Two-Sentence Horror Story: "Nut Up AND Shut Up"

When Murder Nuts the Clown kidnapped an entire bus full of high school cheerleaders, it took a lot of balls for him to do what he did. They came in many colors and all of them had leather straps.

Wake Up and Smell the Coffee

VERSE 1

He said:

“I crawled so you can run, now I’ll cut off your legs

Don’t fuck before you’re married, now some forced anal sex

You’ll get hired today and then laid off tomorrow

Ask for pocket change? That’s a loan you can’t borrow

I set you up for failure like a sick evil fuck

‘Cause some preacher man said that life’s supposed to suck

They’re not invisible rules, they were written in stone

Long before you were born and after you die alone”

 

CHORUS

Too big to fail? That ship already sailed

Too small to survive? They’ll debate your whole life

Too much in the middle of a roasted shit sandwich

Wake up and smell the coffee, that’s how life’s supposed to happen

 

VERSE 2

A teenaged mom who never had the chance

To go to the prom and ask the crown prince to dance

An autistic kid who didn’t know what they did

To deserve shock torture by the highest court’s order

A Disney fanatic who wanted to learn how to draw

He kept dreaming too much, so he got decked in the jaw

Abortion starts to seem like a better alternative

But the country church hillbillies insist that they live

‘Cause without a population of innocent souls

Who bears the brunt of the abuse so bitter and cold?

 

CHORUS

Too big to fail? That ship already sailed

Too small to survive? They’ll debate your whole life

Too much in the middle of a roasted shit sandwich

Wake up and smell the coffee, that’s how life’s supposed to happen

 

VERSE 3

God has a morbid and dark sense of humor

It’s gallows comedy for the toddler with a tumor

It’s a punch-down bonanza for the Mexican child

Who was thrown in a cell like an animal that’s wild

It takes a hideous demon to get a source of laughter

From a school shooting and the laziness after

From the politicians who broke all their promises

And then went on vacations to their summer cottages

A Cabin in the Woods is what I really meant to say

That’s where they store the bodies of kids who came out gay

 

OUTRO

None of us asked to be born in this bedlam

To be test subjects for an automatic weapon

To be born for five seconds and bombed right away

By racist sons of bitches who don’t like the way we pray

Wake up and smell the coffee

Harvested by little kids who were treated so awfully

By a social order that requires they get lashed

Until they work no more and get thrown out with the trash

Being a bunch of nothing isn’t the insult you think it is

Compared to life on earth, being nothing is bliss

Mr. Poopy Pants

The lifelessness in Earle Saint’s eyes told the story of a man whose inner tiki torch had burned out a long time ago. The heat was there in the form of ashes, but the flame was long gone. Working for a software company operated by elitist screamers tended to do that to a man’s soul. “Work harder!” they said. “Lose weight!” they said. “You’re too fat and lazy!” summed up the bosses’ earworm rhetoric. The effects of their words were broadcast to the world via dark circles, a receding hairline, aging lines, and a saggy frown on Earle’s face.

Where does a man with blasting head voices go to take his bosses’ unsolicited weight loss advice? To McDonald’s, of course, but not for a cheeseburger or McNuggets. The only menu item Earle could stomach at this point was a cup of black coffee. No cream. No sugar. Nothing that would make it taste better than the shit sandwich he had to eat every day at that tech company. Just a standard cup of black coffee from a place famous for ball pits and constantly smiling clown mascots.

When Earle placed his order at the counter and paid for it with some pocket change, the clerk gave him his receipt with the order number on it. And he thought to himself, What’s stopping them from getting my fucking coffee right now? He shrugged his slumped shoulders and dragged his sorry keister to the nearest table, a small exercise, but one that left him even more tired than his office job.

He plopped down on the seat, took his glasses off, and held his battered face in his hands. The white dress shirt several sizes too big for him still managed to keep him claustrophobic in this public space, as did his green slacks. He just wanted to shower and change into a bathrobe. But the act of getting on with his day couldn’t be achieved without a steaming hot cup of black coffee, caffeine thundering through his veins. But the longer he waited, the more he tapped his foot long before the caffeine kicked in.

Earle wanted so badly to go postal at this moment. The demon had been building up inside him for years. His overworked mind still raced with thoughts of his father telling him he wasn’t good enough before spanking him with a belt. His dying brain cells conjured images of his mother telling him he wasn’t a real man for being unable to lose weight and lift heavy objects. His ashen head jelly flashed memories of him being beaten and kicked by jocks twice his size, but half his girth. All the pain and heartache culminated in a lifetime of work at a job he couldn’t wait to retire from, if he would at all.

And then a child’s scream jolted him awake like a black coffee shot to the heart. Earle had completely forgotten that he was in McDonald’s and school was out for the day, hence running children in the restaurant while their parents read the newspaper or fingered through their smart phones. Earle would have envied the happiness of these children if they weren’t so fucking annoying to him. They ran around like they were playing tag, weaving between tables without caring if they stepped on Earle’s foot. But the screams. Those screams that were like an acid trip without actually doing drugs. Schizophrenia in the real world.

“HEY!” Earle screamed in retaliation, getting everyone’s undivided attention. “Keep your voices down, you little bastards! I can’t take that noise!”

One of the previously screaming children burst into tears and ran into his formerly inattentive mother’s arms. She hugged him and gently said, “It’s okay, Devon. He didn’t mean that. He’s just being a Mr. Poopy Pants.” That got a laugh out of the rest of the children, but a tighter jaw clamp from Earle Saint himself. The children started chanting “Poopy-Pants!” at Earle, probably thinking his gut would bust with any more stress.

“Stop calling me Poopy-Pants, you little assholes!” The parents joined in on the action as well. “I mean it! Knock it the fuck off! You know what?! Some days, I wish I could buy a shotgun and blow your heads off!” This earned a collective gasp from the McDonald’s crowd and immediately shut them up. Earle’s face almost sagged with guilt for a moment. Almost. But not really. A victory was a victory.

But then the “Mr. Poopy Pants” chants started again and Earle’s eyeballs bulged out of his skull. The train tunnel veins in his body became visible through his corporate slave uniform. Foam was slopping out of his tightly clamped teeth. His fists were clenched so tightly that his fingernails nearly broke against the weight of his ham-hawks. And then the literary descriptions resembled real life as Earle Saint transformed into a seven-foot tall powerhouse monster with fur everywhere, razorblade fangs, and a roar that would make the gods themselves cower in fear.

Forty-five years of child abuse, fatphobia, anti-male sexism, and attempted murder came pouring out of this monstrous form like hot lava. Children and their parents alike scrambled underneath the tables as they trembled and screamed in horror. Earle would cause them to scatter like cockroaches whenever he’d uproot a table or chair and toss it haphazardly around, almost getting the McDonald’s workers killed. They too took cover wherever they could find it, which in their case was the kitchen, where the boiling of the fry machine oil couldn’t compare to the solar Armageddon that was burning within Earle’s demonic form.

“I! WANT! COFFEE!” he shouted while chucking uprooted furniture around and smashing the walls upon themselves. Probably thinking it would calm him down, one of the female workers brought him a whole machine filled with boiling hot coffee. Once Earle snatched it from her hands, she darted back into the kitchen and screamed her head off.

He ripped the top off the machine like it was an ordinary bottle cap and chugged the entire contents like he was a caffeinated Supreme Court justice who loved beer too much. The scalding hotness soothed his bloody throat and bathed his bladder in liquid heaven. And for the first time since the Reagan administration, Earle Saint gave a tiny smile, which soon formed into a bigger one. And a bigger one, showing off all of his meat grinder teeth.

The kids and parents slowly crawled out of their horrified crouching positions and shakily made their way for the door thinking this McMassacre was finally over. But then the frown returned. The hideous saggy frown that weighed him down more than his human form belly. Forty-five years of hatred didn’t go away just because he drank an entire machine full of black coffee. A warm heart and a warm feel-good story were very different from a warm caffeinated drink. Earle tossed the machine aside like it was a stuffed toy from his murdered childhood, which he still missed to this day.

Another scream came, but it was quickly snuffed out upon the machine’s impact. Terror turned to sorrow. Rage became homicide. Death was inevitable with this much destruction happening all at once. Unfortunately, it happened to the kid named Devon, whose head was bashed beyond recognition from the impact of the machine, his mother crying over his slaughtered corpse.

Earle Saint knew his rage would get him into trouble one day. He just didn’t think it would involve taking another’s life by accident. He regretted not going to therapy. He hated that he couldn’t get a better job. He despised his owns selfishness. It all showed when his monstrous body shrank into a smaller version of his human self, with the anger of an entire audience looking down upon him like the microscopic criminal he was.

One of the kids, who looked like she could be Devon’s sister, slowly dragged herself towards the shrunken Earle, wiped the tears from her own eyes, and said, “You’re not Mr. Poopy Pants. You’re a dumpster fire!”

The audience gasped while the mother pulled the sister away in shock. Earle’s only sensible response at this point was…”Same thing.” He had no idea what was going to happen to him in the aftermath of this heinous day. Jail time? Another attempted murder on him? Suicide? But what he lacked in answers, he made up for in caffeinated heaven, which would be the only kind of heaven suitable for someone of his sins. “Can I please go to hell now?”

He asked and he received. The mother angrily strode up to him and squashed him underneath her high heels, spreading his bloody shame all over the floor. He never had the chance to heal himself. He never had the chance to atone for his worst moments. His entire life had been a chronicle of negative shit. But it was too late to save him. He got his coffee and that was all he could take to the afterlife with him. At least they made it how he liked it.

Bone Popping Good Time

The Eastern European Chihuahua known as Ren shivered and trembled as he stepped into the waiting room, his feline friend Stimpy guiding him by the arm. Stimpy patted his bestie on the head, which did very little to stop the fearful convulsing. “There there, Ren. You’ll be okay. It’s just a little adjustment to help you out. You’ll feel nothing at all.”

Salt water welled up in Ren’s puffy red eyes. “I…I don’t want to go the chiropractor!”

“It’ll be okay, Ren. He even works with little children.” Stimpy waved his hand across the room to reveal small children who were shaking as hard as he was while their Karen moms read magazines and ignored the red flags.

Ren and Stimpy took seats in the lobby with the rest of the patients, Stimpy picking up a copy of Playboy magazine and picking his nose while “reading it for the articles”. The red flags were already a darker shade than Stimpy’s fur and nobody but the children and Ren seemed to care.

And then…the waiting room shook harder than any fearful patient ever could. Thunderous footsteps crunched and crashed behind the main office door. The children tried to get up and run, but most of them were on leashes held in place by the willfully ignorant mothers. Ren clung onto Stimpy’s arm for support and only let go when he realized his friend was still reading the copy of Playboy (in a family practice).

The door swung open and a hulking monster of a man stared out into the waiting room arms akimbo. His medicine ball muscles were barely able to be contained by his tight polo shirt and yuppie khakis. His military crew cut and square jaw caused the color to fade from Ren and the children’s faces, giving away a Navy SEAL drill sergeant vibe that had no place in the world of chiropractics.

He thudded and tromped across the floor, making kids cry along the way, still to the concern of nobody, least of all the parents. The chiropractor towered over a curled up Ren, held out his hand, and introduced himself. “Howdy, little guy! I’m Dr. Dennis Hanover! Nice to meet you!” Ren reluctantly accepted the handshake, which produced the sound of glass shattering as Dr. Hanover squeezed like he was making orange juice. When he let go, Ren’s now much bigger pink hand throbbed and pulsated. “Right this way, buddy!”

The ogre-like Dennis and the twerpy gnome Ren headed back to the office together, Stimpy smiling and waving like it was a final goodbye of sorts. Ren gulped as the door was slammed and bolted shut behind him. The chiropractic table looked comfortable enough with vinyl padding, but the skeletal models surrounding the room looked like something from a horror franchise. Ren’s knees knocked together as a rumbling in his tummy sounded like it could shoot off ammunition out of the wrong end at any moment.

Dennis patted the table and waved Ren over. “Come on, it’ll be fine. I promise you’ll feel like a million bucks afterwards.” The tan Chihuahua crawled to the table as though he was dead long before any adjustments took place. His once clear complexion was now icy blue. And then Dr. Hanover gave him gentle karate chops across his spine, playing him like a glockenspiel of sorts. Ren started to relax and the color was coming back to his face. Dennis kneaded his back like pizza dough and his patient nearly fell asleep on the table.

“Breathe in…and out…” After Ren did as he was told, Dr. Hanover pressed down on his spine and made his office sound like a war zone complete with bombs and machineguns going off.

The hard adjustment caused Ren to jump up and scream his head off, the background morphing into spotted colors with each successive yell. One long scream, two short ones, and one long one again until he was almost out of breath. Ren rushed to the door trying to escape while Dennis held onto his ears. The Chihuahua even pounded on the door with his fists and begged, “Let me out of here! Open the door! Please let me out! Somebody! HELP!”

Dennis finally detached Ren from the doorknob and the door wiggled like a piece of rubber. Dr. Hanover then held his patient down with skin-reddening force and duct taped his mouth shut. Ren used both hands to try to regain his first amendment rights, but the tape was too strong and all he could do afterwards was surrender and shake some more.

“Hold still, little guy. We’ve still got more work to do. It’ll only take a second.” Dennis clutched Ren’s head and snapped his neck in both directions. The Chihuahua’s muffled screams still managed to echo off the walls and knock over some artwork. His neck pulsated and thumped on both sides like a dying heartbeat. And then Dr. Hanover pulled Ren’s fingers, making his joints sound like a pistol duel. His toes sounded like those pistols were upgraded to AR-15’s. His wrists sounded like his chiropractor walked on a snowfield of broken glass.

“One more adjustment! You’re doing great!” As Ren continued to try to free himself from the gag, Dennis pulled out a black leather Y-strap and secured it around Ren’s head. The Chihuahua could do nothing but shake his head as his final plea for help. “Relax your shoulders, and…” Dennis yanked on the Y-strap and every single bone in Ren’s body popped and crackled with deafening volume. The duct tape could no longer muffle Ren’s screams, for he did it so loudly this time that the gag floated through the air into the garbage can. After his last rallying cry, Ren did a literal cry as his entire body melted into a slimy tan puddle.

“There we go! All set! You did great, little buddy!” Dennis patted Ren’s head a little too roughly, nearly giving him a concussion and almost liquefying that part of his body too.

Ren slithered and slimed back into the waiting room while his chiropractor got the table ready for his next patient. The children watched him make his defeated reentry with wide tearful eyes themselves. Stimpy finally stopped picking his nose long enough to notice. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing….”

“How come you’re sad?”

“I’m fine….”

“You don’t sound fine….You look like you’re about to cry…”

And cry he did. The pain was so horrible and so fiery that Ren thought he had died and gone to hell. In reality, hell was already on earth and Dr. Hanover was the devil. The square-jawed military nut marched out into the waiting room and sat next to Ren on the floor. “There there, little pup. I know just the thing that’ll help you. When my dad caught my crying like a girl, he gave me some words of wisdom I still carry to this day. ‘You know, son…Japan had an earthquake…Haiti had an earthquake…Australia had a wildfire…California had a wildfire…and you’re sitting there whining about life?’”.

“Hey, that’s mean,” said Stimpy with saucer eyes.

“Mean? Nah, that wasn’t mean. I gave your boyfriend a bone popping good time back there. He’ll man up in no time at all.”

“B…boyfriend?”

“Yeah, boyfriend! I knew you two were Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell violators the minute you walked through the door. You looked like you were taking him to the prom with your arm around him.”

As Stimpy and the subsequent children cried at the remarks, Ren’s slimy puddle form started to bubble like a pot of spaghetti, though his regenerating limbs were anything but spaghetti. For the longest time, he didn’t feel like his old self, which was why he came to the chiropractor to begin with. He was too scared to be the villain Stimpy knew and loved (in whatever way he wanted to). But that anxiety turned to skin-purpling anger. Steam blew out of his ears. His body returned to its strong roots. He smiled for the first time in his many depressive weeks, but not out of happiness. This was pure psychosis fueling him like diesel.

“Uh-oh…” said Dennis the minute he realized he knew he fucked up.

Ren jumped on his chiropractor’s back and twisted his neck in a direction it was never meant to go, an obvious mockery of that genre of medicine. Dennis screamed while Ren taunted him. “JAPAN WAS HIT WITH AN EARTHQUAKE!” Ren bent Dennis’s legs into reverse L shapes. “HAITI WAS HIT WITH AN EARTHQUAKE!” He bent Dr. Hanover’s fingers off to the sides. “AUSTRALIA HAD WILDFIRES!” In his final “therapeutic adjustment”, Ren popped Dennis’s penis and testicles, which weren’t supposed to have joints in the first place. “CALIFORNIA HAD WILDFIRES! And you’re bitching about life?”

Gone were the days of macho muscles and towering ogre presences. In their place was a broken heap of screaming sticks with a garnish of waterfall tears, still known as Dr. Dennis Hanover, a name which was probably going to be carved into his tombstone sooner or later. The children’s sprinting momentum dragged the chairs their Karen mothers were sitting in by the leashes. Some mothers held on for dear life while others fell on their butts. Those that did the latter chased after their children with whiny demands and shaking fists.

Now it was Stimpy’s turn to convulse in pants-wetting fear. But since he was a cat who didn’t wear pants, the biological sludge stained the floor and mixed with Dennis Hanover’s broken remains. Ren patted his friend on the back and said, “I feel great, Stimpy! You were right! We should come here more often!” Stimpy swallowing a lump in his throat and out of his ass was the surefire sign that Ren was back in all of his glory. Chiropractic medicine was truly the stuff of gods, provided that god was one who worshiped destruction and war. “Let’s go home!”

Blade Master

 Butchered genitals, agony in general

Slash those cocks like a samurai sentinel

They call you Blade Master, I call you torturer

Target little children, never be a warrior

You say it’s just a snip as you steal the tip

But it feels like fire, but it feels like a rip

Do it all in the name of stopping masturbation

Do it all in the name of god’s favorite creations

But if I could hide behind a mystical deity

I could impale you with a spear against the ceiling

I could shove a chainsaw right up your ass

Give you a torture test that you’ll never pass

I could blame it all on who I pray to at night

I could call it freedom or my inalienable right

Doesn’t feel good when I’m the one with the blade

Chopping off your schlong, no more babies to be made

In case you want make a point about abortion

Don’t even try, because we know it’s extortion

A clump of cells ain’t got shit on a living child

Stop dicing dicks and adding to your growing pile

Blade Master, Blade Master, rest in little pieces

Know you can’t do fuck-all about sexual releases

Got no resume to take with you to heaven

Take the elevator down to the land of bad intentions

Tell the demons about the parents’ medical decision

Give them a lecture on what you call circumcisions

Clown Music

CLOWN MUSIC
A ball on my nose, a smile on my face
Big red shoes stepping all over the place
Bright green overalls to complete the look
Comedy routines from a high school joke book
Who’s ready to laugh? Who’s ready to dance?
Who’s ready to wet their own underpants?
I’m throwing the pies, riding one-wheel bikes
We can party and giggle for as long as we’d like

COMING HOME
It’s getting pretty dark around the trailer park
Wipe off the makeup, frown the shape of an arc
A bottle of jack and some pills for my back
A pizza for dinner, another heart attack
Another episode of Wheel of Fortune
Another news story about the ban of abortion
Fall asleep on the couch, cancer stick in my mouth
I’ve got no rhyme or reason to be fucking proud

BACK TO WORK
Sunbeam aggravates my pounding headache
Still laying on the couch like I’m dead weight
Can’t put on another smile for the little brats
Can’t put on the overalls, I’m too damn fat
Can’t let them know that my magic is gone
No more faking happiness, no more being strong
Where did I put that damn nine millimeter?
I don’t care if you call me a coward or cheater

BANG!
Suicide attempt didn’t go as it was planned
But I’m still walking amongst the damned
Extra hole in my head, brain dead as can be
Little kids cry as they take a look at me
Mommies holding them, daddies glaring
The love is there, but nobody’s sharing
I am a monster in the eyes of the young
No cracking jokes, no birthday songs sung

Idiocracy

MOVIE TITLE: Idiocracy

DIRECTOR: Mike Judge

YEAR: 2006

GENRE: Dystopian Comedy

RATING: R for language and suggestive dialogue

GRADE: Pass

You know how science fiction movies are supposed to be good at predicting the future? Even though this movie is set five hundred years from now, with our current political climate, it almost feels like Idiocracy’s prediction is right on the nose. Smart people are unsure and unprepared when it comes to having babies while idiots are so overconfident that they don’t mind polluting the earth with equally stupid crotch goblins. And then these defective genes are passed down through multiple generations and here we are. Corporate branding replaces commonsense. Macho manliness and crass humor replace kindness and decency. Gatorade replaces regular drinking water. Any kind of intellectual thought is met with homophobic and ableist slurs. Of course, Idiocracy takes all of this behavior to the extreme and that’s why it’s so hilarious. The citizens of this new dystopia have to rely on a mediocre white guy to fix all of their problems because he’s technically the smartest guy on earth. Again, does any of this sound familiar?

Yes, Idiocracy is just a comedy and it shouldn’t be taken super seriously. Yes, we can laugh until our ribs are broken and our lungs are punctured. But you know…there’s an awful lot of truth packed into these ninety minutes of screen time. Being true and funny at the same time will always earn the director bonus points. That is, unless there are a bunch of futuristic idiots watching a two-hour movie about somebody’s butt farting every once and a while. No story. No other plot points. Just farting and butts. And that movie won multiple academy awards, including best screenplay. Yeah, that happens in Idiocracy. Sad, but true. If this is the slow death our world must go through, why not laugh along the way? It’s better than crying, although tears would be better for dying crops than Gatorade (even though Gatorade has “electrolytes”, whatever those are). Four out of five stars for this ridiculous dystopian comedy! No wonder it became a cult favorite!

A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

MOVIE TITLE: A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

DIRECTOR: Marielle Heller

YEAR: 2019

GENRE: Drama

RATING: PG for violence

GRADE: Extra Credit

After watching this movie and having sore eyeballs as a result, I can say with a hundred percent conviction that the story is completely devoid of Mary-Sues and Gary-Stus. On the contrary, imperfections can be found among every character, including Mr. Fred Rogers himself. He may be a kind and gentle soul in public as well as on TV, but even he admits that he makes mistakes every now and then. He too gets angry. He too feels sad. He too had a tumultuous childhood and married life. The only difference is, he’d rather use positivity and creative therapy as a conduit for his emotions, not violence and rage. It takes work to achieve this kind of attitude towards life. And yes, there are many bumps in the road. Tom Hanks, the actor who played Mr. Rogers, openly admitted to being terrified to play his role. He doesn’t have to be anymore, because he knocked it out of the park. He made me believe in the kindness of Mr. Rogers all over again, imperfections and all.

Lloyd Vogel, the journalist who is assigned to interview Mr. Rogers, has his own share of imperfections. He hates his father, he’s questioning himself as a parent, he’s wrapped up in his work and can’t be there for his family, and he’s stubborn about not wanting to interview a “hokey children’s show host”. To put it mildly, he’s got a lot of anger in his heart and won’t let anybody in. After many interviews with Mr. Rogers, his transformation into a loving and forgiving person becomes the basis for his character development. It’s a slow, distrustful, and heartbreaking transformation. He even shows glimpses of the father he hates so much. If you’re a big fan of character development, you’ll easily get behind Lloyd Vogel. When he cries, you cry. When he’s angry, you’re angry. When he triumphs, you’ll cheer for him. He makes awful decisions, but that doesn’t detract from him being a relatable protagonist.

You know who else has a lot of growing up to do? Jerry Vogel, Lloyd’s aforementioned jerk of a father. He mocks his son at the beginning of the movie and the two get physical over it (hence the PG rating for violence). Jerry slept around while the mother of the family was dying. He abandoned the family when they needed him the most. But it’s easy to tell that he’s a sleazebag from the minute he first appears on the screen. The rest of these revelations come naturally. But is he a redeemable character? Can he too go through a transformation and mend fences with his son? Yes, he’s a sleazebag, but if he was perfect and gallant all the time, there’d be no story and there’d be nothing to cheer for as the movie progresses. You like character development, right? You like slow transformations? You like redemption stories? Keep an eye on Jerry Vogel. Will your patience pay off? Watch the movie and find out.

As I mentioned before, my eyes got sore during the more emotional moments of this movie. None of it came across as cheesy. This was genuine emotion and nobody knew more about how to deal with our emotions than Fred Rogers himself. It takes time. It takes patience. But it’s worth it in the end. That’s what this movie means to me. That’s why this movie gets a solid five out of five stars. A perfect grade for a movie about imperfect people. It truly is a beautiful day in the neighborhood. There better be some award victories for this movie.

Freedom of Information

CREEPY CHILDREN’S CHOIR X2

Tell on a gang

Look for friends

Take a course of action

And throw him in the sea

SCREAMING LINE 1

Get the fuck out of my head!

VERSE 1

Those words are not yours to read

You weren’t the one who had to bleed

You never had to hide your shame

You never had to change your name

CHORUS

Freedom of information

Public humiliation

Classroom comedy

Psychological sodomy

SCREAMING LINE 2

What are you fuckers laughing at?!

VERSE 2

An immature sense of humor

Labeling everyone a loser

Laughing at everything in sight

You never had to run and hide

CHORUS

Freedom of information

Public humiliation

Classroom comedy

Psychological sodomy

BRIDGE

Don’t minimize this horseshit

It’s not so easy to fucking forget

Punish these chuckling morons

Before somebody chugs Clorox

VERSE 3

Thank god I’m done with this shit

There’s nowhere in class to sit

I’ve washed my face full of spit

No longer treated like a kid

CHORUS

Freedom of information

Public humiliation

Classroom comedy

Psychological sodomy

CREEPY CHILDREN’S CHOIR

Tell on a gang

Look for friends

Take a course of action

And throw him in the sea

SCREAMING LINE 3

Piss off, you little shit weasels! Ugh!

"The World According to Mister Rogers" by Fred Rogers

BOOK TITLE: The World According to Mister Rogers: Important Things to Remember

AUTHOR: Fred Rogers

YEAR: 2003

GENRE: Nonfiction

SUBGENRE: Inspirational Quotes

GRADE: Extra Credit

As the host of the longest running PBS show in history, Fred Rogers inspired entire generations of viewers with messages of love and wisdom. He didn’t have one mean bone in his body. He wasn’t judgmental. He knew that every child had importance, every child had potential, and every child was deserving of love. Love didn’t always mean being one hundred percent agreeable all the time, but it was always an unconditional feeling that every person should experience in their lifetime. Fred Rogers passed away the year this book was published, but his legacy of love is immortal and multi-generational even to this day.

One of the most important messages you can receive from this book is to know that your emotions are completely natural and shouldn’t be feared or balked at. If someone wants to smile, let them smile. If someone wants to cry, let them cry. If someone is angry, help them use their anger in a constructive way. I’ll be the first to admit that I struggle with my emotions from time to time. I belittle myself for the times I feel sad, I don’t allow myself to cry in front of others, and I don’t want to admit to anyone else what I’m feeling at that moment. Reading these quotes has helped me lower my defenses somewhat, but it’s a process that takes time as Fred Rogers will be the first to tell you. I’ll also admit that I hate watching other people cry because it makes me vicariously sad as well. That’s not from a place of discomfort. It’s from a place of love. Love is one of Mister Rogers’s most important themes.

Another important thing to remember is the effect we have on other people. Whether you do a big or small favor for someone, the feeling of gratitude is a powerful thing that will make it all worthwhile. By the same token, every hurtful thing we do to another person will be remembered as well. Be careful with your words and actions. Be a positive influence on a child’s life. We take all of these experiences when we grow up and they help us develop our adult personalities, for better or worse. Everything you do matters more than you think. It may not seem like a big deal, but to another human being, it means the world. Don’t be hateful. Don’t be bitter. Be the best possible example of yourself you can be.

And finally, another favorite part of this book is the fable Mister Rogers tells of the carpenter who refused to hire an apprentice because he won’t admit to making mistakes and therefore won’t know how to fix them when he does. Making mistakes is a natural part of the human experience, no matter how good of a person you may be. Even Mister Rogers made mistakes in his life that he ended up turning into valuable life lessons. Strength doesn’t come from perfect muscles or superhero abilities. It comes from being able to admit your weaknesses and working to make them into strengths. Egomania never did the world any good.

Everything you read in this book may seem like practical commonsense, but the truth is, these things don’t get said enough. Too many times we’ve strayed from our happiness and used our negativity to do awful things to each other. It could be a microcosmic relationship between two people or a macrocosmic political blunder heard around the world. We need Mister Rogers’s wisdom now more than ever. If everybody would pick up a copy of this book and study it until the end of time, we’d be much better off as a human race. An extra credit grade will go to this beautifully-crafted piece of nonfiction.

Age Against the Machine

“Warning: this episode of The Crow Show has been rated TV-14-L. It contains strong language that may be unsuitable for younger audiences. The opinions expressed in this episode are solely those of the host and his guests and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Mystery Rider Productions or their affiliates. Viewer discretion is advised.”

The words and TV rating on the screen blew away in a fog of dust while an animated cowboy with a skeleton mask rode into view on a horse. The animal bucked up in the air and let out a powerful shriek while the cowboy screamed, “Yee-haw!” The words “Mystery Rider Productions Presents…” appeared below the now frozen logo after a bolt of lightning ripped through the screen. The logo also blew away in a cloud of dust in favor of the words, “Today’s Episode: Age Against the Machine”.

The black screen faded in to reveal a clapping audience while the camera circularly panned toward the main desk. On one side of the desk sat a grumpily frowning gentleman in a suit and tie while occupying the other side was a pleasant-faced middle-aged lady in a sun dress and hat.

“Ladies and gentlemen, here’s the star of The Crow Show: Marcus Crow!” shouted the background announcer, prompting the clapping audience to rise to their feet and cheer even louder than before. A dapperly-dressed black male appeared onstage smiling and waving at his adoring crowd while smoothly making his way toward the desk. Mr. Crow even bowed to his audience like they were gods as the cheering slowly died down.

“Hello, everyone! Welcome to the Crow Show! Today’s episode is probably going to be the most controversial one we’ve had in a long time. I’ve hired extra security to come out if necessary. The topic of course is the so-called Brat Ban sweeping the nation. Children deemed too noisy or disobedient are being ejected from public places along with their parents. Some people agree with this policy while others believe it’s unfair and ageist towards these small children. My guests today represent both sides of the Brat Ban debate.

To my left, she is a stay at home mom of two sons and she’s also a parenting blogger who claims to be on the wrong end of the Brat Ban, give it up for Ms. Leslie Cain!” The audience cheered and clapped as Marcus stole a kiss on the back of Leslie’s hand. He continued, “To my right, he is a retired restaurant manager who has enforced the Brat Ban multiple times in his career, give it up for Mr. David Charles!” The audience’s cheers were purely for the sake of being respectful and had nothing to do with their love of Mr. Charles.

“Okay everyone, let’s get started. Now before I…”

“Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait,” interrupted David. “I want to clear the air on something before we begin. Mr. Crow, you said earlier that people are suggesting the Brat Ban is ageist, but I’m here to tell you it’s not. Ageism would suggest that I’m prejudiced. I didn’t prejudge those children. I judged them based on things they all universally do.”

With her arms folded and a death stare on her face, Leslie asked, “And what do all children universally do, Mr. Charles? Do they get hungry? Do they get impatient? Do they…you know…act like children? You can’t hold little babies to the same standards as adults. It is unfair, David.”

Marcus extended his arms in a quasi-barrier between his two guests and said, “Okay guys, let’s have a little bit of civility here. We’re trying to get to the bottom of…”

“Bottom of what, Marcus? Your Nielsen ratings?” belted David, which was followed by an “ooo” from the audience. The host straightened his tie and remained passive while David pointed his finger at him and said, “Don’t think for a minute that I don’t know about how badly this show is doing. You knew full well me and this crazy bitch would never get along, so why don’t you…”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” interrupted Leslie, holding her hands out defensively. “What the hell’s your problem? I didn’t come here to be humiliated by an ageist creep!” The audience came back to life with a round of applause. “I came here to have a civilized debate! Maybe if you’d actually open your eyes every now and then, you wouldn’t have to throw those children out of your restaurant!”

Marcus tried once again in vain to restore order, but David blasted right through his verbiage with, “You’re right! I don’t have to worry about throwing kids out, because I don’t have a restaurant anymore! I sold it to my oldest son so that I wouldn’t have to…”

An even louder “Oh!” emanated from the audience while Leslie cut off her foe. “You have a son? So you actually have kids and you’re out here making these ridiculous claims? The irony’s killing me more than your greasy ass food probably would have!”

The audience continued to voice their “ooos” and “ahs” as David and Leslie traded barbs back and forth. David said, “First of all, you fucking moron, unlike the bitchy parents who had to get thrown out, I raised my kids the right way! If they did half the shit that these banned kids did, I’d beat their asses with a belt!”

The banter between Leslie and David escalated when the two guests stood up and came nose-to-nose with each other. Marcus had given up hope completely and sat at the table with his shaking head in his hands. The beefy security guards in black T-shirts stormed onto the stage to separate David and Leslie, but the two wouldn’t stop turning the studio into a cacophonic hellhole with their screeches and screams. The audience didn’t do much to ease Marcus’s aching head with their own noisy chants.

The stressed out host finally put a stop to the madness when he shot up from his seat, extended his arms in another pseudo-barricade, and shouted, “Shut up! Shut the fuck up!” The audience, guests, and security team calmed down long enough to allow the host’s words wash over them like a tidal wave of rage. Marcus straightened his collar and shouted, “This is not the Jerry Springer Show! I will not have fighting on my program! This is a respectable show and I demand that everyone here treat it as such!”

“I don’t know, Marcus,” mocked David. “The Jerry Springer Show’s pulling better ratings than the Blow Show right now. Maybe you can get some more viewers if that Leslie chick takes her clothes off!”

Leslie Cain bolted towards David Charles like she was shot out of a cannon and rained down fists and elbows upon the child-hating guest. Not even the fierceness of the security team could contain the motherly fireball. She just kept climbing over them and throwing more haymakers, to which David inadequately covered his head and dropped to the floor.

Marcus jumped up on the table and dove onto the mass of humanity brawling it out on the stage, while the audience mockingly chanted, “Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!” During the scuffle, Marcus Crow suffered a deep scratch on his arm and bled buckets all over the stage. The redness in his arm was only matched by the redness in his vision. He hungered for violence. He hungered for retribution. The sinister urge ate a hole in his stomach. In his blind rage, he threw a punch at what he thought was the source of the scratch.

But then the audience gasped in horror when it was Leslie who took one on the jaw and flopped over unconscious. The bruises were on Marcus’s knuckles. He stopped giving a shit about his bloody arm and started hypnotically at his purple fist. In that moment, everybody was quiet, the security guards slowly backed away, and time itself stood as still as a statue for Marcus Crow.

The frozen host barely noticed David Charles’s hand on his shoulder when the guest mocked, “Well, well, well, I guess you’ve got your ratings after all. Isn’t this what you wanted? A steady income? Lots of fame? Well, you’re famous now, buddy. Come on, say it with me: Jerry! Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!”

“I…I…” Marcus wiped a singular tear away from his eyes and softly said, “I’m not Jerry fucking Springer…”

“You’re right, buddy,” said David as he patted Marcus on the shoulder. Making reference to Marcus’s black skin, he said, “You’re the host of the Jerome Springer Show! Enjoy your fame!” David gently shook the still petrified Marcus and danced off the set whistling a merry tune.

Marcus slowly turned his head to face the camera and stuttered, “We…we’ll be right back after…th…these messages.” The camera still rolled long enough to catch Marcus shaking as he pointed at Leslie’s unconscious body and telling his security detail to take her to the medical wing. The sullen-faced bouncers heaved Leslie on their shoulders and carried her away like it was a funeral procession.

Marcus gingerly made his way to the desk and couldn’t bring himself to face the hushed audience, so he held his head in his hands yet again. He lifted his head only a little bit and noticed the camera still hadn’t gone to commercials. “What are you waiting for?!” he roared. “Turn that fucking thing off and take a commercial break, damn it!” Except instead of a five-minute word from the sponsors, Marcus was certain he would have a permanent vacation from television life. He was right: he wasn’t Jerry Springer. At least Jerry Springer would still have a show.

Chicken of the Night

Mikris Nagata crouched in the bushes outside of KFC and peered through the windows with cobra venom in his pupils. His brows furrowed and his muscles tensed with every chicken wing the patrons stuffed in their jowly mouths. Even through double pane glass, he could hear their lips smacking and their tongues clicking off of their palettes. Obese men and women with their costume-dressed children devouring members of Mikris’s own brethren. The sight made the contents of his own stomach swirl around like toilet water. Why subject this massacre to small children? Wouldn’t the pillow cases full of Butterfingers and Reese’s Pieces have been enough? This wasn’t a fast food establishment; it was a graveyard for the overweight.

Every night Mikris hid out in front of this restaurant, waiting for the perfect time to strike. So many people gathered in one place on Halloween night: the opportunity was handled to the chicken samurai on a silver platter. The chairman of the Dread City Rifle and Revolver Club Steve Coleman was there licking the grease off of his sausage fingers while barely fitting into his booth. The manager of this establishment Bill Shane was behind the counter dishing out members of Mikris’s race at a chippy’s price. So much gnashing on dead chickens. So much sadistic enjoyment. So many large bellies. Mikris’s mind raced at a million miles per hour. He had to strike now or this would be another missed opportunity to avenge his people!

The chicken warrior stood up and unsheathed his double katanas, scraping the blades against each other while his beak clamped down in fury. With one shrill war cry squawk, Mirkis bolted towards the restaurant and crashed through the glass wall shoulder first, earning screams from fat little kids and gasps from their monstrous parents. Shards of glass nicked the parents’ skins, but still they stood in front of their little ones as the KFC clientele backed away at the sight of Mirkis swinging his blades and squawking like hell.

“I don’t go to your hospitals and devour your infants,” whispered Mirkis while accusingly pointing his blades at the patrons. “I don’t go to your graveyards and defile your loved ones. I don’t go to your police stations and military compounds and snack on soldiers. Why then would you disgusting people think it’s okay to munch on my species! Why do you think it’s okay to treat them this way in such horrible farming conditions!”

“Don’t listen to him, guys,” dismissed Steve Coleman with a wave of his meaty paw, still holding a drumstick. “It’s just some hippie faggot in a chicken suit. I’ll bet he also dresses in a cow suit before he hits up the Burger King. Or maybe he’ll dress up like a big ol’ potato and harass the guys who make Freedom Fries at McDonald’s!” The patrons chuckled at Steve’s dialogue.

“I assure you, sir, this is not a Halloween costume. And this is not about liberalism or conservatism. It’s about basic human decency. You can’t lock up a serial killer like Jeffrey Dahmer and then eat members of my clan right in front of me at the same time! Next thing you know, you’re going to start using Military Intelligence to find Jumbo Shrimp and eat those too!” belted Mikris.

A shotgun’s pump-handle echoed throughout the restaurant followed by an authoritative Southern voice shouting, “Hold it right there, goddamn it!” It was Bill Shane, nametag, apron, shotgun, and all. With the double barrels pointed squarely at Mikris, Bill said, “If you think you’re going to ruin Halloween night just so you can spread your hippie-dippie BS, you’ve got another thing coming, mister. Now put down them Jap swords and approach the counter with your fluffy feathers of your head!”

Another gun clicked and it belonged to Steve Coleman, the proud owner of a Desert Eagle Magnum big enough to fit in his frying pan-sized hands. “You’d better listen to him, buddy. You’ve caused enough trouble tonight. Don’t make either of us pull the goddamn trigger!”

Mikris chuckled hard enough to shake his waddle back and forth. “You actually think those tinker toys are going to get you guys out of this mess? Give me a fucking break. If you guys had any balls whatsoever, you’d put down the chicken wings and play army boy overseas! Now that I think about it, you’ve got all the oil you’ll ever need in those deep fryers.”

“You want to joke around, motherfucker?” taunted Bill. “That’s right, keep running your mouth. Keep giving me a reason to shoot your ugly-ass head off. If you think what we do to your so-called brethren is bad, I’m willing to bet these fine folks wouldn’t mind dining on your sorry ass right here tonight! Who’s ready for some chicken tonight?!” The patrons cheered their heads off while waving drumsticks in the air like confederate flags.

“Enough!” shouted Mikris as he grabbed a gigantic father of five, held his blades to the guy’s throat, and used him for a human shield. His children screamed and tugged on Mikris’s legs for him to let go, but the chicken warrior wouldn’t listen. “Lay down your arms or he’s a dead son of a bitch! Don’t make me do it! I’ll fucking do it!” Slowly and surely, Bill Shane and Steve Coleman set their firearms down, kicked them over to Mikris when ordered to do so, and held their hands in the air.

Amidst the crying children and confused parents clutching tightly to them, Steve begged, “For God’s sake, can you at least let the rest of these families go? You don’t need to hold them hostage too!”

“You think these little brats are innocent?!” belted Mikris. “These little cannibals are just as disgusting and lazy as the rest of you! They’re going to grow up to be heartless bastards just like their parents, that is if they live past their twenties!” With a crazed look in his eyes, he scoped around the restaurant at all of the crying patrons and said, “You all want me to die too, don’t you? You proved that much when you pointed those guns at me. Well, if you really want to die at KFC…you’re going to have to do it the old fashioned way by eating your ass off!”

One slash was all it took for Mikris to rip his hostage’s shirt off, revealing a set of man tits and a hairy chest and back. “Dear god, that’s some disgusting shit!” the chicken squirmed. “It almost reminds me of what you guys are eating right now! But you know what? It can’t be any worse than those Kit-Kat bars your children have in their pillow cases.” He traced a finger across the man’s shoulder and parted his body hair, much to the wide-eyed horror of everyone around him. “Well, you know how that saying goes: I’m going to open my mouth, close my eyes, and you’re going to give me a big surprise!”

Mikris’s beak was open wide enough for everyone to see his dangling uvula. Drool ran down his mouth and his closed eyes were watering with anticipation. The hostage yelled, “No!” as the chicken warrior leaned his head down to take a nice big chomp out of human flesh. When he clamped down on the meaty treat, it tasted crispy, greasy, and sweet all at the same time. He chewed slowly and savored the flavor while his hostage sobbed like one of his little girls. Such a heavenly treat. Such a symphony of flavors erupting on his chicken tongue. Mikris swallowed his meal and slowly opened his eyes to admire his violent handiwork.

His eyes were bulging out of their sockets when he saw he had instead taken a bite out of a piece of chicken that Steve Coleman held to his mouth. The children pointed and laughed as the avian samurai trembled in horror. He slowly lowered his blades from his hostage’s throat and stumbled backwards with an expression of fright appropriate for Halloween night.

“How does it taste, chicken man?” asked Steve with a wide grin. “You know what you hippie-dippies always say: don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”

Mikris was going to come back with snappy dialogue, but his beak convulsed so violently that he couldn’t form a sentence. All he could do was cluck nervously while tears poured down his feathered face and children giggled at him with sadistic delight. He could feel his own brethren sloshing around in his gut and making him just as fat and lazy as everyone around him. This was what it meant to dine on his kind. The phrase “you are what you eat” has never before been used in such a cruel way.

Mikris Nagata could feel the murky sewage in his stomach bubbling while his head felt lighter than the feathers on his body. He stumbled around like a drunken zombie struggling for equilibrium. He could feel the boiling sensation in his throat. He couldn’t breathe. His lungs burned like he had swallowed a branding iron. And then, the viscous acid flowed from his beak and drenched Steve Coleman’s MAGA T-shirt and sagging blue jeans.

The children laughed even harder than before, to which Mikris mockingly asked, “You like that?! You fucking like that?! Have some more!” The chicken samurai unleashed a barf storm that covered the entire restaurant and their patrons in sick fluids. A chaotic exodus from KFC saw customers trample over each other, not giving a shit about the small children trick-or-treating that night, just to get the hell away from the foul odor of vomit and shame.

Bill Shane clutched his head in sorrow while his costumers, Steve Coleman included, dashed away from his place of business. There was no way he would pass a health and safety check. His business was sure to get shut down. All he could say to that was, “Why?! I didn’t do anything wrong! All I wanted to do was serve fried chicken!”

Mikris wiped the biological sludge from his eyes and watched Bill pathetically cry over the counter with just a loose grip on the shotgun handle. The chicken warrior weakly waddled over to the manager and yanked the gun out of his hands before pointing it at him with evil intentions. Bill begged, “Please! Don’t shoot me! I’m just a manager! I’ve got a family of my own!”

The chicken warrior locked eyes with the chubby manager and got off on his fear. Mikris pressed the barrel against Bill’s cheek like a hard-on and smiled through the slimy filth on his face. His finger danced across the trigger like a nervous tick. The psychosis in his eyes grew more sadistic and perverse. And then Mirkis broke the shotgun in half across his knee before tossing the weapon to the floor. He placed his wing across the crying Bill’s shoulders and said, “Something tells me your patrons would have thrown up anyways. You’d better get this place cleaned up before the health inspector comes!”

“You’re a hypocrite! You’re a fucking hypocrite!” sobbed Bill with his head in his flabby arms.

“I know I am, Mr. Shane. But I have to admit…it tastes like chicken!”

Dayton Spoke Choir

The ethereal beauty of the choir’s voices haunted Detective Matt McQueen’s mind like a schizophrenic voice. He felt as though he was being lovingly pulled into the center of this heavenly sound, but kept his pistol drawn knowing this was the calm before the storm. He already ventured into the unknown by looking for clues in this dense forest. Every once and a while a spider would land on him and he’d get chills running down his spine before swatting the arachnids away. Those voices. So innocent. So magnificent. They couldn’t have been older than the single digits. What were small children doing all the way out in this secluded nightmare?

Matt took a massive gulp of saliva and wiped the sweat off of his forehead when he found the source of the voices: a broken down church covered in foliage and insects. Another plunge into the unknown. With every one of Detective McQueen’s steps, the choir grew louder and more haunting. His finger tightly wrapped around the trigger, the cop slowly advanced toward the front entrance, which was guarded with little else than a cracked wooden door barely on its hinges. It wasn’t so much the robust structure that kept city folks away; it was the creepiness of it all.

Matt’s eyebrows furrowed and his goateed mouth curled into a dark frown as he kicked down the front door and stormed in on the church screaming, “Freeze! Paulson City Police!” His all-business attitude softened into creeped out jitters when he saw what was inside. He lowered his weapon and asked, “What the fuck?!” He was careful not to drop the pistol, but with his shaky hands, it almost happened.

The children’s choir’s lovely voices were tainted by blue jumpsuits and putty-faced masks with blood dripping down from their mouth and eye holes. Each and every one of them had puppet strings attached to their ankles and wrists, strings that lifted their arms in conformist salute when prompted by their leader.

“Matthew, Matthew, Matthew! It’s so good to see you again. Perhaps you’d like to sing some hymns with us.” Detective McQueen quickly turned around with his pistol aimed at the source of the creepily sensual voice: Reverend Laguna Pearman. No longer was he the trusted member of the Paulson City religious community. No longer was he a donor to the poor and an educator of children. All that remained of Reverend Pearman was a wicked smile and a black choir robe with his fingers tapping together playfully.

“Laguna…I trusted you!” shrieked Matt before bull rushing the preacher and slamming him against the wooden wall. Even with the barrel of Matt’s pistol planted firmly in his jaw line, Laguna’s smile never faded. “I went to your sermons every Sunday. I let my child around you. And this is what you’ve been doing this whole time?! Where’s Caylee?! She better be in here or I’ll blast your fucking head clean off your shoulders!”

“Daddy, no!” shouted a little girl from the choir, who came flying toward her father on puppet strings before clamping around his legs tightly. “Daddy, please don’t kill him! He’s going to take us to heaven to see God! This is our mission!”

“You heard her, Detective. Caylee is much happier here than she was at home. She’s not your child anymore. She belongs to Jesus Christ now,” said Laguna, still not wiping that smug grin off his slender face.

“Shut up, you snaky piece of shit!” yelled Matt before pistol whipping Laguna’s breakable face repeatedly. Caylee begged and pleaded with her father while pounding on his legs with those tiny child hands. The rest of the choir levitated in on their puppet strings to pull Matt off of their “master”. By the time the detective was being held on the ground, Laguna’s visage was covered in blood and bone splinters.

“My face…my beautiful face…how could you do this to me? How could you do this to the face of God?!” sobbed Laguna as he dropped to his knees clutching his shattered mug. While some children held a struggling Matt to the ground, others circled around Laguna and hugged him tightly while crying drops of pink tears.

“Is this what you call leadership?!” bellowed Matt. “This guy’s not your master! He’s not anyone’s master! He’s a false prophet with a child fetish and he needs to be locked up forever!”

“Don’t talk that way about my new daddy!” shouted Caylee with tears running down her masked face.

Matt’s own eyes were sore and swollen from the sorrow of watching his daughter being ripped away from him by this monster. Detective McQueen’s heart felt like it was being put through a juicer. His stomach felt like he’d taken a liver kick from an MMA champion. “Caylee, please don’t say those things,” begged Matt with all of his soul.

“I hate you, Dad! I hate you! I belong to God now!” shrilled Caylee with her fists at her side.

“Oh, Matthew, don’t you ever get sick of questioning things you don’t understand?” asked the bloodied Laguna Pearman rhetorically. “Don’t you ever get sick of taking my name in vain? You should be. It’s a mortal sin after all. And you know how we punish sinners in my church, don’t you?” That last line was punctuated by Laguna gently rubbing his calloused hand across Caylee’s trembling back.

“Don’t touch my daughter!” roared Matt as he struggled even harder to free himself from the choir’s grips.

Laguna spit out some teeth before he reached down for Matt’s gun (which he dropped on the floor earlier) and pointed the weapon at the wiggly detective. “Looks like your beautiful daughter isn’t the only one who belongs to God now. Rest in peace, Detective McQueen!” Matt wiggled his foot free and kicked Laguna in the ankle, causing his gun blast to accidentally strike one of his pupils in the chest. The false prophet along with his choir watched in horror as the child clutched his wound and bled all over the floor, dying a slow and painful death.

“No…no, no, no! Why, God?! Why would you take this innocent child from me?!” shouted Laguna as he dropped to his knees and shook his fists to the sky. “We’ve done so much for you! We’ve done everything we could to make you happy! Why, my lord! Why?!”

The shocked children’s grips were loosened by this sudden turn of events and Matt shoved them off to earn his freedom. He spear tackled Laguna to the ground and wrestled the gun out of the preacher’s hands. Despite the knee-bending pleas from the choir, Matt unloaded all six rounds into Laguna’s already shattered face, spreading his brains and skull all over the wooden church floor. Caylee shouted, “No!” as she watched the preacher’s blood run down a tiny crack in the floor.

What started out as a kidnapping investigation turned into a full-on massacre for Matt McQueen. His hands trembled as he held his now unloaded gun still in Laguna’s splattered face. The cop slowly climbed to his feet and finally holstered his weapon when the realization set in at what he’d done. Still shaky, yet firm to the core, Matt declared, “Alright, kids. It’s time to go home to your parents. This investigation’s over. Enough with the Halloween bullshit. Take your masks off and load up in the van outside.”

With their puppet strings loosened and their heads hung low, the children, Caylee included, removed their putty-faced masks. When they lifted their heads again, Matt’s newfound resolve shattered into trembling fear. Their faces were even bloodier than Laguna’s was. Their frowns were contorted beyond their natural limits. Some of their teeth and eyes were missing. They even had abscesses that peeled off parts of their faces to reveal their teeth.

“Sorry, Daddy. We warned you!” whispered Caylee. The choir formed a circle around the shivering Matt before jumping on him and chewing at his flesh. The detective’s screams were muffled by the blood pouring out of the hole in his throat. His eyeballs squished and squashed inside the maulers of the deformed children. His blood was slobbered up off the ground and his flesh was ripped and shredded. The final munch came when the evilly smiling Caylee devoured her father’s exposed heart like it was a juicy steak. All that remained of the detective were his bones and small pieces of slashed skin.

As the children lapped down the final pools of blood and chewed the last of their meals like animals, one of them asked, “Hey, Caylee! What should we do with Master Pearman’s body?”

The little brat’s grin never washed away from her bloody face when she said, “We’ve already had our supper for the evening….but we haven’t had dessert yet! Come on, everybody! Sing with me!”

As the choir carried the lifeless body of Laguna Pearman away from the church, they sang in their most innocent voices, “I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream!”

Ottie-Doo

The Skull Hammer Cult walked the Earth in search of the ultimate paradise and somehow landed in the backwoods area of Paulson City. Their official church was an old schoolhouse from the 1800’s, a one-classroom compound with broken pieces of wood holding it together and stale red paint coming off in flakes. There used to be a beautiful golden bell at the top of the steeple, but it had since been replaced by the symbol of the Skull Hammer Cult, which was an iron skull minus a jaw with a sledgehammer going through its cranium.

Inside this official church, children ranging from little ones to teenagers were sitting in their desks praying and dancing around like creepy little puppets, waiting for their master to return. Randy Fender, the cult master in question, dredged through the front door carrying what appeared to be a dead cat. Its mouth was bleeding and one eye was hanging out of its socket. Instead of being frightened by this, the children’s eyes lit up like Christmas bulbs as they clapped their hands happily at their masters arrival.

Randy, dressed in a smelly blue mechanic’s jumpsuit and a black demon mask, approached the center of the schoolhouse and laid the dead cat on the altar, its rancid corpse making the ugly Skull Hammer symbol even worse to look at.

Mr. Fender looked among the children and said, “Do you see this? This, my brothers and sisters, is what we’ve been looking for this whole time. Not just a source of tonight’s delicious meal, but this wicked creature holds our key to salvation. This cat is imbued with magical powers, powers that once possessed can make us stronger than we’ve ever been. No mere mortal shall stand in our way to paradise. Wait no longer, children. Take the first bite!”

The hypnotized children waved and wiggled their fingers over the cat’s corpse, as if to anticipate how this magical feast will taste to their young palettes. And then the cat’s body began to glow in a mystical purple aura, which made the little ones even more excited than they already were.

They were forced to take a few steps backward, however, when the cat corpse came to life and stood on all four paws. After letting out a long-winded yawn and popping her eyeball back in its socket with her fuzzy paw, the kitty looked around the schoolhouse to see what all the hubbub was about.

“Yes! This is exactly the proof we needed!” shouted an exhilarated Randy. “I knew I picked the right one! I knew it the minute I laid eyes on this poor tortured pussycat!”

The cat gave a confused look and said, “What the hell are you talking about, you whack job? I’m not a poor tortured pussycat. I’m the kitty sage Ottie-Doo. Call me Ottie for short.”

“Wow!” said one of the children. “She can talk!”

Randy grabbed the kid by the back of the neck and sternly warned him, “Remember what I said when I first met you: don’t speak until spoken to, little one!”

“Put that boy down, you monster!” yelled Ottie before she waved her paw and threw a green lightning bolt at Randy Fender’s hand, the sharp pain causing him to yelp and let go.

“So, you’re not only a magical kitty who can talk, but when you do talk, you’re a total smart-ass! I don’t like your attitude, little kitten. These children know better than anybody what happens to little smarmy-mouthed wise-asses in my Skull Hammer Cult. Children? Show this precious feline what I’m talking about!”

“Wait!” shouted Ottie. “Do you children really want to listen to this man? Look at him! He’s less than human! I’m a dingy old cat myself, so that’s saying a lot! Seriously, what do you young ones see in this disgusting man?!”

No response from the children, only wild red eyes and drooling mouths. Randy said, “You were saying, little kitten?”

“Do what you wish to me, demon man, but no harm shall come to these children!” threatened Ottie-Doo.

The kids laughed in throaty, monstrous voices as they closed in on the kitty with their arms stretched out like zombies. The witch kitty floated in the air with pink stardust fluttering underneath her. The kids stared in awe as she flew around the schoolhouse showing off her magical powers. Her biggest trick yet was forming a ball of orange electrical and fiery energy in her paws and chucking it at Randy Fender’s demonic face.

If the cocky cult leader wasn’t wearing a mask, he would be showing off his creepy confidence as he grabbed a nearby child and used him as a human shield. The magical ball exploded the small child, but not into blood and guts. Instead the little boy turned into a pile of maggots, worms, and beetles. It was a sight that made Ottie-Doo watch on in shock and horror as she floated near the ceiling.

“You can’t save these children, witch cat,” said Randy. “They’ve been converted to my minions a long time ago. So many tearful parents are wondering right now if they’ll ever get their children back. Maybe they will someday. But then again, when your body is loaded with parasitic creatures, would any parent want you back in the first place?” The evil cult leader laughed his head off.

The louder and throatier Randy laughed, the angrier it made Ottie-Doo. Her fuzzy paws were curled into fists of fury and her old lady teeth were cracking underneath her jaws. A cyclone of blue lightning and wind encircled her as she prepared for her next magic spell. Randy was already one step ahead of her when he knelt down to peel back a floor board and pulled out a gigantic battleaxe, which was also glowing with blue energy.

“Just to show you how far gone these children are, Miss Ottie-Doo, let me show you just how much they’re willing to sacrifice to make me stronger!” With that said, Randy held out the glowing battleaxe and one by one the children dissolved into a puddle of worms. The worms crawled all around Randy and were gathering around the metal axe, the blade absorbing their spiritual essences. This horrific sight struck even more fear and doubt in the heart of Ottie-Doo as her magical energy was dwindling and she was sinking to the ground below.

She hung her elderly kitty head feeling like a failure to these poor children. Then again, if they were made of worms and maggots, maybe their childlike forms were merely a mind game. So many thoughts raced through her mind as she tried to wrap her head around what this Randy Fender asshole was doing.

She couldn’t take too long to think, however, as she dodged out of the way in the nick of time when the blade came crashing down. Big Randy swung that battleaxe like a berserker, shattering every piece of wood he hit into sawdust. Ottie bounced around and dodged every single shot. She even found herself running along the walls just to avoid getting slashed with this magical weapon.

“You’re gonna die, bitch! You’re gonna die badly!” screamed Randy when he took off his demon mask and revealed the face of a hideously scarred and tattooed psychopath. The sight of his hideous face made Ottie curl up into a ball of fear as her eyes leaked with salty tears. She didn’t feel like she could fight such a monster anymore. He was too big, too fast, and too monstrous. Ottie was just an elderly cat who literally slept like a corpse.

Randy charged over to a cornered Ottie with the blade held high. With one final swing, he was going to break this “annoying” cat into a million pieces. But just as the blade came crashing down, Ottie had one last hope for victory. Randy’s attacks were relying solely on reckless momentum. Therefore, Ottie used telekinesis to use his own momentum against him. Instead of cutting through the elderly witch kitty, the axe took a magical detour into Randy’s stomach.

The cult master never saw this coming behind his own rage. The spirits of dead children were flying out of his body and out of his axe while the ultra-evil Randy Fender melted into a puddle of maggots and worms himself. The parasites dissolved into little puddles of blood and the last of the children spirits flew away into the night sky. With just one small opening, Ottie-Doo ended this battle.

But at what price? Those kids were beyond help. Whatever Randy Fender did to them would put a strain on the parents forever. All Ottie could do was tuck her head and meow softly to herself. She won the battle, but lost the war.

Just when she was about to spend this evening in a crying slumber, she felt a gentle touch on top of her kitty head. Ottie looked up and saw one of the spirit children smiling a beautiful smile at her, just like all children should. In no uncertain terms, the child spirit had only one thing to say to her savior: “Thank you!”

Baby Looney Tunes

TV SHOW TITLE: Baby Looney Tunes
CREATOR: Warner Brothers Staff
YEARS ACTIVE: 2001-2002
GENRE: Children’s Cartoon
RATING: TV-Y
GRADE: Pass


Before they became cartoon icons, the Looney Tunes were just little babies in diapers trying to figure out the world with the help of Granny. They played together, they learned together, they even have little adventures together. The usual antics of the Looney Tunes such as dynamite, shotguns, and other slapstick moments have been replaced with bouncy and playful comedy as well as the development of these little kids’ imaginations.

I realize that the show is rated TV-Y and that it’s intended for children with single digit ages, not Generation Y members like me. I have nothing to gain from the lessons taught in these episodes because I’ve seen it all. But darn it, those little Looney Tune babies are so cute! Teeny tiny little animal children bouncing around and playing in little cloth diapers! I usually get this giddy when I visit the Humane Society and check out all of their kitties and puppies.

I wish there was a Humane Society for the Looney Tunes, because I’d scoop up Baby Bugs Bunny and rock him back and forth until he fell asleep and drooled on my arms! Aww!! I’d give Tazz a belly rub, I’d give Sylvester an ear scratch, and I’d even play with Daffy Duck’s bill! This show gets a passing grade just for the cuteness overload. Death by cuteness: what a way to go. Hehe!

From an educational perspective, the lessons learned by the little Looney Tunies at the end of every episode are actually useful to human children. Share your toys, exercise your imagination, be nice to each other, try new things, these are all ideals that parents try hard enough to pass onto their children. And now you have a cute and cuddly show like Baby Looney Tunes passing on these important values that permeate all belief systems.

The one lesson out of the items I’ve listed that I believe is most important is to exercise your creativity when you’re young. It all begins when you’re a little guy and you see something in a book or TV show that excites you and inspires your imagination.

There’s another lesson I’d like to add to that: don’t let anybody ridicule you for having a vivid imagination in the first place. Growing up to be a dull and boring person stems from such negativity. Look at the Looney Tunes all grown up now: do they look boring and dull to you? No, and it’s because Granny nurtured their little minds every step of the way and never told them they couldn’t do something (unless it was dangerous to themselves or other people).

I’ve earned the reputation of being a giant man baby around the house. I watch TV-Y and TV-Y7 rated shows and I find cuteness in everything those shows provide me. If you gain the same reputation for watching Baby Looney Tunes, embrace it. Embrace your inner child and never grow up. The real world is a cold and lonely place. But inside your overactive imagination, there’s a spiritual force that will never let you down.

Mickey and the Giant

EPISODE TITLE: Mickey and the Giant

SHOW: Disney Cartoons

YEAR: Late 1930’s

GENRE: Children’s Cartoon

RATING: TV-G

GRADE: Pass

An oafish giant terrorizes a nameless kingdom to where a multi-mullion pazooza bounty is placed on his head. Mickey Mouse is oblivious to this news as he’s busy in his tailor’s shop mending clothes. Seven flies swarm in on him and he swats them all before proudly proclaiming to the town, “I killed seven with one blow!” The townsfolk and the king all think he’s talking about giants, so the king appoints Mickey to slay the giant and collect the bounty while also taking the hand of Princess Minnie. There’s just one problem: Mickey is microscopic compared to the giant and all he’s armed with is a pair of tailor’s scissors and a spool of thread.

When I was a tiny kid growing up in Port Townsend, Washington, my parents bought me a VHS tape of three different Mickey Mouse cartoons. Mickey and the Giant happened to be the last one on the cassette. I would watch that tape over and over again like any small child would, but I would never understand the plotline of the cartoon or any of the structural elements of Disney’s storytelling, also like a small child. I have to admit that I was a little disturbed by Mickey sewing the giant’s sleeves together and then yanking on his nose before tying him up and defeating him. As an adult, I can’t understand why that would be disturbing, but as a kid, I didn’t question my irrational emotions. Maybe it was the dramatic, fast-paced music, I don’t know.

Nonetheless, I enjoyed the hell out of that cartoon. I particularly liked the creative ways in which the giant went about his daily routine of eating, smoking, and relaxing. He relaxed by sitting on somebody’s house and crossing his legs. When he was hungry, he ate an entire wheelbarrow full of pumpkins like they were candy pieces. When he got the hiccups from Mickey yanking on his uvula, he drank an entire well full of water. And when the giant wanted a nice smoke to go with his meal, he rolled up a bale of hay like a cigar and lit it up with a kitchen stove from inside the house. Looking back now, the giant didn’t seem like a particularly cruel person. He was just a harmless fool. Unfortunately, he was too big of an inconvenience for the kingdom, so he had to be taken down. And when he was, he snored into a windmill that powered an entire amusement park. More creativity on the part of Disney.

And then there’s the favorite part of any 99-percenter looking for a hero: the underdog defeating the favorite in convincing fashion. It’s a G-rated Disney cartoon, so chances are good that the oafish giant’s opponent won’t be a juggernaut in steel armor who wields a barbed wire lance in one hand and a fiery metal staff in the other. It would be a convincing victory, but it wouldn’t be particularly amazing since that outcome is to be expected from someone of such power. Mickey Mouse is not a powerful character. Compared to the giant, he’s finger food. At any moment, the giant could have crushed him like a bug and that would be the end of it. Mickey wasn’t going down that easily. He used his quick wits and stealthy strategy to overcome a nearly impossible opponent. He hid in the various food, beverage, and tobacco items and when his cover was blown, he used the giant’s own momentum against him. The giant wasn’t too bright, so this ending was believable.

This cartoon was still on You Tube the last time I checked. That’s how I got reacquainted with it in the first place. If you’re a big kid who wants to relive his playful days or you have a child of your own who needs entertainment, I would definitely recommend this cartoon. It’s cute, it’s creative, and it’s fun for the whole family. Enjoy!

Shawn Philips

OOC: In case you haven’t heard on my Deviant Art account, posts from my blog Garrison’s Library will now be appearing on Deviant Art and Good Reads. These posts include character profiles, song analyses, and positive book reviews. In the past I used to talk about couples and dreams, but those categories have been discontinued due to the redundancy of each post. Let’s get back to our regularly scheduled program.

IC: Have you ever been asked about your employment status and gave the asker an awkward response? You know what I’m talking about. You go to withdraw money from the bank and the teller asks, “Are you just getting off work?” My answer is the same every time: “I’m unemployed.” Doesn’t do much to ease the tension, but it works for me. Now imagine that your name is Special Agent Shawn Philips and Ziva David from the Washington DC version of NCIS asks, “What do you do for a living: write tickets to senior citizens with fake bus passes?” Ziva giggles lightheartedly while Shawn gives off a flat tire noise and says, “Very funny.”

A new season of NCIS and NCIS: Los Angeles are on the horizon. Not only that, but we’re getting an entirely new show from this franchise called NCIS: New Orleans. There was going to be one called NCIS: Red, but that storyline was aborted. With this new crop of NCIS shows coming on TV soon, it’s natural that I would be reminded of dreams I had where there was an NCIS: Seattle and an NCIS: Chehalis. Shawn Philips, the character in question, is from one of these incarnations. I forget which one.

The thing about NCIS characters is they’re always colorful, bright, and cheery to be around. Despite the hard drama that takes places in these shows, the characters never lose their sense of humor and there’s always room for positivism. So why then would a grumpy sourpuss like Shawn Philips be a part of a spin-off cast? The man couldn’t even take a joke about his job. At least when Leroy Gibbs gets grumpy, he has a sense of charisma about him. Shawn Philips is a middle-aged has-been detective whose only charisma lies within his good looks. I need to do something about this.

But in order to do something about Shawn’s lack of charisma, I have to break down the ingredients of a good NCIS character. It takes more than razor-sharp wit and a stellar job performance to make the cut. Shawn can’t just be a three-dimensional character. He has to have so many layers to him it’ll take a nuclear bomb to mine it all out. Unfortunately, this is where my analysis ends. Truth is, I don’t know how to make likeable or even relatable characters. Whenever I write my short stories, the characters’ likeability is 50/50. They might be awesome to be around, they might not be. When they’re not, I can usually sense it from my audience.

But since I believe dreams are a valuable source of creative fuel, I’m more than willing to roll the dice with Special Agent Shawn Philips. Sure, he can’t be a part of an NCIS story since it’s not public domain, but he came to my subconscious for a reason. Somewhere deep inside my psychological gold mine is the name Shawn Philips. Where it came from I will never know. But if I don’t make good use of this opportunity and put him in a future crime story, then we will never know if what I have in my head is a gold mine or just earwax.

　

***TELEVISION DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

BOOTH: You probably shouldn’t tell your audience you hate children.

TEMPERANCE: I didn’t say I hated children, I said I wasn’t going to have any.

BOOTH: It comes across the same way on camera.

-Bones-

"Nightmare Hour" by RL Stine

It’s very tempting to laugh at a full-grown adult reading anything by RL Stine, considering that he’s been dubbed “the Stephen King of children’s fiction”. The operative word in that tout is of course “children’s”. But when you actually take “Nightmare Hour” off the shelf and start tooling through it, you begin to think to yourself, “This is children’s fiction? Really?” While it is true that there are no swear words or sexual situations, this anthology isn’t short on disturbing moments. How would you like to have a horde of fuzzy brown spiders crawling up and down your arm…and eventually underneath your skin? Or if you don’t have a heart attack just yet, picture your head being on the end of a pumpkin vine for some sick farmer’s enjoyment. Still keeping your distance from that bottle of Xanax? Try picturing having your foot chopped off after being mistaken for a kid with diabetes. These moments mark some of the scariest in the entire book. I would dare say that these stories are a complete 180 from what I’ve read in the Goosebumps series during my middle school days. Goosebumps is merely TV-Y7-rated material. Always has been and continues to be when the TV version is being syndicated on The Hub. Would you like to take a guess as to where on the TV rating spectrum Nightmare Hour lies? I’d say somewhere between TV-PG and TV-14. Of course, the stories in Nightmare Hour that managed to make it on TV don’t agree with this philosophy. It could be because translations to television aren’t always faithful to the book. I haven’t seen these syndicated episodes, but after seeing the nasty shit that happened in the book, it’s definitely on my bucket list. Hell, I just may kick the bucket while watching an episode of an RL Stine TV show due to having a massive heart attack that even faithful McDonald’s customers never experience. If you’re an adult and reading this book, don’t be ashamed. It’s okay to be frightened and disturbed, but being ashamed is definitely out of the question. Boogedy-boogedy-boo!

　

***TELEVISION QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“I hope that when your head is separated from your shoulders, it’s treated with a little more respect than what you’ve shown our victim.”

-Ducky from “NCIS”-

"Go the Fuck to Sleep" by Adam Mansbach

Getting a child to sleep is one of the most difficult tasks in the modern world. Sure, you can try rocking him back and forth, giving him a glass of warm milk, or even dipping his pacifier in a bottle of cough syrup, which I don’t recommend. But sooner or later, probably at 3:00 in the morning, you’re going to hear a combination of teeny tiny footsteps and either crying or pleading. When all else fails, there’s one more solution you can turn to in order to salvage the remains of your sanity. It’s a bedtime story parody for adults called “Go the Fuck to Sleep”, written by a father who went through all of the BS that comes with raising a child. In a tender daddy voice, the author, Adam Mansbach, lets the child know that he doesn’t give a crap if you’re thirsty for water, hungry for a snack, desperate for a bathroom trip, or bored without having a Disney movie playing in the background. One way or another, you’re going the fuck to sleep. And if the idea of a tender daddy voice reading this blunt story isn’t satisfying enough, then feel free to get on You Tube and search for a video where Samuel L. Jackson reads it out loud. Yes, that video exists. The same guy who dared Brett to say “What?” one more time, motherfucker, is narrating this harshly honest book of what all parents are thinking when putting their kids to bed. That way, if your child can’t sleep because he’s hungry for a snack, then he and Mr. Jackson can share a giant bag of Big Kahuna burgers together before washing them down with a tasty Sprite. But since Samuel L. Jackson is a little bit difficult to find these days, you’ll have to buy the book and have the cathartic experience yourself. Come to think of it, it’s probably not a good idea to read this story to your kids because of the language. If nothing else, it’s a very satisfying and giggly book. It goes by excessively fast, but only because it’s a parody of what impatient children love to hear at bedtime. Keep this book proudly in your own personal library. It just may be a better form of birth control than condoms and pills put together. What’s that? You already have children? No worries, it just means you can relate to this wonderful piece of literature even more. Thank you, Adam Mansbach, for saying what we’re all thinking deep down inside.

　

***REAL LIFE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

ME: Have you ever wondered why your parents fed you corndogs, popsicles, and tacos?
FRIEND: Because they wanted me to grow up big and strong.
ME: Oh yeah! They love watching you eat your favorite foods!
FRIEND: Garrison, that’s sick!