No Muse is Good Muse

Though never one to shy away from food, I am proud to have once again set new personal records for gluttonous behavior over the Thanksgiving holiday -- tryptophan was the least of my worries, and, in fact, I would’ve been well-served succumbing to its drowse-inducing charms instead of pressing onward, once more, into the beer and fried Italian sausage breech.


The new single-meal mark: 1.5 fried Italian sausages, 1 Lutherburger (bacon cheeseburger on a Krispy Kreme donut), 1 pork chop breaded and deep-fried in Apple Jax, 2 bowls of chili, and 1 deep-fried Twinkie. Fuck yeah – top that, bitches. I was offered sex multiple times during this marathon eating session – what woman wouldn’t bubble panty spume at such a masculine display of carnivorousness? – but politely declined the young ladies’ advances. The clammy confines of a gaping, pink lady snapper takes a backseat to the deep-fried ambrosial delights of a consuming half a dozen different animals in one sitting. Gluttony (which starts with a “G”) comes before Lust (“L”) in my alphabetical to-do list.


Someone once referred to me as “eating disorderly” – this is, of course, patently absurd and copyrightfully ridiculous. If gorging on seared animal flesh were truly a threat to our collective health, wouldn’t Jesus H. L. Ron Mohammed have sent some sort of sign from his distant astral lily pad by now? Floods? Burning bushes? Frogs and arks falling from the sky? If meat were wrong, he wouldn’t have made so much of it.


Regardless of God’s will, I suppose the wise decision is to take a break from fried Italian sausages this week. Just a week – surely, I can live that long without furthering the cause of a massive coronary. Or not.


Who knows? What I do know, is that I’m retaining a whole hell of a lot more than water right now, and when the gates finally open, no man, woman, child, or omniscient deity within 50 miles of my bathroom will be giving thanks.

Cutting the Cheez

God help me, I didn’t need another addiction. And yet, here I am, chained to another debilitating, cash-hemorrhaging, septum-crumbling habit – just another monkey on my back, picking away at braincells like so many delicious nits.


It all began Saturday. Jay, Christian, Lawrence, and I woke up at the crack of noon to play a round of golf at Atlanta’s most cherished Confederate landmark and the proud home of the re-formed, new and improved for 1915, Ku Klux Klan – Stone Mountain. Eighteen holes, two cases of beer, four shots of tequila, and one sexually harassed beercart girl later, we were escorted off the course by the Golf Police. Good times, great oldies. Wasting little time, we drove to an authentic Mexican salmonella café, where we gorged merrily upon tacos al pastor and barbacoa, and I consumed a burrito whose size was dwarfed only by the enormous cockroach crawling along the wall. The authenticity factor was high.


Upon leaving the Mexican pit, we embarked to the Pink Pony where we promptly ordered ten rounds of their finest Jagermeister and settled in to watch the Cubs-Marlins playoff game. Attending to the game was more difficult than I expected, as the naked, gyrating bimbo dancing in my lap kept blocking the TV. I forgave her, of course, and she forgave me for craning my neck around her implants to get a better view of the pitch count. We chatted briefly about the huge potential of the Cubs’ young pitching staff – or rather, I blathered drunkenly about the Cubs’ young pitching staff, and she nodded and waited patiently until I my $20 bill was close enough to snatch. Go figure.


Realizing that the game was rapidly turning into a one-sided Cubbie blowout of the Marlins, we turned our attentions back to the booze, and polished off one unholy round after the other – I’ve never walked gracefully out of the Pink Pony, and I certainly wasn’t about to flaunt tradition that day.


A brief history of The Pink Pony Theatre and Museum, as it has been passed down by countless strippers and Atlanta sleaze aficionados (i.e. I could be wrong): The Pink Pony was originally zoned as an adult entertainment establishment within Dekalb County, Georgia, and lived a normal existence as the flagship Galardi booby bar in the country. Seriously, it’s still one of the best I’ve ever been to, and my accountant can support the significance of that statement. A few years back, local politicians got a bug up their collective ass to shut down all the adult establishments within the county – even the upstanding, wholesome, god-fearing clubs like the Pony. So, in an example of legal ninjitsu the likes of which would impress the black off Johnny Cochran, the club’s attorneys re-zoned it as a museum, installed a bunch of glass cases with smut artifacts like original Debbie Does Dallas posters, and carried on with business as usual. To get around the pesky issue of a “museum” shilling enormous amounts of liquor to its “patrons”, they began serving crackers with every drink. All of a sudden, the drunken titty gazers weren’t buying an eight dollar mixed drink, they were buying an eight dollar pack of Cheez-Nips and receiving a complimentary drink with it. Somewhere right now, the Star-Spangled Banner is playing, and I salute it.


Back to my story: after four or five hours of nonstop power drinking, we had begun to build a rather impressive collection of crackers. Jay, ever the innovator, began crushing up the Cheez-Nips with his credit card, and studiously dividing them into gigantic lines of processed crackery goodness, and then, to the amusement of everyone but security, snorted up a rail. Oh holy hell – roll up your sleeves and your bills, gentlemen – it’s a Cheez Toot Party, and this shit was pure, uncut Wisconsin Gold.


We all took turns snorting ginormous piles of Cheezcaine, and, surprisingly, it was quite pleasant -- maybe too pleasant. The enriched wheat flour, cultured milk substitute, and artificial coloring dripped down my nasal passages providing a salty, flavorful euphoria that would also help to firm up the liquor-shits I knew I’d be having the next day. On top of that, snorting Cheez-Nips was an invaluable source of nutrition, which, at 400 calories a bag, would go far towards replenishing all the calories I might have accidentally burned off while lifting one heavy beer after another.


I was hooked from Line One, and, though it has only been a few days, I’ve already dusted four snack-sized bags of Cheez-Nips at a wallet-busting $0.59 per bag. The clerk at the gas station is shooting me funny looks because I keep scratching my face when I slap a bag of Orange Devil on his counter for the second time in a morning.


Christ, I didn’t need this. If anyone knows of a support group for people with similar nasal addictions, for the love of Allah, tell me.


This is a cry for help.

Another Hard Day At Work

While 3 of our finest infantrymen took dirt dives in Iraq, and another 5 met their maker courtesy of quality high-tax dollar American-made helicopter parts in Afghanistan, our President has spared no expense in assuring his constituents - that's me and you, for the slow crowd - of his sorrow over our losses. So in an official ceremony at the White House this afternoon, he pardoned his Thanksgiving Turkey.

Yes. That's right. No commemorative speech for the fallen soldiers. No bullshit vows of imminent threats. He blew a million taxpayer dollars, fiddling around with his fucking Turkey.

Without a creative synapse firing in my sodden soaked brain, I scoured the Internet to find some sort of inspiration. Michael Jackson? Pedophilia is so cliché this fall. Tony Blair? Probably still wiping ol' George's cockshot off his chin. But who signs a whopping $401 billion defense bill, then traipses around in front of the reporters, making cute little remarks about the goddamned poultry?

Of course this drunken sot had to pardon the official Presidential turkey, because if the order came down to kill some stupid bird for dinner, George himself might have woke up in the shed with his tail feathers being pulled out, and his bitch Cheney squawking protest right beside him. From "freedom fries" to 36 hour bullshit sessions about judicial appointees, from a hundred billion dollars spent blowing up a country and another three hundred billion to build it back, I've seen crazed coke whore strippers with more financial responsibility and innate fiscal sense than this administration. Are the news sites so desperate to post this, or are they on my side now? Softly poking fun at the most ridiculous clown to ever get released from the circus without his suit and red nose? And am I any better to writing this tripe, soliciting a barrage of hate mail from ignorant do-gooders, waving their cheery flags in the land of "our elected officials do no wrong"? Nope. We're all whores now, perched in the front row, waiting to see what this whackjob president pulls out of his ass next. Lord only knows what surprise he might bring to the stage tomorrow, but we can be certain what it won't be. A financial spreadsheet that isn't going to have my great-grandchildren eating his warmonger shit, and an executive order bringing all our boys (and girls) home from Iraq before they get shipped over here in quiet black bags while Monkey Bush sits in the Oval Office, eats bananas, and jerks himself off onto the remote.

Tough Love

The plight of Rofayda Qaoud makes me wish I had a sister.

Or at the very least, been born Palestine in that rugged artillery test range known as the West Bank, where the Jews are still dirty and everything is Her fault. Sure, there would be that underlying fear of having my house bulldozed, and an unadulterated hatred of all things Infidel such as America, pornography, and bathing, but surely the obvious benefits would outweigh even these heavy drawbacks. Because where else can one find the strong moral values, family bonding, and unquestioned love of a parent for her children, than that magic city of Abu Qash?

Your local rabid hyena pit, that’s where.

And that hyena pit, otherwise known as Palestine, is a lot like Mexico, in that the locals speak no English, don’t use toilets, and are constantly tunneling under a big fence to find work where the money is. Of course, there are some obvious differences, such as their tendency to wrap their balls in explosives and detonate at the most inopportune times. I mean, who here hasn’t had to stop eating dinner or assslapping their buddy’s girlfriend, to tell a telemarketer which way to go? Now imagine that phonecall being packed with a couple pounds of dynamite with cordite dental floss. Inconsiderate bastards. They never consider anybody’s feelings but their own.

Which brings me back to our tragic story. Now as if being female in the land of Towels and Beards wasn’t enough, young Rofayda was roundly raped and impregnated by her brothers Fahdi and Ali. Now don’t get me wrong, I can see how such a fantasy could fester and climax into this, no pun intended. Their struggle is not so far from their American adversaries – let’s pretend for a moment that you’re ugly, impoverished, and too chicken-shit to blow yourself on a bus in Tel Aviv, and suddenly your little sister grows tits and starts to smell funny when the moon’s full. What would you do? You’re goddamned right you’d sniff her burka, jerk off into her bra, and throw her around the house a bit. After all, sexual frustration and woman beating is your right. You’re a man in Man’s Land, but unlike West Virginia where the practice is sternly frowned upon, or the Amish country of Ohio where you have to marry your kin first, this is Palestine. Religious territory, where the Quran has been warped in translation more than Michael Jackson’s nose and gender combined. How long could you hold on? Not even. So one night, after a long night of gutteral conversation and dodging Israeli bullets, the boys decided they’d been teased enough, and popped Sissy’s cherry all over their respective robes.

Now while it’s popular Palestine, even American tradition to blame a woman for all things wrong, even those freaks have some law, under which each of the loving brother’s was sent to rot in a dirt hole for ten years. Those boys must have had one shitty attorney, ‘cause over here in the land of the brave, you can kill a blood relative and get out in five with good behavior. Joy unto the World, holy Allah blessed Palestine with yet another single mother, who carried the child to term and did what any loving mom would do in a city of Dirt and Suffering – she put him up for adoption.

Perhaps her own mother should have considered the same option, as we can only guess from bringing up six children, two of which fucked a third, the situation may have been less than stable at the Qaoud home. And following the custom to point the finger at the ladies, maybe Amira Abu Hanhan was feeling a little guilty for her own shortcomings as a parent. After all, her sons have been incarcerated, her daughter rendered a town whore, and her little grandchild given away for a pair of blue jeans and a pack of Djarums. So, in a last ditch effort to keep the family name clean, Rofayda was given a couple of straight razors and told to step off.

For a bunch of crazed religious fucks who think America is Devil Country, we can already see a striking number of parallels between their supposed “righteous” style of life, and our own “infidel American pig” ways. Domestic violence? Yep. Incest? Yep. Illegitimate children? Sure. But giving a young woman a razor in the midst of post-partum depression? Man, that’s just mean. Hell, here in the US of A, nobody’s gonna care if you shit out a kid without gold on your finger, and if you’re at least homely and older than 15, nobody’s gonna believe you’re a virgin anyway. Maybe Rofayda tried to reason thus with her obviously unreasonable mother, who then took said razor along with plastic bag and stick, and proceeded to beat, smother, and bleed her youngest child to death.

Whackjob bitch goes off the edge and kills her kid in a religious rage? What could possibly be more American than that?

Oh, wait. I know. How about a huge monolithic monument to a bunch of dead people, in extremely poor taste?

Yes, while the West Bank shall never be graced with any monument to our young murdered paramour, those in charge has chosen their new World Trade Center architecture. Over a 70 foot deep open pit which shall display the shattered foundation and structure of the original towers, a new spire 1776 feet high shall be erected, thus giving jumpers a whole extra half-second of hang time next time those pesky Arabs have an air show in New York City. Indeed, the names of all those deceased, along with the victims of the first WTC bombing in ’93, shall be inscribed in the granite, glass, and steel of the new memorial. I understand some names shall be strategically placed in locations relative to their demise.

Do you think they’ll have some special sidewalk for the jumpers, like Sunset Boulevard of Hollywood? Like maybe instead of their hands in the concrete, they can put their screaming faces, striking ground at 160 per?

Fuck this place...

Trickle-Down Pussynomics

I have a confession to make: I’ve been wearing the same pair of shorts for roughly a week now. A week is an approximation -- a guesstimate -- probably even longer. Sure, I own other pairs of pants, but these particular shorts have a giant hole in the right pocket which makes it easy for me to fondle my genitalia at all times. It’s easy to throw stones or cast dispersions upon me during this week-long round of pocket pool, but, please, withhold your judgment until later, and give me a chance to explain. Like many at the forefront of the fashion industry, at first it seems aloof, before exploding into the mainstream. If there is nothing but a sixteenth of an inch of fabric separating my fingers and deez nuts, the fabric has to go (look for the new line of fake pocket shorts from CK -- coming soon). I’m a simple man of simple pleasures, like a lot of other guys in the United States and around the world:


I am just trying to make my nuts do the windmill.


Being the sensitive, 90’s kind of guy that I am, I find it appalling that I am here writing this on Wednesday, at the beginning of a long weekend, and that Carmen Electra isn’t waiting to lick Jennifer Love Hewitt’s day-old pussy boogers off the crusty end of my twat-mangler. Sure, I could find some local chicks to do it, but I would much rather have Britney Spears or some other decent piece of celebrity cooze doing the honors for a change.


In the meantime, I will just settle for tossing my nuts in a circular direction through the pocket of my pants.


Something needs to be done about the giant gap between the haves and have-nots, when it comes to access to the celebrity slush bucket. I can neither endorse the “trickle down” economic policies put forth by the Nazis that run the Republican Party, nor support those filthy ass dirty communists that we should have nuked back into the Stone Age in the 80’s. Rather, I move towards the socio-economics of the lovable Swiss. Thanks to Swedish wealth distribution, there is a very small rift between the rich and the poor in their culture. Our government needs to enact similar legislation that will keep the common folk out of pussy poverty. Like many guys, I just want to rest my nuts on Britney Spears’ forehead -- just once. I ain’t asking for much; all’s a brotha wants is a mutha fucking snack. Look at how I have supported her: I saw Crossroads, dammit! SHE OWES ME! I mean, I don’t want to take her to court or anything, but people have been asking me, “Man, you actually like her music?” Shit, I didn’t even know she was in a band!


I’m not going to blame her. I place the blame squarely on the media and these three individuals:


Fred Durst – This nu-metal-lame-o has had way more than his share of hot, top-quality Hollywood snatch-o-la: Britney, Carmen, Alyssa Milano, and now Halle Berry? That’s fucked up. That no talent, has-been, metal rapper has about as much rhyme flow as a thirteen year-old virgin vagina plugged with a novelty, oversized tampon. Sorry Fred, it was a good ride while it lasted. Now, you are way over your pussy quota, and your goose is cooked. Hand over the jamtarts.


Hugh Hefner – This walking corpse has been pulling young, naive bimbos, six or seven at a time, since the 1950’s, and will continue as long as Pfizer keeps cranking out enough “blue diamonds” to raise his fossilized pecker north towards the Hot-Tub-Full-Of-Sluts in the east wing cave-grotto of the Playboy Mansion. Hugh, a mid-life crisis is only supposed to last a few years; you don’t make a life out of it. Sorry, your goose is also now, officially, cooked. From now on, we are capping your salary at one Playboy bunny per year. Even under these restrictions, you’ll still be living better than 90% of us.


Justin Timberlake – This ex-boyband, Michael Jackson wannabe, Justin Limbercock, has had Britney Spears and Alyssa Milano feuding over him at various points, and has even been carnally connected to Janet Jackson. Look ladies: he’s just some twinkle-toed, prancing-ass, common-ass white boy. I’ve grown completely tired of all you bitches going on and on about how cute he is. Sorry, JT, but we have dicks too – your undeserved monopoly is over. It ain’t no fun, if the homies can’t have some; your goose is cooked.


Now, after reading the three proceeding paragraphs, you might think I’ve just consumed a 50-gallon drum of industrial strength Haterade. I assure you this is not the case. These guys are just doing what I would do if I had the chance; I shouldn’t blame them. The problem is women in this country are completely incapable of thinking for themselves. The media and pop culture dictate what is sexy. If they keep saying, over and over, “Sean Connery is hot, Sean Connery is hot,” for long enough, bitches, even though they think he’s an old, balding, limey geezer, go out and fuck him. Then more bitches fuck him, because some other famous bitches broke him off, and this repeats, over and over again, until he has to leave his house in an ark for fear of drowning in a flood of quim.


The same can be said for men. People magazine and all these awards shows have declared Sophia Loren “the sexiest woman alive” so many times, the clueless guys believe the hype. Fact: Sophia Loren is an old bag of bones, half a century past menopause. If you ask me, one of the hottest chicks alive right now is the stovepipe that hosted “Talk Soup”, Aisha Tyler – that is a serious chunk of hot snatch. Now, thanks to my media-slaying ferocity, Aisha Tyler is officially a sex symbol. You heard it here first: the media dictates what is sexy and the public blindly follows.


“Well, if that’s what they’re giving us to fuck, then that’s what we’ll fuck…”


With my new agenda, using the Swiss system for distributing wealth, this would never happen again. There will now be laws limiting the amount of celebrity snatch that can be consumed per male celebrity. What is good news for you and me, is bad news for Charlie Sheen, but who cares? Like I said before, we have dicks too, and with the enforcement of mandatory pussy quotas, by law, I will be entitled to live my lifelong dream of teabagging Britney Spears.


Now, all’s I need to do is put my friends and me next up in the pecking order. To that end, I will launch a giant subliminal media blitz about how hot, sexy, trendy, and famous we are. Intermingled with my senseless ranting, will be secret-hidden-encrypted messages on the subject of how I am an unmitigated sex god, and Edward Norton is nothing but a low-rent, Hollywood version of me.


Meanwhile, Fred Durst will be sitting in the hot tub of the Ritz Hotel in Hollywood, about to double-dick Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera, not knowing that he is now past his PUSSY QUOTA and the mandatory enforcement of shnizzle-sharing wealth is about to kick into full effect. At the moment of truth, Fred will begin serving spaghetti like Chef Boyardee, and the disappointed vixens will catch the first flight to Jersey, where they will rendezvous with me at my office. I will teabag them both. Yeah, it took some toil, but, alas, my nuts are finally doing the windmill!

Drugs From The Sky

Every once in a long while, the stars align, the moon breaks into the seventh house, and, Father Fortune smiles down upon even this lowly, nickel-nosed sheeny by granting me sweet manna from the heavens in my time of great need.


Coming off the tail of a four-day Johnny Depp-style bender to celebrate the arrival of a few friends in town, said friends were walking through a parking lot at 3 AM on their last night, and stumbled over a enormous sack of some of the lightest, fluffiest hairiest marijuana I’ve seen in some time. Being the opportunistic young lads they are, they picked up the bag, brought it to an undisclosed location, and spent most of the next 15 hours baked as an Auschwitz sunbather. When they finally left, I was passed out on a couch mentally preparing for the onslaught of what was sure to be one of the worst coming-down periods I’d ever inflicted upon myself.


So when I looked over and saw they had left me a pepperoni pizza , a half liter of Coca-Cola, and a half-ounce of pot just settling into a large bowl, I smiled.


I’ve always been a stoner, and, I’ve never been one to carelessly abandon perfectly abuse-able narcotics, which is why I’ve been mind-sickeningly-stoned for the last three days. Please consider this when interacting with me today, and, from the looks of it, the end of this week at best..

Happy 69th!

Ohio is a sick and twisted place.


Badlands give rise to bad people, and if those people are allowed to breed unchecked, bad children will be born. Now admittedly, there are some exceptions to this sweeping mandate, as Ohio soil gave root to the talented Felicia Fox and porn icon John Holmes. But even after producing other cinematic legends Clark Gable, Halle Berry, and the slightly less legendary but adorably fuckable Katie Holmes, this state’s reputation shall be eternally smeared for shitting out two turds that have smeared our American flag. Namely one Brian Warner, aka Marilyn Manson, and Charles Maddox, aka Charlie Manson.


Perhaps it was the large amounts of radioactive waste dumped just 18 miles away from his birthplace, or the fact that his father gave him no more attention than it took to dump a teaspoon of love syrup into the teenaged whore who birthed him, but baby Charlie had a hard road to walk right out of the womb. Indeed, ‘twas 69 years ago on this very day, that a young 16 year old hooker propped her legs up in the stirrups (for a change) and shat out the demon who would later mastermind the Tate murders – as well as other scattered felonies such as sodomy, arson, and really stupid carvings on his forehead. Whatever the reason, be it paternal abandonment, bad genes, or good old-fashioned doom, Charlie somehow set out to prove that Ohio wasn’t as bad as it got, and eventually burrowed himself into a cozy California prison cell where he spends his days and American tax dollars waiting for the sun to rise, whispering sweet nothings to a cinder block named Sharon.


These early morning hours give a man time to ruminate, before the coffee kicks in and the muffled noises of a woman chewing through rope drift down my hallway. I consider my Ohio predecessors, metaphysical grandparents, if you will, and the weirdness which may flow through my blood as well. Aside from 7 days difference between our birthdays, and roughly 7 inches of cock length, John Holmes and I were as far apart as my ex-girlfriends thighs on a Saturday night. And though I was a skinny geek with no singing talent or writing ability, my reluctance to wear women’s clothing while mangling other artist’s work opened a rift between me and Marilyn. But what about Charlie? Are there any similarities between my own path, and that of this crazed Jackal Manson? Is it mere coincidence we were both born to 16 year old mothers out of wedlock? That neither of us remembered anything more of our fathers, than the spurts which ejected us from their loins? Or my own birthplace was a mere 6 miles from a military waste dump, on top of which my high school was built where hundreds of students unknowingly soaked in strange carcinogenic chemicals? Charlie was 34 years old when the Beatles lyrics started talking crazy, driving him to enlist a small enclave of lunatics to do his evil bidding. Will there be some song in 6 years that pushes me over the same edge, a musical poem that moves me to carve the St. Pauli Girl into my forehead, slaughter a famous pregnant woman, and offer her harlequin fetus to the glowing God of my Macintosh Computer Screen? I do need to change my name first, as it seems only those unfortunates who left their namesake behind, took the winding way to self-destruction.

Reign In Blood...or Booze

The following statement is not my opinion. It is fact:


Slayer is the greatest metal band of all time, end of story.


If you don’t agree, feel free to write me, to tell me your opinion differs. It will only prove you are obviously a worthless Linkin Park / Puddle of Mudd loving poser. I will be forced to find your name on Google, acquire a picture of you, photoshop a giant black herpes-laden cock into your mouth (if there’s not one there already), and include it with two pages of text on how you are the biggest faggot poser on Earth for my next editorial. As a bonus, I will send a crew from PETsMART over to install a homo-habitrail in your ass for all the gerbils that are obviously running loose through your bowels. Once that nasty business is finished, the mafia will show up and shoot you in the face. You will be buried in a shallow grave, simply marked “POSER”.


Like I said, this topic is not open for debate.


Now a little history: Slayer was formed on the hard-ass ghetto streets of Huntington Beach, CA, in 1992, under the express orders of The Infernal Lord Beelzebub. Their seminal effort was 1983’s Show No Mercy, which showed early signs of the quartet’s promise with the uplifting gospel stylings of “l Am the Antichrist”.


In 1984 came Slayer’s first undisputed classic - Hell Awaits. I remember when I first heard “Necrophiliac”: “If feel the urge, the growing need / To fuck this sinful corpse.” I was so inspired by this music that I actually did go to the graveyard to fuck a sinful corpse. Maybe Tipper Gore was right about the harmful side effects of listening to heavy metal music -- you get maggots in your teeth when you muff-dive dead chicks.


Meanwhile, during the late 80’s in Europe, the wheels were already in motion to import a delicious, opiate-laced liquor named Jagermeister into the United States. One little known fact is they weren’t trying to import it into the US, as much as they were to get it out of Europe. Kind of like how the upper-class white people mixed baking soda with cocaine and unloaded it on… well I won’t go there.


In 1986 Rick Ruben, knowing a thing or two about music, realized that Slayer could kick the shit out of any metal band on Earth. He signed-on to produce what would become the greatest Slayer / Metal CD of all time: Reign in Blood -- a lean, 28-minute chunk of thrash metal so brutal that that Jews who ran CBS refused to distribute it. Maybe the disc’s opening lyric “Auschwitz, the meaning of pain / The way that I want you to die” hit a little too close to home. Who knows? Regardless, Reign in Blood represented Slayer and metal music in its prime.


Later efforts South of Heaven and 1990’s Seasons in the Abyss were great albums, but paled in comparison to Reign in Blood. It was some time in August of 1990 that a then 14 year-old, John Alim...(fuck off, stalker) got into his first strip club with a fake ID. During the nine hours that followed, he was introduced to a powerful potion by one of the strippers there: Jagermeister. Yes, this was some good shit. At least 15 shots, most of his savings, and a bottle smashed over the head later, he left that bar a changed man. Up to that point he had lived his life only to smash people’s heads in at Slayer concerts – now he had Jager and strippers. Now he is me, and I was becoming quite the Renaissance Man.


A man of such diverse tastes, I found myself less wanting to get in mosh pits with a bunch of sweaty guys. Pounding the last nail into the proverbial mosh coffin, was a night in 1991 when, at an Obituary concert, I drank five 40oz Mickey’s Big Mouths, took some acid, slugged half a pint of Wild Turkey, moshed like a madman in the pit, blacked out, and woke up in the drunk tank of the Brooklyn County jail with a laundry list of assault charges.


So, what I’m trying to say is it takes a fucking lot to get me to get in a mosh pit these days.


As rare as the astrological alignment of Mercury, Venus, Mars, and Saturn, once every 100 years, November 5, 2003, brought an unholy union of the highest order: The Slayer / Jagermeister Music Tour on Cheetah Wednesday. Only now, almost a week later, has my head finally stopped pounding and my body stopped aching long enough to be able to describe that evening’s proceedings.


The combo alone should be enough to have any proper metalhead shoveling his own grave, but the word on the streets was Slayer would be performing the awe-inspiring Reign in Blood in its entirety.


Making things worse, the not-so-subtle Jagermeister marketing was working. While impatiently waiting for Hatebreed to finish droning away, I watched the two giant spinning dear heads go round and round on the side of the stage.


They seemed to say, “Join us, join us, drink me, drink me – I am a big spinning German deer head…DRINK MY BLOOD!”


Who am I to argue with that kind of logic? The Jaguar people are shameless self-promoters, and at the Jagermeister Music Tour they also make sure that you are never more than an arm’s length reach from a delicious cold refreshing Jager machine.


So here we go: Shot one, shot two, shot four, five, six, Slayer plays “War Ensample” -- I jump in the pit.


As the Slayer set continues, those spinning deer keep speaking to me: “I am a big spinning German deer head…DRINK MY BLOOD!”


OK, chill out you fucking spinning deer head -- shot seven, shot eight, nine, ten, eleven, and twelve, then Slayer starts playing “Angel of Death”…


Holy fucking shit. They were doing it; next followed “Piece By Piece”, “Necrophobic”, and if you don’t know the rest of the track order by heart then you better study your metal, you fucking poser. I don’t know what was spinning faster: the pit, my stomach, my head, or those deer. I moshed like a retarded drunken imbecile, and elbowed people in the face for a full 28 minutes until Slayer ripped through “Post Mortem / Reign in Blood”.


As the venue cleared out, and I was still reeling from the awesome power which is Slayer, it dawned on me: Dear God, I still have Cheetah Wednesday to go.


Thankfully for the Brooklyn public, I grabbed a cab to Cheetah Wednesday, went in, and sat at the bar just like I do every Wednesday. You know you spend too much time at a titty bar when you start to come up with nicknames for all the strippers. So there I sat looking at Beef Lips, The Stand-Up Comedian, and The Short Bus as they plied their trades on stage. Then I look for my favorite bartender in the ATL, Cheetah Paul, only to see that same fucking spinning deer head behind him staring back at me…


“I am a big spinning German deer head…DRINK MY BLOOD!”


You can’t argue this that kind of logic! I did one final shot, puked on The Subculture Mixer, and took it to the house. What a glorious night!

Moral Dilema

While this modest fortress of internet pornography and toilet humor is generally regarded as somewhat juvenile and shallow in nature, there is a deeply compassionate side to my endless ridicule and racial jokes. Perhaps it is this soft pink side that I whip purple with sharp mockery and fistfuckfilmography, in an effort to toughen up and deny my nature. After all, what sort of heartless, callous bastard could take everything sick and twisted from humanity, tie a red ribbon on it for high-speed delivery, and profit from the pain of others? With these sorts of people, I can ill afford to be acquainted for much longer, as small horns have started to brow at my brow. This unsettles me. Is it the act of pushing away something soft and used and forgetting about it, like an ex-girlfriend in the distant woods? Only a fool keeps their skeletons in the closet. The charred remnants of my conscience, however, were fanned to a sputtering flame recently, upon receiving the following correspondence from a compatriot:


John, over the last couple of years I have greatly enjoyed your banter. I have also read, with just a hint of ridicule, some of your stories seemingly impossible to actually happen. But after this last weekend, I will question no more the wild ideas that you seem to come up with. Let me explain.


Last week, I saved my wife from certain doom. It seemed that, while I was sitting the children, her and her sister got into a bar brawl of great magnitude. This I got from the State Trooper. She (the wife) ended up with a huge shiner and a Breathalyzer. I saved her and her slut sister via a sober ride home. Anyway, after a week and many family troubles later, I get a call from her boyfriend – ha ha, I know -- and apparently, she told him she got the shiner from me, which would be possible, knowing what I know now, except that I was too busy saving her.


So here is a question for you. Do you:
A: Dump her, and face a veritable lifetime of child support?
B: Kick the shit out of the boyfriend (who by the way, was a good sport, once I let him hear the tapes for proof) for getting in the way? Or;
C: Tie her up, put her in the closet, butt fuck her at will until the children start to miss her, then lead her blindfolded through the house to do her chores?


I'm confused.


And so am I. Many a role have I played in the destruction of a marriage, but never before had I been appointed to such a prestigious position in the Office of Problem Solving. Not since Job of the Old Testament, has a man been tried so many ways to question his faith that he resort to asking an admitted boozehound misogynist for advice. Many questions formed in the haze of my clouded mind, such as:


How much life insurance are you carrying on her?
Do you have a valid passport? And
How long would it take for someone to realize she was missing?

If we’ve learned anything from watching fine young men like Scott Peterson and Michael Schiavo squirm in the hot court seat, we see that a little foresight can save you a lot of heartache down the road. Just as you wouldn’t dare drive into uncharted territory without checking the map, we must not foray too far into our emotional wilderness without giving careful thought to every option. Where were the children and I in her head, while she was getting fucked, beaten, and arrested? Can I forgive her this moral transgression? And perhaps most importantly, Where will I put the body?


While a sliver of rational thought still shines in my mind like the sun through a cracked window, friend, the shadows must speak here. Sure, George W. Bush and his cronies will try to paint those Afghani freaks as bad guys, and the Iraqis as wanting democracy, but those Towelheads sure had one thing straight: when their women crossed the line, there was no backslap bitchwhack and assfull of punishment. No, they buried their adulterous wives right up the neck in the Sandpit, and played a different kind of Speedball where the beep of the radar gun was replaced with a dull thud. And this sort of justice has been prevalent for centuries, long before Women’s Suffrage and their puny attempts to break through the Glass Ceilings. Consider the mercy killings of Pakistan, the nose-gashings of our American Indians, and the cigarette burn scars on my current lover’s asscheeks, and you’ll see that men just like you have worn your shoes, walked your path, and when confronted with your dilemma, delivered themselves from Evil just as the Good Lord intended all along.


Understandably, my hack writer status and Internet semi-wish-I-was-but-ain’t-Celebrity status prohibit me from directly conveying my advice, so I’ll speak as clearly as I can. Don’t let your love for your children hold you back. You only have to pay child support if she gets custody, and though I’ve seen a lot of weird shit in my day, I have yet to see a decomposing body cash a check. While your urge to throttle the boyfriend is understood, remember, he was just out for a piece of ass here – he just happened to follow your good lead. Befriend him. Compare notes. See how badly he wants her out of the picture. And as for the closet treatment, admirable, but you don’t want your children thinking that’s the way women are supposed to be treated. Locked in a closet? Sodomized? Blindfolded? You’re sitting on a money machine here, man, a verified harlot with no morals, an alcohol habit, and blatant disregard for her children’s welfare. I’ll spell it out for you – H.O.O.K.E.R. She ain’t gonna make you any money if you keep her in the hole, and if you play your cards right, that assfucking won’t stop until they run out of film.


Don’t get me wrong, friends, I don’t hate all women.


Just the ones that talk. :)

Love From Above

"Let her be as the loving hind and pleasant roe; let her breasts satisfy thee at all times; and be thou ravished always with her love." – Prov. 5:19, King James Bible


"Hey, you know what they say: See a broad, to get that booty yak 'em, leg 'er down 'n smack 'em yak 'em! Cold got to be! You know, shiiiiiiit." – Jive-speaking negroes, Airplane


Throughout the course of my life, I’ve had fleeting passes with the four-letter word: Love. More often though, I’ve found the words Lust, Fuck, Rash, Baby, and Kill, Kill, Kill more applicable to the affairs of my heart and loins.


I lived with my first girlfriend for two years because she had a killer rack and was willing to work three jobs while I sat at home and played Freecell. My second long-term lady-friend stopped speaking to me after I shit in her bed, blamed it on her, and then stole $50 from her nightstand. Pity -- she had an outstandingly accommodating sphincter muscle. More recently, while finger-fiddling a chubby young damsel on the couches of my office, I was appalled to discover that her velvety innards felt like they were lined with bubble wrap – probably some heinous venereal disease that arrived on these shores attached to the ass of a middle-management advertising exec who stuck his dick in the wrong Bangkok tranny. (Not that there’s a right Bangkok tranny, but it’s late, and my mind is moving slowly.) After massaging her open sores for a few minutes, I concluded that her vagina was ribbed for MY pleasure, double-bagged Captain Stifflewood, and rocked her world for a full ninety seconds.


Why do I mention these incidents? Damned if I know -- like I said, it’s late. Maybe they’re good examples of how little I know of true love; I blow bubbles in the shallow end of the emotional pool.


But that’s all changed now, and I have a very special woman to thank for it: the beautiful, the vivacious, the pious Jan Crouch, famed co-founder of the Trinity Broadcasting Network, multi-millionaire, and heir apparent to the painted legacy of Tammy Faye Bakker.


The story of my love-at-first-sight relationship with Jan Crouch is hardly the fodder for a Meg Ryan romantic comedy, mostly because she doesn’t know I exist; or not consciously anyway. My passion for Jan radiates from deep within my soulless being, crosses the country on transmission waves O’ love, and is received by her tumbling pompadour of unnaturally colored hair. No man-appointed committee like the FCC can regulate transmissions of the heart – only the Lord Our God and possibly ClearChannel holds sway over this spectrum.


Seriously, I love her. Don’t think for a minute that this is just another sarcastic, witless attempt to shock and amuse the readers of this column. This past Saturday alone I masturbated on four separate occasions to the beguiling beauty of Mrs. Crouch as she bleated hymnals on her nationally-broadcast evangelical show, Praise the Lord. And these weren’t your typical jerk-off sessions, mind you – the masturbatory pastiches of porn imagery combined with that one hot chick you once fucked and your best friend’s wife – no sir, unzip-to-unload I thought of nothing but sweet, sweet Jan. Jan in bra and panties slinking across my bedroom reciting the Lord’s Prayer. Jan whispering “Jesus loves the little children,” in my ear as she tickles my balls with one hand and spit-polishes my copper penny with the other. Jan with her legs wrapped around my head, wriggling uncontrollably with the Holy Spirit.


Merciful God, I’m barely containing myself right now.


Granted, I don’t know what to do about her husband, Paul Crouch. He seems like an upstanding fellow, what with all the money he raises for such hallowed Christian causes like GOP pocket lining, moral crusading, and $5 million estates in Newport Beach, but he stands between destiny and me, and, therefore, must be dealt with. Perhaps I could appeal to Benny Hinn to lay his healing touch upon my rich blue balls – or better yet, appeal to the Scientology nutbags to send a Level III Fire-Breathing Thetan of Europa, with 15 endurance points and 32 strength, to dispatch of Mr. Crouch violently in the night. They could give his bones to the Scientology Kids Club and make macaroni portraits of L. Ron Hubbard with his vertebrae for all I care, as long as it removes him from the path to my precious Jan.


It’s obvious that I don’t know where this will lead – obstacles exist, and our stars are crossed many times over, but I believe it is God’s Will for Jan Crouch to be Jan Alim...(what? you think I'd tell you?) one day, even though the name rings like a bad Star Wars character’s. Fuck, I’ll change my name to whatever she likes, even John Crouch II if it will seal the delicious deal.


Jan, you’re probably busy two-way messaging Jesus right now, but I pray that one of your followers has strayed far enough from the flock to be reading this right now, and passes my sentiments on to you: God wants us to get nasty, Jan. Really nasty.


And who are we to defy God?