Monday, April 2, 2018
I went the entirety of Lent without posting or sharing a single political comment on any social media platform. It was an interesting experiment, especially considering the first day of Lent was marked by the Parkland shooting and pretty much continued to go downhill.
I learned a lot and have decided to, for the most part, continue that trend. You don't need me to know the world sucks right now and if you didn't know that, you need a lot more than my re-post of an Atlantic article about the President. We're good people. All of us. Alright, most of us.
Why don't we act the way on social the way we act when we're talking to someone in real life? At this point, if you're still a friend of mine, I like you & you obviously like me. Or you have me blocked on Facebook. Either way, let's just be nice.
Saturday, March 17, 2018
As I often do, I'm taking part in another Chuck Wendig Terrible Minds Flash Fiction Challenge. This one is based on this Tweet from a Twitter account that does nothing but throw out insane writing prompts. We're about to see how pure evil celebrates a birthday. And no, it's not political. But this one is.
Everyone thinks being evil, that pure megalomaniacal evil built on a foundation of power and endless streams of money, is easy.
I’m here to tell you, that’s not the case.
I am called many things, but I’m mostly known as Jotara, the Crusher of Souls. My real name is Randy and I used to sell vacuum cleaners door to door. Being the Lord of the Malevolent Keep can be challenging, but it’s indescribably better than dealing with some soccer mom or stay-at-home dad wearing stained sweats, talking down to you because they think they’ve finally met the person one rung lower than them on the social ladder. They were among the first visiting my Chamber of Nefarious Punishment. Those smug faces were twisted canvases of pain and regret within minutes. That was a good day.
For the most part, being indescribably evil is fun. Ultimate payback to those who mocked me when I peed my pants in fourth grade on the bus to our annual field trip to see the world’s Largest Bottle of Ketchup. Being responsible for the disappearances of the prom date who stood me up as a joke (and let’s not pull any punches, she was no prize), her parents, the entire student council who planned the prom, and the band who sang the song chosen by said student council to represent the entire affair. The state of New Jersey thanked me afterwards for that one.
My point being, this job doesn’t suck. At least not most days. Like today.
Just because I’m the Lord of Ineffable Villainy doesn’t mean I don’t still enjoy my birthday. I like cake. I like unwrapping presents. I like being served the hearts of unbaptized babies whilst having those who respect and fear me most singing “Happy Birthday.” I’m an immortal god of repugnance and destruction, but I have feelings. I’m still just a guy, you know?
It’s a catch 22. I can’t explain the concept of a birthday to my loyal slaves because they are as I made them—mindless automatons whose sole function is to follow my orders without thinking and to kill everyone in sight. And if we’re being honest, those two taskes tend to fall under the same umbrella. I mean, are you going to trust one of these mindless mass murder machines to bake a red velvet cake with matching cupcakes? Of course not.
When it comes to music, I’m the first to admit I dropped the ball there. I thought extinguishing the lives of all the musicians, actors, and writers I admired in an effort to steal the creativity from their very souls was a solid idea. As it happens, I didn’t actually gain their power and now the people I would’ve invited are all too dead to show. Plus, I killed the last two guys who could’ve sang the song from the White Album to really get the birthday celebration rolling.
You know there’s no handbook for this, right? No one tells you how to be an all-powerful entity bathed in darkness and monstrosity. It just happens and you do the best you can. People seem to be real cool about stealing my ideas, though. Don’t get me wrong, I dig the ones who recognize the artistry of what I’m doing. But the fact that little orange prick—
You know what? I’m not going there. I gave up talking politics for Lent and I’m going to stick with it.
But just the audacity to—
Nope. Gotta have willpower.
What was I saying?
Ah, yes. I didn’t know what would work and what wouldn’t when I got this gig. I thought, hell, I killed the guy, I can bring him back, right? Nope. What I do is reanimate the corpse and just a shade of the soul is left to run the body and if you think a shade can properly command a body to do a decent version of “In Da Club,” you’re insane. You know what my options are? Either trying to get Conway Twitty’s dead ass to sing “Happy Birthday, Darlin’,” or Florida Georgia Line. Yeah. Florida Georgia fucking Line. One, they suck out loud, and two, they don’t even have a birthday song. But, I killed everyone else, so…
Then there’s the presents. Even I admit, I’m a hard guy to shop for. I literally have $147 trillion at my disposal. So no, I’m not going to be impressed by your grand gestures. A solid gold Ferrari? Please. Ever driven a solid gold car? That shit is soft and you can’t even touch the damned thing without it warping. It’s ridiculous. Oh, wait, you kidnapped the President of France for me to use as ransom? What part of $147 TRILLION did you not get? At this point, I would have to expand the lair to hide any more money. I’d probably have to use the ransom to do the rebuild and you see how that’s just a potential loss leader right there.
And I swear to Me, anyone shows up with some homemade nonsense, I will personally bring your dead grandparents back from their eternal slumber and make perform the most deviant sex acts Porn Hub could never show you while forcing you to watch every moist, gooey second. I have no interest in seeing the results of your ill-fated struggle with art because you think it’ll come off as kitschy and cute. No one wants your drunken interaction with construction paper, glue, and unicorn hair, GREG.
I dunno. I just wanted a birthday, you know? I brought Marilyn back to sing to me. Yes, that Marilyn, and yes, that song. She looked like a stroke victim and sang like a, well, like a stroke victim. It’s just that—
Hang on. My phone. Sorry about that.
Oh, shit, it’s Vlad.
I have to take this, sorry.
“Привет, господин Президент!”
Friday, February 16, 2018
As I've done here before, this is part of a Chuck Wendig Terrible Minds Flash Fiction Challenge. Today's challenge is called No Guns, one made as a response to the horror we witnessed in Florida earlier this week. Write about a world with no guns, whatever that may mean to you. My story is how the GOP managed to create 100% gun control.
There was a smattering of unsure applause as the ten children were marched across the stage. Well, nine of the children marched; the youngest—a six-month-old baby girl—was carried by one of the adults hosting what would become the most widely-watched piece of media in the history of time.
There was no dramatic movie-esque stoicism here from the kids. They knew what was going to happen. They knew they were about to be murdered for the entire world to see. They knew they were not going to see the sunset.
Except the baby. She was blowing spit bubbles and giggling, making the scenario all the more horrifying.
The United States of America, a country convincing itself since World War II it was special and blessed amongst all the nations of the world, had a problem. It was a problem in which no other first-world country on Earth suffered. It was an image problem, to be sure, but it had massive complications covering nearly every aspect of American life. It was reasonably new, but quickly became one of the most controversial topics of the day regardless of financial status, geography, or political affiliation.
How to put a positive twist on the killing of children in order to control the population?
DC spin doctors were at a loss. The people who would become Americans had been culling other humans for centuries and there had never been an outcry like this. The Natives, be it from guns or disease, had been decimated and the majority of US citizens either agreed this was for the best or just didn’t think about it at all. #NotMyTable was the popular hashtag on social media in regards to what can only be described as the most popular genocide in world history.
And look at the Blacks! Men, women, and children brought here in chains served as a common example of what happens when the dominant race relents, allowing the minority to not only survive, but earn actual rights. The Blacks went from a race of cowed, terrified slaves to some of the richest men and women on Earth. They dominated the entertainment industry, which kept the stupid people enthralled with their ideas of equality and freedom. They ruled sports at every level, a mistake on their part as it reminded Americans you can’t be nice to the help because the help would eventually forget their place.
It was the allowing of the Blacks to thrive introducing the mess the country was in now. The population had exploded, thanks both to them and the wave after wave of Mexicans crossing the poorly-protected southern border. The former were untouchable, at least in any real way, but the latter had been successfully rounded up with the Muslims and either sent back where they came from or imprisoned. They all had something in their background, so it wasn’t hard to lock them up for the common good.
The school shootings came as sort of an odd blessing. Granted, most of the dead kids were white, but there were always plenty more. It also allowed the government to focus on the real problem inherent in these massacres: the music. Attacks on rock and heavy metal failed, but then rap came along, like God Hisownself personally answering a prayer. By the time the shootings started becoming a thing, white kids all over the country were hooked on hip-hop. The culture of gangs and guns introduced to Caucasian children provided the perfect foil. And games like Grand Theft Auto? Heck, that was a bonus.
For 20 years, as the body count rose, the constant question was: Why is this happening in the most advanced nation in the world? Why can’t we even talk about it? Why won’t our elected officials get off their collective and respective asses and just do something?
The argument became a matter of, how many murdered children does it take to get Americans to agree there is a problem and finally agree to do something about it?
The answer was ten.
During a debate on one of the cable news networks (no, not the good one), that very question was posited by a member of the panel. It was meant as rhetorical, but wasn’t taken that way by a fairly wide and varied group of people. Gears started turning.
Before long, it became a social media mainstay with its own hashtag. #HowManyDoesItTake. All the talk shows had what they thought were hypothetical conversations about the literal number of dead children it would take before the common American had had enough.
In secret, a bipartisan group was looking at the numbers. The number of school shooting murders were on the rise, as were nearly all categories of gun-related incidents. The populace would never understand the need for the slaughter. They would only complain about how expensive food was becoming and how housing prices were becoming obscene and the nation’s infrastructure was falling apart. Much like FDR and the relocation of Japanese Americans during World War II, it was necessary for the government to step in and take care of the situation.
A decision was made. A number was determined. Ten. The plan was this: Ten children, ages birth to 16 years old, would be provided. They would be provided by parents willing to sacrifice their own child to save others.
But how would they be sacrificed? The gun lobby provided a plan (disturbingly quick, if we want to be honest). Ten people, ten American citizens, would bid on the chance to murder a child with live television and online coverage. It would be televised across the world in what was believed to be the ultimate deterrent. Who would possibly want to use a weapon like that when you see, in front of you and live, what it does to our fellow citizens?
Evidently, a lot of very rich men wanting the chance to act out their greatest dream, completely legal and in front of an audience of literally billions, were down for it.
Bids started at $1 million. There was a catch, however; each bid had to be paid in full at the time of the bid and there were no refunds. If someone made the initial million-dollar bid, got outbid, and decided to pack it in? He was out a million bucks. Plus, of course, additional fees and whatnot. The final numbers were never released, but it’s rumored the government could now purchase a half-dozen brand new fighter jets with the funds. And those jets ain’t cheap.
The children reached their spots and stopped and turned, facing the audience. Each of the children was white, straight, and from affluent families. One of the unfortunate souls happened to have a father sitting in the Oval Office, watching the events unfold on one of multiple television screens mounted on the wall. He was eating dinner and growing impatient.
There was no fanfare. The first man (a Northern California lumber magnate with a house filled with animal heads and a basement containing the mummified remains of a Black street walker) walked onstage, holding a .12 gauge shotgun. He nodded to the woman holding the now-whimpering baby. She set the child on the floor and moved away. The man raised the gun to his shoulder, looked at the infant for a moment, then pulled the trigger.
The baby’s head disappeared in a spray of blood, bone, and brains. The curtain behind her was sprayed with gore. There were gasps and scattered screams throughout the audience, but others in the crowd (those making unsuccessful bids to be onstage holding their own gun) clapped aggressively.
The remaining children began screaming, but it did no good. They were shackled, each chained to the floor. Another executioner walked up to the stage. He paid nearly $18 million for the chance to be here and he wasn’t wasting it. The producer of some of the biggest television shows in the world was holding an Uzi with an extended clip and he was going to get the most out of every round.
While this was happening inside, outside the theater a bloody riot was unfolding. People, including off-duty law enforcement and military personnel, were desperately trying to get into the building. All for naught as they were mowed down by federal agents, acting in accordance to the executive order signed just yesterday by the President. The order allowed—hell, encouraged—the use of deadly force in an effort to protect the operation taking place just beyond the locked and guarded doors.
As the First Son was about to meet his Creator at the hands of the current Secretary of Education, all coverage switched to the cameras outside, showing the mad rush to get into the building. By now, it was full-blown mayhem with some of the protesters getting guns of their own and shooting the federal law enforcement agents. As cameras swept across the scene, showing the bloody corpses—hundreds of them—in the streets and on the sidewalks, the President spoke.
“This is what you want? A bipartisan effort was made to get rid of guns in this country for the foreseeable future and these people outside, these thugs, are trying to take that away from you. These supposedly peaceful people who wanted to take away your guns are now using them to prevent the action they wanted and killing innocent police who are only doing their job.
“This is not what our Founding Fathers wanted. You are now defenseless against this horde of murderers. How do you defend yourself now? With your vote. Any elected official, whether they are in your hometown or in Congress, who supported this action needs to be voted out. We agreed to send ten innocent angels to Jesus in order to hand over our guns. And this is what we get. Murder. Terror. Blood in the streets. Vote them out. Vote them all out. Make them pay not only for the deaths we saw here today, but the ones they will be responsible for now that we are a nation of patriots unable to defend our homes.
“The war to take back what is ours starts now. Thank you, God bless you, and let’s make America great again.”
“The war to take back what is ours starts now. Thank you, God bless you, and let’s make America great again.”
Tuesday, October 31, 2017
Patton Oswalt's special "Talking For Clapping" was, as are all his works, completely brilliant (and tragically aired the day his wife died). He did a bit during that show about how there are far more LGBT allies in the world than you would think because some sincere people are shunned by that community because they don't know all the proper words and phrases. The people who would hold down the LGBT community, however, know all the proper terms and verbiage.
What made me think of this was a comment I saw from a very rural newspaper's Facebook page and a comment on a story about a federal judge informing our President that his ill-informed, ill-advised transgender ban not only isn't Constitutional, but can't be revised in an effort to continue his war against...well, everyone.
This man is awesome and his opinion should basically be the one that matters because at the end of the day, like Illinois Senator Tammy Duckworth said (and I'm paraphrasing) when they came to rescue her when she had been critically wounded, she didn't care about the gender or orientation of her rescuers.
"You want to spend a few years in the dirt or the desert and risk your life to keep my family and my country safe? Then you've EARNED the goddam surgery...."
Again, not the most scientific or PC way to say it, but it gets the message across, doesn't it?
Tuesday, September 19, 2017
Saturday, September 16, 2017
The Ballad of Oliver of the Stubby Legs
Far and near, hear the proclamation,
Throughout the lands of our beloved nation,
I now extend an engraved invitation,
To mourn the loss of Oliver.
Respected by enemies, loved by friends,
His valor I’ll never fail to defend,
He was strong and brave to the very end,
As he fell in battle.
Speedy and svelte, Oliver was not,
He was pretty gassy and slept a lot,
But for his bravery my Pickle got
To cross the Bridge to Valhalla.
He heeded the call from the time it came,
Despite the fact his legs were lame,
And it’s true it interrupted his game,
Of begging for some bananas.
The battle was long and it was fierce,
Many bellies his sword did pierce,
I throw in a random word like ‘bierce’
Because it fits the rhyme scheme.
Though he warred with courage, the battle was hard,
Through his pain he inspired this bard,
Within the din, he said “Hey, Pard
Howsabout you rub my belly?”
After the rub, he stood and fought,
A little longer than perhaps he ought,
He feuded until he finally bought,
The farm where he’d live forever.
The Valkyries arrived to take him home,
With his trusty sword and his favorite bone,
Now he will never be alone,
Since he’s crossed the Rainbow Bridge.
He won’t be forgotten, he was my boy,
Oliver brought me no end of joy,
With the endless techniques he would employ,
To con me out of treats.
So lift your cups and raise them high,
As long as I have mem’ries he’ll never die,
I’ll miss his snoot upon my thigh,
But now and forever, he’s at peace.
Tuesday, August 29, 2017
(Photo by Travel + Leisure. NOTE: This is not the pic from today in Houston)
A friend from Texas posted a pic of AF1 at the airport. Yes, it's impressive. Seriously. That's a big-ass plane. And it's a unique experience. Someone commented on that post "If it was Obama, he'd be at golfing." (His grammar errors, not mine). He said this with no irony whatsoever.
I'm sorry; I'm not taking their opinion seriously anymore. If you want to debate on why Hillary would've been bad for this country, I'll bite. If you even want to say your support of Trump exists because you want to see the Presidency go down in flames so we can start over & rebuild it properly, I'll absolutely talk to you about that.
But for the people like that, who scream "Fake News" every time a magazine or website that they have no business reading due to all the big words tells them their emperor is a fucking mentally-ill lunatic and is literally--not figuratively--ruining our country, their opinion seriously means nothing.
It means nothing in the way that I am in no way suited to tell a neurosurgeon how to do their job. This Presidency is built on the belief that everyone should be heard. That is not true. I'm not saying you have to be a MENSA member to talk politics. I know a lot of people who may not have a lot of traditional education, but they're sharp and have an understanding of the world they live in.
But when the majority of the things coming out of your mouth are nothing but the buzzwords taught to you by Brietbart, Drudge, and 45, no, you can just shut the fuck up because nothing you have to say is of any use or importance.