Happy Halloween from the Goon

It ain't funny to dress a goat like that.

Well gentlemens and gentleladies, its about Helloween time, which is one of the Goon's favorite times of year, Thanksgivings being his most favorite, on account of the wide variety of tasty treats served in whatever house he's haunting, hah. Teh main thing for the Goon to decide ever Helloween is what to dress as. One year he was a giant snake man wit garden hoses coming outta his brains; last year he was teh wolfman, a costume which I made wit pubic hair and a couple cat skins sewed together. I always win best constume, or at least thats what the cops tell me ever year. This year I just dont know, though. I was thinkin bout dressing like an ol' time vampire liike outta one of dem silent movies, so I'd shave my head and carve my teeth and do my bestest to look like a giant bat. Vampires are where all teh action is at; Slack dressed as one last year an he went home wit a big bosomed baby and didn't come back fere like half a month. Thats the kinda fun teh Goon wants to have. Big bosomed fun. Is there any other kind? Thats fer teh philosophizers to figure.

 I was going down to teh farm teh udder day to pick teh last of teh apples, which is always a sad day in the Goon's life, fere he have to leave the comfort and safety of teh orchard and venture out into teh great unknown to find himself some other form of employment. Ever year I don't know if I will see Hernando again cuz he's an illegal alien and they might call him up to teh mothership, which is in Mexico, I guess. He and I had ourselves a nice apple fight and then we drank ourselves sick wit apple cider, which led to us puking all over teh apple washer, a favorite pasttime of ours. I told Hernando that I was gonna be a vampire fere Helloween; he didn't know what a vampire was so I had to describe one to him, and then he got all scared and told me that i shouldn't be one cuz then he'd be duity-bound to stake me cuz his family used to hunt monsters in teh Mexician mothership. Then i told him that I would have myself some big bosomed fun if I was a vampire, cuz all teh ladies are getting worked up over vampires and werebeasts, an then I told em that he should be la cuprecabra, which pissed him off some. That's the Goon fere ya, always trying to make edgy humor. But dere aint no humor in racism, no sireee.

So I was trying to figure where I was gonna trick'er'treat at, since last time I got teh cops called on me when I tried to treat suberbia wit a little Goon magic. You see, I like me some chocolate just like Johnny Depp, an if I dont get none, well, I gets a little ornery. This one fella, he smarted off to me about me being too old fere treating, so I told em I werent too old for tricken. Then I pissed in his yard an I guess yur not supposed to do such a thing wit teh children around, which is kinda strange, cuz nobody in teh Goon family ever had such inhibitions. You folks no any good trick'r'treat spot, let me know. I like candy.

In the Depths of the Valley Free for a Limited Time

If you love weird fiction, check out my novel In the Depths of the Valley, available free of charge on Amazon for a limited time. Click here.

In small town Hillsdale, Indiana, high school English teacher William Jameson has a dark secret: he has made a graveyard deal with an eater of the living and the dead. The object of his affection, fellow teacher Loretta Mendez, is marrying loutish cop Doug Hepburn, and meek and mild Will has no other recourse but to appeal to an amorphous evil that he does not understand. When Patrolman Hepburn kills an innocent man and goes missing, no one suspects Will but his student Dwight Howard, who must deal with his own supernatural encounter as well as a budding romance between him and his best friend's girl. What follows is a chronicle of infatuation, teenage love, and weird horror

Short, Short Story: Welcome Home

I wrote this flash fiction awhile ago. Really would like to get back into writing, but I can't really decide on a topic. I've edited Apophenia and written a query letter, so I'm ready to push it into the world, but the passion isn't there at the moment. What is passion? It's a stain on your shirt, a bloody brow, a pulled muscle, or a trash can full of rejection. It's not universal. It's found in precious little quantities.

...

Welcome Home

            She opens the door and there he is, splayed out on the couch, a beer resting in between his crotch, the television paused and displaying a video game menu. His hands still clutch the controller like an idol. Something slithers down the side of his mouth, a long trickle of moisture. He snorts and exhales. On the carpet is a large stain; its shape suggests a gradual expansion, a certain manifest destiny left unchecked by indifference. It smells in here, a sour reek of body odor and burned food. His clothes are in the corner, wadded up like trash. A swarm of gnats orbits a lampshade, drawn by its dim light.

            She walks through the living room and goes into the kitchen. Beer cans lie in piles like pagan offerings. There's nothing in the refrigerator but empty boxes and stained containers. On the table there is a note, a scribbled series of ten digits. Amanda it says beneath the numbers. She looks at this note for a long time, then takes it and crumples it up, tossing it on one of the piles of cans. Again, he is snoring, his breathing rough and irregular. The chair is hard, but she sits in it and stares at the place where the note was.

            The phone rings. It is her mother. She talks to her for a good while. Every so often she stares at him, checking to see if he has awoken. Mom asks how things are going, how her trip was. Everything is fine, she says. That's the truth, isn't it? She looks out the glass door and sees his underpants hanging on the lid of the charcoal grill. For the life of her she cannot figure out why they are there. He burps suddenly in his sleep, the air seeping out of his mouth like gas leaking out of a corpse.

            She asks her mother if she has ever been in love. Of course, her mother says. Why do you ask? There are ants on the floor, she responds. She hangs up on her mother. A little pair of black insects crawls across the linoleum, their legs quickening as she bends down to look at them. I'm sorry, she says, squishing them with the back of her hand. There is a husk in her living room that will not leave.  

Maybe You're a Real-Life Jabroni

Jabroni--"A slang term in professional wrestling first used by the Iron Sheik and then again later by Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson. It is derived from the word jobber, which is someone who routinely loses, or "does the job"--Urban Dictionary.

You go to work and your boss is waiting for you in your office. Outside, the sun is shining; birds fly across the sky, heading to destinations unknown. Your boss has a stack of papers in his lap. He looks at you; you lock eyes, leading to an uncomfortable staring match. Of course, you lose. "You got a lot to do this morning," says your boss. "Get to work, jabroni."

 ...

You walk your dog in the park after work. Rufus takes his time sniffing bushes and peeing on random objects. Unfortunately, you only brought two plastic bags to pick up Rufus's solid waste. He takes a huge dump right in front of a pretty girl and her Yorkie. He looks embarrassed, hunched over, his beady eyes darting about. Goddamnit, Rufus, you think. The girl looks at you expectantly. Rufus has finished his dump and is ready to depart. You don't know what to do.

"Pick up his shit, jabroni," she says.

...

You pull onto your street. You live in a decent neighborhood, but you lack a driveway. To your chagrin, some neighborhood kid has just parallel parked his Mustang in front of your house. You roll down your window to say something to him. "Excuse me, I live here," you say, trying to sound reasonable. The kid looks at you and then looks back at his phone. "Hey," you continue, "I'm talking..."

"Can-it, jabroni," says the kid, throwing an aluminum can through your car window.

...

Nighttime comes, stealing away any time you have left. You begin to dose in front of the television. Sleep has eluded you these past couple days. In your dreams you are in a professional wrestling ring. Your opponent is turned to the crowd, performing a promo. For some reason, you can't hear him. You look down and you realize that your spandex pants are torn in the crotch area. Everything is hanging out for everyone to see. Your opponent turns toward you and gives you a raised eyebrow. You realize in horror that it is the Rock.

You wake up and find that your house is burning down.On the tv there is one word displayed. You decide right then and there to just lie down and die. There is clearly only one job for you. Get to work, jabroni.

Curt Schilling Wants Everyone to Know That He's a Fat Moron

Curt Schilling, famous Red Sox pitcher and ESPN commentator, would like everyone to know that he is a fat moron. Schilling, most famous for pitching in the World Series with a bloody sock, was recently suspended for a tweet comparing Muslims to Nazis. When asked who won the Democratic Presidential Debate last night (once again, on Twitter, the realm of morons), Schilling responded "ISIS." Schilling is a die-hard Republican, despite that fact that he took 75 million in government handouts from the State of Rhode Island to fund his video game company, which soon went bankrupt. Let's review some other things that this fat jock moron believes:

Curt Schilling believes that Obama was born in Egypt because that's the only African country he knows.

Curt Schilling believes that if you stare at an egg long enough, it will fry itself.

Curt Schilling believes that the theory of evolution has never been thoroughly proven.

Curt Schilling believes that his bed farts will get him into heaven.

Curt Schilling believes that all of America's problems would be solved if we just killed all of the liberals/immigrants/thugs/lesbians.

Curt Schilling believes that only the 99 percent will enter the kingdom of heaven.

Curt Schilling believes that only using 10 percent of his brain will get him into an exclusive heaven club where he can molest angels and eat cheese coneys with his bare feet.

Curt Schilling believes that if he says everything he thinks, he will be remembered as a genius.

Curt Schilling believes that all dogs go to heaven.

Curt Schilling believes that hypocrisy is a word with no meaning.

Curt Schilling believes that atheists are all homos.

Curt Schilling believes that all food is edible, even way past its expiration date.

Curt Schilling believes that George Washington killed all the Indians with his laser-beam eyes and his twelve-foot schlong.

Curt Schilling believes in State's Rights, and closet racism.

Curt Schilling believes that if you think before you speak, then you're going to hell.

Things You Can Eat Along with Your Gluten-Free Pizza

Do you have a gluten intolerance? You're lying, you bastard. You also probably believe in aliens and that little Joey Goldberg grew back his finger when it was accidentally chopped off during a jousting match with Hulk Hogan. Gluten-free pizza is a thing now, because when you eat a pizza, the first thing you should keep in mind is how it's going to digest (Here's a hint: not well, it's a goddamn pizza). Here are some other things you can eat with that pizza:

You can munch on a bag of wieners.

You can devour an old shoe.

You can feast on a pair of John Kruc's underwear (gluten-free!).

You may dine on a truck-stop tramp (the butthole, specifically).

You can eat another bag of wieners.

You can nibble on a ticket to an NFL game (if I wanted to get in a fight with a bunch of alcoholics, then I'd go to a bar, goddamn it).

You can eat a million dollars of Monopoly money.

You can gnaw on a plastic disk (they used to call them "CDs").

You can consume the tears of an angel.

You can munch on a bag of chalk.

You can eat a rotten apple.

You can nibble on whatever's in the fridge.

You can swallow a bunch of rocks.

You can put broken glass in your mouth.

You can dine on a ham sandwich (filled with poo).

You can eat your hat.

Don't forget to consume another bag of wieners.

It's Time We Finally Recognized Superhero PED Abuse

Look, I know this is a topic that many of us are uncomfortable discussing. We looked up to these guys as children. Everyone wanted to be Wolverine or Cyclops, or the Flash if they were different. We watched them save the world countless times from impossible threats. But we're adults now. And it's time we talked about their PED usage.

It's expected that supervillains are using performance enhancing drugs. That's Magneto up there. He controls magnetic fields, which you probably know if you haven't been living under a rock. He's also a sixty-year-old man who just so happens to be as shredded as Rambo. I understand that he's a bad guy, and bad guys cheat. I mean, when does Magneto have time to work out? He's attacking the world pretty much every other week. He lives on a freaking asteroid. I can't blame the guy for going on a cycle of diabol. He doesn't have time to mess around.

Here's Cyclops, leader of the X-Men, a boy scout, hero to children and man-children everywhere. He looks like he's getting ready for a bodybuilding competition. Maybe that's his hobby, I dunno, but Jesus, Cyclops, you have to be on HGH at the bare minimum. If you can see your abs through your spandex, well, that's a warning sign.

And don't think I'm letting the women get off scot-free. Rogue up there has to be on some crazy illegal fat-burners, not to mentions some kind of hormones, judging from her bosom, which is like Kate Upton-size.

We've turned a blind eye to superhero drug abuse for so long that Captain America doesn't even hide his usage. He's got access to some kind of super-steroid, and he's an American hero because of it? All of the guy's powers come from steroids. What kind of message is that sending America's youth?

As far as I'm concerned, they are all supervillains. Get their toys off the shelves, stop making movies about them, stop letting kids go to Xavier's school for steroids, or whatever it's called. We have to send a message that it's not okay to go walking around looking like the Hulk (another unrepentant PED cheat). Take back American values. Say no to superheroes.

Things that Will Happen if the Cubs Win the World Series

Where are your pants, asshole?

So the Chicago Cubs just defeated the Pittsburgh Pirates in the wild card one game playoff. They now head to St. Louis to play the Cardinals. People are very high on the Cubs, suddenly. They have a phenomenal ace in Jake Arrieta, a great second starter in veteran Jon Lester, tons of promising young players like Kris Bryant and Addison Russell, alongside MVP candidate Anthony Rizzo and manager of the year candidate Joe Maddon. Could the curse of the baby bears be broken this year? You better hope not. The Cubs winning the World Series is one of the signs of the apocalypse. Here is what such an event will bring about:

If the Cubs win the World Series, then Donald Trump will be elected President. He will serve ninety-nine years, and transform America into a techno-capitalist nightmare. At least, more so than it already is.

If the Cubs win the World Series, HBO will cancel Game of Thrones and you will never know which of your favorite characters died needlessly first.

If the Cubs win the World Series, Apple will reveal that Steve Jobs isn't dead, because what is eternal shall never die, and after strange eons even death may die.

If the Cubs win the World Series, Marvel will spontaneously combust, and that Ant Man sequel you were so excited for will never see the light of day.

If the Cubs win the World Series, there will be mass rioting in the streets. The Elder Gods shall rise, and they shall teach us new ways to ravage and murder. Cthulhu R'lyeh!

If the Cubs win the World Series, flared bottom jeans will come back in style, and we will all live in a hell of our own imagining.

If the Cubs win the World Series, no one will ever be able to eat a bagel. Thanks, President Trump.

If the Cubs win the World Series, people will forget how to read and write. Civilization shall crumble, and we will having nothing but our own excrement with which to entertain ourselves. Thanks again, President Trump.

If the Cubs win the World Series, you will never be able to go to Chicago again.

If the Cubs win the World Series, the only kind of pizza allowed will be Chicago-style. I hope you like your pizza pie, fatties!

If the Cubs win the World Series, show muscles will be outlawed, and I will have to live indoors.

If the Cubs win the World Series, Jesus will postpone the Rapture.

If the Cubs win the World Series, Batman will kill the Joker.

If the Cubs win the World Series, I will poop my pants.

If the Cubs win the World Series, everything that matters will become dust.

Oh goddamn it.

What Is a Nerd (or Geek)?

In 2015, the term "nerd" is essentially meaningless. It used to refer to someone like the above individual, a socially-maladroit character who was interested in math and science and hobbies like Ham radio and entomology. Nowadays, it can refer to people who like comic books or cartoon ponies, but who don't have any interest in science or technical hobbies. There's geek fashion and geek get togethers like Comic Con. These aren't real nerds; these people are impostors. A real nerd wouldn't step within a thousand feet of a social convention; he or she is too busy building a self-propelling hovercraft in their garage with the spare parts of a thirty-year-old station wagon. Real nerds have electrical engineering degrees and work in Silicon Valley or NASA. They don't camp out in Darth Vader gear to wait for the release of the new Star Wars movie. This is one of the many problems with the sitcom The Big Bang Theory. The writers act as though these two groups mingle. Nerds don't mingle, not unless you want to debate the merits of advanced calculus. The words "nerd" and "geek" have been co-opted by the mainstream in order to sell man-children nostalgia. Let's number some activities and see whether they would be done by a true nerd or a poser.

1. Becoming fluent in Latin--real nerd activity.

2. Becoming fluent in Klingon--fake nerd activity.

3. Building a water-cooled supercomputer--real nerd hobby.

4. Getting on an internet forum to complain about games journalism--fake nerd hobby.

5. Not having any real idea how to properly dress oneself--real nerd problem.

6. Purposefully dressing oneself in large-framed glasses and comic book shirts--fake nerd problem.

7. Learning Morse code--real nerd hobby.

8. Learning leet (1337) speak--fake nerd hobby.

9. Not knowing how to talk to people because of lack of interest in social matters--real nerd problem.

10. Not knowing how to talk to people because of "crippling" self-anxiety and/or interest in cartoon ponies--fake nerd problem.

11. Has no real opinion on politics, but possess very strong opinion on the merits of the SETI project--real nerd.

12. Believes in anarcho-capitalism and frequently discusses how the feminists are ruining everything--fake nerd.

13. Couldn't properly enjoy Jurassic World because of the outdated depiction of dinosaurs--real nerd.

14. Saw Jurassic World three times because the ending fight scene was so cool--fake nerd.

15. Spent extra money on constructing a 3d printer--true nerd.

16. Spent extra money on collecting action figures from all the Marvel movies--fake nerd.

17. Reads Pointless Venture and enjoys it--real nerd.

18. Reads Kotaku--fake nerd.

19. Wants to be the next Issac Newton--real nerd.

20. Wants to be that guy on Youtube who does Super Mario speedruns--fake nerd.    

How to Get Marked

Hey, it's Gordy Weaver here, and I'm gonna tell all you homies about how you can get Marked like my favorite person, actor/musician/athlete/human genius Mark Wahlberg, AKA the coolest man on planet earth (and any other planet, for that matter). Your average jabroni probably thinks getting "Marked" means getting buff like Marky-Mark, but that's not all the term means, no sir, getting Marked is a complex process that involves improving your intellect, your libido, and your street-smarts in order to make you ninety-percent as cool as Mark Wahlberg, because face it, you'll never be one-hundred percent as cool. Let's go over the steps so that you can embark on your journey.

Step One: Purchase all of Mark Wahlberg's get Marked products. Visit this page and load up on protein powder, metabolism boosters, pre-workout stuff (I don't know what it does, but it'll get you Marked) weight gainers, and vitamins. Unfortunately, you'll have to go to a health food store, because I couldn't find many Marked products online. If you manage to find them all, I think it'll cost you like two-hundred dollars or something.

Step Two: Start talking in a Boston accent. I'm not too good at this. I am pretty good, however, at copying Marky-Mark's Get the Hell Out stare.

Step Three: Start a street gang and nearly beat a Vietnamese man to death. Okay, maybe don't do that; those were dark times in Marky-Mark's life, and you don't want to do no time. You also don't want to be addicted to cocaine at thirteen; I used to take muscle relaxers, and it was hard to kick those. I have a lot of pairs of dirty underwear to prove it.

Step Four: Get people to confuse you with Matt Damon. Matt Damon sucks, but I'm sure Marky-Mark wouldn't have gotten the part in Transformers 4 without Michael Bay thinking he was Mr. Harvard, Matt "Jason Bourne is a pussy James Bond" fucking Damon. Getting Mark is about using the opportunities presented to you. So look like Matt Damon. Or Mark Wahlberg.

Step Five: Mark Wahlberg can barely count to five, not to mention remember more than four things at once. No matter. Embrace your musical side by delving into rap music. Rap about your tough upbringing, pizza, or how big your wang-stick is. Helps if you know some black guys for street cred. Just don't yell any racial slurs at them.

Step Six: Write to Marky-Mark. Mark Wahlberg was too cool for school, but rich and powerful people like him can afford to hire people to read letters to them. Tell Mark Wahlberg how you two should totally hang out, and how you have so many things in common. Maybe Mark Wahlberg will come to you house and chill. I would tell Mark Wahlberg about the time I saw bigfoot and how I'm changing the minds of people in regards to paranormal experiences, and about that last hood rat I scored with. Then he would make me the leader of the Funky Bunch. Please call me, Mark Wahlberg. Please.

Mark off.

Quit Offering the Rock Poontang Pie

It has come to the Rock's attention that he is still being offered poontang pie on a frequent basis, which is not to the Rock's liking, believe it or not. Some of you may like apple pie. Some others may enjoy a slice of pumpkin pie around Thanksgiving time. But the Rock has always enjoyed poontang pie the most. But that was then, and this is now. Tastes change, is what the Rock is saying. You can have too much of a good thing. The Rock has had poontang pie made with sustainable, locally-sourced ingredients. The Rock has also eaten poontang pie from a dumpster. What the Rock is trying to say is that poontang pie tastes kind of bland to him now. The Rock has had it all, though he has never had poontang pie from a Jabroni or from his two brothers, Maloney and Maroni. The Rock can smell what you are cooking, and if it's poontang pie, he wouldn't like a piece. No thanks.

The Rock is a big-time movie star now. His wrestling days are over. It was during the Attitude Era when the Rock enjoyed poontang pie the most. It was then that he ate it on a frequent basis. The Rock actually had his own delicious recipe for poontang pie involving cloves, cinnamon, and a whole lot of sugar, but that's a family secret. A jabroni like you shall not be privy to the Rock's secret family recipe for poontang pie. Don't even ask. You can't smell what the Rock is cooking, not this time.

Maybe if the Rock met the right cook, he would partake in poontang pie once more. The last time the Rock had poontang pie, it was smelly and gross. You see, the Rock is a poontang pie connoisseur. Though he has eaten poontang pie from the dumpster, the Rock sees that that was a mistake. So the Rock would like to chose his own poontang pie instead of being offered it all the time, like on the street when the Rock is trying to get to the premier of one of his blockbuster movies. Don't distract the Rock with your offer of poontang pie. Only a jabroni would taste it. The Rock ain't no jabroni. Has never been. The Rock wants you to shut your mouth, go to Know Your Role Boulevard, just off Jabroni Drive, and check yourself into Smackdown Hotel, where the Rock will be waiting to layeth the smackdown on your candy ass. You can eat your own poontang pie by yourself.

Also, please stop offering Marky-Mark poontang pie. He doesn't like it much, either.