Garrison Kelly's Blog, page 120
March 24, 2015
The Franciscan Death Scream
There’s been speculation among every psychic my mother has visited that in a past lives I was always a warrior of some kind. It could have been a barbarian in the dark ages or a marine in Vietnam. I’d say those assessments are true to the fullest extent, especially as they relate to battle cries. Well, these days, the only battle cries I let out are ones where I’m in an extreme amount of pain. You want to know how I define an extreme amount of pain? Stepping on a thumb tack. Banging my elbow against the wall. Banging my head on the roof of a short car. With the way I scream loudly and whiningly in pain, you would have sworn I’d broken a bone or had a limb amputated. But that’s the price of being autistic: high sensitivity to everything, including the most insignificant kind of pain.
My blood draw in 2006 at the Franciscan Hospital in Gig Harbor, Washington was no different. I had to have one because it was part of my physical checkup. Just because I had to have one, didn’t mean I had to particularly enjoy it. Needles are sharp. Sharpness creates pain. Pain creates death screams that make me sound like I’m being fed through a wood chipper or being cut in half crotch first with a chainsaw. I don’t know why people say that needles aren’t a big deal. They’re always going to be sharp and they’re always going to hurt whether they’re drawing blood or threading yarn through a piece of cloth.
My blood draw went exactly how I expected it would. I sat in a chair that looked like it belonged in a dentist’s office. The anxiety in my stomach builds. The nurse tied a rubber tourniquet around my upper arm. The anxiety in my stomach builds even further and now I start making little whining noises. The nurse tells me to look away as if that’s going to help ease the pain. It didn’t matter where I was looking, because the end result was having a bastard sword-like needle plunged into my arm.
As to be expected, I let out a blood-curdling death scream. It was loud. It was throaty. It was slightly girlish. It was like being a female lion in an extreme amount of pain. Apparently, there were frightened little kids in the waiting room who ran upstairs after hearing my shriek of agony and their parents ran after them. Any stragglers would have hurried up after hearing me cry, “Take the needle out! Take the needle out!” The nurse did and I let out another bellow of berserker pain.
Ever since that day, anytime I go to that hospital in Gig Harbor, the nurses and doctors always expect me to scream. They make no attempt to silence me, unlike my mother whose favorite line is always, “There’s no yelling.” Oh, but there is. There is and there always will be, dear mother. There was screaming when I had to have my big toes operated on for ingrown nails, there was screaming when I had to have my foot examined after a cat bite, and there’s even screaming at my eye doctor appointments in Port Orchard when he puts stinging drops in my eyes for a glaucoma test.
Unless my mother is considering a career as a dominatrix, there will be no silence anywhere we go. If we go on another horseback ride in Arizona, my groin and legs are going to hurt so badly that I’ll yell as if they’re being blasted with an AK-47. If my computer malfunctions at home or if a WWE pay-per-view on my Roku freezes up, I’m going to scream and swear at either one until my blood pressure is in the 300’s and my pulse is in the 1000’s.
Three things are certain in my mother’s life as well as the life of anybody who lives with me: death, taxes, and barbaric war cries. The only thing I’m missing is a horned helmet and a double-sided battleaxe. Of course, carrying such a heavy weapon would cause strain and strain causes even more shrills of extreme pain. I’ve got the barbaric ethos down to a science and I haven’t even swung my weapon yet (and I’m not sure I will be able to).
***COMMERCIAL DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***
GUY: I’m eating right and staying in shape. I’ve been doing the Duck Dodger.
GIRL: What’s the Duck Dodger?
GUY: It’s like a triathlon, but with dodge balls.
GIRL: Do they leave a mark?
GUY: Not on the outside.
-Subway-
My blood draw in 2006 at the Franciscan Hospital in Gig Harbor, Washington was no different. I had to have one because it was part of my physical checkup. Just because I had to have one, didn’t mean I had to particularly enjoy it. Needles are sharp. Sharpness creates pain. Pain creates death screams that make me sound like I’m being fed through a wood chipper or being cut in half crotch first with a chainsaw. I don’t know why people say that needles aren’t a big deal. They’re always going to be sharp and they’re always going to hurt whether they’re drawing blood or threading yarn through a piece of cloth.
My blood draw went exactly how I expected it would. I sat in a chair that looked like it belonged in a dentist’s office. The anxiety in my stomach builds. The nurse tied a rubber tourniquet around my upper arm. The anxiety in my stomach builds even further and now I start making little whining noises. The nurse tells me to look away as if that’s going to help ease the pain. It didn’t matter where I was looking, because the end result was having a bastard sword-like needle plunged into my arm.
As to be expected, I let out a blood-curdling death scream. It was loud. It was throaty. It was slightly girlish. It was like being a female lion in an extreme amount of pain. Apparently, there were frightened little kids in the waiting room who ran upstairs after hearing my shriek of agony and their parents ran after them. Any stragglers would have hurried up after hearing me cry, “Take the needle out! Take the needle out!” The nurse did and I let out another bellow of berserker pain.
Ever since that day, anytime I go to that hospital in Gig Harbor, the nurses and doctors always expect me to scream. They make no attempt to silence me, unlike my mother whose favorite line is always, “There’s no yelling.” Oh, but there is. There is and there always will be, dear mother. There was screaming when I had to have my big toes operated on for ingrown nails, there was screaming when I had to have my foot examined after a cat bite, and there’s even screaming at my eye doctor appointments in Port Orchard when he puts stinging drops in my eyes for a glaucoma test.
Unless my mother is considering a career as a dominatrix, there will be no silence anywhere we go. If we go on another horseback ride in Arizona, my groin and legs are going to hurt so badly that I’ll yell as if they’re being blasted with an AK-47. If my computer malfunctions at home or if a WWE pay-per-view on my Roku freezes up, I’m going to scream and swear at either one until my blood pressure is in the 300’s and my pulse is in the 1000’s.
Three things are certain in my mother’s life as well as the life of anybody who lives with me: death, taxes, and barbaric war cries. The only thing I’m missing is a horned helmet and a double-sided battleaxe. Of course, carrying such a heavy weapon would cause strain and strain causes even more shrills of extreme pain. I’ve got the barbaric ethos down to a science and I haven’t even swung my weapon yet (and I’m not sure I will be able to).
***COMMERCIAL DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***
GUY: I’m eating right and staying in shape. I’ve been doing the Duck Dodger.
GIRL: What’s the Duck Dodger?
GUY: It’s like a triathlon, but with dodge balls.
GIRL: Do they leave a mark?
GUY: Not on the outside.
-Subway-
March 10, 2015
Chris Hammer
NAME: Chris Hammer
AGE: 43
OCCUPATION: Fitness Guru
CANON: Jumping Jackholes
If you’re ever feeling bad about how much you weigh or what your body looks like, the world’s biggest jerk-ass known as Chris Hammer will make you feel even worse as part of his motivational gimmick. He’s got muscles the size of pumpkins, veins the size of pipelines, blood flowing through his steroid stream, and more anger in his heart than the entire Westboro Baptist Church. Speaking of the latter, Chris Hammer hates fat people so much that he has become a venomous bigot. He might as well hold up a rainbow colored sign that says “God Hates Fats”.
The worst part about this nimrod? He has his own TV show. That’s right, folks. People desperate to lose weight actually turn on their tubes and listen to a full hour of Chris Hammer screaming anti-fat slurs at them while doing exercises that are ridiculously hard even for the physically fit. Because he’s so disgustingly strong, he can do things like move boulders, do jumping jacks while carrying cannonballs, do pushups with fat customers on his back, and run a mile in less than ten seconds. His only response: “What’s your excuse?” And if you don’t have an excuse, relax, because he’ll put it all into perspective for you. In a thunderous voice, he’ll threaten to give your food away to hungry children in Africa because you’re fat enough to have a heart attack any minute now.
The best way to deal with this prick would be to punch him in the mouth, right? Well, part of being muscular is having a high tolerance for pain. Plus, Chris Hammer just happens to have a chiseled jaw, so you would probably break your fist before you broke his face. What about firepower? Are you so desperate to see this guy killed that you need to arm yourself with pistols and shotguns? Maybe even rocket launchers? Once again, the rocket shell would turn to shrapnel before Chris Hammer turned to fire and ashes. Due to this guy’s indestructibility, he has a complex that makes him feel entitled to belittle others because he has everything going for him.
Know any celebrities like that? I can name a few off the top of my head right now. Donald Trump comes to mind. He has so much money that he can manipulate the odds when he’s suing other people for even more money. Mel Gibson is next on deck. He has so much celebrity status that he believes he’s entitled to scream at his wife or girlfriend, maybe even beat her. Phil Robertson is yet another example. Because he has his own TV show and immerses himself in Christian culture every damn second of his life, he believes he is entitled to use homophobic slurs without facing backlash. Donald Trump, Mel Gibson, and Phil Robertson are nothing more than prototypes for Chris Hammer, yet another guy who uses his power to oppress others.
The last time I wrote something as bold as Jumping Jackholes, it was 2012 and I was desperate for novella ideas. And because 2012 was an uneducated year for me, I firmly believed back then that hyperbolic descriptions and unbelievable endings were acceptable. Now we come to today’s world where Jumping Jackholes has been deleted from my archives and this asshole Complete Monster Chris Hammer is left without employment. Normally, using Complete Monsters is a bad thing because it disenfranchises the reader. But just like Mary-Sues, Gary-Stus, and any other character who’s labeled with a literary slur, Complete Monsters come in all shapes and colors. If Chris Hammer gets used again, I will definitely take my fitness frustrations out on him.
***WRESTLING QUOTE OF THE DAY***
“What’s wrong with you, Jamie Noble? Are you upset with me because people actually know who I am? Or is it because unlike you, I can get on all the rides at Disneyland? Don’t worry, Jamie, my six-year-old daughter feels the same way.”
-Randy Orton-
AGE: 43
OCCUPATION: Fitness Guru
CANON: Jumping Jackholes
If you’re ever feeling bad about how much you weigh or what your body looks like, the world’s biggest jerk-ass known as Chris Hammer will make you feel even worse as part of his motivational gimmick. He’s got muscles the size of pumpkins, veins the size of pipelines, blood flowing through his steroid stream, and more anger in his heart than the entire Westboro Baptist Church. Speaking of the latter, Chris Hammer hates fat people so much that he has become a venomous bigot. He might as well hold up a rainbow colored sign that says “God Hates Fats”.
The worst part about this nimrod? He has his own TV show. That’s right, folks. People desperate to lose weight actually turn on their tubes and listen to a full hour of Chris Hammer screaming anti-fat slurs at them while doing exercises that are ridiculously hard even for the physically fit. Because he’s so disgustingly strong, he can do things like move boulders, do jumping jacks while carrying cannonballs, do pushups with fat customers on his back, and run a mile in less than ten seconds. His only response: “What’s your excuse?” And if you don’t have an excuse, relax, because he’ll put it all into perspective for you. In a thunderous voice, he’ll threaten to give your food away to hungry children in Africa because you’re fat enough to have a heart attack any minute now.
The best way to deal with this prick would be to punch him in the mouth, right? Well, part of being muscular is having a high tolerance for pain. Plus, Chris Hammer just happens to have a chiseled jaw, so you would probably break your fist before you broke his face. What about firepower? Are you so desperate to see this guy killed that you need to arm yourself with pistols and shotguns? Maybe even rocket launchers? Once again, the rocket shell would turn to shrapnel before Chris Hammer turned to fire and ashes. Due to this guy’s indestructibility, he has a complex that makes him feel entitled to belittle others because he has everything going for him.
Know any celebrities like that? I can name a few off the top of my head right now. Donald Trump comes to mind. He has so much money that he can manipulate the odds when he’s suing other people for even more money. Mel Gibson is next on deck. He has so much celebrity status that he believes he’s entitled to scream at his wife or girlfriend, maybe even beat her. Phil Robertson is yet another example. Because he has his own TV show and immerses himself in Christian culture every damn second of his life, he believes he is entitled to use homophobic slurs without facing backlash. Donald Trump, Mel Gibson, and Phil Robertson are nothing more than prototypes for Chris Hammer, yet another guy who uses his power to oppress others.
The last time I wrote something as bold as Jumping Jackholes, it was 2012 and I was desperate for novella ideas. And because 2012 was an uneducated year for me, I firmly believed back then that hyperbolic descriptions and unbelievable endings were acceptable. Now we come to today’s world where Jumping Jackholes has been deleted from my archives and this asshole Complete Monster Chris Hammer is left without employment. Normally, using Complete Monsters is a bad thing because it disenfranchises the reader. But just like Mary-Sues, Gary-Stus, and any other character who’s labeled with a literary slur, Complete Monsters come in all shapes and colors. If Chris Hammer gets used again, I will definitely take my fitness frustrations out on him.
***WRESTLING QUOTE OF THE DAY***
“What’s wrong with you, Jamie Noble? Are you upset with me because people actually know who I am? Or is it because unlike you, I can get on all the rides at Disneyland? Don’t worry, Jamie, my six-year-old daughter feels the same way.”
-Randy Orton-
March 9, 2015
UFC: Ronda Rousey vs. Alexis Davis
MATCH: Ronda Rousey vs. Alexis Davis for the former’s Women’s Bantamweight Championship
PROMOTION: Ultimate Fighting Championship
EVENT: UFC 175: Weidman vs. Machida
YEAR: 2014
RATING: TV-14 for violence
GRADE: Pass
If you’re a UFC fan and you’re looking to make some quick money in Las Vegas, you would be a fool not to bet in favor of Ronda Rousey. In case you’ve been living under a rock for the past few years, here’s the deal with this badass chick. She’s undefeated in mixed-martial arts. She’s the current UFC Bantamweight Champion. Every fight she’s been in with the exception of one has ended in the first round. She’s earned a shit-load of awards from the MMA community. She’s an Olympic bronze medalist in judo (her main fighting style). She has movie deals with the Expendables and Fast and Furious franchises. She’s hotter than hell. She has so much going for her that her list of achievements would easily become a novel if I spouted them off to you.
Her opponent for UFC 175 isn’t anybody to sneeze at either. She is Alexis Davis. To earn her shot at Ronda, Alexis had to defeat three badass chicks in succession, which isn’t easy to do by any stretch of the imagination. Those three badass chicks are Rosi Sexton, Liz Carmouche, and Jessica Eye, all three of which have been in MMA for a long time and could destroy anybody in the blink of an eye. Granted, she beat those three via decision, but the argument will always be made that decision victories show how much endurance a fighter has. Alexis Davis will need a ton of endurance if she wants a victory of Ronda Rousey.
And now the field is set for what is sure to be an epic confrontation between two demon slayers. It is the co-main event of the evening, so the pressure on both ladies is especially high. The minute referee Yves Lavigne starts the match, Ronda and Alexis don’t waste any time in engaging with each other.
They throw punches, kicks, knees, and live to tell about all of those shots. And then out of nowhere comes the beginning of the end for Alexis Davis: a judo hip toss to the mat, which is not only a hard landing, but also a squashing technique since all 135 lbs. of Ronda Rousey’s body comes crashing down on Alexis Davis’ chest. With her arms trapped, Alexis has nothing to defend herself against the Armageddon-style rain of fists that come pouring down on her forehead. After ten stiff shots, Alexis’ arms go limp and that’s when Yves Lavigne stops the fight and awards Ronda a knockout victory.
There are two things about Ronda’s victory that are particularly amazing. One, after Yves Lavigne pulled Ronda off of Alexis, the latter was grappling with him thinking the match was still going on. That’s right, folks: Alexis was so punch drunk that she mistook a bald elderly referee for a smoking hot blond chick. And Alexis was really holding on tightly until Yves Lavigne explained to her over and over again that the match was over and she was knocked out.
And then of course, there’s the biggest elephant in the room when it comes to Ronda’s eventual Performance of the Night award: the judo queen won in only 16 seconds in the first round. Think of all the things one could do in 16 seconds of his or her life: make a cup of coffee, sign an autograph, eat a candy bar, just basic stuff. You know what Ronda Rousey did in 16 seconds? She beat the living hell out of another badass chick.
If you’ve read my review of a WWE match between Daniel Bryan and Sheamus at Wrestlemania 28, you would have seen that it got a failing grade due to the shortness of it all. And yet, Ronda Rousey vs. Alexis Davis in the UFC gets a passing grade even though it was only 16 seconds long. It seems hypocritical on the surface, but it’s not. In the WWE, we as an audience expect a long and dazzling battle complete with acrobatics and stiff shots.
In the UFC, if someone gets a fast victory over a legitimate fighter, it’s not scripted; it’s goddamn incredible. If Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader had a light saber fight that only lasted 16 seconds, we would all be disappointed because Star Wars is fictional and the writers have all the leeway in the world to create a war between those two. UFC is as real as it gets. It’s not pretty. It’s not dazzling. It’s just honest hardcore violence.
The phrase “don’t blink” has become used to many times in sports that it’s considered a cliché. And yet, for this match, it’s so true that you need Clockwork Orange eye bracers to keep from missing a single part of the match. And speaking of which, if Alex De Large watched this match while undergoing aversion therapy, the brutal violence would send his body into shock. No nausea, no shaking, no dizziness, just cardiac arrest.
Thank you, Ronda Rousey for putting on a judo clinic and giving the audience another reason to cheer for you. Thanks for doing it again at UFC 183 by defeating Cat Zingano in 14 seconds with a straight arm bar. If you’re going to watch a Ronda Rousey fight these days, make sure your watch has a second hand on it.
PROMOTION: Ultimate Fighting Championship
EVENT: UFC 175: Weidman vs. Machida
YEAR: 2014
RATING: TV-14 for violence
GRADE: Pass
If you’re a UFC fan and you’re looking to make some quick money in Las Vegas, you would be a fool not to bet in favor of Ronda Rousey. In case you’ve been living under a rock for the past few years, here’s the deal with this badass chick. She’s undefeated in mixed-martial arts. She’s the current UFC Bantamweight Champion. Every fight she’s been in with the exception of one has ended in the first round. She’s earned a shit-load of awards from the MMA community. She’s an Olympic bronze medalist in judo (her main fighting style). She has movie deals with the Expendables and Fast and Furious franchises. She’s hotter than hell. She has so much going for her that her list of achievements would easily become a novel if I spouted them off to you.
Her opponent for UFC 175 isn’t anybody to sneeze at either. She is Alexis Davis. To earn her shot at Ronda, Alexis had to defeat three badass chicks in succession, which isn’t easy to do by any stretch of the imagination. Those three badass chicks are Rosi Sexton, Liz Carmouche, and Jessica Eye, all three of which have been in MMA for a long time and could destroy anybody in the blink of an eye. Granted, she beat those three via decision, but the argument will always be made that decision victories show how much endurance a fighter has. Alexis Davis will need a ton of endurance if she wants a victory of Ronda Rousey.
And now the field is set for what is sure to be an epic confrontation between two demon slayers. It is the co-main event of the evening, so the pressure on both ladies is especially high. The minute referee Yves Lavigne starts the match, Ronda and Alexis don’t waste any time in engaging with each other.
They throw punches, kicks, knees, and live to tell about all of those shots. And then out of nowhere comes the beginning of the end for Alexis Davis: a judo hip toss to the mat, which is not only a hard landing, but also a squashing technique since all 135 lbs. of Ronda Rousey’s body comes crashing down on Alexis Davis’ chest. With her arms trapped, Alexis has nothing to defend herself against the Armageddon-style rain of fists that come pouring down on her forehead. After ten stiff shots, Alexis’ arms go limp and that’s when Yves Lavigne stops the fight and awards Ronda a knockout victory.
There are two things about Ronda’s victory that are particularly amazing. One, after Yves Lavigne pulled Ronda off of Alexis, the latter was grappling with him thinking the match was still going on. That’s right, folks: Alexis was so punch drunk that she mistook a bald elderly referee for a smoking hot blond chick. And Alexis was really holding on tightly until Yves Lavigne explained to her over and over again that the match was over and she was knocked out.
And then of course, there’s the biggest elephant in the room when it comes to Ronda’s eventual Performance of the Night award: the judo queen won in only 16 seconds in the first round. Think of all the things one could do in 16 seconds of his or her life: make a cup of coffee, sign an autograph, eat a candy bar, just basic stuff. You know what Ronda Rousey did in 16 seconds? She beat the living hell out of another badass chick.
If you’ve read my review of a WWE match between Daniel Bryan and Sheamus at Wrestlemania 28, you would have seen that it got a failing grade due to the shortness of it all. And yet, Ronda Rousey vs. Alexis Davis in the UFC gets a passing grade even though it was only 16 seconds long. It seems hypocritical on the surface, but it’s not. In the WWE, we as an audience expect a long and dazzling battle complete with acrobatics and stiff shots.
In the UFC, if someone gets a fast victory over a legitimate fighter, it’s not scripted; it’s goddamn incredible. If Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader had a light saber fight that only lasted 16 seconds, we would all be disappointed because Star Wars is fictional and the writers have all the leeway in the world to create a war between those two. UFC is as real as it gets. It’s not pretty. It’s not dazzling. It’s just honest hardcore violence.
The phrase “don’t blink” has become used to many times in sports that it’s considered a cliché. And yet, for this match, it’s so true that you need Clockwork Orange eye bracers to keep from missing a single part of the match. And speaking of which, if Alex De Large watched this match while undergoing aversion therapy, the brutal violence would send his body into shock. No nausea, no shaking, no dizziness, just cardiac arrest.
Thank you, Ronda Rousey for putting on a judo clinic and giving the audience another reason to cheer for you. Thanks for doing it again at UFC 183 by defeating Cat Zingano in 14 seconds with a straight arm bar. If you’re going to watch a Ronda Rousey fight these days, make sure your watch has a second hand on it.
March 2, 2015
The A&W Hotdog Eating Debacle
Whenever I go out on public with Susan, it is a must that I embarrass her front of everyone with my social awkwardness. Whether it’s screaming in pain at a high volume or making crude sexual or death jokes, if someone is around us, they’ll remember it forever. The only way they will ever forget my public antics is either through chugging a bottle of Xanax or EMDR therapy. They might even qualify for social security after I’m through with them, you never know.
One of my favorite ways to embarrass Susan in public is where we’re eating at a restaurant or a food court and I eat a gigantic mountain of meat slathered in all sorts of disgusting sauces. Whenever she sees me eat a cheeseburger with four patties, eight slices of cheese, God knows how many pieces of bacon, and a pound of mayonnaise and olive oil, Susan immediately gets the urge to vomit herself inside out. Her nausea is equivalent to a mixed-martial artist getting kicked in the liver: the oxygen is gone and the acid is boiling inside like a bubbling marsh.
The opportunity presented itself one night while Susan, her daughter Reina, and I ate at A&W for a night of cheeseburgers, fries, onion rings, and middle school toilet humor. Me eating gigantic hamburgers and greasy French fries was bad enough for Susan, but the middle school toilet humor was what really started to make her boil with embarrassment. It wasn’t until I ordered a bacon cheddar hotdog that things really started to get out of hand.
A bacon cheddar hotdog is exactly how it sounds: it’s a hotdog in a bun drenched with fake nacho cheese and sprinkled with sloppy chunks of bacon. It was a cardiovascular dream come true for me and Susan’s worst stomach churning nightmare. From the minute I took the first bite, she started feeling ill and was showing it with the saggy frown on her face and her tongue hanging out. It got from bad to worse when some of the cheese and bacon landed in my Diet Pepsi…and I drank it anyways.
“Can I get my food to go, please?” said a nearby customer who was eating with his elementary school-aged kid. Although the customer didn’t mention the reason for wanting his food to go, it was pretty obvious to me, Susan, and Reina. Me and Reina laughed our asses off while Susan slapped herself on the forehead and shook her head no in shame. Just for reassurance, I asked, “Is he leaving because of me?” Susan not only said yes, but hell yes.
Me and Susan didn’t return to A&W for a while after that night. But one night while I was supposed to withdraw money for her, we decided to go through the drive-through (without Reina this time, so the middle school toilet humor was even worse than before). Susan wanted a root beer float while I ordered three bacon cheddar hotdogs. I repeat: three of them this time, not one.
If Susan wasn’t getting ready to barf all over the steering wheel already, she would be when the nice clerks gave me a free bacon double cheeseburger to go with everything else. The universe must have really appreciated my positive thoughts or something. As for Susan’s negative thoughts to the universe, all she got was a few bites of her root beer float and then she didn’t want anymore. The whole drive home she kept complaining about an aching stomach. Luckily, the car stayed clean for the drive home. If she ever did throw up, it would for sure rival the vomit scene from Poltergeist 2 where the father spit up a hideous demon.
My eating habits at A&W were Hall of Fame worthy when it comes to socially awkward behavior. The diarrhea dump that resulted from those habits was even more disgusting since the entire house smelled like the Bremerton Sewage Plant (that’s Reina’s description, not mine). Whether it’s Susan’s stomach acid or my sloppy shit, if someone was making a reality show out of our lives, it would be rated TV-MA for graphic violence. Suck on that, Human Centipede! Actually, don’t suck on anything, because that would be gross.
***WRESTLING QUOTE OF THE DAY***
“I know a lot of you think that the new national pastime in the oral office is swallow the leader. But I can assure you, I did not, I repeat, I did not sleep with that young intern. In fact, I was up all night!”
-Shawn Michaels during the “DX Apology Speech”-
One of my favorite ways to embarrass Susan in public is where we’re eating at a restaurant or a food court and I eat a gigantic mountain of meat slathered in all sorts of disgusting sauces. Whenever she sees me eat a cheeseburger with four patties, eight slices of cheese, God knows how many pieces of bacon, and a pound of mayonnaise and olive oil, Susan immediately gets the urge to vomit herself inside out. Her nausea is equivalent to a mixed-martial artist getting kicked in the liver: the oxygen is gone and the acid is boiling inside like a bubbling marsh.
The opportunity presented itself one night while Susan, her daughter Reina, and I ate at A&W for a night of cheeseburgers, fries, onion rings, and middle school toilet humor. Me eating gigantic hamburgers and greasy French fries was bad enough for Susan, but the middle school toilet humor was what really started to make her boil with embarrassment. It wasn’t until I ordered a bacon cheddar hotdog that things really started to get out of hand.
A bacon cheddar hotdog is exactly how it sounds: it’s a hotdog in a bun drenched with fake nacho cheese and sprinkled with sloppy chunks of bacon. It was a cardiovascular dream come true for me and Susan’s worst stomach churning nightmare. From the minute I took the first bite, she started feeling ill and was showing it with the saggy frown on her face and her tongue hanging out. It got from bad to worse when some of the cheese and bacon landed in my Diet Pepsi…and I drank it anyways.
“Can I get my food to go, please?” said a nearby customer who was eating with his elementary school-aged kid. Although the customer didn’t mention the reason for wanting his food to go, it was pretty obvious to me, Susan, and Reina. Me and Reina laughed our asses off while Susan slapped herself on the forehead and shook her head no in shame. Just for reassurance, I asked, “Is he leaving because of me?” Susan not only said yes, but hell yes.
Me and Susan didn’t return to A&W for a while after that night. But one night while I was supposed to withdraw money for her, we decided to go through the drive-through (without Reina this time, so the middle school toilet humor was even worse than before). Susan wanted a root beer float while I ordered three bacon cheddar hotdogs. I repeat: three of them this time, not one.
If Susan wasn’t getting ready to barf all over the steering wheel already, she would be when the nice clerks gave me a free bacon double cheeseburger to go with everything else. The universe must have really appreciated my positive thoughts or something. As for Susan’s negative thoughts to the universe, all she got was a few bites of her root beer float and then she didn’t want anymore. The whole drive home she kept complaining about an aching stomach. Luckily, the car stayed clean for the drive home. If she ever did throw up, it would for sure rival the vomit scene from Poltergeist 2 where the father spit up a hideous demon.
My eating habits at A&W were Hall of Fame worthy when it comes to socially awkward behavior. The diarrhea dump that resulted from those habits was even more disgusting since the entire house smelled like the Bremerton Sewage Plant (that’s Reina’s description, not mine). Whether it’s Susan’s stomach acid or my sloppy shit, if someone was making a reality show out of our lives, it would be rated TV-MA for graphic violence. Suck on that, Human Centipede! Actually, don’t suck on anything, because that would be gross.
***WRESTLING QUOTE OF THE DAY***
“I know a lot of you think that the new national pastime in the oral office is swallow the leader. But I can assure you, I did not, I repeat, I did not sleep with that young intern. In fact, I was up all night!”
-Shawn Michaels during the “DX Apology Speech”-
February 28, 2015
Wade Fish
NAME: Wade Fish
AGE: 31
OCCUPATION: Prisoner
CANON: Pretty Colors
When certain people grow up with a tough life in a crime-infested neighborhood, they look for positive ways to leave it all behind. Some people turn to music, some turn to sports, some even go so far as to join the military. And then you have those who are so consumed with their demons that their only escape comes from the worst kind of drugs available, either from the streets or at the local Walgreen’s. Guess which kind of escapist Wade Fish turned out to be. I’ll give you a clue: it involves hypodermic needles, a snorting straw, and pill bottles.
When most people look at Wade, they only see his dirty appearance. They don’t see the past he tried to leave behind. He was bullied in school by teachers and students alike. He was abused by his step-father. Crime was everywhere in his ghetto neighborhood. At the age of 31, he still lived with his abusive step-father and frightened mother. To summarize everything I’ve just said, Wade was not only dealt a crappy hand, but he willingly gave up his chips in exchange for a life in the gutter.
If there was a drug within Wade’s reach, he did it and became a zombie afterwards. He swallowed pills despite not knowing what they were. He snorted cocaine despite never knowing where it came from. He shot heroin into his veins and formed infections around both arms. And when the high took over, he was unstoppable. Wade would lash out at anybody who passed him. It didn’t matter if you were a gangster, a school student, or even a cop on foot: if Wade had a knife, you were fucking dead. Unfortunately for him, he found the one cop who was willing to shoot him in the leg in order to subdue him
Though in today’s warrior cop world, Wade would have been dead a long time ago. But since I need a story worth writing, his story won’t end at the hands of a brutal police officer. While in prison, Wade is offered a chance at freedom on the condition that he undergoes “behavioral modification”. If this sounds at all like a cheap knockoff of either A Clockwork Orange or the fourth story in Tales From the Hood, it’s because Pretty Colors was. And just like Crazy K from the latter of the two movies I’ve mentioned, Wade didn’t give a fuck about anybody’s feelings; he just wanted an easy way back on the streets.
The best way to relieve someone of traumatic stress is to take away their demons or at least neutralize them. In a part of prison called The Diamond Room (which is a colorful version of Crazy K’s sensory deprivation chamber), Wade Fish can do just that by confronting the people from his past who fucked him over. One by one, the “demons” come to life. First it’s his mother. Then it’s his teacher. Then its his stepfather. And now it’s a multi-headed hydra with all three of their heads, plus the heads of the warden and the scientist who created The Diamond Room in the first place. Wade goes into an “I don’t give a fuck!” rage at each of his demons and ends up dying in the colorful room due to a stroke brought on by a seizure.
After Wade dies, the REAL warden and scientist enter the room and say that The Diamond Room, “Just needs some fine tuning.” Really? That was the problem with this whole setup: it wasn’t tweaked enough? Never mind that a human being’s life was on the line. And by the way, just like with any prisoner, Wade’s legacy was buried deep within the beaurocracy of the prison and his body was thrown away like common garbage. Wisdom, justice, and love, my ass.
Even though Wade’s disturbing past is enough of a reason for him to gain sympathy, he will be cast as a villain for the next time I use him. He technically could be a “sympathetic villain”. Maybe he can be like the narrator in “A Million Little Pieces” and just be a lovable asshole. Either that or he can be a low level henchman who’s doing it all for the smack. So many doors can be opened for Wade Fish. All that’s left is for him to walk through one of those doors and become a literary icon. Or I could just bury him again, that always works out so well.
***MOVIE QUOTE OF THE DAY***
“You get me slapped with a fine, you argue with the customers and I have to patch everything up, you get us thrown out of a funeral home for violating a corpse, and to top it all off, you ruin my relationship! I mean, what is your encore?! Do you anally rape my mother while pouring sugar in my gas tank?! You know what the real tragedy behind all of this is?! I’m not even supposed to be here today!”
-Dante Hicks from “Clerks”-
AGE: 31
OCCUPATION: Prisoner
CANON: Pretty Colors
When certain people grow up with a tough life in a crime-infested neighborhood, they look for positive ways to leave it all behind. Some people turn to music, some turn to sports, some even go so far as to join the military. And then you have those who are so consumed with their demons that their only escape comes from the worst kind of drugs available, either from the streets or at the local Walgreen’s. Guess which kind of escapist Wade Fish turned out to be. I’ll give you a clue: it involves hypodermic needles, a snorting straw, and pill bottles.
When most people look at Wade, they only see his dirty appearance. They don’t see the past he tried to leave behind. He was bullied in school by teachers and students alike. He was abused by his step-father. Crime was everywhere in his ghetto neighborhood. At the age of 31, he still lived with his abusive step-father and frightened mother. To summarize everything I’ve just said, Wade was not only dealt a crappy hand, but he willingly gave up his chips in exchange for a life in the gutter.
If there was a drug within Wade’s reach, he did it and became a zombie afterwards. He swallowed pills despite not knowing what they were. He snorted cocaine despite never knowing where it came from. He shot heroin into his veins and formed infections around both arms. And when the high took over, he was unstoppable. Wade would lash out at anybody who passed him. It didn’t matter if you were a gangster, a school student, or even a cop on foot: if Wade had a knife, you were fucking dead. Unfortunately for him, he found the one cop who was willing to shoot him in the leg in order to subdue him
Though in today’s warrior cop world, Wade would have been dead a long time ago. But since I need a story worth writing, his story won’t end at the hands of a brutal police officer. While in prison, Wade is offered a chance at freedom on the condition that he undergoes “behavioral modification”. If this sounds at all like a cheap knockoff of either A Clockwork Orange or the fourth story in Tales From the Hood, it’s because Pretty Colors was. And just like Crazy K from the latter of the two movies I’ve mentioned, Wade didn’t give a fuck about anybody’s feelings; he just wanted an easy way back on the streets.
The best way to relieve someone of traumatic stress is to take away their demons or at least neutralize them. In a part of prison called The Diamond Room (which is a colorful version of Crazy K’s sensory deprivation chamber), Wade Fish can do just that by confronting the people from his past who fucked him over. One by one, the “demons” come to life. First it’s his mother. Then it’s his teacher. Then its his stepfather. And now it’s a multi-headed hydra with all three of their heads, plus the heads of the warden and the scientist who created The Diamond Room in the first place. Wade goes into an “I don’t give a fuck!” rage at each of his demons and ends up dying in the colorful room due to a stroke brought on by a seizure.
After Wade dies, the REAL warden and scientist enter the room and say that The Diamond Room, “Just needs some fine tuning.” Really? That was the problem with this whole setup: it wasn’t tweaked enough? Never mind that a human being’s life was on the line. And by the way, just like with any prisoner, Wade’s legacy was buried deep within the beaurocracy of the prison and his body was thrown away like common garbage. Wisdom, justice, and love, my ass.
Even though Wade’s disturbing past is enough of a reason for him to gain sympathy, he will be cast as a villain for the next time I use him. He technically could be a “sympathetic villain”. Maybe he can be like the narrator in “A Million Little Pieces” and just be a lovable asshole. Either that or he can be a low level henchman who’s doing it all for the smack. So many doors can be opened for Wade Fish. All that’s left is for him to walk through one of those doors and become a literary icon. Or I could just bury him again, that always works out so well.
***MOVIE QUOTE OF THE DAY***
“You get me slapped with a fine, you argue with the customers and I have to patch everything up, you get us thrown out of a funeral home for violating a corpse, and to top it all off, you ruin my relationship! I mean, what is your encore?! Do you anally rape my mother while pouring sugar in my gas tank?! You know what the real tragedy behind all of this is?! I’m not even supposed to be here today!”
-Dante Hicks from “Clerks”-
February 20, 2015
Hair Masters and Introversion
WWE superstar Daniel Bryan is one lucky dude. He’s got main event status, he’s got a super hot wife, he’s got legions of adoring fans, but the one thing I will always be jealous over is his love of having long hair and a scraggly beard. In other words, he doesn’t have to spend any money at Hair Masters because he lets his hair grow out. I don’t have that kind of tolerance for my own hair whether it’s growing on my head or on my face. When it’s long, it needs to be buzzed to half an inch of hair or else it’ll annoy the shit out of me. I have fast-growing hair, so these appointments at Hair Masters happen once every two or three months.
And then once I get comfortable in that barber’s chair, the verbal diarrhea flies at a million miles an hour. As an introvert, I despise small talk. There’s no point to it, it’s mentally draining, and the extroverts who try to engage me in it don’t actually give two shits about the answers I give them. I suppose I could remedy this problem with my barbers by telling them I’m introverted, but that wouldn’t be socially appropriate, would it? Then again, caring what other people think of me isn’t one of my strong points. If I can make a bunch of giggly Texan women uncomfortable, I can do the same with my barbers. Here are a few of the stupid questions I’ve been asked at Hair Masters along with my awkward responses:
BARBER: What do you do?
ME: Nothing.
BARBER: Nothing?
ME: I’m unemployed.
BARBER: You’re just hanging around?
ME: I guess.
I’ve often contemplated giving the answer of “I work with homeless children in the Democratic Society of Who Gives a Fuck”, but that would probably be more awkward than telling the barber I don’t have a job. Susan suggested to me that I say I’m “In between jobs”, but I’m not since I don’t have an employment history. What am I supposed to do, lie? Anyways, continuing on with the conversations I’ve had…
BARBER: Are you doing anything fun today?
ME: No.
BARBER: Oh….What do you like to do for fun?
ME: Read and write.
BARBER: Oh cool! What do you like to write?
ME: A little bit of everything.
At this point, I wonder when my barber is going to figure out that my life isn’t that exciting. Apparently, they never do, so the bullshit keeps flying.
BARBER: Have you lived here all your life?
ME: No.
BARBER: Where are you from?
ME: Here. I just haven’t lived here all my life.
BARBER: Oh.
Unless you’re planning on coming over to my house and watching the WWE Network with me, you have no business asking me where I live. It’s irrelevant. It’s meaningless. But most of all, it’s bullshit!
BARBER: Are you excited for school?
ME: I don’t go to school.
BARBER: Are you home schooled?
ME: I’m 29 years old.
BARBER: Oh! Are you doing the college thing?
ME: I already graduated.
BARBER: Oh cool! What did you get your degree in?
ME: English.
BARBER: What are you doing with your degree?
ME: I’m trying to be an author.
BARBER: You know what would be cool? If you wrote a book about World War II.
ME: I’m not interested.
If this woman was any nosier than she already is, she would be a police bloodhound. What does she need this information for, anyways?! Is that that starved for WW2 literature that she needs to ask a complete stranger with no interest in history to write it for her?! Speaking of history…
BARBER: What would you recommend for me to read?
ME: What do you like?
BARBER: Historical fiction.
ME: I don’t read historical fiction, so I wouldn’t know.
BARBER: Oh, okay.
Actually, my answer wasn’t entirely true. The last piece of historical fiction I read was “The Sisters Brothers” by Patrick DeWitt. It’s a western, but I don’t think that’s what she had in mind. Besides, it didn’t come to me during the conversation, so I left it out.
BARBER: Do you have any brothers or sisters?
ME: I have an older brother.
BARBER: Did he get his English degree too?
ME: He got a pharmacy degree.
BARBER: Oh cool!
ME: Me and my brother don’t like the same things.
BARBER: Oh.
Jesus, woman, get your nose out of my ass already! I shouldn’t have to sit at my computer desk writing something other than a WW2 novel with a rectal donut on my seat cushion! Ugh! Anyways, after these boring conversations that don’t lead anywhere, I feel so mentally exhausted that I need a nap when I get home. When I pay my bill, I leave a five dollar tip regardless of how nosy the barber was. Hey, I got a good haircut and you can’t argue with a good haircut. Then again, it’s hard to fuck up a buzz cut with half an inch of hair remaining. Any asshole off of the streets can do it. Maybe I should get myself a Wahl clipper and forget the pointless banter altogether.
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“It’s a meaningless end to the story. Got no time for my forgotten glory. And now just when I know what I’m after, it just brings me to laughter. Just save up all your nickels and dimes. Let’s see what you’ll find and you’ll know. I guess I’m living day to day. Just hope that you get led astray. Hell yeah. I guess I’m living day to day. Hear what I say. I just died for a piece of the pie, but I’d be glad just to feast on the pie crust.”
-Love Among Freaks singing “Clerks”-
And then once I get comfortable in that barber’s chair, the verbal diarrhea flies at a million miles an hour. As an introvert, I despise small talk. There’s no point to it, it’s mentally draining, and the extroverts who try to engage me in it don’t actually give two shits about the answers I give them. I suppose I could remedy this problem with my barbers by telling them I’m introverted, but that wouldn’t be socially appropriate, would it? Then again, caring what other people think of me isn’t one of my strong points. If I can make a bunch of giggly Texan women uncomfortable, I can do the same with my barbers. Here are a few of the stupid questions I’ve been asked at Hair Masters along with my awkward responses:
BARBER: What do you do?
ME: Nothing.
BARBER: Nothing?
ME: I’m unemployed.
BARBER: You’re just hanging around?
ME: I guess.
I’ve often contemplated giving the answer of “I work with homeless children in the Democratic Society of Who Gives a Fuck”, but that would probably be more awkward than telling the barber I don’t have a job. Susan suggested to me that I say I’m “In between jobs”, but I’m not since I don’t have an employment history. What am I supposed to do, lie? Anyways, continuing on with the conversations I’ve had…
BARBER: Are you doing anything fun today?
ME: No.
BARBER: Oh….What do you like to do for fun?
ME: Read and write.
BARBER: Oh cool! What do you like to write?
ME: A little bit of everything.
At this point, I wonder when my barber is going to figure out that my life isn’t that exciting. Apparently, they never do, so the bullshit keeps flying.
BARBER: Have you lived here all your life?
ME: No.
BARBER: Where are you from?
ME: Here. I just haven’t lived here all my life.
BARBER: Oh.
Unless you’re planning on coming over to my house and watching the WWE Network with me, you have no business asking me where I live. It’s irrelevant. It’s meaningless. But most of all, it’s bullshit!
BARBER: Are you excited for school?
ME: I don’t go to school.
BARBER: Are you home schooled?
ME: I’m 29 years old.
BARBER: Oh! Are you doing the college thing?
ME: I already graduated.
BARBER: Oh cool! What did you get your degree in?
ME: English.
BARBER: What are you doing with your degree?
ME: I’m trying to be an author.
BARBER: You know what would be cool? If you wrote a book about World War II.
ME: I’m not interested.
If this woman was any nosier than she already is, she would be a police bloodhound. What does she need this information for, anyways?! Is that that starved for WW2 literature that she needs to ask a complete stranger with no interest in history to write it for her?! Speaking of history…
BARBER: What would you recommend for me to read?
ME: What do you like?
BARBER: Historical fiction.
ME: I don’t read historical fiction, so I wouldn’t know.
BARBER: Oh, okay.
Actually, my answer wasn’t entirely true. The last piece of historical fiction I read was “The Sisters Brothers” by Patrick DeWitt. It’s a western, but I don’t think that’s what she had in mind. Besides, it didn’t come to me during the conversation, so I left it out.
BARBER: Do you have any brothers or sisters?
ME: I have an older brother.
BARBER: Did he get his English degree too?
ME: He got a pharmacy degree.
BARBER: Oh cool!
ME: Me and my brother don’t like the same things.
BARBER: Oh.
Jesus, woman, get your nose out of my ass already! I shouldn’t have to sit at my computer desk writing something other than a WW2 novel with a rectal donut on my seat cushion! Ugh! Anyways, after these boring conversations that don’t lead anywhere, I feel so mentally exhausted that I need a nap when I get home. When I pay my bill, I leave a five dollar tip regardless of how nosy the barber was. Hey, I got a good haircut and you can’t argue with a good haircut. Then again, it’s hard to fuck up a buzz cut with half an inch of hair remaining. Any asshole off of the streets can do it. Maybe I should get myself a Wahl clipper and forget the pointless banter altogether.
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“It’s a meaningless end to the story. Got no time for my forgotten glory. And now just when I know what I’m after, it just brings me to laughter. Just save up all your nickels and dimes. Let’s see what you’ll find and you’ll know. I guess I’m living day to day. Just hope that you get led astray. Hell yeah. I guess I’m living day to day. Hear what I say. I just died for a piece of the pie, but I’d be glad just to feast on the pie crust.”
-Love Among Freaks singing “Clerks”-
February 19, 2015
NCIS: New Orleans
TV SHOW TITLE: NCIS: New Orleans
CREATOR: Gary Glasberg
YEARS ACTIVE: 2014-present
GENRE: Crime Drama
RATING: TV-PG or TV-14, depending on the intensity of the violence
GRADE: Pass
Whenever a marine or navy sailor is murdered in post-Katrina New Orleans, it is the job of Special Agent Dwayne Pride and the rest of the crew of his NCIS branch to solve those crimes. It takes a lot of trickery, intelligence, and martial arts skills for the crew to find what they’re looking for. But once the job is done, it’s party time in the Big Easy. Lots of beads, lots of booze, lots of tasty food, and an endless supply of fun is what each Special Agent can look forward to at least once in every episode.
Just like with NCIS and NCIS: Los Angeles before it, the New Orleans spin-off has its fair share of colorful characters. The NCIS office is led by Dwayne Pride, a southern gentleman who can be tough when it matters and a maker of sweet potato pie when a friend or family member needs comfort. The two junior agents are Chris LaSalle (another southern gentleman who loves a good time) and Meredith Brody (a Michigan transplant who’s slowly learning the ways of New Orleans culture).
For behind the scenes detail, we have Dr. Loretta Wade (a medical examiner with infinite wisdom), Sebastian Lund (a geeky lab technician with a hunger for conspiracy theories), and Patton Plame (a wheelchair-bound computer hacker who tries to be cooler than Sebastian). With this many eccentric personalities coming together in one office building, witty dialogue, strong chemistry, and deep character development are bound to happen, which is why NCIS: New Orleans is so enjoyable.
And with that many three-dimensional characters running around, it’s only fitting that this series take place in New Orleans, an exciting town full of party animals, jazz, yummy food, black magic, and of course the serious side of it all, brutal murders of American soldiers. No matter how much stress is put on the NCIS team by these hard cases, they always seem to have a good time before and after the case is solved. And why wouldn’t they? New Orleans is a fun city to be in whether you’re vacationing for the first time or you live there full time. “Never a dull moment” is the phrase that usually comes to mind.
And of course, we have my mother’s favorite part of NCIS: New Orleans: the opening theme music. It’s a late 90’s rock song called “Boom Boom” by Big Head Todd and the Monsters. If you’re not familiar with it, go to You Tube and check it out. If you’d like a preview before you go, it’s the same song with the jazzy guitar and snare drum burst in between the lead singer going, “Boom, boom, boom, boom! Bang, bang, bang, bang! Ho, ho, ho, ho! Hey, yeah!” If there was one song in our collective music library that fits New Orleans culture, it’s that one. Every time I hear it, I expect some wild party animals to throw me some plastic beads. I don’t think they want to see my tits, though. Hehe!
Whether you’re a fan of the NCIS franchise or you just like good cop dramas, this show is for you. If you can find one thing in this show to complain about, you’re obviously not in the New Orleans spirit. Whenever there’s hardship or anger, they don’t whine and cry. They boogie! What’s that phrase LaSalle likes to say all the time? “It’s on like Donkey Kong!”
CREATOR: Gary Glasberg
YEARS ACTIVE: 2014-present
GENRE: Crime Drama
RATING: TV-PG or TV-14, depending on the intensity of the violence
GRADE: Pass
Whenever a marine or navy sailor is murdered in post-Katrina New Orleans, it is the job of Special Agent Dwayne Pride and the rest of the crew of his NCIS branch to solve those crimes. It takes a lot of trickery, intelligence, and martial arts skills for the crew to find what they’re looking for. But once the job is done, it’s party time in the Big Easy. Lots of beads, lots of booze, lots of tasty food, and an endless supply of fun is what each Special Agent can look forward to at least once in every episode.
Just like with NCIS and NCIS: Los Angeles before it, the New Orleans spin-off has its fair share of colorful characters. The NCIS office is led by Dwayne Pride, a southern gentleman who can be tough when it matters and a maker of sweet potato pie when a friend or family member needs comfort. The two junior agents are Chris LaSalle (another southern gentleman who loves a good time) and Meredith Brody (a Michigan transplant who’s slowly learning the ways of New Orleans culture).
For behind the scenes detail, we have Dr. Loretta Wade (a medical examiner with infinite wisdom), Sebastian Lund (a geeky lab technician with a hunger for conspiracy theories), and Patton Plame (a wheelchair-bound computer hacker who tries to be cooler than Sebastian). With this many eccentric personalities coming together in one office building, witty dialogue, strong chemistry, and deep character development are bound to happen, which is why NCIS: New Orleans is so enjoyable.
And with that many three-dimensional characters running around, it’s only fitting that this series take place in New Orleans, an exciting town full of party animals, jazz, yummy food, black magic, and of course the serious side of it all, brutal murders of American soldiers. No matter how much stress is put on the NCIS team by these hard cases, they always seem to have a good time before and after the case is solved. And why wouldn’t they? New Orleans is a fun city to be in whether you’re vacationing for the first time or you live there full time. “Never a dull moment” is the phrase that usually comes to mind.
And of course, we have my mother’s favorite part of NCIS: New Orleans: the opening theme music. It’s a late 90’s rock song called “Boom Boom” by Big Head Todd and the Monsters. If you’re not familiar with it, go to You Tube and check it out. If you’d like a preview before you go, it’s the same song with the jazzy guitar and snare drum burst in between the lead singer going, “Boom, boom, boom, boom! Bang, bang, bang, bang! Ho, ho, ho, ho! Hey, yeah!” If there was one song in our collective music library that fits New Orleans culture, it’s that one. Every time I hear it, I expect some wild party animals to throw me some plastic beads. I don’t think they want to see my tits, though. Hehe!
Whether you’re a fan of the NCIS franchise or you just like good cop dramas, this show is for you. If you can find one thing in this show to complain about, you’re obviously not in the New Orleans spirit. Whenever there’s hardship or anger, they don’t whine and cry. They boogie! What’s that phrase LaSalle likes to say all the time? “It’s on like Donkey Kong!”
February 18, 2015
The Canadian Elevator Incident
All is fair in normalcy and social awkwardness. It’s especially fair when you’re not even trying to be socially awkward. In fact, you get bonus points for your lack of awareness. I got so many bonus points during a December 2013 vacation to Victoria, Canada. I tell this story to Susan all the time and every telling creeps her out and makes her yell my name like she always does. I never understood why yelling my name became such a trademark for her whenever I act funny. It’s almost as if there are no words to describe how awkward what I just did was. Therefore, we go to Webster’s Dictionary and redefine the word Garrison for that purpose.
One night in Victoria (the city in Canada, not any fictional girlfriend I might have), I had just completed a scrumptious meal in the hotel I was staying at with my mom and step-dad Dale. Seeing as how I’m a fast eater, I finish before both of my parents and excuse myself to go up to our room. I get to the elevator, but only after it becomes packed with four highly attractive Texan women (they had cowgirl hats, cowgirl boots, and cowgirl accents; they must be from Texas).
Being around that many attractive girls at the same time really shot my anxiety through the roof. In case you couldn’t tell, I’m extremely girl shy. I get in the elevator before the door closes. The elevator was originally supposed to go down to the bar for the Texan women. Instead, I slide my keycard into the button pad and press the floor to my room. Instead of going down, we’re going up.
While I’m staring up at the floor indicator secretly wishing for the elevator to get there faster, these women behind me start giggling and joking about how they didn’t mind riding up seven floors. It could have been an attempt at flirting with me, but I wouldn’t have known, because I didn’t say a damn word to them. Not one word. I just kept counting up and up until the elevator arrived at the seventh floor.
The girls are still joking and flirting about elevator ride detours and nice gentlemen and I’m getting even more nervous around them. When we finally get to the seventh floor, one of them says, “Hope to see you again soon!” Instead of using actual words to say goodbye, I turned around and gave a half-assed wave before getting out of the elevator to an explosion of laughter. As I’m walking back to my room, I can hear them saying things like, “Good talk! Good talk!” and “What a friendly guy!” Getting out of that elevator was more important to me than being sociable with women who were clearly out of my league.
But once the elevator door closed, I didn’t get traumatized or anything like that. Instead, I laughed my ass off. I knew what I did was socially awkward and I didn’t care. The way I saw it, if I can tell Susan about it and have her react the right way, it was worth it in the end. Although, the last time I told this story to Susan, she insisted that the Texan women were being jerks this whole time. I don’t know if that’s actually true or not, but I’m still laughing about it to this day.
Not only do I laugh about the infamous Canadian Elevator Incident, but I even have a catchphrase to go with this story. “Well, I figured since I don’t have a shot at a five-way, I have the right to act as crazy as I want.” Yes, I know that’s a sexist thing to say, but I say it only in good humor….and for shock value whenever I’m around Susan, who says, “So you won’t talk to a girl unless she agrees to have sex with you?” In defensive mode, I say, “No, that’s not what I said!” Although, it’s hard to argue against a sexism charge when I’m known around the house for making maxi pad jokes at Susan (only because she’s a good sport). Hell, my mom likes to say, “Men are such pigs!”, so she’s got sexism down to a science (although she bases her opinion on years of research).
I will close with this: I don’t know who those Texan women are and I’m not sure I’m ever going to see them again. But if I do, I’ll make sure to buy them a “drank” and thank them for the awkward memories. I’m sure they’ll thank me in exchange and tell me what a friendly gentleman I am. Hehehehe! I love being weird!
***MOVIE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***
HARRY: Check out the hotties at 12:00!
LLOYD: That’s three hours away. Why can’t I check them out now?
-Dumb and Dumber To-
One night in Victoria (the city in Canada, not any fictional girlfriend I might have), I had just completed a scrumptious meal in the hotel I was staying at with my mom and step-dad Dale. Seeing as how I’m a fast eater, I finish before both of my parents and excuse myself to go up to our room. I get to the elevator, but only after it becomes packed with four highly attractive Texan women (they had cowgirl hats, cowgirl boots, and cowgirl accents; they must be from Texas).
Being around that many attractive girls at the same time really shot my anxiety through the roof. In case you couldn’t tell, I’m extremely girl shy. I get in the elevator before the door closes. The elevator was originally supposed to go down to the bar for the Texan women. Instead, I slide my keycard into the button pad and press the floor to my room. Instead of going down, we’re going up.
While I’m staring up at the floor indicator secretly wishing for the elevator to get there faster, these women behind me start giggling and joking about how they didn’t mind riding up seven floors. It could have been an attempt at flirting with me, but I wouldn’t have known, because I didn’t say a damn word to them. Not one word. I just kept counting up and up until the elevator arrived at the seventh floor.
The girls are still joking and flirting about elevator ride detours and nice gentlemen and I’m getting even more nervous around them. When we finally get to the seventh floor, one of them says, “Hope to see you again soon!” Instead of using actual words to say goodbye, I turned around and gave a half-assed wave before getting out of the elevator to an explosion of laughter. As I’m walking back to my room, I can hear them saying things like, “Good talk! Good talk!” and “What a friendly guy!” Getting out of that elevator was more important to me than being sociable with women who were clearly out of my league.
But once the elevator door closed, I didn’t get traumatized or anything like that. Instead, I laughed my ass off. I knew what I did was socially awkward and I didn’t care. The way I saw it, if I can tell Susan about it and have her react the right way, it was worth it in the end. Although, the last time I told this story to Susan, she insisted that the Texan women were being jerks this whole time. I don’t know if that’s actually true or not, but I’m still laughing about it to this day.
Not only do I laugh about the infamous Canadian Elevator Incident, but I even have a catchphrase to go with this story. “Well, I figured since I don’t have a shot at a five-way, I have the right to act as crazy as I want.” Yes, I know that’s a sexist thing to say, but I say it only in good humor….and for shock value whenever I’m around Susan, who says, “So you won’t talk to a girl unless she agrees to have sex with you?” In defensive mode, I say, “No, that’s not what I said!” Although, it’s hard to argue against a sexism charge when I’m known around the house for making maxi pad jokes at Susan (only because she’s a good sport). Hell, my mom likes to say, “Men are such pigs!”, so she’s got sexism down to a science (although she bases her opinion on years of research).
I will close with this: I don’t know who those Texan women are and I’m not sure I’m ever going to see them again. But if I do, I’ll make sure to buy them a “drank” and thank them for the awkward memories. I’m sure they’ll thank me in exchange and tell me what a friendly gentleman I am. Hehehehe! I love being weird!
***MOVIE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***
HARRY: Check out the hotties at 12:00!
LLOYD: That’s three hours away. Why can’t I check them out now?
-Dumb and Dumber To-
February 17, 2015
Picklebee's Legacy
The word Picklebee has a lot of sentimental value to me, which is fucked up if you read the rest of this blog post. When I first introduced it to my bestie Susan and niece Reina as a nickname for our cat Smokey, the two of them were unanimously against it. They felt it was too creepy for a cute critter like Smokey. I thought to myself, “How could a cute word like Picklebee have any creepy connotations?”
I still wonder that to this day. Pickles is an actual pet name that’s been used before. Bees are cute and cuddly (whenever they’re not stinging you). Put them together and you have a loving nickname. Susan and Reina weren’t sold on it. So one day during a yard sale, I wrote “Picklebee” on the sidewalk with pink chalk, scaring the crap out of any customer who saw it.
With all of these people taking note of how scary a simple affectionate name could be, I figured I wasn’t going to win the cuteness battle, so I might as well roll with the creepiness of it all. When I first introduced the name Picklebee to the internet, it was in the form of a short horror story I wrote for Good Reads called “Picklebee, God of Death”. If you’re not scared shitless already, you will be when you learn that Picklebee was an indestructible demonic cat who slashed the shit out of anybody she deemed unworthy.
She turned a psychotic pizza delivery guy into her own personal slave and slashed the throats of the cop and landlord who tried to evict that same guy. There was blood everywhere, and that was just the decorations of the guy’s apartment before the fight took place. To put it in more relatable terms, “Picklebee, God of Death” was Pet Cemetery on crack. It was so violent that I constantly worried about disqualification from that week’s contest. I wasn’t disqualified. Instead I ended up in last place with zero votes.
That short story will see the light of day one way or another. But what about the other creative connotation I gave the name Picklebee? In the WWE, the divas division is all about good looks and bad wrestling. I’m honestly frightened at the idea of an NXT diva not being able to clean house in that division, especially considering how underrated Paige was on the main roster. And then my prayers were answered within the confines of my own imagination.
The ultimate unholy alliance of female martial artists, each member a present or future subject on Garrison’s Library. You’ve got the vengeful mixed-martial artist Rachel Gustafson, the pissed off referee Devon Spirit Wolf, and then there’s Picklebee, the name that should be given to Fallon Fox if she ever wants to transition from MMA to pro-wrestling.
An Amazon, an Indian, and a transsexual walk into a bar. It’s not the start of a bad joke; it’s the precursor to a dominant barroom brawl for all three of these women. If these three could keep a hospital full of bar patrons, imagine what kind of Armageddon they could put the WWE divas division through. Sorry, Natalya, but you too are going to be a victim of this onslaught.
If the name Picklebee can’t be cute and cuddly, it’s going to be disastrous and apocalyptic. She is the God of Death. The skies will rain blood. The oceans will be covered in green slime. The roads will be paved with powdered bones. The mountains will be kicked over. The forests will be burned to ashes. Those who survive will live their lives as the God of Death’s slaves. Whether she’s a cute kitty cat, a brutal mixed-martial artist, or Cthulu with a vagina, nobody is safe from this hellfire wrath. That is, unless you feed her Temptations kitty treats at 3:00 in the morning.
***PROVERB OF THE DAY***
Whatever you do to your children, your children will do to the world.
***BY THE WAY***
This will be the first of many posts detailing my socially awkward behavior. That’s going to be a brand new category alongside reviews and character profiles. Be afraid. Be really fucking afraid!
I still wonder that to this day. Pickles is an actual pet name that’s been used before. Bees are cute and cuddly (whenever they’re not stinging you). Put them together and you have a loving nickname. Susan and Reina weren’t sold on it. So one day during a yard sale, I wrote “Picklebee” on the sidewalk with pink chalk, scaring the crap out of any customer who saw it.
With all of these people taking note of how scary a simple affectionate name could be, I figured I wasn’t going to win the cuteness battle, so I might as well roll with the creepiness of it all. When I first introduced the name Picklebee to the internet, it was in the form of a short horror story I wrote for Good Reads called “Picklebee, God of Death”. If you’re not scared shitless already, you will be when you learn that Picklebee was an indestructible demonic cat who slashed the shit out of anybody she deemed unworthy.
She turned a psychotic pizza delivery guy into her own personal slave and slashed the throats of the cop and landlord who tried to evict that same guy. There was blood everywhere, and that was just the decorations of the guy’s apartment before the fight took place. To put it in more relatable terms, “Picklebee, God of Death” was Pet Cemetery on crack. It was so violent that I constantly worried about disqualification from that week’s contest. I wasn’t disqualified. Instead I ended up in last place with zero votes.
That short story will see the light of day one way or another. But what about the other creative connotation I gave the name Picklebee? In the WWE, the divas division is all about good looks and bad wrestling. I’m honestly frightened at the idea of an NXT diva not being able to clean house in that division, especially considering how underrated Paige was on the main roster. And then my prayers were answered within the confines of my own imagination.
The ultimate unholy alliance of female martial artists, each member a present or future subject on Garrison’s Library. You’ve got the vengeful mixed-martial artist Rachel Gustafson, the pissed off referee Devon Spirit Wolf, and then there’s Picklebee, the name that should be given to Fallon Fox if she ever wants to transition from MMA to pro-wrestling.
An Amazon, an Indian, and a transsexual walk into a bar. It’s not the start of a bad joke; it’s the precursor to a dominant barroom brawl for all three of these women. If these three could keep a hospital full of bar patrons, imagine what kind of Armageddon they could put the WWE divas division through. Sorry, Natalya, but you too are going to be a victim of this onslaught.
If the name Picklebee can’t be cute and cuddly, it’s going to be disastrous and apocalyptic. She is the God of Death. The skies will rain blood. The oceans will be covered in green slime. The roads will be paved with powdered bones. The mountains will be kicked over. The forests will be burned to ashes. Those who survive will live their lives as the God of Death’s slaves. Whether she’s a cute kitty cat, a brutal mixed-martial artist, or Cthulu with a vagina, nobody is safe from this hellfire wrath. That is, unless you feed her Temptations kitty treats at 3:00 in the morning.
***PROVERB OF THE DAY***
Whatever you do to your children, your children will do to the world.
***BY THE WAY***
This will be the first of many posts detailing my socially awkward behavior. That’s going to be a brand new category alongside reviews and character profiles. Be afraid. Be really fucking afraid!
February 16, 2015
WWE NXT R Evolution: Adrian Neville vs. Sami Zayn
MATCH: Adrian Neville vs. Sami Zayn for the former’s NXT Championship
PROMOTION: WWE NXT
EVENT: R Evolution
YEAR: 2014
RATING: TV-PG for violence
GRADE: Pass
I’m not what anybody would call an “smark” when it comes to professional wrestling. The only way I know about a wrestler’s popularity is through how many positive awards they have won from the Wrestling Observer Newsletter (or at least have been nominated for). Whenever an award winner or nominee enters NXT, I’m always excited to see their debut whether it’s KENTA aka Hideo Itami, Bryan Danielson aka Daniel Bryan, or Kevin Steen aka Kevin Owens. Such was the case for the two NXT Championship contenders Adrian Neville and El Generico aka Sami Zayn.
These two wrestlers in particular have a lot in common. They’re both high-flying cruiserweights who defy gravity just for fun. They’re both technical geniuses when it comes to mat wrestling and martial arts. They’re both popular outside of the United States thanks to the advent of the internet. They both gained most of their experience in smaller promotions. Most importantly, these two ring warriors are the best of friends. There is one thing that separates them, however: prior to this match, Adrian Neville was a successful and long-reigning NXT Champion while Sami Zayn consistently lost important matches. So what does Sami Zayn do about it? Two things. He wrestles more aggressively and he puts his career on the line in this match.
The buildup to this match with Sami Zayn as the ultimate underdog was efficient enough to make Zayn and Neville’s feud worthy of another award from the Wrestling Observer Newsletter. With all this pressure on both men, you know they’re going to have to deliver an exciting and unforgettable match. It can’t just be good; it has to be excellent. It has to launch someone into an early Hall of Fame nomination. It has to be a permanent fixture not only on the audience’s DVR’s, but also their memories. And goddamn, did these two over-deliver.
If there was any slowness in this match, it was brief, yet important when it comes to building further drama. The rest of the match was one fast-paced, explosive, deadly battle. We got to see both wrestlers use their favorite moves and make them look good all over again. Whether it was a spike hurricanrana from Adrian Neville, an exploder suplex from Sami Zayn, an over the top rope splash to the floor from both men, a diving outside corner DDT from Zayn, or a sit-out jackknife power bomb from Neville, you’re getting your money’s worth in this match.
These two men hurt each other in the most creative and death-defying ways possible. They flew through the air and slammed each other to the ground with earth shattering force. It was amazing the mat nor the ground had body-shaped holes in them afterwards with this cartoonish display of physics. And just like a cartoon, they kept getting back up after every painful shot.
While the action was certainly a thrilling aspect of the match, the drama was just as capable of bringing people to the edge of their seats. The NXT commentators and Adrian Neville prior to this match questioned Sami Zayn’s willingness to take shortcuts to win big matches. Sami was the ultimate baby face in that he never gave in to the urge to cheat in any of his matches. Even when it mattered the most, Sami stayed true to his moral code.
When the referee was unconscious for the first time in the match, Sami checked to see if he was okay. When the referee got knocked out again and the championship belt was introduced to the ring, Sami struggled with himself as to whether he should use it as a weapon while no authority members were looking. He ended up tossing the belt and winning the honest way: by T-bone suplexing Neville into the turnbuckle and finishing him off with the Helluva Kick. When Sami Zayn went for the final pin, he got the 1-2-3 that evaded him for so long in the match and the NXT Championship was finally his.
When Sami Zayn won the title, it was the greatest victory in his wrestling career. The entire NXT roster, both heels and baby faces, celebrated with him and hoisted him high on their shoulders. He even continued to do the right thing when he extended his hand for a frustrated Adrian Neville to shake. Neville held that championship for a majority of 2014, so it was understandable that he kicked Sami’s hand away. But that kick was only to give way to an even bigger show of sportsmanship: a hug. Batista once said it to Eddie Guerrero in 2005 before the latter died: friends don’t shake hands; friends hug!
The ring was clearing of NXT superstars, Adrian Neville among them. All that was left was for Sami Zayn’s other longtime friend Kevin Owens to come out and congratulate him. These two grew up together in Ring of Honor and the independent circuit. They even won the 2010 award for Feud of the Year from the Wrestling Observer Newsletter. Zayn and Owens did everything together. And then the unthinkable happened. Just when spirits couldn’t get any higher, Kevin Owens slammed Sami Zayn to the steel ramp and then power bombed his longtime friend against the edge of the ring, which is said to be the hardest part of the wrestling structure. Kevin Owens gave no further explanation for his actions while his best friend was wheeled out of the arena in an ambulance.
The high octane action and the mind-blowing drama come together to make a special match for NXT fans. They jumped out of their seats for the high flying moves, cheered like animals during the martial arts kicks, punches, and throws, cried like babies during Sami Zayn’s celebration, and cried even harder when Kevin Owens beat the crap out of him. Everything about this match was done to perfection by professional wrestlers with over a decade of experience. All of this hard work built up to this memorable moment. It will live within the fans forever, either as a haunting ghost or as an excited spirit.
PROMOTION: WWE NXT
EVENT: R Evolution
YEAR: 2014
RATING: TV-PG for violence
GRADE: Pass
I’m not what anybody would call an “smark” when it comes to professional wrestling. The only way I know about a wrestler’s popularity is through how many positive awards they have won from the Wrestling Observer Newsletter (or at least have been nominated for). Whenever an award winner or nominee enters NXT, I’m always excited to see their debut whether it’s KENTA aka Hideo Itami, Bryan Danielson aka Daniel Bryan, or Kevin Steen aka Kevin Owens. Such was the case for the two NXT Championship contenders Adrian Neville and El Generico aka Sami Zayn.
These two wrestlers in particular have a lot in common. They’re both high-flying cruiserweights who defy gravity just for fun. They’re both technical geniuses when it comes to mat wrestling and martial arts. They’re both popular outside of the United States thanks to the advent of the internet. They both gained most of their experience in smaller promotions. Most importantly, these two ring warriors are the best of friends. There is one thing that separates them, however: prior to this match, Adrian Neville was a successful and long-reigning NXT Champion while Sami Zayn consistently lost important matches. So what does Sami Zayn do about it? Two things. He wrestles more aggressively and he puts his career on the line in this match.
The buildup to this match with Sami Zayn as the ultimate underdog was efficient enough to make Zayn and Neville’s feud worthy of another award from the Wrestling Observer Newsletter. With all this pressure on both men, you know they’re going to have to deliver an exciting and unforgettable match. It can’t just be good; it has to be excellent. It has to launch someone into an early Hall of Fame nomination. It has to be a permanent fixture not only on the audience’s DVR’s, but also their memories. And goddamn, did these two over-deliver.
If there was any slowness in this match, it was brief, yet important when it comes to building further drama. The rest of the match was one fast-paced, explosive, deadly battle. We got to see both wrestlers use their favorite moves and make them look good all over again. Whether it was a spike hurricanrana from Adrian Neville, an exploder suplex from Sami Zayn, an over the top rope splash to the floor from both men, a diving outside corner DDT from Zayn, or a sit-out jackknife power bomb from Neville, you’re getting your money’s worth in this match.
These two men hurt each other in the most creative and death-defying ways possible. They flew through the air and slammed each other to the ground with earth shattering force. It was amazing the mat nor the ground had body-shaped holes in them afterwards with this cartoonish display of physics. And just like a cartoon, they kept getting back up after every painful shot.
While the action was certainly a thrilling aspect of the match, the drama was just as capable of bringing people to the edge of their seats. The NXT commentators and Adrian Neville prior to this match questioned Sami Zayn’s willingness to take shortcuts to win big matches. Sami was the ultimate baby face in that he never gave in to the urge to cheat in any of his matches. Even when it mattered the most, Sami stayed true to his moral code.
When the referee was unconscious for the first time in the match, Sami checked to see if he was okay. When the referee got knocked out again and the championship belt was introduced to the ring, Sami struggled with himself as to whether he should use it as a weapon while no authority members were looking. He ended up tossing the belt and winning the honest way: by T-bone suplexing Neville into the turnbuckle and finishing him off with the Helluva Kick. When Sami Zayn went for the final pin, he got the 1-2-3 that evaded him for so long in the match and the NXT Championship was finally his.
When Sami Zayn won the title, it was the greatest victory in his wrestling career. The entire NXT roster, both heels and baby faces, celebrated with him and hoisted him high on their shoulders. He even continued to do the right thing when he extended his hand for a frustrated Adrian Neville to shake. Neville held that championship for a majority of 2014, so it was understandable that he kicked Sami’s hand away. But that kick was only to give way to an even bigger show of sportsmanship: a hug. Batista once said it to Eddie Guerrero in 2005 before the latter died: friends don’t shake hands; friends hug!
The ring was clearing of NXT superstars, Adrian Neville among them. All that was left was for Sami Zayn’s other longtime friend Kevin Owens to come out and congratulate him. These two grew up together in Ring of Honor and the independent circuit. They even won the 2010 award for Feud of the Year from the Wrestling Observer Newsletter. Zayn and Owens did everything together. And then the unthinkable happened. Just when spirits couldn’t get any higher, Kevin Owens slammed Sami Zayn to the steel ramp and then power bombed his longtime friend against the edge of the ring, which is said to be the hardest part of the wrestling structure. Kevin Owens gave no further explanation for his actions while his best friend was wheeled out of the arena in an ambulance.
The high octane action and the mind-blowing drama come together to make a special match for NXT fans. They jumped out of their seats for the high flying moves, cheered like animals during the martial arts kicks, punches, and throws, cried like babies during Sami Zayn’s celebration, and cried even harder when Kevin Owens beat the crap out of him. Everything about this match was done to perfection by professional wrestlers with over a decade of experience. All of this hard work built up to this memorable moment. It will live within the fans forever, either as a haunting ghost or as an excited spirit.
