Burn It All Down

VERSE 1

Mist of black, skies of red

Fires dance inside my head

Make the nightmare come true

Unleash my hatred upon you

CHORUS

Burn it all down!

Burn it all down!

Burn it all down!

Burn it, burn it, burn it, burn it down!

VERSE 2

Tires stacked around your body

Gagged like a bondage hottie

Strike the match, light the flame

Hell and earth, one in the same

CHORUS

Burn it all down!

Burn it all down!

Burn it all down!

Burn it, burn it, burn it, burn it down!

VERSE 3

Revenge complete, human meat

Barbecued ribs, pickled feet

Enough to eat, Kentucky fried treat

A heavy price for your defeat

CHORUS

Burn it all down!

Burn it all down!

Burn it all down!

Burn it, burn it, burn it, burn it down!

FINAL VERSE

You did it to yourself and nobody else

You fucked me over, no longer sober

You got your justice, fiery comeuppance

There is no epilogue, stack the bonfire logs

There is no forgiveness, you just witnessed

Your own demise, such a fitting prize

I own your soul, I have total control

I bury your bones under the gravestone

"No Cure for Cancer" by Denis Leary

BOOK TITLE: No Cure for Cancer

AUTHOR: Denis Leary

YEAR: 1992

GENRE: Nonfiction

SUBGENRE: Comedy Routine

GRADE: Pass

With a raging wit as fiery as his lit cigarettes, Denis Leary unleashes his comic venom on a variety of topics whether it’s political correctness, war, drugs, alcohol, meat, or his own life experiences. Nobody is safe from his silver tongue and no topic is off limits. If comedy could kill, he’d have a higher body count than Henry Lee Lucas. Hell, he might already be able to pull that off with the clouds of smoke he spews into the theater. Lung cancer doesn’t faze him and nor do sensitive opinions. He’s not leaving the theater until he gets a tumor-sized load off of his chest.

In many ways, Denis Leary reminds me a lot of late-eighties, early-nineties George Carlin. They both have angry, rapid fire deliveries. They can make humor out of even the most dismal topics. They have a non-binary political agenda. Let’s not forget the most important part of this comparison: Denis Leary and George Carlin are both funny as hell. Yes, I do realize that Mr. Leary’s politically incorrect sense of humor might not survive in this day and age, but that’s exactly why it’s important for readers to delve into this book with an open mind. As long as you’re laughing, that’s all that matters. And damn, did I laugh my head off!

It would be nearly impossible for me to list off all of the jokes I found hilarious in this book, because there are so many of them. I don’t even want to give away samples of jokes, because I don’t do spoilers. But think about this for a minute: when you have a viciously angry chain-smoker onstage with an alcoholic buzz ranting and raving about sensitive topics, you know it’s going to be something special. He’s not being politically incorrect just for the hell of it either; he actually has substance to go with his style. Everything he says means something whether you agree with it or not. But even if you don’t agree with some of his talking points, you’re going to laugh anyways even if he has to die trying (which he probably will, given how much he smokes and drinks).

If it isn’t obvious by the end of the story, then there is one thing you and Denis will definitely agree on: live every day like it’s the last. You want that big ass hamburger with five patties and god knows how much cheese? Eat it! You want that energy drink that will taste like sweet tarts but feel like heart attack hell? Drink it! Cross things off your bucket list despite the fact that you’re not even close to the end yet. Hell, you might even be closer than you think, especially if you live in a fun and exciting place like New York, Denis Leary’s home state. Don’t let life pass you by. Enjoy it! Relax! Take a chance!

I’ll admit that I haven’t seen a whole lot of Denis Leary outside of “Rescue Me”, “Demolition Man”, and “Why We Suck”, but this book is a damn good introduction into what he’s really all about. Now that I’ve read the book, I’d like to see this routine performed live. I could probably hunt it down on You Tube or some other movie streaming service. I hope I laugh just as loudly as I did when I read the damn book! A passing grade will go to Denis Leary and his fiery brand of humor!

I'm an American

CHORUS

I’m an AmeriCAN, not an AmeriDON’T X4

VERSE 1

I don’t need the police to tell me how to eat

If it’s a candy bar or a mountain of meat

Chewing on the treat with my mouth wide open

You can do nothing about it, just remain stoic

Will you make an arrest for the way I eat?

Surrender my ass to the nearest precinct?

Good luck finding a jury who gives a shit

Good luck finding a judge who cares just a bit

CHORUS

I’m an AmeriCAN, not an AmeriDON’T X4

VERSE 2

I don’t need the law to tell me how to dress

I have no responsibilities or people to impress

Sweatpants and Pink Floyd shirts are my style

Take selfies and post them online for a while

Will you put cuffs on me for the way I dress?

Did you actually pass the fucking bar test?

Good luck finding a jury who’ll find me guilty

Good luck finding a judge with a heart so chilly

CHORUS

I’m an AmeriCAN, not an AmeriDON’T X4

BRIDGE

This is America, not North Korea

This is free speech, not verbal diarrhea

This is free expression, not acting like a clown

This is America, not Putin’s hometown

VERSE 3

I’m not a member of the Washington Bar

But I know your case won’t go very far

Nothing illegal about chewing like a beast

Nothing immoral about sweatpants in the least

The case is closed, just like your mind

A not guilty verdict is what the jury finds

You wasted the taxpayers’ time and money

In the land of opportunity, milk, and honey

CHORUS

I’m an AmeriCAN, not an AmeriDON’T X4

Predator

VERSE 1
You took something of mine I may never get back
You took something of mine in a vicious attack
My soul, my sanity, my very spiritual essence
Taken away by the world’s harshest lessons
Never turn your back on a hungry predator
When it comes to the past, you can’t be the editor
Dormant and dumb, that’s how you left me
I might as well be a package of fresh meat


CHORUS
The tears, the pain, they were all for nothing
When all I wanted was the smallest something
How can I rise from the smoldering ashes
When you dictate my fate like a fascist?


VERSE 2
I let my guard down for the shortest of seconds
You were already waiting for me with your weapon
Sex and love became known as boots and blood
Of all the nights, this is my least romantic one
I want to vomit, but nothing is coming up
I want to cry, but my eyes are drying up
All that remain are flashbacks and numbness
How can anybody in their right mind love this?


CHORUS
The tears, the pain, they were all for nothing
When all I wanted was the smallest something
How can I rise from the smoldering ashes
When you dictate my fate like a fascist?


VERSE 3
Disgust and distrust are all the same to me
I’ve learned to hate you to the highest degree
So much venom running deep in my veins
Knowing none of this could ever be the same
I think about slaying my demons every night
With brutal barbarism and a warrior’s might
But in the end, I’m back on the same page
Another day to continue this cycle of rage


CHORUS
The tears, the pain, they were all for nothing
When all I wanted was the smallest something
How can I rise from the smoldering ashes
When you dictate my fate like a fascist?


VERSE 4
Demons and predators both equal shit
They like to say, “You’ve asked for it!”
No honor among thieves of the heart and soul
Bury all the wasted pieces in a fiery hole
You disgust me, so do all who support you
The gentleman in me says to just report you
Gentleman I am not, only a vengeful madman
Who will leave you bloodied in the badlands

Unleash the Animal

How exactly does an ancient weapon like a blunderbuss take down something magnificent like a rhino or a cheetah? For Joseph Stone, a few creative modifications such as a pump handle and an automatic firing chamber would have been the answer to that question. He tested the weapon out on a family of small rabbits to great success. He dined on their corpses afterwards and was hungry for bigger and better meals. The only place he could find such a gigantic meal was out in the Cracker Box Plains. Rhinos, antelope, buffalo, cheetahs, mmm-mmm-mmm!

Joseph Stone wasn’t the most athletic guy in the world with his belly protruding underneath his flak vest and over the top of his khaki shorts. Then again, he didn’t need to be since his hunting methods were so foolproof he never once had to run away from an animal. Even if he had the body of a Greek god, running away from one of these dangerous animals was damned near impossible.

And speaking of which, as soon as pudgy-buns Joseph spotted his next kill, he ducked down into the tall grass and cranked his modified blunderbuss. After making himself inconspicuous, he looked through the scope on his weapon and could only ask himself, “What the hell?”

It was an anthropomorphic rhino wearing spiked metal armor while carrying a nasty-looking battleaxe with a bone handle and a stone blade. To his animal peers, he was known as Stinger Crushwar, badass barbarian and all around disgusting creature. To Joseph Stone, Stinger was a potential dinner that made his chubby jowls water. He didn’t want to take the shot unless he was sure it would kill the son of a bitch right away.

Stinger stripped off his heavy metal armor and cannon-balled into a pool of silvery, pristine water. Well, the water wasn’t so pristine anymore after that. The dirt and grime on Stinger’s body mixed in with this usually delicious water and turned it into murky sewage. The rhino warrior also let out a monstrous fart that created a bigger splash than the cannonball. “This is the life!” he said to himself.

“You moron! Look what you did to my reflecting pool!” The nails-on-a-chalkboard voice that caught Stinger’s attention was that of an anthropomorphic antelope dressed in blue wizard robes named Rosie Moonbender. She stood there with her hands on her hips and an angry expression that was more wrinkly than a raisin. She went on to say, “I use this pool to mix potions and create spells! And now look what you’ve done! You turned it into your own personal shit hole!”

Stinger let out another rancid blast from his ass and the bubble splashed a little bit of water on Rosie’s robe. The antelope wizard held her clothing with disgust and shock, but not nearly as much as when she saw a gigantic brown turd floating near the top. Stinger smiled at his female rival and said nonchalantly, “You were saying?”

Rosie’s hooves dropped to her sides and clinched tightly as purple electric energy was swirling around her. Whatever spell she was going to cast had almost apocalyptic implications with the nearby tress being blown over and the grass turning the ashes. Stinger didn’t give a second shit how powerful this wizard was and armed himself with his battleaxe. He held the blade to her face while still wading in the sacred pool and said, “Don’t you try nothing funny, bitch! I hunt and skin your kind just for fun!”

A white beam of energy descended upon the rhino barbarian and the antelope wizard and blinded them temporarily until the source of the magic appeared right next to them in black knight’s armor and a red cloak. It was a buffalo paladin named Magnus Hoarfrost and his holier than thou stance led Stinger and Rosie to believe he would play the role of lawman in these wild plains.

“Clearly, a peaceful solution can be accomplished. The two of you are just too stressed out to see it right before your very eyes,” said Magnus in a deceptively calm deep voice. Stinger and Rosie looked at each other in confusion before letting the buffalo knight to continue this oratory. “The good lord has his eyes on everyone here in these holy plains. If you want to make a good impression, you can’t behave like sinful children. All you have to do is believe in the divine light that surrounds you all.”

The mighty religious rhetoric made Stinger yell, “Ha!” before the rhino warrior picked up his nasty turd and tossed it at Magnus, who looked down at the mess on his armor and shook his head before languidly wiping it off. Stinger, being a natural born animalistic migraine, laughed at the paladin with a hoarse and boisterous voice. Despite having her reflecting pool violated, Rosie Moonbender joined in the obnoxious laughter as well.

“Alright, you wild animals!” screamed Magnus Hoarfrost, who was now armed with two maces with spiked metal shells at the end of them. “If you want to act like disgusting sinners, then I shall treat you as such! The bowels of hell are hungry for new souls! You two will do just fine!”

The three-way battle was underway when Magnus threw a bolt of holy lightning down upon Rosie, who countered that spell with relentless glacial spikes. Magnus rained down holy fire upon the antelope wizard, but was met with a tidal wave of black magic. For the longest time, these two magic-slingers exchanged gigantic volleys of energy whether it was fire, ice, lightning, or shadow. They both had a counter for each other and even more surrounding trees were being knocked to the ground or shredded to pieces.

The one thing the two energy-slingers didn’t count on was them each getting a face full of murky water compliments of Stinger Crushwar, who was now out of the pool, fully dressed in his spiky metal armor, carrying his primitive battleaxe, and laughing at them like the sickening man-child he was. He even fell ass-first into the burned grass and didn’t feel a thing.

Rosie and Magnus nodded to each other and then powered up for what was surely to be cosmic chaos. Stinger got his bearings about him and got up into his defensive stance. He angrily charged across the burned grass and swung his axe with caveman passion as the magic users threw their fireballs and ice sickles at him. He smashed the energy shots away like he was playing the world’s most vicious and violent game of baseball.

One of the ice sickles bounced off of Stinger’s axe and impaled Rosie through her stomach. She gagged and coughed as blood was pouring out of her wound and her mouth at a rapid pace. The mystical diva dropped to her knees and plopped over onto her face as she took her final blood-covered breaths.

Magnus looked on at his “partner’s” death with Shakespearean shock when his mouth dropped open in dramatic fashion. He reached both maces to the sky and shouted, “Why?! Why, my dear lord?! Why would you take this fine young girl away from this earth?! She could have been saved! She could have listened to your divine word! She could have…”

The excessively dramatic speech was cut short when Stinger sneaked up behind Magnus and chopped his head off with one swing of his blade. The buffalo’s head rolled while the body shot blood out of its neck and fell to the ground with a loud thud. Stinger looked around at what he just did and raised his own fists to the skies to give out a barbaric war cry. “Hell yeah! That’s what I’m talking about! Now let’s see about getting back in that pool!”

After Stinger let out two casual laughs, his head exploded from his shoulders and his body dropped to the ground with blood leaking into the shit-infested reflecting pool. The whole time they were bickering, neither one of these three could pay any notice to the one person who could spell doom for these entire plains: Joseph Stone.

The hunter stood proudly over all three meaty animal corpses and nodded viciously before saying, “Yep! I’m going to be eating well tonight! Mmm-mmm-mmm!” He then started singing meaningless “doos” and “duns” to himself as he gathered pieces of the knocked over trees to build a bonfire. The blunderbuss he used to blow off Stinger’s head also had another creative feature attached to it: a flamethrower for barbecuing the meat that he loved so much.

Cooking the three corpses and eating them all took anywhere between three to four hours total. Joseph Stone’s appetite was that big. He sat on his ass with his flak vest open and his sauce-stained gut hanging down. He had dipping sauce, blood, and little shreds of meat hanging all around him for what was indeed a satisfying meal.

What wasn’t so satisfying was the fact that Joseph had a hard time sitting up. He could roll over and push himself off all he wanted to, but he was so glutinous that he was stuck on the ground. His heart rate began to accelerate and his skin was getting sweaty and cold. He crawled aimlessly with his sausage fingers over his boobed chest until he could crawl no more. That was when he accidentally plunged himself into the diarrhea pool and drowned while having a heart attack at the same time. To say that there were no winners in this battle for nothing was putting it mildly.

You Might Be Stereotyping Me

I did something on Deviant Art called The Mark Test, which was a Jeff Foxworthy-style routine to determine if the readers were pro-wrestling marks or not. And now here on Garrison’s Library, I’m going to do another Jeff Foxworthy-style routine for you. A lot of people don’t know if they’re stereotyping me or not. So I came up with a test to help them out. Things like…

If you think the main characters to all of my stories are Slovak-named barbarians who like to cut off people’s penises, you might be stereotyping me.

If you think the highlight of my day is stinking up the bathroom with the rotting meat in my intestines, you might be stereotyping me.

If you think I can afford the Taj Mahal on my social security budget, you might be stereotyping me.

If you think I should be embarrassed when I blow my nose or cough up snot in public, you might be stereotyping me.

If you think my family photo album has ball gags photoshopped in the subjects’ mouths, you might be stereotyping me.

If you think I get premature orgasms from watching Daniel Bryan’s wrestling matches, you might be stereotyping me.

If you think I’m dying of boredom and need to be rushed to the hospital, you might be stereotyping me.

If you think I pop my schizophrenic medication from a Pez dispenser, no, you’re not stereotyping me, but you might be the lead singer of Nickelback.

If you think I’m going to wear a diaper and handcuffs to my wedding, you might be stereotyping me.

If you’re a doctor who does my colonoscopy and write in your report that you had to pull two and a half feet of Chef Boyardee ravioli out of my intestines, you might be stereotyping me.

Thank you, everybody, goodnight!

　

***DOMESTIC QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“Italians don’t eat Chef Boyardee, you fucking retard!”

-Susan Wilson-

Work Ethic

On my Facebook page, I follow a group called “The Writer’s Circle”, which posts quotes from various authors about their work ethic when it comes to piecing together a novel. They love to use words like “creative spark” and “white heat” while driving home the point of never taking a vacation from writing. These are all very inspirational and true quotes, but here’s where I’ve got a problem. There used to be a time in my life where I would write every single day like an endless dynamo of creativity. There used to be times when the words “white heat” meant something. Those days are over, though I hope they return soon. The reason those days are over is because my schizophrenic brain began to grind so slowly and painfully on me to the point where I’m always mentally exhausted. I’m exhausted when I wake up in the morning and I’m still seeking answers on how to get out of that hazy state. The things I do to try and wake my brain up include going for long distance walks to the grocery store, drinking caffeinated diet sodas, eating meaty foods to get by blood sugar up, etc. Even then, there’s no guarantee that when I get on my computer to write something I won’t be stuck sitting there like a complete idiot while I stare at my screen. Some say it’s writer’s block, but I blame it on my overly exhausted schizophrenic brain. Instead of getting everything down on the computer screen in one epic fiery flow, I have to pace myself to the point where it’s several days before I write anything again. Mind you that this only applies to three-page chapters of Hardcore Hate 2 and not to blog entries and DeviantART journals. Knowing that I’m not a mental or creative superman, when I see these quotes about work ethic on my Facebook page, I always think that they’re secretly implying that I’m a lazy bum because I don’t pump something out every single day. Let me ask you this, Writer’s Circle: do lazy bums have multiple first draft novels to their name? How about double digit short stories? Didn’t think so. My work ethic is unquestionable. My desire is even less questionable. My mental endurance, on the other hand, is extremely doubtable. There’s a difference between desire and endurance. If you don’t have the endurance, desire means nothing. That’s why I’m always giggling through my nose whenever I hear about a pro-wrestler or MMA fighter who is “struggling through the pain”. Eventually, the pain will be too much to bear and there will be no choice but to either tap out or lie down. It has nothing to do with desire and everything to do with science. Get it? Good. I’m out of here.

　

***COMEDIC QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“Bobby’s parents don’t understand why he can’t hold a job, because in school he was always on the honor roll. What Bobby’s parents don’t realize is that in today’s schools, everybody’s on the honor roll, because in order to be on the honor roll, all you really have to do is maintain a body temperature roughly in the 90’s.”

-George Carlin-