Hokey Tonk

VERSE 1

If you want to be a real American hero

You need to sign up for the Big Ass War

The number of terrorists alive will be zero

They’ll all explode like July the Fourth

VERSE 2

If you don’t have a Social Security number

It means you were born in the back of a truck

Working through sickness will quench your hunger

This is America and here we don’t give a fuck

VERSE 3

If you want to own a big fucking machinegun

You have to be whiter than the Ku Klux Klan

Just pull the trigger and have an ass-load of fun

Teach your son to shoot so he can be a big man

VERSE 4

If you think this song is anything but a joke

You’re less educated than the state of Alabama

Blind patriotism is nothing more than a hoax

Especially when the racist judge bangs his hammer

FINAL LINE

Yee-haw, bitches! Roll Tide!

Whatever the fuck that means…

Scarecrow Justice

Living out in the middle of nowhere had many benefits. For the Cobra Strike Militia and their top hit man Edward Bell, it meant freedom from federal agents. But even the motorcycle-riding assassin knew that such liberties were at risk. Something had to be done to make sure certain government officials didn’t make it to their elections. For such “urgent matters”, there was a pistol with a silencer at the end of it stowed in the duffel bag in the side car of the motorcycle, along with other kick-ass toys of destruction.

It was the perfect day for riding through the countryside. The sun was shining brightly upon the cornfields. The only thing breaking the silence for Edward Bell was his bike engine, which was purring like the machinegun he kept in his duffel bag. Unfortunately for him, it was also popping and banging like one. Soon enough, the motorcycle was slowing down and all Edward could say was, “Goddamn it!” when he pulled over to the side of the desolate road.

Such colorful language continued to pour from Edward’s mouth like a flood of obscenities. He loved his motorcycle and couldn’t stand to watch it break down, especially since the time window in between assassinations was getting thin. He ripped the duffel bag out of the side car with his muscular, tattooed hands and unzipped it before searching through its contents for repair tools.

A middle aged white guy with a gray ponytail and black paramilitary gear fixing his bike on the side of the road would have looked suspicious to a lot of people. Edward would have had the solitude he needed if it hadn’t been for the sounds of throaty whispering coming from the cornfields. He stopped turning the wrench on his engine and looked around with a “What the hell?” expression on his bearded face. He dismissed it with a wave of his hand and went back to work with the wrench.

And then the throaty whispers were getting louder. Edward was starting to think he was going insane. He stood up with his monkey wrench held like a weapon and looked around to see where the noise was coming from. He couldn’t find the source and his heart began to beat loudly in his chest. He wiped a cool sweat as it trickled down his forehead into his eyes. The anxiety continued to build as those angry whispers were tormenting him like an acute case of schizophrenia.

“Where the hell are you?! Show yourself! I’ve got enough guns in my bag to rip your ass to shreds! And I love shooting my guns! I don’t give a damn what the government says!” And yet when he was searching through his duffel bag to find his silencer pistol, he was fumbling with it even though it was in plain sight. When he finally had a good grip on it, he felt a hand made from straw grabbing his shoulder from within the cornfields.

Edward had nearly pissed himself as he screamed and crab-walked backwards in blood-chilling fear, leaving his guns to the mercy of whoever grabbed him. Instead of a “Yankee fed”, it was a living, breathing, gossamer and straw-covered scarecrow with a carved pumpkin for a head. His carved eyes were glowing bright orange and his elongated teeth were drooling with blood. He also had several large spiders crawling all over his body and he didn’t even care.

As Edward Bell’s heart beat even faster and his sweaty body rained with salty fluids, he tried to sound brave when he threatened the hideous monster before him when he said, “You stay away from my gun bag! I have the right to have those!”

“Relax. Take a deep breath. I don’t want your pathetic little guns,” said the scarecrow in a demonic whisper. He crept like a zombie across the road with Edward continuing to scoot backwards in underwear-shitting fear. “My name is Cackle-Puss. Laugh at my name if you want, but I’m not going anywhere until I get something from you. It’s something I’ve wanted since you began your career as a hit man.”

The militia assassin was able to calm down long enough to question the legitimacy of Cackle-Puss’s monster status. He stood up, dusted his flak vest and camouflage pants off, and said, “What a damn minute here! There ain’t no such thing as ghosts! This is all a bunch of hocus pocus bullshit! There ain’t nothing stopping me from sticking my boot up your straw ass right now, bitch!”

He marched up to the scarecrow to do just that before Cackle-Puss shape-shifted into someone Edward recognized right away. It was the politician he was sent to kill: John Merton, Democrat of Paulson City. “Do you really want to kill me, Mr. Bell? Is a 12% tax on cigarettes really going to limit your freedom that much? Would you really take me away from my wife and children over something as stupid as politics? I’ve been in this game many times, but you’re the first who wanted to kill me over it. I’m a father and a husband. You have no right to…”

Before the hallucination of John Merton could finish his sentence, Edward took a swing and clocked him in the jaw, knocking him to the ground with a puddle of blood in his wake. The hit man arrogantly chuckled to himself as he knelt down and pulled the politician’s hair to show his face. Except it wasn’t his face anymore. Cackle-Puss had morphed into a beautiful young blond woman and had a pregnant belly to go with the new form.

The woman said, “Why would you do this to me, Edward? I was your wife for ten long years. We were going to have a family together. You started getting drunk every night and then you killed me and our son. I wanted to leave you, but you wouldn’t let me. Why, Edward? After all these years, why?!”

The hit man was now terrified once again as he shakily released his grip on his ex-wife’s hair. He looked down at her pregnant belly and saw a bloody wound in place of their unborn son. Edward Bell backed up slowly on wobbly legs and breathed heavily. Soon that breathing became angry. His brows furrowed and his fists clenched when he said, “This is all a trick! This is bullshit! Magic doesn’t exist! Not in my world! You think you’ve got one over on me, Cackle-Puss?! Don’t insult me, you sick bastard!”

He was about to bring his combat boot down on the morphing scarecrow’s face, but stopped midway through when there was yet another transformation. It was a little Basset hound with a bruised body, bloody jowls, a slashed ear, and a shaky body. The little guy whined and pleaded with Edward, who in turn started trembling in fear as he dropped to his knees and allowed tears to form in his eyes.

“Hey there, little guy,” said the assassin with a quivering mouth. “I didn’t mean to do all that nasty stuff to you. You were just at the wrong place at the wrong time. It was never anything personal. You believe me, right?”

Edward reached his bloody hand out to try and pet the battered puppy, but then Cackle-Puss transformed back into his scarecrow form and the militia nitwit got a bite from the pumpkin-head’s bloody fangs instead. Edward backpedaled and howled in pain while clutching his chomped hand. He fell back on his ass while Cackle-Puss stalked him slowly with fiery eyes and a malicious smile.

“So that’s your answer to everybody you’ve killed. It’s never personal. It’s all part of the job, right?” said the scarecrow. “Because little doggies are a threat to your freedom. So is your wife. So is your unborn child. And so is a politician who also happens to be a family man. How many more must die before you’re satisfied with your ill-gotten constitutional rights? How many guns must you fire for the sake of freedom? How many more? How many more? How many more?!”

Cackle-Puss kept repeating that last question, but in the voices of everybody Edward Bell killed along his path to a free America. The paramilitary soldier clutched his skull and rocked back and forth in schizophrenic agony. He couldn’t stand these voices. He couldn’t stand the fact that Cackle-Puss was right. So he made yet another excuse for himself when he jumped to his feet and threw a flying kick at the scarecrow’s pumpkin head, knocking it off his shoulders.

The head was still screaming in pain, but the body was kneeling down while the spiders and gossamers were fading away. Still in berserk mode, Edward Bell finally pulled his silencer pistol out of his bag and fired several rounds into Cackle-Puss’s body. And then Edward pulled out an automatic rifle and peppered it in bullets. And then he pulled out a shotgun and blasted the hell out of the spiders and gossamers. He pulled out every gun in his bag and emptied it on the scarecrow while its pumpkin head pleaded for mercy using the voices of Edward’s victims.

In the mess of spider corpses, bloody straw, and broken cobwebs, Edward knelt down and raised his fists to the sky before letting out a barbaric war cry. Cackle-Puss’s head, which was still alive, was watching this scene in horror and still sobbing in the victims’ voices. The hit man picked up the pumpkin head and stared into its devilish eyes. “Where’s your bag of magic tricks now, you sick son of a bitch?! Where’s your necromancy?! Who are you going to change into now?! Huh?! You think you’re fucking tough?!”

The sounds of police sirens filled the air and Edward turned his head around to give an evil look at the red and blue flashing lights coming his way. Cackle-Puss laughed at him and said, “How many more, Edward? How many more?”

“How many more? I’ll take them all down in a blaze of glory! And you, Cackle-Puss…you’re just another casualty in the war on America!” said Edward before punching the pumpkin head and getting blood and brains all over his hand. He chucked the monster head aside and picked up another shotgun he kept in his bag. “Let’s do this shit!” He pumped the gun ready to go.

Except there would be no suicide by cop this afternoon. Those weren’t cop lights coming his way. Those were ambulance lights. All the guns in the world couldn’t keep Edward Bell from finding himself in a straightjacket in a padded cell while repeating the words of Cackle-Puss. No one believed his scarecrow story. They believed his antigovernment rhetoric even less.

A man of Edward’s insanity possessing that many guns would be even bigger campaign fuel for John Merton’s election. Edward Bell affected change alright, but not in the way he would have liked. Being in a mental institution for the rest of his life wasn’t exactly a desired outcome. The worst part about it? He gets visitation hours every night. His only visitor? Cackle-Puss, bringer of scarecrow justice!

"So...I Met a Vampire" by Paul McAvoy

BOOK TITLE: So…I Met a Vampire
AUTHOR: Paul McAvoy
YEAR: 2015
GENRE: Fiction
SUBGENRE: Creature Horror
GRADE: Fail


A young lady named Jessie James started off by going on a school field trip and ended up in the spirit world after dying in a drowning accident. And now in order to get a second chance at life, she must extract a vampire’s blood and bring it to the grim reaper within a limited time frame. Once the time limit is over, if she has not completed her task, she will be stuck in the spiritual realm forever. With the help of vampire expert Charles Devon, it appears as though a return to the mortal realm is at hand. But even with all the expertise in the world, this won’t be an easy task for someone as young and naïve as Jessie.

On the surface, this race-against-time plot seems like it could work in just about any scenario. We like the feeling of adrenaline rushes, especially when combined with supernatural elements. But it’s hard to be excited about the plot when the awkward writing style gets in the way of what would have otherwise been an enjoyable story. Unrealistic dialogue, obvious statements, a robotic narrator, and excessively short sentences are the best ways to describe the overall writing style Mr. McAvoy has employed with this novel. I know this book is geared toward a younger audience and younger readers aren’t as nitpicky as adults. But I can’t help but feel they too would be uncomfortable with the way this book is written.

The name of the main character also needs some analysis: Jessie James. The last time we heard about someone with this name, it was to describe a dangerous outlaw from wild west narratives. Ever since then, we’ve heard about other characters and celebrities with that name as well. We’ve heard about Sandra Bullock’s ex-boyfriend being named Jesse James as well as a female country singer with that name too. Hell, there was a WWE wrestler in the 1990’s named “Road Dogg” Jesse James. The name has been used so many times that it’s been beaten to death. The main protagonist of this story is just one more club to the dead horse’s body. Plus, it feels too obvious to name somebody that.

One more gripe about this story and then I’ll be finished with this review. The characters in this story seem too accepting towards supernatural elements. What’s that? A vampire? Meh. A ghost? Please. The grim reaper? Oh, that’s cool. These normally dangerous and imposing figures are just brushed off like nobody cares. In a dystopian society, this would be believable. But this just seems like an everyday modern community. Easily giving into supernatural phenomenon sounds too convenient, as if the author was trying to bypass the problem of having a protagonist whom nobody believes.

When Mr. McAvoy reads this review, I don’t want him to feel badly about what he’s produced. I want him to learn things and develop. That is my ultimate goal as a reviewer: to praise the author when necessary and hold him or her accountable when it matters most. This book may receive a failing grade (two stars) from little old me, but I assure you this is not Paul McAvoy’s last dance. The race-against-time plot is one that has a lot of truth to it. If it was better executed, then the complaints would be minimal. I hope Mr. McAvoy does learn something from this experience and I hope his next project will give him a chance to rise from the ashes like the phoenix he was meant to be.

"Dewey" by Vicki Myron

Spencer, Iowa is a small farming community that has endured a lot of heartache over the past century. An economic recession, an economic depression, a raging fire, and the generally hard work of being a farmer have all taken their toll on this town. In spite of everything, Spencer stood tall and endured.

One of Spencer’s citizens and the author of this book, Vicki Myron, has also endured a lot in her life. Aside from the farmer’s lifestyle, she had a failed marriage with an alcoholic husband, she depended on welfare to see her through college, and she suffered through her family’s genetic curse of cancer as it took many of her loved ones‘ lives as well as attempted to take hers.

How exactly does any person, let alone a whole town, get through it all? With the help of a little kitty pie named Dewey. The teeny tiny cutie was found shivering, cold, and alone in the drop-off box of the library where Vicki Myron worked.

Wrapping him in a blanket and nursing him back to health was just the start of a beautiful friendship between Dewey and Vicki. In spite of the hardships he suffered in that drop-off box, Dewey was a total extrovert and wanted the love and attention of everybody coming and going through the library. Word of Dewey‘s beautiful aura spread throughout the small town of Spencer and eventually the entire world.

How could a teeny tiny kitty pie like Dewey bring so much attention to the lonely old Spencer, Iowa? Because that‘s what cuddle muffins like him do. He wasn‘t just a library cat. He was a beacon of love for a world full of brokenhearted families. Just putting a hand on his fluffy fur was enough to send waves of joy and happiness through the body and soul of the one petting him.

His legacy of love lasted for a little under two decades. He lived a long and joyful life. But like all good things, his time on earth had come to an end. Even though he was already old and sickly, it still came as a depressing shock to the world that he had to be put down and cremated to ashes. Vicki Myron was so saddened by the loss of her beautiful kitty that she retired from library work.

Whatever magic Dewey was conjuring up, it was enough to make his biography the most inspirational, heartwarming, and heartbreaking bestseller in recent memory. Even if you’re not a cat person, you can still appreciate this tale of fighting through adversity and becoming stronger for the experience.

　

***COMEDIC QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“There’s a group in California that wants to make suicide a federal offense punishable by death. That’s like punishing somebody for being on a hunger strike by sending them to bed with no supper.”

-Bill Engvall-