Per the encouragement of my awesome Port Orchard friend Anna
Bradshaw, here’s a compilation of all the funny short takes I’ve posted on Face
Book. Enjoy!
EVANESCENCE DREAM:
I haven’t been remembering a lot of my trips to the
subconscious theater lately since they involved competitions of some kind (I
never remember those for some reason). I do however remember pretty much all of
my concert dreams. Last night was no exception. This time I saw Evanescence
play a show in an abandoned bank in the middle of nowhere. Amy Lee and her new
band mates were all fifty years old. I repeat, between the release of
Evanescence’s first album and this dream, Amy Lee became…fifty years old. She
had gray hair, wrinkly skin, Marlboro lines in her face, and she was wearing a pants
suit like she was running for office. This whole time I kept asking, “What the
fuck’s going on here?!” Thank god I woke up when I did. But yes, it’s true,
ladies and gentlemen: as of today, Amy Lee is only fourteen years away from
celebrating her fiftieth birthday. Let that sink in for a minute and then you
can slowly realize it beats the alternative.
CONCERT CO-HEADLINERS:
Because I was too zonked out today to get any real work
done, I made a list of bands I haven’t seen perform live yet and paired them
together as fantasy co-headliners. I tried to have the pairings make as much
sense as possible. Live Nation? Make them happen!
- 3
Doors Down X Crossfade
- David
Gilmour X Martin Kesici
- Gemini
Syndrome X From Ashes to New
- Ghost
X Babymetal
- Hellyeah
X All That Remains
- Killer
Be Killed X Down
- Limp
Bizkit X Bloodhound Gang
- Sepultura
X Sworn In
- Serj
Tankian X Tarja Turunen
- Within
Temptation X The Dark Element
BATHROOM BREAKS:
Here’s something I’ve always wondered, but never got an
answer to. Why is it whenever you’re talking to someone online and you tell
them you have to go to the bathroom, they always think you’re looking for an
excuse to get away from the computer? Would they rather you soil yourself?
Would they rather you wear a diaper at the computer? I don’t know about you
guys, but sitting in my own biological sludge isn’t worth maintaining a
conversation with someone. It stinks. It stinks very badly. I know this because
my elderly dog Maggie shits and pisses all the time and I’m usually the one who
wipes it off the floor. Whenever I tell you I need to go to the bathroom,
believe me. This is especially important to me after I have a whole pitcher of
iced tea to drink….or two…or three. That’s a lot of urine, more than Smokey’s
litter box allows. So yes, I’m going to need a non-diapered bathroom break
every once and a while. Deal with it.
FIFTY SHADES JOKES:
If you surf You Tube a lot like I do, you’ll eventually
watch a few less-than-romantic videos and some wiseass in the comments section
will say, “Still a better love story than Twilight.” Well, I’ve never read
Twilight, so I can’t say for certain, but I have read its fan fiction
predecessor Fifty Shades of Grey. I gave that book three out of five stars
(mixed grade), but now that I have the benefit of hindsight, it deserved less.
Much less! So that got me thinking: what are the most extreme, fringiest
examples of movies or books that are better love stories than Fifty Shades of
Grey? In the interest of bad taste, I’ve actually compiled a list for you so
that you don’t have to. Starting with…
- A
Serbian Film
- Boston
Public (stalker episode)
- Different
Strokes (bike shop episode)
- Fatal
Attraction
- Millennium
(A Room with No View)
- NCIS
(Bete Noir)
- NCIS: Los Angeles (An
Unlocked Mind)
- Pink
Floyd the Wall (“Don’t Leave Me Now”)
- Pulp
Fiction (pawn shop scene)
- Savages
(Blake Lively’s captivity)
- Star
Wars: Return of the Jedi (slave Leia scene)
- Suicide
Squad (Joker X Harley Quinn)
- Tales
From the Hood (spinning table scene)
- Team America:
World Police (scat fetish scene)
- The
Shield (David Aceveda blowjob scene)
- Through
the Shattered Glass by Jeanie Clarke (marriage to Stone Cold Steve Austin)
With a virtual cornucopia of extreme examples, I want you to
think carefully the next time you make a Fifty Shades joke. Let’s say you
decide The Shield is more romantic. You’re basically saying that you’d rather
get orally raped by a Mexican gangster than have a bondage romance with
Christian Grey. I know, I know, you desperately want to put those things on the
same level, but trust me, you’re exercising your hyperbole muscles when
venturing into this territory.
BLACK TEA:
In all this time of drinking iced tea, I’ve always thought
black tea had a negligible amount of caffeine. I can’t stress the word
negligible enough. Turns out it’s one tier below coffee and I’m just now paying
the price for drinking entire pitchers of black tea. Caffeine and schizophrenia
is a fucking horrible combination. Plus, there must have been some reason why I
kept waking up at ten in the morning despite going to bed late at night. If you
don’t see any creative work from me for a while, it’s because the black tea
caffeine is working its way out of my system and I’m constantly in beddy-bye
with Smokey. I can’t concentrate if I’m perpetually sleepy. It probably doesn’t
help matters that I’m constantly listening to “True” by Spandau Ballet and
having romantic (not sexual) thoughts while doing so. Negligible, my ass!
CHEERIOS AND SOCCER:
When I was a nine-year-old preparing to play in a soccer
game, I wanted to eat a bowl of Cheerios before the match, because…and I quote
directly from the tube…they had “Morning power! Kid power! Go power!” James
laughed his ass off at that while I was having a hard time undoing the
brainwashing of television advertising. Truth is, Cheerios won’t help you win a
soccer match. As a matter of fact, my team and I, the lovable losers known as
The Thunder Eagles, got our asses handed to us like a bunch of jobbers.
Drinking warm Gatorade didn’t help me win either. It gave me some cardio, but
not a victory. I could have eaten a hot fudge sundae and had the same results.
Is it any wonder why I didn’t want to shake the other team’s hands afterwards?
Participation trophy, my ass!
BABY INITIALS:
I’m too zonked out today to get any real work done other
than build a few of my birthday Legos. So instead I’m going to have some fun
with potential kid names (even though I still haven’t any plans to father
children). Tonight we’re going to look at initials, excluding the T in Temons
and keeping the H in Haines (assuming initials are only supposed to have three
letters). Ready? I sure am.
- Grant
Thomas Haines-Temons (GTH (Go to Hell))
- Heath
Edgar Haines-Temons (HEH)
- Hunter
Hearst Haines-Temons (HHH (Triple H))
- Ivan
Cody Haines-Temons (ICH)
- Marcus
Edge Haines-Temons (MEH)
- Neville
Alexander Haines-Temons (NAH)
- Roger
Owen Haines-Temons (ROH (Ring of Honor))
- Samuel
Mitchell Haines-Temons (SMH (Shaking My Head))
- Tucker
Oliver Haines-Temons (TOH (Treehouse of Horror))
- Uriah
Garrison Haines-Temons (UGH)
- Walter
Travis Haines-Temons (WTH (What the Hell?))
That’s all I can come up with for now. Happy Father’s Day!
COUPLES:
Here’s something I’ve often wondered, but never got a
definitive answer to. Why is it whenever I go out in public with someone, everybody
thinks we’re a couple? I’ve had people assume me and my brother James to be a
gay couple, especially when we have Reina in tow. Hell, I’ve had a massage
therapist in Hawaii
assume that me and Aunt Ruth were a couple. You’ve got to have Ray Charles vision
in order to fuck that one up. This isn’t Game of Thrones, people. My family
tree actually forks. If it didn’t, then according to Jeff Foxworthy, I might be
a redneck. Actually, my neck is red anyways since I go out for long distance
walks in eighty degree heat, but that’s beside the point. Back to the topic at
hand, it would be REALLY fucking disastrous if someone thought me and Reina
were a couple. And while we’re at it, why don’t we just assume that people
walking their dogs are in bestiality relationships. Good god almighty!
CREATIVE NONFICTION IS REAL, DAMN IT!:
When I was taking a nonfiction creative writing class in
2009, I overheard some kid questioning whether or not the words “creative” and
“nonfiction” belong in the same sentence together. His major talking point was
that since the memories are real and nothing is made up, it can’t be creative.
The counterpoint to his argument was that the author still had to tell a story,
which means the same rules as fictional writing still apply whether it’s
showing vs. telling, being a reliable narrator, using colorful descriptions,
dictating a desirable pace, using correct grammar, etc. No matter how many
times the kid was proven wrong, he just kept insisting that there’s no such
thing as creative nonfiction. It was like talking to a brick wall. Actually,
the brick wall would have a higher IQ. Roger Waters seems to agree since he
built one out of his own insecurities and made a classic rock album out of it
with his Pink Floyd mates. See? I told you creative nonfiction was real!
DANIEL BRYAN X PAIGE:
Another weird ass goddamn dream from last night? Sure, why
not? This one is WWE themed as it involved Smackdown wrestler Daniel Bryan and
Smackdown General Manager Paige. Both of them were kidnapped by a religious
cult after yesterday’s show. One of the cult members openly admitted to
masturbating to Paige’s leaked sex videos, which naturally made her shiver in
disgust. Once the cult’s van got to a high school gymnasium to perform a
ritual, they gagged Daniel and Paige with tall Red Bull cans and duct tape. It
was up to me and a special team of whoever-the-fucks to raid the gym and rescue
the two Smackdown personalities. Daniel was successfully rescued, but Paige was
nowhere to be found even as I kept desperately screaming her name. Then I woke
up feeling happy for some strange reason, probably because I got a lot of work
done last night at one in the morning (blogging Escape From Chehalis, writing
Because of You, and reading chapter three of The Savior’s Champion). Although
that might not be the official reason for my happiness, I chose not to question
the source and actually let myself have a good day today.
DISTURBING NAPTIME MUSIC:
As someone who likes good music and good naps, I can tell
you now that there’s nothing depraved about falling asleep to “She Don’t Want
the World” by 3 Doors Down. The lyrics are disturbing as fuck, but the music is
soothing enough to cure insomnia. Same thing goes with “Out of Hell” by In This
Moment, a gentle piano melody with…questionable content. Not once have I fallen
asleep to these songs and had a horrible nightmare afterwards. Most of my
dreams are about school, concerts, and occasionally Unitarian churches (I used
to go to those as a kid and a teenager, but not anymore). Last night’s trip to
the subconscious was about me actually WANTING to go to school, so I signed up
for a creative writing class and a gym course. Normally Roger Waters and I
would agree when it comes to crappy school experiences, but this time, I actually
wanted to go. Huh. Weird shit.
JAPANESE RESTAURANT:
It’s day three of zombie brain BS, so the most you’re going
to get from me today is a post about a weird ass dream I had last night. Or as
I like to call it, a trip into the subconscious theater. The dream opened with
me getting a report card from college: two Ds and one F. I was so fucking
pissed that I threw my report card in the garbage and went on a hissy-fit
rampage in front of my teachers. To calm me down, one of the teachers suggested
that I find a job at the Japanese restaurant on campus. When I started working
there, the TVs at the sushi bar were playing Isle of Dogs and nobody batted an
eye. I changed the channel to WWE and watched Dean Ambrose, Carlito, and Mojo
Rawley give a member of The New Day a triple power bomb a la The Shield. I woke
up wondering just what the hell happened (what a fucking surprise). Now that
I’ve written this dream post, there might be some hope for me yet when it comes
to creative work. The question now is, do I want to write a blog entry about
Incel Terrorism or Creative Crossroads? Hmm…decisions, decisions…
SPIRO’S FAUX PAS:
As I ate dinner with my brother James at Spiro’s, he
introduced me to a new word I apparently should have learned a long time ago:
Faux Pas. It comes from the French for “false step” and it’s an idiom for an
embarrassing or awkward mistake. Apparently during dinner, I made two Faux Pas
that night. One, I ate the entire chocolate topping off of James’s peanut
butter pie (which reminded him of the episode of South Park where Eric Cartman
eats the crispy skin off of everybody’s KFC meals). The other Faux Pas was when
I refused to engage in small talk with our waitress. She asked me if I did
anything fun for the fourth of July and I simply said, “No”, prompting James to
chuckle awkwardly for some reason. Even though he’s introverted too, he can’t
understand why small talk is so difficult for me. All in all, it was a fun way
to end our evening. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have many more Faux Pas to make.
STUPID HOSE!:
A few years ago, I was out on the back porch trying to get
my garden hose to work. I can’t remember if I was watering flowers or cleaning
out the rubbish bin, but I needed that hose to work. Much to my frustration,
the damn thing wouldn’t spray any water. I tried everything from checking for
knots to turning the faucet on. Nothing. Instead of looking for calmer, more
rational solutions, I scream, “Come on, you stupid fucking hose, get working!”
Little did I know that there were little children getting off school and
parents who could have misinterpreted the word “hose” as being spelled H-O-E-S.
What a disaster that would have been if someone thought I was a pimp. But I
assure you, I’m just a guy who gets pissed off at little things. If you’ve ever
wondered why my stories and poems have an angry tone, that’s why. I swear I’m
not a pimp. Hehe!
GARRISH:
One day while going out to lunch with my dad and brother,
the clerk who made my sandwich called me Garrish instead of Garrison, which my
dad attributed to my poor handwriting when I placed my order. Dad and James
joked that Garrish sounded like an Eastern European name, but it turns out it’s
a real English word, albeit spelled with one R instead of two. Dictionary.com
defines it as “tastelessly colorful”, like the Hawaiian shirts I used to wear
back in my twenties. You learn something new every day, folks.
INUYASHA, SIT BOY!:
One of my favorite things to watch as a college kid was
Inuyasha, but the one thing that always frustrated me about that show was how
Kagome could bend Inuyasha to her will by using a “sit” command. Every time she
said the magic word, the dog demon would fall flat on his face and become
instantly obedient. Well, I think I’ve figured out a solution to that mess. To
paraphrase Agent Smith from The Matrix, “What good is a sit command if
you’re…unable to speak?” Sorry Kagome, but there are no M’s in the word sit.
Hehe!
LIMP BIZKIT:
Whenever I need entertainment in the late hours of the
night, I can always count on the subconscious theater to deliver a five star
performance. Some might disagree about the five stars in this particular dream,
but I don’t. Last night’s dream featured yet another weird ass rock concert,
but this time the venue wasn’t in a building that was supposed to be something
else like a Chinese restaurant or an art museum. This time the nightclub
setting actually made sense. The main act? None other than one of the most
hated bands on planet earth, Limp Bizkit. Some of their onstage antics included
blowing cigarette smoke out of a desk fan, having a face-to-face screaming
match with yours truly, and doing a cover of Metallica’s “St. Anger” (as if
they couldn’t be more hated). It was a nice way to wake up for my 33rd
birthday, to say the least. Another nice way to wake up was seeing everybody’s
birthday wishes on my Face Book page, so thank you all for that. The rest of my
birthday was well-celebrated and now all I want to do is nap with Smokey. Maybe
if I nap with her long enough, Limp Bizkit will give me another kick-ass
performance.
MANIC PIXIE DREAM GIRL:
I just looked up the term Manic Pixie Dream Girl on
Wikipedia. It’s a literary pejorative for a supporting female character whose
main role in the story is to boost the self-esteem of the depressed or brooding
male protagonist, thus helping him come out of his shell. Examples include
Susanna from “The Way, Way Back”, Sam from “The Perks of Being a Wallflower”,
and to some extent Sophie from “Obselidia”. When it comes to my current work in
progress called Silent Warrior, I have strong reasons to believe Adrienne
Simpson also falls under this category. Good god, what have I done?!
THE MARINE TEST:
Today’s my second straight day of mental sluggishness, so
instead of actual writing, I’ll tell you all about a weird ass dream I had last
night. In this episode of the subconscious theater, Mom, Dale, and I were
vacationing in Afghanistan.
While there, Mom had me apply for a job and as part of my recruitment, I had to
take something called The Marine Test. It wasn’t actual military training like
one would expect, but a written exam followed by a drawing test. I gave up
halfway through it and decided to fly home to America. I called Mom and asked her
when she and Dale were coming home. Mom said they were stuck in Israel,
so I got even more frustrated. Then when I went out to the driveway, Dale and
Mom were pulling in. I woke up wondering what the fuck just happened. The
Marine Test? What does that even mean? And why was drawing something part of
the exam? I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for this, but
unfortunately, Sigmund Freud is one dead motherfucker and I’m not trained in
the art of necromancy. Bummer.
MEET JOE BLOW:
When I was in middle school in the late 90’s, I refused to
go on a date with a girl because the movie we were going to see at the theater
was Meet Joe Black. I wanted to see either American History X or Rush Hour, but
no, it had to be the lovey-dovey Meet Joe Black because it meets the criteria
for a “date movie”. Fast forward to 2014 and I realize that anything can be
considered a “date movie” no matter what the genre. My now ex-girlfriend and I
went to see The Lego Movie and Peabody & Sherman when they came out. Let
that sink in for a minute. Still to this day, I haven’t watched Meet Joe Black
nor have I desired to. Maybe I’ll research it on Wikipedia and call it a day.
Or maybe one of you, my lovely readers, has seen it and can give the Cliff’s
Notes version of it.
WHY ARE YOU UP SO LATE?:
I have a question for my fellow night owls. Have you ever
been online past midnight and a friend sends you a message asking why you’re up
so late? Usually these people live in a time zone far ahead of yours, so
they’re technically up much later than you. I swear to god, one night I was
online at ten-thirty and someone from the east coast asked me why I was up so
late. By my math, that means the guy asking me is staying up until one-thirty
in the morning. What is HE doing up so late? I’m not sure what the time
difference is between the pacific coast in America and countries from across
both oceans, but I’ve gotten the “Why are you up so late?” question from
friends over there as well. Technically, I should be going to bed at a
reasonable hour since I have sleep apnea and psychological exhaustion is one of
the reasons why I don’t write or read every single day. My body says, “Go to
bed”, but my mind says, “Fuck no” and wins that battle on a frequent basis.
Maybe I just think that listening to music and fucking around on the internet
is more entertaining than lying in bed. Perhaps this will answer some of your
questions as to what I’m doing up so late, even though technically you’re up
much later than I am.
ROCK AND ROLL WILL NEVER DIE!:
Would someone like to explain to me why I keep hearing the
phrase “rock is dead”? Last time I checked, brand new rock and heavy metal
albums are still being released to the public. Plus, if you love the old stuff,
you can always, I don’t know, go back and listen to it. Music genres don’t just
“die out”. People said rap rock was dead in 2001, but you still have bands like
Hollywood Undead and From Ashes to New performing in that genre. Hell, there
are still people performing classical symphonic music. Lindsey Stirling plays a
goddamn violin, for Christ’s sake. Nightwish uses an orchestra for some of
their songs. Hell, Evanescence released a symphonic album called Synthesis in
2017. If you have a favorite music genre, don’t give up on it because it’s not
“trendy” or “hip”. Trends come and go, but music is forever. It’s the soundtrack
of our lives. It’s medicine for the soul. Rock and roll isn’t dead now and it
won’t be dead anytime soon. If for some reason it does die out (which it
won’t), don’t blame it on young people, because that’s just a cheap copout.
Plus, it’s bigoted as fuck. Can’t we all just…enjoy the music?!
TARJA TURUNEN DREAM:
It’s been a while since my last weird ass dream (mostly
because I couldn’t remember them in the morning). This one really takes the
goddamn cake. I dreamed I was in a long distance relationship with Tarja
Turunen. While we’re talking on the phone, she mentions having to be
cryogenically frozen until there’s a cure for whatever she has. She also says
that because she lives in Philadelphia
(she doesn’t in real life) and it’s polluted as hell, kissing her would be the
equivalent of drinking hemlock. I tell her that since I live in the Pacific Northwest, kissing me would be the equivalent of
kissing Walt Disney (because it’s cold up here and Mr. Disney is frozen).
Before we hang up, I make a promise to wait for her until she’s awakened from
cryogenic stasis. My mom then tells me that I don’t actually love her and that
I’m only crushing on her for “pedestrian reasons”, whatever that means. I woke
up with Smokey curled around my head since she’s made a habit out of trying to
steal my pillow. Pedestrian reasons?! What?!
THEY’RE JUST FUCKING CLOTHES:
You know how people like to say, “He doesn’t know how to
dress himself?” Well, I’ve come up with a little test to see if that’s true.
Are you naked? If not, then congratulations, you know how to dress yourself. It
doesn’t matter if you’re wearing sweatpants, New Romantic style, Goth boots, an
Armani suit, or even a Speedo. If you’re clothed, you’re clothed. Hands down.
End of story. Although I must admit, if these sweatpants weren’t so damn
comfortable already, I wouldn’t mind dressing like a Goth or a New Romantic
(despite the fact that it’s no longer the early 1980’s). But as it is, fashion
is overrated and clothes are only good for warming up an otherwise naked body.
OVER-THE-TOP NAMES:
Reina and I just had a conversation about unrealistic names
in my stories. When it comes to a college drama like Incelbordination, she
thinks the names Oswald Crow and Antero Magnus sound too over-the-top and
fantasy-like. They sound like they’re about to slay dragons rather than pine
over hot chicks. Then there’s Beautiful Monster. Reina was strangely okay with
the name Windham Xavier, but she thought the name Shelly Atwood didn’t fit the
bill for a gothic seductress. Reina’s grandma is named Shelly. She rests her
case. And then there’s Silent Warrior, which features a monstrous puppet
teacher that appears in Scott’s dreams. Her name is…drum roll please…Aloysius
Striker. As long as she’s relegated to the nightmare role, Reina has no problem
with that name. Basically, her rule for naming characters is to have one of the
names be fancy and the other be basic. She would have been okay with a name
like Oswald Smith and she’s okay with Nikita Johnson. And then I explained to
her that Crow was the last name of a pop singer (Sheryl Crow) and an actor
(Russell Crowe). She didn’t buy that excuse. Me? I bought it with one hundred
percent interest. I plan on showing Reina more of my overly exotic names
tomorrow. Right now, it’s time for bed. Goodnight, everyone!
BEAUTIFUL MONSTER WEAPONS:
I have an hour to kill before WWE Monday Night Raw comes on
TV, so I’ll use part of it to explain why in my WIP Beautiful Monster, Windham uses a whip and
Tarja uses a staff. There’s no Freudian psychology behind either of those
choices. Windham
isn’t secretly into BDSM or anything like that, but if that’s what you got out
of his characterization, I won’t argue with you. The reason I gave Windham
Xavier a whip is because Simon Belmont from the Castlevania videogame series
had one too. I gave Tarja Rikkinen a wooden staff because Donatello from the
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles franchise had one as well. As long as I’m
dispelling Freudian psychology in my weapon choices, Commander Rinehart doesn’t
use a punching dagger because he’s secretly into fisting. He uses it for the
same reason anybody else would: because it fucking hurts. I shall say no more.
I’ve said enough already. Hehe!
