Alfred E. Neuman vs. Judge Judy: See You Next Tuesday, Your Honor

 

Kamala Harris vs. Alex Jones: "Sleeping Your Way to the Top" Is Better Than Plummeting Hard to the Bottom

 

Billy Joel vs. Megyn Kelly (no relation, thank god)

 

Terence Fletcher from Whiplash vs. a Process Server: Is a Little Identification Too Much to Ask For?

 

"I CAN'T MOVE ON! I CAN'T MOVE ON!"

 

Revenge Against the Innocent

VERSE 1

Getting laid off at work makes you go berserk

And then a minor inconvenience turns you into a jerk

A tender voice says, “Daddy?”, you scream, “WHAT?!”

Call your daughter every slur from bitch to slut

She runs to bed crying while your self-esteem is dying

Nobody’s on your side, they had no choice but to hide

A raging ball of fire launched from the depths of hell

Leaves your heart seizing up and no one to wish you well

 

CHORUS

Revenge against the innocent, it sounds so ignorant

They committed no crimes, yet they’re on borrowed time

Before a nervous breakdown or a violent takedown

Revenge against the innocent, you’re absurd and insolent

 

VERSE 2

Your nuclear family had a nuclear explosion

Of every single tearful and screaming emotion

Hey, don’t complain, you’re the one who pressed the button

You always had the launch codes, so keep on truckin’

Couldn’t pay for therapy with a bleeding bank account

Inflation raised the price to a ridiculous amount

Credit cards can’t help, lenders hand you the shovel

And you can’t say, “I’m sorry” with an invisible muzzle

 

CHORUS

Revenge against the innocent, it sounds so ignorant

They committed no crimes, yet they’re on borrowed time

Before a nervous breakdown or a violent takedown

Revenge against the innocent, you’re absurd and insolent

 

VERSE 3

Fifty-one-fifty, free room and board

And all the cigarettes you could possibly hoard

I’m making this place sound just like a prison

But you know damn well they’ve got the same system

Seventy-two hours without a warm shower

Piss and moan all you want, but there’s no people-power

Your daughter’s grown up and got her own wedding flowers

She broke the cycle, her love is stronger than a tower

 

OUTRO

This could have been avoided, nulled, and voided

If you didn’t let your anger turn into a Big Banger

Cosmic explosion that pissed off the universe

Now you’ve got no ride home except the back of a hearse

Zune Koga, Megan's Barbaric Love Interest from "Beauty and the Barbarian"

 

Civil Discourse Is an Oxymoron

VERSE 1

It’s not civil discourse when you say, “Get a job!”

And then you play the victim of the online mob

You started jacking your jaw about made up laws

That justify the killing of random dudes chilling

We have the right to exist, it’s what I’ll always insist

I’ll die on this hill when the coppers shoot to kill

Master debating is just political theater

There is no “both sides” to a husband beating her

 

CHORUS

Civil discourse is an oxymoron

When our eyes are fiery like Sauron

When our veins bulge and faces turn red

Lies are force-fed until too many are dead

 

VERSE 2

Military intelligence and jumbo shrimp

Got nothing on a fake badass being a pimp

Except when his hoes are in tactical clothes

They sold their souls for the king they chose

Moderate terrorism and AI art

Across-the-aisle marriages with no broken hearts

Human rights violators who make the best of friends

But when they get dumped, they call it Gen Z trends

 

CHORUS

Civil discourse is an oxymoron

When our eyes are fiery like Sauron

When our veins bulge and faces turn red

Lies are force-fed until too many are dead

 

BRIDGE

If you want to debate my right to live

You have to take it about as well as you give

Otherwise, you’re an Alpha in name only

Got yourself to blame for being empty and lonely

 

EXTENDED CHORUS

Civil discourse is an oxymoron

When our eyes are fiery like Sauron

When our veins bulge and faces turn red

Lies are force-fed until too many are dead

Remember that when you go to bed

And the joy-bringers rent space in your head

And your brain melted from pumping gasoline with lead

Lies and slander are always everything you said

It was never a debate, it was an hour of hate

You forgot your Klan hood and your crucifix wood

You forgot your gas can and cigarette lighter

No more burning crosses, no need for firefighters

Mr. Poopy Pants

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"MOX" by Jon Moxley

BOOK TITLE: MOX

AUTHOR: Jon Moxley

YEAR: 2021

GENRE: Nonfiction

SUBGENRE: Wrestling Memoir

GRADE: B

Jon Moxley’s road to the top of the pro-wrestling world was paved in blood, both his own and his opponents’. He grew up in a poor neighborhood that could have served as the first stage of Final Fight. He trained in a wrestling gym so torturous that it might as well have been located in Guantanamo Bay. He developed a psychotic persona to go along with the level of violence required for death matches. He joined the WWE and became part of one of the most dominant trios in wrestling history: The Shield. Sick of the creative black hole the company became, he let his contract expire and reinvented himself in places like New Japan and All-Elite Wrestling. This is just a summary of what he went through, but to read about it through his words is a vicarious experience like no other. Every exhaustion he feels, you feel. Every splatter of blood he spills, you feel that too. Every burst of raw anger he feels, it tugs at your soul as well. Jon Moxley definitely has a fascinating enough story to justify a nonfiction book.

Because he’s not a professionally-trained author, it becomes apparent right away that he writes exactly how he talks. Swear words, pop culture comparisons, brutal imagery that could be read in his voice, it’s all there. Normally, an author would receive a lot of grief for this sort of thing, but he won’t get it from me. I for one enjoy this conversational tone, because he’s got a colorful personality to back it up. It would be one thing if he talked like an IRS accountant. But since he’s a violent brawler with a hard edge to him, that makes his writing style even more exciting to read. That kind of personality is necessary when describing the bloodshed he went through in his ultra-intense matches. Can you imagine if a comedic, lighthearted style in the vein of Carl Hiaasen or Sherman Alexie was applied to this kind of narrative? It wouldn’t make sense.

While this book was a master class in showing personality and being an all-around tough guy, it’s not without its flaws. Remember how I said that Jon Moxley isn’t a professionally-trained author? Well, that means he’s going to make a lot of typos when he writes and he’s not going to notice them. There are instances of question marks and periods being together. He swaps between using F’n and the actual curse word. Some of the misspellings make sense because of his rough personality, but it’s so inconsistent that no sane editor would let it slide. You know what else the editor wouldn’t let slide? Starting a sentence midway through it without typing the actual beginning. That’s how he introduces an interlude where he talks about one of his favorite songs: no capitalization at the beginning because there is no beginning, only a middle. Had the editor done a better job of cleaning up these discrepancies, I would have readily given this book a perfect five out of five. But the constant typos bumped it down a notch for me.

Okay, so MOX isn’t a perfect book. Not many people outside the wrestling bubble would get excited about it. Maybe the typos would be too much for them to handle. But you know what? I love the book anyways. I love it so much that I wanted it to win Best Pro-Wrestling Book of 2021 from the Wrestling Observer Newsletter awards. And guess what? I got my wish! And if you pick up this book wanting an exciting story, you’ll get your wish too! Four out of five stars! Maybe seven if it was written in the Tokyo Dome. I bet Meltzer’s heard that joke so many times that he just shrugs it off nowadays.

Cancelproof

VERSE 1
You can’t take away what you never gave me
I’m resigned to the fact that nothing can save me
I never sold out because I had nothing to sell
Nobody ever noticed when I was burning in hell
You never heard my name until I made the mistake
You never heard the sound of my cold heart break
You think my ass is over? It never even started
Nobody even cared when I joined the departed

CHORUS
Over my head, I’ve still got a roof
I can still be numb, I can still be aloof
Can still be the one who knows the truth
Lay down your arms, because I’m cancelproof

VERSE 2
A one man army against the whole fucking world
I’m clutching my machete, you’re clutching pearls
The battle will be over in just a tiny little while
When somebody else doesn’t conform to your style

CHORUS
Over my head, I’ve still got a roof
I can still be numb, I can still be aloof
Can still be the one who knows the truth
Lay down your arms, because I’m cancelproof

BRIDGE
A bible thumping troll is nobody’s friend
An alt-right sadist feels brave after hitting “send”
Did you think I was buddy-buddy with you?
Get fucking real and tighten your loose screw

VERSE 3
Fighting with you is like pulling out teeth
Acid reflux is much more enjoyable to me
I’d rather be water-boarded five hundred times
Than go toe-to-toe with the internet slime
Nobody changed their minds after the war
We’re still pissed off, still rotten to the core
Why don’t you shut up every once and a while
Instead of spitting out that conservative bile

EXTENDED CHORUS
Over my head, I’ve still got a roof
I can still be numb, I can still be aloof
Can still be the one who knows the truth
Lay down your arms, because I’m cancelproof
You shoot like a drunk and drool like a goof
You should be the one who’s not cancelproof
You shout racial slurs, call gay people poofs
You’ll never in your life become cancelproof

This Is Extreme

VERSE 1

Shotgun blast for calling me a name

All the drunkards get hit by a train

Every drill sergeant steps on a mine

Every mean teacher battered into slime

This is extreme! This is too much!

Using violence as my favorite crutch

This is extreme! This is excessive!

Victory is mine, I’m feeling possessive

This! Is! Extreme!

This! Is! Extreme!

VERSE 2

A hundred lashes for naughty kids

A thousand more is what we did

Drop a bomb on a town full of bullies

Their undies get drenched and sullied

This is extreme! This is illegal!

A jail sentence will be the sequel

This is extreme! This is disgusting!

More cathartic than endless cussing

This! Is! Extreme!

This! Is! Extreme!

BRIDGE

I dream of extreme every night

I cream at extreme, it feels right

I dream of self-esteem I could never have

I scream for extreme when shit gets bad

VERSE 3

Kick to your head for pushing and shoving

Attack your family, the ones you’re loving

Head butts for you until my brain explodes

I smile as I watch the bloody river flow

This is extreme! Get some damn help!

None of this is worth an eternity in hell

This is extreme! Get some therapy!

Talk about things that are embarrassing

This! Is! Extreme!

This! Is! Extreme!

Debate Club

I joined the school debate club

To annoy the piss out of you

Now everything from my mouth

Is a hundred percent bulletproof

I got an A in my forensics class

My teacher’s so goddamn proud

Now I can win an argument

By being obnoxious and loud

There’s no topic that’s off limits

No matter how petty and small

I could have been a politician

I’d rather watch you fucking fall

Cut the sodium out of your diet

Eat some lettuce heads instead

Don’t be an ass in videogames

Give them a chance to get ahead

Don’t wear those ugly sweatpants

Wear a jacket, slacks, and tie

You can have your mediocre job

All you have to do is try and try

You can raise your middle fingers

But we know that’s immature

You can call me on my bullshit

Or call me out on my cow manure

I don’t know when to shut my mouth

I don’t know when I’ve lost the fight

Maybe if I debate my way to the top

I’d be a centillionaire over night

That money doesn’t even exist yet

But I can make it happen anytime

I’d rather put my skills to good use

And list off your every little crime

Is that a smoke wagon in your hand?

Are you putting it to my noggin?

Have you had enough of me yet?

An extreme way of saying, “Stop it!”

Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!

It’s the only way to shut my ass up

Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!

I’ll tell the devil you said, “What’s up?”

Give It Back

Give me back my money, give me back my mind

These priceless treasures were never yours to find

Give me back my freedom, take away my demons

Give me back my house keys to the Garden of Eden

Give me back my beauty so people can still use me

Give me back my rights in case they want to sue me

Give me back my toys, give me back my animals

Give me back the snacks you feast on like cannibals

Give me back my life, give me back my dreams

Give me back my art and turn STEM into STEAM

Give me back my story in all its rough draft glory

Give me back my creativity so I won’t be boring

Give me back my energy, give me back my health

Give me back my teenage clothes, a new notch in my belt

Give me back my hopes, give me back my jokes

Give me back my career so I don’t have to be broke

Give me back my passport so I can go on adventures

Give me back my courage so I can be an avenger

Give me back my strength so I can be a badass

Not a puddle of pudding and a fucking sad-ass

Give me back everything that you took from me

Before I make you suffer, before I make you bleed

Torture you for information, torture you for fun

Torture you with a whip, maybe even a loaded gun

You drove me to this and gave me no other choice

This is heavy ass metal, not cacophonic noise

Give me back my innocence, let me walk the streets

Without cuffs on my wrists and shackles on my feet

I had the right to rage for my very last page

Now you’ll never live beyond your final age

I'm Still Angry

CHORUS

I’m still angry, you’re still ugly

I’m still on fire, you’re still a liar

I’m still seething, you’re still breathing

I’m still pissed, here comes my fist!

VERSE 1

I put off dealing with you for so long

Memories bubble up ever so strong

You’re no longer here, but it still hurts

To hear the words of a raving jerk

It’s not about health, it’s about control

You’re not a doctor, you’re just a troll

You’re not a hero to the world at large

You’re a criminal waiting to be charged

CHORUS

I’m still angry, you’re still ugly

I’m still on fire, you’re still a liar

I’m still seething, you’re still breathing

I’m still pissed, here comes my fist!

VERSE 2

I fed you pizza and entertained you

Imparted wisdom you never once knew

Gave you a place to sleep and be free

And this is how you fucking repay me?

A knife in the back doesn’t hurt enough

A torture table is surely the right stuff

A mind fuck forever is what you gave

Until the day I sleep in my own grave

CHORUS

I’m still angry, you’re still ugly

I’m still on fire, you’re still a liar

I’m still seething, you’re still breathing

I’m still pissed, here comes my fist!

BRIDGE

Goodbye! Goodbye!
For you I will not cry

Piss off! Fuck you!

I refuse to trust you

Sayonara! Adios!

It’s good for us both

Never come back again!

This is the fucking end!

Good! Fucking! Bye!

Incelbordination, Chapter 8

“Every Sunday, when America goes to church, Incelbordination goes to war!” Oswald was pretty sure Antero stole that line from an NFL videogame commercial, but it was effective word porn nonetheless. Oswald dragged his ass out of bed and signed onto the Incelbordination chat room where that church slogan came from. Upon receiving the URL to that chat room, Antero told him that they never had physical meeting places because of Mia Barry’s investigation against him. They also didn’t use the same URL every time, also for the same purpose. The clandestine nature of these Sunday meetings made Oswald feel like a rebel, like he actually could bring a shock to the system.

When he signed in under the username LittleFury21, he whistled in awe of how many people were part of this chat room. So many young men on campus like him who felt betrayed by their peers. So much potential crushed by the world around them. So many dreams turned into permanent nightmares. This was definitely Oswald’s true territory, not a classroom of judgmental eyes or a home he couldn’t go to anymore.

BLACK_PILL_KING (Antero’s Username): Good morning, everyone! Welcome to our weekly Incelbordination meeting. You all know who I am by now. But I’m sure none of you know who LittleFury21 is. He’s our newest acquisition and quite possibly our saving grace in this wretched life. Everyone say hello!

Sure enough, the entire chat room did so and that alone made Oswald feel welcome, unlike any other school environment he was in.

BLACK_PILL_KING: The floor is yours, little guy. Introduce yourself to our Supreme Gentlemen!

LITTLEFURY21: Hello, everyone. I was told not to use real names prior to this meeting, so I won’t give away mine. But as many of you guessed by now, Little Fury isn’t just some catchy title. I really am three feet tall and south of a hundred pounds. Men and women alike go out of their way to avoid me and those who do pay attention only want to disparage me before getting the chance to know who I am.

RAGE_GOD31: Ever thought about punching them in the dick?

LITTLEFURY21: All the time, Rage God. I actually did have to learn how to box when I was young. If I didn’t throw those heavy punches, I’d probably be deader than a doornail right now. Hell, I’m probably going to be dead in a few years anyways. Dying of a lonely heart isn’t at all unheard of.

DEATH_MASTER2000: You know, you can do something about this. Ever thought about going out in a blaze of glory? That’s probably the only way any of us will ever be noticed. Look at what happened to Eliot Rodger.

LITTLEFURY21: I think about it more often than you think, Death Master. The problem is…I just don’t have it in me to go through with it.

MCDONALDS_PIMP69: If you ever need coaxing along, just remember that there are no innocent victims. The whole world is guilty for pushing you aside. If nobody else will be the judge, jury, and executioner, then you take those roles yourself. Don’t puss out on us now!

LITTLEFURY21: That’s all well and good, but I don’t exactly have a warehouse full of bazookas and machetes readily available. My legs are also too short to operate the pedals on a German tank. LOL!

BLACK_PILL_KING: Heavy artillery is overrated, Little Fury. It’s expensive, it’s hard to smuggle, and it’s more obvious than the hard-on those tank cannons look like. If you need the tools to get the job done and can’t rely on your boxing skills alone…we can help you with that!

LITTLEFURY21: Wait a minute…you guys actually have…guns?!

BLACK_PILL_KING: Not just guns, my friend. Chainsaws, knives, baseball bats covered in razor wire, and even a few vans to turn Chads and Stacys into pretty little pancakes. Then after we flatten them, we can put our special whipped cream all over them while they bleed out strawberries. It’ll be like having breakfast at IHOP.

The constant barrage of LOL’s and LMAO’s from the other incels sent chills up Oswald’s spine and made his fingers go numb. Thank god there was a waste bucket next to his computer desk in case he needed something to barf into. The thought of speaking up put nervous energy in his stomach, but he knew he had to do it.

LITTLEFURY21: Guys, this shit isn’t funny.

BIG_DADDY_G: Are you kidding me? This is fucking hilarious! Besides, if your legs were long enough to drive a van, you’d want to splatter everything in sight too!

BLACK_PILL_KING: I agree 100%. Seriously, why the change of heart?

LITTLEFURY21: Look, I can appreciate the fact that you guys hate the world and want to watch it burn and all, but this is ridiculous. You’re making jokes about murdering people and I’m actually afraid you guys might do it someday.

SUPER_FREAK72: Dude, take your skirt off and be a man for once. You know the only chance you’d get laid is if you killed the chick yourself. Even then, I think it’s a long shot since your legs aren’t the only short thing about you.

LITTLEFURY21: How about instead of hiding behind a computer screen, you say that shit to my face? Yeah, and I’M the one walking around in a skirt.

SUPER_FREAK72: If you and I were to fight, I’d win every single time. Now fall in line before I make you eat your meals through a straw!

BLACK_PILL_KING: Okay, children, that’s enough. We’re supposed to be unified by this shit, not tearing each other apart. We’ve got big plans and I will not have them scrapped by a bunch of infighting!

LITTLEFURY21: What do you mean “big plans”? You’re not actually talking about…you know…

BLACK_PILL_KING: I don’t know, maybe I am, maybe I’m not. Maybe I’ll have to rethink my whole strategy if you’re not fully committed to Incelbordination. I understand you’re new to this group, but everybody has to pay their dues.

LITTLEFURY21: And by “paying my dues”, you mean going out and committing murder and necrophilia. If that’s the case, then your Uncle Tuomas won’t have to worry about not getting laid anymore.

The swear words, epithets, and death threats from the other members flooded the chat room to where the system almost crashed. Antero tried to restore order, but the messages of hate came so frequently that he couldn’t get a word in edgewise. Oswald did what most immature computer users did and argued back against Incelbordination’s finest. The slurs came more frequently and nearly send him spiraling into insanity. The dwarf even held his head and rocked back and forth before leaving the chat room and taking deep breaths.

Oswald had enough venom for the world to fill two chemical factories and a biological weapons carrier. Yet even he was disgusted by what he saw in that chat room. His heart raced, his stomach ached, and his mind swirled with words like “faggot”, “pussy”, and “prison bitch”. Images of him being stabbed, shot, stomped, or even raped in the asshole made him wish he had forgotten Incelbordination even existed. No woman was worth this much poison. In fact, he would even welcome hugs from Valerie Sand, Nikita Johnson, and Mia Barry of they were offered.

Tomorrow was Monday, which meant another round of criticism from his English teacher. Oswald held his pain-wracked stomach at the thought of having to choose between being criticized by Valerie and being cyber-bullied by a bunch of virgin terrorists. It was the classic case of Death or  Unga-Bunga all over again. If he was going to be laughed at for the thousandth time, he might as well have put his best foot forward.

“Okay, Oswald, you can do this. Just breathe…just concentrate…” He pulled the C- covered paper out of his backpack and tried to focus on correcting his many mistakes. He had a whole Sunday to get the job done and he had completed his homework assignments from his other classes. If there was ever time to puff the magic dragon…

Holy Mountains

VERSE 1

Bones and skulls scattered everywhere

Rotten flesh stinking up the fucking air

Is it a battlefield or cemetery grounds?

It’s a mass grave underneath the mounds

Torture and war have happened here

You can still hear the screams of fear

The gods above are having cold beers

As another mortal’s gutted with a spear

CHORUS 1

Holy mountains! Bloody fountains!

Shit-covered river will make you shiver!

Holy mountains! Come take a pounding!

Open wide as they skin off your hide!

Holy mountains! Holy mountains!

Holy mountains! Holy mountains!

VERSE 2

Those who dare make it out alive

Can’t shake the trauma even if they try

Nightmares as bloody as the real thing

Every deep gash, every whipping sting

Your sanity belongs on the holy grounds

Mind filled with schizophrenic sounds

Such sweet music to soothe you at night

The noose on your neck gets a little tight

CHORUS 1

Holy mountains! Bloody fountains!

Shit-covered river will make you shiver!

Holy mountains! Come take a pounding!

Open wide as they skin off your hide!

Holy mountains! Holy mountains!

Holy mountains! Holy mountains!

BRIDGE

Burn them down with a sadistic frown?

Laughable humor from the crazy clown

A permanent landmark of suffering and pain

A permanent reminder of pants-pissing shame

CHORUS 2

Holy mountains! Holy fucking shit!

Do cannonballs in the hellfire pit!

Holy mountains! Good god almighty!

Dance with the devil underneath lightning!

Holy mountains! Holy mountains!

Holy motherfucking mountains, bitch!

UGH!

Do It Live

VERSE 1

I hate answering the phone, I hate answering the door

Especially when all I want to do is fucking snore

I hate cleaning up cat barf, I hate cleaning up dog shit

I speak a colorful language and I won’t fucking watch it

I hate lifting heavy boxes, I hate bumping into walls

I hate having to tell the dog to not scratch my balls

The little things I hate send me into a bloody rage

If throwing fits was a crime, I’d be in a monkey cage

CHORUS

I’ll write it and we’ll do it live!

We’ll do it live!

Fuck it, do it live!

Fucking thing sucks!

VERSE 2

Every character I have is on a violent rampage

Every song that I write is dripping with rage

Every story that I publish is drooling with venom

Every drawing that I make is another damn weapon

Every thought that I have makes me want to punch

A fucking hole in your skull and have it for lunch

I need anger management in the worst fucking way

Before the world at large is going to fucking pay

CHORUS

I’ll write it and we’ll do it live!

We’ll do it live!

Fuck it, do it live!

Fucking thing sucks!

VERSE 3

Maybe my short fuse can be blamed on schizophrenia

Or maybe it’s been a while since I’ve had an enema

Or maybe I don’t do enough yoga in hot shorts

Or maybe my blood sugar is a little low on quarts

Or maybe it’s my past of being stuck in class

With the pieces of shit and the pains in the ass

Or maybe I’m just born with a dragon fire temper

Or maybe I’m sick of being my own defender

FINAL WORDS

Do it live, motherfucker! Do it live! X4

Silent Warrior, Chapter 22

“I wanna go home…take off this uniform and leave the show…but I’m waiting in this cell because I have to know…have I been guilty all this time?”

Scott George’s trembling rendition of “Stop” by Pink Floyd was met with a sarcastic golf clap from the shadows of his jail cell. A familiar voice said, “Good one, buddy. You really do have the prettiest little voice. The last time I heard singing that good, you were bawling like a big baby over your daddy’s grave.” With shadows now covering only half of his face like a neo-noir villain, Alan Young’s hideously transformed visage sent chills up Scott’s spine. Tattoos on his arms, a short Mohawk, and scars on his face marked Alan’s metamorphosis from childhood brat to demonic tormentor.

Unwilling to let this bruiser shake him any further, Scott descended into bathos by angrily joking, “What the hell were YOU doing at a graveyard anyways? I was grieving my dead father. What about you? You can’t get laid any other way, so you’re going to give necrophilia a try?”

“Oh, you’re hilarious, Scott. You’re just fucking marvelous. It’s especially ironic considering how you got yourself in this jail cell to begin with. Though I do admit, you couldn’t have found a better piece of ass than Adrienne fucking Simpson, I’ll tell you that right now.”

Scott bolted out of his bunk bed and shouted, “Don’t you ever talk that way about her again, you fat piece of shit!”

“Or what? You’re going to strangle me and get me kicked out of prison like you did on that bus ride? Come on, dude, you’ve got way too much to lose and you know it. You throw one punch at me and it’s off to the hole for you. Me? I don’t give a fuck where I go from here. The only thing I’ve got left to lose is my own sanity and even that’s questionable.”

Folding his arms and giving his cellmate the gorgon death stare, Scott asked, “What do you want from me, Alan? You want to keep making my life a living hell? What for? Why me? Why not somebody else? Answer me, damn it!”

Alan stood up quickly and barked, “You want to know why?! I’ll tell you why. I don’t do it because of your skinny ass body. I don’t do it because I can. I don’t even want your survivor’s benefits from your dear old daddy kicking the bucket. The reason I gave you hell all those years is because of who you are.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t, because you’re too blind to see it. Your massive ego won’t let you. Well, I’m here to tell you that you’re a phony. You like to rage against the machine and all that bullshit. Guess what? I’ve always wanted to rage against the machine too. Growing up with Aloysius tends to do that to a man. All this talk about communities and worms and puppets and shit…if I ever do get thrown in the hole, that’s probably what I’m going to think about the most.”

Scott’s expression softened and his arms went limp at this revelation. But he would still hold his ground against the much larger and much more aggressive cellmate.

Alan wagged his finger at Scott and ranted, “Yeah, that’s right. The old Freudian excuse. I can play that card until the end of time. I abuse other people because I too was a victim of disgusting shit. That would be the convenient answer. But that’s not it. Aloysius is just one piece of the puzzle. It’s the whole world that fucks with my mind the most. And you, you’re the biggest hypocrite of them all. You claim to be about individuality and personal freedom, yet here you are sucking up to the teachers so that you can get the best grades. Don’t you see, Scott? You’re doing what they’re telling you to do. They’ve got you by the balls, buddy! Me? I don’t want a pointless career. I want to watch the world burn. Being in jail waiting for my sentence gave me time to think about it and that’s what I want most out of life.”

Scott half-grinned and shook his head before saying, “So that’s it, huh? Because life didn’t turn out the way you wanted, you want to watch the system around you collapse. Well, guess what, lard ass! My life wasn’t exactly a bed of roses either! I too have nightmares that keep me from getting the sleep I deserve! I haven’t eaten a decent meal in god knows how long! And yes, I’m in jail because the world wants me to be here! But I don’t want to watch the world burn! You know why? Because without a world to live in, there’d be no place for people like Adrienne to grow up. I know not everybody in the world is a Mr. Simpson clone. I don’t paint everybody with the same brush like you do. There are good people in this world and they’re the people I’m fighting for! I don’t care how long I have to stay in this cell, because I won’t let jail break me!”

Alan blitzed towards Scott, grabbed his shirt, and slammed him against the wall. “Bullshit!” the bully shouted. “You’re not going to beat the system that easily! Everybody who comes through here turns into the ugliest fucking monster imaginable! You’re no different from the rest of the losers in this jail! You’re going to break one way or another and if I have to be the one who breaks you, goddamn it, I will!”

“Go for it, Alan! Make a move! You’ll be taking those words to solitary confinement! It’s just like you said to me a few minutes ago! That shit works both ways, my friend! You want to take a swing at me?! Go ahead!”

Alan smiled sadistically and bore his yellow demonic fangs while clutching Scott’s shirt tighter than before. “If that’s what you want, then ask and ye shall receive!” Alan dropped his victim with a right hook to the gut, causing him to cough and wheeze violently. Scott even spit up a few droplets of blood. Alan grabbed his hair and said, “You see that? That’s what happens when you don’t eat your meat, let alone your pudding. Yeah, I can quote Pink Floyd too, buddy. Look around you: nobody’s coming to save you because nobody cares. I bet watching the world burn sounds pretty fucking good right now, doesn’t it?”

The next attack in Alan’s arsenal was a knee to the chest, bouncing Scott against the metal bunk bed and causing even more heavy, blood-laced breathing. “Pathetic. That’s all you are, Scott.” Alan turned around and sat down on his bed while watching his victim collected what was left of himself.

Scott sat against his bunk and heaved some more, his lungs and heart working overtime to make sure he didn’t drop dead right then and there. And then he mustered up enough oxygen to get these words out in a clear voice: “Is that all you got?”

Alan’s hamburger face morphed into monstrous rage when he stood back up and shouted, “No, it’s not all I got, you dumb shit!” He pulled a shank from under his pillow and glared down at his prey with venom and fire in his bulging eyes. “You just don’t know when to break, do you? That’s alright. You don’t ever have to worry about breaking ever again. As your daddy will tell you…dead men tell no tales!”

The bully jerked Scott up by his neck and held the blade to his throat, drawing a tiny droplet of sweet red juice. “You see that, Scotty boy? That’s what jail is really like. You haven’t been here that long and you’re already knocking on hell’s gates. Say hello to your dear old daddy for me!”

Scott’s rage glowed a brighter shade of red than the goop pouring out of his mouth, nose, and throat. A night in solitary confinement would have been a welcome time to rest his bones if it meant he could live another day. He forgot all about the possibility of losing his sanity in a dark room. Did he really have it to begin with?

Scott swung his leg backwards and made Alan a permanent cast member of the Nutcracker Suite, causing him to drop the blade and leaving him open for a sharp elbow to the nose. Alan’s already demonic face looked like it went through a wood chipper after that blood-curdling blow. Both combatants lay limp on the floor floating in and out of consciousness while the sounds of boots pounding the cement floor flooded their ears.

Scott could hear the cacophony of swear words and authoritative threats as both he and Alan were being dragged out of their cell, though in different directions. He could distinctly hear one of the guards threaten, “You’re in a lot of trouble, little boy!” Although, he couldn’t discern who it was being said to. Either way, Scott knew he was up shit creek without a paddle, judging from how roughly he was being dragged away from the scene of the fight.

Was it this easy to break in prison? Was there anybody out there truly strong enough to withstand such a torturous grind? Scott couldn’t think of one person that fit the bill. Even superheroes would go crazy in this shitty place if they didn’t get brutally murdered. Getting out on a sweetheart deal didn’t mean shit either. The prisoners were dead inside by the time they tasted freedom, thus ensuring this place’s status as a graveyard rather than a real housing facility. At least when death or insanity washed over Scott, he would be reunited with his father, which wasn’t much of a silver lining considering he would also lose Adrienne forever. Scott took a temporary vacation from the ultra madness when his vision faded to black.

Silent Warrior, Chapter 19

Scott could have spent eternity in the blackest of visions. His body could have numbed out until time itself stood still. Death was his most welcome visitor. If there was a heaven, he wanted a limousine ride to the pearly gates. If there was a hell, at least he could stay warm when everyone else’s hearts were cold as shit. In his mind, not even hell could match up to the evilness of this green and blue earth. Was the devil a cool guy to hang around? Scott banked on it since a lot of the “sinners” hung out in that fire pit apparently.

But instead of a poker game with the devil, he survived another round of Russian Roulette in the real world. As he awakened in his hospital room, his head and nose ached with explosive pain. His ribs stuck out further than his skin would allow. His depressed and anxious mood destroyed his brain like a forest wildfire. His wrist was purple with tightness as he discovered he was cuffed to his hospital bed. The pounding feeling in his head and nose was because he had an IV tube stuck in one of his nostrils (presumably because of malnourishment). To Scott the IV tube was just a clear-colored worm from a Floydian nightmare.

The judging eyes never took their gaze off of him despite the courtroom backdrop being replaced with hospital whiteness. A uniformed police officer stood over his bed and scowled at him, nearly making Scott empty his bowls of the worms that invaded his system. “Just so you know,” said the cop. “That stunt you pulled in the courtroom isn’t going to get you out of this mess. The trial is going on without you, which is smart on your part since your lawyer has advised against you taking the stand.”

“But…but…” stuttered Scott. “Don’t I get to see what’s going on at least? Don’t I have the right to defend myself?”

The cop gave a smart-assed smile and said, “I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you. Your lawyer is quite the standup guy for someone as low on the totem pole as him. Not bad for a public defender. But for every point, there’s a counterpoint. The prosecutor is running circles around him. It doesn’t help matters that all of the witnesses in this case can’t save your sorry ass no matter what they say.”

“W…witnesses?”

“Oh yes, Scott, there are plenty of witnesses to your crime even though you and that little girl were probably alone wherever it was you did the dirty deed. Some interesting characters, to say the least. Principal Linda Williams? She can’t even put a sentence together without that MSNBC bullshit filtering through her lips. Adrienne Simpson, the girl you slept with? She had so many tears in her eyes that it was amazing she didn’t flood the whole damn courtroom. Now Tom Simpson, her father, that guy’s a true character if I’ve ever seen one. He gave quite the Oscar-worthy performance. Too bad you couldn’t see it. I would have loved to see the look on you face after all the things he called you.”

Tugging on the handcuffs in vain, Scott’s expression turned angry when he said, “Why are you taking so much joy in this?”

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, the cop said, “Because it’s my job to take pride in my work, which is bringing justice to a place that doesn’t care about it. All these people cry and whine that you’re not getting a fair shake. Well, guess what, toots? Life is unfair. The sooner you accept that, the less disappointed you’ll be with your own failures.”

Scott clenched his fists and gritted through his teeth, “You sound just like my bastard history teacher. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the two of you were gay lovers at one point.”

The cop wagged his finger and said, “Careful, Mr. George, you’re bordering on the edge of slander.”

“I don’t care!” shouted Scott. “And as long as I’m all out of fucks to give, let me lay some more truth on your sorry ass! You know why life is unfair?! It’s because jackasses like you intentionally make it that way! You beat the shit out of minorities and then turn around and say that they shouldn’t have broken the law, even though most of the time they fucking didn’t! The whole world is onto you and your kind! I don’t care how poorly I’m doing in history and I don’t care what generation I come from: I’m not stupid enough to believe your horseshit! I’m more than mediocre! In fact, between the two of us…I’m the only one who makes any sense at all!”

The cop gave a sarcastic golf clap and said, “That’s a pretty ballsy statement coming from someone who’s cuffed to a bed. But you know what the sad part about all that is? You’re dead on, buddy. We do keep people down. You know why? Because that’s how we maintain order around here. Without order, society would spiral into chaos and you liberal hippie rebels would only have yourselves to blame. Besides, why do you care so much about what I do to minorities? You’re a white guy. You don’t have much to hide other than the fact that you’re a fucking pedophile. Why all the fuss?”

“Fuss? Fuss?! You want to know what the fuss is all about?!” Scott’s eyes glowed with rage as he stared a hole through the cop’s soul. “It’s called having empathy. You may want to try it sometime. I know other people have hopes and dreams different from my own, so I try my best to either nurture those dreams or stay the fuck out of those people’s ways! I don’t see any benefit in conforming the population into one zombie mind. But that’s just my opinion, of course. You’re entitled to your own even though you’re an ass clown.”

The cop smiled and shook his head before saying, “You’ve got a mouth on you, pal. If I had some medical tape around here, the only letter coming out of that sewer hole would be M. Lots and lots of M’s. And then I could make a joke about how your favorite candy is M&M’s. And then I could also make a joke about how you like to say MMMMMMMMM after you’ve eaten them.”

“You have the IQ of a packet of ketchup. No wonder you hate thinking so much: it’s not your strong suit.”

The cop stood up and slammed his knight stick against the railing of the bed, sending a fearful jolt throughout Scott’s body. Instead of sarcasm and corny smiles, the uniformed “ass clown” was all business and sneers. “By the time this trial is over, you’re going to be found guilty, mark my fucking words, dip shit. And when you put on that orange jumpsuit for the very first time, it won’t be a matter of if you get your ass beaten. It’ll be a matter of when. Prisoners and CO’s alike don’t care for smart-mouthed little bitches like you, Scott. The minute you start preaching about anti-conformist BS, your bones will crack so fucking loudly that the whole world will go deaf.”

Undeterred and unafraid, Scott leaned closer to the cop’s face and said, “If you’re so certain I’m going to die, why don’t you finish the job yourself…ass clown!”

The cop backed off, smiled, and said, “Nah, I’m not going to do that. I wouldn’t deprive my colleagues at the big house of their feast of fresh meat. And that’s what you are, Scott: fresh…fucking…meat. And speaking of meals, enjoy the nose buffet you’ve got going on there.” With a final chuckle, he exited the room and left Scott in a cesspool of his own rage and hatred.

“What a fucking jerk,” Scott muttered out of earshot of the cop. He believed that statement could apply to anybody who spoke out against him in that courthouse so many blocks away. He didn’t want to dwell too much on what they were saying behind his back. After all, that was when anybody was truly safe from his wrath: when it was all behind his back.

Alan Young couldn’t hang with Scott. Aloysius Striker was a crocodile tear away from loony land. The prosecutor’s bar exam results might as well have come back negative. Tom Simpson? He couldn’t control his own daughter, let alone a classroom full of free thinkers and wild dreamers. Beth George might as well be called The Artist Formerly Known as Mom. The undertaker guarding Carter George’s grave probably related more to corpses than he did living human beings.

“Is there anybody I’m leaving out?” asked Scott to nobody in particular. “Eh, I’ll think of them later.”

Knowing he couldn’t be touched even when he was at his lowest moment, Scott closed his eyes comfortably and attempted to get some shut eye before he would eventually hear his final verdict. If there was any truth to what the cop said about a guilty verdict, then Scott might as well have taken a one of the doctor’s stitching kits and sewn his eyelids shut. No sense in waking up to another nightmare. No sense in contending with people who were and will always be full of shit.