Coming Soon!!!!

TALES OF PERVERSION FILMS

In association with

21^st CENTURY WOLF

Presents a film destined to become a standout in American Cinema…

A film tour de force that’ll leave you breathless...

By day, they are the wives of Christ, hidden behind their veils of deceit… But at the tolling of Hell’s midnight bell they become Sluts in Satan’s service, delving far into the depths of depravity, where any host will do in their unholiest of communions…

If you were horrified by 2 GIRLS 1 CUP, you will never be the same again after you see:

You will never be able to look at a crucifix in the same way again. Without a doubt, this is the vilest depravity ever fathomed by human thought!

Opening this December

From

TALES OF PERVERSION FILMS

Any body seen this show on MTV? I saw the film, but haven't been following the show. I had my own true tale of being "Cat-fished" that I would like to share...

Back in 2004 I worked for a major Cruise-Ship Line as a phone agent. My job was to answer calls from representatives of Large Travel Agencies whom would book up a block of cabin space aboard one of our ships at a discounted rate and they in turn would create their "special summer packages" and book the cabins at a mark up.... There was one agency based out of California who's rep was notorious within the phone center for being outrageous when she would call in. She was known for her hot voice, and for making sexual innuendos constantly while conducting her business over the phone. One day she called in, and it just so happened that her call was directed to my extension for service. Sure enough, all of the rumors were true. This chick was wild, and made all kinds of comments loaded with double entendre. She started to flirt with me over the phone, telling me how hot she thought I sounded, etc. From that point on, anytime she would call, she requested to speak specifically with me, claiming that I've been handling some special requests regarding her block of space and would rather that I stay on the job to avoid confusion with another agent.

Next thing you know after that, she starts e-mailing me at my corporate address (which she had access to for business purposes.) Her first e-mail included "her" picture, which depicted a totally hot Mexican-type chick (she said she was Mexican) that kind of looked like Kendra Jade and it read "Here's my number, call me, we can talk without worrying about calls being monitored for quality assurance."

So I called the broad. Wouldn't you. So now, I'm on the phone with this bitch, and she's painting a story to me about this crazy, glamorous, single California chick who is about to get a gig doing voice overs for the main character in a new cartoon that got picked up by ADULT SWIM! I didn't really care about any of that shit, but I would take her calls and answer her texts because I thought she was this hot chick. After a couple of weeks, our late night phone conversations took a turn towards the horny and we started having all types of phone sex and dirty text messaging way before it was coined as sexting.

One day, I get a call from her on my personal cell phone and she tells me that she's coming to Miami for a business trip with her boss and will be staying at South Beach for 5 days, and during that time, we can bring our sexual fantasies to fruition at last. My dick became so engorged at the thought that this hot chick, who was open to all inputs by the way, was practically being delivered to me via Business Class for a 5 day Fuck Fest! I was so consumed by the idea that this hot chick was coming to town and I was going to rip that ass up for a week straight that I even started performing masturbatory calisthenics for a whole month leading up to the trip. I would jerk off to build endurance by holding out on blowing my load. I would do Kegel exercises all day by clenching and releasing my asshole to strengthen my prostate... the works...

We set up our rendezvous for the evening of her arrival here in Miami. We were supposed to meet at a bar in South Beach called the Blue Marlin on Collins Avenue. So I got there a little bit early (big mistake) and ordered a drink. After a couple of minutes, two big, sweaty, meaty paws which may or may not have been human, let alone feminine, cover my eyes from behind as a tongue runs up my ear. I swing around in my bar stool to find this fat, short, long nappy haired hobbit of a woman standing before me with a look on her face saying "hey, it is what it is sailor." It was her, looking like an overweight Elaine Benes' head was glued to Danny DeVito's body...

 I was livid, not so much with her as much as at myself for not screening this bitch a little better. I went based on the one picture she e-mailed me and that was it. She explained how that was her sister's photo and that she knew that she was wrong for not coming clean way before this trip happened. She confessed that she isn't doing any voice over work for some cartoon that doesn't even exist, and how she's the divorced mother of three kids. I went off on her! I told her how it was disturbing that she had to lie like that about how she looks, and about her life, and how she hides her children. She took her tongue-lashing quietly and when I finally stopped screaming at her long enough for her to get a word in edgewise, she said "Look, I understand if you walk out right now and never speak to me again, believe me. Let me at least pay your drink. Go ahead, just walk out and I'll settle up!" 

I said "OK, but I also want a blow job in my car!"

She obliged, blew me from the passenger seat of my Nissan Sentra that was parked in some piss infested South Beach parking garage. She swallowed my load, smiled politely and left... and I never spoke or heard from her again. 

The End.

Well, What?! I drove all the way out to the beach and got a drink out of it, might as well get one sucked out to!!!

OK kids, here we go, you’re Lord and Fucking Master is back with another one of my infallible top 10 lists.

TOP 10 RECORDS TO FUCK TO

10. Sade “Love Deluxe” Why number 10? Because it’s too obvious a choice to list any of her albums, on the count that the she's pretty much a staple of splack-jams! The beautiful, boner inspiring, Anglo-Nigerian Sade’s music has long been responsible for a whole lot of exchanges of body fluids, so again, her records are kind of the go-to choice for a foreplay-list, or a Get-On-All-Fours list. But regardless, no list of this kind would be complete without her, and Love Deluxe is a classy, sexy album that’ll have most of you and your squeeze’s body cavities filled with objects in a cinch. More suitable for lovemaking than for dirty, sweaty pig-fucking, but not exclusively… 

9.  Guns and Roses “Appetite for Destruction” Forget about ‘Sweet Child of Mine’, this sleaze-fest is perfect for an all-out blood-lust orgy in the champagne room. Cuts like ‘It’s So Easy’, ‘My Michelle’ and ‘Rocket Queen’ have always proven themselves perfectly gritty scores to set the mood for you and the 3^rd string girls from the BOOBY TRAP’s day shift to have a little private party and combine Herpes strains. C-Section scars and bullet wounds galore!

8. The Sun Ra Arkestra meets Salah Ragab in Egypt

When harpooning broads of a higher caliber, and playing a Sade joint is too obvious a strategy, this little doozy is guaranteed mood lubricant. The extraterrestrial, Avant-Garde genius Sun Ra descended from the most remote regions of outer space to team up with the leader of the Cairo Jazz Ensemble to bring you this intergalactic mother-ship ride towards Planet Pleasure where panties, thongs, and G-strings inevitably go into zero gravity. Sorry for the space pun, it was a little hacky.

7. Lush “Spooky”  Dave Rojo is probably saying "Lush? You're sooo Alternative!" I discovered this record as a freshman in High School, as the band was fresh off of the first ever Lollapalooza, about a year before I had first tasted the delights of a woman’s sexual cookie jar. (Yea, I wasn't a sophomore until I was able to convince some poor girl into being naked with me... Go ahead, laugh.) This joint (an early torchbearer for what we unfortunately now know as ‘shoegaze’ in some remote way) has this ethereal quality throughout which reminds me of the unearthly feel of getting laid. Miki Berenyi and Emma Anderson’s forest nymph-like vocals over the jangly but textured guitars (and proper ambience) make for an adequate and effective soundtrack

6. Samhain “Unholy Passion” I already got into this back in TALES Zine Vol.2, so I won’t get into it too much, but let me just remind you of the opening words to that album: “Unholy passion, I feel for you, this thing that hangs down my leg I feel for you”. Enough said! By the way, get a load of that Brillo-like clump of hair pie on that Succubus! And by the way, I would just like to mention in passing that I don't think little Glen Danzig has anything that "hangs" down his leg! Typically, guys built like him can barely clear their zipper. His pubes might be longer than his cock! Anyways, if you're like me, you think evil is sexy, and if that's the case then this stroll down the dark alleys of morbid Punk is a delight. 

5. Tricky “Maxinquaye” In my experimentation with trip-hop, I came across this wonderfully odd record by the South African e-Music Svengali, Tricky. Here’s a lyrical excerpt: “Where there’s trust there’ll be treats, and when we fuck we’ll hear beats”. The beats on this thing are clearly conceived when Tricky’s sleepy consciousness expands. And if all “Ass-getting” attempts fail, then let me tell you from personal experience, this is the perfect record for when you get that animal urge, mid hallucinogenic experience, to masturbate. I did. And when I finally reached orgasm, I saw such pretty colors in such peculiar shapes and patterns.  

4. Led Zeppelin (any of the first three albums) I mean, Come On! These guys made a virtual career of banging groupies, allegedly, or at the very least they were wizards at casting that image. Some may argue that except for Bonzo, these chaps were actually quite mild-mannered and polite, like British people from Kubrick flicks. Zeppelin’s groove sound was really sexual to begin with, and Robert Plant’s way-with-words descriptions of “how she shakes that thing” are as good a testament as any to the power of merging the 3 pillars of our infernal faith, SEX, DRUGS AND ROCK AND ROLL! Bang your girlfriend to “Since I’ve Been Loving You Babe”, and then thank me later. That is probably one of the greatest Rock and Roll jams ever written. I wonder what he meant by “Gonna make you burn, gonna make you sting” in "Whole Lotta Love"? To me, that sounds like the song’s muse may have needed a penicillin shot, or two, especially after being part of these guys’ daisy chain of Vag... allegedly...

3. Christian Death “Only Theatre of Pain” Back in the Samhain review, I told you that I have a hankering for some Evil blended in to my fuck-time frolics. Well this bad boy is as good an album as any for the theme music. Rozz William’s voice all throughout this evil-as-fuck slab of macabre proto-pre-post-punk sounds as if he’s getting his prostate massaged by Mephistopheles himself. And say what you will about his dubious sexual pursuits, Rozz got himself plenty of pussy, probably twice as much as the amount of dick that he got too… allegedly! If you’re nailing a Goth broad and slip this thing in, be prepared for the explosion of vampire lust that you will unleash. Just make sure that by banging with this thing playing in the background that you don’t accidentally open a portal when Rozz starts those weird backward-spoken verses! You know what Aleister used to always say about fucking, sex juices and their relation to ritual magick! A creepy LP, so don’t be alarmed if you go limp the first time you get your fuck on to this…

2. Dead Meadow “Shivering King and Others” Alright, you want to talk about a sexy-ass record? This is some of the best stoner rock I’ve come across in my acute, recently acquired interest in that scene. We are talking about some big, BIG riffs here with fuzzier muff than a Ron Jeremy versus Vanessa Del Rio flick. (Talk about 'the fur will fly'.) Yet at the same time it incorporates some beautiful melody throughout the joint with this quiet, watery kind of production that just takes you to a time and place before AIDS when boys can be boys, girls can be girls, and getting it on with the black-lite on and the lava lamp oozing was common fare. On a rainy day like this… give me a minute… (2 minutes and 35 minutes later): Yep, I know what I’m telling you. Just banged out my wife to “Golden Cloud”, and it was epic. But here’s a better litmus test for you: Listen to “Good Moanin”, and imagine that you’re on an episode of That 70’s Show, and you’re playing the bad boy rebel, locked in the back of his custom built, Hash-smoke filled '76 Chevy van with an air-brushed scene on the outside panel of some Viking carrying some Valkyrie with big tits up a snowy mountain with his pet Wolf trailing behind, while a cosmically aware (and pleasantly damp) Mila Kunis is locked in there with you… Enjoy!

And now, for the number one Fuck Album, drum roll, no, better yet... let me get a motherfucking blast beat please…

The number 1 record to make sweet, sweet love to is:

Beherit “The Oath of Black Blood”- For when you really want to give a real serious diabolic Black Metal booty pounding…

No, No, I’m just kidding! Can you imagine, though? That’d be fucking brutal!

Alright, I’ll stop fucking around…

Alright, do it again, Blast beat please…

The number 1 album to get some wang dang sweet poon tang to is:

1. The Stooges “Funhouse” I have to be honest about something. The first time I heard The Stooges, they fucked me all up. Why? Because when I was 16, my punk-zine mentor 'Punk Seba' handed me some crazy VHS tape that contained bestiality porn, and the opening scene was of some 70's chick (with quintessentially dense pubic bush) getting head from Man’s Best Friend while “I Wanna Be Your Dog” played in the background. Yuck! She even blew his lipstick! Fucking Nauseating! Needless to say, this was a traumatic experience.

But many years and still even more LSD doses later, after reaching a level of moral bankruptcy and acquiring new heights in sexual aberration where I can find that kind of thing humorous if nothing else, I can revisit the Stooges again without bias.

If you hear Tony Bourdain tell it, when his possible favorite record of all time came out, you were an outcast for digging it. Don’t know why that would be, but this thing is as gritty and primal as rock and roll could have gotten back then. And the wild, nihilistic presence of the band’s legendary front-man Iggy Pop exuded sexuality, in his weird, gender bending, and Heroin-chic kind of way. But just listen to the record when in good company; cook up a couple of spoons of your best China White, spike up, and ride your silky cloud to pleasure land.

There’s just such an authentic, unbridled savagery to the Stooges! They have that good old-American, “banging slutty bartenders” vibe to them. “TV Eye” I think possesses this quality the most on this one. Listen to “Dirt”, and sink into that post-sex Heroin nod. And in case you have the sexual prowess to last till the last song on the record “LA Blues”, than you should enjoy one hell of a money-shot, to one hell of a sexy jam. A big payoff for everyone involved!

Congratulations Iggy, you and the boys took the coveted number one slot!

By the way, as for the bestiality VHS, you don't know what Bukkake really is till you've seen two broads take a horse's load. Yikes!....

    Congratulations

TALES OF PERVERSION  Volume 2!!!

I sent a copy of Tales of Perversion Fanzine Volume 2 to Decibel Magazine early last year to be reviewed by Kevin Stewart Panko in his column ZINE POLICE, and I’m pleased to say that the rag received a rave review. So, finally, we can add another z-list celebrity endorsement to the list. That makes it, um, let me see, oh yea, two. The first of course is that of our favorite Reality TV sperm storage tank, Robear of tattoo reality mind-fuck NY Ink.

So, here it is, another rave review, and this one is from a far more credible nobody. So without any further delay, here is what DECIBEL Magazine had to say about your favorite Zine, Tales of Perversion, Satan’s used toilet paper... 

“engaging, and F’in hilarious” Kevin Stewart Panko (May 2012 issue)

And now it’s time for…

TALES OF PERVERSION Song Parodies!!!

I’m sitting here in the Dade County Courthouse, in a Jury Selection Room, bored out of my skull! In my jittery morning haze of Extra Bold Sumatran coffee and resinous Marijuana I just started bugging out and the result was the following quintessentially mega-stupid Pig Latin renditions of your favorite hardcore hits! Enjoy, whores!!!

Pig Latin

“Crammed with V.D.”

(sung to the tune of Bad Brains “Banned in D.C.”)

Crammed with V.D. with a million penicillin shots to go

Got nothing left to do but sit and watch my genital warts grow

You’d rather not fuck me…

Why? Cause I’m crammed with V.D…. V.D.!...V.D.!....

Fuck! When I piss it stings

Like lightning shooting from my open-ing

What is this burning, oozing yellow crap?

My tip looks like a crusty mustard bottle cap

You should avoid contact with me…

Why? Cause I’m crammed with V.D…. V.D.!...V.D.!....

(creepy-crawly breakdown skank part)

And if you bang me with no glove, it’s the wrong mind, you’ll catch the strong kind

If there’s movement in my pubic hair, it’s King crabs, but I won’t care

Oh no, you can’t afford, to let my sword, drip on your sore

My, oh my, my boxers stained, from The Clap, a potent strain

And now, an angry old man brings you a Show Review of a show I didn’t even go to… and I’m really going to delve…

I won’t even lie to you and tell you that I wasn’t initially hyped up when I first heard about this. The odd and random news that MEAN SEASON was playing a Miami gig made me  very excited, embarrassingly. Back in the 90’s, I was so into them. I guess what drew me in to them was that they were a bit darker (a lot darker, actually) than the rest of the Straight Edge hit parade of those times, and despite Aaron Kelly’s horrible vocals, they are still one of my record collection’s mainstays. Also, they were among the first true pioneers of that evil/metallic hardcore sound, but with an emotive quality to it. They were always referred to by my divine self as an “Emo SLAYER”, and I think that is a pretty fair descriptive of what they do.

But after finding out that it was part of a festival, as the show date came inching closer, all desire to grace the unworthy Miami Hardcore scene with my unearthly presence and ethereal Luciferian beauty dissipated from my black soul. Why? Because using my Satan given powers of clairvoyance, (and aided by the predictability of geeky Hardcore kids) I foresaw the douchery that would ensue at this 3 day convention for former Hardcore Teen Heart-Throbs facing Mid-Life Crisis. I knew that this festival was a “CALLING ALL CARS” for the scene police. Here’s my prophetic review of a show I never even went to…

STRUNG OUT played the Friday show (I guess), to which I riddle myself this… 
Who would pay money to see Strung Out play? 
It should be the other way around! Strung Out should’ve paid the crowd that stood there (if anyone did) and listened to their very vaginal take on punk rock. Don’t recognize any other name on the Friday night line-up according to the flyer, except for opening local act ASKULTURA. I’m sure they stayed well within the comfort zone of their particularly nauseating brand of hipster friendly Ska music. (Dry-heave) 

Saturday night, here come the bigger guns now…

Local Straight Edge Icon turned Big-Shot show promoter Mark “Clap and Kick” Pollack tried pulling a hat trick by finding DAMNATION A.D., attempting to yank them out from obscurity for this shindig. They were not really a band that I explored too much in their heyday, but I know that lots of my friends thought they were the bee’s knees back in the day. They were probably the best band on the Saturday card, had they not have cancelled according to one of my many show-biz moles... those fucks. Talk about a lack of professionalism. I can imagine and angry Mark Pollack, floating on his Aqua-Lounger in his swimming pool, screaming “YOU'LL NEVER WORK IN THIS TOWN AGAIN, I’M GOING TO RUN YOU OUT OF THE BUSINESS” into the receiver of his waterproof, cordless Bat- Phone. 
Ah, another special treat was planned for that night that would appeal to all would be (or has-been) Straight Edge aficionados, a spoken word by the biggest asshole PC Thug to ever condescend an MRR subscriber, Dan O’ Mahoney, or as I like to call him, Dan O’ Mojones (like saying cojones, but with an M. It’s Cuban slang that means a shit-log, or a turd).   And now, here he is, on stage in Miami, because someone gave this prick a time-slot and a microphone so he can sit there and pontificate to a bunch of hardcore kids who hang on his every word. You see, that’s always been the thing about the straight edge hardcore scene… If you’re in a successful band, there is never a shortage of groupies willing to blow you on cue, it’s just that unfortunately, all of these groupies are adolescent boys.

' Then, in keeping with the spirit of self-righteous zealotry, CHORUS OF DISAPPROVAL played. I have a question for any hardcore historians reading this… Was there ever a time when CHORUS OF DIAPPROVAL was not a Panko-breaded piece of shit? They fucking sucked! All it takes is two decades time to magically transform shit records into sought after gems! Why is it that in all of the revivalism hysteria of new jacks trying to be “down with the roots”, that even the truly shitty gets regurgitated? CHORUS only selling shtick was the whole “in your face straight edge tough guy” act. Everybody knows the golden rule...
 Militancy Sells Records and T-shirts! 
Then in the spirit of militancy, another cult 90's hardcore band (of local origin) was yanked from their eternal resting place, the marginal (at best) CULTURE. 
If you ask me, you should have left them wherever the fuck they were at. Original front man and narcissist extraordinaire Damien Moyal joined his fellow militant vegan DEA candidates on stage for a heart-worming reunion. Actually, I don’t think any of those fools are still straight edge. And no, that wasn’t a type-o, by the way. I meant to write heart-worming, not heart-warming as you may have thought. It gives me heart-worms to see that this band got to play once again. And by the way, I have a hard time believing that the singer was a vegan even back in the day. That dude had such a bad case of Pizza face in the 90s that I could have sworn he was moisturizing his skin with butter and bacon grease, and those are not cruelty free products. 

Without a doubt, the worst name for a hardcore band ever! Culture... what the fuck is that?! Nobody cared to tell these nudniks that there was already a very well-known reggae outfit by that name?  And even so, how does that word tie in to their whole bit? It doesn’t. Maybe they should have taken a culture of Damien’s face in the 90s and studied the tissue samples of his mountainous acne. Musically, they don’t fall far from the suck-tree either. They’re mediocre at best, and I for one really don’t understand their mythical scene status. Not hating, just, someone has to be the scene equivalent of Simon Cowell with some brutal honesty. I saw them play their first gig with SNAPCASE when they toured in support of their first LP in the 90s and remember thinking that a) CULTURE kind of really sucks and b) Rich Thurston’s head must have its own gravitational pull. Well, from the looks of my prophetic vision, the guy’s melon is still industrial sized. That thing is probably tied in to the whole 2012/polar axis tilt/doomsday thing. If you look at the crowd shot on the front cover of the classic piece of Miami vinyl, the ‘NOTES FROM THE SOUTH” compilation 7” (on Youth Bus Records, I think), there you will see a picture of a live crowd moshing and diving under the planet Jupiter. No, it’s not the planet Jupiter, actually its Rich Thurston’s ginormous head, keeping all circle pits spinning in his orbit. Look at the size of that thing. His head is so big that his forehead is really a five-head. But asides from being a cephalic juggernaut, now he’s some big scary MMA fighter, which has probably empowered the cowardly lion hidden deep beneath his massive yet useless frame. (Not that I want to be a gossip slut, but for a dude his size too get irreverently KNOCKED THE FUCK OUT by old-school Miami alumnus legend Sapo (of DICK SCROTUM AND THE WEAPONS OF ASS DESTRUCTION fame), I don’t see much of a future for him inside the steel octagon. But I’ve digressed… Even with his high readings on the Douche-O-Meter, Thurston isn’t the biggest cunt-bag in that outfit. That prestigious honor goes to the singer, the insufferable Damien Moyal ( thin crust with everything on top). What a shithead! You want to talk about someone who found some kind of fluke apotheosis via hardcore music and its fans, all of whom are so desperate for a little side of melodrama with their Metal Hammer?

 I don’t either, so we’ll move on.

 I just don’t care for the guy. I never have. Don’t know the guy personally, don’t want to. Don’t care. He may even be a lovely person, who’s to say? But there’s just some people sharing oxygen with us on this planet that you for reasons unbeknownst to you, you just want to stomp into Tomato paste, and for me, he’s one of them. That’s pretty much the bulk of mention-worthy events from the Saturday bill. Sunday night was the big draw. Hopefully, all of the members of bands set to play the following day will not be crushed accidentally by Rich Thurston’s massive head.  Oh yeah, TRIAL played, which I would comment on, except I have no idea who the fuck they are.  The singer looks like he was the oldest looking kid at his Bar Mitzvah, though. What’s with the generic name? TRIAL?! They sound like a Christian Power Metal band.

Sunday night rolls around and a sea of heavily tattooed, not-so-young prospective Republicans in t-shirts that all bear band logos emblazoned on the chest in collegiate font, congregate for the final rite of this pussy-less orgy of temperance and prudence. Good old Clap and Kick (tm) outdid his self in combing through every retirement home and seniors community of south Florida to find some nice rare treats as this evenings early-bird house warmers. And finally, somewhere in Century Village he found POWERHOUSE and The BELIEVERS, battling one another in an all out shuffle-board shootout. The Believers were a local band whose only recorded output might very well be a song or two on the aforementioned compilation on Youth Bus (I think). How they performed without the aid of their walkers, I will never know. 
Old, frail bones depleted of glucosamine rattled under the weight of a geriatric and obese POWERHOUSE line-up, as they tried to perform quintessential youth crew jumps. They are a nice little credit to the unsung pantheon of South Florida Hardcore though. Their sought after 7” record was among the first couple of releases from NEW AGE RECORDS, an important hardcore label in its own right, especially as far as this festivals theme is concerned. BIRD OF ILL OMEN reunited for the fest, and from the Youtube footage, I’d say they were among the better acts that played, they had good energy. Here you have another band with a cult status, largely attributed to their being an early medium of evil/metallic hardcore. And if you give a shit about Eulogy Records (which I don’t), these guys were Eulogy release 001! So, kudos to them for that little credit! MEAN SEASON played later on, and let me just say how appropriate it was that BIRD opened for them. Because having known BIRD master-mind Tom Rankine (alias Rankinestein) for a very long time, I can personally attest that the conception of BIRD in part was largely influenced by a period of Tom constantly jacking his dick to MEAN SEASON’s “Grace” LP (and occasionally fingering his asshole till prostate milking to OVERCAST’s ‘Expectational Delusion’).

MEAN SEASON, all I can say for them is that a recording studio can conceal a multitude of sins. I must thank my instincts to stay blow off the show and stay home loaded on Valium and Mojitos, because I saw the YouTube footage and they kind of sucked a bit, this coming from a huge fan, mind you! Aaron Kelly’s vocals really don’t compliment their sick style, and his stage presence is awkward and uncharismatic. Not to mention (which I'm about to) that he seems a little lite in the loafers if you ask me...
Not that there's anything wrong with that...
I'm just saying...

Up next came SHAI HULUD. Don’t care all that much for them, but I won’t rip them too bad because those dudes really know how to write some epic fucking songs, and they play them very well. I actually own a couple of their records, and though they’re not really my thing, even Stevie Wonder could see that these cats got talent. I think the fact that I’m lukewarm about them has little to do with their actual music and more with their fan constituency, which I would love being able to mow them all down with an AK-47 and then dump unceremoniously into a mass grave. And if SHAI HULUD are as misanthropic a bunch as a few of their song/album titles would suggest, then I’m sure they can empathize with my previous genocidal sentiment. It's just that for some reason, I find a correlation between the fact that all of the front-row dick-pullers at all of their local shows seemed to be the man-by-man role call of my "Must Murder" list. But as for these cats, they are musicians plain and simple, and I respect that. Asides from that, in the few interactions that I’ve had personally with Matt Fox, back

when he was still a Local, I only remember him to be a really nice dude, so I’ll give them a pass. Matt used to work at a record shop back when record shops still existed, and he would always hook up the locals big-time at the cash out... Oh yea, Chad Gilbert was a nice kid too. I remember when he first started going to shows, I think he was about 15, 16, something like that, his breath still smelling like Similac, just barely big enough to carry the weight of his JNCO jeans and his Panthers Hockey Jersey (so quintessential). Chad was their second front man, replacing none other than the aforementioned piece of sewage-work named Damien “Extra Anchovies” Moyal on throat duty. Chad went on to play guitar for NEW FOUND GLORY, the biggest suck-fest since Friday nights in the Clinton era oval office. The few times that I briefly stumbled across their music, I felt my testosterone levels plummet by more than half. But SHAI HULUD is a whole different animal, and again, those two cats are good people.

Oh, and by the way, if you have ever wondered what the fuck a SHAI HULUD is…

The Shai Hulud are those huge uncircumcised sandworms from the 80s film cult classic DUNE. Considered to be God, or damn near close, their excrement when mixed with water became ‘The Spice Melange’, an addictive geriatric drug that extended life, gave heightened awareness and prescience, and allowed for the user to bend time and space. Funny thing… Despite being temperate straight edgers, I’m sure that many of the musicians on hand that night could have benefited from Spice Melange. Simply because it extends lives nearing their last flip through a calendar. And as for allowing space travel, I’m sure that most of these said musicians would love to time travel back to when they were relevant again

The sandworms would pop out of the desert sands and devour anything in sight, including mining equipment used to extract their psychedelic Ca-Ca. Their attacks were provoked by the rhythmic thumping of the mining equipment on their planet’s surface. It kind of makes me wish that the band’s music would have invoked their voracious phallic namesake to come and swallow the crowd on hand, or at the very least, they could have burrowed in a couple of not so unreceptive rectums.

Last, and definitely least, BY THE GRACE OF GOD, which suck so bad that I can only hope that Rich Thurston’s boulder-skull crushed them all during their set. This band is fronted by that ass-bag that sang in ENDPOINT. Enough said. ENDPOINT was one of the worst hardcore bands of the 90s, as well as being a front runner in the race to reach the peak of Mount Politically Correct. Fuck BY THE GRACE OF GOD! Their whole shtick was based on the premise that “Punk has lost its way, it’s getting too commercial”, ironically using dollar signs in their band logo to emphasize this creed. Meanwhile, they hypocritically released their records through VICTORY RECORDS, which almost single handedly destroyed hardcore through hyper-capitalism and marketing, marketing, marketing! Good job dick!

Props and shout-outs to Brent from Kentucky’s DIRT MERCHANT Zine, whom in the 90s would stand in the front row during ENDPOINT shows, eating a bucket of the Colonel’s Original Recipe Chicken while screaming “MURDER TASTES SO GOOD!” That’s great! I’m surprised that no hardline sleeper cells in Kentucky attempted on Brent’s life for his sacrilegious consumption of Foghorn Leghorn’s wayward children.

Well, that’s it. That’s all the material I got on this douche-fest. Hey Mark, don’t do it again, OK? Cut it out, thanks!