Ladies and Germs, its The Tales Of Perversion Zine Farewell Roast!!!

Ladies and germs, your host this enchanted evening, Mr. Rick Smith...

“Thank you, thank you… you’re too kind. Welcome, oh ye degenerate perverts to the roast of our Lord and fucking Master Pig Latin and his fine literary work, Tales of Perversion Zine,

here in our undisclosed location- high atop the Tales of Perversion Towers of Doom, Despair and Desolation, within the ritual sanctum, on the reconstructed set of Dean Martin’s old-school ‘Man-of-the-Hour’ roast.
I'm Rick Smith of TORCHE and I will be your host tonight...  Spic Latin, I meant Pig Latin, asked me to host this fiasco because he needed a celebrity to validate his roast! Let me tell you, after taking a glance at these hacks assembled here, my gardener could have been a celebrity next to these nobodies. 

WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU HACKS?!

Our honored guest Pig Latin began his unholy mission of spreading filth in 2006 with the epic Tales of Perversion Zine Issue One. He interviewed my old band Mehkago N.T. for that issue and all throughout the questioning I kept saying to myself, “Christ, we need a wall around this country, with another wall around the first wall! Pig never thought of doing another issue of Tales because his wife would have killed him if he ever wrote another story about banging call-girls. Unfortunately, that left him with no material.

But alas, after a couple of years of having nothing better to do, he reinvented Tales’ into a bigger, better, piece of shit! To see this zine go is sad indeed, but not as sad as this Dais. What a bunch of losers! I would have written a few zingers about these guys until I realized, I have no idea who any of these people are nor what they do…

Kevin Stewart Panko, thank you for being here! Ladies and gentlemen, Kevin is an author, contributing writer to Decibel Magazine, and a douche-bag! That’s some career you must be having if you were willing to associate with this line-up of bums we got here. Decibel Magazine, huh?! That’s kind of like Hit Parader, only with inverted crosses instead of lipstick and mascara.    

Brent Webb is also joining us tonight, folks… (Just in case anybody cared!)Brent is the editor of Dirt Merchant fanzine, another piece of shit that nobody without webbed fingers would read.

Joining us tonight also is the great Adel ‘156’ Souto. I’m glad to see him in Miami again for this shindig. I had a couple of good jokes on him, but I tossed them because… well, he scares the shit out of me. The motherfucker is disturbing. Have you ever seen feastofhateandfear.com ?

The great Rich O’Brian of Darkside NYC is here tonight all the way from Brooklyn, New York. I understand that Rich is a huge fan of Celtic Frost… and from looking at the size of him he must also be a big fan of Celtic frosting. Rich is such an Irish drunk that last time he took a breathalyzer the buzzer played “Danny Boy”. But enough of me going on about these losers... Let's start this piece of shit show so I can go back on tour and partake of juicy, sweaty road-pussy...

Our first roaster is from the great state of Kentucky where nothing spells lovin’ like plantin’ seed in your cousin… Give it up for Brent Webb of Dirt Merchant fanzine…       

 I will try and make this snappy so that all you human fucking tapeworms can get back to your heroin, kiddie porn, and American Idol. My Grandaddy had lots of old country sayings, one of my all time favorites was  "Joke em if they cant take a fuck!" Try and bear that in mind as we move on ahead.  What an honor it is to be doing this thing alongside such revered and respected members of the metal community! Proud as fuck to be sharing the podium with the guy from DARKSIDE NYC. Now I know I`m supposed to be up here talking miles of shit, but this po' dumb ass country boy is smarter than that. I know better than to fuck with these crazy Yankees. I got hold of some of your stuff back in the tape trading days, chock full of that trademark NYC bleakness and ferocity.  Also we got TORCHE in the house. I hope the tour you guys recently did with KEN MODE went well. I caught TORCHE at a fest called EMMISSIONS FROM THE MONOLITH in Youngstown Ohio back in 2005. We got a huge name here with us in professional metal scribe and published author Kevin Stewart Panko! He was kind enough to review the first issue of DIRT MERCHANT  in MetalManiacs (R.I.P.) back in October 2007. Being featured in the Zine And Not Heard section was indeed a high honor, and for a little bit there I felt like John fuckin Grisham. Check out the dude`s new book, and read his stuff monthly in DECIBEL magazine. Thank you for all that you do sir, say hello to Bret "the Hitman" Hart for me, and please dude, no more stupid fucking haiku poem album reviews. Seriously man knock it off, nobody reads that shit. Now that the bland, bullshit introductory pleasantries have been exchanged lets get on with it...

 Listen up assholes! This occasion marks a  very sad moment in our brief, cruel, future-less existence on this doomed planet. We are here to bid farewell to a legendary, iconic,and metal as all fuck fanzine  TALES of PERVERSION. This senseless waste of paper was unleashed upon us by a being known only as Pig Latin, his real name lost forever in a low hanging  fog of regret and reefer smoke. We live in an age where printed media is dying a long, slow, agonizing death. Pig Latin is that dude who wants and needs to desecrate its withered corpse before it finally goes tits up and feet first into the church. He is not unlike that annoying, skeevy, long lost loser relative who wants to divide up and pawn Granny's jewelry two weeks before the old bitch is even dead. In TALES of PERVERSION`s mercifully brief run, we learned that drug-fueled delusion, Satan, and piss poor design can sometimes mesh well together, just not in this zine.   I can remember a time  in this once great nation when fanzines used to uphold high standards, and used to actually mean something. Unfortunately my friends, that era is as dead as Dimebag.  This is what we get, and what we deserve for outsourcing this precious commodity to commie, dope pedaling, parasitic, probably gay, job stealing  immigrants like Pig Latin. If peopleofwalmart.com has taught us anything it is this: Florida is the epicenter of the U.S.A.`s  fucked-up-ness. That is a shit ugly thing to say, but its a sober fact that can not be disputed or denied. Miami in particular is a festering, itchy, weeping shanker sore on the so called sunshine state, or as Homer Simpson called it "America`s wang." This is the very same cultural void that shat forth the likes of: 2 Live Crew, Gloria Estefan, Ricky Martin, Barry Gib, Ben Vereen and elected Jeb Bush. It is a land rife with slow driving coffin dodgers, dickhead cops, fratjock spring breakers,   Disney cultists, and garbage strewn beaches. Its chief exports are dope, skin cancer, death metal, and the greasiest pulled pork sandwiches on the planet. God chose to smite the place with giant invasive man eating snakes and tons of BP petro-sludge for a fucking reason people!  Those bein' the facts, I have no trouble believing that a pile of foamy dog puke such as Pig Latin hails from this god forsaken place. (my second guess would naturally have been Ohio.) My detailed and extensive knowledge of this city comes from  reruns of Dexter, Miami Vice,  Golden Girls, and COPS, so it's safe to say I know what the fuck I'm talkin' about!!

    I am told by my sources that Pig Latin is Cuban, motherfucker probably floated over here on a chicken wing or a beach ball or something. I am certain that as soon as he washed ashore he began to spread his Castro backed agenda of anchor babies, welfare fraud, coke dealing, sexually-suggestive dance moves,  and the erosion of the capitalist system from within. All of this while poisoning the American youth with his propaganda in the pages of TALES of PERVERSION. President Kennedy shoulda nuked that fucking place off the map back in 62 when we had the chance!

    TALES of PERVERSION taught its readers many important things about life. It showed us all that you do not need journalistic integrity, tact, or even real bands and real interviews to create content. You WILL NOT find such tripe in the pages of my fine publication DIRT MERCHANT. Truth be told Pig Latin has been ripping me off for ideas since day one! Honestly the man is a shameless hack, the rat fuck stole all my best ideas. Fake interviews: stolen from my issue # 4.  His fake bands: stolen DIRECTLY from me!Ever hear of misogynist Bullit county KY black metal gods OVARIAN FROST ?? What about TRANNYFORCE, Louisville`s groundbreaking transgender speed metal band?? Ever heard of MANHAMMER?? Hardin county correctional center`s only acoustic power metal trio? OF COURSE YOU HAVN`T YOU DUMMYS, I MADE THE SHIT UP!! Bad cut and paste layout: check. Heavy emphasis on self hatred and porn: check. Brainsick rants and useless top ten lists: check.  Phony sponsors selling phony products: check. The list goes on and on, I can not cut a silent fart without this guy smelling it. Pig Latin, quit trying to be me! You can stop telling me how great I am because I already know. This type of shit is what your  150 $ an hour shrink refers to as "Displacement." Look it up next time you`re in his office weeping like a child who finds her dog dead in the road.

     TALES of PERVERSION was not a good zine, or even a well liked zine, but it was definitely a zine. It is right and fitting that it now takes it rightful place in history`s unmarked mass fanzine grave.  A blindfolded chimp with a pencil in his teeth coulda done a better job than this.  I will always treasure it, especially when I need to roll a doobie on something, or require some apocalypse T.P.  If I ever have an unwanted house-guest, lingering like an elevator fart, Ill just hand them a copy and soon enough they'll leave. Without question this man is a danger to both the living and the dead, and It saddens me to know that Pig Latin`s mission is far from done. In all likelihood we have not seen his last satanic commie hate rag, and rest assured that his blog will continue to reek up the interhole for decades to come.  He does this shit for the same reason all scumbag perverts do, he is compelled. Like the death flies swarming on a starving African child`s face, he will never truly be satisfied.  He has come way too far to ever turn back, and perhaps one day death will stop his incessant yattering once and for all. I seriously fucking doubt it though.  Each passing day he sucks away precious oxygen that kids and puppy dogs could be breathing. Like many of you reading this he routinely siphons away valued time and resources, yet contributes nothing. Pig Latin I suggest you contemplate your sick sad life by listening to THE QUEEN IS DEAD on repeat while you  re-hydrate by drinking your own tears. I hope its not too harsh to say but, you should be dragged through the streets behind a herd of horses that have diarrhea. You should be killed until you die from it, decapitated, and then taken to be tortured. If there is any justice at all in this fucking world you will perish unloved, unmourned, and forgotten. Your mortal husk then dumped in a featureless grave marked only by crabgrass and dead weeds, banished  back into the oblivion that birthed you.  By the way dickbag, I still have not received my TALES of PERVERSION T shirt size girly XTRA small. ( ONLY 99.99$ plus 10$ shipping and handling!!) Please get it to me soon. I feel I`ve been very patient in this matter. I've  said my piece, thanks for reading it.  And now, if yall will kindly excuse me, I`m due in court. Suck the shit outta my ass.

Ouch! Holy Fuck, that was brutal... If that's any indication of what's to come...

Alright, Brent Webb everybody, let's give it up... I thought he'd never stop type-yapping. Anyways, our next guest is known for his extremely boring music reviews in Decibel Magazine and his excellent column Zine Police… Please welcome, Kevin Stewart Panko…

[I see that] Brent from Dirt Merchant is here. Well, at least we think he is. He could walk in here wearing a gold lamé thong, with “I rape kids for fun, money and fame” tattooed on his forehead, a rainbow-coloured peacock feathered dildo hanging out of his most unholy of orifices and carrying a 4’x5’ sign reading “I’m Brent and I do Dirt Merchant ‘zine” and people would still ask when the fucking appetizers are going to be ready, goddamnit. As someone who reads ‘zines and has done ‘zine columns for a host of other ‘zines and glossy-ass metal publications for over umpteen numbers of years, I think I remember reading an issue of Dirt Merchant once. It’s also pretty obvious I’ve forgotten I read a Dirt Merchant once. For shits and giggles, I did a Google search on said literary masterstroke and every link that came up was either broken or abandoned. It’s like no one wants anything to do with Brent and his creation. Not only that, but no one even wants to admit to knowing anything about him on the internet – the place where fuckwads of all stripes, shades and illegal compunctions can find a community to rally around them. But not Brent. No one gives a fuck. You probably don’t and probably shouldn’t start either.

 I guess Adel 156 Souto can be viewed as a respected and ongoing contributing member of the ‘zine community, in the same way Pig Latin is respected amongst the scab-riddled prostitutes he frequently “dated” while eking his way through community college. Honestly, Adel has been on the receiving end of more recognition and respect than any ‘zine anyone here has ever done has received – especially u-no-hoo - so good on ya, man. Not that we’ve ever met, or that I know you or anything about you. But, in trying to find out a little about the man, what I did discover was that Adel was the former frontman for Timescape Zero, a blip on the pimply afterthought of the extreme music timeline known as 90s Florida hardcore. If Bird of Ill Omen and Dragbody were cohorts and indication of what Timescape Zero sounded like, I think I’ll pass, much like much of the rest of world has.

Rick Smith from Shitstorm and Torche hosting tonight...

This is one of those moments when I’m reaching to fall into the party line – the party line being a bit more cantankerous and insult-based than regular party lines, mind you - and the task at hand. I’ve been a massive fan of Torche since day two. Yes, I can admit that I don’t own any of the answering machine recordings Rick, Steve Brooks, Jonathan Nunez and original guitarist Juan Montoya left one another in the discussions when forming Torche, or the pre-first album demos or the original bed tracks that Mr. Smith “inadvertently’ leaked via file sharing to some German dude. Let’s remember that Herr Whoever probably thanked him in the process of accessing his computer and buried some kiddie scat porn up in them electronic guts. However, I do remember Andy at Robotic Empire sending me an advance of the first Torche album and I’ve been a massive fan ever since. Rick’s a thunderously fucking amazing drummer, so I can’t shit on the guy for being the backbone to various years of rocking out as well as the background music to my many failed attempts at beach volleyball, picking up sluts in bikinis and drinking 20 beers in the sun and trying not to pass out/get sunstroke/dehydration. Shit, I even like Tyranny of Shaw (and no one liked Tyranny of Shaw) and can tolerate Shitstorm, though I may have fallen asleep during their set at Dudefest a few years back. So, there’s not a lot I can rip on Rick about. Except maybe telling him to stop taking his shirt off during Torche shows no matter how hot it gets. No one needs to see that. Seriously dude, you run the risk of turning Brooks straight.

Pig Latin tells me that Rich O’Brien was a member of “cult NYHC legends” Darkside NYHC. Shit, when did Webster’s change, nay totally abridge, its definition of ‘legend’? Should have known; taking musical recommendations from Pig Latin is about as good an idea going on sex tourist vacation to Haiti without condoms.

And now for our guest of dishonour…This dude loves jerking off over the sign of the Baphomet, jerking off at porn shops while on drugs, jerking off onto any album recorded previous to 1987, jerking off on the pock-marked mugs of street-bought hoochies straight outta Hialeah…I could go on, and he does so much so that we can only assume his stomach hair and skin are as crusty as the stink hole from which he was birthed. Pig Latin has made no bones about openly describing and embellishing the most minute, horrifyingly dark and embarrassing details of everything that has ever happened to him in his life. He’s done this continually over the course of however many issues of his ‘zine that no one read, except yours truly, the biggest sucker out there, it would seem. Sure, it was all good and fun for a read during those moments you’re unleashing one of those watery dumps that just doesn’t stop and helped confirm that there’s someone out there who’s life is more fucked up than mine, but at some point you gotta do the right thing. So, when the city I live in expanded its recycling program, I offered up the numerous copies of his collection of sordid tales put into ‘zine format for use in demonstrating what goes in the recycling and compost boxes. There’s a huge list of anti-social behaviour that Pig Latin himself offer up as fair game for this little good natured rip ‘n’ tear, but he’s already spilled so many beans on his own dime that having any of us roast him is like calling the kettle black. Though having Pig Latin calling anything black is pretty ironic, that racist motherfucker.

Our next guest is a musician, writer, and will probably be seen on A&E channel at some point when they profile him on Weirdos and Lunatics week... Please welcome, the one, the only, Adel 156 of Feast of Hate and Fear Zine...

Look, this is going to be short because, while half of the time I don’t know what I’m talking about, this half of the time, I don’t know who I’m talking about.Years ago, I get some rag in the mail, titled Tales of Perversion, with a love letter by some street cat who goes by the name Pig Latin. I got out of town quick, but Issue Two soon found its way to me.Who knew it would last so long? I had no clue who or what was sending me this trash, but once the detective I hired had shown me photographs of what a greasy Spic my soon-to-be stalker was, I understood the pseudonym.The mag was a hodgepodge of puns, and more anal worship than Satanism. All the wrong things with the black-clad crowd. My sensibilities were hurt, and Mr. Latin

and his crew had not only gotten my goat, but were ready to sacrifice her! I had to scram. All that I loved was at stake.By Issue Three, I was doing the normal thing stars of my caliber do: write mascara-stained letters soaked in tears, begging that Pig just stop it, and leave me alone. But no, the heartless bastard continued with ad after ponderous ad of fag jokes, and review next to review dropping the “r” from “nigger”, so he doesn’t get beat up when he shows that pig nose at Churchill’s Pub.

Finally, to get away from a crazy ex, I hid, and hid well. This swine tracks me down like a truffle, and sends Issue Four. After the most tedious read of my life, I left it in the tattoo shops bathroom, where months later I flipped through it, found pages missing, and knew Tales of Perversion was finally being used for what it was truly meant for: toilet paper. As any other great magician would, I sent out a psychic vibration, while

sitting on the can (some of the most powerful magic around), resonating to him what I had discovered, and he got the message.

I blame myself for the death of this fanzine. Hurray, and shame on me! I hope Pig Latin dies along with it, but I’m certain any day now I’ll be mailed the newest cassette from Porkie and the Peepholes, or some other crappy gothic-blackmetal-punk hybrid he’s trying to infect all our ears with. Like mites, he will get in. Treat him as such.For future reference: burn the packages before you even open them.

Our next guest is from New York Hardcore outfit Darkside NYC... Make sure to check out their upcoming double album Optimism is Self Deception... If you do check it out, well, then I guess you'd be the one solitary person that gave a shit... Please welcome, the Irish Dandy, Rich Ooooooo Brian!!!!

I never knew people from MIAMI could be as soft as Pig Latin over here.

This nigga's softer than a nerf dildo. If you punch him, you don't even break nothing. Your fist just sinks all the way in, and after you yank it out, you get to watch the imprint slowly disappear again. Like those memory foam mattresses and shit. What no one can actually explain is how he got those hand grip marks around his love handles that are damn near permanent.

Pig Latin? More like Fig Newton. Ay yo, this greasy bastard sweats like a god-damned pig, so maybe that's where he got his nickname. Some slobs have ring around the collar. This muthafucka's just like one big yellow stain... with a petri dish of yeast in every crevice. This prick wakes up with mushrooms sprouting out his blubber creases.

Pig Latin looks like a rejected casting call wannabe for “Chico and the Man”. Or maybe “Welcome Back Kotter”. I can’t say Fame, cause he has no specific talent!

Unless you could call being WACK as FUCK a talent!! Well, then… I must say we’ve got ourselves a helluva show tonight.

As far as musical tastes go, I suppose there's "muthafuckaz" with MORE estrogen... but he up there. You can just picture this dude with his techno-ass shit on:

*BOOP BOOP BOOP BOOP*

Nodding his head, twirling his fingers in front of his face, making kissy-face expressions. 

Feathers popping out of the woofers. Handclaps. Synth hooks. Shit that make "What Is Love" sound downright evil.

Hey Fig, those loops got the sugarplums and fairy dust spinning around your head like a homo halo!

Look at him. The only muthafucka who "Rick Rolls" himself. On purpose. Repeatedly.

This nigga's itunes playlist is like an 11-year old girl's diary. Then he starts blabbering about Agnostic Front and Black Sabbath, but DUDE WE ALREADY KNOW! In all fairness, it's cute that you recognize a Sabbath song when it comes on the radio. I mean, there's only like 2 you can identify, but it's a start at least.

I heard you were straight-edge once. Not particularly "straight" nah mean hahaha, but when you start a gang called the fuckin' Jolly Ranchers, it almost goes without saying!

Let's see... Naming yourself after something you suck on, that melts and shrinks to nothing? Do I even have to TELL jokes or could they write themselves at this juncture?

It's like:

"HOLY SHIT, THE HELLS ANGELS ARE AFTER ME"...

"OH MY GOD, THE BLOODS AND THE CRIPS WANT ME DEAD"... 

"Ummmmm... Errr... The Jolly Ranchers are on their way?" 

Uhhhhhhh, we'd better get THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!!!!! Dump your beers quick!

So Fig Newton asks me to “roast” him. (Isn't he more of a deep-fried kinda nigga?)

Well he asked all his friends, and apparently he doesn't have very many, cause all I see on the panel are assorted freaks and weirdos from different states and shit. Like, have you actually ever met any of these people in real life??? I mean, look at who you got to do this shit!!!

Adel 156. He played in a band called Timescape Zero which, with a name like that, sounds like it might be innovative.

Well, it WASN'T, but it could have been…

So then he's into interviewing SERIAL KILLERS... But he's too scared to actually go INTO a prison, so he does everything over the phone or by letter. Not exactly Norman Fuckin Mailer, are ya?

Cause, ya know, Ramirez was just such a fascinating fucking dude! hahaha

Did you pose as a woman and offer him a conjugal visit to get him to answer your letters?

I’d say more about Adel, but after finally reading some of the shit he wrote on his Feast of Hate and Fear blog, I’m actually thinking I should be quite terrified of him. 

Then there’s this Kevin Stewart-Panko guy who writes for inferior metal publications? How's he so friggin important? He's still bitter about that time he tried to interview Slayer and Kerry King made him cry!

Bro, it's really hard to bounce back after some shit like that, but you can't just GIVE UP! Are you seriously calling yourself a journalist when you're only interviewing new bands, cause the established ones are "meanies"? You're weaker than furry handcuffs and bunny slippers, G.

So then he starts writing his own fuckin blogs and shit. Talking about his favorite metal albums like Bullet For My Valentine and Avenged Sevendust are better than Venom and Possessed, to stir up some controversy. Then he goes and comments on his own shit to make it look like he got more followers.

May as well just stick to writing reviews. You know how the Source gave out mics? You can be like 2 balls, 3½ dicks, etc.

My Canada made Voivod; yours: Nickelback.

Which brings me full circle back to the wack as fuck homie who keeps insisting he be referred to as "Pig Latin". 

You filthy animal, scrub behind those ears you greasy Cuban Rican. And trim your mushrooms.

So some unsavory characters recently broke Fig’s windows outside of Churchill’s. But they didn’t take nothing.

Cause he was too bummy to hang a “no radio” sign up? haha

There were some chicken bones arranged in a circle on the dashboard, so it could have been the voodoo. It is “Little Haiti” after all… Maybe they were looking for some dirt biscuits. Or then again, it could have just been Adel playing a practical joke!

Speaking of guys who need to stay away from Little Haiti, there’s Brett from Dirt Merchant. Actually maybe if he hired some guys, he could get a little side business happening.

“Ladies and gentleman… yo yo yo !... I got zines… I got biscuits… Here’s the new issue with Wyclef on the cover!”

Haitians can’t break HIS side window; he’s already got a burlap sack duct-taped over his shit.

Actually I just said that to be funny. Tractors don’t have fucking side windows!

Just don’t leave it parked with a full tank. Someone may come around and siphon out the gas, thereby reducing the vehicle’s value by 75%.

The problem with Appalachians – well besides that they live in Appalachia – is that even the straight edge vegans have meth mouth. Must be all the Mountain Dew – that shit’ll kill ya!

Mountain Dew is even sold in the baby aisle down there. “H-uhh… Enfamil? – Whut duh fuk iz DAT?”

Hey give em SOME credit for not letting kids drink moonshine til they’re 8.

Also, can’t forget that in most counties, foreplay consists of sliding off a saddle.

Brett’s been talking mad shit lately, but I don’t believe a word of anything that comes outta his mouth. Dude lies right through his tooth.

And what about Rick Smith. I didn’t even wanna roast this guy, I felt so sorry for him, but Fig Newton begged me to.

Plays in a band called Torche.

Uh… WHAT?

Don’t you think he shoulda come up with something more befitting?

How about… FLASHLIGHT APP?… or Weak-Ass Lighter?

You think Brett Dirt Muncher listens to Torche while he’s sitting on his ‘porche’... spitting into his spittoon?

To be totally honest, I never even heard of this band. So I went on Wikipedia and it said their music “provides a wide range of emotions”. I totally get that. Apathy, indifference, extreme boredom…

Torche – HA! Don’t pass it to me.

Rick Smith apparently moonlights in tougher, crustier bands such as Shit Storm and Mehkago NT in an attempt to preserve some sense of machismo. I can’t say if it’s working exactly, but ya gotta give credit for trying!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Man, I just really don’t understand how I get involved in shit like this. Really, I don’t.

Fig Newton sent me copies of his zine, trying to impress me and shit. I was like "Cool. An actual printed zine." Til I open one up...

Tales of Perversion indeed. I pull it out of my bag on the subway, and I hadda slam it shut! People were looking at me FUCKED UP!

I mean, Satanic cartoons, animal sacrifice, torture porn notwithstanding... this ain't family-friendly to begin with! But then ya hadda go and put cocks on every page?  You're like ANSWER ME! with floral flip-flops and a pleated skirt on.

If this is your idea of a swansong, you know where you can shove the dove.

Wow, kind of brutal... Well ladies and germs, a very high bench-mark has been set by this performance given here courtesy of this strapping ginger lad, who from my angle looks like a young John Candy... if he had been from Tromaville. And now, ladies and gents... the man of the hour... From high atop the Tales Of Perversion Black Ivory Towers of Doom, Despair, Desolation, Destruction and Depressive Black Metal... Our Lord And Fucking Master...

Pig Latin!!!!!!!

Thank you, Rick. The great Rick Smith of Torche, ladies and germs! That’s pronounced Torch, not ‘tor-chay’ as the alternate spelling might suggest. The “E” is silent… as in the word DOUCHE for example! For fuck sake, what’s with the "Harmonicraft" album cover and all those rainbows? You could not have picked a gayer album cover. What’s on the cover of the next record… a treasure map leading to Steve Brook’s asshole?! 
Boy, your ass was given a thorough lathering via the probing tongues of Brent Webb and Kevin Panko! What an ass-smooching those two star-struck little fairies administered to your hairy tuchus! They gave you such a verbal rim-job that your corn-hole probably feels all wet and squishy, but from the looks of that Harmonicraft album cover, that's a feeling that you should probably grow accustomed to... 
Hi-Yoooo!!!
 And by the way, thanks for adding absolutely no delivery to the jokes that I wrote for you! Way to deliver a punchline there, Rick. 

Okay you hacks, time to take your lumps! O'Brian you look like you are composed entirely of lumps... Anyways, You motherfuckers are as unfunny as you are unattractive, unimportant,  unneeded, and unloved...
Look at you mutants! I have never seen a more diverse sampler pack of evolution-forsaken humanoids in my life... Where to begin, where to begin, I guess I'll start at the very bottom of the totem pole...

My dear colleague Brent Webb has joined us tonight, all the way from the bluegrass state. What can I say about Brent Webb and Dirt Merchant zine… except for 
WHO THE FUCK IS Brent Webb and Dirt Merchant zine! 
Brent is so inbred his family tree has no branches. Brent, you’re such a six-toed redneck! This roast was supposed to be a surprise, but Brent gave it right the fuck away by parking his hunk-of-shit RV right in front of the joint!
 That’s how I know Brent is a mega-hick, his home is mobile but the three cars parked on his lawn aren’t… 
 Brent publishes Dirt Merchant, a cut and paste piece of crap with zero material. Hey douche-bag, I’ve seen more content in the results of my last STD test. Write a bit, for Christ sake. 
I steal ideas from you, you say? Bitch please! You have been tugging away at your little tadpole cock to T.O.P. for years before you contacted me. Oh, and such effort you put into writing me a note on the back panel of a Miller 12-pack, just so I'd say "Ooh, he's so wacky". 
Even if I did steal the phony band idea, come on, those corny ass names you came up with combined cannot come near the mighty NEGROPHILIA, or even WINTERFRESH PAGAN MOONBEAM.
 Brent was almost unable to make it tonight because he almost got stuck babysitting. He recently became a dad, so everyone make sure to congratulate Brent…congratulate him that he finally found a woman willing to have sex with him. Brent, let’s face the facts; you couldn’t get laid in a mattress factory. Chaz Bono’s reconstructed clit-cock has more sex-appeal than you, and probably sees a lot more strange trim...
And what was with the word count on your bit? You just bored every reader into clicking out of this roast and straight to YouPorn. 

Kevin Stewart Panko is joining us on this Dais! And no, he's not retarded, he's just Canadian, which explains why he's in Miami in Bermuda shorts, Teva sandals and black socks. The parking valets better not expect a tip from this cheap-skate! 

I'm actually honored that Kevin agreed to honor me this eve, especially considering that he took time from his busy schedule of milking his prostate to the mental sight of Rick Smith playing drums in his musty boxer briefs just to come sit next to an even bigger bunch of nobodies... I'm a big fan of Kevin's writing in Decibel. I particularly like dissecting the actual substance from the filler-fluff that he uses to pad his pieces, done masterfully to satisfy Albert Mudrian's draconian word minimums, which judging by Kevin's inflated hack writing, isn't minimal enough. 
Congratulations on the book, by the way. Kevin's new book talks about his stories about crossing customs while on tour being a merch-table employee/hanger-on to (insert shit band here). Christ, you couldn't even make stories about jamming gerbils up your asshole an interesting read! I'll bet your girl/boyfriend/whatever it is that you fuck gives you a hard time about touring! Hey, that's OK because you probably get to enjoy the make-up sex afterwards... which is when you put on makeup and make love to your self... 

Hey, you like doing Haiku music reviews, huh?! Well, I got a Haiku review of your book:

Panko wrote a book

Gathers dust on distro shelf

Panko's career done...

  Adel Heinz 57 is here, or whatever the fuck your name is. Ah yes, 156, I beg your pardon. What’s the 156 stand for? Is that the number of projects you’re involved in that nobody gives a shit about? Maybe it’s the number of bodies you’ve dissected and buried… you sick fuck!
 Back in the day, the guys would go to a hardcore show, then go painting walls and maybe end up in a strip joint; Adel was busy interviewing serial killers and reviewing snuff porn. Psychopath much?! Hey Adel, if you ever do some fucked up son-of-Sam type of shit I know a safe place you can hide where no one will think to look… in Kevin Stewart Panko’s career. Adel-star69 is the editor, writer and publisher of the legendary Miami zine Feast of Hate and Fear. What’s with the long ass name? I guess that "Banquet of Boring Bullshit" must have already been taken. Here’s a tip jerk-off, don’t give your zine a name that has more syllables than it has readers! 
Adel-OU812 is also a musician. His first work was in the influential Miami hardcore band Timescape Zero. I say influential because every time they played they influenced me to get right the fuck out of the venue! Timescape Zero was a great name, the term Timescape must be a synonym for talent!
Talent Zero... sounds right!
Look at you, you’re disturbing! You look like a Hare Krishna suicide bomber.  Adel 560QAM once did a bit where he taught himself to write with both hands, so now his writing is actually twice as uninteresting. He also did a bit where he stopped speaking for a while... unfortunately, those that read his work are still waiting for him to do a bit where he stops writing...

You know what else the 156 could stand for? Rich O’Brien’s blood alcohol level! The great Rich O’Brien has graced us with his presence on this Dais. Rich is a great talent, and one of the driving forces behind the classic second wave New York Hard Core band Darkside NYC!

 He was such a driving force in fact that he drove them right the fuck out of Hardcore and straight into obscurity!

 Rich is the sole lyricist in the band, which explains why the lyric sheets are usually in crayon! 
Rich, you drunken mick bastard, you! Rich is Irish, which means he’s Europe’s version of the Puerto-Rican, and that explains his obsession with forties and his use of the word ‘nigga’. Rich say’s ‘nigga’ so much you’d think he was in the middle of Brent Webb's regression therapy.

No? Too cerebral, that joke?! Okay, how about this one, Rich says nigga so much you’d think he was talking to his liver! That's right, Rich’s liver is so small, shriveled and black that it looks like Sandra Bullock's adopted African baby. Let’s face it, you’ve never seen this guy in public without a cooler full of forties. Ever heard the saying you are what you eat? Well, Rich has drunk so many forties, he is now shaped like one! Look at you, you pudgy bastard… You look like a gargoyle from an Irish bakery! You're a disgrace! O'Brian played Miami earlier this month and between us the last time that I saw something that fat, drunk and sloppy Brent Webb was taking IT to senior prom... his fourth senior prom; cause he was a senior four times...  In Kentucky, they call that a doctorate.
Back to you, O'Malley...
Optimism is Self Deception, huh?! 
Well, here's a title for you ...Obesity is Slow Death. 
Maybe you're next band should be called GIRTH CRISIS! 
And by the way, my gang wasn't called Jolly Ranchers like the candy, it was JOLLY ROGERS like the symbol of piracy! But how would you know about pirates, when you're too busy looking for sailors... (pronounced: thay-lors)
You big lummox! Rich is such a moron that he still hasn’t figured out why when his physician checks his prostate he usually rests both hand’s on his shoulder. Darkside NYC’s new joint is about to drop and I’m excited about that, but I’m a bigger fan of the old stuff, you know, when they were called Sheer Terror. Seriously O'Brian, that new piece of shit record is going to suck so bad that Kevin Stewart Panko is going to label it underrated!  I have a copy and I swear that when I listen to it I keep thinking it's the audio reel of my last Colonoscopy. And by the way Rich, your comedy sucks as much as your new album and it's twice as bad as your vocals. Isn't DARKSIDE a prog/dance duo now?

BOOP-BOOP-BOOP-BOOP-BOOP-BOOP

But alas, I stand before all of thee on this stage, still your Lord and Fucking Master after a 7 year reign of literary, fanzine terror! Say what all of thou wilt of my writing style, but none of you dick-zits have ever flipped through a rag like TALES! It is alone in a crowd; a stellar standout in a sea of PC, scene-unity swill. It was Maximum Rock&Roll for those who max smokin' rocks with Hos. TALES was the raison d'etre of every wide-eyed Miami youth who studied its' pages since it's unholy inception by myself, a then 31 year old pill and weed addict, conceived and executed over a weekend in my moms house with nothing but scissors, paste, a bic pen, an ounce of weed, my mom's Diazepam scrip and King Diamond's "Abigail" and "Them" albums. On that faithful eve in 2006, I, your then non-pussy-getting infernal majesty had reinvented the proverbial wheel! I produced the fanzine equivalent of a cure to AIDS, Cancer and Rich O'Brian's pattern baldness in one fell swoop. Even the real Rick Smith, a celebrity (relatively), has given Tales Of Perversion his ringing celebrity endorsement in saying it's "the greatest fanzine ever!"

But where is my due homage? Where is my golden calf to which you humanoids can lay your offerings and obeisances unto me? Where is my Pulitzer prize, my red brick mansion, and three 19 year old Japanese broads chained to the water heater in my basement? 
Where are the wages of my sin?

Oh, this was it, huh?

Who will you all turn to now when that Galapagos-sized turtle-head turns your bittersweet shit-fun into a 20 minute, wall-punching ordeal? 
Since the publishing of Tales Of Perversion fanzine, the hemorrhoid rates have sky-rocketed amongst its double-digit sized readership, since no one can stand to put down TALES and climb off from the poop-throne. Just ask Brent Webb to bend over and you can see the bloody bunch of grapes that hang from his bung- an occupational hazard of being a total devotee of T.O.P, the fanzine also known as STUPIDITY FOR DUMMIES (the King Jaime Version)...

Ultimately, this is true what my colleague Brent Webbed said, TALES will never truly go away. This blog will go on, sporadically, but nonetheless...
 But as for TALES OF PERVERSION in its original formula, printed fanzine form, I lay thee down to rest in a shallow watery grave. Many a suicide will follow this announcement, but that's the point! The destruction of the youth is the prime directive, whether it's moral, spiritual, psychological or physical destruction. I learned that from my old chum Adel Transylvania-5-6000, cultural terrorism! So long as I deliver fresh souls to my master Satan's fiery door, so that he may eat their livers and pick his fangs with their bones, than I've maintained my end of the contract...

So say goodbye to the bad guy, and take a good look, cause you will never see a bad guy like this again bitches and whores... My work here is done...

BEAM ME DOWN, ANTON!