Barry Cooper – The Birth of ‘Berta Man

Note: This is a response to the editorial written by Barry Cooper. You can find the article in question here.

http://calgaryherald.com/opinion/columnists/cooper-british-columbia-shows-us-what-happens-when-we-go-to-pot

Barry F. Cooper stood in front of the service desk, grinding his teeth. He could barely control his rage at what he was hearing.

“What do you mean, there isn’t a mechanic in on Sundays? It’s a day, isn’t it?”

The BC service person nervous glanced left to right, sweat now appearing on his brow. It was obvious this little miscreant was high. The precipitation on his forehead, the shifty eyes. Barry shook his head. Typical lazy BC people. Barry couldn’t fathom someone taking a day off unless, of course, it was mandated by the ridiculous liberal government at the helm of the nation.

“I’m terribly sorry sir, but we don’t have a mechanic here at the tire shop on Sundays. The soonest we can have someone look at your vehicle is tomorrow morning, but I can assure you it will…” Barry waved his hand to silence the stoned moron.

“You will have it in the shop first thing in the morning, correct?”

Even though he was obviously blitzed out of his mind, the young BC man nodded in agreement. Barry could only hope that he had understood his very specific instructions. Walking to the door, the tropical BC mugginess caught him off guard. He chuckled to himself. How on Earth could anyone believe in global climate change when it was so warm in BC all the time? He was glad he was a member and contributor of ‘Friends of Science’.

He spent time here, as a child, but BC had become a foreign nation in the recent decades. BC was once beautiful, but years of Liberal and NDP government leadership has left the province in tatters. There’s only two things propping up the province; The hard and well-earned dollars of his fellow Albertans visiting the province, and the illicit drug trade of marijuana.

Why would anyone want to pollute their minds and bodies with that filthy weed was beyond Barry, who pulled out a flask of whiskey to steady his nerves. He still couldn’t take the taste of the overcooked BC steak he had last night out of his mouth. His daughter had invited him out for dinner a famous BC steak house known as IHOP, and was disappointed his meat was overdone when he clearly asked for rare. Everyone in this province seemed to be high.

At first, Barry felt pity for BC. Even though British Columbia was basically a nation-state unto itself, these people were still his country men. Pity swiftly turned to anger. The communist traitors of the Liberal party were hell bent on legalizing the devil’s lettuce. Should this foul plant be let loose on the rest of the nation, Barry may not have any country men left. What would the Liberal government legalize next? Heroin? Paint fumes? Bestiality?

It was madness to sit idly by and watch the nation self-destruct. There was only so much he, Barry F. Cooper, could do as a political science genius professor from the esteemed University of Calgary. No, this would take drastic action.

Barry rushed back into the garage where his car was being held captive. He strode up to the service desk. “I demand that you release my vehicle back into my possession, young man. I have to return back to my home province of Alberta post haste!” The BC service man, still gazooed on opiates or uppers or whatever, seemed to sober up immediately once he heard Barry’s authoritative Albertan voice. He handed back the keys to Barry. “Even though the light in the glove box is not functioning, I have to return home. Don’t worry, young man, I will find a way to break the chains of your addiction!”

With those words uttered, Barry whisked himself back to Calgary from Vancouver at record speed, making sure to never slow the vehicle down below at least 120 km/hr. Back at home, he went straight to his workshop to begin preparations on his revolutionary idea that could bring back a province from the depths of hell, and steer the nation away from Satan’s salad.

He needs a set of armor. Steel toed boots, some welders gloves, and a hard hat should do the trick. He needs a weapon. His weapon needed to represent the highest order of capitalism, so he fills a sock full of quarters. Now all he needed was a name…

Looking in the mirror, he saw a working class hero, someone willing to step up to the plate for the little guys in oil and gas, the underdogs at the police force, and the silent middle-aged white men who’ve lost their voice in the culture wars against social justice warriors. He didn’t need to choose a name, the name chose him.

Barry F. Cooper was ‘Berta Man.

Sincerely,

The Illustrious Mr. Charlton

p.s. Seriously, Barry, you took a pretty sharp turn there going from marijuana to fentanyl. I suggest you lay off the sauce.

 

Who Would go to WestWorld?

SPOILER ALERT. IF YOU HAVEN’T SEEN THE NEW HBO SERIES ‘WESTWORLD’, UNDERSTAND I’M GOING TO BE TALKING ABOUT IT. I MEAN, THAT SHOULD BE PRETTY CLEAR FROM THE TITLE.

Westworld is a new series on HBO. The intellectual property, on the other hand, is a couple decades old. Westworld was originally a movie written and directed by the late Michael Crichton, and it premiered in 1973. In the movie, Westworld is one of three amusements parks that sits alongside Medieval world and Roman world in the near future of 1983. Tourists pay the astronomical price of one thousand dollars to spend a day in the park. The parks are filled with androids, and you can indulge in sexual encounters or a fight to the death. The androids are programmed to be incapable of violence against the tourists. Until, of course, something goes wrong. A computer virus begins to affect the androids, who are now able to maim and kill people.

HBOs series follows roughly the same plot, except there’s a lot more focus on the engineers building and maintaining the world. There’s only Westworld here, and again, the price of admission makes the park available to only the incredibly wealthy. There’s a pretty drastic change in tone, though. Michael Crichton’s Westworld was an amusement park. It was a place where you’d sleep with an android, get into a fake bar room brawl, drink a pile of whisky, and get into a shootout with the park’s antagonist, ‘The Gunslinger’ played by Yul Brynner. The HBO’s version is a lot… darker.

I like dark. I’m a huge fan of black humour. But Westworld in 2066, where the show takes place, doesn’t really seem like an amusement park. First off, the androids are made from flesh and bones. They bleed. They feel pain. And tourists can do whatever they please to these more-human-than-machine androids. Always wanted to scalp a person? Knock yourself out. Want to mow down a large swath of people? We’ve got a storyline just for you. Feel like killing children? Come to Westworld to experience the realest child killing you can do without actually killing a child. It seems more like a place where sociopaths go to live out their wildest desire. At the same time, as monstrous as some of the tourists seem to be, if Westworld was real, it would probably play out more similarly to the online games we have today.

The problem isn’t Westworld. It’s the fact that I can’t rent out the place, by myself, and have an adventure, by myself. This is how I would imagine the scenarios would actually be played out.

Scenario #1: The mysterious Salesperson at the Tack and Trade.

I’ve just gotten to Westworld. I’m wearing a sleek duster, and some killer cowboy boots. My hat is on point. I’m getting a horse at the Tack and Trade, the local store. A burly man with a mean mustache is running the joint. We start to talk, shooting the breeze. He takes me outside and shows me my new horse. It’s a majestic white stallion. We go back inside to square up. He leans over the counter and begins to tell me a story, a story of buried treasure and a map he has in his possession.  I’m intrigued, the plot thickens. All of sudden, another tourist starts shooting. He’s not shooting any of the people, mind you. He’s shooting the horses. He shoots my horse. I go outside, to find my beautiful animal full of holes. The perpetrator, dressed in green neon leather chaps and a pink fuzzy cowboy hat, looks me right in the eyes, and proceeds to teabag the dead horse. He screams “***BLAZE420*** representing 2Short Clan!” He then flips me off and walks away. I have lost the immersion.

Scenario #2: My Hired Gun.

I’ve gone to the next town over, walking there because all the horses in the previous town were shot. On the way over, I met a strange man. He is out in the desert, dying of thirst. I give him a long pull from my canteen. He’s grateful, saying he was left out to die here. I tell him I’m headed to the town close by, but I’m new to these parts and could use a guide. He says hell to that, he won’t be my guide, but my bodyguard. I’ve given him his life back, and now he has a life debt to pay to me. We start walking to the town, only to have a man on a horse chase us down. His horse is silver and has rockets on the side. He screams “They said you’d be dying in the desert!” He hops off his horse, and begins walking toward my new companion. This new threat is not very tall. Instead of running, my bodyguard pulls down his pants, turns around and presents himself to this new man. They proceed to copulate, with the small man screaming “How do you like this, Brian Treverson? How does it feel to be fucked by the great Anthony Sung?”. My bodyguard continues to thank Anthony repeatedly. It’s only later that I find out billionaire Tony Sung paid extra for the privilege of having an android modeled after a bully he dealt with in college.  That android just happened to be the one I rescued. I have lost the immersion.

Scenario #3: The Beautiful Bar Room Stranger.

I make it to town. I decide a stiff drink is in order, so I head to the saloon. Piano music plays a ragtime ditty, and I stand at the bar. A coin is slapped on the bar, and soon I’ve procured a bottle of whiskey. I pour myself a drink, when a lovely young thing saunters up to me. “Mind if I have a taste, Mr…” I once again nod at the bartender, and he brings another glass. “Mr. Charlton,” I say. “The Illustrious Mr. Charlton”. We both take a sip. Her eyes dart around the room. “Mr. Charlton, we’ve found you at last. I’m a United States Marshal, and we’re in desperate need of men like…” she’s interrupted by an incredibly intoxicated man who bursts into the saloon. He belches uncontrollably. He gets up on top of a card table and exclaims to the bar “I’ve been eating nothing but HoHos and packaged noodles for three weeks. Let me show you my collection.” He then drops his drawers and defecates all over the card table. “No Rules!” he says in a singsong voice “NOOOOOO RUUUUULLLLES.” He’s not an android, and the stench is real. I begin to vomit, the smell is too much. I have lost the immersion.

When I first started watching Westworld, I couldn’t imagine what kind of person would go there. When I thought about it for a minute, I realized exactly what kind of person would go there, and that group is not being represented in the show. To anyone with the vision of a future theme park with no rules, just remember one thing; People will take you up on that, and they might start breaking the rules in ways you never imagined.

Sincerely,

The Illustrious Mr. Charlton

p.s. Tell me, Anthony Hopkins. You’ve built an incredible world, but how would you keep the trolls out?

p.s.s. You remember Martin Shkreli? Tell me he wouldn’t spend a week in Westworld ruining everyone else’s time.

Send in the Clowns

Clowns. They’ve been popping up in the media a lot more frequently than they used to. Clowns worldwide have been scaring the shit out of regular, honest folks. This new, viral, phenomena has taken the internet by storm, with people getting together, dressing up as creepy clowns, and trying to frighten others for the lulz. To give you an idea of exactly how bad the clown problem has gotten, there’s a Wikipedia page dedicated to clown sightings for 2016. Hundreds of clowns have been sighted over the world, most notably in North America. Clowns are now being banned from schools, from workplaces, and even entire communities. When did clowns become such a menacing part of our culture? Was it the Joker, from the new Batman films? Was it Stephen King’s IT? Or maybe it’s the fact a clown is currently running for president of the United States?

trump-ugh

Scariest Clown sighting of the year

Here’s the kicker, people. I don’t actually remember a time when clowns were popular. I’ve never heard of a clown actually doing a birthday party, except in movies from the 80’s. I’ve seen clowns at the circus, but the circus is something I’ve only been to a handful of times in my life. I’ve never sought out clowns. I’ve never said to myself, “You know what, Mr. Charlton? This day needs more clowns”. In fact, the only time I can remember using the word clown is when I derisively call someone a clown.

I did some research. When I say research, what I mean is I typed ‘when was the last time clowns were funny’ into a search engine. And what I found will shock you.

Clowns have never been funny.

There’s a bizarre notion people before our time weren’t funny. I never really imagined the Romans sitting around, laughing their asses off because Julius made a snide remark to Anthony regarding his footwear, but sarcasm has been around for a while. There were also clowns, but looking through the lens of time shows us clowns were performers showcasing demon tricksters. Clowns showed both the light and dark side of humanity through pranks. What I’ve learned is clowns have been jesters, fools, and pranksters.

You ever met someone who’s a “prankster”? They’re assholes.

“It was just a prank, brah” is the calling card of these jester jerkoffs. Youtube is filled to the brim of dickheads who have confused sadism and masochism with humour. That’s what these clowns are about. The point I’m trying to make is this; clowns are greasy performers, not funny people. We used to laugh at them because they’re terrible human beings, not because they’re comedians.

Why have these clowns started popping up? We stopped laughing at them cruelly, which is the only way to laugh at clowns to keep them at bay. We’ve ignored them for too long. Clowns were ridiculed for years, derided and called out for their foolishness. This was the natural order of things. It was the way to drive the demon spirits away. In our age of extreme tolerance, we’ve forgotten that if there is one group of people who should be laughed at, it’s clowns. We, unfortunately as a society, collectively decided to take clowns seriously. We said “Maybe clowns aren’t so bad, maybe we shouldn’t be spraying them with water, hitting them with pies, or forcing them to pile in clown cars. Clowns deserve every opportunity the rest of us do.” And that’s led us down the dark path we’ve taken. A prominent clown is running for president. The media surrounding him is now a circus.

We’ve stopped laughing at clowns. I guarantee if this clown gets into office, then no one will be laughing for at least the next four years. What can you do, dear reader? If someone is acting like a clown, then make fun of them. They’re the necessary punching bag we need. Clowns serve a very important function in society, and that’s to provide the rest of us an outlet to express our rage and disgust. It allows the rest of us to get along. To not just tolerate out differences, but to celebrate them. Because is some clown is going to spray his face orange and turn democracy into a crazy fun house, then maybe they deserve to be taken down a peg.

 Sincerely,

The Illustrious Mr. Charlton

p.s. This is going to be the last long form post I’ll be doing for the next month. November is NaNoWriMo, and every damn word needs to count! I’ll still be posting, but it’ll be more of a diary about trying to squeeze out a novel in thirty days.

 

Mr. Charlton – Fake Canadian

Free pancakes. When you’re an adult, free pancakes is something you can probably skip. If they are giving away anything, it usually isn’t very good, and pancakes are no exception. People typically get a couple of hot cakes, and the choice of either two strips of bacon or some sausage links. Free pancakes is usually some sort of ploy to try and sell you something, with a business card stapled to the bottom of your plate. Someone high up in the company figures that with some pancake batter and a table set up in front of their shop they can convince you to buy a new furnace. It’s not a terrible marketing ploy, but it’s hard to choke down lousy pancakes while someone rants to you about how much heat this particular model spits out. Not when you’re a kid though.

When you’re a kid, damn, free pancakes! They’re free! You’re telling me someone is giving away free pancakes, and sausages? Are they some sort of millionaire? You bet I want free pancakes! Oh man, I can put as much syrup as I want on these pancakes? Yeah, I’ll take ALL the syrup! All of it. Put all the syrup on the pancakes. I get bacon too? Get out of town. I’m calling baloney. For real though? AND sausages? Today is the greatest day in my life.

Abby's_favourite_food_2013-11-09_02-50.jpg

It was not hard to please 9-year Mr. Charlton.¹

And that’s the first Canada day that I can remember. There was free pancakes at Kinsmen park, which was often referred to Stoners Park, because that’s were a lot of teenagers hung out. It was Canada’s 125th birthday, and I think that’s part of the reason it stuck out in my brain. They were serving pancakes, and I remember Larry was there. He was a friend of my father’s, and he would eventually become a friend of mine when I got older. That was the first Canada I remember. I can barely remember who the first prime minister was, I struggle to piece together memories of social studies in regards to the creation of this great nation, but for some reason, that pancake breakfast is burned into my brain.

See, even though I love this country and honestly would never want to live anywhere else, I still have some trouble identifying as a Canadian. Whereas  my friends and family seem to latch on to being Canadian and celebrate Canada day, I tend to struggle and try to spend most of Canada inside. The reason is there isn’t anything I particularly enjoy that is part of  Canadian culture.

Right off the bat, I don’t watch hockey, or any sport really for that matter. I couldn’t tell you who won the Stanley cup this year (I think it was Pittsburg?) and I have more fingers than the amount of hockey games I’ve sat down and watched. With so much of Canadian identity being wrapped up in a game I have no interest in, it’s hard to relate with other people about it. Let me be a little more clear…. Ahem…

Hockey sucks. I’d rather slam my hands repeatedly in a car door than watch grown ass men skate around a rink like they were doing something important.

Did I mention I’m kind of an jerk? Yeah, that’s the other part of Canadiana I don’t particularly subscribe to. In fact, I have been given the title of honorary French person by someone who is actually from France. If you happen to think I’m a nice person, then I’ve been shielding you from the bulk of my personality. To clarify, I’m not a bad person. I don’t kick puppies or steal children’s candy, but damnit if it doesn’t drive me a little nuts to have everyone be so nice all the time. If a meal sucks, then you have every right to talk about how shitty your meal is.

Speaking of meals, what exactly about Canadian food do we have to get excited over? I’m not saying there isn’t some tasty restaurants whipping up some tasty things, but there isn’t anything specifically Canadian about them. You know what our national dishes are? Poutine and Kraft dinner. One of them is French fries covered in cheese curds and gravy, and the other is macaroni from a box. That’s our culinary contributions to the world. A side dish from Quebec and the misappropriation of Canadian identity to a box of disappointment.

Speaking about a misappropriation of Canadian identity, how about Tim Hortons? A big ol’ cup of Timmy’s coffee to get you going in the morning? The only way I’m going to consume Tim Hortons coffee is if it’s a forced coffee enema. I honestly can’t fathom why people enjoy that swill. But Tim Horton’s loyalty in Canada is unreal and it’s absolutely weird to see people shower love to a corporation that isn’t even Canadian anymore.

Canada-Day.jpg

This awesome image? Done by an American.²

Look, I love this country and am never going to call anywhere else home. But damnit, we’re better than having our cultural identity wrapped up in a sport, a bunch of lousy food, and being overly nice to people. Because I swear, if I’m overseas on Canada day and someone offers me a Molson Canadian, I’m going to pour that garbage into the toilet. And then I’m going to demand pancakes, because that’s just as Canadian as a beer company that was bought out by Coors.

Sincerely,

The Illustrious Mr. Charlton

p.s. Yeah, that post took a turn, didn’t it? I’d be less dickish if being Canadian didn’t mean being a corporate lapdog.

p.s.s. If you have some better ideas of Canadian culture, send ’em my way.

¹ Image taken from Wiki Images.

² Image taken from http://jessicaborutski.blogspot.ca/

The Kingdom, the Trump, and the Footy

The fallout from the exiting of the United Kingdom from the European Union is still being felt across the globe. Investors are still scrambling, with many investors, banks, and insurers trying their damndest to get off of the ship. Trump landed in Scotland and in his usual deafness to the current state of affairs tweeted congratulations to the country for the Brexit vote, even though the majority of the Scottish people voted to stay.

Trump-tweet-001

The man is pure satire fodder

No games is right Mr. Trump. Not only did Britain fail the UK in the Brexit vote and is now leaving the EU, but they also lost the football match against Iceland and have to leave Euro 2016. Just like David Cameron decided it was time to step down as the Prime Minister of the country, manager Roy Hogdson of the British team called it quits and stepped down after their humiliating defeat. They say time flows like a river, but this is history repeating itself so quickly it might as well be the tail end of a catheter stuck in the mouth.

There is a growing rise of dissatisfaction in the western world at the moment, in both the United States and the United Kingdom, with striking parallels. Both countries are unhappy with the status quo, and they want change, real drastic change. For the UK, they were sending £350 million to the European Union every week. Every week! Those are pounds, people. This isn’t the colorful fun money we have here in Canadiana. The Leave campaign promised that £350 million would go back into the National Health Services. They even advertised it on buses.

Leave-bus-NHS

It was on the side of a bus, so that means it has to be true

They voted to leave. Great, I am now on board. We’ve got another 350 million kilograms of sweet cheddar to grease the mighty wheels of public health services. Right? What do you mean, you can’t actually do that and that you never made that claim? You had it on buses and it was all over your website. Why did you wipe almost all of your website clean of the promises you made?

Real talk for a second. The people in charge of the Brexit movement, guys like Nigel Farage and Boris Johnson, have flat out lied to the British public. Not did the movement lie about what they were going to do with the money, they also didn’t mention all the money the UK got in return. I’m not talking about money that would trickle back in through the economic boon of open borders with the rest of the EU. I’m talking about cold hard cash they got back as a rebate. They manipulated numbers to scare people into voting to leave.

At least they had the decency to manipulate the numbers that existed, because when you compare this to Trump, he’s pulling numbers out of thin air like a magician who pulls cards out of his ass. There is simply no feasible way Trump can actually accomplish any of the tasks that he’s proposing. Great Wall of America? Not feasible. Banning Muslims from the US? Again, not even remotely feasible. Making America great again? Unless Trump decides to tax everyone like they did during the 1960’s, which strangely enough coincided with the highest economic growth decade in the last century, then you’re going to be getting more of the same not feasibleness.

I understand why people are angry and upset. I can fully appreciate it. The numbers don’t lie though. Economic prosperity is always correlated with high taxes on the rich. If you didn’t bother to click on any of the links that I provided, I’ll just flat out tell you; In the 1960’s, when the US truly became the juggernaut powerhouse it is, the income tax on the wealthy was at roughly 90%. The US didn’t crumble, investors didn’t leave, and the four horsemen of the Apocalypse didn’t come riding in to start the rapture. Instead, medical breakthroughs exploded, the US became the cultural hub of the world, and they even had time to stick a man on the moon.

Maybe you’re worried high taxes will affect you. Maybe you’re concerned people won’t work as hard if they have access to services. To be frank, if you’re reading this, you are not in that category, and you will never will be. You do not have hundreds of millions of assets strewn across the globe. You do not own a mega yacht with two helipads. But if you’re reading this and you happen to have a matching Ferrari for every outfit you own, maybe it’s time you started paying your fair share, because the roads you’re driving on were paid with taxes, and right now, they’re crumbling.

Sincerely, the Illustrious Mr. Charlton

p.s. Yes, I’m flat out stating that taxes are a good thing. It’s why we have public schools and hospitals and running water.

p.s.s. New logo! Thanks to the wonderful K.A.

¹ Image taken from Donald Trump’s Twitter feed.

² Image taken from leftfootforward.org

Meta Post – Milestone of a Thousand Pair of Eyes

So, I’ve been posting on this webzone for a little over a month now, and so far, things are going pretty hunky dory. With over forty posts, I’ve managed to get over a thousand views. To average it out, I’m batting about twenty-five views per post. That’s not bad, considering I’m not advertising it anywhere except Facebook and Twitter, and it’s not like I’m more popular online than I am offline.

All the major players on the blogging scene have a bunch of metrics and statistics that allow you to gauge how popular your blog is. I know the most popular day of my blog is Monday, for some odd reason. Also, it seems night owls enjoy my blog, as it’s usually being read at 3:00 am. I’m getting hits from all over the world; Japan, China, Germany, Malaysia, Peru, Australia, Austria and the UK have all been reading my stupid blog. Awesome!

I can tell exactly how many people have viewed each blog, I can determine where the clicks are coming from, whether it’s from Facebook, Twitter, WordPress, or when someone actually comes to my site to check it out directly. I can tag every post with buzzwords that might be trending, and then see what words are more popular than others. Not only that, but I get achievements every time I hit a milestone. The more I write, the more achievements I can earn.

As much as I love to crunch numbers and do data analysis, it can certainly make a guy question himself. It’s also worth mentioning that I’m not sure if the numbers are lining up. The first post I wrote was about Fort McMurray, and it was my most popular, according to the day I posted it. You see, the day I posted it, my site had 89 views in total. Almost a hundred! But when I check the Fort McMurray post, it’s calculated 15 views in total. That a difference of 74 views.

“Who cares, Mr. Charlton? Where’s your I-don’t-give-a-shit attitude? Where’s the laisser c’est faire spirit ? You haven’t given a flying fuck until now, what gives? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH MR. CHARLTON???”

I’m not sure you were reading what I wrote above. They’re pooling raw data into my feed. I’m crunching numbers and tweaking code to try and improve the outcome. I’m learning garbage I never wanted to learn, like marketing and hashtag distributions. I’m reading how to game a system that everyone is gaming. Don’t you people get it? They’ve gamified writing!

They’re gamifying everything these days. Want to learn a new language? Level up with Duolingo, the free app for both IOS and Android. Feel like programming the next hot application? Try out Codecademy, and test your skills in a real-time environment. Are you such a dork that you will sit down and do math problems? Make that inner dork shine even brighter with Khan Academy, which hands out badges for learning calculus.

Those insidious bastards. It wasn’t enough to just write a blog, you had to put up a damn score. You know what this means? I’m not sure if you’ve ever sat down and played a video game with me. I’m not talking about something fluffy like Halo or Borderlands, where you run around and hang out and talk to each other, and share inventory, and have a grand ol’ time. I’m talking about the hardcore realm, like Ikaruga or Super Meat Boy or I Wanna be the Guy or Geometry Wars. I’m talking about gaming that’s meant to break people.

 fruitThose cherries will ruin your day

Now I’m writing like there’s a damn high score to achieve. That’s not good. Soon you’ll find me, hunched over a computer keyboard, fingers stained orange from Cheeze Pleazers. I’ll be up until four in the morning, writing about something stupid like potatoes or Pokémon. And you know what, it’s going to sneak up on me. I’m not going to notice this until it’s too late.

Sincerely,

The Illustrious Mr. Charlton

p.s. Took a week off last week to reflect on myself and all that jazz. I’d like to think of myself as a robot that can crank out words like an old school IBM, but I needed some me time. Lame posting of lousy articles with little research and a lack of time to resume as scheduled.

p.s.s. Schedule is one of those words that will make me judge a person in seconds. There’s the right way to pronounce it, and there’s the way where we can’t be friends anymore.

Brutal 6 Month Sentence for Stanford Rapist

In a stunning turn of events, Brock Turner, the three time All-American swimmer, has been sentenced with the harsh sentence of six months in prison and three years probation. The sentence for the affluent young white man doesn’t end there, as he will be registered as a sex offender. His Olympic dreams have been dashed, and he will be branded as a convicted felon for the rest of his life. All for a twenty minute mistake.

“It’s been really hard, you know?” in a statement issued by Brock. “You spend all this time in the pool, trying to work towards something, something bigger than yourself. You make one little mistake, like raping another human being beside a dumpster and, boom, there goes your Olympic aspirations.” Brock said, visibly shaken. “Honestly, had I known I was going to be caught, I would have never raped in the first place. Or, you know, at least finished a lot sooner. It’s a shame the combination of whiskey dick and years of stamina training dragged out the ordeal, because this whole messy situation could have been avoided had no one found me violently thrusting on top of a helpless stranger.”

His father released a statement.

“His every waking minute is consumed with worry, anxiety, dear, and depression. You can see this in his face, the way he walks, his weakened voice, his lack of appetite. Brock always enjoyed certain kinds of food and is a very good cook himself. I was always excited to buy him a big ribeye steak to grill or to get his favorite snack for him. I had to make sure to hind some of my favorite pretzels or chips because I knew they wouldn’t be around long after Brock walked in from a long swim practice. Now he barely consumes any food and eats only to exist. These verdicts have broken and shattered him and our family in so many ways. His life will never be the one he dreamed about and worked so hard to achieve. That is a steep price to pay for twenty minutes of action out of his twenty plus years of life.”

Although the 6 month sentence out of the possible sentence of 14 years for a convicted rapist is deemed too harsh by supporters, defense lawyers are flocking to the statement released by his father.

“He’s absolutely right,” says Lenny Plowers, a defense attorney from Salt Lake city, Utah “Only 20 minutes of rape? If you put that against the 20 years the kid has been alive, I mean, that’s like a fraction. Not even one percent. One of my clients has been accused of stabbing someone outside of a bar over a coke deal gone bad. How long was the knife actually in the victim? Hardly seconds. I don’t believe my client should have to go to a maximum security prison for violent crimes, as my client was violent for only a small amount of time during his life. From the ages of one to four, my client was a model citizen.”

Jenny McHorlis, a defense attorney from Wichita, Kansas, agrees wholeheartedly. “My client brutally shot an entire family to death in a home invasion gone awry. When you really think about it, he was only in the house for maybe five minutes. And the actual amount of time he spent pulling the trigger? Hardly a blip compared to the rest of the time he’s spent breathing and circulating blood as a human being ought to. Can we hold a man accountable for the few moments he went on a murderous rampage? I would hope not.”

Unfortunately for both Lenny and Jenny, their clients aren’t varsity Olympic prospects that hail from a prestigious school. That’s a key factor, says Chief Justice Alan Smootes. “I mean, if you’re some regular bum from the hood or something, then yeah, you should totally have the book thrown at you. But this kid was a really good swimmer, I mean, really good. I’m not entirely sure if he’d ever be on a Wheaties box, but at the very least, he could have done Cheerios or maybe a couple of local dealership commercials.

So far, there’s been little regard for the victim. One fraternity member of Kappa Theta Gamma stated “Well, how is this girl contributing to the community? I mean, she’s not good at swimming, and even if she was, who would care? Girls sports are lame.”

Brock had this to say as a closing statement. “Don’t get caught. If I’m going to rape someone again, you can be sure the amount of action I’m going to get will a lot less than twenty minutes.” Brave words.

Sincerely,

The Illustrious Mr. Charlton

p.s. Most of this is satire, obviously, but the statement from the father is word for word what he wrote.

p.s.s. The victim’s statement is here.