The Stench Of Commerce

It was two days after Christmas and try as I might, I could no longer stay holed up in my home. I had avoided public confrontation long enough, my supply of holiday booze had run dry, and certain gifts were just staring at me in the corner of my living room begging to be returned back to the hellish stores from which they were first obtained. What dreaded and ghastly Gehenna could contain the most meaningless and unnecessary trinkets known to mankind?

The one place I alone fear to tread...

...the local Mall.

Normally, at any other time in my life I would just resolve myself to the art of "re-gifting" and passing on these holiday turds to a friend I could care less about, but not this year. No, this year, stuck in the deep end of the quicksand-filled pool that is New Jersey, my friend list is woefully low...thanks in part of my own anti-social and derogative nature. Seems most folks around here tend to shy away from tattooed alcoholics with a penchant for the perverted morally corrupt and the satanic. Who'd a thunk it? So this post-Christmas season, I was forced to return gifts, so I strapped on boots, downed the last shot of liquid courage I had saved up in the cabinet, and cursed the world as I drove to the mall.

On the way, I heard on the radio that the death toll count for those crazy earthquake induced tidal waves was now officially at 21,000 dead little yellow and brown people. I thought to myself, "Oh, to be among those bloated and fly-ridden bodies, nestled deep into eternal sleep amongst my third world brothers and sisters...maybe then I wouldn't have to deal with all the fucking muffin-heads at the fucking mall right now!" I sucked down cigarette after cigarette like a prisoner on death row, finally pulling into the mall parking lot. From there, my blood pressure rose to frightening proportions as I jockeyed for a parking space amongst the countless overweight soccer moms in their enormous SUVs, run down rusted Cadillacs packed like sardine cans filled with black and/or Mexican families, and 1000 year-old Methuselahs driving at a snail's pace because the mall is all they have left in their sad and pathetic lives; all of us vying for that prized goal: the closest parking spot nearest to the Food Court. Finally, after 2 hours of driving in circles and after running down some chucklehead on a Vespa, I got my parking space.

The stench of commerce flooded my nose, along with the sickening smell of countless bodies in motion. My eyes watered at the sight of the unwashed masses, all moving in unison like a sea of cheap fabric and even cheaper haircuts. "Fuck this shit," I told myself out loud, and gritting my teeth, I pushed my way to my first destination...Aeropostale. An aunt of mine had sent me as a gift an oversized Holiday themed sweater, something so goddamned ludicrous looking and itchier than a rusty brillo pad shoved up your piss-hole, I wouldn't even have resorted to wiping my own ass with the damned thing. Walking into Aeropostale was like walking into a real-life Old Navy commercial, but without all the hot bitches draped in cheap fleece. I hissed and squealed under the bright fluorescent lights, my bloodshot and dank bar-trained eyes not accustomed to such harshness. Like some fiendish character out of a Kafka story, I approached the counter suspiciously and slammed that horrible sweater down, demanding a monetary refund. The faggot behind the counter tried to convince me that without a receipt, my best option was exchanging it for a item of clothing. I looked around and all I saw was khaki. Khaki, khaki, khaki...surrounding me like prison of prep. I turned back to him and hissed through my teeth, "Do I LOOK like I would wear ANY of this SHIT? Now listen to me, and listen good...take this sweater off of hands, and give me CASH in exchange. Do it." Perhaps it was the power of the Jedi Mind Trick, or perhaps Little Johnny saw homicide in my eyes...but sure enough, with a flick of his limp wrist, I got my cash.

Next came a visit to EB Games, to return Halo2. Don't get me wrong, Halo2 is probably a good game, but I wouldn't know...I own a fucking Playstation. Apparently, no matter how many times I told my cousin that I don't own an X-Box and probably never will own one, stupidity runs very deep on her side of the family. The exchange went actually quite well, save for the fact that I got stuck behind Jabba the Slut and her equally grotesque son, forced to wait on line behind them as a stench rose from her gargantuan ass as if she had forgotten to wipe...FOR TEN YEARS STRAIGHT! It never ceases to amaze me that people will let themselves get to that level without the option of sucide, and even more amazing is the fact that they are allowed to breed, and perhaps even DOUBLY amazing is that fact that someone else out there is desperate or depraved enough to fuck a fat piece of tripe like her.

As the day drew on, and my adventures in anti-social paranoia continued, the crowds in the mall grew to a crushing throng. My senses became shattered, and the cold sweat of a lack of no alcohol or depressants swimming along in my bloodstream creeped down my spine. Everywhere I turned, wave upon wave of shoppers flooded my vision. I wanted to scream aloud like some mad beast, rolling down the walkways in a shopping cart, armed with a shotgun and taking out those who stood in my way. I wanted to dance a merry jig upon the flames and ashes of corporate consumerism, while the bones of the sheeple crackle in the fire and split open, warming my feet and the cockles of my black heart. But no, I just really needed to get out of there...so I pushed and shoved my way out the exit doors, the cool December air refreshing my senses. Fuck the rest of the presents, I now had enough money to buy a bottle of gin, a pack of cigarettes, and maybe...just maybe, score myself a brand new skin flick from the bottom of the discount barrel at my favorite porno shop.

And that, my friends, is the TRUE meaning of Christmas: Wallowing in an alcohol-fueled depression, falling asleep while jerking off to amputee porn, while that lit cigarette slowly burns down your house.

A Tale Of A Hooker

We know that you all enjoy a good old fashion whore story just like the rest of us. What makes the following tale all the more satisfying is that it was told to me by a dear friend. Enjoy!

"So, it’s just another night in the ho biz. I’m a happy man because we just hired a beautiful, 19 year old, exotic girl who’s ready to work and in dire need of some cash. The phone rings and off she goes to her first call at our incall hotel in midtown. She’s looking top notch in a short black skirt and she virtually skips out the door with a cute little wave over her shoulder. She arrives, gets paid and calls to check in. 30 minutes go by and the phone rings again. We see that it’s her and the talent manager answers, saying, “Done that quickly?” I watch her face change from one of happy surprise to sheer horror.

On the other end of the line is our newest girl balling her eyes out saying that the cops are there and she doesn’t know what happened. There’s a SWAT team, dogs, the door got smashed down, on and on. We just need to know whether she’s ok and if she’s in trouble, she says she doesn’t know and that she really wants to get picked up IF the cops will let her go.

With my heart pounding, I call my lawyer and give him a quick run-down, throw on a jacket over my “Trust me, I’m a pornographer” t-shirt and head down into the Hornet’s nest. For safety’s sake (and bail money), I have my admin follow me. When I arrive, the scene is surreal. There are lookout cops on every floor, there’s undercover cars everywhere and a bunch of very pissed off looking vice cops standing around looking all kinds of ready to taser my ass for strutting up and asking to retrieve the hooker.

I approach with my hands out of my pockets, heading for the guy who looks like he’s in charge. As I get closer, I see that they’ve got a car torn virtually down to the frame in the parking lot and I’m even more confused. A couple of uniforms yell at me to stop when I get a few feet from the guy and start to ID me and give me the “Who the fuck are you and what are you doing here?” thing when the detective stops them and heads my way. I introduce myself as a friend of the girl they’ve got and that I’m here to pick her up. He’s a bit dubious and looks at me like, “Ya right.” I ask him if she’s free to leave and we go through a verbal volley for a few minutes about who she is, my relationship to her, etc. We end up agreeing that he’ll release her to me if we’ll give him the phone number the guy was on when he called us. I call and get the number, all the while pushing harder to try and find out what happened. Finally, he tells me.

The gentlemen who called us that evening for a date was being followed by the DEA and had been for four states. The alias he gave us to confirm was one of over 10 that he had, including driver’s licenses, etc. to match the name. Apparently he was wanted for several drug charges in multiple states, a murder in one state and information on two more murders. He was also suspected to have “some” drugs in the vehicle. While I was there, they were up to 35 lbs. of meth and were still counting.

After some more wrangling and a few tense moments, they cut off her zip-cuffs and released her. She ran to me crying and virtually collapsed into my arms. We headed back to the office after a quick stop at the liquor store and proceeded to drink excessively. Despite her repeated assurances that she understood that this kind of thing never happens and that she could now relax because she’d just gotten the worst possible call of her upcoming career, the poor thing quit the next day."

Our buddy Jim sure has a way with the fairer sex. Especially when he's making money off of them.

A Letter To Santa

Dear Santa,

How's it going, big guy? It's me, you know...John. Look, I know we haven't been on good terms for the past 28 odd years on account of me not believing in you but I can look past that, can't you? Here's the deal. I know your schedule is probably going to be extremely busy this upcoming Christmas, what with all the rich folk's houses you have to pay a visit to but I was hoping that maybe, just maybe you'd find it in that mystical heart of yours to pay a visit to the loneliest Greek in the world...me. I've never asked for anything from you before and I promise, I'll never ask again. I was just hoping that this year you could grant my wishes. I swear, I've been a good boy in '04. I haven't slapped any prostitutes around NOR did I burn down any black churches this year. My list is quite short really, and considering your alleged powers, none of my wishes would be terribly difficult for you to make manifest. Take note fat man, I don't want any mix ups.

1: A kajillion dollars. If that's not possible, I'll settle for a zillion. And no checks either. Kris, I want that shit in small, unmarked bills or your cunt of a wife here is gonna get it!

2: I want "X to the Z" Xzibit to personally come down to my house here in Jersey and pimp my ride. Now it's a 1996 Ford Escort, so he's got his work cut out for him and I'll probably just sell the damned thing the moment I get it into my greedy little hands, but DAMN IT, Everybody else and their mother is rolling around on dubs and shit EXCEPT FOR ME! And I don't want not fruity assed theme either, like a golf ball cleaner in the trunk or five X-Boxes lined up on the roof! I just want it all pimp. Hook it up with a retractable glass bong that slides up out of the floorboards and I promise I'll be extra good in 2005.

3: A deepthroat blowjob from Lindsay Lohan while Hillary Duff and the mom from "That 70's Show" take turns giving me a "Rusty Trombone". And not one of those quick two licks and she's done blowjobs, I want a throat gurgling, vomit inducing blowjob that even Max Hardcore would be proud of.

4: A cure for cancer, AIDS, and heart disease all rolled into one. But only let ME hold onto it. I don't want to share.

5: Booze. Plenty of it.

6: I want an end to all wars and the differences between mankind and his fellow brethren. And if that's not possible, then just nuke everybody else except for us, the good guys.

7. A hot stripper girlfriend who actually thinks it's SEXY that I sit around all day smoking pot and playing Grand Theft Auto.

8: Last, but not least...did I mention booze?

With that all said, I certainly hope that this christmas list gets to you safely at the North Pole. I know it must be difficult, what with the sitting on your fat ass all year long until the 23rd of December and forcing innocent little elves to do your slave labor, but I know deep down in this shriveled, black heart of mine that you'll make my wishes come true this holiday season. I'll leave out a plate of freshly baked hemp cookies for you, Santa...enjoy. Enclosed with this letter is a piece of your wife's ear. I'm not fucking kidding about that kajillion dollars, fat man.

Happy Kwanzaa

The Drug Maid

The pressures of work began to get to me about two months ago. I was losing sleep, I’d lost my appetite and even when I could eat I was scarcely able to keep anything down. Concerned, I went to the local physician to whom I was referred by a close colleague. The good doctor, after a thorough diagnosis, deduced that all my problems were stress related and suggested that I begin taking anti-depressants and quickly wrote me a prescription for Zoloft, the anti-depressant for champions.

As with any drug, I took more than the prescribed amount and suddenly my days were sunny and bright again, just like the commercials. After two or three days of wondering around a foreign country wired and wide-eyed I was able to see through the haze enough to figure out that maybe this wasn’t the brand of anti-depressant for me. The doctor had said that there were about 6 different anti-depressants on the market and that I could try each of them until I found one that fit my needs.

Confused and concerned about taking so many different types of anti-depressants I called my friend to get some advice. When I brought her up to date on my stress issues and my temporary fix the first thing she mentioned was the side effects of discontinuing usage of certain anti-depressants. The most serious of which was extreme suicidal tendencies.

Naturally I freaked.

I hadn’t noticed any urges to end my colorful life but nevertheless I decided to stay with the safe, non-suicidal drugs like pot. But here I was with all of this Zoloft. What was I to do with it?

Enter my friends' fifty-something year-old maid who comes to clean their apartment three times a week. My friend had gotten me in the habit of giving the maid our take-out leftovers which Edith, the maid, was always happy to receive. So much, that we’d started giving her clothes and such that we no longer wore which she would pass on to her grandchildren. So as not to waste the remaining doses of my Zoloft, I gave them to Edith, telling her, in my best broken English, that they were “mood enhancers”.

I could’ve sworn she understood me.

Over the next few days I went over my friends' house, and I noticed a change in her behavior. She began talking out loud to the appliances, cursing, then, caressing the television and one day even tying the mop strings to her feet and skating around the apartment, laughing and singing. This strange behavior culminated one day when I returned to their apartment at an odd time and found her sprawled out on the couch giggling uncontrollably with the unmistakable smell of shit looming around her. She’d become a quadrapalegic chuckle-box and I had the sinking feeling it was my fault. Rather, that of the prescription drugs I’d given her.

My friend soon arrived and we were able to get her on her feet and send her on her way. After which I received a vicious scolding for giving prescription drugs to the help. For the next few weeks whenever Edith came to clean and I was at their house, she gave me shifty looks from around doorways and behind furniture and all but leapt out of her skin whenever I called her name. She no longer trusted me or my broken English and I feared my relationship with her was damaged beyond repair.

To this day her knees shake when she walks and she bursts out in spontaneous laughter, particularly if I happen to mention the word “moist”.

Strange.

Sometimes you just have to take what you’re given and laugh about it later. No matter how uncomfortable it makes you or how much you happen to shit on yourself and others.

A Sad Day For Metal

As I woke up on Thursday morning, I did my usual routine of scratching my balls, coughing up bloody phlegm, wondering why I even woke up in the first place and popping in some music and turning it up extremely loud while I shower. By coincidence (though at the time I didn't realize it) I put on Pantera's "Far Beyond Driven" album and scrubbed my balls to the brutally fast riffs of "Slaughtered".

It couldn't have been more tragically ironic even if I tried.

For those who just don't care to know (and shame on you for not), "Dimebag" Darrell Abbott, guitarist of Pantera and Damageplan, was tragically shot down by an insane fan on Wednesday night at the age of 38 while performing with Damageplan at the Alrosa Villa nightclub in Columbus, Ohio. Apparently, according to the police, the guy jumped on stage right after the opening number of the show, shouted something at the band then proceeded to shoot "Dimebag" Darrell a whole bunch of times before turning the gun on the crowd and killing three more people. The cops were there, thank god, and killed the man like the cowardly dog he was. "Dimebag" Darrell was, without a doubt (at least in my mind) one of the most influentual metal guitarists alive today. His riffs and compositions are copied, broken down, strained through, and literally worshipped by countless hardcore, thrash and metal bands trying to meek out a living today. While not the most complicated… goddamn it the man could fucking play. Ask any one familiar with metal, and play them two seconds of a Pantera riff and we could all tell which song it was the moment the guitar kicked in. And now he's gone.

Now, I'm not one to pine on a celebrity’s death but this hit me close to the heart. I was always a huge fan of Pantera and even when Phil Anselmo and the rest of the band went there seperate ways a couple years ago I would still hope for a reunion tour. Because growing up in the late 80's and early 90's during junior high and high school, I fit into that category of "Dirtbag". We were the ones spat on by the Jocks, shunned by the Preps, and looked down upon by those stinky bastards, the Grunge-kids. Why? Simply because we shaved our heads, we wore spikes and combat boots, we drove Irocs and run-down Mustangs and we fucking rocked out to the sounds of Slayer, Iron Maiden, Sepultura, and Pan-motherfucking-tera! We were the down-trodden, the beaten, the abused by our fathers, the ones scorned by "normal" Society and we didn't have to listen to no whiny bullshit from Pearl Jam either to let our feelings out. No, we had the sounds of Phil Anselmo growling into the mic while we sang along with him note for note, heads banging to Darrell's memorably riffs. It wasn't pussification music by any means. It was pure empowerment! It was one huge middle finger stuck in the face of everyone else who just didn't get it. So if your a fan, drop what your doing, raise a beer to the sky, and thank "Dimebag" Darrell for all the wonderful music he provided us.

Rest in peace, Darrell Abbott...

...you will be sorely missed.

Family Day At The Turkey Shoot

Deer season is upon us in the flatlands, friends.

Yes, all across this American piece of tundra, hundreds of armed rednecks are scurrying through the woods in search of the quintessential twenty-point buck. And nearly every afternoon down at the watering hole, one camouflaged bastard or another is bragging about the fearsome animal he brought down with a .360 Weatherbee or medieval crossbow or whatever projectile weapon he sleeps with in the treestand. But before you Heartlanders set out with your rifles and beer cans on this fine morning, pay heed to the tragic tale told here and take careful aim.

’Twas the wee morning hours and “Big Ronnie” McKenna and his 33-year old son, “Little Ronnie” saw hoof prints in the backyard. Eager to find the source of this natural phenomenon and snuff its life out for venison burgers, father and child immediately set out to hunt down this fierce beast. Never mind the dad has poor vision from his diabetes, or had forgotten in his bourbon-soused amnesia that his only child was wandering around outside on the self-same quest to kill Bambi. Armed to the teeth with pump action and one eye closed, Big Ronnie heard a noise within earshot of the house. What could that noise be? I’m sure he wondered as he brought the scope to his bleary eye. Could that branch swinging in the morning breeze be a sign? Better shoot than be sorry about the missed shot, and with the glory of his American forefathers, Ronald III put Ronald II to the ground.

Now before I digress into the many possible endings of this sad story, just let me inform all of you judgmental pricks that I am no anti-gun activist, and have nothing but empathy for this poor old fool that accidentally murdered his son. I mean, what father out there hasn’t thought at one point or another about killing the little shit that ruined his life, locking him down in holy matrimony and costing him the better portion of every paycheck garnered after long hours on the assembly line? Guns serve a very distinct purpose, and if you’re not able to use them to rid us of those scoundrels and mouthy housewives, you might as well play Vietnam with your own kin. That said, the game goes on…

So here we are, standing over the fatally wounded Little Ronnie with Big Ron, and we must give pause. Such questions as What am I going to say to the cops? How am I going to break this to my wife? And where am I going to find somebody to mount his head on a wooden plaque? must cross the mind. But no time remained for an answer to form, because in the time in took for dad to drape his shirt over the recently deceased, the Big One kicked him in the chest and stopped his ticker dead. Massive heart attack, so says the coroner. That’s one hell of a guilt trip, so says your daily writer.

Here’s act 3 in this contemporary rendition of some Shakespearian tragedy. The wife of 37 long years, Marie, hears a solitary gunshot and wonders what sorts of trouble the boys are making. Wary of leaving the kitchen without permission, she peeks out the window to see the love of her life lying beside a shrouded corpse. Now in other parts of the world such as war-torn Iraq or the lush foodland of Ethiopia, perhaps this sight would be greeted with a bit more of that everyday shrug. But under the Stars and Stripes, a simple woman just isn’t equipped to deal with that sort of trauma. Thank the Good Lord above for support groups, Valium, and term life insurance

Take heed before you faithful killing machines pull the trigger, fellow rednecks, because not every trophy can be skinned, and some will cost you than a hot spent cartridge in the sand.

The Ballad Of The Inbred Puppy

I've always been a big fan of poetry. I know, I know...a statement like that on a website like this is like to being told by your dad that he's a bug-chaser and yes indeedy, you've now got AIDS after using his razor that one day. Here me out. There's something highly personal in another man's written word, something that, when thought out and written down onto pressed paper, he puts a small piece of themselves into the words, perhaps as is the case with truly classic poetry from the likes of Joyce, Poe, and Cummings, the very ink is imbued with their very soul, forever keeping them alive in our minds. My stuff isn't that good. But I've been writing poetry ever since I could pick up a crayon and scrawl it onto my bedroom walls, so while it may not be very good in the classical sense...it's highly personal to me, and to those who wish to enjoy my works, I gladly share it with them. But one thing I can't fucking stand is the pretentious types, the kind that frequent the coffee houses and quaint little hip bars that only seat 12, they who write such horrible and cliched drivel and force it down our throats expecting us to grovel at their feet in awe of their very pretentiousness. God how I hate them...they live and die at the local coffee house, poetry slams, waiting and waiting for their "big break"...because as all writers know, famous publishers are ALWAYS on the prowl in your neighborhood's local fucking coffee shop looking for YOU. Right....

So it was then that I was invited to actually go to one those poetry slams down here in my city. At first I was kinda apprehensive. Who the fuck want's to sit around drinking shitty watered down coffee while some overweight, pasty faced goth-slut stands on the stage in all her bloated glory and recites some shitty poem about her underused and neglected vagina that some 4th grader could have written (probably with better form too). But my friend told me it was at a bar, alcohol was involved I was already out the door on my way. There's nothing like getting shitfaced and listening to some jackass bare his soul to a room full of other jackasses. Maybe it's just me, but train-wrecks fascinate me. So we get there, and I'm immediatly smacked in the face with the smell of body odor and patchouli. Ugh. I downed two shots of Old Crow, ordered a pint of something cold and alcoholic, sat down to listen to the mindless drek being spewed out of these asshole's mouths. Look...I KNOW it takes a lot of balls and commitment to stand up in front of complete strangers and bare your very soul to them, but poetry slams aren't like a talent show for crissakes. Most of the time, everybody in the audience will applaud your shitty works, maybe snap their fingers a bit, all in the effort to boost your ego so that when it's THEIR turn to recite some shitty poetry, you'll do the same in turn. After a while, I became thoroughly drunk and belligerent, at times even loudly heckling some truly horrible pieces of work. Of course, I got stared at and "hushed" loudly but what the fuck were THEY gonna do? Throw me a good ol' fashioned hippy beating? Please. So the inevitable happens, then. My friend, the jackass that he is, signs me up secretly to recite some of my works. My name is called and I'm left sitting there like a Christian waiting to be stoned by a crowd of hebrews.

But the drinks took effect, I swallowed what pride I had left in my pocket and jumped up on the small makeshift stage. So...for your reading pleasure...here is the poem that got me forever banned from any local poetry slam and forever ostracized from the local intellectual types that reside around here.

"*ahem* (taps the mic) Is this thing on or what? Here's what I got memorized, fuckers, so whatever...."

I saw a crippled man today at the supermarket
Two wheel drive electric wheelchair
His breathing tube giving off a slow hiss like a leaky balloon
And one claw like hand molesting the jars of baby food
At first, a sense of pity overcame me

Quickly flushed away by my good friend Apathy
Joined by my drinking buddy Malicious Intent
Giant boulders of sleep crust surrounded his eyes
While a thin line of drool hung off his chapped and dried lips
Our eyes locked in one uncomfortable second
And I cracked up, letting loose a snort of laughter
"Guh.....guh....goooblah..", he grunted back
All the while a look of accusation in his one good eye
So I did what any concerned well adjusted citizen should do
I pushed back all the jars of food so he couldn't reach them
And unplugged his breathing tube
Fucking cripple...

The bar was filled with silence and disgusted looks. You could literally hear crickets going off in the distance, or was that sound of guns being cocked? I couldn't tell. At this point, people were getting up and leaving. The promoter of the show was looking at me with the intent to kill, and several people were whispering things like "I can't believe him..." and "What an asshole..." and even "Jethus Christ...never have I heard such bad poetry.". We were kicked out of the bar shortly afterward, something about causing a public disturbance, I don't know. Oh well, like I said, my poetry just isn't for THEM. It's for ME. So, as I sat in the Waffle House at 4 in the morning, stinking like gin and cigarettes and happily munching on a southern fried steak, my friend posed this question to me. “What then is the nature of poetry , its essential law? What is the highest power we can demand from it, what the supreme music that the human mind, reaching up and in and out to its own widest breadths, deepest depths and topmost summits, can extract from this self-expressive instrument?”

I just looked at him and asked, "Shut up asshole, you gonna eat those cheese fries?"