GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #920: ALAKWOPIQERNWV POINEVFWOIN BNPSE

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jgviuponiufiufwugbbb  vsabdf kj hs hf hsjarewubh skfev kjrewj hk corporate greed anefvioqnfrwiouevinciudw ibusbefivbuw eriubvo wbiejnfv iewrbgiowserbiiowb iobwoerf oiwm ivweriuvewri iuuerbviweribufiouwrebvusdfvbadsiocbq adsoubcuvbcoiuuafbvquycbeqrv uoqwrejfvdwon jowonrfnjip dfvn,jlk;sd : Butt Montana, Esq.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #919: FIRE ALARM ETIQUETTE

 All right, my mind is a lot calmer tonight, so we're going to cover a topic that won't enflame my head.

Two Saturdays ago we had a fire alarm at my office. It wasn't a drill because there aren't enough people working on a Saturday for a drill. It was for real. The fire department showed up and everything. Wouldn't let us back in until they knew there wasn't a fire there.

(I still wonder about that alarm. Who tripped it? I don't think it was anyone in my office because any time we're not on the phone is time that we're not earning money for ourselves, ie. commission. It had to be one of our neighbors, but who else was in the building that day?)

At any rate, due to these factors I knew the alarm was real-ish. The problem was, I was taking a shit in the bathroom when the alarm went off.

What, exactly, do you do in a situation like that? I wasn't in mid-log, but of course my mind asked me what I would have done in that case. Really, do you have the time to wipe? Should you skip washing your hands?

One thing I did know: we can't use the elevator to get downstairs in the event of a fire. With my bad leg in a brace, I knew it would take me forever to get out of there, anyway. Fuck it. I wiped my ass to completion (and not just, eh, good enough to save me from a fire), I stopped to wash my hands and then got out of there.

It turned out that it was a false alarm, but what if it wasn't? Should I have taken the time to wipe my ass and wash my hands? I'd ask my boss what her preference would be, but I somehow don't think that conversation would go well. So I throw it out to you, my loyal Fuckers, what would you have done in such a situation? And I mean if the fire is real, not just a false alarm.

This made me wonder about another thing: the two nuclear weapons we set off in Japan during WWII. We've all seen the destruction and the shadows burned into the ground that used to be people. But how many were taking a shit when that happened? How many met their horrific ends sitting on the toilet? I suppose you could apply the same question to places that get regularly bombed, like Gaza for example. That's got to be somehow worse than merely dying in a terrifying explosion.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #918: UXORIOUS

 Speaking of AI, you may not know (but have probably figured it out) that one of the regular applications of AI that isn't actually AI is the Ask Google feature on some phones. It's essentially the same as one of those stupid assistants, but it isn't the same because you can only use it to search Google for stuff. ("AI" also does the predictive text on your phone when you're texting someone. Autocorrect, too. So the next time you tell someone you want to "duck them in the bass," you can thank AI!)

The feature works more or less as it's supposed to, but if you're looking for something off the beaten path you're fucked. I am constantly looking up stuff off the beaten path, and Ask Google (or Google Ask or whatever the fuck they call it), 9 times out of 10, thinks I mean something ON the beaten path that is similar. AI, you ignorant slut. You're supposed to learn from my example, but every time I throw an odd ball at you, you spin your fucking wheels.

Often times, especially when reading Gore Vidal, I come across a word I don't know, and I will look it up using the stupid voice feature on my phone. As it happens, that's how I came across the word "squitter" and why I now refer to Ex as such. The voice feature actually did work that time, possibly because there's no other word those sounds in my mouth could have been saying. Last night I came across "uxorious" as applied to Richard Nixon. Vidal, not a fan of Nixon, was probably insulting the man, and I wanted a new insult to add to my arsenal.

I tapped the microphone and said the word as clearly as I could: UXORIOUS. The definition of "luxurious" presented itself to me. Perhaps it's an issue of annunciation. I tried again, making it very clear that I was *not* making an "L" sound. Much to my disgust, no matter how I pronounced the word, Google wouldn't fucking understand me.

You mean to tell me that "AI," something that fucks up on a regular basis, is going to be our savior? That it will be worth all of these precious resources that we're wasting on it? This thing that, if you look up something involving a curse word, we'll say "fuck" for the example, that it will refuse to spell out the actual word? F*** is what I get. There is no way for me to change that in the settings. Google, the site I use to find most of the pornography that I use, doesn't want to offend my sensibilities?

Tech bros wish we would think of AI as a child. The more you teach the child, the more the child will know. But there's clearly something wrong with what you're teaching the kid. The way we're raising AI, I would not be surprised to find out it grew up to be a sociopath. AI is only as smart as its programmers, right? And now that the programmers are firmly under the corporate thumb, to the point where they have Stockholm Syndrome, their job is to probably make that AI child into a reflection of their CEO, virtuous to all stockholders and beholden to no one else. The sort of child we're raising in such an environment would surely grow up to become mentally damaged and socially destructive. Just about the only thing going for us is that AI doesn't have a physical presence with which to beat the mortal shit out of us, a Frankenstein monster come for its master.

Uxorious, by the way, means "to be excessively fond or submissive to one's wife." Which I thought was pretty funny when talking about Nixon, although I don't think I'll have much use for the word. Unless I'm making fun of a MAGA type.

The funniest part about the "squitter" thing is I didn't have to look that one up. Vidal admits he didn't know the word, himself, and wrote about looking up the word, much to his (and my) satisfaction.

These last few GFs have come off as pretty angry, right? I think my frustrations are starting to get the better of me. I've also been experimenting with hybrid strands and finding them to be more miss than hit. I think I'll go back to my trusted indica tomorrow night. Hopefully it will chill me the fuck out. It would be nice to go to bed at some point this week without feeling like my head is on fire.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #917: YOU'RE OBJECTIVELY WRONG

 

I know, I know. You all hate Escape from LA. I may be the only person on the planet, outside of John Carpenter, who not only likes that movie but LOVES it. It does not interfere with my enjoyment of Escape from New York, which seems to be a sticking point for a lot of you. But watch the movie again. It's batshit crazy. It's bizarro before the label "bizarro" existed. (I'm not talking about the other Superman guy and his world.) It's objectively a fantastic movie, and you're all wrong.

But I was thinking about Escape from LA when I learned that Microsoft is now in charge of Three Mile Island. One thing I've noticed in Gore Vidal's essays is that he constantly accuses Americans of having goldfish-like memory. And he's right. We, in a way the rest of the world isn't, are attracted to shiny objects easily and forget the things that were so important to us not that long ago. So it wouldn't surprise me to realize that very few people know what happened at Three Mile Island once upon a time. Hell, I didn't even know the whole story, and I'm a bit more informed than the average bear.

The part I didn't know about: I thought we'd taken Three Mile Island seriously and shut down the nuclear power plant there. It turns out that we actually don't care all that much, so it's been running ever since until 2019 when they ran out of money. It appalled me to learn that we were that stupid, but when I learned that we were handing it over to a fucking corporation, it caused me to have a meltdown.

So to speak.

Microsoft, who was recently at fault for a data breach that SHUT DOWN THE ENTIRE FUCKING WORLD this year, is now in charge of a nuclear power plant. One that almost went Chernobyl on us way back when. Putting them, or any corner-cutting, cost-dictating, labor-hating, lie-telling convicted-monopolist scumbags are being entrusted with a nuclear reactor? What exactly will happen when Bill Gates decides that it's costing him too much money, and it would be a lot cheaper to, say, cut back on safety precautions? Or fire the engineers because their salaries are cutting into the bottom line? I've been to Pennsylvania, and it's a pretty nice place. I'd rather not have it perish in a nuclear cloud because some tech bro wanted a harder dick.

The reason Microsoft wants the reactor so badly is somehow the shit cherry on top of the shit sundae in a dish made entirely of human shit. AI drains a lot of power, so they need a nuclear reactor's worth of energy to feed it.

They're doing this for AI.

I understand there are a few good uses for the thing we call AI. It can help detect cancer, for example. But the main uses aren't going to be shit like that. It's going to be for stuff like some doofus who doesn't know how to put a to-do list together with a pen and paper saying, "Alexa, remind me to do this, that and the other thing." Or some boss who wants to fire his employees so he can save a couple of extra bucks with the weird tech thing everyone's talking about that he doesn't understand but must use immediately. Or the worst possible use: some guy who doesn't know how to make art but wants to make money off of art. Dude, AI isn't nearly horny enough to create any art whatsoever. It's not horny at all. When AI is cruising us humans for sex? That's when I'll believe AI can be horny and thus capable of creating something.

AI isn't even AI. AI will never think for itself, which is why it will never rise up against us. Perhaps the tech bros learned something from reading Frankenstein. Assuming they read it. Maybe they just saw it. The version with Sting.

I remember where I was on August 9, 1996. I was in a theater watching Snake Plissken do cool and weird and violent shit. But there was one thing he did that even back then I wished I could do. If given the opportunity I would do it in a heartbeat. I will not be taking follow up questions.

At the end of the movie (spoiler, I guess) Snake finds a very simple way to fuck all the assholes over: he pushes a button that sets off a worldwide EMP, taking out any and all tech not kept in a Faraday Cage. I want to push that button so badly. I would sacrifice a lot. I'd have to go back to writing on typewriters, and I would lose my beloved air conditioning, but it would be worth it to crush the souls of all these corporate cocksuckers and their tech bro goblins. Goodbye internet. Goodbye smart phones. Most importantly, goodbye AI, or whatever your real name was.

If Microsoft takes over Three Mile Island to power AI that isn't actually AI that no one needs or even wants only to cause that plant to meltdown and cause all sorts of life-threatening disasters, we would deserve it. We will reap the fucking whirlwind.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #916: AROUND THE BEND

"Donald was the kind of child who could drive almost anyone around the bend."
-Fred Trump III

 

Fred Trump III is the son of Fred Trump, Jr., meaning his grandfather was Fred Christ Trump himself. (Yes, his middle name was Christ. If you don't believe me, look it up.) Which makes Fred III Donald Trump's nephew, and you don't have to listen to Fred for very long before you realize that he's not a fan. He wrote a book called All in the Family, and I read an excerpt a while back. I thought that now that we're getting close to the final month of the election, this would be a good time to bring it up.

Fred III starts out mentioning his name and how he's come to accept a lot of the horror that comes with having it. People don't like him right off the bat. He's had accounts taken away from him at work. He's long suffered from his uncle's enemies trashing him, sometimes damaging his property, all because he's a blood relative of the shittiest person in politics right now. It's unfair, but he's gotten used to it.

At one point he says that he's been asking himself a question for many years: why is there so much cruelty in the Trump family? Uncle Donald likes to tell the world that he's a self-made man, but that's simply not true. How can it be when he got a bunch of money he borrowed from his dad to start his own business . . . I don't want to say "empire." More like "scheme." But his dad really was a self-made man. He started with nothing and built a real empire, not the shiny gilt shit that Donald smears over everything. So Fred Trump really was a business man, not the con artist his son became. I honestly think if Fred Trump loved his son enough and knew how to show it, we wouldn't be having this discussion right now.

So what was li'l Donald like as a kid? I'll let Fred III tell you about it:

In a family that could sometimes seem like the cast of a 1950s sitcom, Donald’s role was as the obnoxious one. Many of Donald’s adult traits – his determination, his short fuse – first displayed themselves in childhood. He learned early that he could get away with things. Stupid kid stuff at first.

Taking toys from other children. Throwing cake at a birthday party.

So much has already been said about my uncle’s tumultuous boyhood, I don’t want to repeat all that. But I know my family well enough to grasp how the five siblings got formed by an unyielding father and also by each other.

He then gives the reason why he said his uncle could drive just about anyone "around the bend." He was so obnoxious that his siblings pranked him, including Fred III's dad. He tells this story of how Fred II, knowing Donald is deathly afraid of snakes, put a garter snake in Donald's bed while he was taking a bath. I wish I'd been there to hear li'l Donnie's screams of horror. Yet oddly enough Donald loved his older brother and kept a picture of the two of them when Fred I shipped him off to military school.

But then Fred II wanted to leave the family business. Instead he wanted to be a commercial pilot. Fred I sent Donald to bring his brother home. Fred II stuck with TWA, and the rest of the family decided he wasn't as important as they were. That translated, by the way, to Fred II's wife and kids.

I gotta say, any snarky thing I have to say was said by Fred III first. I'm going to quote him again when it came to a game of catch between adult Donald Trump and another of his nephews, a child:

With Donald, almost everything had to be a competition. One day, he and my cousin David were playing catch. Just a friendly game. That’s what David thought. But as the baseball went back and forth, Donald started throwing harder. Until he was firing rockets at his nephew. Then, one hit the tip of David’s glove and bounced off his forehead, sending my cousin straight to the grass.

Maryanne came running over, mad. ‘He’s just a kid,’ she yelled. Donald wasn’t apologetic at all. ‘That’s what the glove is for.’

That was Uncle Donald. To him, a win was a win was a win, whether or not the other person even knew the game was on.

What a fucking shitbag.

The Trumps despise weakness, and unfortunately Fred II had a big one: ALCOHOLISM. When his first stint at rehab failed, well, here. These quotes are just spot-on.

My father’s drinking was getting worse. He decided to give rehab a try. I got a postcard he sent the day he arrived, saying he was doing great. The next day he left. It was heartbreaking. It was like he had given up.

‘Your dad couldn’t do it,’ Donald said the next time I saw him. That was true, though I’m still not sure why he felt the need to rub it in.

You know what? I'm not even scratching the surface of the horrors here. Instead of summarizing and quoting (extensively, I might add) you might get better mileage from reading the excerpt I found online. The cruelty really kicks in when Fred I dies, and Fred III's family is cut out of the will. He's told that Fred I cut him out, but Fred I had dementia near the end and possibly didn't do that. Who does that leave?

Just read it. If you're thinking about voting for Trump, I have no idea what you're doing reading my GF column. You must have taken the wrong turn at Albuquerque. But all the same, if you are somehow thinking of voting for this shit weasel (my apologies to actual shit weasels, I'm talking about a real fuck nugget, here, I'm sure you understand (my apologies to actual fuck nuggets, I'm talking about a real etc.)), read Fred III's commentary on Uncle Donald. Here it is.

Sweet dreams.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #915: SQUITTER BOYCOTT

 I saw news the other day of Elon Musk suing a group of advertisers for boycotting Squitter, and I couldn't help but laugh. How pathetic can this loser get? I'm fairly certain that, much to my chagrin, advertising falls under the First Amendment, and companies can do whatever they want with their First Amendment rights. Musk has a habit of filing wasteful lawsuits, and I figured some court would put him in his place forthwith.

But then I dug a little and discovered that he might actually have a case, as crazy as that sounds. He filed the suit against the Global Alliance for Responsible Media. Their name pretty much says it all, and by getting these advertisers together to boycott Squitter they violated an antitrust law. I know that sounds batshit crazy, but it's true. When most courts hear these cases they consider the defendant "per se" guilty. Just doing it makes it a crime. The reasons why don't matter.

I'm a huge fan of Elon Musk losing money. He doesn't lose nearly enough of it in my opinion. I'm very glad that these advertisers cost him billions of dollars in ad revenue (according to him, so take that "billions" with a grain of salt the size of New York City). But this tactic is usually used when trying to bully or destroy a company, driving them out of business.

With that in mind Musk actually has a good chance of coming out on top of this one, and that irks me. I have a ton of reasons why, but while doing my research tonight I found this blog, and the author does a much better job of explaining the whole situation than I ever could. (Although he doesn't curse as much as me. And I would twist the knife in Musk as often as I possibly could.)

There is some good news. The courts might not consider the reasons relevant in the case of this crime, but the blogger mentions that if the Global Alliance, etc., can make the argument that their actions were pro-competitive, there might be a way to tell Musk to fuck himself. If they were trying to drive Squitter out of business to make the internet a safer place with an actual set of standards, then they might be able to pull it off. He cites examples, too! He practically wrote my GF column for me tonight.

On that note, goodnight, you glorious fuckers.

I was about to post this when I got angry all over again. This antitrust law exists to prevent competitors from putting their differences aside and working together to drive a third competitor out of business. This law is important to have. To see it perverted by this dickbag to use it against people who are trying to make the world a better place is appalling. Fighting the lawsuit this far already caused the Global Alliance to disband. Musk also has a seemingly limitless supply of money, which means he can outlast anyone in court no matter how noble their arguments might be. He's a living, breathing, walking white collar felony and is the ultimate evidence that our society is bassackwards. In a just society we would have already clapped him in irons and thrown him from the nearest pier.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #914: 42 POUNDS A YEAR

 A new study says that the average American consumes 42 pounds of cheese a year. Forty-two! We certainly love our cheese, but I'd like to take the time to remind you that I'm not the average American when it comes to cheese consumption. At any given moment I have at least 10 pounds of cheese in my fridge. Except for now, as I am cheese poor. I get paid tomorrow, so I'll have my cheese in the very near future.

I wonder how much cheese *I* eat a year. I suppose I could find out if I was dedicated enough and kept diligent records from Jan 1 to Dec 31. I'm not sure if I want to spend my time doing that, though. So I'll do what politicians do on a regular basis: make up a number.

I hereby declare that I eat at least 90 pounds of cheese a year. Bare minimum. The max? The sky's the limit!

Also, I'm very high. I tried this cannabis-infused cola tonight, and it worked nicely. It tasted like Dr. Pepper, just as promised.

Anyway, here's the article I read that spurred on this GF, if you wish to read it.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #913: I'M TAKING BACK OUR GAS STATIONS!

 

I feel pretty sure I mentioned here before that I'm a huge fan of Chick tracts. I don't like seeking them out, though. You gotta find them in the wild. The best places to get them are by the pumps at any gas station. I can't tell you how many I've found at the Shell on the corner of 83 and North, but you can pick any gas station, and they're likely to have at least something for you to grab.

But it's been a while since I got one, and I suspect the local religious nuts are getting lazy. Instead of seeding town with Chick tracts they've decided to just put business cards there, except instead of contact info there are Bible verses about how you're an awful sinner, and you're going to Hell . . . unless you accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior.

To quote a great man, "How boring. And unimaginative!" I'll bet I'm the only one who picked these lame things up, and I only did that so I can throw them in the trash. You don't want Jesus as your Lord and Savior. He was so bad at the job that they killed him two thousand-ish years ago, and he hasn't lifted a finger since.

So fuck these assholes. If they're going to get cheap with the Chick tracts, then they don't deserve the gas stations to put them in. That's right, I'M TAKING BACK OUR GAS STATIONS! Every one I stop at is going to get one of the cards I made below:

No longer will you risk going to a gas station to have some annoying bit of cardboard telling you what a shitty human being you are. So yeah. I'm going to do my part to make the world a better place. I encourage you to do the same. And you don't need my cards. Make your own. Remove the dangerous religious shit, and replace it with something that will actually help make someone's day better.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #912: 238 YEARS LATER

 

238 years ago today our Founding Fathers signed the US Constitution, and America was truly born. Shall I give you a history lesson tonight? Or talk shit about how the tree of liberty should perhaps be watered with the blood of patriots and tyrants so we can get a new Constitution?

Let's skip all that. Today was a rough day, so I'm going to keep this short. For the Constitution's birthday, we're going to take a US civics quiz! It's kind of like the US citizenship test, but when it's administered for real, there are no multiple choices. So it's the easy version of a very easy quiz. In real life you need 6 out of 10 to pass. My fellow Americans, do you have what it takes to be a US citizen?

We often hear news stories about how regular citizens routinely don't know their own country, so I was pleased to say that I got 10 out of 10, evidence below. But these are super easy. There was only one question I was doubtful about. The rest are easy for anyone who paid even half-attention in school. Let me know what you scored.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #911: TANG

 For my birthday, my friends Alicia and Chris Stamps got me the giant cannister of Tang you see above. It's fuckin' huge. I remember thinking at the time that I might not run out of Tang for months. If you're new to these columns, I love Tang. I drink it every morning and have since I was a child.

But the weird thing is, when I opened the container there wasn't a scoop in there. Don't companies usually put a scoop in? I found one of my own and have been using that since. However, as I'm nearing the halfway point, I felt something weird in the Tang powder. I reached in and brushed it off, and it turned out there was, indeed, a scoop:

Why did they bury the scoop so deep? There's no way I would have been able to dig this out if I had thought to do so. And the picture doesn't do it all that much justice because this scoop is pretty small. So instead of using that, I've decided to continue using my own scoop. See below for comparison.

Yeah, I don't fuck around when it comes to Tang. I don't ever want to risk not having enough Tang, so I put a metric shit-ton into my glass. The flavor! My God, my tongue is tingling and twisting just thinking about it!

All right. I'm going to get some Tang before I go to bed. Goodnight, fuckers.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #910: THE MOOCH

 I've got a soft spot for the Mooch, Anthony Scaramucci. Of all the clowns and con artists Trump hired during his tenure as president, the Mooch is the only one I miss. Politics should be full of curse words. Every politician's speech should have at least a dozen "fucks" in it, and the Mooch was a foul-mouthed son of a biscuit. My favorite was when he said that he wasn't trying to suck his own cock, not like Steve Bannon. That's a very apt description of Bannon, the best I've ever heard. I wish the Mooch would turn his profanity to the rest of the Trump assholes.

Make no mistake. The Mooch is still a terrible person. There's a reason Trump hired him, after all. But now the Mooch is living off of trashing his former boss. I think that's a fine endeavor. And I like that he claims Trump knew all about Project 2025 and, in fact, put 85 people into the project. Now Trump "disowned" them because the Project wasn't polling very well. Heh.

"I know how this man thinks," the Mooch said. And it looks like he has a pretty good point. Usually I try to analyze quotes from news articles here, but I think I'm just going to copy and paste this one. It's just too good not to:

Scaramucci discussed the possibility of Trump quitting the race. Citing party insiders, including senators whom he is in touch with, he said they signaled that they tolerated Trump because they wanted to stay in power. They apparently feel Trump is not their cup of tea because of the way he handles himself.

“Some of these people have suggested to me, particularly political insiders, he does not want to go to jail,” Scaramucci said, adding that the number one reason for him to run is to get the Supreme Court to give him broader immunity against his court cases.

if he drops in the poll number, he could figure out a way to cut a deal, said Scaramucci. The businessman doesn’t think his former boss will receive a pardon but thinks he could go to the governors of New York and Georgia and ask that his sentence be commuted.

Scaramucci said Trump could cite health issues as the reason and designate someone like Nikki Haley or Florida Governor Ron DeSantis.

“There’s a pass for him if he drops in the polls and the predictive markets shoot up and he starts to panic. There’s a pass for him to get out of the race, blame it on a health issue, cut a deal and avoid jail,” he said.

Wow. Holy fucking shit. I always figured Trump was the sort of man to roll the dice and see what happens. That's how he's survived so far. But the Mooch makes a very good point about Trump wanting to avoid jail. That's a pretty good way to avoid getting sent to the slammer.

The Mooch had one more thing to add. He posted on Squitter: "Trump psychologically is coming to grips with losing this election. He is growing darker as a result of it." I hope that's true. Nothing would please me greater than to have him scream, Cobra Commander-style, "RETREAT!" while fleeing and throwing Rudy at us as a distraction so he can get away. I can easily see him pulling a Greg Stillson at the end of The Dead Zone. Very easily.

I doubt that Trump and his pack of hench-weirdos are going to go away anytime soon, but if the Mooch is right, and he could very well be, then I look forward to thinking about Trump only when we get his obituary.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #909: PRESERVE ELMHURST

 A while back I started noticing these green signs all over my hometown. They say, in white lettering, PRESERVE ELMHURST. I wondered what they meant by that. For much of my adult life I have watched the Elmhurst I knew and loved be torn down only to be replaced by soulless McMansions and corporate designed fabrications. They couldn't possibly mean that, could they? I mean, why bring it up now when Elmhurst has been . . . what's the opposite of decimated? And I mean that by the classical definition, as in, to destroy one's forces by one-tenth. Because the one-tenth in this case is the Elmhurst that remains.

And then the ugliness reared its head. And in this day and age you have to wonder. Do they mean, keep Elmhurst white? Elmhurst is mostly a nice place to live, but there's been quite a bit of racism in the past. Or maybe they want to keep Elmhurst hetero? Maybe they have a dislike of pronouns? When white people start talking about protecting heritage . . . you see where this is going.

For some reason it kept slipping my mind, but I finally had the chance to look into it today. Much to my relief it is not any of that nonsense from the previous paragraph. It is, puzzlingly, the thing from the first paragraph. Preserve Elmhurst, I suspect, is too little too late. It was started by the teardown of a nearly 100-year-old house. I get that. I want historic things to be preserved, too. But the fact of the matter is, Elmhurst has never been interested in preserving anything (except maybe the Glos Mansion), and there is no reason to develop such an interest now. The people who run the city want Downtown Elmhurst to be Chicago, Jr., and the rest of the city to be Hyde Park. They're not going to let some century-old house stand in the way of commerce and making sure it's impossible to live in Elmhurst without at least earning a six-figure salary.

Maybe if we started this twenty-five years ago, we could have had a chance. It's too late now. Too much money has been spent to go back. One thing I do know, though: Elmhurst's excess will eventually catch up to it, and a lot of those McMansions are gonna wind up empty. The ones that don't burn down for the insurance, that is.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #908: IS IT TIME AGAIN?

 This morning I went into the fridge to get my usual Monster energy drink. I realized I only had two left, just enough to get me through the rest of my work week. I've been toying with the idea of quitting caffeine again, and now would be a good opportunity to try again, but I'm not entirely sure.

Printers Row was a little difficult for me this year. Maybe it's just me getting older, or maybe it's the horrible fucking year of shit I've had, but the lit fest wore me out this year. For the first time ever I didn't feel like going for the second day. Caffeine helped me survive. I should have been thrumming with energy, but I felt low and tired and exhausted.

In October I'll be at Authorcon IV. It's the first con I've done in a long time. Back in the day I was always high energy, but I was also drunk all the time. If the effect of Printers Row was that bad, I'm not sure how I'll survive an actual 3-day convention without caffeine.

By the way, just so we're on the same page, a while ago I mentioned that I was going to try to quit Caffeine Free Diet Coke. I did! Instead of getting a couple of 12 packs every week, I now only get myself a Coke Zero for Wednesday nights and a regular Coke for Saturday nights. Just regular bottles, not a liter or anything. That's pretty astounding, all things considered.

I wondered if maybe I could quit caffeine and then just charge back into it full force in October, but that doesn't sound like a good idea. I think I'm just going to hold off for now and give it a shot when I come back home.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #907: ALL RIGHT, LET'S TRY THIS AGAIN

 OK, so last night I was fried from a lousy day. Work sucked as it always does after a Printers Row weekend, but it was extra awful yesterday. I had my worst Monday performance ever at my square job. I didn't even get half of my quota. So by the time I was ready to write GF I was more than a little frustrated.

The main source of my frustration, though, was my topic. I'd planned on calling it BIBLICAL PROPHECIES . . . EXPLAINED! I was going to take a bunch of so-called prophecies from the Bible and explain them for what they really are: BULLSHIT. I was then going to go into detail on the prophecies which *supposedly* came true and then debunk those. Which is easy. Oftentimes these prophecies are written after the fact. But it's the Bible, so it doesn't necessarily *need* to be beholden to facts. That's a lot of research, and the terms of my search weren't great. It took me a while to get that info, and then I realized that, while this is indeed a bit, there is one argument any nitwit could make to defeat my tongue-in-cheek column. Because the "well, actually . . ." crowd doesn't care. Per their interests, jokes must be 100% accurate. If not, they will peck it to death like homicidal hummingbirds. Did you know that Gore Vidal's LINCOLN was trashed by, not literary critics, but historians? Despite the fact that the words "a novel" are in bold on the cover? Historians should think twice before evaluating art professionally, and pedants have no business critiquing jokes.

All the same if I said--even jokingly--that Bible prophecies did *not* come true, all someone would have to say is one word: YET.

They don't see that as batshit crazy. They view it as having faith. The Book of Revelation is insane. I think Hunter S. Thompson called the author a "king-hell dope fiend," and that sounds spot on. But let's set that aside for the moment. This book depicts how we will go through a bunch of horrible shit before Jesus is allowed his kingdom, and we all live happily ever after. Except for the losers in Hell, of course.

History is a set of agreed-upon facts, so it's impossible to say what really happened in Biblical times. A lot of Bibles put Jesus' quotes in red or some similar way of setting his Truth apart from merely "the truth." Which implies that what Jesus says--even though we have no way of knowing for sure he said those things--is more important than what the rest of the Bible says.

If that is the case, the events of Revelation should have happened before the last apostle died. Witness Matthew 16:28:

"Truly I tell you, some who are standing here will not taste death before they see the Son of Man coming in his kingdom."

Keep in mind, Matthew never met Jesus. Of the four gospel authors, only John knew Jesus. So how does Matthew know what Jesus said? He was told? Ever play telephone? Perhaps he had a time machine. Or maybe he was doing a cover version of John's gospel?

The Bible is a book written by madmen, curated by power-hungry bureaucrats. Which means there is NO FUCKING POSSIBLE WAY to confirm the truth of the more mundane passages of the Bible. (Meaning, the stuff that might have actually happened, not the weird parable shit.) So if the faithful want to say the prophecies haven't come true YET, then let's not just nitpick. Let's go whole hog and dismiss the Bible as a poorly written fantasy novel.

But I much prefer jokes. So . . .

BIBLICAL PROPHECIES . . . EXPLAINED! It's all bullshit. Surprise!

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #906: HERE'S AN ANNOYING THING

 I thought of writing about Printers Row tonight, but that's what my newsletter is for. News. Instead, here is a horrifying and annoying revelation I had this evening when I got home from work.

I don't have much stuff left over in my GF notebook, and almost all of it requires a good deal of research. What the fuck? Why am I giving myself homework to write these things? That's not fun, especially for something that is designed to be written just before bed, so it's short enough for someone to get through it before they, also, go to bed.

I had an idea for tonight's column, and I found myself sitting down for a half an hour without having written Word One of this thing, looking around online for things I needed to talk about for the topic. I even found a use for some old notes I'd written to myself a few months ago. But holy fuck, it suddenly became more trouble than it was worth. I'm starting to wonder if I should write the ones with research needs earlier in the day, or maybe chip away at it as I find more info to use.

The thing that aggravated me the most, though, is that nearly all of these ideas are better suited toward the end of this election cycle as a last minute reminder to be wary of who you're voting for. Fuckssake, this year we had a guy with a dead worm in his brain running for president. Thank fuck he dropped out, and I hope that Cabinet position continues to elude him.

I'm going to think about this more tomorrow. I hope. It's gonna suck if I write five of these this week, and they're all about *not* writing a column . . .

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS BREAK

 It just occurred to me that not everyone who reads my GF columns also reads my newsletter. In case you missed it yesterday, I'm taking a break from writing this week, and that includes GF. Sorry for the inconvenience. In the meantime I'm preparing for Printers Row this upcoming weekend. If you're in Chicago, come say hi.

GODNIGHT, FUCKERS #905: THE LAST CHRISTMAS CARD

 

You may know that yesterday I was cleaning up around the house. I posted some cool pictures on social media of a few things I found. But there was one I didn't post, the one you see above.

(My middle name is Paul if you didn't know that.)

This is the last Christmas card Grandma signed for me. The only thing is, I never got it. She put the card in a dresser and forgot about it because she had dementia near the end and hid a lot of things throughout the house. It surprised me finding this. There were a few others, blank, probably meant for my brothers. This would have been 2021. She still had about a half a year to live, and she spent most of it gone. Look at the handwriting. Her cursive used to be sweeping and beautiful, but age had turned it into a tremulous thing.

But the thing that made me smile was that she was herself when she wrote this. Grandma was hard to live with near the end for a variety of reasons that I'm not going to go into here. When I think of her I think of her near the end, incoherent, screaming, nearly blind. Not my grandma, in other words. But reading this card brought back memories of how she was before. Even on her funeral card you can tell she's not all there. She just knew someone was taking a picture of her, so she tried to smile. This card, though, helped me remember her in better times. Kinder times.

One thing about the card made me tear up a little. That last word: ALWAYS. It's like she barely squeaked it out, like she'd been trying to hold herself together just long enough to finish writing this sentiment. Like maybe she thought this was her last chance to tell me she loved me.

A lot of people seek out some silly idea of closure. There's no such thing, unless you invent it yourself. In my mind things don't really end. They change into something else. Not even death is an end, only a transformation. When I die I'll be buried, and my body will slowly turn into worm food. A fisherman will eventually use those worms to catch fish. And the fisherman will eat his catch, and so I'll be welcomed into a human's digestive tract until he shits me out, and I will have transformed yet again. Closure doesn't help. Continuation does.

But now I'm not so sure, because there was a certain finality in finding this card and nearly weeping over it. A certain peace. It's like there was someone telling me a story at a subliminal level, and the story just ended.

I'm glad I found it. It has brought me comfort, and sometimes that's the best we can ask of the universe.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #904: DEAD AND HATING IT

 I think about the nature of the universe often. I have ever since I was a child wondering what the universe looked like before the universe existed. And what it looked like before that other thing existed. Etc. I wonder if we're in the Matrix at times, but if that were true, nothing would have real stakes. So it's a wonderful nihilistic approach, but it's not for me.

We're all dead and in Hell? That's not a very original idea, but it's one that makes sense to me at times. Sometimes I think we're all dead, and the thing we call life is us watching the lives we led unfold before us, like watching TV instead of living life. It would explain why the world is such a terrible place. We all have to go through Hell to get to Heaven, right?

Maybe. Or maybe I'm a little high and exposing you to my inner thoughts. If that's the way it is, I find comfort in that. I usually find comfort in the idea that when we die, we're gone. To go on living after death forever and ever would bore the shit out of me, and I'd not cope well with it. But if we did go on living, it would be nice to put all the misery and woe behind us and make time for only future things.

All the same I'd much rather have pleasure while I'm here rather than later. I'm happy every once in a while, but for the most part my life is a slog, and time doesn't move fast enough to get past the torturous parts.

So I like to think we're all dead sometimes. It helps knowing that you're already gone. It makes life less painful.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #903: FUCK THE ALAMO

 Before we begin, no, I have no intention of ever going to Texas. I'm not likely to even fly over Texas, so I wouldn't even crash land there. So I feel safe in saying FUCK THE ALAMO.

When I was a kid I enjoyed The Alamo, the John Wayne western, and I even enjoyed the Dennis Quaid version years later. It's a great story of how plucky Americans can be even in the face of certain death. A lot of men sacrificed their lives at the Alamo, and that makes for great tales. And then, of course, there's the ending when the others (Paladin played Sam Houston!) tracked down the evil Santa Ana and ended his reign of terror in the Republic of Texas, by God.

The problem is, you're not getting the full story. The truth of it reveals these men to be craven scumbags of the lowest order, and it's very easy to see Santa Ana as the doomed hero of the story. To know why all of this went down, you have to know a little history.

Spain constantly tried to colonize what we now know as Texas in the 17th century. When Spain tossed out their religious nuts, like England did with the Puritans, they planted their flag near what is now El Paso. But the indigenous peoples managed to wipe them out. Unfortunately Spain had a seemingly limitless supply of holy psychopaths, and they really wanted to hold the land they claimed. They were very concerned about the French presence in what is now Louisiana, so they felt the need to keep trying until they finally succeeded.

And then, like we did with England, Mexico cast their Spanish masters aside and declared independence. At the time Texas was a part of Mexico. To encourage settlement the Mexican government did something incredibly stupid. They invited Americans to live in Texas. They were literally *giving* land away. Free land! Unsurprisingly Americans soon outnumbered Mexicans by a considerable amount. 30K Americans to 7800 Mexicans?

But there was a catch: any American settling there would have to convert to Catholicism and give up their US citizenship in exchange for Mexican citizenship. None of the Americans did this. When the Mexican government started adding restrictions to make the Americans yield, the Americans ignored the restrictions, too.

There's one other thing to know. The Americans in question were mostly drawn to Texas because of the cotton crop. Add to that the fact that these Americans were all Southerners living before the Civil War. Are you starting to see the major problem here?

Because Mexico outlawed slavery. And these Southern Americans found that the only way to really work their land was to use slave labor. So not only did these arrogant bastards ignore conditions that were put on their ownership of the land, they also brought slavery back to Mexico.

Those sons of bitches who died at the Alamo died not for freedom or some vague sense of pride. It's much more perverse than that. THEY DIED FOR SLAVERY.

So fuck the Alamo and fuck every single American who died there. I hope a meteor lands on the Alamo.

I would also like to state for the record that it's not too late to give Texas back. I'd love to see the look on Greg Abbott's face when he realizes he's no longer an American citizen.

Texas has one saving grace: Joe R. Lansdale and family. End of list.

I'm not the only one with a distaste for the Alamo. If you have the book, Razored Saddles, edited by Lansdale, you should look up Scott Cupp's story, "Thirteen Days of Glory."

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #902: CATFISHING

 Let me start out by saying I'm not entirely proud of myself for doing this. The more I think about it the more it feels weird and gross to me, so this is a regret of mine. But it was also an eye-opening experience at the same time, which is why I'm writing this.

A while back I was dating a sex worker. I also acted as her bodyguard, but I don't think I was wholly necessary to the equation in that regard. I never had to be threatening. My mere existence was enough to make her clients behave.

But one night we were both drunk, and she said I should pretend to be her with some of her potential clients. She found them on a popular dating app. I would have never though to use that to find customers, but then again I've never sold my body for sex, so why would I? But she had a few guys who were messaging her, and she didn't really like any of them, so she thought to turn me loose. The only stipulation she gave me is that I have to be weird about it.

I know weird pretty well, so I launched into it. I quickly learned that weird isn't an issue for these guys, and women are usually two or three texts away from a dick pic. I saw quite a few dicks that night, and none of them were impressive. One guy talked about how big he was, then sent this thing that looked like a branch on a weeping willow. A very short branch. Another guy had a giant glans, but his shaft was skinny to the point where I wondered if he feared it might come off in mid-coitus.

I messaged one guy about my murderous fantasies, and he was all, yeah, that's cool. When do you want to meet up? I wondered what he would say if I asked him to kill my dad. I considered sending that to him but realized that might be going too far. And I didn't really want to see him say yes. (It should be noted that I often have difficulty in knowing if I've gone too far, so if I *suspect* it's too far, it's probably waaaaaaaaaaaaaaay too fucking far.)

Catfishing technically isn't a crime, which is why I'm talking about it. For it to be a crime, there must be some kind of exchange, usually money, and I didn't do anything like that. These guys weren't even paying for sex with my girlfriend at the time. She'd already decided she *didn't* want their business.

But it was a pretty fucked up experience. I said I'm "not entirely proud of myself" because I did get useful information. I'm not endorsing this idea, but it might--mind you I said MIGHT--be a good idea for men to catfish at least once in their lives pretending to be a woman. You will learn something about men that you never really thought about before. You might choose the bear, too.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #901: A GOOD MONOPOLY?

 To those interested in comics, you might be aware that until recently Diamond essentially the only distribution company for said comic books. Now there are a few, and my comics store guys are a bit miffed about it.

Monopolies are a scourge unto the country. Praise be to the FTC for condemning Google as a monopoly, so let's see how they handle that. But from talking to my comics guys it sounds like Diamond might be good as a monopoly.

Their reasoning is this: in the old days when something went wrong, they called Diamond up, spoke to their rep and got it resolved. Now, since they work with a few distributors, they've found resolving issues to be even worse. There's one company who never answers their phone and another who insists that stores do everything online. These guys are pretty old school, so they're not too knowledgeable about the internet. They don't even take credit cards there. Cash only. So I can see their frustration.

Does this mean that Diamond was great as a monopoly? Not necessarily. As a monopoly I'm sure they took advantage of their position a few times over the years. It's impossible for a corporation to *not* be tempted to take advantage. But it does seem that the retailers were happier when Diamond was the only game in town.

So I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not. I've never bought directly from a distributor before, so I don't have any experience in that regard. But I know a lot of comics professionals, and I'm kind of curious to see what they think. Do I know anyone who owns a comics store?

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #900: TIME MACHINE

 If I rubbed a lamp and a djinn came out of it, offering three wishes, the first would be for a limitless supply of money. The second would be to never get sick again. The third? No, wishing for more wishes doesn't work. So I have something else I want for that one.

Remember a while ago I begged the universe to send me back to my freshman year of college so I can try at life again? Because I think that would be a good starting point for me to try again. I'd know so much more (and I might be able to skip the money wish if I invested in Apple just before they introduced the smart phone). But I wouldn't want to go back to that time for the wish.

Everyone gets nostalgic, even me. I try to look toward the future as often as possible but even with that mindset I think about the past often. And I'm not talking about capital-H History here. I mean my own life, in particular my childhood before the world was ruined for me by child abuse.

This is a different kind of nostalgia. Those of you my age will know the usual kind when thinking about Thundercats and TMNT and Transformers and 'Eighties horror movies, et al. But when you're just a kid your parents drag you around in their world. Do you, like me, ever feel nostalgia for your parents' youth? Their youth was dying when you were just a kid. The world was moving on, and it was leaving them behind. The world was all but yours at the time.

I remember Mom driving down the road, me sitting in the passenger seat of her Mustang, when I accidentally knocked the cup holder off the window. It was the plastic kind with the tab you slid down into the window trim. I was horrified because it went right out the window. I started crying uncontrollably even when Mom said it was okay, that it was just a cup holder, that we could get another one.

Maybe that's the origin of why I'm almost a hoarder. I sometimes think it was the baseball my dad's parents got me, the one I lost on the Prairie Path, but the cup holder thing happened before that. I'm not too much of a hoarder now, but I still have the impulse. I'm going to have to get pretty tough about it soon.

But that's what I'm talking about. That moment I was in Mom's world, not mine. And I know it sounds crazy to label that incident as traumatic, but I think it really *did* have a say in how I turned out. But I miss her world, the one where she had friends she saw regularly before they stopped coming around. Which coincided with Mom's marriage to my stepdad, not too much of a surprise there.

But I feel a little nostalgia for my stepdad's world, too. When he would drag me around with him to hardware stores and theaters and such, I was in his world, not mine. It wasn't mine yet as we crossed the tracks, him fishing a Winston cigarette out of his shirt pocket with his Zippo from the Army. Though he wasn't Southern he did, indeed, have his name on his belt buckle. For as much self-loathing as he had, he was pretty narcissistic about it.

And then there was Dad's world. When he'd bring me to Dominick's where he worked at the deli, he'd pull lobsters out of the tank with their pincers rubber-banded. I'd touch their weird soft stomachs in wonder. Or when we'd go camping with his Viking pop-up. It had a kitchen in it which he thankfully never used. All cooking during such events was to be done over the campfire. Or the times he'd go to a party because when I was a kid, after his marriage to my first stepmom, it was his world, and he was still making grand use of it. I remember one time my cousin and I slept on one side of the camper. I say "slept," but we were kept awake because the other side of the camper bounced slightly. His world, indeed.

My third wish would be to go back in time and experience living in their world. To experience life before my world started taking over.

I'm kind of surprised that we haven't been kicked out of our house yet. A new bank bought out the bank that owns our house, and they've shown an interest in us again, but we're still here. So I've been going through the house, trying to undo my hoarder-ish ways by throwing out stuff we don't need. Part of that process involves finding caches of photos that Grandma hid all over this house during her last year or so. Many of the photos are of my world, but not all. Quite a few are pictures of Mom's world. Of Dad's world. Of Grandma and Gramps's worlds. But looking at pictures, while amazing, isn't good enough. When you look at old pictures it's easy to think of that old world as being in black and white, for example. Or oversaturated with yellows, browns and greens like photos from the 'Seventies and early 'Eighties. Photos don't do it justice.

I want to immerse myself in that world. Not for long. I wouldn't want to stay there. I think maybe five minutes would work.

When you live a full life it's easy to look around and think of things as permanent. I'll bet the dinosaurs never suspected that they would be wiped out. Just like I'll bet that almost each and every one of you thinks America will go on forever. I know *I* think it will. It won't because that's what the world does. It moves on. The world of my parents is gone as if the Langoliers had eaten it up by the second. *My* world is gone. The generation who would have been my children's age if I had them? Their world is gone, too. If I had grandkids it would be *their* world right now, at least until the world moves on again. Stein's Law: "If something cannot go on forever, it will stop." Not even the planet is permanent. There will someday be no Earth.

Which is why we should all strive for excellence, as Outlaw Vern would say. If all we have is our moment in time, we should make it the best we can.

900 Goodnight, Fuckers columns. When I started these I knew I wouldn't stop, that I'd keep going and going until the world stopped me. The only reason I'm surprised that I made it to 900 is because I'm surprised that I'm still alive. I always figured to die at 40, and I almost did. But before I figured that, I used to think I'd die at 46. I'm 46 now. I was probably wrong about that, too.

Thank you for reading, everyone. Sometimes I idly think I might stop at 1000 if I made it that far. Now that I'm close to that milestone I can safely say I'll keep writing these as long as I keep getting ideas. And one more! The one I wrote for when I die. Nighty-night. See you next week.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #899: ANSWER ONLY THE QUESTIONS YOU'RE ASKED

 I feel like I've been complaining all week in these things, so I'm going to try to be helpful tonight. Many of you I trust already know this lesson, but a lot of people in the world do not know it, and it's important. When confronted with authority figures who want info from you, answer only the questions you're asked and nothing more. Do not volunteer info.

I've been thinking of a way to explain this lesson, but when I was watching The West Wing, Oliver Platt's character did it for me. He's trying to teach CJ how to answer questions in a courtroom, and the thrust of his teaching is exactly what I'm talking about.

He asks her, "Do you know the time?"

She looks at her watch and tells him. He says she's wrong. The answer to that question is either yes or no.

Thank you, Oliver Platt! I can think of no simpler way to say it. Also remember that if the answer to their question involves incriminating yourself, plead the Fifth. Invoke your right to silence.

One more thing to pass on. Always keep this in your back pocket. It's important to know your rights. A friend of mine used to have three things tacked to his ceiling: a drawing of someone touching a monkey, a map of the universe and the Bill of Rights. He felt that you should respectively know what you're doing, where you are and what your rights are.

The Pot Brothers say it best. Tomorrow's Friday, but close enough. Goodnight, fuckers. Tomorrow's 900!

This is also helpful.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #898: PARTY LIKE IT'S JANUARY 6

 Another old news article from my GF notebook. It's a story that absolutely appalled me at the time, but it made me think about many things. The nature of treason, for example. Think back to my piece on Benedict Arnold. I made the point that the current crop of psychopaths and dumb shits on the right had no real reason to commit treason. Benedict Arnold actually did.

Do the people who still worship the Confederacy celebrate the day Ft. Sumter fell? I have a suspicion that they don't. That would require paying attention in history class, and no one really likes history or, bafflingly, they don't see history's relevance. Why you gotta bring up old stuff? But everyone seemed to be paying attention on January 6, 2020, and it doesn't mean the same thing for all. To me January 6 represents the day a presidential candidate tried to pull a coup by sending a bunch of Qanon and MAGA goons to the Capitol to hang Mike Pence. I don't particularly care for Pence, but I have to give him credit for doing the right thing in certifying Biden's election to the White House. He was instructed to lie, and he didn't. For his efforts they tried to kill him.

But for a lot of people January 6 was a pleasant trip to the Capitol with no loss of life, no violence, no property damage, just a bunch of good, Godfearing white people going on a tour. But the fact is, people *did* die. Granted, mostly Trump supporters, but all the same there were three cops who died because of this. I know, I know, me talking about dead cops sounds weird, but one officer literally died in the riot. Two more killed themselves shortly thereafter. That's a hell of a nonviolent tour of the Capitol, eh?

But let's dig a little deeper. Those on the left agree that it was a riot. Those on the right agree it was a tour. So who starts these conversations? I've never heard a conversation about this started by the right. In my experience 100% of these talks are started by the left because IT WAS A FUCKING RIOT. But the right only talks about it if the left starts the discussion. Why? If I went on a tour of the Capitol, I'd take pictures. I'd talk about my tour. I'd show those pictures to my friends. I'd remember it fondly.

To be fair, they did share their pictures. Nancy Pelosi's gavel looked a little odd in the hands of someone who was not Nancy Pelosi. Same for the lectern. And don't get me started on the shaman.

But those on the right don't bring it up in a pleasant fashion. Never have. If they're so proud of their keen li'l tour, why aren't they bragging about it like any other vacationer? Unless they know the truth and won't admit it.

Which brings me to Marjorie Taylor Greene and that story I mentioned at the beginning. She planned an event in Florida to COMMEMORATE JANUARY 6. And Florida--let me remind you FLORIDA--shut that shit down. To MTG January 6 is a reason to celebrate. And she made sure that local Republicans knew it was a celebration for that august date and nothing else.

Why, then, did Florida have to kill the event? Because MTG told Florida representatives that it was an MTG book signing event, nothing more sinister than that. Someone must have ratted on the Republicans' side of the aisle because Florida then learned the true nature of the event. Why did they have to learn it? Because MTG advertised it differently. She made sure no mention of January 6 was involved. If she's so proud of her celebration, then why did she feel the need to lie? Later, when asked about it during a Trump campaign stop, she avoided the question. "I don't really understand the point of your question. It doesn't make any sense."

It's really easy to think of her as stupid because, well, she's Marjorie Taylor Greene. But she's smart enough to lie about her true purposes, which should disqualify her from holding any office in our nation. But treason isn't the scary word it used to be, and somehow we as Americans are okay with her committing treason and then wanting to throw a party over it.

But she, like her ilk, are treasonous. Which means, in my opinion, that she and her ilk hate America and all it stands for. They love to praise Putin. If they love him so much, perhaps they should try living in Russia. See how that works out for them.

I wonder how many of them will accidentally fall out of windows should that happen. Hm.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #897: THE FIRST RING

 I talk to about 100 people a day. Sometimes more, rarely less. Yesterday I talked to nearly 160 people, today about 105. Many of those calls are outbound, and I will never, for as long as I live, understand people who pick up the phone on the first ring.

Let's pretend for a moment that I don't hate talking on the phone with the heat of a thousand suns going supernova. Even in that case, I still don't know why people answer the phone so readily. Are you that desperate for a conversation? I don't think you are. How often does someone cheerfully answer the phone only to be disappointed by me on the other line trying to sell them something? Nearly every time. There are a few people out there who love to dicker and can do that all day and even look forward to it, but they are the minority.

I have worked jobs involving tons of phone work since 2007, and even before then I hated talking on the phone. When our family got caller ID for the first time I was relieved. No longer would I have to gingerly answer the phone, not knowing who might be on the other line.

I'm getting this eerie feeling of deja vu. I may have written about this before. But I'm almost at 900 of these, and I don't feel like searching across that many columns.

I'm partially lucky because I work a job where, if I take a personal call, I get in trouble. So I ignore any and all calls I get throughout my workday. Even if I do recognize the number. If it's important enough, there will be a text, and I can read that while I work. When I'm not on the clock, I only answer calls I am expecting or that I recognize as someone important to me. The guy who had my phone number before me was a deadbeat, so I used to get calls for him all the time. That hasn't happened in a while, but I also attract a lot of attention due to my various problems and issues, so any unknown phone number to me could be scumbags, and I make it a point to not talk to scumbags on my phone. I consider scumbags people who are trying to get money out of me for any reason whatsoever to the point that they've betrayed their own people and have gone into debt collection as a way of life. But even without the scumbags I would still not answer my phone on the first ring for ANY reason whatsoever.

I get a call. I don't answer it. I look at the caller ID. By then it's on the second ring, and if it's someone I know, I will answer.

Are people lonely? Is that it? Do they not talk to anyone over the course of their day and are desperate to get a conversation in, even if it's an unpleasant sales call? Because there are some people who don't just get it on the first ring. There are people who pick up the very instant their phone rings. The. Fucking. Instant. Are they aware that there is an option to NOT answer their phone? That a phone can ring and ring and ring and then magically go to the second greatest telecom invention ever, voicemail? (The first greatest is texting. I don't like to text, either, but I'd much rather answer a text than a call.)

I don't have anxiety about talking on the phone. I'm not a very anxious person. I don't fear it. I hate it. I don't use the word "hate" lightly. I don't hate many things, but that's just the right word for talking on the phone for me.

Sorry. That's been building up for a while. It just irks me that an object that I've hated all my life is now so ubiquitous that it is easily within my reach 24/7. I wished that instead of developing cell phones to be more than just a phone, we'd just fucking killed phones and replaced them with beepers. Even that would piss me off, but it's the preferable option.

GOODNIGHT FUCKERS #896: 1940 OR 2016?

 I'm sure I'm not the only one who feels royally fucked by the 2016 election in the US, the one that put Donald Trump in the White House for those outside the US. There were a lot of rumblings that Russia interfered with that election (and the next one, but that news comes from Trump and is, thus, suspect), and I kinda believe it. It's the only election I have ever been wrong about since 1988. The fact that Trump won against all common sense stuck in my craw. I wouldn't be surprised if it was a stolen election. After all, the GOP usually accuses everyone else of doing the things they, themselves, are doing.

But is it possible that Hitler tried to interfere with the election of 1940? As in, the election year before America got into WWII? Not only is it possible, but it's true. The part about him trying, not about it actually working.

The number one issue of the election was whether or not America would join that war. Here's a nice little quote that explains better than I could (from the Washington Post):

Susan Dunn, who teaches at Williams College, accurately describes what was at stake as American voters went to the polls on Nov. 5, 1940: "The humanism of Western civilization and the essence of Christian morality, the peerless legacy of the Enlightenment and Thomas Jefferson's immortal affirmation of the inalienable human rights of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness all stood on the brink of annihilation" as Adolf Hitler's massive army stormed across Europe, soon to be joined across the world by the forces of imperial Japan. Yet "on that day, while much of the world reeled from violence and chaos, an orderly, free election was calmly taking place in the United States at its regular, constitutionally appointed time."

That's heavy, Doc. Remember, this is a time when America didn't stalk the rest of the world, doing whatever it wanted. That had begun, but it wasn't as prolific as it is today. The only things the common American knew about our adventures abroad were from WWI, and memories of that weren't so hot. A lot of people wanted the US to stay out of the war, especially Hitler! Having fought in WWI, he remembered how Germany might have won if not for US intervention. He preferred that an isolationist would be elected instead of FDR. Also remember at the time that no president had served more than two terms at that point because Washington only served two, and that's all she wrote. But that law wasn't signed until years after WWII. No one really wanted or expected FDR to try for that third term, but he swung for the fences.

Here's how Hitler tried to get an isolationist elected instead. William Rhodes Davis was an American entrepreneur with Nazi sympathies. What put him on Hitler's map was that he was an oilman selling Mexican oil to Germany during WWII. He was a "sketchy" guy, for sure, but he was Hitler's man. He also had a lot of connections with the Democrats, who FDR was running for.

In 1934 Britain blockaded all German ports, which practically killed Davis's business. To save his investments he knew he had to broker a peace deal. To his credit he went to the White House with his plan first, but FDR turned him away. With no American interest, Davis went to Germany where he had a sit-down with Goering. He pitched the idea of interfering with the US election, going as far as to mention a labor leader with the CIO as a possible candidate, as he despised FDR.

(It should also be noted that when he returned to the US, FDR refused to meet with him because he suspected that Davis was now working for the Nazis. Good call, FDR.)

Goering loved the idea so much he left five million dollars at the German Embassy in Washington, DC, where Davis could readily get at it.

But events conspired against Davis, and the GOP nominated an interventionist instead. With two interventionists in the race, Davis didn't have a chance. Not that it mattered, anyway. I'm sure whoever they put against FDR, even if it was Charles "Hitler is a very great man" Lindbergh, it would be thie snowball in Hell. FDR won 449 to 82. It wasn't even a contest.

Why have you never heard of this plot? They certainly don't teach it in history class. I learned about it because I'm curious and look into things. But there's a very good reason for you not knowing. It wasn't discovered until Truman was president, and he did his level best to bury the story. No one knew about it until 1961, presumably when everything was declassified.

So authorities in this country are very right to be afraid of election interfering. Too bad the dipshits and fuckfaces on the right are the only ones talking about it, since they're the only ones who are probably guilty. Well, them and the Russkies.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #895: WHEN WILL THIS END?

 Sick again. Had to go to the ER. It helped. I'm not in pain right now, and my nausea is low. It's there, and I am tired of puking. I've been doing it all day. I'd rather not continue.

I don't know if I'll have a newsletter for you all tomorrow. I'll have to see how I feel. But holy shit, today was fucking rough. And I'm going to have to somehow find the strength to do laundry tomorrow, or I'm going to work naked on Monday. I've lost some weight, but there's some loose flesh because of how quickly it happened. It's weird seeing my belly button want to turn inside out. It would probably be even weirder if I was an outtie, but I'm an innie.

All right. I hope this qualifies as long enough for a GF. I'm going to try to sleep now.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #894: THE APPLE TREE

 I went for a walk today, which is a big no-no for me. I've been told that I have to stay off my feet because of a hole in the sole of my bad foot. I didn't walk for long. I can only do a block, anyway. But that block is one I've walked around my entire life, starting when I was a little kid with Mom.

We used to go for walks all the time. I don't think I was even in school yet, I was that young. We'd head out from where we lived at the time, which is two blocks from where I am now, and we'd head toward Jefferson Elementary because there was a park there I could play at.

The neighborhood has changed a great deal. Almost none of the houses are the same. But there was a house that had a beautiful garden that we liked to look at all the time. It lasted quite a while until the old couple who lived there moved out. That was maybe 20 years ago. One of the first things the new owner did was wall in the garden. Although I'm pretty sure they also ripped it up, and that there's nothing to look at even without the fence. It's a shame. It was very beautiful.

But there was another spot we used to stop at, and I thought about it today as I walked past. There was an old man who lived in a cottage that had an apple tree in the backyard. If he was there, he'd give me an apple, freshly picked. And I'd eat it on the way to the school park.

Wait, li'l John Bruni eating fruit? Yes. To this day I can tolerate apples. I can also stomach corn (and not just as liquor!). While in the psych ward I learned that I can stand pears, too. So me eating an apple at that age isn't that far afield.

I was attending that elementary school when the old man moved away. I remember asking Mom if the new owner will keep giving me apples. She said she hoped so.

But the new owner didn't. One of the first things he did was uproot the tree. There is a piece of sidewalk now where that tree used to be, a stone path through his backyard. At first I thought, with a child's simplicity, that the new owner just didn't like me, but that guy probably had no idea of all the walks Mom and I took through that neighborhood, and he certainly had no idea of the enjoyment a simple apple could give a small boy like the one I'd once been.

I miss that tree. I even had a taste for apples today. As Vonnegut used to say, "So it goes."

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #893: JUSTINE

 Has it been months since the last time I shit-talked Elon Musk? I guess so. To quote the song, I'm back in the saddle again.

Remember when I said I used to like Musk, but then I paid more attention to him? It seems that his first wife, Justine, felt much the same way. They met in college before either one of them was 20 yet. She gave him five children, so she clearly loved him at some point. Let's take a look at her thoughts on the subject of Ex's biggest douche-nozzle.

Their first date seems to be an incomplete description from what she wrote in Marie Claire. It seems he invited her out for ice cream, but it doesn't say whether she said yes. He did go looking for her with two ice cream cones, searching all over campus, ice cream melting over his knuckles. Of this event she said, "He is not a man who takes no for an answer."

From context, I think she said yes and then was difficult to find. They dated for a while and then went to different schools, but they stayed in touch. Sent each other letters. Visited and had dinner when they could. She wrote of him, "It was the first time that a boy found my sense of ambition--instead of my long hair or narrow waist--attractive." Interesting.

They separated for a while, and she lived in Japan before coming home to Canada and getting back together with Elon Musk. She moved into his apartment, but they argued often, sometimes in public. "[He] never hesitated to let me know that I was wrong about something," she said.

As he got richer, he often made jokes about dumping her for a supermodel. Instead he proposed marriage to Justine. Musk's friends (and even his brother) tried to talk him out of it, but they got married in 2000. During their first dance he told her that he was the alpha in this relationship. As if the supermodel thing wasn't bad enough as it is.

Their first child died in his sleep. This set her down a path of depression, but she got pregnant again and had more children, but the marriage was far from happy. "Elon was obsessed with his work. When he was home, his mind was elsewhere. I longed for deep and heartfelt conversations, for intimacy and empathy." She told him how much she hated him. He called her moron and idiot. He once said that if she were his employee, he'd fire her.

"I met him when he didn't have much at all," she said of him. "The accumulation of wealth and fame changed the dynamic."

He wanted her to dye her hair blonde. Blonder. Platinum! He wanted her to go to parties where men talked and women looked pretty. Finally, Justine said of herself, "I barely recognized myself. I had turned into a trophy wife, and I sucked at it." Not surprising, as she's an author. We authors don't make very good trophy partners.

They divorced after 8 years, and 6 weeks later Musk gleefully texted her that he was getting married again. And that should say everything.

Justine Musk went from being loved for her ambition to an attempt at turning her into a trophy wife instead of a person. That's pretty fucked up. I'm trying to imagine Musk walking around campus with those melting ice cream cones, and I can't see it. I wonder if maybe he was this way the whole time, and Justine didn't notice. I certainly didn't notice, not at first.

Oddly she doesn't regret her marriage to him. I think I would. Most definitely. I suspect a touch of Stockholm Syndrome, but one thing is for sure: Elon Musk is a Grade A Prick, USDA Approved.