Garrison Kelly's Blog, page 39

Intro: When I Was Young

When I was young, I could tell the world to fuck off with little to no consequences.

I could throw the first punch.

I could bruise the biggest egos.

I could walk among giants.

And then one day…the world fought back.

A shade of purple underneath my eye.

A shade of red in my tunnel vision.

A shade of gray in my foggy mind.

Ever since then, I broke down my own walls just to make others feel comfortable.

I gave you all comfort you didn’t deserve.

You took full advantage of that and more.

The only way you left my life was on your own terms.

Did I give you permission to walk all over me? Don’t answer that.

I don’t care if you think I’m a boring person.

I don’t care if you think I’m an awful writer.

I don’t care if you think I’m too ugly for love.

I stopped caring what you think the minute you haunted my mind like a schizophrenic ghost.

I learned how to cope using positive thinking.

And then you gave me permission to feel bad.

I guess I was only just fucking myself.

The day will come when I’m able to rise up and tell the world to fuck off once more.

It won’t be today.

It won’t be tomorrow.

But one day when you’ve pushed enough of my buttons, I will strike.

I held back too many times for fear of fucking everything up.

But when I unleash my full strength…I’ll take every one of you motherfuckers with me to hell.

Irresponsible Christian Parody

VERSE 1
What would Jesus do? Pretty much anyone
Who walks on water with God’s favorite son
He gives me strength for an eternal length
He makes me sing for the blessings he brings
My heart flutters every time I hear his name
Suddenly masturbation doesn’t feel like a shame
He brings me the hope and peace I’ve looked for
Ever since I walked into that Christian bookstore

CHORUS
Walk on water with the one I love
Enter paradise in the heavens above
Listen to the music of golden harps
And the beating of my bleeding heart

VERSE 2
Nonbelievers say that we’ll never last
They’ve got too many stones to cast
The only stones I’ve got belong to you
My boss is a carpenter and a practicing Jew
Let’s build Noah’s Ark with our bare hands
Collect every animal across these lands
Show them the love we have between us
Teach them to value the life of a fetus

CHORUS
Walk on water with the one I love
Enter paradise in the heavens above
Listen to the music of golden harps
And the beating of my bleeding heart

VERSE 3
The planet is melting, the oceans are boiling
But only because hell on earth is uncoiling
Let’s show them what we’ve got with prayers
Why should we blame it all on the industrial air?
Your love will set the human race totally free
If that makes us fruitcakes, be our honeybee
Only one way to heaven and it’s not a stairway
It’s to kneel for Jesus while bashing the gays

CHORUS
Walk on water with the one I love
Enter paradise in the heavens above
Listen to the music of golden harps
And the beating of my bleeding heart

FINAL LINE
April Fools, bitches! Hail Satan!

Donate Your Blood Money

***DONATE YOUR BLOOD MONEY***

Have you ever done something for money you’re not necessarily proud of? Does it feel wrong to have that resulting wad of cash because of it? Maybe your paycheck comes from a far-right conspiracy theorist, overseas dictator, drug lord, or otherwise objectionable human being. Of course, if you need that paycheck to survive, then there’re no two ways about it. But…if you’re able to afford it and you’re not comfortable with your blood money…donate it to a worthy cause. If money is the root of all evil, then turn it over to the root of all that’s good in the world and watch the balance of power shift.

Suppose you’re a WWE wrestler and you’re being assigned to perform for the Saudi Arabian government. You can’t stand the oppressive way they treat women and LGBT people. You can’t stand the fact that there’s no freedom of speech. There’s no freedom of anything in that country, but you must perform there at the risk of being fired by the WWE. It’s money from the Saudi Arabian government, so it’s going to be a big fat payday…for a charity of your choice! It could go to RAINN (Rape and Incest National Network). It could go to HIV/AIDS research. It could be used to prevent LGBT suicide. Hey, it’s your hard-earned money. If you want to donate it to a cause that’ll make the Saudi government’s heads explode, that’s your call. WWE can’t tell you not to do that.

Suppose you’re a waitress at a restaurant Rush Limbaugh likes to frequent. You love the fact that he’s a high tipper, but can’t stand the shit he says on live radio whether it’s against women, people of color, the LGBT community, or god knows what else. What do you do with that big ass tip if you don’t feel comfortable with it in your bank account? What any normal person would, of course: donate it to a women’s shelter or a women’s health clinic! This was actually a true story that the Young Turks reported. I can’t imagine Rush was very happy with it and quite frankly I don’t give a shit.

I don’t want you all to think I’m just standing on my soapbox and spouting off my beliefs through a bullhorn, as much as I love to do that. Donating blood money can actually be something a protagonist does in a piece of creative writing. Suppose your main character is a space mercenary who gets a fat briefcase full of money from a disgusting Jabba the Hutt-esque crime lord. Said space mercenary could donate it to impoverished children in the galaxy. Suppose your main character is a streetwalker who takes a hefty paycheck from a client she fucking hates. She can donate it to a women’s shelter.

Part of that ongoing story arc is what the boss man does after the protagonist donates his money to a rival cause. Does he send goons after the protagonist? Does he sue the protagonist? Does he go after the charity with explosive devices? Boss men hate that sort of thing, so it’s going to make your story a hell of a lot spicier than before. Just think of how wicked it would be if Boba Fett donated his bounty hunting money to helping women escape from Jabba the Hutt. It’ll never happen, but just think of the world of possibilities!

To be honest, I didn’t really think this blog entry all the way through. It happens sometimes. I’ll have this big idea that only expands to…one full page of text. That’s okay. I said everything I needed to say. Remember: only donate your blood money if you’re in a stable enough position to do so. In this fucked up economy, pinching your pennies is paramount to survival. I get that. But if you’re ever feeling uncomfortable with such unclean money, the ASPCA is more than willing to use it to protect precious fur babies. I can only imagine that’s what happened to Michael Vick’s assets once they were seized and rightfully so. Dog murdering bastard! I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight!


***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER AND EMILIO & MARIGOLD***

Yard sales, house chores, concerts, illness, and general sleepiness have slowed down the process of putting together manuscripts for Beautiful Monster and Emilio & Marigold. But as Valarie Savage Kinney once said in a You Tube video, slow progress is better than no progress at all. E&M’s manuscript is complete and the first three chapters of Beautiful Monster are put together, which leaves twenty-five more to comb through for glaring flaws. Once the manuscripts are complete and I’m sure there are zero typos, I plan on sending them back to Hollow Hills for another few rounds of editing. My other beta readers have been wonderful, but Hollow Hills is the least expensive out of all of them. Plus, with two manuscripts instead of just one, being frugal is important. Sleepiness can kick my ass all it wants, but I’ll keep getting back up even if it fucking kills me!


***BEACH BALL Z***

I’m sure you all have noticed that in between edit jobs for E&M and BM, I’m writing more short stories for the Poison Tongue Tales and American Darkness trilogies. The next short story on deck will be a Dragon Ball Z parody called “Beach Ball Z”. It goes like this:

CHARACTERS:

1. Zoku, Martial Artist
2. Jeeta, Martial Artist
3. Nameless Audience Members

SYNOPSIS: In the finals of the Dragon Fist Tournament, Zoku and Jeeta square off at the world famous Preparation H Pavilion. Despite the warriors’ efforts to put on an intense, violent fight for the crowd, the audience is preoccupied with bouncing a beach ball around and getting a Twitter trend going on called #BeachBallZ. While Zoku has a lax attitude towards the distracted fans, Jeeta feels overwhelmingly disrespected and pops the beach ball mid-match, much to the crowd’s booing dismay.

FUN FACT: This story was inspired by true events that took place during a WWE Tag Team Championship match at Summer Slam between The Hardy Boys and Cesaro & Sheamus. Some idiots in the crowd were playing with a beach ball during what was an intense and brutal match, so Cesaro ran out in the crowd and popped the motherfucker. Good on him!


***WRESTLING PROMO OF THE DAY***

(RE: Jake “The Snake” Roberts)

“The first thing I want to be done around here is to get that piece of crap out of my ring! Don’t just get him out of my ring; get him out of the WWF! ‘Cause I’ve proved, son, without a shadow of a doubt that you ain’t got what it takes anymore! You sit there, you thump your bible, and you say your prayers and it didn’t get you anywhere! Talk about your psalms, talk about John 3:16! Austin 3:16 says I just whipped your ass! All you got to do is go buy a cheap bottle of Thunderbird to get back some of that courage you had in your prime!”

-Stone Cold Steve Austin after winning the 1996 King of the Ring tournament-

The Battle About Nothing

Gonzo Kramer fingered a jovial TV tune on his bass guitar, hoping for an audience of some kind in this tiny New York apartment. But alas, all the attention was on his three whiny friends in the kitchen, Jerry Stonefield, George Katana, and Elaine Berretta. No matter how ordinary the topic was, there remained no shortage of comedic observations or general complaints about it. The more they bitched, the harder Kramer’s bass playing became. It had nothing to do with being heard, but everything to do with wanting to slap his friends instead of a bass guitar.

The wavy-haired Jerry Stonefield held a jug of milk in his hands and asked, “Why is it called two-percent milk?! It’s a hundred-percent full when you buy it. It should be called a hundred-percent milk! And why is it so funny when Oval Teen dissolves in it? And why is it called Oval Teen? The jar is round. The teenagers who drink it become round. It should be called Round Teen!”

This earned a corny laugh from anybody not named Gonzo Kramer, who slapped his bass guitar with even more aggression. He could have played bagpipes, a kazoo, and crash cymbals and still wouldn’t have drawn a crowd.

All the attention now was on the horseshoe-haired, stumpy George Katana, who said, “I drank a whole jar of Oval Teen on TV once. I didn’t even put milk in it, I just ate the powder. I had powder all over my face and there were no napkins around. Whoever was responsible for shooting that footage cost me a relationship!”

“You should’ve just eaten soup, George,” said Elaine, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Soup is not a meal unless you crumble some crackers in it.”

“It’s the Bubble Boy’s fault anyways,” said George.

“No, it’s Newman’s fault,” said Jerry. “Everything is Newman’s fault! He’s not a mystery wrapped in a riddle! He’s a mystery wrapped in a Twinkie! There’s LESS to Newman than meets the eye!”

The kitchen drivel blended together and became more obnoxious for Kramer to listen to than any instrument he could have been playing. It didn’t matter how hard he banged his instrument, because it was his own head that needed banging against a brick wall if this conversation was allowed to continue. And then…he got an idea.

“I like Newman, but I don’t know if he’s sponge-worthy!” confessed Elaine before Kramer got up and smashed his bass guitar over her head, crushing her skull and splattering her brains all over the counter. The guitar wasn’t in any better shape since the neck broke off and the thick strings coiled up.

Jerry and George backed up against the fridge shaking in horror. Jerry yelled, “Kramer, what the hell are you doing?! You killed her!”

“Yeah, well I wasn’t looking for a long-term relationship with her,” confessed Kramer with an evil grin on his face.

George whimpered and stuttered, “Have you ever killed somebody before?”

Throwing the neck of the bass guitar on the ground, Kramer held out his bloodied hands and said, “What do you think, Junior? Have these hands been soaking in Ivory liquid?” He then wiped the blood all over George’s flannel shirt and Dockers pants. “Wait a minute…cotton Dockers! One hundred percent! If they’re not Dockers, they’re just pants!” In one fluid motion, Kramer ripped George’s pants off and left him trembling in his boxers and socks.

With Jerry unable to help him due to cowering in the corner, George begged, “Please don’t hurt me, Kramer!”

“Shut up, you whiny bitch!” yelled Kramer. “Fifty years ago, we would have had you upside down with a fucking fork up your ass! In fact, now that I’ve got you here…” He grabbed George by the ear and allowed the victim’s glasses to fall on the floor. George could scream all he wanted, but his trembling legs weren’t backing him up in his begging for freedom. Kramer dragged George to the open apartment window and bent him over the sill.

As George whimpered and squealed, Kramer let out a few yodels to taunt him before ripping off his victim’s underwear. “Aww, what’s the matter, you big baby?!”

“Kramer…I think it moved…”

“Get a life, you faggot!” yelled Kramer before smacking George on the ass. He spanked him a few more times until George’s naked butt was blistered and bleeding. “Hey, George! Are you sponge worthy?! Can your boys swim?!”

“For God’s sake, Kramer, let him go!” cried Jerry, huddling in the corner despite his small moment of bravery.

“You want me to let him go?! Okay! I just hope he doesn’t need radical reconstructive surgery afterwards!” Kramer shoved George out the window and it was only seconds after that the sound of crunching metal and glass echoed across the street. It was even more musical to Kramer’s ears than his bass guitar playing, but it was not nearly as boner-inducing as Jerry’s pleas for forgiveness in the corner of the kitchen.

Kramer slowly stalked towards his final victim and stood over him like a giant over a sea of frightened villagers.

“Please, Kramer, don’t kill me! I won’t tell anybody about this! I won’t even do it in my standup comedy!”

Kramer knelt beside Jerry and placed a hand on his vibrating, tear-stained arm. “And here I thought you liked edgy comedy. This is far more compelling than arguing about two-percent milk and whether or not soup is a meal. Aren’t you always complaining about how everything is too politically correct these days? Well, you’re being a snowflake right now!”

“Kramer, you murdered them!” Jerry wiped his leaky eyes with his other sleeve.

“Your audience was dead long before I smashed that bass guitar over Elaine’s head! Who gives a shit about two-percent milk?! Who gives two fucks about Oval Teen?! In fact…” Kramer pulled out a jar of Oval Teen from the cabinet and scooped up a handful. “This should help with your little crying problem.” He threw the powder in Jerry’s face and caused him to blubber some more.

Trying to talk over Jerry’s screams of pain, Kramer said, “You know why they should call it Round Teen?! Because your crappy comedy is like a circle! It just goes on and on and on! It never changes! It’s the same shit over and over again and I’m sick and tired of it! Do something edgy! Change it up a little bit!” He grabbed handful of Jerry’s hair and said, “Don’t make me come back here again!” Kramer then slammed the back of Jerry’s head against the cabinet. “Maybe that’ll scramble your brains enough!”

Months after the incident, Kramer never returned. Jerry’s brains did get scrambled. This was the wakeup call he never asked for. Quite frankly, nobody else asked for it either. Kramer sat in his jail cell watching TV one night when he saw Jerry debut new material on a late night talk show. He sported a shaved head and an older look (probably because of the beatings and trauma respectively), but he was definitely ready to charm the audience.

“Oh, people. They’re so important to you,” said Jerry. “You’ve got to be on your phone all the time because the people in your life are important. Really? They don’t seem that important with the way you swipe right by them like a gay French king.” The audience laughed as Jerry made exaggerated swiping motions with his finger. “Who pleases me today? Who shall I favor? Who shall I delete?”

“Okay, maybe I fucked him up a little too hard,” said Kramer to nobody in particular. “Can you go back to talking about Oval Teen?”

A prison guard knocked on his cell bars and said, “Gonzo Kramer? It’s time for your last meal.” And what did he get for a last meal? Soup with crackers crumbled in the broth.

“Soup is not a meal, damn it!” yelled Kramer. “Jerryyyyyyyyyyy!!”

Edge Lords

VERSE 1
While my hands are soaking in Ivory liquid
You’re still choking your teenage chicken
While laughing with some rightwing trolls
About Nazi violence so bloody and cold
Ovens and lynchings are hilarious to you
Keep on flashing that disgusting salute
You do it all for the sake of being edgy
While lives are at stake and always ending

CHORUS
Edge lords! They’re coming in hordes!
Edge lords! They draw their swords!
Edge lords! They started this flame war!
Edge lords! I hate what they stand for!

VERSE 2
We’ve all been kids at some point or another
But not all of us have beaten each other
Not all of us have gone marching in the streets
Homemade flamethrowers bringing the heat
Not all of us have spewed vitriol and lies
To the point where another wanted to die
You’re not edgy and cool, you fucking fool
You’re just another easily-controlled tool

CHORUS
Edge lords! They’re coming in hordes!
Edge lords! They draw their swords!
Edge lords! They started this flame war!
Edge lords! I hate what they stand for!

VERSE 3
None of us are perfect, our sins aren’t worth it
Some of us take the past and fucking burn it
Some of us would rather lead good lives
Than make misogynist jokes to our wives
We’d rather give hugs and not ass kickings
That’s how we diffuse bombs that are ticking
We’d rather create a future we can live in
Heil all you want, but we’ll never give in

EXTENDED CHORUS
Edge lords! They’re coming in hordes!
Edge lords! They draw their swords!
Edge lords! They started this flame war!
Edge lords! I hate what they stand for!
Edge lords! Time to cut the cords!
Edge lords! Short circuit their ports!
Edge lords! Go hide in the sewers!
Edge lords! You fucking losers!

Nobody Cares

VERSE 1
The world is on fire, dictators are liars
Nobody left on our planet to admire
We go through the motions every year
Drown our sorrows in drugs and beer
The other side wants to mock our tears
And divide us with their angry fears
Nobody cares that this is happening
The apathetic have become champions

CHORUS 1
And nobody cares
Nobody cares
Another rainstorm of bullets
Godly rhetoric is bullshit

VERSE 2
We could burn an orphanage tonight
Leave a beacon like a searchlight
Everyone would look the other way
Carry on like it’s just another day
We could steamroll our own young
When they grow a silver tongue
And nobody would give a damn
Despite performances of a ham

CHORUS 2
And nobody cares
Nobody cares
Another war with ourselves
Creating our own version of hell

BRIDGE
Sex is used as a weapon
The rapists go to heaven
The victims are crucified
Accused of spewing lies
And nobody cares
Nobody cares

VERSE 3
If one person could do enough
Then life wouldn’t be so tough
If one person’s voice truly mattered
We could put an end to the splatters
I wanted to believe that this was true
But there’s nothing I can do
Except play the role of the helpless
Call me lazy or call me selfish

CHORUS 3
And nobody cares
Nobody cares
Another day in paradise
Why can’t we all play nice?
And nobody cares
Nobody cares
Another day in the shitter
Leaves us cold and bitter
Another day in this winter
Is worth becoming a quitter
And nobody cares
Nobody cares

Characters Going to the Bathroom

***CHARACTERS GOING TO THE BATHROOM***

When I was little enough to think that piss and shit were funny, I watched movies and TV shows with one burning question in mind: “Why don’t these characters ever go to the bathroom?” Or a more appropriate question for my age group would have been, “Why don’t these characters ever make pee-pee and doo-doo?” This question would continue to burn like an asshole after eating too many spicy wings, something I have too much experience with. It’s true, though, even after all these years of maturing (somewhat): characters never seem to have to go to the bathroom even after eating questionable food. You know why? Because nobody wants to see it, that’s why!

It’s like George Carlin once said: “I’ve never really understood it nor have I really cared for it.”

“I’m going to the bathroom to take a shit.”

“NEVER MIND! Do what you have to do in the bathroom and leave me out of it! And don’t describe it when you come back!”

“Boy, you should have seen it…”

“NEVER MIND!”

“It set off the smoke alarm.”

“NEVER MIND!”

If a character is going to make pee-pee and doo-doo, there better be a plot-related reason for it. Sure, constantly visiting the john would make for realistic storytelling, but not necessarily good storytelling. For instance, let’s say in my rewritten novel Beautiful Monster, Shelly had Windham shackled to her bed and suddenly had the urge to take a wee-wee tinkle. Let’s say she drank too many of her signature milkshakes, without the sedative drugs, of course. How exactly would her urinary needs be met in a way that moves the plot along quicker than her digestive system moves things along? Let’s say she relieves herself over Windham’s face like a Russian prostitute. Does this help the story? No, it doesn’t. Does it turn the reader off and not take Shelly seriously as a femme fatale? Absolutely!

I can only think of a handful of times where bathroom trips helped advance the story along without being disgusting as fuck (most of the time). Quentin Tarantino used bathroom trips as a plot device for Pulp Fiction at least three different times. Vincent had to go to the bathroom when he took Mia Wallace home, leaving her all alone to OD. Had he not gone to the bathroom, the overdosing could have been prevented and therefore, there’d be no infamous scene where Vincent stabs Mia in the chest with an adrenaline boost. Vincent also happens to be on the toilet when Butch goes back to his apartment to get his father’s watch. Had Vincent not been in the bathroom, he would have killed Butch and there’d be no infamous dungeon scene later on. And finally, Vincent goes to the bathroom during the restaurant robbery scene. Had he stayed at his table, he would have thwarted the robbery and Jules wouldn’t have his come to Jesus moment of clarity.

Another example of bathroom plot devices being used to full effect comes from Tales From the Hood. No, I’m not referring to any scene where Crazy K shits himself on the spinning table, because that never happened. I’m talking about the first story, which deals with racist cops. One of the cops urinates on a civil rights activist’s grave. Had he not done that, the zombie wouldn’t have risen from the grave to rip the cop in half and therefore, there’d be no comeuppance for the rest of the cops.

In short, the whole reason why you never see characters going to the bathroom at inconvenient times is because nobody wants to see it. Nobody wants to see Gimley from Lord of the Rings taking a massive dump nor do they want to smell it. Nobody wants to see WWE wrestlers have accidents in the ring, which has happened before, regrettably. Stone Cold Steve Austin once shit his trunks while getting body slammed by Yokozuna in a match in South Africa. Good thing his trunks were black.

Are you sick and tired of all of this middle school toilet humor? If so, you’ve just confirmed your own reason why you don’t want to see toilet breaks in movies and TV shows unless they serve a bigger purpose. Rarely does it serve that bigger purpose, though. If bathroom breaks were as random and haphazard as they were in real life, it would border on Deus Ex Machina storytelling and that’s a big no-no. Suppose Darth Vader had food poisoning at Taco Bell right before his light saber fight with Luke Skywalker in The Empire Strikes Back. If Vader went to the bathroom, Luke could get an easy kill and wouldn’t lose his hand nor learn that Vader is his father.

I feel disgusted for having written this blog entry, but it’s a topic that I’m sure was on everybody’s mind at some point in life, whether in middle school or adulthood. We’ve all thought it, but we’ve never actually dug deeper into the question. Maybe it’s best that we haven’t. Maybe this controversy should be put to bed once and for all. I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight!


***SONG DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

NURSE: Excuse me, doctor? Do you have a moment?

DOCTOR: A moment? What’s the question?

NURSE: More like a situation. A gentleman in exam three.

DOCTOR: What’s the problem?

NURSE: That is the problem: we’re not sure.

DOCTOR: Do you have the chart?

NURSE: Right here.

DOCTOR: Hmm…not much here, is there.

NURSE: No, doctor. No obvious physical trauma and vitals are stable.

DOCTOR: A name?

NURSE: No, sir.

DOCTOR: Did somebody drop him off? Maybe we can speak to them. Let’s get some background on this fellow.

NURSE: No ID. Nothing. He won’t speak to anyone.

DOCTOR: Well, let’s go and say hello.

PATIENT:…

DOCTOR: Good morning, I’m Doctor Lawson. How are you today?

PATIENT:…

DOCTOR: How are you today?

PATIENT:…

DOCTOR: Look son, you’re in a safe place. We want to help you in whatever way we can, but you need to talk to us. We can’t help you otherwise. So what happened? Tell me everything.

-“Lost Keys (Blame Hofmann)” by Tool-

A Bastard Sword in a Haystack

Butterflies flapped all around Elizabeth Dempsey as she laid on her back with her hands behind her long brown hair. With the comfort of the grass beneath her, she nearly drifted off into dreamland in this forest she called home. The only thing that kept her awake was one butterfly landing on her nose and flapping its golden wings. Ticklish as that sensation was, she let it slide. She smiled at the heavenly nature around her. The tallest trees protected her from the outside world. The butterflies were her best friends. Occasionally a squirrel would run up to her and she’d feed the little guy a handful of nuts. If not for her ranger duties, she could sleep here forever eating berries and veggies.

And then the distant sound of boots tromping on the ground startled the butterflies and squirrels. They sped away to higher ground while Elizabeth’s eyes were wide open and filled with frustration. “Goddamn it,” she said to herself. She fixed her green cloak, brown tunic, and green baggy pants before snatching up her bow and arrows and nipping up to see what the fuss was about. The longer she stalled, the louder the boots became. “Show time.” She pulled her hood over her head and scaled the nearest tree with the dexterity of a cat.

With one arrow plucked from her quiver, she pulled back on the string ready to fire at a moment’s notice. Whoever disturbed her peaceful new age moment was getting an arrow to the chest if he didn’t have any quick answers. The thumping grew louder and more intense, so much so that Elizabeth almost fell from her perch. “Come on, you big goof, get your butt over here so I can shoot you already.”

And then the source of the noise appeared on the dirt trail huffing and puffing, his massive palms engorging his kneecaps. Elizabeth couldn’t believe her eyes, even going so far as to lower her weapon. This clumsy oaf was at least seven feet tall…and he wore a purple ninja mask, no tunic to cover his muscles, and only tight-fitting purple pants and a pair of metal boots to barely cover the rest of him. “A walking contradiction if I’ve ever seen one,” said Elizabeth under her breath.

The ranger dropped down and landed perfectly on the soles of her leather boots, thinking she was at least a little safer than before. “You made a mistake coming here, my friend. You ran away from one problem and now you find yourself in another. All I wanted was some peace and quiet and you pissed that all away for me. Give me one good reason why I should stick one in that goofy-looking chest of yours.”

“My apologies, ma’am,” said the giant ninja in a stereotypical bass voice, placing his hands together prayer style and bowing to her. “I am Antonio Fujiwara, at your service. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I just need a place to hide, that’s all.”

Keeping her hand on her bow, Elizabeth held her fists against her hips and gave Antonio a pathetic look. “A seven-foot tall ninja wants to hide from whatever was chasing him…in a forest full of nothing. First of all, why is a mountain of muscle like you running away from somebody who’s probably shorter than you? Wouldn’t it be easier just to snap his neck and be done with him?”

“It’s not just one person, ma’am. It’s…quite a few.” Antonio fidgeted with his sausage fingers. “I’m being hunted by the Scorpion Clan. Being tall doesn’t mean anything when you’re being hunted by them. They’ll kill me if they find me! Please, you’ve got to hide me!”

“Hide you? I don’t know, Antonio. Seems like the Scorpion Clan is looking for a bastard sword in a haystack. There aren’t a whole lot of good hiding places I can think of for a guy your size. You probably can’t climb a tree and stay there. The caves are too small. The bushes are also too small. Looks like you’re shit out of luck. Now beat it before these Scorpion Clan guys involve me in your mess too.”

A flying dart pierced Antonio in the small of his back and he stumbled around like a drunk, slurring his words like one too. Elizabeth backed up in worry as the giant ninja’s intoxicated dance led him to grab a handful of vine berries in a failed attempt to keep himself hoisted. He collapsed on the ground with a resounding boom and snored his way to the subconscious theater.

Elizabeth pulled on her bow string as several shorter ninjas in red and black uniforms leapt out of hiding and enveloped her in a broad circle. Each ninja was armed with shurikens, which meant a ton of holes in Elizabeth’s body if she tried anything funny. Their hoods and masks covered everything but their eyes, which burned with disciplined fury. In other words, they didn’t come to this forest to fuck around. “Drop your weapon,” one of them commanded, which Elizabeth slowly did.

“Look, I don’t want any trouble. This giant oaf came to me, I didn’t come to him. I just wanted to take a nap and then he comes rolling in…”

“Silence!” belted the ninja. “You’ll have plenty of time to take a nap if we find out you were harboring this fugitive. Stealing money from us was Antonio’s first big mistake. Being stupid enough to come here looking for refuge was his second. Then again, he never was very smart to begin with.” His cohorts chuckled.

“You know what? You’re right. He’s not very smart. Just take him and leave me be, okay? Can we make a deal?” begged Elizabeth, her hands held high.

“You heard her, men. Take this gargantuan mongoloid away,” said the lead ninja. It took the strength of several ninjas to lift Antonio’s massive body and even then they were grunting and groaning. They almost dropped him on his head a few times while the lead ninja continued to hatefully gaze into Elizabeth’s eyes. “Unfortunately for you, we can’t make a deal. You’re a witness. I can’t leave any witnesses.”

“No, no, no, don’t do this! I’m begging you!” said Elizabeth as she got on her hands and knees. The ninja had his shuriken ready, but the pleading was just a cover up as Elizabeth grabbed her bow and arrow and shot the lead ninja between his devilish eyes. The shot was so stiff that the ninja’s entire brain fell out the back of his head.

“You bitch!” yelled one of the ninjas as they dropped Antonio.

Elizabeth and the ninjas stood across from each other at a stalemate, a bow and multiple arrows versus god knows how many shurikens. She knew this was a fight she couldn’t win, yet she had no choice now that she crossed the Rubicon. It was all a matter of which ninja would die first. They all looked the same. They all talked the same. But only one of them called her a bitch. Would he be the first to go? Decisions, decisions. At least now she would get the peace and quiet she desperately wanted. Did they have butterflies in heaven? Would she even go to heaven in the first place?

She didn’t have to make the tough decision after all. That decision was made for her when Antonio nipped up and slammed the ninjas’ heads together, concussing the guys on the edges and exploding the skulls of those in the middle. “Take the shot!” yelled Antonio. Elizabeth did just that. Whoever remained after that head slam took a series of arrows to the chest, knocking their hearts and spines out of their carcasses. Antonio chucked the dead bodies over the bushes and into a ditch. He didn’t break a sweat doing it nor did he need a firm grip on anywhere but their ankles.

After the dust settled, Antonio removed his ninja mask and smiled at Elizabeth, who smiled back at him. He said, “The poison these geniuses used in their dart was too low a dose for someone of my size. If they had any brains at all, they would have used a bigger dart. Maybe they could have used a bastard sword in a haystack. Plus, those berries I grabbed were a perfect antidote.”

“And you’re supposed to be the dumb one just because you have a deep voice?”

“Well, I did lead all of these jerks to your forest. That alone wasn’t very smart. Sorry about that. Now I’ve got you involved in my problems.”

“I don’t mind at all, Antonio. In fact, I wouldn’t mind hunting down every last one of those Scorpion Clan jerk-offs. The way I see it, they were going to interrupt my peace and quiet one way or another. Might as well strike them before they strike me. If they really are dumber than a giant with a deep voice, then they’ll fall for my begging and pleading trick again. Heh…like I’d ever beg for my life for those dweebs.”

A still wobbly Antonio wrapped his arm around Elizabeth’s shoulders and said, “You and I make a pretty good team, don’t we? Kind of like brains and brawns, right?”

“Well, to be fair, those ninjas have brains too. They just happen to be splattered all over the ground right now. So what do you say we stop running from the Scorpion Clan and start racking up a body count?”

“You can count on me!” Antonio gave a playful slap on Elizabeth’s back and unintentionally knocked her over. He apologized profusely as he picked her up and dusted her off.

“Okay, maybe you are just a little bit thick in the head, but we’ll work on that,” said Elizabeth with a playful smile.

The Hateful Eight

MOVIE TITLE: The Hateful Eight
DIRECTOR: Quentin Tarantino
YEAR: 2015
GENRE: Western Thriller
RATING: R for violence, swearing, nudity, and rape
GRADE: Pass

A blizzard hits Wyoming in the middle of bounty hunter John Ruth transporting his $10,000 captive Daisy Domergue to Red Rock to be executed. After his stagecoach picks up two extra passengers along the way, Major Marquis Warren and Sheriff Chris Mannix, the travelers are forced to hunker down in a lodge together with other suspicious characters until the blizzard passes over. As the strangers get to know each other, not everyone can keep their stories straight and it leads to paranoid distrust. Bodies begin piling up until their paranoia tapers, which means Daisy’s chances of escaping execution increase even more.

Just like with any other Quentin Tarantino movie, every character is developed through realistic, gritty, and vulgar dialogue. It’s not just cursing and slurs for the sake of edginess. Everything said in this movie has a purpose and nothing goes to waste. This is especially true when Marquis is telling old man Sandy Smithers how the latter’s son died at the former’s hands. It’s also true when John Ruth tells stories about how he prefers to hang his bounties rather than give them an easy route to death. And it’s true again when Chris Mannix brags about his father’s renegade army of confederate remnants fighting for a dying cause. None of the characters’ back stories or present actions make them appear sympathetic, I’ll admit, but if we were meant to sympathize with them, the movie wouldn’t be called the Hateful Eight. This is classic Tarantino storytelling at its apex.

I also must commend the musicianship of Ennio Morricone, who provided most of the soundtrack for this movie. Whenever a feeling of impending doom or hard justice needs to be experienced by the audience, Morricone’s music will make them believe in the brutality they’re seeing onscreen. He has a legendary track record of providing fantastic scores for western movies, so recruiting him was a natural fit on Tarantino’s part. I’m not sure if the Hateful Eight’s soundtrack has been released as a CD or digital album, but if it hasn’t, then it’s a crime. Classical music never goes out of style and even if it did, it can always be revived by conductors like Morricone.

Tarantino movies could be criticized for dragging themselves out too long or being overindulgent in their exposition through dialogue, but in the case of the Hateful Eight, I don’t agree with that sentiment at all. Everything had its place. Every conversation had its own feeling of drama and excitement. If you watch Tarantino movies just for the brutality, you might have to wait a while, but it’ll be worth it in the end. Think of the conversations as the slow build and the violence as the major crescendo in a symphony of masterful filmmaking. I wouldn’t lump John Ruth punching and elbowing Daisy in with that symphony since it was disturbing to watch and out of context it would make John Ruth look like a jerk. Yes, your butt will go numb as you go through this two and a half hour long masterpiece, but when you’re kicking it in the Caribbean, you’ll be saying to yourself, “Marcellus Wallace was right.” Wait a minute, wrong movie! But you get the idea.

While this movie isn’t anything earth shattering, it is a piece of art to be admired and rewatched just to soak in the talents of everybody involved. Samuel L. Jackson was undoubtedly the show stealer when it came to the acting. Ennio Morricone’s music is always heaven on the ears. The story itself can be easily pieced together once the movie draws to its conclusion. All in all, there’s not much to complain about even with the lengthy screen time and the scenes where Daisy gets punched (despite the fact that she too is an unsympathetic villain). A passing grade will go to this modern day Tarantino classic!

Tales From the Hood 2

MOVIE TITLE: Tales From the Hood 2
DIRECTORS: Rusty Cundieff and Darin Scott
YEAR: 2018
GENRE: Horror Anthology
RATING: R for violence, language, sexual content, and political themes
GRADE: Mixed

Master storyteller Mr. Simms is hired by rightwing prison CEO Dumass Beach to give secondhand experience to a police android named Robo Patriot. These stories are designed to help the robot identify threats to America and deal with them appropriately. Instead of giving Beach his confirmation bias, Simms tells stories about the pain racism and sexual harassment have caused throughout the years. Whether the lead characters in these stories are Tinder rapists, mammie doll collectors, wannabe thugs, or black republican politicians, they all will get what’s coming to them in the end. Beach doesn’t like these premises, but live with them he must.

Compared to the first Tales From the Hood movie, this sequel had more cheese than a stuffed crust Domino’s pizza. Whether you agree with the messages in this movie or not, every storytelling device these directors used was so obvious even to the most tone-deaf viewers. I’ll leave it up to you to figure out what the prison CEO’s name Dumass Beach is supposed to be a play on words of. The poor acting skills of the white characters didn’t make me believe in the stories, especially the mammie doll collector in the first story. The Robo Patriot sounds like it was haphazardly thrown together at the last minute, not an ounce of creativity left. The CGI effects looked faker than a John Cena pro-wrestling punch. I could have eaten Wendy’s Baconator fries and gotten the same amount of cheese, but no, I had to sit through Tales From the Hood 2 because I thought it could measure up to its 1995 predecessor.

I can’t completely dump all over this movie, though. There is a reason it received a mixed grade from me instead of a failing one. The strong themes of racism are what saved it. Floyd, the museum curator in the first story, delivered his dialogue about the history of black culture in a convincing and educational way. Plus, I loved his evil side near the end (even though he was technically the good guy of the story). In the last story, a group of voodoo sacrifices have to convince a black republican to vote with his heart, not with his wallet. And don’t forget the third story about the Tinder rapists, which is a cautionary tale to end the romanticizing of “boys will be boys”.

Beach’s distasteful reactions to these stories should serve as a reminder of how abundant racism and sexism are in today’s culture. It’s a shame these stories had to be poorly acted by the white characters. The black characters did an excellent job, by the way. I’m not trying to be a “reverse racist” when I say that. I’m just calling it like I see it. The black actors most likely experienced overt racism during their lives, so they bring that into their acting gigs and it sounds more authentic. I was disappointed with Zoe’s performance, though. She sounded just as unconvincing as her white friends.

I can understand the hate this movie gets online, but it’s not as bad as I was anticipating it to be. It had its good moments along with its hokey ones. And yes, it didn’t live up to the bar the previous Tales Form the Hood movie set. I get that. Even Mr. Simms’s “Welcome to Hell!” line sounded forced, like the directors were trying to recapture that old glory of Clarence Williams’s version of Simms in the first movie. But like I said before, this movie gets a mixed reception from me, not a negative one. But would I want to watch it again? Maybe if I was a robot during an episode of Mystery Science Theater 3000.