James Acaster vs. Graham Linehan: The Loser Gets TERF Island

 

Noel Plum: a "Logical" Atheist Who Says Illogical Shit About Trans People

 

I'm really digging the side-by-side view I've been using lately, not just for M.I.A., but also Noel Plum. It gives me more room to write captions.

The Theomancer

Krimson hated the way the masked snowmen were looking at him. Each of them were lined up on either side of the Frigid Highlands with skeletal masks that glowed an eerie shade of purple. The red ninja balled up his cannonball fist and knocked one of the snowmen’s block off. Underneath the shattered head revealed the dead body of one of his brethren. Members of the proud Raven Strike Society were buried underneath the guise of snowmen. The thought made Krimson sick to his stomach.

This was no time for such a weak reaction. With his red ninja gear, steel boots and gloves, demonic mask, and straw triangle hat, Krimson was dressed for battle. He stomped his way up the snowy hill, glaring with electrified eyes at each of the snowmen. Such disrespectful desecration, Krimson thought to himself. His blue-skinned muscles and bright green aura brought out his deathly side, which he would need for this upcoming battle.

The top of the hill was book-ended by the tallest snowman of all with his bladed mouth, cross-decorated black pope’s hat, and purple cloak that blew in the frosty winds. Krimson folded his arms like he was the true giant and spoke callously to the creature before him. “You must be the one they call The Theomancer. Seven is obviously to cowardly to come greet me himself, so he sends this popsicle to do his bidding. Seven is just like any other god: too afraid to come out of hiding when he’s needed the most. I intend to beat the answers I want out of him and you’re in my way, Theomancer. Are you ready to get your skull cracked in?” That last line was accented with Krimson cracking his bumpy knuckles.

The snowman’s eyes glowed with each piece of dialogue. “You claim followers of Sevenism are delusional, yet here you are thinking you can simply beat answers out of our lord and prophet. Even if you were to somehow have contact with him, the foundation of our religion has already been laid. No money-hungry king or bloodthirsty queen will ever give up their faith just because you’re foolish enough to venture to these sacred lands looking for a fight. Each of these snowmen contains the spirits of those who were even stupider than you. What makes you so special, human?”

“You want to talk about deities? You’re looking at one. I am Krimson, the God of Vengeance. I associate with the Raven Strike Society not because of their heretical beliefs, but because a world under their leadership will thrive while a world under Sevenism will crumble into dust. You’re standing in the way of that goal and for that you will pay.” Krimson held his steel fists up in a boxing stance while electrical and fiery energy flowed through them.

“If you want to complete your kamikaze mission so badly, be my guest. But know this: you’re not fighting with any mere mortal. You’re not even fighting with the Theomancer. Yeti is what I’m called. With Seven as my witness, I shall rip your heart from your chest and feast on it like a barbaric meal!” Cracks began to form in Yeti’s snowy shell, each of them glowing with a brilliant yellow light. The shell continued to crack until an explosive storm of ice and snow showered upon Krimson, who kept his arms in his face to block the assaulting weather.

No more was the Theomancer. In his place was a seven-foot tall mummy with slimy green skin, glowing yellow eyes, and razor-sharp fangs with maggots crawling around them. Yeti flexed his muscles and cracked his own neck before getting in a defensive stance and waving for Krimson to come at him.

“Let’s do this!” roared the God of Vengeance, whose chilling glare never erased from his face. Krimson rushed into battle with a flying kick that sent an aftershock of pain throughout Yeti’s body, yet the mighty mummy never moved. The red ninja continued throwing rapid fire punches and kicks around Yeti’s legs while the hulking creature tried swatting around the smaller opponent’s head.

Krimson dodged every swipe by ducking and rolling on the frostbitten ground. He could not avoid having both of Yeti’s hands grab his throat and hoist him in the air. Yeti glared at the God of Vengeance with a piercing gaze and rancid shit breath. Krimson broke free from the chokehold by placing a hard knee into Yeti’s elbow. The mummy growled in pain as his arm bent in a direction it wasn’t supposed to go. He grabbed himself by the wrist and popped it back into place, much to the disgust of Krimson, who had a hard time catching his breath.

While the red ninja was on the ground clutching his chest and wheezing, Yeti threw a hard soccer kick only to have Krimson cartwheel out of the way. The God of Vengeance launched his thick head into Yeti’s knee before throwing an uppercut to the giant’s groin. Yeti hauled back and screamed to the sky in unbearable pain, but only for a short while. He ducked his head down to meet Krimson’s gaze.

The red ninja felt queasy after smelling his opponent’s breath so many times in this fight. He clutched his stomach and resisted the urge to puke his guts out all over the snow. This time Yeti threw a kick and knocked the ninja backwards, rolling him down the hill and causing him to lose his lunch along the way. He sprayed a few snowmen with his stomach acids and melted their faces.

It had been a long and tiring roll to the bottom of the hill. Krimson laid there weak and helpless while Yeti was tromping down the hill looking to end this fight. The ninja’s vision was blurry at best and dark at worst. He was sure he’d join these snowmen in this blatant disrespect for the dead. And that was when he saw the faces of those he threw up on. The stomach acid ate the snow off their faces and caused the masks to drop.

Men, women, children, animals, all of them represented by these mummified snowmen. The markings on some of the adults’ uniforms suggested they were priests and took a vow of pacifism. They came to this sacred ground just to negotiate and bring peace to an otherwise violent world. They did nothing wrong. They were just innocents caught up in the crossfire. They were somebody’s son or daughter. They were somebody’s wife or husband. The dog corpses sickened Krimson to where he’d want to throw up again. The dogs had less at stake than the priests and they were viciously murdered and desecrated anyways.

Krimson felt a clawed hand reach for the back of his uniform and hold him up high. There it was again: that sewage-like smell. It was the feeling of eating rotten fruit that had been urinated on. It was the feeling of performing oral sex on a diseased phallus with open sores. That breath. That horrible Yeti’s breath. The red ninja didn’t think he had anymore food left in his stomach after smelling something like that. Instead he blew out naked stomach acid all over Yeti’s face.

The mummy’s eyes burned to where he had to release his grip of Krimson’s uniform. The red ninja plummeted on the soft snow below while his adversary danced around in pain like his face was on fire. Feeling weak himself, the red ninja didn’t think he could make it back to his feet. But slowly and with every last ounce of strength left, he was standing tall and striking his deadly pose yet again, renewed by the anger of his lost brethren.

“Seven! I’m coming for you, you sick son of a bitch!” shouted Krimson before throwing several haymakers and roundhouse kicks at Yeti’s breaking body. Cracks formed in his skin like broken pottery. Blood oozed out of him like spoiled fruit juice. Punches and kicks to the head, chest, arms, and legs, all of them with brutal speed and ursine strength. The assault ended when Yeti crumbled to the ground and bled all over the snow, his body nothing more than a pile of wrappings.

“Where are you, Seven?! Show yourself! Answer for your sins, you disgusting pig!” Krimson shouted to the sky, huffing and puffing after such an exhausting battle, not to mention the heavy vomiting that saved his life as well as weakened him. He dropped to one knee and glared harshly at the pile of wrappings. A victory well-earned, he thought to himself.

Out of the mummy bandages emerged a mere mortal of a man dressed in a black trench coat and black hat, both of which contrasted with his pasty white skin. Krimson stared at him in shock and then looked again at the mummy wrappings to see that the cracks and “blood” were all just part of a metal costume. “What the hell is the meaning of this?!” Krimson demanded.

“You called out the name of Seven. Now you’ve found him,” said the pasty individual with a wicked grin. “There was never any paradise. There was never any hope at salvation. Sevenism is a business model and nothing more. Just like any religion, it was a business model for controlling the masses. And they fell for it hook, line, and sinker. You can call me a prophet if you want, but I’m really just a salesman with too much time on his hands.”

Krimson pointed a nervous finger at Seven and said, “You…you son of a bitch…what have you done?! I’ll kill you!”

“Go ahead! Take your best shot!” dared Seven. “But what will killing me prove? Like I’ve told you before, the foundations of Sevenism are already in place. If you kill me, there will be another prophet slash salesman to represent my created religion. And another. And another. And another. Somebody is always willing to go down for the cause. And our cause is business! Business is booming!”

“This isn’t happening! No!” shouted Krimson.

“Oh, it is happening, my friend. I’m sure you’ll want to tell all of your friends about it, even those at the Raven Strike Society. Those atheistic fools are already set in their ways. But what about the rest of us who need Sevenism to get through our days? Will they be so trusting? Sure, why wouldn’t they trust the God of Vengeance? I’ll tell you why. Because you’re no god. You’re just a prophet like me and everyone who represents my religion.”

“You bastard!” shouted Krimson as he charged toward Seven, only to get a knife to his stomach by the false prophet. The ninja’s stomach was already aching from vomiting so much, and now his innards were spilling all over the snow as Seven gutted him alive. The ninja dropped to his knees and fell on his face in a slow and gory death.

Seven looked down at him, shook his head, and laughed like the super villain he was. “Time to make another snowman!” he said before licking the blood off of his knife in a lustful manner.

Concert Dreams

When I go to sleep at night, a common dream I have is going to a concert of some sort. The people at the concert vary from large crowds to one or two people. The bands also vary wildly. One dream, I saw a concert headlined by Korn, Skillet, and Immortal Technique. Can you imagine those three in one show? A libertarian nu metal band, a Christian conservative rock band, and an atheist liberal rapper all under one roof. If Seattle didn’t have riot problems before, they’ve got them once again. You think that’s crazy? How about going to a Three Days Grace concert in a college lecture hall where the opening act is a black and white movie about old ladies. Or perhaps you’d rather see Anthony Jeselnik do standup comedy in a college lecture hall while playing a really old Final Fantasy game. Or maybe you’d rather watch a Pink Floyd show where they flaunt faceless masks like muscles at the beach. Either way, you’re in for a show if you’re living in my subconscious. These dreams are obviously telling me to go to a rock concert. It has to be more of a deep message than that. Maybe the diversity in political and religious views in each band is an archetype telling me to embrace differences. Maybe the concert I go to where nobody’s there indicates that I have nobody to talk to when I go to a real concert. There certainly is no shortage of beautiful ladies in black skirts or jean shorts, but they’re far out of reach for someone of my means. I do plan on going to a concert again someday. Hell, I already missed three chances at cool concerts in the past year and a half. In 2012, I could have seen Nightwish at the Showbox SoDo, but instead I went on vacation with my family to New Mexico to ride horses and get yelled at by my mom for screaming in pain. Skillet was playing at the Tacoma Dome not too long ago. How they stayed out of my radar, I’ll never know. Soulfly was playing in Seattle to promote their Savages album, but that one fell out of my radar as well. I wish ignorance was the only reason I missed the Soulfly concert. Truth is, I don’t want to go back to Seattle for anything. The last time I was there was to see Papa Roach at the Showbox Market. The concert got out at midnight and it was time to call my mom for a ride. My calls kept going to her voicemail. I stood out in the streets of Seattle for one full hour without transportation. During that hour, I was cold, I had to listen to drunken metal heads scream their asses off, and a punk teenager threatened to shoot me. I was mad about the latter of those for three months before I got over it. Concert offers are enticing, especially when they come from within. They’re fun. They’re energetic. They’re experiences that will last a lifetime. But you know what? It’s going to take a lot for me to return to Seattle. Maybe if the Showbox was featuring lesbian sex between Jeanne Sagan from All That Remains and Floor Jansen from Nightwish, just maybe I could be talked into going. But the last time I checked, Jeanne Sagan and Floor Jansen were not sexual objects. They’re musicians. Musicians play music. There better be some damn good music playing in Seattle or Tacoma. Otherwise, my subconscious will be my new favorite venue.

　

***CONCERT QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“This is our tribe, not your tribe, motherfucker!”

-Max Cavalera from Soulfly-

"Heaven" by Otherwise

As I’ve said in a previous blog entry about Skillet, I’m not a religious person by any stretch of the imagination. I don’t believe in God and I wouldn’t follow his demanding rules even if he existed. Even so, the concept of heaven has always been special to me. To my way of thinking, heaven isn’t a place we go when we die. It’s an idea. It’s the perfect utopia. My idea of heaven doesn’t necessarily have to do with clouds and harp lessons. It has more to do with a place where I feel like I’m not only welcome, but also wanted. I’ve tried to find heaven in lots of public places. I’ve looked in college classes, bus stations, bars, grocery stores, concert halls, bookstores, and not one of those places could ever be called heaven because nobody even knew I existed. I even tried to look for heaven on the beach. The cool blue water, the gorgeous pink skies, the lovely ladies in bikinis, the fluffy puppies running around, it seems like the perfect place to look for heaven. Even the beach thought I was just an invisible ghost. Could it be that my awkward behavior is keeping devil horns on my head instead of a halo? Or maybe it’s true that heaven doesn’t exist in such shallow place. The only real place I’ve been able to call heaven is my home. At home, I’m free to be myself without any limitations. I can tell as many offensive jokes as I want, I can toss around my liberal beliefs without backlash, I can speak in a monotone voice whenever I’m not feeling energetic, and I can write my stories as frequently as I want to. What does this have to do with literature, you ask? It’s simple. Every character I write about should have their own version of heaven (even if they don’t find it until the end of the story, which is usually all the time). For example, I recently wrote a short story for Good Reads called “Prozac Nation 2”. Dustin Spears is an insensitive boyfriend in a time where sensitivity and love are both needed to cool down his sorrowful girlfriend Morgan Penn. By being a jerk as a last resort, Dustin has taken away Morgan’s version of heaven and she is forced to bear her soul to him in order to get it back. Maybe I was secretly saying negative reinforcement works. I hope not. I hope it doesn’t contradict my reasons for boycotting a TV show called “Friday Night Tykes”. In any event, the story was met with a warm reception, so I’m happy about that. You know what else should be met with a warm reception? The song “Heaven” by Otherwise. Band members Adrian and Ryan Patrick’s idea of heaven was their mutual brother Ivan, who passed away a few years before the song’s release. What can they do to bring Ivan back? Keep his memory alive through their gorgeous song. With Ivan Patrick’s memory alive, the imaginations of Otherwise’s fans will be alive as well. Those are two things that will save us as a society: imagination and love. Rest in peace, Ivan Patrick.

　

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“I never believed that your soul could be stolen from me. Who can save me from the monster that I used to be? So if you hear me now, won’t you just send me a sign? Do I make you proud? Tell me that I’m doing fine. If I could, I’d fly away. I’d talk to the angels and beg them to please let me stay. ‘Cause heaven, no heaven, I’ll never see. What can I do to bring you back to me?”

-Otherwise singing “Heaven”-

"Not Gonna Die" by Skillet

I’m not a Christian. I’m not even religious. In the immortal words of Bill Maher, saying atheism is a religion is like saying abstinence is a sex position. Having gotten these items off my chest, my nonreligious status doesn’t deter me away from the beautiful and inspirational music of Skillet. If you listen carefully to the lyrics from “Collide” on, you’ll notice that rarely do they actually mention Jesus or God by name. So that means the lyrics of the songs in which they’re professing their love to someone could be directed at anybody (at least in the atheist listener’s mind). They could be directed at a girlfriend or a wife. John Cooper singing the lyrics “My heart hurts for you” strikes a romantic chord whether that was the intention or not. Before I knew that “Lucy” was a pro-life anthem, I figured it to just be a song about missing people in general, whether they’re dead or simply out of your life. Even though Skillet is considered Christian rock, the listener doesn’t necessarily have to interpret the lyrics as religious. Everybody makes their own interpretations and nobody’s going to tell them otherwise. Let me tell you what the song “Not Gonna Die” means to me. It may be a call to believe in Jesus harder than you already do, but to me, it’s simply an anthem of not throwing in the towel when life becomes too hard to handle. When you give up, you “whisper goodbye” and “flat-line”. But when you “stand and fight forever”, your hard work will bear fruit. It makes me wish this song came out between 2007 and 2009 instead of smack-dab in the middle of 2013. I could have listened to this song forever when I was feeling lonely in college and missing my family. So instead of wishing in one hand and shitting in the other, I used “Not Gonna Die” as inspiration for a short story of the same title. Mario Gustafson, the lead character, finds himself in a similar situation as I was back in my college days. Mario was alone in his dorm room with no one to talk to and his family so many miles away. The difference between me and Mario is that the latter finds his “American family” (he’s a Swedish exchange student) in the form of an unhappy girlfriend of his roommate. Mario takes advantage of Tammy (the girlfriend’s) fragile situation and the two of them form a semi-romantic friendship that is sure to last them at least until the end of college. I’ve never been more jealous of a fictional character in my life. I had a few female friends in college, but we didn’t talk a lot then and we don’t talk a lot now that we have this wonderful invention called Face Book. Do you have a piece of music that speaks to you this way? If so, don’t hesitate to make art out of the inspiration you feel. You might have an idea one day and then it’ll fade away with a quickness if you don’t write it down fast enough. Even for those of you who aren’t “musical people”, if not a beautiful song, then a beautiful movie, TV show, book, or videogame. Find inspiration in something, goddamn it! Heh, I said “goddamn it” in a blog about Christian music. Hehe!

　

***DEPRESSING JOKE OF THE DAY***

Q: What do romance and All That Remains have in common?

A: A War You Cannot Win.