Saturday, May 30, 2015

A Series of Poems Regarding My Recovery Following the Removal of My Wisdom Teeth

What is man,
But a collection
of clattering teeth?
I'll tell you what:
Pain, manifested as
A mindless dull ache.
Somebody shoot my dumb ass.


The amount of suffering contained in one wise tooth
Is tantamount to an epiphany,
The venture in the desert,
The solace in starvation.
Why am I puking
My goddamn guts out?


  Here is a bit of wisdom:
Do not take pain medication
On an empty stomach
Unless you desire
To projectile vomit
All over the bedroom


The fever dreams of a madman
Assault my catatonic form.
Why do I keep picturing
A technicolor Tyrannosaur?
I am beginning to hate
Everything about my eyeballs.


 Did you ever think that the Stone Temple Pilots
Were somehow criminally underrated while also being
Extremely overrated?
For some reason, that matters right now.


I am blubbering blood
Down my face
Like a stinking animal.


Did they nick an artery or something?
How much blood can one man bleed?


To all of those who said
That this was going to be an ordeal:
I did not listen. How could I?
Even now, clutching my stained sheets,
The agony of my jawline increasing with every
Pulsation of my weakened heart,
I say: Fuck you. This is somehow your fault.

Wednesday, May 27, 2015

Nah, That Ain't Me

Eating leftovers? Nah, that ain't me.

Lifting up the seat before urinating? Bro, that definitely ain't me.

Drinking gasoline on a Sunday? That ain't me.

Using protection during sex? Nah, that ain't me.

Vegetables? Hell, that ain't me.

Cleaning up after myself? That ain't me.

Recycling? Bro, I'm serious, that ain't me.

Going a day without jerking it? That ain't me.

Jesus? That ain't me.

Crocodile Dundee? That ain't me, bro.

Reading a book? Sure as shit ain't me.

Leg day? That ain't me.

Highway travel? Certainly ain't me.

Paying for fiddle faddle? WTF? That ain't me.

Paying bills? Shit, that ain't me.

Small talk? That ain't me.

Personal hygiene? Ain't me, bro.

Chick flick? Ain't me.

No hair spray for a day? That ain't me.

Passing on grass? That ain't me.

Mowing the lawn? Fuck no, that ain't me.

Meeting your parents? Forget it. That ain't me.

A sandwich without mayo? That ain't me.

You have a friend named Patrice? Shit, that ain't me.

Taxes? Ain't me.

Sober swimming? Ain't me.

Consensual sex? Hell, that ain't me.

Brushing my teeth? That ain't me, bro. That ain't me.

Tuesday, May 26, 2015

Rating the WWE's Roster by Their Stench, Part 2

The New Day's Big E smells like sweaty man boobs lathered in baby oil, a fact lost in the trio's relentless message of positivity. Also, his farts are unbearable. 5 out of 10.

Tyson Kidd is the dumbfuck little brother you never had. You know, the type of kid who would put his hand down his pants and then smell it. So basically, Tyson Kidd reeks of urine-stained underpants and day old Doritos crumbs. 9 out of 10.

The Miz represents all that is wrong with modern culture. Do you know what integrity smells like? Neither does the Miz. The former Real World star smells like a Jersey Shore beach right after the tide has receded and all the washed up sea creatures are dying. 8 out of 10.

Hornswoggle is what you get when you try to take back a Changeling. Reeks of diapers and rash ointment. 6 out of 10.

Bray Wyatt smells like a poop that you kept inside you for too long. He is terrible. 10 out of 10.

The Authority's Director of Operations has a pleasing odor of sassafras and vanilla. Unfortunately, one can detect an under smell of dead cat. 5 out of 10.

Have you ever microwaved a hot dog and then forgot about it for a week or two? Pour some fish oil on top of it and you have the scent of Mr. McMahon. Also smells like money. Like, a lot of it. 5 out of 10.

Sadly, the Hulkster smells like the tears of a fallen angel. Don't do it, Hulk. She ain't worth it. 10 out of 10.

Saturday, May 23, 2015

Look at My Dirty Food Porn

You ready for some hot, food action? Well you're in luck, my friend. Here are some tasty treats to really get your food hard-on.

Oh man oh man oh man. Look at those succulent chicken breasts. Those red, ripe cherry tomatoes. All that fruit just sitting there, just waiting for some fat bastard to take control and teach it who's the boss. I'd like to nibble up those chicken titties and wash it down with a big glass of Chianti, lemme tell you.

Oh Christ. It's getting hot in here, so take off all your clothes and rub yourself down with spaghetti. Look at them balls of meat. I'd like to put those in my pants. Look at those noodles twisted together like the entrails of some great beast. Wouldn't you just like to bury your face in this meal and motorboat the hell out of it? Christ, I would.

Oh God. I can't take it. This shit makes me hornier than one of those red-assed monkeys that runs around and does horny monkey shit. I can just see one of these hoagies melting off of John Kruk's beard. This food is dirty. It will take it any way, at any time. It doesn't use protection. It is opposed to the idea of protection. If you brought this hoagie home to ma and pa, they'd call the cops. This is deviant food, motherfucker.

Ain't this a big ol' pile of dirty ho stacks? Dripping chocolate. Ripe strawberries. I can just imagine the calorie counter growing like a massive schlong. It hurts so good, baby. I'm about to bust a nut.

Wow, that's some delicious chili. Look at it sitting in that bowl. Just fermenting. Getting hotter. Stinkier. A big ol' bowl of shank. Umm, umm, good.

Thursday, May 21, 2015

Wolf Chapter Eight

Still continuing to write at a snail's pace. Here are Chapters Seven and Six to get caught up. Currently editing my novel Apophenia to prepare for submission. It would be great if I could get Wolf to around sixty-thousand words, but I think it will end itself around forty-thousand and I'll be stuck with another novella that I can't sell.

Chapter Eight
I wake up naked in the park at dawn, my face covered in the morning's dew, having slept beneath the playground ruins. The grass is matted down and streaked with blood; my jaws hurts, my shoulders ache, my legs feel as though they have been pulled apart with steel chains. I touch my neck and feel an enormous scab. Fleeting images of the past night dance in my mind's eye, horrific scenes of violence. Quickly, I drag myself up off the ground and flee into the woods. This is the fourth time I've awoken here, but this time, I'm prepared—beneath a rotten tree stump I retrieve my backpack and remove clothes and shoes, a bottle of ibuprofen, and a flask of whiskey. I walk home with my hands in my pockets and the taste of iron in my mouth.
            Of course I knew something was wrong the first time I awoke out here. I kept seeing a woman's face, her eyes bulging with terror, something huge and formless reflected in her visage, a monster out of fables, something almost tacky in its horror, a malformed creature of B movies and pulp fiction. Initially, I shrugged it off, attributing my circumstances to a bizarre bender, one worthy of my father. But then Debra showed me her face on the internet, and I had to go and sit in the bathroom for a while, struggling with a panic attack. Her name was Linda. What was this new woman's name? I have to stop and lean against a tree, nausea overtaking me, and vomit. All sorts of things come out of my guts: white slivers of bone, pieces of skin, raw, ragged flesh. With Linda, I thought that maybe I suffered a moment of temporary insanity, but that explanation didn't account for her mutilation, for her devoured organs, or for the fact that I had never met the woman, nor knew how I would have encountered her. But I turned to the journal, which I had been reading ever since returning from the trip with Bob, and things started to make sense, which is a poor joke, I know, but I don't know how else to say it.
            Hutch experienced what I have, though his thoughts have little coherence to them, his entries resembling surreal prose poetry more than comprehensible sentences. From what I gather, he too ventured into the cave and slit his hand with the tooth. He writes of the cave as though it were alive, a sentient monster, a god-like thing beyond understanding. He viewed his victims as sacrifices, offerings to appease it, to cease the unending flood of visions he experienced. Hutch was trying to barter for his sanity. When I finished the journal, it became clear that he never accomplished his goal.
            As I approach my home, I see Ron and Charles the pug standing in their yard, each looking forlorn, their faces rotund, their jowls sagging with the weariness of the fat and the lugubrious, both passengers, I guess, that do not particularly enjoy their ride. They stare at me as though I am a stranger, the hackles rising on Charles back, a dull sheen in Ron's eyes. The pug starts barking. Ron breaks into an uncomfortable smile.
            “How you been, stranger?” asks my neighbor. “Did you fall asleep in the park?”
            “Morning constitutional,” I explain. “Like to get up early and get some exercise.”
            “Last night, Debra came over and asked whether or not I'd seen you,” says Ronald. “Said you've been staying out late and sometimes not coming home.”
            “Maybe I have,” I reply. “You going to judge me, Ronald?”
            “Certainly not on purpose, neighbor, though we all judge one another, whether we intend to or not. Shut up, Charles,” he says, kicking the dog. “You've always been a good friend. I just wanted you to know that if you need to talk, I'm all ears.”
            I stare at Ronald and imagine telling him that I occasionally transform into a bestial monster that eats people. Gravity would take care of his expression, pulling those thick jowls down even further. Would he think I'm insane? Maybe playing a joke on him? Perhaps he would believe me. Maybe he could take me out back and put me down like Old Yeller, a rabid thing finally recognizing its malignant uselessness. Ronald and I could go together, perhaps. Something has got him down. I sit down on his steps, ignoring the snarls of fat Charles, and ask if I could have a beer.
            “A morning brew? Why not?” says Ronald, retreating inside. It strikes me suddenly that I haven't seen his family for a long time.
            “What's bothering you?” I ask, as he returns with two beers and little saucer. He gives me a beer and places the saucer down, pouring some of his drink into it for fat Charles.
            “You tell me, and I'll tell you,” he says, like a school girl. I look at the low hanging sun, its radioactive rays piercing through the thick cloud cover. It might be a good day for breathing without a mask.
             “Mid-life crisis,” I say, my eyes darting around. No one's home next door; Debra's gone to work, the kids to school. “Been drinking a lot. Spending time away from home.”
            “My wife and I minimize our time together. We've been more or less separated for about a year. She does what she does, and I do nothing. My children don't want to see me. They spend their nights with friends, and when they come home, they lock themselves in their rooms. Play that virtual reality shit. Never could get into that, you know? I'm a simple man with simple tastes. This stuff is pretty good, isn't it, neighbor? Twenty bucks a twelve pack. Not bad, right?”
            “I feel like this just happened,” I say. “The dissolution of my family. I'm not sure it was ever mine. Brittany and Chastity are Debra's kids. I'm an interloper. A stranger. A nameless entity.”
            “Identity issues, eh?” says Ronald. He looks at fat Charles, who has settled at his feet, a Buddha-like peace having come over him. “You know I was a philosophy major in college? For two semesters, before I switched to economics. Terrible subject, philosophy. There are things you just don't want to think about. Your mortality, for one. Your purpose in life. Whether or not you are a being fully in control of your destiny. Maybe you're not responsible for your actions. Maybe I'm a fat, lonely man without a family, and there was nothing I could do about it. Some comfort in that, right? The whole idea of responsibility is rendered moot. Nobody likes to read the determinist guys, though.”
            “Should I feel guilty, Ron?” Fat Charles has hopped up and waddled over to a bush, where he promptly squats and defecates.
            “What are morals, friend? They are human inventions. Charles, remorseless glutton that he is, has no pity for small beasts. Little guy eats baby birds, mice, snakes. Remarkable, really, since pugs are not known for their hunting prowess.”
            “You didn't even ask what I did,” I say.
            “I'm just trying to make you feel better, buddy,” says Ronald. “You want to feel bad, go ahead and feel bad. Nice house you got, though. Nice to have air recyclers on bad days. My kids might not give a damn about me, but I care about them. It's hard to get into an enclave, if you know what I'm saying.”
            I excuse myself from Ronald and Charles and head inside. The house is quiet, dark, an unfamiliar odor crawling through the air. There are pictures of girls on the walls, girls I don't know; the living room is unrecognizable, the furniture belonging to someone else. I go to the kitchen, dimly remembering the layout and stare at the refrigerator. It is stainless steel, sleek, shiny, brand new. I open it and examine its contents and find nothing edible but a plastic container of ground beef. A dog comes and sniffs my leg; I smell him before he enters the room. We look at each other, the dog and I. He is a retriever mix, medium-sized, blond. What do you want? I ask. He continues to stare, wagging his tail tentatively. Rufus, that's right. This is my dog. Nobody cares for him but me. Rufus sees my look of recognition and jumps up on me, trying to lick my face. I sit down on the floor with him, petting him slowly, my emotions bubbling up like a dark, acidic brew. You're a good boy, I tell him. I tell him this over and over again.
            Someone knocks at the door. Rufus barks, whines, and then runs into another room. Again someone knocks. Underneath the refrigerator I see ants crawling, hundreds of them, big, black things with twitching antennae. Mutants, I think. There's a breach in the system. I hear someone calling for Mr. Deforest. “Goddamn it, go away!” I shout. The person mumbles something unintelligible and recommences knocking. The wound on my neck throbs, and I feel a trickle of blood ooze from my scab and slide down my shirt. “I have an ant problem,” I say to myself, climbing to my feet, my hand clutching the counter. This bastard won't be dissuaded. Might need a good punch to the face.
            “What the fuck do you want?” I say, opening the door.
            “Morning,” says the man. He's dressed in a simple suit, a plain, average-looking man with a worn face.
            “Isn't it obvious that I do not wish to be disturbed?” I say. My fists are balled up, my teeth gritted.
            “It's not your fault,” he says.
            “I don't know what the hell you're talking about,” I reply, moving to shut the door before I tear the man apart.
            “Seeing things?” he asks, sticking his foot in the door. “Experiencing insatiable cravings for human flesh? Are you hornier than a sailor on leave? Do you feel as though you are losing your sense of self?”
            A mindless panic rushes into my head, and I kick the man's foot loose and slam the door, locking it.
            “I can help,” he says. “There is a cure.”
            "I'm calling the police," I tell him.
            "No you're not," he says. "Look, Mr. Deforest, you're in a bad situation. What you did last night, they're not going to let you get away with it. Do you know how many people you killed? Let me tell you: twenty. Twenty people were mauled beyond the point of recognition. The FBI is coming now with reporters hot on their tail. They can't cover this up, is what I'm saying. The big boys are getting involved, and I don't think you've been very careful. You've been hitting the bars like a divorcee looking for gold, with little tact or strategy, and you haven't eaten every woman you've hit on, you know. I'm sure this is all more than a little cloudy to you. Your memory tends to turn to shit. But you need to start thinking of other people. Think of your wife. Your children. Think of the women you've killed. Hell, think of yourself. This is not a dream. I know you want it to be, but these things are really happening. You're not the first, and you won't be the last. Stop letting instinct rule you like an automaton. Take charge. Come with me. We can end this."
            I lean against the door, breathing heavily, the stillness of the house sitting on my shoulders like an iron weight. His solution is death, I can tell; he can't mask the fatal undertones. I'm not ready to die. Unfortunately, it's that simple. He asks for me again, polite, his voice nearly a whisper. A car pulls into the driveway, teenage voices trying to tamper down their excitement. "Who's that?" I hear Chastity ask. I peek out the window and watch as the man walks past them, his gaze fixated on a distance point, resolution in his steps. He's going to try to kill you, a voice says. I drag myself to the kitchen table as Chastity opens the door.
            "Harry," she says, somewhat surprised. "Why are you home? Did you get fired?"
            "Why aren't you in school?" I ask. I had forgotten about my job.
            "Uh, it's none of your business," she says, moving toward the stairs. I jump up, closing the distance between us in a half-second, and grab her arm. She smells like marijuana and harsh teenage boy cologne.
            "Hey, get off!" she says. "What're you doing?"
            "You're mom spends her entire existence worrying about you, and whether or not you're going to turn into a real person someday," I say, a snarl forming on my face. "She trusts you, lets you do what you want, and you throw it back in her face because you're a stupid little girl who doesn't care about anyone besides herself." I let go of her, and she falls to the stairs, her face distorted, her eyes watery.
            "Like you can talk. No one knows where you've been the last couple nights. Mom's heard rumors. You're a creep, Harry. I always knew you were."
            I grab her by the throat, push her against the wall, part of me watching dispassionately as a look of terror forms on her snotty visage. The proximity of young flesh arouses me, makes my mouth salivate and my dick become hard. I hold my free hand before her face, twisted into a claw, my fury growing, becoming entwined with my lust, conscious thought fleeing into the distance recesses of my brain.
            "I'm going to kill him," I say to her, "that boy you're with." Her eyes are swimming, my face just inches from hers, the reek of fear emitting from her pores like an intoxicating perfume. Somebody's hand clamps down on my shoulder, and I release Chastity and turn around, murder in my heart, and a brass knuckled fist hits me hard in the face, knocking me against the wall, blood in my eyes. There is screaming; I try to get up, but I am hit again, my nose shattered, teeth falling from my mouth like broken pieces of porcelain. Through the blood, I see him standing over me, saying nothing, calm, his hand tensed to deliver another punch. He weighs whether or not to kill me, this dispassionate man in cheap suit, this horror spawned from sedans, from office buildings, from suburbs like my own. This is exactly the sort of help he promised, and I will receive it, no matter whether I want it or not. “Sorry,” he says, reaching into his coat and removing an enormous knife, his face bland, a death mask. The knife's blade is covered in runes similar to those contained in Hutch's journal, and he whispers something under his breath, some incantation that paralyzes me and slows my perception. Shapes slide into view, shadows with the skulls of animals, black things of nothingness come to take me into caves, to drag me down into abysses, to annihilate my form and cleanse me of any meaning. He raises the knife, grips it with two hands, preparing to plunge it into my heart, the shadows gathering around him, their arms stretched, their eye sockets empty. I feel nothing but impotent anger. Suddenly a gunshot is heard; the man is hit; his knife falls to the floor. My neighbor shouts at us, his words unintelligible, a pistol in his hands. The man is screaming at him, gibberish, I guess, but Ronald fires again, and I hear his crashing through the house, the shadows following him, fat Charles at my feet, licking my spilled blood. “You beast,” I say to him, before I fall unconscious on my face.

Tuesday, May 19, 2015

Is Game of Thrones Terrible?

I've stuck it out for quite awhile. I've read all of the books, and they certainly had their problems. Let my eyes glaze over while Brienne of Tarth does something stupid. Let my eyes roll when yet another scene of gratuitous violence and sex is shown. Kept myself awake for Peter Dinklage, for the merest hint of dragons. Yet it is becoming clearer. Game of Thrones kind of sucks.

Game of Thrones is a great idea. Let's take Tolkien's fantasy troupes and make them adult. Let's explore medieval feudalism, violence, the role of women in early society. But it's the absence of narrative that kills this series. Nothing has happened. Nothing happens in the books, and after five seasons, we're still waiting for Danny to cross the ocean with her dragons. We're still waiting on the White Walkers to invade Westeros and cause hell. We're still waiting on any sort of Stark revenge. We're waiting on Bran to become a wizard. We're waiting on Stannis to seize the iron throne. We're waiting on somebody to decapitate the Boltons. Damn it, Game of Thrones. You're a goddamn cock tease.

Meanwhile, the show (and the books, oh God, how the books do this) focuses on minor characters, of which there are millions. I don't care about Brienne and Podrick. I don't care about what happens in Dorne. Davos is the most boring character ever created. Theon Greyjoy became pointless once he was castrated and tortured. Does anyone care if his meaningless character is redeemed? Or does he just exist so that the show can brutalize someone every episode?

Violence becomes meaningless once overexposed. It loses its shock value. Game of Thrones is like a Cormac McCarthy novel. People die because people die. People are raped because people are raped. That's great, Game of Thrones. Sometimes violence is meaningless in real life. But you're fiction. Fiction is supposed to mean something.

Somebody tell me what Game of Thrones is about. Somebody relate the plot of the series. Are you having trouble? That's because the plot is so convoluted, so twisted and filled with deus ex machina that it's rendered nonsensical, if not nonexistent. Shit just happens in Game of Thrones so that they can put out another episode. Take Sansa Stark for example. Sansa is put through worse things than any other character. She watches her father become executed. As far as she knows, her entire family is gone. But you watch her being tutored by Littlefinger, and you think that she might become a master manipulator like him, and then the show has her marry the sadist Ramsey Bolton (which does not happen in the novels) and her character arc is completely destroyed. Sansa gets raped because that's what happens to Sansa. She's like Job at this point. Bad things, nonsensical things, just happen to her, because. Because why? Because this show is written by people with no sense of narrative structure. This show is written by people who do not know how to develop a character. This show is written by people who don't know what Game of Thrones is about, besides gratuitous violence and nudity. In short, this show is written by children.

 Fuck you, Sam, you fat pussy. You are an obvious author proxy, and you suck.

Monday, May 18, 2015

The Lift It off the Ground Routine

One-hundred days of squatting, with alternate days of bench pressing, had the effect of making me hate squatting and benching. Instead of focusing on powerlifting-type training, I decided to train like an old school strongmen, such as the great Arthur Saxon, who could lift 370 lb with one hand, a feat which has not be replicated to this day. Power racks and bench pressing had not been invented during the heyday of men like Saxon and Edward Aston. If you couldn't pick it up off the ground, you didn't lift it. Bent Pressing, one-arm lifts, Olympic lifting, overhead pressing, and deadlifts were more or less what you were restricted to. Here is the program I've come up with: you lift at least five times a week (old school strongmen trained constantly), choosing from the following pool of exercises--clean and press, military press, continental clean, jerk, snatch, deadlift, one-armed deadlift or press, heavy dumbbell swings, dumbbell curl and press, clean and front squat, barbell curl. Pick about four exercises, and go fairly heavy on most movements, keeping reps in the one to five range. The main muscle-builders are going to be your clean and press, and the deadlift, instead of the squat and bench press. For the press, get the weight to your shoulders by any method, and then use your legs and arms to press or jerk the weight overhead. This will build tremendous shoulder and back strength. Higher frequency deadlifting will also improve your entire back, posterior chain, and legs. Front squatting will be done for higher reps, since you probably can't clean your best front squat (if you can, you should be an Olympic lifter). Here's a sample day:

Clean and Push Press: 135*5 155*2 165 175 185 195
Strict Clean and Press: 135*3*5
Dumbbell Snatch: 40*5 60*5
Clean and Squat: 135*10 155*8

This will be a fun change of pace from constantly training like the squat and bench press are the only lifts that matter.

Click here for info on how the Saxon trio ate. It's ridiculous.

Sunday, May 17, 2015

Retro Review: Turok

A giganotosaurus! Everyone will just think it's a T-Rex, however.

There has been a disturbing dearth of dinosaur video games, for reasons I can not contemplate. Perhaps the spectacular failure of Trespasser has something to do with it. Turok: Dinosaur Hunter, released for the N64 in 1997, established a popular series that gets rebooted with 2008's Turok, developed by the now-defunct Propaganda Games. Given the gritty reboot treatment, with graphics courtesy of the Unreal Engine 3, Turok rewrites the colorful history of prior games, replacing the Lost Land, aliens, and inter-dimensional beings with space marines, a terraformed planet, and genetically-altered dinosaurs. Joseph Turok is now a former mercenary hell-bent on revenge against his former mentor, Roland Kane. There is little story in Turok, which isn't necessarily a problem. Give the player a motive, some cool weapons, atmospheric environments, and plenty of dinosaurs to battle, and all will be well. Turok delivers on some of that promise. The dinos are well-animated, and the game lets you pit them against generic space marines by use of flares, which is pretty cool. Various species of raptors, dilophosaurus, and of course T-Rex, feature prominently. Turok unfortunately breaks up the dino action with boring levels spent traversing under-detailed military installations populated by brain-dead space marines. These are the worst sections of Turok: without dinosaurs, there is nothing to separate it from Halo or any other shooter. It doesn't help that the game uses a checkpoint save system, which is poorly-implemented. There are several fights which are frustrating because the time between checkpoints is too long. Turok also screws up most of its boss battles. There is a lengthy battle against a sea serpent which seems to take forever. It also has a bad habit of placing you out in the open at the start of a boss fight to become devoured or riddled with bullets. The game certainly seems like it was rushed; the jungle environments are low-poly rocky valleys that never give you space to breathe. The voice-acting, however, is pretty good, featuring the talents of Timothy Olyphant and Ron Perlman. No one plays games for the voice acting, though. The weapon arsenal is also very basic, with the usual assortment of shotguns, machine guns, pulse rifles, and rocket launchers.

If you can stomach its annoying save system, and some poor boss battles (spoiler: you kill Kane in a quick time event! WTF), Turok isn't too bad. You can probably find it for pocket change. A sequel, which looked pretty cool, was canceled when Propaganda Games closed. Hopefully we'll get a good dinosaur game sometime in the future.

Concept art from the canceled Turok 2. Nothing this cool happens in Turok.

Friday, May 15, 2015

Scientific Inaccuracies in the Jurassic Park Series

People are complaining about the various scientific inaccuracies in the upcoming Jurassic World movie as though the original films were one-hundred percent paleontologist-approved. The Jurassic Park series has always taken liberties with their dinos. Here is a brief list containing the most egregious examples.

1. Velociraptors were not as large as depicted in the films.

2. Tyrannosaurus couldn't keep up with a jeep, unless given a massive amount of performance enhancing drugs.

3. Gymnastics can't kill dinosaurs. Only asteroids can.

4. Jeff Goldblum is not a mathematician, as far as I know. He can rock a leather suit like a bad motherfucker, though.

5. Jesus does not make an appearance in any of the films, which, according to Christian theology, is scientifically ridiculous. Everyone knows Jesus rode a Triceratops straight into heaven.

6. Most of the dinosaurs featured in the film lived during the Cretaceous period, not the Jurassic.

7. Dilophosaurus was much larger than in Jurassic Park, and it didn't have a cobra frill, nor did it spit poison. It did have a taste for obese men, however.

8. Sam Neil and Laura Dern are underrated actors and I just want everyone to know that and support them in whatever they choose to do.

9. Tyrannosaurus wouldn't eat a filthy lawyer, especially if said lawyer was pooping. T-Rex doesn't eat poop.

10. Chris Pratt does not know how to talk to raptors, though he does know a talking raccoon, if you can call Bradly Cooper that.


11. Velociraptors were probably not smart enough to open doors. They totally would've eaten those annoying kids, though.

12. The cloning technique depicted in the films is impossible. They only things we can clone are sheep and Jurassic Park movies.

Wednesday, May 13, 2015

Check Out My Awesome Dad Bod

What's up, folks? Just having myself yet another cold brew beside the pool. Gotta keep this Dad Bod nice and fit. Gotta get my paunch just so like Goldilocks. Not too fat, not too skinny. Same goes with my man boobies. I don't want anyone to mistake them for actual breasts, yet I don't want anyone to confuse them for pecs, either. The Dad Bod is about letting yourself slip, just a little. Nobody likes someone who obsesses over their appearance. Not too much, at least.

A lot of credit has to go to celebrities like Leo, Seth Rogan, and pre-Marvel Chris Pratt for making the Dad Bod cool. They were trail blazers, visionaries, fellow bros on the path to enlightenment. They let us see that you can still get the babes while looking like a pregnant dude. I get more ass than any muscle head, lemme tell you. Women know that I'm up for a good time. Women feel more relaxed around me. They're not intimidated by my physique. They feel like they don't have to watch the calories around good ol' me.

No sir, you'll never see me around a treadmill. Of course, this Dad Bod will get worse over time, but the ladies know that. What starts as a paunch turns into a beach ball after about six years. That's cool, though. I'm down with not seeing my dick. Thing's a little ugly, to tell the truth.

The Dad Bod's all about not judging. The Dad Bod's about embracing mediocrity. What's wrong with average? Most people are average. You telling me you don't like most people? Maybe that's why you can't get laid despite your awesome Dad Bod. Leo certainly has no trouble, though he's richer than Scrooge McDuck. Humm, maybe that has something to do with his Dad Bod. Maybe there's a correlation between man titties and having an awesome life. I dunno. That's something for science to figure out.

So everybody, just lay off the weights, the running, the ridiculous diets. Let yourself age and get comfortably fat. Don't be a narcissist, bro. Rock that Dad Bod like you know it's awesome. Sure, you might be physically weak. You might be setting yourself up for a heart attack. Not everyone likes the Dad Bod, we must admit. Success will vary. It's all about confidence. It's all about sporting a paunch like a party animal. It's all about being a fat, lazy POS.


Sunday, May 10, 2015

Bro Gamer for Life, Yo

What up, bro? You up for some man-shooting action? Like, get online and show all the faggots and poofters how to roll? Some Call of Duty Ten action? Maybe some Battlefield 20? I promise I won't camp, bro.

What the fuck you playing, bro? Some single player shit? Dude, all the action is online. That's where all da babes at. It's no fun tea-bagging the computer, bro. I wanna tea-bag a real dude who I just shot in the face. No cheap-ass kills for me, jabroni. I be like all "Killing streak!" and raining death on all their dumb-asses. They best recognize, yo. Bunch of homos.

Dude, what the fuck does RPG even stand for? You're telling me you'd rather jerk off to elf porn than hop online and do some fragging with your very best of bros? What kind of homo are you? Hey, you better hop on in this game, some chick just logged in and I'm going to ask her to suck my dong. You don't want in on this? What are you, anti-sexual harassment? Not cool, bro. Very not cool. I'm giving you a thumbs down and this shit is serious. I thought you were solid. I guess I was mistaken.

Fuck it, just come over. We'll smoke some weed, bong some beers. You can watch me school all the noobs. Got a couple new nudie rags for you to chortle your moose over. Spank your sausage. Beat your naughty meat. You gotta check out the hooters in this mag, bro. This shit is nasty. I'm like scared to beat off to it 'cuz I might never beat off again, if you know what I'm saying. Do you know what I'm saying? Cuz I ain't got no fucking clue.

After I'm done showing noobs and feminists how to choke on their own penises, we'll watch some Smackdown. Maybe we can simultaneously beat off to the Bella twins. Hah, just kidding. Though if you're down with that, I'm cool. Nothing queer about two bros squeezing the life outta their dicks while watching Smackdown. Sounds like a good night to me.

All right man, fine, I'll leave you to play your homo Jap games with the other wankers. Go choke a chocobo for me. Have some cyber sex with a hot anime babe with double F tits. Haha, yeah right. Even the Asians ain't playin wit you.

Last call, bro. I'm grilling some hot gristle. Making some burgers and dogs. I just called your mom and she's down to roll. Haha, just kidding. You're mom's never down to roll. But seriously, come over. I'm terribly lonely and I think the end is near.

FUCK THAT. I'll CoD with myself. Go suck an orc butt, you single player faggot. But seriously, come over.

Friday, May 8, 2015

The Esteemed Critic Reviews The Avengers: Age of Ultron

What a sorry lot of miscreants.

Dear reader, it should be known that the Critic detests comic book movies, especially those of the Marvel Universe. Superhero fantasies are juvenile and often lack true conflict. These men (and they are almost all men) gain extraordinary power through random machinations (truly; no one ever earns their powers) and then somehow always come out of any scrape without so much as a scratch, because no one ever dies in comic books, or comic book movies. So the viewer is treated to a two-hour video game, where invulnerable cartoons pummel each other to no effect, and the whole result is a dreary, boring mess. Marvel movies, in particular, are guilty of these transgressions; the audience knows there is going to be a sequel, and another, and another, so Captain Underpants is going to live and come out okay, no matter how seemingly dire the circumstances are, because they have like fifty more movies to make, remember. Though the Critic must admit some admiration for Marvel, considering how they made blockbuster after blockbuster with lesser superheros like Iron Man and Thor, Sony still possessing the rights to Spider-man, and Fox the rights to X-Men. But no matter; let us get down to business.

The main problem with the Avengers: Age of Ultron is that it makes our heroes look like fascists nitwits. Ultron, their robot nemesis, is an advanced AI cobbled together by Bruce Banner and Tony Stark to protect the world. Of course, he malfunctions and concludes that humanity needs to die, because we're all killers, the Avengers most especially. Billions of dollars later, Ultron is defeated, yet an entire city has been destroyed and countless people killed or exiled from their home. Great job, Avengers. You'd expect a war trial for at least Stark and Banner, considering the entire thing was their fault, yet instead Shield (the agency that oversees the Avengers) gets a new headquarters and every thing is fine and dandy. This is a world where the Hulk can rampage through a city like a natural disaster and no one bats an eye. Instead of coming off as superheroes, the Avengers come across as supervillains. Ultron was right; these people are nothing but killers.

But maybe the Critic should ignore all that. "Turn your brain off!" is advice frequently given to viewers of summer blockbusters. The Critic can't do such a thing, dear reader, because the Critic is about as fun as a bag of rocks. Maybe you'll enjoy the goofy banter between our "heroes." The Critic thought the dialogue was typical of Joss Whedon's writing; sophomoric, indistinct. Everyone is a bitchy teenage girl. The action sequences are a blur of CGI constructions; the Critic couldn't tell who was getting clobbered by whom. Small comfort that we'll have about a dozen sequels. Well go ahead, America. Continue to watch the Marvel Cinematic Universe. Go see Ant Man. Watch Thor 3: The Lugubriousness continues. Be content with your drivel, for that is what they are feeding you. I will be watching low-budget French Surrealism. And that makes me better than you.

Tuesday, May 5, 2015

Rating the WWE's Roster by Their Stench

Luke Harper--The proud owner of a permanent beer-sized stain on the front of his wife beater, ol' Luke has things crawling in his beard as well as his pants. Passersby have commented that he smells like a walking piece of cheese. Many suspect that his only friend is a raccoon named Baxter who lost his nose in a tragic dumpster fire. Stench Rating, out of ten--8

Ryback--A massive trapezius that became sentient, Ryback smells like a pair of gym shorts you jogged in and then left in your locker to marinate for a week. Please, do not feed him anything else. Stench Rating--6

Daniel Bryan--This one's pretty easy. He smells like women's perfume mixed with the day-old stench of a goat you ran over with a car. Surprisingly, those two smells mix well together. YES! Stench Rating--3

Fandango--Dude reeks of your mom, and in a bad way, if you know what I'm saying. Stench Rating--7

Dean Ambrose--Dean reeks of old cars, skyline chili, and the Ohio River. Thanks a lot, Cincinnati. Stench Rating--9

Rusev--Someone took a bear, shaved it, and then covered it in butter. Would smell good if fried. Stench Rating--6

Dolph Ziggler--The eighties manifested as this beautiful man. He smells like a tanning bed, dude sweat, and a pair of panties. You wish you were his friend. Stench Rating--1

Roman Reigns--Your wife might leave you for him, if they were ever to meet. Stench Rating--2

Randy Orton--The legend killer! Unfortunately, the WWE's apex predator reeks of stinky feet. Will take you to RKO city if you point this out, however. Stench Rating--4

Bella Twins--Somewhere in between a used tampon and a wad of cash you just masturbated into and then burned. Stench Rating--9

John Cena--Ever wondered what Vince Mcmahon's asshole smells like? Rumor is, John Cena knows. Stench Rating-10

Stephanie Mcmahon--Turns out Vince successfully uploaded his consciousness into a younger female form. Unfortunately, he smells wonderful. Stench Rating-0

Sunday, May 3, 2015

The Terrible Poetry of Percival P. Pederast

I've taken some time out from building an altar to my cat and making sweet love to boys to share my Pulitzer Prize-winning poetry with all you cretins. Make sure you smoke plenty of dope before reading a single line. Otherwise, none of it makes sense. But then again, it is not poetry's function to "make sense," whatever that means. Poetry is supposed to sound cool and pretentious and make everyone think that you're smarter than them. Poetry is supposed to enable you to woo random boys off the streets. Poetry is how I speak to my cat.

This first poem, entitled Dilemma, took three and a half years to write. It is among my finest compositions. Behold! I give you the stuff that dreams are made from!


It's what's for dinner.

Masterful, isn't it? I love its economy of word. A single exclamation quickly resolved with no argument. If only all of life could be like Dilemma. Everything would be so much easier.

This next one is an argument I've had with my cat. Life is naught but petty arguments. Cats say some terrible things.

Why I Do Not Want You to Piss in My Shoes 

Lucifer, my dear,
You are the light in my hobo-hole,
The anus of my eye,
The pubic hair caught helplessly in between my teeth.
Why must you insist on urinating in my shoes?
Have I not fed you?
Have I not worshiped the elder cat gods?
Did I not bring you
An entire family of mice to annihilate?
Sometimes I think that my kindness is wasted
On your bestial visage.
Sometimes I think that you do not care.
In the future,
Please refrain,
From excessive urination
or I will,
So help me god,
Castrate your furry ass.

Unfortunately, Lucifer was not swayed by my arguments, and I had to get rid of his balls.

Controversial in its content, my next poem was responsible for the sullying of my name, as well as my addition to the federal sex offender list.

 Let's Stop Farting Around and Do Some Boy-Loving

Hey guys, what's the fuss?
I've got myself some man-boy lust.
I'll put it there if you stick it here,
If you dance around,
With a crown,
In a fancy dress,
We must confess
Our dire predicament in your arms.

Hey boys, give me ten,
I'll lock you up in a pen,
With pigs and goats,
Abandon hope,
No one can live
Without their ribs,
Though I'll give it a go,
If you go slow,
You stinky, fat-hobo fucker.

Let it be known,
That nobody told me
Your legal age,
and that,
Everything you consented to
Is considered legal
In France.
Let us, then,
Be husband and boy,
Forever united
In our mutual admiration
Of the man-boy form.
Kudos, to you, young lad,
You have just banged
A Pulitzer Prize winner.
 Though I have had
My stinky fingers
In your bum.
So the joke's on you.

Yeah, in retrospect, that one might have been pushing it. But that's the poet's job: to lead society into dark depravity where it fears to tread. Society is a coward, you see. It knows not the lordship of felines, nor the pleasures of the man-boy. There is much I can teach society. Did you know, for instance, that you can build an altar out of cheese? Your cat will appreciate it. You must keep your cat happy, lest it devour your face while you sleep. I wear a mask while I doze for protection against Lucifer, who carries a vendetta against me for his castration. We all wear masks. I just take mine off every now and then.

Saturday, May 2, 2015

The Heart of the Thief

The Heart of the Thief is a fantasy novel that I'm starting on after Wolf is complete, which, considering my current writing speed, might be awhile. The idea was to write a philosophical fantasy novel, one that considers whether or not mankind is a positive force in the universe, as well as the nature of existence itself. That sounds a little heady and too ambitious, but what the hell. Here is the incomplete first chapter. Influences include standard D&D fantasy troupes, the Thief video game series, the horror works of Thomas Ligotti, Lovecraft, and Kipling.

Chapter One
He moves through the shadows of the city, watching the beaten trudge the streets, his form hidden, hooded, obscured. Crows perch on the crumbling stone of ancient walls reduced to knee-high rubble; he traces his hands along the pathways, his fingers following the prints of time. The birds squawk and flutter but they don't leave, they know him well as passes by, a nondescript shape, a cloak stepping out of the alcoves and into the crowd. Such sprawl, such cramped confines—he witnesses lives being lived, suppers being cooked, blows being exchanged, kisses and caresses and knives and the whole bloody mess—but he is just a silhouette, a breeze, the faintest rustle of fabric on the move. Over the stacked slums and tenement houses rises the smoke of the temple, nestled in the heart of the palace, where the Duke and his priests reside along with the noble families, their servants, and their guardsmen. Built into a mountain side, the palace, to tower over the people in their squalor. He leans against a lamp post and lets a cart pass, twin oxen pulling it, great beasts with spiraling horns. A pickpocket tries to get close to him, but he glides again into the shadows, letting the evening blanket his passage, his destination ahead, the ruined tower of a ruined wizard. In the street before him three boys beat a small dog with sticks, joyful curses flying from their lips as the pup cowers and whimpers under their blows. It is no special occurrence—the boys are likely beaten often themselves and so look for something weaker to abuse—yet he can't pass, not this time. He cuffs the largest boy, sending him to his knees, coming out of the darkness tall and heavy, a looming creature spreading wings of doom. The boys see the scars, the brand on his hand, and know him to be the Thief. Terror manifests on their dirty moonfaces; eyes widen, shouts are born and then die suddenly in their throats. He points a finger at an alleyway, and they drop their sticks and scatter, dumb vagabonds, orphans, cowards. Children of the city, motherless urchins, destined to grow into feeble men who rape and plunder each other, blind to their cannibal madness, lashing out at their own progeny, who will in turn repeat the curse. The pup lies bruised and battered at his feet. He takes it by its nape and goes to see the wizard.
            The tower is all that is left of an old castle belonging to long-dead rulers, rumored to be entombed in the collapsed catacombs. There were once apartments connected to it, but they burned down in a conflagration, leaving only solitary stone. The Thief does not know how the wizard came to own it; he doesn't care, being uninterested in much besides material wealth, women, and vintage wine. It is a crooked structure, leaning to the west, its thatched roof built hastily to replace a rampart which was destroyed in an ancient war. He steps up to the thick wooden door and beats the twisted iron knocker four times, then lets himself in. The stairs wind upward, hugging the walls, and he begins a long climb, his steps careful, his hands once again tracing worn stone. It is impossible to know how many feet have climbed these steps; they are edgeless, slippery, dangerous. How the wizard manages them he can't understand, but that is the way of wizards, Dazbog being no exception. Eventually he comes to the top, a final door, green smoke oozing out from under it, the smells of onion, garlic, and blood tingling in his nostrils. The pup, silent all this time, whines. Again he raps the knocker, beating it four times. He enters.
            No smoke in here, just a dimly lit room with a lantern swinging from the ceiling. There are books stacked against the walls in half-hazard piles, volumes of long-forgotten lore; optical equipment, strange plants, and pagan figurines rest on a lengthy work bench. A painting catches his eye—he stole it, after all—a portrait of a smiling faun, its teeth large and uneven, lips bruised red, a peculiar gleam in its eyes, a certain mischievous evil telling of sins that whisper to the Thief. Suddenly a voice speaks, a raspy croak full of dust and embers. The Thief turns and sees the wizard standing near the window. He is tall but hunched, dressed in a dingy old robe of burlap, one bony arm grasping a broom for support, his great bulbous nose red, his beard filthy, stained, and stinking of wine.
            “What did you say?” asks the Thief, finding a chair. He does not like to stand around the wizard, for the old man comes too close, spreading his reek and spittle.
            “He says you'll lose that hand,” says the wizard.
            “Which one?” asks the Thief.
            “The one that has stolen the most, of course. Why did you bring that creature in here? I don't eat dog, thief. I am no savage. In my glory, I dined on venison and suckling pig. Give him here, all the same.”
            “The painting speaks to you?” asks the Thief, still clutching the pup.
            “Why of course it does, my slinking friend. That is Prax, a God of the forest, lord of debauchery, patron of the lost, the drunk, the misinformed, a true seer, they say, of what really lies within the so-called soul. Somewhere in my library I have a volume dedicated to him and his cult, which has, sadly, died out in all but the most remote places. There were certain heathen festivals coinciding with the harvest, involving violent, sexual rituals, all done in Prax's name. Even a man of your relative uncouthness can see how the holy men of the temple would not tolerate such discord. An unknown artist did this most excellent portrait. He sees right through you, doesn't he? That's because there's nothing inside that mongoloid skull, thief. You are a false construction as I am a false construction. We do as we must. We cannot choose to make a choice. Do you understand me?”
            “I never do,” says the Thief, reaching out toward the work bench, where a bottle of wine rests. He ignores the wizard's frown as he uncorks the bottle and puts it to his lips.
            “It is my curse to be misunderstood or ignored,” says the wizard. “Consider my expulsion from the academy and the ruin of my bright career. I should be at court, you know, whispering truths into the Duke's ear. He is surrounded by optimists, men who lie because it is easy, men who tell him what he wants to hear. They look at the fractured horizon and tell him tomorrow is there, that it is still beating in the last piece of their dead god. We linger and we fade, my friend. The glories of yesteryear have past. This is the twilight of the world, and soon the sun will rise no more.”
            “All the better for me,” says the Thief.
            “You can steal from skeletons, but they don't pay well,” replies the wizard. “Nothing will grow under constant darkness. The cold will set in, turning the world into an icy rock. The endless circle of death and suffering shall cease, and entropy shall have only a brittle husk to devour. Rankar, the great creator, could not live with his consciousness, the terrible weight of being, and so desired death. This is apocryphal, thief, so of course it is true. Immortal and therefore unable to bring about his demise, Rankar divided himself, creating the universe; yet the will to die was preserved in all living things. We are always fighting the drive toward death, even when it will bring us peace. Such is the central paradox of life.” The wizard pivots on his broom, looking out at the city, which glows and simmers with thousands of scattered lights. “Man pretends not to see, thief. He is miserable, suffering, a brute unaware of the strings which pull him to and fro, making him dance. Here, give me that bottle before you drink all of it.”
            The Thief shrugs and hands him the bottle. The pup shivers weakly in his grasp, its eyes swollen shut. The wizard, of course, had a job for him; wizards, however, are never straight to the point, possessing a love for the sound of their own voices. Thankfully, patience was one of his few virtues.
            “I have a task for you, thief, a grand heist worthy of your skill. I want you to steal the Heart from the temple, the last remnant of Rankar.” The wizard pauses but does not turn toward him. “What say you? Can you do this?”
            “Do you wish me to kidnap the Duke as well? What about the royal consort? Surly each will bring a handsome ransom.” His scarred face smiles, then turns to a frown. “What do you want with it? And what could you give me in payment to perform such an impossible task?”
            “The Galvanians want it, not I. They will pay us a fortune, for they have always desired the pride of the Capetian dynasty. Having the Heart will grant them legitimacy when they take this city and deliver us from the tyranny of the Duke and his nobles. But you don't care for politics, do you, thief? Here is an advance, a small portion of the gold that awaits. Five-hundred sovereigns. You are to meet a courtesan who calls herself Cassilda. She will reveal the rest of the plan.”
            The wizard tosses a pouch at the Thief's feet, but he makes no move to take it. On the wall the faun stares at him, his grin growing wider, his teeth crooked mountains.
            “Blasphemy, treason, the ire of an entire city. Have you been in the dungeons, wizard? I've had to eat rat while listening to the screams of the dead. I can't imagine what tortures await the man who attempts to steal the Heart.” He bends down and takes the pouch, opens it, counts the coins, thinks of his rent, wine, and Guinevere the whore. Five-hundred sovereigns is enough for him to live quite comfortably for a good while, yet money isn't worth much when you're not around to spend it. He was, however, the Thief, not a thief, an artist, a true professional, and the wizard, despite being cantankerous and somewhat mad, was also a credible source and true to his word. A reputation is built on performing the impossible.
            “Where do I meet this Cassilda?” he asks.
            “At court, of course. You will not go dressed in your slinking clothes, however. You will wear this,” the wizard holds up a green and yellow-striped tunic, “and carry that,” he says, pointing toward a lute lying against the window sill.
            “A minstrel? But you know I can't sing, nor can I play the lute. And have you ever seen a minstrel with a thief's brand? Or scars on his face?” The Thief touches his own hand, feeling the raised flesh, remembering the pain and the hours spent clutching the wound, the darkness his only constant companion.
            “You forget that I am a wizard, oh prowling menace. I will give you a balm to cover your marks, a potion to improve your voice, and this lute, which just so happens to be a magic lute, upon which you can play no wrong note.” The wizard smiles, his denture yellow and incomplete. “I would say they will sing songs about you, but there will be no one left to do the singing, master burglar. That ego of yours, residing in your imaginary self, prompts you to do as I ask. You are a slave to it, a automaton guided by internal impulses, invisible processes of which you are not aware.”