Whoppers

You like to jerk it off to The Human Centipede

Shake your ass to Green Day’s “Know Your Enemy”

Give lap dances at your local retirement home

Knickknack, paddywack, eat your doggie’s bone

What’s the matter? You don’t like being defamed?

Don’t like shouldering someone else’s blame?

I heard that before, in fact, a million times over

Welcome to the world and its New World Odor

For every double whopper you’ve got about me

I’ve got a thousand more on you, bless creativity

You burglarize houses with a Darth Vader mask

“Use the force” and those who can’t even ask

But your light saber is the size of a toothpick

When it’s time to get it on, you’re fucking useless

You made a donation to the Humane Society

But it was criminal restitution for being rapey

You had to sell your collection of celebrity condoms

To make up for the debt and cut your own losses

Let’s upgrade that double whopper to a size triple

You get your cereal’s milk from your grandma’s nipple

Let’s go quadruple on your heart attack whopper

Or is this where you finally call the crime stoppers?

I wish I had that option when you lied about me

Freedom of speech has never been completely free

Maybe I’ll get you a ball gag for Christmas this year

Stick it in your mouth until the truth is loud and clear

I’ll get you some handcuffs for a stocking stuffer

No access to your keyboard, you’re grounded by mother

I know this all sounds a little creepy and kinky

But it keeps your bullshit from getting too stinky

"Kind of Like Life" by Christina McMullen

BOOK TITLE: Kind of Like Life

AUTHOR: Christina McMullen

YEAR: 2014

GENRE: Fiction

SUBGENRE: Psychological Fantasy

GRADE: Extra Credit

When you put The Matrix and fantasy elements in a milkshake blender and mix them together, you get a delicious treat from Christina McMullen called “Kind of Like Life”. You start the book thinking it’s going to be a utopian love story. Everything that can go right for Renee Ward does go right. And then the world around her is revealed to be a lie. The reality of it all is horrifying as hell. Can she wake up from her nightmare long enough to make things right in the real world? That’s a question you’ll be asking yourself throughout your entire reading adventure. You don’t know what the solution to these problems will be, so nothing is predictable. Hell, you’re not even sure if a happy ending was meant to exist. I love surprises and I love plot twists. Christina McMullen delivers on both of those fronts, which is part of the reason her book is getting five out of five stars.

Another reason why she gets that grade is because the entire book is a celebration of creativity and imagination, a break from the ordinary. Genres can bend at the drop of a hat. One minute you’re in a lush faerie forest full of magic, phoenixes and wonder. Another minute you’re in a Wild West desert being chased by a sheriff and his posse. And then you’re flying through space unleashing pew-pew lasers upon other spaceships that want to gun you down and watch you burn. You know how people say that imagination has no limits? Neither does this book. Crossing genres is creative in and of itself, but telling a cohesive story with compelling characters to keep it from being shallow? That takes a lot of skill and Christina McMullen has that in spades.

Speaking of compelling characters, how can you not like the chemistry between Renee Ward and the man who rescues her from the cracking utopia, Blake Carter. They start off being suspicious of each other and sometimes annoyed at their presences. But the more they learn about each other, the closer they become. Blake’s past of being abused by his parents isn’t just an empty attempt to make him appear sympathetic. It’s a trust builder and it ties into the story in a way that sensitively deals with such a traumatic topic. The descriptions of the abuse he went through and how his parents got away with it Scot free are heartbreaking to read about. I came within a hair of shedding some tears for this scene. Renee Ward doesn’t necessarily have to heal Blake through her relationship with him, but she does understand his pain and she does handle his trauma in a delicate way. Does he want to talk about it? Does he want to avoid the subject? Renee is there for him either way. These two characters don’t complete each other; they complement each other. That’s the stuff healthy relationships are built on. We need more of this in fiction today.

This book has an uncanny ability to play with your brain like silly putty as you try to piece together the puzzle of the plot or wrestle with your emotions through all of the heartache. I like being surprised. I like having my darkest emotions triggered. I also like having my lighthearted emotions triggered as well. There’s something for everyone in this novel. You want a thriller? You’ve got one. You want fantasy? It’s all yours. You want a psychological rollercoaster? Have at it. As I’ve said before, “Kind of Like Life” deserves a five out of five star rating for being everything I wanted it to be and more. I know full well that anybody else who picks up this book will have the same glowing opinion. Christina McMullen is awesome like that. It makes me look forward to reading other novels in her catalog as well.

Kentucky Fried Brain

Kentucky Fried Brain, nothing to do today

The world is just a boring place anyway

No dragons, no elves, no hidden treasure

No aliens, no lizard men, no such pleasure

No cowboys, no knights, no sorcerers

No adventures beyond these white corridors

They say a book is a best friend for life

Closer than family, closer than a wife

But how can I cross this mystical portal

When my soul is aware that it’s mortal?

I don’t have the keys to heaven’s gates

I know that a lot of you can surely relate

If that’s the case, then why the slow pace?

Why am I in last place in this human race?

Why does the back of the line feel lonely?

Why does the prison of my mind feel homely?

Why is my mattress the best place for me?

Why is the white ceiling all I can see?

Why can’t I remember any of my dreams?

Waking up has become impossible it seems

Better luck tomorrow or the day right after

Maybe I’ll wait for another New Years disaster

Maybe I’ll wait until my skin is leathery

Maybe my golden years will have more energy

Even with a bed in the retirement home?

Even when I’ve got nowhere else to roam?

You bet your sweet ass, my fellow corpse

Kentucky Fried Brain, final meal course

Heart attack city, a self-cannibal’s cost

No gravity in heaven, floating and lost

Good thing I have the patience of a saint

You know the old phrase: hurry up and wait

When one door closes, another one opens

Until that one locks and you feel hopeless

The universe doesn’t slow for one person

Even when you’re trapped in the hearses

How Much Longer? Wait Your Turn...

How much longer until this is over?

When my thoughts are clear and sober?

When the voices leave my mind forever?

Please tell me that the answer isn’t never

Wait your turn like a good little boy

Wait your turn to unhear the noise

Like a rainstorm, it’ll eventually pass

Until then, enjoy your kick in the ass

How much longer until I can leave?

Until making a cure has been achieved?

Until authority will no longer deceive?

Hopefully soon is what I can believe

Wait your turn like everybody else

We’re in this together, our moment of hell

Don’t be tempted by the church bells

Don’t forget about the ones who fell

How much longer until permanent peace?

Until the madness of the world will cease?

Until people come before the economy?

Until we can skip this whole tragicomedy?

Wait your turn like a model citizen

What makes you so goddamn different?

Don’t let your selfishness get in the way

Of America living on for another day

How much longer until I can rest my head?

And not have to worry about being dead?

Maybe that’s the only logical conclusion

Maybe I shouldn’t give into delusions

Wait your turn, you’ve got a long way to go

When your time will come, nobody knows

Get to work on your precious purple prose

Work until the day that your breathing slows

I know it’s cruel and it just isn’t fair

All I can tell you is to grow a brass pair

You never signed up for military life

But the truth cuts deeper than a bowie knife

Screw your harshness, screw your indifference

Screw your so-called melodic dissonance

I’ll be back in true form one of these days

Until then, your welcome is long overstayed

I’m the landlord and the rent is now due

Don’t act like this just came out of the blue

I’ll kick your ass out of my mind so fast

You’ll be too far back in the prehistoric past

Covered in Blood

I walk into battle covered in blood

Smelling like ashes, smelling like rum

Looking like the deep fried walking dead

Looking for relief from what’s in my head

I see you on the other side of the street

You could be a mirage from the heat

Or you could be laughing like a jackass

Earning your place among the maggots

I take a bite out of your delicious throat

More pig’s blood to cover me like a coat

Rip out your heart, hell, your whole ribcage

You scream like you’re three years of age

You’ve got some serious pipes for a wimp

Are you sure you don’t belong to a pimp?

If you can feel the pain, you’re still alive

Let’s turn up that shit to a hundred and five

Slurping down your brain through the sockets

Make you fuck your eyes with your own rocket

Pull out intestines and watch the shit flow

Share your corpse with the ravens and crows

The funny thing about this nutritious meal

I get dessert as part of the dinner deal

Who will suffice? Your daughter or wife?

Hell, they left your ass for a much better life

I’ll save my coupons for another day

More satisfying than Mickey D’s anyway

The king of burgers has nothing on this

Sweeter than the redheaded Wendy’s kiss

Pay you tomorrow for a carcass today

My belly is stuffed with violent decay

I burp like a fifteen megaton blast

Nickelodeon slime pouring from my ass

Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight

Try to make it fun, put up a better fight

It's a Free World

***IT’S A FREE WORLD***

Your writing career can be an amazing time in your life full of magic, adventure, and wonder, not unlike the worlds you create through your craft. But at the same time, it isn’t all rainbows and Skittles. More like Martian death rays and dick. Sooner or later, you as a writer will have to come to terms with the fact that criticism is inevitable, whether it’s constructive feedback from your beta readers or malicious trolling from a faceless bastard. Does it hurt no matter how well-intentioned it is? Always. It’s like saying the sun’s going to come up tomorrow. Everybody knows that. We all feel at least some sensitivity when it comes to what we produce. To be fair, your career won’t rise or fall based on one bad review or even a hundred. How you react to those reviews? That’s a little closer to a career killer if you’re too aggressive.

While I still get anxious feelings in my gut at the thought of being judged, I’m not anywhere close to being as bad at taking criticism as I was all throughout the 2000’s. I was a fucking monster when it came to responding to my critics. That’s part of the reason why I consider the 2000’s to be the hardest decade of my life: because I wouldn’t let anybody teach me how to better myself. I incorrectly assumed my critics were out to play with my brain like silly putty and mold me into something I’m not. Being a soul-dead conformist is bad. Being a better artist and a better person is something we should all strive for. So I guess I would be conforming to commonsense and decency, by that definition.

My first “traumatic episode” with criticism came in 2001, where I attended an anime/sci-fi/fantasy convention called INCON. One of the attractions at this event was having your manuscript critiqued by five different professional authors. What did I submit to this critique session? A Starcraft rip-off known as The Earth Campaign, which sounds more like an eco-terrorist group than a legitimate space opera. The first pro-author’s main complaint was that there weren’t enough visuals in my writing, a.k.a. not enough showing and too much telling. The second pro-author’s complaint was that my characters were making stupid decisions.

Basically, my manuscript TOLD the audience that a space rebel scissor kicked a glass pod and almost broke his ankle rather than opening it a reasonable way, thus he was “thinking with his gonads”. Mild sexism aside, I walked away after the first two authors said their peace and was a teary mess for the rest of the night. I sang Pink Floyd songs on the fire exit for good measure. I had it in my head that the only reason I had fight scenes at all in my book was because of my male organs and not because I genuinely like that stuff. Well-intentioned criticism, but I took it the wrong way and that set the tone for the rest of the 2000’s.

Fast forward to 2004 where I took a creative writing class at Olympic College. Admittedly, this was not a safe, nurturing environment for any author because the students had no limits on the harshness of their criticisms. If they wanted to insult me, they could. If they wanted to destroy my self-esteem, they could go nuts. That’s exactly what happened when I wrote a medieval fantasy story where a witch hunter tried to recruit an acrobatic thief into his guild, to no success whatsoever. The chapter ended with a guerrilla army hiding under a pile of leaves springing to life in an attempt to test the acrobat’s kung fu skills. Yes, those were real errors in my story. Everyone in the class had all criticisms for me and no praise, a stark contrast to other authors who got at least some praise.

The worst of my criticisms came from a guy who simply said my story “sucked”. No context. No reasons. Just that it “sucked”. To be fair to him, it did, anachronisms and telling instead of showing aside. While I regret not taking my criticism in an appropriate way, I wouldn’t have developed my newfound skills as a poet if this didn’t happen. I wrote an insult poem about the guy who said my story sucked, where I detailed all the ways in which I would fuck his female relatives while comparing him to a Lord of the Rings hobbit. The poem was rubbish, but it was good start. Sucking at something is the first step to being sort of good at something.

Whether I was getting bad grades in college or negative comments on Deviant Art, my descent into madness spiraled out of control for the rest of the 2000’s. I screamed at my Deviant Art critics and wrote more angry poetry about them, detailing how I would once again fuck their female relatives while comparing them to people with Down’s Syndrome and sewer mutants. I silently seethed when one of my creative writing teachers gave me a C in her class despite me following her orders not to write R-rated offensiveness. So much anger and rage built up inside of me that taking any sort of mild criticism would result in the tongue-lashing from hell.

And then the 2000’s climaxed with the worst of the worst, both in terms of my own crass behavior and also in terms of the criticism I’ve received on Deviant Art. Two days after Christmas in 2009, I opened my inbox to find that several Deviants were angry about a comedic essay I wrote called “Class of ‘13”, named after Green Day lyrics. In this essay, I fantasized about being an autocratic schoolteacher who would whip my students if they talked like “text-messaging queens” in their creative writing projects. I derided an entire generation for growing up with technology, basically condemning myself as a 24-year-old Boomer.

I eventually deleted my essay and apologized, but not before I screamed at my critics to “get in a circle and butt fuck each other”. I also wrote an angry poem about one of these critics where I told him to “drink gasoline”. As one critic so rightfully put it, “Change or die!” From that day on, I decided no online battle was worth fighting because fighting never solved anything. Nobody changed their mind because I told them to “suck a dick” or “eat my shit”. When given the choice to change or die, I chose to change. The battering my mind took wasn’t worth it, but it was just what I needed.

While the 2000’s were the hardest decade of my life, the 2010’s were the easiest. Sure, I had my fair share of shitty moments, but the way I responded to criticism was much better. I knew my writing career was stagnating. Nothing of mine was getting published and why would it? My work was mediocre at best and a dumpster fire at worst. Accepting criticism and sometimes shelling out money for it was the only way out of spinning my wheels. The more people I let in, the happier I was and the stronger my writing became. I’ve made many friends along the way and I wouldn’t trade any of them for the world. I’ve gotten a few shitty reviews on my self-published books, but I’ve also gotten some good ones.

While improvement is a necessary part of one’s writing career, it won’t change the fact that nobody is above criticism despite how far they’ve come. That’s something you’re going to have to be okay with if you want a successful career. It’s 2020 and I’ve learned my lessons. In the end, we don’t just live in a “free country”. We live in a free world. Whether you live in America, Canada, England, or even Saudi Arabia, you have the right to say whatever you want about my writing and I won’t hound you for it.

Bad reviews won’t derail somebody’s career; a lack of humility will. I sincerely believe Norman Boutin could have had a successful career despite Empress Theresa being boring as hell, if only he didn’t lash out at everyone who criticized his work. Hell, if he had accepted criticism gracefully, he probably wouldn’t have a boring book to begin with. Same thing goes for Ann Fishman, Onision (sexual crimes be damned), and whoever wrote My Immortal (the Harry Potter fan fiction, not the Evanescence song).

Does criticism hurt? Absolutely. It always will. But do you have to react poorly to it? Never. Hell, you can flat out ignore the trolling if you want. You can even block some of the trolls if they get to be too much. But the louder you scream, the louder the world screams back at you. Isn’t that right, Donald the Magic Dumbass? I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight!

***INTERNET DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

(Circa 2018)

ASHLEY: Oh my god, Garrison! I need to convince you to get a Pay Pal account!

GARRISON: In the words of that Steven Crowder meme, “Change my mind.”

ASHLEY: Dude, mailing checks is so 1995.

GARRISON: Congratulations, you’ve won.

ASHLEY: Yay!

***POST-SCRIPT***

See what happens when you accept other people’s advice? You get a PayPal account AND a healthy writing career!

Pants Down

Red-handed, pants around your feet

Dirty ass pasted to the toilet seat

Porno magazine covered in dude soup

Should I give you more time to regroup?

You got caught, you’re fucking busted

No need to have your fingerprints dusted

It’s your fault, own up to the mistake

Before I find one of your limbs to break

You’re sorry? Why do I not believe you?

I’m not the one who’s trying to deceive you

You spent a whole lifetime telling me lies

This is where I finally cut our damn ties

Pants down and fake tears on your face

As you scramble to find another place

Pants down and your whole life story

All of it is drama and none of it is glory

Pants down and Mary-Sue privilege

Nobody in town sees you as the villain

One day you’ll piss off the wrong guy

And he won’t care when you cry

Rest in pieces when you convert to Jesus

Bang on heaven’s gate for all four seasons

Stealing from me has all led up to this

I hope you enjoyed your riches and bliss

I know I enjoyed the lesson I just learned

That trust isn’t easy and must be earned

One strike and you’re out, get off the plate

Before I leave your nuts in a sterile state

Batter on deck, play baseball with your balls

Thunderous crack echoing off the walls

I’m in love with my newfound courage

As I finally pull these theater curtains

On toxic people and toxic friendships

On future prisoners, courtroom defendants

Somewhere over your heavenly rainbow

Is a lot more of the same old, same old

Bubble Man

Just go for a swim in the waterfall

Dive off the hydroelectric dam wall

Undersea creatures waiting for you

Seductive sirens sing the sweetest tunes

Hammerhead sharks smell your blood

Now’s the time for underwear mud

Speedo lemonade for the jellyfish

Sting your ass for as long as they wish

Hold your breath like a YA hero

Watch your temperature drop to zero

Ain’t no lifeguards in my domain

Just a short existence and eternal pain

You came searching for the Bubble Man

Couldn’t come up with a better plan?

Dollar signs in your bloodshot eyes

Dreams of riches dissolved into lies

Bubble Man’s got a price on his head

Yet you’re the one who ends up dead

But not before he has some good fun

And even then, he’s still not done

Bubbles in your ass and in your lungs

Bubbles in your sack and in your eardrums

Pop them fuckers like birthday balloons

Scrape your guts off with a metal spoon

Mix your slime in a cauldron of chowder

Feed it to the minions with curry powder

Shit you out for the plankton and coral

They bring our climate back to normal

You weren’t the first to look for fortune

But you’re the latest post-birth abortion

Bubble Man may have a name so silly

But his weapons turn bitches to beef chili

Better luck next time, bounty hunter

Should’ve stayed in the arms of your mother

This Is Extreme

VERSE 1

Shotgun blast for calling me a name

All the drunkards get hit by a train

Every drill sergeant steps on a mine

Every mean teacher battered into slime

This is extreme! This is too much!

Using violence as my favorite crutch

This is extreme! This is excessive!

Victory is mine, I’m feeling possessive

This! Is! Extreme!

This! Is! Extreme!

VERSE 2

A hundred lashes for naughty kids

A thousand more is what we did

Drop a bomb on a town full of bullies

Their undies get drenched and sullied

This is extreme! This is illegal!

A jail sentence will be the sequel

This is extreme! This is disgusting!

More cathartic than endless cussing

This! Is! Extreme!

This! Is! Extreme!

BRIDGE

I dream of extreme every night

I cream at extreme, it feels right

I dream of self-esteem I could never have

I scream for extreme when shit gets bad

VERSE 3

Kick to your head for pushing and shoving

Attack your family, the ones you’re loving

Head butts for you until my brain explodes

I smile as I watch the bloody river flow

This is extreme! Get some damn help!

None of this is worth an eternity in hell

This is extreme! Get some therapy!

Talk about things that are embarrassing

This! Is! Extreme!

This! Is! Extreme!

Goodbye Bill Maher

***GOODBYE BILL MAHER***

I’ve had this topic idea on the shelf for over a year now. Anyone who’s known me for a long time knows that Bill Maher was at one point one of my favorite comedians and political commentators. I saw him perform in Seattle in 2013, which was also the same night where we couldn’t find the car afterwards, but that has nothing to do with this post. So when I finally say goodbye to Bill Maher in 2019, you know he must have done something incredibly shitty in order to lose my respect. Actually, it wasn’t just one thing he said or did. It slowly built up over the last few years. And yeah, one could argue that he was always obnoxious and bigoted from the beginning, but it wasn’t really noticeable until the latter years of the 2010’s. So…where do I start this lovely story?

In 2006, of course. That was when I saw my first episode of Real Time with Bill Maher. I can’t remember for the life of me what some of his jokes or talking points were, but I found them fucking hilarious and on-point. I decided from that point going forward that I would make watching his show a weekly ritual. Despite all of the wacky conservatives he sometimes invited on his panel, the show overall was fun to watch, especially the New Rules segment.

New Rule: You can’t bring a firearm to Wendy’s unless you plan to rob it. You’re not a gun enthusiast. You’re an ammosexual. If you want to die at Wendy’s so badly, you’ll have to do it the old fashioned way by eating their food.

New Rule: Couples who make out in public have to bring a bucket for me to throw up in. I didn’t come all the way to Applebee’s to be sickened by your dry humping. I came all the way to Applebee’s to be sickened by their food.

New Rule: Ice cream should stay nonpartisan. Some rightwingers decided to make ice cream to counter the lefties at Ben & Jerry’s with flavors like Gun Nut, Plane Vanilla, and Smaller Govern-Mint. But these conservatives are missing the point of Ben & Jerry’s. Hippie ice cream is fun because you eat it when you’re stoned.

New Rule: If churches don’t have to pay taxes, they also can’t call the fire department when they catch on fire. Sorry Reverend, but that’s one of those services that comes with paying in. I’ll use the fire department that I pay for. You can pray for rain.

Thirteen years I stuck with Bill Maher through the good and the bad. He entertained me, he strengthened by talking points, and I felt more alive having watched his shows. But then…something happened. Again, maybe he was always an obnoxious person and I didn’t notice it until now, but over the past few years, he had gotten worse. He began to criticize millennials. He began to make transphobic arguments. He rallied against vaccines. He fat-shamed people in the name of “good health”. He did all of these things behind a mask of virtue. He marketed himself as a liberal hero even though he’s actually a capitalist libertarian. I hung on his every word because of that. If anyone else had said the things he did, I would have given up on them sooner. But coming from Bill Maher, I secretly hoped it was a one-time thing that we could disagree on.

But the god-awful remarks weren’t one-offs. They happened over and over again across multiple shows, sometimes in succession. I kept struggling to find counterpoints to his arguments, not because I was wrong in my beliefs, but because his disgusting shit was stressing me the fuck out. He called millennials lazy and entitled (therefore proving his own point that ageism is the last acceptable prejudice we have). He called fat people virgins who couldn’t see their own dicks. He said transgender athletes were ruining sports (even though the sports were already boring with or without their participation). He referred to Caitlyn Jenner by masculine pronouns. If I listed off all of Bill Maher’s sins against my ears, we’d be here forever and a day.

But one night in January 2019 made me turn off the TV forever. I can’t remember the exact date, but Bill Maher did a New Rules segment where he basically exploited Stan Lee’s death. In criticizing comic book fans, he said, “I’m not happy that he’s dead; I’m sad that you’re all alive.” He took the role of creative gatekeeper, denouncing genre fiction (sci-fi, fantasy, romance, etc.) and exalting literary fiction no matter how boring it was. In that one segment, Bill Maher took a big dump on everything that I love as a creative writer. He shamed nerds for being passionate about what they love and told them to, “Grow up.” After that segment was mercifully over, I tapped out. No more Bill Maher for me. My parents still watch him, but I don’t. I can’t associate myself with people who demand conformity from their audience.

Ever since I cut myself off from Bill Maher’s content, I’ve never been happier. Of course, there will be people who insist I watch his show anyways so that I can get new perspectives and strengthen my debating skills. But what’s the point of strengthening my debating skills if the other side won’t listen? Bill Maher criticizes millennials all the time for being unable to take a joke, yet here he is deflecting criticism himself. He’s against cancel culture, yet doesn’t mind canceling people who disagree with him. I purposefully avoid political debates with even my closest friends, because in the end, it’s not productive and only results in furious anger on both sides. I want to be open-minded, but I’m not sure people like Bill Maher want to do that themselves. Open-mindedness is a two-way street. If I have to listen to your bigoted garbage, you have to listen to my talking points too. If debate can’t be a two-way street for me, then I’ll turn it into a no-way street. How’s that?

Bill Maher influenced my sense of humor in the early days of his show. I don’t regret that. I also don’t regret leaving him for higher ground. There are so many great comedians and pundits out there. John Oliver is one of them and he’s on the same channel as Bill Maher, if you can believe that. He’s delightfully British, ridiculously funny, and has a healthy dose of self-awareness. What about The Young Turks? They’re not comedians, but their talking points are strong as hell, almost bulletproof. Their skin is so thick that they welcome debate because they know they can win. Samantha Bee? Not nearly as funny as John Oliver, but she’s entertaining all the same. You might have to go out of your way to find alternatives to Bill Maher, but they exist and you’ll be grateful you did.

So…I’m going to close this by saying goodbye one last time to one of my all-time favorite influences. Goodbye, Bill Maher. We’ve had a good run together. You used to be cool. But I don’t like the person you’ve become. I don’t expect you to change your ways anytime soon. No, I don’t want you to be canceled. You don’t have to lose your job over the things you’ve said. All I’ll ever ask from you is self-awareness. If you’re going to be a shitty person, admit it to your audience and don’t hide behind a mask of liberalism. You won’t do that, though, because you’re stuck in your ways. Maybe it’s a Boomer thing, I don’t know. I guess that makes ageism “the last acceptable prejudice we have”. Then again, you started that war, so don’t be upset when you’re the one who has to finish it. Goodbye. Goodbye and forever!

***QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“It has been said, 'the truth will make men free.' The truth alone has never made anyone free. It is only doubt which will bring mental emancipation.”

-Anton LaVey-