Matt Riddle: The Reason We're #SpeakingOut

 

Calling You Out

CHORUS

I’m calling you out! I’m calling you out!

The gangster-gangster-gangsters are calling you out!

I do it ‘cause I care! I do it ‘cause I care!

But when you need me the most, I’m never ever there!

VERSE 1

When I’m walking down the street in the summer heat

I might get my ass beat for a yucky-yucky Tweet

Cancel culture isn’t real, but I still don’t like the feel

Of high pitched squeals beating me down like steel

Rapid fire insults are like punches to my gut

They wouldn’t know my pain if it bit them on the butt

I’ll do all my Tweeting from a padded prison cell

You’re the villains of the story, in case you can’t tell

CHORUS

I’m calling you out! I’m calling you out!

The gangster-gangster-gangsters are calling you out!

I do it ‘cause I care! I do it ‘cause I care!

But when you need me the most, I’m never ever there!

VERSE 2

You’re like the pizza-pizza guy from Little Caesar’s

Just say “gangster-gangster”, you My Pillow squeezer

That’s what you really are: a gangster in the dark

Creeping on me while I’m walking through the park

I could never run fast, I would always finish last

In a marathon sprint, put me in a leg cast

Can’t get away from the fortune and the fame

Every fall from grace sounds about the same

CHORUS

I’m calling you out! I’m calling you out!

The gangster-gangster-gangsters are calling you out!

I do it ‘cause I care! I do it ‘cause I care!

But when you need me the most, I’m never ever there!

VERSE 3

I’m eating with my friends, I’m eating with my family

You say my words are crazy while you suffer from insanity

You made your point about fifty years ago, my guy

You’d think by now that it dissolved into a lie

CHORUS

I’m calling you out! I’m calling you out!

The gangster-gangster-gangsters are calling you out!

I do it ‘cause I care! I do it ‘cause I care!

But when you need me the most, I’m never ever there!

Creep Street

Streets of darkness, perfect targets
Hoot and holler like a wild man
Call them “hotties”, grab their bodies
Creep Street is in style, man
Get rejected, get defensive
When she tells you to, “Fuck off!”
Alpha male with a baby’s wail
Never ever to be sucked off
Grab her arm, do your harm
Purple circles on her bicep
You entitled little child
You know she doesn’t like it
Throw her down, make her drown
In your disgusting fluids
Traumatize until you realize
You’re nothing but human sewage
Cops do nothing, her brain is numbing
Did you get your hot desires?
So romantic, necromantic
Accuse her of being a liar
Shoot you dead, bullet in your head
That’s what we all should do
There’s no magic in street harassment
Who’s the next victim you choose?
Blond or brunette? Moans or music?
Long legs or ample breasts?
It doesn’t matter, dick gets fatter
She’s face down just like the rest
Creep Street blues, call it fake news
You’ll get away with it this time
But Karma’s a bitch, a scratch to itch
Your life ain’t worth a thin dime

The Human Hotdog

BEEP! “Principal Simon? Spencer Pyle is here to see you. It’s not good.”

Quinn Simon sighed. “Send him up.” He pulled a bottle of wine out of his desk drawer and took a few quick sips before putting it back where it belonged. He held the bridge of his nose for what seemed like forever. “What could he possibly want now?” he asked to nobody in particular. This would have been the perfect opportunity to venture into the dreamscape and bypass this unnecessary meeting with the anti-LGBT blogger. Or better yet, it would be a good time to put a gun to his own head and pull the trigger. Different dreamscape, same avoidance of responsibilities.

There was a loud knock at his door and before Quinn had the chance to allow him in, Spencer Pyle burst into the room on his own. The activist’s creepy face quivered with anger. His horseshoe hair seemed to be reverberating with every tremble. And yet, Principal Simon couldn’t be upset anymore. In fact, he smiled when he saw the reason for Spencer’s silent rage: he was covered head to toe in mustard and ketchup, like a human hotdog.

As Quinn struggled to keep his laughter in, Spencer crossed his arms and said, “I’m glad you think this is hilarious, Principal, and I use that term loosely. If this had happened to any one of your PC millennial students, you’d file an anti-bullying report. But since it’s someone who doesn’t agree one hundred percent with your own political views, then I guess it’s pure comedy.”

“I don’t condone violence or harassment of any sort, don’t get me wrong,” said Quinn as he waved his hand defensively. “But if you really want me to punish harassment, I should start by punishing you.”

Spencer slammed his palm on the desk and yelled, “I’ve been punished enough already! You see this suit? It’s going to cost a fucking fortune to get it cleaned! I’m not wearing a Men’s Warehouse piece of shit like you are! I actually pay for the things that I own! I live like a capitalist every day!”

“Fine, then go live like a capitalist at the dry cleaners and hold up your homophobic signs there.”

Sticking a finger in Quinn’s face, Spencer raged, “Colleges are supposed to be places of free speech. They’re supposed to be places where big ideas can thrive. And now your sensitive snowflake students think it’s okay to squirt condiments all over people they have minor disagreements with! You’re doing a great disservice to this generation! You’re turning them into entitled brats!”

Maintaining calmness under fire, Quinn folded his hands on his desk and said, “You have the right to say whatever you want, I agree. Your first amendment rights guarantee you that. However, the first amendment protects you from the LEGAL consequences of free speech, not the social ones. You have the right to speak your mind, but you don’t have the right to be popular. If you had to like everyone’s point of view, that would defeat the purpose of first amendment rights to begin with. You’re not the only one who has free speech rights, Mr. Pyle.”

As soon as Spencer grabbed Quinn’s suit jacket, that was when the principal’s grace under fire gave way to minor nervousness. “Squirting hotdog sauces on people is not considered free speech, you idiot. It’s assault. I’m pressing charges against every single one of those students and you’re going to help me identify them!”

“Assault?” Quinn chuckled. “I don’t see a scratch on you. I’m sorry, but ketchup doesn’t count as real blood.”

“It’s still assault, you jackass! I’m taking them all down! And I’ll take you down with them! You see, I’ve got sources on the inside who’ve told me some interesting things about you. They’re telling me that you purposefully distributed those ketchup and mustard bottles just for this occasion.”

“Really? Who are your sources?”

“I don’t have to tell you my sources. I’m a journalist.”

Quinn batted Spencer’s hand away. “Two things. One, you’re not a real journalist. You’re a blogger with a god complex. There’s a difference. And two, citing sources is something we ask of our students all the time when they write expository essays. When they make certain points, the teachers want to be able to fact check them. If the teachers have nothing to fact check, then the students will get F’s. I’m merely fact checking you, Mr. Pyle, that’s all. So who are your sources?”

Instead of giving a definitive answer, Spencer gave Principal Simon a mustard-drenched middle finger.

“I understand,” said Quinn. “So your sources could literally be anybody as far as I know. They could be other students. They could be faculty. They could be secretaries. Or they could be completely summoned from thin air. Your sources could be Mickey Mouse and Hulk Hogan for all I know. Please say your sources aren’t Mickey Mouse and Hulk Hogan.”

With clenched teeth, Spencer said, “They’re not Mickey Mouse and Hulk Hogan. They’re real people.”

“I’m sure they are,” said Quinn sarcastically. “But until you tell me who they are so that I can fact check you, I’m just going to assume that you’re another crazy right-winger peddling conspiracy theories at random. I’ve heard them all and I’m sure I’ll hear more. Barack Obama was born in Kenya. 9/11 was an inside job. Windmills give you cancer. And Principal Quinn Simon is willing to sacrifice a good-paying job just so he can squirt condiments on some bush league blogger who can only win debates by raising his voice.”

“You do want to silence me, Principal. I know you do. That’s why you’re asking me to name my sources, so that you can suspend them or expel them. Wouldn’t want any free thinkers on your campus. They’re not good for your agenda. Besides, if you know full well you didn’t do it, then why do you need to fact check yourself?”

“The burden of proof is on you, Mr. Pyle. You’re the one crazy enough to peddle these conspiracy theories. You’re the one who believes them to your core. If you can’t provide me with proof, then I suggest you leave my office before I call campus security.”

Spencer swatted Quinn’s phone off the desk, instilling even more wide-eyed, shiver-inducing fear in the normally stalwart principal.

Holding his hands up and quivering through his speech, Quinn said, “Take it easy, Mr. Pyle. You said yourself you don’t condone assault. Think about what you’re doing. You don’t want to contradict yourself, do you?”

“You’ve contradicted yourself enough times already, Principal Simon,” growled Spencer. “You don’t give a damn about free speech. You don’t give a damn about my wellbeing or my rights. You don’t give a damn about this country. So what if I don’t like gay people? Does that make me an evil person? Not in the least. I’m doing God’s work. You and your students are on a one-way ticket straight to hell. But hey, you can at least take your condiments with you and roast your weenies over all those open flames. Roasting hotdogs without a barbecue. That sounds like a party to me.”

Quinn was on the verge of shitting his pants upon gazing deeper into Spencer’s psychotic zealot eyes. They were wide. They were bloodshot. They stared daggers into Quinn’s so-called non-existent soul. “You know what?” he stammered. “Here, have something to drink.” With his hands occupied in the drawer, he opened the wine and mixed something in the liquid before pulling out the bottle.

Spencer folded his arms and smiled at his own intimidation tactics. “I had no idea you were allowed to drink on campus, Principal Simon. And here I thought that shit was banned after Brock Turner got his twenty minutes of action.”

“Please, just take a drink and calm down. Your voice is probably dry after all that screaming.”

Spencer yanked the bottle out of Quinn’s hand and chugged half of it before slamming it on the desk. “Oh, that’s some good tasting shit! Nice sparkling red wine. A little too bitter for my tastes, but that’s pretty much what you can expect from all alcoholic beverages.” The sounds of Spencer’s stomach grumbling echoed throughout the room. “Oh dear god…where’s your bathroom?”

“Down the hall and to the left.”

As soon as Spencer booked it towards the bathroom, one of Principal Simon’s secretaries entered with concern on her face, especially after seeing the multi-lined phone laying on the floor. There were also ketchup and mustard stains on Quinn’s own suit jacket, in the shape of someone’s hand, no less. “Is everything alright, sir?” she asked.

“Call the police, Betty. Spencer Pyle’s going berserk. Do it on your smart phone. We need to get everyone out of here before he’s done using the bathroom.”

Quinn’s plan worked like a charm. The most anal activist on the planet was unplugged with Imodium AD. Quinn could be pretty anal too sometimes, but not enough to need the entire packet of pills.

It's Not Porn

CHORUS

It’s!

Not!

Porn!

VERSE 1

Lesbian ladies on a double-decker bus

Homophobic men spying on their love

“Give us a show and make the fuck out

While we snort with our big piggy snouts”

The answer was no because they said so

Barbaric men decked them in the nose

Punching, screaming, secretly creaming

Where are the police when you need them?

CHORUS

It’s!

Not!

Porn!

VERSE 2

Unconscious girl behind a dumpster

Rapist swimmer summons the thunder

He called it twenty minutes of action

As he grinned with sick satisfaction

Slap on the wrist for Mr. White Privilege

A new idiot for the concrete village

He blamed it all on the damn alcohol

But at least his career never had to fall

CHORUS

It’s!

Not!

Porn!

BRIDGE

The faces of hate in the Sunday paper

The violence never seems to taper

No abortions for the pregnant victims

The right-wing never wants to listen

VERSE 3

If they dress like “sluts” and you grab their butts

Don’t be surprised when they kick you in the nuts

A revealing cosplay doesn’t give you the right

To fill her head full of trauma every fucking night

The real world isn’t like the porn on your computer

This urban war zone isn’t a First Person Shooter

You weren’t the first and you’re not the last

To need to have your head pulled out of your ass

CHORUS X4

It’s!

Not!

Porn!

Vex Ed

Jennifer McHenry couldn’t get the images out of her mind: her own burly step-father pushing into her as hard as he could every night for god knows how many nights. Then there was the judge who only gave him a ninety-day jail sentence because of his “service to the community”? Ninety days could only last so long, but the psychological trauma was forever. Jennifer’s eyes were lifeless, her frown was saggy, her posture was hunched, and her emotions were dulled. She might as well have walked through this life as a zombie.

She paid no mind to the other high school students around her nor did she immediately wake up from her robotic trance when Martin Hitch, the sex ed teacher, entered the room with a handful of books. Everything around Jennifer was a blurry haze in her numbed out mind. Not even Mr. Hitch’s booming voice saying, “Alright, class, listen up!” could startle her like it did the other students.

The tall, middle-aged, crew-cut having teacher placed his palms on his desk and drummed his fingertips while everyone in the class was slowly quieting down. The fire in his eyes made him look like a hellfire and brimstone preacher. Just one word could send electricity through the bodies of those who disobeyed him.

“Now that I have your attention,” said Mr. Hitch. “I’d like to begin by welcoming you all to sex education. You may think this is going to be a fun-filled ride with plenty of pornographic thrills. But trust me when I say this, there’s nothing fun about STD’s and pregnancies. Genital warts, gonorrhea, HIV, there are so many nasty things that can come from sexual contact. And don’t give me that unholy garbage about how condoms will save you. They won’t. There’s only one thing that will save you in the end: just saying no.”

Jennifer’s droning haze turned into a sniper sight of anger. Her breathing sounded like soft growling and her eyebrows were tightly furrowed. Oh, how many times she wished she could have said no to her disgusting step-father. Two letters, one word, one syllable: no. Who was this teacher to say that a simple word solves everything? Her fists clinched as she heard his offensive oratory.

“That’s right, children,” said Mr. Hitch as he stood up and started pacing sternly back and forth. “All you have to do is say no and it’ll all be over. For those of you who say no, you can spare yourself from green paste and a fishy discharge coming out of your genitals. Those who continually give in? You’re just a piece of chewed up gum. And the more you chew gum, the less flavor it has.”

The fist clinching became even tighter than before and Jennifer’s head felt like it was going to burst like a bomb. Her heartbeat sounded like someone smashing a bass drum. The fiery sensation running through her body could turn this whole school into a matchstick, which lost its color after one strike.

“You don’t want to be a chewed up piece of bubblegum, right? You don’t want to be one of these fools who think that condoms and contraceptives are the panacea of sexual diseases, right? All you have to do is say no! Keep your pants on and never remove them!”

As the images of her step-father assaulted her mind like kicks to the skull, Jennifer let out a thunderous scream before jumping on her desk, running across the other students’ desks, and landing a flying knee right against Martin Hitch’s temple. While the teacher fell to the ground and tried to gain his wits about him, other students flocked to restrain Jennifer’s arms and legs while she screamed every obscenity in the book. Those who dared get in her way were met with vampire bites, soccer kicks, and boxer punches.

The other students began to back away when Martin stood back up and yelled, “Quiet! Shut up!” The frightened pupils backed away even further while Jennifer McHenry’s breathing intensified. Martin pointed an accusatory finger at her and yelled, “You are out of control, young lady! Do you realize what you just did?! You assaulted a teacher and now you’re in huge trouble, my friend!”

“Trouble? Trouble?” said Jennifer in a trembling whisper.

“Yeah, that’s right! Trouble! Big trouble, at that! You’re going to the Principal’s Office right now! You’re lucky I’m not calling the cops on you!” shouted Mr. Hitch.

“Who’s going to call the cops on my rapist?!” screamed Jennifer, turning her teacher’s authoritative anger into a somber frown. “I never wanted that secret to get out. I know how the kids at this school treat rape victims. You like to call us sluts and whores. You like to say we deserved what we got. You blame us for the crime because of what we wore that day. Does saying no solve everything, Mr. Hitch? I don’t think so! So I guess that makes me a chewed up piece of gum!”

The suddenly defensive Mr. Hitch held his arms out to control the distance between him and Jennifer. “Take it easy, Miss McHenry. It’ll be okay. I seriously didn’t know you were the victim of sexual assault.”

“It’s not the kind of thing I go around advertising on a daily basis, you sick bastard!” shouted Jennifer.

“Hey, hey,” said Mr. Hitch in a calm voice. “You’re going to be alright. You obviously need to see a counselor. We can hook you up with one after class is over.”

“I’m already seeing one,” said Jennifer with tears cascading from her eyes. “No matter how many times I talk about it, no matter how many treatments we do, no matter how many pills I take, it’s not going to make it all go away! I still see his face every night! I’m going to see him a lot more once he gets out of prison!”

A depressing hush fell over the classroom with neither Jennifer nor Martin knowing what to do. The two of them just stared at each other with bloodshot eyes. And then one by one, students quietly shuffled toward the door and exited the classroom. In a matter of seconds, the only two left in the room were Jennifer and Martin, still staring each other down, still at a Mexican standoff.

The tension was cut when Martin inched closer to his pupil and said in his softest voice, “Truth be told, I didn’t choose this curriculum. You see those books over there? They were given to me by the board of education. They were the ones who thought teaching abstinence was a good idea. As far as what I said goes…” Martin drew a deep breath. “I, uh….I was told to do that. I’m following orders. If I don’t follow them, I could lose my job and then I’d have no way to feed my family.”

“Bullshit! You’re a liar!” sobbed Jennifer.

“Jennifer, you need to trust me on this one. I’m being honest with you. If you don’t believe me, you can look in the text book on the top of that pile.”

The shaken student dragged her feet to her teacher’s desk and picked up said book. It was a hardcover book. It was heavy. It felt natural in her hands. She turned around and smacked Martin over the head with it, knocking him unconscious. She then assaulted her teacher’s desk by slamming the text book against it.

Only then did campus security storm into the classroom and try to hold her still. No matter how big and strong they were, Jennifer still bit down hard, she still kicked like a warrior, and she still punched like her fists were made with granite. All of the rage and all of the pain was accompanied by images of her step-father pushing inside her over and over again. The wet ending made her feel like butcher’s meat. And then her vision blackened as the last of her violent energy surged out of her body.

She could have stayed asleep forever if she wanted to. A dreamless state of mind was better than the fucked up nightmare she lived every day, now made worse by Martin Hitch’s speech about chewed bubblegum. Jennifer purposely kept her eyes closed for as long as she could before slowly opening them to a world of whiteness.

She awakened to find herself in beige pajamas while laying on a comfy bed surrounded by white walls. “Excellent. You’re awake,” said an elderly Indian woman in a white lab coat.

“Where…where am I?” asked a weary Jennifer McHenry.

“You’re in a safe place, Miss McHenry. The Principal was adamant about taking you to juvenile hall, but your sex ed teacher waved him off. He told me everything that happened today. You caused a lot of injuries in your rage. But there’s something more to this than a simple attack. You have something on your mind that won’t let go of you.”

Tears welled in the teenager’s eyes as she said, “What the hell’s going on with my brain, Doctor? I can’t do my homework, I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, I can’t pay attention in class…I can’t do anything!”

The doctor placed a sympathetic hand on her patient’s and said in the softest tone, “I know how hard it is for you. But unless you allow us to help you, we can’t find out what’s going on aside from the rape story. It may not be as simple as Post-Traumatic Stress. It could very well be schizophrenia you’re experiencing. If that’s the case, then managing your symptoms will be much harder than anticipated. But the most important thing you remember is…it’s not impossible. It’ll take time, but we have all the time in the world. Get some rest, dear. Treatment starts tomorrow morning.”

Once the doctor stood up and left, the door was closed behind her and Jennifer was alone with her thoughts. Actually, she wasn’t completely alone since there were nurses standing guard in case she had a mental health emergency. But for the first time in a long time, she welcomed her aloneness. She used this opportunity to have conversations with herself. They appeared to be quick whispers to the nurse’s outside, but in her world, every word meant building towards the big day tomorrow. And the big day after that, and the big day after that, and the big day after that. The road to recovery would be long an exhausting, but it would be traveled nonetheless, even if she had to walk her way to the light at the end of the tunnel with blisters on her feet.