GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #548: HEY BRUNI!

You know how some people call you by your first name, some by your last? A shocking number of people call me John Bruni all the time. I guess it's just the way my name sounds? I'd say 85% of the people I know do that. It's rare when someone calls me John, although I will say everyone at work calls me that probably because there is only one other John there, and he's the CEO. We're pretty easy to differentiate.

But a lot of people call me Bruni. It's natural sounding. I'm good with that. Here's the thing: I'm the only Bruni I know in the Elmhurst area. Whenever someone calls out "Hey Bruni!" They're usually talking to me.

A few years back I went out to visit my Vegas family. Dad, my stepmom and my brother. My sister wasn't there at the time. I think she was out of state. Regardless, my dad and my brother took me out into the desert to shoot guns. I meant to do an Everyone's Got One column about the experience because it's pretty strange. I'm not a big fan of guns, and having fired a bunch of them, I can continue to say that. I know for a fact that I should not own one, and--that's a story for another day. I'm OK with responsible gun ownership, and that describes my dad and brother's attitude.

The point is, a bunch of my brother's friends showed up, and while I was talking with my dad, I heard someone shout, "Hey Bruni!"

I thought, naturally, given my experience, that they were talking to me. I turned with a smile on my face, waiting to greet whoever it was. Turns out, they weren't talking to me. They were talking to my brother. I think my face burned slightly with embarrassment. Do you know how rarely I feel embarrassed? Even though I probably should feel it more often? It's the same with shame, but we've discussed that before.

No one noticed, so I turned back to Dad and saw, whoops, he noticed. He had an amused grin on his face. "Yeah, I know. It still gets me, too."

I'm sure if my name was Kopoulos, like my mom's maiden name, that wouldn't have happened. But I think about that day often and get weirded out by it.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #547: MY FLASK COLLECTION

I love Justified.

 So I've been packing all my shit for my inevitable move, and over the weekend I discovered my flask collection. That was my 93rd day free of booze, and this is my 96th. What the hell am I going to do with these things?

During IOP one of my fellow addicts talked about finding a bottle of booze not too long after this person's first sober day. This person talked about not knowing what to do with it and not wanting to pour it down the sink because, hey, that cost money. At least it can work as a gift, right? I'm the same way, so I think about that story a lot mostly because it is entirely possible that while packing my shit I will find a hidden bottle. I had a bunch of them squirreled away throughout my bedroom for a rainy day. I'm pretty sure I drank them all, but what if I didn't? Would I be able to do as my friend did? Would I be able to pour it down the drain?

I honestly don't know. It hasn't come up (yet), so maybe I'll never know. But the closest I've come is finding those flasks. None of them had anything in them. They didn't tempt me to go out to the liquor store, either. BUT! I did open them and take a whiff at the insides. Holy fucking hell, I miss drinking. I'm still not feeling any cravings, but the smell brought back memories.

What am I going to do with these things? I have a pretty sweet Justified flask. I know I'll probably clean it out and give it back to the friend who gifted it to me. The others? Do I just throw them out? Some of them were gifts, too. Or maybe they're worth something? I don't know what the market is for stainless steel. Probably nothing, right? Do pawn shops take this sort of thing?

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #546: TOO MANY BOOKS

 I know. I'm the same way. "Too many books?" No such thing. You fool! How could you even joke about such a thing?

Well. Maybe. JUST MAYBE. Possibly. I have too many books. In all likelihood.

So I don't know how much time I've got left in this place. I assumed that the bank would claim this house sometime between Halloween and Thanksgiving, but from my understanding they have to give us a 30-day notice before sending the sheriff in. We haven't gotten that yet, so maybe it won't be quite so soon. Regardless, I've been packing my shit. Almost all of my books have been packed. I've kept only a few available because I know they're next on my reading list, or if I can't find the book that's supposed to be next, here are a bunch that can take its place.

All my bookcases except for one are now falling apart. It seems that I have so many books that the only thing holding these bookcases up were, uh, those books that I've now packed away. The backs are falling off, the shelves are warped, the pegs are broken. I can probably fix a couple of them with a hammer and nails, but one of them is absolutely useless now. There is no possible way I can ever use this thing to hold books again.

So maybe there is such a thing as too many books.

Maybe.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #545: ANOTHER GF ABOUT CROSSED, SO YOU KNOW IT'S GOING TO BE FUCKED UP

This horsecock tastes delicious.

 

OK, I've come up with some pretty fucked up ideas before, but this one might be going a bit too far. Just . . . just hear me out.

You know how porn on occasion tries to make a serious movie with a lot of actual fucking in it? Why not do what no one else will dare to do? Why not make a XXX-rated pornographic Crossed movie? Horror movies can never go far enough to truly make a Crossed adaptation that will satisfy the gorehound perverts that read the comics, and porn can go that extra mile.

I don't know if anyone will jerk off to it. I know I'm pretty fucked up, but not even I'll go that far. It will take a very special kind of person to get off while watching sexy beheadings, castrations, stabbings, etc. I suspect only a select few among us would actually view it as such. The rest of us? It could be the most fucked up movie or series ever made. It'll make A Serbian Film look like a Saturday Morning Cartoon.

All right. I see your reluctance. And I get it. I do. But this could be the greatest opportunity porn and horror will ever have. EVER. Could you imagine someone someday topping something like that?

To be clear, I'm not suggesting that the beheadings, castrations, stabbings, etc. be real. They can do practical effects or even CGI if need be. I'm not asking for people to die or be mutilated for art. That breaks Lloyd Kaufman's first rule of filmmaking, after all. If Lloyd wouldn't do it, no one should do it.

I'm just asking you to think about the possibilities.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #544: PRAYER

 I loved The Young Pope. It was a very thoughtful and blasphemous story, and I miss watching it. If you missed it, it's about Jude Law's character, who I would consider a Satanist, becoming Pope and the debauchery that kind of thing leads to, but there is one scene that I think about often.

In fact, here it is. Take the three minutes to watch it. I'll wait.

I think I was at my last IOP meeting when this scene came back to me. You know I'm an atheist, but I try to be as open-minded as possible. The older I get, the more I realize that the universe is a very strange place. Anyway, we were talking about prayer, and I couldn't help but think of Jude Law talking about the nature of such an act, that it shouldn't be a wish list but a reflection.

I like to meditate, and I like to reflect. For the former I do my absolute best to not think about anything. I'm rarely successful, but that's what I'm trying for. The latter is a very different sort of beast. I think about things. I turn them over in my head. I seek understanding. I reflect.

And in a way, in just such a fashion as Jude Law mentions, I suppose I do pray. I'm not waiting to hear God whispering to me. More likely it's my subconscious that will do that. But yeah. During that IOP meeting I realized that in my very backwards way, I do pray.

Weird.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #543: 90

 Much to my surprise I found myself telling my doctor today that it has been 90 days since my drink. Ninety. That's almost 100. Ask me 91 days ago if I thought this was possible, and I would have laughed in your face while taking a healthy swig of bourbon. Probably Jim Beam because near the end of my time with booze I swore that I wouldn't drink anything of lesser quality. No more Fleischmann's or Ten High or that godawful Canadian shit I found for $6 a handle.

The reason I'm thinking about this today is because I'm currently rewriting a novel I wrote maybe ten years ago. I think I'm finally ready to do it right this time, and as I've been reading it again I've noticed something that I most certainly didn't think about while originally writing this thing. The character is supposed to be a social drinker who fell into a bad time and flirted with alcoholism but is now back on the right track.

And yet this guy is getting plastered every night. Just like I used to.

I would have never thought of myself as an alcoholic back then, and I wouldn't have called that character an alcoholic, either. But as I'm working on it as an older and (presumably) wiser man I would absolutely call him an alcoholic. And, in turn, me. It's kind of overwhelming how much this guy drinks. It genuinely shocked me.

I wonder if I would have thought the same thing if I started reworking this book 91 days ago. It's possible, I suppose, but I think it's unlikely.

It's weird how quickly things can change in your life.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #542: SIX DEGREES OF HITLER

 You may remember when I posted my Kevin Bacon number. A friend commented on my Facebook post that there is also a game called Six Degrees of Hitler. I googled it, and much to my horror it is an actual thing. My friend continued to link himself to Hitler, but I think he cheated. He worked on a lot of maybes and probablys.

So I was bored in the shower the other day, and I decided, as a mental exercise, to see what my Hitler number is. I found a way to cheat and get to him in three, but that relies on the use of a fictional character, so I decided to not count that. And I'm using definites. No possiblys in sight.

Dig it:

I met Stephen King during his Bag of Bones tour . . .

Stephen King got the Medal of Arts from Barack Obama.

Obama knows the living former presidents like Jimmy Carter.

As with Obama, Carter knew former presidents, too, like Richard Nixon.

Nixon was Dwight Eisenhower's VP.

Eisenhower worked directly for FDR during WWII.

FDR and Churchill were not just allies but friends.

Churchill took over as PM from Neville Chamberlain.

And who tried to appease Hitler during WWII? That's right.

There you go. While it took more than 6 degrees, my Hitler number is 9. Which means something else, and I think you will all be absolutely horrified to learn this.

But here we go. Are you strapped in? Ready for this disgusting thing you're about to know about yourself?

Just by knowing me, your Hitler number is 10.

Sweet dreams . . .