Self-Esteem

***SELF-ESTEEM***

When I watched George Carlin perform standup comedy for the last time in 2008, he ripped into people who believed in The Self-Esteem Movement. He argued that making all children feel special only makes them complacent and incompetent as students and workers. Because Carlin was a huge influence on me back then and still is today, I took his word as gospel and never questioned it. And then I saw another comedy routine he did back in the 1990’s where he slammed the environmental movement and liberals in general. Naturally, there’s a disagreement between us.

So as long as I’m learning to question what everyone says, what can be said about The Self-Esteem Movement? Yes, it’s important to have children who will grow up to be winners in life. I get that. Hard work, passion, and dedication are the keys to success. But what happens when they have a setback? Do they deserve to feel poorly about themselves afterwards? Such negative thoughts can take you to a dark place in life. Drugs, alcohol, sadness, suicide, self-harm, so many negative ways to cope with a heavy loss.

I’m currently reading Ronda Rousey’s “My Fight / Your Fight” memoir and there’s a lot to be said about her inner strength. Her judoka mother was always hard on her when she suffered a loss in a judo competition. Her mother also made Ronda compete through pain and injuries as if they’re completely ignorable. The proof is in the pudding: Ronda Rousey was undefeated for twelve MMA fights, she’s a former Women’s Bantamweight Champion, she’s wanted for movie roles, and she’s making a shit load of money.

But then there are the times in life when Ronda lost. Her most recent defeat was at the hands of Holly Holm, who kicked her in the head to earn a KO victory and the UFC Women’s Bantamweight Championship. Because she was conditioned to feel poorly after a loss, Ronda had suicidal thoughts as revealed in an interview with Ellen DeGeneres. I’m glad she never acted on those harmful thoughts, but what if she had? What if she didn’t have her UFC boyfriend Travis Browne to be her rock? What if her mother didn’t occasionally come to her rescue? Then what?

Is it possible to have a balance between the two extremes? Can children be told they’re special and be successful people at the same time? Consider this quote: “It’s easier to build up a child than to repair an adult.” Suffering losses and feeling bad about doesn’t “build character”. Remember that scene in Full Metal Jacket where Private Pyle shoots his sadistic drill instructor and then himself? That’s one instance where tough love goes wrong and it’s probably not an isolated incident.

Thinking highly of yourself has to account for something. If you don’t believe in your own abilities, what makes you think anybody else will? You can experience failure and still have the wherewithal to change your strategy and turn your life around.

The WSS group at Good Reads recently launched an e-magazine where the stories and poems of the contest winners would be featured. I have to admit, because I put a lot of pressure on myself to succeed, I initially felt sorry for myself because I hadn’t won a contest since 2014 when I entered “Luna the Moon Kitty”. I didn’t think this launch celebration had anything to do with me. And then I remembered that the WSS is still all about friendly competition and helping each other succeed. If my story didn’t get exposure on the e-magazine, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. There are other ways to get exposure and the WSS will still hold true to their principles of being a friendly community. God, I love those guys!

If you want to feel good about yourselves, you have my permission. I won’t give you grief for receiving a “participation trophy” after playing a game of little league baseball. The fact that you even want to play baseball and have the athleticism to do so should say a lot about you. I’m over 300 lbs., so there’s no way I’m becoming an athlete of any kind in the near future, which means no participation trophy. Sports are hard to play and hard to be good at, which is why I stay away from them and stick to what I’m good at: writing, drawing, and photography. We’ve got ears, say cheers!


***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTESTS AND COMPANY***

As part of the WSS’s newly launched e-magazine, they’re holding a monthly contest in addition to the weekly ones, so I figured, why not write another story? This one will be called “Medicine Man” and it goes like this:

CHARACTERS:

Tetra Engel, Thief
Jax Nightshade, Dark Paladin
Anya Kolobalos, Gangster

PROMPT CONFORMITY: Tetra wants to give his cancer-stricken sister a fresh start in life by healing her.

SYNOPSIS: Jax is the innovator of “maggot therapy” and charges excessively high prices to cure his patients. When Tetra’s sister develops breast cancer, instead of forking over his life savings, he goes out and attempts to steal the maggots from Jax. In addition to the so-called “Medicine Man”, Tetra also has to be weary of Anya, a spear-wielding gangster who wants to steal the maggots to make recreational drugs to sell at an even higher price. It’s a three-way battle on the rooftop of Jax’s satanic church. Who will survive?


***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

The next drawing I will turn out is of Caitlin Sparks, the rebellious swordswoman from “Sage Against the Machine”, which I wrote independently of the WSS contests. I’m trying to think of a cool costume for her, but nothing’s coming to mind just yet. Eh, I’ll figure it out eventually.


***POISON TONGUE TALES***

I’ve been busy editing the shit out of short stories and so far, so good. If I have my way, there will be one day where I edit six at a time just like I did today. The next to be bulldozed will be…

Guns, Drugs, and Misogyny

The Happy Slasher

Harvest Moon

Hell Yeah

I, Barbarian

If I Offer You My Soul (the one that coincidentally features a character named Ashley Marie)


***MOVIE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

DANTE: Here’s what I don’t understand about you: you have a driver’s license, you can operate a grownup vehicle, but after you drive a go-kart, you somehow feel better about yourself.

RANDAL: Look, it just centers me, okay? Kind of like the way jerking off in the men’s bathroom at work centers you.

DANTE: Hey, that was one time and it wasn’t to center me.

RANDAL: You’re right. It was to cum.

DANTE: So why did we have to drive all the way out here just so you can ride the go-karts?

RANDAL: Look, I don’t want to jerk off in the bathroom at work. What if I’m going and a customer comes in all sex nuts and retard strong? Next thing you know, I’m fighting him off while he tries to jam my dick in his mouth.

DANTE: The likeliest of scenarios.

RANDAL: Yeah, well, I don’t know about you, but cumming centers me.

DANTE: Man, that shit Lance said must have really bothered you.

RANDAL: Oh, fuck him. He’s an asshole. He always was. I’m sorry I let him bother me for even a minute. At least I got a go-kart trip out of it.

DANTE: Why do the go-karts help?

RANDAL: They just remind me of a better time in my life.

DANTE: Like when?

RANDAL: When we were young and the world was right there in front of us.

DANTE: You’re not that old.

RANDAL: I know, but sometimes I think the world left us behind a long time ago.

DANTE: You can do something about that.

RANDAL: I told you, I’m not jerking off in the men’s bathroom at Mooby’s.

DANTE: No, not that. Have you ever thought about leaving Mooby’s and changing your situation in life?

RANDAL: What’s the point? Besides, why do you give a shit? You’re leaving.

-Clerks II-

Giving Up On Romance

VERSE 1
An army of girl crushes narrowed down to one
High speed chases have never been so much fun
The diamond ring that costs god knows how much
The divorce bill from the one you couldn’t trust
Broken and alone is what you’ve truly become
Liberty for your ex and only justice for some
Do you remember the fun times you’ve had?
Or does the stinging pain just hurt so damn bad?

CHORUS 1
Giving up on romance!
Never stood a single chance!
Giving up on romance!
This will be your final dance!

VERSE 2
Sex education says to wait until you’re married
How can that be when you’re dead and buried?
How does a broken heart heal instantaneously?
How do you know she’s feeling simultaneously?
Sell that golden ring for a hundred million bucks
Tell the whole world you don’t give two fucks
Everyone I know is tired of all the fights for two
Once everything is done, there’s one thing left to do

CHORUS 2
Giving up on romance!
Tighten that belt around your pants!
Giving up on romance!
Let them know your final stance!

VERSE 3
The army of crushes has been taken down to zero
There are only villains left, none of them are heroes
Your knight in shining armor has blood on his sword
Your fairytale princess has been taken by the horde
Romantic fiction is a statement so damn repetitive
One hundred other suitors feel so damn competitive
This is not your fight and she is not your prize
If you’re blinded by beauty, then just open your eyes

CHORUS 3
Giving up on romance!
Sick of being in a fucking trance!
Giving up on romance!
I could go on with a hundred rants!
Chugging alcohol!
Bouncing off the padded walls!
Crashing on the bed!
This stone cold heart is dead!

Putting the Ass in Assault Rifle

Flipping hamburgers and cooking French fries at Monster Burger wasn’t doing much for Nikita Croft’s college dreams. She was only nineteen years old and was already feeling the stresses of someone four times her age. Her posture was hunched over, her eyes were baggy, and any smile she gave her customers was forced with all of her strength. Cooking unhealthy food wasn’t the bad part. Dealing with angry customers who didn’t get exactly what they wanted made Nikita wish she had a gun to put to her own head. She could picture her brains, skull, and short black hair splattering all over the restaurant walls to create her own version of modern art.

When the well-known Easton family came strutting through the glass doors, Nikita’s suicidal fantasies of using a gun on herself were replaced with eye-widening, posture-straightening fear. The chubby, buzz-cut having Luke Easton and his long blond haired wife Rachel each came in with assault rifles strapped to their backs. Their baby son Brian was being pushed in a stroller by Rachel.

The Easton family’s presence caused various patrons to slowly cower away in fear, hide behind their booths, and hide underneath their tables. Some of the clerks behind the counter had their wide eyes locked on the family while other clerks had them locked on Nikita wondering what she was going to do. She was in charge of the register at the moment, so it would only make sense that this responsibility would fall on her, weak voiced and trembling through she was.

Luke Easton squinted his eyes as he surveyed the patrons backing away from them in pants-wetting fear. “What? What the hell’s your guys’ problem? You don’t like these rifles we’ve got strapped to our backs? Tough shit! This is America! Get used to it!”

“Uh, actually, sir…” said Nikita in a shy voice before tenderly clearing her throat. “Weapons are not allowed in Monster Burger. If you want service, you’ll have to go back to your vehicle and…put them away.”

Some of the patrons were sneaking their way around on the floor and bolting out of the front doors. Others stayed in their crouched positions and whimpered helplessly. Nobody even thought about calling the cops on their smart phones due to the fear of incurring Luke and Rachel’s wrath.

“You listen here, little lady,” snapped Luke as he marched toward the counter. “Me and my family came here for some burgers and fries! We’re hungry as hell! Now you can either make them or we’re going to have a problem!”

“Sir, we will make whatever you want if you’d just…put your guns back in your vehicle,” said Nikita without even looking Luke in the eyes.

Rachel pushed baby Brian’s stroller up to the counter and got involved in the heated debate. “I don’t know what your problem is, lady, but we’re not leaving until we get our food! We’re standing up for our second amendment rights! If you don’t like what we’re doing, then we can get your ass deported back to Canada!”

Nikita’s dialogue was getting messy as she kneeled to the floor and cried her eyes out. Everybody counted on her to be the brave authoritarian, but nobody counted on the Easton family to bring weapons into the restaurant. She lifted her head up and turned to her fellow clerks before saying, “I’m sorry! I can’t do this anymore!”

“Hold on there, Nikita!” said the dress shirt and tie-wearing manager of Monster Burger, Chance Rivers. Despite the lack of enthusiasm Nikita Croft showed for her job on a regular basis, Chance had always been there for her whether she needed comfort or a short-term loan. Being a good boss to his employees was part of the reason so many would-be college students worked for him. This time was no different.

“Mr. and Mrs. Easton! I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask both of you to leave my restaurant!” said Chance with a gentle hand on Nikita’s shoulder and a firm tone to the rifle-wielding family.

“We’re not doing anything wrong!” complained Rachel. “We have just as much right to be here as all of these people!” Most of those people had cleared out of the restaurant in shirt-sweating and pants-pissing fear.

“The hell you do!” barked Chance as he jumped over the counter and got in Rachel and Luke’s faces. “You’re putting my customers and my employees in huge danger by bringing those things in here! Nobody wants to be around you two right now! I’m losing customers because nobody really wants to get accidentally shot! Or in your case, purposefully!”

Luke grabbed Chance’s shirt and slammed him against the counter while breathing heavily in and out and drooling with anger. The clerks and cooks began to scramble out of the kitchen and bolt towards the front door. Nikita on the other hand was curled up in the fetal position on the floor still shedding tears. Yes, she was suicidal earlier in the day, but that all changed when she started to see what death really looked like up close.

“I’m not going to have this argument with you, Mr. Boss Man!” yelled Luke through gritted teeth. “Either you cook our food or else we’re going to have problems!”

Chance’s frightened expression and shivering body were being beefed up with adrenaline. It was now or never for him, his employees, and his customers. The manager reached behind the corpulent Luke and tried to wrestle the gun away from him. But Luke was too powerful and showed it when he hurled Chance to the ground, causing his ribs to ache and violent coughs to sound off across the restaurant.

“Luke, calm down. It’ll be okay, sweetie,” said a nervous Rachel, who was backing away slowly. She wasn’t changing political alignments, she was a shivering mess.

Luke armed himself with his assault rifle and clicked the pump handle. He looked down at the injured Chance Rivers with disdain and fiery hatred. “I’m getting sick of you Yankee liberal motherfuckers taking my rights away! I never wanted to fire this thing off today, but I’ll be glad to…”

Luke’s raging oratory was disrupted by his gun accidentally going off. Nikita and Chance held their ears and screamed in both pain and terror. Rachel, on the other hand, looked down at her baby stroller and saw the most horrifying thing a mother could imagine. She silently shed tears and dropped to her knees, shaking and cowering over the accidental death of Brian. She slowly unhooked her assault rifle and tossed it to the ground.

Everything had fallen silent with Chance and Nikita looking on in horror. Luke was shaking as he slowly made his way to his kneeling and silently praying wife Rachel. He gently put one of his powerful hands on her shoulder only to have her brush it away and yell, “Don’t touch me!”

As Luke fell to his knees and sobbed as well, Chance grabbed onto the counter and heaved himself to his feet. With his hands on his ribs and a limp in his step, he approached Nikita and told her to use the phone in his office to dial 9-1-1. With a nod of approval and her head hung in sorrow, Nikita did as she was told.

Luke lifted his heavy head and looked at Chance with a face full of tears and a nose full of snot. “Well? Go ahead. Say it, Mr. Boss Man. Say that you were right and we were wrong. Tell me how proud you are of being right.”

“I’m not going to say any of those things,” said Chance. He limped his way over to the sobbing Easton couple and put both of his hands on their shoulders in a comforting way. “I’m sorry for your loss,” said Chance in a genuine tone. “If you want to say a prayer for baby Brian, I’m not going to try and stop you. The police are on their way, though, so if you’re going to do it, use that time wisely.”

Luke and Rachel nodded their approval at Chance before bowing their heads and saying their final prayers.

Meanwhile, Nikita dragged herself to the main dining area and looked at her boss with red, swollen, baggy eyes. “Mr. Rivers? You’ve been an awesome boss to me. You’re an awesome boss now. But I can’t do this anymore. I quit.”

The sullen expression on Chance’s face said it all: “I don’t blame you, Nikita. Nobody blames you at all.” The two of them actually shared a hug before Nikita languidly made her way out of the restaurant for the last time. She thought about all the heartache she had to endure of dealing with customers who were just as bad as the Eastons. Were there better jobs out there? Of course. Were there better bosses than Chance Rivers? Probably not. Nikita Croft wouldn’t spend the rest of the day worrying about college money. It was hard to read bank statements and take them seriously with both eyes full of burning tears.

A Real Woman

The girl’s locker room at Richmond High School was alive with chatter and giggling. These girls talked about everything whether it was the latest rumors, boys, their parents, or whatever. The mass conversation fell into deep silence when Jenny Andrews entered the locker room wearing blond hair extensions, a Papa Roach tank top , a denim skirt, and high heeled sneakers.

As Jenny was getting changed into her workout clothes, the other girls glared their evilest glares at her with their arms folded. She pretended not to pay attention to them, but when she took off her skirt to change into black shorts, her penis was exposed to every one of these girls. Such was the focus of these girls’ wicked stares.

“Jonny? What the hell are you doing here? This is the girl’s locker room, you pervert!” The girl who said that was the tallest, most intimidating, and meanest of the group of girls, Melissa Moore. She was decked out in a white Richmond High T-shirt and neon green shorts. Her muscular legs looked like they could do some damage if she threw a hard enough kick. Her long hair was as black as her soul, and no, she didn’t require extensions.

Jenny sheepishly turned around to face Melissa, but crouched backwards in fear and said, “It’s not Jonny. It’s Jenny.”

“Of course, what was I thinking? You come in here dressed in a skirt and high heels and I should automatically assume you’re a fucking woman. Your dick is as clear as day, buddy. Go change in the boy’s locker room like you’re supposed to!” said Melissa as she pointed at Jenny with her manicured index finger.

Silence overtook the room and anxiety built up in Jenny’s stomach. She gagged and coughed, but that was the only sign of backing down she would give. Melissa marched over, her bare feet slamming hard on the tile floor. “Hey! Are you deaf?!” she yelled before grabbing Jenny by her shirt and slamming her back first against the steel lockers. “I told you to get out of here! You’re a boy! You need to change in the boy’s locker room, asshole!”

Jenny Andrews winced and cowered in Melissa’s tight grip. The transgender student couldn’t even muster any intense energy when she said, “Fuck you, Melissa. You’re a whore.”

The entire girl’s locker room laughed at Jenny’s weak attempt at bravery while Melissa only gave an amused half-smile. “You’re tough, Jonny. You’re tough. I never knew you had the balls to stand up to me. Oh wait, yes, I did, because you’re a guy!”

The Amazonian Melissa Moore powerfully tossed Jenny to the center of the locker room.  While the transsexual was down, every girl started kicking and clawing at her. Bumps, bruises, and cuts were forming all over Jenny’s legs, arms, and ribs. But her biggest signs of pain were her eyes dribbling with tears and her demonic shouts to tell her attackers to stop. Her screams were then being muffled by blood pouring out of her throat in tiny drops.

Jenny Andrews could have very well died in this locker room if it hadn’t been for a cloud of white smoke blasting through and forcing the girls to cough violently. As soon as they wiped their eyes and got most of their oxygen back, they saw their gym teacher, Jessica Sullivan, holding a fire extinguisher with a scrunched up, angry facial expression. “Who’s leading this mob?” she asked in a firm, yet low key tone.

The girls were quick to point at Melissa Moore, who looked less like a giantess and more like a guilty fool covered in white powder. Her facial expression was that of a courtroom defendant who was just given the death penalty. Her shoulders were slouched and her breathing was slower.

Miss Sullivan, with the fire extinguisher still pointed on her target, marched over to Melissa, almost touched faces with her, and said, “What the hell is wrong with you? You and your lackeys could have killed this poor girl. Is that what you want? You want to be a murderer? Tell me, Melissa: who taught you how to hate? It sure as shit wasn’t anybody from this school.”

Melissa struggled to find the words, but said, “I was just trying to get this pervert out of our locker room. Come on, Miss Sullivan. He’s a guy! There’s no telling what he could have done to us!”

Miss Sullivan looked down at Jenny Andrews, who was on her knees sobbing this whole time and nursing her lumpy wounds. “She looks like a real woman to me,” said the gym teacher.

“Are you kidding me? We saw his dick!” said Melissa.

“Oh, so now you want to talk about this poor girl’s genitals? Why, because she’s a transsexual and it’s suddenly okay to talk to them like that? What about you, Melissa? Is it okay if I talk about your genitals? How’s your vagina doing these days? You don’t have any green pus leaking out of it, do you? You might want to see a doctor about that!” said Miss Sullivan.

Melissa hung her head in shame, but Jessica wasn’t done yet. “Here’s what I want you to do. And everyone here needs to listen up as well. I want each and every one of you to get dressed and go to the principal’s office. Let the principal know just how hateful and disgusting each and every one of you are!”

“As opposed to the trans whore over here?” said Melissa while pointing at Jenny, who then stood up and threw a wild punch to her jaw, knocking the bigot to the ground and causing her gums to bleed. The other girls gasped in horror while Jenny looked down on Melissa with fiery eyes. After the transsexual spit a wad of blood on the floor, Melissa said through her own bloody mouth, “See? See what she just did?! Punish her too!”

Miss Sullivan made a flat tire noise and said, “I didn’t see a goddamn thing. Now get up, get dressed, and get your ass to the principal’s office.”

The result didn’t come without the girls whispering about how their punishment was “bullshit” and slamming their locker doors as hard as they could, but get dressed and exit the locker room they did. As the bigoted girls made their way to the principal’s office, it was just Jenny and Miss Sullivan alone together.

“Thank you. Thank you for everything,” said Jenny through quivering lips.

“You don’t have to thank me, Jenny. I was happy to do it for you. If nobody else has your back around here, then I do. I’ve seen the worst of what this high school has to offer and it’s not going to get easier for you. You have to fight for what you believe in. You have to fight for your individuality. Maybe it’s not a good idea to do it through physicality, but if you have to defend yourself, there’s no other way,” said Jessica in a soft and caring voice.

Jenny wiped her tears and blood off of her face and sorrowfully said, “Ever since I came out as a woman, people have been treating me differently. I see their stares. I hear their whispers. But this is the first time I’ve been assaulted since then. Well, the first at this school. My own family won’t back me up on this. They still think I’m a man.”

As the transgender girl cried some more, Miss Sullivan put down the fire extinguisher and gave her a tender hug. With a whispery voice, she said, “Behind every beautiful thing, there’s some pain. You’re not a man. You’re the most beautiful woman in this whole school. You’re going to make it through high school and you’re going to be stronger for it. We need more women like you, Jenny, and less like Melissa.”

When their embrace broke, Jenny asked, “Why are you helping me? I know you’re a teacher and that’s your job, but…”

“Yes, I am a teacher,” said Miss Sullivan. “But I also hold a secret I’ve never told anybody before until now. You’ve probably heard the whispers about me personally and though I haven’t said it yet, it is true. I’m a lesbian. And I’m married to the most amazing woman in the world. Some people were cool with that, others weren’t. Quite frankly, I don’t care what people think of me and you shouldn’t either. What matters most is what you and I feel on the inside. A real woman listens to her heart, not her critics.”

Jenny wiped more tears and blood from her face and for the first time in a long time smiled a beautiful white-toothed smile. “Thank you, Miss Sullivan. I needed to hear that.”

“And thank you, Jenny, for not letting those girls take your smile away from you,” said the gym teacher. “Picture perfect, that’s what it is.”

Slip Away

***SLIP AWAY***

If you’re single and you’re agonizing about it, stay as far away as possible from “Slip Away” by David Arkenstone and Charlee Brooks. The melodic and gentle piano, the somber bagpipes, and Charlee Brooks’ gorgeous voice will all come together to open those floodgates you call tear ducts. I have to be honest with you guys: Valentine’s Day was depressing this year. I’ve pretty much given up on agonizing over my single status, but I was so depressed that day that I ordered a pizza and ate the whole thing. The next day was much better, but Valentine’s Day was just…bleh! “Slip Away” was one of the songs I made the mistake of listening to on that lonely day. Here are the lyrics:


VERSE 1
The seasons change
And age our temporary souls
Chasing fate
Along it's winding road
Flames burn bright and pass into smoke
But our love
Will dance among the stars
Down the streets of gold

PRE-CHORUS
I am bound to you
By more than what divides us

CHORUS
Slip away, slip away sweet lover
Into an endless stream
Slip away, slip away sweet lover
And you can rescue me
Close your eyes
And drift into a shining memory
I'll see you again where the sky touches the sea

VERSE 2
And with your love
You've painted vivid colors on my heart
Your light will always illuminate my dark

PRE-CHORUS
I am bound to you
By more than what divides us

CHORUS
Slip away, slip away sweet lover
Into an endless stream
Slip away, slip away sweet lover
And you can rescue me
Close your eyes
And drift into a shining memory
I'll see you again where the sky touches the sea

ABRIDGED VERSE 1
The seasons change
And age our temporary souls
Chasing fate
Along it's winding road


***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTESTS AND COMPANY***

For this week’s contest, the authors were given a list of quotes to choose from as their prompt. I chose mine and now I have a story to write. I’ve been needing an excuse to write “A Real Woman” for months now, especially after John Oliver did one of his monologues about transgender struggles.


CHARACTERS:

Jenny Andrews, Transgender Gym Student
Melissa Moore, Transphobic Bully
Jessica Sullivan, Kindred Spirit Gym Teacher
Random Female Gym Students

QUOTE OF CHOICE: "Behind every beautiful thing, there's some kind of pain." -Bob Dylan

SYNOPSIS: In the girls locker room at Richmond High School, a male-to-female transgender student named Jenny shows up to get changed into her workout clothes. She is confronted by Melissa, who believes she’s still a man and encourages other female students to gang up on her. A few cuts and bruises on Jenny’s body later, Miss Sullivan shows up to back everyone away and tend to the injured transsexual.


***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

Faye Blood’s drawing is now up and she is the second Dark Fantasy Warrior to be done with colored pencils. Up next, we’ve got another fierce fighting female: Jill Henderson, the racist mercenary from “Born to Die”. She was a giantess among insects, both in terms of physical stature and intimidating power.


***MOVIE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

RANDAL: Oh, what? What’s with you, man? You haven’t said anything for like twenty minutes! What the hell’s your problem?

DANTE: This life.

RANDAL: This life?

DANTE: Why do I have this life?

RANDAL: Have some chips, you’ll feel better.

DANTE: I’m stick in this pit working for less than a slave’s wages, I’m working on my day off, the goddamn steel shutters are closed, I smell like shoe polish, I have to deal with every backward ass fuck on the planet, my ex-girlfriend is catatonic after fucking a dead guy, and my present girlfriend has sucked thirty-six dicks.

RANDAL: Thirty-seven.

DANTE: My life’s in the shitter right now and if you don’t mind I’d like to stew a bit.

-Clerks-


***POST-SCRIPT***

Speaking of Clerks, does anybody here know if Kevin Smith is officially planning to make a third Clerks movie? The last time I heard, it’s going to feature a love triangle between Dante, Becky from the second movie, and Veronica from the first. I could be wrong.

Dancing with Mary Jane

“Justice will find you!” With blood in her lungs and a slowing pulse, those were the last words of Tara Greenlee after being gunned down by Officers Frank Hennessy and Sylvester James. Her head dropped to the sidewalk and her mouth expelled a puddle of life juices. Everyone around her recorded the scene on their cell phones. Some of them screamed in horror. Others burst into a waterfall of tears. Frank and Sylvester laughed at all of them and rubbed their eyes in mockery. All of this violence over a bag of medical marijuana, which Sylvester was dancing around with and flashing in the faces of bystanders.

Because Tara Greenlee’s killers were on-duty cops, they didn’t get the death penalty or even life in prison for their heinousness. They were suspended with pay for a whole month. There were factory workers, teachers, grocery store clerks, and others who worked their asses off their entire lives without getting so much as a day off. In Paulson City, if you were on the police force, all you had to do to enjoy a month-long vacation was brutalize civilians.

How would Frank and Sylvester spend their vacation? They could have gone on a Caribbean Cruise. They could have gone mountain climbing in the Rockies. They could have sat on their asses on a Florida beach. But since Tara Greenlee’s “contraband” was still in their possession, they had other ideas of how to kill a month quicker than they killed her.

The “festivities” would take place at Officer Frank Hennessy’s house, particularly in his living room where the flat screen TV hung on the wall and a bowl full of potato chips was resting on the marble coffee table. Frank was already stuffing his pudgy, bearded face with chips when there was a knock on the door followed by, “It’s me, Sylvester!” Frank answered the door and the two corrupt cops high-fived and hugged each other like their bromance was much more than that. Frank was especially cheery when his skinny buddy flashed the bag of Mary Jane they had unlawfully taken from Miss Greenlee.

“So, what are we watching tonight, my friend? Are we gonna go all out and watch The Matrix? Maybe we should watch a Tim Burton movie or something. Or how about that Pink Floyd movie!” said a giddy Sylvester James.

“I got something better than all of those,” said Frank. He pulled a DVD out of his collection called “The Best of Both Worlds”, the container showing naked hermaphroditic women drooling for sex.

Sylvester clapped his hands and laughed like a little kid in a toy store. He bounced his way to the couch and allowed Frank to put the DVD in the player. The two rogue cops began rolling up little marijuana cigarettes as the “hot action” was being shown on the video screen. As soon as Frank pulled out a Zippo lighter and lit both of their joints, the two cops sank into the couch like quicksand. With dopey red eyes and drooling smiles, they watched the porn movie with fluttering in their hearts for the double-organ actresses.

The first twenty minutes of the movie revolved around Sylvester and Frank sitting crouched forward to hide their “little problems”. They laughed like donkeys as they smacked each other with couch pillows and jokingly called each other “fags”. The fun and festivities came to an abrupt halt when Frank relaxed in the sofa and started seeing the porn starlets in a much different way.

One of the naked women’s skin started necrotizing into a black and red lava mix. She grew fangs that looked like little daggers as they hung down to her bottom lip. Red scaly dragon wings sprouted from her back. A brown hairy tail sprouted as well. Her fingernails grew to the size of Freddy Kruger’s blades. When she screamed at Frank, she sounded like a grizzly bear ready to maul its helpless prey.

“Dude, is this some good shit or what?” said Sylvester, who at this point looked less like a mop-haired beanpole and more like a fire-eyed zombie with blue skin.

Frank was hard-pressed to disagree with his partner’s statement. “Yeah, man. That bitch had some good shit on her. I love the war on drugs!”

The demonic woman got on all fours and crawled out of the television set, shattering the coffee table upon making her arrival. She let out another beastly roar, which caused Frank to wet his pants and Sylvester to laugh like a fool. “Come on, man, this shit ain’t real! It’s just a hallucination!” said Officer James, who then got his whole head bitten off by the frightening woman.

Frank was crawling over the couch arm and screaming in terror while Sylvester’s headless body squirted a fountain of blood in the air. The demon woman licked her lips after sloppily masticating what was left of her victim’s dome. “Mmmmm, delicious!” she said in a throaty voice before roaring again.

Officer Hennessy crawled on the hardwood floor and let out panicky groans. The demonic woman jumped in front of him and revealed her true face. She now had the scraggly dark hair and bloodshot eyes of Tara Greenlee. Frank got into a fetal position and cried like a little bitch. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry for what I did! Just please, leave me alone!”

Tara grabbed Frank by his white shirt’s collar pulled his face close to hers, smiling like a skeleton with slimy dental hygiene. “It’s too late for atonement, my friend!” she said in her growling voice. “You took something from me that I fought for since I was a little child! That marijuana was for breast cancer! I was about to make a full recovery when you and that bloody piece of garbage over there shot me in cold blood!” Tara was breathing deeply and grunting in between cadences.

Tears were dribbling down Frank’s cheeks as he kept saying, “I’m sorry!” over and over again. Tara smiled her sick smile at him and chucked him halfway across the room, where he crashed through his desk and screamed with a mixture of fright and pain. The monstrous avenger pointed at Frank Hennessy and laughed while taking pictures of him on a smart phone she produced with her magical powers. She even rubbed her eyes sarcastically and said, “Boohoo!” with even more mockery.

The irony wasn’t lost on Frank, who in his moment of crippling pain and grueling tears felt around for something he could use to defend himself. It was then he remembered the desk was where he kept his pistol. Tara continued to horse laugh, but Frank would have the last word when he found his pistol and opened fire.

Every bullet hole that pierced Tara’s skin let out a volcanic eruption of blood and organs until the whole living room floor was flooded up to Frank’s ankles (now that he was standing on wobbly legs). He limped and trudged through the murky flood until he saw Tara on her knees screaming and crying in agony. “You little bitch!” yelled Frank before he jumped on her and rained down relentless fists upon her horrifying visage. Her cheek bones, nose, and teeth were cracking and splitting with every hard shot. Frank even held Tara’s head under the blood flood in an attempt to drown her. After a while of kicking and bubbling, the demon stopped moving.

Frank, ignorant of the pain he felt crashing through his own desk, held his arms up in victory and shouted, “Yes! How does that feel, you little skank! Nobody screws with the Paulson City Police! Nobody! We’re number one!” He repeated that last line over and over again until the pain finally caught up to him and he passed out on the bloody floor.

A bright new morning was shining its sunlight through Frank’s windows. The rays felt like little flamethrowers against his eyes. His head was thumping like a bass drum. He coughed violently as he woke up for the day. After rolling on his back and slowly opening his eyes, he saw his fellow police officers looking down on him and confirming he was alive.

The cops pulled Frank to his feet and he suddenly got a better view of what was going on around him. No demons. No fangs. No claws. No dragon wings. The only blood stain in the whole living room was the one left behind by Sylvester, who was being carted away on a gurney with a light blue blanket draped over his corpse.

“Franklin George Hennessy? You’re being placed under arrest for the murder of Officer Sylvester Kenneth James. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to legal counsel. If you can’t afford a lawyer, one will be provided to you by the state. Do you have any questions about these rights?” said one of the cops while Frank’s hands were being cuffed behind his back.

Frank did have a question and it was a good one too: “What the fuck just happened here?!”

Volcanic

***VOLCANIC***

This is awesome. Whenever I’m desperate for a journal topic, I could just talk about the lyrics to a powerful song I like. This is my third song blog since giving up the practice on Garrison’s Library so many years ago. As it turns out, it actually helps pain the picture for my readers when I post the full lyrics from top to bottom. What’re we looking at today? Formaldehyde. Necrolium. Nitro Benzine. This thing actually has over seven thousand chemicals. Don’t get me started on what they do to you. Stunted lung growth. Prematurely wrinkled skin. Tooth loss. Cancer. Okay, so I may have stolen that from an antismoking commercial. What we’re really looking at is a song that produces more smoke than any cigarette ever could. It’s called “Volcanic” and it’s by Death Angel. Death Angel normally produces heavy thrash metal, but “Volcanic” is soft and gentle. Here’s how it goes:


VERSE 1
Sick and tired of living with this grief
Done with all the sorrow and the pain
Asphyxiated can no longer breathe
Anesthetized until I've gone insane
So carry all this baggage when you leave
Swallow all those bitter pills you take
Blame it on the world, blame it on me
Tolerated too much of your game

CHORUS
Temperamental, unpredictable
The sky turns black when I exhale

VERSE 2
A change of weather come around too much
A sign of a deeper cut
Lying dormant on a bed of nails
Without warning, violently erupt
So bleed the molten river from my veins
Collapse upon myself, disintegrate
Shame upon the world and shame on me
Hate the player but don't hate the game

CHORUS
Temperamental, unpredictable
The sky turns black when I exhale

VERSE 3
So condescend and patronize my lead
Persecute the innocent again
Rain down on the world and rain on me
Ticking like a bomb that's got your name

CHORUS
Temperamental, unpredictable
The sky turns black when I exhale


Don’t you feel better already?


***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTESTS AND COMPANY***

I’m definitely cutting it close when it comes to getting my entry in for this week’s contest, which is about “Last Words”. My main reason for a late entry has to do with going out in public the past few days and then feeling exhausted when I come home. Public life isn’t good for introverts, but working out at the gym is necessary for my health, so I go along with it. This week’s story is the first sci-fi/fantasy/horror one I’ve done since completing fifty stories for Poison Tongue Tales, which hasn’t been published yet. It’s called “Dancing with Mary Jane” and it goes like this:


CHARACTERS:

Frank Hennessy, Corrupt Cop
Sylvester James, Corrupt Cop
Tara Greenlee, Cancer Patient

PROMPT CONFORMITY: Tara’s last words are, “Justice will find you!”

SYNOPSIS: Frank and Sylvester confiscate medical marijuana from Tara and shoot her when she “resists”. The two corrupt cops go over to Frank’s house and smoke the marijuana themselves while throwing their own party. During the “festivities”, Frank and Sylvester see Tara as a ghost monster and think they’re just hallucinating. When the vengeful spirit proves otherwise, Frank and Sylvester are in a bloody fight for their lives.

FUN FACT: It’s only a coincidence that Tara, a marijuana user, has “Green” in her last name. No play on words here.


***CORNY HEAVY METAL JOKE OF THE DAY***

Q: What do you call it when Phil Anselmo multiplies a bunch of numbers together?
A: Math For War.


***POST-SCRIPT***

If you don’t listen to Pantera, you won’t know why that’s funny. If you really need to scratch your head that badly, I suggest you wash your hair with Head & Shoulders dandruff shampoo.