Rest in Peace, George Tiller, For the Only Thing You Killed Was Conservatives' Fragile Egos

 

Kristina Maione vs. Kaitlin Bennett

 

Wake Up and Smell the Coffee

VERSE 1

He said:

“I crawled so you can run, now I’ll cut off your legs

Don’t fuck before you’re married, now some forced anal sex

You’ll get hired today and then laid off tomorrow

Ask for pocket change? That’s a loan you can’t borrow

I set you up for failure like a sick evil fuck

‘Cause some preacher man said that life’s supposed to suck

They’re not invisible rules, they were written in stone

Long before you were born and after you die alone”

 

CHORUS

Too big to fail? That ship already sailed

Too small to survive? They’ll debate your whole life

Too much in the middle of a roasted shit sandwich

Wake up and smell the coffee, that’s how life’s supposed to happen

 

VERSE 2

A teenaged mom who never had the chance

To go to the prom and ask the crown prince to dance

An autistic kid who didn’t know what they did

To deserve shock torture by the highest court’s order

A Disney fanatic who wanted to learn how to draw

He kept dreaming too much, so he got decked in the jaw

Abortion starts to seem like a better alternative

But the country church hillbillies insist that they live

‘Cause without a population of innocent souls

Who bears the brunt of the abuse so bitter and cold?

 

CHORUS

Too big to fail? That ship already sailed

Too small to survive? They’ll debate your whole life

Too much in the middle of a roasted shit sandwich

Wake up and smell the coffee, that’s how life’s supposed to happen

 

VERSE 3

God has a morbid and dark sense of humor

It’s gallows comedy for the toddler with a tumor

It’s a punch-down bonanza for the Mexican child

Who was thrown in a cell like an animal that’s wild

It takes a hideous demon to get a source of laughter

From a school shooting and the laziness after

From the politicians who broke all their promises

And then went on vacations to their summer cottages

A Cabin in the Woods is what I really meant to say

That’s where they store the bodies of kids who came out gay

 

OUTRO

None of us asked to be born in this bedlam

To be test subjects for an automatic weapon

To be born for five seconds and bombed right away

By racist sons of bitches who don’t like the way we pray

Wake up and smell the coffee

Harvested by little kids who were treated so awfully

By a social order that requires they get lashed

Until they work no more and get thrown out with the trash

Being a bunch of nothing isn’t the insult you think it is

Compared to life on earth, being nothing is bliss

"Reflections on Healing" by Rachel Oates

BOOK TITLE: Reflections on Healing

AUTHOR: Rachel Oates

YEAR: 2022

GENRE: Poetry and Photography

SUBGENRES: Mental Health, Feminism, and Abuse

GRADE: A

Rachel Oates has always had a complicated relationship with poetry, whether she was critiquing it on her You Tube channel or writing some of her own. But through it all, her writing skills shine brilliantly in this collection of poetry. She explores uncomfortable topics through a sensitive lens. Even when the poems don’t have happy endings, they never feel exploitative. They feel like she’s being true to herself and using her hurtful experiences to help others who are going through the same thing. In addition to helping other victims, these poems are also a middle finger to anybody who would ever beat or degrade another human being through the façade of compliments and love-bombing. Rachel Oates fancies herself a rookie in the poetry genre, but you wouldn’t know that from how expertly she handles the written word. That alone is worth an A grade.

One of my favorite poems in this book is Romb, a title which is not a typo, but a well-crafted pun. She talks about having a room to herself only for judgmental neighbors and men in suits to condescend to her and tell her how she should live in it. This is all of course a metaphor for her womb and how pro-life activists are every bit as nosy and intrusive as the people judging her room. Rachel says in one of her videos that a goal of poetry is to find innovative ways to say what the poet wants to say. She certainly lived up to her own advice in this poem and that’s a recurring theme throughout the entire book. She may be a rookie, but she’s a student first and foremost and is therefore a serial learner who takes in so much creative fuel before starting her projects. Learning doesn’t stop after graduating college. She’ll no doubt take this knowledge with her if she decides to put out another book of poetry.

Another poem I enjoyed was the much more disturbing Puppet Master, where she once again uses innovative comparisons to describe a serious topic, this time being abused by one of her now ex-boyfriends. Oh sure, the puppet master has pretty dolls and he assures you that you’re the prettiest of them all, different from the others. And through this manipulation and psychological torture, you believe these lies while becoming made of wood and strings yourself, strings that leave bruises from being tightly bound, and wood that doesn’t move until the puppet master says so. Thankfully, the poem ends on a high note of Rachel leaving her boyfriend and starting the healing process. But man, does this poem hit me where it hurts the most. While I’ve only had two romantic relationships in my whole life and neither of them were that bad in hindsight, I did have other people in my life bombard me with hate and then suck up to me with love and compliments. Rachel and I may both be atheists, but we can surely agree that there’s a special place in hell for people who gaslight and abuse their loved ones.

Of course, the other genre this book falls under is photography. She definitely has been engaging in this craft for a long period of time, judging from how professional and expressive each photo is. I especially like the one she took of downtown Southbank. Then again, cityscape photography has always been fascinating to me, whether it’s the bright lights, cool water, or beautiful colors in the sky. Honestly, Rachel could take pictures of mundane objects and it would still be considered great art by virtue of her own artistic integrity and personal lens (no pun intended). That’s the mark of a true artist: you know who made the art because their personal voice and point of view shines through in the most recognizable way possible.

This book is less than a hundred pages long, so you can breeze right by it in no time at all. But the poetry and photography will stay with you long after the reading experience is over. I will remember Rachel Oates’s work for the rest of my life, not only because of the raw vulnerability, but also because of the skill in which she executes her writing. I look forward to more publications from her, just as I always look forward to her upcoming You Tube videos. She smashes the stereotype of You Tubers being cash grabbers when it comes to publishing books. She’s serious about her craft and she will prove it to you over and over again until it stays with you forever. Noticing a theme here? Nothing less than five stars. Brilliant and heart-wrenching!

Welcome to the World, Gunther Golan

VERSE 1

After nine months of tummies being swollen

Welcome to the world, Gunther Golan

Can’t find your momma? Neither can I

Like a broken resolution, kiss her goodbye

Even I don’t know how you came to me

Must have been a night of drunken misery

But I can’t stand the taste of Budweiser

Another drug kept me from being the wiser

VERSE 2

Sorry for the disappointment, my little guy

Don’t have the patience or money to raise you right

Only resource I have is a life full of baggage

Potential turned to shit like eating too much cabbage

I could get a nice job flipping other people’s burgers

But that won’t offset all my fantasies of murder

Even if I had a million dollars in my bank

The screams still grated, the diapers still stank

VERSE 3

I can’t afford a car to drive you to school

So they give you D’s and C’s and label you a fool

Only option for you is to join the military

Where survivor’s guilt is their burden to carry

Another piece of meat for the sausage grinder

Another statistic in the government binder

This could have been avoided with a simple abortion

But instead the system plotted all this extortion

VERSE 4

After all the trauma and the baby mamma drama

All I had to show was a check from Obama

That was years ago, time flies like a vulture

Makes meals of us all, it’s American culture

We all had dreams at one point or another

Maybe you dreamed of having your own brother

But your legacy ends here, Mr. Gunther Golan

An endless stream of shit like cancer in the colon

FINAL LINE

But I’d give anything to bring you back…

Let Me Sleep

VERSE 1

I’d kill for a nice set of doggy days

But the AK-47 blew some kids away

But the women are living The Handmaid’s Tale

And the cops who enforce it never go to jail

I took a break from the news, but I have to return

So much about the world that I still have to learn

It matters very little if my short fuses burn

Can’t run forever, ‘cause it won’t get any better

CHORUS

Too much trauma at once, in the shit we’re deep

For god’s sake, just let me go the fuck to sleep

Is one good day too much to ask for?

Just let me sleep, let life be a bore

Let me sleep!

Let me sleep!

VERSE 2

I could walk down the street and shoot some hoops

It could get me out of this dystopian time loop

But all I want to do this afternoon is take a nap

And hope I don’t get snared in the news cycle trap

I can’t save the world when I’m by myself

Even the baddest of badasses are in need of help

We can start a revolution on any other day

But for now, I’ll let my mind drift away

CHORUS

Too much trauma at once, in the shit we’re deep

For god’s sake, just let me go the fuck to sleep

Is one good day too much to ask for?

Just let me sleep, let life be a bore

Let me sleep!

Let me sleep!

BRIDGE

I don’t need you to read me my last rites

Just tuck my carcass in and say goodnight

Try not to wake me up with bombs and blasts

Or a jeep motor that blows smoke like an ass

Or fireworks long after the fourth of July

Jingoism is dead, kiss that shit goodbye

CHORUS

Too much trauma at once, in the shit we’re deep

For god’s sake, just let me go the fuck to sleep

Is one good day too much to ask for?

Just let me sleep, let life be a bore

Let me sleep!

Let me sleep!

FINAL LINES

If I spent the night in a no-tell motel

Would you still shoot me dead, shrug it off like, “Oh well?”

Blade Master

 Butchered genitals, agony in general

Slash those cocks like a samurai sentinel

They call you Blade Master, I call you torturer

Target little children, never be a warrior

You say it’s just a snip as you steal the tip

But it feels like fire, but it feels like a rip

Do it all in the name of stopping masturbation

Do it all in the name of god’s favorite creations

But if I could hide behind a mystical deity

I could impale you with a spear against the ceiling

I could shove a chainsaw right up your ass

Give you a torture test that you’ll never pass

I could blame it all on who I pray to at night

I could call it freedom or my inalienable right

Doesn’t feel good when I’m the one with the blade

Chopping off your schlong, no more babies to be made

In case you want make a point about abortion

Don’t even try, because we know it’s extortion

A clump of cells ain’t got shit on a living child

Stop dicing dicks and adding to your growing pile

Blade Master, Blade Master, rest in little pieces

Know you can’t do fuck-all about sexual releases

Got no resume to take with you to heaven

Take the elevator down to the land of bad intentions

Tell the demons about the parents’ medical decision

Give them a lecture on what you call circumcisions

It's Not Porn

CHORUS

It’s!

Not!

Porn!

VERSE 1

Lesbian ladies on a double-decker bus

Homophobic men spying on their love

“Give us a show and make the fuck out

While we snort with our big piggy snouts”

The answer was no because they said so

Barbaric men decked them in the nose

Punching, screaming, secretly creaming

Where are the police when you need them?

CHORUS

It’s!

Not!

Porn!

VERSE 2

Unconscious girl behind a dumpster

Rapist swimmer summons the thunder

He called it twenty minutes of action

As he grinned with sick satisfaction

Slap on the wrist for Mr. White Privilege

A new idiot for the concrete village

He blamed it all on the damn alcohol

But at least his career never had to fall

CHORUS

It’s!

Not!

Porn!

BRIDGE

The faces of hate in the Sunday paper

The violence never seems to taper

No abortions for the pregnant victims

The right-wing never wants to listen

VERSE 3

If they dress like “sluts” and you grab their butts

Don’t be surprised when they kick you in the nuts

A revealing cosplay doesn’t give you the right

To fill her head full of trauma every fucking night

The real world isn’t like the porn on your computer

This urban war zone isn’t a First Person Shooter

You weren’t the first and you’re not the last

To need to have your head pulled out of your ass

CHORUS X4

It’s!

Not!

Porn!

Gender Blind

Every punch and kick Rachel Gustafson threw at her practice pads was dedicated to her haters. The right hook was dedicated to Battle Born President Raymond Katz, who put this intergender match together to solve his “Rachel Gustafson problem”. The flying knee was for every fan who didn’t believe she could do battle with a man, let alone win the fucking match. The elbow strike was for the protesters outside the arena who never wanted this match to happen. The spinning back fist was for Sting Masters, who thought this match was going to be a cakewalk. Lost in her rage, Rachel threw enough rapid fire punches and kicks to accidentally knock over her trainer, to which she apologized and helped him back up.

The knock on her door followed by a voice shouting, “It’s fight time!” prompted Rachel to crack her neck in both directions and march out of the locker room with fists tightened and muscles tensing. The PA system had already queued up her walk out theme of “One of These Days” by Pink Floyd. Groovy bass guitar solo aside, the grunting voice of “One of these days, I’m going to cut you into little pieces!” perfectly described how Rachel felt about everyone in this arena.

Once she walked down the aisle, she could hear the boos reverberating off of her muscles of stone. The occasional shouts of, “You suck!” made those audience members ideal candidates for a hard right hook to the face. But they were the ones sweating like pigs, not her. Even from the middle of the aisle, she stared bullets into Sting Master’s smug British face. He was already in the octagon waiting for her with his arms folded and his red Mohawk looking as silly as ever. “Cakewalk my ass!” she said to herself upon reaching the entrance to the cage.

Rachel stripped off her hooded sweatshirt and athletic pants to reveal her sports bra and baggy shorts with various business logos on it. At least she didn’t have “Condom Depot” printed on her ass like a lot of fighters these days had. After getting her face greased up with ointment and being searched by the referee for weapons, Rachel stomped up the steel stairs and bolted inside the cage, running circles around the structure and giving the middle finger to her booing audience. She would have given one to Sting, but a flying knee would have been more appropriate for someone of his arrogance.

Once both warriors stood in their appropriate corners behind the black line, the seven foot tall referee stood behind the ring announcer as he got this main event going. Speaking with passion and fire into the microphone, “Ladies and gentlemen, we are live from the sold out Tacoma Dome in Tacoma, Washington for Battle Born 57: Eye for an Eye! This event is sanctioned by the Washington State Athletic Commission. When the action begins, our referee in charge of the fight is Bill Dash. If you’re ready for some violence tonight, make some noise!”

The audience did make noise, but none of their cheers and boos were enough to take Rachel’s sniper sight focus off of Sting. The announcer continued his oratory with, “Three rounds in the Battle Born Promotions first ever intergender lightweight division match! Introducing first, fighting out of the red corner! This man is a striker who holds a professional record of twenty-six wins and six losses. He stands five feet seven inches tall and weighed in at 155 lbs. Fighting out of Manchester, England…STING…MASTERS!” More boos from an audience who clearly wanted this match to end in a double knockout.

“Introducing his opponent, fighting out of the blue corner! She is also a striker, but holds a professional record of nineteen wins and four losses. Standing at five feet eleven inches tall, weighing in at 153 lbs.. Fighting out of Denver, Colorado, ladies and gentlemen, she is the former Battle Born Promotions Women’s Lightweight Champion of the World…RACHEL…”GUTSY”…GUSTAFSON!”

Referee Bill Dash took center stage and brought both fighters toward his position. With the announcer holding the microphone in Bill’s face, he gave his instructions, “Okay, you two, I want a good clean fight. We’ve been over the rules in the locker room. Protect yourselves at all time. Obey my commands at all time. When I tell you to stop, you stop. If you want to touch gloves, go ahead and do it and then go back to your corners.” Not a damn fist was raised, only deadly steel-eyed stares. “Good luck to both of you and may the best fighter win,” said Bill before both fighters marched back to their corners.

The ring announcer and other unnecessary personnel vacated the cage and all that remained were two intergender warriors who wanted to smash each other’s faces in. Rachel saw red and only red. She remembered the interviews Sting gave in which he said he was going to, “Make her [his] bitch” and “Put her in her place.” All the laughing. All the booing. All the fake outrage going on outside with enhanced security. All the times Raymond Katz wanted to get rid of her for whatever reason. Those lava-like emotions bubbled towards the surface and she almost jumped the gun before the referee started the match.

“First round, are you ready, Rachel? Are you ready, Sting? Let’s get it on!” shouted Bill Dash and both warriors met in the middle of the octagon. No feeling out process, just throwing caution to the wind. Both fighters threw heavy punches and created wooshing sounds as those hits never landed. Rachel threw a kick at Sting’s hamstring and caused him to slightly wince, but otherwise suck it up. Another kick to the hamstring and a deep purple bruise formed on Sting’s pasty white leg.

Sting threw kicks of his own to Rachel’s midsection and she could feel the tiny bit of oxygen leaving her stacked body. The jeers from the audience intensified, but they weren’t the ones in this match and Rachel easily blocked them out. She threw more kicks to Sting’s legs and slowed him down considerably.

And then the wily Brit went for broke when he stormed towards Rachel with a series of hard rights and lefts. He missed the first two strikes, but the third, a stiff jab, caught her on the chin and sent a dot matrix of lights scattering across her field of vision. Another punch caught her on the bridge of her nose and her eyes watered like a raging river of hot tears. And then Sting used his good leg to throw a high kick and caught Rachel behind the ear.

The feminine fury wobbled and staggered about as she was being dissected by this brutal bully. He threw an elbow to her forehead and knocked her down while opening a gusher of a cut. The boos and outrage intensified even more, but all Rachel could hear were birdies tweeting in her head. Sting was little more than blur to her, obnoxious red Mohawk aside. She threw her feet upwards to try to keep him from mounting her and getting more vicious offence in.

Sting got overzealous and went for the mount anyways, but was met with an up-kick to the bridge of his nose, knocking him flat on his ass and busting him wide open with a waterfall of blood. Both fighters, bloodied and beaten, stood on their knees and punched the shit out of each other. Rachel’s vision was darkening with every knock she took on the face while Sting’s gusher poured like a busted fire hydrant.

Bill Dash was awfully close to stopping this fight when out of the corner of Rachel’s vision, a fan leaped over the cage and was immediately tackled to the floor by the seven foot ref. But then more fans jumped the fence and swarmed in on Bill Dash. The booing audience who hated this idea of an intergender match came rushing it all at once, even knocking one of the sides of the cage down.

Sting got up from his dazed kneeling position and was actually protecting Rachel with fists and feet towards the zealous fans. Bill Dash and other security members tossed around fans like sacks of potatoes. Meanwhile, a pair of husky arms grabbed the fading Rachel under her pits and dragged her out of the arena. She didn’t resist due to her weak body even though she wanted to. All she could hear was cussing, screaming, and riotous violence surrounding her. One fan even stepped on her ankle on the way to the cage and she didn’t even flinch. She huffed in exhaustion and closed her swollen eyes (or at least tried to) on her way to wherever the hell she was going.

By the time Rachel Gustafson opened her black and blue eyes and wiped away the crusted blood from her black ponytail hair, she actually thought she had woken up in a different time period. Was she an old lady by this time? Was this place a nursing home? No, it was a medical facility located far away from the Tacoma Dome. She recognized the plain white walls, the dull florescent lights, and the ultra-comfortable bed snuggling up to her spinal cord. Opening her eyes hurt like a motherfucker, but she did so anyways and caught a certain chubster in a cheap suit with horseshoe hair and a cheesy moustache standing over her bed.

“You’ve got a lot of balls coming here, Raymond. What the hell do you want?” asked Rachel in a weak, but angry tone.

“Miss Gustafson, I am so sorry for the way things turned out,” begged Raymond with his hands folded together. “This was supposed to be a special night for all of us. A revolution was unfolding before our very eyes. I didn’t think it would come to a full on riot.”

“Where’s Sting?” asked Rachel.

“We have no idea where he is. He could have gotten lost in the riot for all we know.”

“…So in other words, I’ll never get my win back from the man who stole it from me…because you wanted a fucking revolution?!”

“Rachel, I’m sorry, I really am.”

Having no more of Raymond Katz’s bullshit answers, the battered, bruised, and sore Rachel burst out of bed and held the CEO against the wall by his throat with both hands. “Don’t give me that crap! You knew from the very beginning this was going to happen! You wanted to get rid of your so-called Rachel Gustafson problem! So what do you do? You have a fucking riot in the middle of my fight! A fight, which by the way, I should have won by TKO!”

After listening to her boss wheeze and hack for hair, she finally let go of his chubby neck and let him plop to the floor on his giant ass. As he desperately caught his breath, Rachel kneeled down next to him and asked, “So what is the problem, Raymond? Is it because I asked for a raise? Is it because I asked to be promoted properly instead of getting pushed aside like a commodity?” She leaned her battle tested face towards his and said in a deep whisper, “Or is it because I tried to use the company’s health benefits to have an abortion when I needed one the most? If I had that baby, I would have died and you knew that!”

Once he had a sufficient amount of oxygen in his raspy lungs, Raymond threw his hands up defensively and said, “Trust me, Rachel, any problem I had with you has flown out the window. You’re important to me. I honestly didn’t believe this match was going to end in a riot. I’m sorry. I really am. I’ll give you whatever you want.”

Rachel stood up and asked, “Anything?”

“Anything you want. You fought like a trooper tonight, against a man, no less. You deserve something special for that.”

“If I can really have anything I want…then I want to be released from Battle Born Promotions.”

“What?! You’re kidding me!”

Rachel punched a hole in the wall above Raymond’s head and caused him to flinch and yelp. “I’m serious, you fat fuck! No amount of money can ever make me forgive you. You put my life in danger that night and I should do the same to you. But I’m not going to…unless you don’t grant me my release.”

With nothing more to say to her now former boss, Rachel stormed out her semi-private room and collapsed on the floor. She needed nurses and doctors to help her stand up. Out of her still painful vision, she saw a man in a wheelchair covered in bandages except for his eyes, which were swollen and purple just like hers. The man gave a thumbs up and said in his signature British accent, “I’ll see you again someday. We’re not finished by a long fucking shot!”

“You’re damn right we’re not, Sting!” shouted Rachel as she was being dragged away by medical personnel.

Violet Smith

NAME: Violet Smith
AGE: 28
OCCUPATION: Mixed-Martial Artist
CANON: Choice


Abortion is a sensitive topic no matter who you talk to. The mixed-martial arts community are not known for their sensitivity. So why then would I in 2012 write ten-page long story that combines both of those things? The MMA community is the same group of people who went bat shit crazy when Fallon Fox came out as a transsexual woman. How do you think they’re going to handle news of a female fighter having an abortion so that she can continue her career? They’re going to handle it the same way conservative wing nut and MMA fighter Violet Smith handled it: with hellfire and fury.

In the story known as “Choice”, the main character and fellow MMA featherweight Rachel Gustafson dispels pregnancy rumors at a press conference by sugar coating the fact that she had an abortion. Violet Smith, another featherweight and a religious zealot, screamed at Rachel and almost got in a fight with her right there at the conference. Somewhere down the line, Rachel and Violet would meet inside the eight sides of steel. Not only would Rachel win in the first round, but she would steal Violet’s abused boyfriend Neil Hahn afterwards.

I’ve always envisioned Violet Smith as being the conservative version of fellow female villain Colleen Owens. Violet is loud, obnoxious, in-your-face, crass, rude, and egotistical. To show you how much of a crazy bitch she is, in “Choice”, she compared Rachel Gustafson to kid rapist Phil Garrido in the sense of how they treat small children. If that doesn’t get your blood boiling, nothing will. That’s the kind of sick joke that causes PTSD in a lot of people. Violet Smith was the clear villain of that short story.

But did she need to be THAT much of a villain? Did she need to achieve Complete Monster status by not only traumatizing women who’ve had abortions, but also abusing her boyfriend at the time Neil Hahn? The poor guy had a 1-4 MMA record and thought he could jump start his career by hanging out with a woman who was 12-3, a former Women’s Featherweight Champion, and a multiple time post-fight bonus money winner. Neil shed the blood, sweat, and tears it took to be an MMA elite, but only because he was being slapped in the face and screamed at by Violet, criminal that she was.

As a writer, it’s my job to invoke emotions within my readers. Extreme anger may not be the best choice, which is why Violet Smith is currently in my unemployed pile. I actually had an idea of what I could do with her. I could Clockwork Orange her ass! Yeah! If she wants to go around beating up helpless women and downtrodden men, let her pay the same price as Alex De Large.

She could be shown films of anti-abortion and other Christian crusaders committing violence while a Demon Hunter, Skillet, or We As Human song is playing in the background. And then afterwards she can confront the ghosts of those she hurt in a sensory deprivation chamber, but that’s not Clockwork Orange, that’s Tales From the Hood’s fourth story Hardcore Convert.

But if I put Violet Smith through a Clockwork Orange storyline, will she be as defiant as she was when she was free or will she break down and have a moment of clarity? Can she really look a hallucination of Rachel Gustafson in the eyes and ask for forgiveness? Can she do the same thing to real life female MMA fighters like Liz Carmouche and Raquel Pennington, who are both openly lesbian and probably offended by Violet’s zeal?

But since this is an MMA fighter we’re talking about, maybe instead of confronting the hallucinations and giving them a bunch of false answers, we could have an actual match. Yeah! If Violet is really as remorseless as she says she is, let’s see if she can put Jessica Andrade in a rear-naked choke or TKO Fallon Fox into oblivion. If that’s the case, she won’t be winning any major championships. She’ll be showing the prison guards that she’s far from ready for normal society.

The Clockwork Orange angle is just one possibility that I’ve thought about. There are so many other things she can do. She can be a Dungeons & Dragons cleric for all I care. And since she’s good at unarmed combat, she can probably be a cleric and monk homebrew class. She can tell people to “Choose life!” while throwing a flying bullet kick a la Liu Kang from Mortal Kombat. But no matter what role she took, she will always be a villain due to her obnoxious Complete Monster mentality. In the case of D&D, she would be a level five lawful evil cleric/monk. Violet, have you met my good friends Deus Shadowheart and Brutus Warcry? They’re dying to get to know you! Hehe!

　

***WRESTLING QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“I apologize, you son of a bitch!”

-Vince McMahon to CM Punk-

You Might Be a Sociopath

If you’ve ever drawn a picture of Spongebob Squarepants giving a blowjob, you might be a sociopath.

If you’ve ever complained about WWE programming not having enough man on woman violence, you might be a sociopath.

If you can see the irony in finding a coat hanger in a catholic church, you might be a sociopath.

If you constantly refer to Nickelodeon as “The Foot Fetish Channel”, you might be a sociopath.

If you actually know there’s a website called Wiki Feet, you might be a sociopath.

If you’ve ever been kicked out of the mafia for being too violent, you might be a sociopath.

If you’ve ever ripped the wings off of a fly and then poured hot bacon grease over it, you might be a sociopath.

If the spinning table scene from Tales From the Hood gives you an erection, you might be a sociopath.

If a Soulfly song has ever changed your life, you might be a sociopath.

If you’ve ever cracked your knuckles during a moment of silence for 9/11 victims, you might be a sociopath.

If you go to a grocery store and buy duct tape and adult diapers at the same time, you might be a sociopath.

If you’ve ever refused medical treatment because you like to watch yourself bleed, you might be a sociopath.

If you’ve ever spanked a baby for being too loud, you might be a sociopath.

If the only reason you buy stuffed animals is to make them have sex with each other, you might be a sociopath.

If you have a crush on Casey Anthony, you might be a sociopath.

If you’ve ever photo-shopped a ball gag in Nelson Mandela’s mouth, you might be a sociopath.

If you’ve ever been hungry for human jerky, you might be a sociopath.

If you’ve ever smacked a child and claimed it was self-defense, you might be a sociopath.

If you’ve ever told a pregnant woman to staple her vagina shut, you might be a sociopath.

If your best strategy in a political debate is to burn an American flag, you might be a sociopath.

If you’ve ever wanted to scalp somebody for not liking your art, you might be a sociopath.

Jeff Foxworthy never though of this shit, did he! Jeff Foxworthy, eat your heart out! Actually, don’t do that. Otherwise, you might be a sociopath.

Devon Spirit Wolf

Being a referee in any sport is a thankless job, especially in the world of mixed-martial arts. If you make one tiny mistake as a referee, a firestorm of criticism will descend upon you like the end of the world is already upon us. You’ll catch shit from Dana White, Joe Rogan, the fans, the fighters, everybody. If you don’t believe me, ask referees like Steve Mazzigatti, Kim Winslow, Yves Lavigne, and just recently, Herb Dean. I don’t have a Twitter account, so I never know if these referees are lashing out against their critics. That’s why I’ve taken the liberty of creating a character that I hope to one day use in a future combat sports prose. Meet Devon Spirit Wolf. She’s Native American, she’s smoking hot, but best of all, she’s opinionated. In fact, she has her own blog called The Bitchy Referee. In this blog, she has a take no prisoners attitude and she doesn’t let anybody get away with murder. I know referees are supposed to be impartial, but Devon can get away with it because she lives in a fictional world were neutrality is bullshit. In one of her posts, she says that she has a lot of empathy for real world referee Kim Winslow. Kim is one of the most criticized referees in the business. Not because she makes controversial calls, but because she’s a woman. Think of all the “make me a sandwich” comments she had to endure over the internet, not to mention other renditions of the kitchen genre. Devon is also a woman and also doesn’t put up with sexism. She also doesn’t put up with transphobia either. In fact, when Matt Mitrione made his bigoted comments about Fallon Fox, Devon was the first to say that Matt secretly swung both ways and that he had a dress collection in his closet. Ouch! You know what else Devon Spirit Wolf hates? Pro-life zealots. She actually had an abortion when she was a teenager. She knows it’s not the most pleasant experience a woman can go through, but she also knows that a woman should never be shamed for it. Any other topics you’d like to throw in front of Devon Spirit Wolf’s face? She may be small enough to fit in Demetrious Johnson’s pockets, but she’ll kick anybody’s ass, whether it’s verbally or physically. She has a Brazilian Jujitsu black belt, so don’t piss her off. Now if only she can find a job in one of my stories. I already had one referee who was verbally animated and her name was Cheryl Glenn. I’m sure Devon Spirit Wolf will find work as well.

　

***DOMESTIC QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“If men want women to buy rape insurance, men should have to buy murder insurance.”

-Susan Wilson, the Deep Space Cowgirl-

Heroes and Influences

I’d like to think that there’s a huge difference between liking somebody and making somebody your own personal hero. When you like someone, you merely enjoy their aesthetically pleasing presence. When someone is your hero, you change your behavior to emulate that person. Today’s blog entry is about the latter of those two archetypes: heroes and influences. These are a few of my own personal heroes:

Susan Cain. I’ve talked about her extensively when I reviewed “Quiet”. She’s highly introverted and has no problem sticking up for other introverts in a world that doesn’t want to shut the fuck up. I’m an introvert myself, so I enjoy it when Susan Cain speaks on my behalf. Thanks, Ms. Cain. You’re awesome. And pretty too!

Pink Floyd. When I was a kid going to middle school and high school in the conservative hotbed known as Chehalis, Washington, I cherished it every time Roger Waters stuck his mouth against the mike and said, “We don’t need no education!” Come to think of it, I can still hear his voice calling out to me even after I’ve graduated from the extroverted hellhole that was college.

Daniel Bryan. Whenever I watch him on WWE TV, I always make it a point to leap to my feet as the match is going on. This past Monday night, he did something that I never thought I’d see him do: he beat three guys in one sitting in a gauntlet match. He submitted Jack Swagger, pinned Antonio Cesaro, and got Ryback disqualified (it seems hollow, but it’s still a victory over a third wrestler). There may be hope for this technical wizard after all.

Brett Battles. Even after going to college in 2009, I never really considered myself an avid bookworm, which was ironic knowing that my major was in creative writing. Instead of being a mediocre writer for the rest of my career, I picked up a book by Brett Battles called “The Cleaner” and the rest is history. I have a book blog and I’m a better writer because of that first step.

George Carlin. Not only did this guy make me laugh my ass off every time I watched him, but he spoke the truth while he did it. He was an anti-conformist who had no respect for authority whether it was from government, corporations, religion, the police, or any other power that enjoys beating people over the head with a club and telling them what to believe. When he died in 2008, I fell into a depression. That’s how much this guy meant to me.

This may not be the entire list, but it’s all I can think of at the moment. I’m open to listening to your list of heroes and influences as well. We’ve got ears, say cheers! Come to think of it, Mickey Mouse can be my hero as well!

　

***COMEDIC QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“If you think a fetus is more important than a woman, try getting a fetus to wash the shit stains out of your underwear for no pay and no pension.”

-George Carlin-

Darkness and Crudeness

There’s a fine line between being dark and being crude. As someone who’s tried to experiment with the dark style all my life, I’ve crossed the blurred line several times in my career. No matter how many times I try to avoid it, somehow I keep crossing that border whenever I’m pumping out first drafts. And then I end up feeling horrible about it since there’s a slim chance I may have unintentionally offended someone. Offending people is good, but not when it’s unintentional. Here’s an example. There’s a short story in Foe vs. Blade called Choice, where an MMA fighter named Rachel Gustafson has an abortion so that she can continue to compete. When she finally has her next fight, her pro-life opponent Violet Smith compares her to Phil Garrido since abortion is allegedly the same as child abuse. Before publishing Foe vs. Blade, I removed that crude and unnecessary comment and replaced it with both fighters instead electing to go back to their corners. The DeviantART and Facebook versions of Choice still have the Phil Garrido remark, but that’s only because nobody pays attention to first drafts anyways. You can apply the darkness-crudeness continuum to your own work as well. For example, let’s say you’re going to make a joke about Cleopatra’s menstrual cycle. A calm and sensible person who still wished to be dark and offensive would phrase the joke like this: “Q: Why did Cleopatra use tampons? A: Because she was on her pyramid.” A crude and tacky person would phrase the seemingly innocent joke like this: “Q: Why did Cleopatra shove tube steaks up her fucking twat? A: Because the bitch was on her pyramid, yo!” The lesson learned here is that swearing is not always a good way to enhance your material. If all you have is swearing and no substance, you’re not going to survive the creative world. That’s why whenever I’m walking the streets of downtown Bremerton and I hear a random guy rapping about a woman “sucking a dick in less than a minute”, I cringe and try to get the hell out of there as quickly as possible. The only purpose swearing and other forms of darkness serve is to make the story realistic. There are people out there who use crude language, but when writing, try to capture it in such a way that it doesn’t completely make your audience’s stomachs turn. A good example of darkness used to perfection would be Tales From the Hood. Yes, the characters love to cuss, but whenever Bulldog yells, “Where’s the shit?!” your stomach is sore not from nausea, but from laughing. Leave the nausea up to Crazy K as he gets spun around several times on a torture table while watching black people getting killed, which is apparently what he’s been doing all of his life according to Dr. Cushing. Peace! I’m out!

　

***COMEDIC QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“One of the side effects for these diet pills is anal seepage. If you take this pill, I don’t care how much weight you’ve lost, you ain’t looking good in them jeans.”

-Jeff Foxworthy-

"To Kill a Mockingbird" by Harper Lee

I spent my freshman year of high school in a little town called Chehalis, a hotbed of racism, bullying, and pretty much every other kind of ignorant behavior imaginable. This town desperately needed “To Kill a Mockingbird” as part of its English curriculum. Atticus Finch must defend a black prisoner named Tom Robinson wrongfully accused of raping a little girl. If he’s wrongfully accused, then he should be easy to get off the hook. Right? In Maycomb, Alabama, it’s not that simple. Racial prejudice and other forms of bigotry run rampant throughout the town, making it impossible for people to see that Tom Robinson is clearly innocent. Caught in the middle of this racial tension is the main character of the story Scout Finch and her older brother Jem. These two children actually have to grow up in this environment and learn the hard way of the dangers of racial injustice. With so much character development in this story coming from the two children, it’s no shock at all that this book won a Pulitzer Prize and that it’s required reading for pretty much every high school in the country. You know what is a shock? Certain groups of people were actually trying to get “To Kill a Mockingbird” pulled from library shelves because it uses the word “nigger” multiple times. Really? You’re going to censor a book for being realistic about the environment the characters live in? Maycomb, Alabama was not a pretty place to live in, especially if you were, (deep breath), black! You think the villains in this story are going to get away with calling Tom Robinson a “doo-doo head”? How about a “jerky-puss”? Or a “turtle nose”? G-rated insults simply don’t cut it in a world where innocence is shattered like glass. Because as it turns out, losing your innocence is something that everybody goes through in the real world whether they want to or not. Some people have an easier time with shedding it than others. It’s sad and unfortunate, but it is true. You think that if Tom Robinson was being called a “doo-doo head” that this book would have won a Pulitzer Prize? Bullshit! It wouldn’t even make it passed the printing press! Maybe there’s another reason why censorship addicts want this book pulled from libraries. Maybe it’s because they use the word “nigger” more often than the characters in this book! Just saying…

　

***POLITICAL QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“The only way the republicans would approve of abortion is if the father was black.”

-Bill Maher-

"Napalm and Silly Putty" by George Carlin

George Carlin had a career that spanned multiple decades of giggles and guffaws. And now you can have the best of his routines in one single book. It’s called “Napalm and Silly Putty” and reveals the dual nature in which he thrived. The napalm represents his destructive, dark, and violent side, while silly putty represents his giggly and joyful side. Put them together and you’ve got the makings of Mr. George Carlin. This book was published in 2001. Think of all the comedy routines you’ve heard before that time and jam them into this well-written book. You’ve got his jabs against pro-lifers, his love for entropy, his reasons why certain sports shouldn’t be considered as such, his hatred for euphemistic language, and many others that not only provoke thought, but also garner hyena cackling. And then you’ve got some routines and short takes that weren’t previously in his material, my favorite out of all of the unknowns being the death wishes section. If you’re feeling really suicidal, walk through Harlem dressed in a KKK robe or go to a cult sacrifice with a crucifix and a priest collar around your neck. Not only will you have more bruises on your body than hairs on your head, but you might actually pass on to the afterlife. And then you have those short takes that he bursts into every once and a while. “An art thief is someone who takes pictures”. Think about that one for a moment. Remember his routine about not giving a shit if the pandas fuck again this year? That’s in there too. He’d have to include that one, because really, can you actually get a hard-on while some loser in a green shirt is taking your girlfriend’s rectal temperature? Leave these creatures alone! Of course, a George Carlin book wouldn’t be complete if he didn’t have a list of war statistics. You know, the number of times we’ve had “enhanced interrogations”, “terrorist attacks”, “beheadings”, and “counter-insurgencies”. There are no real stories in this book. It’s basically a compilation of his greatest routines. If you’re looking for a structured story, check out “Last Words”. But if you’re in the mood for achy ribs and a crooked spine from laughing so hard, buy this book today.

　

***COMEDIC QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“Catholics and other Christians are against abortion and they’re against homosexuals. Well, who has less abortions than homosexuals?! Leave these fucking people alone for Christ’s sake! Here’s an entire population of people guaranteed never to have an abortion! And the Catholics and Christians are just tossing them aside! You’d think they’d make natural allies!”

-George Carlin-