GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1052: THE OLD FAMILIAR FEAR

 When I was a kid I was certain we were all going to die in a nuclear conflagration. That was my biggest fear until we collectively seemed to realize, hey, these warheads are a bad idea, let's not do the arms race thing anymore. I haven't been worried about it since.

Until now. The old familiar fear is setting in, and the more this Iran . . . whatever the fuck it is gets ratcheted up, the more I feel its icy fingers on my spine.

Because Hegseth and his Dept. of War Crimes is framing this fight as a Biblical one, and he's trying to get his subordinates to understand that it's good versus evil, God versus Satan type of shit. It sounds a hell of a lot like they're trying to jumpstart the apocalypse. Why wait for a prophecy to come true when you can MAKE IT HAPPEN?

I hope I'm wrong, and I'm taking the Stephen King approach. He once said that he writes things as a form of preventative exorcism. If he writes about something he fears, then it can't happen to him in real life.

So here's my fear, in an attempt at poisoning fate's well. Trump is dying. I mean, politically, but his health isn't doing too good, so maybe literally, too. If he's not going to be around, why should the rest of us get to go on living our lives? And would you look at that? A symbolic date is coming up soon: June 6. I wouldn't put it past him to fire a nuke into Iran at 6 in the morning, local time.

What happens when Putin learns of such a nuke? And what will NORAD do when they notice Putin's response?

I hope I'm wrong.

I hope you didn't read that before going to bed. Goodnight. Sleep tight. Don't let the bedbugs bite.

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I didn't come up with the "Dept. of War Crimes." Someone said it recently, and I'm trying to remember who, but it sounded so good I had to swipe it.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #430: IMPENDING DREAD

 A while back, you may remember that I had to have my garage torn down since it was a neighborhood eyesore and a hazard to anyone who might be standing inside of it at any given moment. I really didn't want to tear the garage down for a variety of reasons, but as the weather gets colder, some of the secondary reasons have become primary.

Every day I go to work I have to defrost the windshield of my car. And I can't use a scraper because the frost is too fine. I have to sit and wait for the moment when I can finally see just enough of the world outside my windshield. I never had to do that when my car had a roof over it.

And very soon we'll be seeing snow. Fuck snow. Now I'll have to start brushing my car off every morning, too, but I'll have to wade through snow where once a roof protected the floor from it. And I'll probably have to start salting that platform that stands testament to what had once been there. I do not look forward to shoveling out the alley, too. Last year proved I no longer have the physical ability to do this due to my bad leg. I can't imagine how horrible the next few months are going to be for me.

Welcome to the End Times. Time to get familiar with cannibalism . . .

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #239: WHAT IF . . . ?

A horrible thought occurred to me. What if we get to midnight at the end of New Year's Eve, and Keith Richards survives? And we're all like:

And then on January 1, 2017, he dies in the grimmest, most horrifying way. And 2017 is standing over the corpse with his weapons, grinning. Happy because he's the coldest motherfucker in history. "Sorry guys. I just wanted to set the tone. You're all fucked now."


Welcome to the end times. Sweet dreams, fuckers.