Feeling Merovingian

You know, long haired, grimy, ready to lop someone's head off.

Show 'em what I mean, granny.


















"Go on, privatize my Social Security, motherfuckers."

Don't forget government cheese. Mmm, government cheese. My grandpa, before he succumbed to smokes and booze, used to get monthly deliveries of those vaguely daffodil-hued bricks, part of his WW2 Pacific theatre anti-sub pension one presumes.















I can't recall my grandpa ever saying 'motherfucker.' Said goddamn a lot, though. And I mean a lot. A cigarette, a can of Goebel(!) and a goddamn was the omnipresent three-course when my sister and I came to visit. We got the processed milk product which actually wasn't that bad, made a decent grilled cheese sandwich. No, I'm not going to paint -- oops, Microsoft Paint® -- up more moldy bread, even though it seems my brain is currently suffering the debilitating effects of such a deviously pervasive colony of spores, after having first been run through a toxic maze of slime, vomit and machine gun abominations, all without the benefit of a roll of string.

I hope the ever-present minotaur doesn't eat my skull -- what a fine bit of English language that is, skull, a syllable of ultimately unknown but decidedly foreign origin, unless the OED was written by a bunch of liars, deceiving us ignorant fools with an initially soft sound before aurally cracking hard and fierce with a whiff of the esoteric, skull, sssskull, SKULL! -- because, speaking to the vast army of my fellow headbanger types out there -- Tom -- here's some new Alice In Chains, a sinewy, overcast monolith that's slowly growing on me like a deviously pervasive colony of spores, just the way it should be motherfuckers; the new dude ain't the eerie Layne, but who is, his rotting corpse notwithstanding?


















A query, ladies and gents: who would win in a fight, Zombie Layne or Zombie Reagan?

"Those are zombie babes."

Those are Zombie Layne and Zombie Reagan, brain.

"Oh, really?"

Yes, really.















"Those are Zombie Layne and Zombie Reagan."

That's what I said. And sure, the former bag o' bones will be dehydrated and lethargic from all that smack, but I figure if he can successfully fend off the latter's perverse pincer assault of strips of decomposing flesh screaming in the melodramatic breeze and volleys of gooey, Brylcreemed clumps of hair -- which he should, in theory, be able to do since the Saint was on the wrong side of 90 when he signed up with the They Always Die In Three! fanclub -- he can stab the former pretzeldent in the marrow with one of the needles strapped around his waste like an old school heavy metal bullet belt.

And as long as Zombie Billy Mays has a ready supply of Orange Glow and Kaboom! to sell, I say let the blood flow, the putrescent flesh quiver and may the best dead, deceased corpse win.