Okay so I’m putting up some old issues from a publication I made years ago called “The Weekly Fister”. It’ll be in the more archives section. More of that to come. I’m putting up plenty of content to (hopefully) keep everybody entertained. It’s my idea to make this site more interactive with the readers. I’d love to get something going like reader mail, online polling:  Who knows. So by all means drop me a line. But in the mean time -”WILL EVIL NEVER REST?! - I hope not.” - Powdered toast man

Part one: The wicked vortex of nausea I fell into on my birthday:

I think I even threw up in front of a cop… What happens when you feed a guy the size of an eight year old virgin a bunch of shots? He makes like chernoble and coats the landscape with filth. Before the meltdown I was the happiest man at the Goth club. I wore a sheet with two eye holes cut in it. I was a dance machine in that get up!! And everything was great. People were super positive about my disguise - My girl friend was makin’ out with other chicks - They were playing night of the living dead on the video screens - I couldn’t have told you what my middle name was or where I lived but no one gave a shit, it was a time of celebration.

Part two: The gentle ebb and flow of the dying drunkard:

There was a point in my girl friends car were I was like “OH DEAR GOD!! I CAN’T WAKE UP!! I CAN’T WAAAAAAKKKKEEE UUUUPPPPP!!!!”

Everybody’s been there. It was just my turn the other night. That simple horrible moment where you realize: I’ve drank myself into a place were I’m going to be VIOLENTLY ill for the rest of my life. I was in a vehicle full of people. Some bitch was crying into her cell phone. In my mind the car had turned into a rusted out bus with chickens in the back.

Me: I’d rather die than work in the jungles of Mexico!

My girlfriend: What baby?

In the restaurant I was a fountain of puke. The evening drew to a close with my girl friend carrying me out to the parking lot. To her credit she refused to run over my head with her car tire. She knows how to keep cool in a time of crisis.

And speaking of a time of crisis -

Part three: A new day arrives for sinners and saints alike:

For my 31st birthday I received two pet costumes, an emergency kimono and a tent for my room.

My friend James: ::smoking morning cigarette:: (yelling up the stairs in panic) Your mom is at the door!!

How difficult do you think it was to get out of that fuckin’ tent the next day?

Your mother still talks to you?! you say. Well check it out: anyone who knows me will tell you it’s common knowledge that I only have three pairs of pants. Two pairs: flat front slacks, one pair: Ripped denim to fit in with the kids. And the third pair happened to have rotten pumpkin on the cuff. WTF? right? Well maybe this phone text I sent to my friend Robo Christ will shed some light:

“Sixty pounds of rotten pumpkin in the back of my car! !! it was more hell on earth than solid when i drug it out this morning. forty lbs of it made it to the neighbors yard. fuck me daddy.. oh god damn it… On my honor i didnt puke during the commute to work. SHit ! oh dear god have mercy on me. let this feeling pass!”

i just want to die and be reborn without ever knowing what this smells like. The over night woman couldnt believe what i was battling with cleaning products. shes about forty and said it smelled bad as shit.

Think it would be fun to be my friend? Think again. Robo Christ gets about three of those a day. Long story short, if you’re gonna buy the most giant pumpkin you can find - Don’t drive around with it in the back seat of your car for a month. Sure it inspires admiration from the people. But that glory soon fades when you’re coated and screaming with an orange miscarraige.

Okay so back to the dawn of the first day, of the rest of your humble narrator’s life. I’m in the living room with my mother. And let’s fast forward through the part were I’m blankly staring, drool spilling in a line from my lip.

Now my mother and I are speeding down the street in her very nice car. It’s time for brand spanking new birthday pants. She knows I’m picky. That it must be precisely the right pair before I’ll even think about committing to them. Sometimes we find the pants. Most times we don’t. It’s been like this since time out of mind. She’s committing the day. My hands smell like sweat socks but I haven’t put that together yet.

Mom: It’s the day after your birthday what would you like for breakfast?

Me: I don’t know - I don’t know anything. I’ve lost the will to live - Coffee and gummy bears.

Mom: Okay. Were?

Me: The country western place. With all the Christians. Cracker Barrel.

Mom: Are we showering and cleaning our clothes regularly?

Me: The fireplace and old timey farm equipment on the walls… It might be my only chance.

I defecated in the bathroom next to the Christmas gift shop. After five cups of coffee I told my mother I could feel a tiny ember of hope spring forth in my chest. That the gift of life would be granted to me a new.

Mom: That’s great honey. Do you want to go to the Gap?

Me: Hell yeah. I’m not about to waste this second chance.

Mom: Do you want a peppermint candy?

Me: No.