New year resolutions

It's the socially acceptable time to lie to ourselves and the world in public. Let's make resolutions:

1. It's time to stop eating your toenails. There is something delicious about three day old, dirty sock gunk but you're getting older and you can't afford to keep that to yourself. Grab a tooth pick and scrape the bottoms of your toenails and dump it into your scoby for kombucha. It's organic and locally sourced and no animals were fucked up in the process.

Kombucha juice

2. Find a new god. The old one ain't good enough. Find one that has a gym membership and wears their sweat like it was a necklace of ears from fallen enemies. They will look like a human boner. This god will dig your kombucha and will be able to tell what brand of shoes you were wearing. This god will protect you from Trump by wrapping you in plastic wrap, kicking you repeatedly, and throwing you into a lake. This god is a lot like the old one.

Human boners.

3. Shop local. It's time to stop driving 50 miles to your "favorite" Wal-Mart when there's a perfectly good one a block away. They all smell like diapers old and young. They all have a grimy film of despair caking around the legs of shelves. They all sell videogames for twelve cents cheaper than any other brick and mortar. Be local.

4. It's time to quit smoking. There's a new thing called wrecking. You just stick a cigarette up your ass, fart, and light in on fire. It's less harmful and way more likely to impress a drunk hobo.

5. Wow your co-workers with tales of how you used to do really cool stuff and you're now back on track thanks to a new philosophy class you found on YouTube. People will totally cover your shifts for your tent retreats with your group of new friends who worship the new god and love your kombucha.

6. Get more politically active. Post more articles with headlines that start with, "YOU WON'T BELIEVE."

7. Resolve to be kinder to the little fucking turds taking your order at Jack in the Box. How many fucking times do I have to say curly fries you poor schmuck?!

8. Get a drug dealer who has a passing grasp on the mechanics of time. You're not buying into this cosmic relativity anymore. Fucking Einstein.

9. It's time to know the political leanings of not only the CEOs of companies you patronize but even the register clerks. Oh, you donate your money to an organization that keeps unhatched chickens in a box? I'll buy my free range eggs elsewhere, thank you very much.

Buy BANGFACE

Buy DEATH THING

How To Write Poetry Now That You've Taken One Class In College And Done Shrooms

You're 20 years old, love Sublime, just finished Poetry 101, and took shrooms with a co-worker like, three weeks ago, man.

It's time to write some fucking poetry!

1. Write about tripping. Nobody has ever tripped the way you have. They were just tripping to escape. You were tripping to discover.

2. Ooh, that's a good line. Write it like this:

Others trip 
to
escape
I trip 
to
Discover 

The pussy is on the way, brother!

3. Go to an open mic and pull out a piece of paper and say something like, "I wrote this on the bathroom floor because I was so nervous about reading here."

People respect that. You're creative even in your fear. Make sure you have condoms!

4. Read a lot of Bukowski and tell people you don't read a lot of poetry but you like Bukowski.

5. Go to open mics and talk about your one experience with shrooms as if it was a habitual experience. That's its own kind of trip, man. Spend the rest of the open mic asking people if they have any connects because you're new to town and nobody loves you.

6. Get some harsh but constructive criticism on your poetry and write a poem about how your first shroom experience has disconnected you from humanity and nobody understands you.

7. Increasingly talk about aliens in your work. Tell people you're going through your interstellar period and in the same conversation ask if they have a connect. You, like, totally can get some but you want to see what else is out there.


8. Start dressing like an alien at readings. Wrap foil around your head. Tell people you're increasingly becoming disconnected from the world and you're preparing for your departure. You just need to find some black Nikes and maybe some shrooms. You know anyone?

9. Never advance to poetry 102. All your friends talk about you behind your back. Your gateway drug was shrooms. You ended up in poetry and outer space and you are Tom DeLonge. Join your friends in kinesiology.

2016: The No Good Great Year

Hey, I'm with y'all.

2016 was a bummer.

Donald Trump first took over our brains then he took over the country. It was a tough, fleshy, moist, wrinkly, sour pill to swallow.

I was at work, enjoying what I thought I was going to be a historical night. We'd all pour beers for happy customers and we'd never have to see a red hat again.

But the night wore on and it became clear I was in the wrong alternate universe. We all were.

I took a few days to lick my wounds. After all, I was a Clinton supporter from the beginning. I was dismissive of Bernie and his supporters. Maybe I was wrong.

But let's get down to it: it would've been Trump no matter what. He had the wind behind him. I can't imagine a scenario in which Trump would've lost short of Obama running for a third term.

People are blaming fake news. There's an overzealousness to this position that worries me. Let's try to remember the Democratic through line... Anybody? What was the message? Love Trumps Hate. That slogan means nothing. It's fit for a rip off Hallmark card authored by a Hallmark card writer who was fired for being out of ideas. It also put our opponent front and center in the message. Never put your opponent in your slogan unless it's "FUCK TRUMP."

Running around correcting all of your friends for posting stupid articles ain't going to win an election. Stupid is a constant and should be factored into all campaigns. Here's a bit of real news for you: your friends are posting fake articles they didn't read at the same pace as you are posting "real" articles that you merely read the headline. Let's get real.

Anyways, now that I sloughed on about the shit part of the year...

2016 was pretty good for me. I got married to the love of my life, we saved up and bought a house, I have a great, fulfilling job with great friends, I'm able to write without worry. Things are good.

Yet I feel guilty about being happy.
  

Trump is President-Elect. He ain't President yet. That should make you feel slightly better about 2016. 2017 will be worse. Gear up for the fights of next year. Enjoy what we have left in 2016.

Make art, support art. The greatest resistance is to continue despite hard times. The greatest resistance is to continue in spite of an ultra moralist flesh puppet for the hypocrite right wing.

I'm under no illusions. My art is not the sword that takes down the empire. But it is a creative defiance. Don't crawl into a cave and fight meaningless, distracting fights. Keep creating. Keep working. Never shut up.

And make sure to draw comically oversized genitalia.

Buy BANGFACE AND THE GLORYHOLE

What to buy the family communist on Christmas

Every family has one.

The communist.

Fuck off, Pinko. 

You know the type. They drive an older model car. Or they bike as they eat their banana bio-fuel concoction of anti-capitalist probiotic chia seed bullshit.

They waltz around with a smirk saying things like, "Happy Holidays," and, "I don't celebrate Christmas," and, "I'm going to a protest against President-Elect Donald Trump," and, "I don't do things for the tail but if the tail's a byproduct of my good deeds then so be it."

What do you buy this ingrate?

Knowing how a communist thinks is important. A communist likes to support local businesses and art.

Here's a list.

 Bangface and the Gloryhole

Death Thing

These two books are a well-known antidote to anti-consumer sentiment. Or it will confirm their beliefs about the nature of capitalism and you'll be stuck buying these books year after year in a never ending loop of despair. Donald Trump will be President next year and there is no point in absurdity any longer. The world's gone mad and Putin is on everybody's lips. 

If it's all going down, we oughta get down, right?

You should also buy these books and support these artists:

Zero Saints by Gabino Iglesias

The Red Seven by Robert Dean

The Train Derails in Boston by Jessica McHugh

The Nightly Disease by Max Booth III

Where the Music Goes to Die by Matthew Squires

Our Annual Holiday War

Good morning, America!

It's that time of year where we fight with all of mankind about the tiniest possible deviations from the ideal X-mas celebration.

Did I say X instead of Christ? Surely, I will burn in hell.

Not so fast though, mate! X is actually short for Christ so even though you want to associate me with the Nation of Islam, I am still acknowledging Santa's ascension into Heaven on a magic X-mas tree guided by the holy trinity: Wal-Mart, Black Friday, and Rudolph.

Years ago, I worked at Costco. Me, being the perfectly decent little liberal I am, decided I would just say Happy Holidays to everyone because there truly is a ton of holidays being celebrated in a small two week cluster. Contrary to popular belief, Jews do exist! And they celebrate a holiday right around the same time as Christians! Though not the same holiday! But sometimes! Maybe!

??

So, without incident, I would say Happy Holidays. Why? Because there's Hannukah, Christmas, Kwanzaa, even New Years. Nobody cared despite Bill O' Reilly frothing at the mouth as he pulled out his persecution boner and ejaculated all over America.

But there was one lady, dressed up like Santa's most widowed elf. She had candy cane earrings, a Christmas sweater emblazoned with a tree. Not one, but two necklaces! One was a cross! And the other was a sleigh being pulled by reindeer!

What did I say to this lady?

I said, "Merry Christmas."

She was so happy!

"Nobody says Merry Christmas anymore! They all say Happy Holidays to appease the heathens! Thank you so much! There is still good in America!"

Now, ladies and gentlemen, I wasn't saying, "Merry Christmas" to fire a small shot for God's army in the War on Christmas. I said Merry Christmas because it was obvious that she celebrated Christmas. You know what I said to the next person? I said, "Happy Holidays."

Contrary to my Facebook feed, this war has kind of died down in recent years. It's no longer the Happy Holidays vs. the Merry Christmas crowd. It's the Black Santa vs. White Santa crowd. People are literally fighting over the color of a fictional fat guy.

I don't claim to know any more than anybody else's stupid beliefs. I hold a number of stupid beliefs myself. People are entitled to their stupid beliefs. Fine. But when push comes to shove, let's just remember that Christmas is about spending money on toys made by kids who should be playing with toys and the more everyone boycotts retailers over what phrase to use or what color Santa is, the more we lose sight of what's important: the global economy requires suffering in one region to ensure wealth in another.

Merry Christmas!

Buy my books!
Bangface
Death Thing
Toilet Stories From Outer Space

The New Yorker Cartoon Caption Contest: The I Love To Procrastinate To Death Edition!

Oh, God, folks. Oh, God. Oh, God.

We're all dying and nobody feels like doing anything! So let's caption cartoons! Let's watch our lives melt away!

Go buy some beans because this is going to be a good one!

Your reckless display of your feelings of inferiority is what got you here, bucko. 

I feel like those fucking happy-go-lucky dolphins are mocking our impending doom. 

This guy doesn't realize it but everyone else in the office knows he masturbates in the bathroom twice a day. Yeah, uh-huh. I said TWICE a day. 

New Yorker Cartoon Caption Contest: The Probably Have A Repeat In Here Edition!

Howdy folks!

Wow. It's been too long. There's a whole lot of stuff to tell you about and I am working on a separate blog post for that. Until then, let's grease the gristlers with a little old fashioned New Yorker Cartoon Caption Contest! Nobody thinks they're funny, I'll never actually enter, and we all enjoy the depths of the void together! Yee haw!

"You shit in a box, you don't give a fuck when I get home, you don't miss me when I'm gone, you'll probably pick at the skin of my dead body when I die of a stroke while taking a shit, but I love you cat. Please, do some heroin with me."

"Lately I feel like I live in a simulation run by a goddamned motherfucking algorithm and nobody gives a fuck if I live or die. I try to drive outside the lines but I find myself firmly in the middle. Like a nobody. Like a goddamn worthless nobody! Nice legs."

"We're at work, guys. Stop fucking around."

Who Are You Voting For and Why Are You Wrong?

Elections! Elections!

Everyone is speaking so eloquently about things they do not understand! It's like the craft beer scene every other year!

I don't claim to understand any of this nonsense. I just know that I am angry and I am frustrated and I already voted so I'm tired of hearing about why everyone's stupid except for you. Because everyone is stupid except for me because I am me and that's all I'll ever be. Not stupid is what I'm saying here.

So, guy wearing hemp sandals purchased at a flea market with claims of being farm to foot, who are you voting for?

Burnman Clamders

I'll tell you why you're wrong, dreadlocked-redhaired-walking-bumper-sticker, you're wrong because you will always be wrong. From the moment you decided to forgo any type of hard work in life, you've made bad decisions. Now you spend your day at open air coffee shops desperately wanting to ask the barista if they serve butter coffee but too worried to find out how unethical butter might be to cow-tits. And the barista is the worst person to offend. He makes your coffee. So you'll drink kombucha until you find out it causes cancer and go back to fishing cigarette butts out of ashtrays looking for the gold-standard, All Natural American Spirits, because when RJ Reynolds tells you it's all natural, he's not lying like that greasy capitalist pig Joe Camel.

There's nothing wrong with Bernie Sanders except if you ignore the fact that you have to cover your ears when he speaks so he doesn't accidentally hit you in the ears with his hands when he speaks. These kinds of physical cues in a politician really lodge themselves in my brain until I can't ignore it anymore. I could put Bernie Sanders on mute, turn off the captions, and learn American Sign Language in less than 10 minutes by comparing the three words he ever says to the hand motions he uses. Bankers, Corruption, Rigged. Those three words are the Rosetta Stone for sign language.

Am I going to dig deep on policy when it comes to the old Burning Loins Sam Der? No. Because I don't understand anything and neither do you and that's why you're wrong.

Hey, aging person who votes Democratic every election cycle because you feel like you have to if you want to keep sipping wine pinky out at every dinner party you ever go to? Who the fuck are you voting for and why are you so stupid?

Chairman Hell of a Brie Clamton

You must be wrong because your kids and your grandkids are all buying bumper stickers for your car saying "FEEL THE BERN" or "I LOVE BIRDS LIKE BERNIE LOVES EVERYONE EXCEPT FOR BAD ONES" for when they borrow your car to go to their school dances. It's their first election, you get it, you're hip. Sometimes it's hip to be wrong. Just like Hillary Clinton was hip to be wrong for supporting George Wallace or Goldwater or whoever the fuck she supported when she was sixteen years old. Obviously, she's stupid. And if we look at her track record of being wrong, you're going to see a whole lot of RIGHTs. Meaning she's a rightwinger posing as a liberal.

You can play as many Beatles records for your kids as you want but they will never love you because you're voting for the past. You're voting for Hillary Clinton and they're voting for a youthful future with a candidate who is at least 10 years older and way-more-penis-having than the winner of your vote. You will be dismayed all your life at your failure of parenthood but you admit, you sometimes think of lying to your kids by saying you had a last second change of heart in the voting booth and you voted for Ol' Yeller Burnham Sanford. You're lying though. You can't live with yourself. You're old and you're stupid and you'll forever be old and stupid until you die. And when you die people will remember you were old and stupid. Memories last forever, stupid. 

So who are you voting for, guy who wears Oakley sunglasses like its 1996 and backwards caps and you're white and nearing being called old and you five hundred kids?

Tends to Luz

You won't admit it but every time Ted Cruz makes an attempt at a human facial expression, it looks like he's about to ejaculate for the first time ever. This turns you on even though you are Totally Not Gay and you Totally Do Not Agree With That Lifestyle. Did you know Ted Cruz never wades into the policy of transgender toilet use because he was grown in a petri-dish specifically without functioning or visible genitalia? He's like a Ken doll whose underwear elastic is a part of his flesh except Ken was built to more closely resemble humanity than Ted Cruz was. Ted Cruz was built in two socialist states - Cuba and Canada - and their government funding for fleshy fuck dolls was severely hampered by the idea that it might actually turn a profit. Leave it to fiercely capitalistic societies to jump onto a great idea by making real dolls to serve the men who routinely vote for Ted Cruz. 

Ted Cruz is what you get when you spoil the mother of your kombucha by farting into a jar and throwing some earwax in. 

All right, hip republican type whose age range is thirties and you have a bad haircut?

Macklemore Rub 'Em Paws

Let's face it. At best, Marco Rubio was your second choice after Jeb Bush queefed his way out of the race. At worst, he was your third choice because you felt bad for him and his inability to hold enough water to stop his damn cheeks and lips from smacking against his damn dried-ass teeth. Seriously. Every time this guy spoke I wanted to pull a fire hose out and force him to suck on it until he pissing out of his ass. He fancied himself the Barack Obama of the Republican party but there was one huge difference between the two candidates; Barack Obama had something resembling a personality and, though he was a smoker, could stay properly hydrated enough to get through a sentence.

With a candidate lacking in so much, I have nothing more to say to you except that you threw your vote away for a mirage person that was destined to get pounded by an orange flesh monster with a blond pubic mound sitting on top of his head.

So, guy who hates everybody, everything, and loves looking at his own dick, who the hell are you voting for?

Prawn Old Dump Face

You like Donald Trump just as much as you like the guy who loses all his chips at the poker table, has already traded his dog for a twenty dollar bill, and is now slamming his dick on the table as if anybody wants to bet against it. If the guy is slamming his dick around on the table, he's obviously already won. His girlfriend is sitting behind him, looking mildly embarrassed about her father's antics, and his wife has no fucking clue what's going on. But he's winning because nobody wants to say anything. Nobody wants to point out a shriveled mess of a wiener to call it out for what it is (a bluff) because the dick is already out and it's ruining the felt on your poker table felt with the weird dripping coming out of the multiple sores that riddle it. Fuck it, he can take the poker table with him. You can always buy a new one. 

Donald Trump is the guy at the party who makes declarative statements and then punches you in the face when you answer him with, "Please don't punch me in the face." The fist is already there. What gets me about Donald Trump is he is a perfect image of a fake plastic person who is all suck but no utility like a vacuum has. Yet! Yet he is also a Very Real Person. How do these people exist? Money helps. 

Look at me, Trump voter, do you want this guy running around dropping bombs like they were the inevitable after product of a late night run to Taco Bell? War looks cool on TV and movies and video games but war is really not cool. It's the definition of not cool. And these little excursions in the Middle East that we're so used to are nothing compared to what the Donald likes to talk about. China and Russia are chomping at the bit to have President Fruit Leather in office.

Look, the dick is already on the table. What the hell are we going to do about it?

President Davidis Palmersbert

Let's go back to a simpler time. A time called 2001 when we had an alternate universe president named David Fucking Palmer. Why can't we? Why can't they just have a decent 24 revival? Times were simpler back then.

The Austin Chronicle

What a strange feeling to be on the cover of the Austin Chronicle. It's the Austin Bible. Holy cow.

Francois Pointeau wrote a very cool article on my work here.

If you're landing here because you read the Austin Chronicle article, welcome!

I'm having a release party for my novella, Bangface and the Gloryhole, at Radio Coffee and Beer on Sunday, April 24th at 7pm. We'll have a real live gloryhole replica set up and we'll check in on it every now and then to see what the hell is coming out of it throughout the event.

My good friend and weirdo-collaborator, Cheryl Couture, will be hosting the show and my other good friend and amazing musician, Luke Malone, will provide the tunes.

You can pick any of my books up at BookPeople or you can just sit on your hands and buy it directly from me at the event. You can also support mega-corporations (if you're into that kind of thing) and buy my books on Amazon.

My first chapbook of short stories, Toilet Stories From Outer Space, will be free on Amazon for five days starting on Friday. 

Holy cow.

I love Austin.

I know, I know, I know everyone from California moves here and builds condos and all that kind of stuff but I'm glad you overlooked my millions of dollars for development and bulldozing preschools and accepted me as an Austinite.

Devaki Knowles was the photographer and the photos came out great even though the whole time I was questioning every small aspect of my life and counting mosquito bites. It was fun.

Everything is great.

Come to the Bangface release party! It will be fun! It will be weird! We'll all have a grand time!

Here's some shit to put your eyeballs on

Bangface & the Gloryhole slipped out early, as mentioned a million times before but if you still haven't bought a copy, click anywhere on this sentence and do it!

You might prefer a signed and doodled in copy. If so, click here.

I was pleasantly surprised when my folks called to tell me they Googled me and found some good press in the Long Beach Press-Telegram, no less! Click here to read the little shout out they give to Death Thing. 

Author and friend, Neal Pollack wrote a hilarious piece about everyone you know's opinion on the election. I live in Texas. I already voted. The election drags on. It's good for a laugh despite your own loud political opinions. 

The Bangface and the Gloryhole release party is approaching! April 24! 7pm! Gloryhole kissing booth! Music! Cheryl Couture! Beer!  

New Yorker Cartoon Caption Contest! Super Crazy March Madness Edition!

It's a Hilbert Heckler tradition. I'm like Roger Ebert except I don't enter and I don't get mad when I don't win.

I don't want to clear the snow but that's the only way my lunatic wife will forget about beating me with that goddamn stick and leave the house long enough for me to look at the weird lumps on my penis and order Dominos pizza. 

Look, I don't ask you what's in your box when you ask me to carry it from your trunk into a small, shallow grave in the desert. I don't ask why it's moving and moaning. I don't ask why it knows your name. I don't ask anything. I'm a friend and I'd appreciate it if you'd do me the same kindness, Stan. Jesus fucking Christ. 

No worries, dude. The train goes backwards, too. The painful nightmare of physical existence will soon be over. Just chillax until it happens, dawg. 

Bangface and the Gloryhole

Bangface and the Gloryhole slipped out of the bathroom a little earlier than expected and is now available at Amazon.

I don't even have any copies yet. I'm waiting on that shipment from Heaven.

If you're the type that has Spotify, you might want to lend your ears over to the Bangface Spotify playlist. Put your ears on this link, close your eyes, and become one with your inner chakra-melody. 

As you know, Death Thing was originally published by Double Life Press. Well, they folded and I was left with some spoiled goods. Spoiled goods that happened to be well reviewed! Spoiled goods that had sold pretty damn well by small press standards! What the hell was I to do? I republished it under Weekly Weird Monthly. Jack Arambula made the new cover. I figured a new cover would make republishing it special. Dyer Wilk's original cover was phenomenal and, as Cat God dictates, I still have a bunch of copies of the original edition. You can get it at the Weekly Weird Monthly store here. But once they're gone, they're gone.

The new edition is here, Pizza Breath.

I'm looking for new and interesting ways to promote Bangface. I'm doing the normal things like having a release party and screaming about it on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. I've got a few ideas about book trailers and I'm talking to a musician-friend about making some music to Bangface-isms. Any of y'all have ideas?

The official release date is April 19 so I'm not going to ramp it up to 100 until then.

Updates and Madness

I am actually waking up in the middle of the night because I am stressed out about the election.

Nina told me I said, "Shut up, Ted Cruz," while sleeping the other night.

I'm proud of my subconscious.

My subconscious. 

When I'm bored, I doodle on my phone. My phone has a stylus so it's a lot easier to combine tracing and doodling. People seemed really impressed with my "skills" until I told them they were mostly traced. Then they weren't as impressed. But, hey, they were impressed for a second. 

This is where the election has taken my mind. I expected at some point that I'd get to kick back, satisfied with Obama's presidency despite its flaws and just show up to vote for who I thought would best lead the country without a whole hell of a lot invested in it but this election has taught me that you have to be invested all of the fucking time. 

I'll make no bones about it: Trump fucking scares me. 

I'd vote for a rock before I accept Trump as President because at least you can throw a fucking rock. 

Bangface and the Gloryhole is coming out soon and now I have a whole backlog of ideas bouncing around this ol' empty skull of mine that are waiting for their chance to see paper. There's a lot to write and I suspect whatever it is we're going through as a country will make some kind of appearance. Bangface already captures some of it. I didn't know it when I was writing it because when I was writing Bangface, Trump was still very much a joke-candidate.

Joke's on us. 

My full length novel, Invasion of the Weirdos, is out and about with a publisher or two after the disintegration of my first publisher, Double Life Press. I'm crossing my fingers for good news there because I do think it's a good piece of work. 

We'll see. 

New Yorker Cartoon Caption Contest: February Fun Fun Fun Funky Fun Times Edition, Volume F

A grand Hilbert Heckler tradition! The New Yorker Cartoon Caption Contest wherein I submit to you my joyless captions for joyless cartoons in a contest I will never compete in!

I ordered this thing for my wife but it didn't come with any mustard. 

You don't even respect that we're alive and swimming, man!

It's all organic, baby. Their shit tastes like grass. Their meat tastes like shit. Whole Foods is interested. 

Getting a haircut

Getting a haircut is the most awkward time of social interaction for me. Normally, I can shoot the shit about anything and feel fine about knowing that I am a master of vapidity and meaningless bullshit.

Not when someone's cutting my hair, though.

Barber: What kind of cut you want?

Me: Uh, you know, I brush it to the side so just a cut so I can do it.

B: What size?

M: What? I don't know.

B: Okay. You use product?

M: Product?

B: Gel, hairspray... product.

M: Uh, no.

B: What do you do?

M: Uh... I'm a writer.

B: You voting for Bernie Sanders?

The end.

Lucky Dark's A Sordid Valentine's Anthology

Howdy, folks!

I plan on doing a lot more shows and events in the ramp up to the BANGFACE AND THE GLORY HOLE novella release and, hot damn, I've got a show coming up.

Lucky Dark (like 'em if you're on Facebook) is having a release party at the Badlands for their A Sordid Valentines anthology. My story, The Bedcage, is in it and it's about a guy who can't get out of bed to go to work.

There's a bunch of good work in there including stories by Owen Egerton, Dale Bridges, M. Burger, S.R. Bond, Johnny Holden, and Ed Kurtz. I'm honored to be included among them.

Did I say there's a new novella being released soon?

You heard it.

Bangface and the Glory Hole is being released in April 2016 by Weekly Weird Monthly. I'll have more details later.