***TOILET HUMOR***
You could be running late to a lot of things: a meeting, your job, a date, a party, or school to name a few examples. But if you’re running late to the bathroom, you can bet your ass someone will make comedy out of it. Toilet humor for me is very hit or miss. On one hand, using words like “nasal jelly” and “penis pudding” will always get a laugh. That’s one thing. But if someone is just pissing, shitting, and farting for the hell of it, that’s not comedy, that’s disgusting. If I ever give a book or movie a low review score, it’s probably because the bathroom humor was hammed up to the extreme. “Throw the Damn Ball” is an animal poetry book that received two stars from me because they couldn’t resist talking about piss and shit in every other stanza. “Doggolescence” at least had the decency to keep it to a minimum.
I’m not completely opposed to bathroom humor provided it’s done correctly, a.k.a. the exact opposite of what WWE is known for, which is one of the many reasons I stopped watching it in 2018. Natalya Neidhart, a technical genius in the ring and a naturally beautiful woman, was given a farting gimmick in 2012 and she never recovered from that humiliation. The Authors of Pain, a tag team consisting of two colossal MMA heavyweights, were reduced to a joke after their manager Drake Maverick pissed his pants on live television (and thus they were nicknamed AOPeePee). In 2019, The Usos rubbed their version of Icy Hot all over the inside of The Revival’s wrestling shorts and effectively killed their momentum in the process.
It’s hard to take anybody seriously as a character when they’ve been humiliated by bathroom humor. Apply this logic to any one of your favorite stories. You think Tobias Kaya from “The Savior’s Champion” would have gotten the girl in the end if he was a perpetual farting machine? You think Charlie from “The Perks of Being a Wallfower” would even be allowed into his new social circle if he shit himself on a regular basis? You think Jonathan Quinn from “The Cleaner” would be an effective secret agent if he constantly wet himself? The answer to all of these questions is an emphatic hell no. Bathroom humor by itself isn’t funny, but it really destroys a story if handled in a heavy-handed way.
So why am I telling you all this? Because if I don’t, you’ll think of me as a hypocrite for wanting to write short stories called “The Scatomancer” and “The Uromancer”. Any story with “mancer” in the title is automatically going to have magical implications. Unfortunately in this case, it’s a shit wizard and a piss wizard I’m itching to write about. There’s no way in hell I can tell serious stories given the material I’m working with. They have to be presented as bathroom comedies right out of the gate. The wizards have to be self-aware as far as their magical powers go. Do you honestly think Diablo II: Lord of Destruction would have been a worldwide success if one of the boss enemies was called The Scatomancer? Do you think Final Fantasy VII would take off as a serious emotional story if the Materia allowed the user to practice Uromancy? Oh! What riveting stories! Cloud Strife suddenly has the ability to make Sephiroth piss his pants! What’s so exciting about that?!
But if you’re honest about what you’re selling and you’re self-aware of your gross-out humor, that’s one thing. Case in point, John Kricfalusi, the creator of Ren & Stimpy, although I hate using him as an example because of his predatory behavior towards minors. But if I may be allowed one small second to separate the art from the artist, Ren & Stimpy was a shining example of bathroom humor done correctly. The lysergic animation, the wacky facial expressions, and the daringness to go beyond the capabilities of a TV-Y7 rating: that’s what bathroom humor should be about. However, it sucks that John K is a pedophile and he should be punished for that. Ren & Stimpy could have been dubbed the greatest cartoon of all time and it still wouldn’t absolve him.
I’m not saying I’m an expert in perfecting toilet humor. I openly hate it whenever it’s done incorrectly. I hate the damage it could do to an otherwise beautiful story. But I’ll at least try to get it right when I eventually write “The Scatomancer” and “The Uromancer”. If anybody has tips for me in this regard, I’d be open to feedback. One person I will not take feedback from is Vince McMahon, the same guy who greenlit a colonoscopy segment in 2005 involving Jim Ross where he pulled various objects out of Mr. Ross’s ass before opening it up further with a jackhammer and the Jaws of Life. You know what else Vince McMahon greenlit? A drug testing segment on Smackdown where Jeff Hardy threw a cup of urine in Sheamus’s face. I don’t miss WWE at all. Yeah, I’m happy that Drew McIntyre is finally the WWE Champion, but it’ll take more than that to get me to return to my television set.
Pissing and shitting isn’t comedy. Farting isn’t a ratings booster. They’re natural bodily functions that have to be done behind a locked bathroom door. Repeat: a locked bathroom door. If you have layers on top of those bodily functions, that could count as comedy. But the acts themselves? Not even close to being funny. I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight!
***MOVIE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***
SECURITY GUARD: Your pants are awfully baggy. You got anything in there?
BAD SANTA: Yeah, my dick. You want to see it?
-Bad Santa-
***POST-SCRIPT***
See? Was that so hard? That’s an example of toilet humor done right!
Monday, June 22, 2020
Couch Potato Salad
Running late to a party where I don’t belong
What’s the fucking point in staying so strong?
What’s the point in coming out of the shadows?
Small talk never got past the point of shallow
Laying on the couch and staring at the ceiling
Forgetting about my brokenhearted feelings
Forgetting that there are strangers all around me
I’d enter their social circles if they allowed me
Couch potato salad is what I’ve become
Lazy, dead inside, and comfortably numb
I didn’t have to suck down a single beer
To feel like sleeping forever in here
There’s a Denny’s only a few blocks away
Hopefully they’re open twenty-four hours a day
Pancakes and syrup to kill the loneliness
My body’s a temple and I’m his holiness
Nobody noticed that I got off the couch
Not a “goodbye” or “wait up” out of their mouths
That’s okay, they’re invisible to me as well
What about the waitress? Can she even tell?
Walking down the street with my head hung low
Keeping my pace so agonizingly slow
I don’t notice when someone tells me to move
To impatient strangers, I’ve nothing to prove
Another night of waffles and emptiness
Another night of squandered friendliness
Another night of being socially envious
Another night of depressive endlessness
When will I learn to stay home for the night?
When will I admit that I could never be right?
No more philosophy, just syrup and batter
It’s not like any of this even fucking matters
A happy Buddha belly and a frozen heart
This is how the next morning will start
Another day of wishing for bravery
And chowing down on steaks so savory
What’s the fucking point in staying so strong?
What’s the point in coming out of the shadows?
Small talk never got past the point of shallow
Laying on the couch and staring at the ceiling
Forgetting about my brokenhearted feelings
Forgetting that there are strangers all around me
I’d enter their social circles if they allowed me
Couch potato salad is what I’ve become
Lazy, dead inside, and comfortably numb
I didn’t have to suck down a single beer
To feel like sleeping forever in here
There’s a Denny’s only a few blocks away
Hopefully they’re open twenty-four hours a day
Pancakes and syrup to kill the loneliness
My body’s a temple and I’m his holiness
Nobody noticed that I got off the couch
Not a “goodbye” or “wait up” out of their mouths
That’s okay, they’re invisible to me as well
What about the waitress? Can she even tell?
Walking down the street with my head hung low
Keeping my pace so agonizingly slow
I don’t notice when someone tells me to move
To impatient strangers, I’ve nothing to prove
Another night of waffles and emptiness
Another night of squandered friendliness
Another night of being socially envious
Another night of depressive endlessness
When will I learn to stay home for the night?
When will I admit that I could never be right?
No more philosophy, just syrup and batter
It’s not like any of this even fucking matters
A happy Buddha belly and a frozen heart
This is how the next morning will start
Another day of wishing for bravery
And chowing down on steaks so savory
Friday, June 12, 2020
Hell Don't Need Me
Millions of years of evolution came unraveling for Harrison. Tufts of brown fur covered his already battered body. A tail protruded from his backside like a sword’s exit wound. His teeth sharpened and bulged from his gums in the same sword-like manner. His wild staring eyes grew bloodshot with rage and agony. His ham-like fists pounded against his cage as the anger within him built like dynamite. There was no more begging and pleading for the mercy of his eco-terrorist cohorts. The damage was done. Harrison was no more. In his place was a primitive savage with a thirst for blood and a nose for seeking out his prey. The more he punched the cage door, the hotter his rage became. And then…the door fell off.
There were other apes like him trapped in adjacent cages, pounding and growling for freedom. Harrison paid them no mind. His mother wanted a savage beast and she was about to get one. No plan of action. No intricate designs for revenge, just the love of revenge itself. Once he was free, with monkeys screaming in the background like his own personal cheerleaders, he pounded on the steel door to the prison room, creating little dents with each passing blow. Another series of punches, another dose of hot blood flowing through him. One dent turned into a crater of violence. And then, just like the door to his cage, this new door flew off like a leaf on a breeze.
Harrison sniffed around and perked his pointy ears up, but detected no signs of life, just an empty spaceship hallway complete with pipes and wires. More doors. More computer screens. More mumbo jumbo that used to mean something during his life as an eco-terrorist. Those days were long behind him, unlike the pipe he ripped off the wall with ease, which was right in front of him. Harrison smacked the steel pipe in his palm and bashed it off the floor several times, creating new dents where there were previously none. He howled and squeaked with a combination of excitement and anger. He loved this new weapon. He would love it even more once it struck somebody’s flesh.
And then…the common monkey scents grew stronger…and stronger. Harrison already knew he was basically occupying a zoo…but this animal prison had new blood…familiar blood…He took deeper whiffs to make sure he was locked onto this primal smell. His target burned into focus. They were all congregating down the hall. The excitement bubbling within Harrison caused even more primal screams and bashes of his lead pipe as he ran like a lunatic towards his destination. Another door to the cockpit? Where has he heard this story before? Harrison bashed his pipe against the door over and over again, creating the loudest thuds a prehistoric savage could possibly make. The deafening pounds didn’t create dents this time, but little explosions. Pieces of metal became lodged in his fur. Some got in his face, but Harrison didn’t bother wiping it away.
A few more bashes later and the door, much like Harrison’s evolutionary decline, was history. There they were, all in the cockpit like one big happy family. Except they too had prehistoric violence coursing through their veins. The monkey virus had gotten to all of them. His three brothers’ scents were powerful enough to knock a buzzard off of a shit wagon. But his mother…the revered leader of a once powerful terrorist unit…the perfume and glamour had given way to a pungent odor that no mother should have. Every guilty party was gathered in one convenient room, all of them swinging around and bashing the environment around them. They didn’t even try to acknowledge Harrison’s presence. Maybe he was too far gone after all. But if that was true…how did he utter the words, “Hell don’t need me!”
Brother number one was the first to feel Harrison’s wrath in the form of a tail chomp so bloody that the limb fell off. The furry attachment flailed around like a crazy cobra while the brother screamed and writhed in agony. The other two brothers flew into battle with their anvil fists ready to disfigure any face they came across. Harrison bashed one of their ribcages in with the steel pipe and got pounced by the other brother. Harrison’s attacker leaned his face in with monster teeth bared, prepping to take a bite of delicious animal meat. Harrison held the pipe to his brother’s throat and pushed as hard as he could, drawing a small amount of blood from his mouth. Then the victim took the role of the bully as he bit his attacker’s finger off and spit it in his eye. Once Harrison was free, he wailed on his brother with the steel pipe over and over again until he was nothing more than a pile of shattered bones and pooling blood.
Harrison surveyed the damage he did in that small moment of white hot anger. His first brother passed out on the floor bleeding profusely from his tail, gangrene not too far behind. The brother with the shattered ribcage took his last breaths in the form of punctured wheezes. The less said about the third brother, the better. Harrison raised his lead pipe to the sky and roared like the savage he was meant to become. He even bashed the steel floor a few more times just to make sure he got all of his primal instincts out of his system. They were, but not in the way he had anticipated. Another cry sounded off in the room, but this one was tear-laden and shaky.
The mother monkey sat in the pilot’s seat of the ship with pleading and sorrow in her eyes. She got on her hands and knees begging for forgiveness, begging for a second chance despite the fact it would never be possible after these transformations. Wetness dropped from her bloodshot eyes and mucous splashed the floor beneath her. She even extended her arms for a peaceful hug, mother to son, just like the way it should have been.
Harrison’s former human side clouded his mind during this sympathetic display. He was feeling things again. His heart ached. His eyes dewed up when he took a second look at his fallen brothers. He snorted mucous upon locking eyes with his mother. “M…M…Mom?” This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Families weren’t supposed to treat each other this way. Everyone was in the wrong. Everyone had something to be guilty over. This was what it meant to be human, even if that particular DNA was a small percentage. Harrison dropped the pipe and embraced his mother, the two of them shedding tears on each other’s furry shoulders. They could start over and track down the bastard who did this to them.
But then the mother took a big bite out of Harrison’s right ear, gnawing it completely off and causing a rainstorm of blood to soak his fur. The mother bit him again, this time on the cheek. And again in the other ear. And again on the nose. Harrison tried to howl in pain, but blood was pouring onto his tongue and censoring his animalistic speech. His heart was broken. His stomach ached with betrayal. Screwed over twice by his own mother. This would be his legacy going forward. He started out as an incompetent eco-terrorist and he would die as a dumb ass monkey. With most of his face bloody and eaten, now wouldn’t be the good time for a head butt. Then again, logic wasn’t the animal kingdom’s strong suit, not even in the human world.
Harrison head butted his mother in the face and cracked her skull, causing her to spit out her sharpest front fangs. The two of them punched and wrestled each other, causing even more blood to stain the already dirty battlefield. Bones cracked. Organs sloshed around. Vomit projected from the mother’s mouth after a vicious kick to the stomach. Despite having cracked teeth himself, Harrison took one last bite out of his mother’s tail, ripping it off and bleeding her dry. The rage-filled demeanor in the mother monkey’s eyes rolled backwards to reveal dizziness and defeat. She stumbled around aimlessly while Harrison dragged his battered body over to the steel pipe before picking it up.
Once the mother plopped backwards on the ground, Harrison dragged his knuckles and his weapon across the ground, creating annoying screeching sounds in doing so, before raising the pipe in the air to deliver the final blow. “Hell…don’t…need…ME!” When Harrison brought the pipe down across his mother’s sternum and exploded her heart, he fell with her, though that was more owed to the sudden shaking of the spaceship they were in. Harrison’s dizzy eyes shifted in and out of focus as the turbulence jostled him around. The mild turbulence became a full on crash, launching Harrison through the windshield and onto the pavement.
This was it. With glass fragments stuck in his fur and blood pouring all over his body, Harrison could finally rest knowing his family was burning in hell. But then a familiar scent awakened him. His eyes slowly opened and his vision was obscured by tears and blood. It was a painstaking process pulling himself to his feet. But drag his body he did, leaving a smattering of life juices across the pavement.
Somebody else’s broken body laid on the sidewalk. All life was completely gone from this new corpse’s eyes, his fingers stuck in a gun position, his blue suit and tie a mess, and his puffy hair ripped and torn. Upon whiffing even deeper, Harrison recognized the familiar scent as the bounty hunter who unleashed his mother’s own monkey virus on the family. Spike Spiegel his name was, right?
Harrison, still holding onto his pipe, gritted his shattered teeth and crawled slowly towards Spike’s prone body. He raised the pipe in the air as if to write the final chapter of this story, despite that chapter already passing. One bash and Harrison’s revenge would be complete. And then…the human side took over once more. Harrison tossed the lead pipe aside and instead cradled Spike’s head in his lap, once again repeating the symbolic words, “Hell…don’t…need…me…” The monkey’s head swam as his vision blacked out. That would be his final act as a living creature: forgiveness for his former enemy. Why? Because it just felt right. It felt…human, at best. Evolution had taken root once again, more so in those last few seconds of life than a million years ever could.
“Hell…don’t…need…me…”
There were other apes like him trapped in adjacent cages, pounding and growling for freedom. Harrison paid them no mind. His mother wanted a savage beast and she was about to get one. No plan of action. No intricate designs for revenge, just the love of revenge itself. Once he was free, with monkeys screaming in the background like his own personal cheerleaders, he pounded on the steel door to the prison room, creating little dents with each passing blow. Another series of punches, another dose of hot blood flowing through him. One dent turned into a crater of violence. And then, just like the door to his cage, this new door flew off like a leaf on a breeze.
Harrison sniffed around and perked his pointy ears up, but detected no signs of life, just an empty spaceship hallway complete with pipes and wires. More doors. More computer screens. More mumbo jumbo that used to mean something during his life as an eco-terrorist. Those days were long behind him, unlike the pipe he ripped off the wall with ease, which was right in front of him. Harrison smacked the steel pipe in his palm and bashed it off the floor several times, creating new dents where there were previously none. He howled and squeaked with a combination of excitement and anger. He loved this new weapon. He would love it even more once it struck somebody’s flesh.
And then…the common monkey scents grew stronger…and stronger. Harrison already knew he was basically occupying a zoo…but this animal prison had new blood…familiar blood…He took deeper whiffs to make sure he was locked onto this primal smell. His target burned into focus. They were all congregating down the hall. The excitement bubbling within Harrison caused even more primal screams and bashes of his lead pipe as he ran like a lunatic towards his destination. Another door to the cockpit? Where has he heard this story before? Harrison bashed his pipe against the door over and over again, creating the loudest thuds a prehistoric savage could possibly make. The deafening pounds didn’t create dents this time, but little explosions. Pieces of metal became lodged in his fur. Some got in his face, but Harrison didn’t bother wiping it away.
A few more bashes later and the door, much like Harrison’s evolutionary decline, was history. There they were, all in the cockpit like one big happy family. Except they too had prehistoric violence coursing through their veins. The monkey virus had gotten to all of them. His three brothers’ scents were powerful enough to knock a buzzard off of a shit wagon. But his mother…the revered leader of a once powerful terrorist unit…the perfume and glamour had given way to a pungent odor that no mother should have. Every guilty party was gathered in one convenient room, all of them swinging around and bashing the environment around them. They didn’t even try to acknowledge Harrison’s presence. Maybe he was too far gone after all. But if that was true…how did he utter the words, “Hell don’t need me!”
Brother number one was the first to feel Harrison’s wrath in the form of a tail chomp so bloody that the limb fell off. The furry attachment flailed around like a crazy cobra while the brother screamed and writhed in agony. The other two brothers flew into battle with their anvil fists ready to disfigure any face they came across. Harrison bashed one of their ribcages in with the steel pipe and got pounced by the other brother. Harrison’s attacker leaned his face in with monster teeth bared, prepping to take a bite of delicious animal meat. Harrison held the pipe to his brother’s throat and pushed as hard as he could, drawing a small amount of blood from his mouth. Then the victim took the role of the bully as he bit his attacker’s finger off and spit it in his eye. Once Harrison was free, he wailed on his brother with the steel pipe over and over again until he was nothing more than a pile of shattered bones and pooling blood.
Harrison surveyed the damage he did in that small moment of white hot anger. His first brother passed out on the floor bleeding profusely from his tail, gangrene not too far behind. The brother with the shattered ribcage took his last breaths in the form of punctured wheezes. The less said about the third brother, the better. Harrison raised his lead pipe to the sky and roared like the savage he was meant to become. He even bashed the steel floor a few more times just to make sure he got all of his primal instincts out of his system. They were, but not in the way he had anticipated. Another cry sounded off in the room, but this one was tear-laden and shaky.
The mother monkey sat in the pilot’s seat of the ship with pleading and sorrow in her eyes. She got on her hands and knees begging for forgiveness, begging for a second chance despite the fact it would never be possible after these transformations. Wetness dropped from her bloodshot eyes and mucous splashed the floor beneath her. She even extended her arms for a peaceful hug, mother to son, just like the way it should have been.
Harrison’s former human side clouded his mind during this sympathetic display. He was feeling things again. His heart ached. His eyes dewed up when he took a second look at his fallen brothers. He snorted mucous upon locking eyes with his mother. “M…M…Mom?” This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Families weren’t supposed to treat each other this way. Everyone was in the wrong. Everyone had something to be guilty over. This was what it meant to be human, even if that particular DNA was a small percentage. Harrison dropped the pipe and embraced his mother, the two of them shedding tears on each other’s furry shoulders. They could start over and track down the bastard who did this to them.
But then the mother took a big bite out of Harrison’s right ear, gnawing it completely off and causing a rainstorm of blood to soak his fur. The mother bit him again, this time on the cheek. And again in the other ear. And again on the nose. Harrison tried to howl in pain, but blood was pouring onto his tongue and censoring his animalistic speech. His heart was broken. His stomach ached with betrayal. Screwed over twice by his own mother. This would be his legacy going forward. He started out as an incompetent eco-terrorist and he would die as a dumb ass monkey. With most of his face bloody and eaten, now wouldn’t be the good time for a head butt. Then again, logic wasn’t the animal kingdom’s strong suit, not even in the human world.
Harrison head butted his mother in the face and cracked her skull, causing her to spit out her sharpest front fangs. The two of them punched and wrestled each other, causing even more blood to stain the already dirty battlefield. Bones cracked. Organs sloshed around. Vomit projected from the mother’s mouth after a vicious kick to the stomach. Despite having cracked teeth himself, Harrison took one last bite out of his mother’s tail, ripping it off and bleeding her dry. The rage-filled demeanor in the mother monkey’s eyes rolled backwards to reveal dizziness and defeat. She stumbled around aimlessly while Harrison dragged his battered body over to the steel pipe before picking it up.
Once the mother plopped backwards on the ground, Harrison dragged his knuckles and his weapon across the ground, creating annoying screeching sounds in doing so, before raising the pipe in the air to deliver the final blow. “Hell…don’t…need…ME!” When Harrison brought the pipe down across his mother’s sternum and exploded her heart, he fell with her, though that was more owed to the sudden shaking of the spaceship they were in. Harrison’s dizzy eyes shifted in and out of focus as the turbulence jostled him around. The mild turbulence became a full on crash, launching Harrison through the windshield and onto the pavement.
This was it. With glass fragments stuck in his fur and blood pouring all over his body, Harrison could finally rest knowing his family was burning in hell. But then a familiar scent awakened him. His eyes slowly opened and his vision was obscured by tears and blood. It was a painstaking process pulling himself to his feet. But drag his body he did, leaving a smattering of life juices across the pavement.
Somebody else’s broken body laid on the sidewalk. All life was completely gone from this new corpse’s eyes, his fingers stuck in a gun position, his blue suit and tie a mess, and his puffy hair ripped and torn. Upon whiffing even deeper, Harrison recognized the familiar scent as the bounty hunter who unleashed his mother’s own monkey virus on the family. Spike Spiegel his name was, right?
Harrison, still holding onto his pipe, gritted his shattered teeth and crawled slowly towards Spike’s prone body. He raised the pipe in the air as if to write the final chapter of this story, despite that chapter already passing. One bash and Harrison’s revenge would be complete. And then…the human side took over once more. Harrison tossed the lead pipe aside and instead cradled Spike’s head in his lap, once again repeating the symbolic words, “Hell…don’t…need…me…” The monkey’s head swam as his vision blacked out. That would be his final act as a living creature: forgiveness for his former enemy. Why? Because it just felt right. It felt…human, at best. Evolution had taken root once again, more so in those last few seconds of life than a million years ever could.
“Hell…don’t…need…me…”
Saturday, June 6, 2020
Why I Don't Show Vulnerability
***WHY I DON’T SHOW VULNERABILITY***
Earlier today, I had a brief conversation on Face Book with my long time beta reader and confidant Ashley. It started off with a post about how I haven’t had a full-on crying spell since the year 2007. That sentence alone is disturbing enough, but not nearly as disturbing as me using the word “record” to describe that year. I wasn’t thinking about the braggadocios connotations the word “record” has. There’s even something called the Guinness World Book of Records, where every inductee has something to brag about. I never meant to sound proud of not being able to cry, but that’s how it came out and that’s how the conversation got rolling along.
Ever since that conversation, I’ve had a lot of time to think about why it is that the “record” still stands. I’ve certainly had my fair share of reasons to cry all throughout the 2010’s. I’ve lost pets to old age, I’ve lost an uncle to a car accident, I’ve lost a grandmother to natural causes, I’ve had bad reviews for my books, there were times when I thought my career was over…and yet, my eyes remained dry through it all. You can’t mistake me for a tough guy, though. You could attribute it all to emotional numbness brought on by mental illnesses and the medications used to treat them. But the truth is, nothing about my dry eyes is that simple. I’ve got my own reasons for why I don’t show vulnerability.
When the day finally comes that I unleash the waterworks, I want it to be done in a place where nobody else is around to check on me. I don’t want to be checked on. I don’t want to be overprotected. It has nothing to do with coldness towards those people. It has everything to do with being too vulnerable in front of people who want to know more about my emotional state of mind. So I tell them what’s wrong…and they want to know more…and I tell them what’s wrong…and they want to know more…and I tell them what’s wrong…and they want to know more. The more they ask, the more triggered I become. The more triggered I become, the harder it is for me to recover. Talking things out has never worked in my favor. In fact, it only makes the triggers worse. It could be a byproduct of schizophrenia. It could be fear of embarrassment. It could be the fear of never moving on again and being stuck with spinning wheels. Who knows?
Now that I think about it, the concept of asking someone about their triggers and being relentless about it is probably the biggest influence on Tarja Rikkinen’s character work in the very first draft of Beautiful Monster. It was coincidentally what she was criticized for the most. I mistakenly thought that asking about triggers and forcing people to talk was a normal part of the therapeutic process. Nope! Turns out my instincts about making triggers worse was right all along. Then again, first draft Tarja was also the same character who believed that giving Windham the best sex of his life would erase the worst sex of his life at the hands of Shelly and Torger. Nope! That too is just tropey ignorance.
So…if feeling naked in front of people will lead to triggering bad memories and emotions…and talking about it all doesn’t help…what is the solution? You know, aside from taking pills and making life slightly more tolerable. Maybe there’s a magic ritual where a witchdoctor will reach inside my head and pull out all of the malignant parts of my mind. With nothing left to agonize over, happiness would take over and 2020 will be a much easier burden to bear. But of course, these magic rituals don’t exist. Otherwise, nobody would be emotionally damaged and witchdoctors would be richer…than they already are, along with psychics and Goop Lab “scientists”. There is no magic solution to it all. There is no conversation that can convince my mind to ease up on me. Crying privately isn’t a permanent solution either. I can listen to reason, but my mind cannot.
But then again, being an emotional time bomb for thirteen years doesn’t seem like much fun either. Maybe it’s why I get angry at little things. Maybe it’s why I get easily burned out and exhausted. Maybe it’s why I’m bored shitless more often than not. Maybe it’s why I get anxious on the rare occasions that women flirt with me. Who knows? All I know is that all of the pent up emotions have to go somewhere. Why not have them go to a place where it’s easy to control the outcome? I’ve already mentioned crying privately, but is that really the answer to it all? Is it possible to have a deep conversation without triggering every negative feeling within me? What exactly does “confronting my emotions” look like?
Heh…You know what I just realized? The title of this blog entry is called “Why I Don’t Show Vulnerability” and I just spent the last few paragraphs doing just that. By reading this, you know more about me than most people ever will. Do you want to know more? And more? And more? And more? Can it, Tarja Rikkinen. You can ask as many questions as you like, but if a topic gets too uncomfortable, you have to allow me the right to refuse to answer. This isn’t Scientology. This is life. This is living through 2020 and coming out of the other side smelling like roses. Of course, the police brutality and Corona Virus pandemic won’t allow that to happen. But I can at least try, right?
What would perpetual happiness look like for me personally? What happened before 2020 that made me feel like I could conquer the world? Well, let’s start with December 2014, where I took a vacation to San Diego, California so that I could visit Lego Land. That vacation made me so happy that I completely reinvented my mind. From that moment on, I always found the energy to do creative work, I was never bored, I actually paid attention to new music that was blasting in my ears, WWE was actually fun to watch (for me, anyways), my relationships with family and friends were cherished to the fullest extent…am I leaving anything out?
And then…February 2018 rolled along and I suddenly had what I like to call “permission to feel bad again”. I hate to keep beating the dead Millennium horse over and over again, but on the night before my Pop Evil concert, I got curious and looked up “A Room with No View” on Wikipedia. I had seen the episode back in the late 90’s when it aired and I originally thought it was about a yandere who wanted a boyfriend so badly that she used violence to keep him under lock and key. Nope! It’s worse! Turns out that yandere was a seductress who used her sexuality to brainwash high school students into becoming mediocre and ordinary versions of themselves. I originally invalidated my feelings because Millennium is a work of fiction and could never happen in the real world. But when you invalidate your own feelings…you become a thirteen-year time bomb waiting for that one day to let the waterworks flow. But hey, at least I got Beautiful Monster out of that disturbing as shit episode, so that’s a plus.
And then…2018 continued to descend into darkness. I lost three pets that year (Maggie, Sitka, and Smokey), I quit watching WWE because they put on the worst episode of Monday Night Raw in November, Reina moved out of the house to live with Susan on a boat after an intense argument with our family…and…hmm…what else happened? That’s right! The year 2019 rolled along! I adopted Emilio back in December of 2018 and he died on June of 2019, the same month has my birthday. I stopped watching Real Time with Bill Maher after he exploited Stan Lee’s death and mocked fat people. The year 2020 showed its ugly head and before all of the worldwide trauma started, my big fat cat Oswald died in February. And now…here we are. I was given permission to feel bad, I slowed down creatively, and I honestly don’t think it’s appropriate for me to try to rebuild my happiness with everything going on with George Floyd’s murder and Corona Virus.
I just now noticed that I’m rambling on in this blog entry. I forgot where my original talking points were going. So I’m just going to end it here. Truth is, I never should have referred to the year 2007 as “the record”. There are other words for it, I’m an English major, and I can make it happen. There will be a day when the floodgates open and I drench my cheeks with salty fluids. When will that day be? I don’t know. But when that day comes, I hope nobody’s around to see me at my worst. I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight!
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“We used to laugh. We used to cry. We used to bow our heads and wonder why. And now you’re gone. I guess I’ll carry on and make the best of what you’ve left to me. And every day, I’d laugh the hours away just knowing you were thinking of me. And then it came that I was put to blame for every story told about me. I need you like the flower needs the rain. You know I need you. Guess I’ll start it all again. I need you like the winter needs the spring. You know I need you. I need you.”
-America singing “I Need You”-
Earlier today, I had a brief conversation on Face Book with my long time beta reader and confidant Ashley. It started off with a post about how I haven’t had a full-on crying spell since the year 2007. That sentence alone is disturbing enough, but not nearly as disturbing as me using the word “record” to describe that year. I wasn’t thinking about the braggadocios connotations the word “record” has. There’s even something called the Guinness World Book of Records, where every inductee has something to brag about. I never meant to sound proud of not being able to cry, but that’s how it came out and that’s how the conversation got rolling along.
Ever since that conversation, I’ve had a lot of time to think about why it is that the “record” still stands. I’ve certainly had my fair share of reasons to cry all throughout the 2010’s. I’ve lost pets to old age, I’ve lost an uncle to a car accident, I’ve lost a grandmother to natural causes, I’ve had bad reviews for my books, there were times when I thought my career was over…and yet, my eyes remained dry through it all. You can’t mistake me for a tough guy, though. You could attribute it all to emotional numbness brought on by mental illnesses and the medications used to treat them. But the truth is, nothing about my dry eyes is that simple. I’ve got my own reasons for why I don’t show vulnerability.
When the day finally comes that I unleash the waterworks, I want it to be done in a place where nobody else is around to check on me. I don’t want to be checked on. I don’t want to be overprotected. It has nothing to do with coldness towards those people. It has everything to do with being too vulnerable in front of people who want to know more about my emotional state of mind. So I tell them what’s wrong…and they want to know more…and I tell them what’s wrong…and they want to know more…and I tell them what’s wrong…and they want to know more. The more they ask, the more triggered I become. The more triggered I become, the harder it is for me to recover. Talking things out has never worked in my favor. In fact, it only makes the triggers worse. It could be a byproduct of schizophrenia. It could be fear of embarrassment. It could be the fear of never moving on again and being stuck with spinning wheels. Who knows?
Now that I think about it, the concept of asking someone about their triggers and being relentless about it is probably the biggest influence on Tarja Rikkinen’s character work in the very first draft of Beautiful Monster. It was coincidentally what she was criticized for the most. I mistakenly thought that asking about triggers and forcing people to talk was a normal part of the therapeutic process. Nope! Turns out my instincts about making triggers worse was right all along. Then again, first draft Tarja was also the same character who believed that giving Windham the best sex of his life would erase the worst sex of his life at the hands of Shelly and Torger. Nope! That too is just tropey ignorance.
So…if feeling naked in front of people will lead to triggering bad memories and emotions…and talking about it all doesn’t help…what is the solution? You know, aside from taking pills and making life slightly more tolerable. Maybe there’s a magic ritual where a witchdoctor will reach inside my head and pull out all of the malignant parts of my mind. With nothing left to agonize over, happiness would take over and 2020 will be a much easier burden to bear. But of course, these magic rituals don’t exist. Otherwise, nobody would be emotionally damaged and witchdoctors would be richer…than they already are, along with psychics and Goop Lab “scientists”. There is no magic solution to it all. There is no conversation that can convince my mind to ease up on me. Crying privately isn’t a permanent solution either. I can listen to reason, but my mind cannot.
But then again, being an emotional time bomb for thirteen years doesn’t seem like much fun either. Maybe it’s why I get angry at little things. Maybe it’s why I get easily burned out and exhausted. Maybe it’s why I’m bored shitless more often than not. Maybe it’s why I get anxious on the rare occasions that women flirt with me. Who knows? All I know is that all of the pent up emotions have to go somewhere. Why not have them go to a place where it’s easy to control the outcome? I’ve already mentioned crying privately, but is that really the answer to it all? Is it possible to have a deep conversation without triggering every negative feeling within me? What exactly does “confronting my emotions” look like?
Heh…You know what I just realized? The title of this blog entry is called “Why I Don’t Show Vulnerability” and I just spent the last few paragraphs doing just that. By reading this, you know more about me than most people ever will. Do you want to know more? And more? And more? And more? Can it, Tarja Rikkinen. You can ask as many questions as you like, but if a topic gets too uncomfortable, you have to allow me the right to refuse to answer. This isn’t Scientology. This is life. This is living through 2020 and coming out of the other side smelling like roses. Of course, the police brutality and Corona Virus pandemic won’t allow that to happen. But I can at least try, right?
What would perpetual happiness look like for me personally? What happened before 2020 that made me feel like I could conquer the world? Well, let’s start with December 2014, where I took a vacation to San Diego, California so that I could visit Lego Land. That vacation made me so happy that I completely reinvented my mind. From that moment on, I always found the energy to do creative work, I was never bored, I actually paid attention to new music that was blasting in my ears, WWE was actually fun to watch (for me, anyways), my relationships with family and friends were cherished to the fullest extent…am I leaving anything out?
And then…February 2018 rolled along and I suddenly had what I like to call “permission to feel bad again”. I hate to keep beating the dead Millennium horse over and over again, but on the night before my Pop Evil concert, I got curious and looked up “A Room with No View” on Wikipedia. I had seen the episode back in the late 90’s when it aired and I originally thought it was about a yandere who wanted a boyfriend so badly that she used violence to keep him under lock and key. Nope! It’s worse! Turns out that yandere was a seductress who used her sexuality to brainwash high school students into becoming mediocre and ordinary versions of themselves. I originally invalidated my feelings because Millennium is a work of fiction and could never happen in the real world. But when you invalidate your own feelings…you become a thirteen-year time bomb waiting for that one day to let the waterworks flow. But hey, at least I got Beautiful Monster out of that disturbing as shit episode, so that’s a plus.
And then…2018 continued to descend into darkness. I lost three pets that year (Maggie, Sitka, and Smokey), I quit watching WWE because they put on the worst episode of Monday Night Raw in November, Reina moved out of the house to live with Susan on a boat after an intense argument with our family…and…hmm…what else happened? That’s right! The year 2019 rolled along! I adopted Emilio back in December of 2018 and he died on June of 2019, the same month has my birthday. I stopped watching Real Time with Bill Maher after he exploited Stan Lee’s death and mocked fat people. The year 2020 showed its ugly head and before all of the worldwide trauma started, my big fat cat Oswald died in February. And now…here we are. I was given permission to feel bad, I slowed down creatively, and I honestly don’t think it’s appropriate for me to try to rebuild my happiness with everything going on with George Floyd’s murder and Corona Virus.
I just now noticed that I’m rambling on in this blog entry. I forgot where my original talking points were going. So I’m just going to end it here. Truth is, I never should have referred to the year 2007 as “the record”. There are other words for it, I’m an English major, and I can make it happen. There will be a day when the floodgates open and I drench my cheeks with salty fluids. When will that day be? I don’t know. But when that day comes, I hope nobody’s around to see me at my worst. I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight!
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“We used to laugh. We used to cry. We used to bow our heads and wonder why. And now you’re gone. I guess I’ll carry on and make the best of what you’ve left to me. And every day, I’d laugh the hours away just knowing you were thinking of me. And then it came that I was put to blame for every story told about me. I need you like the flower needs the rain. You know I need you. Guess I’ll start it all again. I need you like the winter needs the spring. You know I need you. I need you.”
-America singing “I Need You”-
Friday, June 5, 2020
"The PROX Transmissions" by Dustin Bates
BOOK TITLE: The PROX Transmissions
AUTHORS: Dustin Bates
YEAR: 2017
GENRE: Graphic Novel
SUBGENRE: Science Fiction
GRADE: Pass
A greedy one-percent corporation who wants total control of humanity-saving technology? Check. That same corporation wanting to keep the masses ignorant and amnesic? Check. A secret society that wants to make the technology public so that we don’t live through an apocalypse? Check. And what about a couple of pawns who happen to be highly-esteemed engineers? Double check. When you strip away the sci-fi elements, this graphic novel begins to read like a prophecy. Unlike Mike Judge, Dustin Bates wasn’t off by 490 years. This is classic capitalist dystopia at its most dangerous. When profits come before people, the people won’t remain and they’re the most important resource we have. The loudest voices of our generation are being silenced, provided those voices don’t belong to the willfully ignorant or the economically powerful. If this graphic novel about decoding a space transmission doesn’t serve as a warning to humanity, I don’t know what will.
I know this book doesn’t seem like much of a message given it’s only eighty-eight pages and the first half of it is riddled with cheesiness. Sometimes the dialogue seems like an exposition dump or wholly unrealistic. The romantic relationship between Stephen and Dana happened way too quickly, which might have been by design considering what we learn about Dana. Some of the main characters are removed from the plot too easily and when they come back it almost seems like Deus Ex Machina. While I appreciate the scientific terminology being broken down into laymen’s terms, that too feels a lot like an exposition dump. The sob story that Stephen tells Dana about his ongoing divorce feels forced and only thrown in there as a ham-fisted attempt to garner sympathy. The fact that it was so endearing to Dana is a little bit sick. After this first half was over, I wrestled with myself about what grade I should give this book.
And then the second half came along and everything became as clear as day. The action got hot and heavy in a hurry when the assassination attempts on the main characters were taken more seriously. The cryptic text messages weren’t just a cliché plot device after all and actually led to the greater good. The technology that the evil corporation wants to get their hands on would quite frankly go a long way in rebuilding our economy in the real world. The anti-capitalist themes were more apparent and more urgent-sounding. There were twists and turns that made me forget about the Deus Ex Machina reinsertion of lost characters. The ending brings about a full circle effect that leaves the story open-ended, much like the uncertainty of life itself. I guess what I’m trying to say with this paragraph is that if you’re waiting for things to stop being cheesy and start being real, then your patience will be rewarded with a brilliantly-written story. The eighty-eight pages will feel jam-packed with everything you’re looking for in a dystopian journey.
The author of this graphic novel, Dustin Bates, also happens to be the lead singer and songwriter for the electronic rock band Starset. He doesn’t just write a neat little story; he lives the gimmick. He believes everything he says and we should listen to him. Does the sci-fi aspect seem silly to ordinary people? Absolutely. But does the genre make the message any less important? No way. Whether you think he believes his own gimmick too much or not, Dustin Bates is doing what every classic sci-fi storyteller has done before him: predict the future and call his readers to arms. For that, this graphic novel deserves four out of five stars.
AUTHORS: Dustin Bates
YEAR: 2017
GENRE: Graphic Novel
SUBGENRE: Science Fiction
GRADE: Pass
A greedy one-percent corporation who wants total control of humanity-saving technology? Check. That same corporation wanting to keep the masses ignorant and amnesic? Check. A secret society that wants to make the technology public so that we don’t live through an apocalypse? Check. And what about a couple of pawns who happen to be highly-esteemed engineers? Double check. When you strip away the sci-fi elements, this graphic novel begins to read like a prophecy. Unlike Mike Judge, Dustin Bates wasn’t off by 490 years. This is classic capitalist dystopia at its most dangerous. When profits come before people, the people won’t remain and they’re the most important resource we have. The loudest voices of our generation are being silenced, provided those voices don’t belong to the willfully ignorant or the economically powerful. If this graphic novel about decoding a space transmission doesn’t serve as a warning to humanity, I don’t know what will.
I know this book doesn’t seem like much of a message given it’s only eighty-eight pages and the first half of it is riddled with cheesiness. Sometimes the dialogue seems like an exposition dump or wholly unrealistic. The romantic relationship between Stephen and Dana happened way too quickly, which might have been by design considering what we learn about Dana. Some of the main characters are removed from the plot too easily and when they come back it almost seems like Deus Ex Machina. While I appreciate the scientific terminology being broken down into laymen’s terms, that too feels a lot like an exposition dump. The sob story that Stephen tells Dana about his ongoing divorce feels forced and only thrown in there as a ham-fisted attempt to garner sympathy. The fact that it was so endearing to Dana is a little bit sick. After this first half was over, I wrestled with myself about what grade I should give this book.
And then the second half came along and everything became as clear as day. The action got hot and heavy in a hurry when the assassination attempts on the main characters were taken more seriously. The cryptic text messages weren’t just a cliché plot device after all and actually led to the greater good. The technology that the evil corporation wants to get their hands on would quite frankly go a long way in rebuilding our economy in the real world. The anti-capitalist themes were more apparent and more urgent-sounding. There were twists and turns that made me forget about the Deus Ex Machina reinsertion of lost characters. The ending brings about a full circle effect that leaves the story open-ended, much like the uncertainty of life itself. I guess what I’m trying to say with this paragraph is that if you’re waiting for things to stop being cheesy and start being real, then your patience will be rewarded with a brilliantly-written story. The eighty-eight pages will feel jam-packed with everything you’re looking for in a dystopian journey.
The author of this graphic novel, Dustin Bates, also happens to be the lead singer and songwriter for the electronic rock band Starset. He doesn’t just write a neat little story; he lives the gimmick. He believes everything he says and we should listen to him. Does the sci-fi aspect seem silly to ordinary people? Absolutely. But does the genre make the message any less important? No way. Whether you think he believes his own gimmick too much or not, Dustin Bates is doing what every classic sci-fi storyteller has done before him: predict the future and call his readers to arms. For that, this graphic novel deserves four out of five stars.
Wednesday, June 3, 2020
"Doggolescence" by Rachel Oates and Kyra the Staffy
BOOK TITLE: Doggolescence
AUTHORS: Rachel Oates and Kyra the Staffy
YEAR: 2020
GENRE: Poetry
SUBGENRE: Animal Parodies
GRADE: Pass
All Rachel Oates wanted to do was have some fun at the expense of Gabbie Hanna and her “poetry”. Nothing too serious, just a few parodies from the point of view of Rachel’s lovable doggy Kyra. Because Kyra has childlike innocence, the parody poems are simple by nature, but are much more entertaining than the source material. There are lots of funny ones like “Honey”, “Texts”, and “Mirror”, but also some serious ones like “Nights”. Judging from the effective punch lines at the end of the funnier poems, if Rachel Oates wanted to be a standup comic somewhere down the line, she very well could since she possesses a perfect understanding of joke structures. But a poem like “Nights” will hit you like a heavyweight punch to the gut. Dogs who live at shelters are notoriously lonely since they have nobody to snuggle with and all of the blankets and toys on the concrete floor doesn’t change the fact that the floor is indeed made out of concrete. I know the phrase, “Adopt, don’t shop!” gets used quite liberally, but to be frank, it doesn’t get said enough. Rachel understands this and not only did she get an awesome book out of it, but she has something worth so much more: a loving doggy to call her own. Belly rubs, ear scratches, jowl wiggles, and most importantly, steak treats! All the good things in life come from Rachel’s home. Which is why it’s hard for me to point out one teeny tiny little flaw in this collection: too much bathroom humor for my tastes. But that’s just my opinion and Rachel doesn’t have to adjust her writing style for one reader. All in all, a nice little poetry book even if she openly admits to putting as little effort into it as Gabbie Hanna put into her own book. Four out of five stars! And by the way, the pictures of Kyra are so darn cute!
AUTHORS: Rachel Oates and Kyra the Staffy
YEAR: 2020
GENRE: Poetry
SUBGENRE: Animal Parodies
GRADE: Pass
All Rachel Oates wanted to do was have some fun at the expense of Gabbie Hanna and her “poetry”. Nothing too serious, just a few parodies from the point of view of Rachel’s lovable doggy Kyra. Because Kyra has childlike innocence, the parody poems are simple by nature, but are much more entertaining than the source material. There are lots of funny ones like “Honey”, “Texts”, and “Mirror”, but also some serious ones like “Nights”. Judging from the effective punch lines at the end of the funnier poems, if Rachel Oates wanted to be a standup comic somewhere down the line, she very well could since she possesses a perfect understanding of joke structures. But a poem like “Nights” will hit you like a heavyweight punch to the gut. Dogs who live at shelters are notoriously lonely since they have nobody to snuggle with and all of the blankets and toys on the concrete floor doesn’t change the fact that the floor is indeed made out of concrete. I know the phrase, “Adopt, don’t shop!” gets used quite liberally, but to be frank, it doesn’t get said enough. Rachel understands this and not only did she get an awesome book out of it, but she has something worth so much more: a loving doggy to call her own. Belly rubs, ear scratches, jowl wiggles, and most importantly, steak treats! All the good things in life come from Rachel’s home. Which is why it’s hard for me to point out one teeny tiny little flaw in this collection: too much bathroom humor for my tastes. But that’s just my opinion and Rachel doesn’t have to adjust her writing style for one reader. All in all, a nice little poetry book even if she openly admits to putting as little effort into it as Gabbie Hanna put into her own book. Four out of five stars! And by the way, the pictures of Kyra are so darn cute!
George Floyd the Wall
VERSE 1
Son-shine’s gone up to heaven
Abuse of power was the weapon
A wide shot for the viral streaming
And now a nation is left screaming
And now a nation is left screaming!
All in all, it was just a 9-1-1 call
All in all, it was all just 9-1-1 calls
VERSE 2
We don’t need no execution
We just want a revolution
No guns or tear gas in the streets
We will not cower in defeat
No! We won’t cower in defeat!
All in all, it’s just another 9-1-1 call
All in all, it’s just another 9-1-1 call
VERSE 3
I don’t need your lame excuses
I don’t need human rights abuses
Now that our backs are against the wall
Your racist empire will be the next to fall
Yeah! Your racist empire is the next to fall!
All in all, it was all just 9-1-1 calls
All in all, it was all just 9-1-1 calls
FINAL VERSE
Goodbye, George Floyd
I say in a trembling voice
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye
Goodbye, Mr. President
There’s no real reason to keep you elected
Goodbye…
Son-shine’s gone up to heaven
Abuse of power was the weapon
A wide shot for the viral streaming
And now a nation is left screaming
And now a nation is left screaming!
All in all, it was just a 9-1-1 call
All in all, it was all just 9-1-1 calls
VERSE 2
We don’t need no execution
We just want a revolution
No guns or tear gas in the streets
We will not cower in defeat
No! We won’t cower in defeat!
All in all, it’s just another 9-1-1 call
All in all, it’s just another 9-1-1 call
VERSE 3
I don’t need your lame excuses
I don’t need human rights abuses
Now that our backs are against the wall
Your racist empire will be the next to fall
Yeah! Your racist empire is the next to fall!
All in all, it was all just 9-1-1 calls
All in all, it was all just 9-1-1 calls
FINAL VERSE
Goodbye, George Floyd
I say in a trembling voice
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye
Goodbye, Mr. President
There’s no real reason to keep you elected
Goodbye…
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