Gunnery Sgt. Hartman from Full Metal Jacket vs. Schizophrenic Voices (Rest in Peace, R. Lee Ermey)

 

"I CAN'T MOVE ON! I CAN'T MOVE ON!"

 

Connor Stone, Evil CEO from "Be a Good Duck"

 

Mr. Hollywood from 2 Stupid Dogs

 

Salty Cindy

Teaching history? You’re on the wrong side of it

You took your students’ lives, turned them into shit

Yelling and screaming until they hear you from Scotland

If you went further east, they’d launch nuclear rockets

Oral quizzes? You’ve got no fucking business

Put our anxiety on display for millions to witness

Calling us lazy when we worked our asses off

But we believed it like our brains were acid washed

Rushing us through like a military exercise

So that we’d be good drones in a capitalist enterprise

Don’t you know it takes more than a degree

To teach any class, let alone senior history?

Empathy and kindness should be prerequisites

Not a grumpy outlook and marine sentiments

If I wanted to fight a bunch of strangers overseas

I’d have actually said the words, “Sign me up, please!”

But I didn’t, because I’m not a cog in the machine

I have my own ambitions, my own goals to achieve

None of them include listening to your loud voice

The future is mine, I’m the one who makes the choice

Where do you belong? In the unemployment line

Although I wouldn’t even trust you to cook my fries

Wouldn’t trust you to take care of my kitties

Nor my puppies neither, you’d be just as shitty

I don’t even think your own family likes you

Face it, Salty Cindy, you have nothing left to do

You can go get fucked with a rifle’s bayonet

It’s a surefire bet, are there any takers yet?

Like a sex offender, you don’t belong near a school

You belong in a morgue where the bodies are cool

I know this all sounds just a little too extreme

But this is what I do when you fuck with my dreams

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!

Crash Your Car

 VERSE 1

Screaming obscenities from your death machine

You’ve got some testicles the size of jelly beans

You’ve got a backbone like a number two pencil

Proudly write that shit down on a military stencil

It’s the luck of the draw that the two of us meet

Your party can only win if they fucking cheat

You can yell that shit with a bullhorn blaster

Your leash gets tighter in the hands of your master

CHORUS 1

I hope you crash your car and break your neck

I hope you burn to ashes in a fiery wreck

Maybe in the next life you should pump the brakes

Not confirm to the world your birth was a mistake

VERSE 2

I know we’ll never ever see each other again

If you have any left, go hide behind your friends

Go hide behind the privilege you had since a baby

Stop spitting your hatred like a mouthful of rabies

CHORUS 2

I hope you crash your car and break your ass

Unleash some sewage in your seat as well as gas

Maybe in the next life you should make a U-turn

Your vocabulary ain’t got room for sick burns

VERSE 3

The world left your ass behind a long time ago

Your noisy engine is fast, but your mind is slow

Maybe if you floor the pedal, you might catch up

But nobody’s allegiance is yours to snatch up

CHORUS 3

I hope you crash your car and smash your skull

With a fractured jaw, it’s hard to talk some bull

With a splattered brain, you’re not changing much

Maybe in the next life you should pull the clutch

I hope you crash your car and burn forever in hell

You’ll be dancing forever in a pyromantic spell

Maybe if you make your way back to the earth

You can be somebody who isn’t lower than dirt

Cancelproof

VERSE 1
You can’t take away what you never gave me
I’m resigned to the fact that nothing can save me
I never sold out because I had nothing to sell
Nobody ever noticed when I was burning in hell
You never heard my name until I made the mistake
You never heard the sound of my cold heart break
You think my ass is over? It never even started
Nobody even cared when I joined the departed

CHORUS
Over my head, I’ve still got a roof
I can still be numb, I can still be aloof
Can still be the one who knows the truth
Lay down your arms, because I’m cancelproof

VERSE 2
A one man army against the whole fucking world
I’m clutching my machete, you’re clutching pearls
The battle will be over in just a tiny little while
When somebody else doesn’t conform to your style

CHORUS
Over my head, I’ve still got a roof
I can still be numb, I can still be aloof
Can still be the one who knows the truth
Lay down your arms, because I’m cancelproof

BRIDGE
A bible thumping troll is nobody’s friend
An alt-right sadist feels brave after hitting “send”
Did you think I was buddy-buddy with you?
Get fucking real and tighten your loose screw

VERSE 3
Fighting with you is like pulling out teeth
Acid reflux is much more enjoyable to me
I’d rather be water-boarded five hundred times
Than go toe-to-toe with the internet slime
Nobody changed their minds after the war
We’re still pissed off, still rotten to the core
Why don’t you shut up every once and a while
Instead of spitting out that conservative bile

EXTENDED CHORUS
Over my head, I’ve still got a roof
I can still be numb, I can still be aloof
Can still be the one who knows the truth
Lay down your arms, because I’m cancelproof
You shoot like a drunk and drool like a goof
You should be the one who’s not cancelproof
You shout racial slurs, call gay people poofs
You’ll never in your life become cancelproof

Spice

VERSE 1

Yelling with no reason for yelling

Not enough showing, too much telling

Salty for the sake of being salty

Argument falls apart, too faulty

You have to know when to surrender

When to stop playing the role of defender

Not every hill is worth dying on

Not every shoulder is worth crying on

CHORUS

Spice! Spice! So nice we did it twice!

Really no difference between fire and ice

Spice! Spice! Aggressively entice!

Reward their loyalty like laboratory mice

Spice! Spice!

Spice! Spice!

VERSE 2

Say you’re sorry, it’s all they need

The best advice for you to heed

Too much spice ignites the fire

Too much fighting makes you tire

It’s not a sign of infinite weakness

To know when you’ve been defeated

Ratings aren’t worth all the screaming

Nightmare fuel is what you’re dreaming

CHORUS

Spice! Spice! So nice we did it twice!

Really no difference between fire and ice

Spice! Spice! Aggressively entice!

Reward their loyalty like laboratory mice

Spice! Spice!

Spice! Spice!

BRIDGE

Jalapeno pizza and habanera chicken wings

These are a few of our favorite things

Spicy anger mixed with salty prose

Don’t let these be your lowest lows

VERSE 3

It’s always okay to ask for forgiveness

It’s a beautiful thing to behold and witness

Vulnerability makes heroes of us all

Unlike the endless hunger to assault

EXTENDED CHORUS

Spice! Spice! So nice we did it twice!

Really no difference between fire and ice

Spice! Spice! Aggressively entice!

Reward their loyalty like laboratory mice

Spice! Spice! Even more of it will suffice!

Addicted to the drama like it’s a real vice

Spice! Spice! It’ll all come with a price!

Rolling snake eyes when you throw the dice

Spice! Spice!

Spice! Spice!

Special

VERSE 1

Everybody thinks they’re special

Thinks they’re on a godly level

Thinks that they’re the chosen one

Has an ego that weighs twelve tons

You can’t brainwash me, you bastard

You’re not my undisputed master

You have no logic of your own

You’re just another fucking clone

CHORUS

You’re not special in any damn way

Too much sameness in what you say

Too much sameness in what you do

Words hurt, especially when they’re true

VERSE 2

Intimidation tactics, steel cage matches

Try to cut me down like a war hatchet

Long-winded talking, internet stalking

Everything of mine is worth mocking

There’s just one problem with your plan

It’s been done before, you stupid man

Over and over again, it gets so old

I shrug you off with a heart so cold

CHORUS

You’re not special in any damn way

Too much sameness in what you say

Too much sameness in what you do

Words hurt, especially when they’re true

VERSE 3

I never asked to be a politician

Someone else’s cannibal nutrition

Someone else’s bitch of submission

Someone else’s act of sedition

All I wanted to do was live my life

Any way I want whether wrong or right

You think you’re coming for my crown

You’re the court jester, a fucking clown

EXTENDED CHORUS

You’re not special in any damn way

Too much sameness in what you say

Too much sameness in what you do

Words hurt, especially when they’re true

You’re not special in your diction

Everything you say is fucking fiction

Everything you do fucks up your mission

Defeat is your own damn admission

Yelling at Empty Seats

VERSE 1

You’re not owed an audience

And we’re not fucking idiots

Shouting in an empty venue

Isn’t on our college menu

Fuck your so called “big ideas”

There’s no sense in fighting us

Racist trash and sexist garbage

Spoken by obvious con artists

CHORUS

Yelling at empty seats

About what you believe

What will it achieve?

Who will you deceive?

VERSE 2

Yelling at invisible drag queens

Transgender males in their teens

Black Lives Matter protestors

And human rights protectors

Yelling at people not even there

We stayed home in case you care

Your talking points bore us to tears

Try spreading hope instead of fear

CHORUS

Yelling at empty seats

About what you believe

What will it achieve?

Who will you deceive?

PRE-VERSE

Let me ask you a philosophical question

VERSE 3

If you shout and nobody cares

Were you even fucking there?

Do you go on a verbal tear

And picture everyone in underwear?

When you break the fourth wall

Do you need to give mommy a call?

If only there was someone to answer

But we’re busy avoiding your banter

EXTENDED CHORUS

Yelling at empty seats

About what you believe

What will it achieve?

Who will you deceive?

Yelling at empty rows

Purple-in-the-face prose

Save it, we already know

Same shit, different show

Do It Live

VERSE 1

I hate answering the phone, I hate answering the door

Especially when all I want to do is fucking snore

I hate cleaning up cat barf, I hate cleaning up dog shit

I speak a colorful language and I won’t fucking watch it

I hate lifting heavy boxes, I hate bumping into walls

I hate having to tell the dog to not scratch my balls

The little things I hate send me into a bloody rage

If throwing fits was a crime, I’d be in a monkey cage

CHORUS

I’ll write it and we’ll do it live!

We’ll do it live!

Fuck it, do it live!

Fucking thing sucks!

VERSE 2

Every character I have is on a violent rampage

Every song that I write is dripping with rage

Every story that I publish is drooling with venom

Every drawing that I make is another damn weapon

Every thought that I have makes me want to punch

A fucking hole in your skull and have it for lunch

I need anger management in the worst fucking way

Before the world at large is going to fucking pay

CHORUS

I’ll write it and we’ll do it live!

We’ll do it live!

Fuck it, do it live!

Fucking thing sucks!

VERSE 3

Maybe my short fuse can be blamed on schizophrenia

Or maybe it’s been a while since I’ve had an enema

Or maybe I don’t do enough yoga in hot shorts

Or maybe my blood sugar is a little low on quarts

Or maybe it’s my past of being stuck in class

With the pieces of shit and the pains in the ass

Or maybe I’m just born with a dragon fire temper

Or maybe I’m sick of being my own defender

FINAL WORDS

Do it live, motherfucker! Do it live! X4

Everybody's Rock

The corny commercials on TV rotted Clark Hall’s brain into mush and froze his heart into an arctic glacier. The sounds of his girlfriend Sydney Farrow sobbing only a few feet away from him did nothing to bring him out of his trance. Even when Sydney took a few seconds to blow her nose or sob even louder, she couldn’t get her boyfriend’s undivided attention. She wiped away her tears with a napkin and finally asked, “Are we going to talk about this?”

“Nope,” said Clark without even thinking about his answer. Instead he just flipped through channels in a vain attempt to find something that will rejuvenate his porridge mind.

“Say something!” shrieked Sydney.

“Something.”

After one last wipe of her drenched face and smeared makeup, the pajama pants and tank top-wearing Sydney ripped the remote control out of Clark’s hand and turned the TV off. All he could do was stare her down with a frosty expression, not even a little burst of energy. With her hands animated, Sydney freaked out when she said, “Clark, why won’t you talk to me?! Just once I’d like to have a real conversation with you! For god’s sake, do something! Sing! Dance! Anything! Do anything at all!”

“Anything?”

“Yes, anything at all!”

Taking her words literally, Clark moseyed on over to the kitchen table and sprinkled salt n his own head. “There, I did something.”

Wide-eyed and slack-jawed, Sydney asked, “What the hell’s wrong with you?! Are you fucking insane?! You knew damn well what I meant! You’re taking a serious situation and ripping the piss!”

“Serious? You want to talk about seriousness? How am I supposed to take you seriously when you keep crying every damn day?! Every fucking day, it’s the same thing! More tears! More drama! More bullshit! You know why I watch so much television? Because it’s the only thing that can take me away from your horseshit!”

Holding Clark’s hand in hers, Sydney wept, “Please, stop talking like that! You’re scaring me!” In typical Clark Hall fashion, the stone cold lover dropped to his knees and rattled off in devilish tongues. Sydney finally snapped, “You’re scaring me!”

Seemingly taking this conversation seriously, Clark stood back up and gazed into his girlfriend’s damp eyes. “You’re scared, huh? That’s okay, baby girl. I’m scared too. I’m scared of where this dramatic diarrhea will take us. I’m scared of never being able to feel happy again. Your sadness is making me sad! The only difference between you and me is that I’m not allowed to cry, seeing as how I’m a man and all.”

“Nobody said you couldn’t cry, Clark!”

“Bullshit! That’s bullshit! I hear people say that shit everyday! I’m always the one who has to be the strong superman for everybody! I’m the one who has to be everybody’s rock! I remember being a kid when I rode my bike and landed on my ass! Did anybody let me cry? No! Not one fucking person! Not my dad! Not my mom! They both wanted me to be a so-called real man! Well, congratulations, fuckers! I’m a real fucking man now!”

Taking her boyfriend’s hands once again, Sydney delicately said, “You can cry in front of me if you want, Clark. I won’t judge you. I’d never judge you for something like that.”

“Yeah right! If I start sobbing, who are you going to have left for comfort? Huh? Who’s going to be there for emotional support? I don’t even know how to fall to pieces! Twenty fucking years of pissed off feelings, Sydney, and I ain’t done a damn thing with all that rage! Now what?!”

Eyebrows furrowed, teeth clenched, skin pink, and muscles tensed, Sydney’s rage boiled over when she whispered, “You want to cry? Go ahead, Clark. Do it. Do it! Cry, damn it! Show some emotion for the first time in your fucking life! Be the man I fell in love with so many years ago! The one who wrote me all that poetry! The one who didn’t give a shit what anybody else thought of him! Come on, damn it, cry! Cry!” Her last few words were punctuated with shoves to Clark’s chest.

He brushed his hand through his thick brown hair and used his Pink Floyd the Wall T-shirt to air himself out, but no tears came. Not one drop. Just clenched teeth and a pointed finger. “You can’t do this to me, Sydney. You’re not going to break me. Not tonight, not ever!”

Sydney brought Clark’s face over and planted a wet kiss on his lips, get a few teardrops on his shoulders in the process. The boyfriend’s eyes widened at the gesture while the girlfriend remained pissed off and intense. “Now cry, damn it. Cry! You have my permission even though you never needed it. Open those floodgates!”

Clark’s breathing intensified while he tried in vain to hide his face from his girlfriend. His muscles tightened, then relaxed, then tightened, then relaxed again. His face was concentrated on his black socks and teal sweatpants. Twenty years of being pissed off. Twenty years of nothingness. Twenty years of emptiness. It all resulted in a primal scream of the F-word followed by several punches to the couch cushions. It didn’t matter how hard he punched, because no amount of toughness could prepare him for what came next.

The first tear dropped on the couch pillow. Then the second. Then the third. And then they swarmed and multiplied until the emotional dam finally exploded. For the first time in Clark’s life, he felt absolution from being “everybody’s rock”. He tried hard to suck back his tears, but it was too late: the floodgates had permanently opened. “This isn’t fair,” he muttered. “This isn’t fair!”

As Clark sobbed some more, he felt Sydney’s fingernails gently scraping down his back while the softness of her other hand petted his hair like a kitty. She whispered in his ear, “Of course it’s fair, honey. Don’t fight it. Let them come.”

“How? How could I let this happen?”

“It’s okay, Clark. I love you. I always will. Scoot over, I want to lay next to you.” The two of them snuggled together on the couch sobbing silently into each other’s arms. It was as Clark prophesized: more drama. More tears. More bullshit. More awkwardness. But it felt right. It felt as though this was where the conversation was meant to go all along. Twenty years of bitterness could never have become twenty-one no matter how hard Clark tried. He didn’t remember much from that night, but only because he fell asleep on the couch shortly after, taking Sydney’s cherry kisses with him into dreamland.

By the time the butt crack of dawn came shining through the apartment window, Clark Hall was so drained that he didn’t even have the energy to open his eyes, which were still damp, salty, and fiery from the night before. The only difference was that Sydney wasn’t in his arms anymore. Clark slowly picked his head up off the pillow and saw that she was drinking coffee at the kitchen table, still in her tank top and pajama pants.

The psychologically emancipated boyfriend peeled his body off of the leather couch and stumbled towards the table to join his equally drained girlfriend. A cup of coffee was already there waiting for him. He took several sips of the sugar and cream-drenched stimulant, but still couldn’t wake up. If he spent eternity on that couch, it would be alright with him.

Breaking the awkward silence, Clark asked, “Did you want to talk about last night?”

“Did you?”

“No, not really,” said Clark as he stretched his arms out. “I have to be at work in an hour. All that crying drained me the fuck out.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“I don’t even want to go today, but it is what it is. Maybe we can talk about this tomorrow?”

“…Yeah…tomorrow…”

The two of them absentmindedly sipped their coffee while the lessons of the previous night struggled to sink in. Would tomorrow be another dramatic spell? Would Clark spend more time in front of the TV? He didn’t know. He didn’t want to know. All he wanted to do was go back to sleep and maybe take a sick day. But just like with all things in life, it was back to the grind again. Just another day, just another lousy paycheck. “Tomorrow…tomorrow…I love you…tomorrow…” Clark sang in his head.

Computer Rage

***COMPUTER RAGE***

Good news, potty mouths! Scientific studies are showing that people who swear have a higher understanding of English language skills than people who don’t. This is indeed good news for me, because most of my horrific swearing bouts have come at the expense of my computer. Anytime my computer slows down, freezes, or just plain stops working, it’s not enough just to sit and wait. No, I have to unleash a firestorm of curses at the computer, most of which would land me in jail if I said them to a human being. For the first time ever, I will provide everyone here with a transcript of the most offensive, god-awful insults I’ve ever screamed at my computer. I’m purposefully excluding homophobic slurs from this transcript because I have too much respect for the LGBT community to post them. Otherwise, happy reading!


“Quit douching around!”

“You stupid ass computer!”

“Get moving, bitch!”

“Get your ass in gear!”

“Get your ass online!”

“I’m going to smack the shit out of you, you stupid son of a bitch!”

“I’m going to put my dick in your CD drive!”

“Goddamn it, move!”

“Don’t you disconnect! Don’t you fucking disconnect! Goddamn it!”

“I hope you goddamn die, you fucking computer!”

“Go to hell, you piece of shit!”

“You’re going to get your ass kicked if you don’t move your fucking ass!”

“Blow me! Blow me, blow me, blow me!”

“Screw you, you douche-bag!”

“I’m going to take a big fucking shit on you if you don’t move!”

“Play the goddamn fucking song!”

“FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!”


What can I say? It’s a healthy way to release angry stress. It’s not healthy for everyone in my house who has to listen to me, but it’s healthy for me. I’ll take a firestorm of swear words over squeezing a rubber ball or doing yoga any day of the fucking week. See what I did there? We’ve got ears, say cheers, bitches!


***OCCUPY WRESTLING***

I plan on posting this journal on many websites and Deviant Art is one of them. If you follow me on Deviant Art, then you’ve probably noticed a few chapters of Occupy Wrestling stacked up in your inbox, my most recent one being number five. I hope I get to sit down and edit some more on a regular basis. If I can bulldoze the first American Darkness book, I can probably do the same with Occupy Wrestling. We’ll just have to wait and see.


***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

Up next on deck is my second attempt at drawing a female character since making Danielle Courtney look like Marilyn Manson in drag. My niece Reina seems to think Miss Courtney looks like a “sassy black lady with a puppet face”. Hehehehehe! Here’s to hoping Hannah Jason looks a little more pleasant. Who’s Hannah Jason? She’s the magic-wielding assassin from “Bee Jay the Glutinous” who protects the little orange kitty from Raul Thunderstone’s cruelty. Hannah is modeled after the Diablo II sorceress, so maybe that will influence what I chose for a reference picture. Eh, maybe not.


***REINA***

On the 19th of this month, Reina will be celebrating her 12th birthday with me and the family. It’s hard to believe that my little baby niece is on the precipice of teen-hood. Holy shit! She wants to celebrate this coming-of-age milestone by playing in the swimming pool at the YMCA and by seeing the new Star Wars movie at the Regal Cinemas. I got her two presents for her special day, but I won’t be divulging what they are since Reina could potentially read this online and have her surprise spoiled. I hope she likes them! Happy Birthday, Reina-Bear! It’d be nice if everyone who reads this wishes her a Happy Birthday as well.


***TWEET OF THE DAY***

(RE: having a high character ranking in UFC’s latest videogame)

“Not since Samus Aran was revealed to be a woman have dummies been this butt hurt about a video game.”

-CM Punk-

The Franciscan Death Scream

There’s been speculation among every psychic my mother has visited that in a past lives I was always a warrior of some kind. It could have been a barbarian in the dark ages or a marine in Vietnam. I’d say those assessments are true to the fullest extent, especially as they relate to battle cries. Well, these days, the only battle cries I let out are ones where I’m in an extreme amount of pain. You want to know how I define an extreme amount of pain? Stepping on a thumb tack. Banging my elbow against the wall. Banging my head on the roof of a short car. With the way I scream loudly and whiningly in pain, you would have sworn I’d broken a bone or had a limb amputated. But that’s the price of being autistic: high sensitivity to everything, including the most insignificant kind of pain.

My blood draw in 2006 at the Franciscan Hospital in Gig Harbor, Washington was no different. I had to have one because it was part of my physical checkup. Just because I had to have one, didn’t mean I had to particularly enjoy it. Needles are sharp. Sharpness creates pain. Pain creates death screams that make me sound like I’m being fed through a wood chipper or being cut in half crotch first with a chainsaw. I don’t know why people say that needles aren’t a big deal. They’re always going to be sharp and they’re always going to hurt whether they’re drawing blood or threading yarn through a piece of cloth.

My blood draw went exactly how I expected it would. I sat in a chair that looked like it belonged in a dentist’s office. The anxiety in my stomach builds. The nurse tied a rubber tourniquet around my upper arm. The anxiety in my stomach builds even further and now I start making little whining noises. The nurse tells me to look away as if that’s going to help ease the pain. It didn’t matter where I was looking, because the end result was having a bastard sword-like needle plunged into my arm.

As to be expected, I let out a blood-curdling death scream. It was loud. It was throaty. It was slightly girlish. It was like being a female lion in an extreme amount of pain. Apparently, there were frightened little kids in the waiting room who ran upstairs after hearing my shriek of agony and their parents ran after them. Any stragglers would have hurried up after hearing me cry, “Take the needle out! Take the needle out!” The nurse did and I let out another bellow of berserker pain.

Ever since that day, anytime I go to that hospital in Gig Harbor, the nurses and doctors always expect me to scream. They make no attempt to silence me, unlike my mother whose favorite line is always, “There’s no yelling.” Oh, but there is. There is and there always will be, dear mother. There was screaming when I had to have my big toes operated on for ingrown nails, there was screaming when I had to have my foot examined after a cat bite, and there’s even screaming at my eye doctor appointments in Port Orchard when he puts stinging drops in my eyes for a glaucoma test.

Unless my mother is considering a career as a dominatrix, there will be no silence anywhere we go. If we go on another horseback ride in Arizona, my groin and legs are going to hurt so badly that I’ll yell as if they’re being blasted with an AK-47. If my computer malfunctions at home or if a WWE pay-per-view on my Roku freezes up, I’m going to scream and swear at either one until my blood pressure is in the 300’s and my pulse is in the 1000’s.

Three things are certain in my mother’s life as well as the life of anybody who lives with me: death, taxes, and barbaric war cries. The only thing I’m missing is a horned helmet and a double-sided battleaxe. Of course, carrying such a heavy weapon would cause strain and strain causes even more shrills of extreme pain. I’ve got the barbaric ethos down to a science and I haven’t even swung my weapon yet (and I’m not sure I will be able to).

　

***COMMERCIAL DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

GUY: I’m eating right and staying in shape. I’ve been doing the Duck Dodger.
GIRL: What’s the Duck Dodger?
GUY: It’s like a triathlon, but with dodge balls.
GIRL: Do they leave a mark?
GUY: Not on the outside.

-Subway-

"Shout" by Tears For Fears

Ever have moments where you’re being held down so tightly that you have no alternative than to shout? There certainly is no shortage of people holding the less fortunate down. This isn’t just a conspiracy theory that a bunch of stoner teenagers came up with. This is real. If it wasn’t real, we’d have a much quieter volume going on around the country. Whether we’re authors with a mile high stack of rejection letters, broken down workers who need a break, high school students with a brain full of insulting words, or anybody else who feels a gigantic thumb pressing firmly against their backs, sooner or later, we feel the need to raise our voices in one moment of angry passion. The places in which we can perform this hell raising action are very limited. If you did it in the classroom, you’d get detention. If you did it in jail, you’d get your ass kicked by the guards. If you did it on the street, people would go out of their way to avoid you. You might be able to get away with a screaming burst in your own home, provided you live in an empty space. The only places where I could envision getting away with a loud tantrum would be rock concerts. Pick a band, any band, a good band. It could be a heavy and violent act like Soulfly or Five Finger Death Punch or it could be something a little lighter like Pink Floyd or Toto. Yelling is not only allowed, it’s encouraged. Or since we’re talking about a Tears For Fears song, you could very easily get away with it there since they’re technically labeled alternative rock. Yes, your throat will be sore, scratchy, and numb after all that screaming. Yes, you might get a nasty headache even Excedrin couldn’t cure. But you know what the alternative to lacking an outlet for your voice is? Violence. If there’s no channel for our anger and rage, we make one. We could cause a riot and create a citywide bonfire. We could punch in a car window and steal a radio. We could beat each other up in a five on one assault. We all have aggression. But it’s the ones who can create something beautiful and orgasmic out of it that will see a light at the end of the tunnel. How do I channel my anger? Writing. I create scenarios in which two barbarians battle it out or I write a poem so aggressive that even Sworn In would mellow out after a while. But the key with writing is to create something beautiful from the burning ashes. If you create hatred, you can expect hatred in return. Neo-Nazis, gangsters, KKK members, these are all people who thrive on hate and make life miserable for the rest of us because of it. If you absolutely need a channel for your aggression, just remember to “shout, shout, let it all out. These are the things I can do without. Come on. I’m talking to you. Come on.”

　

***COMEDIC QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“The whole idea of battered distant relatives strikes me as a little strange. To get on a bus for six or seven hours a day just to beat the shit out of someone you hardly ever see.”

-George Carlin-