Armageddon Week!? I’m Scared Shitless!!!

So I see that the History Channel has been cranking up the juice with the pre-apocalyptic hysteria. Look, I’m a hardcore History Channel fan, so I’m a little bit disgusted with the way that this presumably dignified educational broadcasting outfit has used low-brow sensationalism to plug a 5 day long primetime paranoia-fest called Armageddon Week! It’s awfully nice of them to have taken the time to put together stock footage of buildings crumbling, volcanoes erupting, earthquakes, comets, gratuitous holocaust scenes from Nazi Germany, human death, starvation and nuclear explosions into one over the top montage; and all set to that snazzy pre-packaged title… Armageddon Week! So, it’s fucking Armageddon Week, huh?! Geez! What the fuck did they do, get Samuel L. Bronkowitz to produce the promo trailer?

I embedded this video in case you don't get the Bronkowitz reference, because frankly it'd be a fucking shame if you didn't:

Meanwhile, the entire globe seems to be in ‘business as usual’ mode and really nobody seems to pay any mind that we are less than one year away from impending doom. Well, nobody but the survivalists that is. For years they’ve been stockpiling k-rations and live ammo rounds for the big pop-off.

Out of sight, out of mind... That’s a good way to deal with it. Try to ignore it. Just let it be. And hopefully, if lady luck wants to throw you a mercy hand-job then you will be among the initial mega-deaths (a unit of measure) when the dead star breaches our atmosphere, sparing you from the post-apocalyptic hardships to befall mankind. Make sure to reserve your spot in a mass grave now, I hear they’re going fast! Shit, I reserved myself an ocean view, baby! The joke’s on me actually, because after 12/21/2012 the whole fucking earth is going to have an ocean view!

Listen, I’ve made my peace with the inevitability of the planets devastation and humanity’s demise. And how is it that I have reached this high and enlightened state of nihilist nirvana? Two thoughts if I may…

1)            Most importantly, because we fucking deserve it! Really... a great job our species has done of respecting the basic laws of nature. The levee is about to break, boys and girls. The time to pay the price for our Mother’s disgrace is nigh!

2)            I’m pretty satisfied with my life in its current incarnation of the past 5 years. I am probably one of the most miserable pricks you will ever meet, so if I can sit here and honestly say that I am damn well happy with the current state of Pig Latin’s internal affairs, then why not end it all on a fucking high note, right? I have had many ribald, book-worthy adventures in my ‘eye’s blink of a lifetime’ involving (but not limited to): Sex, Drugs, Rock and Roll, Vandalism, Larceny, Rebellion, Black Magic, Perversion, etc… So my philosophy is: “Fuck It! I guess if this year truly brings us the end of days then I’ve got nothing to cry about. I’m ready to die like Biggie, bitches!”

And the afterthought to those two points is this…  I have nothing but contempt for mankind. I mean, can you fucking blame me? We are vile. We are a wretched cancer let loose upon Gaia... that which is about to be removed. Homo-Sapiens are way out of vogue anyways! 

My advice to my loyal devotees is to get it all out of your system between now and 12/21/2012, because just in case those kooky human-sacrificing Mayan priests were right, then we may be in waiting to be reduced to ash and bone fragments when the cosmic shit hits the universal fan. I would start compiling those “things to do” lists post-haste. All of you straight edge record collectors might want to jot down “Losing my virginity” as the first and most important item on that list. Ladies, now’s as good a time as any to engage in some experimental Lesbo frolicking. You know you want to, so just run with it... get Sapphic with it baby! Can I watch?

All of you misanthropes and ne’er-do-wells, you know what time it is!

Red Alert! Red Alert!

Hear the clarion call in the form of a heavily distorted A-tuned riff, calling you all to arms. Visions of running amok have rioted through your head, so now is the time… Arise, my children, the time has come for you to all go berserk before becoming human flotsam and jetsam.

Hey, here’s a thought… Wouldn’t it be a stone gas if all of us socially marginalized misfit types were to get together and start total fucking mayhem! Yea, that’d be great, a chance to create some real honest to goodness old time anarchy before our planet becomes a galactic piñata. Just a thought! I’m pretty sure it won’t happen, so all of you rich W.A.S.P.s have nothing to worry about. If this was the Reagan era, I might be a little nervous about a bunch of angry disenfranchised punkers and long-hairs all amped up on Black Beauties, tearing through city streets. But lucky for you upper-crust oppressors, counter-culture rage has been made mall-friendly by the silicone age (which refers to technology and not big tits). In today’s pop-culture terms, that means that REBELLION HAS BEEN AUTO-TUNED! Rebellion is no longer a contact sport. Any overweight, sexually inactive pseudo-intellectual nerd with internet access can blog his rage away till his fingers are as blue as his balls! 

 Again, don’t worry America, modern teenagers are too stupid, fat and complacent to go out and do some good old fashioned “Fucking Shit Up.” They’ll just latch onto the nearest OCCUPY protest, not for activism purposes, but to try and be seen in their raggedy SUBHUMANS t-shirt by someone they know to gain punk cred… and to try and catch Herpes from a FOOD NOT BOMBS broad.

And by the way, pardon the segue, but am I the only one who is starting to see a possible correlation between the prophetic suggestion of our 2012 expiration date and the fact that it happens to fall on an election year, with a number of ding-bat Republican presidential candidates falling in and out of the running, each crazier than the next, waiting to take the reins. There is a chance for the democrats to keep power, but I always get nervous around election time no matter what the fucking Gallup poll says. I’ve said it before that I’m hardline Center but voting for the Dems is the lesser of the greatest evil. I don’t know how good Obama’s re-election chances are, so again, I’m nervous. I’m not saying that I am personally displeased with President Obama. Shit, I like him, he’s a cool motherfucker. And besides, after being ruled by Curious George for two seemingly eternal terms, how could you not like B-Rack. What scares me most is that the inherent racism of the AmeriKKKan majority will create a deeper quasi-Freudian displeasure with having a “Soul Brother” running this country, hence tipping the scales unfavorably. Oh man, can you imagine that fucking nut-job Michelle Bachmann (who’s crazier than a shit house rat) making it to this year’s big showdown, winning, and having access to the “Nuke” codes! That’s almost as terrifying a thought as the fact that she could have actually won! So could have Sarah “I shoot defenseless wolves from a hovering helicopter” Palin, also a very scary reality… I know that neither of the two is still relevant, but they were at some point… and that, my Droogs, is fucking petrifying. I think I want to move to Canada… like right fucking NOW!

Well, the shadow of Nibiru draws nigh, as does the threat of a new Republican uber-Regime. I think that the nearing reality of our cosmic annihilation is a preferable outcome to having another Republican shit-head in office!  I contend that the two may even be inter-related. So as the Death Star comes crashing through the universe on its imminent collision course with Earth, completing its oblong 3,600 year orbit around our Sun, I leave you with this tidbit for thought…

Lightning round! Ding Ding Ding

Fuck, Marry, Kill: Bachmann, Palin, Coulter

Discuss amongst yourselves…

Ian Mackaye is an idiot!

What a self serving tool!

Regardless of the fact that MINOR THREAT was one of my very first pieces of hardcore bread and butter, and ignoring that FUGAZI is still to this day one of my favorite bands, the truths are self evident...
Ian is a pompous, arrogant, self serving douche. He is so not over himself! It’s amazing to me how hardcore has been the catalyst for nerds to grasp on to a pseudo-celebrity status. The DC punk scene could not have nominated a better figurehead to converge under. He bares all the qualities reminiscent of that musical community. I generally think that DC was the breeding ground of snobbish political correctness within Punk. The so-called "Georgetown Punks" probably cast the template for future PC thugs to come, such as anyone in a CRASS t-shirt that has ever begged for a dollar on Gilman Street in Berkely. The only difference, of course, is that Ian and his contemporaries never pan-handled.... they had allowances!


I guess that egg-head superiority is the usual Modus Operandi of any music scene populated by well-to-do suburbanites from fine arts private schools; most of which were the privileged offspring of politicians, journalists and faculty of the countries administration. A hardcore scene built from suburban soft-core kids.

Wow, I just deciphered a correlation here. If you think about it, the straight edge movement drank it’s Similac from the baby bottles of the bourgeoisie? Whoa, that’s some INSIDE EDITION shit right there. Look at me becoming an investigative reporter, I’m getting teary!

This prick is so politically correct that he makes Janeane Garofolo look like Anne Coulter. Asides from that, this guy has been known to stop shows if people start going off, or “moshing” if you will (though I’d rather you didn’t) during FUGAZI sets. What an ass-face!

Hey pecker-head, I paid my cover charge to see you, that makes you my employee, so just shut the fuck up and play the tunes so I can punch a couple of my friends in the face and have a good time, dig? Get over yourself guy!

Doing Mushrooms is Black Metal as Fuck!

No, seriously. Here is a quick little anthropology lesson to those of you who could care less…

The Vikings of Scandinavia were partakers of the Fly Agaric, a species of hallucinogenic mushrooms. It has been determined by anthropologists that they would eat the funky fungi prior to their  campaigns because the psychoactive effects of the Psilocybin variant particular to these mushrooms would whip them up into a killing, raping and pillaging frenzy…

In fact, the term ’berserk’ actually derives from the Vikings' blood thirsty psychedelic drug rage. Berserk is actually a Nordic compound word. ‘Ber’ means bear and ‘Serk’ means skin. The bear skin obviously refers to the typical garment associated with the Vikings. Clearly our modern day use of this term stems from the people of pagan lore, who associated the destruction wrought by those lovable horned-helmet rascals with their snazzy couture! Still think I’m making it up? OK, check out DRUGS, SOCIETY AND HUMAN BEHAVIOR by Oakley S. Ray, Ph D., and then come back to me so I can split you in two with my battle axe while wearing a ber serk and listening to Jefferson Airplane’s “White Rabbit.”

presents:

Christian High School Sluts in Heat gone Berserk

Part 1 in a series.

I’ve got some news for all you idiot parents out there in the so-called real world. If your teenager is becoming a problem child and you think that the deterrent solution is to throw their asses into private (religious) school because you think it’s a better environment- YOU’RE DEAD ASS WRONG! Let me be the one to tell you from firsthand account that private school is PUNK ROCK AS FUCK! The reality is that since most parents have the same misconception, private schools get packed to the rafters with kids on the verge of total moral decay. Once you’ve put them all together under one roof, what you’ve got is a summit of aspiring juvenile delinquents who have come together to share their expertise with one another; ultimately creating a new super breed of Children in Heat.

This was the case, at least in my experience, when I got sent to my de-programming stint at Miami’s own breeding ground for uber-degenerates, Florida Christian School.

It was right around the time that I was in the eighth grade when my mother discovered what the initials “F.T.W.” that she saw scribbled in fountain pen ink on my arms meant. That’s probably what made her ship my ass to see a shrink, who incidentally was a real fucking cunt. She violated my doctor/patient confidentiality and told my mother everything that I had vented on the famous headshrinker couch. She gave her every last detail, including suicide attempts and even where I stashed my cassette tapes. Oh, I forgot to mention that I used to have to hide all of my cassette tapes and metal t-shirts from the old girl because she was so fucking brainwashed by the Christian church that if she found any type of Rock and Roll paraphernalia it would instantly get shit canned. (I've told you before, I earned my teen rebellion battle scars). Anyways, my mother found it all. Slayer “Reign in Blood,” King Diamond “Them,” Suicidal Tendencies “Join the Army,” you name it. Once she went through the lyric sheets on those suckers I was done for. Those lyric sheets were my one way ticket to Christian School. So off we went to the “Dorky Uniform” store and two weeks later, I was a student at Florida Christian School. What I came to find…

It did not take long on my first day at Christian school before I realized it was about twenty times more Punk Rock than my junior high was or could ever have been.

Day One- I was in the office waiting for my class schedule when the Jesus Police (a.k.a. school security) brought in a scrawny, pimple faced white boy with a crew cut. His crime: possession of contraband, which in this case was a crusty GBH t-shirt he had brought to wear during gym class. Two things crossed my mind then and there. One, I thought “are they seriously sending this kid to the principal’s office for a GBH shirt?”, and second I thought to myself, “me and this white boy are going to be partners in crime”. I knew that was the devil’s way of telling me “here you go Pig, your first friend at Christian School”. The kid turned out to be in most of my classes I would come to find out as the day progressed. Finally 6th period came around (which was Bible class ironically enough) and white-boy was seated right next to me. Motivated only by his brandishing of a GBH shirt, I abandoned all the trappings of my social awkwardness and did an ice breaker. “I see you’re into GBH” I uttered. “Did you see them at Cameo’s on the beach?” He looked over and replied “no bro, my brother went but my parents wouldn’t let me go because I’m grounded”. That was it. From there on out our classes were no longer centers for academic study but rather they became our own critique forum for all things Punk, Metal, and Hardcore. From here on out we will refer to White Boy by his name, Bobby.

Bobby had been at this institution for a year and had all the dirt on all the dirt bags. Within a week, Bobby had pointed out to me who were the drug crowd (which was most of kids from the sophomore class on up), the sluts, the homos, the suicidal kids, the gangbangers, and finally the eternal bottom tier of all youth culture, the music geeks. At Florida Christian there was no association by denomination. There weren’t any divisions between the rockers, goths, punks, skaters, etc. Music geeks from all genres got lumped into one crew which was cool because I used to love trying to bang the girl’s who were into Motley Crue and Poison (trying would be the operative term). They were easy, but hopelessly white trash (in the tackiest sense of the term) and not too bright. We also hung out with a couple of those morose-type girls blaring The Cure and Siouxsie and the Banshees in their Sony Walkmans. Traditionally, these were by far the prettier, more interesting and more hygienic girls (they always smelled good) but banging them was a real challenge. You either had to be an upperclassman (as these ‘progressive’ types innately seek older, more mature men) or you had to be an artist of some type. That excluded me. This was one year before I wrote my first fanzine, and approximately three years before my first band so I had zero Punk/Art credentials. Regardless, I wouldn’t be doing much banging at this school. Rather, I’d be doing more lookout work for Bobby while he was banging the Whitesnake broads in the back stairway. For one thing, the experience here broadened my musical palate. This garden salad of teen outcasts that I called a crew put me on to a lot of music that at that time I wouldn’t have been exposed to otherwise, bands like Christian Death, Echo and the Bunnymen, Skinny Puppy, Husker Du and a host of other bands that at the time were under my radar.

“If you want to role play, why don’t you play the role that Jesus wants you to play, son?”

The Dungeons and Dragons incident

Asides from being my refuge of coolness during school hours, as these were the only moments in which I really was allowed to truly have any social contact with other kids, my musical grab-bag crew was also my Dungeons and Dragons cult. I had always heard about D&D but never really dabbled with it but old Bobby had spread it like wildfire through the music crew and even the chicks got into it. It was funny because Bobby and I would get all sexually suggestive on the chicks during lunchtime D&D sessions. I would be like “my thief puts one arm around your forest nymph's neck and the other arm holds a dagger at her chest but he will spare her from being robbed if you go into the janitor’s closet with him”. Later on, you’ll see why when they initiated me into the game and created my character they chose a thief.

So, we were in the middle of one of our lunch time journeys through the darkened caverns of forgotten realms. There we were, huddled at our designated music geek spot under the bleachers. We had to be secretive because playing D&D was a big no-no at that school. It was considered occultism. (I’m being dead ass serious). We would never have gotten caught had it not been for one of the chicks that were hanging out with us who was smoking a square. I don’t know if the Jesus cop (school security) that busted us smelled the smoke or saw it coming out from behind the bleachers, but all I know is that when he came around and saw dragon dice and a Dungeon Masters Handbook before me, he snatched my fat ass up from that floor and we went straight to the Principal’s office.

We had a problem here. If they ended up calling my mother to tell her I was in trouble, they weren’t going to say that I was playing a stupid board game. They were going to say that I was dabbling with the occult, which naturally would make my mother go mental. This is bad, I thought. "My mom’s going to have a shit. I am never going to see the light of day again."


 I needed to think fast.

They brought me into the principal’s office and the old guy begins the religious assault. “Role playing games are the devil’s tool son, you’re playing the role that the devil wants you to play.” I was besides myself in disbelief that something so fucking harmless as rolling around some dragon dice and pretending to chop off an wizard's arm with a battle ax can be so serious that I have to sit here in this douche-cunts office and explain myself. Not to mention, having to bob and weave his holy jabs and uppercuts, which had me on the roaps, staggering, seeking some inner heathen strength to block and counter his biblical onslaught. At that moment a light bulb goes off in my head. 
It’s a stretch, I thought, but it just might work. In my mind I started to bring up every horrible memory of my life that I can conjure and started welling up with tears. “Sir, I should’ve listened to my mother. I’ve been seduced by the devil, he’s got his grip on me and I can’t shake him loose.” The old guy instantly empathized with me and got up from his desk and came around towards me. He put his hand on my shoulder and said “Son, I know that Devil can be son of a gun, but there is one way to break that grip he has on you and be set free, and it is through the blood of Jesus, would you like to break that grip and accept the Lord as your savior?” He fell right into my trap. “Sir, you think that Jesus can save me from Satan’s hold and mend the strained relationship between me and my Mom”? I asked. With all the assuredness in the world the old guy replied “son, he can do all that and then some.”

“Well sir, I’m sure going to need Jesus’ help after you call my mother.” The old guy in a very assuring tone replied “son, let’s just get you back on God’s side and the rest will remain in the past, washed away by the blood of Christ. You’re mother doesn’t need to to know about our issue today.” Bingo! Jackpot! Yeah Baby! “Pray for my soul, sir, that I may find peace.” At that point I was almost breaking up from wanting to burst out, cracking up. He put his hand on my shoulder and started with the standard prayer of salvation (I’m sure you can figure out the main idea of the content of that prayer). When he was done, he asked me how I felt and I replied “as if a great load has been lifted from my shoulders”. He patted me on the back and said “go, go to your classes, and go in peace son”. (If at this time you aren’t worshipping me as your new capo-regime then you are out of your mind). So what if I technically kind of sort of got initiated as a Christian. At the very least, if all that book of Revelations apocalypse stuff is real, then I already have my name on God’s guest list. No apocalypse for me, I’ll be out of here. Peace, Bitches!

Next time on CHRISTIAN HIGH SCHOOL SLUTS IN HEAT GONE BERSERK...

My Christian School education in Organized Crime...

Music Reviews from the Void...

Two quick reviews of a couple of joints I found while doing the daily dig in my dusty music vaults... 

Discharge

Society’s Victim’s

Sanctuary Records

Oh you’re a punk? Are you a “thrash head”? Into Grind-Core are you? Well, if you don’t own anything by Discharge you’re not legit and are a fucking full of shit poser. Discharge set off a lot of shit in the game. If the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction candidate committee had any fucking knowledge of real rock and roll they would induct Discharge. Let’s outline why: 


1) Discharge took the punk sound of its day and hardened it up, thus the birth of hardcore from its punk roots. Yes, I will say that Discharge was probably one of the first couple of hardcore bands ever. 
2) Discharge in part influenced many of the bands of the New Wave of British Metal era therefore making way for the birth of Thrash Metal. In essence, Discharge helped create Thrash. 
3) Along with bands like Amebix, Extreme Noise Terror, HellBastard and Chaos UK, Discharge was crucial in fathering the crust-punk genre. 
4) Discharge is very regularly given mention as being one of the progenitors of Grind Core. 5) Discharge spawned (and is the namesake of) an entire sub-genre called D-Beat. 


Should I continue? Don’t you think that they have quite a few credentials under their bullet belts and deserve a slot in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame? This 3 disc anthology has everything this band has ever put out, and almost all of it is fucking gold! You get the Realities of War, Fight Back and Decontrol EP’s from 1980, the Why? Album and the Never Again EP from ’81, the Hear Nothing, See Nothing, Say Nothing album from ’82. You get all of the crusty, D-Beat Grind-punk goodness that characterizes this UK Anarcho-punk powerhouse. You even get the one fucking awful record they did called Grave New World, the worst piece of shit I’ve ever heard. Even Faster Pussycat is better than that shit. Reminds me of some horrible hair metal shit like KIX or NITRO! Still good for a few shits and giggles. And besides, if you have had the impact this band has had on extreme music, you can get away with one whack fucking record. Believe me, the whack-ness of Grave New World does not come close to overshadowing the rest of Discharge’s collective body of work. Get this or lose the fucking Mohawk, cause you obviously still haven’t earned it, you bloody wanker! Go bugger off then!

Christian Death

Only Theatre of Pain

Frontier Records

 Avant Garde and creepy as fuck! That’s how I describe this crucial 1982 debut album by this L.A. death punk band! This album is an important record in any respectable Punk record collection because it inspired a sub-genre which came to be known as Death Rock, or Death Punk, making them the one of the fore-fathers of Gothic rock. Christian Death were the first to experiment with the style (though some may argue that The Flesheaters and Kommunity FK were already doing the death rock bit in ’79)  and then came other bands like .45 GRAVE and SEX GANG CHILDREN (by the way, Sex Gang' really blows) to name a few. What happens when you take a deeply disturbed, sexually ambivalent youth and force him into a Christian upbringing? You get Rozz Williams! There are very few records that truly give me the creeps, this one is among the front runners in that race. I was introduced to this band by one of the little chicks that I used to run with in my church school ghoul crew. The record opens up with the eerie clanging of church bells, heralding the open of a perverse service. Rozz William’s lyrics on this album are so disturbing on many different levels. At times his lyrics are so conceptually abstract that much of the subject matter borders on nonsensical, but he undeniably paints twisted pictures that leave shock-impressions. Motif is everything within this genre and Rozz can conjure a ghostly fucking scene. Referencing every possible topic from the occult, to Judeo-Christian religion, sadomasochism, nihilism, necrophilia, homo-eroticism, and even some risque allusions to racism. The lyrical desecration of Christian themes and symbols is definitely Rozz's strong-suit (there's a whole lot of shenanigans in this joint, believe me). At one point he references the "untouched ass of the boy next door" and if not for my firm security in my own sexuality, I would have felt a bit uncomfortable. Rozz’s whiny necro-moan voice is an acquired taste but it totally adds to the atmosphere of the record. His vocals echo a sinister and malevolent hyper-sexuality which works well with the vibe that his lyrics conjure. Musically, Christian Death is at root a punk band. Adolescents’ guitarist Rikk Agnew plays on this cult record, giving it automatic L.A. punk credibility. But there are other layers present that give this record its particularity. Mainly, it’s the evil overtones of the songs. Asides from the aesthetics, the actual playing was unlike anything else at the time. The guitars are so dissonant and driving! Listen to the bass lines on this thing, sounds like a Fret-less to me! In many ways, this was already post-punk when punk was still alive and kicking. Like I said, very few bands scare me but this album damn near made me lose sleep the first times I heard it. Rozz Williams was by far the world’s scariest bi-sexual. Those Christians man- They’ll fuck your shit up! Look at how warped I am! And I only did about a year and change within church school hell...
And as for Rozz, the crazy depressed half-a-sissy committed suicide by hanging himself back in 1998. I wouldn’t recommend too many albums from the Christian Death catalog but this is a Punk Rock essential. Beware! There is actually two different versions of Christian Death, one being with a singer named Valor. Do not get any Christian Death albums with Valor, they blow! It’s just bullshit neo-romantic new wave crap! Get this record for your Halloween Party, I guarantee you’ll dig it. The CD version contains the first EP DEATHWISH. My suggestion is to try and get it used on Amazon or try to download it from a blog spot. Trust me, get this and then bang a chick while playing this record, it's a serious mood enhancer... if you're on the giving end of the sexual torture.

Christian High School Sluts in Heat Gone Berserk

Part 2

As promised, another installment from the ongoing series based on the true life accounts of my fight against the Fundamentalist Christian Right... from behind enemy lines!

My Christian education in Organized Crime

Since I had no job during those eighth grade years, I needed a scheme to re-populate my pillaged record collection. Bobby helped a little bit with this. I would shoplift those old-school Memorex cassette 3 packs and give them to Bobby. If you’re as old as me, you’ll remember the ones I mean. They were see through and had these weird magenta and aqua colored triangles on them… Each side of one of those cassettes could roughly hold one full album (under somewhat standard running time). I would give Bobby a 3 pack and he would come back with 6 albums on cassette. But as you all know, cassette dubs are no substitution for originals of your favorite records, so I devised a plan. I was like a young Henry Hill on his first day at the cab-stand.

I cut a 6” long slit into the lining of my school uniform jacket and through this opening I would stuff Tuna, Chicken and Hoagie sandwiches that I would steal from the lunch line. The plan, sell these $3 dollar sandwiches to the other miscreants for $2, and to close associates for a $1.50. This first racket brought in about $10 bucks a day, which in my terms translated to replacing about three or four albums a week. It was a decent scam but I needed to come up faster. That’s when I came across a real good score. This was every wise guy’s dream score…

Stolen cigarettes!

Around that time, I would go and visit my dad on the weekends at his job which was a Cuban restaurant out west on Tamiami Trail and 122^nd Avenue. One day, as the weekly cigarette delivery was arriving through the back alley I noticed that the delivery driver left the back gate open on his truck. Something inside of me, perhaps an inherent criminal instinct, just told me “Pig, you need to snatch up a case of cigarettes from this dude… homeboy is slipping”. I grabbed the first case I could and stashed it behind the restaurant’s dumpster thinking that I would just come back later for it. The case had way too many cigarettes to take all at once so I had to wait before I was able to take my cache’ of squares. I’ll never forget, it was a case of Kent Golden Lights. By the time I figured that most of all the kids I associated with at school smoked but couldn’t buy packs without getting carded, I had myself a sweet racket going. Back then a cardboard case of cigarettes brought about twenty cartons which as all of you smokers know, a carton holds ten packs. I broke the case into two halves. Half of the case would be sold as packs at five bones a pop, and the other half as singles for a dollar each. I was charging kids $5 dollars a pop for packs of Kent Golden Lights, which went back then (I would say this was around ‘89/’90) for about $1.50 or maybe even $2 dollars. For the price of a regular pack of Marlboros out on the street I was giving the burners two squares for after their lunchtime smoke session in the school parking lot. Yo, I was making bank, kid! But these kids would have forked over up to $10 a pack because it was really hard back then for an under-aged kid to just walk up to a Quickie Mart and buy a pack of Reds. Within one week (maybe a week in a half) I was cleaned out and had made a teenage fortune. The singles were the big money maker. It was like crack. My locker at school was the stash for the packs, and I kept the singles in the pencil bag of my Trapper Keeper. My record collection was completely replenished with new additions, which if I remember correctly were:

 Circle Jerks ‘Wonderful’

 Death Angel ‘the Ultra Violence’

 Skinny Puppy ‘VIVI SECT VI’

 Faith No More ‘Introduce Yourself’

 Husker Du ‘Land Speed Record’’

D.R.I. ‘Four of a Kind’

The Smiths ‘The Queen is Dead’

Christian Death ‘Only Theatre of Pain’

Yeah, I know, I know, I was a raw little shorty! And as you can see, quite an eclectic variety. Yea well, that was way before becoming a little straight edge douche-bag, so I was still extremely open minded... and with impeccable tastes in music...

Well, that’s all I have for now. These stories are gold, and I can’t give you all of my A material in one volume, you motherfuckers need to wait  for ‘deez nuts’ like hungry little squirrels, so that when you finally get them in your mouths, you will savor them. In future issues of Tales’ (if there are future issues of Tales’) I will be revisiting more stories from this year long stint in Christian school hell. Believe me! I’ve got endless tales of teenage debauchery from those days.

But before I go here is a funny “where are they now” moment. After Christian school I lost contact with Bobby, I think he moved up north to Jacksonville. Years later, sometime around 2001, I was home one night watching the Howard Stern show on the E channel and all of the sudden there’s good ol’ white-boy Bobby Land on the Howard Stern Show being interviewed with his wife… porn star Jessica Darling! Holy Shit! The same guy I used to be a lookout for so he can get his fuck on in the back stairwell with the Whitesnake broads was now on my TV being interviewed on the Howard Stern show, married to a cum bucket porn star no less.

 True story by the way, I swear to (insert religious authority figure here).

Next time on Christian High School Sluts in Heat Gone Berserk:

My first handjob

Welcome to the Hell Mouth!

Abandon hope all ye who's names are ill spoken through my horrid maws...

Fire and brimstone know no allies. Not even those that made a career of invoking the names of the dark prince...

How ironic that for this installment of the Hell Mouth, the ire of damnation has fallen upon the Hell Mouth's own gatekeeper... Anton Lavey!

A horned cape?!  Seriously?!

Before I go on, let me begin by saying that I am not player-hating on the late (and not THAT great) Anton Lavey. I respect him on the same level that I would respect anyone charismatic and prolific enough to come up with some weird dogma and control the dark fixations of a segmented group of people. I can relate, as I am trying to launch my quasi-mystery school TEMPLE OF THE IRON DOVE project off of the ground. But if I may, allow me one postmortem critique on LaVey’s showmanship.

What was with the dopey horned cape?

I mean… he couldn’t have gotten something a little more ominous and a little less ‘second grade Halloween costume’ looking.

Dude, you were the messiah of modern day Satanism. You were the first Supreme Pontiff of Lucifer’s church! That made you the Pope of Rock and Roll! You made it look like fucking amateur hour. I would’ve gotten something that looks way more ominous, like the horns on that big demon motherfucker from that old Tom Cruise movie Legend. Or perhaps if he wanted to be a little more understated yet folkloric, he could have just  gotten a custom-made job with some standard long goat horns. I mean, wouldn’t that make sense? Duh, Goat Horns!  It’s so obvious.

I think even a Yankees cap would have been preferable!

 But how did he expect to be the earthly ruler of all evil with those gay little “diablito” horns. I would have run that Satanic Church ship a whole lot better... believe me! I would have made the liturgy so damn perverse and malevolent it would have even of made Satan’s head explode. I guess you can’t expect much from a religious leader who was formerly a Circus carny. But at least his religious franchise was cool for Belial’s sake. What isn’t cool about naked chicks with snakes crawling on their Hoo-Ha, lust, freewill and intellectual elitism? Some of you rich 1% idiots are out doing way dumber stuff, like adoring a former science-fiction writer named L Ron Hubbard and his Church of Scientology. What’s cool about that crap? Not a Goddamned thing! John Travolta and Tom Cruise… way not cool!  Naked chicks, snakes and Satan -Way Fucking Cool!

Ami James is a douche-bag.

Ami, you look like such a needle-dick in your little shirt and tie! 

I remember a time in the frozen Pagan past when having a tattoo was some real Rock and Roll street credibility. I mean it just was not a daily event to see a tattoo being brandished around in public sight, much less full blown sleeves, neck tats, etc. Nowadays it’s common fare for just about any random garden variety douche to have a tattoo, usually being a bad reproduction of their favorite Ed Hardy t-shirt design, or some self-conceptualized artistic eye-sore which is supposed to commemorate some kind of life changing event in the most vaguely associated way,

I knew without any doubt in my mind that once the ponderously scripted reality mind torture called Miami Ink aired on TV that tattooing was the next counterculture to become douche fodder. Well it did!

EVERYBODY and their mother’s Gynecologist have a bloody tattoo now!

These tattoo “reality” shows are really fucking annoying man! The way they make it seem on these snore-fest shows you would think that people only get tattoos to record a tragedy. Every single fuck-tard on these shows with the sob fucking story! Geez, give me a break will ya!? Whatever happened to “Hey, I got a tattoo of a Chinese fucking dragon cause I got drunk and thought it was cool”? Every last one of these losers getting tattooed on these shows has some kind of traumatic experience to tell the ink-monkey. Nowadays, according to Miami Ink/LA Ink/NY Ink people get tattoos because

 they have:

[insert random tragedy here] and have grown stronger from the experience.

First of all, I’m not really sure that a real tattoo artist feels like being so chatty with their clients. I’m sure they would much rather drown you out and listen to whatever music they got going on in the background. More importantly, I think they should be concentrating on the work, never mind with the music and the chit chat! Listen if I ever get any more tattoos on my uncharacteristically pale Cuban skin, I’m going to tip the guy an extra $50 up front to keep his mouth shut. “Hey buddy, here, just shut the fuck up and finish the tat pal, ok?!”

But the “stars” of these shows are really the worst element of that formula if you ask me.  

Ami James-

 Dickhead or Douche Bag!?

You make the call!

This cock sucker is the biggest douche-bag ass-cunt ever born. What a dip-shit! Mediocre?! At best! He sucks actually. I guess he and his Ed Hardy shirts fit right into the South Beach scene when he had the Miami Ink shop. Things went sour between this douche and the network execs so the show did not get renewed. After an interview in Inked magazine where he said that he was through with reality TV, lo and behold here comes NY INK starring Ami James, another reality series, which is about 20 times douchier than the aforementioned Masengil-fest Miami Ink. I am sure that Ami is legitimately an asshole, but I think the network suits want him to up the attitude a little to give him some kind of edge and the result is an insufferable incarnation of Ami James that makes you wish he was still back in Israel doing perimeter duty on the Gaza strip (well within harm’s way of a screaming towel-head suicide bomber) rather than torturing viewers of that God-awful show. He’s a real tough guy, huh? He really plays up that whole “I’m going to punch so and so in the face” act for the cameras. Well, I’ve already told you about tough guys with shaved heads in previous rants...

Nicky Crane, the quintessential alpha-skin was a real tough guy too, till he came out of the closet with his punk ass and died of AIDS after years of gay-bashing, probably trying to drown out the call of the wild, echoing from his own latent lust for man meat. (Nicky Crane was that skinhead dude on the cover of the iconic STRENGTH THROUGH OI compilation record. He was a known supporter of the far Right National Front movement, as well as a serial homophobic aggressor. Nicky later came out of the closet the year before he eternally hung up his boots and braces.) Is that it Ami? Are you fighting sexual demons inside of you? It seems like you and that pussy-willow apprentice of yours Billy Decola might be getting into some serious glory-hole plunging action in between takes. In all fairness, I'm sure you are the top. 
Ooh, Such anger! What the fuck are you so angry about? You’re getting a sweet TV network paycheck for being a mediocre (at best) tattoo jockey with a bad attitude. Why don’t you tattoo yourself some eyebrows, you motherfucker! You look like a bouncer for Chemo-therapy night at Swinging Richards. That whole staff in that NY Ink show is just one insufferable dumb-fuck after another. From the fat Puerto Rican gay guy with the endless slew of Hole merchandise (seriously, who the fuck listens to Hole anyway?), to the dopey yet quintessential East LA style "Vato-Cholo" gangster guy (who looks extra crispy from years of Freon inhalation), to the geriatric receptionist with the bad wigs, who claims to have a Masters Degree but is on an imminent road to appearing in Bestial Scat porn... A flock of nimrods one and all, with uber-tool Ami James as the dumb-fuck ring leader!


 What happened to the counter cultures man? Tattoos used to be so cool and now it’s just for like shitheads and people who have survived a semi-terminal illness.


 Hey Ami, go fuck yourself pal! Me and my boys should have fucking destroyed that bullshit little bar of yours the night that you hosted the John Joseph book reading/pseudo CRO-MAGS show. Realistically speaking, you should be doing tramp stamps at the Opa Locka flea-market and not tattoos valued at more than $50. 


Fuck you, and that dopey shop, and every nerd that has paid a 250% mark up on a tattoo just because your worthless ass was behind the rusty AIDS tainted needle! 


Go catch a batch of HEP C in your snatch, B! 

Oh, and by the way Ami...

I nominate Chris Torres for fucking Tattoo Emperor of the Universe!!!
I love that guy!!! For all I know, he may even suck as bad as you behind a tattoo gun, but according to the NY INK script he gets under your foreskin so fucking bad (which in your case, said foreskin is visible where your eyebrows should be) that I can't help but be a fan of his boorish Brooklynite ways. And besides, you know how us grease-ball spics all stick together...


Ciao, Kojak!

Why is Feminism anything but feminine?

 The problem is that most feminist broads don’t look feminine, but rather they look like Pete Rose after a bad nine innings. Okay, I get it. You are all rebelling against “male imposed norms”; I guess being hot is one of them. But I got news for you, all you are rebelling against is looking like a woman. In a weird way, feminists are woman haters. If you hate men so much then why the fuck do you try so hard to look like one. I mean some of you butchy fem-core broads walk around with a tighter fade than mine? Geez! Would it kill you to look good, or at the very least, lady-like? Wash and comb your hair maybe? Nice little skirt? Why not a totally hot lacey lavender bra or some Brazilian butt lift jeans to hike up those little activist asses? No? Okay, keep looking like Pete Rose then.

Lilith. A real feminist icon

There are very few people who know this, but before Adam shed a rib to help God create Eve, he was coupled with an unholy little firebrand named Lilith. 

Lilith is unknown to most because her legend was omitted from the King James’ version of the bible. I speculate that you may probably find references made to her in the apocryphal texts. Mention of Lilith is clearly made, however, in the Babylonian Talmud and other Mesopotamian texts , and in the context therein it is believed she is the Supreme deity of a certain class of female demons. Her legend may have spawned the mythological creatures which we now know in modern day as the succubi.  Here’s the way it went down with horny-ass Lily, as told by the channeled ghost of the legendary poet pimp Iceberg Slim... 

"Lookie here now, so Lilith is Adam’s first wife. One day as he’s pounding her poon in boring old missionary position, this wild horny little she-demon says “Let’s mix it up a little bit, Big A! Let me ride you now motherfucker.” Adam, who was not yet seeing the future visions of a plethora of sexual positions denied Lilith’s request, angering her to no end. In an act of rebellion, she ran off into the wilderness and once there legend has it that she mated with someone who can really lay down the pipe, the archangel/demon Samael. “Yea Bitch, you can be on top, on bottom, anywhere you want, so long as you just let me blow up that good ass earth pussy” Samael said. Spoken like a true player. He put it down on her little ol' country ass. Man, that nigga' rocked her sideways, up ways, down ways, upside down ways. He smacked it, flipped it, rubbed it down and called it a day. When the smoke cleared, Lilith was cast forth from Eden (becoming an early pagan occult icon) and mankind became one rib lighter to make Eve. Now ask yourself this... What would’ve been of us, meaning mankind, had our great granddaddy times a hundred had just let that crazy bitch ride the meat like a mechanical bull?"

Thanks, Ice. I'll take it from here...

That Lilith, she must have been something! Tremendo Fucking Palo! Forget about the assumed fact that back then vagina-scaping was not a common practice. Also eliminate, the notion that being out in the wilderness probably didn’t help the aroma. Think about it... it was the Garden of Eden stupid! It was paradise. Foul vaginal odor did not exist yet, and neither did excessive pubic hair. These things, according to the Bible, came after the fall from grace as part of the punishment package, along with menstruation and labor pains. In essence, Lilith was the bearer of the very first piece of pristine trim! Now take into account that she was the one suggesting bold new techniques. This demon slut was a pioneer of doing the nasty, not afraid to boldly go where Adam had not dared to venture. Had our great grandpa times a hundred played his cards right he would’ve been doing anal by Genesis chapter 6. You know Samael had to have knocked the Eden dust off of that ass!

I sold my soul to Rock and Roll…

A scathing, rambling editorial by the Grand Magus of our death cult...the drug addled degenerate formerly known as Pig Latin.

With the staggering success of TALES OF PERVERSION ZINE which can proudly claim 15 hand numbered copies printed for each of its 3 volumes, and a circulation  of approximately 11, it seemed imminent at the time that the publication would go on to attain some cult underground super stardom. Ideas for numerous follow ups were conceived and squeezed repeatedly through my creative hairy mental vagina until I had a nursery full of deformed and laughably stupid babies which would eventually grow up to become the big and strong material for the future issues of this filth-fest I have chosen to call a publication. As with all the other plans and projects of someone who’s motivation and ambition have been all but annihilated by consuming the metric tonnage of Marijuana that I require for any attempt at remaining sedate, every potential issue of Tales became the underground fanzine version of that stupid Guns-n-Roses album that people kept saying was coming out but never did and never will. But let me not blame all of my lethargy on the wicked weed. Shortly after the appearance of the first issue your faithful friend and narrator went into punk rock exile. Why? Disillusion, I suppose. It happens. It was probably spawned by the cookie cutter nature of almost any and all current expressions of what I and my peers once called Metal, Punk and Hardcore (or any type of extreme counterculture for that matter). In essence, I morphed into those bitter grownups who would assault you with the famous “you kids’ today and your music, I remember back in my day” speech. It’s taken damn near 20 years, but now I can truly appreciate what they were saying. Well, not completely. Truth be told, I was jamming to some dope fucking shit back when I was hearing that doozy of a speech; but I can definitely identify with the frustration of seeing the newer generations being so goddamn pussy-assed. Kids nowadays are so fucking lame! Even the “non-conformist” types are way watered down and repackaged in comparison to my heyday. Rebellion and non-conformity can now be purchased at your local HOT TOPICS store for $29.99, and any garden variety asshole kid has a piercing or a tattoo nowadays. The new social norm is 16 year olds walking around with tats on their necks and preppy jerk-offs from the ‘nice side of town’ have full sleeve tattoos peeking out from under their Abercrombie and Fitch shirt (thanks to the reality show based on the ever so idiotic Miami Ink shop and the ponderous Kat Von Douche spinoff). The mainstream has taken every element of the underground and made it accessible to everybody. None of it means anything anymore. All the once clearly defined lines between the mainstream and our world have been blurred beyond existence.  Is there still such a thing as teen angst? Are these kids today as fed up with the mainstream as myself and my chums from my youth? It doesn’t seem that way. I suppose in the grand social scheme of things this would be a good thing. After all, why would we want to continue mainlining more anti-socials and malcontents into the social vein with a filthy AIDS tainted needle?

 If youth culture is largely molded by the music of its generation who can we thank for perpetuating mainstream douche-baggery? For one, you can start with those cock-sucking yuppie fucks in their ivory record label office towers, blueprinting the musical landscape from fashion season to fashion season. Anybody gets a record deal nowadays. Want proof? How about that malignant teen cunt Rebecca Black for starters?Remember that twat? Did anybody hear this little bitch’s single and not immediately opt for a bloody screaming death? 


MTV plays a big part in this too. Even though it’s been years since MTV has played a single fucking video (and about a decade and change since they played a decent one) their contribution to the “Make the World Whack” crusade is so-called reality TV, and this also has had an influential role in today’s “douche-baggery”. I believe that perhaps this was my inspiration to come out of fanzine retirement, way back when I threw together Tales'#1, even if it was for the very last time. I really needed to lash out, at something, anything, somehow, someway. This washed up, bitter, “scenester has-been” is going to show you fucking young whipper-snappers how you really do misanthropy and disenfranchisement. You little bitches have it easy. I had to earn my rebellious youth stripes.  

You can only push someone so far till they push back. Consider this is my literary counterattack on all things whack. And what falls under that category? Everything under the sun! The entire world has become a serving of Mashed Potatoes with no fucking salt.

So finally after all the hype and anticipation, here is the official online version of Tales of Perversion, live and direct from the depths of my cavern of unholy perversions. I am here to sacrilegiously sodomize all things mainstream and lame as a backlash to the constant bombardment my psyche receives from pop-culture at large. Hopefully you posers will follow my lead. And why would I take it upon myself to steer you towards the dark light of coolness? Why waste my time sitting here typing up a fanzine/blog that won’t generate more than fifty bucks (after the cost of my ink cartridge) if I were to shell out print copies at three bucks a pop when I can be doing much more productive stuff with my time, like hanging out in my black magic decompression chamber casting spells so that my wife’s eyes will magically not find porn in my laptops search history.  The reason: I do it because I am a frustrated, failed pseudo musician with no real outlet for all the intellectual abilities that my hairy mental vagina can squeeze out. In fact, my hairy mental vagina has been retaining all of my retarded little brainchildren for quite some time now. The lack of playing music with a band or writing a fanzine for me is the equivalent of having said hairy mental vagina stitched shut, thus not enabling my creative offspring to be born. Well, I hear a rumbling sound now, and it is probably the sound of my hairy, fat, mental vagina exploding and shooting my ugly, afterbirth covered bastards of thought everywhere.

 “Oh nurse, please don’t throw away the placenta I would like to eat it!”

I sold my soul to Rock and Roll. It must have been when I was about 12 or 13. I couldn’t explain why I was drawn to loud, abrasive and totally pissed tunes. It was an obsession. My mother tried to stop Satan’s appropriation of her only male child by putting me in religious school. Bad move. I told you about Christian school… there’s a whole lot of fucking around going on within those pearly gates. And besides, it was already too late. I had already sold my soul to that sly old bastard. One day during the weekly indoctrination hour at Christian school, they showed a propaganda film which “exposed” the Occult in rock music (like if you really have to dig so deep to find that). By the time it was over, instead of being turned off to the unholy rock and roll I was now infatuated with it. Instead of making Rock seem like something to stay away from, that documentary was probably the greatest commercial for other cool bands that I would never have been interested in until finding out they were down with the occult, thus making them interesting to me. Much like Nancy Reagan’s D.A.R.E. campaign propaganda of the 80’s only made me more curious to go out and get totally fucked up. My commitment to music began then and there in that Christian school chapel. I knew that I would sell my soul to Rock and Roll and it's horned messiah forever, and I did. Fast forward about twenty years or so (a couple of bands and three different fanzines later) and here I am, a grown ass man with more than sufficient hair on his balls doing a “Blog-zine” as if I was still in high school. I told you I’d be in Rock and Roll forever.

Hope you enjoy the blog dirt-bags. I really exorcised a lot of demons through this project so don’t get possessed by my residual wickedness bitches. And if you do, well then, from a Metal point of view…


 I fucking rule dude!  

True tales of horror!

My colonoscopy nightmare

Proof that in life the sickness is often better than the cure.

Well, technically it wasn’t a colonoscopy. It’s a procedure called Flex-Sig (or Flexible Sigmoidoscopy). Here’s the chisme.

So I went to see my doctor because I was having seriously painful explosive shits. And not only that, but often I would have to take a “dump-skee” right after dinner. I mean like Right After! That’s no fucking way to live! The doc shoved me off to see a specialist, or a Gastroenterologist, to perform the flex sig in order to make sure that I did not have ulcers in my lower colon. He explained that the flex-sig is a small video camera used to view the last section of the colon. “This is not going to be good” I thought. I made my appointment and off I went.

Needless to say I was uneasy. I usually don’t go to a doctor unless it’s absolutely last resort. You know, like once a limb starts to turn green or something like that. Finally they call me in from the waiting room, and I’m escorted into the room where my butt-cherry desecration is about to take place. I felt like a man walking down Death Row. Imagine the feeling of knowing that digital ass rape is imminent upon reaching the end of the hallway.

The doctor asked me to disrobe and lay on the exam table on my left side. He asked if I had ever had a prostate exam and I reluctantly answered no. Then with these words -“Okay this will feel a little uncomfortable but we must make sure at your age that your prostate is healthy”- he proceeded to jam his middle finger up my ass. 

Dude that shit fucking sucked! I don’t know what it was but soon as he put his massive finger in my virgin bung I fucking pissed myself. No, not figuratively; I actually pissed myself. He probed around a little then finally pulled out. Now, it was time to break out the sodomy equipment, or instruments of “Ass-destruction”.

I could’ve sworn he whispered “time to get clinical on his ass” to the nurse but it may have been a weed induced audio-hallucination.

Out comes the Flex Sig machine and my boongy starts to shut like your mouth when you suck on a lemon. After thorough lubing, they insert the horrible instrument into my anus, and it starts to inflate my anal walls with air in order to widen its pathway through my colon. This fucking sucked even more than the doc confusing my asshole for his Med School graduation ring. Now I’ve got an asshole full of air and lube while getting butt-fucked by a camcorder. He was in there for about 8 minutes before the horrible ordeal was over.

As he began to walk out of the room he told me to feel free to use the bathroom and ‘evacuate some air that may still be trapped inside me’. So I grabbed my clothes from off of the chair and went into the bathroom. In the bathroom, I start to attempt to push out the air but was finding difficult to release my inner winds (probably due to just having my fudge packed). As soon as I started to feel the air move outwards I slightly squat to facilitate release. Lo and behold the tip of the fart cuts through and out comes’ a screeching trumpet blast of air followed by a jet stream of lube which splattered all over the bathroom floor. Now I had to grab paper towels and clean the pressurized shit-grease off the floor to cover my Hershey tracks. Finally I get the mess cleaned up and put my clothes back on. As I walk out, feeling cheap and used, with lube residue still squishing around in my corn-hole, I face the greatest of my day’s humiliations… 

  

… which was the attractive, all female office staff standing outside of the exam room with little smirks on their faces that clearly meant they knew the Doc had gotten another hole in one. I could have sworn I heard one of those chicks whisper “bye bye butt bitch” under her breath, but that could have also been a weed induced hallucination, even though the whole ordeal was sobering to say the very least.The worst part though… he never called me again. I feel like such a hussy.