Violent Acres

The two of us stood idly by the lake, shivering slightly as the breeze swept over the water. Periodically, she’d pick up a tennis ball and chuck it off into the distance. Her dog, a ball crazy yellow lab, would frantically dive into the water in hot pursuit. My dog, not much of a retriever but eager to play nonetheless, would follow enthusiastically.

We had absolutely nothing in common. She was fat. I was thin. She dressed in old sweat pants and a baggy, multi stained T-shirt. I wore blue jeans and a form fitting shirt with a collar. Her hair was slicked back in a greasy ponytail; mine was mussed and perfectly styled courtesy of my over expensive gay hairdresser. Her accent carried the faint hint of a southern drawl; mine contained nothing but the empty blandness of someone who has never lived anywhere noteworthy. She was single, a shut in really, and her time at the lake was her moment of excitement in otherwise droll and uneventful day. I’m a married woman, intensely busy, and my time at the lake is meticulously set aside to afford me one moment of peace.

Despite our numerous differences, we often met at the lake. We were friends simply because our dogs were friends. This phenomenon is something only other dog lovers, or perhaps parents, can understand.

For some reason, our conversation veered onto the topic of theology and the age old question of, “Why are we here?”

“People sometimes ask me,” she said as she watched her dog paddle towards the ball, “why I get up in the morning. I tell them it’s because I have to let the dog out!”

I laughed appreciatively at her joke.

“Then they say,” She continued, “’No, seriously. What keeps you going? Is it faith in God? Something like that?’ And I say, ‘No, seriously! It’s because I have to let the dog out!’”

She trailed off a little as we watched our dogs romp in the distance. For some reason, I felt slightly unsettled. I struggled to say something incredibly witty, but I mentally froze. Then, a thought hit me like a cold splash of water from the lake we were standing beside:

Her reason for getting out of bed every morning…was exactly the same as my reason for getting out of bed every morning.

It took me a moment to regain my composure, but when I did; my witty retort was replaced with a simple, “Yes. Me too.”

She nodded slightly in reply.

We both stood there for a moment, subdued. She watched the dogs race each other for another bite of the tennis ball; I found myself lost in the midst of thoughts as muddy as the water. For the first time, I considered all the days I had stood with her by the lake, mentally adding up all the ways in which we were different…never once noticing that in all the ways that mattered we were exactly the same.

What. A. Fucking. Headache.

Seriously, people. My eyes are bleeding here! Some of you just shortened my goddamn lifespan by 10 years with your insipid blubbering. Thanks a lot.

I was going to wait to write about this after things were finalized a bit more and I had, you know, accurate information to give you, but since some of you seem intent on riding my fucking ass until I talk about it NOW NOW NOW, here I am. And fuck you.

Before I go any further, I want to address the comments where people insist my last updates were ghost written and the proof is in the ‘subpar writing.’ To that I say: Bwhahahahahaha! Hey dummies! My writing has always been shitty. You were just too stupid to realize it before. That’s what happens when you read my site sober. My advice is to either get liquored up before reading or just accept the fact that I’m not the next Shakespeare now. Either way, I’ll be good goddamned if I’m going to take a ‘is this the REALLY REAL V test?’ before every update. Fuck you again.

So, I’m sure you’re all wondering: Has the website been sold?

The answer? Yes and no. The site will likely be sold sometime in the future. Right now, I can’t tell you exactly when. Like I said above, the details have not been finalized yet.

What does that mean for you, the faithful reader? In a phrase? Absolutely nothing.

You see, the main requirement for the sale of the website is that I stay here and post for you fucking ingrates. I mean, what kind of flaming simpleton would buy a website currently centered around a particular author only to fire said author? Newsflash people! No one that ignorant has the financial means to make a shit business deal like that even if they wanted to. If and when VA is sold, I will most definitely be sticking around to post. It’s in the goddamn contract.

So why I am I considering selling?

Well, for a couple of reasons. The first is that I’ve been extremely busy lately. Further, when I started this crap, I never considered exactly how much maintenance is involved in running a website of this size. Deleting spam, approving track backs, making sure everything was working right, working with advertisers, etc, started sucking up what little free time I had left. I found myself in a position where I was spending almost all of my free time simply maintaining the website and almost no time actually writing for the website. This meant no updates for you. I figured if I could find someone willing to do the grunt work for the site (in exchange for the majority of the profits), I could kick back, relax, write, and use this site for its original intended purpose: A pleasant way for me to kill time.

Also, once upon a time, I told myself I was going to use this site to raise $10,000 for charity. As you all know, I failed and only managed to get a shade over $5,500. If you’ve been reading me long enough, you will know that failure tends to make me more determined. So if I can’t raise $10,000 via reader donations, I am going to do my best to figure out another way to raise it. Deal.

So, in closing, yes I’m still here. Yes, it’s actually me writing. Yes, I will be here writing for a long time. Yes, you will be notified if I ever decide to quit completely. Yes, you may notice some changes in the layout, with comments, etc. No, that doesn’t mean a nefarious IMPOSTER has taken over my posts. It only means that the actual mechanics of running the website are no longer my concern and my only function here is that of a dancing monkey.

Which is all you ever really wanted from me anyway, right? Right? Good. Now shut the fuck up.

(To the handful of you with common sense who left thoughtful comments, thank you. Thank you from the very bottom of my cold, black heart. If not for you, I would have thrown myself in front of a goddamn bus.)

Upon walking into my friend Lizzie’s apartment yesterday, I was disappointed to find that she had also invited a girl we’ll call ‘Marie’ over. Now I’ve never particularly liked Marie, although until yesterday, I couldn’t really tell you why. My interactions with her have always been fairly limited (considering she’s not my friend), so I’ve never really given her the opportunity to actually piss me off. Still, she has always rubbed me the wrong way. It’s as if I subconsciously feel like her very existence would have made the fake baby Jesus cry.

Lizzie and Marie were discussing Marie’s two cats when I arrived. Apparently, Marie had suddenly decided after 12 years that she no longer wanted to be a cat owner. Since Lizzie is a veterinarian, Marie was asking her advice on how to best go about finding them another home.

“I hate to tell you Marie,” Lizzie was saying, “But not a lot of people are looking to adopt two 12 year old cats. They are senior citizens at that age and most people would prefer not to bond with a cat that is just going die in a couple of years.”

I plopped down at the kitchen table and motioned for the two of them to continue their conversation. I have a theory that it’s impossible to reason with a jackass and Lizzie was in the process of proving me right.

“So what you’re saying is,” Marie asked, “That the only option I have is to keep the cats or get them put down?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Lizzie answered.

“So I guess I have to get them put down!” Marie cheerfully concluded. “Only…would you mind taking them in and doing it for me? I’d rather not be there when it happens.”

Obviously surprised at Marie’s choice, Lizzie carefully responded, “Well, if you’re going to have them euthanized, it would probably be easier on them if you were there…” She trailed off helplessly.

“But, if I take them in to be euthanized without them actually being sick, people will think I’m a bad person!” Marie whined.

I couldn’t stand it anymore, so I cut in.

“They won’t think you’re a bad person,” I insisted, “They’ll know you’re a bad person.”

“But I’m not a bad person!” Marie objected, “I just don’t want cats anymore!”

“Well, I hate to break it to you,” I countered, “But killing two animals simply because you’re fucking bored with them is the very definition of a ‘bad person’ in my book. I’m guessing that most of the people in Lizzie’s office will agree with me. This doesn’t make them wrong. This makes you a shit head.”

I won’t bore you all with details of the screaming match that ensued after this little confrontation, but I did want to emphasis a very faulty way of thinking that seems to be becoming increasingly common among this generation. Namely, that we have the ability to invent the reality of our character on a whim. People seem to be under the impression that they are what they say they are. In other words, if they say they are a good person, it must be so. Their actions do not matter when deciding what kind of person they are. The only thing that matters is how they brand their self.

Speaking of branding, I was surfing around the Internet a few days ago when I ran across a website written by Dan Schawbel. Apparently, Dan Schawbel is a self described ‘personal branding expert.’ Less hip members of society might be wondering now what, exactly, is ‘personal branding.’ Lucky for us all, douche bag Dan Schawbel defines this little bit of idiocy for us. He states:

Personal branding describes the process by which individuals and entrepreneurs differentiate themselves and stand out from a crowd by identifying and articulating their unique value proposition, whether professional or personal, and then leveraging it across platforms with a consistent message and image to achieve a specific goal. In this way, individuals can enhance their recognition as experts in their field, establish reputation and credibility, advance their careers, and build self-confidence.

All of this goobly-gook is a clever way of saying that instead of going to the effort to become a certain sort of person, we can just insist that we are that sort of person until others give in and believe us. Instead of developing our personalities into something with substance, we can simply buy all of the proper accessories needed to project the right ‘image.’

Funny, back in the day, one enhanced their recognition as an expert in their field by actually going to the effort of becoming an expert in their field. They established a good reputation and advanced their careers with actual accomplishments. They did not just pop a logo on their backs and call it a day.

An artist isn’t an artist because he wears black turtlenecks, listens to sad music, paints his fingernails black, and carries a certain brand of fucking cell phone. An artist is an artist because he creates art. Likewise, it takes more than announcing yourself as a good person to become one. It doesn’t matter if you say you’re a good person, or think you’re a good person, or even in your deepest heart of hearts feel like a good person. A good person is someone who does good things. Words and intent do not matter. Actions do. Period.

A lot of people have described me as a good person, believe or not. They insist that because I ‘mean well’ that ultimately, I must be good. I try my best to explain to them that this is an incredibly faulty way of thinking. After all, if I were to jump a curb and run over a family of 4, I would be at fault. It doesn’t fucking matter that I didn’t ‘intend’ to kill them. They are still fucking dead. So yeah, my friends are correct in that I nearly always mean well. Unfortunately, there is more to being a good person than meaning well. It takes actual, tangible action to be good. I am a bad person simply because I do bad things. Intent doesn’t mean shit.

Personal branding is a bunch of garbage. We are not our clothes. We are not our accessories. We are not the music that we listen to or the city that we live in. We are not what we claim we are and we most definitely are not what we wish. We are not images. We are our actions.

If you are unhappy with the person you see in the mirror, think less about developing a personal brand and think more about actually becoming what you desire to be.

By: IamRob
Illustrations: Ken

Everyone is born, but not everyone is born the same. Some will grow to be butchers or bakers, or candlestick makers. A rapist or a dancer…or die early from cancer. Some will be born with one kidney, one ear, one lung, or have fetal alcohol syndrome…from a drunk mother on rum.

Some kids are born without a home. In Ferguson’s case, an extra chromosome.

Whatever the reason, in the bleak winter season, Ferguson arose, with blood coming out of his nose.

“Mommy I dying I dying,” cried the young little child.

“Oh it’s just a bloody nose, pumpkin. I keep telling you not to stick your finger in there.”

“It’s where gets fingerpaints!”

“No, you buy finger paint at the store. You don’t get it from your nose. Why don’t you go play with your coloring book and crayons?”

Ferguson listened to his mother, and waddled to the playroom to find the best book ever.

One like no other. It was Dora the Explorer, he sure knew how to have fun. He reached for the blue crayon, to color in the sun.

“MOM!!” He screamed with great angst!

“Yes, my darling little knickernoodle?!”

“I need BOO CWAYON! DOWWA THE EXPLOWEH!”

“You’ll just have to look for it, pookitten.”

So off he went with great worry and haste. The world was his oyster. No time to waste. The timing was right, the story’s begun, for the journey of Ferguson, and his missing crayon.

“Cwayon…CWAYON!” Ferguson shouted into holes in the ground. Hoping it would turn up, safe and sound.

“I found its! I found its!” He exclaimed with such joy!

Could that be it? Could he have won? No, it was just a dandelion.

Ferguson gets filled with stress, while his pants get filled with mess.

He pressed on, determined like the junkie, he meets up with a cat, by the name of Ms. Chunky. Minding her business, Chunky quietly ate, with Ferguson assuming his crayon was cat bait.

“KITTY CAT EAT BOO CRAYON! ME EAT KITTY!”

Ferguson began to chew the paw off the cat, while the cat clawed his eye, and flew off like a bat.

He marched along a bit, not phased by the blitz. He then stood and did nothing, like the Jews of Auschwitz. Contemplating his path, he quickly discovers, a hole in the ground, completely uncovered.

“MY CWAYON IS THERE!” He says with a snap. Yet he finds out the hole is in fact a bear trap.

Did this stop Ferguson?

“CWAYON!!”

Of course not you fool, he hobbles along, with a face full of drool. He digs in the dirt, like a dog with a bone. He picks what appears to be a metal pine cone.

“MY CWAYON IS HEYUH!” He gleefully sings! He pulls the crayon, which looks like a pin.

The explosion was loud for this little renegade, what he thought was a crayon, was an army grenade.

Depressed he was, so Ferguson returned home. He cried to his mother. He cried all alone.

“I want WED cwayon!”

“You mean your blue crayon,” his mother consoled.

“MS. CHUNKY ATE IT! AND THE BEEAH TWAP ATE IT! AND THE GWENADE!”

“Awwww, my poor little darling.”

As he sobbed and sobbed, he rants and rants, yet something strange fell out of his pants.

“MY CWAYON!” He said!

“ITS HEAH!”
The two were happy and celebrated. He even messed his pants again, he was so elated.

And that was the story of the Ferguson rhyme, his blue crayon was in his pants the whole time!

***

IamRob of Freak Safari can best be described in two words:  Internet Cancer.  His articles not only infect you like readable tumors, but he amazingly finds a way to make you happy about it.  In other words:  It’s a good read for people who have no desire to go to heaven.

Last night, at around midnight, I decided to go to the bank. This is not unusual for me considering I have multiple bank accounts for multiple purposes. If I had my druthers, I’d keep all my money in one master account, but my accountant strenuously insists that I remain somewhat organized. Since I pay him good money for advice, I grudgingly follow it. Unfortunately this usually means I cannot visit an ATM machine without a gang bang-esque line forming behind me as I fumble around completing a long list of transactions. To circumvent this, I usually wait to stealthily visit the ATM late at night. Like a ninja.

Granted, most people would just complete their bank transactions without worrying a bit about the line forming behind them. However, most people are not half the neurotic mess of a person that I am. I can’t stand the idea that I might inadvertently hold someone up by acting like clumsy senile retard. I am the type of person who, if someone steps in line behind me at the grocery store, will panic and scoop my change up into my fucking shirt in a mad dash to move out of the way as quickly as possible. Coupons? Store card discount? Purse not closed yet? Fuck it all! There’s someone behind me!

So you can all imagine my dismay last night when I noticed a car rounding the corner of the bank parking lot in order to get in line behind me at the ATM. My heart dropped down to my stomach as I frantically tried to complete a least one more bank transaction. Unfortunately, the last transaction was a deposit and those machines only suck the envelopes in at one excruciatingly slow speed.

As the woman in the car pulled up behind me, I heard her say, “OH COME ON!” Obviously, she was perturbed that I was in line ahead of her.

At first I blushed and ducked my head. Then I thought to myself: What the fuck? It’s not like I can instantly disappear!

Then, I started to get angry. I mean, here I was, cutting my trip to the ATM short only because I was over worried about her time…and she couldn’t even give me five fucking seconds to retrieve my card from the machine? Well, if that’s the way she was going to be, fuck her.

Furious, I screamed at her, “I will wait here all night if you’re going to be a BITCH about it!”

At first, silence was her only reply.

Then an equally angry voice yelled back, “If you don’t move right now, I’ll call the police!”

The first thought that entered my mind was surely (surely!) the police had better things to do than mediate an argument over a fucking ATM machine. But then I considered the town I live in and it slowly dawned on me that there is no way in Hell the police had anything better to do than hassle me at the request of the Impatient Bitch behind me.

So I did the only thing I could do in that situation. I got my card from the ATM and pulled away, head hung low, like a beaten puppy.

HA! You all don’t know me very well, do you?

I could no more walk away from a confrontation like that than I could swallow an apple whole. I just don’t have the physical capability.

Instead, I reached into my center counsel, grabbed a switchblade, and jumped out of my car. Then, I rammed the blade directly into my own car tire. It started losing air immediately. The woman, who was watching me via the light above the ATM machine, looked stunned.

“Go ahead and call them,” I curtly insisted, “I couldn’t move my car now even if I wanted to. And I need some help with this flat tire anyway.”

“I can’t…believe…you just…” she stuttered. Then perhaps considering the late hour and the fact that I was obviously unhinged, she started her car and pulled away without completing her sentence.

I watched her drive away, triumphant.

Of course, my victory was short lived. After all, I had just stranded myself at the bank with a flat tire. And no spare.

Putting my head in my hands, I thought to myself: V, for once in your entire miserable pathetic excuse for a life can you refrain from cutting off your own nose to spite someone else’s face?

The truth is I don’t think I can.

Oh well. At least I was able to finish my bank transactions in peace.