Femcel Fatale

VERSE 1 (FEMCEL)

“I can’t play a game of Magic worth a good goddamn

But I bet you’re just dying to know who I am

I’m the woman of your dreams, the very worst kind

Let my demonic image burn right into your mind

What’s your telephone number? I like to talk a lot

Tell you all my dark secrets so spicy and hot

You’re coming with me if you’re ready or not

This is red dead city, you just might get shot”

 

PRE-CHORUS 1 (FEMCEL & ME)

“Hey! You gave me the wrong phone number!”

You want to know why? I’ll tell you why…

 

CHORUS (ME)

‘Cause you’re a creep

You’re a weirdo

What the hell are you doing here?

You don’t belong here

 

VERSE 2 (FEMCEL)

“Let’s go to Mickey D’s for our platonic date

But “platonic” and “no” are the words that I hate

The two of us can split a small Shamrock Shake

Only got one straw, my germs are yours to take

But you got your own straw to save your chiseled jaw

I got a blackbelt in judo and I’ll wrestle you raw

Sorry for the information, it’s a normal conversation

One dirty thought away from craving masturbation”

 

PRE-CHORUS 2 (FEMCEL & ME)

“Well…I had fun today!”

That makes one of us, my non-babe

 

CHORUS (ME)

‘Cause you’re a creep

You’re a weirdo

What the hell are you doing here?

You don’t belong here

 

VERSE 3 (FEMCEL)

“It’s been months since we talked, where the hell’s my body chalk?

I want to kill every man on this earth that still walks

I got a new man who puts up with my bigotry

I like to wax poetic about all men’s idiocy

I’m a perfect little princess who can do no wrong

Unlike that lady Chyna who cut off her own shlong

I’ll keep running my mouth forever and a day

You want my first amendment rights? Come take them away”

 

PRE-CHORUS 3 (FEMCEL & ME)

“Come on, sit next to me on the couch!”

No thanks, I’d rather sit on a pin cushion

 

CHORUS (ME)

‘Cause you’re a creep

You’re a weirdo

What the hell are you doing here?

You don’t belong here

 

OUTRO (ME)

We’ll see each other again

Just kidding, you hate men

You’re not a feminist hero

You got a fan base of zero

Couldn’t find you with a Google search

You must have fucked off the face of the earth

Nothing of value was lost

Except for my sanity, it’s a heavy cost

Mr. Poopy Pants

The lifelessness in Earle Saint’s eyes told the story of a man whose inner tiki torch had burned out a long time ago. The heat was there in the form of ashes, but the flame was long gone. Working for a software company operated by elitist screamers tended to do that to a man’s soul. “Work harder!” they said. “Lose weight!” they said. “You’re too fat and lazy!” summed up the bosses’ earworm rhetoric. The effects of their words were broadcast to the world via dark circles, a receding hairline, aging lines, and a saggy frown on Earle’s face.

Where does a man with blasting head voices go to take his bosses’ unsolicited weight loss advice? To McDonald’s, of course, but not for a cheeseburger or McNuggets. The only menu item Earle could stomach at this point was a cup of black coffee. No cream. No sugar. Nothing that would make it taste better than the shit sandwich he had to eat every day at that tech company. Just a standard cup of black coffee from a place famous for ball pits and constantly smiling clown mascots.

When Earle placed his order at the counter and paid for it with some pocket change, the clerk gave him his receipt with the order number on it. And he thought to himself, What’s stopping them from getting my fucking coffee right now? He shrugged his slumped shoulders and dragged his sorry keister to the nearest table, a small exercise, but one that left him even more tired than his office job.

He plopped down on the seat, took his glasses off, and held his battered face in his hands. The white dress shirt several sizes too big for him still managed to keep him claustrophobic in this public space, as did his green slacks. He just wanted to shower and change into a bathrobe. But the act of getting on with his day couldn’t be achieved without a steaming hot cup of black coffee, caffeine thundering through his veins. But the longer he waited, the more he tapped his foot long before the caffeine kicked in.

Earle wanted so badly to go postal at this moment. The demon had been building up inside him for years. His overworked mind still raced with thoughts of his father telling him he wasn’t good enough before spanking him with a belt. His dying brain cells conjured images of his mother telling him he wasn’t a real man for being unable to lose weight and lift heavy objects. His ashen head jelly flashed memories of him being beaten and kicked by jocks twice his size, but half his girth. All the pain and heartache culminated in a lifetime of work at a job he couldn’t wait to retire from, if he would at all.

And then a child’s scream jolted him awake like a black coffee shot to the heart. Earle had completely forgotten that he was in McDonald’s and school was out for the day, hence running children in the restaurant while their parents read the newspaper or fingered through their smart phones. Earle would have envied the happiness of these children if they weren’t so fucking annoying to him. They ran around like they were playing tag, weaving between tables without caring if they stepped on Earle’s foot. But the screams. Those screams that were like an acid trip without actually doing drugs. Schizophrenia in the real world.

“HEY!” Earle screamed in retaliation, getting everyone’s undivided attention. “Keep your voices down, you little bastards! I can’t take that noise!”

One of the previously screaming children burst into tears and ran into his formerly inattentive mother’s arms. She hugged him and gently said, “It’s okay, Devon. He didn’t mean that. He’s just being a Mr. Poopy Pants.” That got a laugh out of the rest of the children, but a tighter jaw clamp from Earle Saint himself. The children started chanting “Poopy-Pants!” at Earle, probably thinking his gut would bust with any more stress.

“Stop calling me Poopy-Pants, you little assholes!” The parents joined in on the action as well. “I mean it! Knock it the fuck off! You know what?! Some days, I wish I could buy a shotgun and blow your heads off!” This earned a collective gasp from the McDonald’s crowd and immediately shut them up. Earle’s face almost sagged with guilt for a moment. Almost. But not really. A victory was a victory.

But then the “Mr. Poopy Pants” chants started again and Earle’s eyeballs bulged out of his skull. The train tunnel veins in his body became visible through his corporate slave uniform. Foam was slopping out of his tightly clamped teeth. His fists were clenched so tightly that his fingernails nearly broke against the weight of his ham-hawks. And then the literary descriptions resembled real life as Earle Saint transformed into a seven-foot tall powerhouse monster with fur everywhere, razorblade fangs, and a roar that would make the gods themselves cower in fear.

Forty-five years of child abuse, fatphobia, anti-male sexism, and attempted murder came pouring out of this monstrous form like hot lava. Children and their parents alike scrambled underneath the tables as they trembled and screamed in horror. Earle would cause them to scatter like cockroaches whenever he’d uproot a table or chair and toss it haphazardly around, almost getting the McDonald’s workers killed. They too took cover wherever they could find it, which in their case was the kitchen, where the boiling of the fry machine oil couldn’t compare to the solar Armageddon that was burning within Earle’s demonic form.

“I! WANT! COFFEE!” he shouted while chucking uprooted furniture around and smashing the walls upon themselves. Probably thinking it would calm him down, one of the female workers brought him a whole machine filled with boiling hot coffee. Once Earle snatched it from her hands, she darted back into the kitchen and screamed her head off.

He ripped the top off the machine like it was an ordinary bottle cap and chugged the entire contents like he was a caffeinated Supreme Court justice who loved beer too much. The scalding hotness soothed his bloody throat and bathed his bladder in liquid heaven. And for the first time since the Reagan administration, Earle Saint gave a tiny smile, which soon formed into a bigger one. And a bigger one, showing off all of his meat grinder teeth.

The kids and parents slowly crawled out of their horrified crouching positions and shakily made their way for the door thinking this McMassacre was finally over. But then the frown returned. The hideous saggy frown that weighed him down more than his human form belly. Forty-five years of hatred didn’t go away just because he drank an entire machine full of black coffee. A warm heart and a warm feel-good story were very different from a warm caffeinated drink. Earle tossed the machine aside like it was a stuffed toy from his murdered childhood, which he still missed to this day.

Another scream came, but it was quickly snuffed out upon the machine’s impact. Terror turned to sorrow. Rage became homicide. Death was inevitable with this much destruction happening all at once. Unfortunately, it happened to the kid named Devon, whose head was bashed beyond recognition from the impact of the machine, his mother crying over his slaughtered corpse.

Earle Saint knew his rage would get him into trouble one day. He just didn’t think it would involve taking another’s life by accident. He regretted not going to therapy. He hated that he couldn’t get a better job. He despised his owns selfishness. It all showed when his monstrous body shrank into a smaller version of his human self, with the anger of an entire audience looking down upon him like the microscopic criminal he was.

One of the kids, who looked like she could be Devon’s sister, slowly dragged herself towards the shrunken Earle, wiped the tears from her own eyes, and said, “You’re not Mr. Poopy Pants. You’re a dumpster fire!”

The audience gasped while the mother pulled the sister away in shock. Earle’s only sensible response at this point was…”Same thing.” He had no idea what was going to happen to him in the aftermath of this heinous day. Jail time? Another attempted murder on him? Suicide? But what he lacked in answers, he made up for in caffeinated heaven, which would be the only kind of heaven suitable for someone of his sins. “Can I please go to hell now?”

He asked and he received. The mother angrily strode up to him and squashed him underneath her high heels, spreading his bloody shame all over the floor. He never had the chance to heal himself. He never had the chance to atone for his worst moments. His entire life had been a chronicle of negative shit. But it was too late to save him. He got his coffee and that was all he could take to the afterlife with him. At least they made it how he liked it.

Covered in Blood

I walk into battle covered in blood

Smelling like ashes, smelling like rum

Looking like the deep fried walking dead

Looking for relief from what’s in my head

I see you on the other side of the street

You could be a mirage from the heat

Or you could be laughing like a jackass

Earning your place among the maggots

I take a bite out of your delicious throat

More pig’s blood to cover me like a coat

Rip out your heart, hell, your whole ribcage

You scream like you’re three years of age

You’ve got some serious pipes for a wimp

Are you sure you don’t belong to a pimp?

If you can feel the pain, you’re still alive

Let’s turn up that shit to a hundred and five

Slurping down your brain through the sockets

Make you fuck your eyes with your own rocket

Pull out intestines and watch the shit flow

Share your corpse with the ravens and crows

The funny thing about this nutritious meal

I get dessert as part of the dinner deal

Who will suffice? Your daughter or wife?

Hell, they left your ass for a much better life

I’ll save my coupons for another day

More satisfying than Mickey D’s anyway

The king of burgers has nothing on this

Sweeter than the redheaded Wendy’s kiss

Pay you tomorrow for a carcass today

My belly is stuffed with violent decay

I burp like a fifteen megaton blast

Nickelodeon slime pouring from my ass

Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight

Try to make it fun, put up a better fight

Eat My Beef

VERSE 1

I had a lunch date with Ronald

We ate just like The Donald

And then he whipped it out and said

“EAT MY BEEF!”

VERSE 2

We had some chicken nuggets

And then we said, “Fuck it!”

The Colonel from Kentucky can

EAT MY BEEF!

VERSE 3

We ate some salty fries

And then some salty guys

Tried to shame us, but we told them to

“EAT MY BEEF!”

VERSE 4

We drank a lot of Coke

Until we almost choked

My cholesterol’s a joke, so

EAT MY BEEF!

VERSE 5

We slid into the ball pit

Even though we didn’t fit

If you really give a shit, then

EAT MY BEEF!

VERSE 6

I say fuck the heart attacks

We need a fucking snack

We’re addicted like crack, so

EAT MY BEEF!

Incelbordination, Chapter 12

“It’s over…it’s all over…I’m dead…” Oswald silently mouthed as he sat in his jail cell awaiting whatever hell was coming his way. “Shit, I’m already in hell. I’ve been in hell ever since I was fucking born!” he ranted while attempting to punch the cell bars. He pulled back at the last minute after learning his lesson in the interrogation room. But that was where the learning ended for him. Even if he somehow was found not guilty for these pseudo crimes, he figured he’d get expelled from college in a heartbeat. Then what? Why all the hard work if it was just going to be ripped away from him? “This is bullshit!”

“Oh, please! Stop being such a baby. At least you’ll live another day,” said a familiar feminine voice from within the cell. Oswald hopped down from his bunk and got a better look at the shadows covering this woman’s face. It wasn’t a woman at all. It was the teenager from McDonald’s, complete with a black eye and scratches on her bare legs.

Referring to the “live another day” remark, Oswald asked, “What are you, a fucking fortune teller now?”

“No. I’m just stating the facts,” the girl said while sitting on her own bunker and swinging her aching feet. “It finally happened. I got picked up. At least you have a future of some kind. Me? I’ve lost everything. Can’t you tell how happy I am? Maybe I should try again at getting someone to buy a Hap-Hap-Happy Meal for me!” She swung her arm in mock joy to drive home her point.

“At least you’re not being accused of terrorism,” said Oswald with rolled eyes and folded arms.

“Terrorism, shmerrorism. As long as you didn’t do a damn thing, they can’t hold you forever. I’m the only one between the two of us who actually committed a crime. Meanwhile, my asshole client is probably partying it up somewhere. Nobody will tell me what happened to him.” The girl laid on her back and placed both hands behind her head in a vain attempt to relax, which was nearly impossible to do on these rock-hard beds.

“How do you know what I’m being accused of?”

“Because you wouldn’t shut up about it!” snapped the prostitute.

It finally dawned on Oswald that he had been muttering to himself this whole time while being oblivious to everyone around him. He was so anxious, distracted, and traumatized that he had been arguing with his demons rather than real people. The little guy held his head and whined, “Oh, what I wouldn’t give for some weed.”

“I suppose it’s better for you than what I was eating at McDonald’s.” Oswald gave her a confused stare before she clarified, “I meant the food, you nimrod.”

“Oh…of course…well…” He cleared his throat and also tried in vain to relax on his iron bed. He suddenly remembered that he was injured when the uncomfortable bed aggravated his lower back wounds. He clutched his spine and muttered “Ow!” multiple times.

“So tell me…why did you leave me back there?” the teenager asked. “Were you afraid of getting arrested? But now you’re already in jail, so how’s that working out for you? I could have used your help, you know.”

“Pfft! Help with what? I already gave you an ass load of food.” Oswald got an awkward stare from the teen and clarified, “Ass load is a figure of speech, you fool! I wouldn’t do that to you even if you paid me instead of the other way around.”

That got a giggle from the teenager. “My name is Jessica, by the way.” Extending her arm halfway across the cell, she said, “I’d shake your hand right now, but I don’t feel like moving around. As you can tell, I’m pretty banged up. You don’t look so hot yourself, little guy.”

“My name isn’t little guy. It’s Oswald. I’d shake your hand too, but my knuckles are fucked up from punching a glass door. No terrorist in his right mind would do that for a woman.”

Holding her hands up, Jessica said, “Whoa, whoa, whoa…there’s a woman in your life that I’m not aware of? And you came to McDonald’s looking for a good time?”

Oswald shrugged. “Eh, she’s not really my girlfriend. Then again, I’m not really boyfriend material. Too much baggage and not enough height to carry it all. I believe in certain terrorist circles, my type would be referred to as a manlet.”

“You know, you don’t need to hang around with people like that, Oz-Man.”

“Oz-Man? Never been called that before.”

“Get used to it, especially if you do someday hook up with a nice girl. Truth is, if Disney movies taught me anything, it’s that physical appearance is highly overrated. Sometimes all you have to do to win a woman’s heart is to be your sweet self.”

“Trust me, Jessica, I’m not sweet.”

“That’s because you don’t give yourself the chance to be. I still remember how nervous you were around me. You had all of this fast food to pay me with, which pretty much guarantees you a night of fun sex, and you still couldn’t steady yourself for just a few minutes. I’m not saying you have to be obnoxiously confident, but believing in yourself just a little bit might go a long way.”

Oswald sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know…”

Jessica sat up in her bed. “Oz-Man, look at me. You’re selling yourself shor…I mean…you’re not giving yourself enough credit. I don’t know what it is that’s holding you back, but you’ve got to let that shit go. Do you want to be miserable and angry along with the rest of the incels or do you want a little bit of happiness every now and then?”

Oswald sighed again and wiped a modicum of tears from his eyes. “Obviously, I want to be happy, but…”

“But nothing! Happiness is an inside job, don’t you know that? Believe it or not, there were times in my life when I was happy to be on this earth. I loved going to McDonald’s back when I didn’t have to hump anything that walked just for some chicken nuggets. They had a play place, a friendly clown, and some cool toys. Now…” Jessica wiped tears from her own eyes as well. “But no, go on, keep thinking that you’re miserable. Keep pretending that you’re the one who’s hurting.” The teen rolled over on her belly and sobbed silently into her pillow.

What the fuck am I doing here? Oswald thought. All of this legal trouble, all of this heartache, all of this sadness…for what? Sure, he was clinically depressed and anxious, but he knew in his heart of hearts he didn’t do enough for himself. Maybe there was truth in Valerie Sand giving him a C-. Maybe Nikita Johnson was right to take his pot away. Maybe Antero Magnus wasn’t much of a friend to begin with. And Wacey Judge? Well, he could just go fuck himself.

“Jessica…I’m sorry,” Oswald mouthed before being cut off by the sound of a baton banging against the bars. The sudden shock jolted the two cell mates into attention.

“Oswald Crow? You need to come with me now. It’s time to make a decision,” said the chunky police officer with his face covered in shadows.

Decision? What kind of decision? Oswald thought. He couldn’t help but give the guard a weird look on his way out of the cell. Was now the time to decide his plea? Did he have to choose which one of two sentences was the lesser evil? Did he have to choose whether he wanted to be prison raped or beaten to death? These were all unreasonable, yet solid questions, but the one thing Oswald couldn’t help but ask was, “Aren’t you a little out of shape to be a cop?”

Just like that a black hood was placed over his head, causing Oswald to thrash around despite his injuries. Documentaries he watched of water boarding, whipping, and suffocation in Gitmo flashed through his mind while various officers aided in keeping him stabilized. The dwarf was sure he wouldn’t survive such a hellhole. If this was his ticket to the afterlife, he’d rather live in misery despite Jessica’s young wisdom.

And then a familiar voice crept up from behind and asked Oswald a question he’d heard many times before: “Need a light?”

Incelbordination, Chapter 6

“You know, for somebody who has a lot of shit to talk about, you’re certainly taking your time in starting the conversation,” said Oswald with his arms crossed.

“It’s called making you sweat,” explained Detective Barry. “From the looks of how I found you, I figured you’d be sweating bullets right now. That’s okay, we can wait a little longer.”

Oswald nervously fidgeted with his fingernails while Mia remained cool behind the wheel of her car. The little guy noticed that they’d passed his dorm several times during this ride. His only haven for smoking weed and shaking off the jailbait blues was a short walk away and all this detective wanted to do was wait for him to break. Oswald picked at his fingernails some more until they were too short to do so. Next he picked at his hangnails. Then he picked skin off of his chapped lips.

With nothing left to fidget with and a big enough craving for marijuana, Oswald finally snapped. “Alright, what the hell do you want from me anyways? Do I need a lawyer or some shit?”

“I’m not sure, Mr. Crow, do you? Is there a secret you’re trying to protect from me? I haven’t even said a word yet and already you’re asking for legal counsel. What’s on your mind, buddy?”

Oswald put his balled up fist in his mouth and made Marcellus Wallace pawn shop noises from Pulp Fiction, which gave Mia a good chuckle. “So you’re a comedian now? I didn’t think someone as sad as you had a sense of humor in them.”

The dwarf made a flat tire sound and said, “Sad? Come on, you’re better than this, Detective.”

“Better than what, exactly? Are you saying I don’t do my own research? Are you projecting yourself onto me when you imply that? I’ve seen your creative writing grade, buddy. I’ve seen a lot of things about you.”

“Great, first Antero’s a fucking stalker and now you.” Oswald immediately cupped his mouth shut upon revealing his “associate’s” name.

“Ah-ha! I knew it!” said Mia while pointing a finger at her passenger. “There is something going on with you and Antero Magnus.”

“…Who?”

“Oh, nothing. I just figured since you blurted out a random Finnish name that you’d probably know at least one guy who fits that profile.” Oswald was mentally kicking himself for his blunder while Mia continued. “I’m not stupid, Mr. Crow. I know more about this case than you’ll ever figure out in your lifetime. Yes, in case you haven’t figured it out, there’s a case being built against Antero Magnus. We don’t have much to go on, but we’ve got hunches here and there. Word of advice, little guy: stay as far away from Incelbordination as you possibly can.”

Shaking his head, Oswald retorted, “You don’t have to tell me twice, lady. I already know how much of a scumbag he is.”

“Oh, really? Is that why you happened to be eating outside McDonald’s instead of inside where there’s air conditioning?”

“Aw, shit,” said Oswald while holding his head in his hand. “Well, if you’ve really seen everything, you’d know that I didn’t do shit while I was out there. I gave that chick the food and then I took off. I swear that’s all that happened.”

“Don’t worry, I believe you. What I don’t believe is that you had that idea all by yourself. Antero’s pulling your strings, buddy. I know it. I’ve had to arrest a few of his Incelbordination minions for actually going through with the business deal. The one thing they all had in common was a McDonald’s gift card. Anybody can have one, but when you spend thirty dollars on supposedly just yourself, that’s awfully suspicious.”

Oswald slapped his palms against his knees and asked, “What do you want from me?”

“You don’t have to give me anything, Oswald, except for maybe a promise that you won’t join Incelbordination. Even then I don’t think I’d be able to sleep at night. The thing about Antero’s logic is that it’s seductive to young people like you. It was designed to be seductive. It’s easier to use women as scapegoats rather than face your own problems head on. It’s convenient. The only problem is, when you take that black pill, you might as well be chugging bleach. If you join Incelbordination, Antero will radicalize you until there’s nothing left of your ability to think for yourself.”

Oswald tucked his chin to his chest and said, “I’m not worth saving, Detective.”

“See? That’s the kind of talk I’d expect from a young man who’s become indoctrinated. Involuntary Celebates, or Incels, are all brought together by their low self-esteem. They’re so convinced that they’re ugly that they lash out at the wrong people. Person-to-person, the only way you could ever be ugly is if you allowed yourself to be brainwashed by these people.”

Folding his arms, Oswald sighed, “Inner beauty doesn’t mean shit anymore, Detective. If it did, I wouldn’t have had the shit kicked out of me in high school and middle school. Being a midget isn’t fun and there’s nothing humorous about it. If I didn’t learn how to box, I’d probably be dead right now. That’s how bad shit has gotten. I don’t want to be a violent person, but these normies are putting me in a situation where it’s either me or them.”

“I’m sensing that you don’t have a whole lot of role models in your life,” said Mia solemnly.

“You are very, very perceptive, Detective Barry. Then again, you wouldn’t be a very good cop if you weren’t.”

Putting an empathetic hand on Oswald’s shoulder, Mia said, “Look, I know you haven’t had the easiest life, as you’ve just described. You’re desperate for someone to show you the way. I’m telling you right now, that someone isn’t Antero Magnus. He doesn’t care about you or your need for love. He cares only about his own violent agenda. Please, promise me that you won’t go anywhere near him.”

“I can promise I won’t go anywhere near him, but I can’t promise he won’t go anywhere near me. I don’t seek him out on purpose, you know.”

“I know you don’t, Mr. Crow. I know how sneaky he can be. And just to give you a heads up, if Antero ever does bother you again, he’s going to bring up his deceased Uncle Tuomas and use him for a sympathy ploy.”

“So his uncle was the keyboardist for Nightwish?”

Mia patted Oswald on the back and chuckled. “Oh, Mr. Crow, you slay me. But on a serious note, anybody who has ever joined Incelbordination knows about the Uncle Tuomas card. Antero is going to tell you that he committed suicide because he was falsely accused of rape and therefore lost his reputation. While false accusations happen far too often for my comfort, this time our police work was right on the money. Don’t let Antero spin it in any other direction. You can research this story yourself if you don’t believe me. Oh, I forgot, you’re not known for your research skills. But hey, this time it’s important.”

“Look, Detective, I appreciate your concern about my wellbeing, but if you’re not going to charge me with any serious offense, then I suggest you take me to my dorm. I’m not exactly feeling the love right now.”

“Understandable,” said Mia. “But I’m just going to give you fair warning right now: if you join Incelbordination and you do something illegal under their watch, I’ll have no choice but to arrest you as a terrorist. Terrorists get worse treatment under the law than regular criminals, which is a fucking disgrace to our justice system considering how many innocent Middle Easterners are in Guantanamo Bay, but that’s beside the point. The point is, if you think you’re going to cure your loneliness by joining Incelbordination, then you need to quickly realize you’ll only make it worse.”

Just like that, the joyride was over and Mia parked outside Oswald’s dorm building. The little guy wasted no time in getting out of the car and hurrying to his door, but not without shaking his head at Mia telling him to, “Have a nice evening.”

He rushed to his bedroom and scrambled for a ready roll in his underwear drawer. Low and behold, he finally found his Zippo lighter. He smiled insanely at the hardware before scurrying outside for a smoke. He shifted his eyes left and right to make sure neither Mia Barry nor Antero Magnus were going to sneak up on him. He even made abrasive “booga-booga-booga” noises just to make sure it was only him and the night air. Once he was one hundred percent certain the coast was clear, he leaned back against the wall and lit up his joint.

Relaxation took over his body as he gently slid down on his ass enjoying his smoke. How he loved this magic medicine and the way it made the night sky look like a Pink Floyd laser show. He needed this private time to himself. He needed his beautiful weed. Tomorrow was Saturday, which meant he had all the time in the world to sort out his problems. Maybe he would fix up his C- paper, maybe he would just set the fucking thing on fire now that he found his Zippo. Either way, Oswald needed this weekend like any other stressed out college student did.

Incelbordination, Chapter 5

Oswald didn’t believe he had to look ritzy for this trip to McDonald’s (and really, who did?). A departure from the gloomy trench coat attire, however, was definitely in order. A hot shower to melt away the pot stench from his hair and skin. A roll of deodorant to make him at least slightly below bearable to be around. No haircut or shave for him, though, just a ponytail in back and braids in his beard. Completing his Supreme Gentleman look was a pair of glasses that didn’t help him see better, a blue T-shirt that said “Your Favorite Author Sucks”, and a pair of gray jeans that didn’t feel overly tight. He gazed at his gift card one more time before smiling and exiting his dorm.

He didn’t need his MP3 player that evening, just a nice tune to whistle. The sun crept underneath the horizon and gave way to a brilliant dark blue sky. The breeze against Oswald’s skin was pleasantly cool, a stark contrast from the blazing spring weather in the daytime. Tonight was the night it would finally be over. Tonight, tonight, tonight, hot damn tonight! Any guilt he felt about going through with this was completely washed away by the potent smell of greasy fast food wafting through the air.

Conspicuous by their absence was a hoard of hungry costumers, leaving Oswald to wonder where the hell the hookers were. Then again, prostitution was a secretive business by nature, so maybe they wouldn’t come parading down the street right away. The little person placed his order of two Double Quarter Pounders with Cheese, a twenty-piece McNugget without sauce, two breakfast burritos, and two medium Cokes. The way the lady behind the counter smiled and winked at Oswald made him slightly uncomfortable, like she was at least dimly aware of what was going through the dwarf’s mind. Nonetheless, she charged the gift card and two minutes later handed him the food, which he took outside.

Oswald sat down on the curb and scouted the parking lot for potential visitors. Nobody. Not a single soul. Hopefully, the lack of occupants included undercover cops. Oh, god help Antero of Oswald got arrested this evening. Dick punches would be the least of his concerns. The dwarf started gnashing on one of the cheeseburgers and got a little glob of grease on his favorite T-shirt. “Shit, goddamn it!” he said to himself before wiping down his clothing.

The little person was so lost in thought that he failed to notice a slender shadow falling over him, dimly lit skies aside. He jumped slightly at the sound of a feminine voice saying, “Hi!” to him. Sure enough, there was a lovely young lady smiling down at him while holding her hands in front and swinging from side to side ever so innocently. She even wore his favorite outfit: a tanktop, short shorts, and sexy sandals. Oh, this was too perfect to be true. “Can I have some of that? I haven’t eaten all day today.”

“Um…sure! Have a seat,” said Oswald nervously. As she sat next to him chewing on a breakfast burrito, the little person’s nerves spiraled out of control, making him crave a ready roll as easily as he did the food. He didn’t know the terms of how this was supposed to work. Was there a code word of some kind? Were they supposed to eat first and then fuck? What was the going rate for this kind of deal?

The girl did no favors for Oswald’s nerves as she patted his shoulders and asked, “How are you doing tonight? You want some company?” Bless his heart, the little guy couldn’t get his words out coherently. “Wow, you’re tense tonight. Is something wrong or are you just nervous?” Still unable to form a reasonable sentence, Oswald nodded and the girl giggled at him. “Aww, that’s so sweet! I like it when guys get nervous around me. It shows that they care. Makes business a lot easier.”

“B…business?”

“Yeah, business. I take it that’s why you’re here, right? You know, aside from having a good meal and all.”

Oswald’s jaw stopped quivering long enough so he could ask the most important question of his freedom-loving life: “How old are you?”

“Fourteen, sir.”

Oswald buried his face in his hands and said, “Oh my god” over and over again. “I think I just made the biggest mistake of my life. I’ve got to get the fuck out of here.”

He tried to get up and leave, but the teenaged prostitute’s hand grasped his and her eyes had the puppy-dog expression locked in. “Where are you going? You can’t leave me here.”

Jerking his hand away, Oswald said, “Not only can I leave you here, but that’s what I plan to do. I ain’t going to prison for you, sweetheart. I’m not that desperate for a cherry pop. Hell, I’ll probably get my cherry popped in prison instead of a fucking McDonald’s parking lot!”

She grabbed his wrist and begged him, “Please? I’ll do whatever you want me to do as long as you don’t leave. I can’t go back home right now. My dad’s going to kill me!”

“Yeah, and your dad’s going to kill me too if he finds out we’ve been bumping uglies. I’d probably prefer getting killed over spending at least one minute in the sex offender registry. Sorry, toots, it’s not happening. Here, take your McDonald’s meal and leave me alone. It’s all yours. You’ve more than earned your share tonight. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go punch Antero in the dick.”

“Who’s Antero?”

Tucking his chin to his chest, Oswald sighed, “It’s best if you never find out. But if you see him before I do…run!” The little person yanked his wrist away and stomped away from the fast food restaurant, leaving the underage prostitute in a heap of tears and hopelessness. Part of him couldn’t help but feel bad for her, knowing she had an enraged father to go home too. Images of her getting badly beaten flashed through his mind and sent a cold tremor through his body. What he wouldn’t do for a ready roll at this moment.

Once he sufficiently widened the gap between himself and the teenager, Oswald leaned against the lamp post huffing and puffing, though he didn’t do any exercising to warrant such exhaustion. Instead his tiredness was a byproduct of his nerves raging throughout his body. So much anxiety pooling in his stomach like a biblical flood. So much anger boiling in his brain and giving him a monstrous headache. He hammer punched the lamp post a few times and let out a few choice swear words to whoever was listening. He made a big mistake by leaving his marijuana in his dorm room. He came even closer to making a bigger mistake and paying for it with two-hundred percent interest.

Oswald stuffed his hands in his jean pockets and trudged down the street muttering to himself, “I’m going to kill that motherfucker” over and over again, obviously referring to Antero Magnus. A five finger dick punch wasn’t good enough for that ass clown. Dunking his head in the McDonald’s deep fryer? That sounded a lot more like poetic justice.

Before he could spend too much time in his own thumping head, a burgundy car pulled up beside him and a raven-haired woman behind the wheel rolled down her window to engage Oswald in conversation. “Are you Oswald Crow?”

“If anybody were him, it’d be me.”

Flashing a police badge, the woman introduced herself as, “Detective Mia Barry. You and I have a long chat ahead of us. Hop in the car. I’ll take you for a ride.”

Chuckling nervously and waving his hands in defense,  Oswald said, “Nah, I don’t need a ride. My dorm room is only a few blocks away. I can make it there myself, but thanks.”

“I don’t think you understood me, Mr. Crow. I’m not asking you to get in the car. I’m telling you. Like I said, we’ve got a lot of shit to talk about.” Oswald gazed at the detective with frightened eyes. “What’s the matter? You need help getting in or do you just not want to cooperate with me tonight? If it’s the latter, I’ll have no choice but to haul you in.”

“…N…Nah, it’s okay, I can get in.” Oswald slowly trudged towards the passenger seat and let himself in, feigning a struggle just to draw out the time. Once he clicked his seatbelt in, the two of them drove off into the night together. What Detective Barry wanted to talk about was anybody’s guess, but it probably involved Oswald nearly making a huge fucking mistake in the McDonald’s parking lot. The little guy’s saliva gulp tasted too much like hamburger meat and shame.

Incelbordination, Chapter 4

Oswald wiped the rainy weather from his face long enough to see another reason to cry his eyes out if he so chose: Antero Magnus with a book of matches. Clearly, a compromise had to be made. Or did it? “Why the fuck do you keep following me everywhere I go? Are you some kind of lost puppy dog or some shit?” In a brazen move reminiscent of last night, Antero swiped the ready roll from Oswald’s hand and lit it himself before taking a few puffs. “Excuse me?!” said Oswald with big red eyes. “That’s not yours to smoke! I need that shit for my depression!”

Handing the marijuana roll back to its rightful owner, Antero spit out a cloud of green and said, “Let me ask you something, Oswald. How many times have you puffed the shit out of that roll and found permanent happiness afterwards? The answer is zero, because as powerful as that shit is, it’s only a temporary fix to a much bigger problem.” The incel took a seat next to his charge and patted him on the shoulder. “You already know what the bigger problem is, don’t you?”

Taking a puff and spitting out an even bigger cloud than his lungs would allow, Oswald said, “Yeah, I know what it is. It has something to do with a weirdo in a trench coat taking hits of my Mary-Jane. Seriously, what could you possibly see in me? I’m not what you’re looking for. I don’t blame my insecurities on other people.”

“Which is precisely why you punched a muscle jock in the dick and why you ran away from a smooth-legged English teacher.”

Wide-eyed yet again, Oswald exclaimed, “Dude! You’ve got to stop following me everywhere! That’s fucking creepy!” Antero chuckled and removed his sunglasses, revealing those horrifying cyan-colored eyes. “Ah! Put your glasses back on! Put ‘em back on!” screamed Oswald while shielding his face with his hands.

“As you wish,” said Antero before complying with his “friend’s” request. “But I must warn you, there are scarier things in this world than weirdly-colored eyes. There’s a conspiracy against us. And when I say us, I mean you, me, and every other Supreme Gentlemen who’s had the deck stacked against them their whole lives. We don’t look like the normies. We don’t talk like the normies. We don’t wear the same kind of hats they do either. That bothers them. So what do they do? They commit social genocide.”

“Okay, okay, okay, this is getting fucked up,” said Oswald with his hands raised. “Social genocide? You’re using the G-word to describe not being able to get laid? How in the hell do you…”

“I don’t expect you to understand right away,” said Antero while readjusting his sunglasses. “Some lessons take longer to learn than others. But to answer your question, the G-word isn’t all about getting laid. Anybody can get laid. Surely, there are enough sex surrogates and prostitutes to go around. It’s love that we seek and can never find. We give it all away and none of it is returned. A simple thank-you would be enough for some people. Me? I want a little bit of interest with my investment.”

Oswald’s mouth became O-shaped at the statement he tried so desperately hard to digest. Antero dug through his own trench coat and pulled out his wallet. “You know what? I can tell you’re not convinced just yet. That’s okay. College is a time for learning, right? Well, you’ve got a lot to learn about the way the world works against us.” Antero handed Oswald a thirty-dollar McDonald’s gift card and said, “Two words: McDonald’s prostitute.”

Flipping the card over and over again in disbelief, Oswald stared at the meal ticket like he was holding a severed head. “Mc…Donald’s prostitute?”

“That’s right, little man,” said Antero before patting him on the back. “Everybody’s got a price tag on them. For the women down at Mickey D’s, all they ever wanted was a little bit of loving and a Quarter Pounder with Cheese. That’s how shitty our economy has gotten. When you’re too broke for a basic McDonald’s meal and you have to turn to sex to get one, that’s how you know shit’s all fucked up. Of course, I don’t know how in god’s name a Quarter Pounder could taste good when there’s splooge sloshing around in their mouths.”

“This….this…this is sick, Antero. This is fucking sick!”

“I know it’s sick, Oswald. I know. But sometimes you can’t take the highroad forever. You want someone to love you, right? You want to experience that cherry pop for the first time? All you have to do so come bearing the gifts of French fries, nuggets, greasy meat, and…well….greasy meat!” Antero chuckled at his own joke.

Finally peeling his terrified eyes away from the gift card, Oswald said, “Dude…you’re not funny. Nothing about this is comical. This is wrong. Really wrong!”

“You’re a good man, Oswald. Ordinarily, being a good human being has its rewards. But not in this Stacy-dominated world. You’re desperate enough. I can see it in those bloodshot eyes of yours. You’ll either have the most romantic night of your life in a McDonald’s parking lot…or you’ll get a lifelong lesson that no sexy-legged teacher could offer you. Either way, I just gave you the keys to the city. It’s up to you now what it is you want to do with them.”

Antero patted Oswald’s back and walked out of sight. The little guy turned his flabbergasted attention back to the gift card. It was so wrong, yet so right at the same time. There was something seductive about the way Antero talked. There was a reason he led so many people down their destined paths. He made so much sense in that one oratory.

Having those dark thoughts jolted Oswald awake, causing him to accidentally drop the gift card on the table. “What the fuck was I thinking?” he asked himself while holding his head in his hands. “I can’t do this. This isn’t right. No, no, no!” The three no’s were punctuated with the dwarf lightly banging his head against the table.

Once the forehead pain became too much to bear, he took a look around the commons for any signs that Antero might be right. Sure enough, this place was swarming with examples. Men and women holding hands while walking together. “Chads” and “Stacys” making out on the grassy lawn. Oswald even saw one guy holding his crying girlfriend’s head in his lap while he stroked her hair. What the lonely dwarf would give for the chance to be touched like that.

That Mickey D’s gift card started him straight in the face with lust and seduction. It was such an easy solution. Antero could have been his savior in that one moment. His own personal Jesus Christ, to use yet another Matrix quote. Oswald finally made the decision to scoop up the gift card and tuck it away in his wallet. If nothing else, he could at least enjoy a good meal, one that made him feel better than any roll of green ever could.

Oswald walked away from the commons huffing and puffing on his roll of weed. He kept feeling his scraggly beard and lengthy hair while contemplating if he should clean himself up for this meeting with a McDonald’s prostitute. Maybe throwing his pot-smelling coat in the wash machine would also be a good idea. Then again, did he really have to change himself for someone who was only in it for the nuggets and the burgers? There was thirty dollars on the card, which meant he could get extra goodies to make himself more enticing. The shave and haircut could wait another day…if that day ever came.

The dwarf put his headsets on and played “Bless the Wings” by The Moody Blues on his MP3 player. Was that song a little too romantic and sappy for what was about to happen that evening? Perhaps. Was Oswald expecting too much when he contemplated a potential relationship with this McDonald’s girl? He thought so. But as long as he was high on pot and already depressed from the day’s events, a little lovey-dovey psychological cinema was perhaps the right call.

Judging from the stares he got from “normies” walking by, any kind of vicarious romance would have been welcome. He certainly didn’t get it from the “Chad” he bumped into when he wasn’t paying attention. Oswald landed right on his ass while the guy said, “Hey, what the hell?!”

The dwarf picked himself up and apologized profusely to the young man and his girlfriend. He thought that would be the end of that, but then he noticed the couple walking away with their noses in their shirts, presumably from the pot smell. Oswald was tempted to go back there and punch the shit out of both of them. But it was more tempting to just take a shower and wash his clothing rather than get himself expelled for stupid shit. Maybe he did have to change himself after all. But for a McDonald’s hooker? So much debating took place in Oswald’s mind, all of which was settled with a few more puffs of Mary-Jane.

Don't Call Me That

Don’t call me a racist, don’t call me a sexist

Don’t laugh at my failures, don’t pray for my exit

Don’t call me a monster, don’t call me a perv

Don’t call me the ugliest motherfucker on earth

Don’t call me a weirdo, don’t call me a psycho

Don’t text your threats at me with a million typos

Don’t call me a piggy-pie, don’t call me fat

Don’t look at me like you’re disgusted at that

Don’t call me a sinner, don’t call me the devil

Don’t even suggest I’m on the lowest level

Don’t call me a rookie, don’t call me lazy

You’re nearsighted and your vision’s hazy

Don’t call me something you can never take back

What are you smoking? Weed, tobacco, or crack?

Who told you those lies? The leader of a cult?

Whatever it is, it’s getting really fucking old

Speak only for yourself and for nobody else

When you buy your own lies, the bullshit sells

I’m not going to heaven, I’m not going to hell

I’d rather stay at the dingiest no-tell motel

Rather die on the toilet of a McDonald’s bathroom

Than on the battlefield serving your holy platoon

Don’t call me your prisoner of your losing war

Don’t call me a ghost you should always ignore

"Wrestling, Issue Two" by What Culture

BOOK TITLE: Wrestling, Issue Two

AUTHORS: What Culture Staff

YEAR: 2016

GENRE: Nonfiction

SUBGENRE: Wrestling Bookzine

GRADE: Mixed

In all the time I’ve spent reviewing books online, I’ve never been more conflicted than after reading this one when deciding what grade to give it. I went into this wanting to give it four stars, maybe even five depending on how deeply the articles affected me. But then came the typographical errors, one after another until they stood out like a sore thumb.

Normally, I’m forgiving of these little mistakes as long as they don’t happen too often in the book. But at some point, I have to start holding the authors accountable and I think now is the time to do it. This bookzine clearly could have benefited from several pairs of fresh eyes when it came to editing. For Christ’s sake, James Dixon’s name was spelled Dioxn. CM Punk’s name was spelled with a lowercase P. And don’t ask me what Mssr is supposed to be, because I don’t know the answer myself. Bottom line: these guys need a more reputable editor.

But I’d be lying if I said those errors completely sucked the enjoyment I got out of reading this bookzine. The content itself is actually fun to read. Some of my favorite articles included Jack the Jobber’s analysis of Lucha Underground, King Ross’s Twitter responses, Axl Rotten’s biography, and Adam Blampied’s fantasy booking of Damien Sandow’s failed Money in the Bank cash-in.

The article about Lucha Underground reminded me a lot of a novella I wrote called Occupy Wrestling with its dark fantasy references and brutal matches. I’d watch the hell out of that show if I knew what channel it was on. Damn it, I want some cartoons and magic in my wrestling!

King Ross was his usual funny self when answering Twitter questions. My favorite response had to be his takedown of the Fastlane pay-per-view concept. “It’s the Fastlane to Wrestlemania! Most of your fans aren’t old enough to drive!” I got a good chuckle out of that one. I also liked his sarcastic butchery of the Divas Championship. Does anybody really mess a title belt with pink butterflies and stereotypical designs on it? Not really.

Axl Rotten’s story was easily the most heartbreaking of the entire bookzine. Here was a man who struggled with child abuse and drug addiction his whole life, but was really the most down-to-earth, sweetest guy anybody ever knew. His Axl Rotten persona was just a persona, nothing more, nothing less. He eventually died in 2016 from a drug overdose in a McDonald’s bathroom and it was before he had the chance to finish his own memoir.

And finally, sex scandal aside, I will always praise Adam Blampied’s storytelling abilities, especially as they relate to his fantasy booking of WWE angles. He actually is a bona fide creative writer, so he knows how to build tension and generate useful plot devices. In the case of Damien Sandow, he would be booked to be an arrogant authority figure who made the heroes miserable rather than be booked how he actually was in the real world: a jobber to everybody and their uncles.

This What Culture production is a must-read for any and all wrestling fans, typos be damned. Don’t let the three-star rating I’m giving it turn you away from the creativity and magic dripping from the pages. The guys at What Culture are hardworking, talented people and they deserve their slice of the literary pie. Enjoy!

The Thunder Eagles

***THE THUNDER EAGLES***

How about we take a break from the high school drama known as Silent Warrior so that I can tell you a little story about my childhood. I promise you we’ll get back to our regularly scheduled program after these messages. Although, chapter thirteen will contain graphic sexual content, so if you want to look for it when it’s up, go to Wattpad. Until the day I write that chapter, you’re getting a story from my past.

In spite of the fact that I was raised on WWF, WCW, and ECW, I didn’t have much love for sports or exercise of any kind growing up. I’m paying for it now that I’m north of three hundred pounds, but even back when I was a skinny little string bean, athletic competition was hard for me. I’d gas out after the first few minutes. Imagine this kind of negative attitude applied to elementary school-level soccer.

In the early to mid-90’s, I lived in Elk Grove, California and achieved success in my third, fourth, and fifth grade academics. Athletic achievements? Not so much. My parents signed me and my brother James up for soccer, albeit different teams. James’s team, the Laguna Lasers, was successful and happy to be so. My team, The Thunder Eagles (not to be confused with the Thunderbirds), were an intergalactic disaster. We only won two games out of god knows how many and one of those two games was against a team of children who were much younger and smaller than us. For all of you wrestling nerds out there, it’s basically Bone Soldier beating the shit out of James Ellsworth.

As a child, I’ve always been a sore loser no matter what the game was. When I brother beat me at Connect Four, I threw a hissyfit like no other. When I played Hero Quest and my barbarian was killed, I threw game pieces across the living room in frustration. When the Thunder Eagles lost over and over again, I wanted to beat something up. It didn’t help matters that I was always getting knocked down (accidentally) or hit with the ball (accidentally) by the other players. Whenever one of them would hit me, I’d chase after them and throw hammer fists until I was benched for the rest of the game. And then when both of our teams formed lines to high five each other, I withdrew my hand. Hell, as angry as I was, I might as well have flipped them off instead. Vinny Jones would be so proud of me.

It also didn’t help matters that my own teammates were conspiring against me most of the time. I remember during practice how they would play keep away with a soccer ball I brought myself. I never could get the ball back from them, but every time someone kicked it away, I’d either shove them to the ground or kick them in the legs. I also remember a time when a fellow teammate named Jorge kept bouncing the ball off my legs, so I ran up to him, kicked him in the asshole, and made him cry. I’d later recall these stories as an adult to James, who kept asking me why I took everything so personally back then. I’d jokingly respond with, “They tried to kill me!”

If I had been an adult and committed these violent and vengeful acts against other players, I’d probably be in jail right now. But as a kid, you can get away with pretty much anything and the worst you’ll get is detention or a suspension (which is really just a nice vacation away from the stresses of school). In the case of soccer, my mom bribed me with a trip to McDonald’s after each game on the condition that I didn’t clobber anybody who accidentally bumped me down. One particular game, I got smacked in the thigh with the ball and it stung like hell. But instead of beating the shit out of another kid, I cried my eyes out. Needless to say, I earned my Double Quarter Pounder with Cheese that day.

The lesson I learned from all of this soccer immersion was that if at first you don’t succeed, cry and cry again. As I said before, the Thunder Eagles lost every game except for two. Plus, I was getting sick and tired of being smashed around and gassing out after only a few seconds of activity. While my brother James continues to enjoy an athletic lifestyle, I’ve resigned myself to a life of videogames and have remained injury free since then. That reminds me of another lesson I learned from soccer: if you get hit in what’s supposed to be a no-contact sport, the admins might as well make it as violent as possible. I would have loved to bring steel chairs and kendo sticks onto the soccer field with me, maybe even a barbed wire bat. Extreme Championship Soccer! ECS! ECS! ECS! ECS!

I’d like to think that this is why I continue to watch wrestling and MMA as an adult: because violent sports don’t try to hide behind the façade of being safe and conscientious about self-esteem. I guess football could be considered violent because of all the concussions the players get, but I have yet to see any of them whip out some martial arts moves on the gridiron, so football doesn’t count in the end. And now that we’re on the topic of violent sports, when, oh when are the Wrestling Observer Newsletter awards going to come out already?! That Most Disgusting Promotional Tactic award is ripe for the picking this year! Come on, Meltzer! I’m Garrison Kelly and I’ll see you next time!

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“I’ll hypnotize you like a vampire. Bite your neck and set your head on fire. Shoot me with silver bullets, okay. I’ll pull ‘em out, pawn ‘em, and get paid!”

-Violent J from Insane Clown Posse rapping “Bring It On”-

McDonald's Prostitute

VERSE 1

Which tastes worse: the blowjob or the burger?

Which is more sadistic: slavery or murder?

Which is more dangerous: the fries or the lies?

Which is more confusing: the whats or the whys?

Stretched so thin like lying on a torture table

Scraping up whatever small change you’re able

Put on the pounds and make orgasmic sounds

Nobody will help you in this selfish town

CHORUS

McDonald’s prostitute, what’re you fighting for?

An economy that doesn’t subsidize war?

A market that doesn’t overpower the rich?

They’ll be the first to tell you that life is a bitch!

VERSE 2

What ice cream do you want: vanilla or chocolate?

Where’s your money: in your purse or your pocket?

Where do you call home: the bridge or the streets?

What’s the ending to this story: victory or defeat?

I would never judge you for your desperation

I would never insult you or give you lacerations

It’s not your fault and you’re not in the wrong

Have my twenty dollar bill and the lyrics to this song

CHORUS

McDonald’s prostitute, what’re you fighting for?

An economy that doesn’t subsidize war?

A market that doesn’t overpower the rich?

They’ll be the first to tell you that life is a bitch!

VERSE 3

A triple bacon burger with onions and pickles

A man in black robes with a sick-looking sickle

The loneliness will kill you before the food does

A disgusting fucking joke is what this all was

Everybody wanted it to go wrong from the start

They vote with their balls and not with their hearts

Now they can’t even fill up their shopping carts

Except with their last possessions and metal parts

CHORUS X2

McDonald’s prostitute, what’re you fighting for?

An economy that doesn’t subsidize war?

A market that doesn’t overpower the rich?

They’ll be the first to tell you that life is a bitch!

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Distractions From Eating

***DISTRACTIONS FROM EATING***

I have my creative work to thank for a lot of things in my life whether it’s easing schizophrenic symptoms, getting my voice out there, or just having some good old fashioned imaginative fun. Now I have another thing I can thank my art for: distracting me from overeating. As many of you know, I’ve struggled with my weight for a good portion of my adult life. I’ve tried the Atkins Diet and was successful with it, but only temporarily. My main problem was that I was always bored and overeating was my favorite source of fun. It didn’t matter if it was McDonald’s, candy bars, soda, or pizza; if I was bored and junk food was available to me, I would wolf it down and feel like shit afterwards.

Say whatever you will about my skill level with drawing pictures or my frequency of cat pictures, but alongside my writing, reading, and editing, they’ve been welcome distractions from overeating. And whenever I posted a piece of art to my social media accounts, I would scroll through my pictures and admire my handiwork, not because I’m an arrogant jerk, but because I don’t have to think about eating. Even when I’m watching What Culture’s WWE videos or Last Week Tonight with John Oliver episodes on You Tube, I’m doing something other than stuffing my face. Living in a boring place like Port Orchard, it’s easy to give into your food-related vices since there are restaurants, grocery stores, and convenience stores pretty much everywhere you go.

Ever since I’ve been occupying my mind in even the smallest ways, I’ve been eating less frequently and looking better in the mirror as a result. If I ever did get bored enough to eat, I’d usually drink a bottle of distilled water instead and piss away the pounds. I drank a lot of water and ate minimally while I was in Hawaii and have already noticed changes in my body. When I first flew from Seattle to Kauai, I would need a seatbelt extender. When I returned home to Sea-Tac, the airplane seatbelts fit perfectly fine. I’ve also noticed that I’m getting full off of less food and I’m not huffing and puffing when I return home from my walks.

Obviously, I’m still a heavy guy and there are times where I occasionally grab a bag of Mickey D’s or a Pizza Hut pizza. I am by no means a weight loss guru or a super athlete. However, I’m not the only one who says that overeating can be triggered by moments of extreme boredom. Scientific studies, gym teachers, food documentaries, I’ve heard them all echo these sentiments. While I understand that what works for one person won’t necessarily work for the other, I can say with confidence that little distractions are helping me lose weight. It may be a slow process and I may have miles to go, but the thing about losing weight is that you feel the effects right away. Your mood improves, you have more energy, and you look at yourself in the mirror with less judgment.

But of course, there are days when I don’t feel like working on creative endeavors. Today was one of those days. My guess is that I’m still in recovery mode from these past few days of housework and remodeling and that’s why my brain doesn’t want to cooperate with me. Hell, I had to go to the chiropractor yesterday after lifting a whole bunch of heavy furniture. I had a shelf break because it carried a shit ton of CD’s. Dale wasn’t happy about that since he’s in no way a musical person. He doesn’t understand the beauty of David Draiman’s golden voice or Dimebag Darrell Abbot’s shredding guitars. All that aside, I was definitely in need of some recuperation. I’m a fragile introvert after all.

Even with all of this mental exhaustion working against me, I managed to only eat two meals and I got full after both of them. They weren’t even big meals, at least not compared to what I ate before. My afternoon snack consisted of three plums. My first official meal was at 5:00 at night and it was a baked potato with no toppings, a portion of spam, and a banana. At 8:45, I ordered a sandwich and breadsticks from Domino’s Pizza, both of which aren’t even close to being as fattening as a full pizza. I have no plans to end the night with more food.

I may have to spend some more time in recovery mode tomorrow and the next few days because that’s when my family and I are going to paint my bedroom walls light blue. We might do one or two walls one day and do the rest of it over the course of Monday and Tuesday. I won’t have to do a whole lot to disconnected my electronics since they’re all hooked up to a power strip. We’re not going to move out my furniture for the painting process; we’re just going to scoot it over a few feet. God, I love my wooden floors! I would have never been able to scoot things over on a dust-collecting carpet.

I hope all of my readers are doing okay considering what a wild and crazy October it has been. Halloween is coming up soon and for any metal heads who live near the Tacoma Dome, Five Finger Death Punch and Shinedown are going to perform there on November 5^th with Sixx AM and As Lions opening for them. November is also National Novel Writing Month. Last year I completed the first drafts of my Poison Tongue Tales stories. This year I’m going to storm through all 17 remaining chapters of Demon Axe. I’m also going to use some of those days to compete in the WSS contests like I normally do.

We’ve got ears, say cheers!

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

One of the best things about being in recovery mode is that I still have enough mental energy to pump out a drawing or two. Although to be honest, I’ve gotten a little bit rusty with my latest effort, a picture of Detective Shawn Henry from Demon Axe. I’ll do better next time when the time comes to draw Edge Spider, the drug dealing gangster from the Poison Tongue Tales 2 cyberpunk story The Audiomancer. One of the pieces of advice I constantly receive from Angie at the WSS is to write about villains who are sane-minded since they’re scarier than the wild and crazy ones. I hope I achieved that with Edge Spider.

***VIDEOGAME DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

MIKE HAGGAR: Hello? Mayor Haggar here.

DAMNED: Hehehe! Mr. Haggar, I’m so pleased to make your acquaintance. I believe you know who I am. Don’t hang up! We have an important business proposition for you: your daughter for your cooperation. Plus, we’ll throw in a monthly bonus to your salary.

MIKE HAGGAR: What?! What’s happened to Jessica?! Who is this?!

DAMNED: Not so fast, Mike. Turn on your TV.

MIKE HAGGAR: You son of a…what have you done with her?!

DAMNED: Nothing yet, but we’d enjoy the opportunity. Listen to reason, man. Why make your job difficult? Just let us do as we please like the mayor before you did! Agh-hahahahaha!!

-Final Fight-

"A Pedigree To Die For" by Laurien Berenson

BOOK TITLE: A Pedigree To Die For: A Melanie Travis Mystery

AUTHOR: Laurien Berenson

YEAR: 1995

GENRE: Fiction

SUBGENRE: Cozy Mystery

GRADE: Pass

Melanie Travis is a single mother who tries to balance getting her life back in order with solving the murder of her uncle Max Turnbull. The Turnbulls made their living by breeding poodles and showing them off at dog competitions. Their most prized stud, Beau, is missing from his kennel after Max’s aggravated heart attack. With her firebrand Aunt Peg coaching her along the way, Melanie shows up at the dog contests looking for evidence as to who might be in possession of the kidnapped Beau. She starts off with a bunch of hopeless dead ends, but as the mystery progresses, blackmail, corruption, and murder become much stronger themes in analyzing the clues.

When I first started reading this, I had my doubts as to whether this would be a realistic mystery due to all of the dead ends Melanie hits along the way. And then I realized that trial and error have always been a part of the mystery genre. Narrowing the suspects down to one is hard and tiring work, especially with as many enthusiastic dog show competitors as there are. Sometimes the pieces don’t click together right away. Sometimes Aunt Peg seems more like a pain in the butt than a true detective. However, if you continue reading, the plot will thicken near the middle of the book. The further you delve into this mystery, the more you want to know until the search hits its climax. That is the true nature of mystery stories and my doubts have been blasted out of the water by Laurien Berenson’s masterful storytelling techniques.

Another thing I love about this book is how realistic Melanie’s parenting skills are and how they make her into a sympathetic and likeable character right away. She’s recently divorced from her husband Bob and is left to take care of four-year-old Davey. The little guy is a bundle of energy that can keep on going like the dynamo he is. Even though Melanie is driven nuts by his ballistic behavior, she handles it like a champ and shows infinite patience for her special little guy. She knows when to tell him no and knows when to let him play and discover. She also takes him to McDonald’s every once and a while for yummy food. The fact that she can balance raising Davey by herself while solving her uncle’s murder will make any reader believe in girl power all over again.

Where would I be without mentioning the cuteness of the puppy-duppies being displayed in the pages of this wonderfully-written novel? They’re just as energetic as little Davey and show undying loyalty and love to whoever is around them. They sit on laps, they stick their wet noses into people, they smile like they’re actually capable of saying cheese, and they play around like innocent little cherubs. I wouldn’t mind scooping up some of these puppy-dups and bringing them home with me. One thing I would like to clarify is that you’ll hear the words “stud” and “bitch” quite liberally in this book. They’re not meant to refer to sexually active men and nasty women respectively, but rather to the gender of the dogs and whether or not they’ll be used for breeding. Try not to laugh when you hear about a “stud servicing many bitches.” It doesn’t mean what you think it means. You can laugh a little bit, but do try to contain yourself. It’s a cozy mystery, after all, not an erotic romance.

The pacing of this book is smooth and steady. As a reader, you can get inside Melanie Travis’ head, process the clues she picks up, and sense the body language of others while maintaining a reasonable speed. No purple prose here, which is probably the wisest option if you’re going to write a mystery novel. It also helps that the clues are easy to put together and that the explanations don’t take too many lines of text. Many avid readers could probably blow through this book in twenty-four hours. Even with its slick reading pace, it doesn’t feel over too soon and it’s a complete story with no stone left unturned. That’s the best kind of mystery you could ask for from an author like Laurien Berenson.

Maybe this isn’t the most life-changing book you’ll ever read, but it’s definitely a fun-filled, well-thought-out story that will keep you entertained from cover to cover. If you like dogs, strong female characters, or murder mysteries, I’m sure this book will have something to your liking. I happen to like all three of those qualities, so I enjoyed the book very much. A passing grade goes to an author I’ll definitely want to read another book from. Congratulations on a successful debut of Melanie Travis!