Butthole Surfers vs. Ray Rice: It's Important to Get Even the Minor Details Right

 

Richie Incognito: a Crybully Who Believes That Real Men Don't Cry...Which Means He's Ratting On Himself

 

Kevin Rudolf vs. Pacman Jones: You Make the Rain Fall

 

Bad Bunny: the Source of Toilet Paper USA's Trauma

 

Show Me on the Doll...

 

I personally don't listen to Bad Bunny's music or watch football, but I don't need Toilet Paper USA to coddle me like they do with racist assholes.

The D-X Band vs. Roger Goodell (Rest in Peace, Chris Warren)

 

Archie Wilson vs. Andrew Tate

 

Malik Pierce's Napoleon Complex

It could be the Impostor Syndrome shouting through a megaphone and shattering more glass than Stone Cold Steve Austin’s entrance music…but…if there was ever a time to lay daffodils on somebody’s grave, it would be the RPG career of Malik Pierce, a character who goofed up so many times that he became a clownish version of himself rather than a truly flawed character. But how could it be my head voices talking when I just described his character trajectory? Wouldn’t everyone be in agreement? Was the GM trying to cheer me up or did she really see potential in Malik? I sure didn’t. I wanted to toss his ass in the dumpster and set the motherfucker on fire. I wanted that fire to be seen from space, as a reminder to everyone to learn from the mistakes of others.

It was 2006 when Malik made his RPG debut. Because I was nostalgic for my high school days (NOT!), I decided to enter him into a school-themed RPG on an online forum. What kind of background did he have? What was he like? Well, for starters, he was a Filipino sophomore with the name Malik Pierce, which is obviously the most Filipino name I could come up with. He was teeny, tiny, and yet stood tall over his abusive father, for which Malik spent a hot minute in juvie. Okay, so we know he can fight. Now what? Let’s give him drawing skills and a love for A Tribe Called Quest, a rap band who was putting out music long before Malik was born. Hell, there was even a member of that band named Malik, but everyone called him Phife Dawg, may he rest in peace.

Malik was introduced to the game as being tentative around potential friends, most likely stemming from the physical abuse he suffered at home prior to his sophomore year. So instead of engaging directly with the student body, he put on his headphones and let Q-Tip, Phife Dawg, and Ali Shaheed Muhammad batter his eardrums with sick rhymes and jazzy beats. It was here that he caught the attention of a female teacher who was only a few years older than him. Did Malik have any sexual tension swirling in his brain? Maybe, but he didn’t let it show. This teacher encouraged him to make the friends he needed to, and to come to her for help if he needed it. Long story short, he did just that and made friends with the entire player-character cast of the game.

You probably saw that rushed intro and you’re thinking to yourself: “My, Garrison, aren’t you the biggest galaxy brain in the world! You’ve got show don’t tell down to a science! Why don’t you get that phrase tattooed on your balls?” To which I would respond that I spared you the details because that’s not where the juicy parts of this role-play take place. The introduction to Malik’s circle of friends was so uneventful that I forgot what the fuck happened. If you wanted to be bored to tears, you would read the phone book and not my mini-memoir. You want juice? I’ll give you juice. I’ll give you the Ocean Spray version of what happened to Malik Pierce. Kool-Aid is not real juice. It’s just powdery sugar shit that looks like it goes up your nose instead of in your mouth.

First lesson of today: if you’re in a role-playing game, do not…I repeat…DO NOT sabotage your own character for the sake of a “good story”. I absolutely hate it when players do this shit. They’ll intentionally trip over something or they’ll bonk their head on a brick wall with the idea that their injury makes for an interesting story. It doesn’t. It’s just stupid. Nobody liked it when Bella Swan did it in Twilight and they like it even less when an obscure role-player does it at the expense of the rest of the party. The reason I hate this so much is because I did it with Malik and the results were bass ackwards.

The PC’s and I were in a math class doing our assignments and Malik happened to finish his first like the good little student he was. Thirty-five brain cells minus ten equals twenty-five. If that was the case, it was a miracle he got anything done at all. In Malik’s infinite wisdom, he pulls out his portable CD player, puts his headphones on, and puts on that sweet, sweet sound of A Tribe Called Quest. And because torpedoing your own character meant good storytelling, the volume on Malik’s player was a LITTLE too loud for the teacher’s comfort.

“Malik! Do you mind?!” snapped the math teacher. No response. “Malik, put that away or else I’ll put you in detention!” Surely, I would have learned my lesson that this was going to go badly. But instead, I had Malik give her a “don’t bite my head off” kind of response. The teacher threatened to take away the CD player and Malik wouldn’t fork it over. Instead, our Filipino wrecking machine was sent to the principal’s office. Being the good little lad he was, he went there straight away to confront his own shitty behavior. Just kidding! He sat in the hallway and delayed the inevitable.

And who should run into him? The overly-friendly teacher from earlier. Malik explained what happened to her and she insisted on bringing him to the principal’s office anyways. The principal explained that he couldn’t “undermine” the math teacher’s authority and that Malik’s biggest sin in all of this was talking back to her. If a student insults a teacher, it’s worthy of punishment. But if a teacher insults a student, it’s Monday morning. While that phrase is so true they made a whole Pink Floyd-themed movie out of it, this was all Malik’s fault. Forget detention, this stupid motherfucker needed a firing squad. In that regard, he would have shown more brains in that one instance than he did in the math class. It would have been literal, but it would be true no less.

What’s that? You want more juice? Of course you do, because that’s how you make a screwdriver since alcohol is necessary in numbing your secondhand embarrassment. Very well. You get one more shot of juice and then happy hour is over. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here. To set the scene up for this next juicy lesson, there’s an ogre on the football team who’s been bullying the shit out of everyone for far too long. Beatings, screams, gaslighting, you name it, this guy has done it. So Malik’s new circle of friends thought it would be a good idea to have him draw the football stud in an embarrassing light as a measure of revenge. Malik did just that: he drew the football stud as a hideous monster that would gag John Kricfalusi and Gerald Scarfe all in the same day. Also, the bully MAY have had a football sticking out of his ass. Or an American flag. Either way, he was not happy.

After school was officially over for the day, the football stud, dressed head to toe in his gear like a holy paladin who was anything but lawful good, confronted Malik and his circle of friends. This jock towered over Malik like Andre the Giant, but moved a lot more athletically and could no doubt kick the Filipino goofball’s ass. What does Malik do about it? What’s his massive Hail Mary? Well…he takes the role of drama prince and goes into a whole spiel about his abusive past. Malik reasoned that if he could beat his dad’s ass, he could beat the football stud’s ass. Nothing could hurt Malik anymore because he was already dead inside.

And just like that, Malik Pierce became the mayor of Cringe City. He might get a longer serving term than President Xi in China. He’d be just as hated, too. The circle of friends pulled him away from the scene and they gave him a stern talking to. They told him not to be a drama prince. They told him he went too far. They told him he fucked up the whole purpose of drawing the football stud as an ugly creature that would turn any Shrek movie into an NC-17 horror show. Malik Pierce was ashamed, but not nearly as much as I was that day. Something told me that the players weren’t just speaking through their characters. Something told me they really meant that.

These were hardly my first two blunders as a role-player during those years. I made a cyberpunk mercenary look like a whiny bastard. I made a corporate stooge look like a complete idiot. I DMed a Dungeons and Dragons game where the level 15 samurai blitzed through the whole fucking thing without breaking a sweat. My massive ego was so damaged that I thought I should take a break from role-playing. Maybe I wouldn’t ever come back. Maybe I really didn’t know anything about human behavior or good character work. Maybe I was an ineffective storyteller. So I wrote the high school RPG forum a letter telling them about my departure due to no longer having fun playing.

I was half-expecting the players and GM to do cheerleader flips over this. It was probably my Impostor Syndrome shouting from the rooftop. But then the GM responds by saying…”And just like that, I just lost my best player.” Now my Impostor Syndrome was shouting at me like a marine drill instructor. Surely, this GM was just being nice to me. Best player? I don’t think so. I goofed up twice and they were both in colossal ways. Good players don’t do that. It’s one thing to have a flawed character. It’s another thing to have one who’s so flawed that he comes off as tone-deaf and stupid. That’s what Malik Pierce was: stupid as fuck and deserving of his criticism. That’s why I don’t intend to use him again in any other role-play. I might reuse his name since I like over the top names, but the character himself is gone forever. He’s getting the Chris Benoit treatment without ever actually killing anybody.

I’ve made a lot of mistakes during my career as a role-player and GM. Malik Pierce’s story takes the cake. He is easily the most embarrassing character I’ve ever played as. I don’t believe the GM one second when she said that she lost her best player the day I resigned. Am I being too harsh on myself? Maybe. But sometimes a little tough love is warranted. It’s not ideal for self-care, but it is necessary if I want to move on from this mistake. And luckily I did. The role-playing experiences I had after 2006 fucked off forever were MUCH better by comparison. I had a barbarian who rose to the top of MMA fame. I had an art therapist who actually connected to his patient in a meaningful way. I had a socially awkward college student who wasn’t seen as a creep by his peers (which is a low bar to clear, but I’ll take it). 

This story about Malik Pierce is a reminder that sometimes progress and growth aren’t linear. Sometimes you have to take one step forward and two steps back. But when you take those two steps back, you can either fold or you can get better. I’d like to think I got better since then. But I still haven’t found enough duct tape to shut up my Impostor Syndrome.

Captain Brock

VERSE 1

He’s never had a cigarette a day in his life

But he smoked a whole football team in just one night

He’s the Captain of the Cougars, the team and the ladies

And every cheerleader wants to be his only sugar baby

Every freshman is trapped in their own school locker

He put them there and tape gagged the shit-talkers

He’s got an A in everything without lifting a finger

When it’s baseball or babes, he’s a home run swinger

CHORUS 1

His name is Captain Brock because of course it is

He’s the King of the Straights, the King of the Cis

But if he’s the King, then who’s the Queen?

Homecoming, no-homo is what he means

VERSE 2

He’s got bullycide and beef on his inflated resume

The boss man looked at him and said, “No way!”

So he sued the company for everything they’re worth

Wiped their NASDAQ symbol right off the earth

What’s next for Brock: President or Dictator?

He could stuff the lockers full of more freshman haters

Except they’re not called lockers after school

They’re called prison cells under the iron rule

CHORUS 1

His name is Captain Brock because of course it is

He’s the King of the Straights, the King of the Cis

But if he’s the King, then who’s the Queen?

Homecoming, no-homo is what he means

VERSE 3

And then the day came where karma fucked him over

His cancer just ensured that he never saw October

They buried his ass on Halloween night

All the beardos and weirdoes breathed a huge sigh

They can disco dance with the werewolves and vamps

At a Rammstein concert with ball gags and loud amps

The harvest moon never looked so beautiful

Keep the good memories, they’re forever reusable

CHORUS 2

His name is Captain Brock because of course it is

But you’d be forgiven if you forgot about his sins

Are you coping with trauma or was he just mediocre?

It’s a little bit of both, aren’t you glad this shit is over?

Cookie-cutter muscle-heads may write our history

But they don’t have a future with you or me

They can’t blame it all on the myth of Cancel Culture

They can blame themselves for being greedy vultures

The Big Kids

VERSE 1

Face Book liars who never retire

Instagram trolls looking for holes

Twitter tough guys in disguise

Big kids, big dicks, Heisman prize

Pushing skinny geeks to the ground

Reading their poetry in public out loud

Trolling them online all the damn time

Big trucks, big nuts, excused from crime

CHROUS 1

You are!

The big kids!

The hot shits!

The jock twins!

VERSE 2

All you motherfuckers look exactly the same

With your internet perfection and easy fame

Violent pranks played on those of lower rank

Suicidal wet dreams for the victims it seems

Black belts, letter jackets, everything you want

Money, cheerleaders, whatever you can rob

Counting down the days until summer vacation

We take out our aggression on the Playstation

EXTENDED CHROUS 1

You are!

The big kids!

The hot shits!

The jock twins!

You are!

The jarheads!

The well-fed!

The hand-led!

VERSE 3

Gamer Gate sexism turned up to eleven

Guaranteed your own cloud in the heavens

Guaranteed the keys to your own kingdom

Glass ceiling fantasy for those beneath it

Guaranteed a job for life on the cop squad

Even when we prove you’re just a fraud

Even when the corpses continue to mount

Even when this country starts to go south

EXTENDED CHROUS 2

You are!

The big kids!

The hot shits!

The jock twins!

You are!

The rich pricks!

The big dicks!

The groin kicks!

VERSE 4

Now you’re all alone with a fucking concussion

Everything you read might as well be in Russian

You burned all the bridges, betrayed your bitches

Nobody is left to help you remove your stitches

Football, trucks, money, and booze

Girls, weapons, so sure you’ll never lose

Shallow values and deep graves

You had it all, yet continued to crave

CHORUS 2

You are!

A dead soul!

An asshole!

Left in the cold!

FINAL LINES

The big kids! X4

Silent Warrior, Chapter 27

It took fifteen seconds of staring at his own Nikes, but Craig Dunham finally said what he needed to say: “Look, Scott…I’m probably the last person who should be asking you for help right now. You threw a garbage can at me only a few months before. Hell, you probably feel like doing even more than that, maybe deck me a good one on the chin. But…I didn’t ask for this appointment for nothing, I swear to god.”

Sitting in his comfy swivel chair with the ease and professionalism of a true counselor, Scott calmly said, “Listen, Craig, whatever happened between us in the past, it’s all over now. Things are different now, just like Miss Williams said they would be. I have a new job and you happen to be my first client. You’re here for a reason and I’d probably be right in thinking it has something to do with that scar on your hand.”

Craig sighed and lifted up his hooded sweatshirt to reveal he had even more scars than that. One on his belly, one on his ribs, and a couple of bruises on his chest. Scott hypnotically gazed at them in sympathy and replied with a whispery, “Holy shit. Those are fresh. Who did this to you?” No response. “Craig, if I’m going to help you, I need to know everything that happened. How did you get these bruises? Walking into a doorknob doesn’t do that to people and neither does falling down stairs.”

“Funny, because that’s what I’ve been telling people this whole time. Anytime I took off my shirt for gym class or football practice, they’d be as plain as day. I’d laugh about them with the guys, but there’s no way in hell I’m telling them everything. Oh, and I also said they’re from being tackled during games. I think that was what threw them off my trail.”

“Craig, you didn’t answer my question.”

“My dad did this,” said Craig with trembling lips, causing Scott to lean back in his chair with even more pathos in his eyes. “He, uh…he caught me listening to some…questionable music. Here, let me show you.” As Craig choked back tears, he pulled various CD’s out of his backpack, all of the cases cracked, all of the music preaching nonconformist values: Marilyn Manson, Rob Zombie, Motionless in White, and Ghost to name a few.

“Is your dad religious?”

“Oh, that’s putting it mildly. He makes the old testament look like a Disney movie.” Craig still refused to make eye contact with Scott. “The first time I heard about him talking about God and shit, I didn’t know what to make of it. And just for that little bit of doubt, he beat the shit out of me. I was only six years old then. That’s not some Freudian shit and I know it doesn’t excuse what I’ve done to people like you. It’s just that…” The tears slowly fell from his face and Scott was there to hand him tissues.

Scott leaned forward in his chair to further engage in his subject and placed folded steeple hands in his own lap. “Listen to me. I’m sure not many people are inclined to tell you this, but I’m going to tell it to you right now. Nobody…and I mean nobody…should ever use their religion or politics as a weapon against another human being. It’s not a dad’s job to beat the shit out of his kids over a minor disagreement. It’s not discipline. It’s barbarism. There’s nothing wrong with the music you’re listening to and there’s nothing wrong with questioning authority.”

With his lips trembling even harder, Craig wept, “What will the team think of me? They can’t see me crying like this.”

“Well, that’s funny, because I always thought the true definition of a friend is someone who is loyal to you until the end. It’s like Marilyn Manson always said: if you want to find out who your friends are, sink the ship. The first ones to jump are not your friends. If your football teammates make fun of you for being emotional, they’re not true friends. They’re bullies with a close connection to you. The reason you picked on other students so much was because of all these negative influences, and no, that’s not Freudian bullshit.”

Craig shrugged and said, “They’re the only friends I’ve ever had. I can’t just tell them to fuck off.”

“You know what’s worse than having no friends at all? Having shitty friends who bring you down just to build themselves up. I’m sure those kids have some deep-seeded issues just like you do, but until they come forward with open arms and open hearts, they don’t deserve you. If you want to cry your eyes out, you’re more than welcome to do so. Not only is this stigma of men not being able to cry bullshit, but you’re doing it in a safe place: my office. Nothing you do here will ever leave this room…except for one thing.” Scott handed Craig the phone cradle and nodded knowingly at him.

“You want me to call 9-1-1 on my dad? Are you crazy? The cops aren’t going to believe me. They don’t believe anybody who doesn’t have more DNA evidence than a CSI laboratory.”

“Your bruises and cuts are more than enough evidence to put your father away for a long time. And even if the cops don’t believe your side of the story, at least this police report will set everything in motion so that you don’t have to see him again. If there’s another family member or friend you can stay with, find them and pack your bags. The cops may be overly skeptical, but if you don’t try to at least reach out to them, this is going to continue and things will only get worse. Come on, Craig. Just try.”

After a while of staring at his counselor with dewy eyes, Craig took the phone cradle with a convulsing hand and slowly brought his fingers to the keypad. “Would you mind giving me some privacy, Scott? This is my first 9-1-1 call and I…I can’t explain it right now.”

“You don’t have to explain it to me, Craig. I’ve been there before. The first call is never easy. I know this, because I was the one who made the call when my own father died. You never forget your first time for a lot of things. If you want privacy, I’d be more than happy to step outside the office for a little while. Take as much time as you need and don’t leave out any important details.”

With one arm, Craig gave an awkward hug to Scott and thanked him over and over again for his help. Scott reluctantly returned the hug and stepped out of his digs to give Craig his due privacy. Once the door was closed, Scott rubbed his face and breathed sobering sighs. He almost didn’t see Adrienne standing in front of him with a brown paper sack and a smile on her face.

“I take it your new job’s getting pretty intense right now,” said Adrienne.

“It’s a lot to handle at once, but overall, I’m glad I took the job. I just need some time to recuperate after that, that’s all. Is that my lunch?”

“Sure is. You left it on the kitchen counter this morning. And no, there aren’t any worms or maggots in your lunch today. Instead, you’re getting a classic favorite: peanut butter and jelly. Not just any kind of P&J, but Concord grape jelly and crunchy peanut butter. Your favorite!”

“No way!” said Scott with a sudden burst of happiness. Sure enough, he pulled the sandwich out of the sack and there it was in all its glory: the ever important grape jam. “You’re the queen!” he said before kissing Adrienne on the cheek and hurriedly unwrapping the plastic from his sandwich.

“Let me know when you get off work and we’ll see a movie or something. See you soon!” smiled Adrienne before she waved and hopped off to her next class. She didn’t see it, but Scott waved right back at her in a hypnotically slow manner. She probably got the message by now.

Scott had a seat in one of the chairs outside his office and eyeballed the contents of the peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He even pulled the two pieces of sourdough bread apart to see if there really were worms crawling around in there. His smile slowly descended into a faraway introspective expression. He searched every corner of his sandwich, every squished grape, and every broken peanut in the peanut butter. It was as though he was a detective honoring a search warrant. But no. Not one worm, not one maggot, and not one sing-songy command from his now-known biological mother.

The real test came when Scott took his first bite of sandwich. As he chewed, he rolled the food around in his tongue for yet another throughout inspection. Not one slime-covered creature swirled around in his mouth. In fact, the sandwich tasted as delicious as a P&J could be, probably because it was his personal favorite. Scott took another bite. And another. And another, until the whole thing was gone in record time. For even more reassurance, Scott lifted his T-shirt and saw that the skin was forming nicely over his previously exposed ribcage. If someone was looking for signs of an eating disorder or PTSD, they’d have to actually have the detective skills of someone honoring a search warrant.

Principal Williams made a throat clearing sound and Scott was immediately yanked out of his trance long enough for him to realize he’d been exposing his belly this entire time. Pulling his shirt down, he smiled and allowed redness to envelop his face. Principal Williams didn’t punish him for it, just smiled right back at him and said, “It’s good to have you on the team, Scott. Carry on.”

B-Shirt

Malcolm Draper leaned against the boys’ locker room door while fingering the zipper handle on his closed up jacket. He dared not pass through the gates of his own personal hell, but the buzzer was about to ring and being even a second late to class would have resulted in draconian detention, which was weird because the gym teacher never seemed to be around when it truly counted.

The sequence of the past few weeks counted a lot for Malcolm. The fact that his last name Draper could be modified with an I instead of the first R lent itself to some cruel traumatic jokes echoing throughout his brain. He could hear the deep-voiced jocks shouting, “Diaper boy!” and “Dirty diaper!” within his own personal recesses. They even came up with a clever rhyme: “Draper-Raper”.

Immature insults by themselves carried no weight to Malcolm. But in multiple bursts throughout his entire day, even during important moments like exams and quizzes, it was the psychological equivalent of taking a series of sharp jabs from a heavyweight boxer. The mental bruises remained fresh with obnoxious voices. The muscles in Malcolm’s body remained tense at all times. The thought of walking through the door made him slightly nauseous with extra chills running through his back and shoulders.

“Today’s the day,” he whispered to himself. “It’s now or never.” He threw back the door and trudged down the hallway into the locker room. The further he ventured towards his own locker, the louder the laughter became, both on the inside and outside. He could feel his insides being ground up like hamburger. His face burned and prickled with anticipation. He purposefully kept his head down with his jacket hood over his face in hopes Daniel Burn wouldn’t notice him. But as it was…

“Hey, diaper-boy’s here today! What’s the matter, fag-tard? You shit yourself again? Don’t worry, you can wipe your ass on that stupid Sting T-shirt you wore yesterday!” The grating testosterone-pumped voice echoed throughout the locker room and the laughter grew louder to where Malcolm felt claustrophobic even in this big space. He slowly pulled his hood off and poked his head up to see the source of those jokes was indeed the letterman jacket-wearing football stud Daniel Burn congregating with his similarly dressed pals.

“You’re right, Daniel,” said Malcolm, earning the silence he desperately needed (even if it was out of confusion). “I’ll never wear that Sting shirt again.” Daniel and his muscle buddies mockingly sang the lyrics to “Every Breath You Take” and laughed like monkeys. This would have been a perfect time for Malcolm to break down, vomit, and cry. But instead he smiled and said, “My dad’s a T-shirt maker. So I figured I should dress for the job that I want, not the job I have.”

Malcolm Draper reached for his zipper and the rambunctious jocks made unintelligible jokes about him doing a striptease. He slowly pulled it down and opened his jacket to once again earn his silence. This time the jocks, Daniel Burn included, had wide-eyed shock on their faces. Any laughter remaining was limited to a nervous snicker. In case there was more confusion, Malcolm threw off his coat and exposed his custom-made T-shirt to he entire locker room. The top said, “Daniel Is My Bitch” in Floydian letters while beneath the words was a Photoshopped picture of Daniel Burn wearing a ball gag. “I bet that Sting shirt’s looking pretty good right now, isn’t it?” asked Malcolm with a mocking grin.

Daniel’s nearest friend leaned over and quietly said to him, “You’re not going to take that shit, are you?”

“Of course he’s going to take it!” belted Malcolm. “He can spew all these insults about my last name and my clothing, but he’s never thrown a fucking punch in his life! And no, fisting a horse in the asshole doesn’t count as a punch, buddy!”

Daniel’s square jaw went from O-mouthed shock to frowning rage. He brushed his blond crew cut back and threw his own jacket to the ground before slowly approaching Malcolm to the sounds of “ooo’s” and “uh-oh’s” from the rest of the students. The two bitter enemies stood nose to nose with Daniel’s height and weight making Malcolm look like a midget. “I’ve beaten up lots of guys in my life, diaper-kid,” threatened Daniel. “Fags, niggers, Jews, towel-heads…you’re just another dead ass motherfucker on that long list. I’m going to rip your fucking head off, bitch.”

The gigantic jock threw a quick and powerful overhead punch, which Malcolm ducked before burying his shoulder in Daniel’s gut and plowing him against the bathroom stall. The sounds of students chanting “Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight” echoed throughout the locker room while the sworn enemies wrestled on the floor.

“We’ll see who the real bitch is, diaper-dick!” shouted Daniel as he sat on Malcolm’s chest hoping for an advantage. All the jock got was elbow’s to his temples and knees to his spine. Even Daniel’s bulky body couldn’t withstand the small strikes as he rolled off of Malcolm after a few jabs.

Malcolm attempted to get to a vertical base only to be bear hugged by Daniel and wrestled with some more. “Where the hell’s the teacher?!” shouted one of the students to a crowd of uncaring bystanders. Malcolm pushed the question out of his mind and threw backwards elbows at Daniel’s cheekbones.

The hulking football player put an end to this impromptu MMA match when he lifted Malcolm’s carcass in the air and slammed him down with a thunderous thud to the concrete floor. The smaller fighter felt something snap in his leg and screamed louder than a train whistle. He did his damnedest to hold back the tears, but the pain in his torn knee radiated throughout his tortured body, his nervous system burning like a fiery orphanage. The tears dropped whether Malcolm wanted them to or not, but he tried to save face by rolling on his stomach.

By the terrified silence of the other students and the crushing grip on his arm as he was rolled over, Malcolm knew shit had gone down. Through red watery eyes, he gazed up at Daniel Burn’s bruised and bloodied face, the rage of which was more violent than his wounds. Daniel reached down at Malcolm’s shirt collar and ripped the B-shirt in two before holding it in the air like a trophy. “Who’s the bitch now?!” Daniel screamed with nerve-rattling anger. “Who’s the bitch now?! You want to be a tough guy?! You think you can beat the system?! Welcome to high school, diaper-pie! The shit only gets worse from here!”

The rambunctious conversation was interrupted with the sound of someone clearing his throat. Daniel and Malcolm peeked over to see what was up, Daniel’s face a masterpiece of horror and Malcolm’s face a phantasmal smile. Smaller students, geekier students, and even one of the jocks were all wearing B-shirts while the rest of the bullies backed up in amazement. Same slogan, same ball-gagged bitch.

“You see that, Danny boy?” asked Malcolm as pulled himself to his feet with a nearby railing while clutching his aching knee. “Dress for the job you want, not the job you have. These kids are done being your bitches. Now it’s time for you to be theirs.” Malcolm leaned in closer and whispered in Daniel’s ear, “This is what happens when you piss off a lot of people. You poke the bear, the bear eats you alive!” He noticed Daniel clutching his own buzz cut and breathing intensely, to which Malcolm replied, “You can’t possibly beat ALL of them up, can you?”

Daniel’s breathing grew deeper and more dragon-like. “This is bullshit,” he whispered. “I’m nobody’s bitch! I’m the star quarterback! I get all the chicks! You fuckers just sit around and read comic books all day while blowing your dogs!” The B-shirt wearing students slowly approached Daniel like an army of flesh-hungry zombies, to which the bully screamed, “No! This shit isn’t happening!” before bolting out the side door onto the streets.

“You see that, everyone?” said Malcolm with a sly grin and teary eyes. “If you play football twenty-four hours a day, you can run as fast as him!” The sound of a bus’s horn honking followed by a bone-crunching collision and Daniel’s painful cries caused Malcolm to shrug and quip, “Well, not fast enough apparently.”

The hulking gym teacher burst through the locker room door shouting, “What the hell’s going on here?” His authoritative mood was brought back to earth when he saw all of the students wearing B-shirts and Malcolm nursing his hyper-extended knee. “What the fuck?” he whispered to nobody in particular.

“We’re so glad you could finally join us,” said Malcolm. “Actually, you might want to bring a janitor here too. Daniel Burn left his guts all over the road. Oh wait, I forgot: Daniel Burn doesn’t have any guts. And that bone crunching noise wasn’t his spine shattering, because he doesn’t have that either. Seriously, those city bus drivers need to be more careful on the road.”

Football Sucks

When Democratic Mayor Irwin Gladden opened the blinds to his office window, what he saw shook him to his very core. Protesters. Lots and lots of protesters wearing football jerseys and helmets. All of them shouting incoherently at the top of their dragon-like lungs. Some of them with signs that said, “Football doesn’t suck!” and “Impeach Gladden!”. Most of them with Photoshopped pictures of the Mayor in a Nazi uniform or a turban with a bomb strapped around his body.

Being new to the job, Mayor Gladden obviously wasn’t used to this kind of violent treatment down on the streets of Paulson City. His blood was chilled. His jaw was quivering. His hands were vibrating. He had a knot in his stomach the size of a cannonball and a lump in his throat the size of a watermelon. All of these normally fine young citizens came together through their mutual hatred of this newly-elected official.

Though he wasn’t one-hundred-percent prepared for a day like this, he could think of a good reason why it was happening. The football paraphernalia, the firecrackers going off, the trumpets blasting everywhere, they could only mean one thing. These citizens were protesting because Irwin Gladden wanted to convert their beloved football stadium into the city’s largest public library. If that wasn’t “sacrilegious” enough, the thirty-something Mayor actually had the balls to say, “Football sucks!”

His balls weren’t feeling so big anymore. In fact, as soon as he saw a firecracker zooming towards his window (only to veer off at the last minute), Irwin snapped the blinds shut and cowered in the center of his office. How could so many people be so zealous and ignorant over a game of football? It made no sense.

Mayor Gladden’s day went from bad to worse when his front door hastily opened, causing him to spring backwards in fear and sit on the edge of his desk. He thought he was going to get mugged by these protesters. Instead, it happened to someone else entirely. Irwin’s personal bodyguard, Fred Jacobs, had stumbled into his office, slammed the door behind him, and collapsed on the floor while coughing up blood.

Irwin and Fred could not be more physically different from each other. The bodyguard was a hulking bad black man in a brown suit and tie while the Mayor was only this gray suit-wearing, skinny twig who barely filled his counterpart’s shadow. Fred Jacobs didn’t look very intimidating at that moment. Rolling over on his back and spewing up more blood didn’t help create that kind of image.

The frightened politician rushed over and knelt by his bodyguard’s side and asked, “Jesus Christ, what the hell happened?! Where are the goddamn paramedics?!”

After coughing up a splash of blood, Fred explained, “The protesters are blocking the streets from all angles. They’re not going to move even for first responders. What kind of shit storm did you cause out there, buddy?”

“I didn’t think it was a big deal!” said Irwin defensively. “It’s just a stupid arena! More taxpayer money goes into that stadium than anywhere else on the budget! We could have used that money to improve roads, hire more teachers, feed our poor, cure our sickly, and instead it’s going into this big ass stadium so that more athletes can end up in the hospital or even dead! Tell me my logic is wrong! I dare you!”

“Alright, dude,” said Fred as he sat up and looked his boss in the eyes with fiery zeal. “Your logic is wrong! There, I said it! Do you want to fire me now?!”

Irwin stood up in disbelief and backed up slowly. “What are you talking about? This makes perfect sense. Instead of going out there and giving people concussions, we could turn the whole stadium into a public library and actually improve their brain power for once.”

“That’s exactly how fucked up you are, Mayor!” Fred Jacobs stood up and spit a wad of chunky blood on the ground. If he was dizzy before, he wasn’t showing it at this moment. “A library? Really? You actually thought people would be onboard with that? This is Paulson City, damn it! People here don’t know whether to scratch their watches or wind their asses! They don’t give a shit about literature! You’re basically forcing your personal tastes on these poor people!”

Just like his bodyguard, Irwin Gladden suddenly found his testicle power when he snapped, “No! I’m not forcing anything on anybody! It’s called tough love! If these people won’t educate themselves, it’s my job and my responsibility to push them along!”

“Alright, man,” said Fred as he snorted blood up his nose and swallowed in a massive gulp. “I didn’t want to have to tell this story, but if it’s the only way to get through to your sorry ass, then goddamn it, it’ll have to do. You want to know how I got this big ass body? I didn’t get it through sitting on my ass eating Cheetohs and watching The Simpsons. I played football all throughout high school and college. That’s right! I was a quarterback for the Paulson City Warlords!”

“You’re kidding me,” said Irwin when he folded his arms.

“Back then they called me Freddy the Barbarian. They would have called me Inmate Number Blah-Blah-Blah if it wasn’t for football. It was either football or gangs and drugs for me. I lived in a poor neighborhood, my friend. A neighborhood that the previous Republican mayor promised to fix. Instead, all we had was more drugs, more gangs, and a shit load more police brutality. I joined the Paulson City Warlords to get away from all that disgusting crap. So the next time you say football sucks, think of this big ugly face staring you down!”

The big ugly face was indeed staring Mayor Gladden down and it was more frightening to look at than a dark fantasy demon. The politician’s body language showed it all: a trembling body that barely managed to stay seated to the edge of his desk. For the longest few seconds, Irwin and Fred didn’t say a damn thing to each other.

And then the Mayor screamed like a girl and ran into his bodyguard’s arms when he heard a cacophonous bang shattering his window and ripping his blinds. One of the firecrackers from the demonstration exploded against his window and went out in smoke.

Mayor Gladden had every reason in the world to piss his Armani pants and cry into Fred Jacobs’ Men’s Warehouse jacket. It was a tempting offer, but instead Irwin was red-faced with anger. He got down from his protector’s arms and stomped over to the phone. When asked what the hell he was doing, Irwin said, “I’m putting an end to this right now. Screw the riot police. If they’re not coming to my rescue, then I’ll declare a state of emergency and get the National fucking Guard! I’ll even tell them to bring AK-47’s instead of those wimpy rubber bullets. And real grenades too instead of that tear gas shit!”

“Put down that goddamn phone, Mayor Gladden!” screamed Fred, to which the Democrat slowly and shakily did. “Look at you, man! It’s your first week on the job and you’re already cracking under pressure! That’s not the Mayor I signed up with! You’re supposed to be this caring progressive who thinks of others! And now look at you! You’re actually considering killing those protesters with AK-47’s all because a firecracker got launched through your window!”

No arguments there. Irwin had snapped big time and all he could do was plop in his chair and try to block out the cacophony going on outside. It was doubtful another firecracker would make its way into his office again; that last one was a lucky shot. The city official just held his face in his hands and wept. “I can’t do this, Fred. I can’t do this. I want to step down.”

“No, you don’t,” said the bodyguard after putting a comforting hand on his boss’s shoulder. “You came here for a reason and that was to clean up Paulson City. You have the chance to do that right now by phoning the riot police. There are people down there who need you whether they know it or not. Do the right thing, Mayor. If the riot police won’t come, then you have my permission to get the National Guard. Just please, none of that AK-47 and real grenade crap this time.”

Irwin took a few deep breaths in and out, calming himself down in the midst of the outside chaos. “You’re right, Fred. You’re absolutely right. I don’t know what I’d do without you. And if football made you the man you are today, I doubt it could suck that badly.”

Fred Jacobs smiled and patted Irwin on the shoulder before leaving him alone to make the phone call. Just a few minutes ago, this ex-football player was dizzy and bleeding. Now he was toughing it out like a pro and that was inspiring to Irwin, who then picked up the phone and made this announcement: “Send them in. It’s an emergency.” The call for help was placed and all Irwin and Fred could do at this point was ride out the storm.

Three New Poems

SOLD ME OUT:



CHORUS
You sold me out, you stripped me down
Put me on display for the whole damn town
You sold me out, you left me for dead
This rotten casket is what I call my bed


VERSE 1
You sold me up the river without a paddle
And now every day is like an uphill battle
A river of blood in the name of love
Mental numbness in the name of the dove
The heat was on, you got out of the kitchen
Saving your own ass was your only mission
I don’t see you as an infected wound
I see you as the broker for my own doom


CHORUS
You sold me out, you stripped me down
Put me on display for the whole damn town
You sold me out, you left me for dead
This rotten casket is what I call my bed


VERSE 2
You taunt me and tease me like it’s so damn easy
You knock me down like a wind so breezy
And yet I keep playing the role of forgiver
Hoping that one day you will soon deliver
It’s the same damn story each and every time
You give me my freedom like it’s actually mine
Then you take it away, keep my soul in chains
Doctors call you schizophrenia on the brain


EXTENDED CHORUS
You sold me out, you stripped me down
Put me on display for the whole damn town
You sold me out, you left me for dead
This rotten casket is what I call my bed
You sold me out for the lowest of prices
Left me high and dry to my own devices
You sold me out to a sadistic master
I keep on hoping my sentence goes faster


VERSE 3
I can never figure out how to take revenge
The pills and talks never take off the edge
You’re a part of me whether I like it or not
So come on, bitch, give me all you’ve got!

MICROCOSM:



VERSE 1
My own mind is telling me lies
Who to love, who to despise
I grow exhausted after so many tries
To crush them down to a smaller size
This microcosm has made me ill
The price to pay is a permanent bill
Choke down water with bitter pills
The cure has become worse than the ills


CHORUS
You’re not real
You never were
So why do I
Fucking hurt?!


VERSE 2
Invisible scars are infected with pus
Invisible monsters bathing in bloodlust
Invisible allies with the magic solution
Invisible voices still bring the pollution


CHORUS
You’re not real
You never were
So why do I
Fucking hurt?!


VERSE 3
Why do I feel so crippled and numb?
Why do I feel so distracted and dumb?
I can fool myself some of the time
The microcosm fools me all of the time


EXTENDED CHORUS
You’re not real
You never were
So why do I
Fucking hurt?!
You’re a ghost
Damned and dead
Why won’t you
Get out of my head?!

EXTREMIST:



VERSE 1
Flipping over cars because your favorite team lost
Burning down homes and looting all the shops
The dumb-ass news anchor in his cheap little suit
Says you’re just having fun as you cheer and root


CHORUS
Extremist! Extremist! Pumped full of adrenaline!
Extremist! Extremist! It’s your favorite medicine!
You poor excuse for a human fucking being!
A real sports fan is not what I’m fucking seeing!


VERSE 2
If it’s hockey, then shove that stick up your ass
If it’s wrestling, get your back slammed to the mat
If it’s football, spread your legs for a field kick
If it’s MMA, cut some weight and call in sick


CHORUS
Extremist! Extremist! Pumped full of adrenaline!
Extremist! Extremist! It’s your favorite medicine!
You poor excuse for a human fucking being!
A real sports fan is not what I’m fucking seeing!


VERSE 3
You act like a criminal when things go awry
You swing a lead pipe like you’re a samurai
You start a bon fire in order to inspire
Others to join in when it’s down to the wire
It’s only a game, people win and lose
The fans start a riot while stinking of booze
The concrete jungle has become a war zone
With the riot police ready to break some bones


EXTENDED CHORUS
Extremist! Extremist! Pumped full of adrenaline!
Extremist! Extremist! It’s your favorite medicine!
You poor excuse for a human fucking being!
A real sports fan is not what I’m fucking seeing!
Didn’t your mother teach you any respect?
Or did you throw her in the fire near the car wreck?
You’re a sociopath in the absolute worst way
All because your team sucks on their best day

Common Values

***COMMON VALUES***

I’m going to go ahead and ask the million dollar question. In order for a relationship to work, do the two people involved have to have things in common or is it really true that opposites attract? I’m not just talking about romantic relationships; I also mean business, family, and friendly relationships. I’ve heard arguments for both answers to that question, but I still can’t make heads or tails of it all. Then again, my relationships in life are limited to my family and internet friends, so it could be that I lack the necessary experience to make this judgment call. But I’m going to try and do it anyways, just for the sake of argument. That, and I’m desperate for journal topics.

Let’s say you’re someone who believes that the two people have to have at least one thing in common with each other. When you have that one thing the two of you share, you can give each other some great conversations and even better feedback on how to make that activity better. You both like online gaming? Great! Then buy a copy of Diablo III and rock out with your cock out. You both like soccer? Awesome! Go to soccer matches together and hold hands. Having something to bond over keeps the relationship from getting stale.

And then there’s the other school of thought in which like protons and electrons in chemistry, opposites attract. There actually are couples out there who practice this idea. You’ve got liberals getting together with conservatives, geeks with cheerleaders, rebels with conformists, introverts with extroverts, the list goes on and on. The argument I’ve heard in support of this is that nobody wants to have a relationship with someone who is exactly like them since the two people would get tired of each other quickly. While those two would have a lot to bond over, maybe too much bonding can lead to a lack of privacy.

After going over the two schools of thought, I’m riding the fence with this one. I want to have at least a few things in common with the other person, but not everything. That’s why I have such a hard time talking to the barbers at Hair Masters. Disgust for small talk aside, when I hear about their interests and values, I find out that we have nothing to bond over.

How am I supposed to talk about how “The Perks of Being a Wallflower” turned me into an emotional wreck when the hairdresser wants to read books about World War II? Can I even get one word edgewise about how lethal Kevin Owens’ pop-up power bomb is when the other person would rather watch the Seattle Seahawks run around and pounce on other teams? What if I want to talk about Dimebag Darrell’s shredding techniques to someone who listens to country songs about losing their goddamn truck? That kind of polarity can make me feel lonely.

Of course, I could take some initiative and actually introduce the other person to my values and interests, but I don’t want to feel like I’m forcing myself on them. When I was a middle schooler in Chehalis, Washington, I tried relentlessly to get my friends to share my interest in those Dick Tracy cartoons from the 1960’s. You know the ones, with racial stereotypes like Go-Go Gomez, Hemlock Holmes, Joe Jitsu, and Sketch Paree. Since Chehalis is swarming with rightwing nut jobs, they probably would have eaten that shit up with a spoon. But apparently, the Dick Tracy trend never caught on. Oh well. At least I learned not to force my values on other people.

So, ladies and gentlemen. Where do your loyalties lie in this debate? Should your friends and paramours have similar interests or do opposites really attract? Share your experiences with me and let’s have a fucking conversation. We’ve got ears, say cheers!

　

***BOOK REVIEWS***

The next time I post a book review on my social networking sites, Good Reads, and Amazon, it will be “So…I Met a Vampire” by Paul McAvoy. I’m only 63 pages into it, but the book itself is approximately 180 pages and the writing style is so fast-paced that I can blow through it probably by tomorrow afternoon. If not, then the day after. I always close my commitments to fellow indie authors. Never forget that.

　

***BLOOD BRAWL***

I don’t really know when chapter three will be written, but when it is, it’ll feature a chase scene between Ivan Blackstone and the female rogue who will later be identified as Justine Dupree (not the biggest spoiler I can give). Really, wouldn’t you run too if an orc in a trench coat and hood was chasing you down the streets with a big ass scythe? Especially if you thought he looked like the Grim Reaper from a distance and knew his name was Ivan fucking Blackstone.

　

***MOVIE OR TV SHOW REVIEW***

Though it’s not the freshest thing in my mind right now, my next movie review will be about Kung Fu Panda. This movie has everything I could ever want: martial arts action, animal warriors, and a story where a complete nobody becomes a conquering hero over the course of the movie. Uh-oh! Did I just give away a spoiler? Come on, you knew that shit was coming from miles away. It’s not about IF the hero conquers. It’s about HOW. Never forget that.

　

***WRESTLING OR MMA MATCH REVIEW***

I’ve been giving out passing grades like it’s fucking Christmas lately. Though the season of giving is drawing near, I’m afraid I’ll have to play the role of The Grinch when it comes to a UFC fight between Jake Ellenberger and Rory MacDonald. There was a lot of trash talking before the fight actually happened. In fact, Jake Ellenberger said that Rory MacDonald is “faker than the food he’s named after”. A guy with “berger” in his last name is making a fast food joke about someone named MacDonald. The irony is killing me, but not nearly as much as the boredom resonating from this god-awful fight.

　

***DRAWINGS***

Technically, the short story “Bleed For Weed” is a contemporary drama, not a dark fantasy story. It will be included in American Darkness 2: Black State, not Poison Tongue Tales. When I draw Riff De La Luka, can he really be considered a “dark fantasy warrior”? Of course he can, because I fucking said so!

　

***COMEDIC QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“Women are always trying to make their men feel better about sex. ‘Oh, it’s not the size of the boat that matters; it’s the motion of the ocean.’ That may be true, but it’s hard to sail to England in a rowboat.”

-Jeff Foxworthy-

"Brain Droppings" by George Carlin

Seeing as how “Brain Droppings” is a collection of George Carlin’s greatest hits, it’s only fitting that instead of a full-scale review, I give a few samples of his work. Starting with…

Which is more immoral? Killing two 100-pound people or killing 300-pound person?

Which is taller? A short-order cook or a small-engine mechanic?

If JFK Jr. got into a taxi in New York to go to the airport, do you think he would say, “Take me to JFK?” How would he feel about that? And how does Lee Harvey Oswald’s mother feel when she walks through JFK, knowing that if she had stayed single it would probably be Martin Luther King Jr. Airport?

How can “crash course” and “collision course” have two different meanings?

Kids are now being born with syphilis and cocaine habits. There’s nothing like waking up your second day on Earth and realizing that once you kick cocaine you’re still going to have the syph. And hey, kids! If you didn’t get VD in the womb, don’t worry, you still have a shot. Some toddlers recently picked up gonorrhea at a day care center.

When a lion escapes from a circus in Africa, how do they know when they’ve caught the right one?

They said on the news that tests on monkeys showed HIV can be transmitted through oral sex. What I want to know is, who had to blow the monkeys?

Shopping and buying and getting and having comprise the Great American Addiction. No one is immune: When the underclass riots in this country, they don’t kill policemen and politicians, they steal merchandise. How embarrassing.

Since childhood is a time when kids prepare to be grownups, I think it makes a lot of sense to completely traumatize your children. Gets them ready for the real world.

I always order the International Breakfast: French toast, English muffin, Belgian waffle, Spanish omelet, Danish pastry, Swedish pancakes, Canadian bacon, and Irish coffee.

Something is dreadfully wrong in this country. There is actually an organization called Wrestlers Against Drugs, and on TV there is now a Christian weightlifting tour.

Want more? Buy “Brain Droppings”. It’s what Carlin would have wanted…whether he was dead or alive.

　

***COMEDIC QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“We’ve heard about battered wives and a lot of work has been done in that area. But then we started hearing about battered husbands too. There are battered husbands. This happens when the woman is really big, the man is really small, and they each drink a quart of whiskey a day.”

-George Carlin (who else?)-

Nathan Phoenix

This is a rhetorical question, but only because the answer is so fucking far out of reach for many of my readers. Can someone explain to me why a Scottish martial artist would have a Jewish given name (Nathan) and a non-ethnic last name (Phoenix)? I’m not talking about a Scottish immigrant coming to the US or an American of Scottish decent. I’m talking about an actual guy from Scotland whose name is Nathan Phoenix. Normally, people over there are named Ian MacDonald or Bryan McKee. But Nathan Phoenix? Not in a million years, though in a million years, the earth will probably be a gigantic ball of flaming shit, so it matters even less. It’s pretty safe to say when I invented Nathan Phoenix as a reserve character, I didn’t have a mind for ethnic names. Hell, I had a Chinese warlord whose name was Kasabian. But enough about nationalities for a moment. Let’s talk about Nathan instead. He’s got some badass red hair. It’s spiky, it’s puffy, and it comes with a neatly trimmed goatee. He also has the muscular build of an NFL linebacker. And when he throws a spinning kick to an opponent’s jaw, that’ll be the last time said opponent eats solid food. His punches are no less lethal. One punch to the ribs and every breath you take will feel like a sword going through your body. Now that we’ve established how badass Nathan Phoenix can be, where do we put him? What kind of home do you give to a guy who can make it anywhere? He’s a martial artist, so maybe we can put him in a 3D fighting videogame. Or we can put him in an MMA cage. Or a wrestling ring. Nathan loves the arena feel, so it should be something in that area. I know absolutely nothing about soccer despite playing it as a small child, but maybe Nathan could even be a soccer player with a mean streak as long as Saturn’s rings. Could you imagine what kind of damage he could do if he kicked a soccer ball and it hit you in your own balls? That’ll be the end of your bloodline, that’s for sure. As long as Nathan Phoenix has a crowd around him and he’s beating somebody up, he’s a happy guy. He’ll flash the biggest smile even though most of his teeth will be crooked from the fight. If he has to go to jail for some reason, this will definitely come in handy. Prisoners love watching a good fight as long as they’re not the ones getting beaten up. Prisoners also love to use their large numbers to single out their prey. Not a good thing to do to Nathan Phoenix, because he’ll punch and kick those prisoners so hard that he’ll make a Bruce Lee movie look like the next installment of Saw. You need an arena fighter? Look no further than the masterpiece himself, Nathan Phoenix. Isn’t that right, laddie? Actually, a guy named Nathan saying “laddie” sounds a little frightening. That could be another aspect of his intimidation game.

　

***MIXED-MARTIAL ARTS QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“He’s taking a book out of Chuck Liddell’s chapter.”

-Mike Goldberg-

National Novel Writing Month

There comes a time in every writer’s life, preferably every November, that he has to ask himself if he’s going to participate in National Novel Writing Month. It’s not an official contest, it’s just a challenge for all authors to pump out a novel before the end of November. You want to know my answer to this riddle? Not only no, but hell no. NaNoWriMo requires its participants to create on the fly. No preparation, no pre-writing, no planning of any kind, just straight up improvisation. I don’t operate that way. If I wanted to improvise so badly, I’d join the cast of Whose Line Is It Anyway? Or Second City, one of those groups. If I was to just drop everything I’m doing right now and write random shit I think of at the top of my head, not only might I get stuck in the middle of it, but my novel will suck. Call me a perfectionist, but I want my first drafts to be at least tolerable so that I don’t have much work to do when it comes time to edit. That’s why whenever I come up with ideas for novels, I have to do it far in advance so that everything’s planned out and nothing sucks. I’m currently writing a three-part novel called Brawl-Mart and it was planned out from beginning to end. I’ve finished parts one and two (Occupy Wrestling and Filter Feeder respectively) and all I have left of part three (Debt of Pain) is eight chapters of action. I would have completed the whole novel a lot sooner than anticipated, but lately I’ve been slowing down my writing schedule due to mental exhaustion and being bogged down by other projects. That’s another reason why I don’t participate in NaNoWriMo, because I can’t energize my mind long enough to get anything done in a timely fashion. It may take the entire month, it may take a whole fucking year. Either way, it may come out forced and therefore, it might suck, which is as I’ve stated before not what I want when writing a first draft. If anything, November will be dedicated to finishing those remaining eight chapters of Brawl Mart Pt. 3: Debt of Pain. And then after that, who knows where I’ll go from there. I have two ideas for novels sitting in my reserve folder as of now: Gangster’s Paradise (memoir of an anti-gang serial killer) and a nonfiction memoir of my life in middle school, high school, and college which I’m still debating the title of. I may develop more ideas beyond these and if I do, you all will be the first ones to know. Until then, I’m going to spend November doing essentially the same thing as everyone else: stuffing my face full of mashed potatoes and turkey. I won’t be watching any football since football is a boring sport with annoyingly loud fans. I’ll just stick to UFC and WWE for my athletic fix.

　

***MIXED-MARTIAL ARTS QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“The judges are giving out 10-8’s like it’s fucking Christmas.”

-Dana White on an episode of “The Ultimate Fighter: Team Nelson vs. Team Carwin”-

"The Perks of Being a Wallflower" by Stephen Chbosky

Instead of the traditional one long paragraph format I’m accustomed to, I’m going to answer questions straight out of the back of this book as clearly and as effectively as I can. Starting with…

Q: Why do you think Chbosky chose to use letters as his narrative structure?

A: Writing a letter is much different from writing a chapter in a traditional novel. Letters don’t require gory details and make for a quicker reading pace, which is what every young adult reader secretly loves.

Q: How did this structure affect the book, both in terms of the story and in terms of your reading experience?

A: In terms of story, it lets us know that Charlie is still alive by the story’s end (otherwise he wouldn’t be writing letters) and that he didn’t resort to suicide in order to cope with the losses in his life. In terms of reading experience, it made it possible for me to blaze through reading this book without tiring my eyes as quickly as I do.

Q: How would the book have been different if Chbosky had written it in first-person or third-person narrative? Without the letter format, we wouldn’t be firmly in the head of Charlie, which is a beautiful place to be as evidenced by the way he writes.

Q: Who do you think Charlie was writing to?

A: Anybody who would listen. I’m even inclined to say that these letters went to a complete stranger since they’re all addressed to someone who went nameless throughout the entire story.

Q: Does it ultimately matter whom, or even if he is, writing to someone? Why or why not?

A: I think that if he wrote the letters to actual characters in this story, it would help him “participate” in life as opposed to watching on the sidelines. He would be open and honest with whoever he was writing to and that person would be closer to him because of it.

Q: Who do you identify with the most? Did you see parts of yourself in any one specific character?

A: To be honest, I didn’t identify with anybody in this book (which doesn’t mean I couldn’t relate to the story as a whole, don’t get me wrong). Despite the many obstacles these characters go through, they had a pretty magical adolescence full of socialization and wonder. I had no such childhood. Mine was full of blunt affects and social barricades. In a way, I’m a tiny bit jealous of the adventures these kids go through.

Q: What do you think kept Charlie from “participating” when he entered high school? What held him back? Have you ever felt this way before?

A: In the beginning, Charlie suffered from something that I’m currently suffering now as an adult: social awkwardness. He wouldn’t participate because initially nobody would let him. I feel this way every single day of my life.

Q: Who is Charlie’s greatest ally? Who is his worst influence?

A: His greatest ally is Sam, because she was the first to let him know what true love really feels like. She made him feel like he could have a social life when he grew up instead of being confined to his family all the time. Charlie’s worst influence is Mary Elizabeth, because she tried to dominate his life by smothering him. Charlie is in many ways an introverted character and to have that lack of control over his own life hurt him badly.

Q: From Naked Lunch by William B. Burroughs to Harold and Maude to the Beatles’ song “Dear Prudence”, Charlie references numerous pieces of literature, film, and music. How did these references shape your reading? Why are they so important to Charlie?

A: While I was only familiar with one reference throughout the entire book (Pink Floyd singing Another Brick in the Wall, Pt. 2), the multitude of references led me to believe that Charlie was soaking in as many influences as he possibly could so that they could shape him into a wonderful human being. Having influences is ultimately what drives a person to pursue his dreams.

Q: When Bill invites Charlie over for lunch Charlie observes, “He was talking for real. It was strange.” What do you think Charlie means by “real”? How does he discern between what is real and what is not real?

A: When he says real, he means that Bill was being honest about his thoughts and emotions with no filter of any kind. Anybody who squanders opportunities to speak their mind and be open with their fellow humans is not real in Charlie’s mind.

Q: Sam confronts Charlie before she leaves for college, pleading: “You can’t just sit there and put everybody’s lives ahead of yours and think that counts as love. You just can’t. You have to do things.” Do you agree with Sam? How does this exchange relate to their relationship on a grander scale?

A: I agree with Sam because relationships are two way streets. If one person isn’t happy, neither is the other person, which is why the relationship between Charlie and Mary Elizabeth fell apart so easily. Sam felt like Charlie had a filter between his mind and mouth and wasn’t always honest about what he felt about her.

Q: Discuss Aunt Helen’s character and presence in the novel. Were you surprised when the truth about her relationship with Charlie was revealed? In what other ways did seemingly positive aspects of Charlie’s life turn out to be negative?

A: Everybody has demons in their lives in one way or another. The fact that Aunt Helen’s demons of being molested were revealed doesn’t shock or surprise me, because I’ve seen a lot of horrible things in my life and I’m numb to everything. Another positive that turned into a negative was Charlie discovering that his relationship with Sam wasn’t unbreakable. She was hurt badly when Charlie betrayed Mary Elizabeth and wasn’t inclined to forget about it for a long time.

Q: After watching the art film with Mary Elizabeth, Charlie says: “The movie itself was very interesting, but I didn’t think it was very good because I didn’t really feel different when it was over.” Do you agree with Charlie that in order to be “good”, creative works must make you feel differently? Who did you feel after reading The Perks of Being a Wallflower?

A: Even in minor ways, yes, creative works have to make you feel differently. If you’re watching an action movie, you should be excited. If you’re watching a romantic movie, you should learn to believe in love again. In terms of this book, I did feel differently. I felt jealous that I couldn’t have the same romantic relationships as Charlie had when I was a teenager. It inspired me to write a heavy metal song called “The Language of Fire”, which doesn’t need much explaining as to what it’s about.

Q: Discuss the following passage: “Maybe it’s good to put things in perspective. Sometimes I think that the only perspective is to really be there.” How has Charlie’s outlook shifted from the beginning of the story?

A: In the beginning, he allowed his parents to tell him that his problems weren’t comparable to a starving child in China. By the end of the story, he realized that despite other people having it worse, the problems still remain and still need attention.

Q: The Perks of Being a Wallflower grapples with a complex, universally difficult stage in life. What reflections did it inspire about your own life? What parts of the story resonated most deeply with you?

A: Considering that most of my childhood was riddled with bullying, the part of the story that hit me the hardest was the cafeteria fight scene where Patrick had to be rescued from the homophobic football players. The ratio of my childhood of bullying to friendship weighed heavily in favor of the former, so anytime Charlie discussed how great his friendships were, I got jealous.

And there you have it! Ballgame!

　

***PARODY DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

FLOYDIAN TEACHER: Poems, everybody! The laddie reckons himself a poet!

ME: You’re damn right I do!

-Pink Floyd the Wall-

No, I wasn’t actually in that movie (it came out before I was born), but that would have been me if the teacher accosted me the way he accosted Pink.