Looney Tunes

***LOONEY TUNES***

Do you feel like the world’s getting you down? You hate your job? You hate school? You don’t have many friends? Tragedy strikes in the strangest places? If you ever want to be lifted up from your slump, all you have to remember is…the Looney Tunes can make anything funny. Anything. No matter how dark or depressing the subject matter, Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, Elmer Fudd, and all of those wacky characters can make light of it with their over-the-top antics. George Carlin once told his audience to “picture Porky Pig raping Elmer Fudd” and they laughed like hyenas. I know you did too, because George Carlin and Looney Tunes go together like cherry pie and whipped cream. Wait a minute, that sounded dirty!

The Looney Tunes are funny because no matter what happens to them, they’ll always be alive and well during the next cartoon. There was an entire cartoon dedicated to Elmer Fudd shooting Daffy Duck’s beak off multiple times. Low and behold, Daffy didn’t die; he just kept telling Bugs Bunny how despicable he was. So if Looney Tunes characters don’t die, that means the animators can subject them to any kind of inhumane torture they can think of and nothing will happen except for audience laughter. Suppose Elmer Fudd is strapped to a torture table with a ball gag in his mouth while a circular buzz saw is being lowered into his stomach. It’s horrifying as hell when it happens to Ryu in the Ninja Gaiden arcade game from the 80’s, but if it happened to Elmer Fudd…shit, I’m chuckling just thinking about it!

It’s safe to say that the Looney Tunes have been a major influence in some of my writing. It’s especially evident in my Poison Tongue Tales stories “Forever Autumn” and “Sitka the Nose Biter”. The main character in the former, an elf sorcerer named Mathias, gets a coconut dropped on his head and stars circle around him while a big fucking knot forms on his dome. In “Sitka the Nose Biter”, whenever the eponymous kitty Sitka would bite someone’s nose (surprise, surprise), instead of exploding like a blood bomb, their noses would make honking sounds, like a clown horn or a goose squawk.

The Looney Tunes influence is something that spans multiple generations, not just to small children looking for cheap laughs and pointless violence. My mom loves the Bugs Bunny cartoon where the baby buzzard searches the desert for Bugs in an attempt to bring home dinner for his demanding mother. Mom especially loves the way the baby buzzard says, “Oh, no, no, no, no, no!” in a deep and goofy voice. Another one of her favorites is when Bugs Bunny gives Gossamer a mouse trap manicure. “Monsters have the most INTERESTING fingernails!” The cartoons in general are cute and cuddly despite the fact that they feature anthropomorphic animals getting blown up or shot. I always make the joke to my mom that it’s cute whenever Elmer Fudd goes hunting, but it’s disgusting when Ted Nugent hunts. I’m not wrong.

I know it seems like I’m preaching to the choir when I’m singing the Looney Tunes’ praises. They’re universally loved and continue to be relevant in today’s world. Quite frankly, we could use a little more Looney Tunes influence in a world full of bad shit. When I posted the #MeToo blog entry a few weeks ago, it was one of my most sobering experiences. After reliving those horrible moments, I had to be reminded that the world is a funny place full of funny people. The Looney Tunes will never judge me. They’re too busy blowing each other up and being cute little cuddle muffins.

Maintaining a sense of humor throughout all of the world’s tragedies is paramount to happiness. If you don’t buy the Looney Tunes example, then buy the Trevor Noah example I’m about to present you with. I’m currently reading “Born a Crime”, a memoir by Mr. Noah detailing his childhood in Apartheid-ruled South Africa. As someone who’s biracial, he was loathed by pretty much every ethnic group in his home country. He could have sealed himself off in his room and brooded for the rest of his life, but he didn’t. He developed a sense of humor and won the hearts of so many people that he’s now the host of The Daily Show. Good things do happen when you want them to. Positive attitudes aren’t just new age mantras; they’re tools for survival. We’ve got ears, say cheers! Actually, since this blog is about the Looney Tunes, a-beep, a-beep, a-beep, that’s all, folks!

***POISON TONGUE TALES 2: THE RIGHT TO REMAIN PSYCHOTIC***

Would you believe it if I told you I only have six more stories to write for this series and then I’m done? Where did all the time go? Holy shit! For the sixth to last short story, I’ve got something called “Thor and Gore”. It goes like this:

CHARACTERS:

1. Thor, Cannibalistic Zombie
2. Kyle Houston, Lead Vocalist of Resistance
3. Resistance, Heavy Metal Band
4. Nameless Fans and Bouncers

PROMPT CONFORMITY: To be announced.

SYNOPSIS: Resistance is playing a show at the Tiger Dome and Thor is a member of their audience. Other concert attendees think it’s okay to piss him off by pouring beer on his head, throwing popcorn at him, and moshing roughly with him. Underneath his gargantuan frame lies a bloodthirsty monster who takes his aggression out on those who wrong him by biting and slashing them. The bouncers are powerless to stop Thor and it doesn’t help matters that the members of Resistance are encouraging his behavior by playing louder.

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

Because Thor was drawn and uploaded earlier today, Kyle Houston is naturally the next in line for a drawing. Since he’s a heavy metal vocalist, I’m trying to figure out who I should use as my reference model. Ivan Moody? Phil Anselmo? Randy Blythe? Corey Taylor? So many options, so little time!

***FACE BOOK POST OF THE DAY***

When I was a teenager doing Mad Libs with my family, James would always want me to skip my turn whenever the narrator asked for an example of a liquid. I still to this day wonder what would make him do that. Hehe!

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!