A Farewell

From the world's biggest drinker! *fistpumps*

Dude has to be wasted, here.

Douchebag of the year

Proud2beMinnesotan:
(From the often enjoyable GIN AND TACOS DOT COM)

It was a banner year for assholes. It would take one gigantic cocksucker to claw his or her way over the likes of Hank Paulson, Liddy Dole, Ted Stevens, Rod Blagojevich, “Hot Karl” Rove, Joe the Plumber, both Clintons, and more political strategists, campaign managers, and pundits than we can count. Is there any person out there who feels able to answer the call, to remove the Excalibur Dildo from the stone and become its master?

The chair recognizes the Senator from Minnesota.

Norm Coleman spent 2008 with his hands wrapped around Dignity’s throat, eventually forcing its head underwater until the bubbles stopped rising. For a man who once lost a gubernatorial race to the pro wrestler who carried the minigun in Predator, it is practically inconceivable that he could go downhill from there. Like a 16th Century explorer, Coleman decided that the only way to find out if an elected official’s career could get any worse was to provision some wooden ships, crew them with a few hundred stout men, and set sail for the edge of the map.

Coleman, widely recognized to be one of the most humorless puds on the planet (and one who looks strangely like the offspring of John Kerry and a yardstick), decided that the way to compete with comedian and former SNL writer Al Franken was to out-funny him with cute campaign ads. Rather than striking a serious tone to make Franken look like an amateurish joke candidate, Coleman managed to make himself look like the amateur. In a thousand years scientists may understand how a United States Senator managed to look rinky-dink in a race against a smug comedian, but for the moment we remain baffled.

Among his many ads attempting to be funny, the pièce de résistance of Coleman’s idiocy was one entitled “Why Not?” The ad features three actors playing dipshit slobs in bowling shirts (you know, the condescending caricature of how six-figure DC political consultants see “average voters”) discussing Franken’s many failings in a ridiculously affected and overdone “Superfans” accent. That’s how we dress and how we talk! The commercial ends with the alpha-Grabowski suggesting that they run for Senate themselves…why not? They’re just as qualified as Franken!!! It’s not the most offensive ad you’ll ever see, but it sets a new mark for inanity which may not soon be equalled.

Coleman’s campaign is perfectly represented in his ads, a mixture of mouth-frothing attacks and attempts at humor which appear to have been conceived, approved, and executed by a council of stroke patients. One commercial break might feature “Angry Al“, painting Franken as an unstable, profane lunatic while the next break would bring the cloying Leave it to Beaver comedy of “Got It,” which may be the first ad to close with an image of the candidate hunching over a garbage can. In a remarkable synthesis of the two styles, Coleman sunk to new depths in “Excuses“, in which an 8 year-old girl clutching a teddy bear hurls insults at Franken before closing with a “My dog ate it” joke. A sampling of Coleman’s advertisements leave open the very serious question of whether or not he has ever met another human being.

Running the kind of campaign that makes Americans hate politics so goddamn much, one that simultaneously insults their intelligence and bombards them with vile rhetoric, is nothing new. It’s certainly not enough to win a nondescript political figure the CotY. However, what Coleman did after Election Day elevated him from mere ass clown to the rarefied air of the legitimate cocksucker.

Let’s say you play a basketball game and at the end of four quarters the score is tied. Do we play overtime or does one team simply demand that the other concede defeat? If you’re Norm Coleman, and perhaps only if you’re Norm Coleman, the latter is the correct choice. Faced with an almost incomprehensibly close outcome on Election Eve, Coleman simply declared victory even though Minnesota law mandates an automatic recount in the unlikely event of a race this close. He indignantly demanded that his opponent waive “his right” to a recount to - get this - to save the taxpayers the cost of re-counting the ballots. Those fiscal conservatives! Note well that it isn’t the candidate’s “right” that produces recounts; it’s the voters’ right and the state’s right and responsibility to make sure that we figure out who actually won the goddamn election. Semantics, of course.

Once the recount got underway Coleman really reached into his bag of Asshole, instantly transforming from a nondescript, robotic putz into the incarnation of Nixonian paranoia coupled with right-wing Talk Radio fury. When Franken gained votes in the recount Coleman’s leeches helpfully noted that it was producing “improbable shifts that are overwhelmingly accruing to the benefit of Al Franken.” The Secretary of State is a Democrat, proving indisputably and for all time that the process is overwhelmingly slanted to Franken’s benefit. Campaign lawyer and professional jagoff Fritz Knaak knoted that the integrity of the process had been “breached” and that “the supercharged environment we’re in leads us to suspect everything.” Nixon would be proud. Knaak and Coleman concocted one baseless charge after another, including the infamous “ballots in the car” story that led Bill O’Reilly to confidently claim “the fix is in” long after Knaak, Coleman, and Gov. Pawlenty admitted that it was not true.

Like all people who go too far in politics, Coleman’s party eventually turned on him. Gov. Pawlenty took to the talk shows defending the integrity of the recount and rebuking Coleman for “throwing gasoline on the fire” of the Talk Radio histrionics. One of Minnesota’s most prominent right-leaning newspapers editorialized: "It’s hard to believe we’re writing this, but it’s clear that Franken - known for his over-the-top humor and partisan antics - is the one acting with class in this serious situation. Voters, indeed, deserve to know the outcome of a recount. It’s not up to those who may or may not be the winner."

With Franken in the lead Coleman did exactly as we would expect by taking his fight to court. While the merits of his legal argument are outside of my jurisdiction, the fact remains that the courts’ rulings in Coleman’s favor have not put him back in the lead. He will continue to drag the race out into 2009, making it likely that Congress will be sworn in before the outcome is known in Minnesota.

What a year, Norm. What? There’s MORE? Yeah, apparently this fucker is as corrupt as a cheap hard drive.

CREW named him one of the most corrupt men in Congress after it was revealed that he lived rent-free in Washington on the tab of a Republican consultant who has been paid almost $2 million from Coleman’s PAC and, in a completely unrelated hiring decision, who hired Coleman’s wife as a “consultant” to the tune of $101,000. Not salacious enough for you? Well, now the FBI is on Coleman like glue over allegations and hard evidence that an Iranian millionaire (I’m not making this up) from Bloomington, MN named Nasser Kazeminy used an offshore oil drilling company called Deep Marine Technology to funnel $75,000 to Coleman through Hays Insurance, a company whose employees consist of…Coleman’s wife (who, I shit you not, invented and markets something called the “Blo & Go“). The Deep Marine CEO and shareholders blew the whistle, telling the FBI that no insurance or services were rendered by Hays. Coincidentally, and much to the delight of the wealthy investor behind a drilling company called Deep Marine Technology, Coleman introduced a bill in the Senate on June 12 calling for more offshore drilling in US waters.

Norm Coleman, holy shit. You are one enormous cocksucker. You managed to excel at being lame, condescending, dirty, hysterical, paranoid, and crooked all in the span of a few months. Most people (Blagojevich for example) can only handle one at a time. And Norm, if you think that I am about to make a joke based on the phrase “handle more than one at a time” in an essay about how much wang you suck, well, unlike your campaign ads I tend to work a bit harder than that for comedy. Congratulations, 2008 CotY Norm Coleman. May your trip home from Washington and, eventually, into Federal prison be a smooth one.

(snip)

No seriously, Republicans, nominate a conservationist+isolationist who favors a decentralized, demilitarized federal government and I'll vote for that guy in a heartbeat. Coleman in no way deviates from the typical flags n' fetuses dumb-fuckery, wherein the world is policed (ironically following the proud traditions of the Democrats) by an increasingly mercenarized armed forces who create black holes in our wallets and literal holes in imploded, malformed skulls of hundreds of thousands of Communists!!11 Latin America and/or Terrists!!11 in the Middle East (most people we bomb are/or at least were originally nationalists who didn't care to participate in some shitty US-driven global culture.)

But, yea. Minnesotan senators.

(I almost always vote third party, but really, unironically fuck that Dean "hurr... I'm a straight shooter" Barkley guy, and fuck him hard. He can find another privatized prison complex to lobby for during the next four years, so I'm sure he'll be OK!)

Franken gon' win. And he'll just follow the democratic party line across the board. Which will be very... whatever. His probable victory's not spearheaded by mass voting fraud or a hard turn towards liberal-bourgeois values *shrudder*, but what is hopefully a semi-tangible repudiation of the aforementioned.

I used to see the guy on my old college campus on a surprisingly frequent basis (OK, twice) when he was campaigning. It was a small school, and I would often be on foot running errands for professors whom I TA'd for during odd times when most students were in class. I'd be schlepping some crap around, and probably looking like crap as well, and it would be eerily isolated outside.

A casually well dressed man in the distance. Faculty maybe? No. I'd recognize a member of the faculty. A shortish guy, taking stubby, measured steps. Oh... that hair. Kind of a tamed Jew-fro. I can dig it. Yeah, dude looks like he's killing some time. Checking out the buildings. Having himself a Diet Coke. Probably a visitor--a dad?

Oh man. That was today. He's on campus. Its Franken. Yeah, its gotta be Franken. Hahahaha, just walking along. Zip up jacket to efface pentagram on t-shirt? Nah. He's good enough and smart enough ect. ect. ect. I usually at least smile a drop a friendly, Minnesotan-esque "howdy" to folks I don't know. What do I say to SNL' s own Stuart Smalley? Eye contact range. Its clearly a good idea to affect some overcompensatory smile on my face. I just feel like it is. Approaching salutation range. What's a good thing to say in this situation? Bear your grin man! Bear it! You can almost touch him now. There's nobody around. Just you, and Al Franken. Break the silence.

"WHY HELLO THERE, MR. AL FRANKEN!"

Keep walking. Keep walking, and keep it very casual.

Yes. Casual.

He lowers his eyes to look under his glasses. Gives a half-smile, and does that "sup" thing where you raise one eyebrow (I could never do that).

When night falls
she cloaks the world
in impenetrable darkness.
A chill rises
from the soil
and contaminates the air
suddenly...
life has new meaning.

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?

¡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...)

Click for big. It's imperative that you do so.

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.

"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.

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.

Don't blame me

I voted for the Lizard People.



"Raise the current, clear the stream/herald the sound of the
serpent dreams"

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!!

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!

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.

“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.

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?

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

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.

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.

Only death is real

File this one under "couldn't resist."

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.

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.