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.

A post dedicated to our new mailman

New mailman/mailwoman/mailperson/post office employee who walks and delivers,

You have delivered mail to the wrong house every Friday. I have walked that mail over to the intended recipient because I believe people should get their mail. Whoever's getting my mail has so far declined to do the same courtesy for me.

Listen, motherfucker, that package is not mine and if you drop it off here, this family fucking dies. 

You did not deliver mail yesterday. It was not a federal holiday. What the fuck are you doing with my goddamned mail?

I tried to call to complain but the Post Office automaton was really insistent I heard the entire privacy statement. The robot gave a small spiel and then asked, "If you'd like to hear more, press 1." Up until that point, the machine was asking me to speak. Impatiently, I just said, "No," before the instruction to press 1. That was a mistake. 

Then again: "If you'd like to hear more, press 1."

Listen, you little shit, I don't care that you can fit into your daddy's uniform. You can't fucking read and that's obvious because those letters in your goddamned hand that you're delivering to me are not for me. Put them back in your bag before I tell you Santa Claus isn't real but that's a damn shame because only a mythical creature that stupid little kids believe in can deliver the mail accurately in this fucking town. 

I tried to call to complain but the Post Office automaton was really insistent I heard the entire privacy statement. The robot gave a small spiel and then asked, "If you'd like to hear more, press 1." Up until that point, the machine was asking me to speak. Impatiently, I just said, "No," before the instruction to press 1. That was a mistake. 

Then again: "If you'd like to hear more, press 1."

What kind of manipulative behavioral science went into that? Where's option 2? The option that doesn't care about the privacy statement or how this call is used or any of that? I just want my mail. 

Mailman, male man, don't think I don't have the stubbornness of a goat donkey to wait outside for you all goddamn day just so I can confront you about what the fuck you're doing. I will because I can't wait for an hour thirteen minutes to an hour eighteen minutes on the phone listening to music that sounds like it was inspired by music inspired by Final Fantasy 6 music.

And now, I will say USPS over and over again in hopes some bureaucratic algorithm picks it up in between long sessions of being hacked by the Russians and Chinese.

I give up. I give up. This isn't even a picture of a mailman. It's a picture of a male man. 

Good night.

USPS USPS USPS USPS

United States Postal Service

Wiener or Weiner? #AmericaVotes2016

Dungeons & Dragons

I just finished up my first Dungeons & Dragons campaign.

I'm thirty years old.

My body is not riddled in acne.

A lot of people were surprised to hear that it was my first go round on the old nerd mobile but the truth is that I had never even heard of D&D until I was well into puberty. You see, I grew up in this little church called the Worldwide Church of God, founded by Herbert Armstrong. You can look him up and see all the paranoid delusions the man spoke as literal gospel. Something like D&D was probably seen as satanic witchcraft.

When I told my dad I was in the middle of a D&D campaign, he revealed to me that he was a player when he was growing up. Of course, I asked why we weren't introduced to it by him.

"Probably thought it was satanic."

Look, my folks are good folks but they were very young when they had kids and a little direction in the form of apocalypse cult was probably pretty good for them. I'm not ashamed. It meant I grew up around a wide swath of humanity but mostly working class folks of all types. 

Now, my whole family is done with that brand of weirdo-Christianity and have moved on to a more acceptable, less crazy form of Christianity. As for me, not really into the whole thing. After several bouts of deep Bible study and all that, I thought myself out of religion. 

I was invited to be a player in a new campaign hosted by my good friend, Luke (the founding member of the If Onlys, whose album you can buy here - it's great). I decided to be a half elf who didn't discover he was half elf until the tail end of puberty when his nose started elongating and his ears started pointing. This was especially unfortunate since he was a low level thug in the human supremacist Human Ancestry Preservation Society (the HAPS, naturally). Once his non-purity was discovered, he was driven out of town to adventure alone as a rogue assassin.

Naturally, I named him Elvis Thurgood.

D&D is a blast for storytelling. Everyone plays the way they want to play and we all get into shit we think we can't get out of until we eventually do. I really think it should be done as a team building exercise for kids in schools to flex their creative muscles collaboratively but that could just be the deepening nerd in me talking. 

Battling Private Bureaucratic Automaton Armies

I hate bureaucracy. Partially because I can't spell bureaucracy correctly the first time ever. It doesn't matter how many times I see Mulder and Scully's faces on their FBI IDs in my head, I will never spell it correctly the first time.

There are too many kinds of bureaucracy. I'm not even talking about government bureaucracy. I'm talking about the bureaucratization of our entire lives. You have a problem with something you purchased? Here, dial a million numbers into a phone as an automated voice continues to ask you seemingly pointless questions. I just want my damn bulk order of Cheetos, man. Where the hell are they?!

It used to be that you could dial '0' at any point during an automated session to get to a real live operator but half the time I try to pull that shit on the phone now, the Voice of Order says, "I'm sorry. That entry was not recognized. Let's start the fuck over so you will contemplate gouging out your own eyes before we can be bothered to resolve this."

I've moved recently. Not far, just a few blocks down on the other side of the highway. The good side of the highway. The side of the highway that doesn't have a 24 hour Whataburger and sirens blaring throughout the night. The USPS has this great program called mail forwarding. You change your address with them and they forward all your mail to your new address for the ludicrous price of less than $2.

I've used this service before and it works great when it actually works. I'm going on a month without any mail forwarded. Luckily, I changed my address with all my creditors so they know where to find me when they need to kill me for not paying them. I use mail forwarding to figure out who I forgot to change my address with. It happens. We have too many masters in our modern life and some are more forgettable and less scary. Let's just say some are more Jesus while others are more Old Testament jealous, angry, vengeful God.

Sitting on the phone for more than fifteen minutes is my idea of Hell. Sitting on the phone, hitting numbers, and, worse, being forced to say something to a robot is like going to Hell and getting each pube ripped off by a pube ripping maniac only to have them grafted back in and ripped off again. I'm talking full-pube. Taint pubes included. The robot couldn't understand the word, "No." I had to say it over and over again. It failed each time.

Worse is when the robot doesn't tell you what to say. It just says, "Hey, man, say some shit into the phone and we have a less than one percent chance of understanding you because AI is still stupid as fuck right now."

It's not like talking to people is any better. I don't even have a strategy any more. I used to be very good at getting people to listen to me and I used to be very understanding. Now I just sob into the phone and hope they can pity me in the short time before it takes them to get aroused by an innocent person's pain.

Can I battle bureaucracy? No. I have given up on any kind of idealism and passion when it comes to the modern world. We have accepted our overlords and their desire to have as little contact with us as possible. We have GMail and Facebook and Amazon and they make life so much easier. They work 99% of the time, too. It's when they don't work when you realize how faceless everything is.

GMail, cool. Take my private conversations and send it to the government as long as I can get an email from whatever most of the time. Facebook, sweet. Tag my friends automatically in my photos. I don't have any so your job is very easy. Amazon, sweet. Give me 25% off of something that's worth 50% more than it's being sold for but where the fuck is my bulk order of Cheetos, man!?

New Yorker Cartoon Caption Contest: Super Fun New Year Deluxe Happiness Edition Plus 1!

It's a Hilbert Heckler tradition! Sporadic posting of my own New Yorker captions that I will never enter. I'm not Roger Ebert, folks (may God rest on his soul). 

Has anyone ever laughed at a New Yorker cartoon? Has anyone ever said, "That's funny," while reading one? If you have, you are an automaton. Good night. 

Oh, look who's fucking here. The crocodile that ate my wallet. Are you going to say sorry or do I have to send you back to the crocodile killing robot?

We finally convinced him that it tasted like chicken.

We oughta just jump off this fucking ship right now, mate.