Vanilla ICE-Holes

Is that “ICE” on your vest? It should say “snowflake”

Surrender and comply? No way, Jose

Don’t worry about us pulling your mask off

Instead we’ll pull your pants off, force you to jack off

To Orange Hitler, on your knees, bootlicker

My trigger finger’s quick, so you better be quicker

Don’t half-ass the fash, go the whole nine yards

You do it long enough, you can play your race card

Forget the mask, we know you’re Vanilla ICE-Holes

You’re doing Pulp Fiction and the gimp is your role

Bring out the gimp! Bring out the gimp!

Come on, everybody, let’s bring out the gimp!

Slap you like a pimp for being a right-wing simp

Kick you in the dick ‘til it’s permanently limp

The age of drum circles is a thing of the past

Unless we play the drums on your stupid ball caps

With your head inside, now you can go and hide

Behind your daddy’s legs like a doggy who begs

Schoolyard bullies have more balls than you

Look in the mirror, it’s no one’s fault but you

You couldn’t cut it as the next John Rambo

Gassed out in five seconds while learning Sambo

If Sambo was easy, it’d be called White America

Chilling on your porch calling everybody terrorists

Shotgun in your hand, but you sawed it in half

You shoot prematurely, make your girlfriend laugh

Just kidding! You couldn’t be a Prom King either

You got no personality, you’re the new rag and ether

Putting us to sleep with your nothingburger status

So you pretend to be a badass ‘cause no girl would make passes

Without a few shots of whiskey in little glasses

Drop the Xanax in the drink, make her slip off to a dream

That’s your whole life in an itty-bitty nutshell

Your whole villain arc for why you pump the gun shells

Into innocent civilians, you do it by the millions

Call it “welfare cuts”, give your masters more trillions

You live by the sword, you die by the sword

‘Cause you got nowhere else to go except the psych ward

"MAD About Trump" from MAD Magazine

BOOK TITLE: MAD About Trump: A Brilliant Look at Our Brainless President

AUTHOR: MAD Magazine Staff

YEAR: 2017

GENRE: Magazine Compilation

SUBGENRE: Political Comedy

GRADE: Pass

If you thought Donald Trump’s thin-skinned responses towards SNL skits were childish, I’d love to see how he’d respond to MAD Magazine roasting him like a turkey in this book. I for one got a good laugh out of most of these jokes. Comparing and contrasting him to Burger King’s Cheetoh Fries seemed like the most obvious joke to make, but technically they’re not wrong, especially when they say both Trump and the cheese fries are disgusting dinner conversation topics. There’s a parody of John Lennon’s “Imagine”, a parody of The Apprentice with dead celebrities, a parody of Undercover Boss with Trump as the CEO, basically, there’s no shortage of ways to make Donald Trump look like a complete fool, though he does most of that to himself. If I had one critique from a writing standpoint, it’s that some of the jokes are repetitive and can get stale after a while. Plus, name-calling by itself isn’t necessarily a recipe for comedy. But it doesn’t matter, because whether you’re looking for laughs or you want validation for your hatred of Trump, you’ll get it in this book. Conservatives, on the other hand, would have a raging fit if they saw this, but that’s not always a lethal thing. Don’t feel ashamed for buying this book and enjoying it from cover to cover. If laughing is all you can do to keep from smashing your hotel room Pink Floyd the Wall-style, then I’m all for it. And speaking of which, Roger Waters from Pink Floyd is the only one who’s allowed to build a wall around here. A passing grade goes to this publication!

Milk Bottle Supermodel

VERSE 1

You have no reason to bitch and complain

Yet you still do it whenever you want fame

The body of a model and the face of an angel

Taking bloody shots from a sniper’s angle

You can call it bratty, you can call it entitled

But evil bitchiness is where it will be filed

History is not on your side and you know it

Try to fight it and you’re just going to blow it

CHORUS

Milk! Bottle! Super! Model! X4

VERSE 2

You’re a disgrace to your whole generation

You’re not even worth quick masturbation

You can’t get ratings for your own station

You can’t convince the entire fucking nation

That you’re more than a fireball of rage

That you’re more than a puppet on stage

That you’re better than the minimum wage

That you’re wise beyond your millennial age

CHORUS

Milk! Bottle! Super! Model! X4

VERSE 3

We see right through your tainted beauty

What we see makes us pissed and moody

A demonic soul with a heart full of holes

A hellish dwelling stacked high with coals

You could blame your parents or yourself

The way you think isn’t good for your health

Devils in one ear, drill sergeants in the other

We’re stronger than the fools you try to smother

CHORUS

Milk! Bottle! Super! Model! X4

FINAL BRIDGE

You can call it privilege, you can call it promise

You can call it ego, you can call it solace

No matter the words that you choose

You know in your heart you’re going to lose!

Football Sucks

When Democratic Mayor Irwin Gladden opened the blinds to his office window, what he saw shook him to his very core. Protesters. Lots and lots of protesters wearing football jerseys and helmets. All of them shouting incoherently at the top of their dragon-like lungs. Some of them with signs that said, “Football doesn’t suck!” and “Impeach Gladden!”. Most of them with Photoshopped pictures of the Mayor in a Nazi uniform or a turban with a bomb strapped around his body.

Being new to the job, Mayor Gladden obviously wasn’t used to this kind of violent treatment down on the streets of Paulson City. His blood was chilled. His jaw was quivering. His hands were vibrating. He had a knot in his stomach the size of a cannonball and a lump in his throat the size of a watermelon. All of these normally fine young citizens came together through their mutual hatred of this newly-elected official.

Though he wasn’t one-hundred-percent prepared for a day like this, he could think of a good reason why it was happening. The football paraphernalia, the firecrackers going off, the trumpets blasting everywhere, they could only mean one thing. These citizens were protesting because Irwin Gladden wanted to convert their beloved football stadium into the city’s largest public library. If that wasn’t “sacrilegious” enough, the thirty-something Mayor actually had the balls to say, “Football sucks!”

His balls weren’t feeling so big anymore. In fact, as soon as he saw a firecracker zooming towards his window (only to veer off at the last minute), Irwin snapped the blinds shut and cowered in the center of his office. How could so many people be so zealous and ignorant over a game of football? It made no sense.

Mayor Gladden’s day went from bad to worse when his front door hastily opened, causing him to spring backwards in fear and sit on the edge of his desk. He thought he was going to get mugged by these protesters. Instead, it happened to someone else entirely. Irwin’s personal bodyguard, Fred Jacobs, had stumbled into his office, slammed the door behind him, and collapsed on the floor while coughing up blood.

Irwin and Fred could not be more physically different from each other. The bodyguard was a hulking bad black man in a brown suit and tie while the Mayor was only this gray suit-wearing, skinny twig who barely filled his counterpart’s shadow. Fred Jacobs didn’t look very intimidating at that moment. Rolling over on his back and spewing up more blood didn’t help create that kind of image.

The frightened politician rushed over and knelt by his bodyguard’s side and asked, “Jesus Christ, what the hell happened?! Where are the goddamn paramedics?!”

After coughing up a splash of blood, Fred explained, “The protesters are blocking the streets from all angles. They’re not going to move even for first responders. What kind of shit storm did you cause out there, buddy?”

“I didn’t think it was a big deal!” said Irwin defensively. “It’s just a stupid arena! More taxpayer money goes into that stadium than anywhere else on the budget! We could have used that money to improve roads, hire more teachers, feed our poor, cure our sickly, and instead it’s going into this big ass stadium so that more athletes can end up in the hospital or even dead! Tell me my logic is wrong! I dare you!”

“Alright, dude,” said Fred as he sat up and looked his boss in the eyes with fiery zeal. “Your logic is wrong! There, I said it! Do you want to fire me now?!”

Irwin stood up in disbelief and backed up slowly. “What are you talking about? This makes perfect sense. Instead of going out there and giving people concussions, we could turn the whole stadium into a public library and actually improve their brain power for once.”

“That’s exactly how fucked up you are, Mayor!” Fred Jacobs stood up and spit a wad of chunky blood on the ground. If he was dizzy before, he wasn’t showing it at this moment. “A library? Really? You actually thought people would be onboard with that? This is Paulson City, damn it! People here don’t know whether to scratch their watches or wind their asses! They don’t give a shit about literature! You’re basically forcing your personal tastes on these poor people!”

Just like his bodyguard, Irwin Gladden suddenly found his testicle power when he snapped, “No! I’m not forcing anything on anybody! It’s called tough love! If these people won’t educate themselves, it’s my job and my responsibility to push them along!”

“Alright, man,” said Fred as he snorted blood up his nose and swallowed in a massive gulp. “I didn’t want to have to tell this story, but if it’s the only way to get through to your sorry ass, then goddamn it, it’ll have to do. You want to know how I got this big ass body? I didn’t get it through sitting on my ass eating Cheetohs and watching The Simpsons. I played football all throughout high school and college. That’s right! I was a quarterback for the Paulson City Warlords!”

“You’re kidding me,” said Irwin when he folded his arms.

“Back then they called me Freddy the Barbarian. They would have called me Inmate Number Blah-Blah-Blah if it wasn’t for football. It was either football or gangs and drugs for me. I lived in a poor neighborhood, my friend. A neighborhood that the previous Republican mayor promised to fix. Instead, all we had was more drugs, more gangs, and a shit load more police brutality. I joined the Paulson City Warlords to get away from all that disgusting crap. So the next time you say football sucks, think of this big ugly face staring you down!”

The big ugly face was indeed staring Mayor Gladden down and it was more frightening to look at than a dark fantasy demon. The politician’s body language showed it all: a trembling body that barely managed to stay seated to the edge of his desk. For the longest few seconds, Irwin and Fred didn’t say a damn thing to each other.

And then the Mayor screamed like a girl and ran into his bodyguard’s arms when he heard a cacophonous bang shattering his window and ripping his blinds. One of the firecrackers from the demonstration exploded against his window and went out in smoke.

Mayor Gladden had every reason in the world to piss his Armani pants and cry into Fred Jacobs’ Men’s Warehouse jacket. It was a tempting offer, but instead Irwin was red-faced with anger. He got down from his protector’s arms and stomped over to the phone. When asked what the hell he was doing, Irwin said, “I’m putting an end to this right now. Screw the riot police. If they’re not coming to my rescue, then I’ll declare a state of emergency and get the National fucking Guard! I’ll even tell them to bring AK-47’s instead of those wimpy rubber bullets. And real grenades too instead of that tear gas shit!”

“Put down that goddamn phone, Mayor Gladden!” screamed Fred, to which the Democrat slowly and shakily did. “Look at you, man! It’s your first week on the job and you’re already cracking under pressure! That’s not the Mayor I signed up with! You’re supposed to be this caring progressive who thinks of others! And now look at you! You’re actually considering killing those protesters with AK-47’s all because a firecracker got launched through your window!”

No arguments there. Irwin had snapped big time and all he could do was plop in his chair and try to block out the cacophony going on outside. It was doubtful another firecracker would make its way into his office again; that last one was a lucky shot. The city official just held his face in his hands and wept. “I can’t do this, Fred. I can’t do this. I want to step down.”

“No, you don’t,” said the bodyguard after putting a comforting hand on his boss’s shoulder. “You came here for a reason and that was to clean up Paulson City. You have the chance to do that right now by phoning the riot police. There are people down there who need you whether they know it or not. Do the right thing, Mayor. If the riot police won’t come, then you have my permission to get the National Guard. Just please, none of that AK-47 and real grenade crap this time.”

Irwin took a few deep breaths in and out, calming himself down in the midst of the outside chaos. “You’re right, Fred. You’re absolutely right. I don’t know what I’d do without you. And if football made you the man you are today, I doubt it could suck that badly.”

Fred Jacobs smiled and patted Irwin on the shoulder before leaving him alone to make the phone call. Just a few minutes ago, this ex-football player was dizzy and bleeding. Now he was toughing it out like a pro and that was inspiring to Irwin, who then picked up the phone and made this announcement: “Send them in. It’s an emergency.” The call for help was placed and all Irwin and Fred could do at this point was ride out the storm.

Real Time with Bill Maher

TITLE: Real Time with Bill Maher

GENRE: Political Debate and Comedy

RATING: TV-MA for strong language

GRADE: Depends on the episode

As I write this review for my lovely audience, I don’t want any of you to think this is me putting the boots to Bill Maher. I have a lot of respect for him both as a comedian and as a political commentator. In case you haven’t figured it out from my internet postings over the years, I have very strong liberal beliefs. In 2004, I voted for John Kerry and in 2008 and 2012, I voted for Barack Obama. Naturally, I agree with the things Bill Maher says almost 90% of the time. I especially enjoyed what he had to say about the recent police brutality incidents going on all over the country.

As far as his talk show goes, it’s not Bill Maher himself who makes or breaks each episode. It’s his fucking guests. Some episodes, his guests are polite and have great conversational chemistry together, and that goes for both liberal and conservative guests. Despite being on the opposite side of the political fence as him, I actually think Steve Schmidt, John McCain’s campaign advisor, carries himself in a calm, intelligent, and respectful way and having him on the show is always good to see.

And then there are those episodes where the guests are at each other’s throats like it’s an episode of WWE Smackdown. You know the guests I’m talking about: always interrupting each other, always talking loudly, always saying rude shit, and in some cases always taunting the audience. Does anybody remember the episode where Christopher Hitchens flipped off the audience? How about the ones where Dana Rorabacher created a sonic boom with his dialogue alone.

While it is true there are more rude conservative guests than liberal ones, there are liberal guests who are capable of holding Bill Maher’s show hostage. Gary Schandling answered his fucking cell phone in the middle of a political discussion. Roseanne Barr had more dialogue in one show than most guests have in multiple episodes. The biggest example of a show hostage taker is one I know I’m going to regret saying, mostly because he recently committed suicide. I’m talking about Robin Williams, who on one episode interrupted everybody with random jokes and committed the mortal sin of interrupting Bill Maher’s New Rules segment.

Bottom line: it’s not just being liberal or conservative that can make a guest annoying. It’s the way that guest presents himself on television to an audience who really just wants to see Bill Maher pop off jokes. The problem with his show is most of the time he invites crazy guests who destroy the whole night for the audience. At that point, I’m not even sure if New Rules can make me laugh since I’m too angry from all the fighting among the guests.

Mr. Maher, I’m not saying this to be mean to you, I’m saying it to you as a fan and hopefully a friend someday. Have a filter for the people you invite on your show. Dana Rorabacher already ruined one show with his shrill screaming, so don’t bother inviting him back on the set. I could also tell you were getting sick of SE Cupp’s ageist jokes when you had PJ O’Rourke as the final guest. You probably invite these lunatics on your show as a way to boost ratings. Trust me, Bill, this is not the way to get high ratings. If you want a pro-wrestling example of bad TV gone even worse, I’ve got three letters for you: WCW.

John Bush and George Kerry

Although I’m using former WWE superstars The Basham Brothers as a reference picture, I don’t want you to think John Bush and George Kerry are anything like them except for how they look. During their time in the WWE, Doug and Danny Basham were former WWE Tag Team Champions and had various gimmicks. They started out as a generic tag team and over time became bondage slaves for Shaniqua, secret service agents for John Bradshaw Layfield, and armored security guards for Paul Heyman. While the Basham Brothers don’t work for WWE anymore, they did leave something behind for the fans to remember them by.

John Bush and George Kerry are nothing like that. They are the definition of what a generic tag team should be. They come out to the ring wearing underwear-style tights and boots, they never get the chance to use a microphone, and their theme music is “Voices Inside My Head” by The Police (no disrespect to Sting, Andy Summers, and Stewart Copeland). Their wrestling maneuvers include generic things like the scoop slam, the vertical suplex, the hip toss, the running clothesline, and the double axe handle off the top rope. In short, the most creative thing about John Bush and George Kerry is how they got their ring names: by swapping the names of the 2004 Presidential Election contenders John Kerry (Democrat) and George W. Bush (Republican).

You’re asking yourself why I would ever have a use for plain Jane motherfuckers like John Bush and George Kerry. Maybe it’s because they’re a manifestation of what I’m like when in public. On the internet, I have a strong presence. I post short stories, Fireball Nightmare chapters, Garrison’s Library entries, Deviant Art journals, and the occasional thread on a Good Reads group I’m a part of. Even in the real world when I’m talking with my own friends and family, I’m popping off jokes left and right and never miss a beat.

In public life, I’m anything but exciting. I keep to myself except for when I make a purchase, I never smile, I never say “Hi” to anybody, and whenever somebody tries to make conversation with me, I give them the most basic, short answer I can find. For example, when I’m getting a quarter-yearly buzz cut at Hair Masters, my barber will try to make small talk with me. She’ll ask me things like, “What do you do for a living?” and my answer is simple: “I’m unemployed”, an answer that is delivered with a blunt affect. Sometimes she’ll ask, “What are your plans for the evening?” and I’ll say, “I don’t have any.” Personally, I’m never in the mood for small talk with someone who is only friendly to me because I’m a customer and not because they’re actually interested in my boring ass life.

John Bush and George Kerry are a representation of my plain Jane traits. I often fantasize about being a manager in the WWE and having verbal spats with Stephanie McMahon and Triple H (both of which deserve the Wrestling Observer Newsletter award this year for Worst Gimmick). Unfortunately, if I tried to be as talkative in the ring as I am on the internet, I would stutter and my voice power would be minimal. That’s why I hated giving presentations in college and high school: I fumble over my words too easily and the teacher penalizes me for basically being a hardcore introvert. But if John Bush and George Kerry are going to rage against the machine and tell everybody they’re full of shit, they’ll cease to become boring in the eyes of the public. Maybe they’ll get better names and better gimmicks as a result of that. Who knows?

　

***WRESTLING DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

JBL: You’d be in a bad mood if you won the lottery!

MICHAEL COLE: I did win the lottery and I only got two dollars!

Laser Rocket Bomb

Childhood is a time when imaginations run wild and people are free to be their silly selves. I certainly was no exception when I was growing up in the early 1990’s in California. My favorite way of exercising my imagination was playing with Legos. I had one Lego piece that was a rod attached to a five-studded single block. The side studs had switches on them and the top stud had a long red laser pole. These pieces obviously came from a space adventure set I had (in case you didn’t already guess from the laser pole). What kind of thing could I imagine this Lego piece to be? How about a weapon that can blow shit up like Hiroshima? How about I call this Lego piece…a Laser Rocket Bomb. I shit you not. My creativity was wild, but my vocabulary was minimal. Then again, in the early 90’s I was only a fucking kid, give me a break. Seeing as how I was a kid, I didn’t know how serious nuclear war was. There was even a time when I thought dead people could be brought back to life by CPR. Naturally, I wanted the Laser Rocket Bomb to be a real weapon I could use on people. I often imagined it being used to blow up my school so I didn’t have to go anymore. That’s pretty sadistic, but being young and naïve has that effect on a child. Imagine if I actually tried to build this weapon out of raw materials. I would need three light switches, a small rocket engine, a light saber (from Star Wars fame), and a grenade in the middle of the whole contraption. I ran this idea by my older brother James and he had enough wisdom to tell me that I would die while making it. Pulling a pin on a grenade will set it off whether the light saber handle is stuck in the hole or not. I’ll be the first to admit that the Laser Rocket Bomb isn’t a very practical military weapon. What exactly would the point of the light saber be? Doesn’t the grenade and rocket engine do enough damage? Do we really need that extra amount of overkill? And why are grenades and rocket engines paired together in the first place? Come to think of it, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if this weapon was used during the Bush administration during the Iraq War. In fact, if George W. Bush attempted to build the Laser Rocket Bomb himself, we probably wouldn’t have an Iraq War. Let this be a lesson to everyone who wants to exercise their imagination. Get it out of your system when you’re a kid and don’t know how the world works yet. When you’re older and it all makes sense, it won’t be so fun anymore.

　

***COMEDIC QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“Politicians are like a box of chocolates: the democrats are soft and gooey on the inside and the republican party just has a bunch of nuts in it.”

-Bill Maher-