Fuck The Government. Also, Lot Lizards.

It'll make sense. Eventually.

Many people I’ve known have uttered the words, “I wish I could spend 5 minutes in your brain.”

(quick note, for those of you here for the “Fuck The Government” bit, it’ll make sense in a few short minutes … just read.)

Not because I’m super smart, but because at times to those around me it’s painfully obvious that my brain function is on par with a crack-smoking Chihuahua leading a parade of ADHD marching band drummers into a concert venue the wrong way through the turnstiles … while 30,000 people are trying to leave.

I just call that Tuesday.

Which brings me to this tag I received by

Spearman Burke

on X (and a promise that this will all eventually make perfect sense, so please stay with me here, you’re on tambourine):

Now the humor in this is abundant of course. Misspelling. HOW CUTE. Har har.

Enter, My Brain. Level 1 …

As funny as that was, I immediately thought of that age-old profession, the Lot Lizard (er … “special lady friends” at truck stops for you innocent and pure of mind out there).

So the first thought I obviously had, and CURSE YOU BRAIN, is UFOs pulling up to a space station and there being the Alien version of, well, truck stop hookers. Now, who on Earth do I know that would take part in such an activity? Surely no sane man wou—

Right. Uncle Floyd.

The sleazy, meth-addled, degenerate douchebag that just so happens to be starting a career as a legendary character among those who have read his sage relationship advice …

Side Note: Uncle Floyd would appreciate it if you purchased his book.

Enter, My Brain. Level 2 …

“That’s hilarious!” I thought.

Then … THESE DAMN ENABLERS (Whom I adore. Oooh, I used “whom” correctly. Maybe I am super smart?) did THIS to my poor brain …

Jesse James Fain

! (shakes fist!)

Hang On …

Let me take a moment to assure you that this substack post is about CREATIVITY. And that the muse - your sweaty sheen of creative moistness, as it were (that’s super gross, I’m sorry) - is ever present if you’re willing to listen and chase whatever insane idea presents itself.

You see, I’ve learned to trust my creativity. If an idea comes into my head, and it’s not expensive, and it won’t lead to a viral video featured on some embarrassing Fail Competition that gets plastered all over the internet to the point where celebrities are like, “Oh shit, I almost pulled a Badurina, that would’ve ruined my career…” or, like, prison?

I say yes, and I do it.

I trust … me.

So this challenge, and this idea of Uncle Floyd, the meth-addled douchebag from Alabama flying his spaceship to an alien truck stop looking for a legendary hooker from outer space was too good to pass up.

So next came a quick fiddlin’ around in Illustrator, and then I posted the adjusted book cover …

For the record, my fiancée walked in while I was creating this and called it, “the most disturbing thing I’ve ever seen.” She also thanked me for the new sleep demon. You’re welcome, sweetheart.

My next teeny bit of creative juice squirted out into the name of said hooker alien gracing the cover of this fictional … er … fiction book.

“I need something that sounds like an alien stripper name.”

And yes. This is how my brain works. “SLEEZEKRANK GLITTERHOLE” is indeed the first thing that popped into my mind. (I have a pet Ball Python named, “Penelope Von Squigglebottom, Princess of Noodleham,” so this should come as no surprise. Just sayin’.)

Then came the final push into what is ending up being an ENTIRELY NEW PROJECT that I do not have the time for …

Jesse’s response:

Enter, My Brain. Level 3 …

Folks, that’s all the encouragement I ever need to do something that pushes the boundary of absurdity into new and uncharted levels. Just a wee bit of positive reinforcement, as they say. As if coming up with an alien hooker named “Sleezekrank Glitterhole” isn’t absurd enough.

OH, NO.

There are levels to this shit, bruh.

And even though it makes me a paltry sum of money that I can’t live off of, and has absolutely no use in civil functioning society outside of ye olde looney bin, absurdity is something my brain does really, REALLY well. It’s my superpower. Right up there in usefulness as, “Can teleport 3 inches,” or “Can detail the last meal someone had by smelling their fart.”

So, I thought to myself … “What if SLEEZECRANK GLITTERHOLE” became a … song?”

A Quick Public Service Announcement.

Know the danger in sharing content on the internet. What started as a simple gag shared by

Spearman Burke

quickly devolved into degenerate thought patterns, a quick distraction, and now the makings of an entire marketing strategy centered around the slightest whiff of inspiration by my finely-tuned absurdity sensors.

Back to our regularly scheduled and all that …

Enter, My Brain. Level 4 …

Um. Yeah. So I threw down some lyrics, and here we are. A Southern Rock tune about Uncle Floyd Cooper flying his rust bucket to a spaceship port to score the alien hooker of his dreams.

It was at this point that the enablers struck again …

… and that teeny hint of four-letter-word positive reinforcement was all I needed to …

Enter, My Brain. Level 5 …

At this point, I just want to say that I hope you’re enjoying your journey through my creative mind. It’s like an episode of Cribs, but the house looks like a two-story crack smoking chihuahua and there’s a marching band shoved into the bathroom.

So let’s fast-forward to a thought process I had.

I can write great characters.

I can write great stories with lots of heart.

I can write humor and absurdity very well.

I can now make songs …

… where I write the lyrics …

… and I can make it sound however I like …

… oh, shit.

So what started as a simple shared post and tag about alien skanks has turned into, well, “SPACE PEW PEW, The Album.”

And I’m not kidding.

I’ve already researched digital distribution.

I own the copyright to the songs, the book, the IP.

The album is going to drop on Spotify, when it’s ready.

I’m 5 tracks in on this thing, I’ve been writing lyrics like crazy, tweaking the sound, remastering tracks, switching up the arrangements, and diving into something so thoroughly enjoyable for my creative brain because it scratches an itch instantly.

I own the IP.

Go Go Gadget Indie Rights Retention!

So if I want to release a book, an audiobook, or a frickin’ album, I’m just going to do it. Since day 1 of my writing career I’ve been screwing with marketing that is waaaaaaaay outside the box. This is what we do here.

SPACE PEW PEW has trading cards. I have a companion novel (Because yes, “How To Expose Yourself To Women (Emotionally or Whatever)” is in fact now canon in the PEWNIVERSE).

Why wouldn’t I cut an album?

I could throw them on CD for the next Convention. Vinyl. We could sing this at karaoke (maybe). Hell, I’ve got gags galore about my fictional space-crooner, the Englebert Humperdinck-inspired Jacques Starblazer. Why not just … make his ridiculous album?

So I started tinkering, and hit the next level.

Enter, My Brain. Level 6 …

I don’t know how many levels there are, but I’m finding new ones every day.

Now I find myself writing a rousing British Bar Anthem about telling an intergalactic government to go fuck itself. (I told you we’d get here, people.) So here’s my last shared sneak-peek of the album?

I wrote the chorus as a sing-along. So you better sing along. No, I don’t care where you are. Relax, everyone at your daughter’s dance recital will understand.

Also, go buy SPACE PEW PEW. And leave a review. Thank you.

This all brings me to waters I rarely wade into …

My Brain. Level 7 …

I now have a heartfelt song about a lonely android meeting his lifelong best friend. I have a 2000s-inspired Blink-182-like pop-punk song about Alex and Toshiro flying through space and stirring up trouble. I have an aggressive Nu-Metal tune about Boom Boom the Capybara Commander laying waste to millions of bodies. There also might be a smooth-and-jazzy R&B baby-makin’ song about going to the clurrrrb and hooking up with an alien that has five tentacles and a triple-tongue.

Pour the Cristal, homie.

I’m not sure where any of this is going to go, or if any of it is going to be a total waste of time, but truth be told, it doesn’t matter.

This is how my brain works.

It has always been this way.

It will never change.

I’m grateful.

Keep creating, my fine friends. And if you’re brave enough to listen to your creativity and take action without being embarrassed that something is stupid, cringe, or a waste of time?

Do it.

Joy is hard to come by these days.

So, when God offers you joy, even in the most absurd of forms?

Remember that it is a gift.

Don’t say no.

Accept it.

Sleezecrank Glitterhole would.