Garrison Kelly's Blog, page 27
November 5, 2020
Pimp Daddy Edge Lord
VERSE 1
It’s the year 2000, so grow a set of balls
Get your individuality from Pink Floyd’s Wall
Watch ECW like it’s going out of business
Arena covered in blood as god as my witness
You’re too good for corporate ass-kissing
Too underground with your vinegar pissing
Photoshop videogame chicks into bikinis
Give yourself a reason to stroke your weenie
Watch Newgrounds videos until your brain rots
Watch Dragon Ball Z while smoking crack rocks
Play Tekken and become a badass karate master
Play DOA and become a future boyfriend faster
Become a comedian who punches down low
Smoke fifty reefers in a motherfucking row
No way the pen is mightier than the sword
Such is the life of a Pimp Daddy Edge Lord
CHORUS
Pimp Daddy Edge Lord! X4
VERSE 2
You’re a grown ass man, all the jokes are gone
Now it’s time to figure out what’s right and wrong
The edgy shit that you’ve come to depend on
Leaves you an empty shell singing a sad song
There’s a world out there that needs your help
Good intentioned politicians pave the road to hell
The old you is now a ghost of your distant past
Along with the jokes about fucking some ass
“Georgie-Porgie pudding and pie
Fuck the girls, make their pussies cry”
You laughed back then, but it’s disgusting now
Like the way you compared fat people to cows
Like the way you compared every race to animals
Like the way you wrote a cook book for cannibals
We’re ready to fight, are you standing beside us?
Or have you always been a slacker-ass D-minus?
CHORUS
Pimp Daddy Edge Lord! X4
BRIDGE
The world is in ruin and you are a shoe-in
To be the next savior of misbehavior
Population is sick while you stroke your dick
To the machinegun chick holding dynamite sticks
The country is fucked and it’s going to suck
But you’re still in luck, you’ve got your big truck
You couldn’t let go of your comedic shit show
Enjoy the next civil war, Pimp Daddy Edge Lord
CHORUS
Pimp Daddy Edge Lord! X4
It’s the year 2000, so grow a set of balls
Get your individuality from Pink Floyd’s Wall
Watch ECW like it’s going out of business
Arena covered in blood as god as my witness
You’re too good for corporate ass-kissing
Too underground with your vinegar pissing
Photoshop videogame chicks into bikinis
Give yourself a reason to stroke your weenie
Watch Newgrounds videos until your brain rots
Watch Dragon Ball Z while smoking crack rocks
Play Tekken and become a badass karate master
Play DOA and become a future boyfriend faster
Become a comedian who punches down low
Smoke fifty reefers in a motherfucking row
No way the pen is mightier than the sword
Such is the life of a Pimp Daddy Edge Lord
CHORUS
Pimp Daddy Edge Lord! X4
VERSE 2
You’re a grown ass man, all the jokes are gone
Now it’s time to figure out what’s right and wrong
The edgy shit that you’ve come to depend on
Leaves you an empty shell singing a sad song
There’s a world out there that needs your help
Good intentioned politicians pave the road to hell
The old you is now a ghost of your distant past
Along with the jokes about fucking some ass
“Georgie-Porgie pudding and pie
Fuck the girls, make their pussies cry”
You laughed back then, but it’s disgusting now
Like the way you compared fat people to cows
Like the way you compared every race to animals
Like the way you wrote a cook book for cannibals
We’re ready to fight, are you standing beside us?
Or have you always been a slacker-ass D-minus?
CHORUS
Pimp Daddy Edge Lord! X4
BRIDGE
The world is in ruin and you are a shoe-in
To be the next savior of misbehavior
Population is sick while you stroke your dick
To the machinegun chick holding dynamite sticks
The country is fucked and it’s going to suck
But you’re still in luck, you’ve got your big truck
You couldn’t let go of your comedic shit show
Enjoy the next civil war, Pimp Daddy Edge Lord
CHORUS
Pimp Daddy Edge Lord! X4
November 4, 2020
Meat and Pudding
The putty-faced student marched down the hallway at the instruction of her teacher. She was to remain a few steps behind at all times, never once complaining or having an opinion about any of this. There wasn’t even to be a suggestion as to this meeting with the schoolmaster being a luck of the draw punishment. No opinions or critical thinking of any kind, just marching. The dragons, elves, ogres, and faeries that danced around her brain were reduced to meat shreds by constant conformity. She didn’t mind. She was never meant to mind.
“Halt!” shouted the teacher, to which the student complied. The teacher knocked on the door, awaiting for the schoolmaster to let them both in. There was some hasty wrestling going on in that office. But the putty-faced zombie student had no opinion of it. Once the familiar Scottish accent ordered her to come in, the teacher opened the door and in marched the student like a good little girl.
The door slammed shut and all that remained was a dimly-lit office with books on shelves and degrees mounted on the wall. None of those books probably contained dragons, barbarians, or knights, and the nameless slave didn’t care. Her weary eyes peeked through her clay mask at the Scottish schoolmaster sitting at his desk, drumming his fingers and scowling at her. His white moustache was enough to give away his age and every elderly stereotype that went with it. His black robe and square cap gave away every ounce of authority he had over her, a mere zombie student in a blue blazer, plaid skirt, and brown leather shoes. And that mask. Oh, that mask.
“I understand you’re wondering why you’re here,” said the schoolmaster in a low and sinister voice. “I can assure you it has nothing to do with the constant whining, missed assignments, tardiness, and everything else your generation is known for. It’s not just you, lassie. It’s the student body in general.” He smirked. “Student body.” There would have been a chilling feeling in the student’s stomach if she was capable of critical thought.
“I brought you here today…because I need to vent…and you are going to listen to every last syllable…” The schoolmaster slammed his palms on the desk and stood up halfway. “I hate this job. I hate the people I work with. I hate the ungrateful bastards who goof off in my class like it means nothing to them. I don’t have time for little goblins who don’t take their education seriously. I could just as easily walk off school grounds tomorrow and wish a pox on this entire place.”
He sat back down and folded his hands. “But I won’t do that. You know why? Because I learned the other day that it wasn’t the job itself that was dreadful. It was because it was…missing a certain something. I need something to make my job more…enjoyable. More fun. More satisfying. Work is boring. But you, my lady…you’re not boring at all…In fact…you’re just what I’m looking for.”
The student trembled, but not enough to give away true emotions. The schoolmaster continued. “Do you know why I make you and so many other students wear that faceless mask? Because then, and only then, do I not have to see the look of anguish on your faces when I do what I do. No face equals no guilt. No squinting eyes equals no shame. As much as I like to laugh at the Twilight nonsense of the world, the author managed to get one thing right.” He stood up and revealed that he wasn’t wearing pants underneath his robe. His sausage-like penis lifted the hem of his robe, maggots crawling around it. “The one thing she got right…is that girls with no ambition…are wildly sexy!”
As he slowly crept around his desk, the student’s trembling became more obvious as she backed up against the office door. He continued. “No ambition means no objections. And no objections means…free consent!” His demonic snickers morphed into howling and cackling while his red meat erection grew longer and stronger. “Come to me, my sweet Mary-Sue! Let’s make both of our existences…a lot more fun!”
The dragons and elves in the student’s mind were screaming to be free, screaming for her to snap out of his conformist haze, screaming for her to stand up for herself. She shook some more. She dropped to her butt as the schoolmaster got closer, his yellow fingernails unsheathed. He reached down to touch her neck, most likely wanting some foreplay, some tender moments with his underage pupil.
And then…the student let out a shriek of terror. The schoolmaster reflexively pulled his hand back and covered his own ears, the shriek growing more unbearable by the second. The student stood up and struggled to untwist the doorknob. The schoolmaster wasn’t deterred for long as his yellow fingernails gently raked down her back and his sausage poked her in the skirted bum.
He whispered, “If you don’t eat your meat…you can’t have any pudding…How can you have any pudding if you don’t eat your meat? That starts to take on a whole new meaning, doesn’t it, lassie?”
There was nothing zombie-like about adrenaline chilling the student’s body like a morgue freezer. She stomped on the schoolmaster’s foot and had him hobbling around like a lunatic. She finally opened the door and stormed down the hallway screaming. But there was no such exit for her. Clay-masked pupils formed a wall in front of her and gazed into her soul with empty eyes. On her other side, teachers and administrative staff glared at her while one teacher bounced a ruler in her hand.
The two sides closed in on her every so slowly, playing the roles of zombies to a T. The schoolmaster pushed his way to the front of the teacher wall and snickered at her some more. The closer they got, the less oxygen the putty-faced girl had at her disposal. She clutched her chest in an effort to stay alert, dizziness spiraling through her mind like a stroke. And then her saving grace came in the form of a steel door, which she threw open and bolted down at top speed.
She pumped the brakes as soon as she saw what this was a hallway for: a meat grinder pit clanking and clobbering in search of its next conformist meal. A dead end and a dead body: such was the way of compulsory education. The zombie students, angry faculty, and Scottish schoolmaster blocked the doorway, making both of the student’s escape options result in death or worse. The schoolmaster stalked down the catwalk and edged the student closer to the meat grinder. She did her best to stay balanced, though her dizziness began to cripple every limb on her body.
“Do you want an A+, lassie? Do you want to graduate? If you want that A+…you’ll have to take a D first!” The schoolmaster’s image blurred in and out of focus, the student swearing she was going to faint at any minute. She needed something to hold onto. A railing on the catwalk? Her own trembling legs? No. The piece of maggot-infested meat that dangled from the schoolmaster’s crotch. His smile revealed nicotine-stained teeth and a slathering tongue. “What are you waiting for? Stand still, lassie!”
“Oh, you big tease,” the student flirted. “Uh-oh. Did I just form an opinion of my own? Too bad!” With one yank of his slimy meat, the masked student pulled the schoolmaster past her and launched him into the mincer. Those blocking the door gasped in horror at their one true master being reduced to farmer’s shreds and parasites. He could have worn a mask to hide his pain, but that wouldn’t have been nearly as satisfying to the student, who removed her own mask in defiance and threw it into the grinder.
“Just so there’s no confusion, I had a name all along. My name is Jennifer Heath. In my humble opinion…I think this school SUCKS!” More gasping erupted from the crowd. Jennifer lifted her dimpled face defiantly and said, “I guess you’ll have to expel me now. But what will I do with my life? Maybe I can work at McDonald’s and serve up some Quarter Pounders coming from yours truly!” There was a collective, “Eww!” from the crowd.
“Oh, don’t act disgusted!” Jennifer snorted. “If you’re willing to allow a pedophile to run your school, then you have no business pretended that something I said was gross. Why did you let him work here anyways? How many more of you had he fucked?!”
“Watch your language, lassie!” said a random teacher while pointing a ruler at Jennifer.
“Or what?! You’re going to hit me with that little stick?! I’m sure some of you have been hit with a much bigger stick in your day.” The faceless students tucked their heads in shame. “Am I wrong? Am I?!”
Suddenly, the students and faculty had a stare down. Opinions were allowed again, not by the authority, but by someone who dared to resist it. The faculty began backing off and holding their hands up defensively. The students were much quicker on the draw. They threw their masks to the ground and stampeded the teachers with riotous force. They screamed obscenities and threw down with their elders, while the stuck-up teachers begged for help. Their authoritarian ways were all an act. They were tough up until the students sung a different tune.
One of the teachers scrambled into the meat grinder catwalk with Jennifer in an attempt to catch his breath.
“We don’t need no education…” sang Jennifer.
“Yes, you do. You just used a double negative.”
Jennifer Heath cracked her knuckles and smiled at her next victim. The teacher swallowed a cannonball-sized lump as it dawned on him what was coming.
“Halt!” shouted the teacher, to which the student complied. The teacher knocked on the door, awaiting for the schoolmaster to let them both in. There was some hasty wrestling going on in that office. But the putty-faced zombie student had no opinion of it. Once the familiar Scottish accent ordered her to come in, the teacher opened the door and in marched the student like a good little girl.
The door slammed shut and all that remained was a dimly-lit office with books on shelves and degrees mounted on the wall. None of those books probably contained dragons, barbarians, or knights, and the nameless slave didn’t care. Her weary eyes peeked through her clay mask at the Scottish schoolmaster sitting at his desk, drumming his fingers and scowling at her. His white moustache was enough to give away his age and every elderly stereotype that went with it. His black robe and square cap gave away every ounce of authority he had over her, a mere zombie student in a blue blazer, plaid skirt, and brown leather shoes. And that mask. Oh, that mask.
“I understand you’re wondering why you’re here,” said the schoolmaster in a low and sinister voice. “I can assure you it has nothing to do with the constant whining, missed assignments, tardiness, and everything else your generation is known for. It’s not just you, lassie. It’s the student body in general.” He smirked. “Student body.” There would have been a chilling feeling in the student’s stomach if she was capable of critical thought.
“I brought you here today…because I need to vent…and you are going to listen to every last syllable…” The schoolmaster slammed his palms on the desk and stood up halfway. “I hate this job. I hate the people I work with. I hate the ungrateful bastards who goof off in my class like it means nothing to them. I don’t have time for little goblins who don’t take their education seriously. I could just as easily walk off school grounds tomorrow and wish a pox on this entire place.”
He sat back down and folded his hands. “But I won’t do that. You know why? Because I learned the other day that it wasn’t the job itself that was dreadful. It was because it was…missing a certain something. I need something to make my job more…enjoyable. More fun. More satisfying. Work is boring. But you, my lady…you’re not boring at all…In fact…you’re just what I’m looking for.”
The student trembled, but not enough to give away true emotions. The schoolmaster continued. “Do you know why I make you and so many other students wear that faceless mask? Because then, and only then, do I not have to see the look of anguish on your faces when I do what I do. No face equals no guilt. No squinting eyes equals no shame. As much as I like to laugh at the Twilight nonsense of the world, the author managed to get one thing right.” He stood up and revealed that he wasn’t wearing pants underneath his robe. His sausage-like penis lifted the hem of his robe, maggots crawling around it. “The one thing she got right…is that girls with no ambition…are wildly sexy!”
As he slowly crept around his desk, the student’s trembling became more obvious as she backed up against the office door. He continued. “No ambition means no objections. And no objections means…free consent!” His demonic snickers morphed into howling and cackling while his red meat erection grew longer and stronger. “Come to me, my sweet Mary-Sue! Let’s make both of our existences…a lot more fun!”
The dragons and elves in the student’s mind were screaming to be free, screaming for her to snap out of his conformist haze, screaming for her to stand up for herself. She shook some more. She dropped to her butt as the schoolmaster got closer, his yellow fingernails unsheathed. He reached down to touch her neck, most likely wanting some foreplay, some tender moments with his underage pupil.
And then…the student let out a shriek of terror. The schoolmaster reflexively pulled his hand back and covered his own ears, the shriek growing more unbearable by the second. The student stood up and struggled to untwist the doorknob. The schoolmaster wasn’t deterred for long as his yellow fingernails gently raked down her back and his sausage poked her in the skirted bum.
He whispered, “If you don’t eat your meat…you can’t have any pudding…How can you have any pudding if you don’t eat your meat? That starts to take on a whole new meaning, doesn’t it, lassie?”
There was nothing zombie-like about adrenaline chilling the student’s body like a morgue freezer. She stomped on the schoolmaster’s foot and had him hobbling around like a lunatic. She finally opened the door and stormed down the hallway screaming. But there was no such exit for her. Clay-masked pupils formed a wall in front of her and gazed into her soul with empty eyes. On her other side, teachers and administrative staff glared at her while one teacher bounced a ruler in her hand.
The two sides closed in on her every so slowly, playing the roles of zombies to a T. The schoolmaster pushed his way to the front of the teacher wall and snickered at her some more. The closer they got, the less oxygen the putty-faced girl had at her disposal. She clutched her chest in an effort to stay alert, dizziness spiraling through her mind like a stroke. And then her saving grace came in the form of a steel door, which she threw open and bolted down at top speed.
She pumped the brakes as soon as she saw what this was a hallway for: a meat grinder pit clanking and clobbering in search of its next conformist meal. A dead end and a dead body: such was the way of compulsory education. The zombie students, angry faculty, and Scottish schoolmaster blocked the doorway, making both of the student’s escape options result in death or worse. The schoolmaster stalked down the catwalk and edged the student closer to the meat grinder. She did her best to stay balanced, though her dizziness began to cripple every limb on her body.
“Do you want an A+, lassie? Do you want to graduate? If you want that A+…you’ll have to take a D first!” The schoolmaster’s image blurred in and out of focus, the student swearing she was going to faint at any minute. She needed something to hold onto. A railing on the catwalk? Her own trembling legs? No. The piece of maggot-infested meat that dangled from the schoolmaster’s crotch. His smile revealed nicotine-stained teeth and a slathering tongue. “What are you waiting for? Stand still, lassie!”
“Oh, you big tease,” the student flirted. “Uh-oh. Did I just form an opinion of my own? Too bad!” With one yank of his slimy meat, the masked student pulled the schoolmaster past her and launched him into the mincer. Those blocking the door gasped in horror at their one true master being reduced to farmer’s shreds and parasites. He could have worn a mask to hide his pain, but that wouldn’t have been nearly as satisfying to the student, who removed her own mask in defiance and threw it into the grinder.
“Just so there’s no confusion, I had a name all along. My name is Jennifer Heath. In my humble opinion…I think this school SUCKS!” More gasping erupted from the crowd. Jennifer lifted her dimpled face defiantly and said, “I guess you’ll have to expel me now. But what will I do with my life? Maybe I can work at McDonald’s and serve up some Quarter Pounders coming from yours truly!” There was a collective, “Eww!” from the crowd.
“Oh, don’t act disgusted!” Jennifer snorted. “If you’re willing to allow a pedophile to run your school, then you have no business pretended that something I said was gross. Why did you let him work here anyways? How many more of you had he fucked?!”
“Watch your language, lassie!” said a random teacher while pointing a ruler at Jennifer.
“Or what?! You’re going to hit me with that little stick?! I’m sure some of you have been hit with a much bigger stick in your day.” The faceless students tucked their heads in shame. “Am I wrong? Am I?!”
Suddenly, the students and faculty had a stare down. Opinions were allowed again, not by the authority, but by someone who dared to resist it. The faculty began backing off and holding their hands up defensively. The students were much quicker on the draw. They threw their masks to the ground and stampeded the teachers with riotous force. They screamed obscenities and threw down with their elders, while the stuck-up teachers begged for help. Their authoritarian ways were all an act. They were tough up until the students sung a different tune.
One of the teachers scrambled into the meat grinder catwalk with Jennifer in an attempt to catch his breath.
“We don’t need no education…” sang Jennifer.
“Yes, you do. You just used a double negative.”
Jennifer Heath cracked her knuckles and smiled at her next victim. The teacher swallowed a cannonball-sized lump as it dawned on him what was coming.
October 29, 2020
Crash Your Car
VERSE 1
Screaming obscenities from your death machine
You’ve got some testicles the size of jelly beans
You’ve got a backbone like a number two pencil
Proudly write that shit down on a military stencil
It’s the luck of the draw that the two of us meet
Your party can only win if they fucking cheat
You can yell that shit with a bullhorn blaster
Your leash gets tighter in the hands of your master
CHORUS 1
I hope you crash your car and break your neck
I hope you burn to ashes in a fiery wreck
Maybe in the next life you should pump the brakes
Not confirm to the world your birth was a mistake
VERSE 2
I know we’ll never ever see each other again
If you have any left, go hide behind your friends
Go hide behind the privilege you had since a baby
Stop spitting your hatred like a mouthful of rabies
CHORUS 2
I hope you crash your car and break your ass
Unleash some sewage in your seat as well as gas
Maybe in the next life you should make a U-turn
Your vocabulary ain’t got room for sick burns
VERSE 3
The world left your ass behind a long time ago
Your noisy engine is fast, but your mind is slow
Maybe if you floor the pedal, you might catch up
But nobody’s allegiance is yours to snatch up
CHORUS 3
I hope you crash your car and smash your skull
With a fractured jaw, it’s hard to talk some bull
With a splattered brain, you’re not changing much
Maybe in the next life you should pull the clutch
I hope you crash your car and burn forever in hell
You’ll be dancing forever in a pyromantic spell
Maybe if you make your way back to the earth
You can be somebody who isn’t lower than dirt
Screaming obscenities from your death machine
You’ve got some testicles the size of jelly beans
You’ve got a backbone like a number two pencil
Proudly write that shit down on a military stencil
It’s the luck of the draw that the two of us meet
Your party can only win if they fucking cheat
You can yell that shit with a bullhorn blaster
Your leash gets tighter in the hands of your master
CHORUS 1
I hope you crash your car and break your neck
I hope you burn to ashes in a fiery wreck
Maybe in the next life you should pump the brakes
Not confirm to the world your birth was a mistake
VERSE 2
I know we’ll never ever see each other again
If you have any left, go hide behind your friends
Go hide behind the privilege you had since a baby
Stop spitting your hatred like a mouthful of rabies
CHORUS 2
I hope you crash your car and break your ass
Unleash some sewage in your seat as well as gas
Maybe in the next life you should make a U-turn
Your vocabulary ain’t got room for sick burns
VERSE 3
The world left your ass behind a long time ago
Your noisy engine is fast, but your mind is slow
Maybe if you floor the pedal, you might catch up
But nobody’s allegiance is yours to snatch up
CHORUS 3
I hope you crash your car and smash your skull
With a fractured jaw, it’s hard to talk some bull
With a splattered brain, you’re not changing much
Maybe in the next life you should pull the clutch
I hope you crash your car and burn forever in hell
You’ll be dancing forever in a pyromantic spell
Maybe if you make your way back to the earth
You can be somebody who isn’t lower than dirt
October 17, 2020
Brainwashed By Television
Swordfights are fun! Fairytale romances are fun! Fairytale romances that happen as a result of swordfighting are fun! Buy this cheeseburger! Buy this appliance! What a splendid pie! Pizza pizza pie! Every minute, every second, buy, buy, buy, buy, buy! You feel hungry yet? If so, what are you hungrier for: a Disney princess or an extra large pepperoni pizza? Having a hard time deciding? Don’t worry, because the television will decide that for you. I can’t speak for the entire population, but I must confess that I’ve been brainwashed by television. It’s not just the juicy bacon double cheeseburgers on screen that capture my imagination. It’s not some random guy saying, “Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop ‘em in your mouth!” when referring to popcorn shrimp. It’s the ultra spicy women. It’s the romantic storylines those women are a part of that make me want it for myself.
The other day, my brother and I were driving home from Wendy’s (as a result of being brainwashed by their commercials). He mentions to me that he has a friend who doesn’t want to be in a relationship with women anymore because it keeps him from doing all the things he wants to do with his life. Disney movies like Aladdin and Snow White will show you the magical side of romance. They’ll show you the heartstrings being pulled, the stars in the lovers’ eyes, the irresistible physical beauty, and the all-important happily ever after. I explained to my brother that the reason I was interested having a relationship for myself is because I was brainwashed by television into believing that. One romantic relationship onscreen is questionable on its own. But when you get hit with that kind of message over and over again for a long period of time, you start to believe it. First it’s Aladdin and Jasmine bonding over their economic statuses. Then it’s Marty Deeks and Kensi Blye from NCIS: Los Angeles bonding over their traumas (because love totally cures everything, right?). I’m not ragging on people who genuinely enjoy romantic storylines. I’m just relating my experiences, that’s all.
You know what those Disney movies don’t tell you about relationships? They’re work. They’re a LOT of work. Basically, you’re responsible for another human being. If you have children together, you’ll be responsible for a LOT of human beings. You have to make compromises and sacrifices in order to keep your partner happy. Your partner has to do the same. Sometimes these sacrifices means scaling back on dreams you’ve previously had, whether it’s world travel, a music career, an acting career, or whatever. Some people can juggle a relationship with their ambitions. Some people can’t and they remain miserable. Where would I fall under those categories? That’s the thing: I wouldn’t know because I’ve only been in two relationships my whole life. One of them was an online romance and the other was casual dating. I’ve never felt like my freedom was limited or even tested in the slightest, but only because it hasn’t had that chance. It’s weird, because I turned down dates left and right in middle school because I thought my individuality was going to be threatened. Would it have been? I don’t know.
So where did we get this idea that romance is the be-all-end-all of life goals? Obviously, we’ve been pounded over the head with this idea from when we were small up until adulthood. But let’s examine this further, shall we? It’s what authors do best. Think about your favorite piece of media, whether it’s a movie, TV show, videogame, book, or otherwise. Ever notice that anytime an attractive woman is featured in those stories, most of the time she’s shoehorned into a relationship with a male character? Take Super Street Fighter II, for example. There are only two female characters in that whole game: a kung fu practitioner named Chun Li and a British Intelligence officer named Cammy White. Both characters are physically attractive and the programmers made extra sure to put them in revealing outfits, Chun Li in a bottomless Chinese dress and Cammy in a thong leotard. When Chun Li is the one who kills M. Bison (the main boss), she goes on to become a “single girl” (at least that’s one of her endings). When Cammy defeats Bison, he reveals to her that they “used to be in love”. The only male characters who are given the romantic treatment are Vega (who’s a narcissistic Spanish ninja) and Ken (a karate master who marries his fiancé Eliza). Vega and Ken aren’t nearly as sexualized as Cammy and Chun Li are, and the latter two are the only females in the game. Draw your own conclusions.
But it’s not just videogames. It’s any kind of media you can think of. The original Star Wars movies feature Princess Leia in a golden bikini. Also, she has a romantic storyline with Han Solo. Coincidence? Sure, why not? WWE is notorious for doing romantic storylines with their attractive female roster. As I’m writing this, there’s sexual tension between Buddy Murphy and Aalyah Mysterio (Rey’s daughter). Why did they decide this? Who knows? What about NCIS? Ziva David is an Israeli assassin who joins the team. She’s also an attractive female who’s got a slow burn going on with a male cohort, Tony DiNozzo. Why is this happening? Why is this spread across virtually all media? Why do some of these characters have to be shoehorned together? Sometimes the chemistry is there and it makes for a good storyline. But not all the time. Sometimes you’ve got Kickboxer: Vengeance. Sometimes you’ve got Fifty Shades of Grey. Sometimes you’ve got…(gulp)…365 Days, where the lead female is being held hostage by the lead male and is given that amount of time to fall in love with him. Romanticizing Stockholm Syndrome! Yum! Ugh…
I get that romance is a part of life. I get that it makes for good media. I get that people have ambitions to be a wife or a husband, a mother or a father. I’m not knocking anybody who believes in these dreams. To each their own. But for me personally, the reason I want a romance for myself is because I’ve been brainwashed by TV. If I think about it, there’s no reason why my personality will mesh well with a Cammy White or a Ziva David. There’s no reason why any You Tuber would want to travel X number of miles just to hook up with me. I say these things not to whine or complain. I say them because realistically, it’s true. Or to paraphrase a line from George Costanza, “Three hundred pound men with no job, no car, and who live with their parents don’t approach strange women.” I hate even saying that, because I can always point to characters like Otis from the WWE and Aladdin from the Disney movies as examples of men who break barriers to get the beautiful girl. It can happen. But not always. It’s not a surefire outcome. I’ve been beaten over the head with romance so many times in my life that I once believed that there’s someone for everyone. Who’s out there for me? Is she American? Is she Icelandic? Is she Russian? And if I do find this person, how long will she last with me before I annoy the piss out of her? There’s no such thing as job security when it comes to the role of a boyfriend or girlfriend.
But I can still dream. As a matter of fact, I do dream. All the time. I have a very active imagination whenever I’m given alone time. You know what I do with that imagination? I fantasize about resting my head on a woman’s lap while she plays with my hair and says sweet things to me. Who is this woman? It could be a You Tube crush. It could be a celebrity crush. It could be a musical crush. Why do I think about doing this with any of my crushes? Because they did it on an episode of Millennium called “A Room with No View”, though that could hardly be called romantic. Lucy Butler, a demonic seductress, holds one of her captives’ head in her lap and she cuddles with him while giving him kisses and talking sweetly to him. That’s right. I based a romantic fantasy off of a television show about serial killers. If that’s not brainwashing my television, I don’t know what the fuck is. If you’ve seen that episode and are suffering from Stockholm Syndrome yourself, you know why.
I guess the moral of the story is to do your research on what you want before you commit to it. That can apply to romance, but it can also apply to other aspects in life whether it’s a travel destination, a job, a hobby, or a concert to name a few. Only you can decide what’s right and what’s wrong for yourself. Only you can make decisions with your life going forward. If you want a relationship, that’s great. If not, that’s great too. What do I want? I’ll figure it out as soon as I undo my brainwashing by television.
The other day, my brother and I were driving home from Wendy’s (as a result of being brainwashed by their commercials). He mentions to me that he has a friend who doesn’t want to be in a relationship with women anymore because it keeps him from doing all the things he wants to do with his life. Disney movies like Aladdin and Snow White will show you the magical side of romance. They’ll show you the heartstrings being pulled, the stars in the lovers’ eyes, the irresistible physical beauty, and the all-important happily ever after. I explained to my brother that the reason I was interested having a relationship for myself is because I was brainwashed by television into believing that. One romantic relationship onscreen is questionable on its own. But when you get hit with that kind of message over and over again for a long period of time, you start to believe it. First it’s Aladdin and Jasmine bonding over their economic statuses. Then it’s Marty Deeks and Kensi Blye from NCIS: Los Angeles bonding over their traumas (because love totally cures everything, right?). I’m not ragging on people who genuinely enjoy romantic storylines. I’m just relating my experiences, that’s all.
You know what those Disney movies don’t tell you about relationships? They’re work. They’re a LOT of work. Basically, you’re responsible for another human being. If you have children together, you’ll be responsible for a LOT of human beings. You have to make compromises and sacrifices in order to keep your partner happy. Your partner has to do the same. Sometimes these sacrifices means scaling back on dreams you’ve previously had, whether it’s world travel, a music career, an acting career, or whatever. Some people can juggle a relationship with their ambitions. Some people can’t and they remain miserable. Where would I fall under those categories? That’s the thing: I wouldn’t know because I’ve only been in two relationships my whole life. One of them was an online romance and the other was casual dating. I’ve never felt like my freedom was limited or even tested in the slightest, but only because it hasn’t had that chance. It’s weird, because I turned down dates left and right in middle school because I thought my individuality was going to be threatened. Would it have been? I don’t know.
So where did we get this idea that romance is the be-all-end-all of life goals? Obviously, we’ve been pounded over the head with this idea from when we were small up until adulthood. But let’s examine this further, shall we? It’s what authors do best. Think about your favorite piece of media, whether it’s a movie, TV show, videogame, book, or otherwise. Ever notice that anytime an attractive woman is featured in those stories, most of the time she’s shoehorned into a relationship with a male character? Take Super Street Fighter II, for example. There are only two female characters in that whole game: a kung fu practitioner named Chun Li and a British Intelligence officer named Cammy White. Both characters are physically attractive and the programmers made extra sure to put them in revealing outfits, Chun Li in a bottomless Chinese dress and Cammy in a thong leotard. When Chun Li is the one who kills M. Bison (the main boss), she goes on to become a “single girl” (at least that’s one of her endings). When Cammy defeats Bison, he reveals to her that they “used to be in love”. The only male characters who are given the romantic treatment are Vega (who’s a narcissistic Spanish ninja) and Ken (a karate master who marries his fiancé Eliza). Vega and Ken aren’t nearly as sexualized as Cammy and Chun Li are, and the latter two are the only females in the game. Draw your own conclusions.
But it’s not just videogames. It’s any kind of media you can think of. The original Star Wars movies feature Princess Leia in a golden bikini. Also, she has a romantic storyline with Han Solo. Coincidence? Sure, why not? WWE is notorious for doing romantic storylines with their attractive female roster. As I’m writing this, there’s sexual tension between Buddy Murphy and Aalyah Mysterio (Rey’s daughter). Why did they decide this? Who knows? What about NCIS? Ziva David is an Israeli assassin who joins the team. She’s also an attractive female who’s got a slow burn going on with a male cohort, Tony DiNozzo. Why is this happening? Why is this spread across virtually all media? Why do some of these characters have to be shoehorned together? Sometimes the chemistry is there and it makes for a good storyline. But not all the time. Sometimes you’ve got Kickboxer: Vengeance. Sometimes you’ve got Fifty Shades of Grey. Sometimes you’ve got…(gulp)…365 Days, where the lead female is being held hostage by the lead male and is given that amount of time to fall in love with him. Romanticizing Stockholm Syndrome! Yum! Ugh…
I get that romance is a part of life. I get that it makes for good media. I get that people have ambitions to be a wife or a husband, a mother or a father. I’m not knocking anybody who believes in these dreams. To each their own. But for me personally, the reason I want a romance for myself is because I’ve been brainwashed by TV. If I think about it, there’s no reason why my personality will mesh well with a Cammy White or a Ziva David. There’s no reason why any You Tuber would want to travel X number of miles just to hook up with me. I say these things not to whine or complain. I say them because realistically, it’s true. Or to paraphrase a line from George Costanza, “Three hundred pound men with no job, no car, and who live with their parents don’t approach strange women.” I hate even saying that, because I can always point to characters like Otis from the WWE and Aladdin from the Disney movies as examples of men who break barriers to get the beautiful girl. It can happen. But not always. It’s not a surefire outcome. I’ve been beaten over the head with romance so many times in my life that I once believed that there’s someone for everyone. Who’s out there for me? Is she American? Is she Icelandic? Is she Russian? And if I do find this person, how long will she last with me before I annoy the piss out of her? There’s no such thing as job security when it comes to the role of a boyfriend or girlfriend.
But I can still dream. As a matter of fact, I do dream. All the time. I have a very active imagination whenever I’m given alone time. You know what I do with that imagination? I fantasize about resting my head on a woman’s lap while she plays with my hair and says sweet things to me. Who is this woman? It could be a You Tube crush. It could be a celebrity crush. It could be a musical crush. Why do I think about doing this with any of my crushes? Because they did it on an episode of Millennium called “A Room with No View”, though that could hardly be called romantic. Lucy Butler, a demonic seductress, holds one of her captives’ head in her lap and she cuddles with him while giving him kisses and talking sweetly to him. That’s right. I based a romantic fantasy off of a television show about serial killers. If that’s not brainwashing my television, I don’t know what the fuck is. If you’ve seen that episode and are suffering from Stockholm Syndrome yourself, you know why.
I guess the moral of the story is to do your research on what you want before you commit to it. That can apply to romance, but it can also apply to other aspects in life whether it’s a travel destination, a job, a hobby, or a concert to name a few. Only you can decide what’s right and what’s wrong for yourself. Only you can make decisions with your life going forward. If you want a relationship, that’s great. If not, that’s great too. What do I want? I’ll figure it out as soon as I undo my brainwashing by television.
October 16, 2020
Burning Tongue
Swordfight against my stomach acids
Hot sauce covering my shirt like a canvas
Hot pink cheeks and a burning tongue
Pyromantic death inside my lungs
Fifteen chicken wings to earn the respect
Of drunken strangers I’ve never even met
Of bartenders who bring a glass of milk
Of everyone else who wants vicarious thrills
My admirers know nothing about me
Except how much I’m willing to eat
If I told them about my inner struggles
Would they give me love or childish chuckles?
Beer at times makes monsters out of men
Drugs and paranoia put them on the defense
Makes them say things that shouldn’t be public
Racism, sexism, and homophobic fuckups
I leave the bar the same way I came in
Sober and depressed, not a shot of gin
Wouldn’t like the alcohol any damn ways
No sense in crashing and breaking my face
A bottle of Tums when I hit the sack
Not enough room for a midnight snack
Not enough memories to last forever
Except for ones that bring ocular weather
They say tomorrow is another day
Another chance to feel not so okay
Another chance to fuck it all away
Another swallow of pills to ease the pain
At least the wings were good, it’s all I can ask
They’ll feel like a flamethrower out of my ass
Ask me if I’d do it again in a heartbeat?
I’m already starving for some carved meat
Rinse and repeat, get the same results
Stomach ablaze, a heart stone cold
But I’ll never turn down a chance at food
Even with a fucked up brain, I’m in the mood
Even with a fucked up heart, I’ll chow down
Even with a Buddha belly bigger than a cow
Even with cholesterol plugging up my veins
Even with underwear covered in butt stains
Fifteen chicken wings? Give me fifteen more
I’ll keep breaking records for the top score
Earn cheers and high fives from the guys
As the hot sauce makes me sneeze and cry
Hot sauce covering my shirt like a canvas
Hot pink cheeks and a burning tongue
Pyromantic death inside my lungs
Fifteen chicken wings to earn the respect
Of drunken strangers I’ve never even met
Of bartenders who bring a glass of milk
Of everyone else who wants vicarious thrills
My admirers know nothing about me
Except how much I’m willing to eat
If I told them about my inner struggles
Would they give me love or childish chuckles?
Beer at times makes monsters out of men
Drugs and paranoia put them on the defense
Makes them say things that shouldn’t be public
Racism, sexism, and homophobic fuckups
I leave the bar the same way I came in
Sober and depressed, not a shot of gin
Wouldn’t like the alcohol any damn ways
No sense in crashing and breaking my face
A bottle of Tums when I hit the sack
Not enough room for a midnight snack
Not enough memories to last forever
Except for ones that bring ocular weather
They say tomorrow is another day
Another chance to feel not so okay
Another chance to fuck it all away
Another swallow of pills to ease the pain
At least the wings were good, it’s all I can ask
They’ll feel like a flamethrower out of my ass
Ask me if I’d do it again in a heartbeat?
I’m already starving for some carved meat
Rinse and repeat, get the same results
Stomach ablaze, a heart stone cold
But I’ll never turn down a chance at food
Even with a fucked up brain, I’m in the mood
Even with a fucked up heart, I’ll chow down
Even with a Buddha belly bigger than a cow
Even with cholesterol plugging up my veins
Even with underwear covered in butt stains
Fifteen chicken wings? Give me fifteen more
I’ll keep breaking records for the top score
Earn cheers and high fives from the guys
As the hot sauce makes me sneeze and cry
October 3, 2020
The Scatomancer
The lighthouse bathroom was the only one available for miles at Cheney Park. Not a good night to have overstuffed intestines…and an even worse night to be trapped in the men’s room with Johnny Lockwood. The black hoodie-wearing youngster sat in the middle stall with his knees to his chest and amber-colored magic swirling in his hands. His wide grin counted as a bold attempt to stifle his laughter, a low bar to clear for a man with an immature mind. “This is going to be good…this is going to be so good…” A tiny chuckle escaped his throat, but he quickly suppressed it when he heard the steel door burst open and business loafers tapping across the tile floor.
Judging from what Johnny could see underneath his stall door, the thick legs filling out business slacks suggested that whoever burst into the bathroom had a lot of…ammunition to work with. He put his non-magic-wielding hand over his mouth to keep his giggles in check. The corpulent corporate rushed into the stall next to Johnny and pulled his pants around his ankles long before the door could lock. Johnny’s giggles were laced with spitting noises as he saw a yellow stain in the front of the man’s white briefs.
The scatomancer went to work right away, forming symbols and gestures with his hands to cast his first spell. On cue, the stranger’s bowl movements sounded like a bomb going off, the splatter of toilet water suggesting the same. The man’s moaning didn’t deter Johnny from casting another spell, this time shooting feces from his pudgy cheeks like a fire hose. The poor bastard’s grunts and groans sounded more like a dying opera singer performing his magnum opus. Johnny held his aching ribs while struggling to keep his laughs under control.
For his final trick, Johnny pointed his fingers upwards and trembled as the amber magic did its work. The man screamed and hollered as he tried to give birth to a rock-hard wrecking ball, causing little droplets of blood to tap the floor. “Get out of my ass!” he shouted, causing Johnny’s laughter to make him lose control of the spell. The intestinal boulder collapsed into the toilet and completely destroyed it, spreading muddy water all over the floor and moistening its sticky surface. The man wiped his ass with toilet paper, but not without crying out like a torture rack victim. He didn’t even stop to wash his hands. He got out of there as fast as his hulking body could take him.
Johnny howled and hooted with laughter as he exited his own stall, holding his spine the entire time. “Ouch! Ouch! Oh my god, that was gold! Holy shit!” Even after seeing his scatomancy teacher standing across the bathroom with his arms folded in disgust, the hee-haws never stopped. They slowed down, but without making a complete stop. “Owen, did you see that? I got him good! Come on, man, laugh!”
Owen Murphy, a dark-haired middle-aged gentleman with a cloak covering his body (but thankfully not touching the floor) spat back at his protégé. “Multiple generations of potent magic has all come to this, it seems. The lost art of scatomancy has been reduced to a goddamn JOKE!”
Johnny’s laughter abated and his smile sagged into disappointment. “Joke? You mean it wasn’t a joke before? I’m literally a shit wizard! Most wizards like to shoot lightning bolts and fireballs from their fingertips. I control shit!”
Owen slapped Johnny across the face and killed the last remnants of laughter remaining. “You do more than just control shit. You have the power of life and death in your hands. Your little middle school prank could have killed him! Losing that much weight within seconds could have dehydrated him to death!”
Johnny waved him off. “Don’t worry, Master Murphy, he’ll gain all the weight back after he stuffs down a couple more chocolate-covered pork roasts.”
“So not only is lethal diarrhea funny to you, but also obesity. You truly have the mind of a toddler, Johnny. If your father didn’t have so many goddamn connections, you would have been fucked off a long time ago!”
With wide eyes and a hunched spine, Johnny said, “Dude! I’m a shit wizard! You taught me how to manipulate shit! Those jokes pretty much write themselves! So an army of dragons comes breathing down our necks. So what are we supposed to do about it with all of this cosmic knowledge we have? Do we make the dragons shit themselves to death? Oh, that’ll go over like a fart in church! See what I did there?”
Owen death gripped Johnny’s shoulders and made him hiss in pain. The master’s face oozed with anger, seriousness, and a little bit of psychopathy. In a gravelly whisper that could force giants to quiver in fear, he said, “I don’t have time to re-teach you the applications of scatomancy. You’ve had years to process it in your head. It’s more than just shit magic, Johnny. It’s biology. It’s pathology. It’s a pathway to information we wouldn’t otherwise have. So excuse me if I don’t share your immature sense of humor over magic that shouldn’t be toyed with!” Owen gave an extra tight squeeze and Johnny yelped.
He swatted his master’s hands away. “Alright, jeez, you don’t have to bite my head off! I’m sorry, okay! I won’t do it again! Like you said, I’ve had years to process this.” Owen’s mask of rage softened. “But then again…Fudge Tunnel McGee had years to process his string cheese and hotdogs and look how that turned out. Phew! Smells like chemical warfare in here!” Owen face-palmed. “Hey, there’s another useful application for shit magic, I mean, scatomancy: chemical weaponry! More powerful than a nuclear bomb and more radiation cancer! Huh? Yeah!”
Still with his face in his hands, Owen said, “I have lost all respect for you, Johnny. You could have been the chosen one of our sacred order. You could have lived up to your potential as the greatest wizard of your generation. All that time teaching you…it went to waste.”
“You’re damn right it went to waste! It’s all over the goddamn floor!”
“Goodbye, Johnny. I never want to see you again. If your father gets nepotistic on me, I’ll be sure to tell him that you’re a bigger piece of shit than what came out of…no, I’m not giving you comic fodder. You don’t deserve to laugh. I’d tell you to give up magic and get a job making pizzas at a gas station, but…”
“But my hands are too dirty for the job?”
Owen sighed, tucked his chin in disillusionment, and trudged out of the bathroom, dragging his wizard’s slippers across the murky floor. Johnny shrugged his shoulders before Owen poked his head in again. “Oh, and by the way…that gentleman you just pranked? He’s on the Board of Magic Education. His name is Bill Grass. If you want to laugh about how his last name rhymes with a certain expletive, be sure to tell him that to his face.” Owen slammed the door behind him.
“What does he mean by that?”
Somebody behind Johnny cleared his throat and the magician got a lump in his as he slowly turned around to face him. There he was: Chairman Bill Grass, complete with hands on his wide hips and a gorgon death stare on his bearded face. Needless to say, he wasn’t in the mood for comedy.
“Hey, Chairman…” Johnny looked down as he twiddled his fingers and thumbs. “How’s it going?” Bill tapped his foot with impatience. “Eh, I already know how it’s going, if you know what I mean.” Johnny placed his hands over his own mouth, as if trying to put the joke back where he got it from.
“You like jokes, Mr. Lockwood? You like making people laugh? Here, let me help you out with that.” Bill scooped Johnny off the ground, the young wizard begging and pleading to be put down. And so Bill did as he body slammed his attacker onto the scatomantic sludge. Johnny’s back and ribs pulsated with pain as he struggled to take even the simplest of breaths. He wouldn’t have wanted those breaths anyways since they all tasted and smelled like an intestinal plutonium rod.
“Go ahead, Johnny. Get up! Leave the bathroom! I dare you! You’ve got an entire student body gathered outside. You want people to not be so sensitive and have a sense of humor? Well, they’ll be laughing at you for years to come, my friend. Enjoy the attention! You’ll never shake it off again. Oops! I said shake it off in a men’s bathroom. Silly me!” Bill horse-laughed as he exited the bathroom, leaving Johnny in a painful heap on the ground.
Johnny had the choice to punch up with his sense of humor rather than punch down. He could have made something of himself. After that body slam by Chairman Grass, he’ll be the stuff of legend for as long as he lives, but not in the way that Owen Murphy had envisioned for him. Johnny rolled over onto his knees and pounded the ground in frustration, shouting a few curses for good measure. The splash of the toilet water got into his mouth and he immediately puked his guts out all over the floor, becoming an even bigger legend in the process. The best he could have done was laugh with his contemporaries, but his ribs and spine were too sore for that. In a way, his bones were one in the same with his spirit: broken down and never to be fixed again. The only question of the evening was…who’s laughing now?
Judging from what Johnny could see underneath his stall door, the thick legs filling out business slacks suggested that whoever burst into the bathroom had a lot of…ammunition to work with. He put his non-magic-wielding hand over his mouth to keep his giggles in check. The corpulent corporate rushed into the stall next to Johnny and pulled his pants around his ankles long before the door could lock. Johnny’s giggles were laced with spitting noises as he saw a yellow stain in the front of the man’s white briefs.
The scatomancer went to work right away, forming symbols and gestures with his hands to cast his first spell. On cue, the stranger’s bowl movements sounded like a bomb going off, the splatter of toilet water suggesting the same. The man’s moaning didn’t deter Johnny from casting another spell, this time shooting feces from his pudgy cheeks like a fire hose. The poor bastard’s grunts and groans sounded more like a dying opera singer performing his magnum opus. Johnny held his aching ribs while struggling to keep his laughs under control.
For his final trick, Johnny pointed his fingers upwards and trembled as the amber magic did its work. The man screamed and hollered as he tried to give birth to a rock-hard wrecking ball, causing little droplets of blood to tap the floor. “Get out of my ass!” he shouted, causing Johnny’s laughter to make him lose control of the spell. The intestinal boulder collapsed into the toilet and completely destroyed it, spreading muddy water all over the floor and moistening its sticky surface. The man wiped his ass with toilet paper, but not without crying out like a torture rack victim. He didn’t even stop to wash his hands. He got out of there as fast as his hulking body could take him.
Johnny howled and hooted with laughter as he exited his own stall, holding his spine the entire time. “Ouch! Ouch! Oh my god, that was gold! Holy shit!” Even after seeing his scatomancy teacher standing across the bathroom with his arms folded in disgust, the hee-haws never stopped. They slowed down, but without making a complete stop. “Owen, did you see that? I got him good! Come on, man, laugh!”
Owen Murphy, a dark-haired middle-aged gentleman with a cloak covering his body (but thankfully not touching the floor) spat back at his protégé. “Multiple generations of potent magic has all come to this, it seems. The lost art of scatomancy has been reduced to a goddamn JOKE!”
Johnny’s laughter abated and his smile sagged into disappointment. “Joke? You mean it wasn’t a joke before? I’m literally a shit wizard! Most wizards like to shoot lightning bolts and fireballs from their fingertips. I control shit!”
Owen slapped Johnny across the face and killed the last remnants of laughter remaining. “You do more than just control shit. You have the power of life and death in your hands. Your little middle school prank could have killed him! Losing that much weight within seconds could have dehydrated him to death!”
Johnny waved him off. “Don’t worry, Master Murphy, he’ll gain all the weight back after he stuffs down a couple more chocolate-covered pork roasts.”
“So not only is lethal diarrhea funny to you, but also obesity. You truly have the mind of a toddler, Johnny. If your father didn’t have so many goddamn connections, you would have been fucked off a long time ago!”
With wide eyes and a hunched spine, Johnny said, “Dude! I’m a shit wizard! You taught me how to manipulate shit! Those jokes pretty much write themselves! So an army of dragons comes breathing down our necks. So what are we supposed to do about it with all of this cosmic knowledge we have? Do we make the dragons shit themselves to death? Oh, that’ll go over like a fart in church! See what I did there?”
Owen death gripped Johnny’s shoulders and made him hiss in pain. The master’s face oozed with anger, seriousness, and a little bit of psychopathy. In a gravelly whisper that could force giants to quiver in fear, he said, “I don’t have time to re-teach you the applications of scatomancy. You’ve had years to process it in your head. It’s more than just shit magic, Johnny. It’s biology. It’s pathology. It’s a pathway to information we wouldn’t otherwise have. So excuse me if I don’t share your immature sense of humor over magic that shouldn’t be toyed with!” Owen gave an extra tight squeeze and Johnny yelped.
He swatted his master’s hands away. “Alright, jeez, you don’t have to bite my head off! I’m sorry, okay! I won’t do it again! Like you said, I’ve had years to process this.” Owen’s mask of rage softened. “But then again…Fudge Tunnel McGee had years to process his string cheese and hotdogs and look how that turned out. Phew! Smells like chemical warfare in here!” Owen face-palmed. “Hey, there’s another useful application for shit magic, I mean, scatomancy: chemical weaponry! More powerful than a nuclear bomb and more radiation cancer! Huh? Yeah!”
Still with his face in his hands, Owen said, “I have lost all respect for you, Johnny. You could have been the chosen one of our sacred order. You could have lived up to your potential as the greatest wizard of your generation. All that time teaching you…it went to waste.”
“You’re damn right it went to waste! It’s all over the goddamn floor!”
“Goodbye, Johnny. I never want to see you again. If your father gets nepotistic on me, I’ll be sure to tell him that you’re a bigger piece of shit than what came out of…no, I’m not giving you comic fodder. You don’t deserve to laugh. I’d tell you to give up magic and get a job making pizzas at a gas station, but…”
“But my hands are too dirty for the job?”
Owen sighed, tucked his chin in disillusionment, and trudged out of the bathroom, dragging his wizard’s slippers across the murky floor. Johnny shrugged his shoulders before Owen poked his head in again. “Oh, and by the way…that gentleman you just pranked? He’s on the Board of Magic Education. His name is Bill Grass. If you want to laugh about how his last name rhymes with a certain expletive, be sure to tell him that to his face.” Owen slammed the door behind him.
“What does he mean by that?”
Somebody behind Johnny cleared his throat and the magician got a lump in his as he slowly turned around to face him. There he was: Chairman Bill Grass, complete with hands on his wide hips and a gorgon death stare on his bearded face. Needless to say, he wasn’t in the mood for comedy.
“Hey, Chairman…” Johnny looked down as he twiddled his fingers and thumbs. “How’s it going?” Bill tapped his foot with impatience. “Eh, I already know how it’s going, if you know what I mean.” Johnny placed his hands over his own mouth, as if trying to put the joke back where he got it from.
“You like jokes, Mr. Lockwood? You like making people laugh? Here, let me help you out with that.” Bill scooped Johnny off the ground, the young wizard begging and pleading to be put down. And so Bill did as he body slammed his attacker onto the scatomantic sludge. Johnny’s back and ribs pulsated with pain as he struggled to take even the simplest of breaths. He wouldn’t have wanted those breaths anyways since they all tasted and smelled like an intestinal plutonium rod.
“Go ahead, Johnny. Get up! Leave the bathroom! I dare you! You’ve got an entire student body gathered outside. You want people to not be so sensitive and have a sense of humor? Well, they’ll be laughing at you for years to come, my friend. Enjoy the attention! You’ll never shake it off again. Oops! I said shake it off in a men’s bathroom. Silly me!” Bill horse-laughed as he exited the bathroom, leaving Johnny in a painful heap on the ground.
Johnny had the choice to punch up with his sense of humor rather than punch down. He could have made something of himself. After that body slam by Chairman Grass, he’ll be the stuff of legend for as long as he lives, but not in the way that Owen Murphy had envisioned for him. Johnny rolled over onto his knees and pounded the ground in frustration, shouting a few curses for good measure. The splash of the toilet water got into his mouth and he immediately puked his guts out all over the floor, becoming an even bigger legend in the process. The best he could have done was laugh with his contemporaries, but his ribs and spine were too sore for that. In a way, his bones were one in the same with his spirit: broken down and never to be fixed again. The only question of the evening was…who’s laughing now?
Andre the Giant
MOVIE TITLE: Andre the Giant
PRODUCER: HBO
YEAR: 2018
GENRE: Wrestling Documentary
RATING: TV-14 for violence and language
GRADE: Extra Credit
Seven feet and four inches tall, well over four hundred pounds, undefeated for fifteen years in professional wrestling, first ever WWE Hall of Famer, and above all else, a literal larger than life character. When the name Andre the Giant is mentioned, these are the descriptors that come with it and it was a solidly earned reputation. Wrestling fans wanted to see a godlike attraction, so they dished out large sums of money to see him destroy his opponents like they were nothing. The wrestling business wouldn’t have boomed in popularity if not for Andre’s mystique and extraordinary presence. Watching this HBO documentary on him made me believe in the legend all over again. It made me nostalgic for the “good old days”, at the risk of sounding like an old codger. I gave up watching pro-wrestling in 2018 due to how bad the WWE product had become. Seeing Andre in action being a dominant beast and making fans go absolutely bananas rekindled a tiny spark within me. It made me believe in the “never say never” idiom. Andre died in 1993, but his memory lives forever. This documentary was the perfect way to keep him immortal in the eyes of wrestling fans both old and new. It’s certainly more respectful than a yearly WWE battle royal where the winner achieves minimal success shortly thereafter.
One thing you can’t say about Andre the Giant was that he was a Gary-Stu, or a character so flawless that they become unrelatable. On the contrary, he was incredibly flawed. People think that being a gigantic tough guy is the ultimate ticket to being taken seriously and not being messed with. Fans messed with him a lot. They pointed and laughed at him. They said horrible things about his appearance, like a high school bully would do relentlessly in order to get his target to commit suicide. You would think that macho pro-wrestlers didn’t have sensitive sides, but Andre cried every time he was picked on by snickering fans. On top of all that, being that big comes with physical hardships as well, whether it was his failing organs, crooked spine, bad hips, or arthritic knees. Peers would often joke about Andre’s drinking habits and how he could go through a hundred cans of beer in a single sitting. He drank because he was depressed and couldn’t cope with the physical and emotional toll constant travel took on him. He couldn’t even sit in a normal sized car seat or rest in a normal sized bed. He also couldn’t be there for his daughter Robin when she needed him the most. Seeing this very human side to a deified wrestler reminds us over and over again not to judge a book by its cover and not to wish we could swap lives with other people. Everyone has their own set of hardships and everyone deals with them in their own way. It certainly makes his death that much more difficult to hear about from the perspectives of his colleagues, who also cried, by the way. The gentle giant deserved better than a slow and painful death. It makes me wonder if a Hall of Fame induction and a namesake battle royal are really enough to do him justice.
You know what does do him justice? His main event match at Wrestlemania III against Hulk Hogan for the WWF Championship. This wasn’t just two big guys having a hoss fight. There was a story behind this. This was Andre being taken seriously as a villainous character when he had spent most of his career being a gentle soul. This was Andre posing a credible threat to WWF’s golden goose. This was Andre severing a brotherly bond he had with Hulk Hogan just for a shot at a money-making championship. Hulk Hogan fought through his own tears and gave a resounding “Yes!” in the most emotional delivery possible when the challenge was laid down. The match itself wasn’t a technical masterpiece, but the documentary did a tremendous job in showing the psychology behind it, both backstage and in the ring. Could Hulk Hogan slay the giant and become a megastar that could carry the company through its darkest times? When he finally did with a body slam and leg drop, the audience cheered their heads off. I wanted to cheer my head off too. I wanted to be there in the building to see it happen, but I didn’t live in Detroit at the time. The energy, the emotional investment, the storytelling, they created a perfect storm when Andre’s defeat burst Hulk Hogan into the stratosphere. Again, this was oftentimes a slow and plodding match due to Andre’s mobility issues, but the magic was still there. The magic will always be there thanks to HBO keeping the memory alive.
I don’t give five-star ratings out so lightly, but for this documentary, I’ll gladly fork it over. One way to earn the maximum rating from me is to evoke emotions that I don’t ordinarily feel from movies and TV shows that I just like. HBO’s documentary did just that. It made me fall in love with wrestling again (even if I refuse to watch the current WWE product). It hurt to see Andre in so much agony, be it emotional or physical. It lifted me up whenever his peers would talk about his sense of humor and his kind demeanor outside of the ring. Was he a god on a worldwide level or was he a human being who longed for an normal life from time to time? The correct answer is yes. Rest in peace, Andre the Giant. It’s been many moons since your passing and we still miss you to this day. That’s the mark of a true legend: when you transcend your own death.
PRODUCER: HBO
YEAR: 2018
GENRE: Wrestling Documentary
RATING: TV-14 for violence and language
GRADE: Extra Credit
Seven feet and four inches tall, well over four hundred pounds, undefeated for fifteen years in professional wrestling, first ever WWE Hall of Famer, and above all else, a literal larger than life character. When the name Andre the Giant is mentioned, these are the descriptors that come with it and it was a solidly earned reputation. Wrestling fans wanted to see a godlike attraction, so they dished out large sums of money to see him destroy his opponents like they were nothing. The wrestling business wouldn’t have boomed in popularity if not for Andre’s mystique and extraordinary presence. Watching this HBO documentary on him made me believe in the legend all over again. It made me nostalgic for the “good old days”, at the risk of sounding like an old codger. I gave up watching pro-wrestling in 2018 due to how bad the WWE product had become. Seeing Andre in action being a dominant beast and making fans go absolutely bananas rekindled a tiny spark within me. It made me believe in the “never say never” idiom. Andre died in 1993, but his memory lives forever. This documentary was the perfect way to keep him immortal in the eyes of wrestling fans both old and new. It’s certainly more respectful than a yearly WWE battle royal where the winner achieves minimal success shortly thereafter.
One thing you can’t say about Andre the Giant was that he was a Gary-Stu, or a character so flawless that they become unrelatable. On the contrary, he was incredibly flawed. People think that being a gigantic tough guy is the ultimate ticket to being taken seriously and not being messed with. Fans messed with him a lot. They pointed and laughed at him. They said horrible things about his appearance, like a high school bully would do relentlessly in order to get his target to commit suicide. You would think that macho pro-wrestlers didn’t have sensitive sides, but Andre cried every time he was picked on by snickering fans. On top of all that, being that big comes with physical hardships as well, whether it was his failing organs, crooked spine, bad hips, or arthritic knees. Peers would often joke about Andre’s drinking habits and how he could go through a hundred cans of beer in a single sitting. He drank because he was depressed and couldn’t cope with the physical and emotional toll constant travel took on him. He couldn’t even sit in a normal sized car seat or rest in a normal sized bed. He also couldn’t be there for his daughter Robin when she needed him the most. Seeing this very human side to a deified wrestler reminds us over and over again not to judge a book by its cover and not to wish we could swap lives with other people. Everyone has their own set of hardships and everyone deals with them in their own way. It certainly makes his death that much more difficult to hear about from the perspectives of his colleagues, who also cried, by the way. The gentle giant deserved better than a slow and painful death. It makes me wonder if a Hall of Fame induction and a namesake battle royal are really enough to do him justice.
You know what does do him justice? His main event match at Wrestlemania III against Hulk Hogan for the WWF Championship. This wasn’t just two big guys having a hoss fight. There was a story behind this. This was Andre being taken seriously as a villainous character when he had spent most of his career being a gentle soul. This was Andre posing a credible threat to WWF’s golden goose. This was Andre severing a brotherly bond he had with Hulk Hogan just for a shot at a money-making championship. Hulk Hogan fought through his own tears and gave a resounding “Yes!” in the most emotional delivery possible when the challenge was laid down. The match itself wasn’t a technical masterpiece, but the documentary did a tremendous job in showing the psychology behind it, both backstage and in the ring. Could Hulk Hogan slay the giant and become a megastar that could carry the company through its darkest times? When he finally did with a body slam and leg drop, the audience cheered their heads off. I wanted to cheer my head off too. I wanted to be there in the building to see it happen, but I didn’t live in Detroit at the time. The energy, the emotional investment, the storytelling, they created a perfect storm when Andre’s defeat burst Hulk Hogan into the stratosphere. Again, this was oftentimes a slow and plodding match due to Andre’s mobility issues, but the magic was still there. The magic will always be there thanks to HBO keeping the memory alive.
I don’t give five-star ratings out so lightly, but for this documentary, I’ll gladly fork it over. One way to earn the maximum rating from me is to evoke emotions that I don’t ordinarily feel from movies and TV shows that I just like. HBO’s documentary did just that. It made me fall in love with wrestling again (even if I refuse to watch the current WWE product). It hurt to see Andre in so much agony, be it emotional or physical. It lifted me up whenever his peers would talk about his sense of humor and his kind demeanor outside of the ring. Was he a god on a worldwide level or was he a human being who longed for an normal life from time to time? The correct answer is yes. Rest in peace, Andre the Giant. It’s been many moons since your passing and we still miss you to this day. That’s the mark of a true legend: when you transcend your own death.
October 1, 2020
Parasocial
VERSE 1
The beacon of light I’ve been waiting for
A platonic friendship or something more?
One-sided romance from across the screen
Like I don’t know what parasocial means
We never talk, but I can still have dreams
About making this more than it seems
The real world doesn’t even compare
The real world doesn’t fucking care
CHORUS
Parasocial, parasitic
Lovey-dovey, sick and twisted
Parasocial, paranormal
Who cares about morals?
Supernatural, superficial
Let’s tie the knot, make it official
Superstardom, Superhero
Take a chance on this weirdo?
VERSE 2
I don’t have a knife or pepper spray
Yet you back the fuck up anyway
I would too, so I can’t blame you
Don’t know if I have a loose screw
Don’t know if I’m a creepy terrorist
No confidence and less arrogance
Where else am I supposed to go?
Got nothing here but wires and crows
CHORUS
Parasocial, parasitic
Lovey-dovey, sick and twisted
Parasocial, paranormal
Who cares about morals?
Supernatural, superficial
Let’s tie the knot, make it official
Superstardom, Superhero
Take a chance on this weirdo?
VERSE 3
I hate riding in cars in long traffic lines
I hate flying on planes for a long ass time
I hate riding on buses with dog logos
I hate riding on trains, it’s never solo
I don’t have the patience to see this through
Yet I yearn to be even closer to you
Back to the keyboard for another comment
In hopes we still have friendship in common
CHORUS
Parasocial, parasitic
Lovey-dovey, sick and twisted
Parasocial, paranormal
Who cares about morals?
Supernatural, superficial
Let’s tie the knot, make it official
Superstardom, Superhero
Take a chance on this weirdo?
FINAL VERSE
Growing older
Growing colder
You’ve moved on
Still I wait so long
The beacon of light I’ve been waiting for
A platonic friendship or something more?
One-sided romance from across the screen
Like I don’t know what parasocial means
We never talk, but I can still have dreams
About making this more than it seems
The real world doesn’t even compare
The real world doesn’t fucking care
CHORUS
Parasocial, parasitic
Lovey-dovey, sick and twisted
Parasocial, paranormal
Who cares about morals?
Supernatural, superficial
Let’s tie the knot, make it official
Superstardom, Superhero
Take a chance on this weirdo?
VERSE 2
I don’t have a knife or pepper spray
Yet you back the fuck up anyway
I would too, so I can’t blame you
Don’t know if I have a loose screw
Don’t know if I’m a creepy terrorist
No confidence and less arrogance
Where else am I supposed to go?
Got nothing here but wires and crows
CHORUS
Parasocial, parasitic
Lovey-dovey, sick and twisted
Parasocial, paranormal
Who cares about morals?
Supernatural, superficial
Let’s tie the knot, make it official
Superstardom, Superhero
Take a chance on this weirdo?
VERSE 3
I hate riding in cars in long traffic lines
I hate flying on planes for a long ass time
I hate riding on buses with dog logos
I hate riding on trains, it’s never solo
I don’t have the patience to see this through
Yet I yearn to be even closer to you
Back to the keyboard for another comment
In hopes we still have friendship in common
CHORUS
Parasocial, parasitic
Lovey-dovey, sick and twisted
Parasocial, paranormal
Who cares about morals?
Supernatural, superficial
Let’s tie the knot, make it official
Superstardom, Superhero
Take a chance on this weirdo?
FINAL VERSE
Growing older
Growing colder
You’ve moved on
Still I wait so long
September 24, 2020
Immune to My Own Edge
I might be the only person in the universe who feels this way…but when I’m writing a controversial scene in either my prose or poetry…I sometimes forget the weight of my own words. I’ve become immune to my own edge, if you will. A cowboy obliterating his opponent with a gatling gun and splashing his guts like a tidal wave? A leonine samurai decapitating a ninja with his katana before sucking the poor bastard’s insides out with the spine as a drinking straw? A femme fatale seducing a man into bed with her before she bites his penis off and shoves it between his ears? These things may be shocking to my audience, but they’re normal to me. They’re so normal to me that I wasn’t even trying when I wrote those descriptions. Now it’s time to crack my knuckles…
The other day I wrote chapter 21 of my fantasy WIP Beautiful Monster. In this chapter, an imprisoned elf reaches through the bars of his cell and grabs a mercenary by his facial hair. He then proceeds to pull this mercenary’s face into the steel bars as hard as humanly possible, getting more aggressive with each tug. The mercenary’s eyeballs pop out, his teeth shatter and roll on the ground, his nose gets plastered to the back of his skull…to put it as delicately as possible, this mercenary is fucked. Too graphic for you all? Well, that’s funny, because this is just another day at the office for me. This is easily as brutal as it gets in my novel and I didn’t even flinch. I’m immune to my own edge.
How did it get to be this way for me? Too many mental illnesses and pills numbing my mind? Too much brainwashing via the television? Not enough flinching when I watched movies like Saw and Hostel? It’s one thing not to care too much if it happens in a fictional setting, but in a documentary or news story? My god, does that shit hurt. I’m not immune to other people’s edges, just my own. If there’s a news story on TV about police brutality (which has become commonplace in America, unfortunately), I’ll get so pissed off that my jaw will be sore from all the clamping down I’m doing. My mind will do more hundred mile an hour laps than a NASCAR track. But if I write about it in one of my stories? Nothing. Not a goddamn thing.
Why is this happening? Is it because I’m in control of my stories and poems and therefore already know the outcome? But what if the outcome is negative? What if a character is so haunted by their PTSD that they hang themselves from the ceiling fan with a chain whip? Will I be immune to that as well? If I’ve written it, yes, I will be. But only if I’ve written it. If I imagine it in my mind, then I’ll cycle through every harmful emotion I can think of, be it sadness, anger, or depression, which coincidentally spells the acronym SAD. Imagining scenes is much more fun than writing them, even with the harmful emotions.
That’s why I never understood it when people say that jokes can only be funny if you, the comedian, are the first to laugh about it. Sometimes I laugh at my own jokes, but not all the time. And yet, whenever I tell a joke I don’t laugh at myself, my audience laughs at it all the same. Want an example of a really disgusting joke? Okay, here it goes. Where do necromancers go to adopt children? An abortion clinic. You may laugh at that joke, you may not. Did I? Maybe a little bit at first, but I don’t hee-haw at it every single time. I must be immune to my own edge again. Here’s a joke I definitely didn’t laugh at, but other people found fucking hilarious. What do you call a Viking who saves people from drowning? Leif Guard. Not the most offensive joke I’ve ever told, but it’ll probably get more laughs than my necromancer joke, and that’s only if you pronounce Leif like you would “life” instead of “leaf” or “layf”.
Okay, so I’m immune to my own violence and comedy, but what about sadness? I can safely say that I’ve never cried at my own scenes before. I’ve had characters rape each other, attack animals, and die by the hundreds. Not one single tear. Then again, it takes a lot for me to cry these days. Well, it used to, anyways. I used to talk about having a 2007 benchmark for the last time I cried and that was because I blew my chances at signing up for Evergreen College. I can safely say that as of 2020, that record has been shattered. It’s not just the American news or the depression of being cooped up in my own home due to Corona Virus. Those things tax the fuck out of my mental energy, sure. But if you want to know what made me cry alone at night with nobody watching…I repeated the words “I love you” and “I’m sorry” over and over again. Who was I declaring my love for? I don’t know. Who was I apologizing to? I don’t know. It could have been anybody. Hell, it could have been my entire audience because I felt like I let them down in some way. I wasn’t immune to that. But writing about the experience? Not one tear drop.
While I feel nothing when I write my own controversial scenes, my audience feels everything. I’ve had people tell me they cried at my sadder stories. I’ve had people tell me they had chills up and down their spines at my lovey-dovey poems. I’ve had people cringe in pain as they read my more violent poems and stories. I say these things not to brag, but as a warning to anybody reading this piece of nonfiction. You have no idea how powerful your words can be to another person, for better or worse. A simple, “Hi” can be the difference between isolation and a pick-me-up. A tweet can be the difference between connecting with your audience and losing them forever. If a salutation and a tweet can have that much impact on someone’s life, imagine how a whole book can make them feel.
You know…maybe that’s why I was crying and apologizing that one night I broke my 2007 record. Maybe I felt like my books were having a negative impact on people’s lives. I know that’s not true since book sales have been piss-poor since I became a pro. But what if my sales spiked one day and my audience was angered by what I had written? What if Debra Winter’s characterization in Occupy Wrestling was deemed unintentionally misogynistic? What if my poems bored my audience to tears because of how the lyrics resemble corporately-produced rock songs? What if my depictions of rape and assault in Poison Tongue Tales were done in an insensitive way? Can I do anything about these problems now that the books are published? I could, but Amazon is making me jump through hoops just to make cosmetic changes to one of my poetry books. But even if Amazon was 100% cooperative, that would mean redoing six published books and always being behind because I’d be overwhelmed with work. It seems like a lazy copout, but it’s reality. I don’t have the energy to micromanage every single book I’ve published, especially when they’ve been on the market for so long.
But…what if someone didn’t see my writing in an offensive light? What if somebody loved it regardless of all of my negative thoughts? Art is subjective, after all. What’s disgusting to one person could be bliss to another. Yeah, I’m immune to my own edge, but I’m not immune to my own worrying after the fact. Maybe that needs to change. Maybe I should start holding my head high. But in the middle of the cluster-fuck known as 2020? That won’t be easy. But that’s one advantage to having immunity to the most controversial parts of my writing: I can get lost in the process and escape from the world, even if only for a little while. Maybe I can find that nugget of joy among the sea of diarrhea. Isn’t that why we write in the first place? Isn’t that why people say, “Write drunk, edit sober”? Don’t worry about the technicalities now, just barf onto the page and be happy for just a little while. I guess I’m not an uncaring sociopath after all. I’m just looking for joy where I can find it. If that joy includes evoking strong emotions from my readers, then goddamn it, I’ll embrace that shit until the day I die.
The other day I wrote chapter 21 of my fantasy WIP Beautiful Monster. In this chapter, an imprisoned elf reaches through the bars of his cell and grabs a mercenary by his facial hair. He then proceeds to pull this mercenary’s face into the steel bars as hard as humanly possible, getting more aggressive with each tug. The mercenary’s eyeballs pop out, his teeth shatter and roll on the ground, his nose gets plastered to the back of his skull…to put it as delicately as possible, this mercenary is fucked. Too graphic for you all? Well, that’s funny, because this is just another day at the office for me. This is easily as brutal as it gets in my novel and I didn’t even flinch. I’m immune to my own edge.
How did it get to be this way for me? Too many mental illnesses and pills numbing my mind? Too much brainwashing via the television? Not enough flinching when I watched movies like Saw and Hostel? It’s one thing not to care too much if it happens in a fictional setting, but in a documentary or news story? My god, does that shit hurt. I’m not immune to other people’s edges, just my own. If there’s a news story on TV about police brutality (which has become commonplace in America, unfortunately), I’ll get so pissed off that my jaw will be sore from all the clamping down I’m doing. My mind will do more hundred mile an hour laps than a NASCAR track. But if I write about it in one of my stories? Nothing. Not a goddamn thing.
Why is this happening? Is it because I’m in control of my stories and poems and therefore already know the outcome? But what if the outcome is negative? What if a character is so haunted by their PTSD that they hang themselves from the ceiling fan with a chain whip? Will I be immune to that as well? If I’ve written it, yes, I will be. But only if I’ve written it. If I imagine it in my mind, then I’ll cycle through every harmful emotion I can think of, be it sadness, anger, or depression, which coincidentally spells the acronym SAD. Imagining scenes is much more fun than writing them, even with the harmful emotions.
That’s why I never understood it when people say that jokes can only be funny if you, the comedian, are the first to laugh about it. Sometimes I laugh at my own jokes, but not all the time. And yet, whenever I tell a joke I don’t laugh at myself, my audience laughs at it all the same. Want an example of a really disgusting joke? Okay, here it goes. Where do necromancers go to adopt children? An abortion clinic. You may laugh at that joke, you may not. Did I? Maybe a little bit at first, but I don’t hee-haw at it every single time. I must be immune to my own edge again. Here’s a joke I definitely didn’t laugh at, but other people found fucking hilarious. What do you call a Viking who saves people from drowning? Leif Guard. Not the most offensive joke I’ve ever told, but it’ll probably get more laughs than my necromancer joke, and that’s only if you pronounce Leif like you would “life” instead of “leaf” or “layf”.
Okay, so I’m immune to my own violence and comedy, but what about sadness? I can safely say that I’ve never cried at my own scenes before. I’ve had characters rape each other, attack animals, and die by the hundreds. Not one single tear. Then again, it takes a lot for me to cry these days. Well, it used to, anyways. I used to talk about having a 2007 benchmark for the last time I cried and that was because I blew my chances at signing up for Evergreen College. I can safely say that as of 2020, that record has been shattered. It’s not just the American news or the depression of being cooped up in my own home due to Corona Virus. Those things tax the fuck out of my mental energy, sure. But if you want to know what made me cry alone at night with nobody watching…I repeated the words “I love you” and “I’m sorry” over and over again. Who was I declaring my love for? I don’t know. Who was I apologizing to? I don’t know. It could have been anybody. Hell, it could have been my entire audience because I felt like I let them down in some way. I wasn’t immune to that. But writing about the experience? Not one tear drop.
While I feel nothing when I write my own controversial scenes, my audience feels everything. I’ve had people tell me they cried at my sadder stories. I’ve had people tell me they had chills up and down their spines at my lovey-dovey poems. I’ve had people cringe in pain as they read my more violent poems and stories. I say these things not to brag, but as a warning to anybody reading this piece of nonfiction. You have no idea how powerful your words can be to another person, for better or worse. A simple, “Hi” can be the difference between isolation and a pick-me-up. A tweet can be the difference between connecting with your audience and losing them forever. If a salutation and a tweet can have that much impact on someone’s life, imagine how a whole book can make them feel.
You know…maybe that’s why I was crying and apologizing that one night I broke my 2007 record. Maybe I felt like my books were having a negative impact on people’s lives. I know that’s not true since book sales have been piss-poor since I became a pro. But what if my sales spiked one day and my audience was angered by what I had written? What if Debra Winter’s characterization in Occupy Wrestling was deemed unintentionally misogynistic? What if my poems bored my audience to tears because of how the lyrics resemble corporately-produced rock songs? What if my depictions of rape and assault in Poison Tongue Tales were done in an insensitive way? Can I do anything about these problems now that the books are published? I could, but Amazon is making me jump through hoops just to make cosmetic changes to one of my poetry books. But even if Amazon was 100% cooperative, that would mean redoing six published books and always being behind because I’d be overwhelmed with work. It seems like a lazy copout, but it’s reality. I don’t have the energy to micromanage every single book I’ve published, especially when they’ve been on the market for so long.
But…what if someone didn’t see my writing in an offensive light? What if somebody loved it regardless of all of my negative thoughts? Art is subjective, after all. What’s disgusting to one person could be bliss to another. Yeah, I’m immune to my own edge, but I’m not immune to my own worrying after the fact. Maybe that needs to change. Maybe I should start holding my head high. But in the middle of the cluster-fuck known as 2020? That won’t be easy. But that’s one advantage to having immunity to the most controversial parts of my writing: I can get lost in the process and escape from the world, even if only for a little while. Maybe I can find that nugget of joy among the sea of diarrhea. Isn’t that why we write in the first place? Isn’t that why people say, “Write drunk, edit sober”? Don’t worry about the technicalities now, just barf onto the page and be happy for just a little while. I guess I’m not an uncaring sociopath after all. I’m just looking for joy where I can find it. If that joy includes evoking strong emotions from my readers, then goddamn it, I’ll embrace that shit until the day I die.
September 20, 2020
Disillusionment
CHORUS
Disillusionment
Disappointment
Disenchantment
Disenfranchisement
VERSE 1
Never forget the platinum rule
Don’t be taken for a bloody fool
Pedestals weren’t meant to go that high
Same level as the angels in the sky
When they destroy what you love
When you’re theirs to push and shove
When you’re locked in an institution
Still don’t realize your own disillusion
CHORUS
Disillusionment
Disappointment
Disenchantment
Disenfranchisement
VERSE 2
Was it sex appeal that turned you on?
Was manipulation part of the con?
Money and fame that fucked your brain?
Word salad that made this seem so sane?
Should I slap your face to wake you up?
Should I scream about how much this sucks?
Your tragic tale has a deadly conclusion
Yet you can’t realize your own disillusion
CHORUS
Disillusionment
Disappointment
Disenchantment
Disenfranchisement
VERSE 3
The planet’s on fire, the air is poison
Shit goes beyond mere disappointment
No money in your bank, here come the tanks
Got a rifle in your hand like you’re in the ranks
Head in the sand like a number one fan
Idol cheats a system that fucks a lesser man
Wakey wakey, wakey! Eggs and bacey!
But you say to the reaper, “Come and take me!”
FINAL VERSE
You tried to hide!
Opened wide and lied!
You died for pride!
False god never cried!
Disillusionment
Disappointment
Disenchantment
Disenfranchisement
VERSE 1
Never forget the platinum rule
Don’t be taken for a bloody fool
Pedestals weren’t meant to go that high
Same level as the angels in the sky
When they destroy what you love
When you’re theirs to push and shove
When you’re locked in an institution
Still don’t realize your own disillusion
CHORUS
Disillusionment
Disappointment
Disenchantment
Disenfranchisement
VERSE 2
Was it sex appeal that turned you on?
Was manipulation part of the con?
Money and fame that fucked your brain?
Word salad that made this seem so sane?
Should I slap your face to wake you up?
Should I scream about how much this sucks?
Your tragic tale has a deadly conclusion
Yet you can’t realize your own disillusion
CHORUS
Disillusionment
Disappointment
Disenchantment
Disenfranchisement
VERSE 3
The planet’s on fire, the air is poison
Shit goes beyond mere disappointment
No money in your bank, here come the tanks
Got a rifle in your hand like you’re in the ranks
Head in the sand like a number one fan
Idol cheats a system that fucks a lesser man
Wakey wakey, wakey! Eggs and bacey!
But you say to the reaper, “Come and take me!”
FINAL VERSE
You tried to hide!
Opened wide and lied!
You died for pride!
False god never cried!
