"Kind of Like Life" by Christina McMullen

BOOK TITLE: Kind of Like Life

AUTHOR: Christina McMullen

YEAR: 2014

GENRE: Fiction

SUBGENRE: Psychological Fantasy

GRADE: Extra Credit

When you put The Matrix and fantasy elements in a milkshake blender and mix them together, you get a delicious treat from Christina McMullen called “Kind of Like Life”. You start the book thinking it’s going to be a utopian love story. Everything that can go right for Renee Ward does go right. And then the world around her is revealed to be a lie. The reality of it all is horrifying as hell. Can she wake up from her nightmare long enough to make things right in the real world? That’s a question you’ll be asking yourself throughout your entire reading adventure. You don’t know what the solution to these problems will be, so nothing is predictable. Hell, you’re not even sure if a happy ending was meant to exist. I love surprises and I love plot twists. Christina McMullen delivers on both of those fronts, which is part of the reason her book is getting five out of five stars.

Another reason why she gets that grade is because the entire book is a celebration of creativity and imagination, a break from the ordinary. Genres can bend at the drop of a hat. One minute you’re in a lush faerie forest full of magic, phoenixes and wonder. Another minute you’re in a Wild West desert being chased by a sheriff and his posse. And then you’re flying through space unleashing pew-pew lasers upon other spaceships that want to gun you down and watch you burn. You know how people say that imagination has no limits? Neither does this book. Crossing genres is creative in and of itself, but telling a cohesive story with compelling characters to keep it from being shallow? That takes a lot of skill and Christina McMullen has that in spades.

Speaking of compelling characters, how can you not like the chemistry between Renee Ward and the man who rescues her from the cracking utopia, Blake Carter. They start off being suspicious of each other and sometimes annoyed at their presences. But the more they learn about each other, the closer they become. Blake’s past of being abused by his parents isn’t just an empty attempt to make him appear sympathetic. It’s a trust builder and it ties into the story in a way that sensitively deals with such a traumatic topic. The descriptions of the abuse he went through and how his parents got away with it Scot free are heartbreaking to read about. I came within a hair of shedding some tears for this scene. Renee Ward doesn’t necessarily have to heal Blake through her relationship with him, but she does understand his pain and she does handle his trauma in a delicate way. Does he want to talk about it? Does he want to avoid the subject? Renee is there for him either way. These two characters don’t complete each other; they complement each other. That’s the stuff healthy relationships are built on. We need more of this in fiction today.

This book has an uncanny ability to play with your brain like silly putty as you try to piece together the puzzle of the plot or wrestle with your emotions through all of the heartache. I like being surprised. I like having my darkest emotions triggered. I also like having my lighthearted emotions triggered as well. There’s something for everyone in this novel. You want a thriller? You’ve got one. You want fantasy? It’s all yours. You want a psychological rollercoaster? Have at it. As I’ve said before, “Kind of Like Life” deserves a five out of five star rating for being everything I wanted it to be and more. I know full well that anybody else who picks up this book will have the same glowing opinion. Christina McMullen is awesome like that. It makes me look forward to reading other novels in her catalog as well.

Incelbordination, Chapter 17

“Antero…I know the two of us can’t agree on a damn thing right now…I know all that incel propaganda has made you completely bat shit insane…but what I want to find out is…what the hell are you doing in my dorm…with a machete?!”

The trench coat-clad terrorist snickered while sharpening his blade with a whetstone, looking so casual like this was a part of his every day life. “What am I doing here? What are YOU doing here, buddy? Shouldn’t you be evacuated right now with the rest of the normies and manlets? It’s not my fault you didn’t get the memo, though you kind of have an excuse since you spent the last few nights in jail.”

Clenching his pain-wracked fists, Oswald gritted his teeth and said, “No, Antero. It’s your fault that this shit is happening to begin with! You caused all of this pain because you couldn’t find a girlfriend! You know what? I wanted to believe in your rhetoric. I wanted to believe I could start a revolution with just my two fists. And then I figured out a long time ago that if I gave you an enema right now, you could sleep in a matchbox.”

“Paraphrasing Christopher Hitchens isn’t going to save you from the ass beating I’m about to give you,” said Antero as he stood up and tossed the whetstone at Oswald, barely missing his head. “You want to talk about rhetoric and revolution and all that shit? None of it compares to the pain I feel on a daily basis. It’s not just about chicks and Chads anymore. I’m talking worldwide genocide, bitch!”

“Worldwide genocide, my ass, Antero! You can deny it all you want, but the whole world knows you’re pissed off about not getting laid. That’s all this is or else you wouldn’t be in my dorm room wielding a machete right now. Sooner or later, the police are going to find you. And when they do, the misery you feel inside is going to make your fucking head explode. Then again…you really can’t get any uglier, exploding head or not.”

“Bastard!” shouted Antero before rushing at Oswald with his blade held high. The terrorist took a swing and the dwarf managed to roll out of the way, but not without sending a toxic stream of pain through his body. As Oswald laid on the ground clutching his aching body parts, Antero planted a boot in his chest and held the machete to the little person’s throat. “You won’t get any flowers on your grave as I’ve already told you that morning with Uncle Tuomas. But if you have any requests for what’s carved into your tombstone, make them now or forever hold your peace.”

Instead of giving Antero the satisfaction, Oswald took a bear trap bite out of the terrorist’s toes, causing him to scream in agony and stumble backwards on his ass. The little guy’s pain boiled throughout his entire body as he struggled to pull himself to his feet. Meanwhile, Antero mocked him with, “I had no idea you were into feet, little manlet!”

“Burn in hell, you sick prick!” belted Oswald as he dashed towards the exit, but not without Antero shouting battle cries at him and swinging his machete like a schizophrenic samurai. The so-called “manlet” fumbled with the doorknob and lost precious time, allowing Antero to take another swing. Oswald moved his hand just in time and allowed the blade to slice off the doorknob. The dwarf kicked Antero in the shin and bolted out into the night air.

Try as he might to battle through the pain and ignore the inferno raging in his bones, Oswald stumbled over the sidewalk and allowed Antero to punt him in the ribs. The little guy went flying into a parked car and dented the door, causing the alarm to sound off throughout the neighborhood.

Oswald clutched his ribcage and whined in pain while the car alarm grated against his ears like a cheese shredder. Through watery eyes and darkening vision due to his slowing heart, he could see Antero smiling down at him with the blade pointed at his sorrowful face. This was it. This was how shit was going to end. Oswald thought of his own moments he would never experience in the afterlife. No deflowering. No true love. No Christmas morning. No graduation. No published books. Just a rotting midget corpse lying in the same grassy field as Uncle fucking Tuomas.

The dwarf had one last negotiation tactic before the blade severed his throat. “You should get the hell out of here before the police find you. There’s…” he spat up blood. “There’s an alarm going off, you know.” He spat up even more blood.

“Nobody’s coming to save you, you little shit. Just like nobody’s coming to save me. In the end, we’re all just chalk lines in the fucking concrete, drawn only to be washed away.”

“Sorry, Antero…but quoting Five Finger Death Punch isn’t going to save your life!” Sacrificing his foot, Oswald kicked the blade hard enough to sever a few toes and also blow it back in his attacker’s face. The leaking gash across Antero’s nose and mouth caused his screaming to sound like he was drowning in a bathtub. But instead of calling for help, he called for the one person who he thought could save him in this desperate time.

“Mommy! Help me! I want to go home! I don’t want to die! Don’t let me die! Mommy! Save me! I don’t want to meet Uncle Tuomas! He’ll tear me apart!”

Struggling to sit up with his ribs possibly broken and his foot mangled, Oswald couldn’t help but watch Antero’s melt down with a little bit of pity. He didn’t know if the tears in his eyes were from the pain or from genuine sadness. Here was a guy who thought he could change the world with his violent ways. And now that the violence was storming against him…all he could do was cry for his mommy.

Oswald reached for the dented car door’s handle and lifted himself to his one good foot. He noticed through sopping wet eyes that campus police had gotten word of the car alarm going off and Antero’s subsequent cries for mommy. Two burly men in green security uniforms grabbed the terrorist by his arms and hoisted him to his feet kicking and screaming before cuffing him. No matter how much Antero revolted, the same mommy rhetoric spewed from his mouth faster than the leaking machete wound.

Several students who had not yet evacuated the premise watched Antero’s arrest with tears in their own eyes. Their nightmares had come to an end right in front of them. But could they get their studies done in peace with heads full of trauma? Oswald kept wondering about his own studies, but quickly shifted his attention to his injured ribs and bloody foot. He stumbled across the parking lot and dropped to the ground, coughing up even more precious life fluids.

What happened next was something Oswald never dreamed of expecting in a million years. Other students actually knelt by his side to help him and see if he was okay. One of the girls pulled out her cell phone to call for an ambulance. The strokes of Oswald’s matted hair, the holding of his hands, and the gentle voices calming him down made him believe in worldwide love all over again. It didn’t have to be romantic. It didn’t have to be permanent. It was just people coming together during a moment of crisis and he was okay with that.

“Oswald, don’t die on us!” one of the female students shouted. “Open your eyes! An ambulance is coming to get you, okay?”

The dwarf wanted to get his piece in, but he vomited a geyser of blood all over his own face. The other students stepped back a little in shock, but immediately rejoined him to share his pain. “It’s over,” said Oswald through sloppy lips. “It’s over! He’s finally gone…”

Before he could finish his final thoughts, the dwarf blacked out yet again, which seemed to be a normal occurrence for him throughout these eventful few days under Incelbordination’s watch. He secretly wished he could have slept through this whole story. No pain. No trauma. No horny incels. Just peace and quiet…and maybe Bruce BecVar’s guitar playing and heavenly vocals.

Incelbordination, Chapter 7

The sun set on a dreadful Friday and Oswald couldn’t have been more grateful. In its place was a beautiful Saturday morning, complete with sleeping until noon and all the weed he could smoke in one sitting. He still hadn’t decided whether or not he wanted to torch the C- laden paper. He figured maybe he should’ve dragged his little ass out of bed to make those necessary corrections. Then again, correcting things never helped him in the past. Those C’s still gazed into his soul every time he laid eyes on them. Perhaps a nice walk in the afternoon sunshine would do him a few favors here and there.

MP3 player? Check. Ready roll? Check. Zippo? Double check, motherfucker. He certainly wouldn’t have accepted another book of matches from Antero no matter how desperately he needed them. Once the trench coat was on and “Lonesome Town” by Ricky Nelson soothed his aching ears, Oswald headed for the streets without telling his roommates goodbye. Then again, they wouldn’t have noticed even if he did.

The streets were nearly empty at this time of day. Normally people would be partying it up on a Saturday. Either that or Oswald was just as ignorant of other people as they were of him. As soon as those negative, lonely thoughts crept in his mind, he pulled out his ready roll. Even with his Zippo clearly in the palm of his fucking hand, he could hear a familiar voice from behind asking him if he needed a light. “Oh no….oh hell no…” the dwarf moaned while shaking his head.

He pulled off the headsets and turned around to see Antero Magnus holding a book of matches. “Well, it’s Groundhog Day…again,” joked the Incel.

“You motherfucker!” shouted Oswald. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t punch you in the dick right now! You trying to get me in trouble or some shit?! You knew what you were doing when you gave me that gift card, you sick prick!”

“You’re right!” retorted Antero as he leaned down to meet Oswald’s eyes. “I knew exactly what I was doing. I was trying to teach you a lesson. You didn’t even need an ass-load of tuition money to learn that.”

“You ain’t helping your case, buddy! I’ve still got one more punch in me and it’s aimed at your….”

“Listen to me, damn it!” snapped Antero. “I know you’re upset and you damn well should be. Those girls who hang out at Mickey D’s are underage, yes, they are. They’re young, naïve, immature…and yet they’re the only girls in this world who find us attractive.” Oswald’s fighting stance eased up at that statement. “Think about this for a minute. Our one safe haven for finding love and the government outlaws it. Tell me again how everything’s not stacked against us.”

“So you’re mad because you can’t fuck little girls?”

Antero stood up and sighed. “Obviously, I’m not getting through to you. Take a walk with me for a minute. I’ve got something to show you.”

“Let me guess: you’re going to introduce me to your dead Uncle Tuomas? Yeah, that’s right. I almost got sent to jail over what you put me through. The cop who picked me up told me all about your Uncle Tuomas! I bet you’ve got an Aunt Floor Jansen and a Grandma Anette Olzon too!”

Antero chuckled, “I never get tired of hearing those Nightwish jokes. But yes, it’s true: I’m of Finnish descent and my Uncle Tuomas is dead as a doornail. But I’m willing to bet you anything the cop only gave you the Cliff’s Notes version of what happened. Cliff’s Notes are good, but not in a college setting where C-‘s are staring you in the face with a murderous grin. Come with me. Let me set you straight.”

From there the two of them had a brief walk to the local cemetery. Oswald never let Antero out of his sight in case the sly bastard had a knife he couldn’t wait to coat with midget blood. For the most part, the incel leader seemed sincere in his gestures. And then shit got real when the two of them approached Tuomas Magnus’s grave. The poor guy died young, as was the case of a lot of suicide victims. The cold hard fact wasn’t lost on Antero when he removed his sunglasses and gazed down at the grave with sadness etched in his features.

“Oswald, I want you to pay close attention to something I’m about to point out to you.” The incel pointed at various graves and said, “Bouquet of roses” to each of them. “Now I want you to take a look at Tuomas’s grave and tell me what you see.”

“…No roses.”

“That’s right, Oswald. Nobody bothered to leave him one single rose. Not my deadbeat dad. Not my bitch ass mom. Not anybody in the community, in fact. They all gave up on him. They bought into the rape charge bullshit like it was the word of god. The police will tell you that they had more than enough evidence to press charges. Then again, the police have never been trustworthy to begin with. They can delete body camera footage at the drop of a hat. They can beat and shoot anybody they damn well please and get a paid vacation for it. Uncle Tuomas was just another victim of this unjust system. One little girl cried rape and now everybody descended upon him with pitchforks and torches.”

Oswald sighed, hung his head, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, I get how fucked up false rape accusations can be, but what does your dead uncle have to do with me?”

Physically leveling with his “friend” yet again, Antero said, “Well, you’ve seen the lack of roses on Tuomas’s grave. Tell me: who’s going to leave roses on your grave when you die?” Oswald’s face grew solemn. “I’d leave them, but I might not be around for much longer if this police investigation keeps up. How long do you think you have left on this earth, Oswald, before the Chads and Stacys cripple you to death? Three years? Maybe four? You’re a young man. Young men with English degrees don’t do well in this piss-poor economy. The only other option you’d have left is to marry a woman with money. The only question is…who’s going to want to blow their trust fund on you, Oswald?”

Wiping a solitary tear from his eye, Oswald mustered up, “I have a few friends…”

“A few? I’m sorry, Oswald, but a few doesn’t make up an entire funeral congregation. You’re lonely and you don’t want to admit it. You have nobody you can turn to in this world. Not your teachers, not your so-called friends who’ll backstab you in a heartbeat…not even your dead parents.”

The dwarf gazed up at Antero with tears pooling in his eyes. “Is my Face Book profile that obvious?”

“More obvious than an anvil falling out of the sky, my friend.” Just as Oswald was about to burst into an ugly sob, Antero held his shoulders and said, “It’s true. I know all about your parents’ deaths. I’ll never forget that angry rant you posted. Your mom and dad were killed by a drunk driver. But instead of giving that Night Train-drinking bastard lethal injection, the judge gave him a few years at most because of his sudden love for Jesus Christ. The cops can arrest us anytime they want. But what if we just made up the Jesus Christ excuse once the heat got too hot? Together, we can change the world. Together, we can show the Chads and Stacys that they don’t run shit anymore.”

Antero extended his hand to shake and all Oswald could do was stare at it with tears falling from his face. He then slapped the hand away and hugged his newfound friend around the neck. The incel leader awkwardly hugged him back and allowed the dwarf to cry on his shoulder.

“Let it all out, little guy. Let it all out. Incelbordination is here for you. The cops don’t give a shit about you. The Stacys don’t give a shit about you. But I do. Come join us for a support session. You can talk all about your feelings and eat fast food until your belly explodes. Maybe you can smoke that joint and get hungry for some more food. A Quarter Pounder with Cheese won’t judge you.”

Oswald broke his embrace and wiped his tears on his trench coat sleeve. Nodding, he said, “Count me in, Antero. Don’t leave me out here with these normies.”

“I knew you’d see the light one of these days, my friend. It was a foregone conclusion since the day you were born into this fucked up world.”

Cloud Atlas

MOVIE TITLE: Cloud Atlas

DIRECTORS: Lana & Lily Wachowski and Tom Tykwer

YEAR: 2012

GENRE: Epic Science Fiction

RATING: R for violence, language, and sexual content

GRADE: Pass

In 1849, American lawyer Adam Ewing thinks he’s being treated for an intestinal worm, but he’s actually being poisoned by his doctor so that the latter can steal his riches. In 1936, English composer Robert Frobisher helps Vyvyan Ayers write a piano piece called The Cloud Atlas. In 1973, journalist Luisa Rey hopes to uncover a plot involving corrupt nuclear energy advocates. In 2012, Scottish publisher Tim Cavendish is committed to a retirement home and subjected to abuse during his stay. In 2144, South Korea has become a dystopian autocracy that robotic waitress Somni must find individuality in. In post-apocalyptic Hawaii, a tribal society struggles for survival when they’re constantly attacked by cannibalistic barbarians. Every one of these separate stories comes together to create themes of reincarnation and juxtaposition. The trick to watching this movie is finding that common thread.

As much as I loved the creative way in which these stories were connected, it does lend itself to confusing storytelling at times. While forcing an audience to think deeply is what all good movies should aspire to do, sometimes piecing together those puzzles right in the middle of viewing can take away from the overall experience. Perhaps this movie was always meant to be watched multiple times. All you have to do is consider the directors and what their legacies bring to the table. The Wachowskis are champions of Gnosticism, which makes the themes of interconnection and reincarnation that much more apparent. But at the same time, I can see how the chaos and confusion might force a watcher to turn away. I stayed throughout the whole thing and enjoyed it to pieces, so this is only a minor complaint on my part.

One of my favorite mini-stories in this movie is the dystopian tale in South Korea. With our current politics all across the globe, themes of dystopia are more important now than they ever were. Through Somni’s individuality and sacrifices, we as an audience are taught to question everything around us and never submit to brainwashing no matter how much violence is piled on against us. Our minds are the last safe haven we have when it comes to being ourselves. When we lose that, we lose everything. I’d rather live dangerously and be myself than live safely and be a clone. Or to put it in the words of a famous metal band from the 2000’s, “I choose death before dishonor. I’d rather die than live down on my knees.” Is it any wonder that Somni was worshiped so much in the Hawaiian apocalypse story?

The other favorite story of mine was Tim Cavendish’s nursing home fiasco. Tim can be described as an eccentric old man with more creativity in one of his farts than most people have in their whole bodies. That’s why it’s important for him to escape that dreadful nursing home so that he can become the imaginative author he was always meant to be. Of all the characters in this movie, Tim is easily my favorite to root for. He’s foul-mouthed, he’s delightfully Scottish, and he’s not afraid to express himself despite the conformist nature of his environment. In many ways, the nursing home is a lot like dystopian South Korea, and no, that’s not hyperbole. If Tim can stand up to that oppressive place, who’s to say others can’t learn something from his individuality?

The lessons in individuality and the craftily connected timeline are what make Cloud Atlas a modern day classic. It’s not perfect and probably does need to be watched more than once, but it’s still enjoyable and it’ll still blow your mind. Another notch in the Wachowski’s belts, another excellent decision when they partnered with the legendary Tom Tykwer. Just like the timeline of events, the stars aligned perfectly to bring the audience a movie they can love. How does a passing grade sound to everybody?

Incelbordination, Chapter 1

Oswald Crow gazed upon the sea of slow-dancing couples with moisture in his eyes, tension in his muscles, and heaviness in his heart. What he wouldn’t give to be one of those lucky motherfuckers. Just a slight glance from a beautiful woman would have set him free. But the entire student body seemed determined to stay as far away from him as possible. Was it his shaggy black hair and scraggly beard? Was it his three-foot tall stature? Was it the way he dressed in his black trench coat? Or was he just destined to be a loser this whole time? God was laughing at him. The universe conspired against him. The world buried him six feet under. Despite all of this, all he could do was sigh in depression.

“What’s the point?” he said to nobody in particular. Oswald hopped off the couch in the far corner of the gym and stuffed his hands in his pockets, stomping his way toward the exit. He pantomimed kicking at a stone on his way out the door and even that piece of odd behavior didn’t grab anybody’s attention. Dwarf body aside, Oswald never felt so small and encaged.

Ah, finally some fresh night air. The gym doors could have done a better job of muffling the sounds of “When I See You Smile”, though. Not a soul in sight, just Oswald and his sorrowful thoughts as he plopped down on the sidewalk with his fist against his chin. He shook his head and once again asked, “What’s the point?” The answer was easy: there was no point in him being here anymore. He hadn’t the spine or testicles to ask a woman to dance with him, because rejection was more painful than loneliness. It always had been and it always would be.

He could have talked to a counselor. He could have confided in a best friend (which he had none). But instead he pulled a marijuana roll out of his trench coat and smiled for the first time this evening. The smile faded when he frisked himself in search of his lighter. “Goddamn it, where the fuck did I put it?” The longer he went without it, the more frantically he searched for it, even taking off his coat and shaking it out.

“Need a light?” said a startling baritone voice, nearly causing Oswald to jump out of his skin. The gentleman also wore a black trench coat a la The Matrix, complete with sunglasses (at nighttime?) and a bald head like Morpheus, sans black skin. If he was any whiter, he’d be clear.

“What are you, a cop? You going to turn me in for having this? I have a prescription for it, you know,” said Oswald.

The gentleman chuckled, “Don’t be silly, I wouldn’t dream of ratting you out. I love a good roll of green as much as the next guy. Here, let me light that for you.” He struck a match and kneeled down to light Oswald’s marijuana.

The dwarf puffed away until the fresh night air became dense with sweet cannabis smoke. “Thanks,” he said before relaxing on the sidewalk again.

“Don’t mention it,” said the stranger, who parked his ass right next to him and gazed around at nothing in particular. The silence between them grew tense until he said, “Not a good night, I take it.”

“To say the least,” said Oswald as he laid back on the concrete peering at the stars above. Those little pinholes in the dark looked lovelier than intended, as did the full moon. “Goddamn, this is some powerful shit.”

“I should get a prescription for that too,” said the stranger. “It’s funny how alcohol is called liquid courage, yet the only thing it encouraged anybody to do was smash a car against a tree. Meanwhile, people get locked up for having weed around the house. Makes about as much sense as any chick in that gym turning down Supreme Gentlemen like us.”

“Uh-huh…wait a minute…” Oswald sat up and rubbed the glaze out of his eyes. “Did you just call us…Supreme Gentlemen?”

“Of course I did. What else would we be? I’ll bet if you ask that question to any of the Chads and Stacys in there, you’ll probably get a much more derogatory answer.”

“…Ch…Chads and Stacys?”

“Oh yeah, that building’s loaded with them.” The stranger snatched the roll out of Oswald’s hands and puffed it a few times before handing it back. The little person’s eyes widened at the brazen gesture. “Oh, excuse me, where are my manners? I never formally introduced myself, did I. Here you go, bud.”

Oswald took a business card out of the stranger’s hand and read it out loud. “Antero Magnus…that’s an interesting name...Leader of….” The dwarf gave him an incredulous look before reading, “Incelbordination, a Support Group for Involuntary Celibates.” The wide-eyed stare returned as he handed Antero his card back. “What…the…actual…fuck?!”

“I know, right? It’s hard to believe anybody out there actually wants to support us. But it’s true: sometimes we need to talk about our feelings and nobody’s there to listen. Every heartbreak…every downfall…every swallow of the black pill…”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa…the…black pill?”

Taking his sunglasses off to reveal horrifying cyan eyes, Antero leaned in and said, “Oh yes, my little friend. We don’t take blue pills or red pills. We take black pills. We see the world for what it really is: an ugly hellhole. You know it, I know it, and every Supreme Gentleman who’s ever been picked on knows it too. You smoke that shit for a reason and it’s not because you want the stars and the moon to look prettier. You’re feeling the sadness. You’re feeling the hurt. Sometimes those Stacys like to crush your heart right underneath their five hundred dollar high heels.”

If Oswald’s eyes could get any wider, they’d pop out of his skull. The little man shook his head and asked, “Who the fuck talks like that?! You’re insane!”

Antero belted, “Insane?! Hah! That’s blue pill talk to me. Paul Mauriat was a fucking liar. Love ain’t blue. It ain’t red either. It’s black, baby. You’re not going to find the truth smoking that roll all night long, buddy. You’re not going to find love in a building full of prudes either. Join Incelbordination. You’re perfect for us. You’re brilliant, you’re thoughtful, and you can use those things to combat the injustices against us. You have what it takes to affect change in this world. Take the black pill. Take it!”

Taking another puff of Mary-Jane and ignoring Antero’s remarks about it not helping, Oswald said, “Well, Antero Magnus, if that is your real fucking name…as long as we’re ripping off The Matrix to make points about women owing us everything…I’ve got a Matrix reference for you right now. How about…I give you the finger…and you never talk to me again. I don’t need this Gestapo crap. I’d ask for a phone call right now, but I ain’t got nobody to call…because the only other person who will listen to me is the leader of Incel-Abortion, or whatever it’s called.”

The dwarf got up to leave when Antero called out, “You’re making a big mistake, Oswald!”

The marijuana roll dropped from Oswald’s lips as he slowly turned around and asked, “How did you know my name? I didn’t give that shit to you!”

Antero shook his head and chuckled, “Man, you’ve really got to stop leaving your personal information on Face Book. You think you’re invisible? Bitch, I can see you from miles away with a face like that! But in all seriousness, I do think you’d be a perfect fit for us. You’re unloved and distrusted. I bet that shit eats you up inside. If you ever change your mind, remember: I’ve got an open door policy when it comes to my Supreme Gentlemen.”

Pointing an accusatory finger at Antero, Oswald demanded, “Don’t ever call me a Supreme Gentleman again. That’s fucking creepy. And while you’re at it, don’t stalk me on Face Book again either. That’s double creepy. I’m not like you, Antero. I’m a dying breed!”

Antero’s chuckles grew more defined as he doubled over and clapped his hands. Despite the marijuana kicking in only minutes ago, Oswald could feel his heart thump like a bass drum in his chest. He turned around and ran as fast as his stubby legs could take him, though no distance could ever drown out Antero’s villainous laughter.

He fished in his trench coat and pulled out his MP3 player and headsets. Maybe some good old fashioned heavy metal would shut Antero up. Oswald struggled to keep the headsets on as he hurriedly scrolled through his songs to see what was best. “Strength Beyond Strength” by Pantera always got the job done. Nothing quite as entrancing as listening to Phil Anselmo scream his ass off about legalizing weed. Oswald blasted the volume up to maximum levels and he could still hear Antero laughing in the background despite the distance he had gained since then.

The heavy metal tune carried Oswald through his anxiety-induced workout and landed him into the recesses of the forest, his dorm building not too far away. He stopped running and leaned palm first against an oak tree, huffing and puffing like he had just had a noose wrapped around his neck. He coughed some of the marijuana out of his lungs and wheezed some more.

“What the fuck have I gotten myself into?” he wondered in between heavy breaths and burning lungs. “No woman is worth this much bullshit.” His legs wobbly and sore, he trudged back to his dorm building and decided enough was enough for the evening. Although, it was never easy to close his eyes to sleep when they were red and puffy. “Too much weed…too much fucking weed…love ain’t black, Antero…love is green!”

The Matrix

MOVIE TITLE: The Matrix

DIRECTOR: The Wichowski Siblings

YEAR: 1999

GENRE: Cyberpunk

RATING: R for violence, language, and disturbing moments

GRADE: Pass

Thomas Anderson is an everyday guy who works a nine-to-five job and pays his taxes like a good little worker bee. Neo, on the other hand, knows there’s more out there than what his five senses will tell him. Neo comes into contact with a hacker named Morpheus, who tells him that the world he knows is nothing more than a dreamscape used to disguise the ugly dystopian future that the world really is, where machines control everything and humanity is fighting to survive. Neo wants to be a part of this war against the machines, but has to deal with Agent Smith, a virus in the matrix who wants to keep the sheepish people in their dreamlike states. The sooner Neo becomes accustomed to the matrix being one big lie to the world, the sooner he can achieve the greatness he was destined for.

One of the many interesting things about this movie is that it was published in 1999, when computer hacking and the internet were both in their infancy. For all we know, Neo could have been using America Online this whole time, where all he has to do is point and click. The cell phone he receives to contact Morpheus is a huge dinosaur that looks like a tumor growing out of his ear. Imagine if The Matrix was published in today’s world with Twitter, Face Book, smart phones, tablets, and all that crazy stuff. Hacking would be a lot easier to get away with, that’s for sure. Maybe Neo could be a member of Anonymous, you never know. Maybe he IS a member of Anonymous, which would make Agent Smith quiver in his Gucci shoes. The anachronistic nature of The Matrix back then and today makes for an interesting debate among scholars or those who have just smoked a bowl of marijuana.

Another thing I enjoyed about this movie was the message it sent of questioning everything around you and not seeing the world in black and white. Chances are good that in the real world, we’re not being controlled by gigantic machines and no FBI agents are going to take away our mouths anytime soon. But some would argue that we are living in a dreamlike state 24/7. We live paycheck to paycheck, we do everything we’re told to do, we try our best to live up to everyone else’s standards of what the American Dream should be, and nobody questions it, because questioning it would make you a bad member of a society that thrives on blindness. When you lose the ability to think for yourself, you’ll never break out of the cycle and live up to your potential.

And of course, I’d be remised if I didn’t mention the biggest elephant in the room when it comes to The Matrix: special effects. The freezing of time while circling the camera around, the slow motion dodging, the convincing fight scenes despite the actors having no martial arts training, these are all things you can thank The Matrix for revolutionizing. What I don’t understand is why every comedy movie that was made after 1999 feels the need to parody this style of cinema. Shrek did it during a fight sequence with Princess Fiona, there was a Scary Movie scene where the masked killer bent backwards to dodge a projectile, and I’m pretty sure there’s a WWE videogame somewhere that parodies Trinity’s freeze-frame crane kick. Parodying The Matrix’s special effects is not funny. It’s cliché. Leave the fancy martial arts madness to the directors of this film.

If you take the blue pill, you will go back into your dreamlike state and you’ll never have to deal with dystopia again. If you take the red pill, you’d better fasten your seatbelt, Dorothy, because Kansas is going bye-bye. If you need a more convincing argument to take the red pill, the blue one is in suppository form and is the size of a tennis ball. It’s time to wake up, people, and you can do it by spending a little quality time with The Matrix.

Athoptlorys

If you’re seeing this character’s name and you have no idea how to pronounce it, here’s a little something to help you out: “uh-THOPT-low-riss”. Now that you know how to say the man’s name, it’s time to tell you a little about him. Usually when somebody has such a mystical singular name, it always means trouble. That trouble comes in the form of a dark lord who wants to turn the entire world into one nation under his rule.

If he should ever come into power, he could make your life a living hell. Getting your documents checked and your blood alcohol level tested are the least of your problems under an Athoptlorys dictatorship. Getting shoved into death camps and harvested for energy? That sounds like something from The Matrix, but when it comes to sadistic villainy and blood-stained worlds, nobody has a monopoly on that.

In order to create such a dystopian nation, you have to consider what kind of world Athoptlorys is trying to rule. Judging from the main villain’s devilish name, it sounds like he’s trying to control a dark fantasy world. But why stop there? Why not dominate the sci-fi genre as well? The earth is divided not by nations, but by time periods. There are separate nations for the dark ages, the prehistoric era, the steam punk revolution, and there’s even one nation dedicated to the space opera genre despite not being in space. This world is a lot like Chrono Trigger, but it’s all jam packed into one world we all must share.

How exactly do you do that? How do you share a world with dinosaurs, barbarians, alien warriors, Egyptian mummies, Chinese dictators, and Japanese warlords when all of these people and more want to kill the main character? And how do you cram all of these time zones and cultures into one prose? It would either have to be a series of novels or one novel the size of Webster’s Dictionary. If Athoptlorys is to create one nation under his thumb, he’s got a shit ton of work to do. He’d better be really powerful or at least have a lot of powerful minions. You think a T-Rex is going to surrender peacefully to someone who wants to use his carcass for food and energy? Bullshit, man!

If this nameless novel actually came to fruition, one of two things would have to happen. Either Athoptlorys would become the almighty god of this earth or the various cultures across time would consume each other in a scorched world apocalypse. If you thought our current world nations don’t get along with their Muslim vs. Christian gimmick, try pitting an army of crusaders against a multi-story tall blob monster whom they perceive to be the devil in another form. These time periods include early stages of racial, religious, and sexual prejudice. A black lesbian nun might fare well in one part of the world, but not in another.

That also begs the question of who would be the biggest threat to the main hero: Athoptlorys or this hodgepodge of time zones? Yes, dark lords are always sadistic and powerful, but this is a thunder dome of hatred we’re talking about here. If an ordinary person can survive both the forces of Athoptlorys’ government and the forces of prejudice, then he’s not only a hero in my book, he’s a god. He could start his own religion and lead the people of earth to a peaceful future where cultures get along and nobody has to worry about whether they’re going to survive another day in hell. The main hero would definitely have a push to the top of the literary charts, but when approaching this novel, it’s important not to shoot myself in the foot and make things TOO impossible.

　

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“When did we become these sinking stones? When did we build this broken home? Holding each other like ransom notes. Dropping our hearts to grip our brother’s throat.”

-Nothing More singing “This Is the Time (Ballast)”-

Terrato Matrix

When I was a kid watching TV, a commercial would come on for Taco Bell and their “crunchy supremes” or whatever the hell they were called. The tagline of those commercials was “Crunch so big, crunch so low, so everybody eat tacos!”

Around that same time, my brother James was playing Final Fantasy VI on the Super Nintendo and there was a monster in the game called Terrato, a giant snake who when summoned would cast a spell called Earth Aura and did a shit ton of damage to the enemies. Putting two and two together, I said, “Crunch it high, crunch it low, let’s all eat Terrato!” James, being the clever comedian he was, said in a mocking voice, “Let’s all eat a poisonous snake!”

If it hadn’t been for that small moment of childhood bliss, I wouldn’t have a fascination with the name Terrato and the character in question (Terrato Matrix) would have probably been named something else.

The Matrix part of his name was easy: he wore a black trench coat and sunglasses, just like Neo, Trinity, and Morpheus from The Matrix. Nearly a decade and a half after the moment of childhood bliss, I put two and two together once again and came up with the main character for a movie script I wrote called “Tower of Heaven”.

In “Tower of Heaven”, disgusting monsters called Intimidators took over the earth and the only safe sanctuary was an aura-protected tower named after the title of the movie. Terrato Matrix’s job was to find as many innocent people as he could and bring them safely to the Tower of Heaven until somebody could find the solution to this Intimidator apocalypse.

If anybody was qualified for the job, it was Terrato. He carried a machete everywhere he went, but he was more than a slasher. Most wizards carried wands, but when Terrato was slinging his machete, he was casting badass spells from fireballs to tidal waves to lightning bolts to shadow spikes to poison thorns. If “Tower of Heaven” didn’t end up sucking so badly and having a Deus Ex Machina ending, Terrato Matrix wouldn’t be unemployed right now.

Another job opportunity came for Terrato in the form of a dark fantasy novel called Zeromancer. He was a member of the story’s first act, though he didn’t get that much time in the limelight. He was embroiled in a rivalry with his brother Baraka over a marine chick named Jet McCammon. Terrato and Baraka both wanted her and the war between them got so heated that Jet was believed to be dead at one point. The two machete-wielding, trench coat-wearing brothers dueled it out until the fight ended in a draw and the main character of that act, Kento Bladecaptain, was left with fewer allies to fight the real threat to the world, a dragon barbarian named Atlas Venom. Way to get off track, Terrato.

That’s okay, because Zeromancer didn’t stand much of a chance either. It was written in 2011, a time where I thought it was acceptable to abuse hyperbolic comparisons and to write paragraphs a full 8.5 x 11 page long. To say Zeromancer was beyond repair would be putting it mildly. To say it was a fucking mess would be vulgar, but more accurate.

To show you how much Terrato meant to me during both 2008 (Tower of Heaven) and 2011 (Zeromancer), listen to this. He wasn’t just another character I could throw away willy-nilly. He was slated to be the next Deus Shadowheart when it came to popularity.

When I first introduced Deus in 2002, everybody at the Final Fantasy-themed MSN community he was a part of was excited to see him (except for a few douche bags who thought I was stealing from Starcraft, but that’s beside the point). Deus is still fresh in the minds of guys like James Howell, Kenny Flynn, Robert Hatfield, and many others who were old enough to remember. While Terrato didn’t reach that level of popularity, I was at least hoping he would. Don’t worry, Terrato: your turn for fame will eventually come. I hope.

　

***MOVIE QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“We’ve had our eye on you for quite sometime, Mr. Anderson. It appears you’re living two lives. In one of these lives, you’re Thomas Anderson. You’re a program writer for a respectable software company. You have a social security number. You pay taxes. You even take out your landlady’s garbage. In the other life, you’re alias hacker Neo. You’re guilty of virtually every computer crime we have a law for. One of these lives has a future. The other does not.”

-Agent Smith from “The Matrix”-

"The Filth" by Grant Morrison

Remember an old 1999 classic called “The Matrix”? You know, where the real world is an apocalyptic, dystopian hell and the fake world is a beautiful paradise? Apply this theory to “The Filth”, but make the dystopian hell a trashy world where the ground is covered in feces, skin flakes, urine, semen-covered pornography, snot, and pretty much anything else that would make Grant Morrison gag at his own work. This is the world of the appropriately titled “The Filth”. Ned Slade is an agent of a top secret organization called The Hand, whose sole purpose is to keep the gut-wrenching trash from contaminating the beautiful real world. You’re probably wondering to yourself why exactly these people call themselves The Hand? Well, when giving a wad of toilet paper after dropping a deuce in the toilet, what do you think hands do afterwards? Exactly. Cleaning up contaminations is a lot like wiping a dirty asshole in the world of “The Filth”. If this sounds like nightmare fuel that the main character wishes he could wake up from, it’s because it is. Whenever he’s not being a cleansing agent, Ned Slade leads an ordinary life as Greg Feely. Well, ordinary isn’t quite the word to describe it. As Greg Feely, people mistake him for a pedophile due to his porn-watching tendencies in a neighborhood full of playing children. All Greg really wants to do is take care of his sickly kitty cat Tony. The more people try to interfere with saving Tony’s life, the more combative Feely becomes, especially when he’s called into action as Ned Slade. Sounds like an…interesting storyline to say the least. But unlike the much cleaner “Matrix”, “The Filth” goes far beyond an ordinary R rating. Even with the censored addition I accidentally bought where the genitals and black semen were blurred out, it’s still going to haunt your psyche for many years to come. Definitely keep this book out of range of little children, lest you become a carbon copy of Greg Feely. A potential X rating is enough reason to buy this graphic novel, but if you’re a literary nut who loves symbolism despite its disgusting nature, you’ll appreciate this book too. Believe it or not, I actually had to read this book for a college class at Western Washington University. Maybe that’s by design since college students don’t gag and shiver whenever they see pee-pee parts, especially at the school I went to. If you’ve got a strong stomach and a smart mind all wrapped into one, buy this book. Don’t wait for it to become available at your local library or Christian book store, because it’ll never happen. Ever!

　

***RHETORICAL QUESTION OF THE DAY***

If your Lipchitz, what does your ass do?