The Rage Machine: David Siegel

Today I was shown an email that was sent by a billionaire named David Siegel to his employees. You can read the full thing here :http://finance.yahoo.com/news/ceo-workers-youll-likely-fired-131640914.html, you just have to scroll down a bit. There are quite a few gems in this email that I am about to happily use to lance this boil on the ass of the world, so I hope you're ready for some patented Wordmurder. I also want to preface this post by saying that everything contained herein is purely my opinion and anyone is welcome to disagree with it; I don't give a shit. I would also like to point out that this is satire, as I fully understand that Mr. Siegel has the financial capability to squash me like the squirmy multi-legged insect that I am. So, now that I have made my legal disclaimer, let the shit-talking begin!

I sat aghast, reading this over-privileged dipshit's feeble attempt to sway his employee's votes, and began to wonder to myself how anyone could be such a self-righteous douchebag and not simply implode under the weight of their own ego.

He comes out the gate swinging. Wearing a pair of ruby encrusted boxing gloves with the words “Self” written on the left glove and “Righteous” on the right one, all in stunning 24 karat gold.

“I started this company over 42 years ago. At that time, I lived in a very modest home. I converted my garage into an office so I could put forth 100% effort into building a company, which by the way, would eventually employ you. We didn't eat in fancy restaurants or take expensive vacations because every dollar I made went back into this company. I drove an old used car, and often times, I stayed home on weekends, while my friends went out drinking and partying. In fact, I was married to my business - hard work, discipline, and sacrifice. Meanwhile, many of my friends got regular jobs. They worked 40 hours a week and made a nice income, and they spent every dime they earned. They drove flashy cars and lived in expensive homes and wore fancy designer clothes. My friends refinanced their mortgages and lived a life of luxury. I, however, did not. I put my time, my money, and my life into this business --with a vision that eventually, some day, I too, will be able to afford to buy whatever I wanted. “

This guy couldn't possibly think more highly of himself. I mean, he knows the true meaning of the word sacrifice. He had to live in a modest home, and had to drive a used car. Meanwhile his “friends” got “regular jobs” and pissed their lives away, while he, who is obviously sooo much better than them, did not. He created a business, which by the way, would eventually make him a billionaire asshole instead of just a regular asshole.

Well, Mr. Siegel, how did you get that “very modest home”, might I ask? Or the money to start your business? Obviously it wasn't from a “regular job” you so easily derided, otherwise how could you put forth the 100% effort you needed to build this business? Was it somehow because you had the PRIVILEDGE to do so? You see, most people work a “regular job” because they have to in order to pay their bills. Seems like you didn't have to worry about stuff like that.

The problem I have here is that this story starts in the middle. Why do you think that is? He doesn't go into how he got that very modest house, or his used car. He already has them, and the money, and the time to start up a business on top of that. For most people just getting the house and the car is hard enough, but Mr. Siegel apparently was able to do that shit no problem. As a matter of fact, his story of hardship starts with him already a homeowner with a reliable means of transportation. So far, he's had it pretty rough, but he's not done letting you know how hard he really has it because he continues with this:

“Just think about this - most of you arrive at work in the morning and leave that afternoon and the rest of your time is yours to do as you please. But not me- there is no "off" button for me. When you leave the office, you are done and you have a weekend all to yourself. I unfortunately do not have that freedom. I eat, live, and breathe this company every minute of the day, every day of the week. There is no rest. There is no weekend. There is no happy hour. “

Do you see now? This guy is a fucking slave! You piece of shit employees don't know how good you have it. At least you get to leave on the weekends. Mr. Siegel, on the other hand, gets no rest. None. Ever. He owns the largest house in the fucking country, a private jet, has a personal assistant, a personal chef, and a staff of maids and butlers to run his household, but he doesn't ever get to enjoy any of it because he's so busy making sure you ungrateful money-sucks have a job. This guy is a fucking hero. *jackoff motion*

Well, if that doesn't have you weeping in the aisles, get out your economy-sized box of scented tissues because this shit is about to get tragic.

“Obviously, our present government believes that taking my money is the right economic stimulus for this country. The fact is, if I deducted 50 percent of your paycheck you'd quit and you wouldn't work here. I mean, why should you? Who wants to get rewarded only 50 percent of their hard work? Well, that's what happens to me. “

Ho-lee-shit. This guy has to endure so much torture at the hands of the federal government he might as well be a Gitmo detainee. I don't know about you, but I'm ready to call in the fucking A-Team to rescue this over-fed gasbag.

Prepare to defend yourself, because now that we've all vicariously lived the horrors of this billionaire CEO's life, he rears back for the final one-two punch--intended to permanently stamp the self-righteous across our foreheads--and closes with the most paradoxical bullshit I have ever had the misfortune to lay eyes upon.

“So where am I going with all this? It's quite simple. If any new taxes are levied on me, or my company, as our current President plans, I will have no choice but to reduce the size of this company. Rather than grow this company I will be forced to cut back. This means fewer jobs, less benefits and certainly less opportunity for everyone.”

“You see, I can no longer support a system that penalizes the productive and gives to the unproductive. My motivation to work and to provide jobs will be destroyed, and with it, so will your opportunities. If that happens, you can find me in the Caribbean sitting on the beach, under a palm tree, retired, and with no employees to worry about.


Signed, your boss,
David Siegel“

Let me get this straight. If you, who, out of the kindness of your own heart, have slaved every day to provide the poor unfortunates who work for you employment (and not at all to further increase your wealth and allow you to live a life of nearly unbelievable luxury), are forced to pay the tax rate prior to the temporary tax cuts that were enacted during a time of prosperity for you (which only made you more prosperous), you will somehow lose your will to continue your completely selfless crusade to provide for those less fortunate than you and retire to a Caribbean beach where you will finally be able to enjoy the fruits of your labor?

How fucking delusional can one out-of-touch asshole be?

This guy actually believes that he is the sole reason the company exists? There were never any people who did anything to help get him to where he is? What do the 7000 people he employs do? I'm sure there are executives and managers, accountants and lawyers, maids and groundskeepers, chefs and waiters, and a whole host of other people who made his wealth possible. Yet, if the government repeals the temporary Bush tax-cuts he's going to just take his ball and go home?

Fuck him.

The fact is, if this man were as righteous as he obviously believes himself to be, he would not be sending thinly veiled threats to his employees in an attempt to sway their vote. He would be down on his knees kissing the ass of every one of those maids and chefs and groundskeepers, and thanking them for making his wealth possible. He would stand up and proclaim his absolute commitment to repaying the country which made it possible for him to become so obscenely wealthy by paying into programs with his tax dollars that would elevate others and provide them with health care, education, and opportunities to become as obscenely wealthy as he.

But he's not.

He's a spoiled, soiled, wretch of a man, who views himself through a fun-house mirror in which he is Atlas, shouldering the weight of the world while malcontents around him suck the life from his bank account. He insists that by rolling back taxes from a rate that he has only paid for 12 of the 42 years his company has existed, that he will no longer be able to support the “system” or his company. He threatens the very livelihoods of the people he claims to have been the sole motivation for maintaining his company out of simple greed.

He thinks only of himself, and it is evident in the despicable email he sent to his staff. Throughout the whole thing he acknowledges the employees who work for him and allow his business to exist only one time, and even then he uses it as a lead-in to more of his already rampant self-pity and narcissism while, at the same time, completely dismissing their contribution: “I know many of you work hard and do a great job, but I'm the one who has to sign every check, pay every expense, and make sure that this company continues to succeed.“ 

It is also evident in the salutation he uses. He doesn't sign it "CEO Westgate Resorts", or simply "Sincerely, David Siegel". No, he signs it as "your boss". You know, in case you didn't know who the fuck was in charge around here.

  

What a dick.

I sincerely hope one of the employees he so blatantly insulted with his poorly conceived email walks into his office, hands him their resignation, and takes a shit on his desk so that maybe, just maybe, Mr. Siegel can actually get a whiff of what his email really amounts to.

Dirty Limericks

I got bored today and decided to try to write some poetry. Of course, since I have the intellect of a drunken baboon with a raging hard-on, it manifested itself as a bunch of dirty limericks. I had so much fun thinking them up, I imagine there will be more of these in the future. Enjoy.

There once was a man from Nantucket,

who kept all his jizz in a bucket.

When the bucket got full,

he'd stop in mid pull,

and go to the window to chuck it.

There once was a woman from China

who could shoot things out her vagina.

One day she got tired,

and her cunt it misfired,

which blew her to North Carolina.

There once was a man from Seattle,

who rode his horse 'round with no saddle.

And though she would whine,

while he rode the equine,

he liked fucking her more than the cattle.

The Rage Machine: Alex Cross

The opinions expressed herein are those of a total douchebag. I make no apologies for my language or opinions. I loose my venom on the page in the hopes that it will entertain the few who share my psychosis. So, if you are easily offended, read on; it pleases me to anger you. If not, then enjoy. I hope you are well entertained.

There is a new abomination on the horizon. It's almost here, and soon it will be disgorging its filth across movie-goers faces like a steaming spurt of poorly cast Hollywood cock-juice. I am, of course, referring to the film: Tyler Perry presents Tyler Perry's: Alex Cross (as portrayed by Tyler Perry)

This irredeemable shit-balloon exploded into my living room while I was trying to enjoy a professional sporting event. Upon seeing Madea in her male disguise, I had to wonder if I had somehow sat on the remote and accidentally ended up on the WE network, or Lifetime, or some other estrogen fueled channel where the drama flows like blood from the stump of a severed penis. After confirming I was indeed on the same channel, and that, yes, this was an actual thing, I proceeded to watch what was once a badass character–devoted to bringing down psychotics with his wits and oh-so-smooth voice–devolve into a dickless action hero.

Morgan Freeman's Alex Cross was a total badass. He mind-fucked criminals until they wept and begged him to tell them a bedtime story so they wouldn't have nightmares about him. I imagine Tyler Perry's Alex Cross will just humiliate criminals into submission by making them laugh at his ineffectiveness so hard they piss themselves.

I feel the need to stress this point. Tyler Perry is NOT a badass. Period. Fuck you. End of discussion. This is a man who sold his sack to pander to the lowest common denominator of the female gender. Showing him sawing off the barrel of a shotgun and uttering lines like, “I will meet his soul at the gates of hell before I let him take a person I love from me.” Will not make him a badass. It will not somehow erase the fact that his target audience are bitter, jilted women and the mentally retarded (I'm sorry, but if you enjoy the Madea movies you are, in fact, retarded. And that's not just me being an asshole, its fucking science).

And just in case you think I am exaggerating about this movie being geared toward vapid, slack-jawed window-lickers, the tagline used in the trailer is: Don't ever cross, Alex Cross. You know, because once you cross Cross, Cross will get cross and cross you right the fuck back.

Flash Fiction Challenge: Scary Story In Three Sentences

Tick-tock, tick-tock, time flies and the words remain unwritten. It's been over a year since I posted to this space, and I have no one to blame but the countless other fuck-knuckles that demand my time. Well, them and the One True King of Fuck-Knucklery, all hairy, arthritic, and twisted into a self-fellating tangle of limbs more appropriate for Hell's own Kama Sutra than this plane of existence; myself. So it pleases me to, after so long, post a mere three sentences in herald of my return. However brief it may be.

 Blessed Silence

“Isn’t it ironic,” he asked his wife as he chewed on the succulent meat. “How the one thing we hate most in others can be, under the right circumstances, a thing in which we derive enormous pleasure?”

His wife remained silent, watching him finish his meal, for she had no tongue with which to respond.

 

Flash Fiction Challenge: Brand New Monster

It has been an inordinately long time since I have posted anything, and for this, I am ashamed. Leave it to Mr. Wendig however, to light my fire like the booze soaked corpse of Jim Morrison holding a road flare while siphoning the gas out of a Ford Pinto. The result is my submission into the latest Flash Fiction Challenge: "Brand New Monster". I hope you enjoy it.

The Closet

Moonlight shines through the window of the nursery, illuminating the collection of stuffed animals along the window sill and providing enough light to make out walls adorned with pink wallpaper, cartoony little elephants dancing across its surface. The house is sleeping. A baby in her crib, her parents in their bedroom down the hall. 

 

On the wall opposite the crib is a door. The brass knob reflects an image of the room, bending the world around its edge, distorting reality. Slowly, the knob begins to turn. The door opens a crack, then stops. A few seconds later it swings fully open, the well oiled hinges silent. 

 

The creature unfolds itself from the closet like a contortionist emerging from a box. So tall its head almost brushes the ceiling, it stands there on stilt-like legs, its arms hanging low to the floor. Its long fingered hands taper to wicked black claws that reflect the moonlight streaming through the window, and its nostrils flare as it tests the night air. It crosses the room in two long strides, the wake of its passage stirring the yellow paper stars hanging from the ceiling. 

 

It stands over the crib, breathing in the scent of the child, listening to the beating of her heart, feeling the warmth of her body. It shudders in anticipation, its grotesque face splitting into a grin that reveals a mouth too full of needle-like teeth. 

 

It begins to reach into the crib when a voice says, "I wouldn't do that if I were you." 

 

The creature whips its head to the right, toward the source of the voice that interrupted its meal. A boy, maybe ten years old, is leaning against the wall next to the window. He has dark hair, with dark eyes to match, and is casually examining a stuffed penguin that looks much older than the rest of the animals in the window. 

The creature turns to face the boy. "I suppose you will try to stop me," its voice is a dry rasp, its words distorted by its mouthful of teeth. "But make no mistake boy, I will feed." 

 

"That's as may be, Sid," the boy says, placing the stuffed toy back among the others, his expression hard. "But not her. Not tonight." 

 

In an instant the boy flashes across the room, his body outlined in a silver shimmer. His open hand slams into the creature, driving it back from the infants crib. It howls in surprise and pain, its long fingered hands curling around its gut where the boy struck it, the skin blackened and blistered. 

 

"Last chance," says the dark haired boy, motioning toward the open closet. 

 

The creature glares at the boy separating it from the baby in the crib. Then it begins to laugh. A sound like snakes slithering over dry bones. 

 

"You will not stop me Guardian," the creature growls, contempt dripping from every syllable. "I've bested far stronger than you." 

 

The boy sets his feet, waiting for it to make a move, when a look of dismay crosses his young features. The moon outside is full, and by its light he can see the wound he dealt the creature only seconds before is already healing; the blisters receding and the skin mending itself as he watches. 

 

"Yes," it sneers, reading his expression, and lunges at the boy. 

It swings one schythe-like hand as it charges, but the boy is fast and ducks easily under the attack. He circles to its left, his hands and feet silver blurs as he delivers a flurry of strikes to the creature's legs and body, its wounds healing as fast as he can dish them out. 

 

He sees the thing's grin as it turns its head to follow him and realizes his mistake too late; by avoiding the initial attack, he is no longer between the baby and the monster. The creature's leg streaks out, almost too fast to see, and catches him high in the chest, lifting him off his feet and slamming him into the far wall of the nursery. 

 

Dazed, the boy watches as the laughing thing reaches into the crib and presses the point of one clawed finger against the baby's chest. At its touch the baby's body stiffens and her breathing stops. 

 

"No!" the boy screams. 

He scrambles to his feet and leaps onto the creature's back, wrapping his arms around the thing's throat. Its skin sears where he touches it, and he leans back hard, steering it toward the closet door. As the creature's hand comes away from the baby she wakes up, takes two hitching breaths, and begins to wail. 

 

The creature reaches over its head and sinks it's claws deep into the boy's shoulders and back. He screams as he is hauled into the air and slammed to the ground. 

His voice is silenced on impact; his silver light, extinguished. 

 

The creature stands over the unconscious boy for a moment, then turns greedily to the baby. It reaches into the crib and the child's cries are cut off. The monster leers down as the baby struggles to breathe, her face and hands turning blue, when a white radiance fills the room. 

 

The parents are in the doorway, the father's hand on the switch by the door, the mother pushing past, both called by the cries of their daughter. 

The creature stumbles backward, screeching in pain, its clawed hands shielding its eyes from the terrible light. The parents rush to the baby's crib, oblivious to the boy struggling to get up and the howling Thing reeling across the room. The boy, now on his feet, throws himself at the creature, wrapping his arms around its waist and driving it back through the black rectangle of the closet.

 The boy falls through darkness, a silver coin thrown down a well, the mother's screams chasing him.

 ***

The hospital's fluorescent lights shine down, scrubbing the hallway clean of shadows; sterilizing it. A man wearing a white coat leaves the room marked ICU #4 and closes the door after him. He leans heavily against the wall beside the door, removes his glasses, and rubs his eyes. 

"Are you all right doctor?" He looks up to find a nurse standing in front of him holding a chart. 

 

"Yes, I'm fine," he says, settling his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. "You know how it is. Sometimes these cases get to you." He tries to smile but cant, so he just looks down at his shoes instead. 

 

"I thought the little girl was going to be ok," says the nurse, genuine concern in her voice. 

 

"Oh, she is," he says quickly. "It was a close thing, but she's stable and her parents are with her now." He looks back at the door. "It's just that, I've seen those people before." 

 

He turns back to the nurse, at first unsure, but after a moment he begins, "It was about ten years ago. I had just started my residency here. They came in with the ambulance that brought their infant son. He had stopped breathing in the night. By the time the parents found him he had been without oxygen for too long, I did everything I could, but I wasn't able to save him. He was the first patient I ever lost." 

 

She hesitates, then reaches out and touches his arm. "But you saved this one," she says. She holds his gaze for a moment before walking away to deliver the chart she is carrying. 

 

The doctor turns back to the room and looks in the small window set into the door. The parents are holding their daughter between them, their heads pressed together. He watches as the husband brushes his wife's raven hair away from her forehead and kisses her there. 

Beside them, a little dark haired boy smiles.

Flash Fiction Challenge: The Numbers Game

It's that time again!

Time to huff ether and drive a city bus?

No.

Time to flip my underwear inside out to get the extra day?

No.

Time to shake a baby till it stops crying?

No, it's Friday! Which means time for another terribleminds Flash Fiction Challenge. This week the Beardilicious One has asked that we write a 100 word story using only three words chosen from a list of five. The words, chosen by a fusion powered robot of such cognitive power that if you looked directly at its CPU for even a second you would walk away knowing how to speak Japanese, are as follows: Enzyme, Ivy, Bishop, Blister, and Lollipop. I have cleverly embedded three of those words into the following story, I hope you enjoy it.

The End

I was unprepared when the end came. I don't beat myself up about it though. I mean, who prepares for the apocalypse besides tinfoil-hat crazies and the echelon they expect to bring it about? Not that it mattered; it got them anyway.

One hundred thousand people died the first week.

Locked in my lab, I work on a cure. I've isolated the correct enzyme, but my hands won't stop shaking. The veins are black and creeping up my arms like ivy, and I can feel the blisters forming on my eyes. Not much time now. Not for any of us.

Game Think: Dead Island

The same rules apply to my game "reviews" as do my book and movie "reviews". These are merely an articulation of the thoughts and feelings elicited by the game and still require an economy sized salt shaker handy when reading. 

The first time I heard about Dead Island was because a trailer for the game had been released which caused half the people who watched it to shit themselves over how awesome it was. It featured a Tarantino-esque use of disjointed storytelling, detailing the tragic end to one family’s vacation by starting at the beginning and the end, then meeting in the middle. You can watch it here.

Personally, I thought it was great. I mean, if they could tell such an effective story in a three minute trailer, think of what they could do with a full length game. But, for every Yin there must be a Yang, and this particular Yang consisted of another group of people shitting themselves, but it wasn’t joy that voided their bowels, it was outrage. You see, the trailer recounts how a young girl is bitten, infected, zombified, and subsequently hurled out of a fifth floor hotel window by her own father. Which is pretty brutal stuff. Awesome, but brutal.

This opened a can of worms, who then all shouted in unison, “How can you kill a child in a game? That’s disgusting!” To which I replied, “With a mouse click of cour—holy shit talking worms!” I’m going to be honest here; if it’s a zombie I’m killing it. No questions asked. At that point physical maturity ceases to matter. Confronted with the moral conundrum of a zombie fetus, I reach for the coat hanger. Every. Time.

So, now that we’ve established that I am a horrible human being (who is going to hell), let’s talk about the gameplay shall we?

Let’s get a couple things out of the way right up front:

1) If you were expecting a L4D clone, you will be disappointed.

2) If you were expecting a traditional FPS, you will be disappointed.

Dead Island is neither of these things. It’s more of an amalgamation of an FPS, RPG, and Adventure game. Kinda like if Diablo roofied L4D’s drink and then invited Dead Rising, GTA, and Just Cause 2 over for some sweet DVDA action.

You have four character classes to choose from: a throwing weapons expert, an edged weapons expert, a firearms expert, and a blunt weapons expert. Each gives you an advantage with the weapons they are experienced with—obviously—and their skill tree provides ways to further increase those advantages as your character levels. I have only played with Xian, the knife expert, and she has a skill tree specific to edged weapons. I assume that each character’s skill tree is set up to increase their skill level with their inherent weapon expertise.

After an initial cut scene and a prologue adventure that serves as a tutorial, you finally get into the real meat of the game. It quickly becomes apparent that in Dead Island “FPS” stands for “First Person Swinger” as the game is heavily dependent on melee attacks. I am currently on the fourth mission and I still haven’t seen a gun.

Weapons are found and, at least in the beginning, wear out rather quickly. You might be lucky to get through ten or so zombies before your boat oar or metal pipe runs out of “durability” and becomes useless. This is something you need to keep an eye on as once the durability meter reaches zero you will still be able to hit enemies with the weapon, but it won’t do any damage. I learned this the hard way after beating on a zombie with a pipe for half an hour before I realized the reason it wasn’t dying was because my weapon was used up. 

The RPG elements consist mainly of XP generated from kills and completed quests, which level you up, and in turn earn you skill points to spend upgrading your character. The skill tree has three branches: one focuses on a berserker style attack which you can unleash once your “rage” meter is full, another focuses on increasing your skills with the type of character you have chosen (edged, throwing, blunt, etc…), and the last focuses on defensive skills such as increasing the effectiveness of med packs and the like.

I managed to get a few hours of play in last night before my nightly-vodka-induced-coma (otherwise known as “sleep”) set in, and I admit to having quite a bit of fun. The graphics are good, not breathtaking, but not Shelley Duvall ugly either. The quest system works, as far as I can tell, and I am looking forward to putting my first frankenweapon together. All I need is the circular saw blade to finish my “Ripper”, which was a bonus for pre-order.

 

I did, however, run into two glitches—I think—in my first two hours of playing. At one point my flashlight stopped working. I then clipped through the floor of the map and fell deep into the netherworld where, presumably, Satan’s horned cock was waiting for me (I quickly ctrl+alt+del’ed, as I have no desire to preview the violation waiting for me upon my inevitable post-mortem descent into Hell).

The other—which I’m not sure was a glitch, but seriously pissed me off—happened when I tried to play a random coop. Every so often—if you set your game to “internet”—you will receive a message saying “HornyPedo is near your part in the story. Press ‘J’ to join their game.” After about the fifth time, I figured, what the hell, and tried to join a random person that popped up. The result was, the connection never got made, and when I got back to my game everything in my inventory was gone, including all of my money! The game had saved my position, but not my stuff, which kinda made me say a whole lot of bad words all at once in a high octave. I quickly recovered though, and continued on my merry zombie-bashing way (but haven’t clicked the dreaded “J” button since).

All in all, I enjoyed my first foray into the tropical nightmare of Dead Island, and am champing—look it up—at the bit to get back to questing all over the resort’s shady beaches; where the ocean froths red from all the spilled tourist blood. I have yet to kill any zombie-children, but more disturbing than that, I have learned that when attacked by a zombie in a bikini, I will totally check out its tits before I cave its skull in with a tire iron.

Hell, and the mighty horned cock of Satan, wait for me.