Fuck off and die

Spending spring break at home, the scribbling of my stupid paper and watching stupid footie sandwiching the stupid ham of stupid darkthroning. Sorry, ladies, this hunk of burning excitement's unavailable, though my wife wishes I wasn't. Zing. Thank you thank you, enjoy the veal, because if you saw the kitchen, you'd know it was your last meal. Badoomboom.

Bonus!



Fenriz freaky channels Sean Harris and Bruce Dickinson. 

Dead Early like 1982 early, Cirith Ungol, Diamond Head, Manilla Road. Ain't black, ain't crust, is Heavy Fucking Metal, all the influences us near-, at-, over-forty-somethings scarfed with greasy gusto, The Ones You Left Behind leaving a heaping plate of end rhymes like 22, Acacia Avenue was whoring its rhythm out to every Norwegian hesher.

Six tracks of classic filtered through the warped skulls of Ted and Gylve, but oh so special mention must be made of thirteen-plus minute closer Leave No Cross Unturned, King Diamond Satanic magic carpeting over boundless epic, dynamic speed, and Oxford commafuls of tempos shifting pitch. What the fuck just happened, Darkthrone just fucking happened. If only I could bellow joy like Kim Bendix Petersen and only you could hear.

Yeah, not so much

Verily, a day about to be wasted vomiting up an on-rails high school paper for a rumored college class. Oh, the gutters we willingly dive into for that shiny bus pass. I feel so dirty, but not very sexy which is probably true of most middle-age hitched dudes but in order to stave off every else's burgeoning vomiting, let me quickly change the vinyl and spin ye something both Halloweenie & oh baby.

Beware the Ides of May

On everything, I've nothing to say. On some things, everything.

See, just like Joey Barton* Byron, minus the expensive threads, faraway sightseeing, freak personal issues & twitter poetick skille duh. En plus, that should totally be on a bumper sticker, ten bucks a pack, no COD or personal checks, put it right next to your Frogger 2012 or I brake for eukaryotes.

*dude, your drunken gifting of Fergie Time to City cost me first place thanks to Diego's fucking s-i-l, you fucking fuck go eat a gangrenous corpse



Look over the horizon, man, chuck city's closer every day, but till then, fun with puritans! 'tis exactly like a trip to Chuck E. Cheese only with grease & tabletop Space Invaders [ed. note: always wanted one of those, hint, hint] replaced by the über-straitlaced laced with hallucinatory ergotism.

Who knew they were such naughty minxes.

Was an illusion

With the first draft of The Paper From Hell: The Sequel having been not-polished in supplication to the Mountain of Shrug from where it can look down upon ye scoffers not-trembling,

let there be rawk.



Who's using who?

Pay no attention to the potpourring behind the curtain

Not very metal unless you're from Yorkshire.

No rose, so any excess cheese is excised before it's grilled, seared as a seal that cannot be peeled, impromptu ceremony marked by the peal of chance. Red,

again, so slip into half-assed research. Once I start. I should. The second pandemonic paper looms, titan bulk, & tales of spattered blood, stray limbs,

& scattered goals. The subject is interest, the process, this process, a hoop with flames of fire, waiting for the messenger on the wind to scatter

foolishness, my trade. Tra la la la -- should there be three, or four? Or just one, Damocles or a mirror'd berserker swinging schadenfreude down?

Up to my neck in dismembered opinions on matters of Import, & things that Matter, clueless as ever, the latter being the worst, for I am selfish, after all.




There. Now I'll feel better for the next 8 minutes & 43 seconds, perfecting just the right amount of steps in my Snoopy dance. Dirges keep wonderful time.

Ye Olde Wheelie Busse Ffolk-lore

Thee fayre haulf of ye Guyld of Peonage nombre XIII hath discouered a veryfyable dragonne's troave of golden bryght-nesse amydst a Donayshun of Constantinian generosytye! Behold & gayze uppon yts Elysian glorie!

That's mighty ominous. What gives?

Answer me, Stroby. Thought only rock stars & South American soccer players one-named themselves into the stratosphere of cool? Think again. Soap opera jokes? Ha ha, chicks.

Hey, know any good Star Trek jokes?

 


Dammit, answer me! Oh, Crown, too close to the sun your dreams hath flown.

 

Oh, that's what gives.

Scared straight.

My blood runs cold.

Angel is the centerfold.

The Great White Weird.

Gives o' nine tails if ye don't pay yr passage.

Upper crust seating is plush.

 



Your futuriffic technology frightens me.

Skynet! I knew it!

Bloody 'ell --

-- knickers, shag, bollocks.

Apologies. The personals were simply too steamy to post.

Porn, pizza rolls, pulpy pages, penalty kicks & prestidigitation, parsimoniously.

O, Mighty Kasich, teach me how to slack whilst lifting loot just like you.

When you concretely know that carved in stone but with the skill of a free market disembodied hand not a haughty unionized (re: teachers, read: teachers, not the educational system itself, don't be daft diploma millerite. What DC United's angriest fan said, but cut the Tweedledums some slack. Tough to read polls when busy getting sexfully massaged by corporate, now back to your regularly scheduled pointless crap) jackhammer that collectively bargained lazy man vacation is on tap but not beer 'cause not a fan for a lazy man, yours truly in case you were wondering & whether you were or weren't I don't give a hoot, hard to give a hoot.

Diagram that sentence, correctly, & you can have one, one, pizza roll. Rumble, rumble, toil & misplaced essays from the library's lost & found! (I miss the worst ever piece on Miles Davis' Bitches Brew LP. What gloriously discordant putrescence that was. Sniff.) What's this, political turmoil in the canal kingdoms? Curses, slacking will have to wait! 

Hup Holland! 

So you thought the Netherlands was a democratic country? You thought human rights were being respected in that little Kingdom by the North Sea? You got it all wrong there. Don't you believe the Netherlands is a friendly constitutional monarchy with happy, loyal subjects tending their tulip fields and polishing their wooden shoes! Beatrix von Amsberg, the present queen, rules her realm like a medieval fiefdom, with an iron fist. Of course, there is a constitution, but in actual practice its lofty principles are not enforced.

Avengers, assemble!

In conclusion, Beatrix the Bilderberger has sound reasons to regard Mr. Lensink as a very dangerous man. His actions and contentions are a threat to the survival of the monarchy. Therefore, she had him locked up in her own version of the Bastille, the Vught Maximum Security Prison.

We must assault the Castle of Chortling Composition! I am prepared to lead the way with my +3 halberd of exclamation points! Sir-Mix-A-Lot, stop your crying! Beatrix the Bilderberger must be stopped! Don't scoff at being easily amused or your heads'll roll, too!



I - like - big riffs & I cannot lie. Tack, svenskar, for praising this glorious day.

Reading comprehension

Oh, fortnight!
















 

Oh! Old Doc Cholera's Doppler Specific says there's a Fearsome Lake Storm 'a brewin' an' if we all put on our Galvanic Chain Belts n' pray real hard to the Lord God Our Creator, mayhap this Storm'll last an'a won't hafta come in to work on Tuesday. Ay-men.

In the news or no, I'll never get tired of this



though what that says about me I have no idea, but one have that I do have is a question, an important one, a query of opinion all for you, gentle readers. In light of the universally applauded comic stylings of Bush the Smarter's offspring, has the once (& future?) gold standard of pretzeldential hijinks been superseded, & if so, is such usurpation temporary or permanent & if so-er, either/or, too early to tell? Inquiring Weekly World News readers want to know.

Couch fishing

Everyone's favorite oral fixate was born on this day a long time ago on a continent far, far away. Let's celebrate by repressing everything. No? Oh, alright, I'll go first. You're all horrible, horrible bastards and it's your fault I've got burnout. Rot in hell.














Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to surf for porn. Relax. Not as if I'm aiding in the downfall of the world's financial system.

Les Mythologiques

What a hypocrite to the end. Not even using his own product, but that's them frogs for you, one minute they're kissing a woman's hand, next their chopping off their heads jeans.

"You know --"

Shut up, I'm hoping enough of them won't recognize that all of my best lines were pilfered with love from a certain animated teevee program. Makes this dump more mythique. Now where did I put that viking helmet and broadsword. Oh, bollocks to you, Thor, it's Roman orgy time. Not you, Burt Lancaster, no dudes. You don't need that toga, babe, pass those french fried frog legs.


















Speaking of orgies, though this one is less sex and more violence, kudos to you, Anthony Sowell, for two reasons: first, for placing Cleveland back firmly in the national consciousness (we're not just flaming rivers, a pustule of a football team and Elliot Ness' torso any longer, dammit) and second, for helping to dispel the myth that only cracker, clown-painting loners with talking dogs grow up to be serial killing wackos.













"Whaddya think's in the sausage?"

"Probably not sausage."

Speaking of murder and mayhem and crimson streams of misery swathed in musical mystique, Slayer, SLAYER, SLAYER, SLAYER, SLAYER!










World Painted Blood opens with the title track gleefully recalling that of Hell Awaits' turgid crawl up from the abyss, with a guitar harmony or three bleeding in the direction of, surprise surprise, NWOSDM. Speedfreak psalms to man's inhumanity to man are spattered throughout the platter: Snuff; the infamous Unit 731 -- silly Japan, atrocities aren't just for Nazis; Psychopathy Red's the Butcher of Rostov, balanced with the creeping slow burns of Beauty Through Order; the apocalyptic Human Strain -- get your flu shots!; the funeral parlor hijinks of Playing With Dolls; the punky, melodic dash of Americon; Public Display of Dismemberment's political puking; Hate Worldwide's and Not of This God's youthful blasphemy.

Ever since the landmark quartet that every headbanger worth his devil sacrifices blonde virgins to, the band has been plagued -- and plagued themselves -- by a classically poor mixing job, some stupid sonic choices, intermittently uninspired songwriting and trying too hard to recapture past fortune and glory. Shooting yourself in the foot is pretty metal, because a bloody wound is the gruesome result, but even moreso is stomping that torn appendage into the grimy filth and letting it get infected so that raging, uncontrollable violence birthed in excruciating pain returns tenfold. Slayer is long past spearheading musical rebellion, or even being included in the discussion of heaviest and/or fastest acts, but for the first time in a long time, one can shred some vocal cords and fucking mean it.



Humanity, you're so damaged.

It's the Great Pumpkin, Randal Graves

Not you, you're the best. And not me, either, shut your piehole, peanut gallery. While my nukyular family and I -- since it's implied that I'm part of said communal unit, did I just square myself and if so, does this mean I now have super powers or at least put an end to the receding of my hairline? -- were watching the stupendously wonderful It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown the other day (don't look so surprised, any show that praises that darkest and most pagan of our festival days is very metal), Doodily asked me what the origin of the slang term 'blockhead' was. Since you're no doubt curious, too, here you go, courtesy of the OED:

1. A wooden head, a wooden block for hats or wigs; hence, a head with no more intelligence in it than one of these, a blockish head. Obs. (This would now be written block head or block-head.)

2. Hence, One whose head is blockish or ‘wooden’; an utterly stupid fellow.

1549 COVERDALE Erasm. Par. 1 Cor. xi. 14 A blockheade that hathe loste the judgemente of nature. 1593 NASHE Christs T. 69b, Bee he the veriest block-head vnder heauen. 1668 CULPEPPER & COLE Barthol. Anat. I. xxiv. 59 Block-heads and dull-pated Asses. 1712 BUDGELL Spect. No. 307 {page}12 Being dismissed as an hopeless Block-head. 1875 JOWETT Plato (ed. 2) I. 222 He might think me a blockhead, and refuse to take me.

Thus, I asketh of thee this All Hallows E'en, that verily thou beest not a blockheade that hathe loste the judgement of nature & thus trusteth in the Lorde & limite thy partakynge of sugare lest ye vomitt up thy innardes for if thou durst, thou canst slawter thy ennemies in colde bludd.

Scrambled eggs

No, I'm not here to sing the praises of breakfast -- All Glory and Honor to Breakfast, Amen -- but scramble for something to throw against the wall. Eggs aren't as good as one would think, for they're far too runny; nature's creepy crawlies they are not. So, let us harken back to the Golden Age of this blog when I used famous birthdays as a posting save because of insidious brain drain, an affliction working on Black Death hyperdrive this week. Wikipedia, ho!

Let's see, Philip II Augustus of France (did a paper on him once upon a time en français, big A, but what do you expect when you slip the prof a twenty), noted limey pervert and artiste Aubrey Beardsley, famous conqueror and hooptician Wilt the Stilt, and a bunch of other people, most of them also dead. Speaking of corpses and blood, Countess Bathory did the mortal coil shuffle way back in 1614, the commies rained on Prague this day in The Year of the Hippie and in 1831, Nat Turner said 'fuck you cracker' and got his rebellion on.

One more thing. Since Americans, like the NCAA, are self-deceiving hypocrites, I suggest that we as a nation adopt one of their practices. The University of Memphis, for using an ineligible 'student-athlete' -- vaguely similar to saying I was hired for my looks instead of my vast repertoire of people skills -- must officially vacate their 38 wins and 2008 Final Four appearance and give back all the loot they earned for such on-courtery. Sure, I know it happened, you know it happened, but it didn't happen. We should do that with the BFEE. Sure, I know there were eight years of fuckery, you know there were eight years of fuckery, but if we officially say there weren't, everything will be fixed, and Hussein X is off the hook for that whole justice gig.

Harboring doubts? Watch and learn, chumps: no, the Browns did beat the Broncos. The Drive never happened, nor did the Fumble. Oh, sweet memories of my youth, how I love you so. See how easy that was? Thank you, NCAA!

Let's celebrate!



If that doesn't make you want to relive those days, you're beyond help.

Lost In Translation

Pestilence. War. Famine. Death.

These ancient horrors pale before --


















Foreign language citations either in-text or in end-/footnotes that are left untranslated for us mono-and-a-half linguists!

The other day, Sherry whipped up a post reviewing the new book by noted Biblical scholar and sometime teevee talking head Bart Ehrman, and this got me thinking of stuff that I enjoy reading, which is, like the Prankster's Bible itself and the characters within -- and some are quite the character. Oh, Yahweh, you little narcissist scamp with all your incessant smiting -- generally old.


















Sniff.

Oh no, not you, big cheesy. Did I say Yahweh? I meant Methuselah.

I destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah so long ago.

No, don't be silly! You're quite the spry deity. In fact, you're a spring chicken.

That's just what every imaginary sky fairy longs to hear.

Relax. I know what the problem is. Gents?



Betcha feel better now, huh.















See, big guy, it'll be alright. Look at that youthful mane. You'll be chatting up the cheerleaders in no time. No last temptation for you, wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

Now that I've dazzled you with purty pictures, here's a bunch of whiny, boring words giving you the chance to escape to sexier pastures. And you people think I'm as cold and heartless as Yahweh.

Specialist texts are the worst for obvious and completely expected reasons, but there are a few kind souls (thank you, Ashgate) that usually translate or at least summarize these bits and pieces. French I can manage, as long as I have mon dictionnaire that's wearing its taped-up-Rocky treatment surprisingly well after years of abuse. It's a miracle!

Latin? The faintest whiff of eons-ago semesters, the Wheelock and dictionary on the shelf, and my increasingly ineffectual noodle make a four-course meal low in sodium and high on migraines. Lucky for me that the English language is one of the world's most accomplished kleptomaniacs, rivaling Bonnie and Clyde, John Dillinger and Dick Cheney.

The only German I know outside of 101 phrases (guten tag, danke, auf wiedersehen, achtung, schnell, Heil Hitler) is this list of likely incorrect sentences leftover from high school: Wo ist meine brieftasche? Ingo ist mein Freund. Ich gehe in die Stadt. Good times watching those theoretically educational 1960s black and white shorts. The first of the three was uttered by a penguin in the lobby of a sparse, noirish hotel towards a quite dapper clerk played by an actor who was obviously high or rivalled Sean Penn's masterful take on Jeff Spicoli. And you thought Deutschland lost its sense of humor while rebelling against The Man with that whole awkward Nazi phase.

Don't even get me started on fucking Arabic. Since Hussein X, Stringy Puppet of the impending Caliphate, is a fluent speaker, I'd give him a call, but he's real busy doing exactly what an American Pretzeldent, regardless of party, is supposed to do. You know, racking up our deepest regrets during The Global War on the Communist Islamic Threat of the Month and sticking it to everyone not currently running a bank or strapping electrodes to a prisoner's nutsack for the fun of just following imperial orders, all while filling the airwaves with nougat goodness.

Let's compare past candy bars, shall we?

Reagan's chewy center: Latin American death squads, Brylcreem and what's a treason?
Bush the Smarter's whipped goo: vomit, video wargaming and Uncle Clarence.
Bubba's caramel goodness: pasty sexcapades, let's let Rupert own everything and gays? ewww!
Chimpy's peanuts: bathtub social engineering, fields of corpses decomposing in the sun and oops! I lost all the money!

At least those jokers made up for such unhealthy ingredients by being near inexhaustible reservoirs of comedy. I can't say the same for our current overlord and, frankly, that's what really galls my bladder.

Stupid Pretzeldent. Be more funny!

Oh, what the hell. Here's a pic of Scarlett Johansson from that flick. No, not the German one. I don't want to be accused of false advertising.



















Almost makes me wanna take up smoking.

Where Am I Now?

As I usually do Saturday mornings at work before yokeldom starts streaming in with their electro-gadgetry and questions about how to operate a copier -- yes, you push the green button embossed with the word Start -- causing me to go into apoplectic fits, and if I don't already have anything special planned --

"As if anything at this dump could ever be qualified as special."















Well, isn't that special.

-- see, even the holy rollers are on my side -- I scour the intertubes looking for something to post about because what else am I going to do? Try reading and get interrupted every 38 seconds right in the middle of a long paragraph when you know damn well that my bibliographic biorhythm isn't like others because I try to shut off, even more so than normal, the ambient dumbassery of my immediate surroundings (this is the world's loudest library; it's in Guinness, look it up. Anyone have a Guinness?) which only gives the appearance of being rude to the customers and as everyone knows, I live only to serve you, the public thirsting for knowledge, I, your master of ceremonies at the traveling freak show just passing by on your mystical journey towards enlightenment.

"You could do some work."

In this top hat and tails?

"You could study for your Monday midterm."

Pourquoi ? Je suis le maître du Français, idiot. So after scrubbing for a bit with some Spic N Span (do they still make that?) I ran across this shot from this story --














-- and contemplated making a not-even-remotely comical Where Are They Now about how one day you're playing sold-out arena shows laying down a ponderously dull bottom end for Ratt, and the next you're providing material support to Al-Qaeda, having been driven there via the rib cook off circuit, apparently one harsh mistress.

"...."

Yeah, I know. Anyway, there was also this picture:














-- and I suppose I could have gone for a Joaquin Phoenix angle, but that's dead and I don't care because I honestly couldn't tell you what he's done outside of Gladiator and I would have to draw sunglasses using Paint and that would take a far steadier hand than I possess, but then I thought, hey, Rasputin, everyone loves the Mad Monk! but then I couldn't think of even a bad joke so I decided to say hell with it and here you go, today's post, but then.

Wait, what's this? Why, it's the legend himself! Rasputin! We're all so glad you could find time out of your busy schedule to visit us!








Мое удовольствие. Я никогда нет к блогу.

And might I add, that's a wonderfully full and manly beard, much more impressive than the pubescent stubble of those ineffectual mullahs.








Вы делаете потеху меня?

Making fun? Perish the thought, I have nothing but the utmost respect for someone able to help bring down the entrenched power structure that does nothing but enrich their coffers upon the broken backs of the people.








Вы оскорбляли неправильное монах, ленивую сволочь.

Lazy? Bum? That hurts, Grigori.

Random acts of senseless posting

Normally, unless I was unwittingly exposed to biological weapons of mass destruction -- a mathematical impossibility given the layers of Billy Mays' Mighty Putty® sealing up all windows and doorways chez Randal -- is anyone else feeling lightheaded? -- or lysergic acid diethylamide in my drink or tetrahydrocannabinol in my brownies -- there's my stash! You have no idea how long I've been looking for it -- I would never post anything about anyone intimately associated or loosely affiliated with The Fucking Yankees unless it was to cast an unyielding torrent of scorn in their general direction, but this bit about now-retired Fucking Yankee Mike Mussina is the exception.

No, not for anything he did, is doing or will do, but for what's mentioned near the bottom: has there ever been a better team name than the Oakland Dudes?











"Walter, he peed on my mitt!"

Being a card-carrying member of the International Brotherhood of Misogynistic Piggery and Piano Tuners, Local No. 103175, I'm quite tearful that I'm at work instead of at home getting ready to watch this. Sigh.


















"Go work on you paper about the cheese-eating surrender monkeys, dear.
I'll be home soon enough."

Thanks, babe. Smooches. At least I'm gaining votes!












"I'm the one that's good enough and smart enough, asshole."

I've been trying to come up with a fourth item, but then realized the best things in life always come in threes: triple plays, three-ring circuses, third eyes, Triple Ententes, triple cheesburgers, menages à trois.

"Keep dreaming."

I do, brain, I do. Okay, here we go: how come all you young people rapidly going deaf with your iPods jammed up to eleven have the worst fucking taste in music?

"You're one to talk, Mr. Satan Murder Death Mayhem."

But at least I don't drop passes on Sunday.

"What the fuck does that have to do with anything?"











Sassafras tea, silly string and shotgun blasts, stupid. It's bad enough that Hussein named closet lesbian, murderer and soap opera starlet Hillary to his cabinet, now he's thinking about an openly gay chick. Super Magical Jesus Baby must be rolling over in his crib. Spin the Tito the Builder mobile to shut his ass up, will ya?

Oh, and Pantone? Go fuck yourself. That's all the world needs. More blissfully happy people.

"Isn't this shit supposed to make you mellow?"

Totally tubular!

And you all scoffed at convicted felon --
















"NO! I still have all my appeals!"

-- damn right you do! Go, you separatist Alaskans, go! And after your good name is cleared, we'll all rejoice. Now that's a country I wanna live in, the United States of Stevens. Wait, we'd have to replace all the logos of the military-industrial-entertainment complex. How about the United Stevens of America? God Bless Stevens!

Anyway, my tubes were tied yesterday and because they weren't working from dawn to dusk, and I, as a general rule, tend to refuse to watch the talking hairpiece brigade on my days off, I watched instead some light British comedy. And given the results of yesterday's election, I'm more convinced than ever that if I had been able to post, the following sonnet -- I use the term loosely -- completed Monday evening, would've been enough to launch the one true candidate over the top, far beyond both McFossil and Socialist Barack Hussein X.

Some demand we all vote for dead commies.
I know folks planning to cast a line for Nader;
still others wanna vote for their mommies --
hey, it's Palin, you gooper masturbator!























Soon the shit will stop for a short, brief, miniscule moment --
here's our chance! pass the berry Metamucil!
Yippee, the Return of the Perpetual Advertisement.
Oh sure, there's the brother or the fossil;


















the former an imperialist, the latter insane.
I'm sure some porn star is running, if that's your gig.
As for me, there's really only one campaign
worth a damn and we don't ever deign to rig.












So pull the lever for Diva or she'll fuck your shit up
so bad you'll be stuck the rest of your days peeing in a cup.

I was further dismayed on the generally half brother, half cracker bus this morning. Aside from not seeing any rioting outside -- don't let the police chiefs of Murka fool you. Win or lose, they riot, you know what I mean, wink wink, nudge nudge -- all those followers of Farrakhan looked the same way they do every morning with their dour masks of despair, knowing full well that another day of toiling for The Man awaits them.

Why are you sad? You all run the world now! You can't fool me, I saw that glimmer of mischievous hope in the corner of your eyes as you prepare to enact Hussein's cracker roundup plan for enslavement and socialist reedumacation in the ways of the Koran.