Category: UPSETTING DAY

Upsetting Day: Custodian🌭

Last year I introduced you to the horror that was Peachtree Carnivore. And what did you do with it? You unleashed it upon the world by electing to make it a free article in December. Now we are all complicit in sin. But who is to judge us? Surely not one of our own kind, wallowing amongst us in the filth. We need a being free of our base needs, our petty vendettas, our carnal desires for the flesh of our mothers-in-law. In the past, this function was fulfilled by God. But God is dead, and we have killed him with our incestuous anti-woke polycules. Perhaps we need not a judge, but a caretaker. A janitor. A… custodian.

Yes, we once again delve into the mind creations of Mark Mitchell, author of multiple X-rated 9 Chickweed Lane fanfictions. But rest easy — there will be no pained descriptions of luscious curves or male emissions in Custodian. As the author puts it, this is a “simple desultory philippic,” which in Mitchellese means “self-insert story about what if a space monster could solve all human problems by using mind torture to create a libertarian paradise.”

Peachtree Carnivore opened with a knock on the door from a beautiful woman. Custodian opens with a knock on the door from a slightly supercilious, innocuous man. Two data points may not be a pattern, but it’s absolutely possible that Mitchell thinks you have to open every story, whether pornographic or didactic, by having a character show up on the doorstep of another. So would that make Carstairs our author insert?

There may not be any actual sex in this story, but there’s certainly a lot of guys jacking each other off. Carstairs is getting the full Mitchell protagonist treatment, having his incisive knob slobbered over by a godlike alien who’s come to earth to stop World War II. Our man immediately takes this as given.

Jones is the designated protector for the Milky Way, can transcend the speed of light, and is capable of influencing civilizations on a massive scale. But, uh, he only just heard about how fucked up humanity is, which is why he didn’t step in sooner.

Jones has revealed himself to the unknown genius that is Carstairs to inform him that humanity has nearly reached the branch of the tech tree that unlocks nukes. Carstairs reacts to this information by temporarily losing his grip on reality and calling Mr. Jones “Smith” for one page. That, or Mitchell just forgot what the name of his god creature was and refused to hit the backspace key because a man of his prodigious talents sees it as nothing more than a shackle of mediocrity upon the titanitude of his superlative perspicacity.

Hold up, though; because Carstairs isn’t the only author avatar here. When Jones lays out his dilemma, Carstairs decides he needs a drink. And since Mitchell completely lacks a theory of mind and can only write characters as extensions of himself, his alien space wizard enjoys a tipple or two.

God I fucking loathe this guy. I bet he thought it was cute that he gave his formless cosmobeast a taste for whiskey, the favored liquor of men who use the word “sundry” and think it makes them sound fuckably clever.

Jones is a brain genius who has read every book on the planet. I’m thankful there aren’t any women in this story, because knowing Mitchell, by now they would be begging to consume his worldly, libertarian seed. Instead, the dueling representations of our author intellectually 69 themselves into a frustrated heap before Jones departs to yell at Adolf Hitler.

Jones kicks things off by disabling the German army’s PVP flag, teleporting into Hitler’s armored train and telling him “nothing personnel, kid” before psychically torturing Göring for making a useless show of hostility towards him. And I mean, I’m not saying the guy didn’t have it coming, but probably not for that.

Now, again, it’s not like the Nazis don’t deserve this. But Jones is an immortal, nigh-omnipotent creature from beyond time and his solution to war is the same one we use to train rats to drive little cars. He couldn’t spike the Nazis with astral MDMA or fire a Holocaust beam at them like Professor X to implant the horrors of genocide in their minds? Maybe he considered all of those and this was just the simplest solution. Or maybe this story is the kind of adolescent wish fulfillment normally associated with bullied sixth graders only written by a powerless elderly man who truly believes that if only he was in charge, there wouldn’t be any war anymore — and everyone would get to inseminate their luscious mothers-in-law, besides.

Not Göring? Maybe he just killed himself offscreen after that embarrassment earlier. Regardless, Jones shuts down the Nazi war machine and hurries off to Japan to have a little chat with Hirohito.

God, imagine trying to commit ritual suicide and the sword just disappears like a gag knife when you plunge it into your belly. You’d look so fucking stupid. Thankfully, Jones never thought to nerf poison!

You don’t need to read all of that. I just include the whole thing to point out that around here, Mitchell breaks into the same pattern as he did in Peachtree Carnivore, where he just starts writing a character’s name before their wall of text dialogue. Long story short, Hirohito is worried that the population is going to descend into chaos and Jones tells him to deal with it before fucking off to destroy Stalinism.

Stalin sneered ragefully in a sneering rage. But he sneered no longer! He was no longer capable of sneering, for his brain was under assault by Harold’s god magic! You have been rendered sneerless, Comrade!

Jones delivers a big speech about the reasons why Stalin sucks, and you can imagine Mitchell tearfully reciting this aloud in the mirror. “This is what I’d say if I ever met Stalin,” he thinks. “And if I had superhero powers! Then I’d marry a beautiful busty woman and put my throbbing rod in her mother’s birth canal!”

There’s just one last stop on Mr. Jones’ tour of world leaders. We know how this goes at this point.

Surprise! FDR is the Nice President and Jones doesn’t Force Lightning his ass. This is supposed to happen in 1939, so I guess in this timeline FDR doesn’t sign Executive Order 9066. Nice! Funny, though, how Jones shows up just in time to stop America — but not any other country — from taking its most loathsome actions during the war. FDR, for his part, asks Jones if he can help extricate humanity from the grinding logic of capital.

Don’t do socialism, FDR! For every socialism you try to do, I will explode your brain.

Colonialism? That’s not part of it. Jones doesn’t deal with that. We’ve got to wrap things up here. Jones offers to reverse the ravages of polio on FDR’s body, but he demurs, saying it wouldn’t be fair to everybody else. He does, however, accept Jones’ offer to supercharge his organs and ensure that he stays President for a long time to come. His work done, Jones returns to Carstairs, who effusively congratulates him on an accomplishment that never had the slightest chance of failure.

Again, there was absolutely no possibility that Jones’ plan wouldn’t work, at least in the short term. Humanity didn’t learn that it could short-circuit The Pain through the recitation of the Litany Against Fear, nobody invented an anti-Harold Stealth Cloak to commit sins without him seeing, and Batman didn’t even try to use Prep Time to defeat him. Still, The End.

Stories in which overwhelmingly powerful beings descend to earth to impose order usually have some kind of argument to present. Scratch that, stories in general usually try to make an argument about how the world is or should be. Olivia Butler’s Xenogenesis trilogy depicts the horror of an alien species that rescues the remnants of humanity from nuclear annihilation only to reshape them and the planet as they see fit. Arthur C. Clarke’s Childhood’s End has the alien Overlords impose a kind of utopia on humanity at the cost of creativity and culture. And my novella Vampirocene — sorry — explores the fantasy that someone is coming to save us from ecological disaster, but posits that for better or worse, we might not be willing to accept them.

Custodian isn’t interested in questions about the legitimacy of power or the implications of externally-imposed rules and restrictions. We don’t learn that preventing WWII leads to a much greater tragedy down the line, like mass nuclear war or Dennis Miller remaining on SNL well into the 21st century. It’s just a more pathetic version of the old Hitler time travel trope, only Mark Mitchell couldn’t just give his protagonist a Glock and a Delorean, he had to make him a Silver Surfer-level demigod. And as always, trying to write a superintelligent character when you’re kind of a dipshit just makes you sound like Mark Millar. I’m not sure which Mark that’s meaner to.

That’s all for Custodian. In the Mitchell corpus, it’s certainly less imaginative and depraved than Peachtree Carnivore — whether that makes it better or worse depends on your perspective. Come to think of it, at this point I’ve probably read more of Mitchell’s work than anyone else on the planet. By default that makes me your biggest fan, Mark! So, what’s next?

Nope. Give me The Pain.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Honk, an unrelated but better all powerful and genius demigod. Honk only uses their power to replace every instance of Honk with the word Honk, though.

Tags Free, jo buds, Merritt K, self insert, simple desultory philippic

UPSETTING DAY

Upsetting Day: Our Children Forever

Post author By Dennard Dayle
Post date 04/07/2026
1 Comment on Upsetting Day: Our Children Forever

Now I know there’s an afterlife. The fundie afterlife, down to the moral dualism and brimstone. You can’t sockpuppet dead children without going to Baptist hell. It doesn’t add up. That evil goes somewhere, it’s simple thermodynamics. I was wrong, the pope is right, and George Anderson will burn.

Mostly for this book.

Among others. George churned out a lot of cold readings. To this day, which disturbs on another level. If demons can’t retire, what hope do the ensouled have? This round’s all dead kids, from back to front.

I’m getting ahead of myself: George Anderson was an also-ran medium during the ’90s fraud boom. While we prefer federal child exploitation today, Anderson stuck to private enterprise. George converted grief into TV appearances, books, and 1-on-1 “discernments.” A discernment’s when your dad dies, you send George a thousand dollars, and no third step.

Right, we.

For all the other lies, George cops to his ghostwriters. Co-defendants Joel Martin and Patricia Romanowski get full cover credit, and the book’s written in reverent third person, like a comeback by Christ. Pretty meta turn for a psychic, bordering on performance art. George is closer to a writer than anyone with Claude on their phone. Mediums supply both sides of a conversation, yet George freely shares credit with the stenographer. I think, perhaps, that he smelled sulfur, and hoped employing two hacks would save him from the fire below. Instead, he’ll have roommates.

At a shallow, contemptuous glance: Joel’s his multimedia cohost/stooge, and Patricia writes a mix of real books and trash. Here, based on all three resumes, I suspect Patricia did what insiders call “writing the entire book herself,” by adapting George’s crimes. But the truth is unknowable.

Why dedicate a book to tiny coffins? The iron was hot. With market conditions, it would’ve been wrong to let that money rot.

“And finish the job.” Sorry, had to. Back to the quote:

What a time to be insane. Not the lifetime peak, for many. But a season of plenty.

I’m fond of how unknowable the forces in this 317 page book are. George’s cold readings have clearer patterns than gravity, more witnesses than most convictions, and more proof than most wars. They’ve appeared on every medium without a controller. Some details should have trickled in by now.

As for the readings, George helped set the tone for decades of graft. With one quirk: he’s got a sprinkle of Jesus. Not enough to lose magick shop shelves, but enough to keep Lent ratings high. Whether you call that branding or self-preservation, you’re on point. George has “deep spiritual faith,” and that’s as specific as he gets.

Though not quite deep or spiritual enough to stop him.

Personally, I’d sell smack first.

While I’m as childless as anyone with a breakup text template, this still hurts. Our Children Forever demands a full shift of dead baby jokes. I’m pissed. George’s crime sticks me with 2000 words about dumb blondes on an airplane killing the president. I’m this close to waking up in Austin screaming about vaccines.

Most of Our Children Forever transcribes cold readings, which is both admirable and a mistake. On one hand, it’s the meat readers paid for. Yet all the third person interruptions have a jarringly different voice, negative insight, and read like Krillin expositing a child funeral. If that joke seems cavalier for the topic, your soul won’t survive George.

Take George’s interview with Ivan, a suicide survivor mourning his child. That’s only eighty percent of the tragedy. First, we get this exposition:

Because George is a lying fuck.

I had a choice this week. I could sample a dozen crimes, and skip saying “George is a lying fuck” each time. You know, for simplicity. The meaning (George being a lying fuck) would emerge in the greater pattern, like everyone wants in their Tuesday morning comedy.

Or I could sample one crime, and take the time to type “George is a lying fuck,” each round. I like the sound of that. Let’s try that pace out.

George is a lying fuck. One that enters these interviews hot: he skips the psychic warm-up and goes right to hucking free throws:

Guessing that an adult’s grandparents aren’t vampires doesn’t count, even by cold reading standards. I can say “George’s wife says his eyes are empty,” but that’s not a vision. It’s base reality.

In case you’re new to cold reading, we’re all surrounded by ghosts. While they’re generally needy, George innovates by saying everything’s irie. If a rival clan beheaded your father, he’d rather you focus on your career than get a rematch. That might not sound like him, but changing realms mellows you out. And George is a lying fuck.

Tap you piece of shit. Tap. You fucked it up in the first inning. Channel a samurai and find a pillow. Since we never die, you can restart your career in heaven.

I can’t imagine living on the surface after this exchange. But George is a lying fuck, and forges ahead.

But wait! George the lying fuck hasn’t developed a humiliation kink. He’s developed a retcon kink.

Ivan’s dissociated for some reason. Curious. Could it be that George is a lying fuck? Or just the bit about Ivan choosing death? I’m still working on my license, but I believe therapist’s call that a “mortal sin.”

At this point, George already knows Ivan’s an unwilling empty nester. “Not feeling work?” is even less of an observation than his great-granduncle being dead. But as a lying fuck, George aims to squeeze sadness out of Ivan like an old tube of tragedy.

George is a lying fuck, and lost. There’s a certain amount of “disabled child abandoned by mother at birth” that the human mind, lying fuck or otherwise, is ready to process. Now his lying fuck instincts say he has one minute to leave this conversation or learn how to box.

Thank you, half-abandoned ghost, for keeping your eye on the prize. We can’t have George crashing too early. He has other former parents to defraud. George is a lying fuck, but he’s also a productive one. Maybe if you’d hustled a bit harder, you’d still be with us.

I’ve soft-pedaled the extent of the despair George mines. I wanted laughter to be physically possible. Here’s more of the expository sprint preceding the reading.

Gah, fuck! Nevermind. Have an old Gasoline Alley strip:

Sorry, wrong file. My system’s a mess.

George adds an extra layer of ratfucking to cold reading. He targets people waiting to hear anything but “God is real and hates you, Ivan Whiting, specifically. Strap in, darkling, because Job’s a long book.”

After reading Anderson and reviewing some old John Edwards madness, I have a craft tip for aspiring grief parasites. Speed matters less than flow. Rush like George, and you’ll get stabbed before getting your own show.

The readings continue in this manner.

Abstract hallucinations, or at least decent ad-libs, are a big part of George’s grift. To that end, he’s included “A Glossary of Psychic Symbols” as a guide for readers and aspiring frauds.

It’s fucking magical.

But only figuratively, without the k.

Some might assume this fits into my training. That’s raw presidential ignorance. While wytchcraft is real, psychic powers are insipid. Dreams of the future make sense, but visions of the future are fraud. Channeling the dead works, and speaking to spirits wastes everyone’s time. Glad we could clear that up.

Our first item:

On the pulse! George seems ahead of his time in shamelessness. Or he’s a throwback to the eighties. Or profitable sociopathy is the consistent foundation of the US ethos. Whatever the case: if you see the word AIDS floating in midair, AIDS might be involved.

Fair. I think Slayer’s best track is “Disciple,” but everyone’s got favorites.

What a beautiful defense of a humanities education. The second this becomes trite to you, you’re immune to an entire genre of fraud.

As you can see, the spirits think we’re dumbshits. Odd for people that got themselves killed first.

I wish I laughed at this less loudly, for a shorter amount of time. But George has, if nothing else, helped me come to terms with myself.

“Why the fuck do I need George?” asks the aspiring psychic. “Clearly, a monkey could hoot at the spirits and get just as far.” A fool, taking their first step into psychic tutorials. And enriching the TarcherPerigee imprint of glurge. Leave psychic nonsense to George and his ilk, and learn the ways of The Moon.

George is more fun when his Jesus leaks. It’s that drop of profit-free, unrequested nuttery that makes lunatic-hunting fun.

Seems like a reach. I think we can all agree that following this clue in an investigation, let alone court, is a poor move.

Are these racist ghosts? Because my dad’s alive and well. Believe me, I’ve [redacted].

If we take George at face value (don’t), he has the wildest grocery runs on the planet. Imagine reaching for the tilapia and hearing Hitler screaming behind you. Suddenly, every day is the RNC.

Less hilarious: this hints at George running his schtick on Holocaust Survivors. Hilarious again: George might hear Hitler screaming at him the entire time. Guilt rarely gets faster or funnier.

Our Children Forever ends with a FAQ on chatting with dead kids. Joel Martin interviews George Anderson, while Patricia Anderson prays in a corner somewhere. The redemption she begs for never comes, but we answer some searing reader questions.

Intriguing. My nephew told me, and I quote, “I am the captain of farts.” Do we have asses in heaven? Digestion? Protein powder? Each answer unearths new questions.

Finally, a snapshot of our star’s thoughts. He’s a fucking idiot. I see why the spirits picked George: most people would rather talk to corpses. I didn’t think I needed a medium’s opinion on bodily autonomy, and I was fucking right.

Forget the sanity of the question itself—that ship’s sailed into the next world. What a perfectly empty profiteer’s answer. “It’s a complicated murder, but I know you should buy my next book.” George could have simply chosen backspace, and ties himself into a campaign trail knot instead. Here, George contacts the shades of a dozen New York Republicans, and tells us they have no comment for the hellbound.

That last line does elevate the title. It goes from meaning nothing, to the creepiest shit I’ve heard in decades.

I dig the honesty. Kindergarten ghosts say you need more George Anderson products. Or a direct donation, if your bookshelf’s looking a bit crowded. Just don’t dawdle, you never know when a tyke might mess with a wall socket or exist near an oil well.

That’s time. George and Joel have room for one more question, before facing the jury. What’s on deck?

Odd exchange. Martin asks for thoughts, and Anderson vomits grey matter. Does that happen often? George should see a doctor, before he leads Our Scumbags Forever.

I’ve gained a new respect for psychics. Before it was none, and now it’s negative. But at least if the worst happens to a friend, I’ll be ready to give my credit score a nudge.

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