Thursday, November 22, 2007
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Egads, I've been tagged!
Much like the side of a building in the ghetto, where crack flows like screw-top wine, I’ve been tagged. (Whoooo! Three stereotypes in the first sentence—I’m off to a great start!) The whole concept of tagging on the blogosphere is interesting. Allow me to illustrate the abstract concept of the tagger–tagee relationship with the help of an Aristotelian dialog:
“Hey, pal! I’ve just tagged you!”
“Tits, bro. What do I get?”
“You get to answer all these questions!”
“You gave me a test, basically, is what you’re saying?”
“Yeah, when you look at it that way, I suppose I did.”
“Well, check this out. I’ve just pricked you, dude!”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means I just injected you with a syringe full of baboon malaria. Now we’re even.”
“Can I blog about this?”
“Well, I sort of assumed you would.”
“Neat!”
And so it goes, from person to person, like a more horrifying version of that stupid tape from those Ring movies. What’s with that shit, by the way? Japanese people are afraid of pale, attention-hungry teenage girls? If that’s the case, we could have just dropped a chain of Hot Topic stores on them during WWII instead of those nukes. But I digress.
Prunella Jones—or Pru, as all the cool kids refer to her—tagged me a while back. Since I’m a fan of her blog, and I’m such a classy bastard, I decided to complete the tag rather than just ignore it like I’ve been ignoring all those dead Mormons someone’s been leaving at my door.
Since everyone loves lists (just ask the dildos in charge of programming at VH1), here’s a list of seven random facts about me. [Editor’s note: The veracity of Morb’s claims cannot be guaranteed.]
1: I’ve been in a lot of bands.
One of the bands I was in was fronted, unbeknownst to me, by an escaped mental patient. I only found out later when he disappeared and authorities from his institution showed up asking about him. Apparently he was violent and escaped after breaking a table over some people.
I was in a band, for a short time, with a guy who drove a hearse and made extra money participating in underground fights. He disappeared.
One of the bands I was in had a sort of joke mythology based around their various bass players, claiming they were all, once they joined the band, the reincarnation of a Tibetan monk. When I joined, I assumed that role. At one point I even signed autographs in Chinese.
2: I was a model student.
I graduated from college with highest honors, meaning I had a gpa of 4.0 and perfect attendance. When I graduated I got to wear two golden ropes. At the time I thought they just gave me those ropes because they were too cheap to pony up some Chucky Cheese tokens for my grades, but I later realized the gold ropes were to hang myself with when my awesome grades wouldn’t get me a decent job.
3: I like books.
I read a lot. In fact, the majority of my free time is dedicated to reading. I’m really just a book nerd, to be completely honest. Were I a rich man, I would probably have all kinds of first editions like that old Satan worshiper from The Ninth Gate. While my collection is humble to say the least, I have an out-of-print edition of Musashi’s Go Rin No Sho from 1974 that’s pretty sweet, and I just got a first edition copy of The Interrupted Journey (yes, that’s the book about the Hill alien abduction case from the 1960s).
I do like classic literature—everything from David Copperfield to The Canterbury Tales—but right now I’m really into collecting old, obscure occult and UFO/lost civilization/cryptozoology–related books. By the way, if anyone has a copy of Keel’s The Eighth Tower (1975) they’d be willing to part with for less than twenty-five bucks, please send me an e-mail. I could just order it from amazon.com, but I don’t want to spend the amount they’re asking. I’m a smart shopper, goddamnit.
4: It’s not about me, but it’s a fact.
It is always better
to avenge dear ones than to indulge in mourning.
For every one of us, living in this world
means waiting for our end. Let whoever can
win glory before death. When a warrior is gone,
that will be his best and only bulwark.
5: I like alcohol.
I used to drink a gallon of whiskey every weekend.
6: I think this is funny for some reason.
7: I accidentally conjured some spooky shit one time.
I was minding my own business, reading a copy of the Necronomicon I found in the discount bin at the bookstore. Some of the incantations in the book are so ridiculous, I was reading them out loud and having a good laugh. I mean, “zi dingir enmeshir raa kanpa” sounds like a retarded hairlip trying to order Thai food or something. But, suddenly, to my surprise and irritation, someone was in the room with me. I was able to snap a picture with my camera phone.
“Hey, pal! I’ve just tagged you!”
“Tits, bro. What do I get?”
“You get to answer all these questions!”
“You gave me a test, basically, is what you’re saying?”
“Yeah, when you look at it that way, I suppose I did.”
“Well, check this out. I’ve just pricked you, dude!”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means I just injected you with a syringe full of baboon malaria. Now we’re even.”
“Can I blog about this?”
“Well, I sort of assumed you would.”
“Neat!”
And so it goes, from person to person, like a more horrifying version of that stupid tape from those Ring movies. What’s with that shit, by the way? Japanese people are afraid of pale, attention-hungry teenage girls? If that’s the case, we could have just dropped a chain of Hot Topic stores on them during WWII instead of those nukes. But I digress.
Prunella Jones—or Pru, as all the cool kids refer to her—tagged me a while back. Since I’m a fan of her blog, and I’m such a classy bastard, I decided to complete the tag rather than just ignore it like I’ve been ignoring all those dead Mormons someone’s been leaving at my door.
Since everyone loves lists (just ask the dildos in charge of programming at VH1), here’s a list of seven random facts about me. [Editor’s note: The veracity of Morb’s claims cannot be guaranteed.]
1: I’ve been in a lot of bands.
One of the bands I was in was fronted, unbeknownst to me, by an escaped mental patient. I only found out later when he disappeared and authorities from his institution showed up asking about him. Apparently he was violent and escaped after breaking a table over some people.
I was in a band, for a short time, with a guy who drove a hearse and made extra money participating in underground fights. He disappeared.
One of the bands I was in had a sort of joke mythology based around their various bass players, claiming they were all, once they joined the band, the reincarnation of a Tibetan monk. When I joined, I assumed that role. At one point I even signed autographs in Chinese.
2: I was a model student.
I graduated from college with highest honors, meaning I had a gpa of 4.0 and perfect attendance. When I graduated I got to wear two golden ropes. At the time I thought they just gave me those ropes because they were too cheap to pony up some Chucky Cheese tokens for my grades, but I later realized the gold ropes were to hang myself with when my awesome grades wouldn’t get me a decent job.
3: I like books.
I read a lot. In fact, the majority of my free time is dedicated to reading. I’m really just a book nerd, to be completely honest. Were I a rich man, I would probably have all kinds of first editions like that old Satan worshiper from The Ninth Gate. While my collection is humble to say the least, I have an out-of-print edition of Musashi’s Go Rin No Sho from 1974 that’s pretty sweet, and I just got a first edition copy of The Interrupted Journey (yes, that’s the book about the Hill alien abduction case from the 1960s).
I do like classic literature—everything from David Copperfield to The Canterbury Tales—but right now I’m really into collecting old, obscure occult and UFO/lost civilization/cryptozoology–related books. By the way, if anyone has a copy of Keel’s The Eighth Tower (1975) they’d be willing to part with for less than twenty-five bucks, please send me an e-mail. I could just order it from amazon.com, but I don’t want to spend the amount they’re asking. I’m a smart shopper, goddamnit.
4: It’s not about me, but it’s a fact.
It is always better
to avenge dear ones than to indulge in mourning.
For every one of us, living in this world
means waiting for our end. Let whoever can
win glory before death. When a warrior is gone,
that will be his best and only bulwark.
5: I like alcohol.
I used to drink a gallon of whiskey every weekend.
6: I think this is funny for some reason.
7: I accidentally conjured some spooky shit one time.
I was minding my own business, reading a copy of the Necronomicon I found in the discount bin at the bookstore. Some of the incantations in the book are so ridiculous, I was reading them out loud and having a good laugh. I mean, “zi dingir enmeshir raa kanpa” sounds like a retarded hairlip trying to order Thai food or something. But, suddenly, to my surprise and irritation, someone was in the room with me. I was able to snap a picture with my camera phone.
Azag-Thoth: You conjured me, mortal?
Morbid Misanthrope: Excuse me?
AT: Oh, come on! Don’t tell me you’re just another loser dabbling in the occult in his mom’s basement. Because, seriously, I’ve seen more of that action than I’d care to admit.
MM: Who are you, and what are you doing in my apartment?
AT: Your own apartment? Thank the elder gods! Man, if I had to face one more overweight, cheetos-huffing Dungeons and Dragons jerk-off in a felt cloak his mother made for him, I … I just don’t know what I would do.
MM: You, uh, have an irrational fear of twenty-sided die, do you?
AT: Enough of this. You have conjured me, mortal. From the blackest depths of sleepless aeons I have heard your incantations and answered with my presence. Before I lose my temper and rip your tongue from your head, tell me what you want whith Azag-Thoth, the Blind Idiot God!
MM: I summoned you?
AT: Yes, with that ancient and powerful tome you hold in your hands.
MM: Dude, this is the Necronomicon.
AT: Verily, the key to unlocking the door that holds the hordes of unspeakable evil at bay.
MM: Right. It sort of says that on the back of the book, right under the discount price tag.
AT: Three dollars? Goddamn. Seekers of the book’s ancient power used to have to scour the darkest corners of the earth, search the blackest depths of their souls, and brave the dangers of the secret realms of the universe to lay hands upon it. Wow. Things have really changed in the last few thousand years.
MM: I suppose that helps to explain why so many basement-dwelling mouth-breathers were able to conjure you, doesn’t it?
AT: To be honest, it’s all a bit depressing.
MM: I guess the dark arts just aren’t what they used to be.
AT: You know, it’d make me feel a lot better if you had me rain some fire, pestilence, and madness on the earth. I’d settle for the neighborhood, though. Can I at least rain down fire, pestilence, and madness on your neighborhood?
MM: Be my guest, but there’s a meth lab next door and a creek full of homeless junkies talking to themselves and surviving on nothing but urine and toenails. I don’t think anyone would notice.
AT: Well, I’m here. You conjured me. I ought to do something.
MM: You can explain to me how a fictional book written by H.P. Lovecraft enthusiasts less than one hundred years ago is ancient or powerful.
AT: To make a long story short, it’s kind of like that Lovecraft story, “Pickman’s Model.”
MM: You mean how the subjects of the terrifying works of art Pickman painted came from reality rather than his own imagination?
AT: Essentially, yeah.
MM: That was a fucking cool story.
AT: Wasn’t it?
MM: Well, I suppose you are magic, otherwise you wouldn’t have been able to bypass all my dangerous ninja traps getting in here.
AT: You mean those empty soda cans tied together with dental floss hanging from your doorknob?
MM: Hey, if you’re real, does that mean all those other ancient gods are real too? Like, do you, Dagon, Cthulhu, and Shub-Niggurath have a poker night or something?
AT: Cthulhu's been a big-headed prick ever since Metallica wrote that song about him. You can’t even talk to that asshole without going through his publicist these days. Dagon, well, he’s a big, gay bitch—like Aquaman with tentacles and shit. And I haven’t seen Shub since the supreme court ruled she had to drop Niggurath from her name because it was offensive to black people. The last time anyone saw her, she was swilling gin and threatening to kick Jesse Jackson’s ass with Al Sharpton’s foot. She pretty much abandoned her thousand young—a fuckin’ tragedy, that’s what it is.
MM: Sounds like the realm of the ancient ones is a car crash away from being a shitty episode of VH1’s Behind the Music.
AT: Thanks, asshole. I’m not sensitive about it or anything. You wanna make fun of all the weight I’ve gained in the last thousand years, too? Hey, maybe you can call my wife and make fun of my limp dick with her. I bet she’d love that!
MM: Wow. Sorry, dude. I didn’t think a blind, mad god would be so tender-hearted.
AT: You know what? Fuck you, pal! Okay? Just fuck you! In fact: Barra Ante Malda! Bam! The milk in your fridge is now spoiled, and all your new batteries are dead. How’s that for evil, you prick?
MM: It’s more rude than evil, really.
AT: Whatever, ass. If my whore wife comes looking for me, tell her I’m at Boston Market, eating meatloaf that isn’t all dry and shitty for a change!
And then he disappeared and I haven’t heard from him since.
That completes my obligations as a tagee, and because I’m such a goddamned rebel, I’m not tagging anyone. How’s that for anti-social behavior? Random fact about me number eight: I'm a dick.
Morbid Misanthrope: Excuse me?
AT: Oh, come on! Don’t tell me you’re just another loser dabbling in the occult in his mom’s basement. Because, seriously, I’ve seen more of that action than I’d care to admit.
MM: Who are you, and what are you doing in my apartment?
AT: Your own apartment? Thank the elder gods! Man, if I had to face one more overweight, cheetos-huffing Dungeons and Dragons jerk-off in a felt cloak his mother made for him, I … I just don’t know what I would do.
MM: You, uh, have an irrational fear of twenty-sided die, do you?
AT: Enough of this. You have conjured me, mortal. From the blackest depths of sleepless aeons I have heard your incantations and answered with my presence. Before I lose my temper and rip your tongue from your head, tell me what you want whith Azag-Thoth, the Blind Idiot God!
MM: I summoned you?
AT: Yes, with that ancient and powerful tome you hold in your hands.
MM: Dude, this is the Necronomicon.
AT: Verily, the key to unlocking the door that holds the hordes of unspeakable evil at bay.
MM: Right. It sort of says that on the back of the book, right under the discount price tag.
AT: Three dollars? Goddamn. Seekers of the book’s ancient power used to have to scour the darkest corners of the earth, search the blackest depths of their souls, and brave the dangers of the secret realms of the universe to lay hands upon it. Wow. Things have really changed in the last few thousand years.
MM: I suppose that helps to explain why so many basement-dwelling mouth-breathers were able to conjure you, doesn’t it?
AT: To be honest, it’s all a bit depressing.
MM: I guess the dark arts just aren’t what they used to be.
AT: You know, it’d make me feel a lot better if you had me rain some fire, pestilence, and madness on the earth. I’d settle for the neighborhood, though. Can I at least rain down fire, pestilence, and madness on your neighborhood?
MM: Be my guest, but there’s a meth lab next door and a creek full of homeless junkies talking to themselves and surviving on nothing but urine and toenails. I don’t think anyone would notice.
AT: Well, I’m here. You conjured me. I ought to do something.
MM: You can explain to me how a fictional book written by H.P. Lovecraft enthusiasts less than one hundred years ago is ancient or powerful.
AT: To make a long story short, it’s kind of like that Lovecraft story, “Pickman’s Model.”
MM: You mean how the subjects of the terrifying works of art Pickman painted came from reality rather than his own imagination?
AT: Essentially, yeah.
MM: That was a fucking cool story.
AT: Wasn’t it?
MM: Well, I suppose you are magic, otherwise you wouldn’t have been able to bypass all my dangerous ninja traps getting in here.
AT: You mean those empty soda cans tied together with dental floss hanging from your doorknob?
MM: Hey, if you’re real, does that mean all those other ancient gods are real too? Like, do you, Dagon, Cthulhu, and Shub-Niggurath have a poker night or something?
AT: Cthulhu's been a big-headed prick ever since Metallica wrote that song about him. You can’t even talk to that asshole without going through his publicist these days. Dagon, well, he’s a big, gay bitch—like Aquaman with tentacles and shit. And I haven’t seen Shub since the supreme court ruled she had to drop Niggurath from her name because it was offensive to black people. The last time anyone saw her, she was swilling gin and threatening to kick Jesse Jackson’s ass with Al Sharpton’s foot. She pretty much abandoned her thousand young—a fuckin’ tragedy, that’s what it is.
MM: Sounds like the realm of the ancient ones is a car crash away from being a shitty episode of VH1’s Behind the Music.
AT: Thanks, asshole. I’m not sensitive about it or anything. You wanna make fun of all the weight I’ve gained in the last thousand years, too? Hey, maybe you can call my wife and make fun of my limp dick with her. I bet she’d love that!
MM: Wow. Sorry, dude. I didn’t think a blind, mad god would be so tender-hearted.
AT: You know what? Fuck you, pal! Okay? Just fuck you! In fact: Barra Ante Malda! Bam! The milk in your fridge is now spoiled, and all your new batteries are dead. How’s that for evil, you prick?
MM: It’s more rude than evil, really.
AT: Whatever, ass. If my whore wife comes looking for me, tell her I’m at Boston Market, eating meatloaf that isn’t all dry and shitty for a change!
And then he disappeared and I haven’t heard from him since.
That completes my obligations as a tagee, and because I’m such a goddamned rebel, I’m not tagging anyone. How’s that for anti-social behavior? Random fact about me number eight: I'm a dick.
Sunday, November 04, 2007
Making the News
Crazed Man Terrifies Neighborhood
By Max Bojo
Associated Press (10-31-07)
Halloween is a magical day of the year, full of fun, harmless scares, and enough free candy to keep dentists in business for another year. When the sun goes down, costumed children hit the streets looking for nothing more than frightful fun and bagfuls of bite-sized candy treats. This year, however, in a small town about forty-five minutes away from San Francisco, one man bordering on deranged turned frightful fun into real scares.
At approximately 8:00 p.m. Halloween night, an as-yet-unidentified man verbally attacked and terrified tick-or-treaters prowling the neighborhoods just trying to enjoy the traditional Halloween festivities.
“He was screaming at my son like some kind of madman,” said Clara Padilla, mother of five trick-or-treaters present when the incident occurred. “He was flailing around and swearing like crazy. I haven’t seen anyone so enraged since my brother got deported when the police busted him shooting PCP into his groin.”
According to Padilla and other witnesses, as their group of trick-or-treaters crossed the street, someone in a car that had to stop for them began honking the horn repeatedly. Although it was too dark to tell what kind of car the man was driving, all the witnesses could clearly hear “blasting death metal” coming from the vehicle.
Suddenly, the man “leapt” from his vehicle “like some kind of demon” and started screaming at the group of costumed children. He was apparently impatient after having to wait for so many people crossing the street as he drove.
“The man was scary,” said little Jose Padilla, who was dressed like a vampire and was the first child the crazed man verbally assaulted. “He wasn’t wearing a costume, but he, like, looked all crazy. His eyes were all bug-eyed like my Uncle’s when he got arrested. He smelled like cigarettes.”
According to witnesses present, the madman screamed a string of obscenities and threats at the children, who were so terrified they could barely move.
“He said, um, ‘get out of my f—ing way, you stupid little candy beggars! Why don’t you buy candy like goddamned everybody else?’” said Lucinda Morales, another parent at the scene. “He was using such terrible language. I’ve asked everyone I know, and no one has any idea what a ‘twattergob-bobbing meat plunger’ is. I just can’t believe this guy was so mad at us for hanging around in the street. I mean, he could wait. We were just having fun, you know? It was Halloween and stuff.”
Witnesses say he also spent a good five minutes screaming about proper pedestrian-driver etiquette, including: “You a—holes look like you’ve never seen a car before. The concept is simple. I’m driving a two-ton death machine and you’re in front of me in the street. You pricks too good for the sidewalk, are you? It’s only by the f—ing grace of f—ing god that I even stopped. I could have plowed through you little DNA bubbles without feeling bad. In fact, I probably would have been laughing. I think that s—t’s funny as hell!”
He went on to insult the children’s costumes as well, reducing several of them to tears.
“He said I was the gayest power ranger he had ever seen,” said a nine-year-old present who wished to remain anonymous. “He told me I might as well just move to Vermont with my little homo vampire friend so my father can kill himself in shame sooner rather than later. He said they wouldn’t let gays into Clown College, so I had better keep it in the closet until the AIDS makes me look like a skeleton and everyone figures out what I’ve been up to. I don’t know what’s going on. I just wanted free candy!”
The unknown assailant also called a twelve-year-old girl dressed as a ballerina a “fat, sin-impregnated whore,” an eight-year-old dressed as a ninja a “f—ing poseur,” a ten-year-old in a wheelchair dressed as Frankenstein a “green gimp retard,” and a nine-year-old African-American child dressed as an NBA star a “racist joke too easy to make.”
Parents stood by in awe as the scene unfolded, all too shocked and afraid to move.
“I thought he was, like, on drugs or something,” said parent Charlie James. “It looked like his head was gonna pop.” In spite of his fear, however, Mr. James walked over to the screaming man and told him to shut up. At that point, the crazed man kicked Mr. James in the head, screaming “Look what he made me do? Anyone else want to get f—ed up? Huh? I’ve killed before and I’ll kill again!”
At this point, one brave child offered her bag of candy to the screaming, and now dangerous, man, hoping to pacify him. Surprisingly, this moving gesture only enraged the man further. He shrieked and kicked the bag out of the small girl’s hands, screaming “Trying to put me in a coma, huh? You’re not going to kill me that easily! I’ll kick you around like an organ-filled trash bag before I let you trick me! I’m a crafty diabetic with good eyesight!” [Editor’s Note: Sometimes diabetics lose eyesight due to the disease.]
He then hopped back into his car, tearing off at a high rate of speed, still screaming threats as he sped away.
“It was the worst Halloween ever,” said Clara Padilla, shaking her head. “What kind of person would threaten children like that? It’s just unimaginable.”
Crazed Man Strikes Again?
By Max Bojo
Associated Press (11-01-07)
After the neighborhood suffered a terrifying Halloween at the hands of a rabid madman, all anyone wanted was to try to forget about the horrible night and move on. Unfortunately, the scares weren’t over for the neighborhood just because Halloween was.
At approximately 12:30 p.m., lunchtime at the local middle school, a crazed madman—very likely the same man that terrorized children Halloween night—showed up and started attacking children as they ate lunch and played kickball.
School faculty was shocked to see a “grown man, wearing all black, and smoking cigarettes” hop over the playground fence and approach the playing children.
“Our first thought was that another pervert was after the kids, but soon it became apparent that he wasn’t a pervert—just a lunatic,” said Principal Blake.
The man was heard screaming obscenities and threats. School surveillance cameras caught audio of the incident even though the assailant was somehow able to avoid appearing on film. What follows is a partial transcript of that tape’s audio:
Crazed Man: (apparently grabbing the kickball) “Hey, you little bastards. It’s not so easy to play your little game with someone in the way, is it?”
Child: “What?”
Crazed Man: “Yeah, just like it’s not easy to drive home with a bunch of little retarded candy beggars in the middle of the street! How do you idiots like it?”
Child: “Leave us alone!”
Crazed Man: (apparently stabbing the kickball with a knife) “Suffer, fools!”
The crazed man then started kicking over lunch tables where kids were eating. He was heard laughing maniacally and saying, “Can’t enjoy your f—ing spaghetti without a table, can you? Well, I can’t f—ing drive with a bunch of imbeciles high on candy handouts blocking the way! This may be a public school, but you’ll learn something today, goddamnit! Even if you never learn to read! I’m talking to you, Jose Padilla!”
After breaking things, scaring children, and ranting for just under five minutes, the madman was gone as quickly as he appeared. The police are questioning witnesses, but so far have no leads.
Letter to the Editor
Anonymous (11-02-07)
This whole thing is just awful, really. Those poor kids. What a shame.
Anyway, I’m not excusing this "crazy" but undoubtedly handsome guy, but we can’t judge him until we understand his situation. Now, I wasn’t around when he was supposedly terrifying those kids Halloween night, but I was driving home from work at about that time. I did notice a lot of kids messing around in the streets. To be perfectly honest, it was infuriating.
Everywhere I drove I had to wait for caravans of people to cross the street. They were really taking their time, too. I mean, it wasn’t like they were just crossing and getting it over with. They were practically loitering in the street. (Loitering is a crime, so maybe this “crazed man” is really a kind of crimefighter—just a thought.) Some kids were even purposely walking in the street, blocking traffic because they think Halloween gives them a free pass to act like morons. It was maddening.
And the parents were no better. They weren’t watching their kids or anything. They were just walking around all slack-jawed and lackadaisical, letting Jr. do whatever he wanted. Man! How many kids did these people have? I counted seven or eight in some cases. That’s just irresponsible. (It’s like they bussed in a border town or something, but that’s beside the point.) Also, I doubt he called the black kid a “racist joke too easy to make.” He probably said something more like “Hey, try not to rape any psychotic girls out there tonight, Kobe.” I don’t know. Something clever like that. It seems like that would be more his style.
Anyway, perhaps this “crazed man” just had a rough day at the office and wanted to get home to watch TV. Let’s say, hypothetically, he wanted to catch the Ghost Hunters live investigation on the Sci-Fi network and enjoy a low-carb frozen dinner. These people, by rudely blocking the streets, were disrespecting him and ruining his schedule. I can understand being upset by that, I really can.
Who knows? Maybe he went a little overboard because he had just gotten a flu shot and was a little out of it, and maybe his blood sugar was low. We really just don’t know. He obviously had his reasons for doing what he did. And he didn’t hurt anyone. He did kick that one guy, but that guy started it really. It was self-defense.
And even though tearing up a school is an unorthodox way to do things, I’ll bet those kids never play in the street again. That’s worth something, right? If their fat, sweatsuit-wearing parents won’t teach them anything, someone should, right? And I don’t want to get going about the school system’s failures, but, come on, let’s be honest: those kids learned more in five minutes from the “crazed man” than they’ll learn at that school in the next five years.
Look, I’m not saying we should build this guy a statue or something, but when you really think about it, he probably did some good. And I really think we should all stop calling him “crazed,” “lunatic,” and “madman.” How does misunderstood genius sound? Revolutionary thinker? If it were up to me, the police would stop looking for the guy and just let the whole “incident” slide. It’s all over now. I’m sure he’s not going to do anything else (provided everyone respects pedestrian-driver etiquette). Let’s just all move on and let it go.
By Max Bojo
Associated Press (10-31-07)
Halloween is a magical day of the year, full of fun, harmless scares, and enough free candy to keep dentists in business for another year. When the sun goes down, costumed children hit the streets looking for nothing more than frightful fun and bagfuls of bite-sized candy treats. This year, however, in a small town about forty-five minutes away from San Francisco, one man bordering on deranged turned frightful fun into real scares.
At approximately 8:00 p.m. Halloween night, an as-yet-unidentified man verbally attacked and terrified tick-or-treaters prowling the neighborhoods just trying to enjoy the traditional Halloween festivities.
“He was screaming at my son like some kind of madman,” said Clara Padilla, mother of five trick-or-treaters present when the incident occurred. “He was flailing around and swearing like crazy. I haven’t seen anyone so enraged since my brother got deported when the police busted him shooting PCP into his groin.”
According to Padilla and other witnesses, as their group of trick-or-treaters crossed the street, someone in a car that had to stop for them began honking the horn repeatedly. Although it was too dark to tell what kind of car the man was driving, all the witnesses could clearly hear “blasting death metal” coming from the vehicle.
Suddenly, the man “leapt” from his vehicle “like some kind of demon” and started screaming at the group of costumed children. He was apparently impatient after having to wait for so many people crossing the street as he drove.
“The man was scary,” said little Jose Padilla, who was dressed like a vampire and was the first child the crazed man verbally assaulted. “He wasn’t wearing a costume, but he, like, looked all crazy. His eyes were all bug-eyed like my Uncle’s when he got arrested. He smelled like cigarettes.”
According to witnesses present, the madman screamed a string of obscenities and threats at the children, who were so terrified they could barely move.
“He said, um, ‘get out of my f—ing way, you stupid little candy beggars! Why don’t you buy candy like goddamned everybody else?’” said Lucinda Morales, another parent at the scene. “He was using such terrible language. I’ve asked everyone I know, and no one has any idea what a ‘twattergob-bobbing meat plunger’ is. I just can’t believe this guy was so mad at us for hanging around in the street. I mean, he could wait. We were just having fun, you know? It was Halloween and stuff.”
Witnesses say he also spent a good five minutes screaming about proper pedestrian-driver etiquette, including: “You a—holes look like you’ve never seen a car before. The concept is simple. I’m driving a two-ton death machine and you’re in front of me in the street. You pricks too good for the sidewalk, are you? It’s only by the f—ing grace of f—ing god that I even stopped. I could have plowed through you little DNA bubbles without feeling bad. In fact, I probably would have been laughing. I think that s—t’s funny as hell!”
He went on to insult the children’s costumes as well, reducing several of them to tears.
“He said I was the gayest power ranger he had ever seen,” said a nine-year-old present who wished to remain anonymous. “He told me I might as well just move to Vermont with my little homo vampire friend so my father can kill himself in shame sooner rather than later. He said they wouldn’t let gays into Clown College, so I had better keep it in the closet until the AIDS makes me look like a skeleton and everyone figures out what I’ve been up to. I don’t know what’s going on. I just wanted free candy!”
The unknown assailant also called a twelve-year-old girl dressed as a ballerina a “fat, sin-impregnated whore,” an eight-year-old dressed as a ninja a “f—ing poseur,” a ten-year-old in a wheelchair dressed as Frankenstein a “green gimp retard,” and a nine-year-old African-American child dressed as an NBA star a “racist joke too easy to make.”
Parents stood by in awe as the scene unfolded, all too shocked and afraid to move.
“I thought he was, like, on drugs or something,” said parent Charlie James. “It looked like his head was gonna pop.” In spite of his fear, however, Mr. James walked over to the screaming man and told him to shut up. At that point, the crazed man kicked Mr. James in the head, screaming “Look what he made me do? Anyone else want to get f—ed up? Huh? I’ve killed before and I’ll kill again!”
At this point, one brave child offered her bag of candy to the screaming, and now dangerous, man, hoping to pacify him. Surprisingly, this moving gesture only enraged the man further. He shrieked and kicked the bag out of the small girl’s hands, screaming “Trying to put me in a coma, huh? You’re not going to kill me that easily! I’ll kick you around like an organ-filled trash bag before I let you trick me! I’m a crafty diabetic with good eyesight!” [Editor’s Note: Sometimes diabetics lose eyesight due to the disease.]
He then hopped back into his car, tearing off at a high rate of speed, still screaming threats as he sped away.
“It was the worst Halloween ever,” said Clara Padilla, shaking her head. “What kind of person would threaten children like that? It’s just unimaginable.”
Crazed Man Strikes Again?
By Max Bojo
Associated Press (11-01-07)
After the neighborhood suffered a terrifying Halloween at the hands of a rabid madman, all anyone wanted was to try to forget about the horrible night and move on. Unfortunately, the scares weren’t over for the neighborhood just because Halloween was.
At approximately 12:30 p.m., lunchtime at the local middle school, a crazed madman—very likely the same man that terrorized children Halloween night—showed up and started attacking children as they ate lunch and played kickball.
School faculty was shocked to see a “grown man, wearing all black, and smoking cigarettes” hop over the playground fence and approach the playing children.
“Our first thought was that another pervert was after the kids, but soon it became apparent that he wasn’t a pervert—just a lunatic,” said Principal Blake.
The man was heard screaming obscenities and threats. School surveillance cameras caught audio of the incident even though the assailant was somehow able to avoid appearing on film. What follows is a partial transcript of that tape’s audio:
Crazed Man: (apparently grabbing the kickball) “Hey, you little bastards. It’s not so easy to play your little game with someone in the way, is it?”
Child: “What?”
Crazed Man: “Yeah, just like it’s not easy to drive home with a bunch of little retarded candy beggars in the middle of the street! How do you idiots like it?”
Child: “Leave us alone!”
Crazed Man: (apparently stabbing the kickball with a knife) “Suffer, fools!”
The crazed man then started kicking over lunch tables where kids were eating. He was heard laughing maniacally and saying, “Can’t enjoy your f—ing spaghetti without a table, can you? Well, I can’t f—ing drive with a bunch of imbeciles high on candy handouts blocking the way! This may be a public school, but you’ll learn something today, goddamnit! Even if you never learn to read! I’m talking to you, Jose Padilla!”
After breaking things, scaring children, and ranting for just under five minutes, the madman was gone as quickly as he appeared. The police are questioning witnesses, but so far have no leads.
Letter to the Editor
Anonymous (11-02-07)
This whole thing is just awful, really. Those poor kids. What a shame.
Anyway, I’m not excusing this "crazy" but undoubtedly handsome guy, but we can’t judge him until we understand his situation. Now, I wasn’t around when he was supposedly terrifying those kids Halloween night, but I was driving home from work at about that time. I did notice a lot of kids messing around in the streets. To be perfectly honest, it was infuriating.
Everywhere I drove I had to wait for caravans of people to cross the street. They were really taking their time, too. I mean, it wasn’t like they were just crossing and getting it over with. They were practically loitering in the street. (Loitering is a crime, so maybe this “crazed man” is really a kind of crimefighter—just a thought.) Some kids were even purposely walking in the street, blocking traffic because they think Halloween gives them a free pass to act like morons. It was maddening.
And the parents were no better. They weren’t watching their kids or anything. They were just walking around all slack-jawed and lackadaisical, letting Jr. do whatever he wanted. Man! How many kids did these people have? I counted seven or eight in some cases. That’s just irresponsible. (It’s like they bussed in a border town or something, but that’s beside the point.) Also, I doubt he called the black kid a “racist joke too easy to make.” He probably said something more like “Hey, try not to rape any psychotic girls out there tonight, Kobe.” I don’t know. Something clever like that. It seems like that would be more his style.
Anyway, perhaps this “crazed man” just had a rough day at the office and wanted to get home to watch TV. Let’s say, hypothetically, he wanted to catch the Ghost Hunters live investigation on the Sci-Fi network and enjoy a low-carb frozen dinner. These people, by rudely blocking the streets, were disrespecting him and ruining his schedule. I can understand being upset by that, I really can.
Who knows? Maybe he went a little overboard because he had just gotten a flu shot and was a little out of it, and maybe his blood sugar was low. We really just don’t know. He obviously had his reasons for doing what he did. And he didn’t hurt anyone. He did kick that one guy, but that guy started it really. It was self-defense.
And even though tearing up a school is an unorthodox way to do things, I’ll bet those kids never play in the street again. That’s worth something, right? If their fat, sweatsuit-wearing parents won’t teach them anything, someone should, right? And I don’t want to get going about the school system’s failures, but, come on, let’s be honest: those kids learned more in five minutes from the “crazed man” than they’ll learn at that school in the next five years.
Look, I’m not saying we should build this guy a statue or something, but when you really think about it, he probably did some good. And I really think we should all stop calling him “crazed,” “lunatic,” and “madman.” How does misunderstood genius sound? Revolutionary thinker? If it were up to me, the police would stop looking for the guy and just let the whole “incident” slide. It’s all over now. I’m sure he’s not going to do anything else (provided everyone respects pedestrian-driver etiquette). Let’s just all move on and let it go.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Taxicab Conversations
CALL ONE
Phone Operator 1: Brand A Cab Company, how can I help you?
Morbid Misanthrope: Hello, I need a cab to pick me up again tomorrow at 9:30 am.
PO1: Uh-huh. What address?
MM: (home address)
PO1: And where are you going?
MM: Beefy Yakov’s Slaughterhouse and Used Plastic Tarp Emporium.
PO1: Are you, like, going to work or something?
MM: Yes, I’m going to work.
PO1: How will you be paying?
MM: With cash.
PO1: Well, we don’t take checks, so can you pay with cash or something?
MM: Yeah, I’ll pay with cash—just like I did this morning.
PO1: Yeah, well, actually, we don’t send cabs to your area, so you’ll have to call someone else.
MM: Excuse me?
PO1: We don’t send cabs to that area.
MM: Since when?
PO1: Since, like, forever.
MM: But a driver from your company picked me up this morning.
PO1: That’s impossible.
MM: It’s not impossible, because it happened—this morning.
PO1: Sir, again, we don’t—nor have we ever—sent cabs to that area. I can give you the number of a company that covers that area, though, I mean, if you really need me to or something.
MM: (Straining to avoid conflict) Ok, what’s the number?
PO1: (Impatient, drawn-out sigh) 555-0666 [Editor’s Note: On my advice, the actual number, and name of the company, has been changed to protect Morb from a lawsuit, even though he wants everyone to “call those donkey fuckers and hassle them with some prank-call bullshit.”]
CLICK
CALL TWO
Phone Operator 2: Brand B Cab Company, how can I help you?
Morbid Misanthrope: Hello, I need a cab to pick me up tomorrow at 9:30 am.
PO2: What address?
MM: (home address)
PO2: Sorry, sir. We don’t cover that area. Besides, it’s, like, pretty ghetto there.
MM: So I’ve heard. But I’m sure none of the criminals are up at that time of day.
PO2: That really depends on what they’ve been smoking.
MM: What?
PO2: Nothing. Anyway, you’ll have to call Brand A Cab Company.
MM: Are you kidding me? I just talked to them. They said to call you because they don’t cover my area, either.
PO2: Well, I don’t know what they’re talking about.
MM: So I have to call those assholes back?
PO2: Yeah, we aren’t licensed to cover your area. They should be, though.
MM: It’s just really weird. They sent a cab for me this morning.
PO2: Are you sure it was their cab?
MM: Yeah, I mean, unless a rogue cab driver just happened to be in front of my building at the exact time they were supposed to send someone over.
PO2: Do you think they’re just, I don’t know, playing a joke on you?
MM: Who? The phone operator?
PO2: Yeah. Was he snickering?
MM: What? Snickering when he told me they wouldn’t send a cab?
PO2: Yeah, snickering usually indicates something funny is happening.
MM: Do you people play jokes on potential customers very often?
PO2: Well, I never do. But some people are just weird.
MM: Yeah, I guess so. Thanks.
CLICK
CALL THREE
Phone Operator 1: Brand A Cab Company. How can I help you?
MM: I need a cab to …
PO1: Sir, did you just call here, like, five minutes ago?
MM: I did, yes, but …
PO1: I already told you, sir: we don’t send cabs to your area.
MM: Listen, I just spoke to someone at the company you told me to call, and she said they aren’t licensed in my area. She said you guys are, though.
PO1: Oh, like she would know where we send cabs better than I would?
MM: This wouldn’t even be an issue except someone from your company picked me up this morning.
PO1: I already told you, pal, that ain’t possible!
MM: Fuck you, it’s not possible! Who the hell picked me up, then?
PO1: I don’t know who it was; I just know it wasn’t one of our cabs!
MM: Really? Even though the goddamned cab was emblazoned with your logo and showed up the exact time your company said it would when I called you last fucking night!
PO1: It wasn’t our cab, you asshole!
MM: So I suppose someone is freelancing with one of your cabs, then?
PO1: That’s possible.
MM: Yeah? He listens to all your incoming calls from his secret hideout, and then he picks up your customers in one of your cabs that he must have stolen, right? After he murdered Ramesh, the cab’s legitimate driver?
PO1: It’s possible. There are some fucked up people out there.
MM: And after all that fucking trouble—slicing up poor Ramesh with a boxcutter to steal his cab—all he does is pick people up and drop them off?
PO1: Sure, why not?
MM: Because that’s motherfucking ridiculous, you dildo!
PO1: It’s still more likely than anyone from our company picking you up, because we don’t fucking service that area!
MM: Bullshit!
PO1: I’m going to hang up now, asshole.
MM: I’m going to kick your ass!
PO1: How are you going to get here? Do you want me to send a cab? ‘Cause we don’t send cabs to your area. Asshole.
MM: I’ll get the ghost of poor, murdered Ramesh to have his Hindu gods send me a laser-shooting Vimana, and I’ll divebomb your bullshit company and annihilate your cock-sucking ass! [Editor’s Note: Those unfamiliar with the Bhagavata-Purana, Mahabharata, and Ramayana and their significance to the field of Ufology should either, A.) Look it up online, or, B.) Be thankful they’re not nerdy enough to understand what Morb is ranting about.]
PO1: Keep on threatening me, prick, this call is being recorded! You’re on tape! You’re on tape, asshole!
MM: Fuck if I care! Are they going to arrest me for threatening you with a goddamned Hindu spaceship? You fucking cocksmoker!
PO1: I hope you like walking, asshole!
MM: I hope you like being a dildo, you dildo!
PO1: Fuck you, pal!
CLICK
Phone Operator 1: Brand A Cab Company, how can I help you?
Morbid Misanthrope: Hello, I need a cab to pick me up again tomorrow at 9:30 am.
PO1: Uh-huh. What address?
MM: (home address)
PO1: And where are you going?
MM: Beefy Yakov’s Slaughterhouse and Used Plastic Tarp Emporium.
PO1: Are you, like, going to work or something?
MM: Yes, I’m going to work.
PO1: How will you be paying?
MM: With cash.
PO1: Well, we don’t take checks, so can you pay with cash or something?
MM: Yeah, I’ll pay with cash—just like I did this morning.
PO1: Yeah, well, actually, we don’t send cabs to your area, so you’ll have to call someone else.
MM: Excuse me?
PO1: We don’t send cabs to that area.
MM: Since when?
PO1: Since, like, forever.
MM: But a driver from your company picked me up this morning.
PO1: That’s impossible.
MM: It’s not impossible, because it happened—this morning.
PO1: Sir, again, we don’t—nor have we ever—sent cabs to that area. I can give you the number of a company that covers that area, though, I mean, if you really need me to or something.
MM: (Straining to avoid conflict) Ok, what’s the number?
PO1: (Impatient, drawn-out sigh) 555-0666 [Editor’s Note: On my advice, the actual number, and name of the company, has been changed to protect Morb from a lawsuit, even though he wants everyone to “call those donkey fuckers and hassle them with some prank-call bullshit.”]
CLICK
CALL TWO
Phone Operator 2: Brand B Cab Company, how can I help you?
Morbid Misanthrope: Hello, I need a cab to pick me up tomorrow at 9:30 am.
PO2: What address?
MM: (home address)
PO2: Sorry, sir. We don’t cover that area. Besides, it’s, like, pretty ghetto there.
MM: So I’ve heard. But I’m sure none of the criminals are up at that time of day.
PO2: That really depends on what they’ve been smoking.
MM: What?
PO2: Nothing. Anyway, you’ll have to call Brand A Cab Company.
MM: Are you kidding me? I just talked to them. They said to call you because they don’t cover my area, either.
PO2: Well, I don’t know what they’re talking about.
MM: So I have to call those assholes back?
PO2: Yeah, we aren’t licensed to cover your area. They should be, though.
MM: It’s just really weird. They sent a cab for me this morning.
PO2: Are you sure it was their cab?
MM: Yeah, I mean, unless a rogue cab driver just happened to be in front of my building at the exact time they were supposed to send someone over.
PO2: Do you think they’re just, I don’t know, playing a joke on you?
MM: Who? The phone operator?
PO2: Yeah. Was he snickering?
MM: What? Snickering when he told me they wouldn’t send a cab?
PO2: Yeah, snickering usually indicates something funny is happening.
MM: Do you people play jokes on potential customers very often?
PO2: Well, I never do. But some people are just weird.
MM: Yeah, I guess so. Thanks.
CLICK
CALL THREE
Phone Operator 1: Brand A Cab Company. How can I help you?
MM: I need a cab to …
PO1: Sir, did you just call here, like, five minutes ago?
MM: I did, yes, but …
PO1: I already told you, sir: we don’t send cabs to your area.
MM: Listen, I just spoke to someone at the company you told me to call, and she said they aren’t licensed in my area. She said you guys are, though.
PO1: Oh, like she would know where we send cabs better than I would?
MM: This wouldn’t even be an issue except someone from your company picked me up this morning.
PO1: I already told you, pal, that ain’t possible!
MM: Fuck you, it’s not possible! Who the hell picked me up, then?
PO1: I don’t know who it was; I just know it wasn’t one of our cabs!
MM: Really? Even though the goddamned cab was emblazoned with your logo and showed up the exact time your company said it would when I called you last fucking night!
PO1: It wasn’t our cab, you asshole!
MM: So I suppose someone is freelancing with one of your cabs, then?
PO1: That’s possible.
MM: Yeah? He listens to all your incoming calls from his secret hideout, and then he picks up your customers in one of your cabs that he must have stolen, right? After he murdered Ramesh, the cab’s legitimate driver?
PO1: It’s possible. There are some fucked up people out there.
MM: And after all that fucking trouble—slicing up poor Ramesh with a boxcutter to steal his cab—all he does is pick people up and drop them off?
PO1: Sure, why not?
MM: Because that’s motherfucking ridiculous, you dildo!
PO1: It’s still more likely than anyone from our company picking you up, because we don’t fucking service that area!
MM: Bullshit!
PO1: I’m going to hang up now, asshole.
MM: I’m going to kick your ass!
PO1: How are you going to get here? Do you want me to send a cab? ‘Cause we don’t send cabs to your area. Asshole.
MM: I’ll get the ghost of poor, murdered Ramesh to have his Hindu gods send me a laser-shooting Vimana, and I’ll divebomb your bullshit company and annihilate your cock-sucking ass! [Editor’s Note: Those unfamiliar with the Bhagavata-Purana, Mahabharata, and Ramayana and their significance to the field of Ufology should either, A.) Look it up online, or, B.) Be thankful they’re not nerdy enough to understand what Morb is ranting about.]
PO1: Keep on threatening me, prick, this call is being recorded! You’re on tape! You’re on tape, asshole!
MM: Fuck if I care! Are they going to arrest me for threatening you with a goddamned Hindu spaceship? You fucking cocksmoker!
PO1: I hope you like walking, asshole!
MM: I hope you like being a dildo, you dildo!
PO1: Fuck you, pal!
CLICK
Monday, September 24, 2007
When you make Latin food, which type of pan(dering) should you use?
When you’re in the food-service industry like I am (see: Beefy Yakov’s Slaughterhouse and Used Plastic Tarp Emporium) there are a lot of government-mandated safety and sanitation regulations you must follow. This requires taking classes on proper food handling, followed by tests to prove you’re competent enough to provide the public with edibles that won’t leave them shitbarfing for a month. This training process tends to be a little on the lengthy side, but, thankfully, Yakov isn’t one to jeopardize profit-earning potential to satisfy another paranoid government regulatory department.
Instead of making his employees take all the normal food-safety courses, Yakov requires all new employees to watch a bunch of Food Network shows he recorded on his nephew’s Tivo. The list of shows looks quite daunting at first, but Yakov says it’s ok to fast forward through all of Rachel Ray’s excessive gesturing—that alone knocks a couple of hours off the overall time it takes to finish.
After you watch all the Food Network shows on the Tivo, Yakov comes in and says something like, “Right. So, you promise not to stick pecker in cow parts, right? Of course you won’t. Yakov doesn’t hire goddamned perverts. That’s why his brother still unemployed.” Yes, sometimes Yakov speaks in the third person.
Anyway, while I was completing Yakov’s training course, I caught up with all the controversy surrounding the most recent season of The Next Food Network Star. This shit all went down a while ago when the show first aired (you probably didn’t hear about it because the show is retard-pissing-his-pants dumb, and the only people that watch it are the people that have to watch it as part of their food-handler’s training) and revolved around a precocious and doughy contestant named Joshua Adam Garcia, or JAG, as he called himself.
Eventually, he was dismissed from the show—or quit the show, depending on who you ask—even though he was one of the finalists. The reason: he was a dirty fuckin’ liar. He said he was a marine, and he actually was, but he exaggerated the hell out of his rank and claimed he served in Afghanistan, which he didn’t. In fact, he was discharged for what the press has called a “hazing incident.” I don’t know what that means, but, based on JAG’s behavior on the show, I’m just going to assume it involved a rectum full of military-issue soap bars and a barrack full of marines pissed off that they had to watch JAG cram them up himself with a sheathed bayonet. Another one of JAG’s lies was that he finished culinary school. He never did—some bullshit like that, anyway, I’m not going to research this inane folderol.
So, with his head drooped in epicene disgrace, JAG walked out of the Food Network studio, losing the reality show contest to a curly haired broad hopelessly and irritatingly obsessed with Paris and all things French. Meh [Editor’s Note: “meh” is a word used to represent the sound one makes when he doesn’t care enough to use words to form complete sentences]. Life goes on, and nobody except bored trophy wives likely to buy Rachel Ray’s cookbooks and fantasize about Tyler Florence even knows anything so scandalous took place.
However, while watching the drama unfold like an origami swan made by an arthritic factory worker with a total of seven fingers, I noticed another controversy. (To be fair, it’s hardly a controversy, but if I said it was as boring as the rest of this crap, would you even continue reading?)
In one of the episodes near the finale, the three remaining contestants—JAG, the curly haired Francophile, and a blonde Yakov refers to as horseface—went on some radio show to see how well they would maintain composure under the pressure of being grilled [Editor’s Note: this terrible food joke was completely unintentional] by two zany DJs on live radio.
During JAG’s interview, the following exchange took place:
JAG: “I’m the one that’s going to bring out Latino Caribe cuisine to the world. It’s not really, uh, represented, you know, as much as I would like it to be, so … it’s either for two reasons: You can’t do it, or, you know, you’re not interested.”
Radio Show Host: “So you think that’s misrepresented on the Food Network?”
JAG: “Uh, you know, I don’t think it’s represented as much as it could be. Uh, you know, and I’m here to try and bring that out.”
Sweet disappointed Jewish mother of Judas! If there’s one thing network executives don’t want to be accused of it’s racial insensitivity/exclusion/misrepresentation/stereotyping/exploiting. Needless to say, the show’s judges—Food Network executives—were none to pleased with JAG’s comments and spent a good amount of time explaining how wrong he was and just how ethnically diverse the Food Network on-air personalities are.
Executive 1: “Goddamnit, JAG! We do so represent Latinos with our programs!”
Executive 2: “Yeah, we’re totally into all that racial stuff.”
JAG: “Come on, vatos. You know that no es verdad. Show me La Raza, or you can kiss my culo!”
Executive 1: “Look here, JAG, there’s enough ethnic diversity here to choke a goddamned Rainbow Coalition.”
Executive 2: “Goddamned right.”
JAG: “Que pasa?”
Executive 1: “Well, shit, Giada’s a hook-nosed Roman, Emeril’s half Bridge Troll, Paula Dean is inbred …”
Executive 2: “She’s right out of The Hills Have Eyes, really.
JAG: “Ay caramba!”
Executive 1: “Robert Irvine is a Brit, Sandra Lee is a WASP …”
JAG: “How is that ethnic in any way, cabron?”
Evecutive 2: “She’s a WASP robot built as an inside joke between a few African-American scientists.”
Executive 1: “Tyler Florence—or TyFlo, as the cool kids refer to him—is a Nephilim …”
JAG: “A what?”
Executive 2: “A hybrid being created during the sticky, unholy pelvic union of a fallen angel and a human woman, JAG.”
Executive 1: “Hell, I myself am a gay Jew, Mario Batali is a fat nerd, Cat Cora’s a hermaphrodite, Guy Fieri’s a time-traveling alien, Morimoto is some kind of Asian, Duff Goldman has been a chipmunk man since he got bitten by that radioactive chipmunk that escaped from Alton Brown’s dressing room, and Rachael Ray is, well, it’s better that you didn’t know the truth about her terrifying origins.”
Executive 2: “I wish I didn’t know. Yeesh!”
JAG: “But where (pauses to salsa dance) are all the Latinos?”
Exexutive 1: “Well, Bobby Flay is a Latino. I mean, technically he’s Irish or something, but he uses blue corn like a Mexican.”
Executive 2: “He loooooves blue corn, JAG.”
JAG: “That is not bueno enough. Bobby Flay may be my hero and the object of my secret homosexual fantasies, but he is not a Latino.”
Executive 2: “We stand by our previous claim that Latinos are well represented on our fine network. We appreciate your concerns, though.”
Executive 1: “Yeah, and you’re not getting eliminated from the show this round, so just keep your mouth shut, capice?”
JAG: “Arrrrriba!”
Instead of making his employees take all the normal food-safety courses, Yakov requires all new employees to watch a bunch of Food Network shows he recorded on his nephew’s Tivo. The list of shows looks quite daunting at first, but Yakov says it’s ok to fast forward through all of Rachel Ray’s excessive gesturing—that alone knocks a couple of hours off the overall time it takes to finish.
After you watch all the Food Network shows on the Tivo, Yakov comes in and says something like, “Right. So, you promise not to stick pecker in cow parts, right? Of course you won’t. Yakov doesn’t hire goddamned perverts. That’s why his brother still unemployed.” Yes, sometimes Yakov speaks in the third person.
Anyway, while I was completing Yakov’s training course, I caught up with all the controversy surrounding the most recent season of The Next Food Network Star. This shit all went down a while ago when the show first aired (you probably didn’t hear about it because the show is retard-pissing-his-pants dumb, and the only people that watch it are the people that have to watch it as part of their food-handler’s training) and revolved around a precocious and doughy contestant named Joshua Adam Garcia, or JAG, as he called himself.
Eventually, he was dismissed from the show—or quit the show, depending on who you ask—even though he was one of the finalists. The reason: he was a dirty fuckin’ liar. He said he was a marine, and he actually was, but he exaggerated the hell out of his rank and claimed he served in Afghanistan, which he didn’t. In fact, he was discharged for what the press has called a “hazing incident.” I don’t know what that means, but, based on JAG’s behavior on the show, I’m just going to assume it involved a rectum full of military-issue soap bars and a barrack full of marines pissed off that they had to watch JAG cram them up himself with a sheathed bayonet. Another one of JAG’s lies was that he finished culinary school. He never did—some bullshit like that, anyway, I’m not going to research this inane folderol.
So, with his head drooped in epicene disgrace, JAG walked out of the Food Network studio, losing the reality show contest to a curly haired broad hopelessly and irritatingly obsessed with Paris and all things French. Meh [Editor’s Note: “meh” is a word used to represent the sound one makes when he doesn’t care enough to use words to form complete sentences]. Life goes on, and nobody except bored trophy wives likely to buy Rachel Ray’s cookbooks and fantasize about Tyler Florence even knows anything so scandalous took place.
However, while watching the drama unfold like an origami swan made by an arthritic factory worker with a total of seven fingers, I noticed another controversy. (To be fair, it’s hardly a controversy, but if I said it was as boring as the rest of this crap, would you even continue reading?)
In one of the episodes near the finale, the three remaining contestants—JAG, the curly haired Francophile, and a blonde Yakov refers to as horseface—went on some radio show to see how well they would maintain composure under the pressure of being grilled [Editor’s Note: this terrible food joke was completely unintentional] by two zany DJs on live radio.
During JAG’s interview, the following exchange took place:
JAG: “I’m the one that’s going to bring out Latino Caribe cuisine to the world. It’s not really, uh, represented, you know, as much as I would like it to be, so … it’s either for two reasons: You can’t do it, or, you know, you’re not interested.”
Radio Show Host: “So you think that’s misrepresented on the Food Network?”
JAG: “Uh, you know, I don’t think it’s represented as much as it could be. Uh, you know, and I’m here to try and bring that out.”
Sweet disappointed Jewish mother of Judas! If there’s one thing network executives don’t want to be accused of it’s racial insensitivity/exclusion/misrepresentation/stereotyping/exploiting. Needless to say, the show’s judges—Food Network executives—were none to pleased with JAG’s comments and spent a good amount of time explaining how wrong he was and just how ethnically diverse the Food Network on-air personalities are.
Executive 1: “Goddamnit, JAG! We do so represent Latinos with our programs!”
Executive 2: “Yeah, we’re totally into all that racial stuff.”
JAG: “Come on, vatos. You know that no es verdad. Show me La Raza, or you can kiss my culo!”
Executive 1: “Look here, JAG, there’s enough ethnic diversity here to choke a goddamned Rainbow Coalition.”
Executive 2: “Goddamned right.”
JAG: “Que pasa?”
Executive 1: “Well, shit, Giada’s a hook-nosed Roman, Emeril’s half Bridge Troll, Paula Dean is inbred …”
Executive 2: “She’s right out of The Hills Have Eyes, really.
JAG: “Ay caramba!”
Executive 1: “Robert Irvine is a Brit, Sandra Lee is a WASP …”
JAG: “How is that ethnic in any way, cabron?”
Evecutive 2: “She’s a WASP robot built as an inside joke between a few African-American scientists.”
Executive 1: “Tyler Florence—or TyFlo, as the cool kids refer to him—is a Nephilim …”
JAG: “A what?”
Executive 2: “A hybrid being created during the sticky, unholy pelvic union of a fallen angel and a human woman, JAG.”
Executive 1: “Hell, I myself am a gay Jew, Mario Batali is a fat nerd, Cat Cora’s a hermaphrodite, Guy Fieri’s a time-traveling alien, Morimoto is some kind of Asian, Duff Goldman has been a chipmunk man since he got bitten by that radioactive chipmunk that escaped from Alton Brown’s dressing room, and Rachael Ray is, well, it’s better that you didn’t know the truth about her terrifying origins.”
Executive 2: “I wish I didn’t know. Yeesh!”
JAG: “But where (pauses to salsa dance) are all the Latinos?”
Exexutive 1: “Well, Bobby Flay is a Latino. I mean, technically he’s Irish or something, but he uses blue corn like a Mexican.”
Executive 2: “He loooooves blue corn, JAG.”
JAG: “That is not bueno enough. Bobby Flay may be my hero and the object of my secret homosexual fantasies, but he is not a Latino.”
Executive 2: “We stand by our previous claim that Latinos are well represented on our fine network. We appreciate your concerns, though.”
Executive 1: “Yeah, and you’re not getting eliminated from the show this round, so just keep your mouth shut, capice?”
JAG: “Arrrrriba!”
Several months later:
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Settling In
I haven’t posted anything for a while. That’s really not uncommon for me, but this time I have a legitimate reason—a legitimate reason other than a diabetic coma, I should say.
As my last post explained, I got a new job in a new city and had to relocate. Part of this relocation involved me staying in a motel for several weeks. The only computer I had access to was an old laptop I found in a dumpster behind a suspicious-looking pet shop (any pet shop located next door to a restaurant reeking of wok-fried hamster meat is suspicious). This particular laptop was powered by static electricity. I had to rub stray cats wrapped in tinfoil on the motel shower curtain in order to keep the computer charged, and nothing I had to say was worth all that trouble. I should also mention that, for some of this time, apparently, I was off on a fantastic and violent adventure with Captain Smack.
Anyway, I’m finally moved into my apartment and have my trusty computer back. Since it runs on the tears and humiliation of people I berate for my own amusement, I no longer have to worry about running out of juice. (Hey! You over there: Your mother’s a faggot and you smell like a hamper full of syphilitic skunk diapers.) Here’s what I’ve been up to in my absence from the blogosphere.
New Job
The new job is the only reason I moved. It was a lot of trouble, but you can’t put a price on job satisfaction. I am now the number-three sledgehammer operator/viscera scooper at Beefy Yakov’s Slaughterhouse and Used Plastic Tarp Emporium. It’s one of the few slaughterhouses left in the country that dispatches the livestock with actual human-operated hammers; although, some of us just use big rocks or backpacks full of auto parts to kill the cows because it’s less trite than using a big hammer (it’s a decision we stand by as artists). The pay is excellent, and every second Friday, I get to take home all the jowl meat, tarp scrapings, and udder tips I can carry, no questions asked. Every now and then, Yakov, the owner, gets wasted and tells us jokes from the old country. Most of them involve Catherine the Great blowing a horse, but his delivery is spectacular. Plus, if you mention communism, he spits on the floor and punches his wife, who then gets up and counts the toilet paper rolls in the office bathroom.
New Apartment
I concede that the new apartment isn’t as nice as the cave I used to live in, but it’s close to work and not without its charms. The building rests on the banks of an old creek where Californian Stink Ape (Bigfoot’s less civilized cousin) sightings are common and covens often gather to perform inverted bunny crucifixions. Technically the neighborhood could be called a ghetto, but I feel pretty safe because I’m heavily armed and the police usually show up three or four times a day to clean up after the gang-related massacres.
One thing I’m not used to is having neighbors. I’ve managed to introduce myself to most of them already, though, and they all seem pretty nice. They were mostly rude at first, but I think they warmed up to me when I showed them how to clean a machete blade with the sterile stomach acids of the recently deceased. That’s the kind of helpful information they don’t teach in schools any more, which is just a goddamned shame. The guy who lives in the apartment below me, Fritz, gave me a hard time for making too much noise when I first moved in. The encounter went something like this:
Fritz: “What the hell are you doing up here, asshole? Assembling furniture?”
Me: (Holding a hammer and a mangled bookshelf from IKEA) “Um, yeah.”
Fritz: “Well can’t you do it quietly?”
Me: “You can hear me hammering these tacks into Swedish particle board over that German techno you’re blasting down there?”
Fritz: “That’s not techno, you heathen. It’s my art!”
Me: “It sounds like Hitler taking a screaming shit in a gay discotheque.”
Fritz: “I combine the speeches of the fuhrer with industrial music to convey a message. My art suffers because of all your noise! Now shut up or I’ll tell the landlord.”
Me: “How about you get the fuck out of my apartment and go back to burning books, or whatever it is you’re doing, so I don’t have to kick you in the stomach until your eyeballs pop?”
Fritz: (Screaming in German and flailing around, threatening to take a shit on my floor.)
And that was the second time I jammed a claw hammer in a Nazi’s eye and threw him off a balcony.
Speaking of the landlord, he’s a nice Middle-Eastern fellow. He runs the apartment with the help of his three wives. He has a satisfaction-guaranteed policy when it comes to the apartment.
“If for some reason you unhappy with room, you can camel-whip one of my wives for five minutes. Then you eat goat meat and drink tea with me while she wash your feet.”
There’s also this guy in the building who everyone calls Dr. Jim. He comes by my door every couple of days and trades me free oil change coupons for my old insulin syringes.
“We, uh, can’t let kids step on these things, you know, or, like, let the garbage men poke themselves. I’ll, like, um, take these things to the hospital … where I work … with other rich doctors.”
I don’t know why a rich doctor would live in such a crappy neighborhood. Come to think of it, I don’t know why a rich doctor would wear plastic bags for shoes and drink swimming pool water, but a lot of rich people are rather eccentric.
Someone stole the Toyota emblem off the trunk of my car, which is really the only problem I’ve had so far. Luckily for me, the gang of kids that stole it tried to sell it back to me the next day. Had they known I’m not above beating the shit out of little kids, they probably wouldn’t have taken it in the first place.
The City
The city is not unlike San Diego in many ways. There are stupid people everywhere, for example. The city is smaller than San Diego, however, and it seems like more people here ride bicycles. In fact, so many people ride bikes, they basically control the speed and flow of traffic. They don’t obey traffic laws, either, and they seem to get some kind of perverse joy out of cutting off anyone earth-hostile enough to drive a car (even though the majority of other cars on the road are hybrids with obnoxious yellow stickers making that fact even more apparent). I don’t know whether the locals are just used to it or afraid of the helmet-wearing douchebags on ten-speeds, but they seem to take this abuse like a fatalist takes a twelve-baboon gangrape: with slovenly indifference or mildly disappointed acceptance. It has also occurred to me that these bicyclists have forgotten that no matter how wimpy a car is, it’s still a goddamned wrecking ball on wheels compared to a huffy with “Kucinich ‘08” stickers all over it.
I have been reminding the cycling-hippy population of this simple fact by knocking as many of them off the road as possible. At first I would sort of just nudge the really rude cyclists with my car until they wobbled enough to hit a curb and flip over, but since none of the authorities seem to give a shit about injured hippies, my vehicular assaults have become less inconspicuous. I’ve taken to throwing bricks at them and hitting them with lead pipes as I drive by. Sometimes I’ll even pull over and help them up just to steal their helmets. It’s not like I need any bicycle helmets or anything, but I’ve always wanted to be a poacher and I’m working my way up to elephant feet for trashcans and rhinoceros horns for, well, whatever the fuck people want to use rhinoceros horns for (Hindu monkey god erection idols?).
There’s not all that much to do for fun around here, but thankfully I’ve never done much of anything anyway. Sometimes I’ll go downtown and throw rocks at the Asian transsexuals with the landlord’s uncle, Amir; kick people playing acoustic guitars, pan flutes, and bongo drums at anti-war protests; wear a “God hates queers” shirt to services at the gay Methodist church down the street (What? It’s performance art—like Johnny Knoxville from Jackass taking a fart machine to a yoga studio); and I often hang out at a supposedly haunted Toys ‘R’ Us in a nearby town, hoping to see some ghostly activity. The walls haven’t bled or anything, but I often get reports of the ghost—who was an apple farmer before he died—grabbing ass in the ladies’ room. It’s hardly the Amityville horror, but I take what I can get.
All in all I’m adjusting rather well to my new surroundings. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go bait some stink ape traps with kitten meat. It’s a well-known fact that creek-dwelling Californian Stink Apes can’t resist kitten meat.
As my last post explained, I got a new job in a new city and had to relocate. Part of this relocation involved me staying in a motel for several weeks. The only computer I had access to was an old laptop I found in a dumpster behind a suspicious-looking pet shop (any pet shop located next door to a restaurant reeking of wok-fried hamster meat is suspicious). This particular laptop was powered by static electricity. I had to rub stray cats wrapped in tinfoil on the motel shower curtain in order to keep the computer charged, and nothing I had to say was worth all that trouble. I should also mention that, for some of this time, apparently, I was off on a fantastic and violent adventure with Captain Smack.
Anyway, I’m finally moved into my apartment and have my trusty computer back. Since it runs on the tears and humiliation of people I berate for my own amusement, I no longer have to worry about running out of juice. (Hey! You over there: Your mother’s a faggot and you smell like a hamper full of syphilitic skunk diapers.) Here’s what I’ve been up to in my absence from the blogosphere.
New Job
The new job is the only reason I moved. It was a lot of trouble, but you can’t put a price on job satisfaction. I am now the number-three sledgehammer operator/viscera scooper at Beefy Yakov’s Slaughterhouse and Used Plastic Tarp Emporium. It’s one of the few slaughterhouses left in the country that dispatches the livestock with actual human-operated hammers; although, some of us just use big rocks or backpacks full of auto parts to kill the cows because it’s less trite than using a big hammer (it’s a decision we stand by as artists). The pay is excellent, and every second Friday, I get to take home all the jowl meat, tarp scrapings, and udder tips I can carry, no questions asked. Every now and then, Yakov, the owner, gets wasted and tells us jokes from the old country. Most of them involve Catherine the Great blowing a horse, but his delivery is spectacular. Plus, if you mention communism, he spits on the floor and punches his wife, who then gets up and counts the toilet paper rolls in the office bathroom.
New Apartment
I concede that the new apartment isn’t as nice as the cave I used to live in, but it’s close to work and not without its charms. The building rests on the banks of an old creek where Californian Stink Ape (Bigfoot’s less civilized cousin) sightings are common and covens often gather to perform inverted bunny crucifixions. Technically the neighborhood could be called a ghetto, but I feel pretty safe because I’m heavily armed and the police usually show up three or four times a day to clean up after the gang-related massacres.
One thing I’m not used to is having neighbors. I’ve managed to introduce myself to most of them already, though, and they all seem pretty nice. They were mostly rude at first, but I think they warmed up to me when I showed them how to clean a machete blade with the sterile stomach acids of the recently deceased. That’s the kind of helpful information they don’t teach in schools any more, which is just a goddamned shame. The guy who lives in the apartment below me, Fritz, gave me a hard time for making too much noise when I first moved in. The encounter went something like this:
Fritz: “What the hell are you doing up here, asshole? Assembling furniture?”
Me: (Holding a hammer and a mangled bookshelf from IKEA) “Um, yeah.”
Fritz: “Well can’t you do it quietly?”
Me: “You can hear me hammering these tacks into Swedish particle board over that German techno you’re blasting down there?”
Fritz: “That’s not techno, you heathen. It’s my art!”
Me: “It sounds like Hitler taking a screaming shit in a gay discotheque.”
Fritz: “I combine the speeches of the fuhrer with industrial music to convey a message. My art suffers because of all your noise! Now shut up or I’ll tell the landlord.”
Me: “How about you get the fuck out of my apartment and go back to burning books, or whatever it is you’re doing, so I don’t have to kick you in the stomach until your eyeballs pop?”
Fritz: (Screaming in German and flailing around, threatening to take a shit on my floor.)
And that was the second time I jammed a claw hammer in a Nazi’s eye and threw him off a balcony.
Speaking of the landlord, he’s a nice Middle-Eastern fellow. He runs the apartment with the help of his three wives. He has a satisfaction-guaranteed policy when it comes to the apartment.
“If for some reason you unhappy with room, you can camel-whip one of my wives for five minutes. Then you eat goat meat and drink tea with me while she wash your feet.”
There’s also this guy in the building who everyone calls Dr. Jim. He comes by my door every couple of days and trades me free oil change coupons for my old insulin syringes.
“We, uh, can’t let kids step on these things, you know, or, like, let the garbage men poke themselves. I’ll, like, um, take these things to the hospital … where I work … with other rich doctors.”
I don’t know why a rich doctor would live in such a crappy neighborhood. Come to think of it, I don’t know why a rich doctor would wear plastic bags for shoes and drink swimming pool water, but a lot of rich people are rather eccentric.
Someone stole the Toyota emblem off the trunk of my car, which is really the only problem I’ve had so far. Luckily for me, the gang of kids that stole it tried to sell it back to me the next day. Had they known I’m not above beating the shit out of little kids, they probably wouldn’t have taken it in the first place.
The City
The city is not unlike San Diego in many ways. There are stupid people everywhere, for example. The city is smaller than San Diego, however, and it seems like more people here ride bicycles. In fact, so many people ride bikes, they basically control the speed and flow of traffic. They don’t obey traffic laws, either, and they seem to get some kind of perverse joy out of cutting off anyone earth-hostile enough to drive a car (even though the majority of other cars on the road are hybrids with obnoxious yellow stickers making that fact even more apparent). I don’t know whether the locals are just used to it or afraid of the helmet-wearing douchebags on ten-speeds, but they seem to take this abuse like a fatalist takes a twelve-baboon gangrape: with slovenly indifference or mildly disappointed acceptance. It has also occurred to me that these bicyclists have forgotten that no matter how wimpy a car is, it’s still a goddamned wrecking ball on wheels compared to a huffy with “Kucinich ‘08” stickers all over it.
I have been reminding the cycling-hippy population of this simple fact by knocking as many of them off the road as possible. At first I would sort of just nudge the really rude cyclists with my car until they wobbled enough to hit a curb and flip over, but since none of the authorities seem to give a shit about injured hippies, my vehicular assaults have become less inconspicuous. I’ve taken to throwing bricks at them and hitting them with lead pipes as I drive by. Sometimes I’ll even pull over and help them up just to steal their helmets. It’s not like I need any bicycle helmets or anything, but I’ve always wanted to be a poacher and I’m working my way up to elephant feet for trashcans and rhinoceros horns for, well, whatever the fuck people want to use rhinoceros horns for (Hindu monkey god erection idols?).
There’s not all that much to do for fun around here, but thankfully I’ve never done much of anything anyway. Sometimes I’ll go downtown and throw rocks at the Asian transsexuals with the landlord’s uncle, Amir; kick people playing acoustic guitars, pan flutes, and bongo drums at anti-war protests; wear a “God hates queers” shirt to services at the gay Methodist church down the street (What? It’s performance art—like Johnny Knoxville from Jackass taking a fart machine to a yoga studio); and I often hang out at a supposedly haunted Toys ‘R’ Us in a nearby town, hoping to see some ghostly activity. The walls haven’t bled or anything, but I often get reports of the ghost—who was an apple farmer before he died—grabbing ass in the ladies’ room. It’s hardly the Amityville horror, but I take what I can get.
All in all I’m adjusting rather well to my new surroundings. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go bait some stink ape traps with kitten meat. It’s a well-known fact that creek-dwelling Californian Stink Apes can’t resist kitten meat.
Friday, August 17, 2007
To Answer Stupid Questions and Bid a Fond Farewell
It’s a well-known fact that I have an encyclopedic knowledge of painfully useless crap (for example, SPAM is made from ground pork shoulder, not porcine rectal tumors and gelatinized chicken sperm as some people have suggested). My capacity for asinine information and brilliant problem-solving abilities are so well known that I sometimes get random e-mails from people, asking me stupid questions. Since I’m really busy preparing to move across the state for a job and have no time to write something new, I figured I would share a few stupid questions I’ve received, along with my cordial responses. One thing I don’t know, however, is why all these slack-jawed, mouth-breathing retards keep e-mailing me their questions when they could just as easily look this shit up for themselves online. I don’t want to enable people to continue being lazy, but it’s just my nature to help others.
Dude, what’s the deal with Chairman Kaga from Iron Chef? Is he, like, a real guy, or just acting and shit?
Jack M. Duly
Jack M. Duly
Yes, Chairman Kaga is a real guy. He became a Japanese celebrity when his Elton John impersonation and lipsynced musical act was featured on the variety show Super Lucky Happy Fun Time Smiling Sparkling Go-Go Bonanza. This moderate amount of fame led Kaga to become the ultra-cool spokesperson for the “Bedazzler” in Japan. His amazing, sparkly outfits helped increase the Bedazzler’s sales in Tokyo by 3000%. Seeking further artistic freedom, he resigned as spokesperson and was replaced by an effeminate bulimic man in a raccoon costume. This gave Kaga the time to become Japan’s number one Liberace impersonator, which is how he made the bulk of his massive fortune.
At the height of his success, he was so wealthy he had a home custom built for him on the top of Mt. Fuji. This home is legendary for having its own bank (dubbed “Rotta Money Kaga Roomaru Bring-Bring Banku Desu” by the media in Japan). This life of solitude and insufficient flamboyance prompted Kaga to build Kitchen Stadium and start the magnificent television show, Iron Chef. The rest, as the cliché goes, is history.
Unfortunately, when Iron Chef ended in Japan, it was due to Kaga’s liver--rich and bloated after 300-plus episodes of eating fancy food on the show--being mistaken for the theme ingredient and cooked into a three-course French meal by Iron Chef Sakai on the final unaired episode of the show, not diminished ratings.
Kaga’s legacy has been carried on by his nephew on Iron Chef America. On this new version of the show, Kaga’s nephew (who is only one-sixteenth Japanese and previously stared in the big-budget Hollywood hit movie, Double Dragon) honors his uncle by eating a bunch of rich food and backflipping around like a ninja squirrel on amphetamines.
At the height of his success, he was so wealthy he had a home custom built for him on the top of Mt. Fuji. This home is legendary for having its own bank (dubbed “Rotta Money Kaga Roomaru Bring-Bring Banku Desu” by the media in Japan). This life of solitude and insufficient flamboyance prompted Kaga to build Kitchen Stadium and start the magnificent television show, Iron Chef. The rest, as the cliché goes, is history.
Unfortunately, when Iron Chef ended in Japan, it was due to Kaga’s liver--rich and bloated after 300-plus episodes of eating fancy food on the show--being mistaken for the theme ingredient and cooked into a three-course French meal by Iron Chef Sakai on the final unaired episode of the show, not diminished ratings.
Kaga’s legacy has been carried on by his nephew on Iron Chef America. On this new version of the show, Kaga’s nephew (who is only one-sixteenth Japanese and previously stared in the big-budget Hollywood hit movie, Double Dragon) honors his uncle by eating a bunch of rich food and backflipping around like a ninja squirrel on amphetamines.
Mr. Mordread Lycanthrope,
Someone told me one time that alcohol played an important part of history. You seem to drink a lot, so is that true? The history thing I mean. Thanks.
Skippy Putnam
Someone told me one time that alcohol played an important part of history. You seem to drink a lot, so is that true? The history thing I mean. Thanks.
Skippy Putnam
Well, first of all, alcohol has played an important role in my personal history. Ever since my dad got a sexy nurse to put Manischewitz wine on my freshly circumcised baby pecker, alcohol has been my guide on the road to badass. When I was teething, my mother put bourbon in my bottle to shut me up—that’s when I grew my first chest hair. I learned how to drink heavily in junior high, and by my first year of high school, I was guzzling American whiskey and beating up the football team. In fact, if it weren’t for alcohol, I never would have gotten drunk enough to kick my drunken father’s ass. (Editor’s Note: This happened shortly before Morb’s father burned the house down trying to sear his cheating wife’s lady lunchmeat [see: vagina] shut with a superheated machete blade.)
Secondly, people around the world have been drinking various kinds of booze for thousands of years. It goes without saying that the consumption of alcohol has changed history countless times. For example, the Great Pyramid was supposed to be a cube, but the architect got all messed up on Nile Bill’s Wild-Crocodile Brew and screwed up the blueprints; this led to the creation of one of mankind’s greatest architectural achievements.
Alcohol has always been at least partially responsible for men standing up, throwing caution to the wind, and accomplishing great things. I believe it was George Washington who, after polishing off his sixth mug of ale, said, “Buuuurrrrrpppp! Hey, guys! England’s being a dick, let’s kick his ass!” He then sketched out a crude drawing of his butt and sent it to the king of England, starting the American War of Independence.
If my neighbor Scooter hadn’t gotten so drunk on cigarette-butt-filtered Jacuzzi gin, he never would have tried to blow out the fire his meth lab started when it exploded (R.I.P. Scooter). And if it weren’t for alcohol, Bill Fool never would have attempted to take a piss on Lars Ulrich from Metallica at a bar in Houston. Anyway, that’s the short answer. If you want a more in-depth response, send a case of Evan Williams Kentucky Whiskey to my cave, and pray that I don’t get drunk and try to kick your ass for asking questions in a lispy, nancy-boy voice.
Secondly, people around the world have been drinking various kinds of booze for thousands of years. It goes without saying that the consumption of alcohol has changed history countless times. For example, the Great Pyramid was supposed to be a cube, but the architect got all messed up on Nile Bill’s Wild-Crocodile Brew and screwed up the blueprints; this led to the creation of one of mankind’s greatest architectural achievements.
Alcohol has always been at least partially responsible for men standing up, throwing caution to the wind, and accomplishing great things. I believe it was George Washington who, after polishing off his sixth mug of ale, said, “Buuuurrrrrpppp! Hey, guys! England’s being a dick, let’s kick his ass!” He then sketched out a crude drawing of his butt and sent it to the king of England, starting the American War of Independence.
If my neighbor Scooter hadn’t gotten so drunk on cigarette-butt-filtered Jacuzzi gin, he never would have tried to blow out the fire his meth lab started when it exploded (R.I.P. Scooter). And if it weren’t for alcohol, Bill Fool never would have attempted to take a piss on Lars Ulrich from Metallica at a bar in Houston. Anyway, that’s the short answer. If you want a more in-depth response, send a case of Evan Williams Kentucky Whiskey to my cave, and pray that I don’t get drunk and try to kick your ass for asking questions in a lispy, nancy-boy voice.
Hey asshole! I think ur the guy that fucked up my car. Was it you? What the hell u fuckin prick?
Name Withheld
Name Withheld
It wasn’t me, dude. Why would I run around in the middle of the night, wearing a ninja costume with a superman cape, kicking in people’s windshields, and leaving animal carcasses piled up in the passenger seats? That’s just not something I would do. I also wouldn’t drop my lucky Hello Kitty cigarette lighter in your backseat when I wasn’t throwing up in one of your cup holders. Incidentally, I’d be willing to take any Hello Kitty cigarette lighters you may have found on your property.
Hiya Morb,
My parents are making me see a shrink because I keep teabagging the cat. I’m nervous about it. What happens to you when you see a shrink?
Love,
Timmy Sanchez VIII
My parents are making me see a shrink because I keep teabagging the cat. I’m nervous about it. What happens to you when you see a shrink?
Love,
Timmy Sanchez VIII
Basically, you have to lay on a couch like a gay Roman while some jackass in a tweed vest draws pictures of you naked on his legal pad. I had a psychology class in college, and, yes, that’s all shrinks actually do.
Hey, Morb, tell him that psychologists and psychiatrists can help you face your problems. Tell him that they’re just there to help you in any way they can, without judging you.
Shut the fuck up, Magnanimous Misanthrope, you wuss.
But, Morb, Timmy has reached out to you. The least you could do is reassure him a little.
I’m not here to make timid little perverts feel better about getting brainraped by educated perverts because their parents are tired of paying to abort the housecat’s human/feline-hybrids. And what the hell are you even doing here? I thought Murderous Misanthrope cut your guts out with a butterfly knife.
He did, and it really hurt. But Miraculous Misanthrope brought me back.
That holier-than-thou douchebag brought you back again? Jeez, I will be so thrilled when I figure out a way to get rid of all you idiots.
Hey, Morb, tell him that psychologists and psychiatrists can help you face your problems. Tell him that they’re just there to help you in any way they can, without judging you.
Shut the fuck up, Magnanimous Misanthrope, you wuss.
But, Morb, Timmy has reached out to you. The least you could do is reassure him a little.
I’m not here to make timid little perverts feel better about getting brainraped by educated perverts because their parents are tired of paying to abort the housecat’s human/feline-hybrids. And what the hell are you even doing here? I thought Murderous Misanthrope cut your guts out with a butterfly knife.
He did, and it really hurt. But Miraculous Misanthrope brought me back.
That holier-than-thou douchebag brought you back again? Jeez, I will be so thrilled when I figure out a way to get rid of all you idiots.
Hi y’all
I done everything I could to get attention. I shaved my head, had some kids, did some stupid shit with those kids, flashed my vadge a few times, et al y’all. No one cares any more tho. What can I do to get people to pay attention to me forever y’all?
xxxooo
B.S.
I done everything I could to get attention. I shaved my head, had some kids, did some stupid shit with those kids, flashed my vadge a few times, et al y’all. No one cares any more tho. What can I do to get people to pay attention to me forever y’all?
xxxooo
B.S.
I tell you the same goddamn thing every time you send me this question.
There you have it, folks. I may not be as wise as King Solomon or Al Bundy, but I think I did alright answering those questions anyway.
As I mentioned earlier, I’m in the process of relocating in order to take a sweet new job. Since I have to start the job before I'm able to find a place to live, I’ll be staying in a motel for a few weeks. It’s not the fanciest motel, but they’re giving me a really good deal because I’m the first person ever to stay there without paying by the hour. That reminds me, I better cover that room in, like, three layers of plastic tarp. I’ll probably be blogging even less than usual, but I’ll be back once I’m living in a place with an internet connection instead of a heart-shaped bed and matching Spanish Fly dispenser.
Also, since I’ve lived in San Diego all my life, moving 500 miles away makes me feel a little sentimental (until I remember how much I hate every person in this town). Throughout history, people have commemorated such journeys by breaking champagne bottles on ships and reciting poetry that someone else wrote. I don’t care much for poetry, and the boat I bought from a crackhead for three dollars caught on fire the other night. I will now end this, the final post from my hometown, with a completely unrelated, translated haiku by the totally awesome Japanese poet Basho.
O bush warblers!
As I mentioned earlier, I’m in the process of relocating in order to take a sweet new job. Since I have to start the job before I'm able to find a place to live, I’ll be staying in a motel for a few weeks. It’s not the fanciest motel, but they’re giving me a really good deal because I’m the first person ever to stay there without paying by the hour. That reminds me, I better cover that room in, like, three layers of plastic tarp. I’ll probably be blogging even less than usual, but I’ll be back once I’m living in a place with an internet connection instead of a heart-shaped bed and matching Spanish Fly dispenser.
Also, since I’ve lived in San Diego all my life, moving 500 miles away makes me feel a little sentimental (until I remember how much I hate every person in this town). Throughout history, people have commemorated such journeys by breaking champagne bottles on ships and reciting poetry that someone else wrote. I don’t care much for poetry, and the boat I bought from a crackhead for three dollars caught on fire the other night. I will now end this, the final post from my hometown, with a completely unrelated, translated haiku by the totally awesome Japanese poet Basho.
O bush warblers!
Now you’ve shit all over
my rice cake on the porch
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
Best Hair Ever
Jayson: “Yo, guys, how fuckin’ sweet do we look for this photo shoot?”
Tiger: “Yo, dawg, we look totally slammin’. I feel like some kind of sexy cat.”
Randy: “I look hot in purple, yo. For real.”
Jesse: “Jesse loves the soft light glistening off of his highlighted hair.”
Tim: “I think the stylist went a little half-ass with my hair, you guys.”
Randy: “It looks fine, yo. It doesn’t look as good as mine, though.”
Jayson: “Yo, Randy, you know who you look like? You look like Rufio from that Peter Pan movie with Robin Williams.”
Randy: “Snap, Dawg! I totally do. Rufio was hardcore.”
Jesse: “Jesse concurs. Rufio was the man.”
Tiger: “I’m liking these braids. They’re crazy; like my hair got caught in a lawnmower. I’m pimp, yo. Ghetto fabulous all the way.”
Jesse: “If Jesse were a cab driver in New York, Jesse wouldn’t pick you up. Your look is the true epitome of street cred.”
Tim: “Wow, Jesse, that came off a little racist, didn’t it?”
Tiger: “No way, Tim. Your hair may not be as cool as ours, but don’t take that out on Jesse.”
Jesse: “Jesse does not like getting accused of bigotry when Jesse is merely paying one of his bandmates a sincere compliment.”
Tim: “Sorry, Jesse. I didn’t mean anything by it. I guess I’m just a little bummed out that my hair looks….”
Jayson: “Looks like you just rolled out from between two sticky mattresses after a three-day booze-and-pills blackout?”
Tim: “That’s a little harsh. I was just going to say….”
Randy: “That your hair looks like it was sculpted out of tree bark by a one-eyed geriatric with a case of bad medication shakes?”
Tim: “Ouch! I was going to say it looked a little plain, but I didn’t think it looked bad.”
Jesse: “Well, if there’s one thing Jesse knows for sure, it’s that Jesse’s hair is beyond trailer park chic. If Billy Ray Cyrus had his mullet created by homosexual German stylists in Milan, it still wouldn’t compare to Jesse’s current hairdo.”
Randy: “Yeah, it’s like a redneck’s meth lab exploded style all over your head.”
Tim: “I think you’re all going a little far with the compliments now.”
Tiger: “Jealousy is really unbecoming of you, dude. Seriously. If you’re upset that your hair looks like it was styled when you squoze your head out of the urethra of a bull elephant with gonorrhea, you should take it up with the stylist, not attack your bandmates.”
Tim: “Now I’m starting to get pretty upset.”
Jayson: “I’d just like to point out how hot my hair makes me look. I’m, like, ten times hotter than those rebellious punk rock-looking chicks they use in L.A. Looks hair gel magazine ads.”
Jesse: “If you were a woman, Jesse would not hesitate to pleasure you carnally. Jesse is also secure enough in his masculinity to admit the thought crossed his mind, even knowing full well you are a man.”
Randy: “Jayson is looking mad sexy, yo.”
Tiger: “I’m tempted to tap that ass myself, homie.”
Tim: “From the depths of narcissism to the heights of homoeroticism all in one photo shoot. Way to go, guys.”
Jayson: “That sounded a little like homophobia, Tim, and that’s not what this band is about.”
Tiger: “This band is not about blind hatred and intolerance, dawg.”
Jesse: “Word.”
Randy: “Double word.”
Tim: “I don’t need this shit. I’m a musician. I’m out of here.”
Jesse: “Jesse hopes your hairdo is not run over by any careless vehicles, because it is certainly pedestrian.”
Tim: “You’re guys are idiots.”
By the way, I did a guest post of divine significance on Neko’s blog. You can read that here. No pressure, but your souls hang in the balance.
By the way, I did a guest post of divine significance on Neko’s blog. You can read that here. No pressure, but your souls hang in the balance.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Thursday, July 12, 2007
An Expert's Take on MySpace.com
I hate MySpace. It’s stupid. Besides, what the fuck would a misanthrope want with a social networking site, anyway? At first I was just going to rant about how MySpace is nothing but a place for fat chicks with deceptively slimming high-angle photos to pick up internet boyfriends; a place for old perverts to prey on stupid preteens who believe every online profile they read; and a place where foreigners can meet American women desperate to get married, i.e., their ticket to American citizenship. But then I started thinking about how much productivity suffered at the magazine where I worked because all of the ditzy ad sales girls spent their entire working day fucking around on MySpace.
If MySpace could cripple a business in such a way, perhaps it isn’t just an innocent place for people to make friends/keep track of friends online. Perhaps it’s something more evil, more insidious. Whenever I have these kinds of paranoid thoughts, I start looking shit up on the internet—modern scholarly research, if you will. At any rate, I discovered quite a bit of information that blew my mind. Most of this enlightening information came from one source: a self-proclaimed genius and ancient civilizations/end of the world expert named Thadius H. J. Bandercatchum (AIM handle, XxCommander6669xX).
Since he knows more than I ever hope to know on the subject of MySpace (and something called “tentacle porn” that he offered to sell me a box of), I asked him to write a post for this blog, summarizing the major discoveries he’s made. So, anyone still reading this crap, please enjoy having your entire perception of reality altered by this great man.
Cordially,
Morbid Misanthrope
MySpace: Destroyer of Worlds
By Thadius H. J. Bandercatchum
By Thadius H. J. Bandercatchum
In order for what I’m about to tell to make sense, I suggest all you plebeians just accept my immense genius and try to wrap your pin-shaped heads around the gobbets of information I’m going to drop before you. Judging by the intellect of Morbid Misanthrope (oh, how clever, alliteration—what a twat), you, his devoted readers, must be incredibly stupid. Who else but complete fools would consistently give a shit what someone calling himself Morbid Misanthrope has to say. That idiot writes like a 45-year-old ex-junkie working his way through Hooked on Phonics for the seventh or eighth time. That’s neither here nor there, however, because no matter how below me an audience is, it is an audience nonetheless. My message is what matters, so I don’t mind casting pearls before swine occasionally.
Before I “learn y’all something,” I think I’ll tell you a little about myself. The only thing equal to my genius is my awesomeness and ability to get hot ladies constantly. I’m so cool that I say things like, “My name’s Thadius, Thadius Bandercatchum. You’ve got big hooters. Now go over there and make out with that sexy nurse” and it actually works. I’m so pimp, as the kids like to say, that I’ve had sex with over 300 lesbians—the pretty ones, not those manly dyker bikers with plastic wieners sewn on. In fact, I once had three-hour-long sex with six lesbians on the back of a Harley Davidson while changing the bike's oil and rebuilding the engine. One super-hot lesbian actually called my boner “Thad’s third arm” because it’s got reach.
Anyway, aside from my poon-pounding prowess, I’m also a genius. I make over $200,000 a year just for being so goddamned smart. I don't even use my genius as a full-time job. I only freelance. Yes, I’m really that smart. So pay attention to what I have to say. I’m going to make this painfully quick so none of your heads explode.
Point 1: The End of the World Hexagram in the I Ching
There’s no way any of you can possibly comprehend the complexities of the I Ching, so allow me to just say this: The Hexagram in the I Ching that represents the end of the world can be translated to—if you also include its inner trigram—“ Mai Sczpace.”
There’s no way any of you can possibly comprehend the complexities of the I Ching, so allow me to just say this: The Hexagram in the I Ching that represents the end of the world can be translated to—if you also include its inner trigram—“ Mai Sczpace.”
Point 2: The Mayans and Their End of the World Predictions
These are the simple facts: The Mayans were very, very smart (even though their skin was a funny color and they didn’t speak proper English). Unfortunately for them, they were shit when it came to surviving, and they were all destroyed by Spaniards that came to the Americas by accident on their way to find the famous Chinese Opium Trade. However, before they were wiped out by lisping Europeans with silly pants and single-shot rifles, they managed to predict the end of the world. I’ll spare you their methods. For the sake of your fragile minds, we’ll just say they used magic.
These are the simple facts: The Mayans were very, very smart (even though their skin was a funny color and they didn’t speak proper English). Unfortunately for them, they were shit when it came to surviving, and they were all destroyed by Spaniards that came to the Americas by accident on their way to find the famous Chinese Opium Trade. However, before they were wiped out by lisping Europeans with silly pants and single-shot rifles, they managed to predict the end of the world. I’ll spare you their methods. For the sake of your fragile minds, we’ll just say they used magic.
According to their calendar, the end of the world will occur in December 2012. Pictured below is the Mayan Calendar Stone (sometimes called the Aztec Sun Stone—the Mayans stole it from the Aztecs as a revenge prank after some Aztec warriors greased the stairs of one of the Mayan pyramids and made a bunch of the human sacrifices fall down in a comical fashion). At the very top of the stone, where 12:00 would be on a clock, is a symbol that represents the end of the world. Look at the symbol the Mayans used to represent the destruction of the planet. If that’s not the Myspace logo, then I never banged Scarlett Johansson (I did bang Scarlett Johansson, by the way).
Point 3: Plato’s Pre-Atlantis Utopia
I have to assume that all of you have heard of Plato. If not Plato, surely you’ve all heard of his famous story about Atlantis. Disney made a cartoon movie about it, which I’m sure most of you have seen.
I have to assume that all of you have heard of Plato. If not Plato, surely you’ve all heard of his famous story about Atlantis. Disney made a cartoon movie about it, which I’m sure most of you have seen.
I have discovered a little-known story written by Plato that predates his Atlantis story by over three weeks. I shouldn’t have to tell you how significant this story is (although I’m sure some of you will miss out on its relevance entirely). Here is a copy of Plato’s pre-Atlantis story:
There once was a brilliant society, with technology like no other society on Zeus' flat earth. This society was called Mu-Nod, and was the envy of every other city on earth. While other societies reveled in goat sex and naked male-on-male wrestling, Mu-Nod shunned such nonsense and instead focused on progress.
They developed something called bathrooms, which were places where one, alone as opposed to a group setting, could bathe or drop a deuce on marble thrones. They also had flying chariots that could transport a person from place to place at an amazing speed. It was said that the very gods of Olympus vacationed there.
Then, one day, the scientists of this magnificent city created something called "ThyPlace." This system, which enabled citizens to communicate with each other through long cables suspended throughout the city, led to their very downfall.
Instead of working and inventing, the denizens of Mu-Nod sent each other vapid messages and manipulated photos of themselves. They updated their "ThyPlace" pages many times a day, virtually crippling their productivity. They spent all their time quoting ignorant celebrities and customizing their personal "ThyPlace" pages. Soon, however, the morally lacking invented fake personalities for themselves in order to "befriend" the youngest members of the society. Perversity ran rampant.
The less people worked and the more time they spent sending messages to each other led to severe economic decline. The city deteriorated and went to pot.
Soon, the gods themselves decided to punish the wicked, slovenly population of Mu-Nod. They called everyone on "ThyPlace" dorks, which is another word for whale dick, and destroyed the entire civilization for its wickedness. Thusly, this great city perished as it fell beneath the waves of the ocean, brought down by its inability to function because of a silly social-networking program.
This story is true; may the gods fornicate me with an olive branch if I tell a lie. Let this be a lesson to all of the other cities in the world—a warning, as it were. The entire world is at risk if they heed not these words. Thank you, and good night.
There you have it. MySpace is certainly a modern version of the “ThyPlace” that destroyed the magical kingdom of Mu-Nod. The same terrible fate could await us if we continue to use MySpace so recklessly. Also, Plato essentially called MySpace users dorks. So, unless you want to be a fucking dork, I suggest you quit screwing around with MySpace.
Point 4: Nostradamus’ Quatrains
Since most of you probably have no idea who Nostradamus is, I'll enlighten you. Even a genius like me can be charitable sometimes. Why, just the other day I bought a pencil from a deaf retard on the subway. This is the abridged version of Nostradamus’ history, written to make sense to cigarette-smoking chimps. I think you’ll all be able to understand it.
Since most of you probably have no idea who Nostradamus is, I'll enlighten you. Even a genius like me can be charitable sometimes. Why, just the other day I bought a pencil from a deaf retard on the subway. This is the abridged version of Nostradamus’ history, written to make sense to cigarette-smoking chimps. I think you’ll all be able to understand it.
Nostradamus was born a long time ago in a land far away. He was a pissed off kid because his parents named him Michelle. That's why he started calling himself Butch. Since he lived in a salon, no one bought the "tough" name. That pissed him off even more, so he killed his wife and kid and blamed it on the plague.
Still desperate to look manly, he married a new lady named Anne. She was really stupid, but he only married her as a trophy wife so it didn't really matter. It was rumored that she spoke terrible French and couldn't cook for a damn, but she had huge tits and that was all ol' "Butch" needed to help his reputation.
He also grew a sweet beard and moved into a spooky-looking tower where he started writing poetry. Realizing a French poet would make people world wide question his masculinity for all time, he changed his name to Nostradamus and spread rumors that he was writing some spooky shit about the future, not fruity poems about wine and flowers.
Then, everyone was all mystified by Nostradamus and they read his terrifying poems, or quatrains as he called them. Quatrain is basically a word Nostradamus said the ghosts told him to use to describe his fortune-telling.
Anyway, he wrote a bunch of quatrains and people were afraid of the end of the world that he may or may not have predicted. You see, Nostradamus was a sneaky fellow, and many experts believe his quatrains weren't really predictions, but really bad jokes only he got.
Regardless, people have been scared of Nostradamus for hundreds of years now. They also call him a prophet and celebrate his birthday every year by wearing fake beards and silly hats.
I have found a few quatrains that predict the birth of MySpace and its terrible effects on humanity. It's pretty damned amazing, so hold on to your helmets and read on.
With a click and a blank stare
They speak to friends they've never met
Where the young are really old men
They speak to friends they've never met
Where the young are really old men
And the women are too
And another one:
Self-absorbed, empty-headed fools
Quote lines from bad plays and lyrics from mindless music at each other
Bright pink backgrounds blind the unprepared
Women much fatter than their pictures suggest
Quote lines from bad plays and lyrics from mindless music at each other
Bright pink backgrounds blind the unprepared
Women much fatter than their pictures suggest
And, most ominously:
The system shall corrupt the world
Bringing mental-retardation and exaggerated self-importance
Name after name will be added to lists
Bringing mental-retardation and exaggerated self-importance
Name after name will be added to lists
Nyspice will bring social ruin
In the last line there, I interpret "Nyspice" to mean "MySpace"; much like other Nostradamus experts believe Nostradamus' "Hister" meant "Hitler." It couldn’t be more clear that Nostradamus predicated MySpace’s ability to bring about terrifying social ruin.
For any of you still reading along without understanding the big picture, I’ll spell it out for you: MySpace will bring about the end of the world. The proof is all there … in a condensed, blog-friendly kind of way. If any of you dare to learn more about MySpace ushering in the end of the planet as we know it, you can visit my website at ****************** and buy my books from **********. Also, if there are any especially sexy ladies who want to get nailed by a genius before the world comes to an end, you can call **********. That’s my cell. Hot ladies can also find saucy pictures of me on MySpace.
[Editor’s Note: All of Thad’s contact information has been blocked by the owner of this blog because Thad called him a twat.]
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Friday, June 29, 2007
Thursday, June 21, 2007
The Summer Slaughter Tour: A Morbid Misanthrope's Humble Review
At last a concert came to town metal enough to lure me from the sweet seclusion of my cave. As the name so eloquently implies, the Summer Slaughter Tour is the “most extreme tour of the year.” And although the year is far from over, the veracity of that statement probably won’t be compromised unless a bunch of pro skaters pack up their halfpipe and tour the country themselves (those skaters are so fucking extreme, they’re actually X-treme). Regardless of the tour’s superfluous extremity, the show promised nine bands for the low, low price of only $17.00. With a price like that, I couldn’t afford not to go.The Venue
Unlike many of the metal shows I’ve attended in the past, this concert took place at an all-ages venue. I’m used to seeing metal bands in filthy little dive bars where you spend most of your time trying to avoid stepping on potentially hazardous piles or puddles of sticky god-knows-what. At this all-ages show, however, I spent most of my time trying not to step on any kids. The fuckin’ place was crawling with the little bastards. Watching these annoying, sideways-hat-wearing, trying-to-look-tough thumbsuckers pour through the doors of the venue reminded me of maggots crawling out of a freshly kicked hole in the side of a rotting animal. I think I prefer the maggots. They have more personality.
Being an all-ages venue, there was no alcohol on the premises; unless you count all the cool kids trading sips from tallboys of warm Budweiser in the parking lot bushes. From the looks of these little wimps, they were more accustomed to Zima and wine coolers, but, you know, it’s a metal show and they have to look tough until their minivan-driving mommies pick them up.
I had never been to this venue before because it’s pretty much just a hangout for screamo kids, punks, and various types of hoodie-wearing hardcore dumbshits. The venue itself is fairly large and has decent sound; although, some of the bands sounded rather muffled—like someone blast-farting into a couch cushion. If there was a designated outdoor smoking area, I didn’t see it. This drove a few unfortunate guys with shaved heads and prison tattoos to start punching people until security threw them out. Come to think of it, they were probably just skinheads. Those guys love punching people … and nailing their cousins … often both at the same time.
Overall the venue was good: plenty of parking, decent sound, large merchandise area, large stage area, etc. What the venue lacks, at least when I was there, is some airflow. Being in that place was like cramming your head up a bee hive and jumping into a kiln. Would it kill their budget to invest in a fucking ceiling fan or two? Crack a goddamn window, guys, you’re starting to attract wayfaring Italian cooks looking for an oven big enough to cook pizzas shaped like Italy. (I was going to make a Nazi oven joke, but my conscience threatened to sue.)
Bands
Here is a quick rundown of the bands that played.
Beneath the Massacre:
A tech-death(ish) metal band from Canada. They sounded like a group of speed freaks jackhammer fighting behind a liquor store while a robot kicks over trashcans. Sweet!
Ion Dissonance:
I had never heard this band before. I guess you could call them a hardcore band with grindcore tendencies. Their bass player was bald and thrashed around a lot.
Arsis:
Melodic, blackened death metal. I would have paid $17.00 just to see these guys play. I bought their “United in Regret” t-shirt because it’s way necro. When they played “A Diamond for Disease,” it was so fucking badass that three people exploded.
The Faceless:
I had never heard of these guys, either. Their keyboard player looked like someone who would have gotten beaten up by Moby back in Junior High School.
As Blood Runs Black:
“We want you [their fans in the crowd] to fuckin’ go crazy and tear this shit up!” They probably would have, but they were all too busy writing notes about their feelings to put on LiveJournal when they got home.
Cattle Decapitation:
A local gore/grind band that has become somewhat well known. I saw them back in the day with Nile and Impaled. Their singer looks like a cracked-out Jim Breuer. He flailed around a lot, poured bottled water on himself, and spat in the air and caught it in his mouth. I wanted to drop kick him. The band itself is cool, though.
Cephalic Carnage:
These crazy bastards are an awesome mix of death metal, grindcore, and other random types of assorted musical madness. Since I know that drug-free is the way to be, I can’t say I approve of their calls to smoke weed. During “Endless Cycle of Violence,” I punched a kid so hard it knocked the Billabong logo off of his shirt.
Decapitated:
A tech-death metal band from Poland. I’ve been listening to these guys for years. Back in college “Spheres of Madness” was practically my theme song, and I finally got to see them play it live. They were an unstoppable wall of brutal death metal battery.
Necrophagist:
The final and headlining band of the Summer Slaughter Tour took the stage and beat the shit out of the audience with complex tech-death riffing, time signatures nearly impossible to headbang to, and an eight-minute-long drum solo.
Highlights of the Show
Beneath the Massacre, Arsis, Cephalic Carnage, Decapitated, and Necrophagist.
“GORE not CORE” shirts. Goddamn right!
Things that Pissed Me off at the Show
For the sake of brevity, I’ll try to keep the unhinged ranting to a minimum.
Because there were so many bands on the bill, every band leading up to Necrophagist only had a four-song set. I’ve seen soundchecks last longer than that. If I had sneezed, I would have completely missed Decapitated’s performance. The simple solution is to put fewer bands on the lineup. Even with dirty metalheads, quality trumps quantity—unless you’re talking about alcohol, in which case more is always better. I myself would choose a dusty metal bucket of Jim Beam runoff over a clean shot glass of Maker’s Mark any day.
In any case, the Summer Slaughter Tour would have been no less extreme had Ion Dissonance, The Faceless, and As Blood Runs Black not been involved. In fact, the exclusion of As Blood Runs Black probably would have added to the tour’s extreme cred, as their absence probably would have cut down on the number of fifteen-year-old emo kids sniveling up the joint, reeking of expensive hair conditioner.
Speaking of emo kids, just what the fuck happened to the metal scene since I’ve been gone? I’ve been to all-ages shows in the past, and there always were a bunch of annoying punker and hardcore kids around, but never have I been to a metal show so full of tragically hip, senselessly pouty, emo douchebags with stupid haircuts. It was as if Junior Prom at the school for the extraordinarily angsty let out after an especially moving performance by My Chemical Romance. I went to take a piss but couldn’t get in the bathroom because the raging torrent of mascara-laced tears was impossible to ford without three pack mules and one-hundred feet of rope. At one point, the mosh pit turned into a moping circle, and all the emo kids just sort of shuffled around, flipping their feathered hair out of their eyes in melancholy unison. I didn’t know people on suicide watch were allowed to go to concerts.
This unholy mixture of clashing subcultures—emo/screamo, hardcore, punker, and metal—led to an unusual pit experience. Hardcore kids performing the ever-popular and totally not lame pit dance “picking up change” were inevitably kicked in the head by safety-pin-covered idiots jumping around karate kicking the air like spastic, uncoordinated Ralph Macchios. Fragile screamo boys and girls bordered the pit and looked sad when anyone ran into them, and metalheads just ran around, plowing through anyone in their way. Some jackass was literally doing cartwheels in the pit—the kind of cartwheels effeminate guys wearing lederhosen do while picking flowers and singing show tunes in a field somewhere. The last time I saw him he was getting his shit totally ruined by a big guy in a Morbid Angel t-shirt. He got hit so hard mid-cartwheel that his shoe flew off.
It also occurred to me that many of the younger, emo people at the show didn’t “get” the death metal stylings of Decapitated and Necrophagist. If I had a nickel for every emo kid completely baffled by the death metal legends, I could have bought the Hot Topic store at the mall, invited a bunch of screamo fanboys (and girls) in for a studded belt sale, and burned the motherfucker down. The great majority of emo kids in the crowd looked like wild turkeys drowning in the rain, slack-jawed and glazed over, when Necrophagist was playing. The confusion finally became too great, and they fled the venue in droves, looking for a band full of mascara-wearing pretty boys in tight pants to play some tired-ass harmonies in 4/4 that they could wrap their heads around.
I even overheard a guy saying, “What the hell’s with this band? They have no stage presence. This is, like, boring.” Really? You try jumping around on stage like a flaming monkey during a seizure while playing this. I know image is really important to you hip kids, but some people value musical prowess more than eyebrow piercings and choreographed jumping. If I just wanted to see a bunch of adults jump around, I’d go to the loony bin down the street and light off some firecrackers during story hour.
All in all, it was a great show, well worth leaving my cave to attend. It doesn’t beat the Anal Blast concert I went to last year, though. At that show, the bar’s toilets overflowed and flooded the club with two inches of putrid, hepatitis-rich sewer water. Because of that, all the drinks that night were half price. Score!
Friday, June 15, 2007
Friday Night Metal Show
From the Desk of Morbid Misanthrope:
I'm actually leaving my house to go to this show tonight. It's the first metal show I've been to since I saw Anal Blast over a year ago. I'll probably write something about it when it's all over, so at least anyone reading this crap knows a legitimate post is forthcoming. Probably.
Staying totally necro as always,
Morbid Misanthrope
Monday, June 11, 2007
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