The purpose of this quiz is to test your wilderness survival skills. You are a modern person with modern needs. Things like broken legs, heat stroke, and dehydration are things that happened back when your grandparents were kids. We have different concerns today, like my Twitter account is blocked! But when a real nature-related crisis strikes, how will you react? Will you do the right thing? Is rubbing salmon on your pajamas before bedtime a good camping practice?

1. You stayed up late drinking in the desert and, when you wake up in the dirt the next morning, you have major cottonmouth. You soon discover you forgot to bring any water. You should…
1. Hurry home so you can relax and watch TV.
2. Find a cactus and chop at it until you get to the chewy water-filled center.
3. Just start drinking more beer.
4. Hack at your drinking buddy until you get to the chewy water-filled center.

2. You are traveling for work, but you pull off the road to pee behind a bush. When you get back to the car you find out your mobile Wi-Fi does not work here.
1. Cancel the trip and head back home.
2. Make a splint and try to walk to the highway.
3. Use your smart phone.
4. Make a fire by rubbing two sticks against yourself.

3. You are stung by a scorpion while hiking in the Sonora Desert.
1. Slice open the wound and suck out the venom.
2. Quickly drink as much as possible in case it starts to hurt later.
3. Try to make it sting you again because the second sting cancels the first.
4. Seek out a local shaman, so you have someone else to drink with.

4. You are cross country skiing when your friend has run out of weed. You should…
1. Sob uncontrollably.
2. Try to find pizza delivery.
3. Leave him there with only the stems and seeds and go get more weed.
4. Cover his feet with a foot of snow.

5. Your buddy just fell down a cliff. He is begging you to bring him his iPad so he can catch up on a few things while waiting for emergency services. You should…
1. Drink all his beer.
2. Check to see if he has porn on his iPad.
3. Tell him you will only help him when he proves he can walk around on his own.
4. Split and watch 127 Hours on his iPad for tips.

6. After taking a hot chick into the desert for sex, your car breaks down. You are twenty miles from the nearest paved road and its growing hotter as the noon hour approaches. Soon it will be well over a hundred degrees.
1. Have sex immediately, before it gets any hotter.
2. Drink every drop of water you have at once.
3. Drain the radiator for drinking.
4. Start collecting your urine. Chicks dig that.

7. The ice seemed thick enough, but your friend just fell into a frigid lake. You are two miles from your car, what should you do?
1. Ask him if he sees any fish.
2. Have him jog back to the car for beers; it will help him stay warm.
3. Keep pouring more water on him and ask him if you can keep his CDs.
4. Have him stay in the water while you jog back to the car for beers to stay warm.

8. You are searching a parking lot for your missing wallet when your friend throws up. He seems disoriented and flushed.
1. Tell him he needs to find his own way home because you do not want puke in your car.
2. Pretend you do not know him and hurry away.
3. Continue to search. As long as he is still sweating, he will be okay.
4. Take your friends wallet while he’s still disoriented.

9. Your car ran out of gas in your driveway.
1. Go back to bed.
2. Get inside of the car and turn on the heater.
3. Make a fire and set up your tent.
4. Dig a moat around the car so water does not flood it.

10. Which of these items are the most important to have if you need to hike 40 miles back to civilization?
1. As much food and water as your girlfriend can carry.
2. As much alcohol as you can gather.
3. X-Box.
4. Your urine from that last time you were stuck in the desert.

Answer Key:

1. C
2. A
3. B
4. B
5. A
6. B
7. B
8. A
9. C
10. B

Grades:

Life Coaching has remained a fast-growing offshoot of the counseling field for years now. One clear advantage, you don’t need all of those pesky “credentials.” Life Coaches help people reach for their true goals while taking their money so they have less capital to do so. Life Coaching affirmations include, ‘Reach for your full potential’ and ‘I’m so special, I deserve to do whatever I want and to hell with the rest of you.’

Here, in the land of perpetual progressive positive support (PPPS), everyone gets a trophy. It’s like that Minnesota Senator said when he was just a comedian, “I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggone it, people voted for me.”

However, just as the Life Coaching craze is reaching new heights, a new type of coaching is hitting the scene, the Anti-Life Coach. With the damage done and a Nation whittling itself away through the endless enabling of entitled assholes, isn’t it time to reverse the tide?

We at the Discord tracked down one of these new pioneers, William Lynn, and he was more than happy to fill us in.

“Life Coaching builds people up, how stupid is that? Like Americans have any problems with positive self esteem, please. Have you seen the kids these days? They want cell phones at age six and it had better be a smart phone or some parent will have enough laxative poured into their drink to make a hippo crap an elephant,” said Lynn. “I think it’s far more vital to explain to people why they suck and aren’t really all that important.”

Lynn’s books include Aren’t We All Just a Bunch of Money Grubbing Sheep? and  We’re All Going to be Dead Soon Anyway, so Get the Fuck Over Yourselves.

When I asked if Mr. Lynn was familiar with the Discord’s Ghetto Shaman, he said, “He epitomizes our movement. He understands on a level I don’t even understand. He’s somehow tapping into our collective fuckupitude,” said Lynn.

When asked how often his services were being used, he laughed in my face and called me a broke loser before continuing. “There aren’t enough hours in the week to shoot down all the pompous a-holes out there, but to ignore your question; most of my clients are teens. Teenagers are well known for their ‘know everything’ attitude and their undeserved feelings of entitlement. Some parents will pay a fortune for me to take their brats down a couple of notches. Sometimes I even get a bonus if they leave my office in tears. Awwwe, you want a lollypop? You are a fucking lollypop, you barely employable, high school dropout shit head! Get used to dumpster diving for your lollypops, bitch.”

Others are less fond of this new school of coaching. Dr. Moonmurmur Freecloud had this to say: “Lynn’s idea that Americans need to be brought down instead of up is ridiculous. Just because most Americans are shamelessly spoiled, does not mean they don’t have feelings. Why just the other day, my Mercedes was in the shop and I was forced to drive our Cadillac SUV to the office, how embarrassing. I thought I’d never recover. My therapist heard an earful over that one. Oh could you excuse me, the heiress Cullenta is here and I need to help her come to grips with her vacation home conundrum.”

Delving deeper into this new Anti-Life trend helped me discover a laundry list of ‘issues’ Anti-Life Coaching claims to be able to help one overcome. This list includes: Thinking you are always right, Grandiosity, Being happy, Positive self-esteem, Entitlement, Lack of self-loathing, Chronic lack of self-loathing, Feeling better than others, Not wanting to kill yourself, Failure to self criticize, Not over-analyzing your every move, Unrealistic goals, Positive Body Image, and Thinking you could still be a rock star, artist, sports hero, author, or spoof news journalist.

Lynn summed it up thusly. “We’re just giving you a reality check. Face it, in the grand scheme of things most of us are just boring losers. America tried to drill it into our heads that we are special and bound for great things and glory, but most are likely to veg in front of the TV all day in a messy room that you’re just too lazy to clean.”

Then Lynn started to insult me, claiming that he had read my work and stated I was way too full of myself. I told him he was obviously an imbecile for not recognizing my genius and then punched him in the ear. In the ensuing battle, he kept criticizing my fighting techniques, which just made me punch him harder. One of his lackeys called the police and I’m writing this article from the jail library. Winslow is refusing to bail me out, again. He thinks I need some humility too and is thinking about hiring an Anti-life coach for me. It figures.

In an unprecedented move, the entire staff of The Daily Discord has pledged to drink as much as possible this Saint Patrick’s Day. When asked to elaborate, on what many are calling a senseless publicity stunt, CEO Pierce Winslow had this to say, “I know a lot of people drink quite a bit on Saint Patty’s Day already, but we are going to drink sooo much that normal people will seem like a bunch of nuns at AA.”

When asked the purpose for all the drinking, friend of the Discord and horror author Mike Griffiths had this to say, “We all know that Saint Patrick was responsible for saving many aspects of Christian history, which has worked out so well for us, and he supposedly drove the snakes from Ireland…namely the English. As a Pagan snake worshipper all this just makes me want to smash a U2 album and kick some leprechaun in the head. So that’s why I’ve resolved to construct a model of Saint Patrick out of living mice and duct tape, which I will then feed to my reticulated python. I’m hoping the tradition will take off like Guy Fawkes or Leif Erikson Day.”

After searching the entire Discord Tower Complex, we caught up with Mr. Winslow in the dumpster out back, trying to find something to eat.

“No, no, no…,” said Winslow. “We aren’t doing this as a charity fundraiser, although my ride does need a new set of tires. I consider this more of a silent protest against the capitalistic money grubbers who aren’t giving me my fair share of the Sheppard’s Pie! How am I going to afford a second exotic petting zoo on the south lawn of my third estate with all these people refusing to share their wealth? Trickle down my ass.” When asked to elaborate more on his view on Reagonomics, he said, “No, I mean I felt something trickle down my ass. I think I’m going to climb out of this dumpster now.”

As I was leaving, the Ghetto Shaman ran into me with his car and, from the looks of things, had started his celebrating a little early.

“The rest of these guys here are a bunch of panty waists and not fit to be shown a bottle of Vermouth at ten paces,” said the Shaman. “It makes me sick, seeing Griffiths and Zano with their ‘micro-brews’ and Cokie McGrath with her Boonsfarm and bottom shelf absinthe. I’ll be drinking like a real Irishman, not some micro-snob trustafarrian. Whiskey with a Whiskey chaser over here, bar keep! I’m going to drink so much my puke will be 80-proof, which my dog will appreciate later.”

When pressed for any real reason for dangerously binging on this day already known for dangerous binging, Mick Zano said, “It’s not about making sense. Have you seen our marquee/scroller thingie? The Discord has never been about making sense…duh.”

When it was pointed out that pledging to do something is typically associated with a good cause or at least a positive social outcome. After I made this comment, Griffiths punched me in the face and asked me if I wanted to wrestle. These are behaviors I was later told are connected with an elevated BAC.

Later, after I put ice on my jaw and was trying to sneak out the side door, Zano attempted to sell me his rare beer coaster collection that looked to be a stack of soggy paper towels. Mr. Winslow then asked me to head to the store to pick up a case of aged Scotch, but only handed me a dollar. The Ghetto Shaman mumbled a thread of obscenities and demanded this bar crawl adopt a “naked” theme. Unfortunately, I was dragged along. If this piece gets posted, I guess it means that some of us made it back alive. Oh, wait know, I can send it from my phone…so no guarantees.

Tell my wife I love her. Peace.

Collapsing Shack, AZ—After losing dozens of potentially talented reporters and multiple lawsuits, the Daily Discord’s CEO finally moved the official Discord ‘Casting Couch’ from Mick Zano’s office. “This latest list of atrocities and abuses marked the last straw,” said CEO Pierce Winslow. “And this time I mean it!”

As a result, threats, blubbering, and attempted bribery were heard echoing up and down the halls of Discord Central today.

“What can you expect?” said Winslow. “Do you see a lot of women working here? Guess why that is? Yep, it’s because either Mick Zano or the Ghetto Shaman scares them off. That and the fact we have no toilets in the rest room. And don’t even get me started on what they make the interns do. At this point, the only college that still sends us any is that damn Hogbein Institute and Multiplex. And the last one I got from there thought the World Wide Web was something from the Lord of the Rings.”

In his defense, Zano brought up the fact Cokie McGrath still worked for the Discord, “so we can’t be all bad.”

Winslow then pointed out the fact McGrath has filed no less than seven restraining orders against Zano and is even beginning to doubt whether or not he can truly “make her a star.”

When Zano was given a chance for a rebuttal, he had this to say. “This is completely unfair. Four of those restraining orders are completely unjustified.” And somewhere in the background someone did that badha bah, drum thing.

“Winslow could have at least waited until the Swedish exchange student bikini team had finished their tour,” added the Shaman.

Winslow countered by saying, “and I’m taking away that damn Badha bah drummer too!”

I caught up to local horror writer Michael D. Griffiths, who tends to lurk around the office looking for free pastries, and asked him if he knew of any inappropriate behavior going on within the halls of the Discord.

“Umm, as long as begging, screaming, panting, grunting, bribing, pleading, demanding, hanging up porn calendars, third party harassment, quid pro quo, inappropriate emails, asking to wife swap, hanging up flyers for office orgies, giving crude gifts, pinching, hugging, froughting, naughty pantomiming, knee licking, trying to get other employee to give out their daughter’s cell numbers, and hiring topless dancers for lunch breaks are okay, then I think these guys are pretty well behaved,” said Griffiths.

Mr. Griffiths later admitted, however, the Ghetto Shaman’s list would be “considerably longer.”

So as you can see, even with the loss of the infamous Casting Couch not much will probably change around Discord Central. When we asked Winslow where it would go, he said he was considering giving the couch to the Crank. “That guy needs something to cheer him up.”

Now you have to excuse me, the Crank is researching which bar has the best PBR pour in Mesa and the new interns from the institute are due to arrive any minute. Can you open a locked door with a church key? I mean they must call them keys for some reason.

Collapsing, AZ—After thirty-three failed suicide attempts, the creature known as the Frankenstein Monster was admitted to a local acute psychiatric unit over the weekend. When asked why he had tried to light his whole body on fire, encase himself in ice, and watch the entire Jersey Shore series on Netflix while eating buckets of habanero chicken wings, the monster had this to say…

“It isn’t fair. I’ve been around longer than Dracula for Christ’s sake, but I get no publicity anymore. I thought things might be turning around when Deniro played me in that movie, but apparently that was just a dead flesh in the pan. And since then, nothing.

Hell, I could hang with the Vampires and Werewolves back in the day, but it’s really this zombie popularity that pisses me off the most. What do you think I am? I’m a walking corpse, that’s what. Should I have eaten that little girl’s brain before I tossed her into the well? What’s a dead guy gotta do? My agent kept telling me, ‘Don’t worry, Franky. Don’t worry, Franky.’ Now I don’t even have an agent as I threw him into a well.”

These days everybody loves serial killers. How about I just kill a few hundred screen writers and maybe then I’ll get some attention? I could already be half zombie, half serial killer. No, really, I’m made of parts from like seventeen people.”

Then the fierce creature grew quiet.

“Hey, are you going to finish that donut? Do you have anything with cream in them? These are kind of dry.

“No,” I said.

“And don’t even get me started on these new Vampires,” he continued. “I remember fighting those blood suckers while making that movie with Abbott and Costello. Now those guys were funny, not like you jerks at the Discord. In the old days, Vampires were evil nasty things. They’d tear out your throat and make you scream in terror. Well, not in that order. The screaming generally happened before the throat tearing out part. Today vampires are heart throbs? Hello? They don’t have hearts, people! I feel like I’m in the Twilight all right, the Twilight Zone! How did vampires morph into these sexy sensitive types that shimmer in the daylight and want to date virgins? I blame Anne Rice for that shit. I want to see Less-stat. If you ask me, you should have stuck with porn, girlfriend. Oh, and if I get my hands on that Stephanie Meyer, bitch, I’ll eat her brain and throw her down a well.”

When I asked Franky what his future plans were, he replied. “Well, for one, I intend to start eating people. Not because I like the taste, but it just seems to be all the craze these days. I’m also going to try to be more sensitive. Do you think they’d let me go to high school? I never did get my degree. Oh yeah, I’m also going to say brains a lot, use Rogaine all over my body to grow some furry hair, maybe get those Goth dental implants that look like vampire fangs. And let’s not forget my mass murder angle. I figure, if I cover all the bases, they’ll have to like me again, right?”

When I mentioned he had forgotten about Aliens, killer cyborgs, and giant radioactively enlarged bugs, Frankenstein wore a very long face. He’s always like that, really.

So I said, “Hey, let’s not forget about Frankenhooker.” I was just trying to cheer him up, but, in retrospect, this was a big mistake. He immediately grabbed my arm and threw me into a well. Thankfully, he forgot to eat my brain. Now I’m forced to write this entire article on my cell phone. Hey, but his agent’s down here and says they need him for I, Frankenstein, coming out later this year. Would someone please tell him? It’s a comedy. But just don’t mention the word Frankenhooker.

Collapsing Shack, AZ—The story you are about to read is true, sadly…except the crawdad part and most of the dialogue. OK, the premise is true, the rest is bullshit. After nearly half an hour of grueling work, the infamous zombie author Michael D. Griffiths believed his zombie Christmas story was ready for publication. He could not have been more wrong…

I eventually caught up with the local legend and when I say local, I mean the local bar. And when I say legend, I mean he holds the record for the most women turning him down in a single night. And here we all thought Zano’s record would hold. Happy hour is the best time to catch him and thankfully Flagstaff only has about thirty likely establishments. When I found him, in the back of the Green Room, he was sobbing over an empty pitcher of IPA. After I agreed to buy Mr. Griffiths another pitcher, he had this to say:

“I was told there was going to be a zombie Christmas Anthology and started to write a story for it. I mean come on, my zombie novel Eternal Aftermath has sold nearly twelve copies. But anyway, I wrote this tight little story about a group of guys who have to fight their way through a zombie infested town so they can get medications for some sick kids on Christmas Eve. It passed the Flagstaff writing group with flying colors. They loved it! Hell, Zano was even considering modifying it for the Daily Discord. I mean it’s got zombies, an X-Mess message, and all that Yule time sentimental crap tied up in a nice red bloody bow. But what does my publisher say?

“No, no, no, no, no, I want, like, zombies in a Santa suit eating children.”

He really said that. Dude?! What the hell?! Even I can’t write stuff that sick. Perhaps I should stick with my cannibal mutant anthologies and Santa Claus can bite me.”

When I asked the melancholy author if he had any plans to rectify the situation, he said, “Look, I tried my best and I blew it. Now I won’t be able to afford to get Christmas presents for my family this year, unless you count these crawdads I’ve been saving since last summer in a bucket in my bathroom. But I forgot to refill the bucket last month and they’re not very active. Well, they’ll be easier to wrap now. Kind of smells like an Asian fish market in there, though. Cheaper than replacing the Poo-Pourri, I suppose. Heck, they might not be eatable anymore, but I’ll let my family make their own call…after I ship them back east.”

When I asked if he meant shipping the family or the crawdads back east, he took a large swig from the pitcher and blew a wave of foam barward. 

A hardy “PthHwaaaw!” was all he managed.

He drinks right out of the pitcher, by the way. For those scant few of you who don’t know him personally, Mr. Griffiths is a 7-foot tall Nordic-Viking type dude (NVTD).

Once the pitcher was done, he got up to leave, but as he started downing abandoned drinks off a nearby table, he yelled this across the bar at me, “Christmas Zombies, Bah Humbrains! Christmas is for sissies anyway. I’ll show them a whole new meaning of terror when I release my Zombie Ground Hog Day series.”

Then Mr. Griffiths stumbled back over to me and slurred, “I don’t want to drop any spoilers, but let’s just say loads of children will be eaten by giant undead rodents and every time he sees his shadow, he’ll vomit acid. I might tie it in with that Bill Murray movie and have them relive that glorious day over and over again. Did I give too much away?”

I asked him when the deadline was for his publisher for this original zombie x-mas story, and he said, “Now! It’s due now! If he wants Gore, how about Al Gore trapped at Santa’s flipping workshop, with ice melting all around, surrounded by armies of undead cannibalistic climatologists! I’ll give him Gore…I’ll give Gore!”

He then chugged his last confiscated pint and stormed out of the bar, shouting incoherently about cannibal anthologies and the mutant hordes. Oh, and he left me with the bill for both pitchers, the usual.