Garrison Kelly's Blog, page 89

Everything You Touch

CHORUS 1
Everything you touch turns to piss
Your ignorance is far from bliss
Your hate language is a goodbye kiss
Why should we put up with any of this?

VERSE 1
A frog in one hand, your dick in the other
Pissing all over your human race brothers
You’d sell out your own goddamn mother
To see your face on a memoir book cover
You’d sell your soul for a million dollars
You traded your mind for a tight dog collar
You bought into a world built solely on lies
Now you think you’re Jesus Christ in disguise

CHORUS 2
Everything you touch turns to shit
Every slap in the face is a knockout hit
Every kiss to your loved ones turned to spit
Calling you out will send you into a fit

VERSE 2
Go ahead and try to cut through the human chain
You’re the architect and author of your own pain
Every protest sign you’ve written to yourself
You’re the engineer and CEO of your own hell
For someone who preaches such insensitivity
You sure feel agony until the end of infinity
You say one thing then you do something different
You’re the warden and guard of your own prison

CHORUS 3
Everything you touch turns to vomit
You laugh it off like a standup comic
The only joke I see is your political career
We’re shutting down your campaign of smears

VERSE 3
Enjoy your life as a D+ player
Enjoy your career as a spiteful hater
Enjoy your dreams never coming true
This has never been your red, white, and blue
If you’re so dangerous, put up your dukes
If you’re so inspiring, don’t make us puke
If you’re so noble, put up or shut up
Until then, you’re a troll who’s fucked up

FINAL LINE
Don’t let the door hit you on the ass on the way out!

Demon Axe, Chapter 12

For Daniel Mercer and his rock and roll crew, time moved slowly and painfully in the confines of their dark holding cell. Pain and disgust were etched on their faces as they ate spoiled bologna sandwiches compliments of the state. Tarantula Man held his sandwich meat and stared at it like it actually was a poisonous arachnid in his hand. His Islamic diet would never allow him to eat such rancid garbage, so he flushed his food down the toilet in the center of the cell and sat back down on the graffiti-covered bench.

The cell had been deathly silent for what seemed like hours (even though only one hour had passed). Every member of Demon Death Juice along with the two pro-wrestlers sat with a miserable and pathetic hunched over posture. As Bear Man tried to stomach the abomination he was feasting on, he piped up, “I know we’re prisoners who’ve been stripped of our freedom, but do we at least have the right to some mustard?!”

For Daniel, it wouldn’t have mattered if his sandwich was covered in an entire bottle of condiments. He took a bite out of the center and gagged so badly that he doubled over. He spit out what appeared to be a dead mouse, complete with teeth marks and sloppy guts.

“Oh god, dear god…” Daniel kept repeating to himself as he held his stomach and rushed over to the toilet. He vomited so hard that it sounded like he was laying down vocals for the first Demon Death Juice album. Another stream of masticated mush came up. And another. And another. Everybody sharing his cell looked on with horror before throwing their sandwiches on the floor in rebellion.

The Lord of the Pit wiped his mouth on his bare arm before slowly standing up and approaching the bars with a predator’s pace. He grabbed hold of them and yelled out to whoever would listen, “Whoever’s keeping us here has a shit load of explaining to do! You arrested us for no fucking reason and feed us these god awful sandwiches like we’re a bunch of goddamn dogs! We’ve been sitting on our asses for who knows how long, so whoever’s out there, you’d better get your ass over here and tell me what the hell’s going on!”

Daniel’s sentiments were echoed by his rock and roll troupe, all five of them sitting up and roaring like animals. They sat back down again at the shrill sound of metal banging on metal. Even the high and mighty Lord of the Pit backed away to the center of the room. The clanging and banging turned into something sharp being scraped across the bars. The prisoners winced and held their ears at the awful shriek.

The sharp metal object stopped at the entrance to the holding cell, where an oil lantern was lit and revealed a green-skinned man holding a machete and wearing a black monk’s robe, complete with a hood shrouding his face. The prisoner’s nerves were jittery and wild as Daniel said, “No way. You can’t be!” The robed figure flipped his hood back and revealed the sinister mug of Roger Zee, elven terrorist. His sharp-toothed grin sent chills up everyone’s spines. Even Daniel was struggling to say, “I’ll be damned” behind his quivering lips.

“Don’t act like you’ve never seen one of my kind before, Mr. Mercer,” said Roger in his grating voice. “I bet you’re wondering what the hell I’ve been doing this past month. I sure as hell wasn’t taking a nap. I also didn’t spend my time behind a computer raving like a teenaged lunatic. On the contrary, I’ve spent my last month of inactivity…getting to know some people around here.”

Daniel crossed his arms and said, “Let me guess: you’re the one who’s got Detective Henry’s balls in your pocket.”

“Not just his balls, my friend,” said Roger with a wag of his long-nailed finger. “The whole department. I’ve got more balls in my pocket than a game of billiards. Everybody in this god forsaken precinct has something to protect, something to hide, something to lose. I had no idea your city cops had so much to cover up. Racial profiling, racketeering, extortion, political embezzlement, this shit goes on forever. But then again, they can’t all be criminals who are willing to give me their puppet strings over some blackmail, right? Well, not all of them. But enough. Most of them are just hardworking family men who don’t want to see their precious demon seeds get hurt. I’ve got enough connections to take over this entire city if I wanted to.”

“All this just to bring things back to the good old days, huh?” said Daniel with a condescending smirk. “Well, the good old days weren’t all that good! In your so called golden age, bigotry was considered normal, death was the status quo, and beating your wife was an act of discipline. You want to bring that shit back to life? Not on my watch, motherfucker!”

Roger bent backwards and chuckled before saying, “And how is that any different than today’s world? Huh? Bigotry is still normal, death is even more normal, and beating your wife is still a shit load of fun! I’m not really changing much with my so called acts of terrorism. All I’m doing is speeding up the inevitable. Surely, your friend Tarantula Man knows something about this.”

Without his stage mask, Tarantula Man’s white hot angry expression could be seen from the moon. He approached the bars with breakneck speed and barked, “Don’t you ever talk about my religion that way! I am nothing like what you hear in your little bubble! I’m going to raise my kids to be respectful even when scumbags like you are hastening the inevitable as you say!”

Roger held his lantern and machete-holding hands up in defense and sarcastically apologized with, “Whoa, whoa, easy there, big man! I believe you when you say you’re going to raise your children right! Okay?” The elf leaned so close to Tarantula Man’s face that they were touching noses. “After all, if they don’t act proper, you can always strap a suicide vest on them.”

The Muslim rocker took a swing through the bars and got his arm chopped off at the elbow for his efforts. He howled in miserable bloody pain as he stumbled backwards on his ass with Bear Man and Lady Killer tending to his wound.

“Anybody else want to try that shit with me?! Anybody?!” Roger proudly challenged.

Johnny Vega and Sonia Marquez, the two beefy wrestlers slowly stood up and took their places next to Daniel, who also had his muscles bulging and pulsating like blood bombs ready to blow. Sonia stared a fireball through Roger as she said, “If you still think beating women is a shit load of fun, let’s see you try that on me, bitch!”

“You don’t have your stupid little crowns anymore, amigo,” said Johnny while punching the bars. “Besides, it’s hard for someone like you to wear a crown with your brains leaking all over the fucking floor!”

“You fucked with my friends one too many times,” said Daniel, who was trembling with rage and ready to snap someone’s head off. “Up until now, I’ve been backing away from you anytime I had an opening. You chopped off my new friend’s arm. He’s never going to play guitar again because of you. And you, you’re never going to eat solid food again because your fucking teeth are going down your goddamn throat!”

Roger Zee laughed like a banshee and blew out the oil lantern, covering the holding cell in shadows once again. Daniel and his wrestler friends didn’t need the light to know where the elf was. They could smell his dick-licking breath from a mile away. The door opened so slowly that the hinges could be heard creaking and grinding.

Johnny, Sonia, and Daniel came out of the gates swinging like wild brawlers. They were certain their savage punches hit their marks, because they could feel the slimy flesh between their knuckles and fingers. Daniel even pierced his knuckle on one of Roger’s sharp fangs, causing a liberal amount of blood to flow from his hand. He didn’t give two shits and a flying fuck.

His veins were ready to blow like dynamite and he wouldn’t stop punching until he heard Roger let out a pathetic squeal of pain. “Ouch…ouch…no more…please…” Each cry for help was getting more sarcastic and it all crescendoed with evil hyena laughter that had everyone in the cell on edge. “My turn!” Roger shouted before the sounds of skin, organs, and bones being slashed pierced Daniel’s ears, causing the traumatized rocker to shriek a prolonged, “No!” and huddle to the ground in tears.

The oil lantern was alight once more and Roger waved the device around the cell to show Daniel that he was right to be traumatized and frightened. Pieces of his band mates and friends were scattered all over the cell with blood drenching the floor. Their faces were hardly recognizable with smashed skulls and popped out eyeballs. Daniel’s tears flooded down his face as he saw that his last circle of friends had left his earth forever.

He truly was all alone in this world. Every time he brought the metal scene back to life, it was taken away from him again. Every time he tried to have a positive thought, it was slashed to pieces. Every time he tried to live his life again, his happiness was ripped away from him like a teddy bear in a crying child’s arms.

Roger set the lantern down and petted Daniel’s hair in mock comfort while silently shushing him and whispering “sweet sounds” to him. “There, there, my little child. All is not lost. You can call me your friend anytime you want. You know what friends do when one of them is feeling down? We have some fun together. Good…old fashioned…medieval…fun!”

The lantern was blown out yet again and Daniel felt himself being dragged by his follicles across the bloody floor. He wished he had drowned in his own tears and in his fallen friends’ blood, for it would have been a friendlier ending to his story than whatever was about to happen to him next. “Just kill me already!” he pleaded. “Kill me, damn it!”

The Dark Blade

***THE DARK BLADE***

Childhood is a time for developing one’s creativity and imagination. We buy action figures and Legos so that we can act out our own adventures. We draw pictures with our own naïve vision of what the world should be. We build things out of ordinary objects to show that there’s a world beyond their intended use. For me personally, my favorite form of creativity was coming up with ideas for videogames. One of those videogame ideas was intended to be a rival to Squaresoft’s Chrono Trigger and it was called The Dark Blade.

Chrono Trigger as a Super Nintendo game was everything a child could ask for: beautiful storytelling, emotional characters, innovative settings, and exciting game play. Who in their right mind wouldn’t want to play a game about a spiky haired teenager named Crono who travels through time in order to prevent a 1999 apocalypse using lightning magic and katana skills? Who in their prepubescent years wouldn’t have the world’s biggest crush on crossbow fighter Marle or prehistoric vixen Ayla? Who wouldn’t want to use Magus’s shadow magic or Frog’s water magic to overcome the toughest obstacles?

In my pre-teen years, I had a tall task ahead of me if I was going to formulate an RPG that would measure up to the greatness of Chrono Trigger. Therefore, I had The Dark Blade, a supremely underdeveloped story about a spiky haired teenager named David who along with his friends tries to keep the title artifact out of the hands of The Dark Sorcerer (notice the theme of darkness here?). David had the hair of Guile from Street Fighter II, a black karate outfit, ruby boots, vampire fangs (what?!), and the swords of Billy and Jimmy Lee from Double Dragon V. Oh, and he also has the lightning magic of Crono. And he starts the game by going to a carnival, just like Crono.

Being as ignorant as I was about copyright laws, I stole pieces of creative fuel from any source I could find. Princess Crystal Hershey got her last name from the chocolate bar and her outfit from Celes from Final Fantasy VI. Ninja Prince Boris Hershey got his character design from Shadow, also a Final Fantasy VI standout. Nixer (careful how you say that) is a direct rip-off of a Magic: the Gathering card that featured an old ragged man carrying a scythe. Nixer’s magical element was Aura, which is a direct theft of the Aura Bolt technique used by Sabin from Final Fantasy VI.

The Dark Blade’s soundtrack would be stolen directly from albums by The Police, The Moody Blues, Sting, and Metallica. Talk about a bunch of bands that don’t belong in the same concert! Metallica’s “Ride the Lightning” album would serve as battle music, both for normal enemies, mini-bosses, and regular bosses. The Police’s hit “Spirits in the Material World” would serve as carnival music. The Moody Blues’s song “The Voice” would serve as romantic fuel (in a time where I was too young to give a shit about love). Sting’s “Mad About You” would also serve as romantic music even though David and Crystal never officially shack up (again, because I didn’t give two shits and a flying fuck about love back then).

With all of these stolen properties, how would they mesh against the actual story? Somewhere along the way, David would use a lightsaber/baseball bat reminiscent of Star Wars and WWF Wrestlemania: The Arcade Game. He would also ride a hover cycle reminiscent of Space Quest IV. So far, so good. But then we eventually have to get to the depressive dip of the game. Turns out The Dark Sorcerer got a hold of The Dark Blade after all. With its powers, he turned the entire world’s population (except for David, Crystal, Nixer, and Boris) into stone. Turning somebody into a stone statue is straight from the Final Fantasy franchise. Having the bad guy win for a while is the same scenario that happened in Final Fantasy VI when Kefka turned The World of Balance (blue water and green pastures) into the World of Ruin (red water and wastelands).

With the innocence of a child and the creative fuel of a madman, I was sure to have my videogame idea mailed off to Sqauresoft so that they could get cracking on making it. The one thing that kept me from doing so was my brother James’s constant talk about copyright laws and what could happen if I violated them. According to him, I could have my wages garnished and my property stolen by the government. I justified my right to the profits by saying, “I could lock the doors!” Then James said that the Fire Department would come busting through to help the government take my stuff. At one point I whined, “Stop telling me these crummy facts!”, to which he said, “They’re true!”

While I didn’t want my creativity to take a backseat to copyright laws, I had no other choice as I got older and discovered how ridiculous they can be. Viacom and Disney have sued the shit out of anyone and everyone who uploaded their content onto You Tube. Disney has sued a daycare center for using Mickey Mouse decals to decorate the joint. If you want to argue lawsuits, then people these days will sue over anything, and I do mean anything. Donald Trump sued Bill Maher because the comedian said our now president was a descendant of orangutans. James Woods sued a Twitter user for saying that he was a coke head online. The more money you have, the more weight you can throw around in a courtroom. Videogame corporations have a lot of money and by proxy can throw more weight around than WWE Hall of Famers Yokozuna and Rikishi combined.

If The Dark Blade ended up becoming a novel idea in modern day Garrisonism, I suppose I could do away with all of the theft and turn it into something original and fun. People rarely play Super Nintendo games anymore (except for nostalgia purposes on ROM Emulators), so The Dark Blade would have to be a novel. David shouldn’t be such a Gary-Stu for his age, which means no vampire fangs, ruby boots, or dragon swords. Crystal and Boris shouldn’t have the last name Hershey because there have been too many jokes about skid marks over the years thanks to guys like Dave Chappelle. Nixer should have a first name that doesn’t sound like a racial slur. The Dark Sorcerer should have a real name, probably one that doesn’t have “dark” in it.

Turning this childhood videogame idea into a credible novel is a long shot, but I now have the skills and resources to do so as a 31-year-old semi-professional author. Will it rival Chrono Trigger? Ask anybody who’s ever read Occupy Wrestling and they’ll tell you “Hell no!” Then again, nothing can rival Chrono Trigger. It was a special piece of childhood heaven that can’t be taken away no matter how many game consoles 2017 can pump out. You can keep your Halos and Call of Duties and I’ll reminisce in Chrono Trigger’s beauty forever. If anything, I’m clinging to my roots so that I don’t forget how to write The Dark Blade in its truest form. One day, maybe one day David and Crono can have fantasy warfare. We’ve got ears, say cheers! By the way, in case you didn’t know, that last line was stolen from Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. I’m a bigger thief than Locke Cole from Final Fantasy VI. Damn it, I did it again!


***THE NEXT FEW DAYS***

While I’m waiting patiently for the Wrestling Observer Newsletter to come out with their 2016 awards, I’m going to have a few creative projects to occupy my time. I only have seven chapters left to read from Ashley Uzzell’s LGBT fairytale (no, that’s not a pun, shut up!) called “Once Upon a Pastry”. I’ll spend the whole day blitzing right through them and offering her my funniest and most poignant critiques. I also have a Dark Fantasy Warrior that needs drawing and his name is Lord McCain, the elf sorcerer from “Emoticon Artist”. Once I’ve officially drawn one hundred colored Dark Fantasy Warriors, I’m going to put their faces in a meme like I did with the uncolored ones. Somewhere along the way, I’ll write the shit out of Demon Axe’s twelfth chapter (don’t rush me, Writer’s Circle, I’ll get to it eventually!). Once I’m done with these tasks, I can begin work on editing the shit out of Poison Tongue Tales and getting it ready for publication. I’ve already edited the first three stories, so that’s SOME progress (again, don’t rush me, Writer’s Circle!). Once I complete these projects, then and only then can I lament not having a WWE Network subscription so that I can see this year’s Royal Rumble and see Bobby Roode win the NXT Championship from Shinsuke Nakamura at the TakeOver special before that. Wish me luck!


***TELEVISION QUOTE OF THE DAY***

DET. CLAUDETTE WYMS: Where were you last night?

SUSPECT: I was at home jerking off into a sock. You guys need the evidence?

-The Shield-

Circus of Conformity

VERSE 1
Just like perfect little circus seals
You shower your master with squeals
Laugh at every joke like it’s actually funny
Surrendering your hardest of hard earned money
Never mind that he preaches victimization
On every newscast and every station
Never mind that he teaches hatred and anger
Never mind that he put you all in grave danger

CHORUS
Circus of conformity!
Suppressing the passionate, praising the ornery
Circus of conformity!
Accepting any idiot as the almighty authority

VERSE 2
Just like perfect little sideshow monkeys
You dance to rhythm like it’s funky
You take the abuse, it’s what you choose
Everything you’ve got is yours to lose
Yet you cheer and shake your moneymaker
From the wet nurse to the undertaker
Are you nice and comfy inside your grave?
Too damn bad, because you can’t be saved

CHORUS
Circus of conformity!
Suppressing the passionate, praising the ornery
Circus of conformity!
Accepting any idiot as the almighty authority

BRIDGE
Believe in everything that comes out of his mouth
Take it in the ass and keep shouting “Ouch!”
This is what you wanted; this is what you voted for
You’re living out your fantasy of being a puppet whore

VERSE 3
Just like scary old psychotic clowns
You’re haunting the darkest parts of the town
A ball on your nose or a ball on your mouth
Makes no difference when you can’t make a sound
Your nuts and backbone have been taken away
Too much of a snowflake to enter the fray
Get down on your knees and begin to pray
It’s what you do best during political decay

CHORUS
Circus of conformity!
Suppressing the passionate, praising the ornery
Circus of conformity!
Accepting any idiot as the almighty authority
Circus of conformity!
I won’t do what you fucking order me
The Greatest Show on Earth is almost over
Rid us of your verbal diarrhea foul odor

Weirdo Alert

In Louise Bradbury’s mind, she could have been paid a million dollars per week and it still wouldn’t have been enough for what she had to go through. Making a decent cup of coffee was the easy part. Dealing with the “loony toons” who waddled through the shopping mall was where she believed she deserved a raise. Old men who couldn’t shut up about the 1920’s, teenagers who laughed like hyenas at every minor occurrence, middle aged men who kept trying to get the baristas’ phone numbers, that kind of shit.

Louise looked absolutely miserable behind the counter of her coffee bar with a hunched over body and a dull expression on her face. Customer service protocol always dictated that she had to have a positive expression, but she just couldn’t fake it anymore. Her attempts at smiles were more see-through than a wet T-shirt. Her engagements in small talk were so boring that she almost fell asleep on the job. And to think, this minimum wage money was supposed to mean something later down the line. What it meant, Louise didn’t know.

When a powerful sneeze sounded off in the background, that was when Miss Bradbury’s “weirdo alert” went off in her head like a police siren. She tucked her head down in her palm at the embarrassing entrance of a regular customer known as Denny Smith (she knew his name from his debit card information).

With a bucket of ice cream in one hand and a tablet in the other, Denny dragged his big ass over to one of the tables closest to Louise’s counter. With ice cream stains on his Snoopy shirt and blue sweat pants, the other customers couldn’t help but stare at him for the longest time. He sneezed so hard that it sounded like he blew his whole sinus cavity out, to which some customers got up and walked away in disgust.

Louise was one of the people looking on in wide-eyed terror as Denny shoveled huge scoops of vanilla ice cream in his mouth with no regard for the sweet treat dripping down his double chin. The big man even coughed up huge wads of snot and then swallowed them again, prompting even more horrified customers to power-walk away. Denny managed to thin the herd even more when he let out the world’s largest fart, which sounded a lot like a shotgun blast.

In between bites of ice cream, Denny said to the leaving customers, “It’s a natural function! I’m an American! I can fart if I want to! What are you going to do, arrest me for farting?!”

Digging deep for a silver lining in all of this, Louise thought to herself that Denny could have been doing her a favor by not making her deal with these other obnoxious customers. But if that was her only positive, then she still had the right to shiver in disgust and gag on snot herself.

Normally, the customer was always right (at least that’s what it said in Louise’s training video). But when her “weirdo alert” was going off in her head, it sounded too much like a schizophrenic nightmare. She clutched her head and gave off a subtle “Ugh!” before racing around the counter to confront Denny.

“Excuse me, Mr. Smith,” said Louise with her hands behind her back in feigned politeness. Instead of undivided attention, Denny gave her another nuclear bomb fart, to which she plugged her nose and shivered like she was having a seizure.

Only then would Denny look up from his ice cream and his tablet and say, “What? What’s your problem? It’s a free country; I’m allowed to fart whenever I want. It’s in the constitution.”

This sense of American entitlement sent Louise into a screaming rage complete with waving hands and a shrill voice. “There’s nothing in the constitution that says you can scare off my customers with your weird ass behavior! If you have to fart so badly, go to the bathroom across the hall! If you have to sneeze so hard that your tiny brain falls out, go to the goddamn bathroom, you fucking weirdo!”

Louise covered her own mouth in shock after dropping that F-bomb, as did several customers who were just passing by. The barista held her hands up in defense and whispered an apology before the customers shook their heads and strolled away.

With her new whispery calm demeanor, Louise patted Denny on the shoulder and said, “Look, all I’m saying is that you should try to act just a little bit normal and be a decent member of society like the rest of us. That way, people won’t want to run away in horror whenever they want to come here for a cup of coffee. You might even get a girlfriend one day, I don’t know!”

“First of all, dumb-ass” said Denny while pointing his sausage finger at the barista. “I can’t help it if I have to fart or sneeze. I’ve had allergies to pretty much everything since I was five years old. You think walking all the way over to that bathroom is going to solve anything? Hell no! Besides, do you think I give two shits and a flying fuck what anyone thinks of me? I’m supposed to conform to everyone else’s system so that I can have a slightly better chance of getting laid? Look at me! This is not the body of a man who goes around stealing women! This is the body of someone who’s addicted to ice cream like it’s crack cocaine, which sugar pretty much is!”

Folding her arms, Louise said, “Look, I understand if you want to be your own person, but come on, is farting and sneezing really a part of who you are? Is that the person you want to be? Do you really enjoy driving people away and being obnoxious?”

“I don’t know, missy, do you like standing behind the counter like you’ve got a stick up your butt?” Louise’s expression softened into solemnity at Denny’s accurate statement. He licked the ice cream off of his fingers and said, “You think I just sit around here every day like a dumb-ass and not notice everything around me? I see your looks of horror. I see you guys walking away like I’m the boogeyman. I guess a simple case of allergies will do that to people. I had no idea that medical conditions were so freakish. You think I enjoy having a runny nose and a snotty throat? Go back behind your counter and do your fucking job. I’ll stay here and do mine.”

“I’m sorry, did you just say something about a job?” said Louise while placing her authoritative palms on Denny’s table. “You mean to tell me that you get paid to shovel ice cream down your throat and make disgusting bodily noises everywhere you go? Shit, if I would have known that was even a career, I would have given up making coffee a long time ago!”

Denny yelled, “You fucking bitch!” while shooting up to his feet and accidentally knocking his tablet over. “Shit, now look at what you made me do! I bet that damn thing’s cracked!”

Louise knelt down to pick it up and waved Denny off while saying, “Don’t worry, it’s not cracked. I’m sure the cover on this thing…” The barista had a wide-eyed expression as she flipped through the photos on the tablet, but for reasons other than Denny’s farts and sneezes. “These paintings are beautiful,” she said. And they were, too. Paintings of armored medieval warriors, lightning elemental dragons, shadow magic-using wizards, and fiery ninjas. This kind of skill could have easily landed Denny a job at a comic book publishing house or even an art museum.

While Louise stared at the paintings with a bright smile she hadn’t formed in years, Denny said, “That’s the job I was talking about. I paint for a living. Well, I’m not really a professional. I’m not much of a marketer. It doesn’t matter how much effort I put into these paintings, because only one or two people want to actually buy them.”

Louise placed a hand on her chest like these paintings took her breath away, but then gave a sullen expression to Denny before saying, “Look, I don’t want to give you a lecture about…”

“I know! I know, damn it!” said Denny. “I know my weird ass behavior is keeping people from buying my paintings. But you know what? Nobody gives a shit about artists anymore. Everyone wants me to be an engineer or some other kind of science nut. As long as people are going to turn their noses down at me, I might as well act as crazy as I want.”

“Denny, I’m so sorry,” said Louise in a sheepish voice with her head tucked.

“Yeah, you’re sorry now that you’ve seen these paintings! You could have been sorry long before you saw them, but no, you had to be like every one of these ignoramuses here at the mall and gag in disgust like a bunch of bitches! Maybe I’ll get over my allergies someday! Maybe I’ll also get over my sugar addiction! But until then, you can feel free to forget about me, because I don’t want to be famous in a city that doesn’t give a shit about art!”

Denny yanked the tablet from Louise’s hands and threw his bucket of ice cream in the trash before marching away. Everything the pudgy man said was right and Louise didn’t want to admit it to herself (regardless of having no choice). The barista sat down at one of the tables and held her face in her hands while sobbing quietly. She chastised this poor man over bodily functions when really he was the most beautiful person in this entire mall. Louise had no artistic talents of her own and those paintings made her jealous. She tried so many times to be as good as Denny, but everyone laughed at her and told her to get a “real job”.

Then she thought to herself, “Fuck this real job!” Louise took off her apron and threw it behind the counter before running after Denny screaming, “Hey, wait up! Wait!” She didn’t know what she would expect once she caught up to the “weirdo”. Would Denny teach her how to be an individual? Would he teach her how to be an artist as good as himself? Would he turn her away like Louise tried to do a few moments ago? No matter what the outcome, Louise Bradbury had to find out before it was too late.

The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh

MOVIE TITLE: The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh
DIRECTORS: John Lounsbery and Wolfgang Reitherman
YEAR: 1977
GENRE: Children’s Animation
RATING: G
GRADE: Extra Credit

In the Hundred Acre Woods, a stuffed bear named Winnie the Pooh goes on cute adventures with his many animal friends and his human master Christopher Robin. Whether Pooh-Bear wants some honey to eat or is trying to find shelter from a windstorm or a flood, he always brings his childlike charm and naïve thinking to every event in the story. His equally cute and cuddly friends are the depressed donkey Eeyore, the energetic and bouncy Tigger, the green-thumbed Rabbit, the delightfully wise Owl, the tiny stuttering Piglet, the hardworking constructor Gopher, and the flower-loving Kanga and Roo. Children of all ages can bask in their innocence at these cuddly mini-stories and grow up to be loving adults.

I cannot emphasize enough how insanely cute this movie is except for by giving it an extra credit grade. Whenever I watch Pooh-Bear eat honey, play with his friends, or just be his silly self, it makes me want to cuddle with stuffed or real animals of my own. Tigger’s hyperactivity, mitten-like paws, and joyful singing also make me want to cuddle with animal cuties. There isn’t one character in this movie who doesn’t warm my insides like a freshly baked apple pie (with honey drizzled on it, of course). Even the bees that swarm on Pooh for trying to steal their honey have their cute moments, particularly with their character designs and high-pitched voices. And who could forget all the laugh-inducing times when Gopher fell into his hole in the ground…over and over again. This kind of cuteness overload will set the tone for children later in life when they have kids of their own or adopt pets. Love is a universal language that can be taught with movies like Winnie the Pooh.

Another thing I’ll always enjoy about this movie is Sterling Holloway’s vocal performance as Pooh-Bear. He was always known for having a nasally rasp voice with a hint of baritone. Mr. Holloway has used this same voice to play characters like Amos Mouse in “Ben and Me” and Hiss from “Robin Hood”, two Disney classics. Hearing this sweet and innocent voice makes me glad that Holloway’s successor, Jim Cummings, decided to keep the tradition going when playing Winnie the Pooh in future movies. It even warms my heart to know that Mr. Cummings uses his Pooh voice to comfort sick children in hospitals. Is this another example of how the movie can teach love and friendship at such a young age? Why, I’d like to think so! Of course, Sterling Holloway isn’t with us anymore, but his contributions to the Disney universe will never be forgotten.

Just like with all good things, this movie must eventually come to an end at the 74 minute mark. How does one wrap up a series of short stories known for bringing happy emotions to an entire generation? By having Christopher Robin grow up, of course. While only a year has passed since the events of the movie, little Christopher eventually has to go to school and get good grades. Not all children end up having fond memories of school, whether it’s because of difficult assignments, harsh teachers, or bully students. The movie put us all at ease with the conversation Christopher had with Pooh-Bear. They talked about growing old together and always being friends no matter what life throws at them. One way or another, Christopher Robin will never forget where he came from and will always come back to the Hundred Acre Woods…even when he’s a hundred years old and moving around on a walker. How old will Pooh be? Ninety-nine. “Silly old bear!”

Let this be a lesson to all of the adults reading this review: never forget the love you experienced as a child and always take those positive memories into the future with you. Even if you grew up with harsher circumstances, know that someone out there loves and cares for you. Someone out there will be your Pooh-Bear. If you have to go to the Humane Society for a basket of Pooh-Bears known as kittens, what are you waiting for? You’re never too old to acknowledge cuteness when you see it. Age-consciousness is for suckers.

The Brown Ranger

***THE BROWN RANGER***

When I was a kid growing up in the early 90’s, I watched a lot of Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers. There was something about martial arts-loving high school students in colorful spandex suits and motorcycle helmets that made me believe in delicious violence. My favorite Power Ranger was always Tommy Oliver a.k.a. the Green/White Ranger. I don’t know what it was about him that I liked so much, but he was my favorite as well as my brother’s favorite. Maybe I kept having sympathy for him when Rita Repulsa kept trying to take his powers away. Maybe I wanted him to shack up with Kimberly a.k.a. the Pink Ranger. No matter what appealed to me about the show in general, I never forget my creative roots. Hip-hop music helped shape my poetry and Power Rangers helped shape my love for violent stories.

I’ve tried on two different occasions to bring the Power Rangers back into my life through the power of writing. I had to tread carefully both times because I could potentially be sued if I published these stories as my own (despite acknowledging that the Power Rangers are someone else’s property). The first attempt was a black comedy short story called “Kill the Power Rangers”, where a little fan girl named Wendi Kael was doing badly in school and would only do her homework at her stepfather’s threat of “killing the Power Rangers”. When Wendi tried to call his bluff, she found corpses all over the house dressed up in Power Rangers outfits, most notably the Blue Ranger with a garden hoe up his ass (get it? Because the actor is gay? Hee-hee-ho-ho…ugh). While the synopsis of this story made a lot of people laugh, I eventually had to abandon it due to too many plot holes and a painfully obvious Deus Ex Machina ending.

And then we have the second attempt at a Power Rangers homage with a novel idea called “The Brown Ranger”. Mind you, this never actually became a novel and the synopsis is no longer in my archives, so I’m flying blind here. The premise was that Rita Repulsa’s new monsters were too powerful for the original rainbow-colored rangers, so Zordon has to recruit a Bad Santa-esque loser named Shawn Hamlet to be his Brown Ranger. Shawn, who is an avid beer drinker and pot smoker, believes that Zordon is high on drugs himself if he thinks Shawn would make a good Power Ranger, let alone one whose uniform is the same color as shit. It takes a while for Shawn to accept his responsibility as earth’s guardian, but he eventually makes the most of his brown uniform by yelling, “Eat shit, motherfuckers!” as he charges into battle. I guess this too could be considered black comedy considering the main character’s penchant for swearing and drugs, both behaviors completely opposite of what normal Power Rangers preach.

So the question now is, what should I do with these two ideas? One was scrapped, the other never happened. If I had a chance to do them over again, I would. If I knew of a legal loophole that allowed me to use the Power Rangers name, I would exploit it. You could say that I could just publish these stories as fan fiction, but that’s not enough for me. I want them to be official works of mine and not just stories that are at the mercy of the legal system. I suppose I could use parody names, but where’s the authenticity in that? Author problems, ladies and gentlemen. Author problems.

But wait a minute…does the Brown Ranger actually have to be a Power Ranger? Can he instead be a D&D-style ranger who wears all brown and uses shit-themed insults on his opponents? Imagine littering in the forest and having to deal with Shawn Hamlet sticking a knife in your throat. If Carl Hiaasen wrote fantasy novels, this is how it would play out for sure. Maybe it’ll have more creative methods of violence than a knife threat, but you get the idea.

And now that I think about it, parodies aren’t so bad when applied correctly. If I wanted to keep the theme of Hiaasen-esque environmental terrorism, I could call them The Flower Rangers. They could dress up in hippie-themed spandex and save the world from oil tycoons who want to build pipelines in the most inappropriate places. Maybe the Flower Rangers (or the Brown Ranger in particular) could have been perfect foils to the jerk-offs who tried to build a pipeline through Native American burial grounds in North Dakota. So many ideas. So many goddamn ideas. I can actually feel my brain wake up after such a long time in exhaustive mode. Hehe!

But why should I have all of the fun? The question of the day, to you the audience, is how would you book The Brown Ranger? Yes, I know I just used a wrestling term (book), but you know what I mean…hopefully. How would The Brown Ranger play a pivotal role in whatever novel you were writing? Is he an environmental terrorist? Is he an army ranger? Is he a role model for small children? Is he sewer dwelling warrior? If you’ve got an idea you’d like to throw in the mix, feel free to let us hear it. We’ve got ears, say cheers!


***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTESTS AND COMPANY***

The new contest started yesterday and the theme this week will be “Round Table”. Any medieval literature fans out there will know where a lot of authors at the WSS will take this prompt. For me personally? I’m doing something a little more autobiographical. In the style of the Awkward Behavior posts in my Garrison’s Library blog, this story will be called “Weirdo Alert” and it goes like this:


CHARACTERS:

1. Denny Smith, Bodily Functions Gimmick
2. Louise Bradbury, Barista

PROMPT CONFORMITY: The tables at the coffee bar are round.

SYNOPSIS: Louise is working at a coffee bar at the mall when Denny sits down at one of her tables with a gigantic bucket of ice cream. As Denny eats the ice cream and slops it on himself, he also draws attention by blowing his nose loudly, gagging on his snot, and farting horrible stenches. Louise has to do something before all of her customers walk out on her.

OOC: I sure have a lot of American Darkness 2 characters with “Brad” in their last names. Actually, the only other two characters like that are Beth Bradshaw (D&D cleric from Emoticon Artist) and Eric Bradley (schizophrenic millennial from Cold and Scared).


***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

In the wake of Marie Krepps creating a new book cover for and advertising the hell out of Occupy Wrestling (to which I give my never-ending thanks), my next Dark Fantasy Warrior will be one of Keegan’s monsters. He’s a scythe-wielding, psychopathic skeleton named Riley Warpthroat. Marie used to jokingly call him “Really Deepthroat”, but make no mistake about it, this monster is one of Mitch McLeod’s toughest opponents, especially during a time in the story where the World Champ is being worn down from all of these battles.


***FACE BOOK POST OF THE DAY***

(I think I just found the perfect intro for a song in Necrograph called “Why Are You Laughing at Me?”)

SMALL BOY: That Lacey Sturm is so pretty! When I grow up, I’m going to marry her!

CROWD: Hahahahahahaha!

SMALL BOY: W…why are you laughing at me?

CROWD: Hahahahahahahaha!

SMALL BOY: (sniff)…(sniff)…Why?

ACTUAL SONG CHORUS: Tell me why! Why are you laughing at me?! / Tell me who! Who should I try to be?! / Tell me what! What the fuck is your deal?! / Tell me how! How should I fucking feel?!

Ben and Me

MOVIE TITLE: Ben and Me
DIRECTOR: Hamilton Luske
YEAR: 1953
GENRE: Children’s Animation
RATING: G
GRADE: Pass

In 1745 colonial America, Amos Mouse leaves home to try and find work, but gets stuck in frozen weather with nothing to eat and very little money to spend. He takes shelter in a printing shop owned by soon-to-be American Revolutionary Benjamin Franklin, who has only twenty-four hours to pay his rent at the threat of being evicted. Amos earns Ben’s trust by helping him invent bifocal glasses, the Franklin Stove, and the Pennsylvania Gazette. Their friendship becomes strained when Ben’s electrical experiments endanger Amos’s wellbeing, which is especially damning considering war between the colonies and England is on the horizon. Can they mend fences long enough to bring peace to what will eventually become the United States of America?

While Disney movies tend to stretch the truth when it comes to history, it’s still fascinating to see Ben Franklin’s various achievements throughout the cartoon. The scene where he and Amos are printing copies of the Pennsylvania Gazette is interesting just to see how printing presses worked in those days with individual letter blocks, a tube of ink, and a giant stamp. In Pennsylvania weather, it’s also refreshing to see just how effective the Franklin Stove is at bringing heat to the shop (after they run the smoke up the chimney, of course). I’ve never worn glasses before, but in 1745 when technology was in its infancy, it’s good to know that Ben has his bifocal glasses for getting work done and going outside. These inventions were enough to pay Ben’s bills and strengthen the bond between himself and Amos. I like seeing those kinds of stories.

I know about this movie because I watched it all the time as a small child with my mother. Because I was that little, I found certain aspects of the movie funny that may have been overlooked by others. The first comedic moment happened when Ben Franklin sneezed on Amos and broke his reading glasses. The way he sounded always tickled my brain. The same thing is true when Ben ran into a street post and knocked his three-cornered hat over: the sound of his scream had me rolling on the floor. Amos had a strange moment of comedy as well. When he’s helping Ben print copies of the Gazette, he ends up with a giant Y on his shirt after being stamped onto the letter blocks. The music they played near the end of that scene with the dramatic violins helped get the giggles out of me too. You know you’ve had a happy childhood when you can laugh at silly things like that and never question them until you’re all grown up.

Then there was a moment of the movie that scared me as a kid. It was the scene where Ben was flying his kite in stormy weather and Amos gets electrocuted by lightning. The screams of “Ben!” coming from the little mousy pie were disturbing to me, especially since Amos was voiced by the same guy who did Winnie the Pooh twenty-four years later. Imagine if that had been innocent little Pooh fixated to the kite with a metal tip near the top. It would break the sweetie bear’s little heart. Amos, on the other hand, was madder than hell and rightfully so. As an adult, I question Ben’s judgment as to why he needed Amos on the kite in the first place. Zapping the mouse in the tail with a printing press is one thing, but this is a lightning storm we’re talking about. He could have killed the little guy, though he didn’t because this is a G-rated movie. What if Amos/Pooh didn’t have the G-rating to protect him? Then what?

While this movie didn’t bring me good grades in high school history classes, it was a great deal of entertainment for me as a little guy growing up in the late 80’s and early 90’s. Small children aren’t expected to take history seriously, not until they’re old enough to go to school. They don’t care if a mouse helped Ben Franklin through times of war. They’re just happy to see the little guy and hear his Winnie the Pooh voice. Thank you, Ben and Me, for being my little piece of childhood heaven. I still appreciate it as an adult, especially since I’m not particularly age-conscious. The fact that I even looked this movie up on You Tube shows that I don’t care about age expectations. How does a passing grade sound?

A Picture Is Worth a Thousand Swear Words

Many told Bernard Hamm that he would never amount to anything. They told him he would die in his twenties due to his obesity. They told him he was too lazy to get anything done. And yet, here he was sitting at a booth at the Paulson City Public Library signing copies of his debut fantasy novel “Memento Mori”. The crowd was modest in size, but Bernard didn’t mind. The fact that he got his novel out there said something to all of his haters: that he was here to stay despite being over three hundred pounds.

Mr. Hamm looked the part of a professional author in his beige polo shirt, black slacks, and thick-rimmed glasses. He also felt like one when his massive autographing hand was getting tired. He gripped his wrist and rolled his hand around as if that would give him any circulation. He had to put his exhausted paw to use once again when he wagged a finger at a teenaged girl trying to take pictures of him, to which she apologized and walked off.

One person Bernard kept his eye on was a caramel-skinned man with puffy black hair and a white tank top. The familiar figure kept looking at his dying cell phone and cursing loudly, to which the librarians had to shush him. Bernard shook his head and continued singing autographs until the last of the small crowd had dispersed for the day. The tubby author clutched his wrist and rolled his hand around some more. He even opened and closed his fingers while the puffy-haired gentleman asked the clerk loudly for internet access.

Not wanting to draw attention to himself, Bernard kept his eyes down and fiddled with his hands some more, a sure sign that anxiety was building within him. Maybe it was time to get the hell out of this library for the day. But first, Bernard cracked both of his wrists and popped his fingers, as if this would alleviate some of his nervousness. He also took deep breaths due to his heart racing inside his massive body. Just get up and walk casually out the door.

“Barney-Boy? Is that you, buddy?” said the loudmouth from across the library. The shit-eating grin on his face put a saggy frown on Bernard’s. “Remember me, big man?” said the man as he approached the author’s booth. “It’s your boy, Diego Martinez! We used to go to school together! Holy shit, man! You ain’t changed one bit, buddy!”

“Some things never do,” said Bernard with his chin shamefully tucked against his chest.

“Holy shit, I gotta get a picture of this. This is gonna go live, man! You’re gonna be famous!” said Diego as he pulled out his cell phone. “I still got some juice left. How did that happen? Let’s snap a few of these bad boys!”

“Put the phone away, Diego. I don’t allow pictures at my book signings,” said Bernard with a lack of conviction, still keeping the shameful look on his pudgy face.

“Hey, it’s a free country, man. I’ll take a picture of whatever I want. Besides, you want people to buy whatever the fuck you wrote, right? Well, you gotta put yourself out there, big man,” said Diego before snapping the first few pictures and yelling “OH!”

“Put the goddamn phone away and stop taking pictures of me! Don’t you have any respect for privacy?” said Bernard as his tone grew more aggressive with his sausage fingers clenched.

“Man, you ain’t gonna get no sales sitting behind a booth all day. Trust me, buddy, you need those sales for some kind of gym membership or something,” said Diego while snapping more pictures.

Bernard’s chubby cheeks were burning bright pink. His short fingernails dug into his palms. Sweat poured from his face like a rainstorm with plenty of thunderclouds. “I’m going to count to five. If you don’t put that goddamn phone away, I’m going to bend you over this booth and shove it up your ass!”

“Man, why the fuck do you care about stupid shit like that? That bullying business was a long time ago. Ain’t nobody gonna care if you’re a big guy. Your doctor might, but I don’t think anyone else will. Seriously, man, I’m doing you a favor. You need some motivation or something,” said Diego while once again snapping photos with the frequency of a machinegun.

“That’s it!” shouted Bernard as he bulldozed the booth and charged at Diego, who was too busy playing the role of paparazzi to notice the three hundred pound juggernaut was ready to strike. Diego snapped out of his Face Book-addicted trance long enough to feel boa constrictor fingers around his throat.

Everyone around the library went from anxious ignorance to fleeing panic, screaming as they ran away rather than doing something to help Diego. The librarian behind the desk fumbled with the phone cradle as she punched three familiar numbers. Her speech was reduced to stuttering gibberish as she fearfully related the incident over the phone.

As the purple-faced Diego was on his knees trying to pry Bernard’s fingers loose, the heavy hitter bellowed, “I told you not to take any fucking pictures, you stupid son of a bitch! I don’t like being fat! I don’t like being bullied online! I don’t like…!”

The fading Diego used the last of his strength to uppercut Bernard in the balls, forcing him to release the chokehold and stumble on the ground holding his family jewels. The wannabe photographer rolled on his side and coughed up a conservative amount of blood before taking labored breaths in and out that felt like swallowing knives.

As soon as he got an adequate amount of oxygen in his lungs, Diego pointed his finger at the downed Bernard and said, “You know what? I tried to help you! I tried to put the good word out there! I tried to help you get some motivation to get your fat ass off the couch! Now I’m gonna sue your ass!” He pointed at the shivering librarian and said, “You’re gonna be my witness!”

The librarian crouched down on the floor in the fetal positions and stuttered, “I…I can’t do that, Mr. Martinez. I…I just…I can’t!”

Diego leapt to his feet and sucked down a whirlwind of precious oxygen. “You saw what that fat fucker did to me! You’d better cooperate! I’ll sue this whole damn library if I have to! What’re you guys good for anyways?!” He slowly stalked the cowering librarian like a tiger on a wounded animal. “You think either you or this fat bastard over here are gonna get famous with books?! Nobody cares about books no more! I came in here to get some free internet and you’re gonna give it to me, bitch!”

Bernard held onto a nearby bookshelf to try and pull himself to his feet, but he kept his legs crossed due to the searing pain in his balls. He fell over on his side and watched Diego hold a hand up like he was going to slap the librarian for not doing her job. Mr. Martinez shouted, “Come on, little lady! Be a woman! Do what I tell you!”

Bernard got on his hands and knees in another attempt to pull himself up, but he fell over once again, the pain in his groin too much. Diego’s shouting turned into a cacophony of gibberish, which meant the corpulent author was fading into darkness. He heard the sound of skin slapping skin and that was enough to wake him up in a burning rage.

He slowly stood up while trying to ignore the pain in his nuts. Diego was a blur from where he was standing, but he was enough of a clear shape for Bernard to unleash his pent up anger. So many times he’d been called out for being fat. So many times he was called a loser. So many girls refused to go on dates with him. Those that did ended up doing it on a dare. And now this piece of shit known as Diego Martinez was going to bring those nightmares back to life like a necromantic apocalypse.

Bernard grabbed a hardcover book off of the shelf and tried to focus his eyes on Diego, who was screaming more gibberish and slapping the librarian in short bursts. The good thing about being this massive was that it gave Bernard a liberal amount of strength. He raised the book over his head while the pain in his nuts got hotter. Even with a testicle injury, Bernard threw the hardcover book and dropped to his knees in pain.

He heard a loud thud before his vision became somewhat dark. The last thing he remembered hearing was the sound of a body dropping on the floor. Even with blurry eyes opening halfway, that hairdo of Diego Martinez was unmistakable. Even little spots of red danced across Bernard’s eyes.

The hardcover book found its mark: right in the back of Diego’s head. Why lift weights when the strength was already there? Why change who he was when his inner strength was more impressive than his physical strength? Bernard would have loved to tell Diego that, but both men were too unconscious to have a real conversation.

The next couple of days were a blur for Bernard Hamm. He spent some of that time in the hospital and was too sedated to remember it all. He stayed at home recuperating and dreaded getting out of bed one morning because his computer was right there. With computers came internet service. With internet service came trolls. With trolls came pictures snapped by Diego’s phone.

Bernard’s stomach was in more knots than a hangman’s rope, which he was certain he needed once this day was over. How many days had it been since the incident in the library? Two? Three? Seven? Surely that amount of time was long enough for a few fat pictures to circulate.

The author slumped out of bed, but slowly, not only to help him recover, but also to delay having to see the inevitable. He sat down at his desk with ease and powered on his computer. As the machine was booting up, so was the cold feeling in his veins and the ill feeling in his stomach. He broke out in an icy sweat and took note of his rapidly beating heart. And then the computer was fully functional.

Bernard took labored breaths before opening Google Chrome and checking his Amazon page. Sure enough, the trolls had come out from under their bridges. One-star reviews, fat jokes until the end of time, and Photoshopped pictures of Bernard as Jabba the Hutt from Star Wars. Tears welled up in the author’s eyes as he grabbed a nearby tissue and blew his wide nose.

What he saw next brought even more waterfalls to his sore eyes: five-star reviews to counteract the one-star hits, book sales doubling, and comments about Bernard Hamm’s heroism in the library when he knocked out Diego Martinez long enough for the cops to take the obnoxious punk to jail.

Bernard’s chest was soaked with tears and snot. He couldn’t blow his nose fast enough to keep all of the emotion from flowing out of him. For every Diego Martinez in this world, there was an angel from the heavens. For every anti-fat bigot, there was a beautiful soul. For every poorly-spelled message on an internet board, there was a copy of “Memento Mori” sitting on a bookshelf waiting to be read. For the first time in Bernard Hamm’s life, he was free.

Mom's Knee Surgery

***MOM’S KNEE SURGERY***

A lot of my friends and family members are asking about this, so I’m going to use this journal entry as an opportunity to answer those lingering questions. This past Tuesday morning, my mom had surgery on her left knee. This operation had been a long time coming since she was always having trouble walking around, especially when it came to climbing stairs. There was even a time during our Hawaiian vacation back in October where she had to be pushed around in a wheelchair to get to our flights on time.

Dale and I visited Mom in the hospital yesterday and she was in good spirits. She said that the surgery wasn’t anywhere near as bad as she thought it was going to be and that she would recover quickly and uneventfully. The whole operation took an hour and half and she was up and walking by herself a short time later. She had to use a walking device that we borrowed from our next door neighbors Bill and Chris and it turned out to be a huge help in her getting around. I can’t thank my neighbors enough for their undying support.

Earlier today, Mom came home with Dale doing the driving. Mom isn’t allowed to drive for at least six weeks while her knee heals. She’s also going to need to take Vicodin in case her pain flares up. I personally would have suggested medical marijuana since it’s legal in Washington state, but I’m pretty sure it’s a banned substance when it comes to receiving social security benefits. Oh well. Mom is a fighter when it comes to hardships. She survived the remodeling of two houses in 2016, one in North Carolina and one on our own home. She also survived a rat infestation which has her traumatized for life. At 69 years old, she still has a lot to give in this life. If she needs hair fuzzles and shoulder rubs along the way, I’m more than happy to give them to her.

Tomorrow morning, she begins physical therapy to rehab her knee. I’ve had physical therapy before when I had to tighten my left labrum back in place, so if she needs encouragement or experience, she can turn to me. Yes, the exercises can be excruciating sometimes (especially for a 69-year-old woman), but all of the hard work will be worth it in the end. We have a Mexican cruise planned in March, so she’ll have plenty of time to get her knee ready for some fun in the sun. I’d love to see Mom swimming around with manta rays and turtles like we did when we were in Hawaii in 2010.

Just like with any physical setback, the road to recovery is going to take some time and hard work. My mom has been through a lot in her lifetime, so doing physical therapy exercises isn’t at the top of the list when it comes to hardships. She can get through this. I know she can. She’ll have all of us to cheer her on. And then when she comes home for the day, she can fall asleep in her rocking chair with a kitty on her lap and Bones on TV. I always rib her for being a stereotypical old lady who falls asleep in her chair, but it’s all in good fun. To be honest, she’s earned her right to snooze and snore for as long as she wants to. She’s a wonderful mother and I wouldn’t trade her for the world.

If you want to wish my mom a speedy recovery, then you can do so in this blog entry. Thanks in advance! We’ve got ears, say cheers!


***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTESTS AND COMPANY***

The new contest started yesterday and the theme will be “Brand New”. When I posted this synopsis on Good Reads, I already had someone say they could relate to the main character (Bernard). Let’s hope he can keep relating when I actually write the story. It’s called “A Picture Is Worth a Thousand Swear Words” and it goes like this:


CHARACTERS:

1. Bernard Hamm, Corpulent Author
2. Diego Martinez, Obnoxious Photographer

PROMPT CONFORMITY: Bernard’s debut novel could be considered brand new.

SYNOPSIS: Bernard’s debut novel was just published and he’s promoting it at a local bookstore by signing free copies. His only request is that nobody takes pictures of him due to his self-consciousness about his weight and general appearance. Diego completely dishonors Bernard’s request by pulling out his smart phone and taking unwanted selfies with him. Diego justifies his forceful photography by saying the author owes it to his fans and that this is a free country. Bernard becomes increasingly angry with the intrusive picture taking and attempts to strangle Diego with his own bare hands. Diego goes so far as to threaten a lawsuit against his attacker, but Bernard doesn’t care.

FUN FACT: This story is inspired by an incident that happened to Amy Schumer a few years ago when an obsessive fan took unwanted pictures of her in South Carolina. Now Miss Schumer won’t allow pictures of any kind because of what happened.


***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

Up next on the chopping block is Casey Carter, the creepy undertaker from “Having a Cold One”. Come to think of it, there aren’t really any heroes in that story. It’s just two villains fighting over a dead body, but for different and often disturbing reasons. I already did a drawing of the other character in that story, Jay David, so Casey Carter was naturally next.


***MOVIE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

CUSTOMER: Cute cat. What’s his name?

RANDAL: Annoying Customer.

CUSTOMER: Fucking dickhead!

-Clerks-