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Anil Dikshit
Apr 11, 2007

Stop editing Wikipedia articles yourself goddamn.


Anil Dikshit
Apr 11, 2007

Local author/former community college adjunct faculty/"punk rocker"


Adam Joseph "Joey" Goebel III (born 1980) is an American author whose work centers around the peculiarities of culture in Middle America. He was raised in Henderson, Kentucky, a small town on the Ohio River across from Evansville, Indiana. His parents, Adam Goebel of Louisville, and Nancy Bingemer Goebel of Henderson, were both social workers and met in Frankfort, Kentucky. His older sister CeCe is also a social worker.

So far, we have extensive goings on about his family, none of them notable. His exwife doesn't even get a mention until paragraph three of the article.


The Mullets
From 1996–2001; prior to becoming a novelist, Goebel sang and played guitar for a punk band called The Mullets with band members Jason Sheeley and Justin Hope. The band played about one hundred shows throughout the Midwest (many in Evansville, Indiana) and released two cassette tapes, a seven-inch EP record, and three Compact Discs.
The band had a rabid following in the Tri-state area of Kentucky, Indiana, and Illinois. Goebel wrote over one hundred songs for the Mullets, some of them bitter love songs ("Swimmin' Alone with the Turkeys"), some scoffing at his surroundings—particularly high school ("At the Pep Rally"), some making fun of popular culture ("Intrusive T.V. Neighbors"), and some purely comedic ("At a Flea Market").

I looked them up on YouTube for you.


Goebel's protagonists are intelligent rebels, sensible madmen, and rejected dreamers disgusted by a society that embraces boy band media and girl glam. His prose laments the absence of originality and morality in contemporary culture.

Here's his website, as listed on Wikipedia:

-the next chuck palianhiuk, probably?

Bonus excerpt from his first novel:


You were born a mistake into a middle-class family that thought they were a high-class family. Your life was fine until your rear end in a top hat parents divorced. Before that it was bike rides, baseball, swimming, and Nintendo. But after the divorce, your Nike Airs walked astray. You blamed yourself at first for your parents’ split, but then you learned to blame them instead, whom you would blame everything on forevermore. As a teenager, you felt your problems at home licensed you to rebel. You partied hard and lived for the weekends. You felt obligated to lose your virginity and you did as soon as someone would help you to do so. You did just well enough in school to get by, saying that you were smart but just didn’t apply yourself. You left home as soon as possible to go to college. You joined a frat. You let females control your destiny. You accidentally got a girl pregnant and felt obligated to marry her. You wanted a boy. You got a job that you hate but it pays the bills as you like to say. Your wife appears not as pretty as she was when you impregnated her, and your eyes are starting to wander. You and your wife consider yourselves better than your neighbors. You are depressed. You smoke weed to help you not be. You work out. You go to a tanning bed. You worry about your hair.

After a lengthy pause, alpha-male says, "Shut up. You don’t know me…I’m not depressed."

You will be. It is bound to happen sometime between your divorce from your cheating wife and when your kids put you in a nursing home.

"That’s it, man. Are you done, or am I gonna have to kick your rear end?"

I throw one more card on the table, the one that says "EMPTY THREAT OF VIOLENCE—A FINAL RESORT." My cards never fail. I’ve got everything from "TOO MUCH INFORMATION" to "I NEED CLOSURE" to "I ALREADY HAVE A BOYFRIEND" to "BAD HAIR DAY?"

I am done. I am sorry for confronting you like I have in front of your peers, some of whom are secretly gay.

At this, the rear end in a top hat’s friends look at each other nervously.

I know how much respect means to you, and I respectfully ask that you refrain from mistreating my friends and me.

"Whatever, dude."

I return to my table. I don’t like doing things like I just did, but the humanoids make it so easy for me, and the fact that they make it so easy for me is why I do it in the first place. I can predict the prettyboy just like I can predict that the guy wearing a bow-tie will be a smart-rear end, that the traveling children’s storyteller will be annoyingly eccentric, that the English teacher will love Garrison Keillor, that the bartender will be exceedingly confident.

"Why do you always have to make a scene like that?" asks Aurora.

You were the one complaining about them staring at us. Are they staring at us now?

The man’s friends are comforting him, patting him on the shoulder.

Then a contagiously funky reggae song comes on. My dining companions and I spontaneously arise and dance in the middle of the restaurant, except for Aurora who just rolls back and forth. We dance like protozoa, squirming unattached, our bodies moving like they don’t even know it. Music, music. Muse, sick muse. The sick muse we will follow to a timeshare on the moon.

I approach my victim, the professional humanoid.

Come on, dude! No hard feelings, right!? Would you like to dance?

"Oh, shut the gently caress up."

I smile, laugh, and proceed with the dancing. I dance as hard as I can since I know that any moment now, someone will tell us to stop and sit down, or more specifically, someone will tell us, "I’m going to have to ask you to stop and sit down."

Anil Dikshit has a new favorite as of 22:41 on Oct 31, 2016

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