Garrison Kelly's Blog, page 57
August 4, 2018
Incelbordination, Chapter 9
When the Monday morning sunshine burst through his window, Oswald Crow contemplated taking the day off. He could tell Valerie Sand that he had come down with food poisoning or something. Then again, if he pulled that sneaky trick, the C- would become a D+ in no time at all. He wasn’t sick, but he’d have to take his medicine anyways. He pounded his fists into the pillow as he dragged himself out of bed to get ready for class. Why did Monday mornings have to exist in the first place, especially when Sunday mornings were days when Incelbordination “went to war”. The thought of their hate speech made Oswald feel as though he had worms crawling in his stomach.
What would be on his MP3 player today? Something to relax him? Something to hype him up? A band to share his sadness with? Nah, he didn’t feel like music today. He just put on his trench coat and fucked off to English class. With Incelbordination clouding every corner of his mind, he didn’t feel like he could concentrate on music. If that was the case, what made him think he could concentrate on schoolwork? Maybe he should have taken the day off and smoked a shit ton of weed. Eh, maybe not.
Oswald’s posture drooped over as he headed to class, barely paying attention to the sets of shoes around him. Some of the “Stacys” had worn sandals and shorts on this fine spring day, but he didn’t give a damn anymore, not after Valerie gave him shit about it this past Friday. Oh crap, he actually had to see her and had very little time to get there. He kept telling himself to turn around and take a personal day, but his zombie body pushed him forward nonetheless.
The only thing bombastic enough to awaken him was the sound of an explosion followed by van engines and young men screaming incoherent slogans about not getting laid. Oswald had just unknowingly stumbled upon a terrorist attack and watched in horror as masked men went around beating the shit out of other students. Some of them whipped “Stacys” with belts. Some of them punched “Chads” with brass knuckles. Those who were driving the vans mowed down both “Chads” and “Stacys” like human bowling pins, though the terrorists would clearly dispute the human part of that analogy.
“Oh no…Oh my fucking lord…” Oswald said to himself as he knelt down and held his head in his hands. He believed he was powerless to stop this madness even with his superior boxing skills. So many masked men…so many weapons…so many vans…and here was this dwarf just waiting to get his ass kicked or even worse. He believed wholeheartedly that he brought this upon himself. He should have told Detective Barry about this when he had the chance.
“Help!” shouted a terrified feminine voice muffled by a glass door. Oswald collected himself and noticed his one true crush Nikita Johnson banging on the glass door of his English class begging for a rescue. “Someone help me! Please!” she shouted over and over again.
One more dead Stacy doesn’t matter, an intrusive inner voice told Oswald. No. It does matter. It has to matter. This madness had to stop. Cracking his knuckles and both sides of his neck, Oswald bolted towards the glass door and shouted, “Nikita, hang on!” He rolled up his trench coat sleeves and started punching the shit out of the glass door. This was no doubt tough material that left his knuckles bleeding and his hands calloused. But one crack in the glass turned into two. Two turned into four. Just a few more pain wracking punches that sent shockwaves through his numbed out arm. And then the glass door shattered and Nikita was free.
Before she could taste freedom, a heavyset man wearing a black mask hand-gagged her and pulled her backwards kicking and screaming. “Get your fucking mitts off of her, you sick prick!” shouted Oswald before punching the terrorist in the knee and buckling him. The dwarf ignored the pain now shooting up to his shoulders as he threw a few more heavy rights and lefts until the terrorist’s knee was completely blown out. Letting go of Nikita, the fat man collapsed to the ground crying like a bitch while Oswald’s hands bled some more.
Nikita leaned down and quickly examined the dwarf’s knuckles. She said, “Come on, let’s get you out of here! My car’s in the parking lot. Let’s go!” She gave Oswald a piggy-back ride and bolted out of the classroom, zig-zagging between various masked men pummeling their prey. Even in Birkenstocks, Nikita ran with the coordination of an athlete. Oswald had little time to admire her physicality as his knuckles bled all over her blue T-shirt. There were probably pieces of glass stuck in them.
Another heavyweight terrorist grabbed Nikita by her arm as she trashed and yelled, “Get your hands off of me, you pervert!” Not wanting to further injure his hands, Oswald leapt onto the jerk and head-butted him until blood soaked the man’s mask. The world around the dwarf seemed to spin like an amusement park ride after so many head strikes. Nikita had to pull him off the thug and piggy-back him some more.
The duo finally made it to Nikita’s car, though the angry voices behind them grew even more vicious the more she fumbled with her keys. She eventually found the right one, but was so jittery that she had trouble fitting it in the door. Another thug had jumped on top of the car wielding a crowbar and that was enough to knock both Nikita and Oswald backwards in fright. The thug chanted over and over again, “Love is black!” while raising his weapon in the air.
“Don’t hurt us! Leave us alone, you coward!” begged Nikita as she curled into the fetal position. The thug jumped down from the roof and raised his weapon like he was going to strike any second. Oswald was still fading in and out of clarity, but even with minimal equilibrium, he kicked the thug in the ankle and had him hopping up and down. After he dropped the crowbar, Oswald grabbed his other ankle and with one hard tug tripped him to the ground, making sure he hit his head on the roof.
Once the thug was KO’ed, Oswald struggled so much to help Nikita to her feet that he nearly blacked out. She hurried and fit the key in the door successfully this time before situating the dwarf in the passenger seat. He was so out of it that he didn’t bother to fasten his seatbelt. Nikita wasted no time in getting in the driver’s seat and getting the engine going, peeling out of there like a bat out of hell. She had to run over another thug in order to obtain a clear path to freedom, but she did and kept going.
“I need to take you to a hospital, you’re hurt!” sobbed Nikita.
“No! The hospital’s going to be backed up. Take me back to my dorm room. I’ve got medical shit we can use there. I just hope the cops can come in time to stop this BS.”
Oswald started to drift into darkness, but Nikita kept shaking his shoulder and saying, “Stay with me, little guy! This isn’t over yet! I’ll get you back to your dorm in no time at all!”
The dwarf’s speech began to slur as he talked nonsense for the rest of the ride to the dorm. “That C- is going to kill humanity…she’s going to steal the world’s pot and…”
“Oswald, what the hell are you talking about?!” No response. “Oswald, please wake up!” Still no response. “Oswald! No!” Nikita shook him harder and harder, but he still wouldn’t snap out of his concussion wonderland, if a concussion was what he indeed had. A psychiatrist might lean towards PTSD, a disease which got thrown around a lot on campus, but was completely justified this time around. What the dwarf would give for some pot right at that moment. Beautiful, mind-numbing, pain-dulling pot that made mundane clouds look like vanilla ice cream.
Nah, he couldn’t very well pull a ready roll out in this strange woman’s car. Come to think of it, even in his head-butt induced darkness, he seemed to remember her sharing an English assignment with the class about her straightedge beliefs. Maybe inviting her back to the dorm was a bad idea since that was where all of the magic medicine was kept. Then again, Oswald had nowhere else to go to, both to escape Incelbordination and to find permanence in life.
At this moment, Nikita Johnson was the closest thing to a godsend he had. Even though he was perfectly capable of sprinting long distances, she gave him a piggyback ride to safety after seeing his hands bleeding. Bloody hands weren’t unusual for a boxer at Oswald’s level, but never had it warranted a piggyback ride. Maybe the massive blood loss was making his mind go berserk. Then again, maybe it was the general loveliness of Nikita even though she was in hysterics. Before he finally drifted into the subconscious theater, Oswald had a tiny smile on his face knowing the two of them would finally be alone together.
What would be on his MP3 player today? Something to relax him? Something to hype him up? A band to share his sadness with? Nah, he didn’t feel like music today. He just put on his trench coat and fucked off to English class. With Incelbordination clouding every corner of his mind, he didn’t feel like he could concentrate on music. If that was the case, what made him think he could concentrate on schoolwork? Maybe he should have taken the day off and smoked a shit ton of weed. Eh, maybe not.
Oswald’s posture drooped over as he headed to class, barely paying attention to the sets of shoes around him. Some of the “Stacys” had worn sandals and shorts on this fine spring day, but he didn’t give a damn anymore, not after Valerie gave him shit about it this past Friday. Oh crap, he actually had to see her and had very little time to get there. He kept telling himself to turn around and take a personal day, but his zombie body pushed him forward nonetheless.
The only thing bombastic enough to awaken him was the sound of an explosion followed by van engines and young men screaming incoherent slogans about not getting laid. Oswald had just unknowingly stumbled upon a terrorist attack and watched in horror as masked men went around beating the shit out of other students. Some of them whipped “Stacys” with belts. Some of them punched “Chads” with brass knuckles. Those who were driving the vans mowed down both “Chads” and “Stacys” like human bowling pins, though the terrorists would clearly dispute the human part of that analogy.
“Oh no…Oh my fucking lord…” Oswald said to himself as he knelt down and held his head in his hands. He believed he was powerless to stop this madness even with his superior boxing skills. So many masked men…so many weapons…so many vans…and here was this dwarf just waiting to get his ass kicked or even worse. He believed wholeheartedly that he brought this upon himself. He should have told Detective Barry about this when he had the chance.
“Help!” shouted a terrified feminine voice muffled by a glass door. Oswald collected himself and noticed his one true crush Nikita Johnson banging on the glass door of his English class begging for a rescue. “Someone help me! Please!” she shouted over and over again.
One more dead Stacy doesn’t matter, an intrusive inner voice told Oswald. No. It does matter. It has to matter. This madness had to stop. Cracking his knuckles and both sides of his neck, Oswald bolted towards the glass door and shouted, “Nikita, hang on!” He rolled up his trench coat sleeves and started punching the shit out of the glass door. This was no doubt tough material that left his knuckles bleeding and his hands calloused. But one crack in the glass turned into two. Two turned into four. Just a few more pain wracking punches that sent shockwaves through his numbed out arm. And then the glass door shattered and Nikita was free.
Before she could taste freedom, a heavyset man wearing a black mask hand-gagged her and pulled her backwards kicking and screaming. “Get your fucking mitts off of her, you sick prick!” shouted Oswald before punching the terrorist in the knee and buckling him. The dwarf ignored the pain now shooting up to his shoulders as he threw a few more heavy rights and lefts until the terrorist’s knee was completely blown out. Letting go of Nikita, the fat man collapsed to the ground crying like a bitch while Oswald’s hands bled some more.
Nikita leaned down and quickly examined the dwarf’s knuckles. She said, “Come on, let’s get you out of here! My car’s in the parking lot. Let’s go!” She gave Oswald a piggy-back ride and bolted out of the classroom, zig-zagging between various masked men pummeling their prey. Even in Birkenstocks, Nikita ran with the coordination of an athlete. Oswald had little time to admire her physicality as his knuckles bled all over her blue T-shirt. There were probably pieces of glass stuck in them.
Another heavyweight terrorist grabbed Nikita by her arm as she trashed and yelled, “Get your hands off of me, you pervert!” Not wanting to further injure his hands, Oswald leapt onto the jerk and head-butted him until blood soaked the man’s mask. The world around the dwarf seemed to spin like an amusement park ride after so many head strikes. Nikita had to pull him off the thug and piggy-back him some more.
The duo finally made it to Nikita’s car, though the angry voices behind them grew even more vicious the more she fumbled with her keys. She eventually found the right one, but was so jittery that she had trouble fitting it in the door. Another thug had jumped on top of the car wielding a crowbar and that was enough to knock both Nikita and Oswald backwards in fright. The thug chanted over and over again, “Love is black!” while raising his weapon in the air.
“Don’t hurt us! Leave us alone, you coward!” begged Nikita as she curled into the fetal position. The thug jumped down from the roof and raised his weapon like he was going to strike any second. Oswald was still fading in and out of clarity, but even with minimal equilibrium, he kicked the thug in the ankle and had him hopping up and down. After he dropped the crowbar, Oswald grabbed his other ankle and with one hard tug tripped him to the ground, making sure he hit his head on the roof.
Once the thug was KO’ed, Oswald struggled so much to help Nikita to her feet that he nearly blacked out. She hurried and fit the key in the door successfully this time before situating the dwarf in the passenger seat. He was so out of it that he didn’t bother to fasten his seatbelt. Nikita wasted no time in getting in the driver’s seat and getting the engine going, peeling out of there like a bat out of hell. She had to run over another thug in order to obtain a clear path to freedom, but she did and kept going.
“I need to take you to a hospital, you’re hurt!” sobbed Nikita.
“No! The hospital’s going to be backed up. Take me back to my dorm room. I’ve got medical shit we can use there. I just hope the cops can come in time to stop this BS.”
Oswald started to drift into darkness, but Nikita kept shaking his shoulder and saying, “Stay with me, little guy! This isn’t over yet! I’ll get you back to your dorm in no time at all!”
The dwarf’s speech began to slur as he talked nonsense for the rest of the ride to the dorm. “That C- is going to kill humanity…she’s going to steal the world’s pot and…”
“Oswald, what the hell are you talking about?!” No response. “Oswald, please wake up!” Still no response. “Oswald! No!” Nikita shook him harder and harder, but he still wouldn’t snap out of his concussion wonderland, if a concussion was what he indeed had. A psychiatrist might lean towards PTSD, a disease which got thrown around a lot on campus, but was completely justified this time around. What the dwarf would give for some pot right at that moment. Beautiful, mind-numbing, pain-dulling pot that made mundane clouds look like vanilla ice cream.
Nah, he couldn’t very well pull a ready roll out in this strange woman’s car. Come to think of it, even in his head-butt induced darkness, he seemed to remember her sharing an English assignment with the class about her straightedge beliefs. Maybe inviting her back to the dorm was a bad idea since that was where all of the magic medicine was kept. Then again, Oswald had nowhere else to go to, both to escape Incelbordination and to find permanence in life.
At this moment, Nikita Johnson was the closest thing to a godsend he had. Even though he was perfectly capable of sprinting long distances, she gave him a piggyback ride to safety after seeing his hands bleeding. Bloody hands weren’t unusual for a boxer at Oswald’s level, but never had it warranted a piggyback ride. Maybe the massive blood loss was making his mind go berserk. Then again, maybe it was the general loveliness of Nikita even though she was in hysterics. Before he finally drifted into the subconscious theater, Oswald had a tiny smile on his face knowing the two of them would finally be alone together.
August 2, 2018
Incelbordination, Chapter 8
“Every Sunday, when America goes to church, Incelbordination goes to war!” Oswald was pretty sure Antero stole that line from an NFL videogame commercial, but it was effective word porn nonetheless. Oswald dragged his ass out of bed and signed onto the Incelbordination chat room where that church slogan came from. Upon receiving the URL to that chat room, Antero told him that they never had physical meeting places because of Mia Barry’s investigation against him. They also didn’t use the same URL every time, also for the same purpose. The clandestine nature of these Sunday meetings made Oswald feel like a rebel, like he actually could bring a shock to the system.
When he signed in under the username LittleFury21, he whistled in awe of how many people were part of this chat room. So many young men on campus like him who felt betrayed by their peers. So much potential crushed by the world around them. So many dreams turned into permanent nightmares. This was definitely Oswald’s true territory, not a classroom of judgmental eyes or a home he couldn’t go to anymore.
BLACK_PILL_KING (Antero’s Username): Good morning, everyone! Welcome to our weekly Incelbordination meeting. You all know who I am by now. But I’m sure none of you know who LittleFury21 is. He’s our newest acquisition and quite possibly our saving grace in this wretched life. Everyone say hello!
Sure enough, the entire chat room did so and that alone made Oswald feel welcome, unlike any other school environment he was in.
BLACK_PILL_KING: The floor is yours, little guy. Introduce yourself to our Supreme Gentlemen!
LITTLEFURY21: Hello, everyone. I was told not to use real names prior to this meeting, so I won’t give away mine. But as many of you guessed by now, Little Fury isn’t just some catchy title. I really am three feet tall and south of a hundred pounds. Men and women alike go out of their way to avoid me and those who do pay attention only want to disparage me before getting the chance to know who I am.
RAGE_GOD31: Ever thought about punching them in the dick?
LITTLEFURY21: All the time, Rage God. I actually did have to learn how to box when I was young. If I didn’t throw those heavy punches, I’d probably be deader than a doornail right now. Hell, I’m probably going to be dead in a few years anyways. Dying of a lonely heart isn’t at all unheard of.
DEATH_MASTER2000: You know, you can do something about this. Ever thought about going out in a blaze of glory? That’s probably the only way any of us will ever be noticed. Look at what happened to Eliot Rodger.
LITTLEFURY21: I think about it more often than you think, Death Master. The problem is…I just don’t have it in me to go through with it.
MCDONALDS_PIMP69: If you ever need coaxing along, just remember that there are no innocent victims. The whole world is guilty for pushing you aside. If nobody else will be the judge, jury, and executioner, then you take those roles yourself. Don’t puss out on us now!
LITTLEFURY21: That’s all well and good, but I don’t exactly have a warehouse full of bazookas and machetes readily available. My legs are also too short to operate the pedals on a German tank. LOL!
BLACK_PILL_KING: Heavy artillery is overrated, Little Fury. It’s expensive, it’s hard to smuggle, and it’s more obvious than the hard-on those tank cannons look like. If you need the tools to get the job done and can’t rely on your boxing skills alone…we can help you with that!
LITTLEFURY21: Wait a minute…you guys actually have…guns?!
BLACK_PILL_KING: Not just guns, my friend. Chainsaws, knives, baseball bats covered in razor wire, and even a few vans to turn Chads and Stacys into pretty little pancakes. Then after we flatten them, we can put our special whipped cream all over them while they bleed out strawberries. It’ll be like having breakfast at IHOP.
The constant barrage of LOL’s and LMAO’s from the other incels sent chills up Oswald’s spine and made his fingers go numb. Thank god there was a waste bucket next to his computer desk in case he needed something to barf into. The thought of speaking up put nervous energy in his stomach, but he knew he had to do it.
LITTLEFURY21: Guys, this shit isn’t funny.
BIG_DADDY_G: Are you kidding me? This is fucking hilarious! Besides, if your legs were long enough to drive a van, you’d want to splatter everything in sight too!
BLACK_PILL_KING: I agree 100%. Seriously, why the change of heart?
LITTLEFURY21: Look, I can appreciate the fact that you guys hate the world and want to watch it burn and all, but this is ridiculous. You’re making jokes about murdering people and I’m actually afraid you guys might do it someday.
SUPER_FREAK72: Dude, take your skirt off and be a man for once. You know the only chance you’d get laid is if you killed the chick yourself. Even then, I think it’s a long shot since your legs aren’t the only short thing about you.
LITTLEFURY21: How about instead of hiding behind a computer screen, you say that shit to my face? Yeah, and I’M the one walking around in a skirt.
SUPER_FREAK72: If you and I were to fight, I’d win every single time. Now fall in line before I make you eat your meals through a straw!
BLACK_PILL_KING: Okay, children, that’s enough. We’re supposed to be unified by this shit, not tearing each other apart. We’ve got big plans and I will not have them scrapped by a bunch of infighting!
LITTLEFURY21: What do you mean “big plans”? You’re not actually talking about…you know…
BLACK_PILL_KING: I don’t know, maybe I am, maybe I’m not. Maybe I’ll have to rethink my whole strategy if you’re not fully committed to Incelbordination. I understand you’re new to this group, but everybody has to pay their dues.
LITTLEFURY21: And by “paying my dues”, you mean going out and committing murder and necrophilia. If that’s the case, then your Uncle Tuomas won’t have to worry about not getting laid anymore.
The swear words, epithets, and death threats from the other members flooded the chat room to where the system almost crashed. Antero tried to restore order, but the messages of hate came so frequently that he couldn’t get a word in edgewise. Oswald did what most immature computer users did and argued back against Incelbordination’s finest. The slurs came more frequently and nearly send him spiraling into insanity. The dwarf even held his head and rocked back and forth before leaving the chat room and taking deep breaths.
Oswald had enough venom for the world to fill two chemical factories and a biological weapons carrier. Yet even he was disgusted by what he saw in that chat room. His heart raced, his stomach ached, and his mind swirled with words like “faggot”, “pussy”, and “prison bitch”. Images of him being stabbed, shot, stomped, or even raped in the asshole made him wish he had forgotten Incelbordination even existed. No woman was worth this much poison. In fact, he would even welcome hugs from Valerie Sand, Nikita Johnson, and Mia Barry of they were offered.
Tomorrow was Monday, which meant another round of criticism from his English teacher. Oswald held his pain-wracked stomach at the thought of having to choose between being criticized by Valerie and being cyber-bullied by a bunch of virgin terrorists. It was the classic case of Death or Unga-Bunga all over again. If he was going to be laughed at for the thousandth time, he might as well have put his best foot forward.
“Okay, Oswald, you can do this. Just breathe…just concentrate…” He pulled the C- covered paper out of his backpack and tried to focus on correcting his many mistakes. He had a whole Sunday to get the job done and he had completed his homework assignments from his other classes. If there was ever time to puff the magic dragon…
When he signed in under the username LittleFury21, he whistled in awe of how many people were part of this chat room. So many young men on campus like him who felt betrayed by their peers. So much potential crushed by the world around them. So many dreams turned into permanent nightmares. This was definitely Oswald’s true territory, not a classroom of judgmental eyes or a home he couldn’t go to anymore.
BLACK_PILL_KING (Antero’s Username): Good morning, everyone! Welcome to our weekly Incelbordination meeting. You all know who I am by now. But I’m sure none of you know who LittleFury21 is. He’s our newest acquisition and quite possibly our saving grace in this wretched life. Everyone say hello!
Sure enough, the entire chat room did so and that alone made Oswald feel welcome, unlike any other school environment he was in.
BLACK_PILL_KING: The floor is yours, little guy. Introduce yourself to our Supreme Gentlemen!
LITTLEFURY21: Hello, everyone. I was told not to use real names prior to this meeting, so I won’t give away mine. But as many of you guessed by now, Little Fury isn’t just some catchy title. I really am three feet tall and south of a hundred pounds. Men and women alike go out of their way to avoid me and those who do pay attention only want to disparage me before getting the chance to know who I am.
RAGE_GOD31: Ever thought about punching them in the dick?
LITTLEFURY21: All the time, Rage God. I actually did have to learn how to box when I was young. If I didn’t throw those heavy punches, I’d probably be deader than a doornail right now. Hell, I’m probably going to be dead in a few years anyways. Dying of a lonely heart isn’t at all unheard of.
DEATH_MASTER2000: You know, you can do something about this. Ever thought about going out in a blaze of glory? That’s probably the only way any of us will ever be noticed. Look at what happened to Eliot Rodger.
LITTLEFURY21: I think about it more often than you think, Death Master. The problem is…I just don’t have it in me to go through with it.
MCDONALDS_PIMP69: If you ever need coaxing along, just remember that there are no innocent victims. The whole world is guilty for pushing you aside. If nobody else will be the judge, jury, and executioner, then you take those roles yourself. Don’t puss out on us now!
LITTLEFURY21: That’s all well and good, but I don’t exactly have a warehouse full of bazookas and machetes readily available. My legs are also too short to operate the pedals on a German tank. LOL!
BLACK_PILL_KING: Heavy artillery is overrated, Little Fury. It’s expensive, it’s hard to smuggle, and it’s more obvious than the hard-on those tank cannons look like. If you need the tools to get the job done and can’t rely on your boxing skills alone…we can help you with that!
LITTLEFURY21: Wait a minute…you guys actually have…guns?!
BLACK_PILL_KING: Not just guns, my friend. Chainsaws, knives, baseball bats covered in razor wire, and even a few vans to turn Chads and Stacys into pretty little pancakes. Then after we flatten them, we can put our special whipped cream all over them while they bleed out strawberries. It’ll be like having breakfast at IHOP.
The constant barrage of LOL’s and LMAO’s from the other incels sent chills up Oswald’s spine and made his fingers go numb. Thank god there was a waste bucket next to his computer desk in case he needed something to barf into. The thought of speaking up put nervous energy in his stomach, but he knew he had to do it.
LITTLEFURY21: Guys, this shit isn’t funny.
BIG_DADDY_G: Are you kidding me? This is fucking hilarious! Besides, if your legs were long enough to drive a van, you’d want to splatter everything in sight too!
BLACK_PILL_KING: I agree 100%. Seriously, why the change of heart?
LITTLEFURY21: Look, I can appreciate the fact that you guys hate the world and want to watch it burn and all, but this is ridiculous. You’re making jokes about murdering people and I’m actually afraid you guys might do it someday.
SUPER_FREAK72: Dude, take your skirt off and be a man for once. You know the only chance you’d get laid is if you killed the chick yourself. Even then, I think it’s a long shot since your legs aren’t the only short thing about you.
LITTLEFURY21: How about instead of hiding behind a computer screen, you say that shit to my face? Yeah, and I’M the one walking around in a skirt.
SUPER_FREAK72: If you and I were to fight, I’d win every single time. Now fall in line before I make you eat your meals through a straw!
BLACK_PILL_KING: Okay, children, that’s enough. We’re supposed to be unified by this shit, not tearing each other apart. We’ve got big plans and I will not have them scrapped by a bunch of infighting!
LITTLEFURY21: What do you mean “big plans”? You’re not actually talking about…you know…
BLACK_PILL_KING: I don’t know, maybe I am, maybe I’m not. Maybe I’ll have to rethink my whole strategy if you’re not fully committed to Incelbordination. I understand you’re new to this group, but everybody has to pay their dues.
LITTLEFURY21: And by “paying my dues”, you mean going out and committing murder and necrophilia. If that’s the case, then your Uncle Tuomas won’t have to worry about not getting laid anymore.
The swear words, epithets, and death threats from the other members flooded the chat room to where the system almost crashed. Antero tried to restore order, but the messages of hate came so frequently that he couldn’t get a word in edgewise. Oswald did what most immature computer users did and argued back against Incelbordination’s finest. The slurs came more frequently and nearly send him spiraling into insanity. The dwarf even held his head and rocked back and forth before leaving the chat room and taking deep breaths.
Oswald had enough venom for the world to fill two chemical factories and a biological weapons carrier. Yet even he was disgusted by what he saw in that chat room. His heart raced, his stomach ached, and his mind swirled with words like “faggot”, “pussy”, and “prison bitch”. Images of him being stabbed, shot, stomped, or even raped in the asshole made him wish he had forgotten Incelbordination even existed. No woman was worth this much poison. In fact, he would even welcome hugs from Valerie Sand, Nikita Johnson, and Mia Barry of they were offered.
Tomorrow was Monday, which meant another round of criticism from his English teacher. Oswald held his pain-wracked stomach at the thought of having to choose between being criticized by Valerie and being cyber-bullied by a bunch of virgin terrorists. It was the classic case of Death or Unga-Bunga all over again. If he was going to be laughed at for the thousandth time, he might as well have put his best foot forward.
“Okay, Oswald, you can do this. Just breathe…just concentrate…” He pulled the C- covered paper out of his backpack and tried to focus on correcting his many mistakes. He had a whole Sunday to get the job done and he had completed his homework assignments from his other classes. If there was ever time to puff the magic dragon…
July 29, 2018
Monsters
TV SERIES TITLE: Monsters
CREATORS: Richard P. Rubinstein and Mitch Galin
YEARS: 1988-1991
GENRE: Horror Anthology
RATING: TV-14 for violence
GRADE: Fail
In a seemingly ordinary suburban neighborhood, a family of hideous creatures gathers around the TV looking for something to watch. As the cyclops wife says herself, “It’s family hour, there must be something on.” That something turns out to be Monsters, a series of standalone episodes depicting vile creatures taking advantage of foolish humans. For purposes of this review, I will only judge the series based on the first four episodes, because those were the only ones I could get through before tapping out. Those episodes are entitled The Feverman, Holly’s House, New York Honey, and The Vampire Hunter. I’ve seen other episodes of the series in the past, but they share too many negative aspects in common with the first four episodes.
If you’re looking for a series that will scare the holy hell out of you, don’t worry, because your heart rate will remain at a comfortable pace by the time each episode is over. The only thing about the show that scared me the most as a kid was the music during the opening and closing sequences. The organ chord during the commercial break bumper also had a chilling effect on me, so much so that I purposefully put off watching Monsters until I got over that fear. It doesn’t help matters that the deep laughter near the end of the theme song makes me feel as though there’s something behind me, waiting to attack. The music is so creepy that I encourage people to play it on loop whenever trick-or-treaters come to their doors.
Unfortunately, the music is pretty much the only redeeming quality this series has to offer. Mr. Rubinstein and Mr. Galin deserve an A for effort, but once the music is over, things go downhill from there. The acting in these episodes is incredibly cheesy, so much so that it’s hard to sympathize with the characters. There are a few exceptions to this rule, such as David McCallum in The Feverman and Richard Belzer in Werewolf of Hollywood, but those exceptions are few and far between. The dialogue isn’t so bad provided it’s conveyed by someone with more experience. But unfortunately, not even the money lines of the series can make me care about characters who are over-the-top and ludicrous. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to take the characters seriously or not. It’s almost as if the series was cheesy on purpose. If that’s the case, then the creators shot themselves in the foot with a double barrel shotgun.
The other thing that bothered me about this series was how slow the pacing of each episode was. I understand that exposition is essential to any story, but sometimes I think there’s more exposition than actual tension. It takes each episode forever to get to the real action. It takes so long, in fact, that I tune out as soon as the juicy parts come to fruition. Maybe it’s my Millennial blood that makes me impatient. Maybe slow storytelling was more effective in the late 80’s and early 90’s. Maybe so much of this series is outdated aside from the giant cell phones and radios. Either way, the agonizingly slow storytelling doesn’t age well in today’s world. I want action! I want drama! I want tension! And I want it now!
The only reason why I decided to revisit this series was because of nostalgic purposes. I remember being a little kid and being legitimately terrified of the music and the monsters themselves. But I’m not a kid anymore and nostalgia ain’t what it used to be. There are a lot of shows, like Monsters, that were cool to watch when I was little, but not so cool in the present now that I have a better grasp of storytelling and acting elements. A failing grade goes to this series because it’s cheesier than a stuffed crust pizza.
CREATORS: Richard P. Rubinstein and Mitch Galin
YEARS: 1988-1991
GENRE: Horror Anthology
RATING: TV-14 for violence
GRADE: Fail
In a seemingly ordinary suburban neighborhood, a family of hideous creatures gathers around the TV looking for something to watch. As the cyclops wife says herself, “It’s family hour, there must be something on.” That something turns out to be Monsters, a series of standalone episodes depicting vile creatures taking advantage of foolish humans. For purposes of this review, I will only judge the series based on the first four episodes, because those were the only ones I could get through before tapping out. Those episodes are entitled The Feverman, Holly’s House, New York Honey, and The Vampire Hunter. I’ve seen other episodes of the series in the past, but they share too many negative aspects in common with the first four episodes.
If you’re looking for a series that will scare the holy hell out of you, don’t worry, because your heart rate will remain at a comfortable pace by the time each episode is over. The only thing about the show that scared me the most as a kid was the music during the opening and closing sequences. The organ chord during the commercial break bumper also had a chilling effect on me, so much so that I purposefully put off watching Monsters until I got over that fear. It doesn’t help matters that the deep laughter near the end of the theme song makes me feel as though there’s something behind me, waiting to attack. The music is so creepy that I encourage people to play it on loop whenever trick-or-treaters come to their doors.
Unfortunately, the music is pretty much the only redeeming quality this series has to offer. Mr. Rubinstein and Mr. Galin deserve an A for effort, but once the music is over, things go downhill from there. The acting in these episodes is incredibly cheesy, so much so that it’s hard to sympathize with the characters. There are a few exceptions to this rule, such as David McCallum in The Feverman and Richard Belzer in Werewolf of Hollywood, but those exceptions are few and far between. The dialogue isn’t so bad provided it’s conveyed by someone with more experience. But unfortunately, not even the money lines of the series can make me care about characters who are over-the-top and ludicrous. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to take the characters seriously or not. It’s almost as if the series was cheesy on purpose. If that’s the case, then the creators shot themselves in the foot with a double barrel shotgun.
The other thing that bothered me about this series was how slow the pacing of each episode was. I understand that exposition is essential to any story, but sometimes I think there’s more exposition than actual tension. It takes each episode forever to get to the real action. It takes so long, in fact, that I tune out as soon as the juicy parts come to fruition. Maybe it’s my Millennial blood that makes me impatient. Maybe slow storytelling was more effective in the late 80’s and early 90’s. Maybe so much of this series is outdated aside from the giant cell phones and radios. Either way, the agonizingly slow storytelling doesn’t age well in today’s world. I want action! I want drama! I want tension! And I want it now!
The only reason why I decided to revisit this series was because of nostalgic purposes. I remember being a little kid and being legitimately terrified of the music and the monsters themselves. But I’m not a kid anymore and nostalgia ain’t what it used to be. There are a lot of shows, like Monsters, that were cool to watch when I was little, but not so cool in the present now that I have a better grasp of storytelling and acting elements. A failing grade goes to this series because it’s cheesier than a stuffed crust pizza.
July 28, 2018
Seether Concert
***SEETHER CONCERT***
Sometimes I feel like whenever I post a blog announcing my attendance at a concert, all I’m doing is stroking myself. It doesn’t help matters that I pad the text with potential ways in which these concerts could affect my creative life…even though most of the time they don’t. The last time it really did was when I went to the Pain in the Grass festival in 2016 and I wrote a heavy metal song about a drunken fool that sat next to me. Most of the time my concert experiences end up as life events on my Face Book page (now THAT’S what I call stroking myself). To be fair, though, I only post them that way because I don’t have a smart phone to take pictures and I don’t want to bring my digital camera into the mosh pit lest it gets smashed to pieces.
But it’s true, ladies and gentlemen: it’s that time again. This coming Tuesday, Seether is heading to Seattle’s Showbox SoDo and the bands that will open for them are 10 Years and The Dead Deads. I didn’t start listening to Seether until 2012 when they opened for Nickelback at the Tacoma Dome alongside Bush and My Darkest Days. The first Seether album I bought was their greatest hits collection from 2002 to 2013. My favorite songs back then were “Driven Under”, “Fine Again”, and their cover of Wham’s “Careless Whisper”. I also listened to Seether’s duet with Amy Lee called “Broken” on repeat when I came home from the movie theater after seeing Obselidia. Anyone who’s heard me talk about that movie knows it ripped my heart to shreds, so “Broken” was a more than appropriate song to soothe my feels. Seether has a reputation for soothing sorrowful and angry emotions. My collection of their CD’s is now complete and I’m ready for Tuesday.
I don’t have much else to say except for…I’m Garrison Kelly and I’ll see you next time! My brain decided to be in zombie mode today, so I don’t feel like doing a great deal of writing. On the positive side, I did get some reading done today. It won’t be long before I write a passing grade review of “Fifty Shames of Earl Grey” by Fanny Merkin (real name Andrew Shaffer). One reviewer accurately described this author as the Weird Al Yankovich of erotica. Who am I to disagree with him?
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“Whoever said this pain would ever go away didn’t know what it meant to be here without you. Is everything you see reminding you of me? Does it hurt when you breathe too? ‘Cause it does when I do. I hate to feel this way. My days all feel the same. And yesterday was proof that tomorrow will too. No matter what they say, can’t drink it all away, ‘cause all that I do is think about you. When anybody says your name, I want to run away. I keep remembering I can’t forget you. It doesn’t matter what I try, it happens anyways. It’s been forever and I can’t forget you. With every single day, it won’t go away, the way I feel about you. And when it’s said and done, you’re the only one. And I can’t regret you, ‘cause I can’t forget you. Stop haunting my dreams. Please set me free.”
-My Darkest Days singing “Can’t Forget You”-
Sometimes I feel like whenever I post a blog announcing my attendance at a concert, all I’m doing is stroking myself. It doesn’t help matters that I pad the text with potential ways in which these concerts could affect my creative life…even though most of the time they don’t. The last time it really did was when I went to the Pain in the Grass festival in 2016 and I wrote a heavy metal song about a drunken fool that sat next to me. Most of the time my concert experiences end up as life events on my Face Book page (now THAT’S what I call stroking myself). To be fair, though, I only post them that way because I don’t have a smart phone to take pictures and I don’t want to bring my digital camera into the mosh pit lest it gets smashed to pieces.
But it’s true, ladies and gentlemen: it’s that time again. This coming Tuesday, Seether is heading to Seattle’s Showbox SoDo and the bands that will open for them are 10 Years and The Dead Deads. I didn’t start listening to Seether until 2012 when they opened for Nickelback at the Tacoma Dome alongside Bush and My Darkest Days. The first Seether album I bought was their greatest hits collection from 2002 to 2013. My favorite songs back then were “Driven Under”, “Fine Again”, and their cover of Wham’s “Careless Whisper”. I also listened to Seether’s duet with Amy Lee called “Broken” on repeat when I came home from the movie theater after seeing Obselidia. Anyone who’s heard me talk about that movie knows it ripped my heart to shreds, so “Broken” was a more than appropriate song to soothe my feels. Seether has a reputation for soothing sorrowful and angry emotions. My collection of their CD’s is now complete and I’m ready for Tuesday.
I don’t have much else to say except for…I’m Garrison Kelly and I’ll see you next time! My brain decided to be in zombie mode today, so I don’t feel like doing a great deal of writing. On the positive side, I did get some reading done today. It won’t be long before I write a passing grade review of “Fifty Shames of Earl Grey” by Fanny Merkin (real name Andrew Shaffer). One reviewer accurately described this author as the Weird Al Yankovich of erotica. Who am I to disagree with him?
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“Whoever said this pain would ever go away didn’t know what it meant to be here without you. Is everything you see reminding you of me? Does it hurt when you breathe too? ‘Cause it does when I do. I hate to feel this way. My days all feel the same. And yesterday was proof that tomorrow will too. No matter what they say, can’t drink it all away, ‘cause all that I do is think about you. When anybody says your name, I want to run away. I keep remembering I can’t forget you. It doesn’t matter what I try, it happens anyways. It’s been forever and I can’t forget you. With every single day, it won’t go away, the way I feel about you. And when it’s said and done, you’re the only one. And I can’t regret you, ‘cause I can’t forget you. Stop haunting my dreams. Please set me free.”
-My Darkest Days singing “Can’t Forget You”-
July 26, 2018
Yearly Muses
***DOMESTIC DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***
REINA: Garrison’s got a crush! Garrison’s got a crush!
JAMES: On who?
REINA: I’m not at liberty to say.
JAMES: You can tell me, Reina. You’re an American. It’s in the constitution. It’s your right.
GARRISON: No, it isn’t! That’s extortion!
JAMES: Well, whoever it is you have a crush on, you probably shouldn’t tell them that you like “Sickened” by Disturbed.
GARRISON: Those two things have nothing to do with each other!
JAMES: Uh-huh, sure! You don’t relate to that song, Garrison. It’s just your emo, angsty white boy music. Disturbed has nothing to do with barbarians and wizards.
GARRISON: That’s not all I think about!
JAMES: Fake news!
GARRISON: Goddamn it, James!
***YEARLY MUSES***
I don’t normally open my blog entries with the quote/dialogue of the day, but in order for the context to make sense, I had to do that. This blog is about muses, or lovey-dovey goddesses who inspire creativity. I was hesitant at first to do this blog because I didn’t want to appear like a thirsty fuck-boy. But during that above conversation I had with James and Reina, I learned not to be embarrassed by my own emotions. James and Reina weren’t making fun of me for having a crush. They were proud of the fact that I could feel those emotions to begin with. Or as I would say, “It’s a natural function!” Hell, if you don’t believe me, listen to Mister Rogers talk about how natural loving emotions are. Are you going to doubt Mister Rogers? No? I didn’t fucking think so. But yes, it’s true, every year there’s a new muse in my life. I don’t know why it’s a yearly thing, but as long as I’m being inspired to be a better person creatively and emotionally, I won’t question it. I’ve lived a long time, so I won’t go through every single year. I’ll settle for a top five instead. Starting with…
***2018: SARAH-JANE REDMOND***
Many of my readers have heard me talk about her before and how her performance as Lucy Butler in an episode of Millennium called “A Room with No View” has shook me to my core. I talk about Ms. Redmond a lot because if it wasn’t for that performance, Beautiful Monster wouldn’t be possible. Thank you for that haunting character! It’s true, though: Shelly Atwood (my villain) and Lucy Butler (Millennium) have a lot in common. They’re femme fatales who lead men into darkness. They use sex as a weapon and leave psychological ghosts for their victims. If you’re wondering why I like “Sickened” by Disturbed so much, it’s because I can picture Shelly and Lucy’s victims listening to it on repeat after being free from their clutches. “That’s enough of all your taunting. Seems I can’t remove you from my mind. Don’t you know sometimes I wish they’d kill me for wanting you?” Goddamn, that’s some powerful shit! I’d take twenty-four hours of that over “Love Is Blue” by Paul Mauriat any day of the week, though the latter is a good song too. Thank you for the creative fuel, Ms. Redmond! Now Beautiful Monster is about to be sliced and diced by the iron chefs at Hollow Hills Books. I’m both excited and terrified at the thought of receiving those future critiques! Maybe I should ask Lucy Butler for a comforting hug. Oh dear god…
***2013: RONDA ROUSEY***
Ever since she became a then-undefeated UFC Bantamweight Champion, Ronda Rousey set the motherfucking world on fire. Ass-beating after ass-beating sent her opponents packing for higher grounds. Since I wrote a lot of action-packed stories during this time, the ultra-tough warrior chick Ronda had to be my muse. To this day, I don’t know if she was a direct inspiration for Occupy Wrestling, but I wouldn’t doubt it if someone said it to me. Oh, and she also inspired some angsty/lovey-dovey poetry that would eventually be published in my first collection entitled Confessions of a Schizophrenic Savage. I won’t say which poems, but trust me, my muse was there. Beautiful, athletic, tough, and golden-hearted, Ronda was everything a man could ever want. That’s why I rejoiced when her memoir came out in 2015. The Wrestling Observer Newsletter ended up awarding Best Book of the Year to Daniel Bryan’s “YES!” (which I’m equally happy for), but if I was voting, I would have given the nod to “My Fight/Your Fight” by virtue of the graphic descriptions of violence that “YES!” didn’t have. Today in 2018, she’s in the WWE and her next match will be against Alexa Bliss at Summer Slam for Bliss’s Raw Women’s Championship. And by the way, Raw is the name of the brand she’s on. I’m not saying you have to be a raw woman in order to win it. Hehe!
***2006-2009: TARJA TURUNEN AND ANETTE OLZON***
In 2005, operatic singer Tarja Turunen was fired from Nightwish for not getting along with her band mates. She was subsequently replaced by rock singer Anette Olzon. Fans online have been going at each other’s throats over who is the better vocalist, but I tried to encourage the rabid wolves to be happy with both and to not take sides. They’re both beautiful songstresses who put love and passion into their vocal work. They both elevated Nightwish to the popularity it has today. And they both inspired lovey-dovey essays and poems for me during my college days. To be honest, there was nothing fun or exciting about college since I was constantly away from my family and very few people wanted to be my friend. I filled the void by having romantic visions of both Tarja and Anette, but I would never sully them with crass sexual fantasies. Granted, the poems and essays I wrote sucked ass, but at the time my ego was so massive that I didn’t want to admit it. Today in 2018, Tarja is enjoying a lucrative solo career while Anette is now part of a band called The Dark Element. They both still make beautiful music and they’re still beautiful muses that anybody can draw inspiration from.
***2004-2005: MOTOKO KUSANAGI***
Just like with Ronda Rousey after her, my affinity for tough and brutal women was present with the main female character from Ghost in the Shell: Stand Alone Complex. I still to this day have no idea why I enjoy the presence of tough chicks, but back then, Motoko inspired a piece of fan fiction called “The Heart of the Sun”. Because I was young and immature with regard to how writing works, this fan fic was a self-insert job. Yep. I was the lead character and with the help of Unreal Championship villains, I had a love/hate feud with Motoko. Like the Tarja/Anette poetry afterwards, this fan fic story sucked major ass. But again, my ego wouldn’t allow me to see the error of my ways, mainly because I had someone on Deviant Art comment on how funny it was. Then again, if a bunch of angry nerds told me it was dog shit, I would have packed my bags and left DA in a heartbeat. The first step to being sort of good is to suck major ass. Just because someone sucks at what they do, doesn’t mean the whole world agrees with that opinion. Trust me, I know. So thank you, my lovely Motoko, for giving me the creative fuel necessary to keep my young career going full speed ahead. May you continue to kick ass and take names with the boys at Section 9, all of whom I’m jealous of. Hehe!
***CONCLUSION***
Just to clarify, when I said top five, I didn’t mean five entries, I meant five muses. Two women took up one entry, so my top five is officially complete. All I have to say now is, I can’t wait to see who my muse is going to be in 2019! I have a half year to pine over someone new, so let’s see who it is already! I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!
REINA: Garrison’s got a crush! Garrison’s got a crush!
JAMES: On who?
REINA: I’m not at liberty to say.
JAMES: You can tell me, Reina. You’re an American. It’s in the constitution. It’s your right.
GARRISON: No, it isn’t! That’s extortion!
JAMES: Well, whoever it is you have a crush on, you probably shouldn’t tell them that you like “Sickened” by Disturbed.
GARRISON: Those two things have nothing to do with each other!
JAMES: Uh-huh, sure! You don’t relate to that song, Garrison. It’s just your emo, angsty white boy music. Disturbed has nothing to do with barbarians and wizards.
GARRISON: That’s not all I think about!
JAMES: Fake news!
GARRISON: Goddamn it, James!
***YEARLY MUSES***
I don’t normally open my blog entries with the quote/dialogue of the day, but in order for the context to make sense, I had to do that. This blog is about muses, or lovey-dovey goddesses who inspire creativity. I was hesitant at first to do this blog because I didn’t want to appear like a thirsty fuck-boy. But during that above conversation I had with James and Reina, I learned not to be embarrassed by my own emotions. James and Reina weren’t making fun of me for having a crush. They were proud of the fact that I could feel those emotions to begin with. Or as I would say, “It’s a natural function!” Hell, if you don’t believe me, listen to Mister Rogers talk about how natural loving emotions are. Are you going to doubt Mister Rogers? No? I didn’t fucking think so. But yes, it’s true, every year there’s a new muse in my life. I don’t know why it’s a yearly thing, but as long as I’m being inspired to be a better person creatively and emotionally, I won’t question it. I’ve lived a long time, so I won’t go through every single year. I’ll settle for a top five instead. Starting with…
***2018: SARAH-JANE REDMOND***
Many of my readers have heard me talk about her before and how her performance as Lucy Butler in an episode of Millennium called “A Room with No View” has shook me to my core. I talk about Ms. Redmond a lot because if it wasn’t for that performance, Beautiful Monster wouldn’t be possible. Thank you for that haunting character! It’s true, though: Shelly Atwood (my villain) and Lucy Butler (Millennium) have a lot in common. They’re femme fatales who lead men into darkness. They use sex as a weapon and leave psychological ghosts for their victims. If you’re wondering why I like “Sickened” by Disturbed so much, it’s because I can picture Shelly and Lucy’s victims listening to it on repeat after being free from their clutches. “That’s enough of all your taunting. Seems I can’t remove you from my mind. Don’t you know sometimes I wish they’d kill me for wanting you?” Goddamn, that’s some powerful shit! I’d take twenty-four hours of that over “Love Is Blue” by Paul Mauriat any day of the week, though the latter is a good song too. Thank you for the creative fuel, Ms. Redmond! Now Beautiful Monster is about to be sliced and diced by the iron chefs at Hollow Hills Books. I’m both excited and terrified at the thought of receiving those future critiques! Maybe I should ask Lucy Butler for a comforting hug. Oh dear god…
***2013: RONDA ROUSEY***
Ever since she became a then-undefeated UFC Bantamweight Champion, Ronda Rousey set the motherfucking world on fire. Ass-beating after ass-beating sent her opponents packing for higher grounds. Since I wrote a lot of action-packed stories during this time, the ultra-tough warrior chick Ronda had to be my muse. To this day, I don’t know if she was a direct inspiration for Occupy Wrestling, but I wouldn’t doubt it if someone said it to me. Oh, and she also inspired some angsty/lovey-dovey poetry that would eventually be published in my first collection entitled Confessions of a Schizophrenic Savage. I won’t say which poems, but trust me, my muse was there. Beautiful, athletic, tough, and golden-hearted, Ronda was everything a man could ever want. That’s why I rejoiced when her memoir came out in 2015. The Wrestling Observer Newsletter ended up awarding Best Book of the Year to Daniel Bryan’s “YES!” (which I’m equally happy for), but if I was voting, I would have given the nod to “My Fight/Your Fight” by virtue of the graphic descriptions of violence that “YES!” didn’t have. Today in 2018, she’s in the WWE and her next match will be against Alexa Bliss at Summer Slam for Bliss’s Raw Women’s Championship. And by the way, Raw is the name of the brand she’s on. I’m not saying you have to be a raw woman in order to win it. Hehe!
***2006-2009: TARJA TURUNEN AND ANETTE OLZON***
In 2005, operatic singer Tarja Turunen was fired from Nightwish for not getting along with her band mates. She was subsequently replaced by rock singer Anette Olzon. Fans online have been going at each other’s throats over who is the better vocalist, but I tried to encourage the rabid wolves to be happy with both and to not take sides. They’re both beautiful songstresses who put love and passion into their vocal work. They both elevated Nightwish to the popularity it has today. And they both inspired lovey-dovey essays and poems for me during my college days. To be honest, there was nothing fun or exciting about college since I was constantly away from my family and very few people wanted to be my friend. I filled the void by having romantic visions of both Tarja and Anette, but I would never sully them with crass sexual fantasies. Granted, the poems and essays I wrote sucked ass, but at the time my ego was so massive that I didn’t want to admit it. Today in 2018, Tarja is enjoying a lucrative solo career while Anette is now part of a band called The Dark Element. They both still make beautiful music and they’re still beautiful muses that anybody can draw inspiration from.
***2004-2005: MOTOKO KUSANAGI***
Just like with Ronda Rousey after her, my affinity for tough and brutal women was present with the main female character from Ghost in the Shell: Stand Alone Complex. I still to this day have no idea why I enjoy the presence of tough chicks, but back then, Motoko inspired a piece of fan fiction called “The Heart of the Sun”. Because I was young and immature with regard to how writing works, this fan fic was a self-insert job. Yep. I was the lead character and with the help of Unreal Championship villains, I had a love/hate feud with Motoko. Like the Tarja/Anette poetry afterwards, this fan fic story sucked major ass. But again, my ego wouldn’t allow me to see the error of my ways, mainly because I had someone on Deviant Art comment on how funny it was. Then again, if a bunch of angry nerds told me it was dog shit, I would have packed my bags and left DA in a heartbeat. The first step to being sort of good is to suck major ass. Just because someone sucks at what they do, doesn’t mean the whole world agrees with that opinion. Trust me, I know. So thank you, my lovely Motoko, for giving me the creative fuel necessary to keep my young career going full speed ahead. May you continue to kick ass and take names with the boys at Section 9, all of whom I’m jealous of. Hehe!
***CONCLUSION***
Just to clarify, when I said top five, I didn’t mean five entries, I meant five muses. Two women took up one entry, so my top five is officially complete. All I have to say now is, I can’t wait to see who my muse is going to be in 2019! I have a half year to pine over someone new, so let’s see who it is already! I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!
Incelbordination, Chapter 7
The sun set on a dreadful Friday and Oswald couldn’t have been more grateful. In its place was a beautiful Saturday morning, complete with sleeping until noon and all the weed he could smoke in one sitting. He still hadn’t decided whether or not he wanted to torch the C- laden paper. He figured maybe he should’ve dragged his little ass out of bed to make those necessary corrections. Then again, correcting things never helped him in the past. Those C’s still gazed into his soul every time he laid eyes on them. Perhaps a nice walk in the afternoon sunshine would do him a few favors here and there.
MP3 player? Check. Ready roll? Check. Zippo? Double check, motherfucker. He certainly wouldn’t have accepted another book of matches from Antero no matter how desperately he needed them. Once the trench coat was on and “Lonesome Town” by Ricky Nelson soothed his aching ears, Oswald headed for the streets without telling his roommates goodbye. Then again, they wouldn’t have noticed even if he did.
The streets were nearly empty at this time of day. Normally people would be partying it up on a Saturday. Either that or Oswald was just as ignorant of other people as they were of him. As soon as those negative, lonely thoughts crept in his mind, he pulled out his ready roll. Even with his Zippo clearly in the palm of his fucking hand, he could hear a familiar voice from behind asking him if he needed a light. “Oh no….oh hell no…” the dwarf moaned while shaking his head.
He pulled off the headsets and turned around to see Antero Magnus holding a book of matches. “Well, it’s Groundhog Day…again,” joked the Incel.
“You motherfucker!” shouted Oswald. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t punch you in the dick right now! You trying to get me in trouble or some shit?! You knew what you were doing when you gave me that gift card, you sick prick!”
“You’re right!” retorted Antero as he leaned down to meet Oswald’s eyes. “I knew exactly what I was doing. I was trying to teach you a lesson. You didn’t even need an ass-load of tuition money to learn that.”
“You ain’t helping your case, buddy! I’ve still got one more punch in me and it’s aimed at your….”
“Listen to me, damn it!” snapped Antero. “I know you’re upset and you damn well should be. Those girls who hang out at Mickey D’s are underage, yes, they are. They’re young, naïve, immature…and yet they’re the only girls in this world who find us attractive.” Oswald’s fighting stance eased up at that statement. “Think about this for a minute. Our one safe haven for finding love and the government outlaws it. Tell me again how everything’s not stacked against us.”
“So you’re mad because you can’t fuck little girls?”
Antero stood up and sighed. “Obviously, I’m not getting through to you. Take a walk with me for a minute. I’ve got something to show you.”
“Let me guess: you’re going to introduce me to your dead Uncle Tuomas? Yeah, that’s right. I almost got sent to jail over what you put me through. The cop who picked me up told me all about your Uncle Tuomas! I bet you’ve got an Aunt Floor Jansen and a Grandma Anette Olzon too!”
Antero chuckled, “I never get tired of hearing those Nightwish jokes. But yes, it’s true: I’m of Finnish descent and my Uncle Tuomas is dead as a doornail. But I’m willing to bet you anything the cop only gave you the Cliff’s Notes version of what happened. Cliff’s Notes are good, but not in a college setting where C-‘s are staring you in the face with a murderous grin. Come with me. Let me set you straight.”
From there the two of them had a brief walk to the local cemetery. Oswald never let Antero out of his sight in case the sly bastard had a knife he couldn’t wait to coat with midget blood. For the most part, the incel leader seemed sincere in his gestures. And then shit got real when the two of them approached Tuomas Magnus’s grave. The poor guy died young, as was the case of a lot of suicide victims. The cold hard fact wasn’t lost on Antero when he removed his sunglasses and gazed down at the grave with sadness etched in his features.
“Oswald, I want you to pay close attention to something I’m about to point out to you.” The incel pointed at various graves and said, “Bouquet of roses” to each of them. “Now I want you to take a look at Tuomas’s grave and tell me what you see.”
“…No roses.”
“That’s right, Oswald. Nobody bothered to leave him one single rose. Not my deadbeat dad. Not my bitch ass mom. Not anybody in the community, in fact. They all gave up on him. They bought into the rape charge bullshit like it was the word of god. The police will tell you that they had more than enough evidence to press charges. Then again, the police have never been trustworthy to begin with. They can delete body camera footage at the drop of a hat. They can beat and shoot anybody they damn well please and get a paid vacation for it. Uncle Tuomas was just another victim of this unjust system. One little girl cried rape and now everybody descended upon him with pitchforks and torches.”
Oswald sighed, hung his head, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, I get how fucked up false rape accusations can be, but what does your dead uncle have to do with me?”
Physically leveling with his “friend” yet again, Antero said, “Well, you’ve seen the lack of roses on Tuomas’s grave. Tell me: who’s going to leave roses on your grave when you die?” Oswald’s face grew solemn. “I’d leave them, but I might not be around for much longer if this police investigation keeps up. How long do you think you have left on this earth, Oswald, before the Chads and Stacys cripple you to death? Three years? Maybe four? You’re a young man. Young men with English degrees don’t do well in this piss-poor economy. The only other option you’d have left is to marry a woman with money. The only question is…who’s going to want to blow their trust fund on you, Oswald?”
Wiping a solitary tear from his eye, Oswald mustered up, “I have a few friends…”
“A few? I’m sorry, Oswald, but a few doesn’t make up an entire funeral congregation. You’re lonely and you don’t want to admit it. You have nobody you can turn to in this world. Not your teachers, not your so-called friends who’ll backstab you in a heartbeat…not even your dead parents.”
The dwarf gazed up at Antero with tears pooling in his eyes. “Is my Face Book profile that obvious?”
“More obvious than an anvil falling out of the sky, my friend.” Just as Oswald was about to burst into an ugly sob, Antero held his shoulders and said, “It’s true. I know all about your parents’ deaths. I’ll never forget that angry rant you posted. Your mom and dad were killed by a drunk driver. But instead of giving that Night Train-drinking bastard lethal injection, the judge gave him a few years at most because of his sudden love for Jesus Christ. The cops can arrest us anytime they want. But what if we just made up the Jesus Christ excuse once the heat got too hot? Together, we can change the world. Together, we can show the Chads and Stacys that they don’t run shit anymore.”
Antero extended his hand to shake and all Oswald could do was stare at it with tears falling from his face. He then slapped the hand away and hugged his newfound friend around the neck. The incel leader awkwardly hugged him back and allowed the dwarf to cry on his shoulder.
“Let it all out, little guy. Let it all out. Incelbordination is here for you. The cops don’t give a shit about you. The Stacys don’t give a shit about you. But I do. Come join us for a support session. You can talk all about your feelings and eat fast food until your belly explodes. Maybe you can smoke that joint and get hungry for some more food. A Quarter Pounder with Cheese won’t judge you.”
Oswald broke his embrace and wiped his tears on his trench coat sleeve. Nodding, he said, “Count me in, Antero. Don’t leave me out here with these normies.”
“I knew you’d see the light one of these days, my friend. It was a foregone conclusion since the day you were born into this fucked up world.”
MP3 player? Check. Ready roll? Check. Zippo? Double check, motherfucker. He certainly wouldn’t have accepted another book of matches from Antero no matter how desperately he needed them. Once the trench coat was on and “Lonesome Town” by Ricky Nelson soothed his aching ears, Oswald headed for the streets without telling his roommates goodbye. Then again, they wouldn’t have noticed even if he did.
The streets were nearly empty at this time of day. Normally people would be partying it up on a Saturday. Either that or Oswald was just as ignorant of other people as they were of him. As soon as those negative, lonely thoughts crept in his mind, he pulled out his ready roll. Even with his Zippo clearly in the palm of his fucking hand, he could hear a familiar voice from behind asking him if he needed a light. “Oh no….oh hell no…” the dwarf moaned while shaking his head.
He pulled off the headsets and turned around to see Antero Magnus holding a book of matches. “Well, it’s Groundhog Day…again,” joked the Incel.
“You motherfucker!” shouted Oswald. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t punch you in the dick right now! You trying to get me in trouble or some shit?! You knew what you were doing when you gave me that gift card, you sick prick!”
“You’re right!” retorted Antero as he leaned down to meet Oswald’s eyes. “I knew exactly what I was doing. I was trying to teach you a lesson. You didn’t even need an ass-load of tuition money to learn that.”
“You ain’t helping your case, buddy! I’ve still got one more punch in me and it’s aimed at your….”
“Listen to me, damn it!” snapped Antero. “I know you’re upset and you damn well should be. Those girls who hang out at Mickey D’s are underage, yes, they are. They’re young, naïve, immature…and yet they’re the only girls in this world who find us attractive.” Oswald’s fighting stance eased up at that statement. “Think about this for a minute. Our one safe haven for finding love and the government outlaws it. Tell me again how everything’s not stacked against us.”
“So you’re mad because you can’t fuck little girls?”
Antero stood up and sighed. “Obviously, I’m not getting through to you. Take a walk with me for a minute. I’ve got something to show you.”
“Let me guess: you’re going to introduce me to your dead Uncle Tuomas? Yeah, that’s right. I almost got sent to jail over what you put me through. The cop who picked me up told me all about your Uncle Tuomas! I bet you’ve got an Aunt Floor Jansen and a Grandma Anette Olzon too!”
Antero chuckled, “I never get tired of hearing those Nightwish jokes. But yes, it’s true: I’m of Finnish descent and my Uncle Tuomas is dead as a doornail. But I’m willing to bet you anything the cop only gave you the Cliff’s Notes version of what happened. Cliff’s Notes are good, but not in a college setting where C-‘s are staring you in the face with a murderous grin. Come with me. Let me set you straight.”
From there the two of them had a brief walk to the local cemetery. Oswald never let Antero out of his sight in case the sly bastard had a knife he couldn’t wait to coat with midget blood. For the most part, the incel leader seemed sincere in his gestures. And then shit got real when the two of them approached Tuomas Magnus’s grave. The poor guy died young, as was the case of a lot of suicide victims. The cold hard fact wasn’t lost on Antero when he removed his sunglasses and gazed down at the grave with sadness etched in his features.
“Oswald, I want you to pay close attention to something I’m about to point out to you.” The incel pointed at various graves and said, “Bouquet of roses” to each of them. “Now I want you to take a look at Tuomas’s grave and tell me what you see.”
“…No roses.”
“That’s right, Oswald. Nobody bothered to leave him one single rose. Not my deadbeat dad. Not my bitch ass mom. Not anybody in the community, in fact. They all gave up on him. They bought into the rape charge bullshit like it was the word of god. The police will tell you that they had more than enough evidence to press charges. Then again, the police have never been trustworthy to begin with. They can delete body camera footage at the drop of a hat. They can beat and shoot anybody they damn well please and get a paid vacation for it. Uncle Tuomas was just another victim of this unjust system. One little girl cried rape and now everybody descended upon him with pitchforks and torches.”
Oswald sighed, hung his head, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, I get how fucked up false rape accusations can be, but what does your dead uncle have to do with me?”
Physically leveling with his “friend” yet again, Antero said, “Well, you’ve seen the lack of roses on Tuomas’s grave. Tell me: who’s going to leave roses on your grave when you die?” Oswald’s face grew solemn. “I’d leave them, but I might not be around for much longer if this police investigation keeps up. How long do you think you have left on this earth, Oswald, before the Chads and Stacys cripple you to death? Three years? Maybe four? You’re a young man. Young men with English degrees don’t do well in this piss-poor economy. The only other option you’d have left is to marry a woman with money. The only question is…who’s going to want to blow their trust fund on you, Oswald?”
Wiping a solitary tear from his eye, Oswald mustered up, “I have a few friends…”
“A few? I’m sorry, Oswald, but a few doesn’t make up an entire funeral congregation. You’re lonely and you don’t want to admit it. You have nobody you can turn to in this world. Not your teachers, not your so-called friends who’ll backstab you in a heartbeat…not even your dead parents.”
The dwarf gazed up at Antero with tears pooling in his eyes. “Is my Face Book profile that obvious?”
“More obvious than an anvil falling out of the sky, my friend.” Just as Oswald was about to burst into an ugly sob, Antero held his shoulders and said, “It’s true. I know all about your parents’ deaths. I’ll never forget that angry rant you posted. Your mom and dad were killed by a drunk driver. But instead of giving that Night Train-drinking bastard lethal injection, the judge gave him a few years at most because of his sudden love for Jesus Christ. The cops can arrest us anytime they want. But what if we just made up the Jesus Christ excuse once the heat got too hot? Together, we can change the world. Together, we can show the Chads and Stacys that they don’t run shit anymore.”
Antero extended his hand to shake and all Oswald could do was stare at it with tears falling from his face. He then slapped the hand away and hugged his newfound friend around the neck. The incel leader awkwardly hugged him back and allowed the dwarf to cry on his shoulder.
“Let it all out, little guy. Let it all out. Incelbordination is here for you. The cops don’t give a shit about you. The Stacys don’t give a shit about you. But I do. Come join us for a support session. You can talk all about your feelings and eat fast food until your belly explodes. Maybe you can smoke that joint and get hungry for some more food. A Quarter Pounder with Cheese won’t judge you.”
Oswald broke his embrace and wiped his tears on his trench coat sleeve. Nodding, he said, “Count me in, Antero. Don’t leave me out here with these normies.”
“I knew you’d see the light one of these days, my friend. It was a foregone conclusion since the day you were born into this fucked up world.”
Incelbordination, Chapter 6
“You know, for somebody who has a lot of shit to talk about, you’re certainly taking your time in starting the conversation,” said Oswald with his arms crossed.
“It’s called making you sweat,” explained Detective Barry. “From the looks of how I found you, I figured you’d be sweating bullets right now. That’s okay, we can wait a little longer.”
Oswald nervously fidgeted with his fingernails while Mia remained cool behind the wheel of her car. The little guy noticed that they’d passed his dorm several times during this ride. His only haven for smoking weed and shaking off the jailbait blues was a short walk away and all this detective wanted to do was wait for him to break. Oswald picked at his fingernails some more until they were too short to do so. Next he picked at his hangnails. Then he picked skin off of his chapped lips.
With nothing left to fidget with and a big enough craving for marijuana, Oswald finally snapped. “Alright, what the hell do you want from me anyways? Do I need a lawyer or some shit?”
“I’m not sure, Mr. Crow, do you? Is there a secret you’re trying to protect from me? I haven’t even said a word yet and already you’re asking for legal counsel. What’s on your mind, buddy?”
Oswald put his balled up fist in his mouth and made Marcellus Wallace pawn shop noises from Pulp Fiction, which gave Mia a good chuckle. “So you’re a comedian now? I didn’t think someone as sad as you had a sense of humor in them.”
The dwarf made a flat tire sound and said, “Sad? Come on, you’re better than this, Detective.”
“Better than what, exactly? Are you saying I don’t do my own research? Are you projecting yourself onto me when you imply that? I’ve seen your creative writing grade, buddy. I’ve seen a lot of things about you.”
“Great, first Antero’s a fucking stalker and now you.” Oswald immediately cupped his mouth shut upon revealing his “associate’s” name.
“Ah-ha! I knew it!” said Mia while pointing a finger at her passenger. “There is something going on with you and Antero Magnus.”
“…Who?”
“Oh, nothing. I just figured since you blurted out a random Finnish name that you’d probably know at least one guy who fits that profile.” Oswald was mentally kicking himself for his blunder while Mia continued. “I’m not stupid, Mr. Crow. I know more about this case than you’ll ever figure out in your lifetime. Yes, in case you haven’t figured it out, there’s a case being built against Antero Magnus. We don’t have much to go on, but we’ve got hunches here and there. Word of advice, little guy: stay as far away from Incelbordination as you possibly can.”
Shaking his head, Oswald retorted, “You don’t have to tell me twice, lady. I already know how much of a scumbag he is.”
“Oh, really? Is that why you happened to be eating outside McDonald’s instead of inside where there’s air conditioning?”
“Aw, shit,” said Oswald while holding his head in his hand. “Well, if you’ve really seen everything, you’d know that I didn’t do shit while I was out there. I gave that chick the food and then I took off. I swear that’s all that happened.”
“Don’t worry, I believe you. What I don’t believe is that you had that idea all by yourself. Antero’s pulling your strings, buddy. I know it. I’ve had to arrest a few of his Incelbordination minions for actually going through with the business deal. The one thing they all had in common was a McDonald’s gift card. Anybody can have one, but when you spend thirty dollars on supposedly just yourself, that’s awfully suspicious.”
Oswald slapped his palms against his knees and asked, “What do you want from me?”
“You don’t have to give me anything, Oswald, except for maybe a promise that you won’t join Incelbordination. Even then I don’t think I’d be able to sleep at night. The thing about Antero’s logic is that it’s seductive to young people like you. It was designed to be seductive. It’s easier to use women as scapegoats rather than face your own problems head on. It’s convenient. The only problem is, when you take that black pill, you might as well be chugging bleach. If you join Incelbordination, Antero will radicalize you until there’s nothing left of your ability to think for yourself.”
Oswald tucked his chin to his chest and said, “I’m not worth saving, Detective.”
“See? That’s the kind of talk I’d expect from a young man who’s become indoctrinated. Involuntary Celebates, or Incels, are all brought together by their low self-esteem. They’re so convinced that they’re ugly that they lash out at the wrong people. Person-to-person, the only way you could ever be ugly is if you allowed yourself to be brainwashed by these people.”
Folding his arms, Oswald sighed, “Inner beauty doesn’t mean shit anymore, Detective. If it did, I wouldn’t have had the shit kicked out of me in high school and middle school. Being a midget isn’t fun and there’s nothing humorous about it. If I didn’t learn how to box, I’d probably be dead right now. That’s how bad shit has gotten. I don’t want to be a violent person, but these normies are putting me in a situation where it’s either me or them.”
“I’m sensing that you don’t have a whole lot of role models in your life,” said Mia solemnly.
“You are very, very perceptive, Detective Barry. Then again, you wouldn’t be a very good cop if you weren’t.”
Putting an empathetic hand on Oswald’s shoulder, Mia said, “Look, I know you haven’t had the easiest life, as you’ve just described. You’re desperate for someone to show you the way. I’m telling you right now, that someone isn’t Antero Magnus. He doesn’t care about you or your need for love. He cares only about his own violent agenda. Please, promise me that you won’t go anywhere near him.”
“I can promise I won’t go anywhere near him, but I can’t promise he won’t go anywhere near me. I don’t seek him out on purpose, you know.”
“I know you don’t, Mr. Crow. I know how sneaky he can be. And just to give you a heads up, if Antero ever does bother you again, he’s going to bring up his deceased Uncle Tuomas and use him for a sympathy ploy.”
“So his uncle was the keyboardist for Nightwish?”
Mia patted Oswald on the back and chuckled. “Oh, Mr. Crow, you slay me. But on a serious note, anybody who has ever joined Incelbordination knows about the Uncle Tuomas card. Antero is going to tell you that he committed suicide because he was falsely accused of rape and therefore lost his reputation. While false accusations happen far too often for my comfort, this time our police work was right on the money. Don’t let Antero spin it in any other direction. You can research this story yourself if you don’t believe me. Oh, I forgot, you’re not known for your research skills. But hey, this time it’s important.”
“Look, Detective, I appreciate your concern about my wellbeing, but if you’re not going to charge me with any serious offense, then I suggest you take me to my dorm. I’m not exactly feeling the love right now.”
“Understandable,” said Mia. “But I’m just going to give you fair warning right now: if you join Incelbordination and you do something illegal under their watch, I’ll have no choice but to arrest you as a terrorist. Terrorists get worse treatment under the law than regular criminals, which is a fucking disgrace to our justice system considering how many innocent Middle Easterners are in Guantanamo Bay, but that’s beside the point. The point is, if you think you’re going to cure your loneliness by joining Incelbordination, then you need to quickly realize you’ll only make it worse.”
Just like that, the joyride was over and Mia parked outside Oswald’s dorm building. The little guy wasted no time in getting out of the car and hurrying to his door, but not without shaking his head at Mia telling him to, “Have a nice evening.”
He rushed to his bedroom and scrambled for a ready roll in his underwear drawer. Low and behold, he finally found his Zippo lighter. He smiled insanely at the hardware before scurrying outside for a smoke. He shifted his eyes left and right to make sure neither Mia Barry nor Antero Magnus were going to sneak up on him. He even made abrasive “booga-booga-booga” noises just to make sure it was only him and the night air. Once he was one hundred percent certain the coast was clear, he leaned back against the wall and lit up his joint.
Relaxation took over his body as he gently slid down on his ass enjoying his smoke. How he loved this magic medicine and the way it made the night sky look like a Pink Floyd laser show. He needed this private time to himself. He needed his beautiful weed. Tomorrow was Saturday, which meant he had all the time in the world to sort out his problems. Maybe he would fix up his C- paper, maybe he would just set the fucking thing on fire now that he found his Zippo. Either way, Oswald needed this weekend like any other stressed out college student did.
“It’s called making you sweat,” explained Detective Barry. “From the looks of how I found you, I figured you’d be sweating bullets right now. That’s okay, we can wait a little longer.”
Oswald nervously fidgeted with his fingernails while Mia remained cool behind the wheel of her car. The little guy noticed that they’d passed his dorm several times during this ride. His only haven for smoking weed and shaking off the jailbait blues was a short walk away and all this detective wanted to do was wait for him to break. Oswald picked at his fingernails some more until they were too short to do so. Next he picked at his hangnails. Then he picked skin off of his chapped lips.
With nothing left to fidget with and a big enough craving for marijuana, Oswald finally snapped. “Alright, what the hell do you want from me anyways? Do I need a lawyer or some shit?”
“I’m not sure, Mr. Crow, do you? Is there a secret you’re trying to protect from me? I haven’t even said a word yet and already you’re asking for legal counsel. What’s on your mind, buddy?”
Oswald put his balled up fist in his mouth and made Marcellus Wallace pawn shop noises from Pulp Fiction, which gave Mia a good chuckle. “So you’re a comedian now? I didn’t think someone as sad as you had a sense of humor in them.”
The dwarf made a flat tire sound and said, “Sad? Come on, you’re better than this, Detective.”
“Better than what, exactly? Are you saying I don’t do my own research? Are you projecting yourself onto me when you imply that? I’ve seen your creative writing grade, buddy. I’ve seen a lot of things about you.”
“Great, first Antero’s a fucking stalker and now you.” Oswald immediately cupped his mouth shut upon revealing his “associate’s” name.
“Ah-ha! I knew it!” said Mia while pointing a finger at her passenger. “There is something going on with you and Antero Magnus.”
“…Who?”
“Oh, nothing. I just figured since you blurted out a random Finnish name that you’d probably know at least one guy who fits that profile.” Oswald was mentally kicking himself for his blunder while Mia continued. “I’m not stupid, Mr. Crow. I know more about this case than you’ll ever figure out in your lifetime. Yes, in case you haven’t figured it out, there’s a case being built against Antero Magnus. We don’t have much to go on, but we’ve got hunches here and there. Word of advice, little guy: stay as far away from Incelbordination as you possibly can.”
Shaking his head, Oswald retorted, “You don’t have to tell me twice, lady. I already know how much of a scumbag he is.”
“Oh, really? Is that why you happened to be eating outside McDonald’s instead of inside where there’s air conditioning?”
“Aw, shit,” said Oswald while holding his head in his hand. “Well, if you’ve really seen everything, you’d know that I didn’t do shit while I was out there. I gave that chick the food and then I took off. I swear that’s all that happened.”
“Don’t worry, I believe you. What I don’t believe is that you had that idea all by yourself. Antero’s pulling your strings, buddy. I know it. I’ve had to arrest a few of his Incelbordination minions for actually going through with the business deal. The one thing they all had in common was a McDonald’s gift card. Anybody can have one, but when you spend thirty dollars on supposedly just yourself, that’s awfully suspicious.”
Oswald slapped his palms against his knees and asked, “What do you want from me?”
“You don’t have to give me anything, Oswald, except for maybe a promise that you won’t join Incelbordination. Even then I don’t think I’d be able to sleep at night. The thing about Antero’s logic is that it’s seductive to young people like you. It was designed to be seductive. It’s easier to use women as scapegoats rather than face your own problems head on. It’s convenient. The only problem is, when you take that black pill, you might as well be chugging bleach. If you join Incelbordination, Antero will radicalize you until there’s nothing left of your ability to think for yourself.”
Oswald tucked his chin to his chest and said, “I’m not worth saving, Detective.”
“See? That’s the kind of talk I’d expect from a young man who’s become indoctrinated. Involuntary Celebates, or Incels, are all brought together by their low self-esteem. They’re so convinced that they’re ugly that they lash out at the wrong people. Person-to-person, the only way you could ever be ugly is if you allowed yourself to be brainwashed by these people.”
Folding his arms, Oswald sighed, “Inner beauty doesn’t mean shit anymore, Detective. If it did, I wouldn’t have had the shit kicked out of me in high school and middle school. Being a midget isn’t fun and there’s nothing humorous about it. If I didn’t learn how to box, I’d probably be dead right now. That’s how bad shit has gotten. I don’t want to be a violent person, but these normies are putting me in a situation where it’s either me or them.”
“I’m sensing that you don’t have a whole lot of role models in your life,” said Mia solemnly.
“You are very, very perceptive, Detective Barry. Then again, you wouldn’t be a very good cop if you weren’t.”
Putting an empathetic hand on Oswald’s shoulder, Mia said, “Look, I know you haven’t had the easiest life, as you’ve just described. You’re desperate for someone to show you the way. I’m telling you right now, that someone isn’t Antero Magnus. He doesn’t care about you or your need for love. He cares only about his own violent agenda. Please, promise me that you won’t go anywhere near him.”
“I can promise I won’t go anywhere near him, but I can’t promise he won’t go anywhere near me. I don’t seek him out on purpose, you know.”
“I know you don’t, Mr. Crow. I know how sneaky he can be. And just to give you a heads up, if Antero ever does bother you again, he’s going to bring up his deceased Uncle Tuomas and use him for a sympathy ploy.”
“So his uncle was the keyboardist for Nightwish?”
Mia patted Oswald on the back and chuckled. “Oh, Mr. Crow, you slay me. But on a serious note, anybody who has ever joined Incelbordination knows about the Uncle Tuomas card. Antero is going to tell you that he committed suicide because he was falsely accused of rape and therefore lost his reputation. While false accusations happen far too often for my comfort, this time our police work was right on the money. Don’t let Antero spin it in any other direction. You can research this story yourself if you don’t believe me. Oh, I forgot, you’re not known for your research skills. But hey, this time it’s important.”
“Look, Detective, I appreciate your concern about my wellbeing, but if you’re not going to charge me with any serious offense, then I suggest you take me to my dorm. I’m not exactly feeling the love right now.”
“Understandable,” said Mia. “But I’m just going to give you fair warning right now: if you join Incelbordination and you do something illegal under their watch, I’ll have no choice but to arrest you as a terrorist. Terrorists get worse treatment under the law than regular criminals, which is a fucking disgrace to our justice system considering how many innocent Middle Easterners are in Guantanamo Bay, but that’s beside the point. The point is, if you think you’re going to cure your loneliness by joining Incelbordination, then you need to quickly realize you’ll only make it worse.”
Just like that, the joyride was over and Mia parked outside Oswald’s dorm building. The little guy wasted no time in getting out of the car and hurrying to his door, but not without shaking his head at Mia telling him to, “Have a nice evening.”
He rushed to his bedroom and scrambled for a ready roll in his underwear drawer. Low and behold, he finally found his Zippo lighter. He smiled insanely at the hardware before scurrying outside for a smoke. He shifted his eyes left and right to make sure neither Mia Barry nor Antero Magnus were going to sneak up on him. He even made abrasive “booga-booga-booga” noises just to make sure it was only him and the night air. Once he was one hundred percent certain the coast was clear, he leaned back against the wall and lit up his joint.
Relaxation took over his body as he gently slid down on his ass enjoying his smoke. How he loved this magic medicine and the way it made the night sky look like a Pink Floyd laser show. He needed this private time to himself. He needed his beautiful weed. Tomorrow was Saturday, which meant he had all the time in the world to sort out his problems. Maybe he would fix up his C- paper, maybe he would just set the fucking thing on fire now that he found his Zippo. Either way, Oswald needed this weekend like any other stressed out college student did.
July 21, 2018
District 9
MOVIE TITLE: District 9
DIRECTOR: Neill Blomkamp
YEAR: 2009
GENRE: Science Fiction
RATING: R for violence, language, and politics
GRADE: Pass
In Apartheid-ruled South Africa, an alien ship containing “prawn” refugees hovers over Johannesburg while the occupants are housed in a ghetto called District 9. Now the government wants to evict these aliens from their homes and move them into worse housing. They do that with the help of sadistic mercenaries led by arrogant bureaucrat Wikus van der Merwe, who during this operation becomes contaminated with alien jet fuel and slowly turns into a prawn himself. Now Wikus is a fugitive on the run as he tries to keep from being experimented on by government scientists.
Xenophobia has always been poisonous to our world politics and that is fully on display in this movie. Just like any other oppressed minority, the prawns are treated as second class citizens and social pariahs simply because they don’t look or talk like typical humans. One could argue that the aliens are treated worse than human minorities, but just remember that it could be any group of people in that situation. Hitler treated Jewish people like they were monsters. Donald Trump treats Hispanic immigrants like “animals”. The less humanity you have, the more likely you are to distrust and commit atrocities against those different from you. It’s a bully mentality that is taught, not something you’re born with. Altruistic love is for all creatures, not just the ones who look the best. The anti-xenophobia message is loud and clear in this movie. I hope everybody is listening.
And it’s because of the lack of humanity from the people in charge that I find it difficult to sympathize with Wikus as he goes through his transformation. He’s every bit as smug and bigoted as his mercenary companions and I have a hard time believing that his attitude changed much throughout the movie. He only seems to be sympathetic towards the prawns when he needs their help. I understand that he has to be a jerk in order for his character development to be realistic, but then I ask, what character development? He seems to feel sorrier for himself than he does anybody else. Perhaps this was all by design since the anti-xenophobia message needs the be clearly sent, but it’s still a slap in the face to know that Wikus is our story’s main hero. He doesn’t seem very heroic to me.
But now that the movie’s message is there for all to see, there’s no reason why we can’t have some good old fashioned violent action. And boy, does this movie have plenty of it. The machineguns and tanks are deadly enough, but then you add alien weapons to the mix and bodies explode like blood balloons. Granted, these extraterrestrial weapons can only function on prawn DNA, but that’s the silver lining in Wikus’s mutation. Whether you like him or not, you have to admit that he’s deadly with one of these laser guns despite having zero combat training. When he uses these weapons on the bad guys and not on the aliens, that’s pretty much the only way you as an audience can warm up to him. It’s superficial at best, but if you thought an Apartheid-themed movie was going to be lacking in the violence department, you’re sadly mistaken. At least the violence is fun to watch at times.
Anybody who says District 9 is a modern day classic isn’t kidding around. It’s a movie we need now more than ever in today’s political climate. Racism didn’t go away; it’s just being filmed. While District 9 is a science fiction movie, it feels too much like real life. A passing grade will go to this masterful piece of cinema. Every Academy Award this movie won was highly deserved and much more. If you saw this movie in theaters or you bought the DVD, consider your money well-spent.
DIRECTOR: Neill Blomkamp
YEAR: 2009
GENRE: Science Fiction
RATING: R for violence, language, and politics
GRADE: Pass
In Apartheid-ruled South Africa, an alien ship containing “prawn” refugees hovers over Johannesburg while the occupants are housed in a ghetto called District 9. Now the government wants to evict these aliens from their homes and move them into worse housing. They do that with the help of sadistic mercenaries led by arrogant bureaucrat Wikus van der Merwe, who during this operation becomes contaminated with alien jet fuel and slowly turns into a prawn himself. Now Wikus is a fugitive on the run as he tries to keep from being experimented on by government scientists.
Xenophobia has always been poisonous to our world politics and that is fully on display in this movie. Just like any other oppressed minority, the prawns are treated as second class citizens and social pariahs simply because they don’t look or talk like typical humans. One could argue that the aliens are treated worse than human minorities, but just remember that it could be any group of people in that situation. Hitler treated Jewish people like they were monsters. Donald Trump treats Hispanic immigrants like “animals”. The less humanity you have, the more likely you are to distrust and commit atrocities against those different from you. It’s a bully mentality that is taught, not something you’re born with. Altruistic love is for all creatures, not just the ones who look the best. The anti-xenophobia message is loud and clear in this movie. I hope everybody is listening.
And it’s because of the lack of humanity from the people in charge that I find it difficult to sympathize with Wikus as he goes through his transformation. He’s every bit as smug and bigoted as his mercenary companions and I have a hard time believing that his attitude changed much throughout the movie. He only seems to be sympathetic towards the prawns when he needs their help. I understand that he has to be a jerk in order for his character development to be realistic, but then I ask, what character development? He seems to feel sorrier for himself than he does anybody else. Perhaps this was all by design since the anti-xenophobia message needs the be clearly sent, but it’s still a slap in the face to know that Wikus is our story’s main hero. He doesn’t seem very heroic to me.
But now that the movie’s message is there for all to see, there’s no reason why we can’t have some good old fashioned violent action. And boy, does this movie have plenty of it. The machineguns and tanks are deadly enough, but then you add alien weapons to the mix and bodies explode like blood balloons. Granted, these extraterrestrial weapons can only function on prawn DNA, but that’s the silver lining in Wikus’s mutation. Whether you like him or not, you have to admit that he’s deadly with one of these laser guns despite having zero combat training. When he uses these weapons on the bad guys and not on the aliens, that’s pretty much the only way you as an audience can warm up to him. It’s superficial at best, but if you thought an Apartheid-themed movie was going to be lacking in the violence department, you’re sadly mistaken. At least the violence is fun to watch at times.
Anybody who says District 9 is a modern day classic isn’t kidding around. It’s a movie we need now more than ever in today’s political climate. Racism didn’t go away; it’s just being filmed. While District 9 is a science fiction movie, it feels too much like real life. A passing grade will go to this masterful piece of cinema. Every Academy Award this movie won was highly deserved and much more. If you saw this movie in theaters or you bought the DVD, consider your money well-spent.
July 20, 2018
Incelbordination, Chapter 5
Oswald didn’t believe he had to look ritzy for this trip to McDonald’s (and really, who did?). A departure from the gloomy trench coat attire, however, was definitely in order. A hot shower to melt away the pot stench from his hair and skin. A roll of deodorant to make him at least slightly below bearable to be around. No haircut or shave for him, though, just a ponytail in back and braids in his beard. Completing his Supreme Gentleman look was a pair of glasses that didn’t help him see better, a blue T-shirt that said “Your Favorite Author Sucks”, and a pair of gray jeans that didn’t feel overly tight. He gazed at his gift card one more time before smiling and exiting his dorm.
He didn’t need his MP3 player that evening, just a nice tune to whistle. The sun crept underneath the horizon and gave way to a brilliant dark blue sky. The breeze against Oswald’s skin was pleasantly cool, a stark contrast from the blazing spring weather in the daytime. Tonight was the night it would finally be over. Tonight, tonight, tonight, hot damn tonight! Any guilt he felt about going through with this was completely washed away by the potent smell of greasy fast food wafting through the air.
Conspicuous by their absence was a hoard of hungry costumers, leaving Oswald to wonder where the hell the hookers were. Then again, prostitution was a secretive business by nature, so maybe they wouldn’t come parading down the street right away. The little person placed his order of two Double Quarter Pounders with Cheese, a twenty-piece McNugget without sauce, two breakfast burritos, and two medium Cokes. The way the lady behind the counter smiled and winked at Oswald made him slightly uncomfortable, like she was at least dimly aware of what was going through the dwarf’s mind. Nonetheless, she charged the gift card and two minutes later handed him the food, which he took outside.
Oswald sat down on the curb and scouted the parking lot for potential visitors. Nobody. Not a single soul. Hopefully, the lack of occupants included undercover cops. Oh, god help Antero of Oswald got arrested this evening. Dick punches would be the least of his concerns. The dwarf started gnashing on one of the cheeseburgers and got a little glob of grease on his favorite T-shirt. “Shit, goddamn it!” he said to himself before wiping down his clothing.
The little person was so lost in thought that he failed to notice a slender shadow falling over him, dimly lit skies aside. He jumped slightly at the sound of a feminine voice saying, “Hi!” to him. Sure enough, there was a lovely young lady smiling down at him while holding her hands in front and swinging from side to side ever so innocently. She even wore his favorite outfit: a tanktop, short shorts, and sexy sandals. Oh, this was too perfect to be true. “Can I have some of that? I haven’t eaten all day today.”
“Um…sure! Have a seat,” said Oswald nervously. As she sat next to him chewing on a breakfast burrito, the little person’s nerves spiraled out of control, making him crave a ready roll as easily as he did the food. He didn’t know the terms of how this was supposed to work. Was there a code word of some kind? Were they supposed to eat first and then fuck? What was the going rate for this kind of deal?
The girl did no favors for Oswald’s nerves as she patted his shoulders and asked, “How are you doing tonight? You want some company?” Bless his heart, the little guy couldn’t get his words out coherently. “Wow, you’re tense tonight. Is something wrong or are you just nervous?” Still unable to form a reasonable sentence, Oswald nodded and the girl giggled at him. “Aww, that’s so sweet! I like it when guys get nervous around me. It shows that they care. Makes business a lot easier.”
“B…business?”
“Yeah, business. I take it that’s why you’re here, right? You know, aside from having a good meal and all.”
Oswald’s jaw stopped quivering long enough so he could ask the most important question of his freedom-loving life: “How old are you?”
“Fourteen, sir.”
Oswald buried his face in his hands and said, “Oh my god” over and over again. “I think I just made the biggest mistake of my life. I’ve got to get the fuck out of here.”
He tried to get up and leave, but the teenaged prostitute’s hand grasped his and her eyes had the puppy-dog expression locked in. “Where are you going? You can’t leave me here.”
Jerking his hand away, Oswald said, “Not only can I leave you here, but that’s what I plan to do. I ain’t going to prison for you, sweetheart. I’m not that desperate for a cherry pop. Hell, I’ll probably get my cherry popped in prison instead of a fucking McDonald’s parking lot!”
She grabbed his wrist and begged him, “Please? I’ll do whatever you want me to do as long as you don’t leave. I can’t go back home right now. My dad’s going to kill me!”
“Yeah, and your dad’s going to kill me too if he finds out we’ve been bumping uglies. I’d probably prefer getting killed over spending at least one minute in the sex offender registry. Sorry, toots, it’s not happening. Here, take your McDonald’s meal and leave me alone. It’s all yours. You’ve more than earned your share tonight. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go punch Antero in the dick.”
“Who’s Antero?”
Tucking his chin to his chest, Oswald sighed, “It’s best if you never find out. But if you see him before I do…run!” The little person yanked his wrist away and stomped away from the fast food restaurant, leaving the underage prostitute in a heap of tears and hopelessness. Part of him couldn’t help but feel bad for her, knowing she had an enraged father to go home too. Images of her getting badly beaten flashed through his mind and sent a cold tremor through his body. What he wouldn’t do for a ready roll at this moment.
Once he sufficiently widened the gap between himself and the teenager, Oswald leaned against the lamp post huffing and puffing, though he didn’t do any exercising to warrant such exhaustion. Instead his tiredness was a byproduct of his nerves raging throughout his body. So much anxiety pooling in his stomach like a biblical flood. So much anger boiling in his brain and giving him a monstrous headache. He hammer punched the lamp post a few times and let out a few choice swear words to whoever was listening. He made a big mistake by leaving his marijuana in his dorm room. He came even closer to making a bigger mistake and paying for it with two-hundred percent interest.
Oswald stuffed his hands in his jean pockets and trudged down the street muttering to himself, “I’m going to kill that motherfucker” over and over again, obviously referring to Antero Magnus. A five finger dick punch wasn’t good enough for that ass clown. Dunking his head in the McDonald’s deep fryer? That sounded a lot more like poetic justice.
Before he could spend too much time in his own thumping head, a burgundy car pulled up beside him and a raven-haired woman behind the wheel rolled down her window to engage Oswald in conversation. “Are you Oswald Crow?”
“If anybody were him, it’d be me.”
Flashing a police badge, the woman introduced herself as, “Detective Mia Barry. You and I have a long chat ahead of us. Hop in the car. I’ll take you for a ride.”
Chuckling nervously and waving his hands in defense, Oswald said, “Nah, I don’t need a ride. My dorm room is only a few blocks away. I can make it there myself, but thanks.”
“I don’t think you understood me, Mr. Crow. I’m not asking you to get in the car. I’m telling you. Like I said, we’ve got a lot of shit to talk about.” Oswald gazed at the detective with frightened eyes. “What’s the matter? You need help getting in or do you just not want to cooperate with me tonight? If it’s the latter, I’ll have no choice but to haul you in.”
“…N…Nah, it’s okay, I can get in.” Oswald slowly trudged towards the passenger seat and let himself in, feigning a struggle just to draw out the time. Once he clicked his seatbelt in, the two of them drove off into the night together. What Detective Barry wanted to talk about was anybody’s guess, but it probably involved Oswald nearly making a huge fucking mistake in the McDonald’s parking lot. The little guy’s saliva gulp tasted too much like hamburger meat and shame.
He didn’t need his MP3 player that evening, just a nice tune to whistle. The sun crept underneath the horizon and gave way to a brilliant dark blue sky. The breeze against Oswald’s skin was pleasantly cool, a stark contrast from the blazing spring weather in the daytime. Tonight was the night it would finally be over. Tonight, tonight, tonight, hot damn tonight! Any guilt he felt about going through with this was completely washed away by the potent smell of greasy fast food wafting through the air.
Conspicuous by their absence was a hoard of hungry costumers, leaving Oswald to wonder where the hell the hookers were. Then again, prostitution was a secretive business by nature, so maybe they wouldn’t come parading down the street right away. The little person placed his order of two Double Quarter Pounders with Cheese, a twenty-piece McNugget without sauce, two breakfast burritos, and two medium Cokes. The way the lady behind the counter smiled and winked at Oswald made him slightly uncomfortable, like she was at least dimly aware of what was going through the dwarf’s mind. Nonetheless, she charged the gift card and two minutes later handed him the food, which he took outside.
Oswald sat down on the curb and scouted the parking lot for potential visitors. Nobody. Not a single soul. Hopefully, the lack of occupants included undercover cops. Oh, god help Antero of Oswald got arrested this evening. Dick punches would be the least of his concerns. The dwarf started gnashing on one of the cheeseburgers and got a little glob of grease on his favorite T-shirt. “Shit, goddamn it!” he said to himself before wiping down his clothing.
The little person was so lost in thought that he failed to notice a slender shadow falling over him, dimly lit skies aside. He jumped slightly at the sound of a feminine voice saying, “Hi!” to him. Sure enough, there was a lovely young lady smiling down at him while holding her hands in front and swinging from side to side ever so innocently. She even wore his favorite outfit: a tanktop, short shorts, and sexy sandals. Oh, this was too perfect to be true. “Can I have some of that? I haven’t eaten all day today.”
“Um…sure! Have a seat,” said Oswald nervously. As she sat next to him chewing on a breakfast burrito, the little person’s nerves spiraled out of control, making him crave a ready roll as easily as he did the food. He didn’t know the terms of how this was supposed to work. Was there a code word of some kind? Were they supposed to eat first and then fuck? What was the going rate for this kind of deal?
The girl did no favors for Oswald’s nerves as she patted his shoulders and asked, “How are you doing tonight? You want some company?” Bless his heart, the little guy couldn’t get his words out coherently. “Wow, you’re tense tonight. Is something wrong or are you just nervous?” Still unable to form a reasonable sentence, Oswald nodded and the girl giggled at him. “Aww, that’s so sweet! I like it when guys get nervous around me. It shows that they care. Makes business a lot easier.”
“B…business?”
“Yeah, business. I take it that’s why you’re here, right? You know, aside from having a good meal and all.”
Oswald’s jaw stopped quivering long enough so he could ask the most important question of his freedom-loving life: “How old are you?”
“Fourteen, sir.”
Oswald buried his face in his hands and said, “Oh my god” over and over again. “I think I just made the biggest mistake of my life. I’ve got to get the fuck out of here.”
He tried to get up and leave, but the teenaged prostitute’s hand grasped his and her eyes had the puppy-dog expression locked in. “Where are you going? You can’t leave me here.”
Jerking his hand away, Oswald said, “Not only can I leave you here, but that’s what I plan to do. I ain’t going to prison for you, sweetheart. I’m not that desperate for a cherry pop. Hell, I’ll probably get my cherry popped in prison instead of a fucking McDonald’s parking lot!”
She grabbed his wrist and begged him, “Please? I’ll do whatever you want me to do as long as you don’t leave. I can’t go back home right now. My dad’s going to kill me!”
“Yeah, and your dad’s going to kill me too if he finds out we’ve been bumping uglies. I’d probably prefer getting killed over spending at least one minute in the sex offender registry. Sorry, toots, it’s not happening. Here, take your McDonald’s meal and leave me alone. It’s all yours. You’ve more than earned your share tonight. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go punch Antero in the dick.”
“Who’s Antero?”
Tucking his chin to his chest, Oswald sighed, “It’s best if you never find out. But if you see him before I do…run!” The little person yanked his wrist away and stomped away from the fast food restaurant, leaving the underage prostitute in a heap of tears and hopelessness. Part of him couldn’t help but feel bad for her, knowing she had an enraged father to go home too. Images of her getting badly beaten flashed through his mind and sent a cold tremor through his body. What he wouldn’t do for a ready roll at this moment.
Once he sufficiently widened the gap between himself and the teenager, Oswald leaned against the lamp post huffing and puffing, though he didn’t do any exercising to warrant such exhaustion. Instead his tiredness was a byproduct of his nerves raging throughout his body. So much anxiety pooling in his stomach like a biblical flood. So much anger boiling in his brain and giving him a monstrous headache. He hammer punched the lamp post a few times and let out a few choice swear words to whoever was listening. He made a big mistake by leaving his marijuana in his dorm room. He came even closer to making a bigger mistake and paying for it with two-hundred percent interest.
Oswald stuffed his hands in his jean pockets and trudged down the street muttering to himself, “I’m going to kill that motherfucker” over and over again, obviously referring to Antero Magnus. A five finger dick punch wasn’t good enough for that ass clown. Dunking his head in the McDonald’s deep fryer? That sounded a lot more like poetic justice.
Before he could spend too much time in his own thumping head, a burgundy car pulled up beside him and a raven-haired woman behind the wheel rolled down her window to engage Oswald in conversation. “Are you Oswald Crow?”
“If anybody were him, it’d be me.”
Flashing a police badge, the woman introduced herself as, “Detective Mia Barry. You and I have a long chat ahead of us. Hop in the car. I’ll take you for a ride.”
Chuckling nervously and waving his hands in defense, Oswald said, “Nah, I don’t need a ride. My dorm room is only a few blocks away. I can make it there myself, but thanks.”
“I don’t think you understood me, Mr. Crow. I’m not asking you to get in the car. I’m telling you. Like I said, we’ve got a lot of shit to talk about.” Oswald gazed at the detective with frightened eyes. “What’s the matter? You need help getting in or do you just not want to cooperate with me tonight? If it’s the latter, I’ll have no choice but to haul you in.”
“…N…Nah, it’s okay, I can get in.” Oswald slowly trudged towards the passenger seat and let himself in, feigning a struggle just to draw out the time. Once he clicked his seatbelt in, the two of them drove off into the night together. What Detective Barry wanted to talk about was anybody’s guess, but it probably involved Oswald nearly making a huge fucking mistake in the McDonald’s parking lot. The little guy’s saliva gulp tasted too much like hamburger meat and shame.
July 19, 2018
Lysergic Fairytales
***LYSERGIC FAIRYTALES***
What I’m about to tell you will sound like whining at first, but I swear it has a positive purpose. Are you ready? Here it goes. My last four unpublished novels have something in common: they’re about mentally ill protagonists who find healing through Manic Pixie Dream Girls. Watch You Burn features a schizophrenic college student named Mario Bryan whose obligatory MPDG is an anime fan named Jessica Harley. Demon Axe is about a heavy metal singer with PTSD named Daniel Mercer whose special someone is an elven warrior named Raven Triscloud (my friend Heather’s former D&D character). Silent Warrior is about a high school student with night terrors named Scott George who dates the daughter of his nasty ass history teacher. And then there’s Beautiful Monster, which is about an elven mercenary named Windham Xavier who gets raped for a week straight and becomes infatuated with fellow mercenary Tarja Rikkinen.
So what do I do with four novels that have way too much in common? First order of business would be to edit the shit out of them and make the female supporting characters more than just MPDG’s. And then once that’s done, I’ll do what any sensible author would do: publish them together in one volume and call it “Lysergic Fairytales”. Besides the mental illnesses and subsequent love interests, the other thing these novels share in common is that they’re trippy as fuck. You don’t necessarily have to drop acid or smoke weed in order to enjoy these stories…but you’d probably be more likely to give them a five star rating if you did. Pleeeeeeease? Hehehehehe!
Of course, Silent Warrior is a modern day drama and not a fantasy story, but I still consider it to be part of the Lysergic Fairytale genre because it has its own set of trippy moments, whether it’s Scott having an awful nightmare about puppet teachers or Alan Young (bully) hallucinating an entire conversation with his mother in a solitary confinement cell. I once joked that Silent Warrior was basically Pink Floyd the Wall fan fiction. That might not be a joke anymore.
Now that I’ve got plans to combine these four stories into one volume, I should probably try to figure out how they’ll be interconnected, if they are at all. I think back to other examples of this such as Tales From the Hood or Pulp Fiction, where there were four acts apiece. Pulp Fiction’s acts were all tied within the canon while the Tales From the Hood stories were standalone and were only connected because an undertaker named Simms was telling them out loud. Considering Beautiful Monster takes place in the distant past and the other three stories take place in the present day, I don’t see how they could be easily connected unless I happen to pull off some kind of miracle.
Maybe they don’t have to be connected, though. Maybe they’re just in one volume because I’m insecure about the size of my books. Anytime I talk about how my only published novel Occupy Wrestling is less than a hundred pages, I feel as though I’ve stumbled upon a Viagra commercial. Well, I’m pretty sure these four Lysergic Fairytales novels are individually shorter than Occupy Wrestling. Shorter books don’t get as much recognition as longer ones. It’s sad and unfortunate, but it’s a truth I’ll have to come to terms with eventually. For all intents and purposes, the four novels are complete stories with beginnings, middles, and ends, so it’s not like I cut them off too soon. It’s just that I don’t have the endurance for longer stories, mainly because I wouldn’t know what else to do with them.
On the day I do decide to publish Lysergic Fairytales, it’ll be pretty damn far into the future due to how painstaking it is to edit the shit out of complete novels. I plan on starting with Beautiful Monster and working my way backwards chronologically. But the important thing I have to remember is that there’s no rush for publishing novels. I’d rather have a late blooming book that’s clean and readable than a quickly published book that’s a piece of shit. That’s one of the knocks on Occupy Wrestling: it was published before it was ready, which is probably why it’s rated at less than three stars right now. Well, that and I foolishly marketed it to non-wrestling fans. I won’t make that same mistake with Lysergic Fairytales, that’s for damn sure.
It’s a long road ahead of me in terms of editing, but it’s one I’ve traveled before and it’s one I’ll happily travel again. What does this mean for novels like Incelbordination and Filter Feeder? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I’ll still put in the work for Incelbordination like I always do. Filter Feeder, though not beyond repair, doesn’t fit in with the Lysergic Fairytales motif, so it’ll be left out. Anthologies should be somewhat homogenous when it comes to genres and I’m pushing that envelope by including Silent Warrior, a modern day drama.
Wish me luck on my long and tiring journey! I’m not naïve enough to deny needing it! I’m Garrison fucking Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain! My, how true those words will become during the editing process.
***BOOK REVIEW***
As many of my Good Reads followers can tell, I’m on the verge of finishing and reviewing “Truth Is Fragmentary” by Gabrielle Bell. I’m only twenty-five pages away from pulling the trigger on this creative project. I should have finished it a long time ago since it’s a graphic novel and it’s easy as fuck to read. Psychological exhaustion, like it always does, got in the way of my best intentions. But read this book and review it I will. I still haven’t decided if I want to give it a passing or mixed grade. While the themes of exhaustion, depression, and being overworked are all relatable, I’m not so sure if the overall story did anything for me personally. Like I said, I haven’t decided the final grade yet, which means Gabrielle Bell has 25 pages left to, in Steven Crowder’s memetic words, “Change my mind.” And by the way, I’m only channeling the meme he’s famous for, not the actual person. The actual person makes me cringe.
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“Take one of those and two of these, then watch the walls begin to breathe. I can taste the color of the lights. Wings are growing out of me. The floor is floating underneath. I can see the future burning bright. The ceiling has us mesmerized. It feels like we can never die. Heading for the dark side of the moon. As we lift off into the sky invincible and so alive. Ten feet tall and fucking bulletproof. Insanity is setting in. Reality is getting thin. The universe just started slowing down. Then suddenly we’re traveling a million miles an hour. The shadows all start breaking free, no longer held by gravity. How did we get so far off the ground? Speaking to the galaxy, received and sending back to me. I can finally hear the speed of sound. I like this everlasting pill, ‘cause time itself is standing still. Why’s the room still spinning just the same? Turn off your phone so no one calls, ‘cause you and I are tripping balls. I can still hear ringing in my brain. Insanity is setting in. Reality is getting thin. The universe just started slowing down. Then suddenly we’re traveling a million miles an hour. Insanity is setting in. Reality is getting thin. The particles are dancing all around. I can’t deny the hardest thing for me is finding time to finally breathe. See no signs of ever coming down. Another wave is coming in a million miles an hour.”
-Nickelback singing “Million Miles an Hour”-
***POST-SCRIPT***
I came very close to giving you guys a sneak preview of Incelbordination’s fifth chapter, but I won’t do that because even the slightest details could be deemed spoilers. No spoilers for you, motherfuckers! Even if you bribed me with a Quintuple Whopper with extra bacon and cheese, I still wouldn’t give you spoilers! Hahahahahahaha!
What I’m about to tell you will sound like whining at first, but I swear it has a positive purpose. Are you ready? Here it goes. My last four unpublished novels have something in common: they’re about mentally ill protagonists who find healing through Manic Pixie Dream Girls. Watch You Burn features a schizophrenic college student named Mario Bryan whose obligatory MPDG is an anime fan named Jessica Harley. Demon Axe is about a heavy metal singer with PTSD named Daniel Mercer whose special someone is an elven warrior named Raven Triscloud (my friend Heather’s former D&D character). Silent Warrior is about a high school student with night terrors named Scott George who dates the daughter of his nasty ass history teacher. And then there’s Beautiful Monster, which is about an elven mercenary named Windham Xavier who gets raped for a week straight and becomes infatuated with fellow mercenary Tarja Rikkinen.
So what do I do with four novels that have way too much in common? First order of business would be to edit the shit out of them and make the female supporting characters more than just MPDG’s. And then once that’s done, I’ll do what any sensible author would do: publish them together in one volume and call it “Lysergic Fairytales”. Besides the mental illnesses and subsequent love interests, the other thing these novels share in common is that they’re trippy as fuck. You don’t necessarily have to drop acid or smoke weed in order to enjoy these stories…but you’d probably be more likely to give them a five star rating if you did. Pleeeeeeease? Hehehehehe!
Of course, Silent Warrior is a modern day drama and not a fantasy story, but I still consider it to be part of the Lysergic Fairytale genre because it has its own set of trippy moments, whether it’s Scott having an awful nightmare about puppet teachers or Alan Young (bully) hallucinating an entire conversation with his mother in a solitary confinement cell. I once joked that Silent Warrior was basically Pink Floyd the Wall fan fiction. That might not be a joke anymore.
Now that I’ve got plans to combine these four stories into one volume, I should probably try to figure out how they’ll be interconnected, if they are at all. I think back to other examples of this such as Tales From the Hood or Pulp Fiction, where there were four acts apiece. Pulp Fiction’s acts were all tied within the canon while the Tales From the Hood stories were standalone and were only connected because an undertaker named Simms was telling them out loud. Considering Beautiful Monster takes place in the distant past and the other three stories take place in the present day, I don’t see how they could be easily connected unless I happen to pull off some kind of miracle.
Maybe they don’t have to be connected, though. Maybe they’re just in one volume because I’m insecure about the size of my books. Anytime I talk about how my only published novel Occupy Wrestling is less than a hundred pages, I feel as though I’ve stumbled upon a Viagra commercial. Well, I’m pretty sure these four Lysergic Fairytales novels are individually shorter than Occupy Wrestling. Shorter books don’t get as much recognition as longer ones. It’s sad and unfortunate, but it’s a truth I’ll have to come to terms with eventually. For all intents and purposes, the four novels are complete stories with beginnings, middles, and ends, so it’s not like I cut them off too soon. It’s just that I don’t have the endurance for longer stories, mainly because I wouldn’t know what else to do with them.
On the day I do decide to publish Lysergic Fairytales, it’ll be pretty damn far into the future due to how painstaking it is to edit the shit out of complete novels. I plan on starting with Beautiful Monster and working my way backwards chronologically. But the important thing I have to remember is that there’s no rush for publishing novels. I’d rather have a late blooming book that’s clean and readable than a quickly published book that’s a piece of shit. That’s one of the knocks on Occupy Wrestling: it was published before it was ready, which is probably why it’s rated at less than three stars right now. Well, that and I foolishly marketed it to non-wrestling fans. I won’t make that same mistake with Lysergic Fairytales, that’s for damn sure.
It’s a long road ahead of me in terms of editing, but it’s one I’ve traveled before and it’s one I’ll happily travel again. What does this mean for novels like Incelbordination and Filter Feeder? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I’ll still put in the work for Incelbordination like I always do. Filter Feeder, though not beyond repair, doesn’t fit in with the Lysergic Fairytales motif, so it’ll be left out. Anthologies should be somewhat homogenous when it comes to genres and I’m pushing that envelope by including Silent Warrior, a modern day drama.
Wish me luck on my long and tiring journey! I’m not naïve enough to deny needing it! I’m Garrison fucking Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain! My, how true those words will become during the editing process.
***BOOK REVIEW***
As many of my Good Reads followers can tell, I’m on the verge of finishing and reviewing “Truth Is Fragmentary” by Gabrielle Bell. I’m only twenty-five pages away from pulling the trigger on this creative project. I should have finished it a long time ago since it’s a graphic novel and it’s easy as fuck to read. Psychological exhaustion, like it always does, got in the way of my best intentions. But read this book and review it I will. I still haven’t decided if I want to give it a passing or mixed grade. While the themes of exhaustion, depression, and being overworked are all relatable, I’m not so sure if the overall story did anything for me personally. Like I said, I haven’t decided the final grade yet, which means Gabrielle Bell has 25 pages left to, in Steven Crowder’s memetic words, “Change my mind.” And by the way, I’m only channeling the meme he’s famous for, not the actual person. The actual person makes me cringe.
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“Take one of those and two of these, then watch the walls begin to breathe. I can taste the color of the lights. Wings are growing out of me. The floor is floating underneath. I can see the future burning bright. The ceiling has us mesmerized. It feels like we can never die. Heading for the dark side of the moon. As we lift off into the sky invincible and so alive. Ten feet tall and fucking bulletproof. Insanity is setting in. Reality is getting thin. The universe just started slowing down. Then suddenly we’re traveling a million miles an hour. The shadows all start breaking free, no longer held by gravity. How did we get so far off the ground? Speaking to the galaxy, received and sending back to me. I can finally hear the speed of sound. I like this everlasting pill, ‘cause time itself is standing still. Why’s the room still spinning just the same? Turn off your phone so no one calls, ‘cause you and I are tripping balls. I can still hear ringing in my brain. Insanity is setting in. Reality is getting thin. The universe just started slowing down. Then suddenly we’re traveling a million miles an hour. Insanity is setting in. Reality is getting thin. The particles are dancing all around. I can’t deny the hardest thing for me is finding time to finally breathe. See no signs of ever coming down. Another wave is coming in a million miles an hour.”
-Nickelback singing “Million Miles an Hour”-
***POST-SCRIPT***
I came very close to giving you guys a sneak preview of Incelbordination’s fifth chapter, but I won’t do that because even the slightest details could be deemed spoilers. No spoilers for you, motherfuckers! Even if you bribed me with a Quintuple Whopper with extra bacon and cheese, I still wouldn’t give you spoilers! Hahahahahahaha!
