I was microblogging before microblogging existed. We called it writing on the bathroom wall.

Call me a pop-culture idiot, but I thought Britney Spears was a male porn star from northwest France.

It's too bad someone can't rape Todd Akin or Paul Ryan and get them pregnant.

I'll never forget the day you gave me your heart. Thank God for that car accident.

I'm not necessarily proud of this, but since I've taken money from Sinister Regard I suppose I have a contractual obligation to let you know that my 1986 novella Chairman of the Board is back in print.

Sometime next year I expect it'll be available for downloading on that Kindling thing you all seem to be using to put independent booksellers out of business, but until then you can get the hardcover version here. On a whim, my publishers have discounted it by 25%. Hurry before they mark it back up on another whim.

Here's what they have to say about this dumb little book:

Though a major chess and computer nerd, Sam Pauling has nonetheless managed to score a date with Kate Fitzhugh, the most beautiful girl at school. The budding romance is barely off the ground, however, before Sam finds himself caught up against his will with the local party crowd and their decadent entertainment of choice — a ouija board with a particularly nasty sense of humor. When a moment of temptation leaves the occult device in his possession, Sam learns to his horror that every slope is slippery and all morality relative, and that even a newly popular "chairman of the board" has no right to expect a happy ending to his life story...

Decried as "nihilistic pornography" when it first appeared over a quarter-century ago, this stylish and long-unavailable classic of '80s cult horror has at last been rescued from obscurity to sow its corruption amongst a new generation of readers.

And hold onto your hats, because Sinister Regard has two more of my books in the pipeline. (Which must hurt. Ouch.)

I believe that children are our future. And that we're fucked.

I would so have let Chris Brown hit me. Just for an excuse to put the motherfucker in the ground.

The inability to write has never been a sufficient impediment to getting published.

To me, U2 is either a spy plane or what you say when someone tells you they have Hep C.

I never forget a face. If I absolutely have to ice somebody, I always remember to take it with me.