Careercow Chuck Wendig / Charles Wendig / TerribleMinds - Terrible author, terrible person, ruined Internet Archive's online library

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Not *cough* Zack.
Forum Staff
True & Honest Fan
Feb 5, 2018

Chuck Wendig was a writer for two of Disney's latest massive IP acquisitions - Marvel and Star Wars. His early career was of little note, with his biggest accomplishments prior to signing with Disney being a six book saga about a woman named Miriam Black, who can see how someone will die through any skin-to-skin contact and a massive amount of RPGs such as 2008 game Hunter: The Vigil.

Starting around 2011, Wendig began publishing his novels. His Miriam Black series was going to be adapted as a TV show in 2014, the plug was pulled on it in 2015. Otherwise, his bibliography includes mostly YA and adult novels, some as their own series. He was the writer behind a handful of Marvel comics such as The Shield and Hyperion. He was nominated for a Campbell award in 2013, but did not win. Otherwise, he was involved in two failed projects for TNT and Starz networks, among some "transmedia" stuff in the vein of Sundance films.

Chuck was announced as an author for the "flagship" Journey to Star Wars: The Force Awakens, titled Star Wars: Aftermath in 2015. Aftermath is considered canonical as it explains the events that occurred between the final movie of the original Star Wars trilogy, Return of the Jedi, and the first Disney Star Wars movie, The Force Awakens. He got the job by literally asking on Twitter. No, seriously. (archive) Aftermath debuted at #4 on The New York Times Best Seller list and USA Today's best seller list in 2015.

Aftermath focuses on a group of characters, largely from previous Star Wars media, but most importantly, introduces Sinjir Rath Velus, who is the first canonical gay character played by a trans woman* in the Star Wars universe. Except not really, because there has been a gay character in Star Wars novels before, Moff Delian Mors in Paul Kemp's Lords of the Sith. However, Sinjir is considered the first "major" gay character in the Star Wars universe. There are some background lesbians in Aftermath as well. Mainstream articles covering Wendig's Star Wars books portray it as being the biggest thing ever (couldn't archive), though the general reception was lukewarm. He told critics of his Star Wars books that they're like "the shitty, oppressive, totalitarian Empire" (archive) if they had issues with his LGBT characters.

As with many liberals, Donald Trump winning the 2016 election gave him a severe case of Trump Derangement Syndrome. He spent multiple tweet threads literally screeching at Trump with his Joss Whedon-esque insults (archive) like calling Trump a "greasy naughahyde human" and a "rancid tub of Russian dressing."

Life Comes At You Fast:

Macro Monday Is A Dark Lord Of The Sith -
October 8, 2018 (

Soooooo, some news! With the wrap up of the brilliant Darth Vader run by Charles Soule, I will be writing a five-issue miniseries for Marvel Star Wars called:


*thunder rumbles*

It was announced at NYCC this past weekend!

Each issue takes the POV of someone affected by Vader — i.e. someone cast into his literal and figurative shadow. The first issue is a riff on Friday the 13th, with Vader as our slasher killer. The second is basically Willrow Hood: A Star Wars Story. Third issue is about a morgue attendant on the Death Star who becomes somewhat… obsessed by a series of unusual deaths, deaths that ahem, might have been caused by a mysterious choking sensation. Fourth issue shows the return of Aftermath‘s Acolytes of the Beyond. And finally, the fifth issue shows a conflict between Leia and a new Resistance pilot who has learned of Leia’s grim, Vader-flavored bloodline.

You can check out the first two covers, both by Greg Smallwood:

I mean, right? So cool.

Art on the first issue will be by Juanan Ramirez.

You can read more about it at, plus read about tons of other cool SW-related publishing announcements. (Including Alphabet Squadron!)

The day that was announced was also the day that You Might Be The Killer premiered on SyFy, and though I did not get a chance to watch it live, I did DVR it and watched it last night. I also followed along as it aired, checking out the hashtag and it was great fun to watch people… well, having great fun, especially on a day so deeply shitty and divisive as Saturday was. (Goddamn, this country cannot get its head out of its ass, can it?)

I think that’s it for news from me, so here you go, have a butterfly, just don’t eat it.

You ate it, didn’t you?
In Which I Am Fired From Marvel - October 12, 2018 (
Hello! I was fired from Marvel — from two Star Wars projects. The detail from the tweets I tweeted:

So, here’s a thing that has happened – I just got fired from Marvel. Taken off issues 4 and 5 of SHADOW OF VADER, and taken off an as-yet-unannounced SW book. This might be a long thread, so apologies in advance. (I hesitate to talk about this, because honestly, it gives the Worst Possible People a win, something they’ve wanted for a while. But I also feel like I’ve long held to honesty and forthrightness, and I don’t feel like lying when people realize I’m not on these books anymore.)

To rewind a little bit, when SW: AFTERMATH came out, I assume most know but maybe you don’t, I put some ahh, elements in there (LGBT characters) that were not received well by a certain subset of fandom. That resulted in both a negative review campaign, found across various FB groups and other Worst Places on the Internet, that began mounting the very minute the book dropped online. I was literally at a midnight release of the book, and when I got done, there were already a pile of one-star reviews piling up – which seemed strange, obviously. And scary, too. I didn’t understand what was happening at the time. (And as a caveat, obviously I recognize that yes, some people just don’t like the book for the Usual Reasons, and people who hold those reasons are not to be lumped in with the more septic side of fandom. Tl;dr see also TLJ reviews.)

I also started receiving TONS of harassment – harassment that has gone on for years, harassment that has required me to contact local police and warn them of SWATting attempts, harassment across all corners of the Internet, here, FB, Reddit, YouTube. Some of it was bot stuff, obviously, or sock puppets, but some of it was pretty creepy, and very personal. I didn’t call a lot of it out or even highlight, but it was there, a sort of… constant background noise. (Christ, for an extra special treat go search for my name and check out the YouTube videos if you want an eye-opening glimpse.)

And I was worried of course because, jeez, I thought I had screwed up. I wondered for a time if the book was bad. But then it hit list and stayed on list for four weeks – and the next two books hit list, too, and EMPIRE’S END landed even higher on the list than the first book. And privately, I was told by folks inside LFL that there was no worry here, that they valued that I spoke out both speaking up for myself and for STAR WARS, which has always honestly been a progressive brand and company. And it made me very proud to work for them, too, not just because — holy hell, basking in the glow of STAR WARS, but because the people were great, and they totally got it. (Hell, a lot of the people inside LFL have experience considerable harassment. I mean, that’s not news, but Kelly Marie-Tran? Bueller? Bueller?)

After I did HYPERION with Marvel, they hired me then to write the TFA adaptation, which meant I got to work with some wonderful folks – @hantos and @cracksh0t – on a project that was tricky, because it ended up being more a translation of the movie than an adaptation. (I know Heather received some of the worst harassment in the entire industry – I can’t speak to how well Marvel did or did not protect her from it, but I know she was at the bottom of a major misery funnel from Comicsgate and their ilk. Far worse than I suffered.)

Still, I thought things were good, and I hoped to do more work with Marvel or SW or a combo of the two someday – comics isn’t really my “thing,” per se, but I felt like I was getting a handle on it. Of course, the harassment continued – and it got worse again when TLJ came out. Which I’m sure is no surprise to anyone who has ever tweeted, “Hey, I really liked THE LAST JEDI!” That’s really when I started to see lots of YouTube videos and stuff about me and it was… Well, it was creepy. And I’d seen other signs of people being… fired for political reasons, or folks like @ChelseaCain who was yanked around and was also the subject of considerable nastiness.

And then we announced SHADOW OF VADER juuuuust last weekend, and people were excited, and I thought everything was good. I was not made aware of any issues, and my online self has always been my online self, so. Except, yeah, no. Today I got the call. I’m fired. Because of the negativity and vulgarity that my tweets bring. Seriously, that’s what Mark, the editor said. It was too much politics, too much vulgarity, too much negativity on my part.

Basically, because I was not civil.

Which, of course, is their decision to make. I’m not their boss. (And, turns out, they’re not the boss of me, either. Har har.) (I joke because otherwise, I cry.)

My understanding over this call was that this was a Marvel decision, not an LFL decision, but I can’t really confirm that. The editor said he had made the call. He seemed genuinely upset at my tweets and profanity, so maybe that’s accurate. And again, that’s his right to do so. If they honestly feel that my presence will damage the book, I don’t want that. I want the book to shine, and artists like Juanan Ramirez and Greg Smallwood to do their amazing thing. Artists like that are gods in my mind, so I’m happy to not distract from their literal magic.

But it does set a troubling precedent. One we’ve seen already – James Gunn, Jessica White, and so on – of folks fired because they riled up the wasp’s nest of asterisk-gate. And it seems odd to be mad that I’m mad about politics when – well, look around. Climate change, kids in cages, sexual harassers at the topmost tiers of power, and so on. A call for civility as the PA GOP candidate threatens Tom Wolf with a golf cleat stomping. I dunno, man.

I know it hands Comicsgate a big win. It will embolden them. But they won — I’m out of Marvel and, I guess for now, at least, out of any kind of Star Wars. Do your victory lap, I guess. (Just please leave me out of it.) (All that being said, a lot of wonderful people still work inside those institutions and storyworlds, and I hope you’ll continue to support them and the stories they’re telling.) To conclude: this is really quite chilling. And it breaks my heart. I am very sad, and worried for the country I live in, and the world, and for creative people all around. Courage to you all. I have a dire fear this is going to get a whole lot worse before it gets better.

P.S. Vote in November like your life depends on it. Because it just might.
His Blog has some gems like:
Recipe For A Shooting - June 13, 2016 (

It begins with men. Young men, usually.

(This is a recipe that simmers a long time on the stove.)

You teach them that the world was made for them. That they own it and can do what they want and take what they desire. You also teach them that they are not allowed to express themselves. Doing that is to be like a woman, and men are told that they are very explicitly not women. Men own everything, remember. It is their right to own and to want and to take. Women are lesser, for they do not own the world. So to be like a woman — to cry and to manifest other feelings — is to be lesser. It’s not that they don’t have feelings. It is that they are taught to keep them inside. In boxes and bottles. In lead-lined trunks locked tight lest they ever escape.

We call them names if they fail this test. Thee names are slurs, and these names serve two purposes: one, it limits the victim and course-corrects them away from them being able to express themselves; two, it conveniently also reduces an entire other segment of the population and treats them as lesser. These names summarize women as their body parts, and associate men with them. These names tell us too that LGBT is lesser, weaker — gay men are really just women. Do not be like these things, we say. Or we (the other men) will call you out. We will bully you. We will hurt you. To make you better, because men are good at pain, we explain.

Giving pain. Receiving pain. Never ever revealing pain.

These slurs continue across the board, actually. If you’re lazy, you’re this group. If you’re dumb, you’re that group. If you’re a criminal, you’re like another group. And it all has the very special effect of reminding the young man that he is the most special of them all, and the only way he limits his specialness is by being not-a-man, and quite likely, not white. We have built a fence for him cobbled together of insults aimed at other people. Stay in the fence and be a man. Do not stray and we will not punish you.

Inside the fence is a too-small pasture. So little space to roam. Like with animals, the less space you have, the more agitated you become. Chickens pecking each other apart. Dogs wearing the skin off their neck from a choking chain and collar. But the fence is the man’s identity and with it, we limit his freedoms to be anything other than a pure young man, even though to limit an animal’s freedom is to drive it slowly mad. (But don’t worry, we won’t give you the mental health care you need when you have been driven to the brink. Men don’t need care, remember. Men are good at pain. Bottle it up. Don’t let it out, don’t you dare let it out.)

But the fence is the fence.

We force them to understand that they are MEN. They are MASCULINE. They are aggressive, dominant, alpha. They must be or they are weak. Big dick. Big muscles. Hot girlfriend. Prove your manhood. Wear it as an emblem. Just in case, we can make sure it’s driven home in the toy aisle, too. Make sure they play with guns and weapons of war (while at the same time limiting a young girl’s social ability to do so). Do not let them be nurturers. No dolls for the men. Men are soldiers, generals, builders, leaders. Trucks and cars. Guns and swords. But they also learn by limitation — the girls have their own aisles. They have not only dolls, but stuffed animals. They have little toy shopping carts and hair salons. They cook. They clean. They are soft like the stuffed animals. Not hard like guns. No Black Widow toys for the girls or for the boys. Even if the world gives us Ghostbusters who are women, let’s make sure that the packaging shows boys — lest they be made to believe they aren’t special, they aren’t the best, they aren’t chosen.

You’re trapped, but you’re special. Boys will be boys. It isn’t rape because she wanted it. We excuse the worst because it fits the story. We discourage anything that doesn’t fit the story.

Fences, fences, so many fences. Do not stray, we say. Do not stray.

We have reminded them not-so-subtly that everyone is different in the wrong way, and to be different is to be weak. We have reminded them that they own the world, but now they’re entering a world where the fact of that seems in dispute. Young men are not even the dominant majority, and yet, they are told they are, anyway. The world seems out to prove them wrong: women do not just fling themselves at men, after all. And for white men, it’s even more troubling, because they were sold a 1950s bill-of-sale — they were sold a group of Founding Fathers who look like them, who made this country with manhood and muskets and destiny.

And now the world isn’t that. It looks different. It feels different. And we have told them all along that they are the best, the most special, the most beautiful snowflake — no, wait, I didn’t say beautiful, I meant virile, I meant tough, I meant manly. The most manliest big-dickenist snowflake ever. Not even a snowflake, because snowflakes are fragile. They melt. They weep. No — men are special like throwing stars, like grenades going off, like the puckered hole carved into the top of a hollowpoint bullet.

To help them deal, to explain this new world, we give them enemies.

You cannot get a job because of that group.

You cannot just take what you want because of this other group.

You don’t make enough money or have the nice house because of them.

These groups want to limit how special we know you are. The group changes. It needn’t be just one. As time goes on, we switch enemies on them. Just to keep it interesting. Just to remind them that the whole world is against them because the world has forgotten how special they are.

And so when we tell these young men — young white men, usually — about feminism, or about how black lives matter, or how there are men who want to love other men and (gasp) get married to them, they short circuit. They hemorrhage. That doesn’t fit the narrative. Young white men are the best. Feminism recenters that conversation. BLM recenters that conversation. LGBT rights recenter that conversation. It paints for them a world where all is not a mountain and they are not at the top of it — it paints a flat plane where everyone is equal and all have a chance to breathe the same oxygen. It is a crack in the veneer and the young man must ask how true the narrative has been. Feminism says little to nothing about men. BLM says nothing about whiteness. LGBT says nothing about straightness. And yet, how can that be? The young, white, straight man is so special, though. Why do these groups so bitterly ignore that?

It’s fine, though. We will keep reminding him that the narrative is true even if the rest of the world doesn’t see it or resemble it. And we will have politicians and media who drive that home again and again. Congress is mostly men, and mostly white. The media is mostly men, and mostly white. Wealth is concentrated in the hands of mostly men, and those are mostly white. And we say to them, see? Look, these are your idols. This is the pattern. Here is the narrative. If you don’t fit it, it’s not your fault. Someone is keeping you away. It’s those people who want to blow you up. It’s those people who want to take your jobs. It’s those people who want to take away your manhood and make you like a woman. These are your enemies.

They are standing in your way.

They are not of your tribe. Your special, precious tribe.

If we need to, we can always add a dose of old-timey religion. And that adjective, old-timey, is key. Religion is not a poison, but the old ways of it cleave to a world where men are its center, where God Himself is a man and women are cattle. The laws and commandments of each religion are for your tribe only. Not for ‘them’ over there. The old-timey religion reinforces the narrative. And it repaints the enemy not just as one that is biological or cultural, but one that is spiritual. And so your crusade against the enemy is sanctified. It is holy. The Man God told you that it is, and it is kill or be killed. The things that make men as men are not sins. The fence is now built of religion. Outside the fence are the women and the queers and the heathens. They are sinners. You are pure. All you do is pure. The Man God has pre-empted you with forgiveness, he has built you of Himself and those who are not like you are not like Him. Do what thou wilt.

Politicians seize on this, too. They enact legislation that never says, but always reminds, that the men — the white men, the straight men — are so very special. We bake the identification of our enemies into our laws, and we braid in that old-timey religion to make sure that it’s all sweetened by the sanctity of a divinely-driven message. We say, these bathrooms are for you and not for anybody else. We say, this marriage is for you and not for anybody else. This job. These benefits. This life. It’s all for you, Damien, all for you. God says it. Our laws say it. And that document made of God and Man, the Constitution, says it, too. (Never mind the fact that the Constitution is just a piece of paper written by men of dubious religiousness who meant for our laws to be ever-amendable and totally elastic — that narrative must change, for you are a young man living in a country blessed by the Man God, and so that means the Constitution is as iron-clad as the Bible itself, as long as you don’t mind sanding down the rough and disagreeable parts for your own convenience.)

So, now we’ve got men of all ages. White men and straight men, too, in that pack. And we teach them that they must be manly men, and that the world is against them, and that their failures are the fault of enemies at the gates, enemies who want to besiege them and de-center them. The ingredients are in the pot, now. Been simmering and slow-cooking for days, years, centuries.

But to really make this soup pop, you gotta get it hot.

So we add some gunpowder to it.

Real gunpowder. And with it, real guns.

We say, look at those enemies. They’re trying to take away what’s rightly yours. And that anger the man feels, we conveniently don’t acknowledge that the anger is something we put in there — because we built for them a very tall fence around a very small pasture and now the men are traumatized and clawing at themselves because they can’t cry or they can’t nurture or they can’t love who maybe they really want to love. They’re like pressure-cooker bombs — their metal exterior denting and bulging like a botulism can at all the toxic shit trying to get out but goddamnit we just can’t let it out gotta keep it in gotta

Here, have a gun.

No, no, it’s okay.

It’s easy to get one.

It’s not just easy, it’s part of who we are, we say. It’s baked into the Constitution. Never mind that the Constitution was written by men who had muskets which took about, oh, three years to load and fire. Never mind that the guns we have today are concealable and have bits of lead that travel hundreds or even thousands of feet per second and that they can discharge these little angry metal wasps at an alarming rate of however fast your finger can twitch. We say, it’s right there. In this holy, God-sacred document that governs our nation. And just so nobody gets any fancy ideas we remind them that this document is unswerving, unchanging, etched not just in stone but in our God Damn DNA — and we lionize the Founding Fathers and their AR-15s even though they made a document meant to change, a document written for a time over two centuries ago when it is safe to say that things were just a little bit different.

We make sure that the men can have as many guns as they want, as easily as they want them. It’s harder to get a driver’s license. You don’t need training. You don’t need insurance. You only need a cursory background check, and that’s only if you buy it certain ways. Any little change to that is the slipperiest of slopes, a slope slick with your future blood, young man. They try to modify anything about your right, and you might as well just put on a dress and start kissing some other religion’s god. Doesn’t matter how sensible it is. You’re special, remember. Sense has nothing to do with it. This is manifest destiny. This is manhood’s destiny.

You’re special.

Those people aren’t like you.

They’re your enemy.

You get to have what you want.

You get to do what you want, take what you want.

(Nobody will do anything to stop you anyway.)

Just don’t cry. Don’t feel. Bottle it all up.

God says it’s okay.

The law says it’s okay.

Long as you’re a man, a manly man, not a pussy, not a queer.

Here, now. Have your gun. Go on, take it.

Don’t use it, of course.

Wink, wink.

Don’t use it.

Don’t stray.

Those are your enemies.

Here is your gun.
We Have A Problem - April 27, 2016 (

I am going to warn you up front that this post will offer little of value. You won’t find much focus here. I don’t have any great takeaways. I don’t have any solutions. I stand here between the polar forces of optimism and anger, trying to reach for one while shielding myself from the other. Part of me wants to retreat from the conversation entirely, to escape the culture and to settle down in a shack and sit and put on headphones and just wait it all out.

The culture I’m talking about is geek culture. Nerd culture. Pop culture.

Really, our entire culture, because our entire culture is pop culture these days. Geek culture is dominant. News is entertainment. Politics is run in part by a man right now who calls himself an entertainer and whose version of “telling it like it is” means telling us anything at all in order to provoke precious attention.

We have a problem. Really, it’s a man problem, and I don’t mean that it’s a problem that affects men but really, it’s a problem driven by and created by men — and yes, I know, it’s #NotAllMen and yes, I realize that men can be victims, too, especially LGBT men. Of course, most of the problems men suffer as victims are caused by the culture of men in the first damn place…

Let’s switch gears for a second, actually.

Right now, for whatever reason — let’s say El Nino when really we all know it’s climate change — the temperature is hella warm. It’s been 80 degrees here in Pennsylvania a few times already, and it’s only April. That means the ticks are out, and already in the last few days I’ve picked more ticks off me than I did all last year. I’ve seen more deer ticks, too, and deer ticks are more insidious. They bite fast and burrow quick, so by the time you’ve found them, they’re not just crawling up your skin, they’re already dug in. Their mouthparts are doing their hungry work. You gotta be real careful how you get the ticks out, because if you rip them out, they leave bits of themselves inside you, and then you get an infection — and that’s presuming you got them out quick enough, before they transmit Lyme Disease or whatever other parasite-in-a-parasite they aim to barf up into you.

I mention ticks because they’re tricky. You don’t see them. They serve mostly only themselves (though possums are good to have around because they eat hella hundreds, even thousands of ticks, a week). They’re parasites. Sucking blood and bloating like tumors — they’re an arachnid version of cancer. You have to remain vigilant. Nightly tick-checks on everybody, even the dogs, because otherwise, you’ll miss them.

That feels like what we have going here. We’ve got ticks in our culture. Latching on. Leeching blood. Staying hidden until they’re bloated up and by then, you’ve got a real problem.

The Hugo nominations came out yesterday, and in there are contained some genuinely talented and deserving candidates. (Please read Bo Bolander’s “And You Shall Know Her By The Trail Of Dead,” which is a story I love so hard I wish like sweet hot hell that I wrote it. Then go read Nnedi Okorafor’s Binti. And then check out Alyssa Wong’s “Hungry Daughters of Starving Mothers,” since you’re a smart person looking for great things to read.) Of course, the mangy curs and distempered doggies also got their grimy jaws around the throat of the thing. Inside those nominations you’ll find some, ahh, real eye-openers. I won’t go into specifics — you either know what I’m talking about or you don’t. And if you don’t, just trust me when I say, some of those categories are a real diaper fire. (Actually, if you do want a peek, Scalzi is over at the LA Times talking about it, so go point your eyeballs there.)

It’s not just in SFF.

In pen-and-paper gaming, harassment is endemic (read: “Tabletop Gaming has a White Male Terrorism Problem” — but be advised, big blinky trigger warning there).

Harassment has been a specter hovering over the comics community, too, and that pot is set to maybe boil over (read the latest CBR article on the subject).

Nintendo kowtows to Gamergate and fires Alison Rapp, which only empowers them more.

People get pissed when there’s a woman lead in gasp two Star Wars films in a row, missing the fact that if Hollywood were really aggressive about equality, they’d make sure the next 20-30 years of action films were 90% cast with women action stars, and men in those movies would be sexy lamps in need of saving — or fridging so that the heroine is properly motivated.

There’s a sickness here. We’re covered with ticks. We call them trolls, and they are, but that’s also a way to dismiss them — as if they’re just cantankerous outliers hiding under bridges. People say, “Don’t feed the trolls,” as if that’s ever worked. I remember in elementary school they told you to ignore bullies, too, and that never worked worth a good goddamn because they just came harder at you next time, pissed that you didn’t give them the time of day. You can’t ignore ticks, you can’t ignore tumors, and you can’t ignore trolls. Ignoring them means emboldening them.

Of course, we all know that trolls aren’t contained to pop culture. This problem goes well beyond our wells, well past the geek margins we believe contain us. Pop culture is a bellwether for things. It’s the canary in the coal mine. It presages the discrimination, the transgender bathroom bills, the Trumps and the Cruzes. And it’s a mirror, too. We see in it reflected the true face of the culture, sometimes. Other times, a distorted image, like you get from a circus mirror.

Here’s what I want to believe: I want to think this is normal, and it represents overall a good thing. I want to cleave to optimism. I want to think that all of this is like a bug zapper, summoning these human horseflies to the bright and angry light where their blind rage causes them to frizzle-fry while fixed fast in the fence of coruscating electricity. As social change starts to take hold, as attitudes shift toward including more people, as the cultural landscape rumbles and shifts in a bigger and broader way, well, that’s a milkshake that brings all the manboys to the yard. And they run to the yard, angry as hornet-stung bears, and they fall into the sinkholes and crevasses, and there they lay as the ground seals back up over their heads. Their mournful stung-bear howls trapped under the mantle of a changed world.

Like I’ve said in the past:

Dinosaurs squawking at meteors. Shaking tiny, impotent arms at the sky. The Empire, wondering where the hot hell all these goddamn X-Wings came from. Shitheel harasser assholes wondering when the world stopped listening to them and their diaperbaby bleats.

The other side of me thinks this is something deeper, darker, a vein of bad mojo thrust through the whole of the culture. Sepsis, toxic shock, an infection in the blood resistant to antibiotics.

But then I look and I think how thirty years ago I didn’t know what transgender meant. How three years ago I didn’t know what genderqueer was, and now it’s in the dictionary. I think about how we’re maybe on the cusp of having our first woman president. I think too about how social media has made the assholes louder — but it’s also amplified the voices of the non-assholes, and how conversations happen, tough as they are, across an Internet that moves fast and furious with both enlightenment and ignorance. I don’t know where we are or what’s going to happen next, and I know that I ping-pong between feeling optimistic about tectonic change and pessimistic about what that change has wrought.

I also know that no matter what we can’t just sit idly by. We push back. We vote no award when shitbirds nest in our award categories. We stand by those who are harassed by the worst of our culture. We stop sheltering the monsters and start protecting the victims. We amplify voices. We close our mouths and try to listen more. We master the one-two-punch of empathy and logic. We try to be better and do better and demand better even when we ourselves are woefully imperfect. I speak to geeks and I speak to men when I say: we need to get our house in order.

We have a problem.

But I hope we also have solutions.

At the very least, let this be a call that we need to do better by those who need us. Out with the bullies. Out with the terrorists. Gone with the ticks. We find those ticks and we pluck ’em out. Then we burn them, toss them in the toilet, rain our piss upon their parasitic heads, and say bye-bye as we flush and fill the bowl with clean water once more.

(Comments closed, because, c’mon.)
The Terribleminds Guide To Hitting On The Ladies - May 7, 2013 (
"Hey, Chuck,” you ask. “I’d like to ask, how do I hit on the ladies?


Let’s rewind a bit.

I went to the grocery store as I am wont to do on a Tuesday. I go to the store, frequently when I am hungry which means I come home with 37 bags of marshmallows, an entire butchered kangaroo, a half-keg of chocolate syrup, a backpack full of Ranch dressing, and a mysterious out-of-date jar of pickled wolf gonads. It’s common now I go to the store and I see some of the same faces — people who are on the same weekly circuit that I am, I guess.

Well, one of these is a young woman… I dunno, early 20s?

So, she’s looking at cold drinks, juices, that sort of thing.

And there’s a tall reedy dude there in a tight-white t-shirt and he’s helping — “helping?” — her choose something from the case, and at first I think he’s a boyfriend but it becomes apparent that he’s not when I realize he’s hitting on her. Asking for her name, sidling up close, kind of using that soft smooth jazz voice that some dudes use, like, “Oh, I’m totally non-threatening, listen to the velvet tones of my buttery vocal pipes.”

The drink case isn’t super-huge so I’m not standing right there next to the two of them, but what I hear him say next is roughly this:

“I know you don’t get to look in the mirror but I want you to know you’re beautiful.”

Oh, maybe I buried the lede here?


I don’t mean that euphemistically, like, “She’s blind to his attraction,” or, “She just doesn’t get it, man,” I mean, she’s actually blind. She’s got the tappy cane and everything. People help her in the store because, well, she’s blind. Employees help. Other shoppers help. It’s all very nice.

Until Doctor Douchebro comes along and hits on her.

And that’s what he’s doing. Hitting on her.

Hitting on a blind woman.

At a grocery store.

With his smarmy come-on line designed, clearly, to hit on blind women.

She was very nice. She dealt with him and politely shut him down (not that he deserved such tender handling, nor was she obligated to “be nice” to him, I’m just telling the story as I witnessed it) and she went her way and he went his. He didn’t stalk her or double-down on creep-town. It was a brief encounter and nothing particularly unsavory came from it.

Just the same —

Gents, don’t hit on women.

I know, now you’re saying, “BUT THAT’S HOW I GET MY PENIS TOUCHED,” and maybe you think that’s true. I realize there’s a certain mode of dating advice that suggests men must show confidence and be clear and forthright with their attraction. But “confidence” is a whole lot different than “aggression,” and hitting on someone is a whole lot more like the latter than the former. Note that verb: hitting — itself the language of violence, like you’re walking up and just bashing her about the head and neck with your sexual desire, like you’re clubbing a seal.

You can be confident. Hell, just going up and talking to a stranger is an act of confidence.

Which is what you should do to people to whom you are attracted.

Talk to them. Connect with them on a human level. They’re not a socket for your plug. You’re a person. They’re a person. Go form an emotional-social tether before you go clumsily trying to bed them. I’m not saying every encounter has to end in marriage. Hey, you wanna just hook-up and find other people who just wanna hook-up, well, dang, I hope you two crazy kids find a way to slap your parts together, whatever those parts might be. Just the same, the way we find those people is by connecting. And being human. And recognizing that they’re human too. And not just treating them like prey animals who owe you a pound of flesh for your hunting efforts.

“Hitting on them” is a thing you do when you see them as a target, a victim, a receptacle for your pleasure. It’s dismissive and unpleasant and often embarrassing for all parties.

Don’t be creepy. Don’t be an asshole.

Aggression is hitting on people.

Confidence is talking to them and knowing that’s enough.

YMMV, IMHO, etc. so forth.
The Truth About Turtle Penis - March 6, 2010 (
You will find many roads to terribleminds.

Maybe you found me through Twitter. Maybe caught one of my cross-links from Livejournal. Or Facebook? I go there. I link there. Sure. Facebook.

Or, could be you found this website through some particular search engine term.

My webstats track those. I look at them. And from time to time I post about it. Today, it’s time again. It’s time to talk about it. You and me, we need to sit down. Here. Have some oolong tea. The guards will pass it to you through this little Plexiglas window. No, no, don’t worry about that. It’s for my — erm, your safety. Plus, Plexiglas is the future. One day everything will be made of it! I’m just trying to be progressive here at terribleminds. It’s all Plexiglas and flying cars up in here.

Seriously, though. Sit in that chair. We really need to talk. Go over some things. You know? Like, for instance… ohhh, I dunno, the search terms you used getting here? Heck, I know, you were probably one of the upstanding folks who found this space by searching for something innocuous like, “learn how to write dialogue,” or, “scenes from The Wire.” But just in case. Just in case. We should maybe talk about… y’know, some of the other ways you maybe might have come here. Right? It’s okay. I know. You’re feeling woozy. I put something in the tea. A little extra “ooh” in the Oolong. Relax. Breathe. Zen. Don’t shit your pants — I mean, don’t relax that much. But give in to it. Shhhh.

Let’s talk. Y’know, as I unbuckle your pants. For comfort. For your comfort.


It took me a while, but now I understand. See, every day, I get… mm, one or two visitors coming here via the search term “turtle penis.” I did not at first understand why my site even came up in that regards, especially since this phenomenon predates the Eddy Webb “Penis” essay. Ah, but now I dig it. Once upon a time, I spoke about the weird things people eat, and in that post is the term “turtle penis. See, it’s because you can actually eat turtle penis, and were you headed to, say, a getemono bar in Japan, you might get like, turtle penis sashimi or turtle penis soup or… I dunno, candied turtle penis soda.

Thing is, the search term isn’t “turtle penis soup.” Or sashimi. Or soda.

It’s just “turtle penis.”

So, I gotta ask. Why are you looking up turtle penis? School project? Okay. Sure. Trying to gross out a wife or girlfriend? Hey, I can get behind that. I do that! Good times, good times. But, if I were to poke my face through the monitor and come out through the Intertubes on the other side of your monitor, I wouldn’t see a bottle of greasy hand lotion and a box of tissues, right? And a coiled belt on the desk? And turtle posters all over the walls? I’m just asking. I… wouldn’t see that, right? Help a guy out.

Every day, a secret war unfolds in the back alleys of terribleminds. The Avatar Porn Army rises from the tunnels, their lumpy nude bodies painted electric blue, homemade bows firing off arrows tipped in “alien venom” (really, it’s just hobo spit). They clash with the Proselytes of Pauley, those robe-clad emo-geek NCIS nerds, their hair tied off in Abby-style pigtails. It’s forensic tentacle porn. It’s Goth-freak tribal shamanism. It’s Pocahontas starring Mark Harmon.

People die. Bodies in the streets. Night after night.

Very sad.

No, what it is is a daily struggle of, “Who will win the Battle of the Search Terms?” One day, “avatar porn” nets the biggest views. The next day, it’s “Pauley Perrette.” Some searchers add words to the terms, and I count those, too — porn, nude, bondage, tentacles, rape, blue, free, pics, vagina, hot, tattoos, etc. Hell, someone actually searched for “freelance avatar porn.” Looking for a new career, maybe. I dunno.

If I tally the numbers day-to-day, I see that (to my surprise) Pauley is winning this war. I’m not yet willing to count Avatar out of the running though, as for the last week it’s held some solid numbers.

But I gotta tell you: I get fucktons of views from this. Hundreds of views a day, sometimes. Trust me, I don’t cherish these views. These are worthless views, the SEO equivalent of “empty calories.” I’m not courting these people with posts like this on the sly, wink wink, nudge nudge. They’re not coming here for my writing advice, my sardonic rage, my delicious blog nectar. They’re coming here to pudwhack to Pauley Perrette.

Though, were I to actually combine an Avatar image with a Pauley Perrette image — say, turning Abby into like, one of the sexy blue goat people — man, the views would probably crash the site. It’d be a perfect storm of weirdos. The fusion of those two fetishes could bring down the entire Internet.

Really? Is this the central mystery? This is what you search for in Google?

And further, you came here to answer that question?

God help you, son. God help you.

Hey, maybe he’s not looking for an answer so much as an opinion. Right? “Top Ten Places To Stick My Winky!” or something. “Number 10, between the toes! Number 9, the armpit! Number 8…” and so on. Though, were that the case, I’d think the search term would’ve been more like, “What’s the best place to insert my penis?” Right? (Oh, and hey search term dude. Don’t think I missed how poorly you phrased that question. Who are you, Governor Schwarzenegger? “Where exactly to insert penis into girl? Get to the choppah! It’s not a tumor! Hasta la vagina, baby!”)

(Sorry, I couldn’t help it.)

(I’m not proud.)

Just in case someone actually came here looking for an answer to this question, I’ll help.

I’ll offer my wisdom.

Dear 35-year-old-dude who hasn’t yet gone fishing in the love lagoon:

I get it, you have a handful of options when it comes to the placement of your wangledangle upon or within the female body. Let me just say: start with the vagina. It’s the best choice. I know. You’re thinking, “But it’s so obvious. It’s so pedestrian.” It’s like french fries, man. French fries might seem boring, right? But they’re fucking delicious. Nothing beats a good fry, am I right? Vagina’s the same way. It may seem the obvious way to go. It may seem a mundane choice — sure, it’s not as exciting as ear canal or whatever, but its the first best option. You’ll thank me.

And hey! You don’t have to stop there. If she gives you the thumbs-up, you can insert it into whatever cubbyhole she offers.

Read that again, by the way: “If she gives the thumbs-up.” The lady is the gatekeeper to all the PIZ (Penile Insertion Zones). She’s owns those. Not you. So be polite, and wait for the green light. You try to go on a red light, and that’s the kind of traffic violation that properly earns you a chemical castration. Got it? Good.


Chucky Wendig, Doctor Of Love

Did that help, 35-year-old-dude? I hope it did.

If you’re still confused, sir, might I recommend this instructional video on “Vajazzling,” by Our Friend, John Hornor Jacobs?



What the fuck is that?

“Boiling face Ouija board?”

I’m willing to believe that it’s like, a translation of what they called the “Paranormal Activity” movie in Japan or something.

Even still — how did it get you here?

What does it mean?

This shit will plague me. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe therein lies the horror. I’ll awaken at night and see a hypnagogic hallucination of the Boiling Face Ouija Board Man by my bedside, hunkered down, silent. He’ll clutch a Ouija board to his chest. His face will be a melting morass of third-degree burns, oozing onto the floor like candle wax erupted from popped blisters.

He’ll whisper: They are searching for me.

And then he’ll disappear.

But he’ll keep coming back. Oh, yes. Because that’s what Boiling Face Ouija Board man does. He’s a fucking dick, that guy. Just keeps on showing up. Night after night, until I am driven mad.

Now I’m all scared. Somebody hold me?

Because that’s what I want. Sure! In a post-apocalyptic fuckhole where everything is some shade of diseased mucus or iron oxide, where the land is plagued by nuclear scorpions and ghoul dudes and Murder Bots, what I need is a little pornography. Mmm. Super Mutants rocking the stripper pole! Hot, sexy ghoul-on-ghoul action! Nngh! Yeah. Come on down to the Brotherhood of Steel. Know what I’m saying? Steel? Steel? (*points to genitals*) Steel.

What’s most unfortunate here is how I can’t serve these people’s needs. They come here looking for Fallout Porn, and I just don’t have it available. They will be left sorely disappointed. Their sadness will be limitless.

Sorry, search term weirdos. Can’t help you. I just don’t have the droids you’re looking for.

Man, what? Is that a thing? Is that a thing you want? Or maybe it’s a thing of which you’re afraid?

If it’s the latter, okay. I mean, I guess that’s a guy fear, right? “Oh, man, my lady is preggo. If we go bang one out, my penis is going to hit the soft spot in the fetus-head and kill him. And if I ejaculate up in there, that little bastard is going to have to swim around in it for like, weeks. That’s not cool, man. Not cool.” It freaks some dudes out, so, fine. Maybe you came here to allay — or confirm — your suspicions. Then again, “splooge” is not exactly a medical term, and further, this ain’t WebMD. I’m not actually a doctor. I know, the lab coat and the shiny speculum maybe suggest that? But I just really dig the costume. And I use the speculum to crack nuts. I mean like, hazelnuts and walnuts. Get your mind of out of the gutter. Freak.


If it’s a thing you want

Yeah, seriously, I don’t have it. I don’t have anything here that will help you. Go away. Get out of here. What does that even mean? Splooge in her womb? What? It’s hard to appall me, but you fuckers might just be doing it. Get out of here. I’ve got a shotgun loaded with rock salt. I will bury a load right in your ass.

…man, that doesn’t sound right.


*runs away*

Oh, what the fuck? Goddamnit. Really? Really? Snot? Licking? During sex? What? No. No! No.

You get the grumpy hedgehog in an eggcup. That’s what you get. That’s what you deserve.

I won’t even reward you with a discussion. Just get out of here. Just go. Leave. Shoo! We don’t have what you want. We don’t serve your kind here. How did you get here? Why? Why me? Why this place? It couldn’t have even been the Snot Boogie conversation from yesterday because this search term is days ago!

Gah. Gah!

Why? No!

I cannot help you. You’re beyond my assistance. I can’t get this image out of my head thanks to you. It’s hurting my brain. It’s like a worm, boring its way to the heart of the apple. You ass. You asshole. I am comfortable with all manner of terrifying visuals, but snot? Licking? Banging? During? Mah! Fnah!

*shakes head*

I can’t shake the thought out of my head!

Maybe I can drill it out.

Maybe I can use this Makita drill and just… bore the evil out. Trepanation! Right? That shit works! They still do that, yeah? It’s still an approved medical procedure? Seems like a sound, sane way of exorcising the evil spirits that have set up shop inside my head. Yes! Excellent!

Whirr, whirr!

Out, out, damned spot.

*drill meets bone*

*the smell of burning hair, scalded skull*




(EDIT: Don’t believe that this is a search term?)


Dear Mens: Your Greasy Demon Hands Are In Time Out -
December 6, 2017 (



It is I, your male-identifying cohort, Chnurk Mandog, and it’s time we had a little talk.

Before we begin this talk, though, I’m gonna tell a story.

Recently, I was in Florida, aka, America’s Moist Dangly Bits, and while there, I was on Sanibel Island, which is known in part as possessing the best shelling beaches in the world, and also offering up tiny invisible bugs called no-see-ums that appear in a shimmering cloud and buzzsaw you down to your bones. While on a shelling beach, I witnessed many things, including pretty shells, a dead rat, several dead stingrays, and a vicious red tide. I also witnessed this:

A family was walking up along the top margins of the beach. Meaning, away from the water, up by the trees. It was a father and a mother, both I’d guess in their late-30s early 40s, and a pack of four boys. Presumably, their children, or maybe clones, I dunno. The boys were chasing lizards, and one of the boys came up to his father and said, “DAD CAN I GRAB A LIZARD’S TAIL?”

And the father said, “Yeah, just don’t let him bite you.”

The boy ran off to join his lizard-hunting brothers.

Thankfully, the lizards were faster than these shitty kids, and the boys became so irritated and bored with not-catching lizards that they fucked off down to the water’s edge, instead.

My own son was with me, and I asked him, “Do you think you should grab lizards by the tail?” And he asked me, “Won’t that hurt the lizard?” And I said, “I dunno, probably.”

“Will they bite you?” he asked.

“Does that matter?” I asked. And when he looked up at me confused, I explained:

“The effect of the action on you is not as an important as the effect of the action on the lizard. Doesn’t matter if the lizard bites, because it’s not okay to go grabbing living things, because they’re not yours, and because you might hurt them.”

Our son, a little burgeoning rules lawyer, seemed pleased with this answer, and I felt, yay, a teachable moment. Huzzah and hooray.

The day went on, as days tend to.

But I was bugged by the event because I felt like I should’ve said something. Not to my own son, but to that dickhead dad and his dickhead boys — normally, I have a very strong DON’T PARENT OTHER PEOPLE’S CHILDREN creed in place, because you can do what you want with your kids and I will handle my own, thank you. I’m not the Worldfather, I’m not your Parent Cop, and we all make mistakes. Just the same, I felt like those little fuckers are probably out ripping tails off lizards because their father couldn’t be bothered to tell them that wasn’t nice to do.

Later that afternoon, we were at a grocery store in the island called Jerry’s — and outside of Jerry’s is an array of other shops, a little courtyard, and maybe six cages that play host to various parrots or parrot-like entities. My son and I were toodling around outside while my wife was in one of the stores, and together we walked up to one of the cages, which contained, if I recall, a squawking blue-and-yellow macaw.

An older dude, maybe early 60s, was standing there next to us.

On the cage hung a sign, clearly written, in big, bold letters:



The older dude was noshing a pastry of some kind. A danish, I think.

And as we’re standing there, he took a piece of the danish, and thrust it through the cage bars to the parrot. Literally moving his hand three inches above the sign that clearly tells him DO NOT FEED THE BIRDS YOU FUCKING DING-DONG in an act of willful ignorance.

As the bird moved to the food, I snapped at him:

“You’re not supposed to feed the birds.”

He shot me a look, confused. Maybe angry. Said nothing.

I continue:

“It says right there on that sign you’re ignoring. They’re on a special diet. Don’t feed the goddamn birds.” He stared at me, mute, and I said, “Are you listening?” Slowly, his hand retracted before the bird was able to claim its inappropriate pastry snack. The man continued to look at me, not saying anything, and he then hurried away toward his wife. As he scurried off, I explained to my son loudly, because I’m a jerk, “YOU CAN’T FEED BREAD TO BIRDS BECAUSE BIRDS DON’T EAT BREAD. YOU DON’T SEE BIRDS BAKING BREAD, DO YOU? NO, YOU DON’T. BREAD CAUSES MALNUTRITION IN BIRDS.” My voice got louder and louder as I said this, to ensure that the old man heard me. My son, who is now reading actual words, said, “It says right there on the sign, don’t feed the birds.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Yeah,” my son said.

Yeah,” I said again, righteous.

I’m sure as soon as we walked away, Ol’ Danish McGee probably wandered back up and shoved a gobbet of cheese danish into the macaw’s beak. But at least I said something and I felt a little better about that, even if it didn’t answer for the jerkwad boys who were ripping tails off lizards.

You might say, Chnurk, what is the point of this story?

To which, I point to this as a partial answer:


Now, of course, obviously what I’m doing here is I’m leading up to something, and that something is not that women are lizards or birds, nor do they have tails or special diets, but rather, hey men?

You need to keep your damn hands to yourself.

Your touch is not a gift.

Your gropey, searching hands are not charity, they’re not a favor, they’re not God’s Benevolence, they’re just your dumb hands, and you need to keep them — and all your other parts, especially your stupid probably very ugly dick — to yourself. This shouldn’t be difficult. It’s literally a lesson we taught to our own son at a very early age: “Don’t touch people who don’t want to be touched.” And that want to be touched part is not only essential, but rather, it’s essential to realize that only vigorous consent can alert you to the desire to be touched. It’s not implicit. It’s not in her eyes, it’s not whispered on the wind, as if by magic. It’s spoken by the mouth, or written on a piece of paper — if someone asks for a hug or some other kind of physical contact? They want the hug. If they don’t, you can ask them proactively: “HI, MAY I HUG YOU?” and if they say yes? Hug them appropriately, in the Normal Hugging Way. If they say no? Then do not touch them. No-handsy, no-touchy. This shouldn’t be difficult. These are preschool rules, man.

It’s not even an insult if she says no. It’s just a choice. A choice born maybe of trauma you can’t see. Or a choice based on preference or predilection. Or maybe it is an insult, maybe she doesn’t like you, maybe you’re an asshole, maybe this, maybe that. It doesn’t matter. A no is a no. You are owed nothing. She is not yours. The world is not yours. More to the point:

Life is not your buffet line of sexual opportunity, jerks. Women are not in a stable for your mate or mistress selection. I once watched a dude at a grocery store hit on a blind woman (I am ashamed I didn’t say anything to him, honestly), and what I said then remains true now: women are not just sockets for your plugs. This is true everywhere. It’s true at the grocery store. It’s true in your own home. It’s true at work! I know! At work. But isn’t the workplace just a meat market where you, the Hunter-Gatherer, will select your Ladymeat from the Ladymeat on Display?

No! No you fucking ape, it’s not. The women there in the workplace are there to work. That’s literally it. They are autonomous, independent individuals, just as you yourself are an autonomous, independent individual, dude. That’s true no matter their gender, their color, their able-bodiedness — they are not yours to touch or ogle. Your own autonomy extends to the margins of your own body and no further. And, by the way, since I have a number of writer and other creative folk following along, please note too that our workplaces are a little more fluid and flexible — conventions and conferences, for instance, are our workplaces. They, too, are not your sexual buffet line. The women there, be they fans, volunteers, readers, writers, artists, whoever, are still not a box of lusty chocolates from which to choose.

Keep your shitty demon hands to yourself. They are in time-out. Stick them in your pockets if you must. Duct-tape them together. Burn them with cigarettes if they seem motivated to stray. Keep them hidden or someone is going to rightfully chop them off.

Listen, I get it. You’ve been told, or at least shown, that the WORLD IS YOUR OYSTER. All you gotta do is grab it, pop open its shell, and suck down the meat that you have claimed for yourself. Grab all the lizards you want, dominionist man! Personal liberty says you can feed that parrot whatever the fuck you want, mighty parrot-conquerer! You can feed that parrot danish, or dishsoap, or your own dick, why not? Why can’t you fuck the parrot? You are God-chosen caveman! Club what you choose and take what is yours! Women are there for your pleasure and your breeding, ha ha ha right? Christ, my own father would drive his big-ass pickup truck close to other cars so he could stare down women’s shirts. We’d go to a couple local bars, and — in full view of my mother! — would flirt with waitresses, slap their asses, that kind of thing. He never said to me, “Son, women are yours to do with as you please,” but he certainly demonstrated that. And that kind of demonstration continues today, all around us. “Rape culture doesn’t exist,” someone surely believes even as we elected an admitted sexual predator to the highest office in the land, a guy whose only spoken moral is, “You can do anything,” and that includes grabbing women in whatever way he chooses. That sexual predator is now endorsing a secondary monster, Roy Moore, who is credibly-accused of child molestationin a way where he was banned from the local mall. (But not banned from the Senate, I guess!)

And here you might be saying, whoa whoa whoa, how’d we get here? Clearly that is different. Clearlythere are stratum at play here — nuance is essential, right? A guy who forces a hug is nowhere near the same as a guy who picks up 14-year-old girls and tries to force sexual acts upon them? And you’re right. Points for you. They’re not the same. The matter of degree in difference is considerable, in much the same way that slapping someone in the face is way different from blasting out their middle with a shotgun blast of buckshot.

And yet, slapping people is still wrong.

And it’s still an act of violence.

The difference between what our president has admitted doing — or what Weinstein did — and inappropriate sexual misconduct in the workplace is obvious, but both actions come from the same place: the belief that you can do what you want, that you can touch who you want, that you do not require consent to do so.

That is incorrect.

JFC, men. Stow it. Stick your hands in the nearest glove compartment, then have someone — preferably a woman — slam the compartment shut in a way so violent that it dismembers your monster hands and contains them in the prison of that glove compartment.

I have no greater point than that. The world is not your plaything. That extends to women, to each other, to all humans, to the creatures of this world, to objects you do not own, to really every damn thing under the sun that is not a part of your body or purchased by you with cash-slash-credit. Yes, you can hug women, if they consent to being hugged. With vigorous consent, you and all other consenting parties can slap all your parts together in whatever configuration you find most delightful. Affection is not dead. It’s just meant for people who actually want it. Why the fuck would you want to give affection to someone who doesn’t want it? What the fuck is wrong with you? Put your hands away. PUT YOUR STUPID HANDS AWAY. AND YOUR MOUTH AND YOUR TONGUE AND ALL YOUR BITS.

And seriously, also, your dick.



Put your dick away.

Nobody wants to see that thing.

Even people who want to see that thing really don’t want to see that thing.

No, no, I’m not saying to be ashamed of your dick, I’m just saying, unless you get an email where the font is in 144-point size Comic Sans and it says PLEASE SHOW ME YOUR DICK AT THE NEXT OPPORTUNITY, I WILL GAZE UPON THIS DICK DIGITALLY OR IN FULL 4K REALITY, and it has a signature of authenticity underneath that is notarized by three licensed sources, stop showing people your stupid dingle.

Teach this to your children.

Tell this to the men in your life.

If you see something, say something.

The end.

His comics-related works include the comic adaptation of 'Star Wars: the Force Awakens', an ok annual in the 2017 run of 'Darth Vader' and a horrendous run on Dynamite's Turok. The Turok run was hilariously bad, he race-swapped Turok, a native american, into a black guy who fights literal Nazi Dinosaurs because...Fuck Drumpf?:

He's more known for his really awful writing abilities, inability to maintain a consistent story, gender pronouns where they don't belong into the Star Wars canon. (

A comparison:

From one of his Star Wars novels:

A review of his novels explain his writing style better than I can (

Did I forget to mention he has a severe case of Trump Derangement Syndrome?: (

He likes to talk about penis: (
Chuck Wendig on Twitter penis 1.png (
Chuck Wendig on Twitter penis 2.png (
Chuck Wendig on Twitter penis 3.png (
Chuck Wendig on Twitter penis 4.png (
Chuck Wendig on Twitter penis 5.png

He also likes to overshare: (
screencapture-twitter-ChuckWendig-status-748946460394356736-2018-10-16-01_38_20.png (
Chuck Wendig on Twitter   TMI,.png (
Chuck Wendig on Twitter   Okay,.png (

Needless to say, Disney's Star Wars has earned itself constant mocking from pretty much everyone for multiple reasons. And almost all the figure heads blame the fan backlash, the bad reviews and SOLO tanking in the Box Office on the racist/sexist fans and Wendig is one it's biggest antagonizers: (

Wendig's hostility towards the fandom made him become one of the lead figures of mockery in certain sections of the Star Wars fandom. One of these FakingStarWars, a Star Wars parody teepublic store, made a shirt mocking him for the use of blockbots:

His reactions was exactly as you'd expect: (
Chuck Wendig on Twitter   Aaaaand.png

:story: Way to prove him right:
Chuck Wendig on Twitter   Aaaaand 1).png

People started pressuring TeePublic and eventually got the design taken down: (
TeePublic Support on Twitter   This design has been removed.…  .png

The design is still available for purchase through another website, so outside of a minor inconvenience Wendig failed to kill this design: (Archive)

This is the sperg out that got him fired: (
Chuck Wendig TDS+Soy=Bad.png

At least he didn't make a Harry Potter reference: (
Chuck Wendig Harry Potter.png

But don't feel too bad for him, he should be completely OK with being fired for saying horrible shit, right? It's not like he thinks the same rules shouldn't apply to him or something?: (
Chuck Wendig Roseanne.png

Or not: (

Chuck Wendig:

Provided by @emspex
Date of birth: April 22, 1976 (42)
123 Nice Rd
Quakertown, PA 18951

EDIT: Updated Thanks to @emspex and @wes for the help.
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Some Manajerk
Oct 16, 2017
I'd say they should string up the whole crew of writers and bring the old EU writers in to write for them, but...

A. Those writers probably won't work for the peanuts these ones do.

And B: While Zahn and The X-wing Series writers could probably make something salvageable out of the new canon, i kinda don't want my childhood favorites getting dragged into the black morass that is Disneys SJW circle


I'm stuck in this fucking chair
Mar 29, 2018
I've been waiting for a thread on this guy. His twitter alone is like the villain of a saturday morning cartoon made by 4chan.

Never did give his writing a chance but he is in such desperate need of a fucking editor because he jumps from topic to topic and thought to thought. It's like reading Ulysses.
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I'm stuck in this fucking chair
Mar 29, 2018
Interesting bit of history looking through his twitter.

Rape jokes are troubling:
Rape isn't a metaphor:

Luckily Wendig never did either of those except he did.

Of course time passes, those tweets are old, and people change, but shows that he's willing to joke about a tape from 2005, so his old tweets are fair game. Nothing wrong with the tweets (except the fall and the mallard one because there's 0 context) but it's always funny seeing these people never meeting their impossibly high standards.


I hated Woody Woodpecker and Scooby-Doo.
Retired Staff
True & Honest Fan
Dec 28, 2014
Of course time passes, those tweets are old, and people change, but shows that he's willing to joke about a tape from 2005, so his old tweets are fair game. Nothing wrong with the tweets (except the fall and the mallard one because there's 0 context) but it's always funny seeing these people never meeting their impossibly high standards.

Those standards are for you and me, not the elect. It's sort of like how the 9/11 hijackers could have bacon for breakfast, whore around and drink all day, and still get into heaven by snackbaring something.


Not *cough* Zack.
Forum Staff
True & Honest Fan
Feb 5, 2018
OP has been updated.

Wendig being fired lit a fire on the asses of a lot of "professionals" who enjoy shitting on their respective fandoms. One hilarious interaction was a journo threatening that there would be consequences for Marvel firing Wendig: (
C.A. Maggot on Twitter.png

He’s so baby faced I wonder if he got his parent permission to post his little threats:
Album - Google+.png
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I hated Woody Woodpecker and Scooby-Doo.
Retired Staff
True & Honest Fan
Dec 28, 2014
OP has been updated.

Wendig being fired lit a fire on the asses of a lot of "professionals" who enjoy shitting on their respective fandoms. One hilarious interaction was a journo threatening that there would be consequences for Marvel firing Wendig: (
View attachment 568343
He’s so baby faced I wonder if he got his parent permission to post his little threats:
View attachment 568346
Wendig being fired lit a fire on the asses of a lot of "professionals" who enjoy shitting on their respective fandoms. One hilarious interaction was a journo threatening that there would be consequences for Marvel firing Wendig:

Sounds like more of that illegal tortious interference shit. It doesn't require an existing contract. A prospective business relationship is sufficient. Actually carrying through on this threat to anyone who exercised their legal rights, or threatening them to try to intimidate them out of such, is pretty actionable.

These dumb motherfuckers just don't learn.

The Gangster Computer

Buy my games.
True & Honest Fan
Apr 16, 2017
Here's some stuff about him mentioned in other threads.

Here's the cringeworthy cast of his "best-selling" Star Wars: Aftermath novel for those who haven't seen this post in the #ComicsGate or Star Wars threads along with a video criticizing the book and Chuck Wendig's habit of using his forced diversity inserts as a shield against criticism:
Behold the Disney heroes and villains who truly brought stability to the galaxy after the OT!

Hillary Clinton Norra Wexley is the new hero in the books superseding the old heroes. Rae Sloane is the new villain replacing Thrawn which is why he was "banished" in Rebels. Norra was also retconned into being one of the pilots seen in the Death Star II fight from Return of the Jedi and the one who helped Lando blow up the Death Star II, so yeah, don't be surprised if Disney ever tries to release their own "Special Edition" with Kennedy approved edits.

Our new heroes and villainess: (our new heroine, aided by her proud multi-ethnic half-zabrak super genius son and her gay ex-imperial bff) (stronk black wymin human Thrawn who wants to be the new emperor) (the imperial I mentioned who defected because he was gay) (the imperial's gay lover who is a super genius hacker/slicer) (Norra's sister) (Norra's sister's wife and her wife's son is a character in TFA)
Edit: (a legendary and famous genderfluid troon pirate who follows zher own rules and serves as a replacement for Han and Lando. Is referred to as both she and he but prefers to be referred to as "zhe". Zhe is not alien by the way, Chuck has made it clear that zhe's 100% human. Zhe appeared in the second book for Chuck to use as another shield excuse for why his shitty books aren't bad and why hating them makes you a bigot)
Edit End

And here's a video by a reviewer who noted that Chuck Wendig used his fag characters as a shield to avoid criticism. Even Karen Traviss never pulled that kind of stunt as far as I know.
Part of me suspects it was Kennedy who demanded all the old heroes and villains be replaced by diversity/feminism archetypes, but even if that's not the case, it was quite obvious that Chuck was more than happy to go along with it considering his twitter behavior and cranked up the bullshit up to eleven. Its as if he and Rian were separated at birth.


And I'm sure even those of you who don't read SW books have at least heard of Chuck from Ethan Van Schiver and World Class Bullshitters. He usually comes to the defense of Rian Johnson but that usually doesn't last long as he ends up blocking people as soon as they talk back at him.

And here's Chuck trying to start shit with William Shatner for wrongthink.
Archive of Wendig vs Shatner:

A video of Chuck thinking he's fit to teach anyone about being a good writer.

And finally a shit page from his third SW book, Empire's End:

Wendig's gay self-insert said:
Even unconscious the man looks so bloody smug. And trust me: I know smugness well.
You certainly do Chuck. You certainly do.
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Not *cough* Zack.
Forum Staff
True & Honest Fan
Feb 5, 2018
Ok, what the fuck. Not only did he shit all over Star Wars, but he also shat all over Turok? Are you shitting me?
The fascist Saurian soldiers of the Varanid Empire—part dinosaur, part man, all bad news—have seized control of the Lost Valley, and only the mysterious man known as Turok is willing to stand against them! But the all-new Turok only cares about one thing: he's on a quest to track down a missing girl – and she might hold clues as to how the Lost Valley has changed so much! Now Turok must infiltrate a prison camp run by the Varanid Empire in order to get more information about her whereabouts -- and beware, any Varanid soldier who gets in his way – because there's a reason they call him the Dinosaur Hunter!

These covers comes off as fake news when you actually open the book:
RCO001.jpg RCO003.jpg

Iceland Heavy

Formerly Boba's
Sep 27, 2018
View attachment 569011
The fascist Saurian soldiers of the Varanid Empire—part dinosaur, part man, all bad news—have seized control of the Lost Valley, and only the mysterious man known as Turok is willing to stand against them! But the all-new Turok only cares about one thing: he's on a quest to track down a missing girl – and she might hold clues as to how the Lost Valley has changed so much! Now Turok must infiltrate a prison camp run by the Varanid Empire in order to get more information about her whereabouts -- and beware, any Varanid soldier who gets in his way – because there's a reason they call him the Dinosaur Hunter!

These covers comes off as fake news when you actually open the book:
View attachment 569013 View attachment 569012
I was kind of hoping he put actual brownshirt raptors in, even played straight it'd be too over the top to take seriously.