It’s true that the man who created these beautiful tales of lightsaber-wielding knights and swashbuckling space pirates has become the very corporate money-making and merchandising machine that he was fighting against all those years ago. He’s more machine now than human…Most people assume this is a new development of the last twenty or so years; that up to that point Lucas was still the top of the class, incapable of making mistakes…Even “Howard the Duck” has some kind of redeeming value now all these later, at least a conversation piece and a “What the fuck was he thinking?!” moment.

Yet, way back in the magical time between “A New Hope” and “The Empire Strikes Back,” George showed just how disastrous his judgment can be. He was party to, and probably a driving force behind, the most simultaneously hilarious and disturbing thing in the world. I’m of course talking about: The Star Wars Christmas Special.

Twenty full minutes of Wookiees speaking in their native tongue…without subtitles. Set pieces that looked like they belonged on the set of “Dark Shadows.” Bea Fucking Arthur. Carrie Fisher clearly coked up out of her skull. These are all things that I found waiting for me the night I sat down with four of my closest friends to watch it.

It should be noted that Lucas used to deny this thing’s existence, and he’s said that if he could smash all the copies of it that exist, he would. So even he knows how bad it is. Even the first appearance of Boba Fett (in a cartoon, for reals) could do nothing to save this thing. It’s that fucking bad.

My friend Mike happened to be working on the Fox lot at the time and thus had access to the library of works that reside there. It was a dark winter’s night in 2003, as I recall it. He, his brother Dave, Ian, and Daron all came over to my house for another marathon beer drinking and video gaming session…because when you’re in your 20s and trying to create great sketch comedy, these are things you do, obviously.

As Mike and the rest of the guys arrived, there was a twinkle in his eye. He had something for me. He produced a VHS tape (kids, go ahead and Wiki that) and told me it was the Star Wars Christmas Special. It was the Holy Grail. I had heard of it, of course, but I had never seen it before. The Boba Fett thing alone made me giddy.

But there was a twinkle in his eyes that told me something. He and Dave warned me that they’d tried to watch it the night before but couldn’t get through the whole thing. That’s the mind-fuck that I was in for. I told them I could handle it. That after “Phantom Menace” and “Attack of the Clones” I was ready for anything.

I could not have been more wrong.

The aforementioned Wookiee scene was almost enough to make me stop the tape. It was fucking disturbing. The costumes weren’t quite up to snuff, and the faces seemed more like “Planet of the Apes” worthy than “Star Wars.” This was not going well at all.

Then Carrie Fisher puts down the powder just long enough to mumble some lines and walk off…What the fuck? Then comes Harrison Ford who clearly was not happy to be there, and was actually shitting on the lines as he was saying them. It was hilariously tragic. The one bright spot was seeing Mark Hamil before the car wreck that forever changed his looks and made them write the Wampa attack into “Empire.” Of course, his hair was turbo-doucheariffic, so there was really no element of the story that wasn’t completely fucked.

I remember feeling like the whole world was crashing down around me. This was proof, that even back then, George had lost his fucking mind. It’s like it donned on me then that “Star Wars” was a lucky fluke; that if you leave George Lucas to his own devices he may turd all in your mouth. And it was watching this thing that made me realize that George is a great idea guy. He came up with the idea of “Star Wars.” He came up with the idea of a guy named Indiana.

Execution though, is not George’s thing.

It seemed like every thirty seconds another cattle prod was being jammed into my childhood memories. Now of course, and even then I could see the humor in the situation, of course. And I could certainly see why George would completely disavow himself from its very existence. However, none of that changed the fact this sucked out loud. This was bad not just for “Star Wars,” but for “art” or “entertainment,” or “humanity.”

By the time the Boba Fett cartoon came on, my head was reeling and I remember the room was dead silent except for the odd “What in the fuck?” that one of us would either mutter or yell. It seriously felt like Lucas had created this thing as a way of torture. A way to take all that you loved about “Star Wars” and just shitting all the fuck over it.

I’m actually not sure if the Bea Arthur came before or after Boba Fett. By then my brain and soul were crying out for relief. We all looked at each other and with all the solemnity the moment deserved, Mike turned off the tape, ejected it, and put it away. It was over. Thank God.

It’s true; I learned that night that no one really is perfect, and that Lucas had already shown flashes of shitastic shittiness even back then. The cracks were starting form between the man who gave me my favorite fictional stories and me. It would eventually turn into a love-hate relationship that will likely never be repaired.

I do get to enjoy watching my sons experience “Star Wars” now and that’s quite fun. I still tell them how much I hate the prequels, which I’m sure will only result in a few thousand dollars worth of therapy sessions. So I’ll never completely write off the franchise…but without a doubt watching the Star Wars Christmas Special forever made me cynical and doubtful of anything “Star Wars” related until I’ve seen and experienced it myself.

And now to pay the mind-rape forward:

CATCH UP ON THE REST OF “INTO THE GARBAGE CHUTE: THE SERIAL E-NOVEL HERE. 

Here’s the first one we got around to getting complete enough to showcase. So please, enjoy:

“Fucked Up Family Ties”

Let me rephrase that.

I wanna own a goat!

I don’t know that I’d be able to do much with it, seeing as I have absolutely zero experience with goats or raising them. I am however quite experienced when it comes to eating their cheese, so I feel like at least on some level Goat and I could relate. What can I say? It’s just a burning desire I have, and one that I will fulfill, or my name isn’t Tommy Goathaver.

It’s embarrassing at the Goathaver family reunions. Everyone trots their assorted goats and goat-related products, and I have nothing. Bupkus. There’s no worse feeling in the whole entire world than when your father looks at you expectantly, and you can’t produce a single, solitary goat. Seriously, there is nothing that has ever happened, or will ever happen on this planet that comes close to the sadness and tragedy that is me not owning a goat.

A lot of people ask me, “Tommy, what would you even do with the goat? You have no experience with goats or raising them.” They’re right, of course. But I’ve put together a sort of “Wish List” of things I would do with my own goat. If you don’t mind, I’d love to share this with you now, my list of potential goat-related activities that is.

1. Tiddlywinks. Seriously, who wouldn’t want to go to their grave knowing they played Tiddlywinks with a goat?
2. Go for walks on the beach with my goat.
3. Share all my most intimate and personal thoughts with my goat.
4. Settle down, move to a nice house in the suburbs with my goat. 
5. Marry my goat.
6. Make sweet love to my goat.
7. Have kids with my goat.
8. Die, leave all my vast Graham Cracker fortune (I did mention that I own the world’s largest Graham Cracker factory right?) to my goat and my children.

This is not one of those times. I present to you the single greatest moment in the classic martial arts film, “The Karate Kid.” But this moment is so momentary that I needed to give it its full-respect. So here it is, for you to enjoy and probably masturbate to:

Toasting my classiness...and modesty.

Catch up on the chapters you’ve missed HERE. 

We’ve briefly touched on my classiness before. It’s not hyperbolic in any way to say that I am absolutely, 100% Scientifically Verified, the most classy human being in the history of our species. I’m so classy that classy shit just happens around me and I’m all like, “Whatever, man.” Classiness is passe to me, that’s how much classiness is in my life. It’s like when you go to McDonald’s and order dozens of 20-piece Chicken McNuggets and then take them home, spread them all over the house and then play “Find the McNuggets” with your guests for the nest few weeks.

After awhile, even the almighty McNugget would become a little “meh.” That’s how I am with class. That’s what I’m saying. Me=Classy. Right? Right.

And if me tooting my own classy horn isn’t classy enough, I’m also really smart. The evidence of that is in my kids. For instance, my 10-month-old son is just now starting to make little noises and sounds like words. One day he was holding a Cookie Monster toy and he said “Cuh.”

It floored me…blew me away even. He’s so smart. Cookie Monster is “Cuh.” Of course it is! And what really shocked me is that at just 10 months he knew what it took me almost 30 years to find out: Cookie Monster is a cunt.

Seriously, Cookie Monster is kind of a cunt. Once you get over the initial shock of me calling one of the beloved Muppets the C-word (cunt), think about the facts for just a moment or two.

What a cunt.

If these things described a friend of yours, how long would you stay friends with them?

• Obsessed with only one thing, will not talk about anything else
• Is willing to steal, lie and cheat in order to get his hands on that one thing
• If you have any of that substance he wants on you, he will do everything he can to take it from you
• Does not share
• Under-educated; has almost caveman-like abilities to reason and understand
• Killed a man in Reno, just to watch him die

Okay, now that I look at it, maybe Cookie Monster isn’t a cunt, but he certainly does exhibit all the signs of a tweaker. It’s just that to him, cookies are tantamount to sweet, sweet meth.

Please note: I love the Muppets. And all I want for Cookie is to get some help, in a real rehab facility. That’s all I wanted to say…that and clearly my son is a genius.

Don’t you just hate it when you jerk off, finish, clean up, and THEN you see the good part of the clip? You can’t un-born a bunch of spankin’ babies though.

Being a parent is awesome, let me tell you. I especially love surprising my kids, because nothing beats lying to their cherubic little faces. In fact, that’s an integral part of being a parent: lying.

Every parent lies through their teeth to their kids. It doesn’t matter if it’s the Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus, or Jesus. Every kid learns at least a thing or two that’s total and complete bullshit from their parents. It’s like our God-given rights to fuck them up as much or as little as we want.

We all remember the sense of betrayal we felt when we found out our folks had been lying to us about the big fat man that brings us all presents once a year. At least in my kids’ case they big fat man part is right. But I don’t wear a big red suit…that would just be grotesque.  But why do we as parents take so much delight in these socially acceptable ways of torturing and lying to our kids?

Because kids ruin fucking everything. 

So much destructive power in one photograph.

Seriously. Before you’re a parent, you’re floating around without a care in the world. Oh sure, you have to get a job, pay your bills and try to find someone to have sex with you, as well as feed your emotional and spiritual needs.

And when you’re single, those things seem like the hardest shit in the world, don’t they? You’re all like, “Woah, bro! Falling in love and being happy is hard!” You worry about it…you stress about finding that special someone you can share the rest of your life with.

Jump-cut to a few years later and you’re running on two hours of sleep in the last month, and your baby is screaming its goddamned head off because you put him in his crib so you can take five minutes to take a shit by yourself, and you have unidentifiable stains on every piece of cloth in your house, and you realize right then and there, your baby has totally ruined your life.

Don’t kid yourself either; we all fucked up our parents’ lives. They were single people at one point themselves. Your dad liked to go out drinking and your mom was seeing three very looking guys, all of whom were very good at sex before she settled down with your dad and shit you out.

I promise you at some point one or both of your parents looked at you and thought, “You’ve ruined my life.” It’s okay though. Because despite it all, and through it all, you learn what love truly means:

Love means being able to acknowledge that your son or daughter is acting like a real douchebag right now while also seeing that they’re being a douchebag in your own likeness. Also, it’s nice to have a possible replacement kidney, or lung, or heart (we have two of those right?) if you need it. So if only for the organ harvesting, parenting isn’t all bad.

They're either dead or don't have kids.

Parenting, truthfully, is just like any other human endeavor. It’s not all good, or all bad. There are things you love about it, and things that easily take twenty years off of your life. But just like everything else in the human experience, you just have to roll with the punches.

Or ship them off to boarding school while you and your trophy wife suck and fuck your way to happiness.

Anyway, in this film, a Russian boxer who got strong using drugs (because as we all know, only Communists use performance enhancing drugs), kills Apollo Creed, the villain who becomes Rambo’s best friend in the third movie and does so like a total dick:

What else could demonstrate the EVIL COMMUNIST WAYS than by a juiced-up Ruskie killing a black dude in American flag boxer shorts? Nothing. That’s the answer you’re looking for. Nothing.

But even that kind of Cold War, “we hate people with a different political ideology than us so much we want to threaten to blow up the world with nukes”, material isn’t even what makes “Rocky IV” so amazing.

It’s stuff like this:

Oh and this scene, where we see that the Russians have managed to corrupt even the pure, clean, unsullied waters of professional boxing with their technological advances…what dicks!

But all of that is total bullshit compared this, and I will warn you that you will either shit your pants, faint, or shit your pants as you faint. Prepare to be rocked and simultaneously convinced that only Rocky BalRambo has the power to beat the evil He-Man, Ivan Drago.

My love of that song will bring about something beautiful this year. But for the time being, just enjoy it. Enjoy the shit out of it.

I credit or blame much of who I am now, as a “man,” on growing up in a small  community in the mountains of Southern California. It’s name belies just how small the town really is. It’s approximately eight miles from end to end, and yet within the boundaries of that sleepy place, you could find microcosm after microcosm of what human life, more specifically human life in these United States of America, really is like.

My family moved us there when I was just four years old, reportedly after my mother became panic-stricken when a police helicopter began circling our neighborhood, their public-address bullhorn describing a missing boy who happened to match my description. I was indoors and safe, but as the story was told to me, that was the straw that broke the camel’s back and my parents put into action a plan they’d been cooking up for awhile: we were going to move to the mountains.

We moved that summer, after my brother and sister, both older than me, finished their school year. My sister would start eighth grade and my brother fourth, in a new town. I’m sure for them the move was much more dramatic and life-changing at the time than it was for me. I would be starting kindergarten in the Fall, but other than that, I was pretty oblivious to the changes.

Invariably, when I’ve met people in the subsequent years since I put that small town behind me, ostensibly for good, I’m asked one question time and again. “What did you do for fun up there?” Anyone who’s familiar with the town that didn’t live in it at one point just knows it as a place to go skiing in the winter and fishing in the summer.  They can’t possibly fathom, knowing that there’s not even a mall up there, what in the Hell we’d do up there to exercise that youthful energy.

I don’t and haven’t lived there in about a decade and a half, so I cannot attest to whether or not it’s still this way, but when I was bounding around the hills and small side-streets up there, there were some clear dividing lines of a socioeconomic value. There was most certainly a lower, middle, upper-middle and upper-class division within the town, and the areas in which you bought property and built a house (tract housing was few and far between), would be an instant indicator of your family’s financial status.

Sadly, I’ve come to find out, thanks to things like social networking, that we kids did tend to divide up along those lines to an extent, or at least to a further extent than what I’d care to admit now, as a bleeding heart Liberal who professes to care less for what someone earns in their paycheck, than what they think and feel in their hearts. But that being said, I can say with certainty too, that it was not hard to cross those economic barriers and be friends with kids of many different backgrounds.

The truth is that getting your kicks in a mountain town is really no different than anywhere else, and it depends fully on each kid’s willingness to engage in risky behavior. Sex, drugs, and rock and roll were all there for the taking, and we never shyed away from taking.

Maybe it was growing up as the youngest, or maybe it was just a defect I was born with, but I was never someone who looked before they leaped. I wasn’t even 14-years-old when I started smoking cigarettes, and considering that I didn’t grow up in 1924 rural North Carolina, that’s probably a bit of an anomaly in a white, middle-class family.

Sex, for me, actually came before drugs and booze, though they all sort of fell into place pretty quickly. I’ll spare everyone, including the poor girl who could by all rights read this one day, the gory details, but at the tender age of 15 I “became a man” and spent the next 10 years engaging in sexually bi-polar pursuits. That it is to say that I was either in love with or completely stranger to, most of the women who were unfortunate enough to have been involved with me for the better part of my early sexual life.

Make no mistake, there is no lack of teenage angst in a small mountain town. In fact, the proximity of everyone to each other, mixed with the distinct limit on choices of who to go out with, meant that high drama was de rigeur. It’s probably comforting to us all on some level that despite where we grew up, we all lived out segments of “My So-Called Life” from time to time.

It’s not like all we did was drink, take drugs and fuck each other. We had a bowling alley, where we’d go and bowl a few games, before drinking, taking drugs and fucking. Sometimes we’d change things up by drinking and taking drugs and then going to the bowling alley.
We also had miles and miles of lush forested area to drive our cars and hike up into to provide ample space to drink, take drugs, and fuck each other. You haven’t lived until you’ve vomited in your parents flower bed in the dead of winter, a cloud of steamy breath enveloping you as you wretch out the poison from deep within your belly.

Am I being hyperbolic? Was my entire existence as a teenager in that town consumed only with alcohol, drugs, girls and music? Probably not, but as I get older, those are the memories that fade a little slower. Those are also the memories that help me draw a clear line to the neuroses that define who I am today.

 Catch up with the other chapters in this series HERE.

This guy is so fucking cool it's almost impossible to think he comes from Maryland.

I mean, who the fuck names their state Mary-Land? Like, is it full of people named Mary? As far as I can tell it’s full of dumb people who say dumb things and smell like crab. Fuck them. In the face, even. If they were naming that state after the majority of the people who live there, it should be called “Doucheyland.”

And what the fuck is up with the pronunciation of that state’s name? Everyone always says it like, “Maruhlund.” But it should be “MARRY-LAND! (WOO HOOO!)” with the “WOO HOO” being silent, obviously. (I was spelling that out for the dummies in Maryland)

Wait. Hold on. I just got word that Maryland did just pass a gay marriage law. Okay. That changes things slightly. I know find Marlyand 22% less shitty. I also just remembered that I know of two people in DummyLand who I actually like. So I will say that they are exempt from this proclamation, as are the gay folks who can now get married there.

Idea: Everyone except the homosexual community, my two friends, and John Waters has to vacate Maryland and go somewhere else. Just don’t come here, fuckos.

If there was one state that perfectly represented the visual image of starving children being punched in the face with bricks, it’s Maryland. I heard a rumor that one out of every five people in Maryland can’t spell the word “butthole.” Which is ironic because nearly everyone (John Waters, my friend and his wife, and the gays excluded) in that God awful state are actual buttholes. (It’s also ironic because butthole isn’t a real word, and almost no one in Maryland is smart enough to know that) I of course have no way to substantiate this myself, but there is a very credible rumor that AIDS was invented by Maryland.

Baltimore? More like Build-a-less!

This is a fucking cereal mascot, not a baseball logo, right?

They don’t even have a cool sports franchise. Their baseball team is the Orioles, and their football team is the Ravens. Birds? Birds? Didn’t anyone tell Maryland birds aren’t cool anymore? It’s all about Sloths, Big Marmaduke type dogs, and elephants if you’re going to name a professional sports team after an animal.

Pretty much what I’m trying to say here is, “Fuck Marlyand.”

Of course, even the douchebaggery of Maryland and it’s douchey fucking citizens couldn’t possibly compare to the shitsanity that is New Hampshire…

I’m so fucking old. Or at least I feel old, and as I’ve gotten older I’ve noticed that somehow my brain and my penis are actually talking to one another now, as opposed their previous arrangement wherein they ignored each other so as to allow both parties to do their best work. But slowly over the last four or five years, they’ve started to open up lines of dialogue with one another, and now the two seem to be intent on working together.

Now THIS is hot!

I just started a subscription to Playboy Magazine this year. Partly because I needed to see what Lindsay Lohan looked like naked. Turns out she looks a lot like Marilyn Monroe. But that aside, I discovered something kind of startling: I really am reading the articles and interviews far more than I’m looking at the boobies, butts and front-butts of the disrobed ladies in the magazine.

The fact is that the first issue I received had a centerfold who was born in 1991. 1991!! That’s insane to me. My balls had already started their long journey to where they are today (just above my kneecaps) by the time she was born. I was driving when she was starting to go to school. It would appear that I am incapable of getting aroused by women who were born after “ALF” went off the air.

So apparently my dick and my brain are talking and as a team we’ve decided to only find women of a certain age or older attractive. Case in point, more and more I’m finding smart, older women very attractive. We’re talking women in politics who are sometimes as old as my mother. I’m not sure if I’m getting more creepy or maturing.

Like, Elizabeth Warren is hot to me. Look, I’m not saying she’s ugly, or unattractive, but something happened to my libido wherein buxom blonde women born in the 90s are completely unappealing to me, and yet middle-aged women with a heart of gold just entering the political arena with a fire in their bellies are HOT HOT HOT HOT.

Poor Elizabeth Warren. No woman of her ilk should have to be subjected to a crush from yours truly.

If  I start jerking off to C-SPAN coverage of debates in the House and Senate every time Nancy Pelosi or Debbie Wasserman Schultz comes on the floor, I’ll know my transformation is complete.

Now, I don’t want to give the wrong impression here. In no way am I one of those married guys who gets to complain about the frequency of sexual contact with my wife. I promised I’d spare her the embarrassment of the gory details, but we fuck. And we even manage to have fun doing so, although that is clearly a function of her hard work and determination more than it’s a statement about my abilities as a lover.

So we’re good in that department. You can stop worrying and losing sleep over it now. Though a healthy obsession with my sex life is something you really could never go wrong with.

Just make sure to send me the stick figure or charcoal drawing of what you imagine my sexual prowess to be so I can frame them and put them in my “room of shame” I’m building.

But really, as I look back, I never had a lack of sex in my life. Before I got married I got tons of sex from ladies…well females at least. I know, looking at me you’d think, “Yeah right, Fatty McTubsagoo.” But really. I used to get laid a lot. And it’s really easy to do.

If you want to get laid a lot, all you have to do is dress nice, talk nice and sacrifice any and all standards of beauty, hygiene, ethics, morality, whatever you may have. You’d be amazed how much fucking you can do when you don’t care who you’re fucking.

Oh, and getting them drunk helps a lot too. No, not “rapey” drunk. Just drunk like, “Hey, let’s go drink five bottles of wine and get into my parents’ Jacuzzi” drunk. 

So you can see now why I got so epic-laid: I was classy.

What do I have in common with this drink? Classiness coming out of our assholes, that's what.

Nothing says "Fashionable Firepower" like a pink 9mm.

The problem is that as I’m having these thoughts of suicide, I start thinking about my wife, my kids, my job, my house and its mortgage, my family, my friends, my writing career, and it suddenly hits me:

I don’t own a fucking gun.

That’s the thing about being a flaming, bleeding-heart hippie Liberal who wants to ban all guns everywhere. When you want to end your life, it’s not very fucking convenient. And if nothing else is, shouldn’t suicide at least be convenient. It only seems fair.

“But James, what would cops carry, if we destroyed all the guns.” The answer is so simple I’m a little pissed off you’d even ask.

Dildos. Cops would carry dildos.

So since I couldn’t possibly bring myself to own a gun, I’d have to kill myself in some painful, slow way like slashing my wrists or hanging myself. I got into writing and computers to avoid manual labor, and I’m not all that good with arts and crafts so I’m pretty sure my hangman’s noose would probably be a hot mess of twisted rope, completely unsuited to the task. Who has time for all that work, too? I mean, I’m an American, so I want everything to happen instantaneously, even the taking of my own life. Since I find myself without a gun or the work ethic to do it without a firearm, I soldier on.

Okay, so you’re probably reading this and freaking the fuck out. Put the phone down. For one thing I’ve used almost all my minutes for the month and I can’t afford overage charges (again, see my thoughts re: the economy). I’m fine. I’m not fucking going anywhere. I mean, hello, I just told you that my political beliefs and fear of guns will keep me firmly planted in this gelatinous sack called “my body” for as long as I’m allowed.

I know I have a charmed life. I have a wife, and two kids.  They’re great people. I mean that, my wife and kids are good people. They’d give you the shirts off their backs and they’d work an honest day for you if you felt so inclined as to ask. They probably give to multiple charities. They’re good fucking people.

It’s me. I’m the cock.

This is not my beautiful house. No really, this isn't my house. It's just a metaphor. Duh.

I mean sure, maybe if I thought hard enough, I might find a thing or two they do that pisses me off. Maybe, now that I’m really thinking about it, it’s like four things, tops. That’s it…maybe ten. Just ten. Ten things each. So that’s like…what…carry the two, divide by Pi…So like 500,000 things my wife and kids do to upset me.

But that’s every family. And I know if I asked all of them, they’d have probably three times as many totally valid complaints against me for my behavior. I’m an admittedly selfish person (who takes a shower every day?). I have a short temper, and I make really bad jokes all day long (being a failed comedian has a way of making every situation a “gig”). So I’m the asshole in this situation, I’m fully aware.

Okay, if I’m being fair to me, my parents really are the ones who fucked me up. They’re these hardcore, Conservative, Right Wingers and I’m this giant Communist fucktard. Years of struggling against the most dominating forces in your life would fuck anyone up. Let alone someone with an insanely fragile ego and a stupid amount of self-confidence. Again, I’m definitely the asshole.

Before I go on, don’t misunderstand. In no way am I saying that I’m a better parent than my parents were to me. I over-compensated for my parents almost strictly biblical interpretation of the roles of parent and child and pretty much gave my first son everything he could want and more. The result: I may have made a tiny little douchebag. A small five year old douche. Seriously.

Honestly, would you want to hang out with a dude who threw a tantrum so crazy, so out of control that he screamed until he made himself puke? That’s what my kid did…when I cut his sandwich into triangles. Because you know, squares taste better.

Way ahead of his time. Parents by and large really do not understand.

I do love my children, at least the ones I know about. Maybe there’s an illegitimate little James running around somewhere with a chip on his shoulder and my name inscribed on a bullet (irony!). But since I can’t verify the existence of a bastard love child, I can say without impunity that indeed I love all my kids. So even when they’re acting like total dickheads, I know that every kid gets to act like a total dickhead from time to time. It’s why when we tell fully grown adults to quit acting like five year olds, it’s an insult to the adult…though with some adults, it’s definitely more an insult to the five year old.

So what then? Why am I thinking about killing myself if I know that my life is actually quite charmed, that my kids and wife are amazing people, and that any complaints I have about my childhood sound really dumb when you remember that I’m a white boy who grew up in the 80s and 90s in a small, safe mountain town.

What the fuck is my problem?

That’s the question I’m going to attempt to answer with this new project here. Stick around if you have any interest in finding out just how much of my head I remove from my asshole.