MOVIE TITLE: Obselidia
DIRECTOR: Diane Bell
YEAR: 2010
GENRE: Drama
RATING: PG-13 for language
GRADE: Pass
George is a librarian who moonlights as a cataloguist for obsolete and nostalgic items, all of which he hopes to document for a book he’s putting together. He even goes so far as to believe love is obsolete and therefore leads the lonely life of being single. When he meets a beautiful projectionist named Sophie, she tries to get him to come out of his shell as the two of them venture to Death Valley to interview a climate change scientist for George’s book. The ideas of love and the apocalypse collide in a debate about how we should spend our last minutes on earth if they truly are that. Will George live the rest of his life in isolation or will he believe in the power of love humans can give each other? Does he have anything in his heart for Sophie?
The three major themes of this movie (living life to the fullest, romance, and nostalgia) intertwine perfectly with each other as they try to bring George and Sophie together as a romantic couple. With nostalgia, they bond over how the past used to be a happy and simpler time, when technology wasn’t going berserk and people paid attention to each other. With living life to the fullest, they get hard hitting cynicism from the climate change scientist who believes all happy experiences will be erased because of humankind’s sins against the earth. With romance, it’s the classic tale of a socially awkward guy like George shying away from a flirtatious girl like Sophie. With the scientist feeding him all of this negativity, George has to struggle to believe in the power of love when Sophie tries to get in his social bubble.
Near the end of the movie, we ask ourselves if George’s struggle to suppress his inner negativity is worth it. While he does realize how the power of love can make someone happy, he also realizes how it can break his heart. While I won’t give away any spoilers, I will say that Sophie does break George’s heart in the end and he’s sobbing to himself in the comfort of his own home looking at pictures of their vacation together in Death Valley. That is such a powerful image that the audience watching has no choice but to question their own capacity for romantic love. This may not have been the message the movie was trying to send, but to my way of thinking, in this 50-50 bet between happiness and heartache, I was leaning towards heartache. I was so heartbroken and touched by the movie’s end that I spent the rest of the night listening to Seether’s cover of Wham’s “Careless Whisper”.
The best part about this movie is that it encourages the audience to ask questions instead of mindlessly conforming to a singular principal. If the world ends tomorrow, how will we spend our last hours on earth? Is romantic love worth all the struggles or does it lead to easy cynicism? Should we all love each other before it truly is indeed too late? Should we have as many experiences as we can despite the huge risk attached to them? Finding the answers to these questions takes a lot of courage and living with the answers is even scarier than that. Some people become so saddened by the answers that they resort to isolation or even worse, suicide. In the end, positivity will save us. It will get us through the hardships whether they’re in a personal relationship or part of a global crisis. If you’re going to attempt to answer these questions, make sure you do it without regret. Otherwise, temporary heartache will feel like permanent torture.
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“I love the way that your heart breaks with every injustice and deadly fate.”
-Flyleaf singing “Again”-
Tuesday, March 24, 2015
Tyler Cutty
NAME: Tyler Cutty
AGE: Immortal
OCCUPATION: Mummy Serial Killer
CANON: World of Darkness: Washington 2
You’re looking at Tyler Cutty’s occupation and are probably wondering if he’s goes around randomly killing mummies or if he’s a mummy who happens to also be a serial killer. The latter is what I was trying to imply. But why is an ancient Egyptian creature running around with the name Tyler? Cleopatra, Ramses, Xerxes, and now Tyler. Such progression, I know. Evolution couldn’t have come up with a better byproduct than a fucking American mummy named Tyler! With his invincible undead body and a sword bigger than he is, it’s more believable than it sounds.
Although the second installment of World of Darkness: Washington never came to fruition, the first one was a real thing at one point and now it’s digital dust. The idea behind each WOD:WA story is that three different kinds of undead creatures are tracked in three different cities in Washington state, my current home. In the first novel, mummies lived in Bellingham, vampires lived in Seattle, werewolves lived in Chehalis, and they all congregated to start life over again in Aberdeen.
In the second novel, which would have been Tyler’s home, mummies, vampires, werewolves, and hunters lived in Tacoma, demons lived in Port Orchard, and changelings lived in Purdy. Although Tyler is a mummy to the core, he would actually be a part of the third act in Purdy with the changelings.
If you’ve never been to Purdy before, don’t forget to bring your blanket and pillow; you’re going to need them in such a boring backwoods area. Purdy is so boring, in fact, that it’s a perfect place for a serial killer like Tyler Cutty to take residence. Nobody would ever think to look for him there. Granted, he has to actually go out and venture into the bigger cities to look for victims, but he’s more than capable of doing that, because he looks completely normal riding a city bus in his mummy wrap.
Unfortunately, because WOD:WA2 never got realized, Tyler Cutty never got developed past his name, race, and occupation. All we know about mummies from the first novel is that they become those creatures by allowing magical wrappings to snake around their bodies and turn their innards to dust. The only way to kill a mummy, as pointed out by Egyptologist Dr. Shawn Phoenix, is by cutting at their wrappings with a 12-inch knife. No more, no less. Only a knife of that length could ever possess the combination of strength and precision necessary to perform such a surgical strike.
Dr. Shawn Phoenix got the shit kicked out of him in the first novel, so those who actually know the 12-inch blade secret are few and far between, and they’re certainly not out in Tyler Cutty’s part of Washington state. Which means of course that Tyler is free to either slowly torture his victims by ripping their limbs off or slash them to bloody pieces with his oversized sword, which is far more than 12 inches, I can assure you that. If you’re a changeling, which is basically a kind of faerie in World of Darkness terms, how do you stop a guy with infinite strength and sadistic urges to back it up? You might be able to do it if you found out about the 12-inch secret, but even if you did, you still have to be a better fighter than a super powerful mummy. Good luck, little fairies!
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“Maybe I should let her go, but not until she loves me.”
-Slipknot singing “Killpop”-
AGE: Immortal
OCCUPATION: Mummy Serial Killer
CANON: World of Darkness: Washington 2
You’re looking at Tyler Cutty’s occupation and are probably wondering if he’s goes around randomly killing mummies or if he’s a mummy who happens to also be a serial killer. The latter is what I was trying to imply. But why is an ancient Egyptian creature running around with the name Tyler? Cleopatra, Ramses, Xerxes, and now Tyler. Such progression, I know. Evolution couldn’t have come up with a better byproduct than a fucking American mummy named Tyler! With his invincible undead body and a sword bigger than he is, it’s more believable than it sounds.
Although the second installment of World of Darkness: Washington never came to fruition, the first one was a real thing at one point and now it’s digital dust. The idea behind each WOD:WA story is that three different kinds of undead creatures are tracked in three different cities in Washington state, my current home. In the first novel, mummies lived in Bellingham, vampires lived in Seattle, werewolves lived in Chehalis, and they all congregated to start life over again in Aberdeen.
In the second novel, which would have been Tyler’s home, mummies, vampires, werewolves, and hunters lived in Tacoma, demons lived in Port Orchard, and changelings lived in Purdy. Although Tyler is a mummy to the core, he would actually be a part of the third act in Purdy with the changelings.
If you’ve never been to Purdy before, don’t forget to bring your blanket and pillow; you’re going to need them in such a boring backwoods area. Purdy is so boring, in fact, that it’s a perfect place for a serial killer like Tyler Cutty to take residence. Nobody would ever think to look for him there. Granted, he has to actually go out and venture into the bigger cities to look for victims, but he’s more than capable of doing that, because he looks completely normal riding a city bus in his mummy wrap.
Unfortunately, because WOD:WA2 never got realized, Tyler Cutty never got developed past his name, race, and occupation. All we know about mummies from the first novel is that they become those creatures by allowing magical wrappings to snake around their bodies and turn their innards to dust. The only way to kill a mummy, as pointed out by Egyptologist Dr. Shawn Phoenix, is by cutting at their wrappings with a 12-inch knife. No more, no less. Only a knife of that length could ever possess the combination of strength and precision necessary to perform such a surgical strike.
Dr. Shawn Phoenix got the shit kicked out of him in the first novel, so those who actually know the 12-inch blade secret are few and far between, and they’re certainly not out in Tyler Cutty’s part of Washington state. Which means of course that Tyler is free to either slowly torture his victims by ripping their limbs off or slash them to bloody pieces with his oversized sword, which is far more than 12 inches, I can assure you that. If you’re a changeling, which is basically a kind of faerie in World of Darkness terms, how do you stop a guy with infinite strength and sadistic urges to back it up? You might be able to do it if you found out about the 12-inch secret, but even if you did, you still have to be a better fighter than a super powerful mummy. Good luck, little fairies!
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“Maybe I should let her go, but not until she loves me.”
-Slipknot singing “Killpop”-
The Franciscan Death Scream
There’s been speculation among every psychic my mother has visited that in a past lives I was always a warrior of some kind. It could have been a barbarian in the dark ages or a marine in Vietnam. I’d say those assessments are true to the fullest extent, especially as they relate to battle cries. Well, these days, the only battle cries I let out are ones where I’m in an extreme amount of pain. You want to know how I define an extreme amount of pain? Stepping on a thumb tack. Banging my elbow against the wall. Banging my head on the roof of a short car. With the way I scream loudly and whiningly in pain, you would have sworn I’d broken a bone or had a limb amputated. But that’s the price of being autistic: high sensitivity to everything, including the most insignificant kind of pain.
My blood draw in 2006 at the Franciscan Hospital in Gig Harbor, Washington was no different. I had to have one because it was part of my physical checkup. Just because I had to have one, didn’t mean I had to particularly enjoy it. Needles are sharp. Sharpness creates pain. Pain creates death screams that make me sound like I’m being fed through a wood chipper or being cut in half crotch first with a chainsaw. I don’t know why people say that needles aren’t a big deal. They’re always going to be sharp and they’re always going to hurt whether they’re drawing blood or threading yarn through a piece of cloth.
My blood draw went exactly how I expected it would. I sat in a chair that looked like it belonged in a dentist’s office. The anxiety in my stomach builds. The nurse tied a rubber tourniquet around my upper arm. The anxiety in my stomach builds even further and now I start making little whining noises. The nurse tells me to look away as if that’s going to help ease the pain. It didn’t matter where I was looking, because the end result was having a bastard sword-like needle plunged into my arm.
As to be expected, I let out a blood-curdling death scream. It was loud. It was throaty. It was slightly girlish. It was like being a female lion in an extreme amount of pain. Apparently, there were frightened little kids in the waiting room who ran upstairs after hearing my shriek of agony and their parents ran after them. Any stragglers would have hurried up after hearing me cry, “Take the needle out! Take the needle out!” The nurse did and I let out another bellow of berserker pain.
Ever since that day, anytime I go to that hospital in Gig Harbor, the nurses and doctors always expect me to scream. They make no attempt to silence me, unlike my mother whose favorite line is always, “There’s no yelling.” Oh, but there is. There is and there always will be, dear mother. There was screaming when I had to have my big toes operated on for ingrown nails, there was screaming when I had to have my foot examined after a cat bite, and there’s even screaming at my eye doctor appointments in Port Orchard when he puts stinging drops in my eyes for a glaucoma test.
Unless my mother is considering a career as a dominatrix, there will be no silence anywhere we go. If we go on another horseback ride in Arizona, my groin and legs are going to hurt so badly that I’ll yell as if they’re being blasted with an AK-47. If my computer malfunctions at home or if a WWE pay-per-view on my Roku freezes up, I’m going to scream and swear at either one until my blood pressure is in the 300’s and my pulse is in the 1000’s.
Three things are certain in my mother’s life as well as the life of anybody who lives with me: death, taxes, and barbaric war cries. The only thing I’m missing is a horned helmet and a double-sided battleaxe. Of course, carrying such a heavy weapon would cause strain and strain causes even more shrills of extreme pain. I’ve got the barbaric ethos down to a science and I haven’t even swung my weapon yet (and I’m not sure I will be able to).
***COMMERCIAL DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***
GUY: I’m eating right and staying in shape. I’ve been doing the Duck Dodger.
GIRL: What’s the Duck Dodger?
GUY: It’s like a triathlon, but with dodge balls.
GIRL: Do they leave a mark?
GUY: Not on the outside.
-Subway-
My blood draw in 2006 at the Franciscan Hospital in Gig Harbor, Washington was no different. I had to have one because it was part of my physical checkup. Just because I had to have one, didn’t mean I had to particularly enjoy it. Needles are sharp. Sharpness creates pain. Pain creates death screams that make me sound like I’m being fed through a wood chipper or being cut in half crotch first with a chainsaw. I don’t know why people say that needles aren’t a big deal. They’re always going to be sharp and they’re always going to hurt whether they’re drawing blood or threading yarn through a piece of cloth.
My blood draw went exactly how I expected it would. I sat in a chair that looked like it belonged in a dentist’s office. The anxiety in my stomach builds. The nurse tied a rubber tourniquet around my upper arm. The anxiety in my stomach builds even further and now I start making little whining noises. The nurse tells me to look away as if that’s going to help ease the pain. It didn’t matter where I was looking, because the end result was having a bastard sword-like needle plunged into my arm.
As to be expected, I let out a blood-curdling death scream. It was loud. It was throaty. It was slightly girlish. It was like being a female lion in an extreme amount of pain. Apparently, there were frightened little kids in the waiting room who ran upstairs after hearing my shriek of agony and their parents ran after them. Any stragglers would have hurried up after hearing me cry, “Take the needle out! Take the needle out!” The nurse did and I let out another bellow of berserker pain.
Ever since that day, anytime I go to that hospital in Gig Harbor, the nurses and doctors always expect me to scream. They make no attempt to silence me, unlike my mother whose favorite line is always, “There’s no yelling.” Oh, but there is. There is and there always will be, dear mother. There was screaming when I had to have my big toes operated on for ingrown nails, there was screaming when I had to have my foot examined after a cat bite, and there’s even screaming at my eye doctor appointments in Port Orchard when he puts stinging drops in my eyes for a glaucoma test.
Unless my mother is considering a career as a dominatrix, there will be no silence anywhere we go. If we go on another horseback ride in Arizona, my groin and legs are going to hurt so badly that I’ll yell as if they’re being blasted with an AK-47. If my computer malfunctions at home or if a WWE pay-per-view on my Roku freezes up, I’m going to scream and swear at either one until my blood pressure is in the 300’s and my pulse is in the 1000’s.
Three things are certain in my mother’s life as well as the life of anybody who lives with me: death, taxes, and barbaric war cries. The only thing I’m missing is a horned helmet and a double-sided battleaxe. Of course, carrying such a heavy weapon would cause strain and strain causes even more shrills of extreme pain. I’ve got the barbaric ethos down to a science and I haven’t even swung my weapon yet (and I’m not sure I will be able to).
***COMMERCIAL DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***
GUY: I’m eating right and staying in shape. I’ve been doing the Duck Dodger.
GIRL: What’s the Duck Dodger?
GUY: It’s like a triathlon, but with dodge balls.
GIRL: Do they leave a mark?
GUY: Not on the outside.
-Subway-
Tuesday, March 17, 2015
"War Dances" by Sherman Alexie
BOOK TITLE: War Dances
AUTHOR: Sherman Alexie
YEAR: 2009
GENRE: Short Stories and Poetry
SUBGENRE: Dramatic Comedy
GRADE: Pass
On multiple occasions, Sherman Alexie has been described as an author who can make his audience members laugh and cry at the same time. To do such a thing takes the kind of talent only seen in a Pulitzer winner such as him. In this short story and poetry collection, the reader bears witness to stories about a homophobic senator’s son, an adulterous used clothes salesman, a young obituary writer, a creatively stifled screenwriter, and many more that end either tragically or only with a small shred of hope remaining. I as a reader haven’t cried since 2007 and came very close to breaking my record upon reading “War Dances”.
One of the ways in which Sherman Alexie infuses comedy into his depressing stories is through his narrative style. When he writes, he sounds like he’s physically talking to his audience with the energy and pop culture references of a motivational speaker. Trust me, you’re going to need all the energy you can muster up if you’re going to make it through this book without bursting into a waterfall of tears.
And since the pop culture references (along with the elitist culture references) bring about an energetic writing style, these references could only work within topics that were equally interesting to write about. These topics could be deep and meaningful such as race relations or grieving after death. Then again, they could also be as out of the blue as a short-lived romance or the mix tapes used to woo that special someone. Because this book is a collection of stories and poems instead of a whole novel, there’s going to be a massive variety of topics swirling into the pool of words that is War Dances.
Choosing one story from this book to call a favorite would be like choosing one limb to keep after being tortured and butchered. This choice might not be a “favorite” in the traditional sense of the word, but it is the one that strikes the biggest chord with me. It’s called “Fearful Symmetry” and it is about an author who tries to create artistic literature in Hollywood with his screenplays, but keeps having his work altered in sacrilegious ways by the director.
The writer wanted to create a William Blake-esque story from a real life account of firefighters escaping from a wall of flame in the forest. The director wanted to make it sexy and violent and that didn’t sit well with the writer. The writer was eventually fired and lost his creative urge in that crushing blow. This story pulls at my heartstrings because being a screenwriter was something I originally wanted to do as I was getting my English degree at Western Washington University. After reading “Fearful Symmetry”, I was grateful that the screenwriting ambitions never materialized. I wouldn’t want my own work scrutinized by someone with cheap creativity and enough power to force his vision on everyone.
I’ve been a fan of Sherman Alexie ever since reading “The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian”. At first it was all about fast pacing to me since I was a slow reader with low eye endurance. Now my enjoyment of his writings is about so much more than that. It’s about emotional connections. It’s about having a favorite author I can always count on to come through for me. I know of many authors who are like that, but none of them will ever take the place of Sherman Alexie. A passing grade is what this book shall get.
AUTHOR: Sherman Alexie
YEAR: 2009
GENRE: Short Stories and Poetry
SUBGENRE: Dramatic Comedy
GRADE: Pass
On multiple occasions, Sherman Alexie has been described as an author who can make his audience members laugh and cry at the same time. To do such a thing takes the kind of talent only seen in a Pulitzer winner such as him. In this short story and poetry collection, the reader bears witness to stories about a homophobic senator’s son, an adulterous used clothes salesman, a young obituary writer, a creatively stifled screenwriter, and many more that end either tragically or only with a small shred of hope remaining. I as a reader haven’t cried since 2007 and came very close to breaking my record upon reading “War Dances”.
One of the ways in which Sherman Alexie infuses comedy into his depressing stories is through his narrative style. When he writes, he sounds like he’s physically talking to his audience with the energy and pop culture references of a motivational speaker. Trust me, you’re going to need all the energy you can muster up if you’re going to make it through this book without bursting into a waterfall of tears.
And since the pop culture references (along with the elitist culture references) bring about an energetic writing style, these references could only work within topics that were equally interesting to write about. These topics could be deep and meaningful such as race relations or grieving after death. Then again, they could also be as out of the blue as a short-lived romance or the mix tapes used to woo that special someone. Because this book is a collection of stories and poems instead of a whole novel, there’s going to be a massive variety of topics swirling into the pool of words that is War Dances.
Choosing one story from this book to call a favorite would be like choosing one limb to keep after being tortured and butchered. This choice might not be a “favorite” in the traditional sense of the word, but it is the one that strikes the biggest chord with me. It’s called “Fearful Symmetry” and it is about an author who tries to create artistic literature in Hollywood with his screenplays, but keeps having his work altered in sacrilegious ways by the director.
The writer wanted to create a William Blake-esque story from a real life account of firefighters escaping from a wall of flame in the forest. The director wanted to make it sexy and violent and that didn’t sit well with the writer. The writer was eventually fired and lost his creative urge in that crushing blow. This story pulls at my heartstrings because being a screenwriter was something I originally wanted to do as I was getting my English degree at Western Washington University. After reading “Fearful Symmetry”, I was grateful that the screenwriting ambitions never materialized. I wouldn’t want my own work scrutinized by someone with cheap creativity and enough power to force his vision on everyone.
I’ve been a fan of Sherman Alexie ever since reading “The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian”. At first it was all about fast pacing to me since I was a slow reader with low eye endurance. Now my enjoyment of his writings is about so much more than that. It’s about emotional connections. It’s about having a favorite author I can always count on to come through for me. I know of many authors who are like that, but none of them will ever take the place of Sherman Alexie. A passing grade is what this book shall get.
Tuesday, March 10, 2015
Chris Hammer
NAME: Chris Hammer
AGE: 43
OCCUPATION: Fitness Guru
CANON: Jumping Jackholes
If you’re ever feeling bad about how much you weigh or what your body looks like, the world’s biggest jerk-ass known as Chris Hammer will make you feel even worse as part of his motivational gimmick. He’s got muscles the size of pumpkins, veins the size of pipelines, blood flowing through his steroid stream, and more anger in his heart than the entire Westboro Baptist Church. Speaking of the latter, Chris Hammer hates fat people so much that he has become a venomous bigot. He might as well hold up a rainbow colored sign that says “God Hates Fats”.
The worst part about this nimrod? He has his own TV show. That’s right, folks. People desperate to lose weight actually turn on their tubes and listen to a full hour of Chris Hammer screaming anti-fat slurs at them while doing exercises that are ridiculously hard even for the physically fit. Because he’s so disgustingly strong, he can do things like move boulders, do jumping jacks while carrying cannonballs, do pushups with fat customers on his back, and run a mile in less than ten seconds. His only response: “What’s your excuse?” And if you don’t have an excuse, relax, because he’ll put it all into perspective for you. In a thunderous voice, he’ll threaten to give your food away to hungry children in Africa because you’re fat enough to have a heart attack any minute now.
The best way to deal with this prick would be to punch him in the mouth, right? Well, part of being muscular is having a high tolerance for pain. Plus, Chris Hammer just happens to have a chiseled jaw, so you would probably break your fist before you broke his face. What about firepower? Are you so desperate to see this guy killed that you need to arm yourself with pistols and shotguns? Maybe even rocket launchers? Once again, the rocket shell would turn to shrapnel before Chris Hammer turned to fire and ashes. Due to this guy’s indestructibility, he has a complex that makes him feel entitled to belittle others because he has everything going for him.
Know any celebrities like that? I can name a few off the top of my head right now. Donald Trump comes to mind. He has so much money that he can manipulate the odds when he’s suing other people for even more money. Mel Gibson is next on deck. He has so much celebrity status that he believes he’s entitled to scream at his wife or girlfriend, maybe even beat her. Phil Robertson is yet another example. Because he has his own TV show and immerses himself in Christian culture every damn second of his life, he believes he is entitled to use homophobic slurs without facing backlash. Donald Trump, Mel Gibson, and Phil Robertson are nothing more than prototypes for Chris Hammer, yet another guy who uses his power to oppress others.
The last time I wrote something as bold as Jumping Jackholes, it was 2012 and I was desperate for novella ideas. And because 2012 was an uneducated year for me, I firmly believed back then that hyperbolic descriptions and unbelievable endings were acceptable. Now we come to today’s world where Jumping Jackholes has been deleted from my archives and this asshole Complete Monster Chris Hammer is left without employment. Normally, using Complete Monsters is a bad thing because it disenfranchises the reader. But just like Mary-Sues, Gary-Stus, and any other character who’s labeled with a literary slur, Complete Monsters come in all shapes and colors. If Chris Hammer gets used again, I will definitely take my fitness frustrations out on him.
***WRESTLING QUOTE OF THE DAY***
“What’s wrong with you, Jamie Noble? Are you upset with me because people actually know who I am? Or is it because unlike you, I can get on all the rides at Disneyland? Don’t worry, Jamie, my six-year-old daughter feels the same way.”
-Randy Orton-
AGE: 43
OCCUPATION: Fitness Guru
CANON: Jumping Jackholes
If you’re ever feeling bad about how much you weigh or what your body looks like, the world’s biggest jerk-ass known as Chris Hammer will make you feel even worse as part of his motivational gimmick. He’s got muscles the size of pumpkins, veins the size of pipelines, blood flowing through his steroid stream, and more anger in his heart than the entire Westboro Baptist Church. Speaking of the latter, Chris Hammer hates fat people so much that he has become a venomous bigot. He might as well hold up a rainbow colored sign that says “God Hates Fats”.
The worst part about this nimrod? He has his own TV show. That’s right, folks. People desperate to lose weight actually turn on their tubes and listen to a full hour of Chris Hammer screaming anti-fat slurs at them while doing exercises that are ridiculously hard even for the physically fit. Because he’s so disgustingly strong, he can do things like move boulders, do jumping jacks while carrying cannonballs, do pushups with fat customers on his back, and run a mile in less than ten seconds. His only response: “What’s your excuse?” And if you don’t have an excuse, relax, because he’ll put it all into perspective for you. In a thunderous voice, he’ll threaten to give your food away to hungry children in Africa because you’re fat enough to have a heart attack any minute now.
The best way to deal with this prick would be to punch him in the mouth, right? Well, part of being muscular is having a high tolerance for pain. Plus, Chris Hammer just happens to have a chiseled jaw, so you would probably break your fist before you broke his face. What about firepower? Are you so desperate to see this guy killed that you need to arm yourself with pistols and shotguns? Maybe even rocket launchers? Once again, the rocket shell would turn to shrapnel before Chris Hammer turned to fire and ashes. Due to this guy’s indestructibility, he has a complex that makes him feel entitled to belittle others because he has everything going for him.
Know any celebrities like that? I can name a few off the top of my head right now. Donald Trump comes to mind. He has so much money that he can manipulate the odds when he’s suing other people for even more money. Mel Gibson is next on deck. He has so much celebrity status that he believes he’s entitled to scream at his wife or girlfriend, maybe even beat her. Phil Robertson is yet another example. Because he has his own TV show and immerses himself in Christian culture every damn second of his life, he believes he is entitled to use homophobic slurs without facing backlash. Donald Trump, Mel Gibson, and Phil Robertson are nothing more than prototypes for Chris Hammer, yet another guy who uses his power to oppress others.
The last time I wrote something as bold as Jumping Jackholes, it was 2012 and I was desperate for novella ideas. And because 2012 was an uneducated year for me, I firmly believed back then that hyperbolic descriptions and unbelievable endings were acceptable. Now we come to today’s world where Jumping Jackholes has been deleted from my archives and this asshole Complete Monster Chris Hammer is left without employment. Normally, using Complete Monsters is a bad thing because it disenfranchises the reader. But just like Mary-Sues, Gary-Stus, and any other character who’s labeled with a literary slur, Complete Monsters come in all shapes and colors. If Chris Hammer gets used again, I will definitely take my fitness frustrations out on him.
***WRESTLING QUOTE OF THE DAY***
“What’s wrong with you, Jamie Noble? Are you upset with me because people actually know who I am? Or is it because unlike you, I can get on all the rides at Disneyland? Don’t worry, Jamie, my six-year-old daughter feels the same way.”
-Randy Orton-
Monday, March 9, 2015
UFC: Ronda Rousey vs. Alexis Davis
MATCH: Ronda Rousey vs. Alexis Davis for the former’s Women’s Bantamweight Championship
PROMOTION: Ultimate Fighting Championship
EVENT: UFC 175: Weidman vs. Machida
YEAR: 2014
RATING: TV-14 for violence
GRADE: Pass
If you’re a UFC fan and you’re looking to make some quick money in Las Vegas, you would be a fool not to bet in favor of Ronda Rousey. In case you’ve been living under a rock for the past few years, here’s the deal with this badass chick. She’s undefeated in mixed-martial arts. She’s the current UFC Bantamweight Champion. Every fight she’s been in with the exception of one has ended in the first round. She’s earned a shit-load of awards from the MMA community. She’s an Olympic bronze medalist in judo (her main fighting style). She has movie deals with the Expendables and Fast and Furious franchises. She’s hotter than hell. She has so much going for her that her list of achievements would easily become a novel if I spouted them off to you.
Her opponent for UFC 175 isn’t anybody to sneeze at either. She is Alexis Davis. To earn her shot at Ronda, Alexis had to defeat three badass chicks in succession, which isn’t easy to do by any stretch of the imagination. Those three badass chicks are Rosi Sexton, Liz Carmouche, and Jessica Eye, all three of which have been in MMA for a long time and could destroy anybody in the blink of an eye. Granted, she beat those three via decision, but the argument will always be made that decision victories show how much endurance a fighter has. Alexis Davis will need a ton of endurance if she wants a victory of Ronda Rousey.
And now the field is set for what is sure to be an epic confrontation between two demon slayers. It is the co-main event of the evening, so the pressure on both ladies is especially high. The minute referee Yves Lavigne starts the match, Ronda and Alexis don’t waste any time in engaging with each other.
They throw punches, kicks, knees, and live to tell about all of those shots. And then out of nowhere comes the beginning of the end for Alexis Davis: a judo hip toss to the mat, which is not only a hard landing, but also a squashing technique since all 135 lbs. of Ronda Rousey’s body comes crashing down on Alexis Davis’ chest. With her arms trapped, Alexis has nothing to defend herself against the Armageddon-style rain of fists that come pouring down on her forehead. After ten stiff shots, Alexis’ arms go limp and that’s when Yves Lavigne stops the fight and awards Ronda a knockout victory.
There are two things about Ronda’s victory that are particularly amazing. One, after Yves Lavigne pulled Ronda off of Alexis, the latter was grappling with him thinking the match was still going on. That’s right, folks: Alexis was so punch drunk that she mistook a bald elderly referee for a smoking hot blond chick. And Alexis was really holding on tightly until Yves Lavigne explained to her over and over again that the match was over and she was knocked out.
And then of course, there’s the biggest elephant in the room when it comes to Ronda’s eventual Performance of the Night award: the judo queen won in only 16 seconds in the first round. Think of all the things one could do in 16 seconds of his or her life: make a cup of coffee, sign an autograph, eat a candy bar, just basic stuff. You know what Ronda Rousey did in 16 seconds? She beat the living hell out of another badass chick.
If you’ve read my review of a WWE match between Daniel Bryan and Sheamus at Wrestlemania 28, you would have seen that it got a failing grade due to the shortness of it all. And yet, Ronda Rousey vs. Alexis Davis in the UFC gets a passing grade even though it was only 16 seconds long. It seems hypocritical on the surface, but it’s not. In the WWE, we as an audience expect a long and dazzling battle complete with acrobatics and stiff shots.
In the UFC, if someone gets a fast victory over a legitimate fighter, it’s not scripted; it’s goddamn incredible. If Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader had a light saber fight that only lasted 16 seconds, we would all be disappointed because Star Wars is fictional and the writers have all the leeway in the world to create a war between those two. UFC is as real as it gets. It’s not pretty. It’s not dazzling. It’s just honest hardcore violence.
The phrase “don’t blink” has become used to many times in sports that it’s considered a cliché. And yet, for this match, it’s so true that you need Clockwork Orange eye bracers to keep from missing a single part of the match. And speaking of which, if Alex De Large watched this match while undergoing aversion therapy, the brutal violence would send his body into shock. No nausea, no shaking, no dizziness, just cardiac arrest.
Thank you, Ronda Rousey for putting on a judo clinic and giving the audience another reason to cheer for you. Thanks for doing it again at UFC 183 by defeating Cat Zingano in 14 seconds with a straight arm bar. If you’re going to watch a Ronda Rousey fight these days, make sure your watch has a second hand on it.
PROMOTION: Ultimate Fighting Championship
EVENT: UFC 175: Weidman vs. Machida
YEAR: 2014
RATING: TV-14 for violence
GRADE: Pass
If you’re a UFC fan and you’re looking to make some quick money in Las Vegas, you would be a fool not to bet in favor of Ronda Rousey. In case you’ve been living under a rock for the past few years, here’s the deal with this badass chick. She’s undefeated in mixed-martial arts. She’s the current UFC Bantamweight Champion. Every fight she’s been in with the exception of one has ended in the first round. She’s earned a shit-load of awards from the MMA community. She’s an Olympic bronze medalist in judo (her main fighting style). She has movie deals with the Expendables and Fast and Furious franchises. She’s hotter than hell. She has so much going for her that her list of achievements would easily become a novel if I spouted them off to you.
Her opponent for UFC 175 isn’t anybody to sneeze at either. She is Alexis Davis. To earn her shot at Ronda, Alexis had to defeat three badass chicks in succession, which isn’t easy to do by any stretch of the imagination. Those three badass chicks are Rosi Sexton, Liz Carmouche, and Jessica Eye, all three of which have been in MMA for a long time and could destroy anybody in the blink of an eye. Granted, she beat those three via decision, but the argument will always be made that decision victories show how much endurance a fighter has. Alexis Davis will need a ton of endurance if she wants a victory of Ronda Rousey.
And now the field is set for what is sure to be an epic confrontation between two demon slayers. It is the co-main event of the evening, so the pressure on both ladies is especially high. The minute referee Yves Lavigne starts the match, Ronda and Alexis don’t waste any time in engaging with each other.
They throw punches, kicks, knees, and live to tell about all of those shots. And then out of nowhere comes the beginning of the end for Alexis Davis: a judo hip toss to the mat, which is not only a hard landing, but also a squashing technique since all 135 lbs. of Ronda Rousey’s body comes crashing down on Alexis Davis’ chest. With her arms trapped, Alexis has nothing to defend herself against the Armageddon-style rain of fists that come pouring down on her forehead. After ten stiff shots, Alexis’ arms go limp and that’s when Yves Lavigne stops the fight and awards Ronda a knockout victory.
There are two things about Ronda’s victory that are particularly amazing. One, after Yves Lavigne pulled Ronda off of Alexis, the latter was grappling with him thinking the match was still going on. That’s right, folks: Alexis was so punch drunk that she mistook a bald elderly referee for a smoking hot blond chick. And Alexis was really holding on tightly until Yves Lavigne explained to her over and over again that the match was over and she was knocked out.
And then of course, there’s the biggest elephant in the room when it comes to Ronda’s eventual Performance of the Night award: the judo queen won in only 16 seconds in the first round. Think of all the things one could do in 16 seconds of his or her life: make a cup of coffee, sign an autograph, eat a candy bar, just basic stuff. You know what Ronda Rousey did in 16 seconds? She beat the living hell out of another badass chick.
If you’ve read my review of a WWE match between Daniel Bryan and Sheamus at Wrestlemania 28, you would have seen that it got a failing grade due to the shortness of it all. And yet, Ronda Rousey vs. Alexis Davis in the UFC gets a passing grade even though it was only 16 seconds long. It seems hypocritical on the surface, but it’s not. In the WWE, we as an audience expect a long and dazzling battle complete with acrobatics and stiff shots.
In the UFC, if someone gets a fast victory over a legitimate fighter, it’s not scripted; it’s goddamn incredible. If Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader had a light saber fight that only lasted 16 seconds, we would all be disappointed because Star Wars is fictional and the writers have all the leeway in the world to create a war between those two. UFC is as real as it gets. It’s not pretty. It’s not dazzling. It’s just honest hardcore violence.
The phrase “don’t blink” has become used to many times in sports that it’s considered a cliché. And yet, for this match, it’s so true that you need Clockwork Orange eye bracers to keep from missing a single part of the match. And speaking of which, if Alex De Large watched this match while undergoing aversion therapy, the brutal violence would send his body into shock. No nausea, no shaking, no dizziness, just cardiac arrest.
Thank you, Ronda Rousey for putting on a judo clinic and giving the audience another reason to cheer for you. Thanks for doing it again at UFC 183 by defeating Cat Zingano in 14 seconds with a straight arm bar. If you’re going to watch a Ronda Rousey fight these days, make sure your watch has a second hand on it.
Monday, March 2, 2015
The A&W Hotdog Eating Debacle
Whenever I go out on public with Susan, it is a must that I embarrass her front of everyone with my social awkwardness. Whether it’s screaming in pain at a high volume or making crude sexual or death jokes, if someone is around us, they’ll remember it forever. The only way they will ever forget my public antics is either through chugging a bottle of Xanax or EMDR therapy. They might even qualify for social security after I’m through with them, you never know.
One of my favorite ways to embarrass Susan in public is where we’re eating at a restaurant or a food court and I eat a gigantic mountain of meat slathered in all sorts of disgusting sauces. Whenever she sees me eat a cheeseburger with four patties, eight slices of cheese, God knows how many pieces of bacon, and a pound of mayonnaise and olive oil, Susan immediately gets the urge to vomit herself inside out. Her nausea is equivalent to a mixed-martial artist getting kicked in the liver: the oxygen is gone and the acid is boiling inside like a bubbling marsh.
The opportunity presented itself one night while Susan, her daughter Reina, and I ate at A&W for a night of cheeseburgers, fries, onion rings, and middle school toilet humor. Me eating gigantic hamburgers and greasy French fries was bad enough for Susan, but the middle school toilet humor was what really started to make her boil with embarrassment. It wasn’t until I ordered a bacon cheddar hotdog that things really started to get out of hand.
A bacon cheddar hotdog is exactly how it sounds: it’s a hotdog in a bun drenched with fake nacho cheese and sprinkled with sloppy chunks of bacon. It was a cardiovascular dream come true for me and Susan’s worst stomach churning nightmare. From the minute I took the first bite, she started feeling ill and was showing it with the saggy frown on her face and her tongue hanging out. It got from bad to worse when some of the cheese and bacon landed in my Diet Pepsi…and I drank it anyways.
“Can I get my food to go, please?” said a nearby customer who was eating with his elementary school-aged kid. Although the customer didn’t mention the reason for wanting his food to go, it was pretty obvious to me, Susan, and Reina. Me and Reina laughed our asses off while Susan slapped herself on the forehead and shook her head no in shame. Just for reassurance, I asked, “Is he leaving because of me?” Susan not only said yes, but hell yes.
Me and Susan didn’t return to A&W for a while after that night. But one night while I was supposed to withdraw money for her, we decided to go through the drive-through (without Reina this time, so the middle school toilet humor was even worse than before). Susan wanted a root beer float while I ordered three bacon cheddar hotdogs. I repeat: three of them this time, not one.
If Susan wasn’t getting ready to barf all over the steering wheel already, she would be when the nice clerks gave me a free bacon double cheeseburger to go with everything else. The universe must have really appreciated my positive thoughts or something. As for Susan’s negative thoughts to the universe, all she got was a few bites of her root beer float and then she didn’t want anymore. The whole drive home she kept complaining about an aching stomach. Luckily, the car stayed clean for the drive home. If she ever did throw up, it would for sure rival the vomit scene from Poltergeist 2 where the father spit up a hideous demon.
My eating habits at A&W were Hall of Fame worthy when it comes to socially awkward behavior. The diarrhea dump that resulted from those habits was even more disgusting since the entire house smelled like the Bremerton Sewage Plant (that’s Reina’s description, not mine). Whether it’s Susan’s stomach acid or my sloppy shit, if someone was making a reality show out of our lives, it would be rated TV-MA for graphic violence. Suck on that, Human Centipede! Actually, don’t suck on anything, because that would be gross.
***WRESTLING QUOTE OF THE DAY***
“I know a lot of you think that the new national pastime in the oral office is swallow the leader. But I can assure you, I did not, I repeat, I did not sleep with that young intern. In fact, I was up all night!”
-Shawn Michaels during the “DX Apology Speech”-
One of my favorite ways to embarrass Susan in public is where we’re eating at a restaurant or a food court and I eat a gigantic mountain of meat slathered in all sorts of disgusting sauces. Whenever she sees me eat a cheeseburger with four patties, eight slices of cheese, God knows how many pieces of bacon, and a pound of mayonnaise and olive oil, Susan immediately gets the urge to vomit herself inside out. Her nausea is equivalent to a mixed-martial artist getting kicked in the liver: the oxygen is gone and the acid is boiling inside like a bubbling marsh.
The opportunity presented itself one night while Susan, her daughter Reina, and I ate at A&W for a night of cheeseburgers, fries, onion rings, and middle school toilet humor. Me eating gigantic hamburgers and greasy French fries was bad enough for Susan, but the middle school toilet humor was what really started to make her boil with embarrassment. It wasn’t until I ordered a bacon cheddar hotdog that things really started to get out of hand.
A bacon cheddar hotdog is exactly how it sounds: it’s a hotdog in a bun drenched with fake nacho cheese and sprinkled with sloppy chunks of bacon. It was a cardiovascular dream come true for me and Susan’s worst stomach churning nightmare. From the minute I took the first bite, she started feeling ill and was showing it with the saggy frown on her face and her tongue hanging out. It got from bad to worse when some of the cheese and bacon landed in my Diet Pepsi…and I drank it anyways.
“Can I get my food to go, please?” said a nearby customer who was eating with his elementary school-aged kid. Although the customer didn’t mention the reason for wanting his food to go, it was pretty obvious to me, Susan, and Reina. Me and Reina laughed our asses off while Susan slapped herself on the forehead and shook her head no in shame. Just for reassurance, I asked, “Is he leaving because of me?” Susan not only said yes, but hell yes.
Me and Susan didn’t return to A&W for a while after that night. But one night while I was supposed to withdraw money for her, we decided to go through the drive-through (without Reina this time, so the middle school toilet humor was even worse than before). Susan wanted a root beer float while I ordered three bacon cheddar hotdogs. I repeat: three of them this time, not one.
If Susan wasn’t getting ready to barf all over the steering wheel already, she would be when the nice clerks gave me a free bacon double cheeseburger to go with everything else. The universe must have really appreciated my positive thoughts or something. As for Susan’s negative thoughts to the universe, all she got was a few bites of her root beer float and then she didn’t want anymore. The whole drive home she kept complaining about an aching stomach. Luckily, the car stayed clean for the drive home. If she ever did throw up, it would for sure rival the vomit scene from Poltergeist 2 where the father spit up a hideous demon.
My eating habits at A&W were Hall of Fame worthy when it comes to socially awkward behavior. The diarrhea dump that resulted from those habits was even more disgusting since the entire house smelled like the Bremerton Sewage Plant (that’s Reina’s description, not mine). Whether it’s Susan’s stomach acid or my sloppy shit, if someone was making a reality show out of our lives, it would be rated TV-MA for graphic violence. Suck on that, Human Centipede! Actually, don’t suck on anything, because that would be gross.
***WRESTLING QUOTE OF THE DAY***
“I know a lot of you think that the new national pastime in the oral office is swallow the leader. But I can assure you, I did not, I repeat, I did not sleep with that young intern. In fact, I was up all night!”
-Shawn Michaels during the “DX Apology Speech”-
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