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|Congratulations! You've ruined Christmas!|
obligatory xmas mp3 update. | Tuesday, 12.24.02
And now, my response to a statement made by Corey Taylor, lead singer of Slipknot and Stone Sour, and hero to mall goths the world over.
|I'm on this planet, I'm running amuck.|
I should give a shit, but I don't give a fuck. | Monday, 12.23.02
Corey Taylor: I believe we can do one more album and go out on a high note. But as far as hanging out after we have lost our relevance? NEVER. I got one fucking word for you: GWAR. I will never do that, and I would never let that happen to a band I bled and almost went blind in one eye for, not to mention nearly losing my voice and losing the ability to sing.
|Corey Taylor, modeling Slipknot's new costume for their next tour. Note the "gayness" in the frontal crotch and neck areas.|
Now, I've read this statement a few times, and I can't quite figure out if he's praising the almighty GWAR for sticking around and still being relevant, or if he's attempting to make a mockery of the band which I base my entire existence around. I'll assume the latter, because it's just more fun that way, and Slipknot are about as entertaining now as watching your grandfather soil himself on the Dating Game.
How can a band that has never been relevant lose its relevance over the years? It's not like GWAR was hugely popular for a month or two and then dropped off the planet, like those stupid fucks in boiler suits and store-bought masks. GWAR has always remained below the radar, and they couldn't have it any other way because large groups of people just wouldn't get it. You couldn't get GWAR on the fucking Ozzfest or some equally lame rock-fiasco, because, look out, they have a sense of humor! Can't have that in the angst filled bubble that is "mall rock." Sure they write hateful songs about death and mayhem, but when Oderus Urungus leaves the stage, he becomes Dave Brockie. A real person. I have more respect for that than I'll ever have for the 9,000 members of Slipknot, each with their own number and an absence of personality.
GWAR beg to be taken lightly. They claim to have invented the human race by raping monkeys, for god's sake. Yet Slipknot were always bitching, "We're musicians, all everyone cares about are our masks. That clown guy plays the drums with his face, he's great!" Of course everyone cares about your masks! If you wanted to be recognized as serious and talented artists, you wouldn't hide behind rubber. GWAR, on the other hand, embrace the masks and thrive off the fantasy world they've created. And, at the same time, play some fucking brutal music while drowning their adoring fans in gallons of non-toxic blood and semen. Take off GWAR's costumes, and you'll see a group of talented and intelligent guys who created a name for themselves from scratch over the course of 8 albums, who are as timeless now as they were in 1988. Rip the masks off Slipknot, and you'll see a bunch of brooding metalheads who can't keep their shit together long enough to work on a *gasp* third album.
When this kid in 8th grade made me a mix tape of GWAR's greatest hits, I was afraid to listen to it. How many bands have you fucking feared in your life? That's a band. A group of guys dressed in costumes that I knew nothing about had already instilled an emotion in me, and I hadn't even played the tape yet. I can remember hiding the tape in my room, so my mom wouldn't see one of the song titles scrawled across the back: "Penis I See." I nearly wore that tape out before buying what would become one of my all-time favorite GWAR albums, "This Toilet Earth." And, to this day, they're the only band that I've consistently listened to throughout my teenage years and into adulthood. I sold my Slipknot CD for $5, and haven't missed it once.
So, sure, this was just an excuse to pledge my allegience to GWAR in a public forum. But I laughed out loud when I read that statement up above, then I just felt sorry for poor Corey Taylor. That country song that he wrote for the Spiderman soundtrack really rocks, in a "I like rock music that even my retarded stepbrother from Arkansas can enjoy." But GWAR was around long before the mamalukes in Slipknot bought their masks at K-Mart, and GWAR will be around long after the mamalukes in Slipknot return their masks to K-Mart while picking up job applications. Hail the mighty brothers of GWAR!
I am awesome at cheating. And I'm horrible at studying! We're on a crash course for wackiness when these two factors collide, let me tell you. Why, I get to play lots of Capcom fighting games while real students do all the work for me! And when Rachel is in a class with me, forget it. I nearly bore a hole through her desk with my intense Scantron glare during our Environment & Man exam yesterday. And while I am the greatest cheater who has ever lived, I get real paranoid during the act, and I assume that 80 rows of students behind me are passing judgment on my uneducated ass. Then I remember that no one knows who I am, and I wouldn't be able to comprehend their slings and arrows because I'm not boriqua. Although, I can "dance the salsa," and I'm fantastic.
|Put your pencil down and step away from the desk!|
cheating through life for cash and prizes. | Friday, 12.20.02
I'm a journalism major. Give me a paper to write and I'll bullshit my way out of it, no sweat. One time I had this History exam about some war or something, and I filled up seventeen bluebooks with a dissertation on D.J. Tanner's influence on homosexual voters. And without studying, without even reading the question properly, do you want to know what I got on that exam? Actually, I'd rather not talk about it. BUT, I entered my blue books into the D.J. Tanner fan club, and got a life size poster of Candace Cameron! It covered most of my room, because, you know, Candace Cameron is dangerously obese, but hey, free poster.
So, I'm basically a one trick pony with an oversize poster who'd rather pick stuff out of his nose than study for exams. And usually, I get away without getting caught. If you're worried about cheating off that hot stud sitting next to you, don't worry. Look at the way he's filling in those little bubbles with his number two pencil. He's practically giving you the answers. Not cheating off him would be an insult to both of you, and god knows you're insulted enough. So kids, follow your dreams, stay away from drugs, and maybe, one day, you can get a life size poster of your favorite ABC sitcom star. Maybe even Cousin Balki!
|How My Ear Bacteria is Stealing Christmas|
WHAT'S THAT? I'VE GOT SWIMMER'S EAR! | Sunday, 12.15.02
*Sigh*, it's Christmas. My multicolored Walgreens lights are flashing merrily around the room; Rachel lies snug in my bed, visions of sugarplumbs dancing in her head; Clark W. Griswold just received his Jelly of the Month Club certificate on TV... it's Christmas. In a way, I've received my own Christmas bonus this year: a set of leaky, puss-filled, delicious-smelling, bacteria-ridden outer ears. God bless us, everyone! See, I wasn't kidding in my last update, my ears are the devil, and they're hell-bent on destroying my last remaining Winter Break.
|Be the first to own this very special tmh.com Christmas collector's plate. Each hand numbered, suitable for eating-off-of plate features a likeness of my swollen, bacteria laden ear and a certificate of authenticity. Act now and receive my suitable-for-framing ear droppings.|
When the doctor used the magical Viewmaster that allows him to see into my ear pipes, he nearly stumbled over backwards into a house of cards, a pane of glass and a beautifully decorated wedding cake. I'll never understand why these highly breakable items were in a doctors office, nor will I understand the levels of shame this doctor put me through.
DR: So I hear your ears are giving you problems, son.
DR: All right, let me just have a lookse -- OH DEAR GOD!
DR: Nothing, nothing. You don't happen to use Q-Tips... in your ears, do you?
me: Why, yes. Yes I do, Doctor. Using Q-Tips keeps the devil out, they do.
DR: You listen to me like you've never listened to anyone else before. Never, and I mean never, ever, use Q-Tips without the expressed, written consent of Major League Baseball.
me: But Doctor, I...
DR: *slaps me across the face* You fool! Q-Tips merely jam the earwax further back into your skull until you have a pain so focused and intense that not even Batman could stop it.
me: Doctor, you're scaring me.
DR: Just be thankful you can't see into your godless ear canals.
So here I am, three days after my shameful doctor visit, and I don't feel any better. I'm taking Amoxicillin and Cipro ear drops. Yes, that Cipro. The stuff that fucking sends Anthrax packing can't unclog my toilet-water-ears. That's great.
As a senior in college, this is the last Winter Break I will ever have, and instead of caroling and donating creamed corn to homeless kids, I'm flaking my dried ear goo all over the place. My meds run out on December 23rd, and I swear to baby Santa, if I have to celebrate Christmas morning with two ears full of sewage, I'll throw a fucking fit. The second my ears unclog, I'll post and update, and you can all send me cards and toys.
|Ain't nothin' in this update but ears and queers.|
... and the NBC hit Cheers. But mostly ears. | Thursday, 12.12.02
Did you know that if you put your ear up to my right ear, you can hear the ocean? It's true! Well, actually it's not true, but let me explain. I had this massive ear clog up thing last night, and all I can hear is the white.noise static of my brain and the goo it swims in. How I long to hear the children next door screaming bloody murder (actually, they scream "Daddy, stop hitting me" more than "bloody murder," but who am I to judge?) or cars beeping at me as I drive along sidewalks and into laundromats.
|I pulled this out of my ear last night. That's normal, right?|
My ear clogged up while watching South Park at Rachel's house last night, and I didn't really care since usually the clogginess goes away in a few hours. Little did I know that I would be sitting in bed from midnight to 3 in the morning doing "stupid ear tricks" to drain my ear of slime. I should have just slammed a funnel into my ear canal and poured in some Liquid Plumr right quick. Not to unclog the blocked passage, but to kill me in my sleep so I wouldn't have to deal with the incessant 'whoooooooosh' noise that makes it difficult to live.
I tried everything: the "overexaggerated and prolonged yawn," the "fake gum chew," even the "hold onto your nose and blow as hard as you can until you feel lightheaded and fall down ten flights of stairs" trick. None of them worked. I won't even attempt to stick a Q-Tip in there, for fear that I won't be able to feel resistence, and the small stick will be lodged in my brain like some grotesque Steve Martin gag. Then when people would ask me to "pass the salt" or "hand me that thing," my only reply would be "Cuuuueeeeee - tiiiiiip." Because... you know... the Q-Tip would be... lodged in my... brain. Right.
Now if you're my ear, and you're reading this, do me a huge favor: don't pretend like you're going to unclog, and then clog back up again. I'd start to hear that crackling noise, the noise that signifies that everything's going to be ok soon, only to be denied by another crackling noise that signifies the loss of one of the five senses, and I ain't talking about smell, yo.
As much as I love the sound of food being transformed into a paste suitable for swallowing, or the sound of shower-water pelting off my head, I think it's time for my right ear to quick fucking around and get back to hearing stuff that goes on outside of my skull. You hear that, ear? Of course you don't, you flappy piece of shit. Fuck it, where's my drill?
This just in from the "Hooray for Organized Religion" Department...
|So, wait, Santa isn't dead now?|
And... hold on, Santa was alive at some point? | Tuesday, 12.10.02
"A vicar has apologised for telling children at a Christmas carol service that Santa Claus was dead. He also told the congregation at St Mary's Church in Maidenhead it was impossible for so many presents to be delivered in such a short space of time. The Reverend Lee Rayfield, of nearby St Peter's Church, has now admitted he made a terrible mistake."
Merry Christmas, kids! After delivering his sermon, the vicar anally raped the Easter Bunny and told the congregation that all of their birthdays were cancelled this year. He also told them that Jesus was dead, too, but nobody seemed to care.
When questioned why he was such a fucking asshole, the Reverend Lee Rayfield replied...
"I made a serious misjudgment of the ages of the children. I did not realise how young some of them were and I am sitting here now wondering how I managed not to realise."
Sources say he also sat there, wondering how he managed not to realise that little choir boys don't like to have their little choir genitals fondled. Who would have guessed? Apparently not this vicar, even though I have absolutely no idea what a vicar is. It's probably some nutty Catholic thing that no one understands. You fucking Catholics with your Hail Marys and the kneeling and the praying and the getting into heaven... bah! Humbug! I'm a Presbyterian, dammit. We don't believe in anything besides bake sales, book sales and baked book sales.
According to the article, "Mr Rayfield is now writing a letter to parents apologising for the incident." The children, on the other hand, can go fuck themselves, since they aren't old enough to throw down some scrilla when the collection plate gets passed around.
I know a lot of young church-going children visit this site daily, and I'd like to deliver a special holiday message to them. So, if you're not between the ages of 5 and 13, and you think god and baby jesus are a stupid waste of time, you may want to stop reading now.
Hi kids. This is John Lacki, founder and co-founder of thismayhurt.com. I know that the Reverend Lee Rayfield would have you believe that Santa Claus is dead, and that Rudolph the Rednosed Reindeer was created by old men in suits at the CBS Corporation and Nabisco Snack Treats, Enterprises. That simply isn't true. Santa Claus is alive and well in the North Pole. Those guys at the malls? Why, they're Santa's helpers, who dress like him, sound like him and claim to be him. Come to think of it, that's kind of weird. I mean, business executives have helpers, too, called secretaries, but they don't dress up like their bosses. That would just be fucking weird. Maybe Santa Claus is dead after all. Anyway, sorry kids, I'm not really sure if the jolly old fat man is dead or not, but chances are he's dead, and your shitty behavior killed him. Merry Christmas! Time to look into Judaism.
Support the Japanese economy and get a free phone from Amazon!
|Samsung S105 vs. Megalon|
A winner is you, Samsung S105! | Friday, 12.06.02
Before getting into the real "juicy" and "juice-filled" bits of this update, I'd like to start off with an impression of my old cell phone, which I have cleverly nicknamed "Broken McShitphone." ahem. "Der, my name is Broken McShitphone, and I rarely work. In fact, 75% of my keys don't dial, and I inject dangerous, cancer-forming toxins into my owner's head."
After two years of dealing with my ass-flavored cell phone, I decided to cave in and pick up a Samsung S105, for free, nonetheless. (Well, it's one of those rebates that take seven years to receive, and by the time you get the rebate, you forget what it was for, and you feel like Samsung just decided to randomly send you $300 for being swell.) I felt bad for my good old Nokia right after I threw it against the wall for looking stupid. I mean, its only crime is not being able to dial properly. And not receiving phone calls. And seven counts of vehicular manslaughter. There it was, lying on the floor in pieces, gently sobbing in two shades of grey. Meanwhile, the new phone exploded in an orgy of colors and Megaman-sounding ringtones that knocked my socks off, folded them, and neatly put them back in my drawer.
The Samsung S105 is great and all, but it definitely reeks of Japanese culture. The thing has a fucking Giga-pet built into it for god's sake. "Konichiwa! Welcome to Samsung Super Happy Anime Super Phone! Press 7 to enroll in cram school! Press 185 to feed your virtual pet! Press 11 to attack Gamera! Oh! Yes! Gamera! *GONG*" That's my phone. It's hard to look hardcore when your phone shows a little ducky walking across the screen as it charges. Fucking Japan. Why don't you just pack some tampons and a rainbow colored bandana with your cell phones? It's just not fruity enough for me without some feminie hygiene products thrown in, thanks.
And now I must part with my trusty Nokia. For what seemed like 8 years, I had this phone for 2 years, and for those years I couldn't dial anyone who had a number "3" in their phone number. It simply forgot what came after '2." I guess I can't complain, since I can't remember myself sometimes... wait a second... my giga-pet requires feeding. Fuck, I think I accidentally killed it. Now my Japanese Tentacle Rape Phone refuses to receive phone calls because it is filled with shame. Thanks Japan.
We take the -Mas out of X-Mas. | Monday, 12.02.02
Give the gift of commercialism and help me get fat paid!
If you're going to buy stuff from Amazon, please click here first!
Well, it's been December for, oooh, I don't know, 48 hours now, and already the worker bees are out on their front lawns hanging up the X-Mas lights and such. My family worships Baal, so we usually don't decorate our house much, besides the dripping cow fetuses and whatnot. There's this one guy in town who actually rents farm animals and lets them graze on his front lawn. I'm not exactly sure why he does this, but it may have something to do with the fact that he's completely lost his fucking mind. He should hire some local actors to act out the birth of baby Santa in the manger. I find it weird that Santa was born in Jerusalem, yet now he lives in the North Pole. I wouldn't think his skin would be able to tolerate the sub-zero temperatues and lack of camels and sand. Although, he has gained about 700 pounds now that he's all up on the homely Mrs. Claus.
|It's Santy Claus! Let's feast on the goodies that spring forth from his throat!|
Of course I'm asking for some heavy artillery this holiday season, and since I'm a spoiled brat, I'm getting everything I'm asking for. Fuck that, I'll be leaving this house soon, I have to get what's coming to me for at least 4 more years. I'm just thankful that my office is too ghetto to set up a secret Santa thingamajigger. Chances are I'd wind up getting a Jay-Z cassette, or a fake gold tooth, or a 6-pack of Colt .45.
I remember being in fifth grade and having to do the whole secret Santa bullshit with the other snot-nosed children. I can't remember who I had, but I'm pretty sure my mom picked up a box of Lego, or something equally ass kicking, for whatever bastard I had to shop for. I remember my friend Joe getting a Metallica t-shirt, but I really remember getting my suck-ass pair of gloves that I couldn't even fit over my pork-ham hands. What mother of a fifth grader buys another fifth grader gloves? Fucking secret Santa. Here's the secret: your present will suck ass, because most of the moms were on welfare. Santa's dead kids, enjoy your government cheese wrapped in food stamps.
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