death

A Tale of Two Bullies: Me and My Murderer

I'm a bully.

At least, I was
I might still be, but that's not the point.
I'm not going to justify myself, or make it seem like my bullying ways were legitimate or fair, or excusable, but I'll tell you right up front that I didn't intend to be a bully. I meant to be the funny guy.
It's a popular myth that bullies are afraid of the people they attack, but I think that's actually an accidental result of the mocking rather than the immediate cause.
Bullies attack people that are just different, it's that basic.
It's where racism comes from.

This post isn't expressly about me, but I'll tell you a quick story about myself:

When I was 17, I was sitting in stand-still traffic, in the right most lane. I was listening to music and hanging out, when I saw a big muscular black guy walking up the side of the road. Before I knew what happened, I instinctively locked the doors of the car.

My heart sank...

What did I just do!? Did I assume this guy was going to try to steal my car and sit in the traffic?? Was I a racist? What the fuck??

I was seriously worried that I had just revealed myself to be a bigot. I thought about it a lot.

A few months later, I found myself sitting in more traffic. In the right most lane again. Listening to music. This time I looked up and saw a little old white lady walking up the side of the road. Before I knew what happened, my hand reached out and locked the doors again.

HOORAY!

I'M NOT RACIST, I'M JUST AFRAID OF EVERYTHING!


Especially little quiet people who wear bow-ties. Which brings me to my story:

There's a guy that I used to be "friends" with on Facebook, who, for the sake of this story, I'll refer to as "Elmer."
Elmer is a fucking asshole.
On Facebook, Elmer is constantly posting statuses, usually around three times a day, which are typically centered around how abortion should be made illegal (this is technically up for debate, but it's not the point of this post. If you have a problem with giving people a choice as to how they should conduct themselves and decide their future, go ahead an give me a reasoned argument for removing someone's options), and how any non-Christian is a fool. He posts about how "boughetto" (a crude word which is a combination of "bourgeoisie" and "ghetto") people are loud and stupid and annoying. He frequently deals in stereotypes about black people. On Martin Luther King day, he posted something fucking crazy about having the day off and whether or not it's deserved, and how MLK Jr. himself would say "Ni**er please" in regards to...something...
Elmer has blocked me on facebook, so I can't easily quote the post, but if I can find a way to quote the "Ni**er please" post in the future, I'll add it in. If you're friends with this prick and you can find it, send me a screen cap at WillAndBobby@gmail.com!
Anyway, I find him infuriating. He's a bully. And so I fucking bully him.
Most of the time I just post asinine shit.
For example:
Last week he posted something about how he couldn't wait to go home and have his "supper."
I thought it was absurd that he called "dinner" "supper," so at first I was going to post, "haha, what the fuck? You call it 'supper'?"
But it didn't seem funny enough.
So then I was about to write, "Oh boy, I love 'supper.'"
But then it wasn't weird enough (that's important to me), so I finally posted, "Oh no, my supper is cold :("
Perfect!
It's fucking stupid and irrelevant and not worth getting angry at, while still being weird and funny. And he mostly used to let me get away with just posting weird shit on his page, which was part of the fun.
Not all my posts have been benign though. I've called him out about threatening people.
A year ago, he wrote about how he never forgets the people who wronged him, and how one day they'll pay for it.
It set me off. And I wrote something along the lines of, "So you're threatening people now? I guess someday we'll see your face in the papers."

He went OFF! He freaked out and wrote a long post about how I had compared him to Jared Lee Loughner (a comparison which I didn't intend, but nonetheless find accurate).
I was mostly worried that I might lose the place where I posted absurd bullshit. And this guy is an accidental comedic genius.
That seems like a good enough background to explain what happened a couple of days ago.
Elmer posted this:
How's that for some racist bullshit?!

Really, the fact that black people were once discriminated against and hated means that black people should have learned not to be rude to anybody?
If you're going to use the argument that racism should have an effect on how black people "should" act, it would be that THEY ARE FREE TO DO WHATEVER THE FUCK THEY LIKE after white people did whatever the fuck they liked!
You stupid asshole!
You racist piece of shit!
You bow-tie-wearing human trash!
Now I'm not trying to big myself up or make my role in this world more significant than it is...And YES, I am (or WAS) willingly "friends" with Elmer, who I would usually just mock with goofy bullshit, but man this set me off.
He was seeming to revel in his own bullshit and awfulness. His anger is well documented. And more than that, he has people who read his bullshit and agree with him. I don't presume I'm going to change the world, but I also can't very well look at small-minded shit like this and move on. I wanted to call him out on his fucking prejudice.
At first I wrote, "Hey [Elmer], which do you hate more: racism or black people?" But I ended up deleting that and coming up with "It's a good thing white people and Asian people aren't rude at all." 
Compared to what I was originally going to write, that's nothing. Even still, I received a fucking frantic, lunatic, rapid fire, SUPER angry response back about how I had twisted his words and how I was spouting "fallacies," which is a bullshit old-world, biblical term meaning "falsehoods." 
...Which is also old and biblical. 
Fuck...
Anyway, he went on to attack me by saying something along the lines of (I'll add actual quotes if possible) "how do you know I won't post something negative about white people or Asians in the future."
To put it bluntly, he's a defensive nut.
I wrote back "Feel free to surprise me but..." and I went on to point out that even if he eventually posts about how white people can be rude in the modern world, he's currently talking about specifically black people...who he has written about before...in the same shitty negative tone.
I'll say it now: Go fuck yourself  "Elmer."
After this most recent outburst, where I blatantly point out his racism, he finally decided to block me. 
He should have done it years ago.
Unfortunately for me, this son of a bitch gets the best of me here:
He says that I have been antagonizing him for years (again, I'll post the actual quotes in the future if possible). And he's right. I have been. But I'll say again that it's because of his misogyny and racism that I lash out.
He also makes a point of saying that he remembers how I treated him in middle school and high school.
Now we're back to that Jared Lee Loughner bullshit.
What, may I ask, is the point of saying to somebody that you'll remember them for the way they mistreated you, unless you have some plan for how to get back at them?
I'll suggest here and now that "Elmer" has, at least in the back of his mind, some idea of lashing out against the people who has wronged him.
Which means that now I have to explain myself:
I bullied Elmer in middle school, and I have to own up to that.
In 8th or 9th grade (I honestly don't remember), I took a wood-working class which I shared with Elmer.
He was quiet, and I had no reason not to like him, but he shared a work station with me and a girl, whose name I don't remember.
I flirted with the girl, and we joked around, and we were goofy, and we made fun of anything and everything, including Elmer.
I'll remind you again that "Elmer" is a nickname for the actual guy. It's a similar name to the real thing, though, so when I tell you that me and that girl called him "Smellmer," you may well work out what his actual name is.
"Smell" was definitely a part of the name, is what I'm saying.
But it had no true basis.
He wasn't smelly, he wasn't weird, he was just quiet and fine.
I'll tell you right now, that by calling him "Smellmer", I thought the natural perception was not I was calling Elmer a loser, but that by calling him "Smellmer," I was calling myself a loser!
It was a joke on a joke.

I thought I was making fun of people who make fun of people.

"Smellmer" is the dumbest, most illogical name in the world, so by using it, I was making fun of people who might actually use it.
But no matter what, whether I intended that fucking stupid name to be hurtful or not, I have to own up to the result, which was evidently that I hurt Elmer's feelings.
I feel bad about that as a 9th grader. If at all possible, I would definitely send a message to my 15/16 year-old-self saying "leave Elmer alone," but as a 25 year-old man, I think "fuck you Elmer, you racist fuck."
So that was middle school. He has every right to say that he remembers how I treated him then, and he has  every right to hate me for it.

But high school? I don't remember shit about him then! I don't think I spoke to him at all!

So once again: fuck you Smellmer! You're talking out of your smelly, racist, ass!
No matter what, he posted that thing about how he remembers me for how I "treated" him in middle school and high school, which I interpret to mean he'll one day show up on my front step with a gun.
I'll be waiting...To die I guess...Because I don't think I'll dodge those bullets like Batman.
Yes.
I was a bully.
10 years ago.
But Elmer is a bully now.
He blocked me, and he's way smarter than man, and he works for the fucking government, but still I say, "fuck you, you racist piece of shit."
Honestly though, how awesome will it be if he tries to murder me? 
If I'm found dead, seek Smellmer. 
Actually, first check if it was a heart attack, I'm pretty overweight. If there are bullet holes, though, drive straight to Smellmer.
If you're reading this, and you know who "Elmer" REALLY is, then I suggest you go nuts on his wall, denouncing his crazy views. Fuck that asshole and his asshole friends.
Facebook is a public forum. You're free to think whatever crazy bullshit you want, but when you put it on a public site like that, don't expect it to be the same as putting it in a journal you keep under your bed. People can see it and respond. Facebook is a place for conversation and debate.
It's like being at a party, and everyone you know is there, and a few hundred people you've never met, and you see someone you used to know and you happen to notice they're saying something horrible about somebody else. Do you walk up to them and say, "hey man, that's not cool," or do you just pretend it didn't happen?
What I'm saying is that in a moment like that, you feel compelled to do one of those two things: step up or move along.
I couldn't help myself, so I stepped up. Frankly I wish I had been more brazen and given him more shit.
Life's too short to let people get away with hurting each other.
The last thing I got to say to Smellmer before the block was that I do regret being a shit head in middle school, but I'm going to call out bullshit when I see it.
He followed up with a fucking knockout punch. He really got me good. He wrote:
"Enjoy spending the rest of your life pretending to be humble while mistreating people."
Fuck. He was right: I was pretending to be humble and I was accidentally writing like some small town super-hero.
He'll never fucking see the last thing I wanted to say to him though, because I was blocked JUST before I could send it... 
My last message to Elmer is:
"Thanks!"
Bully the bullies!
Concerns, thoughts, questions, stories? Comment here or email me at WillAndBobby@gmail.com!

WBKE - Episode 2: Crime

Boom.

Episode 2 of Will and Bobby Know Everything is online!

In this episode, Bobby and I are joined by special guest host Tommy Becker, who comes by to discuss the state of crime in the world today. Specifically, we try to figure out the best way to murder each other.

It's a lot of fun! I hope you guys like it.

Same rules as last time, find it on:

iTunes for you Mac or PC

The iTunes app for your iPhone, by searching the show's title.

The free Stitcher (podcast directory) app for your iPhone or Android phone, by searching the show's title.

Or just listen through your browser!

No matter what, just enjoy the show!

You can make any comments of love or hate, or send any questions or requests to this blog or to WillAndBobby@gmail.com

Episode 3 in a week!

The Buddy System

On October 6th, 2011 (I give the year because it's almost over), my dog Daisy died. If you have any concept of who I am, you likely know that because I haven't stopped talking about it. Based on the past couple of months, I don't think I ever will. I've written previously about how talking has helped me cope with her death. And I have to take that previous point of view for what it's worth, because now I'm a month and a half removed from saying it, and I can tell you now, on December 6th, 2011, that I can hardly stand to think about my girl, let alone talk about her.

I'm still very upset. And I'm very angry. Not in general, I should say. In general, I think I'm pretty okay, but when it comes to my dog, I'm very, very angry.

Being that I aspire to someday have a career based on my writing, I usually try to revel in ANY extreme emotion, and given how extreme I become when thinking about Daisy, I've tried to write from this mindset. I can't do it. It's too much. I'm so overwhelmed by how much I'm hurt. If that weren't enough, I'm actually annoyed at myself for letting my hurt turn into anger.

We adopted a new dog, partly because the house was too empty without my big goofy girl, partly because we needed someone new to focus on, and partly because of our OTHER dog, Harley.

Lately, out of the blue, I've begun to slip. I'm calling people by the wrong name. More specifically I've been calling our new dog Daisy. Her name is Penny. I slip and call her Daisy. Somethings wrong. I've lost a girl who should have been a long term family member. She was my pet, my friend, and my family. And my brain is trying to reintroduce her, because I can't quite stand life without that stupid fucking dog pouncing on me.

Worse than my interpretation of her death, which is inherently more informed because of my human brain (and because I was there), is what seems to be happening to poor Harley.

Harley is approximately 12 years old. And I have to approximate that age, because, just like all of our pets, he was a rescue. I don't intend to get on a high horse here, but I kind of do, because I'm proud of my family for always adopting a pet who NEEDS our help. There will always be people who buy from breeders, and there will always be people who just shop at puppy stores, but not as many people will welcome an older, potentially abused dog into their house. But those are the dogs who need a home. Daisy was one of them. Harley is one. We don't know what happened to him, but when we got him, he was approximately 3 years old, and was very nervous around men. I have to assume that he was hit by a man.

To take a quick tangent: If you are a human, and you are reading this, and you have EVER abused an animal, you are actually an inhuman fucking monster. One time I was at a party with my friend Bobby, where we saw a guy put his foot down on his cat's neck in some bizarre joking/frustrated manner, and we were inches from fucking killing him. Don't abuse animals. I'm going to turn into a real-life Batman who defends animals. My story parallels Bruce Wayne's: His parents were murdered in front of him. I had a doggy who died and I found out later. Chilling similarity.

Anyway, Harley has been in our family for 9 years, and in that time, he has seen many animals come and go. And he's always been a great dog, but he's been aging. When Daisy showed up 3 years ago, he suddenly got a good burst of speed, and somehow he seemed to be really interested in that girl. He kept step and pace with her, running around in the backyard, despite the fact that Daisy was 4 times his size. She kept him young. Now that she's gone, he's slow, sluggish, and man does he look old.

With any luck:

We're born into a world where we have an established family. We're born into a world where we have parents, siblings, and extended family, all of whom have a distinct love and interest in us. We're coddled as babies (because there's no such thing as some weird, self-sufficient baby), and then during our formative years, our families take care of everything for us. We have homes, clothes, food, an education, and in the unfortunate circumstance that a member of our family dies, magically a funeral has been planned, and all we have to do is show up. Maybe. If we're too young, we probably don't even have to go. Basically, we're accounted for.

At some point, though, we start to expand our interest outside of our families. And I should say that I don't limit "family" to blood. Our family is whoever takes care of us. At some point, we expand our interest outside of those who take care of us out of a sense of duty. And if we're lucky, we meet someone who will take care of us because they want to.

Think about it for a couple minutes, and you'll realize that your parents are nothing more, and have never been anything more than two people who like each other. It's a basic analysis, but it's true. Our parents are two people who like each other so much they wanted to spend most of their time with each other. They liked each other so much that they had children. They maybe liked each other so much that they decided to live in the same house, and forever sleep in the same bed.

Our parents are not obligated to each other necessarily. They just really really like each other. They're what we aspire to not only because they are our reference point for how we're meant to structure our lives, but because family can only go so far.

I love and respect my family. Every member. And in my family, each and every member is particularly interesting (or I'm bullshitting), but the world we're born into is limited. Most of the people we meet the moment we're born are already adults. As we grow up, they're getting older. I don't mean to be grim (which is to say that I'm not being grim for the sake of being grim, I'm being grim because the concept I want to explore is inherently grim), but these people are likely going to die before we do. It happens generation after generation. We should know that. I've tried to. It's fascinating and inescapable, and the fact that it can truly happen at any moment is major bullshit.

When we get to the point that we are expanding our interests outside of our family, we're met with absurd trepidation and apprehension, and rejection. We accidentally make new friends and form complex relationships, and we stumble into traditions and layers of responsibility toward each other. We date a lot, and we try each other out. And it's awkward and dramatic and fun, but eventually we get to the point where we truly want/need to settle down. We build a group of people with whom we hope to share our time in the future, and it's because the world we've always known inevitably has to fall away at some point. In all of these relationships though, most of us obviously hope to have a relationship with somebody that we can create a family with. We want to have children who can one day theorize that their parents are just really tight friends. It's nature. It's ethereal and spiritual. It's evolution. It's done out of love and fear. I can safely say that without the woman I love and without the family and friends I love, I'm an old man. I'm an old man yelling at you to get off my lawn.

Everybody who I care about and who cares back keeps me young and sane. I've seen what happens when you lose your anchor.

It can ruin you. It can turn you into a shell of who you were because you were so invested in their life, and they were so invested in yours. It's disheartening to watch. It's heart breaking. But it's a true testament to the power we can create and share with each other. And it should be comforting to know that people can be so capable of loving one another. I can love all my friends as much as I can stand to, but no matter how much I pour out, I'll still be a shadow if I lose it all.

Have a big satisfying meal. But in a few hours, you're still going to need breakfast. Does it cheapen the meal you enjoyed?

I hope not. But I'm feeling differently. I've mentioned that when I walked my girl, I made her pause and sit at each intersection. The truth is that I really hoped she would connect the street corner with the sound a car makes. I hoped that when those two pieces of stimuli occurred at once, she would respond by sitting and waiting, as I made her do. I was invested in her future. I enjoyed her at the time. I loved her without end at the time. But here two months later I feel less than empty. I feel vacuous. It isn't that there is "nothingness" in my heart as a result of her loss, it's that the space in which she once resided is actively yearning and trying to fill the space. It can't be filled.

I come back to Harley. I am able to intellectualize my loss. I am able to question why my pain is here. I can write a repulsively long blog post dedicated to the feeling. But my poor old Harley is simply vaguely aware that there used to be another animal around. Maybe. Who knows how a dog's mind works, let alone that sad abused boy. Maybe he doesn't remember feeling so happy running through the grass with Daisy. Maybe he doesn't remember rolling and playing with her, but I'll bet that the opposite of those feelings is registering heavily with him.

Daisy was a dog. And she was a good one. But she was a dog. And as hurt as I am, I can reason out the pain. I can riddle out the reasons. I can think. But for Harley, she was there when he woke up and went to sleep. She focused on him. She loved him. She played with him. And he loved her. And without her, he's reeling. Harley lost his buddy.

It's all just some kindergarten buddy system on a global scale. Harley needed Daisy and without her, he's falling. I loved her, and I wanted her forever, but she was always going to get away from me. If life had played out the ideal way, Harley would never have to know a future without his friend.

I don't know where this is going. I can't cap off this theory in a nice clean way. I'm 25 years old, which is a short span of time when gauged against the time of the people around me. I'm inexperienced. I'm a child. But simultaneously these 25 years have been an enternity, because they're all I have known. I'm lucky. I love my family. And I've picked my friends carefully. But I'm still trying to stand up after having been sucker punched by the car that hit my Daisy.

We all need our buddy. We need someone to check in with. No one is obligated to care for us, and I'm one of those who has been lucky enough to find someone who is invested in my happiness and in my health. I hope I don't take it for granted.

I'm sorry that I'm not being very funny right now. But this is a massive side of my personality that I don't want to shelf in favor of writing quippy, sarcastic posts about people I hate. I'll get back to that soon enough. I haven't written a single blog post in over a month, but it's about time that I should try to "speak" again. This is what I have to say right now.

I wish I could say that this is the last time I'll talk about Daisy, but I know for a fact that isn't true. Someday I still have to tell the full story of the night she died. It's a story that I need to tell and which needs to be told for how shocking, horrible and FUNNY it was. It was all those things. But I will say here that I owe a significant debt of gratitude to Bobby Koester, Michael Costa, Allie, and my whole family for helping me to survive it.

I'll put that off for a while.

I guess if there's anything I truly want to say with this post, it's that I think it's okay to need someone's help. And it's okay to talk. And that as much as I talk about how you need the people in your life, the flip side of the coin is that those same people will likely need you one day.

I also want to say that, across the board, I think women are stronger than men.

Coming soon: jokes.

Sorry guys.

Daisy the Dog

As I write this, it's Monday, October 10th, and I'm tired. I'm tired because my stupid fucking cat kept waking me up last night. First he was doing some weird meowing/howling thing at the closed door, and then he started pawing at the door with his goofy claw-less oven mitt hands. The sound was surprisingly loud. But let me back up, and explain why I put up with this all night.

On Thursday, October 6th, at about 8:15 in the morning, I was about to walk out the door and go to work, so I called my dog Daisy over to me and scratched her behind the ear, saying goodbye. When I came back home that evening at about 6:00, I found out that she had gotten out of our fenced in backyard for what felt like the millionth time. It sucks, but it's not uncommon, and no matter how many times I've patched that fence, she's always found a new way to get out. It's just in her nature. She's big, strong, and determined to run around. She almost always comes back on her own after about 20 minutes. She sits on the front step and waits for us to open the door. It's awful, but it happens all the time. Once, a couple of years ago, she disappeared for 6 days, eventually being returned to us a little skinnier than when she left. It was infuriating. But she seemed pretty bulletproof. Just a goofy animal who wants to run around, but is always okay and means well and wants to see us again. Unfortunately, an hour after she got out of the house, we got a call from a cop. Daisy had been struck by a car. The driver took off, and my dog died.

It was horrible. It was incredibly surreal. I felt woozy. I remember everything I did that night as if it's a story I made up. It still feels unreal today.

I loved my dog. So much. She gave me a sense of responsibility that I never felt before. I felt like she was mine. It was almost a paternal experience. She was such a weaselly pain in the ass, always pushing to get her way. So as much as I got to play with her, I also had to be an authority figure.

And I was always afraid of her in the road. When I walked her, I would make her sit and stay at every street corner, only allowing her to walk again when any cars had passed us. I knew it probably wasn't clear to her what I was trying to teach her, but I always just hoped that she would realize there was a reason why I did that.

I'm getting off-point.

Anyway, in that evening, I was a wreck, but I had a focus on taking care of her. And I did. After all of the necessary my-dog-just-died stuff was through, it was worse.

It was literally done. In a matter of hours. Just over.

I didn't really know what to do. I thought I would be okay. You can hardly be in denial over something you've been actively dealing with, so I figured I would just struggle to stop missing her, and then I'd be okay.

Friday I went to work, and I had enough to do that I was suitably distracted. That evening I crashed on my bed, exhausted from the previous evening. Saturday, I woke up feeling almost catatonic. I didn't want to move. I didn't want to get out of bed. I didn't want to go anywhere or do anything. All I wanted to do was torture myself over Daisy's death. I missed her so much. So much. So goddamn much. So much that I really can't do it justice. I can't really accurately describe how weighted down I felt. My hands were heavy useless anvils, my feet were dragging. And I was dizzy just looking around. It was almost as if I was looking down from the top of a tall building, standing on the ledge. I had that uneasy feeling like I was about to fall. That's probably actually a very accurate comparison. I think we all know that "standing on a ledge" feeling. All I wanted was my dog.

I didn't start feeling better until I was talking about her with other people and discussing what happened, how much we loved her, and how much we'll miss her. It was against all my instincts to share like that. I've always felt like it's some lame cliche that you need to open up with other people. I felt like it was a weak thing to do. But I definitely can't deny it's importance now. I was able to move on just a little bit.

Now I realize that I'm talking about a dog. And believe me, I'm fully aware that there are worse things happening everywhere. People have lost siblings and parents, and I don't at all mean to trivialize the loss of a family member or friend, as extreme as I say I feel about losing Daisy. But I should also say that I spent every day with this dog. She had a distinct personality. She was intelligent and pushy. I know her voice. She used to alternatively get pissy with me if I wasn't waking up early enough for her liking, or try to pretend she didn't hear me if she was still in bed and I was up. Some days she would pounce on me and huff at me for staying in bed. She'd poke her big fat nose into my face to prod me awake. Other days, I'd call her name to get her up and out of bed and I'd see her eyes dart over to where I was standing and then quickly look away again, as if maybe I didn't know she was awake. She was trying to get away with something. She was funny. She was big. She was really really important to me.

She loved my family so much. And she loved our other dog, Harley. And everybody loved her. We're all pretty wrecked. One of my favorite things about Daisy was how much she loved my girlfriend. Daisy would literally tackle Allie, so that she could lick her face. She was so excited all she wanted to do was freak out and great her. I used to joke around and say that if Daisy didn't approve of Allie, we'd have a problem. But it was so the opposite of that joke. Sometimes Daisy seemed more excited to see Allie than she was anytime I came home. I fully expected to be living with Daisy for another 10 years. I'm killing myself writing this. Stupid.

I've got to wrap this up.

So now I come home and I don't have some goofy dog jumping all over me, ecstatic that I'm home. I don't have Daisy lying at my feet, extending her leg at me, trying to get me to hold her paw while I read or watch TV. It's over. Last night, in her absence, I decided I didn't want to sleep alone, so I grabbed one of the cats, Merlin (who seems pretty stoked that she's gone by the way. Now he can do whatever the hell he wants) and brought him into my bedroom. Nothing but bullshit all night.

All this to memorialize a dog and to establish that cats...kind of suck.

Daisy was almost 4:

Scary Story Time #5 and #6

Well, I haven't posted anything here for a really long time, so I'm going to get back into the swing of it by posting a couple of quick scary stories. I'll post some of my own crap soon.

Quick disclaimer: I'm a really big fan of horror movies and scary stories. Recently I've been finding a lot of interesting little scary stories written anonymously by people on the internet, so I decided to start sharing some of the ones I like. You should know, before you read on, that I did not write any of these stories, unless otherwise noted. You should also know that I won't always be posting that I enjoy 100%. There could be a ten page story that I post because I like one sentence of it. In that case, I assume I'll explain why I posted horse-shit and what merit I see in it. Sometimes, I'll post "scary" stories that I hate, think are stupid, or maybe even funny. But more than that, you should really know that some of these stories may be somewhat graphic, so just steel yourself for anything, especially poor spelling and grammar (I don't edit these stories). No matter what, though, I hope you enjoy them too, and if you know any stories or sources, please share them with me. Also, if you have any requests, just ask, I have a huge archive of this stuff!

New Cell Phone

A couple of months ago, my friend's cousin (a single mother) bought a new cell phone. After a long day of work, she came home, placed her phone on the counter, and went watch to TV; her son came to her and asked if he could play with her new phone. She told him not to call anyone or mess with text messages, and he agreed. At around 11:20, she was drowsy, so she decided to tuck her son in and go to bed. She walked to his room and saw that he wasn't there. She then ran over to her room to find him sleeping on her bed with the phone in his hand. Relieved, she picked her phone back up from his hand to inspect it. Browsing through it, she noticed only minor changes such as a new background, banner, etc., but then she opened up her saved pictures. She began deleting the pictures he had taken, unril only one new picture remained. When she first saw it, she was in disbelief. It was her son sleeping on her bed, but the picture was taken by someone else above him... and it showed the left half of an elderly woman's face.

This one constantly gets me, even though Allie pointed out that this woman looks like Liza Minelli. Final story for now:

Across the Border

There was a couple from Texas who were planning a weekend trip across the Mexican border for a shopping spree. At the last minute, their baby-sitter canceled, so they had to bring along their two year old son with them. They had been across the border for an hour when the baby got free and ran around the corner. The mother tried to find him, but he disappeared. The mother found a police officer who told her to go to the gate and wait. Not really understanding the instructions, she did as she was told. About 45 minutes later, a man approached the border, carrying the boy. The mother ran to him, grateful that he had been found. When the man realized it was the boy's mother, he dropped him and ran. The police were waiting for him. The boy was dead, and in less than the 45 minutes he was missing, he was cut open, all of his organs removed, and was stuffed with cocaine. The man was going to carry him across the border as if he were asleep.
Aaand here's a picture of a monkey to reverse the effects of the horror:
(Image from http://monkeyislandpanama.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/07/CapuchinMonkey011.jpg)
Take it easy guys.

Just Let It Go

This is a new commercial for those new Back to the Future Nike shoes...and jesus...Aside from it being annoying as hell (why is Bill Hader here? Why can't Kevin Durant [no idea who that is] act? Why are they shoehorning in as many movie quotes as they can, even though doing that seems to be widely acknowledged as obnoxious?), they got Christopher Lloyd to dress up as Doc and kind-of be funny. It's clear they had no idea what to do with him. But that's not my problem. Here's my problem:

Can we leave this fucking guy alone? Every couple of years, it seems like there's a new commercial where Doc is being annoying, and saying things that aren't in keeping with the character. That's a geeky concern, but I'm geeky. For example, here's a Direct TV commercial from a couple years ago:

Before I criticize this commercial, I should mention that it got nominated for awards. It got nominated for Least Flattering Cinematography and Biggest Nostrils. Anyway, nobody said ANYTHING about his flux capacitor, because no one knew about it! No one knows that time machine exists except for him and Marty! But back to my point. Because companies know they pretty much everybody loves this dude, occasionally they'll come up with a reason to make him play Doc again. But what they're actually doing is forcing me to watch a character I love die slowly. I don't want that guy to be getting smaller and smaller! I don't want to want look at him and realize that he sort of looks like he's wearing Planet of the Apes makeup (the original, not the nobody-is-at-fault reboot).

And actually, I'm not saying don't use this character anymore. Now that I think about it, if they would just write something halfway decent for him to say, I'd be down with this old man popping up every now and then. But don't make him wear the same costumes as in the movies. It's reminding me of my mortality.

We just can't seem to let shit go. That's why we're rebooting everything, or making fucking dumb ass movies based on toys. They're creating a Battleship movie. No shit. It's about alien ships that can't be detected by our radar, so we have to fire blindly in their general direction and hope we hit them. What a stupid idea. It's going to make millions.

Let it go. I know I sound like a dick for saying that I don't want to watch an old man on TV, but that's not really what I mean. I don't want to watch that particular character get frail. Christopher Lloyd himself is fucking awesome. If you don't believe me, go watch the episode of Fringe he was on. He plays an aging rock star, whose mind is starting to slip. That character is also, if I remember correctly, a former drug addict. It was incredible. It was totally awesome, and Christopher Lloyd's age was a big part of it. He's a writer, he writes for Modern Family, and while I haven't seen much of that show, what I have seen is pretty funny. So let's move on. He's capable of more, and watching Doc get weaker is freaky.

Also, it doesn't make sense, in Back to the Future Part II, he got his blood replaced, so that he would live longer. Furthermore, maybe the FIRST time he reprised Doc in a commercial, it was cool and weird and nostalgic, but this happens to frequently that it's expected and mundane, and, again, spooky.

I realize this rant isn't cool or anything, but whatever, I'm sick of watching the same old shit get rehashed constantly. Leave stuff alone and move on.

People are already begging for more Harry Potter. I am too, but I just want something from that world, people are begging specifically for more Harry Potter, a new story about him. He battled evil for 7 years, let that guy have some fucking rest! He had the worst luck for 7 years, he's earned a quiet vacation.

However, I fully expect to one day watch an 80 year old Daniel Radcliffe wheeze his way through a fucking commercial for all-new wizard shoes.

Scary Story Time #3 and #4

I was originally going to avoid posting scary stories for a while, since I did it two times in a row, but I'm really enjoying the shitty rainy weather, so all I want right now is spooky stuff. Anyway, I decided to just put up a couple short stories that I really like. Quick disclaimer: I'm a really big fan of horror movies and scary stories. Recently I've been finding a lot of interesting little scary stories written anonymously by people on the internet, so I decided to start sharing some of the ones I like. You should know, before you read on, that I did not write any of these stories, unless otherwise noted. You should also know that I won't always be posting that I enjoy 100%. There could be a ten page story that I post because I like one sentence of it. In that case, I assume I'll explain why I posted horse-shit and what merit I see in it. Sometimes, I'll post "scary" stories that I hate, think are stupid, or maybe even funny. But more than that, you should really know that some of these stories may be somewhat graphic, so just steel yourself for anything, especially poor spelling and grammar (I don't edit these stories). No matter what, though, I hope you enjoy them too, and if you know any stories or sources, please share them with me. Also, if you have any requests, just ask, I have a huge archive of this stuff!

Sarah O' Bannon

Coffins used to be built with holes in them, attached to six feet of copper tubing and a bell. The tubing would allow air for victims buried under the mistaken impression they were dead. In a certain small town Harold, the local gravedigger, upon hearing a bell one night, went to go see if it was children pretending to be spirits. Sometimes it was also the wind. This time, it wasn't either. A voice from below begged and pleaded to be unburied. "Are you Sarah O'Bannon?" Harold asked. "Yes!" The muffled voice asserted. "You were born on September 17, 1827?" "Yes!" "The gravestone here says you died on February 20, 1857." "No, I'm alive, it was a mistake! Dig me up, set me free!" "Sorry about this, ma'am," Harold said, stepping on the bell to silence it and plugging up the copper tube with dirt. "But this is August. Whatever you are down there, you sure as hell ain't alive no more, and you ain't comin' up."

AND:

Last One Today

In Berlin, after World War II, money was short, supplies were tight, and it seemed like everyone was hungry. At that time, people were telling the tale of a young woman who saw a blind man picking his way through a crowd. The two started to talk. The man asked her for a favor: could she deliver the letter to the address on the envelope? Well, it was on her way home, so she agreed.

She started out to deliver the message, when she turned around to see if there was anything else the blind man needed. But she spotted him hurrying through the crowd without his smoked glasses or white cane. She went to the police, who raided the address on the envelope, where they found heaps of human flesh for sale.

And what was in the envelope?

"This is the last one I am sending you today."

So there you go, a couple brief, creative, scary stories. Two favorites of mine, actually. Their the kinds of stories that somehow captivate you from the very first word until the surprising last one.

And because I don't want to give you nightmares tonight, here's a little something to balance out the spookiness:

Scary Story Time #2

Quick disclaimer: I'm a really big fan of horror movies and scary stories. Recently I've been finding a lot of interesting little scary stories written anonymously by people on the internet, so I decided to start sharing some of the ones I like. You should know, before you read on, that I did not write any of these stories, unless otherwise noted. You should also know that I won't always be posting that I enjoy 100%. There could be a ten page story that I post because I like one sentence of it. In that case, I assume I'll explain why I posted horse-shit and what merit I see in it. Sometimes, I'll post "scary" stories that I hate, think are stupid, or maybe even funny. But more than that, you should really know that some of these stories may be somewhat graphic, so just steel yourself for anything, especially poor spelling and grammar (I don't edit these stories). No matter what, though, I hope you enjoy them too, and if you know any stories or sources, please share them with me. Also, if you have any requests, just ask, I have a huge archive of this stuff!

Curious Little Thing

I have an odd habit a friend recently picked up on, a habit I developed about a year ago. He noticed that when I enter a room, any room, and shut the door, I turn my face away from it and close my eyes until I hear the lock click. Only after the door is fully closed will I open them. He gave me a hard time about it until I told him where it started.

I work for a water-seal company in St. Paul. We produce sealant for exposed wood — decks, boats, that kind of thing. You hear about sealant being a dirty word in the Ashland-Ichor Falls-Ironton area, but not all those companies were part of the infamous “Ethylor summer” that wiped out the local economy in the ’50s. I got sent to an industrial park outside of Ichor Falls on business.
I checked into this dismal hotel, the Hotel Umbra, that looked like the decor hadn’t been changed since 1930. The lobby wallpaper had gone yellow from decades of cigarette smoke, and everything had a fine layer of dust, including the old man behind the front desk. I hoped that the room would be in better shape. Mine was on the fourth floor.
Being an old place, the hotel had a rickety cable elevator, the kind with the double sets of doors: one of those flexing metal gates, and a solid outer pair of doors. I shut the gate and latched it, and pressed the tiny black button for my floor.
Just as the outer elevator doors were about to close, I was startled by the face of a young woman rushing at the gap between them. She was too late; the doors shut, and after a moment the elevator ascended.
I thought nothing of it, until I needed to take the elevator back down for one of my bags. I entered, pushed the button for the lobby, and pressed my tired back to the elevator wall opposite the doors. They had nearly completely shut when again I was surprised by a woman’s face moving towards the gap, staring into the elevator through the gate, too late to place her hand in to stop the doors from closing. This time I sprang forward and held the “Door Open” button, and after a moment the doors lurched and slid open.
I waited a moment. From the opening I could see partly down the hallway: no one in sight. Still holding the button down, I slid open the metal gate and craned my head into the hallway to look down the other direction.
No one. No trace of the girl, no recently shut hotel room door, no footsteps, no jingle of keys.
I released the button, but did not lean back against the wall. I stood directly in front of where the gap in the doors would be, in the center of the elevator. After a pause, the outer doors again began to slide shut, to move towards each other until the space between them was the width of a young girl’s face.
In that quarter-second several fingertips appeared, followed immediately by her face again, rushing from around the corner, staring at me as the doors met. I had been watching the gap where I thought she might be, so I saw her — she was about thirteen years old, and very plain, almost homely, with a pale complexion and neck-length dark brown hair that looked mussed or slightly dirty.
I didn’t have time to glance down at her visible shoulder, to see what she was wearing; from her behavior I wondered if she was a runaway or a homeless person who had gotten into the building. She had had a glassy, blank expression, tinged with a little desperation, some distant desire or need. A look that could easily be accompanied by the words “Please help.”
The next time I passed the front desk, I asked the old man if he’d seen a young girl running through.
“Heard the stories, then,” he said between throat-clearings, rocking gently in his seat. “Young Maddy has been here a long time. Takes a liking to gentlemen guests. Always been shy. Never says a word, not a word. Just curious.”
I told him I hadn’t heard any stories, and that there had been a girl taking the stairs and standing in front of my elevator on every floor.
“That’s our Maddy,” he said. “She likes you then. Sweet on you. She just wants to see, that’s all, just to see. All she ever does. Curious little thing. Just wants to see.”
I stayed at the Hotel Umbra for three nights. It was a four-night business trip; the last night I tried sleeping in my car. It didn’t help.
Let me tell you about Young Maddy. You only catch glimpses of her, of a face with a resigned look of quiet desperation, dominated by a pair of wide, dark eyes. Locked doors, barricades, nothing made a difference; she gets inside. I never saw her longer than half a second. Every time I laid eyes on her she retreated instantly, only to appear again an hour or two later. An hour or two if I was lucky.
Let me tell you about where I saw Young Maddy.
Every time I shut the door to my bathroom, in my hotel room, I saw her. If I watched as I shut it, at the last possible second I’d see the crescent of her face moving fast at the gap. I’d throw the door open to find nothing.
Every time I closed the closet door I saw her. If I watched that gap, she’d suddenly be inside the closet, leaning her head to watch me just as it shut. It’s as if she knew where to go, where to be, so that my eye would meet hers. But there was never an impact, never a moment when she’d make contact with the door or the wall.
The first time I sat at that writing table I saw her. As I closed the large bottom drawer. She rushed at the gap from inside the drawer, her wide eyes pleading for something I could not give. I pulled the drawer from its rails and threw it to the floor.
I did spend that last night in my car, but like I said, it did no good. Tossing and turning on that rental car seat, the back ratcheted as flat as I could get it, I’d have to open my eyes sometimes, and if there was a place for her to dart from my view when I opened them, she did. In the side-view mirror, or peeking over the hood of my car — once upside-down, at the top of the windshield, as if she was on the roof.
I’m back in St. Paul again, and I’ve been back for a year. But Maddy hasn’t stopped. If I keep my eyes open long enough, if I watch a place long enough, I’ll eventually catch sight of movement — near the copier in my office, a pile of boxes in an alley, a column in a quiet parking lot — and my eye will get there just in time to see her eye retreating from view. There’s never anything there when I go to look, so I’ve stopped looking.
That’s how I’ve had to change things since the Hotel Umbra. I’ve stopped looking. I keep my eyes shut when I close doors, when I shut drawers and cabinets, fridges, coolers, the trunk of my car. Not all spaces. Just ones that are big enough.
At least, that used to work. I was getting ready for bed a few nights ago, standing in front of my bathroom mirror, door shut, cabinets shut. Watching myself floss. I opened up wide to get my molars.
I swear I saw fingertips retreat down the back of my throat.

This story actually legitimately freaked me out for a while, but that's probably just because I already have a fear of people staring at me. Now I occasionally think of this stupid little girl ghost whenever I see that there is a cabinet or something open across a room. I swear to god, if I EVER see a stupid freaky face peaking at me from under a bed, I'm just going to die on the spot. Oof...Okay, here's something to help us all calm down:

Look at these guys! So silly!
I'm still scared. Send me your favorite scary stories, guys!

Talking about death. ENJOY!

By now, pretty much everybody knows that Ryan Dunn from CkY and Jackass died yesterday, and the issue has been discussed to death, but I don't care. I want to talk about it, myself. I was surprised by how bummed out I was when I found out. Bobby posted a link to the news story on my Facebook, and my heart instantly dropped. It was weird. What/why the hell do I care?

HERE'S why I care: As absolutely weird and gross and stupid the stuff he did was, I think it was all really great.

I remember getting the first CkY (precursor to Jackass) video as a bootleg VHS. I think I still have it, it's pretty much unwatchable. My family had just recently moved to New Jersey, and I was pretty angry, so this bootleg tape helped me make friends with people who also knew about it. I think I was about 14 years old, and I'd never laughed so goddamn hard at something in my life. It was just a bunch of dudes being idiots. It looked like they basically just had a camcorder and fucking weird, funny ideas. It was essentially Looney Toons with humans. Hilarious. It starred Bam Margera, Ryan Dunn, and Brandon Dicamillo. I think I forgot about it almost instantly.

Then Jackass came out and it included all the guys from CkY and more. Now they had Johnny Knoxville (pretty much Bugs Bunny) as their accidental leader. The show was hilarious, and I mostly remember watching it at 3:00am when I couldn't sleep. The show was really actually kind of quiet, so when I think about that show, I think about how silent everything around me was, except for when somebody got hurt and I'd frantically turn down the volume. Stupid moron kids started imitating the show though, and hurting themselves, so the show was cancelled. This was the first real controversy surrounding the show. I knew that it wasn't reasonable to blame the stupidity of these kids on the show, and I always talked about just that with friends, but there was always the nagging truth that by having a popular show on television, those guys (whether they wanted it or not) had become role models. Which is weird. I can laugh at a dude jumping off a building holding an umbrella without wanting to try it myself.

Things, for me, started getting really interesting at this point. After the TV show ended, a couple of spin off's popped up. One was a nature documentary starring two of the Jackass guys, and the other was a sort of reality show following Bam Margera's life, and Bam had been friends with Ryan Dunn since they were kids. Ryan was in, I think, every single episode, and instead of just having 3 minute skits, there was a full storyline for each episode, and you started seeing what these guys were actually like. Bam Margera is a real asshole. I think he's really funny, but I also really hate how much he loves himself. And I hate that he wears top hats without a shirt on and shit. He's an ass. Everything in Bam's life rotates around doing what he wants to do, except for Ryan Dunn, who will make fun of Bam and sort of take him down a peg. It turned out that Ryan Dunn was just as crazy as Bam, and just as willing to hurt himself to make his friends laugh, but he also seemed to have a side of him that couldn't help but acknowledge how stupid it all was. He was sarcastic, but he always stuck around. More than all that, really, was that Bam's parents were a huge part of the show, and you could really tell that they loved Ryan and Ryan loved them. That wasn't the point of the show, but that's the vibe that exists behind all the other bullshit.

Then they did the movies, which were all really funny, but they were now tinged with the fact that you'd seen a little more of everyone's personalities. It made them more accessible and amusing. They also started making sure that, for each segment, everybody was around. Instead of one guy hurting himself in silence, now all of his friends would be there, laughing at him. By the end of the third movie, you really got the sense that these guys were all really good friends, and they just wanted to have fun and make each other laugh. I don't give a shit what you say about those movies. I know they're gross (LOTS of poop) but I'll defend them to the goddamn death, because you NEVER see genuine friendship in a movie. During the credits of the third movie, all of the Jackass guys sing the song Memories with Weezer. I hate that song, and I'd heard it before I saw the movie, so when I heard it starting up, I groaned, but then I had to change my mind. The credits of the movie, while everyone is singing the song, go person-by-person through the whole cast. They show a baby picture of each guy, then a picture of them as a teenager, then a little older, and older, and older, and then it's a current photo. By pretty much the 3rd picture of each guy, they're instantly recognizeable, because suddenly you're reminded of what these guys looked like 10+ years ago. It brought me back to that stupid bootleg tape.

It's like when you know someone really well in real life, and then you see a picture from a few years ago, and it's alien. You were too close to see the gradual change in them. That's exactly what happened during the credits. I didn't realize that I'd accidentally been consistently watching these guys for so long.

So I was really bummed out when I found out Ryan Dunn died. I don't think I ever thought about him unless I was watching a show/movie he was in, but there was something about having to acknowledge that after having watched him do shit for years, he was dead. I'm sure there was also something in there about how much he's hurt himself before without lasting effect vs. how he burst into flame and died, but I don't care to examine that.

It's really fucked up. Reallllly fucked up. Everything about it. What he was doing, how it happened, and the aftermath of it. So we all know that he tweeted a picture of himself drinking at a bar just hours before he was pronounced dead on the scene. We all know that he had a passenger with him, who also died. Everybody on the internet (who had an opinion) went insane. Some people were arguing that he was an asshole for speeding while drunk with a passenger. They called him a murderer and said that this is what you get when you live your life like a Jackass. Some people thought it was a failed stunt for a fourth movie. Some people said that he was a great guy, and he was so funny, and they can't believe he's dead. Some people said they didn't want to consider that he was drunk or speeding until it was indisputably proven. I think I was basically saying all of those things.

Knowing all the facts now, I have to say that I really liked Ryan Dunn, and I still do. I think that he was hilarious and down to earth and entertaining as hell, but you can't forgive the dumb fucking decisions he made on Sunday. He was stupid that night. And his actions got not just himself, but a friend killed. It's unreasonable to deny that. But I have a lot of crazy thoughts about death, and the BEST thing about this situation is that he probably only had a few moments of worry and pain. Everything before that was partying and being crazy like he got paid and honored to do his whole life. Death is great for the dead. He doesn't have to deal with the fallout of what happened that night. It's over for him. He had a crazy great life and blew himself up. So that's all great for him, but what about the people who cared about him who are left here without him?

Another huge issue around his death has been the media outcry over how irresponsible and senseless his death was. Again, it wasn't just him. He caused the death of a friend, who was recently married. I'm sure that you all read what Roger Ebert said, "Friends don't let Jackasses drive drunk." He's right, but I think the tone of the message was off, as was the timing (the day of the crash). Bam Margera, who had until then not publicly spoken, bashed Roger Ebert on Twitter, talking about how he was crying his eyes out all day and said that Ebert should keep his fat mouth shut. Aside from evidently not knowing that Ebert's mouth hasn't been fat in a long time, I think that Bam is ALSO right. It really fucking pissed me off that everybody decided that this was now a fight or debate between Bam Margera and Roger Ebert. Everyone was debating online who was right, whose argument was more valid. But Bam Margera wasn't making a fucking argument, he was upset.

A friend of his who he'd grown up with had just died in so violent a way that he was identified by only his tattoos and facial hair. I mean, for all I know, the coroner wasn't a fan, but I feel like this might mean that Ryan Dunn was otherwise unrecognizable. He was mangled. Bam Margera telling Roger Ebert to shut up was not his way of condoning driving drunk or something, he was reacting to the fact that he didn't like his friend being referred to as a jackass on the day he died. Just as a side note, why exactly did Roger Ebert need to throw in his advice? Kind of unnecessary. Whatever.

So today I watched footage of Bam Margera going to the scene of the accident. He's clearly inconsolable. He's just shaking and crying, and blubbering, and he's fucking entitled to. I've read so many comments about the appearance on the internet today, talking about how Bam is weird and weak, and Ryan Dunn deserved to die, drunk drivers should go to hell, etc, but it pisses me off, because he wasn't there to show off or defend his friend, he was there to mourn. He was upset. You're allowed to be upset. It's almost like we expect life to move as quickly as information moves on the internet. "Christ, it's been TWO DAYS already, get over it Bam!" It's unfair. It's bullshit. I don't like Bam Margera, but he can cry as much as he fucking wants, and he can say whatever the fuck he wants without it being interpreted as an official statement. Death sucks.

People are assholes. They're insensitive. And in this case, it's like they're trying to fight for logic and sanity by saying that Ryan Dunn deserved to die because he drank and drove and killed, but then they turn that logic into a reason for why no one should care. You can have it both ways. I'm really fucking angry at how stupid Ryan Dunn was. He killed himself and a friend, and it's a goddamn lucky thing that he didn't hit anyone else on his way down the road. He could have. But I still liked him, he was still somebody that I got to know (in a limited fashion) over the course of years. I think we forget the impact of death.

I used to work at a TGI Fridays, and when I was there one day, I got the news that my grandmother died. I've never been the best at showing weakness in public, so when I walked to the back office, in a daze, I told my bosses what had happened in a really monotone way, with no expression on my face. Like a sociopath, basically, but what can you do? Now, I feel like two things must have happened in this moment:

1: My bosses realized that I was speaking different than usual

and

2: I kind of don't think they believed me. To this day I'm pretty sure they thought I was fucking lying to skip out on the last couple of hours of work.

I think this because they asked me if I could run to the store for them before I went home.

Assholes. Fucking assholes.

I was confused, because in the moment, I didn't process their reaction as skepticism, it seemed more like my grandmother's death wasn't a big deal to them, especially when they were running out of milk!!

I stammered a little and asked if there was ANYONE else that could go, because I wanted to come home and be with my family. They told me there wasn't. The next thing I knew I was standing in a fucking Walmart. I'd been convinced it wasn't important. I'd been royally fucked over because of how cynical they were.

We're all too fucking cynical. Myself included. It's not great.

Oof.

Next time I'll just write about Nintendo or something.