Garrison Kelly's Blog, page 38

Objectified

The only chicks you like are working at strip bars
The only dudes you like are driving all the fast cars
The only kids you like are trapped inside the cages
The only grandmas you like are all so fucking ageist
The only fat guys like you like are six feet underground
The only fit chicks you like weigh less than sixty pounds
The only crazies you like are Manic Pixie Dream Girls
The only sickos you like are the ones who don’t hurl
The only celebrities you like are ones you masturbate to
The only politicians you like are ones who shit on Me Too
The only workers you like are the ones who lick your boots
The only laborers you like are the ones who pick your fruit
The only athletes you like are the ones who’re undefeated
The only students you like are the ones who have succeeded
The only teachers you like are picking quotes from the bible
The only cops you like are so good at committing libel
The only judges you like are the ones who say the N-word
The only gunners you like are the ones who collect dead birds
The only soldiers you like are the ones in Arnold movies
The only SJW’s you like are the ones who are worth suing
Objectified, electrified, open your asshole wide
As long as they tickle your fancy, you’re always on their side
But one day when you need your very best friends the most
They’ll leave you to die and haunt this world as a wayward ghost

Superhuman

I want to be superhuman, fucking invincible
Drive a car without getting smashed into kibble
Write like my life depends on it, because it does
Read a gazillion books per motherfucking month
Make so many friends and know how to keep them
Make my crushes known instead of just a secret
Go back to school and earn a shit ton of A-pluses
Donate my time to fur babies in need of cuddles
Start my very own channel and earn a lot of likes
Sell my books until there’re none left in sight
Travel the world to visit my very best friends
America, South Africa, and Britain around the bend
I want to be superhuman, make my dreams come true
Make the world a better place for guys like me and you
Leave behind a legacy, not a carbon footprint
This is the game of life, I want to fucking win
Future generations can only look up to me
If I’m superhuman even when I hurt and bleed
I want to be fucking tough, I want to like it rough
Unlimited energy is somehow never just enough
The world is mine if I want to take the damn thing
When I get off my ass, they’ll start calling me king

Boots and Tongues

VERSE 1
Lick all the ass cheeks, lick all the dicks
Lick all the pussies until you get sick
Drink all the juices, every last ounce
Then tell the world to compare bank accounts

PRE-CHORUS 1
You won’t rinse with mouthwash
Lick it! Lick it! Lick it all!
You won’t use dental floss

CHORUS 1
Boots and tongues! Collect your pay!
Boots and tongues! The corporate way!
Boots and tongues! It tastes okay!
Boots and tongues! Lick it!

VERSE 2
Lick all the bare feet and savor the treat
Toe jam and toenails are the new lunch meat
Lick all the nut sacks and kiss all the rings
Kiss all the asses and lick everything

PRE-CHORUS 2
You won’t brush with toothpaste
Lick it! Lick it! Lick it all!
Dental insurance is such a waste

CHORUS 2
Boots and tongues! Collect your cash!
Boots and tongues! Marry into trash!
Boots and tongues! Hide your stash!
Boots and tongues! Lick it!

CHORUS 3
Boots and tongues! Collect your coin!
Boots and tongues! Stroke your groin!
Boots and tongues! The club to join!
Boots and tongues! Lick it!

Paying Your Dues

VERSE 1
All your horror stories will come with a price
All your greatest fears will come back to life
You got your ass cancelled for no good reason
All of your fans have been accused of treason
This is what it means when you pay your dues
Screaming heavy metal, yet singing the blues
Your interest rate is up to a hundred percent
Many more lonely nights is what you’ll spend

CHORUS 1
Paying your dues is what your critics choose
Paying your dues means you sometimes lose
Paying your dues will tax your ass raw
Steel your spine and tighten your jaw

VERSE 2
Nobody said that this would be easy
Nobody said that this would be pleasing
It’s all a part of life if you like it or not
Always somebody to steal your spot

CHORUS 1
Paying your dues is what your critics choose
Paying your dues means you sometimes lose
Paying your dues will tax your ass raw
Steel your spine and tighten your jaw

VERSE 3
Everybody gets what they paid for in the end
Even if it costs them every one of their friends
Even if it costs them their own damn health
Guarantees them a place in their own hell
Despite all the pain, you could fail again
Back to square one, far away from the end
Everyone knows this ain’t a meritocracy
But they cover it up with their own hypocrisy

CHORUS 2
Paying your dues ain’t no ocean cruise
Paying your dues comes with an ego bruise
Paying your dues will break you in half
When you scale to the top, it’s okay to laugh
This is Mount Everest reaching to the stars
This will show the world how tough you are
I hope you get everything you’ve wanted
You and the elite have much in common

Social Justice Warrior

The November breeze stung Pete Winger’s face while neon signs were burning his eyeballs. The sound of boots marching on concrete streets was the coup de grace in slowly waking him up from his head-pounding slumber. His first instinct was to roll out of bed and get in his trench coat and hat. Except where he laid was significantly less comfortable than a coil spring mattress. He couldn’t roll off of it either since his wrists and ankles were held in place with steel cables. Struggling for freedom didn’t get him an inch off of the steel surface that made his spine ache.

Pete finally opened his eyes, but not enough to take in the glow of the neon motel signs. Rundown buildings with American flags barely hanging on the doors (if the buildings even had doors). Concrete streets with potholes the size of dinner plates. Windows shattered. Graffiti smeared all over the brick walls. Minorities in ragged clothing out on their porches wondering just what the hell was going on.

Pete had the answer they were looking for. White hooded minions carried him on a steel crucifix while a cowgirl with an AK-47 strapped to her back led the charge. Her annoying voice seemed all too familiar to Pete when she ordered her hooded cohorts to stop. It was her alright. Long brown hair in a ponytail. Curvy hips. A leather biker gang jacket. A cowgirl hat with a feather in it. She was unmistakable. She was none other than Tifa Cody, America’s loudest voice.

Pete struggled some more in his bindings while Miss Cody goose-stepped into the middle of the street to address the impoverished citizens of this ghetto. “Alright, now listen up, y’all!” she belted in her signature southern accent. “It’s November and you know what that means for America: new politicians, same old crap. And in the interest of fairness, I’m here to make sure none of y’all are going to vote illegally in our fine democracy. Voter fraud is as real as it gets. If I catch one of y’all stuffing the ballot boxes this Tuesday, you’re getting an assload of lead!”

As Tifa unhooked her AK-47, Pete groggily said, “Hey there! You think you can get me off of this cross? I mean…Blue Lives Matter, right? Isn’t that what you’re always saying on the radio?”

Tifa pointed her gun at Pete. “Listen, Detective, and I use that word loosely, the operative phrase there is Blue Lives Matter, not Blue States Matter. I respect the authority of real cops who do their damn jobs, not Dick Tracy knockoffs like you who protect snowflakes like these!”

“Miss Cody…do you not see the irony of what you just said?”

Tifa cocked her gun. “What irony, Mr. Pete ‘Left’ Winger?”

“Well…um…You’re getting mad over the fact that poor black people are allowed to vote and yet they’re the snowflakes. Tell me how that adds up.”

Tifa fired a series of warning shots past Pete’s ear and had the minorities ducking for cover, their children screaming and crying. “This ain’t about skin color, you Snowflake Justice Warrior! This is about protecting our democracy from cheaters and thieves! You libtards don’t have a leg to stand on in the facts department, so you try to vote multiple times. And for the record, my stepfather is black, so don’t even try to play the race card with me!”

Pete chuckled nervously. “Okay, so we know you have a stepfather. But do you have any nieces and nephews? And when you visit them on their birthdays in Bumfuck, Alabama, do they refer to you as…Aunt Tifa?” That zinger got a chorus of “oo’s” from the ghetto dwellers.

“Lay him down, guys,” she ordered her robed minions. After they complied, she butt-stroked Pete in the stomach and earned a series of smoker-like coughs. He also spit up a wad of blood-laced saliva. “Your jokes are about as funny as the so-called woke comedians on late night TV. All that PC propaganda is turning your brain into mush. You don’t know how to tell a decent joke anymore because you’re too scared of getting thrown in Twitter jail.”

“Come on, you had to admit that was punderful.”

“I don’t have to admit a goddamn thing. As a matter of fact, boys, stand him up. I’m about to go all Auschwitz on his funny ass!”

As the hooded minions stood up the steel cross, Pete let out a string of, “No’s!” as if they would actually reconsider burning him alive. While he struggled once more to get free, Tifa pulled out a book of matches and struck them all on the collapsing pavement.

Her back turned to the residents, she said, “Are y’all seeing this? This is what happens when you try to fuck with my country! Ain’t no cops coming out to save him because he’s a damn traitor to real Americans, not the handout takers and ballot stuffers! Cops don’t like that shit! That’s why y’all keep getting shot all the damn time!” Tifa turned around momentarily. “Are you shitting me right now?! Are you filming this on your damn phone?!”

Tifa aimed her AK-47 at a shivering black teenager with his smart phone recording her. “This ain’t no comedy bit for your Tik Tok app or whatever the hell you young fuckers love to do! You drop that damn phone or I’m shooting it out of your damn hands!”

The teen refused to obey but continued to shiver. Pete knew it was now or never if he was going to save more lives than his own. He wiggled around on the cross some more. He struggled even harder. And harder. The steel bindings cut into his flesh and formed purple scars on his wrists and ankles. But the cross moved just a little bit at a time, so much so that the hooded minions had a hard time keeping it erect. They tried to call Tifa’s name, but she was in the middle of a tirade and had none of it.

Pete wiggled again. And again. His muscles ached and his limbs seemed as though they would fall off. And then…the steel cross lurched forward. “Look out!” shouted one of the minions as the cross landed on top of Tifa, bringing her and Pete into chest-to-chest contact. Her gun was knocked out of her hand, but the book of matches still burned and that tiny spark was enough to weaken the straps on Pete’s right wrist.

“Get off of me, goddamn it! Who do you think you are, Bill Clinton?” Tifa struggled while her hooded thugs ran away from not only the fallen cross, but also the minority residents who began throwing bottles and bricks at them. Some of them got away with no bruises other than their egos. Some of their heads splattered on the pavement. One hooded punk got his back cut up by pieces of glass.

As Tifa squirmed and wiggled to slowly pull herself out from under Pete and the cross, the detective tugged harder on the burning straps. His wrist singed with red hot pain. His skin grew crispy and black. The purple bruises opened up to leak pus and blood. But get his hand free he did. While Tifa crawled towards her AK-47, Pete began to unlatch his other wrist before hunching down and undoing his ankles.

Both Tifa and Pete slithered like snails across the ground while the hooded thugs were still being chased away by the impoverished residents. Tifa was fingertips away from her gun when Pete grabbed hold of her ankles and bear-hugged them. She rained knuckles on Pete’s scalp until she was able to crawl close enough to the AK-47 to grab it. But Pete ignored his head, wrist, and stomach trauma long enough to squirm over to her and get in a tug of war over the weapon.

Tifa elbowed and kneed Pete in the ribs and stomach, but he refused to let go of the automatic rifle. He spit a wad of blood in her eyes and snatched the rifle out of her hands, sharp pain in his chest aside. Despite being temporarily blinded, she slowly pulled herself to her feet and staggered towards one of the abandoned buildings. Which one, Pete couldn’t see because he was too busy curling up in a ball on the ground. Some neighborhood kids pulled him to his feet and supported him. When he asked where Tifa was, they didn’t know.

“Damn it, I can’t believe I’m letting that bitch get away!” Pete’s rib and chest pain sharpened like he was being closed in an iron maiden. He doubled over and spit up more blood, dazed at his surroundings. “Do me a favor, kid. Get me that American flag over there. I got an idea. Just do it!”

The teen retrieved the ratty-looking American flag off of a neighbor’s front porch and handed it to Pete. The detective waved his helpers away for a moment and he was able to stand up on his own two feet, beaten, but not dead.

“Tifa Cody! Get your ass out here and face me, you militia nitwit!” Screaming that caused even more sharp pain to bend him over. Still he waved off the neighborhood kids, who all gathered around with their smart phones to record the action now that Tifa and her stooges were a non-threat.

“So Tifa…you like to call people who don’t agree with you snowflakes, right? You like to call them SJW’s whenever they rightfully complain about being disenfranchised? Well…now it’s your turn to cry, sweetheart! I’m going to raise this flag…and everyone around me…will take a knee. Go on, do it!” The neighborhood residents did just that: get on one knee.

“Oh, that’s not enough to piss you off, Tifa? Sure pissed off the rest of your political flunkies. Wait a minute…I’ve got a better idea. Tifa Cody…if you don’t get your ass out here and surrender…I’m going to do something to this flag that’ll make your precious eyeballs leak like faucets. But what will I do to it? Will I wipe my ass with it? Will I blow my nose on it? Will I cough up blood on it? No…I think I’ll just fill it full of holes with your own assault rifle! And yes, it is an assault rifle no matter how much you say otherwise! I’m counting to three and this flag is going up in smoke! One…two…three!”

On cue, Tifa bolted out of a nearby building and shrieked, “NO!” before tossing a brick at Pete. It didn’t have the chance to smash his face in. It disintegrated into dust the minute Pete pulled the trigger and filled Tifa full of holes. Her bloody carcass dripped and splattered all over the building steps before rolling into the gutter. Everyone in the neighborhood, Pete included, took a moment to breathe heavily, either out of relief or heart-pounding adrenaline.

Pete slowly turned around and faced the cell phone cameras. “You see that?” He spit out blood and kneeled down in pain. “Crime doesn’t pay…no matter…who you vote for…For all of you…who say…All Lives Matter…clearly Tifa Cody’s didn’t…Don’t believe me?...Just ask her…She…drew…first…blood…” Pete’s vision blackened as he stumbled over face-first onto the ground, bleeding out of the mouth and any other wound her had. The neighbors gathered around to try and help him, but he was a lost cause.

The last thing Pete Winger heard before passing into the afterlife was police sirens off in the distance. This left him with an anxious feeling in his gut. Would these cops do the right thing? Whose side would they take: his or Tifa’s? Would these impoverished voters surrounding Pete become easy casualties? Pete Winger never got an answer to any of these questions. But hopefully whoever was watching the live videos being taken would question everything all at once, including their government. That’s all Detective Pete Winger could ask of them in his weakened state. His duty as a blue life that mattered was complete.

Saying Dumb Shit to Writers

***SAYING DUMB SHIT TO WRITERS***

Art in general is frowned upon in a society where we love to be entertained. Let that statement sink in for a few minutes. Because we’re not as exalted as the STEM lords, artists get a lot of dumb questions and a lot of dumb statements. It never gets easier with time. In fact, when people ask me what I do for a living, I just tell them I’m unemployed rather than brag about my author career to someone who clearly doesn’t care. I’ve had my fair share of dumb statements from small talking extroverts, grannies, and a combination of both. These are the six worst things said to me during my career as a writer:


“We need some good stories out there, not blood and guts.”


I was so pissed at this statement that I came close to creating a bloody story in real life with the woman who said this to me. I never let my anger show; I just silently seethed on the inside. An R-rating doesn’t make for an automatically bad movie or novel. Saying otherwise shows off a level of ignorance like a beacon in the night. Okay, so maybe you don’t like violent stories. Fine. Don’t read them. Don’t watch bloody movies. Don’t force your narrow-minded opinion on another writer. That’s not helpful advice. That’s conformity. Writers don’t conform very well and if they did, they wouldn’t have careers. The woman later asked me if I was interested in joining a college group for Catholics.


“Are you going to be a teacher?”


When someone asked me what I majored in while going to college (it was English), this was the most common follow-up question. Let me tell you right now that you wouldn’t want me as your teacher. I don’t command a great deal of authority without screaming when I reach my breaking point. And when I explode like a car bomb, I go from being the victim to the villain. I directed a play in high school that was an adaptation of Pulp Fiction. None of the students listened to my orders; they were only in it for the easy A. The only way I could have gained their respect was through raw physicality, which isn’t allowed in high school. Story of my life: my only problem solving skill is using violence and violence is illegal. A true Catch-22 scenario if I’ve ever heard one.


“You know what I’d like you to write? A book about World War II.”


You couldn’t pay me enough money to write a book about World War II. It doesn’t pique my interest in the same way that a fantasy or sci-fi story would. If you want someone to write your WW2 novel, pay them handsomely and don’t expect them to do it for the exposure. Writers don’t work for exposure. That’s a myth and it’s about damn time someone debunked it. Even if I did take a mild interest in World War II, I don’t know enough about history to be 100% accurate with my tropes. Social studies wasn’t a favorite topic of mine when I went to school. I got the good grades I wanted, but it still wasn’t a fascinating topic to me. Then again, I never did like school no matter what grade I was in. I got my good grades, kept my mouth shut, and soldiered on despite it all. And now I’m an English major (not a teacher).


“We don’t need more sequels to movies.”


This one was ranted about by a group of old ladies who clearly had a bias against superhero movies. Maybe they too should commission an author to write a World War II book since that’s all they can seem to remember. Just like with the blood and guts example, it’s not right to force your interests and views on a budding author. We are all different. We have different needs. We see the world through different lenses. Respect that and be on your merry way to a game of cribbage.


“You should write a story about the relationship between a seal and a little boy.”


Again, not a topic I give two shits about. Seals are cute and cuddly, don’t get me wrong, but blood-soaked fantasy battles take higher priority. Maybe the seal can one day don spiked metal armor and charge into the battlefield with a jousting lance. Maybe the seal can wear a sparkling wizard’s hat and cast magic spells until the end of time. Maybe the seal was made to be a seal because of a witch’s curse. Those scenarios sound a lot more appealing to me than dicking around with a little boy. This ain’t Free Willy, motherfucker.


“Don’t go to Hollywood to write movie scripts. There are drugs and prostitutes there.”


As opposed to the place I live now which is squeaky clean? Get out of here with that shit. Every city has its own demons whether you live in Hollywood, Seattle, Tehran, London, or good old fashioned Chehalis. Besides, if you really wanted to deter me from going to Hollywood, you would have played the Harvey Weinstein card. That’ll scare the shit out of anybody! Or if you need something creepier, try to keep budding screenwriters away from Nickelodeon, especially in the wake of Dan Schneider being a potential pedophile with a foot fetish. Come to think of it, that alone would make good enough creative fuel for a horror movie script. Then you can sell it to Hollywood while getting cozy on Harvey Weinstein’s leather couch. Ugh…


If there’s one lesson you can take away from this blog entry, it’s that micro-aggressions against writers aren’t just minor incidents. Writers hear this shit all the time and it boils them alive with rage, so much so that they’ll probably use you as murder fodder in their stories if you push them too hard. It’s the closest we’ll ever come to committing violent acts without getting thrown in prison. You have no idea how satisfying that is to us. If you don’t know what to say to an author, that’s okay, because as introverted professionals, we appreciate a good moment of silence here and there. Not all conversations need to be had.

And when the conversation does go south, it’ll be because you forced your values on the author without giving them room for their own individuality. Whether you’re a STEM guy, a hairdresser, an old lady, or someone who automatically assumes all English majors become teachers, a little silence can go a long way. I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight! And yes, the sign off phrase I use comes from a TV show about blood and guts. Deal with it.


***MOVIE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

(RE: Categorizing books in the prison library.)

HAYWOOD: Treasure Island by Robert Louis…

ANDY: Stevenson. Fiction: Adventure. What’s next?

RED: I have here Auto Repair and Soap Carving.

ANDY: Trades, Skills, and Hobbies. It goes under Educational, the stack behind you.

HAYWOOD: The Count of Monte Crisco.

PRISONER: That’s Cristo, you dumb shit.

HAYWOOD: By Alexandree…Dumass…Dumbass?

RED: Hahahahahaha!

ANDY: “Doo-MAH”. You know what that one’s about? You’ll like it; it’s about a prison break.

RED: Well, we ought to file that under Educational too.

-The Shawshank Redemption-


***POST-SCRIPT***

Well, what do you know? Another R-rated classic! With blood, but not guts! Suck it, random Catholic lady!

Beach Ball Z

“Ladies and gentiles! The summer season is here and you know what that means: beautiful sunshine, beautiful women, and beautiful ass-beatings! If you’re ready to watch Zoku and Jeeta beat the living hell out of each other, let me hear you scream!” The bombastic announcer got just what he wanted from the crowd at Takanori Beach: loud, energetic, beastly cheers from a pumped up audience.

While Zoku stood in one corner of the ring egging on the crowd with waves of his arms and a shit-eating grin, Jeeta stood in the opposite corner with his arms folded and a gorgon death stare locked on his opponent. I will end you once and for all, Karrottop. Jeeta refused to call Zoku by his government name. It was a matter of pride in the Sojo race, which both Zoku and Jeeta belonged to. That was all they had in common that day, spiky hair and monkey tails be damned.

Jeeta’s jaw tightened in annoyance not only with Zoku’s pandering to the crowd, but also the fact that the announcer in an obnoxious yellow suit refused to shut the hell up as he named off various sponsors for this fight. One of the products was for a pesticide spray that targeted cockroaches, which seemed appropriate considering Jeeta’s thoughts on the announcer. Another product was for Marlboro Cigarettes, though Jeeta considered the announcer’s voice to be more toxic than anything a tobacco company could produce. And the other one was…

“Shut the fuck up and get on with it!” shouted Jeeta, firing a laser beam from his fingertip at the microphone and shattering it into pieces. The audience gasped in horror while the announcer nearly wet himself as he wiggled his hand in pain.

Only then did Zoku get serious about this fight. He unleashed a mile long stare straight into Jeeta’s soul, though the latter responded with a sadistic smile rather than quaking in his boots. As soon as the announcer high-tailed it out of there, the two warriors met in the center of the stone ring and continued staring daggers into each other’s eyes. Zoku cracked his neck on both sides while Jeeta popped his knuckles and wrists even louder.

The audience remained stunned in silence after the microphone was destroyed, but instantly picked back up into high gear once the battle music played over the surround-sound speakers: a heavy metal tune called “X” by HELLYEAH.

That was the warriors’ cue to get in their fighting stances and surround themselves in glowing gold aura. Zoku’s spiked purple hair and green martial arts gi flapped and fluttered in the energy-induced wind while Jeeta’s green spiky hair did the same. Jeeta’s purple Sojo armor clung tightly to him as it was his last line of defense against this suddenly serious-looking fighter standing across from him. Now the audience would see who the real badass was.

When HELLYEAH’s lead singer Chad Gray burst into a fit of heavy metal screams, that served as a cue for Zoku and Jeeta to stop powering up and commence the ass-beatings. Before the first punch was thrown, an inflatable beach ball bounced off of Zoku’s face and he was back to his goofy smiling self.

Jeeta on the other hand expressed his rage with an ursine growl and a hard stomp of the beach ball, popping it like he wished he could have popped Zoku’s dome right at that instance. As the audience erupted into boos, Jeeta pointed at them and shouted, “If I see one more fucking beach ball in that crowd, someone’s getting my boot jammed in their fart box!” Instead of being intimidated, the crowd and Zoku laughed their asses off. The audience even chanted “Fart Box!” over and over again.

“Come on, Jeeta, these guys are having a good time. They paid good money for this. They can do whatever they want!” said Zoku, trying to suppress his laughter to make a point.

“If they want to play with their balls so badly, they can do it behind closed doors like every other pervert out there!” belted Jeeta, earning another round of laughter from the immature crowd. “What the hell are you sacks of protoplasm laughing at now?!”

“Dude, we literally go hunting for Dragon Nuts to make a wish. You don’t get to make testicle jokes.” Zoku couldn’t contain his laughter anymore. He even doubled over and slapped his knees for extra effect. As if Jeeta didn’t have enough reasons to tighten his jaw again, more beach balls were being bounced around within the crowd. “Guys, over here!” Sure enough, one of the audience members bounced a beach ball Zoku’s way and he lightly spiked it back at them.

Jeeta held his head in his hands and attempted to squeeze the headache out like a glob of toothpaste. This sacred fighting tournament had been reduced to childish antics and easy distractions. This was supposed to be the culmination of a heated rivalry between two badass warriors. Instead, they were just “having a good time”. One of the beach balls struck Jeeta in the back of the head and his muscles tightened once more.

“That’s it! I’ve had it with you pieces of shit!” The audience and Zoku watched in awe as Jeeta got into his fighting stance again and weaved golden energy around himself, this time his hair changing colors from green to gold and his spikes standing up straighter. He had gone full Super Sojo and could end this fight with a massive energy blast to his naïve opponent. All of this nonsense could be over in a heartbeat. But then another beach ball bounced off of Jeeta’s head.

Rather than choosing to end this fight, Jeeta flew around the arena and punched the shit out of every beach ball in sight, popping them louder than hand grenades. Children cried. The elderly were on the verge of suffering heart attacks. Mothers and fathers hugged each other and their children for fear Jeeta would commit genocide upon the entire human race. Beach balls exploded left and right until the entire arena was void of distractions. Jeeta had the fearful attention of everyone in sight, including Zoku, who quivered in his green karate trousers.

Slowly Jeeta stalked his opponent, his golden energy glowing brighter and brighter with every angry step taken. Jeeta also formed a monstrous grin as he pantomimed a choke hold with his gloved hands. This would have been sweet comeuppance for a decade-long rivalry. The only way this could have been a more satisfying conclusion was if Zoku shit his pants, which unlike some members of the crowd, he didn’t do…yet. And then…

“I’m sorry, Jeeta,” said the announcer through a new microphone. “The rules clearly state that once you’ve exited the ring, the match is over. This isn’t wrestling and you don’t get a ten count. Therefore, the winner of this match as a result of ring-out: Zoku!”

The crowd erupted into cheers while Zoku pranced and leapt in the air like his disqualification victory was the greatest one he racked up. Jeeta’s jaw went from tensing up to being on the floor. His eyes widened at his own stupidity. All it took for him to lose this match was being distracted by a few beach balls.

As Zoku was being presented with a bronze trophy by some bikini clad ladies, Jeeta once again held everyone’s fearful attention by shouting, “This is bullshit!” He breathed in a raspy voice while tense silence hung over the sandy arena. “This whole thing was a sham from the beginning!” Pointing an accusatory finger at Zoku, Jeeta said, “You put those beach balls there on purpose just so you can get an easy victory! How much did you pay those jackasses, anyways? A hundred? A thousand? A hundred thousand?”

Zoku chuckled nervously and scratched the back of his head. “More like five hundred thousand.” Jeeta’s jaw was on the floor once again. “Yeah, I kind of had to teach you a lesson there, buddy.”

“A lesson?! There’s not a scratch on me! You didn’t do anything! You just sat there and played with your ball…I mean…you just fooled around throughout the whole match!”

“Exactly! And you took the bait, Jeeta,” said Zoku more confidently with his arms folded. “Whenever we go hunting for Dragon Nuts together, you’re always getting distracted by our opponents taunting you. You don’t know how to control your temper, so it costs us every time. We could have wished for anything we wanted if we had those Dragon Nuts. But somebody else took them away because you were too busy choking on your pride. What would you have wished for anyways? Immortality? A higher power level? A cure for your wife’s cancer?”

The crowd gasped while Jeeta’s golden energy dissipated and his head hung low. Even his spiky hair stopped flapping and returned to its normal green color.

“That’s right, Jeeta, you should be ashamed! You let everyone down at your own expense! It’s sad I had to go through all of this just to teach you that. I would rather you learn this on your own, but you’re too thick-headed!”

The crowd chanted Zoku’s name while the lonely Jeeta let out a sigh, his pride and his ego deflated by words that have never been truer. He had to learn his lesson. He had to turn a new leaf. He couldn’t let it go any longer. But no…He powered up yet again and sent the crowd into a terrified hissyfit. “I’m going to kill you anyways, Karrottop!”

That didn’t happen. A beach ball bounced off of Jeeta’s head and he turned around to pop it. But the minute he bent over, Zoku rushed up and kicked him in the ass, sending him flying through the air. Zoku teleported and double axe handled Jeeta in the back, kneed him in the stomach, and punched the shit out of him until Jeeta’s body launched into the sand like a lawn dart, his legs sticking out and kicking frantically.

“Get me out of here!” shouted Jeeta with a mouthful of sand.

“Sorry, Jeeta…I can’t help you anymore. You couldn’t even help yourself. You fell for the same trick over and over again and didn’t learn anything. Now I’m fucking the porn stars and you’re getting the crabs!”

The audience laughed as crabs came up to Jeeta and pinched his legs, causing the prideful Sojo to scream and yelp more painfully than when Zoku was pounding him. The only reason the crabs left Jeeta alone was because the tide came pouring in, adding some gurgles and bubbles to his already muffled dialogue. Jeeta did manage to get one piece of coherent dialogue out before he was declared the ultimate loser: “I FUCKING HATE BEACH BALLS!”

Chain Whip

VERSE 1
The seasons change and so does my mood
What good does it do to sit around and brood?
I’ve got a chain whip curled up on my hip
I’ve got enemies who need an afterlife trip
They took my soul and my intelligence
In my mind they took up permanent residence
Took my creativity and everything with it
How many chain lashes must be given?

CHORUS
One! Two! Black and blue!
Three! Four! Let’s go to war!
Five! Six! Suck it, bitch!
Here comes the chain whip!

VERSE 2
Maybe whiplashes aren’t the answer
Strangulation doesn’t seem much faster
Chokehold suplex tickles my fancy
The anticipation makes me feel antsy
I’ve got a psychotic grin on my face
As your blood splatters all over the place
Your skin shredded, your bones broken
Your thick skull has been split wide open

CHORUS
One! Two! Black and blue!
Three! Four! Let’s go to war!
Five! Six! Suck it, bitch!
Here comes the chain whip!

VERSE 3
If war is the answer, what’s the question?
What other solutions are even worth mention?
Should I shake your hand and call it a truce?
Should I suck your dick as even further proof?
Should I give you a hug? Accept your apology?
Or is this another instance of reverse psychology?
An iron head butt for your pretty little head
A hundred lashes even after you’re dead

EXTENDED CHORUS
One! Two! Black and blue!
Three! Four! Let’s go to war!
Five! Six! Suck it, bitch!
Here comes the chain whip!
Seven! Eight! Bring on the hate!
Nine! Ten! Your reign will end!
Eleven! Twelve! See you in hell!
Thirteen! Fourteen! Scarlet dreams!
Keep on counting the lashes!
Dust to dust! Ashes to ashes!

WINDHAM’S DIALOGUE
It’s not that I don’t believe in love. It’s that love doesn’t believe in me. FUCK LOVE!

Small Talk

VERSE 1
I don’t care about the weather, not now, not ever
Even in a blizzard, I can think of a topic much better
I don’t give a shit about how your day is going
I could go my whole life without once ever knowing
I don’t give a fuck about where your ass is from
Could you think of a question that isn’t so dumb?
I don’t give a damn about who your family is
I’m not a part of it nor someone you will miss

CHORUS
Fuck small talk! It’s boring!
All these words you’re storing!
I want peace! I want quiet!
I want motherfucking silence!

VERSE 2
I don’t give a rat’s ass about where you work
But telling you to fuck off will label me a jerk
I don’t give a flying fuck about your childhood
Sleep in your fetus jar like every child should
I don’t give a good goddamn about your car
Get your ass in it and drive away really far
I’d rather shoot myself in the fucking skull
Than listen to you give your string another pull

CHORUS
Fuck small talk! It’s boring!
All these words you’re storing!
I want peace! I want quiet!
I want motherfucking silence!

VERSE 3
An introvert’s dream is a Gracie Films shush
That goes unchallenged, not even a little push
An introvert’s paradise is a cat and a novel
Away from those who flap their gums and waddles
I’m not sorry for standing up for my own peace
I’m not sorry for making this conversation cease
Meaningless words fell on the deafest of ears
I don’t care if this makes me awkward and weird

EXTENDED CHORUS
Fuck small talk! It’s boring!
All these words you’re storing!
I want peace! I want quiet!
I want motherfucking silence!
Fuck small talk! It’s annoying!
There’s nothing worth enjoying!
I need rest! I need sleep!
Now beat it, you fucking creep!

Eat My Beef

VERSE 1
I had a lunch date with Ronald
We ate just like The Donald
And then he whipped it out and said
“EAT MY BEEF!”

VERSE 2
We had some chicken nuggets
And then we said, “Fuck it!”
The Colonel from Kentucky can
EAT MY BEEF!

VERSE 3
We ate some salty fries
And then some salty guys
Tried to shame us, but we told them to
“EAT MY BEEF!”

VERSE 4
We drank a lot of Coke
Until we almost choked
My cholesterol’s a joke, so
EAT MY BEEF!

VERSE 5
We slid into the ball pit
Even though we didn’t fit
If you really give a shit, then
EAT MY BEEF!

VERSE 6
I say fuck the heart attacks
We need a fucking snack
We’re addicted like crack, so
EAT MY BEEF!