Monday, August 30, 2021

Calling You Out

CHORUS

I’m calling you out! I’m calling you out!

The gangster-gangster-gangsters are calling you out!

I do it ‘cause I care! I do it ‘cause I care!

But when you need me the most, I’m never ever there!


VERSE 1

When I’m walking down the street in the summer heat

I might get my ass beat for a yucky-yucky Tweet

Cancel culture isn’t real, but I still don’t like the feel

Of high pitched squeals beating me down like steel

Rapid fire insults are like punches to my gut

They wouldn’t know my pain if it bit them on the butt

I’ll do all my Tweeting from a padded prison cell

You’re the villains of the story, in case you can’t tell


CHORUS

I’m calling you out! I’m calling you out!

The gangster-gangster-gangsters are calling you out!

I do it ‘cause I care! I do it ‘cause I care!

But when you need me the most, I’m never ever there!


VERSE 2

You’re like the pizza-pizza guy from Little Caesar’s

Just say “gangster-gangster”, you My Pillow squeezer

That’s what you really are: a gangster in the dark

Creeping on me while I’m walking through the park

I could never run fast, I would always finish last

In a marathon sprint, put me in a leg cast

Can’t get away from the fortune and the fame

Every fall from grace sounds about the same


CHORUS

I’m calling you out! I’m calling you out!

The gangster-gangster-gangsters are calling you out!

I do it ‘cause I care! I do it ‘cause I care!

But when you need me the most, I’m never ever there!


VERSE 3

I’m eating with my friends, I’m eating with my family

You say my words are crazy while you suffer from insanity

You made your point about fifty years ago, my guy

You’d think by now that it dissolved into a lie


CHORUS

I’m calling you out! I’m calling you out!

The gangster-gangster-gangsters are calling you out!

I do it ‘cause I care! I do it ‘cause I care!

But when you need me the most, I’m never ever there!

Thursday, August 26, 2021

Run Like a Ninja

The growling in Ashley Garcia’s stomach resembled a demon thirsting for souls. She didn’t care if what she was doing was just as evil as that hell-spawn creature. A bowl of steaming hot ramen took priority over holy-rolling. A loaf of bread swimming in garlic butter was more important than praying on a medieval book for forgiveness. The rumbling in her stomach echoed in her brain like schizophrenia and even a wafer-thin mint would be a perfect antipsychotic. The rattling of her visible ribcage needed to be contained for good and the sacred scroll beneath her would be the key to that lock.


Being a Halfling afforded her the dexterity and balance that she needed to scale down the rope she threw down into the temple’s scroll room. Ashley didn’t want to go too fast for fear of alarming any monks, but slowing down wasn’t an option for her calloused hands and large dirt-covered feet. Just a few more inches, she told herself. A little more. Easy. Easy. Don’t make a sound. Don’t give the monks a reason to wheel kick a thief’s head off.


When she was close enough to drop to the wooden floor, she did so with a feather’s gentleness and breathed a silent sigh of relief. And just like that, the scroll was right there in front of her, resting easily on a piece of ceramic pottery. Ashley’s eyes widened and her hungry stomach settled in anticipation of the lunch money this would bring. When she snatched the scroll from its resting place, she didn’t even bother opening it up. She knew she had what she wanted. She knew any sucker would be lucky to buy such a holy artifact. Ashley would never starve again with this kind of money and that brought a smile to her gaunt face.


And then the sound of a dog growling permeated her fantasies and caused her to swallow a lump in her throat. Slowly she turned around to face the monk she pissed off the most: the captain of the guards himself, Yang Chow. 


He didn’t come armed with any weapons, because his limbs were destructive enough. He didn’t come with any harsh words, because his angry bulldog visage and monstrous growling said everything they needed to say. He didn’t come dressed in thick metal armor, because his red and orange robes were light enough to keep him nimble during times of combat. With his arms folded and his gorgon death eyes locked onto Ashley’s jittery form, it was time to get the fuck out of dodge.


Scroll tucked away in her back pocket, Ashley hopped up the rope and scaled as fast as she could. All the motivation to push her body beyond its limits came in the form of Yang barking up a storm and snapping his teeth like a bear trap. She was almost certain she would lose a foot to this maniacal dog demon. She was almost certain a piece of skin fell from her big toe. But she kept climbing even if it meant aggravating that wound and making it sting like a thousand wasps.


Ashley cursed to herself in a rapid-fire cadence as she made it to the rooftop, Yang still nipping at her heels. With the diagonal curvature of the temple’s roof, she knew this was a perfect time to curl into a ball and roll down the decline like a rogue wheel. And off she went, the shingles scraping against her skin the faster she rolled. Her back burned as though a volcano would erupt from her body, which was a better fate than having her head kicked off by a martial arts puppy-duppy. Still, his barks were no less distant than they were before. They just grew louder and more frustrated.


And then the sudden incline at the bottom of the roof launched her wheel-like body into the air and onto the busy streets below. Ashley landed with such grace that going splat on the concrete wasn’t even a possibility. But the minute she leapt to her feet, dizziness turned her brains into mush and her vision into a splotchy mess. She would have fallen on her ass if not for Yang’s barks becoming even louder than before. 


Even in a sloppy zigzag, she ran down the streets with the agility of a ninja warrior. She flipped over garbage cans. She baseball slid underneath an old man’s legs. She leapfrogged over a food delivery bicyclist and nearly knocked him over. Knowing Yang could chew her like bubblegum gave her the adrenaline boost she needed to run along the walls of a restaurant before flipping over a trolley.


Her heart thudded in her chest like a bomb ready to go off. Her brains rotted into mush on account of not giving herself a chance to recover from dizziness. Her legs and back burned as though someone had branded her with a glowing red iron. Her feet could have fallen off long before she got gangrene from not wearing shoes. And yet, Ashley kept on running and dodging. She leapfrogged over another bicyclist. She flipped over a guardrail. She ran along an awning that almost collapsed under her thunderous force.


Ashley had no destination in mind. She couldn’t even think clearly enough to come up with one, because Yang’s barks and growls were like a screwdriver shoved in her ears. When her eyes watered to the point of blindness and her mind faded to funeral blackness, she crashed face-first into a brick wall and flopped on her back, the sacred scroll rolling out of her grasp. The sound of her nose crunching resembled potato chips she would probably never know the taste of. She breathed heavily despite blood running down her nostrils. If overworking herself didn’t kill her, Yang surely would.


Her vision was obstructed by the heavy pus dumplings under her eyes, but even she knew Yang’s angry face when she saw it. There he was standing over her soon-to-be corpse, arms folded, scroll in hand. He reached down to Ashley, presumably to rip out her heart. Or the least likely scenario of them all, to pull her up to her feet. She could barely stand underneath the weight of body-shredding pain. She couldn’t even look Yang in the eyes, blackened pus pockets aside.


“Aren’t you at all curious as to what this scroll says?” asked Yang in an uncharacteristically soothing voice.


Ashley’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Um…what?”


“You mean to tell me that you stole this scroll from my temple and you don’t even know what it is?” Ashley tucked her head in shame. “Look at me, young lady.” Yang opened the scroll and revealed that they were coupons for restaurant food. Five gold pieces for two octopus burgers. Ten gold pieces for a gallon of broccoli cheese soup. Two packages of beef stew and rice for only one gold piece. Shame hit Ashley in the gut worse than any martial arts punch from Yang would have…even though she no longer expected him to beat her ass.


Yang knelt down to meet her Halfling level and put a hand on Ashley’s shoulder. “Young lady…you didn’t just steal a document hoping for a quick buck. You did it at the expense of other impoverished people like yourself. The temple where I work isn’t just a religious institution. It’s a shelter for those who need it the most. If you wanted the coupons, we would have shared them with you.”


Ashley’s tears stung her pus lumps like a scorpion tail. “I…I’m sorry…I’ll just…I’ll find another way to…” 


“Enough. I don’t need your apologies. I wouldn’t know what to do with them anyways.”


“What?...What do you mean?”


“Young lady…what you did was as rotten as the food you find the dumpster. It was evil. It was low even for a desperate street thief like yourself.” Ashley’s tears developed into little floods to mix with her nose blood, giving her the ultimate mask of guilt, shame, and defeat. But then Yang said…”I understand why you did it.”


“Huh? You do?”


“You think you’re the only one to try and steal from us? Look around you, young lady. The economy doesn’t favor the poor at all. Impoverished folk are unfairly categorized as lazy while the rich who live off of their backs are lionized to god status. To take the focus away from their own horrific deeds, the rich have the poor fight amongst themselves, steal from each other, treat every meal like it’s a competition. Stealing is the only life you’ve ever known, because you have no other way.”


“You don’t know a damn thing about me, dog man. I doubt you would trust me again if you knew what I was capable of. I’ve slit many throats just to stay alive. How do you know I won’t slit yours?”


“My martial arts training aside, you know deep down that slitting my throat wouldn’t bring you closer to another meal. Prison food doesn’t count. You deserve better than a prisoner’s life, young lady. When was the last time you even experienced a loving home?”


Ashley swatted Yang’s hand away. “Love? You think love is going to give me something to eat every day? You think it’s going to keep me from sleeping in a dumpster? What makes you think love is going to do anything for me?”


Staying true to his bulldog nature, Yang licked the tears and blood off of Ashley’s face, which made her produce even more tears. The more Yang licked, the more pieces Ashley’s heart broke into, which was saying a lot considering the near-death exercise she put herself through. In a rare act of gratitude and love, Ashley hugged her stubby arms around Yang’s neck, breaking into a full-on crying spell over his orange and red robe.


“Thank you, dog man. Thank you so much! Please, don’t leave me here!”


“I won’t, young lady. In spite of what the privileged believe, nobody gets left behind on my streets. Come with me. Let’s get some food in your stomach.”


The dog monk and Halfling thief walked hand in hand together, Ashley’s waterworks never once drying up. In a world that didn’t care about her, she found someone who did. Life was very much worth living even though she had to learn how to do so all over again. There would be no more thievery and dishonesty, because they weren’t necessary in a truly loving home.

Pee-Wee Herman On Crack

VERSE 1

Baldheaded puppets, intestines for strings

They’ll cut off your head, hollow everything

A present for the darkest of dark lord knights

Not bad for a bunch of freaks who look like

Pee-Wee Herman on crack

Never get your serotonin back

Pee-Wee Herman on crack

Childhood is under attack


VERSE 2

They’ll play you a nice little waltz lullaby

Not in hopes you will sleep, but want to die

Infinite loops until your sanity goes bye-bye

Not bad for some monsters who look like

Pee-Wee Herman on meth

Pray for the quickest death

Pee-Wee Herman on drugs

Intestinal noose fits nice and snug


VERSE 3

My guitar is made from puppet strings

When I open my mouth, the demons sing

When I strike the mallet, funeral bells ring

When the puppets dance, you’ll start to think

That they’re Pee-Wee Herman on acid

Schizophrenic voices bring the traffic

Pee-Wee Herman on pills

Getting their bloodthirsty thrills


VERSE 4

When you beat them down, the trauma remains

Making lemonade out of your melting brains

All the Xanax in the world won’t help you now

Neither will the simple phrase, “I disavow”

Pee-Wee Herman on heroin

Cool off your superhero arrogance

Pee-Wee Herman on crack

Once they’re in your mind, there’s no going back

Pee-Wee Herman on crack

Pee-Wee Herman on smack

Pee-Wee Herman unpacked

From a body bag, goodbye to your sack

Tuesday, August 17, 2021

Mitch McLeod Puts the Death in Death Match

Clockwork Orange House of Fun. New Orleans Street Fight. No Holds Barred. Death Match. Hardcore Rules. In professional wrestling, there are thousands of ways to describe a match having no rules, where the only ways to win are by pinfall or submission. No rules rules, right? Well, as Mitch McLeod found out in a message board wrestling RPG, you still have to work within the limits of the law. You can’t shower your opponent with an AK-47. You can’t strap a dynamite vest to a random audience member to extort your opponent into quitting. You shouldn’t be able to do what Stone Cold Steve Austin did and raise a car that Triple H is in with a forklift before dropping it upside down from twenty feet high. Don’t worry about Trips, though, because he was back on TV the next night with only “contusions” on his medical record. There are lots of ways you can win a Death Match, none of which include murder. You can’t take the world championship to prison with you.


As a side note, Mitch McLeod shouldn’t be confused with Kentucky politician Mitch McConnell. One of them will inflict so much pain on you that you’ll develop an addiction to Oxycontin. The other is a hardcore wrestler. McLeod was OTT Wrestling’s version of Tommy Dreamer: the hardcore heart and soul of the company. Mitch would scramble your brains with a steel chair and deduct a hundred IQ points from your test. He would scissors kick a glass water pitcher over your head and deduct another hundred IQ points from your test. He would put a set of steel stairs over your head and leapfrog over the top rope onto them…there go another hundred IQ points. By the time Mitch McLeod was done fucking with your brain, you’d be more than qualified to vote for that Kentucky politician I mentioned earlier.


Unfortunately, none of those credentials would be enough to earn him a victory in his first OTT match ever against the seven-foot tall behemoth known as Yeti. No, I’m not talking about the toilet paper mummy from WCW in the 90’s. This version of Yeti was a legitimate powerhouse. He towered over everybody and made them look and cry like children. His breath reeked of human flesh and sour blood. His horns gave you the impression that the devil himself was standing across the ring from you. And those muscles…so many fucking muscles, but not the kind that belong on the cover of a cheesy romance novel. If Yeti wanted to hurt you, the National Guard would merely delay the inevitable…by about five seconds. He was the perfect first opponent for Mitch McLeod.


With Yeti already waiting to feast on the walking corpse that awaited him, Mitch McLeod’s music hit and the crowd went ape shit, no pun intended. Then again, how do you not go ape shit when “Wollt Ihr Das Bett En Flammen Sehen?” by Rammstein is blasting out of the speakers? German heavy metal for an American ass-kicker. You would think that Mitch would have all the (literal) tools necessary to beat Yeti like a war drum. But prior to joining OTT, he didn’t know that every match in this organization was contested under hardcore rules. Therefore, he did what every good baby-faced hero did in wrestling and attempted to cheat. What a great guy! Such a role model for the youngsters in the crowd!


The rules of the RPG were simple: each player would post a series of moves to perform in the match and whoever had the best writing and most impressive showing would be declared the victor by the GM/referee. At this point, the only thing that dwarfed Mitch’s opponent was my ego. I didn’t want to lose. I didn’t want to “do the job” as they say in the wrestling industry. Sixteen-year-old me didn’t make sacrifices for the good of the story. I just wanted to see Mitch be undefeated in everything he did, because I believed in my own hype. I was my own “mark”, to use another wrestling term. So when Yeti and Mitch locked up, it was game on, motherfucker.


While I don’t remember the exact choreography of the match, I do know that it started off with some actual wrestling maneuvers. Yeti hit a few body slams, suplexes, and clotheslines, each of them rattling Mitch’s bones like a Haitian earthquake that would surely be referenced in a Max Caster freestyle rap if given the opportunity. Max had already made fun of Simone Biles’s mental health, the Duke LaCrosse rape case, COVID testing, and Julia Hart’s vagina, why not a Haitian earthquake? You know what Max didn’t do, though? Put Yeti in a torture rack before slamming his spine across the knee. Mitch did that. He also spiked Yeti on top of his head with a brainbuster. He also hit a power bomb. And a spinebuster. And any other move that a man with Mitch’s size disadvantage had no right to use. Remember, I wanted to win and make Mitch look good, even at the expense of a much bigger star like Yeti.


Mitch would do anything to win at this point. Anything, even “accidentally” knocking out the referee so that using weapons (which was already legal) could be a thing in this match. He pulled a fire extinguisher from under the ring, sprayed Yeti in the eyes with it, threw it at his face, and gave him one final brainbuster onto the extinguisher. A normal man would have died from these wounds long before he had the chance to vote for unsavory Kentucky politicians. Not Yeti. He kicked out just as the referee was about to slap the mat for a three count. What kind of military grade weapons would it take to keep Yeti down? A Sherman tank? A nuclear bomb? Space lasers? Mitch could have used them all and Yeti would still no-sell everything and defeat him with a move called “The Heart Slam”, where he literally grabbed Mitch by his heart and slammed him to the mat before pinning him, one, two, three.


That should have been the end of it all. Mitch McLeod should have picked up his own carcass off the mat and gone back to the locker room to shower. It would actually take a lot more effort to do that considering Yeti gave Mitch another Heart Slam after the match was over, that cheeky heel. But instead of swallowing my pride and selling the injuries, I had Mitch throw the fire extinguisher at Yeti again and then lure him backstage with insults. Yeti, being an angry yeti, took the bait and got clobbered with another fire extinguisher for his troubles. Mitch then tied Yeti’s ankles to the back of his car and drove into town while dragging his big ass across the cement. A normal man would have died after thirty feet, the skin on his back shredded like Floydian beef. If that wasn’t bad enough, Mitch drove Yeti to a suspension bridge, tied cement blocks around him, and threw him into the ocean. Isn’t Mitch such a great role model? Dexter Morgan would be so proud of him! Wait a minute…


In the same way that Mitch no-sold everything Yeti did, Yeti in turn no-sold the attempted murder. I say attempted because Yeti was napping during the whole time he was being dragged. He woke up from his nap, jumped out of the water, and destroyed Mitch’s car so badly that it exploded in a climate change-like fireball. Yeti then advised Mitch to keep all the action in the ring, which would only be bad advice if the match was contested under Falls Count Anywhere rules, which is yet another form of no-disqualification rules. My never-ending ego would have taken this murder spree to the ends of the earth if the GM didn’t intervene when he did. He deleted all of the post-match violence and I was half-relieved that he did. Yeti then gave me a congratulatory “Good match” without a hint of irony, which meant we as players were still on good terms.


The one thing I would like to unpack from this story above all else is that good storytelling comes with sacrifices. If Mitch McLeod won all the time against all challengers in brutal apocalyptic fashion, yes, he would be elevated, but the story would be boring and he would be labeled a Gary-Stu. Flawless characters aren’t fun to read about because they’re not relatable to the reader. Even Hulk Hogan and John Cena, as big as their egos are, wouldn’t be able to relate to Mitch McLeod if he was an indestructible Gary-Stu. The role of the characters is to create a cohesive story through teamwork, and teamwork requires sacrifices. If the heroes have to lose every once and a while to make the stakes believable, so be it. If the villains have to look strong until the very last match when they’re finally defeated, such is life.


Mitch McLeod should have had flaws during his time in OTT Wrestling, but those flaws shouldn’t have been evil attempts to make himself an unstoppable god. In other words, he shouldn’t make himself so unlikable that nobody in their right mind would ever cheer for him. Baby-face heroes shouldn’t have “go-away heat”, or the kind of audience anger that isn’t born from good character work, but from a genuine desire to see them disappear forever, even if that means death itself. No-selling an opponent’s offence in wrestling is a big taboo in the industry, because it completely kills the illusion and undermines the team effort in building a narrative. 


After Mitch took his second Heart Slam, he should have stayed down. Let Yeti have his heel heat, let Mitch train harder and grow as a wrestler instead of turning into a whiny serial killer. When Mitch starts to win matches again and develop his skills, then maybe he can have another crack at Yeti and get even closer to victory this time. Mitch would look impressive as a plucky underdog who has to constantly overcome the odds by the skin of his teeth. Beat him down until he has nothing left, so that when he finally earns his big comeback, he will have worked for something he can be proud of. 


That’s what you have to remember not just with wrestling, but with every story you tell: the protagonist has to work for everything he has. Sometimes he has to work so hard that his body and mind fail him when he needs the energy the most. Sometimes he has to work hard enough to bring him to death’s door. But unlike in a capitalist society where unsavory Kentucky politicians hold the brass rings hostage, Mitch McLeod actually has a chance of having his hard work pay off. A theater teacher I had once advised us to, “Throw rocks at our protagonists and make them run up a tree.” In other words, make life difficult enough so that when those difficulties are conquered in a believable way, the protagonist will have something to be proud of. And so will you, fellow writers. So will you.

Strip You

 I hereby strip you of your freedom of speech

You fucked the conversation with the hate you teach

I hereby strip you of your right to bear arms

You could take a toy pistol and maximize the harm

I hereby strip you of your right to a trial

The shit you’re accused of goes on for miles

I hereby strip you of your non-prison clothes

In exchange for a jumpsuit and depressive woes


This ain’t no funhouse, people are dying

Yet you shrug off the complaints as babies crying

This ain’t no rally, you have nothing to be proud of

Count the dead bodies, if you’re generous, round up


I hereby strip you of your power over us

You’re drunk on your Kool-Aid, time to sober up

I hereby strip you of your gaslighting techniques

None of it’s romantic, even less of it is sexy

I hereby strip you of your traumatic excuses

None of them justify your emotional abuses

I hereby strip you of your entire legacy

And your purple cushion throne and royal pedigree


This ain’t no kingdom, I won’t fight for you

And your so-called rights to fuck over the truth

This ain’t no ballgame, I won’t bat for you

I’d rather take that bat and beat you black and blue


I hereby strip you of your bigotry

Brought to you by generations of idiocy

I hereby strip you of your ignorance

Everything you love lacks innocence

What gives me the right to take it all away?

You’d do the same to me anytime any day

Freedom for all loses all of its meaning

When the power belongs to the extremist-leaning


This ain’t no safe space for your prejudice

Defeats the purpose of human etiquette

This ain’t no graveyard for your victims

But a mausoleum for a broken system

Monday, August 16, 2021

25 Things That Got Me Through 2021

 The year 2021 isn’t over yet (damn it), but I’d like to make a list of 25 things that got me through it anyways, as a sequel to my 2020 list, which in turn was inspired by Innuendo Studios.


1. Amanda the Jedi

2. Casey Aonso

3. Chrono Trigger Soundtrack

4. Crit Crab

5. Cynical Reviews

6. Figure Four Weekly’s You Tube Channel

7. Final Fantasy IV Soundtrack (I deleted the Calcobrena theme for being too creepy)

8. Final Fantasy VI Soundtrack

9. Final Fantasy VII Soundtrack

10. Jenna Moreci

11. Krimson Rogue: His Reviews for Ready Player Two and the 64-Squares Book with the Long-Winded Title

12. Last Week Tonight with John Oliver

13. Mega Man X3 Soundtrack

14. Psych 2 Go

15. Rachel Oates

16. Savannah (a.k.a. The Queer Kiwi): Oxygen EP

17. Secret of Mana Soundtrack

18. Silent Season: Wounds, Stars, and Blame (three separate songs, not one title)

19. Solomonster Sounds Off

20. Stealers Wheel: Stuck in the Middle with You

21. The Ever-Burning Light by K.L. Cottrell

22. The Hunger Games: Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins

23. Thought Slime

24. Wrestle Talk TV

25. Zoe Bee

Tuesday, August 10, 2021

Where's My Justice?

VERSE 1

I used to believe that karma was real

Until I saw my kitty cat under some guy’s wheel

Driver might be partying with chicks and drugs

While his mortal sin was swept under the rug

They say to just let God do his little thing

Assuming he’s not purchased by the far right-wing

They say the best revenge is living well

But I’d rather bust his gut with a shotgun shell


CHORUS 1

Yeah! Yeah! Where’s my justice?

Yeah! Yeah! Where’s my mercy?

Yeah! Yeah! Where’s my justice?

Yeah! Yeah! The gods curse me!


VERSE 2

Justice is only for those with fat banks

And a trillion dollars worth of army tanks

And brainwashed lawyers who’ll shine their shoes

And broadcast their ass-kissing all over the news


CHORUS 2

Yeah! Yeah! Where’s my justice?

Yeah! Yeah! Where’s comeuppance?

Yeah! Yeah! Where’s my justice?

Yeah! Yeah! There’s no substance!


BRIDGE

When you try to find justice without a badge

By pulling your own trigger, killing them in a flash

They put you in a cage and say it’s all your fault

Because you couldn’t pick the lock on the money vault

When you write a bad check to the justice man

They take away your house so you can live in a camp

It’s just the way the universe is wired to work

Sorry if you don’t have a way to go berserk


CHORUS 3

Yeah! Yeah! Where’s my justice?

Yeah! Yeah! Where’s my payback?

Yeah! Yeah! Where’s my justice?

Yeah! Yeah! There’s no way back!

American dreams are for those who sleep

Forget counting them, you’re already a sheep

You can wake up an emotional wreck and upset

Yeah! Yeah! Where’s my justice?