The ego has nothing to do with reality. Therefore, one must learn not to take things so “personally.” After all, it’s not about you, it’s all about me, buddy.
Of course, the hypocrisy within such a belief may be evident– but it is also an everyday reality. One may allow themselves to be sucked into this type of a character death fall.
Happy V-Day or not, whatever.
Practice your best Samuel L. Jackson impression of being “tired of all these motherf*ckin'” zombies on a plane:
Once upon a real reality, yours truly would find myself locked in a frustration-filled bout that, eventually, would defeat and topple the old me. The aforementioned fact is not something I am proud of, as attention whoredom has never been a part of my “deal.” Yet, the consideration craved would not be from friends wishing to offer encouragement that better days lie ahead for the then-present train-wreck shit show, known as me.
No, the coveted audience was one particular, specific person, but none of my narratives would ever hit the eyes of the intended target. Hopes of feelings understood would turn to frustration, frustration to periods of upset, and so forth and so on the downward spiraling evolution would continue. The entire situation was a set-up.
Someone trusted saw an opportunity to wield secrets-shared as an offensive weaponized tactic. In the end, the ploy was merely a means to derive a desireable cold-hearted excuse for one’s preferred d-baggery.
In hindsight, my initial mess up, a mistake turned sword to slay that which is me. For later, the errors made would be admitted to with attempted apologizes to clarify my previous position would certainly not read on in as an adequate manner. That’s right, yours truly would not be given the time to use my “real” voice to plead my case. Instead, all my efforts, every single one… would be met with chirp, chirp, and more chirps of nothingness.
Certainly, there must have been some underlying or hidden intent– and yep, like a sucker, I fell for it, dupe annihilation.
Along the way, I would realize the error of my ways, the mistake of allowing another person to pull my strings and choose my attitude as a means of exploitation.
Now, I choose my attitude, no more falling victim to the same trick. For it then, and only then, my power would be reclaimed to rise above whatever troubles may come my way. I encourage and remind all those that may find themselves in a similar situation– YOU ARE NOT ALONE. There are many of us, less than perfect, living this world without a pamphlet– WE MAKE MISTAKES. But some, like myself, refuse to stay down, to give up, or to ever quit on one’s self– always keep pushing, hang in there until better days come along.
As a wise man once said:
The night of the fight, you may feel a slight sting. That’s pride fucking with you. Fuck pride. Pride only hurts, it never helps.
Typically, this is the crushing finale that wishes to impart some sort of grand lesson learned or wisdom. A self-pretentious opportunity for utilizing the standard lines of chipperness that are commonly accepted, seem happy enough, and most importantly– encourage said complainer to shut the f*ck up. It is within the end of whining, the sage can get back to talking about “more important things” such as themselves or those new shoes they simply “must” have. One should never trust those relying upon the simplest narratives to purify and pacify, for these tactics are not helpful, they do not work. It’s all a means to allow another to feel good about themselves while encouraging someone to shut the f*ck up.
As for me… I did not learn jack shit. If anything, an old axiom that applies would be “there are three sides to every story: mine, yours, and the truth.” Well, that would be correct, except only my side of the story has ever been presented to me. Hence, it seems only natural that my side + complete silence = the truth is whatever I wish it to be. My reality is time does not heal all wounds as I remain hollow but yet not bitter.
For I awake each day doing my best to keep chugging along (while not being a dick) with an internal hollowness which makes it more difficult to arise from the “right side” of the bed.
My hollowness stems from the discovery that I do not matter in the eyes of a once-believed bonded confidant and friend. Despite not being dead, yours truly was discarded, ignored, and dismissed as if I were. Being one slow to open up to others, it took a while to let the aforementioned person in, then shortly later– out of nowhere, KAPUT. That fact really sucks. However, it does not impact my view of the world or of others as I realize one person’s assholishness is 100% on them and nobody else. In this particular case, I am not even bitter toward this a-hole– because yours truly is not the one that actually sucks. For some unexplained reason, this guilt-free knowledge of not being in the wrong seems to make the day a tad bit brighter.
Hmm, if there is a moral to the tale, it might be, no matter what happens in life– try not to suck.
Greetings and salutations, friends, strangers, and enemies alike, welcome to 5 Random Thoughts. Yours truly cannot promise each thought will apply or be of interest to every reader, but can promise at least one or two points made will resonate with most folks (always got that one unimpressed “guy” better known as the dick in the crowd).
Get over yourself. Whatever the problem might be, just get over yourself. That is not to say one should accept all the shit that comes their way nor is to make light of legitimate life problems and challenges. There are certainly lots of struggles in the world, some such struggles may seem or be too much for one person to handle, it happens to the best of people, it’s the grim face of life. BUT the point is THIS– whatever problem or challenge one faces, do not allow yourself to be your own biggest obstacle in overcoming these harsh realities.
Yours truly may not be a “doctor” but I am a DR and that counts for something. Here’s the deal, to those too uptight, too hard and non-believers of their own self– STOP THAT SHIT. Garbage in = Garbage out, dumb dumb. Sorry for the name calling, but think of it as a necessry attention getter. Accept your own limitations, that’s a must, but never sell yourself short, okay? Do not be afraid of failure, as it happens, but one can never succeed without facing up to the possibility of rejection. Stop being so uptight.
Conversely, to those that are not focused enough to commit to doing things they claim they wish to do in life– stop f*cking around and get to work.
For instance, if one wishes to be a lawyer or a rodeo clown or a professional jizz mopper– it takes time, effort, and work– as most things do not magically just happen overnight. In other words, if wishing to reach a given objective, taking any step forward to meet that aspiration = one step closer to achieving the desired end game. Sorry for being all preachy, but the whole point of this particular thought is an internal balance, find your own “sweet spot” between the drunk and uptight versions of yourself and go kick some ass, won’t you?
The following is an example of yours truly punching upward to support a fellow writer in response to the following tweet:
It takes massive guts to put one's self out there to be continuously rejected, Most cannot cope with such reality, but it's what the writer knows is a harsh, seemingly never ending truth. How one copes, conquers rejection will later be used to define their greatness.
Enough of my self-righteous bullshit, at least until the bitter end
Lately, I have been stumbling upon a whole slew of really interesting or funny writings. Of all the wonderful works, phrases, and humorous ponderings, there is only “one.” The funniest/best/most fantastic phrase that pays of my recent read ramblings is…
“You sir are an unsung hero! Good for you for taking one for the team and fucking that poor disfigured woman.”
This is a random user comment inside a much larger conversation (I will send the link upon request but otherwise, ya gotta find such wonderful treasure yourself!)
For whatever it is worth, that dude’s comment is both applicable, and his conclusion is surprisingly correct. Remember to tell those oft-forgotten unsung heroes, “Thank you for taking one for the team, boss.”
Please allow me to make something explicitly clear since there is no more Google connection, and people do not buy shit from TheDR.World or any of my few, basically free, sponsors– I no longer care all that much about being entertaining, informative, or inspirational to anyone, more or less, but myself. That is not a complaint, only a mere reminder that IF I’m gonna work for free or to pay for it… then, I’m gonna enjoy doing so, my way. Like it, love it, or hate it– whatever, that is cool. Be love, be hate, just please do not be indifferent or dull.
Very Bad Things. Dedicated to the unknown dude that shook my world as he(she) mowed down my neighbor’s tree early in the morning while totaling his own sweet Floridan-tagged ride.
As I encroached the vehicle, I swear, the deployed passenger airbag looked like a dude’s head. But turns out, despite a busted windshield, a blaring radio, and the vehicle doors closed– there was nobody in the car. Poof. I’m sure there is a good rest of the story, but I don’t know what that is but shall assume it shall always remain a mystery.
As for the movie, Very Bad Things, is a grand display of the butterfly effect that stems from horrible choices. Despite receiving terrible reviews and being overlooked by most of humanity, the 1998 movie is often viewed as being a hollow mean-spirited cinematic failure.
Sure, there are noticeable gaffes within the movie both visually and within the plot-line. Also, to casual viewing, the film might seem as if it is a simple narrative of cold-hearted brutality. Despite such limitations, examination of a keen eye will oft-reveal Very Bad Things is a great telling of relatively decent folk led astray by their individual flaws. As not to spoil the movie for the yet to view but now curious types, the whole greatness to Very Bad Things is the snowball effect gained through an initial lack of personal courage to do the “right” thing.
IF, at any time, any character chose to display some true courage, everything else that follows would be null and void. That my friends, that is a good moral tale.
Other off the radar movies yours truly enjoys, just a partial list, includes Rushmore, Heathers, 12 Monkeys, Death to Smoochy, and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.
***It must be noted, movies like Fargo grew on me over time, but The Crying Game, still sucks, just my personal belief, nothing less, nothing more. ***
To stick with the movie theme, yours truly recently wrote to one of the fellows overseeing a proposed remake. To those that guessed the flick to be The Toxic Avenger, that would be a BINGO! The purpose of my message to the producer was my explicit desire to be a part of the re-writing of the eventual new release (oh, it will come). Of course, I have not received any response to my request, but who cares? It is a passion project and one of only 2 movies I would ever consider being a part of any reboot. The other movie, would be Natural Born Killers, period.
A Natural Born Killers remake. Conceptually, the movie is wonderful. The script was written by none other than Quentin Tarantino and stars Woody Harrelson, Juliette Lewis, and wonderful guest appearances from big time stars. The main reason a reboot would work, in my view, is the choice of Oliver Stone as the film’s director. Stone seemed to understand the underlying theme of Tarantino’s masterpiece but he fails in visually capturing the essence of the plot. Unfortunately, there is one great detriment the original would have over any future remakes– Rodney Dangerfield. Mr. Dangerfield is perfectly cast as the main female antagonist’s abusive rapist father. It would be dang near impossible to find anyone else to play that part any better than Rodney Dangerfield.
The following was originally posted on TheDR.World Facebook page, but it seems worthy enough to share:
I just heard the news that my cousin died from his cancer. In times of tragedy, words seem hollow, non-helpful, non-necessary.
In this particular case, I always liked my cousin & his twin sister, yet, there’s nothing for me to say that would matter. Personally, I continue to watch memories of my childhood continue to grow more distant, broken and dismembered by the reality of time, distance, and life itself. But this situation is not about me, for that, I do know.
In the spirit of my cousin, his family, and all his loved ones, I wish to simply ask folks to be proactive in taking care of themselves, whether that’s through routine physical checkups or seeking mental health assistance. Please do the best you can, while you can, for both yourself, family, and your loved ones. Thank you.
Friends, strangers, new friends to be– Greetings and salutations.
The world is a chaotic, a turbulent place:
‘Tis the season for the misery within to say, “Hello.”
Perhaps, he/she/they broke up with you to avoid making any Thanksgiving plans?
Or maybe it was to circumvent having to go through that whole ordeal of picking out and buying gifts, or whatever sham reason that might be thrown around to avoid having to be around you– during the encroaching months of despair? Who knows?
Relax, it’s not you– it really is them. Remember that.
Sure, the likely reason could be you were tossed away for the smell of new lady vag-jay-jay or man-dick, but relax, at least it’s not your fault. Besides, now you too will have the minty nice newness, fresh virginal whoredom scent surrounding your presence to attract the scandalously curious in your direction. Thus, knocking over another relationship domino in the neverending saga known as– nobody seems to be able to remain monogamous, truthful, or can even be taken for their word any longer. Which makes one wonder… was it ever wise to trust a majority of folks?
After all, Ben Franklin did enjoy banging his hookers, while on Little House on The Prairie, Nels did secretly hate his wife, Harriet, and not long ago, that chick did tell Biz Markie some other man-meat was “just a friend.” BUT, You say he’s just a friend, join the DR and Mr. Markie, COME ON SING ALONG:
BABY– You, you got what I need but you say he’s just a friend
And you say he’s just a friend, oh baby
You, you got what I need but you say he’s just a friend
But you say he’s just a friend, oh baby
You, you got what I need but you say he’s just a friend
But you say he’s just a friend
Straight from the scenes of Maury, in the case of that dude being “just a friend”– the lie detector determined… that was a lie.
Universal disappointment, notwithstanding, the DR is here to bring cheer, a little joy, and knowledge to assure the masses a simple message– shit happens. Hang in there, eventually, maybe, karma will step up and have your back.
Speaking from experience, years ago, yours truly was in a long-term, on/off again relationship. Eventually, the on/off part led to the relationship becoming a triangle. Of course, my decision was easy– get away and do something or someone else, and never look back.
Turns out, 100% true, her karma would come via the new guy, the not me dude, running her over and leaving her for dead.
To the surprise of no one that knows this chick, she did not die. Nope. Instead, she turned the experience into a money-making venture. Recently, she put out an online seminar surrounding her ordeal, it was not a bad presentation. Most importantly, knowing her, the room was full, in her own words– KA-CHING! (No, I will not link to the presentation, as to why will be revealed a little later in this writing.)
The main reason for my interest in watching the taped performance was due to the simple ego, to see if my name was mentioned. Directly, it was not. However, she did discuss a shared experience and I was referred to as “an ex-partner.”
All things considered, that was nice of her.
The recount featuring me was of a real-life barrier being in the way, she needed help and yours truly would come along, as she said, to “save the day.” Obviously, in her version of the story, I would fail, but she somehow would rely upon magic or such, and for some reason or another, everything would work out.
No worries, it is an accepted fact, she has, likely will always have a sweet spot in her heart for DR. Whereas, she will also always have a soft spot on her head and mended broken body parts from that other dude, for you know, having run her ass over.
So, who would ya rather be? Me the “ex-partner” that comes to “save the day” or the dude that runs a chick over and goes to jail?
Think about it.
What may appear, at first, as a loss might end as a– FLAWLESS VICTORY.
Let that tale serve as a fair warning spiel to the women. Ladies be careful what you ask for, if giving up a good fellow for some other, you may end up being run down by karma or maybe even some dude’s car, true story. So, choose wisely.
No worries, fellows, I got your broken heart covered too.
Dude, come on. Do not confuse loneliness, horniness, or the feeling of being tossed away or rejected with an unwavering, timeless love lost.
Again, from my own reality, what is there really to miss?
All those times she “don’t feel good” or all the fun things she kept you from doing? Or perhaps it was all the times she gave you a hard time for being on the same planet as other chicks, only to turn around and tell you, “Well, it’s different, he’s just a friend,” eh? Sound familiar? You say he’s just a friend, OH BABY YOU GOT WHAT I NEED… COME ON SING ALONG–
BUT YOU SAY HE’S JUST A FRIEND, YOU SAY HE’S JUST A FRIEND…
The likely truth (again based on my experiences) is that although Ms. Perfect Love was initially a nice, a warm and a charming sex/love/romance/couldn’t keep her hands off ya level-6 goddess, she gradually would morph into a no-fun, crybaby, humbug, cold fish, lamest of the lame kinda dame. The key to the transformation was evident, hidden in your jokes, fella.
For example, when she stops laughing at your jokes, soon after, she will grow unable to string together two interesting sentences in a row– “relationship” = doomed, GAME OVER.
At this point, not only does she no longer “love” you, she probably does not even “like” you. However, sticking around long enough through such an ordeal will lead to the next downward phase. This is when she no long pretends you exist or matter.
For instance, one might produce high-quality writings and other interesting artistic works that she can’t be bothered to look at nor does she care enough to pretend to support either your ego or life goals. BUT…
At the same time, she certainly has no problem “liking” and “loving” some dude’s phone captured imagery of water puddles or some simplistic dumb shit. To solidify her new found appreciation, wait until that dude starts posting his creative words written in crayon or someone else’s oversimplified memes. She loves to go out of her way to support that fellow, but you? Nah, fuck you, buddy.
So, again, what exactly is there to miss?
The truth is the only woman that ever truly loved you was the on-off again lady AKA the crazy lady that ends up run over by a car. How does one know this is the purest and only true love? Because half the time in this type of relationship will be spent living in fear while she breaks your shit, and, ironically enough, comes speeding at you, chasing you down in parking lots, in her vehicle driving, really, really fast. She will also threaten to stab any woman that looks at you or vice versa. Once the relationship appears over, she will even take the time to write letters to your following girlfriend to sabotage said new budding relationship– well before it has a chance to even begin.
The other half of the time, she cannot keep her hands, lips, off of you and showers you with love or showers, as in very nice shower time. WOO WOO!
That my friends, may sound jaded, but that is “love.”
Best case, one either finds themselves entangled with a likely crazy person or an empty-vessel succubus which sucks out the livelihood– until the taste of you grows stale, then, onward to a newly found victim to satisfy the unquenchable palate. So, which will it be?
In closing, recent revelations have taught yours truly, when it comes to being shy about wanting to screw ya, dudes are far more to the point and persistent– even after you tell ’em, “Thank you for the compliment, sir. I appreciate it, we can be friends, certainly, I’m not threatened or anything, but also, I’m not gay.”
Those words do not seem to matter to a high number of horny dudes.
As a result, somewhere, deep within, I feel a need to apologize to womankind on the behalf of most man-dongery. Ladies, I try not to be a pig and do sincerely wish to apologize for all the bad dudes, from the past to the current.
Fellows, please don’t forget– no means no.
It doesn’t mean maybe, or eventually, it means no.
Quick recap, dudes, stop being pigs, no means no. To the ladies, my assurances in it being ok to be a tad more aggressive and please, for the love of deity, stop loving dudes that do not wish to be loved.
Your sometimes Buddy, sometimes “Dickish” DR
This post is dedicated to the following:
my kid on his birthday (even though he doesn’t bother to read this page),
In America, what society-at-large claims as ‘normal’ is usually anything but natural.
Often agreements are made, as part of the community status quo, to stick to straightforward, long ago established, double-standard narratives for the overall greater good of civil interest.
In other words, stick to the provided phrases, then go about your own business.
For example, someone says their 812-year-old great great great great really great aunt’s grandmother just died after her 682-year battle with syphilis:
You say, “Sorry for your loss.”
Maybe add, “Thoughts and prayers.” Maybe, but nothing, nothing less.
Do not say, “Well, at least she was really old.”
Also, under no circumstances, do not dare ask, “Whoa, how’d she catch the French/Portuguese/Italian or whatever country one wishes to blame it on, or Grandgore (disease), or AKA Syfy or the Great Pox?”
Do you understand? Do you get it, buddy? Stick to the script. The same thing holds true on many issues, for example, rape is never something to joke about publicly…
Society rules dictate and provide the following to keep the peace:
“Thoughts and prayers, sorry for your loss, everything happens for a reason, money won’t make you happy, patience is a virtue, I’m not racist, because I have (insert race other than your own) friend, bless your heart, etc…” Remember all those terms, use them properly, all will go well.
Also, during potentially awkward or weird situations that are a tad bit ‘seedy’– do not lose focus or bearing. For instance, if a couple announces their pregnancy, do not ask whatever may be floating in your brain. Stick to congratulations, move forward, forget ya ever heard anything as if it never happened.
Do not… please refrain, from asking any and all questions around the circumstances that led to the pregnancy. This includes, but is not limited to the following short list:
“So, what was the position that got ‘err done for ya’ll?”
(Self-giggle, giggle, “got ‘err done” and how.)
“I thought you had a low count… did a friend or somebody help out? Hmm, guess that could explain the handsome dude I saw leaving your place, not all that long ago… hmmm, several times.”
“Did both of you want a baby or was it the quasi-normal reality of Mr. Man not liking condoms, because they “just don’t feel right” while Mom-to-be somehow assumes having a child will solve her internal loneliness and give her the unconditional love, or so she thinks, that she has never had?”
Yes, they likely, more times than not, had sex to produce the said pregnancy but NO! No, that does not mean you can high-five your buddy Dave for “hitting that” or getting laid– EVER… unless it leads to pregnancy, then somehow, for some reason, it’s cool.
When the baby is born, stick to “how cute”– no matter how ugly or no matter how much it may look like some other fellow or a little wrinkly old man– do not mention “better take that to Maury” or anything else– just stick to “how cute.” Sure, everyone knows most if not all babies are ugly until they are at least two-years-old, some never really ever grow out of the “ugly phase” but don’t think, just “how cute” your way through it. Leave the honesty to someone else, for such a job belongs to the truly professional a-holes of the world and that is not you, okay?
Please consider chucking a buck to help sustain and grow TheDR.World,
What is to follow is a discovery, a celebration of sorts, about a few such a-holes that took it upon themselves to condemn the ugliness, the sordid underbelly of… babies.
The purpose of what shall follow is not to prepare the reader to be a competitor on Jeopardy, just trying to inspire curiosity and encourage learning through real-world intrigues. To further romanticize the oddity wonders, “real” photographs will not be used. Instead, yours truly created works of distorted art– to see the real thing, one is going to have to click some additional links and do some self-study.
In no specific order or ranking, TheDR.World celebrates the following:
In Oslo, Norway there is a historical estate known as Frogner manor which is part of the Oslo City Museum. The vast sight also includes a spacious public park, Frogner Park. Within the Frogner Park visitors can visit an area which features around 200 sculptures from one artist, Mr. Gustav Vigeland.
In the 1920s, Mr. Vigeland made an agreement with the local government, they would provide him a place to stay close to the park, in exchange, he would make tons of sculptures. Just a guess, but the sculptor may have not been overly fond of children.
The Angry Boy is a terrifying sight to behold. The little-naked tyke is obviously angry as his feet stomp the ground, his arms flailing, and the look on his face– is absolutely frightful.
Perhaps, Mr. Vigeland was a pre-abstinence guy or just a dude that loathed screaming babies, so much so, he had to permanently immortalize such a hair-raising terror? Regardless of Vigeland’s inspiration, it must be noted The Angry Boy still remains a popular park work.
In recent times, the statue has suffered damage to it’s coated hands due to the constant touching by guests. Additionally, the sculpture has even been a victim of vandals and thieves throughout the years.
The Angry Boy might be a timeless horror craft, but it would not be the only Vigeland work that seeks to immortalize the horribleness of children.
Introducing, one of the most prime “I hate kids” works of all-time:
The Man Kicking the Sh*t out of Babies
This piece offers several intrigues with one of the least enthralling questions being, “Why is the man kicking the shit out of those babies?”
Them little bastards– they know what they did.
As for the sculpture, even the title itself often gets lost in translation. In some instances, one may see the nearly 50-foot tall celebration of man’s power over infants referred to as “Man Chasing Four Geniuses.” Yet, other folks refer to the man-stamp as “Man Attacked by Genii.”
Neither title is actually referencing or implying these tiny-bashed tots are super smart and embarrassed the man by beating him in a spelling bee or anything along those lines.
No, Gustav Vigeland knew, even in the early to mid-1900s, he needed a good cover story. So, the babies allegedly represent four evil entities that are attacking the man. Therefore, the giant gent is left no choice but to kick the living hell out of those unruly demon-infants.
Fans of South Park may recall the game of “kick the baby”– but in Vigeland’s creation, the four babies are all demons, likely comparable to South Park’s baby, Ike, on steroids.
However, the most significant mystery of all– why is the dude not wearing pants? Is it not odd already odd enough to fight children? So, why no pants, Mr. V.?
One man’s precious = another man’s ‘sammich’
Meet Kindlifresserbrunnen which loosely translates to “child eating fountain.”
The magnificent fountain is located in Bern, Switzerland.
The 16th-century statue features an ogre eating a baby while, in the ogre’s sack, several petrified children witness the incident. Today, Mr. NotsoKind… remains an omnipresent fixture of the city of Bern.
However, the ogre figure is so old and nobody, well apparently, bothered to even write down why they initially built the statue– so, today nobody actually knows for sure what the ogre eating children is supposed to mean, represent, nor the true legend behind its creation.
Hence, there are a high number of hypothesizes that attempt to explain the creature’s backstory, but in the end, the meaning is and likely will always remain a legitimate riddle.
In Louisville, Kentucky sits a cemetery known as Cave Hill. The burial ground came to be as a result of the American Civil War era for both fallen Union and Confederate troops. Over the years, the cemetery has become a noteworthy museum-type attraction for those wishing to learn more about the area, Civil War history, or to visit “famous” gravesites.
A list of those buried at Cave Hill includes Muhammad Ali, Colonel Sanders (the KFC icon), and the lady that wrote The Happy Birthday song (the version that nobody can sing on television or movies due to copyright infringement or something, pay up, no free songs, pal). However, a relatively new monument is not technically a condemnation of children, it’s just sorta creepy.
Whatever one’s view may be on child death dedications is a matter of personal taste.
Yet, the story behind ‘Jesus is my Swingset’ is genuinely heartbreaking. Furthermore, unlike many distant legends, the truth behind the creation of this figure is recent.
In the mid-2000s, a little girl rode her tricycle into the family pool and drowned.
Today, the same little girl is immortalized being pushed and watched over by Jesus. The story is true, it just happened, and it is an incredibly sad tale.
The inclusion of this particular monument is not meant as a joke, it is meant to serve as an honest reminder, consider it a Public Service Announcement from TheDR.World–
Even if you don’t necessarily like the little monsters:
Please keep a close eye on your or others’ small children.
Just when ya think there are too many memes in the world, well here…
Have some more, eh?
Out of personal frustration of seeing an infinite number of no-talent assclowns post someone else’s memes and somehow believe themselves pseudo-geniuses, a decision was made. Why not produce my own unique concept– as a means to encourage people a) to recognize their own creative potential and b) to show a distinct difference between the ability to read, identify a funny picture versus being able to actually produce your own?
Ironically, the someone else’s meme imps still receive far more credit than they deserve while the original productions are largely ignored. One must understand, to me, this fact is absolutely hysterical comedic gold. As a neighborly critic, few things are better than being proven right about the given society one critiques.
To wit, the cultural basher, such as myself, still serves a necessary function– to evaluate, analyze, and offer scathing commentary on the plight of the contemporary times.
The only bright side of the internet meme comedian is– well, at least their attention whoredom centers around making others laugh– not like those internet meme political experts, right? Those poor derps, those that pass along, half-truth, easily disproven political ideologies written in a simplified meme format, you know, just because they agree with the words equal the worst. Political memes do not make one a highly knowledgeable legislature-to-be and please, PLEASE, start fact-checking before sharing bullshit, yo’. Thank you. #SadButTrue
End of grievances.
There is a back-story to “Buddy” DR, a script has been completed detailing the whole legend. However, yours truly is trying to figure out and decide what format would best serve to share the tale. If anyone has any ideas or suggestions, please pass them along.
Currently, my self-debate choices are between using an article, a comic, or maybe a video platform, but time will tell. In my biased opininion, the story is well-developed, entertaining, and has potential– hence, there is no reason to rush into a premature release.
Now, ladies and gentlemen, Buddy DR:
*Note, most of Buddy DR’s humor comes from old, commonly told and shared jokes, that have been around forever. A few are original, but most are not. The reason being, in truth– Buddy DR, just like all the other meme comedians, is not a professional humorist, not all that great at making up or writing great jokes, again, that’s the whole point.
Introducing the YOLO Messiah:
A small spoiler from the Buddy DR story, the YOLO Messiah might resemble Shia LaBeouf, but he’s actually, among other things, the world’s #1 Shia LaBeouf impersonator.
She said he was just a friend, she said he was just a friend. But, oh baby, you know– she screwed that dude– that she said was just a friend. #SadButTrue #GetThatSammich
“Not me, I’m different, baby,” said the platinum-tongued he-man vag-slayer-to-be:
***Note, in the beginning, Buddy DR did state, “The last thing I want to do is to hurt you… but it’s on the list.” Well, his “humor” is not always meant as a joke.
Thank you for putting up with such ridiculousness, it was fun.
Please understand, the underlying intent of yours truly, TheDR.World, or Buddy DR is not to enlighten the zombified mind of the collective mass groupthink crowd, life’s too short, and that is not a battle worth fighting. The purpose, what it’s all about is to that one “kid” or “nobody” or even if you’re 85 and still alive with a dream to think different, be different, then as Shia might say, “Just do it!”
Stop listening to the naysayers and be a do-whatever works for you type of human-being.
“Enemies can appear in our lives out of nowhere. A stranger who cuts you off in traffic. A dude who looks at you weird in the men’s room. Or treasured friends who betray you out of jealousy. But when enemies do rise up, they must be dealt with decisively, on animal instinct.
Mortals falter. Kings act.
And the mortal who acts, well, that mother f***er becomes King.”
First, a question: Do you know the worst day of your life?
If so, my condolences and sincere empathy.
To those without a definitive answer, good and be thankful. There is nothing, absolutely nothing worse than the worst day of your life. When or if it happens, you will know– it will shatter every fucking illusion one may have ever held– a broken reality of the highest order.
Want to be the King or Queen of Pain?
Well, now you’re a serious competitor to the throne.
The following will be a short, condensed version of my own welcoming to the “Worst Day of My Life” club. Who knows if that is a real thing… but if it’s not, it probably should be.
Fuck, shit, I really, really, really do not want to write this *@#%&$)!!!!!
A DR TIP:
When in doubt, 1, 2, 3, GO…
The day was 27 September 2009, it was early, for my taste anyway.
For the first time in my life, I agreed to do a friend a solid and meet her girlfriend. In other words, it was going to be a foray into the world of “blind” dating. The only reason I agreed was my friend was cool, and the chick-to-meet looked smart and similar enough to S.E. Cupp (or so I thought) that I said, “Why not?”
Me and S.E. (will call her S.E., even though I don’t think she would mind me using her real name) would agree to meet on the 27th, a Sunday, around 1 PM North Cackalacky time. The date would have been on Saturday, but we both had previous engagements.
S.E. would be going to her dad and his boyfriend’s house to celebrate her birthday; I would be heading to a superior pig roast, keg bash at a buddy’s place. In other words, for my plans, 1PM Sunday would be way too early.
Since the location of the pig-kegger was a solid 30-40 minute drive from yours truly’s pimp apartment, my friends, Mike & Debbie, would host me for the night.
“Hell yeah,” I said accepting their invitation.
Soon, we were all riding together to attend one of our most significant gatherings of the fall (at least top 30). It was a great time, featuring me drinking way too many beers, doing keg stands, and almost fighting– not one but two dudes, before ultimately crashing at my friends’ house.
My friend’s son, the coolest dude ever (miss you, Mikey) would offer to let me stay in his room as he was going to stay with another cool peacock.
A funny side story, I would wake up, shit you not, in Mikey’s room wondering, “Who stole all my stuff and replaced it with new stuff?”
That’s right, yours truly, woke up having forgotten I was not at my own place. This would be followed by me walking through the dark house, sometime between five and six AM, unable to locate the bathroom. Like any life champion, I would allow nothing to stand in the way of getting the job done.
Since I could find the front door, I opened, walked out onto the porch and got my half-drunk pee on. The solution was so delightful, I duplicated the practice a second time– an hour later. The follow up was different, there was no joyous relief. It was a sad, self-condemning moment. Therefore, the obvious choice to drive home was made after such a piss poor effort.
***Note: Not only did I pee off my friends’ front porch, twice, but I would also self-report my violations to my friends. Turns out, right before exiting the front door– boom, there was a bathroom, my bad.
After the long, tedious drive to my casa de grande, it was time for a nap. A few hours later, my sleep would turn to awoken anxiousness.
“Ok, you’re going to meet a girl, not a big deal, bro,” looped in my head to calm the nervousness, the anticipation.
Strangely enough, S.E. would be driving in from the same town I had stayed at the night before, but she was coming to the big world, my town, Asheville, NC. Since it was my town, the location of choice would be a convenient but familiar spot. To provide S.E. comfort, our specific meeting spot was chosen– a parking garage adjacent to my work building. I would arrive early to greet my new surprise “whatever mystery awaits” friend.
As I stood comfortably soaking in a beautiful day, I would receive a text me on the old reliable “flip” phone that S.E. was on her way. No worries, I thought. A short forever while later, my phone would ring.
Ok, without bothering to look at the number, I answered the phone believing it was no big deal, “S.E. must have gotten lost or needs help finding the location,” I thought.
Turns out, my assumption was wrong. Horribly wrong.
The five first words, I still remember verbatim, would change my life forever, they were,
“Jay (my primary childhood nickname), your mom shot herself.”
The call and the words came from my aunt, Sherri. The only thing I could ask was if my mom was going to be ok. Sherri did not know the answer but offered her assurance to keep me updated.
A few minutes, at most, which seemed like an eternity slowly crept by as the feelings inside of me were and still remain indescribable before Sherri called and told me the news. My mom was dead.
Even though there may be no way to describe the emotional disaster raging within, I would not wish that feeling on anyone else, ever– not even upon my worst of worst enemies. Suddenly reality intervened, as my name was being called out from afar.
That’s right, shit you not, no sooner than receiving word that my mother was dead, I get to meet a stranger. Welcome to my world, honey. No matter how much the memory of that day sucks, everything is made worse with the knowledge of S.E. having to walk into such a fucked up situation with a stranger. Here we just met, she, I promise– will never forget me for as long as she lives.
To her credit, she graciously offered to postpone our initial date.
I said, “No. Let’s try to do this.”
So, we did. It was a weird experience, but why wouldn’t it be? I thought about my mom, drank some beer, did some walking, and occasionally would erupt in a vicious tear release– rivaling the most torrential rains of a typhoon. Some six or seven hours later, I would walk S.E. to her car and then give her directions for the opposite way she needed to go. My bad. Needless to say, there would not be much of a future romantic relationship between myself and Ms. S.E.
The tale of DR-S.E. is a story within itself, maybe it shall be told another time, another day. However, I will say it was a sincere pleasure to be there when her mom fought and defeated cancer. In fact, things worked out well enough that while I was doing pre-Afghanistan deployment “stuff,” I was even able to bring her a pizza at her mom’s house– all the way in Charleston, South Click. S.E. was there taking care of her mom post-chemo and I was there doing “pre-Afghanistan deployment ‘stuff.'”
During the nine years that have passed, a lot of change has occurred. But I ended up in a same old familiar spot.
First, S.E. would meet her perfect man, they had a kid, last I heard, her world was perfect. Good for you, girl.
As for me, I went through a bunch of ineffective and frankly, bullshit counseling sessions– until finally finding the “right” fit. Well, actually, I found the right fit, but josh you not, one day at the beginning of our last session… my counselor would tell me she was taking another job, “Buh-bye.” Needless to say, the rest of that meeting was her and I discussing our mutual interests, such as the music and speaking work of Henry Rollins and our fondness of Glenn Danzig, again, I shit you not, that happened. Not too long after, we would even run into each other at a Danzig show.
A bunch of other stuff would happen too, to include (in part):
I would spend a few years in Afghanistan.
I would spend a couple years in St. Paul Island, Alaska
Lots of people I know would die from such tragedies as suicide, murder-suicide, drug overdoses, and cancer.
I would end up drinking to excess every day for years. If not for a 6-week stint, from early November through mid-December at beautiful Fort Dix, New Jersey living in a small ass room with 11 other dudes for “deployment” training– I fully believe, yours truly would be dead. Not being allowed to drink, to live, or to do anything other than to train on such things as:
Escaping vehicle roll-overs.
Searching dudes by grabbing their “dice” and not forgetting to “roll” those dice.
Fighting and beating the shit out of a certain– well, everybody (my favorite was a Captain that damn near ripped my arm off with an armbar, only to learn– you grabbed my right arm, bro– I’m left-handed, to which I effectively used to break his hold and whip his ass).
Got to kick some doors open and kick some more ass, FYI, that lady was tough.
Oh, and I got to shoot all kinds of shit, with not one, but 2 guns– responsibly and respectably.
Spent a gazillion hours riding a bus while enjoying the renditions of beautiful songs with my “ECHO” homies. Whether belting out tunes on the bus, at 6AM or 8PM, we always echoed in unison– for we play for keeps, even while singing You’re So Vain and Don’t Stop Believin’.
Yours truly was blushingly humbled by learning from one or two youngsters of being their “old man” crush, haha.
The best part was meeting fantastic people.
One such person was my goofily hilarious, heart-of-gold just a kid bunkmate. This dude was a trip. He would talk in his sleep, often sounding as if he were reading a book aloud. Despite the endless long hours, he would find time to go run around Dix preparing for a marathon or some shit– rain, snow, dark, it did not matter. That fellow’s name is Carey. 17 September would have been his 30th birthday.
Unfortunately, it seems the most delightful people amongst us end up taken away too soon while the shitty types live forever. Carey would bravely face cancer, but it’s been almost two years since he died. Respect and love, my brother.
Somewhere along the way, I would even find the love of my life. Turns out, I was not the love of her life. God, how I loved and adored that woman– my bad.
In the end, the only thing I’ve learned in the past nine years is– LIFE SUCKS. Not all the time, but more times than not the bad outweighs the good. Please, take the time to cherish the good things in life, don’t make things harder than they need to be. Life does not need assistance in throwing bad things your way, so don’t make things worse for yourself. Stop worrying about anything that will not matter five years from now.
As for me, words can’t describe how much I FUCKING hated writing this, it’s a horrible reminder of the worst day of my life. It never fades, never goes away. Most of the people I know or meet– have no idea. It’s not something I feel comfortable discussing or a need to share. Plus, the stigma survivors face is real.
People think I’m a psycho, a lunatic, or a potential murder-suicide waiting to happen. They are wrong. I am just another fucked up, lost soul– a dime a dozen in– this world. Except I do have a gift, I know the pain suicide inflicts upon the lives of the living. As a result, I made a vow years ago to never want anyone to feel or live with such a burden. That’s why I made a pact to live through everything life throws at me, a vow to keep getting back up and trying my best until the bitter end.
I am not one for living with regrets, it’s a futile exercise of self-annihilation. However, not a day goes by that I don’t regret not finding a way from wherever I was in the world to see my mom. I did not see my mom, not once, during the last eight years of her life. She’s been dead for 9-years now.
I’ve spent more years of my life not having seen my mom. Now, 17-years have passed, I am only one year shy of living without my mom longer than I ever lived with her– that sucks.
Thank you, now a word before a dedication:
Please consider “chucking a buck.” Whatever you donate goes to offset the costs of operating TheDR.World. Currently, there are no profits, the page is running at a loss. Often, the first step is the hardest, we’ll get there– eventually.
This writing is dedicated to all the decent folks lost during the past nine years to include my beautiful friend, Debbie, and her son, the greatest kid ever, Mikey, my homies since childhood– Big E., Chad, the previously mentioned and always a hoot, Carey, Christi with an “I”, and my little sister, Lisa.
A special thank you to Mr. Bryan Behar and his words of encouragement. Having shared his own story, Bryan assured me, with time, I too would share mine. Thank you, Bryan.
Ladies & Gentlemen– Deuce’s BACK! Those that may have missed the welcoming of Deuce Hacksaw can catch up by reading Beware… Life is like a Flower.
Without further interruption, enjoy:
Like a Leech
By Deuce Hacksaw
I know things haven’t been perfect.
Far from it, actually. You remind me of it constantly. Every change you get to rehash the painful past. Like a leech that has had its fill, but stays latched on, for the lack of the warm blood you suck from me might mean that’s the last thing you ever taste. You hit the trough every time you feel low, sucking more of my life’s essence to sustain this sick relationship we have developed. I’ve grown so accustomed to you there. It’s comforting to me to know that I’m just not in this alone.
You have infected me.
Whatever you were carrying, I have it too now. We are in this together, but I can’t help, but feel that I am a means to an end for you. That’s why you put up with my presence here. Maybe when you’ve finally had your fill, with perfect timing, you’ll abandon me in the same pitiful state you found me in. You’ll find something better, something fresher, something that might not even notice your presence. You’ll take the part of me that we created together and leave me with nothing. You’ll move on, floating from host to host, seeking something that might never actually quench your thirst for more. Maybe it’s not even about that for you. Maybe it is the thrill of attaching yourself to others, just to inflict a brief moment of suffering on them.
In the dark, murky swamp that you call your home, the one you thrive in, you’ll someday find someone that will tolerate your presence the way I do. I thought maybe we were really onto something here. Maybe we could make it all the way. I should have known to never trust a leech, but the idea that I was special was more than a tempting offer. I saw the benevolence of your plight over the malevolence. I gave you a chance, wanted you for myself. I should have known that was never part of your agenda.
The previous article, John Wayne: An Iconic A-hole was meant to serve as a set-up to a discussion on a still unresolved mystery. A tale that may come as a surprise– a wonderment stemming from John Wayne’s decision to take on a role that he should have passed. In the mid-1950s, while riding high as a successful movie star, John Wayne would actively seek to star in ‘The Conqueror.’
The film would feature The Duke playing a character based on a real guy, Temujin. The basic plot follows Temujin as he seeks to avenge his father’s death. While he’s at it, he will also try to save his lovely ginger dame love interest. Of course, Temujin kicks ass, seizes the broad, and will be crowned by his more commonly known name, Genghis Khan. That’s right, John Wayne took on the role of the Mongolian legend to create his own full Manchu myth.
Today, ‘The Conqueror’ is still viewed as one of the worst films ever made standing not so proudly with the likes of Glen or Glenda, Plan 9 from Outer Space, Santa Clause Conquers the Martians, and who will ever forget, many folks personal favorite titles– The Incredibly Strange Creatures Who Stopped Living and Became Mixed-Up Zombies (enjoy the trailer… only if you dare).
An Enduring Mystery
If the Howard Hughes based project’s decision to allow a six-foot-four-inch white dude play the lead role as a Mongolian legend was not bad enough, Hughes approval of the location to shoot the film would say, “Hold my beer, buddy. I can topple that bullshit, not a problem, bro.”
Like many movie shoots, when picking a location based on real events– why actually go there? Why not save some time, some money, and make your film in… let’s say, ugh– Utah, specifically St. George, Utah?
Not only did Hughes and Co. decide on St. George as an ideal location to make their movie, Hughes appreciated the authenticity so much, he would also have 60-tons of the most excellent Utah dirt sent back to Hollywood for Wayne and others to play in during any necessary re-shoots. Some might wonder, “What’s the big deal? Are you trying to say– Utah sucks? Yeah, everybody knows that. Ok?”
Yes, although Utah does have some beautiful scenery, anyone that has been through the area can attest that Utah, more or less, ranges from kinda to full fledge suck. However, the problem with choosing St. George, Utah as a location to shoot a movie in 1954– is due to the government nuclear tests conducted– in 1953. That’s right.
The U.S. government conducted a series of bomb testings (eleven to be precise) under the label of Operation Upshot-Knothole. The purpose of these experiments had to include the naturally cool art of blowing shit up, “We got new weapons, ya’ll!” Also as part of this operation would be to analyze the impact of poisonous blasts on the troops. Specifically, these series of shellings aggressively sought to examine the effect of radiation as a means to develop counter-defensive measures against nuclear weapon employment.
Don’t worry, the troops were kept at a “safe” distance and only received slightly elevated radiation exposure. One must remember, for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. What goes up, must come down and vice versa. Thus, when all those bombs were activated– the troops may have been kept at a safe distance… but the release also created a side-effect known as “fall-out.” Therefore, the towns, cities, and people downwind of said tests would be exposed to far more radiation for a considerably extensive period.
St. George, Utah is slightly less than 140 miles from where all these government-curious massive bombings. In other words, the film’s chosen location was a sandy, dry area that had just been exposed with radiation from a heavy fissionable arsenal.
During the 1950s, as a reminder, it was not a big deal for a drunk fellow to slap around his side piece, all because she chose to smoke his last Lucky. Afterward, the classiest drunkard would jump in his seatbeltless car, pick up a pack of smokes and maybe drink a little more before finally heading home, at a way too late how, and entertain torture his sleeping wife and the couples 1.8 children with the high-class styling shenanigans of a mean drunk.
Again, 1950s classy.
Cigarettes, drinking, and driving, without seat belts, were all standard practices– nobody cared about some year-old bombs– and why would they? After all, Hughes and crew did ask the government if the area was safe– the government said, “Yep,” and that was good enough for these 1950s characters– because they still had something known as “trust” in their government.
In 1956, ‘The Conqueror ‘ would see its release not be a box office conqueror. Hughes and others would work to stifle future crowds from obtaining, laughing at the miscast movie, and life went on. It is safe to say, outside of obscure bad movie buffs, little to no attention was paid to The flippity flop Wayne Khan movie.
Of The Conqueror’s 220 cast and crew members from Hollywood, an astonishing 91 have contracted cancer, PEOPLE has ascertained. Forty-six of them, including Wayne, Hayward and Powell, have died of the disease. Another star of the film, Pedro Armendariz, survived cancer of the kidney four years after finishing the movie—but killed himself in 1963 at the age of 51 when he learned that he had terminal cancer of the lymphatic system.
Did filming a movie in a downwind nuclear radiation area really lead to John Wayne and 90 other cast and crew members developing cancer? Was The Duke murdered by a curse of the truest G ever, Genghis Khan?
At this moment in time, nobody can say with high confidence one way or the other.
However, current wisdom holds that Wayne and crew’s various types of cancer were not likely due to their film shoot. Yet, there is still a relevant and credible debate as to the impact the fallout may have had on past and present inhabitants of St. George, Utah.
The moral of this tale is straightforward– in hindsight, humanity is not as smart or knowledgeable as they may wish to believe. The world has always been, currently is, and will likely always have questions and mysteries that are not answerable by then-day modern smart people also known as “experts.” As a solid word of advice, be wary of the impact unknown technology may have when mixed or introduced into your surroundings. Also, it should be noted, regardless of the circumstances– one should probably try to avoid overexposure to radiation and chemical fall-out.
PS, the purpose of this writing was also to set up another, but the next up will be a bit more of a creative surprise.
Until the next time, oh, there will be a next time, Buddy DR reminds all:
Greetings. Thank you for taking a break from posting selfies, watching Brazzers, playing the “new” WoW, sending unsolicited pics (probably of a dong) or whatever else it is ya do on what must indeed be a busy day.
Once upon a time, although the following actually happened, well, some of it happened.
Let’s start at the beginning.
The star of our journey will be a fellow by the name of Marion Mitchell Morrison, but most know the man as the one and only John Wayne aka “The Duke.”
To many, the legend of The Duke represents the never say die, tough guy, kick-ass American spirit. To numerous others, Wayne embodies a chain-smoking, abusive womanizing drunk, with a propensity to promote his racist and, generally, hateful ideological worldview. Obviously, such a polarizing figure like Mr. John Wayne would allow for hours of highly enthusiastic emotional “debates.”
In 1964, Wayne was diagnosed with lung cancer, which would result in having his left lung removed. During this battle, The Duke would coin the phrase “the Big C” to describe his nemesis. After John Wayne defeated cancer, he would go on to win his first, and only, Academy Award as “Best Actor” in his 1969 “True Grit” performance.
A few years later, in 1971, John Wayne would give an interview that is still widely discussed today. In fact, there are memes, currently in circulation, based on the 1971 Wayne-Playboy magazine article.
A few highlights include:
PLAYBOY: What kind of films do you consider perverted?
WAYNE: Oh, Easy Rider, Midnight Cowboy—that kind of thing. Wouldn’t you say that
the wonderful love of those two men in Midnight Cowboy, a story about two fags,
qualifies? But don’t get me wrong. As far as a man and a woman is concerned, I’m
awfully happy there’s a thing called sex. It’s an extra something God gave us. I see no
reason why it shouldn’t be in pictures. Healthy, lusty sex is wonderful.
PLAYBOY: Angela Davis claims that those who would revoke her teaching credentials on ideological grounds are actually discriminating against her because she’s black. Do you think there’s any truth in that?
WAYNE: With a lot of blacks, there’s quite a bit of resentment along with their dissent, and possibly rightfully so. But we can’t all of a sudden get down on our knees and turn everything over to the leadership of the blacks. I believe in white supremacy until the blacks are educated to a point of responsibility. I don’t believe in giving authority and positions of leadership and judgment to irresponsible people.
Part of the interview would consist of Wayne boasting on having been kind enough to have “had a black slave in The Alamo” and “had a correct number of blacks in The
One more example, from the same interview, of the real John Wayne:
PLAYBOY: That’s hardly the point, but let’s change the subject. For years American
Indians have played an important—if subordinate—role in your Westerns. Do you feel any empathy with them?
WAYNE: I don’t feel we did wrong in taking this great country away from them, if that’s what you’re asking. Our so-called stealing of this country from them was just a matter of survival. There were great numbers of people who needed new land, and the Indians were selfishly trying to keep it for themselves.
Although Wayne’s views can be interpreted in multiple ways, the easiest narrative would be, “John Wayne was a racist, homophobic asshole.”
Nothing in life is simple, right?
Yet, a popular legend holds, Russia’s leader, Joseph Stalin ordered the KGB to snuff out the fiercely anti-communist, John Wayne. After Stalin’s death, Nikita Khrushchev would personally apologize to Wayne and provide his assurance the assassination order was no longer valid. To add a whole new level of “WTF” to the story, it has been claimed, John Wayne even managed to kidnap his would-be assassins.
Undoubtedly, John Wayne is a complicated American “Icon.”
Separating the truth from fiction seems impossible. For every one good Wayne account, there is an offsetting horrible tale. On one hand, his long career resulted in films and characters people still love, yet, the real guy behind such treasures was likely a genuine, authentic asshole (enjoy a point-counterpoint by a John Wayne defender, it’s interesting).
Was John Wayne an American Icon or just another famous jerk?
The answer is and will likely always remain in the eye of the beholder.
The underlying truth, John Wayne, similar to America itself, is complicated and polarizing. The main thing to remember about John Wayne– he was not a real person. John Wayne was a character, a Hollywood creation, a mere illusion.
Marion Morrison had never been fond of his feminine-sounding name. He was often given a hard time about it growing up, so to combat that, he gave himself a nickname: Duke. It was his dog’s name. Morrison was so fond of his family’s Airedale Terrier when he was younger that the family took to calling the dog “Big Duke” and Marion “Little Duke,” which he quite liked. But when he was starting his Hollywood career, movie execs decided that “Duke Morrison” sounded like a stuntman, not a leading man. The head of Fox Studios was a fan of Revolutionary War General Anthony Wayne, so Morrison’s new surname was quickly settled. After testing out various first names for compatibility, the group decided that “John” had a nice symmetry to it, and so John Wayne was born. Still, the man himself always preferred his original nickname. “The guy you see on the screen isn’t really me,” he once said. “I’m Duke Morrison, and I never was and never will be a film personality like John Wayne.”
The moral of the tale is two-fold.
First, those that desire to keep enjoying John Wayne flicks– do so to your heart’s content, it is ok. But, please keep in mind point #2: John Wayne was not a real person. Thus, to each and every would-be, wannabe toughie– you are not and will never be John Wayne. So, get past the hard-ass persona, the manly man that must always be a man aka the John Wayne Syndrome (there are many definitions but yours truly went with the one found in a 1991 New York Times article).
If one really examines the case of Marion Morrison from afar, it is plausible, if not a certainty, that a young man finding himself typecast as a tough, all-American hero may have never discovered or maybe was never allowed to be his “true” self. For Morrison, there may have never been a chance to step away from the overwhelming shadow of a beloved icon. Perhaps, everything the world “knows” or believe we know about the real John Wayne was an act from a man trying to stay true and to never break his character.
The John Wayne Syndrome may have dominated the life of Marion Morrison– but don’t let it dominate your life. It’s ok to cry, it’s ok to be scared, it is ok to be a real human being, that shows emotions, will ask for help, and will “talk things out” instead of threatening or harming others as a means to conflict resolution.
In truth, only the people that knew Mr. Marion Morrison (if anyone truly did) are the ones that might be able to determine myth from reality. The rest of us are left with a character that adequately depicts the America he lived in, for better or worse.
A positive summation wishes to remind all to stop being judgmental, think outside of what you might know, admit to what you don’t know– maybe others will be easier to understand– and even become more human, less monsterish than they might seem.
Finally, a shout out from TheDR.World to the artistic young people that yours truly discovered and watched their twice ‘liked’ video from 2014 (now, make it three likes– WOO WOO!) on Youtube.com, titled John Wayne Syndrome.
In September 2016, yours truly produced one of my first “art” works. To gain more “culture,” I would utilize an elective to enroll in an art appreciation class. My artistic expressions would begin not due to some “great” vision or calling, but via a mandatory assignment.
The assignment called for submitting a “collage” and explain the significance of the work. After looking over way too many choices, none really stood out as offering anything worth my attempt to describe or explain.
Thus, like any ambitious being, the obvious answer to my dilemma was a decision to compose and submit my own photomontage.
The following was my presented creation, Money Killed the Nihilistic Dream:
Money Killed the Nihilistic Dream
What Money Killed… may lack in aesthetic pleasure, in my biased opinion, it makes up for with snarky criticism.
The work intends to highlight a chaotic “pure” white world, a land in which everything has been subject to money’s corruption, especially religion.
During my presentation, my classmates were mostly disinterested– all, except two. The first peer observation would point out the oversaturation of white coloring. Even though white did seem relevant to the overall theme, the criticism was a fair and valid point.
As for the second criticism, a lady took issue with my offering based on her religious beliefs. However, she would attempt to label my work as plagiarism, adding that I had no right to use the imagery of others out of proper context.
YES! An artist was born. The only thing better than receiving praise for producing high-quality material is to feel the legitimate anger rolling out of another– based on nothing more than one’s own creation. After all, instead of the usual indifference, at least ya made ’em care.
Yet, there was no way in hell that uptight lady was going to best me without a fight. Thus, the only reasonable response would be to look up the use of imagery in one’s own collage. Indeed, a written response for the whole class to read would play an essential role in “winning” the debate.
My posted response:
After conducting thorough research, a collage is not considered plagiarism if the imagery is used in a transformative way and is not for commercial use. Most works of art do not follow under commercial use even if the art is being sold. The main difference between using a picture in a collage vs. plagiarism is that plagiarism is the attempt to pass something someone else created as your own.
Unless a collage relied solely on one work then it would qualify as “fair use” and be alright to use in the time-honored art of collage. Transformative works generally follow under “fair use” because there is not malice nor an attempt to “steal” a work as your own but instead incorporating the work as a form of inspiration to create a different work.
As for the feelings of the original artist, you would have to ask them. Personally, the artistic people I know encourage creativity.
The debate was over.
Based on that lady’s outrage, as time passed more designs were undoubtedly to follow. Since the initial late 2016 offering, the quality of my artistic treasures has improved dramatically (or so I wish to believe). Therefore, upon recent reflection of Money Killed… an idea popped into my mind, “Why not re-visit the collage that started it all and see what comes out bro?”
So, I did just that, but there was one rule– all the pictures used to produce the first Money Killed… had to be incorporated into the updated version.
Ladies and Gentlemen, please enjoy, Money Killed the Nihilistic Dream: A Revisit:
PS, please submit any constructive feedback, or in exceptional cases, ya can insult me– but only if it is elite level troll-dom.
As a final gift, introducing Buddy DR:
Be advised, there are already numerous funny Buddy DR designs ready to launch upon the unsuspecting world. Unfortunately, this introductory picture stems from a deep and dark emotional place.
To sum up the inspiration behind the work, I shall share my innermost real and genuine feelings:
Nothing compares to the hollow echo of “you might as well not exist, buddy” silence. Within the imagination, the resulting anxiety must compare favorably to the intense internal thumping, thump, thump, thump, of visualizing the self about to collect multiple punctures of a knife. Unquestionably, not just any knife will do. The fancying mind envisions a sword of destruction that features a half-sharp, half-dull edge meant to pierce & twist the unfortunate’s guts. These varieties of wounds inflict enough pain but also assure the bleeding out process is a measured, slow, steady drip that shall last an eternity.