Andrew Dice Clay: a Tool Answering a Jeopardy Question About Other Tools

 

Rebecca Watson vs. Christopher Hitchens: New Atheism, Same Conservative Bigotry

 

Heather Ryan (Jeopardy) X Rey Skywalker (Star Wars): Glasses Are Pretty Fucking Cool, Actually

 

Amanda Nunes vs. Colby Covington: What Are You Waiting For, Dana White? Permission From Your Orange Daddy?

 

Imane Khelif vs. Melania Trump: No, That's Not a Boxing Match, Unfortunately

 

Shane Gillis: a Brave Free Speech Warrior Who Wets His Pants at Cancel Culture

 

GamerGate and "Ethics in Journalism" (Bullshit)

 

Art the Clown vs. Just Pearly Things

 

Jerry "The King" Lawler

 

Pulling on the Masks

INTRO DIALOGUE

Uno, dos, tres, cuatro

Can you hear me, Juan?

Okay, these people think they’re the Master Race?

 

VERSE 1

Pulling on the masks, not wiping their asses

Wiping is gay, they’re supposed to be fascists

Run into a school zone, terrorize the masses

Pinhead, pinhead, racial slur passes

Pinhead, pinhead, racial slur passes

Appropriating cultures like a motherfucking vulture

Pinhead, pinhead, getting really pissed

Pinhead, pinhead, MAGA terrorists

 

VERSE 2

Logging onto Tinder to get themselves some

Chickies in the streets, grab their fucking bums

When they want her number, she will give them none

Pinhead, pinhead, chivalry is done

Pinhead, pinhead, chivalry is done

Scaring off the women in a patriarchal system

Pinhead, pinhead, sucking on her face

Pinhead, pinhead, getting sprayed with mace

 

VERSE 3

When they’re at a protest, at first they pull a gun

But when they see some blue hair, then they start to run

When they see their pronouns, it makes them think twice

Pinhead, pinhead, secretly enticed

Pinhead, pinhead, secretly enticed

Consuming trans porn ‘til the bright and early morn

Pinhead, pinhead, getting really pissed

Pinhead, pinhead, at the word “cis”

 

VERSE 4

I couldn’t speak Spanish to save my own life

But I know a few phrases, so I can get by

On your knees, pendejo, that’s a good puto

Pinhead, pinhead, besame kulo

Pinhead, pinhead, hired by the law

It was January 6^th when ICE gave them a job

Pinhead, pinhead, covering their face

Pinhead, pinhead, for the Master Race!

When It Happens to You

VERSE 1

You got the Thin Blue Line ‘til they vote Democrat

Now you storm the white house with a baseball bat

You called Benson a badass ‘til she voted for Harris

Now you spray paint on her house the word “terrist”

Your spelling sucks and so does your syntax

The King of England had a heart attack

But you speak like royalty when and only when

You bitch about the use of “they” and “them”

 

CHORUS

What can you do?

It’s only racist when it happens to you

What can you do?

It’s only sexist when it happens to you

 

VERSE 2

You fucked around and now you’re finding out

You lost your right to pout and scream and shout

You only know how to do it to yourself

And now you lost your insurance for health

 

EXTENDED CHORUS

What can you do?

It’s only racist when it happens to you

What can you do?

It’s only sexist when it happens to you

It’s only violent when it happens to you

They’re only bigots when they do it to you

You’re a victim of the system when it happens to you

 

VERSE 3

Even after all the shit you’ve seen

You lick those boots all nice and clean

Sucking up don’t mean a hill of beans

Ain’t got no green, so you’re on the wrong team

 

EXTENDED CHORUS

What can you do?

It’s only racist when it happens to you

What can you do?

It’s only sexist when it happens to you

It’s only violent when it happens to you

They’re only bigots when they do it to you

You’re a victim of the system when it happens to you

Love Is Blue

VERSE 1

Love is blue and so are your balls

You blew up her phone with late night calls

Pistol in your pocket, gun is in your jock

Boots on your feet, kick down doors with locks

“Where is she hiding? Who is she riding?”

That’s what you say, repeat it throughout the day

“Close your pretty eyes, I’ll give you a kiss”

It’s a kiss goodbye, because you never ever miss

 

VERSE 2

Love is blue and your ballcap is red

A true American until the day you’re dead

That day will come soon if you’re not careful

You push against progress, it’s at your own peril

Spit the word thug until your face is like your hat

Rosy red cheeks, it’s as simple as that

Try not to pop a vessel in your one brain cell

You think Jesus is waiting, but you’re down in hell

 

VERSE 3

Love is blue and your pills are black

Sell yourself to chicks like you’re money in the sack

They don’t swipe right, but you vote in that direction

Because the word no has deflated your erection

Which yoga studio do you want to shoot up?

They’re all easy pickings, shooting fish in a cup

The world will know your name and never forget it

Until the admins crack down on 4Chan and Reddit

 

VERSE 4

Love is blue and it’s no other color

You’re held in her arms like a baby with a mother

She strokes your hair in this moment you share

But it’s all a male fantasy, you’re so unaware

Women don’t owe you a goddamn thing

You’re lower than concrete, you think you’re the king

It didn’t have to be this way one iota

But you’ve got a colder heart than snow in Minnesota

One Million Murderers

VERSE 1

Some people kill for a living

It’s the only contribution they’re giving

Some people kill because it’s fun

To call transgender daughters sons

Some people kill for their belief

That the world is populated by thieves

Some people kill with their words

The most racist shit you’ve ever heard

 

CHORUS

What’s the difference between trolls and serial killers?

Nothing! Nothing!

What’s the difference between Red and Black Pillers?

Not a goddamn thing!

What’s the difference between a bigot and a bully?

Not a whole lot that I can see!

What’s the difference when everybody’s hurting her?

All I see is one million murderers!

 

VERSE 2

Keyboard Kung Fu isn’t a real martial art

But with a gun in your hand, it’s not a bad start

A You Tube hit piece isn’t cinematic heaven

You did no research, what are you, in grade seven?

Pizza Bombing never leveled Hiroshima

You’re just a walking disaster, someone call FEMA

A birth certificate isn’t a flag worth flying

Instead of doxing, try boxing, fists up, stop crying

 

CHORUS

What’s the difference between trolls and serial killers?

Nothing! Nothing!

What’s the difference between Red and Black Pillers?

Not a goddamn thing!

What’s the difference between a bigot and a bully?

Not a whole lot that I can see!

What’s the difference when everybody’s hurting her?

All I see is one million murderers!

 

BRIDGE

Lez-be honest, you fell in love with her

Masturbation fantasies were all a blur

You want her to blow, but she said no

Pull the trigger, dick gets bigger, and then call her a ho

 

CHORUS

What’s the difference between trolls and serial killers?

Nothing! Nothing!

What’s the difference between Red and Black Pillers?

Not a goddamn thing!

What’s the difference between a bigot and a bully?

Not a whole lot that I can see!

What’s the difference when everybody’s hurting her?

All I see is one million murderers!

Written By a Man

VERSE 1

I got no experience, so I got no soul

Not enough broken bones, not enough bullet holes

Not enough time spent behind steel bars

Not enough time trapped in subway cars

So I do my very best to pass the Bechdel Test

But my only point of reference is The Man Show and Wrestle Fest

I got a pile of mistakes higher than a bird’s nest

Learn my lessons from some, set fire to the rest

 

CHORUS

Manic chick from a magical land

Written by a man

Did I write it with one hand?

Written by a man

Manic chick from a magical land

Written by a man

Did I write it with one hand?

Written by a man

 

VERSE 2

I got no girl who could be my whole world

But it ain’t her job to launch me to the top

I got to pull myself out of this water slide pipeline

I got to be more than just a cishet white guy

I got to find out what the fuck is going on

Why the fuck is my maturity taking so long?

They call me late bloomer, ‘cause it couldn’t happen sooner

Got some gray in my hair, now they call me a gooner

 

CHORUS

Manic chick from a magical land

Written by a man

Did I write it with one hand?

Written by a man

Manic chick from a magical land

Written by a man

Did I write it with one hand?

Written by a man

 

VERSE 3

I got no baggage I can actually unpack

So I’m stuck in murder mode, ready to attack

It’s easy to blame the one who screams the most

Especially when she’s dead and floating like a ghost

I’ll get my shit together if it takes me forever

I don’t have to be an angel, I just have to be better

A lifelong process, because learning never ends

When you got no ego, you got nothing to defend

 

BRIDGE

Damn right this book was written by a man

Started as a fan who believed that I can

You’re not competition, I hope we all win

The new world is here, let the story begin

The Quiet Part

CHORUS

It’s a bunch of bigotry, call it what it is

Say the quiet part out loud for the backseat kids

Call yourself Hitler so we’ll never be your friend

Never trust you with a single thing ever again

 

VERSE 1

What’s the matter? Did Vince make you sign an NDA?

Tell us all why you really hate the WNBA

They got pussies and tits, and sometimes they got dicks

And they’re kicking the shit out of your number one draft picks

Hey, Ronda Rousey, tell us why you won’t fight Fallon

Because the urine in your shorts measures to at least a gallon

But you can flip Triple H like he’s a blueberry flapjack

The thought of transgender people makes you blast out your ass crack

 

CHORUS

It’s a bunch of bigotry, call it what it is

Say the quiet part out loud for the backseat kids

Call yourself Hitler so we’ll never be your friend

Never trust you with a single thing ever again

 

VERSE 2

Hey, JK Rowling, what’s your next book about?

Is the little wizard Harry having existential doubt?

You don’t have the wherewithal for anything that deep

You think too much about genitals, you bus stop creep

Hey, Sean Strickland, you’re full of your own shit

There’s no way you don’t rub prostates a.k.a. butt clits

Do you use your own dick or is it just a little short?

Try using your fingers and then give them a snort

 

CHORUS

It’s a bunch of bigotry, call it what it is

Say the quiet part out loud for the backseat kids

Call yourself Hitler so we’ll never be your friend

Never trust you with a single thing ever again

 

VERSE 3

Hey, Tommy Vext, what’s it like to not have sex

With the women you abused and the women who are next?

You had a good thing going with the fatphobic You Tuber

Could’ve made some demon babies in the back of an Uber

Hey, Bill Maher, why you got to be a Boomer

Who dates Generation Zers like a motherfucking groomer?

The only youngsters you like are the ones you can fuck

I bet those AOC laws have got to fucking suck

 

CHORUS

It’s a bunch of bigotry, call it what it is

Say the quiet part out loud for the backseat kids

Call yourself Hitler so we’ll never be your friend

Never trust you with a single thing ever again

Two-Sentence Horror Story: These Colors DO Run

An internet troll asked the gamer girl, “What color is your thong today?” She answered, “Brown and yellow, with some tinges of red thrown in there.”

Monuments of Cringe

There are certain parts of your past where you should not plant your flagpole. There are certain hills you don’t want to die on. There are certain dumpster fires in your life that will burn you so badly that your ashes will blow away like a fart in the wind. The other day I discovered one of mine that I’m probably going to regret sharing with the world. I signed up for a Letterboxd account so that I could have a place to post my movie reviews. One of those reviews was for the 1985 film adaptation of Clue. I wrote this review when I was thirty years old, so I should have been mature enough to not go through with this horrible shit. But in this review, I…um…I, uh…laughed at Miss Scarlet’s “fruit” joke about Mr. Green (who’s gay) and I…suggested that it’s okay to ogle Yvette the Maid before you realize what she looks like now that she’s older.

That Clue review was what I like to call a Monument of Cringe, of which I have thousands of all over the internet. I read what I wrote and I cringed in disgust. My face was the color of zerg piss. My body shivered like someone dropped a toaster in my bathtub. My insides melted into whale slurry at the thought of someone eventually finding this review and broadcasting it out the world. And then the internet celebrates my past mistake with the hashtag “Garrison Kelly Is Over Party”, although my writing career won’t be derailed because I never went far to begin with. I’m grateful to have a small audience. But what if it grows overnight and they wade through this museum of cringe together? All of my embarrassment broadcast for the world to see. Hell, I probably said some embarrassing shit in this essay right now that I’ll get raked over the coals because of.

So what do you do when you realize that you have Monuments of Cringe all over the internet? What do you do when you realize your own published books are Stonehenges of Cringe? What do you do when you realize you built an entire legacy out of being disgusting and horrible in the way you’ve written? Nothing. You don’t delete your entire social media presence. You don’t pull your books off the shelves. If you must apologize to your audience, do so in a genuine and heartfelt way. Don’t make excuses. Remind your audience that they deserve better behavior from someone they look up to. And when you promise to keep growing, keep that promise and be the best version of yourself that you can be.

Because the truth is, a lot of art from the past doesn’t age well. Remember Ace Ventura: Pet Detective? Remember how the audience hee-hawed when they discovered that Einhorn had a boner in her underwear? Well, if you’ve made any effort to unlearn that behavior, you’ll see that transphobia is more harmful than funny and should therefore stay out of comedy forever. Remember all those jokes you heard from Boomer comedians about how much they hate their wives? Remember when the ultra-fat dinner guest ate the “wafer-thin mint” in Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life and then exploded all over the restaurant? Do you know why these things and many other pieces of media are now considered Monuments of Cringe? Because we’re (hopefully) learning more about the world around us. The more we learn, the more we apply it. And the more we apply it and grow into better people, the less likely we are to hold onto piss-poor nostalgia. That’s how life works: it progresses into the future.

I’ve decided after spiraling into disgust at my own past, I’m going to keep my Monuments of Cringe up. Not only do I have so many of them out there that I can’t get rid of them all, but I continue to create them in the present day and there will come a time when they age badly too. Learning to be a better person isn’t something that stops happening when you get to a certain point. It keeps going and going until the day you’re lowered into a wooden box with RIP scrawled across it. You can’t change the past no matter how hard you try. Yes, people will willingly see the ugliest parts of you before they see the best. But for every zergling and goblin that eats you alive, there are even more people who love you. You have to go out of your way to find them, but love is there if you look for it. Hell, there are people who still love J.K. Rowling even though she’s a transphobic bastard. There’s hope for you yet if you have even half the number of Monuments of Cringe that I do.

Perfection is a myth. Everybody has something they’re not proud of. Those who work on atoning for their worst behavior will successfully do so. Those who can’t admit it when they’ve fucked up? Well, let’s just say the over party will be complete with a disco ball and a bowl full of cheese dip. I’m telling you all now that if you happen to stumble upon my Monuments of Cringe and you think the worst of me, I apologize with all of my heart. If it’s years after the fact and another person finds them, I’ll apologize again. And if the future continues to roll on and I get called out for it again, I’ll apologize again. And again. And again. And again. While it is true that you can’t please everybody, you should at least try to be a halfway decent person even if perfection is indeed a myth. You may feel like you’re being looked at under a microscope. I do too sometimes. But if you think you feel alone, try being in the shoes of someone you’ve disenfranchised with your worst behavior.

But if you must hold an over party in my name, at least bring refreshments. Bring lots of Diet Coke. Bring enough pizzas to touch the ceiling. Bring enough bags of potato chips to give me the heart attack you’ve always wanted me to have. While I am sorry for every horrible thing I’ve said over my lifetime, I do indeed have a life to live. Will I live it with you? Will we eat potato chips together and dip them in a wading pool full of sour cream? Will we shove giant handfuls of cake in our mouths and talk about the world together (not with our mouths full, of course)? When I’m done atoning for my sins, I want to party with all of you. The Garrison Kelly over party has a conga line that I’ll gladly lead. Let’s party like it’s…a year that hopefully aged better than whatever god awful nonsense the 80’s and 90’s were. But if you ask me, I’ve erected more Monuments of Cringe in the 2000’s than at any point in my career. Remember Deus Shadowheart and Dr. Scott Cain? No? Good, let’s keep it that way.

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.

Manliest of Mansplainers

Alexis Harper power-walked down the hallway towards the interrogation room, pants suit on, dreadlocked hair up, and a mean face that could turn any alpha male to stone like the eyes of Medusa. She paid no mind to the other officers giving her funny looks like she didn’t belong in this game. Manliest of mansplainers. That’s all they are, she thought. She looked both ways to make sure the coast was clear and entered the interrogation room, where Ryland Hamm sat on the opposite end of the table looking like testosterone on a stick.

Mr. Hamm had a smug look complementing his square jaw, slicked back blond hair to give off that alt-right vibe, and a red flannel shirt that he probably wrestled a lumberjack for if Alexis didn’t know any better. Despite being grossly outmatched in the size department, Alexis never lost her angry swagger and slowly took a seat across from her suspect, as if to draw out any anxiety Ryland might have had. She gave the potential anxiety an adrenaline boost when she laid her gun on the table and turned the safety off.

Alexis took several deep breaths through her nose to bring some more angry tension into this already prison-like room, white walls and barred window be damned. But the anxiety she hoped Ryland was having didn’t exist at all as shown by his equally cold and callous face. Breaking him down was going to be a chore, for sure. But it was a chore worth doing in her mind.

Her speech was slow and deliberate as she dressed down her suspect. “Listen to me, you little bitch…if at any point in this interrogation you try to reach across the table to hit me or grope me…I’m going to empty my gun all over your fucking face. You won’t be warned…You won’t get a chance to explain yourself…You won’t even get a chance to apologize…You touch me…you die…I know you don’t have a great deal of respect for women, so I thought I’d put that out to the universe beforehand…”

Ryland folded his arms. “Where I’m from, respect is earned.”

Alexis gave a sadistic smile. “I got bad news for you: we’re a LONG ways away from where you’re from. This ain’t jabip, my friend. This…this is my dungeon…and you are going to be my bitch today…” Ryland almost reached across the table, but thought better of it. “Good boy.

“Now…let me see if I’ve got this right…You left the bar at 10:30 last night…And that was when you shot the victim in the face…She’ll be buried in due time…but the thing is…we don’t even know this woman’s name…I don’t think you do either…All we know about her…is that you tried to give her a quote-unquote compliment…and it didn’t go as well as you wanted…What was that compliment, Ryland?”

“I want a lawyer.”

“Yeah…and you know what I want? I want Jamie Fraser from Outlander shackled naked to my bed…with a dildo in his mouth…and an electrified diaper on his crotch…Wait a minute…hold on a second…Did I just make a man feel worthless?” She poked her own chin in mock contemplation. “I could have sworn that I turned a three-dimensional human being…into nothing more than a sex object…It’s almost like…I did the exact same thing you did to that woman…”

Ryland shook his head and leaned back in his chair. “You feminazis are all the same. Can’t even take a compliment, so you Me Too our asses out of existence. I told her she looked sexy in those running shorts and you know what she said back? She said…’If you want to get laid so badly, there’s a perfectly good middle school down the road. They’re more your type.’ She slanders the shit out of me and it’s ME who’s in this room? How is that fair?”

“The reason you’re in this room, Ryland, is because you shot her in the face shortly afterwards. That’s why we have no idea who she is: her most unique features…were blown right off her body…”

“I did not shoot her, you slanderous bitch!”

“Then why did we find her…lying on the ground…with no face…and no brains…and not much of a skull left either? Why…did this woman have to die over a clever comeback? She didn’t owe you a damn thing, Ryland…No woman…owes you a damn thing…”

Ryland’s tone grew more intense the longer this interrogation drew out. “That’s what women are for, you dumb bitch. They have vaginas for a reason. What good is a vagina if you’re not going to use it?! Why don’t you crack open a bible every once and a while instead of reading SJW comic books where Wonder Woman has a pecker and Superman has a pussy.”

“Hmm…” Alexis leaned back in her chair and continued to touch her face like she actually gave a shit about Ryland’s incel rhetoric. “That sounds like a good idea…I used to have a bible around the house…But then…my husband had a really disgusting meal at Taco Bell…and…there was no toilet paper in the bathroom…and…long story short…we don’t have a bible anymore…”

Ryland raised his trembling fist like he was going to strike Alexis, but then she reached for her gun and said, “Ah-ah-ah! I don’t think so, buddy...Don’t even try it…Don’t…fucking…test me!”

There was a knock at the door and a couple of uniformed police officers entered despite not having confirmation from Alexis to come in. She didn’t even look them in the eye. She just gave the jittering Ryland an arrogant smirk like she achieved what she set out to do. “He’s all yours, boys…Ryland Hamm…is our murderer. You’re welcome…”

One of the officers shook his head. “Lady? You don’t even work here.”

“WHAT?!” screamed Ryland. He clutched his own face with both hands and squeezed in anger. His breathing was labored and deep, his muscles vibrated, and his eyes bulged. “All this time, I’ve been interrogated by this feminazi and you guys did nothing to stop her?! She wouldn’t even let me have a lawyer!”

“Mr. Hamm, there’s no need to shout,” said one of the officers while raising his hand defensively.

“It’s a free country! I’ll shout if I damn well want to! I’m a real American and I say that shit proudly!”

“Of course you’re a proud American!” Alexis retorted. “Everybody knows that! You’re white…you’re a man…and you’re a republican, no doubt…Those three things alone would have ensured you a short stay in a county jail…as opposed to a lifetime in prison for murdering a woman who didn’t want to fuck you…tell me I’m wrong, boys. Go ahead. Tell me this privileged white male republican would have spent the rest of his life in prison. Go on…lie to me…”

No response from the cops.

“You all should be thanking me instead of chastising me,” said Alexis. “I’m like those undocumented immigrants you fear so much…I’m doing the job…that nobody else wants to do!”

Ryland had enough. He reached across the table like he wanted to clobber Alexis and she shot him in the head for it. The exploding brains and skull wasn’t nearly as impressive as what he did to the unknown woman in running shorts, but she laughed nonetheless as officers restrained and cuffed her.

“You all saw that, didn’t you?” chuckled Alexis. “He tried to hit me, so I killed him in self-defense. I bet he would have used the self-defense excuse to keep his ass out of prison because his fragile little ego was broken. Then again…he wouldn’t have gone to prison anyways…”

The cops hauled her out of the interrogation room and down the hall. “You’re under arrest for impersonating an officer.”

“What about murder?” she asked. “Are you going to add murder to my rap sheet or are you basically admitting defeat on that one?”

“You have the right to remain silent. I suggest you take advantage of that.”

“Kind of like how Ryland took advantage of that woman, right? You’re still going to give her a proper burial, aren’t you?”

“SHUT…THE FUCK…UP!”

Alexis grinned as she was being taken to a holding cell. “Yep, you’re definitely not impersonating an officer now. Y’all are the real deal.”

Cancel Culture Doesn't Exist

There are two potentially toxic mantras that are competing for the most real estate in my not-so-heavenly brain. One of them is, “It’s only offensive when I do it.” The other is, “Everyone’s excited to learn that I’m an author, until they actually read what’s inside my books.” In case you couldn’t tell, my hands are covered in blood when it comes to offensive content that could easily get me in trouble. It doesn’t matter how many bars of Chandrika soap I keep in my bathroom closet, and goddamn do I have a lot of them, because blood doesn’t come off without a fight. Or a war, depending on how deep my offenses run. I’ve tiptoed across the thin line of discussing both sides of “cancel culture”. Am I against it? Am I for it? Do I not have an opinion of it at all? After wrestling with my brain in a match that could break Dave Meltzer’s five-star scale, I’ve come up with a suitable conclusion: “cancel culture” doesn’t exist. I can’t have an opinion on something that isn’t real. It’s like the boogeyman, three little pigs, and Pinocchio: a complete work of pure fiction, I mean, perfection.

Sure, there are celebrities and authors who have a less than stellar record when it comes to disgusting beliefs. J.K. Rowling and her transphobic tweets come to mind as well as John Cleese’s support for her. Rosario Dawson and her mother beating the shit out of a transgender handyman is even worse, for obvious reasons. Marilyn Manson being an abusive boyfriend to every woman he’s ever come in contact with? Cue the shivers. Some offenses are worse than others, but unless the public figure is dead or in jail, their career isn’t really going to suffer much. Sure, the first wave of criticism will hurt like hell, but these celebrities and others have their core base that will stick with them through thick and thin. They know that. They take advantage of that, because they know they can get away with it. No matter how rotten a celebrity acts, they will always have their supporters despite a large chunk leaving for higher ground.

Even if a celebrity does get fired from whatever job they’re doing, it won’t be long until they find another. Adam Blampied was accused of sexual harassment when he was working for wrestling website Cultaholic, so he was fired. You want to know what he’s doing now? Working for Wrestle Talk instead, although he has gone to great lengths to redeem himself, so there’s that. You know who doesn’t give a shit about making amends? Louis C.K., who was accused of masturbating in front of women whenever he damn well felt like it. You know what he’s doing now? Same thing he’s been doing for years: standup comedy. He even has some new punch-down material handy: talking shit about non-binary people, the Parkland shooting victims, and Auschwitz. Lovely. Just fucking lovely. Being “canceled” is not the end of the world. It seems like it at first, but facing mass criticism can easily be deterred by either listening and making amends or staying off of social media for a while.

Do some celebrities deserve mass criticism? Absolutely. But will they go away forever because of it? Hardly. If cancel culture really was as effective as everyone fears it is, then Donald Trump would have never been elected president. His bigotry, insensitivity, and predatory behavior would have gotten him canceled a long time ago. Calling Mexicans rapists and murderers would have kept him out of the white house forever. But it didn’t, because cancel culture doesn’t exist. Jair Bolsonaro would have been thrown out on his ass for threatening to punch a woman. Vladimir Putin would have been eighty-sixed decades ago for being a dictator who assassinated his political enemies. Kim Jong-Un wouldn’t have an entire country brainwashed and obedient if cancel culture really cost people their livelihoods.

While mass criticism isn’t the end of the world, it isn’t completely without merit. In a free democracy, we can criticize whoever we want for whatever reason we want. People call cancel culture censorship when really it’s just the other side of free speech, which is supposed to be a double-edged sword. If one racist celebrity gets to spew their venom, his audience has the right to criticize him for it. By the same token, refusing to watch a standup comedian’s shows because of their vitriol is not the same as censorship. It’s not like Ryan Long’s standup specials are required viewing for college. It’s not like they contain important material for a top secret mission. People can pick and choose what they watch and what they don’t watch. Nobody is owed an audience; they have to work for it. Bill Maher complains about cancel culture all the time, yet he doesn’t produce anything worth watching. He called comic book nerds little children, he called fat people virgins who couldn’t see their own dicks, he calls millennials entitled and lazy, and he called COVID-19 a Chinese virus. Is his show over? Hardly. But do people have the right to not watch it? Absolutely. This isn’t A Clockwork Orange. There are no eye-bracers or straightjackets.

Cancel culture being nonexistent is something I’m going to have to remember for myself going forward. As I’ve said earlier, I’ve got some serious blood on my hands when it comes to my creative writing. I’ve used words in my poetry that I’d never say in a public space. I’ve written about undesirable characters even in the eyes of the reader. I’ve misrepresented sex and romance, sometimes to an absurd degree. Maybe there’s some truth in the idea that my audience will sing a different tune about their excitement for me once they crack open one of my books. I could give the perfectly acceptable answer of, “I’m sorry and I’ll do better next time” and that’s something I should be doing anyways. I should be improving my work. I should own up to my mistakes. I should make amends with the people I’ve hurt with my writing. I’ll do all of that. In fact, I’ll apologize to you all right now for fucking up as badly as I did. Will I be forgiven? Maybe. Maybe not. Honestly, being truthful and kind to my audience is more important to me than potentially losing my career. Yes, cancel culture doesn’t exist, but that doesn’t mean you all don’t deserve a sincere apology. Take notes, J.K. Rowling. You too, John Cleese. Make amends while you still can. We’re not too sensitive; you’re just too disgusting.

That’s something else that needs to be addressed: if the audience doesn’t like a celebrity’s work, it’s not the audience’s fault. It’s the celebrity’s fault for not putting out a decent product. Blaming the audience for your failures says to the world that you’re unable to take criticism. While cancel culture is still nonexistent, I know deep in your heart you don’t like to hear criticism. The more you listen to criticism and improve from it, the less likely you are to hear it in the future. Everybody has room to be better at their crafts. Stephen King may be the most recognizable author in the universe, but the way he sexualizes women in his books is absolutely atrocious. He doesn’t have to lose his career over it, but he owes it to himself and his audience to improve his writing. That’s what we all should do: improve ourselves. Life is evolution. You either fold or you get better. I don’t know about you, but I think getting better is the superior choice. Unless of course you’re like Harvey Weinstein and you raped every woman you came in contact with, in which case, your career is not only over, but you’re spending the rest of your life in prison. Some things can be atoned for, others are too late. Hitler didn’t need a hug. Trump doesn’t need a redemption arc. Vladimir Putin doesn’t need self-improvement. When human life is at stake, prison is the answer.

But no matter how bad things get, people and their legacies will always be subjective. Trump has his supporters despite everything he’s done. J.K. Rowling still has her defenders. People still watch WWE despite the fact that they have a business relationship with Saudi Arabia…and that they did necrophilia comedy in 2002…and that they made fun of Jim Ross’s colon surgery in 2005…You know what? I could go on forever when it comes to WWE’s offenses. But no matter how many times they win the yearly award for Most Disgusting Promotional Tactic, they’ll still have their defenders and supporters. Vince McMahon would have been canceled a long time ago, but he wasn’t, because cancel culture doesn’t exist. He can be criticized. He can be protested against. He can be pressured. But kicked out of the WWE? Hardly. While the audience does have the loudest voices, they’re not the boss who makes all the decisions. They can influence decisions, but they don’t get the final say. Even in an American democracy, that proves to be the case over and over again with our politicians.

We all want to have our dream careers to carry us through life. We don’t want that taken away from us. It’s natural to feel that way. But a dream career isn’t everything. Some things are more important, like integrity, honesty, kindness, and humility. There’s always room in your life to be a good person. If you hurt somebody unintentionally, apologize profusely. Don’t do it to save your career. Do it because you’re a good person who values love. Don’t do things in the name of mass support. Do them because they’re the right things to do. Everything we do has a consequence even if it doesn’t always mean the end of a career. J.K. Rowling has millions of dollars and won’t go away anytime soon. But the damage she’s done with her transphobia has grave consequences for the world at large and undermines every progressive belief she had before that side of her came out. Her readers will be afraid to be themselves. They may even resort to suicide if they believe there’s no avenue for help. We as creators have the power to influence the world. Use it wisely.