JD — Jesse Dedman
WCM: (Sometime after the show) I lay here, eyes set on the ceiling, I think crazy thoughts. Len plays on the speakers. “Steal my sunshime!” The world spins.
JD: (Last night into morning) After downing a bottle of wine and several glasses of Jack, I crashed into a drunken slumber. I woke to the sound of my son shouting dad over and over again. I thought it would go away, but the moment of silence was followed by a sudden body slam. My son was on my back beating my head like a bongo.
WCM: And I wake up this morning and the Coronas don’t hold my mind captive any more. See that trick of time? A Motrin and I’m good to go.
JD: My mind is free from any hangover, but the responsibility of being the best dad ever is not. Busy life in this household.
WCM: Last night we had a day-late show due to personal issues, but we persevered.
We talked about cursing, or as Jesse says, “cussing.” How laziness it brings can equate to writing. And a story I wrote about last Wednesday on artificial Wombs.
JD you’re beating around the bush. You know you want to say it. I can’t stop from cussing. I spoke about Trump and then shit spewed out from my mouth! Now I’m at Gary’s mercy. Jesus Christ.
WCM: Haha, yes. Now lets see what Gary has in store for you. You naughty boy.
Until next week.
WCM and JD www.wcmarchese.com
Mr. Deadman attempts a pagan ritual to guarantee success in marketing of Deadman’s Tome. With candles lit, and completely nude, he goes for a blood when Marchese manages to talk him out of it.
Marchese presents a challenge. A no profanity challenge. Mr. Deadman gets hung up on the technicalities of what defines a cuss word and why, but they eventually establish ground rules.
Humans are using and artificial womb to create obedient military clones, bit right now, but they’re working on it. Right now, we’re going a goat. A Hell goat.
Is it wrong to use profanity? Is the use of naughty words a sign of laziness? Is the utterance of FUCK the equivalent of someone farting in your face?
Well, this guy named Eddie Lewis thinks so. Eddie Lewis presents four reasons why you shouldn’t cuss. Let’s look at them.
You can check out the blog post http://eltigredo.com/blog/2012/02/24/four-reasons-why-you-shouldnt-cuss/ 1) cussing is repulsive
Eddie Lewis compares cussing to that of someone pissing in a public pool. I’m not joking.
Profanity is no different from passing gas or peeing in a public pool. It’s repulsive. It offends people.
Lewis, I would rather hear someone say fuck than swim in piss water. Piss water is ducking disgusting. I would also rather have someone tell me to suck my mother’s cock than smell someone’s fart. While profanity might offend your ears, the smell of a greasy burrito fart carries with it particles of fecal matter and lingers. The utterance of profanity does not carry fecal matter and should not linger unless you’re the type that fixate on some offense.
I know that you might be thinking that it doesn’t offend your friends. Right? Well, sure. A room full of people who are okay with cussing is a lot like a room full of people who don’t mind if you pick your nose and eat the snot, as long as they can do it, too. Of course it’s not offensive to people who cuss as much as you do.
So, if I’m following Lewis correctly, a bunch of people cussing is the equivalent of a bunch of people eating their snot? Uh, no. Just no. People eating their snot as a social function are probably insane. I don’t understand how a terrible comparison could be made. When people say bitch, shit, and fuck, they’re not engaging in a snot eating fest. You would be insane to think that literally. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt on that.
2) profanity is selfish and self centered
But to continue cussing because you don’t care what people think is really nothing more than a selfish act of disrespect. When you cuss, you are really saying that you don’t care about anyone else but yourself. That’s very different from saying you don’t care what they think of YOU. One is a selfish act of disrespect and the other is a sign of maturity.
Lewis fails to realize the irony here. One that takes offense at what another does and then wants that the other to change his or her behavior to fit one’s subjective standard is selfish and self centered, and that is exactly want he is suggesting. If you don’t like that I cuss in my writing, then don’t read it, or just move on. Plain and simple.
Now, if I’m cussing while talking to you and the word offends you. I would then ask why is that? Let’s explore how an adult is offended by adult language.
3) swearing is unintelligent and lazy
Based on what fucking evidence? Based one what fucking god damn evidence?
Lazy word usage? Lewis, take notice how I used profanity in the above sentences to emphasize a point. Profanity can be used to direct attention, escalate a situation, convey emotion. I know you understand that, right?
When we use fowl language, we actually end up not using the language part of our mind. What we don’t use, we lose. Right? So every time we cuss instead of articulating our feelings with real words, we put off the day that we become capable of expressing ourselves when we are emotional. Wouldn’t you agree that this is a valuable skill? How often do you look back at those times when you should have said something but the right words just wouldn’t come to you in the heat of the moment?
I think you mean ‘foul’ language. I guess you let a dick slip out from your mouth before you typed this post.
Are you a neuropsychologist? Neither am I, but I know from grad psych courses that when you use words, you use the language center of your brain. Even when you talk out of ass.
The other point you bring up is about thinking clearly and learning how to navigate situations based on experience. What does that have to do with cussing?
4) cussing shows a lack of self control
Without self control, we are nothing but animals. And in fact, that’s what cussing always felt like to me, as if I was barking or grunting like an animal. Unfortunately, when you give up self control, it drags you deeper into the proverbial gutter where not only is it even more difficult to stop cussing, but other problems begin to creep into your life. And the deeper you slide, the more the cussing feeds on itself and grows.
Lewis makes the argument that cussing brings the user to the level of a brutish, knuckle dragging animal. Is this a real argument? So, cussing is like barking for you? Sounds more like a personal problem with words, certain words.
I prefer to live a life that is not controlled by my body. As a Christian I believe that my body and soul must be submitted to the will of my spirit which is submitted to the Holy Spirit. This is what self control is to me, making my body conform to what I know is right.
According to New Testament, all Jesus asked for was belief in him. Jesus said nothing about fuck, shit, pussy, and dicks.
Self control is making Lewis’ body conform to what HE thinks is right. He said it for me. See, it’s all about him and his self centered world. What exactly makes him think that it he is right? What does right mean anyway?
But cussing is an act of letting the body rule the soul. It’s backwards. When we are irritated, we want to resort to the primal roar of cussing to make us feel better. But any time you let your body rule your life that way, you are asking for trouble.
This is not an argument based on logic. This is just bullshit about his feelings. Lewis makes it sounds like cussing leads to bad choices. If you’re having a shit day, it’s probably because you let one too many fucks through your lips.
The biggest problem I have with this while topic, beside being subjective, is that I fail to understand how profanity is offensive. I can see how racial slurs are. But, the word FUCK is just a four letter word that means what, exactly? That was determined to be offensive by whom, exactly? When did shit become a naughty word? Because it offends? Well, then why does it offend?
Lewis, if you don’t like that I cuss, then fine. I fucking cuss, and what’s the damn point. You would like me to stop. You think that it would be better for me to stop. But I don’t see it. Does that make me stubborn and selfish. Sure, I’ll concede that, but you are also selfish when you think I should conform fmto your standards.
Let’s face it, writing takes time and time is hard to find. Unless you’re living off your parents, found a sugar momma, or comfortable living under a bridge, you gotta spend time busting your ass for a check that barely covers the bills. You get the check and know damn well you worked harder for this. We all do, right?
Except the lucky few that found a way to exploit someone. Maybe I should be a welfare queen, or encourage my wife to find a sugar daddy.
In order to bust your ass for that little dollar it takes time, a lot of time. So then, if you’re spending over 80 hours a week working, where do you find the time to write?
What am I doing right now? I wrote this little blog post standing in the kitchen waiting on my coffee.
That’s the time.
What are you doing when the kids go to sleep, after you and your wife had your intimate moment, or maybe you’re not married but you allowed both Hannifer and Palmela to play pogo on your stick. What are doing after that? Sleep?
That’s the time.
What are you doing while you defecate at work? Checking your Facebook, Why? You already know it’s some drama BS or another heated political discussion that will go no where.
That’s the time.
In order to find time, you have to use whatever time you can. Beggers can’t be choosers. And yes, the quality of the prose is killed when churning out as many words you can in 10 minutes, but it’s better than not getting the story out there, right?
Christians believe that Jesus is coming back, but what exactly does that mean? He’s Risen explores Jesus’ glorious return in several irreverent ways. Let’s read from one that has Jesus coming back as a zombie to fest on the flesh and blood of his followers!
Mr. Deadman also looks at a list of over twenty people that claimed to be the messiah. That’s right, Jesus has already returned, like a number of times. Not only that, but some people a live today claim to be the reincarnation of the son of God. I know it’s hard to believe, but so are talking snakes, a wooden boat that can hold ALL OF ANIMALS, and turning water into wine.
WCMarchese (WCM): Last night on the Deadman’s Tome podcast we had some nonsense bantering, antvdiscussed conspiracy theories.
While some are proven to be true, it’s important to be careful and watch out where you are getting the news from.
Jesse Dedman (JD): Mainstream media will not tell you that Disney is conditioning the children for drone surveillance. Disney aims at kids, and profits from prying on them. Now they’re teaching them that it’s cool and normal to have your privacy invaded!
Why do you think this is happening? They don’t want the kids to object to little shutterbugs flying around them, piloted by pedo pervs. Sick. Evil. But that’s Disney.
WCM: We also discussed if it is better to type fast, or slow. Sort of came to the conclusion that both can be good for different things. Like fast for getting info onto the page that you’d forget, and slow for being more in touch with the words. Choose them wisely, indeed.
JD: Fast typing lowers the quality of prose. Writers dependent on speed typing don’t take the time for the best word. Instead, they shit something out as they’re taking a shit on the ivory throne. Some writers, will go back and revise their rushed out story. That seems like a balanced approach.
WCM: Another topic is how cell phones have made it easier to edit and write in the go. I’m literally banging this post out while warming the car to take care of errands. Nice.
JD: I’m banging my wife while writing this post. Very nice, indeed.
WCM: LMAO!
WCM: This episode was in video format, a little mix up we’re testing. A lot of the things done for now are subtle tests, though, the organic, grass roots feel should never be neglected. After all, it’s just a couple of guys shooting the shit and discussing writing and random things.
JD: I used to use Live Hangouts for the podcast. A lot of people are used to checking their iTunes feed in the morning after. If we do more live streams, then I’ll make an effort to upload the audio portion to Spreaker and iTunes.
Mr. Deadman and Willie The Dynamite Marchese talk about Disney spying on our kids, the return of Ghost Watch, speedy text killing the quality of writing, and more!
Hey writers, do you think you can write? Well, if you’re willing to put your skill to the test, then you can win some cold hard cash!
Enter Rejected! A writing contest where writers are given a theme and/or plot with the goal to produce the best story.
The current theme is Best Shit Ever! Stories so bad, so saturated with crap, that they’re good. Not poorly written, but like quality shit.
Flash fiction only. No more than 2k words. If it’s over by one word, it’s deleted unread.
Deadline: June 1st 2017.
Prize: first place $50 USD (minus PayPal fees)
Every other place gets a coldhearted, mean spirited rejection right on the spot. A lot of it might be hyperbolic for show, for entertainment, but you’ll have a stronger story out of it.
Entry fee: just purchase ANY Deadman’s Tome issue, anthology, or merchandise and screen shot the purchase! Support the magazine and we can offer even MORE awesome prizes.
Stories will be read LIVE on the Deadman’s Tome podcast and judged by Mr. Deadman, William C Marchese, and other guests if available.
Send the stories to jessecdedman@gmail.com with Rejected in the subject. if Rejected is not in the subject, it will be deleted unread.
By submitting, you understand that your story might be read LIVE on a podcast. Don’t tell me you didn’t understand that when your story is read and you didn’t like the feedback.
Urgent, massive cuck having a homicidal meltdown all because he placed a ho before bros! Not joking. Easter Sunday, while kids were hunting for eggs, this cold ass pussy was hunting for headshots because some bitch named Joy Lane gave another dude head.
Jokes aside, Joy Lane is a stripper name and a brother should put much stock in a broad that was given a stage name at birth. Not blaming Joy Lane, either. Bitches gotta get paid and brothas want to get laid! The only person here to blame if the fucking scum of life named Stevie Stephenson. What kind of awful name is that? Terrible, just god awful.
Stevie finds out that his girl don’t wanna play with his limp dick, and he then goes around killing motherfuckers in the street WHILE on Facebook LIVE! The murderous fragile snowflake made sure to make time to update his Facebook after every murder, answer phone calls from concerned friends, and even told a coworker he might no make it to work!
Who the Hell goes on a shooting spree over relationship issues? It’s happened before, I’m thinking of Virginia Tech, and it’ll happen again because these pussies don’t give two fucks about others. These selfish ass cocksuckers will kill you or your loved ones because their life isn’t going well for them. What a fucking sad state of affairs, a fucking pathetic reality.
Worst part is, this isn’t over. First, it’s been a day and the viral social media motherfucker is still out on the run. Where’s the fucking NSA? Wiretap this ass clown and make him deep throat a twelve gauge! Second, there will be copycats that see this as the new way to get fifteen seconds. What happened to using pent up aggression for starting a band, throwing down beats, raping? If your a talentless hack and violently psycho, then do the world and just self inflect.
Stevie Stephenson would be a better place had he just killed himself istead of killing over a dozen random people! Never thought I would make a post that would advocate for suicide, but here it is. Is this wrong, really? If Stevie had blown himself away, then those other dudes would be alive, right?
Little Sally pushed and shoved her way through a pack of toddlers that aggressively fought for the same target: the blotch of purple that poked through the blades of grass. She grasped a handful of Blonde-y Locks’ hair and tugged without mercy. The girl’s scream was followed by a retaliatory elbow that failed to strike pay dirt. Sally reached out for little Timmy and planted an open palm in his face. His jaw crashed down and clenched the fat of Sally’s palm. She powered through the pain and forced his head back with a violent push.
Little Timmy fell backwards and hit his head, but she did not seem to care. Her tiny black shoes stomped into the dirt and kicked up grass as she raced past the others. She wedged through the pig-nosed, pudgy twins with a sharp elbow, and knocked the wind out of them. The fat little piggies grabbed their sides in agony, but their cries only seemed to empower Sally. Like a raging bull, she plowed right into the legs of a girl twice her size. The girl flipped backwards and busted her ass. Sally closed in on her target. She reached out with a greedy little hand and nabbed that plastic egg from its grassy cradle.
She pushed on the egg to crack it open when all of a sudden a shadow loomed over her. Her black hair fluttered in the wind as she dared to look up at a towering figure draped in tattered robes. Long, mangled, greasy hair flowed from his scalp. A thick unkempt beard swallowed his jawline.
“Jesus?” The word escaped her mouth, while a foul odor crept up on her. “Ugh, Jesus, you need a bath!”
The other kids, Blonde-y Locks, Timmy, Piggie Twins, and the tall girl, gathered around Sally and took turns vocalizing their disgust at the horrid, stomach-retching odor. “Whoa, is that Jesus?” they asked, except for the tall girl. She stood with her arms crossed and said, “You’re all idiots! There is no way that guy is Jesus.”
“He has the hair of Jesus,” said Blonde-y Locks.
“He has the beard of Jesus,” said Timmy.
“He has the robe of Jesus,” said the Piggie Twins.
The tall girl shook her head. “He’s not Jesus. He’s a bum.”
“What about his hands?” asked Sally. “They have holes in each of them. Just like that naked man on the cross.” She poked a finger through the hole in his hand, and a sudden surge of excitement washed over her. “This is Jesus, you guys! We found Jesus!”
The figure did not even acknowledge her. He stared at the horizon with a dark gaze, as if locked on to specific target. Little Sally tugged on his dirty robes. “Are you okay, Jesus?”
He bent his neck forward to look at her and as he did maggots fell from his hair. “Eewww, gross! Jesus, you might need to go see a doctor,” said Sally, while the other kids ran away scared.
He stared at her and sluggishly opened his mouth. A stream of green vapor escaped from the orifice. “My flesh. My Blood.”
“Come on, Jesus. Let’s get you a bath,” said Sally. She grabbed the figure’s hand and dragged him. He was stubborn, but his legs eventually found momentum as little Sally ran out from the behind the foliage and towards the church.
The screams and cries of children fighting over plastic eggs wasn’t enough to distract the gathering of pastel sweaters and summer dresses from conversing over hors d’oeuvres and tea. But the awful stench that suddenly fell upon them penetrated through their vainglorious space and won their attention. The smell of a rotting, bloated carcass invaded with such dominance that some knelt in pain, while others vomited. Those that had enough composure fixated their abhorrence at little Sally and the figure.
“What in God’s name is that thing?” asked the reverend.
“Hey, everybody, guess who I found?” asked Sally, as she approached the apprehensive crowd. “It’s Jesus, and he could really use a bath.”
The congregation erupted in whispers, while the reverend attempted to ease their concerns. He approached Sally and the figure. “This is not Jesus. This is a homeless man.”
“No, it really is Jesus. Look, his hands have those holes in them,” exclaimed Sally.
The reverend stepped closer to the figure and inspected his hands as if searching for the slightest flaw. “Bah, just some sick trick. That’s all this is. Just some sick trick. I was going to offer a bath for this unfortunate man, but I see he’s more interested in playing sick jokes.” The reverend studied the dirt and cracks of the figure’s face. His eyes followed him like a predator. The reverend frowned with judgment. “Nothing but a sick joke.”
The figure raised his arms and spread them out like Jesus on the cross. His mouth opened to release a low guttural moan. “My flesh. My blood.”
Some among the crowd knelt down like a slave in servitude, while others were frozen with fear.
The reverend turned his back on the figure and spoke to the congregation. “Don’t listen to this man. He clearly needs help, but he is not Jesus Christ.”
“My flesh. My blood. I want it back,” said the figure.
The Reverend looked at the figure and forced a smile. “Too bad for you, you missed communion. Why don’t you come back again next Sunday? You know, after you clean up and all.”
“My flesh,” grunted the figure. He grabbed the reverend’s head and chomped down on his face. His yellow teeth tore through his fleshy nose. “Jesus! What are you doing?” cried Sally.
“My blood,” said the figure, as he drank the blood as it gushed in thick rivulets from the reverend’s mutilated face.
The reverend screamed in agony, but the figure did not seem to care. He wrapped his dirt crusted fingers around the reverend’s jaw, pried it apart and devoured the slithering tongue.
“My words,” said the figure.
“Jesus, you can’t go around killing people,” said Sally.
Engrossed with sudden panic, members of the congregation fled to the shelter of the church, while others retreated to their cars. The figure pointed at a man dressed in pink pastel and khaki as he neared a silver BMW. Without warning, a bolt of lightning crashed down from the heavens and the man exploded like a blood bag hit with a sledgehammer. The onlookers stopped in their tracks and bolted towards the church.
“It’s not killing. It’s Judgment,” said Zombie Jesus.
The figure ascended the steps of the church and ripped the wooden door off its hinges. People hunched over in fear, while those towards the end of the hall tried to sneak away. He crossed the threshold, grabbed the closest arm, and tore it right from its socket. He raised the severed limb above his head, and drank as the blood poured into his mouth. He then flung the dangling limb around in a circular motion and released it at the crowd.
The people tried to flee, but the space of the hall was too narrow, and the crowd was too dense. They began pushing and shoving as they fought frantically for their lives, and while doing so the monstrosity severely maimed another victim. The urgency was too great and the momentum too strong, the congregation trampled over their own without any regard for safety. Little Timmy was floored and stomped over like putty. An elderly woman with a walker was thrown aside and bulldozed like dirt. The Piggie Twins were knocked unconscious and someone hurled them towards the Zombie Jesus as if it would buy them time. But Zombie Jesus passed the Pudgy Twins as they cried on the floor. He ripped into the man’s chest with his hands, pulled out a beating heart and chomped on it like a juicy grapefruit.
“Jesus, stop,” yelled Little Sally, as she trailed behind. But Zombie Jesus did not stop. His rage and strength only seemed to grow with each and every victim. One at a time, Zombie Jesus slaughtered the people as he made his way to the altar where a trio of survivors huddled together, begging him for mercy. Hot tears rolled down from their pleading eyes. Words of servitude poured out from their beseeching mouths, while they threw themselves at his feet.
“Jesus, please don’t kill them,” cried Sally.
“I won’t.” Zombie Jesus slit his wrist with his fingernails and asked them to drink, and like obedient slaves, they did without any hesitation. Each one took their turn to drink from his wound. The first survivor to drink the blood of Zombie Christ convulsed and defecated herself.
“Jesus, I thought you said you wouldn’t kill them,” cried Sally.
“I did not kill her. Her sins did,” he said.
Zombie Jesus brought his wrist to the other survivor and told him to drink. The second survivor did as he was told and experienced a violent implosion that shot a stream of hot blood out from every orifice.
“Jesus Christ,” yelled Sally. “What are you doing to these people?”
Zombie Jesus walked over to the third and last survivor. She tried to squirm away, but he grabbed her by her face and placed his bloody wrist above her mouth. The third survivor, though very reluctant, opened her mouth and swallowed a mouthful of HIS blood. He smiled at her while waiting. A minute went by and Zombie Jesus marked her forehead with a bloody cross.
“Jesus, you’re scaring me,” cried Sally.
Zombie Jesus knelt before Sally and placed a bloody finger on her forehead. “Don’t be scared, child. I’m taking back what is mine, and my followers shall join me.” He marked her forehead with a bloody cross and watched as her eyes went completely white.
