"Social Injustice must end."

Ladies and Gentlemen, readers of the AndyFaceMedia Blog, lend me your eyeballs:

Martin Luther King, Jr. famously wrote in his Letter from Birmingham Jail that "Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere." It has come to my attention that there is a great injustice occurring among a minority group all across America. This threat to justice grows ever larger every year, particularly during this time of year. They have been trampled upon for centuries on end and they deserve equal rights:
The turkey.

Now, you may wonder what horrible injustice has been incurred upon this variety of poultry. As you may know, Thanksgiving is just around the corner. Who, may I ask, is one species that is ultimately required to be killed by the millions?
The turkey.

Why must we discriminate against these poor souls? Are they somehow specieally inferior to chickens, cows, and fish? Is it just because we have sunk our jagged teeth into their juicy leg muscles for so long that we dismiss the gruesomeness as being a tradition? We may as well make a holiday where as part of the tradition, we each hit people with baseball bats. What would be the justifications for these acts of malice? Perhaps that it was a matter of tradition, as people were often beaten as slaves? This is absolutely ludicrous.

In addition, you may hear about feminists demanding equal wages for men and women in the workplace. However, what some activists seem to overlook is the fact that one could argue that turkeys are in an even worse bind. For example, cows, when killed, are neatly separated into separate muscle groups, perfectly packaged, and sold for a hefty price. Turkeys, on the other hand, simply get their heads chopped off, their bodies thrown into a plastic bag, and piled atop each other in a freezer bin and peddled at ninety nine cents a pound. Even a pound of the cows' moldy milk remains can be worth more than five pounds of a turkey.

Winston Churchill once said, "A fanatic is one who can't change his mind and won't change the subject." This is completely unrelated to turkeys, but I deduced that it might increase the appearance of intellect in my prose.

I must ask the question: "Why turkey?" I demand that we begin this year to consume, with equality, the various edible meats on Thanksgiving. Not only does this encourage specieal diversity at the dinner table, but also eliminates frustrating and unnecessary rules, since now the dog can finally be on the dinner table. We can even get those poor little kittens off the streets, out of the pounds, and especially out of those ASPCA commercials and get them into our stomachs.

If you have not noticed yet, China is a great threat to American superiority, as we owe more and more money to them each coming year. You may wonder how they have advanced further than we have economically, but all that is necessary to answer this question is to look at their menus. They do not restrict their diets to turkeys on certain days. In fact, nearly everything that moves or has stopped moving is fair game, from scorpions to duck feet.

You have also perhaps heard the phrase "This tastes like crap!" This was my inspiration for diverting even more hungry stomachs from the hapless turkey. If we begin eating scorpions and such, why stop there? With the growing world population, there has been a dramatic increase in the amount of fecal matter produced by humans. Although this may sound repulsive, think about it: if you have stomached your mother's meatloaf, which you have already found to taste like crap, there should be no issue with stomaching the real deal.

Nutritionalists may argue that this may produce an imbalanced diet. However, my findings show quite the contrary. There is larger amounts of scientific evidence that countless microorganisms find sustenance in consuming fecal matter. If we are so much more advanced than these amoebas, why can we not find sustenance as well?

In conclusion, I resolve that turkeys have had enough trauma in their history and cultural background. I will not rest until this threat to justice is abolished forever. Through the increased range of dieting I propose, I truly believe that there is hope for our feathered companions. That is why I implore you, this Thanksgiving, to find something else to gobble.

Thank you for reading, and goodnight.
Any thoughts on this controversial and hot-button issue? Comment below.

"Brief Tidbits of Poetry"

Hello everyone!
Here are some poems that I have written!
I hope you like them!
Don't forget to tell people about my blog!

Ode to the Poems that were Actual Poems

There were some poems read by those,

Who thought them fine, yes more than prose,

But I would choose to lose my nose,

Than read that stuff.

For they, the poems hopped a bit,

With gliding feet, so quaintly writ,

But then some lines just wouldn’t fit,

It sounded like prose.

The chaos reigned from line to line,

Enslaving those who read its kind,

And once again, like time to dine,

The poet adds another random phrase that completely throws off the entire metric beat that the reader was on, causing him or her to be greatly frustrated with the writer, sort of like when a pianist is playing your favorite song and they play an F sharp augmented chord with an F natural as the root note instead of a playing a simple C Major chord.

So why they do these crazy things,

That throw the mind off rhythmic wings,

And dethrones nature’s true born kings,

Is simply ‘cause they like the zings

It gives them when their readers cry,

And wish they never learned to fly.

I now remain inside my cave

Until the poets learn to rhyme.

A Response to the Ongoing Complaints of Using Word “You”

Can you keep your head when all about you

Are making songs that might be about you,

But you can’t stand how I rhyme the same word, can you?

I know I can, but how about you?

I am ignorant to the contrary calls by you,

So I continue to torture little old you

By rhyming and rhyming the same word: you,

As my poetic stretcher fastens around you.

Why do I do this to my reader, you?

I don’t want to talk about me, silly, just you.

Why, oh why?

Where is the sun? Why is it not here?

It should have been here hours ago…

Night is still here, choking, suffocating.

I can’t breathe.

Where is the sun?  Where did you put it?

I have waited so long for its golden face,

Rejuvenating, cheerful, warm embrace…

Did you take it?

Night is still here. Make it go away!

The moon, unforgiving, smiles cruelly on me,

And the stars laugh among themselves in a thunderous choir.

Please go away!

Where is the sun? Am I in the wrong?

I have waited and waited for so long.

Is it daylight savings?

Is my clock wrong?..

oh, wait a second…

Thanks for reading!

Also, look for a possible new video release in the near future!

AndyFaceMedia YouTube Channel

"A Poem."

A poem:

Trees, NOT by Joyce Kilmer

I think that I shall never see,

A poem as boring as a tree.

A tree is not exciting, bub.

It's just a tall and leafy shrub.

It will not pray, that stuff is lies;

It'll just photosynthesize.

Poems are made by fools like me,

But God made fools better than trees.

My Music!

So, you may have heard that I like music.
What you may not have heard is that I am quite the prolific composing Garagebandolier.
I will be posting one of my greatest hits onto youtube soon...

"The Theft of a Bass Drum Mallet and the Exciting Happenings Surrounding this Event."

(Although this is based on a true story, remember: it is "based" on a true story. Facts might be changed, adjusted, or manipulated to serve a specific purpose. And on a side note, the event involves Lord of the Rings characters since it was a costume party, but I will use their actual genders as pronoun references. For example, our Legolas was a disguised girl, so: "Legolas shouted, with anger in her voice."

Enjoy:

The night was dark, like a place without light. The air was dry and chilly, as if the nightly low for that day was forty-one degrees with a zero percent chance of precipitation. My imaginary beard fluttered in the breeze as the air current swept in from the south-southeast direction at about six miles per hour. And, to add to the dramatic atmosphere of the scene, contemporary Christian music played faintly in the background, barely audible above the noise of the crackling fire.

As Legolas, Eowyn, and I looked at each other, we somehow knew what was going to happen that night. Although we had really only been planning this meeting for about four weeks, it felt like we had been waiting for nearly four and a half weeks. We remained quiet as a few members of the fellowship approached. Gollum approached us in his usual manner, and we thanked him for being such a gracious host and allowing us to use his home as a meeting place.

Holding the bass drum mallet in my hand, I sipped my root beer with contemplation while we waited for Frodo's car to pull into the driveway. We waited for five minutes, then five minutes turned into ten minutes, and then into ten hours. Ten hours turned into ten months, and then ten years. But we found out that Frodo's golf tournament went late after about seven minutes of waiting, so the meeting proceeded without him.

"Legolas, are we ready to begin?" Eowyn inquired.

"Certainly," I replied.

"Nobody asked you, Saruman!" Legolas shouted, with anger in her voice, "but yes, Eowyn, we are ready."

"Wait for me!" shouted Elrond, jumping out of his mom's car and rushing toward the campfire.

"Okay, well I think this is all the people who have decided to show up," Eowyn said regretfully.

"It's just like those hobbits to never show up to these sorts of things..." I grumbled to myself.

"Well, let's start out with some volleyball!" Gollum shouted, holding the volleyball up in the air. We all ran towards the net and divided up the teams. Our team decided on being called The Dark Side while their team remained in anarchy without unification. After countless victories by The Dark Side, we all heard a scream.

"The bass drum mallet has been stolen!" Eowyn cried. I felt around in my pockets for the mallet. It was no longer there.

"Saruman, where did you last have it?" Legolas wondered with anxiety.

"Um... I don't remember..." I thought long and hard. I searched the upper portions of this blog post. "Oh yeah, I had it in my hand while I sipped my root beer, waiting for Frodo."

"Are you sure that is the last thing about the bass drum?"

"Well, you can see if you can find anything," I replied. Legolas examined the blog post thoroughly, but could not find any other evidence. Then, out of nowhere, Eowyn began handing out white slips of paper, as if she was supposed to hand out fortune cookies to us but got hungry on the way to the meeting, leaving only the tiny messages.

"'Saruman wants the mallet because it has the power to control other's minds,'" Aragorn read aloud, with his luscious dark black wig tumbling about his head in the breeze and his hand on his hip as he struck a very sassy pose, "Is this true?" he asked.

"Of course not. I can control people's minds anyways."
The crowd replied in unison,"Of course not. He can control people's minds anyways."

"'Frodo knows the power of the mallet and wants to destroy it.' Well, obviously he doesn't want to have it destroyed that much since he is at a golf tournament," Faramir said resentfully.

"'Aragorn and Arwen are in love.' Whoa. Is it facebook official?" Legolas asked.
"Oh, stop it. You know that Aragorn and I are just friends," Arwen said, playfully interlocking her fingers with Aragorn. Aragorn stared deeply into her eyes, and they both giggled with excitement.

The evidence hearing continued on in such a manner for a long time. The group members then voiced their opinions. Some people pointed fingers at everyone else; some threatened to cut off said fingers. Eowyn raised her sword, crying out, "We will now find out who everyone thinks stole the bass drum mallet!"

The group suddenly fell silent, as if some loud lady had just announced something important. We each began hurriedly writing down on one sheet of paper who we thought stole the mallet. Surprisingly, it looked as if no one had the idea of erasing the accusations against themselves on the list as the paper was passed around besides me.

"Alright, the voting lines are now closed! Anyone whose name I call out must line up along the volleyball net of vindication!" Eowyn said, using a very catchy alliteration. "Legolas! Boromir! Arwen! Aragorn! Eowyn! Hey, that's me! And Saruman!"
"Saruman wasn't written down!" I shouted.

"Nevermind. Saruman wasn't written down. Now, the thief of bass drum mallet is..." her voice trailed off in anticipation. She waited for the precise moment.

No, not yet.

Just a little bit longer.

Now everyone began to get annoyed at this long moment of suspense.

Even Eowyn was getting frustrated.

Nevertheless, this awkward pause went on.

And on.

Finally, she stated the name of the thief: Boromir.

It was quite a surprise for everyone. Except for Eowyn. She had known all along. As the crowd gather around Boromir demanding for the location of the bass drum mallet, she let out an evil chuckle.

"Now you must find the mallet," she said, smiling.
"Or what?" I asked.
"Or else the school band will have to live with another lost bass drum! Mwahaha!"

She let out an evil laugh. Well, actually she didn't, but whatever.

"Do we have to?" Elrond asked, wearing his traditional cloak of shame.
"Yes," she replied.
"Aw, man!"

"I am no man!" Eowyn cried suddenly, tearing off her helmet in a dramatic manner and shaking her long hair back and forth for effect.

We began searching the moonlit and flashlight-lit forest for the bass drum mallet. It was wooden with a few strips of tape new the top where there was a white fuzzy sphere. After looking around, I spied an object that appeared to be made of wooden. It was a tree. I then realized this search could take a while. Nearly ten long minutes of searching had passed when I remembered one vital piece of knowledge: I am a percussionist.

So, using my percussive powers, I attempted to telepathically communicate with the mallet.
"Hello?" I said, telepathically, of course.
"Hi!" a small voice shouted, also telepathically.
"Is this the bass drum mallet?"
"No, this is the drumsticks," the inanimate objects replied.

"Oh. Do you know where the bass drum mallet is?"
"Yes. It resides in the tall wooden fortress."
"You mean the swingset?" I asked.
"Yeah, that thing."

I quickly said goodbye, told them to give my regards to the maracas, and climbed the mighty swing set. As I walked up the slide like a ninja, I wondered if this could really be happening. Could I finally reclaim the bass drum mallet for myself to restore order to Middle Earth? It felt like I had been without the mallet since the Second Age, and now we felt so close. I simply imagined what it would be like, holding that ancient scepter of power in my firm grip. The time was approaching when I would again reach the mallet. I finally grew tired of wondering, reached over, and took the bass drum mallet.

It was a joyous occasion. Everyone was both elated and relieved to see the bass drum mallet once again.
"Oh man, I thought I would never see that mallet again," Faramir said.
"I am no man!" Eowyn cried suddenly, tearing off-
"Alright, we get it Eowyn! You're a woman!"

"How do we know that this is the real bass drum mallet?" Gimli asked.
"Well," Gandalf said, "put in the fire! Wait, this one is made out of wood. See if it bears a message or something."
"Hmm..." I looked on the other side of the bass drum mallet. "I have found something!"


Gnuple shnuple,
Khangle bojahngle,
Bheezs Nheezs
Flospy mopsy,
Cottontail.

"Legolas, do you know the Elven tongue?" I asked.
"No! Why would I? Just because I have the pointy ears? I don't see people going around and asking people if they speak Australian just because they have a kangaroo!"

"Um, okay. I didn't mean to offend you. Oh well. The mallet has a message in Elven, so it must be authentic! Come on! How about one more game of volleyball?"
Everyone cheered, and The Dark Side did another strange team chant.
After the volleyball game ended, out of curiosity, I entered the Elven passage into Google translators. It translated:


One bass drum mallet to hit them all,
One bass drum mallet to smack them,
One bass drum mallet to provide a nice little poem to end a mystery story for all,
And in the darkness, hit the bass drum.
Made in China.

Wait a second...

New story in the works (perhaps)....

So, tonight I was at an epic party.

It was a mystery party, where we had to find out who stole a bass drum mallet. Sounds exciting? It only gets better: It was Lord of the Rings themed, and I was Saruman. And that party, my friends, even surpassed Gilette as being the best a man can get.

Now, you might be asking "Why does this matter?" Then again, you might not be asking "Why does this matter?" Either way, I will tell you why it matters.

I am going to try to write a story about these dramatic events. Who stole the mallet? Was it Gandalf the Grey who stole the mallet? Or perhaps was it Gandalf the White?

You will figure out soon enough...

"Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?"

In other news.
I also write!
Here is a story that I wrote today: I hope you guys like it!

Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?

Once upon a time, there was an old turtle. He lived in the grassy meadow where he spent his days feasting on steamed vegetables with his beautiful Tortuga, Heidi. This older turtle was crawling across a road. What happens next doesn’t really matter, since this story isn’t really about this turtle anyways. This story is about a chicken.

Once upon that same time, there was also an elderly chicken. Her better days were behind her, when she could turn out those Grade A, large, organic, cage free, hormone free, grain fed, chicken eggs made without artificial colors or flavors faster than any other hen in the world. But that was a long time ago. Now she wanted to get away from it all. She wanted to go to the grassy meadow, home of the friendly turtles with quaint little townhomes, all in a rural setting and only two blocks down from the new J. C. Penny’s. Only one problem: she had to cross the road.

At first, it seemed like no biggie to this chickie. However, she then surmised that if the cars were traveling at about 60 miles per hour, and if the average car weighed about 800 pounds, the amounts of kinetic energy that would be applied to her delicate hourglass figure by a collision would be immense, according to Newton’s law of inertia and the fact that force is mass times acceleration.

Many of her chicken pals urged her not to go. Many weren’t even sure why she was going across the road.

“I just want to at least see what it is like over there, okay? I have been just a plain old hen for so long and I have never really been satisfied with that,” said Jonathan, the heroine of this story.

“Oh please, Jonathan. You just think the grass is always greener on the other side, don’t you?”

“Of course it is. The grass is yellow here!” Jonathan retorted. All the hens looked down. The grass was indeed yellow, almost gold. They all agreed this was a very undesirable grass color.

“Alright. Do what you want, Jonathan. Stay safe! And look both ways before you cross the street!”

“It’s just a road, not a street…”she mumbled to herself as she galloped towards the crosswalk with her wings flapping up and down. She made her way into the forest, because she was told the road would be just past the clearing of the trees. As Jonathan began to tire and start waddling, she began to contemplate morality, the role of man in the infinite, and various hot-button political topics. Once she finally made her way to the road, she saw, surprisingly, another chicken trying to cross the road with a turtle shell on his back.

“Excuse me, what are you doing?” Jonathan asked.

“I’m trying to cross the road!” he replied loudly.

“But why?”

“To prove I’m not a chicken,” he said.

“Actually, you are a chicken.”

“No I’m not. I’m a turtle! See the shell?” he asked, irritated at Jonathan’s remarks.

“So what is your strategy?”

“I have studied the road crossing strategies of the turtles, and it’s quite remarkable. Apparently, all I have to do is wait in the middle of the road and someone will carry me across the road!”

“Hm,” she replied, “fascinating. Is that it?”

“Well first, I’m going to wait for the human crossing sign on the crosswalk to change to the chicken crossing sign.” he leaned forward and tried to motion to the lamppost with his wing, but the weight of the turtle shell made him fall flat of his face.

“I think that sign means don’t walk.”

“No it doesn’t! See the chicken wing?”

“That’s a human hand…” Jonathan said, pointing to the now-glowing orange hand.

“No it’s not! I’ll prove it to you! Watch this!” the turtle disguised chicken exclaimed, running full force into the oncoming traffic. He was a quarter of the way there. Then he was halfway there. And then he was three quarters of the way there. Sadly, he got evidence of no longer being a chicken in in an unexpected way. Even greater than his unexpected taste of success was his unexpected taste of gravel, asphalt and rubber as his fragile frame crunched under the heavy weight of the trailer like a jelly filled donut with a side of salted ruffle cut potato chips. Jonathan looked upon the scene in horror as her new friend became a two-dimensional object in a matter of two seconds.

“OH NO!!!” she thought loudly to herself. “How will I cross the road?”

She came up with a plan. Jonathan decided that she would cross the road like the humans did.

The human walking light illuminated once more, and Jonathan began her trek across the road. She was a quarter of the way there. Then she was halfway there. And then she was three quarters of the way there. Then she twisted her ankle.

“What?” she howled in pain, “I thought chickens didn’t have ankles!”

Whether or not chickens really have ankles, she was stuck injured in the middle of the road nonetheless, as the so called “chicken crossing” sign lit up with its sinister orange glow.

The cars whooshed past her, one after the other. After starting to tire from avoiding about three cars with a twisted ankle, she realized that she wasn’t quite the typical hero of an action movie that could keep dodging cars forever while also being in a sword fight with a mob of goons armed with AK-47s led by a psychotic killing mastermind who has a henchman with a special attribute or ability, such as having an arm made of titanium-steel alloys.

She thought fast, at least fast for an aging old chicken, and thought of his friend’s turtle shell. It was relatively undamaged and laid beside her. She grabbed it and hid inside. Suddenly, she heard the squealing of tires. As she looked up, she saw the rubber death rolls of a pickup truck inches away from the shell and saw a boy reaching for the shell.

“Maybe he will help me!” she thought. The little boy picked up the shell and looked inside.

“Well are you gonna help the turtle cross the road or not, Jimmy?” the mom asked.

“It’s a chicken!” the boy exclaimed, shaking the shell and watching Jonathan’s nearly lifeless body fall out and flop on the pavement.

“Well then leave it alone if it’s not a turtle to help across the road, Jimmy! That chicken doesn’t look fit for eatin’, but we can do something with that empty turtle shell; let’s go!”

The boy, looking at the poor chicken, shed a small tear in compassion for the chicken and reluctantly hopped back into the pickup with shell in hand, and the truck sped off, leaving poor Jonathan alone once again in the rush of rural highway traffic. Worn out and beat up, she barely opened her eyes enough to see an eighteen wheeler speeding directly at her delicate hourglass figure. She wondered many things: “Is the grass really greener on that side of the road? If so, is it worth the price of crossing the road? Will I become a jelly-filled donut like the other chicken? Will anyone save me?” She clucked one final cluck of desperation as the semi grew ever closer to Jonathan.

She closed her eyes.

All of the sudden all eighteen tires squealed to a halt.

A bearded, sweaty old man opened the truck door and looked in Jonathan’s direction.

“Oh my gosh! I nearly hit that poor turtle!” the man exclaimed. Jonathan opened her eyes in disbelief as she saw that a turtle with a small, but aged shell had curled up right beside her.

“Oh, let me just help you, Mister Turtle!” the man said affectionately, picking up the turtle the moment just after the turtle stuck its neck out and took hold of Jonathan with its delicate but strong mouth as the trucker carried both Jonathan and the turtle to the safety of the other side of the road. The trucker slowly drove off, leaving a hen in shock and a turtle on the side of the road.

“Why did you do that? You could have gotten yourself killed just to save a chicken!” Jonathan exclaimed.

“I saw the bumper sticker,” the turtle said, motioning over to the vanishing truck’s “I Brake For Turtles” sign.

“Ah. I see,” said the distressed little hen, still in shock. “So what side of the road are we on?”

“You are on the grassy meadow side, home of us friendly turtles and quaint little townhomes, all in a rural setting and only two blocks down from the new J. C. Penny’s,” the turtle said.

“Oh! Can I see the townhomes?”

“Sure. Right this way!” The friendly turtle took Jonathan to see all of the townhomes. Each was indeed quaint and in a rural setting; some were even closer to the J. C. Penny’s than the earlier estimate.

“So do you like it here?” the turtle asked, as other turtles gathered around to see the newcomer.

“Oh yes! I love the townhomes and all you friendly turtles! So what is your name?” Jonathan

asked.

“My name is Clarissa,” he said.

“Wow, I think that we will get along just fine!”

“So why did you even cross that road anyways? We rarely have any chickens visit us these days because of the recent highway closure that drives lots of thru traffic this way,” Clarissa remarked.

“I’m not sure really. The whole idea of townhomes didn’t even seem that appealing to me at first. I guess I crossed the road just because I wanted to get to the other side,” she mused. “But I’ll tell you what: the grass is really greener on this side.”

“No it’s not. The grass is blue!” Clarissa retorted. All the turtles as well as Jonathan looked down. The grass was indeed blue, almost navy. They all agreed this was a very desirable grass color.