GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #325: TABARD INN HAS BEEN ON MY MIND

 So I was thinking about my old magazine TABARD INN tonight. I edited this thing many years ago. Three issues. But it's been on my mind for the last week or two, actually. I have a few ideas about why it was never successful. Maybe the big one was my reluctance to do POD. I printed these fuckin' things first and then tried to sell them. Whoops! I'll go into another reason in a bit. Hold that thought. I'll get to it. Probably. I'm drunk--as usual--but I think I'll remember to get to it.

Regardless, I will never edit a magazine or anthology again. I have many reasons for both. The magazine I'll explain. The anthologies? Nope. You won't get that out of me unless you take me out for drinks. Like, a lot of drinks. Enough to cripple an elephant. And, naturally, off the record.

By the way, I've become friends with a lot of comics creators I'd been a fan of previous. I've interviewed many of them. They all know I was in comic book reporting. I'm out and have been for, what, a decade? And whenever I talk to them as a regular dude, they're still kind of cagey. Sometimes I wonder if I said "off the record" they'd open up a bit more. One of them actually did. Won't say who. If you follow me, you know the name. But this person trusted me, and once sworn to silence, I will forever keep that secret.

As I am unemployed, I have lots and lots of free time. I think maybe that's why I'm writing 10K words a day. Well, more like 8K now that the therapy thing is out of the way. Still better than my self-imposed 2K a day. I think it's also why I'm reading four books at the same time. Hey, I'm down from seven on January 1.

But I thought about the ridiculously difficult time I had getting someone to print the fucking thing. Issue one was so fucking offensive that no one wanted to print it. I even got someone to do it, and the young workers were happy to get it out there. They even took my money! And then the owner read it and said to give me back my money and files. I found someone who would print it! After a fucking age! They did all three!

So since I was thinking about TABARD INN, and I had the time, I wondered if maybe the printers were still around. I drove out in that direction to drive down the road to see if they were. I won't name them, just in case they're somewhere else and might get hate mail over the offensive shit, but they were on the same road as Victory Auto Wreckers. If you ever lived in my area (Chicago, if you don't know), you know them and their ancient commercial. In my opinion, there should be a really sleazy strip club in that neighborhood. Maybe down the road a bit further, as there is a police station near there.

Side note: sleazy strip clubs are my favorite. They're the places where you might get a decent handjob if you paid enough, and you might buy narcotics off a dancer or you might even get the clap from a lapdance that got a little too close. I miss the one at the end of I-290 that eventually got shut down for shady reasons.

In fact, now that I think about it, if you drove past my printers, turned right, went down a while, then turned left on Grand, there used to be a strip club there. I remember my writing partner when I was a journalist and I tried to get into the club to interview strippers to find out what they did for Easter. Bet you were thinking Valentine's Day, huh? Wrong, silly goose. We were, uh, refused service. I also drove a friend who also was an ex there once so she could fill out an application. It was called All Stars. It's a trucking company now, but for some perverse reason they left the sign up. I wonder how many dudes go in there to get lapdances only to be sold on truck storage.

So I drove by, looking for the printer, and sadly they're gone. Too bad. They helped me when no one else would. Some metal works company is there now. Ah well.

I stand by everything I published in that magazine, even the Anthony Haversham stories about Bobby Yandell, Private Investigator. Yeah, I wrote those. And that one by Jack Graves, the one about the guy who wants to fuck his dead mom and she turns out to be alive still. I wrote that one, too. I think it's in Tales of Questionable Taste, but I'm too lazy to look it up now.

What I don't stand by is how I acted as the host, the Crypt-Keeper of TABARD INN, if you will. It wasn't me. Well, it was more or less me . . . if I was an edgy and possibly alcoholic rock DJ. Not those shock jocks in the morning. Those are actually called "radio personalities." Isn't it weird that we had that shock jock period? I enjoyed it at the time, but looking back? *collar pull* But some part of my mind thought it would be a great idea to come off as a rock station DJ. This is why I don't trust my instincts. They are always wrong. I look back on that with a great deal of regret. It came off as kind of disgusting, especially the bumper sticker contests. I'm sorry about that. That was my mistake, and I own it 100%. This, by the way, is the other reason I thought the magazine failed. See? I'm not that drunk, am I? Well, maybe.

Another side note: offensive stories. I'm not talking about offensive-offensive. I'm talking about creatively offensive. Any asshole and fuckface and prickcunt can come along and sling the n-word around like they had practice. Same with the other f-word. And so on and so forth. That shit is just offensive-offensive. I have put awful words in awful characters' mouths, but it's to prove something about their moral shortcomings. To use it just to use it is just showing you're a piece of shit.

I'm talking about writing transgressive shit that pushes the envelope but does so creatively. Like, say, a dude you thought was making a video to show he can suck his own dick but it's really because he wants to video him biting it off. Who wrote that one? Oh . . . maybe it's in a book named after the title of a certain blog. Thanks to M for publishing it first!

Here are a few other reasons I regret the magazine.

I got a lot of letters from mental patients. Nothing wrong with that. I'd be a hypocrite if I talked shit about that, especially after the psych ward. But some would go a bit too far off the beam. Like the guy who decided I was his agent, and he said I should pay Google a bunch of money to make sure that anytime someone looked up science fiction, his name would be the first to come up. I had to explain to him that I was not the guy he thought I was. I lived more or less in my grandmother's basement at the time. When I sent that to him, I never heard from him again. So yeah. If you get a stalker, and he was borderline stalker, tell them something pathetic about you. They'll go away.

Which reminds me, I regretted not getting that PO Box. I stupidly used my own address, which everyone tried to talk me out of. I figured I could handle anyone who came after me, but then I remembered that I have relatives. Awkward at least. Possibly borderline criminal at most. I thought I was saving money. Again, whoops!

I regretted the sense that because I was a publisher, I could do things for people. That was absolutely not true. I couldn't. But people thought I could. One guy asked me for Stephen King's number. Granted, now that I'm a lot older and I have more experience, I have discovered that if you're in my business, we all know each other. Or if we don't, we at least know of each other.

Full disclosure: I met Stephen King once. He was on his Bag of Bones tour at the Harold Washington Library in Chicago on Congress Pkwy and State St. Previously I'd sent him some artwork my friend did. His name is Rob Tannahill, and for mostly my amusement he would do King parodies and replace the characters with Beavis and Butt-Head. Like, this was comic book level stuff. For example, here are a couple of titles. THE DORK HALF. THE STUPID DEATH OF BEAVIS VERRILL. THE SCAMMED. So three titles, then. I even got to be in his parody of The Shawshank Redemption. So with Rob's permission I copied them and sent them to King. When I got through the line and shook King's hand, I told him that I was the one who sent the Beavis and Butt-Head parodies that my friend had made. And let me tell you, you have NEVER lived your life until you've heard King do his Beavis impression. (I seem to be thinking about impressions lately, too, I guess.) He got this demented look on his face and said, with his Maine twang, "FIRE! FIRE!"

Does he know who I am? Probably not. I was a guest twice on The Horror Show, which I've heard he listens to, so maybe? I've been mentioned a few times without me being on, so maybe? Chet Williamson, whom I worship, once did a live read for Dong of Frankenstein, which might stand out to King, so maybe? But I'm certain he doesn't remember the exchange. When you're Stephen King, you meet a lot of people. A LOT.

So no. I don't have his phone number.

I also got a lot of submissions from prisoners. I got to publish one of them, even. I couldn't pay him because the prison system forbade it. I loved those letters because I believe that any prisoner who submits a story to a publication is trying to redeem themselves. A lot of them were even good stories, just not right for what I had in mind. But then there was this one letter I got from a prisoner who wanted to pay me to write stories for him. It would have been a huge payday, actually, if I had done it. I have still never made as much money for one story that he would have paid me for one story. But I said no. Sometimes you can't take the money and keep your integrity. That's the shit you've got to turn down. I needed the money at the time. Desperately. I'm not lying to you when I say that I would be a lot better off financially speaking if I'd taken the money. I said no. What he wanted was time travel porn. He wanted mind control porn. He wanted racially charged porn that was essentially rape porn. In addition to that, he requested just plain old rape porn.

I look up all the prisoners who sent me stuff. Sometimes the crime is understandable. Sometimes it's really bad, but the person genuinely regrets it and wants to redeem themselves and maybe contribute to society. But this guy? He's going to be in prison long after I die. Long after he dies. I shit you not, he might get out a hundred and twenty years from now. Since he's not a Highlander, I'm guessing he won't see the streets again any time in his life. He's got a lot of rape charges. Manslaughter charges. FUCKING KIDNAPPING CHARGES. If I remember right, he even robbed a bank. Some of those rapes were not committed against adults.

So no. I'm going to turn down that money. I'd like to be rich someday, but there are routes I am not willing to go down. Hell, I might not even be able.

Sometimes, you morally have to turn down the money. You HAVE TO.

Yet another side note: I actually know someone who did time for a bank robbery. He got kicked out of the Navy for doing it. Again, no names. He's suffered enough.

So yeah. You'll never see issue four, as I predicted in issue three. You'll never see another anthology I've edited. For vastly different reasons, I've turned down four editing jobs for other authors in the last three months. Paying jobs. In one case, a very good paying job. I mostly did it to focus on my own shit, especially since I was going to start that new job soon. But the job keeps getting delayed. It's something I'm reconsidering. It's going into that lizard brain conversation I'm going to have soon, maybe tomorrow or the next day.

So yeah. I guess if you want copies, I have boxes of them still cluttering up my living room. I've taken to giving them away as a three-issue package for anyone who buys my books at conventions. Since conventions are canceled until the plague finally dies, what the hell? You don't even have to buy anything from me. If you want a single issue, Paypal me a dollar for shipping. If you want all three, make it five for shipping. If I actually published you in any one of them, and you want me to send you copies, you won't even have to pay for shipping. Unless you're ordering like ten or twenty or something. We'll talk. The issues will be free, but the shipping might get crazy. Contact me in the comments or social media or wherever you know me from. Hell, if I can hand deliver them, I'll do it for free.

Just know that I kind of come off like a dick as the host. Sorry.

THE DEVIL'S WORKSHOP

[You know how I'm running for US president this year? Let's go back in time for a moment, back to the year 2000. I was fresh out of college, so I wasn't quite over the age of 35 yet, like I say in the following story. We were gearing up for Bush vs. Gore, still enjoying the debt-free Clinton years. While drinking heavily with Rob Tannahill, my co-creator on The Cocaine! Bros., we wondered what it would be like for us to run for the highest office in the nation. I decided to write the following story. I'm posting it here without editing. I only corrected a couple of typos, so you can all see how far I've come as a writer. Sit back and enjoy the awkwardness. And no, this is not my current election plan. Rob is in jail right now, so he's not likely to help. I do have Danger_Slater as my running mate, so . . .]

THE DEVIL’S WORKSHOP

By John Bruni

It all started rather innocently. Rob and I sat on the couch, drinking Jim Beam and watching Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas for the millionth time. We knew the movie back and forth, but that didn’t lessen our enjoyment. Still, we were bored as we usually were in those days.

Rob was the one who came up with the idea. I’d just downed my seventh shot and was settling back, enjoying my buzz. He said, “You know what we should do?”

About a thousand witty comments came to mind, but my mouth was less intelligent than my mind. Things just got lost in the translation. I fumbled some line about male hookers. I stuttered. It made no sense.

“No,” Rob said. “We should run for president.”

I laughed. “Yeah. Great idea.”

“I’m serious.” And he really did sound serious.

“How the hell are we going to pull that off?”

“Are we or are we not above the age of thirty-five?”

“We are.”

“Are we not citizens of America, having lived here for at least fourteen years and being born here?”

“We are.”

“Then we’re eligible.”

“We don’t have the kind of money it takes to campaign.”

“I got that figured out already. You sign up for the Democratic ticket, and I’ll go Republican. They’ll give us the money.”

“Wait, we’ll be running against each other?”

“Yeah! It’ll be fun! Think of all the debates we could have!”

“That would be pretty funny.”

“We could act like we’re getting really pissed off at each other, and we could stage a fist fight.”

“We’ll need to stock up on blood capsules.”

“That’s the spirit!”

“What happens if one of us actually wins?” I asked.

“Then the winner will make the loser his vice-president. Imagine the media backlash! That alone is worth the price of the ticket. And let us not forget the games we could play with the American people once we have the power to back them up.”

“Yeah. Remember the time Reagan joked about how we were going to bomb the Russians when he thought the mic was off?”

“Except we’d know the mic’s on. Imagine the havoc.”

I laughed as he took a shot of Beam. “Yeah, we could run for president. Or we could just go get a burger somewhere.”

“I’m serious. Look, the DNC’s in town in a month. We’ll get you nominated. I’ll make sure of it. Then you can return the favor for me at the RNC.”

“What if I want to be the Republican candidate?”

“No way. I got dibs on that.”

“Come on. It’s not as much fun, pretending to be a Democrat.”

“Sure it will be. Think of the fun we could have when it comes to the mudslinging part. We could set up some pictures of you soliciting prostitutes. You can get pictures of me with a goat. Then I’ll get pictures of you with a harem of dogs, and you can get one of me jerking off with a hamster.”

“Then, when you present pictures of me with a hollowed out pineapple and conjoined sextuplets, I’ll actually throw mud at you.”

“You’re a natural at this.” He grinned. “Of course in the face of such irrefutable evidence as undoctored photographs we must deny everything to the last drop.”

“Of course.”

“Do you have any love children?” Rob asked.

“Love children?”

“As in, children you had as the result of a secret affair?”

“I know what a love child is. And no, you know I don’t.”

“Then we’ll make some up. We’ll also need wives.”

“How are we going to get them?” I asked.

“Well, I’ll just get a girlfriend. We’ll have to buy a woman for you.”

“We can hardly afford a prostitute’s hourly rates,” I said, passing on his feeble attempt at humor. “Buying a wife could be a mite impractical.”

“Well, if we go to the ghetto we could get you a crack whore for a nickel.”

“Yeah, but she’ll always be asking for crack.”

“True.” He sighed. “Are mail order brides still a thing?”

“Sounds a bit like slavery. Probably not.”

“We’ll look into it, anyway.”

We lapsed into silence long enough to finish off the Beam. As Rob took down the last shot, he laughed. “I can’t wait for the convention. We’re going to kick so much ass.”

“Wait a minute. You’re not really serious about this, are you?”

“How many times do I have to say it? Yes, I’m serious.”

“Then we’d better figure out our policies.”

“Easy. We’ll run as extremists. Since I’m going to be Republican, I’ll pound the Bible and yap about prayer in school. I’ll protect big business interests and gun lobbyists. I’ll try to enact a law that will deport black people back to Africa.”

“You’re not really going to say that.”

“Yes, I am. I’m trying to be Republican, remember?”

“But—”

“We’re playing a joke on America, get it? It’s just a joke. I’m not really going to make being black in America illegal.”

“A lot of rednecks are going to take you seriously.”

“That’s the point.”

“Okay, then how am I going to run?”

“Simple. You go against everything I say, except you also rail for women’s rights while sexually harassing them at the same time.”

“Oh.”

“But don’t worry. In the end we’ll be the same because we’ll be solicited by big business. We’ll be representing their interests.”

I laughed. “Sounds accurate.”

“Don’t forget to talk about the children a lot. That’s very important.”

“Okay.”

We watched the rest of the movie in silence. When the video was rewinding Rob said, “I’m hungry. Let’s get a taco.”

Ever appreciative of a Reservoir Dogs reference, I laughed, and we went to Taco Bell for food. And Mom, if you’re reading this, we hired a cab. Honest.

-

They wouldn’t let us in at the DNC. Regardless, there were way too many cops, and the place was filled beyond limit. Dejected, we shuffled off to a nearby park where we sat on a bench. Rob lit up a cigarette.

“So much for that idea,” I said.

“Yeah. Too bad. We could’ve had a lot of fun. I guess we’ll have to go independent.”

“You still want to run for president?”

“Hell yeah. Of course we’ll now have to run together, and our campaign will be serious, but once we get to the White House the real fun’ll—”

“How are we going to run without money?” I asked.

“Campaign donations from the simple folk, John. Our slogan: ‘Let’s Return America to a Simpler Time.’ It’ll be very grassroots with a lot of morals. People love that kind of nonsense.”

“You’re insane.”

He ignored me. “We’ll need gimmicks. Do you know where we can buy a midget? Like the one in O Brother, Where Art Thou?”

“Buy a midget?”

“Are you kidding? Everyone loves midgets. There’s, like, a midget renaissance going on.”

“Buy a midget?”

“Or maybe we should go the Bulworth route. We’ll get the wigger vote.”

“Oh, come on.”

“I understand monkeys are quite the fashion, so we’ll need a few of those, too.”

“Monkeys?”

“Wipe that confused yet awed sheen from your face, chum. We’re politicians now.”

-

So we ran for president. Actually, Rob ran for president. I ran as his vice-president. There’s not much to say here, nothing humorous. We poured on the simpler time stuff pretty heavily, and people bought it hook, line, and sinker. I felt like a strange new breed of televangelist for taking their donations, but it went to a good cause: to satisfy our idle hands.

When we started to get national notice, the big businesses started making hefty donations. Naturally we cashed them but denied doing so in public. It was because of this money that we were able to pop full into the limelight, where we proved to be stronger than the Republicans and Democrats thought we were. Neither of their candidates wanted to take Rob’s offer of a debate (he desperately wanted to face off against the incumbent president). The majority of electoral votes went to us. The “simpler time” card really worked.

-

It all started falling apart with Rob’s inaugural speech. After giving his thanks to the nation, he said, “First and foremost, I’m going to see what I can do about eliminating the separation between church and state.”

Many started shouting angrily, but there were also a few cheers.

“From here on out,” he continued, “those who don’t believe in the one true Christian God will be executed without trial.”

More yelling came from the crowd, and I heard someone shout something about the Bill of Rights.

“Thanks for reminding me,” Rob said. “The Bill of Rights, considering how it was written more than two centuries ago, is now archaic and outdated. So we’ll be getting rid of that, too.”

If not for the police, already dressed in riot gear, I’m sure the audience would have charged the stage.

“We will also begin shipping black people back to Africa, as per the wishes of real Americans. Any black people wishing to stay may do so, but only as slaves.”

At that point the violence got to be too much, so the Secret Service hustled Rob off stage. While Rob was completely joking about all of that stuff, it’s worth noting that quite a few people cheered him on when he started talking about African Americans being shipped away. I guess we’re not all that far from the nineteenth century.

The next morning Rob resigned from office. This is a transcript of his farewell speech:

“Good morning, my fellow Americans. It is with tremendous grief that I must announce my resignation and ask for your forgiveness. Yesterday I played a most horrendous joke on the people of this great nation, and many took it seriously. I admit it was tasteless and wrong, and I apologize.

“This afternoon Vice-President John Bruni will be sworn in as your new leader. John has been kind enough to offer the office of the vice-presidency to me. I have graciously accepted it.

“Once again, I am perennially sorry for my flippant actions. Goodbye, and God bless America.”

-

I’m sure a lot of people would have been happy if not for my inaugural speech. After thanking everybody and pardoning Rob publicly, I presented my audience with my new idea.

“In the past half-year I’ve traveled all over this great country of ours. The most popular remark I heard was that, and I quote, ‘What this country needs is a good war,’ end-quote. To satisfy these people—and it is my job to make the people of America happy—I have decided to start a war. My aides have written out the names of every country in the world, and we’ve put them all in this top hat.” I showed them the hat. “Whichever name I pull out, we’ll bomb it.”

A murmur went through the crowd, and most people looked absolutely horrified as I reached into the hat. I plucked out a piece of paper and unfolded it. “And our new national arch enemy is . . . Alabama? Okay, who’s the joker?”

Some chuckles came from the audience, but most were still taking this seriously.

I threw the paper away and tried again. “This time, no fooling.” I unfolded the next piece of paper. “I think you’ll all like this one. Looks like we’re going back to Vietnam!”

The crowd went wild, not with joy, but with anger. I could tell Rob was trying desperately not to laugh when I did this.

“I knew you’d be up for it. Those bastards’ll never see us coming. It’s time to finish the job and set history straight. Bombing starts in twenty-four hours. Thank you, and God bless America.”

The resulting riot was quelled three hours later by the cops. The worries of the other nations, however, would go on for much longer. All night the White House phones rang off the hooks with calls from kings, presidents, and other heads of state from all over the world. China threatened to side with Vietnam, as did a number of other countries.

I tendered my resignation the next morning. This is the transcript:

“My fellow Americans, I am dreadfully sorry for the events of last night. To those who don’t believe I was joking, I present to you the fact that I, as president of the United States, could not force what I was talking about last night. That’s Congress’s job. The system of checks and balances prevents such injustices.

“It was a horrible joke, and I apologize profusely.

“Vice-President Robert Tannahill will be sworn in again at noon as your leader. He has been kind enough to ask me to stay on as his vice-president. I have accepted his offer.

“Again, I apologize. Thank you, and God bless America.”

-

I think by the time Rob was finished with his second inaugural address, people were starting to realize we were joking.

“I’d first like to apologize for John’s tasteless joke,” he said. “Now to new business. Instead of shipping black people back to Africa, we’ll be shipping all the white people back to Europe.”

There were some laughs, but the majority—now realizing what a joke we were—were not angry but disgusted.

“Oh come on,” Rob said. “I thought you’d be with me on this one. I can’t win with you fuckers, can I?”

Need I present a transcription of his resignation speech?

-

Very few people showed up for my second inaugural speech. That was too bad, considering how serious the speech was. I didn’t say one controversial thing. We’d decided to revert to our “return to a simpler America” deal.

Then I went on a world tour at the taxpayers’ expense. Honestly I was disappointed. The architecture is great in other countries, but you can’t find a decent cheeseburger outside the States.

By the time I’d returned our next scandal was well underway. Newspapers all over the country published pictures of me at an orgy, goat and all. The headlines proclaimed me a sex maniac with strange fetishes. Is this man a good role model for our children?

Naturally I resigned, bringing Rob back into the presidency. He played this inauguration straight, but not many people were there to notice.

The nation was sick and tired of us. They said we were making a mockery of America and sullying the good office of the US president. As if we were the first to be guilty of that.

They started shouting for impeachment. At this point we had to wonder, “What would Dick Nixon do?”

So we both resigned. I guess that wasn’t too bad. The joke was starting to get old, anyway.

Instead of writing our own farewell speech, we used Nixon’s. For a bit of fun we added at the end, “This is our last press conference. You won’t have us to kick around anymore.”

And that is the tale of the strangest presidency in the history of America.

-

A year later Rob and I sat on the couch, drinking Jim Beam, and watching Bloodsucking Freaks. Our shenanigans had long since been forgotten, and we no longer qualified as celebrities (despite the fact that Comedy Central bought the movie rights and aired the wretched product starring Adam Sandler as Rob and David Spade as me; no one watched it). We found ourselves bored once again with nothing better to do than drink and watch cult classics.

Suddenly Rob said, “You know what we should do?”

“Run for US president again?”

“No. We should start a religion.”

I laughed.

“What, you think I’m kidding?”

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #171: INVISIBLE FRIEND

I was a very lonely kid. I had very few friends. As a result I spent a lot of time alone. To my own devices. That worked out pretty well for a budding writer, but as far as social interaction goes? It fucking blew.


I've been watching a lot of STAR TREK: THE NEXT GENERATION lately. I just came upon an episode where a young girl has an invisible friend, and it brought back a few memories of my childhood. Since I was so lonely, I tried to create an invisible friend. I'd come across the concept in fiction, and I tried to apply it to my real life.


My invisible friend's name was Mack. He knew a lot about books, and he was a tough guy. He could kick anyone's ass, which was important to me because I was severely bullied as a child. I didn't have the strength to fight back, but he could. He even knew how to put authority figures in their place because once the kids at school were done fucking with me, I had to go home to an abusive step-father and a neglecting mother.


The invisible friend didn't last long. I tried. I really did. My mind is too suited to reality. It refused to believe in Mack. I remember trying to talk to Mack about my shitty day when I was seven years old, and in that moment, I felt like an idiot. My imagination worked pretty well for working with toys and such, but when I tried to pretend I had a friend? Nope. I couldn't trick myself into believing. I just felt like a dumb ass talking to air, pretending it was real.


My invisible friend lasted a week. I couldn't even succeed at faking social interaction. As a result, I spent a lot of my life shunning everyone and everything. It took me a long time to recover from that. In all likelihood, I wouldn't have done it without the help of my friend, Robert Tannahill.


I still can't believe that I'm surrounded by awesome people today. People I'm proud to call friends. People I'm proud to call family. If I could go back in time to tell that young version of me . . .

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #60: TEACHERS I HAVE LOVED

I was mostly quiet in high school. A lot of you might be surprised to know that, since I'm an extremely talkative, very social person now. But back then? No. I kept my mouth shut. But I made exceptions.


Looking back now, I don't know how my teachers put up with me. Whenever I had to give a speech, I went so far off the reservation they probably should have all given me F's. Yet every time, I got an A. How is that possible?


In speech class, they made us recite a short-short story or a poem. Everyone found some meaningless garbage no one remembers now to pretend to be into because it described how a flower grew out its pedals. Me? I read Stephen King's "The Man Who Loved Flowers." Yikes, right? In another class with a similar mission, I went with King's "Paranoid: A Chant." That doesn't sound right for any student, right?


In English class, I had to teach the class something about any book. I decided to compare THE STAND by Stephen King (I'm sure you can see a pattern) to LORD OF THE RINGS. Keep in mind, this was back in the day when talking about LORD OF THE RINGS would brand you as a geek, and geeks were not cool back then. I earned the respect of my teacher, but none of my fellow students gave a shit.


I even got the opportunity to read my own short stories to a class, even though they were really shitty back then. Seriously, I don't know how I got away with it back then.


In fact, I forgot about the whole thing until earlier today, and I pondered why I did it. The only thing I can think of is this: my fellow students were not my intended audience. I was after my teachers, but not in the way a brown-nose would want attention. No, I wanted to fuck with my teachers a bit. Maybe even challenge them. Even back then, I knew my tastes were vastly different from the majority.


What I didn't expect was my teachers to embrace me and my odd way of going about things. I thought of myself as an unconventional iconoclast back then. I had no idea that these teachers wanted someone like me to come along. Every teacher has to deal with students who don't give a fuck. They just want to get their minimum-acceptable grades and move on. Teachers, more than anything, want to know they've made a difference in their students' lives. Making a difference is a rarity, at least it was back when I was in school.


So . . . here's my list of teachers who helped me a great deal. Ms. Fanning from 7th grade, who read my stories and encouraged me from an early age (even if they contained questionable material for a boy of 12). Mr. Sibley, who shaped my life more than I was even aware of until now. Without him, I would have become a superficial asshole obsessed with my own dick. Not only that, he introduced me to my hetero life mate, Rob Tannahill. Without Rob, I would not be who I am today. Then there's Mr. Tourney, who taught me how to question everything, especially my own government. And thanks to Mr. Langner, who taught me that writing was more than fantasy fulfillment.


I didn't get to meet many interesting teachers in college, but I did take classes with Ron Wigington. He taught me to cut all the bullshit out of my work. He helped me break out of other writers' styles and helped me to find my own.


I'm sorry I was always an asshole in class, from junior high to college, but I like to think I got a few laughs. I like to think I entertained. I like to think I maybe helped someone get through a boring class by telling a few jokes.


But never mind that. I'm supremely grateful to those who accepted my mad bullshit and helped me be a better writer.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #30: SOMETIMES I DISGUST MYSELF

Many of you may be aware that I'm working on a story called DONG OF FRANKENSTEIN for MonstErection, an imprint of StrangeHouse Books that publishes monster porn. Tonight, I wrote a scene for this one that kind of rocked my brain. I couldn't believe I was doing something like this. There are a few times I had to wonder if I was crossing a line or not (and if *I* have to wonder that, chances are good that I'm crossing a line). But then again, some of the images are so incredible, I can't help but pat myself on the back.

To the future readers of this story (should MonstErection publish it, of course), I'd like to say that there have been things I've chosen not to write. That may sound hard to believe, but it's true. There have been some pretty nasty ideas in my head over the course of my life, and there are some that are so vile that not even I will write them. For example, I thought I might want to do a story about an alternate universe, in which NAMBLA actually stood for North American Monster Boy Love Association. OK, so it's easy to see a guy like Freddy Krueger being a member, but think about Jason and Leatherface and Chucky and all those guys wanting to fuck boys because they love them. Yikes.

Speaking of fucked up shit, I got confirmation tonight that Robert Tannahill completed a new COCAINE! BROS. strip. I haven't read it yet, but from what he says, I'm pretty sure it will be depraved. I don't know when we'll post it, but I'll let you all know.

PS: there is a very gleeful part of me in regards to that DoF story I'm writing. Mary Shelley would do a spinner in her grave. Percy Shelley might like it, but Mary? [pulls collar nervously]

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #5: I AM AN UTTER BASTARD

Those who know me now would find it hard to believe, but once upon a time, I didn't believe in drinking and doing drugs. I had no problem with others doing those things, as I've always believed in the freedom to get fucked up, but back when I was a teenager, I decided that I didn't want to pollute my body. This is hilarious, considering it's coming from a dummy who ate a McDonald's dinner every night for six straight years. No shit, I never missed a night. But other than fast food, I didn't put any other harmful things in my body. I didn't even take aspirin when I had a headache.


However, I DID encourage my friends to get as fucked up as humanly possible. I remember senior year of high school. I was sitting in a friend's bedroom--I won't mention who, because I don't know if he'd be cool with me saying so--with Robert Tannahill, my artist on THE COCAINE! BROS. and my hetero-lifemate. (I mention him because I'm certain he wouldn't give a fuck.) They were broke and couldn't afford to buy anything that would get them nice and fucked up, so they decided to huff some Glade. That sounded incredibly dangerous to me, but far be it for me to stop a man from being inebriated.


I did what any responsible friend would do: I got them into a Glade-huffing contest. Who could suck down air freshener for the longest? As you can imagine, this couldn't be determined in one round. I sat watching them do this for at least a half an hour, and I couldn't believe their capacity for this. I kept time, because back then, I was a pretentious fuck who carried a pocket watch on a chain. To the best of my memory, my nameless friend won, but at a huge price. He was fucked the fuck up. He was so far gone, he couldn't function. So Rob, who has done harder things than huffing Glade and was thus still capable of fairly clear thought, mercilessly mocked him.


This brings to mind another memory: later, Rob and our friend lived together briefly. Our friend left his liquor out, and Rob (at the tender age of 19) decided he was going to get drunk on Cuervo. He put me in charge of pouring shots. I'm pretty sure he came close to finishing off that bottle. In those days, I didn't have a car, so I had to depend on the kindness of strangers (and sometimes my grandparents) to drive me around. (Hey, I was only 18. I worked at the local library earning minimum wage at the time, which was $4.75 an hour.) It was so late, I had to walk home. That's OK. It was only two miles.


Rob, hammered as much as he was, had to walk me home. So we walked down the train tracks to Spring Road, where we intended to take the Prairie Path back to my place. However, he was so fucked up he started puking. Every few steps, we would have to stop so he could vomit on the sidewalk, or in an alley, or even in potted plants maintained by the Elmhurst Park District. Before long, I had to hold him up as we walked. I remember some drunken college kids coming out of Doc Ryan's calling us "faggots," and Rob tried to get away from me so he could kick their asses. Finally, I couldn't support his boozy frame anymore, so we sat on the bench by the gazebo where Spring intersects with the Prairie Path. He spent the next hour puking, and then he got up, leaving his wallet, cigarettes and lighter on the bench. I gathered his things and followed him. In the end, I wound up walking HIM home before turning back and going to my own place by myself.


The next day, he was soooooo fucking hungover. He called me to give me shit, and at that moment, he revealed to me that the reason he put me in charge of pouring shots was because he thought I'd be compassionate enough to cut him off if he got too drunk.


Whoops. You live and you learn.


But I'm such an utter bastard that in response, I laughed. To this day, if I'm walking down Spring Road with someone who knows Rob, I will play a game with them. It's called Guess Where Rob Puked. Here's the thing: you can't lose. He puked EVERYWHERE.


I'd say sorry, but . . . well, I'm still an utter bastard.

THE COCAINE! BROS.: The Final Post

This is the last thing from THE COCAINE! BROS., a strip by myself and Robert Tannahill, and I hope you enjoy it. It's the very first illustration of Tucker and Hunter. Check it out here.