Marigold DiAngelo, Because You Can't Have "Emilio & Marigold" Without Her

 

Kesha Rosales, Caleb's Daughter from "Virtuous"

 

Hilaree Duchamp, Robb Sugar's Next Door Neighbor from "Marines Love Prison"

 

Catey Zolot, Physically Ill Religious Kid from "Jumping For Jesus"

 

Matilda Wormwood vs. Sneako

 

Stay Down

VERSE 1

Your childhood sucked, so your offspring must pay

Beat them with a belt to make sure they’re not gay

A piece of leather passed down from your father

You could throw that shit away, but why the hell bother?

Whip them, lash them, and verbally trash them

Their spirits and dreams, go ahead and smash them

When you’re taken away with cuffs around your wrists

You can tell the courtroom about the gripes on your list

 

PRE-CHORUS

Mr. Narcissist, next time you get pissed

Make sure the gun you put to your head doesn’t miss

 

CHORUS

Stay down! X4

 

VERSE 2

You hate your wife, because she ruined your life

That’s the story you tell on your way to hell

Too much nagging from her led you to a divorce

You’re so innocent, so you owe her, of course

You say the system’s rigged with a voice so big

But your dick’s so small and so are your balls

One last check in the form of alimony

Your bank account is dry, keep pissing and moaning

 

PRE-CHORUS

Mr. Wifebeater, Mr. Cheater, Mr. Geezer

Next time you keep a dead body in your freezer

Call your victim anything but a skeezer

It’s not a good look when you’re locked up and booked

 

CHORUS

Stay down! X4

 

BRIDGE

I’m sorry life didn’t turn out the way you wanted

I’m sorry you grew up with a mind so haunted

But my real sympathies lie with the ones you hurt

You didn’t have to do that, no more bodies in the dirt

Nobody walks away from this life unscathed

Doesn’t mean they need to feel even half of your pain

You could have broken the cycle, but you broke their bones

You broke their minds too, so forgiveness is a hard no

 

CHORUS

Stay down! X8

 

OUTRO

Lay down!

And stay down!

‘Cause if you get back up

You’ll get jacked up!

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…

Moe/Joe

BROKEN MOE

Dweams weally do come twue

A dwop in the ocean, happy tear for you

I get to stay in a fowever home

I’ll never have to wowwy about being alone

KATANA JOE

This place is a prison for the cowardly

They just don’t acknowledge it outwardly

If I had my hands around their throats

They could tell me what I already know

BROKEN MOE

How can you say that about my home?

I love my new mommy, I love her so

You’re just a big meanie to evewyone

When anyone can smile, I mean anyone

KATANA JOE

Smiles are just masks to keep us in check

When all I want to do is sever their necks

Violence and death are what we live for

Not to be somebody’s emotional whore

BROKEN MOE

Mommy will wash your mouth out with soap

She’ll use the worst tasting kind, I hope

Be nice to evewyone and you’ll be fine

Don’t wuin my home, it’s mine all mine

KATANA JOE

I’ll kill everyone inside of this hovel

Like a scene from a serial killer novel

You’re next, Broken Moe, so get ready

For a kick in the head so fucking deadly

BROKEN MOE

Get out of my bwain, you big fat jerk

I’ll hate you fowever if you go berserk

Don’t wuin my life, you doo-doo head

I hate these nightmares in my bed

KATANA JOE

Your worst nightmare will come to life

Every one of these throats deserves a knife

I’m the only one here who makes any sense

I’m the fucking landlord, now pay the rent!

HOST BODY

No! No! No! Stop it! I beg you!

KATANA JOE

Hahahahahahaha! Let’s murder this world together!

My Child

VERSE 1

If I allowed you to be born in this world

Your hate for me would come full circle

I’d give you the genes, the mental disease

You would murder yourself to be set free

Ripping the stitches after life-saving surgery

Someone stole your soul, an act of burglary

A never-ending cycle of psychological torture

Another week to live is what the doctor orders

VERSE 2

If I allowed you to be born on this earth

You’d be considered a criminal by virtue of birth

Bullied by the worst kinds of scum in school

Fired by the bosses with their autocratic rule

Beaten by the cowards in the dingiest prison

Until darkness becomes your only true vision

I couldn’t put you through any of that shit

Another reason to never have my own kid

BRIDGE

My child, my son, my daughter, my young

Punished for the crime of not holding your tongue

Punished for the crime of not breaking down

Punished for wanting to drown out the sounds

Of the voices telling you you’re not good enough

That surviving this world is for the macho and tough

I can’t raise you in an environment such as this

Time to say goodnight with a forehead kiss

VERSE 3

My only children have fur on their bodies

My only children bark for a piece of salami

My only children meow for a can of tuna fish

My only children drink from a paw print dish

My only children don’t need to go to college

To pay off their debts by emptying their wallets

To answer to the police for doing nothing wrong

Just listen to this purr baby’s mechanical song

The Last Child Comedian

***BEFORE I BEGIN***

Just a quick heads up to readers of Beautiful Monster: chapter eleven will be featured exclusively on Wattpad and nowhere else due to its strong sexual content. You won’t need a trigger warning this time, because the sex will be consensual (and maybe a little pornographic, depending on my own personal knowledge of sex). This chapter has been a long time coming, though it’s only the beginning of a much larger story of recovery and sensitivity.

***THE LAST CHILD COMEDIAN***

Many of you already know this, but when it comes to my sense of humor and my writing, George Carlin has always been one of my biggest influences. He swears like a sailor, he’s unafraid of being censored, he’s poignant as hell, and best of all, he’s funnier than a motherfucker. Speaking of which, “A father is a motherfucker.” That’s a direct line from George Carlin and it got my laugh motor going at the time. Thank god he came into my life when he did, because my sense of humor was suffering as an early teenager slash little kid.

Before Curious George became part of my comedic repertoire, I had guys like Johnny Carson and Benny Hill giving me my fill. There’s nothing wrong with either of those two comedians, but there was something wrong with the way I’ve processed their jokes into my own creativity. They told a lot of adult jokes that I wasn’t old enough to get yet, so all I had was their G-rated material. And from those jokes came some…questionable material on my part.

I knew it was questionable because when I told these manufactured jokes to my dad and brother, they didn’t laugh. Quite frankly, I don’t blame them. Want to hear my version of Jeff Foxworthy? Prepare to cringe hard. “If you fly all the way to Big Ben just to see what time it is, you might be a redneck.” Good god almighty. What the fuck? You think that’s awful, listen to this: “Why don’t criminals use pens? Because they might go to jail (pen as in penitentiary)”. Ugh. I’m cringing just writing these jokes down.

But it didn’t stop there. In fact, it got progressively worse. I’m sure my older brother remembers the infamous “Buttered Toast Shop” routine. It told the fictional story of a crabby restaurant owner with a lisp who only served buttered toast at his establishment. You couldn’t order anything else, not jam, not peanut butter, not even water. Just buttered toast. You also couldn’t dress like Wonder Woman in his diner because he’ll accuse you of wearing a diaper instead of a one-piece suit. I’ll let you all shiver for a few seconds before I continue.

And then there was a routine about a fat black guy named Tiny winning a vacation to Hawaii. Only he didn’t pronounce it the way people normally do. He pronounced it “Hwy.” That’s it. That’s the punch line for this whole joke. People would constantly try to correct him, but he just kept calling it “Hwy”, so he had his vacation revoked. I bet some alternative right motherfuckers would eat this shit up, but not my brother, who rightfully told me that my sense of humor was for little babies.

And then it got worse once again. My next routine was about an airline traveler who wanted to go to Japan, but kept getting his ass kicked by ninjas. In fact, the ninjas told him in a butchered sing-song accent, “We are the Japanese ninjas and we’re going to kick your butt!” Okay, so just don’t go to Japan. Problem solved. But then this traveler kept going to other countries and getting his ass kicked by ninjas. “We are the [Insert Foreign Country Here] ninjas and we’re going to kick your butt!” Even when he was on an airplane over the Pacific Ocean, he’d still get his ass kicked by international ninjas. Not one laugh. Not one goddamn laugh was earned that day. I can’t imagine why. Oh, excuse me. I can’t imagine “hwy”.

I didn’t watch my first George Carlin HBO special until I was fifteen years old. It was a VHS version of “Doing It Again”, where he talks about euphemisms, politically correct language, dog turds, and anything else that would make the censors rip their hair out. I watched these comedy bits and I thought to myself, “I want to do that!” So I took myself over to The Matrix Coffeehouse in Chehalis, Washington and performed George Carlin routines from memory. “If crime fighters fight crime and fire fighters fight fires, what do freedom fighters fight?” And of course, some wiseass from the crowd just had to yell, “Freedom!” Even so, I probably got more laughs doing this than I would have talking about a fictional Buttered Toast Shop.

It was from that George Carlin special along with the movie Pink Floyd the Wall that gave me my strong sense of individuality. I could crack offensive jokes and listen to devilish music without ever once caring what other people thought of me. I still take that nonconformist attitude into my adult life, though I’ve calmed down just a little bit during those lengthy years. Thank you, George, for bringing me the mental emancipation I needed from dull G-rated comedy that makes no goddamn sense. He’s been dead for a whole decade now, but I still keep his comedy close to my heart.

The lesson for the day: if you must process creative fuel and form your personal identity around it, don’t let anybody tell you you can’t do this or you can’t do that. Do what feels right to you. Do what makes you happy. Unless you’re a serial killer, in which case, you should probably surrender yourself to the authorities. Other than that, try not to crack under the pressures of society. They don’t care about you and your dreams. They only care about keeping the machine moving, a machine which grinds individuality into pieces of homogenous meat. I told you Pink Floyd the Wall had a strong influence on me! I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!

***COMEDY ROUTINE OF THE DAY***

“Let’s take a look at some of these food words, particularly “old-fashioned”. When you hear the words “old-fashioned”, you’re supposed to think, “Oh, this goes back to the old days!” Right! The old days! Before we had sanitation laws. Before hygiene became popular. When botulism was still considered to be a sauce. Old-fashioned is supposed to give you a warm feeling. It makes you think about your grandma. Well, I don’t know about you, but when I’m picking out food, I don’t want to picture ninety pounds of wrinkles in a black dress…with a big hairy mole sticking out…and an infected lip.”

-George Carlin, 1937-2008-

The Last Ice Man

***THE LAST ICE MAN***

Poor sportsmanship seems to be a common topic among my blog entries lately. I guess my brother James was right: I did take everything personally back in those days. Everything! One small example was when I threw punches at an Everlast in a mall and the clerk told me to stop. Being the sensitive small child I was, I cried my eyes out on the way to the car. But of course, this blog entry is called The Last Ice Man, and unless I was training to be the next Chuck Liddell, that’s not the main focus here. Instead we go back to the early 90’s where my parents, brother, and I went to an ice skating rink in either Seattle or Vancouver (I forget which one).

Skating has never been my favorite thing to do since I always fell on my ass due to a lack of dexterity. I kept secretly wishing for ice skates that were double-bladed and had a wide berth, but alas, The Secret didn’t come out until 2006, so I was SOL. On this particular day, I held onto the railing and grinded my blades against the ice, making a little depression where I was standing. Of course, the female staff didn’t appreciate this, so they told me to stop. That should have been the end of it, but because I was a six year old child with poor sportsmanship, I took it personally yet again.

When the female staff skated by again, I shook my fist at them the same way a ballerina would do to express nonverbal anger. No middle finger, no crossed arms, just a ballet fist shake that I learned about in the first grade while studying that particular form of theater. The female staff skated over and tried to physically remove me from the rink, but I kept holding onto the railing for dear life, even when more staff members came over to help her. They finally relented when my mom explained to them that I was autistic and didn’t know any better….at least I think that was the argument she used. While I didn’t dig my skates into the ice again, I did manage to do a few laps around the ice and fall on my ass some more.

In my blog entries about soccer and swimming respectively, I actually considered making those scenarios into full-length novels. In the case of soccer, I’ve got a synopsis and character cast ready, but no chapter-by-chapter analysis. In the case of swimming, I’ve got nothing. Absolutely nothing. But how exactly does one make a novel out of this particular scenario? Does the main character get traumatized after being banned from the rink? Does he hate skating anyways? Does he have to learn good sportsmanship the hard way? If nothing else, this is just a cute story that I’m sure some of my readers could relate to as children.

Boy, I really didn’t think this one through, did I? If nothing else, writing a new blog entry will give me the chance to make announcements about my future projects, starting with…

***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER***

In case you couldn’t tell from the kinky action going on in chapter two, there are going to be future chapters of this novel with even more explicit sexual content, particularly chapters six and eleven. One of them will feature female-on-male rape and the other will feature consensual sex. No more spoilers beyond that! No, no, no! Then again, even Stevie Wonder could see this coming from miles away, so it’s not much of a spoiler.

***SHORT STORY***

I know I said months ago that I would discontinue American Darkness 3 because of how similar the stories were sounding. However, I’ve had this one idea that’s been rolling around in my head ever since drinking a shit ton of cold black tea, which is bad for schizophrenics in particular. Now that I think about it, black tea might be responsible for the brooding going on in my blog entry called “Wrestling With My Mind”. Green tea and jasmine tea don’t do that shit. But before I go too far down the rabbit hole, I want to present you all with a short story idea called “Everybody’s Rock”. It goes like this:

CHARACTERS:

1. Clark Hall, Aloof Boyfriend
2. Sidney Farrow, Tearful Girlfriend

PROMPT CONFORMITY: To be announced.

SYNOPSIS: The apartment scene opens with Clark vegging out in front of the TV while Sidney is crying hysterically and trying to get his attention. After a while of prodding, Clark goes on a tirade about how his girlfriend cries about everything while he has his own pain that he’s supposed to keep on the inside, thus being “everybody’s rock”. Clark wants desperately to be able to fall to pieces the same way Sidney is, but being a man hasn’t allowed him to do that due to male stereotypes and the general discomfort of those around him. Sidney pushes her boyfriend some more in an attempt to open his floodgates once and for all, but Clark is stubborn as hell. Sooner or later, everybody cracks no matter how strong of a rock they are.

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“Sunlight bright upon my pillow, lighter than an eiderdown. Will she let the weeping willow wind his branches around? Julia dream. Dreamboat queen. Queen of all my dreams. Every night I turn the light out waiting for my velvet bride. Will the scaly armadillo find me where I’m hiding? Julia dream. Dreamboat queen. Queen of all my dreams. Will the misty master break me? Will the key unlock my mind? Will my following footsteps catch me? Am I really dying? Julia dream. Dreamboat queen. Queen of all my dreams.”

-Pink Floyd singing “Julia Dream”-

Brat Man

Brat Man lived in his little superhero costume. Once elementary school was over, the uniform came off and the superhero outfit replaced it. Playing in the streets with his buddies kept him smiling, energetic, and happy in his young days. The more he played, the more he would fantasize about what being a superhero was truly all about. Why just arrest his Penguin and Joker-like friends when he could play in the big leagues? One Saturday night past Brat Man’s bedtime, he tiptoed out of the covers, put on his black leather uniform and mask, and sneaked out of the house through his window.

The night air felt refreshing against Brat Man’s honey brown skin. He took a deep breath, twirled his cape around him, and ventured out into the streets with a high and mighty swagger. So far, everything in the neighborhood was peaceful and quiet. Not one soul walking the streets this late at night. But then Brat Man strutted deeper into the streets and could hear the faint sounds of hip-hop music off in the distance. There was nothing wrong with that particular genre of music, but Brat Man imagined people in the neighborhood were trying to sleep.

The further the little superhero explored the streets, the less it felt like the safety of home. Barbed wire fences surrounded broken down buildings with spray-painted curse words on them. Smashed up cars with no wheels were parked on lawns and sidewalks every which way. Brat Man’s anxious chills multiplied throughout his body when he found a dead cat in the middle of the road. He reached down and petted the poor little thing, whose body had been pancaked by a careless driver. He wiped the blood on his cape and closed the precious baby’s eyes for good. He knew his services were needed now more than ever.

Brat Man snapped out of his animal-loving trance when a pair of combat boots stood in front of him. He slowly panned his head up to see a baldheaded white male with a swastika carved into his forehead and a Resting Bitch Face that could strike fear in the hearts of ferocious jungle beasts. The man wore a leather vest with several racist symbols on it as well as a pair of blue jeans that were several sizes too big. He also had the name “T-Money” tattooed across his neck with the T looking distinctively like another swastika.

The little superhero swallowed a huge gulp of saliva, but put on a brave front as he swirled his cape around him and said, “Give it up, T-Money! Your days of evildoing are over!”

The racist smiled a slimy-toothed smile before grabbing Brat Man by the chest and pulling the shivering young man him face-to-face. “Let me guess: you want to know what that hip-hop bullshit is playing in the background. Me too, buddy. In fact, if you’re such a fucking superhero, why don’t you go out there an see what those niggers are up to. Get them before they get away. Halloween’s over, but they’ll probably give you some candy anyways.” T-Money threw Brat Man to the ground and snickered at him.

The small child wiped the dirt off of his uniform and stood back up with his hands on his hips, defiant until the very end. In a godlike voice, he boomed, “Any last words before I take you to the authorities?”

T-Money shook his head before delivering a thudding knee to Brat Man’s stomach and dropping him to his knees. While the small fry gasped for air and whined in pain, the skinhead pulled Brat Man’s puffy until they were nose-to-nose yet again. “This ain’t no Marvel Comics bullshit, little guy. The hero ain’t going to win in the end. I tried being nice and letting you leave, but I guess your welfare momma spoiled your ass, so I’m probably going to have school you tonight.”

Brat Man threw the world’s weakest punch and only managed to hit something in T-Money’s pocket and bruise his own knuckles. The child cried and shook out his hand. The racist smiled and pulled out the object of Brat Man’s blind attack: a smart phone with a solid steel protection case. “You see this, you little bitch?” he said. “When you actually work for a living instead of lazing around on tax dollars, you can afford shit like this. Look at how strong this thing is!” The last sentence was punctuated by T-Money smashing the steel case against Brat Man’s temple, knocking him down and bringing tears to his eyes.

“Please, Mr. Money,” whined Brat Man. “No more. I just want to go home. I won’t read anymore comic books, I swear!” He held up his hands defensively to show that his begging was sincere.

“Nah, man, you ain’t going home tonight,” said T-Money. “If I let you go home, your welfare momma’s just going to spoil your ass some more. No more free rides, motherfucker. No more nigger money. No more of those geeky ass comic books.” He leaned down and whispered angrily, “Welcome to the real world, buddy. There are no heroes here. Just bad guys. Lots and lots of bad guys. In case there’s any confusion…”

T-Money pulled out a hypodermic needle filled with a mysterious substance and grabbed Brat Man firmly by the wrist, leaving purple marks in his wake. The little guy yelled, “No!” as loud as he could and squirmed around like a cat avoiding a flea bath. This was not the way he imagined his superhero life to be. Superman never had to worry about getting beaten to death by skinheads. Wonder Woman could break any sexist man with her warrior spirit alone. The Flash could run circles around even the biggest and baddest motherfuckers. Brat Man wanted all of that, but instead got a dose of heroin stabbed into his arm like a murderer’s knife.

Once T-Money pressed down on the plunger, Brat Man convulsed violently on the ground and coughed hard enough to bloody his mouth. He gasped for air while clutching the B symbol on his chest. Visions of T-Money blurred around him with a sadistic, devilish grin. The words, “Welcome to the real world” echoed like a schizophrenic demon in Brat Man’s head. The obtrusive sounds of sirens blaring caused Brat Man’s ears to pulsate with agony. The veins in his brains thumped and pumped to where they almost exploded. His vision grew dark and fuzzy until all that remained was cold silence.

In his nightmare, he huddled up for warmth while the bandages around his body did nothing to toast him up. The entire Justice League along with the Legion of Doom gathered in a circle around him, pointed, and laughed like horses at his “stupidity”. Tears flowed from Brat Man’s bloodshot eyes while he mouthed the words, “I’m sorry!” over and over again. No matter how many times he wiped his tears away, they just kept coming back stronger until they were more viscous than pipeline oil. Comic books formed a wall around him, but all he wanted to do was burn them all. With matches in hand, he struck the whole book and set the wall of paper ablaze while screaming, “I hate you! I hate you all!”

“Hey!” shouted a masculine voice, which jolted Brat Man out of his drug-induced nightmare. Except he wasn’t Brat Man anymore, not in those hospital bandages. The fact that he was lying in bed sicker than Superman around kryptonite made him even less of a hero on his mind. More tears were to come.

The trench coat and fedora-wearing detective standing over Brat Man’s bed patted him on the arm and said, “No more tears, young man. If you hadn’t dialed 9-1-1 when you did, we would have never caught that skinhead. We’ve been looking for him forever.”

Brat Man wiped his tears away and stuttered, “But…but…I didn’t call 9-1-1.”

“Maybe not on purpose, but somebody dialed 9-1-1 on T-Money’s phone,” explained the detective. Even in a drug-induced haze, Brat Man vaguely remembered accidentally striking T-Money’s phone. He pocket dialed the cops and they heard the entire conversation that night. Brat Man chalked this up to luck instead of having any real superhero potential.

“Make no mistake about it, young man,” said the detective. “Going out there in that silly superhero outfit at that time of night was dangerous. You may have done the right thing, but there’s always that chance that you could have died out there. Don’t ever do anything like that again.”

“I promise I won’t, sir,” sobbed Brat Man. “I hate being a superhero.”

“Funny you should mention that, sonny,” said the detective while ruffling Brat Man’s puffy locks. He pulled out his badge and showed it to the wide-eyed vigilante. “You see this? This is what a real superhero carries around with him. No kryptonite can ever take away this kind of power. But it takes a lot of work to get one of these. That includes doing well in school and training hard before you graduate. If you ever decide to be a superhero again, consider having this on your new uniform…when you’re old enough, that is.”

The cop left the room and gave Brat Man some privacy. He didn’t that much thinking time in order to know that the Brat Man gimmick was dead in the water. There was no way anybody could be that invincible. But with a police badge waiting for him at graduation, it was a good start. For the first time since being mauled by T-Money, Brat Man, or rather Officer Brat Man, formed a tiny smile on his face. But before he could take on the role of a real hero, he had to detox this poisonous drug out of his system. Beating withdrawal was a tough challenge worthy of a superhero’s might. He could do it. He had to do it!

Dreams

DIALOGUE 1
Adult: What do you want to do when you grow up?

Kid 1: I want to flip hamburgers!

Kid 2: I want to clean toilets!

Kid 3: I want to bag groceries!

VERSE 1

How can you dream big when you can’t fall asleep?

When there’s no liquor bottle that’s too deep?

No excitement in this world that’s too cheap?

No friendship in this life that you can keep?

Do you even know what your biggest dreams are?

A white picket fence, a family, and a sports car?

Or is it just surviving yet another dark day?

No rainbows today, but there’s plenty of rain

DIALOGUE 2
Adult: What do you want to do when you grow up?

Kid 1: I want to panhandle!

Kid 2: I want to stay in bed!

Kid 3: I want to sell drugs!

VERSE 2

Being an astronaut is easy when you’re a child

To be a dreamer is to let your mind go wild

Being a princess is what you’ve always believed

When you grow the fuck up, you’ve been deceived

Being on the big screen is a Hollywood trip away

As long as you take the director’s dick and play

Low expectations are the new Disneyland

Peter Pan isn’t going to hold you by the hand

DIALOGUE 3

Adult: What do you want to do when you grow up?

Kid 1: I want to jump off a cliff!

Kid 2: I want to swallow a bunch of pills!

Kid 3: I want to put a gun to my head!

VERSE 3

Is this depressing shit making you want to cry?

Or do you dare to spread your wings and fly?

Fly around the world? Fly into outer space?

Fly off a building, splat all over the place?

Find out whoever took away your dreams

Hold him hostage, make him feel your screams

Tell him over and over how he fucked you bad

Laugh in his face like you’re fucking mad!

DIALOGUE 4

Adult: What do you want to do when you grow up?

Teenager: I’ll do whatever the fuck I want, you shallow prick! Resist, motherfuckers!

He's Only Thirteen

Gloria Summers’ heavenly soprano voice resonated throughout the empty church as she practiced her hymns. Standing at the altar with a purple choir robe flowing from her petite figure, she sang her heart out as though the church was packed for her performance. She closed her beautiful brown eyes and imagined applause and tears of happiness from the makeshift crowd. But when she opened them again, she didn’t see a single soul sitting in the pews. She wiped a tear from her eye as she remembered how this city had fallen on hard economic times. People would do absolutely anything for money, even if it meant endangering their health and forfeiting their position at the pews.

And then her concentration was broken as easily as church glass when a pounding at the doors boomed throughout the House of God. Gloria nearly jumped out of her dark skin and clutched a hand to her heart at the raucous sound, which continued to grow louder with desperation. She lifted her choir robe and hurried down the church aisle to answer the door. “Who could be knocking at this hour?” she asked herself.

When she opened the doors, a heavy presence spilled over her lap, almost knocking her on her ass. She managed to circle her arms around what appeared to be a dark-skinned teenage boy in a white karate gi passed out and shivering from the rain outside. Gloria dragged the young man inside and slammed the door behind her to prevent the cold from rushing into her church.

“You poor thing,” said Gloria while rolling the little boy over. Cuts and bruises covered his face and his tongue dangled slightly out of his mouth with a speck of drool hanging down. “Come on, little guy, let’s get you all warm and toasty.” The lone choir girl cradled the child in her arms and carried him to the back of the church, where a soft and warm bed just happened to be.

Gloria smiled sadly at the unconscious boy while stroking his damp black locks. “I’ll have some soup ready for you when you’re awake,” she said. It took her little more than three minutes to heat up a cup of noodle soup and present it to him with a plastic spoon nestled inside. Steam rose from the broth while triggering the child’s sense of smell. A few whiffs later and his swollen purple eyes slowly opened.

With a lisp that probably had to do with the karate gi he was wearing, he said, “Where am I? What the fuck is this?”

“I’ll let that dirty language slide for now, sugar,” said Gloria with a smile as warm as the soup. “You’re in the House of God, little man. It’s the safest place you can be right now. Whoever gave you those nasty bumps ain’t coming for you now. Here, have some soup. You’ll need your strength.”

The child snapped when Gloria handed him the soup, knocking the nutritious meal out of her hands and spilling broth and noodles all over the floor. The traumatized kid continued to thrash and wail about while the choir girl held him still. “Get away from me! I have to fight him!” shouted the kid. “Sensei Lector will kill me if I don’t fight him! Let me go, damn it!”

“Calm yourself, child!” belted Gloria while struggling to maintain a tight grip on the rambunctious kid. He nearly slipped out of her grasp when she mounted him and pinned his wrists down on the bed. The kid thrashed some more, but he clearly lost this battle. He could do nothing but shed tears hot enough to trigger the pain in his bruised eyes. “It’s no use,” he sobbed. “I’m dead! I’m never going to get out of that tournament!”

Gloria petted the child’s hair and gently said, “There, there, little guy. Like I said before, this is a safe place where you don’t have to worry about such things. No more fighting. No more bruises. No more blood. Just you, me, and the man upstairs. Now why don’t you tell me what’s going on between you and this Sensei Lector of yours.”

“You can’t do shit about it, lady,” snapped the child. “Saijin Lector is my master. He’s the one who trained me how to fight. I’ve been making a lot of money for the both of us beating the shit out of everyone in that ring. If he finds out I’ve dashed on him…he’s going to kill me!” Tears burned his black eyes once again.

Gloria lovingly rested her head on the child’s chest and said, “It’s alright, kid. You came here for a reason and that reason is to rest up. You know you can’t do this fighting business no more. You’re only a kid. Kids should be out playing and having fun, not beating people up in some dingy arena. Whoever this Saijin Lector is, there’s no chance I’m going to let him mess with you.”

“You don’t understand,” wept the child. “He’s a monster!”

“Of course he’s a monster, son,” said Gloria. “Anybody who puts a child through this much torture for a couple of bucks has got to be some kind of sicko.”

The child pushed Gloria off the bed and shouted, “He’s a real fucking monster!” A moment of tense silence hung between them and then Gloria shivered in fear while crab walking backwards. “I can’t stay here much longer! He’ll find me and beat me to death! You just don’t get it! He’s not just a monster! He has a whole gang backing him up! He can do whatever he wants to this city!”

“Not on my watch!” snapped Gloria as she stood back up and towered over the bruised child. “I don’t give up on those who come here for help and I’m damn sure not giving up on you! I don’t care what kind of monster you’re running from, because he ain’t getting nowhere near you! I’ve seen too much bad nonsense go on in this city! People getting shot dead in the streets, people losing their homes, people getting beaten by the police, it has to end somewhere! I say we bring it to an end one step at a time and that means getting you to higher ground!”

Another moment of tense silence hung in the air between them. The child snuggled further in his sheets after being the recipient of Gloria’s tough love, emphasis on love. He softly said, “My name is Danny. Danny Killian. What’s yours?”

“Gloria Summers. Nice to meet you, Danny. You’re a handsome young man despite all of the bruises.” She pulled the blanket over him further and gently said, “Get some rest, little guy. We’ve got a long day ahead of us tomorrow…”

The cracking sound of the church doors breaking down accompanied by deep demonic breathing caused Danny to cover his head with the blankets even tighter. “Stay here,” warned Gloria as she ventured out in the chapel to see what was up. Danny was right: there were monsters out there and one of them invaded her church with a whip in one hand and a tight fist in the other. “Holy-moly!” she whispered as she looked up at the seven-foot tall red fleshed demon, who came bearing fangs, horns, and sharp claws.

The demon brushed the wooden splinters from the door off of his brown trench coat and adjusted his fedora before saying, “Good evening, sweet cheeks! You wouldn’t happen to have a child about yay-high running around here, would you? He needs to come home with his daddy!”

“Some daddy you turned out to be!” shouted Gloria while she stood terra firma with her fists by her side. “You must be Saijin. Actually, I don’t give a hoot who you are! You’re in the House of God now and you’d better move your biscuit butt on out of here!”

“Or else what?!” bellowed Saijin, knocking Gloria down with the impact of his voice alone. “Is the man upstairs going to zap me to death? Oh, I’m so scared! I don’t know if you’re aware of this or not, but I’ve got a fucking whip and I’ve ripped a lot of flesh with this motherfucker! So if you don’t want to be the next one to be turned into human jerky, you’ll point me in the direction of that little brat!”

“I’m right here, dumb-ass!” belted Danny, who appeared at the altar shaking in either anger or fear (Gloria couldn’t tell). The child prizefighter’s fists were balled tightly as he entered his karate stance, feet apart, hips distributed. The more Saijin stared at him with those fiery eyes, the harder Danny shook.

“So, you’ve finally grown a pair of balls, little Danny. It’s about damn time! Tell me, little dip-shit: is that a urine stain on your pants or are you just happy to see me?” mocked Saijin with a yellow-fanged grin on his face. Sure enough, Danny tucked his chin and saw that his karate pants were dripping with stale golden fluids. His eyes were also pouring with sorrow and fear while Saijin laughed at him some more. “Holy shit, kid! How did you ever become a champion again? This whole time, I’ve been training a little chicken shit instead of a goddamn warrior!”

The combination of Danny’s tears and urine and Saijin’s mocking laughter caused Gloria Summers’ blood to boil. Her insides reminded her of what the church’s version of hell looked like: fire, agony, venom, and death. Her teeth clenched so tightly that her jaw ached worse than Danny’s. Her heart thudded in her chest like a hip-hop beat echoing from somebody’s car stereo. “Enough!” she roared before nipping up and elbowing Saijin right in the groin.

The demon doubled over in pain, but not without giving Gloria a devilish smile in return. Danny attempted a running strike of his own, but was quickly cut off by the choir girl, who cradled the protesting kid in her arms and dashed out of the church like a bolt of lighting. She looked back and saw that Saijin was upright once more and his whip was on fire.

He blasted, “You’d better keep running, you little harlot! It won’t do you any fucking good, but you can try anyways!” Saijin lashed his flaming whip around at various pews and set them ablaze. He even managed to pop Gloria in the back and send her crumpling into a bloody heap. Danny groaned in fury and tried once again to engage his former boss only to have Gloria use the last of her energy to hold him back and vacate the burning church.

The two of them stumbled down the stairs together while the church’s flames and Saijin Lector’s laughter rose sky high. Despite Danny’s raging protests, Gloria continued to hold him back and push the two of them down the streets until they were able to turn a corner into an alleyway. Even with the glowing flames producing hell on earth behind them, Gloria Summers and Danny Killian had found temporary safety.

“How could you let him get away with that shit?!” Danny sobbed. “I could have taken him! I swear I could have!”

Gloria hugged Danny’s head tightly and whispered, “Your fighting days are over, son. You’ve got to know when to run away. There’s no shame in being scared. It’s a natural part of life. You can’t just keep on going like this. If you didn’t die at Saijin’s hands, you would have died in that ring.”

“But it’s not fair!” Danny whined. “I need the money! I need to beat people up! I need to be tough!”

“There are other ways of making money that don’t involve that macho garbage!” yelled Gloria as she shook Danny. She hugged him once again and whispered gently, “I’m not going to leave your side. The church can be rebuilt, but you can’t be replaced, Danny Killian. I’ll make this right for you, son. Just trust me. You’ve trusted Saijin long enough and look where it got you.”

“But…but it’s not fair!” whined Danny again.

“I know it isn’t, son. There’s nothing fair about any of this. But we can make it fair. You just have to have some hope. Do you trust me?” asked Gloria with a reassuring smile.

Danny wiped away his tears and smiled as much as his swollen cheeks would allow before saying, “Yeah…I trust you, Gloria.” The two of them hugged each other and watched the church burn to its final ashes. Saijin would get his someday, just not tonight and not at the hands of a frightened child fighter.

Child Bride

VERSE 1

You cover it up when you forcibly fuck

You go on a search for the nearest church

To get wed and to get inside of her bed

To put traumatic visions inside of her head

CHORUS

Where’s the pride for the child bride?

We all know what you’re trying to hide

You’ll never keep this all on the inside

Justice will be served by those who cried

VERSE 2

Will having nine children be enough for you?

Having a million arguments about nothing new?

She never had a choice, you took her voice

You rave and rant as you take off your pants

EXTENDED CHORUS

Where’s the pride for the child bride?

We all know what you’re trying to hide

You’ll never keep this all on the inside

Justice will be served by those who cried

Where is the pride for the soul that died?

When will we fight for all that is right?

This is entrapment in the worst sense

This is enslavement with the worst sex

VERSE 3

Your secret is out, so you scream and shout

There was never a question or even a doubt

The child bride has spoken her damn mind

All lights on you, they needed to be shined

Stutter and sputter, your shit melts like butter

You piss your pants and do a little dance

You plead guilty and get a hundred years

While the child bride keeps living in fear

EXTENDED CHORUS

Where’s the pride for the child bride?

We all know what you’re trying to hide

You’ll never keep this all on the inside

Justice will be served by those who cried

Where is the pride for the soul that died?

When will we fight for all that is right?

This is entrapment in the worst sense

This is enslavement with the worst sex

Sunday School

VERSE 1
Masturbating doesn’t make you a sinner
Jumping for Jesus doesn’t make you a winner
Having a wife doesn’t guarantee dinner
You were told otherwise by the holy swindlers
It’s all a distraction from the bigger picture
The altar boy with his finger on the trigger
The barrel pointed to his sweating forehead
The only way he could learn how to forget


CHORUS
We’re not going to Sunday School!
We’re staying home!
We’re not joining the congregation!
We’re doing this alone!


VERSE 2
Bend his little body over the holy altar
Make him scream in pain, make him holler
To you it’s just business, not worth a bother
Just drown him in the river, the Baptist water
Your deadly sins tend to go unnoticed
The police do nothing, though they know this
A transfer request to a different church
You can do it all again, except much worse


EXTENDED CHORUS 1
We’re not going to Sunday School!
We’re staying home!
We’re not joining the congregation!
We’re doing this alone!
We’re not singing in the choir!
We’re picking up the phone!
We’re going to tell anyone who will listen!
Something they’ve already known!


VERSE 3
Heaven doesn’t want you, neither does hell
Neither does the chime of the funeral bells
Neither does the water of the holy wells
Nobody is buying the things that you sell
We know it’s bullshit, we don’t say it enough
What you did to that boy was far from love
Tell us the truth, we don’t scare so easy
Though the news makes us feel queasy


EXTENDED CHORUS 2
We’re not going to the mega church!
We’re protesting outside!
We’re not going on your private jet!
We’re forming a line!
We’re not going on your holy mission!
We’re turning the tide!
Keep your hands off our fucking bodies!
I’ll see you on the dark side!

"January First" by Michael Schofield

BOOK TITLE: January First: A Child’s Descent into Madness and Her Father’s Struggle to Save Her
AUTHOR: Michael Schofield
YEAR: 2012
GENRE: Nonfiction
SUBGENRE: Schizophrenia Memoir
GRADE: Extra Credit


In this tear-jerking memoir, Michael Schofield describes what life is like raising his schizophrenic daughter Jani, who was officially diagnosed with an acute version of the disease as a six-year-old. As a result of her psychosis, Jani would burst into violent tantrums where she would punch, kick, and head butt anybody who suggested that her hallucinations were fake. She has assaulted her own parents, her teachers, her nurses, and even her baby brother Bodhi and her dog Honey. Jani is highly resistant to any medication she is given as well as the harsh discipline her father tries to enforce. The violence, the sleepless nights, stressful days, and constantly playing the role of gatekeeper has psychologically exhausted both Mr. and Mrs. Schofield. And through it all, they learn to be strong and come together as a family.

As someone who teaches college-level writing classes, Michael Schofield has a tight command over the art of literature. His pacing is quick, his ability to show instead of tell is present, his innermost thoughts are compelling, and he does all of this with a no-BS style of writing. He doesn’t try to employ an overly flowery style of writing with poetic descriptions an incomprehensible words. He’s a no-nonsense, no cheap gimmick writer, which is probably why this book is a fast read to begin with. The pacing has to be fast because trying to control an unstable child like Jani is a fast paced business to begin with. It’s exciting, but at the same time it’s emotionally taxing because of the heartache the family goes through.

Speaking of emotionally taxing writing, I’m going to get straight to the point when it comes to this memoir’s extra credit (five-star) rating. I was diagnosed with schizophrenia when I was only 17 years old. As a mentally ill person, I recognize a lot of the frustrations the parents and their child Jani have to go through. To see such a small, beautiful, intelligent child descend into darkness is devastating to me. Michael Schofield expressed these tearful thoughts in such a way that I was almost driven to tears myself. January deserves nothing but a bright future and just when it looks like nobody can help her, her parents keep on fighting for her despite having empty tanks. I haven’t cried since the year 2007, but came very close to doing so several times while reading this heartbreaking book.

And then you have Mr. Schofield’s criticisms of the hospitals that did a minimal job of trying to help January, which I believe to be accurate. Before eventually taking January to UCLA and getting the schizophrenia diagnosis, the Schofield family had to deal with uncaring nurses, incompetent doctors, predatory insurance companies, and none of those same people having a damn clue what the hell is going on with this child. If I had to deal with that much of a lackadaisical approach to medicine, I’d be pissed off and in tears too, just like the author was. The events of this book took place before Obamacare became the law of the land. But even after such a historic law was passed, we still have a lot of work to do when it comes to hospital reform. If you don’t believe me, read this book.

This book spoke to me in a way that no other text about schizophrenia could. I was actually able to feel the struggles that the Schofield family went through, not just as a schizophrenic myself, but also as a human being. But some people will never admit to that, because there’s all this buzz going on about how Michael was abusive to his wife and children because of his hot temper. To those people who falsely slander Michael that way, I have only one thing to tell them: you show me a parent who isn’t going berserk after fighting for a mentally ill child and I’ll show you an abusive parent. Until then, keep your one-star ratings and your judgments to yourself.

Dennis the Menace

MOVIE TITLE: Dennis the Menace
DIRECTOR: Nick Castle
YEAR: 1993
GENRE: Family Comedy
RATING: PG for mild violence
GRADE: Pass


Dennis Mitchell is a five-year-old boy known in his neighborhood for being a troublemaker and a prankster, hence why nobody wants to babysit him, especially not his grumpy next door neighbor George Wilson. When Dennis’ parents take a business trip and need someone to look after the little guy, George becomes their last resort. Without even trying, Dennis annoys the piss out of his caretaker in a series of gags that ultimately become the source of the movie’s funniest moments. Try as they might to have fun and play free, the children of Dennis’ neighborhood become fearful of a career criminal named Switchblade Sam, a nasty burglar who’s good at what he does.

I first saw this movie in the year it came out, which would have made me an eight-year-old going to school in the third grade. At that age, the slapstick moments would keep me amused for a long time, possibly well into my teenage years. Examples of these hilarious moments would be George pressing his thumb against a doorbell with a thumbtack taped to it, getting shot in the balls with a shop vacuum, and getting an Aspirin fired down his throat by Dennis and his slingshot. The cries of agony George lets out were very satisfying to my sadistic nature. It felt so good not to have empathy for those in slapstick situations.

My favorite moment of physical comedy would have to be when George uses the bathroom after Dennis was done bathing. The wet floor causes the old man to slip and do the splits while tearing a hole in his pajama crotch. Once he recovers, he tries to use mouthwash only to find out it had toilet cleanser in it. And then he uses a nasal spray bottle that actually had the missing mouthwash in it. Oh, the screams of pain and how they made me scream in pain myself as I held my ribs and back from laughing so hard. I actually had to have my parents explain to me that putting toilet cleanser in someone’s mouthwash could kill the person using it. I would have laughed anyways if George Wilson got poisoned. The howls of pain would have been worth him being rushed to the ER.

Now that I’m a grown man (sort of), I’m looking at this movie from an analytical point of view. Everything is there that should be from George Wilson’s believable change in alignment to the low point before that to the triumphant return of Dennis Mitchell and his newly earned status as the neighborhood hero. But now that I think about it, the scene near the end where Switchblade Sam kidnaps Dennis and takes him underneath a railroad bridge strikes me as a little creepy. The burglar has horrible dental and physical hygiene, stringy and dirty long hair that forms a horseshoe around his head, and he’s a demented sociopath. If this wasn’t a PG-rated movie, Switchblade Sam would come across to adults as a perverted pedophile looking for a sex slave. Maybe that’s what Roger Ebert meant when he says everything about Dennis the Menace was great except for the psychotic burglar. At least now Mr. Ebert can rest in peace knowing that creepy visual is no longer in his head. Goddamn, I need a shower.

Despite the creepy overtones of Christopher Lloyd’s Switchblade Sam character, I give this movie a passing grade because it gave me a great deal of entertainment when I needed it the most. I loved this movie as a kid and it’s one of the reasons I had a happy childhood to begin with. If only that movie could have been there for me during my college days when I was depressed and bored all the time. Instead all I had back then was The Brave Little Toaster, which has themes of abandonment and terror. What a life I’ve lead.

　

***MOVIE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

GEORGE: Was Dennis in our bathroom tonight?
MARTHA: Yes. Why?
GEORGE: I think the little rat put mouthwash in my nasal spray and toilet cleanser in my mouthwash.
MARTHA: Why would he do something like that?
GEORGE: Must you ask?

-Dennis the Menace-

Tony Wayne

NAME: Tony Wayne
AGE: 30
OCCUPATION: Competitive Motorcyclist
CANON: The Motorcycle Man


If there’s ever any doubt as to whether or not Tony Wayne should be on my unemployed list, consider this: “The Motorcycle Man” was a movie script I wrote in the early 90’s. When I was alive and well in the early 90’s, I was still going to elementary school in Vancouver, Washington. Do you think that a little kid at that age has it in him to write a full-length movie script? That’s a lot of work for someone that small. I had a hard enough time figuring out adding and subtracting.

Paying attention to literary details? That was clearly asking too much. The script for The Motorcycle Man amounted to me writing all of the dialogue for Tony Wayne and nothing more. The “script” was about as long as a half sheet of sketching paper. But it must have been a movie script, because it had the Parntitmount (which was how I spelled “Paramount”) logo at the beginning of it. Back then I took more interest in the vanity logos than I did with the actual movies. Comprehension was not my strong suit when I was a kid. Then again, it might be because I was born with autism. Or it could be because I was a kid and didn’t know better.

The vision I had for this movie came about when I went to a yard sale with my mom and she got me a little toy motorcycle with a rubber rider on top of it. I would run this motorcycle all over the furniture thinking the couches, desks, and boxes were all part of an elaborate obstacle course. I could have fight scenes, chase scenes, and the occasional gratuitous showing off with this toy alone. Tony Wayne, at least in my imagination, was America’s next big action movie hero.

You’re probably wondering why I would resurrect a character from my childhood and bring him into my adult life considering Tony Wayne didn’t have a whole lot going for him in the way of development. You would be right to ask such a bold question, because Tony’s resume is a blank slate at this point. Yes, he entertained me for hours as a toy, but as a character in one of my stories, he doesn’t have much to work with.

Okay, so he’s a motorcyclist and an action hero. Since I’m not into motocross or anything like that, I should just stick Tony in the action hero category. If that’s the case, he would be a lot like those guys in “The Fast and The Furious”: a bunch of con men trying to get away with something. But since Tony is meant to be a hero, his conning could be seen as an homage to Robin Hood. Let’s see if his motorcycle trickery can get him across the Canadian border when he makes off with a backpack full of Citi Bank’s money.

I know, I know. It’s a backpack, so mass wealth distribution isn’t going to work out the way he had hoped. But maybe he can bring the backpack to a homeless hangout that’s really personal to him. One act of Robin Hood kindness can spread quicker than a Trojan Horse virus on the internet. Would that mean Tony Wayne has partners in crime? The more, the merrier! He could start his own motorcycle gang and do good for the people instead of exploiting them like the Hell’s Angels and Mongrels do.

Anywhere with an action and adventure setting is sure to attract a thrill-seeker such as Tony Wayne. He could visit Disneyland and ride his motorcycle across the rollercoaster tracks in an attempt to thwart an evil plot. He could jump across the Grand Canyon to thwart another evil plot. He could ride across the stage at Carolina Rebellion and have Lamb of God be his live soundtrack. That’s the beautiful thing about having a clean slate: they’re fun to fill up. Would you rather have an experienced character who has so much baggage or would you rather have a young gun you can mold into whatever you want? Think about it.

　

***WRESTLING QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“Neville is so quick that every time I try to call his matches, I get more confused than a chameleon in a bag of Skittles.”

-Jerry Lawler-

"Country Song" by Seether

From childhood to my early teens, I played with toys and exercised my imagination so that one day I could use it to make my dreams come true as an adult. Now that I’m an adult and have four e-books to my name, I continually look for tributes to my childhood either on the internet, in movies, or in books. I recently saw The Lego Movie and my nostalgia needs were on orgasmic overdrive.

Long before that movie came out, I saw the music video for “Country Song” by Seether, which front man Shaun Morgan once called “Toy Story on crack”. He wasn’t kidding. The video shows a kid playing with action figures on the beach and whatever he’s doing to the toys happens in the world that Shaun Morgan and his band mates inhabit.

The band members are cowboys in the wild west (as the title “Country Song” would suggest) and the other toys are the villains of the story. You’ve got a Mexican luchador, a teddy bear, a space man, all of which occupy a wild west story, by the way.

But that’s the great thing about having a budding imagination: rules don’t matter. If Shaun Morgan wants to shoot an imaginary chain gun at the other “characters” in the music video, so be it. If a big fuzzy teddy bear wants to stir up trouble in an anachronistic nightmare, let him do it. And if the kid’s little sister wants to bring her Barbies along, they can stand by Shaun’s side like the smoking hot cheerleaders they are.

When you’re a kid playing with your toys, any object can be whatever you make it. If I was eight years old and saw a lead pipe lying on the ground, I’d probably interpret it in my play world as a big ass flame cannon. If I had a human-sized stuffed panda on my bed, he’d be one hard ass motherfucker for a Lego man to kill. If I saw a rubber stamp from the library lying on the ground, I’d probably use it to flatten my action figures into pancakes (in my imagination, of course).

I was born in 1985, which means I’m physically a grownup now. Emotionally? Far from it. While I prefer to play with characters in my stories instead of action figures, I’m still the same kiddy-pie I was in the 80’s and 90’s. A boy has the right to dream, but a man has the means to make those dreams come true.

Did I mention that I have four e-books to my name? Go to Smash Words and search for Garrison Kelly if you’re interested. Go to You Tube to watch the music video for “Country Song” by Seether as well. Seether is a hard band not to love, but in case you don’t, at least you can have a nostalgia boner when watching the music video.

　

***TELEVISION DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

INTERVIEWER: What will you tell your children when they ask about what mommy did with her talents?

TEMPERENCE: I’m not going to have children.

-Bones-