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.