Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Monday, June 28, 2010
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Production of this item needs to cease immediately.
Putting these "blood blisters taped to bones" in your mouth is the equivalent of digesting solid fart matter. If you like them, you should not be allowed to raise children or hold political office.
The fact that these ribs are still inside me makes me feel dirty. I feel like I'm being raped.
Friday, December 18, 2009
In a recent discussion with another music fan, I was bewildered by his attempt to bestow what he called "bonus points" on the band Stryper. His argument was that Stryper was not only "kick ass" but that they also earned two bonus points for being a Christian band. I had a hard time agreeing that the religion of a band had anything to do with the likability of their music. I also had a problem with the concept of the bonus points themselves.
Was he not aware of the the important recent developments in the Laws of Musical Discussion? I had to enlighten him during our talk. And because I think more people might be unaware of these recent developments, I will attempt to enlighten you as well.
The following is an excerpt from an article which originally appreared in the most recent edition of Cock and Roll Magazine, a bi-decadal music journal for the idiotic and tone deaf. Hopefully it will shed some light on the subject.
The study, done under intensely hard-to-understand laboratory guidelines, involved the use of fifty human subjects. The subjects, all volunteers, were between the ages 2 and 4 and were recruited from low income households in order to minimize the possibility of someone caring, should things go horribly, horribly wrong.
The test subjects were each given a wound, ranging from "ooh, that's gotta sting" to "Oh, dear baby-Jesus, please terminate my eyesight so that I may never again behold the fleshy disaster that lies before me."
At this point, a white woman was released into the room in order to place a single kiss onto the wounds of three lucky children that she chose at random. The other forty-seven subjects remained kiss-less and ignored. None of the fifty volunteers received any further medical treatment other than being poked occasionally with a science-pencil to determine success.
The study went on to say some things about some other stuff but I forget what it was. It had something to do with the test results, the name of a machine that broke during the wounding phase, and something else about a civil lawsuit. I'm not sure if any of it was important. I probably would have remembered if it was.
Dearest Captain Pizz,
It's been a year since we've last seen land. The men are becoming restless and stand on the deck nightly, attempting to catch seaspray in their peeholes. I don't understand this behavior but I imagine it is simply a way to dull the pain of a dreary and mundane existence at sea.
It is for this reason that I started a drama club aboard the ship. The men are encouraged to write plays and to act them out in front of an audience of their peers.
So far this has only backfired twelve times.
Most recently, a young fellow named Tamlin staged a show in which he played the part of a deadly virus. His portrayal was so accurate and so flawlessly convincing that, ten minutes into the show, he managed to infect half the crew. Sixty men perished while vomiting up their own spines and defecating forth their still-beating hearts onto the ship's deck. Forty more managed to survive the outbreak but immediately began to gnaw off each other's tongues in a state of madness and, to this day, pretend to be fully awake when they sleep.
Other than than these small mishaps, the drama club is a huge success and has been getting rave reviews by those without scurvy. The ones with scurvy feel the plays would be better if they contained a bit more Vitamin-C.
Captain, please send us a steering wheel. It is time for us to come home.
C'mon, I told her, I want to talk on the phone like Daddy used to before that old bandsaw took off his "yellin' parts". She politely told me to shut the fuck up and, without turning her gaze from the screen, pushed a sewing needle through the bottom of a dixie cup and handed it to me. "It's wireless", she said. "Unlimited long distance. With a foreign language translator. And a bacon detector. Now go away."
I never could get a hold of anyone on that damn phone. My mother said we were the only family in the world that could afford one. She seemed pretty happy about that; so I just sat in the corner for hours and quitely talked into my new phone about how lonely I was.