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Dolphin and Trainer have sexual relationship!

Some facts in life are so bizarre that it leaves one wondering about the fare of humanity. This is one of those moments. A dolphin and trainer have sexual relations.

http://nypost.com/2014/06/10/the-dolphin-that-fell-in-love-with-a-human/

You read that right. A woman had sexual relations with a boner happy dolphin, but it may not be what you think. The trainer didn’t open her love hole like one of those kinky Hentai girls, but she did give many hand jobs.

Why on Earth would a woman stroke the dolphin meat? Well, it turns out that the dolphin was sexually attracted to her and would bump and grind throughout training sessions. It was so bad that it became a major distraction for training. So, like in one of those My Sex Teacher porns, she offers her dolphin friend some release. She claims it wasn’t sexual on her part, just serious business. That’s the same reality that many woman face in their relationships, though.

My perverted mind wants to know if she ever tasted dolphin spunk.

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Swastika Poop, WTF?

When conversing about the news and what not it’s easy to hear a comment about how the media covers shit. This comment is then followed by laughs and mutual agreement, usually. Yet, it’s 2015 and the media seems completely ignorant that it has now literally covered shit. If that word offends you, please note that I’m using it as a noun and using it because quite literally (don’t know how much more literal you can fucking get) a swastika shit smear has made the trending topics.

I don’t know how else or what else I should say as the report alone is just completely ridiculous. A shit smear in the shape of a swastika is what college goers at Mizzou university seem upset about. Rent is skyrocketing, debt is ever increasing, ISIS is fucking killing, yet it is a shit smear in a bathroom that drives the campus to take action. What a goddamn joke.

If a simple racist image is enough to cause an uproar, then I really hope that none of these precious students ever step foot into a gas station bathroom. Are we raising super sensitive flowers? I can’t believe this, but belief doesn’t matter. It’s a fact.

After all, the news is nothing but shit.

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The Gambling Bug Review

Horror plays on the fear of the reader, sometimes by summoning shadows out from the dark, calling demons out from the abyss, casting madness on the weak, and sometimes by playing with truths of reality. Dan Graffeo plays on the fear of losing all when the bet is called in The Gambling Bug. A cast of characters, weaken and battered by life, succumb to the desire to win it big, gain it all, on the chance to fall to a whole new low.

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There is hardly few that are stranger to the rush of gambling. The internal dialogue, or lack of one, that goes on when the chips are down is intense. Self-loathing erodes any amount of confidence and is world shattering, yet it seems to only emerge after everything has been lost. The Gambling Bug captures that feeling as it illustrates the emotional, financial, and life crushing destruction of a group of believe able characters.

The Gambling Bug focuses on a group of gambling addicts that are targeted by a mysterious figure of the same name. The mysterious figure knows the desires of his victims, and will dangle the thought close enough to lead them to fall. Only this time, losing everything means just that. The Gambling Bug will take it all.

Do I recommend The Gambling Bug? Yes, but the recommendation is not without caveats. I found the pacing sort of slow. A definite slow burner that sometimes spends more time describing atmosphere and environment than it does character. For example, chapter one is essentially a character buying scratch offs over tickets for his wife and was padded with extra details like describing the stores and shopping bags. Description is good, but description for padding is annoying, at least to me.

Granted, the second chapter pivots a character you’ll grow to love and hate against a school when she was fired for speaking the truth. Dan Graffeo’s strength is dialogue, for sure. I find the discourse between the characters entertaining and revealing. As a reader that can’t stand clutter, small talk, and fluff, I found jumping ahead to the dialogue fitting for me.

The Gambling Bug picks up when the characters start to reveal more of their vices and flaws, and fall victim to the demonization of the gambling bug. A phantom of sorts that visits our characters in their dreams and leads them to a path of self-destruction.

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Overall, if you do not mind a few long-winded descriptions of things, props, and locales, then you’ll be able to enjoy as the characters engage in debauchery and fail as they struggle from complete self-destruction.

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The Accident on Mitchell Street by Jacob M Lambert

Heels scuffing the hardwood of the foyer, the couple dashed through the open door and out into the frosty October wind, the pungent scent of their deodorized bodies lingering behind them—lilies, aftershave, and musk all rolled into a single funk.

And Ellie Masterson, who’d seen this happen at least twice a day, simply pressed the clipboard to her chest, sighed, and let her almond brown hair drape over her face. She then left the kitchen (which was the farthest she’d made it with potential clients) and approached the front door, waiting on the next group.

“You’ve got about ten minutes, and then I’m—”

Before she could finish the sentence, two men—one wearing a fuzzy green sweater and the other a long trench coat—strolled up the sidewalk, holding hands. Ellie forced her best smile, one she hoped made her look more welcoming and less like a sixty-year-old, impatient ghoul. But with the dark eyeliner and rouge lipstick on her pale face (in addition to the knee-length substitute teacher dress adorned in bright flowers), she doubted the most sanguine display would make much difference.

There was the house, too.
And as if it knew her thoughts, the floor trembled beneath her feet, drawers flew open upstairs, chandelier lights flickered above—everything that drove the previous potentials from the kitchen and back to Watertown, or wherever they had come.    

Again, Ellie sighed.

“Excuse me, are you Ms. Masterson?”

The man in the trench coat extended his hand. He was handsome, she thought, with his tanned, pop-marked face and auburn goatee. A white scar stretched from his right cheek to his chin—but that only made the flesh of Ellie’s neck flush even more: she thought scars were sexy.

“I’m sorry. Yes—I’m Ms. Masterson, but please, call me Ellie.”

Smiling, the man said, “We called about the house. I’m Blake and this is my—”
“Tim,” the man in the green sweater interrupted. He casted an awkward, wide-eyed glance at Blake, then let his gaze fall back on Ellie. “We were hoping the house hadn’t sold yet. It hasn’t—has it?”

Momentarily feeling out of place, as if she were swaying drunk in a room full of addicts, Ellie dipped her chin and tightened her lips. “Actually no: we haven’t sold it yet.”

“Great,” Blake said, his smile widening. “Can we have a look?”

Ellie nodded and, stepping to the right, ushered the two into the foyer. She then—as always—remained silent, letting them formulate their own opinion before she interrupted. It was something she’d learned the hard way: too jovial, too insistent, too micromanaging was for the mannequins on QVC, not underpaid realtors. And while she watched Blake climb the stairs, where he stopped, pointing at something near the top, a familiar sound reverberated in her ears: the staccato thumping of her own heart.

“What was that?” Tim said, stopping midway between the hardwood and the stairs.

Here we go again, she thought, and for the third time (at least since the couple arrived) sighed. “I didn’t hear anything?”
“I never said I heard something,” Tim replied. “Is there someone here?”
Ellie walked toward them. In her peripheral, a rounded ceramic plate with child’s feet stamped in red paint swayed on the imitation wood paneling. Finally, she stopped a few feet shy of the bannister. “There is an extra aspect of the house I didn’t mention in the online advertisement. But I usually wait until—”

“You’re not going to tell me what I think you are, right?” Blake descended the steps backward, while keeping his eyes on Ellie. The flush came again, and she could smell the sweat fuming from her chest—a sickly scent that stood out over the dust, cologne, and mixtures of various undefinable stenches creeping through the house.

Pursing her lips, Ellie nodded.

“Wonderful!” Tim shouted, the disgust in his voice striking Ellie like an invisible cannon ball to the stomach. “I knew there was something off about this place. The outside looks like a Victorian mansion—and the inside…it’s beautiful. But eighty-thousand: too unbelievable.”
“It’s hardly noticeable. I promise. Just—”  

“Are you serious right now, lady? C’mon, Blake,” he said, interrupting her. But as he reached for his husband’s hand, the opposite happened.

“Who is it?”

Ellie met Blake’s gaze, but she quickly looked away as she spoke. “A man—I don’t know his name.”

As he opened his mouth to reply, ahead, on the wall next to Ellie, the plaster (the only place without the unpleasant paneling) started cracking, large chunks crumbling to the floor. Tim’s eyes widened, but he remained stationary, right hand clutching the bannister. However, Blake, moving past him, approached the area between stairs and wall—where a narrow hallway led to the kitchen. Through all this, Ellie continued pursing her lips, chin tilted, as if waiting for a disciplining blow. Her heart paced rapidly in her chest, and had she not grown use to the sensation, she would have feared the worst: heart attack, stroke, etc. etc. etc.

But that didn’t happen. It never did.
“Are you sure it’s only a man?”
“Why?”

Bushy brows drawn into a single arch, Blake shook his head. “Because, I don’t think a grown man would write this.”
On the wall, carved in jagged, mismatched letters, was a single question: IS MY BIKE GOING TO BE OKAY.

***

As Tim’s legs thawed, so did his mouth. “I can’t believe you knew about this and still tried selling us this house. I swear you’ll lose you license over this, lady. I swear.” 

“Still think it’s a man?” Blake said. “Cause I don’t think so.”

“Are you listening to me?”

Hearing him absolutely fine, Blake reached out and traced the coarse texture of the scrawling, then lowered his head—his bottom lip trembling.

“When I was a kid, my grandfather died in a motorcycle accident, a few days before I turned eleven.”

“I’m…sorry,” Ellie said, raising her head, but only a little.

“It’s okay, really—that was a long time ago. But he loved his bike, you know?” Blake paused and wiped a single tear from his left cheek, before it could dampen his mustache. “For a long time, I wondered if he was still there. My parent’s said he was in heaven: their usual poor attempt at commiserations when someone passed. But I didn’t believe it, cause sometimes, when I was alone, I could smell the Talcum powder. He would always use too much, and the scent would follow him: a medicated, menthol odor. You know what I mean?”
Ellie understood perfectly, but for her it wasn’t a smell—it was a sound: laughing.

“I’m not smelling anything right now, though,” Blake said, “but the bike, the way this is written on the wall: a child wrote this.”

From behind, now standing on the bottom step, Tim rubbed his eyes and shook his head. “Will you come off it already, Blake? This whole thing’s a scam, don’t you see that? She probably read a few of your books and looked you up online. It’s not that difficult, with all of the sites out there offering pennies for background—”

“Tim, go outside. Smoke a cigarette or something. I’m sure you’re having a nic fit anyway, so just go.” Blake’s voice, especially on the emphasis of Tim’s name, made Ellie’s large frame shudder. She hadn’t expected the sudden severity in the man’s tone, but she was glad for it: Tim’s slender neck craned forward, and he released an exasperated breath. Then his previously smooth features wrinkled into a scowl as he descended the step, sauntered to the front door, and slammed it—rattling the blinds over the frosted window in its center.  

Closing his eyes and shaking his head, Blake frowned. “I’m sorry about that. Been married only a week and I’m already kicking myself. But he’s a good man, Ellie. Just doesn’t have an imagination, that’s all.”

“No, it’s alright,” she replied. “I should have mentioned this in the description.”

“Well, it’s not exactly something you broadcast. But the message on the wall: I think a child wrote this—not an adult. What do you think?”
Ellie shrugged.

“Look, give me a few days to talk to Tim, and I’ll give you a call with our decision, okay? I think that whoever wrote this,” he said, again pointing to the words, “might just need the same thing I did: someone to guide them forward.”
Blake smiled and nodded to Ellie before retracing his earlier steps to the front door. For a moment, she stood there—between the wall and stairs—then wiped the tears away from her own cheeks as she ventured into the foyer, where the round, ceramic plate rested against the imitation paneling. There she stopped, facing it, her eyes drawn to the four-inch-long red footprints adorning the front.

“I think I might have found a home for you—both of you,” she said, smiled, and started rounding the corner. But the sound of someone digging into plaster, like rats chewing their way through a cardboard box, halted her progress.
The thumping in her chest returned. But this time a wave of unreality seized her vision, making everything appear sharper, louder, and more urgent. Turning on slick joints, Ellie returned to the wall, where she then took a deep breath before lifting her eyes to the letters. IS MY BIKE GOING TO BE OKAY remained etched there in deep, crooked groves. But there was also something else, directly below it:
MOMMY.

“I told you before, a dozen times: I’m not your mother.”

In that instant, the plaster started falling again, and letter after letter appeared, each digging deeper and deeper into the wall.

“Please, you have to stop,” she said, dropping the clipboard and placing her hands to her temples, where she then squeezed, as if the pressure alone would halt the irrational fear that her head might tumble to the floor.
More pieces of the wall crumbled as the response appeared. And if there was any equivocation to the message, the startling crash of the ceramic plate shattering on the hardwood floor extinguished it. Underneath the previous MOMMY was this:
YOU COULD BE. MY DADDY LIKES IT HERE. IT’S NICE

“No, we’ve been through this,” she said, letting her eyes wander over to the ceramic shards—noticing the way each piece somehow broke into a perfect bladed shape. “I won’t. I am Not. Your. Mother.”

As Ellie backed away, now almost tripping over her feet, one final message formed on the wall, but this one went deeper: into the wooden support beams, scrawled almost irritably.
THEN LEAVE ME ALONE. GET OUT. GET OUT. GET OUT.

***

  Blake’s hands shot into the air, palms facing the gunmetal sky, as if holding an imaginary globe. “You don’t have to be such an ass, Tim.”

“Did you not see how she acted? Could barely look me in the eyes.”

“She was afraid you’d judge her—like you’re doing now.”

Silence fell between them. The October air numbing his semi-bearded cheeks (where the hair was already growing back from the morning shave), Blake leaned against the hood of their black 08’ Honda Civic. “Look, can we agree to disagree? I’m tired of arguing.”
“Yeah, I guess. It’s just—”

Across the road, both men heard the front door of the house swing open and slam against the inside wall. Moments after that—they saw Ellie, hands over her ears, dash down the front steps, through the yard, and continue toward the road.

“What’s she doing?”

He didn’t reply, just simply watched the woman keep running until she disappeared around the corner and out of sight.
Finally, Blake repeated the question, but again, Tim didn’t answer. “I thought we were okay now? Say something.”
“We’re fine. We’re fine. But look at that. Have you ever seen anything like that?”
Even from where he stood, Blake could see the distinct shape of a boy standing in the open doorway and the undulating effect his presence had on the house: it was like an invisible finger pressing the center of an object made of partially liquefied gelatin. Everything bounced and rippled outward. And when Tim squeezed his shoulder, Blake, before breaking his stare, caught the sight of a much taller man shadow the boy’s tinier frame.
Then it was gone.
“Did you see that?”
Tim nodded. “Let’s follow the lady’s example, Blake. Unless you’re still thinking about buying the house? And you’re not, right?”
He took a step away from the car, further into the street.
“C’mon, Blake? Blake?”

THE END

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ZOMBIES HAVE RIGHTS, TOO

Zombies have rights, don’t they? After all, they’re humans reanimated with a second-life because of God, mad science, or strange medicine. A zombie doesn’t choose to come back, they’re forced to come back.

This undead rotter would have you believe that zombies are entitled to rights and that shows like The Walking Dead perpetuate negative zombie stereotypes that harm the already bad image of zombies. Answer this. Would you kill your brother if he had rabies? Would you kill your brother if he had ebola? Then why would you kill your brother if he was a zombie?

Because shows like The Walking Dead and Fear the Walking Dead, movies like Night of the Living Dead, and such Zombies are seen as the enemy. No, people are the enemy, and The Walking Dead is the biggest anti-zombie show at the moment and the one that ought to feel sorry and take responsibility for hurting the image of the undead.

Support zombie rights. SUPPORT UNDEAD GREG

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Scouts Guide to the Zombie Apocalypse Review

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Boy scouts customizing weapons to take on hordes of zombies sounds like a great concept. Watching people take on waves of the undead in a manner similar to that of Dead Rising would be great for a fun popcorn flick. Yet, somehow Scouts Guide to the Zombie Apocalypse manages to take a should be easy to execute concept and just take a giant diarrhea dump all over it. You would think Scouts Guide would be about killing zombies, taking on the undead rotters, yet for some reason the movie focuses on stereotypical characters as they flop around.

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If you’re expecting a Zombieland, where a nerdy socially ackward teenager starts off gunning down zombies, you’re in for a complete and total bore fest. Instead of moving fast into the main plot, the meat of a zombie film, Scouts Guide focuses on the awkward relationship between the characters like an American Pie imitation.

In the end, I would not recommend paying full ticket price at a movie theater. If you really want to see it for yourself, then Showbox it.

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Your better off playing Dead Rising.

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Prime Cuts Graphic Novel Review

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Gritty like rough sandpaper, deprived like a German nightclub, Primal Cuts, graphic novel written by John Franklin and Tim Sulka, illustrated by Rob Gutman, tells a disturbing and yet hilarious tale of revenge.

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Todd Sweeny, released from cosmology prison, sets forth to kill the man responsible for killing his family. He also has a skill like no other, a master of the cut, with his own special golden blades, and a sick collection of golden banes.

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What makes Prime Cuts standout is the how the gritty art style emphasizes the dark atmosphere, as Todd meets a set of characters that couldn’t pass a background check. From the dirty trucker to the greasy Italian, Prime Cuts features a slew of characters that thrive in a morally deprived underworld of sorts.

Having only read the first volume of Prime Cuts, I have more questions than answers. Todd’s backstory is still a mystery and I’m interested in finding out how he and his newly acquired friend navigate his bloody mess of a murder. Overall, Prime Cut is a series I would be following up on, and one that I recommend to those that enjoy a dark, twisted story.

Check out Prime Cuts
http://www.indyplanet.us/product/99627-2/

www.Primecutsnovel.com