Adrianne Palicki from With/In vs. Michael Falk from The Onion: Just Another Day on the Job

 

I Love You, John Oliver, It's Nothing Personal

 

John Oliver is hilarious as fuck, but there's a reason his fans call Last Week Tonight the most depressing comedy show of all time.

Disaster Porn Star

VERSE 1

You’re all fucked! You’re all screwed!

They took away every pound of food

They call it famine, I call it murder

Can’t even buy a junior bacon burger

Can’t even buy a head of lettuce

No child left behind? They’ll already forget us

Your rumbling tummy has sealed your fate

But thank the stars above you’re not overweight

 

CHORUS 1

If it’s upsetting to you, then that’s the point

Swallow all your Xanax, roll yourself a joint

Self-medication only gets you so far

I’m your news anchor, disaster porn star

 

VERSE 2

You’re all pegged! You’re all dead!

They never had to put a bullet in your head

Just feed you second helpings of existential dread

Until you’re lifeless inside, assed out on your bed

You could overdose on your favorite medication

But your soul doesn’t care enough about ideation

Indifferent to the world closing in all around

When the rubble crashes down, you won’t make a sound

 

CHORUS 2

If it’s pissing you off, then we did our job

Now go and get yours, you underclass slob

We’re reporting facts, that’s just how they are

We’re your cable news, disaster porn stars

 

BRIDGE

Ron Jeremy ain’t got shit on me

Jasmine St. Claire couldn’t hit on me

I’m on TV, you couldn’t spit on me

I’m your addiction, you ain’t kicking me

We’re rage-bait trolls with a TV studio

Here’s some pictures of Miguel and Julio

A gay couple with a son of their own

Remember their faces, they’ll never make it home

 

CHORUS 3

If it chaps your ass, then we get paid

We’re like real porn stars, always getting laid

Remember shit-eating grins as the camera fades

‘Cause we’re driving sports cars, disaster porn stars

Capitalism is your permanent system

Rich is what we are, disaster porn stars

Dope vs. The News Cycle

 

The lyrics in the bottom panel are from the Dope song "Debonaire". But yeah, I can't watch political content anymore without losing my fucking mind. Even if I agree with what they're saying, it's still disaster porn. It's bad for my mental health.

Alizee Yeezy vs. Piers Morgan

 

Francesca Fiorentini vs. Cenk Uygur

 

Headline News

VERSE 1

Geek in a suit comes on the news at five

He’s probably wondering how we’re all alive

Read the teleprompter while on beta blockers

Lifeless interview gives you nothing new

Turn that shit off, what’re we watching for?

We should get overtime for staying informed

This is a movie that we’ve all seen before

‘Cause all they ever talk about is murder and war

 

VERSE 2

Roundtable at six sucking Israel’s dicks

Got a dose of depression, come get your fix

Gather over here while we fight fascism

But only with permission from upper management

Bomb this, bomb that, school shooter with a gat

Every one of them fuckers got a red MAGA hat

TV-MA for gratuitous gore

‘Cause all they ever talk about is murder and war

 

VERSE 3

It’s seven o’clock, get on your knees and pray

‘Cause we just made it through another long day

Go fight with your family, have a master debate

You don’t need verbal skills, you need mosquito spray

Dehumanized by the people you’re supposed to love

It’s love with conditions from the heavens above

Just another case of the poor fighting the poor

‘Cause all they ever talk about is murder and war

 

OUTRO

‘Cause all they ever talk about is murder and war

Fuck the positivity, they find it such a bore

Brain chemical addiction is your newfound chore

Like those Camels you smoke from the convenience store

A bottle of Jack to go with your pack

If you’re pissed off long enough, you can move on to crack

Healthy coping mechanisms are what you all lack

But when you need your rage bait, we’ll take your greenbacks

Going Nuts

Not a spark of electricity in this whole damn house

Not enough melatonin to knock my ass out

My dreams are lysergic, my reality is no different

Going nuts in a dark room with demonic visions

My body could fry a whole carton of eggs

My throat slime could melt through my nonexistent neck

My nose is undergoing medieval torture

A mountain of tissues ruined in short order

Coughing up a storm of pandemic proportions

Dreading the days of insurance extortions

No breathing apparatus to pump my lungs

Waking up from dreams that feel like drugs

Alcoholic syrup is the only solution

To keep me away from the mental institution

The late night is over, the day starts at dawn

Still the electricity won’t come back on

I slosh along like a radioactive blob

Throat’s too sore for corn on the cob

I might as well swallow shards of glass

The next 24 hours can kiss my ass

Nothing to do but lay down and drift

Leaving my thoughts to sort and sift

Through a filter that was never there before

Demons in my head fight an endless war

With swords, rifles, bombs, and nerve gas

Turning my brain into a mass grave fast

The world wasn’t supposed to end this way

But why expect it to last forever and a day?

The power’s back on and so is the news

My fever kills, but millions are screwed

A fever passes with time and some rest

Hits different when the rich see you as a pest

If it had been measles or god forbid COVID

We’d have bigger problems than feeling hopeless

I survived insanity and snot-covered sickness

Got any more tragedies for me to witness?

Going nuts is kind of what I do the best

Don’t believe me? You fail the polygraph test

Flip the Kill Switch

VERSE 1

Story after story about violence so gory

It ain’t Hollywood glory, the nations are warring

Bright and early morning, air raid sirens give the warning

The napalm is pouring, children sleep without snoring

I get it all for free on my pretty little screen

I hear the little “DING!”, now I want to fucking scream

He says, “There’s no such thing as pain and suffering”

What the hell does that mean? Aren’t you watching them bleed?!

 

CHORUS 1

Turn it off! Can’t take anymore!

Turn it off! Don’t want to hear about war!

Take the screen and throw it like a son of a bitch!

Hurry up and end it! Flip the kill switch!

 

VERSE 2

Post after post of self-deprecating roasts

What they want the most is to be floating ghosts

Standing so close to the edge with the rope

It’s not a gallows joke, there really is no hope

I try to talk some sense to the ones who crave death

Don’t even ride the fence, it ain’t worth it in the end

He says, “If I up and went, I won’t have to pay the rent”

Are you fucked up in the head? No one wants to see you dead!

 

CHORUS 2

Turn it off! Can’t take anymore!

Turn it off! What’d you do that for?!

Take the screen and wake you up from the ditch!

Take your torture machine and flip the kill switch!

 

BRIDGE

Look around you, we’ve got so much in common

None of our lives turned out the way we wanted

Big dreams of a world where we keep the good times rolling

Lost forever to what we call doom-scrolling

All You Want Is More

VERSE 1

It might be a shocker to those unaware

But not all my dark secrets are fit to air

On TV, radio, or the good old Tubes of You

In between advertisements of whiskey and brew

Did I really do that to an old classmate?

Did I joke about submissives like a sick reprobate?

Did I do it on the bird app that I won’t call X?

Do I got a one-track mind preoccupied with sex?

 

CHORUS 1

I gave you my pain and all you want is more

I gave you my tears and all you want is more

Ripped open old wounds and all you want is more

Deets and dates, all you want is more!

 

VERSE 2

I crucified myself for an audience of many

I did it all for free, didn’t earn a single penny

The riches and bitches are for the anchors at five

Trust me when I say, they won’t call me “unalive”

 

CHORUS 1

I gave you my pain and all you want is more

I gave you my tears and all you want is more

Ripped open old wounds and all you want is more

Deets and dates, all you want is more!

 

BRIDGE

The conversation has long since run its course

Yet it happens again and you’ve got no remorse

Let the words of the greedy die a bloody death

It’s nosy at worst, concern trolling at best

 

VERSE 3

None of you got nothing to be nervous about

I was never suicidal, shouldn’t be in doubt

Even if the whole world takes turns fucking me

I’m alive for it all even when I fucking bleed

No gulag on earth will break me down

No reeducation camp will knock off my crown

I’m the king of my life, the god of my mind

My body’s made of meat, but it’s an axe I grind

 

CHORUS 2

I’ll give you my fist, do you want some more?

I’ll give you my bullet, do you want some more?

I’ll give you my blade, do you want some more?

Dicks and tricks, I hope you’re ready for more!

Let Me Sleep

VERSE 1

I’d kill for a nice set of doggy days

But the AK-47 blew some kids away

But the women are living The Handmaid’s Tale

And the cops who enforce it never go to jail

I took a break from the news, but I have to return

So much about the world that I still have to learn

It matters very little if my short fuses burn

Can’t run forever, ‘cause it won’t get any better

CHORUS

Too much trauma at once, in the shit we’re deep

For god’s sake, just let me go the fuck to sleep

Is one good day too much to ask for?

Just let me sleep, let life be a bore

Let me sleep!

Let me sleep!

VERSE 2

I could walk down the street and shoot some hoops

It could get me out of this dystopian time loop

But all I want to do this afternoon is take a nap

And hope I don’t get snared in the news cycle trap

I can’t save the world when I’m by myself

Even the baddest of badasses are in need of help

We can start a revolution on any other day

But for now, I’ll let my mind drift away

CHORUS

Too much trauma at once, in the shit we’re deep

For god’s sake, just let me go the fuck to sleep

Is one good day too much to ask for?

Just let me sleep, let life be a bore

Let me sleep!

Let me sleep!

BRIDGE

I don’t need you to read me my last rites

Just tuck my carcass in and say goodnight

Try not to wake me up with bombs and blasts

Or a jeep motor that blows smoke like an ass

Or fireworks long after the fourth of July

Jingoism is dead, kiss that shit goodbye

CHORUS

Too much trauma at once, in the shit we’re deep

For god’s sake, just let me go the fuck to sleep

Is one good day too much to ask for?

Just let me sleep, let life be a bore

Let me sleep!

Let me sleep!

FINAL LINES

If I spent the night in a no-tell motel

Would you still shoot me dead, shrug it off like, “Oh well?”

Immune to My Own Edge

 I might be the only person in the universe who feels this way…but when I’m writing a controversial scene in either my prose or poetry…I sometimes forget the weight of my own words. I’ve become immune to my own edge, if you will. A cowboy obliterating his opponent with a gatling gun and splashing his guts like a tidal wave? A leonine samurai decapitating a ninja with his katana before sucking the poor bastard’s insides out with the spine as a drinking straw? A femme fatale seducing a man into bed with her before she bites his penis off and shoves it between his ears? These things may be shocking to my audience, but they’re normal to me. They’re so normal to me that I wasn’t even trying when I wrote those descriptions. Now it’s time to crack my knuckles…

The other day I wrote chapter 21 of my fantasy WIP Beautiful Monster. In this chapter, an imprisoned elf reaches through the bars of his cell and grabs a mercenary by his facial hair. He then proceeds to pull this mercenary’s face into the steel bars as hard as humanly possible, getting more aggressive with each tug. The mercenary’s eyeballs pop out, his teeth shatter and roll on the ground, his nose gets plastered to the back of his skull…to put it as delicately as possible, this mercenary is fucked. Too graphic for you all? Well, that’s funny, because this is just another day at the office for me. This is easily as brutal as it gets in my novel and I didn’t even flinch. I’m immune to my own edge.

How did it get to be this way for me? Too many mental illnesses and pills numbing my mind? Too much brainwashing via the television? Not enough flinching when I watched movies like Saw and Hostel? It’s one thing not to care too much if it happens in a fictional setting, but in a documentary or news story? My god, does that shit hurt. I’m not immune to other people’s edges, just my own. If there’s a news story on TV about police brutality (which has become commonplace in America, unfortunately), I’ll get so pissed off that my jaw will be sore from all the clamping down I’m doing. My mind will do more hundred mile an hour laps than a NASCAR track. But if I write about it in one of my stories? Nothing. Not a goddamn thing.

Why is this happening? Is it because I’m in control of my stories and poems and therefore already know the outcome? But what if the outcome is negative? What if a character is so haunted by their PTSD that they hang themselves from the ceiling fan with a chain whip? Will I be immune to that as well? If I’ve written it, yes, I will be. But only if I’ve written it. If I imagine it in my mind, then I’ll cycle through every harmful emotion I can think of, be it sadness, anger, or depression, which coincidentally spells the acronym SAD. Imagining scenes is much more fun than writing them, even with the harmful emotions.

That’s why I never understood it when people say that jokes can only be funny if you, the comedian, are the first to laugh about it. Sometimes I laugh at my own jokes, but not all the time. And yet, whenever I tell a joke I don’t laugh at myself, my audience laughs at it all the same. Want an example of a really disgusting joke? Okay, here it goes. Where do necromancers go to adopt children? An abortion clinic. You may laugh at that joke, you may not. Did I? Maybe a little bit at first, but I don’t hee-haw at it every single time. I must be immune to my own edge again. Here’s a joke I definitely didn’t laugh at, but other people found fucking hilarious. What do you call a Viking who saves people from drowning? Leif Guard. Not the most offensive joke I’ve ever told, but it’ll probably get more laughs than my necromancer joke, and that’s only if you pronounce Leif like you would “life” instead of “leaf” or “layf”.

Okay, so I’m immune to my own violence and comedy, but what about sadness? I can safely say that I’ve never cried at my own scenes before. I’ve had characters rape each other, attack animals, and die by the hundreds. Not one single tear. Then again, it takes a lot for me to cry these days. Well, it used to, anyways. I used to talk about having a 2007 benchmark for the last time I cried and that was because I blew my chances at signing up for Evergreen College. I can safely say that as of 2020, that record has been shattered. It’s not just the American news or the depression of being cooped up in my own home due to Corona Virus. Those things tax the fuck out of my mental energy, sure. But if you want to know what made me cry alone at night with nobody watching…I repeated the words “I love you” and “I’m sorry” over and over again. Who was I declaring my love for? I don’t know. Who was I apologizing to? I don’t know. It could have been anybody. Hell, it could have been my entire audience because I felt like I let them down in some way. I wasn’t immune to that. But writing about the experience? Not one tear drop.

While I feel nothing when I write my own controversial scenes, my audience feels everything. I’ve had people tell me they cried at my sadder stories. I’ve had people tell me they had chills up and down their spines at my lovey-dovey poems. I’ve had people cringe in pain as they read my more violent poems and stories. I say these things not to brag, but as a warning to anybody reading this piece of nonfiction. You have no idea how powerful your words can be to another person, for better or worse. A simple, “Hi” can be the difference between isolation and a pick-me-up. A tweet can be the difference between connecting with your audience and losing them forever. If a salutation and a tweet can have that much impact on someone’s life, imagine how a whole book can make them feel.

You know…maybe that’s why I was crying and apologizing that one night I broke my 2007 record. Maybe I felt like my books were having a negative impact on people’s lives. I know that’s not true since book sales have been piss-poor since I became a pro. But what if my sales spiked one day and my audience was angered by what I had written? What if Debra Winter’s characterization in Occupy Wrestling was deemed unintentionally misogynistic? What if my poems bored my audience to tears because of how the lyrics resemble corporately-produced rock songs? What if my depictions of rape and assault in Poison Tongue Tales were done in an insensitive way? Can I do anything about these problems now that the books are published? I could, but Amazon is making me jump through hoops just to make cosmetic changes to one of my poetry books. But even if Amazon was 100% cooperative, that would mean redoing six published books and always being behind because I’d be overwhelmed with work. It seems like a lazy copout, but it’s reality. I don’t have the energy to micromanage every single book I’ve published, especially when they’ve been on the market for so long.

But…what if someone didn’t see my writing in an offensive light? What if somebody loved it regardless of all of my negative thoughts? Art is subjective, after all. What’s disgusting to one person could be bliss to another. Yeah, I’m immune to my own edge, but I’m not immune to my own worrying after the fact. Maybe that needs to change. Maybe I should start holding my head high. But in the middle of the cluster-fuck known as 2020? That won’t be easy. But that’s one advantage to having immunity to the most controversial parts of my writing: I can get lost in the process and escape from the world, even if only for a little while. Maybe I can find that nugget of joy among the sea of diarrhea. Isn’t that why we write in the first place? Isn’t that why people say, “Write drunk, edit sober”? Don’t worry about the technicalities now, just barf onto the page and be happy for just a little while. I guess I’m not an uncaring sociopath after all. I’m just looking for joy where I can find it. If that joy includes evoking strong emotions from my readers, then goddamn it, I’ll embrace that shit until the day I die.

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

Dirty Laundry

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to another episode of Beneath the Surface. I am your host, Aaron Moore. Tonight we’ve got a special treat for you. It’s no secret how Dread City’s debt crisis has ravaged our poor and working class population. Many of our citizens are losing their homes, their jobs, and in many cases, their families due to not being able to pay their debts on time. Here to expose the secrets of this little known debt industry is a man who wishes to be known by the pseudonym Heath Riggs. Heath, welcome to the show.”

“Good to be here, Aaron.”

Heath parked his ass at a dimly lit studio table across from his host, while live cameras filmed the interview from every angle behind the shadows. Aaron Moore clearly enjoyed the spotlight as evidenced by the fancy gray suit and tie he wore just for this occasion. Heath Riggs, on the other hand, thrived in anonymity, his black leather jacket, sunglasses, and hood covering everything but his black face driving the point home. While Aaron leaned his body in to ask the tough questions, Heath kicked back with his fingers in a triangle position and his heel across his lap.

“Now Heath, I want to start off by addressing with you the harassing ways in which debts are collected. The late night phone calls, the vulgar speech, the contacting of family, friends, and coworkers. By your own admission, these tactics should be illegal, yet debt collection companies get away with this all the time.”

Heath cleared his throat. “Well, you’re right about the fact that these tactics should be illegal. If they came from anybody other than a collector, the police would be called in a heartbeat. But the funny thing is, the harassment doesn’t actually get us our money faster. Then again, neither does the impending lawsuit and the subsequent garnishing of wages. This isn’t about collecting money we’ll never have. It’s politics. It’s all about weeding out the poor and disenfranchised so that they can’t influence our governmental policies. It’s not a conspiracy. This shit’s as real as it gets.”

Aaron, who was drinking a mug of hot coffee during Heath’s answer, spit out his beverage and choked on whatever was left. After wiping his mouth with his expensive sleeve, he said, “Mr. Riggs, I appreciate your honesty during this interview, but I have to ask you not to swear when giving your answers. We’re on live television in over a million homes. Surely, you understand.”

“Of course I do.” Heath grinned like he was onto something. “Wouldn’t want to offend your audience’s precious Christian ears. Wouldn’t want the children to hear any of this shit. Lord knows they might grow up to become free thinkers. We know that can never happen.”

“I’m warning you, Mr. Riggs….”

Taking his sunglasses off and revealing gray mechanical eyes underneath, Heath said, “Don’t worry, Aaron, I got the message loud and clear. You can’t swear on television, but if you do it behind closed doors with an unwilling secretary, it’s A-okay. I’m not just exposing the debt industries secrets, but yours as well. I agreed to do this interview because I want a clear conscience. Fourteen years of debt collecting began to wear on my soul after a while. I figured, as long as I’m here with an alleged sexual harasser, I might as well go the full nine, you know what I’m saying?”

“Cut the camera feed! Cut it now!” demanded Aaron. Without checking to see if his orders were followed, he leaned in closer to Heath’s face and pointed an accusatory finger at him. “I don’t know what kind of stunt you’re trying to pull, but you have no proof and neither do any of my accusers. Those cases were settled a long time ago. Now do you want to discuss debt collection or do you want to keep toying with me?”

“Why can’t he talk about both? It’s not like you two don’t deserve last words,” said a robotic feminine voice from the shadowy background. While Heath remained calm, cool, and collected, Aaron went bug-eyed and his body trembled at the sight of a cyborg assassin holding two severed heads by the hair like they were cheerleader pompoms. As soon as this mysterious woman stepped into the light, headless bodies all around the studio dropped to the ground and soaked the wooden floors in human blood and cyborg oil. A bald black woman with golden earrings and a green metal suit stared her newest victims down with a mischievous grin.

While Aaron curled up in a ball on the edge of pissing himself, the assassin said, “Don’t worry, honey. None of what you or Heath said made it on the airwaves. I made sure of that. It’s probably just as well. Although, if you want to tell your mindless viewers goodbye for one last time, I suppose I could let you do that.”

“Please…I don’t know who you are, but I’ve got a family I need to get home to. Don’t kill me! Please don’t kill me!” quivered Aaron while Heath smiled and shook his head.

“It’s the same old excuse: think of my family so that I don’t have to when I’m trying to take the secretary to pound town. Don’t worry, Aaron, I’ve got this.” Heath cracked his knuckles before getting out of his chair and strutting towards the assassin, who tossed the cameramen’s heads off to the side like they were easily disposable to begin with.

“What are you so cocky about, Mr. Riggs? You’re not making it out alive any more than Hard-On Henry over here. In fact, you’re the reason I came here today,” said the assassin with a grin.

Heath gazed his assailant up and down and whistled. “That’s some expensive hardware you’ve got there. How much did them arm blades set you back? Hundreds? Thousands of dollars? And that metal body? Shit, man, I don’t know how you pay for all that with just a Street Ronin’s salary. If only there was somebody here who knew how to make debt disappear quicker than those cameramen you laid out. Hmm…” Heath stroked his chin as he mockingly pondered this question.

The assassin flipped one of her arm blades and held it underneath Heath’s chin. He didn’t back down from his confident demeanor, but he was all ears for his would-be killer. “When you’re as good as me, money isn’t that hard to come by. I don’t know what kind of lies you’re telling about my client, but these poor suckers don’t go into debt because of politics. They do it because they could never make it in a capitalist meritocracy. That’s my special way of saying they’re fucking lazy.”

“Sure, whatever you say…Harlock!”

Upon hearing the assassin’s name, Aaron slowly lowered his feet to the bloody floor, obviously not caring that much about his designer shoes. “Wait a minute, you know this woman?”

“Not as well as I’d like to, but when you’ve been on the job as long as I have, you learn something about these poor pathetic motherfuckers. The boss man gives you a name, an address, and how much they owe. The rest of the research is up to you, hence why we often resort to calling friends and family to collect the debt. Harlock here doesn’t care about the circumstances of others, which is ironic considering those cyborg parts didn’t come easy in this so-called meritocracy. Besides, if she was really as hot shit as she thinks she is, she wouldn’t have revealed all this information to me. We’d both be dead as fucking fried chicken right now. But as it is…”

“Shut the hell up!” said Harlock as she drew a tiny droplet of blood from Heath’s cheek. He still didn’t budge, only smiled wider as he cleaned the wound off with his finger and licked it.

“Face it, lady,” said Heath. “You don’t want to admit it, but you can see the irony of a debt-burdened assassin working for a debt collection agency. You’re desperate for cash, so you’ll whore your services to anybody who can make shit go away. But the truth is…paying those suckers off ain’t going to solve everything. You would not believe the tricks they pull out of their asses just to keep you paying up. Ever heard of zombie debt? How about fifty percent interest? How about debtor’s prison? They still have that shit.”

Harlock narrowed her bladed eyebrows and dug the weapon deeper into Heath’s skin. He flinched a little bit, but not enough to give away whatever modicum of fear he might have been burdened with. She leaned in and said, “You know nothing about me and my struggles.”

“Exactly! Debt collectors don’t know shit about you, which is why they keep calling your ass in the first place! You could come crying to them with your whole life story and it wouldn’t be enough. They got no heart. They got no soul. If a big ass mega corporation had a heart and soul, they wouldn’t be in business for very long, would they? Capitalism is a bitch.”

Harlock’s eyes slowly lowered to the soggy floor as if Heath’s words got through to her. He took this small window of opportunity to grab her by the arm and swing her blade into her own stomach. While Aaron was in the background this whole time shivering and weeping, Harlock’s mechanical guts spilled all over the ground as she coughed up oil and blood. Heath yanked the blade upwards and split the rest of her upper body in two, bloodying the floor even more than it already was.

“What the hell did you do that for?! She was cooperating!” Aaron screamed.

“Recognizing how badly you’ve fucked up isn’t a Get Out of Jail Free card. In case you hadn’t noticed what’s been going on here the past few seconds, look on the ground. That bitch is beyond redemption. Speaking of which, let’s get them cameras rolling again…”

“No! No cameras! No! I’m done with this!”

“Oh, we’re just getting started, Aaron. We’ve got a lot to discuss. Debt collection and sexual harassment all in one story, although that piss stain on your pants will be bigger ratings boost than anything we talk about.”

Aaron spread his shaky legs to see that there was indeed urine on his groin. “Goddamn it!”

Heath shushed him. “Ah, ah, ah! No swearing! There’re children watching!”

Creepy or Brave?

VERSE 1

Young man, big fan, tell her how you feel

Wear her colors with the most passionate zeal

Go to every show and sit in the front row

If you don’t, then you will never ever know

PRE-CHORUS

Restraining order or even less quarter?

Open arms or even bigger charms?

Come on back or get the fuck away?

Are you creepy or are you brave?

CHORUS

Creepy or brave? X4

VERSE 2

Funny guy, give a try, you’re one of a kind

On the mic, make them like what they find

‘Cause if you bomb like a nuclear warhead

You’ll be easy to boo and easier to forget

PRE-CHORUS

Restraining order or even less quarter?

Open arms or even bigger charms?

Come on back or get the fuck away?

Are you creepy or are you brave?

CHORUS

Creepy or brave? X4

BRIDGE

Talk the talk and walk the walk

Mock the mocked and stalk the stalk

They won’t reward your courage

They’ll leave your heart forever hurting

CHORUS

Creepy or brave? X4

FINAL VERSE

Nice tie, nice suit, nice Gucci shoes

Nice headshot all over the news

Are you ready to defend your life?

Or will you just roll over and die?

CHORUS

Creepy or brave? X4

The Media

VERSE 1

Caught on camera, a vicious beating

Made me throw up what I was eating

Made me blow a fuse just like dynamite

Your son’s heart beats booze and cyanide

Teach your child some real lessons

Not to use hate and fear as weapons

Not to blame others for his own undoing

Not to be surprised when parents are suing

CHORUS X2

It is not the media’s fault

That your son’s an ass and he got caught

VERSE 2

He laughs at suicide whenever it happens

Laughs at the mourners, calls them faggots

His ribs are broken from the many chuckles

His knees are shaking as they start to buckle

Let’s see him pick a fight with a true giant

Let’s see his lips quiver in the dead of silence

Let’s see his blood pressure hit the maximum

Piss a million gallons and call it going platinum

CHORUS X2

It is not the media’s fault

That your son’s an ass and he got caught

VERSE 3

In the end, he’s nothing but a coward

He thought he wielded the ultimate power

But all he got was a golden shower

His tight jockey shorts smell a little sour

All the bravado was for absolutely nothing

All the laughter never led to something

Now he’s got a spotlight burning so bright

He’s shitting himself from the stage fright

CHORUS

It is not the media’s fault

That your son’s an ass and he got caught

It is not the victim’s fault

That your son’s another brick in the wall

It is not the judge’s fault

That his dad has lost his balls

Blame yourself and no one else

Blame yourself for building your own hell

FINAL LINE X4

It is not the media’s fault!

"More Headlines" by Jay Leno

“More Headlines” is by no means a novel. In fact, if you tried to commit manslaughter with this book, you would get laughed out of the room by your victim. So instead of analyzing this book blow-by-blow, I’ll post some samples of what you can find in this tiny book. Starting with…

HEADLINE: Crime: sheriff asks for 13.7% increase.
JAY LENO: Okay, Spike, you’ve been hitting two houses a week. Let’s make that three. And Lefty, I want to see twice as many purse snatchings. Let’s all do what we can to help the sheriff.

HEADLINE: Outlaw to announce 3 police promotions.
JAY LENO: Hey, you don’t think these guys are working together, do you?

HEADLINE: Mayor says DC is safe except for murders.
JAY LENO: Oh, that’s a relief. I was afraid I’d get my car radio stolen.

HEADLINE: High-crime areas said to be safer.
JAY LENO: Now, if we could just increase crime in the low-crime areas, they’d be safer too.

HEADLINE: No cause of death determined for beheading victim.
JAY LENO: How about stretched vocal cords?

HEADLINE: Terrorist bought bomb parts at K-Mart.
JAY LENO: Attention K-Mart shoppers: plutonium on aisle 9.

HEADLINE: Thieves steal burglar alarm.
JAY LENO: I wonder what they did with the Porsche that was attached to it.

HEADLINE: Robber’s description: man, possibly a woman, definitely ugly.
JAY LENO: Hmm, the problem is going to be interviewing suspects without hurting their feelings.

HEADLINE: Woman who ran over spouse gets 5-15 years. Told doctors he was possessed by Mickey Mouse.
JAY LENO: What a shame…and on his fiftieth anniversary too.

You want more? You’ll get more as soon as you march your ass to Barnes & Noble and buy a copy! Adios, amigos! Thanks for reading!

　

***TWEET OF THE DAY***

“I can appreciate the irony in finding a coat hanger in a catholic church.”

-Me-

Plugging Friends

No, I’m not here to plug another quick-paced book. On the contrary, I’m here to plug blogs from two of my favorite people in the whole world: Gracie Jones and Susan Wilson.

Susan’s blog is a weird-ass news blog called “Deep Space Cowgirl”. In addition to advertising it on this site, I’m also drawing pictures for her in hopes that she’ll use them. I already drew her a picture of Balok from Star Trek in a cowboy hat and space armor. I’m not too sure if she’s keen on my squid in an astronaut’s suit, though. Either way, I think of Susan as family, mainly because she was at one point dating my brother James. And because she’s family, I’ll do anything within my means to help her out. Maybe she can make some money from this blog, which is nice since I’m currently unemployed and need more people to filter-feed off of. Hehe!

Gracie’s blog is one dedicated to the art of writing. Like me, she too wants to become a professional author and hopes to do so through the writing prompts she has suggested over the weeks. This isn’t just some willy-nilly list of prompts; these are thoughtful questions that every writer should consider. That, and they’re lots of fun to do! But if for some reason you get completed with these homework assignments and don’t see another post for a while, don’t panic. Gracie’s laptop is busted to the point where it’s in two pieces. It’s hard to write blog entries when your laptop looks like it’s been assaulted by a wild cheetah. Give her time and patience and something will come up.

Susan’s blog can be found here: http://deepspacecowgirl.wordpress.com/

And Gracie’s blog can be found here:
http://foraspiringauthors.blogspot.com/

As my English teachers in college used to say to me, happy reading!

　

***FACEBOOK MEME OF THE DAY***

Grammar: it’s the difference between “knowing your shit” and “knowing you’re shit”.