Desilu Thomson, Cooking Professor from "The Accusers"

 

Eat My Beef

VERSE 1

I had a lunch date with Ronald

We ate just like The Donald

And then he whipped it out and said

“EAT MY BEEF!”

VERSE 2

We had some chicken nuggets

And then we said, “Fuck it!”

The Colonel from Kentucky can

EAT MY BEEF!

VERSE 3

We ate some salty fries

And then some salty guys

Tried to shame us, but we told them to

“EAT MY BEEF!”

VERSE 4

We drank a lot of Coke

Until we almost choked

My cholesterol’s a joke, so

EAT MY BEEF!

VERSE 5

We slid into the ball pit

Even though we didn’t fit

If you really give a shit, then

EAT MY BEEF!

VERSE 6

I say fuck the heart attacks

We need a fucking snack

We’re addicted like crack, so

EAT MY BEEF!

Silent Warrior, Chapter 4

Scott’s two classes before lunch (art and English) went by in a blurry haze. Every word coming out of the teachers’ mouths sounded like gibberish. Every assignment they handed out was met with indifference. The extroverted students who spoke up in class on a regular basis might as well have been speaking Chinese. The only thing missing from Scott’s zombie demeanor was the desire to feast on brains; that dwindled away once Tom Simpson was no longer within sight. It wouldn’t be fair to feast on the brains of neutral students from other classes.

The undead hunger would have to be concentrated on Scott’s lunch, which consisted of dry chicken nuggets, limp French fries, and a carton of milk that smelled like fruit salad. Even if the food wasn’t bland and boring, he still had mental images of worms and maggots juxtaposed on his meal. It would have been nice if his mind could conjure up the gummy worms he ate as a kid instead of corpse-eating critters.

Scott pushed his meal to the opposite side of his faraway table, where he was isolated from the rest of the school folk with his head tucked in his arms. He wondered if this would be a good place to release his biblical flood of tears. Though isolated, he was still visible from miles away. Surely a deafening sob would overpower the cacophony of student babble easily. They always did. It was funny how nobody was around to witness his achievements, but his peers and superiors would always be there for his downfall.

He tried to suppress a singular tear, but the splash on the table was as obvious to him as a cannonball in a swimming pool. He quickly wiped it up with the waist of his T-shirt while whispering, “No, no, no, no, no!” He couldn’t let his secret heartbreak get out. He couldn’t crumble into human ruins in the middle of lunchtime. Just one tear…it was only one tear.

Before another surge of salty fluids could rush out of his eyeballs, Scott felt a gentle tissue wipe away the remains of his sorrow. Through puffy red eyes, he saw the silky hand belonged to a freshman girl with dual brunette pigtails, a cutesy-wutesy face, and overall shorts with Birkenstock sandals. She smiled dimly and said, “You look like you could use some company.”

Scott shrugged his shoulders, snorted mucous up his nostrils, and said, “Sure, why not?” The little lady took a seat next to him and tucked her chin against her chest. Scott wondered if this girl was just as shy and awkward as he was. “It must have taken a lot of courage to come over here.” He couldn’t stop the words from pouring out of his mouth like rollercoaster vomit. He mentally kicked himself and quietly said, “D’oh!”

“Actually, it did,” said the girl, and Scott’s anxiety was replaced with warm tingling through is nerves. He felt as though he dodged the world’s biggest bullet with that one, in a high school where everybody shot from the hip, no less. “I don’t normally talk to cute guys, but uh…uh-oh…” Scott’s face turned bright pink upon hearing he was cute. “What I’m trying to say is…uh…”

“It’s alright, you don’t have to worry about me,” said Scott while patting the girl on the back. “I’m actually pretty terrified myself. If you’ve ever had Mr. Simpson for a teacher before, you know exactly what I’m talking about.” He took a swig of mediocre milk to sooth his scratchy throat.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’m his daughter,” said the girl, to which Scott spit his milk all over the table and coughed. “You really should be more careful with spilling things on the table.” The girl took a few napkins out of her pocket and wiped the table down before they could get in trouble with teachers passing by.

“Look, I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to hang out together,” said Scott nervously with his hands in a defensive position. “I’m already in the doghouse with your father. He gave me half an hour of detention after school today, which I’m obviously not going to show up for but…where are you going?”

After throwing the napkins in the trash, the girl stood up and tried to walk out of sight. She spun around after being called out by Scott and said, “Just so you know, I only came up to you because I thought you needed a friend. My dad has that affect on people. That’s why my mom divorced him when I was nine. But if you don’t want to hang out, that’s fine too…”

The girl’s walking speed increased and her fists clenched tightly. Scott shot up out of his seat, threw his disgusting feast in the garbage, stacked his tray, and followed after her into the hallway. The girl furiously spun the combination wheel on her locker before Scott placed a hand on her shoulder and said, “Wait! Look, I’m sorry. I really am.” The tension in her shoulder eased to cotton softness. “I’ve just been having a shitty year, that’s all. I didn’t mean to take it out on you. Can we talk for a while?”

The freshman interlaced her fingers into Scott’s and said, “Of course we can talk. We can talk about anything we want. How about if we introduce ourselves before we feel like blowing each other off again. I’m Adrienne. Adrienne Simpson. And you are?”

“Scott George. Nice to meet you, Adrienne. Can I ask you a question? How do you know all about me and Mr. Simpson?”

“Because that’s all you ever talked about in English class, silly.”

Scott’s face grew tomato red upon realizing what the hell he’d been doing all this time. All of that zombie groaning. All of that muttering. Not paying attention to his own fucking actions. Had other students been aware of his grumbling the whole time and not just Adrienne? Why didn’t the teachers say anything? Maybe they did say something but Scott was too numb to realize it. The Novocain feeling in his brain wore off and the white hot pain of embarrassment and humiliation washed over him, leaving him so weak at the knees that Adrienne had to support him by the hips.

“I wouldn’t worry about it too much if I were you,” giggled Adrienne while standing Scott upright. “That class is full of all sorts of weirdoes. You were probably just blending in, no offense by the way. I know this because I’m a weirdo too. And I’m proud of it!”

Scott’s short-term memory came splashing back to him once more. Of course that class was full of nerds and geeks, because it was about graphic novels. Jocks and cool kids didn’t read classics like Watchmen and Fun Home. Well, they probably did, but only to snicker at Fun Home with homophobic slurs passing their lips every so often.

“You know what, Adrienne?” said Scott with a small grin. “You’re right. I’m proud of being a weirdo too. Goddamn, it feels good to say that. If I had said that anywhere else, I would have gotten my ass kicked for it.”

Adrienne patted Scott’s warm cheek and said, “See? This world isn’t such a bad place. You just have to find the right people, that’s all. Or in your case, let the right people find you. Tell you what, Scott, how about instead of riding that god awful bus, the two of us walk home together. Like I said, we can talk about anything you want.”

“Uh….well….um…”

“Come on, it’ll be fun! Just you and me! Nobody else! We can even hold hands if you want!” said Adrienne while smiling cutely at the fidgeting Scott.

The senior took a huge breath to settle his nerves and finally had the courage to say, “You know what? Fuck it. I don’t have anybody else around here watching my back. You and me against the world. Why not? What could go wrong?”

“What could go right is that you don’t have to cry your eyes out in front of everybody and you’ll actually have a reason to smile again. Come on, smile for me!” Scott’s attempt at doing so made him look like a psychotic serial killer, to which Adrienne giggled, patted him on the shoulder, and said, “Not a bad start. See you soon!”

With the buzzer sounding off once again, Adrienne waved happily at Scott and walked away to her next class. Though she had an adorable figure from behind, it was actually Adrienne’s bare feet in sandals that Scott couldn’t take his eyes off of. He felt himself going into zombie mode again, but this time with a slightly less frightening smile on his face. He shook his head awake before he could embarrass himself further by getting a public hard-on. Lord knows there wasn’t any recovering from that.

Next stop for Scott George was math class, which he was surprisingly alert for. He blew through the algebraic equations like an accountant on crack, seemingly forgetting all about Mr. Simpson’s detention notice from earlier in the day, if only for a little while. Adrienne was the only ally Scott had in this war against a hellish educational system. He couldn’t rely on his own mother, the other teachers, or the other students for a soft shoulder to lean on. He still had no idea what Adrienne saw in him that others didn’t, but with the speed at which he finished his math assignments, he was desperate enough not to question it.

McDonald's Prostitute

VERSE 1

Which tastes worse: the blowjob or the burger?

Which is more sadistic: slavery or murder?

Which is more dangerous: the fries or the lies?

Which is more confusing: the whats or the whys?

Stretched so thin like lying on a torture table

Scraping up whatever small change you’re able

Put on the pounds and make orgasmic sounds

Nobody will help you in this selfish town

CHORUS

McDonald’s prostitute, what’re you fighting for?

An economy that doesn’t subsidize war?

A market that doesn’t overpower the rich?

They’ll be the first to tell you that life is a bitch!

VERSE 2

What ice cream do you want: vanilla or chocolate?

Where’s your money: in your purse or your pocket?

Where do you call home: the bridge or the streets?

What’s the ending to this story: victory or defeat?

I would never judge you for your desperation

I would never insult you or give you lacerations

It’s not your fault and you’re not in the wrong

Have my twenty dollar bill and the lyrics to this song

CHORUS

McDonald’s prostitute, what’re you fighting for?

An economy that doesn’t subsidize war?

A market that doesn’t overpower the rich?

They’ll be the first to tell you that life is a bitch!

VERSE 3

A triple bacon burger with onions and pickles

A man in black robes with a sick-looking sickle

The loneliness will kill you before the food does

A disgusting fucking joke is what this all was

Everybody wanted it to go wrong from the start

They vote with their balls and not with their hearts

Now they can’t even fill up their shopping carts

Except with their last possessions and metal parts

CHORUS X2

McDonald’s prostitute, what’re you fighting for?

An economy that doesn’t subsidize war?

A market that doesn’t overpower the rich?

They’ll be the first to tell you that life is a bitch!

My Body

VERSE 1

My body’s a temple, my mind is the priest

Society’s standards don’t apply in the least

I never resist a Thanksgiving-style feast

Take an alligator bite out of the roasted beast

There’s no shame in having a belly like mine

As long as your meal tastes delicious and fine

Never mind the magazines, they only print lies

Everybody loves the taste of salty French fries

CHORUS

I’ll eat how I want; I’ll do what I please

Shallow values will bring you to your knees

My body, my rules; don’t tell me what’s cool

Your muscle head makes you a giant fool

VERSE 2

You’ve got a stacked chest and chiseled arms

The steroids you take are bringing you harm

The smoothies you drink taste like raw sewage

Spinach and splooge, how could you do it?

You laugh at anybody with a big old gut

Tell them to lay off the food at Pizza Hut

Tell them to do sit-ups until their abs are sore

You’re the one with your legs up like a whore

CHORUS

I’ll eat how I want; I’ll do what I please

Shallow values will bring you to your knees

My body, my rules; don’t tell me what’s cool

Your muscle head makes you a giant fool

VERSE 3

I don’t give a shit who’s on the magazine covers

I don’t give a shit about your supermodel lovers

I don’t give a shit about your Cross-Fit routine

You’ve still got balls the size of jelly beans

Quit stabbing yourself with the needle full of juice

Before your heart stops and your bowels are loose

You’re not Arnold Schwarzenegger or Terry Crews

You’re just a jock frat boy with too much booze

CHORUS 2

I’ll eat how I want; don’t give me advice

I’ll have the crispy duck with beef fried rice

My body, my way; I’ll be here all day

And live longer than you anyway

I’ll eat how I want; I don’t give a fuck

All those exercises must really suck

You torture your body for the hottest chicks

The bigger the needle, the smaller the dick

Putting the Ass in Assault Rifle

Flipping hamburgers and cooking French fries at Monster Burger wasn’t doing much for Nikita Croft’s college dreams. She was only nineteen years old and was already feeling the stresses of someone four times her age. Her posture was hunched over, her eyes were baggy, and any smile she gave her customers was forced with all of her strength. Cooking unhealthy food wasn’t the bad part. Dealing with angry customers who didn’t get exactly what they wanted made Nikita wish she had a gun to put to her own head. She could picture her brains, skull, and short black hair splattering all over the restaurant walls to create her own version of modern art.

When the well-known Easton family came strutting through the glass doors, Nikita’s suicidal fantasies of using a gun on herself were replaced with eye-widening, posture-straightening fear. The chubby, buzz-cut having Luke Easton and his long blond haired wife Rachel each came in with assault rifles strapped to their backs. Their baby son Brian was being pushed in a stroller by Rachel.

The Easton family’s presence caused various patrons to slowly cower away in fear, hide behind their booths, and hide underneath their tables. Some of the clerks behind the counter had their wide eyes locked on the family while other clerks had them locked on Nikita wondering what she was going to do. She was in charge of the register at the moment, so it would only make sense that this responsibility would fall on her, weak voiced and trembling through she was.

Luke Easton squinted his eyes as he surveyed the patrons backing away from them in pants-wetting fear. “What? What the hell’s your guys’ problem? You don’t like these rifles we’ve got strapped to our backs? Tough shit! This is America! Get used to it!”

“Uh, actually, sir…” said Nikita in a shy voice before tenderly clearing her throat. “Weapons are not allowed in Monster Burger. If you want service, you’ll have to go back to your vehicle and…put them away.”

Some of the patrons were sneaking their way around on the floor and bolting out of the front doors. Others stayed in their crouched positions and whimpered helplessly. Nobody even thought about calling the cops on their smart phones due to the fear of incurring Luke and Rachel’s wrath.

“You listen here, little lady,” snapped Luke as he marched toward the counter. “Me and my family came here for some burgers and fries! We’re hungry as hell! Now you can either make them or we’re going to have a problem!”

“Sir, we will make whatever you want if you’d just…put your guns back in your vehicle,” said Nikita without even looking Luke in the eyes.

Rachel pushed baby Brian’s stroller up to the counter and got involved in the heated debate. “I don’t know what your problem is, lady, but we’re not leaving until we get our food! We’re standing up for our second amendment rights! If you don’t like what we’re doing, then we can get your ass deported back to Canada!”

Nikita’s dialogue was getting messy as she kneeled to the floor and cried her eyes out. Everybody counted on her to be the brave authoritarian, but nobody counted on the Easton family to bring weapons into the restaurant. She lifted her head up and turned to her fellow clerks before saying, “I’m sorry! I can’t do this anymore!”

“Hold on there, Nikita!” said the dress shirt and tie-wearing manager of Monster Burger, Chance Rivers. Despite the lack of enthusiasm Nikita Croft showed for her job on a regular basis, Chance had always been there for her whether she needed comfort or a short-term loan. Being a good boss to his employees was part of the reason so many would-be college students worked for him. This time was no different.

“Mr. and Mrs. Easton! I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask both of you to leave my restaurant!” said Chance with a gentle hand on Nikita’s shoulder and a firm tone to the rifle-wielding family.

“We’re not doing anything wrong!” complained Rachel. “We have just as much right to be here as all of these people!” Most of those people had cleared out of the restaurant in shirt-sweating and pants-pissing fear.

“The hell you do!” barked Chance as he jumped over the counter and got in Rachel and Luke’s faces. “You’re putting my customers and my employees in huge danger by bringing those things in here! Nobody wants to be around you two right now! I’m losing customers because nobody really wants to get accidentally shot! Or in your case, purposefully!”

Luke grabbed Chance’s shirt and slammed him against the counter while breathing heavily in and out and drooling with anger. The clerks and cooks began to scramble out of the kitchen and bolt towards the front door. Nikita on the other hand was curled up in the fetal position on the floor still shedding tears. Yes, she was suicidal earlier in the day, but that all changed when she started to see what death really looked like up close.

“I’m not going to have this argument with you, Mr. Boss Man!” yelled Luke through gritted teeth. “Either you cook our food or else we’re going to have problems!”

Chance’s frightened expression and shivering body were being beefed up with adrenaline. It was now or never for him, his employees, and his customers. The manager reached behind the corpulent Luke and tried to wrestle the gun away from him. But Luke was too powerful and showed it when he hurled Chance to the ground, causing his ribs to ache and violent coughs to sound off across the restaurant.

“Luke, calm down. It’ll be okay, sweetie,” said a nervous Rachel, who was backing away slowly. She wasn’t changing political alignments, she was a shivering mess.

Luke armed himself with his assault rifle and clicked the pump handle. He looked down at the injured Chance Rivers with disdain and fiery hatred. “I’m getting sick of you Yankee liberal motherfuckers taking my rights away! I never wanted to fire this thing off today, but I’ll be glad to…”

Luke’s raging oratory was disrupted by his gun accidentally going off. Nikita and Chance held their ears and screamed in both pain and terror. Rachel, on the other hand, looked down at her baby stroller and saw the most horrifying thing a mother could imagine. She silently shed tears and dropped to her knees, shaking and cowering over the accidental death of Brian. She slowly unhooked her assault rifle and tossed it to the ground.

Everything had fallen silent with Chance and Nikita looking on in horror. Luke was shaking as he slowly made his way to his kneeling and silently praying wife Rachel. He gently put one of his powerful hands on her shoulder only to have her brush it away and yell, “Don’t touch me!”

As Luke fell to his knees and sobbed as well, Chance grabbed onto the counter and heaved himself to his feet. With his hands on his ribs and a limp in his step, he approached Nikita and told her to use the phone in his office to dial 9-1-1. With a nod of approval and her head hung in sorrow, Nikita did as she was told.

Luke lifted his heavy head and looked at Chance with a face full of tears and a nose full of snot. “Well? Go ahead. Say it, Mr. Boss Man. Say that you were right and we were wrong. Tell me how proud you are of being right.”

“I’m not going to say any of those things,” said Chance. He limped his way over to the sobbing Easton couple and put both of his hands on their shoulders in a comforting way. “I’m sorry for your loss,” said Chance in a genuine tone. “If you want to say a prayer for baby Brian, I’m not going to try and stop you. The police are on their way, though, so if you’re going to do it, use that time wisely.”

Luke and Rachel nodded their approval at Chance before bowing their heads and saying their final prayers.

Meanwhile, Nikita dragged herself to the main dining area and looked at her boss with red, swollen, baggy eyes. “Mr. Rivers? You’ve been an awesome boss to me. You’re an awesome boss now. But I can’t do this anymore. I quit.”

The sullen expression on Chance’s face said it all: “I don’t blame you, Nikita. Nobody blames you at all.” The two of them actually shared a hug before Nikita languidly made her way out of the restaurant for the last time. She thought about all the heartache she had to endure of dealing with customers who were just as bad as the Eastons. Were there better jobs out there? Of course. Were there better bosses than Chance Rivers? Probably not. Nikita Croft wouldn’t spend the rest of the day worrying about college money. It was hard to read bank statements and take them seriously with both eyes full of burning tears.

Pull You Under

Spencer Henry spent what seemed like hours at his apartment staring angrily at a photo of himself. His cheeks were trembling. His eyes were burning and watery. Every muscle in his body tensed up. The picture he held in his hand was taken at the age of 21, when life was beautiful and happy. At age 40, all he felt was the fiery sensation building in his belly.

“I hate you,” he finally said to the picture. He said it again. And again. With every repetition came more fire and volume in his throaty voice. He said it so many times that his hot breath started to resemble that of a dragon. He couldn’t care less how thin the walls in his apartment were. He didn’t care how many warnings he got from the superintendent. There wasn’t a whole lot about life that Spencer cared about. Just rage. More and more rage.

“I’ll pull you under, motherfucker!” he suddenly screamed before punching the glass-encased photo. Punching glass probably wasn’t the wisest move of Spencer’s life, but a middle-aged man’s wisdom went away a long time ago when the hateful dialogue poured from his mouth like snake’s venom.

The shattered glass cut deep into Spencer’s fingers, splattering blood all over his carpet. The screams were much louder and more barbaric, but this time it was out of mind-blowing pain. He wrapped his hand in his burgundy polo shirt, but the bleeding wouldn’t stop. It kept pouring like a raging river and all Spencer could do about it was kneel to the ground and wait for help to arrive. Someone must have heard him and dialed 911 by now. The walls were thinner than a Catholic wafer sometimes.

The last few minutes of Spencer Henry’s consciousness were spent bleeding all over the floor and adding tears and snot to this hodgepodge of emotional fluids. Fading to darkness was probably the best thing that could have happened to him at this point. He wouldn’t have to think those hateful thoughts of himself any longer.

But the thing about being rescued by first responders was that the patient eventually had to wake up. The fuzzy brown and white-haired Spencer awakened slowly and painfully while wearing a paper thin hospital gown. He had wires and tubes going into his body as he lay there on a semi-comfortable bed. His previously bloody hand was covered thickly in white gauze and showed no distinction between fingers, like a mitten of sorts.

“I’m glad to see you awake, Mr. Henry. We thought we’d lost you there for a minute. I’m Dr. Josie Cosgrave. I was in charge of your hand surgery.” The good doctor sat at the edge of Spencer’s bed with a hunched over posture and her chin on her arms. Her pose suggested that she wanted to talk about more than just a few stitches or some medication. The look on her darkly-complexioned face suggested something far more serious. “Is there a reason why you punched a picture of yourself, Mr. Henry?”

He let out a sigh and shrugged his shoulders before saying, “I’m just a little stressed out right now.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” said Josie with a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “There’s just one problem. People who are just a little stressed out don’t unleash a Mike Tyson assault on a piece of glass. They also don’t cry incessantly and fight the same EMT’s who are trying to load them into the ambulance.”

“Wait a minute…I did all of that?” asked a weary Spencer.

“All that and more,” answered Josie. She meandered over to the side of her patient’s bed and held his good hand in a semi-affectionate way. “Something’s bothering you, Mr. Henry. I don’t know what it is, but I’m going to find out one way or another. The answer just might determine if you need psychological counseling or not.”

“Yeah, like my insurance is going to cover that,” said Spencer while throwing his bad hand in the air sarcastically. “Oh wait, I forgot. I don’t have insurance. People who fry fish in the afternoon and write crappy novels at night don’t have that kind of luxury.”

“So is that why you’re so angry at yourself?” asked Josie. “Because you’re pissed off about how life has treated you?”

“What a mind,” said Spencer with even more sarcasm in his voice.

“You don’t have to be a wise-ass with me, Mr. Henry. I’m not your enemy here. I’m your friend. Yes, the hospital bill is going to be expensive, but I personally didn’t take this job as a doctor for a paycheck. It took it because that’s what I love to do. I love helping people like you get through their worst moments.”

Spencer shook his head and smiled unconvincingly when he said, “That’s it, huh? That’s the answer to my problems? Just love what I do and do what I love?” Silence overtook the room before it was broken with a sad sigh. “I really thought I could do it. I thought writing a novel and getting my name out there would give me a comfortable life. I thought I’d be a rock star by now. My novel, ‘Pull You Under’, has been edited countless times by countless people. God knows how many drafts I’ve got.”

Instead of interrupting the flow of the conversation, Dr. Josie Cosgrave squeezed Spencer’s good hand and gave him a look of concern. She didn’t want to talk at that moment, just listen. And damn, did Spencer have a lot to say.

“And then…just when I think I’m finally getting a big break…” A solitary tear rolled down his cheek. “Those asshole editors take their rubber stamp and brand my manuscript with the word ‘reject’ in beg red letters. Reject! That’s what I am to these people! I’ve spent the last ten years sending in that novel and all I ever got was a mouthful of battered fish and French fries for lunch! Every damn day! Every day, another fucking stamp! How many more times are they going to do it?! Why can’t they just say ‘yes’ for the first time in their lives?! Three fucking letters, one fucking word! Yes! Yes! Yeeeeeeeees!!”

The rage has finally boiled over for Spencer Henry. He ripped his good hand from Dr. Cosgrave’s clutches and tried to rip at the bandages and stitches in his hand. Josie tried to pin the furious man’s arms down, but he was much too powerful for her and shoved her to the floor. The man was so pissed off that he started foaming at the mouth with saliva. He was determined to rip his hand to shreds and put an end to his lackluster writing career forever.

Once again, the power of his fiery vocal cords brought help when he needed it the most. Dr. Cosgrave got up again and along with a team of blue scrubs nurses who just came rushing in held Spencer’s tensed up arms down. He put up a wilder fight than a raging bull being lead to the slaughter. Nurses were shoved backwards and more foam poured from Spencer’s mouth.

In one quick motion, Josie stabbed Spencer in the arm and pumped his bloodstream full of sedatives. He fought like a rabid wolverine for a few more seconds and then slowly, but surely descended into darkness once more. By the time he was knocked out, the spittle on his chin looked like he had a Santa Claus beard. The nurses all breathed sighs of relief while Dr. Cosgrave took a napkin and wiped the spittle off.

Spencer Henry didn’t wake up for another hour or so. When he did, his head was pounding and his jaw felt like he’d taken one of his own right hooks. His vision was blurry, mostly from the tears he shed, but it was eventually restored to where he saw Dr. Cosgrave at the foot of his bed again along with a team of nurses in the background.

“Truth is, Mr. Henry,” said Josie in a much more stern voice. “The writing business isn’t all frills and gimmicks. Rejection is common even for the most popular authors who are drowning in a sea of revised drafts. They have a name for going through that kind of hell: it’s called paying your dues. I know you felt like you’ve paid yours with one hundred percent interest, but you have no idea how much further you have to climb.”

“I…I didn’t mean to scare you guys like that,” said Spencer with a weak voice.

“I’m sure you didn’t, Mr. Henry,” said Josie with her arms tensed at her sides. “But we all know why you did it. You did it for the same reason that me and my nurses have: because you feel underappreciated. You’ve paid your dues time and time again. Well, guess what? So have we. So has anyone else who’s ever had a career. We as a society are all in this together. The sooner you let us into your world, the better off you’ll be. Whether you’re a writer, a doctor, a construction worker, a teacher, or otherwise, the struggle and the stress are both real. How will you respond to yours, Mr. Henry? Are you going to give up and flat line in that bed of yours? Or are you going to keep on fighting this endless war? We’ll fight for your life, but only if you fight for yours too.”

Spencer let out a deep sigh and said, “I want to keep going on. I want to believe there’s something out there for me. I just don’t know what it is and how I’ll get there.”

“That’s the beautiful thing about life: you don’t have to know, because it’s not laid out for you. You have to make your own destiny. Your medical chart says you’re 40 years old, but your life is far from over, my friend,” said Josie. She let her words resonate with Spencer for a minute and then she continued. “I’ve been saying that shit for a long ass time now. Some of my patients believed it, some of them didn’t. Those who believed it became successful in their lives or at least happy with what they’ve got. Those who didn’t believe it eventually grew up to be stored in our morgue’s body lockers.”

Spencer tried to calm himself with some basic breathing techniques as he thought about what the good doctor said to him. Was she right? She could be. But she could also be someone collecting more money than a professional fish fryer. Either way, it didn’t matter. The pissed off author was now calm enough to make his decision in his 40 year old crossroads. “Does anybody here know of a good editor I can hire?”

“Not off the top of my head,” said Josie with a satisfied smile. “But I can look it up for you.” As she pulled out her smart phone and did a Google search, Spencer relaxed into his pillow and let out a deep breath, thinking at last that he was on the right path once again.

The A&W Hotdog Eating Debacle

Whenever I go out on public with Susan, it is a must that I embarrass her front of everyone with my social awkwardness. Whether it’s screaming in pain at a high volume or making crude sexual or death jokes, if someone is around us, they’ll remember it forever. The only way they will ever forget my public antics is either through chugging a bottle of Xanax or EMDR therapy. They might even qualify for social security after I’m through with them, you never know.

One of my favorite ways to embarrass Susan in public is where we’re eating at a restaurant or a food court and I eat a gigantic mountain of meat slathered in all sorts of disgusting sauces. Whenever she sees me eat a cheeseburger with four patties, eight slices of cheese, God knows how many pieces of bacon, and a pound of mayonnaise and olive oil, Susan immediately gets the urge to vomit herself inside out. Her nausea is equivalent to a mixed-martial artist getting kicked in the liver: the oxygen is gone and the acid is boiling inside like a bubbling marsh.

The opportunity presented itself one night while Susan, her daughter Reina, and I ate at A&W for a night of cheeseburgers, fries, onion rings, and middle school toilet humor. Me eating gigantic hamburgers and greasy French fries was bad enough for Susan, but the middle school toilet humor was what really started to make her boil with embarrassment. It wasn’t until I ordered a bacon cheddar hotdog that things really started to get out of hand.

A bacon cheddar hotdog is exactly how it sounds: it’s a hotdog in a bun drenched with fake nacho cheese and sprinkled with sloppy chunks of bacon. It was a cardiovascular dream come true for me and Susan’s worst stomach churning nightmare. From the minute I took the first bite, she started feeling ill and was showing it with the saggy frown on her face and her tongue hanging out. It got from bad to worse when some of the cheese and bacon landed in my Diet Pepsi…and I drank it anyways.

“Can I get my food to go, please?” said a nearby customer who was eating with his elementary school-aged kid. Although the customer didn’t mention the reason for wanting his food to go, it was pretty obvious to me, Susan, and Reina. Me and Reina laughed our asses off while Susan slapped herself on the forehead and shook her head no in shame. Just for reassurance, I asked, “Is he leaving because of me?” Susan not only said yes, but hell yes.

Me and Susan didn’t return to A&W for a while after that night. But one night while I was supposed to withdraw money for her, we decided to go through the drive-through (without Reina this time, so the middle school toilet humor was even worse than before). Susan wanted a root beer float while I ordered three bacon cheddar hotdogs. I repeat: three of them this time, not one.

If Susan wasn’t getting ready to barf all over the steering wheel already, she would be when the nice clerks gave me a free bacon double cheeseburger to go with everything else. The universe must have really appreciated my positive thoughts or something. As for Susan’s negative thoughts to the universe, all she got was a few bites of her root beer float and then she didn’t want anymore. The whole drive home she kept complaining about an aching stomach. Luckily, the car stayed clean for the drive home. If she ever did throw up, it would for sure rival the vomit scene from Poltergeist 2 where the father spit up a hideous demon.

My eating habits at A&W were Hall of Fame worthy when it comes to socially awkward behavior. The diarrhea dump that resulted from those habits was even more disgusting since the entire house smelled like the Bremerton Sewage Plant (that’s Reina’s description, not mine). Whether it’s Susan’s stomach acid or my sloppy shit, if someone was making a reality show out of our lives, it would be rated TV-MA for graphic violence. Suck on that, Human Centipede! Actually, don’t suck on anything, because that would be gross.

　

***WRESTLING QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“I know a lot of you think that the new national pastime in the oral office is swallow the leader. But I can assure you, I did not, I repeat, I did not sleep with that young intern. In fact, I was up all night!”

-Shawn Michaels during the “DX Apology Speech”-