Natsletter - February 2026

If you’ve seen me out in the wilds of Los Angeles lately and it looks like I’m grumpy/exhausted/bugged-out-of-my-mind it’s for a simple reason.

You see, I’m in an interfaith marriage. I’m Catholic. My wife is Muslim. We make it work, because neither of us are dicks about it (turns out you don't have to be dicks about these things). That means we celebrate one another's various festivals.

This is perfectly fine most years. But see: Islam is on a lunar calendar and Catholicism is on a solar calendar. That means that the Catholic calendar stays more-or-less stationary relative to the common calendar that we all use to schedule our endless work Zooms and to celebrate the Honda Days (Happy belated Honda Days, by the way!)

Islam does its own thing, though. Their important dates move up and up a little bit each year.

And it just so happened that in this, the year of destiny: the year 2026, both Ramadan and Lent started on the exact same freaking day.

For those who don't know, as part of Lent you are supposed to give up something that’s important to you for forty-plus days (that’s forty days not including Sundays for some sadistic reason) - sometimes the thing given up can have a light sin connotation to it. For instance, every year I give up desserts and candies - I know they are bad for my health and they are generally unnecessary, so it seems like a good target. My wife and I liken Lent to a marathon - you’re in this one for the long haul.

For Ramadan, you do what I describe as hardcore fasting. Basically, for thirty days you only eat or drink when the sun is down. That means during the day you ingest nothing. You do not even take in water. Then, as soon as the sun sets, you smash everything you can into your faceholes as quickly as possible to prepare for the next day. We liken this one a series of sprints - there’s hardship everyday, but each one is over after twelvish hours (give or take the time of year) and you get to regroup with a tasty meal every night.

When my wife and I first started dating, we really liked how similar these two traditions are. “We’re not all that different hahaha etc etc etc.” This was all very cute and never much of a problem until they collided into the same time period. We are now both sprinting and running a marathon at the same time, after not sprinting for the past two years because of my wife’s pregnancy and nursing situation. As a result, our current list of dietary “can-and-cannot” rules rivals those of the most complex boardgames.

“Why do you do this to yourself?” you may ask. Hell, I may ask. I do ask - I find myself asking this all the time lately, often as I lay on the floor in the afternoon and stare at a video of someone making a batch of delicious oatmeal raisin cookies.

Here’s what I’ve come to understand about myself, though, after decades of Lent and a couple of years of Ramadan: I like knowing that I can go without. Maybe that’s slightly masochistic, but it’s true. It feels like the pressure to consume consume consume gets worse every year as the world spins further and further out of control, and I’m comforted knowing that I don’t necessarily need a lot to get by.

Traditions like this teach you discipline. They teach you gratitude for what you have and who you have. They teach you empathy for people that have no choice but to go without. They teach you that you can do hard things, and that its much easier to do them alongside other people.

All that said, damn what I wouldn’t give for a chocolate cake lunch.

Have you tried that? Chocolate cake lunch? Sounds like the kind of thing a child thinks they’ll eat once they’re out on their own in the world, and yet what I wouldn’t give…

Sorry, I need to wipe the slobber off of my keyboard.

Damn it, I really needed that moisture to get through today...

Ahem. Anyway. Discipline.

This month I have three pieces for you - loosely themed around “messages.” I state this theme as a way of tricking you into thinking that they have anything to do with one another, as opposed to what they are: the fever dreams of a fasting man. 

Without further ado - man-o a man-o…

A WARNING

Micah made his way down the long concrete pathway that cut across the quad and was about halfway to the fitness center when he noticed a shaggy-looking old man staring at him. He looked like a shambles standing beneath the streetlamp, the shadows obscuring his face. Micah stopped for a moment, put off by the attention and worried by the sparseness of the quad at that hour.

After an awkward and tense moment of staring, he asked, “‘The hell you looking at, old dude?”

Out of nowhere the man charged him. Micah turned to run but the disheveled bastard must have had super speed because in an instant Micah was pinned to the ground.

“Hey man what the fu-“

“Shut up,” spat the old man, his spittle landing scattershot across Micah’s face, “listen to me - I don’t have a lot of time - they probably know I’m here…”

“HEEELP” began Micah but the old man clapped his hands over his face.

“It’s okay! Listen, goddamn it! I’m from the future!”

Micah began to roll his eyes - after all, what a cliche thing for a madman to say - however mid roll he caught a glimpse of the man’s face.

“Horrrry shhhrrrrt,” he said from behind the man’s clasped hands. “Mmmmmmmmm?”

“Say again,” said the man, removing his hands.

“Me?” asked Micah.

“Yes,” he said, a glimmer in his eye. “It’s me, er you - Micah McPhereson-Spencer. From the future.”

“No way. That’s not possible.”

“Then how would I know this? Today is March 13th. This afternoon you turned in a paper for your Econ class - you’ll get a 68% on it because you waited until the last minute to start writing it. You’re on your way now to start a brand new fitness regimen. You think it’s going to help you get Amber Markovic to fall in love with you but it’s not going to work.”

Micah’s shoulders sagged. “It’s not…?” But Future Micah slapped him in the face to wake him from his malaise.

“Hey! Listen! Listen to me! I have something important to tell you.”

Future Micah paused, as if searching for the exact right words.

“Roasting a chicken is about the best thing you can do for yourself. It’s really simple, delicious, healthy, and learning to do it will open up a whole world of skills for you.”

“Wait, what the fu-“

“Quiet! I don’t have much time! You need to get yourself a pan of some sort - like a cast iron skillet - and an instant read thermometer. Don’t skip the thermometer! It will change your life!”

Micah started to look around for help. Even if this man was in fact who he said he was, he may well have been out of his mind anyway.

“Get a whole chicken from the grocery store, some oil and a handful of kosher salt. Set your oven to 425, then dry the chicken with paper towels and cover it with oil and the salt. Are you listening to me?!” he screamed in Micah’s face, shaking him by the shoulders.

“Yeah, Jesus, dry the chicken!!”

Future Micah seemed content with his answer. “Roast it for forty minutes and then rotate it. Go another half hour and then you’re gonna start checking the temp. You put the probe into the thickest part of the thigh - not the breast, for chrissake! Once it hits 160, 165 you pull it and let it rest for twenty, thirty minutes.”

With that, Future Micah let go of regular Micah and sat back in the grass, his energy spent.

Regular Micah shook his head in disbelief. “That’s it? That’s what you have to say? You traveled back in time to tell me to cook a chicken? What a letdown. Why would you go through all that trouble?”

“Because you can’t do fitness meal prep for a dinner party!” he exclaimed, his eyes burning with indignation. “You can’t feed your future wife boiled-ass chicken breast with brown rice and broccoli! You just can’t. You have to enjoy your life - the sooner the better before everything goes to shit. Do you know how freaking tired I am of the acid rain? I can't even buy a chicken right now - you can't find them anymore - and besides, you need a mortgage just to step into a grocery store! I wasted so much of our life, so much.... Do this for us and I promise you, once you have made yourself a roast chicken with your own hands then you’ll finally understand what it means to love yourself.

“And not like that, you freaking pervert.”

“There’s acid rain?” asked Micah. “What else can you tell me? Who wins the World Series this year?”

But before he could answer, flashlight beams fell up Future Micah’s face.

“Oh no! The bastards found me!”

Three campus police officers came charging up the sidewalk.

Future Micah grabbed Micah by the shirt.

“Listen! The apps that let you bet on anything - they’re poison. They’re just another way to go into debt, and you already have enough of that with your college loans. Also, you’ll have an opportunity to try meth - do not try meth. Wait, I’m not done!” He screamed as the campus police wrestled him off Micah.

“Women just want someone who talks to them like a normal person! You don’t have to try so hard! The sooner you stop worrying about finding someone, the easier it becomes! Never use the terms ‘high value partner’ or ‘sexual market value’ because that makes you gross and weird!”

“Somebody shut him up!” hollered one of the officers.

“Just be normal! And for chrissakes, roast that chicken!” he shouted before being gagged and dragged away by the two largest of the campus police.

The third officer offered Micah his hand to pull him up off the ground.

“Sorry about that,” said the officer. “We try to maintain a safe environment for learning, but sometimes these creeps still make it onto campus.”

“It’s okay,” said Micah. “I’m just happy I can get back to my workout.”

Micah turned to go but paused. He turned back to the officer.

“Is it true, the stuff he said?”

The officer thought for a second and said, “every woman is different and looking for their own specific thing, but generally speaking yes. People like people who listen to them and they don’t like to be treated like objects.”

“No, about the future being shitty with the grocery mortgages and the acid rain.”

“He told you about that, huh?” The officer chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Well shit.”

And that’s the last thing Micah heard before the syringe full of tranquilizers went into his neck.

…and now message the second - the call is coming from inside the Ark…

A DISTRESS CALL

Help! Help us!

A religious fanatic kidnapped us and now we’re all stuck on some sort of rickety, godforsaken boat!

For the love of God, somebody help us!

I was out wandering the forest, minding my own business looking for stray berries or leaves to nibble, when this allegedly six-hundred-year-old lunatic with stringy grey hair and bloodshot eyes leapt out from behind a mulberry bush with a net. 

He and his two vacant-eyed sons chucked me into the back of a cart with a bunch of other terrified animals. The humans kept rambling and saying frightening things - something about seven pairs of clean animals and one pair of filthy. It sounded like fundamentalist nonsense, but I was so frightened for my little marmot life that I hung close to the back of my cage and stayed quiet.

God help us, before long they’d dragged us up some hastily assembled planks and threw us into makeshift pens. I met my cellmate, a male by the name of Cody. The humans blathered something about needing one male and one female for whatever their sadistic plan was - I had a boyfriend I could have brought along if they’d bothered to ask me first but they didn’t so now I’m stuck with this random dude marmot with terrible tooth hygiene and stringy, molting fur.

Long story short, it began to drizzle and after forty days and forty nights of rain we are all now just sort of out here, bobbing along, waiting for death.

Whoever reads this scrap of gopherwood with bite marks on it, please send a rescue team right away. It took a lot of effort to get this message out. Not only did we need to pry a piece of wood off of the hull, but we also had to invent a whole written marmot language.

The most messed up thing is the crazy guy keeps talking about the flood punishing the wickedness of man. I don’t remember the rest of us species being so wicked, especially considering this supposedly “blameless” old coot and his ilk are clearly part of some sort of insane polygamist cult of kidnappers. Literal kidnappers - there are two baby goats onboard!

All I’m saying is, it seems pretty screwed to punish the rest of us because a collection of bipedal jackasses can’t get their act together.

Also - and for the record - there are way more than one pair of rats on this ship. Hell, there are more than seven pairs. This ship is like half rats and they’re eating through the stores of food. If it’s true that the rest of the world has been wiped out and we're all supposed to restart all life on earth then there’s gonna be a lot of religious nutbags and a lot of rats. Although, my dove friend says there’s plenty of land and plenty of other animals out there - he just doesn’t have the heart to ditch us and leave the rest all alone with these crazy people.

Anyway, help! Please come rescue us. Look for a 300 cubit long pitch-covered monstrosity floating out in the middle of the Tigris and Euphrates rivers.

…and finally, the beatings will continue until…

A COMPLAINT

I don’t know what you ungrateful peons are all so upset about.

Listen: I’ve heard a lot of bellyaching about this year’s Dark Sermon, which our most malevolent Prince-Bishop of the Damned, Gor’djuq the Deceiver, gave to the Assembly of the Damned earlier this week at the Unholy Basilica of Bile.

Please don’t think me entirely unsympathetic to your point of view. Darkness knows, Gor’djuq the Deceiver is fed with the blood of the innocent and the flesh of the unprofaned. I can see how this may rub some of you the wrong way.

But I truly, truly believe that the problem is in his delivery, not substance.

Hey, I get it. The way that Gor’djuq the Deceiver talks - through the lips of a reanimated skull that he holds clasped betwixt his mighty claw - can sometimes come across as unrefined and unsympathetic and laden with all sorts of vile obscenities and blasphemies and the occasional really bad pun.

Though I will point out, we all haunt the Shadow Plane of the Damned. We should be used to at least some obscenities and a few blasphemies.

The puns I can’t explain. Gor’djuq evidently likes bad puns.

But if you just look at the substance of what the Deceiver says, you’ll understand that conditions here on the Shadow Plane really aren’t so bad. And in fact, if like me you are a Merchant of Despair who trades in the heartache of the bereft, the weeping of the expunged and the wailing of the forlorn, this is perhaps the wealthiest we’ve ever been.

Those of us with 401kkk accounts have never seen numbers so big.

There are those amongst you who may question whether we can believe anything that Gor’djuq the Deceiver tells us, pointing out that the word ‘Deceiver’ is quite literally in his name.

Some may ask if we need so much abject despair and pain amongst the inhabitants of the Shadow Plane, if there’s not some other, better way to run a society.

Some of you may even point to the days, in the mythical past, when this wasn’t in fact the Shadow Plane but was instead a place called New Jersey.

To you, I would simply say: shut up.

Shut up before you ruin this for me.

When next his Malevolence the Arch-Bishop of the Damned ascends the Altar of Sadness, raises one fist high over his head, opens his mouth - meaning, of course, the mouth of the skull clasped betwixt his claws - and spews forth a rich, flagrant bile onto those assembled before him, my advice to you would be to take it. Take it and enjoy it. 

And have you even said thanks? Have those whose offspring have fed the insatiable bloodlust of the Malevolent One shown even a single speck of appreciation for the incredible honor they've been granted? Gratitude: try showing some.

For as Gor’djuq the Deceiver points out, this Hell has never been hotter!

Sincerely,

Duke Dar’fwayn the Damned

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

IN CASE YOU MISSED IT:

Karm-AI - I wrote this short story about a woman who’s told that her cancer was caused by a random Somali teenager and what she does with that information. There’s twists! And sausage-related humor! And a Taco John’s!

Uncle Pennybags, Re: Epstein - what if the monopoly man’s name was in the files?! That’d be funny, right? 

Gospel of Travis - our "hero" just got himself politely uninvited from hanging out with the Apostles. Things are about to get dark, guys! It’s a good time to catch up.

Thank you so much for reading! Forward it to your friends or share it around! Any little bit helps!

If you have not done so already, consider becoming a subscriber! It’s free (unless you’d like to throw a buck or two my way) and signing up helps me out immensely. Social media has become an unreliable way to let people know about independent entertainment (great job, Zuckerberg) - email is much more reliable.

If you’d like to support my writing, you can always send me a small donation at the link. Money goes to site maintenance and then one day hopefully to childcare.

Hope you’ve enjoyed!  Love each other! Take care of each other!