From The Streets, Dawg!

To my left is a stack of ragged, well-worn paperbacks. To my right is a pile of soon-to-be invigoratingly foul-smelling clothes. And in my desk drawer is a toothbrush, paste, razor, Listerine, soap, and something called, “floss”.

Yes, in less than one full eye-sweep, I can observe everything I own in the entire world, and it’s the most liberating feeling I’ve ever felt. Ever since Squatting Pete moved into my apartment while I was out of town, I’ve been busily throwing away almost all my material possessions. Anything that might have been touched by Pete’s (cops still haven’t caught him – don’t know his real name) has been handily discarded, and I have moved out of the apartment and into, well, nowhere.

But living light is not as bad as I expected. Originally, I took up residence at one of those extended-stay “executive” suites, but I quickly learned that “executive” was a bit of a misnomer. I don’t think that was Steve Ballmer firing off guns down the hall from me, and I’m pretty sure the woman howling in the next room wasn’t Carly Fiorina. On top of the shady clientele, with whom I suppose I would be included, the rooms in this place all had a constant, inescapable smell of fart emanating from every object. The A/C smelled like ass. The carpet smelled like ass. The bed sheets smelled like a fine concoction of ass and ancient semen – all this for the low, low price of $250 a week.

Despite my plans, I obviously couldn’t live the rest of my life in roach motels and extended-stay suites like a low-rent Howard Hughes, or not until I could afford slightly nicer roach motels, anyway.

Instead, I’ve been living the young American Dream, otherwise known as couch-surfing a fading wave of generosity from my ever-dwindling circle of friends. It’s fucking great. I get a nice place 4-5 times a week, with a full refrigerator, central heating, a shower, and cable TV. Who could ask for more? The 2-3 days that I can’t guilt-trip a friend into letting me stay with him/her, I just sleep on the floor of my office, or wander the streets all night!

Recently, for the first time ever, I shit behind a building onto a pile of rubble – and it was everything I ever imagined it could be.

Nature Of The Threat

Let freedom ring with a buckshot but not just yet
first we need to truly understand the nature of the threat
and a pale man walks in the threshold of darkness
roughly 20,000 years ago the first humans evolved with the phenotypical
trait, genetic recessive,
blue eyes, blond hair and white skin.
Albinism was apparently a sin to the original man,
Africans, so the mutants travelled north to the equator called Europeans
later, the first race haters, so the here's the devil's Alpha to the Beta,
Cuz "history's best qualified to teach one" quoting German philosopher
Schopenhauer, every white man is a faded or a bleached one.
Migration created further mutation,
genetic drifts, evolution through recombination,
adaptation to the climate, as the Caucus mountain reverted to that of a
primate.
Savage Neanderthals until the late Paleolithic Age, that's when the black
Grimaldi man came, with the symbol of the dragon, fire and art,
check cave paintings in France and Spain to the Venus of Willendorf.
Around 2000 BC Southern Russians migrate in small in units, those who
traveled west populated Europe.
Those who went east settled in Iran, known as Aryans,
1500 B.C. some crossed the Khyber Pass into India and created Hinduism,
the first Caste system, the origins of racism.
A white dot on the forehead meant elite, the black dot the
feet--untrustable, untouchable.
They wrote the holy Vedas in Sanskrit, that's the language that created
Greek, German, Latin and English.
Now the Minoans also around 2000 B.C. start from the island of Crete in the
Aegian Sea.
The Greek culture begins Western civilization, but Western civilization
means white domination.
Myceneans learned from Kemet, called "Egypt" in Greek, it had existed since
at least 3000 B.C.,
creating Geometry and Astronomy, this knowledge influenced Plato, Socrates
and Hippocrates.
Cuz' Imohotep the real father of medicine was worshipped in Greece and Rome
in the form of a black African.
The word Africa comes from the Greek "Aphrike" meaning "without cold;" the
word "philosophy" means "love of knowledge," stole from the first man, Greek
power expands, the first Greek fraternities band.
The word "Gymnasium" is Greek for "naked," this is where adolescent boys
were educated, and molested.
This was accepted because Greek culture was homosexual, for example: Sappho
trained girls on the island of Lesbos, hence the word "lesbian"--(man let
these dumb motherfuckers know).
December 25th the birth of Saturn, a homosexual God now check the historical
pattern. December 25th now thought the birth of Christ was
Saturnalia...when men got drunk, fucked each other then beat their wives.
Fact is it was still practised until they called it Christmas, so put a
gerbal on your Christmas list.
The Hellenistic era: Alexander the Great conquers all the way to India
leaving four successor states. By the fifth century B.C., R-O-M-E succeeds
to be the conquerer of Egypt and Greece but had the threat of the black
Phoenicians in Sicily, the Punic Wars began 264 B.C.
The black general Hannibal and Cartheginian peace, in 146 B.C. Carthage fell
after a six month siege...Rome sold every citizen into slavery, the first
genocide of history. And more bi-sexuality in sight, Julius Caesar was
known as every woman's husband and every man's wife;
Spartacus revolt--a slave rebellion that lost, where six thousand slaves got
nailed on a cross...Cross? Aw shit, Jesus Christ...time for some act right,
Christians get your facts right. Cuz Christ was not his name, that's Greek
for "one who is annointed;" Yoshua ben Yosef was his name, do Christians
know this? So who do you praise, do you know his name? Or do you do this
in vain accepting the religion they gave slaves to behave?
Peep the description--of historian Joseph "short, dark, with an
underdeveloped beard" was Jesus. He had the Romans fearing revolution, the
solution was to take him to court and falsely accuse him. After being
murdered by Pilate HOW CAN IT BE that these same white Romans established
Christianity? Constantine would later see the cross in a dream, in his
vision it read "En Hawk Signo Wonka"--"in this sign we conquer"...
Manifest destiny, in 325 convened the Nicean Creed and separated God into
three, decided Jesus was born on December 25th and raising on the third day
is a myth... Plus to deceive us, commission Michaelangelo to paint white
pictures of Jesus. He used his aunt, uncle and nephew; subconsciously this
affects you, it makes you put white people closer to God (the Man got
game...), true indeed fuck it, Jihaad!
In the 8th century Muslims conquered Spain, Portugal and France and
controlled it for seven hundred years; they never mention this in His-tory
class 'cuz O'fays are threatened when you get the real lesson, Moors from
Baghdad, Turkey threatened European Christians, meaning: the white way of
life hence the crusades for Christ. On November 25th 1491 Santiago defeats
the last Muslim stronghold--Grenada King Ferdinand gave thanks to God and
the Pope of Rome declared this day to forever be...a day of Thanksgiving for
all European Christians, now listen:
When you celebrate Thanksgiving, what you are really celebrating is the
proclamation of the Pope of Rome, who later in League with Queen Isabella,
sent the Cardinal Ximenos to Spain, to murder any blacks that resisted
Christianity! These Moors, these black men and women were from Baghdad,
Turkey; and today you eat the Turkey for your Thanksgiving day as the
European powers destroyed the "Turkies" who were the forefathers of your
mothers and fathers...now fight the power.
Now around this time whites started calling us "negroes," that's Spanish for
"black object" meaning we're not really people but property. And the
traingle trade begins they seize us, Queen Elizabeth sent the first slaves
on a ship named Jesus.
Stealing land from the indigenous natives, gave them alcohol to keep the
redman intoxicated. White's claimed they had to civilize these pagan
animals but until 1848 there's documented cases of white's being the savage
cannibals, eating Indians in 1992 it's Jeffrey Dahmer...they slaughtered a
whole race with guns--, drugs, priests, and nuns; 1763 the first demonic
tactic of bilogical warfare, As tokens of peace Sir Jeffrey Amherst passed
out clothing to the Indian community, infested with Smallpox knowin' they
had no immunity...
Today it's AIDS you best believe it's man made, cuz aint a damn thing
changed...let me explain: Now since people of color are genetically dominant
and Caucusoids are genetically recessive, if whites expect to be predominant
meaning survive as a race, then they simply must...take precuations. That's
why they're worried about the future now,
cuz' by 2050 almost all the earth's population will be brown, then black, so
understand that whites counterreact(the world white minortiy is a teaspoon
of milk in a world colored majority).
So they created a system to force blacks into an unnatural position of
natural inferiority, in addition, creating guns and the Ethnocentric
view...that God justifies every fuckin' thing they do. Conditioned people
to perceive white culture as civilized and every other culture considered
primitive, not true.
Racism is the system of racial subjugation against non-whites in every area
of human relation: education, entertainment, labor, politics...law,
religion, sex, war and economics. See blacks were 3/5ths of a person with
tax purposes intended...you think you're afro-american you're a 14th
amendment and a good nigga. Jews don't salute the fuckin' swastika but
niggas pledge allegiance to the flag that accosted ya'. They never teach
about the "Breaker Islands" like Jamaica where, before whites came here,
they would take a pregnant woman hang her from a tree by her toes slice her
stomach with a knife and watch the unborn baby fall to the floor. Then
stomp and unborn child in front of all the slaves to inbreed fear so they'd
be scared and behave and rebel more, understand all whites must be perceived
as potential predators.
I paraphrase historian Ishakamusa Barashango: understand that regardless of
the lofty ideals engraved on paper in such documents as the consitution or
Declaration, the basic nature of European-American white man remains
fundamentally unchanged...so check it...
This is the nature of the threat.

Pigs In A Snow Blanket

"A recent police study found that you're much more likely to get shot by a fat cop if you run."
- Dennis Miller

Or if you live in those weird and brave part of America such as Detroit, New Orleans, and central Nowhere, New Jersey.

The cold makes people desperate in this not-so-far North land. Bartenders have lost their ability to count, the hookers have halved their asking prices just for ten warm minutes in a car, and the Jews are worshipping at Christian churches to save gas money. Even the Heavy women are getting some love in the aftermath of this desolate holiday season. But not from me. No, my bruises have yet to fade, and until those tender purple souviners go the way of their blubbery maker, you won't catch me in the fleshy folds of another New Jersey Whale.

While the frigid air has never been enough to keep me from my Bar, this strange Fear is starting to get to me, and not even the toasty companions of Beam and Bass are easing the chill in spine. The Packers somehow let the game run down their leg, and with it all of my hope and Superbowl bets. Malaysia has officially outlawed short skirts. The legendary Gold Club of Atlanta is being transformed into a heathen house of churchy religion, replacing the naked female thigh with yet another gilded Cross. And true to form, having learned no lesson, that teenaged surfer girl has taken to the waves with her one good arm in an effort to confront her fears. Never mind the outrageous chances she might actually get attacked by a shark twice in her lifetime. After all, she's female, and those sea beasts can smell blood a mile away - even through cotton, leaving her paddling in a wide circle with a little trail of prepubescent boys wearing shark fins on their heads.

But fuck all that shit. Let me tell what happened to me last night.

After numerous run-ins with the law across this fine land, I've become a much more cautious man in my old age. I never drive drunk, always drive the speed limit, and never, ever bury the body within 100 miles of my house anymore. Lesson learned. This said, I have yet to attract the attention of the local law, instead lying low while my esteemed compatriots fall victim to their own excesses, and hope I don't get any blood on my clothes. So with a headful of bourbon, I laid my head down at midnight and was just settling into a perverse dream involving Sade, Dan, and the entire Zulu tribe when I heard my dear friend Anton scurrying around the kitchen and making a terrible ruckus. The clock said 3. My nocturnal emission would have to wait.

"What's going on in there?" I demanded, stumbling down the hall with still drunken stupor and my evening boner jutting out before me. The smells of catshit and canvas simultaneously assaulted me, raising both eyebrows and most of the venom stored in my stomach.

"Get down, man!" Anton hissed. "We have company." Knowing this man suffered from horrible delirium tremens and had served his country far too well, I forced myself to look into the kitchen, where the fiend was filling bags with cat litter and stacking them against my back window, in the flashing blue and red lights of trouble in Little Town, New Jersey.

What could have gone wrong? I asked as I retreated to the spare bedroom for a better look. Was it some angry husband? Or perhaps an incensed father looking for his daughter in my floorboards? Not one, but two police cruisers were in my lot downstairs, but I only saw one cop. Which meant...

WHAM WHAM WHAM

Death had finally come for me, in the form of a woman with a gun. Just below the window, an officer was peering through the back door, using her flashlight to find any excuse so she might forego the warrant and use force. I thought about the drugs in the breadbox, which I would have no time to eat or shove up my ass. The pictures on the computer's hard drive, which I would have no chance to erase, stacks of DVD's full of mischief and bootlegged interracial smut. Another round of beatings shook the walls, frightening Anton into the room, to whom I looked for a cigarette and an immediate explanation.

My sleep was a fitful one that night, visited not by African-American singers or Mandingo warriors, but a somewhat attractive police officer wearing a bandolier and boots, brandishing a pistol and speaking Italian. In fact, the sole distinguishing factor which betrayed my fantasy as a dream, was the fact her black eyes healed in five minutes, which allowed me to just keep giving her new ones until the alarm clock went off. And I never learned what brought the Authorities to my doorstep at that early doomed hour.

At least, not until the next day, when I was informed that some horrible rumor had somehow circulated through the law enforcement community, that disparaging remarks had been directed at the Police, and they were on the hunt. I was aghast, appalled that my address had somehow been chosen from database of terrorists and missing persons. Was I the sort of bastard who would publicly call the Law a bunch of "Communist Fuckers"? What sort of brazen man would dare compare the cops to a bunch of fire-happy grunts, filling our car with lead as if we were Iraqi outlaws? What sort of site would actually post such mindless drivel, publicly admitting wanton disrespect for law and authority, and could it be that some member of the PigPen was a fan of this site? These were all questions which would remain unanswered, though. In spite of these horrors, I have complete faith in the American system, and know justice shall be served with a swift blade.

Unless the sword was held in the hand of, say, a blindfolded vindictive woman, in which case all of heads will roll.

Homeless Depot

I have a new roommate - I don’t know what he looks like, but the police have a partial fingerprint, and, should we occasion to meet again, I will beat the crusties off his soiled, house-squatting ass. Yes, a homeless bum was squatting in my apartment, and, strangely, he is the best roommate I have ever had.

Settle in for this sparkling gem of absurdity, kids, the likes of which I, in my long history of shady associations, questionable life choices, and less-than-habitable dwellings, have never encountered.

I arrived home from a two-week bender in New Orleans, Las Vegas, and San Francisco last night. Exhausted and strung out, I wanted nothing more than to settle down in front of a Romanian porno and blend up a quick pre-bedtime dong malt parfait, before lapsing into a 24-hour coma on my own bed. Little did I know, my bed was already occupied – along with the rest of my apartment. The front door was chained shut from the inside, and when I opened it, I saw someone scamper past on their way to the back stairway. It’s all well and good to dream about being Charles Bronson in these situations – kicking down the door and snatching the intruder by his nappy roots, then beating him to the edge of death until the cops show – but when you’re actually faced with the situation of some random crazy fuck breaking into your home, you come to the realization that nothing in your house is worth being stabbed in the face with a white-hot crack pipe.

I called the cops, and explained as calmly and Caucasian as possible, that someone was in my home, and they needed to come over and start blasting caps in people’s asses. Three and a half minutes later, the cops arrived, kicked in my door, and searched my apartment for this motherfucker, but he had already escaped. According to a neighbors, they had seen lights on in my apartment for over a week, despite the fact that I hadn’t been for two weeks. It seems ole’ Smokey McSquat-a-lot decided to make himself comfortable in my absence.

Fucking crazy, right? Wait, here’s the weird part: He cleaned and redecorated my apartment.

No shit. My living room furniture was entirely re-arranged – he shuffled the couches and end tables. He removed art from the walls and replaced it with random posters. He switched out my custom-painted light switch plates with conservative, standard issue off-white ones. He moved my entire entertainment center (TV, DVD player, CD shuffler, speakers) and re-connected them in a different order, and on a different side of the room.

On to my bedroom, he picked all my clothes up off the floor and stacked them in my closet, neatly folded. He also graciously stacked and ordered my books, bagged up my garbage, cleaned my kitchen countertop, and hung up my wet towels to dry. Cu-fucking-ckoo! I don’t know what this guy expected me to say when I finally came home.

“What the fuck! Who the fuck are you? I’m calling the—hey, the place looks GREAT! Wanna be my roomie?”

Obviously, this guy was wackier than tits on toast, and had he not destroyed all my DVDs, CDs, and all my personal stuff like pictures and newspaper clippings, I might’ve believed it was all some elaborate prank by a friend. But not even one of my lowly, prank-happy associates would go so low as to destroy all my personal items and my prized Chupacabra statue. Also, the police found empty packs of Newports and bottles of Cisco Red strewn all over the place – again, my friends are lowly, but at least they can afford nicer booze.

No, this was definitely a product of one screwed up, tweaked out, homeless squatter mind. Even the cops were a little taken aback by the sheer ridiculousness of his actions. Alas, though they found a couple partial fingerprints and I’ve re-secured the backdoor through which the Martha Stewart of the Hobo Set wormed his way, I’m gettin’ the hell out of this shithole apartment. Today, I moved everything that he hadn’t stolen, demolished, or contaminated with his filthy bum juices, leaving me with about five pairs of pants, thirty t-shirts, a couple jackets, two pairs of underwear, and the socks on my feet. Everything else was trashed because either A) it was his nasty bum-clothing, B) it was touched by him or stacked with his clothes, or C) I couldn’t tell if they were my clothes or his.

I’m carrying a pretty light load right now – I can damn near fit everything I own into one midsized SUV. Maybe that’s a blessing. Maybe it’s time to walk the earth, Kung-Fu style – live in different cities, meet different people, and be arrested in new and exciting jurisdictions. Maybe.

All I know for sure, however, is if anyone in Jersey sees a crusty vagrant bum wandering the streets in an AC/DC t-shirt, contact me for your big reward.

OMGWTF!STD?FYI.

Admittedly, the fairer sex has spent some time under their hunter-gatherer counterparts, pun intended, but perhaps in their limited logical capacity and debates over matching shoes with purses, these bleeders simply don't understand exactly why. Is it the fact that, being the childbearers, they represent our demise as free men? Perhaps on a subconscious level, because each female reminds of us of our most hated and loved image in our mothers? Or is the reason so base as the stronger sex throwing the weaker one around the kitchen and taking advantage of inebriated coeds, just because we can? I think not. Man is a complex beast, and a rational one at that, and our motivation for such abusive treatment lies much deeper than that.

Women make us sick.


Yes, while the mercury plummets to a chilly 19 degrees here in the badlands and my liver cells slowly regenerate after several days of wanton neglect, I have contracted a virile case of the Fear. Fuck the Cold. And fuck Cirrhosis. After all I've seen and done, and all the Wrong I got away with, it seems nothing more than a bacterium may prove my undoing. Walk through fire, survive repeated binges with my fiendish employers, and all the mattresses I've escaped without a knife between my ribs, only to lose to Chlamydia trachomatis.

And so, while I eagerly await my test results and tell myself the pissing pain is merely consequent of poor lubricant selection, I would like to take this opportunity to educate you about sexually transmitted disease. With luck, and a bit of forethought, should any of you pick up a low-grade stripper covered in tattoos with cartoon tits, you can avoid the sort of worry I now know.

Let's start with the basic manners in which women infect us with their evil snatches.

The Clap - Gonorrhea, the cause of which is Neisseria gonorrhoeae which resides in the rotten fruit of the Uterus. Famous people which have fallen victim include Vietnam, G.I.Joe, and the entire population of Perth, Australia. Symptoms include thick discharge and agonizing urination, not unlike jerking off with a handful of salt. Almost as much fun as catching the illness is the test, when a dry cotton swab is shoved in your pisshole. Fortunately, curable by antibiotics.

The Bugs - Pubic Lice, more popularly known as Crabs, arise when an infestation of Pthirus pubis jumps off your Mexican harlot and into your man bush. Famous patrons include Tiajuana, yours truly, and Gary Coleman. While sexual contact is not necessary to acquire crabs, it certainly makes it more worth your while. After all, if you're going to walk around scratching your nuts in public and cursing your friends for letting you leave with that slutbag, you might as well blow a load for your troubles. More of a nuisance than a threat, lice can usually be avoided by ensuring your cum dumpster keep a cleanly shaven pink place, but if you happen to wake up with scrotal fleas, either burn them off or sit your ass in a bucket of pyrethrins. Can't go wrong there.

The Syph - Syphilis, brought about by rubbing your parts with someone else's parts seeping Treponema pallidum, is a bit more serious illnes and will make you a stark raving palsied lunatic if not treated, not unlike marriage or childbirth. Known for bringing down such greats as Paul Gaughin and Al Capone, Syph is a deceptive fucker which starts as an inconspicuous lesion before covering your body in sores, after which you may suffer from neurological problems and a general hatred by all of mankind. While it may be difficult to detect, this rampant disease is easily washed away with penicillin, which is a whole lot easier than trying to clean your conscience after catching this shit from your cheating girlfriend.

The Bumps - Human Papillomavirus is the most common of STD's, and possibly the most benign for men as it can turn your cock into a virtual french tickler without the pain associated with other sickness. Never mind that your new modifications might cause cervical cancer in women. After all, it's their fault you have it to begin with. The little known fact about Warts is, now pay attention, condoms do little to stop the spread of this filth. Indeed, as the culprit virus is conveyed in such sticky fluids as vaginal secretions and direct contact, that stinking seafood residue you wash off your balls after sweet love has already infected you with the Ick. On a sad note, there is no treatment for HPV, and it will serve as a constant reminder of that diseased cunt for deformed your manhood. And no, we're not talking about your mother, either. Most easily avoided by insisting on Ass Sex with a good tongue swabbing afterwards.

The Sores - Yet another incurable affliction, Genital Herpes will turn your beloved mini-me into a burning pustule of red death. Introduced by rubbing bellies with herpes simplex virus 2, symptoms include itching, burning, anal discomfort, and a feeling of abdominal pressure, which sounds so gay it doesn't seem plausible to contract it from a woman. Recurrent "outbreaks" cause open sores to appear on the cock, with which you can run about town and distribute your wealth to unsuspecting teenagers after buying them beer. Transmitted much the same way as the Warts, vaginal fluids anywhere near your manhood will make you a sexual leper for life, so keep it in her rear, and don't come anywhere near here. And finally,

The Plague - HIV, more commonly known as Death or the Scourge of Africa, is a lethal ailment which crippled the human immune system and makes you the adult equivalent of Bubble Boy. Except Bubble Boy wasn't covered in Karposi's Sarcoma, and didn't get to blow off one last load in exchange for an untimely death. Best avoided by keeping clear of Junkies, Buttfuckers, and dirty people, everyone is susceptible to this contagion, but appropriately women are far more at risk. Since you must somehow get infected fluids into you, most men are spending their intercourse time pumping fluids out, namely into some unconscious girl with her skirt pushed up and thong chafing the side of your manmeat. As condoms definitely to deter the spread of this virus, be sure to sheathe thy sword before combat, never go down on a woman, ever, and make sure if you ever go to prison for hard time, you have a long talk with your cellmate about safe sex before he rams your head into a cinder block wall and rapes your girly ass on premise.

I hope that was enjoyable for you as it was for me, boys and girls, and remember, no matter how bad it gets or what trouble comes of it, it's always her fault, and it's always her problem.

My Goose Is Cooked

I had survived six days in Vegas, and about to work on my seventh when I crossed the “Vegas Threshold of Pain” and my goose was officially cooked. After finding ourselves homeless, with every hotel in town booked solid for the upcoming CES / AVN Show - it’s was time to actually make like geese and get the flock out of Dodge. The maximum amount of time anyone should attempt to withstand such a town – spiritually, mentally, or financially -- is five days, after which you are only causing unneeded damage to your liver, brain, and wallet. Dan, Jay, and Paul are left to fend for themselves for the final 24 hours in Lost Wages; before they continue on to San Francisco; where business will hopefully not concern hamsters, lube, or PVC pipe. While I enjoy San Francisco, I have no official business there – plus, I avoid places more gay than Atlanta, where the latest rage is “gifting parties” (that’s right – parties where people knowingly exchange AIDS).

Yes, even more proof that being gay is gay.

Why did I ever agree to stay out in Vegas so long? I already know Internext is a sordid affair, held in the city of sin, with some of the most self-indulgent people on Earth. Only made even worse by the fact it is held in the height of flu and convention season, bringing in exciting new germs from all over the country. Was Howard Hughes an eccentric, paranoid, germaphobe, or just practical? With every sneeze, shiver and cough I see, I start to think the latter. Over the past week I have gone through the process of acquiring, fighting, getting over, and exchanging at least a dozen colds. My intake of booze, ecstasy, and weasel dust didn’t do much to boost the ole’ immune system either. Between sleeping short durations in deep, Xanax-induced drug comas and grinding my jaws and teeth -- I have managed to chew up so much of my tongue, it now looks like a lump of regurgitated beef jerky. Not to mention, my persistent cough has made my throat rawer than a Max Hardcore video.

So what really goes on at these conventions? Well, it’s a good forum to make new contacts and hammer out business deals. While in Lost Wages, Paul and I formed a new company: Bitch Management Solutions, where our motto is:

WE SLAP BITCHES SO YOU DON’T HAVE TO

During a series of high level business meetings, it was decided I would be CEO Chief Slap-a-Hoe, while Paul would head up the dirty arm of Bitch Management Solutions: The Ugly Webcam Girl Consulting Firm. For a nominal service charge, we will show up at some nasty looking webcam chick’s house and lay an Agassi-sized backhand on her. Paul and I see each other almost every day - such a project could have been easily hatched from the affordable confines of my office, but to do such a thing would have just been completely impractical -- and not nearly as expensive or fun. Other than our new companies, herds of hot sluts, wild sex parties, free drugs, and harassing forty year-old hookers around the hotel bar over the price of nuts, doing the windmill, we quite wasted our time in Vegas.

And remember: What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.

Metal Math

Sort of like those "Hey man, is that freedom rock? Turn it up!" or "Did you hear? Disco is making a comeback!" commercials; one might be led to believe that heavy music is making some kind of resurgence, and it is! In fact, it's here -- welcome to the apex of Metal's new wave of popularity. Hey Metalheads, enjoy it while it lasts, because we are one Smells Like Teen Sprit away from another long stretch of irrelevancy. Look, I consider myself a metalhead. I grew up on Slayer, Iron Maiden, and Metallica. I LOVE METAL, but today’s “scene” has an Achilles heel – one that I will expose now:

Problem 1 -- LACK OF HEAVY METAL SLUTS (Typicus Metalus Bimbosus): Whatever happened to the fucking metal sluts? What happened to the big haired, short mini skirt, push up bra, band-dude banging, coke snorting, silicone-enhanced bitches that were working at the titty bar to pay your rent, and bragging to all the other sluts about how big your dick is? Right now, they might look kinda’ funny, but back then it was good pussy! Plus, it brought people out to the shows! Did any guys like Warrant? Were dudes really dying to see Great White back then? Hell no! Did guys go to the shows to score Warrant and Poison loving stripper sluts? Hell yes, they did! In my opinion, the abundance of loose snizz floating around the 80's metal scene extended the whole genre’s lifespan five years longer than it should have lasted.

Back in the day, I remember being just a bit too young to truly capitalize on this plethora of loose hairband puss. In fact, I can remember getting the short end of the stick! The hot, slutty, scandalous groupie bimbos I went to high school with were always fucking the guys a few years older than me that were in bands! Those fucking cunts!

Fast forward to 2002 >>> Now here I am, in my internationally-known, rock god, pussy-getting prime - and WHERE ARE ALL THE METAL BITCHES AT?! Where is the new generation of metal sluts? They’ve got to be somewhere! Who are they out breaking off? DJs now?! Moby looks like he has cancer, and I bet even he has groupies! These days, all the young sluts go to raves. Do they bang the DJs? Probably. What the fuck? I got rid of my record player years ago because I THOUGHT I DIDN'T NEED IT ANYMORE. What happened to having to build an ark and grab two of every animal to paddle out of the show because you risked drowning in a sea of hot groupie quim when bitches saw you play guitar? All of the hours I wasted practicing! I'll never make that mistake again; which brings me to my next point...

Problem 2 -- NOBODY CAN PLAY GUITAR ANYMORE: Back in the day, even the bands that SUCKED at least had decent guitar players. Skidmark -- mean, Skidrow -- SUCKED! But at least ‘ole Snake Sabo could play a god damn guitar solo. These kids today, they get a guitar, tune it down so that you don't even have to play real chords (also known as the drop D cheat), get their neighbor to whine on a demo about how his dad buttfucked him too much, then some record company schlep comes along, and hands them a contract worth a cool Mil'. What the fuck is that? I ain’t player hatin’ -- I would run with the money too -- but now the problem is that everyone is afraid to do anything original. The same diluted, lame shit is churned out over and over again on a weekly basis -- just as long as labels are still making money off it! After a few years of this, the “scene” will burn out, just like it did back in the day. On top of that, there will be NO GROUPIES to save you! Then you have to deal with this...

Problem 3 -- CRACKING THE MULLET CONSPIRACY: If you fancy yourself a big Nü-Metalhead, take a good look in the mirror -- that is what you will look like for the rest of your life. I think people have a tendency to try to emulate the appearance of what they looked like in the best year of their life. Ever wonder why there are so many mullets? BECAUSE 1987 WAS A DAMN GOOD YEAR! If you think all of the piercings and tats that make you look so "edgy" right now will still look cool in 10 years, then please consider this simple equation:

TODAY'S TREND = TOMORROW'S MULLET

The same can be said for the “music” that is being vomited forth from this terrible mess. If you don't think Coal Chamber is going to be about as irrelevant as Britney Fox (young people, look it up) in a few years, then you, my friend, need a checkup from the neck up.

And now for the Coup de Gras – We won’t be fooled again: Nü Metal is phonetically pronounced "New Metal", right? I am about to illustrate to you, using the power of mathematics, that THERE IS NOTHING "NEW" ABOUT IT! Be prepared; you are about to be BLINDED BY SCIENCE.

Alice in Chains - Coolness + Living Singer = Godsmack
Stryper + Pearl Jam = Creed
Bon Jovi + Hootie and the Blowfish = Puddle of Mudd
Faith No More + Backstreet Boys = Incubus
Rush - Getty Lee's Nose = Tool
Styx + Milli Vanilli = Linkin Park
Shit + Uncontrollable Vomiting = Crazytown
Skidrow + Fatter Singer = Papa Roach
Poison + Chick Bassist = Coal Chamber
Twisted Sister + Hulk Hogan = The Disturbed
Quiet Riot + Slightly Heavier Music = Drowning Pool

Sad, isn’t it? I don’t see the next Pantera, Black Sabbath, Slayer, Iron Maiden, or Metallica coming out of this. Just a giant sea of crap the public will grow weary of very soon. It’s too bad -- shit, maybe we can try again in another 15 years!

Death By Lapdance

As anyone who has known me for longer than 48 hours will attest, I’m no amateur titty bar-goer. The better part of my adult life has been spent slouched at a Formica bar counter, head drooping precariously close to a shot of warm Jagermeister and a not-so-full glass of topshelf Bud Light.

Being a cheap fuck, of course, I rarely tip the girls. It’s not that I don’t appreciate how hard they work (pole tricks in platform stilettos is not an easy task, I suspect), but strippers don’t respect a guy who gives them money. Jay once referred to the act of tipping a dancer as “plummeting into the Customer Zone, where pussy is no more.” He’s right, of course – giving money to a dancer eliminates what small chance you had of taking her home and slipping her the hot Greek kielbasa. I’m a devout non-tipper.

But then I met Cheetah’s, Las Vegas.

At an average club, a “lapdance” consists of little more than the girl leaning on your shoulders and occasionally flinging her hair in your face so you accidentally choke on it. Worse yet are the clubs that only allow “table dances”, where, for twenty shekels, a half-drunk, all-bored chick will writhe unenthusiastically five feet away from you. Not so at Cheetah’s.

Jay and I arrived there with intentions of staying briefly – just long enough for a few beers and a couple shots of sweet Mother Jagermeister. Six hours later and $1900 poorer, we dragged ourselves out by our own collars, frightened that we might start bartering vital organs for lapdances. Seriously, I’ve never seen a place like Cheetah’s in my life, and, for the safety of bank account, I’m not sure I want to see another.

The girls at Cheetah’s are relentless. Before you’ve even sat down and enjoyed your first drink, they’re hurtling pussy at you from across the room. The pussies attach to your neck, and you rip at them desperately, trying to peel the motherfucker off before it starts leeching your wallet dry, but to no avail. The pussy has you in its sticky clutches, and no one can save you now.

I was reeled in by more than a few slug taters last night, and it cost me dearly. For the love of God, gentlemen, do not go to Cheetah’s unless you and your ATM card are prepared to be savagely molested by hundreds of filthy, peener-groping, naked sluts.

Make the wise decision. I’m so glad I live 2000 miles from here. Hopefully, I can survive the week. Pray for me.

The Suicide Builders

I’ve barely recovered from the decadence of New Orleans, which is probably the second most decadent city in the United States next to…LAS VEGAS. Yes, Vegas is where I will be from the 3rd-9th for the Intenext Porn Convention. If you’ve ever traveled to Vegas, then you’re already aware that six Vegas days are the equivalent of six months in any sane place, and will remove ten times that amount off the end of your life - and twice as much from your wallet. Worse yet, we are arriving a day early and staying for two days after the show is over.

Why? I'm still not sure.

This year, to throw an extra wrench into the gears, Homeland Security has krunked that trusty terror alert to Orange, and has specified Vegas as a possible target. If credible, here is the proof that Al Qaeda is indeed starting to slip. Don’t accuse me of giving advice to the terrorists, but, come on guys, attacking Vegas is just fucking retarded.

Sure, Las Vegas offers large crowds, with the opportunity to kill tons of people, but just who do you kill anyway? A few blue-haired one-armed bandits, Wayne Newton, and Carrot Top. Other than that, you’ll only be offing blackjack dealers, hookers, and reprobates.

You would be doing the United States a favor.

No, Jihad’s chance to destroy western scum pigfuckers does not lie with suicide bombers; what the terrorists need is suicide builders. Imagine the body count you could rack up if you built more Vegas’s! Think about it: a single strike would kill a quite a few people, but if you teach folks to die, you can count on them drinking, hookering, gambling, and drugging their way straight into open graves for years to come.

The sweet irony: You would be wasting Americans with the very vices that you claim to detest. Even better, death will come slow and prolonged -- not the boring instantaneous expiration of life you’d get from a mundane plane crash. We’re talking agonizing deaths at the hands of vicious habits, addiction, and STDs. Once built, you guys can just sit back and enjoy the show. Maybe, you could even make a cool reality show for Al Jazeera for it - yeah, that would be tight! Just think how perfect the world would be: Sit back, relax in the desert with towels on your head, chopping bitches’ clits off, and sodomizing camels while the Western World plunges into ruin. You guys would make Allah proud!

I’m going to cut this terrorist advice column short for now because my plane is about to touch down in Sin City. It looks like you losers didn’t get me this time. I can’t wait to get an early start on my Jihad by making like Vince Neil and slappin’ some bitches at the Bunny Ranch!

My money must perish! In the name of Allah...

Naw Years In N'awlins

The last few discordant notes of Auld Lang Syne had barely settled into the crowd of inebriated revelers, and I was already bent over a New Orleans toilet, flushing out The Old toxins and ringing in The New.

Yes, Aught-Four was a puke-a-riffic New Year for me, and, although I did manage to get laid, I’m almost a little ashamed to admit that I spent more time huddled around a toilet shitting and vomiting uncontrollably than making sweet, sweet Greek Lovefuck to all the beautiful ladies. Emboldened by the spirit of Ignatius J. Reilly, my flatulence knew no limits during the 48-hour jambalaya and hot sauce-fueled extravaganza.

The first day out on the town, I proudly consumed a delicious bowl of spicy beef chili – I say “proudly” because that particular bowl of chili marked the 30th day in a row that I had eaten chili during at least one meal. Jay and I wasted little time drinking, and, as a result, there are precious few pictures from January 30. However, we did enjoy an evening of light-hearted, family-friendly, Caucasian-oriented comedy with Mr. Rudy Ray Moore, also known as Dolemite, The Human Tornado, Petey Wheatstraw, The Avenging Disco Godfather, and the Hip Shakin’ Papa to “all them scandalous white bitches who like to get they pussies sucked and fucked by big, greasy black dicks,” (his words, not mine).

Of course, it being New Orleans and a drinking occasion, it was only a matter of ticks and tocks before Thomas arrived – this time sporting an outfit that was best described as “Superman goes to a gay bar – a very gay bar.” Personally, I think anyone bold enough to wear red vinyl pants and a sparkly, bedazzled red shirt and still order double shots of Jamesons deserves the benefit of the doubt. You’re all reasonable people – you make the call.

No one, however, could doubt Jay’s masculinity, especially after the impressive shows of testosterone he put on for the crowd: carrying not one, but two drunken chicks on his back through Jackson Square, and faux-vomiting in their faces. Delish.

There was no vomiting of Lucky Dogs, however – after 5 hours of power drinking, I wasted no time obliterating a most unlucky Lucky Dog, to the absolute disgust of the hotdog vendor.

The last day of 2003 kicked off appropriately with another bowl of chili at the Déjà vu Café, Bloody Marys all around, and an extended, early afternoon stint in Monaghan’s Erin Rose – a small, laid-back bar on Conti Street. Rarely do I start popping shots of Jagermeister before the sun goes down, but since this would be the final day of ’03, we spared no brain cells.

Thomas, Ramsey and I began plowing Jager and whiskey before the clock chimed noon, and continued into Big Daddy’s, a dilapidated titty bar with some of the blackest, sleaziest skankaroni me and my dollar bills have ever had the misfortune to meet. I’m no amateur at the shoe show, but this was the first time I’ve ever heard, “For $200, you can do anything you want, baby. We get some privacy in the backroom, and I’ll suck yo’ little white dick right off.”

I wonder - does she use that line with all her white customers, or am I special? Either way, she refused a picture, but a candid one I snapped later in the day reminded me of her charms.

Drinks begat more drinks, and before long our party grew heads. Jessica (philosopher, part-time food wrestler, and full-time weirdo) and her cohort, Brandon, from the ATL arrived after an all-day drive. Christian, a friend to Thomas and an enemy to sobriety, delivered us from shitty, tourist-stuffed Bourbon bars and to cozier, backstreet fare.

As the clock struck something-or-other, I closed 2003 in much the same manner as I lived 2003: I vomited on Jagermeister, took a huge dump, and stumbled drunkenly to a strip club (Rick’s Cabaret). What can I say? I’m just that cool.

Thanks to everyone who helped to make 2003 an utterly forgettable year: John Ashcroft, the Wachowski brothers, Ashton Kutcher, Ruben Studdard, Saddam Hussein, the Florida Marlins, Laci Peterson’s fetus, Bennifer, flaming shrubs in California, flaming shuttles in space, Paris Hilton’s mouth, SARS, Justin Limbercock, little white girls, big black athletes, Rush Limbaugh’s vicky hook-up, Michael Jackson’s errant fingers, R. Kelly’s errant urine streams, metrosexuality, totally X-treme! television commercials, limp-wristed redecorators, Islam, Judaism, Christianity, and the corpses of Mr. Rogers, Barry White, Strom Thurmond, Bob Hope, Lester Maddox, Johnny Cash, Idi Amin, John Ritter, Wesley Willis, Dr. Atkins, Nell Carter, Hume Cronyn, Charles Bronson, Fred Berry, and a fuck-ton of people who don’t warrant mention because they will never do anything as cool as Rod Roddy.

Here’s to Aught-Four not sucking as much!