My hometown was not a place for changes

Nor does it have museums in my name

I couldn’t go to the academy

A quarter of my life that I wasted

I saw no puppets replaced in my time

Though I thought I witnessed the real world war

But the revolution would not come here

And the nation stays as it was founded

Though other aggressions made it despised

There were no movements and the wars were theirs

As I grew smarter, the traitor grew mad

I reached the pinnacle of the moment

Though the powers so despised still remained

Time to study and be a better man

But the others had already been there

They were angrier and making changes

They had peer support, were not ostracized

Now the future comes, and what does it hold?

Will I be gone and on a happy path?

A bandit on the run with no fear left

Or will I awaken and become new?

New happenchance would see me at the helm

I guess there’s time to simmer and be wise

Would the path be chosen by a bridge burned

Pain and glory as one when all is done

El avion de Torrijos


The General's daughter

US Army General of the Army rank insignia.

Ingrid was beautiful, someone Paul thought he’d seen in a magazine somewhere. But she couldn’t be. Ingrid was the General‘s daughter, not some model. But Paul though he loved her, anyways. And he didn’t even know she was the General’s daughter. Her dark hair was past her shoulders and her smile lit her face, just like the model she could have been. Her aura was that of an angel’s grace. Paul brushed past her for the first time on his way to play basketball with the guys. “I like your shoes,” Ingrid said as he started past her up the stairs. He looked down at the old basketball shoes on his feet, smirked to himself and stopped just long enough to turn around and say “Thanks,” with a smile. But Paul couldn’t help it when he tried to turn back and continue on, because he couldn’t turn his lingering gaze away from Ingrid. Unwillingly, he tried to tear his eyes away from her, so he could head to the basketball courts where everyone would be waiting if he took too long, but he couldn’t pull himself away from her. Finally, he felt slightly guilty when his gaze awkwardly lingered for too long, and then he was able to leave. As he started up the stairs again, Ingrid called out to him, “What’s your name?” He responded, “Paul,” with a quick turn of his head. “Do you want to hang out tomorrow?” Ingrid asked. Saturday, Paul thought. “Sure…” Paul started. Ingrid interrupted, “What’s your number?” she asked. So Paul headed back down the stairs as Ingrid pulled out her cell phone. The two exchanged numbers, and Paul headed off to the basketball courts.

Paul arrived to the courts early, as usual, and began to shoot around to warm up. More people gradually showed up, some with their own balls and some sharing, and they shot around, too. Eventually, when enough people were there, somebody suggested they start up a game. They agreed on teams, and Paul was one of those on the court first. His team wasn’t assembled very well, but Paul started off quickly, handling the ball well for most of their possessions, and scoring most of the teams points. Paul continued to take the ball, and ended up scoring 81 points before the game was called. His team stayed on the court, as the losing team switched out for the bench. Paul’s team won again, with him scoring the majority of the points, and his team went on to keep winning, the next 16 games in a row, until the complaining from the other teams and the players from the bench forced Paul’s team to disband. Paul continued to shoot around at another basket during that first game he sat out, practicing more innovative dunks, and later stepping behind the three-point line consecutively hitting threes until it was his turn to play again. He continued playing the games he was allowed to play late into the evening, until the players started to go their separate ways home. When everyone was finally done and had said their final “good game,” Paul stayed to shoot around a little while longer.

The next day, Paul had off. He spent it waiting, sat staring at the phone, waiting for it to ring so he could answer. He anticipated the moment, what to say when she called, how to react, cool, calm, maybe excited or perhaps with a little delight in his voice. And while he waited, Ingrid sat at home doing the same. She sat there, too scared, too shy to pick up the cell phone she too watched anxiously. Despite her bravery with Paul shown the day before to get her to this point, now she became timid again, and hoped Paul would be the man, the pursuer, and call her like he was supposed to. The phone never rang for either Paul or Ingrid, forever though they both seemed to wait. Not knowing what to think, but nothing new to Paul, he at least moved on.

We know this because Paul continued his little basketball outings, competing against teams and players and striving to make himself better. And as ironically imbalanced as the world is, as it occurs for all successful people, more good gets piled on top of everything else already. Eventually Paul’s abilities became known to others, and as a visibly successful man, he soon gathered a small following of autograph-seekers, to include his own personal cheerleading section whose presence grew at each game.

But unknown to others, for Paul, living on a military installation did actually cause a slight imbalance in his life. You see, Paul worked with only males, as the nature of combat forces goes. Quite a convenience really, when dealing with internal issues. But what’s more to that is the installation population consisted so heavily of males that the remainder of those seen on the installation were spouses and children. So of course he did not allow himself to look at women, or even address them in public. It was unwritten code, and kept him well away from drama and problems. But Paul couldn’t fight nature, his instincts, forever. And when it was discovered that Paul was single, his reproductive stock was sought out. Not by the women, because Paul would never permit that. But once fathers were done having their share of daughters’ boyfriends to deal with, the worthless, abusive, and just plain unworthy to pay attentions and carry on the family line with their daughters, they honed in on Paul, though respectful just like he had been, and offered him their daughters’ hands in marriage.

Because of the way rank works, because some decisions are worth more than others, of course the General had a say in all of this. “How dare my men offer their daughters to this man like they are no more than whores or prostitutes?” he asked his advisors, ever present in every matter to support his decisions. “What do they want from this poor overwhelmed soul other than the reap benefits by association?” So as the General says, it must happen. The General also learned of Ingred’s interest in Paul through sources unrevealed (because generals know EVERYTHING). When the General first learned of Ingred’s fondness for this Paul fellow, the General set forth policies that prohibited fathers from further arranging any sorts of excursions between Paul and their daughters. The daughters would have to pursue him of their own accord, or otherwise leave Paul alone.

The new policies helped free Paul from the lesser of the resource-seeking wenches, allowing him pursuit now by those of more pure hearts. This included Ingrid, and others, but once Paul discovered Ingrid was the General’s daughter, he became entirely infatuated with her. Because her father wore tabs, badges, and awards that made his uniform heavy, yet his strong shoulders and set jaw made him an imposing figure of a man. What Paul wouldn’t give to follow in the footsteps of such a man. So he decided to marry Ingrid. Not without pomp and circumstance would be the wedding of a general’s daughter, so Ingrid received the wedding of her dreams, fulfilling her every imagination. She picked the location, the wedding theme, the crowd that would attend, all paid for in full by the General’s kind heart. And when Paul swore his vows, promised to cherish her in sickness and in health, Ingrid was beyond her own joys. And Paul realized, too, that now whatever dreams he could not accomplish, he could live vicariously through the General, his father-in-law. Of course he loved Ingrid, and he now knew that their children would be even greater than he could be. So they lived happily ever after.

The Quiet Professional

Ranger Hall of Honor 01, Ranger Tab

I wish that I could be someone like you.

Instead of being someone I became.

‘Cause nobody cheers when I finish first.

When they do I don’t, or I finish last.

I can’t move boulders like I’m really strong.

With my puny arms and my smaller heart.

I can’t take punches and just keep going.

Not like you. They hurt; gasp and wince from pain.

I can’t tell jokes and make everyone smile.

My jokes aren’t funny, and they think I’m mean.

You are so much better than I can be.

So you’ll propagate life while I die out.

As it should be, since you’ve proven your worth.

I used to dream, before I fell behind.

So when you wake tomorrow, enjoy it.

Because I probably won’t make it that far.

Life has been hard, and I am unfulfilled.

I’ve come up short when you could just push through.

So many grueling tests, God’s mockery.

I’ve grown stronger, but my burden is great.

Have you ever grown weary from the world?

I think inside me is a good person.

But he has hidden from the world’s cruel ways.

My skin is thin, and I’m a coward man.

Heroes, unlike me

Teardrop on Fire

Tears unsurfaced, I make my final plea

Ask the heroes who were supposed to be

What went wrong? Why did you abandon us?

Now we suffer. Your promises have died.

You were supposed to save us, make things right.

Failure. Evil in this world has prevailed.

The monsters still live underneath our beds.

The demons haunt our minds when we’re awake.

They take all our money and claim it’s best.

A savings plan for the rich to survive.

They torture us and claim that’s how it works.

They claim the strong survive; no others should.

Then where are our heroes, the ones from past?

Where did you run to when it all went wrong?

They killed you, claimed victory when you died.

What are we supposed to do with life now?

I am not strong enough to lead the way.

Please just come back. That is all I’m asking.

Fulfill your promises, and you can go.

It’s been too long, and your people suffer.

None gifted with the strength to pull us through.

Am I the only one who remembers?

That the struggle was once ours well in hand.

Until you left and we all fell apart.

We turned our backs and became more like them.

A dictionary for the Internet Generation

aquaintance – a friend who has an old-fashioned attractiveness or charm

aquire – a set of paper recently obtained

aquit – termination of employment following dropped charges; usually preceded by “I’m”

acerage – an exact quantity of land

allmost – very nearly getting everything or the majority

amature – a person who has minimal experience being old

aparent – kin who is obviously a member of the family

calender – the machine that produces time-keeping devices

capital – a city that produces above average wealth

consciencious – a scrupulous person who has trouble determining right from wrong

concensus – a population figure that is agreed upon

critisize – to find fault with a person’s weight or height

defiantly – unequivocally opposed

desparate – fundamentally distinct state of need

flourescent – the emission of light from grain

greatful – appreciative of good things

heirarchy – a ranking system to determine inheritance rights

imitashun – deliberate avoidance of impressions

A picture of a dictionary viewed with a lens o...

iland – a place where some of the internet generation lives, surrounded by water

its – it is

it’s – the possessive form of ‘it’

jellous – anger that a substance contains fruit preserves

kindergarden – a place where children play with flowers

loose – to come to be without resulting from lack of knot-tying skill

loosing – loss suffered because of untied shoelaces

lieing – determining whether or to lay down or tell the truth

masterbation – the expertise of pleasuring oneself

medevil – a period of history when bad things were done

momento – a keepsake that only lasts for a finite amount of time

oficial – cuando alguien esta actualmente un jefe en el ejercito

preform – to try on an outfit before acting in a play

pitcher – a visual representation of a baseball player

planing – outlining tasks and schedules on board an aircraft

playright – a copywrited performance

principal – the primary leader of an academic institution

priviledge – the right to be on a horizontal projection

promiss – a commitment to longing for another person

pronounciation – the ability to speak about persons, places, things or ideas

questionnair – a research instrument consisting of a series of questions about hair removal

quite – completely tranquil

reckonize – to calculate whether a person was previously seen

relevent – an air duct that is related to the matter at hand

restaraunt – a place to eat that is owned by the sister of one’s father or mother

rythem – the regular recurrence of other people dancing

rediculous – the absurdity of colors consisting predominantly of the longest wavelengths

sacrefice – holiness offered to a higher purpose

speach – words spoken about an edible juicy fruit

succede – to formally surrender ambitions or goals

their – the description of another place; the act of other people in a state of being

there – a thing that belongs to other people; the act of other people in a state of being

they’re – a thing that belongs to other people; the description of another place

too – a preposition used to express motion

to – in excess; also

underate – having not eaten enough

welfair – the justification for the provision of a minimal state of wellbeing

withold – to refrain from giving intellectual humor

writting – a formal document in progress

your – description to a person about they’re state of being

you’re – possessive case used as an attributive adjective

Mother / An Apology

Mom, I’m sorry that I’m not as cute as a baby, that I don’t make people smile when I giggle or reach my hands up so a stranger can hold me. I no longer crawl on the lawn, stopping to contemplate curious fistfuls of grass, and my little sun hat no longer provides my delicate head any protection from the sun.

I didn’t eat my vegetables like you told me to, and my skinned knees took longer to heal despite careful application of ointments and colorful band-aids. And when I got older my wiry frame never could build the muscles I needed to carry you through life and handle the weight of the world on my shoulders.

My Spider-Man pajamas that used to allow me to jump around slinging my web, taking out the monsters under YOUR bed, they don’t fit me anymore. Now I can’t save your world one happy day at a time because my superhero costume doesn’t fit, and I can’t wipe away your tears no matter how hard I try.

I’m sorry that I was mean to the other kids, bullied them around with threats, guns and intimidation. I really shouldn’t have cut off their hands as my act of vengeance against the other kids and the cruelty of the world. You taught me altruism, but I ignored it because I saw the world, and it stole what was mine.

I shouldn’t have dropped out of school, just because the starry sky was so bright. Thousands of stars peppered across a vast blackness, constellations clear and representing those immortal figures we can only hope to become. But I didn’t notice how so many were shooting stars, falling, never to shine again.

And because of that, I didn’t become a doctor or a lawyer like everybody’s supposed to for success in life. I struggled to survive in a world from that felt so selfishly cruel in efforts to move ahead in life. I felt no need to reap profits, to steal from others. So my fate was sown with seeds of despair until I could win.

I’m sorry that I couldn’t provide you what you with your basic needs, that I allowed the generator to go out and leave us freezing on cold nights, and I never cleaned the outhouse to stave all of that putrid from spreading diseases to us. I should have swept our dirt floor, and collected more firewood for you.

I was pressured by circumstance to join the Army, to become a soldier, because that is how people must live in our society, the only way they can survive. War is dangerous, but a time comes when you must choose sides in order to win the ferocious struggle of selfish competition. Dangerous too is complacency.

I become alienated in time, nothing more than a laborer for the profiteers. When I used to enjoy work, finding fulfillment in my daily accomplishments, I came to hate it. I avoided work whenever I could, just wanting to escape from the misery it became. I had to retire before I succumbed to greed as its slave.

I tried to rise up, become a leader, a successful instigator of wide-reaching changes. So rare are such people that everyone surely must find the urge to at least try to overcome the impossible. I’m sorry that I failed that, too. Do you know what it’s like to challenge the status quo? Like taking on the whole world.

I’m sorry that I stopped visiting you later in life, sorry that my time became so consumed with other things. You even thought I had forgotten you when you needed me most in your lonesome old age. I’ve been trying to make life better, trying to make the world a better place. The truth is I don’t know how.

I will likely leave this world without carrying on our family name. What women wants a man who is too busy, and what man would give up you and the world for a single woman? You have no grandchildren to play with and relive the wonderful moments of youth, because I’m trying my best to make a difference.

But the bad guys are winning, mom, just like they always do. I don’t know how much longer I can stand it. I can’t even call myself a fighter. I have failed you along with the rest of the world. All sorts of empty promises left unfulfilled because I’m just not good enough. All I wanted has culminated into nothingness.


The History of the World: Respect for Elders

Beijing :: Mausoleum of Mao Zedong






The hero was born; a farmer again

Joined the revolution to lead the way

Victorious, he left still young at heart

Scholar to be revered in days ahead

But the struggles intrigued, so he studied

He discovered how to share and joined peers

Attended discussions on how to be

Represented them at conferences

Interests rekindled for the uprisings

Worked for the nationalists with wisdom

Uprising, because you won’t kill them off

Weakness to women, but not yet suffer

Lesson learned, go find another to love

Growing influence councilled those who share

A little brother that would end up more

Growing force supported by the people

They were hungry, because others had naught

Victory yet not, they return to base

Warlord conspires to end the conflict

Knowledged experience is practical

Fragile allies broken by treachery

Time to rectify within the circle

The Hero sat on a chair to speak thoughts

The treacherous arrive to assess him

Occupiers alike must face defeat

The Hero defeated, chased them away

The People laid siege to the cowardly

The nation established for the People

He shaped the nation for them with his will

Changes were made, and traitors were removed

People celebrated and were happy

But he knew the culture would have to change

He told the secessionists they should stay

Then the treacherous tried to stage nearby

Years later they would come pay their respects

But the treacherous elements pervade

And it became tough when the allies changed

So he created a plan to outpace

He counted every man to leave none

Through the collective, everyone would win

Replaceable, never regretting loss

And those who cause suffering shall be gone

Momentum and progress brought a new plan

He saw the allies grow and had to try

Paying respect to elders the whole time

And he said the treacherous could not stay

The treacherous said that he shouldn’t share

But second-rate he would not let them be

And he knew that forward was the future

Sacrifice and ethics were all the same

But they marred his name because of progress

The treacherous counted deaths as products

Playing with numbers to maim the Hero

He wanted to share, live by principles

Rather than the treacherous principal

He asked for faith to speed by thievery

To feed every mouth was the implied task

Farmers, industrialists; contribute

And natural disasters combated

And he fixed it so no man was hungry

He paid the elders and fed the allies

Others decried that food was not enough

The Hero needed to educate them

How to become strong the Hero well knew

Even if others were not yet convinced

The People needed to change to see it

Greed has no place in a society

And other things the Hero said were truths

Then he said the People had changed, progressed

Number games made losses seem apparent

So the leaders divided, unconquered

New allies formed and reconciled ideas

Until the unthinkable became truth

The People would be forced to let him go

The Hero solely kept in memory

New leaders must now guide the collective

While the treacherous continued campaigns

Successes questioned by those who weren’t there

Yet the image of the Hero remained

Surrealism in Film

Freddy Got Fingered Surrealism is a misunderstood genre. Film critics, especially, are quick to pass judgment against it. Often misunderstood, surrealist works of art are quickly labeled negatively. Tom Green’s film, “Freddy Got Fingered” is one of these, and has been labeled by many a critic as “the worst comedy film of all time,” bar none. The irony of such a criticism coming from Hollywood film critics is that they gather their expertise from reviewing arguably some of the worst films in the world. They heap praise upon certain Hollywood films as ‘masterpieces’, films that would get laughed out of Venice or Cannes. So what qualifies a masterpiece from a horrible film in a critic’s eyes, and what specifically gives the ‘worst’ movies such popularity (cult films are inherently misunderstood by critics) at times?

For critics of “Freddy Got Fingered,” the largest complaints levied against it were its gross-out or shock humor, most notably the scene where Tom Green’s character, Gord, whirls a newborn infant around his head by its umbilical cord in an attempt to save its life. Stillborn, Gord panics when the child he just delivered in the emergency room is discovered to be lifeless, and his emergency response is to whirl the child around his head by its umbilical cord, saving its life in the process, and receiving thanks from the mother. “I did it!” Gord exclaims. And this scene becomes the point of disconnect for the film critic from the film. Widely criticized as an attempt to shock or gross-out the viewer, critics miss the crucial character development that Gord has experienced up to this point. The story of the main character’s ineptitude, and his struggles against the world to find his place in a society (and a father) that so often rejects him, this scene is a defining moment for Gord, instilling in him confidence and leading to his conviction that he is on the right path in life, that he can be successful just by being his zany self, without worrying about fitting one of the uncomfortable molds that his society expects of him.

This is what separates Tom Green from many of his contemporaries (i.e., Jackass, Viva La Bam). Often placed in the same genre, audiences and critics alike often miss Tom Green’s subsurface meanings, the critical social issues that underlie his often absurd antics. The show “Jackass” is indeed a Tom Green ripoff, extracting the violence and injecting homoerotic humor as the show’s staples, it is a surface-level prank show that seeks exactly what many of Tom Green’s critics claim: to shock or gross-out the viewer. Bam Margera’s own spinoff of “Jackass,” the show “Viva La Bam,” tones down some of the “Jackass” violence and homoeroticism, taking instead from Tom Green’s prank bin, especially that of harassing his own parents. But Bam’s efforts to goad his parents without the metaphors that Tom Green so often uses as launching points is purely in an effort to entertain the viewer, and provokes no reflective thought.

Tom Green surprised and mocked celebrity-obsessed culture with the production of his own ‘number one hit’, the “Bum Bum Song.” Both a reflection of his efforts earlier in life to make his way in the world as a musician, and poking fun at the lack of quality control in the entertainment industry, Tom Green became a successful artist by being more absurd, albeit much the same, as the entertainment industry tends to be. This, along with other sketches, highlighted with absurdity what is indeed absurd in our own society. The “where are you going?” sketch shows a crazy old man becoming violently reactive to Tom Green’s personal questioning, the “planking” sketch shows how uncaring people are and ignore his apparent need for assistance, the “pizza delivery” sketch shows market competition in the microcosm of Tom Green undercutting the pizza guy’s sales. Tom Green also captivated the news media with anticipation of a Monica Lewinsky announcement that became most insignificant and quite a let-down. Local media was effectively duped by Tom and Monica, and quite angered at their own ignorance.

In “Freddy Got Fingered” Tom Green explores social issues, utilizing the absurd as a way of highlighting society’s injustices and misgivings, with events so ridiculous that at first the viewer begins to laugh, but then later begins to understand the correlation with the real world. Tom Green’s character in the film is a struggling artist, a familiar mantra, who goes to Hollywood in search of his dreams, as so many promising young people do as well. Gord lands a job in a “Cheese Sandwich Factory,” which again reflects real society, the pursuits of artists that must begin slow or fall short of initial stardom and ultimately success in the eyes of others. The Cheese Sandwich Factory represents the risks of achieving success in a Capitalist society. The dreamer, the artist, full of potential, must assume high levels of risk to achieve their reward. So they sacrifice their families, their homes, their lives, to travel to Hollywood, only to meet meager mediocrity at the outset. And most artists don’t make it past this point. They become lifetime wage-laborers, identified in the film by the ‘factory’ aspect of Gord’s employment.

But not Gord. He’s not gonna give up. So he hunts down Mr. Davidson, who represents a business magnate or media proprietor, sometimes a figure largely influential in our society in determining the fate of an artist, solely based on their whim. Of course Gord has to create a lie to the receptionist about Mr. Davidson’s wife in order to meet him, because opportunities in our society do not come abound except when we press the limits of morality. “His wife’s dead!” Gord explains to the receptionist, and she gives Gord the information to go find Mr. Davidson. Without creating such a fabrication, Gord’s dreams would have been crushed solely because he did not already maintain a position of privilege or influence in society. He later literally takes Mr. Davidson’s advice to become successful by getting “inside the animals” of his animated characters to help him further develop them and make Gord successful. So he wears a deer hide in an attempt to become successful like his wealthy proprietor.

It’s not all political, though. The other large underlying theme in “Freddy Got Fingered is social relations in our society. The most pressing issue in the film is the relationship between a father and his son, and how society’s expectations heavily influence that relationship, either to the point of destruction, or possible success. Gord is twenty-eight years old and unsuccessful based on society’s expectations. He constantly makes efforts, though, to prove his worth. Gord is creative, perhaps one of the worst curses for an aspiring Capitalist. Because even the most quality entertainers would go nowhere in life if not for adhering to societal trends that are overseen by Capitalists trying to profit off of starving artists. Creativity goes nowhere if it is not an enterprise endorsed and funded by more privileged members of society. So when Gord’s father walks into his own living room to find Gord playing the keyboard, with sausages suspended from the ceiling, attached to his fingers via a pulley system and strings, singing “daddy would you like some sausage?” Gord explains to his father that he’s “being creative,” in an attempt to prove his societal value to the world. That is what Gord feels he can most contribute to society, so absurd though it may seem, he’s just trying to contribute, seeking his place within society.

Gord spends most of the movie tied to attempts to impress his father in the film, an angry Rip Torn who just wants his son to be successful. It is tough for Gord to maintain the relationship he holds with his parents while attempting to reconcile his own dreams and manage their expectations as well. So Gord feels pressured again into lying, adhering to the underlying theme that self-progression in a Capitalist society often crosses boundaries that a more civilized or advanced culture would not see. So when Gord is discovered dancing in front of a mirror, wearing one of his father’s suits, backwards, Gord feels pressured and creates an elaborate lie for his father, taking him to dinner celebrating his employment, the scene a façade of the material indicators in our society of a position of wealth and personal success.

At a point in the film when Gord’s father goes into a fit of rage and destroys Gord’s boyhood half-pipe along with their father-son relationship that is so important for the development of good men, Gord becomes disillusioned with his father and the whole scenario he’s in, and eventually in an act of vengeance against his father and a society that thus far does not suit him, he falsely accuses his father of sexual molesting his brother. Comedic elements are the fact that both boys are grown men, yet the social workers all treat the accusations as real, because as we are aware, these type of perverted people do actually live in our society. So Freddy’s grown brother is sent to a home for molested children against his will, because our society has developed to the point where we anticipate corruption rather than assuming the best of people. This is also a critique of the ineffectiveness of a common law legal system that gives more weight to precedence and encourages pushing legal boundaries in pursuit of profit.

But in the end, when Gord finally becomes successful in his Capitalist pursuits, he apologetically reunites with his father, having reconciled within himself all parties with his success. The irony here is that Gord’s creations are based on his real life observations of people including his father, just like Tom Green’s actual creative works. The theme of the movie then becomes male bonding because of the renewed relationship between a father and one of his sons. So based on Gord’s current accumulation of capital based on his recent success, and playing off an old laborers adage from his father about “sewing soccer balls in Pakistan,” Gord flies his father to Kuwait to do just that as part of their relationship-mending process. The male bonding in a society that so often alienates people from each other in their selfish pursuits of capital is represented in a scene where Gord and his father masturbate an elephant, together. A microcosm of a father helping his son to adulthood, this scene serves as the culmination of the film.

“Freddy Got Fingered” concludes as a film chock full of criticisms of society that are intended to make the viewer think about our society’s quirks. When the comedy is stripped away and the current state of society is revealed through absurd comedic devices, Tom Green’s work becomes more than just shock or gross-out humor. It becomes a criticism of the society in which we live. He tackles very serious issues with humor in order to display the irony of our society. So the next time someone tries to tell you that a creative piece of work is worthless, maybe you should take a look to see if you can find something more. After all, genuine artists create to have their voices heard. True art is not always about money and profit.

Battle against Time

The face of a black windup alarm clock As a child, Caius did not know of the torments and terrors that the villain Time would bring to upon him later in life. For childhood is innocence, and time is not sufficiently understood. Days pass seamlessly from one to another. “Do I play now, or do I play later?” Interruptions for meal-time could be so inconvenient. “Mom, I just want to play!” Caius whined. So much fun to be had, why can’t he stay up later and play past sunset? So Time would leave his childhood alone. “Play, young Caius, do not concern yourself with me right now,” Time said. Because Time was waiting for Caius to get older before he stole moments away. Caius yet lacked comprehension of the vile thing that would betray him in adulthood.

Time slowly began to sneak up on Caius. It took from him little by little, such short moments of insignificance that he hardly noticed. Fleeting moments that added up to the days of his youth were so carefully stolen by Time that he hadn’t even noticed. “Where did those times go?” Caius wondered. Though Time was a villain, Caius was still unaware of the evils it was capable of. It was already hiding, taking things from him, and he didn’t even realize it. But Time waited for the right moment to begin to stealing things that would make Caius cry, precious moments Caius would never be able to have back. That is what Time wanted most. Caius did not realize it yet, but in time, Time would become his enemy.

Maybe it was because Caius looked forward so often, into his future, maybe that was how Time was able to steal so much from him. Caius had ambitions and dreams, and promises to fulfill. So he spent time thinking of the future, ignoring the present. How was Caius to know that Time was sneaking around his back, stealing moments he would need to get to that future? How was he to know that Time could take so many present moments that he would later grieve and yearn for when he didn’t have them? He didn’t realize that everything he built was being taken away, moment by moment, by unforgiving Time. By the time Caius discovered the little thief, it was far too late to do anything. Caius was Time’s victim.

Caius tried to reach up, outstretched hands grasping for his goals and ambitions to be realized. But by now, Time had stolen every past moment from him, leaving him nothing left to stand on, not even a pedestal. Caius could only hopelessly gaze at the pinnacle, look at it from afar, much as he had done before, except now it was out of reach. If he reached too far he would fall. He would never get to touch it, experience it, because Time had taken everything that he would have used to reach it. “Why can’t I reach it!?” Caius yelled. Tears began to stream down his face. Time is a heartless thief. No sympathy for its victims. It was impossible for Caius to reach his dreams, and Time would do nothing to console him.

Caius now hated Time, for all it had taken from him, all it had stolen away. Cowardly, fleeting time, sneaking around, taking with it every presently cherished moment. And more, Time forbade anyone to have those moments return. But Caius had enough of Time’s cruel methods. It was time for Time to be punished, to be shown you can’t take everything from a man without invoking his vengeance. Caius would make Time suffer like he did, he would torture it, leave it helpless, force Time to beg for mercy, tears streaming down its face, like he had so many times before. Time would regret the day it was born, and the very day it decided to become a thief. Caius would consume himself to bring the death of Time.

So Caius fought time. He hunted it down, with an arsenal of weapons to make any vampire hunter jealous. Sufficiently armed and teeth bared, Caius set off into the world, in pursuit of time. Before he left home, he smashed his alarm clock, then the timer in the kitchen, and he cut off his left hand with a machete to get rid of his wristwatch. All of the pieces of time he could not collect littered the dresser and the kitchen counter, his arm and the floor a bloody mess too. Caius walked down the street, entered every business where he knew Time was present, and fired his shotgun at every clock he saw. Not satisfied, he climbed a clock tower, smashed the face of it with his fist, and tried to wind it backwards to get his moments back.


Balloons I’m a balloon. Beautiful on the outside, but full of emptiness inside. The child who owned me had such small, uncoordinated hands that let go of my string that grounds me, and sent me out into the world. The child let go, and though I am empty on the inside, I am filled with hot air. So I float away from the child and the rest of the world. I float higher and higher, feeling elated, like my spirits are higher than anyone has ever known for themselves. The heated air inside of me expands, makes me larger, but it also makes me fly away from everyone I know. If I could release it, I could be a politician or a Jeopardy contestant. I would give speeches and make promises and tell of things I know not. But as I float higher, almost out of view of anyone, I am alone, slowly forgotten, and nobody can even hear my words anymore. But I’m on top of the world now. Untouchable. But such a lonely view from atop the world when there’s no one to share it with. So I reduce the hot air, float back down to earth in hopes that I will excite another child when it sees me, and be claimed as its toy. So I floated down, back down, sought out birthdays or holiday celebrations, or any parties where I would be welcome, where my type fits it, where I belong. I had no aspirations or illusions of joining a parade as a feature balloon that would impress mothers and children lined in the streets or waiting at home for a break from the domestic activities. Holidays are such joyous celebrations, and for why I understand not, but I would do my best to make others smile, if I could be one of those special balloons. But I’m not one of those. I’m not even the kind of big balloon that people ride into the sky to get the same lonesome view I’ve already had. Couples ride in hot air balloons. What a wonderful scheme to avoid the loneliness of that view. But I’m not big enough, not strong enough to carry people into the sky on romantic journeys. So I hang about birthday parties, hoping some child will set its eyes on me, set its heart on being with me. And the mothers and uncles shoo me away, when I seem to be that lonesome forgotten balloon that children no longer desire to play with. Clean up. Get rid of those pesky deflating balloons that have lost their appeal. But perhaps I stay afloat, just high enough to be an object for the child, and maybe a kind grandparent will pluck me out of the sky and hand me over to the one creature in this world that would appreciate me, if even for such a short while as a child’s attention span allows. Forget me not.

One day, I will leave. I will fly away, cause sadness and regret, the child watching as I am lost to the world. It isn’t truly my choice; it is just the nature of being a balloon. Or say I don’t fly away, that I was loyal to the child, and it held me firmly in its grasp, never wanting to let go of me. But children are liable to distraction, and once the child finds other toys, or other children, it will run away, forget about me forever, and I will float, my only companion the breeze that carries me away from any chance of such enjoyment of friends or things like toys. And one day, when I have been completely forgotten, no matter whether my journey was afar, or if I had never left the child’s backyard, one day I will deflate. My color will fade with the weather, because time is so cruel to appearances, and I will shrink, grow smaller, until I am flat, two-dimensional, truly empty on the inside now. I don’t know how I deflated. Neglect seems to do that. It could have happened in an instant, the result of some tragic accident that pierces my skin and penetrates through my empty core. Such dangers I must constantly face in this world, waiting at every moment to be the cause of my demise. Or I could have deflated gradually, shrunk away as my needs were ignored. When I’m empty, perhaps some poor child, one that has nothing better than deflated balloons to play with, will fill me with water, repurpose me as a weapon of war against all that have done wrong in its eyes. Or if there’s no water for the child, maybe it will fill me with hot air again, and release me, sending me propelled in unknown directions, defying physics, the laws that try to govern me.