Monday, December 22, 2008
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
He died as he lived
"Don't you hear them?" The dusk was repeating them in a persistent whisper all around us in a whisper that seemed to swell menacingly like the first whisper of a rising wind, "The horror! The horror!"
This is the reason why I affirm that Kurtz was a remarkable man. He had something to say. He said it... He had summed up—he had judged. 'The horror!' He was a remarkable man.
Best movie ever?
This is the reason why I affirm that Kurtz was a remarkable man. He had something to say. He said it... He had summed up—he had judged. 'The horror!' He was a remarkable man.
Best movie ever?
Friday, December 12, 2008
¡El Death Metal nunca morirá!
Especially with groups like The Chasm from Mexico forcefully playing it with such conviction.
(Yes, Decimate and Reconstruct
Apocalypse of inner War, in this soil of dried bloodpaths
Through the tongues of the giants
My Scepter has spoken, and if I feel the future
I see the Final Victory, but in the end
nobody has Won... Decimate, Reconstruct...)
(Yes, Decimate and Reconstruct
Apocalypse of inner War, in this soil of dried bloodpaths
Through the tongues of the giants
My Scepter has spoken, and if I feel the future
I see the Final Victory, but in the end
nobody has Won... Decimate, Reconstruct...)
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Dear Blogosphere
A common adage of our age is that one should “just be yourself.” But what should you do when just being yourself seems to run contrary to the contemporary zeitgeist of a particular group or class of individuals? Obviously this mantra doesn’t extend to people like Jeffery Dahmer—but perhaps that’s an extreme example. You see, while I don’t have a penchant for cannibalizing my zombified lovers, I do enjoy telling jokes. Really bad jokes. What’s worse is that they often fall upon deaf ears, which to me is just pure agony.
One such instance occurred just a few days ago. I work in the back of a warehouse type area, and occasional big sliding doors are opened to allow cargo-loaded trucks inside. Naturally, during the winter they are opened much to the discomfort of myself and my fellow grunts. One night my boss, while power-walking parallel to me with exaggeratedly hurried steps commented that it “sure was getting cold out.” He rubbed his hands together and made that “whooo” sound.
“Yeah!” I agreed, with a shit-eating grin spreading across my face. A truly excellent pun was just at the tip of my tongue. Triumphantly, and with what I surmised was perfect timing, I said that you could “just call me AARON BURR.”
Don’t you get and appreciate this, oh blogosphere? You see, it was a bit chilly—and chill often makes one go “burr.” Moreover, Aaron Burr was a historical figure that almost seized executive power in 1800… and it is a happy coincidence that his surname also happens to be that noise people make to express a chill!
The confused look merging into a frown, the silent accusation that I was on drugs, the fact that the only noise that broke the uncomfortable silence the sound of him awkwardly clearing his throat… all of this, oh blogosphere, was almost too much to take.
That night I felt like Napoleon on St. Helena.
One such instance occurred just a few days ago. I work in the back of a warehouse type area, and occasional big sliding doors are opened to allow cargo-loaded trucks inside. Naturally, during the winter they are opened much to the discomfort of myself and my fellow grunts. One night my boss, while power-walking parallel to me with exaggeratedly hurried steps commented that it “sure was getting cold out.” He rubbed his hands together and made that “whooo” sound.
“Yeah!” I agreed, with a shit-eating grin spreading across my face. A truly excellent pun was just at the tip of my tongue. Triumphantly, and with what I surmised was perfect timing, I said that you could “just call me AARON BURR.”
Don’t you get and appreciate this, oh blogosphere? You see, it was a bit chilly—and chill often makes one go “burr.” Moreover, Aaron Burr was a historical figure that almost seized executive power in 1800… and it is a happy coincidence that his surname also happens to be that noise people make to express a chill!
The confused look merging into a frown, the silent accusation that I was on drugs, the fact that the only noise that broke the uncomfortable silence the sound of him awkwardly clearing his throat… all of this, oh blogosphere, was almost too much to take.
That night I felt like Napoleon on St. Helena.
Friday, November 28, 2008
"They kept shopping. It's not right. They're savages"
The real question is does this provide evidence or counter-evidence that our economy is losing consumer confidence? Or is the whole structure just out of whack? Its interesting that Black Friday sales will still likely fall dismally short of the retailer's projected sales goals. LOL whoops.
The percussive-driven styling of the USA's very own Suffocation (naturally) provide us with their commentary on this idea of unfettered individualism.
link
A 34-year-old Wal-Mart worker died Friday morning after "a throng of shoppers . . . physically broke down the doors" and knocked him to the ground as the crowd pushed its way into the store at a Valley Stream mall, Nassau police said.
The man was knocked down at 5:03 a.m. at the Green Acres Mall store, and was taken to a hospital, where he was pronounced dead at 6:03 a.m.
As of Friday morning the cause of death was described as "undetermined," police said. An exact cause of death will be determined by the county medical examiner's office, police said. The man's name was not immediately made public by the police, and the store was closed.
A spokeswoman for Wal-Mart, in Bentonville, Ark., said she was unable to comment immediately, and said the company was seeking details on the incident.
Four other Wal-Mart shoppers at the Valley Stream store were taken to hospitals Friday morning. A 28-year-old pregnant woman was taken to a hospital for observation, and three other shoppers suffered minor injuries and were taken to hospitals for treatment.
The percussive-driven styling of the USA's very own Suffocation (naturally) provide us with their commentary on this idea of unfettered individualism.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Don't blame me
I voted for the Lizard People.
"Raise the current, clear the stream/herald the sound of the
serpent dreams"
"Raise the current, clear the stream/herald the sound of the
serpent dreams"
Monday, November 3, 2008
Democratic politics are beyond insipid
...But true love is transcendental.
Hello Sarah Palin we wrote this song for you because we see you from Russia! Plz respond to our emails!! We like to hear from you!!
Hello Sarah Palin we wrote this song for you because we see you from Russia! Plz respond to our emails!! We like to hear from you!!
Friday, October 31, 2008
Samhain Revisions
Black Sabbath only fillys this original (real horrorshow) version of their 1970's hit warble on very special occasions, o my brothers.
Witches gather at black masses
Bodies burning in red ashes
On the hill the church in ruin
Is the scene of evil doings
It's a place for all bad sinners
Watch them eating dead rats' innards
I guess it's the same wherever you may go
Carry banners which denounce the lord
See me rocking in my grave
See them anoint my head with dead rat's blood
See them stick the stake through me
Don't hold me back cause I've just gotta go
They've got a hold of my soul now
Lords got my brain instinct with blood obscene
Look in my eyes I'm there enough
On the scene a priest appears
Sinners falling at his knees
Satan sends out funeral pyre
Casts the priest into the fire
It's the place for all bad sinners
Watch them eating dead rats' innards
I guess it's the same wherever you may go
P.S. "Brain instinct with blood obscene."
Happy Halloween!
Witches gather at black masses
Bodies burning in red ashes
On the hill the church in ruin
Is the scene of evil doings
It's a place for all bad sinners
Watch them eating dead rats' innards
I guess it's the same wherever you may go
Carry banners which denounce the lord
See me rocking in my grave
See them anoint my head with dead rat's blood
See them stick the stake through me
Don't hold me back cause I've just gotta go
They've got a hold of my soul now
Lords got my brain instinct with blood obscene
Look in my eyes I'm there enough
On the scene a priest appears
Sinners falling at his knees
Satan sends out funeral pyre
Casts the priest into the fire
It's the place for all bad sinners
Watch them eating dead rats' innards
I guess it's the same wherever you may go
P.S. "Brain instinct with blood obscene."
Happy Halloween!
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
At the Late-nite Café
It was an ungodly hour. In place of the constant buzzing and honking of city traffic, you could now only hear the occasional roar of a revving engine that almost always evolved into that jarring screech of hyper-spun tires on pavement. The diverse clientele at the late-nite coffee bar would hurl unheard insults at these phantom drivers suffering from what most likely was a case of intoxicated bravado behind the wheel.
“Woo-whee hon!” shouted a heavily pierced woman leaning against the cafe’s red brick wall. She was nursing a dark glass of iced coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other. “You’re such a big man now!” A couple that looked like they had recently escaped from a nightclub, well dressed but covered in drying perspiration, seemed to appreciate the remark. She turned back to her friends, expertly exhaling a burst of smoke, firstly from her noses and then from her mouth. It lingered around her lips for a bit before dissolving into the night sky. “But anyways,” she said, trying to transition back into the conversation, “you have to admit, we are going to leave a pretty fucked up mark on the world—y’know?”
At least one of her friends clearly didn’t follow. He took a sip of his brightly colored energy drink and narrowed his eyes at hers. “What do you mean, exactly?”
“Well, look.” She started. “Just, like, for example, consider your drink. I’m not trying to sound like one of those organic-hippie-nazi-types, but do you know what gives that stuff its coloring?”
“Uhh, that food-dye stuff, I’ll wager. My mom always had ‘em in the kitchen. Comes in those little plastic bottles? One drop’ll turn, like, a gallon of water into that color.”
“Yeah, kinda.” She agreed. “But a lot of the stuff used to color food stuff is called Carminic Acid, which is harvested off of the bodies of dead South American Bugs.”
“Well that’s pretty sexy.” It was all he could say. He killed off the last bit of his drink and threw it into the nearby recycling bin.
She was clearly enjoying herself. She tugged at the ring around her lip, unconsciously smirking. “So basically, a metric shit-ton of those critters were harvested in order to give that beverage of yours the illusion that it’s flavored with berries. Or at least berry-esque.” She paused. “Makes you wonder how much else is in life is illusionary, y’know?”
“Hold that thought,” he said with a half smile. “I have to go piss out some bug juice.” He stepped inside the café. Punk music was pumping from some unseen old-school stereo. You could tell it was old because the all the high-frequency notes were accompanied with those curious popping noises.
He went into the unisex bathroom. The mirror was beyond cracked and there were no paper towels, but it was reasonably clean. After checking his flow of piss to make sure it wasn’t a radioactive berry color, his eyes gazed towards the lightly tan colored wall. Customers certainly weren’t afraid to leave their marks at this late nite café, and petty vandalism even seemed to be encouraged. Sharpie sprawlings and knife etches covered all four sides of the wall. It served as a sort of timeline of sardonic bathroom humor that highlighted the various historical events that took place during the joint’s existence. Within reaching distance from the toilet, he saw the Reagan-era commentary. A happy, red-eyed smiley face argued that it just couldn’t say “no.” A bit to the right, somebody carved out “I hope the fetus that you save is GAY!” Further still, a then-topical Bill Clinton fellatio joke.
Semi-serious statements or feigned displays of offense were ruthlessly mocked. Underneath a long winded diatribe entailing the virtues of anarchy, a prankster simply wrote “I can rip apart the system AND take a shit? Now that’s convenient!” Blasphemy followed blasphemy. There was a drawing of two towers, and a crudely drawn stick figure atop of it. It was saying “Look! It’s a bird! It’s a plane! OH SHIT! It IS a plane!” An offended outsider wrote “You sick bastard.” The response was another joke, of questionable taste. “Hey, sorry about that. Here’s a joke to cheer you up: knock knock? Who’s there? 911. 911 who? YOU SAID YOU’D NEVER FORGET.”
As he rejoined his friend, he commented that if the ingredients label was written by bathroom wall vandals, they’d at least have the decency to write “CRUSHED BUG SHIT” in place of Carmic-acid-or-whatever.
She laughed. “If bathroom vandals ran society, what mark do you think they’d leave?” He just shrugged and listened to another car peel out in the distance.
“Woo-whee hon!” shouted a heavily pierced woman leaning against the cafe’s red brick wall. She was nursing a dark glass of iced coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other. “You’re such a big man now!” A couple that looked like they had recently escaped from a nightclub, well dressed but covered in drying perspiration, seemed to appreciate the remark. She turned back to her friends, expertly exhaling a burst of smoke, firstly from her noses and then from her mouth. It lingered around her lips for a bit before dissolving into the night sky. “But anyways,” she said, trying to transition back into the conversation, “you have to admit, we are going to leave a pretty fucked up mark on the world—y’know?”
At least one of her friends clearly didn’t follow. He took a sip of his brightly colored energy drink and narrowed his eyes at hers. “What do you mean, exactly?”
“Well, look.” She started. “Just, like, for example, consider your drink. I’m not trying to sound like one of those organic-hippie-nazi-types, but do you know what gives that stuff its coloring?”
“Uhh, that food-dye stuff, I’ll wager. My mom always had ‘em in the kitchen. Comes in those little plastic bottles? One drop’ll turn, like, a gallon of water into that color.”
“Yeah, kinda.” She agreed. “But a lot of the stuff used to color food stuff is called Carminic Acid, which is harvested off of the bodies of dead South American Bugs.”
“Well that’s pretty sexy.” It was all he could say. He killed off the last bit of his drink and threw it into the nearby recycling bin.
She was clearly enjoying herself. She tugged at the ring around her lip, unconsciously smirking. “So basically, a metric shit-ton of those critters were harvested in order to give that beverage of yours the illusion that it’s flavored with berries. Or at least berry-esque.” She paused. “Makes you wonder how much else is in life is illusionary, y’know?”
“Hold that thought,” he said with a half smile. “I have to go piss out some bug juice.” He stepped inside the café. Punk music was pumping from some unseen old-school stereo. You could tell it was old because the all the high-frequency notes were accompanied with those curious popping noises.
He went into the unisex bathroom. The mirror was beyond cracked and there were no paper towels, but it was reasonably clean. After checking his flow of piss to make sure it wasn’t a radioactive berry color, his eyes gazed towards the lightly tan colored wall. Customers certainly weren’t afraid to leave their marks at this late nite café, and petty vandalism even seemed to be encouraged. Sharpie sprawlings and knife etches covered all four sides of the wall. It served as a sort of timeline of sardonic bathroom humor that highlighted the various historical events that took place during the joint’s existence. Within reaching distance from the toilet, he saw the Reagan-era commentary. A happy, red-eyed smiley face argued that it just couldn’t say “no.” A bit to the right, somebody carved out “I hope the fetus that you save is GAY!” Further still, a then-topical Bill Clinton fellatio joke.
Semi-serious statements or feigned displays of offense were ruthlessly mocked. Underneath a long winded diatribe entailing the virtues of anarchy, a prankster simply wrote “I can rip apart the system AND take a shit? Now that’s convenient!” Blasphemy followed blasphemy. There was a drawing of two towers, and a crudely drawn stick figure atop of it. It was saying “Look! It’s a bird! It’s a plane! OH SHIT! It IS a plane!” An offended outsider wrote “You sick bastard.” The response was another joke, of questionable taste. “Hey, sorry about that. Here’s a joke to cheer you up: knock knock? Who’s there? 911. 911 who? YOU SAID YOU’D NEVER FORGET.”
As he rejoined his friend, he commented that if the ingredients label was written by bathroom wall vandals, they’d at least have the decency to write “CRUSHED BUG SHIT” in place of Carmic-acid-or-whatever.
She laughed. “If bathroom vandals ran society, what mark do you think they’d leave?” He just shrugged and listened to another car peel out in the distance.
Monday, October 27, 2008
“Yeah, I’ve heard of these guys. You said they were called Antaeus, right? Some fuckin…some fuckin’ French shit, right?”
It’s common for your brain to conjure up vivid mental conceptions or images at a rate that is much faster than what you can express with the spoken word. For most people, this linguistic lapse is represented with those dreaded “umms” or “uhhhs” that make every high school speech teacher shudder. I never heard this fellow ever commit that sort of communication faux pas. For him, the “umms” and “uhhs” were always simply replaced with the word “fuckin.”
“Yeah man. Real intense—y’know? Really, like, fuckin… real fuckin’ feral.”
We were sitting in the café in our university’s student center. Students and faculty alike percolated in and out of the window lit room. Some were clearly grabbing a hurried bite between classes, while others sat laughing in crowded tables with their text books open as if they came here to study. I’d bet anything that one of the hipper professors was leading a small discussion group on one of the large round tables in the center. The music was struggling to come out of his small laptop computer’s speakers, but nonetheless cut through the background noise just lucid enough to get its point across. I sipped tepid coffee, nodding in agreement.
“The melody is dissonant… but its… right… fuckin…there.” I replied. His profanity was rubbing off on me. “I wouldn’t call them a minimalist black metal band like Darkthrone, say. But the music hits you in kinda the same way… like a fuckin’ battering ram ripping a hole into the void.”
Anteaus. Son of Persidon, slain by Herculeus. According to Dante guards he guards one of the circles of Hell. Also: some French shit. Real fuckin' feral.
It’s common for your brain to conjure up vivid mental conceptions or images at a rate that is much faster than what you can express with the spoken word. For most people, this linguistic lapse is represented with those dreaded “umms” or “uhhhs” that make every high school speech teacher shudder. I never heard this fellow ever commit that sort of communication faux pas. For him, the “umms” and “uhhs” were always simply replaced with the word “fuckin.”
“Yeah man. Real intense—y’know? Really, like, fuckin… real fuckin’ feral.”
We were sitting in the café in our university’s student center. Students and faculty alike percolated in and out of the window lit room. Some were clearly grabbing a hurried bite between classes, while others sat laughing in crowded tables with their text books open as if they came here to study. I’d bet anything that one of the hipper professors was leading a small discussion group on one of the large round tables in the center. The music was struggling to come out of his small laptop computer’s speakers, but nonetheless cut through the background noise just lucid enough to get its point across. I sipped tepid coffee, nodding in agreement.
“The melody is dissonant… but its… right… fuckin…there.” I replied. His profanity was rubbing off on me. “I wouldn’t call them a minimalist black metal band like Darkthrone, say. But the music hits you in kinda the same way… like a fuckin’ battering ram ripping a hole into the void.”
Anteaus. Son of Persidon, slain by Herculeus. According to Dante guards he guards one of the circles of Hell. Also: some French shit. Real fuckin' feral.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Belief in Tragedies
As the seasons change and leaves cascade to the ground blanketing the Earth with a layer of deathly auburn... a young man's fancy turns to IMMORTAL.
Ahh, one of the greats--yes?
Ahh, one of the greats--yes?
Sunday, October 12, 2008
There was once a man with an anthropomorphic, talking ass
He thought it was real doggone cute (and for awhile, it was). He even taught it a couple of bar tricks, nothing special mind you... but it certainly was a cute distraction! Eventually, it would eat its way through its pants and start crying about being mistreated. When the man tried to shut it up, the ass replied "It's you who will shut up in the end. Not me. Because we don't need you around here any more. I can talk and eat and shit!"
Be very wary of cancerous assholes.
"The end result of complete cellular representation is cancer. Democracy is cancerous, and bureaus are its cancer. A bureau takes root anywhere in the state, turns malignant like the Narcotic Bureau, and grows and grows, always reproducing more of its own kind, until it chokes the host if not controlled or excised. Bureaus cannot live without a host, being true parasitic organisms. (A cooperative on the other hand can live without the state. That is the road to follow. The building up of independent units to meet needs of the people who participate in the functioning of the unit. A bureau operates on opposite principle of inventing needs to justify its existence.) Bureaucracy is wrong as a cancer, a turning away from the human evolutionary direction of infinite potentials and differentiation and independent spontaneous action, to the complete parasitism of a virus."
-Williams S. Burroughs II
Be very wary of cancerous assholes.
"The end result of complete cellular representation is cancer. Democracy is cancerous, and bureaus are its cancer. A bureau takes root anywhere in the state, turns malignant like the Narcotic Bureau, and grows and grows, always reproducing more of its own kind, until it chokes the host if not controlled or excised. Bureaus cannot live without a host, being true parasitic organisms. (A cooperative on the other hand can live without the state. That is the road to follow. The building up of independent units to meet needs of the people who participate in the functioning of the unit. A bureau operates on opposite principle of inventing needs to justify its existence.) Bureaucracy is wrong as a cancer, a turning away from the human evolutionary direction of infinite potentials and differentiation and independent spontaneous action, to the complete parasitism of a virus."
-Williams S. Burroughs II
Thursday, October 2, 2008
kulturkampf 2.0
Recently a Norwegian television station did a short documentary about the trials and tribulations of an idealistic folk band hailing from the American heartland.
Part 1:
Part 2:
(Featuring a post-ironic karaoke rendition of a Manowar song on the highway of Tehran. Infinite LOLS @ universals)
Part 3:
Arthimoth @ My Space. The Nile worship is pretty pervasive.
Part 1:
Part 2:
(Featuring a post-ironic karaoke rendition of a Manowar song on the highway of Tehran. Infinite LOLS @ universals)
Part 3:
Arthimoth @ My Space. The Nile worship is pretty pervasive.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Russian Folk songs und French Oh La La//Can't compare with that German Om pah pah
Sadly there is no um-pah-pahing in this clever video about German modernization from synthpop musician Pal van Dyk.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Friday, September 19, 2008
Ancients Dreaming
Some observations:
1) Candlemass vocalist MESSIAH is a large man who looks fetching in a black robe.
2) His vocals compliment these post-Sabbath melodies very nicely.
1) Candlemass vocalist MESSIAH is a large man who looks fetching in a black robe.
2) His vocals compliment these post-Sabbath melodies very nicely.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Heavy Metal is way fascist
Happy Constitution Day!
Raise your fucking hands.
Fancy invoking the spirit of the old gods? Soon they will become your gods... as sure as the night follows the day. Don't forget to raise your hands.
Hail.
Raise your fucking hands.
Fancy invoking the spirit of the old gods? Soon they will become your gods... as sure as the night follows the day. Don't forget to raise your hands.
Hail.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
I Am Them
Emperor's archetypical "I Am the Black Wizards" set to a darker number from the film Fantasia. Wonderfully poignant.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Show no fear or anxiety
Just in case you found yourself without ready access to Slayer today (ultra patriotic edition):
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Beauty is fragile, and time eats at it
Or so imply Britain's trudging doom metal stalwarts My Dying Bride. The following single proved to be a more than worthy precursor to their excellent sophomore release Turn Loose the Swans. Try not to drown thyself in the melodrama.
Monday, September 8, 2008
Pop 'till you drop
A mighty catchy number from Portland's The Decemberists (coming to a college radio station near you). They sing about giant whales and shit... though NOT AT ALL LIKE IRON MAIDEN BECAUSE THEY DO IT IRONICALLY OK:
Tie him to a pole break his fingers to splinters.
Tie him to a pole break his fingers to splinters.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Drill, Baby, Drill!
Cats foot iron claw
Neuro-surgeons scream for more
At paranoia's poison door.
Twenty first century schizoid man.
Blood rack barbed wire
Polititians funeral pyre
Innocents raped with napalm fire
Twenty first century schizoid man.
Death seed blind man's greed
Poets starving children bleed
Nothing he's got he really needs
Twenty first century schizoid man.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
A mark, a yen, a buck or a pound
And now a word on international politics, about, y'know, what makes the world turn.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
They have a saying: Labor is a song of Joy and Happiness! (Everyday is Labor Day)
In the capitalist economy there are hundreds of billions of unemployed beggars living in squalor and slavery for the corporate capitalist profit of the Bush clique who steal pennies from poor ethnic minority black negro african children in a bid to make "Israel" richer with greed, thus creating a situation bordering on the brink which the imperialist always push. This is seen by the WHOLE WORLD as the criminal hell produced by capitalist hegemony.
But in the DPRK under the wise leadership of Dear Leader Comrade Generalissimo Kim Jong Il the peerlessly great brilliant commander of Songun, the Juche socialist revolution has made the socialist Motherland into the country where every comrade has a job, thus living the happy life of a song and joy of contributing to the building of the great socialist prosperous powerfull independant country into the Korean style.
Blessed are the people to live under the wise guidance of Comrade Kim Jong Il. MANSE!!!
But in the DPRK under the wise leadership of Dear Leader Comrade Generalissimo Kim Jong Il the peerlessly great brilliant commander of Songun, the Juche socialist revolution has made the socialist Motherland into the country where every comrade has a job, thus living the happy life of a song and joy of contributing to the building of the great socialist prosperous powerfull independant country into the Korean style.
Blessed are the people to live under the wise guidance of Comrade Kim Jong Il. MANSE!!!
Monday, September 1, 2008
Sometimes you just gotta get away
I hear the South East Asian slums are lovely this time of year. They've just got so much soul.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Can't stop the train; it must roll
It shall roll to find someone to take away these blues:
All the way 'till the new Armageddon. All in the Name of Tragedy:
All the while--playing for the high one, dicing with the devil.
Going with the flow, it's all a game to me:
For I am the one, Orgasmatron, the outstretched grasping hand
For my image is of agony, my servants rape the land
Obsequious and arrogant, clandestine and vain
Two thousand years of misery, of torture in my name
I march before a martyred world, an army for the fight
I speak of great heroic days, of victory and might
I hold a banner drenched in blood, I urge you to be brave
I lead you to your destiny, I lead you to your grave
Your bones will build my palaces, your eyes will stud my crown
For I am Mars, the god of war, and I will cut you down.
All the way 'till the new Armageddon. All in the Name of Tragedy:
All the while--playing for the high one, dicing with the devil.
Going with the flow, it's all a game to me:
For I am the one, Orgasmatron, the outstretched grasping hand
For my image is of agony, my servants rape the land
Obsequious and arrogant, clandestine and vain
Two thousand years of misery, of torture in my name
I march before a martyred world, an army for the fight
I speak of great heroic days, of victory and might
I hold a banner drenched in blood, I urge you to be brave
I lead you to your destiny, I lead you to your grave
Your bones will build my palaces, your eyes will stud my crown
For I am Mars, the god of war, and I will cut you down.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
There's no reason. I did it because it fun.
And now for a word on pranks, trolls, and social deviancy from the Black Pimp himself.
There are some things, however, that just cannot be done.
Moreover, it is important to never be rude or disrespectful. People really ought to keep this in their collective heads at all time.
There are some things, however, that just cannot be done.
Moreover, it is important to never be rude or disrespectful. People really ought to keep this in their collective heads at all time.
Friday, June 6, 2008
Happy (inter)national Day of Slayer
How to participate is posited succinctly at The National Day of Slayer HQ:
Slayer is a band from California. Their music has come to epitomize Satanic speed metal music in the latter half of the 20th century. Their 1986 album, "Reign in Blood" is one of the single most influential metal albums of all time, typified by the modern classic "Angel of Death".
Official Statement on Participation
Listen to Slayer at full blast in your car.
Listen to Slayer at full blast in your home.
Listen to Slayer at full blast at your place of employment.
Listen to Slayer at full blast in any public place you prefer.
DO NOT use headphones! The objective of this day is for everyone within earshot to understand that it is the National Day of Slayer. National holidays in America aren't just about celebrating; they're about forcing it upon non-participants.
Taking that participation to a problematic level
Stage a "Slay-out." Don't go to work. Listen to Slayer.
Have a huge block party that clogs up a street in your neighborhood. Blast Slayer albums all evening. Get police cruisers and helicopters on the scene. Finish with a full-scale riot.
Spray paint Slayer logos on churches, synagogues, or cemeteries.
Play Slayer covers with your own band (since 99% of your riffs are stolen from Slayer anyway).
Kill the neighbor's dog and blame it on Slayer.
Slayer is a band from California. Their music has come to epitomize Satanic speed metal music in the latter half of the 20th century. Their 1986 album, "Reign in Blood" is one of the single most influential metal albums of all time, typified by the modern classic "Angel of Death".
Official Statement on Participation
Listen to Slayer at full blast in your car.
Listen to Slayer at full blast in your home.
Listen to Slayer at full blast at your place of employment.
Listen to Slayer at full blast in any public place you prefer.
DO NOT use headphones! The objective of this day is for everyone within earshot to understand that it is the National Day of Slayer. National holidays in America aren't just about celebrating; they're about forcing it upon non-participants.
Taking that participation to a problematic level
Stage a "Slay-out." Don't go to work. Listen to Slayer.
Have a huge block party that clogs up a street in your neighborhood. Blast Slayer albums all evening. Get police cruisers and helicopters on the scene. Finish with a full-scale riot.
Spray paint Slayer logos on churches, synagogues, or cemeteries.
Play Slayer covers with your own band (since 99% of your riffs are stolen from Slayer anyway).
Kill the neighbor's dog and blame it on Slayer.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
MALLEUS MALEFICARUM, Maleficas, & earum hæresim, ut phramea potentissima conterens.
This is just awesome. The progressive element of the lead guitar paired with an old-school thrasher aesthetic results in a captivating sound that instills within me an undeniable sense of heroism in spite of modern life's futility.
"LOL."
Either way, Pestilence's "Consuming Impulse" is one of those albums I picked up in high school but haven't really started to appreciate until fairly recently. Forget about less-capable "Progressive" Death Metal stalwarts like Death (and here I would welcome your cheeky comments about the coincidental nomenclatures of the aforementioned band AND their respective genre of music), because this is some truly inspired/innovative death metal.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Click here if you want to see Tom Araya say "Slayer in a Muslim Country??"
Because this here video TOTALLY DELIVERS in this regard.
DEGREE OWNING HEAVY METAL ANTHROPOLOGIST Sam Dunn plunges into what looks like another fun documentary about metal [albeit most likely campy as hell]. His other film, Metal: A Headbanger's Journey (Its Youtube'd into ten 10-min segments) seemed to be a genuine defense of metal as an art form--buuuuuuut I hope the uninitiated take it with a healthy grain of salt.
Some fun interviews though--Dio is amazingly charming, as is Tony Iommi, and I think I have a crush on sociologist Dana Weinstein (I like the idea of coining metal as a transcendental sort of Sturm und Drag).
A few caveats from the top of my head include Alice Cooper (FOR SHIT'S SAKE SHUT UP), portraying Twisted Sister's Dee Snider as a HEAVY METAL SOCRATES, and the guy from Slipknot talking about how metal is "THE LAST BASTION OF UNABASHED MALE SEXUALITY."
(sigh)
Either way, I'm anxious to discover just what happens when "heavy metal goes global."
DEGREE OWNING HEAVY METAL ANTHROPOLOGIST Sam Dunn plunges into what looks like another fun documentary about metal [albeit most likely campy as hell]. His other film, Metal: A Headbanger's Journey (Its Youtube'd into ten 10-min segments) seemed to be a genuine defense of metal as an art form--buuuuuuut I hope the uninitiated take it with a healthy grain of salt.
Some fun interviews though--Dio is amazingly charming, as is Tony Iommi, and I think I have a crush on sociologist Dana Weinstein (I like the idea of coining metal as a transcendental sort of Sturm und Drag).
A few caveats from the top of my head include Alice Cooper (FOR SHIT'S SAKE SHUT UP), portraying Twisted Sister's Dee Snider as a HEAVY METAL SOCRATES, and the guy from Slipknot talking about how metal is "THE LAST BASTION OF UNABASHED MALE SEXUALITY."
(sigh)
Either way, I'm anxious to discover just what happens when "heavy metal goes global."
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
On a popular social networking site, I put "Slayer" under the "religious views" section
I'd like to interrupt this relatively long period of inactivity to bring to you the greatest thing ever committed to digital film.
(Especially from about 3:30-4:40)
(Especially from about 3:30-4:40)
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Don't Doubt the Dance.
I've always secretly dreamed of participating in a renegade dance troupe .
"123 Party! is a renegade dance troupe that essentially crashes parties. Their mission is to “start the party.” Their motto is “Don’t Doubt the Dance.” Whether it’s techno, rave, hip-hop, or even square dance, 123 Party! is dedicated to crash every party with an ultimate dose of 80s awesomeness. Why not hit up the Northeastern frat houses? Or maybe even the local American Legion Bingo Night? Supermarkets are a great venue, as well. The dance floors are endless for 123 Party!"
Are you ready to party?
"123 Party! is a renegade dance troupe that essentially crashes parties. Their mission is to “start the party.” Their motto is “Don’t Doubt the Dance.” Whether it’s techno, rave, hip-hop, or even square dance, 123 Party! is dedicated to crash every party with an ultimate dose of 80s awesomeness. Why not hit up the Northeastern frat houses? Or maybe even the local American Legion Bingo Night? Supermarkets are a great venue, as well. The dance floors are endless for 123 Party!"
Are you ready to party?
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Nothing is left; nothing is gained
Abusing the Earth, its coming apart.
New York Death Metal stalwarts Immolation will cruelly wrest you from your mundane, daily existence and fucking crush you. Had the pleasure of catching these guys back in February with the very excellent Texan (not to be messed with) group Averse Sefira, amongst others. While released last summer, their newest effort "Shadows in the Light" is still on constant rotation. Very complex, dissonant guitar riffing afoot; spot on vocals, all without ever loosing their trademark--and very listenable, groove.
Further, they are playing in a cave that is fully equipped with strobe lights in their latest video.
Youtube user "ChrisOnThisSite" writes: "immolations(sic) awesome but you have to admit the video is kinda cheesy cause there(sic) in a cave and stuff"
I however, do not feel obliged to admit this, and moreover feel that if you do not feel Immolated (that's a good thing) after watching said cave-laden strobe light video...
Well mister, you can just leave the hall.
New York Death Metal stalwarts Immolation will cruelly wrest you from your mundane, daily existence and fucking crush you. Had the pleasure of catching these guys back in February with the very excellent Texan (not to be messed with) group Averse Sefira, amongst others. While released last summer, their newest effort "Shadows in the Light" is still on constant rotation. Very complex, dissonant guitar riffing afoot; spot on vocals, all without ever loosing their trademark--and very listenable, groove.
Further, they are playing in a cave that is fully equipped with strobe lights in their latest video.
Youtube user "ChrisOnThisSite" writes: "immolations(sic) awesome but you have to admit the video is kinda cheesy cause there(sic) in a cave and stuff"
I however, do not feel obliged to admit this, and moreover feel that if you do not feel Immolated (that's a good thing) after watching said cave-laden strobe light video...
Well mister, you can just leave the hall.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Great moments in stage banter
Please welcome... Slayer!
"Patiently waiting... all night! Patience, they say--they say, patience is a virtue, and that good things come to those that wait. Thank you for waiting so patiently!"
"Where've you guys been all night, maaan? You've been Tiiired, that's what! You've been in this place too fucking looong! All this music is just mushing your Braaaaaaaaaains! Now I have to admit its a nice welcome to come back to NEW YoooooorK! I thank you for coming toniiight; (YEAAAAH!) I thank ALL the beautiful people. And you know who you are--RIGHT (YEAAH!)? The people that're down in the furnace, burnin' their fuckin liiiiiiiiiives (Yeaaaaah!)! Sweating so they can just mop 'em off the floor, HUH. But those are the chance you take in life; not many you have one chance--one sacrifice you must make! Oooh I take it you've heard this before? Its a song of the Raining...Blood... Recorrrrrrrd. Its one that everyone seems to abide byyyy. Let it be--the Altar of Sacrifice!"
This has been a great moment in stage banter. Musicians: I hope you are taking notes.
"Patiently waiting... all night! Patience, they say--they say, patience is a virtue, and that good things come to those that wait. Thank you for waiting so patiently!"
"Where've you guys been all night, maaan? You've been Tiiired, that's what! You've been in this place too fucking looong! All this music is just mushing your Braaaaaaaaaains! Now I have to admit its a nice welcome to come back to NEW YoooooorK! I thank you for coming toniiight; (YEAAAAH!) I thank ALL the beautiful people. And you know who you are--RIGHT (YEAAH!)? The people that're down in the furnace, burnin' their fuckin liiiiiiiiiives (Yeaaaaah!)! Sweating so they can just mop 'em off the floor, HUH. But those are the chance you take in life; not many you have one chance--one sacrifice you must make! Oooh I take it you've heard this before? Its a song of the Raining...Blood... Recorrrrrrrd. Its one that everyone seems to abide byyyy. Let it be--the Altar of Sacrifice!"
This has been a great moment in stage banter. Musicians: I hope you are taking notes.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Garfield and Modernity's Emptiness
Garfield would have you believe that Mondays are about as appealing as going garage sailing for used syringes. The following is almost as effective as a heroic dose of narcotics to dull your pain:
"Who would have guessed that when you remove Garfield from the Garfield comic strips, the result is an even better comic about schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, and the empty desperation of modern life? Friends, meet Jon Arbuckle. Let’s laugh and learn with him on a journey deep into the tortured mind of an isolated young everyman as he fights a losing battle against loneliness in a quiet American suburb."
That's right: Garfield Minus Garfield
My current favorite:
Addendum: Garfield is also funny if you simply remove is thought bubbles. Here is something delightfully non-sequitur taken from some dark corner of the Internet:
"Who would have guessed that when you remove Garfield from the Garfield comic strips, the result is an even better comic about schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, and the empty desperation of modern life? Friends, meet Jon Arbuckle. Let’s laugh and learn with him on a journey deep into the tortured mind of an isolated young everyman as he fights a losing battle against loneliness in a quiet American suburb."
That's right: Garfield Minus Garfield
My current favorite:
Addendum: Garfield is also funny if you simply remove is thought bubbles. Here is something delightfully non-sequitur taken from some dark corner of the Internet:
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Case jacked in.
Speaking of William Gibson, please enjoy this excerpt from his lesser-known masterpiece Kickballmmancer, written during his early, formative years.
Kickballmancer
William Gibson, age 12
The sky over the playground was the color of a television, tuned to a dead channel. "It's not like I'm using," Case heard someone say as he shouldered his way past the line around the ladder of the slide. "It's just that my body has developed this massive candy deficiency." It was a 6th grader voice and a 6th grader joke.
Case was 12. At 11 he had been a kickball cowboy, one of the best in the school. He'd been trained by the best, by McCoy Bally and Bobby Kicks, the best in the biz. Diving in and out of the kickball court, wining kickball games for trading cards. But then he'd made the classic mistake, something he'd sworn he'd never do. He threw a game.
They had found him, of course, and made sure he'd never play again. For 12 hours he had hallucinated in a darkened classroom while his body developed shinsplints.
The damage was minute, subtle, and ruthlessly effective. He'd never play kickball again.
He glanced down at the action figure he had been hired to fence. It smelled of long-chain polymers.
Classic! Taken from Something Awful.com
(History fanatics should also take note of the School Code of Conduct by a young Sun Tzu on page 3.):
When in line for the swings, stand to the side of both.
If the swing is in use, dare the enemy to jump.
If you find yourself on the swing, make sure to look for another place to play when you jump.
So much for swings.
When the milk and nap are required, sleep away from the one who smells. Milk will make him worse.
If one will knock down your blocks, you are to throw mud at him.
If one will throw mud at you, you will kick him in the shins.
If you are kicked in the shins you will kick back.
The kicking shall continue until one cries.
When the class is tired, you have occasion to secure the red crayon.
Kickballmancer
William Gibson, age 12
The sky over the playground was the color of a television, tuned to a dead channel. "It's not like I'm using," Case heard someone say as he shouldered his way past the line around the ladder of the slide. "It's just that my body has developed this massive candy deficiency." It was a 6th grader voice and a 6th grader joke.
Case was 12. At 11 he had been a kickball cowboy, one of the best in the school. He'd been trained by the best, by McCoy Bally and Bobby Kicks, the best in the biz. Diving in and out of the kickball court, wining kickball games for trading cards. But then he'd made the classic mistake, something he'd sworn he'd never do. He threw a game.
They had found him, of course, and made sure he'd never play again. For 12 hours he had hallucinated in a darkened classroom while his body developed shinsplints.
The damage was minute, subtle, and ruthlessly effective. He'd never play kickball again.
He glanced down at the action figure he had been hired to fence. It smelled of long-chain polymers.
Classic! Taken from Something Awful.com
(History fanatics should also take note of the School Code of Conduct by a young Sun Tzu on page 3.):
When in line for the swings, stand to the side of both.
If the swing is in use, dare the enemy to jump.
If you find yourself on the swing, make sure to look for another place to play when you jump.
So much for swings.
When the milk and nap are required, sleep away from the one who smells. Milk will make him worse.
If one will knock down your blocks, you are to throw mud at him.
If one will throw mud at you, you will kick him in the shins.
If you are kicked in the shins you will kick back.
The kicking shall continue until one cries.
When the class is tired, you have occasion to secure the red crayon.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Soundtrack to the Dystopia
Highly influential electronic music innovators that looped complex melodies over simple, monotonous percussion. Kind of like the musical narration of a William Gibson novel.
Danke Deutschland.
Kraftwerk-Showroom Dummies (Trans-Europa Express)
We are standing here
Exposing ourselves
We are showroom dummies
We are showroom dummies
We're being watched
and we feel our pulse
We are showroom dummies
We are showroom dummies
We look around
and change our pose
We are showroom dummies
We are showroom dummies
We start to move
And we break the glass
We are showroom dummies
We are showroom dummies
We step out
And take a walk through the city
We are showroom dummies
We are showroom dummies
We go into a club
And there we start to dance
We are showroom dummies
We are showroom dummies
Danke Deutschland.
Kraftwerk-Showroom Dummies (Trans-Europa Express)
We are standing here
Exposing ourselves
We are showroom dummies
We are showroom dummies
We're being watched
and we feel our pulse
We are showroom dummies
We are showroom dummies
We look around
and change our pose
We are showroom dummies
We are showroom dummies
We start to move
And we break the glass
We are showroom dummies
We are showroom dummies
We step out
And take a walk through the city
We are showroom dummies
We are showroom dummies
We go into a club
And there we start to dance
We are showroom dummies
We are showroom dummies
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Olympic Flames and Hand Grenades
Stand down, Keith.
Into that darkness
Into that darkness
Like jackals howling
Like flowers unfolding
Into that darkness
Into that darkness
The banners in tatters
The virgin is blessed
Into that darkness
Into that darkness
As if seeking there
Hope's bloody prey
The dead dog sinking
turning and turning
She said destroy
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Death_in_June
http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendID=63564056
www.deathinjune.net
Sunday, February 24, 2008
When its cold; and when its dark--
The Freezing Moon can obsess you.
I was surprised to find that ex-vocalist (actually, chronologically speaking the third, I believe) vocalist Attila Csihar returned to the Mayhem fold after giving original ex-ex-vocalist(who was it, Maniac? The beer-belly mullet guy. Did ANYBODY like him?) the boot.
I was even more surprised that to discover that, man, I really did enjoy their newest effort, "Ordo Ad Chao," which is Latin for "A Solid Foundation." Although far from toppling their '92 masterpiece, "De Mysteriis Dom Sathanas" which is Latin for "Satan's Magical Mystery Tour," Ordo Ad Chao is a SIGNIFICANT improvement over anything that they've done since then. Firstly, the production is excellent. While probably an expensive undertaking, its intentionally sabotaged sound (a cliché by now, but it works in this case) produces that eerie, dissonant aesthetic that makes this post-92 album really stand out. To paraphrase drummer Hellhammer: "its necro as fuck."
Additionally, part of the necrotizing process involved untriggering the drums, which further helps create a more organic sound which is so important in creating a good black metal album. (A note on triggering: people are often quick to discredit its use in any case, arguing that its cheating on the drummers part. Drum triggers are sensors that produce a pre-programmed tone that allow the drummer to play as fast as possible without having to worry about the noise of one part of the drum drowning out the other. It seems pretty necessary for blast-aholic bands like Nile or Cryptopsy to employ them: however I think Mr. (Hell)Hammer made the right choice in doing away with them).
Of course, what really made the album was the reintroduction of Attila--who was only supposed to be a session vocalist following the death of semi-original ex-vocalist Dead. A prolific gent, Attila even worked with psychedelic folk musician David Tibet of Current 93 fame.
http://brainwashed.com/c93/
http://www.myspace.com/davidtibet
(I'm loving the juxtaposition under the "musician's Tibet has worked with" heading on his webpages by the way. Some guy from Neil Diamond--and Attila. Nyuck.)
In any case, you can judge for yourself. The following from a show in Nottingham a few days ago:
I was surprised to find that ex-vocalist (actually, chronologically speaking the third, I believe) vocalist Attila Csihar returned to the Mayhem fold after giving original ex-ex-vocalist(who was it, Maniac? The beer-belly mullet guy. Did ANYBODY like him?) the boot.
I was even more surprised that to discover that, man, I really did enjoy their newest effort, "Ordo Ad Chao," which is Latin for "A Solid Foundation." Although far from toppling their '92 masterpiece, "De Mysteriis Dom Sathanas" which is Latin for "Satan's Magical Mystery Tour," Ordo Ad Chao is a SIGNIFICANT improvement over anything that they've done since then. Firstly, the production is excellent. While probably an expensive undertaking, its intentionally sabotaged sound (a cliché by now, but it works in this case) produces that eerie, dissonant aesthetic that makes this post-92 album really stand out. To paraphrase drummer Hellhammer: "its necro as fuck."
Additionally, part of the necrotizing process involved untriggering the drums, which further helps create a more organic sound which is so important in creating a good black metal album. (A note on triggering: people are often quick to discredit its use in any case, arguing that its cheating on the drummers part. Drum triggers are sensors that produce a pre-programmed tone that allow the drummer to play as fast as possible without having to worry about the noise of one part of the drum drowning out the other. It seems pretty necessary for blast-aholic bands like Nile or Cryptopsy to employ them: however I think Mr. (Hell)Hammer made the right choice in doing away with them).
Of course, what really made the album was the reintroduction of Attila--who was only supposed to be a session vocalist following the death of semi-original ex-vocalist Dead. A prolific gent, Attila even worked with psychedelic folk musician David Tibet of Current 93 fame.
http://brainwashed.com/c93/
http://www.myspace.com/davidtibet
(I'm loving the juxtaposition under the "musician's Tibet has worked with" heading on his webpages by the way. Some guy from Neil Diamond--and Attila. Nyuck.)
In any case, you can judge for yourself. The following from a show in Nottingham a few days ago:
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
More reasons why I wish I ascended to young adulthood during cultural apex of the early 90's (part 2)
Sub-Title: Older television personalities not quite "getting it."
Behold: GWAR
Behold: GWAR
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Nyuk Nyuk Ny-*click*
https://secure.adbusters.org/orders/tvbgone/
"TV-B-Gone™ universal remote control turns off virtually any television! It's the ultimate jammer tool for reclaiming public space. It works at airports, bars, offices... any place that needs a break from the idiot box. Clarity of mind, one click at a time. "
Has potential, although I would be upset if someone TV-B-Gone'd me while watching what may be the greatest (and most awkward-cum-bizarre ) moments in public access television:
Man, Glen Benton was awesome when he was all evil n' shit. Now he got fat, writes laughable music and apparently is often seen wearing those ubiquitous "One tequila, two tequila, three tequila FLOOR" t-shirts popularized by the aging "fat n' sleezy" demographic (although I can only empirically attest to the first to points). That doesn't, of course, nullify the fact that the first two Deicide albums were both groundbreaking and brilliant in terms of innovation, musicianmanship (sic?) and vision. Yeah--I said it: brilliant and visionary, which is why those albums will still be significant and listenable in the next 10, 20, 30 years. Actually, listening to the classics of the Florida scene are striking insofar as they do not feel dated or old in any way. If you didn't know the history behind the "Legion's" and "Altars if Madness'" of the world, you would have no idea that they were released almost 2 decades ago.
Can you say the same thing about "Nevermind?"
"TV-B-Gone™ universal remote control turns off virtually any television! It's the ultimate jammer tool for reclaiming public space. It works at airports, bars, offices... any place that needs a break from the idiot box. Clarity of mind, one click at a time. "
Has potential, although I would be upset if someone TV-B-Gone'd me while watching what may be the greatest (and most awkward-cum-bizarre ) moments in public access television:
Man, Glen Benton was awesome when he was all evil n' shit. Now he got fat, writes laughable music and apparently is often seen wearing those ubiquitous "One tequila, two tequila, three tequila FLOOR" t-shirts popularized by the aging "fat n' sleezy" demographic (although I can only empirically attest to the first to points). That doesn't, of course, nullify the fact that the first two Deicide albums were both groundbreaking and brilliant in terms of innovation, musicianmanship (sic?) and vision. Yeah--I said it: brilliant and visionary, which is why those albums will still be significant and listenable in the next 10, 20, 30 years. Actually, listening to the classics of the Florida scene are striking insofar as they do not feel dated or old in any way. If you didn't know the history behind the "Legion's" and "Altars if Madness'" of the world, you would have no idea that they were released almost 2 decades ago.
Can you say the same thing about "Nevermind?"
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
Asatru on the Western Plains
Inmate says he needs Thor's Hammer, drum in Salt Lake City
Somehow, I get the impression that he's just being very difficult. Naturally, this article is simply clever subterfuge for posting this picture (courtesy of Los Internets):
That's the stuff.
Somehow, I get the impression that he's just being very difficult. Naturally, this article is simply clever subterfuge for posting this picture (courtesy of Los Internets):
That's the stuff.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)