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.

Wooden Puppet Man

INTRO DIALOGUE
You know…I figured something out today…The reason why thin is in…is because the lighter you are…the easier it is to carry you on puppet strings…It all makes sense now…

VERSE 1
You dance on the stage
And live in a cage
Like a wooden puppet man!
Nose grows when you lie
Kiss innocence goodbye
Like a wooden puppet man!
Hand goes up your ass
You’re obedient in class
Like a wooden puppet man!
Ventriloquism
Sadomasochism
Like a wooden puppet man!

CHORUS
Slice through your strings
It’s your own song to sing
Listen closely to your heart
I think it needs a restart

VERSE 2
You’re not made of flesh
But your wounds are fresh
Like a wooden puppet man!
Can’t wipe your own ass
Without a hall pass
Like a wooden puppet man!
Can’t spend your own money
Can’t sex up your honey
You’re just a wooden puppet man!
Where’s all the appeal?
Short end of the deal
You’re just a wooden puppet man!

CHORUS
Slice through your strings
It’s your own song to sing
Listen closely to your heart
I think it needs a restart

BRIDGE
When you wish upon the rings of Saturn
You’d better make it fucking matter
When you wish upon the sands of Mars
Don’t let them dictate who you are
When you wish upon the flames of Venus
You’re the one who makes the edict
When you wish upon the shithole of Earth
Get out of your coffin and rise from the dirt

FINAL VERSE
From the moment of birth
You know your own worth
You’re not a wooden puppet man
There’s a steep price to pay
If you give it all away
Don’t be a wooden puppet man

You Couldn't Pay Me Enough

VERSE 1

Take the blue pill and everything is chill

Take the red pill and you lose free will

Take the black pill and get your incel thrills

Take the green pill, say goodbye to your bills

CHORUS

You couldn’t pay me enough

To act limousine tough

To have it trust fund rough

You couldn’t pay me enough

VERSE 2

Why would I leave behind this life I’ve built?

Repeating your rhetoric would fill me with guilt

I won’t fire your guns, I won’t take your funds

I won’t drink the Kool-Aid, I’m not fucking afraid

I’d rather be poor than be a puppet on a string

I’d rather have a soul than some material things

I’d rather keep my word to flip the fucking bird

To anybody who wishes to watch me fucking burn

EXTENDED CHORUS 1

You couldn’t pay me enough

To act limousine tough

To have it trust fund rough

You couldn’t pay me enough

Everyone’s got a price

For acting cold as ice

Just for conservative love

You couldn’t pay me enough

VERSE 3

If everyone has a price, yours was pretty low

Lower than a hooker getting ready to blow

Lower than a dead body after death row

Lower than a meal for a hungry ass crow

You let the golden water put out your fire

You were so desperate to be the newest hire

Guns, religion, and xenophobic division

Babies born without the mother’s permission

EXTENDED CHORUS 2

You couldn’t pay me enough

To act limousine tough

To have it trust fund rough

You couldn’t pay me enough

Playing the role of bitch

Made you so goddamn rich

Whatever lullaby you love

You couldn’t pay me enough

Not My God

VERSE 1

What kind of god would tell me to kill?

And send their families the funeral bill?

What kind of god would tell me to hate?

Believe every sinner gets a hellish fate?

What kind of god would promise me heaven?

Use fear as a conqueror, the ultimate weapon?

Never will I kneel down and pray to the skies

You’d never save me, not even if you tried

CHORUS

You’re not my god! You’re not my kind!

You’re not the answer that I have to find!

You’re not my king! You’re not my master!

You’re not my priest! You’re not my pastor!

You’re! Not! My! God!

VERSE 2

A prophet’s word is a false prediction

A prophet’s book is science fiction

A prophet’s orders fall on deaf ears

A prophet’s stuck in medieval years

CHORUS

You’re not my god! You’re not my kind!

You’re not the answer that I have to find!

You’re not my king! You’re not my master!

You’re not my priest! You’re not my pastor!

You’re! Not! My! God!

VERSE 3

A theomancer is a free man’s cancer

A theocrat lives off stolen cash

A theocosm has nothing in common

With our three worlds and our problems

The bottom level is home to the devil

I call bullshit so you should just quit

I don’t need your thoughts or prayers

In the fucking end, you just don’t care

EXTENDED CHORUS

You’re not my god! You’re not my kind!

You’re not the answer that I have to find!

You’re not my king! You’re not my master!

You’re not my priest! You’re not my pastor!

You’re not my savior! You’re not my flavor!

You won’t punish my sinful behavior!

I’m not your slave! I’m not your zealot!

My soul is not yours, you cannot sell it!

You’re! Not! My! God!

Nike Nut Sack

CHORUS
You signed a contract, now you wear the clothes
You take a thousand selfies so everybody knows
Get hundred dollar bills shoved up your butt crack
Wearing Adidas jockstraps on your Nike nut sack

VERSE 1
Every man has his price and yours was pretty low
But you’re watching that cash exponentially grow
The puppet strings are wrapped around your throat
And it’s all in the name of an all-American C-note
You repeat what they say like they’re your opinions
When really you’re just another one of their minions
They own everything of yours, including your life
To sweeten this deal, they’re going to need your wife

CHORUS
You signed a contract, now you wear the clothes
You take a thousand selfies so everybody knows
Get hundred dollar bills shoved up your butt crack
Wearing Adidas jockstraps on your Nike nut sack

VERSE 2
Did you ever think to ask the million dollar question?
How many of these sins are funding federal elections?
How many of these kids worked themselves to death?
How many corporate executives will benefit in the end?
To ask these questions, you need a mind of your own
But you were too busy taking selfies with your phone
The hash tags are flying across the worldwide web
While the world’s pain is flying right over your head

CHORUS
You signed a contract, now you wear the clothes
You take a thousand selfies so everybody knows
Get hundred dollar bills shoved up your butt crack
Wearing Adidas jockstraps on your Nike nut sack

HOOK
Your friends got pissed off and they walked away
Your family wondered why you’d ever go astray
Your heart is broken, but don’t mind the noise
Because your palms are greased by the big boys

EXTENDED CHORUS
You signed a contract, now you wear the clothes
You take a thousand selfies so everybody knows
Get hundred dollar bills shoved up your butt crack
Wearing Adidas jockstraps on your Nike nut sack
Play basketball even though you’re not an athlete
Ride in limousines with party chicks named Ashley
Drink all the champagne and snort all the cocaine
When you’re all fucked up, you’re the one to blame

Baby and Floyd

Baby and Floyd didn’t always have dark roots. In the early to mid 2000’s when I still visited my father in Vaughn on a weekly basis, those were the names of two of the most hyper, yet sweetest puppies to ever play with my dad and step-mother Charlie’s dog Daisy. Granted, I was the only one over in Vaughn who thought Baby and Floyd were darling, Baby being a golden retriever and Floyd being a rottie. Those two neighborhood dogs would drive Charlie nuts, especially after they tore up the yard and pissed on her pants. To this day, whenever I say “Who loves Floyd and Baby?”, Charlie says, “Nobody!” That was all some time ago. I don’t even know of those two dogs are alive today. If they are, they’re getting old.

Maybe the literary incarnation of Baby and Floyd are both representative of the sadness that comes with pets growing old and eventually dying. As far as my characters go, Baby and Floyd are not cute puppy-duppies. They are dark. They are deadly. They are cannibalistic. Piss them off and they’ll have you for supper. Think of them as the baldheaded puppets in Final Fantasy IV on steroids. The puppets in that game are creepy enough as it is, but they were so easy to kill. If you start hearing the Calcobrena theme playing while Baby and Floyd are in the same room as you, you’d better have toilet paper handy.

Baby has a pit bull mentality as WWE commentator Michael Cole likes to say about Daniel Bryan. Well, any true animal lover would know pit bulls are only mean if assholes abuse them. But let’s say for a moment that Michael Cole isn’t blowing a whole bunch of smoke. What would that mean for Baby, the little baldheaded cannibal puppet? It means if you leave your leg out, he will attach himself to it and chew until either his belly is full or your blood is drained. Guess which one will happen first.

Floyd is an entirely different animal. Yes, he’s just as cruel and evil as his much smaller counterpart, but he doesn’t normally use his teeth to get the job done. He has a sword for that kind of deal. If you need a reference point to follow, picture the big fucking sword Cloud Strife has in Final Fantasy VII and give it the ability to throw fire bombs upon unsuspecting enemies. Did I also mention Floyd is damned near seven feet tall? Does a guy the size of Frankenstein really need a sword that can cause so much destruction? Of course he does, because there are times when Baby prefers to have his meal of human flesh properly cooked.

This would normally be the part in the blog entry where I try to find employment for the character or characters in question. However, upon further inspection of my notes on Fireball Nightmare Act 3: Peace of Mind, there are two spots conveniently open for villainous characters. Well, now. Who should get those two spots? Which pair is evil enough to align themselves with a vampire wizard named Rhys Black, a child molester named Donald Park, and a brutal luchador named El Comegente? I know! How about John Bush and George Kerry? I’m just teasing you, of course those two spots are going to Floyd and Baby. Have fun, you two, but don’t have too much fun!

　

***PARODY WRESTLING QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“The following contest is a First Blood match for the WWE Divas Championship!”

-Justin Roberts-

"Pipsqueak" by Brian M. Wiprud

Murder, kidnappings, ass-beatings, and cultism…over a stuffed squirrel that used to be part of Garth Carson’s favorite TV show back in the 60’s and 70’s. As crazy as that sounds, this actually is a believable mystery as you get further and further into the book. Yes, it’s extremely silly at times and Garth Carson can be a quirky narrator, but it’s still a believable mystery despite the fact that it’s all over a stuffed puppet. Yes, the stuffed puppet is worth hundreds and thousands of dollars. But the deeper you dig into this novel, the more complicated the circumstances become. Believe it or not, this was the novel that was going to make or break Brian M. Wiprud’s career as a writer. He was taking a huge chance with all the silly descriptions he put in the book, but in the end, it paid off and Pipsqueak is a highly popular mystery novel. You want to hear one of my favorite descriptions in the book? Near the end, there’s a group of leggy dancers in feather boas akin to the Las Vegas showgirls we’re accustomed to seeing. Garth Carson, the story’s narrator, could have said anything he wanted about the way they danced around. What he chose to compare their routine to was Nazi goose-stepping. That’s right, boys and girls. He compared a bunch of gorgeous feathery dancers to Nazis. Of course, it was only a comparison to the way both parties moved, but still, it’s giggly to think about. You may have to wait a long time to read that description since it’s near the novel’s conclusion, but not to worry: this book is peppered with goofy descriptions that will either get a smile out of you or a deep chuckle. I don’t want to play the role of spoiler for you guys, so I’m just going to tell you all to buy a copy of Pipsqueak and make it a part of your growing library. You do have a growing library, right? There has to be more on those shelves of yours than just DVD’s and Blu-Ray’s. Who knows? Maybe you have some Playboy magazines on your library shelves, but I’m sure people will believe you when you say you read them just for the thrilling articles. Whatever you do though, when you march to your local bookstore in search of Pipsqueak, make sure you’re not doing a Nazi goose-step or else Garth Carson may call you out. Or he may call you a Cola Woman. Or Cola Man. Either way, prepare for the craziest book you’re going to read in a while. If you need an autographed copy, don’t even bother, because it’s hard to use a pen when you’re in a straightjacket. Hint, hint, wink, wink!

　

***COMEDIC QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“If you can’t beat them, arrange to have them beaten.”

-George Carlin-