It’s hard to believe this was so long ago. Two, two term presidents have come and gone and a third has been elected already.
I’m not sure the young’uns out there really get it. We older people look at history as pre and post 9/11. Sometimes I watch old movies or just even think about the 1990s and think wow, what a happy go lucky time.
I was a tail end Gen X er. I remember the big complaint of the older people at the time was that everything was too good and there were no wars to contend with so we had all gotten too soft…and the alternate rock of the day reflected that – i.e. we’re so depressed our generation doesn’t have any meaning unlike our parents who had Vietnam and our grandparents who had WWII.
And then 9/11 happened and I think looking back, it was silly that everyone thought that times being good was a bad thing. Because now it looks like we’ll never see a peace time again, at least not in our lifetimes.
It was the beginning of a lot of this political division. Reps and Dems came together in the aftermath, but in the years thereafter, they really disagreed on the war of terror and that led to disagreements elsewhere.
And I do think it had longterm bad effects on the economy. Economic wise, the 1990s were pretty good. Papa Bush showed off America’s muscle in a quick, get in get out Iraq War and then thereafter, the 1990s were mostly peaceful.
Imagine the economy today if we’d just had 30 years of peace?
Oh well. I remember when it happened. I was fresh out of college, sad my life didnt seem to be working out as planned and then, in retrospect, selfishly I said well, now it really won’t get better and it didn’t.
OK yes I know. I just made 9/11 about me. That wasn’t my intent. Who knows what to say? It sucked.
Thoughts?
My eyes! What have I seen? God, help me!
BQB here with a review of Netflix’s Paradise PD.
There’s a part of me that says the master print of this show should be burned, the ashes dissolved in acid, the remnants of whatever is left put into a rocket to be shot into the sun. It’s that gross and I don’t know why, there’s just something about seeing cartoon animated disgustingness that makes me feel like my soul was warped upon seeing it. There are scenes that haven’t left me feeling this weirded out since I saw Sausage Party, which, although I laughed at, I pledged I’d never see it ever again and to date, I never have.
On the other hand, I haven’t had such a good laugh in so long. It’s hilarious – rapid fire jokes upon jokes upon jokes, jokes that are quick, jokes that you get right away, jokes that you get after you think about it after a minute.
Even better? It pulls no punches. It takes no sides. It whams, bams, and slams everyone and everything. It is an equal opportunity offender to one and all. If you haven’t been offended within the first five minutes, give it another five. Don’t worry. They will eventually get to something that offends you.
Ironically, that’s what unbiased comedy is. When comedians savage one side, one group, one idea, then leave the opposite untouched, it’s biased. We see that in comedy today when it comes to politics. Comedians have their sacred political cows and they won’t touch certain topics with a ten foot pole.
Here, liberals and conservatives are parodied with equal vigor. There’s a particularly funny episode that skewers the cable news channels – CNN, MSNBC and FOX, how they feature knee jerk commentators who skew things to fit their agenda.
I laughed. I laughed. I laughed some more. Still, there’s something about seeing a cartoon penis that seems wrong, even in a cartoon that is intended by adults, and by the way, please, I don’t care if this is a cartoon, if you kid tries to watch this show, please do whatever it takes to stop them from watching it, even if you have to take an axe to the television.
The set up? Kevin is a loser who ends up as a police officer under the command of his constantly angry police chief father, in the town of Paradise. There’s the super fat Dusty, the disgusting Hobo Cop (a hobo turned cop), the walking poster for police brutality Gina, the elderly Hopson (owner of the cartoon penis the sight of which makes me want to power wash my eyeballs), the drug addled police dog Bullet and Fitz, the African American cop who, in one wacky episode, accidentally shoots himself in the penis and then gets arrested for committing police brutality against a black man, i.e. himself.
Part of me wants to apologize to Jesus for recommending this. Part of me appreciates the good laughs it gave me as I watched it the past week.
The best description is that it is basically what you might imagine if Family Guy were able to take the freak outs that it does now but then crank it up to 1,000 with no holds barred.
Honestly, there should be some holds barred. It’s funny, but I hope this doesn’t mean we’re moving toward a future where all cartoons meant for adults end up this disgusting.
I can’t give it a shelf-worthy rating. I also can’t not give it one. See it if you want to laugh and laugh heartily. Don’t see it if you are easily offended, feint of heart, or if you just believe in common standards of decency…which I do, so why I watched this I don’t know.
Hey 3.5 readers.
Unless you’re old like me, you probably don’t even know who he is.
And honestly, even if you’re my age, you probably didn’t know his name. All these years, I just knew him as “The Guy Who Played Dr. Huxtable’s Son-in-Law” on The Cosby Show.
Recently, Owens was spotted working at a Trader Joe’s in New Jersey. A photo was snapped of him with a gray beard and a Trader Joe’s name tag and cue the media nonsense that he’s a loser because he once appeared on a TV show and now he’s bagging groceries.
My first reaction is this sucks. What’s that old saying? “The best laid plans of mice and men…”
In other words, you pursue your dreams, but you also have to take what life gives you. Sometimes that’s a role on a popular TV show you’re young. Sometimes that’s ringing up produce when you’re older.
Look at what often happens to young celebrities. They’re on a hit TV show when they are young. Then that show ends and they assume they’ve made it. The roles will come in, the money will come in but then, boom, for whatever reason, nothing.
Often, all this means is that people loved that person in this one role, but another good role was never found. These young celebs often end up turning to drugs and alcohol. The idea of finding a straight job ends up feeling like something to be ashamed of. Worse, if you’re still hoping for more acting work, rumors that you’re working a menial job probably don’t help.
So it sounds like one big crazy cycle of crap.
I can’t think of their names, but the actors who played Chunk on the Goonies and Paul on the Wonder Years strike me as good examples of young actors who knew when to hold em and knew when to fold em. Both got out of acting and became lawyers. Both understood that success in one role didn’t mean a ticket to stardom. Both found something else to do.
In short, there was nothing wrong with Owens bagging groceries. Really, what’s wrong with it?
Just talking about all actors in general, if you find that acting work isn’t coming your way, why not get a regular job? Maybe you saved a lot of money from your acting days. So what? Get a job at a supermarket because, dude, seriously, what else are you going to do? Sit on the couch?
Maybe you didn’t save your money, maybe you didn’t make as much as the public thinks you did, or maybe you were very responsible and careful with your money but dude, come on, money made decades ago won’t last forever….whatever. Who cares? If you’ve got the time and the acting gods aren’t being kind, then there’s nothing wrong with doing something else.
I guess what I’m saying is be nice to celebrities who get day jobs. If you go through the drive-thru one day and spot an actor from a TV show you liked years ago, just smile and move on.
And hell, the economy isn’t what it used to be. There just aren’t enough resources for everyone’s dreams and goals to pan out. That guy who went to law school and is now bringing you your pancakes doesn’t need your disdain. That dude who was a multimillionaire stock broker and is now cleaning your toilet doesn’t need your scoffery.
People have to make livings. People have to keep their time occupied with productive work. High levels of success aren’t always sustainable so don’t give people crap for doing what they have to do to keep bills paid.
Really, the only time you’ve lost is if you’re capable of doing work and yet you lay down, give up, crack open the bottle, and let all the naysayers keep you down.
And the good news is that Owens got a part in a Tyler Perry TV show though, I mean, just throwing it out there, it is a Tyler Perry TV show so, not gonna lie, a career at Trader Joe’s probably has longer lasting prospects.
Zing! Sorry. Can’t help myself. No wonder this blog only has 3.5 readers.
It’s Deathwish with Tits!
BQB here with a review of the vigilante justice film, Peppermint.
Jennifer Garner is one bad mother in this flick, 3.5 readers. (SPOILERS)
In the early 2010s, life is good for Riley North. She’s got the typical lower middle class lifestyle. She and her husband have jobs that are a grind but they get by. They have a cute daughter, the works.
Alas, all this goes FUBAR when criminals gun down daughter and husband, only to leave J-Gar wounded.
Feeling defeated after the hoodlums go unpunished, Riley goes underground. She travels the world. She trains. She fights. She learns hand to hand combat. She learns how to shoot. How to survive.
And then she brings all that planning back to the US, where she unleashes a fat can of whoop-ass on all her done her wrong.
Admittedly, the movie starts off a little hokey. The whole part where the justice system fails Riley seems like it was written by a high schooler with a low level understanding of the law, although, if the writers had delved deeper into the legal wranglings, it would have put us to sleep, so I take back my criticism.
At any rate, this is one of those movies that makes you sad in the beginning, then makes you roll your eyes a bit at the hokey-ness, but then…damn. Just…holy crap. Jennifer Garner may have slowed down since her Alias days, but she is back, kicking ass and taking names.
Hell, I’m going to predict right here and right now that this movie is J-Gar’s “Taken” moment. Remember 2010? Liam Neeson was on his way to obscurity then he did a movie about a man with a particular set of skills and now he’s an action movie extraordinaire?
I think…or at least I hope, that’s what happens for Jen here. Fuck those Capital One commercials. J-Gar doesn’t need to ask what’s in your wallet anymore. That badass bitch can just take your wallet and make you thank her for doing so.
If you can sit through some early writing hackery, it gets good. So good. So fun to watch as she hunts everyone down, literally everyone, like all the bad guys, anyone who has ever helped the bad guys, everyone who like, ever gave the bad guys a cookie, even the lawyers and judge and other corrupt officials who helped the bad guys get off on a technicality.
She slices. She dices. She juliennes. She blows shit up. She blows people up. She shoots. She scores. She wracks up a body count that would make Charles Bronson blush.
And that’s what this film basically is. Deathwish with Tits. Honestly, if I had been the studio exec on this one, that’s what I would have called this. “Deathwish with Tits.” “Peppermint” is ok, but really, it’s misleading. Someone who just glances at the marquee might think the movie is about a tasty yuletide treat and not a mother’s last good memory of her daughter who happened to be eating peppermint ice cream when evil criminals did their evil criminal deeds.
Sure, there’s room to poke fun. Jennifer Garner is a hot chick and also, a dignified chick. She’s a proper lady, damn it. She’s always carried herself with poise and class. Thus, at times, she gets messed up while she’s living on the mean streets, so that means, in J-Gar’s world that like, a few hairs are out of place, and you know she brushed the shit out of those hairs as soon as the film was in the can.
Maybe there’s a market these days for vigilante justice movies, I don’t know. Bruce Willis’ Deathwish remake from earlier this year was universally panned, though loved by this writer, but then again, I love vigilante justice movies.
I suppose there’s a PC argument against this movie. It’s two hours of a white lady slaughtering impoverished latinos but then again, the universal standard of right and wrong is at play. In other words, it’s made clear these particular and only these particular latinos did bad and there are other latinos and minorities and people of all races and colors and backgrounds who, from behind the scenes, try to help the woman they refer to as an “angel.” Yes, rich and poor alike watch the mayhem ensue on social media and cheer the angel along and come to her aid once in awhile.
Still, I’d love it if we could flip the script. Someone should make a vigilante justice movie where a black character loses his or her family and then shoots down anyone who participated in the evildoery. Hell, I cheered for Gabby Union when she was kicking the ass of white dudes who were trying to rob and kill her family in “Breaking In,” just as I cheered for J-Gar here.
You know what? Forget it. I shouldn’t have even brought up race. Maybe the SJWs are brainwashing me. Who knows?
Point is, September is a month where Hollywood’s crappiest movies come out, well, not as bad as January, but still, after summer, you can’t hope for much fun at the box office until November. This movie was a surprise.
SIDENOTE: There’s a scene where, to show J-Gar is losing focus on taking care of herself and putting her life into her mission, she eats a meal consisting of a swig of vodka and an unwrapped cupcake. That’s how hot Hollywood actresses slum it, apparently. Me? That’s just Monday morning breakfast at BQB HQ.
STATUS: Shelf-worthy.
I had the weirdest dream last night. It was weird both in content and also how the brain can make up these weird stories. I don’t understand how the brain is basically able to write, cast and produce a movie in your head that it plays inside your brain while you are sleeping.
So here’s the dream. There was a woman in my neighborhood, she was never given a name, but my brain cast Australian rapper Iggy Azalea to play her in my mind. Keep in mind this wasn’t Iggy playing herself as a cameo or anything. It was just a nameless woman.
There is a party at my house. Why? I don’t know. In reality, I’ve never had enough people who like me enough to all congregate at my house at one time for the purpose of enjoying my company. Hell, I don’t even want to enjoy my company.
By the way, none of the people at the party I recognized. My brain just filled the background with randos.
At the party, the woman played by Iggy cries. She explains she is under a lot of pressure because her husband has gone missing and the media is doing sensational stories that imply that she whacked him. The TV is on and talking about how she probably did him in. Weirdly, the brain fills in gaps…like I can’t remember what the TV said or who on the TV said it, just a general sense that the woman was being accused on TV.
I go to the kitchen and the woman follows me. She asks if she can see my bed. Sigh. Even in my dreams I have zero confidence and so I assume that a woman asking to see my bed has an ulterior motive.
I tell her no but the woman starts crying and gets upset. She tells me she really wants to see my bed. I keep saying no.
At this point, I’m not sure if my brain is a hack writer, but either everyone at the party has left or they just disappear. The woman is getting upset. She really wants to see my bed.
Perplexed, I go to my bed. She does not come with me. What could she have wanted to see?
I look around the surface of the bed. Nothing.
I look around the room. Nothing.
I lift up the bed. Her husband’s dead body is wrapped up in a sheet under my bed!
I confront the woman and ask her if she killed her husband and put his body under my bed. She says no. I don’t believe her. I am scared of her now. I tell her I’m calling 911 and she asks me not to. I grab a frying pan and somehow I am able to keep her at bay with it. I just hold the frying pan at arm’s length and this keeps her from coming near me.
I tell the 911 operator the whole story, how my neighbor is a woman accused on TV of killing her husband and that she kept asking to see my bed and so I went to the bed and found her dead husband underneath. As I do so, the woman keeps asking me to stop talking to 911 because she didn’t do it.
The police come and take the body away. For the rest of the dream, I start defending myself on a TV news show, I never see the host, just myself on the screen, and apparently my brain has made an assumption that people are accusing me of helping the wife hide the body.
The host asks me didn’t I ever smell the body and I say no I never did. This is probably again my brain being a hack writer.
The host asks why do I think people are accusing me of being in on it and I tell the host well, I’m a really ugly looking person and so people automatically assume that ugly people are bad, but I wasn’t in on the husband murder or the cover up and honestly, if I was, why would I have called the police to tell them about the body under my bed?
Sigh. Even in my dream I’m aware how ugly I am and the biases people have against me as an ugly person.
At that point I wake up and that’s the end of the dream. My brain did leave some plot holes, but still, it’s crazy how in a dream, the mind can come up with an elaborate story. What was the point of all that? Why did my brain make that story happen? What series of brain cells start firing to make this little inner brain movie happen?
Also, why couldn’t it have been a happier dream? Why couldn’t the woman played by Iggy Azalea have just come over to bang me and live happily ever after? Why did there have to be a dead husband? Why did I have to be falsely accused?
Clearly, my brain knows my life is shit. Ergo, if my brain puts a hot chick at my party, she can only be there as part of an elaborate rouse to frame me for murder and not just because like she wants my junk. My unconscious brain is literally able to do the calculations in my sleep necessary to conclude that the woman would never be there just to like me and shit.
Oh brain. What little esteem you hold me in.
Feel free to discuss what you think my brain was trying to tell me in the comments.
Natalie and Walter sat at a table in the middle of the lounge. The anchorwoman sipped her coffee as Walter noshed on a plastic cup full of celery sticks.
“Still taking your coffee black?”
“Yes,” Natalie said. “Apparently cutting back on sugar works. Look at you.”
“Oh,” Walter said. “I’m not that special.”
The soft, supple arms of a random hot ass reporter chick with big titties were suddenly draped around Walter’s neck as a pair of red lips were pressed up against his cheek. “Walter, darling, it’s so thrilling to see you’re back in New York again.”
“Start spreading the news,” Walter said.
The hot ass reporter chick tussled the ex-cameraman’s hair. “Stop by my place and we’ll spread something else.”
Walter gulped as the hot ass reporter chick walked away.
“Does that happen often?” Natalie asked.
“Literally at least three times an hour,” Walter replied.
“Of course, it does,” Natalie said. “You’re an Adonis now. Good for you.”
“What can I say?” Walter asked. “I’m popular.”
Natalie drummed her fingers along the table. “So…”
Walter nodded his head. “So…”
The pair sat in silence until Walter spoke up. “So, you and Ed Enwright?”
“What business is it of yours?” Natalie snapped.
Walter threw up his right hand in a “stop” motion. “It’s not. I’m just making conversation.”
“You had your chance, Buster Brown,” Natalie said.
“I know,” Walter said.
Spencer stopped by the table and set down a plate full of goodies. “Miss Brock, I’ve brought you assortment of muffins. We have blueberry, cranberry, pomegranate, chocolate chip and pistachio.”
“Thanks,” Natalie said. “Oh..”
“Oh?” Spencer asked.
“It’s just that,” Natalie said. “I don’t see any corn…”
Spencer’s eyes widened. “You’re right! There’s no corn at all!”
“It’s not a big deal,” Natalie said.
“It’s a very big deal!” Spencer shouted.
“Don’t worry about it,” Natalie said.
“I will worry about it, my lady,” Spencer said as he walked off. “I will scour the earth for a corn muffin!”
Walter laughed. “Do you even want a corn muffin?”
“No,” Natalie said. “I’m power tripping.”
Walter chomped down on a celery stick. “If anyone ever deserved a good power trip…”
The table got quiet again.
“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” Walter said.
“No need,” Natalie said. “Just you know, when a woman invites a man up to her suite on New Year’s Eve and you’re a no show, it doesn’t feel good.”
“I know,” Walter said. “I don’t know what to say. I respect you too much to treat you like…”
“Like what?” Natalie asked.
“A piece of meat,” Walter said. “I’ve got a monster inside of me, Natalie. Every man has one. Usually, most men can satisfy it with a few youthful trysts before they settle down and commit to one woman but my whole life, I was so overweight no woman, not even the ugliest of females, would give me a time of day, and then, all of a sudden, our toilet gator book hits the big time, we’re getting invited on all these talk shows, I’m doing cameos in movies…”
Natalie nodded. “And your previously empty soul mug is now overflowing with pussy. I get it.”
“And I get it,” Walter said. “A lot. Like, non-stop. 24/7. My confidence levels are higher than they’ve ever been and women can sense that. I can’t walk three feet down the street without a woman running up to me and offering to…”
“I understand,” Natalie said.
“Over four and a half decades with nothing,” Walter said. “And then all of a sudden my phone is ringing off the hook with calls from lady rappers, pop stars, TV stars, movie stars, authors, politicians scientists…”
“Scientists?” Natalie asked.
“Last week,” Walter said. “I had a three way in a coat closet with a lady Nobel prize winner, a Congresswoman and the coat check girl itself. Don’t even get me started on the non-famous woman. Once a month, I’ll allow myself to splurge and go to a diner and enjoy a nice breakfast of whole wheat toast with light butter and a glass of ice water and I can’t even do that without the waitress leaving me a note on my bill to meet her in the bathroom.”
Natalie sipped her coffee. “That sounds terrible. What an exhausting life you lead.”
“Tell me about it,” Walter said. “Oh, and I can’t keep myself out of the gossip rags. Every day, these famous babes are fighting over me. You see that story about how Lady Cyanide threatened to cut Juicy Judy at the rap awards?”
“It made our newscast,” Natalie said.
“I tell you, Natalie,” Walter said. “I can’t keep up with it. I wish I could say no and just settle down, have a healthy relationship with a nice, loving, intelligent woman. Constant, non-stop sex is fun, but the downside is none of these women can carry a conversation in a bucket.”
Cody stopped by the table with a single corn muffin on a plate. He set it down. “Miss Brock, I’m so sorry to interrupt. I just want you to know I heard about the snafu that Spencer had with your muffin and I gave him a good talking to. The nerve of that imbecile, showing up to your table without a corn muffin, but don’t worry, I gave him a good piece of my mind. Now, it took some doing, but I ran to the bakery one block over and got you this…”
“It’s looks great,” Natalie said. “Thank you.”
Cody nodded. “Call on me whenever I can be of service.”
The intern walked away. The anchorwoman smirked at her ex-cameraman. “Threatening bodily harm against their relatives with a mythical weapon?”
“Works every time,” Walter said. “I thought everyone in this business knew that.”
“Apparently, I didn’t get the memo,” Natalie said.
The duo sat in silence for a moment until another hot ass chick reporter walked past the table, being sure to drop a hotel room key card down before moving on. Walter picked it up. “The Swankforth Manhattan? Jesus, that must have set her back a pretty penny.”
“Do all you women usually spend that much on you?” Natalie asked.
“God,” Walter said. “All day long, the stuff just shows up at my door. Suits. Clothes. Man jewelry. Cologne. Tickets to exotic locations. Gift baskets filled with expensive gadgets.”
“Sounds like a real drag,” Natalie said.
“I have to keep track of it all on a spreadsheet for my taxes,” Walter said. “That’s how much these women are spending on me.”
“Aww,” Natalie said. “Poor baby.”
“This is rude!” Walter said. “To just book a hotel room without even asking me. She doesn’t know that I’ll come and…and…” Walter stopped and read a note taped to the back of the card out loud. ‘Room 306 at 9 p.m. Don’t be late. Plow me nasty.’”
Natalie laughed. Walter tucked the card and note into his pocket. “See what I mean? The nerve of these women. She doesn’t know that I’m available to plow her nasty but now that she’s booked the room, I feel obligated to…”
“Plow her nasty?” Natalie asked.
“I mean,” Walter said. “I’m probably going to anyway but she could have asked first. It’s just common courtesy.”
“You know, Walter,” Natalie said. “You could say no.”
Walter said. “I could…but also, I can’t.”
“It seems to me that you’ve replaced one addiction for another,” Natalie said.
“Food for sex,” Walter said. “I know. Believe me, I figured it out. I’m in touch with my inner psyche more than ever.”
“Do what you want, buddy,” Natalie said. “But do you want some advice as a friend?”
“Sure,” Walter said.
“I remember how you always said you thought you had your food addiction under control until one day it caught up with you,” Natalie said. “You woke up. You had a hard time walking. Your knees ached. Your back hurt. You’d gained more weight than you thought you could ever lose. You suffered chest pains, you couldn’t breathe at night without a CPAP machine.”
“Not fun memories,” Walter said.
“But you beat all that,” Natalie said. “And if it’s a stable relationship you’re yearning for, maybe you have to learn to say no once in a while.”
Yet another hot ass blonde chick reporter with big titties stopped by the table. Without warning, she slapped Walter across the face, then leaned over and kissed the red mark she made on his cheek.
“Ow,” Walter said.
“Son of a bitch!” the hot ass reporter chick with big titties said. “You have your way with me and my twin sister behind my back and you never call either of us!”
Walter looked confused. “I…I…when was that again?”
The hot ass blonde chick reporter dropped two plastic hotel room keys on the table. “You’ll meet me tomorrow night and my sister the night after that. Stand us up again and we’ll hot you down like an animal.”
Walter grabbed both keys and shoved them into his pocket as the bodacious babe stormed off.
“Must be hard to keep track of your schedule,” Natalie said.
Walter pulled out his cell phone and punched a few buttons. “That’s cool. I’ve got an app for that. Where were we?”
Natalie reached across the table and grabbed her friend’s hand. Walter put his phone away.
“You thought food fulfilled you but your life only got better when you put the snack cakes down,” Natalie said. “Your food addiction caught up with you. It tore your life apart and you had to do a lot of work to pull it together. Just like all those little individual snack cakes eventually built themselves up into a giant fat roll on your belly, maybe, just maybe, all of these individual skanks will build up into a giant skank avalanche that’s going to suffocate you.”
Walter smiled. “A skankalanche? What a way to go.”
“You laugh,” Natalie said. “Go on. Have your fun. Just know the odds of this lifestyle being sustainable forever aren’t good. Use enough women as your personal playthings and sooner or later, you’ll wake up with either a disease that will make your dick turn gangrenous and fall off, or worse…”
“There’s something worse than my dick falling off?” Walter asked.
“One of them will talk about you,” Natalie said. “Publicly. Have you seen Lifebox, lately?”
“I try to stay away from it,” Walter said. “Every woman who ever rejected me before I became famous writes me daily messages on there. The ones who since got married are the most aggressive but, blech. Like I’d ever be caught dead with a woman my age.”
Natalie’s face recoiled in disgust. “I’m not even going to get into that mess. But seriously, if you cavort with enough random bimbos and then you’ll either wake up with a disease that liquefies your innards, or one of the bimbos will feel jilted and will write an unflattering post that will make show business drop you like a bad habit.”
“That’s true,” Walter said. “I have been thinking about getting my lawyer to draw up a pre-sex contract.”
“A what?”
“A pre-sex contract,” Walter said. “Initial here. Sign there. Indicate you understand you’re having sex with me out of your own free will, that you’re free to leave at any time and I won’t try to stop you, that there will be no repercussions if you say no, for I am offering a safe, non-coercive sex environment and also, that you agree that even if you decide, thirty years from now, that you wish you hadn’t had sex with me in the past, that you won’t consider it rape and assassinate my character on Lifebox.”
Natalie took her hand away. “Did it ever dawn on you that if you have to go through all that…”
“That I should stop and just find one kind, caring, trustworthy woman to love and cherish?” Walter said yes. “But first, I have to get all the lust out of my system.”
“You’ll never get it out,” Natalie said. “You just have to get it under control.”
“Believe me,” Walter said. “I’ve thought about the various sex diseases and I’ve thought about getting called out on Lifebox. The one thing that worries me the most though is that one day all this might go away.”
“You think so?” Natalie asked.
“I know so,” Walter said. “All this success came so late in life for me. Soon, I’ll be fifty and even though I live a healthier lifestyle now, my body will start to fall apart and when that happens, all the show business bookings will stop and when they stop, I’ll just become a sad, old man, sitting in a big empty house all alone.”
“Well,” Natalie said. “If that isn’t enough to motivate you, then…”
“Fifty more trysts,” Walter said. “Sixty, seventy, tops. And then I’m done. Then I’ll swear off random pussy until I find the love of my life. I swear.”
“Whatever happened to award winning actress Marisol Villalobos?” Natalie asked. “I liked her.”
“I did too,” Walter said. “We’re taking a break. She uh…got heavily into the furry lifestyle.”
“The furry lifestyle?” Natalie asked.
Walter straightened his tie. “She had this thing where she would dress up like a hound dog and she’d make me dress up like a fox and then she’d chase me around her estate. When she caught me, she’d…”
The shock in Natalie’s eyes was palpable.
“That doesn’t leave this table,” Walter said.
“My lips are sealed,” Natalie said. “And hey, Walter, I’m not here to judge. I just hope you come to your senses and find a stable relationship, but that’s a decision you’ll have to make.”
Natalie looked at her watch. “I should get going. It’s been fun to catch up with you, but now that I’m with someone, you really shouldn’t drop without calling, even just as friend.”
Walter leaned bit into another celery stick. “I didn’t come to see you. I’m here to tape an interview with one of the hot reporter chicks with big titties.”
“Why? What are you promoting?”
Walter pulled out his cell phone. He pulled up a video and passed the phone to Natalie. The anchorwoman pressed play. A buff, studly looking Walter appeared on screen, wearing a sleeveless shirt that accentuated his arm muscles, and a pair of shorts that showed off his calf muscles.
“He used to be a fat fuck,” an announcer said.
“Has TV lost all standards?” Natalie asked.
“Yes,” Walter said. “For a long time now.
The on-screen version of Walter looked off into the distance, as though he were lost in thought. “His name is Walter Dawes, and he was such a fat fuck that he huffed and puffed and was barely able to walk while he was helping Network News One Anchorwoman Natalie Brock track the toilet gator…”
“Name dropper,” Natalie said.
“Your people said it was OK,” Walter said.
On-screen, Walter walked through a gym, barking orders at overweight people as they worked out, their sweat bodies on the verge of collapse as they did push-ups, sit ups, lifted weights, walked on treadmills and so on.
“One day, Walter woke up, shouted, ‘I don’t want to be a fat fuck anymore!’ and took control of his life. He said no to pizza…”
In the video, Walter knocks over a table full of hot, steaming pizza pies, sending a wave of pepperoni and sauce to scatter all over the floor.
“He kicked ice cream’s ass,” the announcer said.
The video version of Walter round-house kicked a tub of rocky road, sending it flying.
“He at the shit out of that celery,” the announcer said.
Video Walter held up a celery stick. “Mmm! I love celery.”
Real life Walter pushed his celery stick away. “I really don’t.”
Video Walter ran around a track, a legion of fatties behind him, struggling to keep up.
“You can’t keep saying you’ll start your diets tomorrow, fatties!” Video Walter shouted. “Tomorrow is here! Tomorrow is now! Tomorrow is today!”
“Are you serious?” Natalie said.
“Yes,” Real Walter replied.
The announcer continued. “He’s the co-author of Jaws of Death: The Inside Story of the News Duo That Tracked the Toilet Gator.”
“I should sue you,” Natalie said. “You didn’t write a word of that book.”
“Too late,” Real Walter replied. “We have a deal.”
“And he’s the author of the best-selling weight loss books that have helped millions shed unwanted, unsightly fat,” the announcer said. “Books like, ‘You Don’t Have to Be a Fat Fuck’ and ‘Stop Being a Fat Fuck Today.’”
“A ghost writer may or may not have been involved with those,” Walter said.
Video Walter spoke up. “I’m Walter Dawes and when I got tired of being a fat fuck, I took action, and now I’m not a fat fuck anymore. Let me tell you, life is great when you’re not a fat fuck. When you’re not a fat fuck, you’ve got the energy you need to do the things you want and be the best possible version of yourself. Over the next six months, I’ll be taking twenty fat fucks and taking them on a journey to becoming the slim, trim, healthy, non-fat fucks that they always dreamed of being. If you’re a fat fuck watching at home, I hope you’ll join us, because believe me, as bleak as things may look now, a life of non-fat fuckery is within reach. Will you let me help you grab it?”
Natalie looked up from the phone. “Are you actually helping these people or exploiting them?”
Real Walter shrugged. “Meh. A little of both.”
The anchorwoman returned her eyes to the screen, where Walter could be seen chasing overweight contestants around a dining room table. The spread was overflowing with healthy options, like cauliflower and brusell sprouts, as well as not so healthy options, like buffalo wings and candy.
“No!” Video Walter shouted as he pulled out a cattle prod and used it to shock a chubby woman in the butt. “It puts down the chocolate bar and picks up a tofu bar! It does this whenever it’s told!”
“Please!” the chubby woman pleaded. “I’m so hungry!”
“No!” Video Walter shouted. “It puts down the chocolate bar and picks up the tofu bar or else it gets the cattle prod again!”
Natalie looked up from the phone and shook her head at her friend.
“Maybe a little more of the latter,” Walter said.
On-screen, the track scene resumed. Video Walter knelt down to yell at one of his hefty charges, a morbidly obese man in his twenties who had stopped running and had collapsed on the ground, red faced, sweaty and out of breath.
“Get up!” Video Walter shouted.
“No!” the portly young man cried. “I need to rest! Leave me!”
“I will not leave a single one of you fat fucks behind!” Video Walter shouted.
“I can’t do this,” the portly man said. “Not anymore.”
Video Walter got into the obese man’s face. “Son, do you want a good life or not?”
“I do,” the young man said. “I really do.”
“Do you want to be a fat fuck forever?” Video Walter asked.
“I don’t,” the young man said.
“Well,” Video Walter said. “Tick tock, fat fuck. Time’s a wastin.’”
“I know,” the young man said. “I just need a minute.”
“You don’t got a minute, son,” Video Walter said. “You’re pushing thirty. You think you’ll ever get a good job looking the way you do?”
“No,” the young man said.
“You think any reputable company wants a gross fat fuck representing them?” Video Walter asked.
“No,” the young man said. “No, I don’t.”
“You think you’ll ever get a wife the way you look?” Video Walter asked. “Son, you haven’t been able to see your ding dong in years. How the hell do you expect a woman to see it let alone do anything worthwhile with it?”
“I don’t,” the young man said. “I gave up on ever being loved a long time ago.”
“Stop giving up and get up and get in the game, boy!” Video Walter said.
Tears flowed from the young man’s flabby face. “Please…I just need some time.”
“You’re all out of time, boy!” Video Walter shouted. “Every second that goes by is another opportunity you missed because the skinny fuck you want to be is trapped inside the fat fuck that you are! Boom! Some skinny fuck just took a job you could have gotten! Boom! Some skinny fuck just ran off with a woman you could have fucked! Boom, boom, boom! It’s now or never, kid. What’s it going to be?”
“I don’t know,” the young man said.
“Son,” Video Walter said. “I’ve got plenty of time for winners but I don’t have a second free for losers. Are you a winner or are you a loser?”
“I want to be a winner,” the young man said.
“Boy,” Video Walter said. “Are you tired of being a fat fuck?”
“Yes,” the young man said.
“Are you tired of watching your life pass by, knowing that you’re missing out on the brief, fleeting time that God gave you to exist in this world because you’re too fucking fat to live the life you’ve always dreamed of?”
The young man dried his eyes. “Yes.”
“Here’s the million-dollar question,” Video Walter said. “Do you want to be a fat fuck anymore?”
The young man stood up. “No!”
“I can’t hear you!” Video Walter shouted.
The young man smiled. “No!”
“Son!” Video Walter cried. “Tell me at the top of your lungs so the whole world can hear you!”
There on that track, in front of all his fellow contestants, the obese young man screamed like a man reborn. “I don’t want to be a fat fuck anymore!”
Video Walter hugged the sweaty young man before returning to the head of the pack. The young man continued to run alongside the contestants. The screen faded to black.
“I Don’t Want to Be a Fat Fuck Anymore,” the announcer said. “Now playing on the Real Life Channel, Sundays at 9 p.m., right after ‘Teenage Crack Whore Interventions’ and before, ‘America’s Worst Anal Bleaching Disasters.’ Tired of scripted programming? Then come to the Real Life Channel, where we just put cameras on a bunch of dumb, stupid assholes and let them do their thing.”
Natalie passed the phone back to Walter. “I don’t know whether or not I should be disgusted by your lack of intregity or jealous of your time slot.”
“A little of both,” Walter said.
“You logged so many years as a cameraman,” Natalie said. “After the toilet gator, after your transformation…you could have become a journalist if you wanted to.”
“I didn’t want to,” Walter said. “Please. Having to deal with all the political fruitcakes screaming at each other all the time? No thanks. I’ll just stick with my show. I can harass fat people into losing weight for a month, turn the footage into twelve shows and then I’m free to do whatever I want for the rest of the year.”
“Yeah,” Natalie said. “Speaking of political fruitcakes screaming at each other all the time, can I show you something?”
Walter stood up. “Lead the way.”
Chapter 13
At the Network News One headquarters building in Manhattan, anchorwoman Natalie Brock sat behind the center of the news desk. She closed her eyes as a makeup artist’s brush dabbed her cheeks. Once all the poking and prodding of her face was finished, she opened her peepers and studied the words on the monitor while working on her voice exercises. “Rubber buggy baby bumpers…rubber buggy…is it rubber baby or rubber buggy?”
On Natalie’s right (from a TV viewer’s perspective) a dapper, healthier, clean-shaven, Ed Enwright sat and ran a highlighter over a sentence in a news article he’d brought in preparation of the next segment. Ed wore a perfectly cut black suit and had shed his extra pounds. “It’s rubber baby buggy bumpers.”
“Shush,” Natalie said. “I’m not talking to you.”
An insanely beautiful woman with an ample bosom to the right of Ed confirmed Ed’s assertion. “It’s rubber baby buggy.”
“No,” Natalie said. “Because why would you have a rubber baby?”
Ed slapped his forehead. “It’s a rubber baby until you get to buggy bumper and then you’re no long talking about a rubber baby, you’re talking about the bumper of a buggy that holds a baby.”
“That makes no sense,” Natalie said. “And stop it. I’m still not talking to you.”
Over on the left side of the news desk, another ridiculously attractive woman with a massive chest confirmed Ed’s claim. “It’s confusing but that’s the point, to get you to string along a number of words that sound similar. It helps you maintain focus while speaking.”
“So, the buggy bumper isn’t made out of rubber?” Natalie asked.
“It is,” the woman on the left said.
“Then why is it a rubber baby buggy…”
Ed snickered.
“Shut up, Ed,” Natalie said. “You’re in no position to…”
Dan Kowalski, Natalie’s nerdy producer, stepped up to a spot that was just a few feet away from one of the multiple cameras in the studio. His frame was slight and his head was bald. Even though he was only in his early thirties, he wore a grandfatherly cardigan sweater. He held a clipboard and wore a headset with a microphone.
“Get ready to make the magic happen, people,” Dan said. “Thirty seconds people
Ed faced a camera and positioned himself in a poised manner. Natalie did the same.
“Are we cancelling our plans this evening then?” Ed asked without taking his gaze from the camera.
“You can cancel my foot up your ass,” Natalie replied.
Ed laughed. The beauties tried not to, but soon enough, they joined in.
“What?” Natalie asked.
“Nothing,” Ed said. “It’s nothing.”
“Ten seconds,” Dan said.
“Idiot,” Natalie said.
“It’s just that if you cancel putting your foot up my ass, that means you’re not putting my foot up your ass,” Ed explained.
Natalie maintained her smile. “Whatever. Please stop speaking to me. I can’t stand you.”
Dan held up three fingers and ticked them off. “3…2…1…action!”
Natalie took her cue. “Welcome back to Network News One, where we have the hottest and also, the not so hot, average, and even below average looking women whose titty size is none of your business. We’re reporting the news and shit a lot more often these days. In political news, confirmation senate confirmation hearings continue for Harold Clarke, President Stugotz’s pick to replace the late Justice Myron Rosenbaum. Here’s a clip of those solemn, dignified proceedings.
The senate chamber appears on screen. In the rafters, three women dressed in purple, frumpy, ankle length dresses with bonnets on their heads are arrested and dragged away, kicking and screaming whilst shouting, “We won’t be your birthing cows! If you appoint Clark to the Supreme Court, your daughters will be birthing cows for the rest of their lives!”
Natalie explained the commotion with a bit of voice over commentary. “For our viewers at home who aren’t up to date on their show streaming, ‘Birthing Cow’ is a popular show on the pay to stream service Wezzle, about a dystopian future in which women are forced by law to remain barefoot and pregnant at all times and never know the joys of working a 9-5 job where a boss breathes down their neck and they never get to…well, I won’t spoil it for you.”
U.S. Appeals Court Judge Harold Clarke took a sip of water while various senators preened for the cameras.
“Republican Senator Phil Taylor of Iowa will now call the meeting to order,” Natalie told viewers.
An elderly man banged a gavel down. “I hereby call these nomination proceedings to order. Before we begin, I’d like to remind my colleagues on both sides of the aisle that the world is watching and therefore, at all times, we must adhere to certain standards of decorum and decency, and not descend into…
Senator Carol Hastings, a California Democrat, interrupted the Republican. “Mr. Chairman?”
Senator Taylor continued. “…petty insults and nasty potshots. I assure you, everyone will have time to get their questions answered, but we must…”
“Mr. Chairman,” Senator Hastings said. “I’d like to move that this judicial nominee has poopy pants.”
Senator Taylor banged his gavel. “Senator Hastings, please, hold on until I finish my…”
More protestors appeared in the rafters. They all wore shirts with pictures of fetuses on them. “Save the babies!” they cried. “Every minute Judge Clarke isn’t sitting on the SCOTUS bench is a minute where 1,000 babies die!”
Security dragged the protestors away as the chairman continued. “Now then, as I was saying, a free and open discussion will be allowed, one where a diverse array of opinions will be shared but we must remain respectful to one another and we can’t…”
Republican Senator Scott Masterson, who throughout his career had taken the unusual step of wearing his ten-gallon cowboy hat everywhere, even on the senate floor interrupted. “Mr. Chairman…”
“No,” Senator Taylor said. “The proceedings have not begun yet. When they begin, all will have their time to…”
“Mr. Chairman,” Senator Masterson said. “I move this illustrious body recognize the irrefutable fact that the gentlewoman from California’s pants are much poopier and indeed, much smellier than Judge Clarke’s pants ever have been or ever will be.”
Senator Taylor tossed his gavel on the desk and pulled out a shiny flask. “Fuck it,” the old man said as he took a long pull. “Have at it, assholes.”
Senator Hastings took first dibs. “Judge Clarke. When it comes to the issue of abortion, what is your position on the Supreme Court’s ruling on the landmark decision of Roe vs. Wade? Specifically, will you uphold that decision in any and all cases that come before the Supreme Court in the future?”
Judge Clarke leaned into the microphone. “Senator, with all due respect, it would be improper for me, as a judge, to state publicly how I might rule on a matter as I am required at all times to remain impartial and..
“Blah, blah, blah,” Senator Hastings said. “Look, if there’s one thing this country needs, it’s twenty-four-hour, taxpayer funded, drive-through abortion clinics.”
“Disgraceful,” Senator Masterson said.
“No one asked you, redneck,” Senator Hastings said.
“Why don’t you go back to San Francisco and burn your bra, ya’ hairy armed…”
Senator Hastings glared at Senator Taylor.
“What?” the old man asked. “Oh, no we’re paying attention to me?” The old man picked up his gavel and half-heartedly pounded it down. “Whatever. Order, order, and so on. Whatever.”
“All I’m asking you, Judge Clarke,” Senator Hastings said. “Is if the issue of twenty-four-hour, taxpayer funded, drive-through abortion clinics were to come before the highest court in the land, would you be for it or against it?”
Judge Clarke took a sip of water. “Senator, I really don’t foresee a way in which that issue would ever come before the Supreme Court, but even so, like I said, I can’t just publicly make random pronouncements on hypothetical scenarios what may or may not ever happen.”
Senator Masterson interjected. “How the hell would you even have a twenty-four-hour drive-through abortion clinic?”
“No one’s talking to you, Uncle Clovis,” Senator Hastings said.
“I’m genuinely intrigued,” Senator Masterson said. “Is the good woman from California suggesting that women should actually drive their automobiles to a side window located at an abortion clinic and stick their womanly area through two sets of windows, one belonging to the car and the other to the abortion providing establishment?”
“That’s neither here nor there,” Senator Hastings said. “Now, Judge Clarke…”
“Or,” Senator Masterson said. “Is my colleague on the opposite side of the aisle suggesting that women drive their cars into some type of garage or pit bay where a doctor will work on their hey-nanner-nanners in a rapid manner, using some type of gas-powered apparatus to remove an unborn child from the womb, as if it were a rusty lug-nut that can only be removed by a pneumatic wrench?”
“It’s a meaningless lump of cells,” Senator Hastings said. “And stop making light of it, because removing that meaningless lump of cells is the hardest decision a woman will ever have to make. Now, if the buffoon from the Lone Star State would stop interrupting, I could proceed with my question. Judge Clarke, we’ve already established your status as an owner of poopy pants…”
“Senator,” Judge Clarke said. “I don’t believe we established the veracity of that allegation with any degree of clarity whatsoever. In fact, I advise this body that my pants are in fact, quite poopy free.”
“We’ll let the debate on that issue rage on,” Senator Hastings said. “But for now, I’ll need an answer as to how you would rule on…”
Senator Masterson pounded his fist down on his desk. “Jumpin Jehosaphat, ya’ ornery broad! Can’t you get it through your thick head that this honorable jurist isn’t here to be picked apart so you can score points with your hippie base?”
The senator from California cleared her throat. “Let the record reflect that my colleague from Texas is only wearing that hat to compensate for his tiny, insignificant…”
Senator Taylor openly read a copy of Breast Connoisseur Digest, ignoring everything that was going on around him.
“It would seem Mr. Chairman has checked out,” Senator Masterson said. “Judge Clarke, I’m so sorry you’ve had to undergo such vicious, underhanded tactics when every nitwit with half a brain knows you can’t comment on matters that might come before the court.”
“Thank you, Senator,” Judge Clarke said. “Now, if we could move on to my qualifications, I think you’ll find that…”
“Blah, blah, blah,” Senator Masterson said. “Let’s get down to brass tacks. Are we gonna string these sinful she-devils up or what?”
“I beg your pardon?” Judge Clarke asked.
“Look,” Senator Masterson said. “I’m not saying we should actually hang a woman for having an abortion, I mean…uh, wait, we can’t do that, right?”
“I’m not aware of any legal precedent that would allow that,” Judge Clarke said.
“Of course not,” Senator Masterson said. “At any rate, I’m not saying we should deep six these shrews. I’m just saying there should be a law that would require them to be placed in a public stockade for a day or two, possibly three, four, no more than five, tops, with a sign hanging from their necks that says something to the effect of, oh, I don’t know, ‘I’m a failure as a mother’ or ‘I care more about a good time than raising the next generation,’ something catchy like that, and people would be allowed to walk by and hurl various and sundry epithets at these women, perhaps pelt them with rotten eggs, throw spoiled food products at them, and just make them think twice about deviating from the course that Mother Nature herself put them on.”
“Where are we going with this line of questioning, Senator?” Judge Clarke asked.
“How would you rule on that, son?” Senator Masterson asked.
Judge Clarke closed his eyes and massaged his temples. “I can’t…even. Let me get this straight. The people of every state had an opportunity to select their best and brightest to represent them, and you people are the result?”
“Damn right, fascist,” Senator Hastings said.
“You’re darn tootin,’’ Senator Masterson added.
Senator Taylor was so startled by the question that he awoke from a state of half-slumber. “Huh? Oh yeah, I ask that all the time. Eh, screw it. I’m just here until my term runs out and then I’m going to go home and become a blueberry farmer. Yes, while the world burns, I’ll be rolling around in a field of blueberries, smushing them between my toes, smearing them all over my naked body until I…”
Senator Taylor remembered that cameras were present and banged his gavel. “Let’s take a five-minute recess.”
Natalie Brock returned on-screen. “In other news, the civil war in the third world nation of “No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istan may be over for now, but it is now raging on in the West. Over the past few months, vicious acts of terrorism have broken out in London, France, Canada, and the United States, as radical supporters of both factions in the country with an unpronounceable name have taken their vile show on the road. For more on this, we turn to our very own Network News One Counter-Terrorism Analyst, Ed Enwright. Ed?”
Ed surmised that Natalie’s demand that he not speak to her was only in effect off-camera. “Thank you, Natalie. For years, No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istan, there was a bloody conflict over whether the country’s citizenry should submit to one of two rival factions, the Do-What-We-Say-or-Take-a-Machete-Up-Your-Taint-tarians, or the Obey-Us-Or-Get-an-RPG-Up-the-Butt-ians.
The war was brutal, with high casualties on both sides. Ironically, the leaders of both groups agreed nearly 100 percent on every single issue that the country faced, but just disagreed on how to get people to go along with their edicts, with the Do-What-We-Say-or-Take-a-Machete-Up-Your-Taint-tarians maintaining that a machete strike to the taint is the best way to gain compliance, whereas the Obey-Us-Or-Get-an-RPG-Up-the-Butt-ians held steadfast that if you want to capture a dissenter’s attention, there’s no better way to do it than with a rocket propelled grenade fired directly up the aforementioned dissenter’s posterior.
In late 2017, the Do-What-We-Say-or-Take-a-Machete-Up-Your-Taint-tarians emerged victorious, taking control of the country the name of which no one can pronounce and renaming it the People’s Republic of No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istan.
“I’m told the UN has yet to official recognize that designation,” Natalie said.
“That’s correct,” Ed said. “Now, Natalie, when General Ooba Gadooba took control of this country and declared himself the country’s Grand Imperial Honcho, he swore publicly that he would make sure that machete wielding death squads would be spreading his message of control through taint hackery all over the Western world.
Footage rolled of a bearded dictator with sunglasses, a funny hat, and a uniformed chest with hundreds of unearned medals pinned to it spoke at a podium. “We will slash taints in London! We will slash taints in Paris! We will slash taints in America! The streets of the West will run red with the taint blood of the non-believers!”
More footage rolled, this time of three people being carried away on stretchers from a shopping mall in Scranton, Pennsylvania with X shaped bandages covering their genitals. Ed spoke over the footage. “And it looks like the Grand Imperial Honcho made good on his promise. The Do-What-We-Say-or-Take-a-Machete-Up-Your-Taint-tarians have set up sleeper cells all throughout the West. These cells are comprised of No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istan nationals, who by day, pose as hard working, law abiding immigrants and by night, plot heinous acts of taint slashery, like the scene that unfolded yesterday at the Scranton Heights Mall when 28-year-old Doopa Badoopa, who was in the U.S. on a student visa, went berserk in a food court and hacked away at three innocent taints until he was apprehended by police.
Similar attacks have taken place in London and Paris, a total of 103 taints have been hacked beyond recognition thus far. Natalie?
Natalie shuffled some papers around. “President Stugotz spoke about this deadly attack from the White House this morning.”
Footage rolled of President Vinny Stugotz, a man in his early seventies with a spray on tan and a tall, jet black pompadour on his head that defied all laws of physics. “Look, what all of you lying sacks of horse manure in the press need to realize is that these attacks on American taints need to stop, OK? They need to stop. That’s all there is to it. If they continue, then I’ll have no choice but to shoot a nuke up Taint Boy’s ass. That’s what I call Ooba Gadooba on Lifebox, by the way. Taint Boy. He hates it. Gets right under his skin. Alright, I guess I’ll some questions from you suckbags but only because I haven’t got anything else better to do. You! Dirt beard! Go!”
A reporter with a patchy beard addressed the president. “Mr. President, do you think your harsh rhetoric offends the Americans of No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istanian descent, most of whom are hard-working, law abiding, and have made great contributions to this country?”
“That is the dumbest question I have ever heard,” President Stugotz said. “Tonight, I want you to go home, open up the junk drawer in your kitchen, take all of the junk you keep in it, you know, your pencils, your rubber bands, your batteries, your ten old cell phones that you want to keep but don’t know why, that remote control to the TV you don’t have anymore. Take all that junk out of it, then put your literal junk inside of it, by which, I mean, your literal penis. I want you to put your penis inside a drawer and slam the drawer shut at least seventy or eighty times so that the intense pain will remind you to stop asking your president such moronic questions.”
“But,” the reporter said. “Mr. President, your critics on the left have said your approach to this issue is nothing short of bigoted xenophobia.”
“Nine hundred times,” President Stugotz. “I just upped your dose, loser. Slam yourself in the weiner 900 times because that’s the only way you’ll learn to not be so stupid. Look, I’ll explain it so you dummies will understand. When No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istan sends its people here, they aren’t sending the cream of the crop, OK? They’re sending people who want to carve your taint up like a Thanksgiving turkey. They’re sending people who want to shoot a rocket propelled grenade so far up your ass then when you burp, it’ll look like you’re spitting out a Roman candle. And yes, OK, once in a blue moon they send like two, maybe three people who just want to live a normal life and drive a cab or become a janitor or mow a lawn or some other shit I wouldn’t be caught dead doing and that’s fine. Let them do that. But I’m telling you, if you start importing No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istanians into this beautiful country by the boatloads, then get ready, because there won’t be a single taint left. You want to sacrifice every American taint in this nation on the alter of political correctness? I don’t think so. Not on my watch.”
Natalie appeared on screen. “Tough words from a Commander-in-Chief who isn’t afraid to mince them. With us in the student are two of Network News One’s most popular pundits, a hot ass liberal chick with big titties and a hot ass conservative chick with big titties. Hot Ass Liberal Chick With Big Titties, I’ll start with you, what’s your take on the president’s reaction to the wave of taint slash attacks that have been carried out throughout the Western world?”
“Thank you for having me,” the Hot Ass Liberal Chick with Big Titties said. “Natalie, what a sad day for America. What this so-called president doesn’t seem to understand is that our country is a nation of immigrants. Our land was built off the blood and sweat of people who came here seeking a better life and the No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istanian immigrant community is no different. Do you think it’s fun to live in No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istan? Do you think it’s fun to wake up every day, not knowing if your taint will be slashed if you incur the wrath of the ruling regime? And suppose you do obey all Grand Imperial Honcho Gadooba’s capricious demands? Then what? You’re still at risk that the roving bands of Obey-Us-Or-Get-an-RPG-Up-the-Butt-ian rebels will shoot a live, honest to God explosive device up your asshole. Life sucks in No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istan and if America can improve the lives of those who are brave enough to make the trek here, then that’s wonderful.”
“Hot Ass Conservative Chick with Big Titties,” Natalie said. “Your response?”
“Thanks Natalie,” the hot ass conservative chick with big titties said. “You know, it’s funny that all of a sudden, the hot ass liberal chick with big titties has a great opinion of America, that it’s this wonderful country with an amazing track record of helping immigrants live better lives, because if my memory serves, in past segments, the hot ass liberal chick with big titties dumped all over America, saying that all this great country ever does is discriminate against minorities and it’s the most racist place on the face of the earth. Which is it, Hot Ass Liberal Chick with Big Titties? You can’t say, and I quote, ‘America is a racist turd hole’ and then also say everyone who is suffering around the world should be allowed in? Why would you want suffering people to come to a country that you called a racist turdhole? Come on, Hot Ass Liberal Chick with Big Titties. Pick a lane and stick with it, already.”
“You’re taking my words out of context,” the hot ass liberal chick with big titties said.
“You know what else is funny?” the hot ass conservative chick with big titties asked. “Last year, when President Stugotz, blessed be his name, referred to No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istan a, quote, ‘big time shit factory full of shit,’ you said it was racist to refer to any country like that…”
“It is,” the hot ass liberal chick with big titties said.
“You can’t have your cake and eat it too, Hot Ass Liberal Chick with Big Titties,” the hot ass conservative chick with big titties said. “Either No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istan is a terrible place where at any moment, a citizen might get a machete to the taint or an RPG up the butt, and therefore, the president was right when he called it a shit factory, or it’s a wonderland full of puppies and kitties and cotton candy and rainbows and the president was racist for referring to it so negatively, but if that’s the case, then why would the No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istanians need to come to America, which, I remind you, you referred to as a racist turd hole?”
Natalie raised her pointer finger. “I’d just like to point out for our viewers who may not be up to speed on this issue, No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istanians are actually considered white. In fact, anthropologists have written extensively about how No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istanians favorite pastime is to locate an old television that has yet to be chopped in half by a machete or blown up by a rocket propelled grenade, set it up, and watch old reruns of NASCAR races. Further, according to historian Roland Dalrymple, who stopped by NN1 last week to discuss his new book about the conflict, not one single No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istanian has ever uttered the words, ‘Boy, have you lost your damn mind?’ in response to a bratty child’s temper tantrum inside the unpronounceable name’s open market bizarre.”
“Wow,” the hot ass conservative chick with big titties said.
“That’s white as hell,” the hot ass liberal chick with big titties added.
“And,” Natalie said. “No parent in that situation has ever said the words, ‘You’re not getting shit now. Wait till we get home and your father hears about this.’ Instead, as Dalrymple pointed out, No-One-No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istanian parents will usually buy their unruly children their choice of the limited supply of toys made out of sticks available and will even tell their children they are sorry for being such bad parents and will try better next time. They’ll even let it go when their children talk sass and call them by their first name.”
“I’m surprised Stugotz isn’t importing these people by the millions then,” the hot ass liberal chick with big titties.
The hot ass conservative chick sighed. “Once again, another liberal wack-job feels the need to dumpster dive into racebaiting.”
“Slow your roll, facist,” the hot ass liberal chick with big titties said. “All I’m saying is just because a small handful, a tiny percentage of No-One-Can-Pronounce-This-Shitty-Country’s-Name-istanian-Americans are taking their allegiance to their ex-country’s leader a little too far doesn’t mean that all immigrants from this country should be treated with suspicion. You’re whiter than a ghost’s asshole, Hot Ass Conservative Chick with Big Titties, and yet, I assume you’d call it racism if minorities were to guard their homes whenever you walked by out of fear that you’d conquer them and call it manifest destiny, right?”
The hot ass conservative chick seethed with rage. “I challenge you!”
A bell rang. Natalie pressed a finger up against her earpiece. “Uh oh, ladies and gentlemen. Dan, my producer, informs me that this is a new feature for Network News One. Whenever one hot ass pundit chick with big titties throws down the gauntlet and the other hot ass pundit chick with big titties accepts, the pundits will move their debate from the news desk to the jello wrestling ring and…wait…Jesus, Dan…do we really have a wrestling ring for women to wrestle in? Have we forgotten this is a news channel? We have? Alright then. Hot Ass Liberal Chick with Big Titties, do you accept?”
“I do,” the hot ass liberal chick with big titties said.
Natalie turned to the camera. “That’ll do it for this block. Stick with Network News One because coming up in the next hour, our counter-terrorism analyst will give us his response to the recent spate of machete attacks in the West, right after sports and weather. Oh, and stay away Mama Esposito’s frozen pizzas, because according to a recent study, that brand of pie caused ten out of ten test subjects to fart out a powerful hallucinatory gas that makes people believe spiders are crawling all over their body. We’ll be right back.”
Chapter 12
January 21, 2019
A fly buzzed around the light that hanged from the ceiling in Maddox’s cramped cell. The villain made the most of what little space he had, doing pushups on the cold, cement floor. As his back raised up, the light glistened across the mad man’s sweat, revealing the intricately detailed tattoo of a hideous sea creature. The monster had a dragon-esque head, a mouth full of sharp teeth, and a long, winding, snake like body that disappeared into the sea – a patch of water that had been inked in blue on his lower back. The beast was blacker than the darkest night, though its features were illuminated by a gush of fire that roared out of its mouth. Above the creature’s head, there was an inscription, a biblical verse relevant to the dreaded devourer of those who became drunk on their own power. “Nothing on earth is like him – one made without fear. He looks on everything that is high. He is king over all the sons of pride.”
So large was the piece of body art that it no doubt required its owner to undergo a great deal of pain during its application. Many would have relented after the first few lines were drawn, but Maddox? He enjoyed pain. In fact, he was on his one thousandth pushup when the sound of a pair of knuckles rapping on the side of his cell’s plexiglass window broke his concentration. The prisoner rose to his feet, grabbed a towel and turned around to face the perpetually displeased looking face of Capt. Kent. As usual, he was flanked by his own personal army of soldiers with M-16s at the ready.
“I’m sorry, Captain,” Maddox said as he wiped the sweat from his body. “Had I known I was to have company, I would have tidied up a little.”
“Not interested in your games, Maddox,” Capt. Kent said. “Up against the wall and assume the position.”
Maddox nodded and obeyed. He dropped the towel on his bed, then turned, faced the back wall of the cell, and pressed his body up against it.
“Lock your hands behind your head,” the captain ordered. The prisoner complied.
“On your knees, shit heel,” the captain said. Once again, the prisoner did as he was told, though this time he flexed his vocal chords with a song. “You put your right foot in, you put your right foot on…oh Captain, do come in and do the hokey pokey with me.”
“I have some items to give you,” the Captain said.
First, the captain held up a smartphone. “You have a call from your attorney. I don’t need to remind you that this phone does not link to the Internet, nor can it be used to make any other calls. Should you accidentally hang up the call, your time to talk to your legal counsel will be considered over, and the United States government will have no further duty to get your attorney back on the phone for you at this time. Are we clear?”
“Crystal, my good man,” Maddox said.
“Second,” Captain Kent said as he held up a bulging manilla envelope. “Your attorney sent some reading material you requested. A book and a magazine. Both were checked for contraband. Both were clear.”
“Thank goodness,” Maddox said. “You know, I do so hate to engage in stereotypes but I must admit I suffer from a chronic inability to trust the members of the bar.”
“I will now place these items in your pass-through,” Capt. Kent. “As I do so, you will remain completely still. If you make the slightest move, your cell will be filled with tear gas. Are we clear?”
“I could use a good cry,” Maddox said. “But not today.”
“You will wait until my men and I have cleared the area before you take your items,” Capt. Kent said. “If you move before you hear the door to this area shut, we will assume your intentions to be hostile and will put you down like the dog that you are.”
“Can’t be too careful nowadays,” Maddox said.
“The reading material you can keep,” Capt. Kent said. “The phone will be collected when your call is over.”
“Your service has been positively thorough, Captain,” Maddox said. “I have half a mind to post a positive review of this fine establishment on Lifebox. Is that still a thing?”
“Shut up,” Capt. Kent said as he opened a drawer in the middle of the door to Maddox’s cell. He popped both items into the drawer, closed it, then twirled his finger around in the air, a sign for his men to move out.
When the door to the area was shut, Maddox stood up, grabbed the phone and put it up to his ear. “Emmett! It’s been so long.”
Attorney Emmett Carlisle, a skilled Manhattan litigator in his late forties was on the other line.”
“Pierce,” Carlisle said. “I trust they’re treating you well?”
“As well as one might expect,” Maddox said. “How’s your lovely family?”
Carlisle hesitated to answer. “Oh…that’s…you know, we should get down to business.”
“Indeed,” Maddox said. “I have no doubt my jailor is pleasuring himself to this conversation as we speak. Do slow down, Captain Kent. You’ll go blind and grow hair on your knuckles.”
“The actions were successful,” Carlisle said.
“Good show, old boy,” Maddox said. “And the upcoming maneuver?”
Carlisle’s voice wavered. “That’s…that will take some time.”
“Pish posh,” Maddox said. “I’ve given you plenty of time already.”
“You have,” Carlisle said. “But sir, the thing you have to understand is…”
Maddox’s nostrils flared. Just as the villain was about to blow a gasket, his neighbor across the hall called out from his cell. “Who are you talking to? Is it the voices?”
The villain ignored the question. “Emmett, need I remind you that…”
Another interruption. Oh, how Maddox despised that. “Do the voices command you too?”
“Shut up, Sergei,” Maddox said. “I’m on the phone.”
Carlisle spoke up. “Sir, I understand your disappointment, but the request you made is very involved, a lot of working parts. I want to make sure it’s done right and that my best people are on it.”
Maddox calmed down. “Yes. Right. Measure twice, cut once as the bourgeoisie say.”
Sergei pounded a fist on his clear plastic cell door. “Tell me what the voices are telling you!”
“Emmett, hold a moment,” Maddox said as he turned his attention to his neighbor. “The voices told me to tell you to pound your head against your door until you fall asleep.”
Sergei appeared bewildered.
“Well,” Maddox said. “Go on then. You don’t want to keep the voices waiting.”
Maddox turned his back on Sergei. As he did, he could hear a non-stop thumping sound from across the hall.
“Very well, Emmett,” Maddox said. “I suppose I’m in no position to argue.”
“We should be able to help you in March, sir,” Emmett said.
“Until March then,” Maddox said. “Ahh, good help is so hard to find. Once you’ve fulfilled your obligations to me, Emmett, you should really kill yourself to make up for your failure. Really, it’s the only way you’d ever be able to recover any semblance of the formerly high regard I held you in.”
Emmett stammered. “Sir, I…I…it’s just that…I can’t just…”
“That will be all,” Maddox said. The madman placed the phone in the drawer, then picked up the manilla envelope. As he laid down in his short, uncomfortable bed, the thump sounds grew louder.
Maddox pulled out a book titled, Jaws of Death: The Inside Story of the News Duo That Tracked the Toilet Gator. The book featured a photo of recently appointed Network News One anchorwoman Natalie Brock standing next to her cameraman, Walter Dawes. Natalie wore a woman’s business suit while Walter wore a photographer’s vest and ball cap. In the background, the big yellow eyes of the late toilet gator that had rocked South Florida in late 2017 loomed large.
“Do the voices still want me to do this?” Sergei asked.
“Indeed,” Maddox said as he opened the book to a section filled with pictures of the toilet gator investigation. Maddox flipped through photos of Cole Walker, the hero who saved the day, his ex-wife and lead investigator, FBI agent Sharon Walker, Sharon’s partner, the late Gordon Bishop, Cole’s partner, Officer Rusty Yates, Moses Malone and Felix Howard, the gun owner’s rights advocates who backed the team up, dispatcher Maude Fleming and Officer Burt Dunbar, not to mention Professor Elliot Lambert, the marijuana addicted scholar who introduced the world to the field of toilet animal studies.
Thump, thump, thump. “Can I stop now?”
“No,” Maddox said as he unfolded a centerfold. In doing so, the villain found a foot long print of a screenshot taken from the video footage of Mayor Beaumont Dufresne being eaten alive by the toilet gator.
“Oh, Mr. Toilet Gator,” Maddox said. “I love your work.”
The thumps continued as Maddox opened-up a copy of Gossip Digest. The villain flipped through a few pages until he found an article circled in red pen. It was titled, “Call Them Benwright!”
Underneath the headline was a recent photo of Enwright and Brock, he in a tuxedo, she in a flowing, formal gown, taken at a charity function.
Maddox read the article. “Recently resurfaced ex-Fed turned NN1 counter-terrorism analyst Edward Enright was seen with America’s favorite anchorwoman Natalie Brock on his arm at the Twenty-First Annual ‘Save the Platypi’ Fundraiser Gala at Sid’s Bistro in New York City. At first, a pair of co-workers attending a swanky soiree seemed harmless enough, but witnesses who dropped a dime to this publication indicated that the pair was seen after hours, fogging up the windows of a limousine and canoodling up a storm.”
The villain grinned. “Oh Ed, you dog, you.”
The thumps stopped. An alarm blared. Within seconds, Captain Maddox and company entered the hallway to check on Sergei, who was lying prostrate on the floor of his cell.
“Get him to sick bay, STAT!” the captain said to his men, just before he looked at Maddox. “What did you do?”
Maddox laid his magazine down on his chest. “Who…me?”
Bookshelf Battle 