GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1081: A SPECIAL BIRTHDAY

 We recently, as a nation, celebrated a most historical birthday. I can't believe such a concept has survived for this long. It really is astonishing, when you think about all the years that have passed since this grand notion found its feet and started to walk, then run. When I think about the whole thing, I stand mute in awe.

I am, of course, referring to Goodnight, Fuckers. Believe it or not, as of today I've been writing these things for twelve years. In another year it will be allowed to watch the PG-13 classic, My Stepmother is an Alien. Happy birthday, GF!

Twelve years ago I began this thing without warning. Usually if I start to do something, I at least introduce the concept so everyone knows what to expect. Nope. I charged in with something exceptionally personal that I should absolutely never have shared with anyone under any circumstances.

Don't click on this. Seriously, don't. If you must know, I'll TL;DR it for ya: I developed early as a child, and when I was writing one of my Hardy Boys rip-offs on my mom's piano bench, I had an orgasm. I wasn't doing anything other than writing. It just sort of happened. There. See? Don't click that link. There are more details if you do.

I never quite intended GF to become what it did. I thought I was mapping out who I was in case any future archaeologist wanted to know. That kind of stuff still happens, but I never intended the political stuff and the history lessons and the oh-look-at-this-weird-shit profiles to be more than just points of interest instead of the whole point.

All in all, I'm proud of all that stuff. I'm glad this is how it worked out. Not all 1,081 of these things are good--can't all be zingers--but twelve years of purposely spilling my brain on the internet is pretty good, all things considered.

And GF cannot be killed. I've tried to stop on several occasions, but it's more stubborn than *I* am, and that is saying a fuck-ton. So I guess I'll still be writing these for the rest of my life.

Brace yourselves. To quote Frank Reynolds(ish):

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #595: THE SMORGASBORD

 Tomorrow would have been Gramps's 96th birthday. It's hard to believe he's been gone almost seven years. I always used to think that if he died, I would completely lose it. I wouldn't be able to function. And while times have been pretty rough since his passing, and I've gone crazy a couple of times, I didn't completely lose it.

Since I don't do these things on weekends, I thought that this one should be about Gramps. I've told you all about him quite often, so I had to struggle to think of something. Maybe it's not all that glamorous, but here we go.

I remember when I was a kid Gramps had a very strict diet he adhered to. A veritable smorgasbord, if you will, of sandwiches. Every night he would make these towering sandwiches that would make Jughead drool. And he'd eat four or five of these giant things. I have no idea how he did it or even why, but he took great pleasure in his giant sandwiches.

And then after he finished eating he would pour one (1) shot of Jim Beam and take it down. "For digestion," he always told me.

I figured that's what adults did for dinner. Ate a bunch of absurdly big sandwiches and then have one shot of whiskey after. In imitation I would make a sandwich for myself (no more than that, I was still a skinny kid back then) and take one of his shotglasses so I could drink apple juice from it, thinking that when I grew up I'd switch from Mott's to Jim Beam.

I got the Jim Beam part right. A little too right, some might say. But I don't eat all that many sandwiches. Except for at lunch. And never more than one in a sitting.

It's too bad they never had sandwich eating competitions. Gramps would have been a stone cold killer at those.

Happy birthday, Gramps.