The Tea Party: Making Evil Fun

I am the 1%

“Compare’n Yo Ass to Fat Rocks of Crack” A variation of Shakespeare by Matthew Dobson

Any Shakespeare fans? This is a very famous poem of his:

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate;
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date;
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

For my ENC1102 class we were told to rewrite it with a modern twist:

“Compare’n Yo Ass to Fat Rocks of Crack”

Compare’n yo ass to fat rocks of crack
You be bigga and don’t burn up so quick
Them boulders will give ya a heart attack
Smoke that shit it only lasts two minutes
Sometimes that glass pipe will burn up yo lips
And that high be gone before I’m finished
Then I’m left on the floor in little bits
Rocks found in the carpets my only wish
Now Yo high that shit be lastin all day
One hit of Yo ass is all it’s taken
Never even close to goin away
This high might last forever no faken
If my heart is even slightly beat’n
Ima smoke Yo ass without retreating

I even stayed true to the iambic pentameter and rhyme sceme.
I hope my teacher digs it.

"Guardians of Balance" A research paper by Matthew Dobson

Guardians of Balance

         Our world is a constantly evolving balance of life and complexity. Each organism, from people, down to the smallest amoeba, have a profound effect and purpose. It could be theorized that life itself knows what it needs to flourish, and tries to steer itself there, through evolution and adaptation. Self-aware, life acts as one coherent entity, manifesting itself in various abnormalities and mutations. These changes would seem to be with one purpose: to preserve and strengthen life.  Yet among these “life preserving” phenomena, are some which seem counterintuitive.  Homosexuality would seemingly go against the rules of evolution. However, to think that there is no purpose for such a thing would be to greatly underestimate the deliberate nature of life.

The art of making a book not suck potatoes.....by adding ninjas. By Jake Stabler

"In Translation" by Jean Kwok details the struggles of an awckward young Asian girl who immigrates to the United States, where she isn't excepted by her rich white peers (big fucking surprise). She goes to school during the day and works in a factory with her single mother at night. Her infatuation with a guy at the factory blossoms into a physical relationship and biggity-bang, she earns herself a fuck trophy. Forced by her mother to keep the child, she has the kid and doesn't tell Matt, the father. The book ends with her unsure whether to tell her son about Matt, or let the kid grow up to be an Asian bastard with an awckward slut mom. Epilogue, 10 years later:

Ninja Volleyball Master


As Kimberly enters the room, she is met by her curious son, Jason. As she tells Jason that his father is Matt, he is forced to contemplate his existence on this earth. A vision comes to him in a dream. He is thrust into consciousness when he realizes his calling in life is to become the world’s greatest ninja volleyball player. He doesn’t know much about the sport, but with his mother’s intelligence and his father’s physical attributes, he would be sure to succeed at anything he put his heart into.


When Jason graduates from high school, he gets serious about his training. He feels a strong gravitational pull to his roots in China, and his mother is obliged to send him back for the elite ninja volleyball training he so desperately needs. When he arrives, he is instantly broken of his western ways. He is humbled and disciplined by masters of the sport. He trains night and day, readying himself to engage in fierce ninja volleyball guerilla.


Jason completes his training and comes back to America. He joins the Olympic ninja volleyball team, quickly earning the spot as the captain, and takes his team all the way to the top. The final match is with bitter ninja volleyball rivals, Ethiopia. The match is intense and Jason hurts his ankle on a reverse McGilla Cutty pile-driver spike. Fearing he can’t continue, he looks to the crowd for inspiration.


He sees his mother and Matt making out. “They must be back together”, he thought. Not sure if he should be overjoyed by the thought of his mother and father rekindling their love or absolutely grossed out by them making out, he chokes back his nausea and presses on. The ball is served by Ethiopia and it comes straight to Jason. He channels his all his emotions into one solid kick and returns fire, killing one of the opposing team’s forwards. He feels both terrible and overjoyed. By striking such a fatal blow, knows he just solidified his spot as the most feared ninja volleyball player ever, and would be the only man in history to kill someone with a volleyball to the jugular.

 I'm pretty sure I'm either gonna fail this class or drive the professor to suicide.

"Chef Pat's Funky Chicken" A short story by Matthew Dobson

       It was only May and the Florida sun had already begun eating my soul. I was parked facing the beach, I was over dressed, and I was uncomfortable.  The A/C of my Blue Impala was giving me everything it had. The steering wheel was still hot to the touch. I looked up through a dirt smeared windshield, to the ocean, and to a day which would be perfect for a beach goer. The sky was clear, the ocean calm, and the sun relentless. The little waves laughed mockingly as they broke, knowing I was unable to take them up on their offer. On other days when I sat here, I would listen to music, a song or two, to get my mind ready for the abuse it would soon experience. Not today. I reluctantly fastened the remaining buttons of my chef's jacket. "As if this shit hole had chefs," I thought. I braced myself for the inevitable, cut the ignition, and stepped out onto the scorching blacktop.

       I was standing in the parking lot of the Howard Johnson Hotel, and The Patio Bar and Grill, in Deerfield Beach Florida. In the winter it's a good job, there are tourists, plenty of business, and it's not too hot to stay alive. I hated having to answer to someone, being talked down to, and being subordinate to remarkably unintelligent individuals. I got my dose of all these things working here. As I walked away from my car and the ocean and all their promises of freedom, I recalled a time when this business was enjoyable. Working for tips, not dollars per hour, and definitely not in the kitchen, meeting various waitresses, and hostesses, and basking in the alcohol fueled nightlife of a restaurant employee. I crossed the street in the same place I crossed it each day. The dreary Deerfield scenery with it's plethora of deserted weekly beach rentals blended into the background as I neared the hotel. Season was over, there was barely any business, the only position I could work was as a line cook,  I'd have made more at Blockbuster if they were hiring.

       As I neared the rear entrance to the hotel's pool, blackness and death dominated my mind. "Don't be a spoiled bitch," I told myself, "Be happy you have a job." I wasn't. Recently I had started taking classes part time and was enjoying them immensely. My meager existence, my apartment, my car, and the job required to sustain them, limited my school, and my progress within it. I pulled my security card out of the worn leather Versace wallet my mom got me for Christmas, and slid it through the sensor on the gate, gaining entrance to the pool. The deserted area reeked of chlorine which at the moment smelled bittersweet. The pool chemicals reminded me of childhood summers and the freedom within them. The emptiness of the patio area was another reminder that season was over, and business hard to come by. Suddenly the sound of my phone ringing through the pocket of worn out Dickies snapped me back to reality. "Must be 3:01 I thought." Glancing at the screen, the name "Chef Pat" was barely visible through the piercing glare that cut my eyes. I immediately hit ignore. 

       My only hope was that "the chef" (A title who's appropriateness was debatable.) was calling me because he wanted to go home and needed me to be there in order to do so. A common occurrence. My fear was that he called because the owner was in town and we had to cook for him and his entourage, which also was a common occurrence. I didn't have any respect for the owners or the chef. There were good people working here, but it didn't bring out the best in them. If the owners were here, it meant the chef would be here all night. He would be drinking, and my life would be exponentially less pleasant.

       I was now close enough to the pool's tiki bar to be seen by the bartender. "Hi Matty!" said Tina. Tina was good company. She was short, barely seeing over the vibrantly colored bottles on her counter. She was older then me, well into middle age, and a lifetimer in the service industry. "Hi" I replied, "How's it going?" She answered only with a look of frustration as she faced zero customers in her New York Giants jersey. The sun hit her bleached blond hair, she was once beautiful. Now her weariness with life was such a reality, it could be tasted by those around her. I smiled, "Are you working tonight?" I asked, hoping she was, as Tina is one of several bartenders I could hit up for a drink. The alcohol helped bring an end to the endless, it passed the time. "Yep." she said. "Good" I thought. "Is the douch and his cronies in town?." "Ya, but they aren't eating here tonight." Happy with the good news I took one final look across the pool to the beach, Patio Bar's endless playlist of Jimmy Buffet echoed softly through distorted speakers. Opening the door to the hotel I stepped into the un-airconditioned lobby, occasionally waving to various work acquaintances as I made my way down the hall. Eventually I found the outdated, and over worked computer which was constantly crashing, and clocked in. "Only five minutes late," I thought, which at the Patio Bar is on time. There was only one thing left to do, see what kind of condition the kitchen was in, and what kind of unpleasantries I'd be unable to avoid.

       As I stepped into the closet sized, and oven tempertured kitchen, the familiar smell of un-fresh food, and discontent became apparent. There were no dishwashers, no anyone, just Pat in a relatively clean kitchen. The cleanliness was due to slow business, not cleaning. Despite the tidy appearance, the slow times were the worst for the food quality. Without much money coming in, the chef was increasingly pressured to improve food costs. This meant fear of throwing things away, even after they were far from fresh. Pat turned around and saw me. He was an average looking guy, balding, shaved head, in his upper forties. A southern type, with obviously uneducated opinions of things. He was the chef, he did not love to cook, he was not creative, but he toiled, and held his job to provide for his family. He was wearing standard kitchen attire, and held a plastic cup, which I could bet was full of Canadian Club. He looked at me and with the eyes of a beaten man, who had traded any sense of passion in exchange for survival, said "Hey Matt, I'm glad your here. I've been wanting to talk to you, I really hope your aware how lucky you are to have a job. I just stared back at him. "I really need more from you," he said. "I need you to clean more, and break down the kitchen better when you leave." "O.K. I said, both of us knowing I didn't give a shit. "If you put in the work you could climb the ladder here, it could be a career for you, like it is for me. You should focus and make Patio Bar your number one priority." I looked over at a luke warm bucket of festering, three day old, precooked chicken. 

       In that moment I knew, the older employees, who wafted dissatisfaction everywhere they went, were a glimpse into my future. I would do anything, no matter how humbling or drastic, to avoid their fate. I needed to be in school full time, and amazingly "Chef Pat," his "little speech", and that festering bucket of chicken were my catalyst.