Author: Dennard Dayle

Nerding Day: McGruff’s Smart Kids Album 🌭

Post author By Dennard Dayle
Post date 08/29/2023
10 Comments on Nerding Day: McGruff’s Smart Kids Album 🌭

Tuesdays are mine, forever. Time to celebrate. Summon the wheel.

Wheel! Wheel! Wheel!

Perfect.

McGruff the Crime Dog failed to kill drug culture. But for one shining moment, he killed beats. Perhaps the game itself. CDs simply took credit for cassettes rejecting moral panic. McGruff’s Smart Kids sits next to ET: The Game and Grimes’s lawyer for ending an entire medium.

I found Sgt. McGruff late in life. When I hit prime brainwashing age, he’d already abdicated to a lion with a flashier purity vow.

I missed that too. Island Baptists are more into uppercuts than mascots. That’s why no Jamaicans do drugs.

I see the appeal: McGruff’s the perfect strawman, louder and blunter than a G.I. JOE PSA. Which fits my agenda. Everyone that dates artists with arrest records loves drugs. A good Five Minutes Hate imitates chemistry.

After all, it’s fun and profitable to imagine The Enemy as brainless mannequins. Lord knows I indulge when a sibling speaks or an election exists. But everyone follows some kind of logic. Which made McGruff’s Smart Kids a puzzle. It’s an album for no one.

If McGruff’s new to you, think Rosie the Riveter for the War on Ourselves. A werewolf in a streaker’s coat, quoting Nancy Reagan with a soprano’s impression of a baritone. Every McGruff PSA felt like a glitch, so he did a decent job replacing drugs. His debut album includes this beautiful checklist:

Amen. The untainted shall inherit heaven’s dullest cloud.

McGruff’s Smart Kids shares a year with Ride the Lightning, after Dave Mustaine somehow drank too much for a thrash metal band. That sounds like a pull, but it’s the best sobriety fable we’re getting today. Stay clean or lose screentime on Some Kind of Monster, the most humiliating music doc without a sex crime.

Imagine twelve tracks of drug war anthems, featuring McGruff singing in-character. Now double the synths and triple the fear. If there’s a stoner in your life, here’s their wedding gift. McGruff’s Smart Kids slam dunks the wrong net. It’s Reefer Madness with color and star power.

Yet McGruff’s Smart Kids has a reason to exist. Two, even. One: through sheer numbers, someone must have avoided morphine after listening. Thousands more sprinted into freshman alcoholism after learning McGruff was full of shit, but this album saved the life of Sam Lagow of Yorktown Heights, New York. Good for Sam. Addiction is for food and pornography.

Two: the production’s good. If you like Devo or their children, you’ll dig half of these songs. Until the vocals hit your brain like eight semesters in a toga. McGruff sings just as well as he saves lives. If the owners want half their money back, they should sell McGruff’s Straight-Edge Instrumentals. Electronic music fans aren’t into drugs.

Enough pregaming. The first track’s called “Winners Don’t Use,” and broadens McGruff’s appeal to Wall Street. Someone’s done a line off this cassette before short-selling a continent’s future. In concept album tradition, “Winners Don’t Use” gently hints at coming themes.

Pure eighties magic. Before threats of early death, addiction, and more McGruff vocals, we face life’s worst pain: losing. Producing less. Burial with fewer trophies and concubines. “Users don’t win” channels zero children, and every Madison Ave coke rant. Which, in McGruff’s defense, lead to desperate Geico spots.

Still, the backbeat works. The brief said “Steal You’ve Got a Friend in Me,” and the team delivered. When late Pixar finally sinks to PSA content, it’ll sound like this sans throat cancer vocals. And the competence gap only widens from here.

I like slapstick as much as the next uninsured clown. But first graders giving addicts unsolicited opinions is a step too dark. Even South Park spaces out preschool casualties, like a spice. Except in the hockey episode, which is art. In fact, scratch that advice, go for it.

We get McGruff’s catchphrase, from the jump, twenty seconds in. Fair for children’s media or state propaganda, but I smell something. That’s a branding reflex.

Years of clients asking for bigger logos inflict psychic damage. Three-peating slogans before the skip button loads becomes instinct. If most people sound like NPCs, agency slaves sound like the game box.

Let’s go behind the music. Who retired off of McGruff? It’s grim stuff, so there should be a glowing Times profile.

Cool, a children’s mascot and McGruff. Ronald fought drugs the Jay-Z way: selling instead of using.

McGruff’s voiced by Don Draper’s benchwarmer. I love it. It’s even educational: an article about McGruff is comedy, but franchising a dog that eats and licks boots is satire. That takes focus, which is why ad writers don’t do drugs.

I wrote ads for a year or five, so I know a bit about the death of the Nephelim. The black lord will rise, and drink this world’s tears. I am his blade. Clutch your powerless bibles as blood chokes the sea. Man will not live to finish despoiling the Earth.

Nice gig.

Design by an elder daemon isn’t a surprise. McGruff’s off-model look doesn’t reek of auteur passion or a junior daemon’s fear. But the same executive voiced him. Every McGruff project had upper management in the room. I’ve watched my leg bend the wrong way and still can’t imagine that pain. Jack Keil stood behind the producer until he mixed McGruff’s plague rasp above human tolerance.

McGruff’s roots change the game. I’m not here for a strawman. This is a peer. And I have no idea what he’s doing.

Comedy Premise #6 would make Jack some kind of stoner double agent, or at least neutral. But interviews point toward genuine belief in McGruff, this project, and giving children nightmares about LSD. Nightmares that returned after they tried LSD.

The devil’s work continues on “Crack & Cocaine.”

Who is this for? Walk down the checklist. Is this how you tell a sober child about crack? Or a crack-using child? A sober adult? Tyrone Biggums? A Toronto mayor? The mockery escalates the further you go. “Mockery” is crime-code for “beating.”

Jack’s responsible for day-drinking and targeting messages. He got halfway there. “Crack & Cocaine” aims for Martian children with Atlantic City problems. The courts didn’t enslave enough subalterns to keep the drug trade on Earth. The first Venusian D.A.R.E contracts are just launching now.

Someone backstage agreed with me. The 1986 rerelease adds a garbled intro to the effect of “crack exists.” It still leads to this verse:

A 1980’s ad guru should know about cocaine from market research. And something about children from being alive. A Cylon’s take would be more relatable, empathetic, and on-key.

Sadly, “Cocaine & Crack” rules. The synth has Yo Gabba Gabba crossover power, with all the stimulating joy snow promises. McGruff hides behind production like DaBaby mixed with DaBaby. That’s a creative miracle on the producer’s part, and proof that disc jockeys don’t do drugs.

While coke has to share, other drugs get their own diss tracks. McGruff takes on alcohol, inhalants, and ma—inhalants? With a New Order knockoff? Is this a fakeout?

Sarge. We don’t naturally get along. You’re a cop, and I’m a comedian. We’re the shittiest table at an alphabetized career fair. We both welcome police brutality ending that round of small talk.

But I’m rooting for you this time. Inhalants are just simple enough for this stupid, stupid method. Jack Keil’s vanity spinoff of a vanity project can save a second soul.

Try to deliver.

You know what? D+, pass. McGruff sounds like he’s talking about a wandering gorilla or Lesnar. But he forgets to blame users for being born, so this is lyrical growth. I’d prefer no children’s chorus call-response about overdoses, but I’m a picky grader.

I could go on. McGruff raps on “Gangs.” “Vandalism” goes full James Brown to declare war on street art. McGruff runs out of lines on Side 1, and keeps rolling for six more tracks. But Gmail is 200 words away from telling me to fuck off. It’s time for the main event.

I’ve hoarded the good shit. Lesser propaganda kneels to “Marijuana.” I get to type “Sgt. McGruff’s magnum opus.” Look: we both know this is a comedy site. I’ve puffed up earlier tunes for a laugh, and to style on a coworker’s ghost. I need gags like that for endorphins, because comedians don’t do drugs.

“Marijuana” bangs.

Based on my inbox, I’m divisive. Here’s an olive branch. If you support a drug arrest made since Prohibition, meet the best art on your side. We can sing it at bipartisan karaoke, as long as you don’t arrest me for hogging a microphone. You get this gold and Killer Mike in the same summer. Be reasonable.

You might question that simile. Try jamming instead. We’ve covered propaganda rhymes from half the SPLC. Animated cryptofascists are the first ones to bring a bassline. Enjoy that moment. If you have trouble unwinding on your own, light up some abstinence, or slug a shot of self-control. Today, we are all brothers.

I’m not the only one to recognize the magic. “Marijuana” has a hardcore remix, a Scientology-adjacent skate part, and a bright future as a rap sample. And, naturally, a following among everyone that can remember Pineapple Express quotes. I bet a child’s even heard it.

Hell, McGruff steps up his death threats:

“If you gamble with life, you could lose it,” is a leftover “Many Men” lyric. It’s the last thing you hear after stealing a rapper’s Crystal Skull. It’s a Power character’s line before shooting their spouse. A blocked number texts it to Ja Rule every Monday, at midnight, on the dot. My point is that Fat Joe would love this song, since rappers don’t do drugs.

My response to McGruff’s closing rant? The stock rationale behind a generation of broken lives? Nothing. I’m busy doing windmills. There’s room on the cardboard. All the sober breakdancers stayed home.

To think, some uncredited rockstar dragged this across the finish line. I hope he gets his roses. Or at least an edible.

What.

Modern life is beautiful. Hopefully it continues.

I have a proposal for Mike. Only Mike. No comedy fans or confused aunts can read it.

Mike, we can be clean again. You have videos in church, so I’ll be direct. As things stand, we’re going to burn with the Taco Bell Chihuahua and Geico Everything. And I mean we. My portfolio has names from the evening news. LexCorps in a world without Superman. I need this at least as badly as a Reagan collaborator.

It’s simple: we make a sane, honest, McGruff album. I’ve got lyrics, a full children’s chorus, and enough rusty nails to imitate McGruff. But this reunion’s doomed without the real star. As a show of good faith, here’s a preview:

Consider it. If it helps, I don’t even drink. Prohibition’s just the dick cancer of public policy.

…

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Brandon Garlock, who took a bite out of crime and found it delicious.

Tags 1980s, drugs, Free, Music

PUNCHING DAY

Punching Day: Swerved 🌭

I’ve got bad news. I love entertaining you all, but my doctors say that you just got Swerved!

God, it feels good to be so much smarter than you dumb bastards. Were you concerned for another ape? Did you show weakness in Vince’s McMahon’s world? You had to pay. That’s what pranks are, right? Because it’s the Swerved experience. If you read these at work, there’s dung halfway through.

Hyperbole’s out today. Vince’s trail of sin is too long for me to call six hours of trash TV his worst crime. Even without consent and Jimmy Snuka, he’s ruined more lives than printable bullets. He’s the jock and dork answer to “who else do you kill with a time machine?” I’m making fun of a dictator’s mustache.

So I have to be precise, which Swerved makes tricky. Help me out here: what’s reality? I’m losing my grip after replacing my blood with C4. And pirating a WWE prank show.

That sentence eats holes in spacetime. Prank shows are pantomimed mirth. Wrestling is pantomimed war. Wrestlers pranking other wrestlers on camera gives philosophers heartburn. It separates reality and state with a clarity that no think tank or judicial bribe can subvert. No show exists less than Swerved, and there are still sixteen episodes.

We owe Swerved for fighting reality fundamentalists. We’re still a secular nation, when you don’t look too closely. We keep reality out of our textbooks, screens, and minds. If prank shows are still real to you, that’s fine. Fantasy always needs fresh thinkers, and George R.R. Martin’s next book might take another week or so. A private, portable reality is your right, even as it boils the planet.

So why did WWE make a prank show? Instead of paying employees or victims? Because in 2015, it seemed easier than all that punching. Ever been hit with a ladder? It feels like a ladder.

Of late, the wrestling duopoly’s thrived by selling wrestling. That’s new. There’s some value to making centuries of live television every week, without a union in sight. Saying “union” in a WWE building triggers the gas. And AEW keeps at least three versions of you in reserve, waiting for precious, precious sunlight. You might see a wrestler’s union in your lifetime. But you’ll see Pinkertons again first.

WWE tried a different angle in the 2010’s: the WWE Network, home of McMahon’s Choice versions of everything else on screens. The Network had more knockoffs than Roku TV or Bronx sidewalks, and half the funding. They also beat Disney to streaming by four years. Points for smelling change before CNN’s brain trust.

Honestly, the concept makes sense. Some fans already only watch wrestling, wrestling news, and life fade away. The Network aimed to addict casual fans as well. Reality TV fans could watch Legends House, where broken dolls waited for death. Or Total Divas, two weeks after Bravo extracted all value. Children got Scooby-Doo crossovers, in-house superheroes, and Smackdown. True Crime fans had a live feed of Vince’s office.

It didn’t take much to get a network show. Or have one dumped on you.

For example, they ripped off Shorties Watching Shorties, Comedy Central’s joint campaign against comedy, animation, and infants. If you were outside at the time: Shorties Watching Shorties paired classic/popular/licensable standup with flash animation. And two abject mascots.

WWE Story Time replaced standup with wrestlers telling wandering semi-stories. Mostly frat-style tall tales. Though I’m guessing Ric Flair left out his grabby plane rides.

Why do prosecutors frame anyone? Everyone has a WattPad book called My Kickass Crimes with two sequels and an audiobook. Including me. Can you sue yourself for fifth amendment violations? I’m ready to cash out.

Then someone had the idea: why not steal something people watched and liked? They listened, so not Shane. And it only lasted two seasons, so not Stephanie. And it always sucked, so not Triple H. Someone outside Succession’s core cast made a move.

Enter Punk’d with wrestlers.

With the best disclaimer since South Park. No one’s more dedicated to brand pidgin. Or women as a separate, semi-equal species. Every bone thrown to “divas” had a “let them eat cake” aftertaste. As for the logo within the logo, I wish any designers reading a fast recovery.

The debut starts with veteran speed bag Dolph Ziggler. Dolph needs this. He’s in almost every Swerved episode, across multiple pranks. If he can’t be champion, he can at least be Alibaba Ashton Kutcher.

Dolph Ziggler (they considered “Jeanne-Claude von Stallone”) was an early success in extracting the rough edges and life force from internet favorites. Swerved gave him a chance to thrive/smile again: he’s also a comedian. An actual one, not the way Hulk Hogan’s an actor or functional human. Dolph visited Roast Battle and proved he could job in two mediums.

He comes off worse here, on familiar turf. I think it’s like driving home: you turn into a fucking asshole. Dolph becomes Minister of Workplace Torment. For every pin he takes, someone gets electrocuted.

This opening prank’s a little complicated. Whenever someone sits down, a chair deep-fries their balls.

Hold on. Just voltage? No concept or misdirect, just Zeus’s sack-whack? This feels less like Punk’d, and more like–

The game evolves.

Collaboration’s about quietly doing what I say. But my partners say it’s about shared interests. With Gaiman and Pratchett, that’s our absentee father God. With Square and Disney, that’s bottomless pools of money. With Metallica and Lou Reed, that’s regret.

Jackass/Bad Trip producer Jeff Tremaine has plenty of interests beyond cruelty and poop. Vince McMahon has a few, mostly illegal. But their crossover only ends one way.

Dolph’s first interrogation is Matt Cardona, whose character gimmick is “enthusiasm.” Awesome for him, troubling for Americana. “Alive inside” is a distinguishing heroic trait. Imagine calling Superman “faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, and able to fall asleep without crying.”

Later on, Matt would get fired, use a Thunder Stone, and become a perfect meta-villain.

Today, he’s trying to keep his head down and do his job. The penalty for that’s getting Swerved.

Dolph’s man zapper lacks one ingredient. You need it to understand the show. The words that follow every little person ambush, fake gym mutilation, fake gym miscarriage, and chemical headshot that follows.

Maybe you think I’m fucking with you.

Note the double plagiarism. Granted, “You’ve just been Punk’d” and “You suckas got served” aren’t perfect lines. Except for “You suckas got served.” I’ll defend dance film with my life, or at least a few flares. Muscle opera isn’t far from headspin anime.

My point: those lines set the tone for their stupid settings. “You just got swerved” never sounds natural, no matter how many balls burn. It radiates brand. Chanting it three times summons an earnings report. It sounds the way Baja Blast tastes.

But so does the rest of Swerved. Everyone speaks fluent Titan Sports Communications Guidelines 2K15. They say “WWE superstar” in full, every time, like a sniper demanded it.

I mentioned shit. Swerved takes six entire minutes to get there. First, we’re treated to a mic dipped in dung. The shot feels longer than it is.

This prank’s called Poo Microphone. It’s about a mic that smells like shit.

That’s not an edit.

My notes called Poo Microphone a dumb name. But what else fits? The Prunes of Wrath? Brown Notes From Underground? The Voice: Hard Mode? Water finds its level. This is Poo Microphone.

The torment starts with Darren Young (Fred Rosser, in his poo-free new life). A dead-eyed plant approaches him with a poo microphone. He expects an interview, but gets dungboarded. Darren is WWE’s first openly gay wrestler, making this the 783rd most humiliating moment of the month.

He dislikes the poo microphone.

He requests less poo microphone.

The poo microphone remains.

False friends claim he’s imagining the poo microphone.

Darren stands his ground.

There’s twenty-one minutes and three pranks, so that’s the first poop mic of many. But Darren’s reaction spoke to me. He comes closer to jail than diamond heirs get to happiness. The Usos, on the other hand, are sedated enough to play along. They’re half tag team, half drinking contest. Rad, as long as you ignore the drag race afterwards.

So far, these pranks might seem thin. They are. The Mad King likes primates flinging dung, and hates zoos. But sometimes, physical pain gives way to mental pain. Until you miss the gentler days of CIA roleplay.

Swerved presents Family Business. Whether you love or hate this show, it peaks here.

The name’s tipped this for some of you. While the others read ahead: who do you have for the G1? I’m pulling for Will Ospreay.

Four buds–or fake buds, given reality’s recent accident–enjoy a meal between ladder matches. A break from having every second recorded, replayed, and insulted by web comedians. But the network’s hungrier.

This time, our plants are a fake waiter and waitress.

They’re also a fake couple.

And fake siblings.

A fake abusive sibling couple.

The audio leans in with a banjo, because subtlety went missing with reality. This prank’s a crossover between Hee Haw and a workplace harassment video. And an amazing personality test. Incest theater exposes your soul.

Player One doesn’t care. Even a little. He’s already thinking about the next meal.

That, or he’s clocked the pro camera in a freeway diner. Comedy law demands I choose

food. But half a season in, Swerved detection and compliance is a core survival skill. You need to check everything at groin-level for USB ports.

Player Two notes “If my sister was that hot, I might make out with her.” Don’t let horror distract you from a perfect kamikaze roast. WWE’s an international conglomerate. People in Kuala Lumpur heard him call his sister unfuckable. If one of your employees said this, you might edit it out. That’s what makes you weak. You’ll be Swerved and forgotten, like Ted Turner before you.

Player Three’s another plant, and struggles to simulate empathy. If you’ve murdered an Elder Scrolls NPC, you’ve seen his reaction. He’s angry, but assault gets the same audio as stealing a melon.

Then there’s Heath Slater, who earns a proper noun. He leaps into action. A century of West Virginia jokes die in forty seconds, as Heath prepares to cash in his annual felony. Hopefully SAG health plans cover silverback attacks.

The plants defuse the situation the natural way: foreplay. They earn every cent of scale, so it’s a shame they probably weren’t paid. As Heath’s eyes dim, the actors reveal the marginally less upsetting truth:

They’ve got chemistry. I hope they’re still provoking martial artists today.

I’ve blamed a lot of Swerved on pandering to Vince McMahon. But there’s no televised, multi-episode proof he has an incest fetish. You definitely can’t hear about it in Ivanka Trump’s support group. So I apologize. We’ll blame this one on the human condition.

The prank siege nearly drove these people insane. Even I can tell, and that’s something. I know every Chaos Space Marine chapter by helmet shape, so I’m iffy with personal cues. But there’s tension. The fun in “is this a rib” slowly dies. The season finale’s revenge ritual has a little too much verve. The Miz attacks Jeff’s staff with a taser, but I think he pitched live ammo.

So Season Two spread out the pain. Fans. Children. Passerby. Fans again. No outsider was safe from getting Swerved. It’s kinder, gentler, more diffused gaslighting. Incest play goes over badly in court.

It sucks way more. Looks like the monster was, as always, in me. I still nominate Vince for Siberian prison.

…
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Supernaught, who has NEVER stood idly by while incestuous wrestling waitstaff attacked each other.

Tags best of 2023, Free, tv, wrestling

LEARNING DAY

Learning Day: The Society of Classical Poets 🌭

Post author By Dennard Dayle
Post date 07/11/2023
19 Comments on Learning Day: The Society of Classical Poets 🌭

Don’t. Nobody can publish that list without getting kicked to death. Critics ask “what gives you the right?” Grad students ask “What is a list?” Writers ask “Did I get third, first, or both?” Instapoets ask “How do I look at rain without drowning?”

No answer can save you, because it’s subjective and loaded. You’d make fewer waves writing “The Top Four Skin Tones, Ranked.” And everyone involved fights dirty. The arts don’t teach universal truth: they teach arguing until a senior citizen taps and lets you graduate.

It’s a trap for anyone. The Society of Classical Poets are just the worst people alive to try.

This went viral while I was in editorial hell:

Or rather, viral again. “10 Greatest Poems Ever Written” is the clickbait version of square borders. One half-assed afternoon guaranteed decades of war. Individually, Top X lists, incompetence, and pride are all cash crops for conflict farms. Together, they’ve paid for at least one horse.

The picture makes me feel for Evan before reading one comment. You can be a myopic fuck in math or bowtie design without trending. But calling ten sepia white people history’s best writers is a one-way trip to So You’ve Been Publicly Shamed II: Shame Harder. At best, embarrassing. At worst, a career boost:

This list would be doomed if it was good. I’m talking about it, so nope. But I recognize this seven-year-old fuckup got extra heat in today’s digital knife-fight. Though in 2016, we were also somewhat agitated. I don’t think there’s been a year friendly to The Society’s proud dumbfuckery since Iran-Contra.

Here’s where a big team helps. Many comedians blindly suspect verse poetry is for pretentious dickheads. Two degrees in, I know it. As a half-vampire, I’ve seen this nightclub.

Still, we can’t flip in and start slashing. They might drink Beyond Blood. And think you look like Wesley Snipes. And have a dad who hates daywalkers. Wild times. Anyway, this list gets a chance.

Evan’s lineup looks paler than a fair trial, but I get it. We’re not very lyrical uptown. If we were, black one-liners would dominate music and culture. Modern slang would be jokes my sisters killed ten years ago. Searching “famous black people” would bring up nine lyricists and the last president fluent in English. This list is for the masters.

Let’s meet the tenth greatest poem of all time.

Ballsy. You know you’ll piss people off, so you simply don’t try.

Somewhere, a man with gravity-warping nuts walks among us, knowing one wedgie would wipe out the city. He limps forward for our sake. Why mock this hero, when I can celebrate him?

To be clear: Frost’s great. Schools strip-mine his work for a reason. The thinking behind this list? Less so. This is diet water.

Three wars ago, my sister forgot her poetry project. I punched it out in fifteen minutes, amidst the active fistfights of a public school cafeteria. I chose “The Road Not Taken,” and the analysis sounded exactly like this.

Still, after all the propaganda and public breakdowns, it’s nice seeing someone fuck up without stakes. No one gets tortured because Evan’s trapped in high school. No viable careers depend on the Society. His arrested development is his problem.

Is the rest of the article this quarter-baked?

It just might be.

That, or Evan stole my eighth-grade homework.

Alright, I get Evan’s game now.

Evan is a bowtie.

Bowties are everywhere. Fiction bowties wax about the death of the novel, and their manuscript reviving it. Black bowties say Shakespeare stole Othello from Iceberg Slim. Sci-fi bowties cry through the Hugos every year. Poetry bowties think poetry died when people started reading it.

I suspect this entire club’s made of bowties. Writing cliques are like high school, and the Society skips parties with loud music or premarital dancing.

Let’s hear their pitch.

There’s one real problem here.

Every journal overwrites “we make words good.” That’s a freebie. They can even call themselves “the Society” and keep half their dignity. The fuckup’s promising to “reestablish poetry.”

We’re not talking about polar bears or watchable news. Poetry’s everywhere. Visionaries and frauds bore audiences worldwide. It’s the only branch of literature or humanity to benefit from Instagram.

I’m curious about Evan’s work. Let’s see what else he gets up to.

Ah.

In a mood, I’d say Trump was just in court for tiger-like attacks. But we’re being reasonable today. I’m reasonable. Evan can turn this around.

Fucking why? I try empathy for the first time in my life, and you dick me over like this? I wanted to sit at the nice kids’ table, and now I’m back to googling synonyms for “backwards dickheads.” Thanks, reactionary dipshits.

Evan judged the greatest poets of all time, and then wrote this. He might not make the cut. Maybe tenth, if Robert Frost killed your father and you think enjambment describes bad sex. But it’s really continuing an idea across two lines. For example:

Fuck it, Evan’s just one writer. He doesn’t represent the group.

I’m sure his other work’s saner.

Every day is the weirdest day of my life.

This is fine. Evan’s divinely inspired: he steals directly from Chick tracts. More power to him, if he can edit work that isn’t in tongues. Journals generally settle into a nice rhythm of “me and my three friends” anyway.

Are his friends like this?

All of them?

I see. I’m the new Midas: everything I touch turns into screaming lunatics. That’s fine. I’ll just recharge with a little nostalgia, and read some Dilbert. I loved that strip in middle school. A few sharp digs at office culture should help me reset.

Something’s gone wrong.

We can still be fair today. I’m fair. I’m a balanced, insightful soul. It’s an entire society. There has to be something of value.

We’re not doing this. Try again.

Darkling, are you serious?

Sure, writing like Matt Walsh’s dungeon master is cool. I’m nice today. I shat on hostile interviews less than a month ago. I can’t go Crazy 88 on poetry nerds until August.

To the pain.

Migrants should run this journal. Their poems wouldn’t look like NewsMax wordclouds. You can’t strangle a language you don’t know. Russel knows and loves English, just like God knew and loved Job. Most languages are killed by someone in their household.

Topical fanfiction is a Society feature, the way that napalm is an American export. Not my thing, but I respect it, and never lie. Any idea can be a poem if you hate words. And better ideas would be a waste: if you write “most wondering” in 2023, your ceiling is iambic bomb threats.

Russel indulges often. For example:

Maybe I fell down a well and hallucinated two decades. We’re actually on season 15 of The Boondocks, Dick Cheney’s on vacation in the Hague, and Target’s only on blast for child labor. While Russel writes beloved advocacy and self-help for the micropenis community. His memoir Be More With Less helps thousands of “MicroStrivers” abandon hate.

If you curate and publish this, you’re unqualified to pick the best glue you ate today. You burn crosses with childproof matches. Everyone laughs when you leave the rally. You’re a level of stupid prose can barely contain, let alone describe. I’ll try free verse:

Alright, it’s out of my system. What else does Russel have?

Better! Saying less than nothing takes work. When I expect madness, an information hole’s a perfect twist. This is a void in the world. Bipartisan emptiness. When I stare into this poem, it stares back.

The Society’s above modern mud-slinging, so I’ll put this in their language: Society no write good. Poems suck big failure. Glue not food! Glue for paper. Eat cookie instead, feel sparkle. Delete website, many sparkle! Yippee!

Could someone break this failure killstreak? Or suck another way? Fuck it, give me a leftist dumbass. Tell me snoring while white is fascism. Tell me Will Smith preserves Source Awards culture. Tell me Stalin fought Ukrainian obesity. I’ve run workshops, I know your slush pile gets worse. Medieval Tom MacDonald is just one flavor in a failure spectrum.

I’m praying to an empty heaven.

Norma’s English, in case you think lead poisoning is U.S.-exclusive. The name’s her best feature. Norma Pain could be a killer pro-wrestler, The Black Dahlia Murder’s opening band, or even a competent poet. Instead, we’ve got this.

But she has a point. If you question the vaccine, your work’s “cliched.” If you don’t buy gender ideology, it’s “pretentious thesaurus vomit.” And if you even mention faith, it’s “6 AM on the fucking subway.” Diversity of thought matters.

Again, I can relate. Before the thought police took over, I could’ve questioned Norma’s chromosome count and punched out. Now I’m stuck engaging her work, whose title drop sparked my first migraine in ten years. You can’t say anything anymore.

Maybe I’m fixing the game. I should go on the Society’s website, click “Poetry,” and enjoy the first poem I see. Their newest, front-page work, as I’m writing.

I miss Saina.

If Jeffrey worried about offending God, he wouldn’t rhyme might and right in public. Or private. He’d whip himself until Easter for thinking of it. In the Old Testament, his keyboard would turn into bees. In the New Testament, his keyboard would turn into redeeming bees.

But it’s fine, since no one’s watching. I mean readers, not the demiurge. Jeffrey’s the piss break on Aryan poetry night. Somehow, someway, he makes Evan and Russel look better. He’s Luigi’s Luigi, if Mario were a Vogon.

The twist? This Westboro Baptist freestyle loses focus. The drift from “fuck deviants” to “recycling is hard” makes this the first hate speech about composting. If you mailed this to GLAAD, they’d send back Adderall. And ask why you swiped Dane Cook’s most famous joke.

Sorry, let me translate that into zero pussy:

What kind of postmoron writes like this? Did Galactus grant you cosmic stupidity? Did you frustrate Reed Richards to death? Do you herald a new, brainless age? Because you’ve fried mine.

Since God’s sleeping in: Satan, can you send writing that isn’t cribbed from Goebbels or Gallagher?

Thank you, master below.

Yes. More. This cornball intro has an idea and creates context, without one wink at genocide. Mark’s rocketing upwards.

I love it! It’s not good, but it’s today’s best. If this journal was just puns by PhD zoophiles, they’d be better off. Mark is, in his style, a big dog on a pile of toxic garbage. Or small porch, whatever.

This trendy pet glurge works. So maybe, just maybe, fixating on the past holds the others back? The Society isn’t anyone’s ceiling. Norma’s one slur away from Texas A&M tenure. Evan could sneak into a Wall Street Journal desk without anyone noticing. And our next poet was born to write Gutfeld!, God’s cruelest joke.

Hint: if your alt-text is embarrassing, start over.

Now that breeding’s mandatory south of Canada, new mothers should know we hate them. Break eye contact with Junior, and the Society will rhyme sad, mad, bad, and whore. Next time, think twice before existing.

But why mention controllers? They’re redundant reminders of time leaving Joshua behind. Why not highlight another aspect of decay? Like impotence, or brain fog, or impotence?

Three more Luddite jams follow, which is brave in a web journal. Read digitally. On screens. The comments are full of iPhone 2 typos. Some writers snub art for their brain, but Joshua tossed his into the sea.

Let’s go back to patient zero. I’ll give the president one more shot: if Evan can write one sane update, I’ll join the Society.

Cool.

Make that two shots. If Evan can write one sane poem, I’ll join the Society.

Dance! Yes! I love dance. Poetry’s grace, without dog puns or murderous hate. Let’s dance. I’m surprised Evan’s on this side of Footloose.

Wait.

Ah. I’ve lost my mind.

Fun fact about Shen Yun: they’re a cult with side flips. I’d still dig them, save their push for a hot war with China. That’s insane, apocalyptic, and impatient. Foreplay’s the best part of extinction. Even if you love Fallout, Falun Dafa has angles on interracial marriage that most faiths save for subtext.

Anyway, Evan’s all in:

Read closely. You might see Evan triple-wielding caricatures of white vacuity, black poverty, and mystical asians to piss off almost everyone alive. Or his fifth review of Cirque du Zion Ranch since 2012. I see my defeat. This is a fine ad for Chinese Scientology.

Evan wins. I’ve joined the Society of Classical Poets.

Specifically, “Amadeus Vult” and “Laura Kelly” have joined. A duo proudly producing patriotic poems since this morning. I have a two hour commute.

I hear you, strawman. “Dennard. You smashed Laura Ingraham and Megyn Kelly’s names together like a McMahon. Was ‘Coulter Braun’ taken? And ‘Amadeus Vult’ isn’t so much a pun as a swastika in Webdings. Any editor, most people, and some chimps would see through that.”

“Alright, you’ve broken the Prime Directive. But as your strawman, I refuse to believe there’s an actual poem. Please, father, set me free.”

“Cool. Father, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

“How is this possible? Why was I born to suffer?”

“The Code of Straw is clear. I’m shocked the Society added photos of a rap hooligan and Good Negro^TM. Shocked. Set me free, father. Let my soul fly.”

“This seems to be a tribute to ‘Uncle Ruckus’ from The Boondocks. Surely this time you’ve overplayed your hand. I must pretend not to know this worked. I hate you, father.”

“They love your fake poet. How unlikely! May I die now? I’m ready for God’s punchline.”

In fairness: Evan changed the title from Making a Ruckus. I hope he sniffed a joke, but he publishes Russel. Only God knows. A.k.a. Li Hongzhi, enemy of the CCP and miscegenation.

Either way, writing classical poetry’s fun. Without new ideas or unpaid sex as distractions, I could focus on richly stilted language. I’m a convert. I’ll submit 10-syllable beauty under false names for years to come, just to keep the craft alive.

As for the list: every community argues over authority. So what makes you credible? Skill? Experience? Hatred? Eight dollars? Hiding your mediocrity behind Marlowe’s corpse?

Fuck if I know. I teach word-karate and don’t remember what a sestina is. I almost failed a student for asking if I can hardflip. When questions like this come up, I tent my fingers and say “interesting.”

But joining the Society for Classical Poetry doesn’t give you authority. It doesn’t even get you a CPAC ticket. You’re just dry-humping the graves of people that would have fucking hated you.

…

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Jeff Orasky, whose slam poetry makes Percy Shelly look like a little Bysshe.

Tags best of 2023, books, Free, internet

PUNCHING DAY

Monster Wars: Filler Time 🌭

Post author By Dennard Dayle
Post date 05/26/2023
4 Comments on Monster Wars: Filler Time 🌭

Monster Wars’ only flaw is time. The god-tier promos? Thirty seconds. The tanks flopping through the air? Ten seconds, if they take it slow.

Then there’s the dead air stitched to each episode, like goat loins on a 1920’s patient or 2020’s fitness guru. That could probably go.

In case you missed enlightenment: Monster Wars showed monster trucks and wrestling mascots making magic. Twelve minutes of it a week, tops.

Between races, they panic. I would too; an hour a week sounds easy until the first engine explodes. That leaves three bad choices. They can replay everything six times (Physical 100), televise vast fields of nothing (Survivor), or dive behind the scenes (Brazzers). They enter Door Three, but emerge from Door Two. Which is still better than Door One.

Unfiltered insight would be interesting, but lifestyle brands (all nerd shit counts) don’t do insight. They’re in the filter business with Joe Camel and data miners. A segment either drives sales or fires you.

Glancing at the archives, my take’s odd. Most retrospectives claim Monster Wars needed more reality, and less of this:

Incorrect. Ignore the heretics. When Ragnatruck comes, they will meet The Sword. The Sword is a 12,000 pound truck, and his mascot’s Kenny Omega.

Every show needs this. From Jeopardy to state funerals. If pundits dressed like the Doomslayer, I’d still avoid TV news like death. But my third CNN joke would be nicer.

The Really Real Reality segments eat momentum and human memory. They’re holes in spacetime, absorbing all light between WCW promos. Turns out the Warp looks like early YouTube, before we learned that kid’s songs and terrorist manifestos did numbers. Especially combined.

Besides, have you seen reality? Here’s a snapshot:

Things are tense. Instead, we could have:

Easy example: the premiere has a mini-doc about a fan. Host Luanne Lee, a fellow member of the Peter Parker name club, introduces it at gunpoint:

The delivery? Think a person imitating a robot imitating a person. Which, given the cast, might be what she’s going for. 1993’s between Battlestar Galactica series, so that niche is open.

Every word rings with corporate insecurity. “Women watch this. Romneys of women. Studio women are watching races instead of cutting this take. Thanks, Jane.” And I’m sure plenty do. Monster Jam’s a Texas-sized Death Race, who can look away? But there’s an art to defensive bragging.

Here, it pays to be less like wrestling.

Then we get Jim Davidson. He’s the Monster Wars field reporter, and they grew him in a pod.

The delivery? Selling you your own catalytic converter.

I don’t know Jim or his story. He might be from Invader’s planet, where sincere people talk this way. But he sounds like a stooge to my Earthling ears. I don’t think any content could survive this tone. “Juliet–yes you, Juliet, with the hair–you’ve got it going on. IT with a capital eye-tee. Shazam! We should get hitched and chug poison p-p-p-PRONTO. Don’t tell your Dad.”

Our winner’s named Deb. Jim greets her with the same upbeat voice hacks use to wring content from juggalos.

Still, Deb’s game. TikTok hadn’t trained us to distrust anyone that smiled without sexual interest. She’s ready to connect with monster truck fans worldw—okay, nationwide. Monster Wars is more American than next week’s massacre.

Deb’s job fits her addiction brilliantly: she can warp zone to any heavyweight car crash in the country. It’s pure synergy, like being a Drake fan and fourteen.

I’m not sure the agency even pays her. She shows Jim and his hollow eyes a map of USHRA (that’s Truck WCW) shows she’s attended. It’s transcontinental.

Deb’s watched sumo racing in more states than I’ve breathed. That’s awesome. But it’s a big world, and she’s a sane human. The race is still on. I know the biggest Monster Wars fangirl tattooed Invader on her face. The words “scripted” and “carbon footprint” trigger acts of unimaginable violence. She watched Deb and Jim speak live, from a rooftop.

Well, that or we’ve since mastered creating and exploiting obsession. But that would be–man, monster trucks are sweet. Vroom!

At first, Invader’s color scheme seems to clash with his truck. Then you realize his space-gun matches, and life is alright.

Deb looks like a nice friend, so this segment is doomed. How many friends would you watch on Saturday morning? While they watched something more interesting? That you have easy access to? Twitch doesn’t count, that’s softcore findom.

Still, running one doc a season isn’t crazy. Invader needs time to translate “I LASER YOUR GOD” into space-peasant. Yet the premiere has two non-racing shorts, draining valuable crashing time. The second segment advertises Grave Digger, who’s already on the show. And wins this episode’s tournament. And is the monster truck people in Union states know.

It feels a little self-indulgent.

Monster Wars has a small tunnel vision problem. The kind that makes Anderson Cooper commit live PR hara-kiri. One truck matters, and it’s not the world champion. Each episode’s Grave Digger against the rest of Destiny’s Child/D12/Odd Future/G-Unit/The Z Fighters/The Cleveland Cavaliers. Salieri was right: Always poison the main act if you want to live.

It follows that Grave Digger’s driver, Dennis Anderson, gets a short. Even I have a doc, and I’ve never crashed into anything courts could prove.

Luanne eases us in again, and gets a much stronger start. This time, her teleprompter Elvira schtick enhances the material. It feels like a Robocop gag, complete with looming mechanical violence.

Bullshit or not, “I have no fear” is perfect. That’s my new go-to for dates, interviews, and DHS interrogations. The rest of English is a waste. Fearful nouns for fearful men.

Between that line and commentary’s worship, the UnderTrucker has a little mystique. Let’s destroy it.

Jim Davidson (God damn it) heads down to North Carolina, America’s best Carolina, to see how Dennis Anderson lives. Maybe I’m bigoted against TV hosts. With the company ringer, Jim still sounds like he’s harassing commuters for likes, or convincing a rich moron CNN+ is the future.

Lord knows what Dennis is actually like. I assume he’s been coached into a second personality. But in this narrative, he’s always Grave Digger. He’s become one with the lime green flames. For example, Dennis drives a miniature Grave Digger around town, which makes him mayor by default.

But Mini-Digger is old news. Dennis Anderson has a side project: a gift shop dedicated to Grave Digger, with a museum attached. The Grave Digger Center for Promoting Grave Digger sounds like a temple to human ego, since that’s the objective truth. I still admire it. If slamming Sherman tanks into arena walls doesn’t justify self-love, what does? Sometimes, you have to grow your own roses.

After this Grave Digger feature, Monster Wars gets back to Grave Digger. But the Pueblo, Colorado stop has time to fill too, and they don’t have a third idea. So we dive into another truck’s driver.

The best truck, free from human burdens like winning races and avoiding walls. Ignore Terran scorecards: Invader’s undefeated in Kr’zkk.

Are you ready? I’m not. Surely the best mascot represents a part-time secret agent. Or a real truck-driving, glark-loving alien. Right?

Meet Ray Piorowski. He’s perfectly normal.

That’s not a dig. I don’t expect LeBron to dribble in his sleep. I don’t expect Stephen King to tell real trains riddles. I don’t expect Wired profilers to hate themselves after five. Outside this show’s good half, Ray’s a normal human that eats solid food with his Earth wife.

Remember: this is a Saturday morning show called Monster Wars. The opening has four explosions and 1.5 vampires. Unless Ray’s hiding a grenade in his mustache, we’re off-message. The editor even taunts us with a slick description of crashing. Right before we watch Ray golf.

Bonus points to Ray. That’s circus life in a nutshell.

There’s another highlight: wrestling’s influence on Monster Wars includes labor eating shit. Ray has a side hustle towing cars. Great gig, if you don’t make a conglomerate millions pulverizing your spine every weekend. USHRA read Vince McMahon’s entire book.

The Pueblo stop has more air to fill. But Ray showed a bit too much humanity for the board’s taste. It’s time to expand the franchise. Now that Monster Wars has the juicy timeslot after Power Rangers, they’re soft-piloting tractor pulling.

For the uninitiated (me), tractor pulls celebrate Conan’s final victory. Steel is much, much stronger than flesh. It’s not close. A strongman can only beat a tractor with a bigger tractor.

Impressive stuff. But something’s missing.

Even mascotless, they’re fine altars to steel. Thulsa Doom is a streak on the back right tire. The first self-driving tractor will pull us into a new era, complete with sentient flame vents. USHRA can’t wait to pay drivers negative money.

With automation charging ahead, you might wonder what’s next. It’s unclear. Some say that after the machine war, we will envy the de—man, look at that tractor go!

Jim doesn’t sweat the machine war, because he plans to sell us out. Trust me: he plays the hunk of the week in a Charmed episode, so he’s villainous by default. Until then, he gesticulates beside two brothers without media training. The Walshes are a tractor-pulling family, and the stakes for designated driver have never been higher.

That shot’s from 1993, by the way. Monster Wars decided that Milwaukee looks like Dorothy’s farm. During my stay, it looked more like blacking out at 4 PM. But this plays better on Saturday mornings.

The interview’s more saber-rattling for the USHRA itself. Who else could help two brothers achieve stardom? Stardom requiring a second job, and a few new nerves down the line? Also, USHRA owns the vehicle branding. And usually the vehicle itself. Again, the wrestling connection only starts with the costumes.

Is anything worse than an ad for something you’re already watching? Yes. Resisting the machines. But in entertainment, recursive ads are a common sin. One of many MBA crimes our saviours shall punish.

Shit.

Purges aside, few things make me smile like Monster Wars. I just wish more of it was Monster Wars. My son had so much left to teach us.

Everything above is still worth it for forty seconds of sci-fi glossassia. I’ve sat through much more for much less. Anime that made Dragon Ball Z look like flash fiction. Seminars about colonialism in Wishbone. Green card marriage. Only one had a screaming, gun-waving alien. Quite the seminar.

I’ll remember Monster Wars for the peaks (Invader) rather than the valleys (all other content). Life’s better that way. At least my edit of it.