Because the poet was right. "I've been down so goddam long that it looks like up to me."

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #790: TIME IS A FLAT CIRCLE

 

There aren't a lot of photographs of Abraham Lincoln delivering speeches. In fact, there's only one. On March 4, 1865, he delivered his second inaugural speech from the picture seen above. I know it's a little hard to see specifics, but maybe this close up will help:

You can read the full speech here. It's a good one. So good they inscribed it on the Lincoln Memorial with the Gettysburg Address. I can't imagine any modern president giving a speech like this.

He had 41 days to live.

On March 11 he issues Proclamation 124, pardoning any and all deserters of the Union Army provided they return to their posts within a certain time. The war seemingly is running its toll on the nation. Keep in mind that Virginia, a Confederate state, is not that far from Washington, DC.

On March 14 he issues an executive order on the subject of retaliation. For every Union soldier killed, a Confederate soldier must also be killed. For every Union soldier taken into slavery, a Confederate soldier must be captured and put to hard labor until his corresponding soldier is set free. This is possibly the president who wanted peace more than any other president in history. To resort to this must have been like acid in his bloodstream. A necessary evil? If only he knew what would happen in less than a month.

On March 17 he addresses the Indiana regiment, pumping them up for winning the war. He mentions that Confederates are pressing 1 out of 4 slaves into fighting the war for them. Looking back on the speech with modern eyes is a definite collar-puller, though. You can read it here. Lincoln may have been the best of the presidents, but he was far from perfect.

On March 27 he issues an executive order to raise the American flag at Ft. Sumter, won back by William "War is Hell" Sherman. If you don't know, that's where the Civil War officially began when Confederates raided the fort. The very same commander who lost the fort was the man to raise the flag over it again. It was a symbolic gesture to show that the war was finally going well for the North.

On April 3 the Union sounds the death knell for the South by taking Richmond, just a hop skip and jump from the White House. The very next day Lincoln visits Richmond without fear for his life.

On April 9 it happens. Robert E. Lee surrenders the Confederacy to Ulysses S. Grant, thus ending the Civil War.

On April 11 Lincoln makes his final speech on the White House lawn. It's his victory lap, but it's also about what the country needs to do next: Reconstruction. He talks about not just throwing the Confederates in the trash because that's where they belong. He talks about reform. Healing. Helping them become better people. As one can imagine, that doesn't sit well with many people. One person in particular. You can read this speech here. It's also a good one. A little awkward, again by modern judgment, but still good.

On April 14, 41 days after his second inaugural address, Abraham Lincoln goes to Ford's Theater for a play called Our American Cousin. He sits in the balcony overlooking the stage. He doesn't sense a shadowy figure behind him. He may not even hear the sound of a pistol going off. The bullet soars out of the gun and plants itself in the back of Lincoln's head.

Stop.

Let's take that bullet out of Lincoln's skull and put it back in John Wilkes Booth's gun. Let's walk him back out of the balcony. Back to the saloon where he spent the intermission. Back to earlier in the day when he told his co-conspirators that Lincoln was going to be at the theater that night. He sent someone to kill Secretary of State Sewell and one to kill Vice President Johnson. Go back earlier in the day to when Booth showed up at Ford's Theater to pick up his mail, to when he was told that Lincoln would be attending the play that night.

Back to April 12 when he learns of Lee's surrender at Appomattox. He tells others that he's planning to retire from the stage to focus only on Venice Preserv'd, a play about assassination. Because now he knows that Lincoln must die. This is when he makes the decision.

Back to April 11 as he watches Lincoln from the White House lawn giving a speech about winning the Civil War and the Reconstruction that must follow. As Booth learns that Lincoln intends to give slaves rights, he vows that this will be Lincoln's final speech.

It is.

Back to March 17 when Booth learns that Lincoln will attend a play called Still Waters Run Deep at Soldier's Home. Booth immediately plots to kidnap Lincoln and even puts his men on the road to Soldier's Home. Lincoln never shows. As we know from above, he was too busy on that day for theater.

Back to March 5 when he boasts to friends about how close he was to Lincoln the previous day. "What an excellent chance I had to kill the president," he tells them.

Because go back to that first picture. It's hard to see, but Booth wasn't lying about being close to Lincoln that day:

Look a little closer.

Time is a flat circle.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #789: VIRAL

 

I'm sure there are internet scholars out there. Every time I hear about a scholar for something that only came into existence in the last few decades, I get weirded out. If I said, as a child, that I'd gone viral, a lot of people would be worried about how sick I was. Perhaps I was Patient Zero of a plague.

On the internet, obviously, that means something different. I've only ever gone viral once, when I wrote a review of Real Killers on Forced Viewing, and it caught someone on Reddit's attention.

But I don't think I've ever really thought about the history of the word "viral," and it wasn't until I read an article by Cory Doctorow stating that the first viral video ever was the Bill Gates Microsoft Antitrust Deposition.

Holy shit. That was in 1998 when we apparently gave a shit about the existence of monopolies and actually used the laws on our books to prosecute these--I told myself I wouldn't go off on any rants this week. You get what I'm talking about.

And what the fuck? I hadn't thought about this moment since it was in the headlines, and even then I probably didn't pay much attention to it. But watching it now is pretty awkward. If you ever want to see Bill Gates out of his element, you should watch it here. When he's on the defensive, he's very panicked. You can see it in his eyes and hand gestures. He also asks a lot of really stupid fucking questions. He's a smart guy, so I can only assume he asked them because he's being weaselly.

And now I want someone to put the fucking leeches on Bezos EXACTLY like this. I want to see that fucker sweating bullets while a prosecutor brings the hammer down on him. He needs it. Badly.

Also, the day I learn that there's an emoji scholar is the day that I pull a full Sam Neill at the end of In the Mouth of Madness.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #788: ONE YEAR AND 179 DAYS

 It's been one year and 179 days since my last drink. Booze has been on my mind lately. Not just because I had an exceptionally shitty day today. Believe it or not, work was the highlight of my day, and work was fucking miserable. Especially since it's starting to look like I might not get that change in position. They might not need an additional hand over there, after all.

But I also found a jar of apple moonshine last week. I was pretty sure that I'd gotten to all my booze stashes, but I guess one got past me. I couldn't even open the jar because my hands are all fucked up. Not that I wanted to drink the contents. It looked kind of gross.

But I wanted to clean it out and maybe use the jar for something else. Jars are always good to have. I used to be the guy everyone went to for stuff like opening tight jars. Now I have to ask my brother to do it. Getting old sucks. Needing surgery on your hands sucks, too.

But I was mostly thinking about how, back when I was a full-blown boozer, I never got bug bites except for one time. That one time was because I was sleeping in a room that had a lot of bugs in a tank. One got out and bit my belly. But aside from that one time? Never. I never got so much as a mosquito bite.

I remember a time when I went camping with a bunch of friends, and the mosquito problem was so bad they asked the campground to move us to another site. They were all riddled with bites, but not me. The argument could be made that I was drunk out of my mind, so of course I wouldn't have noticed. But I checked the next day. Nothing.

Everyone else was drinking. Why were they not spared? Because I was the only one who showed up drunk already. I had to take a few drinks to make the long drive bearable. Was that the camping trip when I decided I was the Lord of the Flies? Maybe that was it.

At any rate, since I quit drinking I've been getting bug bites. Mosquitos no longer fear alcohol poisoning from feeding off of me, for example. I got a couple of ant bites during the summer. Etc.

It's weird to think about the problems that come with suddenly not having a blood alcohol content at all times. I miss it. Not the Fleischmann's or the Ten High or even that godawful Canadian shit I got for seven bucks a handle. I miss things like the Glenfiddich. Wild Turkey 101. Booker's. I never did get a taste of the Pappy, and I'd always held out hopes that I would. If someone offered me a glass of that, I don't think I'd be able to say no.

Somehow I have yet to have a relapse. Not sure how that happened. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: when I was at detox, I was already planning to drink more when I got out. Weird. Maybe the key to quitting booze, after you go through the physical addiction, is knowing deep within yourself that you're going to drink again. I know I am. It's just a matter of how long. My job is to make sure there are as many days between now and that time as possible.

If I'm ever diagnosed with an incurable disease, for example. Or if I need my foot amputated. Or if I get fired. Or, I guess, if someone offered me a taste of Pappy Van Winkle.

544 days. So far, so good.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #787: YOUR MOM'S A WHORE

 That was the first time I remember experiencing graffiti. I was probably five or so, using a public bathroom, and I saw this declaration about someone's mom being a sex worker. There was a phone number there, too. I remember asking Mom what a whore was, and I got an honest answer, which was helpful.

Fast forward to high school. I wrote a short story that I wanted to get published in the school literary magazine. As you can guess, I never made the grade because, well, you know the kind of stuff I write. Even though classic literature is full of fucked up and sexy shit, writing that kind of thing is frowned upon unless you've been dead for about 500 years or so. I remember specifically the story I'm talking about. It was called "The Warlock of Salem," and it was pretty good for someone in high school. It was a shitty story, but for a teenager? Not bad. It got rejected with a note explaining that it wasn't the subject matter. It was because I didn't write the story like I'd been alive during the Salem Witch Trials. I'd written it, as you might imagine, as a modern author would have.

Clearly that irked me, if it's still on my mind now.

Fast forward to today. I read an article about a teacher banning slang in her classroom because . . . well, I'll let her explain it.

Sorry, that's a Buzzfeed screen capture. Yes, I'm just as irritated looking at that as you are.

I'm not a big fan of those words, myself. I think it's kind of silly. However, if I'm going to write a teenager today, I should know these words and put them in that teen's mouth. More importantly, I find a problem with the teacher's English. She's writing this like she was a modern person today. Shouldn't she be using Old English? (Or should I say Olde English?) Because if you're using modern language, it's going to be inappropriate for an academic setting. Her lesson plans better sound more like German than English, or she's selling her students short.

But here's the thing. Humans have always been the same, it's just a matter of window dressing, of method, of words. The English language is constantly evolving, so while it disgusts me that it is now permissible for people to say "literally" when they're describing something figurative, it's something I have to accept. Those banned words are the future of the English language. Her future counterpart is going to use those words, and the kids then will wonder why she's talking like a square.

Which brings me to this:

For centuries we've essentially been Beavis and Butt-Head, roaming around this crazy world of ours, writing stupid shit on things we probably shouldn't be writing on. Looking for a more specific example?

Erotic graffiti recently identified at the Greek island of Astypalaia documents a 2500-year-old tryst between two men: “Nikasitimos was here mounting Timiona."

Perhaps that's not enough for you. Here's something more recent. This one is only two thousand years old.

One team of researchers recently counted over 1000 inscriptions inside the tomb of pharaoh Ramesses VI in the Valley of the Kings—many of which were from Romans who visited the site 2000 years ago. Their ancient declarations include familiar complaints of disappointed tourists: “I visited and I did not like anything except the sarcophagus!” and "I cannot read the hieroglyphs!"

Here's what people forget. When you're reading, oh, say, Shakespeare for example, HE WROTE IN THE SLANG OF THE DAY. We view it as classy and upper-crust and all the other honorable things old literature (pronounced "lit-rit-chure") are supposed to be. But Shakespeare wrote a lot of action and violence and gore and sex. Remember when Hamlet asked Ophelia if she thought he wanted to put his face on her cunt?

Hamlet

[To Ophelia]  Lady, shall I lie in your lap?

Ophelia

No, my lord!

Hamlet   

I mean, my head upon your lap. 

Ophelia

Ay, my lord.

Hamlet   

Do you think I meant country matters?

Ophelia

I think nothing, my lord.

Hamlet   

That's a fair thought to lie between maids' legs.

Ophelia

What is, my lord?

Hamlet   

“Nothing.”    

Ophelia

You are merry, my lord.

I was possibly the only human being on the planet who thought Mel Gibson would make a great Hamlet. (And please keep in mind that this was long before we found out about the real Mel Gibson.)

Sure, he's a scumbag, but at least he knows story structure . . .

Human beings have always been profane and stupid. It would not surprise me to discover, upon checking out the cave where Jesus' body was supposedly lain, that someone wrote on the boulder, "Your mom is a whore."

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #786: HE'S BACK . . .

 

GANDHI II!

So. I have good news and I have bad news. The good news you can guess: I'm back. The bad news? I'm only back for 2 weeks. I just scheduled a surgery for my left hand and, as with the one performed on my right a few months ago, it will be forbidden to use that hand until I'm cleared by the physical therapist. So after next week, I'm taking another break, although this one should be much shorter than the vacation I just had. I want to keep this week light, as I don't want to bum you out or anger you, etc. Because next week is going to be the first (and probably last) 5-part GF column, and it's a doozy. The kind of thing that might get me killed if I was important enough. We'll get to that next Monday.

For now I just wanted to welcome you all back. I have a metric shit-ton of topics. I'm sure once I get back from my surgery hiatus, I'll have enough columns for months to come. During my time off I decided that any and all writing topics should be handled in my newsletter. I subscribe to a lot of newsletters, and almost all of them have very little news. Instead they are essays about life. I'm not bashing those. I love to read them. But if you want essays on life, you'll find them here in Goodnight, Fuckers. If you want writing essays, check out Good Morning, Fuckers! (Ain't I clever? Should I do something called Good Afternoon, Fuckers, or is that pushing it?) (Hey, for a while there I did an irregular column called Hey Fuckers. Maybe bring that back?) (No, maybe I should do surprise blogs and call them Good Evening, Fuckers. That sounds classy, don't it? Especially if you hear it in Alfred Hitchcock's voice, right?)

All right. Tomorrow we'll get into something a bit meatier, and I have a pretty good Abraham Lincoln idea to close out the week on Friday. Stay tuned, ye glorious fuckers, ye.