Two-Sentence Horror Stories

Susan’s alarm clock went off at seven in the morning and she was slowly sitting up in her comfy beddy-bye. When her eyes finally adjusted to the glaring sunlight, she saw the Burger King mascot sitting next to her in bed where her ten-year-old daughter normally was.

Little Maria was playing in the sandbox by herself with her lovable stuffed rabbit and her Winnie the Pooh Pillow Pet. The shadow of a perverted old man in a trench coat appeared over her as he whispered the words, “I can’t wait until you turn 18!”

Stephanie McMahon’s relentless slaps across The Big Show’s face were stinging with orange hot pain. Big Show retaliated by clutching Stephanie’s throat, not to give her his patented choke slam, but to shove a date rape drug down her throat.

Mario ran as fast as his chubby body would carry him as he pilfered the golden key from the evilly grinning Phanto. The sinister mask finally caught up to him and with one monstrous chomp bit Mario’s ear off like Mike Tyson.

The baldheaded and bloodthirsty Calcobrena puppets came to life and started dancing like they were performing in the world’s scariest ballet. The urine stain in Cecil’s pants was so damp that he would need a Sham Wow to soak up the stale fluids.

Rosa curled in the corner and shivered as the disgusting and perverted Dr. Lugae slowly approached her. He leaned his disfigured face close to her tear-soaked face and said, “Are you wearing a Milk Duds bra?”

Wanderlei Silva was flipping through the pages of the ultra-sexy Ronda Rousey’s ESPN photo shoot magazine with Matt Brown looking over his shoulder. Wanderlei said, “Ronda sure looks good.” and Matt Brown replied with, “Tastes good too, bro!”

Tarja Turunen received her 501^st letter and it revealed a picture of her naked and butchered husband Marcelo Cabuli bound with chains and ball gagged. Below the picture were the words written in Floydian font: “Leave him for me…or else!”

G-Switch had been stripped naked and sprayed with a cold hose as his prison cell awaited him for what would be a life sentence. When it came time to give him his uniform, he didn’t get an orange jumpsuit, but a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader outfit instead.

The frightened and defenseless Tina huddled in the dark corner while her attacker slowly approached her with a club in his hand. The lights flickered on to reveal the assailant as Drew Carey in a black banana hammock, who went on to say, “Welcome to Who’s Life Is It Anyway, where everything’s made up and the points are as useless as your cries for help!”

Todd knelt and sobbed over the bloody remains of his butchered wife. The torturer put a hand on the poor husband’s shoulder and gave him some good news: “I just saved a bunch of money on car insurance by switching to Geico.”

Gail was called into the massage therapist’s office for what was sure to be a relaxing and joyful experience. That all changed when she found out her massage therapist was Jeffrey Dahmer, who just got off of his “lunch break” and was back on the clock.

Charles had just devoured a delicious Chinese meal of fried sole, egg drop soup, and creamed broccoli. When he opened his fortune cookie, the little strip of paper read, “Thank you for eating at Hannibal Lector’s Golden Grill.”

Dave had just been served a scrumptious plate of Chinese fried rice and pork chow mein by the lovely smiling waitress. When he asked for a fork, however, the waitress pulled one out of her apron and stabbed him in the hand repeatedly until the metal utensil went all the way through.

Staci was tied to the street post with sharp steel chains and gagged with a horse mask. The only people who would come to her rescue were religious protestors who were holding up rainbow-colored signs that said, “God hates gags.”

With a dirty old man in lingerie chasing her across the parking garage, Elizabeth tripped over her high heeled shoes and lost one of them in the process. When the old man got close enough, he went after the shoe instead and took a huge sniff of the fetishized footwear.

Ronald McDonald approached the checkout isle of the grocery store with a basket full of goodies. Among the items purchased in unison were a bottle of lotion, a box of tissues, and a copy of Teen Cosmopolitan magazine.

Terrance approached the speaker box at Wendy’s and placed the following order: “I’d like a bowl of chili with a finger in it, a double bacon cheeseburger with human jerky, and an unsweetened iced tea with a woman’s big toe floating near the top.” Without missing a beat, the clerk on the other end of the speaker said, “If everything on the screen is correct, that’ll be $8.99 at the first window.”

Jerry and Sonya stripped each other of their clothing for a night of intimate romance. To get the lovemaking started, Jerry said in an African accent, “I am the captain now!”

Jeremiah was busy in the barn milking the cow when Uncle Zeb entered with a disgusted look on his face and said, “That’s a bull, son.” Jeremiah smiled at the farm master and said, “I knew that.”

A hefty mall cop entered Victoria’s Secret looking for a man named Victor Timothy. When the sexy brunette clerk shortened the two given names and put them together, it became painfully clear to her what the mall cop was really looking for.

The photo shoot for the No H8 campaign required that the celebrities in question, Daniel Bryan and Brie Bella, put duct tape on their mouths as a form of protest against bullying. When all the needed pictures were taken, the photographer then produced two more “protest props”: a black leather gimp hood and a red rubber ball gag.

William took a bite of cherry pie and thought it was so delicious that he needed to know the ingredients. Jenny leaned her face seductively into his and listed the ingredients as rhubarb, chocolate-covered cherries, cane sugar, orange juice, and finally…the minced remains of William’s mother.

The charismatic spokesman for Metro PCS bounced a purple metal ball around with the message that phone service was only $40, period. After he continually drove home the point of “period power”, he was brutally run over by a semi-truck delivering Kotex products.

Thomas took a swig of chocolate milk and immediately had the urge to vomit himself inside out. When he looked at the milk jug, not only did the expiration date say January 2^nd, 1904, but the brand name was “Honey Bucket”.

Richard was told that a Playboy Bunny was waiting for him at the Motel 6 for a night of “sensual action”. When he opened the door, he got an entirely different kind of bunny: a 300 lb. mountain man in a Bugs Bunny outfit wielding a morning star.

"Country Song" by Seether

From childhood to my early teens, I played with toys and exercised my imagination so that one day I could use it to make my dreams come true as an adult. Now that I’m an adult and have four e-books to my name, I continually look for tributes to my childhood either on the internet, in movies, or in books. I recently saw The Lego Movie and my nostalgia needs were on orgasmic overdrive.

Long before that movie came out, I saw the music video for “Country Song” by Seether, which front man Shaun Morgan once called “Toy Story on crack”. He wasn’t kidding. The video shows a kid playing with action figures on the beach and whatever he’s doing to the toys happens in the world that Shaun Morgan and his band mates inhabit.

The band members are cowboys in the wild west (as the title “Country Song” would suggest) and the other toys are the villains of the story. You’ve got a Mexican luchador, a teddy bear, a space man, all of which occupy a wild west story, by the way.

But that’s the great thing about having a budding imagination: rules don’t matter. If Shaun Morgan wants to shoot an imaginary chain gun at the other “characters” in the music video, so be it. If a big fuzzy teddy bear wants to stir up trouble in an anachronistic nightmare, let him do it. And if the kid’s little sister wants to bring her Barbies along, they can stand by Shaun’s side like the smoking hot cheerleaders they are.

When you’re a kid playing with your toys, any object can be whatever you make it. If I was eight years old and saw a lead pipe lying on the ground, I’d probably interpret it in my play world as a big ass flame cannon. If I had a human-sized stuffed panda on my bed, he’d be one hard ass motherfucker for a Lego man to kill. If I saw a rubber stamp from the library lying on the ground, I’d probably use it to flatten my action figures into pancakes (in my imagination, of course).

I was born in 1985, which means I’m physically a grownup now. Emotionally? Far from it. While I prefer to play with characters in my stories instead of action figures, I’m still the same kiddy-pie I was in the 80’s and 90’s. A boy has the right to dream, but a man has the means to make those dreams come true.

Did I mention that I have four e-books to my name? Go to Smash Words and search for Garrison Kelly if you’re interested. Go to You Tube to watch the music video for “Country Song” by Seether as well. Seether is a hard band not to love, but in case you don’t, at least you can have a nostalgia boner when watching the music video.

　

***TELEVISION DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

INTERVIEWER: What will you tell your children when they ask about what mommy did with her talents?

TEMPERENCE: I’m not going to have children.

-Bones-

Dr. Pie

When I was writing a story for a videogame idea called Final Fantasy Hardcore, my idea of cage fighting wasn’t what you see today in the UFC. There were no referee stoppages, no judges scoring the fight, no padded gloves, no baggy shorts, no nothing. To my way of thinking, cage fighting was a lot like how it was depicted in the X-Box game Dead or Alive 3 with electrified barbed wire surrounding the ring. Herb Dean or John McCarthy wouldn’t be there to save your ass. The only way you’re getting out of these cage fights is in a hearse. I wanted the cage fights in Final Fantasy Hardcore to resemble this smash mouth way of life. And of course, every sport has its legends, which is why I want to use this blog entry to talk about Dr. Pie. Think of him as being a much more badass parody of Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. Dr. Pie had short dreadlocks, a wife beater shirt, baggy khakis, basically in terms of looks, he resembled a street thug rather than a caricature of The Rock. Where Dr. Pie begins to look like him is when he has microphone time. And if you’re going to give him a microphone, you’d better change the rating of whatever show he’s on to TV-MA. This goes beyond turning something sideways and sticking it up somebody’s colon. Dr. Pie will take it one step too far. “Dr. Pie says, he’s going to pull out a condom, put it on his dick, bend you over, pull your pants down, and stick it straight up your candy ass!” It didn’t end with the world’s most obvious sexual come-on. Try this on for size: “Do you smell what Dr. Pie is fisting?” A little more disgusting, but it’s an M-rated game, so he can get away with it. But if he does happen to transition to the PG-era of cage fighting, he can say something like this: “John Cena looks like a giant box of digested Cocoa Puffs!” Mr. Cena probably won’t be too happy about that and will want to challenge Dr. Pie to a match at Wrestlemania. Truth is, John might be able to get away with that when he’s up against The Rock. But if Dr. Pie gives John Cena a Rock Bottom, it won’t just shake the ring and bring the fans to their feet; it’ll snap Cena’s spine in two like a candy cane. It’ll burst his ribcage like a bubble. It’ll spill his innards all over the arena. The medical examiner will have to carry him out in a pickle jar. Don’t get me started if Dr. Pie goes for a People’s Elbow. There won’t be any running off the ropes or any other fruity theatrics. Those elbows will look more like they were done by the love child of Ricardo Lamas and Bad News Barrett. When Ricardo Lamas threw elbows at a downed Erik Koch at a UFC event, Mr. Koch bled out of his forehead like a fire hydrant and John McCarthy had to stop the match. And Bad News Barrett? A knockout elbow is his favorite finishing move. He even calls it the Bad News Bull Hammer to give you an idea of how badly it hurts to be hit with it. With all this nasty shit going on for Dr. Pie, it won’t be long before he finds a kick-ass story to be a part of.

　

***FACE BOOK POST OF THE DAY***

“What’s disgusting to my audience is mundane to me.”

-Me-

"Last Train Home" by Pat Metheny

From September 2007 to June 2008, my main method of transportation between Bellingham (college) and Port Orchard (home) was the Greyhound Bus. The filthy, disgusting, degenerate Greyhound Bus complete with a urine and shit-scented bathroom and mentally unstable passengers who have an uncanny knack for breaking out of straightjackets. It was a miserable experience that I don’t wish to repeat anytime soon. One day in late 2008, my senior year of college, I was in the bus station with my mom and I told her in the saddest voice possible, “I hate this place.” It wasn’t hard for her to see why. Therefore, instead of taking the putrid and rancid Greyhound Bus with dirty diaper stains and beer-scented creeps, I took the Amtrak home on the weekends. The train is a much gentler experience than an intercity bus. The people are sane, the staff is friendly, the scenery is much more pleasant, the passengers get to move around at will instead of being cramped all the time, and best of all, they had a food lounge in a separate car. Such a joyous public transportation experience deserves a special kind of music and that song is called “Last Train Home” by Pat Metheny. I used to listen to this song all the time when I was a kid, but I didn’t know it until I asked my dad about it. My main question to him was, “What was the song with the train in the music video and the guy who looks like George Harrison?” It wasn’t much to go on, but dad came through for me when he told me the name of the song. It was a worthy quest for knowledge. Imagine these peaceful instruments coming together to make beautiful music: an Indian-style guitar, a grand piano, a snare drum with brush sticks, an upright bass, and maracas. You’ll be knocked out within the first few seconds of the song. That is, if you aren’t already relaxed by the orange and pink sunset followed by the starry night with the vanilla moon in your train window. And just for the hell of it, imagine a hotdog and diet soda on your food tray while you patiently await your next destination. If listening to this music with Bose noise-cancelling headsets, you get bonus points, because if there’s ever a disrupting noise such as children screaming or cowboys laughing, Pat Metheny’s gorgeous music will be all you hear. Simple pleasures such as these open up creative pathways in more ways than just getting schoolwork done. You could actually write novels under these conditions. Or you can do what I’m currently doing, that is edit the hell out of preexisting stories you’ve written in preparation for a new anthology to be released. If you have an imagination as vast as the stars in the night sky, you can make these beautiful circumstances work.

　

***COMEDIC QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“Washington: we’re left of Idaho. Then again, who isn’t?”

-John Keister-

Strangers Kissing

Let’s face it, people: we live in a world where the lines of communication are open (because of smart phones and the internet), but nobody talks to each other. I’m not proud to say I’m guilty of this myself. I have god knows how many friends on Face Book, yet I can’t be bothered to talk directly to them. Part of it is because of my own shyness. I can’t get passed these barriers between myself and my friends (and family) because I don’t know how to break them down. That’s why when I watched the “20 Strangers Kiss for the First Time” video, a part of me died and went to romantic heaven. Twenty strangers means ten random couples altogether, eight heterosexual couples, one lesbian couple, and one gay couple. I can’t put enough emphasis on the idea that these people were complete strangers to each other. Naturally, they were a little shy at first when asked to kiss each other. But kiss each other they did. Some of them were pecks on the lips, others were full-on tongue kisses. Any barriers these “couples” had between them were knocked over with authority. When somebody kisses you that passionately for seemingly no reason, it doesn’t take away from the fact that they’re giving you something worth having: trust. These strangers weren’t forced into doing this. I don’t even know if they were paid for being actors in this video. With a barrier between them and a camera capturing their tender moment, they gave each other their trust. A lot of trust. That trust was well-deserved too. None of these people would have agreed to kiss each other if the other person was a sociopath or a jerk. Even though they were complete strangers, they saw something in each other’s eyes that made them want to kiss. Again, they could have opted out of the movie and they didn’t. Just watch the video on You Tube if you haven’t already. It’s a beautiful experience and will restore your faith in a humanity tainted by violence, shallowness, and evil. The video is only a few minutes long, but that’ll be long enough to melt your heart like a stick of butter. It’ll even make you want to be a part of this video. And while you’re feeling these emotions of vicarious romance, if you have any interest in preserving them, don’t read the comments underneath the video. Among the ignorant remarks include homophobic slurs toward the gay couple, accusations of the actors being hipsters, suggestions that it’s somehow fake, etc. You have to remember that You Tubers, while sometimes entertaining, are not always the sharpest bulbs in the drawer. Or is it the brightest knives? Aw, fuck, here we go again. Anyways, just go to You Tube and type “Strangers Kissing” in the search engine. It’ll make you jealous, but it’ll also break your heart. Maybe there will be a few tears in your eyes, you never know.

　

***FACE BOOK MEME OF THE DAY***

“You can’t jack off to lesbian porn hours a day and then say you’re against gay marriage.”

-Being Liberal-

Dream Moods

I have two different dream interpretation books and both of them were written in the early 20^th century and are therefore obsolete. Now that we have this awesome thing called the internet, there’s a website called Dream Moods that looks to be pretty up-to-date and damned near accurate. For weeks now, I’ve been posting entries about weird dreams I’ve had thinking they could be creative fodder. It turns out my subconscious is trying to tell me something deeper.

　

High School:


To dream about high school refers to the bonds and friendships that you made while you were in high school. What spiritual lessons have you learned? The dream may also be telling you that you need to start preparing for the real world.



To dream that you have to repeat high school suggests that you are doubting your accomplishments and the goals that you have already completed. You feel that you may not be measuring up to the expectation of others. The dream may occur because some recent situation may have awakened old anxieties and insecurities.

　

Video Game:


To dream that you are playing a video game represents your ability to manipulate others into doing what you want them to do. Alternatively, playing a video game suggests that you are trying to escape from the problems in your real life, instead of confronting it. Consider the type of video game and video game character for additional insights.

　

Pornography:


To dream that you are watching pornography indicates your issues with intimacy, power, control, and effectiveness. You may be having concerns about your own sexual performance. Alternatively, you are afraid of exposing some aspect of yourself.

　

Martial Arts:


To dream that you are practicing martial arts suggest that you need to better focus your energies and direct them on your goals.

　

Crying:


To dream that you are crying signifies a release of negative emotions that is more likely caused by some waking situation rather than the events of the dream itself. Your dream is a way to regain some emotional balance and to safely let out your fears and frustrations. In your daily lives, you tend to ignore, deny, or repress your feelings. But in your dream state, your defense mechanisms are no longer on guard and thus allow for the release of those feelings that you have repressed during the day.

　

To sum up what you’ve read so far, I have no faith in my abilities, I’ve learned nothing from the friendships I’ve formed in high school, I need an escape plan from my problems, I have secrets I keep from those who love me, I don’t care enough about my goals, and my negative emotions are being repressed. Sounds like the psychological geography of a fucked up adult to me. So now that I know all of these things, how do I fix them? The number one answer would be to be honest with myself. Is that really all it takes? Honesty? Okay, let’s try it.

I can self-publish anything I want, but if I even step near a publishing house with a skulking editor and a lecherous agent, there’s no guarantee I’ll make it. How do I overcome this inadequacy? Going out and trying to get traditionally published might work, but in order for that to happen, I need a shit ton of people on my side. In order for them to be on my side, they actually have to read my writing and say “yes” or “no”.

What’s the spiritual lesson I need to learn from my friendships in high school? To share myself with everybody I meet? To come out of my shell? To divulge every secret I’ve got? Yes, doing these things is scary as hell. In order for me to share myself with everybody I meet, they have to be receptive. If I give a girl a rose, she has to accept it without backpedaling or showing other signs of being offended. If I open up the lines of communication with my family, they can’t be overprotective of me when I share a dark secret. I’m always open when it comes to my hatred for my former step-father Art, but it’s no reason to put me under tight security. All I’ve ever wanted was to move on with my life. I can’t do that with too much protection.

So what kind of problems do I have that I can’t run away from anymore? Do I need to tell my arrogant brother to chill the fuck out? Do I need to tell my schizophrenic voices also to chill the fuck out? Do I need to find a job doing something I love even though they’re far out of reach? Do I need to get a girlfriend even though I don’t know how to love? If I’m going to solve my own problems, I have to know that I’m not going to make them worse by being my aggressive self. If I do find a job that I’m happy with, will I be able to get there every day without tiring myself out? If I do confront my older brother, will I be able to bend him to my will and make him see what I see? If I do find a girlfriend, will she accept my advances with perfect faith and not be offended by any contact I make with her? If I need to tackle my problems, then I ‘m going to need some help doing it.

If I don’t care enough about my goals, how do I make myself care? I want to self-publish a modern drama anthology called American Darkness, which means editing old short stories I’ve written and binding them together. I have the resources and the time to do my own editing. How do I do the work without tiring out beforehand or afterwards? Will anybody buy my book when I’ve published it? Will a traditional publisher see it and want to make something out of it? Will the sales of this book earn me enough money and fame to buy anything I want? Will I even figure out what I want to buy with my money other than fast food? Do I want to spend the money on a vacation? If so, where would I go since I know virtually nothing about the world around me? Yes, I know I’m overanalyzing for a self-publishing gig, but these problems need to be faced head on, as stated before.

If my negative emotions are being repressed, how do I let them out in a way where nobody is around me? How can I cry when the tears don’t come? How can I punch the walls without the damage coming out of my pocket? How do I scream and swear without disturbing anybody else? How do I find the appropriate place to do all of this? Is it on Google? Is it in the phone book? Is the only appropriate place to do this at a heavy metal show where everybody is screaming and fighting anyways?

So many questions and not enough answers. Maybe I have to find my own answers. Maybe I can’t rely on the world to answer my questions for me. If that’s the case, the jury’s still out on how I can turn a fucked up adult into a mature sage. I’ve been completely honest with myself so far, but I don’t feel any different than I did before. The only change I’ve experienced is that my brain has gone cold. That can’t be a good sign. Here’s one more question I add to the growing list: where do I go from here?

　

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!”

-Rage Against the Machine rapping “Killing in the Name of”-

　

***POST-SCRIPT***

Here’s the link to where I found all of my interpretations: www.dreammoods.com.

Dreams About Fighting Criminals

I haven’t been in a fight since 2003. I’m not talking about a pitty-patty slap fest, I’m talking about a real, down in the dirt, drag-out brawl. In 2003 when I had my last fight, I punched my opponent in the face and then he ended up dragging me to the floor and returning the favor tenfold. Ever since then, I’ve thought about getting in more fights, but I’ve never actually done it. It could be that I’ve developed allergies to a jail cell and the people who occupy it. But lord knows there were plenty of people in my life worth kicking the shit out of. I could do it too if I put my mind to it. This must be the reason why I keep having dreams at night about getting in fights with criminals. Not just anybody, but criminals. High school bullies, street thugs, people who think they’re street thugs, and just plain guys from Seattle: in my dream’s theater, they all want a piece of me. Every time they look for a battle with me, they always lose. I’ve done everything in these subconscious battles from twisting them into submission holds to breaking their necks to just plain delivering punches and kicks. Hell, there was even one dream where I collected the scalps of everybody I fought. What exactly do these dreams mean? Do they mean that it’s time to kick some ass again? I’d like to think so, but again, I’m not looking forward to a life in prison. That reminds me of a little trope about growing up. When you’re a kid and you get in a fight, you get a time out. When you’re a pre-teen, you get a one day vacation from school. When you’re a full-blown teenager, you get a five day vacation from school. But when you’re an adult, that vacation can last anywhere from a short-lived night to a 25-year sentence behind bars. The lesson here is that the older you get, the worse the punishment. If you have people to beat up, do it before you’re old enough to go to prison for a life sentence. This is especially important if you come from a poor family. Matt Taibbi wrote an entire book about how poor people are punished worse than rich people. If you’re a working class black lady and you slap your cheating boyfriend, you’ll go to jail for a long, long time. If you’re a rich white cocksucker who molested his children, the judge will give you probation because rich people “don’t do well in prison”. No wonder I have so many dreams about fighting people: there are lots of people to fight and lots of anger to go around. But this is just the dream world. In the real world, I do all my fighting through my short stories. I have characters who fight for their lives, for justice, for love, and for honor. They don’t always do it with an AK-47 and a Sherman tank. Sometimes they just scream with all their soul power and that’s often enough.

　

***FACE BOOK POST OF THE DAY***

“If Mike Tyson asks permission to do something, is it wrong to tell him to knock himself out?”

-Me-

Psymon Nordonus

If anybody ever fit the definition of a “minor character”, Psymon Nordonus would be that person. Then again, when you have a videogame idea called Final Fantasy Hardcore and the player can choose from up to god knows how many characters, there’re bound to be a few stragglers. Psymon was unfortunately one of the stragglers. He and his best friend Tila were cyberpunk hackers in a world full of corrupt corporations and indestructible androids (the human robots, not the “smart” phones). Together, they could get into any computer system they wanted whether it was an off-shore bank account, a network of dirty secrets, or a World of Warcraft account of somebody they didn’t like. For your information, that last one was a joke. Final Fantasy and Warcraft don’t mesh well together. That would be too much of a dream come true. But for Psymon Nordonus, his dream of being a famous character in my videogame idea was all for not. While he was Tila’s best friend and her shoulder to cry on, it was Johnny Filter who was her love interest. I’ll get into Johnny Filter as soon as his name gets drawn for a character profile. I will say this: with Johnny as Tila’s arm candy, Psymon was pushed to the background rather quickly. He showed almost no feelings of jealousy or heartbreak. He was just a fucking plant. Why would a rogue with mad computer hacking skills be pushed off to the side so easily? Why would a black guy in a purple hoodie and black jean shorts, who carried around a chain whip and used it well, be rarely used? It wouldn’t be the first time this happened to a character with infinite potential. In fact, just recently, the WWE released a longtime employee named Ezekiel Jackson. Ezekiel and Psymon are a lot alike. They’re big buff black guys who can kick the shit out of anybody and look good doing it. Forget bouncing drunkards at a bar, these two could stop a citywide sports riot if they chose to. Of course, if they actually had that ability, they’d just be labeled by the Wrestling Observer Newsletter as the “Most Overrated Wrestler of the Year”. Unless he signs to TNA or ROH, it may be too late for Ezekiel Jackson. But Psymon Nordonus, with his big muscles and even bigger brain, hasn’t even gotten started yet. Final Fantasy Hardcore is no more and he now has a clean slate. What shall we put him through? A cyberpunk hellhole? An MMA smack down? Or maybe he can be employee of the month at Best Buy. That last one was a joke, but it could be real if he was using Best Buy’s laptops to hack into worldwide bank accounts, preferably those of the 1% variety. Oh yeah, I’m liking Psymon already!

　

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“Well, I’m the king of Boggle! There is none higher! I get 11 points off the word quagmire!”

-The Beastie Boys rapping “Putting Shame In Your Game”-

"Like Nobody Else" by My Darkest Days

“September 7^th and she’s headed for school. She’ll probably leave me for some college fool, and I know that’s just the way it goes.” While I wasn’t in a romantic relationship during my college days, I still had people who I was away from for five days a week. Port Orchard may be a crappy town, but it still had the one thing I needed most in those days: my family. Mom, Dale, James, Susan, Reina, the animals, they were all a necessary part of my life. When I went to school in Bellingham for five days a week, my access to these people was very minimal. I had nobody in Bellingham who I could go to for help. My roommates moved out because I snored too loudly. The few friends I did have didn’t stick around long enough for a cup of coffee. I didn’t know of any therapists that were in Bellingham nor did I have a way to get to them. So here I was in this strange little town all by myself. Who would want this kind of loneliness and isolation? Isn’t that what prisoners feel every time they get locked up in solitary confinement? And what was it all for? Forced extroversion? A degree employers don’t care about? Hard-to-understand course material? Classmates who ignore me? I often wonder why I would put myself through this torture in the first place and the only answer that seems plausible is that it helped my writing. Actually, my experiences after college were more helpful to my writing than any class I could have taken. After college, I became a born-again bookworm and started reading fast-paced novels (as opposed to the boring literary garbage we were assigned). I also decided that the only critique I would ever accept from my audience was a hybrid of honesty and sensitivity. Constant reading and openness to gentle critique were what saved me as a writer in the end, not college. In fact, I learned more from joining writing groups on Good Reads than I did in those classrooms. Granted, I was highly immature in those old days, but immaturity eventually goes away with age and experience. So what does “Like Nobody Else” by My Darkest Days mean to me? It may have been the song that convinced me to come home if it was released earlier than 2010 (I went to college from 2007 to 2009). Now that I’m home with my family indefinitely, I still feel bouts of loneliness and depression, but these bouts don’t last as long as the ones in college did. I’m never going away again. Ever. If I do go away, there better be something or someone out there waiting for me. I shouldn’t need a high speed sports car to find whatever’s out there. If there does happen to be someone there for me, I still won’t forget where I come from.

　

***DR. SEUSS QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“That Cat’s gonna suffer like never before!”

-The Grinch-

Burger King Dreams

Regardless of what city I’m visiting in my dreams, there always seems to be a Burger King right up the street. I wouldn’t even have to ask for a ride, I could just walk and that Triple Whopper with Cheese is as good as mine. There was even one dream where UFC fighter Chael Sonnen gave me a cut of his post-fight bonus to go eat at Burger King. He said it was the closest thing to socialism that I would ever get in my lifetime. Nice guy, huh? But let’s talk about this strange archetype for a moment. Why Burger King? Why not McDonald’s, Wendy’s, or Sonic? Could it have something to do with the fact that going to Burger King was a weekend ritual for me during high school? I’ve had lots of high school dreams, so Burger King might be the link I’m looking for. Every weekend during my junior and senior years of high school, my dad would give me a ten dollar bill and I would walk to Burger King to get a Triple Whopper with Cheese. This was obviously before I was eligible for social security, so I needed that ten dollars. When I was packing on weight in a big fucking hurry, he stopped giving me ten dollar bills. It wouldn’t have mattered anyways, because now that I’ve been receiving disability benefits since 2004, I spend most of my money on restaurants and convenience stores. That’s right, folks. My life is so lackluster that the only source of entertainment I have is chowing down on processed meats and cheeses. I take one bite of a greasy hamburger and all my depressive pain goes away. But once the meal is over, I have to find another fix and dinner won’t be for another few hours. Then what? It’s funny that I have all of these writing projects to do and all these books to read on my shelf, yet eating at a fast food restaurant is more fun than doing either of those two things. When someone asks me to read a book, I’m conveniently “mentally exhausted”. But when my step-father is going out for a grocery run and asks me if I need to stop anywhere, my mental energy suddenly comes back to me. In a way, cheap food has become my painkiller, which is funny, because when I started writing this blog entry, I was listening to “Painkiller” by Three Days Grace. But you know what else is a painkiller for me? Writing and reading. The feeling of accomplishment I get from both of those activities will last me for at least the rest of the day. The difference between creative activities and eating is that eating is readily available when I need it. Creativity takes more time. I’m not a patient man, so I choose fast food over writing and reading. This is obviously the wrong path to choose since I have a saggy tummy and big cheeks. But you know what? Until somebody provides me with a solution that’s more permanent than a pep talk, I’m going to keep going down this road. It’s sad and unfortunate, but this is who I am. Food has become a part of me in more ways than just eating it.

　

***DOMESTIC QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“Garrison likes his books like he likes his food: fast and cheap.”

-Susan Wilson-

"Are You My Mother?" by Alison Bechdel

Here’s the deal, folks. I enjoyed reading this book. I really did. I could appreciate the themes of trying to get along with one’s mother, going to a therapist for comfort and answers, and looking for love in the strangest places. Still, given everything, I can’t say that I know what Alison Bechdel was going through in those times. Nobody really can ever know how another person feels since all life paths have their own degree of uniqueness. The multi-layered style in which Alison Bechdel wrote this graphic novel makes it even harder for her audience to understand her situation. In order to figure out what her dreams mean and how to cope with the stress of dealing with an overbearing mother, Alison checks out psychology books from the library and studies the different schools of thought that go into this science. There’s Freud’s method, which was all about the subconscious and the creative material lost within. And then we have a fellow by the name of Donald Winnicott, a psychoanalyst who specialized in relationships between parents and children. Alison becomes so engrossed in this academic reading material that she begins to see Mr. Winnicott as a mother figure himself. In fact, she sees little hints of her mother in several different people, from her therapists to her girlfriends (she‘s a lesbian, in case you couldn‘t tell). In the end, what she wanted was somebody to love her for who she is. She had to go through many emotional hardships to find unconditional love, but it’s all worth it in the end. Stephen Chbosky said it best when he claimed “We accept the love we think we deserve.” In terms of “Are You My Mother?”, the reason Alison Bechdel was experiencing so many anxiety attacks was because she was afraid of getting more of the same disapproval from the people around her, especially her mother. Her mother didn’t even want her to write “Fun Home” at first, let alone this graphic memoir. Things change drastically as the story progresses. Whether you can decipher the educated language and the psychoanalysis or not, you can still find solace in this book. If you’ve ever had a fucked up psychology at any point in your life, grab a copy and get lost in the ocean of despair. It matters not if you’re gay, straight, old, young, male, female, or anything else for that matter. If you can’t relate, make yourself relate. Alison Bechdel makes it easy to do that whether you understand her methods or not.

　

***COMEDIC QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“A father is a mother-fucker.”

-George Carlin-

Sid Underworld

We don’t have too many working class heroes in today’s society, because in order for that to happen, you have to survive the shitty economy. If there’s one character of mine who’s capable of thriving in the American darkness on less than $100 per wrestling match, it’s someone who will stick around like the “cockroach” he’s been referred to as by the higher ups. He’s a jobber named Sid Underworld. He looks like Sid from the SNES version of Final Fight and fights like him too. He also comes out to the music of “Otherworld” from Final Fantasy X fame and psychs up the audience by doing so. How many times has a wrestling crowd really been fired up for a jobber? Maybe in 2011 when Daniel Bryan was getting shitty storylines, but other than that, it hasn’t been done since the wonderful work of Sid Underworld has been known throughout every corner of my own goddamn imagination. If a really muscular badass like Monzo Bleeder from my book “Brawl Mart” spears him in the ribs, Sid won’t exactly do a 360 degree rotation in the air. He’ll do a 720 instead! If Mitch McLeod from that same book Occu-Punches him, Sid Underworld will wake up on the moon. Even if someone like Debra Winter were to gouge him in the eyes with her long fingernails, Sid would sell that as well. In fact, he’d scream so loud in a throaty and beastly voice that he could be the lead singer for Soulfly or Five Finger Death Punch. With this uncanny ability to sell his opponents’ moves, it shouldn’t come as any surprise that he stayed at the bottom of the barrel for so long in the wrestling industry. It’s also a shame that his corporate masters wouldn’t let him move up the ladder. He is so popular with the fans that the Yes Movement can’t compare. The difference though is that Daniel Bryan’s popularity got him into a Wrestlemania 30 match with the legendary Triple H while Sid Underworld, working for KDW, would probably submit to a Finger Poke of Doom from Keegan Day. Why exactly am I making all of these Brawl Mart references if Sid Underworld never made it on the character roster? Maybe it’s wishful thinking, I don’t know. The more I think about it, though, the more I realize that Sid should have replaced Rosie Rogers in that story. Mitch McLeod had no right to elbow a woman in the jaw like he did to Rosie. At least if he did it to Sid, it’d be more believable. Plus, Debra Winter would be more likely to cheat on Mitch with Sid than she would with Rosie. Maybe I’m speaking too soon. Maybe Brawl Mart can be an instant classic despite Rosie Rogers getting the attention instead of Sid Underworld. I’m not entirely finished with writing pro-wrestling novels. Maybe Sid can make an appearance in one of them. Maybe he can poke his head out of a boiling pool of red liquid and say, “I’ll be back!” Bonus points to anybody who knows what movie that comes from.

　

***WRESTLING QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“Let me ask you something, Ric Flair: what the hell is a nature boy? Does it mean you like nature? Does it mean you like boys?”

-Stone Cold Steve Austin-

"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-

Concert Dreams

When I go to sleep at night, a common dream I have is going to a concert of some sort. The people at the concert vary from large crowds to one or two people. The bands also vary wildly. One dream, I saw a concert headlined by Korn, Skillet, and Immortal Technique. Can you imagine those three in one show? A libertarian nu metal band, a Christian conservative rock band, and an atheist liberal rapper all under one roof. If Seattle didn’t have riot problems before, they’ve got them once again. You think that’s crazy? How about going to a Three Days Grace concert in a college lecture hall where the opening act is a black and white movie about old ladies. Or perhaps you’d rather see Anthony Jeselnik do standup comedy in a college lecture hall while playing a really old Final Fantasy game. Or maybe you’d rather watch a Pink Floyd show where they flaunt faceless masks like muscles at the beach. Either way, you’re in for a show if you’re living in my subconscious. These dreams are obviously telling me to go to a rock concert. It has to be more of a deep message than that. Maybe the diversity in political and religious views in each band is an archetype telling me to embrace differences. Maybe the concert I go to where nobody’s there indicates that I have nobody to talk to when I go to a real concert. There certainly is no shortage of beautiful ladies in black skirts or jean shorts, but they’re far out of reach for someone of my means. I do plan on going to a concert again someday. Hell, I already missed three chances at cool concerts in the past year and a half. In 2012, I could have seen Nightwish at the Showbox SoDo, but instead I went on vacation with my family to New Mexico to ride horses and get yelled at by my mom for screaming in pain. Skillet was playing at the Tacoma Dome not too long ago. How they stayed out of my radar, I’ll never know. Soulfly was playing in Seattle to promote their Savages album, but that one fell out of my radar as well. I wish ignorance was the only reason I missed the Soulfly concert. Truth is, I don’t want to go back to Seattle for anything. The last time I was there was to see Papa Roach at the Showbox Market. The concert got out at midnight and it was time to call my mom for a ride. My calls kept going to her voicemail. I stood out in the streets of Seattle for one full hour without transportation. During that hour, I was cold, I had to listen to drunken metal heads scream their asses off, and a punk teenager threatened to shoot me. I was mad about the latter of those for three months before I got over it. Concert offers are enticing, especially when they come from within. They’re fun. They’re energetic. They’re experiences that will last a lifetime. But you know what? It’s going to take a lot for me to return to Seattle. Maybe if the Showbox was featuring lesbian sex between Jeanne Sagan from All That Remains and Floor Jansen from Nightwish, just maybe I could be talked into going. But the last time I checked, Jeanne Sagan and Floor Jansen were not sexual objects. They’re musicians. Musicians play music. There better be some damn good music playing in Seattle or Tacoma. Otherwise, my subconscious will be my new favorite venue.

　

***CONCERT QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“This is our tribe, not your tribe, motherfucker!”

-Max Cavalera from Soulfly-