Friday, January 31, 2014

So long, Kyrie, and thanks for all the mope

Don't let the door hit your fat wallet on the way out.

Being a sporting chap, this town sucks. Really is time to hack competition out of the organs, blood on the sangfroid, slippety slop yadda yadda space lord motherfucker. Writing, like rock and/or roll, is a loser's game, so mood-altering chemicals 'tis.

The Fucking Broncos vs. Seattle: Like 37% of all gasbags not named Skip Bayless 2016, my preseasons seasoned just fine. Worship my genius. And, at about 9 10 11 whenever the bloat floats over the horizon to the Azores, cue the hand-wringing choke shit. If Otto's the bismark, and he is, then the loser's on Rushmore. Stupid fucks. Seahawks, 27-24.

Friday, January 17, 2014

Coaches, we don't need no stinkin' coaches

Every Sunday.

♪ Some people call Jim the shit owner yeah
Some call him the gangster of frack
Some people call him Mr. Burns
Cause' I speak of the pompousful hack ♫

The Fucking Patriots @ The Fucking Broncos: Hitler & Stalin, here they come and partisans, hoping for a Lord Boston triumph so he can fail in a fortnight, punch Field Marshall Godwin right in the balls who tumbles over sportswriter corpses Scanners-ed after trying to columnize the defeat of these un-clutch hacks when it counts the most. The Fucking Patriots, 34-31 in OT.

San Francisco @ Seattle: Your eventual national holiday winner, the home team natch 'cause Kaepernick already lost a Super Bowl and that makes him a flop, riffraff, a bomb, a lemon-scented pledge of turkey. Seahawks, 20-14.

Saturday, January 11, 2014

Fote-balle, or, a þynge aliene to Cleave-land

Beats watching post-game Boomer.  

Searching for Browns playoff footage from Haig in '88, O, woe, we got carded, wildly. That was a lateral and defensive TD, ref motherfucker, not a forward chuck, thus, the above. Baby mama drama not included. Enjoy.

New Orleans @ Seattle: Si Les Parapluies de Beast Mode, the Twelfth Man enjoys a fifth quarter bender. If not, they probably still do. Seahawks, 31-17.

The Fucking Colts @ The Fucking Patriots: this evening's illustrious program of Auld Indian's Polis: Act I, Tyrant Peyton Manning, Act II, Andrew Luck the Usurper, entr'acte by Curtis Painter, followed by Sir Thomas Brady in Lord Boston, is made possible by viewers like Nelson Mun *click* up next, ANARCHY IN THE NORTH COAST, starring Ty Detmer, Tim Couch, Spergon Wynn, Doug Pederson, Kelly Holcomb, Luke "I'm not Jake" McCown, Jeff Garcia, Trent Dilfer, Charlie Frye, Derek Anderson, Ken Dorsey, Brady Quinn, Bruce Gradkowski, Jake Delhomme, Seneca Wallace, Colt McCoy, Thad Lewis, Brandon Weeden, Brian Hoyer, Jason Campbell, and Jerry Mathers as "the Beaver." Harvard beats Yale, 29-29.

San Francisco @ Carolina: Football gods, still waiting for you to punish Harbaugh for wimping out against Ray Jailbird, but this week's as plausible as any. Panthers, 20-17.

San Diego @ The Fucking Broncos: The only possible reason to not root for the Chargers is that so brain dead morans who still joemorganize quarterbacks on their postseason won-loss records will be forced to shut their fucking yaps for one more game. The Mannings, 31-24.

Friday, January 3, 2014


It's not just a derogatory label, it's a philosophy. 

Almost Marty's last game, 'cause no one's uploaded the wild card, same Bat time, same Bat channel, same Bat shit opponent, Jer-ry! Jer-ry! thankyouvermuch, but holy ten gallons, Psychopathman, Don traded in links for season-savin', strock it, strock it real good. Look real close and you'll see young(ish) Randal drunk on beer hot chocolate.

Twenty-five already. Man. Back to run, run, pass, punt.

Kansas City @ Indianapolis: As long as time doesn't become a factor after the two-minute warning, the Walrus with the best player, i.e. Jamaal Charles for the helmet-challenged, wins. The Colts hee haw good teams, their opponent don't. Don't care. Chiefs 23-20.

New Orleans @ Philadelphia: Fuck this fucking road shit, Finish Him, gas n' matches, steel-toed Nazi boots 'cause if you can't beat a flawed homebody who only eats half the cookin', well you'll get waxed next in Heroin Land anyway. 20° ain't that cold. Saints 28-21.

San Diego @ The Fucking Bengals: Philip Rivers is the Dan Fouts of chuck-chuck-goose, a future Famer [ed. note: yeah, he's that good] cursed to forever be sans ring, thanks, cruel, capricious football gods. Speaking of cruel, capricious gods, no Bungle playoff wins since Bush the Smarter. Mike Brown's ghost still haunts, but not after this week. The Fucking Bengals 31-23.

San Francisco @ Green Bay: Speaking of the dukes of supernature, when you overbrain, abandoning blood and Gore, you've earned subsequent torments against lesser foes unless Rodgers really is one of those single-handed pantheonists. Too bad his D gets an F. Gonna be Ice Bowl Two, too. 49ers 21-17.

Thursday, December 19, 2013

Handsome B. Wonderful's Fortieth Annual List of the Top Ten Rock Albums of the Year


Weird year, man. Got more shit to say than ever punches fucking tired of circle jerks in the temple of your dreams. Philosophy is naught but destroying eardrums in my own private forest, tossin' scrawls in the can. Poor man's withdrawal, son, 'cause the hard stuff's too much scratch. The rest is crap 'cept Hanneman.

1. Darkthrone, The Underground Resistance.
Fuckin' metal, man.

2. Alice in Chains, The Devil Put Dinosaurs Here.
Fuckin' reflection, man.

3. Uncle Acid & the deadbeats, Mind Control.
Fuckin' cults, man.

4. Cathedral, The Last Spire.
Fuckin' Hammer, man.

5. Monster Magnet, Last Patrol.
Fuckin' testosterone, man.

6. Cultes Des Ghoules, Henbane.
Fuckin' Satan, man.

7. Rome, Hate Us and See if We Mind.
Fuckin' angst, man.

8. Ranger, Knights of Darkness.
Fuckin' speed, man.

9. SubRosa, More Constant Than the Gods.
Fuckin' doom, man.

10. Bones, Sons of Sleaze.
Fuckin' Helpless, man.

11. Iron Dogs, Free and Wild.
Fuckin' 1982, man.

12. Tribulation, The Formulas of Death.
Fuckin' spooky, man.

13. Fuckin' everyone else, man. The days get later, I get lazier. Bloody Hammers, Spiritual Relics. Ihsahn, Das Seelenbrechen. Windhand, Soma. Hail of Bullets, III: The Rommel Chronicles. Autopsy, The Headless Ritual. Moss, Horrible Nights. Throwing Muses, Purgatory/Paradise. Magic Circle, Magic Circle. Orchid, The Mouths of Madness. Jucifer, За Волгой для нас земли нет. Inquisition, Obscure Verses for the Multiverse.

Friday, November 22, 2013

Sick engine, the piston hammers away

Remember when this came out, Thriller McCartney bitching "cover's in color!" Sure, a couple tunes could use some Perry White, and if the platter ain't General Zod, it's at least Non and he could fuck up most things.

There was some other gig, but I forgot.

Man, fuckers in class are fucking dumb. I mean, I'm a sack of evaporated Venusian stone but whoa: 'taint no STEM, so plants'll be 0.07% less toxic.

That wasn't it. Hail Something.

Wednesday, October 30, 2013

You know my only pleasure is to hear you cry

No better reason to temporarily halt hermitage than to celebrate this motherfucker turning thirty. See you in the next d6 months, unfortunately. People, man.

Saturday, September 28, 2013

Wednesday, September 18, 2013



Drunken slaughter ought to carry a shorter prison term than wallstreeting.

Wednesday, September 4, 2013

Quarter pounder with cheese

Not this stink again.

AFC East: The Fucking Patriots have a quarterback, the Dolphins, whose new unis suck but don't suck as much as the Arena League circus threads of The Fucking Broncos or Seahawks, might, the Toronto Bills don't, and neither do the H-A-A-A HAAA HAAA HAAA.

AFC North: Geno Atkins doesn't live in Cleveland, he lives in Cincinnati, unfortunately. The tools retooled HEY FRISCO FUCKING RUN THE BALL, this is the year beefy scrubs at last toll the bell for Big Ben We Hardly Knew Ye, and I'd rather not talk about Browns 2.0.47.

AFC South: Never did a quarterback's surname and team results mesh so poetically, the Titans are a textbook 6-10/10-6er, and I'd lay five bucks that the Jagwires are worse(!) than the Clowns, which leaves Planet Hooston by the two greatest words in the English language.

AFC West: The Fucking Broncos walk the cake; poor Philip Rivers, forced to handoff to a guy with nine broken collarbones, a gassed retread, and a guy not much taller than yours truly; and I'd lay five bucks that Al Davis' Shiny Tracksuits are worse(!) than the Clowns, which leaves the Walrus's second rebuilding job to tooth & nail for a shot at the newest shiny ring of blood diamonds.

NFC East: A four-flaw, round-robin sock 'em up. Ball's in your jockstrap, Mr. Griffin.

NFC North: Unless Aaron Rodgers dies in a demon summoning ritual gone horribly expected, the Packers snooze to at least one home playoff game. I'm further convinced that I'm the only semi-fan of semi-head case Jay Cutler which says much. Keep him upright, and there are 10-11 wins. Adrian Peterson's a yin playing on a team of yangs, and the best reason to watch Detroit is the hope that Stafford chucks the ball 800 times.

NFC South: Fuck Atlanta, America's second worst sporting town I'm looking at you Miami. Geaux Saints. Remember those 6-10/10-6ers, there's two more here. YOU figure out what they're gonna do, smart guy.

NFC West: Clash of the titans, non-speed metal divison. Been a loooong time since one geographic stratum boasted the league's two (arguably, pistols at dawn, knave) best armies. Poor St. Louis though not really since they're a franchise that should be sentenced to outlawry for such thievery but since they stole from Los Angeles, poor St. Louis. Carson Palmer's still in the league? Huh.

AFC playoff seeds: Denver, New England, Cincinnati, Houston, Baltimore, Kansas City.

NFC playoff seeds: Green Bay, Seattle, New Orleans, Washington, San Francisco, Atlanta.

Super Bowl: Seattle over The Fucking Broncos. This one's for you, Jim Zorn.

The Fucking Browns: Double digit stinky cheese. Again.

Monday, August 26, 2013

Broken record

Another semester, another layer of lawn off-getting deposited on the gunk.

I have a really strong sphincter about the badness of really bad stuff.

Forest hermitage.


Monday, August 12, 2013

Abysses and eyeballs

Fuck you dumb public
fuck you stupid work
fuck you humidity
now that's fuckin' poetry
hell no says you
well fuck you too.

Monday, July 29, 2013

Doing the right thing

Frogger, deconstruct D)all of the above*

*did jam ninja-ly** to a stack of Darkthrone discs this weekend so hail hail rock and/or roll for truth in advertising for once

**sans air guitaring and/or neck wrecking***

***one wreck's good n' plenty****

****do "they" still make these?*****

*****I know "they" still puke out the great taste of Charleston Chew******

******66, the number of the beast, ******66, the one for you and me

Tuesday, July 23, 2013

Trust no one especially me

Holy, Scully, my favorite non-scrimshaw entertainment turns a robust twenty! In September but why wait 'cause blathering 'bout dums, goopers, and broken systems makes me wanna Mike Tyson's punch myself out. Sure, the Slick Willie black helicopter 90s ain't got nuthin' digitally on our Prismatic Wall, save vs. technofascist age, but in terms of panache, every show that doesn't feature stupid cops or stupid lawyers or stupid doctors or stupid ha-has owes a fistful of metal tribute to this mightiest of genre beasts.

As with bands, the best shit is the old shit [read: pre-Hollyweird sun, but don't be a foolish fool and sleep on some late run gemstone fun], and the bestest with the mostest is found primarily among the first three where director of photography John S. Bartley's dank, basement grit beautifully lit the natural brood of cold, damp Vancouver into delicious gloom. Shouldn't every gig be filmed up there?


The Erlenmeyer Flask. Gripping action, Scully-lipped exposition, noir convention, plop plop alien fizz oh WTF they shot him Usenet they fuckin' shot Deep Throat. Convoluted or not later on = opinions = assholes, so just lap up the great unknown 'cause the chase is always better than the catch.

Humbug. "I believe these are your trailers. If they are not, then I am wrong." Jim Rose Circus Sideshow! Scully the bug-eater! I hope bugs, big gaping-maw ones, eat the empty three-pieces that never gave Darin Morgan his own show.


Duane Barry/Ascension/One Breath, or, holy shit, our lead actress's oven's bunned. Best on-the-fly adaptation in the history of Satan's mind control box. The always great Steve Railsback is great as always, and Steven Williams was, funk exchanged for trenchcoat natch, fuckin' Shaft.

Squeeze/Tooms. THE creepy creeping creep, but whether that's Doug Hutchison himself or his liver-eating mutant alter ego is entirely up to way your brain fries.

Clyde Bruckman's Final Repose. Life sucks, and then, stupendous yapper, you die. Peter Boyle hits a 600-foot dinger and why didn't Darin Morgan ever get his own show?

Jose Chung's 'From Outer Space.' A Charles Nelson Reilly tour-de-force, an inner core, reincarnated soul sex orgy in screenplay format. I'll take Why the blankety-blank-blank didn't Darin Morgan ever get his own show for $500, Alex.

"For although we may not be alone in the universe, in our own separate ways, on this planet, we are all alone."

See, the truth is indeed out there.

Bad Blood. He said, she said meets vampires. Much guffawing ensues. Toothless critics, stick to meth. Vince Gilligan's best work was on the X-Files.

The Host. Nuclear waste doesn't have benefits? Ladies and germs, the Flukeman!

Irresistible. Humans are always spookier than mutants or aliens, I mean, according to the literature. Let us celebrate both the birth pangs of the obscenely underrated Millennium and Scully's 100th abduction. And it's only season two!

Memento Mori. Glowing green tanks of clones, drawer after drawer of abductee ova, Mulder and the Lone Gunmen doing some funky poaching whilst dodging bullets, and oh yeah, the Big C. Skinner deals with the devil for Scully's cure. That can't end well.

Zero Sum. Skinner -- Skinner! -- time to pay up. Results not pretty, but, unlike Scully's disease, survivable, at least until next week. Sure, the alien virus-toting bees are the mythology's narrative weak link, but oh, those moral and legal conundrums!

Anasazi/The Blessing Way/Paper Clip. A master class in how you employ the master race, as alien-human hybrid making tools of their hegemonic inheritors, i.e., us. Though on second thought, I just might prefer the Unit 731 two-parter later on in season three. Oh, beguiling villainy, swoon.


War of the Coprophages. Artificially intelligent, dung-eating, robotic probes from outer space can spice up any Friday night. Written by you-know-who.

Unusual Suspects. Everyone loves a superhero origin story. With bonus Steven Williams!

Pusher. Most compelling cerulean blue this side of the CSM, en plus detective Frank Burst, whose heart, of course, burst.


Darkness Falls. TREES IST KRIEG. Chris Carter may have weaned his chops on Kolchak, but the greasy ick of those nature's revenge flicks surely seeped in.

The Pine Bluff Variant. A stretched rubber band of a thriller featuring undercover danger, a far right fringe determined to use a lethal toxin on an unsuspecting populace, a toxin manufactured by our own government, the fringe itself the agent of nefarious elements within said government?

Oh, paranoid conspiracy, how I miss you.

Tuesday, July 16, 2013

Am I evil?

Blood on Satan's Desert Island.

What's that nagging, needling, niggling Ipecac wretcher called when there's a billion blatherers dying to upchuck on a zillion chunks of this, that, t'other but, lo! out the black blood of the earth! a quadrillion don't cares have erected a Godzilla-sized Erector set bricked up with Lego bricks of adamantium that even a doped-up Ghidorah can't fuck with?

Albums make much better companions than people.

Now, back to your regularly scheduled egads-a-thon.