Zena & Poppy: Where'd You Go? I Miss You So, Seems Like It's Been Forever Since You've Been Gone...

 

U Tube Troll Police

 

Sting (the musician, not the wrestler)

 

Monster at Your Door

VERSE 1

There’s a monster at your door, though she looks like an angel

Taking pictures of your house from more than one angle

She won’t be the only one who shows up this evening

They got shotguns for popping, baseball bats for beating

You reach for the gun locked inside your steel cabinet

You got a machete to turn their clothes into cabbage

You got a one-way ticket in case you need to dip

But for now, no movement, just zip your fucking lip

VERSE 2

You can cross the country and then cross the ocean

But the monster’s fanatics are known for their devotion

If she gives marching orders, they’ll march your ass down

If you’re in the biggest city or the tiniest of towns

It takes a marathon sprint to get the fuck away

Until your legs crumble like they’re paper mâché

Until your heart beats at a million per minute

Until your sanity is pushed beyond explosive limits

VERSE 3

Nobody in their right mind will think this is fair

If they do, they got no brain under their hair

Monsters have short fuses over absolutely nothing

The tiniest infraction is worth a lifetime of cussing

Throwing a fit and making big ass scenes

They got fuck-you money and the praise of the machine

But if the history of tyrants is anything to go by

Their empires will crumble as they crocodile cry

Calling You Out

CHORUS

I’m calling you out! I’m calling you out!

The gangster-gangster-gangsters are calling you out!

I do it ‘cause I care! I do it ‘cause I care!

But when you need me the most, I’m never ever there!

VERSE 1

When I’m walking down the street in the summer heat

I might get my ass beat for a yucky-yucky Tweet

Cancel culture isn’t real, but I still don’t like the feel

Of high pitched squeals beating me down like steel

Rapid fire insults are like punches to my gut

They wouldn’t know my pain if it bit them on the butt

I’ll do all my Tweeting from a padded prison cell

You’re the villains of the story, in case you can’t tell

CHORUS

I’m calling you out! I’m calling you out!

The gangster-gangster-gangsters are calling you out!

I do it ‘cause I care! I do it ‘cause I care!

But when you need me the most, I’m never ever there!

VERSE 2

You’re like the pizza-pizza guy from Little Caesar’s

Just say “gangster-gangster”, you My Pillow squeezer

That’s what you really are: a gangster in the dark

Creeping on me while I’m walking through the park

I could never run fast, I would always finish last

In a marathon sprint, put me in a leg cast

Can’t get away from the fortune and the fame

Every fall from grace sounds about the same

CHORUS

I’m calling you out! I’m calling you out!

The gangster-gangster-gangsters are calling you out!

I do it ‘cause I care! I do it ‘cause I care!

But when you need me the most, I’m never ever there!

VERSE 3

I’m eating with my friends, I’m eating with my family

You say my words are crazy while you suffer from insanity

You made your point about fifty years ago, my guy

You’d think by now that it dissolved into a lie

CHORUS

I’m calling you out! I’m calling you out!

The gangster-gangster-gangsters are calling you out!

I do it ‘cause I care! I do it ‘cause I care!

But when you need me the most, I’m never ever there!

Rest in Power, Gay Reynolds

 His driver’s license said Gabriel, he went by Gay

He’d do anything and anyone to get his fat payday

He had the 70’s moustache and a tray full of ash

Viagra and cocaine tucked inside his private stash

Eight hours of on-camera sex was what he had

A waterfall climax until his pecker looked so sad

For god knows how much money, the gig wasn’t bad

No longer will he miss a payment on his bachelor pad

Couldn’t find this kind of cheddar jockeying a cash box

Couldn’t find all these greenbacks curing smallpox

Would end up on the streets if he went to school to teach

Couldn’t cut it as a field hand picking every last peach

But the biggest price he paid when he got himself laid

Was some protests on his lawn and some online shade

More DM’s in his inbox than he could possibly delete

Asking for a free fuck, on their marriages they cheat

Every judgmental eye stares some daggers in his soul

They know about every hole, terrorism is their goal

A Molotov bomb thrown through his front window

Before they even get a chance to try to fucking know

What his struggles really are, explosives in his car

Blowing every little piece of him fifty feet apart

Why all of the hate for a guy trying to get by?

Couldn’t win against capitalism even if he tried

No love from the police, not a desist or a cease

Not even a bodyguard with a wild pay increase

The world learned to hate, so they sealed his fate

Could’ve been a porno legend, could’ve been great

Everybody mocks what they don’t understand

Rest in Power, Gay Reynolds, in the Promised Land

Never did he know that he left behind a daughter

Mother was a fellow actress also led to slaughter

A kid in foster care never stood a chance there

I wouldn’t blame her if she was constantly scared

Calling out for her parents but the bullies answer

Wishing her to have a malignant form of cancer

Who is anybody to point and laugh and judge?

Roles were reversed? Life would be just as tough

Parasocial

VERSE 1
The beacon of light I’ve been waiting for
A platonic friendship or something more?
One-sided romance from across the screen
Like I don’t know what parasocial means
We never talk, but I can still have dreams
About making this more than it seems
The real world doesn’t even compare
The real world doesn’t fucking care

CHORUS
Parasocial, parasitic
Lovey-dovey, sick and twisted
Parasocial, paranormal
Who cares about morals?
Supernatural, superficial
Let’s tie the knot, make it official
Superstardom, Superhero
Take a chance on this weirdo?

VERSE 2
I don’t have a knife or pepper spray
Yet you back the fuck up anyway
I would too, so I can’t blame you
Don’t know if I have a loose screw
Don’t know if I’m a creepy terrorist
No confidence and less arrogance
Where else am I supposed to go?
Got nothing here but wires and crows

CHORUS
Parasocial, parasitic
Lovey-dovey, sick and twisted
Parasocial, paranormal
Who cares about morals?
Supernatural, superficial
Let’s tie the knot, make it official
Superstardom, Superhero
Take a chance on this weirdo?

VERSE 3
I hate riding in cars in long traffic lines
I hate flying on planes for a long ass time
I hate riding on buses with dog logos
I hate riding on trains, it’s never solo
I don’t have the patience to see this through
Yet I yearn to be even closer to you
Back to the keyboard for another comment
In hopes we still have friendship in common

CHORUS
Parasocial, parasitic
Lovey-dovey, sick and twisted
Parasocial, paranormal
Who cares about morals?
Supernatural, superficial
Let’s tie the knot, make it official
Superstardom, Superhero
Take a chance on this weirdo?

FINAL VERSE
Growing older
Growing colder
You’ve moved on
Still I wait so long

Stalking Is Not the Answer

I haven’t watched WWE since November of 2018, when they put on that horrible episode of Monday Night Raw where Drake Maverick peed on Bobby Roode’s robe. But I still like to stay in the loop via podcasts and You Tube channels. I sincerely hope Sonya Deville’s story gets the appropriate amount of coverage outside of the wrestling bubble. A few weeks ago, a disgusting bastard by the name of Phillip Thomas attempted to kidnap Sonya in her Lutz, Florida home. For years he had sent her creepy messages on social media that were of the lovey-dovey variety mixed with suicidal threats and mentions of wanting to murder her family. So what does he do to satisfy his romantic urges? In addition to sending the freaky messages, he showed up to her house one night carrying a knife, pepper spray, duct tape, zip ties, and god knows what else. He planned on kidnapping Sonya Deville, but she got the hell out of there and the police promptly arrested Phillip Thomas with a judge denying him bail.

Now…there are many ways in which you can show your appreciation for your favorite celebrities. Stalking and attempting to kidnap them is not one of them! Forgetting the fact that Sonya Deville is openly lesbian and therefore isn’t interested in men anyways, Phillip Thomas had no fucking chance with her by virtue of his creepy online behavior. He has even less of a chance with her now that he attempted to kidnap her. Haven’t you learned anything from being sickened while watching 365 Days? That Stockholm Syndrome fantasy shit doesn’t work! When Phillip Thomas showed up at Sonya Deville’s home with weapons and bondage equipment, she didn’t have stars in her eyes and a smile on her face. She was fucking terrified, as well she should be!

Having romantic feelings for a celebrity is nothing new to the world. It’s a relationship that could never work due to the imbalance of power, but we like to have fantasies anyways, because these fantasies make our hearts flutter and they give us extra pep in our step. We form parasocial relationships with the celebrities we love. Maybe the celebrity gives us roses. Maybe they squeeze our shoulders. Maybe they let us cradle our heads in their laps while they stroke our hair. But once the fantasy wears off, you begin to realize the impossibility of the fantasy and it depresses the shit out of you. You invested so much time and energy into this fantasy that when the rug gets pulled out from underneath, you’ve got nothing left but sadness. If you feel like your celebrity crushes are interfering with your wellbeing, talk to somebody. Anybody. See a counselor. Confide in family and friends.

This phenomenon was especially true for me when I studied at Western Washington University from 2007 to 2009. I was a socially awkward dweeb who had very little in the way of human interaction. So what did I do? I formed a parasocial relationship with Tarja Turunen, the former lead singer of Nightwish. Her lovely raven hair, her milky white skin, her cherry red lips, and that singing voice of an angel, oh my god, she was so beautiful to me. My heart had the singing voice of an angel every time I laid eyes on her. But when I cycled through my head all the loving ways we could interact, I quickly realized that I was still alone at WWU despite having a strong imagination. I had nothing but my fantasies. Fantasies are great, but they’re not tangible and don’t amount to anything in real life. But did I threaten to kidnap Tarja Turunen? Did I threaten to kill her husband Marcelo Cabuli? Did I show up to her home in Finland with duct tape and a hunting knife? Fuck no! That would be horrifying! If you claim to love someone as much as you do, you don’t show your love by threatening to slash them if they don’t have sex with you. That’s not love. That’s violence. In a real relationship, that’s domestic abuse and it would be grounds for not only divorce, but prison time.

Sonya Deville is a beautiful woman. She’s a brilliant character on WWE television. She’s got mixed-martial arts skills for days that will remind the audience of Wonder Woman. You want to know what she isn’t? Yours to kidnap and have sex with! You as a fan are not owed anything! You’re not owed sex and romance! If you want those things, you have to earn them by being sweet and empathetic and even then if the woman says no, you ought to listen. Sonya Deville is not going to say yes to someone who sends her disgusting messages on Twitter threatening to hurt her if she doesn’t give into him. I thought this point was made clear when pretty much every news outlet on the planet dissected Incel culture with a scalpel. We’re supposed to be past this shit. But people like Phillip Thomas didn’t get the message. Apparently, neither did the other Twitter trolls who sent Sonya Deville messages like, “I’m going to finish what Phillip started” and “My knife is bigger than Phillip’s.” How romantic! What a bunch of charming motherfuckers! Breakfast, meet floor!

Back at Summer Slam, Sonya Deville was written off of WWE television when she lost a No Disqualification Loser Leaves Town match to longtime rival Mandy Rose. She didn’t actually lose her job. It’s just a storyline excuse for her to sort things out legally and emotionally before getting back in the ring. She’ll be back one day. I’d like to think she’ll be back stronger than ever, but that’s not how psychological trauma works. That shit eats away at you like a cancer. There are triggers that will set you off. There are nightmares. There are moments where you’ll lose focus of what you’re doing, which isn’t an ideal scenario in a profession where you slam people on their backs for a living. Thanks a lot, Phillip Thomas. You traumatized Sonya Deville for life, all because you wanted a romance that never could have happened, lesbian status or not. That’s not love. That’s psychosis. Get some fucking help!

Being a celebrity of any kind, whether you’re an attractive woman or otherwise, will open up the floodgates for stalking and harassment. This shit has been going on long before the internet was a thing. So what should you do if you find yourself in this situation? Do you hire security guards? Do you buy a weapon? Do you move to another home? Do you stay off of social media? Do you get a restraining order? There’s no one-size-fits-all solution to this problem. Sometimes it’s multiple things at once, which is something the celebrity in question will consider as anxiety floods their minds with all the possibilities of scenarios. Hell, you don’t have to be a celebrity to experience stalking. The reason for stalking doesn’t even have to be romantic or sexual. There are some sick pieces of shit out there and the sooner they’re locked up, the better off we’ll all be. If you find yourself obsessing over someone, don’t become the next Phillip Thomas. Get help. Reach out to someone you trust. That’s my public service announcement for the day. Stalking is not the answer. It never is.

Creepy or Brave?

VERSE 1

Young man, big fan, tell her how you feel

Wear her colors with the most passionate zeal

Go to every show and sit in the front row

If you don’t, then you will never ever know

PRE-CHORUS

Restraining order or even less quarter?

Open arms or even bigger charms?

Come on back or get the fuck away?

Are you creepy or are you brave?

CHORUS

Creepy or brave? X4

VERSE 2

Funny guy, give a try, you’re one of a kind

On the mic, make them like what they find

‘Cause if you bomb like a nuclear warhead

You’ll be easy to boo and easier to forget

PRE-CHORUS

Restraining order or even less quarter?

Open arms or even bigger charms?

Come on back or get the fuck away?

Are you creepy or are you brave?

CHORUS

Creepy or brave? X4

BRIDGE

Talk the talk and walk the walk

Mock the mocked and stalk the stalk

They won’t reward your courage

They’ll leave your heart forever hurting

CHORUS

Creepy or brave? X4

FINAL VERSE

Nice tie, nice suit, nice Gucci shoes

Nice headshot all over the news

Are you ready to defend your life?

Or will you just roll over and die?

CHORUS

Creepy or brave? X4

Dark Skills

“Tonight, tonight, tonight, hot damn tonight!” chuckled Matt Singleton while he was playing pocket pool in the empty streets. The closer he treaded towards Michelle Woods’ apartment, the harder he masturbated. With a jacket hood over his face, baggy sweat pants to mask his perverted activity, and not a cop or security camera in sight, he could easily get in and out, both literally and figuratively.

He ascended the stairs to Michelle’s apartment and overheard the sounds of a motor running coinciding with a feminine black voice’s cries of pain. Matt stroked himself even harder and got a sadistic, bloodthirsty grin on his face. The feminine voice’s screams were reduced to M noises and Matt’s smile widened to Cheshire Cat levels of terror. “I had no idea she was into that!” he chuckled to himself.

When he saw that the door to Michelle’s apartment was slightly ajar, his quarter moon grin flattened as did his perpetual hard-on. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he said while pulling a hatchet out of his coat pocket. Knowing nobody was coming to save his newest victim, Matt kicked the door open and pulled back his hood to reveal disheveled blond hair and missing teeth. “I don’t believe this shit.”

Matt Singleton’s twisted imagination was justified, but not in the way he had hoped. Rather than screams of pornographic pleasure, Michelle’s pain was as permanent as the tattoo being etched into her lower back. Carl Howard had once again beat Matt to the punch and stuck his nose (among other things) where it didn’t belong. The chubby biker decked out in black leather was the one writing “Dark Skills” into Michelle’s skin while the sobbing victim was bent over the couch with a rag in her mouth.

“Carl!” whined Matt for a prolonged period of time. “How many times do I have to tell you to mind your own damn business and get your own kills?! I saw Michelle first! I actually did my homework on this bitch!”

Carl tossed the tattoo pen aside and hissed, “Homework? As in taking photos of her through the window like a fucking stalker? That’s not homework. That’s just you being too much of a pussy to talk to women yourself. Michelle and I are already on a first name basis. Isn’t that right, baby girl?” The last sentence was punctuated by Carl lightly slapping Michelle on her pink panty-wearing ass, to which she gave another muffled cry.

“Good job, dumb-ass!” said Matt while mockingly applauding with the hatchet in his hand. “She could have called the police any time and had you arrested! You stick out like a nun at a porn convention, my friend. You think intimidating her is going to be enough to keep her quiet?”

“Nah, but the rag in her mouth is,” said Carl as he once again tapped Michelle’s ass. “Besides, if you actually had a brain in that busted up skull of yours, you’d know how important mind games are. She ain’t going to tell anybody. Are you, baby girl?” Once Michelle shook her head, she got another slap, but this time on the thighs.

Matt shook his own head and snickered, “So this is where our conversations always go, isn’t it? You always steal my victims and then you justify it with some bullshit excuse. I know this comes as a surprise to you, but I haven’t gotten laid in a while, buddy. I’ve been picking out victims left and right…” He tiptoed up to Michelle and stroked her long hair with the yellow streak. “But there’s nobody quite like her. She’s got the beauty. She’s got the brains. Hell, up until I kicked open the door, I thought she was getting ready for some kinky shit. And then you show up, Carl…you, the hard-on assassinator. I’m sick and tired of this shit, Carl. I need my fix!”

“You want your fix?” asked Carl as he shoved Michelle to the floor. “You want to get laid? Shit, man, all you had to do was ask. But I’m not the one you should be asking. Why don’t you ask that uncle of yours to bend you over some more? You see, Matt…I do my homework too. You’ve pissed me off so many times that I actually took pride in my studies. That uncle of yours…he did some things to you, didn’t he? Things that involved you having a permanent case of diarrhea, if you know what I mean. Congratulations, Matty-Boy: you’re a walking commercial for Huggies diapers!”

As Carl hyena laughed at Matt’s miserable past, Matt himself clutched his skull and rocked back and forth while fighting the traumatic memory. He could feel the dirty, pus-filled limb going in and out of him. He remembered how his “permanent case of diarrhea” mixed with chunks of blood and splooge. The rancid smell of Uncle Singleton’s crotch. The bloodbath sewage smell of his own dumps. They all came flooding back to him like a tidal wave of life juices washing over his once young and innocent face. Carl’s laughter made those thoughts rush even faster around his explosive mind.

“Shut the fuck up, you fat piece of shit!” roared Matt before jumping across the couch and attempting to slice open Carl’s head like a watermelon. The chubby biker grabbed his assailant’s wrist to prevent the blow, but the two of them wrestled to the floor anyways. As Michelle screamed through her gag on the floor with them, the two serial killers struggled to push the hatched blade to each other’s faces. Carl, being the stronger of the two, was able to inch it towards Matt’s face and peel of a layer of his cheek.

Licking the blood off of Matt’s face, Carl said, “Is this what you wanted, lover boy? Is this the Freudian excuse you were looking for?”

Matt head butted Carl in his thick skull and bust his own forehead open more than he did his opponent’s. Matt’s horny smile suggested a lack of fucks given. He head butted Carl again. And again. And again. Blood washed over Matt’s face in an unholy baptism while Carl’s own forehead formed a tiny rip. “I could do this all day, motherfucker!” chimed Matt. “My fucked up mind is feeling pretty good right now. A little dizziness is good for psychological trauma.”

Carl managed to rip the hatchet out of Matt’s hands and stand over his opponent like a barbarian over a rotten carcass. “Don’t worry, you little pansy. Close those pretty blue eyes of yours. Here comes a lovely little lullaby for an anxious child!” Carl raised the blade over his head and brought it down with brutal force. Any shot that powerful would have decapitated not only an elephant, but the entire jungle kingdom.

But not Matt Singleton. In his blood-drenched dizziness, he found the tattoo pen and jabbed it in Carl Howard’s eye, while the hatchet was only centimeters away from Matt’s nose. Matt ripped out a chunk of brain from Carl’s skull and the chubby killer plopped backwards on the floor, spilling his blood all over the shag carpet. Matt’s head continued to gush like a geyser of violence, spilling his own juices over the floor as he sat up to face a trembling Michelle, who spit out the gag a long time ago.

Not even the silky pink underwear on a beautiful black body could revitalize Matt’s horny attitude. He stood up and wobbled on his way over to the victim he worked so hard to claim. “You think this is funny, Michelle?” he asked as blood oozed onto her lap.

Michelle shook her head and sobbed, “No, there’s nothing funny about it. Please let me go!”

“Sure, no problem,” said Matt as he spit a glob of red juice onto the couch. “I’ll just let you skedaddle out the front door like nothing happened. Go on. Leave. I’ve got no use for you now that my hard-on’s not coming back anytime soon.”

“Sorry for your loss,” stuttered Michelle as she slowly stood up to try and exit.

Matt grabbed a hold of her hair and yanked her back to the floor. “What did you say about my loss? Huh? You trying to be a comedian? You think rape is funny?! You think this is all just some Freudian bullshit?!” he yelled while Michelle sobbed loudly. “There are things in this life worse than death! If I could die right now, I’d be one smiling motherfucker! But you, Michelle…you don’t deserve to get off that easy. I came here tonight and had old wounds reopened, bloody forehead aside. Now I’m going to leave you with something more permanent than an uncle’s dirty dick!”

Matt retrieved the tattoo pen and cleaned the blood off of it with his jacket. He then threw it to the side and said, “You know what? Tattoos are for pussies! They can be lasered off for a few hundred bucks! But a hatched job…that’s something that truly lasts forever!”

The killer retrieved the blade, grabbed Michelle by her hair, and bent her over the couch kicking and screaming. “Shut up!” he belted while reading the tattoo job on her lower back. “Dark Skills, my ass! Carl ain’t got shit for skills! Let me show you what the real mark of the beast looks like!”

Slowly and painfully, Matt Singleton carved the number 666 into Michelle’s lower back, completely erasing the tattoo job from earlier with permanent scars and a river of blood.  The viscous mess gave Matt a rush of adrenaline that not only sped up the bleeding in his own forehead, but also the blood flowing into a part of his body he was sure he’d never use again. It stood up proudly. It beamed with life. Matt could smile again. Then the killer blacked out from the blood loss and fell on his ass, dying with a smile on his face and a hard-on in his sweatpants once again. Michelle Woods was alive and kicking, but Matt Singleton took her soul to the grave with him anyways.

Every Pic You Post

(In the style of “Every Breath You Take” by The Police.)

Every pic you post

Every friend you poke

Every meme you share

Every feeling you bear

I’ll be browsing you

Every single day

Every app you play

Every Face Book page

Every rant you rage

I’ll be browsing you

I can’t refrain

You’re in the public domain

How vicariously I live

With every like you give

Every video you film

Every bean you spill

Every life event thrill

Every second you kill

I’ll be browsing you

Since you’re here, I’ll look you up with no remorse

You’re already in the public eye, of course

There’s nothing they can do in the police force

There’s no sense in taking my big ass to court

I’ll browse whoever I goddamn well please!

I can’t refrain

You’re in the public domain

How vicariously I live

With every like you give

Every video you film

Every bean you spill

Every life event thrill

Every second you kill

I’ll be browsing you

"Every Breath You Take" by The Police

Whenever the song “Every Breath You Take” comes on the radio, I always make it a point to say I can relate to it because, like Sting, I’m willing to go that extra mile just to see how my honeys are doing. And yes, I can see the irony of a band called The Police performing a song about stalking, which is against the law. I like to kid and joke, but in all reality, I don’t have the means to be a stalker. I’ve had lots of crushes throughout my life, but no means to track them. My very first crush was a girl in high school named Shona. I had another one in my advanced computer applications class named Autumn. Two crushes in the days where Face Book and My Space weren’t even big deals yet. So how exactly would I have access to them? Oh sure, I could do the “manly” thing and actually ask them on dates. Not only was I too shy in those old days, but there was a reason for it. I somehow had it in me that if I get slapped in the face or laughed at as a result of asking a girl out, I deserved it. There was a separate girl I wanted absolutely no attention from, but got it anyways, named Julia. I felt like I had the right to turn her down the hard way if she tried to make advances on me (because let’s face it, when you’ve had PTSD before, anything can seem traumatic). This “human right” of being allowed to use rough means to turn down a date was one of the most harmful beliefs I could have had (even more harmful than the ones brought on by schizophrenia). From that point on, I kept my distance from the girls I liked because I didn’t want to offend them with traumatizing behavior. There were small moments in which I did flirt with girls, but the flirting was somehow interpreted as inappropriate and then I sank further into my shell. Now that I actually do have a girlfriend (her name is Brianna), I can’t come out of my passive shell long enough to make any major moves. There were even times when she was puzzled as to why I didn’t kiss her back when she kissed me first. Now that I’m this far in my life and haven’t participated in most of it, I feel like I can relate to “Every Breath You Take” even more. No, I don’t think of it as a stalking anthem, so don’t get any ideas of me being creepy. Notice how Sting says, “I’ll be watching you.” There’s a huge difference between watching and participating. In all of my relationships with girls, I’ve been a part of the audience instead of the main attraction. Whenever I tried to climb the audience barrier, security came and threw me out of the arena. What does any of this have to do with writing? It’s simple. If I can’t be the main attraction, I might as well start my own show with the romantic short stories and novels I write. There’s no point in denying my characters the love they deserve. Then again, as Stephen Chbosky once said, we get the love we think we deserve.

　

***HIGH SCHOOL DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

STUDENT: I think that girl likes you.

ME: I don’t blame her.

　

***TELEVISION QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“You need to stop acting like Larry Flynt.”

-Todd Chrisley from “Chrisley Knows Best”-