Stone Cold Steve Austin vs. Pete Hegseth

 

I know I made Pete Hegseth look like Vince McMahon, but trust me, that's Whiskey Pete. Just look at the way I (accidentally) drew his eyes. He's had a few.

Comedic Obligations

***COMEDIC OBLIGATIONS***

When you’re a writer and you feel obligated to include certain elements in your story, you can often find yourself not knowing what the hell you’re doing. For example, there’re a lot of TV shows, movies, and books out there that have shoehorned romances, so you feel like in order to stand a chance of being above average, you too have to have a romance despite not having the necessary experience or interest. The same thing is true with comedy. Although George Carlin remains one of my strongest comedic influences, not even his material is capable of making me into a carbon copy of him, which he wouldn’t want anyways because of his strong individuality. I can be funny sometimes, but when I feel obligated to make a joke in my stories, the writing suffers badly and I have to go through yet another round of editing. Tonight I’m counting down the three cringiest examples of jokes or cleverness gone badly in my stories. Why three? Because that’s three cringes too many.

I should go ahead and say that all three major examples come from Poison Tongue Tales, the first drafts at least. You won’t find the jokes there now, thank god. Let’s begin with the major money line from Stone Cold, a short story within that tome about a barbarian (surprise, surprise, surprise) who wants revenge on a warthog sorcerer and a female dark paladin for killing his wife. The barbarian wins the battle, but not without feeling like his heart is going to explode and a vein in his brain is going to pop like a balloon. While the female dark paladin is laying on the ground on her way to the afterlife, the barbarian leans down and says to her in a sexy voice…”Maybe I’ll get some practice on you before I meet my wife in heaven.” Practice doing what, you say? Well, if you can’t figure that out, I’m not going to tell you. Either way, you should be appalled at that, which is why that line no longer occupies my story.

And then the other two examples come from the same story within PTT. That story is called Streetwalker and that title alone should already have you feeling anxiety bubble up in the pit of your stomach. The main villain, another barbarian (what a goddamn shock), wants to buy the services of a wizard prostitute to celebrate a major victory in battle. The prostitute turns him down, so instead of paying the full price, he tries to get it for free by attempting to rape her. Being that she’s a wizard and that she’s using her prostitution money to fund her magical education, the hooker throws every kind of elemental spell at the barbarian’s way. Fireballs, lightning bolts, poison bubbles, shadow spears, glacial spikes, you name it, she’s throwing it. She thinks she’s won the fight, but the spells have absolutely no effect on the barbarian. So what does the would-be rapist say? He says…”In order to cast the spells properly…you need the world’s biggest magic wand!” In the words of my beautiful beta reader Marie Krepps, “Why doesn’t he just shoot her already? I’d rather get raped than listen to another one of his bad jokes.” You and me both, Babe-a-Licious Mondo. You and me both.

That Emmy Award-winning zinger should have been the end of it for Streetwalker, but it wasn’t. Instead the audience was treated to yet another “clever” piece of writing. It wasn’t really a joke nor was it intended to be misogynistic. It was just my obligations creeping through yet again. So what happens in Streetwalker (SPOILER ALERT) is that the barbarian has his way with the prostitute and leaves her bloody and bruised in a dark alleyway. Yes, she managed to knock is money bag loose (his actual money bag, not his testicles, you fools!), but even with all of that gold at her disposal, she still feels guilty for “allowing herself” to be raped in the first place. As part of this self-imposed guilt trip, I, the narrator, describe her ordeal as…(gulp)…I’m not sure if I should say this, but I’m going to if it means proving my point…the prostitute’s rape was…”a permanent part of her resume”. I can hear the dry heaves coming from miles away. Absolutely barferrific. No call for that. It got so bad that when Marie was writing her critique notes, she said, “Let’s keep this between you and me.” I couldn’t agree more, but here it is out in the open.

I didn’t count down those three examples because I wanted a laugh track to magically appear in my room. I counted them down because I wanted to be free from my obligations of putting comedy and/or clever lines in my writing. Yes, comedy is nice every once and a while, but only when done by a true master. Whenever I get into a heated argument with someone, my brain shuts down, so I can’t quickly access a savage one-liner to defeat my opponent. Why should I expect the same thing from my characters? Because Hollywood told me to do it? Because they do it so well in the WWE (which I still don’t watch anymore)? Why can’t two people just have a passionate conversation full of vitriol and curse words? Why does everything have to be funny all the time?

Now that I think about it, the funnier a movie or book tries to be, the more it comes off as bathos to an otherwise emotional moment. Bathos is defined as a descent from emotional highs and it’s usually achieved through comedy. Marvel movies have been accused of doing this a lot, especially with anything featuring Iron Man and his actor Robert Downey, Jr. When you rob your audience of an emotional high, you’re stealing a major part of the movie-watching experience. I don’t know about the rest of you, but when I get hit in the feels, I don’t want my attacker to use kid gloves. That’s why I like books like The Perks of Being a Wallflower and The Savior’s Champion. Sure, they have witty dialogue peppered here and there, but it doesn’t diminish the dramatic action of their respective stories.

I have not yet mastered the balance between (good) comedy and punches to the feels. I’ve been an amateur/professional author since 2001 and I still can’t do it. Is this something I should work on or should I abandon it altogether? Is comedy really that important or should I emancipate myself from the chains of obligation? See? Even that last line sounded too over-the-top to be considered comedic gold. I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like laughing at bad jokes, keep climbing the mountain!

***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER***

Chapter seven of this ongoing rewrite is edging towards the horizon. Windham managed to free himself from the shackles and now he needs to not only escape Shelly’s castle, but beforehand has to draw blueprints from the inside and collect a handsome payday from Shadow Asylum. Can he keep his emotions in check long enough to not spoil his escape? Can he watch one of his own being sold to a paying aristocrat without snapping again? Whatever the case may be, I’m free from the chains of comedic obligations, so there won’t be any jokes about Nickelodeon Slime Cannons or some shit like that (some of Shelly’s sex slaves are teenagers).

***JOKE OF THE DAY***

If Fred Durst started his own airline company, would he call it Air Bizkit? It makes me worry about the cabbage and broccoli platters he’d serve to the coach passengers. At least they wouldn’t have to worry about the plane running out of fuel, although the weather would always be cloudy up there.

***POST-SCRIPT***

Okay, so I’m not completely emancipated.

Define Me

VERSE 1

Out of the darkness and into the light

Got a brand new lease on my own life

No longer will you define my happiness

With over the top dramatic campy shit

If you choose to walk past and ignore

I choose not to agonize about it anymore

I’m the only one who defines who I am

My high self-esteem is my business brand

CHORUS

Never again will I defend

Bringing my sanity to an end

Never again will you define

What goes on in my damn mind

VERSE 2

Sex is a battle and love is a war

Fighting’s all that shit is good for

Don’t need your seal of approval

Mark that shit for its removal

Sick of trying to impress you

Of you berating the things I do

I got my own soul, go get yours

Then walk on right out of the door

EXTENDED CHORUS

Never again will I defend

Bringing my sanity to an end

Never again will you define

What goes on in my damn mind

Never again, never again X2

VERSE 3

I don’t mean to be bitter or stone cold

I’m just not a hostage for you to hold

I’m not a prisoner of your expectations

I’m the leader of my own destinations

Don’t need to be thin, don’t need to smile

Don’t need to chat bullshit for a while

Don’t need to spend money on shiny rocks

Won’t be defined by the needs of my cock

EXTENDED CHORUS

Never again will I defend

Bringing my sanity to an end

Never again will you define

What goes on in my damn mind

Never again, never again X4

"Through the Shattered Glass" by Jeanie Clarke

BOOK TITLE: Through the Shattered Glass

AUTHOR: Jeanie Clarke (with Bradley Craig and Neil Cameron)

YEAR: 2016

GENRE: Nonfiction

SUBGENRE: Wrestling Memoir

GRADE: Mixed

Whether you know her as a villainous valet in WCW and WCCW or the one who told Steve Austin to drink his tea before it got “stone cold”, you will get an even deeper look into Jeanie Clarke’s life in this hard-hitting memoir. Toxic marriages to wrestlers Chris Adams and Steve Austin, seventeen years of pill addiction, estrangement from her daughter Jade, and a miserable living situation have all taken their toll on this poor woman to where she contemplated suicide at one point. Going through a successful rehab in her home country of England along with telling her own story was exactly what Jeanie needed to exorcise her psychological demons.

As compelling as Jeanie Clarke’s story is, the way it was written didn’t give me the chance to feel her emotions and turmoil early on. Typos aside, the writing style felt a bit rushed, like I was bouncing from situation to situation without being allowed to settle in. I like a good fast-paced style, but not at the expense of sensory details and showing instead of telling. I realize this is a celebrity memoir, but a fast pace and descriptive writing don’t have to be mutually exclusive. Don’t believe me? Ask Chris Jericho.

The rushed writing style only lasted for the first half of the book. Meanwhile in the latter half, the stories Jeanie tells about drug addictions, being stalked, living with racist neighbors, and having a borderline abusive marriage with Steve Austin are easily the most terrifying her memoir has to offer. She took all of those pills as a way to cope with her stresses and it soon spiraled out of control. I know it’s easy to judge people who choose drugs as a way to get over their problems. But to borrow a phrase from Dr. Phil, “I don’t look at her and ask why is she doing this. I look at her and ask, why not.” You want to cheer for Jeanie to get better and have a solid foundation for her children. Spoiler alert: she’s been clean for years now. It’s safe to say she earned her ending, and then some.

If you want some insight as to how the wrestling business works, you’ll get plenty of that from this memoir. The exhausting travel schedule, the injuries, the constant pain, and being creatively stifled are just some of the problems wrestlers face on a day-to-day basis. Taking prescription pills is just one of the ways they cope with it all. This was happening long before WWE started their Wellness Policy in 2005 following the untimely death of Eddie Guerrero. If stricter drug testing had been implemented earlier, who knows how many lives could have been saved. It’s depressing to think about and you feel that depression near the end of the book when Jeanie almost dies of drug-induced shock.

While a mixed grade isn’t the most desirable one I could give, I don’t want it to turn you, my audience, away from this book. Jeanie’s story is one worth listening to despite the rushed writing style. Drug addiction isn’t just something that “weak” people go through. It’s a universal affliction with so many psychological triggers that it’s amazing anybody can be rehabilitated at all. If you or someone you know is struggling with addiction, seek help before it’s too late. Jeanie Clarke found help and she’s a better woman for it.

Stone Cold

It was feeding time for the axe-wielding tribal warrior known as Brutus Warpath. He didn’t feed on just any kind of snack. He wanted blood. He wanted souls. He hungered for vengeance against those who murdered his wife. The hunger was driving him insane. On his path to vengeance, Brutus cleaved through every goblin, ogre, and zombie who dared to stand in his way. All that remained of his path of destruction was an ocean of blood and a mountain of corpses.

But none of those victories would be enough to satisfy the bearskin-wearing, dreadlocked barbarian. For his main course (and maybe his dessert), he wanted no more than the two people directly responsible for the death of his wife: the hog sorcerer Zod Ragefist and the kinky human dark paladin Domino Gunn. The image of those two burned so badly in his mind that they left third degree scars. Brutus’ bloodlust was growing with every moment the image of those two fiends murdering the one he loved tormented his mind. And now it was time for payback.

The anger and hatred within Brutus Warpath had months to build up in his system, probably because it took that long to locate Zod and Domino’s lair. He experienced the aches and pains of his pent up stress such as heart palpitations, headaches, and muscle soreness. Like the tough son of a bitch he was, Brutus pushed these “minor” pains to the backburner and put his game face on.

The lair was actually a hollowed out dragon corpse with the scales, bones, and blood stains preserved with Zod’s dark magic. Was any of this supposed to be intimidating to Brutus? Maybe, but the tensed up warrior readied his battleaxe and entered the mouth of the dragon with a stalking pace.

As he crept down the hallway of this dragon corpse, he could see runic symbols carved into the bones, the magic of which glowed bright orange. Were Zod and Domino expecting him? They should have been. In fact, Brutus didn’t want to wait to seek his revenge anymore. He gritted his teeth, gripped his axe handle tightly, and growled like a lion as he ran down the corridor.

Brutus was so blinded by his rage that he failed to notice his legs getting heavier and heavier with each blitz. He thought he could just soldier on and ignore the pain, but then he experienced yet another sharp sensation, this time in his arm. He collapsed to the ground huffing and puffing due to the angry stress he put on himself.

“What’s wrong, Brutus? Don’t tell me you’re getting nervous around a woman like me.” That seductive voice came from none other than Domino Gunn, the female dark paladin whose studded leather armor looked more like a dominatrix’s corset and whose boots looked more suited for someone with a trample fetish. Her weapon of choice, a ball and chain, wasn’t very sexy at all and reminded everyone who screwed with her that they were always in the fight of their lives.

Flanking the lovely, yet dangerous raven haired vixen was someone who could never be accused of loveliness: Zod Ragefist, a humanoid warthog with piercings and runic tattoos everywhere while wearing a red wizard’s robe and carrying a wooden snake staff. Zod and Domino were the last two people Brutus should have been having stress pains around.

As the barbarian was still trying to get his wits about him, Domino leaned down next to him and cuddled him like a small child. “There there, little one. It’ll all be over soon. You can say hi to that bitch wife of yours. But really, why would you want to see her again when you can have all of this? I’ve been watching you, Brutus, and I’ve been studying you. You and I, we both want the same thing. We have the same desires. Now that you’ve finally found us, hehe, I’m going to give you exactly what you want.”

Domino licked Brutus’ dark-complexioned face and that was enough to set him off and for him to ignore his pain once again. The warrior picked up his axe and attempted to chop Domino’s head off, but the crafty dark paladin ducked underneath and threw a shot of her own with her ball and chain, which Brutus also ducked. The two of them threw their hardest shots at each other with such brutal speed and deadly power, yet they both evaded each other’s attacks with acrobatic flips and shimmies.

The single-minded Brutus already forgot that there was another combatant in the room, Zod Ragefist, who was chanting a magic incantation with his throaty pig voice. The warthog pointed his staff and threw a stream of electricity into Brutus’ body, causing him to ball up in pain and scream in dramatic torture. The electricity continued to surge into the barbarian’s body until he collapsed onto the ground and coughed up blood.

Zod and Domino leaned down next to his prone body and the former of the two villains said, “Look at you, barbarian. You’re so blinded by rage that you don’t even know what the hell your swinging at. How can a woman mean that much to you? You walked into a death trap, all by yourself, no less, and somehow you’re okay with this. I knew your wife very well, Brutus. She would never condone this kind of recklessness, even from you.”

Domino added, “You know how in romance novels how the sweet innocent girl tries to fix the coldhearted man? Do you know how often that works? Never! It clearly didn’t work with you. You look like hell, my friend.” Brutus coughed up more blood, but that didn’t stop Domino from snuggling up next to him like they were a couple laying in bed. “But if anybody can change your ways, it just might be me. I’m not going to do it with sweet, diabetes-inducing tactics. My love is tough. My love is hard. And yet, my love…is forever!”

The dominatrix-like dark paladin leaned forward and tongue kissed a vulnerable Brutus, tasting his blood and taking a little bit of his pride along the way. Just like with her previous advances, all this did was anger the barbarian to where he rolled Domino on her back and pinned her arms down with his bloody mouth drooling over her now fearful face.

“Is that why you killed her? So that I would be single again?! You wanted to have me that badly?!” shouted Brutus. “Well, guess what, you crazy bitch. Today is your lucky day. For the first time in a long time, a stud muffin like me…is going to give you head!”

Domino and Zod shared a laugh together before the former said, “Oh, that’s rich. Well, what are you waiting for…stud muffin?”

“Yeah…what am I waiting for. Except I don’t mean THAT kind of head. I had something a little more piggish in mind!” In one fluid motion, Brutus leapt to his feet and threw Domino’s body at Zod, who dropped his staff and caught her in mid-air. With the warthog’s hands too busy to cast spells, Brutus picked up his axe and took the world’s biggest swing. The kind of “head” he was referring to was the one on Zod’s shoulder’s, which fell into Domino’s lap while the evil sorcerer’s body dropped to the ground.

The sight of her master’s head caused Domino to scream like the woman she was and back up against the dragon’s ribs. Brutus looked down on the frightened fighter with his bloody axe ready and his violent expression creepier than ever. Now that he was in a position of power, Brutus felt the need to relax his pose. But as soon as he did, the stress pains hit him again and he was on his knees clutching his aching chest while struggling to breathe.

The sight of her “lover boy” in pain caused Domino to stop screaming and instead adopt an expression full of rage and anger. She crawled on her hands and knees over to Brutus and pulled his head up by the dreadlocks. “Was it worth it?!” she asked. “Did you think getting revenge on me and Zod would bring you peace?! Well, it’s going to give you all the peace you need, because sooner or later, you’re going to die and deserve it! We could have been something together, Brutus! We could have been lovers! But instead you choose to side with that harlot!”

Brutus’ breathing was getting slower while Domino’s was getting angrier. The barbarian smiled a bloody smile and said, “Don’t worry, sweet cheeks. I saved the last dance just for you. We can still be lovers, Domino. In fact…close your eyes and let me give you a kiss!”

The “kiss” ended up being a vampire-like bite into Domino’s throat, which flooded with blood upon breaking the skin. Domino choked while Brutus bathed in bloodlust. This would be a heavenly feeling to take into the afterlife with him. If there was such thing as a heaven, he would be all sexed up for his wife and they would make true love like a couple of wild animals. Only a few more drinks of blood and both warriors were gone, Brutus via heart attack and Domino via suffocation and blood loss. Talk about going down in a blaze of glory.

"The Death of WCW" by Bryan Alvarez & RD Reynolds

Like “Death Clutch”, “The Death of WCW” is for wrestling fans only. Somehow, I can’t imagine a literary genre nut being too enthused about reading a book dealing with a wrestling company from the 90’s. It just doesn’t seem…“multi-layered” enough! But for the rest of us who appreciate professional wrestling for the art form that it is, please pay attention. Would you like to know why WCW died the nasty horrible death it did? Well, I’ll start by saying that during the New World Order invasion in 1996, nobody would have seen the apocalypse happening from miles away. Business was booming, money was flooding in, and WCW was outperforming then-called WWF in leaps and bounds. But then it started to crumble all around the Eric Bischoffs and Vince Russos that took the reigns of the company. The main event stars were old and stale, the booking was selfishly done, the younger talent wasn’t getting the spotlight they deserved, and the screenwriting practices were downright atrocious. If you want some examples of what I’m talking about, listen to this. Remember “Stone Cold” Steve Austin? Before jumping ship to WWF, he was sitting in contractual purgatory with his career going absolutely nowhere. In WWF, he was a multiple time world champion, a huge star, and a Hall of Fame inductee. How about Chris Benoit? Yes, I dare say his name despite what he did during his final hours on earth. Benoit was also being smothered by the older talent to the point where he couldn’t get over. Since joining WWF, he became a World Heavyweight Champion and a massive star. The exact same story went for guys like Eddie Guerrero and Mick Foley, who were young, extremely talented, and thrived in WWF when they couldn’t do the same in WCW. You’d think that through the publication of this book, these same mistakes wouldn’t have been made again by any other company, right? I’d like to agree with that premise, but then we’d both be wrong. TNA has been called a modern day version of WCW with the horrible screenwriting and unprofessionally-run shows. I stopped watching TNA back in 2011 because it was making me depressed. Because of what happened to WCW and what will eventually happen to TNA, “The Death of WCW” should be in bookstores and libraries everywhere and it should be hammered into the skulls of every young wrestling star looking to make it in the world of professional wrestling. Not literally hammered, don’t get me wrong. They take enough bumps on the head already.

　

***WRESTLING JOKE OF THE DAY***

Q: What’s Daniel Bryan’s favorite System of a Down song?
A: KNOW!! KNOW!! KNOW!! KNOW!!